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The Atlantic monthly. / Volume 46, Note on Digital Production 0046 000
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The Atlantic monthly. / Volume 46, Issue 273 Galaxy, Atlantic Atlantic Monthly Co. Boston July 1880 0046 273
The Atlantic monthly. / Volume 46, Issue 273, miscellaneous front pages i-iv

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY A MAGAZINE OF Literature, ~cience, art, anb 1)oiitti~ VOLUME XLVI BOSTON HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY ~fje %~iber~ibe ~ 4tambribge 1880 A Ar Copmxar, 1880, Br HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY RIVERSIDE, (IANDRIDGI: STUREOTYPED AND PRINTED RI H. 0. HOUGHTON AND GOXPAJY. / C ONTENTS. 4-- .~sthetic Value of the Sense of Smell, The . Aldrichs Fiction, Mr American Colonial History Among the Pueblos Amusing Books of Travel, Some Au Sdrieux Drowns Retreat Business Issues of the Presidential Canvass . Childrens Labor: A Problem Confederation in Canada Deodand Dr. Heidenhoffs Process, and other Novels . Edward Mills and George Benton: A Tale . Eminent Israelites Englishmans England, An Englishwoman in the New England Hill Country, An. Florentine Experiment, A French Comic Dramatist, A Future of Weather Foretelling, The Goldwin Smiths Cowper Gray, Collins, and Beattie Great Men, Great Thoughts, and tho Environment. Henry Armitt Brown His Best Hunts Teaching, Mr Incidents of the Capture of Richmond Intimate Life of a Noble German Family Italian Poetry Ring Lear Kossuths Memories of Exile Letters and Notes from England Libel and its Legal Remedy Literature for Schools Mahaffys Greek Literature Mallock, Mr., The Later Writings of Mary Wolistonecraft Memorial History of Boston, The Mind in the Lower Animals Mrs. McWilliams and the Lightning Muhienberg, Dr . Music National Science and Religion National Vice, A New Book on Nihilism, A Nortons Mediwval Church Building Oxford and Cambridge People of a New England Factory Village Pepacton: A Summer Voyage Philosophy and Apples Political Responsibility of the Individual Portrait of a Lady, The Preceptor of Moses, The Professor Fishers Discussions Progress and Poverty. I Progress and Poverty. fl Progress of the Presidential Canvass Recent American Fiction Becent Biographxcs Henry T. Finck PAGU 798 695 126 Susan B. Wallace 215 . .... 263 Ellen W. Olney 829 Anna Eichberg 29 555 Emma B. Brown 787 Frederic G. Matlser 56 W. H. Bishop 476 824 Mark Twain 226 566 713 288 Constance Fessimors Woolson . . 502 .T. Brander Mat/sews 48 N. S. Skater 645 425 T. S. Perry 810 William James 441 272 624 F. D. Millet 189 George F. Shepley 18 849,496,688 279 Richard Grant White 111 568 Richard Grant White 685 B. L. God/em 729 184 705 7 George B. Woodberry 838 858 186 Mark Twain 880 564 410 274 Richard Grant White 544 562 854 Richard Grant White 385 460 John Burroughs 192 G. P. Lathrop 652 820 Henry James, Jr 585, 740 Francis H. Underwood . . . . 280 269 William B. Weedess 846 Willard Brown 851 896 412 570 iv Coneents. Recent Novels, Some . Reoent Poetry Records of W. M. Hunt Republicans and their Candidate, The Romance of Sunrise Rock, The Scherers Diderot Search for the Plelades, A Shakespeare et lAntiquitd Sicilian Hospitality Silk Industry in America Sir Walter Scott Socialistic and other Assassinations Stillwater Tragedy, The Such Stuff as Dreams are made of Surgeon at the Field Hospital, The Sylvias Suitors Taurus Centaurus Transitional American Woman, The True Republic, A Undiscovered Country, The Washington, Reminiscences cd What is a Fact9 Whites Books, Mr Wintering on Altna Women in Organizations 121 698 Henry C. Angell 75 258 Charles Egbert L~raddock. . . . 775 180 Thomas Wentworth Higgissson. . 657 709 Luigi Monti 168 S. .T. Burrows 614 Thomas Sergeant Perry . . . . 318 James Henry Haynie . . . . . 466 Thomas Bailey Aldrich . . 1, 145, 259 402 188 Louise Stockton 206 Richard Giant White 249 Kate Gannett Wells 817 716 W.D.Howells 58 67, 369, 581, 664, 799 Elizabeth Stuart Phelps . . . . 676 427 S. P. Langley 88 Kate Gannett Wells 860 rOETRY. Alien Sin. 229 All Saints Eve, Rose Terry Cooke 789 Arch~ology, W. T 501 Archbishop and Gil Bias, The, Oliver Wendell Holmes ...... 205 Benjamin Peirce: Astronomer, Mathematician, Oliver Wendell Holmes 824 Comedy, Thomas Bailey Aldrich 554 Each Side of the Bridge: A Dutch Painting, Al- fred B. Street 868 Gifford. I. The Closed Studio. II. Of Winter Nights, Edmund C. Stedmo.v 792 House of Dreams on a Wooded Hill, A, L Oppen- heim 475 Jews Gift, The, Thomas Bailey Aldrich. . 612 Kintu, Susan Coolidge 179 Last and Worst, Francis Ekin Allison . 494 North Wind in Autumn, Anna Head 675 Not Yet, my Soul, Robert Louis Stevenson . . . 459 Passing, Alice Williams Hrotherton 87 Perpetuity of Song, The, James T. Fields . . . 828 Reed Immortal, The, Thomas Wentworth Hig. ginson 248 Saffron Fly, The, Rose Terry Cooke 16 Sleeping City, A, E. H. Clement 651 Storms of Autumn, H. W. Preston 687 Twoscore and Ten, J. T. Trombridge 809 Unaware, Maurice Thompson . 848 West Wind, Celia Thaxter 884 CONTRIBUTORS CLUB. A Book of Delicate and Aspiring Spirituality, 440; A Childs Language, 722; A Cure for Nerves, 578; A Soutb American Enthusiast, 288; A Southern Family, 488; An Ear for Grammar, 287; An Editors Ordeal, 188; Achronology of a Novel, 583; American Girl, 721; Can Humor be Tanght? 436; Characteristics esf Mr. Jamess Last Story, 140; lJ]ubs versus Society, 724; Confidence, 141; Curse of Exterioration, 143; Deficient American Girl, 143; Delusive Quotations, 143; Disadvantages of Small Town Life, 139; Fantastic Associa- tions, 584; Flaws in A Hopeless Case, 439; Gentlenren Contracted, 142; Gents in Poetry, 142; Good of Second Best, 125; lie and his Cure, 863; Injuriousness of Bad Rhymes, 725; Language of the Future, 141; Lashe Stephens Life of Pope, 721; Local Patriotism, 438; Mr. Blackmores Last Novel, 865; Mr. Mallocks Bad English, 720; Mortality of Funerals, 437; Old Heads on Young Shoulders, 435; On a Pss~age in 1 Henry IV., 86; Poe and his Many Lives, 286; Pot-Pourri, 142; Prevention of Literacy, 722; Prudence, 727; Rhymes not intended to teach Pronunciation, 867; Self-Ennobled Frenchmen and Germans, 285; Seniority of Wives, 864; Show Culture, 437; Snubbed Middle Class, 582; Southern Railroads, 483; Southern Society and Super. stition, 434; What s in a Name? 281; Worlds Judgments, 728.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich Aldrich, Thomas Bailey The Stillwater Tragedy 1-16

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY: a %Uiga~rne of JLiterature, ~ci~nc~, art, an~ 1~oUtic~. VOL. XLVI. JULY, 1880. No. CCLXXIII. -4- THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. XIV. ON the third morning after Torrinis expulsion from the yard, Mr. Slocum walked into the studio with a printed slip in his hand. A similar slip lay crum- pled under a work-bench, where Richard had tossed it. Mr. Slocums kindly vis- age was full of trouble and perplexity as he raised his eyes from the paper, which he had been re-reading on the way up-stairs. Look at that! Yes, remarked Richard, I have been honored with one of those docu- ments. What does it mean? It means business. The paper in question contained a series of resolutions unanimously adopted at a meeting of the Marble Workers As- sociation of Stiiwater, held in Grimseys Hall the previous night. Dropping the preamble, these resolutions, which were neatly printed with a type-writing ma- chine on a hail letter sheet, ran as fol- lows: Resolved, That on and after the First of June proximo, the pay of carvers in Slocums Mar- ble Yard shall be $2.75 per day, instead of $2.50 as heretofore. ResQived, That on and after the same date, the rubbers and polishers shall have $2.00 pee day, instead of $1.75 as heretofore. Resolved, That on and after the same date the milimen are to have $2.00 per day, instead of $1.75 as heretofore. Resolved, That during the months of June, July, and August the shops shall knock off work on Saturdays at five r. M., instead of at six r. M. Resolved, That a printed copy of these Reso- lutions be laid before the Proprietor of Slocums Marble Yard, and that his immediate attention to them be respectfully requested. Per order of Committee M. W. A. Torrini is at the bottom of that, said Mr. Slocum. I hardly think so. This arrange- ment, as I told you the other day before I had the trouble with him, has been in contemplation several weeks. Undoubt- edly Torrini used his influence to hasten the movement already planned. The Association has too much shrewdness to espouse the quarrel of an individual. What are we to do? If you are in the same mind you were when we talked over the possibility of an unreasonable demand like this, there is only one thing to do. Fight it? Fight it. I have been resolute, and all that sort of thing, in times past, observed Mr. Slocum, glancing out of the tail of his eye at Richards face to see if it de- noted any incredulity, and have always come off second best. The Associatiou has drawn up most of my rules for me, and had its own way generally. Copyright, 1880, by HOUGHTOx, MIFFLUt & Co. 2 The Stiliwater Tragedy [July, Since my time you have never been in so strong a position to make a stand. We have got all the larger contracts out of the way. Foreseeing what was likely to come, I have lately fought shy of tak- ing new ones. Here are heavy orders from Rafter & Son, the Builders Com- pany and others. We must decline them by to-nights mail. Is it really necessary? asked Mr. Slocum, knitting his forehead into what would have been a scowl if his mild pink- ish eyebrows had permitted it. I think ~ I hate to do that. Then we are at the mercy of the As- sociation. If we do not come to their terms, you seriously believe they will strike? I do, replied Richard, and we should be in a pretty fix. But these demands are ridiculous. The men are not aware of our situa- tion; they imagine we have a lot of im- portant jobs on hand, as usual at this season. Formerly the foreman of a shop had access to the order-book, but for the last year or two I have kept it in the safe here. The other day Dexter came to me and wanted to see what work was set down ahead in the blotter; but I had an inspiration and did nt let him post himself. Is not some kind of compromise pos- sible? suggested Mr. Slocum, looking over the slip again. Now this fourth clause, about closing the yard an hour earlier on Saturdays, I dont strongly object to that, though with eighty hands it means, every week, eighty hours work which the yard pays for and does nt get. I should advise granting that request. Such concessions are never thrown away. With that one hour in prospect, the men would do more work on Saturday than on any other day in the week. You would likely enough lose nothing there. But, Mr. Slocum, this is not going to satisfy them. They have thrown in one reason- able demand merely to flavor the rest. I happen to know that they are deter- mined to stand by their programme to the last letter. You know that? I have a friend at court. Of course this is not to be breathed, but Denyven, without being at all false to his comrades, talks freely with me. He says they are resolved not to give in an inch. Then we will close the works. That is what I wanted you to say, sir! cried Richard. There is no other course. The de- mands are preposterous. No city yard is paying carvers two dollars and seven- ty-five cents a day, or anything like it. With this new scale of prices and plenty of work, we might probably come out a little ahead the next six months; but it would nt pay for the trouble and the capital invested. Then when trade slack- ened, we should be running at a loss, and there d be another wrangle over a re- duction. No, I can better afford to shut up shop, Richard. Stick to that, sir, and may be it will not be necessary. But if they strike They wont all strike. At least, added Richard, I hope not. I have indirectly sounded several of the older hands, and they have half promised to hold on; only half promised, for every man of them at heart fears the trades- union more than No-bread until No- bread comes. Whom have you spoken with? Lumley, Giles, Peterson, and some others, your pensioners, I call them. Yes, they were in the yard in my fathers time; they have not been worth their salt these ten years. When the business was turned over to me I did nt discharge any old hand who had given his best days to the yard. Somehow I could nt throw away the squeezed lemons. An employer owes a good workman something beyond the wages paid. 1880.] The Stiliwater Tragedy. 3 And a workman owes a good em- ployer something beyond the work done. You stood by these men after they out- lived their usefulness, and if they do not stand by you now, they re a shabby set. I think they will, Richard. I think they had better, and I wish they would. We have enough odds and ends to keep them busy awhile, and I should nt like to have the clinking of chisels die out altogether under the old sheds. Nor I, returned Mr. Slocum, with a touch of sadness in his intonation. It has grown to be a kind of music to me, and he paused to listen to the sounds of ringing steel that floated up from the workshops. Whatever happens, that music shall not cease in the y~trd except on Sun- days, if I have to take mallet and chisel and go at a slab all alone. Slocums Yard with a single work- man in it would be a pleasing spectacle, said Mr. Slocum, smiling ruefully. It would nt be a bad time for tka5 workman to strike, returned Richard with a laugh. He could dictate his own terms, re- turned Mr. Slocum, soberly. Well, I suppose you cannot help thinking about Margaret; hut dont think of her now. Tell me what answer you propose to give the Association, how you mean to put it; for I leave the matter wholly to you. I shall have no hand in it, further than to indorse your action. To-morrow, then, said Richard, for it is no use to hurry up a crisis, I shall go to the workshops and inform them that their request for short hours on Saturdays is granted, but that the other changes they suggest are not to be considered. There will never be a better opportunity, Mr. Slocum, to settle an- other question which has been allowed to run too long. What s that ? The apprentice question. Would it be wise to touch on that at present? While we are straightening out mat- ters and putting things on a solid basis, it seems to me essential to settle that. There was never a greater imposition, or one more short-sighted, than this rule which prevents the training of sufficient workmen. The trades-union will dis- cover their error some day when they have succeeded in forcing manufactur- ers to import skilled labor by the whole- sale. I would like to tell the Marble Workers Association that preambles- and-resolutions is a game for two, and that Slocums Yard has resolved to em- ploy as many apprentices each year as there is room for. I would nt dare risk it! It will have to be done, sooner or later. It would be a capital flank move- ment now. They have laid themselves open to an attack on that quarter. I might as well close the gates for good and all. So you will, if it comes to that. You can afford to close the gates, and they cant afford t~ have you. In a week they d he back, asking you to open them. Then you could have your pick of the live hands, and drop the dead- wood. If Giles or Peterson or Lumley or any of those desert us, they are not to be let on again. I hope you will promise me that, sir. If the occasion comes, you shall re- organize the shops in your own way. I have nt the nerve for this kind of busi- ness, though I have seen a great deal of it in the village, first and last. Strikes are terrible mistakes. Even when they succeed, what pays for the lost time and the money squandered over the tavern.. bar? What makes up for the days or weeks when the fire was out on the hearth and the children had no bread? That is what happens, you know. ~b There is no remedy for such calam- ities, Richard answered. Yet I can imagine occasions when it would be bet 4 The Stiliwater Tragedy. [July, ter to let the fire go out and the children want for bread. You are not advocating strikes! exclaimed Mr. Slocum. Why not? I thought you were for fighting them. So I am, in this instance. I have read all the hooks I could come across on the subject, and I think I am able to look at the question from the inside as well as from the outside. Every man has the right to set a price on his own labor, and to refuse to work for less; the wisdom of it is another matter. He puts himself in the wrong only when he menaces the person or the property of the man who has an equal right not to employ him. That is the blunder strik- ers usually make in the end, and one by which they lose public sympathy even when they are fighting an injustice. Now, sometimes it is an injustice that is being fought, and then it is right to fight it with the only weapon a poor man has to wield against a power which possesses a hundred weapons, and that s a strike. For example, the smelters and casters in the Miantowona Iron Works are meanly underpaid. What, have they struck? There s a general strike threatened in the village; foundry-men, spinners, and all. So much the worse for everybody! I did not suppose it was as bad as that. What has become of Torrini? He landed on his feet, like a cat. The day after he left us he was taken on as forgeman at Danas. I m glad iDana has got him! At the meeting, last night, Torrini gave in his resignation as secretary of the Association; being no longer a mar- ble worker, he was not qualified to serve. We unhorsed him, then? Rather. I am half sorry, too. Richard, said Mr. Slocum halting in one of his nervous walks up and down the room, you are the oddest composi- tion of hardness and softness I ever saw. Am I ? One moment you stand braced like a lion to fight the whole yard, and the next moment you are pitying a miscre- ant who would have laid your head open without the slightest compunctions.~~ Oh, I forgive him, said Richard. I was a trifle hasty myself. Margaret thinks so too. Much Margaret knows about it! I was inconsiderate, to say the least. When a man picks up a tool by the wrong end he must expect to get cut. You did nt have a choice. I should nt have touched Torrini. After discharging him and finding him disposed to resist my order to leave the yard, I ought to have called in a consta- ble~ Usually it is very hard to anger me; but three or four times in my life I have been carried away by a devil of a temper which I could nt control, it seized me so unawares. That was one of the times. The mallets and chisels were execut- ing a blithe staccato movement in the yard below, and making the sparks dance. No one walking among the dil- igent gangs, and observing the placid faces of the men as they bent over their tasks, would have suspected that they were awaiting the word that meant bread and meat and home to them. Richard Shackford was in no eager- ness to pronounce the word. Another days work would complete the last heavy contract on hand, and it was vital to have that finished. To-morrow he would pronounce it. As he passed through the shops, drop- ping a word to a workman here and there, the man addressed looked up cheerfully and made a furtive dab at the brown paper cap, and Richard re- turned the salute smilingly; but he was sad within. The foolish fellows, he said to himself, they are throwing 1880.] The Stiliwater Tragedy. 5 away a full loaf and are likely to get none at all. Giles and two or three of the ancients were squaring a block of marble under a shelter by themselves. Richard made it a point to cross over and speak to them. In past days he had not been exacting with these old boys, and they always had a welcome for bim. Slocums Yard seldom presented a se- rener air of contented industry than it wore that morning; but in spite of all this smooth outside it was a foregone conclusion with most of the men that Slocum, with Shackford behind him, would never submit to the new scale of wages. There were a few who had pro- tested against those resolutions and still disapproved of them, but were forced to go with the Association, which had really been dragged into the current by the other trades. The Dana Mills and the Miantowona Iron Works were paying lighter wages than similar establishments nearer the great city. The managers contended that they were paying as high if not higher rates, taking into consideration the cheap- er cost of living in Stillwater. But you get city prices for your wares, retorted the union; you dont pay city rents, and you shall pay city wages. Meet- ings were held at Grimseys Hall and the subject was canvassed, at first calmly and then stormily. Among the molders, and possibly the sheet-iron workers, there was cause for dissatisfaction; but the dissatisfaction spread to where no griev- ance existed; it seized upon the spin- ners, and finally upon the marble work- ers. Torrini fanned the flame there. Taking for his text the rentage question, he argued that Slocum was well able to give a trifle more for labor than his city competitors. The annual rent of a yard like Slocums would be four thou- sand or five thousand dollars in the city. It does nt cost Slocum two hundred dol- lars. It is no more than just that the laborer should have a share he only asks a beggarly share of the prosper- ity which he has helped to build up. This was specious and taking. Then there came down from the great city a glib person disguised as The Working- mans Friend, no workingman him- self, mind you, but a ghoul that lives upon subscriptions and sucks the senses out of innocent human beings, who managed to set the place by the ears. The result of all which was that one May morning every shop, mill, and fac- tory in Stillwater was served with a no- tice from the trades-union, and a general strike threatened. But our business at present is exclu- sively with Slocums yard. xv Since we are in for it, said Mr. Slocum the next morning, put the case to them squarely. Mr. Slocums vertebrae had stiffened over night. Leave that to me, sir, Richard re- plied. I have been shaping out in my mind a little speech which I flatter my- self will cover the points. They have brought this thing upon themselves, and we are about to have the clearest of un- derstandings. I never saw the men quieter. I dont altogether admire that. It looks as if they had nt any doubt as to the issue. The clearest-headed have no doubt; they know as well as you and I do the flimsiness of those resolutions. But the thick heads are in a fog. Every man naturally likes his pay increased; if a simple fellow is told five or six hundred times that his wages ought to be raised, the idea is so agreeable and insidious that by and by he begins to believe him- self grossly underpaid, though he may be getting twice what he is worth. He does nt reason about it; that s the last thing he 11 do for you. In this mood 6 The Stiliwater Tragedy. [July, he lets himself be blown away by the breath of some loud -mouthed dema- gogue, who has no interest in the mat- ter beyond hearing his own talk and passing round the hat after the meeting is over. That is what has happened to our folks below. But they are behaving handsomely. Yes, and I dont like it. Since seven oclock the most unim- peachable decorum had reigned in the workshops. It was now nine, and this brief dialogue had occurred between Mr. Slocum and Richard on the veranda, just as the latter was on the point of descending into the yard to have his talk with the men. The workshops or rather the shed in which the workshops were, for it was one low structure eighteen or twenty feet wide and open on the west side ran the length of the yard, and with the short extension at the southerly end formed the letter L. There were no partitions, an imaginary line separating the different gangs of workers. A per- son standing at the head of the building could make himself heard more or less distinctly in the remotest part. The grating lisp of the wet saws eat- ing their way into the marble bowlder, and the irregular quick taps of the seven- ty or eighty mallets were not suspended as Richard took his stand beside a tall funereal urn at the head of the principal workshop. After a seconds faltering he rapped smartly on the lip of the urn with the key of his studio-door. Instantly every arm appeared para- lyzed, and the men stood motionless, with the tools in their hands. Richard began in a clear but not loud voice, though it seemed to ring on the sudden silence Mr. Slocum has asked me to say a few words to you, this morning, about those resolutions, and one or two other matters that have occurred to him in this connection. I am no speech-maker; I never learned that trade Never learned any trade, muttered Durgin, inaudibly. but I think I can manage some plain, honest talk, for straightforward men. Richards exordium was listened to with painful attention. In the first place, he continued, I want to remind you, especially the new- er men, that Slocums Yard has always given steady work and prompt pay to Stillwater hands. No hand has ever been turned off without sufficient cause, or kept on through mere favoritism. Favors have been shown, but they have been shown to all alike. If anything has gone crooked, it hgs been straight- ened out as soon as Mr. Slocum knew of it. That has been the course of the yard in the past, and the Proprietor does nt want you to run away with the idea that that course is going to be changed. One change, for the time be- ing, is going to be made at your own suggestion. From now, until the 1st of September, this yard will close gates on Saturdays at five i. M. instead of at six P. M. Several voices cried, Good for Sb- cum! Where s Sbocum? Why dont Sbocum speak for himself? cried one voice. It is Mr. Slocums habit, answered Richard, to give his directions to me, I give them to the foremen, and the foremen to the shops. He follows that custom on this occasion. I wish to re- mind you of another fact. Two years ago trade fell off suddenly. The bad time caught us with a big stock of ma- terial. Mr. Sbocum thought business would come up again in a few weeks; but it did nt, nor in a few months either. Every other shop in the village was run- ning on half time, or cutting down its force. Not a man was dropped from Sbocums Yard. Sbocums Yard was run at a loss for twelve months and ten days, as I can show you by the books; but Sb- cum s men had their greenbacks every 1880.] 2i7~e Stiliwater Traged~,i. 7 Saturday afternoon at six by the clock. [Applause.] Its a bad memory that forgets a thing like that. And its a precious good memory that can recall the time when Rowland Slocum did not pay the highest price paid anywhere to marble workers. He bas always done so, and always expects to; but he does nt expect to do more. With regard to the new scale of wages which the Asso- ciation has submitted to him, he refuses to accept it, or any modification of it. A low murmur ran through the work- shops. What s a modificashun, sir? asked Jemmy Willson, stepping forward, and scratching his left ear diffidently. A modification, replied Richard, considerably embarrassed to give an in- stant definition, is a a A splitting of the difference, by ! shouted somebody in the third shop. Thank you, said Richard, glancing in the direction of his impromptu Web- ster Unabridged. Mr. Slocum does not propose to split the difference. The wages in every department are to be just what they are, neither ~nore nor less. If anybody wishes to make a re- mark, he added, observing a restless- ness in several of the men, I beg he will hold on until I get through. I shall not detain you much longer, as the par- son says before he has reached the mid- dle of his sermon. What I say now, I was charged to make particularly clear to you. It is this: In future Mr. Slocum intends to run Slocums Yard himself. Neither you, nor I, nor the Association is to run it for him. [Sensation.] Until now the Association has tied him down to two apprentices a year. From this hour, out, Mr. Slocum will take on, not two, or twenty, but two hundred apprentices if the business warrants it. The words were not clearly off Rich- ards lips when the foreman of the shop in which he was speaking picked up a couple of small drills, and knocked them together with a sharp click. In an in- stant the men laid aside their aprons, bundled up their tools, and marched oat of the shed two by two, in dead silence. That same click was repeated almost simultaneously in the second shop, and the same evolution took place. Then click, click, click! went the drills, sound- ing fainter and fainter in the more dis- tant departments; and in less than three minutes there was not a soul left in Slocums Yard except the Orator of the Day. Richard had anticipated some demon- stration, either noisy or violent, perhaps both; but this solemn, orderly desertion dashed him. He stepped into the middle of the yard, and, glancing up, beheld Margaret and Mr. Slocum standing on the veran- da. Even at that distance he could per- ceive the pallor on one face, and the consternation written all over the other. Hanging his head with sadness, Rich- ard crossed the yard, which gave out mournful echoes to his footfalls, and swung to the large gate, nearly catching old Giles by the heel as he did so. Look- ing through the slats, he saw Lumley and Peterson hobbling arm in arm down the street, after more than twenty-five years of kindly treatment. Move number one, said Richard, lifting the heavy cross-piece into its place and fastening it with a wooden pin. Now I must go and prop up Mr. Sb- cum. xv.. There is no solitude or silence which comes so near being tangible as that of a vast empty workshop, crowded a mo- ment since. The busy, intense life that has gone from it mysteriously leaves behind enough of itself to make the still- ness poignant. One might imagine the invisible ghost of doomed Toil wander- ing from bench to bench, and noiselessly 8 The Stiliwater Tragedy. [July, fingering the dropped tools, still warm with the workmans palm. Perhaps this impalpable presence is the artisans anxious thought, stolen back to brood over the uncompleted task. Though Mr. Slocum bad spoken light- ly of Slocums Yard with only one work- man in it, when he came to contemplate the actual fact he was struck by the pa- thos of it, and the resolution with which he awoke that morning began to desert him. The worst is over, exclaimed Rich- ard, joining his two friends on the ve- randa, and everything went smoother than I expected. Everything went, sure enough, said Mr. Slocum, gloomily; they all went, old Giles, and Lumley, and every- body. We somewhat expected that, you know. Yes, I expected it, and was at pre-. pared for it. It was very bad, said Richard, shak- ing his head. The desertion of Giles and his super- annuated mates especially touched Mr. Slocum. Bad is no word; it was damnable. Oh, papa! Pardon me, dear; I could nt help it. When a mans pensioners throw him over, he must be pretty far gone! The undertow was too strong for them, sir, and they were swept away with the rest. And they all but prom- ised to stay. They will be the very first to come back. Of course we shall have to take the old fellows on again, said Mr. Slocum, relenting characteristically. Never! cried Richard. I wish I had some of your grit. I have none to spare, sir. To tell the truth, when I stood up there to speak, with every eye working on me, like a half-inch drill, I would have sold myself at a low figure. But you were a perfect what s-his- name, Demosthenes, said Mr. Sb- cum, with a thin, faint smile. We could hear you. I dont believe Demosthenes ever moved an audience as I did mine! cried Richard gayly. If his orations produced a like effect, I am certain that the Grecian lecture-bureau never sent him twice to the same place. I dont think, Richard, I would en- gage you over again. I am sure Richard spoke very well, interrupted Margaret. His speech was short Say shortened, Margaret, for I had nt got through when they left. No, I will not jest about it. It is too serious for jesting. What is to be- come of the families of all these men suddenly thrown out of employment? They threw themselves out, Mag, said her father. That does not mend the matter, papa. There will be great destitution and suffering in the village with every mill closed; and they are all going to close, Bridget says. Thank Heaven that this did not happen in the winter! They always pick their weather, observed Mr. Sbocum. It will not be for long, said Rich- ard encouragingly. Our own hands and the spinners, who had no ground for complaint, will return to work shortly, and the managers of the iron mills will have to yield a point or two. In a week at the outside everything will be running smoothly, and on a sounder foundation than. before. I believe the strike will be an actual benefit to everybody in the end. By dint of such arguments and his own sanguine temperament Richard succeed- ed in reassuring Mr. Slocuin for the time being, though Richard did not hide from himself the gravity of the situa- tion. There was a general strike in the village. Eight hundred men were with- out work. That meant, or would mean in a few days, two or three thousand 1880.] The Stiliwater Tragedy. 9 women and children without bread. It does not take the wolf long to reach a poor mans door when it is left ajar. The trades-union had a fund for emer- gencies of this sort, and some outside aid might be looked for; but such supplies are m their nature precarious and soon exhausted. It is a noticeable feature of strikes that the moment the workmans pay stops his living expenses increase. Even the more economical becomes im- provident. If he has money, the to- bacco shop and the tavern are likely to get more of it than the butchers cart. The prolonged strain is too great to be endured without stimulant. XVII. During the first and second days of the strike, Stillwater presented an ani- mated and even a festive appearance. Throngs of operatives in their Sunday clothes strolled through the streets, or lounged at the corners chatting with other groups; som~ wandered into the suburbs, and lay in the long grass under the elms. Others again, though these were few, took to the turnpike or the railroad track, and tramped across coun- try. It is needless to say that the bar-room of the tavern was crowded from early morning down to the hour when the law compelled Mr. Snelling to shut off his gas. After which, John Browns soul could be heard marching on in the darkness, through various crooked lanes and alleys, until nearly daybreak. Among the earliest to scent trouble in the air was Han-Lin, the Chinaman be- fore mentioned. He kept a small laun- dry in Mud Lane, where his name was painted perpendicularly on a light of glass in the basement window of a ten- ement house. Han-Lin intended to be buried some day in a sky-blue coffin in his own land, and have a dozen packs of fire-crackers decorously exploded over his remains. In order to reserve himself for this and other ceremonies involving the burning of a great quantity of gilt paper, he quietly departed for Boston at the first sign of popular discontent. As Dexter described it, Han-Lin coiled up his pig-tail, put forty grains of rice in a yallar bag, enough to last him a month! and toddled off in his two- story wooden shoes. He could scarce- ly have done a wiser thing, for poor Han-Lins laundry was turned wrong side out within thirty-six hours afterwards. The strike was popular. The spirit of it spread, as fire and fever and all elemental forces spread. The two am prentices in Bracketts bakery had a dozen minds about striking that first morning. The younger lad, Joe Wiggin, plucked up courage to ask Brackett for a day off, and was lucky enough to dodge a piece of dough weighing nearly four pounds. Brackett was making bread while the sun shone. He knew that before the week was over there would be no cash customers, and he purposed then to shut up shop. On the third and fourth days there was no perceptible fall in the barometer. Trade was brisk with Snelling, and a brass band was playing national airs on a staging erected on the green in front of the post-office. Nightly meetings took place at Grimseys Hall, and the audiences were good-humored and or- derly. Torrini advanced some Utopian theories touching a universal distribution of wealth, which were listened to attent- ively, but failed to produce deep impres- sion. Thats a healthy idea of Torrinis about dervidin up property, said Jem- my Willson. I ye heerd it afore; but it s singler I never knowd a feller with any property to have that idea. Ther s a great dale in it, I can tell ye, replied Michael Hennessey, with a well-blackened Woodstock pipe between his teeth and his hands tucked under his 10 The Stiliwater Tragedy. [July, coat-tails. Is nt ther, Misther Sta- vens? When Michael had on his bottle-green swallow-tailed coat with the brass but- tons, he invariably assumed a certain lofty air of ceremony in addressing his companions. It is sorter pleasant to look at, re- turned Stevens, but it dont seem to me an idea that would work. Suppose that, after all the property was divided, a fresh ship-load of your friends was to land at New York or Boston; would there be a new deal ? No, sur! by no manes! exclaimed Michael excitedly. The furreners is counted out! But you re a foreigner yourself, Mike. Am I, then? Bedad, I m not! 1 m a rale American Know Nothing. Well, Mike, said Stevens mali- ciously, when it comes to a reglar di- vision of lands and greenbacks in the United States, I go in for the Chinese having their share. The Chinase! shouted Michael. Oh, murther, Misther Stavens! Ye would nt be fur dividin with thim blatherskites! Yes, with them, as well as the rest, returned Stevens dryly. Meanwhile the directors and stock- holders of the various mills took coun- sel in a room at the rear of the National Bank. Mr. Slocum, following Richards advice, declined to attend the meeting in person, or to allow his name to figare on the list of vicepresidents. Why should we hitch our good cause to their doubtful one? argued Rich- ard. We have no concessions or pro- posals to make. When our men are ready to come back to us, they will re- ceive just wages and fair treatment. They know that. We do not want to fight the molders. Let the iron - mills do their own fighting; and Richard stolidly employed himself in taking an account of stock, and forwarding by express to their destination the ten or twelve carved mantel-pieces that happily completed the last contract. Then his responsibilities shrunk to winding up the office clock and keeping Mr. Slocum firmly on his legs. The lat- ter was by far the more onerous duty, for Mr. Slocum ran down two or three times in the course of every twenty- four hours, while the clock on~e wound was fixed for the day. If I could only have a good set of Waltham works put into your father, said Richard to Margaret, after one of Mr. Slocums relapses, he would go better. Poor papa! he is not a fighter, like you. Your father is what I call a bellig- erent non-combatant. Richard was seeing a great deal of Margaret these days. Mr. S.locum had invited him to sleep in the studio until the excitement was past. Margaret was afraid to have him take that long walk between the yard and his lodgings in Lime Street, and then her father was an old man to be without any protection in the house in such untoward times. So Richard slept in the studio, and had his plate at table, like one of the family. This arrangement was favora- ble to many a stolen five minutes with Margaret, in the hall or on the staircase. In these fortuitous moments he breathed an atmosphere that sustained him in his task of dispelling Mr. Slocums recurrent fits of despondency. Margaret had her duties~ too, at this period, and the fore- noons were sacred to them. One morning as she passed down the street with a small wicker basket on her arm, Richard said to Mr. Slocum, Margaret has joined the strikers. The time had already come to Still- water when many a sharp-faced little ur- chin as dear to the warm, deep bosom that had nursed it as though it were a crown prince would not have had a crust to gnaw if Margaret Slocum had 1880.] The Stiliwater Tragedy. 11 not joined the strikers. Sometimes her heart drooped on the way home from these errands, upon seeing how little of the misery she could ward off. On her rounds there was one cottage in a squal- id lane where the children asked for bread in Italian. She never omitted to halt at that door. Is it quite prudent for Margaret to be going about so? queried Mr. Sb- cum. She is perfectly safe, said Richard, as safe as a Sister of Charity, which she is. Indeed, Margaret might then have gone loaded with diamonds through the streets at midnight. There was not a rough man in Stiliwater who would not have reached forth an arm to shield her. It is costing me nearly as much as it would to run the yard, said Mr. Sb- cum, but I never put out any stamps more willingly. You never took a better contract, sir, than when you agreed to keep Mar- garets basket filled. It is an investment in real estate hereafter. I hope so, answered Mr. Slocum, and I know its a good thing now. Of the morals of Stillwater at this time, or at any time, the less said the better. But out of the slime and ooze below sprang the white flower of char- ity. The fifth day fell on a Sabbath, and the churches were crowded. The Rev. Arthur Langly selected his text from S. Matthew, chap. xxii. v. 21: Render therefore unto Caesar the things which are Ca~sars. But as he did not make it quite plain which was Ca~sar, the trades-union or the Miantowona Iron Works, the sermon went for nothing, unless it could be regarded as a hint to those persons who had stolen a large piece of belting from the Dana Mills. On the other hand, Father OMeara that morning bravely told hig children to con- duct themselves in an orderly manner while they were out of work, or they would catch it in this world and in the next. On the sixth day a keen observer might have detected a change in the at- mosphere. The streets were thronged as usual, and the idlers still wore their Sunday clothes, but the holiday buoy- ancy of the earlier part of the week had evaporated. A turn-out on the part of one of the trades, though it was accompanied by music and a banner with a lively in- scription, failed to arouse general enthu- siasm. A serious and even a sullen face was not rare among the crowds that wandered aimlessly up and down the village. On the seventh day it required no penetration to see the change. There was decidedly less good-natured chaffing and more drunkenness, though Snelling had invoked popular contumely and decimated his bar-room by refusing to trust for drinks. Brackett had let his ovens cool, and his shutters were up. The treasury of the trades - union was nearly drained, and there were growl- ings that too much had been fooled away on banners and a brass band for the iron mens parade the previous forenoon. It was when Bracketts eye sighted the banner with Bread or Blood, on it that he had put up his shutters. Torrini was now making violent ha- rangues at Grimseys Hall to largely augmented listeners, whom his words irritated without convincing. Shut off from ~he tavern, the men flocked to hear him and the other speakers, for born or- ators were just then as thick as unripe whortleberries. There was nowhere else to go. At home were reproaches that maddened, and darkness, for the kerosene had given out. Though all the trades had been swept into the movement, it is not to be un- derstood that every workman was losing his head. There were men who owned their cottages and had small sums laid by in the savings-bank; who had always 12 The Stiliwater Traged~i. [July, sent their children to the district school, and listened themselves to at least one of Mr. Langlys sermons or one of Fa- ther OMearas discourses every Sunday. These were anchored to good order; they neither frequented the bar-room nor at- tended the conclaves at Grimseys Hall, but deplored as deeply as any one the spirit that was manifesting itself. They would have returned to work now if they had dared. To this class belonged Stevens. Why dont you come up to the hall, nights? asked Durgin, accosting him on the street, one afternoon. You d run a chance of hearing me hold forth some of these evenings. You ye answered your own ques- tion, William. I should nt like to see you making an idiot of yourself. This is a square fight between labor and capital, returned Durgin with dig- nity, and every man ought to take a hand in it. William, said Stevens meditative- ly, do you know about the Siamese twins? What about em, they re dead, aint they? replied Durgin, with sur- prise. I believe so; but when they was alive, if you was to pinch one of those fellows, the other fellow would sing out. If you was to black the eye of the left- hand chap, the righthand chap would nt have been able to see for a week. When either of em fetched the other a clip, he knocked himself down. Labor and capital is jined just as those two was. When you ye got this fact well into your skull, William, I shall be pleased to listen to your ideas at Grim- seys Hall or anywhere else. Such conservatism as Stevenss, how- ever, was necessarily swept out of sight for the moment. The wealthier citizens were in a state bordering on panic, all but Mr. Lemuel Shackford. In his flapping linen duster, for the weather was very sultry now, Mr. Shackford was seen darting excitedly from street to street and hovering about the fever- ish crowds, like the stormy petrel wheel- ing on the edges of a gale. Usually as chary of his sympathies as of his gold, he astonished every one by evincing an abnormal interest in the strikers. The old man declined to put down anything on the subscription paper then circulat- ing; but he put down his sympathies to any amount. He held no stock in the concerns involved; he hated Slocum, and he hated the directors of the Mi- antowona Iron Works. The least he hoped was that Rowland Slocum would be laid out. So far the strikers had committed no overt act of note, unless it was the dem- olition of Han-Lins laundry. Stubbs, the provision dealer, had been taught the rashness of exposing samples of po- tatoes in his door-way, and the Tonso- rial Emporium of Professor Brown, a colored citizen, had been invaded by two humorists, who, after having their hair curled, refused to pay for it, and the pro- fessor had been too agitated to insist. The story transpiring, ten or twelve of the boys had dropped in during the morning, and got shaved on the same terms. By golly, genlmen! expos- tulated the professor, ef dis yab thing goes on, dis darkey will be cleaned clar out fo de week s done. No act of real violence had been perpetrated as yet; but with bands of lawless men roaming over the village at all hours of the day and night, the situation was critical. The wheel of what small social life there was in Stillwater had ceased to re- volve. With the single exception of Lemuel Shackford, the more respectable inhabitants kept in-doors as much as practicable. From the first neither Mr. Craggie nor Lawyer Perkins had gone to the hotel to consult the papers in the reading-room, and Mr. Pinkham did not dare to play on his flute of an even- ing. The Rev. ~A~rthur Langly found it politic to do but little visiting in the par- 1880.] The Stiliwater Tragedy. 18 ish. His was not the pinion to buffet with a wind like this, and indeed he was not explicitly called upon to do so. He sat sorrowfully in his study day by day, preparing the weekly sermon, a gen- tle, pensive person, inclined in the best of weather to melancholia. If Mr. Langly had gone into arboriculture in- stead of into the ministry, he would have planted nothing but weeping-wil- lows. In the mean time the mill directors continued their deliberations in the bank building, and had made several abortive attempts to effect an arrangement with the leaders of the union. This seemed every hour less possible and more nec- essary. On the afternoon of the seventh day of the strike a crowd gathered in front of the residence of Mr. Alexander, the superintendent of the Miantowona Iron Works, and began groaning and hooting. Mr. Alexander sought out Mr. Craggie, and urged him, as a man of local weight and one accustomed to addressing the populace, to speak a few words to the mob. That was setting Mr. Craggie on the horns of a cruel dilemma. He was afraid to disoblige the representa- tive of so powerful a corporation as the Miantowona Iron Works, but he equally dreaded to risk his popularity with seven or eight hundred voters; so, like the crafty chancellor in Tennysons poem, he dallied with his golden chain, and, smiling, put the question by. Drat the man! muttered Mr. Craggie, does he want to blast my whole political career! I cant pitch into our adopted countrymen. There was a blot on the escutcheon of Mr. Craggie which he was very anxious not to have uncovered by any chance in these latter days, his ancient affilia- tion with the deceased native American party. The mob dispersed without doing damage, but the fact that it had collect- ed and had shown an ugly temper sent a thrill of apprehension through the village. Mr. Slocum came in a great flurry to Richard. This thing ought to be stopped, said Mr. Slocum. I agree to that, replied Richard, bracing himself not to agree to anything else. If we were to drop that stipulation as to the increase of apprentices, no doubt many of the men would give over insisting on an advance. Our only salvation is to stick to our right to train as many workmen as we choose. The question of wages is of no account compared with that; the rate of wages will adjust itself. If we could manage it somehow with the marble workers, suggested Mr. Slocum, that would demoralize the other trades, and theyd be obliged to fall in. I dont see that they lack demor- alization. If something is nt done, they 11 end by knocking in our front doors or burn- ing us all up. Let them. It s very well to say let them, ex- claimed Mr. Slocum, petulantly, when you have nt any front door to be knocked in! But I have you and Margaret to consider, if there were actual danger. When anything like violence threatens, there s an honest shoulder for every one of the hundred and fifty muskets in the armory.~~ Those muskets might get on the wrong shoulders. That is nt likely. You do not seem to know, sir, that there is a strong guard at the armory day and night. I was not aware of that. It is a fact all the same, said Rich- ard; and Mr. Slocum went away easier in his mind, and remained so two or three hours. On the eighth, ninth, and tenth day the clouds lay very blarck along the ho- 14 The Stiliwater Tragedy. [July, rizon. The marble workers, who began to see their mistake, were reproaching the foundry men with enticing them into the coalition, and the spinners were hot in their denunciations of the molders. Ancient personal antagonisms that had been slumbering started to their feet. Torrini fell out of favor, and in the midst of one of his finest perorations uncomplimentary missiles, selected from the animal kingdom, had been thrown at him. The grand torchlight procession on the night of the ninth culminated in a disturbance, in which many men got injured, several badly, and the windows of Bracketts bakery were stove in. A point of light had pierced the darkness, the trades were quarreling among themselves! The selectmen had sworn in special constables among the citizens, and some of the more retired streets were now patrolled after dark, for there had been threats of incendiarism. Bishops stables burst into flames one midnight, whether fired intentionally or accidentally was not known; but the giant bellows at Danas Mills was slit and two belts were cut at the Mianto- wona Iron Works that same night. At this juncture a report that out.of- town hands were coming to replace the strikers acted on the public mind like petroleum on fire. A large body of workmen assembled near the railway station, to welcome them. There was another rumor which caused the marble workers to stare at each other aghast. It was to the effect that Mr. Slocum, hav- ing long meditated retiring from busi- ness, had now decided to do so, and was consulting with Wyndham, the keeper of the green-house, about removing the division wall and turning the marble yard into a peach garden. This was an unlooked-for solution of the difficulty. Stillwater without any Slocums Marble Yard was chaos come again. Good Lord, boys! cried Piggott, if Slocum should do that! Meanwhile, Snellings bar had been suppressed by the authorities, and a posse of policemen, borrowed from South Mill- ville, occupied the premises. Knots of beetle-browed men, no longer in holiday gear, but chiefly in their shirt-sleeves, collected from time to time at the head of the main street, and glowered threat- eningly at the single policeman pacing the porch of the tavern. The Still- water Grays were under arms in the ar- mory over Dundons drug.store. The thoroughfares had ceased to be safe for any one, and Margarets merciful errands were necessarily brought to an end. How the poor creatures who had depended on her bounty now continued to exist was a sorrowful problem. Matters were at this point, when on the morning o~ the thirteenth day Rich- ard noticed the cadaverous face of a man peering into the yard through the slats of the main gate. Richard sauntered down there, with his hands in his pock- ets. The man was old Giles, and with him stood Lumley and Peterson, gazing thoughtfully at the sign outside, NO ADMITTANCE EXCEPT ON BUSINESS. The roughly lettered clapboard, which they had heedlessly passed a thousand times, seemed to have taken a novel sig- nificance to them. Richard. Whats wanted there? Cues. [Vary affably.] We was lookin round for a job, Mr. Shackford. Richard. We are not taking on any hands at present. Giles. Did nt know but you was. Somebody said you was. Richard. Somebody is mistaken. Cues. Prhaps to-morrer, or nex day? Richard. Rather doubtful, Giles. Giles. [Uneasily.] Mr. Slocum aint goin to give up business, is he? Richard. Why should nt he, if it does nt pay? The business is carried on for his amusement and profit; when 1880.] T4e Stiliwater Tragedy. 15 the profit stops it wont be amusing any longer. Mr. Slocum is not going to run the yard for the sake of the Marble Workers Association. He would rather drive a junk-cart. He might be allowed to steer that himself. Cues. Oh! Richard. Good-morning, Giles. Cues. Mornin, Mr. Shackford. Richard rushed back to Mr. Slocum. ~~rrhe strike is broken, sir! What do you mean? The thing has collapsed! The tide is turning, and has washed in a lot of deadwood! Thank God! cried Mr. Slocum. An hour or so later a deputation of four, consisting of Stevens, Denyven, Durgin, and Piggott, waited upon Mr. Slocum in his private office, and offered, on behalf of all the departments, to re- sume work at the old rates. Mr. Slocum replied that he had not objected to the old rates, but the new, and that he accepted their offer con- ditionally. You have overlooked one point, Mr. Stevens. What one, sir? The apprentices. We thought you might not insist there, sir. I insist on conducting my own busi- ness in my own way. The voice was the voice of Slocum, but the backbone was Richards. Then, sir, the Association dont ob- ject to a reasonable number of appren- tices. How many is that? As many as you want, I expect, sir, said Stevens, shuffling his feet. Very well, Stevens. Go round to the front gate and Mr. Shackford will let you in. There were two doors to the office, one leading into the yard, and the other, by which the deputation had entered and was now making its exit, opened upon the street. Richard heaved a vast sigh of relief as he took down the beam securing the principal entrance. Good-morning, boys, he chirped, with a smile as bright as newly mint- ed gold. I hope you enjoyed your- selves. The quartet ducked their heads bash.. fully, and Stevens replied, Cant speak for the others, Mr. Shackford, but I never enjoyed myself worse.~~ Piggott lingered a moment behind the rest, and looking back over his shoulder said, That peach garden was what fetched us! Richard gave a loud laugh, for the peach garden had been a horticultural invention of his own. In the course of the forenoon the ma- jority of the hands presented themselves at the office, dropping into the yard in gangs of five or six, and nearly all were taken on. To dispose definitely of Lum- ley, Giles, and Peterson, they were not taken on at Slocums Yard, though they continued to be, directly or indirectly, Slocums pensioners, even after they were retired to the town farm. Once more the chisels sounded mer - rily under the long shed. That same morning the spinners went back to the mules, but the molders held out until night-fall, when it was signified to them that their demands would be complied with. The next day the steam whistles of the Miantowona Iron Works and Danas Mills sent the echoes flying beyond that undulating line of pines and hemlocks which half encircles Stillwater, and falls away loosely on either side, like an un- clasped girdle. A calm, as if from out the cloudless blue sky that arched it day after day, seemed to drift down upon the village. Han-Lin, with no more facial expression than an orange, suddenly reappeared on the streets, and went about repairing his laundry, unmolested. The children were playing in the sunny lanes again, 16 The Saffron Ply. [July, unafraid, and mothers sat on doorsteps in the summer twilights, singing softly to the baby in arm. There was meat on the table, and the tea-kettle hummed comfortably at the back of the stove. The very winds that rustled through the fragrant pines, and wandered fitfully across the vivid green of the salt marshes, breathed peace and repose. Then, one morning, this blissful tran- quillity was rudely shattered. Old Mr. L~nuel Shackford had been found mur- dered in his own house in Welchs Court. Thomas Baile~y Aldrich. THE SAFFRON FLY. A LEGEND OF BRITTANY. JUDOCK the sorcerer, Kakous born, Master of magic sign and spell, Skilled to measure the thought of man, Wise with the wisdom of lower hell, Judock, hated and mocked and feared, Hid in the shadow of Mont dYv6, High and scornful to men appeared, But the soul within him cursed all day. Mad with the lust of gold was he, Thirsty for riches as sea for sands; Long he pondered the mystery Of hoarding spirits and hiding hands. Morn and midnight he travailed well, Wrought with signet and spell of power, Till the Spirit of Sin in the rock that dwells He bound and tortured in evil hour. Round and round, and seven times round, Him he bound with a mighty chain, Till Debrua howled like a beaten hound, And shook and shuddered in mortal pain. Loud he yelled, 0 master of men! Set me free, and I will not lie! Gold and jewels his hands shall fill Who finds and catches the Saffron Fly. Weave of thy whitest hair a net, Weave it only with three times three; Soak it in blood and wash in sweat, So shall the Fly thy captive be.

Rose Terry Cooke Cooke, Rose Terry The Saffron Fly 16-18

16 The Saffron Ply. [July, unafraid, and mothers sat on doorsteps in the summer twilights, singing softly to the baby in arm. There was meat on the table, and the tea-kettle hummed comfortably at the back of the stove. The very winds that rustled through the fragrant pines, and wandered fitfully across the vivid green of the salt marshes, breathed peace and repose. Then, one morning, this blissful tran- quillity was rudely shattered. Old Mr. L~nuel Shackford had been found mur- dered in his own house in Welchs Court. Thomas Baile~y Aldrich. THE SAFFRON FLY. A LEGEND OF BRITTANY. JUDOCK the sorcerer, Kakous born, Master of magic sign and spell, Skilled to measure the thought of man, Wise with the wisdom of lower hell, Judock, hated and mocked and feared, Hid in the shadow of Mont dYv6, High and scornful to men appeared, But the soul within him cursed all day. Mad with the lust of gold was he, Thirsty for riches as sea for sands; Long he pondered the mystery Of hoarding spirits and hiding hands. Morn and midnight he travailed well, Wrought with signet and spell of power, Till the Spirit of Sin in the rock that dwells He bound and tortured in evil hour. Round and round, and seven times round, Him he bound with a mighty chain, Till Debrua howled like a beaten hound, And shook and shuddered in mortal pain. Loud he yelled, 0 master of men! Set me free, and I will not lie! Gold and jewels his hands shall fill Who finds and catches the Saffron Fly. Weave of thy whitest hair a net, Weave it only with three times three; Soak it in blood and wash in sweat, So shall the Fly thy captive be. 1880.] T4e Saffron Fly. 17 Judock severed the mighty chain, The sword of Solomon cleft it through; With screech, and laughter, and yell of hate, Back to the rocks old Debrua flew. Judock wove the wondrous net, Hunted the Fly by night and day; Thorns and briers his path beset, Tearing the flesh from his bones away. Wild the black rocks over him frowned, His blood ran cold, he was like to die, Or ever above that haunted ground Danced and glittered the Saffron Fly. Seven long days, through mire and mud, Well he followed its freakish flight, Till overhead, on a peasants hat, He saw the glimmering wings alight. His bones were stiff, his flesh was cold, He could not climb a fathom higher; For one more chance at the Fly of gold He set the peasants hut on fire. Loud they shrieked who burned within. What cared he, for the Fly, it flew! Low he cursed and fast he ran, Black the cinders after him blew. Now it lights, on a fennel-tree! Flower of fennel no witch abides. The greedy fingers grew numb and weak; The Fly of fortune his chase derides. By there wandered a shepherd lad; Fair to see was the yellow Fly; Slowly he reached his slender hand, And safe within it did fortune lie. Judocks dagger was keen and fine; Deep to the shepherds heart it sped. Loud he laughed as he caught the Fly Out of the fingers of the dead. Fair is fortune, and evil too; Close he grasped, and sharp it stung The hand that gathers with love nor ruth Gathers sorrow for old or young! VOL. XLVI. wo. 273. 2 18 Incidents of the Capture of Richmond. [July, Gold like pebbles his coffers filled; Gorgeous garments and spreading lands, Gems like the dews of morning spilled, All were gathered by Judocks hands: All ! and the blessing of Saint Sequaire; Curs~d blessing, that dries the heart. His blood grew thick and his body spare, He felt the life from his veins depart. Light grew dark to his groping gaze, Bitter was food, the wine cUp dry; In a year and a day he wasted away, And his soul died cursing the Saffron Fly. Rose Terry Cooke. INCIDENTS OF THE CAPTURE OF RICHMOND. [THE following informal relation of incidents in the capture of Richmond was not intended for publication, and was never revised. It was hastily pre- pared for a few friends composing a lit- erary club in Portland, Maine, of which the writer was a member, and is now printed, after his decease, at their re- quest.] During the last year of the war of the rebellion, the public interest was so com- pletely centred in the movements of the Army of the Potomac, the campaign of General Sheridan, and General Sher- mans march to the sea that the Army of the James attracted comparatively little attention, until one bright Monday morning, on the 3d of April, 186~, the country was electrified with the intelli- gence that General Weitzel was in occu- pation of Richmond, and that the flag of the Union was waving over the capi- tal of the Southern Confederacy. So much blood and treasure had been poured out in the struggles for the cap- ture of the rebel capital; the Union army had been so repeatedly driven back from the almost impregnable de fenses of this fortress of the South; the cry of On to Richmond! had been for so many years ringing in the ears of the people, only to be followed and associ- ated with baffled expectations and de- feated hopes, that when at last the glad news came that General Weitzel was in Richmond and Jefferson Davis a fugi- tive, a shout of exultant joy went up from every loyal heart in the North, such as had never been heard before, and which was hardly equaled by that which welcomed the subsequent intelli- gence of the surrender at Appomattox. A short chapter of the unwritten his- tory of the Army of the James during the few days preceding and following the capture of Richmond, from one who had the best means of knowledge, may not be devoid of interest, and may supply the place of a more labored essay which the overtasked and wearied brain of a plodding judge refuses to produce in the few hours to be snatched from the ever-increasing throng of litigants clam~. oring for speedy judgments. On Saturday, the first day of April, what remained of the Army of the James, after being depleted by the detachment

George F. Shepley Shepley, George F. Incidents of the Capture of Richmond 18-29

18 Incidents of the Capture of Richmond. [July, Gold like pebbles his coffers filled; Gorgeous garments and spreading lands, Gems like the dews of morning spilled, All were gathered by Judocks hands: All ! and the blessing of Saint Sequaire; Curs~d blessing, that dries the heart. His blood grew thick and his body spare, He felt the life from his veins depart. Light grew dark to his groping gaze, Bitter was food, the wine cUp dry; In a year and a day he wasted away, And his soul died cursing the Saffron Fly. Rose Terry Cooke. INCIDENTS OF THE CAPTURE OF RICHMOND. [THE following informal relation of incidents in the capture of Richmond was not intended for publication, and was never revised. It was hastily pre- pared for a few friends composing a lit- erary club in Portland, Maine, of which the writer was a member, and is now printed, after his decease, at their re- quest.] During the last year of the war of the rebellion, the public interest was so com- pletely centred in the movements of the Army of the Potomac, the campaign of General Sheridan, and General Sher- mans march to the sea that the Army of the James attracted comparatively little attention, until one bright Monday morning, on the 3d of April, 186~, the country was electrified with the intelli- gence that General Weitzel was in occu- pation of Richmond, and that the flag of the Union was waving over the capi- tal of the Southern Confederacy. So much blood and treasure had been poured out in the struggles for the cap- ture of the rebel capital; the Union army had been so repeatedly driven back from the almost impregnable de fenses of this fortress of the South; the cry of On to Richmond! had been for so many years ringing in the ears of the people, only to be followed and associ- ated with baffled expectations and de- feated hopes, that when at last the glad news came that General Weitzel was in Richmond and Jefferson Davis a fugi- tive, a shout of exultant joy went up from every loyal heart in the North, such as had never been heard before, and which was hardly equaled by that which welcomed the subsequent intelli- gence of the surrender at Appomattox. A short chapter of the unwritten his- tory of the Army of the James during the few days preceding and following the capture of Richmond, from one who had the best means of knowledge, may not be devoid of interest, and may supply the place of a more labored essay which the overtasked and wearied brain of a plodding judge refuses to produce in the few hours to be snatched from the ever-increasing throng of litigants clam~. oring for speedy judgments. On Saturday, the first day of April, what remained of the Army of the James, after being depleted by the detachment Incidents of the Capture of Richmond. 19 of two divisions, one from the twenty- fourth and one from the twenty-fifth corps, under the command of Gener- al Ord, who had moved across the river to reinforce the Army of the Potomac, was encamped on the north side of the James River, on a line extending from Drurys Bluff to Deep Bottom, and di- rectly in front of Longstreets corps, which occupied a strongly fortified po- sition between these two points. We were under orders from General Grant to attack, on the following Monday, General Longstreets lines, and endeav- or to carry them by assault. Longstreet was intrenched behind the strongest of all those works so admirably constructed by the best engineers of the regular army, including Beauregard, who had devoted to the work of destroy- ing the republic the results of an educa- tion at West Point, obtained at the ex- pense of the Union, and intended to be used in its defense. In front of a per- fectly constructed parapet, armed at all points with the best guns of heavy cali- bre, was a deep and wide ditch; in front of the ditch was a double row of abatis, and buried in the ground, at a distance of eighteen inches apart, between these rows, were torpedoes, which would ex- plode under a pressure of five and seven pounds respectively. At all exposed points, where the nature of the ground in front did not exclude the probability of an attack, were chevaux-de-frise out- side of the line of abatis. The force of Longstreet behind this intreni.~ed line was much larger than our own, which was ordered to make the assault. The prospect was not a pleas- ant one. The attack was not to be made in the expectation of carrying the ene- mys line, but with the absolute certainty of being repulsed with great slaughter. Why then ordered? It was one of those necessities of warfare which require the sacrifice of a few to save many, the destruction of a portion of an army to insure the victory of the remainder. Grant was every day drawing closer and closer the lines which were encom- passing the armies of General Lee on the south side of the James. If Lee could not break through these, he must fail; for all his sources of supply had been cut off by the operations of Sheri- dan. The attempt was then making to force these lines. The decisive battles of the war were then being fought. It was all important at this crisis that Lee should not be strengthened by reinforcements drawn from Longstreets army on the north of the James. To this end we were to be hurled against Longstreets intrenchments; not as a feint to distract attention from another point of real at- tack, but in a persistent and deadly as- sault, wi~iich, regardless of losses to the attacking force, was to keep Longstreets corps occupied all along his line, and to exclude the possibility of the with- drawal of any of his troops to reinforce Lee. Every preparation had been made for this assault. Under orders I had placed ten days rations in the square redoubts along our line, that in the event of re- pulse and defeat the remnant of our army might take refuge in them, and perhaps sustain themselves until the anticipated successes of General Grants operations on the south side should enable him to detach a force for our relief. All the impedimenta of the army had been sent down to Norfolk. Every soldier had been reduced to the contents of his knap- sack and haversack, and every officer to what he could carry on his person and his horse. Saturday afternoon General Weitzel and one or two of his general officers were occupied in a meadow near Dutch Gap, experimenting with chain-shot and every available form of projectile, fir- ing at a double line of abatis, which had been constructed for the purpose as near- ly as possible like Longstreets, and en- deavoring to break it down with cannon. 20 Incidents of the Capture of Richmond. [July, The experiments were not successful; chain-shot and Parrott shell and every other missile passed through the inter- laced branches of the abatis, and left no visible break or opening. We retired at night-fall, with the conviction that ar- tillery was useless to help us in making the breaches; and that they could be made only with axes in the hands of men exposed at short range to a deadly fire from troops perfectly protected, and ex- posed also to direct and enfilading fires from the mounted guns all along the en- emvs line. In such an assault of course the officers must lead, stimulate, and en- courage the men. Sunday was passed in preparations for the attack, and in letter-writing to the dear ones at home, whom many of us then little expected to see again. Sun- day evening General Weitzel came into the hut of a general officer, who was then chief of staff of the Army of the James. He carefully examined the schedules this officer had made of the opposing force, and, expressing great surprise at their completeness and accu- racy, asked how such results could be at- tained with so limited means of informa- tion. The officer pointed tc a large, tabu- lated sheet tacked on the rough timber walls of his hut, and explained that by inquiring of each spy, prisoner, and de- serter from the enemy respecting his company, regimental, brigade, and divis- ion commanders, and also respecting the companies on his right and left flank, he was enabled, by a comparison of all the answers, to supplement the ignorance of some and correct the falsehoods of oth- ers, verifying each by the other, so as to arrive at an approximately correct re- sult. The result, general, is wonderful, said Weitzel, and that is where the lawyer comes in. General Weitzel was deeply impressed with the responsibility of leading his troops, including his own twenty-fifth colored corps, into a battle where the slaughter must be fearful and a repulse almost certain. I have been trying, said he, to ascertain what troops passed through Richmond yesterday, and from what part of Longstreets line they were withdrawn. General Mulford, who is coming down from near Richmond with the flag-of-truce steamer loaded with ex- changed prisoners, has been unable to obtain from the officers on board any in- formation on the subject. I think if you were there you could find out. I re- plied, General, I will make the at- tempt. Immediately calling for my horse and my orderly, I mounted, and started in the night through the woods for Aikens Landing, about four miles distant, where the flag-of-truce steamer, the City of Richmond, would land. On arrival I found the exchanged prisoners disem- barking. The men, with the habits of old soldiers in the field, upon landing had built fires on the banks, and were grouped in small squads, talking and smoking around them. I started to cross the gang-plank to see the officers, who remained on the steamer. The way was obstructed with exchanged prisoners lying across the plank, too exhausted and feeble from im- prisonment to go ashore; these were the prisoners from Belle Isle. The elation and excitement of a restoration to liberty after long confinement in rebeldom was not sufficient to rouse these half-starved, malaria-stricken skeletons of soldiers from complete apathy and indEerence to life or death; they seemed not to care to drag their weary limbs any further, nor to make any exertion to save them- selves from falling into the water. After- wards, in Richmond, I saw the little pes- tilential island in the river where these poor fellows had been huddlea together, closely packed in the low, swampy, fever- breeding inclosure, while on the high bluff, directly above them, was a large plain, where they could easily have been 1880.] incidents of the Capture of Richmond. 21 placed, with abundance of room, pure air, and dry ground. Having seen this within sight of the dwellings of Davis and General Lee, and having learned that to both of these men official communication had been ad- dressed from rebel officers, detailing the horrors of Andersonville and remon- strating against them, and that the only reply was a promotion of the infamous Winder and an approval of his course, I may be pardoned if I fail to agree with those who think that the president of the Confederacy and the commanding general of the rebel army are not re- sponsible for the twelve thousand nine hundred and twenty martyrs of Ander- sonville, and the thousands of other vic- tims of Libby and Belle Isle. With the help of my orderly careful- ly lifting these poor fellows from the gang-plank and placing them near the camp-fires, to be ministered to by their companions, I then went on board, but failed to obtain the required informa- tion. Divesting myself of shoulder- straps and all badges of rank, I passed about and conversed with the men in the small groups about the fires, and finally succeeded in finding a Yankee soldier, a genuine Yankee, who had kept his eyes and ears open. He had been a prisoner in Libby, and had been selected to go, under a parole, to carry the stinted rations to the other prisoners inside. He had seen the rebel soldiers, and learned their number and the name of their commander. With what I al- ready knew, this enabled me to deter- mine the precise point from which the troops had been withdrawn. But this information did not help us much, as they were taken from Fields division, which occupied the strongest and most defensible position on the line, quite dis- tant from the place decided upon as the point of our attack. Remounting, I galloped back to camp. On the way old Charley diversified the ride by giving himself and me a cold bath: he found the water of a stream we were obliged to ford so agreeable, after the heated gallop I had given him, that he evidently thought it would be pleasant to us both to lie down and roll over in it. I found General Weitzel awaiting my return. After communicating the intel- ligence I had acquired, we conversed upon the subject of the expected battle and the rather disheartening outlook. Before midnight a dispatch from Gen- eral Grant arrived, informing us that the operations on his left flank had been so successful that Weitzel might delay his attack until reinforcements could be sent from the Army of the Potomac. With the heavy weight of this responsi- bility lifted from him, Weitzel left for his own quarters. I had a conviction in my own mind of the significance of the withdrawal of a part of Fields division as indicating a desperate state of things. As soon as Weitzel left, therefore, I sent for Major Stevens, who had command of the pro- vost guard and of the picket line, and ordered him, if any rebel prisoner or de- serter were brought in that night, to bring him directly to me, and not delay him by the customary routine through brigade and division head-quarters. In case no prisoner or deserter from the enemy should be taken before two oclock in the morning, he was author- ized to offer a furlough of thirty days to any of the pickets who shoald bring one in. As no furloughs were then granted for any cause, and this would be a great boon to some soldier who wished to see, perhaps, a dying wife or child at home; and as the pickets of the respective ar- mies were within talking distance of each other, so that they frequently exchanged coffee for tobacco, and our pickets reg ularly supplied me with the Richmond daily papers, obtained in exchange for such things as our soldiers were well provided with and the rebels were des titute of, I had no doubt that I should 22 Incidents of the Capture of Richmond. [July, see a rebel soldier before morning. I then wrapped myself in my blanket, and lay dowii to await the result. Between one and two oclock Monday morning, Major Stevens came to my quarters, bringing with him a ragged specimen of a rebel soldier. I sprang to my feet, and asked, To what regi- ment do you belong? He answered, To the eighteenth Georgia battalion. The deuce you do! said I. That battalion is in Custis Lees division, and you are the man of all others in the world I want to see. I said this be- cause I knew that Custis Lees divis- ion occupied a point on the line which the enemy could not afford to weaken. Where is your division? I asked him. He answered, All I can tell you, general, is that I was out on picket, and at one oclock, when the relief should have come, the officer came and marched us silently inside of the parapet, and left nobody in our places. When I got in, I found my battalion marching out towards Richmond. I had been conscripted and forced into the army, and had marched enough; so I thought I would nt march any more, but would come over to you uns. Then I knew that the road to Rich- mond was open. Imagine the feelings of a Union officer, upon whom, in an instant, before it was known to any oth- er person on the Union side, there flashed the conviction that Richmond was at our mercy; that we should go there the next day; and that in the stillness of that night, while the whole army was quiet- ly sleeping, he was the sole possessor of the knowledge! I immediately dis- patched to General Devens to have the twenty-fourth corps ready to move at daylight, gave the same orders to the twenty-fifth, and hastened to General Weitzels quarters. I found the general sleeping the profound sleep of a Teuton, or, as he sometimes playfully called him- self, a long-legged Dutchman. Pull- ing him out of his bunk, which was the only way to arouse him from the deep sleep which had followed his relief from anxiety and responsibility for his com- mand, I shouted in his ear, General, we can take Richmond this morning! The news was too good and too sud- den for ready credence. He would not believe it. Said he, General, you are dreaming. I replied, Come out and put your ear to the ground, and you shall hear the tramp of Custis Lees division on their way to Richmond. The gallant Weitzel could not be con- vinced in that way. After some discus- sion, as he stood in the open door of his hut, a light was visible on the horizon in the direction of Richmond, which kept gradually increasing, succeeded by ex- plosions. It was, we afterwards learned, the burning and blowing up of the famous rebel ram Virginia, to prevent her falling into our hands. Weitzel exclaimed, By heavens! General, you are right! Telegraph Devens to be ready to move by daylight. I replied, I have sent orders to that effect, and received his reply, that the twenty-fourth will be ready. The twen- ty-fifth is ready now. The officers of the staff and of the two corps, to whom the news had ex- tended like wild-fire, came flocking about head-quarters, almost crazy with exulta- tion at the prospect of an immediate ad- vance. The light from the flames of burning Richmond continued to increase, and brought the conviction to all that the rebels were burning their gunboats and their munitions and supplies in the city. About three oclock in the morning, the whole heavens were illuminated with the grandest display of pyrotechnics I have seen. The air was full of bursting shells, burning rockets, blue and red lights, Roman candles, fiery serpents, and 1880.] incidents of the Capture of Richmond. 23 every kind of projectile and explosive. This magnificent illumination proceeded from the explosion of an immense naval laboratory near Richmond, in which were manufactured all the torpedoes, shell, fuses, rockets, signal lights, and ordnance stores for the rebel navy. Our horses were by this time saddled and ready, and we were impatiently awaiting the daylight to cross the ene- mys lines. While we were all exchang- ing congratulations, a young aid-dc-camp on my staff, Lieutenant De Peyster, came to me and said, General, do you remember a prom- ise made to me a few months ago, when we left iNorfolk for the Army of the James? I said, Yes, De Peyster: I promised if you would bring with you and take care of my old flag that had floated over the city-hall in New Orleans, you should raise it over Richmond. Will you let me do it? he eagerly asked. I answered, Yes, go and get it; and if you will carry it to Richmond you may raise it over the rebel capital. He ran quickly for it, strapped it to the pommel of his saddle, and did raise it that day over Richmond, the first Union flag that had waved over Rich- mond since the secession of Virginia. This flag I afterwards gave to General Weitzcl, and he presented it to the His- torical Society of Ohio. It was the gar- rison flag of the twelfth Maine regiment; a regiment which owed its unexampled speedy organization and equipment to the sagacity and foresight of one of the members of this club, the war gov- ernor of Maine. About five oclock, Monday morn- ing, we started on our march to Rich- mond: General Weitzel and his staff, comprising thirty or forty officers, in ad- vance; then a squadron of Massachu- setts cavalry under Major Stevens; a division of the twenty-fourth corps un- der General Devens; and a division of the twenty-fifth (colored) corps, all starting by different roads, and each striv- ing to be first in Richmond. As we rode through Longstreets lines, the small squares of red cloth inserted in split sticks in the ground over the torpedoes were all in place, the flight having been too precipitate to leave time for their removal. We carefully guided our horses through the eighteen-inch wide space between them, and rode down into the ditch and up on to the parapet, several of the horses tumbling into the ditch or rolling down the steep slopes of the parapet, to the great amusement of those of us who were hard-hearted enough to chaff their discomfited riders. As we crossed the parapet we could see the whole encampment standing pre- cisely as left in the night: not a tent had been struck; not a gun in the em- brasures had been spiked; everything was left as if an army in the field had been drawn up in line of battle, or for an inspection, and then marched off the field. We dismounted and examined the camps, and found everything in them undisturbed, exactly as they had been occupied the night before. Passing through the encampment, we proceeded along the New Market road, which was completely strewn with blankets, mus- kets, knapsacks, clothing, every kind of impedimenta that the flying soldiers could throw away to lighten their bur- dens on their hurried march. We made good speed on our horses, and were soon far in advance of the troops. As we drew near the city, a deputation, headed by Mr. Mayo, the mayor of Richmond, came to meet us and formally to surrender the city They expressed great surprise at the fine, well-groomed and well-fed horses of the officers and the style and com- pleteness of all the equipments, which undoubtedly contrasted strangely with the half-starved hacks and dilapidated equipments and uniforms they had been accustomed to see in the ranks of the 24 Inczcleflt8 of the Capture of Richmond. [July, Confederate army during the last year of the siege of Richmond. We received the old Virginia gentleman so pleasantly and kindly that he reported, on his re- turn to his anxious compatriots, who in- quired what kind of people the Yankees were, that he had met a company of perfect Chesterfields. As we entered the city itself, the whole colored population received us with shouts of welcome. The white population remaining were tired of the siege, and thankful for our protection, after what they had suffered from the rebel troops, who had passed through in advance of us, had plundered the city of everything they could seize, and had set it on fire, determined to leave nothing for the Yankees but a heap of ashes in the place where Richmond had been. The houses of the more wealthy residents were closed, and their inmates, screen- ing themselves from observation, only glanced at us from behind their lattices and blinds. But the joy of the poorer classes of whites and the exultation of the colored people at their deliverance from rebel tyranny was something won- derful to see. The greater part of Richmond was on fire. As we rode through the prin- cipal streets, the buildings on both sides were burning over an area larger than that embraced in the burned district at the great fire in Portland. The air was filled with sparks, mingled in places with exploding shells from the rebel ordnance stores. The streets were thronged with people carrying tobacco, flour, and all kinds of commodities from the burning houses, shops, and ware- houses. The delighted negroes crowd- ed about the horses of the body-guard, and welcomed their riders with every demonstration of joy, pressing upon them the tobacco which they were sav- ing from the factories and store-houses, so that when we arrived at the state- house every soldier of the provost guard had from five to fifty pounds of the best smoking tobacco hanging from his saddle. In the park surrounding the state- house was a scene of the wildest con- fusion. The rebel cabinet had hastily removed the most valuable archives from the respective departments the night be- fore our entry; and the only time for making their hurried preparations had been since Sunday afternoon, when Jeff Davis was called out of church by the to him unexpected intelligence that the defenses of Richmond were to be abandoned, and the city evacuated by the troops during the night. The cabi- net officers took away what papers they could, and the rest were scattered about the several departments, until our horses sank fetlock-deep in unsigned Confeder- ate bonds and notes, letters, and docu- ments of every kind, which covered the ground for acres. Instantly upon arriving at the capitol the requisite military orders were issued, announcing the occupation of Richmond; appointing a military governor, provost- marshal, and the necessary officers; pro- viding measures for extinguishing the conflagration, for the preservation of peace; and for the general government of the captured city. These measures occupied us until night-fall. General Weitzel and the military gov- ernor occupied the official residence of the late president of the Confederacy, and breakfasted on the fare which had been provided for him, and which he could not wait that morning to partake of. As Davis had been a friend and guest of mine in former days, when he had been making Union speeches in Maine, and had frequently urged me to visit him in his Southern home, and I had once called at his Mississippi planta- tion, only to find it occupied as a camp for contrabands, I thought it rather inhospitable in him not to wait and pre- side at the hreakfast he had prepared for me; but an appetite sharpened by the ride and the work of the morning 1880.] Incidents of tAe Capture of Ric1~moncZ. 25 prevented my spending much time in mourning my long-lost friend. Before breakfast the following mil- itary orders had been issued, which I read from a Richmond paper of the pe- riod HEAD-QUARTERS DETACHMENT ARMY JAMES, RICHMOND, VA., April 3, 1865. Major-General Godfrey Weitzel, com- manding detachment of the Army of the James, announces the occupation of the city of Richmond by the armies of the United States, under command of Lieu- tenant-General Grant. The people of Richmond are assured that we come to restore to them the blessings of peace, prosperity, and freedom, under the flag of the Union. The citizens of Richmond are request- of to remain for the present quietly with- in their houses, and to avoid all public assemblages or meetings in the public streets. An efficient provost guard will immediately r& ~stablish order and tran- quillity within the city. Martial law is for the present pro- claimed. Brigadier-General George F. Shepley, United States Volunteers, is hereby am pointed Military Governor of Richmond. Lieutenant-Colonel Fred L. Manning, Provost Marshal General, Army of the James, will act as Provost Marshal of Richmond. Commanders of detachments doing guard duty in the city will report to him for instructions. By command of Major-General WElT- ZEL. D. D. WHEELER, A. A. G. HEAD-QUARTERS MILITARY GOVERNOR OF RICHMOND, VA., April 3, 1865. The armies of the rebellion having abandoned their efforts to enslave the people of Virginia, have endeavored to destroy by fire the Capitol, which tbey could not longer occupy by their arms. Lieutenant-Colonel Manning, Provost Marshal General of the Army of the James and Provost Marshal of Rich- mond, will immediately send a sufficient detachment of the provost guard to arrest, if possible, the progress of the flames. The fire department of the city of Rich- mond and all the citizens interested in the preservation of their beautiful city will immediately report to him for duty, and render every possible assistance in staying the progress of the conflagration. The first duty of the armies of the Un- ion will be to save the city doomed to destruction by the armies of the rebel- lion. No person will leave the city of Rich- mond without a pass from the office of the provost marshal. Any citizen, soldier, or any person whatever, who shall hereafter plunder, destroy, or remove any public or private property, of any description whatever, will be arrested and sumr iarily punished. The soldiers of the command will ab- stain from any offensive or insulting words or gestures towards the citizens. No treasonable or offensive expres- sions insulting to the flag, the cause, or the armies of the Unioji will hereafter be allowed. For an exposition of their rights, du- ties, and privileges, the citizens of Rich- mond are respectfully referred to the proclamations of the president of the United States in relation to the existing rebellion. All persons having in their posses- sion or under their control any property whatever of the so-called Confederate States, or of any officer thereof, or the records or archives of any public offi- cer whatever, will immediately report the same to Colonel Manning, Provost Marshal. In conclusion, the citizens of Rich- mond are assured that with the restora- tion of the flag of the Union they may expect the restoration of that peace, prosperity, and happiness which they enjoyed under the Union, of which that flag is the glorious symbol. G. F. SHEPLEY, Brigadier-General U. S. Volunteers and Military Governor of Richmond. 26 IncIdents of the Capture of Richmond. [July, HEAD-QUARTERS MILITARY GOVERNOR OF RICHMOND, VA., April 3, 1865. General Order No. 2. No officer or soldier will enter or search any private dwelling, or remove any property there- from, without a written order from the head-quarters of the commanding gen- eral, the military governor, or the pro- vost marshal general. Any officer or soldier, with or without such order, entering any private dwell- ing will give his name, rank, and regi- ment. Any officer or soldier entering a pri- vate dwelling without such authority, or failing to give his name, rank, and regi- ment, or reporting the same incorrectly, will be liable to immediate and summary punishment. G. F. SHEPLEY, Brigadier -General U. S. Volunteers and Military Governor of Richmond. After the labors of the first day in extinguishing the flames, giving orders for removing the bricks and stone of the fallen walls, so as to clear the streets and renew the supply of gas and water which had been cut off by the destruc- tion of the mains, and in organizing measures for the government and police of the city, the officers of the army of occupation assembled in a large building near the executive mansion, and held a love-feast, to celebrate the fall of Rich- mond, and to listen to the congratula- tory dispatches which poured in from the whole North. I pass over these festivities and the thousand other occurrences of the next few days, to relate an incident which is a part of the unwritten history connect- ed with the visit of Abraham Lincoln.1 A few days after the fall of Richmond, as I was rapidly riding from my head- quarters in the custom-house, where I occupied rooms just vacated by Judah P. Benjamin, secretary of state of the 1 April 6, 1865: the presidents second visit to Richmond after its capture. His first visit was on Confederacy, I saw an excited crowd moving up the street. Dispatching my orderly to ascertain the occasion of the tumult, he soon returned, saying, Gen- eral, they say it is the president. Put- ting spurs to my horse, I rode immedi- ately to the advancing multitude. At the head of the procession was Abraham Lincoln leading his boy Tad by the hand, walking in the middle of the street, accompanied by Admiral Porter, and followed by the officers of Admiral Porters flag - ship, the Wabash, and a crowd of curious gazers, white, black, and intermediate shades; men, women, and children, all anxious to get a look at Father Abraham. Dismounting, I went up to him, when he exclaimed, Hullo, general! is this you? I was walking round to find head- quarters. I dispatched an orderly to report the facts to General Weitzel, and we walked together to the executive mansion. When we arrived in front of it, I presented the president to the peo- ple, and he acknowledged their hearty cheers by a few simple, sensible, and kindly words. While the officers of the navy who had accompanied the president were ex- ploring Richmond, and he was confer- ring with General Weitzel, Judge Camp- bell, who had left the bench of the su- preme court of the United States at the breaking out of the rebellion, and had been a member of the rebel cabinet, and was now in Richmond undergoing the process of reconstruction, came to me as an old friend, and solicited the favor of an interview with the president. I communicated his desire to Lincoln, who expressed a readiness to see him. The interview took place. Judge Campbell endeavored to satisfy the president that as Richmond was evacuated by the Con- federacy, and in possession of the Union army, the Virginia troops, who had gone into the ~iontest upon the ground April 4th, the day following the entry of the Union army. 1880.] Incident8 of the Capture of Richmond. 27 that they owed their first allegiance to their State, would no longer care to fight. He urged that if the legislature of Vir- ginia could be convened, it would now recall the Virginia troops from the field, and declare, so far as Virginia was con- cerned, the rebellion ended. In the conference, Judge Campbell, appealing to the kind, generous, and for- giving nature of Lincoln, who was only too ready to concede everything to a fall- en foe, succeeded in convincing him of the feasibility of this project, and that it would save the effusion of much blood. The president then ordered General Weitzel to grant passes and permission to the members of the rebel legislature of Virginia to assemble in Richmond. General Weitzel had no opportunity to communicate this result to me before the president had left Richmond, al- though the president told me that he had acceded to Judge Campbells re- quest. When General Weitzel informed me of the order, I asked for a copy. He said, I have no written order. I replied, You are not safe without one. Why do you say so? he asked. Because, I answered, this order will be revoked as soon as the president reaches Washington and confers with his cabinet; more, the cabinet will deny that any such order ever was issued. Why so? said he. Because this is madness. By this shrewd move of Judge Campbell the rebel legislature, assembled under the new constitution recognizing the Con- federacy, will covertly gain recognition as a legal and valid legislature, and creep into the Union with all its rebel legisla- tion in force, thus preserving all the pe- culiar rebel institutions, including slav- ery; and they will get, as the price of defeat, all they hoped to achieve as the fruits of victory. The thing is monstrous. The cabinet will swear that you have misunderstood the verbal order, or will- fully misinterpreted it. I wish, for your sake, you had the order in writing. I am a soldier, said he, and do as I am ordered. Right, general, I said. Issue to me the order for the safe conducts, and I will obey it. So he issued the order to me. I wrote a form of safe conduct, or pass, as follows By command of the president of the United States, safe conduct through the lines of the army is hereby granted to , a member of the so-called legisla- ture of Virginia, from his place of abode in Virginia to Richmond, and while go- ing to, remaining in, and returning from Richmond, and during the meeting of the so-called legislature. If this permission be used for the furtherance or utterance of treason against the United States in any form, this safe conduct will be void and it~ protection withdrawn. By command of GODFREY WEITZEL, Major-General. G. F. SHEPLEY, Brigadier-General, Military Governor. When these orders were printed, I showed them to Weitzel, and said, The passes are ready for the members of the legislature; notice has been publicly given that they can have them. I have obeyed orders; so have you. I am afraid, gen- eral, as most of the gentlemen for whom these papers are intended are scattered over Virginia, and between us and them are the lines of two contending armies, not many of the passes will be delivered before this order is revoked from Wash- ington, and before General Grant has solved the question for them. At the rate he is now progressing, he will soon withdraw the Virginia troops from the field without th~ help of a rebel legisla- ture. It turned out as I had expected. As soon as the president arrived in Wash- ington, having reflected upon the effect of recognizing a rebel legislature, and 28 Incidents of the Capture of Richmond. [July, conferred with his cabinet, he revoked, by telegraph, his order to Weitzel. The cabinet officers denied the fact that such an order was issued, and thp blame was thrown on Weitzel; and newspaper re- porters circulated a charge that the move- ment originated with Weitzel, and it was attributed to his sympathy for the reb- els. Not so President Lincoln. As soon as he was on board the Wabash, going down the river, he sent General Weitzel a written order in the same terms as the verbal one he had previously given. This shows the kindness and sense of justice of Abraham Lincoln. The written order was sent purely for Weitzels protec- tion, that the responsibility for the act might rest on the presidents own shoul- ders, and no one else might suffer. When, therefore, after the decease of Lincoln, a high government official al- lowed it to be said without contradic- tion, No one than he [Lincoln] more bitterly condemned the acts of General Weitzel and his officers in Richmond in attempting to assemble the rebel legis- lature of Virginia, he did not know, as I did, that General Weitzel had in his possession the peremptory written order of the president, and that the, act was against the opinions and advice of the only officers in Richmond who were cognizant of it. After his interview with Judge Camp- bell, the president being about to return to the Wabash, I took him and Admiral Porter in my carriage. An immense concourse of colored people thronged the streets, accompanied and followed the carriage, calling upon the president with the wildest exclamations of gratitude and delight. He was the Moses, the Messiah, to the slaves of the South. Hundreds of colored women tossed their hands high in the air, and then bent down to the ground, weeping for joy. Some shouted songs of deliverance, and sang the old plantation refrains, which had prophesied the coming of a deliverer from bondage. God bless you, Father Abraham! went up from a thousand throats. Those only who have seen the paroxysmal en- thusiasm of a religious meeting of slaves can form any adequate conception of the way in which the tears and smiles and shouts of these emancipated people evinced the frenzy of their gratitude to their deliverer. He looked at it all at- tentively, with a face expressive only of a sort of pathetic wonder. Occasionally its sadness would alternate with one of his peculiar smiles, and he would remark on the great proportion of those whose color indicated a mixed lineage from the white master and the black slave; and that reminded him of some little story of his life in Kentucky, which he would smilingly tell; and then his face would relapse again into that sad expression which all will remember who saw him during the last few weeks of the rebel- lion. Perhaps it was a presentiment of his impending fate. I accompanied hini to the ship, bade him farewell, and left him, to see his face no more. Not long after, the bul- let of the assassin arrested the beatings of one of the kindest hearts that ever throbbed in human bosom. The sceptre descended into the hands of Andrew Johnson. Andrew Johnson descended into the hands of the Southern rebels. Then followed the ill-advised and ill-considered measures of recon- struction, and the conflicts of Ku-Klux and carpetbaggers; all which Provi- dence seems to have tolerated as perhaps a necessary act in the great drama of the social revolution, which substituted a system of equality of personal and civil rights for the dynasty of a domi- nant over a servient race. George F. Skeple~,. 1880.] Brown8 Retreat. 29 BROWNS RETREAT. I. BROWNS Retreat flashed upon them all of a sudden. The neighborhood had gone to sleep, one night, guileless and innocent, that is, theoretically guileless and innocent, and had awakened in the morning to the consciousness that Browns Retreat was in its midst. There was considerable mystery and confusion attending the want of knowl- edge whether Browns Retreat meant that Brown had retreated, or if it was a general invitation into the retreat, or if Brown was a practical joker and Browns Retreat merely a gentle stimu- lant to that weakness. Edgerly was such a prosperous town that it was no misnomer to call it a city. It had a fine harbor and a fine East In- dia trade, and it had a charming collec- tion of water-side characters. It had a fine state-prison that was kept on the most desirable plan. Five hundred gen- tlemen were lodged there who had dif- ferences with their countrys laws. Once in a while, curiously enough, one of these gentlemen would escape. There were other fine institutions in Edgerly, of which it is, however, unnecessary to speak. Edgerly itself was built on some three or four hills, so that the narrow, zigzag streets were not only narrow and zig- zag, but they had quite an abrupt slope; and some of them, had they been built as surveyors intend, would have led you, running at a smart pace, down into the very depths of the dubious-looking black water at the foot of the hill, where, at the weather-beaten wharves, with their perfume of bilge-water, some rusty-look- ing schooner would be lying at anchor, displaying on its bare spars a varied col- lection of trousers and under-garments hung out to dry, besides affording a glimpse of a decidedly untidy nautical character mopping the unsavory deck. To be sure, this represents Edgerlys least respectable side, but, to tell the truth, we have nothing to do with its more aristocratic aspect. It was nearly at the foot of Edgerlys down-hill street that Browns Retreat flashed out. At a rough guess it was six feet by ten, and occupied one half of the ground floor of No. 7, a wooden house with depressed-looking windows, at each of which appeared a vision of somebodys baby and some babys moth- er, all looking very frouzy and much in want of soap and water and fresh air. Browns Retreat was, then, about six feet by ten, and left lookers-on no doubt of its character, as it boldly pro- claimed itself Browns Retreat on a deal-board, painted in lamp-black by one whose right hand had lost its cun- ning, for the letters resembled Edgerly streets, being narrow and zigzag in the extreme. Nevertheless, they stared into the world over the small, dingy show-win- dow, which revealed as a solid founda- tion, two quarts of dismal-looking apples, surmounted by several rows of sticky pop-corn balls, a collection of combs and seed-cakes, a few paper dolls, a sprink- ling of dead flies, clay-pipes, and shoe- strings. Sometimes a childs face would peer out eagerly from among these treasures; a childs face, yet strangely unchild-like, with shrewd gray eyes watching stealth- ily, a poor little body shivering in a doubtful calico dress, with an attempt at finery in a string with three glass beads about her wretched little neck, and a horse-hair ring on an emaciated fore- finger. The child was small, the shop was small, and the counter was very small.

Anna Eichberg Eichberg, Anna Brown's Retreat 29-37

1880.] Brown8 Retreat. 29 BROWNS RETREAT. I. BROWNS Retreat flashed upon them all of a sudden. The neighborhood had gone to sleep, one night, guileless and innocent, that is, theoretically guileless and innocent, and had awakened in the morning to the consciousness that Browns Retreat was in its midst. There was considerable mystery and confusion attending the want of knowl- edge whether Browns Retreat meant that Brown had retreated, or if it was a general invitation into the retreat, or if Brown was a practical joker and Browns Retreat merely a gentle stimu- lant to that weakness. Edgerly was such a prosperous town that it was no misnomer to call it a city. It had a fine harbor and a fine East In- dia trade, and it had a charming collec- tion of water-side characters. It had a fine state-prison that was kept on the most desirable plan. Five hundred gen- tlemen were lodged there who had dif- ferences with their countrys laws. Once in a while, curiously enough, one of these gentlemen would escape. There were other fine institutions in Edgerly, of which it is, however, unnecessary to speak. Edgerly itself was built on some three or four hills, so that the narrow, zigzag streets were not only narrow and zig- zag, but they had quite an abrupt slope; and some of them, had they been built as surveyors intend, would have led you, running at a smart pace, down into the very depths of the dubious-looking black water at the foot of the hill, where, at the weather-beaten wharves, with their perfume of bilge-water, some rusty-look- ing schooner would be lying at anchor, displaying on its bare spars a varied col- lection of trousers and under-garments hung out to dry, besides affording a glimpse of a decidedly untidy nautical character mopping the unsavory deck. To be sure, this represents Edgerlys least respectable side, but, to tell the truth, we have nothing to do with its more aristocratic aspect. It was nearly at the foot of Edgerlys down-hill street that Browns Retreat flashed out. At a rough guess it was six feet by ten, and occupied one half of the ground floor of No. 7, a wooden house with depressed-looking windows, at each of which appeared a vision of somebodys baby and some babys moth- er, all looking very frouzy and much in want of soap and water and fresh air. Browns Retreat was, then, about six feet by ten, and left lookers-on no doubt of its character, as it boldly pro- claimed itself Browns Retreat on a deal-board, painted in lamp-black by one whose right hand had lost its cun- ning, for the letters resembled Edgerly streets, being narrow and zigzag in the extreme. Nevertheless, they stared into the world over the small, dingy show-win- dow, which revealed as a solid founda- tion, two quarts of dismal-looking apples, surmounted by several rows of sticky pop-corn balls, a collection of combs and seed-cakes, a few paper dolls, a sprink- ling of dead flies, clay-pipes, and shoe- strings. Sometimes a childs face would peer out eagerly from among these treasures; a childs face, yet strangely unchild-like, with shrewd gray eyes watching stealth- ily, a poor little body shivering in a doubtful calico dress, with an attempt at finery in a string with three glass beads about her wretched little neck, and a horse-hair ring on an emaciated fore- finger. The child was small, the shop was small, and the counter was very small. 80 The selection of wares was modest, and the greater part graced the window. When the sign, Browns Retreat, appeared over the window the neigh- borhood stared. Whether the invisible Brown grinned is unknown; but true it is that the mysterious child continued to keep the little shop with much solem- nity. Once in a while, when the shop was empty, which, Heaven knows, was most of the time, for neither money nor trade was very brisk in that part of Edgerly town, a cautious voice would whisper hoarsely, Is the coast clear, Popsy? The mysterious child would reconnoi- tre stealthily, and then with much diffi- culty would whisper through the key- hole of a small door in the back of the shop, half lost in the gloom of the place, Yes, Nunc I Then a mans head would peer out cautiously from the slightly opened door, a mans head, ~vith tumbled, brown hair, an unshaven face, and undecided blue eyes, that had, however, little redeeming wrinkles at the corners, as if the man could laugh at a joke. If Popsy whispered warningly, Shoo, shoo, Nunc! there would come back a muffled All right, Popsy! By which you will see that not only wa~ there a Browns Retreat, but there was even a retreat to that, like a Chinese puz- zle of a ball within a ball. It was on a late November day that Browns Retreat appeared before an astonished world; a raw day, when the inky waves with a greasy scum, down in the harbor, had foamy white caps toss- ing upon them, and plebeian Edgerly went about with a red nose and its hands in its pockets, and some of the ladies had their dress skirts over their heads. Popsy, having flashed out along with the Retreat, was much stared at and questioned; but the only information gleaned was that Popsy had a sick uncle in the back room, who was nt to be dis Browns Retreat. [July, turbed. He had bought out the previous occupant, she further volunteered, who had failed ingloriously, with five dollars debts and assets nil. Uncle says, too, we must n.t trust, Popsy added, parenthetically. As she spoke a low chuckle was heard through the key-hole of the back room, as if some one could nt help laughing, for the life of him. Merciful powers, what s that ? asked the visitor. It s only uncle a-choking, said Popsy, with much presence of mind. II. A man may be a rascal, and yet pos- sess a fine sense of humor. That was the matter with Popsys uncle. Not that he was such an awful rascal, if you judge by any other standard than this worlds. His name was Brown, and be- fore he became ripe for the penitentiary he had been quite a decent member of society, who even went to church once in a while. That was his misfortune. Had he not gone to church he might still have been quite a decent member of society instead of what he was. One Sunday morning he wandered into a meeting-house, and heard the preach- er grow eloquent on forgiving the sins of our fellow - men; how that he, the preacher, loved mankind, and there was nothing his erring brethren could do to him which would turn him against them. Brown had gone into the sacred edifice more for warmth than from piety, for it was a bitter, biting winter day, and his lucky star was, just then, very dim. Being there he listened, and listening be- lieved the eloquent words. Confidingly, and with a certain sense of humor, too, he took the reverend gentleman at his word: that night the parsonage was en- tered and a large number of valuables were stolen. Brown was not caught in the act, exactly, but a silver cream jug 1880.] Browns Retreat. 31 was found in his left coat-tail pocket for which he could not account; especially, as it had a strange monogram engraved on one fat side. To his surprise and disappointment the minister appeared against him; a jury without a bit of humor found him guilty, and a prosaic judge sentenced him to five years im- prisonment. Brown did not belong to that class novelists delight in describing, the noble convict. He was human, that is all I have to say for him ; human, with a fine ignorance of mine and thine; but beyond that, he would do no injury to man or child, except, perhaps, in self- defense, when we are all either cowards or wild beasts. That late November night when he es- caped, one thought had been uppermost in his distracted mind, to secrete him- self on some outward-bound vessel in Edgerly harbor, and be carried to parts unknown; very fine in theory, very hard in practice, though Brown had his friends, and you know that truthful ad- age, honor among thieves. That eventful night, when, after death- ly danger, he stood trembling and shud- dering once more under the skies, a free man, unimaginative creature that he was he felt his own unspeakable wretched- ness. With the instinct of a hunted beast more than the consciousness of a man with a deadly fear at heart, that made him repent of his rash folly too late, he turned his back on the open country, that would have meant safety to many a man, and groped his way through miserable alleys and no-thoroughfares, shrinking at every sound and starting at every shadow, to Edgerlys market- place. The sky was black, the rain fell in torrents; and a piercing wind swept the great drops hither and thither. Dogs weather! muttered a police- man, and pulled his coat collar about his ears, and was for a moment not quite as watchful as he should be. Good convicts weather, Brown may have thought, if the power of thinking was still left to him in the midst of cold and terror, as he crouched in an angle of the great market that stretched its gran- ite length in dim perspective, lighted at distant intervals by flickering gas-lamps, about which the rays, falling on mist and rain, formed a dismal yellow halo. De- serted all, deserted. Edgerly market lay quite near the wharves; not very respectable, to be sure, but Brown was satisfied, and Brown and respectability had long since ceased to know each other. Quite unhindered he continued his vagrant, groping way, till, being about to turn a corner, a corner with a traitorous street-lamp, he ran face to face against another man. Damn you I muttered the new- comer. Then instantly catching sight of the cowering face, he grasped the wretch- ed mans t~rm with the power of a vice. You, Brown, You, Jack, and Brown tried to free himself desperately, and raised one clenched fist. None o that, Brown; we re friends! cried Jack. Ned Brown, you here? Are nt you why you must have you must have Cut? Yes, Brown interposed. I m off, Jack. They 11 be after me now, sure! he cried, and peered anx- iously about. From the . . . ? Jack asked, turning his thumb in the direction of Edgerlys prison. Brown nodded, and was about to hurry on, when the other stopped him. Yours is hard luck, old boy. Here, take this; it 11 help you on. I 11 do sommat more for you if I can, for old time sake, ye know. Thrusting some money into the mans hand, this good Samaritan, in the guise of a com- mon sailor, vanished. With a ray of comfort in his heart Brown clutched the money to his breast, and at last found himself in that nar- row, zigzag street which led to the black 82 Browns Retreat. [July, water at the foot of the wharf, a street not very dainty in its inhabitants, and very willing to give anything it possessed for miserable money. It was the most undesirable of all the streets in a great city, a street with tumble-down, wood- en houses and odd nooks; with narrow lanes and alleys creeping out, and, here and there, dark quadrangles below the level of the street, with rickety wooden steps leading down to them, and dimly lighted by an oil lamp swinging from a wooden arch overhead and throwing a wretched glimmer on unspeakable pov- erty and crime. Down this street the culprit crept. He had just reached such a quadrangle, and had shrunk back from the dreary darkness and the dreary light, when he heard a bitter sobbing, and the next instant he felt something pull at his trousers. With a shudder and an oath he looked down. Let go, you brat! he muttered, as he caught sight of the shivering form of a child crouching on the top of the mis- erable flight of steps. The child ceased sobbing and shrank back at the sudden violence of face and tone, while the un- happy man disappeared into the dark- ness. There is a touch of superstition, a fear of a higher power, be it what it will, in the most unimaginative and irre- ligious of us, a feeling that, somehow, as we do, so shall we be done by. Flee- ing, as he was, from every known peril, Brown was yet stopped in his headlong course by an unexplained feeling that a certain guiding power Brown would call it luck, in an unvarnished state- ment might, in retribution, forsake him as he had passed by the child. So he retraced his steps to where she had fallen on her face and was weeping most bitterly. What s the matter, young un? he asked roughly. They ye turned me out o doors, for father s gone, I dont know where, and mother mother a dead, and oh, I m so cold and hungry, and I m so afraid! she cried, looking about fearfully. Well, what ~s to be done with you, young un? Brown demanded, not un- kindly. The child stopped sobbing, and look- ing up to him with an imploring faee said, with innocent confidence, Praps you 11 take me with you. It did not enter Browns head to dis- believe her story. Take you with me, he repeated, with a grim smile, for he saw the ghast- ly humor of the thing, take you with me? Why, I have nt got a bunk for myself to-night. The child had been bred in that state of society where hunted-down Brown was but an every-day object to her. He seemed e stranger in Edgerly, and what wonder, therefore, that he was without a lodging? I know of a boarding-house where they 11 take you in, she said eagerly; that is, if you can pay, she added, with some misgivings. Brown nodded. It s right here in the street, near the wharf; and and praps you 11 tell em to take me in, too, and and praps you 11 give me a bit of bread. Go ahead, said Brown, and he fol- lowed his ragged guide. He was reckless, this breaker of laws, and as a gambler stakes his all on one throw of the dice, so he staked life and liberty on this small vagrant, with a feeling of superstition that his luck could not forsake him; for had he not befriended one nearly as wretched as himself? The child led the way to a tumble- down wooden house with depressed windows. The landlady, a middle-aged virago, was just having a dispute with a slightly intoxicated lodger, which she postponed for an instant to attend to business. The delicate matter of refer.. ences not being alluded to, the stranger, in consideration of a certain modest sum, was allowed to take possession of a din-. gy room back of a six-by-ten-feet shop, followed by his small guide with a tal- low candle. 1880.] Brown8 Retreat. 88 Two doors and a low window, said Brown, peering curiously about in the miserable room. One door leads into the shop, the other into the entry, and the window, he said, throwing it open. as noiselessly as possible, and putting his head out, into an alley so! he exclaimed, and shut it again. Then he seated himself on the tall, uninviting bed, and, dangling his legs backwards and forwards, stared into the pinched, haggard face of the child, who stood watching him very patiently. And what may your name be, young un? he asked abruptly. Popsy, she said briefly, returning his stare. You re pretty well alone in the world? Yes, she whispered. So am I, he said thoughtfully, so am I. We might, he added, as if thinking aloud, we might hang on to each other, for the present at least, might nt we? I bet we might! Popsy answered energetically, with a world of gratitude in her old young eyes. Well, then, call me uncle; Nunc, you might say, for short. Now, Popsy? Well, INunc? Fetch a pint of milk and a loaf of bread. Popsy disappeared, and Brown lay back on the bed and laughed. The idea of his playing the part of protector was too funny; it struck him so forcibly that he forgot his own precarious posi- tion in amusement at the comic side of the transaction. Such was the advent of Brown, who rented the six-by-ten-feet shop, and, hid- ing day-times, prowled about at night in search of means to escape from Edger- ly town and the Edgerly laws he had broken. Yet the man could not be the man he was without having his little joke. In his leisure moments, so very plentiful, he traced the words Browns Retreat on a pine board, and, trusting VOL. XLVI. No. 273. 3 to the name of Brown as a disguise, nailed it over the shop window one night, where it surprised Edgerly the next morning, to the intense delight of its owner, who nearly choked with sup- pressed laughter when an unsuspecting policeman, in passing, read the sign and grinned. That policeman had a nice sense of humor, but it was as nothing compared to Browns. III. But Justice did not sleep because guileless policemen passed by Browns Retreat unsuspectingly. No; she was only slightly confused; perhaps rubbing her bandaged eyes, and resting the end of her classic nose on the hilt of her con- ventional sword. But she was not asleep. She had put her hand into her respect- able pocket and offered two hundred and fifty dollars reward for the appre- hension of the fugitive Brown, which stimulated quite a number of loafers to find him out. November had turned into the bitter- est, coldest December. Approaching Christmas hardly disturbed this part of Edgerly by any undue gladness; though Browns Retreat made a sacrifice to the season in the shape of a few twigs of holly and an evergreen-tree. Popsy had developed fine shop-keep- ing talents, with a shrewd eye open for cash customers. This calculating eye, in looking over the street one Decem- ber morning, lighted on a stranger in an attire several degrees better than that usually worn by the gentlemen about. It was a cross between a naval and a police uniform, and there was some- thing military in the slouched hat that was carelessly cocked over a wide-awake eye; there was, too, something military in the dyed mustache. This personage, with his hands in his trousers pockets, stared at the sign of Browns Retreat, and said Hallo! 84 Brown8 Retreat. [July, with a dim sense of amusement. Then he looked in at the door, and said Hal- lo? interrogatively. Without waiting for an answer, he leaned his elbow grace- fully on the counter, and remarked to Popsy, Of course you re not Brown; who may Brown be? to which the child listened in silent alarm. Brown s a man who likes a joke, the stranger con- tinued, surveying the dismal place with much scorn; for of course nobody d call this a retreat except as a joke. What did you say? he abruptly asked Popsy, who stood by in open-mouthed consternation. If you please, she said, with a little courtesy, if you please, sir, Brown s my sick uncle, and must nt be dis- turbed. Oh, really, must nt he? said this remarkable individual, calmly making for the little door. No, you shant! cried Popsy, and thrust her slight figure between the stranger and the back room. Why, you ferocious little savage! what harm would it do him? he cried, retreating, nevertheless, while he stroked ~his dyed mustache nonchalantly, and laughed a weak laugh, which would have been still weaker could he bave seen through the deal door, where Brown sat on the bed with a loaded revolver in his hand, ready with an unexpected wel- come. He s sick, and you must nt go in, Popsy said hastily, fearing, child as she was, that she had made a blunder, even in her quick defense of him; for she knew his story, and that he was waiting for a favorable moment to escape on one of the schooners down at the wharf, a transaction by no means strange to Popsy. The mysterious stranger, as if in his turn to allay her suspicion, or her alarm, looked over the wares on the counter, and at last purchased a clay pipe, and then sauntered carelessly out of the shop, followed by the childs eager gaze and by a couple of cautious eyes that looked stealthily out of the inner door after the retreating figure, and made such a men- tal note of it that that inquisitive per- son would not have been safe from Brown beneath any disguise. The devil s in that sneaking cuss! he mut- tered, as he drew his head in again. Popsy! Whats it, Nunc? the child asked, putting her shrewd face in at the door. If that chap comes loafing round here again, you do this; do you under- stand? Now do it! So Popsy coughed obediently, as Brown directed. It s getting as hot as hll round here. Ill have to cut, or they 11 pin me again, he muttered. Nunc, said Popsy, still lingering, there was another man here this morn- ing what asked to see you; and I said you wos sick, and he said he wos a doc- tor. I said you would nt see no doctor; then he said he wos a friend o yourn, and he d come round again. There was a look of veiled fear in the mans eyes, and he clenched his brawny hands, and felt as if the game he was playing was coming to a delicate point. The zigzag street was indeed becom- ing unsafe quarters; the neighborhood was accustomed to harbor suspicious characters, and, after a first nod of sur- prise, forgot all about them. But the mysterious Brown, who was never seen, who rented a shop where there was lit- tle to sell, became the subject of conver- sation. The police was after him, too; but it was not the police that looked in at the store and bought clay pipes; nor did the police say it was the doctor and his friend. The police was scouring the country far and wide in search of the criminal, but it had not occurred to that able body to examine the region under its very nose; that duty was being per- formed by self-constituted spies, who had recourse to the police only at the last moment, fearing it might claim the 1880.J Brown 8 Retreat. 85 reward. The culprit, knowing the tricks of the trade, instantly recognized his visitors errand, and muttered a curse upon them. The man was not so deli- cate in his sentiments not being a noble convict as to doubt the honor or purity of their profession; he merely questioned their right to be stepping into the shoes of those whose duty it was to arrest him in the way of business. Curse them for sneaking dogs! Why cant they leave a fellow alone! he thought, with a despair at heart that nearly made him give in, beaten. Nevertheless, that night he once more groped his way stealthily out of the house, through a back door that led into an alley-way, darker for a cloudy night and dirtier than usual for a spell of thaw- ing. Into this dirt and darkness Brown disappeared. The neighborhood about Browns Re- treat, if not very honest or respectable, had a touching confidence in other peo- ples honesty and respectability; for it always slept with its doors wide open in summer and on the latch in winter, the delicate formality of a bell or knocker being quite unknown. At midnight, or a little later, the faint light of a tallow candle lit a corner of Browns Retreat and awoke Popsy from her s]umbers on a miscellaneous heap of old clothes and a patchwork quilt to the fact that an anknown man was bending over her. A sailor he seemed; a strong looking man, with a face smoothly shaven but for a short, cleanly cut mustache. Being only a child, Popsy was for a moment filled with unspeakable terror at the sudden awakening, the light, and the strange man. Then there flashed into her mind, young as she was, the danger of the man who had befriended her, and whose object was, she knew, to remain undiscovered. Without moving her eyes from the strangers face, she slipped on to her feet, and stood at the door of Browns room, as if to defend it. Not a word she said, but stood there shivering and trembling, with one small, faithful hand on the door-knob and a pleading look in her faithful eyes that made his own dim; that made him turn away for an instant, and then ask in a husky voice, Dont you know me, Popsy? Popsy started at the tones. Well, this beats all Dont you know your Nunc? cried the man. I swear, youngster, either you re asleep or I m another man. What, dont you know me, Popsy? he asked, and held out his arms to her. Yes, you are Nunc! the child cried, throwing her arms about his neck. Then, after a little thoughtful pause, she added, And yet you are not. The man was, indeed, well disguised. Since Popsy had known him his face had become rough and dark by a beard and mustache of some weeks growth. Soap and water and a comb, prosaic as it sounds, had helped the transforma- tion. The trim sailors dress, rough as it was, formed such a contrast to the wretched clothes he had picked up piece- meal. With better clothes something of that disgraced, hunted-down look in his eyes had disappeared; so that as far as his outer man was concerned Brown might again have been classed as a respectable member of society. And yet you are not Nunc, the child repeated, not quite comprehending his disguise. Brown said nothing, but lifting her in his arms carried her into the back room and closed the door. Placing the candle on the rough table, he seated himself and took the child on his knee. Look here, Popsy, he began, with some embarrassment, you know I m hiding from the from the Perlice, Popsy interposed wisely. Well, yes, to be sure. And the fact is, to make a long story short, those two chaps who ye been a-prowling round here are making the place too hot for 36 Browns Retreat. [July, me; and, Popsy, he said, with a cer- tain tenderness in his voice you would hardly have expected from so rough a man, Popsy, I ye got to leave you, though I said I wouldnt; and it does seem hard and mean, now, does nt it, young un ? Oh, Nunc, Nunc! the child sobbed. There, there! Brown said, rocking her to and fro like a sick baby. Now, listen to what I ye done. You dont know Jack? Still, how should you? he muttered to himself. Ay, Jack s a good one and has stood by me like a rock, darn him! Brown said affection- ately. Now, Jack s got me a berth with himself on the Mary Ann, bound for the East Indies. The skippers glad of a steady hand, and asks no questions at this time o year. There 11 come a woman for you to-morrow, Popsy, wholl take ye along with her. Shes Jacks sister, and, speaking almost in a wins- per, once she was to have been my wife, my wife. But I went to the dogs God forgive me ! and she s only Jacks sister now. Be mindful of her, Popsy; be true and good like her, and some day you 11 grow up to be a good woman, just as she is, Heaven bless her! Brown cried, and buried his face in his hands for a moment. I will, I will, Nunc I the child an- swered piteously. But when are you coming back? Never, said Brown, accustomed to staring hard facts in the face, never. But when you re a woman grown, a good woman, mind, like her, Popsy, perhaps then you 11 come out to me But what s the matter, young un? as Popsy, slipping from his knee, with head bent forward listened intently. Nunc, dont you hear something? she whispered, terror-stricken. Instantly Brown was deadly still, list- ening with that keen suspense which only a man feels whose liberty and life are at the mercy of a sound. There was the noise as of a delicate tampering with the metal about a knob or a lock, a noise which would have been unheard in the day-time, but which a dead midnight barely caught and re- echoed into those straining, foreboding ears. There was only time to act. With the quickness of a man to whom self-posses- sion in danger has become a second nat- ure, he sprang to the low window, tore it open, and without another word or look leaped out into the midnight dark- ness, and ran, ran for dear life, with the horror at heart of perhaps running into the very hands of his pursuers. The child, with quick instinct, shut the betraying window, and then, with the hot tears welling up into her eyes, shrank back into a dim corner, and waited till the low door opened, and by the flash of a lantern and the flaring light of the candle she saw three men enter, one of whom carried a revolver in his hand. This last man was a policeman, and he stepped in with a certain business-like air which was in fine contrast to the lag- ging steps of the men behind him, in whom the child instantly recognized the nautical loafer of the morning and the individual who said he was a doctor and a friend. Where s Brown ? Where s the man? the policeman asked, peering about, with his lantern in one hand and the revolver in the other. This is Browns Retreat with a ven- geance, said the nautical gentleman, while the friendly individual used some strong language about meddling fools, with a glance at the former. Without a knowledge of what would happen, with the glitter of the ugly looking pistol in her eyes, but with a world of gratitude in her heart, poor Popsy crept out of her corner, and said humbly and pleadingly, If you please, sir, I m Brown! Of course they tried to ferret him out, but the humorous rogue did actually 1880.] Pa8sing. 87 escape on the Mary Ann, bound for the East Indies, with the briskest kind of a breeze to push her along. I had a feeling of sympathy with Brown all the time, for he had a vein of humor in him; and a vein of humor is an excellent point in a man, even if two hundred and fifty dollars are offered as a reward for his capture as a common thief. He was, to be sure, a bit foolhardy in his appreciation of a joke, for in his leisure he nailed up another deal-board with Browns Retreat upon it at the head of his bunk, to the -curiosity of the other seamen. Only one understood the delicate innuendo, and that was the good Samaritan, Jack. As his countrys prisons were never again honored by his presence, as noth- ing was heard of his death, as myste- rious presents are continually reaching Popsy, who has grown to be a true and noble-hearted girl just as Jacks sister was before her, it is pleasant to think that the wretched criminal found some spot on earth where he prospered; where he could have his little joke with out being locked up; where preachers say what they mean and human nature is to be trusted. The name of Brown is not uncommon. Should you know a middle-aged man of that name, with a misty past and a taste for a joke, you might ask him if he ever heard of Browns Retreat. Anna ]ilichberg. PASSING. WHAT ship is this comes sailing Across the harbor bar, So strange, yet half familiar, With treasure from afar? O comrades, shout, good bells ring out, Peal loud your merry din! Oh, joy! At last across the bay My ship comes sailing in! Men said in low whispers, It is the passing bell. At last his toil is ended. They prayed, God rest him well! Ho, captain, my captain! What store have you on board? A treasure far richer Than gems or golden hoard; The broken promise welded firm, The long-forgotten kiss; The love more worth than all on earth, All joys life seemed to miss. The watchers sighed softly, It is the death change. What vision blest has given That rapture deep and strange?

Alice Williams Brotherton Brotherton, Alice Williams Passing 37-38

1880.] Pa8sing. 87 escape on the Mary Ann, bound for the East Indies, with the briskest kind of a breeze to push her along. I had a feeling of sympathy with Brown all the time, for he had a vein of humor in him; and a vein of humor is an excellent point in a man, even if two hundred and fifty dollars are offered as a reward for his capture as a common thief. He was, to be sure, a bit foolhardy in his appreciation of a joke, for in his leisure he nailed up another deal-board with Browns Retreat upon it at the head of his bunk, to the -curiosity of the other seamen. Only one understood the delicate innuendo, and that was the good Samaritan, Jack. As his countrys prisons were never again honored by his presence, as noth- ing was heard of his death, as myste- rious presents are continually reaching Popsy, who has grown to be a true and noble-hearted girl just as Jacks sister was before her, it is pleasant to think that the wretched criminal found some spot on earth where he prospered; where he could have his little joke with out being locked up; where preachers say what they mean and human nature is to be trusted. The name of Brown is not uncommon. Should you know a middle-aged man of that name, with a misty past and a taste for a joke, you might ask him if he ever heard of Browns Retreat. Anna ]ilichberg. PASSING. WHAT ship is this comes sailing Across the harbor bar, So strange, yet half familiar, With treasure from afar? O comrades, shout, good bells ring out, Peal loud your merry din! Oh, joy! At last across the bay My ship comes sailing in! Men said in low whispers, It is the passing bell. At last his toil is ended. They prayed, God rest him well! Ho, captain, my captain! What store have you on board? A treasure far richer Than gems or golden hoard; The broken promise welded firm, The long-forgotten kiss; The love more worth than all on earth, All joys life seemed to miss. The watchers sighed softly, It is the death change. What vision blest has given That rapture deep and strange? Wintering on .A~tna. [July, 0 captain, dear captain, What forms are those I see On deck there beside you? They smile and beckon me, And soft voices call me, Those voices sure I know! All friends are here that you held dear In the sweet long ago. The death smile, they murmured; It is so passing sweet We scarce have heart to hide it Beneath the winding-sheet. 0 captain, I know you! Are you not Christ the Lord? With light heart and joyous I hasten now on board. Set sail, set sail before the gale, Our trip will soon be oer: To-night we 11 cast our anchor fast Beside the heavenly shore. Men sighed, Lay him gently Beneath the heavy sod. The soul afar beyond the bar Went sailing on to God. Alice Williams Brotkerton. WINTERING ON AI~TNA. MORE years ago than I now like to remember, I had my first sight of JEtna. It was from the sea, as we coasted the Sicilian shores on our way to Messina, and I recall how unlike other mount- ains it looked, rising as it did from a base which seemed to spread over all visible Sicily, till the eye was led up a steeper and steeper ascent to a summit that was lightly touched with snow in the upper sky. The strangeness was partly in the way the slopes were cov- ered with what seemed little volcanoes, which studded the great mass they rose from so thickly that one grew tired of counting them. No mountain has ever so impressed me since, and I looked back at it, regretting to leave it unvisit ed, but hoping to return and study it at leisure. As fate willed, it was unseen by me for many a year after, until, unexpect- edly, I lately found myself occupied with a scientific errand, which brought me once more to Messina, but this time with .Al~tna as my destination. I should have been there in October, and it was now Decen~ber, but in spite of my haste to get on the mountain be- fore the snows covered it, I stopped at Taormina, half-way to Catania (whence the ascent was to be made), to view lEtna from the north. Taormina is built on the southern slope of a spur project- ing into the Mediterranean, whose north- ern ridge, rising a thousand feet above 88

S. P. Langley Langley, S. P. Wintering on Aetna 38-48

Wintering on .A~tna. [July, 0 captain, dear captain, What forms are those I see On deck there beside you? They smile and beckon me, And soft voices call me, Those voices sure I know! All friends are here that you held dear In the sweet long ago. The death smile, they murmured; It is so passing sweet We scarce have heart to hide it Beneath the winding-sheet. 0 captain, I know you! Are you not Christ the Lord? With light heart and joyous I hasten now on board. Set sail, set sail before the gale, Our trip will soon be oer: To-night we 11 cast our anchor fast Beside the heavenly shore. Men sighed, Lay him gently Beneath the heavy sod. The soul afar beyond the bar Went sailing on to God. Alice Williams Brotkerton. WINTERING ON AI~TNA. MORE years ago than I now like to remember, I had my first sight of JEtna. It was from the sea, as we coasted the Sicilian shores on our way to Messina, and I recall how unlike other mount- ains it looked, rising as it did from a base which seemed to spread over all visible Sicily, till the eye was led up a steeper and steeper ascent to a summit that was lightly touched with snow in the upper sky. The strangeness was partly in the way the slopes were cov- ered with what seemed little volcanoes, which studded the great mass they rose from so thickly that one grew tired of counting them. No mountain has ever so impressed me since, and I looked back at it, regretting to leave it unvisit ed, but hoping to return and study it at leisure. As fate willed, it was unseen by me for many a year after, until, unexpect- edly, I lately found myself occupied with a scientific errand, which brought me once more to Messina, but this time with .Al~tna as my destination. I should have been there in October, and it was now Decen~ber, but in spite of my haste to get on the mountain be- fore the snows covered it, I stopped at Taormina, half-way to Catania (whence the ascent was to be made), to view lEtna from the north. Taormina is built on the southern slope of a spur project- ing into the Mediterranean, whose north- ern ridge, rising a thousand feet above 88 1880.] Wintering on .~Etna. 39 the sea, is crowned by the ruins of a Grecian theatre. The stream of pleas- tire travel seems to pass by this won- derfQl coast, so that comparatively few tourists see the shores of Sicily, except from the steamer which takes them to Athens or Alexandria; but if the reader is among those few, he may remember the view from these ruins at sunrise as one of which the earth cannot furnish many. He will remember, perhaps, ris- ing long before daybreak for a solitary climb through steep lanes, half seeing, half groping, his way between high walls, over which started into dim sight spectral figures with outstretched arms, resolved, as he drew nearer, into some overleaning cactus, vaguely outlined overhead against the starry sky. Mount- ing higher, one comes out from between the overshadowing walls into the moon- light, the waning moon, a crescent in the east, holding the old moon in her arms, while, when higher yet, the col- umns of the ancient proscenium stand out against a faint glow that shows where the sun is yet to rise; till, passing by these, climbing and groping up the stone benches which once held tiers of spec- tators, one takes a solitary seat at the summit. Below, the last lights are still twinkling on the coast, but beyond and over the columns, all along the south, rises a dark something, which might be a hundred yards away, but is A~tna, and twenty miles distant. As the dawn grows brighter the outlook extends north and east to Italy, and as the sun makes ready to come out of the ocean the gray mass in the south moves further away, and takes on distinctness as it recedes, until we make out the whole form of tna, with the outline of the crater and of the snow fields about its summit. These distant snows suddenly changed their gray to a rose pink as they caught the light of the sun before it had risen to me; but of all that was seen when it came out of the ocean I was most con- cerned with the mountain itself, which can be viewed better here, as a whole, than from any nearer point. The coast line on the left preserves the level to the eye, but except for this, so wide is the base of }Etna that it fills the whole southern landscape, which seems to be tilted upward till its horizon ends in the sky. I could see from here how almost incomparably larger the im- mense volcano appears than Vesuvius; and the actual difference is in fact enor- mous, the height of A~tna being (if we disregard the terminal cone of each) nearly three times, and its mass prob- ably twenty times, that of its Italian neighbor. The entire mountain in all its substance is lava, which has built it- self up in eruptions; but from this point the successive zones of vegetation are visible which in the course of ages have in part occupied its surface. Extending to perhaps a fifth of the whole actual height before me (but covering a great deal more of the foreground in appear- ance) is the cultivated region, dotted with villages, which shine out from a background of what we know must be vineyards and olives. The second zone is barren, and in sharp contrast with the former. It rises to perhaps two thirds of the whole height, and its broad masses of gray are patched with moss-like spots hardly distinguishable in color, but which are really forests of oak and chestnut. All above this rose what even from my distant station could be recognized as naked black deserts, streaked here and there with snow, while above this was the terminal cone, snow covered at the time I saw it, and with a depression at the summit from which slowly drifted a thin vapor. The railway south of Taor- mina runs along the coast (and is car- ried through cuttings on old lava streams, which here flowed down to the sea) un- til it reaches Catania, a city which, as every one knows, is not only built on lava, but which has been cut through and through by lava streams, and shaken down by earthquakes in recent times, 40 Wintering on Atna. [July, and which lives from day to day at the mercy of its terrible neighbor. The city wears an air of freshness un- usual in Europe, for it has been almost wholly rebuilt since the last destruction in the seventeenth century, and with its handsome streets, bright, clean stone fa- 9ades, and the bustle of its hundred thou- sand inhabitants, it seems to belong less to the Old World than to the New. But if new in some respects, it is old in other ways. That faith in the supernatural which is dying out so rapidly elsewhere in Europe and nowhere more rapidly than in Italy is lively and strong among all classes in Catania. For over against the place is an outlet of those very infernal regions whose existence some deny, whence come rivers of fire which run through your streets and carry your houses away as water does grains of sand, not to speak of earthquakes which shake the stone walls down on you with- out warning when you are asleep; death in sudden forms, for thousands at once, and against which thousands are power- less as one, has come from there before, and will again at some unknown moment, and is an ever-impending terror, against which science is unavailing and mans strength impotent. Only if the reader has had the fortune or misfortune to experience an earth- quake can he know that sense of utter helplessness, that distrust of every accus- tomed stay, mental and material, when the solid frame of earth is shaken; for there comes with this earthshake a belief that the order of nature itself is going from under us, and that neither in the moral nor physical world is there any- thing left to stand on. This may seem fanciful (those who have tried an earth- quake know whether it is so), but after one brief personal experience I am dis- posed to confess a doubt whether my reasoned faith in the order and harmony of the universe would last through an- other; whether, that is, it would not ir- rationally yield for a little let us say while the tremor lasted to an over- whelming need of something to cling to. At any rate, there is a good deal in Mr. Buckles theories, and I dont wonder that these dwellers on the great volcano trust nature less and the supernatural more; more than people in the West End of London, for instance, where two or three earthquakes would probably help more to restore old ways of thought in the public Mr. Mallock addresses than the same number of his cleverest essays. The very street carts of Catania are painted in the liveliest colors with de- votional subjects. Profane ones some- times intrude, it is true, but more often we have martyrdoms of the saints, the holy souls in purgatory, or the sufferings of the damned, themes which are se- lected both as tending to edification and as calling for a great deal of red and yel- low in the flames. The long Strada Et- nea, which points straight at the mount- ain, was gay with these carts when I started, one December day, for the as- cent. I had been recommended to lodge during my stay at Nicolosi, the highest village on the mountain; but beside that it was not high enough for my purpose, I had found it on a previous exploration so uninviting that I had decided on mak- ing my quarters in the uninhabited re- gion several hours journey further up, where on the property of the Duke of Alva is a mule shed, which from the neighborhood of some chestnut-trees has received the fine-sounding name of Casa del Bosco; and this was my fiuial desti- nation. I had received contradictory ac- counts as to the safety of this region, most of them agreeing that, though ban- dits were a very real danger in Western Sicily, the eastern part of the island was safe. Mr. Marsh, our minister at Rome, however, strongly urged me not to make a prolonged stay in the desert region unprotected, and his kindness had pro- cured me official recommendations from Rome to the local authorities; the final advice I received at the consulate be- 1880.] Wintering on .ZEtna. 41 ing to accept the guard which would be offered as a courtesy, and to dismiss it if it seemed superfluous. It was to meet me at Nicolosi, to which the car- riage road was now climbing with many zigzags. It passes in sight of the place where the great lava stream of two cent- uries ago turned aside at the interces- sion of St. Agatha, and a little higher up we drew sensibly near to the Monte Rossi, whence the terrible destruction flowed. They are now two peaceful- looking hills above Nicolosi, the termi- nal village; where all roads end, all cul- tivation ceases, and where begins that uninhabited waste, covering an area of something like two hundred square miles, which }Etna lifts into the cold upper air from out of the centre of a densely populous and fertile region on the warm slopes below. The day was growing gloomy, and when the carriage reached Nicolosi it had settled into a fine rain. Here I found Giuseppe, at once guide, philos- opher, and cook, whom I had engaged during my stay at Casa del Bosco; and here the mayor or syndic of the town appeared with the soldiers, and made me an address in Italian (which I un- fortunately do not understand), and to which I replied, as best I could, in French (which, I have been sorry to learn since, he does not speak a word of). These formalities settled, I mounted a most ungainly mule, and preceded by a train of others, bearing instruments and provisions, with Joseph and two aids leading and two soldiers following, un- der the admiring gaze of the whole pop- ulation of Nicolosi, disappeared from their sight, in the mist. The ascent was at first slow and reg- ular, and the feet of our animals sunk deep in powdery lava dust, as we crawled upward. At a dilapidated shrine, whose mildewed saint and half-effaced frescoes represented the last outpost of the local civilization, the road ceased wholly, and the path was strewn thick with lava lumps, through which the mules picked their way with steady steps. The hori- zon rose as we ascended, and through occasional openings in the mist we saw it slowly climbing the sides of the Monte Rossi, and finally surmounting them; but one more volcanic cone, and then another, appeared above us, and was successively overtopped by the still- mounting horizon line, which we still seemed to carry with us, till thicker mist and coming twilight shut out all but the immediate foreground. This consisted of ridges of lava, old streams, which, like glaciers and rivers, rise high- est in the middle, but which have cooled so long ago that they have had time to become partly broken. Great masses have fallen off, here and there, from some of the later and harder rivers, each of which has its history of ravage and its name. All these are known to Joseph, who beguiles the way by open- ing the stores of a wonderful memory, and telling of the many great person- ages whom he has served as guide in former years. Among these I particu- larly remember her majesty Queen Vic- toria and the Empress EugSnie, both of whom, Joseph assures me, he personally attended in their ascent of }Etna over this very path; but in spite of the inter- est such associations ought to attach to it, it grows more and more weary, and the climb has seemed interminable an hour ago, when, with the last twilight of our day, we scramble up the bed of one final lava ravine, and reach Casa del Bosco. It consists, as I had found on a pre- vious visit, of three rooms (without win- dows),in one of which the horses and mules were stabled (and made night hideous by their fighting and screaming); on the other side the guard was bestowed; while in the middle of the floor of the central apartment, which I reserved for myself, Joseph kindled a charcoal fire, over which I tried ineffectually to get warm or dry, till I got a headache which sent me early to bed. Before retiring I 42 Wintering on LEtna. [July, examined the ornaments of the room, which consisted of several rather curi- ous printed prayers against earthquakes, stuck up on the lava walls, and one en- graving in which the Blessed Virgin was represented as trampling upon an ugly beant with seven heads, which were marked with the names of the seven deadly sins, except that the Catanian artist had characteristically labeled the biggest head, on which the Virgins foot was treading, Al~tna. So guarded, I lay down, after supper, in the driest cor- ner, and went to sleep to the sound of the rain dripping on the floor, not uncom- fortably; thinking of a house on the other side of the Atlantic, where certain people would be gathered round the din- ner-table, for this was Christmas Day. The next morning brought snow, which did not stay on the ground, but turned to more rain, and I had little to do but to watch the guard eat my macaroni and drink my wine, which latter was done without the help of bottle or glass, these experts lifting the small barrel (holding perhaps twelve gallons) high in the air, and letting the contents fall into the open mouth. One or two men, armed with carbines and mounted on horses which seemed to tread with the security of mountain goats, made their appearance during the day, to inquire after my wel- fare and to drink my health. Joseph calls them forest guards of the Duke of Alva, in whose mule shed I am living on sufferance. There are twenty-four of them, it seems, patrolling the various deserts and forests of the mountain, and an indefinite number may be expected to find Casa del Bosco on their way so long as it holds wine, macaroni, and a simple stranger. These gloomy reflec- tions were aided by a report from Joseph that the barrel was already nearly emp- ty, and that it would certainly be neces- sary to send down for more wine the next day. Believing that it was at any rate a debatable question whether the brigands, if they came, might not be less expensive than my defenders, I sent the soldiers off the next morning, with a let- ter to the syndic, thanking him for their services. At night, however, two new ones ap- peared through the rain to replace them, bringing a message from the syndic to the effect that he was only acting under orders from the prefect of Catania, who had concerned himself in the matter, and who was the person to address. The third morning broke bright and calm; the rain and mist that walled us in were gone, and as I opened the door my first glance fell through the exqui- site transparency of the air, on what seemed to be an adjacent pool, with its water slowly rippling as from a gentle breeze. There was an instant of won- der how I could have passed it unseen, even in the twilight; when a second look showed that the pond had no fur- ther shore, and I saw with a startled sense of strangeness that I was looking at the Mediterranean, in this direction over twenty miles away. The ripples, or ocean waves rather, crawled over it with a distinctness which seemed almost impossible, and I found I was in fact witnessing a phenomenon rare enough to have had its visibility called in ques- tion altogether. I did not see it again during my stay, but its visibility ap- pears to depend on the united condi- tions of a previous easterly gale rolling a swell upon the coast and a clear sun- rise filling the valleys between the waves with shadow, and marking their long moving crests with light. The coast was seen for a great dis- tance to the south, a part of ancient Syracuse being visible, while between the foot of the mountain and the sea stretched a great plain with a river run- ning through it. INear the bottom of the mountain the plain rose into steep foot- hills crowned with villages, whose white square houses on the lava soil looked like dice thrown upon the top of some black pedestals, and among which the 1880.] outlines of more than one medheval cas- tle grew afterwards discernible through the telescope. When I try now to recall what struck me most at first, I seem to re-gather the impression that the whole plane of the earth was tilted about me, owing to the vastness of the slope of the mountain, beside which Vesuvius, with its railroad and shoals of tourists, is a parlor volcano. Here all is lonely. Below is one vol- canic cone upon another; all around are ridges of black lava. Just behind the hut, on a higher ridge, a pile of snow seems near enough to gather a snow-ball in and bring it back before it melts, but it is eight hours journey above us; and a faint smoke ascending from what looks like a little depression in the sum- mit of the snow heap helps one to re- alize that it is the terminal cone of .Al~tna, further above our heads than we are above the Mediterranean down there. After looking a while, till the real di- mensions of the scene were partly com- prehended, I turned to my work. A lit- tle later I was disturbed in it by voices, sounding very near and distinct, though no one was visible. I looked for some time in vain for the speakers, until I discovered them at a distance (as I aft- erward found by measurement) of over half a mile from me. The voices of the two, in apparently ordinary conversa- tion, continued to reach me, till I asked myself whether I had been gifted of a sudden like Fine-Ear. I think it was this which first drew my attention to the phenomenal stillness of the place, de- void as it is of animal life and deserted of man. This was the only time I re- member hearing a human voice except from the visitors to the hut. Here were no tourists, Murray or Baedeker in hand, to invade the quiet; no song of a way- faring peasant, no lowing of cattle; none of that faint, multitudinous hum of in- sect notes that make an all-pervading something in our own fields, which is hardiy recognized as sound, and yet is 48 not silence. Its entire absence hero shows that one may never have known what real silence is like. When the wind was still, the ear seemed to ache for a sound, and I should almost hesitate to say howfar its powers were sharpened. On another day, for instance, I was start- led at my work out-of-doors by a noise like that of a fanning close to my ear. I looked round and finally up, discover- ing its origin in the flapping of the wings of two crows at a great height overhead, every motion of the wings seeming to be repeated at the very ear. This fourth day my diary records that two more soldiers arrived, and that the second barrel began to run low. I sat down and wrote a letter to the prefect, commending the admirable good order of the country under his charge, as render- ing the services of the military super- fluous, and suggesting their withdrawal. This was sent down by Joseph, who was instructed to deliver it, if possible, to the prefect, in that dignitarys own person, and to make sure of an answer; and in the afternoon I started out for a walk. Monte Vittori, one of the innumerable volcanic cones which lay apparently close at hand, was my objective point. It looked to be a few minutes walk, but it was nearly an hour of climbing over the chaotic lava masses, through and across fissures in the old fields, down which later lava streams had flowed, and hardened in falls that made precipices to clamber up, before I reached its foot. In the latter part of the way, I became conscious that I was under the surveillance of a sol- dier from the hut, who was trying to keep me in sight from a distance without being seen. His orders must have been strict indeed to take him out from his comfortable idleness to a climb (which every Italian detests), and I pushed on, thinking he would give me up and go back. Finally I lost sight of him, and after another half hour of desperate struggle on its smooth, yielding slopes I reached the summit of Monte Vittori. Wintering on ZEtna. 44 Wintering in .zfjtna. [July, Casa del Bosco had disappeared; the great white cone above was just us far, or just as near, as ever, and the only new prospect was that of endless barren mountain ridges to the west. My guard- ian had disappeared also, and convinced that I had beaten him I slid down, reaching in two minutes descent the foot I had been thirty in climbing from. After a rest here, turning for one last look at the summit, I saw a figure emerge from the other side above the crest. It was my soldier! The next day it was the same thing, and I found myself un- der unobtrusive but constant guardian- ship when I went a hundred yards from the hut. In the evening Joseph returned, bring- ing a message to the effect that the pre- fect was desirous of taking the extremest care of my safety, as a thing precious to him, and that to this end he sent two more soldiers, making four en permanence and six during half the time! There was nothing for it but resignation and another barrel; but I then and there is- sued orders for the regulation of my household, giving Joseph, my major- domo, to understand that the hospitality to wandering forest-guards must have its limits; that hereafter each warrior was to have three bottles of wine per diem, and no more; and that no one was here- after privileged to drink from the barrel except myself. Each day after this passed unevent- fully. I was busied with my work, and after it took a ramble for exercise; after that a solitary dinner, and when the night was cloudy went to bed to pass the time. I recollect views in some of my climbs which exceeded in lonely wildness and strangeness anything else I ever saw on the earth, but strongly resembled certain prospects the moon offers to the student of her surface, when, armed with a pow- erful telescope, he is transported to the awful solitudes of that dead, alien world. Just such a purely lunar landscape I have often looked at below me on }Etna: the long rifts filled with little craters, the loneliness and the silence helping the il- lusion, till after a time, during which no bee hummed, or fly buzzed, or sight or sound of life appeared at my lonely perch, it was easy to fancy myself on another planet, where this one seemed so unearthly. Even at the hut, except for the dukes guards, who rode up oc- casionally, there were not many signs that men still lived on the earth. I should except, though, the passage of a muleteer and three mules, in the early dawn, on their way up to the snow-fields; they came down toward twilight, laden with what looked like packages of dried leaves and straw, in which the snow was bundled, and would keep till it reached Catania the next day, and was sent on thence to Agosta. This was the ice supply not only for Catania, with its hundred thousand inhabitants, but for the towns along the eastern coast, to all of which not only in the winter, but in the torrid heats of their spring, the great white summit of }Etna hangs like a cloud in the upper air, tantalizing them with its suggestions of delicious cold. The snow at this time, though it occasionally fell at the Casa, never re- mained long on the ground, and the mules had to go far above for their load. The only animals I ever saw besides were sheep in the nearer valleys be- low, up to which they had been driven for pasturage; but wolves were plenty, and left their tracks each night in the lava sand by the hut, close to which, ap parently, lay their highway to the food in the valleys below. They are cowardly if alone, but when united in packs and starving it goes badly with the solitary shepherd who meets them in their raids through these places, from which they retreat before daybreak to the still more desert solitudes above. One day, when some leisure had been earned, I started with Joseph at mid- day for a walk. Our object was to as- cend to the base of the snow-fields, and 1880.] Wintering on tna. 45 to enable me to judge for myself how far the ascent to the actual summit would be practicable at another time. We left, after an hours walk, most of the scat- tered chestnut-trees behind us, and then climbed, for hours more, over lava ridges looking much like glacial moraines, through a region almost utterly bare of vegetation, without bringing the great terminal cone much nearer; we finally reached the source of the snow supply, and then a plateau, whence we could see, over the western shoulder of }Etna, a prospect limited only, I think, by the island; and a wonderful view of mount- ains it was! Not in the Alps nor in the Rockys have I seen a region more rugged or more savagely desolate than the interior of modern Sicily; though it is this barren land which was once called the granary of Europe. Only to the south and east we saw signs of towns and cities. Fifteen miles away, as the crow flies, in something which looked like a tuft of spear-grass, we recognized the masts of the huddled shipping in the little harbor of Catania. The coast line extended beyond the promontory that bounded it at our lower station, and be- yond still another on the south we could catch the glitter of the sunshine on the white houses of ancient Syracuse, forty miles away. Far below us the snow lay in what looked like patches in the wrink- les of the hills; but some of them we had passed over, and knew them to be snow- fields sheltered in the ravines from the sun. Above us the snow stretched un- broken, but immediately around us it had melted on the powdery black lava, which showed wolf-tracks everywhere. There was no vegetation, except, at rare inter- vals, a tuft of what looked like the soft- est grass, springing unexpectedly out of the volcanic soil, and inviting one to a seat, treacherously, for the grass is ifiled with fine thorns as delicate and sharp as cambric needles. The plant is called, according to Joseph, the Holy Spirit, and the wolves (still according to Joseph) eat it, rather than starve; but this I found it hard to believe. In spite of the snow-fields, I resolved to attempt the ascent to the cone the next fair day, and after lingering to the last minute it was necessary to tear ones self away from the sight of the approach- ing sunset, and, making our best speed downward while daylight lasted, we finally groped our way to the Casa, which we reached after dark. Tired of the monotony of succeeding days of rain, I started for an expedition to the Valde Bove, a huge depression in the eastern side of the mountain, flanked by almost precipitous walls some thou- sands of feet in height. Two of the sol- diers accompanied me as an escort, and were changed below at every station. Their presence was not unwelcome when we reached, in a dark night, strange quar- ters in an unprepossessing neighborhood. Here my sleeping-room was guarded effi- ciently by my military friends, who lay down outside the chamber door on some straw, and slept there all night, as I did too, with a not unpleasant sense of secu- rity. This was all very well, but next day, after being turned back by a violent snow-storm from the entrance to the Valde Bove, I resolved to have one day of civilization, and started down to Aci Reale, on the coast, where I knew there was a hotel kept for the benefit of for- eigners, and where, presumably, a bath and other long-missed luxuries were to be had. As we descended, the snow was left behind us. The way was through almost continuous vineyards and villages, and in the latter I grew aware that I was an object of lively interest and curiosity from my escort; popular opinion, as well as I could make out, being divided as to whether I was some very eminent per- sonage indeed, with a military guard, or a. captured brigand under the conduct of the gendarmes. To the latter theory my general appearance I had slept in my clothes for two nightslent, I was pain- fully conscious, but too much plausibil 46 ity, and at the first station we reached I stopped, and in what fragmentary Ital- ian I could muster explained to the offi- cer on duty that I was going down into a town of twenty thousand inhabitants, in which the presence of my defenders, although a highly considerate attention on the part of his government, was not positively necessary, and was in fact an honor of which I was undeserving. My polite friend answered, however, that it was none too much for a person of my merit, and that, besides, he had strict orders; and I resigned myself to seeing a fresh detail of men provided, with which I entered Aci Reale, causing an amount of public interest and discussion which few tourists can flatter themselves with having aroused there. To all this, at last, I grew case-hard- ened, riding through the villages indif- ferent to the admiration I was the cause of, and finally set out to climb to my hermitage again. Here it was too evi- dent the halcyon days were gone, and that my expedition to the summit was a thing not to be thought of till another season. As we ascended we encountered snow when but a little way above Nico- losi, and had to dismount and struggle through it, till, wet and weary, we got back to my hut once more, toward which I was surprised to feel a home-like warm- ing. I could, in fact, adopt almost every word of what another solitary remarked on a similar occasion: I cannot express what a satisfaction it was to me to come into my old hutch and lie down in my bed. This little wandering journey, with- out settled place of abode, had been so unpleasant to me that my own house, as I called it to myself, was a perfect settlement, and it rendered everything about me so comfortable that I resolved I would never go a great way from it again while it should be my lot to stay on the Island, said Robinson Crusoe. Here, however, day after day went by in dull monotony; the snow fell thicker than ever, and it was plain that work Wintering on Alitna. [July, was over for the winter. I waited on for a few hours of sunshine and star- light to complete my observations, and beguiled the days as well as I could; but they seemed long, and not having kept a tally of them by notching a post for Sundays, as Robinson Crusoe did, I al- most lost count of the time. Once the silence was broken by the sound of far- distant, deep-voiced bells, coming up from the remote Piano di Catania, hid- den in the perpetual mist (and hence Jo- seph and I conjectured that this day was a Sunday), and once the clouds rolled away below, and while the snow still fell from a leaden sky overhead, the sunlight for a few minutes streamed up, reflected from the green bright plains where it was still shining. Twice mule trains came up to me, bringing into my snow and fog tokens that the sun had been shining somewhere, in the shape of newly picked ruddy-golden mandarins and other fruits, along with wine and more substantial things for my men, my men they were, up here, though down below they per- haps considered me their man. They were all civility and obedience, poor fel- lows, in everything not touching their orders to see personally that I came to no harm, and I used to enjoy watching their apparent bliss in their idleness. Free of guard duty, with nothing to do save to lie on straw, talk, and play cards, eat in- finite sausage and macaroni, and drink, alas, not unlimited wine, but still each man his daily three bottles, with plenty of sleep, these stormy days were, I im- agine, happy days to them. I remember the last time that the sun shone; the clouds opened just as it had set to us, and before its rays had left the summit of the mountain. The light climbed fast, till it lay rosy for a few seconds on the snowy cone. Then this turned to an ashy gray, as the light lin- gered for a moment more on the smoke which rose above it, and then all went out. This is the last I remember of the sunshine on tna, and it came no more 1880.] Unfuiftulment. 47 till it was time to go; and I packed up my instruments, saw them loaded on the mules, locked the door of the hut, it had a door, though no window, and waded through the snow which hid Casa del Bosco when I turned for a last look at it. A twenty minutes descent carried us down to where the snow was begin- ning to melt as it fell, and here the mules were mounted again, and we kept on them till in about three hours we saw the houses of Nicolosi, where the mules were left. My coming was unexpected, and no carriage was to be had, and I walked on attended by two of my ever constant guard, whom it was impossi- ble to shake off. At last a carriage pre- sented itself in the road, and calling to the driver my destination in Catania I got in, leaving the soldiers to take care of themselves. They were equal to the oc- casion, however, and mounted the car- riage, where their uniforms and the pres- ence of a passenger inside, whom they were supposed to be guarding, excited even more than the usual attention. I turned for one final look at 2Etna. We were driving through sun-lit streets, but the clouds hung over the mountain and wrapped all its vast bulk in gray, except the villages about its base through which we had come. I was recalled by the shouts of delight and interest with which my equipage was greeted as it rattled through the more crowded streets. Car- riages were drawn up to see what must have been imagined a political prisoner of distinction go by, and shrill Italian screams, which I interpreted to mean, They ye got him! heralded the com- ing wonder; and happy were they who could look into the carriage windows as we drove up to the consulate. Here, borrowing in part the words of another, I will only say, As I never happened to stand in a position of greater dignity, I deem it a stratagem of sage policy here to close these sketches, leav- ing myself still in so heroic au atti- tude. S. P. Langley. IYNFULFILLMENT. An, June is here, but where is May? That lovely, shadowy thing, Fair promiser of fairer day, That made my fancy stretch her wing, In hope-begetting spring. The spaces vague, the luminous veil, The drift of bloom and scent, Those dreamy longings setting sail, That knew not, asked not, where they went, Ah! was this all they meant, This day that lets me dream no more, This bright, unshadowed round? On some illimitable shore, The harbor whither those were bound Lieth, nor yet is found. Frances Louisa Bushnell. 48 A .Zirencli Comic Dramatist. A FRENCH COMIC DRAMATIST. ONE of the most curious changes of opinion that is recorded anywhere in the history of literature has suddenly taken place within the past eighteen months in France. For more than twoscore years M. Eug~ne Labiche has been putting forth comic plays with unhesitating lib- erality. His humorous inventions have delighted two generations, and he is set down in the biographical dictionaries as one of the most amusing of French farce writers. Attempting in rapid succession and with almost unbroken success every kind of comic play, from the keen and quick comedy of the Gymnase Th& ttre to the broad buffoonery of the Palais Royal, for nearly forty years NI. Labiche was one of the most prolific and the most popular of French playwrights. His work was seemingly unpretentious, and the author modestly made no higher claim than to be the exciting cause of laughter and gayety. Having made a fine fortune, he watched for the first symp- tom of failing luck, and as soon as two or three plays were plainly not successes he announced that he should write no more, and withdrew quietly to his large farm in Normandy. The retiring of a mere comic writer was of no great moment, and few paid any attention to it. But a friend of M. Labiches, and by far the foremost dra- matic author of France to-day, M. Emile Augier, came to visit M. Labiche in his country retirement, and fell to reading the odd plays of his host as he found them in his library. He was so struck and so surprised with what he discovered that he prevailed on the author to gather together the best of them into a series of volumes, promising to write an introduc- tion. In the spring of 1878 appeared the first volume of the Thratre Complet de M. Eugi~ne Labiche, with a preface by NI. Emile Augier, in which he pointed out that the author of a hundred and ifty comic plays was not a mere farce writer, but a master of humor for whom he had the highest admiration. Seek among the highest works of our genera- tion a comedy of more profound observa- tion than the Voyage de NI. Perrichon, or of more philosophy than the Misan- thrope et lAuvergnat. Well, Labiche has ten plays of this strength in his rep- ertory. The leading dramatic critics of Paris and in France dramatic crit- icism is still one of the fine arts fell into line, NI. Francisque Sarcey first of all. They read the volumes of NI. La- biches Th~tre Complet, as they fol- lowed one another from the press, and with one accord almost all confessed their surprise at the richness and fecundity of NI. Labiches humor. Indeed, it seemed as though the critics had taken to heart the repairing of their previous unwitting indifference, and were unduly lavish of admiration. So it came to pass in the fall of 1879, when the tenth and for the present final volume of the Th6~tre Coin- plet appeared, that, urged to overcome his modesty by his cordial friends, NI. Labiche became a candidate for a vacant chair in the French Academy, seeking admittance among the forty immortals chosen from the chiefs of literature, sci- ence, and politics. Three years before such a step would have seemed a good joke; but now no one laughed. Cer- tainly those did not laugh who opposed his election, nnd the staid Revue des Deux Mondes, in an elaborate article, written rather in the slashing style of the earlier Edinburgh Review than with the suave and academic urbanity we have been taught to expect in the pages of the French fortnightly, the Revue des Deux Mondes argued seriously and severely against his election. But the tide has turned ia his favor, and per- [July,

J. Brander Mathews Mathews, J. Brander A French Comic Dramatist 48-56

48 A .Zirencli Comic Dramatist. A FRENCH COMIC DRAMATIST. ONE of the most curious changes of opinion that is recorded anywhere in the history of literature has suddenly taken place within the past eighteen months in France. For more than twoscore years M. Eug~ne Labiche has been putting forth comic plays with unhesitating lib- erality. His humorous inventions have delighted two generations, and he is set down in the biographical dictionaries as one of the most amusing of French farce writers. Attempting in rapid succession and with almost unbroken success every kind of comic play, from the keen and quick comedy of the Gymnase Th& ttre to the broad buffoonery of the Palais Royal, for nearly forty years NI. Labiche was one of the most prolific and the most popular of French playwrights. His work was seemingly unpretentious, and the author modestly made no higher claim than to be the exciting cause of laughter and gayety. Having made a fine fortune, he watched for the first symp- tom of failing luck, and as soon as two or three plays were plainly not successes he announced that he should write no more, and withdrew quietly to his large farm in Normandy. The retiring of a mere comic writer was of no great moment, and few paid any attention to it. But a friend of M. Labiches, and by far the foremost dra- matic author of France to-day, M. Emile Augier, came to visit M. Labiche in his country retirement, and fell to reading the odd plays of his host as he found them in his library. He was so struck and so surprised with what he discovered that he prevailed on the author to gather together the best of them into a series of volumes, promising to write an introduc- tion. In the spring of 1878 appeared the first volume of the Thratre Complet de M. Eugi~ne Labiche, with a preface by NI. Emile Augier, in which he pointed out that the author of a hundred and ifty comic plays was not a mere farce writer, but a master of humor for whom he had the highest admiration. Seek among the highest works of our genera- tion a comedy of more profound observa- tion than the Voyage de NI. Perrichon, or of more philosophy than the Misan- thrope et lAuvergnat. Well, Labiche has ten plays of this strength in his rep- ertory. The leading dramatic critics of Paris and in France dramatic crit- icism is still one of the fine arts fell into line, NI. Francisque Sarcey first of all. They read the volumes of NI. La- biches Th~tre Complet, as they fol- lowed one another from the press, and with one accord almost all confessed their surprise at the richness and fecundity of NI. Labiches humor. Indeed, it seemed as though the critics had taken to heart the repairing of their previous unwitting indifference, and were unduly lavish of admiration. So it came to pass in the fall of 1879, when the tenth and for the present final volume of the Th6~tre Coin- plet appeared, that, urged to overcome his modesty by his cordial friends, NI. Labiche became a candidate for a vacant chair in the French Academy, seeking admittance among the forty immortals chosen from the chiefs of literature, sci- ence, and politics. Three years before such a step would have seemed a good joke; but now no one laughed. Cer- tainly those did not laugh who opposed his election, nnd the staid Revue des Deux Mondes, in an elaborate article, written rather in the slashing style of the earlier Edinburgh Review than with the suave and academic urbanity we have been taught to expect in the pages of the French fortnightly, the Revue des Deux Mondes argued seriously and severely against his election. But the tide has turned ia his favor, and per- [July, A French Comic Dramatist. haps before these pages get into print1 M. Eug~ne Labiche will have taken his place in the Academy by the side of his fellow dramatists, M. Victor Hugo, M. Emile Augier, M. Jules Sandeau, M. Octave Feuillet, M. Alexandre iDumas, fils, and M. Victorien Sardou. A seat in the Academy, it may be remembered, was an honor refused to Jean Baptiste Poquelin de Molk~re, to Caron de Beau- marchais, to Alexandre Dumas, and to Honor~ de Baizac. It is said but with how much truth I do not know that what determined M. Labiche to stop writing for the stage was the recalling of an incident of Scribes later years. One day, about 1860, M. Labiche had called on M. Jacques Offen- bach, at his request, to see about the set- ting to music of a little piece which had already been successful without it. While they were talking a card was brought to M. Offenbach, who impatiently tore it up, and told the servant to say he was not at home. Then turning to M. Labiche, the composer said that the visitor was Scribe, who had been bothering him to set one of his plays, but I will not do it, added M. Offenbach roughly, for old Scribe is played out! M. Labiche at once re- solved that when he was old, like Scribe, and rich he would not lag superfluous on the stage. And with the first intimations of failing power to please the fickle play- goers of Paris he withdrew. For three if not four years no new play from his pen has been brought out in Paris. He has written a trifle or two for the Th~htre de Campagne, and for Sayn& es et Mo- nologues, two little collections of come- dies for amateur acting; but for the pay- ing public he has done nothing. It is to M. Emile Augier that the credit is due of bringing M. Labiche out of his retire- ment. The preface which he had been too lazy to write for his own collected plays he wrote for M. Labiches, and it was this preface which first opened the 1 M. Labiche has been elected since this article wa.s written. VOL. XLVI. NO. 278. 4 eyes of the press and the public, and led to the frank acknowledgment of M. Labiches very unusual merit. The the- atrical managers are only too eager now Jor new pieces from him, and in the mean while they have revived, right and left, some of the most mirthful of his plays. La Grammaire at the Palais Royal, Les Trente Millions de Gladia- teur at the Nouveaut~s, and, above all, Le Voyage de M. Perrichon at the Od6on have been received with great cordiality and appreciation. To ~most Americans, I fancy, the name of M. Labiche is utterly unknown, and one may well ask, What manner of plays are these, that they could remain so long misunderstood? The question is easier to ask than to answer. The most of them are apparently farces, in one, two, three, four, or even five acts, farces somewhat of the Madison Morton type. Mr. Morton borrowed his Box and Cox from one of them; the late Charles Ma- thews took his Little Toddlekins from another; from a third came the equally well-known Phenomenon in a Smock- frock. These are all one-act plays. Of his larger work, a version of the Voyage de M. Perrichon has been done at the Boston Museum as Papa Perrichon, and Mr. W. S. Gilbert has used the plot and caught the spirit of the Chapeau de Paille dJtalie in his Wedding March. In many of M. Labiches plays, perhaps in all but the best of them, the first im- pression one gets is that of extravagant buffoonery, the phrase is scarcely too strong. But soon one sees that this is no grinning through a horse-collar; that it has its roots in truth; and that, al- though unduly exuberant, it is in essence truly humorous. To the very best of M. Labiches plays, the half dozen or so comedies which entitle their author to take rank as a master, reference will be made later. In all his work, in the weakest as well as in the best, the domi- nant note is gayety; they are filled full of frank, hearty, joyous laughter. In read- 1880.] 49 A PrencA Comic Dramatist. [July, ing his plays, as in seeing them on the stage, you have rarely that quiet smile of intellectual appreciation which is called forth by Sheridan in English, and by Beaumarchais or M. Augier or M. Du- mas in French. The wit is not subtle and quiet, excepting now and again in the half dozen chosen comedies. There is rather the rush of broad and tumult- uous humor than the thrust of wit and the clash of repartee. It is not that the dialogue has not its felicities and its not always felicitous quibblings and quips; it is because the laughter is evoked by a humorous situation, from which with great knowledge of comic effect, and with unfailing ingenuity, the author ex- tracts all the fun possible. A comedy ought to stand the test of the library, how few modern comedies there are in English which will stand it! but a farce, making no pretensions to be literature, may well be excused if it does not read as well as it acts. Yet M. Labiches plays, frankly farces as the most of them are, and devised to lend themselves to the whim and exaggeration of comic act- ors, will still repay perusal. I have just finished the reading of the ten volumes of his Th6atre Complet, and I confess to real enjoyment in the course of it. The fundamental idea of each piece is in gen- eral so humorous and the individual scenes are so comic that I paid my trib- ute of laughter in my chair by myself al- most as freely as in my seat at the thea- tre. Even in the plays where the fun seems forced, as though the author were out of spirits when he wrote, at worst there is nearly always one scene as mirthful as any one could wish. This quality of humor, which does not rely upon any merely verbal cleverness, is difficult to set before a reader. An epi- gram of Sheridans or of the younger Dumass can be selected for quotation which shall be typical of the writers whole work. It would be only by long paraphrases of entire plays, or at least of the main plots, that any fair idea could be given of M. Labiches merits, so closely, as a rule, is his humor the result of his comic situation. But the attempt must be made, however inade- quately. In the Trente Millions de Gla- diateur, one of the poorest of M. La- biches plays, is a scene which M. Fran- cisque Sarcey thus spoke of when the piece was last given in Paris The scene of the slaps is now legend- ary. I do not know anything more un- expected or more laughable. A drug~ gist, very much in love with a young lady, has by accident, one night, think- ing to strike another, given his future father-in-law a resounding slap. The father of the lady declares that he will never consent to the marriage until he has returned the blow. But the drug- gist is a man of dignity, and he has been a commander in the national guard; still, after many a hesitation he submits. He presents himself to be slapped, and holds forth his cheek. But he has no soon- er received the blow than, carried away by an irresistible impulse, he returns it, crying with disgust, That does not count. We must begin again. Finally, at the very end of the piece, when she whom he loves is, unknown to him, promised to another, love brings him again to the father, and again he holds out his cheek for the blow. The father rolls up his sleeve, gives him the slap, and then at once points to the other suitor, and says, Allow me to present my future son-in-law I Another scene as characteristic is to be found in the Vivacit6s du Capitaine Tic. The captain i~ a very quick-tem- pered man. His cousin Lucile, whom he loves, says she will have nothing to do with him if he forgets himself in future as he has done in the past. An irritat- ing old man, who wishes to marry Lucile to his nephew, determines to provoke the captain into an outbreak. Ludile promises to warn her cousin when he begins to get heated by tapping a hand- bell. The old man is irritating, and the 1880.] A FrencA Comic Dramati8t. 51 young officer warms up at once, to be checked by a tap of the bell. As Lucile puts the bell down, the old man uncon- sciously takes it up, and goes on with his insulting remarks. Again the cap- tain boils over, and is about to throw the insulter out of the window when Lucile shakes the old mans arm, and so rings the bell. The officer laughs, and after that he has no difficulty in keeping his temper, in spite of the strength of the old mans provocation, which indeed goes so far as to call Lucile to her feet, to de- fend her cousin with warmth, not to say heat. Then the captain, leaning coolly against the fire-place, taps a bell there, and calls his cousin to order. Both of the young people break into a hearty laugh, and ring their bells once again under the nose of the disappointed old man, who goes out saying that the cap- tain has no blood in his veins! All this may sound simple enough, and perhaps dull enough, in a bald para- phrase, but no one would call the scene dull when it is read in full as M. La- biche has written it, with manifold clev- er little turns in the action and neat little touches in the dialogue. Both of the plays from which these scenes are taken have stood the severest of tests, the ordeal by fire; they have been tried in the glare of the foot-lights. It is no easy task to bring a smile on the faces of a thousand people assembled to- gether; it is no light endeavor to force the smile into a hearty laugh; and no- where is a public more experienced and more exacting than in Paris. But most of M. Labiches plays have received due meed of merriment. The laughter is not always evoked, it must be confessed, by devices as simple as those just set forth. There is sometimes a descent into the broadly fantastic both of situa- tion and of dialogue. The effort to be funny is at times apparent, and the means adopted are, now and then, far- fetched. M. Labiches plays divide themselves readily into three classes: first, the farci- cal comedies of broad and generous fun; second, the plays in which the fun has run away with itself and become ex- travagance, still founded on a humor- ous idea, it is true, but none the less extravagant; and, third, the plays in which the humor has crystallized around a thread of philosophy, the plays in which the fun rises from the region of farce into the domain of true comedy, of a high quality. Most of the fifty- seven plays in the ten volumes of the Th& ~tre Complet take their places at once in the first division; they are com- ic dramas, neither falling into wild farce nor rising into real comedy. These are comedies of large and hearty laughter, with no Rabelaisian breadth of beam, but with not a little of MoliZ~rian swift- ness. The linking thus of M. Labiches name with that of the great, sad humor- ist who wrote the Misanthrope is not as incongruous as it might seem. Along with other and perhaps nobler qualities for which we revere him, Moli~re had comic force, the tis comica, in its highest expression. And this is a quality which M. Labiche has, as we have seen, in a very high degree. In a few other par- ticulars it might be possible t%1 trace something of a likeness. M. Labiche in his most fanciful inventions could scarcely surpass the exuberant fancies of Moli~re; the author of the Bourgeois (}entilhomme and the Malade Imagi- naire does not hesitate to be exuberant, and extravagant also, when he needs must make the pit laugh. And in M. Labiches very best work there are strokes which the author of the School for Wives would not despise. If M. Labiche were always as strong as his strongest work, just as a bridge is as weak as its weakest point, he would hold high rank among the heirs of Mo- li~re. His Th6atre Complet is not com- plete; indeed, it contains barely a third of his dramatic writing; but it would give the reader a higher opinion of his 52 A French Comic Dramati8t. [July, powers if it were but a third of what it is; if, instead of ten volumes, we had only three or four, and of these one, or at most two, would suffice to hold the few plays which raise the author above most, if not all, of the other French stage hu- morists of our time. This best work of M. Labiches, this third division of his plays, includes a half dozen comedies, each of which is devoted to illustrating a philosophic truth. They may be called dramatiza- tions of La Rochefoucauld-like maxims. In Celimare le Bien-Aim6, the truth il- lustrated is seemingly the homely one that our pleasant vices are chickens which will surely come home to roost. In the Voyage de M. Perrichon, it is the more ducal axiom that we like better those whom we have benefited than those who have benefited us. The history of this last play, if current report may be cred- ited, affords an instance of the rather roundabout, not to say hall-accidental, way in which M. Labiche has made his masterpieces. He started out with the well-worn plan of getting fun out of the misadventures of a Parisian shop-keeper in Switzerland; but just as Dickens soon abandoned the sporting exploits of Mr. Winkle, which were at first intend- ed to form the staple of the Pickwick Papers, so M. Labiche, when the play was half written, coming to a scene in which Perrichon was rescued from mor- tal peril by the suitor for his daughters hand, saw at once that this scene ought to have its counterpart, in which Perri- chon should pose as the relieving hero. This suggested the axiom that we like better those whom we have benefited than those who have benefited us; and the author thereupon rewrote the play, taking this maxim as the Q. E. D. Perrichons daughter now has two suit- ors, one of whom, acting up to the axiom, coolly calculates that to have been foolish enough to get into danger will not be a pleasant recollection, while to have saved anothers life will be most gratifying to recall. So he pretends to be in danger, and lets Perrichon get him out of it, and calls him a preserver, and has the rescue elaborately noticed in the news- paper. The simple and conceited shop- keeper avoids the man who saved him, and seeks the man he saved. And so the play goes on: whenever one suitor really serves Perrichon, the other de- vises a fresh occasion for Perrichon ap- parently to benefit him. In the end, of course, all is exposed and explained, in a less skillful manner than is usual with M. Labiche, and the really brave and deserving young man gets the fair daughter. Here, again, all paraphrase is bald and bleak when contrasted with the fertile luxuriance of the humorous original; but I trust the subject has been shown plainly enough for the read- er to see that it lends itself readily to comic treatment. I trust, too, that the reader may be induced to examine for himself (and also for herself) the play as it is in the second volume of M. La- biches Th6atre Complet, where it is ac- companied by La Grammaire, a bright and lively little play in one act; by Les Petits Oiseaux; by Les Vivacit~s du Capitaine Tic, already referred to; and by La Poudre aux Yeux, an almost equally amusing though short comedy, in two acts, perhaps better known in America than any other of its authors work, as it forms part of the excellent college series of French plays edited by Professor B6cher, of Harvard. These five plays are all entertaining, character- istic of the author, and free from all taint of impropriety. A certificate of good moral character cannot be given to all of M. Labiches plays. Le Plus Heureux des Trois and Celimare le Bien-Aim6, two of his best works, had better be avoided by those who have not been broken in to French ways of - looking at life. But two other plays, very nearly as good, La Cagnotte and Moi, are without any Frenchiness or Parisianism. These four 1880.] A French Comic Dramatist. 53 plays, with the Voyage de M. Perrichon, represent M. Labiche at his best. The first query which the reader of the rest of his works makes is, Why does not he write always at this level? Why does he let wit so lively and humor so true waste themselves on the wildness of farce? The answer is not far to seek. It is to be found in the insultingly modest way he spoke to M. Augier about his own writ- ings. It is because he really did not know how good his best work was. He apparently ranked all his plays together; he had aimed at fun, at amusement only, in making them; and although some had paid better and been more praised than others, he did not see that now and again one of them rose right up from the low level of farce to the broad table- land of true comedy. This of course suggests the further question, Why did he not see his own merits? And that is not so easy to answer. Perhaps it is owing to his writing generally for farce theatres, where the comic company so overlaid his work with the freaks of in- dividual fantasy that he could not see the higher qualities of what was best, any more than did the professional crit- ics, whose duty it surely was to sound a note of warning and prevent such pure comic force from wasting itself. Perhaps it is due to some want of self-reliance, of which one may possibly see proof in the fact that there are fifty-seven plays in the ten volumes of Th~tre Complet, containing in all one hundred and twelve acts, and only four acts are the work of M. Labiche alone and unaided by a col- laborator. Literary partnerships are the fashion in France nowadays, a fashion which tends to the general improvement of play-making, but which has hampered M. Labiche, and kept him from doing his best. In one way his reluctance to rely on himself is freely shown when we come to examine the result of his collaborat- ing. First of all, we see that although a dozen, at least, different writers at differ- ent times, some of them again and again, worked in partnership with him, yet the fifty-seven plays are all alike stamped with his trade-mark. M. Augier and M. Legouv~ and M. Gondinet are authors of positive force and distinct characteris- tics, yet the plays they have written with M. Labiche are like his other plays, and unlike their other plays. In the devel- opment of the comic theme, in express- ing all possible fun from the situation, in giving the action unexpected turns to bring it back again for a fresh squeeze, in all this M. Labiche is unexcelled; in all this the plays are beyond perad- venture his doing. But in the technical construction, in the sequence of scenes, in the mere stage-craft, which differs in different pieces, and is indifferent in many of them, there is nothing of M. Labiches own; in all probability, intent upon his higher task, he slighted this, and left it in great measure to his coad- jutors. M. Augier points out the ge- neric likeness of all the plays which M. Labiche has signed, and suggests that it is because he writes all these plays alone. In M. Augiers case repeated conversa- tions between him and M. Labiche en- abled them to make out a very elaborate scenario; this was their joint work, and this done M. Labiche requested permis- sion to write the piece himself, which M. Augier generously granted, revising the completed play in a few minor points only. Although in general the technical con- struction of the play seems to be the work of his collaborator of the moment, yet even in this one can now and again detect traces of M. Labiches individual cleverness. No one of the contemporary comic dramatists of France can so neatly and so simply get out of a seemingly in- extricable entanglement. A single sen- tence, a solitary word sometimes, a slight turn given to the dialogue, and the knot is cut, and nothing remains but Bless you, my children, and the fall of the curtain. An instance of this drama 54 A Prenc1~ Comic Dramatist. [July, turgical cleverness can be seen in Les Deux Timides, one of the most amusing of his one-act plays.1 A recent critic in the Revue des Deux Mondes, pleading specially against M. Labiches candidature for a seat among the forty, has pointed out that he has not hesitated to use the same idea twice; that, for instance, the Vivacit~s du Cap- itaine Tic is erected on the same founda- tion as the shorter and slighter Un Mon- sieur qui prend la Mouche, both be- ing based on the identical hot-headed- ness of the hero. He might have in- stanced also that instead of repeating the situation M. Labiche sometimes re- verses it; that Le Plus Heureux des Trois is in part the turning inside out of the idea of Celimare le Bien-Aim6. In spite of discoveries like these, one of the first things which strikes the reader of M. Labiches plays is his almost in- exhaustible variety of comic incident. Any one of his plays is a series of fresh- ly humorous situations. What little old material may here and there be detect- ed is wholly cast in the shadow by the brilliant fun of the original incidents. But, strange to say, the sterility of char- acter is almost as quickly remarked as the fertility of situation: and this shows at once that he cannot, no matter at what interval, be put even in the same class with Moli~re, who sought for humor in the human heart, and not in the external circumstances of life. This repetition of characters is but added evidence in proof of M. Labiches lack of ambition and want of belief in his best powers; for in Moi, written for the Com~die-Fran9aise, he has shown a capacity for the searching inves tiga- tion of characters invented with almost as much freshness as he had in other plays contrived comic incidents. There are lines in Moi worthy of the highest comedy. And in more than one other 1 An admirable adaptation of this amusing little piece, by Mr. Julian Magnus, has been printed in Comedies for Amateur Acting. play his characters deserve, indeed de- inand, study. But in general they are merely the Punch-and Judy puppets re- quired by the plot. There is scarcely a female figure in all his plays which the memory can grasp; all are slight, intan- gible, shadowy, merely the projections needed by the story. M. Sarcey tells us that M. Labiche does not pretend to do girls or women; he says that they are not funny. But none of his men are as weak as his women; some of his peasants are drawn with great and amusing accuracy; most of his minor characters are vigor- ously outlined and well contrasted one with another; and one character, re- peated with but little alteration as the central figure in perhaps two dozen plays, is drawn with a marvelous in- sight into the inner nature of the bour- geois of Paris. Although grotesque al- most in its humor, the caricature is vital; for it is a personification of the exact facts of bourgeois life. M. Perrichon and Celimare and Champbourcy (in La Cagnotte), and their fellows in many another play, are not unlike Mr. Mat- thew Arnolds homme sensuel moyen; and with a master hand M. Labiche lays bare the selfish foibles and petty vanity of the average sensual man. One cannot help wondering what Mr. Matthew Arnolds opinion of M. La- biches Th~tre Complet would be, if it were of high or of equal enough merit to deserve his study. Mr. Arnold would surely be confirmed in his belief that it is for the average sensual man that the French dramatist of our day writes. Not that there is any pandering to sen- suality in M. Labiches plays. On the contrary, the ultimate moral of his work is always wholesome. As the sharp critic of the Revue des Deux Mondes confessed, his pleasantry is not either heavy and gross, as in the old vaudeville, or licentious, as in the new opera-bc z~ffe. Generally it is gay, witty, and, what is not without value, at bottom always 1880.] A French Comic Dramatist. 55 honest. M. Labiche is too healthy to take kindly to vice, but like other hearty natures, like Rabelais and like Moli~re, he is not always free from a fancy for breadth rather than length. He has the old French sel gaulois rather than Attic salt. And if, dropping morality, we con- sult Mr. Arnold as to M. Labiches title to a seat in the Academy, we shall have no difficulty in getting an answer. In the essay on the Literary Influence of Academies Mr. Arnold gives us Riche- lieus words in founding the French Academy: its principal function shall be to work with all the care and all the diligence possible at giving sure rules to our language. It was to be a literary tribunal. To give the law, the tone, to literature, and that tone a high one, is its business. Sainte-Beuve said that Richelieu meant it to be a kaut jury, a sovereign organ of opinion. And M. Renan tells us that all ages have had their inferior literature; but the great danger of our time is that this in- ferior literature tends more and more to get the upper place. No one has the same advantages as the Academy for fighting against this mischief. To make these quotations is to crush M. Labiches claim to be admitted as one of the forty jurists. But if the Academy exists for such high aims, why is it not true to them? How many of the dram- atists who now have seats there are en- titled to them? M. Victor Hugo of course is; and equally of course is M. Emile Augier, for he is a master, writ- ing in the grand style. And perhaps M. Jules Sandeau may justly claim a place for his Mademoiselle de la Seig- 1i~re and also for his share in the ever admirable Gendre de M. Poirier. But by what right is M. Octave Fenillet there? The empress used to like his novels. And is M. Alexandre Dumas, or M. Victorien Sardou, a writer who can speak with the authority of a rec ognized master in matters of tone and taste? M. Dumas is strong and brill- iant, but his brain is hopelessly lop- sided. M. Sardou is a very clever car- icaturist, of immense technical skill. If these have each a seat among the forty, why not M. Labiche also? He is sure- ly not more out of place than they. Their election was the reward of skill and ability and success. His would mean no more and no less. If the Acad- emy is what iRichelien meant it to be, M. Lahiche belongs outside. If its duty is to reward success, as the election of M. Feuillet, M. Dumas, and M. Sardon apparently asserts, then M. Labiche also deserves an election. For as M. Emile Augier tells us in the preface from which quotation has been made before, M. La- biche is a master, and without hyper- bole, since there are as many degrees of mastership as there are regions in art; the important thing is to be a master, not a school-boy. It is in a matter like this that Caesars phrase is so true: Bet- ter to be the first in a village than the second at Rome. I prefer Teniers to Giulio Romano, and Labiche to the eld- er Cr~billon. It is not the hazard of the sentence which brings together un- der my pen the names of Lahiche and of Teniers. There are striking analogies between these two masters. There is at first the same aspect of caricature; there is, on looking closer, the same fine- ness of tone, the same justness of ex- pression, the same vivacity of move- ment. And here follows a remark, al- ready cited, but repeated now because it is the ultimate expression of M. La- biches ability: The foundation of all these joyeuset6s a toute outrance is truth. Look among the highest works of our generation, seek for a comedy of more profound observation than the Voyage de M. Perrichon, or of more philosophy thaii the Misanthrope et 1 Auvergnat. Well, Labiche has ten plays of this strength in his repertory. .T. Brander Matthews. 66 Confederation in Canada. [July, CONFEDERATION IN CANADA. IT was a curious coincidence of his- tory that France gave up to George II. the last of her Canadian dependencies at the very moment when, upon Euro- pean soil, she was curbing the ambition of Georges natural ally, Frederick the Great. At first the conquest of Canada, in 1759, involved only a change of mili- tary rulers. From 1764 to 1774 there followed a mixed military and civil gov- ernment, the Canadian French, unlike the Acadians, being allowed to remain, with a ~guaranty to the people of their religion and to the clergy of their rights. Hence arose a most jealous feeling on the part of the English, a ridiculous mi- nority, who claimed that they should have been chosen to man the new ship of state. A compromise was effected by the Quebec Act of 1774, which au- thorized the appointment of a council to govern the Province of Quebec, the maritime provinces not being includ- ed in that term. The old Coutume de Paris, of 1666; the edicts and ordinances of the French kings and colonial intend- ants; the feudal tenure, with the rela- tions of seigneurs and censitaires; in a word, the civil (old Roman) law, and even the canon law, all these still held as to property and civil rights. The innovations were, the English criminal law, including trial by jury, and the Eng- lish form of wills, together with the rules respecting evidence in commercial cases. So completely were the French satis- fied with this arrangement that, during the American Revolution, they could be aroused to hostility against England neither by the eloquence of Franklin nor by the brave deeds of Montgomery. Conversely, the Quebec Act gave the utmost dissatisfaction to the English, both in Canada and in the New Eng- land colonies. The arrival in Canada of the Protestors and United Empire Loyalists, who had suffered for the ex- pression of their opinions in the United States, tended to increase the opposi- tion to the new constitution, and led to the Act of Separation, in 1791. The Province of Quebec was divided into Upper Canada and Lower Canada, now the provinces of Ontario and Quebec. Each division had a house of assembly and a crown-nominated council. Left to itself, the upper province at once made the most radical changes, by displacing the old French laws for the common law of England. General Sim- coe, the first governor, proposed to found a government so honorable, ef- fective, and dignified that he might wel- come all who fled from the political un- certainties of the United States. The New England Americans, he wrote, have an aristocratic spirit, and want the nobility. Let us show them what true nobility is. Notwithstanding the hopes of Pitt, then chancellor of the exchequer, the difficulties in Lower Canada continued to increase. The English barred the legislative council against the French, and the French kept the English from the House of Assembly. The resulting dead-lock led to arbitrary measures by Governor Craig, which availed little except to name his administration The Reign of Terror. Nor did these quar- rels of race and religion have more than a temporary check during the war of 1812. The French attempted to starve the English out by refusing to employ them; while the English, looking wist. fully at Upper Canada and the United States, appealed to the home govern- ment for protection. Dead - locks in- creased. Governors appropriated the revenue without sanction of the legisla- ture, and the situation was made peculiar-

Frederic G. Mather Mather, Frederic G. Confederation in Canada 56-67

66 Confederation in Canada. [July, CONFEDERATION IN CANADA. IT was a curious coincidence of his- tory that France gave up to George II. the last of her Canadian dependencies at the very moment when, upon Euro- pean soil, she was curbing the ambition of Georges natural ally, Frederick the Great. At first the conquest of Canada, in 1759, involved only a change of mili- tary rulers. From 1764 to 1774 there followed a mixed military and civil gov- ernment, the Canadian French, unlike the Acadians, being allowed to remain, with a ~guaranty to the people of their religion and to the clergy of their rights. Hence arose a most jealous feeling on the part of the English, a ridiculous mi- nority, who claimed that they should have been chosen to man the new ship of state. A compromise was effected by the Quebec Act of 1774, which au- thorized the appointment of a council to govern the Province of Quebec, the maritime provinces not being includ- ed in that term. The old Coutume de Paris, of 1666; the edicts and ordinances of the French kings and colonial intend- ants; the feudal tenure, with the rela- tions of seigneurs and censitaires; in a word, the civil (old Roman) law, and even the canon law, all these still held as to property and civil rights. The innovations were, the English criminal law, including trial by jury, and the Eng- lish form of wills, together with the rules respecting evidence in commercial cases. So completely were the French satis- fied with this arrangement that, during the American Revolution, they could be aroused to hostility against England neither by the eloquence of Franklin nor by the brave deeds of Montgomery. Conversely, the Quebec Act gave the utmost dissatisfaction to the English, both in Canada and in the New Eng- land colonies. The arrival in Canada of the Protestors and United Empire Loyalists, who had suffered for the ex- pression of their opinions in the United States, tended to increase the opposi- tion to the new constitution, and led to the Act of Separation, in 1791. The Province of Quebec was divided into Upper Canada and Lower Canada, now the provinces of Ontario and Quebec. Each division had a house of assembly and a crown-nominated council. Left to itself, the upper province at once made the most radical changes, by displacing the old French laws for the common law of England. General Sim- coe, the first governor, proposed to found a government so honorable, ef- fective, and dignified that he might wel- come all who fled from the political un- certainties of the United States. The New England Americans, he wrote, have an aristocratic spirit, and want the nobility. Let us show them what true nobility is. Notwithstanding the hopes of Pitt, then chancellor of the exchequer, the difficulties in Lower Canada continued to increase. The English barred the legislative council against the French, and the French kept the English from the House of Assembly. The resulting dead-lock led to arbitrary measures by Governor Craig, which availed little except to name his administration The Reign of Terror. Nor did these quar- rels of race and religion have more than a temporary check during the war of 1812. The French attempted to starve the English out by refusing to employ them; while the English, looking wist. fully at Upper Canada and the United States, appealed to the home govern- ment for protection. Dead - locks in- creased. Governors appropriated the revenue without sanction of the legisla- ture, and the situation was made peculiar- 1880.] Confederation in Canada. 57 ly aggravating by the annual division of seventy thousand dollars among seven- teen of the fortunate councilors, who very naturally cared neither to conciliate nor to be conciliated. In 1834 the House of Assembly passed ninety-two resolutions against the governor and council. They were draughted by M. Papineau, after- wards the leader of the rebellion in that section. M. Parent, editor of the Ga- zette de Qu6bec, declared that such a course would lead to war. Papineau asserted that, in such an event, the Yan- kees would cheerfully help forward a plan for annexation to the United States. Parent turned on his heel, avowing that the last man to desert Canada would be a French Canadian: Si cela arrive, tant pis, mais quant it moi je ne d~ses- pererai jamais, et je serai, le cas ~ch& ant, le dernier Canadien. Upper Canada, also, was not free from trouble. The Act of Separation reserved one seventh of the public lands for the clergy of the Church of England. More than two million acres had been thus reserved, when the legislature, in 1819, attempted to provide endowments and rectories. The persistent opposi- tion of other denominations led to the abandonment of the lands, although they were not finally secularized till 1854. The government and the clergy were more successful in founding an aristoc- racy; perhaps after the original sugges- tion of General Simcoe, but neverthe- less distasteful to the people, who were fond of the Yankee school-master and the Methodist minister from the States. So frequently was the executive coun- cil selected from the members of the legislative council that the former body earned the sobriquet, The Family Com- pact; while public officers of all grades became less and less responsible to the people. Reform was defeated at the hustings, and the crisis brought on the rebellion of 183738. The Upper Can- ada Progressives and the Lower Cana- da French joined issue with the Upper Canada Tories and the Lower Canada English. The incongruity of such a union left no semblance of strength, save that the grievances of the patriots were synchronous. A commission of inquiry was sent from England. On their return, the constitution of 1791 was suspended so far as Lower Canada was concerned, and a special council of crown-appoint- ed members ruled from 1838 to 1841. Lord Durham advised a union of the two provinces under a responsible gov- ernment, it being futile to continue a mere personal government in such close proximity to the United States. The French of Lower Canada opposed a union, not only because they feared re- ligious and political degradation, but be- cause they declined to share the debts of Upper Canada. Their constitution having been revoked, it was held that they had no choice but to allow the special council to join with the legisla- ture of Upper Canada in assenting to the Union Act of 1841, which gave to each of the old provinces an equal rep- resentation in the single elective legis- lature of the new Province of Canada. There was also a legislative council, con- sisting, till 1856, of life members ap- pointed by the crown. After that date the members were elective. For the first time the people of Can- ada, in 1841, found themselves possessed of all the responsibilities of government. For the first time the realm of politics gave opportunity for thought and action. Parties assumed the names of parties in the old country, regardless of the issues between them. Sometimes to one of these parties and sometimes to the other the French opposed a united front, and succeeded in defeating legislation long after they had become the minority of the population. There was a surfeit of politics. In twenty-three years (1841 1864) there were fourteen governments, or entire changes of cabinets and poli- cies, besides the frequent forcing out of 68 Confederation in Canada. [July, individual ministers. Five of these gov- ernments existed between May, 1862, and June, 1864. As a most natural se- quence, the credit of Canada was dam- aged, and another rebellion was feared. Although the country had outgrown the Union Act, still the old upper prov- ince gloried in the secularizing of the clergy reserves, the development of com- mon-school education, and the release of Toronto University from the Church of England. The progress of the old low- er province was marked by the decline of feudalism and the establishment of elementary instruction. As a provincial unit Canada had reason to feel proud of her titanic canals and her rapidly in- creasing railways. The upper province, having distanced the lower in point of population, de- manded a proportionate increase of rep- resentation in the legislative assembly. The lower province did not relish the threatened change. To preserve peace under the existing constitution, Hon. John A. Macdonald, at the head of the liberal conservatives, threw himself into the breach. But neither party had suf- ficient strength to hold the government for more than a few months at a time. At length, wearied by this political see- sawing, Canada accepted an invitation to meet the representatives of Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, and Prince Edward Island in a friendly discussion regarding a union of the maritime provinces. The home government, under the Gladstone- Bright ministry, had favored a closer bond between the British colonies in North America; especially after the Trent affair, of November 8, 1861, had pointed to Canada as a possible field of battle with the United States. The con- vention met in Charlottetown on the 1st of September, 1864. A month later an- other meeting was held in Quebec. Res- olutions were passed in favor of a union of all the provinces. The home govern- ment looked kindly upon the movement, and hoped it would not make any ma- terial addition to the taxation, and there- by retard industry or tend to impose new burdens on the commerce of the coun- try. The Canadian legislature assembled in Quebec, January 19, 1865. In his speech from the throne, Lord Monck, the governor-general, said, With the public men of British North America it now rests to decide whether the vast tract of country which they inhabit shall be consolidated into a state, combining within its area all the elements of na- tional greatness, providing for the se- curity of its component parts, and con- tributing to the strength and stability of the empire, or whether the provinces shall remain in their present fragmenta- ry condition. In the legislative council, Sir E. P. Tachl, the premier, moved an address, which was afterwards carried, to the effect that the queen be pleased to submit to the imperial Parliament a measure for confederation upon the basis of the Quebec conference. The Hon. John A. Macdonald also moved a sim- ilar resolution in the legislative assem- bly. He showed that the vast expenses of maintaining separate governments would be saved; that the prosperity of the country under confederation would much exceed its prosperity under the Union Act; and that the dependence of Canada upon England would gradually cease, until there should result an atti. tude of cordial alliance in peace or war. The motion was carried on the 14th of May, by a vote of 91 to 33. A commission consisting of Messrs. Mae- donald, Cartier, Galt, and Brown crossed the ocean to confer with the im- perial authorities. Assurance was given of aid in case of war, and the Canadian Commons were informed that their wish for a renewal of the Reciprocity Treaty had been already anticipated. But the confederation was not accom-. plished without opposition. In spite of urgent requests from the home govern~. 1880.] Confederation in Canada. 59 ment, the legislature of New Brunswick showed its hostility to the scheme by sending a protesting delegation to Eng- land. Prince Edward Island was ob- stinate until a subsidy was forthcoming to purchase the proprietary rights from non - residents. Nova Scotia resolved that confederation was impracticable, and insisted upon the original proposi- tion, the union of the maritime prov- inces; but the home government gave the premier, Dr. Tupper, to understand that nothing short of a general union would be allowed. Newfoundland also declined, and still declines, to enter the confederation. The ground of all this opposition was the fear of the maritime provinces that such a union might work against their commercial interests, their trade being largely with the United States. The Fenian invasion of 1866 also re- tarded the progress of the scheme; but the early months of 1867 found dele- gates from all the provinces (except Newfoundland) comfortably established in England to await parliamentary ac- lion. The Earl of Carnarvon, the sec- retary of state for the colonies, intro- duced the measure in the House of Lords, where it was finally passed on the 26th of February, the House of Commons following on the 8th of March; and by the royal assent, on the 29th of March, the British North America Act became a law, to take effect on the 1st of July. The senate of the new Dominion of Canada was also announced. On the appointed day the previous governor of Canada (Lord Monck) was sworn in as governor-general of the Dominion. Hon. John A. Macdonald was first knighted, and then called upon by Lord Monek to form a cabinet. His selection of polit- ical enemies, as well as friends, indicated a purpose not to repeat the excesses of political strife which marked the consti- tution of 1841. The original provinces of the Domin- ion were, Ontario, Quebec, Nova Scotia, and New Brunswick. The first House of Commons, elected in the fall of 1867, had a majority of unionists. Never- theless the anti-unionists carried Nova Scotia, and the ministry of that prov- ince resigned. A series of concessions and an annual subsidy, which strained the new constitution, finally won this province over. After much delay in re- gard to its public lands, Prince Edward Island also entered the Dominion, in 1873. The troubles in the northwest territories were ended by the purchase of the entire tract from the Hudsons Bay Company. From this tract the province of Manitoba was set apart in 1870, and the district of Keewatin in 1876. British Columbia entered the Dominion in 1871, under circumstances to be considered below. Thus, after much tribulation, did the seven provinces constitute an actual con- federation. Each province has its own requirements regarding the popular fran- chise, and each has its peculiar speci- men of law. Quebec and Manitoba have substituted the code civil de Qu6- bec for the old French law; and they retain the English and statutory crimi- nal law. The remaining provinces have the common law of England. There has been as yet no codification of the criminal or commercial laws by the gov- ernment of the Dominion; nor does there seem to be any present prospect of such action. The residuum of power rests with the general government, the authority and jurisdiction of the prov- inces being very much circumscribed. Doubtless this idea was borrowed from the developments of our own civil war. Scarcely had the later provinces been admitted when the cry of secession was heard. British Columbia, with a white population of ten thousand, had been induced to enter the Dominion by a solemn promise that the Pacific railway should be completed within ten years from 1871. Although the agreement was made in the hey-day of Canadas 60 Confederation in Canada. [July, apparent prosperity, yet the Macdonald government would probably have pro- gressed toward a fulfillment, even in more disastrous times, had it not been obliged to resign, in 1873, on account of alleged corruptions in letting contracts. The in-coming reform government, un- der the Hon. Alexander Mackenzie, had never committed itself to the building of the road; and it was not inclined to build further than to save the honor of the Dominion. Its policy was to con- struct the railway as far as the upper Great Lakes, and to depend upon wagon- roads and water-ways for the remainder of the route to the Pacific. British Co- lumbia demanded what was nominated in the bond, and sent a delegation to England to make complaint. Lord Car- narvon effected a compromise in 1874, by which the province agreed to wait sixteen years from that date for the com- pletion of the road, the Esquimault branch (a little strip in British Colum- bia) to be built at once. The failure of this measure in the Canadian Parlia- ment revived the cry of secession. A bonus of seven hundred and fifty thou- sand dollars was offered to the province for the abandonment of the proposed branch. It was indignantly refused; and the inhabitants insisted upon something more tangible than the small army of surveyors which covered their hills. Lord Dufferin paid them a conciliatory visit in 1876; showed the physical and financial difficulties of the project, and assured them of the honest intentions of the government. A meeting of skeptics was held in Victoria on the evening of Lord Dufferins speech, and it was re- solved that in case the Dominion gov- ernment persist in ignoring the Carnar- von settlements it is the request of this meeting that our representatives in the provincial Parliament shall, at the next session, record their votes for the sepa- ration of British Columbia from the Do- minion. The Mackenzie government lasted from 1873 to 1878, and was succeeded by the former conservative government under Sir John A. Macdonald. Its poli- cy now dictates a vigorous prosecution of the work as nearly as possible after the original plans. The British Columbians seem always to have been dissatisfied. A secession memorial of the legislature was forwarded to Ottawa, and thence to the imperial government; and the first day of May, 1879, was fixed upon for a peaceable secession, which has never yet taken place. The new tariff is also disliked, because the interests of British Columbia suffer out of proportion to the rest of the Dominion. Even the taxa. tion for public works is resisted, because such works are of no benefit unless the Pacific railway is built; and secession may yet be carried out on the ground that the Dominion has not fulfilled the contract. A resolution allowing the province to go was introduced in the Canadian Commons on the 8th of April, 1879; but no one seemed inclined to sec- ond it. If the province should slip out from the Dominion yoke, the present government would be relieved of build- ing the railway in these depressed times, a boon which a member of Parliament confessed would be appreciated; and added, significantly, We will trade off British Columbia for Newfoundland. But would Newfoundland come? Her revenues for five years have doubled the amount of her subsidy had she be- come an integral part of the Dominion. Her wealth of fisheries, mines, and forests is still within her control, and her pub- lic debt is insignificant. Drawing her supplies largely from the United States, she will be in no haste to enter a confed- eration committed to a protective tariff and burdened with debt. She has not yet forgotten the days of the American Revolution, when the Non-Intercourse Act sent starvation among her barren hills. Newfoundland will not come, in spite of Dr. Tuppers assurances that she will. Dr. Tupper, it will be recalled, in 1880.] Confederation in Canada. 61 1865 most earnestly opposed the con- federation so far as Nova Scotia was con- cerned. But the Intercolonial Railway bagged this province; and now (as min- ister of public works) he affirms that a railway across Newfoundland will be a sufficient inducement for that island to share the privileges of confederation. The actual relation of the several prov- inces to the Dominion government was very clearly shown by the Letellier case in 187879. The Hon. Luc Letellier de St.-Just held his commission as lieuten- ant-governor of Quebec from the Mac- kenzie reform government. The politics of that province being decidedly conserv- ative, he often found himself at variance with his own Parliament and ministry. A difference of opinion having arisen in regard to a tax affecting certain delin- quent municipalities, he abruptly dis- missed his ministry under the lead of M. de Boucherville, although it was backed by the constitutional majority in the Parliament of Quebec. Lord Dufferin would not interfere, because Letellier was responsible to the Dominion govern- ment; and of course the government of that day had no censure for him. With the return of the conservatives to the control of the Dominion govern- ment, in September, 1878, the House of Commons sympathized with the De Boucherville ministry, and revived a vote of censure to M. Letellier which the former house had refused. The conserv- atives claimed that the lieutenant - gov- ernors are no longer responsible to the queen, but to the Parliament of Canada; that Parliament can dismiss them; and that the governor-general must take the initiative by the advice of Parliament through its committee, the cabinet of Canada. On the other hand, the reform- ers defended M. Letellier on the ground that his dismissal of the cabinet was constitutional, although he was not sus- tained until a new Parliament had been elected, and that parliamentary action would endanger the autonomy of the provinces. In spite of this protest, the Commons voted the censure on the 13th of March, 1879. Under threats from the Quebec members, Sir John A. Mac- donald was obliged to hint Letelliers dis- missal to Lord Lorne. The governor- general pleaded the want of precedents, and submitted the case to her majestys government for instructions. This was a terrible blow to the pride of the Canadians. They had hoped that they were in a semi-independent condi- tion; but now even the premier of Can- ada informed them that they were as much under the imperial authority as if in England. Loud protests came from all parts of the Dominion, and a resolu- tion was presented in the Commons to the effect that this reference to the home authorities is subversive of the princi- ples of responsible government granted to Canada. Finally, word was received from Sir M. Hicks-Beach, the colonial secretary, that the home government refused to interfere in the matter; and therefore the governor-general removed Letellier on the 25th of July, 1879. Thus it became evident that any polit- ical party which is in power at Ottawa can remove the lieutenant-governor of a province if he happens to be of the op- posite faith. Nay, more: the governor- general himself is the pliant tool in the hands of the premier. He may represent the queen; but what does that signify? Bagehots work on the English constitu- tion states that the sovereign is no longer a separate, co~irdinate authority with the House of Lords and the Commons. The right to encourage, to warn, and to be consulted exists, but not the right to veto. The queen must sign her own death-warrant if the two houses send it up to her. Therefore, as the vicegerent of the queen, the governor-general is at the mercy of the Canadian Parliament; a fact which Lord Dufferin cared not at all to conceal as he delivered his speeches from the throne, at the dictation first of Macdonald, and then of Mackenzie. 62 Confederation in Canada. [July, His policy is the identical policy of the party in power for the time being; and it may be changed in the twinkling of an eye by a single adverse vote in the Commons. A writer in an English magazine fore- shadowed the serious aspect of affairs in case the governor-generals duty should force him into conflict with the desires of the Canadian people. A prominent journal replied that, were such the case, the people would not consider the nice- ties of sentimental loyalty, but would simply insist upon the privileges of self- government guaranteed by the constitu- tion. No one predicted a crisis in the Letellier affair; but some anticipated imperial interference when announce- ment was made of the new protective tariff, which discriminates as well against England as the United States. The op- position press denounced the movement, because it had been made without Eng- lands advice or consent. The ministerial press appealed to Lord Beaconsfield to settle the question for all time, ~fter the manner of Lord Kimberly, Gladstones colonial secretary, who, some years ago, surrendered to Australia every pow- er in regard to trade. Canadas position was strengthened by quoting the action of England in 1847, when she adopted free trade, almost to the ruin of the West Indies and Canada, neither of which col- onies had been consulted. In England the effect of the new pol- icy of protection was more marked. On the 8th of March, 1879, Sir George Campbell gave notice that he should ask the chancellor of the exchequer as to the information her majestys government had respecting the governor-generals speech from the throne, a speech which advocated a policy of protection at a time when her majestys government was op- posed to such policies; and also whether it is desirable to continue the connec- tion of this country with Canada under such disadvantageous and humiliating terms. Mr. Bright asked the secretary of state for the colonies if it was in- tended to represent to the Canadian gov- ernment the impolicy of a war of tariffs between the different portions of the em- pire. The secretary replied that, much as the government regretted the changes in tariff, the matter was in the power of the Canadians, and that Lord Dufferin had not been required to reserve for the decision of the home government bills im- posing differential duties, nor had Lord Lorne. Such widely divergent papers as the London Times and the Daily News admitted the independence of Can- ada, but suggested that the preferences of England should be consulted, because she must protect Canada against foreign countries. After weeks of debate, the tariff was finally carried through the Canadian Commons in March, 1879; and thus was severed the commercial link which bound the Dominion to the old country. 1?evenons i~ nos moutons. Even if there be no interferenGe from abroad, the government of Canada by a ministry is open to serious objections. The Canadians, said Lord Dufferin in 1874, are accustomed to see the popular will exercise an immediate and complete con- trol over the country. No Canadian, he added, referring to the United States, would breathe freely if he thought the ministers were removed beyond the su- pervision and control of the legislative assemblies. With all deference to this opinion, it would be difficult to show that the mercurial changes in the govern- ment from 1841 to 1867 (already noticed above) did not stamp ministerial rule as a most dismal failure. This kind of rule may do for England, with its foreign pol- icies and with a home territory fully de- veloped; but in Canada the case is quite different. An immense breadth of par- tially explored territory sends up a de- mand from all quarters for sectional representation in the cabinet. The best men are not available, because, aside from silencing each section, each 1880.] Confederation in Canada. 63 religious creed must be pacified. Can such a cabinet frame a policy which shall satisfy all sections and all creeds? Can any cabinet, in a country like Canada, endure the losses of time and temper which arise from an opposition continu- ally prodding with senseless questions, and constantly angry because it is at the left of the speaker? The outs want to enter, and the ins want to remain where they are. Methinks I hear a lion in the lobby roar! Say, Mr. Speaker! shall we shut the door And keep him out? Or let him in, And take our chance to get him out again? The worst feature of ministerial rule is this very instability of the government; and instability is a most serious drawback to political or commercial prosperity. It was many years after the conquest be- fore England learned the needs of Can- ada; and during that time there were fre- quent changes in the constitutional gov- ernment of Canada: I. A military gov- ernment (17591764). II. A mixture of military with civil authority (1764 1774). III. A more purely civil admin- istration under a governor and crown- appointed council (17741791). IV. A government popularized by the addition of an elective assembly (17911841). V. A government responsible to the people (18411867). VI. The present government, both responsible and repre- sentative (since 1867). That is to say, in a space of one hundred and twenty years, six different constitutions were given to Canada; an average duration of twenty years for each. Twenty - three governors-general ruled in the sixty-six years in which the colony was under one government, aver aging less than three years for each. Twenty lieutenant-gov- ernors in Lower Canada and sixteen in Upper Canada administered the affairs of those provinces during the half cent- ury of their separation (17911841). Through all these phases of government five different cities have had the honor of being the capital: Quebec (till 1791); Toronto, in Upper Canada, and Quebec, in Lower Canada (17911841); Kings- ton (18411844); Montreal (1844- 1849); Toronto and Quebec, alternately (18491858); Ottawa (since 1858). If the object of this article were to institute comparisons favorable to the United States, we might, at this point, very appropriately refer to our own con- stitution, which has remained compar- atively intact for over ninety years; to the average terms of our presidents; and to the remarkably infrequent succession of political parties to the control either of the executive or of the legislative departments, as the most convincing proof that a form of government which is not easily changed by a party vote in the popular legislative body is better adapted to the wants of a new country than any other form less stable and less conservative. What could have been a greater strain upon our constitution than the days of de facto and de jure, from November, 1876, to March, 1877? And yet, in the midst of that trouble, Lord Dufferin gave this most sincere and genuine compliment: If we look across the border, what do we see? A nation placed in one of the most try- ing and difficult situations which can be imagined; two hostile and thoroughly organized camps arrayed against each other in the fiercest crisis of a political contest. Yet in spite of the enormous personal and public interests at stake, there is exhibited by both sides a patri- otic self-restraint, a moderation of lan- guage, and a dignified and wise attitude of reserve which is worthy not only of our admiration, but of the imitation of the civilized world. Although Joseph Cook considers an elective judiciary one of the best feat- ures in his Ultimate America, still it is a serious question whether a system of wise appointments would not be better. The difference, after all, appears trivial between electing a judge, in the Amer- ican manner, and electing some one to 64 Confederation in Canada. [July, appoint him as a reward for party serv- ices, after the Canadian manner. It is yet to be proved, however the selection has been made, that our judiciary is a whit behind that of our neighbors, either in ability or in worth. The civil service of Canada is not what it once was. Formerly, the em- ployee of the government felt so secure in his position as to call Ottawa his permanent home. Promotion might be show, but it would always follow good behavior. A superannuation fund stood ready for him in case he became inca- pacitated, and a half-pay pension was his after twenty-five or thirty years of con- stant service. Wisely eschewing all ac- tivity in politics he kept his place, wheth- er this party or that party held the reins of government. The civil service is still most efficient and praiseworthy under the fostering care of the board of civil- service examiners. But we already hear the rival parties in Parliament charging each other with applying to their civil service the American motto, To the victors belong the spoils; and it is even said that Sir John A. Macdonald provided for certain of his followers in new offices and increased salaries to the amount of nearly half a million dollars, when he was obliged to surrender the premiership in 1873. The election laws of Canada are prob- ably as effective for the prevention of bribery as any laws can be. Still, we read in the Canadian papers of stuffed ballot - boxes, the buying of voters, and the payment of money to influential electors. In the Kingston election of 1874, it was decided that Sir John A. Macdonald had been guilty of bribery through his agents; but that he could not be holden, because it did not appear that they were his authorized agents for that purpose. In July, 1872, Sir George E. Cartier wrote to Sir Hugh Allan for money to carry the elections in the interest of the conservative party; while in 1876 it is stated that Mr. George Brown wrote to an honorable senator to ask if he could not come down handsomely, or at least contribute some- thing toward the success of the reform party. With all our complaints of fraud- ulent voting in the United States, it is seldom that such scenes are exhibited as are common to Canadian villages on election days, each party keeping open house in a tavern hired for its special use. When the Dominion was formed the debts of the several provinces were as- sumed to the amount of sixty-two and one half million dollars. The amount finally assumed, on account of misunderstand- ings, was a much larger sum. Accord- ing to Sir Francis Hiucks, the public debt in April, 1872, was eighty millions. The debt now exceeds one hundred and fifty millions, and an increase of more will give the Canadians a public debt as large, per capita, as that of the United States. The appropriations for railways and canals have been enormous, no less than three hundred millions having been used in this manner during the past thirty years. The fact that the debt is no larger shows that Canada must have partially paid for these great improve- ments out of the ordinary revenue. Al- though the debt has been incurred for better facilities for transportation, yet it may be pertinent to inquire if it pays to extend public works which may not take care of themselves for many years to come. The Intercolonial Railway, for instance, has run behind a million dollars within the short time it has been in operation, and that, too, under the most experienced management. As a whole, the railways in Canada have paid on their capital and bonded debt scarcely one half of the percentage paid by the railways in the United States. The combined revenues of Upper Canada and Lower Canada were one million dollars in 1841. In 1867 the revenue of the new Canada was four- teen millions; at present it is about 1880.] Confederation in Canada. 65 twenty-three millions. The ordinary expenses of the government do not un- reasonably exceed this sum; although there are large appropriations for legis- lation, immigration, and the militia, in- cluding a totally superfluous military school at Kingston. But there are ex- penses of government, available for re- duction, which might be called ex- traordinary. The governor-general re- ceives a salary of $47,517.55, besides the expenses of the Government House. Eight lieutenant-governors receive from eight thousand to fourteen thousand dollars each. Fourteen legislative bod- ies (in the Dominion and provinces) ag- gregate 661 members, at a cost of half a million dollars. Then there are sixty- five executive councilors, which, added to those already enumerated, make one representative to every six thousand people in Canada. At the same rate, the United States would have 7260, and Great Britain six thousand I Con- cerning this the Toronto Mail says: The total cost of government, Domin- ion and provincial, exclusive of the amounts spent on immigration, police, penitentiaries, debt management and in. terest, hospitals and charities, Indians, public works maintenance, etc., is up- wards of $10,750,000 a year, or over $2.50 per head of the population. In addition to this load, moreover, we have to carry our municipal governments, of the cost of which it is impossible to form an estimate. If there were great results from this phenomenal expense, there~ might be less complaint. The cost of legislation for the Parliament of last year was $618,000; of which $303,000 was an indemnity to members. An honorable senator has recently made the statement that the country would not give ten cents on the dollar for all the legislation representing that indemnity and those salaries. In the Provintme of Ontario it costs three hundred thousand dollars more than is required in most of the VOL. XLVI. ~o. 273. 5 States in the Union for the legislature to pass a few unimportant bills and dis- burse three million dollars. Surely the Mail is justified in calling a halt. No country in the world pays so dearly for government, and if Ossa is to be piled on this Pelion either the peoples back will break under the burden, or they will unload and try a change, which would, in effect, be a revolution, a quiet but still a disastrous one for Canada. The true Yankee will not be satisfied without asking after the amount of busi- ness transacted by Canada with foreign countries, as a basis for such enormous expenses. He will note that her exports were fifty-eight millions in 1868; ninety millions in 1873 and 1874; and seventy~ nine millions in 1878. The imports of 1860 were seventy-three millions; they rose to one hundred and twenty-eight millions in 1874, but fell off to ninety- one millions in 1878. During the past six years Canadian exports to Great Britain have risen from forty-three to fifty-eight per cent. of the total amount exported; while exports to the United States have fallen from forty-seven to thirty-two per cent. In the same pe- riod Canadian imports from Great Brit- ain have fallen from fifty-four to forty- one per cent.; and imports from the United States have risen from thirty- seven to fifty-three per cent. Since the date of confederation (1867) Canada has managed to import more than three hun- dred and fifty millions in excess of her exports; and the Yankee cannot blame her for trying to keep her men and her money at home by the newly executed policy of protection. We have seen, during our inquiry, that Canada has always been a pecul- iarly hard country to govern; that this has been partially owing to a series of experiments by the home government; that no responsibility to the people ex- isted before the year 1~41; and that sub- sequently the government by a ministry has proved too unstable for the wants of 66 Confederation in Canada. [July, a new country. We have also noticed the immense expense of carrying on so many co6rdinate branches of the gov- ernment, while the public debt is con- stantly increasing at an alarming ratio. If time and space did not fail us, we might inquire into the statements which are made to the effect that Canada re- ceives no money from England; that England does not even pay her own officer, the governor-general; that she neither builds nor repairs her own forti- fications, nor does she pay for the arm- ament of the military forces in Canada; and that she did not assist in suppressing the Fenian raids for which Canada was in no sense responsible. These and kin- dred complaints in connection with the results which we have already examined in d~tail lead us briefly to consider the most apparent tendencies of the confed- eration I. In the first place, we may safely assert that the tendency of Canada is to depart from English domination. This is true, in spite of Beaconsfields eulogies upon the Dominion at the expense of the United States. The English liber- als have a more realizing sense of the true attitude of the colonies toward the mother country; for their dictum would bind these satellites to England, as Lord Granville says, by a silken cord, and not by an iron chain. Lord Derby, their latest acquisition, recently said that Canada and Australia must soon be- come separate nations. The late un- der-secretary of state for the colonies, Lord Blatchford, predicts that as the colonies develop they must either be- come separate nations, or they must have a share in the government of the British confederacy, an alternative which he believes to be highly visionary. Indeed, the very threats of the minis- terial press in Canada, when the new tariff was enacted, show that the Do- minion would rather protect itself, even against England, than to have the empty honor of being a British colony, social- ly recognized by the imperial govern- ment. The Letellier affair, also, shows that loyalty in the concrete is still a bete noir to the Canadian, if it means full submission to the home authorities. II. The tendency of Canada being thus evident, and the question of her independence having been virtually set- tled in 1875 by the decision that no ap- peal should lie from her supreme court to the English courts, we may dismiss all attempts to imperialize with a mere passing mention. Earl Grey favors a quasi-government for the colonies by a committee of the privy council; but he threatens them with a total separation in case they act too independently, a most dangerous treatment with a people who have already tasted the fruits of colonial liberty. Still less is there the possibility that Canada will become a part of an imperial federation, with her representatives in the British Parlia- ment, and with the right of her citizens to be recognized as citizens of any other imperial colony. Such results are hard- ly possible; although the recent calling of Sir John A. Macdonald to the British privy council might seem to lead the Dominion towards the vortex of impe-. rialism. III. Whether the separation of Can- ada from England is a matter of years or of decades, it is evident that the con- stitution of 1867 does not meet the re- quirements of the country. The great expense of confederation must be re- duced either by the formation of a leg- islative union of the provinces, or by the extinction of the legislative councils. The duties of the several lieutenant- governors of provinces might be readily performed by an additional minister of the Dominion government, with super- visory power to approve or to refer to the cabinet. The number of provinces might also be reduced, with great benefit to all concerned. The precise nature of the changes that are coming is not ours to suggest, or even to prophesy. It is 1880.] Reminiscences of Wasldngton. 67 safe to assume that the Canadians are abundantly able to take care of them- selves when the occasion shall be given. Left to themselves, they must naturally drift toward a government more demo- cratic in its constitution and more popu- lar in its execution than any they have yet enjoyed. But this natural drifting democracy-ward does not by any means argue that they will finally tie up along- side the United States. That is a ques- tion to be decided in the future. It can- not be decided now. In the mean time the American people will watch coming events across the border with a kindly interest. The Canadian people have al- ready accomplished wonders, in spite of continual drawbacks; and the future will show their capabilities in a larger field. Frederic C. Afather. REMINISCENCES OF WASHINGTON. V. THE VAN BUHEN ADMINISTRATION, 18871841. WHILE the electoral votes for the eighth president of the United States were being counted, in the presence of the two houses of Congress, Senator Clay remarked to Vice-President Van Buren, with courteous significance, It is a cloudy day, sir! The sun will shine on the 4th of March, sir! was the Little Magicians confident reply. The prediction was fulfilled, for on his inaugural morning the sun shone brightly, and there was not a cloud to be seen in the clear sky. Washington was crowded with strangers from all parts of the country, and in anticipation of the time set for the ceremony great numbers began to direct their way at an early hour to the Capitol. Congregat- ing before the eastern portico of the Cap- itol, the dense mass of humanity re- minded those who had traveled abroad of the assembled multitude in front of St. Peters on Easter Sunday, waiting to receive the Papal blessing. President Jackson and President-elect Van Buren were escorted from the White House to the Capitol by a volun teer brigade of cavalry and infantry, and by several democratic political or- ganizations, marshaled by General Van Ness, who had a corps of mounted aids. General Jackson and his successor rode in an elegant phaeton, made of oak from the original timber of the frigate Con- stittition, which had one seat holding two persons, and a high drivers box in front, bordered with a deep hammer- cloth. The unpainted wood was highly polished, and the fine grain was brought out by a coat of varnish, while on a panel on either side was a representa- tion of Old Ironsides, as the frigate was called, under full sail. The phaeton was drawn by General Jacksons four iron-gray carriage-horses, with elaborate brass-mounted harness, and it was a very dashing turnout. Arriving at the Capitol, General Jack- son and Mr. Van Buren went to the senate chamber, where they witnessed Colonel Johnson take his oath of office as vice-president. They then repaired to a platform erected over the steps of the eastern portico, followed by the diplomatic corps, the senators, and the principal executive officials. A cheer greeted the old hero, who had risen from a sick bed, against the protest of his physician, that he might grace the scene, and a smile of satisfaction lit up

Reminiscences of Washington 67-75

1880.] Reminiscences of Wasldngton. 67 safe to assume that the Canadians are abundantly able to take care of them- selves when the occasion shall be given. Left to themselves, they must naturally drift toward a government more demo- cratic in its constitution and more popu- lar in its execution than any they have yet enjoyed. But this natural drifting democracy-ward does not by any means argue that they will finally tie up along- side the United States. That is a ques- tion to be decided in the future. It can- not be decided now. In the mean time the American people will watch coming events across the border with a kindly interest. The Canadian people have al- ready accomplished wonders, in spite of continual drawbacks; and the future will show their capabilities in a larger field. Frederic C. Afather. REMINISCENCES OF WASHINGTON. V. THE VAN BUHEN ADMINISTRATION, 18871841. WHILE the electoral votes for the eighth president of the United States were being counted, in the presence of the two houses of Congress, Senator Clay remarked to Vice-President Van Buren, with courteous significance, It is a cloudy day, sir! The sun will shine on the 4th of March, sir! was the Little Magicians confident reply. The prediction was fulfilled, for on his inaugural morning the sun shone brightly, and there was not a cloud to be seen in the clear sky. Washington was crowded with strangers from all parts of the country, and in anticipation of the time set for the ceremony great numbers began to direct their way at an early hour to the Capitol. Congregat- ing before the eastern portico of the Cap- itol, the dense mass of humanity re- minded those who had traveled abroad of the assembled multitude in front of St. Peters on Easter Sunday, waiting to receive the Papal blessing. President Jackson and President-elect Van Buren were escorted from the White House to the Capitol by a volun teer brigade of cavalry and infantry, and by several democratic political or- ganizations, marshaled by General Van Ness, who had a corps of mounted aids. General Jackson and his successor rode in an elegant phaeton, made of oak from the original timber of the frigate Con- stittition, which had one seat holding two persons, and a high drivers box in front, bordered with a deep hammer- cloth. The unpainted wood was highly polished, and the fine grain was brought out by a coat of varnish, while on a panel on either side was a representa- tion of Old Ironsides, as the frigate was called, under full sail. The phaeton was drawn by General Jacksons four iron-gray carriage-horses, with elaborate brass-mounted harness, and it was a very dashing turnout. Arriving at the Capitol, General Jack- son and Mr. Van Buren went to the senate chamber, where they witnessed Colonel Johnson take his oath of office as vice-president. They then repaired to a platform erected over the steps of the eastern portico, followed by the diplomatic corps, the senators, and the principal executive officials. A cheer greeted the old hero, who had risen from a sick bed, against the protest of his physician, that he might grace the scene, and a smile of satisfaction lit up 68 1?emirn8cenCes of Ifa8kingtofl. [July, his wan, stern features as he stood lean- ing on his cane with one hand, and hold- ing with the other his crape-bound white fur hat, while he acknowledged the com- pliment paid him by a succession of bows. Mr. Van Buren then advanced to the front of the platform, and with impressive dignity read in a clear, dis- tinct voice his inaugural address. His manner and emphasis were excellent, yet the effect upon the multitude was not what might have been expected from so great a collection of men devoted to his support. The obvious cause was, that few of the half million could hear him at all, and that, notwithstanding the invitations to cheer, given at the close of every sentence by Marshal Van Ness, only feeble shouts responded to the wavings of the baton. When he had concluded Chief Justice Taney adminis- tered the oath of office, and no sooner had he reverentially kissed the Bible, as a pledge of his assent, than General Jackson advanced and shook him cor- dially by the hand. The other digni- taries on the platform followed with their congratulations, the populace at last cheered, and the bands played Hail to the Chief. President Van Buren and ex-Presi- dent Jackson were then escorted back to the White House, where for three hours a surging tide of humanity swept past the new chief magistrate, congratulating him on his inauguration. The assemblage was a promiscuous one, and the recep- tion was as disorderly an affair as could well be imagined. At four oclock in the afternoon, the members of the diplo- matic corps called in a body, wearing their court-dresses, and Don Calderon, who was their dean, presented a con- gratulatory address. In his reply, Mr. Van Buren made his only known lap- sus linguw by addressing them as the democratic corps. It was not until after his attention had been called to the mistake that he corrected himself, and stated that he had intended to say diplomatic corps. In the evening two inauguration balls were given. Many strangers had been unable to find conveyances to take them away, and cQuld not obtain tarrying-places. It was interesting, towards night-fall, to witness the gathering anxiety in many a decent mans countenance as he went from boarding ho use to hotel, and from hotel to private residence, seeking lodg- ings in vain. Money seemed to be use- less in Washington for once. It could indeed procure for the possessor the most luxurious dishes and the rarest beverages; but while the palate could be gratified, there was no rest for weary limbs. Beds! beds! beds! was the gen- eral cry. Hundreds slept in the market- house on bundles of hay, and a party of distinguished Bostonians passed the night in the chairs of a barbers shop. General Jackson remained but four days at the White House, and then left for Tennessee, relieved from the cares of his late station, and exhibiting an un- wonted gayety of spirit. During the previous winter he had not expected to live until the conclusion of his term, and he could but feel buoyant and hap- py in finding himself sufficiently recov- ered to undertake the journey, with the prospect of enjoying some years at the Hermitage, in the midst of the agri- cultural occupations of which he was so fond. On the day of his departure he could not catch the melancholy con- tagion of his friends around him, who were oppressed with the thought of part- ing with him. He told one merry story after another, rallied his friends, and jocosely proposed a matrimonial connec- tion to a member of his late cabinet whose eyes were filled with tears. Mr. Van Buren was the first president who had not been born a British subject; yet he was at heart a monarchist, op- posed to universal suffrage, and in favor of a strong central government, although he had reached his exalted position by loud professions of democracy. lie en- 1880.] Remini8cences of Wa8kington. = 69 deavored to establish a personal inti- macy with every one presented to him, and he ostensibly opened his heart for inspection. The tone of his voice was that of thorough frankness, accompanied by a pleasant smile, but a fixed expres- sion at the corners of his mouth and the searching look of his keen eyes showed that he believed with Talley- rand that language was given to conceal thought. President Van Burens wife (by birth Miss Hannah Hoes, of Columbia Coun- ty, New York) had been dead nineteen years when he took possession of the White House, accompanied by his four sons, and presided over the official re- ceptions and dinner-parties with his well- known tact and politeness. In the No- vember following his inauguration, his eldest son and private secretary, Col- onel Abraham Van Buren (who was a graduate of the military academy at West Point, and who had served on the staff of General Worth), was married to Miss Angelica Singleton, a wealthy South Carolina lady, who had been ed- ucated at Philadelphia, and who had passed the preceding winter at Washing- ton, in the family of her relative, Sena- tor Preston. OR the New Years Day succeeding the wedding, Mrs. Van Bu- ren, assisted by the wives of the cabinet officers, received with her father-in-law, the president. Her rare accomplish- ments, superior education, beauty of face and figure, grace of manner, and vivacity in conversation insured social success. The White House was refur- nished in the most expensive manner, and a code of etiquette was established which rivaled that of a German princi- pality. President Van Buren found himself saddled at the commencement of his ad- ministration with national financial em- barrassments, bequeathed as a legacy by his illustrious predecessor, as he des- ignated General Jackson in one of his messages. The destruction of the Unit- ed States Bank had forced the transfer of the national funds, which it had held on deposit, to the state banks. ruhey had loaned these funds on securities, often of doubtful value or worthless, and when the day of reckoning came general bank- ruptcy ensued. Manufacturers were obliged to discharge their workmen; pro- visions were scarce and dear in the At- lantic States, because funds could not be obtained for the removal Eastward of the Western crops; and there was much actual distress in the large cities on the sea-coast. To quiet the popular clamor, the president convened Congress in an extra session, and in his message to that body, on its assembling, he proposed the establishment of an independent treas- ury, with sub-treasuries in different cit- ies, for the safe-keeping of the public money, entirely separate from the banks. The whigs opposed this independent treasury scheme, but, to the surprise of those with whom he had of late been politically affiliated, it received the cor- dial support of Mr. Calhoun. When Congress began to discuss this measure, he became its champion in the senate, and soon locked horns with Mr. Clay, who led its opponents. The debate was continued session after session, and in time Messrs. Clay and Calhoun passed from their discussion of national finances into an acrimonious, reciprocal review of the acts, votes, and motions of each other during the preceding thirty years. John Quincy Adams wrote in his di- ary that these oratorical encounters between Clay and Calhoun, are Lillipu- tian mimicry of the orations against Ctesiphon and the crown, or the debate of the second Philippic. Others, equal- ly competent to judge, and not preju- diced by jealousy, pronounced this per- sonal debate the greatest oratorical con- test that ever took place in the senate of the United States, not excepting the Webster and Hayne controversy, al- though that received greater publicity through judicious advertising. Mr. Ben- 70 Reminiscences of Was1~ington. [July, ton was of this opinion, and described the debate in his memoirs as abounding with exemplifications of all the different sorts of oratory of which each of the senatorial gladiators was master. On one side [Clay], declamation, impas- sioned eloquence, vehement invective, taunting sarcasm; on the other [Cal- houn], close reasoning, chaste narrative, clear statement, keen retort. There was no crying or blackguarding in it; nothing like the weeping scene between Fox and Burke, when the heart over- flowed with l)itterness at the recollection of former love, now gone forever; nor like the virulent one, when the gall, overflowing with bitterness, warned an ancient friend never to return as a spy to the camp which he had left as a de- serter. In concluding this memorable debate, Mr. Calhoun denounced Mr. Clay for the part he had taken in the tariff com- promise of 1833, and declared that in that contest the nullifiers were tri- umphant, they had the Kentucky senator on his back, and that he [Mr. Calhoun] was his master then. Mr. Clay was evidently somewhat taken by sur- prise at this declaration, and he replied indignantly, giving a history of the tariff compromise alluded to, and clearly dem- onstrating that he had been actuated by patriotic motives in that controversy as a pacificator between the North and the South. Finally, Mr. Clay, drawing himself up to his full height, fixed his eyes upon Mr. Calhoun, and exclaimed in ringing tones and with a contempt- uous gesture, He my master! he my master! I would not own him for my slave! rrhe financial condition of the country grew worse and worse. There was a total stagnation of business throughout the Union, and from every section came tidings of embarrassment, bankruptcy, and ruin. There were no available means for the purchase of Western prod- uce and its transportation to the At- lantic markets, so it remained in the hands of the farmers, who could not dis- pose of it except at a great sacrifice. In Ohio, for example, pork was sold at three dollars a hundred pounds, and wheat at fifty cents per bushel, while the price of agricultural labor was but thirty- seven and a half cents a day. Amid this general distress, one class only re- mained unscathed by the blighting ef- fects of the democratic financial policy: the president and his army of subor- dinate office - holders continued to re- ceive their salaries in gold or silver. For this they obtained a premium on changing it into the paper currency in general circulation, and they were thus benefited in proportion as the people were embarrassed. This naturally caused great popular discontent, and aided in bringing about a great political upris- ing. Among other evidences of the bitter and ferocious spirit which characterized political contests in those days was the duel between Mr. Cilley, of Maine, and Mr. Graves, of Kentucky, in which the former fell. Mr. Ciley, in a speech de- livered in the house of representatives, criticised a charge of corruption brought against some unnamed congressman in a letter published in the New York Courier and Enquirer, over the signa- ture of A Spy in Washington, and indorsed in the editorial columns of that paper. Mr. James Watson Webb, the editor of the Courier and Enquirer, im- mediately visited Washington, and sent a challenge to Mr. Cilley by Mr. Graves, with whom he had but a slight acquaint- ance. Mr. Cilley declined to receive the hostile communication from Mr. Graves, without making any reflections on the personal character of Mr. Webb. Mr. Graves then felt himself bound, by th,e unwritten code of honor, to es- pouse the cause of Mr. Webb, and chal- lenged Mr. Cilley himself. This chal- lenge was accepted, and the prelimina- ries were arranged between Mr. Henry 1880.] ~emi~i8cenc~8 of Wa8kington. 71 A. Wise, as the second of Mr. Graves, and Mr. George W. Jones, as the second of Mr. Ciley. Rifles were selected as the weapons, and Mr. Graves found dif- ficulty in obtaining one, but was finally supplied by his friend Mr. iRives, of the Globe. The parties met, the ground was measured, and the combatants were placed; on the fourth fire Mr. Cilley fell, shot through the body, and died almost instantly. Mr. Graves, on seeing his antagonist fall, expressed a desire to render him some assistance, but was told by Mr. Jones, My friend is dead, sir! Mr. Cilley, who left a wife and three young children, was a popular fa- vorite, and his tragic end caused a great excitement all over the country. Mr. Wise was generally blamed for having instigated the fatal encounter; certainly, he did not endeavor to prevent it. Congress had its comedies as well as its tragedies, and the leading comedian was Thomas Corwin, a representative from Ohio, who was a type of early Western culture and a born humorist. He was a middle-sized, somewhat stout man, with pleasing manners, a fine head, sparkling hazel eyes, and a complexion so dark that on several occasions as he used to narrate with great glee he was supposed to be of African descent. There is no need of my working, said he, for whenever I cannot support my- self in Ohio, all I should have to do would be to cross the river, give myself up to a Kentucky negro-trader, be taken South, and sold for a field hand. He always had a story ready to illustrate a subject of conversation, and the dry manner in which he enlivened his speeches by pun- gent witticisms, without a smile on his own stolid countenance, was irresistible. His greatest effort was a reply which he made to Mr. Crary, of Kentucky, who had undertaken to criticise the milita- ry ability of General Harrison. John Quincy Adams went over to Mr. Cor- win s desk, aad advised him to reply; without success at first, Corwin saying that he was something like Balaam s ass, he could never speak unless kicked into it. The next afternoon, however, he did reply, and his speech, as a model of humorous retort, has nev- er since been equaled at the Capitol. His description of Mr. Crary as he am peared on parade as a militia general, and after the fatigues of a muster, when treating his brigade to water-melons and whisky at a country grocery store, as the ancient heroes assuaged their thirst from the skulls of their slaughtered en- emies, was a delicious piece of satire. Then, turning to the history of General Harrison, Mr. Corwin gave an eloquent picture of his patriotic services with con- vincing force. No member of Congress ever received such personal discomfiture from a speech, and Mr. Crary never re- covered from Corwins onslaught. Even at his home the farmers always offered him water - melons, in their season, ac- companied by quotations from Corwms speech. He retired from public life an extinguished orator. During the Van Buren administration Congress undertook to fill the four va- cant panels in the rotunda of the Capitol, the other four being occupied by Colonel Trumbulls paintings, representing revo- lutionary events. Contracts were en- tered into with John Vanderlyn, Henry Inman, Robert Weir, and John G. Chap- man, each one of whom was to receive ten thousand dollars, payable in five in- stallments, for a picture. Mr. Inman, after having received six thousand dol- lars, died, without having finished his picture, if indeed he ever commenced it. Mr. Chapman was the first to complete his work, The Baptism of Pocahontas, which has been generally condemned as an artistic failure and as a libel on his- toric truth. In catering to the pride of those who claimed to be descended from the Indian princess, who outranked the other first families of Virginia, Mr. Chapman had difficulties to contend with, more depressing, probably, than 72 Remirnscences of Washington. [July, even the lack of inspiration which must have attended the portrayal of an apoc- ryphal ceremonial. The spirited bronze statue of Jeffer- son, by his admirer, the French sculptor David dAngers, which Lieut. Uriah P. Levy had presented to Congress, but which had not been accepted, and had been denied a position in the Capitol, was reverentially taken in charge by two naturalized Irish citizens, staunch dem- ocrats, and placed on a small pedestal in front of the White House. One of them was the public gardener, Jemmy Maher, already alluded to in these rem- iniscences, and the other was John Foy, the keeper of the restaurant in the base- ment of the Capitol, famous for his witty sayings. Prominent among these hon mots was his encomium on Representa- tive Dawson, of Louisiana, noted for his intemperate habits, the elaborate ruffles of his shirts, and his pompous strut. He came into me place, said Foy, and after ateing a few oysters he flung down a Spanish dollar, saying, Kiver mind the change, Mr. Foy: kape it for your- self. Ah! There s a paycock of a gin- tleman for you. An attempt was made to improve the condition of Pennsylvania Avenue, by giving the roadway a coating of finely broken stone, then known as macadam- izing, after the English inventor, Captain MacAdam. The narrow-rimmed wheels used in this country failed to consolidate the pebbles into a firm mass, as was done by the broad tires used in Eng- land, and the roadway was compared by the wits to the stony roads of Arabia Pe- tr~ea, and was only useful as an arsenal for belligerent boys. A few squares on the streets which intersected Pennsyl- vania Avenue were covered with build- ings, and beyond them, northward, were the broad commons known as the slashes, where Hibernian milk-maids kept their cows, and also reared large flocks of geese. President Van Buren endeavored to restore the good feeling between the ad- ministration and Washington society, which had been ruptured during the political rule of General Jackson. He gave numerous entertainments at the White House, and used to attend those given by his cabinet, which was regard- ed as an innovation, as his predecessors had never accepted social invitations. Ex-President Adams, the widow of President Madison, and the widow of Alexander Hamilton each formed the centre of a pleasant coterie, and the president was open in the expression of his desire that the members of his cab- inet and their principal subordinates should each give a series of dinner-par- ties and evening receptions during the successive sessions of Congress. The dinner-parties were very much alike, and those who were in succession guests at different houses often saw the same table ornaments, and were served by the same waiters, while the fare was prepared by the same cook. The guests used to assemble in the parlor, which was almost invariably connected with the dining-room by large folding-doors. When the dinner was ready the folding- doors were thrown open, and the table was revealed, covered with dishes and cut-glass ware. A watery compound called vegetable soup was invariably served, followed by boiled fish, over-done roast beef or mutton, roast fowl or game in their season, and a great variety of puddings, pies, cake, and ice-cream. The fish, meat, and fowl were carved and helped by the host, while the lady of the house distributed the vegetables, the pickles, and the dessert. Champagne, without ice, was sparingly supplied in long, slender glasses, but there was no lack of sound claret, and with the dessert several bottles of old madeira were gen- erally produced by the host, who suc- cinctly gave the age and history of each. The best madeira was that labeled the supreme court, as their honors the jus- tices used to make a direct importation 1880.] Reminiscences of WasAington. 78 every year, and sip it as they consulted over the cases before them, every day after their dinner, when the cloth had been removed. Some rare old specimens of this supreme - court wine can still be found in Washington wine-cellars. At the evening parties the carpet was lifted from the room set apart for danc- ing, and the floor was chalked in colors to protect the dancers from slipping. The music was almost invariably a first and second violin, with flute and harp accompaniments. Light refreshments, such as water ices, lemonade, negus, and small cakes, were handed about on wait- ers between every two or three dances. The crowning glory of the entertain- ment, however, was the supper, which had been prepared under the supervis- ion of the hostess, aided by some of her intimate friends, who had also loaned their china and silver ware. The table was covered with alamode beef, cold roast turkey, ducks, and chickens; fried and stewed oysters, blanc mange, jel- lies, whips, floating-islands, candied or- anges, and numerous varieties of tarts and cakes. Very often the young men, after having escorted the ladies to their respective homes, would meet again at some oyster-house, to go out on a lark, in imitation of the young English bloods in the favorite play of Tom and Jer- ry. Singing, or rather shouting, popu- lar songs, they would break windows, wrench off knockers, call up doctors, and transpose sign-boards; nor was there a night-watchman to interfere with their roistering. A decided sensation was created at Washington, during the Van Buren ad. ministration, by the appearance there of a handsome and well - educated Italian lady, who called herself America Ves- pucci, and claimed descent from the nav- igator who gave his name to this conti- nent. Ex-President Adams and Daniel Webster became her especial friends, and she was soon a welcome guest in the best society. In a few weeks after her arrival, she presented a petition to Con- gress, asking, first, to be admitted to the rights of citizenship; and~ secondly, to be given a corner of land out of the public domain of the country which bore the name of her ancestor. An ad- verse report, which was soon made, is one of the curiosities of congressional literature. It eulogized the petitioner as a young, dignified, and graceful lady, with a mind of the highest intel- lectual culture, and a heart beating with all our own enthusiasm in the cause of America and human liberty. The rea- sons why the prayer of the petitioner could not be granted were given, but she was commended to the generosity of the American people. The name of Amer- ica our countrys name should be honored, respected, and cherished in the person of the interesting exile from whose ancestor we derive the great and glorious title. A subscription was immediately opened by Mr. Haight, the sergeant-at-arms of the senate, and judges, congressmen, and citizens vied with one another in their contributions. Just then it was whis- pered that Madame Vespucci had borne an unenviable reputation at Florence and at Paris, and had been induced by a pecuniary consideration to break off an intimacy with the Duke of Orleans, Louis Philippes oldest son, and come to Washington. Soon afterwards the dukes younger brother, the Prince de Join- ville, came to this country, and refused to recognize her, which virtually ex- cluded her from reputable society. For some years subsequently she resided in luxurious seclusion with a wealthy citi- zen of New York, in the interior of that State, and after his death she returned to Paris. Nearly a year before the presidential election of 1840, whig delegates from twenty-two States assembled in conven- tion at Harrisburg, and nominated as their candidate William Henry Harrison, of Ohio, with John Tyler, of Virginia, 74 Reminiscences of Washington. [July, for vice-president. These nominations were an enigma to the democratic friends of President Van Buren, and they un- wisely lavished every opprobrious epi- thet upon them. General Harrisons mil- itary fame, his humble pecuniary cir- cuinstances, and the log - cabin which formed a part of his rural residence were alternately made the theme of reproach and scurrilous attack. The louder this clamor became, and the more dastard- ly the attacks, the more ardently the whigs thronged to the banner of their chosen candidate. The sympathy, the generosity, and the patriotism of the nation were aroused and enlisted in the conflict. The struggle was commenced at once in Congress, where the leading whigs cordially united In a decisive warfare on the democrats. General Harrison was eulogized as a second Cincinnatus, plowman, citizen, and general, and the sneering remark that he resided in a log- cabin was adopted as a partisan watch- word. The most notable speech was by Mr. Ogle, of Pennsylvania, who elabo- rately reviewed the expensive furniture, china, and glass-ware which had been imported for the White House by order of President Van Buren. He dwelt on the gorgeous splendor of the damask window-curtains; the dazzling magnifi- cence of the large mirrors, chandeliers, and candelabras; the centre-tables, with their tops of Italian marble; the satin- covered chairs, tabourets, and divans; the imperial carpets and rugs; and, above all, the service of silver, including a set of what he called gold spoons, although they were of silver-gilt. These costly decorations of the White House were described in detail, with many humorous comments, and then contrasted with the log-cabins of the West, where the only ornamentation, generally speaking, was a string of speckled birds eggs festooned about a looking-glass measuring eight by ten inches, and a fringed window-cur- tain of white cotton cloth. This and similar speeches stimulated the people in their opposition to the ad- ministration which had persevered in forcing upon them a financial system in- jurious to the business interests of the country, and by midsummer at least one half of the voters in the country were actively engaged in the political cam- paign. Log - cabins were raised everywhere for whig head - quarters, some of them of large size, and almost every voting precinct had its Tippecanoe club, with its choristers. For the first time the power of song was invoked to aid a presidential candidate, and immense edi- tions of log-cabin song-books were sold. Many of these songs were parodies on familiar ballads, adapted to well-known tunes; as, for example, one sung to Auld Lang Syne, the first verse of which ran thus: Can grateful freemen slight his claims Who bravely did defend Their lives and fortunes on the Thames, The farmer of North Bend? Choru8: The farmer of North Bend, my boys, The farmer of North Bend, We 11 give a right good hearty vote To the farmer of North Bend. That fine old ballad, John Anderson, my Jo! wa~ changed into a campaign song, commencing, John C. Calhoun, my J0, John, Im sorry for your fate, You ye nullified the tariff laws, youve nullified your State; You ye nullified your party, John, and prinoi- ples, you know, And now youve nullified yourself, John C. Cal- houn, my Jo! One of the best compositions, the au- thorship of which was ascribed to George P. Morris, the editor of the New York Mirror, was a parody on The Old Oak- en Bucket. The first verse ran, Oh, dear to my soul are the days of our glory, The time-honored days of our national pride; When heroes and statesmen ennobled our story, And boldly the foes of our country defied; When victory hung oer our flag, proudly wav- ing, And the battle was fought by the valiant and true, 1880.] .Record8 of W. AL Hunt. 75 For our homes and our loved ones, the enemies braving, Oh, then stood the soldier of Tippecanoe, The iron - armed soldier, the true - hearted sob dier, The gallant old soldier of Tippecanoe. Mass conventions were held in the larger cities and in the central towns at the great West, attended by thousands, who came from the plow, the forge, the counter, and the desk, at a sacrifice of personal convenience and often at con- siderable expense, to give a hearty ut- terance to their deep-felt opposition to the party in power. Delegations to these conventions would often ride in carriages or on horseback twenty-five or thirty miles, camping out during the ex- cursion. They carried banners, and often had a small log-cabin mounted on wheels, in which was a barrel of hard cider, the beverage of the campaign. On the day of the convention, and before the speak- ing, there was always a procession, in which the delegations sang and cheered as they marched along, while the music of their numerous bands aided in im- parting enthusiasm. The speaking was from a platform, over which floated the national flag, and on which were seated the invited guests, the local political magnates, the clergymen of the place, and generally a few revolutionary soldiers, who were greeted with loud applause. The prin- cipal orators during the campaign were Mr. Clay, Mr. Webster, Mr. Preston, Mr. Wise, Mr. Corwin, Mr. Ewing, Mr. Thompson, and scores of less noted names. General Harrison took the stump himself at several of the West- ern gatherings, and spoke for over an hour on each occasion. His demeanor was that of a well-bred, well-educated, venerable Virginia gentleman, destitute of humor and fond of quoting from classic authors. At that time many of the States voted for presidential electors on different days, which rendered the contest more excit- ing as it approached its close. There was no telegraphic communication, and there were but few lines of railroad, so that it was some time after a large State had voted before complete and correct returns could be received. At last, all the back townships had been heard from, and the exultant whigs were certain that they had elected their candidates by a popular majority of over one hundted thousand! Twenty States had given Harrison and Tyler two hundred and thirty-four electoral votes, while Van Buren and Johnson had received but sixty electoral votes in six States. The log-cabins were the scenes of great re- joicing over this unparalleled political victory, and the jubilant whigs sang loud- er than before Van, Van, Van, is a used-up man. RECORDS OF W. M. HUNT. IV. ON Mr. Hunts return from Mexico, in the spring of 1875, we expected to see many sketches and paintings as sou- venirs of his journey, but nothing of the kind was brought home. In their stead we found his studio resplendent with Mexican trappings, bricabrac, shawls, yellow draperies, a large collection of Mexican opals, and a pair of leather breeches. All these he showed and ca- ressed with childish delight. Mexico was one of the most interesting coun- tries in the world. There was nothing like it; he was going back another year

Henry C. Angell Angell, Henry C. Records of W. M. Hunt 75-83

1880.] .Record8 of W. AL Hunt. 75 For our homes and our loved ones, the enemies braving, Oh, then stood the soldier of Tippecanoe, The iron - armed soldier, the true - hearted sob dier, The gallant old soldier of Tippecanoe. Mass conventions were held in the larger cities and in the central towns at the great West, attended by thousands, who came from the plow, the forge, the counter, and the desk, at a sacrifice of personal convenience and often at con- siderable expense, to give a hearty ut- terance to their deep-felt opposition to the party in power. Delegations to these conventions would often ride in carriages or on horseback twenty-five or thirty miles, camping out during the ex- cursion. They carried banners, and often had a small log-cabin mounted on wheels, in which was a barrel of hard cider, the beverage of the campaign. On the day of the convention, and before the speak- ing, there was always a procession, in which the delegations sang and cheered as they marched along, while the music of their numerous bands aided in im- parting enthusiasm. The speaking was from a platform, over which floated the national flag, and on which were seated the invited guests, the local political magnates, the clergymen of the place, and generally a few revolutionary soldiers, who were greeted with loud applause. The prin- cipal orators during the campaign were Mr. Clay, Mr. Webster, Mr. Preston, Mr. Wise, Mr. Corwin, Mr. Ewing, Mr. Thompson, and scores of less noted names. General Harrison took the stump himself at several of the West- ern gatherings, and spoke for over an hour on each occasion. His demeanor was that of a well-bred, well-educated, venerable Virginia gentleman, destitute of humor and fond of quoting from classic authors. At that time many of the States voted for presidential electors on different days, which rendered the contest more excit- ing as it approached its close. There was no telegraphic communication, and there were but few lines of railroad, so that it was some time after a large State had voted before complete and correct returns could be received. At last, all the back townships had been heard from, and the exultant whigs were certain that they had elected their candidates by a popular majority of over one hundted thousand! Twenty States had given Harrison and Tyler two hundred and thirty-four electoral votes, while Van Buren and Johnson had received but sixty electoral votes in six States. The log-cabins were the scenes of great re- joicing over this unparalleled political victory, and the jubilant whigs sang loud- er than before Van, Van, Van, is a used-up man. RECORDS OF W. M. HUNT. IV. ON Mr. Hunts return from Mexico, in the spring of 1875, we expected to see many sketches and paintings as sou- venirs of his journey, but nothing of the kind was brought home. In their stead we found his studio resplendent with Mexican trappings, bricabrac, shawls, yellow draperies, a large collection of Mexican opals, and a pair of leather breeches. All these he showed and ca- ressed with childish delight. Mexico was one of the most interesting coun- tries in the world. There was nothing like it; he was going back another year 76 Records of W. Af. Bunt. [July, to make a long stay. He put on his leather breeches, and strode about the studio for our amusement. His bringing no paintings or sketches of consequence home with him was due probably to the fact that the journey was made for rest and recreation after a hard winters work at portrait painting. There were, to be sure, at the late sale several charcoal sketches purporting to be Mexican subjects, but it is doubtful if they were correctly named. The brown picture that has been already mentioned as having been painted the next day after the artist had seen a Jules Duprd was catalogued at the sale as a view at West Newbury. Years ago, when first exhibited, Mr. Hunt had called it a view in Weston. Artists re- cord impressions, and the public like to have them named. Sometimes such im- pressions are more or less accurate tran- scripts of scenes in nature from a chosen point, but a landscape painting is often merely the artists impression of an ef- fect, and bears no resemblance in compo.. sition to any one spot. Mr. Hunt was an excellent man of business. At the time of the greatest depression in real estate, a house in Park Square was offered for sale by auction. Mr. Hunt talked over the purchase of this house a great deal, and with his usual earnestness. He was sure it would increase largely in value; it was an en- tirely safe investment. He would like to occupy a part of it immediately, him- self. To our surprise, he then named the exact sum that he proposed to give for it, adding that if it went above this sum he should not buy. To our suggestion that it would be a pity to lose it rather than go a few hundred dollars higher, if necessary, he said, I will not go one dollar bigher. A man must have a limit, and wherever you put the limit there you must remain. You might as well not have a limit if you are going higher. I consider it a good purchase at my fig- ures: it may be a good bargain at a higher price. I dont know about that. This astonishingly cool way of treat- ing the matter, right in the face of his enthusiasm over the location of the house, its desirability, and the probable low price it would fetch, was a revela- tion to us; but we were not surprised afterwards to learn that the house was sold at a few hundred dollars above Mr. Hunts limit. He got some one to look after his interest at the sale, lest he might, under the impulse of the moment, go beyond his limit. On the Millets which he sold, a few years since, his profits were, he told us, in the neighbor- hood of one hundred dollars on every dollar invested. And, he remarked, the Millets were sold below rather than above their market value. He once showed us an unusually fine spe- cimen of Diaz that he bought twenty years before for two hundred francs. It would easily bring fifty times that amount now. Whenever, said Mr. Hunt one day, in repainting a picture, tbere is a par- ticular spot that you wish to save, paint it right out, or you will sacrifice the rest of the picture to it. I have spoken of Mr. Hunts having been invited to lecture in the Sunday afternoon course at Horticultural Hall, and his final decision not to accept the honor. He had already declined to de- liver some lectures at Yale College, and afterwards a like request from Harvard College had not been complied with. As to tbe latter, he said, one evening, Professor came round, at our club, and sat down by me and began to make himself agreeable. I did nt mean he should get the better of me in that re- spect, so I made myself agreeable, too, just as agreeable as I could,and you know, when I try, I can make myself pretty amusing; and I dont think he got much the start of me in that line. Well, presently, after we had both been so agreeable that nothing further could be expected in that way, he asked me to 1880.] Records of TV. AL Hunt. 77 deliver some lectures at Harvard Col- lege. I didnt promise to do it, but I said I would think the matter over, and let him know. I have been thinking the matter over, and have pretty much concluded to ask him to permit such of the students as want instruction in art to come to me in my studio on certain evenings, when I will talk to them. I shall feel at home in my studio, and have plenty of pictures and drawings about me with which to illustrate my lectures. You see, I have my doubts whether they really want to learn any- thing about art at the college. Perhaps they only want me to come over there and lecture. If thats all they want, I shant go. If they really want to learn, if anybody really wants to learn, Im ready to teach. I like to teach. So I think I will just invite the authori- ties to let the students hear the lectures in my studio. If they are in earnest, they will accept my proposal; but I dont expect it to be received very cor- dially. It is nt what they want. The letter below is a draught of one that was sent in answer to the invita- tion from Yale College. The matter that follows, it was proposed, first, to em- body also in the letter, but this was not done. DEAR SiR, In answer to your in- vitation to lecture on art before the Yale School of Fine Arts, I would say that my time is already more than taken up in trying to learn how to paint, and as I can get no information from lect- ures I do not believe I could give any. The world is full of people who lecture on art, and I will not interfere with them. Yours truly, W. M. HUNT. Neither poets nor artists can be manufactured; much as ever they can be supported when they do exist. No man can teach me to produce good work in art except a producer of good work, and he brings his work with him as a thinker brings brains and a fighter brings lists. A talker may persuade himself that he knows everything. A doer persuades the world he knows something. When the world wants wealth and works, it will demand of the financier and the critic some tangible proof of their wisdom; but paper and talk are easier handled, and will suffice for to- day. It is well to listen to lectures to save ones self the trouble of knowing anything, but if one wants to know any- thing of art he would better use his eyes; for until some of the talkers have pro- duced paintings and sculpture which will appeal to the ears, they can teach very little through that medium. I have known a deaf painter, but not a blind one. If I am entitled to an opinion, it is through what I have done. Works, not words, can instruct. The only lessons that painters, or poets, or architects, or sculptors, have ever taught, or can ever teach, are in their works. When an artist leaves his work to amuse people, he loses not only his time, but their respect. The best thing about most lectures on art is that their effect is not lasting. Lectures are like hash, not very nourishing, but will do when one is so young he knows no better, or so old he has no teeth. You cant expect a uni- form. The uniform refers to a story of Mr. Hunts. A man ordered some hash at a restaurant. He presently found a sol- diers button in it, and on remonstrating with the waiter the latter said, What do you want? You cant expect a whole uniform in one plate of hash, can you? The most interesting lecture I ever happened to hear was on language, when the speaker dealt with the material he was describing. A man who wants to discover any- 78 Records of W. Al. Hunt. [July, thing would better stand by Christo- pher Columbus on deck at night than listen to his lectures on the discovery of a new world. How are we going to make paint- ers by lectures to men? We are going to make questioners and doubters and talkers. By painting and showing the painting of others we are to make paint- ers. By working frankly from our con- victions we are going to make them work from their convictions. Most of us have been so taught to doubt and question that we have nt time enough left in our life to express an opinion of our own. It is by having something to say, and not trying to say it in words, that one learns to paint. One capable artist, with his assistants employed as formerly, would produce more good workers than all the schools in the country, and with this difference: that works would be produced instead of theories and advice and teachers. If good art is produced, take advantage of the fact, instead of inveigling hundreds into an occupation where not one in a thousand can make a living, unless he re- sort to talking, toadying, or speculation, all of which an artist can familiarize himself with when it becomes necessary, but which he is naturally averse to. If people are to be instructed or assisted by artists, artists must be employed in their legitimate occupation; an artist cannot live on compliments and conversation. If you want artists, respect art. If you want art, respect artists. It seems to me high time that something should be done to encourage producers. The coun- try is being overrun with art teachers and lecturers, because we dont want doers, but talkers. When we really want art there will be a call for artists to paint, and producers will be respected, employed, and encouraged. The world seems to want machines to manufacture artists, poets, statesmen, and philoso- phers; but when these exist, neither their work nor their opinion is wanted. One is invited cordially to join the gang and produce what he is not to produce, works. If he is a musician, he is invited to play for the world to march in to supper. If Michael Angelo and Titian were living to-day, they would not be called upon to paint. They would be listened to by the wise, and told that the Greek only could produce art. Were they even to lecture from Maine to Georgia, artists would not necessarily rise up in their wake. We dont want our hens to lay; if they do, we throw away their eggs, and bring all the hens in the coun- try to sit on gravel stones, hoping to hatch out wonders. We are all taught to criticise and find fault with things in- stead of being made to comprehend and appreciate them. This also comes from talking instead of doing. It is only one who has done something who can see in an embryo the possibility of what it may grow to. Those who are taught from the past see only the past. They ignore the existence of the present. Of modern painters, Mr. Hunt was fondest of Millet; next to him he men- tioned oftenest, I think, Eug~ne Dela- croix; then Corot. He never quoted Couture. He liked Turner and Rey- nolds. Of the picture called the Slave Ship, he said, I like it; it has breadth. A small man could nt have painted it. Speaking of the Rimmer statue of Ham- ilton, one evening, he said, People laugh at it a good deal; but it s not to be laughed at; there is noble feeling in it. No doubt it has faults enough; but you just go down and stand near it, directly in front, so that you can look up to it, and you 11 find it impressive. Once, in talking over the work of some of his lady students, I remarked that a certain painting by one of them I thought very creditable, on the whole, bat that it lacked, in comparison with his work, just a certain quality that one might well suppose it would have. One could not expect great excellence in flesh tint, in 1880.] Record8 of W. M. hunt. 79 color, and in composition, but the artist being a woman, and dressing well her- self, ought, one might fancy, to excel in graceful and stylish arrangement of the dresses of her figures, and paint drapery fairly well. Yes, said Mr. Hunt, one might think so; but the trouble is, she does nt know what is under the dress that she paints. She did nt begin drawing from the nude figure, and does nt know the anatomy of the human form well enough. Without this knowledge it is impossible to do draperies well and to give what you call style. Just hold up your arm a minute. I beld up my arm bent at a right angle, as for a tailor to measure for the length of a coat sleeve. Now, continued Mr. Hunt, I will tell you every time before I touch your arm with my fin- ger whether it is the flesh or the cloth of your coat that I shall touch. I know exactly where the arm itself is, not- withstanding the large folds of the coat sleeve. He then went on touching the arm, saying every time before the touch, coat, arm, arm, coat, correct- ly. Well, then, I said, there is no really fine drapery painted in this coun- try. I should think you would never see any that would entirely satisfy you. That s true, he replied; it s very rare to find drapery satisfactorily paint- ed until you get back to the old masters. They knew how to do it. Of the old painters Mr. Hunt quoted most frequently, perhaps, Veronese; then Michael Angelo, Titian, and Velasquez. Mr. Hunt felt that he was very strong in the artistic anatomy of the human figure. In early life he had been a hard student in Germany, and was a very correct and painstaking draughtsman. When at school in DUsseldorf he was noted for this special talent. Powell, the painter of the great picture at Wash- ington illustrating the discovery of the source of the Mississippi, who visited Dusseldorf while Mr. Hunt was a stu- dent there, says that he displayed re markable talent as a draughtsman. His studies from the nude and the antique were so perfect in drawing, and so im- pressed his teachers, that he was de- clared to be qualified to paint long be- fore he had been at the academy his full three years. Nothing of their kind, so far as fine drawing is concerned, with the possible exception of a work or two of Page, has ever been done in this coun- try comparable with the Wardner por- trait, the figure of the painters mother, or the portrait of Mrs. Adams. Other things of the artists are finer in color; but Mr. Hunts greatest achievements lay not so notably in the direction of color as in his drawing, modeling, and in his noble style. He was especially satisfied with his ability to paint hands correctly and elegantly when he chose. Being remonstrated with, one evening, for exhibiting a figure in which the hands were in a half-finished state, he retorted, W~ll, the picture belongs to me. I dont ask anybody to buy it. It s my picture, and I suppose I can ex- hibit it if I choose. You say the hand looks erysipelatous. It does. It looks as though it had a very bad ulcer on it; but nobody is obliged to look at it un- less he chooses. Most people know by this time whether I can paint a hand or not; whoever doubts it may look at my portraits and see. His subordination of his skill in draw- ing, for the purpose of giving promi- nence to some other artistic quality in his work, at times misled certain critics. Thus, of his smaller picture called The Bathers, when he brought us the pho- tograph in the autumn of 1876, he re- marked, I dont pretend that the anat.. omy of this figure is precisely correct. In fact, I know it is not. Its a little feminine; but I did it from memory, without a model, and was chiefly occu- pied with the pose. I do think the hal- ancing idea is well expressed, and it is the fear of disturbing that which pre- vents my making any changes in the 80 1?ecord8 of W. M Hunt. contour of the figure. 1 know that I could correct the anatomy, but if the pose were once lost I might never be able to get it again. It is not known for what particular occasion the following memoranda were made A good deal of our so-called cultiva- tion is like sand-papering the surface of the eye. The only real cultivation is that where the instinct is preserved in all its clearness, notwithstanding all that is added to it. The great secret is to add, and not to swap. The false tooth, the glass eye, are types of the highest civilization and cul- tivation. Pedantry fills a tooth; affec- tation and a glass eye are things known only in modern civilization, in states of modern culture. Intelligence is water-power; wit is steam. Expand a drop of intelligence by the fire of enthusiasm ~nd fervor of desire, and it multiplies its force by thousands. There is more force in speed than in weight. While Mr. Hunts sensitive organiza- tion gave him a capacity for enjoyment unknown to differently constituted peo- ple, it gave him also, naturally, what might be termed an abnormal suscepti- bility for suffering, from a class of slight or temporary annoyances, that, with most people, pass unnoticed. His spacious studios never pleased him long, and he was disposed to find fault with them a great deal, in a hu- morous way. Once the noise of rats so disturbed him that he felt forced to seek new quarters. Then his numerous stoves gave him such trouble that he could not work. A slight leak in the roof, on another occasion, had a similar effect. Finally he built the large studio in Park Square, and, having moved into it, we heard no more of these troubles. Doubtless, a great part of this sensi [July, tivene,ss was due to ill health. He rare- ly complained of feeling unwell, and spoke of his health with reluctance. Ap- pearing tired, one evening, when we no- ticed it and asked him how lie was, he said, Oh, I dont know; if I should be- gin with my bad feelings, I should keep it up all the evening. What is it that Emerson says, Beware how you un- muzzle the valetudinarian? One evening he said, After all, I dont know but the barbarous tribes that kill off their old men are pretty wise. You know they put an old man in a tree, and then shake it. If he s strong enough to hold his place in the tree, they allow him to live another year; but if he falls to the ground, they kill him with clubs. Probably his tenderness towards those who were ill, or not strong, and his sym- pathy for them were quickened by his own sufferings. One of our household had sent him some home-made chocolate drops, upon the receipt of which he forwarded them, with the following letter, to a friend and pupil who was ill : MY DEAR Miss: Ibringyou some of Millets drawings, by way of making you patient to stay in-doors this bluster- ing weather. I also add a little box which I found on my return to the stu- dio. The note is so pretty that I send it too, for I feel that had Mrs. known you were ill she would have sent you the sugar-plums and the note. At any rate, to have received them is so grate- ful that I pass them along, as in the game of button, button. Yours truly, W. M. HUNT. In a letter from Weathersfield, Ver- mont, postmarked June 30, 1879, to his assistant, Mr. Carter, who had just left him, at the tune when Mr. Hunt was supposed to be slowly regaining his health and strength, he says, 1880.] Records of If. ilL Hunt. 81 I imagined you arriving in Boston a little while after our tea, and yesterday at about the same hour safely at home in Westboro. What a relief it must have been to you, and what a reward for your unbounded patience, and what a let up! Well, I must nt be sentimental, but I will express my gratitude. Since you left I have endeavored to take your place in taking care of me. . . . I really do not want you to hurry back on my ac- count. iDo try to have a good time, so you may not lose your faith in the whole human race.~~ A few days earlier he had written to Mrs. Carter: It must be dreadfully ag- gravating for you to have your husband penned up here so long; but I can tell you one thing: when he does get back (if that ever happens), what there is left of him will have gone through a fiery furnace of patience, and I will guarantee that the temper of the old Damascus blades was nothing in comparison. I really pity him and you too, but I am so selfish that I pity myself the most; and though I would like to be generous and give him up a little, I find myself selfishly clinging to him. On the outside of an envelope he wrote, in addition to the superscription, Be careful of this: beyond value. Within was the following note : Mx DEAR MRS. : I received this morning, through the hands of our mut- ual John, a beautiful velvet wig. It fits perfectly, and sticks closer to my head than my hair has. The following lines, written from the Isles of Shoals on August 23d, only about two weeks before his death, is one of the very few instances when he alludes to his health : Saturday, P. M. Mx DEAR Box, I feel a little bet- ter; if I can only get some more sleep I shall do well. Yours, W. M. HUNT. VOL. XLVI. NO. 273. 6 Notwithstanding his weakness and lack of sleep, his generous impulse to- wards a brother artist led him to write as follows on August 16th : Mx DEAR: I should like to be in Boston and look over Tom Robinsons pictures with you, and enjoy the satisfac- tion of seeing something fine. I am sure Tom deserves the greatest credit for his pluck, perseverance, and capacity, and I am heartily grateful that he has been so successful. He is a real man, and it does not sur- prise me to know that he has painted his real self. I am glad you wrote me about his pictures, as I was desirous to know about them . . . When you see him just shake him by the hand for me. The above was an unusually long let- ter for him at this time. Generally his letters were very short, but full of char- acteristic humor, with never a hint at ill- ness or despondency. SHoALs. DEAR C: Weight yesterday afternoon, east wind, cool, thick woolen clbthes and coat, and thick boots, after tea . . . . 145 This morning, rather warm and some changes of clothing . . 141 Three days ago, thin suit and warm weather . . . . 137 Weather and weight variable. If it grows as hot here as in Daniel sonville I should weigh . . 000 Yours truly, W. M. HUNT. The great achievement of Mr. Hunt at Albany involved more labor than is gen- erally supposed. Necessarily hurried, it was an especially anxious and exhausting work. The legislature was to meet at an appointed time, and the staging must come down on a certain day, whether the paintings were finished or not. It could not be known beforehand that just fifty-five days labor would end the task. But it was known that the final and tell- :82 Records of W~ At. Hunt. [July, ing touches must be made by Christmas, and rectified, if necessary, on that day; after this, no additions or subtractions were possible. Whether the two large compositions could be satisfactorily put upon the walls within the prescribed time seemed a question; and it became still more a question when, after paint- ing the first day, they found, on climb- ing up to their places the next morning, that their days work had.pretty nearly vanished into the texture of the stone. The faith and courage of Mr. Hunts ac- complished assistant were invaluable.; and later, during the progress of the work, his solemn promise that, if their effort proved a failure, he would him- self paint out both pictures in a single night was greatly comforting to Mr. Hunt. During these fifty-five fatiguing days the artist and his assistant were always up in the morning to catch the rising sun, so as to carry a fresh impression to the work upon the Flight of Night. Every evening they watched the waning day- light, and noted the effects of figures and objects against the setting sun as a study for the Discoverer. - There had been also immediate pre- paratory work on these pictures in the studio at Boston, of nearly five months duration. Mr. Hunt had returned from Niagara about the first of July, after ac- cepting the commission for these paint- ings, and had set about the task at once. The separate figures and parts of figures were to be studied, drawn, painted, and combined to fit the great arched spaces where they were to go. For the Flight of Night, the heads of the horses, their legs and feet, were all freshly painted from life. Anahita, the Goddess, was painted from a life model. Sleep and the Child were paint- ed from life, also the dusky Guide. For the other picture, the Discoverer, Sci- ence, Hope, and Fortune were painted from life models. Parts of these figures were also drawn and colored as sepa rate studies; as, for instance, the heads, hands, and arms. Of the two compositions entire and of their separate parts, there were made at this time upwards of thirty careful char- coal drawings, and in pastel more than twelve. Seventeen oil-paintings, twelve inches by thirty, of the compositions com- plete were also done. These were made chiefly to test the effects of proposed combinations or contrasts of color. In addition, there were two large paintings, one ~f each subject, about six by eight feet, and two large pictures in oil of Fortune, of about the same size. Blocks of stone like that in the walls of the Assembly Chamber at Albany were sent him, that the effect of pigment upon them might be tested. Meantime, in a room under the studio, paints were being ground and tints mixed and hermetically sealed in five-pint tin cans, to be in readiness for transporta- tion to the scene of his great work. Why all this grinding and mixing was done in secret no one knows; but Mr. Hunt never made his appearance in this room until the grinder, who knew noth- ing of the destination of his products, had gone home for the day; then he went down and inspected the results with the greatest interest. But after all this painstaking prepa- ration, he found, on arriving before the great walls at Albany, that the space within the arch upon which the Flight of Night was to be put was not suffi- ciently high for the composition as it had been proportioned. It was necessary to lower the figure of the goddess, and to change the relative positions of the horses, so that they should be brought more together towards the centre of the panel. Some important changes were also made in the grouping of the figures in the Discoverer. The composition of this picture appears always to have been more tractable than that of the Flight of Night. There had been fewer and less radical changes made in it since it was 1880.] The Undiscovered Oountry. 83 first drawn in charcoal, twenty - three years ago. The Flight of Night had been first put on paper in 1847, ten years earlier. It had undergone many changes before these last at Albany, and long before it was ever supposed it would be anything more than an easel picture. The goddess was first drawn shielding her eyes from the coming light with her raised arm. She was looking forward, was differently seated, and her chariot was winged. Henry c: Angell. THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY. XXIII. ELIHU walked rapidly down the moon- lighted street. When he reached the old family house, he groped his way up from the outer door to that of the meeting- room, in which Ford lodged, and tapped upon it with his stick. There was the sort of hesitation within which follows upon surprise and doubt; then the sound of a chair pushed back was heard, and Ford came to the door with a lamp in his hand; he looked like one startled out of a deep reverie. Anything the matter with Dr. Boynton? he asked, after a gradual recognition of Elihu. Nay, replied the Shaker. Friend Boynton is better than usual, I believe. I wish to have a little talk with you, Friend Ford. Shall I come in? Ford found that he was holding the door ajar, and blocking the entrance. Why, certainly, he said. He led the way, and setting the lamp on the table pushed up another chair to the corner fire-place, where some logs were burning, and where he had evidently been sitting. Sit down. The Shaker obeyed, and with his palms resting on his knees craned his neck round and peered at the different corners of the room and up at the ceil- ing before he spoke. Are you com- fortable here, Friend Ford? Yes, answered the young man. I am a sort of stray cat, and any garret is home to me. I cant say, though, that I ye ever occupied the dwelling of a whole community before. Yee, this building once housed a good many people. It was a cross to leave it; but our numbers have fallen away, and we crowd together for com- fort and encouragement. It s an instinct, I suppose. Well, what do you think of the Shakers, so far, Friend Ford? Elihu had an astute glimmer in his eye as he asked the question. Really, I hardly know what to say, answered Ford. Say what you think. We may not like the truth, but we always desire to hear it. I should probably say nothing offen- sive to you, if I said all thats in my mind. I believe I think very well of you. I dont see why you dont suc- ceed. I dont see why you dont sup- ply to Protestantism the very refuge from the world that we talk of envying in Catholicism. That is much the position that Friend Boynton took. I dont understand why you are a failing body. The world has tired and hopeless people enough to throng ten thousand such villages as yours.~~ We should hardly be satisfied with the weary and discouraged, said Elihu, without resentment. And our system offers few attractions. Folks are not so anxious for the angelic life in heaven that they want to begin it on earth. Ford smiled. You offer shelter, you

W. D. Howells Howells, W. D. The Undiscovered Country 83-111

1880.] The Undiscovered Oountry. 83 first drawn in charcoal, twenty - three years ago. The Flight of Night had been first put on paper in 1847, ten years earlier. It had undergone many changes before these last at Albany, and long before it was ever supposed it would be anything more than an easel picture. The goddess was first drawn shielding her eyes from the coming light with her raised arm. She was looking forward, was differently seated, and her chariot was winged. Henry c: Angell. THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY. XXIII. ELIHU walked rapidly down the moon- lighted street. When he reached the old family house, he groped his way up from the outer door to that of the meeting- room, in which Ford lodged, and tapped upon it with his stick. There was the sort of hesitation within which follows upon surprise and doubt; then the sound of a chair pushed back was heard, and Ford came to the door with a lamp in his hand; he looked like one startled out of a deep reverie. Anything the matter with Dr. Boynton? he asked, after a gradual recognition of Elihu. Nay, replied the Shaker. Friend Boynton is better than usual, I believe. I wish to have a little talk with you, Friend Ford. Shall I come in? Ford found that he was holding the door ajar, and blocking the entrance. Why, certainly, he said. He led the way, and setting the lamp on the table pushed up another chair to the corner fire-place, where some logs were burning, and where he had evidently been sitting. Sit down. The Shaker obeyed, and with his palms resting on his knees craned his neck round and peered at the different corners of the room and up at the ceil- ing before he spoke. Are you com- fortable here, Friend Ford? Yes, answered the young man. I am a sort of stray cat, and any garret is home to me. I cant say, though, that I ye ever occupied the dwelling of a whole community before. Yee, this building once housed a good many people. It was a cross to leave it; but our numbers have fallen away, and we crowd together for com- fort and encouragement. It s an instinct, I suppose. Well, what do you think of the Shakers, so far, Friend Ford? Elihu had an astute glimmer in his eye as he asked the question. Really, I hardly know what to say, answered Ford. Say what you think. We may not like the truth, but we always desire to hear it. I should probably say nothing offen- sive to you, if I said all thats in my mind. I believe I think very well of you. I dont see why you dont suc- ceed. I dont see why you dont sup- ply to Protestantism the very refuge from the world that we talk of envying in Catholicism. That is much the position that Friend Boynton took. I dont understand why you are a failing body. The world has tired and hopeless people enough to throng ten thousand such villages as yours.~~ We should hardly be satisfied with the weary and discouraged, said Elihu, without resentment. And our system offers few attractions. Folks are not so anxious for the angelic life in heaven that they want to begin it on earth. Ford smiled. You offer shelter, you 84 The Undiscovered Country. [July, offer a home and perfect immunity from care and anxiety. But we require great sacrifices, re- joined the Shaker gravely. We put husband and wife asunder; we bid the young renounce the dream of youth; we say to the young man, Forego; to the young girl, Forget. We exact celibacy, the supreme self-offering to a higher life. Even if we did not consider celibacy es- sential to the angelic life, we should feel it to be essential to communism. We must exact it, as the one inviolable con- dition. Ford sat a moment thinking. I dare say you are right. He looked interested in what Elihu was saying, and he added, as if to prompt him to further talk, I have been thinking about it a good deal since I ye been here, and I dont see how you can have communism on any other terms. But then your communism perishes, because nature is the stronger, and because you cant recruit your num- bers from the children of your adherents. You must look for accessions from the enemy.~~ Yee, that is one of our difficulties. And we have to fight the enemy within our gates perpetually. Even such of us as have peace in our own hearts must battle in behalf of the weaker brethren. We must especially guard the young against the snares of their own fancies.~~ I dare say it keeps you busy, said Ford. It does. We must guard them from both the knowledge and the sight of love. The word brought a flush to the young mans face, which Elihu did not fail to note. Friend Ford, I have un- derstood you to wish us well ? He rose, and resting his arm on the chimney- piece looked down with gentle earnest- ness into the face of the young man, as he sat leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head. Yes, certainly. You would not wittingly betray us? Really I dont mean that. You would nt knowingly put any obstacle in our way, any stumbling-block before the feet of those whom we are trying to lead to- ward what we think the true life? Elihu, said Ford, I thoroughly respect you all, and I should be grieved to interfere with you. Why do you ask me these questions? Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my behav- ior here? Nothing, continued Elihu, is so hard to combat in the minds of our young folks as the presence of that feeling in others who consider it holy and heavenly, while we teach that it is of the earth, earthy.~~ Well? The more right and fit it appears, the more complex and subtle is the effect of such an example. It is impossible that we should tolerate it a moment among us after we become convinced of its existence. Self-defense is the law of life. Well, well! cried Ford, getting up in his turn, and confronting Elihu on more equal terms, what has all this to do with me? His face was red, and his voice impatient. Elihu was not disturbed. He asked calmly, Dont you know that Egeria is in love with you? Ford stood breathless a moment. Good heavens, man! he shouted. Her father is at deaths door! Elihu stood with his wide-brimmed hat resting on one hand; he turned it slowly round with the other. Friend Boyn- ton is very strangely sick. The doctor says he does nt know how long he may last. Young people soon lose the sense of danger which is not immediate. The kind of love I speak of is the master- feeling of the human heart; it flourishes in the very presence of death; it grows upon sorrow that seems to kill. It knows how to hide itself from itself. It takes many shapes, and calls itself by many other names. We have seen much to 1880.] The Undiscovered Country. 85 make us think we are right about Egeria. Have you seen nothing? Ford did not reply. His thoughts ran back over all the times that he had seen and spoken with Egeria, and his heart slowly and deeply beat, like some alien thing intent upon the result; and then it leaped forward with a bound. Perhaps, said the Shaker, I am wrong to put the question in the way I do. We deal so plainly with ourselves and with one another in such cases that I might well forget the sophistication that the world outside requires in the matter. I do not wish to do you injus- tice, and I shall be glad if I have opened my mind for nothing. I will merely ask whether you have not done anything or said anything to make her like you. This is preposterous, said Ford. Do you think these are the circum- stances for love-making? I am here very much against my will, because I cant decently abandon a friendless man Friend Boynton has plenty of friends here, interrupted Elihu. I beg your pardon; I know that. Then I am here because I cant leave a dying man who seems to find comfort in my presence. And whatever may be the security which Miss Boynton has fallen into, I have had her father to re- mind me of his danger by constant al- lusions to it, as if his death were near at hand. Do you believe it is? That is nt the question. The ques- tion is whether a man, being trusted with a knowledge of dangers which she does nt know, could have any such feeling towards her as you imagine. Ford bent a look of angry demand upon the Shaker. Yee, the latter answered, I think he could, if he meant the best that love means. If he knew that they were poor, and that after her fathers death she would be left alone in the world, he might very well look on her with affec- tion even across a dying pillow, and de- sire to be the protector and the stay of her helplessness. I dont wish to pry into your concerns, and if there is noth- ing between you and Egeria it will be enough for you to say so. Between us! cried Ford, bitterly. I will tell you how I first met these people, and then you shall judge how much reason there is for love between her and me. Nay, interjected Elihu, there is no need of a reason for love. I learned that before I was gathered in. Ford did not regard the interruption. I saw them first at a public exhibition, and I made up my mind that Dr. Boyn- ton was an impostor; and then I went to their house with this belief. I never believed his daughter was anything but his tool, the victim of himself and the woman of the house who did the tricking. I suspected tricking in the dark, but when I attempted to seize her hand it was Miss Boyntons hand that I caught, and I burt her like the ruffian I was. Afterwards the old man tried to face me down, and we had a quarrel; and I saw him next that morning here, when he flew at my throat. It s been his craze to suppose that I thwarted his control over his daughter, and he has regarded me as his deadliest enemy. Now, you can tell how much love is lost between us. Ford turned scornfully away, and walked the length of the room. The Shaker remained in his place. Egeria is of a very affectionate and be- lieving disposition. She would take a pleasure in forgiving any unkindness, and ~he would forgive it so that it would never have been. I dont see any cause in what you say to change my mind. If you told me that you did not care for her, it would be far more to the point than all you could say to show why you dont. Ford stopped, and glared at the se- rene figure and placid countenance. This is too much, he began, and then he paused, and they regarded each other. 86 The Undiscovered Country. [July, You dont pretend now, resumed Elihu, that you suspect either of them of wrong? No! Then, whatever the mystery is about them, you know that they are good folks. We have had much more cause than you to suspect them, but I dont doubt them any more than I doubt myself. I would stake my life on her truth! exclaimed Ford. The Shaker could not repress the glimmer of a smile. I Ford paused. Then he burst out, I have been a hypocrite, the worst kind; a hypocrite to my own deceit! I do love her! She is dearer to me than You talk of your angelic life! Can you dream of anything nearer the bliss of heaven than union with such tenderness and mercy as hers? We say nothing against marriage in its place. A true marriage is the best thing in the earthly order. But it is of the earthly order. The angels neither marry nor are given in marriage. We seek to be perfect, as we are divinely bidden. If you choose to be less than perfect There can be no higher choice than love like hers. Do you assume Nay, said the Shaker, I assume nothing. The time has been when we hoped that Egeria might be gathered in. But that time is past. She could now never be one of us without suffering that we could not ask her to undergo. She must follow the leadings of her own heart, now. Why, man, you have no right to say that she cares anything for me. It s atrocious; it s We pass no censure upon the feeling between you, said Elihu quietly, look- ing into his hat, as if he were about to put it on. All we ask is that you will not let the sight of your affection be a snare to those whose faces should be set against such things. Ford regarded him with a stormy look; but he controlled himself, and asked coldly, What do you wish me to do? Nay; that is for you to decide. Well, I must go away! Ford ire- fully stared at the Shaker again. But how can I go away? If there was ever any reason why I should remain, the reason is now stronger than ever.~~ Yee, said Elihu. What shall I do? If I have not been strong enough and honest enough with myself to keep from drifting into this this affair, it is not likely that I can get out of it, I dont want to get out of it! Do you suppose that now I have the hope of her I wish to leave her? Whatever her fathers state is, and whatever my duty to him is, I am bound to stay here for her sake till she sends me away. It s my duty, it s my privilege. Elihu was not visibly swept from his feet by this lovers - logic. He said gravely, Now you consult your incli- nation rather than your sense of duty. Friend Boynton and his daughter are here by virtue of the charity we use to- wards all You shall be paid every cent! cried Ford impulsively. Nay, I did nt boast, said the Shak- er, with a gentle reproof in his tone, which put the young man to shame, and I did nt merit this return from you. I merely stated a fact. You are yourself here by our concession as their friend. I have opened our mind to you upon this matter, and you know just how we feel. Farewell. xxiV. In his preoccupation Ford let Elihu find his way out, and heard him stum- bling and groping about for the outer door in the dark. All night the words and circumstances of the interview burned in his heart, and his face was hot with a transport half shameful and half 1880.] The Undiscovered Uo~tntr~. 87 sweet. Once he tried to think when his old misgivings had vanished, but he could not; he only remembered them to spurn them. In the morning he went out for a long walk, and visited the places where he had been with her. He had a formless fear and hope that he might meet her; these conflicting emotions resolved them- selves into the resignation with which he went to the shop where Elihu was at work. I am going away. I have no right to stay here; it s a violation of your rights, and it s a profanation of her. I shall go away, but I shall never give up the L~ope of speaking to her at the right time and place, and asking her to be my wife. Seeing that he expected an answer, Elihu said, You cannot do less. Ford did not quite like the answer. You dont understand. I hope for nothing, I have no reason to hope for anything. Nay, said the Shaker, I dont un- derstand that. She is fond of you. Ford reddened, but he did not resent the words. What I propose to do now to-day is to go away, and to come back from time to time, with your leave, and see how Dr. Boynton is doing. I should like some of you to write to me, I should like to write to her. Would you have any objection to that? You dont object to the fact, but to the ap- pearance in this affair, as I understand. The letters could come under cover to Sister Frances, he submissively sug- gested. Nay, answered the Shaker, after deliberation, I dont see how we could object to that. Thanks, said Ford, with a nervous sigh. I hope you will feel it right that I should see Dr. Wilson, and ask his opinion of Dr. Boyntons condition, before I go? Yee. There is Dr. Wilson, now. Elihu leaned out and beckoned to him, and the doctor, who was turning away from the office gate, stopped his horse in the middle of the street. You can ask him now; he has just seen Friend Boynton. Elihu delicately refrained from joining Ford in going to speak with the doctor. I have to go away for a while, said the young man abruptly, and I wanted to ask you whether there is any imme- diate danger in Dr. Boyntons case to prevent my going. I should nt like to leave him at a critical moment. No, said the doctor, with the slow~ ness of his thought. It s one of those obscure cases. I find him very well, very well, indeed, considering. It s the nature of his disease to make this sort of pause. It s often a very long pause.~~ Ford went back to Elihu, whom he found quietly at work again. He says there s no reason why I should nt go, he reported, with the excitement of a new purpose in his face. He waited a moment before he added, I must go and tell Dr. Boynton, now. I confess I dont know exactly how to do it. Yee, it will be quite a little cross, Elihu admitted. Do you think, asked Ford, after a moments abstraction, that there would be anything wrong in speaking to him about what we have spoken of? Nay, said Elihu. I was thinking that perhaps you might like to do that. It would set his mind at rest, perhaps. Thank you, said Ford, but he bit his nail in perplexity and hesitation. I presume that will be quite a cross, too, added Elihu, quaintly. Ford stared at him without perceiving his jest. I suppose you dont know what you ye done in giving me the sort of hope you have! If you have mocked a drowning man with a straw Rapt as he was in his own thoughts, when he entered the sick mans room he could not but be aware of some great change in Boynton. When they had last seen each other, Boynton had 88 The Undiscovered Country. [July, sat up in an arm-chair to receive his vis- itor. Now he was stretched upon the bed, and he looked very old and frail. Why, the doctor said you were bet- ter! cried the young man. So I am, or so I was, half an hour ago, replied Boynton. I am glad you have come early to-day. I missed you yesterday; and there is something now on which I want the light of your clearest judgment. Sit down, he said politely, seeing that Ford had remained on foot. The young man mechanically drew up a chair, and sat facing him. I have heard a story of Agassiz, Boynton said, to the effect that when he had read some book wholly upsetting a theory he had labored many years to establish, he was so glad of the truth that his personal defeat was nothing to him. He ex~ulted in his loss, because it was the gain of science. I have not the magnanimity of Agassiz, I find, al- though I have tried to pursue my inqui- ries in the same spirit of scientific devo- tion. Perhaps I had a great deal mQre at stake: there is a difference between seeking to ascertain some fact of natural science and endeavoring to place beyond question the truth of a future existence. He plainly expected some sort of ac- quiescence, and Ford cleared his throat to assent to the preposterous vanity of his speech: Certainly. You will bear me witness, said Boynton, that I have readily, even cheerfully, relinquished positions which I had carefully taken and painfully built upon, so long as their loss did not lead to doubt of this great truth, did not weaken the citadel, so to speak. Yes, said Ford, with blank expect- ancy. You know I have rested my hopes upon a power, which I believed my daughter to possess, of communicating with the world of spirits? Yes. You remember that I abandoned without a murmur the hypothesis of your adverse control when that was no longer tenable? He was so anxious for Fords explicit assent that the young man again an- swered, Yes. And when I was forced to accept the conclusion that her power was lim- ited by a certain nervous condition, and had forever passed away with her res- toration to complete health, did you find any childish disposition in me to shrink from the truth? No, said Ford, I did not. I thank you! cried Boynton. These successive strokes, hard as they were to bear, had nothing mortal to my hopes in them. Now, I have had my death-blow. Ford began a kindly dis- sent; but Boynton waved him to silence. Unless your trained eye can see some way out of the conclusions to which I am now brought, I must give up the whole hypothesis of communion with disembodied life, and with that hypoth- esis my belief in that life itself. In other words, I have received my death- blow. No doubt Bdynton still enjoyed his own rhetoric, and had a measurable con- solation in his powers of graphic state- ment; but there was a real passion in his words, and the young man was moved by the presence of a veritable despair. What facts, or reasons, have brought you to your conclusions? he asked. Boynton pushed his hand up under his pillow, and drew out an old copy of a magazine. Here is what might have saved me years of research and of hopes as futile as those of the seekers for the philosophers stone, if I had seen it in time. Though he laid the book on the coverlet, he kept his hand on it, and had evidently no intention that Ford should look at it for himself. There is a pa- per in this magazine giving an account of a girl, in this very region, possessing powers so identical in all essentials with those of my daughter that there can 1880.] The Undiscovered Country. 89 be no doubt of their common origin. Wherever this unhappy creature am peared, the most extraordinary phenom- eria attended her: raps were evoked; tables were moved; bells were rung; flashes of light were seen; and violent explosions were heard. The writer was not blinded by the fools faith that lured me on. He sought a natural cause for these unnatural effects, and he found that by insulating the posts of the girls bedstead for these things mostly oc- curred during her sleep he controlled them perfectly. She was simply sur- charged with electricity. After a while she fell into a long sickness, from which she imperfectly recovered, and she died in a mad-house. Boynton removed his hand from the magazine, as if to let Ford now see for himself, and imprcss- ively waited his movement. Excuse me, said the young man, who found the parallel extremely dis- tasteful, but I dont see the identity of the cases. Miss Boynton seems the perfection of health, and Yes, interrupted Boynton, there is that merciful difference. But I can- not base my self-forgiveness upon that. So far as my recklessness is concerned, her health and her sanity might have been sacrificed where her childhood has been wasted and her happiness de- stroyed. Poor girl! Poor girl ! I think you exaggerate, Ford be- gan, but Boynton interrupted him : Oh, you dont know, you dont know! I could nt exaggerate the sum of her sufferings at my hands. To be wrenched from a home in which she was simply happy, and from love that was inimeasurably wiser and more unselfish than mine; to be thrust on to the pub- lie exhibition of abnormal conditions that puzzled and terrified her; to be made the partner of my defeat and shame; to be forced to share my aim- less vagabondage and abject poverty, houseless, friendless, exposed to sus- picion and insult and danger, that is the fate to which I brought her; and for what? For a delusion that ends in chaos! Oh, my God! And here I lie at last, a sick beggar, sheltered by the charity of these Shakers, whose kind- ness I have insulted, and a sorrow and shame to the child whose young life I have blighted, here I lie, stripped to the last shred of hope in anything, here or hereafter. Oh, young man! I once thought that you were hard upon me, and I resented the blame you spoke as outrage; but now I confess it merciful justice. You have your triumph! Dont say that! cried Ford. I never was more ashamed of what I said to you there in Boston than I am at this moment, and I never felt the need of your kindness so much. I believe that if Miss Boynton were here, and understood it all, she would feel nothing but pity Oh, does that make it different? Does that right the wrong which has been done? Yes, cried the young man, with a fervor that came he knew not how or whence, forgiveness does somehow right a wrong! It must be so, or else this world is not a world of possibili- ties and recoveries, but a hopeless hell. Why, look! He spoke as if Egeria were before them. Have you ever seen her stronger, younger, more The image he had conjured up seemed to shine upon him with a smile that re- flected itself upon his lips, and a thrill of tenderness passed through him. No one could do her harm that her own goodness could nt repair. Boynton was not one to refuse the comfort of such rapture. Yes, you are right. She is unharmed by all that she has suffered. I have at least that comfort. Then he underwent a quick relapse. But whether I have harmed her or not, the fact remains that she had never any supernatural power, and I re- turn through all my years of experiment and research to the old ground, the 90 The Undiscovered Country. [July, ground which I once occupied and which you have never left, the ground of materialism. It is doubtless well to have something under the foot, if it is only a lump of lifeless adamant. I find it hard not to imagine some- thing better than this life when I think of Miss Boynton! exclaimed Ford im- petuously. Very true, said the doctor, accept- ing the tribute, without perceiving the passion in it; there has always been that suggestion of diviner goodness in her loving and self-devoted nature. But she had no more supernatural power than you or I, and the whole system of belief which I had built upon the hy- pothesis of its existence in her lies a heap of rubbish. And here at deaths door I am without a sense of anything but darkness and the void beyond. A silence ensued, which Boynton broke with a startling appeal: In the name of God, in the name of whatever is better and greater than ourselves, give me some hope! Speak! Say something from your vantage-ground of health and strength! Let me have some hope. I am not a coward. I am not afraid of torment. I should not be afraid of it if I had ever willed wrong to any living creature, and I know that I have not. But this darkness rushing back upon me, after years of faith and surety it s unendurable! Give me some hope! A word comes from you at times that does not seem of your own authority: speak! Say it! You have the hope that the world has had for eighteen hundred years, answered Ford, deeply moved. Was that first in your thoughts? Boynton swiftly rejoined. Was it all you could think of? It was first in my thoughts, it was all I could think of, repeated Ford. But you have rejected that hope. It left me. It seemed to have left me. I dont realize it now as a faith, but I realize that it was always present somewhere in me. It may be different with those who come after us, to whom it will never have been imparted; but we who were born in it, how can we help it, how can we escape it? Is that really true ? mused Boyn- ton aloud. Do we come back only to that at last? Have you ever spoken with a clergyman about it? Oh, no! cried Ford. I should like to talk with a clergy- man I should like to talk with the church about it! There must be some- thing in organization But it is of no use, now! Theories, theories, theories! A thousand formulas repeat themselves to me; the air is full of them; I can read and hear them. He put his hands under his head and clasped them there. And there is absolutely nothing else but that? Nothing in science? Nothing of hope in the new meta- physics? No, nothing. Nothing in the philosophy that am plies the theories of science to the moral world? Nothing but death. Then that is the only hope, that old story of a credulous and fabulous time, resting upon hearsay and the wit- ness of the ignorant, the pedantic wis- dom of the learned, the interest of a church lustful of power; and that al- legory of the highest serving the lowest, the best suffering for the worst, that is still the worlds only hope! He paused; and then he recurred to the thought which he had dropped: A clergyman, a priest ! I should like to know the feelings of such a man. He fulfills an office with which his order has been clothed for two thousand years; he bears the tradition of authority which is as old as the human race; he claims to derive from Christ himself the touch of blessing and of healing for the broken spirit. I have often thought of that, what a sacred and awful corn- 1880.] TAe Un cli8covere ci Country. 91 mission it must be, if we admit its divine origin! Yes, I should like to know the feelings of such a man. I wonder if he feels his authority perpetually reconse- crated by the anguish, the fears, the prayers, the trembling hopes, of all those who have lain upon beds of death, or wept over them! Poor human soul, it should make him superhuman! What a vast cumulative power of consola- tion must come to a priest in our time! He is the church incarnate, the vicar of Christ, the helpful brother of the help- less human race, - it s a tremendous thought. I should like to talk with such a man. Would you really like to see a mm- ister? asked Ford. Because No, no, said Boynton. At least, not now, not yet; not till I have clearly formulated my ideas. But there are cer- tainly some points that I should like to discuss Oh, words, words! Phrases, phrases, this glibness tires me to death! I cant get any foot-hold on it, I slip on it as if it were ice. He lay in a silence which Ford did not interrupt, and which he broke himself, at last, in a mood of something like philosophical cheerfulness: I can find reason, if not consolation, for my failure, reason in the physical world. I shall take the first opportunity of committing my ideas to paper. Has it never struck you as very extraordinary that all the vast mass of evidence which has been accumulating in favor of spiritualism for the last twenty years, until now it is literally immense, should have no convincing power what- ever with those who have not been con- vinced by their own senses? Why should I, as soon as personal proof failed me, instantly lapse from faith in it? I am afraid, Ford said, that I have not thought sufficiently about the matter. I believe I can explain why, Boyn- ton continued. It is because it is not spiritualism at all, but materialism, a grosser materialism than that which denies; a materialism that asserts and affirms, and appeals for proof to purely physical phenomena. All other systems of belief, all other revelations of the un- seen world, have supplied a rule of life, have been given for our use here. But this offers nothing but the barren fact that we live again. If it has had any effect upon morals, it has been to corrupt them. I cannot see how it is better in its effect upon this world than sheer atheism. It is as thoroughly godless as atheism itself, and no man can accept it upon any other mans word, because it has not yet shown its truth in the amel- iorated life of men. It leaves them where it found them, or else a little worse for the conceit with which it fills them. Yes, yes; I see now. I see it all. The vigor of his speculative power buoyed him triumphantly above the abyss into which other men would have sunk. Ford listened with the fascination which the peculiar workings of Boyntons mind had always had for him, and he felt his heart warm towards him with sympathy that was at once respectful and amused, as he thus constructed a new theory out of the ruin of all his old theories. All the research in that direction,~~ Boynton presently continued, has been upon a false basis, and if anything has been granted it has been in mockery of an unworthy hope. I wonder that I was never struck before by that element of derision in it. The Calvinist gets Cal- vinism, the Unitarian Unitarianism; each carries away from communion with spir- its the things that he brought. If men live again, it has been found that they live only in a frivolous tradition of their life in this world. Poor creatures! they seem lamed of half themselves, the better half that aspires and advances; they hover in a dull stagnation, just above this ball of mire; they have noth- ing to tell us; they bring us no comfort and no wisdom. Annihilation is better than such an immortality! 92 The Undiscovered Count rs,. [July, Ford saw that Boynton did not ex- pect any comment from him, and he did not interrupt his monologue. What I ought to have asked was not whether there was a life hereafter, but whether there was a life hereafter worth living. I stopped short of the vital question. I fancied that it was essential to men to know surely that they should live again; but now I recognize that it is not essen- tial in itself. He lay musing a while, and then resumed: I had got them to bring me a Bible before you came in. I wanted to consult it upon a point raised by Elihu, yesterday. There are a great many new ideas in the Bible, he added, simply; a great many new ideas in Job, and David, and Ecclesiastes, and Paul, a great many in Paul. Would you mind handing it to me from the table? Oh, thanks! he said, as he took the volume which Ford rose to give him. This old record, which keeps the veil drawn so close, and lets the light I want- ed glimmer out so sparely in a few prom- ises and warnings, against the agonized Despair of the Cross, or flings the curtain wide upon the sublime darkness of the Apocalypse, is very clear upon this point. It tells us that we shall live here- after in the blessing of our good will and the curse of our evil will; the ques- tion whether we shall live at all is left in abeyance, as if it were too trivial for affirmation. What a force it has, as it all comes back! I seem to have thought of it for the first time. And what a proof of its truth there is in our experience here! We shall reap as we have sown, and so much is sown which we cannot reap here And if I should be doomed to spend eternity in asking whether I be really alive! No, no; God does nt make a jest of us. He turned to Ford. I am curious, he said, to know how this strikes you, as you sit here in the full possession of your powers. I know very well, and you know, how men in their extremity are apt to turn back to the faith taught them at their mothers knees; and perhaps the common experi- ence is repeating itself in my case. But you are in no such extremity. Does there seem to you any truth here? He laid his hand on the book, and looked intently at Ford. It seems to be all the truth of the sort that there is. What do you mean by that? asked Boynton. I express myself badly. But it s hard to express yourself well on this matter. I mean to say that whatever truth there was in that record has not been surpassed or superseded. And is that all you have to say? Thats all I could say till I had looked into the question. It seems to me that it is all any one could say. No doubt, said Boynton, with dis- appointment, from your stand-point, from the scientific stand-point. You say that there is nothing else, but you imply that this is not much. No, said Ford, I think it s a great deal. I think it ought to be enough, if one cares That s the scientific attitude! cried Boynton; that s the curse of the sci- entific attitude! You do not deny, but you ask, What difference? At least, said Ford, with a smile, you can let even such a poor represent- ative of the scientific side as I am be glad that you see the fallacy of spirit- ualism. Oh, I dont pronounce it a fallacy, returned Boynton. I only say that it has proved fallacious in my hands, and that as long as it is used merely to es tablish the fact of a future life it will remain sterile. It will continue to be doubted, like a conjurers trick, by all who have not seen it; and those who see it will afterwards come to discredit their own senses. The world has been mocked with something of the kind from the beginning it s no new thing. Per- haps the hope of absolute assurance is given us only to be broken for our re 1880.] The Undiscovered Country. 93 btike. Life is not so long at the long- est that we need be impatient. If we wake, we shall know; if we do not wake, we shall not even know that we have not awakened. He added, It is very curious, very strange, indeed, but the only thing that I have got by all this research is the one great thing which it never included, which all research of the kind ignores. Ford perceived that he wished him to ask what this was, and he said, What is that? God, replied Boynton. It may be through an instinctive piety that we forbear to inquire concerning him of those earth-bound spirits. What could they know of him? Many pure and simple souls in this world must be in- finitely nearer him. But out of all that chaos I have reached him. No, I am not where I started: I have come in sight of him. I was anxious to know whether we should live hereafter; but whether we live or not, now I know that he lives, and he will take care. We need not be troubled. As for the dead, per- haps we shall go to them, but surely they shall not return to us. That seems true, does nt it? It s all the truth there is, said Ford. Boynton smiled. You are an hon- est man. You wont say more than you think. I like you for that. I have a great wish to ask your forgiveness.~~ My forgiveness? I have nothing to forgive! Oh, yes. I involved you in the destiny of a mistaken and willful man; I afflicted you with the superstitious manias of a lunatic who fancied that he was seeking the truth when he was only seeking himself. I have burdened you with a sense of my wish that you should stay here, because I still hoped to work out something to my own glory and ad- vantage I never knew it; I cant think it, interrupted Ford. It was my privi lege to stay. These have been the best days of my life, the happiest. He stopped; he believed that Boynton must know the meaning that rushed from his heart into the words; but the old man evidently found only a conventional kind- liness in them. Thank you, he said. It is very strange to find you my friend after all, and to meet you on common ground, I who have wandered so far ronud, and you who have continued forward with none of my aims. It would be interest- ing if a third could stand with us. I should like to see how far a minister of the gospel could come towards us. I should like to talk with a minister: not a theologian, but an ecclesiastic, some one who embodied and represented the idea of a church. Do you mean a Catholic priest? asked Ford. No, not that, not just that; but still some one in whom the priestly char- acter prevailed. I will be glad to gratify any wish you have in the matter, Dr. Boynton, said Ford. I imagine it would be easy to get a clergyman to visit you from the village, and I 11 go to any one you want to see. Well, not now, not now. Not to-day. Perhaps to-morrow. I should like to think it over first. I may have some new light by that time. I should like to look up some other points, hcre. There is a text somewhere in Paul it is a long time since I read it Wait! We are saved by hope. But hope that is seen that is seen is not hope; for what a man seeth Very signifi- cant, very significant! he added, more to himself than to Ford. Saved! Really, there seems to have been no question with them about the mere ex- istence! He lay quiet for a long time, with his hands folded behind his head, and a dreamy light was in his eyes. Ford heard the ticking of an insect in the wainscot. Who is it, Boynton 94 The Undi8covered Country. [July, asked suddenly, that speaks of the un- discovered country? Hamlet, replied Ford. It might have been Job, it might have been Ecclesiastes, or David. The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns. Is that it? Yes. They commonly misquote it, added Ford mechanically. I know, they leave out bourn. They say, the undiscovered country whence no traveler returns. But it s the same thing. Yes; and Hamlet says no traveler returns, when he believes that he has just seen his fathers spirit! The ghost that comes back to prove it- self cant hold him to a belief in its pres- ence after the heated moment of vision is past! We must doubt it; we are bet- ter with no proof. Yes; yes! The un- discovered country thank God, it can be what those babblers say! The undis- covered country what a weight of doom is in the words and hope! One of the sisters came in, and he seemed to forget Ford, who presently went away with an absentminded salu- tation from him. Boynton had taken up the book, and while the sister propped his head with the pillows, he fluttered the leaves with impatient hands. xxv. At the gate Ford turned towards Elihus shop, intending to explain why he had not been able to speak of Ege- na to her father. In his liberation from Boyntons appeals for sympathy, his thoughts thronged. back to her; he framed a thousand happy phrases, in which he opened his heart, and she al- ways answered as he wished. His face burned with the joyful shame of these thoughts, and he did not hear his name the first time it was called from a buggy standing at the office gate. The gay voices had hailed him a third time when he looked round, and slowly recognized Phillips and Mrs. Perham making fran- tic signs to him from the vehicle. They laughed at his stupefaction, and his sense of their intrusion mounted as he dragged himself across the street. Mrs. Perham leant out of the buggy and gave him her hand. Well, Mr. Ford! Is this the way you receive your friends? We have been chasing all over this outlandish place for you; we have spent an hour with the sisters here, and have ques- tioned them down to the quick, so that we know all about you; and we were just going to drive away in despair with- out seeing you. I m very unfortunate, said Ford. To be caught at the last moment? How good you always are! Ydu dont know how I ye pined for your little speeches; they re tonic. Yes, Mr. Ford! she cried, with a daring laugh, Mr. Perham is very well, for him, I knew you were going to ask! or I should nt be philandering about the country in this way. Ford glanced at Phillips, who trifled with the reins and looked sheepish. You should have gone over to Eg- erton before this, my dear fellow, he said~ There have been some charm- ing people over there. Have been! His modesty, cried Mrs. Perham, and my humility! We are at Egerton yet, Mr. Ford! Oh, certainly. But Ford has us in Boston. Ah, very true, said Mrs. Perham. There was quite a little buzz of ex- citement for a while, when Mr. Phillips first explained the romantic circum- stances. The young ladies drove over the next Sunday to Shaker meeting, on purpose to interview you, but they had nt the courage. It was one of Mr. Per- hams bad days, or I should have come, too; and we should have sent Mr. Phil- lips over long ago, if there had been any Mr. Phillips to send. But hes only just got back to Egerton. 1880.] The Undiscovered Country. 95 Yes, my dear fellow, I carried out our little programme to the letter, I wish I could say to the spirit; but your defection prevented. I found Butler at Egerton, and he jumped at the chance of driving on with me, in a manner that made your flattering consent seem noth- ing. We drove to Greenfield, and then followed up the valley of the Connect- icut. It was indescribable, my dear friend. You have lost no end of mate- rial. I must really try to reproduce it for you some time. I thought of you often. I was always saying, Now, if Ford were here! Two or three times I was actually on the point of writing to you. But you know how that is; you never wrote to me. I m very glad to hear from our sisters, here, that the old gentleman is better. Is he still in his craze? Phillips spoke with anxious rapidity, and with a certain propitiation of manner; but Ford did not relax the displeasure of the looks with which he had heard of his explanation of the ro- mantic circumstances. You ought to get something out of him; you ought to write him up; he d make a capital paper, said Mrs. ler- ham. I shall be on the lookout for him in your articles. And your Shaker experiences! The young ladies were sure you had turned Shaker, Mr. Ford, and they picked you out in the dance. We had such fun over it! She con- tinued, pulling down the corners of her mouth, Oh, but we were all very re- spectful, Mr. Ford. We admired your self-devotion in staying here; especially, as you could nt esteem them. I dont know what you mean, be- gan Ford, with a sternness that would have silenced a less frivolous spirit. Why, have nt you heard? cried ~Mrs. Perham, leaning forward, and dropping her tone confidentially, while Phillips made some inarticulate at- tempts to hinder her speaking. The poor old gentleman was quite tipsy that morning when they stopped up there at that country hotel, and they had to be turned out-of-doors. Is it possible you have nt heard that? Yes, I ye heard that, said Ford. I always said, continued Mrs. Per- ham, it was cruel to the girl; for she was nt responsible for her fathers hab- its, poor thing! Then of course you dont believe it? No! And you believe that all those man- ifestations took place there? No! An armed neutrality! Well, it s the only tenable position, and I shall take it myself in regard to the other af- fair. I never thought how convenient it must be. Phillips found his voice: Mrs. Per.. ham, its delightful chatting here; but I have to remind you that we shall be late for dinner if we stay any longer. Oh, that s true, admitted Mrs. Perham. Good-by, Mr. Ford. Do come over and see us, if you can tear your- self away from your prot~g6s for a few hours. It s very strange, his lingering along so! Good-by! Good-by, my dear friend! said Phillips, trying to throw some exculpa- tion into his afflicted face. I am go- ing back to Boston at the end of the week. Can I do anything for you there? He did not wait for an an- swer, but lifted the reins and chirruped to his horse. Ford caught the wheel in his hand, and stopped it. Hold on! he said, quite white in the face. What other affair, Mrs. Perham? Other affair? she repeated. Oh! about the water-proof, you know. No, I dont know about the water- proof. What do you mean Is it possible the Shakers have nt told you? Perhaps they did nt think it worth mentioning. You know your friends I forget the name; Boyntons? had passed the night before they reached the Elm Tavern in a school- 96 The Undiscovered Count r~y. [July, house up here; and the teacher found them there in the morning, and lent the young lady her water-proof. They were to send it back from Vardley Station; but as they never went to Vardley Sta- tion, they naturally never sent it back. I dont believe it! cried Ford. Mr. Phillips always told me you were a terrible skeptic! said Mrs. Perham. I merely had the story from the moth- er of the school-teacher, herself! We happened to stop at her house to ask the way, and when we inquired if the Boyntons were still here, she came out with this story. She s a very voluble old lady. I dare say she tells it to every one. What is your theory about it? Ford released the wheel which he had been gripping, and, giving it a contempt- uous push, turned away without a word. Mrs. Perham craned her head round to look back after him. What a natu- ral man! she said, with sincere admira- tion. He s perfectly fascinating. She burst into a laugh. Poor Mr. Phillips! He looked as if he wished you had been my authority. Phillips shrugged his shoulders, and said dryly, I hope you are satisfied, Mrs. Perham. Why, no, I am not, she candidly owned, with a touch of real regret in her voice. I only meant to tease him; but if he s in love with her, I suppose he 11 take it to heart. In love with whom? asked Phillips. Sister iDiantha. Phillips stared at her. Well, with this medium, then, this Medea, Ashtaroth, Egeria, Idont know what her name is. As Phillips continued to stare at her, Mrs. Perham gave a shrill laugh. Really, you are a man, too. I shall never dare take on such easy terms with you again, Mr. Phillips, never! I dont wonder men cant understand women: they dont understand their own simple sex. Of course he s in love with her, and must have been from the first. Well, then, allow me to say, Mrs. Perham, that if you think hes in love with Miss Boynton I dont quite see what your object was. I felt that it was an intrusion to come over here, at the best. Oh, thanks, Mr. Phillips! And it appears to me that it was extraneous to repeat those stories to him. Extraneous is good! And you have an ally in my own conscience, Mr. Phillips. I wanted to see a natural man under the influence of a strong emotion, and I dont like it, I think. I did nt suppose he was so serious about her. But I dont believe any harm s done. He wont give her up on account of what Ive said; and if he does, perhaps she ought to be given up. Phillips dealt the horse a cut of the whip, and left the talk to Mrs. Perham, as they drove away. In the last quarter hour before din- ner, while she sat absently feeling on the porcelain-toned piano in the hotel par- lor for the music of the past, two ladies who wished to see her were announced. One of these visitors proved to be a Shaker sister, whom Mrs. Perham recog- nized, and who introduced her coinpan- ion, a short, squarely built yqung woman, as Miss Thorn. They took seats, though Mrs. Perham had risen and remained standing, and Miss Thorn said without preamble, I teach in the school-house in Vardley, where Dr. Boynton stopped this spring. I heard from my mother this noon that a lady and gentleman had been asking the way to the Shaker Village, who seemed to know Dr. Boynton. No, I dont know him, said Mrs. Perham. Phillips came forward, from a corner of the parlor. I know Dr. Boynton; at least I saw him and Miss Boynton in Boston once.~~ I thought, said Miss Thorn, that I ought to come and tell you that my 1880.] The Undiscovered Country. mother did nt understand about that that water-proof. Oh, yes, said Mrs. Perham; we thought it so curious. I was sure, said Phillips, with an attempted severity, that there was some mistake. The severity had no appar- ent effect upon Mrs. Perham, but Miss Thorn, who had been talking in some sort to both, now addressed herself whol- ly to him: I was away from home when you stopped, to-day. I thought you would like to know there was a misunderstand- ing. The water-proof was as much a gift as anything; though that would nt have excused them if they had thought I wanted it again. But anybody could see that Miss Boynton was stupid then with the fever, and did nt half know where she was or what she was doing. She had been walking late, the night be- fore, through the snow, and they had slept on the benches before the stove. Phillips bowed, and looked at Miss Thorn, who resumed with increasing stiffness: I never wondered at his not remembering it; he seemed too flighty for anything. I knew they were here all summer at the Shakers. I dont, said Miss Thorn, pass any judgment on my mother for the way she looked at it; but I d have given anything if she had nt spoken. The tears started to her eyes, and she bit her lip as she rose. It did nt make any difference to us, said Diantha, who had hitherto sat a si- lent and inscrutable glimmer of specta- cles in the depths of her Shaker bonnet. It got hung up among our things while she was sick, and when she got well she couldnt seem to remember about it. She thought she must have brought it from the cars with her for her own. Miss Thorn waited, and then resumed stiffly, I never suspected or blamed them the least bit. As soon as I could, I went over to the Shakers this morn- ing, and told them the way I felt, and VOL. XLVI. NO. 273. 7 that I wanted to come to you. Diantha felt as if she would like to come with me, and I brought her. That s all. Miss Thorn rose with a personal prim- ness that by contrast almost softened the Shaker primness of Diantha into cere- mony. Phillips experienced the rush of an emotion which, upon subsequent analy- sis, he knew to be of unquestionable gen- uineness. My dear young lady, he said, I ask you to do me the justice to believe that I never had an injurious suspicion of Miss Boynton. Her father had attempted a line of life that natu- rally subjected himself and her to ques- tion, but I never doubted them. I have a positive pleasure in disbelieving any- thing to their disadvantage in connection with with your generous behavior to them. Did did Mr. Ford speak of the matter to you? Did he wish any expression from me in their behalf? Because He no need to ask anything as far as we re concerned, interposed Diantha. No, said Phillips. I can only re- peat that I was sure there was a mis- understanding, and that you ye done us a favor in coming. Is there any way in which I could be of use to Dr. Boyn- ton? I should be most happy if I thought there was. Miss Thorn left the reply to Diantha, who said as they went out, There aint anything as I know of. Really, commented Mrs. Perham, this is edifying. I have nt felt so put down for a long while. I dont see what more we could do, unless we joined with Miss Thorn and Sister Diantha in pre- senting Miss Boynton with a piece of plate, as a slight token of gratitude for her noble example in borrowing a water- proof and keeping it. She has classed the water-proof with the umbrella, as a thing not to be returned. Is that the principle? Well, if Mr. Ford is going to marry her Going to marry her! cried Phillips. 98 The Undiscovered Country. [July, Why, of course. Did you think any- thing else? Is marriage such an un- natural thing? No. But Fords marrying is. That remains to be seen. If he s going to marry her, he cant believe in her too thoroughly. I ye an idea that the Pythoness is insipid; but if Mr. Ford likes insipidity, I want him to have it. I think we ought to drive over to the Shakers, and assure him in person that we did nt believe anything and we did nt mean anything. You shall do all the talking, this time; you talk so well. Thanks, said Phillips, I suspect Ive done my last talking to Ford. And you wont go? demanded Mrs. Perham, with a laugh. Then I must go alone, some day. Meantime, I know how to keep a secret. I hope Miss Thorn may be able to teach her mother. XXVI. Ford stood still, looking at the ground, while Phillips and Mrs. Perham drove away. His impulse to pluck Phillips from his place, and make him pay in per- son for that womans malice, was still so vividly present in his nerves that he seemed to have done it; but when the misery of Phillipss face, intensifying as Mrs. Perham went on from bad to worse, recurred to him, he broke into a laugh. Sister Frances came out of the office. Friend Edward~ she said, was that wicked woman speakin to you about Egery? Yes. Dont you believe her! Dont you believe a word she said! cried the Shakeress, with hot looks of indignation. I know just how it all happened I dont wish to know. I should feel disgraced if I let you tell me. Whatever happened, this woman lied. Where is Egeria? Oh! cried Frances. She has gone to Harshire with Rebecca. She wont be back till mornin. She bent on the young man a look of wistful sympathy. Well! he cried, throwing up his hands desperately, as if the morrow were a time so remote that it never would come, I must wait. She d been plannin to go a long while, Frances apologized, and her father seemed so well this mornin she thought she might Oh, yes, yes! answered Ford de- jectedly. He knew that he somehow had driven her away by his behavior of the day before, and that he had himself to blame for this delay in which he sti- fled. He turned about, with some wild purpose of following her to Harshire, and speaking to her there, when he heard Frances calling him again: Friend Edward, I dont know as you know that Egery s expectin friends to- morrow. Friends? No, what friends? asked Ford. Has she gone to meet them at Harshire? he added stupidly. Well, no; she only got the letter yesterday. I suppose her father did nt think to tell you of it. I dont know as you ever heard her speak of the young man that come with em as far as the Junction that day they missed their train. He was with em a while in Boston, and he come from the same place they did, Down East. He s been twice to find em there in Maine, this summer; but he could nt hear any word of em till just now. They was children together, Ege- ry and Friend Well, I never could remember names. Oh, never mind! exclaimed Ford, with a deathly pallor. I know the name, I know the man! And now he turned again, and hurried beyond a second recall from the trouble in which Frances saw him groping down the road, like one in the dark. When he had got out of her sight, he walked a little into the wayside woods, and stumbling to the ground gave himself to the despair which had blackened round him. His first feel- 1880.] The Undiscovered country. 99 ing was a generous regret that now he could not let his love speak the contempt in which he held the wrong he had heard done her; this feeling came even be- fore the sense of hopeless loss to which he abandoned himself with a lovers rashness. He meekly owned that the man whom he marveled now that he could ever have forgotten as a rival was one of those in whom women con- fided and were not disappointed, who made constant friends and good hus- bands; and, questioning himself, he could not be sure that her happiness would be as safe in his own keeping. He remem- bered with abject humiliation the last time he had met this man, and the sav- agery with which he had wreaked upon him the jealousy which he would not then admit to himself, and in which he had refused to consider even her at his prayer. The turmoil went on for hours, but al- ways to this effect. The most that he could hope, when he crept homeward at dusk, sore as if bruised in body by the conflict in his mind, was that he might steal away before he saw them together. With this intent, to which he had worked with difficulty in the chaos of his dreams, he set about putting his books and oth- er belongings together, but he gave up, tremulous and exhausted, before the task was half done. He fell to thinking again, and this time with a sort of sullen resent- ment, in which he said to himself that his love had its own rights, and that he would not betray them. It had a right to be heard, at any cost; and he began to de- spise his purpose of hurrying away as mock-heroic. It was like a character in a ladys novel to leave the field to a rival whom he did not yet know to be pre- ferred; the high humility, in which he had thought to yield Egeria without her explicit authority to a man whom he judged his better, sickened him. He saw~ that it was for her to choose be- tween them, and it was the part of a coward and a fool to go before she had chosen. As matters stood, he had no right to go; she had a preliminent right to know from him that he loved her. He hungrily dispatched the supper he had left standing on his table, and then kindled a brushwood fire on his hearth; he sat down before it in his easy-chair, and, stayed by the clearer mind at which he had arrived, he experienced a sen- sual comfort in the blaze. Presently he was aware of drowsing; and then, sud- denly, he awoke. The dawn came in at the windows; he perceived that he had passed the night in his chair. A loud knocking continued at his door, while he gathered his scattered wits together. At length he cried, Come in! and the farmer from over the way entered. I dont suppose ye know what s happened? he said. No, said Ford, I dont, if it s anything in particular. No. Well. I thought may be ye d like to know. The old man s dead. Died sudden this mornin. What? Who? What old man? The farmer nodded his head in the direction of the village. Dr. Boyn- ton. I thought ye d like to know it. Thank you, said Ford. He rose and stood at one corner of the hearth; the farmer, from the other, stiffly stretched his hard, knotted hand towards the ashes of the dead fire. Ford went out and walked up through the village, whose familiar aspect was all estranged, as if he himself had died, and were looking upon it from another world. At the office he found a group of Shakers listening to Boyntons physi- cian, who, on his appearance, addressed more directly to him what he was say- ing of the painless death Boynton must have died in his sleep. The first part of the night he was very restless, and several times he said that he would like to see you and talk with you; but he would not let them send; said he had nt formulated his ideas yet. The doc- tor involuntarily smiled in recalling a turn of the phraseology so newly silent 100 like Undiscoverec.1 Country. [July, forever. I wonder if he has formu- lated them now to his satisfaction. Ford made no response, and the doctor asked, Did he speak to you, yester- day, of the case of an electrical girl? Yes. I inferred as much from something he said, when I saw him in the after- noon. I had lent him the magazine containing the account. He found an analogy between that case and Miss Boyntons that I had not anticipated. it seems to have put a quietus to his belief in her supernatural gifts. Yes, Ford assented, as before. He told me that it had depressed him to the lowest point. But when I saw him he bad quite recovered his spir- its. He added thoughtfully, You cant say that a man dies because he wishes to die; though it sometimes seems as if people could live if they would. When I parted with Dr. Boynton he had what I might call an enthusiasm for death. It might be described, in other words, as a desire, amounting almost to frenzy, to know whether we live again, and a will- ingness to gratify that desire at the cost of not living at all. He dwelt habitually on that ques- tion, said Ford, with difficulty. But when I talked with him yesterday, he seemed at rest on the main point. Yes, I dont know but he was. Per- haps I had better say that he was impa- tient to verify it. He talked of nothing else during the evening, Sister Frances tells me; though he fell off quietly to sleep at last. Well, said Ford drearily, he has verified it now. Yes, and in the old way, the way appointed for all living. He knows now. Did it ever occur to you, sir, added the doctor, philosophically, what ignorance all our wisdom is compared with the knowledge of a child that has just died? If it knows anything at all. Oh, certainly, if it does know. We are sure it knows, said Elihu. They walked out together, and before the doctor mounted his buggy to drive away they stood a moment looking at~ the closed windows of the infirmary. Its useless, now, to talk of causes, said the doctor. The heart had been affected a long time He is dead, all the same, said Ford. Oh, yes, he is dead, assented the doctor. What I meant to say was that while no human foresight could have prevented the result, I confess its sud- denness surprised me. One moment he was with us, and the next He was nt, interrupted Ford, rest- ively. That s all we can know: and neither he nor all the myriads that have gone that way can tell us anything more. If we suppose him to be somewhere in a state of conscious being, observed the doctor, we can suppose that reflec- tion to be a trial to him, after a life so much devoted to the effort of working out the proof of something different. He had been a spiritualist; and not a selfish or ignoble one, answered Ford, oppressed by the doctors speculative mood, and letting his impatience appear. A voice was in his ears, repeating the things that Boynton had said. In the pauses of it, he brooded on the chances that had thrown upon him for sympathy and comfort in his last days the man for whom he had once felt and shown such contempt. The dark irony, the broken meaning, afflicted him, and he lurked about, stunned and helpless, waiting till Egeria should come, and dreading to see the grief in which he had no rights. He thought of her trouble, not of his own; it blotted even his jealousy from his mind, and left him acquiescent in what- ever fate befell. The time for what he had intended to do was swept away; he could now only wait passively for events to shape themselves. Hatch did not come that day, and Ford took such part as Elihu assigned him in 1880.] The Undiscovered Country. 101 the sad business of fulfilling Boyntons wishes. These had been casually ex- pressed from time to time to Frances, and referred to his removal to his old home, where he desired to be laid by the side of his wife. When Hatch ar- rived, the second morning, he assumed charge of the affair, as a family friend; and Ford, lapsing from all active con- cern in it, shut himself in his own room, and waited for he knew not what. In the evening, Hatch came to see him. They had already met in the presence of the Shakers, but doubtless neither felt that they had met till now, since their parting in Boston. Hatch re- ceijed awkwardly the civility which Ford awkwardly showed. He would not sit down, and he said abruptly that he had come to say that Miss Boyn- ton was going back in the morning to her home in Maiae, where the funeral was to be. He added that Frances and Elihu were going with her, on the part of the family; and after a hesitation he said, Would nt you like to attend the funeral, too? Has she authorized you to invite me? asked Ford. Well, no, said Hatch. I dont suppose she wanted to put that much of a burden on you. It s a long ways. Ford reflected a long time. You are going, I suppose? Why, of course, said Hatch. Ford pondered again. Under the circumstances, he said, I believe that I ought nt to let my own preference have any weight. Miss Boynton is go- ing with friends to her own home, and I could nt be of any use. I propose to do what I think would be least afflict- ing to her by not going. He hesitated, and presently added, tentatively, I be- lieve she would prefer it. You ought to know best, said Hatch. Well, I believe that I am right. Tell her that I will not try to see her before she goes; but but some other time. He said this tentatively also, and with an odd sort of faltering, as if somehow Hatch might advise him better. I thank you for coming. Well, sir, said the young fellow, standing with his feet squarely apart in the way that Ford had hated him for in Mrs. Le Roys parlor, you must do what you think is best. Iwant to thank you, too. Dr. Boynton was a good friend to me, and from all I hear you were a good friend to him, at last. You ye behaved like a man. They all say here that the doctor could nt have got along without you. They overpraise me, said Ford, helped to a melancholy irony by Hatchs simple patronage. No, sir, replied Hatch, I dont think so. And you must have found it pretty tough, feeling the way you did about him. No, said Ford, it was not so tough as it might seem. I liked him. It is nt a logical position; he never squared with my ideas; but I know now that he was a singularly upright and truthful man. That s so, every time, said Hatch. I dont care for my consistency in the thing; I d rather do him justice. I ye come to his own ground, and yours: I want to say that when I inter- fered with him there in Boston he had a noble motive, and I had an ignoble one. If you re not firing over my head, said Hatch, and if I catch your mean- ing rightly, I m bound to confess that the doctor had got mixed up with a pretty queer lot in the course of his re- searches. But he was all right himself. I pinned my faith to him, right along. But if you mean that you re going in for anything like spiritualism, I advise you to hush it up among yourself. As far as I m concerned, I ye about come to that conclusion. And I think Miss Egeria s had enough of it. His mention of her name in this con- 102 The Undiscovered Country. [July, nection was at first puzzling, and at last so offensive to Ford that he found it harder than he had thought to say what he now said. After a dry assent to Hatchs proposition, he added, I dare say you re right. Mr. Hatch, I treated you shabbily when we met last. I am sorry for that, and ashamed of it. I should have behaved better, if I had un- derstood better Oh, I know how it was, myself, Hatch interrupted. Or I did when I came to think of it. Ford looked at him as if he did not comprehend his drift; and Hatch continued, It was pretty rough at the time, but I suppose I should have acted just so, in your place. Well, sir! I hope we part bet- ter friends, now, he said, offering his hand. I think that s what the old doctor would have liked. Some of his ideas were most too large a fit for this world, but he was pretty practical about others. Ford took the proffered hand, and fol- lowed Hatch to his door, wholly baffled and unsettled. He longed to have it all out with him, but this was not possible, and he submitted as he best could. He had thought himself right in resolving not to follow Egeria home, or vex her with his presence before she went; but he was not sure of this now; and he spent the time intervening before her departure in an anguish of indecision. But he let her go without seeing her, and in the afternoon he went away, too. XXVII. He did not go back to his old lodging in Boston, but spent a day at a hotel till he could find other quarters. It was intolerable to think of meeting any one he knew, and he had such a horror of Mrs. Perhams possible return that he asked at the door whether she had come back, before he went in to make ready for removal. When the change was effected, all change seemed forever at an end. The days went by without event; he could not write, but he took up again his study with the practical chemist, and pushed on with that through an unsto- ned month which brought him through the bluster and chill of September to the mellow heart of October. A chasm divided him from all that he had been, and he tried to keep from thinking across it. But his mind was full of broken glimpses of the past; of doubts of what he had done; of vague wonder if he should ever hear from her again, and how; of crazy purposes, brok- en as fast as formed, of going i#here he might look on her, if it might be only that, and know that she was still in life. There were terrible moments in which his heart was wrung with the possibility that his conjecture had been all wrong, and that she might be linger- ing in cruel amaze that he had never made any sign to her, and puzzling over the problem which his refusal to see her, or to stand with her at her fathers grave, had left her. One evening when he came home, he found a flat, square package, which had arrived through the mail after going first to his old address. It was directed in an old-fashioned, round hand, and it yielded softly to the touch with which he fingered it before he tore it open. It proved to hold a handkerchief, which he recognized as his own, fragrantly washed and ironed; and he found a little note pinned to it, and signed F. Plumb, explaining that the handkerchief had been found in his room. While he stood scowling at it, and trying to make out who F. Plumb was, and where he had left the handker- chief, he turned the scrap of paper over, and saw written in pencil on the back, as if the writer had wished to whisper it there, I do not know as you heard that Egeria is back with us. FRANCES. Now he knew, now he understood. 1880.] The Undiscovered Country. 103 All the hopes that had seemed dead sprang to life again. He caught up a paper, and looked at the time-tables. The last train passing Vardley would leave in fifteen minutes. He turned the key in his door, and two hours later he was rounding the dark point of the wooded hill that intervenes between the station and the Shaker vil- lage, where a light sparely twinkled in the window of Elihus shop. He had walked, as he supposed, but his pace was more like a run from the train; and his heart thundered in his ears as he sat and panted on Elihus door-step, try- ing to gather courage to go in. At last he went in without the courage. Elihu was amazed, certainly, but hardly disquieted. He shut upon his thumb the book that he was reading, and pushed his spectacles above his forehead. Friend Ford! he said. Yes! answered the young man, still striving for breath, as he pressed the Shakers hand. I have come I have come Yee, Elihu assented; sit down. We did not expect you, but the family will be glad to see you. Have you kept yoar health? Is she well? Is she going to stay with you? When did she come back ? The questions thronged upon one an- other faster than he could utter them, and he stopped perforce again. I suppose you mean Egeria. Yee, she is well. She came back last week. I I wrote to you from her place that she was coming back. Elihu col- ored with a guilty conscience. I never got your letter. I only heard two hours ago that she was with you. She only stayed to settle up things there. I dont know as Humphrey ever told you that her grandfather left his property to her? I dont know Yes, yes, he did. There were nt any of her folks left there, and her father had brought her up in such a way, late years, that she was pretty much a stranger outside of her grandfathers house. When she got back there, she found that it was more like home to her here than anywhere else. Friend Hatch stayed a spell, to help her settle up the property, and then he had to go West again. As soon as she could she came to ~ Elihu, said Ford, who had listened with but half a sense, I have come here to speak to her. Shall I do it? I want you to advise me. I want you to tell me Nay, I must not meddle or make in this business, said the Shaker. You did meddle and make in it once, retorted Ford, unresentfully but inflexibly, and I recognized your right to do so, from your point of view; I sub- mitted to you. We cant withdraw from each others confidence now. I have a claim upon your advice. Besides, in all worldly knowledge that comes through acquaintance with women, I am as much a Shaker as you are. I only know that I must speak with her. If she cares anything for me, as you said she did, I must speak. But when? Shall I go away again, and come back after a while? Since we last talked together have you learned anything that makes you think she would be willing to spend her life among you? If you have, I will leave her alone. She conld be at peace here; and I I have only brought her trouble and sorrow so far. Even if she cared for me, I would leave her to you No, I wouldnt! I could nt do that! By all that a man can be to a woman, I ought nt to do it! But what do you say? Elihu had tilted his chair upon its hind-legs, and he rocked back and forth without bringing its fore-legs, to the ground. I have nt seen anything in her that would make me think she would like to stay with us. And I have heard that she intends to leave us as soon 104 The Undiscovered Count ~ [July, as she can find something to do in the world outside. Frances wants she should go to friends of hers in Boston that would help her find something. They ye been talking about it this after- noon, and Egerias mind seems quite made up about going. Well, repeated Ford, may I speak with her? I cant answer you. I felt it a cross laid upon me to interfere against your showing your feeling for her here; but to interfere in behalf of it is a cross which I dont have any call to take up twice. Can I stay here to-night? asked Ford. Yee. They can give you a room at the office. Do you suppose Mrs. Williams could put me up some sort of bed in my old place? I would rather sleep there. Oh, yee, I guess so. I will step down with you and see. No, I 11 go alone. If she cant, I 11 come back to the office. Good-night. Good-night, said Elihu, with his flicker of a smile. Fords bed had not been taken down, and while the farmers wife made it ready for him with fresh sheets he kin- dled a roaring fire on his hearth. He sat a long time before it, turning over and over in his mind the same doubt which had tormented him when he last sat there. But he could not believe that Frances and Elihu would have let him come back if there had been any grounds for this fear. It had burnt in his heart to ask Elihu, and solve it; but that seemed a sort of cowardice, and he had withheld the question. He would not know the truth now till be had put his own fate to the test, and spoken in de- fiance of whatever the answer might be. The next morning he perceived an undercurrent of deeply subdued excite- ment in such of the family as he met at the office, and a sympathy which he aft. erwards remembered with compassion. The brothers and sisters all shook hands with him, and, refraining from recogni- tion of the suddenness of his return, said they were glad to see him back. And that s more than we can say to some of the friends from the world outside! exclaimed Diantha, when her turn came. Ford was touched by this friendliness; a man so little used to being liked might overvalue it; but he looked impatiently about for Frances, and the sisters knew how to interpret his glance. She s gone over to put the infirm~ ary to rights a little, Rebecca explained. She added casually, Egery s over there with her, I guess. She wanted to go. The sisters decently turned from the door, but they stood a little way back from the window, and looked at him there as he crossed the street. The door of the little house stood open, and Ford saw Frances within, dust- ing where there was no dust, and vain- ly rubbing the neat chairs with a cloth. The bed where Boynton had lain was dismantled: it seemed as if he might have risen to have it made for him. Ford expected to hear his voice, and a lump hung in his throat. When his sad eyes met those of Frances, lie saw that hers were red with weeping. She gave her hand and said, Good-morning, Friend Edward. Im real glad to see you back again. We ye all missed you. I was just thinkia how you and Friend Boynton seemed to have been with us always. He went to a better place; but where did you go? Do you think the world outside is better? I wish you could feel to stay with us, Edward! It is nt possible, said Ford, smiling sadly. The only point on which I should agree with yon is that the world outside is not so good a place. Well, that s a great deal. It is nt enough. Really, said Frances, it s dis- couragin to hear you and Egery go on. You say everything that s good of the Shakers, but you wont be gathered in. 1880.] The Undiscovered Country. 105 I think everything thats good of you. I honor and reverence you; I do everything but envy you. Its another world that calls me. Yee, sighed the Shakeress, that s just the way with Egery. I suppose I have been here so long that I dont see anything strange in Shakers. The other people are the ones that are strange to me. But I can see t it s different with Egery. She s had so much queerness in her life already t I guess she dont want to have muck more. Was you sur- prised to hear t she d got back? I was very glad; and I m very grateful to you, Frances I sposed the handkerchief must be yours, Frances interrupted, with artful evasion. She went on to give some par- ticulars of Boyntons funeral and of their sojourn in Egerias old home and of her affairs. It was real kind and good of Friend Hatch to stay as long as he did, and help her, especially as they do say he s engaged to be married out West, there. Something like a luminous con- cussion seemed to take place in Fords brain. The burden suddenly lifted from his soul left him light and giddy, and he clung for support to the door-post, while Frances prattled on: Well, Humphrey says he s a master-hand for business, and he s sure to get along. He s been ~ good friend to Egery, all through, and her father before her. I guess if Friend Boynton had taken his advice, there would nt been so much sufferin for her. Well, she s back with us again. But its only till she can find something for her- self in the world outside. I suppose its natural for her to want to be like folks. Thats the way I look at it. Fords heart throbbed. Do you think I m like folks, Frances? Not much, replied Frances. Do you think I could be, for her sake? A flash of joy, succeeded by a red blush, went over the pale face of the Shakeress. You d ought nt to talk to me of such things, Edward. You know it aint right. I know I know, pleaded the young man. I know it s all wrong. But ~ but I knew you knew about it, and I thought I thought She s up in the orchard, by her ap- ple-tree! cried Frances, with hysterical abruptness. Dont you say another word to me! But after Ford left the room she ran to the door, and watched him going up the orchard aisle. Egeria stood leaning against the tree, and looking another way, and she might well have been ignorant of his approach through the fallen grass, till she heard his husky voice: I I have come back I would have come before, but I did nt know you were here He had some inten- tion of excusing himself, because in his cogitations it had occurred to him that she must have wondered why he had not come. But she only turned on him that face of intense resistance, changing to question, and then to wild appeal. For Heavens sake, he exclaimed, dont look at me in that way! What is the matter? Oh, why did you come back? she cried. Why could nt you have stayed away, and left me in peace? He stood motionless, while his hopes seemed to fall in a tangible ruin round him. He saw now how eagerly he had built them on the fears of those fantas- tic communists, and how fondly he had hidden from himself all the reasons against them. He could have laughed at the ghastly wreck, but that he was too sick at heart. He moved his feet heavily, as if the long grass were fetters about them, and he tried to go; but without some other word he could not. Well, he said, at last, if you ask me, I cant tell you. I can go away again, and not molest you any more. Only, before I go, tell me you ye not told me yet that you forgive me, Ege- na. Her whispered name had been so 106 The Undiscovered country. [July, often on his lips that he now spoke it aloud for the first time without knowing it. Since your father is gone, I must be more hateful to you than ever. But I am going out of your way now; try to forgive me and to tell me so I Let me have your pardon to take with me. She broke into a low sound of weeping, while he waited for her response. Well, I will go. It s best for me to know finally that, although you have tolerated me here, at the bottom of your heart you have always abhorred me. No, no! I did nt say that. Not in words, no. But if you made me say that I for- gave you Make you say it? Nothing under heaven could make you say it! What is it you mean? She looked up, and ran her eye in pit- eous search over his face. When you first came there, in Bos- ton, and when you hurt me; when we went after the leaves, and I forgot him; when I talked with you in the garden, and blamed him; when I went with you into the woods, and neglected him, almost the last day he lived Oh, even if I could nt, I ought to hate you I Did you expect Yes, I will, I will never let you go, now, till you tell me whether it was true. He is gone, and I have no one to help me. I shall have to do for myself; but whatever my life is to be, I am going to have it my own; and it is nt mine if that is true. If that is true? repeated Ford, in stupefaction. If what is true? But the impulse which had carried her to this point failed her, apparently, and left her terrified at her own daring. She cowered at the involuntary step he made toward her, as a bird stoops for flight. If what is true ? he reiterated. Tell me what you mean! He wondered if perhaps some rumor of his talk with Elihu had come to her, and she had wished to punish his pre- sumption in trusting the Shakers con- jecture regarding her; if she were re- solved to wreak upon him her maidenly indignation at the communitys meddling. It seemed out of keeping with her and all the circumstances; but he could think of nothing else, and he darkly approached it: If you have heard anything here that makes you think that I have come to you in anything but the humblest, the most reverent, spirit, I beseech you not to believe it! Has Elihu or Frances Is it something they have said? No, she said, and still shrunk away, as if he might be able to force the truth from her. Then, what is it? Surely you wont leave me in this perplexity? If there is anything that I can do or undo No! Oh, go, for pitys sake! I cant go now, said the young man. I wont go till you have told me what you mean. You must tell me. She cast a strange glance at him. If you make me tell you, that would show that it was true; and he was right when he used to say I dont want to be- lieve it! Go, and let me try to think that you came here by chance, and that you stayed for his sake. Indeed, indeed, I can get to thinking again that you never tried to influence me in that way! In what way? he asked, but now a gleam of light, lurid enough, began to steal upon his confusion. Her alternate eagerness and reluctance to be with him; the broken questions, the gestures, the looks, the tones, that had crossed with mystery the happiness he had known with her in the last weeks before her fathers death, and made it at its sweet- est fearful and insecure, recurred to him with new meaning, and a profound com- passion qualified his despair, and made him gentle and patient. Is it possible, he asked, that you mean that old delu- sion of your fathers about me? And could you believe that I would try to control you against your will to use some unnatural power over you? Ah! he cried, I could nt take even your for- 1880.] The Undiscovered Count r~y. 107 giveness, now; for you might think that I had extorted it! He looked sadly at her, but she did not speak, and he had a struggle to keep his pity of her from turning to execration of the unhappy man whose error could thus rise from his grave to cloud her soul; but he ruled himself, not without an ominous re- membrance of his former attempts to separate her cause from her fathers, and brokenly continued: Well, I have deserved that, too. But I know that before he died your father came to a clearer mind about those things, and I believe that now, wherever he is, noth- ing could grieve him more than to know that he had left you in that hideous su- perstition. He looked with grave ten- derness at her hidden face. How could you think and now his tone expressed his wounded self-respect as well as his sorrow for her that I could be so false to both of us? I did nt always think, she whis- pered. I - I was afraid But what made you afraid that such a thing could be? I am a brute, I know that; I gave you early proof of that, but I hoped there was nothing covert in ~ I You said once that people influenced others without knowing it; and once that night when we came from the woods you said it was a spell that made me lose the way, and would nt let me blame you And you really had those black doubts of me in your heart? I thought you were suffering me here because you were good and merciful. And you were always watching me to find out whether I was not using some vile magic against you! No, no! Not always, she protest- ed, lifting her face. Did I say that? No, you did nt say it! Well, you had the right to hurt me in any way you could; and I give you the satisfaction of knowing that nothing could hurt me worse than this. Oh, I did nt mean to hurt you! Dont think that! And I forgave you; yes, I did forgive you! I never hated you not even that morning there by the fountain when I thought you had hurt him. And when you said I ought, it made me wonder if what he used to say And then I couldnt get it out of my mind! But I never meant to tell you by a single word or look, if it killed me. I believe you. It was something not to be spoken. I think now I can go without your pardon. It seems to me that we are quits. Once more he turned to go, but she implored, all her face red with generous remorse, Oh, not till you ye forgiven me! I never thought how it would seem to you. Indeed I never did! He smiled sadly. Forgive you? Oh, that s easy. But even if it were very hard, I could do it. I can see how it has been with you from the first, and how, with what you had been taught to think of me by your father, I dont blame him for it; he was as helpless as you were, you perverted my care- less words and gave them a sinister meaning that I never dreamt of. But what can I do, or say, to leave you with better thoughts of me? I could see that you were kind and good even when I was the most ~ she murmured. But after the way we had begun together, and all that you had done to us, and said to him, sometimes I could nt understand why you were here, or why you stayed, and then I dont wonder! I had nt given you cause to expect any good of me; and if I were to tell you why I stayed, as I once hoped I might, I could nt make it appear an unselfish reason. Oh, my dearest! he cried, I loved you so that I could nt have taken your love it- self against your will! Ever since I first saw you, and all the time that I had lost you, my whole life was for you; and 108 The Undiscovered (Jountr7j. [July, when I found you again, how could I help staying till you drove me from you? Good-by, and if any thought of yours has injured me let me set it against my tell- ing you this now. She had slowly averted her face; she did not shrink from him, but she did not return his good-by, and he waited in vain for her to speak. Then, Shall I go? he asked in foolish anti-climax. No The blood rioted in his heart. And do you still believe that of me? I believe what you say, she whis- pered. But why do you believe me? Do I make you do it? I dont know yes, something makes me. Against your will ? I cant tell. Do you think it is a spell, now? I dont know. And are you afraid of it? No What is it, Egeria? he cried, and in the beseeching look which she lifted to his, their eyes tenderly met. Oh, my darling! Was this the spell The rapture choked him; he caught her hand and drew her towards him. But at this bold action, Sister Fran- ces, who had not ceased to watch them, threw her apron over her head. XXVIIL The powers of the family were heav- ily taxed by the consideration of a case without precedent in its annals. On the report of Sister Frances and the sub- sequent knowledge of Elihu, it became necessary to act at once. Probably no affair of such delicate importance had ever presented itself to a society vowed to celibacy as the fact of a courtship and proposal of marriage which had taken place with their privity, and with circumstances so peculiar that they could not wholly feel that they had withheld their approval. What I look at, Elihu, said Fran- ces, is this: that we cant any of us say but what it s the best thing that can happen to Egery, so long as she aint going to be gathered in. And what I want to know is whether we ye got to turn our backs on her because she s doin the best she can, or whether we re goin to show out that we feel to rejoice with her. Nay, we cant do that, replied Elihu, in sore embarrassment. There are no two ways about it but what our natural feelings do go with her, to some extent. I m free to confess that when Friend Ford came and told me, just now, I felt Elihu apparently found himself not so free to confess, after all. He stopped abruptly, and added, But that s neither here nor there. What we ye got to do now is not to withhold our sympathy from these young people, who are doing right in their order, and at the same time not to relax our opposition to the principle. Love the sinner and condemn the sin, suggested Laban. Nay, replied Elihu, rejecting the phraseology rather than the idea, not exactly that. I cant understand, interposed Re- becca, with her sexs abhorrence of an abstraction, where and how they re goin to get married. There aint any Shaker way of marryin, and I dont know what we should do with our young folks, if they got married here. I dont suppose we should have one of em left by spring. Nay, said Elihu, we might as well give up at once. He rocked himself vigorously to and fro; but his hardening face did not lose its anxious expression. Where will they get married? asked Rebecca. She has nt got any. wheres to go. Her own folks are all dead, at home, and she has nt got any home. 1880.] TA e Undiscovered Country. 109 I dont know. They cant get mar- ried here, returned Elihu. They cant go right off to a minis- ter and get married now, so soon after her fathers death. And besides, she aint ready. She has nt got anything made up. The question of clothes agitated even these unworldly women, and they de- bated and deplored Egerias unprepared conifition, urging that she must have this, and could not do without that, till Elihu could bear it no longer. I feel, he cried, that it is unseemly for us to consider these things! It identifies us practically with a state which we only tolerate as part of the earthly order. We must not have anything to do with it from this time forth. Well, Elihu, what shall we do? demanded Diantha. We might send 1dm away, but we cant turn her out-of- doors. Do you want he should go on courtin her here? Elihu opened his lips to speak, but only emitted a groan. We have got to bear our part. I guess the rule against marriage aint any stronger than the rule of love and char- ity, so long as we dont any of us mar- ry, ourselves. Well, well ! cried Elihu, settle it amongst you. Only remember, they cant marry here. He took his hat, and went into Humphreys room, where the latter had remained, discreetly absorbed in his accounts; and Laban, finding him- self alone with the sisters, hastened to follow Elihu. Their withdrawal was in- spiration to Frances I guess I can go down to Boston with Egery, and fix it with my sister so t she can stay and be married from her house whenever she gets ready. When the sensation following her solution of the problem allowed her to speak she added, The question is how much itll be right for us to do for her. She has nt got a thing. The sisters justly understood this to mean their degree of complicity in deck- ing Egeria for the unholy rite, and they entered into the question with the seri- ousness it merited. They began by agree- ing with Elihu that the only way was to have nothing to do with the matter; and having appeased their consciences, they each made such concessions and sacrifices to the exigency as they must. Before spring, when the wedding took place, the sisters had found it consistent with an en- larged sense of duty to present the bride with a great number of little gifts, of an exemplary usefulness, for the most part, but not wholly inexpressive of a desire, if not a sense, of beauty. Their con- ceptions of the worlds fashions were too vague to allow of their contributing to the trousseau, and such small at- tempts as they made in that direction were overruled by Francess sister, a de- cisive and notable lady, who, however, ordained that certain of the decorative objects, as hooked rugs and embroidered tidies, were as worthy a place in Mrs. Fords simple house as most of the old- fashioned things that people liked now- adays. With Frances, the question whether she should or should not be present at the wedding remained a cross which she bore all winter, and which grew sorer as the day approached. When it actu- ally came, she meekly bowed her spirit and remained away. But she found compensation in the visit which she paid her sister directly afterwards, and which she spent chiefly in helping Egeria set in order the cottage Ford had taken in one of the suburbs. He had worked hard at his writing all winter, and they had no misgivings in beginning life on his earnings, and on the small sum Ege- na had inherited from her grandfather, later. It is now several years since their marriage, and they have never regretted their courage. They had their day of carefulness and of small things, that happy day which all who have known it remember so fondly, but this is al 110 The Undiscovered Country. [July, ready past. One of those ignoble discov- eries which chemists sometimes make in their more ambitious experiments has turned itself to profit, almost without his agency, and chiefly at the suggestion of his wife, whose more practical sense per- ceived its general acceptability; and the sale of an ingenious combination known to all housekeepers now makes life easy to the Fords. He has given up his news- paper work, and has built himself a lab- oratory at the end of his garden, where the income from his invention enables him to pursue the higher chemistry, without as yet any distinct advantage to the world, but to his own content. It is observed by those who formerly knew him that mar- riage has greatly softened him, and Phil- lips professes that, robbed of his former roughness, he is no longer so fascinating. Their acquaintance can scarcely be said to have been renewed since their part- ing in Vardley. Ford was able to see Phillipss innocence in what occurred; but they could never have been easy in each others presence after that scene, though they have met on civil terms. Phillips accounts in his own way for not seeing his former friend any more. As bricabrac, he explains, when la- dies inquire after their extinct acquaint- ance, Ford was perpetually attract- ive; but as part of the worlds ordinary furniture he cant interest me. When he married the Pythoness, I was afraid there was too much bricabrac; but really, so far as I can hear, they have neutral- ized each other into the vulgarest com- monplace. Do you use the Ford Fire Kindler? He does nt put his name to it, and that is nt exactly the discovery that is making his fortune. He has come to that, making money. And imagine a Pythoness with a prayer - book, who goes to the Episcopal church, and hopes to get her husband to go, too! No, I dont find my Bohemia in their suburb. From time to time Phillips proposes to seek that realm in what he calls his native Europe; but he does not go. Perhaps because Mrs. Perham is there, widowed by Mr. Perhams third stroke of paralysis, and emancipated to the career of travel and culture, which she has illustrated in the capitals of sev- eral Latin countries. To do her justice, she never turned the water-proof affair to malicious account, nor failed to speak well of Ford, for whom she always claimed to feel an unrequited respect. As to Hatch, one of the first of those deep and full confidences between Ford and Egeria which follow engagement re- lated to the man in whom he had feared a rival. Egeria knew merely that Hatch had repaid with constant services some favors that her father had been able to do him in their old home, and that he had continued faithful to Boyn- ton when all others had dropped away from him. I wish I had understood how it was when he came to me there in Boston, said Ford. He added simply, I treated him very badly, because I thought he was in love with you.~~ Was that any reason why you should treat him badly? asked Egeria. Ford reflected. Yes, I suppose it was. I was in love with you, too. But he s had his turn. Hes left me with the feeling that perhaps Perhaps what? Perhaps nothing! Egeria divined what he did not say. He has nt left me with that feeling, she said reproachfully. Since that time Hatch is no longer on the road, as he would phrase it, but has gone into business for himself at Den- ver, where he married last year, with duly interviewed pomp and circum- stance, the daughter of one of the early settlers, a hoary patriarch of forty-three, who went to Denver as remotely as 1870. He called upon the Fords when he came East on his wedding jour- ney, and he and Ford found themselves friends. The Western lady thought Ege- rut a little stiff, but real kind-hearted, 1880.] King Lear. 111 and one of the most stylish-appearing persons she ever saw. In fact, Egeria shows a decided fondness for dress, and after the long hunger of her solitary girlhood she enters, with a zest which Ford cannot always share, into all the innocent pleasures of life. She likes parties and dinners and theatres; since their return from Europe she has given several picnic breakfasts, where her morning costume has been the marvel of her guests. The tradition of her life before marriage is locally very dim; it is supposed that she left the stage to marry. This is not altogether reconcilable with the appearance of quaint people in broad- brims, or in gauze caps and tight-sleeved straight drab gowns, with whom she is sometimes seen in her suburb; but as the Fords are known to go every summer to pass a month in an old house belonging to the Vardley Shakers, their visitors are easily accounted for. The grass has already grown long over Boyntons grave. They who keep his memory think compassionately of his illusions, if they were wholly illu- sions, but they shrink with one impulse from the dusky twilight through which he hoped to surprise immortality, and Ford feels it a sacred charge to keep Egerias life in the full sunshine of our common day. If Boynton has found the undiscovered country, he has sent no message back to them, and they do not question his silence. They wait, and we must all wait. ii. D. Howells. KING LEAR. SECOND ARTICLE: PLOT AND PERSON AGES. SHAKESPEARE was forty-one years old when he wrote King Lear. Just at the time of life when a well-constituted, healthy man has attained the maturity of his faculties, he produced the work in which we see his mind in all its might and majesty. He had then been an actor some fourteen or fifteen years, and of his greater plays he had written Romeo and Juliet, Richard III., The Merchant of Venice, King Henry IV., Much Ado about Nothing, As You Like It, Hamlet, and Measure for Measure. In the case of a man who mingled him- self so little with his work, who was, in other words, so objective a poet, it is not safe to infer the condition of his mind from the tone of his writings. But it is worthy of remark that King Lear quickly followed Measure for Measure, and came next to it as an original play, and was itself followed next by Timon of Athens, and that in these three plays the mirror that is held up to human nat- ure tells more revolting and alarming truths than are revealed in all his other plays together. Not in all the rest is the sum of the counts of his indictment of the great criminal so great, so grave, so black, so damning. Hardly is there to be gathered from all the others so many personages who are so bad in all the ways of badness as the majority of those are which figure in these three. It is, however, apart from this fact that these plays are so strongly signifi- cant of Shakespeares judgment of man- kind in his forty - second year. For, types of badness as these personages are, what they say is tenfold more con- demnatory than what they do. The aphoristic anthology of Measure for Measure, King~ Lear, and Timon of Athens would make the blackest pages in the records of the judgments against

Richard Grant White White, Richard Grant King Lear 111-121

1880.] King Lear. 111 and one of the most stylish-appearing persons she ever saw. In fact, Egeria shows a decided fondness for dress, and after the long hunger of her solitary girlhood she enters, with a zest which Ford cannot always share, into all the innocent pleasures of life. She likes parties and dinners and theatres; since their return from Europe she has given several picnic breakfasts, where her morning costume has been the marvel of her guests. The tradition of her life before marriage is locally very dim; it is supposed that she left the stage to marry. This is not altogether reconcilable with the appearance of quaint people in broad- brims, or in gauze caps and tight-sleeved straight drab gowns, with whom she is sometimes seen in her suburb; but as the Fords are known to go every summer to pass a month in an old house belonging to the Vardley Shakers, their visitors are easily accounted for. The grass has already grown long over Boyntons grave. They who keep his memory think compassionately of his illusions, if they were wholly illu- sions, but they shrink with one impulse from the dusky twilight through which he hoped to surprise immortality, and Ford feels it a sacred charge to keep Egerias life in the full sunshine of our common day. If Boynton has found the undiscovered country, he has sent no message back to them, and they do not question his silence. They wait, and we must all wait. ii. D. Howells. KING LEAR. SECOND ARTICLE: PLOT AND PERSON AGES. SHAKESPEARE was forty-one years old when he wrote King Lear. Just at the time of life when a well-constituted, healthy man has attained the maturity of his faculties, he produced the work in which we see his mind in all its might and majesty. He had then been an actor some fourteen or fifteen years, and of his greater plays he had written Romeo and Juliet, Richard III., The Merchant of Venice, King Henry IV., Much Ado about Nothing, As You Like It, Hamlet, and Measure for Measure. In the case of a man who mingled him- self so little with his work, who was, in other words, so objective a poet, it is not safe to infer the condition of his mind from the tone of his writings. But it is worthy of remark that King Lear quickly followed Measure for Measure, and came next to it as an original play, and was itself followed next by Timon of Athens, and that in these three plays the mirror that is held up to human nat- ure tells more revolting and alarming truths than are revealed in all his other plays together. Not in all the rest is the sum of the counts of his indictment of the great criminal so great, so grave, so black, so damning. Hardly is there to be gathered from all the others so many personages who are so bad in all the ways of badness as the majority of those are which figure in these three. It is, however, apart from this fact that these plays are so strongly signifi- cant of Shakespeares judgment of man- kind in his forty - second year. For, types of badness as these personages are, what they say is tenfold more con- demnatory than what they do. The aphoristic anthology of Measure for Measure, King~ Lear, and Timon of Athens would make the blackest pages in the records of the judgments against 112 King Lear. [July, mankind. Moreover, the chief dramatic motives of all these plays are selfishness and ingratitude; while in two of them, King Lear and Timon, we find the prin- cipal personage expecting to buy love and words of love and deeds of love with bounteous gifts, and going mad with disappointment at not receiving what he thinks his due. For Timon in the forest, although he is not insane, is surely the subject of a self-inflicted monomania. Difficult as it is to trace Shakespeare himself in his plays, we can hardly err in concluding that there must have been in his experience of life and in the condition of his mind some reason for his production within three years, and with no intermediate relief, of three such plays as those in question. And the play which came between Measure for Measure and King Lear, All s Well that Ends Well, although it is probably the product of the working over of an earlier play called Loves Labours Won, can hardly be said to break the continuity of feeling which runs through its predecessor and its two immediate successors. In All s Well we have Parolles, the vilest and basest character, although not the most wicked- ly malicious, that Shakespeare wrought; and its hero, Bertram, is so coldly and brutally selfish that it is hard to forgive Helena her loving him. Indeed, the tone of the play finds an echo in the last lines of the Clowns song: With that she sighed as she stood, And gave this sentence then; Among nine bad if one be good, Among nine bad if one be good, There s still one good in ten. Was it by sheer chance and hap-hazard that Shakespeare reverted to this un- pleasant story and these repulsive per- sonages at the time when, within three years, he wrote Measure for Measure, King Lear, and Timon of Athens? Although, in King Lear, Shakespeare owed less to the authors from whom he took his plot than was customary with him in such cases, the general notion that he owed little (which seems to me rather confirmed than shaken by what Mr. Furness says) is altogether errone- ous. The truth is that in regard to plot, incidents, personages and their charac- ters he (as his manner was) owed, not everything, but almost everything, to his predecessors. In the construction of the tragedy all that is his is the uniting of two stories, that of Lear and that of Gloucester, which he wrought into one, by mighty strength and subtle art welding them together white-heated in the glowing fire of his imagination; and the change which he made in the issue of the fortunes of Lear and of Cordelia; for in the legend Cordelia triumphs, re- seats her father on the throne, succeeds him, is at last rebelled against by the sons of Goneril and Regan, deposed, and put in prison, wherewith she took suche griefe, being a woman of manlie cour- age, and despairing to recover libertie there, she slue herself. Verily, these are great exceptions; the latter even one that suggests Shakespeares own declaration that there s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will. Nevertheless, the fact that he did find in the work of foregone writers, in chronicle, in legend, in poem, in play, and in novel, all the rest of the frame- work, the skeleton, of this his master- piece, is one the importance of which in the formation of a judgment of his meth- ods, of his purposes, and of the one ap- parent limit of his genius cannot be overrated. Most of the readers of The Atlantic probably know that the story of Lear and his three daughters is of great an- tiquity, and was told by many writers in prose and verse who preceded Shake- speare. He, we may be sure, read it in Holinshed and in the old play of King Leir. The division of the kingdom; the extravagant j~erofessions of love by Gon- eril and Regan; the reserve of Corde- ha; the wrath of the disappointed old 1880.] King Lear. 113 king; the endeavor of Kent (called Pe- rilus) to avert the consequences of his anger from his youngest daughter; the marriage of the elder sisters to Corn- wall and Albany, and of the youngest to the king of France; Lears living with the former alternately, attended by a retinue of knights; the ingratitude of Goneril and Regan; the return of Cordelia to Britain with a French army to re~stab1ish her father, all this was material made to Shakespeares hand. And not only this: the different charac- ters of the personages in this story all existed in germ and in outline before he took it up as the subject of this trag- edy. So as to the story of Gloucester and his two sons, which was told by Sir Philip Sidney in his Arcadia. Shake- speare found there the father, loving, kind hearted, but suspicious, and weak in principle and in mind; the bastard, an ungrateful villain; the legitimate son, a model of filial affection; the attempt of his suspicious and deceived father to kill him; and even the loss of Glouces- ters eyes, and his contrivance to com- mit suicide by getting his son to lead him to the verge of a cliff, whence he might cast himself down: all is there, the incidents, the personages, and their characters. How absurd, then, are the attempts to make out a philoso- phy~ of Shakespeares dramas, to find out their inner life, to show that this or that incident in them had a profound psychological purpose and meaning! He simply took his stories and his per- sonages as he found them, and wrought them into such dramas as he thought would interest the audiences that came to the Globe Theatre. And they were interested in the stories, in the person- ages, and in their fortunes. They read little; and they saw the stories on the stage instead of reading them in a print- ed page. He made the stories thus tell themselves as no man had ever done be- fore, or has done since, or will do here- after. Doing this, he accomplished all his VOL. XLVI. ~o. 273~ 8 purpose, and fulfilled all their desire. The poetry, the philosophy, the revelation of knowledge of the world and of the hu- man heart, in which he has been equaled by no other of the sons of men, were all merely incidental to his purpose of enter- taining his hearers profitably to himself. Being the man that his father had be- gotten him and his mother had borne him, if he did the former he must do the latter. If he made any effort at all, it was as easy for him to write in his way as it was for the other playwrights of his time to write in theirs. He talked as he wrote, and wrote as he talked. One of the few facts that we know con- cerning Shakespeare is this one. Ben Jonson tells it of him. He poured out the rich fruitage of his exhaustless fan- cy and his ever-creating imagination, until his hearers were borne down and overwhelmed with it. And his fellow- actors, in presenting the first authentic edition of his plays to the world, said, And what he thought he uttered with that easinesse that wee have scarce re- ceived from him a blot in his papers. That it was the story that he told upon the stage, and his way of telling it, which interested the public of his day, is shown by the history of the text of this very drama. To us it is a great tragedy, the greatest dramatic poem in all litera- ture; but when its great success created a demand for it to be read as well as seen, it was published as Mr. William Shakespeare his true chronicle historie of the life and death of King Lear and his three daughters, with the unfortunate life of Edgar, sonne and heire to the Earle of Gloster, and his sullen and as- sumed humor of Tom of Bedlam, as it was played, etc. It was not the dra- matic poem, but the true chronicle his- tory, that captivated the public mind, which also was interested, it would seem, no less in the strange masquerade of an earls son in the shape of a Bedlam beg- gar (the least impressive and the least valuable part of the play as a work of 114 King Lear. [July, art) than in the woes of the self - de- throned monarch. But there was an- other drama founded upon the story of King Lear; and the immeasurable supe- riority, in the public judgment, of the new dramatic version of that story is evinced by the anxiety of its publisher to advertise which one he had for sale. The pronoun his was then used as a mere form of the possessive case, as we use the apostrophe with s. Mr. Benjamin Jonson his comedy of Every Man in his Humor meant merely Mr. Benjamin Jonsons comedy, etc. But on the title- pages of the first and of the second edi- tion of this tragedy, his was not only printed in large italic capital letters, but was made a line by itself, thus, MR. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE HIS TRITE CHRONICLE HISTORIE, ETC., in order that the buyer might have no doubt as to which King Lear he was getting. This use of his at that time is unique. Now what was it that this Mr. William Shakespeare, a third-rate, money-making actor at the Globe Theatre at the Bank- side, did to set all London running after his King Lear, in disregard of any other? What it was may be shown by simply comparing two corresponding passages, one in the old play and one in the new, which the readers of Mr. Furnesss edi- tion are enabled to do by his very full abstract of the former, from which he makes copious extracts. In the old play, when King Lear disinherits Cordelia, he says to her, Peace, bastard impe, no issue of King Leir, I will not heare thee speake one tittle more. Call me not father if thou love thy life~ Nor these thy sisters once presume to name: Looke for no helpe henceforth from me or mine; Shift as thou wilt, and trust unto thyself. After Lear, Goneril, and Regan have gone out, Perillus, the Kent of the old play, says, Oh, how I grieve, to see my lord thus fond, To dote so much upon vain flattering words! Ab, if he but with good advice had weighd The hidden tenure of her humble speech, Reason to rage should not have given place, Nor poor Cordelia suffer such disgrace. Let the reader now turn to Shakespeares play (for I cannot spare more room to quotation), and read Lears speech to Cordelia beginning, Let it be so: thy truth then be thy dower, and the after broken dialogue between Lear and Kent, that splendid tilt be- tween tyranny and independence, in which independence for the time goes un- der; and by this brief comparison be will find the great although not the only secret of Shakespeares power revealed. It will be seen (and it is important to re- mark) that the conception of the scene and of the feelings and opinions of the personages was much the same in the writers of both passages. All that Shake- speare did here is suggested by what his predecessor had done. But the work of one is trite, commonplace, dull, flat, stu- pid, dead ; to describe worthily that of the other, in its fitness to the strange, rude scene, in its revelation of the emotions of the speakers, and above all in its ex- uberant vitality, would require a com- mand of words equal to that of him who wrote it. There is no other so grandly fierce an altercation to be found on any page. The mature man at the hundredth reading finds it stir his blood just as it first did when the downy hair of his cold young flesh stood up, as he felt alternately with the despotic old king and with his bold, faithful, loving serv- ant. And yet, regarded in itself, and simply on its merits, the action in this whole scene, excepting that of Kent, is so un- reasonable and unnatural as to be almost absurd; yes, quite absurd. The kings solicitation of the flattery of his daugh- ters is absurd, unworthy of a reasonable creature; the flattery of the elder sisters is nauseously absurd; the reserve of Cordelia is foolishly absurd; the instant change of feeling in the king is absurd 1880.] King Lear. 115 to the verge of incredibility. But for this Shakespeare is not responsible, except in so far as he is made so by the choice of the story. For all this is in the story; and it is the story that is absurd, not Shakespeare. What he did was to see in it its great capability of dramatic treatment, notwithstanding its absurdity. Lears purposed division of his kingdom, his behavior to his daughters and their behavior to him, and his consequent dis- inheritance of the youngest are a postu. late which is not to be questioned. They are absurd, but without their absurdity there would have been no play. Let us accept their absurdity, say nothing, and be thankful. For with the disinheriting of Cordelia the absurdity stops short; it does not last one moment longer; it does not infect one line of any subse- quent speech. To this remark there is one exception, the scene in which Gloucester is deluded into believing that he has thrown himself from Dover cliff. But again, this incident is from the story in Sidneys Arcadia, which Shakespeare used. rrue, he develops and enriches it, and gilds its absurdity with crusted gold of thought and language, but he does not essentially change it; giving thus (for he might have omitted this in- cident or have altered it) an illustration of his habitual copiousness of imagina- tion and of fancy, and of his no less ha- bitual parsimony, if not of his poverty, of constructive skill. In this first scene is deployed the whole potentiality of the tragedy. The germ of every character, the spring of every dramatic motive developed during the whole five acts, is to be found there; and every personage of any importance is there, excepting the Fool and the le- gitimate Edgar, who after all is not a very important or a very dramatic per- son, and who is chiefly interesting to that part of an audience which likes to be called upon to sympathize with vir- tue in distress, and to have its curios- ity excited by seeing a nobleman in the disguise of a beggar. Edgar performs, however, a very useful function as a provocative to the half - insane senten- tiousness of Lear in the hovel and at the farm-house (Act III., Sc. 4 and 6), and as a means to help the progress of the play and to bring it to a close. He is a very good young man; but, like many other good young men, he is not interest- ing in himself; he is only the occasion of our interest in others. The drama neither rests upon him, nor moves by his means; and yet without him it would halt. Among all the personages of the trag- edy who take a sufficient part in the action to fill any space in the minds eye of the reader, or to dwell in his memo- ry, Edgar is the only one whose char- acter and conduct are entirely beyond reproach. For in this play, in which from its first scene to its last our minds are kept upon the stretch of tense anx- iety, the people whose hopes and fears we share and whose woes pierce us with a personal pang are no model men and women. Strength and weakness, good and ill, even nobility and meanness, ap- pear in them side by side, mingled in varying proportions. Like Lears hand, they all smell of mortality. Some, in- deed, as Edmund, Goneril, and Regan, are mere reptiles or wild beasts in hu- man form, and yet even these are not allowed to go entirely without our sym- pathy; but the best of them, Cordelia, is infected with a vice of soul which taints her whole being, until it is purged thence by the sorrow with which it floods her loving heart. The very first scene shows us, as I have said, the characters of all these personages with more or less complete- ness. The very first sentence, Kents speech, I thought the king had more af- fected the Duke of Albany than Corn- wall, shows us that Lear had the gift to know men, as the subsequent conduct of Albany and Cornwall proves. Glouces- ters second speech, in regard to his bas 116 King Lear. [July, tard son and that sons mother, reveals his weakness, the sin which doth most easily beset him, and no less the frank- ness of his nature, his boldness in as- suming the responsibility of his acts, his capacity of love and confidence. Lear comes in, and instantly dominates the scene; somewhat because of his royalty of station, but far more because of his majesty of person and of bearing. At once his grand figure casts a shadow that lies all along his life to its dark end. We readers of Shakespeare know that end; but did we not know it, could we fail to see, or at least to apprehend, what must be the end when that haughty heart, as loving as a womans and as exacting, not content with love in life, but craving assurance of it in flattering words, strips itself of the fact of roy- alty, and, hoping to retain the semblance, lays itself down unshielded by a crown before the claws and fangs of Goneril and Regan, those she-monsters of a dark and monster-bearing age? The man who detected the superior nature of Al- bany in the two suitors who were rec- ommending themselves to his favor, and wbo yet could be willfully blind to the cruelty and selfishness of their wives because they were his daughters, and who could turn in wrath upon his little favorite, his last and least, and disinherit her because she did not pour out in ful- some words the love which he knew she bore him, ethically deserved an end of grief, and was psychologically a fit sub- ject of insanity. And by what marvel- ous untraceable touch of art is it that Shakespeare has conveyed to us that Lear, in his casting off Cordelia, is half conscious all the while that he is do- ing wrong? The intuitive perception of the fitness of such a man to be the central figure in such a tragedy as this, and of the moral righteousness of the afflictions which he lays upon him and the sad inevitableness of the end to which he brings him, is a manifestation of Shakespeares dramatic genius hardly less impressive than his execution of the work itself. Lear, although of a kindly, loving nature, and in certain aspects very grand and noble, is yet largely capable of a very mean passion, revenge, the basest of the three passions the others be- ing pride, and its offspring jealousy which cause the chief misery of human life. Revenge says not to the wrong- doer, You shall do me right, you shall make restoration; those are the words of justice; but, I have suffered, and therefore I wish you to suffer. I will pray in my heart, if not with my tongue, that you may suffer, and if I have my opportunity I will make you suffer at my own hand, although I know that this will do nothing to right the wrong that you have done. Lear, stung by the in- gratitude of Goneril, prays openly, and manifestly prays with his whole heart, that she may undergo all the sorrow and pain that can be borne by woman. It is frightful to hear this old man, in the revulsion of feeling, imprecate mis- ery illimitable upon his own daughter. He prays in general terms for inexpress- ible anguish to fall upon her; he prays for particular ills and pains with horrible and almost loathsome specification All the stored vengeances of Heaven fall On her ingrateful top! Strike her young bones You taking airs with lameness! He has before this poured out the gall of his bitterness upon Goneril herself in what is usually called his curse. But it is not a curse; it is a prayer, a pas- sionate plea to the powers of nature that they will inflict upon her the extremest agony of soul that can be felt by woman. He asks that it may come in all its com- pleteness; he omits nothing, not even the laughter and contempt that women feel so much more keenly than men do. The prayer would shock and revolt the whole world, were it not that it closes with those lines that cause sympathy to flash like a flame from the hearts of all born of woman 1880.] King Lear. 117 that she may feel flow sharper than a serpents tooth it is To have a thankless child! And he deliberately threatens revenge, if we may say that after Gonerils treat- ment of him he does anything deliber- ately No, you unnatural hags, I will have such revenges on you both That all the world shall Twill do such things What they are yet I know not; but they shall be The terrors of the earth. Poor raving, impotent threatener, men- acing others with nameless terrors, him- self condemned to suffer the extremity of grief as the consequence of his own folly, and to die with just enough intel- lect to know the utterness of his misery! His very insanity, or the exciting cause of his insanity, Lear brings upon himself. For he is not driven out into the storm, or driven out at all; although he speaks, and leads others to speak, as if he were, and such has consequently been the general verdict. But after his threat, without one word from Regan or from Cornwall, he rushes into the open, and himself seeks in the storm what is at first a grateful and sympathetic companionship of turbulence (Act III., Sc. 2). Regan will not have any of his hundred knights, but she will take him. Detestable as she and her husband are in their stony, cruel selfishness, we feel that, so far as the kings action is con- cerned, there is some reason in what they say when he turns his back upon them and shelter: Cora. Let us withdraw: twill be a storm. Beg. The house is little; tbe old man and his people Cannot be well bestowed. Cora. T is his own blame; hath put himself from rest And must needs taste his folly. Beg. For his particular, 1 11 receive him gladly; But not one follower. Shakespeare meant that this should be considered, and also intentionally made Lear by exaggeration misrepresent his treatment. And this brings to mind that, except with childish or unreasoning readers, the two elder sisters are at first not alto- gether without reason for the conduct at which he rages himself into frenzy. His proposed sojourn with them alternately, accompanied by a retinue of a hundred knights, was inherently sure to breed confusion and disturbance. Malicious art could not have devised a plan better fitted to bring itself to an end in turmoil and exasperation. It is with some sym- pathy with Goneril that every man or woman of family experience hears her complaint about the throng of men, so disordered, so deboshd and bold, that they made her castle seem like a riot- ous inn. We know that it could not have been otherwise. And yet her fa- ther at once breaks forth, Darkness and devils! Saddle my horses! There is no justification of Lears conduct, hardly any excuse for it, up t~ the time when he rushes out into the storm. He was not insane; he had not even begun to be insane before that time; and after that time we may al- most say that he seeks madness. In the fury of his wrath as an offended king and of his morbid grief as an outraged father, his intellect commits a sort of suicide. As other men throw themselves into the water, he throws himself into the storm, hoping to find oblivion in the counter-irritation of its severity. The robustness of his frame and the strength of his will sustain him for a while; and it is his old brain which first gives way, as he felt that it would, and yet was reckless of the danger. From the time when Lear first shows signs of breaking down, which is in the scene before the hovel (Act III., Sc. 4), where he meets Edgar disguised as poor Tom, I abandon all attempt to fol- low the gradual yet rapid ruin of his mind, which, like some strong and state- ly building sapped at its foundation, first cracks and crUml)les, then yawns apart, and rushes headlong down, scattering its not yet quite dismembered beauties 118 King Lear. into confused heaps; leaving some of them standing in all their majesty, with their riven interiors baldly exposed to view. Others (but I know them not) may have the words in which to picture this destruction; but I confess that I have not, except in the futile way of recording the quickly succeeding stages of the catastrophe and cataloguing the items of the ruins. From this point the action of Lears mind may be appre- hended, may even be comprehended, but to any good purpose, it seems to me, neither analyzed nor described. I can only contemplate it in silence, fascinated by its awfulness and by what all must feel to be its truth. For the strange, in- explicable power of this sad spectacle is that we who have not been insane like Lear, although like him we may have been foolish and headstrong, yet know that here is a true representation of the wreck of a strong nature, which has not fallen into decay, but has been rent into fragments. In the preceding scene Lear is not insane. The speech beginning, Let the great gods That keep this dreadful pother oer our heads Find out their enemies now, merely shows the tension of a mind strained to the last pitch of possible en- durance, like a string upon a musical in- strument which is stretched to the very point of breaking. But the string is not yet broken; the instrument is still in tune. These words at the close of the speech, Tam More sinned against than sinning, show that the speaker is still capable of a logical defense of his own actions; and his next utterance, My wits begin to turn, is evidence that they have not yet turned. Men who are insane believe that they alone are reasonable; and when Lear at last is crazed he makes no allusion to the condition of his intellect. When, at the end of this act, he returns to the feeble semblance of himself, in that pathetic passage in which he rec [July, ognizes Cordelia, he says, I fear I am not in my perfect mind, a sure sign that his mind, although at once senile and childish, is no longer distracted. After this he sinks rapidly; but in his speech to Cordelia, when they are brought in prisoners, in which he says that they will sing in prison like birds in a cage, and laugh at gilded butter- flies, he is not again insane. The tone of his mind has gone; he has passed even the pride of manliness, and has fallen to a point at which he can look upon the remnants of his former self without anger, and even with a gentle pity. Of all the creations of dramatic art this is the most marvelous. Art it must be, and yet art inexplicable. We might rather believe that Shakespeare, when he was writing these scenes, could say in Miltons phrase, Myself am Lear. Strangest, perhaps, of all is the sustained royalty of Lears madness. For Lear, mad or sane, is always kingly. His very faults are those of a good-natured tyrant; and in his darkest hours his wrongs sit crowned and robed upon a throne. In looking upon his disintegrated mind, it is no common structure that we see cast down; it is a palace that lies before our eyes in ruins, a palace, with all it~ splendor, its garniture of sweet and del icate beauty, and its royal and imposing arrogance of build. To us of the present day who have a just appreciation of King Lear it is un- actable, as Lamb has said already. It stands upon too lofty a plane; its emo- tions are too mountainous to be within the reach of mimic art. The efforts of actors of flesh and blood to represent it are as futile as the attempts of the stage carpenter to represent that tempest with the rattling of his sheet-iron and the rum- ble of his cannon-balls. Nor has there been any actor in modern days who united in himself the person and the art required for the presentation of our ideal of King Lear. Garrick was too small; Kean too fiery and gypsy-like; 1880.] King Lear. 119 Kemble was physically fit for it, but too cold and artificial. As to any of the later actors, it is needless to describe the unfitness which they themselves have so ably illustrated. Lears daughters form a trio that live in our minds like three figures of the old mythology. My acquaintance with King Lear began at a time when fairy stories had not lost their interest for me, if indeed they have lost it, or will ever lose it, and I associated Cordelia and her sisters with Cinderella and her sis- ters, and the likeness still lingers with inc. Perhaps there is no other similar- ity than the cruel selfishness of the two elder women and the sweet and tender beauty of the youngest in both stories. And Cordelia, with all her gentle loveli- ness and charm, the influence of which pervades the play as the perfume of a hidden lily of the valley pervades the surrounding air, had one great fault, which is the spring of all the woes of this most woful of all tragedies. That fault was pride, the passion which led to the first recorded murder. Her pride revolted when she saw her royal father accept the sacrifice of her sisters false- hearted flattery; and she shrank from laying down the offering of her true af- fection upon the altar which she felt they had profaned. She let her pride come between her and the father whom she so fondly loved. It was her pride and her determination to subdue her rivals, as much as her filial affection, that led her to invade her country with a foreign army, to restore him to his throne. And with her pride went its often attendant, a propensity to satire, the unloveliest trait that can mar a lovely womans char- acter. When, in the first scene, she demurely says, The jewels of our father, with washd eyes Cordelia leaves you: I know you what you are, etc., we feel that it is sharply said, but also that it might better have been left un said; and we sympathize a little with Regan in her retort, Prescribe not us our duties, and with Goneril in hers, that Cordelia may now best turn her at- tention to pleasing the husband who has received her at fortunes alms. Plu- tarch tells us rightly that ill deeds are forgiven sooner than sharp words. But it must be admitted that Cordelias pride stands her in good stead when, in Hud- sons happy phrase, she so promptly switches off her higgling suitor with Peace be with Burgundy; Since that respects of fortune are his love, I shall not be his wife. But her pride and her speech to her sis- ters helped to destroy her father, and to put a halter round her own neck. Edmund suggests Jago; but with other minor differences, differences of person and of manner, there is this great unlikeness between them: Edmund is not spontaneously malicious; he is only supremely selfish and utterly unscrupu- lous. For he too has a comprehensible reason for his base and cruel actions. It was not his fault that he was illegiti- mate. He was no less his fathers son than Edgar was; and yet he found him- self with a branded stigma upon his name. This is not even a palliation of his villainy; but it is a motive for it that may be understood. lagos vil- lainy is the outcome of pure malignity of nature. He is the Fiend, who has taken a human shape. If Edmund had been born in wedlock, he would still have been a bad man at heart; but he might have lived a reputable life and have done little harm. There are more such reputable men than we suspect. As it is, he uses all his gifts of mind and of person to gain his selfish ends. He has great ability and no scruples, absolutely none. When these qualities are combined, as in him they were com- bined, with a fine person and attractive manners (and as they also were com- bined in Jago), the resulting power for evil is incalculable, almost unlimited. 120 King Lear. [July, But there must be absolutely no scruple. Most of the failures in villainy are the consequence of an imperfect solution be- tween the villain and the sense of right and wrong. He is ready to do much that is evil, but not quite ready to do everything; and there comes a point at which he hesitates, and is lost. Both the sisters feel Edmunds personal at- traction, and respect his courage and en- terprising spirit; and the astute Corn- wall sees his ability, and says to him, iNatures of such deep trust we shall much need. He has a touch of mans nature in him that is absent in Jago. He prizes the preference of women. When he is dying, slain by Edgar, and the bodies of Goneril and Regan are brought in, he says, Yet Edmund was beloved; The one the other poisoned for my sake, And after slew herself. And, as if brought by this feminine in- fluence, bad as it was, within the range of human affections, he instantly does all that he can to stay the execution of his sentence of death upon Lear and Cor- delia. Jago goes out, a cold-blooded, malignant villain to the last. And this suggests to me Shakespeares effort to mitigate the horrors of that re- volting scene in which Gloucesters eyes are torn out. The voice of humanity, otherwise stifled there, is heard in the speech and embodied in the action of the serving-man, who, with words that recall those of Kent to Lear in the first scene, breaks in upon his master, fights him, kills him, and is himself slain by the hand of Regan, an outburst of manhood which is a great relief. Although Shake- speare found the incident of the loss of Gloucesters eyes in the old story, and used it in a way which illustrated at once the savage manners of the time in which his tragedy was supposed to be acted and the cruelty of Cornwall and Regan, he intuitively shrank from leav- ing the scene in its otherwise bare and brutal hideousness. One personage of importance remains who cannot be passed by unconsidered in an attempt to appreciate this drama. It needs hardly to be said that this is the Fool. What Shakespeare did not do, as well as what he did do, as a playwright has no better proof or illustration than in his Fools. He did not invent the person- age; he found it on the stage. Indeed he invented nothing; he added nothing to the drama as he found it; he made noth- ing, not even the story of one of his own plays; he created nothing, save men and women, and Ariels and Calibans. What he did with the Fool was this. This personage is the resultant compound of the Vice, a rude allegorical personage constant in the old Moral Plays, and the court jester. He was a venter of coarse and silly ribaldry, and a player of practical jokes. Only so far back as the time of Shakespeares boyhood the Fools part was in most cases not written, and at the stage direction Stultus loquitur (the Fool speaks) he performed his func- tion extempore; and thus he continued to jape and to caper for the diversion of those who liked horse-play and ribaldry. But Shakespeare saw that the grinning toad bad a jewel in his head, and touch- ing him with his transforming pen shows him to us as he appears in As You Like It, in All s Well that Ends Well, and last of all, and greatest, in King Lear. In this tragedy the Fool rises to heroic proportions, as he must have risen to be in keeping with his surroundings. He has wisdom enough to stock a college of philosophers, wisdom which has come from long experience of the world with- out responsible relations to it. For plainly he and Lear have grown old to- gether. The king is much the older; hut the Fool has the marks of time upon his face as well as upon his mind. They have been companions since he was a boy; and Lear still calls him boy and lad, as he did when he first learned to look kindly upon his young, loving, half- distraught companion. The relations he.. 1880.] Some Recent Novels. 121 tween them have plainly a tenderness which, knowingly to both, is covered, but not hidden, by the grotesque surface of the Fools official function. His whole soul is bound up in his love for Lear and for Cordelia. He would not set his life at a pins fee to serve his master; and when his young mistress goes to France he pines away for the sight of her. When the king feels the consequences of his headstrong folly, the Fool continues the satirical comment which he begins when he offers Kent his coxcomb. So might Touchstone have done; but in a vein more cynical, colder, and without that undertone rather of sweetness than of sadness which tells us that this jester has a broken heart. About the middle of the play the Fool suddenly disappears, making in re- ply to Lears remark, We 11 go to sup- per in the morning, the fitting rejoin- der, And I 11 go to bed at noon. Why does he not return? Clearly for this reason; he remains with Lear dur- ing his insanity, to answer in antiphonic commentary the mad kings lofty ravings with his simple wit and homespun wis- dom: but after that time, when Lear sinks from frenzy into forlorn imbecility, the Fools utterances would have jarred upon our ears. The situation becomes too grandly pathetic to admit the pres ence of a jester, who, unless he is pro- fessional, is nothing. Even Shakespeare could not make sport with the great primal elements of woe. And so the poor Fool sought the little corner where he slept, turned his face to the wall, and went to bed in the noon of his life for the last time functus officio. I see that in the last paragraph I am inconsistent; attributing to Shakespeare, first, a deliberate artistic purpose, and then, with regard to the same object, a dramatic conception, the offspring of sen- timent. Let the inconsistency stand: it becomes him of whom it is spoken. Shakespeare was mightily taken hold of by these creatures of his imagination. and they did before his eyes what he did not at first intend that they should do. True, his will was absolute over his genius, which was subject to him, not he to it; but like a wizard he was some- times obsessed by the spirits which he had willingly called up. In none of his dramas is this attitude of their author so manifest as in this, the largest in conception, noblest in design, richest in substance, and highest in finish of all his works, and which, had he written it alone (if we can suppose the existence of such a sole production), would have set him before all succeeding generations, the miracle of time. Richard Grant White. SOME RECENT NOVELS. ZAC1TARIAH the Congressman i does not deal with the political career of the late Mr. Z. Chandler, but with that of a much humbler person from some vague place in one of the Middle States. Before leaving his rustic home, he be- comes engaged to a young woman, Peg- 1 Zachariak the Congressman. A Tale of American Society. By GILBERT A. PIERCE. Chicago: Donnelley, Gassette, and Loyd. 1880. gy by name, who had been adopted by Zachs parents, apparently to save the expense of a hired girl. In Wash- ington, however, Zach finds it impossi- ble to resist the charms of the beautiful, but as false as beautiful, Miss Marina- luke, an apt name for her, by the way, and he breakt off his home-made en- gagement, although Peggy had been weaning herself from the use of slang

Some Recent Novels 121-126

1880.] Some Recent Novels. 121 tween them have plainly a tenderness which, knowingly to both, is covered, but not hidden, by the grotesque surface of the Fools official function. His whole soul is bound up in his love for Lear and for Cordelia. He would not set his life at a pins fee to serve his master; and when his young mistress goes to France he pines away for the sight of her. When the king feels the consequences of his headstrong folly, the Fool continues the satirical comment which he begins when he offers Kent his coxcomb. So might Touchstone have done; but in a vein more cynical, colder, and without that undertone rather of sweetness than of sadness which tells us that this jester has a broken heart. About the middle of the play the Fool suddenly disappears, making in re- ply to Lears remark, We 11 go to sup- per in the morning, the fitting rejoin- der, And I 11 go to bed at noon. Why does he not return? Clearly for this reason; he remains with Lear dur- ing his insanity, to answer in antiphonic commentary the mad kings lofty ravings with his simple wit and homespun wis- dom: but after that time, when Lear sinks from frenzy into forlorn imbecility, the Fools utterances would have jarred upon our ears. The situation becomes too grandly pathetic to admit the pres ence of a jester, who, unless he is pro- fessional, is nothing. Even Shakespeare could not make sport with the great primal elements of woe. And so the poor Fool sought the little corner where he slept, turned his face to the wall, and went to bed in the noon of his life for the last time functus officio. I see that in the last paragraph I am inconsistent; attributing to Shakespeare, first, a deliberate artistic purpose, and then, with regard to the same object, a dramatic conception, the offspring of sen- timent. Let the inconsistency stand: it becomes him of whom it is spoken. Shakespeare was mightily taken hold of by these creatures of his imagination. and they did before his eyes what he did not at first intend that they should do. True, his will was absolute over his genius, which was subject to him, not he to it; but like a wizard he was some- times obsessed by the spirits which he had willingly called up. In none of his dramas is this attitude of their author so manifest as in this, the largest in conception, noblest in design, richest in substance, and highest in finish of all his works, and which, had he written it alone (if we can suppose the existence of such a sole production), would have set him before all succeeding generations, the miracle of time. Richard Grant White. SOME RECENT NOVELS. ZAC1TARIAH the Congressman i does not deal with the political career of the late Mr. Z. Chandler, but with that of a much humbler person from some vague place in one of the Middle States. Before leaving his rustic home, he be- comes engaged to a young woman, Peg- 1 Zachariak the Congressman. A Tale of American Society. By GILBERT A. PIERCE. Chicago: Donnelley, Gassette, and Loyd. 1880. gy by name, who had been adopted by Zachs parents, apparently to save the expense of a hired girl. In Wash- ington, however, Zach finds it impossi- ble to resist the charms of the beautiful, but as false as beautiful, Miss Marina- luke, an apt name for her, by the way, and he breakt off his home-made en- gagement, although Peggy had been weaning herself from the use of slang 122 Same Recent Novels. [July, and the habit of singing popular melo- dies, and had tried to improve her mind by reading Mills Political Economy, at Zachs recommendation. Possibly, it was his interest in this book that threw him into disgrace. If he had only cast the weight of his authority on the side of our own Mr. Carey, he would not have been dragged before the investigating committee. To be sure, he was finally acquitted, and once more met the jilted Peggy, who had risen so high as an artist as to be commissioned by the government, and thus made fa- mous. Zachariah married her, and the pair went to live on a farm, having had enough of politics. The novel, if it can be called a novel, is written in as simple a way as if it were meant for children; but it shows a dim capacity on the part of the author for something like real work. The book has about as much literary merit as a Sunday- school story, and bears the same relation to genuine literature that the work of the jig-saw does to artistic carving. Her Ladyship 1 is not much better. It is full of movement, certainly, and there is shown some power of con- structing a story out of abundant inci- dents. The scene is laid in the Shenan- doah Valley, and the time is that of the late war, so that incidents were to be had for very little trouble; but as for the people, the less said the better. The heroine, who is meant to represent all the archness of the female sex, is like a giggling school-girl in a horse-car. She had fallen in love with a youth from Ohio when she was at school in New York, without knowing his name, or speaking a word to him, or more than exchanging simpers with him when they met in the street. Still, if the author is not more than seventeen years old, there are hopes for her; for besides the 1 Her Ladyship. Cincinnati: Peter G. Thom- son. 1880. 2 How She Won Him; or, The Bride of Charm- vulgarity of the book, there is some faint humor in it. If the writer will go through a course of, say, Mrs. Oliphant, she will perhaps see the difference be- tween her flimsy little story and good work; but this is asking an amount of toil that is repulsive to the independ- ence of genius. Young people who like to talk to their parents in the fashion quoted be- low will probably get much delight from D. A. Moores I-low She Won Him.2 Others may decide for them- selves about the value of the book. Here is the passage Dear mother, I am not loath to trust your judgment, or to accept your con- clusions. My feelings, for the present, I cannot control. 1 feel the weight of a crushing blow upon my spirits. The very air seems thick and heavy. The summons to leave forever our dear home, with all its pleasant and sacred associa- tions, seems to me almost like a message from the court of death. Certainly, the newly-invented natu- ralism has not yet tainted D. A. Moore. Mr. W. 0. Stoddard is a man of a very different sort. He has compara- tively much to say, and he expresses it often commendably well. His novel, rrhe Heart of It,3 is by no means a great book, and doubtless the author knows this perfectly well, but it is readable, and, as a first production, it is not with. out promise. There are picturesque things in the book, especially in some of the scenes laid in the West, where the lonely explorer finds a wonderful mine and escapes from the Apaches, and there are various bits about certain corners of city life; but in general the closer we come to civilization the more conven- tional does the treatment become. As to the abundant marriages that close the volume, there is not one on which it is ing Valley. By D. A. MOORE. Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson and Brothers. 5 The Heart of It. By W. 0. STODDARn. New York: G. P. Putnams Sons. 1880. 1880.] Some Recent Novels. 123 possible to offer very sincere congratu- lations: for Mrs. Boyce, so far as she is a living person, is but a sly and cat-like woman, who exults in defrauding her first husbands creditors; one of the girls marries a man who has been a tramp as well as an opium-eater; and the other girl has served part of her time on Blackwells Island for drunkenness, be- ing the victim of an insane thirst for strong liquors. To be sure, it is not to be expected that everybody shall marry a faultless person, but this is a profuse supply of objectionable qualities. The author will probably find in time that the novelist has better employment for his pen than inculcating wholesale mat- rimony, and by careful writing and more thorough study of character he will make novels that are more than a con- genes of. incidents and accidents. How a large number of characters can be managed by a clever novelist may be seen in the late Miss Kearys A Doubting Heart.1 This novel, which did not receive the authors final revis- ion, is too long, and at the end a little clumsy in construction, but in other re- spects it is deserving of all praise, so life-like are the people brought into it, so natural are most of the conditions in which they are placed, so exact is the record of their conversations. One per- ceives from such novels as this, especial- ly in comparison with those already mentioned above, how superior is the general supply of English novels to the run of those written in this country. After the pallid imitations of life that are to be found in the stories just spoken of, this Doubting heart reads like a work of genius. But it is not that, by any means; it is only a story, carefully thought out, by a woman who knows the world well, and is not above taking great pains. There are as poor novels written in England as anywhere, but A Doubting Heart. A Novel. By Ai~n~ KEARY. New York: Harper and Brothers. 1880. the number of good ones is most con- vincing testimony to the intelligence and care of a number of writers. Mademoiselle de Mersac 2i~ another story which, it is much to be feared, will not be so well known as it deserves. The author is a comparatively obscure person, but he has written one of the best novels that has appeared for some time. The heroine is a French girl, liv- ing, at the time the novel opens, in Al- giers, and her lovers are two: one a French officer, a man no longer young, who has no very savory reputation, to be sure, but is yet a man of the kind- est heart and most tender nature; while the other is a young Englishman, with certain attractive qualities, that by no means outweigh his odious selfishness, conceit, and arrogance. The very skill with which the different characters are drawn acts adversely to the general popularity of the book; for the reader who is accustomed to poorer work and to a dishonest huddling aside of the heros, faults will find it hard to judge of people whose merits and defects are intermingled as they are in real life. Cynics may have observed that all the engagements they hear about are those of faultlessly beautiful young women to perfect young men, and those are the people about whom novels are gene rally written. Here, however, we have very careful studies of character, and of the complications that depend for their ex- istence on the nature of the persons whose fate is described. Yet the prob- lem is not complicated by a dead weight of ethical considerations, as in George Eliots later novels, over which morality hangs like a heavy pall; but the ques- tion simply is how these two men strike this simple, good, but somewhat cold and self-absorbed girl. The reader can- not avoid the suspicion that the author meant her to be more attractive than 2 Mademoiselle de Mersac. A Novel. New York: Harper and Brothers. 1880. 124 Some Recent Novels. [July, she actually is, but that may be a mis- take; at any rate, though she is not ex- ceedingly attractive, she is yet very in- teresting, and no one can avoid curiosity about her fate. The termination of the story is disappointing, but it is, perhaps, the only one possible; and is it not, after all, less sad than either of the other alternative endings? Why a novel of the importance and excellence of this one should be less popular than White Wings a commonplace novel diluted with salt water it is not easy to say. In Mademoiselle de Mersac we find an admirable choice of opposite characters and a capital study of living people. Yet there are novels and novels, and anything more fictitious, more remote from the observations of life, than Hal, the Story of a Clodhopper, it would be hard to find. The scene is laid in New England, but the story is as inexact as would be a picture of that part of the country representing a volcano in active eruption, with pirates capturing the in- habitants who were setting out to sea in gondolas. This effect is the more sin- gular because the author has tried to bring verisimilitude into his book by descriptions of living persons, who can hardly feel flattered at being written about as some people are written about in so-called society journals; but even this device fails to make a pleasant im- pression on the reader. The clodhop- per is first introduced to us when en- gaged in the congenial occupation of hoeino; but in the course of two hundred pages, after seven years at Heidelberg, he became a great man, and found his level with the best men of the country. Whatever this man says and does has God in it. . . . He stands with one foot planted on revealed religion and the other on advanced science, and so 1 Hal: The Story of a Clodhopper. ByW. M. F. ROUND, Author of Child Marian Abroad, Ach- sah, etc. Boston: Lee and Shepard. 1880. 2 A Wayward Woman. A Novel. By AR- THTIJR GRIFFITHS, Author of Lola, etc. New York: Harper and Brothers. 1880. standing defies devils, no matter in what form they come. He writes books; he delivers addresses; he gives courses of lectures. . . . His theology wears a Phrygian cap. One of his lectures to truth-seekers is on The Mystery of Love. No one who has read the Boston Daily Advertiser on Wednesday mornings for the last few years can have much doubt about who the clod- hopper becomes; and another character, Boynton Ellis, turns into another well- known gentleman, under the magic of this authors pen. As to the taste of these liberties with individuals, opinions may differ, although, on the other hand, they may not differ. A Wayward Woman2 is not a novel of the highest kind, far from it, but it is certainly entertaining, as novels go; there is plenty of incident, and at times the talk of the people is clever and amusing. The heroine possesses every charm, and her general attractiveness is enlivened by a sort of innocent fastness; she has a long train of lovers, but the chosen one is an exceedingly accom- plished, impossible painter, who is like the hero of a good many womens nov- els. The perturbations of his courtship and the incidents of their married life make up the book, which has no serious merit, but will serve admirably to kill time. Miss Woolsons volume of short sto- ries about Southern life ~ is an interest- ing proof of the abundance of unused material in our unwieldy country, that is simply awaiting the novelist to put it into shape and give it standing. Flor- ida and South Carolina are the regions that have inspired this author, and the local coloring is well given. At times, however, some of the people who are introduced give the reader quite as much 8 Ilodm.ass the Keeper. Southern Sketches. By CORSTANCE FENIMORE WooLsoN, Author of Castle Nowhere, Two Women, etc. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1880. 1880.] Some Recent Novels. 125 an impression of strangeness as does any wonder of semi-tropical vegetation; and this we must regret, for the writer of fic- tion should above everything set people before us whom we can at least under- stand. The cantrips of Miss Gardis Duke, for instance, which are only matched by the scornful airs of Miss Bettina Ward, the minx-like heroine of Rodman the Keeper, read like what one finds oftener in poor novels than in real life. This young person, Miss Duke, is a little chit, who, in extreme poverty, imitates the splendors of her former opulence, and gives the rough edge of her saucy tongue to two of her lovers, Union officers, who just after the late war are stationed near her house. She invites them to dinner, and then, when they are gone, she burns up the shabby finery in which she had received them. So perish also the en- emies of my country! she said to her- self. Certainly, this little cat is not a very impressive person, and it is not ea.~y to interest ones self in such a lump of affectation; but Miss Woolson seems to take her at her own pompous valua- tion, and to see heroism in her imitation of tawdry novels. Finally, she steps down from her pinnacle of conceit, and marries one of the officers, and we have no doubt that by this time she has satis- factorily taken vengeance for everything that happened during the war. Sister St. Luke, after a tornado has swamped the boat in which were two young men, sees them clinging to a dis- tant reef. As ignorant of the art of navigation as of the game of baccarat, she wades through water waist-deep, gets into a little boat, and sails out to timin in a terrible wind. This she does al- though morbidly timid. In fact, she could more easily have thrown a hawser a mile or two and have hauled them in to shore. King David, on the other hand, is a 1 Captain Fracasse. From the French of Twit- OPHILE GAUTIER. By M. M. RIPLEY. New York: Henry Holt & Co. 1880. life-like account of the sufferings of a Yankee school-master among the freed- men, whom he in vain tries to educate. In this sketch there is no exaggeration; no inclination toward the use of melo- dramatic devices, such as are only too apt to make their appearance in the other stories. Miss Woolson certainly deserves credit for her perception of the picturesque contrasts that the South af- fords. She has at least pointed out a region where much can be done, and where she can herself do good work if she will keep closer to the record. The translation of Th& ~ophile Gauti- ers Captain Fracasse 1 is something for which readers of novels should be pro- foundly grateful, for it is as readable a romance as one can lay ones hand on; and in these days, when writers of nov- els so often take photography for their model, it is agreeable to read the work of a man who has a really artistic pleas- ure in describing the adventures, as well as the surroundings of men and women. The time of the story is set in the reign of Louis XIII., and the scene is laid in France. The wanderings of a company of errant actors, their love-making and quarreling, their successes and failures, their carousing and starving, form the incidents, and they are all described with most loving care and very attractive enthusiasm. The book is one that it is best to read in French, for Gautier is so careful a writer that it is impossible that some of his charm should not be lost in the rendering. Yet the trans- lator has succeeded admirably in her work, and deserves warm praise for her care and accuracy. Mr. Jamess Confidence 2 is really not a novel, but a study of an ingeniously devised situation, that is analyzed and described with the utmost skill. To take the work too seriously, as a profound treatise on life, would be a lamentable 2 Confidence. By HENRY JAMES, JR. Bos- ton: Houghton, Osgood & Co. 1880. 126 American Colonial ffi8tor~y. [July, mistake; it is a sketch of the mutual re- lations of half a dozen people, whom we get to understand better than we do most of our acquaintances. They are a set of life-like figures, whose positions in regard to one another are distinctly drawn, and watching their movements is like looking at a well-played game of chess. And as in this but little atten- tion could be given to the observer who should complain that, while the castle moved in straight lines and the bishop on the diagonals, the knight was to be condemned for his irregular gait, so in speaking of the book one feels that it is ones duty to take it for what it pretends to be, and not to demand, as some have done, that this light and graceful struct- ure should be overburdened with moral teaching or social ethics. One might as well lament that it throws no light on Mr. Jamess views concerning the third term. As a bit of what may be called social imagination, the story is deserving of high praise. From very slender mate- rials Mr. James has woven a complicated plot about the distinctly defined heroes and heroin~es, and the ins and outs of the game form as entertaining a book as one can care to read. The main hero, Ber- nard Longueville, is the thoughtful, clev- er fellow, the observer, who is not un- commonly found in Mr. Jamess stories; and we have, too, a new specimen of the large class of chattering American girls, one Blanche Evers, whose artless prattle is capitally given. The other heroine is of sterner stuff, a really seri- ous character, and her mother is the well-known American matron, who when well on in years does her hair in as com- plicated involutions as if she were a girl in her teens. The relations in which these people stand to one another are sufficiently intricate, and their social skirmishing does them credit. The chief heroine, Angela, plays her part with es- pecial skill; her swift comprehension of the position in which she is placed in regard to the two men which should serve as a warning against those un- healthy alliances and her handling of the tangled threads at the end of the book are certainly entertaining reading. More than this, the change in Bernard from the position of willful observation to that of a partaker in the game is dis- tinctly well drawn. In execution, the story is of course most admirable; it runs on brightly, and he will be a hardened reader of fiction who does not feel something like breath- less interest in the story. The dortn6e of the book is a light one, to be sure, and we are no less grateful for the amusement to be got from it when, un- der the inspiration of the miasmatic conscience of New England, we ask that Mr. James should not confine himself to those simply entertaining, though ex- ceedingly entertaining, novels, but that, with his generous equipment for the task, he give us novels of a higher flight. AMERICAN COLONIAL HISTORY. THE name of John Camden ilotten appeared as that of editor on the title- page of a work, published in 1874, which professed to give the original lists of a large number of emigrants, exiles, ad- venturers, and felons who came to this country in the seventeenth century. The most important part of the material had already been given in a less sumpt- uous form by S. G. Drake and James Savage, the latters work being appar- ently unknown to Mr. Hotten; but the

American Colonial History 126-130

126 American Colonial ffi8tor~y. [July, mistake; it is a sketch of the mutual re- lations of half a dozen people, whom we get to understand better than we do most of our acquaintances. They are a set of life-like figures, whose positions in regard to one another are distinctly drawn, and watching their movements is like looking at a well-played game of chess. And as in this but little atten- tion could be given to the observer who should complain that, while the castle moved in straight lines and the bishop on the diagonals, the knight was to be condemned for his irregular gait, so in speaking of the book one feels that it is ones duty to take it for what it pretends to be, and not to demand, as some have done, that this light and graceful struct- ure should be overburdened with moral teaching or social ethics. One might as well lament that it throws no light on Mr. Jamess views concerning the third term. As a bit of what may be called social imagination, the story is deserving of high praise. From very slender mate- rials Mr. James has woven a complicated plot about the distinctly defined heroes and heroin~es, and the ins and outs of the game form as entertaining a book as one can care to read. The main hero, Ber- nard Longueville, is the thoughtful, clev- er fellow, the observer, who is not un- commonly found in Mr. Jamess stories; and we have, too, a new specimen of the large class of chattering American girls, one Blanche Evers, whose artless prattle is capitally given. The other heroine is of sterner stuff, a really seri- ous character, and her mother is the well-known American matron, who when well on in years does her hair in as com- plicated involutions as if she were a girl in her teens. The relations in which these people stand to one another are sufficiently intricate, and their social skirmishing does them credit. The chief heroine, Angela, plays her part with es- pecial skill; her swift comprehension of the position in which she is placed in regard to the two men which should serve as a warning against those un- healthy alliances and her handling of the tangled threads at the end of the book are certainly entertaining reading. More than this, the change in Bernard from the position of willful observation to that of a partaker in the game is dis- tinctly well drawn. In execution, the story is of course most admirable; it runs on brightly, and he will be a hardened reader of fiction who does not feel something like breath- less interest in the story. The dortn6e of the book is a light one, to be sure, and we are no less grateful for the amusement to be got from it when, un- der the inspiration of the miasmatic conscience of New England, we ask that Mr. James should not confine himself to those simply entertaining, though ex- ceedingly entertaining, novels, but that, with his generous equipment for the task, he give us novels of a higher flight. AMERICAN COLONIAL HISTORY. THE name of John Camden ilotten appeared as that of editor on the title- page of a work, published in 1874, which professed to give the original lists of a large number of emigrants, exiles, ad- venturers, and felons who came to this country in the seventeenth century. The most important part of the material had already been given in a less sumpt- uous form by S. G. Drake and James Savage, the latters work being appar- ently unknown to Mr. Hotten; but the 1880.] American Cotonial History. 127 lists brought together in this form were conveniently arranged, and showed an attempt at exactness. It cannot be said, indeed, that either Mr. Hotten or his antiquarian assistants were always com- petent to decipher the cacography of her majestys public records, and the guesses in the foot-notes were not always those of a trained student; but our business just now is not with the first edition, but with the second, recently put out by Mr. Bouton.1 This publisher was the Amer- ican publisher also of the first edition, and took out a copyright of it. His rights in the second edition are other- wise protected. No publisher, however speculatively inclined, would have any temptation to copy this new issue. We are not so exacting as to ask that a sec- ond edition should correct any deficien- cies in the first; we are even willing that the publisher shall, when he binds a new lot, insert a new title-page and try for fresh buyers who may like to be- lieve that they have a later book than the first buyers; but we had the curiosity to compare the second edition with the first, to see what changes, if any, have been made. It was not long before we were rewarded in the search. The con- tents and introduction were the same in both cases, but the half title following disclosed something odd. The first edi- tion had a black letter and apparently fac-simile title, which was modernized and abridged and altered in the second. Had the first edition been too hard to read? A comparison of names showed that the lists varied widely. We shall not trouble the reader with illustrations. The game is not worth the candle. But let any one who has the two editions compare the lists on page 46. In the 1 Our Early Emigrant Ancestors. The Origi- nal Lists of Persons of Quality; Emigrants; Re- ligious Exiles; Political Rebels; Serving Men sold for a Term of Years; Apprentices; Children Stolen; Maidens Pressed; and others who went from Great Britain to the American Plantations, 16001700. With their ages, the localities where they formerly lived in the mother country, the second edition there is a hopeless snarl; in the first the difficulties all disappear, and a reference to Savages copy 2 shows. that the first edition had been tolerably accurate and intelligible, the second con- fused like the work of an ignorant copy- ist. Passing rapidly through the vol- ume, it was plain at a glance that in the first edition an effort had been made to be literally exact, even to the copy- ing of obsolete characters and marks; in the second edition, all this care and accuracy had been abandoned. In one instance only was there an agreement. Pages 197199 of the first edition and pages 196198 of the second agreed, al- though the same type was not used. But all these discrepancies suddenly ceased at the bottom of page 400. From that point to the end of the vol- ume the two editions were identical. The index, therefore, was the same in both editions, but the feat was not per- formed by which it was made to do ser- vice for the widely varying pages up to page 400. It answered only to the first edition. By this examination it was established conclusively that the first edition was far more careful and complete than the sec- ond. We deduce the following history of the book, which may or may not be true. Mr. Hotten, at some ones in- stigation, undertook the publication of~ these lists. When the printing had got as far as page 400, it was discovered that the compiler was an ignorant blun- derer, and that the sheets were worth- less. Mr. Ilotten then had them re- vised or rewritten and again printed, carefully saving the canceled sheets. Mr. Hotten died. The first edition was exhausted. Mr. Bouton, or somebody names of the ships in which they embarked, and other interesting particulars. From MSS. pre- served in the State Paper Department of Her Maj- estys Public Record Office, England. Edited by Josue CAMDEN HOTTEN. Second Edition. New York: J. W. Bonton. 1880. 2 Mass. His. Soc. Coll., third series, vol. viii. 128 American Colonial ifietory. [July, imposing on Mr. Bouton, then discov- ered the canceled shqets, prefaced the available introduction and contents, pieced them out with sheets left over from the first edition, pasted in a new title-page with second on it, bound the book cheaply, and issued it at a lower price as a second edition of The Origi- nal Lists. It is very evident that all the classes named in the book did not come over in the seventeenth century. It is a pity that Mr. Arnold, in his Life of Benedict Arnold, should have been haunted throughout the book by the thought of Arnolds treachery, for he has succeeded in rendering the reader thoroughly uncomfortable by his inces- sant reference to that melancholy fact. He begins by admitting the full enormity of the crime, and assures the reader that he has no intention of palliating it, and he wrings his hands over it at every turn. He never mentions a gallant act or a piece of recklessness by Arnold and Arnolds early career was brilliant with points of daring but he stops to la- ment, Oh, had Arnold but died now! Then he would have been embalmed in the memories of his countrymen, or words to that effect. The book is spoiled as a biography by its constant effort to balance Arnolds patriotism and treason. The author sets out with solemn protes- tations that nothing shall induce him to lessen the guilt of the traitor, and he is as good as his word; but instead of tell- ing Arnolds life in a straightforward way, and attempting to trace the half- hidden character which finally declared itself in the base act, he reads the inci- dents of his career only to discover the praiseworthy qualities of the man as a set-off against his crime. He grants that Arnolds one piece of iniquity has justl~r covered his name with disgrace, but complains that it has also led people ever since to paint him as one unvarying shade of blackness. But Arnolds au- 1 The Life of Benedict Arnold: His Patriotism and his Treason. By ISAAc N. ARNOLD, author dacity and impetuous courage, which are nearly all the striking virtues which re- main to him, have never lacked recog- nition, and his brilliant exploits in the Canada expedition, at Valcour Island, and at Bemis Heights have again and again received the praise of historians. The book is more of an apology for Ar- nold than the writer seems to intend. In his wish to do him full justice he has sometimes been blind in one eye. Thus, in recording the anecdotes of his boyhood and youth, indicative of his cruelty, Mr. Arnold hurries by them to remind us how bold and daring he was. One of his earliest amusements, writes Sparks, whom Arnold in these anecdotes seems to follow, was the robbing of birds-nests, and it was his custom to maim and mangle young birds in sight of the old ones, that he might be diverted by their cries. Arnold gives it: It has been said . . . that one of his amusements was the robbing of birds- nests and torturing the young birds. Certainly, he adds, if the mischiev- ous robbing of birds-nests is to be re- garded as conclusive proof of total de- pravity, and if, among the critics of Ar- nold, only those who had in thoughtless boyhood been guiltless of this cruelty should throw the first stone, there would probably be fewer harsh judges of his boyish freaks than have appeared. This is not a very important matter, but we cite it as illustrating two or three un- fortunate defects in Mr. Arnolds meth- od as a historian. He generalizes where his predecessor has given specific facts; he suppresses the real gravamen of the charge; he appears to make no critical inquiry into the actual facts; and he abuses the counsel on the other side. Again, while giving with substantial accuracy the facts relating to Arnolds exploits at Ticonderoga, he manages to throw such a coloring over them as to give the impression that Arnold was a of Life of Abraham Lincoln. Chicago: Jansen, McClurg & Co. 1880. 1880.] American Colonial history. 129 much-abused man and a lofty patriot, ignoring the freebooting character of his movements, and above all silent upon the significant point, so illustrative of Arnolds character, of his threatened withdrawal of his vessels and mutinous followers to St. Johns, for the purpose of delivering them over to the enemy, if he could not carry out his plans. Mr. Arnold dwells much upon the ingrati- tude and hostility constantly shown to- ward Arnold, and the effect which these had upon his loyalty to the country, but he fails to give due weight to the impor- tant charges of dishonesty and pecula- tion which somehow seemed always to be springing up against him, and which stick to his character as pitilessly as similar charges have held on to the garments of a general in the late war. We wish, for example, he had followed the clew re- garding Arnolds course in Philadelphia which is offered in Judge Peterss letter to Colonel Pickering, referred to in Rec- ollections of Samuel Breck, page 214. In general, Mr. Arnold does not seem to us to have employed a true method of historical criticism. His book is too deliberately a special plea for Arnold. It does not add materially to our knowledge of the facts of Arnolds life, although it gives details not to be found in Sparks or Hill; it does not offer any new insight into his character, and it is written in a heavy, bungling style. The best that can be said of it is that upon his own showing Arnold was quite as unlovable a man as history has generally represented him. The outcome of the book is substantially what has been ac- cepted hitherto, that Arnold was a mean traitor; nobody is going to believe now, any more than before, that his charac- ter from first to last underwent any es- sential change. His daring has always been conceded, but no one will accept it as a condonation or palliation of his treason. Mr. Arnolds mistake is in 1 The Readers Handbook of the American Revolution. 17611783. By JUSTIN WINsOR, VOL. XLVI. NO. 278. 9 supposing that physical courage and im- petuous dash are very high or determin- ing elements of character. There is yet room for a life of Arnold which shall so use historical material as to construct coolly and impartially a character and career which are capable of a more acute analysis than they have yet re- ceived. The work, however, is not a very enviable one. It is the meanness of Arnolds nature which renders it es- sentially unattractive to men. The most interesting contribution which the book makes to American history is doubtless the appendix, which contains for the first time a copy of Thoughts on the American War, drawn up by General Arnold for the king, and furnished to the biographer by Arnolds grandson, the Rev. Edward Gladwin Arnold. The book is neatly printed and bound, but not always carefully read in proof. Mr. Winsors Handbook1 comes just too late to meet the demand of those who were touched by the Centennial fe- ver, but in its present full form could not have been made earlier, since many of the authorities to which it refers the student have been made accessible un- der the diligence and enthusiasm of so- cieties and scholars which the Centen- nial fever stimulated when it did not in- spire. We do not mean that this inter- est in our history was ephemeral, but that it was associated with anniversaries and celebrations which gave profitable occasion for historic study and writing. The memoranda published in the Bulle- tin of the Boston Public Library, when Mr. Winsor was superintendent, are the basis of this volume, and the more complete, orderly, and detailed form here presented accords with the perma- nent use which the book will serve. The memoranda were notes for the use of readers who were eager to ransack history for material which should en- able them to keep pace, at a hundred Librarian of Harvard University. Boston: Hough- ton, Osgood & Co. 1880. 130 Scherers Diderot. [July, years distance, with the march of events so significant as those attending the war for independence. Here, within the com- pass of a neat, compact volume, the stu- dent of history may find minutely noted, in chronological succession, the great body of books, articles, records, diaries, to which he must turn for authority. The Handbook, in the felicitous phrase of its compiler, is like a continuous foot-note to all histories of the American Revolution. From the writs of assist- ance to the cessation of hostilities, the literature of every step in the struggle is indicated, fully, intelligibly, and ac- curately. All this is done, moreover, in so familiar and agreeable a manner that the book is almost readable, and certainly is far more likely to entice the student than a mere formal bibliog- raphy. The book is valuable not only for what it is, but for the substantial argu- ment which its form presents in favor of the study of history by individual in- vestigation. It is beginning to be un- derstood that the history which one makes his own by research is a much more positive part of education than that which one acquires through attentive reading of comprehensive works. The extent to which quite young students, even, may carry the principle of inde- pendent investigation is far greater than many imagine, and we have to thank the scientific revival of the day for teaching the teachers the value of methods by which a student is made to master and classify facts, not to accept merely the generalizations of others. This Hand- book points the way to the right course of historical study, and it is a most use- ful book to put into the hands of young readers. It is a clew by which they may find their way through the labyrinth. To quote again from the preface: I am no great advocate of courses of read- ing. It often matters little what the line of ones reading is, provided it is pursued, as sciences are most satisfac- torily pursued, in a comparative way. The reciprocal influences, the broaden- ing effect, the quickened interest arising from a comparison of sources and au- thorities, I hold to be marked benefits from such a habit of reading. We trust that the reception given to the book will justify the ~ompiler in carrying out hi~ project of a series, upon the same gen- eral plan, covering themes of history, biography, travel, philosophy, science,. literature, and art. SCHERERS DIDEROT. IT is now about ten years since M. Scherer entered politics, and for party gave up what was meant for mankind. During this time he has worked enthu- siastically for the interests of his coun- try, but we cannot help regretting the loss that literature has suffered from his comparative abandonment of writing. He is without doubt the leading French critic now living, and of late years he has published so little on literary mat- ters, at least, and at a time when the most authoritative voice has been that of Zola praising his own writings, that we feel justified in our impatience at the sense of duty which has kept him occu- pied with other things. We feel as if some one else could have hilled his chair in the senate, while there has been no one in France who so combines knowl- edge, taste, and authority in literary matters. Scherer has the great merit that he is familiar with other literatures than

Scherer's Diderot 130-134

130 Scherers Diderot. [July, years distance, with the march of events so significant as those attending the war for independence. Here, within the com- pass of a neat, compact volume, the stu- dent of history may find minutely noted, in chronological succession, the great body of books, articles, records, diaries, to which he must turn for authority. The Handbook, in the felicitous phrase of its compiler, is like a continuous foot-note to all histories of the American Revolution. From the writs of assist- ance to the cessation of hostilities, the literature of every step in the struggle is indicated, fully, intelligibly, and ac- curately. All this is done, moreover, in so familiar and agreeable a manner that the book is almost readable, and certainly is far more likely to entice the student than a mere formal bibliog- raphy. The book is valuable not only for what it is, but for the substantial argu- ment which its form presents in favor of the study of history by individual in- vestigation. It is beginning to be un- derstood that the history which one makes his own by research is a much more positive part of education than that which one acquires through attentive reading of comprehensive works. The extent to which quite young students, even, may carry the principle of inde- pendent investigation is far greater than many imagine, and we have to thank the scientific revival of the day for teaching the teachers the value of methods by which a student is made to master and classify facts, not to accept merely the generalizations of others. This Hand- book points the way to the right course of historical study, and it is a most use- ful book to put into the hands of young readers. It is a clew by which they may find their way through the labyrinth. To quote again from the preface: I am no great advocate of courses of read- ing. It often matters little what the line of ones reading is, provided it is pursued, as sciences are most satisfac- torily pursued, in a comparative way. The reciprocal influences, the broaden- ing effect, the quickened interest arising from a comparison of sources and au- thorities, I hold to be marked benefits from such a habit of reading. We trust that the reception given to the book will justify the ~ompiler in carrying out hi~ project of a series, upon the same gen- eral plan, covering themes of history, biography, travel, philosophy, science,. literature, and art. SCHERERS DIDEROT. IT is now about ten years since M. Scherer entered politics, and for party gave up what was meant for mankind. During this time he has worked enthu- siastically for the interests of his coun- try, but we cannot help regretting the loss that literature has suffered from his comparative abandonment of writing. He is without doubt the leading French critic now living, and of late years he has published so little on literary mat- ters, at least, and at a time when the most authoritative voice has been that of Zola praising his own writings, that we feel justified in our impatience at the sense of duty which has kept him occu- pied with other things. We feel as if some one else could have hilled his chair in the senate, while there has been no one in France who so combines knowl- edge, taste, and authority in literary matters. Scherer has the great merit that he is familiar with other literatures than 1880.] the French; and although some people maintain and with a certain amount of plausibility that a critic only incapaci- tates himself for fully appreciating the work of his fellow-countrymen by linger- ing over foreign models and learning to admire foreign graces, it is yet to be re- membered that, so long as writers are moved by the example of what is done in other countries, they cannot them- selves be fully understood except by those who trace their inspiration back to its original source. Who, for instance, can fairly comprehend the German lit- erature of the last hundred years with- out knowing something of that of France and England? How satisfactory is that mans knowledge of Pope and his school who is ignorant of the literature of the reign of Louis XIV.? Popes method of writing was but the outgrowth of French influence, and to discuss his formal accuracy without making this plain is to commit an error of omission. With what intelligence Scherer writes of foreign literature is evident from the essays on Goethe and Milton, that Mr. Matthew Arnold condensed and made the subject of his comments in two pa- pers, bound up in his Mixed Essays. In this volume, Scherer gives us a brief study of Diderot, taking for his text the new edition in twenty large volumes that has just appeared in Paris. This edition, the larger part of which came out under the care of M. Ass~zat, who died after finishing the sixteenth volume, may be taken as a final one. It is a great improvement on the best of those that had preceded it, and contains a new and doubtless more correct ver- sion of the Neveu de Rameau. A book about Diderot can hardly fail to be of value, because he is not one of those writers whom it is desirable, or even, one might almost say, possible, to read through. His work is of such differ- ent degrees of merit and treats of so 1 Diderot. Etude. Par EDMOND SCHERER. Paris: C. Levy. Boston: C. Schbnliof. 1880. 131 great a variety of subjects that the in- terest of most readers would evaporate in the vain attempt to read every word he wrote. His work was above all things scattering, and it is by taking him up and reading him here and there that one gets the most good from this re- markable man. He was in the first place a talker, and one of the charms that his writing has is its resemblance to talk. Of beauty of style, of graceful or really eloquent lan- guage, there is commonly no trace; but we find, instead, Diderot himself tell- ing us his views, or some incident of his life, often with a fascinating vigor, but seldom with the marked literary grace that we are accustomed to look upon as an essential quality of all French men of letters. More than this, he pours forth his ideas on art, literature, life, philosophy, with abundant fluency, con- tradicting himself, perhaps, at different times, and again abandoning himself to empty rhetoric, but more frequently sur- prising the reader with his novelty, truth, and ingenuity. He was one of the first of men to write naturally about art; many of his remarks on literature are of use; and few writers have left a study of life that can compare in force with Rameaus Nephew. He wrote well about the drama, but his own plays were unsuccessful on the stage, and are now practically unreadable. Then, too, much of his work was of a sort that is treated tenderly when it is called disgusting. Yet the fact remains that Diderot was an author whose importance it is hard to exaggerate, and he was great on ac- count of the singular sincerity and en- thusiasm of his nature. We are accustomed to speak of Vol- taire, Rousseau, and Diderot together, as if there were a much stronger bond of union between them than the fact that they were contemporaries, and were the objects of the admiration and the hatred of different sections of society. In fact, however, they were very unlike & lterers Diderot. 132 Sclierers Diderot. [July, one another, and Diderot had certain qualities which make him especially in- teresting to people of the present time. Voltaires negative criticism has for us more a literary interest than any other; Rousseaus inexactness is unsuited for the present scientific age; while Dide- rots thorough-going materialism is not so very different from certain contempo- rary forms of thought. In art matters, too, he expressed himself in a manner that is peculiarly agreeable to the mod- ern ways of looking at pictures. More- over, Diderot has the additional charm of having been somewhat neglected of late years. M. Scherer has no extravagant ad- miration of Diderot. He sees his faults quite as distinctly as his merits, and it requires no extraordinary vision to do this and he writes about him with great impartiality. At some length he expounds Diderots system of philoso- phy, which was, on the whole, more strongly marked by consistency and boldness than by other qualities. Evil, for instance, he defined as that which had more disadvantages than advan- tages, while the good was the contrary of this. Scherer selects a number of passages from Diderots writings, in which he treats of these questions, and comments upon them briefly. Thus, Diderot said, Evil is a result of the general laws of nature. In order that it should not exist,, these laws must be different. I will say that I have often done my best to imagine a world with- out evil, but that I have never been able to do it. Pope has very well shown, after Leibnitz, that the world could not be other than it is; but when he drew the inference that everything is for the best, he uttered an absurdity; he should have been satisfied with saying that everything is necessary. Again, Let us take things as they are; let us see how much they cost us and how much they give us, and leave the whole as it is; for we do not know it well enough either to praise or blame it, and possi- bly, after all, it is neither good nor ill, if it is necessary, as so many good people suppose.~~ These statements, as Scherer says, make it clear that Diderot is neither an optimist nor a pessimist; he is satisfied with knowing the facts, and judges it unnecessary to rebel against them. I may be wrong, he adds, concerning the last quotation from Diderot, but there seems to me to be more real philosophy in this than in the bad humors of Scho- penhauer and Hartmann. In a few pages at the end of this chapter, Scherer points out more pre- cisely Diderots exact place in philoso- phy. Every movement in philosophy, he says, is a development from some previous doctrine, which it contradicts. Thus, the philosophy of the seventeenth century received from theology the no- tion of the duality of nature. God was distinguished from the world, the soul from the body. The Creator was con- ceived of as a clockmaker in front of the clock he had just completed; the body and the soul were looked upon as two watches that ran together in marvel- ously harmonious union. But this no- tion in time disappeared, and while now it is wholly dead, it was attacked by the encyclopaAists with extraordinary vigor. Diderot in particular was the author of a synthesis, the originality and power of which would have been sooner recog- nized if his writings had not been frag- mentary, often even rhapsodical, or if they had been at once thoroughly col- lected. It would be exceedingly unjust to confound him with his rivals, Hel- vetius, Maupertius, La Mettrie, and DHolbach. He is head and shoulders above them. He belongs to the same school, possibly to the same race, but he is no less alone among them all by the breadth of his conceptions and the intel- ligence of his views. In this way Scherer lets his instruct- ive comment run along by the side of 1880.] Scherers Diderot. 133 extracts from Diderot, pointing out his most striking qualities, and helping the reader to a sympathetic comprehension of this remarkable man. When he comes to speak of the Salons, he is naturally enthusiastic; for they are certainly won- derful pieces of writing, and they show perhaps more than anything else the great adaptability of Diderots genius. He was fifty years old when he began to write them, in 1759, and he discussed all the biennial exhibitions, with one exception, when he was absent from France, until 1781. They were, like almost everything that he wrote, but side work. Before he began them he had tried his pen at everything else: he had, when young, studied and taught mathematics; he had written on philo- sophical matters; he had published vari- ous essays, and had tried his hand at the drama. For nine years he had been the master-spirit of the Encyclopaedia, on which he continued to work for many years; but whatever attention he had given to art matters had been of the slightest kind. Yet it would be hard to exaggerate the charm, the intelligence, and the truthfulness of his descriptions of the pictures, and of his comments upon them. He branches into all sorts of side matters; he puts in bits of autobi- ography, and illustrates his meaning by countless anecdotes; and, as Madame Necker said, he translates the pictures into poetry that every one can compre- hend. He describes them so that one might almost say a blind man could see them. It is one of the many things to be regretted in the life of Diderot that he never saw Italy. This journey was once proposed, in which he was to have the company of Grimm and Rousseau; but nothing came of the plan, and the world has missed the descriptions he would have given of the masterpieces of painting. His excellence in this sort of writing is but one of the abundant proofs of Diderots many-sidedness. In the En- cyclopaAia he turned his pen to any and every subject. His versatility is to be found on almost every page, and he gave himself great pains about even the most practical subjects of trade and manufactures. Scherer mentions an ar- ticle on the weaving of stockings which has received the highest praise from competent judges. This overflowing ability never pro- duced any one great work; it was never devoted to one serious, all-engrossing object. Throughout his life, Diderot was desultory, though busy; and while this scattering of ones force only too often makes any lasting impression im- possible, this hits not been the case with him. The EncyclopaAia, to be sure, is no longer an object of present interest; as Morley suggests, it is like an old for- tress that stands where the boundary- lines once ran, but it has long since been succeeded in importance by works that in these days of scientific frontiers defend more advanced positions. We turn to it to see how people thought a century ago, rather than to learn how to solve our different problems. Though he wrote about pictures of the fourth or fifth rate, he has taught later critics how works of art are to be written about; but what he has not been excelled in is the intelligence, naturalness, and what we may call the geniality of his digres- sions. Here, for example, is an extract from one of his letters to Mademoiselle Volland; he is speaking of a monk with whom he dined at a friends house. They were talking of paternal love, and Di- derot said that it was one of the strongest of the affections. A fathers heart, I went on, no, only those who have been fathers know what that is; it is a secret that is fortunately kept hidden, even from children. And then I added, The first years I spent in Paris were very wild. My conduct was bad enough to make my father angry, even when only the truth was told him; but there was no lack of backbiting. They told him 134 Literature for Schools. [July, what didnt they tell him? I had a chance to go to see him. I did not hes- itate. I started off full of confidence in his kindness. I thought that as soon as he saw me, I should fall into his arms, that we should burst into tears, and that everything would be forgotten. I was right. Then I stopped and asked the monk if he knew how far it was to my home. Sixty leagues, father; and if it were a hundred, do you think that I should have found my father less indulgent, less tender? Far from it. Or if it had been a thousand? How could one be harsh to a child who had come so far? And if he had been in the moon, in Jupiter, in Saturn? As I was saying these words, my eyes were turned up to the heavens, and my monk, with downcast glance, was pondering over my parable. Scherers volume points out very clearly the most marked of Diderots traits, and it may be read very profitably in connection with Mr. John Morleys admirable volume. LITERATURE FOR SCHOOLS. THE movement to supply better read- ing-books for school-children, which, in its various shapes, we have already noticed, is continued in three volumes of selections already issued from the press: American Prose, by Mr. Scudder; Bal- lads and Lyrics,2 by Mr. Lodge; and Masterpieces of English Literature,8 by Mr. Swinton. The last of these com- pilations is more confessedly a text-book than the others, and its page wears the more or less repulsive air of the conven- tional school-reader, with its rows of words for definition, its literary analyses in foot-note, its numerals and asterisks for reference, and its black-faced types for emphasis. But it would not be just to judge it wholly from the general read- ers sensitive nerves. It is an instrument contrived for prentice-minds, and it is believed that it would serve its purpose all the better for what gives it this un- inviting aspect. Mr. Swinton declares 1 American Prose. Hawthorne, Irving, Long- fellow, Whittier, Holmes, Lowell, Thoreau, Emer- son. With Introduction and Notes. By the Ed- itor of American Poems. Boston: Houghton, Mif- ffin & Co. 1880. 2 Ballads and Lyrics. Selected and arranged by HENRY CABOT LODGE. Boston: Houghton, Muffin & Co. 1880. 8 Masterpieces of English Literature. Being a design of restoring literature and rhet- oric to their ancient friendship, and he wishes his readers to exercise their knowl- edge of the science upon the best pro- ductions of the art. But here we think he incurs the danger into which the makers of reading-books have always run: that of deforming the delightful- ness of literature by making it the sub- ject of too much analysis and dissection. We might hope that the school-master would omit much or little of the task- work involved by the editors too con- scientious plan, but school-masters are almost necessarily the victims of routine, and it was for the editor not to be so thorough. Occasional comment on the beauty of fine passages, pointing out the elegance and felicity of fortunate ex- pressions, would surely have been better than all this perpetual challenge to the young reader to remark on the form of this word and on the order of those ad- Typical Selections of British and American Author- ship, from Shakespeare to the Present Time. To- gether with Definitions, Notes, Analyses, and Glossary, as an aid to systematic literary study. For use in High and Normal Schools, Academies, Seminaries, etc With portraits. By WILLIAM SWINTON. New York: Harper and Brothers. 1880.

Literature for Schools 134-136

134 Literature for Schools. [July, what didnt they tell him? I had a chance to go to see him. I did not hes- itate. I started off full of confidence in his kindness. I thought that as soon as he saw me, I should fall into his arms, that we should burst into tears, and that everything would be forgotten. I was right. Then I stopped and asked the monk if he knew how far it was to my home. Sixty leagues, father; and if it were a hundred, do you think that I should have found my father less indulgent, less tender? Far from it. Or if it had been a thousand? How could one be harsh to a child who had come so far? And if he had been in the moon, in Jupiter, in Saturn? As I was saying these words, my eyes were turned up to the heavens, and my monk, with downcast glance, was pondering over my parable. Scherers volume points out very clearly the most marked of Diderots traits, and it may be read very profitably in connection with Mr. John Morleys admirable volume. LITERATURE FOR SCHOOLS. THE movement to supply better read- ing-books for school-children, which, in its various shapes, we have already noticed, is continued in three volumes of selections already issued from the press: American Prose, by Mr. Scudder; Bal- lads and Lyrics,2 by Mr. Lodge; and Masterpieces of English Literature,8 by Mr. Swinton. The last of these com- pilations is more confessedly a text-book than the others, and its page wears the more or less repulsive air of the conven- tional school-reader, with its rows of words for definition, its literary analyses in foot-note, its numerals and asterisks for reference, and its black-faced types for emphasis. But it would not be just to judge it wholly from the general read- ers sensitive nerves. It is an instrument contrived for prentice-minds, and it is believed that it would serve its purpose all the better for what gives it this un- inviting aspect. Mr. Swinton declares 1 American Prose. Hawthorne, Irving, Long- fellow, Whittier, Holmes, Lowell, Thoreau, Emer- son. With Introduction and Notes. By the Ed- itor of American Poems. Boston: Houghton, Mif- ffin & Co. 1880. 2 Ballads and Lyrics. Selected and arranged by HENRY CABOT LODGE. Boston: Houghton, Muffin & Co. 1880. 8 Masterpieces of English Literature. Being a design of restoring literature and rhet- oric to their ancient friendship, and he wishes his readers to exercise their knowl- edge of the science upon the best pro- ductions of the art. But here we think he incurs the danger into which the makers of reading-books have always run: that of deforming the delightful- ness of literature by making it the sub- ject of too much analysis and dissection. We might hope that the school-master would omit much or little of the task- work involved by the editors too con- scientious plan, but school-masters are almost necessarily the victims of routine, and it was for the editor not to be so thorough. Occasional comment on the beauty of fine passages, pointing out the elegance and felicity of fortunate ex- pressions, would surely have been better than all this perpetual challenge to the young reader to remark on the form of this word and on the order of those ad- Typical Selections of British and American Author- ship, from Shakespeare to the Present Time. To- gether with Definitions, Notes, Analyses, and Glossary, as an aid to systematic literary study. For use in High and Normal Schools, Academies, Seminaries, etc With portraits. By WILLIAM SWINTON. New York: Harper and Brothers. 1880. 1880.] Literature for Schools. 135 jectives; to transpose a certain sentence into the prose order; to say whether a given ellipsis would be allowable in prose; to explain the application of an epithet; to decide whether something is literal or figurative language. To the dry wood these things are insufferable; are they less anguish to the green? Are they not well calculated to make the masterpieces of literature detestable? Boys and girls who are old enough to feel that these pieces are masterly are too old to stand this sort of nagging, as they are much too old to need a large proportion of the definition with which Mr. Swinton over-bountifully supplies them. In short, we doubt if people can be educated to make or to love good lit- erature by the method of instruction di- rectly enforced by this work. The in- struction, however, which it indirectly affords is to be measured only by each readers natural capacity. As a compi- lation it is excellent; though we are not ready to say it might not have been bet- ter for the purpose. We think that in some cases the editor has considered his author too much, and his reader too little. It was certainly not well advised, for in- stance, to take from a writer like Ilaw- thorne, who abounds in short, complete stories of the highest merit, those pas- sages from the Scarlet Letter descriptive of Hester Prynnes expiation on the pil- lory, which, noble and beautiful and most pathetic as they are, ought scarcely to be intelligible to those who use the book without embarrassing explanations. We give the worst case of mistaken judg- ment, where generally the judgment is unfailing; and we have to praise without reserve the choice of criticisms on differ- ent authors. These are from the highest sources, and are of course admirable lit- erature in themselves. As a whole, in spite of the method on which it is con- structed, the book is and must be inter- esting. Mr. Swinton is himself a clear and agreeable writer, and he is a genu- ine lover of letters, who could not help doing his work with zest and pleasure. At its worst, and in its most technical phase, it is a vast advance upon the or- dinary school-reader of commerce. Mr. Lodges book is one of those tasks which finds itself already largely done through the survival of the fittest in the works of former compilers. It is hard for any present editor to improve upon the taste of Mr. Palgrave in the same direction, or even to get far away from it, as far as English song is concerned. What Mr. Lodge has done, of real and original value, is putting in just relation to the old favorites a very great num- ber of beautiful and familiar American poems. It is pleasant to find that an editor can here be patriotic without sac- rificing himself or his reader, and with- out giving any American poem where there was an English poem so good of its kind. Mr. Lodges preface explains the motive and the plan of his work, which we cordially approve, and he has notably succeeded in giving to the youth of both sexes a prospect of good ballad and lyrical poetry without those distract- ing features of which such poetry is, for his purpose, somewhat embarrassingly full. We have also to admire the clear- ness, succinctness, and completeness of his biographical notices of the authors quoted. These are necessarily in much greater number and much briefer than the charming criticisms with which Mr. Scudder introduces eacb of his authors. This writer, always tasteful and pleasing, has nowhere shown more delicate por- ception or finer discrimination than in these graceful comments. They are perfectly sufficient for the end intended, and we believe that all intelligent young people will find them valuably suggest- ive. Mr. Scudder has succeeded in the difficult affair of talking always with- in their comprehension without talking down to it, and this leaves his book agreeable to both old and young. His selections from the different au- thors are marked by the same insight 186 Mind in the Lower Animals. [July, and judgment which governed his choice in his volume of American Poems; and they are even less open to objection. They might have been different; we do not see how they could well have been better; and the book is not only a testi- mony to his taste, but is a proof of the richness of our prose, of its fresh ma- terial and its beautiful art, which will have something of surprise in it for any one who first considers his authors ia their present juxtaposition. The im pression of grace, of subtlety, of ele- gance, is one which we should hardly re- ceive from the same number of English writers of any period; and the new force, the sympathetic life, which inspires the admirable art is there in degree which easily establishes our nationality in litera- ture. Our young people cannot be taught to understand this too soon. The foible of the moment with us is not to think well enough of the excellence of American work. MIND IN THE LOWER ANIMALS. Dn. LINDSAYS volumes ~ are partly of an expert and partly of a non-expert character. In the gathering of facts, in the collating of anecdotes, statements, and inferences from statements, relating to animals of different kinds, the author shows a noble industry, unusual energy, and most creditable painstaking, He, however, suffers himself to publish facts which may not be facts, and on testimony which by the mildest and softest criticism is unsatisfactory. In the arrangement of the facts, and in their codrdination and adjustment, he is deficient to a degree that, in this scien- tific age, is quite phenomenal. The head- ings of the chapters and the sub-headings and italicizations indicate a defect in ana- lytical and combining power. The de- fect is more impressive from this: that the power of combination is the most conspicuous factor in the English scien- tific mind of to-day. Germany originates, while England combines, nnd combines and develops in such a way as to make far more practical, interesting, and valu- able works than those of the philosophic thinkers of Germany from whom Eng- 1 Mind in the Lower Animals in Health and Disease. By W. LAUDER LINDSAY, M. D. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1880. lishmen derive their inspiration. In the scientific sense, that is, in the power of seeing nature through the intellect rather than through the emotions, this author is also wanting. His heart is so large and active that he cheerfully and instantaneously, as it appears, accepts any anecdote relating to animals that, from his point of view, would seem to exalt them to or above the plane of hu- manity. His subject is one of extreme importance and suggestiveness; so much so that, in spite of the literary and scien- tific defects of these volumes, they are of very considerable value, although any one especially devoted to this side of psychology would find constant effort of the will required in order to read them through in detail. Very many of the stories contained in the work have been published before, and are to be found in accessible volumes; others are new, or comparatively so; and others have been brought to public attention in the first instance by this author; and the gather- ing of these illustrations of animal psy- chology, in spite of the non-expert man- ner of arranging them, will be of perma- nent service to those who shall hereafter attempt to raise psychology to a science. Psychology is a science of the future, be

Mind in the Lower Animals 136-138

186 Mind in the Lower Animals. [July, and judgment which governed his choice in his volume of American Poems; and they are even less open to objection. They might have been different; we do not see how they could well have been better; and the book is not only a testi- mony to his taste, but is a proof of the richness of our prose, of its fresh ma- terial and its beautiful art, which will have something of surprise in it for any one who first considers his authors ia their present juxtaposition. The im pression of grace, of subtlety, of ele- gance, is one which we should hardly re- ceive from the same number of English writers of any period; and the new force, the sympathetic life, which inspires the admirable art is there in degree which easily establishes our nationality in litera- ture. Our young people cannot be taught to understand this too soon. The foible of the moment with us is not to think well enough of the excellence of American work. MIND IN THE LOWER ANIMALS. Dn. LINDSAYS volumes ~ are partly of an expert and partly of a non-expert character. In the gathering of facts, in the collating of anecdotes, statements, and inferences from statements, relating to animals of different kinds, the author shows a noble industry, unusual energy, and most creditable painstaking, He, however, suffers himself to publish facts which may not be facts, and on testimony which by the mildest and softest criticism is unsatisfactory. In the arrangement of the facts, and in their codrdination and adjustment, he is deficient to a degree that, in this scien- tific age, is quite phenomenal. The head- ings of the chapters and the sub-headings and italicizations indicate a defect in ana- lytical and combining power. The de- fect is more impressive from this: that the power of combination is the most conspicuous factor in the English scien- tific mind of to-day. Germany originates, while England combines, nnd combines and develops in such a way as to make far more practical, interesting, and valu- able works than those of the philosophic thinkers of Germany from whom Eng- 1 Mind in the Lower Animals in Health and Disease. By W. LAUDER LINDSAY, M. D. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1880. lishmen derive their inspiration. In the scientific sense, that is, in the power of seeing nature through the intellect rather than through the emotions, this author is also wanting. His heart is so large and active that he cheerfully and instantaneously, as it appears, accepts any anecdote relating to animals that, from his point of view, would seem to exalt them to or above the plane of hu- manity. His subject is one of extreme importance and suggestiveness; so much so that, in spite of the literary and scien- tific defects of these volumes, they are of very considerable value, although any one especially devoted to this side of psychology would find constant effort of the will required in order to read them through in detail. Very many of the stories contained in the work have been published before, and are to be found in accessible volumes; others are new, or comparatively so; and others have been brought to public attention in the first instance by this author; and the gather- ing of these illustrations of animal psy- chology, in spite of the non-expert man- ner of arranging them, will be of perma- nent service to those who shall hereafter attempt to raise psychology to a science. Psychology is a science of the future, be 1880.] Mind in the Lower Animals. 137 ing now very much in the condition that astronomy was before the time of Gali- leo and Newton; and every contribution to it or to any of its subsidiary sciences is to be welcomed as an aid to students in this realm of thought. In the chapter on the unsolved prob- lems of psychology, the author states that animals can discover a masters thoughts or intentions, and thus know beforehand projected murders or rob- beries; and that on the island of Tahiti the approach of a ship is signaled by the simultaneous crowing of all the cocks on the island long before it is sighted by the inhabitants. In the same chapter he discusses interestingly, though not satis- factorily, the way-finding and way-losing of animals in the dark, or in snow-storms, or in dangerous and perplexing localities, or in the confusion of battles. In regard to the migration of birds, he says, No proper explanation is offered as to the sort of guidance birds have in crossing long stretches of land or sea, by day or night. The author is less strong in the philo- sophic portions of his work: he reels, staggers, and at times sinks to the earth~ beneath the burdens of the real or sup- posed facts of animal psychology; at times the subject is master of him, not he of the subject. His chapter on the religion of animals is probably the fee- blest in the book. The weakness of a discussion of this subject is apparent in every sentence; and he nowhere gives any satisfactory definition of religion, without which it is most unwise to at- tempt an essay on such a topic as this. Indeed, this whole chapter is non-ex- pert, from beginning to end. The op- portunity presented by this branch of his subject was magnificent, had he been prepared for it. The man who shall write on the psychology of religion in such a way as to reduce the subject to a science will make an era in philos- ophy. Dr. Lindsay is not to be censured for his inability to solve the problem which the ablest thinkers of all ages have attacked in vain; but, had he thought somewhat more scientifically on this theme, he might at least have seen that without a definition of religion, a clear idea of what he meant by it, it were better to say nothing about it. If the whole work were like this chapter, the two volumes would have to be un- hesitatingly and absolutely condemned. Equally unscientific are the authors re- marks on superstition in animals, inas- much as he gives no definition, and evi- dently has no definition in his own mind, even vague and indefinite, of what su- perstition is, and what its relations are to science on the one hand, and to re- ligion on the other. If he had defined superstition by the old method, as re- ligion out of fashion, he either would have made this chapter better, or would not have written it at all. A good def- inition is a scientific discovery; in psy- chology many such discoveries are yet to be made. The book is based on this truth, or truism: that the difference between the lower animals and the higher animals, as man, is, so far as we can see with mortal vision, a difference only of degree, of growth, of development, of evolution; man being but a loftier or more complex branch of the universal biological tree. In a number of his chapters, indeed, in nearly all of them, Dr. Lindsay traverses territory which Darwin has previously explored; and in these explorations he has undertaken a labor that requires for its successful prosecution a philosopher who shall combine Darwins industry with Spencers, or even a greater than Spencers, psychological analysis and acumen. We turned with much eagerness to the chapter on Insanity in Animals, but were grievously and painfully disappoint- ed, as we found therein but very little solid and trustworthy information. The authors remarks on insanity in general, and especially on insanity in the semi- 138 The Contributors Club. [July, savage and barbarian races, show that on such themes he is a learner, not a teacher; and that those who seek for facts and philosophizings in regard to these matters must close his volumes, and go in some other direction. It can be proved, and has been proved as satis- factorily as it is possible to prove any fact in science outside of pure mathe- matics, that insanity of any form or phase is very rare indeed among savages of any race, country, or age, although it may, and does now and then, in some of its manifestations, exist among them, and has always existed; but in the main it is, with all its complex manifestations, a result and an accompaniment of the friction of modern civilization. Our au- thor no doubt exaggerates the amount of insanity among animals: partly be- cause he has no clearly defined idea of what insanity is; and partly because he accepts statements which would have been rejected, or held in abeyance, by any one well endowed with the scien- tific spirit. Our general conclusion is that all who are interested in the problems of psychology should read these volumes, but read them with the expectation that they may be wearied and disappointed, as well as instructed, by them. The work is interesting, but interesting in spite of the author. THE CONTRIBUTORS CLUB. FOR some years I have been a con- tributor to magazines and other period- icals, and for much of the time I have been editorially connected either with a magazine or with a newspaper. My experience, therefore, has often been somewhat novel. I remember one in- stance in which I successfully resisted a temptation, and a man has so few op- portunities of recording a victory of this kind that I cheerfully avail myself of the chance. A certain editor asked me for a con- tribution, and I sent him one. In a very short time he returned it, with a letter almost as long as my article, in which he stated, with great minuteness, exactly what his periodical required of its contributors. He mentioned the sub- jects which should be treated, with the regulation length of articles, and ex- plained what particular emotions they ought to excite, and what good princi- ples they should encourage. He did not say that my article was lacking in any of the necessary requisites, but, as he sent it back, I was left to infer that it was so lacking. Now, of course it was perfectly right for the editor to say what he wanted, but I could not help wishing that he had expressed himself thus clearly when he asked me to write for him. Some months passed on, and this editor sent an article to the periodical with which I was editorially connect- ed. He was not aware that I was so connected, and that it was my duty to decide upon manuscripts submitted for publication. If he had known it, I think he would have addressed himself direct- ly to me. I read his article very carefully. I desired, earnestly, to accept it. I wanted to write him a note over my own name, in which I should gratify that desire for revenge, sometimes small and evanes- cent, but which is as certain to spring up in the mind of the author of a rejected contribution as the desire to cackle is sure to spring up in the mind of a hea who has just laid an egg, by telling him

Contributor's Club Contributor's Club 138-144

138 The Contributors Club. [July, savage and barbarian races, show that on such themes he is a learner, not a teacher; and that those who seek for facts and philosophizings in regard to these matters must close his volumes, and go in some other direction. It can be proved, and has been proved as satis- factorily as it is possible to prove any fact in science outside of pure mathe- matics, that insanity of any form or phase is very rare indeed among savages of any race, country, or age, although it may, and does now and then, in some of its manifestations, exist among them, and has always existed; but in the main it is, with all its complex manifestations, a result and an accompaniment of the friction of modern civilization. Our au- thor no doubt exaggerates the amount of insanity among animals: partly be- cause he has no clearly defined idea of what insanity is; and partly because he accepts statements which would have been rejected, or held in abeyance, by any one well endowed with the scien- tific spirit. Our general conclusion is that all who are interested in the problems of psychology should read these volumes, but read them with the expectation that they may be wearied and disappointed, as well as instructed, by them. The work is interesting, but interesting in spite of the author. THE CONTRIBUTORS CLUB. FOR some years I have been a con- tributor to magazines and other period- icals, and for much of the time I have been editorially connected either with a magazine or with a newspaper. My experience, therefore, has often been somewhat novel. I remember one in- stance in which I successfully resisted a temptation, and a man has so few op- portunities of recording a victory of this kind that I cheerfully avail myself of the chance. A certain editor asked me for a con- tribution, and I sent him one. In a very short time he returned it, with a letter almost as long as my article, in which he stated, with great minuteness, exactly what his periodical required of its contributors. He mentioned the sub- jects which should be treated, with the regulation length of articles, and ex- plained what particular emotions they ought to excite, and what good princi- ples they should encourage. He did not say that my article was lacking in any of the necessary requisites, but, as he sent it back, I was left to infer that it was so lacking. Now, of course it was perfectly right for the editor to say what he wanted, but I could not help wishing that he had expressed himself thus clearly when he asked me to write for him. Some months passed on, and this editor sent an article to the periodical with which I was editorially connect- ed. He was not aware that I was so connected, and that it was my duty to decide upon manuscripts submitted for publication. If he had known it, I think he would have addressed himself direct- ly to me. I read his article very carefully. I desired, earnestly, to accept it. I wanted to write him a note over my own name, in which I should gratify that desire for revenge, sometimes small and evanes- cent, but which is as certain to spring up in the mind of the author of a rejected contribution as the desire to cackle is sure to spring up in the mind of a hea who has just laid an egg, by telling him 1880.] The Contributors Club. 139 how much I liked his article, and how I would use my every effort to have it printed at an early date. But all this was simply impossible. His paper was moderately good in its way, but in sub- ject and treatment it was as entirely unsuitable for my periodical as an article on the Ramifications of Buddhism would be for the Wheelwrights Gazette. It would not do at all; there was no pos- sibility of its being accepted. It then occurred to me that, as I could not make use of any coals of fire, I might have recourse to an entirely dif- ferent policy, and try what lumps of ice would do. This method of treatment I could follow by returning his article with a note, in which I should copy ver- batim his remarks about the kind of contributions that were needed for the periodical which he edited. These re- marks would apply very well to our publication, and he could then see in regard to his returned contribution what I had seen regarding mine. I regret to say that I considered this matter for some time. There was a neatness about the contemplated act which tempted me, as a stiletto in the belt of a sleeping monk would have tempted the hand of an unoccupied Italian bravo. My soul yearned to place on the back of that manuscript the inscription, Dec. w. i. n., which would mean, Decline, with inclosed note. But my better edito- rial nature began to assert itself, and I felt that I must not inclose the only note I cared to write. I could not even justify myself in indorsing the article, Dec. ten., or, Decline tenderly, by which the clerk of our returning board would know that he must write a regret- ful and soothing letter; for, in this case, such action would be clear hypocrisy. So I simply wrote, Dec. w. s., or, Decline, with slip, which inscription would cause the article to go back to the writer with one of those printed slips containing a form of refusal in which the English language is made to fulfill to the utmost the Talleyrandic idea of the use and purpose of speech. I suppose the author in question was shocked when his article came back to him in this wise, and felt, probably, very much as the before-mentioned monk would have felt had he been rudely awakened from his pleasant dreams by a kick from the repentant bravo. But little he knew what a rueful thrust he had escaped! I have come to the conclusion that small towns are not good institutions, although at first sight they would seem to possess advantages of their own over both cities and rural districts. In that it is not a city, the small town rejoices in the absence of monotonous blocks of tall houses shutting out the light and air, and also of unpleasant odors, and other such city nuisances; while, on the other hand, the town con- trasts favorably in some respects with the mere country village, as in its good flagged sidewalks, for instance, which replace the muddy pathways on which the patient villager must trudge for half the year at least. But this, I consider, is only a superficial view of the small town; it is what tempts the inexperi- enced to try living in it; but a few years of residence make clear what is to be said on the other side of the question. Briefly stated, the objection to the town is that it is neither city nor country, and gives none of the special pleasures of rural or metropolitan life. In the great city you give up the sight of green fields and running brooks and ample sky spaces for the sake of libraries, music, the drama, and society. In the village you learn, after a fashion, to do without these, finding compensation in your farm or your garden, your dogs, your pleasant walks and drives. But how much of any of these things does the small-towns- man enjoy? Perhaps his town, after a time, calls itself a city, begins to raise the taxes and lay out superfluous streets; perhaps, too, it attains to some books 140 The Contributors Club. [July, and a reading-room; yet, after all, it remains in essentials a town still. And one town is pretty much like another in all its chief features; one comparative advantage is counterbalanced by some disadvantage. Experto crede. I have lived in half a dozen different ones. In one of his stories, Mr. Henry James numbers among the misfortunes endured by the agreeable widow Cecilia her residence in Northampton. I dont suppose the writer has any spite against that particular town, but means to indi- cate his opinion with respect to the small town in general; and one cannot help feeling that life in it is a real, undeniable discomfort for nil persons of any social, literary, or artistic tastes. But village life affords gratification for one healthy taste, the love of nature. In exchange for the museum and theatre it offers the enjoyment of woods and fields; and this is just what the town does not offer. You must take a longer walk than Amer- icans commonly enjoy before you can get beyond the limits of the straggling town, most of our towns do straggle. I know that the actual village in New England, at least, is not the one that fancy paints; it is not even Miss Mit- fords village in picturesque Old Eng- land, for one searches in vain for the shady green lanes and bowery hedgerows she tells of. Yet our villages, if not in the richest country, are in the country still: one has enough of grass and trees, such as they are; the roads go wandering as they choose; and the sky shows it- self not in patches, but from one side to the other of its great dome. The town merely tantalizes you with the sugges- tion of natures sweetnesses; in the city you forget all about them. I believe that citizens who are sensible enough to spend their summer vacation in genuine country places make more acquaintance with nature and come to love her more than the townsfolk who content them- selves the year round with the h~alf acre or acre of ground that separates them from their neighbors, and such trees and flowers as they can crowd into it. Of course in the village there is no so- ciety; but neither is there in the town.. Even if society means for us not a suc- cession of receptions and balls, but in- tercourse with a circle of genial friends, we are certain to find these among the whole city-full; but in the town, where the number to choose from is so dimin- ished, the circle reduces itself to perhaps but one or two persons, and we are no better off than in the village. One is constantly tempted, in writ- ing of Mr. Jamess stories, to employ the terms belonging to art, so curiously does his work seem to encroach on the painters; to borrow an illustration from the technique of art, he appears to have devised for Confidence a scheme of col- or, by which all the parts are nicely re- lated to each other, so that consistency is secured, while no one part has a distinct individual relation to nature. Take, for example, the dead matter of fact presup- posed of Gordon Wright. In the world in which all the other characters move it is highly reasonable and consistent; but the moment the reader withdraws the character from the book, and compares him with truthful, candid, and outspoken people of his acquaintance, there is a col- lapse; he cannot stand the air of nature. The old story, at which artists shudder, of the birds pecking at the grapes in Zeuxiss painting might be reversed in the case of Mr. Jamess novel: we put out our hand to feel the canvas. The subtlety and grace of his writing pique us into a critical mood. It seems impossible to enjoy his work rationally, that is, to follow the fortunes of his characters with a lively interest in them; we are curious to see how he achieves his effects; we become critics with him; his own attitude toward his creations, essentially an analytic one, becomes ours, and we get our satisfaction in winding with him through the mazes of their psychology. A device which he 1880.] The Contributors Club. 141 has employed in Confidence, not for the first time, heightens this temper. The book is narrated in the third person, yet nothing takes place except under the im- mediate ken of one of the characters. If Mr. Bernard Longueville had been writing the story in autobiographic form, he could not more carefully have pre- served the proprieties of that mode of composition. The novelists license of shifting the scenes is ascetically avoided; if the scene shifts Mr. Longueville shifts with it. It is a clever device for hold- ing the story together without the appar- ent disadvantages of an autobiographic form; but one consequence is the fur- ther concentration of interest in the ev- olution of the characters. These have still less individuality and separateness of existence; they are all spun out of Mr. Longuevilles brain, and the author fortifies himself by advertising at the outset that this young man was of a contemplative and speculative turn. But how ingenuously in all this talk about Confidence have I pronounced my own criticism upon the critic! I have not described the book, nor given an inkling of its plot; I have only done what I have accused Mr. James of do- ing unconsciously, I have written the writer. By such frivolity have I inti- mated the cosmogony of Mr. Jamess novels; they rest on criticism, and out of that criticism is spun other criticism, and out of that other, and so on to the nth power. Criticise the critic, good reader, and be criticised yourself in turn. Confidence is no better in point of workmanship than its authors earlier novels, but neither is it any less finished than they. Mr. James has been writing with such continuousness and rapidity that it was pleasant to be confirmed by the reading of this last story in my trust that he was too thorough an artist, and one too careful of his reputation among the best appreciators of good work, to permit himself any relaxation in the effort after perfection. The story, of that ingenious but slight kind which only writers gifted as Mr. James should attempt to handle, seems to me a pleas- anter though not more interesting one than any he has yet written. We are not balked of our natural if weak-mind- ed desire to have matters turn out com- fortably for the good hero and heroine. Here is a peculiar and delicate situation or complication of affairs, out of which all the actors come with satisfaction to themselves, and with equal credit to the hearts, if not to the heads, of all. I have heard the dreadful accusation brought against this delightful novelist of seem- ing a somewhat cold-blooded chronicler; and though, remembering his sympa- thetic treatment of such singularly good- hearted fellows as Rowland Mallet and Christopher Newman, the charge al- ways seemed to me quite unfounded, yet I am glad to be able henceforth to point confidently to Confidence in refu- tation of it. No indifferent dissector of human nature wrote it, I am convinced. If I were going to find any fault with Mr. James it would be that he sets his cleverness, to call it by no higher name, easier tasks than it seems equal to; but perhaps he estimates his own abilities and their limitations more fairly than others can do for him. When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for a peo- ple to twist the fine old word gentleman into gent, I have no doubt that life and literature, however much they may laugh in their sleeve, will bow politely to the innovation. But neither life nor literature will ever be able to detect the slightest connection between the drop- ping of the u from such words as honour and the telescoping of the word gentle- man. Gent is simply a contraction of the first two syllables of the word, and represents gentleman no more than it represents gentlewoman. I do not object to gents as a contraction of gentlemen, for that is precisely what it 142 The Contributors Club. [July, is not. I object to it for what it is, a bastard word, disowned by its putative father, and frequenting only the lowest company. Where on earth did it get that s, that pert, wicked little s, which refuses to give any coherent ac- count of itself? What is it doing there, any way, except trying to make a plural of gentle? No doubt posterity is lying in wait to play strange tricks with our language, just as we have done and are doing with that of our ancestors. I have no warm blood to shed in the matter. I am quite willing to indulge the hope that the philologist of the future will endeav- or to simplify things for those honest souls who look upon language as merely a means of communication, so that all gents. may be enabled to transact their bis. with as little troub. as pos. The contributor who instances the abbreviation of cabriolet into cab as a good reason for condensing gentleman into gent employs a specious argument. Because a legitimate abridgment of a certain word is excellent, it by no means follows that all abridgments, whether legitimate or not, are equally excellent. Cabriolet and caravan belong to a class of words with which one may take liberties; but there are words which re- fuse to lend themselves to indignity. Gentlemen is a fine, strong word, and gents is a very feeble substitute. It is, moreover, an arbitrary contraction, for we do not say gentlemens. (Even the garment which gents always wear is less objectionable than the wearers themselves, for pants is honestly cut out of pantaloons.) Of course the reply to this will be that gents is the natural plural of gent. But our colored breth- ren, who say genlmen, are the con- tractors to whom I would give the job of pruning the word gentleman, if it must be pruned. To be sure, they lop it rather cruelly, but they at least man- age to leave a little of its original sig- nificance. I hasten to sustain, so far as I can, the position assumed by the contributor who had the courage to speak out in the June meeting and defend gent. It is a firm, simple, sonorous word, and is bound to supplant the pretentious, tod- dling compound gentleman. Rose- watered literary men, who part their hair in the middle and use tooth-powder, and have no sympathy with the philo- logical struggles of the poor, may turn up their noses, but gent is a word that appeals to the intelligence of the great masses. Thackeray understood this per- fectly when he penned those beautiful lines, Who misses or who wins the prize: Go, lose or conquer, as you meant; But if you fail, or if you rise, Be each and all, pray God, a gent! How finely Tennyson speaks of The grand old name of gent! And what felicitous use is made of the word by Dekker, the dramatist, where he says of Clirist, The best of men That eer wore earth about him was a sufferer; A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit, The first true gent that ever breathed Lately, in a mixed company, one called attention to the high - flown de- scription of a Beacon Street boudoir, forming part of a story in the March number of a certain popular monthly. After describing the silks, satins, vel- vets, laces, bricabrac, etc., the aspiring author (or authoress) caps the climax by saying, The odor of potpourri is everywhere prevalent. Whereupon we all laugh hugely. Oho! Here s richness! Onions and garlic turnips and beans melodies and harmonies. Happy heiress, who could afford to have her boudoir thus scented! It was a rather good joke, certainly, at the expense of the absent romancer. But there happened to be a bright-eyed Bos- ton woman present, who (waiting till the laugh had been fully enjoyed) said quietly, But dont you know that pot- pourri is also used as the name of a per- 1880.] The Uontributor8 6~ub. 143 fume? Our grandmothers used to put rose-leaves and violets and rosemary and spices into a great jar, with salt, I believe, and keep them for years to spread a perfume through their rooms.~~ After a pause of blank dismay, and after an appeal to the dictionary, we all laughed again, though this time it was at our own expense. Well, it is not often we can get two merry-thoughts out of the same bird, or two laughs out of the same jest. What another member of the Club says about traveling is worthy of far wider application. How universal is the desire in all social life to follow the lead of the crowd rather than our pri- vate tastes! People buy clothes, read books, select music, china, ornaments, in short everything, even build their houses, for other peoples admiration rather than their own comfort. For in- stance, every person of common sense knows that a square house, ample, and with a hall running right through to kitchen and offices in a wing, is the most comfortable and inexpensive of all houses; but there is not one house in five hundred constructed in these days without a tower, or a tiny bay-window, or a sharp gabled roof; while within, two cramped rooms and a bedroom nine feet square make the habitation for the owners, who might have built a plain dwelling forty feet or even fifty feet square for the same money. This cx- terioration is the curse of the age. In the May Contributors Club, I find the exultations of a brother who suc- cessfully tripped up a boat-load of cler- gymen on the text, or con-text, He that runs may read. Let him try it next on the generally accepted statement that Absalom was caught by his hair in the boughs of an oak; or that some people roll sin like a sweet morsel under their tongue. Either of these nets will catch plenty of prey. It has long been conceded that the general atmosphere of New England is more rife with purely intellectual am- bition than any other part of the coun- try, if not of the world; and it is also evident that the women of New Eng- land must necessarily share in that am- bition, and ~irift into the modes of think- ing and the intellectual activities which so many agencies about them suggest. The fathers of New England girls are very often much more concerned about educating their daughters than their sons, and take an intense pride in the success with which they make their ex- aminations. The education of girls not only makes no provision for developing the affections, the softer qualities of wom- anhood, but it ignores and even crushes them! The New England girl has a horror of being thought warm-hearted so far as men are concerned. She rath- er cultivates a cool, indifferent manner, as if it were a blemish to have a heart; and if she is inclined to be coquettish it is rarely in a style that would be con- sidered languishing. Yet she has a heart, after all, and will lavish an intense de- votion upon female friends, that her critics would probably think was stolen from some man. It is the ambition of American fathers, I repeat, which turns the thoughts of the daughters always in the direction of mental pre~iminence; as they themselves aim at suipremacy of style in dress. But when we reflect upon the woman who holds the truest and steadiest of a mans affections, whom do we find her to be? Not the wife, alas, nor the sweetheart even, but the mother. And does the man care that his mother was never handsome, or brill- iant, or even well dressed? Not in the least. But he knows that she always loved him, felt for him, sympathized with him, and for that he gives her an allegiance which ends only with his life. The men of a nation inevitably make the women what they will, and the women in return impress upon their children what they have received from their own fathers. Hence it comes that 144 The Contributors Club. the existence of the American woman has become almost as purely objective as that of the man. Her ideal of life from her cradle has been associated with the maximum of exertion. There is no quietude among Americans, and won- derfully little egotism in their social life. It is a never-ending series of sensations and mental shocks, which keeps the whole being in a nervous quiver, and al- lows no time for any quality save that of energy to develop itself symmetric- ally. The American woman is as un- quiet in her thoughts and enslaved by her duties, however light, as the man. Even when she visits she has no air of repose. Her conversation is not thought- ful, but actful. She tells you what she does or suffers, not what she thinks or feels. There is no reverie about her, no suggestion of that brooding spirit which indicates a capacity for impassioned af- fection, a capacity which to bachelors is always ideally seductive, however lit- tle the married man may appreciate or return it. Yet, generally speaking, un- demonstrative as the American girl may be, she will wear her life out in working for the man she loves. She forgets all about being for him in that merciless energy which always drives her into do- ing for him. Her character is full of the lights which dazzle, but it is wanting in the tender shadows which soften her personality. To illustrate the restless activity of American women, I will instance one whom I knew very well. She boasted that she was never idle a moment, and having extraordinary intellectual gifts she wore herself out before she was forty, and left a large family of daugh- ters, whose temperaments were all disas- trously affected with an over-nervous susceptibility that will torment them their whole lives. There is, again, another reason why the American girl seems cold to the su- perficial observer. It is because she is free. She is educated to repress emo [July. tion, because her independent movements expose her to contact with men of all classes, among whom there are many very vile persons. Her coldness of demeanor, therefore, is her armor against impertinence or even worse things. She passes, Diana-like, through crowds of men every day, not one of whom for one instant suspects her of being other than she is, because her manner shows her at once to be a free-born, spotless Ameri- can woman! They never dream that because no one is watching her she means to go astray. The defects of the American girl may be done away with by giving less prom- inence to the purely intellectual or pure- ly practical side of her education. For while one class of men is striving to solve the problems of life by educating women intellectually, there is another class which is shouting for education in domestic matters. While the professors at Harvard are rejoicing over some girl who can take in their philosophies or their mathematics, the newspaper editor sings the praises of her who can roast a turkey, bake bread, or make her own dresses. Neither gives the poor girl any chance to exist, but only to work, with either hand or brain. No one says to her, You are not only yourself, but possibly the future mother of other be- ings. Do not therefore allow yourself to be driven by either school of apostles beyond what you may do easily, com- fortably, or pleasurably. The healthy balance of your nervous system is far more important to you and your future family relations than all the mathematics or dress-making, or even roasting of tur- keys. Occupy yourself steadfastly, but without strain, without hurry, and with- out emulation. As the apostle said (and it must have been meant expressly for Americans), avoid emulation. Find out first what you can do best, and even if it does not come up to somebody elses standard, learn to content yourself with that.

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The Atlantic monthly. / Volume 46, Issue 274 Galaxy, Atlantic Atlantic Monthly Co. Boston August 1880 0046 274
Thomas Bailey Aldrich Aldrich, Thomas Bailey The Stillwater Tragedy 145-163

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY: ~ %*f~a~apn~ of ~Lit~raturc, ~cwnce, art, anb 1~oIitic~. VOL. XLVI A U~ UST, 1880. No. CCLXXIV. THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. XVIII. THE general effect on Stiliwater of Mr. Shackfords death and the pecul- iar circumstances attending the tragedy have been set forth in the earlier chap- ters of this narrative. The influence which that event exerted upon several persons then but imperfectly known to the reader is now to occupy us. On the conclusion of the strike, Rich- ard had returned, in the highest spirits, to his own rooms in Lime Street; but the quiet week that followed found him singularly depressed. His nerves had been strung to their utmost tension during those thirteen days of suspense; he had assumed no light responsibility in the matter of closing the yard, and there had been moments when the task of sustaining Mr. Slocum had appeared al- most hopeless. Now that the strain was removed a reaction set in, and Richard felt himself unnerved by the fleeing shadow of the trouble which had not caused him to flinch so long as it faced him. The recollection of his quarrel with his cousin, which the rush of subsequent events had partly crowded out of the young mans mind, began to assail him whenever he was alone. How cruelly he had been misunderstood! He brooded over the mortification he had received until the thought of it became unbear- able; yet what steps could he take to dis- abuse the cynical old man of the idea that an attempt had been made to ex- tort money from him? Richard was no longer contented to pass the evening with a book in his own chamber; when not with Margaret, his restlessness drove him out into the streets, where he wan- dered for hours, frequently not returning to his lodgings until long after every one was abed. On the morning and at the moment when Mary Hennessey was pushing open the scullery door of the house in Welchs Court, and was about to come upon the body of the forlorn old man lying there in his night-dress, Richard sat eating his breakfast in a silent and preoccupied mood. He had retired very late the previous night, and his lack-lus- tre eyes showed the effect of insufficient sleep. His single fellow-boarder, Mr. Pinkham, had not returned from his customary early walk, and only Richard and Mrs. Spooner, the landlady, were at table. The former was in the act of lift- ing the coffee-cup to his lips, when the school-master burst excitedly into the room. Old Mr. Shackford is dead! he exclaimed, dropping into a chair near the door. There s a report down in the village that he has been murdered. Copyright, 1880, by HOUGHTO~, MIFFLIN & Co. 146 The Stiliwater Tragedy. [August, I dont know if it is true. - . - God for- give my abruptness! I did nt think! and Mr. Pinkham turned an apologetic look towards Richard, who sat there deathly pale, holding the cup rigidly within an inch or two of his lip, and star- ing blankly into space like a statue. II ought to have reflected, mur- mured the school-master, covered with confusion at his maladroitness. It was very reprehensible in Craggie to make such an announcement to me so sudden- ly, on a street corner. I I was quite upset by it. Richard pushed back his chair with- out replying, and passed into the hall, where he encountered a messenger from Mr. Slocum, confirming Mr. Pinkhams intelligence, but supplementing it with the rumor that Lemuel Shackford had committed suicide. Richard caught up his hat from a ta- ble, and hurried to Welchs Court. Be- fore reaching the house he had some- what recovered his outward composure; but he was still pale and internally much agitated, for he had received a great shock, as Lawyer Perkins afterwards observed to Mr. Ward in the reading- room of the tavern. Both these gen- tlemen were present when Richard ar- rived, as were also several of the imme- diate neighbors and two constables. The latter were guarding the door against the crowd which had already begun to collect in the front yard. A knot of carpenters, with their tool- boxes on their shoulders, had halted at the garden gate on their way to Bish- ops new stables, and were glancing cu- riously at the unpainted fa~ade of the house, which seemed to have taken on a remote, bewildered expression, as if it had an inarticulate sense of the hor- ror within. The men ceased their whispered conversation as Richard ap- proached, and respectfully moved aside to let him pass. Nothing had been changed in the cheerless room on the ground floor, with its veneered mahogany furniture and its yellowish leprous wall-paper, peeling off at the seams here and there. A cane- seated chair, overturned near the table, had been left untouched, and the body was still lying in the position in which the Hennessey girl had discovered it. A strange chill something unlike any atmospherical sharpness, a chill that seemed to eihale from the thin, pinched nostrils permeated the apartment. The orioles were singing madly outside, their vermilion bosoms glowing like live coals against the tender green of the foli- age, and appearing to break into flame as they took sudden flights hither and thither; but within all was still. On entering the chamber Richard was smit- ten by the silence, that silence which shrouds the dead, and is like no other. Lemuel Shackford had not been kind or cousinly; he had blighted Richards childhood with harshness and neglect, and had lately heaped cruel insult upon him; but as he stood there alone, and gazed for a moment at the firmly shut lips upon which the mysterious white dust of death had already settled, the lips that were never to utter any more bitter things, the tears gathered in Richards eyes and ran slowly down his cheek. After all said and done, Lemuel Shackford was his kinsman, and blood is thicker than water! Coroner Whidden shortly appeared on the scene, accompanied by a number of persons; a jury was impaneled, and then began that inquest which resulted in shedding so very little light on the catastrophe. The investigation completed, there were endless details to attend to, pa- pers to be hurriedly examined and sealed, and arrangements made for the funeral on the succeeding day. These matters occupied Richard until late in the after- noon, when he retired to his lodgings, looking in on Margaret for a few min- utes on his way home. This is too dreadful! said Marga. 1880.] The iStillwater Tragedy. 147 ret, clinging to his hand with fingers nearly as icy as his own. It is unspeakably sad, answered Richard, the saddest thing I ever knew. Who who could have been so cruel? Richard shook his head. No one knows. The funeral took place on Thursday, and on Friday morning, as has been stated, ~ Taggett arrived in Stillwa- ter, and installed himself in Welchs Court, to the wonder of many in the vil- lage, who would not have slept a night in that house, with only a servant in the north gable, for half the universe. Mr. Taggett was a person who did not allow himself to be swayed by his imagina- tion. Here, then, he began his probing of a case which, on the surface, promised to be a very simple one. The man who had been seen driving rapidly along the turnpike sometime near daybreak, on Wednesday, was presumably the man who could tell him all about it. But it did not prove so. Neither Thomas Blufton, nor William Durgin, nor any of the tramps subsequently obliged to drop into autobiography could be con- nected with the affair. These first failures served to stimu- late Mr. Taggett; it required a complex case to stir his ingenuity and sagacity. That the present was not a complex case he was still convinced, after four days futile labor upon it. Mr. Shack- ford had been killed either with mal- ice prepense or on the spur of the mo- ment for his money. The killing had likely enough not been premeditated; the old man had probably opposed the robbery. Now, among the exception- ally rough population of the town there were possibly fifty men who would not have hesitated to strike down Mr. Shack- ford if he had caught them flagrante delicto and resisted them, or attempted to call for succor. That the crime was committed by some one in Stiliwater or in the neighborhood Mr. Taggett had never doubted since the day of his arriv- al. The clumsy manner in which the staple had been wrenched from the scul- lery door showed the absence of a pro- fessional hand. Then the fact that the deceased was in the habit of keeping money in his bedchamber was a fact well known in the village, and not likely to be known outside of it, though of course it might have been. It was clearly neces- sary for Mr. Taggett to carry his inves- tigation into the workshops and among the haunts of the class which was indubi- tably to furnish him with the individual he wanted. Above all, it was necessary that the investigation should be secret. An obstacle obtruded itself here: every- body in Stillwater knew everybody, and a stranger appearing on the streets or dropping frequently into the tavern would not escape comment. The man with the greatest facility for making the requisite researches would of course be some workman. But a work- man was the very agent not to be em- ployed under the circumstances. How many times, and by what strange fatal- ity, had a guilty party been selected to shadow his own movements or those of an accomplice! No, Mr. Taggett must rely only on himself, and his plan was forthwith matured. Its execution, how- ever, was delayed several days, the co- operation of Mr. Slocum and Mr. Rich- ard Shackford being indispensable. At this stage Richard went to New York, where his cousin had made exten- sive investments in real estate. For a careful man, the late Mr. Shackford had allowed his affairs there to become strangely tangled. The business would detain Richard a fortnight. Three days after his departure Mr. Taggett himself left Stillwater, having apparently given up the case; a proceed- ing which was severely criticised, not only in the columns of The Stillwater Gazette, but by the townsfolks at large, 148 The Stiliwater Tragedy. [August, who immediately relapsed into a state of apprehension approximating that of the morning when the crime was discov- ered. Mr. Pinkham, who was taking tea that evening at the Danas, threw the family into a panic by asserting his belief that this was merely the first of a series of artistic assassinations in the manner of those Memorable Murders re- corded by De Quincey. Mr. Pinkham may have said this to impress the four Dana girls with the variety of his read- ing, but the recollection of De Quinceys harrowing paper had the effect of so un- hinging the young school-master that when he found himself, an hour or two afterwards, in the lonely, unlighted street he flitted home like a belated ghost, and was ready to drop at every tree-box. The next forenoon a new hand was taken on at Slocums Yard. The new hand, who had come on foot from South Millville, at which town he had been set down by the seven oclock express that morning, was placed in the appren- tice department, there were five or six apprentices now. Though all this was part of an understood arrangement, Mr. Slocum nearly doubted the fidelity of his own eyes when Mr. Taggett, a smooth-faced young fellow of one and twenty, if so old, with all the traits of an ordinary workingman down to the neglected finger-nails, stepped up to the desk t& have the name of Blake entered on the pay-roll. Either by chance or by design, Mr. Taggett had appeared but seldom on the streets of Stillwater; the few persons who had had anything like familiar intercourse with him in his professional capacity were precisely the persons with whom his present move- ments were not likely to bring him into juxtaposition, and he ran slight risk of recognition by others. With his hair closely cropped, and the overhanging brown mustache removed, the man was not so much disguised as transformed. I should nt have known him! mut- tered Mr. Slocum, as he watched Mr. Taggett signing the indentures. Dur- ing the ensuing ten or twelve days Mr. Slocum never wholly succeeded in ex- tricating himself from the foggy uncer- tainty generated by that one brief inter- view. From the moment the new hand was assigned a bench under the sheds, Mr. Slocum saw little or nothing of him. Mr. Taggett took lodging in a room in one of the most crowded of the low boarding-houses, a room accommodat- ing two beds besides his own: the first occupied by a brother neophyte in mar- ble-cutting, and the second by a morose middle-aged man with one eyebrow a trifle higher than the other, as if it had been twisted out of line by the strain of habitual intoxication. This mans name was Wollaston, and he worked at Danas. Mr. Taggetts initial move was to make himself popular in the marble yard, and especially at the tavern, where he spent money freely, though not so freely as to excite any remark except that the lad was running through pretty much all his small pay, a recklessness which was charitably condoned in Snel- hugs bar-room. He formed multifari- ous friendships, and had so many sen- sible views on the labor problem, advo- cating the general extinguishment of capitalists, and so on, that his admit- tance to the Marble Workers Associa- tion resolved itself into merely a ques- tion of time. The old prejudice against apprentices was already wearing off. The quiet, evasive man of few words was now a loquacious talker, holding his own with the hardest hitters, and very skillful in giving offense to no one. Whoever picks up Blake for a fool, Dexter remarked one night, will put him down again. Not a shadow of suspicion followed Mr. Taggett in his various comings and goings. He seemed merely a good-natured, intelligent devil; perhaps a little less devilish and a trifle more intelligent than the rest, but not otherwise different. Denyven, Peters, 1880.] The Stiliwater Tragedy. 149 Dexter, Wilison, and others in and out of the Slocum clique were Blakes sworn friends. In brief, Mr. Taggett had the amplest opportunities to prosecute his studies. Only for a pained look which sometimes latterly shot into his eyes, as he worked at the bench, or as he walked alone in the street, one would have im- agined that he was thoroughly enjoying the half-vagabond existence. The supposition would have been er- roneous, for in the progress of those fourteen days apprenticeship Mr. Tag- gett had received a wound in the most sensitive part of his nature; he had been forced to give up what no man ever relinquishes without a wrench, his own idea. With the exception of an accident in Danas Mill, by which Torrinis hand had been so badly mangled that ampu- tation was deemed necessary, the two weeks had been eventless outside of Mr. Taggetts personal experience. What that experience was will transpire in its proper place. Margaret was getting daily notes from Richard, and Mr. Sb- cum, overburdened with the secret of Mr. Taggetts presence in the yard, a secret confined exclusively to Mr. Sb- cum, Richard, and Justice Beemis, was restlessly awaiting developments. The developments came that after- noon when Mr. Taggett walked into the office and startled Mr. Slocum, sitting at the desk. The two words which Mr. Taggett then gravely and coldly whis- pered in Mr. Slocums ear were, RICHARD SHACKFORD. XIX. Mr. Slocum, who had partly risen from the chair, sank back into his seat. Good God! he said, turning very pale. Are you mad! Mr. Taggett realized the cruel shock which the pronouncing of that name must have caused Mr. Slocum. Mr. Taggett had meditated his line of action, and had decided that the most merciful course was brusquely to charge young Shackford with the crime, and allow Mr. Slocum to sustain himself for a while with the indignant disbelief which would be natural to him situated as he was. He would then in a manner be prepared for the revelations which, if suddenly presented, would crush him. If Mr. Taggett was without imagina- tion, as he claimed, he was not without a certain feminine quickness of sympa- thy often found in persons engaged in professions calculated to blunt the finer sensibilities. In his intercourse with Mr. Sbocum at the Shackford house, Mr. Taggett had been won by the singular gentleness and simplicity of the man, and was touched by his misfortune. After his exclamation Mr. Slocum did not speak for a moment or two, but with his elbows resting on the edge of the desk sat motionless, like a person stunned. Then he slowly lifted his face, to which the color had returned, and making a movement with his right hand as if he were sweeping away cobwebs in front of him rose from the chair. You are simply mad, he said, look- ing Mr. Taggett squarely and calmly in the eyes. Are you aware of Mr. Rich- ard Shackfords character and his posi- tion here? Perfectly. Do you know that he is to marry my daughter? I am very sorry for you, sir. You may spare me that. The pity is on my side. You have fallen into some horrible delusion. I hope you will be able to explain it. I am prepared to do so, sir. Are you serious? Very serious, Mr. Sbocum. You actually imagine that Richard Shack Pshaw! It s simply impos- sibbe ! I am too young a man to wish even to seem wiser than you, but my expe 150 The Stiliwater Tragedy. [August, rience has taught me that nothing is im- possible. I begin to believe so myself. I sup- pose you have grounds, or something you consider grounds, for your mon- strous suspicion. What are they? I demand to be fully informed of what you have been doing in the yard, before you bring disgrace upon me and my fam- ily by inconsiderately acting on some wild theory which perhaps ten words can refute. I should be in the highest degree criminal, Mr. Slocum, if I were to make so fearful an accusation against any man unless I had the most incontestable proofs in my hands. In scarching among the workshops and the low places of the village for the murderer of Lemuel Shackford, I stumbled upon a clew which led me in a totally different direction. I passed from point to point with amaze- ment, and with sorrow, believe me, until I had forged around the guilty man a chain of evidence in which not a single link is missing or a single link imper- fect. Mr. Taggett spoke with such cold- blooded conviction that a chill crept over Mr. Slocum, in spite of him. What is the nature of this evi- dence? Up to the present stage, purely cir- cumstantial. I can imagine that, said Mr. Sb- cum, with a slight smile. But so conclusive as to require no collateral evidence. The testimony of an eye-witness of the crime could scarce- ly add to my knowledge of what oc- curred that Tuesday night in Lemuel Shackfords house. Indeed, it is all so clear! But of course a few eye-witnesses will turn up eventually, said Mr. Slocum, whose whiteness about the lips discounted the assurance of his sarcasm. That is not improbable, returned Mr. Taggett gravely. And meanwhile what are the facts? They are not easily stated. I have kept a record of my work day by day, since the morning I entered the yard. The memoranda are necessarily con- fused, the important and the unimpor- tant being jumbled together; but the record as it stands will answer your question more fully than I could, even if I had the time which I have not to go over the case with you. I can leave these notes in your hands, if you desire it. When I return from New York You are going to New York! exclaimed Mr. Sbocum, with a start. When? To-night. If you lay a finger on Richard Shackford, you will make the mistake of your life, Mr. Taggett! I have other business there. Mr. Shackford is not to be troubled at pres- ent. lIe will be in Stillwater to-morrow night. He engaged a state-room on the Fall River boat this morning. How can you know that? Since last Tuesday none of Mr. Shackfords movements have been un- known to me. Do you mean to say that you have set your miserable spies upon him? cried Mr. Slocum. I should not state the fact in just those words, Mr. Taggett answered. The fact remains. Pardon me, said Mr. Slocum. I am not quite myself. Can you wonder at it? I do not wonder. Give me those papers you speak of, Mr. Taggett. I would like to look through them. I see that you are a very obstinate person when you have once got a notion into your head. Perhaps I can help you out of your error before it is irreparable. All this is to be in confidence, sir, replied Mr. Taggett stiffly. I should think so! said Mr. Sb- cum, with a forced laugh. Then, after hesitating a second, he added, I may 1880.] The Stiliwater Tragedy. 151 mention the matter to my daughter? Indeed, I could scarcely keep it from her. Perhaps it is better she should be informed. And Mr. Shackford, when he re- turns to-morrow? If he broaches the subject of his cousins death, I advise you to avoid it. Why should I? In the first place, it might save you or Miss Slocum some awkwardness, in case your testimony were called for in court; and, in the second place, Mr. Shackfords story should first be heard at the investigation, which is to take place almost immediately. I doubt if the blunder will go so far as that. An investigation is inevitable. Very well, said Mr. Slocum, with an impatient movement of his shoulders; neither I nor my daughter will open our lips on this topic. In the mean while you are to take no further steps without advising me. That is under- stood? That is perfectly understood, re- turned Mr. Taggett, drawing a narrow red note-book from the inner pocket of his workmans blouse, and producing at the same time a small nickel-plated door- key. This is the key of Mr. Shack- fords private workshop in the exten- sion. I have not been able to replace it on the mantel-shelf of his sitting- room in Lime Street. Will you have the kindness to see that that is done at once? It is desirable that he should find it there. A moment later Mr. Slocum stood alone in the office with Mr. Taggetts diary in his hand. It was one of those costly little volumes gilt - edged and bound in fragrant crushed Levant mo- rocco with which city officials are an- nually supplied by a community of grate- ful taxpayers. The dark crimson of the flexible cov- ers, as soft and slippery to the touch as a snakes skin, was perhaps the fitting symbol of the darker story that lay coiled within. With a gesture of repulsion, as if some such fancy had flitted through his mind, Mr. Slocuin tossed the note- book on the desk in front of him, and stood a few minutes moodily watching the rejiets of the crinkled leather as the afternoon sunshine struck across it. Be- neath his amazement and indignation he had been chilled to the bone by Mr. Tag- getts brutal confidence. It was enough to chill one, surely; and in spite of him- self Mr. Slocum began to feel a certain indefinable dread of that little crimson- bound book. Whatever it contained, the reading of those pages was to be a repellent task to him; it was a task to which he could not bring himself at the moment; to- night, in the privacy of his own cham- ber, he would sift Mr. Taggetts baleful fancies. Thus temporizing, Mr. Slocum dropped the volume into his pocket, locked the office door behind him, and wandered down to Dundons drug store to kill the intervening hour before sup- per-time. Dundons was the aristocratic lounging place of the village, the place where the only genuine Havana cigars in Stillwater were to be had, and where the favored few, the initiated, could get a dash of hochheimer or cognac with their soda-water. At supper, that evening, Mr. Slocum addressed scarcely a word to Margaret, and Margaret was also silent. The days were dragging heavily with her; she was missing Richard. Her own daring travels had never extended beyond Bos- ton or Providence; and New York, with Richard in it, seemed drearily far away. Mr. Slocum withdrew to his chamber shortly after nine oclock, and, lighting the pair of candles on the dressing-table, began his examination of Mr. Taggetts memoranda. At midnight the watchman on his lonely beat saw those two candles still burning. 152 The Stiliwater Tragedy. [August, xx. Mr. Taggetts diary was precisely a diary, disjoined, full of curt, obscure phrases and irrelevant reflections, for which reason it will not be reproduced here. Though Mr. Slocum pondered every syllable, and now and then turned back painfully to reconsider some doubt- ful passage, it is not presumed that the reader will care to do so. An abstract of the journal, with occasional quotation where the writers words seem to de- mand it, will be sufficient for the narra- tive. In the opening pages Mr. Taggett de- scribed his novel surroundings with a minuteness which contrasted oddly with the brief, hurried entries further on. He found himself, as he had anticipated, in a society composed of some of the most heterogeneous elements. Stillwa- ter, viewed from a certain point, was a sort of microcosm, a little international rag-fair to which nearly every country on earth had contributed one of its shabby human products. I am moving, wrote Mr. Taggett, in an atmosphere in which any crime is possible. I give myself seven days at the outside to light upon the traces of Shackfords murderer. I feel him in the air. The writers theory was that the man would betray his iden- tity in one of two ways: either by talk- ing unguardedly, or by indulging in ex- penditures not warranted by his means and position. If several persons had been concerned in the crime, nothing was more likely than a disagreement over the spoil, and consequent treachery on the part of one of them. Or, again, some of the confederates might become alarmed, and attempt to save themselves by giving away their comrades. Mr. Taggett, however, leaned to the belief that the assassin had had no accomplices. The sum taken from Mr. Shackfords safe was a comparatively large one, five hundred dollars in gold and nearly double that amount in bank-notes. Nei- ther the gold nor the paper bore any known mark by which it could be rec- ognized; the burglar had doubtless as- sured himself of this, and would not hes- itate to disburse the money. That was even a safer course, judiciously worked, than to secrete it. The point was, Would he have sufficient self-control to get rid of it by degrees? The chances, Mr. Taggett argued, were ten to one he would not. A few pages further on Mr. Taggett compliments the Unknown on the adroit manner in which he is conducting him- self. He has neither let slip a suspicious word, nor made an incautious display of his booty. Snellings bar was doing an unusually light business. No one ap- peared to have any money. Many of the men had run deeply into debt during the late strike, and were now drinking moderately. In the paragraph which closes the weeks record Mr. Taggetts chagrin is evident. He confesses that he is at fault. My invisible friend does not materialize so successfully as I ex- pected, is Mr. Taggetts comment. His faith in the correctness of his theory had not abated; but he continued his observations in a less sanguine spirit. These observations were not limited to the bar-room or the workshop; he in- formed himself of the domestic surround- ings of his comrades. Where his own scrutiny could not penetrate, he employed the aid of correspondents. Through this means he learned that the Savings- Bank had received no recent heavy de- posit. In the course of his explorations of the shady side of Stillwater life, Mr. Taggett unearthed many amusing and many pathetic histories, but nothing that served his end. Finally, he began to be discouraged. Returning home from the tavern, one night, in rather a desponding mood, he found the maft Wollaston smoking his pipe in bed. Wollaston was a taciturn man generally, but this night he was con- 1880.] The iSftiliwater Tra~qedy. 153 versational, and Mr. Taggett, too rest- less to sleep, fell to chatting with him. Did he know much about the late Mr. Shackford? Yes, he had known him well enough, in an off way, not to speak to him; everybody knew him in Stiliwater; he was a sort of miser, hated everybody, and bullied everybody. It was a wonder somebody did nt ~knock the old silver- top on the head years ago. Thus Mr. Woflaston grimly, with his pores stopped up with iron-filings, a person to whom it would come quite easy to knock any one on the head for a slight difference of opinion. He amused Mr. Taggett in his present humor. No, he was nt aware that Shackford had had trouble with any particular in- dividual; believed he did have a difficulty once with Slocum, the marble man; but he was always fetching suits against the town and shying lawyers at the mill di- rectors, a disagreeable old cuss alto- gether. Adopted his cousin, one time, but made the house so hot for him that the lad ran off to sea, and since then had had nothing to do with the old bilk. Indeed! What sort of fellow was young Shackford? Mr. Wollaston could not say of his own knowledge; thought him a plucky chap; he had put a big Italian named rrorrini out of the yard, one day, for talking back. Who was Torrini? The man that got hurt last week in the Dana Mill. Who were Richard Shackfords intimates? Could nt say; had seen him with Mr. Pink- ham, the school-master, and Mr. Craggie, went with the upper crust generally. Was going to be partner in the marble yard and marry Slocums daughter. Will Durgin knew him. They lived to- gether one time. He, Wollaston, was going to turn in now. Several of these facts were not new to Mr. Taggett, but Mr. Wollastons pres- entation of them threw Mr. Taggett into a reverie. The next evening he got Durgin alone in a corner of the bar-room. With two or three potations Durgin became auto- biographical. Was he acquainted with Mr. Shackford outside the yard? Rather. Dick Shackford! His (Durgins) moth- er had kept Dick from starving when he was a baby, and no thanks for it. Went to school with him, and knew all about his running off to sea. Was near going with him. Old man Shackford never liked Dick, who was a proud beg- gar; they could nt pull together, down to the last, both of a piece. They had a jolly rumpus a little while before the old man was fixed. Mr. Taggett pricked up his ears at this. A rumpus? How did Durgin know that? A girl told him. What girl? A girl he was sweet on. What was her name? Well, he did nt mind telling her name; it was Molly Hennessey. She was going through Welchs Court one forenoon, may be it was three days before the strike, and saw Dick Shackford bolt out of the house, swing- ing his arms and swearing to himself at an awful rate. Was Durgin certain that Molly Hennessey had told him this? Yes, he was ready to take his oath on it. Here, at last, was something that looked like a glimmer of daylight! It was possible that Durgin or the girl had lied; but the story had an air of truth to it. If it were a fact that there had recently been a quarrel be- tween these cousins, whose uncousinly attitude towards each other was fast be- coming clear to Mr. Taggett, then here was a conceivable key to an enigma which had puzzled him. The conjecture that Lemuel Shack- ford had himself torn up the will if it was a will, for this still remained in dispute had never been satisfactory to Mr. Taggett. He had accepted it be- cause he was unable to imagine an or- dinary burglar pausing in the midst of his work to destroy a paper in which he could have no concern. But Richard The Stiliwater Tragedy. Shackford would have the liveliest pos- sible interest in the destruction of a doc- ument that placed a vast estate heyond his reach. Here was a motive on a lev- el with the crime. That money had been taken, and that the fragments of the will had been carelessly thrown into a waste-paper basket, just as if the old man himself had thrown them there, was a stroke of art which Mr. Taggett admired more and more as he reflected upon it. He did not, however, allow himself to lay too much stress on these points; for the paper might turn out to be merely an expired lease, and the girl might have been quizzing Durgin. Mr. Taggett would have given one of his eye-teeth just then for ten minutes with Mary Hennessey. But an interview with her at this stage was neither prudent nor easily compassed. If I have not struck a trail, writes Mr. Taggett, I have come upon what strongly resembles one; the least I can do is to follow it. My first move must be to inspect that private workshop in the rear of Mr. Slocums house. How shall I accomplish it? I cannot apply to him for permission, for that would provoke questions which I am not ready to answer. Moreover, I have yet to as- sure myself that Mr. Slocum is not im- plicated. There seems to have been also a hostile feeling existing between him and the deceased. Why did nt some one tell me these things at the start! If young Shackford is the person, there is a tangled story to be unraveled. Mern: Young Shackford is Miss Slocums lover. Mr. Slocum read this passage twice without drawing breath, and then laid down the book an instant to wipe the sudden perspiration from his forehead. In the note which followed, Mr. Tag- gett described the difficulty he met with in procuring a key to fit the wall-door at the rear of the marble yard, and gave an account of his failure to effect an en- trance into the studio. He had hoped to find a window unfastened; but the window, as well as the door opening upon the veranda, was locked, and in the midst of his operations, which were conducted at noon-time, the approach of a servant had obliged him to retreat. Forced to lay aside, at least tempo- rarily, his designs on, the workshop, he turned his attention to Richards lodg- ings in Lime Street. Here Mr. Tag- gett was more successful. On the pre- text that he had been sent for certain drawings which were to be found on the table or in a writing-desk, he was per- mitted by Mrs. Spooner to ascend to the bedroom, where she obligingly insisted on helping him search for the apocry- phal plans, and seriously interfered with his purpose, which was to find the key of the studio. While Mr. Taggett was turning over the pages of a large dic- tionary, in order to gain time, and was wondering how he could rid himself of the old ladys importunities, he came upon a half-folded note-sheet, at the bot- tom of which his eye caught the name of Lemuel Shackford. It was in the handwriting of the dead man. Mr. Tag- gett was very familiar with that hand- writing. He secured the paper at a vent- ure, and put it in his pocket without examination. A few minutes later, it being impossi- ble to prolong the pretended quest for the drawings, Mr. Taggett was obliged to follow Mrs. Spooner from the apart- ment. As he did so he noticed a bright object lying on the corner of the mantel- shelf, a small nickel-plated key. In order to take it he had only to reach out his hand in passing. It was, as Mr. Taggett had instantly surmised, the key of Richards workshop. If it had been gold, instead of brass or iron, that bit of metal would have taken no additional value in Mr. Tag- getts eyes. On leaving Mrs. Spooners he held it tightly clasped in his fingers until he reached an unfrequented street, 154 [August, 1880.] like Stiliwater Tragedy. 155 where he halted a moment in the shad- ow of a building to inspect the paper, which he had half forgotten in his satis- faction at having obtained the key. A stifled cry rose to Mr. Taggetts lips as he glanced over the crumpled note- sheet. It contained three lines, hastily scrawled in lead-pencil, requesting Rich- ard Shackford to call at the house in Welchs Court at eight oclock on a cer- tain Tuesday night. The note had been written, as the date showed, on the day preceding the Tuesday night in ques- tion, the night of the murder! For a second or two Mr. Taggett stood paralyzed. Ten minutes after- wards a message in cipher was pulsing along the wires to INew York, and be- fore the sun went down that evening Richard Shackford was under the sur- veillance of the police. The doubtful, unknown ground upon which Mr. Taggett had been floundering was now firm under his feet, unex- pected ground, but solid. Meeting Mary Hennessey in the street, on his way to the marble yard, Mr. Taggett no longer hesitated to accost her, and question her as to the story she had told William Durgin. The girls story was undoubt- edly true, and as a piece of circumstan- tial evidence was only less important than the elder Shackfords note. The two cousins had been for years on the worst of terms. At every step Mr. Tag. gett had found corroboration of Wollas- tons statement to that effect. Where were Coroner Whiddens eyes and ears, wrote Mr. Taggett, the words were dashed dowu impatient- ly on the page, as if he had sworn a lit- tle internally while writing them, when he conducted that inquest! In all my experience there was never a thing so stupidly managed. A thorough and immediate exami- nation of Richard Shackfords private workshop was now so imperative that Mr. Taggett resolved to make it even if he had to do so under the authority of a search-warrant. But he desired as yet to avoid publicity. A secret visit to the studio seemed equally difficult by day and night. In the former case he was nearly certain to be deranged by the servants, and in the latter a light in the unoccupied room would alarm any one of the household who might chance to awaken. From the watchman no danger was to be appre- hended, as the windows of the extension were not visible from the street. Mr. Taggett finally decided on the night as the more propitious time for his attempt, a decision which his suc- cess justified. A brilliant moon favored the in-door part of the enterprise, though it exposed him to observation in his ap- proach from the marble yard to the ve- randa. With the dense moonlight streaming outside against the window-shades, he could safely have used a candle in the studio instead of the screened lantern which he had provided. Mr. Taggett passed three hours in the workshop, the last hour in waiting for the moon to go down. Thea he stole through the marble yard into the silent street, and hurried home, carrying two small articles concealed under his blouse. The first was a chisel with a triangular piece broken out of the centre of the bevel, and the other was a box of safety- matches. The peculiarity of this box of matches was that just one match had been used from it. Mr. Taggetts work was done. The last seven pages of the diary were devoted to a review of the case, every detail of which was held up in various lights, and examined with the conscientious pains of a lapidary decid- ing on the value of a rare stone. The concluding entries ran as follows Tuesday Night. Here the case passes into other hands. I have been fortunate rather than skillful in unmask- ing the chief actor in one of the most 156 The Stiliwater Tragedy. [August, singular crimes that ever came under my investigation. By destroying three objects, very easily destroyed, Richard Shackford would have put himself be- yond the dream of suspicion. He neg- lected to remove these dumb witnesses, and now the dumb witnesses speak! If it could be shown that he was a hun- dred miles from Stillwater at the time of the murder, instead of in the village, as he was, he must still be held, in the face of the proofs against him, accesso- ry to the deed. These proofs, roughly summarized, are First. The fact that he had had an altercation with his cousin a short time previous to the date of the murder, a murder which may be regarded not as the result of a chance disagreement~ but of long years of bitter enmity between the two men. Secondly. The fact that Richard Shackford had had an appointment with his cousin on the night the crime was committed, and had concealed that fact from the authorities at the time of the coroners inquest. Thirdly. That the broken chisel found in the private workshop of the accused explains the peculiar shape of the wound which caused Lemuel Shack- fords death, and corresponds in every particular with the plaster impression taken of that wound. Fourthly. That the partially con- sumed match found on the scullery floor when the body was discovered (a style of match not used in the house in Welchs Court) completes the comple- ment of a box of safety-matches belong- ing to Richard Shackford, and hidden in a closet in his workshop. Whether Shackford had an accom- plice or not is yet to be ascertained. There is nothing whatever to implicate Mr. Rowland Slocum. I make the statement because his intimate associa- tion with one party and his deep dislike of the other invited inquiry, and at first raised an unjust suspicion in my mind. The little red book slipped from Mr. Slocums grasp and fell at his feet. As he rose from the chair, the reflection which he caught of himself in the dress- ing-table mirror was that of a wrinkled, white old man. Mr. Slocum did not believe, and no human evidence could have convinced him, that Richard had deliberately killed Lemuel Shackford; but as Mr. Slocum reached the final pages of the diary, a horrible probability insinuated itself into his mind. Could Richard have done it accidentally? Could he in an instant of passion, stung to sudden madness by that venomous old man have struck him involuntarily, and killed him? A certain speech which Richard had made in Mr. Slocums presence not long be- fore came back to him now with fear- ful emphasis: Three or four times in my life I have been carried away by a devil of a temper which] could nt con- trol, it has seized me so unawares. It has seized me so unawares! re- peated Mr. Slocum, half aloud; and then with a swift, unconscious gesture, he pressed his hands over his ears, as if to shut out the words. XXI. Margaret must be told. It would be like stabbing her to tell her all this. Mr. Slocum had lain awake long after midnight, appalled by the calamity that was about to engulf them. At moments, as his thought reverted to Margarets illness early in the spring, he felt that perhaps it would have been a mercy if she had died then. He had left the candles burning; it was not until the wicks sunk down in the sockets and went softly out that slumber fell upon him. He was now sitting at the breakfast- table, absently crumbling bits of bread beside his plate and leaving his coffee untouched. Margaret glanced at him 1880.] The Stiliwater Tragedy. 157 wistfully from time to time, and detected the restless night in the deepened lines of his face. The house had not been the same since Lemuel Shackfords death; he had never crossed its threshold; Mar- garet had scarcely known him by sight, and Mr. Slocum had not spoken to him for years; but Richards connection with the unfortunate old man had brought the tragic event very close to Margaret and her father. Mr. Slocum was a per- son easily depressed, but his depression this morning was so greatly in excess of the presumable cause that Margaret be- gan to be troubled. Papa, has anything happened? No, nothing new has happened; but I am dreadfully disturbed by some things which Mr. Taggett has been do- ing here in the village. I thought Mr. Taggett had gone. He did go; but he came back, very quietly, without anybodys knowledge. I knew it, of course; but no one else, to speak of. What has he done to disturb you? I want you to be a brave girl, Mar- garet, will you promise that? Why, yes, said Margaret, with an anxious look. You frighten me with your mysteriousness. I do not mean to be mysterious, but I dont quite know how to tell you about Mr. Taggett. He has been work- ing underground in this matter of poor Shackfords death, boring in the dark like a mole, and thinks he has dis- covered some strange things. Do you mean he thinks he has found out who killed Mr. Shackford? He believes he has fallen upon dews which will lead to that. The strange things I alluded to are things which Richard will have to explain. Richard? What has he to do with it? Not much, I hope; but there are several matters which he will be obliged to clear up in order to save himself from very great annoyance. Mr. Taggett seems to think that that Good Heaven, papa! What does he think? Margaret, he thinks that Richard knew something about the murder, and has not told it. What could he know? Is that all ? No, that is not all. I am keeping the full truth from you, and it is useless to do so. You must face it like a brave girl. Mr. Taggett suspects Richard of beiug concerned, directly or indirectly, with the crime. The color went from Margarets cheek for an instant. The statement was too horrible and sudden not to startle her, but it was also too absurd to have more than an instants effect. Her quick re- covery of herself reassured Mr. Slocum. Would she meet Mr. Taggetts specific charges with the like fortitude? Mr. Slocum himself had been prostrated by them; he prayed to Heaven that Mar~ garet might have more strength than he, as indeed she had. The man has got together a lot of circumstantial evidence, continued Mr. Slocum cautiously; some of it amounts to nothing, being mere conjecture; but some of it will look badly for Richard, to outsiders. Of course it is all a mistake, said Margaret, in nearly her natural voice. It ought to be easy to convince Mr. Taggett of that. I have not been able to convince him. But you will. What has possessed him to fall into such a ridiculous error? Mr. Taggett has written out every- thing at length in this memorandum- book, and you must read it for yourself. There are expressions and statements in these pages, Margaret, that will nec- essarily shock you very much; but you should remember, as I tried to while reading them, that Mr. Taggett has a heart of steel; without it he would be unable to do his distressing work. The 158 The Stiliwater Tragedy. [August, cold impartiality with which he sifts and heaps up circumstances involving the doom of a fellow-creature appears al- most inhuman; but it is his business. No, dont look at it here! said Mr. Slocum, recoiling; he had given the book to Margaret. Take it into the other room, and read it carefully by yourself. When you have finished, come back and tell me what you think. But, papa, surely you I dont believe anything, Margaret! I dont know the true from the false any more! I want you to help me out of my confusion, and you cannot do it until you have read that book. Margaret made no response, but passed into the parlor and closed the folding- doors behind her. After an absence of half an hour she rei~ntered the breakfast-room, and laid Mr. Taggetts diary on the table beside her father, who had not moved from his place during the interval. Margarets manner was collected, but it was evident, by the dark circles under her eyes and the set, colorless lips, that that half hour had been a cruel thirty minutes to her. In Margarets self-possession Mr. Sb- cum recognized, not for the first time, the cropping out of an ancestral trait which had somehow managed to avoid him in its wayward descent. Well? he questioned, looking ear- nestly at Margaret, and catching a kind of comfort from her confident bearing. It is Mr. Taggetts trade to find somebody guilty, said Margaret, and he has been very ingenious and very merciless. He was plainly at his wits ends to sustain his reputation, and would not have hesitated to sacrifice any one rather than wholly fail. But you have been crying, Marga- ret. How could I see Richard dragged down in the dust in this fashion, and not be mortified and indignant? You dont believe anything at all of this? Do ~you? asked Margaret, looking through and through him. I confess I am troubled. If you doubt Richard for a second, said Margaret, with a slight quiver of her lip, that will be the bitterest part of it to me. I dont give any more credit to Mr. Taggetts general charges than you do, Margaret; but I understand their grav- ity better. A perfectly guiltless man, one able with a single word to establish his innocence, is necessarily crushed at first by an accusation of this kind. Now, can Richard set these matters right with a single word? I am afraid he has a world of difficulty before him. When he returns he will explain everything. How can you question it? I do not wish to; but there are two things in Mr. Taggetts story which stag- ger me. The motive for the destruction of Shnckfords papers, that s not plain; the box of matches is a puerility unworthy of a clever man like Mr. Tag- gett, and as to the chisel he found, why, there are a hundred broken chisels in the village, and probably a score of them broken in precisely the same manner; but, Margaret, did Richard ever breathe a word to you of that quarrel with his cousin? He never mentioned it to me, either. As matters stood between you and him, nothing was more natural than that he should have spoken of it to you, so natural that his silence is positively strange. He may have considered it too un- important. Mr. Shackford always abused Richard; it was nothing new. Then, again, Richard is very proud, and per- haps he did not care to come to us just at that time with family grievances. Be- sides, how do we know they quarreled? The village is full of gossip. I am certain there was a quarrel; it was only necessary for those two to meet to insure that. I distinctly remem 1880.] The Stiliwater Tragedy. 159 ber the forenoon when Richard went to Welchs Court; it was the day he dis- charged Torrini. A little cloud passed over Margarets countenance. They undoubtedly had angry words together, continued Mr. Slocum, and we are forced to accept the Hennessey girls statement. The reason you sug- gest for Richards not saying anything on the subject may suffice for us, but it will scarcely satisfy disinterested per- sons, and does nt at all cover another circumstance which must be taken in the same connection. What circumstance? His silence in regard to Lemuel Shackfords note, a note written the day before the murder, and making an appointment for the very night of it. The girl looked steadily at her father. Margaret! exclaimed Mr. Slocum, his face illuminated with a flickering hope as he met her untroubled gaze, did Richard tell you ~ No, replied Margaret. Then he told no one, said Mr. Sb- cum, with the light fading out of his features again. It was madness in him to conceal the fact. He should not have lost a moment, after the death of his cousin, in making that letter public. It ought instantly to have been placed in Coroner Whiddens hands. Richards action is inconceivable, unless un- less Do not say it! cried Margaret. I should never forgive you! In recapitulating the points of Mr. Taggetts accusation, Mr. Slocum had treated most of them as trivial ; but he had not been sincere. He knew that that broken chisel had no duplicate in Stillwater, and that the finding of it in Richards closet was a black fact. Mr. Slocum had also glossed over the quar- rel; but that letter! the likelihood that Richard kept the appointment, and his absolute silence concerning it, here was a grim thing which no sophistry could dispose of. It would be wronging Margaret to deceive her as to the vital seriousness of Richards position. Why, why did he hide it! Mr. Sbocum persisted. I do not see that he really hid it, papa. He shut the note in a book lying openly on the table, a dictionary, to which any one in the household was like- ly to go. You think Mr. Taggett a per- son of great acuteness. He is a very intelligent person, Margaret. He appears to me very short-sighted. If Richard were the dreadful man Mr. Taggett supposes, that paper would have been burnt, and not left for the first corner to pick up. I scorn myself for stooping to the suggestion! There is something in the idea, said Mr. Sbocum slowly. But why did Richard never mention the note, to you, or to me, or to anybody? He had a sufficient reason, you may be sure. Oh, papa, how ready you are to believe evil of him! I am not, God knows! How you cling to this story of the letter! Suppose it turns out to be some old letter, written two or three years ago? You could never look Richard in the face again. Unfortunately, Shackford dated it. It is useless for us to blindfold ourselves, Margaret. Richard has managed in some way to get himself into a very perilous situation, and we cannot help him by shutting our eyes. You miscon- ceive me if you imagine I think him capable of coolly plotting his cousin s death; but it is not outside the limits of the possible that what has happened a thousand times may have happened once more. Men less impulsive than Richard I will not listen to it! interrupted Margaret, drawing herself up. When Richard returns he will explain the mat- ter to you, not to me. If I required a word of denial from him, I should care 160 The Stiliwater Tragedy. [August, very little whether he was innocent or not. Mr. Slocum threw a terrified glance at his daughter. Her lofty faith sent a chill to his heart. What would be the result of a fall from such a height? He almost wished Margaret had something less of that ancestral confidence and ob- stinacy the lack of which in his own composition he had so often deplored. We are not to speak of this to Rich- ard, he said, after a protracted pause; at least not until Mr. Taggett consid- ers it best. I have pledged myself to something like that. Has Richard been informed of Mr. Taggetts singular proceeding? asked Margaret freezingly. Not yet; nothing is to be done un- til Mr. Taggett returns from New York, and then Richard will at once have an opportunity of clearing himself. It would have spared us all much pain and misunderstanding if he had been sent for in the first instance. Did he know that this person was here in the yard? The plan was talked over before Richard left; the details were arranged afterwards. He heartily approved of the plan. A leisurely and not altogether saint- like smile crept into the corners of Mar- garets mouth. Yes, he approved of the plan, re- peated Mr. Slocum. Perhaps he Here Mr. Slocum checked himself, and left the sentence flying at loose ends. Perhaps Richard had looked with favor upon a method of inquiry which was so likely to lead to no result. But Mr. Slocum did not venture to finish the sug- gestion. He had never seen Margaret so imperious and intractable; it was im- possible to reason or to talk frankly with her. He remained silent, sitting with one arm thrown dejectedly across the back of the chair. Presently his abject attitude and ex- pression began to touch Margaret; there was something that appealed to her Ia the thin gray hair falling over his fore- head. Her eyes softened as they rested upon him, and a pitying little tremor came to her under lip. Papa, she said, stooping to his side, with a sudden rosy bloom in her cheeks, I have all the proof I want that Rich- ard knew nothing of this dreadful busi- ness. You have proof! exclaimed Mr. Slocum, starting from his seat. Yes. The morning Richard went to New York Margaret hesitated. Well lie put his arm around me and kissed ~ Well! Well? repeated Margaret. Could Richard have done that, could he have so much as laid his hand upon me if if Mr. Slocum sunk back in the chair with a kind of groan. Papa, you do not know him! Oh, Margaret, I am afraid that that is not the kind of evidence to clear Rich- ard in Mr. Taggetts eyes. Then Richards word must do it, she said haughtily. He will be home to-night. Yes, he is to return to-night, said Mr. Slocum, looking away from her. XXII. During the rest of the day the name of Richard Shackford was not men- tioned again either by Margaret or her father. It was a day of suspense to both, and long before night-fall Marga- rets impatience for Richard to come had resolved itself into a pain as keen as that with which Mr. Slocum contem- plated the coming; for every hour aug- mented his dread of the events that would necessarily follow the reappear- ance of young Shackford in Stillwater. On reaching his office, after the con- 1880.] The Stiliwater Tragedy. 161 versation with Margaret, Mr. Slocum found Lawyer Perkins waiting for him. Lawyer Perkins, who was as yet in ig- norance of the late developments, had brought information of his own. The mutilated document which had so grimly clung to its secret was at last deciphered. It proved to be a recently executed will, in which the greater part of Lemuel Shackfords estate, real and personal, was left unconditionally to his cousin. That disposes of one of Mr. Tag- getts theories, was Mr. Slocum s un- spoken reflection. Certainly Richard had not destroyed the will; the old man himself had destroyed it, probably in some fit of pique. Yet, after all, the vital question was in no way affected by this fact: the motive for the crime re- mained, and the fearful evidence against Richard still held. After the departure of Lawyer Per- kins, who had been struck by the singu- lar perturbation of his old friend, Mr. Slocum drew forth Mr. Taggetts journal, and reread it from beginning to end. Margarets unquestioning faith in Rich- ard, her prompt and indignant rejection of the whole story, had shaken her father at moments that morning; but now his paralyzing doubts returned. This second perusal of the diary impressed him even more strongly than the first. Richard had killed Lemuel Shackford, in self- defense, may be, or perhaps accidentally; but he had killed him! As Mr. Slocum passed from page to page, following the dark thread of narrative that darkened at each remove, he lapsed into that illog- ical frame of mind when one looks half expectantly for some providential inter- position to avert the calamity against which human means are impotent. If Richard were to drop dead in the street! If he were to fall overboard off Point Judith in the night! If only anything would happen to prevent his coming back! Thus the ultimate disgrace might be spared them. But the ill thing is the sure thing; the letter with the black VOL. XLVI. z~o. 274. 11 seal never miscarries, and Richard was bound to come! There is no escape for him or for us, murmured Mr. Sb- cum, closing his finger in the book. It was in a different mood that Mar- garet said to herself, It is nearly four o clock; he will be here at eight! As she stood at the parlor window and watched the waning afternoon light mak- ing its farewells to the flower-beds in the little square front-gardens of the houses opposite, Margarets heart was filled with the tenderness of the greeting she in- tended to give Richard. She had never been cold or shy in her demeanor with him, nor had she ever been quite demon- strative; but now she meant to put her arms around his neck in a wifely fashion, and recompense him so far as she could for all the injustice he was to suffer. When he came to learn of the hateful slander that had lifted its head during his absence, he should already be in pos- session of the assurance of her faith. In the mean while the hands in Sb- cums Yard were much exercised over the unaccountable disappearance of Blake. Stevens reported the matter to Mr. Sb- cum. Ah, yes, said Mr. Sbocum, who had not provided himself with an explana- tion, and was puzzled to improvise one. I discharged him, that is to say, I canceled his papers. I forgot to men- tion it. He did nt take to the trade. But he showed a good fist for a be- ginner, said Stevens. He was head and shoulders the best of the new lot. Shall I put Stebbins in his place? You need nt do anything until Mr. Shackford gets back. When will that be, sir? To-night, probably. The unceremonious departure of Blake formed the theme of endless speculation at the tavern that evening, and for the moment obscured the general interest in old Shackfords murder. Never to let on he was goin! said one. 162 Did nt say good-by to nobody, re- marked a second. It was devilish uncivil, added a third. It is kinder mysterious, said Mr. Peters. Some girl, suggested Mr. Willson, with an air of tender sentiment, which he attempted further to emphasize by a capacious wink. No, observed Dexter. When a man vanishes in that sudden way his body is generally found in a clump of blackberry bushes, months afterwards, or left somewhere on the flats by an ebb tide. Two murders in Stiliwater in one month would be rather crowding it, would nt it? inquired Piggott. Bosh! said Durgin. There was always something shady about Blake. We did nt know where he hailed from, and we dont know where he s gone to. He 11 take care of himself; that kind of fellow never lets anybody play any points on him. I c~ld nt get anything out of the proprietor, said Stevens; but he never talks. May be Shackford when he Stevens stopped short to listen to a low, rumbling sound like distant thunder, followed almost instantly by two quick faint whistles. He s aboard the train to-night. Mr. Peters quietly rose from his seat and left the bar-room. The evening express, due at eight, was only a few seconds behind time. As the screech of the approaching engine rung out from the dark woodland, Mar- garet and her father exchanged rapid glances. it would take Richard ten minutes to walk from the railway station to the house, for of course he would come there directly after sending his valise to Lime Street. The Stiliwater Tragedy. [Augnst, The ten minutes went by, and then twenty. Margaret bent steadily over her work, listening with covert intent- ness for the click of the street gate. Likely enough Richard had been unable to find any one to take charge of his hand-luggage. Presently Mr. Slocum could not resist the impulse to look at his watch. It was half past eight. He nerv- ously unfolded the Stillwater Gazette, and sat with his eyes fastened on the paper. After a seemingly interminable period the heavy bell of the South Church sounded nine, and then tolled for a few minutes, as the dismal custom is in New England country towns. A long silence followed, unrelieved by any word between father and daughter, a silence so profound that the heart of the old-fashioned time-piece, throb- bing monotonously in its dusky case at the foot of the stairs, made itself audible through the room. Mr. Slocums gaze continued fixed on the newspaper which he was not reading. Margarets hands lay crossed over the work on her lap. Ten oclock. What can have kept him? mur- mured Margaret. There was only that way out of it, reflected Mr. Slocum, pursuing his own line of thought. Margarets cheeks were flushed and hot, and her eyes dulled with disappoint- ment, as she rose from the low rocking- chair and crossed over to kiss her father good-night. Mr. Slocum drew the girl gently towards him, and held her for a moment in silence. But Margaret, de- tecting the subtile commiseration in his manner, resented it, anif released her- self coldly. He has been detained, papa. Yes, something must have detained him! Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 1880.] Sicilian ffo8pitalit~y. 168 SICILIAN HOSPITALITY. SPEAKING of Sicilian hospitality, said my estimable friend, Mr. A, in his off-hand, chatty way, I never in all my travels met with anything so cordial, spontaneous, and charming as on my first visit to Palermo, many years ago. With some fourteen others, most- ly English, I was a passenger in the old steamer Re Ferdinando; and at every place we stopped on the coast of Italy we used to go together, visiting the dif- ferent objects of interest. A friend of mine had given me a letter of introduc- tion to a Sicilian gentleman, which I delivered on my arrival. He received me with the greatest cordiality, and as my fellow-travelers had planned an ex- cursion to the famous cathedral of Mon- reale for the next day, he offered to go with us. We drove the four miles up the mountain side under his guidance, the next morning, stopping to see several villas and gardens on our way. Reach- ing the toWn, we admired the ancient Norman structure with Byzantine mo- saic interior, Monrealeses chef-dwuvre in the convent attached to it, and from its balconies the magnificent panorama of the Conca d Oro (golden shell, so called), the valley and bay of Palermo. Being then somewhat fatigued both by the drive and sight-seeing, we proposed to have a luncheon. Our Sicilian friend took us to the best restaurant of the place, where they served us an excel- lent collation. When we had finished and asked for our bill, the landlord told us that it had already been paid by my friend, much to my surprise. I expos- tulated with him on the ground that, whatever kindness or hospitality he de- sired to extend to me on the strength of my letter of introduction, he was not called upon to bestow it on my numer- ous companions, who were only my fel- Yow-travelers, and had no claim on my- self, much less on him. But he was inexorable, saying that the Sicilian cus- toms made it imperative on him not to allow payment for anything they called for while in his company, no matter un- der what circumstances they happened to be so placed. And in fact he would not suffer us even to pay for our car- riages, having paid the fare before we started. What made it rather unpleas- ant for us ii~as that we could not repay the courtesy in any way, for the next day we had to be on board continuing our tour. I never had occasion to meet the gentleman again in my travels, and only hope that my English fellow-trav- elers may have returned his civility in England, where he often traveled in the summer. The anecdote excited the curiosity of the company in which it was told, and they insisted upon hearing from me something more about Sicilian hospital- ity. I accordingly related the follow- ing experience. Curiosity enticing me once to visit the classic soil of Trapani (Drepanum), where, as Virgil states, .ZEneas lost his father Anchises, on his flight from Ilium to Italy, and where lie left all the women, who, tired of wandering from sea to sea, had attempted to burn his fleet, I accepted the invitation of a friend of mine belonging in that town, whom I had often met in Palermo, to be a guest at his house. Small towns in Sicily are so little vis- ited by travelers that there is hardly one which has a good hotel; they have only miserable inns, much like the Spanish ventas, fit only for muleteers and poor traders. Therefore, from time imme- morial, country gentlemen have offered hospitality to people of their class hap- pening to visit the town or village where they resided, even on a very slight ac

Luigi Monti Monti, Luigi Sicilian Hospitality 163-179

1880.] Sicilian ffo8pitalit~y. 168 SICILIAN HOSPITALITY. SPEAKING of Sicilian hospitality, said my estimable friend, Mr. A, in his off-hand, chatty way, I never in all my travels met with anything so cordial, spontaneous, and charming as on my first visit to Palermo, many years ago. With some fourteen others, most- ly English, I was a passenger in the old steamer Re Ferdinando; and at every place we stopped on the coast of Italy we used to go together, visiting the dif- ferent objects of interest. A friend of mine had given me a letter of introduc- tion to a Sicilian gentleman, which I delivered on my arrival. He received me with the greatest cordiality, and as my fellow-travelers had planned an ex- cursion to the famous cathedral of Mon- reale for the next day, he offered to go with us. We drove the four miles up the mountain side under his guidance, the next morning, stopping to see several villas and gardens on our way. Reach- ing the toWn, we admired the ancient Norman structure with Byzantine mo- saic interior, Monrealeses chef-dwuvre in the convent attached to it, and from its balconies the magnificent panorama of the Conca d Oro (golden shell, so called), the valley and bay of Palermo. Being then somewhat fatigued both by the drive and sight-seeing, we proposed to have a luncheon. Our Sicilian friend took us to the best restaurant of the place, where they served us an excel- lent collation. When we had finished and asked for our bill, the landlord told us that it had already been paid by my friend, much to my surprise. I expos- tulated with him on the ground that, whatever kindness or hospitality he de- sired to extend to me on the strength of my letter of introduction, he was not called upon to bestow it on my numer- ous companions, who were only my fel- Yow-travelers, and had no claim on my- self, much less on him. But he was inexorable, saying that the Sicilian cus- toms made it imperative on him not to allow payment for anything they called for while in his company, no matter un- der what circumstances they happened to be so placed. And in fact he would not suffer us even to pay for our car- riages, having paid the fare before we started. What made it rather unpleas- ant for us ii~as that we could not repay the courtesy in any way, for the next day we had to be on board continuing our tour. I never had occasion to meet the gentleman again in my travels, and only hope that my English fellow-trav- elers may have returned his civility in England, where he often traveled in the summer. The anecdote excited the curiosity of the company in which it was told, and they insisted upon hearing from me something more about Sicilian hospital- ity. I accordingly related the follow- ing experience. Curiosity enticing me once to visit the classic soil of Trapani (Drepanum), where, as Virgil states, .ZEneas lost his father Anchises, on his flight from Ilium to Italy, and where lie left all the women, who, tired of wandering from sea to sea, had attempted to burn his fleet, I accepted the invitation of a friend of mine belonging in that town, whom I had often met in Palermo, to be a guest at his house. Small towns in Sicily are so little vis- ited by travelers that there is hardly one which has a good hotel; they have only miserable inns, much like the Spanish ventas, fit only for muleteers and poor traders. Therefore, from time imme- morial, country gentlemen have offered hospitality to people of their class hap- pening to visit the town or village where they resided, even on a very slight ac 164 Sicilian Hospitality. [August, quaintance. This is considered by them a sacred duty, and they would look upon it as an insult if any one should refuse them, and go to an inn. During the stay the guest is master of the house, and is not allowed even to fee the servants, the whole family vying with one another in attention to him, so as to make it sometimes oppress- ive; but, by another old custom, he is never expected to stay more than a few days at a time, unless very intimate. On the strength of our invitation, my wife and I started on this visit, on a fair October day, in one of those Sicilian steamers crowded with a motley com- pany of Sicilians and Arabs on their way to the coast towns of Sicily and Tunis. Five hours of a chopping sea brought us to Trapani. The present town is on the left shore of a natural harbor. The shore on the right is studded with windmills and in- numerable pyramids of white salt, that look very picturesque from the sea. Salt is the most important production of the whole coast from Trapani to Marsala. A wide plain and gradual ascent of some three or four miles from the town leads to the foot of Mt. Eryx, now called San Giuliano, which rises four or five thousand feet above the level of the sea. In this plain must have been played the martial games for the funeral of An- chises, as told by Virgil in the fifth book of the lEneid. The old town of Eryx is still standing on the summit of the mountain, and is an object of curiosity. As the steamer dropped her anchor, an innumerable quantity of small boats, manned by wild, piratical-looking boat- men, surrounded her, the men yelling at the top of their voices with South- ern volubility, and gesticulating like the windmills on the shore. Fortunately our host had been before advised of our coming, and was there with a private boat to take us on shore. Thus we es- caped the most serious trial of patience that travelers undergo on arriving at any port in Sicily, the boatmen and hack- men. Our host belonged to one of the oldest families of the place, possessing a large old palace in town, villas and estates on the northern slope of Mt. Eryx and else- where. It is surprising to notice the moral influence that such people have over the lower classes, who to an in- experienced foreign traveler seem brig- andish or piratical, with their impulsive, volcanic nature, excitable temperament, picturesque costume, and the intense fiery expression of their eyes; for, as our boat reached the crowd of others that were pressing on the gangway, all the Masaniello-like boatmen gave way re- spectfully, so that our friend was able to come on deck to welcome us and take us on shore at once. His carriage waited for us at the landing to drive us to the house, which might have been reached in a few minutes, only that our host, desirous of parading his guests before the clubs and caf6s where the notabii- ties of the place met, took a circuitous route through the two principal streets of the city. Arriving at the house, we were re- ceived by his wife, a handsome, good- natured, portly lady, with olive complex- ion, and black eyes and hair, who spoke nothing but the native dialect; and by an only daughter of theirs, who was a coun- terpart of the mother, a shade dark- er, if anything, and rather thin, though one could perceive that in a few years she would equal her in size. They met us with the utmost cordiality, installed us in a suite of rooms, with balconies over the street and a fine view of the harbor, and left us to our toilette, re- questing us to join them in the drawing- room at our leisure, where they expect.. ed a number of friends, who desired the honor of being presented to us. Dear me! said my wife, the mo.- ment they left the room, I wish they had waited till to-morrow to have us see people. I am so sick and tired that I 1880.] Sicilian Ho8pitality. 165 would prefer to take a cup of tea and go to bed. Yes, my dear; but what can we do? It would seem very rude in us not to see these people, whom they have asked on purpose to meet us. You must try to make the best of it. And as for tea, I am pretty sure they have no such thing in the house. I wish you would ask, though, in- sisted my wife; for I think a cup of strong tea would set me right. Well, I will, said I, with a doubt- ful expression, from my knowledge of the people of the island. I rang a little silver bell that was on a writing-desk; for bell ropes, to say noth- ing of electric bell wires, had not pen- etrated so far as the interior of Sicily. A servant who sat in an outer room, ready to receive our orders, entered at once. Tell me, my man, are they in the habit of drinking tea in the house? Tea? repeated the man, with a blank expression of face. What is that, sir? You dont know what tea is? An herb which is infused in boiling water, making an excellent beverage with sugar and milk, that the English people use for breakfast or supper instead of wine; it is also very good when persons dont feel well. Ah! capisco! I understand; a de- coction. I do not believe there is any in the house; but the apothecary oppo- site keeps all kinds of dried herbs, camomile, poppy leaves, laurel, maidens hair, and I suppose he has the tea also. If you desire it, I will inform the steward, who will get it instantly. Oh, no, no, my good man, I will not give so much trouble. Besides, the apothecary may not have exactly what we want. Is the signora unwell? asked he, seeing my wife reclining on a couch. Yes; she was sea-sick on the voyage, and does not feel very well. But surely the signora does not wish to take medicine for mere sea-sickness? What she needs is something more sub- stantial, a good consommi, a glass of wine, a cup of coffee or chocolate, some- thing to eat. You can have anything at a moments notice; the house is at your disposal. I ordered a consomm6 and a cup of chocolate. In less than ten minutes he brought in a silver tray with a t~te-a-t& e of very choice S~vres, an excellent con- somm~, a pot of very rich chocolate ready sugared, two bottles, one of red and the other of white wine, and a sil- ver basket of superb fruit. (Fruit and wines are served in Italy at every meal.) We sat down comfortably to our lunch- eon, and a bowl of the consomm6 with a glass of wine was as good as tea after sea-sickness. How that porters bell keeps ring- ing! observed my wife. I am afraid the whole town is coming up to be pre- sented to us. It is customary in such houses for the porter to ring a large bell in the court- yard to announce the arrival of any call- er, in order that the servants may be ready to receive him at the entrance door: one bell indicates the arrival of a gentleman; two bells the arrival of a lady, whether escorted by a gentleman or not; three the arrival of the mistress of the house; four the arrival of the master. Yes, I am afraid it is so; and I think we had better hurry our lunch, and join our hosts in the drawing-room; for those people are specially invited to meet us. We went into the drawing-room, the servant who had been assigned to our special service opening the several doors for us. The house we were in was one of those baronial palaces built in the fifteenth century, when many of the feudal nobil- ity ld.~t the turreted castles on their es- tates, and established themselves in the 166 Sicilia7& Hospitality. [August, cities, where they enjoyed the first hon- ors. It had descended by inheritance to our host, and to all appearance it had never been altered from its orig- inal construction and furnishing, except in a very few articles of furniture which replaced those that had decayed. It was a square building of about seventy feet front, built of solid blocks of porous yellow stone that had become brown by age. It had a small square in front, with a number of low, crumbling, miserable old houses, leaning one against the oth- er, and a few poor shops in the base- ment; an old apothecary displayed in his window a variety of very old Sicilian majolica pots with salves of all sorts, and there was a small caf6, with a blue and white awning over the door, and two or three small tables and chairs out- side under it. These houses, in days gone by, had sheltered the retainers of the feudal lord; but now they were rented, and occupied by a very common class of the population. This contrast of a superb palace surrounded by poor tenements is most peculiar and charac- teristic of Italian towns, especially the small ones, and those out of the way of modern influence, reminding one of the times when they were built, times of caste and privileges; of immense wealth among the few at the expense of the poverty and degradation of the many; of a proud feudatory lord, exacting and enjoying the fruits of the labor of thou- sands of vassals, over whom he held sway as sovereign master. The front entrance formed an arch- way which led to an interior court-yard, in the centre of which stood a very old granite fountain, with wide basins for horses to drink out of. By hereditary custom it was also used as a public dis- penser of water to all the poor of the neighborhood, whose ragged children were constantly coming in and out to fill their earthen jars. The whol~base- ment of the palace opening into this in- tenor court-yard, which in feudal times received the armed retainers and their horses, the granaries and kitchens, was now turned into stables and carriage- houses, the washing and cleaning of which was done in the court-yard itself, near the fountain, making it a scene of bustle and dirt, rather unpleasant to one not used to it. Along the whole front of the palace ran a worn-out marble seat, which was the usual resort of the idlers and beggars of the neighborhood; and over it, very wide apart, opened a number of high and narrow pointed windows, protected by enormous iron gratings, that gave it more the aspect of a prison than of a private residence. Opening from the main apartments, were large balconies, each adorned with pots of every variety of flowers, and large enough to accom- modate half a dozen people. On the right of the archway of the entrance was a marble staircase lead- ing to the family apartments, or quarto nobile. In the hall were several doors leading to them, the rooms being all on the same floor, opening one into the other. Our bed-chamber was of a very peculiar construction it was divided in two by an alcove in the middle, hav- ing on each side a paneled door lead- ing into two dressing-rooms, both the alcove and dressing-rooms opening into the back of the chamber, which had a space as large as the front, with two windows looking out into the court-yard, and containing wardrobes and chests of drawers. The front part had two bal- conies over the square, and was quaintly furnished with old rococo furniture very much worn; the floor was paved with glazed tiles, and had no carpet, except an Oriental rug here and there. The rooms were furnished in the style of the sixteenth century; they were high studded, with fresco paintings of myth- ological subjects, now almost faded by age and dampness; high paneled doors of white and gold, the white turned to 1880.] Sicilian Hospitality. lOT a dusty gray, and the gold to a dark yel- low; there were old portraits of knights and magistrates, ancestors of our host, and an air of antiquity about everything that was very charming to us. On entering the drawing-room, we found it already filled with a number of people, the 6lite of the place, to whom we were presented by our host and host- ess. My wife, being a native American, was naturally an object of great curios- ity, and the absurd questions asked her about America would fill a volume; but as I have been asked as absurd ones about Italy by prominent people in the interior towns of America, I refrain from repeating them. My modest official position had given those good people a very exalted notion of my consequence, and my kind host, with the excitable imagination of the natives of that volcanic island, seemed bent upon fostering it to the highest de- gree. I was asked my views of all the most important political questions of both America and Europe. The vice- prefect of the province, the mayor of the city, the vice-consuls of several na- tions, were there to meet me, and deli- cately insinuated in their conversation some inquiries and innuendoes respecting the object of my visit to their city; and when repeatedly told that I only came to visit the place for its classical asso- ciations they bowed with a deferential smile of acquiescence, but with a look of diplomatic finesse. When this morning reception was over, our friends informed us that car- riages would be ready in a few minutes for the afternoon drive on the sea-shore promenade. There was no escaping it, for a refusal would have been considered a great discourtesy; we had therefore to put on our things and join them. Small towns in Italy ape the large ones in all manner of public amusements, whether they have the means or not. Turin has the Piazza dArmi, Florence the Cascine, Rome the Pinclo, Naples the Chiaja, Palermo the Marina; Tra- pani likewise must have its promenade. This is a public road by the port, extend- ing from the gate of the city to the end of its ancient battlement, with a dozen or two of diminutive trees and a wood- en stand against the city walls, where fifteen or twenty musicians, calling them- selves a band, blow popular airs out of discordant brazen instruments. A mot- ley throng of people of all classes, with many boatmen and sailors near their boats at the pier, walked about the place, while in some twenty or thirty carriages the aristocracy of the place drove up and down, now and then stopping in front of the band to hear the music, or chat. At such times, gentlemen on foot sur- rounded the carriages of friends to pay their compliments to the ladies. We had to undergo the presentation of a great number of these people, and to be stared at and pointed out as foreign lions, much to the gratification of our host and family, who seemed to enjoy the noto- riety exceedingly. Throughout the afternoon drive two young men on horseback followed the carriage where I, with my wife, our hostess, and her daughter, sat, and one of them stared so persistently at our party as to attract my wifes notice, who called my attention to it, with consider- able surprise at the young mans imper- tinence, as she supposed. But I, who knew the peculiar ways of the natives, assured her that the black-eyed damsel at my side might be the cause of the young gentlemans pursuit, and that there might be no impertinence at all intended on his part. We returned to the house about dark, when dinner was immediately served. There were sev- eral guests invited, making about ten of us at table, with three or four serv- ants waiting, and a great display of old family silver. The, cooking was excel- lent, ough with an attempt at being FrencTh which disappointed us; for we would have preferred the old Sicilian 168 Sicilian Hospitality. [August, dishes, such as mackerroni a stufato or cuscusu. The wines served were all ex- cellent, and products of our hosts vine- yards. One especially, which he called San Giuliano Bianco from the southeast- ern slope of Mt. Eryx, was of remarka- ble delicacy, resembling very much the higher grades of Chablis. Is this also a wine from your es- tates? I asked him. Oh, yes, indeed! I never use at my table any wine except of my own mak- ing, so as to be sure of what I am drink- ing; especially now that everything is so adulterated. This is my choicest; and I make only a few casks of it, for my private use. Why not make it for commercial purposes? said I. Wine so superior would fetch a very high price if exported and introduced abroad. Ma, caro signore, io non faccio II mercante di vino! (But, my dear sir, I am not a wine merchant!) lie said this with a lordly, deprecating air that more than astonished me, fresh as I was from America, where such aristocratic notions would be thought absurd; hav- ing forgotten, from long absence, the old Spanish pride of the nobility of the isl- and. I beg your pardon! I replied. I did not mean it for a commercial specu- lation, but for the benefit you would be- stow on all good connoisseurs, who would extol your name to the skies, if you al- lowed them to partake of the superior products of your vineyards. I said this with the most insinuating smile of ad- miration, sipping the delicious juice with ecstatic commendations of its superla- 1 Landed proprietors in Southern Italy and Sicily seldom carry on the cultivation of their estates themselves, as they reside in the cities, and visit them only once or twice a year for a few days of villeggiatura. They usually rent their lands to farmers, reserving, however, some rights in kind; such as the so-called first fruits, namely, a certain number of baskets of the first fruits of the season. If there are vineyards and olive groves, they re- serve enough wine and oil to provide for their fam- ily use. These are of course of very choice quality, tive quality; for in reality the wine de- served them. Troppe seccature, troppe seccature! (Too much trouble, too much trouble!) he replied, much pleased, however, with my appreciation of his wine. After dinner, we thought that they would have a short conversazione, and then retire. But it was not so; for, hard- ly had we finished our coffee, when the carriage was announced to take us to the theatre to witness a tiresome drama- tized representation of Azeglios Niccolb de Lapi. However, we were shown all the 6]ite of the place, consisting of some thirty or forty families, who owned boxes, some of whom we had met in the morning. Many gentlemen called in our box, and chatted away, in spite of those who wished to listen to the play. My wife was very tired, and paid lit- tle attention either to the play or the conversation; but something very pe- culiar attracted her attention, and she watched it with a great deal of curios- ity as a very extraordinary proceeding. She was sitting in the place of honor, on the right of the box, our hostess op- posite to her, and her daughter in the middle, the three thus occupying the whole front of the box; the gentlemen sitting in the back of it. Across from us, in the lower tier, were two boxes open- ing into each other, and full of young men of the first families, who form clubs and hire two or three boxes for the sea- son. Among these were the two young lions who had followed our carriage in the afternoon, one of whom, a very fine- looking fellow, sat back in one of the boxes, and never even glanced at the for they take both pains and pride in them; but they would never think for a moment of making merchandise of these or any other products of their lands. The farmers or renters are very ignorant men, and cultivate these fruitful lands in a primi- tive style; hence, most of the wines and oils are coarse and of poor quality, with the exception of what the proprietors refine for their private use. I have very often tasted most exquisite wines in private houses which could not be had in the market at any price. 1880.] Sicilian Hospitality. 169 stage, but kept his opera-glass fixed on our box, or rather on the daughter of our friend, who upon her part returned the glance openly with or without the opera-glass, without regard for anybody around, or her mother, who sat near her. This they kept up throughout the play, and no one either in the young mans box or in ours seemed to take the slight- est notice of it. When we finally returned home, and were allowed to retire, for, with the usual Sicilian excess of hospitality, they insisted upon our sitting down to a cold supper, my wife, though very tired, could not resist asking me, Did you notice that telegraphing going on between our hosts daughter and that young man in the club boxes, the same whom we observed this after- noon at the drive? Yes, I noticed, I replied indiffer- ently. Well! Dont you think it very strange to carry on such a flirtation so openly in a public place? And what do you think of her parents allowing it, for they could nt have helped see- ing it? Flirtation, my dear? said I, laugh- ing. The Sicilians dont know what flirtation is. They make love, but they never flirt. There is nt such a thing as flirting in the whole island! So much the worse, then, she in- sisted, with American ideas of propriety. Dont you think it very improper to carry on such love-making in public? Well, that is according as we look upon such matters. In America they make love in private, but the lovers are most of the time alone by themselves; here they do it in public, but at such a distance that they have to use opera- glasses to see each other. Besides, if they carry it on so openly and without any restraint, that indicates that it is authorized. Authorized? I dont understand what you mean. It means that it is authorized by the parents of both, in order to bring about a mat~ch. They may be already engaged, for all we know, only that it is not for- mally announced yet. In fact, I rather think this is the case; otherwise, her re- lations would nt have allowed such a public display of it. Engaged! exclaimed my wife, with astonishment. Then, why have we not met the gentleman in the house this whole day, or this evening in the box at the theatre, when so many other gentle- men called? Because they are engaged! What! Because they are engaged he is not admitted in the house, or even in the box, of his lady-love? Just so; or, at least, not until the engagement is formally acknowledged, or the marriage contract signed. I understand less than ever now! Of course you do, my dear, because you come from a country where such matters are arranged by the young peo- ple themselves. Americans begin first by a little flirting, then they come to love-making, ~flnally to an engagement; and when all is arranged to their satis- faction then they apply to their respect- ive parents for their consent; or, as in many cases, they merely announce the fact to them. In Sicily, on the contrary, these matters proceed in an inverse ra- tio. Usually the parents of both parties arrange it for them among themselves, Then they go to work, and quietly call the attention of each to the other: the parents of the young man by praising the beauty, virtue, accomplishments, of the young lady, whose parents do the same for the young gentleman. This naturally leads to a mutual interest on their part, and they first interchange glances, afterwards smiles, then signals; now and then a billet-doux, which they suppose is delivered clandestinely, but of which the parents are duly advised; finally, the young man gets to be actu- ally in love, arid confides it to his main- 170 [August, ma, who is greatly astonished, of course. He, such a young man, his education not yet finished! What will papa say about it? He will be very much sur- prised. But then the young lady is of a good family, very pretty, modest, relig- ious, etc., and if she had to choose for him she knows no one she would have preferred. Therefore, she will be very indulgent to him; she will try to bring matters about satisfactorily; only he must not be too impatient about marry- ing, for these matters take a long time to arrange; and he must not say any- thing to papa about it, for he may not like it on account of his being very young; above all, he must be a good boy, and deport himself as becomes his birth and education, for if she is to arrange this alliance with such highiy respectable people as the family of the young lady, she must prove that her son is very worthy of her and of such a connec- tion; and so on, for an hour or two of maternal anxious talk for his welfare. Then follow days and weeks of negotia- tions between the two mammas. The young lady, by the frequent visits and confabulations between her own and the young gentlemans mother, begins to sus- pect that there is something in the wind~ He, on his side, to win her favor, daily increases his assiduity about her: for instance, at certain hours he passes through the street, stops at the cafd, or apothecarys, or opposite her house, and she is expected to be at the win- dow or balcony to exchange glances. When she goes out to drive with her family, he will be on horseback or in an- other carriage, and will follow her and never lose sight of her till she returns home; she, on her part, is expected to cast a loving glance at him at every turning, and a very long one as the car- riage disappears under the gate-way of her house. He is well informed about all her daily movements by secret (?) messages, and by fan telegraphing (an art totally ignored by American young ladies, through which any movement of the fan, by prearranged understanding, conveys communications intelligible to the gentleman, and entirely incompre- hensible to everybody else), and is sure to be present wherever she goes: at the theatre, for instance, and there he must never look at the play, but ogle her through the performance; at the church on Sunday, and he is to be ready at the door to lift the heavy curtain as she goes in, offer her the holy water at the font to cross herself with, and then take po- sition against a marble pillar opposite where she sits with her mamma or duenna. After this has gone on for a con- siderable time, the young gentlemans father finally consents to his making a formal demand for the young ladys hand. This formal demand should be understood ad literam; for it is really a formality, the match having been al- ready agreed upon by the parents of both. On the day appointed the young gentle- man, with his parents, calls on the family of the young lady. (And this is the first time that he enters the house, unless the two families had been connected, or long acquainted; in which case he may have been there before, but he has nev- er seen her or spoken to her by herself, as young ladies never meet gentlemen alone.) They are received by the par- ents, and after the usual preliminaries they formally ask the hand of their daughter for their son. Her relatives will thank them for the honor conferred by the request of such an alliance, and assure them that their daughter would be only too happy to become the wife of such an estimable young man. Where- upon the mother rises and introduces the young lady, who enters blushing, with her eyes modestly cast down. As she comes forward, the young mans father addresses her somewhat as follows : Signorina Emiia, we have come, with your parents permission, to ask your hand in marriage for our son Edu 1880.] Sicilian .Hospitalzty. 171 ardo; and, conscious as we are of the mutual affection that exists between you, we have no doubt that you will do us the honor to accept him, and make him happy. On this, the young man usually ad- vances towards his beloved, and adds a personal application, such as, I hope, Signorina Emiia, that you will not refuse what is the wish of my relatives and the long-desired aspiration of my heart. At this, the young lady will blush, naturally or not, according to circum- stances; then casting first a longing look at the young gentleman, and a timid one at his and her own relatives, she will lower her long eyelashes, and an- swer hesitatingly something like this I am confused by the high honor and the preference undeservedly shown me by Signor Eduardo and his worthy parents, and I gladly accept his hand, with the consent of my own, if so it please them to grant it. Here follow shaking of hands, em- braces, and mutual congratulations. The servants bring in wines and refresh- ments. The elder people draw to one side of the room, leaving alone for the first time the young couple on the other for fifteen or twenty minutes, to say a few loving words by themselves; after which they retire, the engagement is made formally public, and the marriage con- tract is drawn up and signed. And after the formal engagement are they allowed to be in each others company? Yes; but not as in America, where they can be alone together continually. Here, instead, after the formal engage- ment comes out and the marriage con- tract is signed, the young gentleman is allowed to ride in the same carriage with his jianc6e, but with her relatives; and even if they get out to walk in some garden or promenade, they may walk alone in front, but the mamma, or other relative, walks behind. In the evening he may call at the house, or in her box at the theatre, but always in presence of company. In fact, they never see each other alone, or, at least, out of sight of anybody, till after the marriage. The next morning we were up be- times, so as to be ready for an excursion, which had been arranged before, to the old town on the top of Mt. Eryx. As I rung for the hot water, the servant brought in at the same time a pot of hot coffee, black and strong; but no milk, or anything to eat with it. I took a cup, but my wife, who had not as yet got used to that Italian custom, asked for a cup of chocolate instead. An hour afterwards breakfast was an- nounced, at which we joined the family. It was not very different from an Amer- ican breakfast, except that it was served with wine instead of tea or coffee. After this we sat on the balconies, looking out over the square and street, waiting for the time to start. I was in one balcony, with my host and his family physician; my wife in another, with our hostess and her black-eyed daughter, the latter watching anxiously any one who ap- peared at the corner of the street. A few minutes afterwards the young gen- tleman before referred to made his ap- pearance. The young lady fixed her eyes on him at once, and her face be- came irradiated with a flush of delight, which suffused her olive cheeks with a deep peach bloom that was lovely to look at. As he passed arm in arm with his friend under her balcony, he elegantly bowed to the ladies, the young one re- plying with a modest glance. They sa- luted us as they passed under ours, and then walked across the square to the cafd opposite, where they sat in front, sipping their coffee and smoking a cig- arette in the open air; one of them glancing sentimentally at his Diva, who returned it shyly; while my wife ob- served to me in English across the bal- cony, There they are at it again! 172 Sicilian Ilo8pitality. [Augusta, I took this opportunity of remarking to my host, I believe I saw those two young gentlemen at the theatre, last evening; who are they? They are cousins, he politely re- plied, belonging to one of our best families. The one on the right is the son of my friend, Marquis C, and the futuro [future husband] of my daughter. He is a very fine fellow, bright, well educated, a good horseman, musician, and of good parts. The arrangements are nearly finished, and in two or three days we shall sign the marriage con- tract. I hope you will remain with us till then, and honor us with your pres- ence on such an occasion. Oh, I thank you very much, said I, but I would not want to impose upon your hospitality so long. Not at all, not at all! You will stay; it will be a great pleasure for us to have you. We hope to arrange the matter for the evening after to-morrow, and count upon your being with us. Here the servants announced that the carriages were ready for our excursion. We started at once, and as we went out of the house we noticed that the two young men had disappeared from the caf6. The mountain is about three miles from the town, the road ascending grad- ually to its foot. Half-way rises the famous church and monastery of the nil- raculous Madonna of Trapani. As we issued from the city gates we saw a carriage before us, which slack- ened its pace to let ours pass; in this were the two young men, who bowed as we drove by, and then followed us at a re- spectful distance, in full sight of our young lady, who faced towards her fu- turo, and exchanged loving glances with him. Arriving at the church we alighted, and under the guidance of one of the monks visited all there was to be seen. There was nothing remarkable either in it or in the monastery, except the chapel and statue of the Madonna in white alabaster, of no artistic merit whatever; both Madouna and child had gold crowns, and were heaped with offer- ings consisting of jewelry of all imagi- nable kinds and shapes, gold and sil- ver watches, chains, necklaces, rings in bundles of different number, and trink- ets of all sorts there accumulated for the last three or four hundred years. The chapel was literally covered with paint- ings, or rather daubs, representing the miracles performed by the Madonna, mostly in behalf of shipwrecked mar- iners whom she had rescued from a watery grave. Our young physician, who was one of the party, called our attention to a picture of recent date: a girl sitting in an arm-chair, with two stout women, one grasping her arms and the other hold- ing her head back; while a physician performed an operation on her eyes; several male and female figures were kneeling about the room, with their arms raised in the act of supplication; and over all, in a halo surrounded by a cloud, was a diminutive figure of the Madonna of Trapani. That is the latest miracle of the Ma- donna, said he to us. Indeed! And what does it repre- sent? we curiously inquired. You can see for yourselves, he re- plied. The young girl is one of my patients, who had been afflicted by a cataract; the surgeon is myself perform- ing the operation, which having been successful, and her sight ~restored, all the merit is ascribed to a miracle of the Madonna I And justly so, interrupted the monk, who had overheard the conversa- tion; for who guided your hand in the delicate and difficult performance of the operation but our blessed Madonna, whose devotees the girl and her family are, and to whom they had prayed and made vows for the success of the oper- ation? Skill is a necessary thing in all 1880.] Sicilian Hospitality. 173 professions, but without the assistance of God, the holy Madonna, and the blessed saints, nothing can be accom- plished. That argument silenced our .ZEscula- pius and all of us; there was no gain- saying it, nor any logic to prove the contrary; therefore with such an assur- ance of the power of miracles we left the church. Going out of the front door to our carriages, we perceived the young futuro, with his cousin, leaning against a pilaster opposite the entrance, smoking a cigarette, and studying the barocco architecture of the front of the church! Proceeding on our journey, we ar- rived in a short time at the foot of the mountain. There we found a number of donkeys ready saddled to take us up to the summit by a short cut of about three miles, but very steep and stony. There is a road for carriages which ascends by a roundabout circuit of more than seven miles, but it is not so romantic and pict-. uresque. We mounted the donkeys, that were of such diminutive size as to seem incapable of carrying the weight of any one of us; but they were strong, wiry little animals, sure-footed, and so used to that ascent, which would have been difficult even to a foot - traveler, that they carried us to the summit without a fall or a misstep. The town is at the top of the mount- ain, on a plateau of irregular outline, sloping down on every side, in some places most precipitously. There is a small esplafiade, where we dismounted to admire the view. From that eleva- tion we overlooked an extensive reach of the western coast of Sicily. Below us, lapped by the sea, lay the walled city of Trapani, with its shipping, wind- mills, and salt pyramids, which at that altitude looked like the tents of a vast encampment. The whole panorama, rich with vineyards, olive groves, grain fields, carob-trees, oranges and lemons, almonds, fig-trees, pomegranates, and all the luxuriant variety of that almost Ori- ental vegetation up to the very top of the mountain, with hedges and partitions formed of rows of aloes with their tall stems and flowery tops, prickly-pear trees with their enormous thorny leaves, and blackberry bushes, was studded with elegant white villas and farm-houses, near which grew the tall, mushroom- shaped Italian pines, that shaded them like gigantic parasols, and the erect palm-trees, which told of the proximity of the African coast opposite. Besides the productive soil of every available slope, this mountain contains in its sub- stratum a great variety of precious mar- bles, such as alabaster, jasper, agate, porphyry, verd-antique, scagliola, and many others. While we were thus admiring the beautiful view, the carriage containing the young futuro and his cousin arrived on the esplanade. They got out, and, bowing very politely to us, entered the main street of the town, where we fol- lowed them shortly after. It is a very old place, with narrow streets going up and down by means of wide, stone-paved stairs, which prevent any carriages, or even horses, passing through them. The walls of the houses, which are never more than two stories high, seemed crumbling to dust, and re- minded us more of Pompeii as it looks now than any other old town; the in- teriors were mere dark holes, crowded by a rural population. There is but one object of antiquity, a church, of which the walls and most of the columns once belonged to a temple of Vesta. There is an old tradition about this temple and the progenitors of the people of this town which is worth relating: During the many centuries of decay of the Roman Empire, the strict relig- ious laws and customs were so far re- laxed that whenever any one of the vestal virgins was discovered faithless to her vows, instead of being buried alive, according to the old law, she was rele 174 Sicilian Hospitality. [August, gated to this temple of Vesta on Mt. Eryx, where, at length, she and others like her intermarried with the priests and people of the place, who were of Trojan origin. From their union de- scended the present population. This, of course, is a mere tradition, yet it is supported by a very curious physiolog- ical fact. The natives of this mount- ain town have more of the old Roman type of face and person than any of the other two millions of people that inhab- it Sicily. The women are famous for their beauty, their fair complexions, long necks, large black eyes, and superb busts. There are also many blondes with blue eyes amongst them, a type never seen in the true Sicilian race. We had heard this story, and were anxious to observe the female part of the population; but as we walked, or rather climbed, up and down the steps of the streets, we saw none but men and very old women sitting in front of their dismal house doors. There were shops where they sold oil, contained in just such huge clay jars as one sees at Pompeii; public cooks fry- ing their meats at the threshold of their front doors; lamps, both of clay and bronze, of Pompeian shape; bread on the bakers counters of the precise pat- tern as that found carbonized at Pom- peii; and many other things reminded us of that old Roman town. We arrived finally at the centre of the town, where there was a small square, the only level place in the city, with the principal church, of no sort of interest, and the usual cafe, apothecary shop, and club-rooms. The young futuro and his friend were already installed in front of the last,1 chatting with several gentle- men of the place. On our appearance, several of these came forward to greet our host and party, and three or four 1 Clubs in Sicily are seldom in-doors, but gen- erally in some square of the city, on a level with the street, differing only from public cafes in that none but members or invited guests have a right to enter; and as in public cafes there are chairs joined us to guide us about the place. There was very little to be seen, except an old fortress, anciently a Saracenic castle of great strength, perched above a perpendicular precipice of some two thousand feet. We were allowed to throw two or three huge stones down it, which, fall- ing from such a height on a marble quarry at the bottom, broke into frag- ments, and ricochetted like cannon-balls over fields, vineyards, and olive groves on the slope, bounding over enormous distances three or four times. It had been arranged that we should lunch at our hosts villa, which lay half- way down the southern slope of the mountain; but one of the gentlemen of the place, who had joined us, insisted upon our accepting his hospitality. It was useless for our host to expostulate; as he had prepared a refection at his villa, he would admit of no excuse. We were therefore marched back to the square, and made to enter a two-story house opposite the church. It was one of the few neatlooking houses in the place, containing a number of large rooms on the second floor elegantly fur- nished, and, what astonished us, having fire-places in every room.2 We were shown into a superb hall overlooking the square, and introduced to the lady of the house and several young children. She was a native of the place, and had never been out of it, except to make a visit of a few days, every now and then, to Trapani. Placed in contrast with our dark hostess and still darker daughter, she and her chil- dren seemed to be of quite another race, their complexion being much lighter, smoother, and less sunburnt. This must be the effect not so much of their Ro- man descent, I surmised, as of the cli- mate and atmosphere of that lofty place, and tables under an awning in front when it is warm and pleasant. 2 Fire-places are found nowhere in Sicily except in the houses of the wealthiest people, and then as a luxury in one or two drawing-rooms. 1880.] 175 which reminded us when there, and from description, of the English climate; for they have daily fogs, from the clouds that settle over it and stay there, and that look so bright and picturesque from the lower part of the mountain and from the plain, that are basking in the sun- shine. After a few minutes of conversation, during which our young lady stood at the window, fanning herself in many ways, though it was cool enough at that height, the servants entered bringing trays with refections, which they passed round. These consisted of sweet bis- cuits, candied fruits, such as citrons, mandarin oranges, peaches, pears, plums, cherries, figs, etc., with several varie- ties of confectioneries, sweet wines, and liqueurs. The above may seem a very strange sort of lunch to an Anglo-Saxon, who would have preferred a cold chicken, a slice of ham, an olive, sardine, or piece of cheese, with a glass of dry wine, and above all fresh fruits, with which the trees were loaded down in that season of the year, instead of candied ones. But none of the last would have been comme ilfcsut, according to the idea of a Sicil- ian gentleman; and the first could not have been found ready in the house so impromptu, for meats are never provided for more than one days use, as the cli- mate soon spoils them. While we were thus entertained there came out from the church in the square a crowd of people, mostly women, who had been attending some religious serv- ice, and we then had an opportunity of ascertaining the truth about their pecul- iar beauty. As far as we could observe, the young girls were of a light complex- ion, with Romanesque necks and busts, but the matrons and old women were not very different from the generality of the peasant classes of the island. We left the house soon after to take a turn about the streets on our way back. Passing by a little shop containing oh- jects made of the various marbles that are found in the mountain, such as agate knife handles and amulets, porphyry seals, verd-antique paper-weights, alabas- ter statuettes of madonnas, etc., we se- lected a few articles as mementoes of the place, fortunately of little value; for, when I took out my purse to pay for them, the shopman refused the money, stating that they had already been paid for by the gentleman who had enter- tained us at the place. When half-way down the mountain we left the main road, and entered a wide avenue that led to our hosts villa. This was lined with yellow stone pilasters sur- mounted by vases containing cactuses, many of them in bloom, and supporting cross-beams over the road, intersected with light canes, the whole covered over with vines, whose leaves sheltered us, like an awning, from the sun, which at that noon hour was very hot; and, hang- ing from them, we could discern through the whole length of the avenue myriads of ripe bunches of zibibo (malaga) and corniola grapes. We stopped the car- riages, and standing in them we picked enough fruit to fill a large basket in a few moments. Eating grapes as we drove on, we ar- rived finally at the villa, or casino, as it is called in Sicily. No American cottage or farm-house, nor even an Italian villa such as one finds in Tuscany or Romagna, can give an idea of the country-seats in the inte- rior of Sicily. The one our friend had inherited from his ancestors consisted of a rectangular building inclosing a court- yard some hundred feet front by seventy feet deep. We entered through a gate- way or porch, twenty-five feet deep, hav- ing two strong iron-barred gates, one on the outside and the other on the inside. All along both the walls of this could be seen loop-holes covering the outer gate and the whole length of the porch, so that in case of any attempt at entering, a very few persons from the inside could 1T6 Sicilian Hospitality. [August, protect the entrance; and should the as- sailants even succeed in carrying the first gate, they could be repulsed before reaching, or while endeavoring to break through, the second, without being able to see the defenders. Over this porch, and extending some- what on each side, rose a one-story stone building, occupied by the factor and his family. On the sides of each window of this, which was protected by an iron grate, were also loop-holes, covering the small esplanade in front and the gate itself. On each side of this there ran along the whole front store-houses some twenty feet high, containing the usual three tiers of wine butts in which to de- posit the vintage. These store-houses continued through the two sides of the rectangle and all along the back of the building, thus inclosing the court-yard, into which they all opened, having no doors and hardly any windows, except loop-holes, on the outside. The villa it- self was built over these store-houses, and opposite the entrance porch and the fac- tors house. The only access to this was by a double stone staircase in the court- yard, protected by a stone parapet reach- ing the height above the store -houses where were the landing and entrance door. Both the stair and landing were exposed to the fire of hundreds of loop- holes from every building in the place and from the villa itself, so that any at- tempt to break into the house would have been next to impossible. As our carriages drove into the court- yard a novel sight met our eyes. The place was thronged with donkeys going in and out, led by little boys and carry- ing two long, wide wooden tubs, shaped somewhat like baskets, filled with white and black grapes, which some of the la- borers emptied into huge wooden re- ceptacles, from which other boys took them in buckets and carried them into the wine-press visible through the wide- open door of one of the store - houses. We were so anxious to see the process of pressing that, in spite of our hosts urg- ing us to go up into the villa to lunch, we insisted upon viewing it first. The process was very primitive and not very agreeable. There was built in the middle of the store-house a stone basin, some six feet above the ground and twelve or fifteen feet square, with a stone parapet three feet high. Within this were ten or twelve men, with bare legs and feet, dancing and smashing mounds of grapes under them. The juice came out~ through four tubes at the bot- tom of each side of the basin into buck. ets, and was then poured into the emp- ty butts of the store-houses, where the wine would go through the process of fer- mentation. After the grapes had been pressed by the feet as much as possible, they were taken out, and placed in soft rush bas- kets under a wooden screw press, and every drop of juice squeezed out. The wine extracted by this second pressure is not, however, so good as the first, as the press squeezes also the unripe grapes and acid pulps. As we retraced our steps into the court- yard, where the great bulk of grapes were being brought in, I noticed that several women were assorting them by choosing the best and ripest white clus- ters and placing them in separate tubs. My wife, who, somewhat disgusted at the sight of the barefooted men dancing jigs over the grapes, had gone where the women were, and was regaling herself with the best of them, asked my host why they were assorting these. Ah, said he, for the reason that in the contract with my factor he is bound to provide me with three butts of white grape wine at every vintage; and as he was in our family long before I was born, and is very fond of me and mine, he naturally chooses the very best white grapes to make it out of. These will make the same wine you tasted last evening, and liked so much. Oh, yes, I see, said I jocosely: you 1880.] Sicilian Hospitality. 177 keep the choicest for yourself, and let the world have the rest. Not exactly, for I have nothing to do with all the rest; it belongs to my factor, who rents the whole produce of the estate. He could assort the vin- tage, if he chose, and produce three or four different qualities of wine, some of which would be of a very high grade; but he prefers to sell it for ready money, for he sells all the wine he makes before the year is out, while my three butts take three years before the wine is properly matured; and it will improve by age. Therefore, you can imagine what an enormous capital it would re- quire to keep the produce of three or four years stored, in order to have a higher grade of wine; to say nothing of the risk. Neither I nor my factor would care to have the trouble and anxiety of such a speculation. Besides, as I told you last evening, I am not a merchant, and feel utterly incapable of such work. But let us go into the house, and see what our factor has prepared for us, for I am getting hungry. We went up the staircase and entered the villa. It consisted of a rotunda painted in fresco, representing a Doric temple with Apollo and the Muses, for an entrance hall, with four doors lead- ing to four suites of rooms: those look- ing into the court-yard had large balco- nies shaded by trellises of grape-vines; but those looking into the open country had only very small windows command- ing a magnificent view of the valley be- neath, the sea, and the opposite islands. These windows and balconies were also loop-holed. After lunching on a peculiar cold dish composed of egg-plant cut up fine, with bits of fried polyp stewed together with sugar and vinegar, sprinkled over with crumbs of burnt almonds and boiled shrimps, and on other cold dishes as odd, which had been sent out from the city, we sat on the balconies over the work in the court-yard, looking at the caravan VOL. XLVI. NO. 274. 12 of donkeys bringing up the grapes, and the vast plateau and distant mountains opposite us. My wife had a curiosity to know something about the loop-holes we had seen everywhere about the build- ings, so she said to our host: I have noticed that the whole place is loop-holed, and though not a castle, yet is so arranged for defense that it could stand a siege. Is there any neces- sity for such a precaution? Oh, dear, no! replied hp. All these precautions were necessary when my great-great-grandfather built it, and as long as the Algerine pirates were al- lowed in the Mediterranean. Our coast is only twenty-four hours from the coast of Africa, and those three islands that look so picturesque opposite our shore were a good hiding-place for the corsairs; for they would lay to behind them in the day-time, and when night came, if they had a favorable wind, they could reach our shores in a couple of hours, land in force, and raid over the country, collect- ing booty, and prisoners, whom they sold as slaves. You must have noticed at every few miles on the coast a watch- tower. These were built to signal the appearance of piratical craft, which they did by a smoke in the day-time and a light in the night. The moment the peasants were thus warned of the ap- proach of the corsairs, they took up arms, and with their families crowded into all places that were capable of de- fense, until the danger was past. Pro- prietors accordingly built their country houses with conveniences to shelter the poor peasants, and defend themselves against those renegades, ~and this house was one of them. There is no record, however, that it was ever assaulted, for my factor remembers of having been told by his grandfather that when the corsairs were on our coast the armed peasantry flocked here in such numbers as to have half a dozen guns for every loop-hole. And are there any brigands here? 178 Sicilian ilospitality. [August, Brigands? exclaimed our host with a look of astonishment, brig- ands? My dear madam, we are neither in the Abruzzi, nor in the Roman Cam- pagna, nor in Greece. There are some robbers in the neighborhood of Paler- mo and Girgenti; but, with the excep- tion of petty thieves, this part of the isl- and is as safe as a convent. Of course, robberies happen in the best regulated communities; but regular brigandage armed bands of outlaws raiding over the country, and plundering travelers, proprietors, and farmers has never been known here. Our friend proposed to walk down to where they were gathering the grapes, having our carriages follow us along the road. We entered an extensive olive grove and vineyard. Vines in Sicily are not cultivated as in other parts of Italy, where they hang them in festoons across willow, elm, or other trees. In Sicily, instead, each vine is planted in the centre of a five- foot hollow square, and allowed to grow only to the height of a foot or so, when it spreads its shoots over the whole space, so low, that when they are loaded with grapes, these often touch the ground. The olive-trees grow up somewhat ir- regularly among the vines; or rather they occupied the soil long before these were planted, for they were introduced into Sicily by the Arabs during their occupation of the island in the eighth and ninth centuries, and many of them date back to that time. They do not interfere with the growth of the grapes, because their roots sink very deep into the soil, and their small and narrow leaves do not obstruct the heat of the sun; so that from the same soil are de- rived two products, wine and oil. As we passed the fields which the vintagers had been through, we noticed crowds of children gleaning the little bunches of grapes that, either on account of their smallness, or because hidden among the foliage, had been left ungath ered. Our host explained to us that from time immemorial the poor children in the neighborhood of estates had the privilege of entering during the vintage or the harvest, and gleaning all that was left after the vintagers; and no proprie.. tor would dare to forbid this time-hon- ored charitable custom. The vintagers were all field hands, who clipped the grapes with sharp pincers and with ex- traordinary swiftness, filling their bas- kets in a short time. We noticed also that there were no women working among them, as is often the custom in other parts of Italy and other countries of the continent of Eu- rope. This is very characteristic of the Sicilians, and without doubt is of Arabic origin: they never allow their women, even among the poorest classes, to do any outdoor work; they are always kept in the house, and do home work. After having seen the vintagers at work, we regained our carriages, and descending the zigzag road at a quick trot reached the convent of the Madon- na of Trapani at about sunset. We found our friend the futuro again study- ing the architecture of the fa9ade, with an enormous bouquet of flowers, which he had probably obtained from the gar- den of the monastery. A short time after our arrival at the house, when we sat down to dinner, we noticed in the middle of the table the very bunch of flowers we had seen in his hand, which somehow or other had got there. At our hosts earnest solicitation, we stayed two days more than we had in- tended, in order to be present at the marriage contract of his daughter. It took place in the evening, shortly after dinner. The house had been decorated as for a ball, and in fact the evening ended with dancing. The company was not very large, consisting mostly of rel- atives and intimate friends of both fam- ilies, though It comprised all there was of the elite of the town. The bride- groom, accompanied by his family, was 1880.] Kintu. 179 the last to arrive, and it was the first time that he had entered the house. A few minutes after, the servants brought in a table covered with a green cloth, on which they placed an elegant silver ink-stand and three silver candlesticks with three lighted wax candles, though the room was as light as day.1 When the notary sat at the table to read the contract, the bride stood one step in front, between her father and mother, on his right; the bridegroom in the same position on the left, and the company all about them. The notary read in a loud voice, detailing every item of property that each possessed or received from his or her parents, even to the very dresses and underclothes, sheets and pillow-cases, to say nothing of the jewelry and silver, of the brides trousseau, with the value attached to each, the sum total of which formed the dowry. This dowry is secured on all the bridegrooms property over any pos- sible creditor, in favor of the wife and their issue. When the reading was through, the bride signed first, then the bridegroom, then their fathers and moth- ers and any number of witnesses they pleased; so that even our names were appended to that mafriage contract. Then followed congratulations, refresh- ments, and dar~cing to a late hour. We left the next day for home, de- lighted with the excursion, and with the cordial and expansive, though at times almost oppressive, form of Sicilian hos- pitality. Luigi Afonti. KINTU. WHEN earth was young and men were few, And all things freshly-born and new Seemed made for blessing, not for ban, Kintu the god appeared as man. Clad in the plain white priestly dress, He journeyed through the wilderness, His wife beside. A mild-faced cow They drove, and one low-bleating lamb; He bore a ripe banana-bough, And she a root of fruitful yam: This was their worldly worth and store, But God can make the little more. The glad earth knew his feet; her mold Trembled with quickening thrills, and stirred. Miraculous harvests spread and rolled, The orchards shone with ruddy gold; The flocks increased, increased the herd, And a great nation spread and grew From the swift lineage of the two, Peopling the solitary place; A fair and strong and fruitful race, Who knew not pain, nor want, nor grief, And Kintu reigned their lord and chief. So sped three centuries along, Till Kintus sons waxed fierce and strong; They learned to war, they loved to slay; Cruel and dark grew all their faces; Discordant death-cries scared the day, Blood stained the green and holy places; And drunk with lust, with anger hot, 1 This was in old times a necessary formality to make the marriage contract legal. The Latin form of such contracts, used until the French Revolution, was expressed somewhat as follows: Before me, N. N., notary public, in the presence of, etc., cum tribes luminibus accensis (with three lighted can- dies), personally appeared, etc. This, though not a legal requirement now, has been kept up as a traditional custom. The origin of it is very ob- scure; though it is possible, that, after the expul- sion of the Arabs and the Jews, with the exception of those who had embraced Christianity, they adopted this formality to try their sincerity, for the three candles indicated the Trinity.

Susan Coolidge Coolidge, Susan Kintu 179-183

1880.] Kintu. 179 the last to arrive, and it was the first time that he had entered the house. A few minutes after, the servants brought in a table covered with a green cloth, on which they placed an elegant silver ink-stand and three silver candlesticks with three lighted wax candles, though the room was as light as day.1 When the notary sat at the table to read the contract, the bride stood one step in front, between her father and mother, on his right; the bridegroom in the same position on the left, and the company all about them. The notary read in a loud voice, detailing every item of property that each possessed or received from his or her parents, even to the very dresses and underclothes, sheets and pillow-cases, to say nothing of the jewelry and silver, of the brides trousseau, with the value attached to each, the sum total of which formed the dowry. This dowry is secured on all the bridegrooms property over any pos- sible creditor, in favor of the wife and their issue. When the reading was through, the bride signed first, then the bridegroom, then their fathers and moth- ers and any number of witnesses they pleased; so that even our names were appended to that mafriage contract. Then followed congratulations, refresh- ments, and dar~cing to a late hour. We left the next day for home, de- lighted with the excursion, and with the cordial and expansive, though at times almost oppressive, form of Sicilian hos- pitality. Luigi Afonti. KINTU. WHEN earth was young and men were few, And all things freshly-born and new Seemed made for blessing, not for ban, Kintu the god appeared as man. Clad in the plain white priestly dress, He journeyed through the wilderness, His wife beside. A mild-faced cow They drove, and one low-bleating lamb; He bore a ripe banana-bough, And she a root of fruitful yam: This was their worldly worth and store, But God can make the little more. The glad earth knew his feet; her mold Trembled with quickening thrills, and stirred. Miraculous harvests spread and rolled, The orchards shone with ruddy gold; The flocks increased, increased the herd, And a great nation spread and grew From the swift lineage of the two, Peopling the solitary place; A fair and strong and fruitful race, Who knew not pain, nor want, nor grief, And Kintu reigned their lord and chief. So sped three centuries along, Till Kintus sons waxed fierce and strong; They learned to war, they loved to slay; Cruel and dark grew all their faces; Discordant death-cries scared the day, Blood stained the green and holy places; And drunk with lust, with anger hot, 1 This was in old times a necessary formality to make the marriage contract legal. The Latin form of such contracts, used until the French Revolution, was expressed somewhat as follows: Before me, N. N., notary public, in the presence of, etc., cum tribes luminibus accensis (with three lighted can- dies), personally appeared, etc. This, though not a legal requirement now, has been kept up as a traditional custom. The origin of it is very ob- scure; though it is possible, that, after the expul- sion of the Arabs and the Jews, with the exception of those who had embraced Christianity, they adopted this formality to try their sincerity, for the three candles indicated the Trinity. 180 Kintu. [August, His sons mild Kintu heeded not. At last the god arose in wrath, His sandals tied, and down the path, His wife beside him, as of yore, He went. A cow, a single lamb They took; one tuber of the yam; One yellow-podded branch they bore Of ripe banana, these, no more, Of all the heaped-up harvest store. They left the huts, they left the tent, Nor turned, nor cast a backward look: Behind the thick boughs met and shook. They vanished. Long with wild lament Mourned all the tribe, in vain, in vain; The gift once given was given no more, The griev~d god came not again. To what far paradise they fared, That heavenly pair, what wilderness Theirgentle rule next owned and shared, Knoweth no man, no man can guess. On secret roads, by pathways blind, The gods go forth, and none may find; But sad the world where God is not! By man was Kintu soon forgot, Or named and held as legend dim; But the wronged earth, remembering him, By scanty fruit and tardy grain And silent song revealed her pain. So centuries came, and centuries went, And heaped the graves, and ifiled the tent. Kings rose, and fought their royal way To conquest over heaps of slain, And reigned a little. Then, one day, They vanished into dust again, And other kings usurped their place, Who called themselves of Kintus race, And worshiped Kintu; not as he, The mild, benignant deity, Who held all life a holy thing, Be it of insect or of king, Would have ordained, but with wild rite, With altars heaped, and dolorous cries, And savage dance, and bale-fires light, An unaccepted sacrifice. At last, when thousand years were flown, The great Ma-anda filled the throne: A prince of generous heart and high, Impetuous, noble, fierce, and true; His wrath like lightning hurtling by, His pardon like the healing dew. And chiefs and sages swore each one He was great Kintus worthiest son. One night, in forests still and deep, A shepherd sat to watch his sheep; And started as through darkness dim A strange voice rang and called to him: Wake ! there are wonders waiting thee! Go where the thick mimosas be, Fringing a little open plain. Honor and power wouldest thou gain? Go, foolish man, to fortune blind; Follow the stream, and thou shalt find. Three several nights the voice was heard, Louder and more emphatic grown. Then, at the thrice-repeated word, The shepherd rose and went alone, Threading the mazes of the stream Like one who wanders in a dream. Long miles he went, the stream beside, Which this way, that way, turned and sped, And called and sang, a noisy guide. At last its vagrant dances led To where the thick mimosas shade Circled and fringed an open glade; There the wild streamlet danced away. The moon was shining strangely white, And by its fitful gleaming ray The shepherd saw a wondrous sight: In the glades midst, each on his mat, A group of arm~d warriors sat, White-robed, majestic, with deep eyes Fixed on him with a stern surprise; And in their midst an aged chief Enthron~d sat, whose beard like foam Caressed his mighty knees. As leaf Shakes in the wind the shepherd shook, And veiled his eyes before that look, And prayed, and thought upon his home, Nor spoke, nor moved, till the old man, In voice like waterfall, began: Shepherd, how names himself thy king? Ma-anda, answered, shuddering, 1880.] Kintu. 181 The shepherd. Good, thou speakest well. And now, my son, I bid thee tell Thy first kings name. It was Kintu. T is rightly said, thou answerest true. Hark! To Ma-anda, Kintus son, Hasten, and bid him, fearing naught, Come hither, taking thee for guide; Thou and he, not another one, Not even a dog may run beside! Long has Ma-anda Kintu sought With spell and conjuration dim, Now Kintu has a word for him. Go, do thy errand, haste thee hence, Kintu insures thy recompense. All night the shepherd ran, star-led, All the hot day he hastened straight, Nor stopped for sleep, nor stopped for bread, Until he reached the city gate, And saw red rays of evening fall On the leaf-hutted capital. He sought the king, his tale he told. Ma-anda faltered not, nor stayed. He seized his spear, he left the tent; Shook off the brown arms of his queens, Who clasped his knees with wailing screams; On pain of instant death forbade That men should spy or follow him; And down the pathway, arching dim, Fearless and light of heart and bold Followed the shepherd where he went. But one there was who loved his king Too well to suffer such strange thing, The chieftain of the host was he, Next to the monarch in degree; And, fearing wile or stratagem Menaced the king, he followed them With noiseless tread and out of sight. So on they fared the forest through, From evening shades to dawning light, From dawning to the dusk and dew, The unseen follower and the two. Ofttimes the king turned back to scan The path, but never saw the man. At last the forest-guarded space They reached, where, ranged in order, sat Each couched upon his braided mat, The white-robed warriors, face to face With their majestic chief. The king, Albeit unused to fear or awe, Bowed down in homage, wondering, And bent his eyes, as fearing to be Blinded by rays of deity. Then asked the mighty voice and calm, Art thou Ma-anda called? I am. And art thou king? The king am I, The bold Ma-anda made reply. T is rightly spoken; but, my son, Why hast thou my command forgot, That no man with thee to this spot Should come, except thy guide alone? No man has come, Ma-anda said. Alone we journeyed, he and I; And often have I turned my head, And never living thing could spy. None is there, on my faith as king. A kings word is a weighty thing, The old man answered. Let it be, But still a man has followed thee! Now answer, Ma-anda, one more thing: Who, first of all thy line, was king? Kintu the god. T is well, my son, All creatures Kintu loved, not one Too pitiful or weak or small; He knew them and he loved them all; And never did a living thing, Or bird in air or fish in lake, Endure a pang for Kintus sake. Then rose his sons, of differing mind, Who gorged on cruel feasts each day, And bathed in blood, and joyed to slay, And laughed at pain and suffering. Then Kintu sadly went his way. The gods long-suffering are and kind, Often they pardon, long they wait; But men are evil, men are blind. After much tarriance, much debate, The good gods leave them to their fate; So Kintu went where none may find. Each king in turn has sought since then, From Chora down, the first in line, To win lost Kintu back to men. Vain was his search, and vain were thine, 182 Kintu. [August, Save that the gods have special grace To thee, Ma-anda. Face to face With Kiutu thou shalt stand, and he Shall speak the word of power to thee; Clasped to his bosom, thou shalt share His knowledge of the earth, the air, And deep things, secret things, shalt learn. But stay, the old mans voice grew stern, Before I further speak, declare Who is that man in ambush there! There is no man, no man I see. Deny no longer, it is vain. Within the shadow of the tree He lurketh; lo, behold him plain! And the king saw, for at the word From covert stole the hidden spy, And sought his monarchs side. One cry, A lions roar, Ma-anda gave, Then seized his spear, and poised and drave. Like lightning bolt it hissed and whirred, A flash across the midnight blue. A single groan, a jet of red, And, pierced and stricken through and through, Upon the ground the chief fell dead; But still with love no death could chase, His eyes sought out his masters face. Blent with Ma-andas a wild cry Of many voices rose on high, A shriek of anguish and despair, Which shook and filled the startled air; And when the king, his wrath still hot, Turned him, the little grassy plain All lonely in the moonlight lay: The chiefs had vanished all away As melted into thin, blue wind; Gone was the old man. Stunned and blind, For a long moment stood the king; He tried to wake; he rubbed his eyes, As though some fearful dream to end. It was no dream, this fearful thing: There was the forest, there the skies, The shepherd and his murdered friend. With feverish haste, bewildered, mazed, This way and that he vainly sped, Beating the air like one half crazed; With prayers and cries unnumber~d, Searching, imploring, vain, all vain. Only the echoing woods replied, With mocking booms their long aisles through, Come back, Kintu, Kintu, Kintu! And pitiless to all his pain The unanawering gods his suit denied. At last, as dawning slowly crept To day, the king sank down and wept A space; then, lifting as they could The lifeless burden, once a man, He and the shepherd-guide began Their grievous journey through the wood, The long and hard and dreary way, Trodden so lightly yesterday; And the third day, at evenings fall, Gained the leaf-hatted capital. There burial rites were duly paid: Like bridegroom decked for banqueting, The chief adorned his funeral-pyre; Rare gums and spices fed the fire, Perfumes and every precious thing; And songs were sung, and prayers were prayed, And priests danced jubilant all day. But prone the king Ma-anda lay, With ashes on his royal crest, And groaned, and bent upon his breast, And called on Kintu loud and wild: Father, come back, forgive thy child! Bitter the cry, but vain, all vain; The grieved god came not again. Susan Coolidge. 1880.] The Surgeon at the Field Hospital. 183 THE SURGEON AT THE FIELD HOSPITAL. OFTEN as I have seen allusions to the field hospital, and even short, vivid de- scriptions of its horrors and mysteries, in the course of accounts of battles penned by men who had borne their part in the fighting, or by newspaper correspond- ents whose attention was mainly fixed on the engagement, as was natural, I do not remember to have read a single account, from a surgeon, of the place where his work lay during and after the battle. He, like the quartermaster and commissary, has no share in the fierce and stimulating work of attack and de- fense; the strung-up suspense of expee- tation, the intensity of effort while the struggle hangs in doubtful balance, the exaltation of victory, the depression of defeat, come to him at second hand. His place is in an eddy of the mighty cur- rent of battle where the wrecks sweep in, and his business is to mend them as he may. It may well be supposed that the despondent rather than the jubilant view gets reported there, whither shat- tered manhood is borne sorely against its will, when its hope was to rush on, sweeping the enemy before it. Bitter disappointment and bodily anguish are too much for the hopefulness of common men, whose strength of soul is usually taxed to the utmost for endurance. So, though there are many glorious excep- tions, the usual tone of those who come into the field hospital is depressed and despondent, and they are apt to report failure, if not defeat; whence it comes to pass that the surgical staff, who long for victory as much as any of their com- rades in the line of battle, have need of no little experience before they can make such allowances for the exagger- ation of distress in the reports that are groaned out to them as will save their own hearts from growing heavy with the thought that all this woe and wail, in the midst of which they are working, has gone for naught. Never shall I forget how strong was this influence at the first assault on Port Hudson. Public attention was not so drawn to this rebel stronghold as to Yicksburg, the final and successful siege of which began about the same date; and many readers may have quite forgotten that in Louisiana there was another fort in rebel hands, one hundred and twenty miles below Vicksburg and ninety miles above New Orleans, which completely commanded the Mississippi and held out nearly a week longer than Vicksburg. Bankss army had by an unexpected movement invested it on May 21, 1863, carried the outworks at once, and driven the enemy within his main line of de- fenses, while Farragut shut him in quite as closely on the river side. In the flush of our first success we recked little of there being seven miles of formidable earth-works before us. We were eager to storm them, and get to the river be- fore Grants men. Between the woods in which our camps were hidden and the rebel works, there was a plain of irreg- ular shape, varying from half a mile to a mile in width. The trees had been felled here the year before to give free sweep for artillery, and being left where they fell had added greatly to the de- fenses of the place. It was as though the parts of an abatis had been some- what widely separated, and strong bushes and briars had grown up among them, rendering it impossible to preserve any regimental formation in traversing it, even unmolested by an enemy. But from the woods edge where our line was formed these obstacles could not be seen, and it looked simply like a half 1 By the river these distances are four or five times greater.

The Surgeon at the Field Hospital 183-189

1880.] The Surgeon at the Field Hospital. 183 THE SURGEON AT THE FIELD HOSPITAL. OFTEN as I have seen allusions to the field hospital, and even short, vivid de- scriptions of its horrors and mysteries, in the course of accounts of battles penned by men who had borne their part in the fighting, or by newspaper correspond- ents whose attention was mainly fixed on the engagement, as was natural, I do not remember to have read a single account, from a surgeon, of the place where his work lay during and after the battle. He, like the quartermaster and commissary, has no share in the fierce and stimulating work of attack and de- fense; the strung-up suspense of expee- tation, the intensity of effort while the struggle hangs in doubtful balance, the exaltation of victory, the depression of defeat, come to him at second hand. His place is in an eddy of the mighty cur- rent of battle where the wrecks sweep in, and his business is to mend them as he may. It may well be supposed that the despondent rather than the jubilant view gets reported there, whither shat- tered manhood is borne sorely against its will, when its hope was to rush on, sweeping the enemy before it. Bitter disappointment and bodily anguish are too much for the hopefulness of common men, whose strength of soul is usually taxed to the utmost for endurance. So, though there are many glorious excep- tions, the usual tone of those who come into the field hospital is depressed and despondent, and they are apt to report failure, if not defeat; whence it comes to pass that the surgical staff, who long for victory as much as any of their com- rades in the line of battle, have need of no little experience before they can make such allowances for the exagger- ation of distress in the reports that are groaned out to them as will save their own hearts from growing heavy with the thought that all this woe and wail, in the midst of which they are working, has gone for naught. Never shall I forget how strong was this influence at the first assault on Port Hudson. Public attention was not so drawn to this rebel stronghold as to Yicksburg, the final and successful siege of which began about the same date; and many readers may have quite forgotten that in Louisiana there was another fort in rebel hands, one hundred and twenty miles below Vicksburg and ninety miles above New Orleans, which completely commanded the Mississippi and held out nearly a week longer than Vicksburg. Bankss army had by an unexpected movement invested it on May 21, 1863, carried the outworks at once, and driven the enemy within his main line of de- fenses, while Farragut shut him in quite as closely on the river side. In the flush of our first success we recked little of there being seven miles of formidable earth-works before us. We were eager to storm them, and get to the river be- fore Grants men. Between the woods in which our camps were hidden and the rebel works, there was a plain of irreg- ular shape, varying from half a mile to a mile in width. The trees had been felled here the year before to give free sweep for artillery, and being left where they fell had added greatly to the de- fenses of the place. It was as though the parts of an abatis had been some- what widely separated, and strong bushes and briars had grown up among them, rendering it impossible to preserve any regimental formation in traversing it, even unmolested by an enemy. But from the woods edge where our line was formed these obstacles could not be seen, and it looked simply like a half 1 By the river these distances are four or five times greater. 184 The Surgeon at the Field Hospital. [August, mile of space to be rushed over under fire, and the oniy question was how to pass the ditch and surmount the earth- works on the farther side. It was well understood that there was to be an as- sault. In every regiment fascines were made, which were to be carried by hand to the ditch and flung in at one point, till they should fill and so bridge it for our triumphant charge over the works. Volunteers were called for from each regiment to form a storming party, a part of which was to bear the fascines, while the rest were to rush over the bridged ditch, heading the assault, and holQing the vulnerable point of the rebel de- fenses till the main body came up. Vol- unteers were not wanting for what was the post of glory as well as of danger. Little did we think that not one fascine would reach the ditch, and that even those who carried only a musket would be glad to take shelter behind stumps and logs midway of that green, bushy plain. The field hospital of our division was in the woods, out of probable, though not out of possible, cannon range, and, as it proved, beyond actual range all through the seven weeks siege. In the woods I said it was, meaning a cleared place in the woods, not a building or tent of any kind. A suitable place by the road-side had been cleared of under- brush for the space of perhaps an acre, which lay almost wholly in shade un- der tall trees and interlacing vines, with spaces enough of sunshine to prevent anything like an air of gloom. Ques- tions of room and of ventilation, at least, gave us no trouble there. On the 27th of May, having got all things in readi- ness, we lay about on the ground waiting, waiting with unutterable restlessness and dread. It was noon of the hot, bright day, when the artillery along our divis- ion front, which had been pretty stead- ily at work all the forenoon pounding away at the rebel breast-works, burst into a steady roar, the light batteries firing with wonderful rapidity, and we under- stood that our division was moving to the assault. For an hour the roar was continuous. Whether musketry mingled with it we could not tell, for the wind was strong and blew from us to Port Hudson. Earlier in the day we had heard heavy firing on our right and left, but that concerned other divisions, and we had got not one word of news in re- gard to it. About one oclock there was a lull in the firing for half an hour, but not a wounded man came in, and we could not understand it. Had they car- ried Port Hudson, and were the hurt as well as the sound men going in thither? Could the assault have suc- ceeded so soon? We could make noth- ing of it; but here was our station, and here we must stay. Four or five hours earlier I had been up with my regiment, had seen them in line of battle on the edge of a wood, had sent one of my as- sistants to a neighboring regiment which had no medical officer fit for duty, and had given my last directions to the otber assistant, who was to stay with our regi- ment as long as h~ could be of any use, and then report at the hospital where I was stationed. Since that time I had been merely waiting. About half past one oclock, r. M., the firing began again, and now we could hear the rattling, spiteful musketry, more dangerous than the louder cannon. We walked to and fro in our shady re- treat, or, pausing, we changed restlessly from one position to another. It was about three i. M., when several assistant surgeons came in (both mine among them), saying that nobody could get off the field; so heavy was the enemys fire and so rough the field, it was out of the question to bring off the wounded. They could not tell how it was going, but stoutly maintained that we should ultimately carry the works. Shortly be- fore four oclock the wounded began to come in, the more slightly wounded at first; then, as the afternoon wore on and 1880.] The Surgeon at the Field Ho8pital. 185 the sun got low, faster and faster and thicker the sad procession poured in on us, not in ambulances, not on stretchers, but in their comrades arms, or borne in rubber blankets. In different parts of that ground we wrought, with our hos- pital men about us, extracting bullets; staunching bleeding; amputating hope- lessly shattered fingers and hands on the spot; sending to the operating table the more serious cases; pointing out the place where each man should be laid when we had done what we could, or sadly shaking the head over cases for which nothing could be done. Now it was a strange, now a familiar, face that looked pleadingly into mine to know the surgeons verdict. Working as fast as possible, with every power of mind and body on the stretch, I heard from each sufferer, or from the friends who bore him, the wildest accounts of the days losses and defeat, agreeing only as to our having been terribly repulsed, fearfully cut up, and as to the impracticable nature of the ground over which the as- sault was attempted. How is it with the forty-ninth? was my question to every man of my own regiment who sought me. Oh, doctor, the regiment s all cut to pieces! The aint twenty men left thout a wound. This was the burden of the replies I got. They re bringin in the colonel now. He s hit in the head, and his arm s shattered awful. And where s Colonel S.? (the lieu- tenant-colonel). Why, I heard he s shot through the body. Just then came the captain of Company E, unwound- ed indeed, but bruised, haggard, stagger- ing with fatigue, bringing in a lieutenant with the help of a private. Captain, I cried, is it as bad as they say? Could nt be worse, doctor. The forty- ninth cant furnish half a company for duty. Here comes the colonel with a smashed arm and a wounded head, tbey say. S. has got a ball in his lungs, I sup- pose. And the major? I groaned. Dead on the field! replied his hollow voice. My God! I groaned again, and bent over the lieutenant, whose com- paratively slight hurt was soon dressed. As I straightened my aching back, and signed them where to lay him by his friends (five lieutenants in a row with two or three captains), my attention was drawn by several familiar voices crying, Here s the doctor! Bring the colonel this way! and a group somewhat larger than usual laid the tall figure of our col- onel on the ground before me. How proud we had been of our colonel, of his valor, his steadiness, his courtesy, his reputation! his very name was a tower of strength to us. Officer and private, all leaned on him alike. Our attachment to him was almost a proverb in the bri- gade. He had gone into that assault the only mounted man, because it was impos- sible for him to walk with his Palmer leg among the felled trees and tangled bushes of that half mile or more of plain over which his men were to charge (?), and none but himself should lead his regiment. I shuddered to think of hav- ing to take away another limb from the already maimed body that had borne so bravely his unmaimed, mighty, and alert spirit. Why, he was but twenty-two years old! A vision of the fond father and mother, who had charged me as I left home to look after their boy, rose before me and wrung my heart, already sore over the wounds of a score of other friends whose blood had stained my hands within an hour. His clear blue eye met mine steadily, his strong right hand grasped mine firmly, and the voice that could ring along the line like a trumpet had no waver in it as it said, How are you, doctor? We ye had a rough time of it. Now you must do your best for me. I cant lose another limb, you know. I saw that the hurt in the head could be nothing serious; a buckshot had scored the scalp to the bone, and another had done the same for the heel of his one foot. I undid the bandage that bound his left wrist, and 186 The Surgeon at the Field Hospital. [August, examined it. A ball had entered on one side, and lay near the surface on the other. His eyes questioned me, and I replied, I can soon take that ball out, when you are under ether. That s a very tender place. But you wont take off the hand? I will do nothing without letting you know and having your consent, colonel. So he drank of oblivion and ceased to suffer, but his dream was not of home. Doctor, he muttered (talking in the ether sleep), that s my bridle hand, you know. Never can ride at the head of my regi- ment again if you take that off. In a moment I held the bullet in my hand, and saw with joy that it was round and rather small, giving reason to hope that it had not shattered the bones badly in coming through, which could hardly have been the case had it been conical. No loose bone was to be felt, and I had the great pleasure of telling him, as he re- turned to consciousness, that there was good reason to hope that his bridle hand would by and by hold the rein again. A smile of satisfaction and re- lief lit up the face which had till then been set in the resolve to bear the worst, and with the simple, hearty thanks which we surgeons had from hundreds of men that night he was borne off to his blan- ket side by side with his officers. The short twilight had now so deepened into night that artificial lights were indispen- sable. Just imagine yourself doing work so delicate, so important, by the light of two sperm candles in the open air! Hap- py was it for us that the breeze had died away, for there were but three or four lanterns on the ground, and we should have been left in the midst of that ever- increasing crowd of sufferers almost helpless to relieve them. Picture to your- self, as you can, the dim scene in that woodland hospital: the leafy roof, cutting off much of what little light came from the half-clouded sky; a few glow-worm- like spots about the middle of the space, on approaching any one of which you saw the little group of four or five light- ed faces, quiet, intense in expression; few sounds save low, abrupt directions, short and pointed but not unkind ques- tions, and repressed groans. There were seldom cries or shrieks. That space more lighted than the others, where you can see, although vaguely, entire fig- ures stooping or moving, that is the amputating taMe. But to realize the surgeons experience you must not only see with his eyes and hear with his ears, you must feel with him; for he and his patients are ali feeling; they feel the suf- fering; he feels with the sense of touch, the skilled touch. Perhaps none but a blind man can know how all sensation seems to centre in the surgeons finger at such times, as it takes up the moment- ous investigation where the eye fails. Try for it is worth an effort to realize how he longs for strong and steady day- light, all the while compelling himself to be firm and patient, that he may do for each sufferer his very best. Just after darkness had settled down the lieutenant-colonel arrived, walking bowed and painfully into my circle of light; how unlike his alert self! But it was a relief to see him, for a glance told me that it could scarcely be that the ball had penetrated the chest, as was sup- posed. It must be somewhere in the muscles of the shoulder, having plowed its way thither along flesh that moves with every breath we draw, but usually does this so without effort or pain that we take no note of the motion. I failed to find the ball then, but an hour later one of my assistants found and removed it. So the reassured lieutenant-colonel crept away to his place by the colonel on the ground in the darkness. It might have been two hours after this when one of our men came up and said, The major is asking for you, sir. I start- ed from the wounded man before me. Asking! Then he is nt dead! And coming into shape out of the darkness, not borne helplessly, but towering over 1880.] The Surgeon at the Field Hospital. 187 all around, with his undiminished six feet six of mighty bulk unscathed, was my major. I viewed him as one risen from the dead, and welcomed him accordingly. Now the major was not one of your demonstrative men, but there were tears in his eyes, and his voice trembled and his mouth twitched as he said, For Gods sake, doctor, cant you get me some whisky for my men? They re all used up. Forty men s all I can get together of the old forty-ninth. He almost crushed my hand in his great grasp. I saw that the men had a swal- low of whisky, and sent a man to pilot the major to the colonel and the rest. I knew that the sight of him unhurt would be better than whisky to them. The major was not twenty-one yet, and here he was in command of the frag- ments of his regiment, and the rest of it that lay strewn over Slaughters Field (a singular coincidence that the plain should bear such a name) or about the field hospital had been his neighbors in peace at home, as well as his faithful soldiers there in Louisiana. I dont know that he did not envy the gallant OBrien, lieutenant-colonel of the forty-eighth (to whom was given the lead of the forlorn hope, for which the major had offered himself), his quiet rest on the battle-field, disturbed by no heart-ache about defeat and butchery. It was only those who had been found and brought from the field before dark that came into our de- pot after this; for one might as well have borne burdens through a fireslash or a windfall in the dark as over that battle-field by night. So about midnight the great bulk of the work was done, and most of the surgeons were on the ground in their blankets, exhausted as men are whose every faculty of mind and body has been on the stretch for many hours. Only three of us were still at work, for our brigade had suffered most, and poor fellows who had said nothing about their hurts, while there were so many of greater severity to be attended to, sought us out. So it wore on to two oclock, when one of my com panions had the shakes come on, and had to get into his blanket. Still there was work till gray morning twilight, though I snatched a few minutes to read a letter from home that had been put into my hand just before dark, and to pencil a few lines in reply on the am- putating table, by the flare of a candie that had burned down almost to the wood, it had no socket. In the early dawn I crept under the blankets that sheltered the major and adjutant, and in a moment was as sound asleep as they. In an hour and a half I was called to work again, and we were at it till dark, many new cases coming in from the field, those of the previous night needing fresh dressing; and the ambulances were to be loaded under our direction, and started for the river land- ing nine miles away, where the wounded were transferred to steamboats, which bore them to Baton Rouge and New Or- leans. In the course of this day we were able to form a pretty clear idea of our losses. The regiment lost seventy- five killed and wounded out of two hun- dred and thirty-three who went into ac- tion. Three of our largest companies were away on detached duty, and we had left a great many behind, sick, in Baton Rouge. It was not nearly as bad as we supposed; but what a skeleton of the regiment that left home! And there was so much of the flower of it gone with that seventy-five that we knew the best days of the forty-ninth were over. There was much the same work of dressing wounds and loading ambulances, together with some operating, on the next day; but by noon of the day which followed that, all the sick and wounded who could not soon be fit for duty had been taken from the field hospital, and the work of the surgeons was only to attend to ordinary sick call and the cas- ualties of the siege, till there came an- other assault; as was the case more than 188 The Surgeom at the Field Hospital. [August, once, before that last barrier gave way and allowed the great river to go un- vexed to the sea. A month later, I received the follow- ing letter from our colonel, the late General W. F. Bartlett, written at Ba- ton Rouge about June 20, 1863, to F. W., before Port Hudson: M~ DEAR DocTon,I am not in very good spirits. The doctors here differ so about my arm, and the ques- tion whether or not to take it off, that I dont know which to believe. The ma- jority are thus inclined: Dont take it off yet. It looks healthy; the pus is very healthy. Small pieces of bone have come out, three, I think, not any bigger than half a bean. That was a week ago, since which no more pieces have come out, but the suppuration has con- tinued very freely. A day or two since (the 16th) inflammation, which had en- tirely subsided, appeared on the outside face of the ulna, spreading up toward the elbow three or four inches. Warm fomentations were changed for cold wa- ter again. The inflammation still con- tinues on the outside of the joint, but does not extend up the arm so far as it did. The hand is puffed very full with edema (thats what they call it. I dont pretend to spell it). The arm is puffed a little, too, at the elbow, and for a short distance above. In a few days, after the inflammation is reduced, they propose to cut open and explore it, and take out the loose spicula of bone. They ask me often how thoroughly it was explored at the time on the field, and how much bone you took out, questions I cannot answer. The examination will decide whether the arm ought to come off or not; if not, by taking out the bones hurry the healing. If I had known it was so bad and was likely to be so long and tedious a wound, I should have had the hand taken off that afternoon, with- out a thought to the contrary. I should have been about by this time, and ready to start for home. Those messages to Mrs. W. I will deliver with pleasure, my dear doctor, if I get there before you do, which is an open question to my mind. My appetite (I had none the first week) is vigorous now. Tincture of iron helped do it. The time of my starting for Northern air (which will do me more good than anything else) seems a long way off. In keeping the hand on I run the risk of having to lose it farther up. I still hope to save the hand, though, notwith- standing all the disagreements of the medical faculty. Dr. Van N., medical director here now, Dr. R., onceDr.P., and Dr. T. see my arm. I dont know the ability of either of them. Dr. Btt, whom I have confidence in, saw it a week ago, and said, Try to save it. Perhaps you and he can give me your opinions on the subject after this untechnical diagnosis. I am very comfortably situated; have everything that I want, good attendants, etc. I had a letter from home of June 4th, after they had got the news of our first battle. They had received my letters and the scrap in yours, and all the kind things you said. . I wish you were here to take care of me. Remember me to all the officers who ask for me, and believe me sin- cerely yours, W. F. B., Col. Any time that you have leisure to send me a few lines, only, will give me much pleasure. W. F. B. On the back of the folded sheet is written, Dont laugh at this folding. I did it with one hand, you know. 1880.] Mr. Ili& nts TeacAing. 189 MR. HUNTS TEACHING. THE value of advanced instruction in art depends quite as much on the per- sonal magnetism of the teacher as on any other quality. His patience may be unlimited, his knowledge of the pro- fession thorough and comprehensive, and he may still be unable to instruct his pupils with any success. This quality of personal magnetism is too subtle to be measured with any precision, but its presence in a teacher is felt by every student. It impresses itself more than any other element of an artists charac- ter on the productions of his imagina- tion and of his susceptibility. The at- tractive advantages of personal assist- ance from the leaders in the profession are due largely to this power of per- sonal magnetism. In most cases this may be nothing more than the commu- nication of a spirit of enthusiasm; but it is always of the greatest service in the advanced study of art, where so much depends on gnidnnce and so little on di- rect teaching. Whoever has witnessed the earnestness of one of the foreign masters cannot have failed to be struck with the intensity of the conviction that gave strength to every gesture, made the criticisms golden, the dictates more precious than diamonds. Instruction of this sort is nothing more than exciting in the students an enthusiasm for their work, and supplementing this enthusiasm with a cultivation of the powers of ob- servation. In other words, the master only teaches the students how to see. Mr. Win. M. Hunt had a great deal of personal magnetism, and, more than any other artist in America, he had the firm conviction of positive belief that Ameri- cans needed to learn to see. This con- viction was so strong in him that he could not help giving it to the world in every way and by every means that was in his power. He spread a veritable con- tagion of single-minded devotion to art for arts own sake. A thorough analy- sis of his methods of teaching would doubtless reveal many weaknesses and disclose many apparent contradictions. His pupils were with him heart and soul, and they forgot the details in admiring the grand motive of the whole scheme. It is doubtful whether Mr. Hunt ever made the full extent of his ideas com- prehensible to the majority of his stu- dents. Their own performances show that they understood very well a part, and only a part, of his idea. He was very impatient of all systems and proc- esses. His quick apprehension and keen sensibility were in the fever heat of ex- citement all the time, and he threw himself into his work with a complete and possessing impulse. Teaching the elementary steps of the profession was exceedingly distasteful to him, and he rarely or never undertook it. Few of the students who composed his classes had mastered the rudiments. The ma- terial he had to work with there was not altogether to his mind, but it had the one great necessary qualification, unwa- vering faith in the master. His studio ap- proached nearest to the foreign ateliers of anything we have in this country. But abroad the students are not admit- ted into the atelier of a master unless they are proficient in drawing. If Mr. Hunt had taken his pupils only after they had learned to draw, he would have created a school that would have flavored the whole mass of our art, instead of leaving behind him a large number of beginners, who, with all their proficiency in ~ne direction, have few or no attain- ments in any other. An examination of his Art Talks will show that the difficul- ty he had to deal with was not so much that the pupils did not readily learn to see, but that they had no power to exe

F. D. Millet Millet, F. D. Mr. Hunt's Teaching 189-192

1880.] Mr. Ili& nts TeacAing. 189 MR. HUNTS TEACHING. THE value of advanced instruction in art depends quite as much on the per- sonal magnetism of the teacher as on any other quality. His patience may be unlimited, his knowledge of the pro- fession thorough and comprehensive, and he may still be unable to instruct his pupils with any success. This quality of personal magnetism is too subtle to be measured with any precision, but its presence in a teacher is felt by every student. It impresses itself more than any other element of an artists charac- ter on the productions of his imagina- tion and of his susceptibility. The at- tractive advantages of personal assist- ance from the leaders in the profession are due largely to this power of per- sonal magnetism. In most cases this may be nothing more than the commu- nication of a spirit of enthusiasm; but it is always of the greatest service in the advanced study of art, where so much depends on gnidnnce and so little on di- rect teaching. Whoever has witnessed the earnestness of one of the foreign masters cannot have failed to be struck with the intensity of the conviction that gave strength to every gesture, made the criticisms golden, the dictates more precious than diamonds. Instruction of this sort is nothing more than exciting in the students an enthusiasm for their work, and supplementing this enthusiasm with a cultivation of the powers of ob- servation. In other words, the master only teaches the students how to see. Mr. Win. M. Hunt had a great deal of personal magnetism, and, more than any other artist in America, he had the firm conviction of positive belief that Ameri- cans needed to learn to see. This con- viction was so strong in him that he could not help giving it to the world in every way and by every means that was in his power. He spread a veritable con- tagion of single-minded devotion to art for arts own sake. A thorough analy- sis of his methods of teaching would doubtless reveal many weaknesses and disclose many apparent contradictions. His pupils were with him heart and soul, and they forgot the details in admiring the grand motive of the whole scheme. It is doubtful whether Mr. Hunt ever made the full extent of his ideas com- prehensible to the majority of his stu- dents. Their own performances show that they understood very well a part, and only a part, of his idea. He was very impatient of all systems and proc- esses. His quick apprehension and keen sensibility were in the fever heat of ex- citement all the time, and he threw himself into his work with a complete and possessing impulse. Teaching the elementary steps of the profession was exceedingly distasteful to him, and he rarely or never undertook it. Few of the students who composed his classes had mastered the rudiments. The ma- terial he had to work with there was not altogether to his mind, but it had the one great necessary qualification, unwa- vering faith in the master. His studio ap- proached nearest to the foreign ateliers of anything we have in this country. But abroad the students are not admit- ted into the atelier of a master unless they are proficient in drawing. If Mr. Hunt had taken his pupils only after they had learned to draw, he would have created a school that would have flavored the whole mass of our art, instead of leaving behind him a large number of beginners, who, with all their proficiency in ~ne direction, have few or no attain- ments in any other. An examination of his Art Talks will show that the difficul- ty he had to deal with was not so much that the pupils did not readily learn to see, but that they had no power to exe 190 Mr. Hunt8 Teac7dng. [August, cute what they did see. He seemed un- conscious that he was teaching Ameri- cans, who had, perhaps, never drawn a stroke before in their lives, and not Frenchmen, who had passed all the even- ings of their youth in the municipal drawing-schools. But stray remarks now and then proved that he was conscious of his position all the time. He has been known to recommend his pupils in a mass to go to the art schools to learn how to draw, and then come back to him. After years of experiment and diligent practice, he had gained a facility in put- ting in rapidly the effect of any object with economy of labor and material. What he tried principally to impress on his pupils was that their salvation in art consisted in being able to accomplish a similar result at once. This was begin- ning at the end. Better begin at the end than begin wrongly or not at all. The chief thing was to see and to feel. All the skill in the world would not make an artist of a student if he did not see aright. It was beginning at the end, because the master arrived there after a severe training, after passing through various stages of intense application to the practice of the purely mechanical part of the work. He reasoned, doubt- less, that what he had learned after years of trial was the one thing that his pupils most needed to know, and he considered all other knowledge subordinate to this. His criticisms of his pupils work indi- cate that this was his idea. He often told them that they would never learn to paint drapery until they learned anat- omy; that they would never learn to draw until they knew what was under the skin. And yet he did not begin by teaching them this. Students in other countries would have known it before they came into his studio. He had but few simple precepts in his method of instruction. The first great principle was that truth only is of value in art; truth, not to the commonplace aspect of nature, but truth to the highest and noblest attributes; absolute fidelity to that phase of nature that worthily in- spired the desire to seize and preserve it. It might have been a glow of color, a combination of lines, an arrangement of light and shade, or a vital point of character. Whatever it was that was worth perceiving, that he thought was the thing to try and put down. His own performances were impulsive and enthu- siastic. He communicated this spirit to his pupils to such a degree that they were prone to mistake, as all beginners are, the glamour of a more or less imper- fect impression for the best they could do. Because it was done impulsively and had the stamp of frankness and genuine ap- preciation in it, a study, rough and in- complete as it might be in execution, often passed for a successful effort. Many of the pupils will remember how the master was delighted at certain qualities in a study, and ignored the defects entirely, until at the end of his criticism, or later, he would give it its proper measure by some peculiarly fit remark, showing that, while he had been pleased at the success of certain parts, he had not lost sight of the incompleteness of the whole. His second great precept was that whatever is painted well must be painted from the impulse of love for nature. George Sands human trinity, sensation, senti- ment, and knowledge, was the trinity in his religion of art, and he taught the doctrines of this religion with the zeal of a born propagandist. It cannot be gainsaid that the conver- sion to his beliefs of a large number of students has been of the greatest serv- ice in the development of artistic culture in this community. By his example and precept no less than by his direct teaching, he carried on a vigorous cru- sade against the mechanical and soulless practice of the profession, and fought with keen weapons against the tendency to conventionality that is rooted in the very subsoil of American art. One rea- son why his own teaching was so valua 1880.] Afr. IIUflt8 TeacAing. 191 ble is because it introduced the antidote for conventionality. He saw that the mechanical turn of mind of the Amen- can art student needed to be balanced by a course of free thinking, so to speak. Americans incline to dryness in execu- tion, and Mr. Hunts instruction was of just the necessary kind to correct this fault. His own work was always a suffi- cient example to illustrate to students the force of his precepts, and to show them exactly in what way the pursuit of his methods led him. By the use of charcoal they learned to study pictur- esque arrangements of light and shade, and to jot down broadly and freely im- pressions of nature, without carrying the studies further than this. Mr. Hunt himself was a master of this material, and he knew that the proper use of it by his pupils would correct all tendency to dryness of execution, and enable them to arrive at the limited result sought with much less mechanical difficulty than with the stump or point. There is a wide difference between the degrees of precis- ion to be obtained by the use of differ- ent materials. The etching point can be suceessfully employed only by those who are sure of their hand. Charcoal is the material that requires the least command of the- hand in its use, for it may be readily erased and worked over with ease. That Mr. Hunt did not in- sist on precision of line is evident from his general principles of teaching. His pupils gained considerable skill in the employment of charcoal, and in using color in the same line of study. Their color studies are, however, comparative- ly less complete than the ones in char- coal, because new and complicated diffi- culties came in with the use of pigments. In thus summing up the result of Mr. Hunts teaching it must not be forgotten that he was never satisfied with it. He always felt that he could have been a thousand times more useful in a differ- ent field. The few artists who have re- ceived assistance and advice from him testify by their works to the inestimable value of his instruction. The pity is that more serious students, who were far enough advanced to digest and assimilate his teachings, should not have availed themselves of the great privilege of his leadership. He did certainly succeed in converting all his students to belief in the right principles of art, and was fortunate in imparting to them some of his own grand faith. Their legacy from him is a noble one. But they remain like peo- ple who have learned the beauties of a language before they can write or speak it. Their works show that they see aright, and that their intentions are the best. But they can be called neither realists, idealists, nor impressionists, for their performances go little further than intentions. For this they may be de- scriptively named intentionists. With this legacy of the master who has so re- cently died there is but one thing to do: keep it by every means in our power, and supplement it by the encouragement of the study of the a, b, c of the pro- fession. The rigorous systems of art academies have resulted, as the world knows to its loss, in the development of artists distinguished chiefly by the uni- form excellence of their mechanical per- formances, and by their almost univer- sal lack of the higher artistic capabili- ties. There is something in the nursing process of an academy that retards the growth of a true artist. Those who have had the highest success in the pro- fession have gained it by their devotion to their own impulses, and not to the continued teachings of any school. The fault of academies is that they go too far; they carry the student beyond the rudiments, and cramp him with tradi- tions and rules. The elements of the profession are more cheaply and more conveniently acquired in an academy than elsewhere; but when the rudiments are learned, there academic training should stop. The moment the academy begins to train the student in any sys 192 Pepacton: A Summer Voyage. [August, tern of execution, that moment it begins to hamper his freedom and distort his vision. There is no royal road to profi- ciency in art. The drudgery of the pro- fession is enough to kill the ambition of nine tenths of those who enter it. The real triumph of an artists life is at the moment when he can forget his tools, and paint conscious only of the beauties of nature before him. No artist ever attained this height in his profession ex- cept through a hard and wearisome cx- perience, and the only safe rule to fol- low is one set down by Ingres: Ap- proach the study of art only on your knees. When we can show a single stu- dent well trained in the rudiments of the profession, and directed by the assim- ilation of such knowledge as Mr. Hunt imparted, then we shall know that we are keeping up with the tide of gen- eral artistic development that is now gathering such momentum all over the country. F. D. Millet. PEPACTON: A SUMMER VOYAGE. IN most enterprises the temptation is always to begin too far along; we want to start where somebody else leaves off. Go back to the stump, and see what an impetus you get. Those fishermen who wind their own flies before they go a-fishing, how they bring in the trout; and those hunters who run their own bullets or make their own cartridges, the game is already mortgaged to them. Hence, when I bethought me of a summer-day voyage down the east or Pepacton branch of the Delaware, it was my good genius that prompted me to build my own boat. This was half the battle; it committed me thoroughly to the enterprise, and made an undertak- ing seem intensely desirable which at first I contemplated with indifference. I did not literally begin at the stump, for a dug-out would not serve me, but at the dressed stuff of the carpenter. But from this point the send-off was a good one, and I was quite a navigator ere the boat was finished. Then it was a new mode of travel I was contemplat- ing, a new way of going a-foot pe- destrianism in a flat-bottom. I should surely surprise nature, and win some new secrets from her. I should glide down noiselessly upon her, and see what all those willow screens and baffling curves concealed. As a fisherman and pedestrian, I had been able to come at the stream only at certain points; now the most private and secluded retreats of the nymph would be opened to me; every bend and eddy, every cove hedged in by swamps or passage walled in by high alders, would be at the beck of my oar. Whom shall one take with him when he goes a-courting nature? This is al- ways a vital question. There are persons who will stand between you and that which you seek: they obtrude them- selves; they monopolize your attention; or there is something about their pres- ence that is foreign and antagonistic to the spirit of open-air scenes. I want for companion a dog or a boy, or a person who has the virtues of dogs and boys, transparency, good nature, curi- osity, open sense, and a nameless quality that is akin to trees and growths and the inarticulate forces of nature. With him you are alone, and yet have com- pany; you are free; you feel no dis- turbing element; the influences )f nat~. ure stream through him and round him; he is a good conductor of thc~ sub- tle fluid. The quality or qualification I refer to belongs to most persons who

John Burroughs Burroughs, John Pepacton: A Summer Voyage 192-205

192 Pepacton: A Summer Voyage. [August, tern of execution, that moment it begins to hamper his freedom and distort his vision. There is no royal road to profi- ciency in art. The drudgery of the pro- fession is enough to kill the ambition of nine tenths of those who enter it. The real triumph of an artists life is at the moment when he can forget his tools, and paint conscious only of the beauties of nature before him. No artist ever attained this height in his profession ex- cept through a hard and wearisome cx- perience, and the only safe rule to fol- low is one set down by Ingres: Ap- proach the study of art only on your knees. When we can show a single stu- dent well trained in the rudiments of the profession, and directed by the assim- ilation of such knowledge as Mr. Hunt imparted, then we shall know that we are keeping up with the tide of gen- eral artistic development that is now gathering such momentum all over the country. F. D. Millet. PEPACTON: A SUMMER VOYAGE. IN most enterprises the temptation is always to begin too far along; we want to start where somebody else leaves off. Go back to the stump, and see what an impetus you get. Those fishermen who wind their own flies before they go a-fishing, how they bring in the trout; and those hunters who run their own bullets or make their own cartridges, the game is already mortgaged to them. Hence, when I bethought me of a summer-day voyage down the east or Pepacton branch of the Delaware, it was my good genius that prompted me to build my own boat. This was half the battle; it committed me thoroughly to the enterprise, and made an undertak- ing seem intensely desirable which at first I contemplated with indifference. I did not literally begin at the stump, for a dug-out would not serve me, but at the dressed stuff of the carpenter. But from this point the send-off was a good one, and I was quite a navigator ere the boat was finished. Then it was a new mode of travel I was contemplat- ing, a new way of going a-foot pe- destrianism in a flat-bottom. I should surely surprise nature, and win some new secrets from her. I should glide down noiselessly upon her, and see what all those willow screens and baffling curves concealed. As a fisherman and pedestrian, I had been able to come at the stream only at certain points; now the most private and secluded retreats of the nymph would be opened to me; every bend and eddy, every cove hedged in by swamps or passage walled in by high alders, would be at the beck of my oar. Whom shall one take with him when he goes a-courting nature? This is al- ways a vital question. There are persons who will stand between you and that which you seek: they obtrude them- selves; they monopolize your attention; or there is something about their pres- ence that is foreign and antagonistic to the spirit of open-air scenes. I want for companion a dog or a boy, or a person who has the virtues of dogs and boys, transparency, good nature, curi- osity, open sense, and a nameless quality that is akin to trees and growths and the inarticulate forces of nature. With him you are alone, and yet have com- pany; you are free; you feel no dis- turbing element; the influences )f nat~. ure stream through him and round him; he is a good conductor of thc~ sub- tle fluid. The quality or qualification I refer to belongs to most persons who 1880.] .Pepacton: A Summer Voyage. 193 spend their lives in the open air, ~ to soldiers, hunters, fishers, laborers, and to artists and poets of the right sort. How full of it, to choose an illustrious example, was such a man as Walter Scott I But no such person came in answer to my prayer, so I set out alone. It was fit that I put my boat into the water at Arkyille (a station on the Delaware and Ulster Railroad), but it may seem a little incongruous that I should launch her into Dry Brook; yet Dry Brook is here a fine large trout stream, and I soon found its waters were wet enough for all practical purposes. The Delaware is only one mile distant, and I chose this as the easiest road from the station to it. A young farmer helped me carry the boat to the water, but did not stay to see me off; only some calves feeding along shore witnessed my era- barkation. It would have been a god- send to boys, but there were no boys about. I stuck on a rift before I had gone ten yards, and saw with misgiving the paint transferred from the bottom of my little scow to the tops of the stones thus early in the journey. But I was soon making fair headway, and taking trout for my dinner as I floated along. ~y first mishap was when I broke the second joint of my pole on a bass, and the first serious impediment to my prog- ress was when I encountered the trunk of a prostrate elm bridging the stream, within a few inches of the surface. My pole mended and the elm cleared, I anticipated better sailing when I should reach the Delaware itself; but I found on this day and on subsequent days that the Delaware has a way of dividing up that is very embarrassing to the navigator. It is a stream of many minds; its waters cannot long agree to go all in the same channel, and which- ever branch I took I was pretty sure to wish I had taken one of the others. I was constantly sticking on rifts, where I would have to dismount, or running VOL. XLVI. No. 274. 13 full tilt into willow banks, where I would lose my hat or endanger my fish- ing tackle. On the whole, the result of my first days voyaging was not encour- aging. I made barely eight miles, and both my ardor and my trousers were dampened. The elements, the air and the water, were not so sweet as I had reason to expect. The upper Delaware is a cemetery of cats and dogs; every superfluous puss, or kitten, or pup, or superannuated churner, or worthless cur goes into the river with a stone about its neck, and the number of such speci- mens I saw standing on their heads in the bottom of the stream and waving uneasily in the clear current, as I drifted along, gave an uncanny hue to my first days experience. These were the s~- crets, then, of the unexplored nooks and curves. In mid-afternoon I went to a well-to-do-looking farm - house and got some milk, which lam certain the thrifty housewife skimmed, for its blueness in- fected my spirits, and I went into camp that night more than half persuaded to abandon the enterprise in the morning. The loneliness of the river too, unlike that of the fields and woods, to which I was more accustomed, oppressed me. In the woods things are close to you, and you touch them and seem to interchange something with them; but upon the riv- er, even though it be a narrow and shal- low one like this, you are more isolated, further removed from the soil and its attractions, and an easier prey to the un- social demons. The long, unpeopled vistas ahead; the still, dark eddies; the endiess monotone and soliloquy of the stream; the unheeding rocks basking like monsters along the shore, half out of the water, half in ; a solitary heron start,- ing up here and there, as you rounded some point, and flapping disconsolately ahead till lost to view, or standing like a gaunt spectre on the umbrageous side of the mountain, his motionless form revealed against the dark green as you passed; the trees and willows and al 194 Pepacton: A Summer Voyage. [August, ders that hemmed you in on either side, and hid the fields and the farm-houses and the road that ran near by, these things and others aided the skimmed milk and the uneasy ghosts of the murdered cats and dogs to cast a gloom over my spirits that argued ill for the success of my undertaking. Those rub- ber boots too, that parboiled my feet and were clogs of lead about them, whose spirits are elastic enough to en- dure them? A malediction upon the head of him who invented them! Take your old shoes that will let the water in and l~t it out again, rather than weigh down both soul and body with these devilish devices. I escaped from the river, that first night, and took to the woods, and profit- ed by the change. In the woods I was at home again, and the bed of hemlock boughs salved my spirits. A cold spring run came down off the mountain, and beside it, underneath birches and hem- locks, I improvised my hearth-stone. In sleeping on the ground it is a great ad- vantage to have a back-log; it braces and supports you, and it is a bedfellow that will not grumble when, in the mid- dle of the night, you crowd sharply up against it. It serves to keep in the warmth, also. A heavy stone or other point de r6sistance at your feet is also a help. Or, better still, scoop out a little place in the earth, a few inches deep, so as to admit your body from your hips to your shoulders; you thus get an equal bearing the whole length of you. I am told the Western hunters and guides do this. On the same principle, the sand makes a good bed, and the snow. You make a mold in which you fit nicely. My berth that night was be- tween two logs that the bark-peelers had stripped ten or more years before. As they had left the bark there,. and as hemlock bark makes excellent fuel, I had more reasons than one to be grate? ful to them. In the morning I felt much refreshed, and as if the night had tided me over the bar that threatened to stay my prog- ress. If I can steer clear of skimmed milk, I said, I shall now finish the voy- age of fifty miles to Hancock with in- creasing pleasure. When one breaks camp in the morn- ing, he turns back again and again to see what he has left. Surely he feels he has forgotten something; what is it? But it is only his own sad thoughts and musings he has left, the fragment of his life he has lived there. Where he hung his coat on the tree, where he slept on the boughs, where he made his coffee or broiled his trout over the coals, where he drank again and again at the little brown pool in the spring run, where he looked long and long up into the whis- pering branches overhead, he has left what he cannot bring away with him, the flame and the ashes of himself. Of certain game birds it is thought that at times they have the power of withholding their scent; no hint or parti- cle of themselves goes out upon the air. I think there are persons whose spirit- ual pores are always sealed up, and I presume they have the best time of it. Their hearts never radiate into the void; they do not yearn and sympathize with- out return; they do not leave themselves by the wayside as the sheep leaves her wool upon the brambles and thorns. This branch of the Delaware, so far as I could learn, had never before been descended by a white man in a boat. Rafts of pine and hemlock timber are run down on the spring and fall freshets, but of pleasure seekers in boats I ap- peared to be the first. Hence my ad- vent was a surprise to most creatures in the water and out. I surprised the cat- tle in the field, and those ruminating leg- deep in the water turned their heads at my approach, swallowed their unfin.. ished cuds, and scampered off as if they had. seen a spectre. I surprised the fish on their spawning beds and feeding grounds;. they scattered, as my shadow 1880.] Pepacto~: A Summer Vo~age. glided down upon them, like chickens when a hawk appears. I surprised an ancient fisherman seated on a spit of gravelly beach, with his back up stream, and leisurely angling in a deep, still eddy, and mumbling to himself. As I slipped into the circle of his vision, his grip on his pole relaxed, his under jaw dropped, and he was too bewildered to reply to my salutation for some mo- ments. As I turned a bend in the river I looked back, and saw him hastening away with great precipitation. I pro- sume he had angled there for forty years without having his privacy thus intruded upon. I surprised hawks and herons and kingifahers. I came sud- denly upon musk-rats, and raced with them down the rifts, they having no time to take to their holes. At one point, as I rounded an elbow in the stream, a black eagle sprang from the top of a dead tree, and flapped hurriedly away. A kingbird gave chase, and disappeared for some moments between the great wings of the eagle, and I imagined him seated upon his back delivering his puny blows upon the royal bird. I in- terrupted two or three minks fishing and hunting along shore. They would dart under the bank when they saw me, then presently thrust out their sharp, weasel-like noses, to see if the danger was imminent. At one point, in a little cove behind the willows, I surprised some school-girls, with skirts amazingly abbreviated, wading and playing in the water. And as much surprised as any, I am sure, was that hard-worked look- ing housewife, when I eame up from under the bank in front of her house, and with pail in hand appeared at her door and asked for milk, taking the pro- enution to intimate that I had no objec- tion to the yellow scum that is supposed to rise on a fresh article of that kind. What kind of milk dc~ you want? The best you have. Give me two quarts of it, I replied. What do you want to do with it? with an anxious tone, as if I might want to blow up something or burn her barns with it. Oh, drink it, I answered, as if I fro- quently put milk to that use. Well, I suppose I ean get you some; and she presently reappeared with swim- ming pail, with those little yellow flakes floating about upon it that one likes to see. I passed several low dams the second day, but had no trouble. I dismount- ed and stood upon the apron, and the boat, with plenty of line, came over as lightly as a chip, and swung around in the eddy below like a well-trained steed. In the afternoon, while slowly drifting down a long eddy, the moist southwest wind brought me the welcome odor of strawberries, and running ashore by a meadow, a short distance below, I was soon parting the daisies and filling my cup with the dead-ripe fruit. Berries, be they red, blue, or black, seem like a special providence to the camper-out; they are luxuries he has not counted on, and I prized these accordingly. Later in the day it threatened rain, and I drew up to shore under the shelter of some thick overhanging hemlocks, and pro- ceeded to eat my berries and milk, glad of an excuse not to delay my lunch long- er. While tarrying here I heard young voices up stream, and looking in that di- rection saw two boys coming down the rapids on rude floats. They were racing along at a lively pace, each with a pole in his hand, dexterously avoiding the rocks and the breakers, and schooling themselves thus early in the duties and perils of the raftsmen. As they saw me one observed to the other, There is the man we saw go by when we were building our floats. If we had known he was coming so far, may be we could have got him to give us a ride. They drew near, guided their crafts to shore beside me, and tied up, their poles answering for hawsers. They proved to be Johnny and Denny Dwire, aged 196 Pepacton: A Summer Voyage. [August, ten and twelve. They were friendly boys, and though not a bit bashful were not a bit impertinent. And Johnny, who did most of the talking, had such a sweet, musical voice; it was like a birds. It seems Denny had run away, a day or two before, to his uncles, five miles above, and Johnny had been after him, and was bringing his prisoner home on a float; and it was hard to tell which was enjoying the fun most, the captor or the captured. Why did you run away?~ said I to Denny. Oh, cause, replied, he with an air which said plainly, The reasons are too numerous to mention. Boys, you know, will do so, some- times, said Johnny, and he smiled upon his brother in a way that made me think they had a very good understanding upon the subject. They could both swim, yet their floats looked very perilous: three pieces of old plank or slabs, with two cross-pieces and a fragment of a board for a rider, and made without nails or withes. In some places, said Johnny, one plank was here and another off there, biit we managed, somehow, to keep atop of them. Let s leave our floats here, and ride with him the rest of the way, said one to the other. All right; may we, Mister? I assented, and we were soon afloat again. How they enjoyed the passage; how smooth it was; how the boat glided along; how quickly she felt the paddle! They admired her much; they praised my steersmanship; they praised my fish- pole, and all my fixings down to my hateful rubber boots. When we stuck on the rifts, as we did several times, they leaped out quickly with their bare feet and legs, and pushed off. I think, said Johnny, if you keep her straight and let her have her own way, she will find the deepest water. Dont you, Denny? I think she will, replied Denny; and I found the boys were pretty nearly right. I tried them on a point of natural his- tory. I had observed, coming along, a great many dead eels lying on the bot- tom of the river, that I supposed had died from spear wounds. No, said Johnny, they are lamper-eels. They die as soon as they have built their nests and laid their eggs. Are you sure? That s what they all say, and I know they are lampers. So I fished one up out of the deep water with my paddle blade, and ex- amined it; and sure enough it was a lam- prey. There was the row of holes along its head, and its ugly suction mouth. I had noticed their nests, too, all along, where the water in the pools shallowed to a few feet and began to hurry toward the rifts: they were low mounds of small stones, as if a bushel or more of large pebbles had been dumped upon the river bottom; occasionally they were so near the surface as to make a big ripple. The eel attaches itself to the stones by its mouth and thus moves them at will. An old fisherman told me that a strong man could not pull a large lamprey loose from a rock to which it had attached it- self. It fastens to its prey in this way, and sucks the life out. A friend of mine says he once saw in the St. Lawrence a pike as long as his arm with a lamprey eel attached to him. The fish was nearly dead and was quite white, the eel had so sucked out his blood and substance. The fish, when seized, darts against rocks and stones, and tries in vain to rub the eel off, then succumbs to the sucker. The lampers do not all die, said Denny, because they do not all spawn; and I observed that the dead ones were all of one size and doubtless of the same age. The lamprey is the octopus, the devil- fish, of these waters, and there is per- haps no tragedy enacted here that equals 1880.] Pepacto~: A iStummer Voyage. 197 that of one of these vampires slowly sucking the life out of a bass or a trout. My boys went to school part of the time. Did they have a good teacher? Good enough for me, said Johnny. Good enough for me, echoed Den- ny. Just below Bark-a-boom the name is worth keeping they left me. I was loath to part with them; their musical voices and their thorough good-fellow- ship had been very acceptable. With a little persuasion, I think they would have left their home and humble fort.. unes, and gone a-roving with me. About four oclock the warm, vapor- laden southwest wind brought forth the expected thunder-shower. 1 saw the storm rapidly developing behind the mountains in my front. Presently I came in sight of a long, covered wooden bridge that spanned the river about a mile ahead, and I put my paddle into the water with all my force to reach this cover before the storm. It was neck and neck most of the way. The storm had the wind, and I had it in my teeth. The bridge was at Shavertown, and it was by a close shave that I got under it before the raiu was upon me. How it poured and rattled and whipped in around the abutment of the bridge to reach me! I looked out well satisfied upon the foaming water, upon the wet, unpainted houses and barns of the Shav- ertowners, and upon the trees. Caught and cuffed by the gale, a little hawk the spotted-winged night- hawk i~ras also roughiy used by the storm. He faced it bravely, and beat and beat, but was unable to stem it, or even hold his own; gradually he drifted back, till he was lost to sight in the wet obscurity. The water in the river rose an inch while I waited, about three quar- ters of an hour. Only one man, I reck- on, saw me in Shavertown, and he came and gossiped with me from the bank above when the storm had abated. The second night I stopped at the sign of the elm-tree. The woods were too wet, and I concluded to make my boat my bed. A superb elm, on a smooth grassy plain a few feet from the waters edge, looked hospitable in the twilight, and I drew my boat up beneath it. I hung my clothes on the jagged edges of its rough bark, and went to bed with the moon, in her third quarter, peep- ing under the branches upon me. I had been reading Stevensons amusing Trav- els with a Donkey, and the lines he quotes from an old play kept running in my head The bed was made, the room was fit, By punctual eve the stars were lit; The air was sweet, the water ran; No need was there for maid or man, When we put up, my ass and I, At Gods green caravanserai. But the stately elm played me a trick: it slyly and at long intervals let great drops of water down upon me; now with a sharp smack upon my rubber coat; then with a heavy thud upon the seat in the bow or stern of my boat; then plump into my upturned ear, or upon my un- covered arm, or with a ring into my tin cup, or with a splash into my coffee pail that stood at my side full of water from a spring I had just passed. After two hours trial I found dropping off to sleep, under such circumstances, was out of the question; so I sprang up, in no very amiable mood toward my host, and drew my boat clean from under the elm. I had refreshing slumber thence- forth, and the birds were astir in the morning long before I was. There is one way, at least, in which the denuding the country of its forests has lessened the rain-fall: in certain con- ditions of the atmosphere every tree is a great condenser of moisture, as I had just proved in the case of the old elm; little showers are generated in their branches, and in the aggregate the amount of water precipitated in this way is considerable. O~ a foggy summer morning one may see little puddles of water standing on the stones beneath 198 Pepacton: A & mmer Voyage. [August, maple - trees, along the street, and in winter, when there is a sudden change from cold to warm, with fog, the water fairly runs down the trunks of the trees and streams from their naked branches. The temperature of the tree is so much below that of the atmosphere in such cases that the condensation is very rap id. In lieu of these arboreal rains we have the dew upon the grass; but it is doubtful if the grass ever drips as does a tree. The birds, I say, were astir in the morning before I was, and some of them were more wakeful through the night, unless they sing in their dreams. At this season one may hear at intervals numerous bird voices during the night. The whip-poor-will was piping when I lay down, and I still heard one when I woke up after midnight. I heard the song-sparrow and the kingbird also, like watchers calling the hour, and several times I heard the cuckoo. Indeed, I am convinced that our cuckoo is to a consid- erable extent a night bird, and that he moves about freely from tree to tree. His peculiar guttural note, now here, now there, may be heard almost any summer night, in any part of the coun- try, and occasionally his better known cuckoo call. He is a great recluse by day, but seems to wander abroad freely by night. The birds do indeed begin with the day. The farmer who is in the field at work while he can yet see stars catches their first matin hymns. In the longest June days the robin strikes up about half past three oclock, and is quickly followed by the sparrow, the oriole, the cat-bird, the wren, the wood-thrush, and all the rest of the buneful choir. Along the Po- tomac I have heard the Virginia cardi- nal whistle so loudly and persistently in the tree-tops above that sleeping after four oclock was out of the question. Just before the sun is up there is a marked lull, during which I imagine the birds are at breakfast. While building their nests it is very early in the morn- ing that they put in their big strokes; the back of their days work is broken before you have begun yours. A lady once asked me if there was any individuality among the birds, or if those of the same kind were as near alike as two peas. I was obliged to an- swer that to the eye those of the same species were as near alike as two peas, but that in their songs there were often marks of originality. Caged or domes- ticated birds develop notes and traits of their own, and among the more familiar orchard and garden birds one may notice the same tendency. I observe a great variety of songs, and even qualities of voice, among the orioles and among the song-sparrows. On this trip my ear was especially attracted to some striking and original sparrow songs. At one point I was half afraid I had let pass an opportunity to identify a new war- bler, but finally concluded it was a song- sparrow. I have heard a robin with a part of the whistle of the quail in his song. It was out of time and out of tune, but the robin seemed insensible of the incongruity, and sang as loudly and as joyously as any of his mates. A cat-bird will sometimes show a special genius for mimicry, and I have known one to suggest very plainly some notes of the bobolink. There are numerous long covered bridges spanning the Delaware, and un- der some of these I saw the cliff-swal- low at home, the nests being fastened to the under sides of the timbers, as it were, suspended from the ceiling instead of being planted upon the shelving or perpendicular side, as is usual with them. To have laid the foundation, indeed to have sprung the vault downward and finished it successfully, must have re- quired special engineering skill. I had never before seen or heard of these nests being so placed. But birds are quick to adjust their needs to the exigencies of any case. Not long before I had seen A 1880.] Pepacton: A Summer Voyage. 199 in a deserted house, on the head of the Rondout, the chimney-swallows entering the chamber through a stove-pipe hole in the roof, and gluing their nests to the sides of the rafters, like the barn-swal- lows. I was now, on the third day, well down in the wilds of Colchester, with a current that made between two and three miles an hour, just a summer idlers pace. The atmosphere of the river had improved much since the first day was, indeed, without taint, -~ and the water was sweet and good. There were farm-houses at intervals of a mile or so, but the amount of tillable land in the river valley or on the adjacent mount- ains was very small. Occasionally there would be forty or fifty acres of fiat, usu- ally in grass or corn, with a thrifty-look- ing farm-house. One could see how surely the land made the house and its surroundings; good land bearing good buildings, and vice versa. In mid-forenoon I reached the long placid eddy at Downsville, and here again fell in with two boys. They were out paddling about in a boat when I drew near, and they evidently regarded me in the light of a rare prize which fortune had wafted them. Aint you glad we come, Benny? I heard one of them observe to the other, as they were conducting me to the best place to land. They were bright, good boys, off the same piece as my acquaint- ance of the day before, and about the same ages, differing only in being vil- lage boys. With what curiosity they looked me over! Where had I come from; where was I going; how long had I been on the way; who built my boat; was I a carpenter, to build such a neat craft, etc. They never had seen such a traveler before. Had I had no mishaps? And then they bethought them of the dangerous passes that awaited me, and in good faith began to warn and advise me. They had heard the tales of raftsmen, and had conceived a vivid idea of the perils of the river below, gauging their notions of it from the spring and fall freshets tossing about the heavy and cumbrous rafts. There was a whirlpool, a rock eddy, and a binocle within a mile. I might be caught in the binocle, or en- gulfed in the whirlpool, or smashed up in the eddy. But I felt much reassured when they told me I had already passed several whirlpools and rock eddies; but that terrible binocle, what was that? I had never heard of such a monster. Oh, it was a still, miry place at the head of a big eddy. The current might carry me up there, but I could easily get out again; the rafts did. But there was an- other place I must beware of, where two eddies faced each other; raftsmen were sometimes swept off there by the oars, and drowned. And when I came to rock eddy, which I would know, because the river divided there (a part of the water being afraid to risk the eddy, I suppose), I must go ashore and survey the pass; but in any case it would be prudent to keep to the left. I might stick on the rift, but that was nothing to being wrecked upon those rocks. The boys were quite in earnest, and I told them I would walk up to the village and post some letters to my friends before I braved all these dan- gers. So they marched me up the street, pointing out to their chums what they had found. Going way to Phil What place is that where the river goes into the sea? Philadelphia? Yes; thinks he may go way there. Wont he have fun? The boys escorted me about the town, then back to the river, and got in their boat and came down to the bend, where they could see me go through the whirl- pool and pass the binocle (I am not sure about the orthography of the word, but I suppose it means a double, or a sort of mock eddy). I looked back as I shot over the rough current beside a gentle vortex, and saw them watching me with great interest. Rock eddy, also, was 200 .Pepacton: A Summer Voyage. [August, quite harmless, and I passed it without any preliminary survey. I nooned at Sodom, and found good milk in a humble cottage. In the after- noon I was amused by a great blue heron that kept flying up in advance of me. Every mile or so, as I rounded some point, I would come unexpectedly upon him, till finally he grew disgusted with my silent pursuit, and took a long turn to the left up along the side of the mount-. am, and passed back up the river, utter- ing a hoarse, low note. The wind still boded rain, and about four oclock, announced by deep-toned thunder and portentous clouds, it began to charge down the mountain side in front of me. I ran ashore, covered my traps, and took my way up through an orchard to a quaint little farm-house. But there was not a soul about, outside or in, that I could find, though the door was unfastened; so I went into an open shed with the hens, and lounged upon some straw, while the unloosed floods came down. It was better than boating or fishing. Indeed, there are few sum- mer pleasures to be placed before that of reclining at ease directly under a slop- ing roof, after toil or travel in the hot sun, and looking out into the rain-drenched air and fields. It is such a vital, yet soothing spectacle. We sympathize with the earth. We know how good a bath is, and the unspeakable deliciousness of water to a parched tongue. The office of the sunshine is slow, subtle, occult, unsuspected, but when the clouds do their work the benefaction is so palpable and copious, so direct and wholesale, that all creatures take note of it, and for the most part rejoice in it. It is a com- pletion, a consummation, a paying of a debt with a royal hand; the measure is heaped and overflowing. It was the simple vapor of water that the clouds borrowed of the earth; now they pay back more than water; the drops are charged with electricity and with the gases of the air, and have new solvent powers. Then, how the slate is sponged off, and left all clean and new again! In the shed where I was sheltered were many relics and odds and ends of the farm. In juxtaposition with two of the most stalwart wagon or truck wheels I ever looked upon was a cradle of an- cient and peculiar make, an aristocratic cradle, with high - turned posts and an elaborately carved and molded body, that was suspended upon rods and swung from the top. How I should have liked to hear its history and the story of the lives it had rocked, as the rain sang and the boughs tossed without. Above it was the cradle of a phwbe-bird sad- dled upon a stick that ran behind the rafter; its occupants bad not flown, and its story was easy to read. Soon after the first shock of the storm was over, and before I could see break- ing sky, the birds tuned up with new ar- dor, the robin, the indigo bird, the pur- ple finch, the sparrow, and in the mead- ow below the bobolink. The cockerel near me followed suit, and repeated his refrain till my meditations were so dis- turbed that I was compelled to eject him from the cover, albeit he had the best right thl3re. But he crowed his defiance with drooping tail from the yard in front. I too had mentally crowed over the good fortune of the shower, but before I closed my eyes that night my crest was a good deal fallen, and I could have wished the friendly elements had not squared their accounts quite so readily and uproariously. The one shower did not exhaust the supply a bit; Natures hand was full of trumps yet, yea, and her sleeve too. I stopped at a trout-brook, which came down out of the mountains on the right, and took a few trout for my supper; but its current was too roily from the shower for fly-fishing. Another farm-house at-. tracted m~, but there was no one at home; so I picked a quart of strawberries in the meadow in front, not minding the wet grass, and about six oclock, thinking 1880.] Pepacton: A Summer Voyage. 201 another storm that had been threatening on my right had miscarried, I pushed off, and went floating down into the deep- ening gloom of the river valley. The mountains, densely wooded from base to summit, shut in the view on every hand. They cut in from the right and from the left, one ahead of the other, matching like the teeth of an enormous trap; the river was caught and bent, but not long detained by them. Presently I saw the rain creeping slowly over them in my rear, for the wind had changed; but I apprehended nothing but a moderate sundown drizzle, such as we often get from the tail end of a shower, and drew up m the eddy of a big rock under an overhanging tree till it should have passed. But it did not pass; it thickened and deepened, and reached a steady pour by the time I had calculated the sun would be gilding the mountain tops. I had wrapped my rubber coat about my blankets and groceries, and bared my back to the storm. In sullen silence I saw the night settling down and the rain increasing; my roof tree gave way, and every leaf poured its accumulated drops upon me. There were streams and splashes where before there had been little more than a mist. I was getting well soaked and uncomplimentary in my remarks on the weather. A saucy cat- bird, near by, flirted and squealed very plainly, There! there! What did I tell you! what did I tell you! Pretty pickle! pretty pickle! pretty pickle to be in! But I had been in worse pickles, though if the water had been salt my pickling had been pretty thorough. Seeing the wind was in the northeast, and that the weather had fairly stolen a march on me, I let go my hold of the tree, and paddled rapidly to the opposite shore, which was low and pebbly, drew my boat up on a little peninsula, turned her over upon a spot which I cleared of its coarser stone, propped up one end with the seat, and crept beneath. I would now test the virtues of my craft as a roof, and I found she was without flaw, though she was pretty narrow. The tension of her timber was such that the rain upon her bottom made a low, mu- sical hum. Crouched on my blankets and boughs, for I had gathered a good supply of the latter before the rain orertook me, and dry only about my middle, I placidly took life as it came. A great blue heron flew by, and let off something like ironical horse laughter. Before it became dark I proceeded to eat my sup- per, my berries, but not my trout. What a fuss we make about the hulls upon strawberries! We are hypercrit- ical; we may yet be glad to dine off the hulls alone. Some people see something to pick and carp at in every good that comes to them; I was thankful that I had the berries, and resolutely ignored their little scalloped ruffles, which I found pleased the eye and did not disturb the palate. When bed-time arrived I found un- dressing a little awkward, my berth was so low; there was plenty of room in the aisle, and the other passengers were no- where to be seen, but I did not venture out. It rained nearly all night, but the train made good speed, and reached the land of daybreak nearly on time. The water in the river had crept up during the night to within a few inches of my boat, but I rolled over and took another nap, all the same. Then I arose, had a delicious bath in the sweet, swift-run- ning current, and turned my thoughts toward breakfast. The making of the coffee was the only serious problem. With everything soaked and a fine rain still falling, how shall one build a fire? I made my way to a little island above in quest of drift-wood. Before I had found the wood I chanced upon another patch of delicious wild strawberries, and took an appetizer of them out of hand. Presently I picked up a yellow bireh stick the size of my arm. fhe wood was decayed, but the bark was perfect. 202 Pepacto~: A Summer Voyage. [Augu~t, I broke it in two, punched out the rot- ten wood, and had the bark intact. The fatty or resinous substance in this bark preserves it, and makes it excellent kindling. With some seasoned twigs and a scrap of paper I soon had a fire going that answered my every purpose. More berries were picked while the cof- fee was brewing, and the breakfast was a success. The camper-out often finds himself in what seems a distressing predicament to people seated in their snug, well-ordered houses; but there is often a real satis- faction when things come to their worst, a satisfaction in seeing what a small matter it is, after all; that one is really neither sugar nor salt, to be afraid of the wet; and that life is just as well worth living beneath a scow or a dug-out as be- neath the highest and broadest roof in Christendom. By ten oclock it became necessary to move, on account of the rise of the wa- ter, and as the rain had abated I picked up and continued my journey. Before long, however, the rain increased again, and I took refuge in a barn. The snug, tree-embowered farm-house looked very inviting, just across the road from the barn; but as no one was about, and no faces appeared at the window that I might judge of the inmates, I contented myself with the hospitality the barn offered, filling my pockets with some dry birch shavings, against the needs of the next kindiing. After an hours detention I was off again. I stopped at Baxters Brook, which flows hard by the classic hamlet of Harvard, and tried for trout, but with poor success, as I did not think it worth while to go far up stream. At several points I saw rafts of hem- lock lumber tied to the shore, ready to take advantage of the first freshet. Raft- ing is an important industry for a hun- dred miles or more along the Delaware. The lumbermen sometimes take their families or friends, and have a joilifica tion all the way to Trenton or to Phila- delphia. In some places the speed is very great, almost equaling that of an express-train. The passage of such places as Cochecton Falls and Foul Rift is attended with no little danger. The raft is guided by two immense oars, one before and one behind. I frequently saw these implements in the drift-wood along shore, suggesting some colossal race of men. The raftsmen have names of their own. From the upper Dela- ware, where I had set in, small rafts are run down which they call colts. They come frisking down at a lively pace. At Hancock they usually couple two rafts together, when I suppose they have a span of colts; or do two colts make one horse? Some parts of the framework of the raft they call grubs; much depends upon these grubs. The lumbermen were and are a hardy, virile race. The Hon. Charles Knapp, of De- posit, now eighty-three years of age, but with the look and step of a man of sixty, told me he had ttood nearly all one De- cember day in the water to his waist, re- constructing his raft, which had gone to pieces on the head of an island. Mr. Knapp had passed the first half of his life in Colchester and Hancock, and, although no sportsman, had once taken part in a great bear hunt there. The bear was an enormous one, and was hard pressed by a gang of men and dogs. Their muskets and assaults upon the beast with clubs had made no impression.. Mr. Knapp saw where the bear was com- ing, and he thought he would show them how easy it was to dispatch a bear with a club, if you only knew where to strike. He had seen how quickI~r the largest hog would wilt beneath a slight blow across the small of the back. So, armed with an immense handspike, he took up a position by a large rock that the bear must pass. On she came, panting and nearly exhausted, and at the right mo- ment down came the club with great force upon the small of her back. If 1880.] Pepacton: A Summer Voyage. 208 a fly had alighted upon her, said Mr. Knapp, I think she would have paid just as much attention to it as she did to me. Early in the afternoon I encountered another boy, Henry Ingersoll, who was so surprised by my sudden and unwonted appearance that he did not know east from west. Which way is west? I inquired, to see if my own head was straight on the subject. That way, he said, indicating east within a few degrees. You are wrong, I replied. Where does the sun rise? There, he said, pointing almost in the direction he had pointed before. But does not the sun rise in the east here as well as elsewhere? I re- joined. Well, they call that west, anyhow. But Henrys needle was subjected to a disturbing influence just then. His house was near the river, and he was its sole guardian and keeper for the time: his father had gone up to the next neighbors (it was Sunday), and his sis- ter had gone with the scbool-mistress down the road to get black birch. He came out in the road, with wide eyes, to view me as I passed, when I drew rein, and demanded the points of the compass, as above. Then I shook my sooty pail at him and asked for milk. Yes, I could have some milk, but I would have to wait till his sister came back; after he had recovered a little, he concluded he could get it. He came for my pall, and then his boyish curiosity appeared. My story interested him immensely. He had seen twelve summers, but he had only been four miles from home up and down the river: he had been down to the East Branch, and he had been up to Trout Brook. He took a pecuniary interest in me. What did my pole cost? What my rubber coat, and what my re- volver? The latter he must take in his hand; he had never seen such a thing to shoot with before in his life, etc. He thought I might malie the trip cheaper and easier by stage and by the cars. He went to school: there were six schol- ars in summer, one or two more in winter. The population is not crowded in the town of Hancock, certainly, and never will be. The people live close to the bone, as Thoreau would say, or rather close to the stump. Many years ago the young men there resolved upon having a ball. They concluded not to go to a hotel, on account of the ex- pense, and so chose a private house. There was a man in the neighborhood who could play the fife; he offered to furnish the music for seventy-five cents. But this was deemed too much, so one of the party agreed to whistle. History does not tell how many beaux there were bent upon this reckless enterprise, but there were three girls. For refresh- ments they bought a couple of gallons of whisky and a few pounds of sugar. When the spree was over, and the ex- penses were reckoned up, there was a shilling a York shilling apiece to pay. Some of the revelers were dis- satisfied with this charge, and intimated that the managers had not counted themselves in, but taxed the whole ex- pense upon the rest of the party. As I moved on I saw Henrys sister and the school-mistress picking their way along the muddy road near the rivers bank. One of them saw me, and, drop- ping her skirts, said to the other (I could read the motions), See that man! The other lowered her flounces, and looked up and down the road, then glanced over into the field, and lastly out upon the river. They paused and had a good look at me, though I could see that their impulse to run away, like that of a frightened deer, was strong. At the East Branch the Big Beaver Kill joins the Delaware, almost doubling its volume. Here I struck the railroad, the forlorn Midland, and here another set of men and manners cropped out, what may be called the railroad con- 204 Pepacton: A Summer Voyage. [August, glomerate overlying this mountain free- stone. Billy, where did you steal that boat? and, What you running away for? greeted me from a hand-car that went by. I paused for some time and watched the fish-hawks, or ospreys, of which there were nearly a dozen sailing about above the junction of the two streams, squeal- ing and diving, and occasionally striking a fish on the rifts. I am convinced that the fish - hawk sometimes feeds on the wing. I saw him do it on this and on another occasion. He raises himself by a peculiar motion, and brings his head and his talons together, and apparently takes a bite of the fish. While doing this his flight presents a sharply undulat- ing line; at the crest of each rise the morsel is taken. In a long, deep eddy under the west shore I came upon a brood of wild ducks, the hooded merganser. The young were about half grown, but of course entirely destitute of plumage. They started off at great speed, kicking the water into foam behind them, the mother duck keeping upon their flank and rear. iNear the outlet of the pool I saw them go ashore, and I expected they would conceal them- selves in the woods; but as I drew near the place they came out, and I saw by their motions they were going to make a rush by me up stream. At a signal from the old one, on they came, and passed within a few feet of me. It was almost incredible, the speed they made. Their pink feet were like swiftly revolving wheels placed a little to the rear; their breasts just skimmed the surface, and the water was beaten into spray be- hind them. They had no need of wings; even the mother bird did not use hers; a steamboat could not have kept up with them. I dropped my paddle, and cheered. They kept the race up for a long distance, and I saw them making a fresh spirt as I entered upon the rift and dropped quickly out of sight. I next disturbed an eagle in his medita- tions upon a dead tree-top, and a cat sprang out of some weeds near the foot of the tree. Was he watching for puss, while she was watching for some smaller prey? I passed Partridge Islandwhich is or used to be the name of a post-office unwittingly, and encamped for the night on an island near Hawks Point. I slept in my boat on the beach, and in the morning my locks were literally wet with the dews of the night, and my blankets too; so I waited for the sun to dry them. As I was gathering drift- wood for a fire, a voice came over from the shadows of the east shore: Seems to me you lay abed pretty late! I call this early, I rejoined, glanc- ing at the sun. Wall, it may be airly in the fore- noon, but it aint very airly in the morn- in;~~ a distinction I was forced to admit. Before I had re~mbarked some cows came down to the shore, and I watched them ford the river to the island. They did it with great ease and precision. I was told they will sometimes, during high water, swim over to the islands, striking in well up stream, and swim- ming diagonally across. At one point some cattle had crossed the river, and evidently got into mischief, for a large dog rushed them down the bank into the current, and worried them all the way over, part of the time swimming and part of the time leaping very high, as a dog will in deep snow, coming down with a great splash. The cattle were shrouded with spray as they ran, and al- together it was a novel pioture. My voyage ended that forenoon at Hancock, and was crowned by a few idyllic days with some friends in their cottage in the woods by Lake Oquaga, a body of crystal water on the hills near Deposit, and a haven as peaceful and perfect as voyager ever came to port in. John Burroughs. 1880.] The Archbi8hop and Gtil Bla8. 205 THE ARCHBISHOP AND GIL BLAS. I DONT think I feel much older; I m aware I m rather gray, But so are many young folks; I meet em every day. I confess I m more particular in what I eat and drink, But ones taste improves with culture; that is all it means, I think. Can you read as once you used to? Well, the printing is so bad, No young folks eyes can read it like the books that once we had. Are you quite as quick of hearing? Please to say that once again. Dont I use plain words, your Reverence? Yes, I often use a cane, But it s not because I need it, no, I always liked a stick; And as one might lean upon it, t is as well it should be thick. Oh, I m smart, I m spry, I m lively, I can walk, yes, that I can, On the days I feel like walking, just as well as you, young man! Dont you get a little sleepy after dinner every day? Well, I doze a little, sometimes, but that always was my way. Dont you cry a little easier than some twenty years ago? Well, my heart is very tender, but I think t was always so. Dont you find it sometimes happens that you cant recall a name? Yes, I know such lots of people, but my memory s not to blame. What! You think my memory s failing! Why, it s just as bright and clear, I remember my great-grandma! She s been dead these sixty year! Is your voice a little trembly? Well, it may be, now and then, But I write as well as ever with a good old-fashioned pen; It s the Gillotts make the trouble, not at all my finger-ends, That is why my hand looks shaky when I sign for dividends. Dont you stoop a little, walking? It s a way I ye always had I have always been round-shouldered ever since I was a lad. Dont you hate to tie your shoe-strings? Yes, I own it, that is true. Dont you tell old stories over? I am not aware I do. Dont you stay at home of evenings? Dont you love a cushioned seat In a corner, by the fireside, with your slippers on your feet? Dont you wear warm fleecy flannels? Dont you mt~ffle up your throat? Dont you like to have one help you when you re putting on your coat? Dont you like old books you ye dogs-eared, you cant remember when? Dont you call it late at nine oclock and go to bed at ten? How many cronses can you count of all you used to know That called you by your Christian name some fifty years ago? How look the prizes to you that used to fire your brain? You ye reared your mound how high is it above the level plain?

Oliver Wendell Holmes Holmes, Oliver Wendell The Archbishop and Gil Blas 205-206

1880.] The Archbi8hop and Gtil Bla8. 205 THE ARCHBISHOP AND GIL BLAS. I DONT think I feel much older; I m aware I m rather gray, But so are many young folks; I meet em every day. I confess I m more particular in what I eat and drink, But ones taste improves with culture; that is all it means, I think. Can you read as once you used to? Well, the printing is so bad, No young folks eyes can read it like the books that once we had. Are you quite as quick of hearing? Please to say that once again. Dont I use plain words, your Reverence? Yes, I often use a cane, But it s not because I need it, no, I always liked a stick; And as one might lean upon it, t is as well it should be thick. Oh, I m smart, I m spry, I m lively, I can walk, yes, that I can, On the days I feel like walking, just as well as you, young man! Dont you get a little sleepy after dinner every day? Well, I doze a little, sometimes, but that always was my way. Dont you cry a little easier than some twenty years ago? Well, my heart is very tender, but I think t was always so. Dont you find it sometimes happens that you cant recall a name? Yes, I know such lots of people, but my memory s not to blame. What! You think my memory s failing! Why, it s just as bright and clear, I remember my great-grandma! She s been dead these sixty year! Is your voice a little trembly? Well, it may be, now and then, But I write as well as ever with a good old-fashioned pen; It s the Gillotts make the trouble, not at all my finger-ends, That is why my hand looks shaky when I sign for dividends. Dont you stoop a little, walking? It s a way I ye always had I have always been round-shouldered ever since I was a lad. Dont you hate to tie your shoe-strings? Yes, I own it, that is true. Dont you tell old stories over? I am not aware I do. Dont you stay at home of evenings? Dont you love a cushioned seat In a corner, by the fireside, with your slippers on your feet? Dont you wear warm fleecy flannels? Dont you mt~ffle up your throat? Dont you like to have one help you when you re putting on your coat? Dont you like old books you ye dogs-eared, you cant remember when? Dont you call it late at nine oclock and go to bed at ten? How many cronses can you count of all you used to know That called you by your Christian name some fifty years ago? How look the prizes to you that used to fire your brain? You ye reared your mound how high is it above the level plain? 206 Sylvias Suitors: A Little Epz8ode. [August, You ye drained the brimming golden cup that made your fancy reel, You ye slept the giddy potion off, now tell us how you feel! You ye watched the harvest ripening till every stem was cropped, You ye seen the rose of beauty fade till every petal dropped, You ye told your thought, you ye done your task, you ye tracked your dial round, I backing down! Thank Heaven, not yet! I m hale and brisk and sound, And good for many a tussle, as you shall live to see; My shoes are not quite ready yet dont think you re rid of me! Old Parr was in his lusty prime when he was older far, And where will you be if I live to beat old Thomas Parr? Ak well, I know, at every age bfe has a certain charm, You re going? Come, permit me, please, I beg you ii take my arm. I take your arm! Why take your arm? Id thank you to be told; I m old enough to walk alone, but not so very old! Oliver Wendell Holmes. SYLVIAS SUITORS: A LITTLE EPISODE. SYLVIA ENGLES folded the letter she had just written, and put it in the en- velope. Then she arose from her chair, put on her hat and sacque, and so opened the letter and read the last pages over. You need not wonder, she read, why I prefer to spend October at the sea-shore. If you were here, I wish you were! you would rather wonder why all the world is not of my mind. But I am glad it isnt! I d like an- other woman to help entertain the two learned men who also sojourn here, but I should object to the world. One of the charms of the place is my sense of my proprietary right in the ocean. For me the tides come and go; for me the sea breaks and rolls; mine are the sunsets and the white-caps, and mine, () Rachel, the spoil and the plunder! For know, my dear, tht I do not stay only for the fine weather and the ocean, nor yet for good comradeship, but for mosses! Never again wrn you say you are tired of Miss Engless cowslip china. It, Rachel, has had its day! It is to be succeeded by mosses, sea-weeds, algee. They will be the rage! I am deter- mined upon that. You and your fash- ionable friends can make conversation, as you sip your chocolate, upon the va- riety and delicacy of my designs. No plate is to have its duplicate, no cup its fellow. I shall not paint very many, but I warrant you they II be expensive! You will go wild when you see my de- signs, but you need not hope to buy any of my china. It will be dear, too dear! Strn, as you are going to be married, you shall have a t~te-a-t~te set. In the mean time, wont you stop at my studio and tell the janitor that I will be home the 1st of November? You might sng. gest some dusting up. As ever, S. E. Now, said Sylvia, Rachel will have news to tell, and then she put on her gloves, and started for the post-of- flee. When she reached that Mecca of all sea-side visitors she found it dosed. She knocked, but no one answered; she tried both doors but in vain. Then she

Louise Stockton Stockton, Louise Sylvia's Suitors 206-215

206 Sylvias Suitors: A Little Epz8ode. [August, You ye drained the brimming golden cup that made your fancy reel, You ye slept the giddy potion off, now tell us how you feel! You ye watched the harvest ripening till every stem was cropped, You ye seen the rose of beauty fade till every petal dropped, You ye told your thought, you ye done your task, you ye tracked your dial round, I backing down! Thank Heaven, not yet! I m hale and brisk and sound, And good for many a tussle, as you shall live to see; My shoes are not quite ready yet dont think you re rid of me! Old Parr was in his lusty prime when he was older far, And where will you be if I live to beat old Thomas Parr? Ak well, I know, at every age bfe has a certain charm, You re going? Come, permit me, please, I beg you ii take my arm. I take your arm! Why take your arm? Id thank you to be told; I m old enough to walk alone, but not so very old! Oliver Wendell Holmes. SYLVIAS SUITORS: A LITTLE EPISODE. SYLVIA ENGLES folded the letter she had just written, and put it in the en- velope. Then she arose from her chair, put on her hat and sacque, and so opened the letter and read the last pages over. You need not wonder, she read, why I prefer to spend October at the sea-shore. If you were here, I wish you were! you would rather wonder why all the world is not of my mind. But I am glad it isnt! I d like an- other woman to help entertain the two learned men who also sojourn here, but I should object to the world. One of the charms of the place is my sense of my proprietary right in the ocean. For me the tides come and go; for me the sea breaks and rolls; mine are the sunsets and the white-caps, and mine, () Rachel, the spoil and the plunder! For know, my dear, tht I do not stay only for the fine weather and the ocean, nor yet for good comradeship, but for mosses! Never again wrn you say you are tired of Miss Engless cowslip china. It, Rachel, has had its day! It is to be succeeded by mosses, sea-weeds, algee. They will be the rage! I am deter- mined upon that. You and your fash- ionable friends can make conversation, as you sip your chocolate, upon the va- riety and delicacy of my designs. No plate is to have its duplicate, no cup its fellow. I shall not paint very many, but I warrant you they II be expensive! You will go wild when you see my de- signs, but you need not hope to buy any of my china. It will be dear, too dear! Strn, as you are going to be married, you shall have a t~te-a-t~te set. In the mean time, wont you stop at my studio and tell the janitor that I will be home the 1st of November? You might sng. gest some dusting up. As ever, S. E. Now, said Sylvia, Rachel will have news to tell, and then she put on her gloves, and started for the post-of- flee. When she reached that Mecca of all sea-side visitors she found it dosed. She knocked, but no one answered; she tried both doors but in vain. Then she 1880.] Sylvias Suitors: A Little Episode. 207 went into the drug - store next door. Oh, Mr. Snyder, she exclaimed, as a man with a napkin in his hand came out of the back room, the post-office too has gone! What are we to do now? Mr. Snyder wiped his fingers, and smiled. It is not quite as bad as that, Miss Engles! We poor residents have not many luxuries after you city folks leave us, but we do manage to keep our post-office. I guess Joe Ruggles has gone to his tea; he mostly shuts up then. Must I sit on the step and wait for him? asked Sylvia. Not much, said Mr. Snyder. Just you leave your letter here, and I II see to it. It must go in the first mail, said Sylvia. It shall, replied Mr. Snyder; and then he opened the door for Sylvia, and she turned to go to the beach. As she walked along Atlantic Avenue, and then down one of the cross-streets toward the ocean, she thought the place looked as if it had been desolated by the plague. The stores, the hotels, the pleasant sunny cottages, were all closed and silent. No one was to be seen upon the long and sandy streets. On some of the avenues were rows of forlorn and dingy bath-houses, moved away from the beach and from winter tides. The long board walk by the shore, the pavilions, which at their best suggested Sampson Brasss summer-house, were gone, and the very signs of gay life silenced made the place doubly desolate. But Sylvia was too full of vitality to feel depressed, and indeed rather enjoyed the loneliness that left her free and happy. She was pretty, she had abundant in- terests in her life, and she had half made up her mind to marry. She was not young, for she was thirty-six; but she had had a very good time, and she meant never to have a bad one. She. had once lived abroad, and had studied art in Rome and in Paris, and she was wise in technical terms, and knew all about the schools; and when she wrote pretty little poems she turned them with many a neat allusion to both Dante and Raphael. She was never worried be- cause she could not paint great pictures, and when she was in Paris she used to go among the studios, and without any envy admire ambitious Americans work- ing at Pompeiian interiors and Arabs at prayer. When she came home she refused all pupils, and applied herself to painting little girls. Her pictures sold, but with mildness; yet her day of triumph came. It came with decora- tive art, and a panel and a tea-service established her reputation, and made Sylvia the fashion. After this all was easy. The man she thought of marrying was Professor Arnold. He was a wid- ower with one child, and Sylvia had now been at the sea-shore for two months with them. She had always meant to marry, and any one could see that this would be a suitable match. He had position and money, and Sylvia liked bo:li, and thought she deserved both. The child, little Josie, was fond of her, and she liked to have the tender little creature depend on her, run after her, and play the tyrant over her. They were all Josies slaves. The professor, who was writing his lectures in a room where he could not see the ocean, had stayed at the sea-shore on her account; Dr. Kennedy was always at her service when his neuralgia permit- ted, and Sylvia already gave her many a little motherly care; the landlord petted her, and the waiter was her wor- shiper; and these five people, at pres- ent, made up Josies world. When Sylvia reached the beach she found Josie busy making a well in the sand, while Dr. I(ennedy walked up and down. His long ulster was buttoned. over his slender, tall figure, and he wore 208 Sylvzas Suitors: A Little Episode. [August, a huge blue and white ~carf tied over his hat to protect his ears. Oh, here you come! he cried. I have been watching for you. Just come here, Miss Sylvia. Now look over the water. What do you see? Sylvia went to him. I see the waves breaking on the shore, she re- plied. It is high tide, but the breakers are not rough. It is a tranquil sea. What else? he asked, no ships, no boats, no gulls? Only water and sky. Now look along the shore. I see sand, a long, level stretch of gray sand. And the sky? There are clouds. They are white and many-piled. The sky is soft and blue, and over there, pointing, the sunset colors are reflected from the west. Then, said he impressively, look at that child! You have not mentioned her, a mere speck of humanity, a creature not three feet high, a small bit of color, red and white; and yet she is all we see between here and Portugal! Think of it! Nearly four thousand miles of space, and hers the only life in sight! Miss Sylvia, and the doctors voice deepened, this is what I call solitude! And you like it? Yes, he said, I do. I like it, as the Frenchman did, when I have a pleas- ant companion with whom to share it. Very well, said Sylvia, taking out her watch, if I come under that head, I will stay with you fifty-three minutes. By that time Thomas will be ready to sound his gong for supper, and the pro- fessor will be walking on the porch look- ing for us. Suppose, then, said the doctor, that we sit down by the anchor. I dont like this wind, and I have a shawl there. The anchor, which in the summer was attached to a bathing - line, was now drawn up on the shore, and deeply im bedded in the sand made a snug recess, of which Sylvia was fond. The doctor hung his shawl upon the arms of the anchor, and offered Sylvia the cosy, tapestried seat; but she, declining it, sat in the open air, and he went far back in the shelter. This, he said, I call comfort! And 1~ow, Miss Sylvia, when are you going away? In two weeks, said she. And the professor a week after. I shall be lonely! See here, Miss Sylvia, why dont you stay here all winter? You have no idea how charming it is. No ice, no snow; the air a visible tonic, exhilarating, sparkling! You could paint and get new inspirations. Stay, Sylvia, stay. The inspirations would not be of much use here, said Sylvia; and do you suppose Mr. Reimer would take a panel in exchange for my board? But, my dear, said the doctor, an artist is free. He need not live in his shop, his studio, I mean. Paint your pictures here, and send them to your agent. Pictures? said Sylvia. It is tea- cups! If fashion patronizes me, I must be on hand. You ought to see me re- ceive, doctor, she went on. I wear a long, monkish brown gown, and on it is many a spot of paint. My studio is lovely, and I give ~esthetic teas some- times. I can fancy you at one! Will you come? Nonsense! said he, flushing. How frivolous you try to make yourself! I wonder you paint at all. You would nt, said she, if you knew the size of my bank account. I am perfectly in earnest, the doc- tor said. I dont like women to work. I dont believe in it. I have had a sur- feit of it. In my family all the women work. The older ones manage hospitals and societies, and the younger ones teach, or read, or practice medicine. I dont like it. They all have money. I 1880.] S~ylvias Suitors: A Little Episode. 209 dont believe you yearn to be independ- ent, to have a life of your own, and all that fol-di-rody. I dont, said Sylvia. I would nt like to be no more than the basket han- dle; I know too well all the joys of in- dependence! Still, you see, I have nt money, so I earn it. That is just it! cried the doctor, coming a little way oat of his niche. You work because you must have a living. Very good. And your occupa- tion is genteel and lady-like. Dont say genteel! cried Sylvia. That is a very good word. Would respectable be any better? No? Well, this is what I meant to say, a pretty, domestic woman like you ought to get married. In fact, you ought to have been married some time ago.~~ How do you know I am domestic? said Sylvia, slightly coloring, and ignor- ing his last remark. Artists are gen- erally considered Bohemian rather than domestic. Oh, but you are not an out-and-out artist. Indeed, I am! cried Sylvia. I have nt much genius, but you dont sup- pose I spend my life painting tea-cups? I paint pictures, and I exhibit them, and, what is more to the purpose, I sell them. I dont doubt it, said the doctor; but all the same you ought to get mar- ried. There s another objection I have to my family: the girls dont marry. They have nt the time, and so we have an army of old maids. I dont like it. There is that childs father; why dont he marry? I am sure I dont know; and now Sylvia really did color. He ought to do it, pursued the re- lentless doctor. That child cannot be brought up properly by servants, and he has no sisters. Do you know, Miss Syl- via, now, I suppose you 11 get mad ! I had a great mind to advise him to ask you. It seems a pity for him to lose the VOL. XLVI.NO. 274. 14 chance of so good a mother for Josie. You see I have an observant nature, and I have watched you with her. You are fond of her, you have pleasant little ways with her, and she is certainly fond of you. Yes, you would make a very good mother for her. Sylvia laughed at this. She did not mean to betray any feeling again. The reason why I am so candid, and perhaps abrupt you do think me ab- rupt? I do, said Sylvia. Well, the reason is that the matter is a little involved. When I first thought of it, you and the professor were digging a cave for the child in the sand, and she was jumping about in high glee. Do you remember? Yes, Sylvia remembered it very well. It was a pretty picture, I thought, and it flashed on me that the professor would be blind if he did not see what he ought to do. Ask you to marry him, I mean. I ought to be very much obliged to you, said Sylvia coolly. Oh, but that is nt all! the doctor continued, pushing the scarf off his ears. You dont understand yet how the mat- ter is involved. When I went back to the hotel it occurred to me that I was a very great fool. I had much better ask you to marry me. I am sure I need a. good wife. Very well, said Sylvia, with admi- rable gravity. Still, you see, he said, it seemed rather mean not to give him the chance. It is of course obvious that he needs the wife the most, on account of the little girl, you know. My first thought referred to his marrying you, and that gives him, you see, a sort of pre~imption claim. I am not sure of that, replied Syl- via. Dont they give patents, or some- thing of the sort, for the first idea? Then, said the doctor eagerly, you would be willing to let me ask you? Sylvia8 Suitors: A Little Episode. 210 Oh, perfectly, said Sylvia. I wish I knew what you mean would you refuse But no, I wont do it. I really think he ought to have the first chance. The little girl is to be considered, you know. Is it Josie who is the first object? said Sylvia. If that is so, I might adopt her. That would make it all right, and none of us be worried. Her father would nt part with her; but I am thinking of the welfare of all. By George, Miss Sylvia, I wish I knew your Eng; or rather, I wish the pro- fessor did. Id like Chang myself! Of course Arnold knows nothing of this. I thought I had best speak to you first. I was afraid he would not explain the sit- uation, not as I would. I dont believe he could, replied she. Well, said the doctor, what have you to say? I cannot say anything, she an- swered. You cannot? repeated the doctor. I could offer an opinion, I suppose, said Sylvia; but you see I cant, under the circumstances, make it a personal matter yet. You mean, the doctor said, that neither of us has yet asked you? Exactly, Sylvia answered. Very well, then. Now, suppose, be- fore we go any farther, that we see just where we stand in the present position of affairs. In the first place, because it would, perhaps, not be proper to re- fer to the professors personal matters at this moment, do you think you could marry me. No, I dont, she answered. I am very sure I could nt. That is frank, he said, looking greatly pleased. I like that. It is business-like, and helps us to clear the ground. Now, why could nt you? For one thing, I dont care enough for you, and for another, I never thought of it. [August, Very good. But we will now sup- pose you might waive the second reason, and I could try to persuade you out of the first. So then, what are your ob- jections likely to be? You cant, for instance, object to my family? No, said Sylvia; to tell you the honest truth, I know nothing about it. You dont! exclaimed the doctor. Then I 11 tell you. We are good Quak- er stock. We came over with William Penn. We are in every history of Penn- sylvania ever written. If you ask for family, you cant do better. We are an Arch Street Quaker family. Is that any better than any other street Quakers? asked Sylvia. Tc, be a real Arch Street Quaker, Miss Sylvia, you must be born into it. You may visit our circle, marry into it, live next door to it; but to be of it birth is necessary. It is the aristocracy of the country. I might have liked to have been born into it, said Sylvia, I cannot tell but I am sure I should nt want to mar- ry into it. Then she said, Is it stu- pid? Awfully, said the doctor, but it is good. I simply refer to it as a question of family. You need not have anything to do with it. We dont when we can help it. We are church people, you know, prayer-books, marrying out of meeting, and all that. If you are in- terested in colonial furniture, we have plenty of it. In fact, you could nt do better in the way of family. Well, then, said Sylvia, I give up that point. I dont object to your fam- ily. I am not poor. I like my profes- sion, and if I need more money I will practice again. Could you be satisfied with seven thousand three hundred and sixty-two dollars a year? Perfectly, said Sylvia. I am not young, I am forty-six; but the professor is still older, so that point is not to be considered. 1880.] S~qlvias Suitors: A Little Episode. 211 Oh, yes, it is! exclaimed Sylvia. We are not considering this matter relatively; the professor is not under discussion.~~ True enough, replied the doctor, that is a fact to be remembered. Ab~ solutely, then, I am not old; I am amiable, I am not tyrannical, and when I have nt the neuralgia and dont wear this scarf I am not ugly; I am a per- son of good habits; I smoke, but I dont drink, bet, nor gamble. These are points in my favor? Certainly, said Sylvia. Well, then? I think, said she, taking out her watch, that now we ought to consider why I should marry you. These points are, as you say, in your favor; but leav- ing out your being an Arch Street Quak- er, I might find other men having these same general qualifications, and I should like my husband to have some special ones. We have nt time, however, just now. You kno.w I can think over what you already have said. But I dont like you to think over it too long. I have always fancied a womans feeling in this position ought to be rather impulsive. She ought to have quick, spontaneous feeling. Oh, I have, said she, giving him a curious look, but I should like to be cool, judicial. This is an important matter. The doctor smiled. But it is, she said, and I ought to have time, for several reasons. One, to begin pretty far on, in the fifth place, is that it is a good while since I had an offer, and I am out of practice. Beside that, you must own this is rather sudden. Who, made you the last offer? asked the doctor. An Englishman. It was a better one than yours, for there was a title some- where in his family. He said he thought it would be awfully jolly to marry an American. And he was quite right, the doctor said. Did you accept him? I dont believe he thought so. He never behaved as if he did. Well, you think of what I said, and the doctor got up and began to fold the shawl. And of course you un- derstand that, although we approached the matter from a practical side, I love you. I should not wish to marry a wom- an to whom I was not attached. I will remember, Sylvia replied, taking hold of the other end of the shawl, and helping him fold it. The doctor then drew his scarf over his ears. They called Josie, who was busy carry- ing water to her well, and liberally bap- tizing herself as she trotted back and forth. Now, said the doctor, as they drew near the house, and the professor came out to meet his little girl, the next thing is to speak to Arnold. Speak to who? cried Sylvia, stand- ing still. To Arnold, of course. Why, you dont think I mean to let the matter rest here! I want my answer, and we have agreed that he ought to have the first chance. We agreed! Sylvia exclaimedd Dr. Kennedy, you are an idiot! The doctor laughed at this, and then prevented all further discussion by go- ing into the house. He certainly wont, said Sylvia to herself, as, in the evening, she went out on the porch to walk; but I do wish Mr. Reimer would stop that dreadful old fiddle and go sit with them.,~ Then she half turned to go herself, but she was not sure. Perhaps the doc- tor would make an umpire of her, and ask her for a ruling on the spot. And yet it was absurd in her to hesitate. She would get her sewing, and go in as if nothing had happened. She wished Josie had not gone to bed. She wished her tea-cups were all in China. She 212 Sylvias Suitors: A Little Episode. [August, wished At that moment the door opened, and the professor looked out. Oh, it is you! he exclaimed. I thought I heard footsteps as I passed, and I wondered who it could be. I did not think of you for a moment. And then I never knew you to walk on this side of the house. It is more sheltered, but you cannot see the ocean.~~ Oh, I dont care for the ocean to- night, replied Sylvia, and I am just going up-stairs. Dont go yet, said the professor. Let me get my hat and walk with you. I have been in the house nearly all day, and I am tired of house air. Sylvia hesitated. Very well, she said, but I cannot stay long. So the professor put on his hat and coat, and joined her. Shall we not go around to the other porch? he asked. If you do, she answered, the doc- tor will see you and call you in. He thinks night air bad for the neuralgia. I have no neuralgia. Have you? No, but he has. I dont know, how- ever, but that it would be best for us to be called in. Do you know, he is a very peculiar person, Miss Sylvia? He certainly is. But do tell me, pro- fessor, do you believe much in the elec- tric light? I know just what will be done. The ocean will be lighted! All along the shore we will have lamps, and all the dim, solemn vagueness of sea, shore, and sky will be lost. Would nt it be dreadful if Edison should destroy night? He cant destroy sleep if he does. I slept in St. Petersburg, with the sun shining at midnight, just as regularly as at home. But as I was saying about the doctor Dont let us discuss the doctor, said Sylvia, getting a little excited. I dont want to talk of people, and any way I must go in. The professor gently laid his hand on her arm, and Sylvia at once shook it off. Miss Sylvia, he began, between us, not from my choice, I beg you to acknowledge, you are, I can under- stand, in a position trying to a person of sensitive temperament. I am sleepy, said Sylvia, if that is what you mean. A better person than Felix Ken- nedy does not live, the professor con- tinued, but he is hasty. I like to move slowly and with caution. I consider my action, I act with judgment. But I am sleepy, said Sylvia. Do not prevaricate, said the pro- fessor. Believe me, you had better list- en to me. I wish I knew just what you are going to say but then Sylvia paused and blushed. I am not going to say anything frightful. You are safe in l~istening to me. I am not as obtuse as Kennedy seems to think. It would be a very ob- tuse man indeed, Miss Sylvia, who could live with you and be insensible to your charming nature. Yes, I dare say, said Sylvia, a lit- tle absently; but I must go in now. It is cold. I would like, said the professor, not heeding this, to be frank with you. Frank! exclaimed Sylvia. Why, I never knew such frank people! It is terrible. If you want to please me, do be a little reticent. I want to please you, the professor said briskly, but I do want to tell you something. Do you know, I have been planning, vaguely, but hopefully, to take you home with me. I would nt go! cried Sylvia, stop- ping and leaning against the porch rail- ing. I have my own work, my own life, my own interests. Why cant you men understand that! said the incon- sistent creature. You think all wom- en want to marry. I dont! Perhaps, I once thought I would, but now, 1880.] Sylvia8 AS!uztor8: A Little llpi8ode. 213 why, nothing on earth would tempt me! You wrong me, Miss Sylvia, said the professor. I meant to leave you free. I meant you to have your studio, your own friends, your own pursuits. Had I lived in New York, I should not have hesitated to speak to you; but I did not like to ask you to go to Boston, and leave so much behind you. That proves, said Sylvia, who was herself now both excited and frank, how little men understand women. Do you suppose I would hesitate to fol- low any one I loved to the north pole? Boston, indeed! Why, I would nt have put it in the balance! But see how you excite yourself, said the professor; I really dont de- serve your wrath. I know that too bold approaches are likely to alarm a sensitive lady. Oh, I am not sensitive, said Syl- via. Ask the doctor if I am. Pardon me, he replied, but you are. I knew I had no right to disturb your useful, happy life; but Josie loves you so well, your influence over her is so good, that I thought you might con- sent to become her governess. Oh! cried Sylvia, and she walked quickly down the porch. The position in Boston, you under- stand, is very honorable; and in my family, and with your own social tal- ents Spare me your compliments, inter- rupted Sylvia, who felt curiously enough at this moment. I can assure you that I never mean to be a governess, but I do love Josie. I know you do. But, not to take up the second point, I have now other views. Let me fasten your shawl more closely; you are cold. No, indeed, Sylvia replied, I am hot! Now, said the professor, still speak- ing gently and evenly, I have changed my mind. I still want you to go to Bos ton, but I want to marry you. Forgive me if I am abrupt. I meant to break this to you more politely, but the doctor is in a torpedic condition. I am forced to seem rough and inconsiderate, but I have learned to love you dearly. I could forgive you anything. You could not offend me. Miss Sylvia, and here he took hold of her arm again, tell me you forgive me! If you are angry with me now, may I not some time again plead my cause? In a month? May I not come then to you? Sylvia laughed, she could not help it, but the professors face grew red. It is very funny, she said. It is very provoking, retorted the professor. I will never, never forgive Kennedy! If he had not precipitated matters, you would not have been of- fended with me, and you might have given me a hearing, at least. Oh, no, I should nt, that is, I should have had but one answer for you, said Sylvia, quite forgetting her old plans upon this point. But you ought to proceed more logically and in order. You ought first to have asked me to become your governess, and then you could have tried me in that capacity, and if I suited . Dont scoff, said the professor. I am deeply in earnest, and Good-night! cried Sylvia, dart- ing in at the door as they passed it, good-night! The next day Sylvia had her break- fast early, and saw no one but Josie; but about noon there was a knock at her door which she answered in person. It was the doctor. I thought, perhaps he began; and then noticing her books and dresses on the bed, By George, you are not packing up! Yes, I am, she answered. Did nt the landlord tell you the news? I have asked for my bill, and I go by the after- noon train. 2 IA S~ylvza8 SUitOr8: A Little .Episode. [August, Driven away! ejaculated the doc- tor. By Jove, it is too bad! Letters, said Sylvia gravely, important letters. I dare say, said he, and the mail not yet in! Tell me, are you offended? Sylvia made no reply. You could nt be offended with Ar- nold, he said; he is too gentle to of- fend any one. But II am a bear! Will you forgive me? Sylvia hesitated a half moment before she took the hand he offered. One of you, she said impulsively, did not mean to offend. I am sure of that. Yes, I know, he answered, in a melancholy tone; he never does. But then, neither did I. The mischief is I do all the things I dont mean and dont want to do. Sylvia looked up at him with gentle, amused eyes. But tell me, he resumed, in his usual manner, you dont really mean to go away and leave things in this con- dition? What condition? asked Sylvia. You understand. Now see here, Miss Sylvia, I dont want you to treat the professor badly. You ought to be decently polite to him. And there is Josie, you must not forget her. You ought to answer one of us. I have but one to answer, said Syl- via, putting her hand on the knob of the door, and I would nt mind being treated with a little decent politeness myself. Yes, yes, and the doctor looked a little blank. But somehow I cannot realize that I have cut myself off, by being so very considerate. It was rath- er stupid now, was nt it? The whole affair is stupid, Sylvia replied. But wont you please go away, and let me finish my packing? I dont want to be left, and I hate to hurry. The doctor put his foot against the door to keep her from closing it. Tell me one thing, he said, with a good deal of entreaty in his voice: you are not going to refuse both of us? I am not going to accept both of you, not the same day; and I do wish you would remember that you have never asked me. Now do go, thats a good fellow. But, Miss Sylvia, and the doctors face grew eager, you will say you will you must! Oh, Miss Sylvia, dont accept your first offer! That is mean! said Sylvia, and her face was the same color as the doctors, and both were red. I thought you were going to be so chivalrous, and all that stuff, and here But you dont love him, said the doctor, as she paused, and of course you mean to love the man you marry. I certainly do; but how do you know I dont? said the incoherent Sylvia, and she at once began to rub a spot on the door with her finger. At that moment Mrs. Reimer, armed with brush and dust-pan, came down the hall. See here! cried the doctor, turning quickly. Wont you that s a good woman wont you throw an old shoe after me? At this Sylvia gave his foot a vicious little push with her own, and banged her door shut. Do you know, and the doctors solemn manner impressed his landlady, that I am awfully sorry for the pro- fessor? Why, you dont mean to say that anything has happened to him! she exclaimed. No, not exactly, he replied. But I am sorry all the same. He 11 be terribly cut up. You see, he was so sure. Now I was nt. I dont deserve it, and he did. And there s Josie, too! I am awfully sorry! Well, you dont look so, said Mrs. Reimer, going her way. If ever I saw a man who was in a very good humor, you look like that man. Louise Stockton. 1880.] Among the Pueblos. 215 AMONG THE PUEBLOS. I USED to think Fernandina was the sleepiest place in the world, but that was before I had seen Santa F6. The drowsy old town, lying in a sandy valley inclosed on three sides by mountain walls, is built of adobes laid in one-story houses, and resembles an extensive brick-yard, with scattered sunburnt kilns ready for the fire. The approach in midwinter, when snow, deep on the mountains, rests in ragged patches on the red soil of New Mexico, is to the last degree disheartening to the traveler entering narrow streets which appear mere lanes. Yet, dirty and unkept, swarming with hungry dogs, it has the charm of for- eign flavor, and, like San Antonio, re- tains some portion of the grace which long lingers about, if indeed it ever for- sakes, the spot where Spain has held rule for centuries, and the soft syllables of the Spanish tongue are yet heard. It was a primeval stronghold before the Spanish conquest, and a town of some importance to the white race when Pennsylvania was a wilderness, and the first Dutch governor was slowly drilling the Knickerbocker ancestry in the diffi- cult evolution of marching round the town pump. Once the capital and cen- tre of the Pueblo kingdom, it is rich in historic interest, and the archives of the Territory, kept, or rather neglected~ in the leaky old Palacio del Gobernador, where I write, hold treasure well worth the seeking of student and antiquary. The building itself has a history full of pathos and stirring incident as the an- cient fort of St. Augustine, and is older than that venerable pile. It had been the palace of the Pueblos immemorially before the holy name Santa F6 was given in baptism of blood by the Span- ish conquerors; palace of the Mexicans after they broke away from the crown; and palace ever since its occupation by El Gringo. In the stormy scenes of the seventeenth century it withstood several sieges; was repeatedly lost and won, as the white man or the red held the vic- tory. Who shall say how many and how dark the crimes hidden within these dreary earthen walls? Hawthorne, in a strain of tender gay- ety, laments the lack of the poetic ele- ment in our dear native land, where there is no shadow, no mystery, no an- tiquity, no picturesque and gloomy wrong, nor anything but commonplace prosperity in broad and simple daylight. Here is every requisite of romance, the enchantment of distance, the charm of the unknown, and, in shadowy mists of more than three hundred years, imagination may flower out in fancies rich and strange. Many a picturesque and gloomy wrong is recorded in moldy chronicles, of the fireside tragedies en- acted when a peaceful, simple people were driven from their homes by the Spaniard, made ferocious by his greed of gold and conquest; and the cross was planted, and sweet hymns to Mary and her Son were chanted on hearths slip- pery with the blood of men guilty only of the sin of defending them. Four hundred years ago the Pueblo Indians were freeholders of the vast unmapped domain lying between the Rio Pecos and the Gila, and their sep- arate communities, dense and self-sup- porting, were dotted over fertile valleys of Utah and Colorado, and stretched as far south as Chihuahua, Mexico. Bound- ed by rigid conservatism as a wall, in all these ages they have undergone slight change by contact with the white race, and are yet a peculiar people, dis- tinct from the other aboriginal tribes of this continent as the Jews are from the other races in Christendom. The story of these least known citizens of the

Susan E. Wallace Wallace, Susan E. Among the Pueblos 215-226

1880.] Among the Pueblos. 215 AMONG THE PUEBLOS. I USED to think Fernandina was the sleepiest place in the world, but that was before I had seen Santa F6. The drowsy old town, lying in a sandy valley inclosed on three sides by mountain walls, is built of adobes laid in one-story houses, and resembles an extensive brick-yard, with scattered sunburnt kilns ready for the fire. The approach in midwinter, when snow, deep on the mountains, rests in ragged patches on the red soil of New Mexico, is to the last degree disheartening to the traveler entering narrow streets which appear mere lanes. Yet, dirty and unkept, swarming with hungry dogs, it has the charm of for- eign flavor, and, like San Antonio, re- tains some portion of the grace which long lingers about, if indeed it ever for- sakes, the spot where Spain has held rule for centuries, and the soft syllables of the Spanish tongue are yet heard. It was a primeval stronghold before the Spanish conquest, and a town of some importance to the white race when Pennsylvania was a wilderness, and the first Dutch governor was slowly drilling the Knickerbocker ancestry in the diffi- cult evolution of marching round the town pump. Once the capital and cen- tre of the Pueblo kingdom, it is rich in historic interest, and the archives of the Territory, kept, or rather neglected~ in the leaky old Palacio del Gobernador, where I write, hold treasure well worth the seeking of student and antiquary. The building itself has a history full of pathos and stirring incident as the an- cient fort of St. Augustine, and is older than that venerable pile. It had been the palace of the Pueblos immemorially before the holy name Santa F6 was given in baptism of blood by the Span- ish conquerors; palace of the Mexicans after they broke away from the crown; and palace ever since its occupation by El Gringo. In the stormy scenes of the seventeenth century it withstood several sieges; was repeatedly lost and won, as the white man or the red held the vic- tory. Who shall say how many and how dark the crimes hidden within these dreary earthen walls? Hawthorne, in a strain of tender gay- ety, laments the lack of the poetic ele- ment in our dear native land, where there is no shadow, no mystery, no an- tiquity, no picturesque and gloomy wrong, nor anything but commonplace prosperity in broad and simple daylight. Here is every requisite of romance, the enchantment of distance, the charm of the unknown, and, in shadowy mists of more than three hundred years, imagination may flower out in fancies rich and strange. Many a picturesque and gloomy wrong is recorded in moldy chronicles, of the fireside tragedies en- acted when a peaceful, simple people were driven from their homes by the Spaniard, made ferocious by his greed of gold and conquest; and the cross was planted, and sweet hymns to Mary and her Son were chanted on hearths slip- pery with the blood of men guilty only of the sin of defending them. Four hundred years ago the Pueblo Indians were freeholders of the vast unmapped domain lying between the Rio Pecos and the Gila, and their sep- arate communities, dense and self-sup- porting, were dotted over fertile valleys of Utah and Colorado, and stretched as far south as Chihuahua, Mexico. Bound- ed by rigid conservatism as a wall, in all these ages they have undergone slight change by contact with the white race, and are yet a peculiar people, dis- tinct from the other aboriginal tribes of this continent as the Jews are from the other races in Christendom. The story of these least known citizens of the 216 Among tAe Pueblos. [August, United States takes us back to the days of Charles V. and the spacious times of great Elizabeth. About the year 1528 an exploring expedition set out, by order of the king of Spain, from San Domingo to invade Florida, a name then loosely given to the wide area between the bay of Fer- nandina and the Mississippi River. It was commanded by Pamphio de iNar- vaez; the same, it will be remembered, who had been sent by the jealous gov- ernor of Cuba to capture Cortez, and who, after having declared him an out- law, was himself easily defeated. His troops deserted to the victorious banner, and when brought before the man he had promised to arrest Narvaez said, Esteem yourself fortunate, Senor Cor- tez, that you have taken me prisoner. The conqueror replied, with proud hu- mility and with truth, It is the least of the things I have done in Mexico. This anecdote illustrates the haughty and defiant spirit of the general who sailed for battle gayly as to a regatta, with a fleet of five vessels and about six hundred men, of whom eighty were mounted. Tie carried blood-hounds to track natives, chains and branding-irons for captives; was clothed with full powers to kill, burn, plunder, enslave; and was appointed governor over all the country he might reduce to possession. The leader and his command perished by shipwreck and disasters, all but four. Among the survivors was one Alvar Nu~ez Cabeza de Vaca, treasurer for the king and high sheriff, who is de- scribed in the annals of that period as having the most beautiful and noble fig- ure of the conquerors of the New World; and in the best days of chivalry his val- or on the battle-field, his resolution in danger, his constancy and resignation in hardship, won for him the proud title Illustrious Warrior. Ten years he, with three companions, rambled to and fro between the Atlantic and Gulf of California. The plain statement of their privations and miseries must of necessi- ty be filled with marvels; that of Cabe- za de Vaca, duly attested and sworn to, is weakened by wild exaggerations, and the ]?elacion of this Western Ulysses is touched with high colorings and embel- lished with fantastic fables equal to the moving accidents by flood and field of the heroic king of Ithaca. He tells of famishing with hunger till they devoured dogs with relish; of marching without water and without way among savagea of giant stature, dressed in robes, with wrought ties of lion skin, making a brave show, the women dressed in wool that grows on trees ~ 1 of meeting cyclo- pean tribes, who had the sight of but one eye; of being enslaved and going naked, as we were unaccustomed to being so, twice a year we cast our skin, like serpents; of his escape, and, after liv- ing six years with friendly Indians, of being again made captive by barbarians, who amused themselves by pulling out his beard and beating him cruelly; of liv- ing on the strange fruits of mezquit and prickly-pear; of mosquitoes, whose bite made men appear to have the plagues of holy Lazarus; of herds of wonder- ful cows, with hair an inch thick, friz- zled and resembling wool, roaming over boundless plains. Holding his course northwest, he came to a people with fixed habitations of great size, made of earth, along a river which runs between two ridges; and here we have the earliest record of Pueblo or Town Indians, so named as distinguished from nomads or hunting tribes, dwelling in lodges of buffalo skin and boughs. It is difficult to trace his course along the nameless rivers of Texas; he must have ascended the Red River, and then struck across to the Ca- nadian, which runs for miles through a deep cafion, in which are yet seen ex- tensive ruins of ancient cities. Un- doubtedly he was then among the Pue- blo Indians, in the northwestern part 1 The hanging moss, Tilkmdsia Usneoides. 1880.j Among the Pueblos. 217 of New Mexico. He described them as an intelligent race, with fine persons, possessing great strength, and gave them the name Cow Nation, because of the immense number of buffaloes killed in their country and along the river for fif- ty leagues. The region was very pop- ulous, and throughout were signs of a better civilization. The women were bet- ter treated and better clad; they had shawls of cotton 1 their dress was a skirt of cotton that came to the knees, and skirts of dressed deer-skins to the ground, opened in front and fastened with leather straps. They washed their clothes with a certain soapy root which cleansed them well.2 They also wore shoes. This is the first account of the natives of that country wearing cover- ing on their feet, doubtless the moc- casins still worn by them. The gentle savages hailed the white men as children of the sun, and, in ado- ration, brought their blind to have their eyes opened, their sick that, by the lay- ing on of hands, they might be healed. Mothers brought little children for bless- ings, and many humbly sought but to touch their garments, believing virtue would pass out of them. The rude hos- pitality was freely accepted; the sons of the morning feasted on venison, pump- kins, maize bread, the fruit of the prick- ly-pear, and, refreshed by the banquet, made their worshipers understand that they too were suffering with a disease of the heart, which nothing but gold and precious stones could cure. The Pue- blos were then as now a race depending on agriculture rather than the chase, and were in distress because rain had not 1 Made of the fibre of the magney, or Amen- can aloe. 2 The root of the Yucca alojfolia, a spongy, fibrous mass, containing gelatinous and alkaline matter. It grows in most parts of New Mexico, where it is called amois, and is used instead of soap for washing. 8 This is still a favorite sport among the Pue- blos. They saily out from their villages, mounted on btsrros, to the prairies, where rabbits are start- ed from their coverts, when the horsemen chase them, using clubs, which they throw with great fallen in two years, and all the corn they had planted had been eaten by moles. They were afraid to plant again until it rained, lest they should lose the little seed left, and beggt~d the fair gods to tell the sky to rain; which the celes- tial visitauts obligingly did, and, in an- swer to the prayers of the red men, breathed on their buffalo skins and be- stowed a farewell blessing upon them at parting. They again pushed westward in search of riches, always further on, crossed a portion of the Llano Estacado, or Staked Plain, and traveled for a hundred leagues through a thickly settled coun- try, with towns of earth abounding in maize and beans. Hares were very numerous. When one was started the Indians would attack him with clubs, driving him from one to another till he was killed or captured.8 Everywhere they found order, thrift, friendly welcome. The Indians gave Cabeza de Vaca fine turquoises, buffalo robes, or, as he calls them, blankets of cow skins, and fine emeralds made into arrow-heads, very precious, held sa- cred, and used only in dances and cele- brations. They said these jewels had. been received in exchange for bunches of plumes and the bright feathers of par- rots; they were brought a long distance from lofty mountains in the north, where were crowded cities of very large and strong houses.4 It appears from his Relacion that Ca.. beza de Vaca passed over the entire Ter- ritory of New Mexico, went down the Gila to a point near its mouth, struck across to the river San Miguel, thence to precision, like the boomerang of the savage Aus- tralian. In this way they catch a great many. It is very exciting, and is carried on amid yells and much good-natured laughter. 4 In the Navajo country, between the San Juasi and Colorado Chiquito, are found quantities of beautiful garnets and a green stone resembling emerald. It abounds in ruins of pueblos capable of holding many thousand souls; in all probabil- ity the emeralds presented to De Vaca came from that region. 218 .4.mong the Pueblo8. [August, Culiacan, and so on to Mexico, where the four wanderers, worn by hardship, gaunt and spectral by famine, were received with distinction by the viceroy, Mendo- za, and Cortez, marquis of the valley. The venturesome hero was summoned to Valladolid to appear before Charles V., and hastened to lay at the feet of his imperial master the gathered spoil which cost ten years of life: the hide of a bison, a few valueless stones resem- bling emerald, and a handful of worth- less turquoises. Before he set sail for Spain, Cabeza de Vaca told his marvelous story to sympa- thetic and eager listeners; and, besides, airy rumors had already floated down the valley of Anahuac of a land toward the north where seven high-walled cities, the Seven Cities of Cibola, were de- fended by impregnable outworks. They were least among the provinces, where were countless greater cities of houses built with numerous stories, lighted by jewels, and containing treasure stored away in secret rooms rich as Atahual- pas ransom. Various rovers gave ac- counts of natives clad in curious raiment, richer and softer than Utrecht velvet, who wore priceless gems, whole ropes and chains of turquoises, in ignorance of their actual value. One of these strag- glers, an Indian, reported that the houses of many lofts were made of lime and stone; he had seen them with these eyes. The gates and smaller pillars of the principal ones were of turquoise, and there princes were served by beau- tiful girls, whom they enslaved; and their spear - heads, drinking - cups, and orna- mental vessels were of pure gold. There were wondrous tales, too, of opal mount- ains, lifted high in an atmosphere of such amazing clearness that they could be seen at vast distances; of valleys glit- tering with garnets and beryls; of clear streams of water flowing over silver 1 The name still attaches to a snowy range southwest of Santa F6. 2 Rattlesnake. Turkey. sands; of strange flora; of the shaggy buffalo; of the fearful serpent with cas- tanets in its tail 2 of a bird like the peacock ; ~ a Lkzno broad as the great desert of Africa, over which hovered a mirage more dazzling than the Fata Morgana, more delusive than the spectre of the Brocken. A friar named Niza, with one of the companions of Cabeza de Vaca, went out to explore the country three hundred leagues away, to a city they called Cibo- la,4 clearly identified as old Zuni, on a river of the same name, one hundred and eighty miles northwest of Santa Fi. This flighty reporter testified to Mendo- za that he had been in the cities of Ci- bola, and had seen the turquoise columns and soft, feathery cloaks of those who dwelt in kings palaces. Their houses were made of stone, several stories high with flat roofs, arranged in good or- der; they possessed many emeralds and precious stones, but valued turquoises above all others. They had vessels of gold and silver more abundant than in Peru. Following as the Holy Ghost did lead, he ascended a mountain, from which he surveyed the promised land with a speculators eyes; then, with the help of friendly Indians, he raised a heap of stones, set up a cross, the sym- bol of taking possession, and under the text, The heathen are given as an in- heritance, named the province El Nuevo Regno de San Francisco (the New Kingdom of St. Francis); and from that day to this San Francisco has been the patron saint of New Mexico. In our prosaic age of doubt and ques- tion it is hard to understand the faith with which sane men trusted these bold falsehoods. They were mad with the lust of gold and passion for adventure; and valiant cavaliers who had won re- nown in the battles of the Moor among ~ Indian name for buffalo. New Mexico was known to the early Spaniards as the Buffalo Proy- lace. 1880.] Among the Pueblos. 219 the mountains of Andalusia, and had seen the silver cross of Ferdinand raised above the red towers of the Aihambra, now turned their brave swords against the feeble natives of the New World. Less than half a century had gone by since the discovery of America; the conquests of Pizarro and Cortez were fresh in mens minds, and an expedition containing the enchanting quality called hazard was soon organized. Illustrious noblemen sold their vineyards and mort- gaged their estates to fit the adventur- ers out, assured they would never need more gold than they would bring back from the true El Dorado. The young men saw visions; the old men dreamed dreams; volunteers flocked to the famil- iar standards; and an army was soon ready to discover and subdue to the crown of Spain the Seven Cities of Ci- bola. Francisco Vasquez Coronado, who left a lovely young wife and great wealth to lead the romantic enterprise, was pro- claimed captain-general; and Castenada, historian of the campaign, writes, I doubt whether there has ever been col- lected in the Indies so brilliant a troop. The whole force numbered fifteen hun- dred men and one thousand horses; sheep and cows were driven along to supply the new settlements in fairy-land. The army mustered in Compostella, un- der no shadow darker than the wavy folds of the royal banner, and one fair spring morning, the day after Easter, 1540, marched out in armor burnished high, with roll of drums, the joyful appeal of bugles, and all the pomp and circum- stance the old Spaniard loved so well. The proud cavaliers, very gallant in silk upon silk, kindled with enthusiasm and answered with loud shouts the cheers of the people who thronged the house- tops. The viceroy led the army two 1 Castenadas Narrative covered 147 MS. pages written on paper in characters of the times, and rolled in parchment. It was preserved in the col- lection of DUguina Paris, was translated and pub- lished in French by H. T. Campans, in 1838, and days on the march, exhorted the soldiers to obedience and discipline, and returned to await reports. When the mind is prepared for won- ders the wonderful is sure to appear, and time fails to tell what prodigies the high- born gentlemen beheld: the Indians of monstrous size, so tall the tallest Span- iard could reach no higher than their breasts; a unicorn, which escaped their chase. His horn, found in a deep ra- vine, was a fathom and a half in length; the base was thick as ones thigh; it re- sembled in shape a goats horn, and was a curious thing. They were the first white men who looked down the gloomy cagon of the Colorado to the black rush- ing river, walled by sheer precipices fif- teen hundred feet high. Two men tried to descend its steep sides. They climbed down perhaps a quarter of the way, when they were stopped by a rock which seemed from above no greater than a man, but which in reality was higher than the top of the cathedral tower at Sevilla. They passed places where the earth trembled like a drum, and ashes boiled in a manner truly infernal; watched magnetic stones roll together of their own accord; and suffered under a storm of hail-stones, large as porrin- gers, which indented their helmets, wounded the men, broke their dishes, and covered the ground to the depth of a foot and a half with ice-balls; and the wind raised the horses off their feet, and dashed them against the sides of the ra- vine. They fought many tribes of In- dians, and were relieved to meet none who were man-eaters and none anthro- pophagi. The route of Coronado is traced with tolerable clearness up the Colorado to the Gila; up the Gila to the Casa Grande, called Chichiticale, or Red House, stand- ing more than three centuries ago as it now lies before me. It i~ wholly free from the vice of the commonplace, being tinged with the warm glow which precedes the morning light of history. Wild as the Homeric legends, it serves like them to point the way. 220 Among tAe Pueblo8. [August, does now, in a mezquit jungle on the edge of the desert; and, writes his secretary, our general was above all distressed at finding this Chichiticale, of which so much had been said, dwindled down to one mud house, in ruins and roofless, but which seemed to have been fortified. With true Spanish philoso- phy, he covered his disappointment, and gave the place an alluring mystery, with the idea that this house, built of red earth, was the work of a civilized peo- ple come from a distance. And into the distance he went, through Arizona, the lower border of Colorado, and turned southwest to where Santa F~ now stands, then the central stronghold of the Pue- blo empire. They fought and marched, destroyed villages, leveled the poor tem- ples of the heathen, planted the cross, and sang thanksgiving hymns over innu-~ merable souls to be saved, all very well as far as it went; but the mud-built pueblos yielded neither gold nor precious metals. Acoma, fifty miles east of Zuni, is thus accurately described by Castenada, under the name of Acuco: It is a very strong place, built upon a rock very high and on three sides perpendicular. The in- habitants are great brigands, and much dreaded by all the province. The only means of reaching the top is by ascend- ing a staircase cut in solid rock: the first flight of steps numbered two hun- dred, which could only be ascended with difficulty; when a second flight of one hundred more followed, narrower and more difficult than the first. When sur- mounted, there remained about twelve more at the top, which could only be as- cended by putting the hands and feet in holes cut in the rock. There was space on this summit to store a great quantity of provisions, and to build large cia- terns. 1 1 It is the same to-day that it was in 1540, a place of great strength; and the Mesa can be as- cended only by the artificial road. The houses on top are of adobes, one and two stories in height. Water is brought from the valley below by the The chiefs told Coronado that their towns were older than the memory of seven generations. They were all built on the same plan, in blocks shaped like a parallelogram, and were from two to four stories high, with terraces receding from the outside. The lower story, without openings, was entered from above by lad- ders, which were pulled up, and secured them against Indian warfare. There was no interior communication between the stories; the ascent outside was made from one terrace to another. The houses were of sun-dried bricks, and for plaster they used a mixture of ashes, earth, and coal. Every village had from one to seven estufas, built partly under-ground, walled over the top with fiat roofs, and. used for political and religious purposes. As in certain other mystic lodges which date back to the days of King Solomon, women were not admitted. All matters of importance were there discussed there the consecrated fires were kept burning, and were never allowed to go out. The women wore on their shoul- ders a sort of mantle, which they fastened round the neck, passing it under the right arm, and skirts of cotton. They also, writes Castenada, make garments of skins very well dressed, and trick off the hair behind the ears in the shape of a wheel, which resembles the handle of a cup. They wore pearls on their heads aiid necklaces of shells. Everywhere were plenty of glazed pottery and vases of curious form and workmanship, re- minding the Spaniards of the jars of Guadarrama in old Spain. The gallant freebooters traversed des- erts, swam rivers, scaled mountains, in a three years chase after visionary splen- dors; but the oval valley and the van- ishing cities, with their sunny turquoise gates and jeweled colonnades, faded into the common light of day~ Though the women in jars of earthenware, which they balanee on their heads with wonderful ease as they ascend the high steps and ladders. The present popula- tion numbers not over four hundred souls. 1880.] Among the Pueblo8, 221 adventurers failed in their mocking quest of great and exceeding riches, they explored and added to the Spanish crown, by right of occupation, an area twelve times as large as the State of Ohio. I dwell on these earliest records be- cause it is the habit of travelers visiting ruins, which in the dry, dewless air of New Mexico are almost imperishable, to ascribe them to an extinct race and lost civilization, superior to any now extant here. They muse over Aztec glories faded and temples fallen in the spirit of the immortal antiquary, who saw in a ditch slightly marked a Re- man wall, surrounding the stately and crowded pra~torium, with its all-conquer- ing standards bearing the great nan~e of Ca~sar. These edifices are not mysterious ex- cept to fevered fancies, and their ten- ants were not divers nations, but clans, tribes of one blood, and civilized only as compared with the savages surrounding them, the tameless Apache, the bru- tish Ute, the degraded Navajo, against whose attacks they devised their system of defense, so highly extolled by ram- bling Bohemians, and threw up im- pregnable works, which are only low embankments wide enough for the post- ing of sentinels. I have been through many abandoned and inhabited pueblos, examining them with the utmost care, and can discover no essential in which they differ from one another or from those of Castena- das time. In each one there is the ter- raced wall; the vault-like lower story, used as a granary, without openings, and entered from above by ladders; the small upper rooms, with tiny windows of selenite and mica; the same round oven; the glazed pottery; the circular estufa with its undying fire; acequias for irri- gation, not built like Roman aqueducts, but mere ditches and canals; and from the sameness of the remains I infer that no important facts are to reward the search of dreaming pilgrim or pa- tient student. Each village had its peculiar dialect, and chose its own governor. The re- port of the Rev. John Menaul, of the Laguna Mission, March 1, 1879, gives an abstract of their laws, identical with those framed by the council of old men, the dusky senators described by Castenada; and then, as now, the gov- ernors orders were proclaimed from the top of the estufa, every morning, by the town-crier. After the invasion of Coronado, New Granada, as it was then called, was crossed by padres, vagabonds of various grades, and later by armies of subjuga- tion. The same tale is told: how the peace-loving Pueblo was found, as his descendants are, cultivating fields along the rivers or near some unfailing spring, living in community houses wonderful- ly alike, and keeping alive the sacred fire under laws which like those of the Medes and Persians, change not. The fair strangers were at first graciously welcomed and feasted; but the red man soon 1earn~d that the children of the sun, before whom they knelt, whose march- worn feet they kissed in adoration, were come merely for robbery and spoil. The Indian was condemned not only to give up his scanty possessions and leave the warm precincts of the cheerful day to work in dismal mines, but lie must put out the holy flame, and worship the God of his pitiless mi~ster. Conversion was ever a main object of the zealous eon- qu~stador, and Vargas, one of the early Spanish governors, applying for troops to carry on the crusade, writes, and his record still stands, You might as well try to convert Jews without the In- quisition as Indians without soldiers. The first revolt (1640), while Arguello was governor of the province, grew out of the whipping and hanging of forty Pi~ieblos, who refused to give up their own religion and accept the holy Cath- olic faith. 222 Among the Pueblo8. [August, The Pueblos constantly rebelled, and escaped to the lair of the mountain lion, the den of the grizzly and cinna- mon bear, the hole of the fox and coy- ote. They sought shelter from the ava- rice and bigotry of their Christian per- secutors in the steeps of distant cafions, and found where to lay their head in the hollows of inaccessible rocks; and this brings us to the cliff houses, latterly the subject of confused exaggeration and absurd conjecture. It is well known that the first foreign invasions were by far the most merciless, and it appears reasonable that hunted natives made a hiding-place in these fast- nesses; that there they allied themselves with the Navajo, who, from a remote pe- riod, had dwelt in the northern plains, beat back the enemy, and, as Spanish rigor relaxed, returned from exile to their fields and adobe houses as before. Mud walls had been proof against arrow, spear, and battle-axe, but could not with- stand the finer arms of the fairer race. The cave or cliff dwellings of Utah, Col- orado, and Arizona are exact copies of the community tenements oj Southern and Moquis pueblos, varying with situa- tion and quality of material used. The architecture of these human nests and eyries in some places seven hundred and a thousand feet from the bottom of the cafion has been magnified out of all bounds. Eager explorers, hurried away by imagination, have even com- pared the civilization which produced them with The glory that was Greece, The grandeur that was Rome. I found nothing in them to warrant such flights of fancy, and, like all cas- des in air, they lessen wofully at a near view. Those along the Rio Mancos and Du Chelly are mere pigeon-holes in the sides of cafions, roofed by projecting ledges of rock. The walls, six or eight 1 Cafion du Chelly, in Arizona, on the Navajo Reservation, is a passage through a mountain range, twenty-five miles in length, from one hun- dred to five hundred yards in width, and is per- inches thick, are built of flat brook stones hacked on the edge with stone hatchets, or rather hammers, to square angles; in some cases they are laid in mud mortar and finished with mud plaster, troweled Pueblo fashion, with the bare hand. Certainly, mortal never fled to these high perches from choice, or failed to desert them as soon as the danger passed. Whether we believe that the hunters were Christian or heathen, we must ad mit that this was a last refuge for the hunted, made desperate by terror. The masonry is smoothed, so none but the sharpest eyes can notice the difference between it and the rock itself, and in no instance is there trace of chimney or fire-place.1 The whole idea of the work is concealment. One might well ask, with sight-seeing Niza strolling through fabled Cibola, if the men of that country had wings by which to reach these high lofts. Unfortunately for the romancers, they showed him a well - made ladder, and said they ascended by this means. And well made ladders the cliff dwellers had, steps cut in the living rock of the mountain, and scaling-ladders stout and light. The solitary watch-towers along the MeElmo, Colorado, and wide - spread relics of cities in the ca?ion of the Ho- venwap, Utah, near the old Spanish trail through the mountains from Santa F6 to Salt Lake, are built on the same general plan, and divided into snug cells and peep-holes, averaging six by eight feet. Perpendiculars are regarded; stones dressed to uniform size are laid in mud mortar. A distinguishing feature is in the round corners, one at least appear- ing in nearly every little house. Most peculiar, however, is the dressing of the walls of the upper and lower front rooms, both being plastered with a thin layer of firm adobe cement of about the haps the strongest natural citadel on the earth. There is but one narrow way by which a horse can ascend its height, where a squad of soldiers could defy the cavalry of the world. 1880.] Among the Pueblos. 223 eighth of an inch in thickness, and cob ored a deep maroon red, with a dingy white band eight inches in breadth run- ning around floor, sides, and ceiling, 1 ideas of improvement probably de- rived from their enlightened conquerors. There is a story that a hatchet found here would cut cold steel, but I have not been able to learn its origin or trace it to any reliable authority. In every room entered was the unfail- ing mark of the Pueblo, pottery glazed and streaked, as manufactured by no other tribe of Indians, and invariably re- duced to fragments, either through su- perstition or to prevent its falling into the hands of the enemy. No entire vase or jar has appeared among the masses strewed from one end to the oth- er of their ancient dominion. I have picked up quantities of this pottery near old towns, where it covers the ground like broken pavement, but have not seen one piece four inches square. After their first experiments the Span- iards saw the policy of conciliating a confederation so numerous and powerful as the Pueblos, and as early as the time of Philip II. mountains, pastures, and waters were declared common to both races; ordinances were issued granting them lands for agriculture, but the title in no instance was of higher grade than possession. The fee simple remained in the crown of Spain, then in the gov- ernment of Mexico by virtue of her independence, and under the treaty of Guadaloupe Hidalgo, February 2, 1848, passed to the United States. When General Kearney took posses- sion of the country the Pueblos were among the first to give allegiance to our government, and as allies were inval- uable in chasing the barbarous tribes, their old enemies, whom they tracked with the keen scent and swiftness of blood-hounds. They number not less than twenty thousand peaceful, content- ed citizens, entitled to confidence and re- 1 Haydeus Survey, 1874. spect, and by decree of the supreme court (1871) they became legal voters. Without written language, or so much as the lowest form of picture-writing, they usually speak a little Spanish, enough for purposes of trade, and, less stolid and unbending than the nomads, in manner are extremely gentle and friendly. Their quaint primitive cus- toms, curious myths, and legends afford rich material for the poet, and their an- tiquities open an endless field to the delving archeologist. Nominally Catholics, they are really only baptized heathen. A race so rig- idly conservative must by very nature be true to the ancient ceremonials, and their religion is not the least attractive study offered by this interesting people. Even the dress of the women (oh, happy women!) has remained unchanged, the same to-day as described by Coro- nados secretary in L541. There passes my window at this mo- ment a young Indian girl from Tesuque, a village eight miles north of Santa FS. Like the beloved one of the Canticles, she is dark but comely, and without sad dle or bridle sits astride her little burro in cool defiance of city prejudice. Al- ways gayly dressed, with ready nod and a quick smile, showing the whitest teeth, we call her Bright Alfarata, in memory of the sweet singer of the blue Juniata; though the interpreter says her true name is Poy-ye, the Rising Moon. Neither of us understands a word of the others language, so I beckon to her. She springs to the ground with the sup- ple grace of an antelope, and comes to me, holding out a thin, slender hand, the tint of Florentine bronze, seats herself on the window-sill, and, in the shade of the portal we converse in what young lovers are pleased to call eloquent silence Her donkey will not stray, but lingers patiently about, like the lamb he resem- bles in face and temper, and nibbles the scant grass which fringes the acequia. I think his mistress must be a lady of 224 Among tAe Pueblo8. [August, high degree, perhaps the caciques daugh- ter, she wears such a holiday air, unusu- al with Indian women, and is so richly adorned with beads of strung periwink- les. She wears loose moccasins, shoes of silence, which cannot hide the deli- cate and shapely outline of her feet, leg- gins of deer-skin, a skirt reaching below the knee, and a cotton chemise. Her head has no covering but glossy jet-black hair, newly washed with amoh~, banged in front, and is tricked off behind the ears in the shape of a wheel which re- sembles the handle of a cup, the dis- tinguishing fashion of maidenhood now as it was more than three hundred years ago. Tied by a scarlet cord across her forehead is a pendant of opaline shell, the lining of a muscle shell, doubtless the very ornament called precious pearl and opal which dazzled the eyes and stirred the covetous hearts of the first conquistadores. Our Pueblo belle wraps about her drapery such as Castenadas maiden never dreamed of, a flowing mantle which has followed the march of progress. Thrown across the left shoulder and drawn under her bare and beautiful right arm is a handsome red blanket, with the letters U. S. woven in the centre. One secret cause of the Pueblos ready adherence to our government is their tradition that, Far away In the eternal yesterday, Montezuma, the brother and equal of God, built the sacred city Pecos, marked the lines of its fortifications, and with his own royal hand kindled the sacred fire in the estufa. Close beside it he planted a tree upside down, with the prophecy that, if his children kept alive the flame till his tree fell, a pale nation, speaking an unknown tongue, should come from the pleasant country where the sun rises, and free them from Span- ish rule. He promised the chosen ones that he would return in fullness of time, and then went to the glorious rest pre pared for him in his tabernacle the sun. I have seen the remains of that for- saken city, once a mighty fortress, now desolate with the desolation of Zion. Thorns have come up in her palaces, nettles and brambles in the fortresses thereof. It is a habitation for dragons and a court for owls. The site, admi- rably chosen for defense, is on a promon- tory, somewhat in the shape of a foot, which gave a broad lookout to the sen- try. In the valley below the waters of the river Pecos flow softly, and park-like intervais fill the spaces toward foot-hills which skirt the everlasting mountain wails. The adobe houses have crumbled to the dust of which they were made, and heaped among their ruins are large blocks of stone, oblong and square, weigh- ing a ton or more, and showing sigus of being once laid in mortar. The outline of the immense estufa, forty feet in diameter, is plainly visible, sunken in the earth and paved with stone; but all trace of the upper story of the council chamber has vanished. On the mesa there is not a tree, not even the dwarf cedar, which strikes its roots in sand and lives almost without water or dew; but, strange to see, across the centre of the estufa lies the trunk of a large pine, several feet in circumference, an astonishing growth in that sterile soil. The Indian resting in its fragrant shade, listening to the never - ceasing west wind swaying slender leaves that answered to its touch like harp-strings to the harpers hand, clothed the stately evergreen with loving superstition, which hovers round it even in death; for this is the Montezuma tree, planted when the world was young. When Pecos was deserted the people went out as Israel from Egypt, leaving not a hoof behind. They destroyed everything that could be of service to an enemy, and the ground is yet covered with scraps of broken pottery marked with their peculiar tracery. 1880.] Among tI~e Pueblo8. 225 The Oriental Gheber built his temple over deep subterranean fires, and the steady light shone on after altar and shrine were abandoned and forgotten; but the fire-worshipers on the stony mesa at Pecos had a very different work. The only fuel at hand was cedar from the adjacent hills, and, shut in the dark inclosure, filled with pitchy smoke and suffocating gas, it is not strange that death sometimes relieved the watch. When the chiefs, who had seen the king- ly friend of the red man, grew old, and the hour came for their departure to their home in the sun, they charged the young men to guard the treasure hidden in the silent chamber. Another gen- eration came and went; prophecy and promise were handed down from age to age, and the Pueblo sentinel, true to his unwritten creed, guarded the conse- crated place beside the miracle tree, daily climbed the lonely watch-tower, looked toward the sun-rising, and listened for the coming of the beautiful feet of them that on the mountain top bring glad tid- ings. Their days of persecution end- - ed, they no longer ate their bread with tears, and a century of prosperous con- tent went by; then they were shorn of their strength, and their power was broken by inroads of warring nations. The cunning Navajo harried their fields and trampled the ripening maize; the thieving and tameless Comanche car- ried off their wives, and sold their chil- dren into slavery, and their numbers were so reduced that the warriors were too feeble to attempt a rescue. Hardly enough survived to minister in the holy place; hope wavered, and, the mighty name of Montezuma was but a dim, proud memory. VOL. XLVI. NO. 274. 15 Yet the devoted watchmen dreamed of a day when he should descend with the sunlight, crowned, plumed, and anoint- ed, to fill the dingy estufa with a glory like that when the divine presence shook the mercy-seat between the cherubim. The eternal fire flickered, smoldered in embers, but endured through all change and chance, like a potent will; it was the visible shadow of the Invisible One, whose name it is death to utter. Sent by his servant and law-giver, his word was sure; they would rest on the prom- ise till sun and earth should die. At last, at last, constant faith and pa- tient vigil had their reward. On the wings of the wind across the snowy Sier- ras was heard a sound like the rush- ing of many waters, the loud steps of the promised deliverer. East, toward San to Domingo, southward from the Rio Grande, there entered Santa F~ an army of men with faces whiter than the con- quered Mexican. Their strange, harsh language was heard in the streets; a for- eign flag bearing the colors of the morn- ing, white and red, blue and gold, was unrolled above the crumbling palace of the Pueblos. The prophecy was fulfilled, and at noon that day the magic tree at Pecos fell to the ground. After the American occupation, the remnant of the tribe in Pecos joined that of Jemez, which speaks the same lan- guage. It is said the cacique, or gov- ernor, carried with him the Montezuma fire, and in a new estufa, sixty miles from the one hallowed by his gracious presence, the faithful are awaiting the second advent of the beloved prophet, priest, and king, who is to come in glory and establish his throne forever and ever. Susan B. Wallace. 226 Edward Mills and George Benton: A Tale. [August, EDWARD MILLS AND GEORGE BENTON: A TALE. THESE two were distantly related to each other, seventh cousins, or some- thing of that sort. While still babies they became orphans, and were adopted by the Brants, a childless couple, who quickly grew very fond of them. The Brants were always saying, Be pure, honest, sober, industrious, and considerate of others, and success in life is assured. The children heard this repeated some thousands of times before they under- stood it; they could repeat it themselves long before they could say the Lords Prayer; it was painted over the nurs- ery door, and was about the first thing they learned to read. It was destined to become the unswerving rule of Ed- ward Millss life. Sometimes the Brants changed the wording a little, and said, Be pure, honest, sober, industrious, considerate, and you will never lack friends. Baby Mills was a comfort to every- body about him. When he wanted candy and could not have it, he listened to reason, and contented himself without it. When Baby Benton wanted candy, he cried for it until he got it. Baby Mills took care of his toys; Baby Ben- ton always destroyed his in a very brief time, and then made himself so insist- ently disagreeable that, in order to have peace in the house, little Edward was persuaded to yield up his playthings to him. When the children were a little older, Georgie became a heavy expense in one respect: he took no care of his clothes; consequently, he shone frequently in new ones, which was not the case with Eddie. The boys grew apace. Eddie was an increasing comfort, Georgie an increasing solicitude. It was always sufficient to say, in answer to Eddies petitions, I would rather you would not do it, meaning swimming, skat ing, picnicking, berrying, circusing, and all sorts of things which boys delight in. But no answer was sufficient for Georgie; he had to be humored in his desires, or he would carry them with a high hand. Naturally, no boy got more swimming, skating, berrying, and so forth than he; no boy ever had a better time. The good Brants did not allow the boys to play out after nine in sum- mer evenings; they were sent to bed at that hour; Eddie honorably remained, but Georgie usually slipped out of the window toward ten, and enjoyed himself till midnight. It seemed impossible to break Georgie of this bad habit, but the Brants managed it at last by hiring him, with apples and marbles, to stay in. The good Brants gave all their time and attention to vain endeavors to regulate Georgie; they said, with gratefifi tears in their eyes, that Eddie needed no ef- forts of theirs, he was so good, so con- siderate, and in all ways so perfect. By and by the boys were big enough to work, so they were apprenticed to a trade: Edward went voluntarily; George was coaxed and bribed. Edward worked hard and faithfully, and ceased to be an expense to the good Brants ; they praised him, so did his master; but George ran away, and it cost Mr. Brant both money and trouble to hunt him up and get him back. By and by he ran away again, more money and more trouble. He ran away a third time, and stole a few little things to carry with him. Trouble and expense for Mr. Brant once more; and, besides, it was with the greatest difficulty that he succeeded in persuad- ing the master to let the youth go un- prosecuted for the theft. Edward worked steadily along, and in time became a full partner in his masters business. George did not im- prove; he kept the loving hearts of his

Mark Twain Twain, Mark Edward Mills and George Benton: A Tale 226-229

226 Edward Mills and George Benton: A Tale. [August, EDWARD MILLS AND GEORGE BENTON: A TALE. THESE two were distantly related to each other, seventh cousins, or some- thing of that sort. While still babies they became orphans, and were adopted by the Brants, a childless couple, who quickly grew very fond of them. The Brants were always saying, Be pure, honest, sober, industrious, and considerate of others, and success in life is assured. The children heard this repeated some thousands of times before they under- stood it; they could repeat it themselves long before they could say the Lords Prayer; it was painted over the nurs- ery door, and was about the first thing they learned to read. It was destined to become the unswerving rule of Ed- ward Millss life. Sometimes the Brants changed the wording a little, and said, Be pure, honest, sober, industrious, considerate, and you will never lack friends. Baby Mills was a comfort to every- body about him. When he wanted candy and could not have it, he listened to reason, and contented himself without it. When Baby Benton wanted candy, he cried for it until he got it. Baby Mills took care of his toys; Baby Ben- ton always destroyed his in a very brief time, and then made himself so insist- ently disagreeable that, in order to have peace in the house, little Edward was persuaded to yield up his playthings to him. When the children were a little older, Georgie became a heavy expense in one respect: he took no care of his clothes; consequently, he shone frequently in new ones, which was not the case with Eddie. The boys grew apace. Eddie was an increasing comfort, Georgie an increasing solicitude. It was always sufficient to say, in answer to Eddies petitions, I would rather you would not do it, meaning swimming, skat ing, picnicking, berrying, circusing, and all sorts of things which boys delight in. But no answer was sufficient for Georgie; he had to be humored in his desires, or he would carry them with a high hand. Naturally, no boy got more swimming, skating, berrying, and so forth than he; no boy ever had a better time. The good Brants did not allow the boys to play out after nine in sum- mer evenings; they were sent to bed at that hour; Eddie honorably remained, but Georgie usually slipped out of the window toward ten, and enjoyed himself till midnight. It seemed impossible to break Georgie of this bad habit, but the Brants managed it at last by hiring him, with apples and marbles, to stay in. The good Brants gave all their time and attention to vain endeavors to regulate Georgie; they said, with gratefifi tears in their eyes, that Eddie needed no ef- forts of theirs, he was so good, so con- siderate, and in all ways so perfect. By and by the boys were big enough to work, so they were apprenticed to a trade: Edward went voluntarily; George was coaxed and bribed. Edward worked hard and faithfully, and ceased to be an expense to the good Brants ; they praised him, so did his master; but George ran away, and it cost Mr. Brant both money and trouble to hunt him up and get him back. By and by he ran away again, more money and more trouble. He ran away a third time, and stole a few little things to carry with him. Trouble and expense for Mr. Brant once more; and, besides, it was with the greatest difficulty that he succeeded in persuad- ing the master to let the youth go un- prosecuted for the theft. Edward worked steadily along, and in time became a full partner in his masters business. George did not im- prove; he kept the loving hearts of his 1880.] Edward lUjills and aeorge Benton: A Tale. 227 aged benefactors full of trouble, and their hands full of inventive activities to protect him from ruin. Edward, as a boy, had interested himself in Sunday- schools, debating societies, penny mis- sionary affairs, anti-tobacco organiza- tions, anti-profanity associations, and all such things; as a man, he was a quiet but steady and reliable helper in the church, the temperance societies, and in all movements looking to the aiding and uplifting of men. This excited no re- mark, attracted no attention, for it was his natural bent. Finally, the old people died. The will testified their loving pride in Ed- ward, and left their little property to George, because he needed it; whereas, owing to a bountiful Provi- dence, such was not the case with Ed- ward. The property was left to George conditionally: he must buy out Ed- wards partner with it; else it must go to a benevolent organization called the Prisoners Friend Society. The old peo- ple left a letter, in which they begged their dear son Edward to take their place and watch over George, and help and shield him as they had done. Edward dutifully acquiesced, and George became his partner in the busi- ness. He was not a valuable partner: he had been meddling with drink before; he soon developed into a constant tip- pler, now, and his flesh and eyes showed the fact unpleasantly. Edward had been courting a sweet and kindly spir- ited girl for some time. They loved each other dearly, and But about this period George began to haunt her tear- fully and imploringly, and at last she went crying to Edward, and said her high and holy duty was plain before her, she must not let her own selfish de- sires interfere with it: she must mar- ry poor George and reform him. It would break her heart, she knew it would, and so on; but duty was duty. So she married George, and Edwards heart came very near breaking, as well as her own. However, Edward recov- ered, and married another girl, a very excellent one she was, too. Children came, to both families. Mary did her honest best to reform her husband, but the contract was too large. George went on drinking, and by and by he fell to misusing her and the little ones sadly. A great many good people strove with George, they were always at it, in fact, but he calmly took such efforts as his due and their duty, and did not mend his ways. He added a vice, presently, that of secret gam- bling. He got deeply in debt; he bor- rowed money on the firms credit, as quietly as he could, and carried this system so far and so successfully that one morning the sheriff took possession of the establishment, and the two cous- ins found themselves penniless. Times were hard, now, and they grew worse. Edward moved his family into a garret, and walked the streets day and night, seeking work. He begged for it, but it was really not to be had. He was astonished to see how soon his face became unwelcome; he was astonished and hurt to see how quickly the an-- cient interest which people had had in him faded out and disappeared. Still, he must get work; so he swallowed his chagrin, and toiled on in search of it. At last he got a job of carrying bricks up a ladder in a hod, and was a grateful man in consequence; but after that no- body knew him or cared anything about him. He was not able to keep up his dues in the various moral organizations to which he belonged, and had to en- dure the sharp pain of seeing himself brought under the disgrace of suspen- sion. But the faster Edward died out of public knowledge and interest, the faster George rose in them. He was found lying, ragged and drunk, in the gutter~ one morning. A member of the Ladies Temperance Refuge fished him out, took him in hand, got up a subscription for 228 Edward Mills and George Benton: A Tale. [August, him, kept him sober a whole week, then got a situation for him. An account of it was published. General attention was thus drawn to the poor fellow, and a great many peo- ple came forward, and helped him to- ward reform with their countenance and encouragement. He did not drink a drop for two months, and meantime was the pet of the good. Then he fell, in the gutter; and there was general sor- row and lamentation. But the noble sisterhood rescued him again. They cleaned him up, they fed him, they list- ened to the mournful music of his re- pentances, they got him his situation again. An account of this, also, was published, and the town was drowned in happy tears over the re-restoration of the poor beset and struggling victim of the fatal bowl. A grand temperance revival was got up, and after some rous- ing speeches had been made the chair- man said, impressively, We are now about to call for signers; and I think there is a spectacle in store for you which not many in this house will be able to view with dry eyes. There was an eloquent pause, and then George Benton, escorted by a red - sashed de- tachment of the Ladies of the Refuge, stepped forward upon the platform and signed the pledge. The air was rent with applause, and everybody cried for joy. Everybody wrung the hand of the new convert when the meeting was over; his salary was enlarged next day; he was the talk of the town, and its hero. An account of it was published. George Benton fell, regularly, every three months, but was faithfully res- cued and wrought with, every time, and good situations were found for him. Finally, he was taken around the coun- try lecturing, as a reformed drunkard, and he had great houses and did an im- mense amount of good. He was so popular at home, and so trusted, during his sober intervals, that he was enabled to use the name of a principal citizen, and get a large sum of money at the bank. A mighty press- ure was brought to bear to save him from the consequences of his forgery, and it was partially successful, lie was sent up for only two years. When, at the end of a year, the tireless efforts of the benevolent were crowned with success, and he emerged from the peni- tentiary with a pardon in his pocket, the Prisoners Friend Society met him at the door with a situation and a com- fortable salary, and all the other benev- olent people came forward and gave him advice, encouragement, and help. Ed- ward Mills had once applied to the Pris- oner s Friend Society for a situation, when in dire need, but the question, Have you been a prisoner? made brief work of his case. While all these things were going on, Edward Mills had been quietly making head against adversity. He was still poor, but was in receipt of a steady and sufficient salary, as the respected and trusted cashier of a bank. George Ben- ton never came near him, and was never heard to inquire about him. George got to indulging in long absences from the town; there were ill reports about him, but nothing definite. One winters night some masked burg- lars forced their way into the bank, and found Edward Mills there alone. They commanded him to reveal the combi- nation, so that they could get into the safe. He refused. They threatened his life. He said his employers trusted him, and he could not be traitor to that trust. He could die, if he must, but while he lived he would be faithful; he would not yield up the combination. The burglars killed him. The detectives hunted down the crim- inals; the chief one proved to be George Benton. A wide sympathy was felt for the widow and orphans of the dead man, and all the newspapers in the land begged that all the banks in the land would testify their appreciation of the 1880.] Alien Sin. 229 fidelity and heroism of the murdered cashier by coming forward with a gen- erous contribution of money in aid of his family, now bereft of support. The result was a mass of solid cash amount- ing to upwards of five hundred dollars, an average of nearly three eighths of a cent for each bank in the Union. The cashiers own bank testified its gratitude by endeavoring to show (but humiliat- ingly failed in it) that the peerless serv- ants accounts were not square, and that he himself had knocked his brains out with a bludgeon to escape detection and punishment. George Benton was arraigned for trial. Then everybody seemed to forget the widow and orphans in their solici- tude for poor George. Everything that money and influence could do was done to save him, but it all failed; he was sentenced to death. Straight way the governor was besieged with petitions for commutation or pardon: they were brought by tearful young girls; by sor- rowful old maids; by deputations of pathetic widows; by shoals of impress- ive orphans. But no, the governor for once would not yield. Now George Benton experienced re- ligion. The glad news flew all around. From that time forth his cell was always full of girls and women and fresh flow- ers; all the day long there was prayer, and hymn-singing, and thanksgivings, and homilies, and tears, with never an interruption, except an occasional five- minute intermission for refreshments. This sort of thing continued up to the very gallows, and George Benton went proudly home, in the black cap, before a wailing audience of the sweet- est and best that the region could pro- duce. His grave had fresh flowers on it every day, for a while, and the heads stone bore these words, under a hand pointing aloft: He has fought the good fight. The brave cashiers head-stone has this inscription: Be pure, honest, so- ber, industrious, considerate, and you will never Nobody knows who gave the order to leave it that way, but it was so given. The cashiers family are in stringent circumstances, now, it is said; but no matter; a lot of appreciative people, who were not willing that an act so brave and true as his should go unrewarded, have collected forty-two thousand dol- lars and built a Memorial Church with it. Mark Twain. ALIEN SIN. I HELD within my heart a secret thought, A sinful thought, yet with such sweetness fraught I clasped it close, and counted oer and oer Each promised joy, that yet might charm me more. What hisses at my side? I turned, and there Medusa stood, with hideous serpenthair. She smote my thought, with great death-dealing eyes; No pity there. Torn with remorse, she cries, Thy thought, conceived and quickened deep within Another breast, was born; I am that sin. See what its sweetness bore, and then beware Lest cherished sin this dreadful guise shall wear.

Alien Sin 229-230

1880.] Alien Sin. 229 fidelity and heroism of the murdered cashier by coming forward with a gen- erous contribution of money in aid of his family, now bereft of support. The result was a mass of solid cash amount- ing to upwards of five hundred dollars, an average of nearly three eighths of a cent for each bank in the Union. The cashiers own bank testified its gratitude by endeavoring to show (but humiliat- ingly failed in it) that the peerless serv- ants accounts were not square, and that he himself had knocked his brains out with a bludgeon to escape detection and punishment. George Benton was arraigned for trial. Then everybody seemed to forget the widow and orphans in their solici- tude for poor George. Everything that money and influence could do was done to save him, but it all failed; he was sentenced to death. Straight way the governor was besieged with petitions for commutation or pardon: they were brought by tearful young girls; by sor- rowful old maids; by deputations of pathetic widows; by shoals of impress- ive orphans. But no, the governor for once would not yield. Now George Benton experienced re- ligion. The glad news flew all around. From that time forth his cell was always full of girls and women and fresh flow- ers; all the day long there was prayer, and hymn-singing, and thanksgivings, and homilies, and tears, with never an interruption, except an occasional five- minute intermission for refreshments. This sort of thing continued up to the very gallows, and George Benton went proudly home, in the black cap, before a wailing audience of the sweet- est and best that the region could pro- duce. His grave had fresh flowers on it every day, for a while, and the heads stone bore these words, under a hand pointing aloft: He has fought the good fight. The brave cashiers head-stone has this inscription: Be pure, honest, so- ber, industrious, considerate, and you will never Nobody knows who gave the order to leave it that way, but it was so given. The cashiers family are in stringent circumstances, now, it is said; but no matter; a lot of appreciative people, who were not willing that an act so brave and true as his should go unrewarded, have collected forty-two thousand dol- lars and built a Memorial Church with it. Mark Twain. ALIEN SIN. I HELD within my heart a secret thought, A sinful thought, yet with such sweetness fraught I clasped it close, and counted oer and oer Each promised joy, that yet might charm me more. What hisses at my side? I turned, and there Medusa stood, with hideous serpenthair. She smote my thought, with great death-dealing eyes; No pity there. Torn with remorse, she cries, Thy thought, conceived and quickened deep within Another breast, was born; I am that sin. See what its sweetness bore, and then beware Lest cherished sin this dreadful guise shall wear. 230 The Preceptor of Moses. [August, THE PRECEPTOR OF MOSES. IN the reign of that Pharaoh named Mineptali I., the Sem, or high-priest, Amon-em-api, was also first of the royal astronomers and architects as well as prime minister. He was of the family of Penta-ur, poet-laureate of the great Ramses II., and he had in his early youth served in the foreign military ex- peditions of that renowned warrior-king. His entrance upon the duties of the priesthood was directed by one of those events which men term accidents, but which are Gods finger-posts in the path of destiny. Ramses the Great held his court near the city of Zoan, in the nome of Tanis, called after him Zoan-Ramses, or Pi- Ramses, situate near the eastern bor- der of the Delta, on the Tanitic branch of the Nile. It was the Princess Me- ris, third daughter of Ramses, who had found the Hebrew infant, and had caused her maidens to convey it to the palace, to the surprise and perhaps to the scandal of the court. The Pharaoh condescended to let the light of his countenance fall upon the helpless foundling, and he beheld on the clear olive brow the sign of genius. The wide forehead and the deep miraculous eyes not only startled the monarch, but fascinated the priests and captains of his retinue. The priest of Osiris declared that the beautiful Horus had come anew in human form. Most of all was Amon-em-api, then a bearding youth, impressed by the event, believing that the child had been sent by the gods to be reared as a prince. The baby Moses, having passed the period of infancy, was given into his charge. By the advice of the council and by the royal mandate, the young soldier became a priest, and thencefor- ward rose by sure steps to the summit of power in the Egyptian hierarchy. What prodigious toils and what uni- versal accomplishments attended his ad- vancement this story may show. In the expressive words of holy writ, Moses was learned in all the wisdom of the Egyptians; and it was under the guidance of the Sem that he pursued his studies. The priests only were mas- ters of the literature and science of the age. Meanwhile, the great iRamses had died, and his body rested in its everlast- ing habitation in the rock. His deeds were blazoned, with Eastern magnifi- cence of phrase, upon the walls and col- umns of the great temple at Thebes, and his statue was set up as a memorial. After a long and confused struggle, Mineptah, the fourteenth and least wor- thy of the sons of Ramses, ascended the throne, and wore the pshent, or double crown. The Sem, Amon-em-api, con- tinued his functions and increased his influence, that is, as far as any one could have influence with a jealous, fickle, obdurate, and moody prince. The years revolved. Moses had come to manhood with honor, and was re- puted, next after the Sem, to b~ the most learned man of the age. But he suddenly disappeared, and the hopes of his preceptor for the rise of his pupil had been disappointed. He had fled to the desert, and led a wandering life with the nomadic tribes of that elder day. The years revolved. The children of the Sem grew up. One son was the fan-bearer of the king; one was gov- ernor of a province on the Upper Nile; others were in the civil service; his daughter had made a royal n~arriage; all were firmly planted, and all grew more prosperous in the light reflected from their illustrious sire. Now the wife of the Sem had yielded to destiny, and her mummy graced his dining-hall.

Francis H. Underwood Underwood, Francis H. The Preceptor of Moses 230-238

230 The Preceptor of Moses. [August, THE PRECEPTOR OF MOSES. IN the reign of that Pharaoh named Mineptali I., the Sem, or high-priest, Amon-em-api, was also first of the royal astronomers and architects as well as prime minister. He was of the family of Penta-ur, poet-laureate of the great Ramses II., and he had in his early youth served in the foreign military ex- peditions of that renowned warrior-king. His entrance upon the duties of the priesthood was directed by one of those events which men term accidents, but which are Gods finger-posts in the path of destiny. Ramses the Great held his court near the city of Zoan, in the nome of Tanis, called after him Zoan-Ramses, or Pi- Ramses, situate near the eastern bor- der of the Delta, on the Tanitic branch of the Nile. It was the Princess Me- ris, third daughter of Ramses, who had found the Hebrew infant, and had caused her maidens to convey it to the palace, to the surprise and perhaps to the scandal of the court. The Pharaoh condescended to let the light of his countenance fall upon the helpless foundling, and he beheld on the clear olive brow the sign of genius. The wide forehead and the deep miraculous eyes not only startled the monarch, but fascinated the priests and captains of his retinue. The priest of Osiris declared that the beautiful Horus had come anew in human form. Most of all was Amon-em-api, then a bearding youth, impressed by the event, believing that the child had been sent by the gods to be reared as a prince. The baby Moses, having passed the period of infancy, was given into his charge. By the advice of the council and by the royal mandate, the young soldier became a priest, and thencefor- ward rose by sure steps to the summit of power in the Egyptian hierarchy. What prodigious toils and what uni- versal accomplishments attended his ad- vancement this story may show. In the expressive words of holy writ, Moses was learned in all the wisdom of the Egyptians; and it was under the guidance of the Sem that he pursued his studies. The priests only were mas- ters of the literature and science of the age. Meanwhile, the great iRamses had died, and his body rested in its everlast- ing habitation in the rock. His deeds were blazoned, with Eastern magnifi- cence of phrase, upon the walls and col- umns of the great temple at Thebes, and his statue was set up as a memorial. After a long and confused struggle, Mineptah, the fourteenth and least wor- thy of the sons of Ramses, ascended the throne, and wore the pshent, or double crown. The Sem, Amon-em-api, con- tinued his functions and increased his influence, that is, as far as any one could have influence with a jealous, fickle, obdurate, and moody prince. The years revolved. Moses had come to manhood with honor, and was re- puted, next after the Sem, to b~ the most learned man of the age. But he suddenly disappeared, and the hopes of his preceptor for the rise of his pupil had been disappointed. He had fled to the desert, and led a wandering life with the nomadic tribes of that elder day. The years revolved. The children of the Sem grew up. One son was the fan-bearer of the king; one was gov- ernor of a province on the Upper Nile; others were in the civil service; his daughter had made a royal n~arriage; all were firmly planted, and all grew more prosperous in the light reflected from their illustrious sire. Now the wife of the Sem had yielded to destiny, and her mummy graced his dining-hall. 1880.] The Preceptor of AIo8e8. 231 The Sem was alone, as an obelisk is alone. He still measured the planets in their courses; he caused to be announced the equinoxes and the coming of the wel- come flood of the Nile. Next to the Pharaoh, he was the centre of authority, the fountain of honor, the dispenser of justice. The years revolved. The Sem was past seventy years old. The Pharaoh, with an immense retinue of warriors, priests, women, and servants, had made the annual pilgrimage to Thebes. The Nile had been covered with a fleet of gorgeous boats, and the valley had echoed with music. Amon was the tutelary deity of Thebes, but Osiris and Isis, Ptah and Khem, and all the an- cient dwellers in Egypts awful pantheon were worshiped by the same devotees, and under the direction of the one Sem. It was at the funeral ceremonies in honor of Osiris, to which the sacred ark and the images of the god and the king had been borne with the usual pomp. The holy place where stood the golden shrine was strewn with flowers and hung with votive garlands. The shrine itself was covered with offerings, and around the altar lay the victims of sacri- fice. The air in the vast hall was dim and heavy with perfumes and incense. The ceremony was over; the visiting priests and musicians had retired, and they, with the soldiers and people who had filled the outer courts, were escort- ing the chariot of Mineptali. Still in the distance sounded the trumpets, pipes, and drums; and at intervals the shouts of the populace rose over the barbaric din. Though the Sem was threescore and ten, he was of majestic stature, and wore the look of an eagle. Age had stiffened his muscles and somewhat dimmed his haughty eyes, but had no power over his indomitable soul. His ceremonial peruke was laid aside, leaving his fine head completely bare, excepL that one thin gray lock, the symbol of his rank, hung over his right ear. His sandals of papyrus leaves had been slipped off, for the place whereon he stood was holy. His powerful figure was draped in a linen tunic, but his hands and arms were free, and uncovered except by gold serpents in the forms of armlets, brace- lets, and signet-rings. On his broad shoulders, fastened by a heavy gold beetle, hung the mantle of leopard skin, that only the sovereign pontiff could wear. The Sem appeared greatly troubled. On pretense of illness he had dismissed the servitors, and remained in the tem- ple alone. What could trouble the man who stood next to the son of Amon-ra, the sun of Egypt? It was this: he was on the pinnacle, and there was no higher step; there was nothing left to desire. In his ca- reer he had compassed every science and art.~ He had made, so he believed, the reign of his master immortal in the temples and obelisks he had designed for him. He had builded for him a pyramid, and set in its innermost cham- ber a royal sarcophagus. Also, un- known to men, he had provided, in the very apex of the same pile, another crypt for his own last repose. The tomb and monument of Mineptah was also to be the resting-place of his great minister and pontiff. Always in his bosom he carried the sealed packet in which were the directions for placing his embalmed body in its lofty couch beneath the cap-stone. Pride could soar no higher, neither in life nor in death. But he had received a shock. He was old, and death could not be long averted. An evil eye had been cast upon him. On the night of the full moon occurring on the birthday of Typho, the evil genius of Egypt, a shriveled woman, whom he had known long ago in her better days, but who now was forgotten, cursed him for his haughty air as passed her mean dyvelling, and thrust a~ 232 The Preceptor of Moses. [August, him a half-roasted swines rib that she was devouring. His horror at her im- precations and at the threatened contact with unclean flesh nearly drove him out of his senses. He spat at her and fled; but not before he heard her prophesy that before the next festival in the new moon of Phamenoth he should appear before Osiris, the judge of all. The Sem, like all men of abounding life and vigor, loved this world. High- priest as he was, and perfect in every observance, he was not in haste to ap- pear before the dread tribunal and give in his final account. Now destiny be- gan to shut him in, and his soul re- belled. He heat his wings passionately against the bars of his cage. He had but just begun to be useful to the world, so he fondly reasoned, and he ought not to die. The Pharaoh Mineptah, weak and unsteady of purpose, needed him; science needed him; the people needed him; the gods, even, had more need of his services on earth than of his adoration in heaven. The prophecy had begun to work in his veins like a poison. His position and his wealth were nothing. In the magnificent ritual which he had just conducted there was no beauty for him. The prayer for the king, the worship of the god, the sacrifice, the incense, the libation, were hollow forms. Ever pres- ent in his soul were the words, In the new moon of Phamenoth. The charac- ters were blazoned on the temple walls. They were seen in the sculptured or- naments of the gigantic pillars. Even the stars overhead broke from their old groups, and formed themselves into the same startling symbols, Phamenoth! The winds that swept by from the Liby- an desert shrieked Phamenoth! Then the wretched priest lifted up his voice, and prayed Osiris that the cup of death might not yet be offered to his lips, not yet. Let me live my life once more! he cried. As thou didst know the pangs of mortality, pity me! A long time he prayed, while his form was prostrate and his head rested on the lowest step of the altar. Then in the shuddering silence he felt, rather than heard, the rushing of wings; and a voice came from the sacred place, Be- ware, priest as thou art, beware! Ask not for what must prove a curse! Life a curse? 0 Lord, Amon Ra! 0 Ptah, Creator! 0 unseen and un- named Life of all! Nothing from thy hand can be a curse. Let me live my life again! That which is appointed is best, re- plied the voice: labor, and then rest. To escape the common destiny would be a curse beyond thought. Still, great Deity, grant my prayer! So he sobbed and wrestled and prayed. His horror of the tomb and dread of the judgment beyond overcame even the warnings of Omniscience. Have then thy prayer, slow- ly came the answer; the words growing fainter in distance, until the last was only a fearful whisper. When the Sem was sufficiently re- stored he gathered up his robes, and, not daring to look towards the sacred place, withdrew from the temple. How or where he went, what wild thoughts flitted by him during the night, and how he came among living men again, he could never remember. In his soul chaos reigned. When ten years had passed, and the Sem had reached the age of eighty, those next below him in station, tired of wait- ing for his decease, suggested his senil- ity and his impaired faculties to the king. In fact, the Sem was as vigorous as ever, but certainly he was old, and perhaps tiresome. He had lingered too lo.ng. Prime ministers, like other public per- formers, must know when to retire with credit. The junior priests said he did not read the service at the temple with the old impressiveness; that he had become formal, and had lost breadth and spirituality. Others whispered to the 1880.] The Preceptor of .Miose8. 233 king that so powerful a subject was dan- gerous. This hint was enough for the suspicious monarch. The Sem was gra- ciously informed that he was allowed to resign his offices of pontiff and prime minister. He had lost the right to wear the leopard skin forever. After his fall from power he was no longer able to protect his son, one of the kings sons of Kush, the governor of a province on the Upper Nile, against whom a court cabal had been formed. That son was re- called in disgrace, and compelled to com- mit suicide. His wife died of grief, and her children, the grandchildren of the Sem, were made prisoners by the desert tribes. The other son, the fan-hearer, was banished to the gold mines, and per- ished on the way. The favorite daugh- ter was discarded by her young husband, the Pharaohs son, who had become en- amored of a Khitan princess. The Sem cowered under these thick- coming disasters, and saw himself and his family on the brink of ruin. But he lived, yes, he had the precious boon for which he had prayed. Yet he lived less in the spiritual realm, and more in the domain of the senses; and among the gay and volatile follow- ers of the court, and especially among the almond-eyed daughters of the royal city, he found means to divert his atten- tion from his own misfortunes. After some rebuffs and several futile attempts, he discovered a lady, not wholly with- ered, who was courageous enough to marry him. It was a bold venture on both sides. The Sems former spouse was waiting in her casket for his corn- pany on the last voyage. His second marriage appeared natural and proper enough to him, but he was sensible of something strange in the looks of men and women as they regarded him and his new wife. It was a chilling sensation, but it wore off. In fact, with the Sem at this time everything wore off. In ten years the Sem was ninety, and was still vigorous, while his partner was become a bent and wrinkled creature, and not long after was added to his dried collection. To relieve his mind he resolved to travel. Having obtained leave of ab- sence and an escort, he ascended the Nile to Elephantine, and then, turning, drifted slowly down, touching at Phihe, Thebes, Memphis, Heliopolis, Bubastis, and other forgotten seats of ancient power and worship. He read the in- scriptions on monuments, and with the temple scribes examined the historical treasures of papyri. He saw in thought the long series of dynasties reaching back into the twilight of time, and he formed a great purpose. This I will do, he said: Upon my return to Pi- Ramses I will call together the scribes of the whole land. They shall bring the rolls from the royal and the temple libraries. They shall copy and compare and set in order the monumental records. All the monarchs that have ruled in Egypt, and the history of their deeds, the sayings of the wise, the researches of the learned, the verses of the poets, and the rites of religion, these shall be gathered. It shall be the Book of Egypt. Thus shall the name of Amon-em-api go down to posterity, forever connected with histories that cannot die, and with these stones over which time has no power.~~ But the vision of grandeur faded. The great purpose was forgotten. The traveler was tired of unending magnifi- cence, and oppressed by the sense of vast spaces and illimitable periods. So the Book of Egypt was not compiled; and the Sem, restless as the British premier, visited Pelusium and Canopus and the Pharos, and then sailed over to Cyprus, where Ramses had once borne sway. Long before Homer, he looked upon blue Olympus and wooded Ida and the Trojan plain. Long before David, he wandered by the site of Jerusalem and breasted the waters of Jordan. Ages before Tar- tar hordes were born, he went beyond The Preceptor of Illoses. the rivers of Eden, and then on until he ~aw the countless yellow peoples of the farthest East. Nothing obstructed, noth- ing daunted him. He returned. He was a hundred years old, and as mercurial ~s a boy; but nothing touched him or roused his admiration. Then Mineptah was gathered to his fathers, and the nation mourned in due form. Or did the Sem dream this? For life was now as vague and bewildering as the mist over a cataract; only sound and vacuity. Realities dissolved into vis- ions, and visions cheated the senses as realities. The Scm, no longer supreme pontiff, but a high-priest still, took part in the grand ceremony, but with dry eyes and a head as airy as a spring blos- som. See the old wretch! said a rising courtier of the new r6gime. No tears from him. Is he an immortal? He is as old ~ts Menes. He wont need em- balminr The new king that arose knew not the antiquated Sem. The sun-god had no benignant rays for a living anachronism, a man out of date and out of style. The poor old priest was as unfashiona- ble as a natural man in a popular novel. He thought he might conciliate the young nobility by giving a fite on his one hundred and first birthday. The young nobles came, but there were few ladies, and none of the people of rank and authority. The Sem had ransacked old visiting lists in vain. All his con- temporaries were lying in their final sleep. The courtiers looked on and smiled as the entertainment progressed. Everything was sumptuous and brilliant, but the old host was voted queer. La- dies held lotus flowers to their aristo- cratic noses, daintily tasted the sweet- meats and wine, and wondered why their entertainer had lagged superfluous on the stage. The amusements were in the palace garden. Jugglers tossed balls and knives, spun bowls and vases, changed sticks to serpents, and made plants grow visibly and blossom. Pantomimists came on the stage, and went through their swift and pointed dramas. Then musicians came, with harps and guitars, flutes, double - pipes, clappers, and cymbals. Male dancers bounded in, pirouetted and posed; girls swam in on the waves of music, poising in every attitude of grace, and throwing glances in the im- memorial fashion. Amon-em-api, one hundred and one years old, looked on the indecorous spectacle without a blush. His hands led the applause, and his voice stimulated the dancers to new ef- fort. His slaves plied the company with wine and beer, and he himself went about with reddened visage and smol- dering eyes. Yes, the once noble priest, the oldest man in Egypt, was the leader of a drunk- en orgy. The next day he could not read the service in the temple. He broke away, and plunged anew into dissipation. While partially intoxicated he actually tasted a piece of pork, and crowned . his disgrace by publicly eating onions and beans. The wild debauch and this last breach of discipline were both reported to the chapter of priests, who, with the royal assent, promptly degraded him. His proud earlock was cut off, and his golden ornaments were confiscated. He had no further share in the tithes and offerings of the temples, no place among the great. Still he lived. He had his prayer. He had now some slight employment in the bureau of astronomy, and as an in- spector of the public works. He had promised himself to amend his evil life. When the successive steps of his descent were recalled, though conscience was sel- dom importunate, he could but wonder. His was an old age with diminishing wis- dom and with waning honor. Was life worth living? Not only were his offices, honors, and emoluments gone, but his faculties were less vigorous. He had 234 [August, 1880.] The Preceptor of Jiloses. 235 lost the high moral sense and the pure reason. Inferior subjects engaged his attention. The philosophy he had im- parted to Moses had vanished as a smoke. One day he furtively entered the pyr- amid, and looked at the chamber where Mineptah slept in his stone coffin. Sun of Egypt, he exclaimed, the world is dreary! It was not thus when I was il- lumined by thy rays. I should have end- ed my orbit at the perihelion. I am cir- cling far into the darkness. Who knows what ignominy I may yet attain to! Then he thought of his own destined tomb, and was seized with a desire to view it, yes, perhaps even to lie in it. He touched the spring, and the heavy stone swung back on concealed hinges. By the light of a taper he went through a winding passage-way up to the crypt that was known to him only among living men. As he came near it, the inclination to lie down in it was gone. The old dread returned. It was not a cheerful place, and it was close and dark withal; it was pleasanter to be in sun- light, even without the right to wear the leopard skin and the earlock. Yes, he preferred to live a while longer. He had got back safely into the long gallery and was just closing the secret door, when there was a swift movement be- hind, and a staff was thrust before the swinging stone. Rising up in mortal terror, the deposed Sem beheld the wrath- ful visage and agile form of Amenhotep, his successor in the pontificate. The crafty old man endeavored to temporize and to explain, but to no purpose. The altercation grew sharp and violent. The enraged high-priest brandished his keen sacrificial knife, and would listen to noth- ing until he had wrung the last secret from the miserable man, and possessed himself of the papyrus that described the mode of access to the chamber above. The once proud architect of the pyramid was driven forth, bound to si- lence on pain of death, without a home and without a tomb. Amon-em-api was one hundred and ten years old. He still lived. He was lithe and erect, but people shrank from him, as from something uncanny. He strove to be cheerful. He attended games, and delighted in the exhibitions of dancing-girls. Being out of the pale of good society, he proposed marriage at different times to several of these gay and senseless creatures; but, with saucy look and arms akimbo, they told him they did not wish to marry out of their century or their epoch. While this dal- liance proceeded the business of the of- fice was neglected, and the INile one day rose half a cubit unannounced. This caused inquiry. It was found that the deposed high-priest, once first of math- ematicians, could not even comprehend one of his own problems. Besides, he was irregular and disreputable. People complained of effeminate odors when he came to the public offices. his down- fall was not long delayed. The forlorn ex-minister, ex-pontiff, ex-priest, was dis- charged from all public employment. The gods have set a mark upon me, he moaned, and whoever sees me will slay me. He was one hundred and twenty. He still lived. He was slender, but supple, and fresher in bodily sensations than he had been at any time for fifty years; yet his face was like parchment, and his eyes were only piercing black points. Of all the men and women he had known in his prime, not one survived. Alone and despairing, he rushed from the city towards the slaves quarter. Years before, under the reign of one of the stranger kings, when Joseph was fan-bearer and Adon, the descendants of Jacob had settled in the Nile Valley. In later times they were forced to labor on the new palaces and temples. Near the city were settled thousands of these enslaved Hebrews; and the miserable Amon-em-api fled to them for succor. Probably he had some faint hope that he might find his former pupil, his be- 2~6 The Preceptor of Moses. [August, loved Moses. If so, it was vain. He got a scanty subsistence among them as a laborer, so scanty; for their task- masters made them serve with rigor. He attempted to escape to the gold- mines, but was driven back with scourg- ings. Without shelter and without sympathy (for there is small generosity among slaves), his mind was debased by the daily drudgery, and pride in him was dead. His hair and heard had grown, and were matted and filthy; his gar- ments were squalid; his sandals worn to shreds. No living being recognized him, and every passer-by shuddered. He longed for death. Still he lived on. How the weary days dragged! Hunger was his portion, and often the desert sands were his bed. He was nearly one hundred and thirty. Oh, that on the day of the new moon of that Phamenoth, so many years ago, I had yielded up my soul ! He grew weaker, and sank upon the earth; and then, as if beholding himself from without, he looked down upon his wretched body, wasted with starva- tion, discolored with bruises. He him- self seemed to have become a viewless spirit, floating ia ether; and there, be- low him, in foulness and rags, lay his body! It moaned, and he heard it. It stirred, and he saw it. How puny it looked. A half-grown Arab was able to lift it and throw it into a ditch, like a piece of carrion. The soul of the beholder was dizzy while the body described the circle in the air. What an interminable time in falling! In that swooning moment he thought of the fate of his disembodied soul, doomed to wander on the illim- itable shore until some pious hand should bestow upon his remains the rites of sepulture. So long as his body lay un- buried, there was before him an eternity of anguish. The thought was insup- portable, and his soul plunged into the dark void. When consciousness returned, Amon em-api was aware of the presence of a venerable but still vigorous man, in whose regular and statuesque features he thought he saw some resemblance to the youth he had reared, far back in the time of the great Ramses, by the grace of the noble lady his daughter, the Princess Meris. The resemblance was wrought out slowly, as if he had taken time to follow every line. The man seemed at first as fresh and fair as a youth; yet his brow was the seat of thought, and in his whole face were the deep lines of experience and courage. His full beard, all silver white, swept over a tunic of linen; but this sign of age was contra- dicted by the extraordinary brilliancy of his eyes. A halo hung over him, as if it were the visible benediction of Heaven. Steadfastly Amon-em-api gazed at the man who seemed to stand near him, and the scene became real. The mists of ages slowly dispersed. The long track of sixty years grew as indistinct as the Milky Way at the coming of dawn. The series of calamities were like the faintly remembered terrors of a dream. Was it, then, a dream? He touched his head and his chin. No filthy hair was there; all was smooth. He felt for his enameled ornaments, and looked at them; they were still upon his arms and hands. The leopard-skin mantle still hung about his shoulders. His era- broidered and blue-fringed tunic still encircled him. He looked up. The last light of day shimmered among the lofty capitals atid along the vast pict- ured walls. Slowly came the over- whelming conviction that the years of misery he had passed were only shad- ows, and that there had been no move- ment on the dial of time. And is it thou, Moses? he asked with trembling lips, almost dreading to hear the sound of his own voice. Am I art thou u in life? Of a truth, illustrious Sem, I am in life, and so art thou. Let me help thee 1880.] The Preceptor of iJilioses. 237 to rise. I came this day from the des- ert. I had missed thee from the royal train, as it departed, and stole hither to search for thee. Here, stretched upon the marble pavement, I found thee, thy head upon the steps of the altar. Sit now; thou art dazed and weary. Rest thy head upon me, my dear master. The Sem breathed more freely. Oh, Moses, he said at length, I have dreamed a horrible dream. Me- thought I had lived my life over, but BACKWARD ! that I had lost station and honor; had forgotten science, and discarded virtue, and neglected worship; had come to live only the groveling life of an animal, and so had fallen into the abyss. Verily, my soul had lost its reck- oning. There was nought but black- ness; neither pitying star, nor friendly Pharos. But now, light, life, yea, LIFE, tingles again in my veins. Praised be Osiris! Praised be Isis! Praised be Ptah! Praise rather Him, the Unnamed, the Almighty. It is He who hath sent this sleep upon thee. The wings of the Most High have overshadowed thee. In the secret places of God hast thou lifted the eyes of thy soul. True, 0 my pupil, my beloved Moses. I do but mouth the common phrases. The Spirit over all, He Who Lives, is unnamable, and they are shad- ows that we worship. But oh the lesson! I rebelled at thought of yield- ing to the common lot, and following the dreaded Anubis. I struggled, ago- nized, for a new life. Now I have seen what it is to linger on earth, a stranger, after friends have departed. Life, such as I saw it, were the deadliest curse that even the Omnipotent could bestow. Tears began to flow down the cheeks of the aged priest, and he silently bowed his head in an attitude of resignation. Then, lifting his face, he continued 0 holy Death, divine messenger! thy lineaments are veiled in darkness; thy steps are attended by terror; but thou givest rest to the body and a vision of glory to the parting soul. Moses, my dear pupil, my time will soon come. Thou hast learned much. rrllou art wise. Thou hast returned. Put on the sacred robes, and enter the priesthood. Thou wilt in time come to wear the leopard skin, and become Sem in my place. The Pharaoh Mineptah if he still reigns will make thee his coun- selor. When my soul departs, burn the papyrus that hangs about my neck. Presume not to read it. And in thy future high station remember the sin of thy preceptor, and beware of overween- ing pride. Master, said Moses, with sudden energy, rouse thee! For it has been revealed to me that thy appointed time has not come. Thou wilt continue to stand before the king in council, and wilt lead the prayers of the people. Thou wilt see all of life thou desirest. But I shall remember thee. Thy love hath enfolded me like a garment. Thou hast shown me the bands of Orion, and imparted the sweet influences of the Pleiades. Thou has marked for me the rising of the evening and of the morning star; thou hast measured the rhythm of the solemn dances of the moon in the fields of ether. Thou hast taught me the equipoise of the forces of the uni- verse. But, 0 my master, of late, and alone, under the solemn skies of Asia, with a clearer vision have I beheld the High and Holy One, whose image no temple contains, and mans presumptu- ous hands may never fashion. The Sem looked at Moses in wonder. Verily, a god hath possessed thee! But draw not away from me. Let me lean upon thee. I have ever loved thee. Remain with me, my son, my son! The Sem wept on the shoulder of his pupil. Master, the time is come when I must bid thee farewell. For all thou hast done I bless thee, but chiefly that thou hast taught me the secret of per- 238 An Englishwoman in the ~Yew England Bill Country. [August, suasive speech, and to touch the souls of men. Because now my despised and oppressed people call me, in the name of Him who was and is and shall be, and I am to go forth with them through the desert. They are as the sands, or as the stars in heaven, for multitude. Our God hath appointed me their leader. Will the proud Pharaoh permit? A light as from above illumined the face of Moses as he answered, Who is Mineptah, Pharaoh though he be, that he will stand in the way of the King of kings? By sign and omen, by scourge and pestilence, by the terrors of death, even, shall Mineptah be constrained. They will traverse the desert. The waves shall not whelm them, the Ser- bonian bog shall not engulf them, nor shall avenging hosts overtake them. They will pass into Asia, and will build a holy city for the worship of Jacobs God. They will be his people, and will preserve his truth for the ages. I see them, in far distant times, faithful to the one God, a consecrated people, and, though persecuted, still triumphant. Their sons stand before kings. They give laws. They lead in the arts and in letters. 0 illustrious Sem, our God made thee the instrument of his wonderful pur- pose when he softened thy heart towards me, the son of a bondwoman, to take me as thy servant and scholar, and so to shed thy illumination on my mind. 0 illustrious Sem, if Pharaoh, moved by hardness of heart, pursues my people with the armies of Egypt, with chariots and horsemen, go thou not forth with him. Remain here in thy place, as is thy right and duty, and so shalt thou escape the doom that awaits him by the Reedy Sea. Live happy, my dear master, noblest of priests, and expect the last hour of life with an equal mind! Here- after we shall meet, if thy oracles speak truth, or if the eternal God of Abraham lives! Farewell! Francis H. Underwood. AN ENGLISHWOMAN IN THE NEW ENGLAND HILL COUNTRY. A TRAVELER for a short period is much more apt than a foreign resident to write a book about his experiences in the United States. There is scarcely an Englishman outside of the commercial classes who does not write a book upon America as soon after his return as he can collect his notes together, and get a publisher in London to undertake the task. Such books are generally apt to be superficial, although every incident recorded in them may be true. On the other hand, a tourist or inquirer has this advantage over a resident: that compari- sons between England and America are easier to him, from the fact of his recent contact with the former country, and his watchful observation of every unaccus tomed word, thing, and person in the latter. To one who has lived years in the United States, and not seen many parts of the country, things that strike a new- comer have become so familiar as to be unnoted. I have about any spot in America but one impression that corre- sponds to those of new arrivals, and that is concerning New York, which I first saw on a hot August day, and thought like a huge Naples. The ailantus-trees, the men in white-linen suits and broad- brimmed Panama hats, the fruit - stalls full of cheap bananas, grapes, melons, pine-apples, etc., the bright blue sky and intense heat, made Broadway seem like a giant Strada di Toledo. I never left New York for three years, and I never

An Englishwoman in the New England Hill Country 238-248

238 An Englishwoman in the ~Yew England Bill Country. [August, suasive speech, and to touch the souls of men. Because now my despised and oppressed people call me, in the name of Him who was and is and shall be, and I am to go forth with them through the desert. They are as the sands, or as the stars in heaven, for multitude. Our God hath appointed me their leader. Will the proud Pharaoh permit? A light as from above illumined the face of Moses as he answered, Who is Mineptah, Pharaoh though he be, that he will stand in the way of the King of kings? By sign and omen, by scourge and pestilence, by the terrors of death, even, shall Mineptah be constrained. They will traverse the desert. The waves shall not whelm them, the Ser- bonian bog shall not engulf them, nor shall avenging hosts overtake them. They will pass into Asia, and will build a holy city for the worship of Jacobs God. They will be his people, and will preserve his truth for the ages. I see them, in far distant times, faithful to the one God, a consecrated people, and, though persecuted, still triumphant. Their sons stand before kings. They give laws. They lead in the arts and in letters. 0 illustrious Sem, our God made thee the instrument of his wonderful pur- pose when he softened thy heart towards me, the son of a bondwoman, to take me as thy servant and scholar, and so to shed thy illumination on my mind. 0 illustrious Sem, if Pharaoh, moved by hardness of heart, pursues my people with the armies of Egypt, with chariots and horsemen, go thou not forth with him. Remain here in thy place, as is thy right and duty, and so shalt thou escape the doom that awaits him by the Reedy Sea. Live happy, my dear master, noblest of priests, and expect the last hour of life with an equal mind! Here- after we shall meet, if thy oracles speak truth, or if the eternal God of Abraham lives! Farewell! Francis H. Underwood. AN ENGLISHWOMAN IN THE NEW ENGLAND HILL COUNTRY. A TRAVELER for a short period is much more apt than a foreign resident to write a book about his experiences in the United States. There is scarcely an Englishman outside of the commercial classes who does not write a book upon America as soon after his return as he can collect his notes together, and get a publisher in London to undertake the task. Such books are generally apt to be superficial, although every incident recorded in them may be true. On the other hand, a tourist or inquirer has this advantage over a resident: that compari- sons between England and America are easier to him, from the fact of his recent contact with the former country, and his watchful observation of every unaccus tomed word, thing, and person in the latter. To one who has lived years in the United States, and not seen many parts of the country, things that strike a new- comer have become so familiar as to be unnoted. I have about any spot in America but one impression that corre- sponds to those of new arrivals, and that is concerning New York, which I first saw on a hot August day, and thought like a huge Naples. The ailantus-trees, the men in white-linen suits and broad- brimmed Panama hats, the fruit - stalls full of cheap bananas, grapes, melons, pine-apples, etc., the bright blue sky and intense heat, made Broadway seem like a giant Strada di Toledo. I never left New York for three years, and I never 1880.] An Englishwoman in the New England Hill Countr~t. 239 grew to like it, though the picture of its harbor in summer, the tropical-looking Staten Island, and the maze of church- steeples really furnishes a pleasant rec- ollection. The few people I knew there were old-fashioned, hearty friends and kind hosts, and several of the elders were the models one would like most to resem- ble in old age; but to me they seemed, in comparison with the unpleasant city, like the ten righteous men whom Abraham could not find in the cities of the plain. Years later, I passed twice through Bos- ton, literally passed, and once in the gray dawn of a December day, and the contrast between the two cities appeared in favor of Boston. A residence in the city would no doubt make me less leni- ent; that is, would give me time to note the disagreeables inseparable from life in any city or large town, and which I think outweigh the best library and the most intellectual society that ever ex- isted. The years that I have spent in a corner of New England have been the happiest and most congenial, yet the ex- perience they have given me is too local to be held up as representative of any but back-country neighborhoods. As far as remoteness and roughness are con- cerned, this corner (it is scarcely even in a historical part of the State) is not up to the ideal of my childhood, although twenty miles from us places can be dis- covered still almost as wild as when the Indians left them. We have still too many stores, too many hotels, too much railroad clatter, too much outer-world communication. There are dwellings primitive enough, though not log-huts, but there are also pretentious, half-sub- urban cottages, with fantastic, Frenchy wood-work. When I was a child, I used to devour any American book, or book about America, that I could get hold of, and my notion of the country, especially of New England, has turned out not so un- like the reality as might have been ex- pected. At fifteen I was a red-hot abo litionist, in spite of the pro-Southern sympathies of every one around me. (Uncle Toms Cabin had nothing to do with it; I had not read it then, but I knew the Ministers Wooing, Old-Town Folks, Sam Slick, Norwood, nearly by heart, and my favorite ideal of an Ameri- can was a Yankee.) I knew very lit- tle about America except what I picked up in this way; for English girls are taught or were in my time by a kind of system which tends to multiply accomplishments rather than useful knowledge. A certain routine of teach ing is gone through, and you come out of the school-room with a society varnish intended to do duty until marriage, at which period custom allows you to dis- pense with surface accomplishments, and devote yourself to the realities of life, mitigated as they are for the well-to-do. On the other hand, the moral atmosphere of the English home education is supe- rior to that of American education in general. Girls are less forward and more respectful; they grow into women more slowly and ripen better; they are physically stronger, and therefore have simpler tastes; and as to society, they do not know what it means before at least the age of seventeen or eighteen. Amer- ican girls have certain advantages, how- ever, which custom denies young Eng- lishwomen of good position: they are not forced by an unwritten law to go into society and play their part in it, while the English girl has no choice. The upper ten thousand must marry or be- come blue-stockings before the world agrees to let them alone. A. young mar- ried woman may, if she choose, plead home duties as an excuse for a quiet, useful, pleasant, and studious life, un- interrupted by any but the necessary county civilities, which are not very burdensome; but young girls are not sup- posed to have such duties. Parents, even when sick themselves, are loath to let the chances of the London season pass by their daughters, and depute any safe 240 An Englis1~woman in tAe New England Hill Country. [August, chaperon, the nearest female relation if possible, to take their girls to all the balls and parties. The rudimentary ed- ucation furnished to women of the higher classes has perhaps something to do with the prevalence of fastness among a part of them, while to others it becomes the base of a real, later self-education, the growth of reading, observation, and thought. When I came to read De Tocquevilles Democracy in America, a new phase suggested itself, and Dr. Holmess books, Elsie Venner and The Guardian Angel, opened yet further views about the United States. Ch~tteau- briands vague, sentimental romances never had much attraction for me; they seemed so thoroughly un-American in treatment, so different from the vigorous books of Cooper on much the same sort of subjects. Mayne Reids books of half natural history and half adventure were also favorites, and, later on, Amer- ican poetry and fiction treating of sub- jects not national; but it was at all times chiefly the description of the country and its rural inhabitants which drew my sympathy and attention. I watched the civil war with as close an attention as a New Englander, and rejoiced in each of the later victories, though I had many a tough argument to go through with those to whom the first disasters fur- nished only too much capital. At that time I did not even know that there was a party in England sympathizing loudly with the Union. About the religion prevalent in America I knew absolutely nothing, and was much puzzled about the doctrines and church customs I read of, supposing that the church to which they belonged was established in America. Of the details of the Revolu- tion I knew nothing; Bunker Hill was a familiar fact, of course, as also the dramatic waste of tea in Boston harbor; the existence of Washington, the Dec- laration of Independence, and Chathams protest in the House of Lords made up the rest of the facts known to me. About the private life of the country and the scenery I was not so ignorant, hav- ing taught myself out of books which governesses looked upon disdainfully, as only fit for play-hours. When I came to the United States, those studies were the only ones I found useful. I did not meet with the true American type, which I knew through those books, for over two years, because circumstances in that most un-American of cities, New York, combined to keep me from any personal knowledge of it. Had I taken for rep- resentative Americans the first individ- uals calling themselves such, whom I met, or whom my associates said they had met, I should have formed an esti- mate which, when I came to know the real article, would have been very much in my way. For instance, a friend, certainly a very prejudiced person, but who had lived in New York long enough to know better, insisted upon telling me that American women would not work, and cared only for dress and flirtation; that they despised kitchen details, and could not do a bit of embroidery or even useful sewing. It turned out afterwards that the few women on whose foolish behavior she thus imprudently general- ized were Irish-Americans, wives and daughters of small business men and professional men, and had been brought up by parents whose home recollections of class differences were bitter enough to make them foolishly indulgent to their children by educating them in an ex- aggerated idleness, the note, as they thought it, of social equality. When I came to live in New England, I found myself at home among the peo- ple I knew beforehand by description. On the whole, the reality was much like the picture, and constituted a very nat- ural state of society; but I met . less smartness than the books describe, less liveliness and less education. Here and there were individuals completely answering to the types I knew by read- ing, but they were exceptional. The 1880.] An Engli8kwoman in the New England Hill Country. 241 majority of the people I can speak for no other neighborhood but the re- mote and mountainous one which I know by heart were hard-working, dull, sav- ing, honest, undemonstrative, and matter of fact. Their life had too little amuse- ment or relaxation, and there was an acquiescence in the fitness of this which made change almost impossible. Again I find my English experience fails me in the matter of comparison, for I know hardly anything of the class correspond- ing in the mother country to the farmers of my section of New England. Here we have neither wealth nor enterprise; ready money is very scarce, farms (that is, the cultivated portion) small and rather run out than otherwise, and the seasons especially discouraging to a spirit of experiment and progress. The tenacity of old fashions, the intellectual imperviousness of both men and wom- en, in a word, the exaggerated conserva- tism of our neighbors, would be a shock to the preconceived notion of an Eng- lish visitor, about Yankees. We have scarcely the shrewd, talkative, anecdote- telling, humor-loving Yankee amongst us; indeed, he is seldom of the farmer class, and is usually met with in the store, although I remember meeting but one answering to the type, and he was the master of a New York grocery. The question-asking Yankee is a com- moner type, though inquisitiveness is not confined to Yankees, but flourishes all over the country in rural districts, and I think more especially in the South. But curiosity is indulged in a leisurely, business-like, matter-of-course manner in our part of the country; questions are not eager or made for pastime, but de- liberate, to be reflected upon and made common property. It is a very serious business, and quite as legitimate a part of conversation as remarks about the weather. It has nothing to do with dis- courtesy (the artificial standard of which never goes very far down in any social stratum, European or American), but it VOL. XLVI. NO. 274. 16 becomes a necessity to people who, with naturally quick minds, have the most provokingly barren field on which to ex- ercise their faculties. One must think about something, and since there is nei- ther money, time, nor opportunity to study things worthy of notice, the read- iest thing to think about is ones neigh- bor. There is more waste of mental energy in America than in most coun- tries, for on the whole there is more capacity, and there are more means for acquiring knowledge than elsewhere; but two thirds of both are misdirected and misused. Almost every one in New England reads a newspaper, and it is precisely through the press that the most mischief is done. The journalism of the United States, a branch of civilization usually held to have attained its maxi- mum growth on this side of the Atlantic, seems to me to be almost the worst prod- uct of the couutry. I know hardly a city paper, and certainly no country pa- per, which is not conducted on the low- est intellectual principles. American newspapers, with very few exceptions, are contemptible, and if you find one page free from triviality, vulgarity, sen- sationalism, the omission is fully made up elsewhere. Country newspapers in England are very different, though some of the larger cities can show as discred- itable representatives of the press as New York, San Francisco, or Chicago, and London alone has a fungus-growth of Saturday-night printing as objection- able as the cheap illustrated weeklies which delight and pervert our lower classes here. No doubt English country papers are dull, respectable, printed for the information rather than the amuse- ment of their readers, and altogether old fashioned, but, considering how very antiquated the local mind of my cor- ner of New England is in some impor- tant respects, it is a pity that it cannot be content with old -fashioned and de- cent newspapers. About education, for instance, we are marvelously conserva 242 An EnglisAwoman in tke New England lull Country. [August, tive. I b.ave mentioned English igno- rance of America; it is almost matched by New England ignorance of the next State or even town. The real and practi- cal knowledge of life is picked up from newspapers and persons one meets oc- casionally, a peddler who has trav- eled in many parts of the world, a sol- dier who has been through some Indian war or the civil war, a relation who has gone West, etc. School sometimes furnishes a basis on which to found in- telligent education. There is scarcely a thing with which America is, in the popular estimation of Europe, so thor- oughly identified as universal educa- tion. Even universal suffrage is not more American; but the practical outcome of this supposed perfection is very different from the image of it in an Englishmans mind. It is of no use pointing to statistics as proving how many million children attend school and learn the three Rs and all the nat- ural sciences; the practical state of the rural population in three fourths of the inhabited country is the test which alone deserves the attention of any one famil- iar with country neighborhoods. Be- sides this, there are still places in New England, as well as West and South, where not even an apology for a school exists, and where the grown people can- not read or write. It is the case some twenty or thirty miles from the place where I write. The conservatism of rural neighbor- hoods is in no instance so prominent as in the degree of willingness exhibited by the people to learn new ways or teach their own to new-comers. A man of the world, who has lived all sorts of lives and been used to all sorts of surround- ings, will readily fall into any way, how- ever narrow, uncouth, or backward; but the traveler in the narrow way has ~o such versatility, and lays down the law 1 A man whom a clergyman reproved for swear- ing excused himself thus from any profane inten- tiGn in the use of his very frequent and forcible oaths: Well, now, sir, you see, it is much the as a matter of course, considering your discipleship and docility equally a mat- ter of course. No one is so ready to teach and dogmatize as a man who has never left his native village; and this applies equally to both sides of the At- lantic, as well as of the British ChanneL The self-sufficiency of a man narrowly brought up is prodigious, and his argu- ment that his fathers did so before him is to his own mind unanswerable. But if this doggedness of moral toryism is a trait of human nature, equally dis- tributed in every remote rural neighbor- hood, whether Roumanian, Navarrese, Finlandish, or Zulu, it is none the less exhibited in perfection in the typical land of frantic progress and abnormal smartness, the New England States. The manners of Boston are as mysteri- ous and as little worth respect in my corner as the manners of Constantino- ple. San Francisco and New Orleans are as foreign as Cabul and Pekin: the cen- tre of the world lies within our own cir- cle. Slowness and diffuseness of speech are a local characteristic, not excluding, however, startling and forcible terms of expression, as when a very religious and earnest old woman said, My God is not a confined being, alluding to her own inability to go to meeting and her sub- stituted habit of prayer at home. The one item in which the speech of coun- try and city is shamefully alike is pro- fanity: no one would dream, to hear the representative average man in these parts, that, there was any Puritan past behind him. It is true that swearing is most- ly a habit,1 but a habit so ingrained as to be second nature. I once went to a barn-raising, and noted as a matter for surprise that during two hours work, and among fifteen men, hardly one of them beyond middie age, there was no swearing save by one individual. As a rule, every tenth word is an oath, in any same with both of us. I swear a good deal and you pray a good deal, but we dont either of us mean much by it. 1880.] An Engli81~woman in t/~e New England Hill Country. 243 average ten or five minutes conversa- tion, especially in the store. Slow- ness of manner in general is a charac- teristic of what is often called brisk New England: shopping, especially, is an exercise of patience. There is but one man in our town who ever seems in a hurry, or aware of the value of time. Any one would think that I was de- scribing some back part of Yorkshire or Cornwall, or, better still, of fat and con- tented Lincolnshire; yet every one who has lived in the country will recognize such portraits, and realize how entirely the reputation of quickness and smart- ness belongs to the city Yankee. I know how forward are some towns, suburban villages, and even less peopled neighbor- hoods; how there are readings and libraries, improvement societies with in- tellectual and material objects, lectures, etc., in many such places, especially in Massachusetts, and perhaps some parts of Vermont; but the more improved, the less genuinely country, are these ambitious, newspaper-supporting, topsy- turvy places. They are aping city life; they think farming a worse trade than a lawyers, and they furnish the thou- sand failures in city ventures which form the basis of each of those rare ex- ceptions, that is, the success of the coun- try-bred youth in a city avocation. Be- sides the gossiping which is the food of country life, and, by the way, is even more indulged in by men than women, there is another un-Puritan trait in my corner, drinking. It is nearly as com- mon as in New York city. We are not many miles from the Maine frontier, and the only difference between the two sides of the line is that it is a trifle easier to get liquor on the Maine side than on ours. Neal Dow is less a prophet in his own State than on further removed plat- forms of temperance meetings. Again, dancing is the only amusement heartily enjoyed here, and the only thing for which purse-strings will open, or with regard to which interest wrn grow into practical shape. It is true that there is a stratum of society to which the fun cannot penetrate, because if there is one thing more conspicuous and general here than anything else it is poverty. Such communities need absolutely free amuse- ments, and in providing them, I should not consider the giver a visionary and an enthusiast, but a particularly practical man. What our neighbors need here is a place of free public and popular even- ing resort, especially in winter, a room combining comfort and ease; a place with plenty of illustrated periodicals and cheap books of a respectable, but above all of an interesting and secular nature; appliances for smoking; opportunity for meeting and conversation; a social at- mosphere entirely comprehensive and tolerant; no religious test or cant; and, if possible, plenty of good coffee. With such a weapon, I would undertake in two years to raise, and in ten to change, the character of the rowdiest or most Rip-Van-Winkle-like rural population. It is useless to preach about gratuitous pleasures deteriorating one s self-re- spect. When the lack of money is so great that not one third of the popula- tion can clothe itself, and one can count on ones fingers the number of unmort- gaged farms within the town, it is time to throw theories away, and seize the easiest means of doing good. Utilitarianism is one of the Jugger- nauts of rural New England. There is no love of life in itself, and very little enjoyment but what can be snatched be- tween two wheels of work slowly grind- ing the life of the laborer. Everything is subordinate to the work, especial- ly the human machines who do it. One would think that man was made for the land, not the land for man. Health as well as pleasure is sacrificed, chiefly the health of women. The food is generally of a nature to disagree with any constitu- tion even if bred to its use through the inherited tendencies of several genera- tions; but the men have the antidote of 244 An Engli8kwoman in the New England Hill Country. [August, fresh air, while the women have not. It is no rare thing for a woman not to put her foot out of the house for three or fonr months at a time. The long win- ters are somewhat to blame, but the in- cessant march of work far more. She may go out to feed the chickens, or hang out the clothes, sometimes even to do a hasty job in a starveling flower-bed, but of out-door exercise she knows nothing, and to save time a farmers wife seldom walks. On Sundays she may go on foot to meeting, but it is only because the old tradition still lingers that baking and churning, and all that is not absolutely necessary, should not be done on Sun- day; and therefore, rather than sit and do nothing, she would as soon pass the time taking the fresh air. City women do much more walking than country wom- en; and when one sees some of them out on their yearly holiday, in short dresses, and with leather straps round their waists and alpenstocks in their hands, climbing and camping, the English no- tion that American women do not walk is somewhat shaken.2 Amusements be- ing few and costly, excitements have to do duty for them, and so it comes about that church meetings and funerals, being free, absorb a good deal of interest, and sewing-circles, being cheap (and free to the men), are turned into mild shadows of make-believe dissipation. The sew- ing-circle is a good deal the representa- tive amusement of the purely religious circles. The greatest intolerance is of course found among church-members, I One of the signs of a latent love of beauty for its own sake which is very prominent here is the cultivation, under the most discouraging circum- stances, of pot-plants and green-house flowers. Women will get up in the coldest winter nights to keep up the fire for the sake of the plants, and take great pride in the result of their care. I have seen as beautiful plants here as in cities, and often in the poorest of houses, where artificial appliances are the scantiest, and where household work presses the hardest. It would be a real blessing if, from their love of flowers, one could rouse the energies of our people, and teach them a love of competition and of knowledge, such as would be stimulated by a and they are too often the greatest stum- bling-blocks to repentant black sheep. Conversion is a sensational process, each detail being eagerly canvassed by the local public, and the hero occupies a po- sition suspiciously like that of a prize walkist during an international match. The last time a conspicuous conversion took place here, the contest was finally made more interesting by the sudden choice of the reformed sinner, who, hav- ing been preached into repentance by, say, a zealous Methodist, joined the Or- thodox church, instead of adorning that of his converter. There is a greater parallel between English and American forms of religious sensibility than be- tween any other thing shared by the two nations. The spirit of dissent wears al- most the same forms in both countries, but Unitarianism is socially stronger in New than in Old England. The Meth- odist church I have heard called a po- litical power; but it has less power here than West and South, though it is still surprising to an English observer to note how much the sway of the Orthodox or Congregational church has lessened in agricultural neighborhoods. The Epis- copal church is still an exotic in my corner, and the A B C of its ritual still a mystery; but, unlike English coun- try people, who are rather awed by any- thing they do not understand, New Eng- land country people treat everything beyond their own knowledge as being of questionable utility and scarcely worth study. A new idea is unwelcome; in- yearly flower-show, strictly local, and a distribu- tion of prizes. 2 Americans are always shocked when they see, in Europe, women working in the fields. I think there is some exaggeration in this notion, as there is doubtless exaggeration of another sort in the amount of such work done in some countries by women. It is a question if field-work, within cer- tain bounds, is not more healthy than house-work, continued as it is generally without intermission. The climate of the United States is less favorable to it than that of Europe, but I know by expe- rience that there are branches of work at which, morning and evening, women could work with ad- vantage nnd convenience. 1880.] An Engli8liwoman in tke New England Hill Country. 245 deed, though doctrinal orthodoxy is slack, a social temper, the exact counterpart of heresy-hating, pervades the whole com- munity. No doubt this *ve of letting things alone, and walking in the grooves of old but not necessarily intelligent custom, accounts for the curious carelessness about building. Shelter rather than protection seems the motive which urges our neighbors to build barns, houses, and schools, and this in a climate where five months of the year are piercingly cold, and the thermometer is often twen- ty degrees below zero. There are not more than a dozen houses or barns with- in our town which are properly fortified against the cold, while in England, with a climate ordinarily so temperate as to suggest nothing worse than a New Eng- land October or April, buildings are tight, dry, and warm. No wonder we are obliged to use such exaggerated stove heat as English travelers complain of, when the walls and roof are like basket- work for the play of the wind. I fear this item of discomfort is not so wholly the result of poverty as one would be glad to believe; on the other hand, it reveals a certain indifference to weather and power of resistance to its effects which to some extent do away with the reproach Englishmen often throw at Americans, that of a womanish sensi- tiveness to the discomforts of the at- mosphere. The love of home is less developed in new than in old lands; nature appears rather in the disguise of an enemy to be subdued than a mother to be loved, and her obstacles to the outward signs of civilization make men impatient of her beauties. Forests and precipices have no attraction for the man whose chief thought is how he can grow corn and pasture cattle to feed his family; and it is no wonder that where life is so hard no time should be left for the enjoyment of beauty. The love of the mountaineer for his mountains, said to be common in Europe, is not the rule among New England mountaineers. They have hard- ly any pride in their scenery, and often long for a smooth, fertile plain, where agriculture would be easier and the con- ditions of life softer. Forests are well enough in their way; an indefinite but forcible expression of depreciation. The struggle for bare existence, added to the naturally silent, reserved nature of an almost purely Anglo-Saxon (and largely east coast of Englan4) race, has devel- oped a type similar in all but religion to the traditional Puritan. Here and there gleams of a more genial life cross the path of ones observation, and by and by, when one has lived years in the midst of this undemonstrative people, an insight into their real selves, sym- pathy with the necessities which have saddened them and the work which has repressed them, comes to change ones first estimate, and brings before one an- other example of the freemasonry of human nature. Deep below this crust of unattractiveness, there are sterling qualities, honesty, justice, immense perseverance, patience and endurance, evenness of temper and faithfulness of friendship, almost invariably a high standard of domestic virtue, and a seri- ous acceptance of lifes responsibilities. If there is no elasticity of spirits, there is a wonderful steadfastness of purpose, and a tendency to make the best of everything. Home love does not include surroundings, even of the loveliest scen- ery, but it is intense within a narrow circle of persons; though even here, in death almost as much as in life, it is sin- gularly undemonstrative. The present conditions are of course far removed from the picturesque roughness of a hun- dred years ago, when the first settlers, not long before the Revolution, came in the dead of winter, some walking eighty miles on snow - shoes, the women riding on horseback, and salt, at that time the most precious and unattainable article, conveyed on mens backs, or in 246 An EnglisAwoman in tke New England Hill Country. [August, large kettles drawn on sleds; but a good deal of the rawness of frontier life clings to our towns, whose fag-ends run up mountains where bears are still not infrequent, while their central parts are dotted over with summer hotels and rail- road depots. Personally, it is only with the latter ingredients that I find fault. The life of the natives is more natural, and therefore, even if rough or dull, more dignified, than that of the tour- ists and such as minister to the tourists artificial wants. The majority of the travelers in these parts are of the non- descript kind, so aggressive in all coun- tries, the class which, because it is largely urban, thinks itself necessarily superior, and because it can afford a year- ly holiday (taken meanly enough, with a maximum of show at a minimum of expense; for some of our visitors spend five cents on peanuts with the air of a Stewart handling government bonds) looks down on the stay-at-home farmer who can hardly make both ends meet. With all his drawbacks, the latter is a nobler man than the half-educated, smart inhabitant of large villages and cities. His life is truer and more genu- ine, his character more stable, his insight into right and wrong straighter, and his worth to the country infinitely greater. Behind all the unloveliness of outward life, there is the almost unconscious re- spect for duty, the instinctive upright- ness of purpose, and the love for work as the test of human worth and fitness, which constitute the chief virtues of a manly race. There are strength and stubbornness, plainness of speech and hatred of roundabout ways, which, if they could be ininsed into political life, would make the government as sound as the nation. The influence of New England char- acter on the history of the country is not to be explained by theological rea- sons only, apart from the individuality of the body popularly known as Puri- tans, and the elements which went in the first instance to found the colony, and subsequently to mold the State, are to a great extent still represented through- out New England. The minute-men of 1776 are exceptiona~only in our imag- ination; our next-door neighbor is their strict counterpart. Exactly the kind of men, slow, sure, and dogged, who pass us on the road, who log and harvest and plow, and gossip and lounge in the store, the rough but kindly, primitive, natural men that meet us at every turn of country life, arose a hundred years ago to fight for independence, and the same sort was ready to do the same work nineteen years ago. Heroes are not always romantic, nor fit for the pages of a novel, and the instruments of almost every important national change are not the exceptional beings ones fancy sometimes betrays one into sketch- ing, but common men, with the husk of common life temporarily shed. Much the same human raw material was first planted here by the Pilgrim Fathers, poetic as the appellation is, and dramat- ic as the circumstances of the exodus and landing now appear to us. Except for the more formal recognition of re- ligion, the descendants of the first im- migrants are true chips of the old block. That the Puritans founded the republic may be historically disputed, but intel- lectually and morally, I see no doubt about it. In the highest sense they were the founders of the present com- monwealth. It is easy to say that their doctrines were illiberal and their views narrow, but there was a leaven at work in their system of which they were themselves unconscious. Above all doc- trinal and ethical narrowness of spirit, there was the old, sturdy English spirit which never bowed to anything which it did not understand. This independ- ence of mind gradually burst the bonds of Puritan l~elief when it dlscovered, under another name, the tyranny of a theocracy trying to fetter its intellect- ual choice. The value, however, of 1880.] An Englishwoman in the Yew England Hill Country. 247 the stern Puritans training, or rather of the English habit of mind turned to good account by Puritanism, re- mained. It was fit for soldiers, pio- neers, and patriots. It was physically the healthiest training that could have been invented, for if the fathers of New England had aimed at making a tempo- ral instead of a spiritual army, they eould have done no better. It was men- tally the healthiest, for the condition of the mind depends at least three fourths on that of the body. Such men could not fail to win. Endurance, how- ever, was not all they had; they knew also what discipline meant. An intelli- gent submission, for the sake of the gen- eral good, to a leader perhaps individ- ually your inferior is much above the mere military and mechanical obedience generally known by the name of disci- pline. This is what the men of New England possessed, over and above their patriotism, and in this they excelled the well-trained English troops. Each man had at heart the rearing of a common- wealth, in which he knew that it only depended on himself to make a name and carve out a future. Conscious of his power, he knew that neither space nor opportunity would be wanting as soon as he had conquered the right to enjoy them. The first step won, the rest would follow. The history of the Union has proved the speed of this devel- opment. The impulse of New England has been the most prominent of the forces that have molded the growing nation, and it has always been a forward one, whether in commerce or in intellect. The men who are pre~ininently, in Eu- ropean eyes, representative Americans are almost invariably New Englanders. Some, it is true, caine of a scholarly stock, but many, and the original of each stock, came from the farm. Eoughly speaking, if you go back to the ancestry of any man of note, you find a farmer at the head of it. Farmers are the ma- jority of New England population, and the real backbone of the country. Such as they are now, with all their short- comings and disadvantages, they are collectively, and always have been, the state. Their influence is ostensibly less than in the days of the Revolution, but I cannot help thinking that they have yet a silent weight in the commu- nity. By comparison with the average West and South, the most primitive New England life is one of luxury and re- finement; by comparison with the aver- age European agriculturist, the most antiquated New Englander is a learned and progressive man. There is among farmers a wide-spread love for advance- ment, chiefly through education, which, often misdirected or stifled, none the less has given us some of the best pub- lic men the century can boast of. The inborn love of work, which is almost pushed to a mania or an idolatry, is nevertheless the only basis on which to found lasting and honorable success; and domestic virtue as practiced in the vast majority of homes, even though de- void of the graces of affection, is a schooling in itself. The naturalness of this country life, as in its common speci- mens it comes under the observation of a stranger, has a fascination irresistible to the moral philosopher equally with the experienced man of the world. There is a relief from ceremony, a sense of manly freedom, which to some Europe- ans at least is an overwhelming attrac- tion. That this simplicity should not al- ways appeal to the imagination of the young farmer, to whom it is rather a matter of necessity than of choice, is ex- cusable; but that which sometimes seems an irksome prospect to a boy of twenty, eager but untaught, yet probably not so capable as he is eager, and therefore not likely to succeed should he leave the substance for the shadow, becomes to the man of thirty-five a serious and beloved task. It is not custom alone which makes the farmer contented, nor 248 The Reed ImmortaZ. [August, even the force of contrast, which seldom comes in any shape save that of rough experience and defeat, but the conscious- ness of independence and the power of supporting his family. He acquiesces with stoical composure in the certainty of inevitable hardship and small profit which accompanies his business, and distinguishes it from others more showy, but less useful and dignified; for after all he knows that husbandry lies at the basis of civilization, and may be truly called the standard profession. If he cannot put this consciousness into glib words, it none the less pervades his life and comforts his old age. His dearest associations are bound up with remem- brances of his calling; his hopes for his childrens welfare are practically identi- fied with the possibilities of its increase and success. Of all this there is, it is true, hardly an outward sign, but be. neath the shell (which in this case is fully as rough and deep as that of a Lowland Scotchman) the human sym- pathies are as intensely active as a poet could wish for. Explosive natures are a lusus naturce in New England, but pathetic constancy and a sustaiued self- denial which totally ignores its own her- oism are common. Poems have been written with less material than the story of many an ordinary New Englander contains, and men whose outward man- ner suggests nothing but coarseness and folly could startle you with tales as touching as that of the far-famed lovers of Verona. I know of such cases person- ally, and though I was once ignorantly surprised at the notion, it has grown so familiar to me by repeated instances and my own closer observation that I can only wonder at the intolerant blindness that is bred of prejudice. THE REED IMMORTAL. (Pliny tells us that the Egyptians regarded the papyrus as an emblem of immortality.) I. REED of the stagnant waters, Far in the Eastern lands Rearing thy peaceful daughters In sight of the storied sands! Armies and fleets defying Have swept by that quiet spot; But thine is the life undying, Theirs is the tale forgot. H. The legions of Alexander Are scattered and gone and fled; And the queen, who ruled commander Over Antony, is dead; The marching armies of Cyrus Have vanished in earth again; And only the frail papyrus Still reigns oer the sons of men.

Thomas Wentworth Higginson Higginson, Thomas Wentworth The Reed Immortal 248-249

248 The Reed ImmortaZ. [August, even the force of contrast, which seldom comes in any shape save that of rough experience and defeat, but the conscious- ness of independence and the power of supporting his family. He acquiesces with stoical composure in the certainty of inevitable hardship and small profit which accompanies his business, and distinguishes it from others more showy, but less useful and dignified; for after all he knows that husbandry lies at the basis of civilization, and may be truly called the standard profession. If he cannot put this consciousness into glib words, it none the less pervades his life and comforts his old age. His dearest associations are bound up with remem- brances of his calling; his hopes for his childrens welfare are practically identi- fied with the possibilities of its increase and success. Of all this there is, it is true, hardly an outward sign, but be. neath the shell (which in this case is fully as rough and deep as that of a Lowland Scotchman) the human sym- pathies are as intensely active as a poet could wish for. Explosive natures are a lusus naturce in New England, but pathetic constancy and a sustaiued self- denial which totally ignores its own her- oism are common. Poems have been written with less material than the story of many an ordinary New Englander contains, and men whose outward man- ner suggests nothing but coarseness and folly could startle you with tales as touching as that of the far-famed lovers of Verona. I know of such cases person- ally, and though I was once ignorantly surprised at the notion, it has grown so familiar to me by repeated instances and my own closer observation that I can only wonder at the intolerant blindness that is bred of prejudice. THE REED IMMORTAL. (Pliny tells us that the Egyptians regarded the papyrus as an emblem of immortality.) I. REED of the stagnant waters, Far in the Eastern lands Rearing thy peaceful daughters In sight of the storied sands! Armies and fleets defying Have swept by that quiet spot; But thine is the life undying, Theirs is the tale forgot. H. The legions of Alexander Are scattered and gone and fled; And the queen, who ruled commander Over Antony, is dead; The marching armies of Cyrus Have vanished in earth again; And only the frail papyrus Still reigns oer the sons of men. 1880.] Tauru8 Centaurus. 249 III. rapyms! 0 reed immortal! Survivor of all renown! Thou heedst not the solemn portal Where heroes and kings go down. The monarchs of generations Have died into dust away; 0 reed that outlivest nations, Be our symbol of strength to-day 7. W Higginson. TAURUS CENTAURUS. TH~ umbrella that I bought in Bur- lington Arcade came speedily to grief.1 Going to pay for it, I had taken it in my hand, not because it rained or that the sky was lowering, but because one al- ways carries an umbrella in England, whether one uses it or not. Indeed, a Lancashire friend of mine, who was with me when I bought an umbrella on an- other occasion, said, as I was picking and choosing, Find a good stick! An um- brella serves chiefly as a walking-stick. Get a good one for that, and you re all right. As I walked away from the Arcade, at the very first crossing, at Sackvllle Street, I believe, I was sud- denly conscious of a horse and a rushing of wheels. I had just time to draw back when a hansom cab dashed past me so close that I smelled the horses breath. The great wheel caught my umbrella, which was twisted out of my hand in a twinkling, like a foil from the hand of an unwary fencer, and thrown upon the ground, where the wheel passed over it. The cabman took not the slight- est notice of me as he turned the corner and dashed down Piccadilly. I picked up my wounded umbrella, and returned with it to Burllngton Arcade, where it was found that, although stick and ribs were uninjured, every gore of the silk was 1 Atlantic, February, 1879, where by mistake I wrote Regent Street. cut through in two or three places, and that never having been used it would yet have to be completely new covered. I could not but remark the plainly un- affected concern of the saleswoman from whom I had bought it. As she opened gore after gore and found them all de- stroyed, her countenance fell, and she looked ruefully in my face, as if she and not I had lost twenty-five shillings, and as if she, not I, would have to pay for a new cover. 12 remarked her manner, al- though it was undemonstrative and per- fectly simple. It was one of many man- ifestations of like feeling from trades- people toward their customers to which I was witness in England. My adventure with the cab, happen- ing on the second day after that of my arrival in London, gave me timely warn- ing of a fact which I found to be both characteristic and important, that in England the man on horseback is mas- ter of him that goes afoot. He who walks is expected to give place to him who rides and to him who drives. He is, for the moment at least, the inferior person, the subject of the mounted man, whose convenience or whose pleasure he is expected to consult at loss of his own pleasure, or of his own comfort, or of his property or his limbs, or, it would almost seem, of his life itself. A sign or token of this in London, and if I

Richard Grant White White, Richard Grant Taurus Centaurus 249-258

1880.] Tauru8 Centaurus. 249 III. rapyms! 0 reed immortal! Survivor of all renown! Thou heedst not the solemn portal Where heroes and kings go down. The monarchs of generations Have died into dust away; 0 reed that outlivest nations, Be our symbol of strength to-day 7. W Higginson. TAURUS CENTAURUS. TH~ umbrella that I bought in Bur- lington Arcade came speedily to grief.1 Going to pay for it, I had taken it in my hand, not because it rained or that the sky was lowering, but because one al- ways carries an umbrella in England, whether one uses it or not. Indeed, a Lancashire friend of mine, who was with me when I bought an umbrella on an- other occasion, said, as I was picking and choosing, Find a good stick! An um- brella serves chiefly as a walking-stick. Get a good one for that, and you re all right. As I walked away from the Arcade, at the very first crossing, at Sackvllle Street, I believe, I was sud- denly conscious of a horse and a rushing of wheels. I had just time to draw back when a hansom cab dashed past me so close that I smelled the horses breath. The great wheel caught my umbrella, which was twisted out of my hand in a twinkling, like a foil from the hand of an unwary fencer, and thrown upon the ground, where the wheel passed over it. The cabman took not the slight- est notice of me as he turned the corner and dashed down Piccadilly. I picked up my wounded umbrella, and returned with it to Burllngton Arcade, where it was found that, although stick and ribs were uninjured, every gore of the silk was 1 Atlantic, February, 1879, where by mistake I wrote Regent Street. cut through in two or three places, and that never having been used it would yet have to be completely new covered. I could not but remark the plainly un- affected concern of the saleswoman from whom I had bought it. As she opened gore after gore and found them all de- stroyed, her countenance fell, and she looked ruefully in my face, as if she and not I had lost twenty-five shillings, and as if she, not I, would have to pay for a new cover. 12 remarked her manner, al- though it was undemonstrative and per- fectly simple. It was one of many man- ifestations of like feeling from trades- people toward their customers to which I was witness in England. My adventure with the cab, happen- ing on the second day after th