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THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY A MAGAZINE OF VOLUME LXXXII BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY ZI~w ~ibcr~ite ~ Carnbri~ge 1898 AR t COPYRIGHT, 1898, B~ HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY. The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. Electrotyped and Printed by H. 0. Houghtoii & Company. CONTENTS. PAGE Alaska, Colonial Lessons of, David Starr Jordan Alcaldes Visit, The, Mrs. Schuyler Crown inshield 697 America, England and, A. V. Dicey . . 441 America, The Essential Unity of Britain and, James Bryce 22 American Commerce, New Opportunities for, W thington C. Ford . . . . . 321 American Evolntion, The, James IL Ifos mer 29 American Science, Fifty Years of TV J McGee ~O7 Among the Animals of the Yosem te John Muir 17 Among the Birds of the Yosemite John Muir Anglo-American Friendship, The Carl Schurz 4~3 Animals of the Yosemite, Aniong the John Muir 617 ~ Art, Psychology and, Hugo Miinsterberg 632 Aspects of Thackeray, Some, henry D. Sedgwick, Jr 707 Astronomer, Reminiscences of an, Simon Newcomb 244, 384, 519 At Natural Bridge, Virginia, Bradford Torrey 112, 257 At the Twelfth Hour: A Tale of a Battle, Joseph A. Aitsheler 541 Autobiography of a Revolutionist, The, P. Kropotkin 346, 472, 761 Bagehot, Walter. See Wit and a Seer, A. Battle of the Strong, The, Gilbert Parker 78, 269, 394, 500, 654, 839 Bellamy, Edward, W. D. Hou,ells . . . 253 Birds, Flowers, and People, Bradford Torrey 489 Birds of the Yosemite, Among the, John Muir -1 Bismarck, William Roscoe Thayer . . 411 Bismarck as a National Type, Kuno Francke 560 Botching Shakespeare, Mark H. Liddell 461 Britain and America, The Essential Unity of, James Bryce .... . . 22 Burne-Jones, Sir Edward, Sharp 375 Byron, Au Unpublished Poem by, Pierre Ia Rose 810 Byron, The Wholesome Revival of, Paul Elmer More 801 California and the Californians, David Starr Jordan 793 Carlyle, Unpublished Letters of, Charles Townsend Gopeland . . 289, 445, 673, 785 Carlyle as a Letter-Writer, Charles Town send C~opeland 687 China, The Vivisection of, Elisi~e Reclus 329 Colonial Lessons of Alaska, David Starr Jordan . 577 Colonies, European Experience with Trop- ical, W. Alleyne Ireland 729 Commerce, New Opportunities for Ameri- can, TV thington C. Ford 321 Commodore, The, Justine Ingersoll . . . 235 PAGE Confessions of a Summer Colonist, TV. D. Howells . 742 Confessions of Three School Superintend- ents . 644 Control of the Tropics, The United States and the, Benjaniin Kidd 721 Correspondence of George Sand, The, Irv- ing Babbitt 569 Decadence of Spain, The, Henry Charles Lea 36 I)evelopment of our Foreign Policy, The, Horace N. Fisher Driftwood, H. Phelps Whitmarsh . . . 221 End of the War, and After, The. . . . 430 England and America, A. V. Dicey . . 441 English Culture, The Proper Basis of, 165 English Historical Grammar, Mark H. Liddell 98 Essential Unity of Britain and America, The, James Bryce Cl 22 European Experience Tropical nies, TV. Alleyne Ireland 729 Fifty Years of American Science, TV J McGee 307 Foreign Policy, The Development of our, Horace N. Fisher 552 Gladstone 1. Government of Newly Acquired Territo Our, Carl Evans Boyd ry, Howe, Julia Ward, Reminiscences of, Ju- lia TVard Howe 833 Hunt, Leigh, and Stevenson, Some New Letters by, Ethel Alleyne Ireland. . . 122 Intellectual Movement in the West, The, hamilton Wright Mabie 592 Jew in America, The Russian,. Abraham Cahan Robert igrs~ine 128 Kropotkin, Prince, Ely 338 Landscape as a Means of Culture, The, N. S. Shaler 777 Lawyer with a Style, A, Woodrow TVilson 363 Letters by Leigh Hunt and Stevenson, Some New, Ethel Alleyne Ireland. . . 122 Letters of Carlyle, Unpublished, Charles Townsend Copeland . . 289, 445, 673, 785 Lights and Shades of Spanish Character, Irving Babbitt 190 Little Henry and his Bearer, Flora Annie Steel 814 Money, War and: Some Lessons of 1862, J. Laurence Laughlin 47 My Friend Ah-Chy, Christina Ritchie . . 197 Natural Bridge, Virginia, At, Bradford Torrey 112, 257 Navy in the War with Spain, The, Ira Nelson Hollis 605 Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War, Some, Gharles Kendall Adams . 174 New Letters by Leigh Hunt and Steven- son, Some, Ethel Alleyne Ireland . . . 122 Newly Acquired Territory, Our Govern- ment of, Carl Evans Boyd 735 New Opportunities for American Com- merce, TVorthington C. Ford . . . . 321 iv Old World in the New, The, Benjamin ide Wheel Our Government of Newly Acquired Ter- ritory, Carl Evans Boyd Proper Basis of English Culture, The, Sidney Lanier Psychology and Art, Hugo Miinsterberg Reminiscences of an Astronomer, Simon Newcomb 244, 384, Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe, Ju- lia Ward Howe Revolutionary War Some Neglected As: pects of the, Charles Kendall Adams. Revolutionist, The Autobiography of a, P. Kropotkin 346, 472, Rileys, Mr., Poetry, Bliss Carman. Rostand, M. Edmond, Ellery Sedgwick Russian Jew in America, The, Abraham Cahan Sand, George, The Correspondence of, Irving Babbitt School Superintendents, Confessions of Three Science, Fifty Years of American, W J McGee Shakespeare, Botching, Marie H. Liddell Some Aspects of Thackeray, henry D. Sedgwick, Jr Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolu- tionary War, Charles Kendall Adams Some New Letters by Leigh Hunt and Stevenson, Ethel Alleyne Ireland Souls Pilgrimage, A: Extracts from an Autobiography, C. F. B. Miiel. Spain, The Decadence of, Henry Charles Lea . . Spain, The Navy in the War with, Ira Nelson flollis After the Days Business, Richard Hovey Craven, Henry Newbolt Democracy William Prescott Foster Glamour, Alizabeth Wilder Happiness, Josephine Preston Peabody In a treet, Bliss Car man Messmatns, Henry Newbolt Name of Old Glory, The, James Whitcomb Riley Neptunian, P. H. Savage Night, Katharine Coolidge Old Broideries, Josephine Preston Peabody Contents. 145 735 165 632 519 833 174 761 424 826 128 569 644 307 461 707 174 122 62 36 605 Spanish Character, Lights and Shades of, Irving Babbitt 190 Stevenson, Some New Letters by Leigh Hunt and, Ethel Alleyne Ireland . . . 122 Summer Colonist, Confessions of a, W. D. Howells 742 Ten Beautiful Years, Mary Knight Potter 822 Thackeray, Some Aspects of, Henry D. Sedgwick, Jr 707 Three School Superintendents, Confessions of 44 Tinkling Simlins, The, Mary Tracy Earle 225 Trend of the Century, The, Seth Low . . 153, United States and the Control of the Trop- ics, The, Benjamin Kidd 721 Unity of Britain and America, The Essen tial, James Bryce 22 Unpublished Letters of Carlyle, 6harles Townsend Copeland. . . 289, 445, 673, 785 Unpublished Poem by Byron, An, Pierre lv Rose . . . . . . . 810 Vivisection of China, The, Elisie Reclus 329 War, and After, The End of the . . . . 430 War and Money: Some Lessons of 1862, J. Laurence Laughlin 47 War with Spain, The Navy in the, Ira Nelson Hollis 605 Where Angels Fear to Tread, Morgan Robertson . . . . . . 206 Wholesome Revival of Byron, The, Paul Elmer More 801 Wife of his Youth, The, Charles W. Ches nutt . . . . . . . . 55 Wit and a Seer, A, Woodrow Wilson . . 527 Yosemite, Among the Animals of the, John Mrnr 617 Yosemite, Among the Birds of the, John Mwr 751 POETRY. 288 Old Homes, Madison Cawein 855 284 Quatrain, ,John Albert Macy 776 287 Sermon of the Rose, The, ~James TVhitcomb 540 Riley 429 855 Soil-Song, John B. Tabb 93 108 Summer Died Last Night, Maude Cald- 616 well Perry 750 To Those who Know, Henrietta Christian 727 Wriqht. . . . . . . 362 285 Yonng~st Son of his Fathers House, The, 288 Anna Hempstead Branch 110 286 CoETnInuTons CLUE. Bibliomania, Concerning 141 Scorning Shakespeares Marriage Dictum 860 Heroine of the Future, The 139 Two Stages of a Hero, The 859 Last Chapter, The 856

Gladstone 1-22

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY: ~ frna~aPne of ILitcrature, ~cicnce, art, an~ j~oIitic~. VOL. LXXXIL JULY, 1898. No. CC CCL XXXIX. GLADSTONE. AMONG the countrymen of Mr. Glad- stone it will be long before even-minded views can be taken of his character, his genius, and his career. They will re- member him as he appeared to them in the heat of passionate conflicts, like St. Michael in the eyes of one party, like Apollyon in the sight of the other; and the good and great imperfect man that he was is little likely to be shown in truth to either. Nor will his work be justly measured or the spirit of his life revealed by cold criticism from Germany and France. More than other public men of our time he needs to be studied with a sympathy dispassionate but warm, and with an interest impartially keen. If such a study is possible anywhere, it ought to be possible in America, and the purpose of this article is to make the at- tempt. On the side of both father and mother Mr. Gladstone was of purely Scottish descent: half Highland and half Low- land, as stated by himself; half Celtic and half Teutonic, as the significance of the fact may be better expressed. His remote paternal ancestors were lairds of considerable estate, but the ancient stem had thrown branches into trade, and the statesman sprang from one of those. John Gladstone, his father, began life and commercial experience at Leith, but removed to Liv~rpool at the age of twenty-two, and entered, in the corn trade, upon a career of great success. He passed in due time to the front rank of the merchant princes of the rising city, and became a man of both weight and power, as much by the force of his character as by the measure of his wealth. When the oracles of Liver- pool were questioned, as they often were, by heads of government and committees of Parliament, on matters of fact and policy touching finance and trade, John Gladstone was sure to be heard. His in- terests had passed far beyond the trade in corn. He was a sugar-planter, with great estates and many hundreds of slaves, in Jamaica and Demerara; he was an owner of ships; he had capital in banks, and varied ventures in many parts of the world. Nor did the pow- erful, pushing Scotebman confine the working of his energy to these money- getting affairs. He was active and ag- gressive in the politics of the day, conspicuous in the hottest fighting, and continually exposed to the roughest han- dling in local caricature and abuse. He came to Liverpool, it is said, a Presby- terian and a Whig. He had grown to be a Churchman and a Tory of the stiff- est creed. Political distinction was be- yond the reach of such talents as he possessed, but as one of the pillars of the party his standing was marked, and he received a baronetcy for reward. He sat in Parliament twice (elected in 1818 and 1820), not for his own city, but for more pliant boroughs at Lancaster and Woodstock, and had little to say or do in the great assembly, so far as can now be seen. Apparently, Sir John Gladstone was Gladstone. a man of more force than fineness in the qualities that marked his character. Even seventy years ago the best of moral fibre could not reasonably be looked for in a British capitalist who drew profit from the labor of slaves. If the slave- owning of the elder Gladstone had been only a minor incident of his undertak- ings and kept in the background of his life, it might claim little notice; but it took importance from its magnitude, and from the prominence of his opposition to all measures in behalf of the slaves. He maintained the discipline of the lash on his plantations to the last, and his great Demerara estates acquired a sinis- ter notoriety in the abolitionist reports of the day. At the end, when compen- sated emancipation was decreed by the British Parliament, he received more than 75,000 for the slaves that had been solely his own, besides large shares of payment that came to him through his partnership in other estates. To this thrifty and resolute Scottish merchant of Liverpool there were born four sons, of whom the youngest was William Ewart, so named after one of the fathers Scottish friends. The birth of William Ewart Gladstone occurred on the 29th of December, 1809. Before he reached the age of twelve he was sent to join two of his brothers at Eton, and from Eton he passed to Oxford in January, 1828, entering as a commoner of Christ Church. He came, no doubt, prepared by all the influences of his home, to accept the spirit of the univer- sity with a complete surrender to it of heart and mind. He had been reared in an atmosphere of political Toryism, the rank quality of which can easily be conceived. He was now brought into another of like kind, but more penetrat- ing, because of the different elements, scholastic, ecclesiastical, and social, that were subtly distilled into it. Oxford was on the eve of the singular move- ment of Church revival to which its name was afterward given. The publi cation of the Tracts for the Times was not yet begun, but much of the feeling that inspired them must have been al- ready in the air. It is true that Mr. Gladstone has said, in A Chapter of Autobiography, that when he resided in Oxford, from 1828 to 1831, no sign of it [the Tractarian Movement] had yet appeared; but where Newman was preaching, where Pusey was teaching, and where students like Henry Manning and James Hope (the Hope-Scott of later times) were his close companions, there must have been currents in motion around him that set strongly toward the chan- nels of the agitation of 1833. At all events, it is certain that young Glad- stone became inspired at Oxford with a passion of belief in and devotion to the Church. By nature he was strongly in- clined, it is clear, to religious feeling, and to the attitude of mind which makes religious faith easy. But there cannot be a doubt that the influence of the uni- versity turned most of his natural reli- gious fervor into a kind of passionate Churchmanship, which became the domi- nant strain in his conservatism, and the dominating force in his life for many subsequent years. To understand this principal and most powerful effect upon him from Oxford is nearly to understand Mr. Gladstone, and perhaps to obtain a key to the most puzzling parts of his career. While everything in his history has gone to prove that he was formed by nature for the activities and contentions of public life, he felt at the university so strong an impulsion toward clerical duties that nothing but the strenuous opposition of his father, it is said, pre- vented his taking them up. Neverthie- less, he prepared himself well, with the opportunities of Oxford, for his future parliamentary work. He was an excel- lent student, and grounded himself broad- ly in the learning which gave an endow- ment of relief to his laborious years. He made the most of the debating clubs, Gladstone. 3 where he shone with a distinction that opened Parliament to him almost on the instant of his quitting the university, from which he bore away the high hon- ors of a double first. If there was a Tory in England more petrified in his Toryism than any other, it was the Duke of Newcastle. Down to the middle of the year 1832 his Grace had owned, as he conceived, the parlia- mentary borough of Newark-upon-Trent, dictating the votes of his tenants, and sternly evicting them when they dared to exhibit political opinions of their own. But now his dictatorship in the borough was menaced most seriously by an inter- meddling act. The great Reform Bill had been passed, and became law on the 7th of June, 1832, the year in which young Mr. Gladstone finished his studies at Christ Church. That act enlarged the suffrage in every borough, and it animated the independence of tenant voters everywhere. The Duke of New- castle might still depend upon an influ- ence in Newark too powerful to be easily overcome, but his past security was in doubt. He looked about for some young and ardent mouthpiece of the grim old political faith, whose eloquent, persuasive tongue might help to keep the house- holders of Newark in line. Young Glad- stone was found to satisfy the ducal want, and he received an invitation to stand against a Whig nominee at the coming general election appointed to be held near the end of the year. He accept- ed the invitation without hesitancy, was duly elected by a considerable majority of votes, and took his seat in that first reformed Parliament of Great Britain which assembled on the 20th of Janu- ary, 1833. Here, then, he stood, at the age of twenty-three, in the doorway of man- hood, and yet on the threshold of a political career. Doubtless it seemed a happy fortune that opened Parliament and public life to him so soon, but as- suredly it was not. No man of that age, when half the plantings of boyhood are still unripe in him, is prepared to give binding pledges to any party or creed; least of all is one ready who comes fresh, like the Gladstone lad, from a conser- vatory culture of the Oxford sort. He needed some years for the maturing of his convictions as his mind matured, and he lost freedom for that. He was committed, bound fast to the political dogmas of his father, of his university, of his patron the Duke of Newcastle, compelled to make a record on them to which the criticising future would never fail to point. Nor was this the worst. Macaulay, in his trenchant way, has described the malign intellectual effect of an early cultivation of the talent for debate. We should sooner expect, he says, a great original work on political sci- ence such a work, for example, as the Wealth of Nations from an apotheca- ry in a country town or from a minister in the Hebrides than from a statesman who, ever since he was one-and-twenty, had been a distinguished debater in the House of Commons. The moral mis- chief that proceeds from the same cause has been pointed out by Mr. Bagehot in his essay on Peel. Neither Macaulay nor Bagehot has overstated the hurt of conscience and mind to which a young politician is exposed, and especially when he enters the arena of parliamentary de- bate at an immature period of life. Mr. Gladstone was thrust into those dangers at the age of twenty-three. It is neces- sary to remember the fact, whether we conclude that he resisted and escaped them, or that lie suffered by them and bore their marks. All this came upon him, moreover, at precisely the time when England was undergoing an ex- traordinary emancipation of mind. The passing of the Reform Bill was the breaking of a great dam. The floods were let loose. The old bounds and landmarks were being swept away. The, old beaten paths of mental habit were- 4 Gladstone. being broken up. And behind it all was no mere weather - change in the British region of politics, but a tremen- dous historic readjustment of equilib- riuni in the moral atmosphere of civili- zation, bringing everything in the po- litical world, and many things outside of it, into question and dispute. The reactions from the French Revolution were totally spent, and the re-reactions were moving mightily on. But the young man Gladstone, in the midst of the surge and tempest of such a time, alive to it, excited by it, in every fibre of his sensi- tive being, had been chained fast by the Duke of Newcastle to a stake in the sands! Of course he had no conscious- ness of his state of duress. He felt free, when he pointed his lance in defense of ground which he could not desert if he would, but the duress was an unfortunate fact. There was no lack of reformative work waiting for Earl Greys Ministry and the reformed Parliament of 1833. Nothing seemed to exist, in Church or State, that did not need to have wrongs, abuses, demoralizations, stupidities, or in- iquities reformed out of it. The govern- ment and its mixed majority of Whigs and Radicals did their duty with re- solution, driving measure after measure through the Commons, and generally through the House of Lords, while the Tory minority, under Peel, as valiant- ly, but vainly, opposed. Gladstone, of course, flinched from nothing in the op- position. He made his record, with his party, against a clearing out of obnox- ious sinecures; against a restriction of flogging in the army; against a removal of Jewish disabilities; against reforming the Irish Church, to diminish its oppres- siveness; against admitting Noneonforni- ists to the universities without a religious test; against an inquiry into the opera- tion of the Corn Laws; against short- ening the seven years duration of Par- liaments; and, most notably, perhaps, against the immortal act whieh~emanei pated every slave in the British colonies on the first day of August, 1834. In opposing this latter measure Mr. Glad- stone made his first important speech, taking ground, not against ultimate emancipation, for which he expressed an ardent desire, but against haste in the liberation of the blacks, demanding time for their preparation to be free. In view of what came after, it was a curious record that he made in those first two years of his parliamentary life, and in no part more curious than in what related to the Irish Church. That Church was an Establishment for the religious satisfaction of about one tenth (then) of the people at whose cost it was maintained. It supported twenty- two bishops, with incomes amounting to 150,000 a year, and fourteen hundred benefices, endowed with 600,000 a year; in addition to which there was levied a cess, or tax, for its benefit, which yielded 60,000 or 70,000 more. The Ministry proposed to reduce the bish- oprics to twelve, to abolish the Church cess, and to tax bishops and benefices for the sum needed to repair churches and meet similar needs. That Gladstone should oppose even a measure so moder- ate in its approach to common justice and common sense as this was a neces- sary consequence of the view of the Established Church that he had taken into his mind, and which all his opin- ions must be forced to fit. I do not hesitate, he said, in speaking on the bill, I do not hesitate to say that I consider that Establishment to be essen- tially sacred in its nature. As a sacred institution, he could not consent to the touch of a profaning hand upon it. So long as he held that view it determined his stand on all questions of Church grievance in Ireland, on all issues with Dissent in England, and on many ques- tions besides. To loosen its hold on his mind would be to set him intellectual- ly free in many directions and over a sweeping range of political thought. Gladstone. The ministerial majority in Parlia- ment was made up of incongruous ele- ments that could not act together long. Parties on both sides, in fact, were in a transitional state. There were Whigs who found themselves brought into as- sociation with more radicalism, or politi- cal liberality, than they liked, and there were Tories who had begun to sicken of the rankness of the Toryisni of old times. The name Tory, indeed, was losing countenance. Mr. John Wilson Croker, in 1831, had suggested the name Conservative as a substitute, and the new name was gradually expelling the old from common use, while Liberal was soon to obtain recognition as the naturally opposite term. Jn a slow but sure way, old Whigs too sharply driven and younger Tories too sharply curbed were getting ready, without knowing it, for an exchange of place. Meantime, both parties were shambling along in a loose, undisciplined way, hard to control. After several changes in his cabinet, Lord Grey resigned in July, 1834, and the Ministry was reorganized, with Lord Melbourne at the head. But in Novem- ber King William, who did not love the reformers, thought matters among them were in such a state that he might venture to dismiss the whole Ministry, which he did in a summary way, calling Wellington and Peel to take the govern- ment in hand. Peel, who was in Italy, hastened home and assumed the lead. Among those whom he invited to sub- ordinate places in his administration was Gladstone, whose great ability he had easily discerned. He made him Under- Secretary for War and the Colonies, but the honor was briefly enjoyed. Parlia- ment had been dissolved, and the coun- try appealed to. It resented the uncon- stitutional act of the King in throwing out a Ministry to which the majority in Parliament was still affording support, and it gave its decision against him. Peel, in a famous manifesto to his con- stituents at Tamworth, had vainly cut 5. himself clear of the antique Toryism to which the bulk of his party adhered, proclaiming an open-minded disposition toward many reforms in State and Church. The Liberals were sent back with a renewed majority in Parliament. The stubborn Sir Robert held his ground against them until time 8th of April, when he had to resign, after defeat on a question concerning the appropriation of surplus revenues of the Irish Church. King William was then compelled to receive Lord Melbourne again into the premiership, with Lord Palmerston in the foreign office and Lord John Russell in the leadership of the House. The strife of parties continued on much the sam& lines as before, with much the same state of imperfect combination among the elements of which the par- ties were composed. Irish questions were kept persistently at the front by OConnells agitations, the great rock of difficulty being always the Irish Church. The Irish land question had not yet arrived within sight. Mr. Gladstone, who had been easily redected from Newark, stood fast by his old beliefs. Opposing the appointment of a commit- tee to consider the burning question of Church rates, he went so far in his speech as to deny that the motive for resistance by Dissenters to the payment of rates for supporting a church in whose doctrines they did not believe was a scru- ple of conscience, entitled to be recog- nized as such. On the 20th of June, 1837, the King died, and Qneen Victoria came to the throne. Parliament was dissolved, as required by law, and the Melbourne Ministry, manifestly in favor with the young Queen, received approval at the ensuing election from the popular vote. But its moderate majority in the Com- mons was far from solidity still, and a formidable minority was led against it by Peel, whose party controlled the Lords. It had troubles to face in Can- ada, in Jamaica, and in Ireland. The 6 Gladstone. difficulties beyond the Atlantic were sharply threatening, but there was sincer- ity in the disposition to cure their causes, and they were dealt with in a fairly ef- fectual way. The troubles in Ireland were chronic, and nobody in power dared thrust his hand down to the roots of them. Destitution in the wretched island had become frightful, beyond the ability of words to describe. Instead of trying to purge the foul system of things, which paralyzed industry and made a starved population inevitable, the government framed an English-patterned poor law for the country, to ornament it with workhouses and to oflicialize the pauper- ization of its people. The taking of tithes from Roman Catholic peasants for a Protestant priesthood produced inces- sant rage and rioting, and the tithes were millions in arrears. Instead of extinguishing the intolerable wrong, as a pestiferous relic of hateful times, the government made provision for the con- version of tithes into rent charges, and paid part of the arrears to tithe-owners from public funds. Nothing in domestic matters was boldly or thoroughly done, nothing strongly, nothing with agree- inent in the ministerial ranks. Russell could control the shaping of measures in Parliament not much more than Peel. The strength of the latter grew, while that of the former was weakened, and at last, in May, 1839, the Ministry, in dis- gust with the situation, resigned. Then came the queer incident of the Bed- chamber question. Peel, called to take the government, feared the disturbing in- fluence of the Whig ladies who surround- ed the Queen, and asked permission to make some changes in the household of her Majesty. The Queen refused con- sent, and Sir Robert withdrew from his undertaking. Lord Melbourne and his associates, with sore unwillingness, but gallantly, resumed the burdens of office, and struggled on for two years more, until the spring of 1841. Then a vote of want of confidence was carried against them, and they went to the country with a new appeal. This time they lost the verdict of the elections, and Peel came down to Parliament with a strong major. ity at his back. Again, and now quite as a matter of course, Newark and the Duke of Newcastle returned Mr. Glad- stone to his seat. The epoch of the Ministry organized under Peel in 1841 proved to be one of lasting importance in English history. The government had great problems to deal with, great difficulties to encounter, and its dependence was upon a party incapable of comprehending a problem or recognizing a difficulty when it rose. But the abilities and qualities of Peel were singularly fitted to the situation in which he found himself placed. For some time past he had been shaping his mind to the acceptance of changes in public policy from which there was no escape. It was an open and an honest mind, with great power in the practical application of principle to circumstance, but with no originality and no imagina- tive warmth. He got light on new ques- tions in a very slow mode. He was no dis- coverer of the inward truths in politics, and was late in seeing them, after other open-minded men had found them and shown them to the world. But when the revelation did reach him, he received it in a fearlessly honest way. He had no weak carefulness for his own consistency. Again and again in his career he yielded himself to conversions which the small- minded have sneered at, which the im- penetrable-minded have called treacher- ous, but which candid minds must great- ly admire. We may doubt whether any other character in statesmanship could have been so useful to England as was that of Peel, during the period of ex- traordinary change in which he served it. With the remarkable hold that he had on the Tory party, through its utter inability to do anything in Parliament without him, his deep and strong con- servatism on one side, and his slow but Gladstone. 7, intrepid open-mindedness on the other, would seem to have had an equally great part to play in accomplishing reforms for the time without too much haste. To serve under such a leader as Sir Robert Peel was one of the fortunate happenings of Gladstones life. His, too, was a conscientious mind. We may sometimes have to doubt an equal direct- ness in its working, as compared with the inflexible candor of Peel; but the desire for right was controlling in both. Gladstone was intellectually more alert, and he possessed an imagination that was lacking in his chief. In tempera- ment he was a far more impressionable man, and much more disposed by his nature to become responsive to the ex- panding and liberalizing tendencies of his age. That natural disposition in him was still oppressed by one tyrannical pre- possession of mind; but its liberation approached, and the younger and the elder statesman were soon attuned to a harmony of co6peration which developed the best powers of the one as much as it assisted the work of the other. The intensity of belief in a divine com- mission of the Established Church with which Gladstone left Oxford had been deepened, if possible, by the influence of his Tractarian friends. He had not enlisted with them in their movement by any public act, but his sympathy was understood. In 1838 he satisfied his de- votion to the national establishment of religion by an independent offering to- ward the exaltation of it, in his book on The State in its Relations to the Church. The book would have been forgotten long ago, if Macaulay had not immor- talized it by a review, and if the politi- cal enemies of the author had not found satisfaction so often in recalling its doc- trines to mind. It was written to de- mnonstrate that the propagation of re- ligious truth is one of the chief ends of government; assuming, of course, that religions truth is embodied purely in the doctrines and teachings of the Eng lish Church. Wide interest was ex- cited by the work when it appeared, and no little approval was given to it; but more disapproval, apparently, and much criticism that was sharp. It offended all evangelical opinion, whether in the Church or out of it, while its ground of argument was unsatisfactory to the Trac- tarian party, whose faith in the Aiiglican Church depended wholly on the evidence to be found of its true descent from the primitive Church. A defense of the Establishment on semi-political lines re- ceived no warm welcome at their hands. In the political world it was coldly dis- cussed, as something likely to damage the prospects of the writer, and Peel, especially, is reported to have dismissed it with an impatient remark. But whatever the effect of the book on Mr. Gladstones reputation, he un- doubtedly was yet, in 1841, as Macau- lay had described him in 1839, the rising hope of those stern and unbend- ing Tories, who follow, reluctantly and mutinously, a leader whose experience and eloquence are indispensable to them, but whose cautious temper and moder- ate opinions they abhor. Peel can have had no jealousy of him, and he knew his worth. He knew, too, far bet- ter than Gladstone himself, the kind of public service for which he needed to be trained. It is said that the young states- man coveted the post of Chief Secretary for Ireland, and that it was denied to him. The Premier was too wise for the mistake which that appointment would have been. While Gladstone ~remained unable to see anything in Ireland except through the painted windows of the Irish Church, the place he sought might easily have been fatal to his future. He did not know it then, but he must have seen in after years that he owed grati- tude to the shrewd wisdom of the chief who assigned him, in the making up of the administration of 1841, to the vice- presidency of the Board of Trade, where his duties came nowhere into touch with 8 Gladstone. questions concerning the Church, and where the strongest of his faculties were brought into full play. He became ab- sorbed in economic studies at once, and was insensibly drawn away from those matters of ecclesiastical and theological consideration which had oppressed and hampered his mind. He now found the class of subjects that he could handle with the finest skill, the details that he could master with the greatest power, the kind of exposition in which he could shine with most distinction in debate. He had been led into the right path at a critical parting of the ways. He had entered upon his real career. At the same time, the Church, as a national establishment of religion, was being shown to him in a new light, by workings within it which disappointed expectations and beliefs that had been the firmest in his mind. The Oxford movement was proving to be a movement Homeward, and the revival attempted iu it had shaken instead of strengthen- ing the English Church. The drift of feeling and the drift of events were go- ing plainly against that conception of the Church which had been the dominating idea in Mr. Gladstones mind. Twenty- seven years later, ia A Chapter of Auto- biography, he wrote his own account of the change then beginning to be wrought in his political view of the Established Church. Summarized in a few words, the truth appears to be that Mr. Gladstone was now coming to the recognition of facts in the light of which the Church could not be any longer the main object in his political views. To remove it from that place in his thought was to take the cor- ner-stone from his conservatism, and to make inevitable a general crumbling of the alien fabric of inherited and accepted opinions. In coincidence with this re- lease, as it may be called, occurred the circumstance of his appointment to an office that drew him into the imperious current of economic discussion which swept England in those years. It was a discussion more certain than any other that can be imagined to wash British Toryism of the old sort out of a can- did, intelligent brain. It had been do- ing so with Peel; it was to do so with Gladstone; and the evolution of the fu- ture leader of English Liberalism from the young man who in 1839 could be called the rising hope of stern and unbending Tories was practically accomplished in that fourth decade of his life. Within the limits of this article the story of Peels Ministry and its achieve- ments cannot be told. Of the depression and distress that England had suffered since 1837; of the disorder that in- creased; of the conflicting agitations that rami politically into Chartism and com- mercially into the overpowering work of the Anti-Corn-Law League; of the grad- ual surrrender of Peel to the free-trade doctrines of Cobden, Bright, Vihliers, and the irresistible league; of his mea- sures, beginning with the sliding - scale of corn duties and the significant tariff revision of 1842, and ending in 1846 with the great act which uprooted protec~ tionism from British policy, and put the seal of its surpassing wisdom on the su- premacy of England iu the trade of the world, the tale has been often told, and is familiar to most readers of the present day. Gladstone kept step with his leader, and was the ablest of lieu- tenants in the whole advance. With every stride forward they left more of the heavy-footed squires of their own country party behind, and drew more of their support from the party they were expected to oppose. It was treason they committed, if we take the judgment of the deserted Tories on what they did; it was patriotism they exemplified, if the history of England from that day till now is permitted to testify. While Gladstone was thus finding the way to his ultimate career, the rival most contrasted to him, and destined to Gladstone. 9 dispute power with him most strenuous- ly in the coining time, was doing the same. Disraeli, who entered Parlia- ment in 1837, had thus far made no particular mark in the House. He had amused and interested certain circles by the rather heavy satire and enigmatical doctrine of his political novels, and the acrid wit of phrase-making in his speeches was considerably enjoyed; but of p0- litical weight it is manifest that he had none. He was a free-lance in the House, not to be counted on by any party or by any faction of a party. He played with some of the doctrines of radicalism at one moment, as though they were the joy and hope of his life, and tickled the country squires at the next with a cod- dling of their dearest beliefs. But when it began to be seen that the stern and unbending Tories were about to lose their rising hope as well as their de- parting chief, and that a desperate need of leadership and debating talent was soon to be felt in that venerable party of the past, Disraeli sank himself comfort- ably into the cool embrace of conserva- tisin, as fast as Peel and Gladstone and other men of shining ability rose out of it. It was so obviously the opening of opportunity, the offered place of little competition, the ground of advantage for dexterous talents like his, that he must have laughed at the humor of in- genious Fortune when she beckoned him to the half-deserted camp. Those were the days when he first won the heart of bucolic conservatism by the stinging phrases that he flung at the organized hypocrisy of perfidious ministers; by the lively scorn that he heaped on the bourgeois policy of free trade; by the happy art with which he painted for protectionism and the landed interest a picturesque and historical background of feudal origin and obligation, to distract attention from their want of economic support. In the last hours of the great battle for free trade Peel lost the help of Glad- stone. The latter had been advanced in 1843 from the vice-presidency to the presidency of the Board of Trade, which gave him a cabinet seat. In 1845, on Peels proposal to increase the govern- ment grant of money to the Roman Cath- olic College of iMlaynooth in Ireland, and to establish three non-sectarian colleges in that country, Gladstone felt impelled to resign, in order, as he afterward ex- plained, to place himself in a position of freedom to consider his course without being liable to any unjust suspicion on the ground of personal interest. But, being free, he determined to give sup- port to the bill, and did so by voice and vote. Soon afterward the crisis of the corn-law question was reached in Peels cabinet; two of its members resigned, and Mr. Gladstone, as Secretary for the Colonies, came into the vacancy left by Lord Stanley, the Lord Derby of later years. Acceptance of this office involved the resignation of his parliamentary seat. Naturally, the Duke of Newcastle de- clined to support his redection from Newark, and Mr. Gladstone, unwilling to make a contest for the seat, retired. In the great debate of the session of 1846 his voice was not heard. Peel carried his bill in May; but the Protectionists had their revenge next month, when the Liberals joined them in defeating a co- ercion bill for Ireland, compelling the Ministry to resign. The new government, formed by Lord John Russell, with Lord Grey and Lord Palmerston for his strongest associates, had no party majority of their own to depend on in the House; but the fallen minister and his followers gave them a generous support. They held the reins for nearly six years, in the face of Irish difficulties terribly increased by the fain- me, and of a commercial crisis in Eng- land that followed closely after. A gen- eral election held in the fall of 1847 confirmed their tenure, and Mr. Glad- stone was returned to Parliament by elec- tion of the University of Oxford. 10 Gladstone. The next few years were not eventful ones in his life, though an eventful time in European history. It was the period of many revolutions, of the Schleswig- Holstein war, and of the coup d6tat in France. Spending the winter of 1850 with his family at Naples, Mr. Glad- stone made a searching investigation of the monstrous oppressions of the gov- eminent of King Ferdinand, and an ex- posure of them in letters to the Times, which stirred all Europe, creating a public feeling that even King Bomba could not disregard. Later in that year ~he death of Sir Robert Peel occurred, and the members of his personal follow- ing in Parliament, known then and for some time after as Peelites, were left in an uncertain position. They were on a middle ground in politics, between de- fined Conservatives and Liberals, binding themselves to neither. They were now less likely to act en masse than when their chief remained to lead them, but they formed a factor to be reckoned with still. They prevented a change of Min- istry in 1851 by their refusal to join hands with the Protectionist-Conserva- tive party; and when, next year, the Russell Ministry fell, it was Stanley (now become Earl of Derby) and Dis- raeli who undertook the government, the Peelites remaining with the opposition. The experiment of Conservative admin- istration lasted only from February till December. Disraeli, who had realized his ambition and become the leader of his party in the House, undertook the Exchequer, and brought in a budget of extraordinary cleverness in its trick-play- ing with protection and free trade. It was shattered by Gladstone, in a speech that revealed fully for the first time his never equaled power in the handling of the subjects of public finance. The too ingenious budget was thrown out by a majority of nineteen, and the Derby- Disraeli Ministry gave place to one head- ed by the Earl of Aberdeen, in which Peelites were in coalition with Whigs. The new Ministry represented the first stage in the organic construction of the Liberal party of future politics. Mr. Gladstone now stepped into Mr. Dis- raelis place as Chancellor of the Ex- chequer, and the rivalry of the two men became pronounced. True rivals in finance, or in any of the higher spheres of statesmanship, they could never be, for one was scientific where the other was ingenious, and warmly earnest where the other was coolly shrewd; but in the great arena of parliamentary debate they were to head the strife of parties for many years to come. The budget brought forward by Glad- stone in April, 1853, is one of the recog- nized masterpieces of national finance, and the speech in which he unfolded it was the first of many that are supreme examples of political oratory in their kind. That no other financier in his- tory, so sound in his mastery of princi- ples and so strong in his knowledge of facts, has ever been able to make them a subject of delightful eloquence, in the degree to which they were made so by Mr. Gladstone, seems beyond dispute. If the government of Lord Aberdeen was financially strong, it was otherwise weak. It allowed England to be drawn into an alliance with the parvenu Emperor of the French, and into a war with Rus- sia that had no justifiable cause and no useful result. It exasperated the nation by its mismanagement of the war, and by the consequent sufferings to which the army in the Crimea was exposed. In February, 1855, it was voted out of of- fice, and a reorganization of Ministry under Lord Palmerston occurred, after Derby and Russell had each attempted the task without success. Mr. Gladstone and other Peelites withdrew, disagree- ing with Palmerstons consent to a com- mittee for investigating the condition of the army before Sebastopol. There was evidently some bitterness in the dis- agreement; for Greville, in his diary, July 29, 1855, says, Gladstone & Co. Gladstone. 11~ may now be considered as being in de- cided opposition, and remarks, The breach between them and the Whigs is very wide, and the Derbyites hate them with intensity, while they are too weak to form a party of their own. Their opposition, however, does not seem to have gone far in animosity, and Glad- stones attention must have been much diverted from political affairs ; for it was in this period that he wrote his Studies on Homer and the Homeric Age. Palmerston and his colleagues controlled the government for three years. They brought the Crimean war to a close, and carried British rule in India through the appalling crisis of the Sepoy revolt. Their Ministry was succeeded in the early part of 1858 by a new undertak- ing of Conservative administration, with Derby and Disraeli at its head. Mr. Gladstone was still further removed from parliamentary occupations for a time by a mission of importance which he ac- cepted, as Lord High Commissioner to the Jonian Islands, with results that led subsequently to the withdrawal of the British protectorate, and the annexation of the islands to the kingdom of Greece. During one session skillful management enabled Disraeli to avoid vital issues with the majority against him in the House. But when, in the next session, he at- tempted a piece of strategy, bringing in a new Ref ormn Bill for the confusion of the Liberals, it was a characteristic per- forumance, and it characteristically failed. Like his budget of 1852 it was found to be a too ingenious piece of work, and it was condemned by the House. Lord Palmerston took the premiership again, with the reconciled Peelites among his coadjutors, bringing a great array of talent into the Ministry. Mr. Gladstone was once more Chancellor of the Ex- chequer, and presently heightened his fame as a minister of finance by his co- operation with Cobden in negotiating the treaty of commercial reciprocity with France, and by his eradication of the last remnants of protective duty from the British tariff, accomplished in the budget of 1860. This budget carried with it, among its intended results, a great low- ering of the price of paper, thus bring- ing in the era of cheap newspapers and books, which was most obnoxious to con- servatism and gave rise to a fierce strug- gle with the House of Lords. Of events that belong in this period, the most important were those connected with the civil war in the United States. The attitude of Mr. Gladstone toward the issues in that conflict was a matter of the deepest interest to Americans then, and has been hardly less so since. That the British government as a whole, and its members generally, should be coldly neutral in form, and plainly unfriendly to the United States in fact, could oc- casion not much surprise. They repre- sented socially a class or caste in which that prevalent feeling toward tIme re- public was very little disguised. But Americans had been acquiring an idea of Mr. Gladstone which led them to expect something different from him, some- thing more in the spirit of Bright, of Cob- den, and of Goldwin Smith, and they felt a sore disappointment and resentment when he declared, in a speech made at Neweastle-upon-Tyne, in October, 1862, that Jefferson Davis had made an army, had made a navy, and, more than that, had made a nation. It was half true, and it could easily seem wholly true at the time; but it was not what a friend of the American Union would say. It was virtually a recognition of the South- ern Confederacy, and it had enormous significance and weight, coming from a man in Mr. Gladstones official place and with the personal influence that he pos- sessed even then. Some years afterward, Mr. Gladstone took pains to disclaim un- friendly intentions in what he said, con- fessed the mistake of the opinion he had uttered, and attempted an explanation which saddens one a little in reading, because it limps so lamely. I must 12 Gladstone. confess that I was wrong, he said; that I took too much upon myself in expressing such an opinion. Yet the motive was not bad. My sympathies were then where they had long before been, where they are now with the whole American people. I, probably, like many Europeans, did not understand the nature and the working of the Amer- ican Union. I had imbibed conscien- tiously, if erroneously, an opinion that twenty or twenty-four millions of the North would be happier and would be stronger of course assuming that they would hold together without the South than with it, and also that the negroes would be much nearer to emancipation under a Southern government than un- der the old system of the Union, which had not at that date been abandoned, and which always appeared to me to place the whole power of the North at the command of the slaveholding inter- ests of the South. As far as regards the special or separate interest of Eng- land in the matter, I, differing from many others, had always contended that it was best for our interest that the Union should be kept entire. Now, really, this is not a convincing plea. The Newcastle utterance was too em- phatically favorable to Mr. Daviss na- tion to be quite in agreement with the feelings here described. Yet, after all, the offense of Mr. Gladstone ought not to be an unforgivable one. In the au- tumn of 1862, after McClellans Penin- sular campaign, after the second Bull Run, after Lees invasion of Maryland, it was hard for the firmest foreign friends of the Union to have faith in its restora- tion, and confidence in the effectiveness of President Lincolns Emancipation Proclamation, then just put forth. The influence needed to keep alive foreign faith in the Union cause was a deep and dire hatred of slavery, but hatred of sla- very was mild in Mr. Gladstone, if not wanting entirely. He was removed by less than thirty years from the time when his family drew no small part of its wealth from slave labor, and it is nat- ural to suppose that he was less likely than other Englishmen of kindred char- acter to be prejudiced against the Con~ federacy by its corner - stone. But that he was ever inspired by a mean sentiment of hostility to Americans and their country cannot be reasonably be- lieved. The signs of disposition in his whole life are against that interpreta- tion of his words. He spoke from an unsound judgment, most unwisely; and that is a sin for which he has needed forgiveness more than once. If he had been entirely a wise man, he would not have been a great orator, he would not have wielded the extraordinary power of his enthusiasms, he would not have been Gladstone. Because he was Glad- stone, Americans can forget his New castle words with no great difficulty. Parliament was dissolved by expira~ tion of its term in 1865, and at the fol- lowing general election Mr. Gladstone lost his Oxford seat. His opinions had become too liberal for the university, especially since misgivings with regard to the Irish Church had begun to find expression in his speeches, and it cast him out. But Lancashire gave him a seat, and he was thenceforth more entire- ly untrammeled as a representative than he had ever been before. The last thread of connection with the conservatism of his early life had been cut. He took his stand definitely, erelong, by the side of John Bright and the more advanced of the Liberal leaders, as one of the trib- unes of the common people. Palmer- ston died in October, 1865, and Russell came to the head of the government. The introduction of a bill to answer the long-resisted demand for a further reform and extension of the elective franchise was decided upon, and Mr. Gladstone brought it forward iii the House. It proved to be too conserva- tive to interest the Radicals greatly, but too radical for the more conservative & ladstone. 13 Liberals, and the overthrow of the gov- ernment was brought about by it. The death-blow was given by a few professed Liberals, led by Mr. Lowe, who got the name of Adullamites from one of the witty speeches of Mr. Bright. Lord Derby and Mr. Disraeli now formed another Ministry, which endured for a little more than two years. It promptly took up the agitated question of reform, and, by making large conces- sions to the Liberals, passed a bill that went much farther in the democratic direction than the measure lately de- feated, and which caused deep Tory dis- gust. The first appeal made to the new constituencies thus created proved fatal ~o the responsible authors of the bill. This occurred in 1868, on a question in- 7olving the fate of the Church establish- merit in Ireland. Mr. Gladstone had be- come convinced that justice to Ireland and peace in that country were impossi- ble without the disestablishment of the church which nine tenths of the Irish people abhorred. He introduced reso- lutions, accordingly, and carried them aga the government. A dissolution of Parliament was the consequence; but it was postponed until November, when elections were held under the new law. They resulted in a large Liberal majori- ty, distinctly given in support of the policy of Irish Church disestablishment proposed by Mr. Gladstone. That gentleman was now, conspicuous- ly and beyond question, the head of the party that had triumphed in the elec- tions. It was inevitable that he should take direction of the government, and the way was naturally opened by the recent retirement of Lord John Russell from public life. In the cabinet which he formed, on the Queens invitation, sev- eral men of subsequent note were first brought to the political front, Lord Hartington, Mr. Goschen, Mr. Lowe, Mr. Forster, and Lord Dufferin, of the number, while Mr. Bright made his entry into cabinet office as president of the Board of Trade. Mr. Gladstone, in his fifty-ninth year, was now at the sum- mit of his intellectual powers, but not yet at the zenith of his renown. From the height of his supreme office, he exer- cised after this time, over England, an influence that grew to be more dominat- ing than any known in English history before, unless the very different influ- ence of the Pitts may possibly be com- pared with it. From 1868 to 1874 this first Prime Ministry of Gladstone was filled with great tasks, heroically undertaken and performed. First, of course, was the disestablishment of the Irish Church, in which the national mandate was obeyed. At this time he published the Chapter of Autobiography, already cited, to an- swer the critics who denounced his change of attitude toward the Protes- tant establishment in Ireland since the long - past days when it had seemed a sacred thing in his eyes. Disestablish- ment delivered Ireland from one op- pression; another, more productive of misery, though not more exasperating, remained. The Irish land system, con- trived and perfected, without conscience, in the interest of a half-alien landlord class, living generally elsewhere, and caring nothing for the country or the people, was iniquitous almost beyond be- lief. Tenants had no defined tenure and no rights under it. Landlords held un- limited power to rob them of improve- ments, exact extortionate rents, evict them at will. It was an old wrong, older than the English colonial slavery that had been dead for a generation, and which had been scarcely more cruel, but it had cried to deaf ears until now. And now the cry from Ireland, of all her grievances, had grown louder than it was even in the days of Daniel OCon- nell. A resounding, threatening echo to it was coming back from the millions of emigrated Irish in America. Instead of being weakened by the prodigious movement of her population to the New 14 Gladstone. World, Ireland had gained from it a new strength for resistance to her unending oppression. The Irish in Anierica had prospered. Great numbers of them had just gone through a soldierly training in the American civil war. They had money and men and captains to offer to any movement on behalf of Ireland that could be set on foot. From this stimu- lation came the Fenian conspiracy of 186569, which at least compelled the giving of more serious thought in Eng- land to Irish grievances than had been given to them before. Mr. Gladstone and others of like mind had now arrived at the determination that those griev- ances should be removed, that the Irish people should be pacified by justice, and that the chronic disease of hatred in one part of the United Kingdom toward the other part, poisonous and imperiling to the whole body politic, should be radi- cally cured. He addressed himself to the difficult problem of the reform of the Irish land laws with characteristic thoroughness, personally mastering the subject in its technical details and in its legal and historical ramifications so com- pletely that his knowledge, when he dealt with it, was overwhelming to his oppo- nents and amazing to his friends. His Irish land bill was introduced in Feb- ruary, 1870, in a speech of which the biographer of the late Mr. W. E. For- ster has said: A crowded House had sat entranced whilst Mr. Gladstone had given that wonderful account of the pro- visions of his Irish land bill, which is regarded by many competent critics as the most remarkable of his oratorical achievements. He seemed to be always able to arouse new admiration by each effort that he made; and the more stub- born the subject, the more fascinating his eloquence became. Contest over the bill consumed some months, but it was passed in the August following. That it only half succeeded in its aims is hardly strange. The power of the landlords to oppress their tenants was too great to be baffled on the first attempt. They found loopholes in the act, and contrived means to evade its intentions in many exas- perating ways. But the great fact that English statesmen and the English peo- ple had begun to show in earnest a will to do justice to Ireland, and that land- lords and clergy were no longer to be undisputed in its affairs, had a potent effect. Deep discontent remained, but the violent spirit in it was sapped. Fe- manism died out, and no really revolu- tionary undertaking has assumed form since. The movement for home rule grew up in place of the struggle for na- tional independence; and though Ire- land became afterward a more trouble- some factor in British politics than ever before, this was because it bad been fair- ly brought into the national politics in- stead of being thrust outside. One thing more Mr. Gladstone at- tempted to do for Ireland, by the cre- ation of a national university, broad enough to cover colleges of all creeds; but the attempt failed. For education in England, his government took the first great and difficult step toward the institution of a national system of ele- mentary schools. The scheme of its edu- cation bill, framed and carried through by Mr. Forster, perpetuated the Church schools, and received more Conservativg than Liberal support, being bitterly op- posed by a strong radical party which had been striving for a national system of strictly secular schools; but it was the~ beginning of duty in a matter that had suffered shameful neglect. Introduction of the ballot, abolition of the sale and purchase of army commissions, and set- tlement of the Alabama claims by the Treaty of Washington with the United States were among the other notable achievements of the Gladstone govern- ment. It seems to have tired the nation at last with an excess of good work, and early in 1874 the Premier felt called upon, without immediate provocation from Parliament, to make an appeal to Gladstone. 15 the country, to test public opinion on his policy, including measures to come. The elections were adverse, and he resigned. Mr. Disraeli was called to the premier- ship, and formed a strong Ministry, with a strong majority in Parliament to give it support. Release from office brought with it to Mr. Gladstone a longing for still further release from the labors and responsibil- ities of his leadership in the Liberal party. With all the intensity of his life in Parliament, it had never been the whole of life to him. He had kept large reserves of other interests, to which he always turned with delight in every hour of escape from official cares. The tastes of the student were never extinguished in him by the busy habits of the man of affairs. Amid now, at sixty-five, after the accomplishment of so many of his parliamentary aims, a great desire to bring more of the sweetness of rest and letters and domestic privacy into the remaining years of his life came upon him. It is not hard to see that this de- sire was most natural to him, at that point in his life, though it might not last; and yet, when he announced his wish to withdraw, at no distant time, from all the responsibilities of leader- ship, every possible motive of meanness was looked for by his political enemies to explain the act. In his owii party, hardly less than consternation and hope- lessness was caused by the thought of losing him from the place of command; but he persisted in claiming his release. I see no public advantage, he said, in my continuing to act as the leader of the Liberal party, and at the age of sixty-five, after forty-two years of a laborious public life, I think myself en- titled to retire on the present opportuni- ty. This retirement is dictated to me by my personal views as to the best method of spending the closing years of my life.... I should, perhaps, add that I am at present, and mean for a short time to be, engaged on a special matter that occupies me closely. The special matter referred to proved to be the pamphlet on The Vatican Decrees which he published sooii after. It represents the kind of occupation to which he hoped to give the remainder of his life. Soomi after the opening of the session in 1875 Mr. Gladstone stepped down to a followers place in the Liberal ranks, and the Marquis of Hartington took, re- luctantly, time leaders post. Lord Hart- ington (now Duke of Devonshire) is an able man; but he had little of Glad- stones strength in debate, and nothing of his enthusiasm. There was no moral momentum in his nature to carry him and his party forward to higher ground and further ends. Half the vigor of English Liberalism was soon found to have disappeared, and Disraelis task of government was made easy to lminm by a languid opposition. In domestic mat- ters the new Premier pursued a course to be generally admired, particularly in the passing of important measures of sanitary reform; but he looked to for- eign affairs for the distinction of his Ministry. It was in this period of his administration that the terms Jingo and Jingoism came into use, and the barbaric war spirit that they signify was deliberately instigated and used by Dis- raeli at the time. He had appealed to it in the elections which brought him into power. As stated by his Tory bio- grapher, Mr. Kebbel, he had spoken to the British workmen of England; of her glory and her duty; of the imperial inheritance which their ancestors had won, and which they must transmit to their posterity; of the proud position which she occupied among the nations of the world, and of the divine mission which it was her privilege to fulfill in the spread of civilization and religion. In an age of economy and materialism, exclaims Mr. Kebbel, of cheap break- fast - tables and bread - and - butter pro- sperity, these accents fell upon the public ear, long unaccustomed to such sounds, 16 Gladstone. with thrilling power. So England cheered and shouted, and sang music- hall songs, for the time, over a splendid imperial policy, of protection, to the rotten despotism of the Turk, of antago- nism to Russia, of advance to a scien- tific frontier for India, of ownership in the Suez Canal, of extended South African possessions. In the midst of the glory of it, Mr. Disraeli crowned his career in a fitting way by accepting an earidom from the Queen, and sinking his plebeian name in the title of Lord Beaconsfield. Meantime, Mr. Gladstone had heen drawn back irresistibly into the practi- cal leadership of the Liberal party hy excitements incident to Turkish affairs, caused especially by the atrocities in Bulgaria. He could not keep out of the fray, nor enter the fray without be- ing in the front of it. His voice rang out against longer adherence to a shame- ful protectorate over the Turk, main- tained to keep the carcass of his dead empire in the way of a Russian advance to the Mediterranean. Jingoism fell be- fore the assaults of common sense and Christian feeling. In vain were there banners and trumpetings when Lord Beaconsfield came back from the settle- ment of the Treaty of Berlin, boasting of peace with honor. The country at large saw emptiness in the outcome of his imperial policy, and gave its pre- ference to the homely bread-and-butter prosperity that seemed to be slipping away. Elections held in 1880, on the dissolution of Parliament, were over- whelmingly in favor of the Liberals. Mr. Gladstones Midlothian speeches had been the inspiration of the campaign, and had given its programme to the party. It was possible for no other man to command the political situation, and no other could take the responsibility of government. He could not escape from it if he would. The brief retirement of Mr. Glad- stone to a less burdened life was then followed by the most troubled and try- ing period of his career. It is doubtful if any statesman was ever more painful- ly harassed by more varied misfortunes and difficulties, more innocently as to the causing of most among them, than was Gladstone in the five years of his second administration. From the spirited pol- icy of his predecessor he received a fine legacy of troubles: a British army trapped in Afghanistan; a Boer war, provoked by wrongs which a just British government must redress; a situation in Egypt leading to the Arabi revolt, to its necessary suppression by British troops, to consequent responsibilities on the Nile, demanding the withdrawal of Egyptian garrisons from the Soudan, to Gordons mission to Khartoum, to his beleaguer- ment by the Mahdists, and to the res- cuing expedition which came too late. The anxieties and the storms of party malice which these events produced were enough to bow the shoulders of a younger man than Mr. Gladstone, but they may have seemed light to him compared with the tempest from Ireland that broke upon his government. The Land Act of 1870 had proved to be abortive legislation. At the trial before the Parnell commission in 1888 Sir Charles Russell produced abundant evidence of its failure to give tenants the protection designed. It had proba- bly, on the whole, made matters in Ire- land worse by excitement and disap- pointment of hopes, and by provoking what seemed to be a conspiracy in the meaner class of landlords to drive the Irish peasantry to despair. Evictions in 1880 were double the yearly average of the preceding quarter-century. Statis- tics submitted to the Parnell commis- sion show an average in Connaught, between 1853 and 1878, of 960 evic- tions per year, increased in 1880 to 1995; in Munster, 1076, increased to 2345. In December, 1880, General Gordon, who is a witness to be trusted by all the world, visited the southwest of Gladstone. iT Ireland, in the hope, as he said, of discovering how some settlement could be made of the Irish question, which, like a fretting cancer, eats away our vitals as a nation. On his return he wrote as follows to the Times: I have come to the conclusion that, first, a gulf of antipathy exists between the land- lords and tenants of the northwest and west and the southwest of Ireland. It is a gulf which is not caused alone by the question of rents; there is a com- plete lack of sympathy between the classes. . . . Second, no half - measure acts which left the landlords with any say to the tenantry of those portions of Ireland will be of any use. They would be rendered, as past land acts in Ireland have been, quite abortive, for the land- lords will insert clauses to do away with their force. He concluded by saying that the state of our fellow countrymen in the parts I have named is worse than that of any people in the world, let alone Europe, and that yet they are patient beyond belief, loyal, but at the same time broken - spirited and desperate. Action in Ireland against this terrible state of things was being doubly organ- ized, with two aims, soon to be combined in one. The Land League of Michael Davitt set itself in array against land- lordism as a curse to be wholly rooted out, while the party for Home Rule, now consolidated under a new and masterful leader, Mr. Parnell, made the conces- sion of a separate legislature to Ireland its ultimate demand. The league and the party were allied and powerfully equipped with means for making them- selves felt. This was the Irish situation that con- fronted Mr. Gladstone when he resumed the task of government. He formed a Ministry that seemed promising of great sympathy and generosity in treatment of the hard problems involved. Mr. For- ster, Quaker-bred, and especially known to the Irish people r.s their well-proved friend, was given the direction of mea voL. txxxu. xo. 489. 2 sures for Ireland in the important Chief Secretarys place. Mr. Bright came into the cabinet; likewise Mr. Chamberlain, representing extreme Birmingham radi- calism, and close in relations with the Irish party; while Sir Charles Dilke, of kindred politics, held a lower adminis- trative place. Ireland seemed to be well befriended in the government, yet no government before was ever involved in an antagonism so bitter with its subjects in the Celtic isle. The very cordialities that were in the situation at first proved mischievous in the end. The Irish ex- pected too much from the government, and too soon. The government, on its side, expected too much trust in its friendly spirit and too much patient waiting. Mr. Forster, especially, would seem to have looked for a faith in him- self that was not manifested to his sat- isfaction. So feelings that were sym- pathetic at first soon cooled, and an estrangement began that quickly grew to hostility of the fiercest kind. The government, unwilling to take up at once the troublesome project of a new land bill, passed a bill through the House making temporary provision of redress for the persecuted tenants. It was killed by an overwhelming majority in the House of Lords. This let loose the im- pending storm. Ireland had been wak- ened from despair to hope, and now hope gave way to wrath, and wrath bred vio- lence, and violence provoked the chastis- ing arm of oppressive power. The scenes of murder and riot that ensued, the dy- namite explosions, the organized boy- cotting, the systematized suspension of rent payments, and all the varied contri- vances of disorder that added ruin to ruin in Ireland during the next few years are remembered well. So, too, are the scenes that followed in the British Par- liament. The sixty-two representatives of the Home Rule party, led as a solid phalanx by Mr. Parnell, and determined that no other business should be done while Irish questions suffered neglect, 18 Gladstone. practically paralyzed the House for weeks by their tactics of obstruction. Thea the Speaker, taking power arbi- trarily into his hands, broke the rules of the House, silenced the obstructionists, and enabled the Ministry to pass a co- ercion bill which gave them despotic powers. Armed with these powers, Mr. Forster applied them with unmerciful severity. An obstinate Yorkshire na- ture underlying his Quaker culture was roused, and he acted in the spirit of a Tory of some past generation. He filled the prisons with suspects, including Mr. Parnell and other Irish leaders, for a time, and persisted in stubborn blind- ness to the fact that terror can never make peace. Of course, Mr. Gladstone, as the head of the government, must be held to ac- count for the sad blundering of this un- happy time. It is said that he never believed in the repressive policy of Mr. Forster; and that is probably true. But he countenanced it too long allowed it to go too far for his own fair fame. One feels, too, in reviewing the story, that if he had realized the threat of the situation at an early day, and had brought his whole energy and influence to bear on its difficulties in the beginning, there might have been a very different course of events. It is quite possible that he did not willingly believe in the com- pleteness of the failure of his own Land Act of 1870, and met the demand for its. revision too indifferently because too skeptically. This may not be so, but it seems to be a reasonable conjecture; there is some suggestion of it in the awakened vigor with which Mr. Glad- stone pressed a new land bill through both houses of Parliament between April and August of 1881, immediately after Mr. Forsters coercion bill, and while the bludgeon that the latter fashioned was being most roughly used. Natural- ly, under the circumstances, the new act, which created a tribunal to adjudi- cate rents, was an inadequate piece of work. It was repudiated by the Irish Nationalist members, who refused to vote on the second reading of it, while it drew fresh denunciations from the land- lords and their friends. Mr. Lecky, holding a brief for the latter, devotes a considerable section of his work on De- mocracy to an argument, which we ven- ture to call fallacious, against this act, as being in violation of contract between the British government and the pur- chasers of property in Ireland under the Incumbered Estates Act of 1849. As a matter of fact, the principle of the Land Bill of 1881 has been practically maintained by Conservatives as well as Liberals in legislation since, and provi- sions to improve its working have been added by both. The policy of Mr. Forster was pur- sued unrelentingly until April, 1882. Then some kind of overture from Mr. Parnell, in Kilmainham prison, was wel- comed by the government, and a truce was arranged which brought active hos- tilities between the contending parties to an end. Mr. Forster, refusing assent to it, resigned, and Lord Frederick Caven- dish was appointed to his place. The assassination of the new Secretary, quick- ly following, in Dublin, caused no renew- al of the state of war, but rather, by the horror of it, sobered all parties in the political world. Parliament was able once more to give attention to neglected affairs. The session of 1883 produced the important law by which corrupt prac- tices in English elections have been ef- fectually suppressed. In the next years session a bill for further enlargement of the elective franchise was passed by the Commons, only to be rejected by the Lords, with a consequent excitement the most threatening to the Upper House that had ever appeared. Public demon- strations of feeling had their warning ef- fect, and the franchise bill, the third Reform Bill of English history, passed again in November, was accepted by the peers, with a supplementary act which Gladstone. 19 distributes more fairly the parliamentary seats. In the winter of 1885, failure to res- cue General Gordon from Khartoum, added to other causes, turned public feeling very strongly against the gov- ernment, and in June it resigned, after a vote carried against it in the House. The Conservatives formed a Ministry un- der Lord Salisbury (Lord Beaconsfield being no more), and were in power dur- ing the following seven months. Elec- tions for a new Parliament the first under the extended franchise were held in November, and resulted in a sin- gular situation. The Conservatives, now helped by the Irish vote in England, made gains in the towns, while the Lib- erals swept the counties. At the same time, in Ireland, the Home Rulers elect- ed eighty-five of the one hundred and three in the total representation of the island, and held the balance of power. The Liberal vote in the House of Com- mons was almost equaled by the combined vote of Conservative and Irish members. It was plain policy for the latter to re- turn to their former alliance with the Liberals, and they did so. The Salisbury Ministry went out of office in the follow- ing January. And now came the part of Mr. Glad- stones public life which brought both his statesmanship and his character most seriously and most bitterly into dispute. Called again, for the third time, to be Prime Minister of England, he accepted the great office virtually at the hands of the Irish party, without whose support it could not be held, and with it he ac- cepted their programme of home rule for Ireland. It is believed by his ene- mies that greed of power was the pre- vailing motive to this course, whatever reasons in its favor he might have per- suaded himself to see; and it is possible that the purity of the convictions on which Mr. Gladstone acted at this junc- ture may always be called in question. But if we weigh all the circumstances without prejudice, we find no just rea- son for a suspicion of his absolute sin- cerity. The most reasonable assump- tions are entirely in his favor. It is not reasonable to suspect that in his seventy. seventh year, after harvesting all the honors that public life could yield to him, after escaping from a Ministry that had nearly broken him with its many troubles, it is not reasonable, in the light of all that we know of his charac- ter and his studious tastes, to suspect that he was drawn back to the strife and labor of parliamentary government by a merely personal ambition so strong as to warp the convictions of his mind. It is reasonable to suppose that he felt a great ambition to end the unendura- ble conflict between the members of the United Kingdom; and no ambition could be more honorable than that, whatever thought of self might mix in it. There are facts, too, which show that Mr. Gladstone had been seeking light on the question of Irish home rule for some years. Mr. Justin McCarthy has given some of them in his recent Story of Gladstones Life. Back in 1882, Mr. McCarthy tells us, when the Home Rule members were a minority of the Irish re- presentation in Parliament, the Premier questioned him one day as to the ground on which they could claim to speak and act for the Irish people. How am I to know? he asked. The reply was: Give us a popular franchise in Ireland, and we shall soon let you know whe- ther we represent the Irish people or whether we do not. Three years later Gladstone gave the popular franchise to Ireland as well as to Great Britain, anJ the elections then held raised the Home Rule representation to more than four fifths of the whole. That the mind of Mr. Gladstone had been meantime in ~ waiting state on the subject, and that this proof of Irish sentiment was deci sive to him, does not seem to be fairly open to doubt. But the wisdom of Mr. Gladstones 20 Gladstone. course is more questionable than the sin- cerity of it. The subject on that side is bo large for this article, yet a few words must be said. In his first plan, submit- ted to Parliament on the 8th of April, 1886, he proposed to give Ireland a dis- tinct legislature, with substantial mdc- pendence in the control of its domestic affairs, but to silence its voice in the larger affairs of the United Kingdom by taking its representation in the Im- perial Parliament entirely away. The Liberal party was broken by the start- ling proposition. Eighty-five of its mem- bers seceded and joined the Conserva- tives to defeat the bill. Mr. Gladstone appealed by a dissolution, and was beat- en in the country overwhelmingly. The seceding Liberals, taking the name of Unionists, formed a coalition with the Conservatives in a Ministry which held the government, under Lord Salisbury, for six years, until the P4rhiament ex- pired. Then Mr. Gladstone, still full of vigor, and firm in his resolution to give home rule to Ireland, renewed his appeal to the people. The elections of 1892 went against him in England, but favorably in Scotland and Wales, and strongly favorable in Ireland, of course. Without the Irish members he would be heavily outvoted in the House; with them he had a majority of forty-two. On this dubious verdict he undertook his fourth Ministry, and brought for- ward his second home rule bill. It was radically different from the first in plan, giving Ireland eighty members in the House of Commons at London (with no vote there on matters affecting Great Britain alone), and a domestic legisla- ture of two houses at Dublin. The Com- mons passed the bill, and the Lords, as expected, threw it out. Mr. Gladstone saw the uselessness of a dissolution, or of agitation against the peers. He went stoutly through other business of the session to the end, and even to April of the following year. Then he resigned. He had finished his political career. As proved by the result doubly proved by all that has appeared since England was very far from willingness to give Ireland the demanded home rule. Beyond (loubt, the unwillingness was greater than popular votes or parliamen- tary votes disclosed. The amazing in- fluence of Mr. Gladstone, his unequaled persuasiveness, his overpowering pres- tige, had almost carried his party with him against its will. iNo other man could have made a show of approach to suc- cess in what he undertook. As a tour de force in popular leading it has never, perhaps, been surpassed. But that kind of triumph thinly gilds the actual fail- ure. Had Mr. Gladstone been a states- man more calculating of consequences, either political or personal, more saga- cious, either in public views or in party views, more prudent, either selfishly or patriotically, it can hardly be believed that he would have framed his measures as lie did, or attempted them at the time. Nor, from an American standpoint, does England seem blamable for the rejection of them. We are experienced in the working of home rule with national uni- ty; we know federalism in theory and in practice; but there is nothing in our experience or our political philosophy to give us an understanding of the the- ory or a belief in the practicability of either of the constitutional projects of Mr. Gladstone for the future govern- ment of Ireland. Whether Ireland, under the first of them, would be a part or not a part of the United Kingdom a dependency or a nation is puzzling to our comprehension. Whether Eng- land, Wales, and Scotland, denied home- ruling legislation by the second scheme, while Ireland rejoiced in it, would hold an equality of rights and a peerage of rank in the United Kingdom, is no less a problem. Of either plan, the incongrui- ty, the inconsistency with any principle, the departure froni all experience, seem most extraordinary. In these home rule measures Mr. Gladstone. 21 Gladstone had set his hand for the first time to an important undertaking of constructive statesmanship; and the ver- dict mj~st be that he was not equal to it. His life-work has been in reforming statesmanship. In that he has had no peer. He has been, we may say, the greatest of those peaceful revolutionists who lift and carry nations forward, out of old conditions into new; who recon- cile their institutions with advancing time, and make them participant in the progress of the world. But this repa- rative work, most useful, perhaps, that true statesmanship can do, wins com- monly less of the admiration of mankind than the framing of political systems and the building of states. Bismarck and Cavour, among Gladstones contem- poraries, are more than likely to rank above him, in present and in future opin- ion, as belonging to an order of states- men that is superior in its kind. The justice of that opinion is far from sure. It turns mostly upon a question of weight in moral qualities that are widely op- posed. But the fact of it is to be recog- nized; and so, too, is the fact that when Gladstone attempted a serious work of constructive statesmanship he failed. A grievous ending for so great and so noble a career! It ought to have been ended for him in the serene contentment of some crowning success. In no pro- cession of noisy triumph, but by some flower - strewn and beautiful way he should have gone to his retirement with a happily satisfied heart. He had done so much for England, for Britain, for Ireland! He had labored so long, so hopefully, so valiantly, so hard! He had struck, without favor or fear, at so many wrongs! He had remembered so faithfully the whole people, and borne so calmly the selfish resentments of a selfish class! He had warmed the very heart of the world so often with his gen- erous enthusiasms! He had been for half a century so inspiring a figure in the eyes of all mankind, so chivalrous in standing for Right! One feels that there might fitly have been a trooping of all the people of British race to say Hail and Farewell to him when he went out of public life. Gladstones place in English history will be high, and it will be quite apart from any other. He will have no near companionship in his fame. It will be, we think, an eminence assigned to moral qualities more than to intellectual pow- ers. The very sincerity that his enemies have denied to him will be counted per- haps the loftiest of his claims. It will be seen that few men of brilliant gifts and great ambitions have sought with his earnestness for the Right in what they did, or have stood with his courage by what they found it to be. When he braved the scorn and anger of the Church which has always been more to him than to most of its priests, and challenged by the same act his own past, in order to (10 justice to the people of another creed, and when he made a righteous peace with the Boers in the face of a storm of English wrath, lie rose to a greatness in character that will be measured in future time with clearer eyes than now. The persuasive witchery of his elo- quence will be poorly understood by generations to come. It is not found in the word, the phrase, the argument, or the thought. It came for the most part from the spirit that warmed the breath of the man, sounded in his voice, looked out of his eyes. It was personal to him~ largely drawn from the moral qualities that seemed to be his greater distinction. No man of his day has had such power of persuasion as he. It may not be too bold to say that no man of any time has surpassed him in that power. Yet he was never logically strong. His argu- mentative writings, the most cai~efully and deliberately composed, show defects of reasoning that are marked. From controversy with an antagonist like Pro- fessor Huxley he was sure to come with 22 The Essential Unity of Britain and America. wounds. Yet his masterful influence over minds of every class is a certain fact. It was once said by somebody that Gladstone could persuade any- body to anything, himself included; and no doubt the epigram carries a sig- nificant truth. Fashion a man finely and largely, and make him to be tensely strung in every part of his whole nature, but inject a little, barely a little excess on the moral and emotional side, a little more of feeling, with pressure of conscience behind it, than logical jndg- inent can quite control, and we shall lave the persuasive man who is over- persuasive sonietimes to himself. On the great scale, as in Gladstone, it pro- duces a rare and splendid power for the kind of work he had to do, a r~re and splendid character for the delight and admiration of mankind. It kept him in the strength and beauty of youth till he died. It did more; for he was younger in spirit, younger in the gen- erosities and hospitalities of his mind, when his work was finished than when it began. He, at least, in this ques- tioning nineteenth century, found well- springs of faith in both God and man, and drank of them to the end. THE ESSENTIAL UNITY OF BRITAIN AND AMERICA. THE editor of The Atlantic Monthly, a magazine which has always sought to treat current questions in a broad and impartial way, asks me to say a few words on a subject which is much in mens minds on both sides of the Atlan- tic, the underlying unity of the English and American peoples, and the causes which have produced that sympathy be- tween them which has been so conspic- uously displayed during the last few months. The sense of unity and sympathy be- tween these two peoples ought in rea- son and nature always to have existed. It has, in point of fact, existed to a much greater extent than has been generally realized. No American can travel in England, no Englishman can travel in America, without realizing it as a strong- er force than he could have gathered from a study of the history of the coun- tries since their political separation. There is indeed much reason for think- ing that the irritation which has some- times been shown in each country at the language used by the government or the newspapers of the other has been due largely to the undercurrent of affection which each felt for the other, and which made unfriendly or affronting expres- sions more resented than similar lan- guage would have been from a nation less closely bound by the ties of blood and literature and historical traditioii. However, despite this occasional irrita- tion, the sense of the essential unity of the two branches of the same stock has been growing steadily stronger in Brit- am during the last twenty years, and the events of these last months have made it more palpably evident in both coun- tries. It is chiefly of Britain, and of the causes which in Britain have been quietly strengthening and ripening this sympathy, that I shall attempt to speak. Among the changes that have marked our century, no other is so remarkable as the narrowing of the world by steam and electricity, and the bringing of dis- tant countries into close relations with one another. Even the age which saw the discovery of America and the open- ing of the ocean route to India saw no such revolution in the conditions of in- dustry, trade, and politics as our time

James Bryce Bryce, James The Essential Unity of Britain and America 22-29

22 The Essential Unity of Britain and America. wounds. Yet his masterful influence over minds of every class is a certain fact. It was once said by somebody that Gladstone could persuade any- body to anything, himself included; and no doubt the epigram carries a sig- nificant truth. Fashion a man finely and largely, and make him to be tensely strung in every part of his whole nature, but inject a little, barely a little excess on the moral and emotional side, a little more of feeling, with pressure of conscience behind it, than logical jndg- inent can quite control, and we shall lave the persuasive man who is over- persuasive sonietimes to himself. On the great scale, as in Gladstone, it pro- duces a rare and splendid power for the kind of work he had to do, a r~re and splendid character for the delight and admiration of mankind. It kept him in the strength and beauty of youth till he died. It did more; for he was younger in spirit, younger in the gen- erosities and hospitalities of his mind, when his work was finished than when it began. He, at least, in this ques- tioning nineteenth century, found well- springs of faith in both God and man, and drank of them to the end. THE ESSENTIAL UNITY OF BRITAIN AND AMERICA. THE editor of The Atlantic Monthly, a magazine which has always sought to treat current questions in a broad and impartial way, asks me to say a few words on a subject which is much in mens minds on both sides of the Atlan- tic, the underlying unity of the English and American peoples, and the causes which have produced that sympathy be- tween them which has been so conspic- uously displayed during the last few months. The sense of unity and sympathy be- tween these two peoples ought in rea- son and nature always to have existed. It has, in point of fact, existed to a much greater extent than has been generally realized. No American can travel in England, no Englishman can travel in America, without realizing it as a strong- er force than he could have gathered from a study of the history of the coun- tries since their political separation. There is indeed much reason for think- ing that the irritation which has some- times been shown in each country at the language used by the government or the newspapers of the other has been due largely to the undercurrent of affection which each felt for the other, and which made unfriendly or affronting expres- sions more resented than similar lan- guage would have been from a nation less closely bound by the ties of blood and literature and historical traditioii. However, despite this occasional irrita- tion, the sense of the essential unity of the two branches of the same stock has been growing steadily stronger in Brit- am during the last twenty years, and the events of these last months have made it more palpably evident in both coun- tries. It is chiefly of Britain, and of the causes which in Britain have been quietly strengthening and ripening this sympathy, that I shall attempt to speak. Among the changes that have marked our century, no other is so remarkable as the narrowing of the world by steam and electricity, and the bringing of dis- tant countries into close relations with one another. Even the age which saw the discovery of America and the open- ing of the ocean route to India saw no such revolution in the conditions of in- dustry, trade, and politics as our time The Essential Unity of Britain and America. 23 has witnessed. It was first in the eco- nomic and social sphere that the results of this revolution were perceived. They have now become enormously significant in politics also. The great nations of Europe have stretched forth their arms over the whole globe, and have parceled out among themselves those of its ter- ritories which had been previously in- habited by savages or possessed by weak semi-civilized powers, bringing under their control even those regions in which a few of the weaker powers have still been permitted to retain a nominal inde- pendence. Russia, which was first in the field, has obtained the whole of northern and large parts of western and eastern Asia. England, besides planting self- governing colonies in North America and Australia and South Africa, holds India with its huge and industrious population, large tracts of tropical Africa, and many important posts in other quarters. France has taken a vast area in North Africa, as well as parts of Central Africa and Indo-China. Germany has acquired three wide dominions in Africa, and has begun to appropriate points of vantage else- where. Meanwhile, the United States, which in 1798 had only just begun to spread out her population behind the Al- leghanies, has now filled the Mississippi Valley, developed the best parts of the Rocky Mountain plateau, and established populous and flourishing communities along more than a thousand miles of the Pacific coast; having, moreover, to the south of her, all the way to Cape Horn, states of only second or third rate strength. These five nations have now become world powers in a new sense of the word, each but especially Russia, Brit- ain, and the United States holding a considerable fraction of the total area of the world. So far as we can foresee, it is in the hands of these five powers that the destiny of the world as a whole will lie, so much stronger are they than any of their competitors. The great stage is now almost cleared of minor actors, and each of the five great nations looks round on the others, measuring their respective strength, con- jecturing their respective purposes, and considering what will be the future rela- tions of each to each. Of the four Eu- ropean powers, no one has any special affinity for any other. They are mnutu- ally jealous, and two of them are even hostile to one another. The alliance of Russia and France is not an alliance of natural friendship or sympathy, but is based on the feelings which France en- tertains toward Germany, and is, more- over, threatened by the divergence of interests and of traditional policy in the Turkish East, which has been a factor in the past, and may reappear as a factor once more. England has no reason for hostility with any other power. She possesses at least as much territory as she can hope successfully to defend, administer, and develop. Despite the excited language in which some of her writers and speak- ers occasionally indulge, her people as a whole desire peace and friendship with all other states, and feel that the duty that lies before them is rather to dis- charge well their existing responsibili- ties than to seek the further extension of those responsibilities. Nevertheless, England feels that she is regarded by the other three powers whether justly or unjustly I will not now inquire with a jealousy which might readily pass into unfriendliness. She perceives that these powers think their interests opposed to hers, although, in truth, peace, confi- dence, and unshackled commerce are the highest interest of all countries. In this state of facts, England has been forced to look round and consider with which of the four other world powers she has most natural affinity, and with which of them there is the least likelihood of any clash of interests. That one is unquestionably the United States. We in England have always 24 The Essential Unity of Britain and America. believed that the special mission of the United States was to build up a vast free, industrious, enlightened, and pro- sperous community in her magnificent domain between the two oceans, and to set to other peoples an example of or- derly self-government, and the elevation of the masses of the people to the high- est point yet attained of material well- being and intellectual development. This is a task sufficient to employ the energy of the United States for gener- ations to come; and some of us have thought that it will ultimately be accom- panied by the extension of her influence over the Spanish states of Central and South America, reclaiming those regions from misgovernment or barbarism by an infiltration of the surplus population of North America. We have never be- lieved that Canada would raise a dispute between the United.States and Britain, because to seize Canada against the will of the Canadian people would be utterly opposed to the first principle of Ameri- can policy, while to retain a self-govern- ing colony by force against the will of its people would be no less inconsistent with British policy. We have therefore held that the United States would con- tinue to think that she had all the ter- ritory she needed. If, however, she should desire to acquire such a transma- rine dominion as the Philippine Islands, we should see no possible ground for ob- jection by Britain to such an act. Some of us who know the United States, and love her next to our own country, might think such a step fraught with future difficulties, and might regret it in the interest of the United States herself. But Britain would regard it, so far as her own political and commercial posi- tion was concerned, with nothing but sat- isfaction. Thus the English have seen, and see to-day, no ground for a collision of political interests between themselves and the American repubiic~ and when they study the chessboard of the world they feel the contrast J~etween her posi tion toward them and that of the powers of Continental Europe. That narrowing of the world, how- ever, whereof I have spoken, and the sudden prominence upon its stage of a few great powers and races, has had an- other effect. It has intensified the self- consciousness and the patriotism of each of the races, rousing in each a stronger sentiment of the unity of the race and of the splendor of the part it has to play. Each recalls with a keener pride its achievements in the past; each is more eager to sustain its greatness in the future. Now, although there are five great world powers, there are only four great world races; for one of the races has embodied itself in two powers, and has built up the North American republic and the oceanic empire of Brit- ain. There has indeed been a large in- fusion of other elements into the popula- tion of the United States, but those ele- ments are mostly drawn from the same sources, Teutonic and Celtic, which form the population of the British Isles, and all have been, or are being, moulded into the same normal American type. That type differs less from the normal British type than the Englishman of Hamnp- shire differs from the Scotchman of Fife or the Irishman of Galway; and the differences which separate the average Englishman and the average American are as nothing in comparison with those which separate either of them from members of any of the other great races~ The influences of climate and institu- tions which tend to differentiate them are less potent than the influences of lit- erature and thought which tend to as- similation. Here in England, at any rate, we never think of natives of the United States as different from our- selves, and when we speak of foreign- ers we do not include Americans. Ac- cordingly, whenever we think of what is called the term may not be a correct one, but it is the best we have the Anglo-Saxon race, to which we belong, The Essential Unity of Britain and America. 25 we think of it as a whole, though it dwells on opposite sides of the Atlantic. We think of it as one race, one in char- acter, in temper, in habits, in beliefs, in ideals. That intensified race conscious- ness which the rivalry of the other great races has produced, that feeling of pride in the occupation and development of the earths surface which has grown with the keener competition of recent years, have deepened the sense of solidarity in the scattered members of the race, and drawn Englishmen nearer and nearer to the great branch in the United States, now larger than their own, as well as the smaller branches in Canada and Austra- lasia. Thus it is not with jealousy, but with admiration and sympathy, that the extraordinary progress of the United States in wealth, power, and population has been regarded by the great mass of our people. They have thought of the two countries as partners and fellow workers in securing the ascendency of the language, the free institutions, the ideas, which they themselves cherish, and with whose power and progress they be- lieve the future welfare of humanity to be involved. To any one who remembers the days of the war of secession the contrast be- tween the sentiment of Britain then and the sentiment now is very striking. It is true that even in 1863 and this is a fact not realized in America as it deserves to be the masses of the people hoped for the victory of the North, because they felt that the North stood for human rib hts and freedom. Those who advo- cated the Southern cause never ventured to hold an open public meeting, while hundreds of such meetings were held to send good wishes to those who fought against slavery. But it must be admit- ted that the bulk of the wealthier classes of England, and the newspapers writ- ten for those classes, did in those days say many offensive things regarding the United States, and sometimes conveyed the impression erroneous though that impression was that England as a whole had ranged herself on the side which every one now admits to have been adverse to the progress of the world and to the welfare of the South itself. Why did the wealthier English class err so grievously? Partly from ignorance, for in those days the United States were little understood in Europe; partly from its own political proclivities, which were not generally for freedom. But since 1863 Britain has passed through great political changes. The parliamentary suffrage has been so extended as now to include the immense majority of the working classes, both in town and in country. Members are far more obser- vant of the wishes of their constituents, far more anxious to consult and regard them, than they were in the old days. The political influence of great landown- ers has almost disappeared. Many laws have been passed for the benefit of the laboring man which no one dreamed of in 1863. Britain has in fact become virtually a democracy, though the affec- tion and reverence felt for the present sovereign have made the Crown niore popular than ever. Britain is indeed in some points more democratic than the United States, for her legislature is not restrained by any such constitutional provisions as limit the powers of Con- gress. Thus there has come about a notable change in the tone of British public opinion. In 1863 the masses of the English people were with Mr. Lin- coln, but their sentiment told very lit- tle on the wealthy and the newspapers which the wealthy read. Now the masses have become politically predominant, and public opinion has adapted itself to the new conditions. The old fear and jeal- ousy of democratic institutions have van- ished, because these institutions have come, and have obviously come to stay. So far from being dreaded as a fountain of democratic propaganda, America is looked on as a champion of popular gov- ernment against the great military mon 26 The Essential Unity of Britain and America. archies of Continental Europe, and as the only great country which, like Brit- ain, has recognized that the freedom of the individual citizen as against the offi- cial is the basis of all truly free govern- ment. Accordingly, one chief cause of that change in the ruling sentiment of England toward America, which in 1898 has rejoiced those of us who remember 1863, is the change in the political con- ditions of England herself. There remains one other force which has drawn the two peoples together, and it is perhaps the most hopeful of all, be- cause it is independent of material in- terests and of politics. It is the better knowledge which they are coming to have of each other. The habit of travel has prodigiously increased within the last forty years. Americans come over in thousands, not only for business, but for pleasure, and find themselves more at home in England than they did before. Englishmen go in far larger numbers to the United States, for instruction and pleasure as well as for business, and return with more accurate ideas about the United States than they had before. Each man diffuses these ideas in his own circle, and thus the whole natiou has come to know its Western kinsfolk in a perfectly new way, and in a way in which it does not and cannot know any nation of the European continent. In former days each people drew its im- pressions of the other from the action of the government and the language of the newspapers; and both the action of the government and the language of the newspapers tended to misrepresent each to the other. Governments are brought into contact by differences; and they are obliged to deal with matters of differ- ence in a cold, dry way. Each tries to drive a hard bargain; each gives its views in dispatches which are in sub- stance, sometimes even in style, much like the letters written by attorneys on be- half of their contending clients. Each is in danger of importing into its diplo macy the manner and methods of party politics; and the methods of party poli- tics do not tend to amenity or good feel- 111g. Newspapers, on the other hand, which might have been thought a better index of popular sentiment, are prone to dwell on points of difference more than on points of agreement. It is per- haps easier, it is certainly more tempt- ing, to carp and cavil and satirize than it is to praise; and the journalist is apt to think that his talent and his vigor are better displayed in sharp criticism than in kindly appreciation. Besides, it is, unluckily, the bitter things that are said in one country about another that are most frequently copied into the news- papers of the latter. Here in Europe half the ill feeling that exists between the nations is due to the goadings of the press, though our own (if an Englishman may be permitted to say so) is in this respect less blameworthy than the jour- nalism of France or Germany or Russia. But every one who knows the educated class in any country will agree that the tone of its feeling toward other coun- tries is more generous, more friendly, more large-minded, than could be ga- thered either from the action of its gov- eminent or from the columns of its news- papers. It is therefore an immense gain that Englishmen and Americans are now learning to know one another through direct personal contact, and that the spir- it of that cordial welcome which a man from either country finds when he travels in the other is coming to be recognized as the real and genuine spirit which ani- mates both nations; and after a recent visit to Canada, I will venture to say that this is now the prevailing spirit among Canadians also. This truer insight has enabled us in England to realize the substantial iden- tity of thought and feeling between the two peoples. Let me take as an exam- ple the way in which the most terrible event of recent times impressed them both. The massacres of the. Eastern The Essential Unity of Britain and America. 27 Christians which took place in 1895 and 1896 excited little commiseration, little indignation, in Continental Europe. The press in Germany and France and Aus- tria, guided by the wishes or hints or commands of the governments of those states, did its best to conceal the facts from the public. A few noble and ear- nest men, mostly Roman Catholic priests or Protestant pastors, in France, in Ger- many, and in Switzerland, appealed to their fellow countrymen to move the gov- ernments to interfere and to send help to the sufferers. But their voices found only a faint response. Far otherwise in Britain and in the United States. The governments of both those coun- tries did indeed attempt, or accomplish, much less than was hoped and wished. But the peoples were stirred by a hor- ror and an anger which pervaded every class. Untrammeled by any considera- tions of political expediency, their hearts spoke out in the cause of justice, hu- manity, and freedom; for they believed that it is justice, humanity, and freedom that ought to guide the policy of nations. Here, as in so many other instances, it was shown how unlike their neighbors in Continental Europe, and how like their kinsfolk in America, the British are. It is in this community of ideas and feel- ings, this similarity of instinctive judg- ments, that the unity of the peoples best appears. The sense of identity has deep- er and better foundations than the pride of Anglo-Saxon ancestry and the spirit of defiance to other races. The circumstances of the friction occa- sioned by the Venezuela boundary ques- tion toward the end of 1895 illustrate the way in which the sentiment of friend- liness had ripened in Britain. The Pre- sidents message and the action of Con- gress were received in this country with amazement. Few persons had the least idea that any serious disagreement be- tween the two governments would or could arise over a matter which had at- tracted no attention here. With the shock of surprise there was a shock of grief that Congress should apparently treat lightly a contingency so lamentable as a collision between the two nations. But there was no outbreak of hostile feeling toward the United States. The general feeling was that there must be a great misconception somewhere, and that, so far as national honor permit- ted, every step ought to be taken to re- move the misconception, and set mat- ters right between nations made to be friends. Very shortly afterward, there occurred, on the part of a great Con- tinental state, what our people deemed a provocation. It was resented with a promptitude and a warmth in excess of its real importance, but which showed how different was the sentiment which the words of a Continental power, thereto- fore friendly, excited from that which prevailed where our own kinsfolk were concerned. And (unless my recollection is at fault) the possibility of some joint ac- tion of European powers directed against Britain immediately caused a revulsion of opinion in the United States in favor of Britain, like that which softens a mans heart toward a relative with whom he has had a coolness, so soon as lie finds that the relative is threatened from some other quarter. The alliances of nations are usually based upon interest alone, and last no longer than the cause which has pro- duced them. A coincidence, or at least an absence of any conflict, of interest is the almost indispensable condition of cordial relations. But when other ties than those of common material benefit exist, their existence may give to those relations a greatly increased strength and permanence; just as, if one may compare great things with small, a part- nership in business succeeds better and lasts longer when its members have a personal regard for and a personal trust in one another. Now the United States and Britain have nowhere in the world any conflicting interests. They have in 28 The Essential Unity of Britain and America. some directions identical interests, as for instance in the maintenance of open markets for their goods. They are in some respects complementary to each other; for while the United States is the great food - raising and cotton - growing country of the world, Britain is the great consumer of sea-borne food and of raw cotton; and as the one is rapidly be- coming the chief among the producers of the world both in the agricultural and in the mineral department, so the other is by her mercantile marine the chief dis- tributer. Each has the strongest inter- est in the welfare of the other; and we have repeatedly seen how powerfully the commercial prosperity or depression of the one tells on the trade of the other. Thus there exists, as regards political interest, a basis for the establishment of the most close and cordial relations be- tween the two countries, a basis inde- pendent of the chances and changes of the moment, because it is due to perma- nent conditions. But above and beyond this coincidence of interests there is the community of blood, the similarity of in- stitutions, and that capacity for under- standing and appreciating one another which is given by a common tongue and by habits of thought and feeling essential- ly the same. Nature and history have made each profoundly concerned in the well-being of the other. No true Amer- ican could see without the deepest grief the humiliation and suffering of the an- cestral home of his race. No true Eng- lishman but would mourn any grave dis- aster that could befall the people which it is one of the chief glories of England to have reared and planted. Seventeen years ago, in addressing an American audience, I ventured to express the be- lief that if ever England was hard pressed by a combination of hostile Eu- ropean powers America would not stand by idle and unconcerned, and the re- ception given to those words confirmed my belief. The sympathy of race does not often affect the relations of states, but when it does it is a force of tremen- dous potency; for it affects not so much governments as the people themselves, who, both in America and in England, are the ultimate depositaries of power, the ultimate controllers of policy. War between two nations is a deplor- able event, whatever the causes arid the circumstances. But as evil sometimes comes out of good, so events which in themselves are unfortunate may become the parents of good. Thus the outbreak of hostilities between the United States and Spain gave occasion for the display of a feeling in England, not against Spain, but of interest in the United States, which was riot only general, but conspic- uously spontaneous. It was the sudden and indisputable evidence of a sentiment we believed to exist, but which had never before been made so manifest. It was promptly and heartily reciprocated in the United States. And now many voices have been asking what durable expres- sion can be given to this feeling shared by the two peoples, and to what account, permanently helpful to both, it can be turned. As Mr. Olney has pointed out, in the thoughtful and weighty article which he contributed to the May num- ber of The Atlantic Monthly (an article whose friendly tone has been cordially appreciated in England), there are some obvious difficulties in the way of a for- mal alliance. Those difficulties are not insurmountable, and if such an alliance were ultimately to be formed, instead of threatening other states it would be a guarantee of peace to the world; for each nation would feel itself bound to justify its policy to the public opinion of the other. Meantime, there are things which may be done at once to cement and perpetuate the good relations which happily prevail. One is the conclusion of a general arbitration treaty, providing for the amicable settlement of all differ- ences which may hereafter arise between the nations. Another is the agreement to render services to each other: such, 4 The American Evolution. 29 for instance, as giving to a citizen of either nation a right to invoke the good offices of the diplomatic or consular re- presentatives of the other in a place where his own government has no repre- sentative; or such as the recognition of a common citizenship, securing to the citizens of each, in the country of the other, certain rights not enjoyed by oth- er foreigners. But the greatest thing of all is that the two peoples should real- ize, as we may hope they are now com- ing to do, that whether or no they have a formal alliance, they may have a league of the heart; that the sympathy of each is a tower of strength to the other; that the best and surest foundation of the fu- ture policy of each is to be found in re- lations of frank and cordial friendship with the other. James Bryce. THE AMERICAN EVOLUTION. DEPENDENCE, INDEPENDENCE, INTERDEPENDENCE. How ought we, great - grandsons, to judge the cause of American Independ- ence, the cause for which our fathers fought a hundred years ago? Says an excellent English writer of the present year: To whoever believes in progress along the slow but sure lines of natural evolution, the breach between the two great branches of the English-speaking race, which never seems thoroughly able to heal, must always appear one of the most calamitous events in the worlds his- tory. 1 To this view few Americans will subscribe: the triumph gained by our fa- thers webelieve to have been for the good of the world. But the question as to whether the Revolution turned out well or ill can be regarded as one by no means yet settled among thoughtful men. It well deserves to be studied and restudied; it will not be out of place, perhaps, to out- line the case once more, though it may be for the thousandth time. It is still possible to present it from a point of view unfamiliar; but though unfamiliar, it is hoped the view will not be unwelcome. What the Revolution gained was gov- ernment of the people, by the people, and for the people. It is right to be- 1 H. E. Egerton: A Short History of Eng- lish Colonial Policy. lieve that in any Anglo-Saxon commu- nity Abraham Lincolns plain people can be trusted to govern themselves, and that power to do so should belong to the masses, each man having his vote. Un- doubtedly, such a democracy is often un- lovely in its manifestations. Emerson quoted approvingly Fisher Ames as say- ing that a monarchy is a merchant- man which sails well, but will sometimes strike on a rock and go to the bottom; while a republic is a raft which would never sink, but then your feet are al- ways in the water. The discomforts of the raft are indeed great, and the feet of those who are embarked upon it have never been wetter, probably, than at the present hour. Many who until now have floated upon the raft confidently begin to feel that it must be forsaken. When such a leader as Herbert Spencer declares that his faith in democracy is gone, and that we are on the highroad to military despotism, believing appar- ently that it will be a better consumma- tion than a continuance of present condi- tions, ordinary men cannot be blamed for feeling some doubt about institutions heretofore cherished and implicitly trust- ed. We are, however, on the raft for good and all. We must make the best

James K. Hosmer Hosmer, James K. The American Evolution 29-36

The American Evolution. 29 for instance, as giving to a citizen of either nation a right to invoke the good offices of the diplomatic or consular re- presentatives of the other in a place where his own government has no repre- sentative; or such as the recognition of a common citizenship, securing to the citizens of each, in the country of the other, certain rights not enjoyed by oth- er foreigners. But the greatest thing of all is that the two peoples should real- ize, as we may hope they are now com- ing to do, that whether or no they have a formal alliance, they may have a league of the heart; that the sympathy of each is a tower of strength to the other; that the best and surest foundation of the fu- ture policy of each is to be found in re- lations of frank and cordial friendship with the other. James Bryce. THE AMERICAN EVOLUTION. DEPENDENCE, INDEPENDENCE, INTERDEPENDENCE. How ought we, great - grandsons, to judge the cause of American Independ- ence, the cause for which our fathers fought a hundred years ago? Says an excellent English writer of the present year: To whoever believes in progress along the slow but sure lines of natural evolution, the breach between the two great branches of the English-speaking race, which never seems thoroughly able to heal, must always appear one of the most calamitous events in the worlds his- tory. 1 To this view few Americans will subscribe: the triumph gained by our fa- thers webelieve to have been for the good of the world. But the question as to whether the Revolution turned out well or ill can be regarded as one by no means yet settled among thoughtful men. It well deserves to be studied and restudied; it will not be out of place, perhaps, to out- line the case once more, though it may be for the thousandth time. It is still possible to present it from a point of view unfamiliar; but though unfamiliar, it is hoped the view will not be unwelcome. What the Revolution gained was gov- ernment of the people, by the people, and for the people. It is right to be- 1 H. E. Egerton: A Short History of Eng- lish Colonial Policy. lieve that in any Anglo-Saxon commu- nity Abraham Lincolns plain people can be trusted to govern themselves, and that power to do so should belong to the masses, each man having his vote. Un- doubtedly, such a democracy is often un- lovely in its manifestations. Emerson quoted approvingly Fisher Ames as say- ing that a monarchy is a merchant- man which sails well, but will sometimes strike on a rock and go to the bottom; while a republic is a raft which would never sink, but then your feet are al- ways in the water. The discomforts of the raft are indeed great, and the feet of those who are embarked upon it have never been wetter, probably, than at the present hour. Many who until now have floated upon the raft confidently begin to feel that it must be forsaken. When such a leader as Herbert Spencer declares that his faith in democracy is gone, and that we are on the highroad to military despotism, believing appar- ently that it will be a better consumma- tion than a continuance of present condi- tions, ordinary men cannot be blamed for feeling some doubt about institutions heretofore cherished and implicitly trust- ed. We are, however, on the raft for good and all. We must make the best 30 The American Evolution. of it; whatever defections may occur, it is unmanly for Americans to be faint- hearted. When all is said that can be said, democracy exhibits no disadvan- tages which cannot at once be paralleled or surpassed in the experience of aristo- cracies and monarchies. In an Anglo- Saxon community, inheriting as it does the traditions of two thousand years of self - government, the people cau and ought to take care of themselves; and it is culpable faint-heartedness to believe that the elements other than Anglo-Saxon which have flowed in upon us have so far canceled or emasculated Anglo-Saxon virility that we need to be taken in hand by a master. Unquestionably, a state of depend- ence during the first century and a half of America was a salutary, indeed an indispensable thing. During the early days a powerful foe might at any time easily have wiped out the English colo- nies; the tenure hung upon a very light thread. As time advanced, and France, during the reigns of Louis XIV. and Louis XV., became ambitious in Amer- ica, the peril from the foreign power was imminent. However well the provinces may sometimes have fought the French, they were utterly unable of their own strength to keep the foreigner at bay. Even the capture of Louisburg, the most conspicuous military feat of the provin- cials, could never have been achieved without the support of the British fleet. In the hard campaigns that followed, the provincials played a very secondary part; often enough, the French, with their In- dian allies, were on the threshold of suc- cess. The line of posts stretching from New Orleans to Quebec was in the way to be strongly confirmed, and the disunit- ed and discouraged populations scattered along the seaboard seemed on the point of subjection. When Braddock failed, when Montcalrn won at Ticonderoga, when Pontiac threatened Detroit, all was precarious for English America. But at last British soldiers under General Forbes captured Fort Duquesne; British soldiers under Colonel Bouquet broke the Indian spirit at Bushy Run; British sol- diers, again, under Wolfe won at Quebec, and after that everything was secure~ We scarcely realize to-day how precari- ous the Anglo-Saxon hold upon America was up to the capture of Quebec. Says an intelligent writer: The conjunction of the genius of Pitt and the genius of Wolfe was almost miraculous, and that conjunction alone it was that ruined the cause of France. 1 It was only by a hairs breadth that America was saved to the Anglo-Saxons. The colonies alone, at this time, poor and without cohesion, were quite powerless to cope with the danger. But for their dependence upon the arm of the mother country they would have been lost. The necessity for this dependence came to an end through the conquest of Pitt and Wolfe; but the habit had been formed, and was slow in yielding. When, a little later, under the initiative of Sam- uel Adams, independence became a pop- ular cry, it was only after long hesita- tion, and in spite of the resistance of a mass of the best people of tile country, who were never able to see that inde- pendence had become expedient. But the time had come for America to enter upon the second phase in her evolution. The Anglo - Saxon schism came to pass. Shall we say with Mr. Egerton, and with many another good English- man whose heart yearns toward the bre- thren who became estranged, that it was one of the most calamitous events in the worlds history? While reciprocat- ing the brotherly yearning, Americans should think that no mistake was made; it is well that the schism came. A peo- ple sprang into being tile breath of whose nostrils became, instead of provincialism, the noblest national spirit. To use a figure no homelier, perhaps, than that of the raft, which Emerson W. F. Lord: Lost Empires of the Modern World, p. 224. TLlie American Evolution. 31 takes so approvingly from Fisher Ames, a political construction for a vast mul- titude should be after the model of the bob-sled of the lumberman of the Northwest. If the vehicle were in one frame, the load pressing from above and the inequalities of the road beneath would rack it to pieces at once; let there be runners, however, before and behind, each pair distinct and independent, yet linked by appliances always flexible but never parting, all immediately goes well. Among the stumps and gullies of time rough track, the contrivance, readily yielding, yet never disconnected, easily bears on its weight of timber; the short- est corners are turned, the ugliest drifts surmounted. That Anglo - Saxondom was sundered is not a subject for regret. In one frame, so to speak, it could not do its work. That its burden might be well and safely borne the division into two was salutary, indeed inevitable. What. is to be regretted is that the severance involved bloodshed, and produced a ha- tred which rankles yet. The split should not be utter. While the two frames are separate an indestructible link should connect them, allowing to each free play while making the two after all one. But without stopping to consider a proposition to us so obvious as the bene- fit to America herself of becoming in- dependent, let us inquire for a moment as to the effect of the American revolt elsewhere than at home. Charles James Fox is said to have exclaimed once, The resistance of the Americans to the oppression of the mother country has undoubtedly preserved the liberties of mankind! If such a declaration ap- pears too sweeping, the value of the American revolt as regards the British empire, at any rate, can scarcely be ex- aggerated. How has it come to pass that the magnificent freedom to-day al- lowed to the dependencies of England exists? Englishmen have ascribed it directly to the circumstance that the mother country learned wisdom from her fiery experience with America. Her eyes were opened to what was and what was not possible, and it is directly as a con- sequence of the American struggle that she has finally established it as a prin- ciple that colonies are to be left to them- selves. America by conquering secured not only her own freedom, but probably that of her fellow dependencies, those then existing and those afterward to be established. Perhaps still more than this can be said: did not the resistance of America save England herself? Buckle, in his History of Civilization, speaking of the danger to England, one hundred years ago, through the encroachments upon her liberty of royal and aristocratic power, says: The danger was so imminent as to make the ablest defenders of popular liberty believe that everything was at stake, and that if the Americans were vanquished the next step would be to at- tack the liberties of England, and en- deavor to extend to the mother country the same arbitrary government which by that time would have been established in the colonies. . . . The danger was far more serious than men are now in- clined to believe. During many years the authority of the Crown continued to increase, until it reached a height of which no example had been seen in Eng- land for several generations. - . . There is no doubt, I think, that the American war was a great crisis in the history of England, and that if the colonists had been defeated our liberties for a time would have been in considerable jeopardy. From that risk we were saved by the Americans, who with heroic spirit resist- ed the royal armies. ~ But is there not something higher for nations than independence? We are members one of another, the apostolic admonition, deserves heed from states as well as individuals. The wise and benevolent look forward to Tennysons ~ Vol. i. p. 345, Am. ed. 32 The American Evolution. Parliament of man, the federation of the world; and as a first step toward that happy consummation, what can be better than that among nations like should connect itself with like? There is no other kinship among peoples so marked as that between the two great branches of the English-speaking race. The notion of Anglo-Saxon brother- hood ought to have some interest for Americans. Says Sir Louis Mallet, ren- dering an idea of Cobden: Codpera- tion, and not competition, international interdependence, and not national inde- pendence, are the highest end and object of civilization. The suggestion of Sir Edwin Arnold, made to President Har- rison, was that there should be an inter- national council to arbitrate all matters in dispute, from whose decisions there should be no appeal, and this within a year or two has seemed not far from re- alization. Such a scheme would be a loose kind of federation; and as far as a formal bond is concerned, without doubt it would be all that is expedient. As to a union, only one purely moral is pos- sible or desirable. For some such clasp. ing of hands the world is certainly ripe. Through steam and electricity, time and space are annihilated. The seas no long- er divide, but unite. Should the will for such fraternity be felt, there is no power of nature or man which could interfere to prevent. Had we but the will! We nurse too carefully old prejudices; we re- member too long ancient injuries. We train our children as we were trained ourselves, to execrate all things British, and to think only of Englands tyranny. We ought to know that in the Revolution possibly half of England were really on our side, regarding our cause as their own, and that the descendants of the great masses who felt with us, prayed for us, and rejoiced in our success now hold England in their own hands. Quoted in London Spectator, voL lxiii. p. 381. 2 Vol. cxxxi. p. 328. This view is so unfamiliar to Ameri- cans that it well deserves illustration. It is not right to regard George III. as a fair representative of the England of his time, nor to think that in the great war of the American Revolution, of which, on the British side, he w~ s the central figure, Americans were really fighting England. Says the Westminster Review: Of course Americans regard independence as their great achievement. In this they are quite right. When, however, they proceed to regard inde- pendence as a victory gained over Eng- land, their enemy, they are surely egre- giously in error. . . . At the time the United States were fighting for inde- pendence, England was fighting for her liberties: the common enemy was the Hanoverian George III. and his Ger- manized court. . . . When the news was brought to London that the United States had appealed to arms, William Pitt, an Englishman if there ever was one, rose in his seat in Parliament, and with up- lifted voice thanked God that the Amer- ican colonists retained enough of Eng- lish blood to fight for their rights. Nine Englishmen out of every ten outside of court influence similarly rejoiced. In- dependence Day is as much a red-letter day for every genuine Englishman as for every genuine American. And so it should be. Washington but trod in the footsteps of Hampden. His task was easier than that of Hampden, and the solution he wrought, which an interval of three thousand miles of ocean practi- cally dictated, was more thorough. 2 Vast misapprehension as to the true character of the American Revolution no doubt prevails. The English radical whose words have been quoted puts the case none too strongly. A high Ameri- can authority declares that the Ameri- can Revolution was not a quarrel be- tween two peoples, but a strife between ~ Hon. Mellen Chamberlain in Winsors Nar- rative and Critical History of America, vol. vi. chap. i. like American Evolution. 33 two parties in one people, conservatives and liberals. These parties existed in both countries; the battle between them was waged not only on the fields of America, but in the British Parliament also, some of the fiercest engagements in the latter arena. The strife took place on both sides of the water, with nearly equal step, and was essentially the same on both sides; so that if, at the close of the French war, all the peo- ple of Great Britain had been transport- ed to America, and all the people of America to Great Britain, and put in control of British affairs, the American Revolution and the contemporary Brit- ish Revolution might have gone on just the same, and with the same final re- suit. As to the embarrassments which the king and his ministers underwent from a powerful opposition, in their attempts to coerce America, the best historian of the eighteenth century makes out a strong case. At first the immense influence of Pitt, soon to be Earl of Chatham, then the most powerful of snbjects, was on the side of America. He justified with all his eloquence the resistance to the Stamp Act, seconded by Lord Camden, who also had great influence. At the time of the tea duty there was in Parliament a strong section supporting the Americans, and outside of Parliament a still more de- mocratic party who kept the country in alarm through fierce political agitation, all which, as was truly said by Lord North, lured on America and blocked the efforts of the ministry. In another sphere, the tried and skillful soldiers, Amherst, Conway, and Barr6, did not conceal their sympathy. In the House of Commons Fox eulogized Montgomery, slain at Quebec; while the Duke of Richmond said in the House of Lords, after Bunker Hill, that the Amer- Lecky, Eighteenth Centnry, vol. iii. pp. 403, 404. 2 Walpoles Letters to the Countess of Os- sory, December 11, 1777. VOL LXXXII. ~o. 489. 3 icans were not in rebellion, bnt resisting acts of the most unexampled cruelty and oppression. The gleeful exclamation of Horace Walpole, somewhat later, over the surrender of Burgoyne, and the de- claration of his belief that the Americans were better Englishmen than the English themselves, is very significant. Thank God, said he, old England is safe. I mean New England, whither the true English retired under Charles J~ 2 In the House of Commons the American army was spoken of as our army. Wil- liam Pitt, in 1781, called the attempt to reduce America most accursed, wicked, barbarous, cruel, unnatural, diabolical. In the ruling class, a minority contain- ing personages of the highest rank and the ablest men in the nation had identi- fied itself completely with the insurgents. They resisted with passion, for they came to feel a feeling which writers like Buckle declare thoroughly justified that the defeat of the Americans would probably be followed by a subversion of the constitution of England. Meantime, among the people, the war was to the last degree unpopular. London was sometimes at the mercy of mobs; the army could be maintained only by press- gangs, by emptying into the regiments the prisons, and by buying Hessians. If the king and his ministers were embarrassed by an opposition, the Amer- ican patriots were no less embarrassed. An energetic minority, it has been said, brought to pass the Revolution, which, proceeding especially from New England, was carried through in spite of a majority in the colonies, a majority in great part quite apathetic, but to some extent actively resisting.3 The emigration of Tories, when the day was at last won, was relatively as great as that of the Hu- guenots from France after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. The total num ~ Lecky, Eighteenth Century, vol. iii. p. 458, etc. 34 The American Evolution. her is estimated to have been at least one hundred thousand. In this multitude were comprised only such, with their fam- ilies, as had been active for the king. The indifferent, who had lent no helping hand to the patriots, must have been a multitude much larger; these remained behind, inertly submitting to the new or- der of things as they had swayed inertly this way or that, following the power and direction of the blast of war. The war of the American Revolution, then, was a strife, not of countries, but of parties ; a strife carried on both in England and in America, bloodless in the motherland, bloody in the depend- ency; but nevertheless a strife carried on in each arena for the preservation of the same priceless treasure, Anglo- Saxon freedom, and fought through with similar spirit. On one side of the Atlantic victory came speedily. In America there were no traditions and institutions, rooted for centuries, to be upturned; and besides, there came most timely help from France. Victory in America drew necessarily with it vic- tory in England. It has long been de- layed, but it has been steadily coming, until at the present moment, as regards popular freedom, the two countries stand nearly together, England, perhaps, though preserving monarchical forms and much social feudalism, really in advance. Popular freedom was possibly saved to England by the success of the American struggle; on the other hand, America has derived that popular freedom nowhere hut from the motherland, through the struggles of her Alfred; of her Lang- ton and the barons of 1215; of her Earl Simon; of her knights of the shire, her Ironsides, her supporters of the Bill of Rights. What a noble community is this, common striving so heroic for a com- mon cause of such supreme moment! How mean the nursing of petty prejudice between lands so linked; how powerful 1 Sir T. Erskine May: Constitutional His- tory, vol. xi. p. 537. - the motive to join hand with hand, and heart with heart! England is not only herself, at the pre- sent hour, practically a democratic repub- lic, but is the parent of vast republics in the quarters of the earth most distant from her. In America, Australia, and Africa, enormous tracts of territory, best adapted by climate and soil to the habita- tion of Europeans, are in the possession, and have become the seats, of vigorous and growing Anglo-Saxon peoples. The extent to which these have become en- dowed with the ancient freedom so thor- oughly recovered by the motherland can be made plain in a few words. The old colonial empire, the thirteen colonies, which, after revolting, became the United States, had been ruled after the prece- dents of Spain. The dependencies were regarded as a source from which the motherland might be enriched, and their interests were neglected and sacrificed in the pursuit by the motherland of this self- ish end. Till alienated by the behavior of England, the colonists had far more kindly feelings toward her than she had toward them. To them she was the old home; to her they were simply custom- ers. 2 Exasperation in the colonies was the inevitable fruit of so base a policy, and in the end England, like Spain, lost the new lands whose rights she had abused. The bitter experience, as we have seen, perhaps saved her own free- dom; she derived from it also the wis- dom which enabled her, when presently the vast new colonial empire fell within her grasp, so to proceed that the depend- encies, instead of chafing under their bond, cherish it with warm affection, look- ing upon independence as a calamity ra- ther than a blessing. The work of our fathers, then, was to sever the English-speaking world, a work one hundred years ago most noble and necessary to be done, for only so, in that day, could freedom be saved. At 2 Bryce: American Commonwealth, vol. i. p. 416, note. The American Evolution. 35 the present time, however, may it not be the case that the work to be done is not of severance, but of union? John Bright wrote, in 1887, to the com- mittee for the celebration of the centen- nial of the American Constitution: As you advance in the second century of your natural life, may we not ask that our two nations may become one people? Sir Henry Parkes, perhaps the fore- most statesman of Australia, addressing the legislature of New South Wales, No- vember 25, 1887, said still more definite- ly: I firmly believe it is within the range of human probability that the great groups of free communities connected with England will, in separate federa- tions, be united to the mother country; and I also believe that in all rea- sonable probability, by some less distinct bond, even the United States of America will be connected with this great Eng- lish-speaking congeries of free govern- ments. I believe the circumstances of the world will develop some such new complex nationality as this, in which each of the parts will be free and independent while united in one grand whole, which ~vill civilize the globe. Sir George Grey, at different times governor of West Australia, of New Zea- land, and of South Africa, one of the most illustrious of the men who have de- veloped for England her great posses- sions in the South Pacific, contemplates an eventuni though perhaps far-off league between members of the English-speak- ing race, in which the United States will not only be included, but, displacing Eng- land, will become the leader. The declarations of Joseph Chamber- lain, of a spirit similar to those of the statesmen just quoted, are at the present hour agitating Europe. Gladstone once wrote : If love unite, wide space divides in vain, And bands may clasp across the flowing main. That clasp of bands Gladsj;one could not live to bring to pass; but though he is gone, we are not therefore without re- source. Among Americans Edward Atkinson has declared: The two great branches of the English-speaking people, political- ly separated by the misconceptions of a small faction which governed England during the latter part of the last century, are becoming more and more reunited through their interdependence. Their wants and their supplies are the comple- inents of each other. . .. The time is not far distant when the control of commerce, passing more completely than ever to the English-speaking people of the world, will bring them into closer union, each branch maintaining its own form and system of government, but all working together for the benefit of all who share in the abundance of their products. The idea of some reconstitution of the family bond has found expression more often from citizens of the British Empire than from Americans, though men are not wanting in America in whose minds has arisen the conception of doing away with the Anglo-Saxon schism as a thing possible and to be wished for. The pre- vailing mood among us, however, has been that of self-sufficiency. Absorbed with problems and interests that seem nearer, we have let the broad thought go. But if the reader has followed with any sympathy and attention the view held in this paper, he will be prepared to see that if we form a link anywhere, our proper affiliation is with England and her chil- dren scattered east and ~vest. There are indeed to-day, as there were in the time of the American Revolution, two Eng- lands and two Americas. Of one ~Eng- land Lord Dundreary is the type; as of one America the appropriate type is the tuft - hunting daughter of the I)lutocrat, who will sell soul and body to get Lord Dundreary for a husband. There is, be- sides, the stalwart, manful England, for which stand Gladstone, John Bright, nnd James Bryce; as there are in America The Century for April, 1898. 36 The Decadence of Spain. the excellent plain people whom Abra- ham Lincoln loved and trusted. While Miss Moth flies at her aristocratic lumi- nary, careless of the singeing she may re- ceive, why should not the nobler England and the nobler America clasp hands? The townships make up the county, the counties the state, the states the United States. What is to hinder a further ex- tension of the federal principle, so that finally we may have a vaster United States, whose members shall be, as em- pire state, America; then the mother, England; and lastly the great English dependencies, so populous and thorough- ly developed that they may fitly stand co6rdinate? It cannot be said that this is an unreasonable or Utopian anticipa- tion. Dependence was right in its day; but for English help colonial America would have become a province of France. Independence was and is right. It was well for us and for Britain too that we were split apart. Washington,. as the main agent in the separation, i~ justly the most venerated name in our history. But interdependence, too, will in its day be right; and great indeed will be that statesman of the future who shall reconsti- tute the family bond, conciliate the mem- bers into an equal brotherhood, found the vaster union which must be the next great step toward the universal fraternity of man, when patriotism may be merged into a love that will take in all humanity. Such suggestions as have just been made are sure to be opposed both in Eng- land and in America. We on our side cite Englands oppression of Ireland, the rapacity with which in all parts of the world she has often enlarged her boun- daries, the brutality with which she has trampled upon the rights of weaker men. They cite against America her century of dishonor in the treatment of the In- dians, the corruption of her cities, the ruffians knife and pistol ready to mur- der on slight provocation, the prevalence of lynch law over all other law in great districts, her yellow journalism. Indeed, it is a sad tale of shortcoming for both countries. Yet in the case of each the evil is balanced by a thousand things great and good, and the welfare of the world depends upon the growth and pro- sperity of the English-speaking lands as upon nothing else. The welfare of the world depends upon their accord; and no other circumstance at the present mo- ment is so fraught with hope as that, in the midst of the heavy embarrassments that beset both England and America, the long-sundered kindred slowly gravi- tate toward alliance. James K. Hosmer. THE DECADENCE OF SPAIN. WHEN Charles V. was obliged to re- nounce the dream of a nuiversal mon- archy, and to abandon the Holy Roman Empire to his brother Ferdinand, he was still able to make over to his son Philip II. territories which rendered Spain the preponderating power in the civilized world. Besides his ancestral dominions in the Peninsula, to which, in 1580, he added Portugal, Philip was master of the wealthy Netherlands, of Milan and Naples, of the Mediterranean islands, and of the New World. His revenues far exceeded those of any other monarch, his armies were admitted to be the most formidable in Europe, and his command of the sea was disputed only by the Turk, whose navy he crushed at Lepanto, until the disasters of the Ar- mada gave warning that the old methods of maritime warfare were becoming ob- solete. In every way the supremacy of

Henry Charles Lea Lea, Henry Charles The Decadence of Spain 36-47

36 The Decadence of Spain. the excellent plain people whom Abra- ham Lincoln loved and trusted. While Miss Moth flies at her aristocratic lumi- nary, careless of the singeing she may re- ceive, why should not the nobler England and the nobler America clasp hands? The townships make up the county, the counties the state, the states the United States. What is to hinder a further ex- tension of the federal principle, so that finally we may have a vaster United States, whose members shall be, as em- pire state, America; then the mother, England; and lastly the great English dependencies, so populous and thorough- ly developed that they may fitly stand co6rdinate? It cannot be said that this is an unreasonable or Utopian anticipa- tion. Dependence was right in its day; but for English help colonial America would have become a province of France. Independence was and is right. It was well for us and for Britain too that we were split apart. Washington,. as the main agent in the separation, i~ justly the most venerated name in our history. But interdependence, too, will in its day be right; and great indeed will be that statesman of the future who shall reconsti- tute the family bond, conciliate the mem- bers into an equal brotherhood, found the vaster union which must be the next great step toward the universal fraternity of man, when patriotism may be merged into a love that will take in all humanity. Such suggestions as have just been made are sure to be opposed both in Eng- land and in America. We on our side cite Englands oppression of Ireland, the rapacity with which in all parts of the world she has often enlarged her boun- daries, the brutality with which she has trampled upon the rights of weaker men. They cite against America her century of dishonor in the treatment of the In- dians, the corruption of her cities, the ruffians knife and pistol ready to mur- der on slight provocation, the prevalence of lynch law over all other law in great districts, her yellow journalism. Indeed, it is a sad tale of shortcoming for both countries. Yet in the case of each the evil is balanced by a thousand things great and good, and the welfare of the world depends upon the growth and pro- sperity of the English-speaking lands as upon nothing else. The welfare of the world depends upon their accord; and no other circumstance at the present mo- ment is so fraught with hope as that, in the midst of the heavy embarrassments that beset both England and America, the long-sundered kindred slowly gravi- tate toward alliance. James K. Hosmer. THE DECADENCE OF SPAIN. WHEN Charles V. was obliged to re- nounce the dream of a nuiversal mon- archy, and to abandon the Holy Roman Empire to his brother Ferdinand, he was still able to make over to his son Philip II. territories which rendered Spain the preponderating power in the civilized world. Besides his ancestral dominions in the Peninsula, to which, in 1580, he added Portugal, Philip was master of the wealthy Netherlands, of Milan and Naples, of the Mediterranean islands, and of the New World. His revenues far exceeded those of any other monarch, his armies were admitted to be the most formidable in Europe, and his command of the sea was disputed only by the Turk, whose navy he crushed at Lepanto, until the disasters of the Ar- mada gave warning that the old methods of maritime warfare were becoming ob- solete. In every way the supremacy of The Decadence of Spain. 37 Spain was the dread of the nations, and its destruction was the cherished object of statesmen for a century. It was not by their efforts, however, that the result was accomplished. Olivares, it is true, was overmatclied by Richelieu, but Spain had a vantage - ground enabling her to hold her own against external assault. The causes of her decadence were inter- nal; they were numerous, but may be roughly defined as springing from pride, conservatism, and clericalism. There is a pride which spurs nations on to great achievements, which reckons nothing done while aught remains to do, and which wisely adapts means to ends. Such was not the pride of Spain: it was proud of what it had done, and imagined that its superiority to the rest of the world left it nothing more to do; it could learn nothing and forget nothing; it had varied the centuries of the Reconquest with endless civil broils, while it left the arts of peace to subject Moors and Jews, until honest labor was regarded with disdain, and trade and commerce were treated in a barbarous fashion that choked all the springs of national pro- sperity. Derived from this blind and impenetrable pride was the spirit of conservatism which rejected all innova- tion in a world of incessant change, a world which had been sent by the Re- formation spinning on a new track, a world in which modern industrialism was rapidly superseding the obsolescent mil- itarism of Spain. The phrase current throughout Europe in the last century was not without foundation, that Africa be0an at the Pyrenees. Last, but by no means least, was the clericalism which developed in Spain the ferocious spirit of intolerance; which in 1492 drove out the unhappy Jews, and in 1610 the Mo- riscos, thus striking at the root of the commercial prosperity and industry of the land; and which surrendered the nation to the Inquisition, paralyzing all intellectual movement, crippling trade, and keeping the people so completely in leading-strings that the three generations since the Napoleonic upheaval have not sufficed for their training in the arts of self-government. Yet the Spaniard has qualities which, if not thus counterbalanced, ought to have assured him a maintenance of the commanding position which he held in the sixteenth century. His intellect is strong and quick, his imagination is vivid, and, before the censorship of the Inqui- sition had curbed its expression, his lit- erature was the most promising in Eu- rope. When fully aroused his perse- verance is indefatigable. His courage is undoubted, not a merely evanescent valor, flaming up on occasion at the pro- mise of success, but a persistent, obsti- nate, dogged quality, to be dreaded as much in defeat as in victory, and sus- tained by the pride of race which leads him to think all other races his infe- riors. The unyielding steadfastness of the Spanish tercios on the disastrous field of Rocroy was paralleled in the de- fense of Saragossa. The exploits of the Conquistadores in the New World dis- play a tenacity of daring amid unknown dangers which has rarely been equaled, and perhaps never surpassed. The prac- tical efficiency of this determined valor is heightened, moreover, by a remarkable callous indifference as to the means to be employed in accomplishing a given pur- pose. Spanish legislation is full of the sternest laws, enacted in utter disregard of their contingent and ulterior conse- quences provided the immediate object in view can he effected. Alvas reign of blood in the Netherlands is typical of this fierce and cold-blooded determina- tion to achieve a result at whatever cost of life and suffering, and the reconcen- trado policy of Weyler is only a modern exhibition of this inherited character- istic. Effective as this disregard of conse- quences may often have proved, it was one of the elements which contributed to the decadence of Spain; for when di- 38 The Decadence of Spain. rected, as it often was, without foresight or judgment, it wrought havoc with in- terests of greater moment than those it served. The expulsions of the Jews and of the Moriscos are conspicuous instances of this, and, in a minor degree, the indus- tries and commerce of the nation were perpetually wrecked by regulations, ab- surdly exaggerated, to serve some pur- pose that chanced at the moment to be uppermost in the minds of the rulers. When, to remedy the scarcity of the precious metals, repeated edicts, from 1623 to 1642, prohibited all manufac- tures of gold and silver, even to embroid- eries and gilding or plating, a flourish- ing branch of trade was destroyed for a time; and another was prostrated in 1683, when, to procure copper for the debased coinage of the mints, all of that metal in the hands of coppersmiths was practically sequestrated, and they were forbidden even to repair old utensils. In- ternal industry and external commerce were thus at the mercy of an infinity of fluctuating regulations which embar- rassed transactions, and deprived manu- facturers and merchants of all sense of security and all ability to forecast the future. During the period when the commerce of the world was developing into vast proportions, that commerce, with its resultant wealth and the power of offense and defense derived from wealth, fell into the hands of Spains especial enemies, England and Holland. The Spaniard, who despised industry and commerce, thrust from him the inherit- ance of Venice and Florence, which the discovery of the New World and the Cape route to India had offered to him: and while his rivals waxed mightily, he grew poorer and poorer, in spite of the wealth of the Indies poured into his lap. Labor, in fact, to Spanish pride, was the badge of inferiority, to be escaped in every possible way. It is the general complaint of the publicists of the seven- teenth century that every one sought to gain a livelihood in the public service or in the Church, and no one to earn it by honest work. The immense number of useless consumers thus supported was constantly alleged as one of the leading causes of the general poverty, from which the most crushing and injudicious taxa- tion could raise only insufficient revenues. Public offices were multiplied recklessly, and the steady increase in the ranks of the clergy, regular and secular, was a constant subject of remonstrance. In 1626, Navarrete tells us that there were thirty-two universities and more than four thousand grammar schools crowded with sons of artisans and peasants striv- ing to fit themselves for public office or holy orders; most of them failed in this through inaptitude, and drifted into the swarms of tramps and beggars who were a standing curse to the community, while the fields lay untilled for lack of labor, and the industrial arts were slowly perish. ing, so that Spain was forced to import the finished products which she could so easily have made for herself. This na- tional aversion to labor, moreover, mani- fested itself in an indolence which, ex- cept in Catalonia, rendered the pretense of working almost illusory. Dormer tells us of his compatriots that they did not work as in other lands; a few hours a day, and this intermittently, were ex- pected to provide for them as much as the incessant activity of the foreigner. To these drawbacks on productive in- dustry is to be added the multitude of feast - days, which Navarrete estimates at about one third of the working-days, rising to one half at the critical season of the harvests, feast-days which, ac- cording to Archbishop Carranza, were spent in a debauchery rendering them especially welcome to the devil. Under such conditions it was impossible for Spain to withstand the competition of the foreigner. How rapidly its industry declined is shown by the fact that in 1644 the shipments by the fleet to the West Indies from four cities of Castile Toledo, Segovia, Ampudia, and Pas The Decadence of Spain. 89 trana amounted to $3,864,750, while in 1684 the total value of all Spanish goods carried by the fleet was only $800,- 000. It is true that in 1691 Carlos II. proposed legislation to check the over- grown numbers of the clergy and the immoderate absorption of lands by the Church, but his feeble projects were aban- doned. Thus the nation possessed little recu- perative power to make good the per- petual losses of its almost continuous foreign wars. Already, in the apogee of its greatness under Charles V., symp- toms of exhaustion were not lacking. His election to the empire, in 1520, was an unmitigated misfortune for Spain. Involved thenceforth in the entangle- ments of his continental policy, the land was drained of its blood and treasure for quarrels in which it had no concern, and of which it bore the brunt without shar- ing the advantages. So heavy was the load of indebtedness incurred that, on his accession, Philip II. seriously counseled with his ministers as to the advisability of repudiation. Under the latter mon- arch downward progress was accelerat- ed. Imagining himself to be specially called of Heaven to uphold the threat- ened Catholic faith, he regarded no sacrifices as too great when heresy was to be repressed. For this he provoked the Low Countries to revolt, leading to a war of forty years, with uncounted expenditure of men and money. For this he incurred the crowning disaster of the Armada, and for this he stimu- lated and supported the wars of the League in France. Despite the un- rivaled resources of the monarchy his finances were reduced to hopeless con- fusion; he was a constant borrower on usurious terms, and already in 1565 the Venetian envoy reported his annual in- terest payments at 5,050,000 ducats, which at eight per cent represented an indebtedness of 63,000,000 ducats, a sum, at that period, almost incredible. When the reins slipped from his grasp, in 1598, his successor was the feeble and bigoted Philip III., and the seventeenth century witnessed the fortunes of Spain in the hands of a succession of court favorites, Lerma, Olivares, Haro, Ni- thard, Oropesa, and their tribe, most- ly worthless and grossly incompetent. Financial distress grew more and more acute, aggravated by senseless tampering with the currency, which drove to other lands the precious metals of the New World, until the whole active circulation of the country consisted of a token cop- per coinage, the value of which the gov- ernment endeavored to regulate by a succession of edicts of the niost contra- dictory character, producing inextricable perplexity and uncertainty, fatally crip- pling what productive industry had sur- vived the temper of the people and the unwisdom of legislation. Clericalism contributed its full share to this downward progress. The inten- sity of the Spanish character, which can do nothing by halves, lent an enormous power for evil to the exaggerated reli- gious ardor of the people. In the earlier Middle Ages no other European nation had been so tolerant as Spain in its deal- ings with the Jew and the infidel, but, un- der the careful stimulation of the Church, this tolerant spirit had passed away with the fourteenth century, and in its place there had gradually arisen a fierce and implacable hatred of all faiths outside of Catholicism. This fanaticism gave to the priesthood preponderating power, which it utilized for its own behoof, in disre- gard of the public welfare, and all doubt- ful questions were apt to be decided in favor of the faith. The royal confessor was e~v officio a member of the Council of State, and under a weak monarch his influence was almost unbounded. Fray Gaspar de Toledo, the confessor of Philip III., boasted that when he ordered his royal penitent to do or to leave undone anything, under penalty of mortal sin, he was obeyed; and the fate of a king- dom thus virtually subjected to the ca 40 The Decadence of Spain. prices of a narrow - minded friar can readily be divined. The royal confessor- ship was frequently a stepping-stone to the supreme office of inquisitor-general, which controlled the conscience of the nation; and as under such a r6gime the delimitation between spiritual and tem- poral affairs was most uncertain, the wrangling between the religious and sec- ular departments of the state was inces- sant, to the serious detriment of united and sagacious action. When, in the minority of Carlos II., the regent mother, Maria Anna of Austria, made her Ger- man Jesuit confessor Nithard inquisitor- general, it required a popular uprising to get rid of him and relegate him to Rome, for he was speedily becoming the real ruler of Spain. This unreasoning religious ardor cul- minated in the Inquisition, established for the purpose of securing the supreme good of unblemished purity and uniform- ity of belief. Nothing was allowed to stand in the way of this, and no sacrifice was deemed too great for its accomplish- ment. All officials, from the king down- ward, were sworn to its support, and the sinister influence which it exercised was proportioned to the enormous power which it wielded. The tragic spectacles of the autos-de-f6 were abhorrent, but they were of little more importance than the closely related bull-fights in deter- mining the fate of the nation, save in so far as they stimulated the ruthless char- acteristics of the people. The real sig- nificance of the Inquisition lay in the isolation to which it condemned the land, and its benumbing influence on the intel- lectual development of the people. It created a fresh source of pride, which led the Spaniard to plume himself on the unsullied purity of his faith, and to de- spise all other nations as given over, more or less, to the errors of heresy. It ob- structed his commercial relations by im- posing absurd and costly regulations at the ports to prevent the slightest chance of the introduction of heretical opinions. It organized a strict censorship to guard against the intrusion of foreign ideas or the evolution of innovations at home. It paralyzed the national intelligence, and resolutely undertook to keep the national mind in the grooves of the sixteenth cen- tury. While the rest of the civilized world was bounding forward in a career of progress, while science and the useful arts were daily adding to the conquests of man over the forces of nature, and rival nations were growing in wealth and power, the Inquisition condemned Spain to stagnation; invention and discovery were unknown at home, and their ad- mission from abroad was regarded with jealousy. Recuperative power was thus wholly lacking to offset the destructive effects of misgovernment, the national conservatism was intensified, and a habit of mind was engendered which has kept Spain to this day a virtual survival of the Renaissance. All these causes of retrogression were rendered more effective by the autocratic absolutism of the form of government, which deprived the people of all initia- tive, and subjected everything to the will of the monarch. The old Castilian lib- erties were lost in the uprising of the Comunidades in 1520, and those of Va- lencia about the same time in the kin- dred tumults of the Germania, while those which survived in Aragon and Catalonia were swept away in 1707, when the War of Succession gave Philip V. the excuse for treating them as con- quered provinces. Nowhere in Europe, west of Russia, had the maxim of the imperial jurisprudence, Quod placuit principi legis habet vigorem, more ab- solute sway. The legislative and execu- tive functions were combined in the sov- ereign; there were no national political life, no training in citizenship, no forces to counterbalance the follies or prejudices of the king and his favorites. Under a series of exceptionally able rulers, this form of government might have main- tained Spanish prosperity and power, The Decadence of Spain. 41 while repressing enlightenment, but it was the peculiar curse of Spain that the last three Hapsburg princes, whose reigns filled the whole of the sixteenth century, were weak, and their choice of favorites, ghostly and secular, was un- wise. Especially the latest one, Carlos II., brought Spain to the nadir of de- cadence. At his death, in 1700, the Spanish population is estimated to have shrunk within a century from ten to five millions. The prolonged War of Suc- cession which followed partook so much of the nature of civil strife as to be pecu- liarly exhausting to the scanty resources left by the misgovernment of the preced- ing two centuries, but with the accession of the Bourbons there was a promise of improvement. Philip V. was weak, but he was not as bigoted and obscurantist as his predecessors, and his sons, Ferdinand VI. and Carlos III., were men of more liberal ideals. Especially was Carlos an enlightened monarch,~who curbed to some extent the Inquisition, relaxed somewhat the rigid censorship of the press, and earnestly strove to promote the indus- trial development of his kingdom. Un- der his rule prosperity began to revive, and there seemed a prospect that Spain might assert her place among progressive nations. The outbreak of the French Revolution, l~wever, was the death-blow of liberal- ism. Dynastic considerations outweighed all others, and the rulers of Spain were especially sensitive to the dangers appre- hended from the introduction of theories as to the rights of man and universal equality. Carlos III. had died in 1788, and his son, Carlos IV., was weak, bigot- ed, reactionary, and wholly under the influence of his favorite, Godoy, the so- called Prince of Peace. His son and successor, Ferdinand VII., was trained in the same school. After the Napole- onic invasion and the Peninsular War, his restoration, in 1814, was the signal for the sternest repressive and reaction- ary measures; tbe monarch claimed ab solute power, the Constitution of 1812 was set aside, censorship was revived in the most despotic fashion, the Inquisi- tion was re& ~stablished, and nothing was left undone to bring back the conditions of the sixteenth century. These con- ditions were upset by the revolution of 1820, but restored by the intervention of the Holy Alliance in 1823, when the Due dAngoul~me, at the head of a French army, executed the mandate of the Con- gress of Verona. The history of Spain since then, with its succession of civil wars, revolutions, and experiments in govern- ment, holds out little promise of settled and orderly progress. The national char- acteristic of indomitable pride which dis- dains to learn from tho experience of other nations, the tendency to resort to violent and exaggerated methods, the dense political ignorance of the masses, so sedulously deprived through long gen- erations of all means of political enlighten- ment and all training in political action, combine to render the nation incapable of conducting wisely the liberal institu- tions which are foreign importations, and not the outgrowth of native aspirations and experience. In many respects the Spaniard is still living in the sixteenth century, unable to assimilate the ideas of the nineteenth, or to realize that bis coun- try is no longer the mistress of the sea and the dominating power of the land. There is still another cause which has contributed largely to Spanish decadence. All governments are more or less cor- rupt, absolute honesty would appear to be impossible in the conduct of pub- lic affairs, but the corruption and ve- nality of Spanish administration have been peculiarly all-pervading and con- tinuous. From the time of the youthful Charles V. and his worthless horde of Flemish favorites, this has been a corrod- ing cancer, sapping the vitality of Span- ish resources. It was in vain that the most onerous and disabling imposts were laid on wealth and industry; the results were always insufficient, and the national 42 The Decadence of Spain. finances were always in disorder, crip- pling all efforts at aggression or defense. Already in 1551 the cortes of Castile gave a deplorable account of the corrup- tion in every branch of official life, the destruction of industry, and the misery of the people under their crushing burdens. In 1656, when Philip IV., under a com- plication of misfortunes, was struggling to avert bankruptcy, Cardinal Moscoso, the Archbishop of Toledo, bluntly told him that not more than ten per cent of the revenues collected reached the royal treasury. While income was thus fatal- ly diminished, expenditure was similarly augmented through collusion, fraud, and bribery. It raises a curious psychological question, how pride and punctilious sen- sitiveness as to honor can coexist with eager rapacity f6r iniquitous gains, how undoubted patriotism can accommod~te itself to a system which deprives the fa- therland of the resources necessary to its existence; but human nature is often only consistent in inconsistency. To what extent this prevails at the present day must of course be only a matter of con- jecture, but recent events would seem to indicate that supplies and munitions paid for are not on hand when urgently need- ed, and that troops in the field bear but a slender proportion to those on the pay- roll. When, the other day, Don Carlos alluded to generously voted millions diverted from the fulfillment of their patriotic purpose to the pockets of fraud- ulent contractors and dishonest state employees, and disorder, peculation, and mendacity in every department of the public service, he merely described con- ditions which in Spain have been chronic for centuries. If the above is a truthful outline of the causes of Spanish decadence, it can arouse no wonder that Spanish colonial policy has been a failure. All the de- fects of character and administration which produced such disastrous results at home had naturally fuller scope for development in the colonies. The dis- coveries of Columbus did not open up a new continent to be settled by industri- ous immigrants coming to found states and develop their resources in peaceful industry. The marvelous exploits of the Conquistadores were performed in the craziest thirst for gold, and those who succeeded them came in the hope of speedy enrichment and return, to ac- complish which they exploited to the utmost the unhappy natives, and when these were no longer available replaced them with African slaves. The mother country similarly looked upon her new possessions simply as a source of revenue, to be drained to the utmost, either for herself or for the benefit of those whom she sent out to govern them. Colonists who finally settled and cast their lot in the INew World ~vere consequently ex- posed to every limitation and discrimi- nation that perverse ingenuity could sug- gest, and were sacrificed to the advan- tage, real or imaginary, of Spain. The short-sighted financial and commercial policy at home would in itself have suf- ficed to condemn the colonies to stag- nation and misery, but in addition they were subjected to special restrictions and burdens. It was not until 1788 that trade with them was permitted through any port but Cadiz, whose mer- chants made use of their monopoly to exact a profit of from one hundred to two hundred per cent. Export and import duties were multiplied, till the producer was deprived of all incentive to exertion, and the populations were taxed to their utmost capacity, the taxes being exacted with merciless severity. As if this were not enough, the all- pervading influence of clericalism ren- dered good government well-nigh im- possible. Under its influence the colo- nial organizations consisted of sundry independent jurisdictions, incompatible with the preservation of order in any community, and especially unfitted for the administration of a colony, sepa The Decadence of Spain. 43 rated by a thousand leagues from the supreme authority which alone could compose their differences. There was the royal representative, the viceroy or governor, responsible for the defense of the province and the maintenance of order. There was the church establish- ment with its bishop or archbishop, in no way subordinate to the civil power. There were the various regular orders, Franciscans, Dominicans, Augustin- ians, Jesuits, etc., bitterly jealous of one another and prompt to quarrel, ex- empt from episcopal jurisdiction, and subject only to their respective superiors or to the Pope, except when suspicion of heresy might render individual members answerable to the Inquisition. Finally, there was the Inquisition itself, which owned obedience only to the Supreme Council of the Holy Office in Madrid, and held itself superior to all other ju- risdictions; for under its delegated papal power it could at will paralyze the au- thority of any one, from the highest to the lowest, by its excommunication, while no priest or prelate could excom- municate its ministers. It was impossi- ble that so irrational a scheme of social order should work smoothly. Causes of dissension, trivial or serious, between these rival and jealous jurisdictions were rarely lacking, and the internal history of the colonies consists in great part of their quarrels, which disturbed the peace of the communities and hindered pro- sperity and growth. In The Atlantic Monthly for August, 1891, I described at some length a com- plicated quarrel between the Franciscans and the Bishop of Cartagena de las In- dias, in which both the Inquisition and the royal governor intervened, keeping the community in an uproar from 1683 to 1688. This was followed, in 1693, by an outbreak between the governor, Ceballos, and the Inquisition. In the public meat-market a butcher refused to give precedence to a negro slave of the inquisitor, who thereupon had the indis creet butcher arrested and confined in chains in the eareeles seeretas of the Inquisition. This in itself was a most serious punishment, for such imprison- ment left an ineffaceable stigma on the sufferer and on his descendants for two generations. The governor pleaded in vain with the inquisitor, and then en- deavored secretly to obtain testimony to send to Madrid, but without success, for no one dared to give evidence. The fact of his attempt leaked out, however, and the secretary of the Inquisition led a mob to the palace, and forced the gov- ernor, under threat of excommunication, to sign a declaration that he abandoned the case to the Inquisition, that all re- ference to it should be expunged from the records of .the municipality and all papers relating to it should be delivered to the inquisitor. He submitted, and his only recourse was to write a piteous let- ter to the Council of the Indies. Such appeal to the home authorities was of uncertain outcome, for the inquisitors were by no means ready to submit to an adverse decision. In a complicated quarrel between the cruzada, the epis- copal court, the Inquisition, and the viceroy of Peru, in 1729, the inquisi- tors of Lima formally and repeatedly refused obedience to a royal order sent through the viceroy, alleging that they were subject only to the Supreme Coun- cil of the Holy Office. In 1751 they took the same ground in a case in which the king decided against them, and they held out until 1760, when a more per- emptory command was received, accom- panied by a dispatch from the council which they could not disregard. Thus, to a greater or less degree, all Spanish colonies were fields in which clericalism rioted at will. Paraguay, where the Jesuits succeeded in building up an independent theocracy, offers the most perfect illustration of the result, and a somewhat less conspicuous instance is found in the Philippines. There the missions of the Augustinian Recollects 44 The Decadence of Spain. acquired such power that the annals of that colony seem rather to be the re- cords of the Augustinian province of San Nicoliis than those of a royal de- pendency. This Augustinian supremacy was unsuccessfully disputed by the Do- minicans, in the early years of the eigh- teenth century, but the Jesuits proved to be more dangerous rivals, who did not scruple, in 1736, to induce their na- tive subjects to make war on those of the Augustinians. The banishment in 1767 of the Society of Jesus from the Spanish dominions left the field to the Augustinians, who have since held it, apparently without making effort to se- cure the good will of their flocks. They had their own internal troubles, however, for in 1712 the hostility between the Aragonese and Castilians led to a schism which had to be referred to Spain for settlement, when the Castilians, who were the losing party, refused to submit until the acting governor, Torralba, em- ployed the persuasive influence of artil- lery. The character of their relations with the secular authority can be estiinat- ed from an occurrence in 1643, when the governor, Sebastian Hurtado de Corcuera, in preparing to resist an ex- pected attack by the Dutch, undertook to fortify Manila. An Augustinian con- vent and church occupied a site re- quired for a demilune. Corcuera offered the friars another church and 4000 pesos; but they refused to niove, and obstinately remained in the convent un- til the progress of the works rendered it uninhabitable, when it was torn down and the materials were used in the lines. They raised a great clamor, which probably was the cause of the removal of Corcuera in 1644, when they pro- secuted their grievance in court, and obtained a decree reinstating them and casting him in damages to the amount of 25,000 pesos. They tore down the fortifications, rebuilt the church, and threw Corcuera into prison, where he languished under cruel treatment for five years. He had been an excellent ad- ministrator, and on his liberation Philip IV. appointed him governor of the Ca- naries. In such a community the position of governor had few attractions for an hon- est man. In 1719, a new one, Busta- mente Bustihlo, found on his arrival that all the royal officials had been busi- ly embezzling and pilfering, leaving the treasury nearly empty. After ascertain- ing the facts he set to work energetically to recover the funds and to punish the guilty, who thereupon, as seems to have been customary in such cases, sought asylum in the churches, One of them had carried with him certain official re- cords necessary for the verification of the accounts, and these Bustillo requested the archbishop to make him surrender. The archbishop replied with a learned argument, drawn up for him by a Jesuit, proving that the governors request was illegal. Bustillo lost his temper at this, and arrested the archbishop, who forth- with cast an interdict over the city. Then the monks and friars turned .out in organized bands, marching through the streets with crucifixes, and shouting, Viva la f6! Viva ha Iglesia! They speedily collected a mob which they led to the palace; the doors were broken in, the governor and his son murdered, and when the archbishop was released he as- sumed the governorship, under the ad- vice of an assembly consisting exclusive- ly of ecclesiastical dignitaries. In these perpetually recurring troubles between the secular and the clerical au- thorities the Inquisition was not behind- hand, although there was no organized tri- bunal in Manila. The Philippines were an appendage to the viceroyalty of New Spain or Mexico, and the Holy Office of Mexico merely delegated a commissioner at Manila to execute its orders and make reports to it. Subordinate as was this position, those who held it deemed them- selves superior to the royal authorities. About 1650 the padre commissioner re The Decadence of Spain. 45 ceived an order to arrest and send to Acapulco a person who was governor of one of the islands and commandant of a fortified town. The commissioner was also an officer of the government, and knew the risk he ran of offending the governor of the colony in not ad- vising him of what was impending; but the obligation of secrecy in inquisitorial matters was superior to all other con- siderations. He quietly summoned his alcaide mayor and a sufficient number of familiars, sailed for the island, sur- prised the governor in his bed, carried him off, and imprisoned him in a con- vent until there should be an opportu- nity of shipping him to Mexico. The governor of the colony was Don Diego Faxardo, a violent and irascible soldier, whose term of service was a perpetual embroilment with the unruly jurisdic- tions under his charge, and who knew the danger of leaving a fortified post without a commander when there was almost constant war, either with the Dutch or with the natives. A rude explo- sion of wrath was to be expected at this contemptuous disregard of the respect due to his office and of the safety of the land, yet Don Diego so thoroughly re- cognized the supremacy of the Inquisi- tion that when apprised of the affair lie only chided the padre gently for not hav- ing given him a chance of winning the graces and indulgences promised for so pious a work, seeing that he would have regarded as the utmost good fortune the opportunity of serving as an alguazil in making the arrest. Twenty years later, the Augustinian Fray Joseph de Paternina Samaniego, then commissioner of the Inquisition, was even bolder. He was ordered from Mexico to take secret testimony against the governor of the colony, Don Diego de Salcedo, and forward it to Mexico for examination by the tribunal there. This was all that a commissioner was empowered to do, and he was especially instructed to go no further; but the Au- gustinians had had quarrels with the gov- ernor, and the whole affair was probably a plot for his removal. Fray Paternina therefore proceeded to act on the testi- moimy, although the judge, Don Fran- cisco de Montemayor, warned him of his lack of authority, and that such a per- sonage as the governor could not be ar- rested without a special c~dula from the king, passed upon by the Council of the Inquisition. He drew up a warrant of arrest, went at midnight to the palace with some friars and familiars, seized Salcedo in his bed, handcuffed him, and carried him off to the Augustinian con- vent, where the bells were rung in honor of the event. He then gave notice to the royal court that the governorship was vacant, and might be filled, which was done by the appointment of his ally, Don Juan Manuel de ha Pe?ia. He further issued an edict forbidding any one, under pain of excommunication, to speak about the arrest or about his other proceedings; and to inspire fear he brought charges against various persons, under pretext that they were inimical to the Holy Office. Salcedos property was sequestrated, to the profit of those concerned in the affair, and he was shipped by the first vessel to Acapulco, but he died on the voyage. When the news of this outrage reached Madrid by way of Flanders, the Conneil of the Indies complained bitterly, and asked that steps he taken to prevent a repetition of acts so dangerous to the safety of the colonies. The, Council of the Inquisition calmly replied that no new instructions were needed, for there were ample provisions for filling a sud- den vacancy; as for Fray Paternina, if he bad gone too far he would be duly corrected. The Council of the Indies insisted, and was supported by the queen regent. Meanwhile, the Council of the Inquisition had examined the testimony taken against Salcedo, pronounced it friv- olous, declared his arrest void, and or- dered his property to be restored to his heirs, while Fray Paternina was to be 46 Tite Decadence of Spain. sent to Spain for trial. On the journey he died at Acapulco, and the matter was dropped. Successful colonization under such a system was a manifest impossibility, and it is no wonder that the Spanish depend- encies languished, in spite of their infi- nite potentialities of wealth and pro- sperity. The narrow and selfish policy of the mother country deprived the colo- nists of all incentives to exertion; the officials sent from Spain enriched them- selves, the tax-gatherers seized all su- perfluous earnings; there were no accu- mulation of capital and no advancement. In 1736, the viceroy of the vast kingdom of Peru, Don Jos6 Armendaris, Marquis of Castel - Fuerte, in the report which, according to custom, he drew up for the instruction of his successor, described the condition of the colony as deplorable. The Spanish population was mostly con- centrated in Lima; the nobles and the wealthy oppressed the poor; the cor- regidores and priests oppressed the In- dians; the priests paid little attention to their religious duties, for they were not compelled to residence by their bish- ops, and were abandoned to sloth and licentiousness; the judges were venal; and the population was diminishing. The religious orders, he said, ought to be checked, an(l not encouraged, for in Lima there were thirty-four convents, each of them, on an average, equal to four in Spain, which was the most ecclesiastical of all lands. This monastic hypertrophy he attributed to the fact that the men had no other career open to them, and the women consequently could not find husbands. This gloomy utterance was re~choed, twenty years later, by a subse- quent viceroy, Don Jos6 Antonio Manto de Velasco. Still more desponding is a report made in 1772 by Francisco Antonio Moreno y Escandon as to the condition of the New Kingdom of Granada, embracing the northern coast from Pa- nama to Venezuela, a region abounding in natural wealth. The local officials everywhere, he says, were indifferent and careless as to their duty; the people were steeped in poverty; trade was al- most extinct; capital was lacking, and there were no opportunities for its in- vestment; the only source of support was the cultivation of small patches of ground. Every one sought to subsist on the government by procuring some little office. The mining of the precious metals was the sole source of trade, of procuring necessities from abroad, and of meeting the expenses of the government; but al- though the mines were as rich as ever, their product had greatly decreased. Commerce with Spain employed only one or two ships, with registered cargoes, a year from Cadiz to Cartagena, whence the goods were distributed through the interior, but so burdened with duties and expenses that no profit could be made on them. If freedom of export could be had for the rich productions of the couw try, cocoa, tobacco, precious woods, etc., the colony would flourish; but there were no manufactures, and no money could be kept in the land. The missions had made no progress for a hundred years in christianizing the In- dians, for the missionaries undertook the duty only for the purpose of securing a life of ease and sloth. Such was the result of three hundred years of colonization under Spanish methods; and we can scarce wonder that, after such a training, the nations which emancipated themselves have found self- government so difficult. Under the warning given by their loss, some im- provement has been made in the insular possessions which were unable to throw off the yoke, but not enough to prevent chronic disaffection and constantly re- curring efforts at revolt. Spain has made of her colonies the buried talent, and the fulfillment of the parable must come to pass. Henry Charles Lea. War and ilfoney: Some Lessons of 1862. 47 WAR AND MONEY: SOME LESSONS OF 1862. THE soundness of an institution is put to a test by the strain of a critical mo- ment. Even in times of peace our mon- etary system has created grave alarm; what then must be in store for us in the emergencies of war? In all the energetic and hopeful move- ment of recent years for the reform of our monetary evils, we have been hold- ing up to view the necessity for legisla- tive action in anticipation of a possible day of reckoning; and that day of reck- oning has unexpectedly come upon us in the war with Spain. It now makes lit- tle difference whether the war be long or short, so far as concerns the existing fact of an actual currency crisis ; the crisis is upon us, and our system will soon be put on trial. The preliminary appropriation of $50,000,000 out of the Treasury balance for war expenditures was itself a step toward monetary com- plications, and as a hint of congressional methods is big with possibilities. It is a matter of common knowledge that we have long been living in feverish uncertainty under a monetary system in which the standard for prices and for all complicated business transactions has been subject to doubt. No sooner had we made the paper promises of the govern- ment (which had been our standard from 1862 to 1879) as good as gold (January 1,1879) than we began to suffer from an aoitation causing fear as to whether the standard might not be changed from gold to silver. That agitation was not laid by the campaign of 1896, because no legis- lation (in spite of the solemn pledges of the Republican party) has since enacted the edict of the people against silver into a statute. Although a great victory for the maintenance of the existing gold standard was won, yet we are so placed to-day that its fruits may be wrested from us in the upheaval of a war with Spain or in the disturbances produced by fiscal needs. Among the greatest disasters of war should be counted the shaking of the weak foundations on which our standard rests, and the toppling over of the edi- fice of our national credit. That the continuance of the gold standard depends upon the ability of the Treasury to provide gold for all its pay- ments is a truism which it is unneces- sary to emphasize. The business world has beeii again and again alarmed by the ebb and flow of a fluctuating gold reserve behind our government legal tender paper; when it grew slender the loss of the gold standard seemed immi- nent, whereupon every effort was made to fill the Treasury and save the stan- dard. These shocks to the nerve centres of commerce in the past few years are only too fresh in every mind. Indeed, in assigning responsibility for a declin- ing gold reserve, the leaders of the Re- publican party insisted that to the defi- cits in the budget during the preceding administration was to be ascribed the inability to protect the standard. Now observe the attitude of Congress to-day. While, up to this time, the revenue for the present fiscal year has not risen to an equality with the expenditures, the same party (of course assisted by their opponents), without a question or an ex- pressed doubt, supplied an appropriation in anticipation of war by taking it bod- ily out of the Treasury balance, without making any new provisions for obtaining means by taxation or by loans, and the straightforward measure of borrowing by bonds is even shelved in the Senate. Here we touch the great danger of tbe hour, one upon which too much stress cannot be laid: the 01(1 easy-going and fatal confusion of mind in Congress be- tween the fiscal and the monetary func- tions of the Treasury, which in 1861

J. Laurence Laughlin Laughlin, J. Laurence War and Money: Some Lessons of 1862 47-55

War and ilfoney: Some Lessons of 1862. 47 WAR AND MONEY: SOME LESSONS OF 1862. THE soundness of an institution is put to a test by the strain of a critical mo- ment. Even in times of peace our mon- etary system has created grave alarm; what then must be in store for us in the emergencies of war? In all the energetic and hopeful move- ment of recent years for the reform of our monetary evils, we have been hold- ing up to view the necessity for legisla- tive action in anticipation of a possible day of reckoning; and that day of reck- oning has unexpectedly come upon us in the war with Spain. It now makes lit- tle difference whether the war be long or short, so far as concerns the existing fact of an actual currency crisis ; the crisis is upon us, and our system will soon be put on trial. The preliminary appropriation of $50,000,000 out of the Treasury balance for war expenditures was itself a step toward monetary com- plications, and as a hint of congressional methods is big with possibilities. It is a matter of common knowledge that we have long been living in feverish uncertainty under a monetary system in which the standard for prices and for all complicated business transactions has been subject to doubt. No sooner had we made the paper promises of the govern- ment (which had been our standard from 1862 to 1879) as good as gold (January 1,1879) than we began to suffer from an aoitation causing fear as to whether the standard might not be changed from gold to silver. That agitation was not laid by the campaign of 1896, because no legis- lation (in spite of the solemn pledges of the Republican party) has since enacted the edict of the people against silver into a statute. Although a great victory for the maintenance of the existing gold standard was won, yet we are so placed to-day that its fruits may be wrested from us in the upheaval of a war with Spain or in the disturbances produced by fiscal needs. Among the greatest disasters of war should be counted the shaking of the weak foundations on which our standard rests, and the toppling over of the edi- fice of our national credit. That the continuance of the gold standard depends upon the ability of the Treasury to provide gold for all its pay- ments is a truism which it is unneces- sary to emphasize. The business world has beeii again and again alarmed by the ebb and flow of a fluctuating gold reserve behind our government legal tender paper; when it grew slender the loss of the gold standard seemed immi- nent, whereupon every effort was made to fill the Treasury and save the stan- dard. These shocks to the nerve centres of commerce in the past few years are only too fresh in every mind. Indeed, in assigning responsibility for a declin- ing gold reserve, the leaders of the Re- publican party insisted that to the defi- cits in the budget during the preceding administration was to be ascribed the inability to protect the standard. Now observe the attitude of Congress to-day. While, up to this time, the revenue for the present fiscal year has not risen to an equality with the expenditures, the same party (of course assisted by their opponents), without a question or an ex- pressed doubt, supplied an appropriation in anticipation of war by taking it bod- ily out of the Treasury balance, without making any new provisions for obtaining means by taxation or by loans, and the straightforward measure of borrowing by bonds is even shelved in the Senate. Here we touch the great danger of tbe hour, one upon which too much stress cannot be laid: the 01(1 easy-going and fatal confusion of mind in Congress be- tween the fiscal and the monetary func- tions of the Treasury, which in 1861 48 War and Money: Some Lessons of 18G2. wrecked the credit of the United States, and led to the financial d~b69cle of 1864 when Mr. Chase resigned his portfolio in despair. Out of this confusion of mind may easily result a policy which may entail upon us evil consequences for decades to come. It will be the purpose to hide dubious schemes under the guise of patriotism. By representing as un- patriotic everything which does not tally with selfish and partisan designs, an at- tempt is made to deny a hearing to the teachings of experience, of reason, of sound monetary judgment, and hence of all that most concerns the honor of our country, of all that is, in the true sense, most patriotic. If this spirit is to control our new fiscal legislation, there is grave trouble ahead of us. It is perfectly clear, however, that the present war can be conducted without se- lions commercial distress other than that entailed by a diversion of industry and by increased taxation. The incidents of the day, if availed of, must be regarded as extremely favorable. The generally prosperous condition of all our indus- tries, the quickening results of the last great harvcst, which was accompanied by a strong European demand and high prices for our cereals, the unparalleled balance of $470,000,000 of exports over imports in nine months, the consequent credits due us from abroad, and the ex- ceptional flow of gold rising beyond $60,- 000,000 to our side as soon as our credits are drawn upon, these are fortunate conditions, for which, in this juncture, we ought to be profoundly grateful; all the more grateful because they furnish a basis upon which our fiscal affairs may be conducted with signal success, if we but avoid the fatal confusion between fiscal and monetary operations from which we have suffered so grievously in the past; if we but hold to the elemen- tary principle that the Treasury requires in time of war a control of wealth and capital, of goods, and not merely of the medium of exchange which performs the subsidiary work of transferring these goods. It is not difficult to understand that, in times either of peace or of war, the one important matter is the pro- duction and possession of the articles needed by the country. Money serves only a subsidiary purpose as a medium by which these articles (expressed in terms of money) are exchanged; and a small amount of money goes on doing the vast work of exchange in an unceas- ing round. In days of peace, when pro- duction is normal, every one knows how desirable it is to have no disturbances in trade arising from defects in the mone- tary machinery. In days of war, pro- duction is even more essential than in a period of peace; the main economic dif- ference (apart from the withdrawal of laborers) at the time being the partial readjustment of productive effort to arti- cles for the army and navy. Hence how much more necessary it is, in the ab- normal conditions of war, to be free from additional disturbances caused to indus- try by tampering with the standard, and thus breaking up the efficiency of the system by which exchanges are carried on! Changes in the standard would do more than merely affect the convenience of industry; by modifying the measure in which prices are expressed, they would bring in endless confusion, increase the national debt, lower the purchasing pow- er of wages, and weaken the vital re- sources of the land. In view of all our residuary legacies from the issue of inconvertible paper during the civil war, it should be super- fluous to suggest that a war emergency does not necessarily require a resort to paper money or a departure from the existing standard. Unfortunately, in the minds of men, high and low, there ex- ists an insistent belief that somehow or other paper money is an essential con- comitant of war. Perhaps it arises from the remembrance that such has been the fact in most cases of war known to their experience; which may be only another War and Afoney: Some Lessons of 1862. 49 way of admitting that inefficient finan- cial management has been the rule. At any rate, the idea which should hold pos- session of the national consciousness, in this affair with Spain, is that abundant means for war expenses can be provided without giving up our standard, but above all tbat these funds can be most easily and cheaply obtained by merely avoiding any action which can in the slightest de- gree be construed as disturbing the ex- isting standard. The suggestion of in- creased paper issues, a menace to the existing gold reserves by appropriating Treasury balances, any proposition to use more silver, in fact any increase of our demand obligations, would create doubt as to the standard, and for that reason should be regarded as unpatriotic in the truest sense. Instead of carrying us through the civil war, the government paper money was the one conspicuous enemy of pub- lic credit, of the soldier, and of the la- borer at home. If we came through the crisis, it was solely because we withstood not only the heavy blows of war itself, but also the injuries arising from an in- iquitous monetary system. In the sum- mer of 1861, after the bankers of New York, Boston, and Philadelphia, with many doubts, had patriotically assumed the task of selling bonds for the United States to the amount of $150,000,000, they found the community unwilling to buy them in the existing condition of government credit at the rate of interest exacted. Being under agreement to pay the Treasury for these obligations in gold, when they found their means locked up in unsalable securities they were finally obliged to suspend specie payments (on December 30, 1861). With the best of intentions, but in dense ignorance of in- vestment requirements, Congress, by a strange fatuity, forbade the sale of bonds below par. Given a fixed rate of inter- est, the selling price of a bond is high or low according to the high or low credit of the issuer. Our credit in 1861 being VOL. LXXXIT. NO. 489. 4 far from good, Congress made it impos- sible to sell bonds at a price which in- vestors would pay for the fixed return, thus voluntarily cutting itself off from usual and legitiniate methods of bor- rowing, and making little or no resort to emergency taxation. The Treasury found itself in an impasse; whereupon it was claimed that the issue of incon- vertible paper money was a necessity. Curiously blind to the fact that the price of bonds is a market judgment as to the credit of the issuer, we refused to accept the consequences of a low credit, and a measure was proposed pret~minent- ly adapted to destroy any little credit that remained. Without trying to bor- row in the way which the strongest mod- ern nations find legitimate, desperately in need of funds, the Treasury came to the last resort of a bankrupt government, and issued inconvertible paper money. To put out paper promises to pay on demand, when all the world knew there was not a dollar of coin in reserve to redeem the paper, was a pitifully open way of advertising the hopeless condition of the Treasury. No lover of our coun- try can look back on that spectacle with- out chagrin and wounded national pride. If the enemies of the United States had cunningly planned to corner the Trea- sury, they could not have gained their purpose more effectually than was ac- complished by the blunders of ardent friends. A great and prosperous coun- try, and yet unable to borrow! For the words of Charles Sumner were admit- tedly true then, as they are to-day: Our country is rich and powerful, with a numerous population, busy, hon- est, and determined, and with unparal- leled resources of all kinds, agricultural, mineral, industrial, commercial; it is yet undrained by the war in which we are engaged; nor has the enemy succeeded in depriving us of any of the means of livelihood. It is hard very hard to think that such a country, so power- ful, so rich, and so beloved, should be 50 War and Honey: Some Lessons of 1862. compelled to adopt a policy of even questionable propriety. The disasters of the civil war will not have been in vain if they bite into our consciousness the lines of distinction between measures fit for fiscal needs the provision of funds by taxation and borrowing and those which have a wholly separate function in maintaining unshaken a standard for prices and con- tracts. The former should be kept en- tirely apart from the latter. Instead of trying to supply emergency needs in a way to complicate the monetary system, or to introduce a fluctuating paper for a gold standard, common prudence should have dictated a scrupulous avoidance of all measures of borrowing which in any way touched the standard. The action of our leaders in 1862 seems still stran- ger, when we find that these alternatives had been clearly laid before them by a deputation from New York, Boston, and Philadelphia, headed by Mr. George S. Coe and Mr. James Gallatin. In a con- ference with Secretary Chase explicit di- rections were given how the government might borrow unlimited sums without a resort to inconvertible paper, as fol- lows (1.) A tax bill to raise, in the dif- ferent modes of taxatjon, $125,000,000 over and above duties on imports. (2.) No issue of demand Treasury notes except those authorized at the ex- tra session in July last. (3.) An issue of $100,000,000 Trea- sury notes at two years, in sums of five doijars and upwards, to be receivable for public dues to the government, except du- ties on imports. (4.) A suspension of the Sub-Treasury Act, so as to allow the banks to become depositories of the government of all loans, and so that the Treasury will check on the banks from time to time as the government may want money. (5.) An issue of six per cent twenty- year bonds, to be negotiated by the Sec- retary of the Treasary,~and without any limitation as to the price he may obtain for them in the market. (6.) The Secretary of the Treasury should be empowered to make tempora- ry loans to the extent of any portion of the funded stock authorized by Congress, with power to hypothecate such stock; and, if such loans are not paid at matu- rity, to sell the stock hypothecated for the best price that can be obtained. Not all these details, of course, are applicable to our existing situation, hut the pith of this advice lies in the ap- plication of ordinary business methods to the operations of the Treasury, and in the avoidance of dangerous demand obligations for whose redemption no reserves have been provided. In spite of these suggestions, Congress in 1862 issued irredeemable paper money which subsequently depreciated to thirty-five cents on the dollar; and as this money was received at par for bonds, the obli- gations of the nation were in reality sold at less than par in gold. That is, Congress did not in fact escape the necessity of selling our bonds for what they would bring, but, by attempting to evade fundamental principles, it accom- plished nothing for its purpose, while bringing wreck and ruin to the credit of the Treasury. Everything which the advocates of paper money said would not happen did happen, and in a way most dispiriting to all courageous sup- porters of the Union. The danger of the hour arises from a defective because uncertain monetary system, due to the presence of the paper money which once did such damage, and to the evident force which the sil- ver party still displays at Washington. The fear is that, in the bustle of war, attention will be directed to other things than monetary reform; and when fiscal legislation comes into the hands of en- emies to our existing standard, the need of borrowing will be made an excuse for changes in fiscal measures which may prevent a proper regulation of the cur- War and Money: Some Lessons of 1862. 51 rency. The cunning schemer will pro- vide the policy, while crass minds will be drawn in as tools; both must unite to work the damage. But the point is not bard to make clear, so that intriguers should find it difficult to deceive. If our government borrows by cre- ating a demand debt in a form to be used as currency, it mixes the borrow- ing, or fiscal, measure with the regula- tion of our monetary system, exactly when the latter should most be kept inviolate. The inherent danger of this is not far to seek. By building up a vast superstructure of demand paper and a silver currency of a value far less than its face, all depending upon a slender gold reserve for the redemption which gives it parity, an instant connection is established between every event which may affect the income or credit of the Treasury and the machinery of prices and contracts with which trade is carried on. The one important aim of Treasury management should be to keep these two matters entirely distinct. There is no reason whatever why fiscal measures for borrowing should in the slightest way be complicated with the machinery which the community has evolved as a standard and for the exchange of goods. It is the duty of the state to keep its hands off this machinery, to recognize the facts of civilized commercial experi- ence, and to go on its way borrowing and taxing, without thought of interfer- ing with that which is at the very base of business life. If, as now, it is not easy to maintain our standard in gold, it would be a wanton attack on indus- trial enterprise to make more complicat- ed a situation already difficult. By making a demand debt of the government serve as money, an intoler- able situation is created whenever an emergency like the present conflict with Spain arises. This money, the value of which is dependent on the fiscal condi- tion of the Treasury, is the agent by which the world of business is exchan ging goods, and upon whose value all prices and contracts depend. Conse- quently, every passing event of war or politics, every victory or defeat of our army or navy, every party success or failure, through its effect on the credit of the Treasury, passes directly like electricity on a live wire to the value of the paper and all fiduciary currency, and then moves swiftly on, after produ- cing fluctuations in the standard, to all the transactions of trade and industry. It should never be that ups and downs of Treasury finance should have any con- nection whatever with the standard and the conduct of business. The moment our government does anything to create uncertainty in the existing standard, that moment this uncertainty changes normal business into a matter of guesswork and speculation. This is but a r6sum6 of our experience in the civil war. The present situation is in some re- spects more favorable, and in some less favorable, than that of 1861. We are fortunate in having at the head of the Treasury an experienced financier, while in 1861 we blundered because there was no leader with an intelligent know- ledge of what should be done. The abundant harvest of last year and our unparalleled exports, as has been said, are causes for congratulation. But, on the other hand, the precedents of wrong- doing are present with us in the form of the United States notes and the mass of silver currency, and the monetary system is in unstable equilibrium. As every one knows, our national bank- notes are redeemable in lawful money; hence their value depends upon the kind of money in which they are redeemed. Our legal tender notes (United States notes and Treasury notes of 1890) de- pend for their value on the sufficiency of the gold reserve in the Treasury. Moreover, the receipt of silver currency on equal terms with gold in payments to the Treasury, and the outgoing pay- ment by the Treasury of all demand 52 War and iJifoney: Some Lessons of 18G2. upon it in gold, maintain the parity of $455,000,000 of silver with gold. If the reserves behind the paper are in any way exhausted, then the Treasury can- not pay gold on demand, and the silver will no longer be kept at a value greater than its own. Clearly, our existing stan- dard pivots on the gold reserve of the Treasury. It may not he amiss to quote here the deliberate judgment of the monetary commission at a time when there was little thought of war with Spain The existence of a large outstanding debt payable on demand is also a source of weakness to the government in its in- ternational relations. Modern warfare is so expensive that it is almost as much a matter of money as of men. A nation suddenly confronted by the alternative of war or dishonor would be greatly handicapped by a large demand debt which it must provide for at once. Great additional force is given to this con- sideration by the fact that it would be scarcely possible for this nation to en- gage in war in its present situation counting as part of the situation the im- perfect development of clear conceptions on the subject of money in the minds of the people without a suspension of specie payments and a resort to further issues of government notes. There is no occasion to criticise those patriotic men who believed that the issue of green- backs was necessary to save the Union. But the world has advanced in financial knowledge and skill since then. There is no doubt that if our government were relieved of its existing demand obliga- tions, and our currency system put in working order upon a gold basis, it would be entirely possible for us to go through a war without suspension of specie pay- ment or any derangement of our mone- tary system. If war should come, the value to the country of the ability to thus avoid the indirect losses following from depreciated currency, inflated prices, and financial demoralization would be so great that the burden of paying off now our demand obligations would be as no- thing in comparison. The peculiarity, however, of our pre- sent situation resides in the fact that a departure from our standard may not necessarily result from additional issues of paper money as in 1862, but from an interference with the gold reserve in the Treasury which would quickly bring us to the silver standard. Whe- ther the deflection from the existing or- der is produced by resort to paper or to silver, the primary effects would be much the same. To be sure, the President may still in emergencies sell bonds, under the Resumption Act, to provide gold for this reserve. There is thus no possible reason why this gold reserve, under effi- cient management, should be allowed to ooze away and bring us to a change of standard. There is potential difficulty, however, in the mental attitude of Con- gress. It has plunged us into war; it has made the expenditure of vast sums a necessary consequence. Then, what will be the disposition of Congress as to means for providing these funds? From this point of view, the appro- priation of $50,000,000 and the attitude of the Senate are big with suggestions. The Treasury balance which had been accumulated by the sale of bonds during the last administration, to secure gold for the protection of the standard, was at once, and without debate, voted away to a very considerable extent. It is no answer if it be said that a dramatic effect was intended by giving instant purchasing power to the President, since that result could have been equally well accomplished by giving the Secretary authority to sell bonds at a proper rate of interest, and by insuring the payment of the principal in gold instead of in du- bious coin. Therefore, this first ac- tion has in it a world of suggestiveness as to the likelihood that Congress will obtain the funds for war by means which will leave our standard intact. War and liloney: Some Lessons of 1862. 53 How dangerous this appropriation was does not seem to be generally realized. As a matter of fact there were not funds enough in the Treasury to warrant an appropriation of $50,000,000. The gen- eral Treasury balance at the time was about $225,000,000. From this must be deducted the following items: Fractional and minor coins largely uncurrent $13,000,000 Receipts from sale of Union Pacific railway, held to pay bonds Jan uary 1, 1899 14,000,000 Funds held for redemption of na- tional bank - notes to be with- drawn 33,000,000 Reserved in Treasury for ordinary working balance 40,000,000 $100,000,000 These items, together with the $100,- 000,000 held as gold reserve for Unit- ed States notes, leave a balance of only $25,000,000 subject to appropriation. That is, if $50,000,000 were taken out of the Treasury very soon, it would either trench upon a small working bal- ance for daily needs, or at once cut into the gold reserve now supporting our whole monetary fabric. Before all of this appropriation is called for, the Trea- sury must necessarily be given means of obtaining new supplies. New war ap- propriations for the army and navy have been made, but no new supplies have been obtained for the Treasury. Can any one be so blind as not to see why the silver group in the Senate willingly voted for such measures, which must deplete the Treasury and imperil the gold reserve, but yet refuse to vote for bonds by which alone the Treasury can obtain funds enough to prevent the dissipation of the gold reserve? It should be borne in mind that the silver men are intrenched in the Senate, and are watching vigilantly for a chance to bring in the silver standard. Unable 1 (1.) An additional tax on beer of one dol- lar per barrel. (2.) Stamp taxes, as in the act of 1860. (3.) An additional tax on tobacco. (4.) The issue of short-time Treasury certi to accomplish this task against the pre- sent House and the veto of the President, it would he their strategy, of course, to gain by negative what it is inipossible to effect by positive measures. An upheaval brought on by war would be their oppor- tunity; and by their control of the Senate almost any fiscal legislation is at their mercy. Having once put ourselves in the position where our Treasury requires fiscal enactments, we must accept what the Senate will allow us. It does not re- quire much imagination to see that in this passion for war the silver group hope to find the opportunity they lost in 1896. The presence of Mr. Bryan in Washing- ton, and the introduction by Mr. Teller of the resolution of recognition of Cuba against the wishes of the administration, showed clearly their purpose to outbid the Republican party by radical action. The proposed scheme 1 for providing funds to carry on the war, given to the public, has in the main a rational foun- dation. There is, nevertheless, a lurking danger in the proposition to adapt the loan to popular subscription. For that purpose a fixed price is necessary. Fix- ing the interest at three per cent and the price at par by no means makes it sure that any large part of the loan will he taken, unless the national credit happens to be exactly met by this adjustment. If the market judgment varies from this rate, then we shall repeat the experience of the civil war. There is the more rea- son for doubt on this point, because it seems to be assumed that the act will provide for the payment of principal and interest on the bonds in coin, on the ground that an express requirement of gold would not be adopted by Congress. But if it is well understood that the word gold cannot be introduced, that indi- cates a doubt as to the future means of ficates, bearing interest to provide for emergen- cy needs. (5.) A popular bond issue of $300,000,000 in denominations of fifty dollars, bearing three per cent interest and sold at par. 54 War and Honey: Some Lessons of 1862. payment for principal and interest. This doubt will affect the price of the bonds, and a fixed price may be again the cause of disaster. The tax on bank checks is, of course, a tax not upon the banks, but upon those who use checks instead of ordinary forms of money. Its effect being to tax one form of currency to the exclusion of other forms, it will to that extent lower the efficiency and convenience of our monetary system. So far as it limits this means of exchanging goods, it will be a commercial disadvantage, but it will yield considerable revenue. The possibility of enormous expendi- tures before we have put our monetary system in order is unpleasant to contem- plate. If the need of a careful revision of our legislation had become imperative when we were at peace with the world, how much more necessary indeed, how much more essential to our safety is it in the presence of war! All the rea- sons which could be urged for monetary ref orin six months ago have tenfold more weight to-day. The very vitality of our credit, of our capacity to borrow, de- pends upon the certainty as to our stan- dard. But Congress has not yet defined whether its bonds are payable in gold or in silver (should we by any emergency be forced to part with our small gold re- serve). The unmistakable plan of the silver group in the Senate to antagonize the administration in order to gain po- litical advantage shows what we must face. When the House bill for war revenue was sent to the Senate, the finance corn- mittee changed its whole character by a bold proposition to issue $150,000,000 niore United States notes, and to coin 1 The resolutions of the Senate, to which the Republican House did not agree, contained two plain conflicts with the Constitution, and a startling inconsistency. First, Congress has no power to recognize the independence of Cuba; and second, it has no power to call on the miii- the seigniorage. At this writing it cannQt be known what action the Senate will take on these proposals. That a new issue of greenbacks should even be mentioned is itself the strongest argu- ment for the early retirement of those now outstanding; because it proves, what has long been prophesied, the danger that their mere existence in our currency will suggest an improper issue in a time of emergency. As to coining the sci- gniorage, that is a proposal to coin what does not exist. The profits on coining silver have been covered into the general funds of the Treasury, and they have been used to meet past demands. There is little or nothing to-day in the Trea- sury with which to meet the difference if called for between the face and the market value of our silver coins for whose circulation at par we are respon- sible. The silver bullion now held be- hind the Treasury notes of 1890 is not seigniorage. To coin the seigniorage would increase the number of over-val- ued silver dollars which must be kept at par in gold, without adding one cent to the reserves held to maintain these dol- lars and other currency at par. In short, the two amendments of the finance com- mittee above mentioned aim directly at weakening the power of the Treasury to keep its demand obligations redeem- able in gold. What must one think of the patriotism of those who would try to take advantage of the perils of war to bring about that which they failed to obtain by the ballot in days of peace? The suggestions of the Senate commit- tee, like the appropriation of the $50,- 000,000, are ominous reminders of our errors in 1862. May we yet be saved from them! J. Laurence Laughlin. tia for service in Cuba. Moreover, a recogni- tion of the Cuban republic was accompanied by a noisy announcement to that unlocated au- thority of the intention of the United States to regulate its affairs for it. The Wife of his Youth. 55 THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH. I. MR. RYDER was going to give a ball. There were several reasons why this was an opportune time for such an event. Mr. Ryder might aptly be called the dean of the Blue Veins. The original Blue Veins were a little society of col- ored persons organized in a certain North- ern city shortly after the war. Its pur- pose was to establish and maintain cor- rect social standards among a people whose social condition presented almost unlimited room for improvement. By accident, combined perhaps with some natural affinity, the society consisted of individuals who were, generally speak- ing, more white than black. Some en- vious outsider made the suggestion that no one was eligible for membership who was not white enough to show blue veins. The suggestion was readily adopted by those who were not of the favored few, and since that time the society, though possessing a longer and more pretentious name, had been known far and wide as the Blue Vein Society, and its mem- bers as the Blue Veins. The Blue Veins did not allow that any such requirement existed for admission to their circle, but, on the contrary, de- clared that character and culture were the only things considered; and that if most of their members were light-colored, it was because such persons, as a rule, had had better opportunities to qualify themselves for membership. Opinions differed, too, as to the usefulness of the society. There were those who had been known to assail it violently as a glaring example of the very prejudice from which the colored race had suffered most; and later, when such critics had succeeded in getting on the inside, they had been heard to maintain with zeal and earnestness that the society was a life-boat, an an- chor, a bulwark and a shield, ~- a pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night, to guide their people through the social wil- derness. Another alleged prerequisite for Blue Vein membership was that of free birth; and while there was really no such requirement, it is doubtless true that very few of the members would have been unable to meet it if there had been. If there were one or two of the older members who had come up from the South and from slavery, their history pre- sented enough romantic circumstances to rob their servile origin of its grosser aspects. While there were no such tests of eligibility, it is true that the Blue Veins had their notions on these subjects, and that not all of them were equally liberal in regard to the things they collectively disclaimed. Mr. Ryder was one of the most conservative. Though he had not been among the founders of the society, but had come in some years later, his genius for social leadership was such that he had speedily become its recognized adviser and head, the custodian of its standards, and the preserver of its tra- ditions. He shaped its social policy, was active in providing for its entertain- ment, and when the interest fell off, as it sometimes did, he fanned the embers until they burst again into a cheerful flame. There were still other reasons for his popularity. While he was not as white as some of the Blue Veins, his appearance was such as to confer distinction upon them. His features were of a refined type, his hair was almost straight; he was always neatly dressed; his manners were irreproachable, and his morals above suspicion. He had come to Groveland a young man, and obtaining employment in the office of a railroad company as messenger had in time worked himself

Charles W. Chestnutt Chestnutt, Charles W. The Wife of his Youth 55-62

The Wife of his Youth. 55 THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH. I. MR. RYDER was going to give a ball. There were several reasons why this was an opportune time for such an event. Mr. Ryder might aptly be called the dean of the Blue Veins. The original Blue Veins were a little society of col- ored persons organized in a certain North- ern city shortly after the war. Its pur- pose was to establish and maintain cor- rect social standards among a people whose social condition presented almost unlimited room for improvement. By accident, combined perhaps with some natural affinity, the society consisted of individuals who were, generally speak- ing, more white than black. Some en- vious outsider made the suggestion that no one was eligible for membership who was not white enough to show blue veins. The suggestion was readily adopted by those who were not of the favored few, and since that time the society, though possessing a longer and more pretentious name, had been known far and wide as the Blue Vein Society, and its mem- bers as the Blue Veins. The Blue Veins did not allow that any such requirement existed for admission to their circle, but, on the contrary, de- clared that character and culture were the only things considered; and that if most of their members were light-colored, it was because such persons, as a rule, had had better opportunities to qualify themselves for membership. Opinions differed, too, as to the usefulness of the society. There were those who had been known to assail it violently as a glaring example of the very prejudice from which the colored race had suffered most; and later, when such critics had succeeded in getting on the inside, they had been heard to maintain with zeal and earnestness that the society was a life-boat, an an- chor, a bulwark and a shield, ~- a pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night, to guide their people through the social wil- derness. Another alleged prerequisite for Blue Vein membership was that of free birth; and while there was really no such requirement, it is doubtless true that very few of the members would have been unable to meet it if there had been. If there were one or two of the older members who had come up from the South and from slavery, their history pre- sented enough romantic circumstances to rob their servile origin of its grosser aspects. While there were no such tests of eligibility, it is true that the Blue Veins had their notions on these subjects, and that not all of them were equally liberal in regard to the things they collectively disclaimed. Mr. Ryder was one of the most conservative. Though he had not been among the founders of the society, but had come in some years later, his genius for social leadership was such that he had speedily become its recognized adviser and head, the custodian of its standards, and the preserver of its tra- ditions. He shaped its social policy, was active in providing for its entertain- ment, and when the interest fell off, as it sometimes did, he fanned the embers until they burst again into a cheerful flame. There were still other reasons for his popularity. While he was not as white as some of the Blue Veins, his appearance was such as to confer distinction upon them. His features were of a refined type, his hair was almost straight; he was always neatly dressed; his manners were irreproachable, and his morals above suspicion. He had come to Groveland a young man, and obtaining employment in the office of a railroad company as messenger had in time worked himself 56 The TV~fe of his Youth. up to the position of stationery clerk, having charge of the distribution of the office supplies for the whole company. Although the lack of early training had hindered the orderly development of a naturally fine mind, it had not prevent- ed him from doing a great deal of read- ing or from forming decidedly literary tastes. Poetry was his passion. He could repeat whole pages of the great Eng- lish poets; and if his pronunciation was sometimes faulty, his eye, his voice, his gestures, would respond to the changing sentiment with a precision that revealed a poetic soul and disarmed criticism. He was economical, and had saved money; he owned and occupied a very comfort- able house on a respectable street. His residence was handsomely furnished, con- taining among other things a good libra- ry, especially rich in poetry, a piano, and some choice engravings. He generally shared his house with some young couple, who looked after his wants and were company for him; for Mr. Ryder was a single man. In the early days of his connection with the Blue Veins he had been regarded as quite a catch, and ladies and their mothers had maneuvred with much ingenuity to capture him. Not, however, until Mrs. Molly Dixon visited Groveland had any woman ever made him wish to change his condition to that of a married man. Mrs. Dixon had come to Groveland from Washington in the spring, and be- fore the summer was over she had won Mr. Ryders heart. She possessed many attractive qualities. She was much younger than he; in fact, he was old enough to have been her father, though no one knew exactly how old he was. She was whiter than he, and better edu- cated. She had moved in the best col- ored society of the country, at Washing- ton, and had taught in the schools of that city. Such a superior person had been eagerly welcomed to the Blue Vein Society, and had taken a leading part in its activities. Mr. Ryder had at first been attracted by her charms of person, for she was very good looking and not over twenty-five; then by her refined man- ners and by the vivacity of her wit. Her husband had been a government clerk, and at his death had left a considerable life insurance. She was visiting friends in Groveland, and, finding the town and the people to her liking, had prolonged her stay indefinitely. She had not seemed displeased at Mr. Ryders atten- tions, but on the contrary had given him every proper encouragement; indeed, a younger and less cautious man would long since have spoken. But he had made up his mind, and had only to de- termine the time when he would ask her to be his wife. He decided to give a ball in her honor, and at some time during the evening of the ball to offer her his heart and hand. He had no spe- cial fears about the outcome, but, with a little touch of romance, he wanted the surroundings to be in harmony with his own feelings when he should have re- ceived the answer he expected. Mr. Ryder resolved that this ball should mark an epoch in the social history of Groveland. He knew, of course, no one could know better, the entertainments that had taken place in past years, and what must be done to surpass them. His ball must be worthy of the lady in whose honor it was to be given, and must, by the quality of its guests, set an example for the future. He had observed of late a growing lib- erality, almost a laxity, in social matters, even among members of his own set, and had several times been forced to meet in a social way persons whose com- plexions and callings in life were hardly up to the standard which he considered proper for the society to maintain. He had a theory of his own. I have no race prejudice, he would say, but we people of mixed blood are ground between the upper and the neth- er millstone. Our fate lies between ab- sorption by the white race and extinction The Wife of his Youth. 57 in the black. The one does nt want us yet, but may take us in time. The other would welcome us, but it would be for us a backward step. With malice towards none, with charity for all, we must do the best we can for ourselves and those who are to follow us. Self-preservation is the first law of nature. his ball would serve by its exclusive- ness to counteract leveling tendencies, and his marriage with Mrs. Dixon would help to further the upward process of absorption he had been wishing and wait- ing for. II. The ball was to take place on Friday night. The house had been put in or- der, the carpets covered with canvas, the halls and stairs decorated with palms and potted plants; and in the afternoon Mr. Ryder sat on his front porch, which the shade of a vine running up over a wire netting made a cool and pleasant lounging-place. He expected to respond to the toast The Ladies, at the sup- per, and from a volume of Tennyson his favorite poet was fortifying him- self with apt quotations. The volume was open at A Dream of Fair Women. His eyes fell on these lines, and he read theni aloud to judge better of their ef- fect At length II saw a lady within call, Stiller than chiselld marble, standing there; A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair. He marked the verse, and turning the page read the stanza beginning, 0 sweet pale Margaret, 0 rare pale Margaret. He weighed the passage a moment, and decided that it would not do. Mrs. Dixon was the palest lady he expected at the ball, and she was of a rather rud- dy complexion, and of lively disposition and buxom build. So he ran over the leaves until his eye rested on the de- scription of Queen Guinevere: She seemd a part of joyous Spring: A gown of grass-green silk she wore, Buckled with golden clasps before; A light-green tuft of plumes she bore Closed in a golden ring. She lookd so lovely, as she swayd The rein with dainty finger-tips, A man had given all other bliss, And all his worldly worth for this, To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips. As Mr. Ryder murmured these words audibly, with an appreciative thrill, he heard the latch of his gate click, and a light footfall sounding on the steps. He turned his head, and saw a woman stand- ing before the door. She was a little woman, not five feet tall, and proportioned to her height. Although she stood erect, and looked around her with very bright and rest- less eyes, she seemed quite old; for her face was crossed and recrossed with a hundred wrinkles, and around the edges of her bonnet could be seen protruding here and there a tuft of short gray wool. She wore a blue calico gown of ancient cut, a little red shawl fastened around her shoulders with an old-fashioned brass brooch, and a large bonnet profusely or- namented with faded red and yellow ar- tificial flowers. And she was very black, so black that her toothless gums, re- vealed when she opened her mouth to speak, were not red, but blue. She looked like a bit of the old plantation life, summoned up from the past by the wave of a magicians wand, as the poets fancy had called into being the gracious shapes of which Mr. Ryder had just been reading. He rose from his chair and came over to where she stood. Good-afternoon, madam, he said. Good-evenin, suh, she answered, ducking suddenly with a quaint curtsy. Her voice was shrill and piping, but softened somewhat by age. Is dis yere whar Mistuh Ryduh lib, suh ? she asked, looking around her doubtfully, 58 The Wife of his Youth. and glancing into the open windows, through which some of the preparations for the evening were visible. Yes, he replied, with an air of kind- iy patronage, unconsciously flattered by her manner, I am Mr. Ryder. Did you want to see me? Yas, sub, ef I aint sturbin of you too much. Not at all. Have a seat over here behind the vine, where it is cool. What can I do for you? Scuse me, sub, she continued, when she had sat down on the edge of a chair, scuse me, sub, I s lookin for my husban. I heerd you wuz a big man an had libbed heab a long time, an I lowed you would nt mm ef I d come roun an ax you ef you d eber heerd of a merlatter man by de name er Sam Taylor quinn roun in de chuches er- mongs de people fer his wife Liza Jane? Mr. Ryder seemed to think for a mo- ment. There used to be many such cases right after the war, he said, but it has been so long that I have forgotten them. There are very few now. But tell me your story, and it may refresh my memory. She sat back farther in her chair so as to be more comfortable, and folded her withered hands in her lap. My name s Liza, she began, Liza Jane. Wen I wuz young I uster blong ter Marse Bob Smif, down in ole Mis- soura. I wuz bawn down dere. Wen I wuz a gal I wuz married ter a man named Jim. But Jim died, an after dat I married a merlatter man named Sam Taylor. Sam wuz free-bawn, but his mammy and daddy died, an de wite folks prenticed him ter my marster fer ter work fer im tel he wuz growed up. Sam worked in de fiel, an I wuz de cook. One day May Ann, ole misss maid, come rushin out ter de kitchen, an says she, Liza Jane, ole marse gwine sell yo Sam down de ribber. Go way fm yere, says I; my husban s free! Don make no diffence. I heerd ole marse tell ole miss he wuz gwine take yo Sam way wid im ter-morrow, fer he needed money, an he knowed whar he could git a tousan dollars fer Sam an no questions axed. Wen Sam come home fm de fiel, dat night, I tole him bout ole marse gwine steal im, an Sam run erway. His time wuz mos up, an he swo dat wen he wuz twenty-one he would come back an hep me run erway, er else save up de money ter buy my freedom. An I know he d a done it, fer lie thought a heap er me, Sam did. But wen he come back he did n fin me, fer I wuz n dere. Ole marse had heerd dat I warned Sam, so he had me whip an sol down de ribber. Den de wah broke out, an wen it wuz ober de cullud folks wuz scattered. I went back ter de ole home; but Sam wuz n dere, an I could n larn nuffin bout im. But I knowed he d ben dere to look fer me an had n foun me, an had gone erway ter bunt fer me. I s ben lookin fer im eber sence, she added simply, as though twenty-five years were but a couple of weeks, an I knows he s ben lookin fer me. Fer he sot a heap ci sto by me, Sam did, an I know he s ben huntin fer me all dese years, lessn he s ben sick er sumpn, so he could n work, er outn his head, so he could n member his pro- mise. I went back down de ribber, fer I lowed he d gone down dere lookin fer me. I s ben ter Noo Orleens, an Atlanty, an Charleston, an Richmon; an wen I d ben all ober de Souf I come ter de Norf. Fer I knows I 11 fin~ im some er dese days, she added softly, er he 11 fin me, an den we 11 bofe be as happy in freedom as we wuz in de ole days befo de wah. A smile stole over her withered countenance as she paused a moment, and her bright eyes softened into a far-away look. The TTf~fe of his Youth. 59 This was the substance of the old wo- mans story. She had wandered a little here and there. Mr. Ryder was look- ing at her curiously when she finished. How have you lived all these years? he asked. Cookin, suL I s a good cook. Does you know anybody wat needs a good cook, suh? I s stoppin wid a cub lud famly roun de corner yonder tel I kin fin a place. Do you really expect to find your husband? He may be dead long ago. She shook her head emphatically. Oh no, he am dead. De signs an de tokens tells me. I dremp three nights runnin ony dis las week dat I foun him. He may have married another wo- man. Your slave marriage would not have prevented him, for you never lived with him after the war, and without that your marriage does nt count. Would n make no diffence wid Sam. He would n marry no yuther ooman tel he foun out bout me. I knows it, she added. Sumpn s ben tellin me all dese years dat I s gwine fin Sam fo I dies. Perhaps he s outgrown you, and climbed up in the world where he would nt care to have you find him. No, indeed, suh, she replied, Sam am dat kin er man. He wuz good ter me, Sam wuz, but he wuz n much good ter nobody ese, fer he wuz one er de triflines hans on de plantation. I specs ter haf ter suppot im wen I fin im, fer he nebber would work lessn he had ter. But den he wuz free, an he did n git no pay fer his work, an I don blame im much. Mebbe he s done better sence he run erway, but i am spectin much. You may have passed him on the street a hundred times during the twen~ ty-five years, and not have known him; time works great changes. She smiled incredulously. I d know im mongs a hunded men. Fer dey wuz n no yuther merlatter man like my man Sam, an I could n be mistook. I s toted his picture roun wid me twen- ty-five years. May I see it? asked Mr. Ryder. It might help me to remember whether I have seen the original. As she drew a small parcel from her bosoms he saw that it was fastened to a string that went around her neck. Re- moving several wrappers, she brought to light an old-fashioned daguerreotype in a black case. He looked long and intent- ly at the portrait. It was faded with time, hut the features were still distinct, and it was easy to see what manner of man it had represented. He closed the case, and with a slow movement handed it back to her. I dont know of any man in town who goes by that name, he said, nor have I heard of any one making such inquiries. But if you will leave me your address, I will give the matter some at- tention, and if I find out anything I will let you know. She gave him the number of a house in the neighborhood, and went away, af- ter thanking him warmly. He wrote down the address on the fly- leaf of the volume of Tennyson, and, when she had gone, rose to his feet and stood looking after her curiously. As she walked down the street with mincing step, he saw several persons whom she passed turn and look back at her with a smile of kindly amusement. When she had turned the corner, he went upstairs to his bedroom, and stood for a long time before the mirror of his dressing- case, gazing thoughtfully at the reflec- tion of his own face. III, At eight oclock the ballroom was a blaze of light and the guests had begun to assemble; for there was a literary programme and some routine business 430 The Ws~fe of his Youth. of the society to be gone through with before the dancing. A black servant in evening dress waited at the door and di- rected the guests to the dressing-rooms. The occasion was long memorable among the colored people of the city; not alone for the dress and display, but for the high average of intelligence and culture that distinguished the gathering as a whole. There were a number of school-teachers, several young doctors, three or four lawyers, some profession- al singers, an editor, a lieutenant in the United States army spending his fur- lough in the city, and others in vari- ous polite callings; these were colored, though most of them would not have at- tracted even a casual glance because of any marked difference from white peo- ple. Most of the ladies were in evening costume, and dress coats and dancing- pumps were the rule among the men. A band of string music, stationed in an alcove behind a row of palms, played popular airs while the guests were ga- thering. The dancing began at half past nine. At eleven oclock supper was served. Mr. Ryder had left the ballroom some little time before the intermission, but reappeared at the supper-table. The spread was worthy of the occasion, and the guests did full justice to it. When the coffee had been served, the toast- master, Mr. Solomon Sadler, rapped for order. He made a brief introductory speech, complimenting host and guests, and then presented in their order the toasts of the evening. They were re- sponded to with a very fair display of after-dinner wit. The last toast, said the toast-mas- ter, when he reached the end of the list, is one which must appeal to us all. There is no one of us of the sterner sex who is not at some time dependent upon woman, in infancy for protection, in manhood for companionship, in old age for care and comforting. Our good host has been trying to live alone, but the fair faces I see around me to-night prove that he too is largely dependent upon the gentler sex for most that makes life worth living, the society and love of friends, and rumor is at fault if he does not soon yield entire subjection to one of them. Mr. Ryder will now re- spond to the toast, The Ladies. There was a pensive look in Mr. Ry- ders eyes as he took the floor and adjust- ed his eyeglasses. He began by speak- ing of woman as the gift of Heaven to man, and after some general observa- tions on the relations of the sexes lie said: But perhaps the quality which most distinguishes woman is her fidelity and devotion to those she loves. His- tory is full of examples, but has recorded none more striking than one which only to-day came under my notice. He then related, simply but effective- ly, the story told by his visitor of the afternoon. He told it in the same soft dialect, which came readily to his lips, while the company listened attentively and sympathetically. For the story had awakened a responsive thrill in many hearts~ There were some present who had seen, and others who had heard their fathers and grandfathers tell, the wrongs and sufferings of this past gen- eration, and all of them still felt, in their darker moments, the shadow hang ing over them. Mr. Ryder went on : Such devotion and such confidence are rare even among women. There are many who would have searched a year, some who would have waited five years, a few who might have hoped ten years; but for twenty-five years this woman has retained her affection for and her faith in a man she has not seen or heard of in all that time. She came to me to-day in the hope that I might be able to help her find this long-lost husband. And when she was gone I gave my fancy rein, and imagined a case I will put to you. Suppose that this husband, soon af- ter his escape, had learned that his wife The Wife of his Youth. 61 had been sold away, and that such inquir- ies as he could make brought no informa- tion of her whereabouts. Suppose that he was young, and she much older than he; that he was light, and she was black; that their marriage was a slave mar- riage, and legally binding only if they chose to make it so after the war. Sup- pose, too, that he made his way to the North, as some of us have done, and there, where he had larger opportuni- ties, had improved them, and had in the course of all these years grown to be as different from the ignorant boy who ran away from fear of slavery as the day is from the night. Suppose, even, that he had qualified himself, by industry, by thrift, and by study, to win the friend- ship and be considered worthy the soci- ety of such people as these I see around me to-night, gracing my board and fill- ing my heart with gladness; for I am old enough to rememher the day when such a gathering would not have been possible in this land. Suppose, too, that, as the years went by, this mans memory of the past grew more and more indistinct, until at last it was rare- ly, except in his dreams, that any image of this bygone period rose before his mind. And then suppose that accident should bring to his knowledge the fact that the wife of his youth, the wife he had left behind him, not one who bad walked by his side and kept pace with him in his upward struggle, but one upon whom advancing years and a labo- rious life had set their mark, was alive and seeking him, but that he was abso- lutely safe from recognition or discov- ery, unless he chose to reveal himself. My friends, what would the man do? I will suppose that he was one who loved lipuor, and tried to deal justly with all men. I will even carry the case fur- ther, and suppose that perhaps he had set his heart upon another, whom he had hoped to call his own. What would he do, or rather what ought he to do, in such a crisis of a lifetime? It seemed to me that he might hesi- tate, and I imagined that I was an old friend, a near friend, and that he had come to me for advice; and I argued the case with him. I tried to discuss it impartially. After we had looked upon the matter from every point of view, I said to him, in words that we all know: This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. Then, finally, I put the question to him, Shall you acknowledge her? And now, ladies and gentlemen, friends and companions, I ask you, what should he have done? There was something in Mr. Ryders voice that stirred the hearts of those who sat around him. It suggested more than mere sympathy with an imaginary situation; it seemed rather in the nature of a personal appeal. It was observed, too, that his look rested more especially upon Mrs. Dixon, with a mingled ex- pression of renunciation and inquiry. She bad listened, with, parted lips and streaming eyes. She was the first to speak: He should have acknowledged her. Yes, they all echoed, he should have acknowledged her. My friends and companions, re- sponded Mr. Ryder, I thank you, one and all. It is the answer I expected, for I knew your hearts. He turned and walked toward the closed door of an adjoining room, while every eye followed him in wondering curiosity. He came back in a moment, leading by the hand his visitor of the af- ternoon, who stood startled and trembling at the sudden plunge into this scene of brilliant gayety. She was neatly dressed in gray, and wore the white cap of an elderly woman. Ladies and gentlemen, he said, this is the woman, and I am the man, whose story I have told you. Permit me to introduce to you the wife of my youth. Charles W. Chesnutt. 62 A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. A SOULS PILGRIMAGE: EXTRACTS FROM AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. AFTER a youth spent in study under the cur6 of my native village of Vars, and in the college at Gray, near Dijon, I went up in my twenty-fifth year to continue my studies in Paris. On arriving there in March, 1843 I immediately put myself under the direction of the most celebrated and cer- tainly the most gifted of all the Jesuits I have ever met, lire de Ravignan, the Lenten preacher of Notre Dame, and the contemporary of Lacordaire, who at that time preached the Advent course in the same cathedral. It was my earnest desire to prepare myself in the best pos- sible way to fill as worthily as I could the sacred duties of the ministry. Hav- ing made sure of a means of living by setting aside two or three hours each day to teaching, I devoted the rest of my time to personal culture. Seldom has a young man had finer opportunities for intellectual growth than I had at this time. For France, the last years of Louis Philippe were perhaps the most brilliant of the century. In every de- partment of learning and letters talent was represented by illustrious men: in poetry, Victor Hugo and Lamartine; in Parliament, Berryer and Montalembert; in the government, Guizot and Thiers; at the Sorbonne, Cousin, Jules Simon, Lenormant, Ozanam, and Cwur; at the Coll6ge de France, Michelet and Quinet; in the pulpit, Lacordaire and de Ravi- gnan. I was anxious to learn something from each of these remarkable men. My Sundays were spent in listening to fa- mous preachers. During the rest of the week I distributed my time between the Sorbonne, the Chamber of Deputies, and the Chamber of Peers. Presently, to my great delight, I found myself in rela- tion with such men as Berryer and Mon- talembert, Jules Simon and Ozanam, La- cordaire and de Ravignan. The last, as my spiritual director, proved a warm friend as well as a wise and trustwor- thy guide. I retain a sweet remern- brance of many intimate conversations with him. His was not only a holy but a liberal spirit. I was not surprised, later, when I heard it said that he thought of reasserting his independence by asking the general of the Jesuits to release him from his vows. A trait which exhibited the nobility of his feelings and the largeness of his views appeared in one of our conversa- tions. One day, troubled with doubts, I opened my heart to him, and, encour- aged by his evident sympathy, ventured to ask the question, Is there not, my father, some way of recognizing what is true from what is false in religious doc- trine, by which one may avoid the ne- cessity of constant reference to authori- ties, so many of which simply confuse the mind by their conflicting statements? There is a way, he replied, which in the case of such doubt I myself fol- low, and which I recommend to you. Every doctrine which tends to elevate the mind and enlarge the heart is true, and every doctrine which works the con- trary effect is false. Follow this prin- ciple, and you will feel and be the better for it. I have done so, and am satis- fied. It was shortly before this that the So- ciety of St. Vincent de Paul was found- ed. The circumstances which led to its institution are of peculiar interest. On a Sunday evening Ozanam had gathered together a few students of the Sorbonne to take tea with him. After a simple repast, he laid before them a plan by which each one was to undertake, during the coming week, to visit one or two poor families of the neighborhood, and report to him on the following Sunday. The

C. F. B. Miel Miel, C. F. B. A Soul's Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography 62-78

62 A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. A SOULS PILGRIMAGE: EXTRACTS FROM AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. AFTER a youth spent in study under the cur6 of my native village of Vars, and in the college at Gray, near Dijon, I went up in my twenty-fifth year to continue my studies in Paris. On arriving there in March, 1843 I immediately put myself under the direction of the most celebrated and cer- tainly the most gifted of all the Jesuits I have ever met, lire de Ravignan, the Lenten preacher of Notre Dame, and the contemporary of Lacordaire, who at that time preached the Advent course in the same cathedral. It was my earnest desire to prepare myself in the best pos- sible way to fill as worthily as I could the sacred duties of the ministry. Hav- ing made sure of a means of living by setting aside two or three hours each day to teaching, I devoted the rest of my time to personal culture. Seldom has a young man had finer opportunities for intellectual growth than I had at this time. For France, the last years of Louis Philippe were perhaps the most brilliant of the century. In every de- partment of learning and letters talent was represented by illustrious men: in poetry, Victor Hugo and Lamartine; in Parliament, Berryer and Montalembert; in the government, Guizot and Thiers; at the Sorbonne, Cousin, Jules Simon, Lenormant, Ozanam, and Cwur; at the Coll6ge de France, Michelet and Quinet; in the pulpit, Lacordaire and de Ravi- gnan. I was anxious to learn something from each of these remarkable men. My Sundays were spent in listening to fa- mous preachers. During the rest of the week I distributed my time between the Sorbonne, the Chamber of Deputies, and the Chamber of Peers. Presently, to my great delight, I found myself in rela- tion with such men as Berryer and Mon- talembert, Jules Simon and Ozanam, La- cordaire and de Ravignan. The last, as my spiritual director, proved a warm friend as well as a wise and trustwor- thy guide. I retain a sweet remern- brance of many intimate conversations with him. His was not only a holy but a liberal spirit. I was not surprised, later, when I heard it said that he thought of reasserting his independence by asking the general of the Jesuits to release him from his vows. A trait which exhibited the nobility of his feelings and the largeness of his views appeared in one of our conversa- tions. One day, troubled with doubts, I opened my heart to him, and, encour- aged by his evident sympathy, ventured to ask the question, Is there not, my father, some way of recognizing what is true from what is false in religious doc- trine, by which one may avoid the ne- cessity of constant reference to authori- ties, so many of which simply confuse the mind by their conflicting statements? There is a way, he replied, which in the case of such doubt I myself fol- low, and which I recommend to you. Every doctrine which tends to elevate the mind and enlarge the heart is true, and every doctrine which works the con- trary effect is false. Follow this prin- ciple, and you will feel and be the better for it. I have done so, and am satis- fied. It was shortly before this that the So- ciety of St. Vincent de Paul was found- ed. The circumstances which led to its institution are of peculiar interest. On a Sunday evening Ozanam had gathered together a few students of the Sorbonne to take tea with him. After a simple repast, he laid before them a plan by which each one was to undertake, during the coming week, to visit one or two poor families of the neighborhood, and report to him on the following Sunday. The A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. 63 enthusiasm of the young men for so prac- tical a form of benevolent work soon developed, and shortly it became advisa- ble to form the little group into a society, the object of which should be just such simple works of charity. From that modest beginning in the library of this large - hearted man the association has grown until to-day it numbers more than two million members. You may be sure that I was glad of an opportunity to be associated with such a band of zealous men. Another society to which it was my privilege to belong was Le Cercle Ca- tholique de la Rue de Grenelle, which was founded at this time with the object of banding together Catholics of liber- al views, clerics as well as laymen. It counted among its members such men as Lacordaire, Ozanam, Montalembert, de Falloux, de Montigny, and Riancey. It was my honor to represent this society in Dublin at the funeral of the celebrated Irish liberator, Daniel OCon- nell. Never shall I forget the sight that greeted us on our arrival in Dublin Bay. A vast throng had gathered on the quay, and after a solemn and awed silence suddenly burst into a wail of lamenta- tion such as it is given a man only once to hear. It seemed as if the hearts of the bereaved people were breaking with grief. As the cort6ge moved from the quay the multitude reverently followed the catafalque, and kept up a constant dirge until the remains of their hero were deposited within the church where the funeral service was to be held on the morrow. Few things could have been more imposing than that solemn service and the great procession which attended the body to its last resting-place. It was evident, indeed, that Ireland had lost one of her chief sons, and her peo- ple mourned for him as a mother mourns for her best beloved. Some weeks after our return to Paris, P~re Lacordaire pronounced the funeral oration of Daniel OConnell at Notre Dame. On the evening of the same day a dinner was given to John OConnell, son of the great statesman, by the Baron de Montigny at his superb h6tel (for- merly the hOtel Montmorency) in the Rue de Babylone. Sixty guests were present, including many church dignita- ries, statesmen, journalists, and other dis- tinguished men. It was the 22d of Feb- ruary, 1848, a day destined to prove a memorable one in the history of France. Shortly before we sat down, the populace had begun to assemble in the streets, and the crowds seemed to be moving to- ward the Champs Elys~es. A valet was dispatched every quarter of an hour to bring us news of what was happening. As the reports grew more alarming, the guests became more preoccupied. After dinner the company broke up into little groups to discuss the situation. A mes- senger presently brought us more seri- ous tidings, so that the Baron de Ville- quier exclaimed, Why, it seems a veri- table mob! To which the prophetic Berryer replied, Take care that it is not a revolution! Two days later Louis Philippe was obliged to flee from the Tuileries, and restless France found herself once more a nation without a ruler. It was during the outbreak in June of the same year that the heroic death of the saintly Archbishop of Paris, Mon- seigneur Aifre, occurred. The soul of this devout man was deeply moved by the spirit of strife among the people. It cut him to the heart to see Paris on the verge of a fratricidal war, and Gods call seemed clear to him, as the spiritual father of the community, not to spare himself in any endeavor to restore or- der and promote peace. Accordingly, on the morning of the 27th he pro- ceeded to the scene of the conflict and mounted the barricades, to plead with the populace on the one hand and the soldiery on the other. Scarcely had lie uttered the words My children when a shot fired from a neighboring build- 64 A Souls Pilgrimage: IXtracts from an Autobiography. ing pierced him, and he fell dead be- fore the eyes of the mob. This tragic event was enough. A horror seemed to seize ~very one, and from that hour the insurrection ceased. Truly the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep. It may be proper to speak a word about the power of the pulpit in Paris at this time. Perhaps the two most eminent preachers that France has pro- duced are Bossuet and Lacordaire. Both were the pride of Dijon, their native city. The superiority of Bossuet appeared in what lie said, that of Lacordaire in the way in which he said it. The latters eloquence corresponds precisely to the word attributed to Demosthenes, and re- peated by Massillon. When asked what were the essential elements of oratory, the illustrious Greek is said to have re- plied : First, action ; second, action; third, action. I recall an occasion when this princi- ple in the preaching of Lacordaire was illustrated. One Sunday, Abb6 Castan, nephew of Archbishop Aifre, and I found ourselves almost lost in the immense crowd pouring into Notre Dame to hear the great preacher. The subject he was to treat was the struggle between good and evil, the conflict between the powers of the world and the Church of God. He opened with a paraphrase of the first verses of the second Psalm: Quare fremuerunt gentes? Presently, as the idea began to unfold itself to his mar- velous imagination, his thought rose to such a height that my friend whispered to me, He cannot continue in that strain! It was true. Human lan- guage failed him. Yet, standing there, his face illumined with the great thought, his body swaying under the inspiration of the mighty truth which his tongue refused to utter, he continued his ges- tures with such descriptive force that, under the action of that mute eloquence, the assembly seemed to shudder. It was only a few seconds, perhaps, though it seemed to me many minutes. Then the preacher slowly drew back his arm and solemnly laid his hand over his heart. After a moment of absolute stillness, the entire audience gave vent to its feel- ings in one spontaneous outburst of ap- plause. On the following Sunday we were again in our places, and before the address the Archbishop of Paris felt compelled to request the congregation to remember the sacred character of the place, and to refrain from any outward expression of approval. But such was the eloquence of Lacordaire in pursuing the same theme that erelong the archbishop himself was betrayed into an unconscious clapping of hands, which was en9ugh to lift an irksome restraint from an audi- ence hardly able to suppress its feelings. At this time the accession to our ranks of John Henry Newman and other dis- tinguished members of the Anglican communion inspired the champions of Romanism in France with the belief that England was ripe for the papacy. Fre- quent meetings were held among us, and our enthusiasm and zeal for this great end were heightened. I was free to do as I pleased at this time, and being deeply moved by the bright prospects before our Church in Great Britain I de- termined to give myself to the work of conversion, and to devote my energies to an enterprise which seemed destined to contribute so largely to the glory and power of the Holy See. My friends were most cordial in their approval of this resolve, and in many happy ways expressed an interest in the step I was about to take. Some of the sweetest evidences of their regard were the books and other gifts they bestowed upon me; among them was a very ten- der souvenir from Charles (then Abb~) Gounod. On the evening before my de- parture this charming man brought me his surplice, berretta, and other personal belongings. These were the more pre- cious to me since, shortly after this, Gou- nod gave up the idea of following the A Souls Pilgrimage: Ecctracts from an Autobiography. 65 sacred ministry, in order to devote him- self without reserve to that noble art which has made his name immortal. Arriving in London, I set out imme- diately to report myself to Cardinal Wiseman for such service as he should think me fitted to undertake. As I had not yet learned to speak English plainly, it was arranged that I should preach as occasion offered at the French church of this great capital, and on Sundays celebrate the military mass at Wool- wich for the Roman Catholic soldiers of the garrison. It was not long before I gained familiarity with English, and his Eminence was able to transfer me to the charge of the Catholic mission re- gently established at Canterbury. Here I preached my first English sermons. England until then had been looked upon as a missionary territory by the Latin Church, and, as was the custom in all countries of this character, the Ro- man authority was represented, not by bishops, but by apostolic vicars, of whom at this time there were four. In 1850 Pius IX. divided the country into Cath- olic provinces, and appointed a bishop for ea~h of them. This bold act on the part of a foreign prelate aroused the indignation of the English people, and provoked widespread and violent opposi- tion. Every evening the streets of Lon- don were thronged with long and noisy processions, in which the Pope was car- ried about in effigy and subjected to all manner of insult. I suffered more than I can say from this blasphemous abuse, as it seemed to me, of the head of our holy religion, and I felt it my duty to protest, no matter how insignificant my protestation might be. Accordingly, I published successively two tracts in fa- vor of the papacy, entitled Rome and the Holy Scriptures, and Rome and the Primitive Church, with the hope that some Protestant minds might see the grounds of our claims and the justice of the step taken by his Holiness Pius IX. VOL. LXXXII. NO. 489. 5 These publications attracted more no- tice than I could have hoped for. By the Catholic press they were heralded as timely utterances, and were spoken of as logical and conclusive arguments for the papal supremacy. But above all other opinions I appreciated that expressed in the following letter: ... I received with true pleasure your pamphlets and your good letter, my dear abb6; I thank you with all my heart. God has truly made you an Apostle of England. Continue to spread the good news. I admire the manner in which you are able to write and speak in Eng- lish. The remembrance of you, be sure of it, remains faithful in the depths of my soul. Au revoir, then, till it please the Lord. Believe in my very tender attachment. DE RAVIGNAN, S. J. PARIs, 21 February, 1851. The Protestant journals whose atten- tion was excited by these pamphlets of course judged them differently. One among them, Bells Weekly Messenger, published a series of articles in which the Scriptural texts and historic ref er- ences were the object of severe criticism. The author of these articles, Mr. Charles Hastings Collette, one of the glories of Oxford, and a man deeply versed in the writings of the Fathers as well as the history of the first Christian ages, in a polite letter in which he gave me entire credit for sincerity, announced to me his intention of pointing out that the state- ments upon which my arguments were founded were either fabrications or else falsely stated. Sure of having advanced only those points which conform to the teaching of the most esteemed authors of Catholic history, and acting besides un- der the impression which prevails among Roman Catholics, namely, that honesty is not to be expected from Protestants in religious controversy, I did not feel it my duty to reply to his very civil note. 66 A Souls Pilgrimage: E~rtracts from an AutobiograpAy. My silence did not seem to discourage him, for in the course of a few days he wrote me four other letters, which in turn failed to elicit a reply. One morning I heard a knock at the door of the house where I lived, and, as the servant was absent, I answered the call. I found myself face to face with a gentleman of distinguished appearance, who handed me his card, and to my as- tonishment I read the name of my corre- spondent and adversary, Charles Has- tings Collette. Common courtesy obliged me to receive him. Without ado he announced the purpose of his visit by repeating in a decided voice what he had written; declaring that he had per- fect faith in my sincerity, that the pam- phlets were marked with the stamp of honesty, and that had it been otherwise he would have disdained any dealings with me. Then he said that he was ready to prove to me that I had been mistaken in many of the texts quoted and in most of the supposed facts sub- mitted in my argument. Without doubt, he said, you drew your know- ledge from the most estimable sources known to you. But these sources are far too modern. I ask you but one thing, and that, as a man of honor, which I take you to be, you cannot honestly refuse me. It is to consult, not Protes- tant books, but the writings of Catholics of an earlier date than the Council of Trent, of whose authenticity and author- ity there can be no question. To this effect, I pray you to make conscientious researches in the library of the British Museum, where such documents abound. I shall secure you the necessary permis- sion to consult these works, and as the librarian is my friend I shall ask him to help you in your investigations, and we shall see what conclusion the study will lead you to. By refusing to accede to such a re- quest I should have given proof of a want of love for truth; and so sure was I of my ground and of the historical validity of my argument that I did not hesitate to follow the wish of this ardent and courteous opponent. For a fort- night I spent all of my afternoons and part of my evenings in searching those books which could enlighten me on so grave a subject. By faithful study I was able to compare the facts as I had been taught them with the facts as the early Church historians stated them. The result of this investigation was as painful to me as it was satisfactory to Mr. Collette. On all the contested points I found that the weight of authority was against my position. I will cite one decisive instance. Among all the treatises on dogmatic theology in use, in my day, in the high seminaries of the Church, the one most esteemed was the work of Cardinal Gous- set, perhaps the greatest Roman theolo- gian of the century. In this work the sixth canon of the Council of Nice (A. D. 325) is thus written: Ecelesia Romana semper habuit primatum. From this canon one draws the irresistible conclu- sion that the first ecumenical council, al- though composed almost exclusively of bishops from the East, who would natu- rally look with jealousy upon the grow- ing influence of the See of Rome, found itself obliged to witness to the truth of her supremacy by a special canon, de- claring that from the beginning Rome had had the primacy. Surely no more positive assertion could be made of the fact which Protestant historians repudi- ated so decidedly. Resting secure in my knowledge of this canon, I was almost stunned to find that the original form of the canon, as enacted by the Council, was quite differ- ent from what I had been taught. The sixth canon simply states that Rome has a relative primacy. The plan before the Council was to transform the See of Alexandria into a patriarchate, and the purport of the canon was, that as the bishop of Rome had the primacy over the bishops of the suburbicarian cities, A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. 6T in the same way it was fitting that the bishop of Alexandria should occupy a similar rank with regard to the bishops of Lower Egypt. The part that had been suppressed in our manuals gave the subject an entirely different complexion. This discovery, and others like it, gave me a most scvere shock. I requested the librarian to permit me to carry away and keep until the next day the collec- tion of the acts of councils, where I had found the canons in their original integ- rity. He consented, and I lost no time in finding Cardinal Wiseman. I asked him if there was any doubt as to the au- thenticity of the sixth canon of Nice as it is given in our manuals of theology. None that I know of, he replied. I then showed him my volume, and said, It is a Catholic publication; old, it is true, but only the more to be trusted on that account. Here are the terms in which the sixth canon is expressed. His Eminence appeared very much as- tonished, and as he remarked that I suf- fered from something more than aston- ishinent he advised me not to attach too much importance to the matter. An in- terview with my spiritual director, Fa- ther Brownbill, gave me no more satis- faction than that with the cardinal. For the first time in my life I found myself assailed by doubt, and with no friend to turn to. Now, to entertain doubt is regarded as one of the greatest sins by the Roman Church, a species of interior apostasy, to be dealt with in the most rigorous way; and in the teachings of the masters of the spiritual life there is, for the tempta- tions against faith as for those against purity, one sole remedy, flight. After a long struggle I determined to fly, and resolved to have nothing more to do with Protestants, to avoid all matters of controversy, and to devote myself ex- clusively to works of zeal in Catholic countries. The times were favorable for this pur- pose. The Secular Jubilee was about to be celebrated in France by missions in the leading churches. I had been in- vited to take part in several of these mis- sions as preacher and confessor. This now appeared to me providential; the more so as the subjects treated in the pul- pit on such occasions sin, repentance, death, judgment, aiid the like are al- most strangers to controversy. I accept- ed the invitations, therefore, with a kind of desperate gratitude, and during more than two months passed the greater part of my time in the pulpit and the confes- sional. The day caine when, although I had still many engagements, I found myself completely worn out and forced to think of rest. After that, recalling the word of the sage, that the best writings on re- ligion are those forbidden by the Con- gregation of the Index, I allowed myself to pass over this interdiction, and among other works to read with a lively inter- est LHistoire de la Civilisation en Eu- rope et en France, by M. Guizot. The manifest spirit of sincerity, the largeness of view, the historical science, which this work reveals impressed me so deeply, and produced such a change in my man- ner of appreciating things, that I felt sure its talented author could help me in my present dilemma. To unburden myself to this great man might seem to him a strange tribute to his genius, yet so deep was my longing for counsel and guidance just at this time that I felt such a course was justifiable, and believed that he would not take my confidence amiss. My plea was addressed simply to M. Guizot, Paris; and though I looked anxiously and long for an answer, to my deep disappointment none came. Whether the lettey never reached its destination, or whether M. Guizot mis- trusted its motive, I had no means of ascertaining. I have come to believe it was never received. Judging it inopportune to take any one else into my confidence, I resolved 68 A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. to think and act for myself and on my own responsibility. The more I studied and reflected, the more my faith in the fundamental doctrines of Romanism weakened, and I felt that before long not only my opinions, but also my con- science would impose upon me the duty of abjuration. As such a step could not but bring me personally the gravest con- sequences, deeply afflict my best friends, and, worst of all, carry desolation into the bosom of my family, I felt bound to make a last effort by going to Rome and studying the system on the spot in its immediate application. As I had not revealed to any of my friends what was passing within me, when they learned that I was going to the capital of the Roman world they en- tirely misinterpreted the object of the journey and congratulated me on my re- solution. Several prelates, the Cardinal Archbishop of Besan~on among them, sent me letters of recommendation of the most flattering kind. All supposed I was about to make what is called a pilgrimage ad limina apostolorum. They had a natural reason for believing this, as I had received from the Vatican special privileges, and more recently had been extended the widest powers in the matter of indulgences, such as the altare privile~,uiatunzpersonale, of which I have the titles still in my possession. It was my intention to remain six months in the Holy City. Circumstances compelled me to leave at the end of a month; yet during that brief period I saw and learned enough to satisfy me that the capital of the Roman world was the last place for one in my frame of mind to visit. It may be that I was not in a condition to judge impartially. Perhaps the temper of my thoughts was over-crit- ical, too susceptible to adverse impres- sions. I had resolved, it is true, to in- vestigate fearlessly and study frankly all that bore upon my religious position. Nevertheless, every private interest, home ties, the love and respect of friends, pre sent position and future prospects, would naturally have induced me to see things in their most favorable light. If the facts were to lead me to separate from the Church of Rome, it would be only because the facts were too glaring and emphatic to be glossed over. I pass by the vexatious to which, on arriving at Civitk Vecchia, I was subject- ed, at the hands of the gendarmes, the customs officers, and the countless horde of faquini. Suffice it to say that I reached the Eternal City at last, poorer in pocket, but richer in experience. As soon as I was settled in fairly com- fortable lodgings I proceeded to make myself familiar with the city. The churches first absorbed my attention. What shall I say of their dignity and splendor, their wealth and magnificence? What shall I say of the vast numbers of monks and priests and prelates who throng these stately buildings, and tes- tify to the power and prestige of this great church, and lend an air of sanctity to its ancient seat? Certainly here the religion of Jesus should be at its best. Here we should find the purest morality and the deepest spiritual life. Here charity and good works, the distinctive marks of the disciples of Christ, should abound without measure. Rome should lead the world in all that is noble and holy and gracious in religion. The pain of a bitter disenchantment was in si~ore for me. I had been in the city but a few hours when a revolting sense of the unreality of its religious life took possession of me. Every day seemed to deepen that unwelcome impression. I found myself going from place to place in increasing amazement am the squalor and ignorance and vice visible and open- ly present at each new turn. Instead of righteousness and piety and a sweet reverence among the people, there were iniquity and uncleanness and degrading superstition. Education and self-respect, those choice fruits of Christianity, where had they concealed themselves? A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. 69 On the one hand the luxury of the pre- lates, on the other the profound misery of the people; on this side churches of surpassing stateliness, on that homes of the poor, unspeakable in their filthiness; here a cleric in gorgeous attire, there a beggar in hideous and noisome rags. How could I escape the shameful mean- ing of such a contrast! One would in- deed have had to be a slave to prejudice to overlook this disgusting travesty of the religion of Him who came to preach the gospel to the poor, to heal the broken-hearted, to set at liberty those who are bruised. And what do these men do, this mul- titude of priests? I asked myself again and again. Do they not see the wretch- ed condition of the people? Have they no concern for the public distress and ignorance and immorality? I could not discover a single sign of a real and genuine interest in such matters, nor did I learn of any organized effort to lift the people from their hapless plight. The dignitaries of the Church were occupied with other things. Their time was taken up with affairs of a more imposing na- ture: resplendent ceremonies, now at this altar, now at that; the keeping of great festivals and the observance of great occasions. The city seemed wholly given up to idolatry and enamored with the superb spectacle of an elaborate wor- ship. Even this might mean something, did it only inspire the people with a deeper reverence and regard for sacred things. But it was evident that the sol- emn functions possessed no real solem- nity; it was not awe of God that held the crowd, but a stupid wonder and ad- miration of those gorgeously robed men who served at the altar. At St. Peters, the Lateran, St. Paul outside the Walls, Trinity de Monti, it was always the same, a wanton display of religions pomp and ceremonial, without heart, without devotion, without any spiritual reality. On Christmas I attended the midnight office at S. Maria Maggiore. The church was splendid with lights and ornaments; the ceremony was the greatest possible display. Among all the princes of the church I liked the appearance of the Pope alone. His face was sympathetic, and he seemed embarrassed by the many singular honors conferred upon him. The assembly had the air of taking part in some worldly gathering rather than in a religious service. The frivolity of the people, their free conversation, prevent- ed one from believing that they were conscious of being in a holy place. One may doubt if a single soul carried away any feeling of edification. The feast of the Epiphany found me at the Sistine Chapel. What a spectacle is that mass in the presence of the Pope! The chamberlains grouped like dogs at the feet of their masters, the cardinals; the officiating clergy carelessly lolling on the altar steps in their sacerdotal vestments, turning their backs upon the cross and the tabernacle during the sing- ing; then that meaningless series of perfunctory honors, kissing of hands, kissing of the feet of the Pope, which seems to be given in lieu of the homage due to the Host upon the altar. Nothing is present to remind one that it is the house of God. The triple pontifical crown everywhere on the walls right and left, at the entrance, and in the sanc- tuary tells the story truly. It is not the cross of Christ, but the crown of the Pontiff, that is reverenced. I came away from this service re- solved to follow the direction of my own conscience, cost what it might. An acci- dent served to help me in this decision. I was boarding in a family whose chief religious devotion seenied to consist in reciting the rosary together, in order to obtain a favorable number at Tombola. The members of the family knew that I was a priest, and having observed that, unlike other priests, I did not say the daily mass, they indicated in many ways that they were suspicious of my ortho- doxy. I had reason to believe that they TO A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. would not keep this suspicion to them- selves, and so I thought it well to seek another lodging. Seeing on the door of a house on the Plaza dEspagna the notice Rooms to let, I entered and ascended the stairs to examine them. As I passed through the hail, my eye was caught by a door-plate hearing the inscription Rev. Charles Baird, Chaplain of the Ameri- can Legation. This discovery seemed to me providential. I had never con- versed with a Protestant minister. In obedience to a strange impulse I knocked. Mr. Baird was within, and received me with marked politeness. I was a stran- ger, and yet I found myself in a few mo- ments explaining to him my peculiar po- sition. His evident sympathy and kind- ness inspired me to tell him all, and I felt more than repaid for my confidence by his affectionate and tender manner. After a few comforting and encouraging words, he said: You cannot doubt my profound sympathy in the religious crisis to which you have been led, and I shall be happy to meet and talk with you again, but it must not be in this place. Every- thing which passes in my apartment is watched. Only a few weeks ago, a monk, tormented as you now are by doubt, and who had come to confer with me two or three times, disappeared; I have not heard from him nor of him since. I should not be surprised if it is already known that you are here. Do not re- turn to these rooms. I will appoint a place of meeting where there will not be the same risk. I promised to do as Mr. Baird had told me, and left him my address. Some days later, as I was walking from the Gesii to the Capitol, where two streets cross, I was suddenly accost- ed by two men, who threw themselves upon me, and while one covered my mouth to prevent an outcry, the other rifled my pockets. I supposed my purse had been taken; but no, it was safe in my pocket. My portfolio, containing many precious papers, my passport and let- ters of recommendation, that from the Archbishop of Besan~on among them, was gone. I went at once to the police prefecture, hard by, and asked to speak with the prefect himself. I told him what had occurred, and he expressed surprise. He inquired if there was any money in the portfolio. I told him there was nothing but private papers and letters, valua- ble to me, but useless to any one else. Thereupon this worthy officer said, If these men are ordinary thieves and find that the contents are of no value to them, they will probably bring them to us. You had better leave with us some little indemnity to pay them for their trouble. This affair now appeared to me more serious than I had thought at first, and without further delay I sought the office of the French ambassador. Happily, he knew me, being, as I was, a member of Le Cercle Catholique. He seemed glad to see me, but when I told him what had just happened his countenance became grave. Allow me to ask you a question, he said. How do you stand from a religious point of view? I thought it right to tell him frankly the reason for my presence in Rome. That truly grieves me, he replied. You know I am a Catholic. Nevertheless, in the present case I must act as an ambas- sador of France. I know you to be a reputable citizen. I shall give you a new passport on this condition: you must leave Rome in twenty-four hours. For that time I take you under my protection, but if you remain longer I will not be responsible for the outcome. He then told me the experience of the Abb6 La- horde, who had been sent to Rome by the Archbishop of Paris to protest against the proclamation of the new dogma of the Immaculate Conception. Upon his ar- rival he was speedily taken in hand and shut up in the Castle of St. Angelo. He was liberated only after severe threats on the part of the French government. A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. On leaving the ambassador I went at once to Mr. Baird. What has tiap- pened does not surprise me, he said, upon learning of my misadventure. Well, now that you are in security for twenty-four hours longer we can see something of you. Come to-morrow to our service at ten~ oclock. After- ward we will breakfast together, and at one oclock you can take the diligence for Civita Vecchia. I acted according to the desire of my new friend, in whom I was happy to find a true Christian gentleman, and on the morrow I attended for the first time in my life a Protestant service, and that in the very centre of Romanism. Dur- ing my stay in the Holy City this was the only occasion when I was truly edified and comforted by a religious service. In the simplicity and manifest sincerity of that brief period of devotion I found what I had failed to find in all the pomp and ceremony of the great churches, an atmosphere of reverence and faith, a worship of God in spirit and in truth. For a year and a half after my de- parture from Rome I lived in London and in Dublin, lecturing oii French liter- ature, and engaging as opportunity pre- sented in work of a religious character. All this time my heart was unsatisfied, and my movements were embarrassed by the excessive zeal of some of my new- found Protestant friends. I determined, therefore, in order to find a place of freer movement, to go to the United States. Knowing that Boston was the capital of mind and the centre of culture in the great republic, I concluded to take up my residence there for a time, at least, in order to see American life and thought at its best. Of this my journal speaks more explicitly: November 3, 1855. Yesterday a friend took me to the home of Mr. Longfellow, the preeminent poet of the New World. He received us in the room where Wash- ington had his headquarters, and where a Frenchman delights to find the name of Lafayette. Mr. Longfellow invited me to dine with him to-day, so that my first dinner in the United States, outside of a hotel, was at the house of one of Americas purest glories, a house ven- erated as a sanctuary by his countrymen, and in the company of several of the most cultivated minds of Boston; for Mr. Longfellow, who does nothing by halves, had also invited to this dinner the leading professors of the university at Cambridge. It was a delicate attention, too, that the dinner was prepared and served entirely ~t lafran~aise. But what followed I valued and enjoyed far more than the dinner. When the twelve other guests had goiie home, he asked me to remain in order that we might engage in more intimate conversation. I shall not soon forget his charming candor and warm-hearted sympathy, which quickly won my confidence and made it easy for me to speak to him of my personal expe- riences. November 5. Almost by chance I was introduced to-day to the Bishop of Mas- sachusetts, the Right Reverend Dr. Man- ton Eastburn. I was not prepared for this introduction, and when it was pro- posed I regretted that my costume was not appropriate for meeting a person of such dignity. On seeing his lordship all awkwardness on my part disappeared. Not one distinctive mark characterized this man save his fine presence and distinguished and affable manners. The bishop spoke to me as a minister of Christ, and showed me much kindness. - - The bishop is, with the ministers under his jurisdiction, the primus inter pares, a sort of elder brother. Surely, this manner of being and acting is more apostolic than that of the superb prelates under Roman authority. November 15. The circle of my ac- quaintance, and I may say of my friends, is enlarging every day. They are almost without exception noble types of human- ity. Yesterday I was presented to one 71 72 A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. especially worthy, a true gentleman and a member of the American Congress, the Hon. Robert C. Winthrop. To-day, the one who now occupies the pulpit of Dr. Channing, his worthy successor in noble qualities of heart and soul, Rev. Dr. Ezra Gannett, came to invite me to dine at his house with some distinguished men whom he desired me to know. November 25. To-day I can either boast or reproach myself for having sat in the assembly of those whom the or- thodox call infidels. I went to hear Theodore Parker at the Music Hall, Theodore Parker, who is avoided and disavowcd even by Unitarians. Now I must confess that in all he said there was not an idea nor a word that wound- ed me; on the contrary, this appeared to be just the atmosphere for my present state of mind. Mr. Parker, in my sense, is a logical and truly brave preacher; the others I speak, of course, of the liberals seem to draw back from the consequences of the principles they have laid down. Here is a Protestant indeed, in the full sense of the word. After the service I was introduced to Mr. Parker, who already knew something of my his- tory, and welcomed me with marked po- liteness. He invited me to call upon him for a confidential talk at any time that I should feel inclined to do so. The first year in New England was most encouraging. My literary confer- ences met with unexpected success. A complete course was given in the ball of the Y. M. C. A. in Boston, and various series at Cambridge, Lynn, Milton, Na- hant, and Newport. From all these places the most gratifying letters came to me, quite unexpectedly, from several persons well known in the world of let- ters; among them, Longfellow, Theodore Parker, Dr. Hedge, Edmund Quincy, Wendell Phillips, Lothrop Motley, Bish- op Eastburn, Charles Brooks, Henry Tuckerman, Robert C. Winthrop, Rufus Choate, and Edward Everett. Two propositions were just then made to me: the one, to fill the professorship of French language and literature in Washington University, at St. Louis; the other, to establish a collegiate school for young ladies at Lexington, Kentucky. I went to St. Louis first; but as the aspect of things there did not appear favorable, I soon left for Lexington, where I was already known to the fam- ily of Senator Duncan. I was also fur- nished with letters to Mr. Breckinridge, afterwards Vice - President of the Con- federacy, the family of Henry Clay, and several others. One of the largest and best houses in the city was put at my disposal, and many pupils were al- ready enrolled, when an incident hap- pened which brought all my projects to a sudden end. One Sunday, in returning fro~n church, I passed, without know- ing it, through the slave-market. It was an open square, where many men had gathered and were employed in barter- ing for a female slave. Coming from Boston, where I had been associated with Wendell Phillips, Lloyd Garrison, and others of the abolitionist party, to which my heart thoroughly belonged, I could not help in some degree showing the pain and indignation I felt. This criticism stirred up bad feelings, which some of the people did not hesitate to express so openly that a friend heard their threats, and lost no time in repeat- ing them to me. Late that night I was awakened by a soft rapping upon my window, which opened upon the broad piazza of the hotel, and I found there a young mulatto who was engaged in do- ing some printing for the school. He brought news of a plot to tar and fea- ther me, and in this high - handed and desperate way to cut short my dangerous doctrines. I did not propose to retract what I had said, and so there was no- thing for it but to leave the place at once. New York seemed to me to offer not only the most favorable opportunities for my literary efforts, but also a large field A Souls Pilgrimage: E~vtracts from an Autobiography. 73 for study of the many and various phases of religious belief and activity. I had but a very few friends in that city, yet I felt that they were men whom I could trust. This confidence was not misplaced. From the moment of my arrival, Hen- ry Tuckerman, Dr. Henry Bellows, and others took a most lively interest in my well-being. It was shortly arranged that I should give a course of sermons on unity, in the church of Dr. Bellows, at the corner of 19th Street and Fourth Avenue. These sermons niet with a flattering reception, and drew many peo- ple of a liberal mind among the vari- ous Protestant denominations. As the church could not always be at our dispo- sal, my friends made arrangements that I should use a hall in the Cooper Insti- tute, and there continue the free and open discussion of religious doctrine and truth. I preached there during the eight months from October, 1858, to May, 1859. The success of this enterprise was somewhat remarkable. The hall, though an ample one, was on several occasions found to be too small for the audience. My Sunday discourses might have continued indefinitely, had I not received in April of 1859 a letter from Mr. Long- fellow, asking me to become an assistant professor of the French language and literature at Harvard University. As this invitation came to me entirely un- sought, and was accompanied by an ex- pression of deep affection on the part of Mr. Longfellow, I asked myself with no little concern whether I should not ac- cept it. The thought of putting down a task so lately begun and so full of pro- mise was distasteful to me, and I ac- cepted Mr. Longfellows invitation only with the determination that at some fu- ture day I would resume religious wcrk. Many were the expressions of regret by those who made up our little con- gregation that the services were to be discontinued. A generous effort was made, started by Mr. Leavitt Hunt, to establish the enterprise upon a perma- nent basis; but as this came after my letter of acceptance had been sent to Mr. Longfellow, it could not accomplish its purpose. Hardly had I begun my course of lec- tures at the university when a proposi- tion was made to me by Mr. Agassiz, whose school in Cambridge will long be remembered as the leading institution in this country for the education of young wonmen. Most of the instructors were professors at the university. Mr. Agassiz was preparing at this time to make a journey of exploration in South America, which would probably con- sume many months, and he came to me with the request that I should take his lecture hours in the school for a course in French literature. I at once accepted this offer, and found myself happy in a work so congenial to my training and inclinations. But another proposition fol- lowed this, which pleased me even more. The Rev. Dr. Manning, pastor of the Old South Church, a Congregationalist of the liberal school, having heard of the work I had been doing, called on me and asked me to undertake a similar work in Boston. He placed the Old South Chapel at my disposal, and the Sunday after the first of my services had been announced in the papers I found the chapel full. To take up religious work again was most agreeable to me, especially as I had not ceased to regret my enforced separation from our little band of enthusiasts in New York. My life at Cambridge renewed many of the associations which I had found so helpful and gratifying during my first visit to Boston. Among others, it was my privilege to come in contact with that rare mind, Ralph Waldo Emerson. I recall quite distinctly a day I spent at his home in Concord. In the after- noon he proposed a walk in a grove a short distance from his home. In the middle of this bit of woods was a some- what spacious pond, which Mr. Emerson 74 A Souls Pilgrimage: hrtracts from an Autobiography. looked upon as a lake. We sat down on a little hill which commanded a view of it. After some moments of mute con- templation Emerson said to me, It is now fifteen years that every day when the weather and my occupations permit I come and sit for a few moments in this place, and each time I find in this little lake some new beauty.~~ I made the acquaintance at this time of two other men of eminence, James Heeinan Clarke and Thomas Starr King. The latter was to prove not only an agreeable companion, bnt a warm-heart- ed friend. In such an atmosphere, among men of many views, I found am- ple food for reflection and abundant op- portunity for study in the line of both religious and political thought. The death of Theodore Parker grieved me immeasurably. I find in my journal some expressions of my sorrow. May 11, 1860. He is dead. What a loss! The nation will at last appre- ciate him. Strange circumstance! the very day they learn the sad news is the one on which the Unitarians hold their annual convention in the same hall where each Sunday people have come in crowds to hear him. It could not be said that all the Unitarians who attended this convention were in full sympathy with Theodore Parker; notwithstanding, this evening all prejudice seemed to have vanished as if by enchantment. When the news of his death became known, each speaker in turn referred affection- ately and reverently to the prophet who had been taken from them, and each time the public received his name with the most heartfelt testimony of symnpa- thy and regard. Indeed, all the inter- est of the meeting turned to a manifes- tation in favor of the reformer. The Unitarians seem to me to be the most intelligent of Protestant ministers, and in almost every instance snperior men. Their liberalism is sincere; they love and preach virtue for its own sake; their discourses are less sermons than lofty moral essays, in which the con- science as well as the mind finds much to stimulate and strengthen it. Of all those who honored me with their friench ship, there was not one for whom I did not entertain a high and sincere regard; but I must mention one especially, the best nian, perhaps, whom I have had the privilege of knowing, the Rev. Dr. Gannett. I remember that on oiie oc- casion lie spoke iii words of the most sincere admiration of M. de Cheverus, the first Roman. bishop of Boston. Abandoned in a miserable cabin, not far from Boston, was an infirm negro. The bishop found him, andy without in- forming any one, every evening, after his days dnties, quietly made his way to the cabin and devoted himself to this afflicted creature; washing and dressing his sores, making his bed, and providing for his various wants. A servant, who remarked that on the bishops return his coat was covered with dust and feathers, wondered where his master went, and followed him afar off on one of his excur- sions. Looking between the loose tim- bers which made the wall of the cabin, he saw the man of God engaged in his work of mercy. Dr. Gannett told me this story with admiration for such devotion on the part of a prelate. Little did he suppose that I myself would surprise him in the ex- ercise of a no less humble and Christ- like charity. I had been told that a certain German teacher, Professor Sherb, was lying ill in a cold and comfortless attic in a miserable quarter of the city, and had no one to take care of him. At my first free moment I sought the lodging of this poor man, but Dr. Gan- nett was there before me. I found him at the door with a broom in his hand, with which he had been sweeping the room of the invalid. I entered, and saw the sick man sitting in front of a newly lighted fire, carefully rolled up A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. 75 in a blanket, eating grapes which had been brought him by the good Samaritan. The mattress had been removed from the bed, the sheets had been hung out to air, the meagre furnishings of the room bad been put in order: and all this by the hand of my excellent friend, who ap- peared quite confused when caught in the act. His embarrassment was not less when, on another occasion, I discovered him in one of the back streets of Boston carry- ing a bowl of steaming broth into a mis- erable-looking abode where no doubt dwelt another of his charges. My life and work at Harvard Univer- sity continued until the outbreak of the rebellion. Naturally the college life was affected by this serious trouble, and many departments of the university were virtually suspended. Among both professors and students the most ardent patriotism was manifested, and when the call came for volunteers a large propor- tion of our number were not slow to re- spond. I remember a most affecting scene which expressed the deep loyalty of both North and South to what they conceived to be right. When it became evident that the country was upon the verge of a supreme crisis and that war was inevitable, a general meeting of the students and professors was held before separating to go to their several states. Many of our men were Southerners, and it was seen that at the call of duty fellow student would be obliged to face fellow student in the impending strug- gle. This thought cast a very deep so- lemnity over our meeting, and nothing could have been more touching than to see these men embrace one another with the utmost affection on the eve of their separation. The attitude of foreign countries to- ward the North will be remembered as doubtful. England was decidedly an- tagonistic, while France seemed to be uncertain. Her press was divided and by no means positive in friendliness to~ ward the cause of the Union. It seemed to me that I could be of service to my adopted country by visiting Paris and counseling with those in control of the journals of the day, some of whom I knew, with the object of winning their support for the government. I commu- nicated with the Rev. Dr. Bellows, pre- sident of the Sanitary Commission, and suggested the advisability of the step I had in mind. He approved my project most heartily, and after a conference with the Secretary of State, Mr. Sew- ard, commissioned me to carry out this scheme. It was arranged that I should start for Paris without delay, see in par- ticular each of the prominent journal- ists, preachers, and professors who exer- cised any marked influence on public opinion, and work in the best way to win them to the cause of the Union. After seven years of absence I found myself in Paris once more. My emo- tions cannot be described, nor is it my desire here to dwell upon the many re- collections which came to me as I viewed again places so familiar and formerly so closely identified with my life. As soon as possible I sought interviews with the leading men of the liberal party: Jules Simon, Eugene Pelletan, Pr~vost-Para- dol of Le Journal des D6bats, Louis Jour- dan of Le Si~cle, Elis~e Reclus of the Revue des Deux Mondes, Fr6d~ric Mo- rin, Edouard Fauvety, Yacherot, and others, all men of the highest standing in the world of letters. Those who had at first some doubt on the subject soon became convinced that the war was not, on the part of the North, a war for sov- ereignty, but a war for deliverance; that whatever might be the pretensions of parties and the particular views of many, slavery was the real cause of the struggle, and its abolition must be the ultimate result. And from that moment, with a unity and perseverance quite re- markable, all of these worthy men be- came earnest defenders of the Union, 76 A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. whether in public journal or in private writing. I was especially anxious to meet M. Edouard Laboulaye, for I knew him to be more than all the others interested in the conflict and in sympathy with this country. As he was not then in Paris I wrote to him at his country-seat. I received in answer a letter asking me to come to Bourg-la-Reine and spend a day with him. Of course I took advantage of this invitation, and passed seven of the most agreeable hours of my life in an uninterrupted conversation with M. Laboulaye The chief and almost the only subject of our talk was the Ameri- can republic, her trials, her hopes, her institutions. Great indeed was my sur- prise to find a Frenchman who had never crossed the Atlantic better acquainted with the affairs of this country than many Americans, more earnest about the main- tenance of the Union than many of our celebrated politicians, and appreciating better our privileges and dangers than many of our leaders. Of that conversation I shall relate only the rather strange circumstance which was the beginning of his acquaintance with the great men and things of this country. One day, as M. Laboulaye was looking for some curiosity or lost trea- sure on the shelves of a second - hand bookseller of the Quai Voltaire, he by chance opened a stray volume of ser- mons by William Ellery Channing. Sermons by an American preacher were a novelty to him. The sum of five cents secured the book, and while pur- suing his course toward the Champs Elys6es he began to read it. The more he read, the more his wonder and inter- est increased; so much so that he sat down under a tree, and could not stop until he had finished the volume. Hap- py in this unlooked - for discovery, he started to return to his house, when he encountered his friend, Armand Bertin, then the celebrated editor of the D& bats. Congratulate me, said M. La- boulaye. I have just put my hand on a great man. Well, replied the editor, one who meets with such good fortune is indeed to be congratulated. And who is your great man? Chan- ning! Canning? exclaimed M. Ber- tin. A fine discovery indeed! Every one knows Cannino I dont mean Canning, the Englishman; I mean Chan- ning, an American preacher, and forth- with M. Laboulayc asked the privilege of writing for the D~bats his impressions of Channing M. Bertin assented, and three articles were successively published on the Boston divine. Several articles followed on other American celebrities, and from that time this country and her institutions became the favorite topic of M. Laboulayes studies. All his discoveries he communicated with true enthusiasm, first to the numer- ous hearers of his lectures at the Coll~ge de France, then to the public through the journals or through his pamphlets, which were always read with avidity; and finally, on this same darling subject he published two books, destined to remain as monuments of his wonderful know- ledge of and devotedness to this country, namely, LHistoire Politique des Etats- Unis, a standard work of the literature of this age, and Paris en Am4rique, the best, perhaps, of modern satires. Thus, while he remained always devoutly at- tached to France as a revered and cher- ished mother, he seemed to have loved Young America as a charming spouse. When I returned to the United States the civil war was at its height. rI~he at- tention of the whole country, North and South, was centred in the nioinentous struggle. Every other interest fell into abeyance before the grave and critical problem which the nation had been called upon to solve Naturally, at such a time, the thoughts of the people, es- pecially in the East, were not given to matters intellectual and educational. While I was casting about in some con- cern for an occupation, an unexpected A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. 71 proposal came from my friend the Rev. Thomas Starr King, then pastor of the First Unitarian Church of San Fran- cisco, and the leading preacher of the Pacific coast. It was largely due to his influence and eloquence that California was secured to the Union. Mr. Kings plan was that I should come to San Fran- cisco and establish a school on the plan of that of Mr. Agassiz in Cambridge. An invitation to undertake such a work was very congenial to me, and came most opportunely; I was more~ than glad to accept it. From the moment of my arrival at San Francisco Mr. King threw himself with all his heart into the project before us. A fine location was chosen in a most desirable quarter of the city, South Park, and plans were prepared for a large and handsome building. In the meantime the parish house of the Unitarian Church was placed at our disposal. Here on February 1, 1864, our school was opened by Mr. King himself. The prospects were bright before us, and not the least in- viting was the prospect of being in close touch with a man of such excellent spirit. From time to time we enjoyed most in- teresting conversations together, always on some religious, scientific, or political subject. At one of these meetings, I remember, we remained two hours in the gallery of the new church, communi- cating our views and sentiments in an expansion full of charm. When we got up to separate, taking both my hands in his, he said: It is Wednesday; let it be understood that for the future every Wednesday, from two till four oclock, we shall put aside for mutual edification and conversation like that which we have just enjoyed. Man proposes, God dis- poses. The following Wednesday Mr. King was lying upon his death-bed, and the Wednesday after that the soul of this man of God was in heaven. March 4,1864. What a date! What a day! What a loss! The best of friends, the most ardent of patriots, the most generous of philanthropists, the good, the noble Starr King is taken from us! Could we have believed last week, when he brought us a new testimony of his precious interest, could we have thought it was his last visit, his last going out, the last occasion given us to hear his most sympathetic voice, to look in life upon his serene face! . . . All the city is in consternation. Friends meet and clasp hands with tearful eyes, but can- not speak. They say more tears have been shed to-day than during all the citys life. More than a thousand flags float at half-mast, on private dwellings as well as on public buildings. 0 worthy man, how deeply your people love you! Jifarch 5. The manifestation of to- day in honor of the noble dead is not less worthy than that of yesterday. The re. mains are lying in state in the church which has just been completed, and seems now as if built to be his monument. A company of the first regiment of militia and the Free Masons act as a guard of honor. From noon until ten oclock at night a long file of people continued to pass by and to gaze for the last time on the inanimate features of him who but a few days before electrified the multitude. The following Sunday, not only the congregation, but many strangers assem- bled in the church at the usual hour. The pastors gown was laid upon the pul- pit. Not a word was said. Not a note was sung; only from time to time the organ was played softly, while the peo- ple sat in mute contemplation, giving their thoughts and their hearts to the noble life which had so suddenly been taken from them. The first regular service was held a week later, in memory of this holy man. The high privilege was mine, on that occasion, to voice the feel- ings of the people and to express their last tribute to the dead. C. F. B. liliel. 78 The Battle of the Strong. THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG. XXI. THE Comtesse Chantavoine, young, rich, amiable. You shall meet her to-morrow. Long after Philip left the duke to go to his own chamber these words rang in his ears. He felt the cords of fate tightening round him. So real was the momentary illusion of being bound that, as he passed through the great hail where hung the pictures of his hosts ancestors, he made a sudden outward motion of his arms as though to free himself from a physical restraint. Strange to say, he had never foreseen or reckoned with this matter of mar- riage in the designs of the duke. He had forgotten that sovereign dukes must make sure their succession even unto the third and fourth generations. His first impulse had been to declare that to introduce him to the countess would be futile, for he was already married. But the instant warning of the mind that his highness could never and would never accept the daughter of a Jersey ship- builder restrained him. He had no idea that Guidas descent from the de Man- prats of Chamb~ry would weigh with the duke, who would only see in her some apple - cheeked peasant stumbling over her court train. So Philip held his peace, as he had held it upon this matter ever since he came to Bercy. It was not his way to be rash, though it was his way to be bold. There would he boldness in another direction, in withholding the knowledge of his marriage. It was cu- rious that the duke had never even hint- ed at the chance of his being already married; yet not so curious, either, since complete silence concerning a wife was declaration enough that he was unmar- ried. He felt in his heart that a finer sense would have offered Guida no such humiliating affront, for he knew the lie of silence was as evil as the lie of speech. He had not spoken, partly because he had not yet become used to the fact that he really was married. It had never been brought home to him by the ever present conviction of habit~ One day of married life, or, in reality, a few hours of married life with Guida had given the sensation more of a noble adventure than of a lasting condition. With distance froni that noble adven- ture something of the glow of a lovers relations had gone, and the subsequent tender enthusiasm of mind and memory was not vivid enough to make him dar- ing or as he would have said reck- less for its sake. Yet this same tender enthusiasm was sincere enough to make him accept the fact of his marriage with- out discontent, even in the glamour of new and alluring ambitions. If it had been a question of giving up Guida or giving up the duchy of Bercy, if that had been put before him as the sole alternative, he would have de- cided as quickly in Guidas favor as he did regarding his commission in the navy when he thought it was a question be- tween that and the duchy. The straight- forward issue of Guida and of the duchy he had not been called upon to face. But, unfortunately for those who are tempt- ed, issues are never put quite so plainly by the heralds of destiny and penalty. They are disguised as delectable chances, the toss-ups are always the temptation of life. The man who uses trust money for three days only, to acquire in those three days a fortune, certain as magnifi- cent, would pull up short beforehand if the issue of theft or honesty were put squarely before him. Morally, he means no theft; he uses his neighbors saw until his own is mended; but he breaks his neighbors saw, his own is lost on its

Gilbert Parker Parker, Gilbert The Battle of the Strong 78-98

78 The Battle of the Strong. THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG. XXI. THE Comtesse Chantavoine, young, rich, amiable. You shall meet her to-morrow. Long after Philip left the duke to go to his own chamber these words rang in his ears. He felt the cords of fate tightening round him. So real was the momentary illusion of being bound that, as he passed through the great hail where hung the pictures of his hosts ancestors, he made a sudden outward motion of his arms as though to free himself from a physical restraint. Strange to say, he had never foreseen or reckoned with this matter of mar- riage in the designs of the duke. He had forgotten that sovereign dukes must make sure their succession even unto the third and fourth generations. His first impulse had been to declare that to introduce him to the countess would be futile, for he was already married. But the instant warning of the mind that his highness could never and would never accept the daughter of a Jersey ship- builder restrained him. He had no idea that Guidas descent from the de Man- prats of Chamb~ry would weigh with the duke, who would only see in her some apple - cheeked peasant stumbling over her court train. So Philip held his peace, as he had held it upon this matter ever since he came to Bercy. It was not his way to be rash, though it was his way to be bold. There would he boldness in another direction, in withholding the knowledge of his marriage. It was cu- rious that the duke had never even hint- ed at the chance of his being already married; yet not so curious, either, since complete silence concerning a wife was declaration enough that he was unmar- ried. He felt in his heart that a finer sense would have offered Guida no such humiliating affront, for he knew the lie of silence was as evil as the lie of speech. He had not spoken, partly because he had not yet become used to the fact that he really was married. It had never been brought home to him by the ever present conviction of habit~ One day of married life, or, in reality, a few hours of married life with Guida had given the sensation more of a noble adventure than of a lasting condition. With distance froni that noble adven- ture something of the glow of a lovers relations had gone, and the subsequent tender enthusiasm of mind and memory was not vivid enough to make him dar- ing or as he would have said reck- less for its sake. Yet this same tender enthusiasm was sincere enough to make him accept the fact of his marriage with- out discontent, even in the glamour of new and alluring ambitions. If it had been a question of giving up Guida or giving up the duchy of Bercy, if that had been put before him as the sole alternative, he would have de- cided as quickly in Guidas favor as he did regarding his commission in the navy when he thought it was a question be- tween that and the duchy. The straight- forward issue of Guida and of the duchy he had not been called upon to face. But, unfortunately for those who are tempt- ed, issues are never put quite so plainly by the heralds of destiny and penalty. They are disguised as delectable chances, the toss-ups are always the temptation of life. The man who uses trust money for three days only, to acquire in those three days a fortune, certain as magnifi- cent, would pull up short beforehand if the issue of theft or honesty were put squarely before him. Morally, he means no theft; he uses his neighbors saw until his own is mended; but he breaks his neighbors saw, his own is lost on its The Battle of the Strong. 79 homeward way, he has no money to buy another, and he is tried and convicted on a charge of theft. Thus the custom of society establishes the charge of im- morality upon the technical defect. But not on that alone; upon the principle that what is committed in trust shall be held inviolate with an exact obedience to conditions and an adherence to the spirit as to the letter of the law. But the issue did not come squarely to Philip. He had not openly lied about Guida; as yet he had no intention of doing so. He even figured to himself with what surprise Quida would greet his announcement that she was hence- forth Princesse Guida dAvranche, and in due time would be her serene high- ness the Duchess~ de Bercy. Certainly there was nothing immoral in his ambi- tions. If the present serene highness chose to establish him as second in suc- cession to the reigning prince, who had a right to complain? Then, as to an officer of the English navy accepting succession in a sovereign duchy in suzerainty to the present gov- ernment of France, while England was at war with her, his host had more than once, in almost so many words, defined the situation. Because the duke himself, with no successor assured, was powerless to take sides with the Roy- alists against the Revolutionary govern- ment, he was at the moment obliged, for the very existence of his duchy, to hoist the tricolor upon the castle with his own flag. Once the succession was assured beyond the imbecile Leopold John, then he would certainly declare against the present fiendish government, and for the overthrown dynasty. Now, England was fighting France not only because she was revolutionary France, but because of the murder of Louis XVI. and for the restoration of that overthrown dynasty. Also she was in close sympathy with the war of the Vend~e, to which she would lend all possible assistance. Philip argued that if it was his duty, as a captain in the English navy, to fight against revolu- tionary France from without, he would be beyond criticism if, as the Duc de Bercy, he also fought against her from within. Indeed, it was with this statement of the facts that the second military officer of the duchy had some days before been dispatched to the Court of St. James to secure its intervention for Philips release, by an important exchange of prisoners with the French government. This officer was also charged with se- curing the consent of the English King for Philips acceptance of the succession in the duchy while retaining his posi- tion in the English navy. The envoy had been instructed by the duke to offer his sympathy with England in the war and his secret adherence to the Royalist cause, to become open as soon as the succession through Philip was secured. To Philips mind all that side of the case was in his favor, and sorted well with his principles of professional honor. Then came up the question of his pri- vate honor. He conceived it to be a reckless sacrifice of possibilities to tell the duke of his marriage. He was en- gaged in a game of chances, and what might happen would all be the fortune of the dice. To tell of his marriage was to load the dice against himself; not to do so was to put his private honor in the hazard. In his momentous translation from a prison to a palace, with dazzling fortunes in view, there came upon him confusion of the judg- ment and of the moralities; he felt that the opportunity for speaking of the mar- riage had passed. He seated himself at a table, and took from his pocket a letter of Guidas, writ- ten many weeks before, in which she said with an unmistakable firmness that she had not announced the marriage and would not; that he must do it, and he alone; that the letter written to her grandfather had not been received by 80 The Battle of the Strong. him, and that no one in Jersey knew their secret. In reading this letter again a wave of feeling rushed over him. He realized the force and strength of her nature; every word had a clear and sharp straightfor- wardness and the ring of truth. She was not twenty, yet how powerful and clear was her intelligence! A gifted creature, an unusual mind, the Cheva- lier du Champsavoys had once said of her in Philips hearing. That was it: a gifted creature with an unusual mind. All at once he had been brought to understand that a crisis was near, and he straightway prepared to meet it. The duke had said that he must marry; a woman had already been chosen for him, and he was to meet her to-morrow. But that meant nothing; to meet a wo- man was not of necessity to marry her. There were a thousand chances against the woman liking him; and what could she be to him, this Comtesse Chanta- voine? Yet it might be necessary to give in his apparent adherence to this comedy devised by the duke, certainly until after the adoption and succession were formally arranged. Then why, by that time he would be released, he would have to present himself in Eng- land to receive a new command, and delays, where a woman is concerned, are easy. Even supposing matters became critical, the countess herself might be in no hurry to marry. Marry! He could feel his flesh creep- ing. It gave him an ugly, startled sen- sation. It was like some imp of Satan to drop into his ear now the suggestion that princes, ere this, had been known to have two wives, one of them unoffi- cial. Yet he could have struck himself in the face for the iniquity of the sug- gestion; he flushed from the indecency of it, and so have sinners ever flushed as they set forth on the garish road to Avernus. Yexed with these unbidden and un- welcome thoughts, he got up and walked about his chamber restlessly. Guida, the poor Guida! he said to himself manytimes. He was angry, disgusted, that those shameful, irresponsible thoughts should have come to him. He would atone for all that, and more, when he was Prince and she Princesse dAvranche. But nevertheless he was ill at ease with himself. Guida was off there alone in Jersey, alone. Suddenly there flashed into his mind another possibility. Suppose why, suppose thoughtless scoundrel that he had been! suppose that there might come another than himself and Guida to bear his name! And Guida was there alone, and her marriage still kept secret, the danger of it to her good name! But she had said nothing in her letters, hinted nothing. No, in none had there been the most distant sugges- tion. Then and there he got the letters, one and all, and read them, every word, every line, all through to the end. No, there was not one hint. Of course it could not be so; she would have but no, she might not have Guida was unlike anybody else. He read on and on. And now, some- how, he thought he caught in one of the letters a new ring, a pensive grav- ity, a deeper tension, which were like ciphers or signals to tell him of some change in her. For a moment he was shaken. Manhood, human sympathy, surged up in him. The first flush of a new sensation ran through his veins like fire. The first instinct of fatherhood came to him, a thrilling, uplifting feel- ing. But as suddenly there shot through his mind a thought which brought him to his feet with a spring. Why, suppose suppose that it was so! Suppose that through Guida the further succession might presently be made sure, and suppose he went to the prince and told him all, that might achieve his consent in her favor; and the rest would be easy. That was it, as clear as day. Meanwhile he would hold his The Battle of the Strong. 81 peace. He would take his part in the perilous comedy; he would meet the countess, but he would force her to re- gard him with commonplace feelings; he would pay no real court to her; he would wait and wait. For above all else, and this was the thing that clinched the purpose in his mind, above all else, the duke at best had but a brief time to live. He saw it himself, and but a week ago the court physician had told Philip that only un- usual excitement kept the duke alive; that any violence or shock, physical or mental, might snap the thread of exist- ence. Plainly, the thing was to go on as he had been going, to keep his marriage secret, meet the countess, up- parently accede to all the duke suggest- ed, and wait wait! With this definite purpose in his mind coloring all that he might say, yet crip- pling the freedom of his thought, he sat down and wrote to Guida. Tie had not written to her, according to the condi- tion made by M. Dalbarade that during his stay at the castle he should hold coum- munication with no one outside upon any consideration whatsoever. He was on parole: this issue was clear; he could not send a letter to Guida until he was freed from the condition agreed to by the duke for him. It had been a bitter pill to swallow; and he had had to strug- gle with himself many times since his arrival at the castle. For whatever the new ambitions and undertakings, there was still in the mysterious and lonely distance a woman for whose welfare he was responsible, for whose happiness he had yet done nothing, unless to give her his name under sombre conditions was happiness for her. Since his marriage, all that he had done to remind him of the new life which he had so hurriedly, so daringly, so eloquently entered upon was to send his young wife fifty pounds. Somehow, as this fact flashed to his re- membrance now, it made him shrink; it had a certain cold, commercial look VOL. LXXXII. No. 489. 6 which struck him unpleasantly. Perhaps, indeed, the singular and painful shyness chill almost with which Guida had received those fifty pounds now comnmu- nicated itself to him by the intangible telegraphy of the mind and spirit. All at once, that bare, glacial fact of having sent her fifty pounds acted as a cynical illumination of his real position. He felt conscious now that Guida would have preferred some simple gift, some little thing that women love, in token and remembrance, rather than the common- place if necessary token of the ordinary duties of life. Now that he came to thiuik of it, since he had left her in Jer- sey, he had never sent her ever so small a gift. Indeed, he had never given her any gifts at all save the Maltese cross in her childhood and her wedding-ring. As for the ring, it had never occurred to him that she could not wear it except in the stillness of the night, unseen by any eye but her own. He did not know that she had been wont to go to sleep with the hand clasped to her breast, pressing close to her the one outward token she had of a new life, begun with a sweetness which was very bitter, and a bitterness which was only a little sweet. Philip was in no fitting mood to write a letter. Too many emotions were in conflict in him at once. They were hav- ing their way with him; and perhaps in this very complexity of his feelings he came nearer to being really and acutely himself than he had ever been in his life. Indeed, there was a moment when he was almost ready to consign the duke and all that appertained to him to the devil or the deep sea, and to take his fate as it came. But one of the other selves of him called down from the little attic where dark things brood, and told him that to throw up his present chances would bring him no nearer and rio soon- er to Guida, and must return him to the prison whence he came. No, he must go on, that was the only thing to do. Now, however, he 82 The Battle of the Strong. would write to Guida, and send the let- ter when he was released from parole. But how many times did he tear up the paper in vain attempt to speak to her out of the confusion of his thoughts! At last, like a hunter who, having lost his compass and his bearings, makes a dash through the wood in the hold belief that safety lies beyond if he but drive ahead, heedless, strong, enduring, so he plunged into the letter which told his wife where he was, of his opportunities, and of the brilliant outlook for them both. His courage grew as the sentences spread out before him; he became elo- quent. He told her how heavily the days and months went on apart from her. He emptied out the sensations of absence, loneliness, desire, and affection. He wondered how she fared, won- dered tenderly. All at once he stopped short. It flashed upon him now that al- ways his letters had been entirely of his own doings; he had pictured himself al- ways, his own loneliness, his own grief at separation. He had never yet spoken of the details of her life, questioned her of this and of that, of all those things which fill the life of a woman, not because she loves the little things, but because she is a woman, and the know- ledge and governance of these little things are the habit and the duty of her life. His past egotism was borne in upon him now. He would try to atone for it. He asked her many questions; but one he did not ask, dared not ask, did not know how to speak to her of it. The fact that be could not say what most he wished to say was a powerful indictment of his re- lations to her, of his treatment of her, of his headlong courtship and marriage. So portions of this letter of his had not the perfect ring of truth, had not the conviction which unselfish and solici- tous love alone can beget. It was only at the last, only when he came to close the letter, that his words went from him with the sharp photography of his own heart. It came, perhaps, from a remorse which for the instant foreshadowed dan- ger ahead; from an acute pity for her; and maybe from a longing to forego the attempt to don the promised pageantry of an exalted place, and get back to the straightforward hours, such as those upon the Ecr6hos, when he knew that he loved her. But the sharpness of his feelings rendered more intense now the declara- tion of his love. The phrases were wrung from him. His hand trembled so that his will must rule it to steadiness, and that enforced pressure seemed to etch the words into the paper. Good-by, no, i~ la bonne henre, my dearest, he wrote; good days are coming, brave, great days, when I shall be free to strike another blow for England, both from within and from without France; when I shall be, if all go well, the Prince dAvranche, Dnc de Bercy, and you my perfect princess. Good-by! Ton Philip, qui taime toujours. He had hardly written the last words when a servant knocked at his door. His serene highness offers his com- pliments to monsieur, and will monsieur descend to meet the Marquis Grandjon- Larisse and the Comtesse Chantavoine, who have just arrived. For an instant Philip could scarce control his feelings to quietness, but he sent a message of obedience, and pre- pared to go down. So it had come, not to-morrow, but to-day. Already the deep game was on. With a sigh which was half of bitter and mocking laughter, he seized the sand- box, dried the letter to Gnida, and put it in his pocket. As he descended the staircase, the last words of it kept as- sailing his mind, singing in his brain: Ton Philip, qui taime toujours! XXII. Not many evenings after Philips first interview with the ~omtesse Chanta- voine, a visitor arrived at the ca~tle~ The Battle of the Strony. From his roundabout approach up the steep cliff in the dusk it was clear he wished to avoid observation. Of gab lant bearing, he was attired in a fashion unlike the citizens of Bercy or the Re- publican military, who were often to be seen in the streets of the town. The whole relief of the costume was white, white sash, white cuffs turned back, white collar, white rosette and band, white and red bandeau, and the faint glitter of a white shirt; in contrast were the black hat and plume, black tie, black top - boots with huge spurs, and yellow breeches. He carried a gun and a sword, and a pistol was stuck in the white sash. But one thing arrested the eye more than all else: a white square on the breast of the long brown coat, strangely ornamented with a red heart and cross. He was evidently a soldier of distinguished rank, but not of the army of the Republic. The face was that of a devotee, not of peace, but of war, of some forlorn cru- sade. It had deep enthusiasm, which yet to the trained observer would have seemed rather the tireless faith of a con- vert than the disposition of the natural man. It was somewhat heavily lined for one so young. The marks of a hard life were on him; but distinction and energy were in his look and in every turn of his body. Arriving at the castle, he knocked at the postern. At first sight of him the porter suspiciously blocked the entrance with his person, but seeing the badge upon his breast stood at gaze, and a look of keen curiosity crossed his face. On the visitor announcing that he was of the house of Yanfontaine, this curiosity was mingled with as keen surprise; he was admitted with every mark of respect, and the gates closed behind him. Has his highness any visitors? he asked as he dismounted. The porter nodded assent. Who are they? He slipped a coin into the porters hand. One of the family, a cousin, his serene highness calls him. Hm, indeed! A Vaufontaine, friend? No, monseigneur, a dAvranche. What dAvranche? Not the Prince Leopold John? No, monseigneur; the name is the same as his highnesss. Philip dAvranehe ~ Hm! from whence? From Paris, monseigneur, with his highness. The visitor, whistling softly, stood thinking a moment. Presently he add- ed, How old is he? About the same age as monsei- gneur. How does he occupy himself? He walks, rides, talks with his high- ness, asks questions of the people, reads in the library, and sometimes shoots and fishes. Is he a soldier? He carries no sword, and he takes a long aim with his gun! There was a sly smile lurking about the porters mouth. The visitor drew from his pocket a second gold piece, and, slipping it into the others hand, said, Tell it all at once. Who is the gen- tleman, and what is his business here? Is he, perhaps, on the side of the Revo- lution, or does lie keep better company? He looked keenly into the eyes of the porter, who screwed up his own, return- ing the gaze unflinchingly. Handing back the gold piece, the man answered firmly, I have told monseigneur what every one in the duchy knows; there s no charge for that. For what more his highness and and those that his high- ness trusts know he drew himself up with brusque importance there s no price, monseigneur. Body o me, here s pride and vain- glory! returned the other. I know you, my fine Pergot. I knew you almost too well years ago, and then you were not so sensitive; then you were a good 84 The Battle of the Strong. Royalist like me, Pergot. This time he fastened the mans look with his own, and held it until Pergot dropped his head before it. I dont remember monseigneur, he said, perturbed. Of course not. The fine Pergot has a bad memory, like a good Republican, who by law cannot worship his God, or ask the priest to visit him when he s dying, or make the sign of the cross; a red Revolutionist is our Pergot now! I m as good a Royalist as monsel- gneur, retorted the man, with some as- perity. So are most of us. Only only his highness says to us Dont gossip of what his highness says, but do his bidding, Pergot. What a fool you are to babble thus! How d ye know but I m one of Fouch6s or Bar~res men? How d ye know but there are five hundred men outside wait- ing for my whistle? The man changed instantly. His hand was at his side like lightning. They d never hear that whistle, mon- seigneur, though you be Vaufontaine or no Vaufontaine! His eyes were fixed on the visitors with stubborn determination. The other, smiling, reached out and touched him on the shoulder kindly. My dear Frange Pergot, said he, that s the man I knew once, and the sort of man that s been fighting with me for the Church and for the King these months past in the Vend6e. Come, come, dont you know me, Pergot? Dont you remember the scapegrace with whom, for a jape, you waylaid my uncle the cardinal and robbed him, and then gave him back his jeweled watch in re- turn for a years indulgences? But no, no, answered the man, crossing himself quickly, and by the dim lanthorn light peering into the visitors face, it is not possible, monseigneur. The Comte D4tricand de Tournay died in the Jersey Isle with him they called IRullecour. Well, well, you might at least re- member this, rejoined the other, show- ing a scar in the palm of his hand. Recognition was instant now, and an old friendship was cemented anew. A little later there was ushered into the library of the castle the Comte D6tricand de Tournay, who, under the name of Savary dit D6tricand, had lived in the Isle of Jersey for many years. There he had been a dissipated idler, a keeper of worthless company, an alien coolly ac- cepting the hospitality of a country he had ruthlessly invaded as a boy. Now, returned from vagabondage, he was the valiant and honored heir of the house of Vaufontaine, and the heir presumptive of the house of Bercy. True to his intention, D6tricand had joined La Rochejaquelein, the intrepid, inspired leader of the Vend6e, whose sentiments became his own: If I ad- vance, follow me; if I retreat, kill me; if I fall, avenge me. He had proven himself daring, courageous, and re- sourceful. His immovable gayety of spirits infected the simple peasants with a rebounding energy; his fearlessness inspired their confidence; his kindness to the wounded, friend or foe, his mercy to prisoners, the gentle respect he showed the devoted priests who shared with the peasants the perils of war, had already made him beloved. He had also often helped to reconcile divisions, and to har- monize the varying views of the chief- tains of the Vendee. From the first all the leaders trusted him, and he sprang in a day, as had done the peasants Cathelineau, dIElb6e, and Stofflet, gentlemen like Lescure and Bonchamp, and noble fighters like dAn- tichamp and the Prince of Talmont, to an outstanding position in the Royal- ist army. Again and again he had been engaged in perilous sorties and had led forlorn hopes. He had now come from the splendid victory at Saumur to urge his own kinsman, the Prince dAvranche, Due de Bercy, to join the Royalists. The Battle of the Strong. 85 It was the heyday of the cause. The taking of Saumur and the destruction of Coustards army, together with the cap- ture of eleven thousand prisoners, were powerful arguments to lay before a no- bleman all the traditions of whose house were of constant alliance with the Crown of France, whose very duchy had been the gift of a French monarch. D6tri- cand bad not seen the duke since he was a lad at Versailles, and there would be much in his favor; for some winning power in him had of late grown deep and penetrating, and of all the Vaufon- tames the duke had reason to dislike him least. When the duke entered to D~tricand in the library, he was under the influence of the convincing letter from the monks who had been engaged upon the pedi- gree of Commander Philip dAvranche, and of a stimulating talk with the young English Norman himself. With the memory of past feuds and hatreds in his mind, and predisposed against any Yau- fontaine, his greeting was cold and cour- teously disdainful, his manner preoccu- pied. Remarking that he had but lately heard of Monsieur le Comtes return to France, he hoped he had enjoyed his career in was it in England or in America? But yes, he remembered: it began with an expedition to take the Channel Isles from England, an insolent, a criminal business in time of peace, fit only for boys or filibusters. Had Monsieur he Comte then spent all these years in the Channel Isles, a prisoner, possibly? No? Fastening his eyes cynically on the symbol of the Royalist cause on D6tri- cands breast, he asked to what he was indebted for the honor of this present visit. Perhaps, he added dryly, it was to inquire after his own health, which, he was glad to assure Monsieur le Comte and all his cousins of Vaufontaine, was never better. His face was like a leather mask, tell- ing nothing of the arid sarcasm in his voice. The hands were shriveled, the shoulders shrunken, the temples fallen in; the neck behind was pinched, and the eyes looked out like brown beads, alive with fire and touched with the excite- ment of monomania. His last words had a delicate savagery of irony, though, too, there could be heard in the tone a defiance arguing apprehension, not lost upon his visitor. D~tricand had smiled inwardly many times during the old mans monologue, which was broken only by courteous, half-articulate interjections on his own part. He knew too well the old feud between their houses, the ambition that had possessed many a Vaufontaine to inherit the dukedom of Bercy, and the dukes futile revolt against that possi- bility; but for himself, heir to the prin- cipality of Vaufontaine, and therefrom, by succession, to that of Bercy, it had no importance. He had but one passion now, and it burned clear and strong; it dominated, it possessed him. He would have given up any worldly honor to see it succeed. He had idled and misspent too many years, had been vaurien and neer-do- well too long, to be sordid now. Even as the grievous sinner, come from dark ways, turns with furious and tireless strength to piety and good works, so this vagabond of noble family, wheeling suddenly in his tracks, had thrown him- self into a cause which was all sacrifice, courage, and unselfish patriotism, a holy warfare. The last bitter thrust of the duke had touched no raw flesh; his withers were unwrung. Gifted to thrust in return, and with warrant to do so, lie put aside the temptation, and with the directness of one convinced of the right- eousness of his cause, and with neither time nor temper for diplomacy in crisis, he answered his kinsman with daylight clearness. Monsieur he Duc, said he, I am glad your health is good; the better it is, the better it suits the purpose of this 86 The Battle of the Strong. interview. I am come on business, and on that alone. I am from Saumur, where I Left La Rochejaquelein, Stofflet, Cathelineau, and Lescure masters of the city and victors over the Republican army I have heard a rumor, interjected the duke impatiently. I will give you fact, continued D6- tricand, and he told of the series of suc- cesses lately come to the army of the Vend6e. And how does all this concern me, Monsieur le Comte? asked the duke. I am come to ask you to join us, to declare for our cause, for the Church and for the King. Yours is of the no- blest names in France. Will you not stand openly for what you cannot waver from in your heart? If the Duc de Bercy declares for us, others will come out of exile, and from submission to the rebel government, to our aid. My mis- sion from our leaders is to ask you to put aside whatever reasons you have had for alliance with this savage government, and to proclaim for the King. The duke did not take his eyes from D6tricands as he spoke. What was go- ing on behind that parchment face who might say? Are you aware, he said at last, that I could send you straight from here to the guillotine? So could the porter at your gates, but he loves France almost as well as does the Due de Bercy. You take refuge in the fact that you are my kinsman. The honor is stimulating, but I should not seek salvation by it. I have the greater safety of being your guest, answered D6tricand, with dignity. Too premature a sanctuary for a Vaufontaine! retorted the duke, fight- ing down growing admiration for a kins- man whose family he would gladly root out if it lay in his power. iDetricand made a gesture of impa- tience, for he felt that his appeal had availed nothing, and he had no heart for a battle of words. His wit had been tempered in many fires, his nature was non-incandescent to praise or gibe. He had had his share of pastime; now had come his share of toil, and the mood for give and take of words was not on him, though to advance his cause he would still use it in time of need. He went straight to the point now. Hopelessly he spoke the plain truth. I want nothing of the Prince dAvranche but his weight and power in a cause for which the best gentlemen of France are giving their lives. I fasten my eyes on France alone; I fight for the throne of Louis, an altar of sacrifice now by the martyred blood of the King, not for the duchy of Bercy. The duchy of Bercy may sink or swim, for all of me, if so be it does not stand with us in our holy war. The duke interjected a disdainful laugh. Suddenly there shot into D6tricands mind a suggestion, which, wild as it was, might after all helong to the grotesque realities of life. So he added with mea- sured deliberation, If alliance must still be preserved with this evil govern- ment of France, then be sure there is no Vaufontaine who would care to inherit a principality so discredited. To meet that peril in succession the Due de Bercy will do well to consult his new kinsman, Philip dAvranche. For an instant there was absolute si- lence in the room. The old noblemans look was like a flash of flame in a mask of dead flesh. The short upper lip was arrested in a sort of snarl; the fingers, half closed, were hooked like talons; and the whole man was a picture of sur- prise, fury, and injured pride. The Due de Bercy to be harangued to his duty, scathed, measured, disapproved, and counseled by a striphing Vaufontaine. it was monstrous! It was the bitterness of aloes, also, for in his own heart he knew that D6tricand The Battle of the Strong. 87 had spoken the truth. The fearless am peal had roused him, for the moment at least, to the beauty and righteousness of a sombre, maybe hopeless cause, while the impeachment had pierced every sore in his heart. He felt the smarting anger and outraged vanity of the wrong-doer who, having argued down his own con- science, and believing he has blinded oth- ers as himself, suddenly finds that he and his motives are naked before the world. D6tricand had known regretfully, even as he spoke, that the duke, no matter what the reason, would not now join the Royalist army; though, had his life been in danger, he still would have spoken the truth. So he had been human enough to try to pry open the door of mystery by a biting suggestion, for he had a feeling that in the presence of the mysterious kinsman Philip dAvranche lay the cause of the resistance to his appeaL Who was this Philip dAvranche? It seemed absurd to D6tricand that his mind should travel hack just then to the island of Jersey. The dumb fury of his host was about to break forth into speech, when the door of the library opened and Philip stepped inside. The silence holding two men now held three, and a cold astonishment pos- sessed the two younger. The duke was too blind with anger to see the start of recognition his visitors gave at sight of each other, and by a curious concurrence of feeling both D6tricand and Philip avoided an acknowledgment of acquaint- ance. Wariness was Philips cue, cau- tious wonder D6tricands attitude. The duke spoke first. Turning from Philip, he said to D6tricand, with mali- cious triumph, It will disconcert Mon- sieur le Comtes pious mind to know I have yet one kinsman who finds it no dishonor to inherit the duchy of Bercy. Monsieur le Comte, permit me to intro- duce Commander Philip dAvranche. Something of D6tricands old self came back to him. His face flushed with a sudden desire to laugh; then it grew pale with a kind of dumb aston- isliment. So this man was to be set against him even in the heritage of his family, as for one hour, in a kitchen in Jersey, they had been bitter opposites and secret rivals. He cared little about the heritage of the houses of Vaufon- tame and Bercy, he had higher anibi- tions; but this adventuring sailor roused in him again the private grudge he had once begged Philip to remember. Re- covering himself, he said meaningly, bowing low, The honor is memorable and monstrous! Philip set his teeth, but replied, I am overwhelmed to meet one whose reputa- tion is known in every tap-room! Neither had chance to say more, for the duke, though not understanding the cause or meaning of the biting words, felt the contempt and suggestion in D6tri- cands voice, and burst out in anger, Go tell the Prince of Vaufontaine that the succession is assured to my house. Monsieur, my cousin, Commander Phil- ip dAvranche, is now my adopted son; a wife is already chosen for him, and soon, Monsieur le Cointe, there will be still another successor to the title The Duc de Bercy should add in- spired domestic prophecy to the family record in the Almanach de Gotha! re- turned D& ricand, with a cold smile. Gods death! cried the old noble- man, trembling with rage, and stretch- ing toward the bell-rope. You shall go to Paris and the Temple. Fouch6 will take good care of you! Stop, Monsieur le Duc! D6tri- cands voice rang through the room. You shall not betray even the hum- blest of your kinsmen, like that monster dOrl6ans who betrayed the highest of his. What is more, there are hundreds of your people who still will pass a Roy- alist on to safety. The dukes hand dropped from the bell-rope. He knew that D~tricands words were true. Ruling himself to 88 The Battle of the Strong. quiet, he said, with cold hatred, Like all your breed, crafty and insolent! But I will make you pay for it one day. Glancing toward Philip as though to see if this would move him, D6tricand answered, Make no haste on my behalf; years are not of such moment to me as to your highness. Philip saw D6tricands look, and felt his moment and his chance had come. Monsieur le Comte! he exclaimed threateningly. The duke turned proudly to Philip. You will collect the debt, cousin, said he, and the smile on his face was wicked as he again turned toward D& ricnnd. With interest well compounded, re- plied Philip firmly. D6tricand smiled. I have drawn the Norman-Jersey cousin, then! said he. Now we can proceed to compliments. Then, with a change of manner, he added quietly, Your highness, may the house of Bercy have no worse enemy than I! I came only to plead the cause which, if it give death, gives honor too. And I know well that at least you are not against us. Monsieur dAvranche, he turned to Philip, and his words were slow and deliberate, I hope we may yet meet in the Place du Vier Prison, but when and where you will, and you shall find me in the Yend6e when you please. So saying, he bowed, and turned and left the room. What meant the fellow by the Place du Vier Prison? asked the duke. Who knows, Monsieur le Duc? answered Philip. A fanatic like all the Vaufontaines, a roisterer yesterday, a sainted che- valier to-morrow! said the duke irrita- bly. But they still have strength and beauty always! he added reluctant ly. Then he looked at the strong and comely frame before him, and was reas- sured. He laid a hand on Philips broad shoulder admiringly. You will of course have your hour with him, cousin; but not, not till you are a dAvranche of Bercy. Not till I am a dAvranche of Ber- cy, responded Philip in a low voice. XXIII. With what seemed an unnecessary boldness, D6tricand slept that night at the inn, the Golden Crown, in the town of Bercy; a Royalist of the Yend6e ex- posing himself to deadly peril in a town sworn to alliance with the Revolutionary government. He knew that the town, that the inn, might be full of spies, but one other thing he also knew: the inn- keeper of the Golden Crown would not betray him, unless he had greatly changed since fifteen years ago. Then they had been friends, for his uncle of Vaufontaine had had a small estate in Bercy itself, in malicious proximity to the castle. He walked boldly into the inn parlor. There were but three men in the room, the landlord, a stout burgher, and Frange Pergot, the porter of the castle, who had lost no time in carrying his news; not that he might betray his old comrade in escapade, but that he might tell a chosen few, who were Royalists under the rose, that he had seen one of those servants of God, an officer of the Yend~e. At sight of the white badge with the red cross on D6tricands coat, the three stood up and answered his greeting with devout respect; and he had a speedy reassurance that in this inn he was safe from betrayal. Presently he learned that three days hence a meeting of the states of Bercy was to be held for setting the seal upon the dukes formal adoption of Philip dAvranche, and to execute a deed of succession. These things were to be done, that is, if the officer sent to the English King should have returned with Philips freedom and King Georges license to accept the succession in the duchy. From curiosity in these mat- ters alone D6tricand would not have re- mained at Bercy, but lie might use the The Battle of the Strong. 89 occasion for secretly gaining the adher- ence of officers of the duchy to the cause of the Royalists, no hard task. During these three days of waiting he heard with astonishment and concern the rumor that the great meeting of the states would be marked by Philips betrothal to the Comtesse Chantavoine. He cared little about the succession; he had the consuming passion for a cause, but there was ever with him the remem- brance of Guida Landresse de Landresse, and what touched Philip dAvranche he associated with her. Of the true rela- tions between Guida and Philip he knew nothing, but from that last day in Jer- sey he did know that Philip had roused in her emotions perhaps less vital than love, but assuredly less equable than friendship. In his fear that Guida might suffer, the more he thought of the Comtesse Chantavoine as the chosen wife of Phil- ip, the more it troubled him. For his own part, he would have gone far and done much to shield Guida from injury or insult. He had seen and appreciat- ed in her something higher than Philip might understand, a simple womanli- ness, a fine hereditary nobleness, a pro- found depth of character. Some day, if he lived and his cause prospered, he would go back to Jersey, too late, per- haps, to hope for anything from her, but not too late to tell her his promise had been kept, and to pay her devout and admiring homage. He could not now shake off oppres- sive thoughts concerning Guida and this betrothal. They interwove themselves through all his secret business with the Royalists of Bercy. It was a relief when the morning of the third day caine, bright and joyous, and he knew that before the sun went down he should be on his way back to Saumur. His friend the innkeeper urged him not to attend the meeting of the states of Bercy, lest he should be recognized by the spies of government~ He was, how- ever, firm in his resolution to go, but he exchanged his coat with the red cross for one less conspicuous. With the morning of the eventful day came the news that the envoy to Eng- land had returned with Philips freedom by exchange of prisoners, and the need- ful license from the English King. But other news, too, was carrying through the town: the French government, hav- ing learned of the plan regarding Phil- ip, had dispatched envoys to forbid the act of adoption and the deed of succes- sion. Though the duke would have de- fied them, it behooved him to end the matter, if possible, before the arrival of these envoys. The assembly was hur- riedly convened two hours before the time appointed, and the race began be- tween the old nobleman and the emissa- ries of the French government. The assembly being opened, in a breathless silence the governor-general of the duchy read aloud the license of the King of England permitting Philip dAvranche, an officer in his navy, to assume the honors to be conferred upon him by the duke and the states of Bercy. Then the president of the states read aloud the order of succession : ~ rro the hereditary prince, Leopold John, and his heirs male; in default of which to 2. The prince successor, Philip dAvranche, and his heirs male; in de- fault of which to 3. The heir male of the house of Vaufontaine. Afterward came reading of the deed of gift by which certain possessions in the province of dAvranche were made over to Prince Philip. To all this the assent of Prince Leopold John had been formally secured. After the assembly and the chief officers of the due by should have ratified these documents, and the duke should have signed them, they were to be inclosed in a box with three locks and deposited with the sovereign court at Bercy. Duplicates, 90 The Battle of the Strong. also, were to be sent to London and re- gistered in the records of the College of Arms. The states, amid great enthusi- asmn, at once ratified the documents by unanimous vote. The one notable dissen- tient was the intendant, Comute Carignan Damour, lately become a strong ally of the French government. It was he who had given Fouch6 information concern- ing Philips adoption; it was also he who had at last, through his spies, discovered D6tricands presence in the town, and had taken action thereupon. In the states, however, he had no vote, and wisdom kept him silent, though he was watchful for any opportunity to delay the pro- ceedings until the arrival of the French envoys. They should soon be here, nnd he watched the doors anxiously. He had a double motive in preventing this new succession. With Philip as adopt- ed son and heir there would be fewer spoils of office; with Philip as duke there would be none at all, for the instinct of antipathy and distrust was mutual. Be- sides, he was a Republican at heart, and looked for reward from Fouch6 in good time. Presently it was announced by the president that the signatures to the acts would be set in private. Thereupon, with all the concourse standing, the duke, surrounded by the law, military, and civil officers of the duchy, girded upon Philip the jeweled sword which had been handed down in the house of dAvranche from generation to gener- ation. The open function being thus ended, the people were enjoined to pro- ceed at once to the cathedral, where a Te Deum would be sung. The public then retired, leaving the duke and a few of the highest officials of the duchy to sign and seal the deeds. When the outer doors were closed, one unofficial person remained, Comte D4. tricand de Tournay, of the house of Van- fontaine. D& ricand stood leaning against a pil- Jar, looking complacently yet seriously at the group surrounding the duke at the great council-table. Suddenly the latter turned to a door at the right of the presidents chair, and, opening it, bowed courteously to some one beyond. An in- stant afterward there entered the Coin- tesse Chantavoine with her uncle the Marquis Graudjon-Larisse, an aged, fee- ble, but distinguished figure. They ad- vanced toward the table, and Philip, saluting them gravely, offered the mar- quis a chair. At first the marquis de- clined it, but the duke pressed him, and in the subsequent proceedings he of all the number was seated. D~tricand apprehended the meaning of the scene. This was the lady whom the duke had chosen for the wife of the new prince.. He had invited her to wit- ness the final act which was to make Philip dAvranche his heir in legal fact as by verbal proclamation, not doubting that the romantic nature of the inci- dent would appeal to her. lie had even hoped that the function might be fol- lowed by a formal betrothal in the pre- sence of the officers of the duchy; and the situation might still have been criti- cal for Philip had it not been for the pronounced reserve of the countess her- self. She was tall, of gracious and stately but not lissome carriage; the curious quietness of her face would have been almost an unbecoming gravity, had not the eyes, clear, dark, and strong, light- ened it. The mouth had sweetness, but it was a somewhat set sweetness, even as the face was somewhat fixed in its calm. In her bearing and in all her motions there was a regal quality; yet, too, something of isolation, of withdraw- al, in her self-possession and unruffled observation. She seemed, to D6tricand, a figure apart; a woman whose friend- ship would be everlasting, but whose love would be more an affectionate habit than a pnssion, and in whom devotion would be strong, because devotion was the keynote of her nature. The dress The Battle of the Strong. 91 of a nun would have turned her into a saint, of a peasant would have made her a Madonna, of a Quaker would have made her a dreamer and a d6vote, of a queen would have made her benign yet unapproachable. It struck him all at once, as he looked, that this woman had one quality in absolute kinship with Guida Landresse, honesty of mind and nature; only with this young aristocrat the honesty would be without passion. She had straightforwardness, a firm but limited intellect, a clear-mindedness be- longing somewhat to narrowness of out- look, but a genuine capacity for un- derstanding the right and the wrong of things. Guida, D& ricand thought, might break her heart and live on; this woman would break her heart and die. The one would grow larger through suf- fering; the other, narrow into a numb coldness. So he entertained himself for the mo- ment by these flashes of discernment, presently merged in wonderment as to what was in Philips mind as he stood there, destiny hanging in that drop of ink at the point of the pen in the dukes fingers. Philip was thinking of the destiny, but more than all else just now he was think- ing of the woman before him, and the issue to be faced by him concerning her. His thoughts were not so clear nor so discerning as D6tricands. No more than he understood Guida did he understand this clear-eyed, quiet, self-possessed wo- man before him. He thought her cold, unsympathetic, barren of that glow which should set the pulses of a man like him- self bounding. It did not occur to him that those still waters ran deep; that to awaken this seemingly glacial nature, to kindle a fire upon this altar, would be to secure unto his lifes end a steady, enduring flame of devotion. He revolt- ed from her; not alone because he had a wife already, but because the countess chilled him, because with her, in any case, he would never be able to play the passionate lover as he had done with Guida; and not to be the passionate lover was to be no lover at all. One thing only appealed to him: she was the Comtesse Chantavoine, a fitting consort in the eyes of the world for a sovereign duke. He could not but think well of himself in this auspicious hour, more than a little carried off his feet by the marvel of the situation. But still he could think of nothing quite clearly; everything was confused and shifting in his mind. He soon became aware that the duke was speaking, and, looking up, was con- scious of the eyes of the intendant fixed upon him with a curious covert antipathy. The dukes words had been merely an informal greeting to his council and the high officers present. He was about to speak further, however, but some one drew his attention to Detricand. An or- der was given to challenge the stranger; but D~tricand advanced toward the ta- ble, and said, The Due de Bercy will not forbid the attendance of his cousin, D6tricand de Tonrnay, at this impressive 2 ceremony. The duke, dunifounded, though he pre- served an outward calm, could not answer for an instant. Then, with a triumphant, vindictive smile which puckered his yel- low cheeks like a wild apple, he said, The Comte de Tournay is welcome to behold the end of the ambitions of the Vaufontaines. He looked toward Philip with an exulting pride and coinmenda- tion. Monsieur le Comte is quite right, he added, turning to his council; he may always claim the privileges of a re- lative of the Bercys, but the hospitality extends no further than my house and my presence, and Jllionsieur le Comte will understand my meaning. At that moment D6tricand caught the eye of the intendant, and then he un- derstood perfectly. This man, the inn- keeper had told him, was reported to be secretly a devout Republican, and from the intendants look he knew himself to be in immediate danger. 92 The Battle of the Strong. Without hesitation, however, bowing to all, and making no reply to the duke save a simple I thank your highness, he took a place near the council-table. The short ceremony of signing the deeds immediately followed. A few formal questions were asked of Philip, to which he briefly replied; afterward he made the oath of allegiance to the duke and the duchy, with his hand upon the sword of the dAvranches. These preliminaries ended, the duke was just stooping to put his pen to the paper for signature when the intendant, as much for the purpose of annoying Philip as of still delaying the proceedings, said, It would appear that one question has been omitted in the formalities of this court. He paused dramatically. He was only aiming a random shot; he would make the most of it. The duke looked up, perturbed, and said sharply, What is that, what is that, monsieur? A formality, Monsieur le Duc, a mere formality. Monsieur he bowed toward Philip politdly monsieur is not already married? There is no He paused again. Standing erect and rigid, with his pen poised, the duke glanced sharply at the intendant, and then still more sharply at Philip. The progress of that look had granted Philip an instants time to recov- er his composure. He was conscious that the Comtesse Chantavoine had given a little start, and then had become quite still and calm. Now her eyes were in- tently fixed upon him. For an instant there was absolute still- ness. Philip had felt his heart give one great thump of terror. Did Detricand know anything? Did the intendant know anything? He had, however, been too often in physical danger to lose his nerve now. The moment was big with peril; it was the turning-point of his life, and he felt it. His eyes dropped toward the spot of ink at the point of the pen which the duke held: it fascinated him, it was destiny. Now he took a step near- er to the table, and, drawing himself up, looked his princely interlocutor steadily in the eyes. Of course there is no marriage no, woman? asked the duke a little hoarse- ly, his eyes fastened on Philips. With steady voice Philip replied, Of course, Monsieur le Duc. There was another stillness. Some one sighed heavily. It was the Coin- tesse Chantavoine. Then the duke stooped, and wrote his signature three times hurriedly upon the deeds. A moment afterward D& ricand was in the street, making toward the Gold- en Crown. As he hurried on he heard the galloping of horses ahead of him. Suddenly some one plucked him by the arm from a doorway. Inside, quick! said a voice. It was that of the dukes porter, Frange Pergot. Without hesita- tion or a word D~tricand did as he was bid, and the door closed behind him. Fouch(s men are coming down the street; spies have betrayed you, whis- pered Pergot. Follow me. I will hide you till night, and then you niust escape.~~ What Pergot had said was quite true. But D6tricand was safely hidden, and Fouch6s men arrived too late to forbid those formal acts which made Philip dAvranche a prince, or to capture the Vendean chief, who, a week later, once again at Saumur, wrote a long letter to Carterette Mattingley, in Jersey, in which he set forth these strange events at Bercy, and asked certain questions concerning Guida. XXIV. Since the day of his secret marriage with Guida, Philip had been carried along in the gale of naval preparations and incidents of war as a leaf is borne f/ike Battle of the Strong. 93 onward by a storm, no looking back, to-morrow always the goal. But as a wounded traveler nurses carefully his hurt, seeks shelter from the scorching sun and from the dank air, and travels by little stages lest he never come at all to friendly hostel, so Guida made her way slowly through the months of win- ter and of spring. In the past, it had been February to Guida because the yellow Lenten lilies grew in all the sheltered c6tils; March because the periwinkle and the lords and ladies came; May because the cliffs were a blaze of golden gorse, and the perfume thereof made all the land sweet as a honeycomb. Then came the other months, with hawthorn trees and hedges all in blow; the lilac gladdening the doorways, the honeysuckle in bloomy thickets; the ox- eyed daisy of Whitsuntide; the yellow rose of St. Brelade, that lies down in the sand and stands up in the hedges; the mergots, which, like good soldiers, are first in the field and last out of it; the unseented dog-violets, the yellow prim- roses, the daffodils and snowdrops, the buttercups, orchises, and celandines; the laurustinus and privet and blackthorn hedges so green; the osier beds, and the ivy on every barn ; the purple thrift in masses on the cliff; the sea-thistle in its glaucous green, the laughter of the fields whose laugh was gold. And all was summer. Came a time thereafter when the children of the poor gathered blackber- ries for preserves and home-made wine; when the wild stock flowered in St. Onens Bay; when the bracken fern was gathered from every cOtil, and dried for apple-storing, fire-lighting, and bedding for the cherished cow, for back-rests for the veilles, and for seats round the win- ter fire; when peaches, apricots, and nectarines made the walls sumptuous red and gold; when the wild plum and crab- apple flourished in the secluded road- ways, and the tamarisk dropped its brown pods upon the earth. And all this was autumn. At last, when came the birds of pas- sage, the snipe and teal and barnacle geese, and the rains began; when the green lizard with its turquoise - blue throat vanished; when the Jersey cra- paud was heard croaking no longer in the valleys and the ponds, and the cows were well blanketed, then winter had come again. Such were the associations of the sea- sons in Guidas mind until one day of a certain year, when for a few hours a man had called her his wife, and then had sailed away. There was no log that might thereafter record the days and weeks which unwound the coils of an endless chain into that sea whither Philip had gone. Letters she had had, to be sure, two letters ; but how many times, when a packet had come in, had she gone to the doorway and watched for old M~re Ros- signol making the rounds with her han basket, chanting the names of those for whom she had letters; and how many times did she go back to the kitchen choking down a sob! The first letter was at once a blessing and a blow; it was a reassurance and it was a misery. It spoke of bread, as it were, yet it offered a stone. It elo- quently, passionately told of Philips love; but it also told, with a torturing ease, that the Araminta was under com- mand to proceed to sea with sealed or- ders. And so, the letter said, he did not know when he should see her nor when he should be able to write again. War had been declared against France, and they might not touch a port nor have chance to send a letter by a homeward vessel for weeks, and maybe months. This was painful, but it was fate, and it was his profession, and it could not be helped. Of course, she must understand, he would write constantly, telling her, as through a kind of diary, what he was doing every day; and then when the 94 The Battle of the Strong. chance offered the big budget should go to her. A pain came to Guidas heart, pier- cing the joy which had overwhelmed it, as she read the flowing tale of his buoy- ant love. She knew that she could not have written so smoothly of fate and profession, nor told of this separation with so complaisant a sorrow, had she been the man and he the woman. With her the words would have been wrenched forth from her heart, would have been scarred into the paper with the bitterness of a spirit tried beyond its enduring. With what enthusiasm did Philip, im- mediately after his heart-breaking news, write of what this war might do for him, what avenues of advancement it might open up, what splendid chances it would offer for success in his career! Did he mean that to comfort her? she asked herself. Did he mean it to divert her from the pain of the separation, to give her something to hope for? She read the letter over and over again, and no, she could not, though her heart was so willing, find that meaning in it. It was all Philip, Philip full of hope, purpose, prowess, ambition. Did he think did he think that that could ease the pain, could lighten the dark day settling down on her? Could he imagine that anything might compensate for his absence in the coming months, in this year of all years in her life? Oh, did he not know? His lengthened ab- sence might be inevitable, it might be fate, but could he not see the bitter cru- elty of it? He had said that he would be back with her again in two months; and now ah, did he not know? As the weeks again came and went she felt indeed he did not know. Some natures cling to beliefs long af- ter conviction has been shattered and disproved. These are they of the limit- ed imagination, the loyal, the pertina- cious, and the affectionate, the single- hearted children of habit; blind where they do not wish to see, stubborn where their inclinations lie, unamenable to rea- son, wholly held by their legitimate ob- ligations. But Guida was not of these. Her brain and imagination were strong as her affections. Her incurable honesty was the deepest thing in her; she did not even know how to deceive herself. As her experience deepened under the influence of a sorrow which still was joy, and a joy which still was sorrow, her vision became acute and piercing. Her brain was like some kaleidoscope. Pic- tures of things, little and big, which had happened to her in her life, at moments flashed by her inner sight in furious pro- cession. It was as if, in the photographic machinery of the brain, a shutter had slipped from its place, and a hundred un- ordered and ungoverned pictures, loosed from their natural restraint, rushed by. Months had passed since Philip had left her, a month since she had received his second letter, a month of complex- ity of feeling; of tremulousness of dis- covery; of hungry eagerness for news of the war; of sudden little outbursts of temper in her household life, a new thing in her experience; of passionate touches of tenderness toward her grand- father; of occasional biting comments in the conversations between the sieur and the chevalier, causing the gentlemen to look at each other in silent amazement; of as marked lapses into listless disregard of any talk that went on around her. She had been used often to sit still, doing nothing, in a sort of physical con- tent, as the sieur and his visitors talked; now her hands were always busy, at knitting, sewing, or spinning, the steady gaze upon her work showing that her thoughts were far away. Though the chevalier and her grandfather vaguely noted the change, they as vaguely set it down to her growing womanhood. In any case, they held it was not for them to comment upon a woman or upon a womans ways. And a girl like Guida was an incomprehensible being, with an The Battle of the Strong. 95 orbit and a system all her own, whose sayings and doings were as little to be reduced to their understanding as the vagaries of any star in the Milky Way or the currents in St. Michaels Basin. One evening she sat before the fire thinking of Philip. Her grandfather had retired earlier than usuaL Biribi, the dog, lay asleep on the veille. There was no sound save the ticking of the clock on the mantel above her head, Biribis slow breathing, the snapping of the log on the fire, and a soft rush of heat up the chimney. The words of Philips letters, learned by heart, and from which she had extracted every atom of tenderness they held, were al- ways in her ears. At last one phrase kept repeating itself like some refrain, which becomes plaintive through repeti- tion, then torturing in its mournful sug- gestion. It was this: But you see, dearest, that though I am absent from you I shall have such splendid chances to get on. There s no limit to what this war may do for me. Suddenly Guida realized how different was her love from Philips, how differ- ent was her place in his life from his place in her life. She reasoned with herself, because she knew that a mans life was work in the world, and that work and ambition were in his bones and in his blood, had been carried down to him through centuries of industrious, ambitious generations of men, that men were one race, and women were an- other. A man was bound by the condi- tions of life governing the profession by which he earned his bread and butter, played his part in the world, and strove to reach the seats of honor in high places. He must either live by the law, fulfill to the letter his daily duties of the business of life, or drop out of the race; and a woman, with bitterness and tears, in the presence of mans immoderate ambition, must learn to pray, Lord, have mercy up us, a incline our hearts to keep this law. Quickly the whole thing resolved it- self in Guidas mind, and her thinking came to a full stop. She understood now what was the right and what the wrong, and, child as she was in years, woman that she was in experience and thought, yielding to the impulse of the moment, she buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. Oh, Philip, Philip, Philip, she sobbed aloud, it was not right of you to marry me; it was wicked of you to leave me! Then in her thoughts she carried on the impeachment and re- proach. If he had married her openly and left her at once, it would have been hard to bear, but in the circumstances it might have been right. If he had married her secretly and left her at the altar, so keeping the promise he had made her when she agreed to become his wife, that might have been pardon- able. But to marry her as he did, and then, breaking his solemn vow, leave her, it was not right in her eyes; and if not right in the eyes of her who loved him, in whose would it be right? To these definitions she had come at last. It is an eventful moment, a crucial ordeal, for a woman, when she forces herself to see the naked truth concern- ing the man whom she has loved, yet the man who ha wronged her. She is born anew in that moment: it may be to love on, to blind herself, and condone and defend, so lowering her own moral tone; or to congeal in heart, become keener in intellect, scornful and bitter with her own sex and merciless toward the other, in- different to blame and careless of praise, intolerant, judging all the world by her own experience, and incredulous of any true thing. Or yet again, she may be- come deeper, stronger, sadder, wiser; condoning nothing, minimizing nothing, deceiving herself in nothing, and still never forgiving at least one thing, the destruction of innocent faith and a noble credulity; seeing clearly and acutely the whole wrong; with a strong intelligence 96 The Battle qf the Strong. measuring perfectly the iniquity, but out of a largeness of nature and by virtue of a high sense of duty devoting her days to the salvation of a mans honor, to the betterment of one weak or wicked na- ture. Of these last was Guida. Oh, Philip, Philip, you have been wicked to me! she sobbed. Her tears fell upon the stone hearth, and the fire dried them, and every tear- drop was one girlish feeling and emotion gone, one bright fancy, one tender hope, vanished. She was no longer a girl. There were troubles and dangers ahead of her, but she must now face them dry-eyed and alone. In his second letter Philip had told her to announce the marriage, and had said that he would write to her grandfather explaining all, and also to the Reverend Lorenzo Dow. She had waited and watched for that letter to her grandfather, but it had not come. As for Loreuzo Dow, he was a prisoner with the French. There was yet another factor in the affair. While the island was still agog over Mr. Dows misfortune, there had been a bold robbery at St. Michaels Rectory of the strong-box containing the Communion plate, the parish taxes for the year, the offertories for the month, and what was of moment to at least one person the parish register of deaths, baptisms, and marriages. The box was found on the seashore, but that was all. Thus it was that now no hu- man being in Jersey could vouch that Guida had been married. Yet these things troubled her little. How easily could Philip set all right! If he would but come back, that at first was her only thought; for what matter a ring, or any proof, testimony, or proclamation, without Philip! It did not occur to her at first that all these things were needed to save her from shame in the eyes of the world. If she had thought of them apprehensively, she would have said to herself, How easy to set all right by simply announ- cing the marriage! And she would have done so when war was declared and Philip received his new command, but that she wished the announcement to come from him. Well, that would come in any case when Philips letter to her grandfather arrived: no doubt it had missed the packet by which hers came. But another packet, and yet another arrived; and still there was no letter from Philip for the Sieur de Mauprat. Winter had come, and spring had gone, and now summer was at hand. Hay- making was beginning, the wild straw- berries were reddening among the clo- ver, and in her little garden apples had followed the buds on the trees beneath which Philip had told his fateful tale of love. At last a third letter arrived, bring- ing little joy to her heart, however. It declared love and affection, it was even extravagant in terms of affection; but somehow it fell short of the true thing, for its ardor was that of a mind preoc- cupied, and underneath all ran a cur- rent of inherent selfishness. It delighted in the activity of his life, it was full of hope, of promise of happiness for them both in the future, but it had no solici- tude for Guida in the present. It chilled her heart so warm but a little season ago that Philip, to whom she had once ascribed strength, tenderness, profound thoughtfulness, should concern himself so little in the details of her life. For the most part, his letters seemed those of an ardent lover who knew his duty and did it gladly, but with a self-conscious and flowing eloquence, too, which could have cost but little strain of feeling. He was curious to know what the peo- ple in Jersey said about their marriage. He had written to Lorenzo Dow and her grandfather, he said, but had heard af- terward that the vessel carrying the let- ters had been taken by a French pri- vateer; and so they had not arrived in The Battle of the Strong. 97 Jersey. But of course she had told her grandfather and all the island of the ceremony performed at St. Michaels. He was sending her fifty pounds, his first contribution to their home; and, the war over, a beautiful home she cer- tainly should have. He would write to her grandfather again, though this day there was no time to do so. But Guida had not proclaimed the marriage. She had lived the first months of her wedded life in an aching stillness of secrecy; she had suffered tremors, and apprehensions, and changing moods, and troubled, fevered hours alone, with no confidant, with no supporting tenderness from mother, sister, friend, or husband. She realized now that she must an- nounce the marriage at once. But yet what proofs of it had she? There was the ring Philip had given her, inscribed with their names; hut she was sophis- ticated enough to know that this would not be adequate evidence in the eyes of her Jersey neighbors. The marriage re- gister, with its record, was stolen, and that proof was gone. Lastly, there were Philips letters; hut no, a thousand times no! she would not show Philips letters to any human being; even the thought of it hurt her pride, her delicacy of feeling, her self-respect. Her heart burned with bitterness to think that there had been a secret marriage. How hard it was, at this distance of time, to tell the world the tale, and to be forced to prove it by Philips letters! No, no, she could not do it, not yet. She would still wait the arrival of Philips letter to her grand- father. If it did not come soon, then she must be brave and tell her story. She went to the Vier Marchi less now; also fewer folk stood gossiping with her grandfather in the Place du Vier Prison or by the well at the front door, so far she had not wondered why. To be sure, Maitresse Aimable came oftener; but since one notable day at Sark Guida had resolutely avoided reference, however oblique, to Philip and herself. Still, in her dark days the only watchful eye upon her was that of the egregiously fat old woman called the femme de ballast, whose thick tongue dave to the roof of her mouth, whose outer attractions were so meagre that even her husbands chief sign of affection was to pull her great toe, passing her bed of a morning to light the fire. Carterette Mattingley also came, but another friend who had watched over Guida for years before Philip appeared in the Place du Vier Prison never en- tered her doorway now. Only once or twice since that day on the Ecr6hos, so fateful to them both, had Guida seen Ranulph Delagarde. He had withdrawn to St. Aubins Bay, where his trade of ship-building was carried on, and having fitted up a small cottage, lived a seclud- ed life with his father there. Neither of them appeared often in St. Heliers, and they were seldom or never seen in the Yier Marchi. Carterette saw IRanulph little oftener than did Guida, but she knew what he was doing, being anxious to know, and every ones business being every one elses business in Jersey. In the same way Ranulph knew of Guida. What Carterette was doing Ranulph was not concerned to know, and so knew little; and Guida knew and thought little of how Ranulph fared: which was part of the selfishness of love. But one day Carterette received a let- ter from France which excited her great- ly, and sent her off hot-foot to Guida; and in the same hour Ranulph heard a piece of hateful gossip which made him fell to the ground the man who told him, and sent him with white face, and sick, affrighted, yet indignant heart, to the cottage in the Place da Vier Prison. Gilbert Parker. (To be continued~) VOL. Lxxxii. xo. 489. 7 98 English Historical Grammar. ENGLISH HISTORICAL GRAMMAR. THE ancient notion of English gram- mar was one of certain categories of words, and certain rules for their proper use. This is still the idea implied in most of the dictionary definitions of the word. The Parts of Speech were one of the first things the student had to learn: nouns, pronouns, adjectives, etc. Then the Rules of Syntax, The subject of a finite verb is in the nominative case, and the like, occupied his attention. The final chapter was on Prosody: A verse of one foot is called a monody, A verse of two feet is called a dipody, etc. It is not difficult to trace the pedigree of this idea of grammar. The number of exceptions necessary to explain in the chapter on adjectives; the great embar- rassment in distinguishing between ad- verbs and prepositions (not fully re- moved, either, by pointing out the fact that in Homeric Greek prepositions were originally adverbs) ; the obvious diffi- culty to be met if one wanted to put an English subject in the accusative case; the apparent anomalies of Shakespeares monodies, dipodies, tripodies, and the rest, and the rather clumsy way English poets have always had in using feet, these make it plain that this grammar is hard doctrine when applied to English, and must have had its origin under hap- pier conditions in some other language; Latin, say. And so it is. The argument which used to be urged for the early and persistent study of Latin namely, that it cleared up English grammar so was not without its naive element of truth. It certainly did make clear this kind of grammar. It was like that time- honored advice to young physicians: If you dont know the disease your patient is suffering from, give him one that you do know, and cure that. Under such conditions, the study of grammar, like calling in a doctor, was serious business. You first learned what English gram- mar would have been, had English had the good fortune to be Latin; and then ~ you learned Latin grammar to explain it all. This system of teaching English grammar is by no means extinct. It still persists in the mind of many a school- master, and keeps cropping up here and there in elementary textbooks. But we are getting past it; if the subject is not yet taught in the light of modern know- ledge, it is rather because teachers have not yet got the light they want than be- cause they are wedded to the ancient system. The danger is now the one of accepting the fallacy English is a gram- marless tongue, and teaching no.gramn- mar at all. But English is not a grammarless tongue ; on the contrary, the results of recent investigation point scholars to the conclusion that the process of disinte- gration so apparent in English is one of growth, and not one of decay, a growth toward efficiency and perfection. Whether it be reasonable or not to ex- pect English to become the language of the world, it is evident that all modern vernaculars are traveling in the same direction with English, and that our lan- guage is in many respects in the van of the race. Nor will the rational study of scientific grammar ever become useless as a means of culture. Experience has already demonstrated beyond all cavil the value of grammar as a means of training the mind, even when grammar is taught in unnatural and inadequate ways; much greater will its value ap- pear when it is properly understood and rationally taught. Our trouble is that we do not yet un- derstand what grammar is, but, foolish- ly clogging ourselves with Renaissance notions about it, we vainly expect it to furnish us with canonic authority to de

Mark H. Liddell Liddell, Mark H. English Historical Grammar 98-108

98 English Historical Grammar. ENGLISH HISTORICAL GRAMMAR. THE ancient notion of English gram- mar was one of certain categories of words, and certain rules for their proper use. This is still the idea implied in most of the dictionary definitions of the word. The Parts of Speech were one of the first things the student had to learn: nouns, pronouns, adjectives, etc. Then the Rules of Syntax, The subject of a finite verb is in the nominative case, and the like, occupied his attention. The final chapter was on Prosody: A verse of one foot is called a monody, A verse of two feet is called a dipody, etc. It is not difficult to trace the pedigree of this idea of grammar. The number of exceptions necessary to explain in the chapter on adjectives; the great embar- rassment in distinguishing between ad- verbs and prepositions (not fully re- moved, either, by pointing out the fact that in Homeric Greek prepositions were originally adverbs) ; the obvious diffi- culty to be met if one wanted to put an English subject in the accusative case; the apparent anomalies of Shakespeares monodies, dipodies, tripodies, and the rest, and the rather clumsy way English poets have always had in using feet, these make it plain that this grammar is hard doctrine when applied to English, and must have had its origin under hap- pier conditions in some other language; Latin, say. And so it is. The argument which used to be urged for the early and persistent study of Latin namely, that it cleared up English grammar so was not without its naive element of truth. It certainly did make clear this kind of grammar. It was like that time- honored advice to young physicians: If you dont know the disease your patient is suffering from, give him one that you do know, and cure that. Under such conditions, the study of grammar, like calling in a doctor, was serious business. You first learned what English gram- mar would have been, had English had the good fortune to be Latin; and then ~ you learned Latin grammar to explain it all. This system of teaching English grammar is by no means extinct. It still persists in the mind of many a school- master, and keeps cropping up here and there in elementary textbooks. But we are getting past it; if the subject is not yet taught in the light of modern know- ledge, it is rather because teachers have not yet got the light they want than be- cause they are wedded to the ancient system. The danger is now the one of accepting the fallacy English is a gram- marless tongue, and teaching no.gramn- mar at all. But English is not a grammarless tongue ; on the contrary, the results of recent investigation point scholars to the conclusion that the process of disinte- gration so apparent in English is one of growth, and not one of decay, a growth toward efficiency and perfection. Whether it be reasonable or not to ex- pect English to become the language of the world, it is evident that all modern vernaculars are traveling in the same direction with English, and that our lan- guage is in many respects in the van of the race. Nor will the rational study of scientific grammar ever become useless as a means of culture. Experience has already demonstrated beyond all cavil the value of grammar as a means of training the mind, even when grammar is taught in unnatural and inadequate ways; much greater will its value ap- pear when it is properly understood and rationally taught. Our trouble is that we do not yet un- derstand what grammar is, but, foolish- ly clogging ourselves with Renaissance notions about it, we vainly expect it to furnish us with canonic authority to de English Historical Grammar. 99 cide matters quite properly within the scope of our own judgment. We study it, therefore, not in the hope of under- standing through its help the speech we all think with and cannot escape from, but in the hope of obtaining a standard of correctness in the use of language which may separate us from the vulgar who know not grammar. Such an ideal rests upon a false conception of the na- ture of language and upon ignorance of the history of English speech, as ~el1 as upon an inadequate and selfish ideal of culture. Let us examine for a moment, very generally and briefly, the nature of lan- guage. Setting aside the question of its origin, and starting rather from the biological principle that the history of the individual repeats the history of the type, let us think of the development of any one of us in respect to his acquiring and using speech. The early period of this development knows not literature; and there can be a considerable profi- ciency in the use of speech without a knowledge of literature. Nor, theoreti- cally speaking, is there any point in the development of language where the know- ledge of literature becomes indispensable to the existence of speech. Nor has the written language, at least in English, any existence apart and independent from the spoken language. The written word, then, is not an essential part of language, and for our present purpose we can leave it aside. Beginning with the spoken lan- guage as the essential language, let us think for a moment how it is acquired. Each normally constituted person who comes into life learns to think in terms of the words he hears from those about him, until the use of them becomes as much an unconscious habit with him as walking. The language which he learns in this way was learned in the same way by those he hears use it, who in turn learned it from others antecedent, and so on all the way back until the line passes into the pre- historic past. But the tradition thus car- ned on is continually conditioned by in- herited predisposition and environment, which are always giving rise to minute variations from the type. These varia- tions, however seemingly accidental and personal, are always making in a certain direction, and cause the development of language as a whole to follow definite laws which it can no more escape than matter can escape gravitation. Theset laws are not subject to sudden or violent! change. They cannot be set aside or materially assisted by any sort of aca- demic legislation or learned prescription. They are beyond the control of the in- dividual as well. He may say how he will use language and explain his method to the people with whom he comes di- rectly in contact, giving them the key to his idiom, but he cannot affect language itself. His idiom will die with him, in spite of all his effort. Universal teach- ing, too, of a particular idiom may fix it temporarily upon the language; but unless it accord with some easy analogy which will naturally lead to its general use, the idiom will not remain, but will only form a temporary obstruction to the free development of language, like a snag sticking out into a stream. School-teach- ers may come and school-teachers may go, but they cannot correct bad English, if the correction is against the genius and spirit of English thought~ One of the richest contributions of modern scholarship is the knowledge that this development obeys natural laws of thought, and that, however inscrutable during a short period, it is perfectly clear and continuous over a long one. The next step will be to show that the reason for this lies in the nature of lan- guage; that the uniformity of its devel- opment is but the expression of a deep- er uniformity of thought itself through which the brain unconsciously selects cer- tain associations to make habitual; that the words we say or write down are but a small part of the words we actually use in thinking, day in, day out, year 100 English Historical G~rammar. after year, till the brain ceases to per- form its function; that language is thus part of a great act which began we know not when, and will end only when thought itself shall cease and silence reign again. Our present starved conception of lan- guage is like that we used to have of biology, when we thought of animal life in the world as of a gigantic menagerie, designed by a demiurgic showman for our instruction and pleasure. We fail to recognize the real meaning of language because we do not think of it as a part of our life. We treat it as if it were yes- terdays creation, not the growth of cen- turies of experience. We still think of it as being made up of parts of speech to be used according to rules of syn- tax. It was this notion which formed the basis of the ancient method of studying grammar. Parts of speech were the necessary outcome of scholastic logic. For it the most important things were names and categories; and so nouns, the names of things, made the first chapter of grammar; pronouns came in as the next; adjectives, as expressing attributes, next; and so on, a set of me- chanically constructed categories of think- ing, with appropriate definitions and fixed rules of cotrdination. The ac- cidents of such parts of speech as were capable of accidence were then care- fully labeled and pigeonholed for future reference or use. The making out of these tables presented a fine opportunity for formal logic, and the resulting para- digms made the real basis of this sort of study. These were learned as the pat- terns of thinking, and their perfection being possible only in a language like classic Latin, where a complicated sys- tem of Indo-Germanic inflection was ar- tificially preserved, such a language Le- came the type by which all others were measured. To form these parts of speech with their accidents into predica- tions was the next step. There was the subject, attribute, predicate, and complement, with their various concords: this made syntax. Again, these things were logically clear in Latin: so Latin syntax became the norm of English syntax. It was an easy matter to tack on Latin prosody, and the system was complete. What was good enough for Latin and Greek was surely good enough for English. This grammar was supplemented by an Etymology, in which the etyma were the Latin and Greek words corresponding to the various English borrowings from these tongues. Others were practically ignored. Such a grammar has for its basis in- flection, and for its unit a part of speech. Hence we had and still have to some extent inflection playing the chief rOle in the grammar of a language whose tendency has been to shuffle off inflec- tions as fast as possible. The practical aim of its system was to teach the stu- dent the concords as they would be if English were a highly inflected language. Its chief concern, therefore, was to get the right form of inflection for various syntactical usages; just the point where the student, who had learfied to use in- flections when he was learning to talk, could not easily go astray. This sort of grammar considered the study of lan- guage as something quite apart from the use of language; its end was perfect mechanical thinking by means of formu- las, not perfect natural thinking based upon experience. Its standpoint was metaphysical, and was possible only for a dead language. A living speech like English develops ever at variance with such a priori reasoning, and the cleft has been long apparent. Now it would be unjust in us to charge our ancestors with the ignorance of the real nature of English grammar implied in this conception of the subject, and to find fault with them in their effort to build a didactic grammar upon distinc- tions found in Latin, and not upon the nature of English. But we can charge English Historical Grammar. 101 ourselves with folly in persisting to ig- nore the material that the last few de- cades have furnished for the scientific study of the subject, and in holding to their inadequate notion when a richer and better is within our reach. The real nature of English grammar is not metaphysical, but historical. It is the scientific study of a living language in the light of its development. The history of the development may not form a part of the actual grammatical treat- ment, but it must underlie it. The gram- mar may be one of late New English, say, restricted to the consideration of only those phenomena which come un- der our immediate notice, and may have nothing to do with Middle English or Old English. But these phenomena are only scientifically intelligible in the light of their development, and must be studied from an historical basis. In this sense there is for English but one kind of grammar, and that is historical gram- mar. The terms and definitions of scho- lastic grammar have their place and use, and are in many cases necessary as be- ing general to all thinking and to all language. The categories, too, are those of thought in general, and are therefore inevitable in describing and classifying the facts of language. But they are not grammar, and learning them is not study- ing grammar, any more than learning the divisions of the animal kingdom is studying biology. Grammar, to be pro- perly studied, must be based on the na- ture of language itself, and on the his- tory of its development. This has been the belief of the best scholars for a number of years, and their study of the subject in this spirit has de- veloped a new method. But it has for the most part remained the method of scholars, and of comparatively few schol- ars at that. The scientific treatment of the subject is traceable chiefly to Jacob Grimm, though we had beginnings of it in English scholarship as early as the days of Franciscus Junius and George Hickes. The Germans, who were the first to turn their attention to the matter, made the earliest advances in the field of English; for a knowledge of English has long been recognized in Germany to be essential to the proper understanding of German. The method they have fol- lowed has been historical, empirical; and following it, the best scholars have succeeded in establishing the unity of our language and literature, and the continu- ity of their historical development. Eng- lish and American scholarship has made use of their work, and has added substan- tial contributions to it, though often in a rather dull and imitative fashion and without a clear realization of the pur- pose of it all. But English and Amer- ican schools and universities have been slow to see the value of this sort of schol- arship, and what is more the pity, to see its practical relation to the every-day life and thought of English-speaking people. What is wanted now is a keener appreci- ation of the practical importance of this scientific grammar and its fitness to be used as a basis for English culture. It is difficult to describe this new gram- mar without entering into somewhat te- dious detail; but perhaps it will not be impossible, in a few words, to give a gen- eral idea of its scope and method. Its chief divisions are, Sounds, Inflections, Syntax, and Rhythm. Its ultimate unit is a single sound. A word cannot express thought unless its component sounds are accurately reproduced, and its sounds are subject to development. If I take the word bear and change it to beer, I have made in it but a small alteration, and one that is quite in accord with the history of English; yet I have altered the word so that it no longer suggests the thought it suggested before the change was made, but something quite different. It is as much of a change as I should make in 120 by changing the 2 to a 9. So I might do with almost any other word, destroying it entirely by slightly altering in an arbitrary way one of the sounds 102 English Historical Grammar. which make it up. It is not words, then, but sounds that are the ultimate things in grammar. These sounds, moreover, have as it were a life of their own, which slowly changes their character with the progress of centuries. The changes are so gradual as to be imperceptible during a single generation, yet they affect all sounds where the same conditions are present, and affect them in the same way. To illustrate: the infinitive to make was represented by macian in English of the ninth century, by maken in English of the twelfth century, by m~1cen in English of the fourteenth century, by m~ik in English of the sixteenth century, m~k in English of the seventeenth, m~~k in Eng- lish of the nineteenth. Here the vowel a has been changing its character about once in two centuries. And so with all as under similar conditions. Conso- nants, too, as well as vowels, alter their nature in the development, but much more slowly. These alterations are grad- ual, so that the mind adapts itself to them without knowing it; just as many people nowadays would take their oath that they pronounce the initial h in which as in whist, but all the while they are saying wich. To hear a word accurately requires a carefully trained ear, and a power, not easily acquired, of diverting ones attention to the sounds of the word as acoustic phenomena. These changes are so general and so numerous as to af- fect the whole character of the language; so that English even of so recent a date as Shakespeares would sound to us al- most like a foreign tongue did we hear it, and at many points would be quite unin- telligible. Yet it is the same language, just as Alfreds is, and with the key of a scientific knowledge of English will yield up its English thought to us with the very words it was written in. In this part of English historical gram- mar, it is the significance of the develop- ment of the sounds, and not that of their inconsequent representation, that is the first thing to be grasped. We can change the way of writing words a dozen times a century; in fact, we might write them a dozen ways at once without affect- ing the sounds themselves. The spoken words are the real things, not the letters which signify them. This first chapter on sounds is therefore the most impor- tant of the whole subject; for without an exact knowledge of it grammar will ap- pear capricious and meaningless. This field is left almost entirely to specialists, and their work in it is thought to be too trivial to interest the public. It is only within recent years that the fact of the development of English has been recog- nized at all; so a clear statement of it in English grammars has not been possible. But the practical importance of such knowledge as it now furnishes us is al- most as great as our neglect of it has been. While the study of the whole sub- ject will bring us into a perfect under- standing of our literature and will break down our absurd notions of the nature of our language, a complete knowledge of this part of it is the most direct way of accomplishing these ends; for the pe- riod over which the development of Eng- lish sounds extends is unusually long and unusually rich in evidence afforded by literature, and even an elementary knowledge of it is sufficient to make the development clear. Once this part of the subject is fully understood, the stu- dent will be in a fair way to understand the growth of literature. He will at least know enough not to be deceived, for in- stance, into supposing that he is reading Chaucer, when he thinks through his brain the New English words which cor- respond to Chaucers written forms, and fills up the gaps with guesses. Nor will he be misled by arbitrary forms of spell- ing. He will see distinctly that the let- ters do not represent the sounds they pretend to represent, but quite a differ- eat set. He will thus be prepared for a more intelligent study of his literature, and for a more vital and more powerful mastery of his language. English Historical Grammar. 103 The division of scientific grammar next in order is that which treats of in- flections, and deals with the changes of form which words undergo in being modified for different phases and rela- tions of the general ideas which they ex- press. This chapter was made the chief part of our earlier grammars of English, because inflection is the most significant characteristic of classic languages. But English, owing to conditions peculiar to it as a Germanic tongue, has made lit- tle use of endings, and has depended upon context and arrangement to make thought clear; so that inflection plays a very minor part in its grammar. Latin and Greek retain a great many of the early conditions of inflection found in Indo-Germanic, where a stem represent- ing a general idea was modified by some change, most commonly by a flexional syllable, to indicate the precise position, condition, or relation which the word assumes in the thought, in terms of logic, its accidents. For some reason or ~ other, Germanic peoples attached a pecu- liar significance to the stem, and, utter- ing it with greater force, neglected the inflectional syllable. This process, once begun, has gone on rapidly, until in mod- ern English the old grammatical system is almost entirely broken up. The dis- covery that the accident of the word can be sufficiently denoted by its position in the thought, or by the accent it receives in utterance, or by the context, or, when necessary, by accurate and express de- finition in other words, is the stepping- stone to using it as a particular itself. In English, therefore, we do not use a general term modified by an accident in order to make it a particular, but we think the particular outright. My type- writer, for instance, is as much a partic- ular idea as my pen; I do not think of the one as an instrument to write with by means of type any more than I think of the other as a feather adapted to pur- poses of writing. So also when my type- writer reproduces the thought for me on paper, I do not think of it as type- writer with a modification of the idea to indicate that it is the subject of the action; and when I wish to think of my- self using the typewriter, I do not modify the word for typewriter in a different way to show that in this latter instance the typewriter is the object of an action. Such a distinction is quite useless. I and my typewriter are two such different things, with such different attributes and functions, that there is no danger of any one confusing the two. In almost any possible thought where they are brought together, the mind itself, without any need of labels, will recognize their pro- per grammatical relation. And even if there was danger of confusion, the fact that in English thinking the subject comes first in the thought would be sufficient to distinguish it without any special mark. So with other types of inflection. It is absurd, then, to study English as a highly inflected language, to make the student think of such things as 0 man as a vocative case, or to a man as a dative, or if I do as a subjunctive or conditional mood of the verb do. The burden of the work has thus been thrown upon syntax, a syntax whose perfection has developed in such a way as to make all but the simplest inflection un- necessary; and syntax, the third general division of grammar, thus becomes most! important for English. But it is not the kind of syntax we know from Latin grammar. That, owing to the full iii- flectional system still preserved in Latin, was a system of concords and artificial agreements. Fixed syllables of inflec- tion denoted certain accidents of a ge- neric idea; syllables of inflection belong- ing to the same or similar categories pointed out the various parts of a whole idea and their relations one to another, so that the parts could be separated from one another and scattered through the sentence to secure formal symmetry or pleasing cadence without confusion 104 English Historical Grammar. of the thought itself. The perception of the significance of this accidence and the arrangement of these collocations were the field of syntax. The Germanic languages, when they lost this full Judo- Germanic system of inflection, lost also with it the corresponding system of syn- tax. What had been before an testhetic end became now a practical one, and the position of the words in the thought de- noted their relation to one another. The few inflections preserved were simplified and reduced to great general categories, such as number, objective and subjec- tive case relation, distinction of sex, ab- solute or conditional action. Nor has this process of development ceased. It is quite possible that the categories will be still further reduced as time goes on. To study this development for English is the field of syntax, and its method is historical, since these arrange- ments are traditional, depending upon the habit of English thought. The sub- ject has not yet received even in Ger- many the attention it deserves, because a scientific treatment of Laut- undEormen- lehre (the development of sounds and inflection) more than occupies the two- semester course of a German university. Then, too, German scholarship is often embarrassed by the lack of the perfect idiomatic familiarity with New English syntax (enqlische Sprach9efilhl) neces- sary to understand the habit of English thought. A full and complete treatment of it will have to come from English scholars. Much has been done already in such books as Matzners Englisehe Grammatik, which starts with New Eng- lish and works back to Old English, and Kochs Englisehe Grammatik, which fol- lows a more scientific order, beginning with Old English and tracing the sub- ject historically. The practical utility of such study lies in the fact that it gives us confidence in native English idioms, and prevents those foolish alterations which arise from an artificial notion of what English syntax is. A fourth division of English grammar is that which deals with rhythm and the arrangement of words to make poetry. The name Prosody is usually given to it, because that is the title of the corre- sponding division of Latin grammar. It would take too long to show how this sub- ject has been obscured by centuries of misunderstanding and obstinate persist- ence in teaching Latin prosody to explain English rhythm. It was obvious that Latin poetry had but two units, a short and a long syllable. As accent took the place of quantity when the system was transferred to English, there were two sorts of syllables recognized in English prosody: a syllable was either tum or it was ty. We have just seen how the loss of Jndo-Germanic in- flections affected Germanic syntax. The cause of this loss, namely, the fixing of the accent to a particular syllable of the word in all its forms, broke down also the Judo-Germanic system of rhythm. It was no longer possible to write poetry according to the classic system, because the material for it no longer existed. Germanic rhythm, therefore, assumed an entirely new form, based upon the new use of accent, and not upon quan- tity, though it seems that in the earlier periods quantity was still an element in the verse. This system was used for Old English, which very early developed a rich poetic literature ; later on, anoth- er kind of accentual system, which had grown into wide use in medimeval Latin, took its place. But not immediately and violently; for English poetry had inde- pendently been long working toward this more regular media3val rhythm, and thus received the new system as a graft, and was not displaced and crowded out by it. At no time in its history, there- fore, has English verse been written like classic poetry, for it has always been based upon accentual, and not upon quan- titative differences. But our study of classic poetry has made us overlook the exquisite gradations of accent in Eng English Historical Grammar. 105 lish verse, and has scaled our poetry down to turn and ty. The appre- ciation of more gradations than these has been considered to be the concern of elocution, not prosody, and poetry, made to delight the ear with delicate rhythm, becomes, when we study it, a wooden arrangement of shorts and longs into iambic acatalectic trimeters and such things. To these four divisions, Sounds, In- flections, Syntax, and Rhythm, should logically be added a fifth, namely, the Development of Word-Meanings. But the historical dictionaries of English are assuming this for their special field, and rightly, too; so that there is no need for any but the most general treatment of the subject in English historical gram- mar. The work in this field is most con- veniently accessible when arranged in the form of a dictionary. How impor- tant such material is for the study of English literature is shown by the great number of hitherto misunderstood pas- sages in Shakespeare which the Oxford Dictionary clears up. We have thus traversed the field of English historical grammar, and have incidentally called attention to the meth- od it pursues. Prosecuted in such a way, the subject is as scientific as any of the sciences now studied in the uni- versities, and certainly deserves as con- spicuous a place as any in university curricula. For Americans it is practi- cally a fresh field to work in; and when the American genius for discerning es- sentials from accidents overcomes Amer- ican tendencies to dilettanteism, we shall no doubt have a rich harvest of scientific truth. Hitherto the subject has labored un- der some fundamental misconceptions as to its scope and province, misconcep- tions that are for the most part popular, but yet not without their effect upon university teaching. The chief of these is the one that English historical gram- mar is the same thing as the history of the English language. This niistaken assumption underlies most of the at- tempts to teach the subject that have yet been made. It is an easy mistake to make, for the only difference between a complete history of the English language and a perfect English historical grammar would be one of arrangement of material and the point of view from which it was considered. The one would be a chro- nological account of the development of language from the standpoint of modern English, considering modern English as the apex of the development; the other would be a scientific treatment of the phenomena themselves, considering the present state of the language as an inci- dental stage of the development. The two are by no means the same. In the point of view there lies a fundamental distinction, and one that is frequently overlooked. There is a still greater distinction between the two when one comes to study this history and this gram- mar. To memorize a correct account of the history of the English language is not by any means the same thing as to study English h~storicnl grammar. In the latter work we deal with the phe- noniena themselves, not with a general statement of their relation. This dis- tinction is now quite clear for biological science. The study of biology is not that of the history of the development of physical life, though a complete his- tory of biological phenomena might well be one of the ends of biological science. Supposing the links were all clear, a mere account of the development of the primordial cell through the various stages of its life up to man would not be biology, though an intelligent appre- ciation of the phenomena does depend upon a perception of their historical sig- nificance, so to speak. And it is pre- cisely so with English historical gram- mar. The scientific study of the sub- ject means far more than a description of the sequence of its phenomena. It means the discovery of their relation; 106 English Historical arammar. their classification according to real and essential differences, not accidental ones; the causes that have produced them, as far as it is possible to ascertain their causes; the laws which govern their de- velopment; their relation to the forms of English thinking; their relation to simi- lar phenomena of other languages. Their nature, their causes, their tendencies, all these enter into a scientific conception of the province of historical grammar. The field the subject thus presents to the student is in its way as wide as that presented by biology, and if intelligently worked would yield ~s rich a fruitage as the study of biology has. In one sense the history of the English language is but the introductory chapter to all this. To substitute the one for the other is like offering a superficial Fourteen Weeks in Philosophy for an adequate course in elementary physics. Such a substitute may possibly be better than nothing, but it is very little better, and it stands in the way of the student ever getting anything like a firm grasp of the matter. Another misconception of the nature and province of historical grammar is due to the fact that any thorough study of spoken English is confused in the popular mind with the study of phonet- ics- Students are taught in elementary schools that certain letters have certain sounds, and they are then taught to re- produce these sounds, when acted upon by the stimulus of certain diacritical marks: pronounce long ~ as in make, pronounce short ~ as in fat. Phonet- ics thus gets to be a matter of pronoun- words was not historical, but merely de- cing written forms of expression; so that I voted itself to the discovery of easily the student always tries to pronounce all recognizable foreign elements, to unfold the letters of all the syllables, and we get or derive which furnished the same sort such monstrosities in English as pen- of pleasure as that obtained from puzzle- sills, prack-tick-kal, in-dif-fi-rence. solving. To reduce the words capable These spelling - book pronunciations of of such reduction to assumed ultimate written forms are not English words at roots had the appearance of scientific all, though many good people think they analysis, and easily passed for scientific are the best English, and painfully make study. But it is only loan-words which their children pronounce the letters, in are capable of such reduction. Though the fear that they may fall into the habit of speaking English in a vulgar fashion if they do not take pains. In this sense the phonetics of English is an absurdity. It considers the written language as the norm, and seeks to explain the spoken form as a capricious deviation from the written type. The truth is the converse of this. A has not the sound of a in father, and of a in late, and of a in bat, etc., but the a in father, and the a in late, and the a in bat, and the others are entirely different and distinct sounds, which happen, all of them, to be repre- sented by the same sign, namely a. The abnormality is in the writing: the study of these abnormalities ought properly to be called graphics, not phonetics. Of course, in its scientific aspect, accord- ing to which phonetics is the study of the physiological formation of the sounds used in language, the subject is part of a thorough study of historical grammar, but only a minor part. Similarly, etymology plays a great part in the notion many people have of the scientific study of English. English is thought to be a conglomerate of various other languages, made up of words de- rived from Latin, or Greek, or French, or German. To be aware of the meaning these words had in the original speech from which they were derived was a euphuistic accomplishment that gave much pleasure a few generations ago, and the display of such knowledge is still thought to be one of the ornaments of writing. The etymology which had for its concern the elucidation of these English Historical Grammar. 107 they occupy a large space in dictionaries of English, such words do not play an important part in its history. A student might know perfectly the etyma of all of them, and yet be quite ignorant of English itself. They are for the most part mere additions to the vocabulary of English. It is a general principle of English grammar that borrowed words, from the time they are taken into the language, are treated as if they were English, obeying the same laws of de- velopment as the native words. A sepa- rate treatment in grammar is not neces- sary for them. To consider the separate stlidy of such words as an integral part of English grammar is to follow the me- diieval method of the study of Latin. Nor is English historical grammar what is popularly known as English phi- lology. This word philology has been given such a variety of meanings, ranging all the way from the encyclop~- die German notion of the study of every- thing remotely or directly concerned with language and literature, to the popular English and American one of the dilet- tante study of words, that it has become well-nigh useless for scientific purposes. In the popular sense, however, it has lit- tle to do with historical grammar, not much more than etymology has. It bears much the same relation to it that collecting butterflies bears to entomolo- gy, or collecting fossils to geology. Yet the study of words, generally from Archbishop Trenchs book bearing that title, has long been one of the most common substitutes for English histori- cal grammar in our schools and univer- sities. It can be made comparatively interesting, because it calls attention to peculiar developments of word-meanings and unexpected associations of ideas. But it has little educational value. It only develops a petty attention to details without knowledge of their significance, and produces in the student the idea that he has exhausted the subject. Rid of these misconceptions, we have in English historical grammar a sub- ject that is scientific, practical, and of great educational value, and, moreover, a subject which can be taught in an ele- mentary way to young students, and can at the same time furnish a field for ori- ginal scientific work in university teach- ing. Why should it not be easily possi- ble to put it in the place that dogmatic grammar used to occupy? Why is it necessary to wait until a student is near- ly through with a university course to give him a scientific knowledge of the machinery he thinks with? It would not be difficult to teach any boy to read Old English at the time when he begins to read Latin, to continue the work by teaching him to read Middle English, and then to put upon this elementary work, which need only be such as will give him the power roughly to read his own language in any period of its his- tory, a more or less thorough training in English historical grammar. It is not necessary to make him speak Old Eng- lish or Middle English, or even to seek native idioms in his own use of language. But surely a student with an accurate and correct knowledge of what his lan- guage is will be able to use it with more ease and power than one without such knowledge. We need not expect this sort of train- ing to make us think more clearly and write better than our clearest thiakers and best writers do now; but we can expect it to give this power to more men and women than possess it now; we can expect to get from English histori- cal grammar the basis for a sane and practical didactic grammar which will represent to the student the real nature of his language, and will enable him to see more clearly what good English is and teach him how to use it; we can expect it to illuminate and quicken into a newer life for us the best of our Eng- lish literature. 3liark H. Liddell. 108 In Bay Street. IN BAY STREET. (NASSAU, N. WHAT do you sell, John Camplejolin, In Bay Street by the sea? Oh, turtle shell is what I sell, In great variety: Trinkets and combs and rosaries, All keepsakes from the sea; T is choose and buy what takes the eye, In such a treasury. T is none of these, John Camplejohn, Though curious they be, But something more I m looking for, In Bay Street by the sea. Where can I buy the magic charm Of the Bahaman sea, That fills mankind with peace of mind And souls felicity? Now what do you sell, John Camplejohn, In Bay Street by the sea, Tinged with that true and native blue Of lapis lazuli? Look from your door, and tell me now The color of the sea. Where can I buy that wondrous dye, And take it home with me? And where can I buy that rustling sound, In this city by the sea, Of the plumy palms in their high blue calms; Or the stately poise and free Of the bearers who go up and down, Silent as mystery, Burden on head, with naked tread, In the white streets by the sea? And where can I buy, John Camplejohn, In Bay Street by the sea, The sunlights fall on the old pink wall, Or the gold of the orange tree?

Bliss Carman Carman, Bliss In Bay Street 108-110

108 In Bay Street. IN BAY STREET. (NASSAU, N. WHAT do you sell, John Camplejolin, In Bay Street by the sea? Oh, turtle shell is what I sell, In great variety: Trinkets and combs and rosaries, All keepsakes from the sea; T is choose and buy what takes the eye, In such a treasury. T is none of these, John Camplejohn, Though curious they be, But something more I m looking for, In Bay Street by the sea. Where can I buy the magic charm Of the Bahaman sea, That fills mankind with peace of mind And souls felicity? Now what do you sell, John Camplejohn, In Bay Street by the sea, Tinged with that true and native blue Of lapis lazuli? Look from your door, and tell me now The color of the sea. Where can I buy that wondrous dye, And take it home with me? And where can I buy that rustling sound, In this city by the sea, Of the plumy palms in their high blue calms; Or the stately poise and free Of the bearers who go up and down, Silent as mystery, Burden on head, with naked tread, In the white streets by the sea? And where can I buy, John Camplejohn, In Bay Street by the sea, The sunlights fall on the old pink wall, Or the gold of the orange tree? In Bay Street. 109 Ah, that is more than I ye heard tell In Bay Street by the sea, Since I began, my roving man, A trafficker to be. As sure as I m John Camplejohn, And Bay Street s by the sea, Those things for gold have not been sold, Within my memory. But what would you give, my roving man From countries oversea, For the things you name, the life of the same, And the power to bid them be? I d give my hand, John Camplejohn, In Bay Street by the sea, For the smallest dower of that dear power To paint the things I see. My roving man, I never heard, On any land or sea Under the sun, of any one Could sell that power to thee. T is sorry news, John Camplejohn, If this be destiny, That every mart should know that art, Yet none can sell it me. But look you, here s the grace of God: There s neither price nor fee, Duty nor toll, that can control The power to love and see. To each his luck, John Camplejohn, No less! And as for me, Give me the pay of an idle day In Bay Street by the sea. Bliss Cctrmar& 110 The Youngest Son of his Fathers House. THE YOUNGEST SON OF HIS FATHERS HOUSE. THE eldest son of his fathers house, His was the right to have and hold: He took the chair before the hearth, And he was master of all the gold. The second son of his fathers house, He took the wheatfields broad and fair, He took the meadows beside the brook, And the white flocks that pastured there. Pipe high pipe low! Along the way From dawn till eve I needs must sin~z,! Who has a song throughout the day, He has no need of anything! The youngest son of his fathers house Had neither gold nor flocks for meed. He went to the brook at break of day, And made a pipe out of a reed. Pipe high pipe low! Each wind that blows Is comrade to my wandering. Who has a song wherever he goes, He has no need of anything! His brothers wife threw open the door. Piper, come in for a while, she said. Thou shalt sit at my hearth, since thou art so poor, And thou shalt give me a song instead! Pipe high pipe low all over the wold! Lad, wilt thou not come in? asked she. Who has a song, he feels no cold, ~y brothers hearth is mine own, quoth he. Pipe high pipe low! For what care I Though there be no hearth on the wide gray plain? I have set my face to the open sky, And have cloaked myself in the thick gray rain. Over the hills where the white clouds are, He piped to the sheep till they needs must come. They fed in pastures strange and far, But at fall of night he brought them home.

Anna Hempstead Branch Branch, Anna Hempstead The Youngest Son of his Father's House 110-112

110 The Youngest Son of his Fathers House. THE YOUNGEST SON OF HIS FATHERS HOUSE. THE eldest son of his fathers house, His was the right to have and hold: He took the chair before the hearth, And he was master of all the gold. The second son of his fathers house, He took the wheatfields broad and fair, He took the meadows beside the brook, And the white flocks that pastured there. Pipe high pipe low! Along the way From dawn till eve I needs must sin~z,! Who has a song throughout the day, He has no need of anything! The youngest son of his fathers house Had neither gold nor flocks for meed. He went to the brook at break of day, And made a pipe out of a reed. Pipe high pipe low! Each wind that blows Is comrade to my wandering. Who has a song wherever he goes, He has no need of anything! His brothers wife threw open the door. Piper, come in for a while, she said. Thou shalt sit at my hearth, since thou art so poor, And thou shalt give me a song instead! Pipe high pipe low all over the wold! Lad, wilt thou not come in? asked she. Who has a song, he feels no cold, ~y brothers hearth is mine own, quoth he. Pipe high pipe low! For what care I Though there be no hearth on the wide gray plain? I have set my face to the open sky, And have cloaked myself in the thick gray rain. Over the hills where the white clouds are, He piped to the sheep till they needs must come. They fed in pastures strange and far, But at fall of night he brought them home. The Youngest Son of his Fathers House. 111 They followed hurn, bleating, wherever he led: He called his brother out to see. I have brought thee my flocks for a gift, he said, For thou seest that they are mine, quoth he. Pipe hi~h pipe low! Wherever I go The wide grain presses to hear me sing. Who has a song, though his state be low, He has no need of anything. Ye have taken my house, he said, and my sheep, But ye had no heart for to take me in. I will give ye my right for your own to keep, But ye be not my kin. To the kind fields my steps are led. My people rush across the plain. My bare feet shall not fear to tread With the cold white feet of the rain. My fathers house is wherever I pass; My brothers are each stock and stone; My mothers bosom in the grass Yields a sweet slumber to her son. Ye are rich in house and flocks, said he, Though ye have no heart to take me in. There was only a reed that was left for me, And ye be not my kin. Pipe high pipe low! Though skies be gray, Who has a song, he needs must roam! Even though ye call all day, all day, Brother, wilt thou come home? Over the meadows and over the wold, Up to the hills where the skies begin, The youngest son of his fathers house Went forth to find his kin. Anna Hempstead Branch. 112 At Natural Bridge, Virginia. AT NATURAL BRIDGE, VIRGINIA. I. WITH the exception of a tedious delay at East Radford it was a very enjoyable forenoons ride from Pulaski to Natural Bridge, through a country everywhere interesting, and for much of the distance gloriously wild and beautiful. Splendid hillside patches of mingled Judas-tree and flowering dogwood one of a bright peach-bloom color, the other royal masses of pure white brightened parts of the way south of Roanoke. There, also, hovering over a grassy field, were the first bobolinks of the season. From Buchanan northward (new ground to me by daylight) we had the company of mountains and the James River, the road following the windings of a narrow bank between the base of time ridge and the water. It surprised me to see the James so large and full at such a dis- tance from its mouth, almost as wide, I thought, as the Tennessee at Chat- tanooga. Shortly before reaching the Natural Bridge station the train stopped for water, and on getting off the steps of the car I heard a Maryland yellow- throat singing just below me at the foot of the bank, and in a minute more a kingfisher flew across the stream, two additional names for my vacation cata- logue. Then, while I waited at the station for a carriage from the hotel, two miles an(l a half away, I added still another. In the cloudy sky, be- tween me and the sun, was a bird which in that blinding light might have passed for a buzzard, only that a swallow was pursuing it. Seeing that sign, I raised my glass and found the bird a fish- hawk. Trifles these things were, per- haps, with mountains and a river in sight; but that depends upon ones scale of values. To me it is not so clear that a pile of earth is more an object of won- der than a swallow that soars above it; and for better or worse, mountains or no mountains, I kept an ornithological eye open. On the way to the Bridge (myself the only passenger) the colored driver of the wagon picked up a brother of his own race, who happened to be traveling in the same direction and was thankful for a lift. And a real amusement and plea- sure it was to listen to the two mens palaver, especially to their Mistering of each other at every turn of the dia- logue. I never saw two schoolmasters, even, who could do more in half an hour for the maintenance and increase of their mutual dignity. It was Mr. Brown and Mr. Smith with every other breath, until the second man was set down at his own gate. From their ap- pearance they must have been of an age to remember the days before the war, and I did not think it surprising that men who had once been pieces of pro- perty should be disposed to make the most of their present condition of manhood, and so to give and take, between them- selves, as many reminders and tokens of it as the brevity of their remaining time would permit. Once at the hotel, installed (literally) in my little room, the only window of which was in the door, opening npon the piazza, for all the world as a prison cell opens upon its corridor, once domiciled, I say, and a bite taken, I bought a season ticket of admission to the glen, and went down the path and a flight of steps, amid a flock of trilling goldfinches and past a row of lordly ar- bor-vitme trees, to the brook, and up the bank of the brook to the famous bridge. Of this, considered by itself, I shall at- tempt no description. The material facts are, in the language of the guidebook, that it is a huge monolithic arch, 215 feet

Bradford Torrey Torrey, Bradford At Natural Bridge, Virginia 112-122

112 At Natural Bridge, Virginia. AT NATURAL BRIDGE, VIRGINIA. I. WITH the exception of a tedious delay at East Radford it was a very enjoyable forenoons ride from Pulaski to Natural Bridge, through a country everywhere interesting, and for much of the distance gloriously wild and beautiful. Splendid hillside patches of mingled Judas-tree and flowering dogwood one of a bright peach-bloom color, the other royal masses of pure white brightened parts of the way south of Roanoke. There, also, hovering over a grassy field, were the first bobolinks of the season. From Buchanan northward (new ground to me by daylight) we had the company of mountains and the James River, the road following the windings of a narrow bank between the base of time ridge and the water. It surprised me to see the James so large and full at such a dis- tance from its mouth, almost as wide, I thought, as the Tennessee at Chat- tanooga. Shortly before reaching the Natural Bridge station the train stopped for water, and on getting off the steps of the car I heard a Maryland yellow- throat singing just below me at the foot of the bank, and in a minute more a kingfisher flew across the stream, two additional names for my vacation cata- logue. Then, while I waited at the station for a carriage from the hotel, two miles an(l a half away, I added still another. In the cloudy sky, be- tween me and the sun, was a bird which in that blinding light might have passed for a buzzard, only that a swallow was pursuing it. Seeing that sign, I raised my glass and found the bird a fish- hawk. Trifles these things were, per- haps, with mountains and a river in sight; but that depends upon ones scale of values. To me it is not so clear that a pile of earth is more an object of won- der than a swallow that soars above it; and for better or worse, mountains or no mountains, I kept an ornithological eye open. On the way to the Bridge (myself the only passenger) the colored driver of the wagon picked up a brother of his own race, who happened to be traveling in the same direction and was thankful for a lift. And a real amusement and plea- sure it was to listen to the two mens palaver, especially to their Mistering of each other at every turn of the dia- logue. I never saw two schoolmasters, even, who could do more in half an hour for the maintenance and increase of their mutual dignity. It was Mr. Brown and Mr. Smith with every other breath, until the second man was set down at his own gate. From their ap- pearance they must have been of an age to remember the days before the war, and I did not think it surprising that men who had once been pieces of pro- perty should be disposed to make the most of their present condition of manhood, and so to give and take, between them- selves, as many reminders and tokens of it as the brevity of their remaining time would permit. Once at the hotel, installed (literally) in my little room, the only window of which was in the door, opening npon the piazza, for all the world as a prison cell opens upon its corridor, once domiciled, I say, and a bite taken, I bought a season ticket of admission to the glen, and went down the path and a flight of steps, amid a flock of trilling goldfinches and past a row of lordly ar- bor-vitme trees, to the brook, and up the bank of the brook to the famous bridge. Of this, considered by itself, I shall at- tempt no description. The material facts are, in the language of the guidebook, that it is a huge monolithic arch, 215 feet At Natural Bridge, Virginia. 11~ high, 100 feet wide, and 90 feet in span, crossing the ravine of Cedar Brook. Magnificent as it is, there is, for me at least, not much to say concerning it, or concerning my sensations in the presence of it. iNot that it disappointed me. On the contrary, it was from the first more imposing than I had expected to find it. I loved to look at it, from one side and from the other, from beneath and from above. I walked under it and over it (on the public highway, for it is a bridge not only in name. but in fact) many times, by sunlight and by moonlight, and should be glad to do the same many times more; but perhaps my taste is peculiar; at all events, such wonders of nature do not charm me or wear with me like a beautiful landscape. It was so, I remember, at Ausable Chasm; interesting, grand, impressive, but a place in which I had no passion for stay- ing, no sense of exquisite delight or solemnity. In Burlington, just across Lake Champlain, I could sit by the hour, even on the fiat roof of the hotel, and gaze upon the blue water and the blue Adirondacks beyond, the sight was a feast of beauty; but this cleft in the rocks, well, I was glad to walk through it and to shoot the rapids; there was nothing to be said in disparagement of the place, but it put me under no spell. I fear it would be the same with those marvelous Colorado caiThns and gar- dens of the gods. A wooded moun- tain side, a green valley, running water, a lake with islands, best of all, perhaps (for mc, that is, and taking the years together), a New England hill pasture, with boulders and red cedars, berry bushes and fern patches, the whole bounded by stone walls and bordered with gray birches and pitch pines, for sights to live with, let me have these and things like them in preference to any of natures more freakish work, which ap- peals rather to curiosity than to the im- agination and the affections. Having gone under the arch (and VOL. LXXXII. NO. 489. 8 looked in vain for Washingtons initials on the wall), the visitor to Natural Bridge finds himself following up the brook a lively stream between lofty precip- itous cliffs, that turn to steep wooded slopes as he proceeds. If he is like me, he pursues the path to the end, stopping here and there, at the saltpetre cave, at Hemlock Island, and at Lost River, if nowhere else, till he comes to the end at the falls, a distance of a mile, more or less. That is my way always. I must go straight through the place once; then, the edge of my curiosity dulled, I am in a condition to see and enjoy. The ravine is a botanists paradise: that, I should say, must be the first thought of every appreciative tourist. The eleva- tion (fifteen hundred feet), the latitude, and the limestone rocks work together to that end. In a stay of a week I could see, of course, but one set of flowers; and in my preoccupation I passed many herbs and shrubs, mostly out of bloom, the names of which I neither knew nor attempted to discover. One of the things that struck my admiration on the instant was the beauty of the columbine as here displayed; a favorite with me always, for more reasons than one, but never be- held in all its loveliness till now. If the election could be held here, and on the 1st of May, there would be no great diffi- culty in securing a unanimous vote for Aquilegia Canadensis as the national flower. It was in its glory at the time of my earlier visits, brightening the face of the cliffs, not in a mass, but in scat- tered sprays, as high as the eyesight could follow it; looking, even under the opera-glass, as if it grew out of the rock itself. With it were sedges, ferns, and much of a tufted white flower, which at first I made no question must be the common early saxifrage. When I came upon it within reach, however, I saw at once that it was a plant of quite another sort, some member of the troublesome mustard family, Draba ramosissima, as afterward turned out. It was wonder- 114 At Natural Bridge, Virginia. ful how closely it simulated the appear- ance of Saxifraga Virginiensis, though the illusion was helped, no doubt, by the habit I ani in of seeing columbine and saxifrage together. The ground in many places was al- most a mat of violets, three kinds of which were in special profusion: the tall, fragrant white Canadensis, the long- spurred rostrata, of a very pale blue, with darker streaks and a darker centre (like our blue meadow violets in that re- spect), and the commonpalmata. The long-spurred violet was new to me, and both for that reason and for itself pe- culiarly attractive. As I passed up the glen on the right of the brook beyond Hemlock Island, so called, carpeted with partridge-berry vines bearing a wondrous crop ( See the berries! my notebook says), I began to find here and there the large trillium (T grand~/1oram), some of the blossoms clear white, others of a delicate rosy tint. The rosy ones had been open longer than the others, it ap- peared; for the flowers blush with age, a very modest and grac~ful habit. Like the spurred violet, the trillium is a plant also of northern New England, but happily for my present enjoyment I had never seen it there. And the same is to be said of the large yellow bellwort, which was here the trilliums neighbor, and looked only a little less distinguished than the trillium itself. If I were to name all the plants I saw, or even all that attracted my particular notice, the non-botanical reader would quit me for a tiresome chronicler. ilepa- tica and bloodroot had dropped their last petals; but anemone and rue anemone were still in bloom, with cranesbill, spring beauty, ragwort, mitrewort, rob- ins plantain, Jack - in - the - pulpit, wild ginger (two thick handsome leaves hid- ing a dark-purplish three-horned urn of an occult and almost sinister aspect), two or more showy chickweeds, two kinds of white stone-crop (Sedurn~ ter- natum, and S. Nevii, the latter a novel- ty), mandrake (sheltering its precious round bud under an umbrella, though to-day it neither rained nor shone), pep- per-root, gill-over-the-ground (where did it come from, I wondered), Dutchmans breeches (the leaves only), Orchis specta- bilis (which I did not know till after a few days it blossomed), and many more. A new shrub almost a tree was the bladder-nut, with drooping clusters of small whitish flowers, like bunches of currant blossoms in their manner of growth and general appearance; espe- cially dear to humble-bees, which would not be done with a branch even while I carried it in my hand. In one place, as I stooped to examine a boulder cov- ered thickly with the tiny walking fern, of which the ravine contains a great abundance, faded, ill conditioned, and homely, but curious, and, better still, a stranger, I found the ground littered with bright yellowish magnolia petals; and if I looked into the sky for a pass- ing bird, it was almost as likely as not that I should find myself looking through the branches of a soaring tulip-tree, a piece of magnificence that is one of the most constant of my Alleghanian admi- rations. All the upper part of the glen is pervaded by a dull rumbling or moan- ing sound, the voice of Lost River, out of which the tourist is supposed to have drunk at the only point where it shows itself (and there only to those who look for it), a quarter of a mile back. An- other all-pervasive thing is the whole- some fragrance of arbor-vitte. It is fit- ting, surely, that the tree of life should be growing in this floral paradise. There are few places, I imagine, where it flour- ishes better. On my way back toward the bridge I discovered, as was to be expected, many things that had been overlooked on my way out; and every successive visit was similarly rewarded. A pleasing sight at the bridge itself was the continual flut- tering of butterflies Turnus and his smaller and paler brother Ajax, espe At Natural Bridge, Virginia. 115 daily against the face of the cliffs, sipping from the deep honey-jars of the columbines. Here, too, I often stopped awhile to enjoy the doings of several pairs of rough-winged swallows that had their nests in a row of holes in the rock, between two of the strata. Most ro- mantic homes they looked, under the overhanging ledge, a narrow platform below, ferns and sedges nodding over- head, with tall arbor-vita~ trees a little higher on the cliff, and water dropping continually before the doors. One of the nests, I noticed, had directly in front of it a patch of low green moss, the neat- est of door-mats. The holes were only a few feet above the level of the stream, but there was no approach to them with- out wading; for which reason, perhaps, the owners paid little attention to me, even when I got as near them as I could. In and out they went, quite at their ease, resting now and then upon a jut- ting shelf, or perching in the branches of some tree near at hand. Once three of them sat side by side before one of the openings, which after all may have admitted to some sizable cavern where- in different pairs were living together. They are the least beautiful of swallows, but for this time, at all events, they had displayed a remarkably pretty taste in the choice of a nesting-site. The birds of Cedar Creek, however, were not the rough-wings, but the Loui- siana water thrushes. On my first jaunt through the ravine (May 1) I counted seven of them, here one and there an- other, the greater part in free song; and while I never found so many again at any one visit, I was never there without seeing and hearing at least two or three. It was exactly such a spot as the water thrush loves, a quick stream, with boul- ders and abundant vegetation. The song, I am sorry to be obliged to confess, as I have confessed before, is not to me all that it appears to be to other listeners; probably not all that a longer acquaint- ance and a more intimate association would make it. It is loud and ringing, for a warblers song, I mean; in that respect well adapted to the birds or- dinary surroundings, being easily heard above the noise of a pretty lively brook. It is heard the better, too, because of its remarkably disconnected, staccato char- acter. Every note is by itself. Though the bird haunts the vicinity of running water, there is no trace of fluidity in its utterance. No bird-song could be less flowing. It neither gurgles nor runs smoothly, note merging into note. It would be too much to call it declama- tory, perhaps, but it goes some way in that direction. At least we may call it emphatic. At different times I wrote it down in different words, none of which could be expected to do more than as- sist, first the writers memory, and then the readers imagination, to recall and divine the rhythm and general form of the melody. For that I speak for myself a verbal transcription, imper- fect as it must be, in the nature of the case, is likely to prove more intelligible, and therefore more useful, than any at- tempt to reproduce the music itself by a resort to musical notation. As most fre- quently heard here, the song consisted of eight notes, like Come come come come, you re a beauty, de- livered rather slowly. Lazily was the word I sometimes employed, but slowly is perhaps better, though it is true that the song is cool and, so to speak, very unpassionate. Dynamically I marked it ~ while the variations in pitch may be indicated roughly thus: . Two of the lower notes, the fifth and sixth, were shorter than the others, half as long, if my ear and memory are to be trusted. Sometimes a bird would break out into a bit of flour- ish at the end, but to my thinking such improvised cadenzas, as they had every appearance of being, only detracted from the simplicity of the strain without add- ing anything appreciable to its beauty or its effectiveness. 116 At Natural Bridge, Virginia. This song, which the reader will per- haps blame me for trying thus to analyze (I shall not blame him), very soon grew to be almost a part of the glen; so that I never recall the brook and the cliffs without seeming to hear it rising clear and sweet above the brawling of the current; and when I hear it, I can see the birds flitting up or down the creek, just in advance of me, with sharp chips of alarm or displeasure; now balancing uneasily on a boulder in mid-stream (a posterior bodily fluctuation, half graceful, half comical, slanderously spoken of as teetering) and singing a measure or two, now taking to an overhanging branch, sometimes at a considerable height, for the same tuneful purpose. One acrobatic fellow, I remember, walked for some dis- tance along the seemingly perpendicular face of the cliff, slipping now and then on the wet surface and having to wing it fora space, yet still pausing at short intervals to let out a song. In truth, the happy creatures were just then brim- ming over with music; and if I seem to praise their efforts but grudgingly, it is to be said, on the other hand, in justice to the song and to myself, that my ap- preciation of it grew as the days passed. Whatever else might be true of it, it was the voice of the place. Of birds beside the rough-wings and the water thrushes there were surpris- ingly few in the glen, though, to be sure, there may well have been many more than I found trace of. The splashing of a mountain brook is very pleasing music, more pleasing, in itself considered, than the great majority of bird-songs, perhaps, but an ornithological hobby- ist may easily have too much of it. I call to mind how increasingly vexatious, and at last all but intolerable, a turbu- lent Vermont stream (a branch of Waits River) became to me, some years ago, as it followed my road persistently mile af- ter mile in the course of a May vacation. One gets on the track of the smaller birds through hearing their faint calls in the bushes and treetops; and how was I to catch such indispensable signals with this everlasting uproar in my eai~s? So it was here in Cedar Creek ravine; it would have to be a pretty loud voice to be heard above the din of the hurry- ing water. And the birds, on their side, had something of the same difficulty; or so I judged from the unconventional be- havior of a blue yellow-backed warbler that flitted through the hanging branches of a tree within a few inches of my hat, having plainly no suspicion of a human beings proximity. The tufted titmouse could be heard, of course. He would make a first-rate auctioneer, it seemed to me, with his penetrating, indefatiga- ble voice and his genius for repetition. Now and then, too, I caught the sharp, sermonizing tones of a red-eyed vireo. Once an oven-bird near me mounted a tree hastily, branch by branch, and threw himself from the top for a burst of his afternoon medley; and at the bridge a pho3be sat calling. These, with a pair of cardinal grosbeaks, were all the birds I saw in the glen during my first days visit. In fact, I had the place pretty nearly to myself, not only on this first day, but for the entire week. Once in a great while a human visitor was encountered, but for the most part I went up and down the path with no disturbance to my meditations. Happily for me, the Bridge was now in its dull season. Many tourists had been here. The trunks of the older trees, the beeches especially, were scarred thickly with inglorious ini- tials, some of them so far from the ground that the authors of them must have stood on one anothers shoulders in their de- termination to get above the crowd. (In work of this kind an inch or two makes all the difference between renown and obscurity.) The fact was emblematic, I thought. So do men hoist and boost themselves into fame, not only in Cedar Creek ravine, but in the great world, as we call it, outside. Who so lowly- At Natural Bridge, Virginia. 11 minded as not to believe that he could make a name for himself if only he had a step-ladder? At the arch, likewise, such autographers had been busy ever since Washingtons day. I peeped into a crevice to obtain a closer view of a tiny fern, and there before me was a penciled name, invisible till I came thus near to it. One of the meek the writer must have been; a lead pencil, and so fine a hand! Dumphy of New Orleans. Why should I not second his modest bid for immortality? A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches. By all means let Dumphy of New Orleans be remembered. As for Washingtons G. W., the letters are said to be still decipherable by those who know exactly where to look and exactly what to look for; but I can testify to nothing of myself. I was told where the initials were; one was much plainer than the other, my informant said, which seemed to imply that one of them, at least, was more or less a matter of faith; he would go down with me some day and point them out; but the hour convenient to both of us never came, and so, although I almost always spent a minute or two in the search as I passed under the arch, I never detect- ed them or anything that I could even imagine to stand for them. I have had experience enough of such things, how- ever, to be aware that my failure proves nothing as against the witness of other mens eyesight. Certainly I know of no ground for doubting that Washington cut his initials on the cliff; and if he did, it seems reasonable to believe that tradition would have preserved a know- ledge of the place, and so have made it possible to find them now in all their inevitable indistinctness after so long an exposure to the wear of the elements. Neither do I esteem it anything but a natural and worthy curiosity for the vis- itor to wish to see them; and I may add my hope that all young men who are destined to achieve Washingtons mea sure of distinction will cut their names large and deep in every such wall, for the benefit of future generations. As for the rest of us, if we must scratch our names in stone or carve them on the bark of trees, let us seek some se- questered nook, where the sight of our doings will neither be an offense to oth- ers nor make us a laughing-stock. I have said that I discovered Dumphy of New Orleans while leaning against the cliff to peer into a crevice in search of a diminutive fern. This fern was of much interest to me, being nothing less than the wall-rue spleenwort (Asplenium Ruta-muraria), for which I had looked without success in years past on the lime- stone cliffs of northern Vermont, at Willoughby and elsewhere. The fronds, stipe and all, last - year plants in full fruit, were less than three inches in length. Another fern, one size larger, but equal- ly new and interesting, was the purple- stemmed cliff-brake (Pellcea atropurpu- rea), which also had eluded my search in its New England habitat. Both these rarities (plants which will grow only on limestone cannot easily be degraded into commonness) I could have gathered here in moderate numbers, but of course col- lecting is not permitted; it cannot be, in a spot so frequented by curiosity-seekers- It was pleasure enough for me, at any rate, to see them. Along the bottom of the ravine I had remarked a profusion of a strikingly beautiful larger fern (but still small- ish, as my pencil says), with showy red stems and a most graceful curving or drooping habit. This I could not make out for a time; but it proved to be, as I soon began to suspect, Cystopteris but- bifera, to my thinking one of the loveli- est of all things that grow. I had seen it abundant at Willoughby, Vermont, and at Owls Head, Canada, ten years before; but either my memory was play- ing me a trick, or there was here a very considerable diminution in the length of the fronds, accompanied by a decided 118 At Natural Bridge, Virginia. heightening in the color of the stalk and rhachis. Before long, however, I found a specimen aheady beginning to show its bulbiets, and these, with a study of Dr. Eatons description, left me in no doubt as to the plants identity. What other ferns may have been grow- ing in the ravine I cannot now pretend to say. I remember the Christmas fern, a goodly supply of the dainty little As- plenium triehomanes, and tufts of what I took with reasonable certainty for Cys- topteris fragilis in its early spring stage, than which few things can be more graceful. On the upper edge of the ravine, when I left the place one day by following a maze of zigzag cattle- paths up the steep slope, and found my- self, to my surprise, directly in the rear of the hotel, I came upon a dense patch of a smallish, very narrow, dark-stemmed fern, new to my eyes, the hairy lip- fern, so called (Cheilanthes vest ita). These fronds, too, like those of the cliff- brake and the wall-rue spleenwort, were of last years growth, thickly covered on the back with brown fruit-dots, and altogether having much the appear- ance of dry herbarium specimens; but they were good to look at, nevertheless. Here, as in the case of Pelhea atropur- purea, it was a question not only of a new species, but of a new genus. From my account of the scarcity of birds in Cedar Creek ravine the reader will have already inferred, perhaps, that I did not spend my days there, great as were its botanical attractions. My last mornings experience at Pulaski, the evidence there seen that the vernal mi- gration was at full tide, or near it, had brought on a pretty acute attack of ornithological fever, ~ a spring disease which I am happy to believe has become almost an epidemic in some parts of the United States within recent years, and not even the sight of new ferns and new flowers could allay its symptoms. I had counted upon finding a similar state of things here, all the woods astir with wings. Instead of that, I found the fields alive with chipping sparrows, the air full of chimney swifts, the shade trees in front of the hotel vocal with gold- finch notes, and, comparatively speaking, nothing else. By the end of the sec- ond day I was fast becoming disconso- late. No birds here, I wrote in my journal. I have tried woods of all sorts. A very few parula warblers, two or three red - eyed vireos, one yellow - throated vireo, seven Louisiana water thrushes in the glen, one prairie warbler, and a few oven-birds! No Bewick wrens. Two purple finches and one or two phwbes have been the only additions to my Vir- ginia list. A pitiful tale. Vacations are short and precious, and it goes hard with us to see them running to waste. The next evening (May 3) it was the same story continued. It is marvelous, the difference between this beautiful place, diversified with fields and woods, hard wood, cedar, pine, it is mar- velous, the difference between this hea- venly spot and Pulaski in the matter of birds. There I registered six new ar- rivals in half an hour Wednesday morn- ing; here I have made but six additions to my list in two full days. There is scarcely a sign of warbler migration. Was it that in Pulaski the woods were comparatively small, and the birds had to congregate in them? Or does Pulaski lie in a route of migration? Wild sur- Inises, both of them; but wisdom is not to be looked for in a fever patient. Six additions in two full days, I wrote; but the second day was not yet full. As evening came on I went out to stand awhile upon the bridge; and while I listened to the brawling of the creek and admired the beautiful scene below me, the moon shining straight down upon it, a nighthawk called from the sky, and afterward not from the sky a whip- poorwill. Here, then, were two more names for my catalogue; but even so, six or eight, it was a beggarly rate of increase in such a favored spot and At Natural Bridge, Virginia. 119 in the very nick of the season. The six additions, it may ease the read- ers curiosity to know, were the Carolina wren, the summer tanager, the purple finch, the indigo bunting, the blue-gray gnatcatcher, and the phwbe. One compensation there was for the ornithological barrenness of these first few days: I had the more leisure for botany. And the hours were not thrown away, although at the time I was almost ready to think they were, with so many of them devoted to ransacking the Man- ual; for a man who does not collect spe- cimens to carry home with him must, as it were, drive his field work and his closet work abreast; he must study out his find- ings as he goes along. On the evening of the second day, for example, I wrote in my journal thus, the final entry under that date, as the reader may guess: In bed. Strange how we flatter ourselves with a knowledge of names. I have spent much time to-day looking up the names of flowers and ferns, and somehow feel as if I had learned something in so doing. Really, however, I have learned only that some one else has seen the things before me, and called them so and so. At best that is nearly all I have learned. But after setting down the results of my investigations, especially of those having to do with the pretty draba and the bul- biferous fern, I concluded in a less posi- tive strain: Well, the hunt for names does quicken observation and help to re- late and classify things. That was a qualification well put in. The whole truth was never written on one side of the leaf. If all our botany were Latin names, as Emerson says, we should have little to boast of; yet even that would be one degree better than nothing, as Emerson himself felt when he visited a museum and saw the cases of shells. I was hungry for names, he remarks. So have all men of intelligence been since the day of the first systematic, name- conferring naturalist, the man who dwelt in Eden. Let us be thankful for man- nals, I say, that offer on easy terms a speaking acquaintance, if nothing more, with the world of beauty about us. Things take their value from compari- son, and my own ignorance was but a little while ago so absolute that now I am proud to know so much as a name. Meanwhile, to come back to Natural Bridge, I had found the country of a most engaging sort. In truth, while the bridge itself is the feature of the place, as we speak in these days, it is by no means its only, or, as I should say, its principal attraction, so far, at least, as a leisurely visit is concerned. A man may see it and go, as most tourists do; but if he stays, he will find that the region round about not only has charms of its own, but is one of the prettiest he has ever set eyes on; and that, I should think, though he be neither a botanist, nor an ornithologist, nor any other kind of natural historian. For myself, at all events, I had already come to that con- clusion, notwithstanding I had yet to see some of the most beautiful parts of the country, and was, besides, far too much concerned about the birds (the absentees in particular) and the flowers to have quieted down to any adequate apprecia- tion of the general landscape. I have never yet learned to see a prospect on the first day, or while in the eager ex- pectation of new things, although, like every one else, I can exclaim with a mea- sure of shallow sincerity, Beautiful! beautiful! even at the first moment. As my mood now was, at any rate, fine scenery did not satisfy me; and on the morning of May 4, after two days and a half of botanical surfeit and or- nithological starvation, I packed my trunk preparatory to going elsewhere. First, however, I would try the woods once more, if perchance something might have happened overnight. Otherwise, so I informed the landlord, I would re- turn in season for an early luncheon, and should expect to be driven to tIme station for the noon train northward. 120 At Natural Bridge, Virginia. I went to a promising-looking hill cov- ered with hard-wood forest, a spot al- ready visited more than once, Buck Hill I heard it called afterward, and was no sooner well in the woods than it became evident that something had happened. The treetops were swarming with birds, and I had my hands full with trying to see and name them. Old trees are grand creations, among the noblest works of God, I often think; but for a bird-gazer they have one disheart- ening drawback, especially when, as now, the birds not only take to the topmost boughs (even the hummer and the mag- nolia warbler, so my notes say, went with the multitude to do evil), but, to make matters worse, are on the move north- ward or southward, or flitting in simple restlessness from hill to hill. However, I did my best with them while the fun lasted. Then all in a moment they were gone, though I did not see them go; and nothing was left but the wearisome iter- ations of oven-birds and red-eyes where just now were so many singers and talk- ers, among which, for aught I could tell, there might have been some that it would have been worth the price of a long va- cation to scrape even a treetop acquaint- ance with. Indeed, it was certain that one mem- ber of the flock was a rarity, if not an absolute novelty. That was the most exciting and by all odds the most de- plorable incident of the whole affair. I had obtained several glimpses of him, but had been unable to determine his identity; a warbler, past all reasonable doubt, with pure white under parts (the upper parts quite invisible) except for a black or blackish line, barely made out, across the lower throat or the upper breast. He, of course, had vanished with the rest, the more was the pity. I had made a guess at him, to be sure; it is a poor naturalist who cannot do as much as that (but a really good natural- ist would form a hypothesis, I sup- pose) under almost any circumstances. I had called him a cerulean warbler. Once in my life I had seen a bird of that species, but only for a minute. If he wore a black breast-band, I did not see it, or else had forgotten it. If I could only have had a look at this fel- lows back and wings! As it was, I was not likely ever to know him, though the printed description would either demol- ish or add a degree of plausibility to my offhand conjecture. The better course, after losing a bevy of wanderers in this way, is perhaps to remain where one is and await the arrival of another detachment of the migratory host. This advice, or something like it, I seem to remember having read, at all events; but I have never schooled myself to such a pitch of quietism. For a time, indeed, I could not believe that the birds were lost, and must hunt the hilltop over in the hope of another chance at them. An empty hope. So I did what I al- ways do: the game having flown, I took my own departure also. I should not find the same flock again, but with good luck which now it was easy to expect I might find another; and except for the single mysterious stranger, that would be better still. One thing I was sure of, Natural Bridge was not to be left out of the warbler migration; and one thing I forgot entirely, that I had planned to leave it by the noonday train. My useless chase over the broad hill- top had brought me to the side opposite the one by which I had ascended, and to save time, as I persuaded myself, I plunged down, as best I could, without a trail, a piece of expensive economy, almost of course. In the first place, this haphazardous descent took me longer than it would have done to retrace my steps; and in the second place, I was compelled for much of the distance to force my way through troublesome un- derbrush, in doing which I made of ne- cessity being a white man no little noise, and so was the less likely to hear the note of any small bird, or to come At Natural Bridge, Virginia. 121 close upon him without putting him to flight. In general, let the bird - gazer keep to the path, except in open woods, or as some specific errand may lead him away from it. In one way and another, nevertheless, I got down at last, and after beating over a piece of pine wood, with little or no result, I crossed a field and a road, and entered a second tract of hard- wood forest. The trees were comfortably low, with much convenient shrubbery, and after a little, seeing myself at the centre of things, as it were, I dropped into a seat and allowed the birds to gather about me. At my back was a bunch of white- throated sparrows. From the same quarter a chat whistled now and then, and white - breasted nuthatchcs and a Carolina chickadee did likewise, the last with a noticeable variation in his tune, which had dwindled to three notes. Here, as on the hill I had just left, wood pewees and Acadian flycatchers announced themselves, in tones so dis- similar as to suggest no hint of blood relationship. The wood pewee is surely the gentleman of the family, so far as the voice may serve as an indication of character. In dress and personal ap- pearance he is a flycatcher of the fly- catchers; but what a contrast between his soft, plaintive, exquisitely modulated whistle, the very expression of refine- ment, and the wild, rasping, over - em- phatic vociferations that characterize the family in general! The more praise to him. The Acadians seemed to have come northward in a body. Nothing had been seen or heard of them before, but from this morning they abounded in all directions. In a single night they had taken possession of the woods. Here was the first Canadian warbler of the season, singing from a perch so Un- commonly elevated (he is a lover of bushy thickets rather than of trees) that for a time it did not come to me who he was, so exceedingly earnest and voluble. A black - throated blue war- bler almost brushed my elbow. Red- starts were never so splendid, I thought, the white of the dogwood blossoms, now in their prime, setting off the black and orange of the birds in a most brilliant manner, as was true also of the deep ver- milion of the summer tanager. A Black- burnian warbler, whose flame - colored throat needs no setting but its own, had fallen into a lyrical mood very unusual for him, and sang almost continuously for at least half an hour, a poor little song in a thin little voice, but full of pleasant suggestions in every note. The first Swainson thrush was present, with no companion of his own kind, so far as appeared. I prolonged my stay on pur- pose to hear him sing, but was obliged to content myself with the sight of him and the sound of his sweet, quick whistle. All the while, as I watched one fa- vorite another would come between us. Once it was a humming-bird, a bit of animate beauty that must always be at- tended to; and once, when the place had of a sudden fallen silent, and I had taken out a book, I was startled by a flash of white among the branches, a red-headed woodpecker, in superb color, new for the year, and on all accounts welcome. He remained for a time in silence, and then in silence departed (he had been almost too near me before he knew it); but having gone, he began a little way off to play the tree-frog for my amusement. After him a hairy wood- pecker made his appearance, with sharp, peremptory signals, highly characteris- tic; and then, from some point near by, a rose-breasted grosbeaks hic was heard. It was high noon before I was done with receiving (one of the prettiest functions of the year, though none of the newspapers got wind of it), and re- turned to the hotel, where the landlord smiled when I told him that some friends of mine had arrived, and I should stay a few days longer. Bradford Torrey. 122 Some New Letters by Leigh Hunt and Stevenson. SOME NEW LETTERS BY LEIGH HUNT AND STEVENSON. ALEXANDER IRELAND is known to most book-lovers chiefly as the compiler of The Book-Lovers Enchiridion, but it will perhaps be as the friend of some of the greatest literary celebrities of his day that he will longest be borne in re- membrance. And that day was a long one, for he was born in Edinburgh on May 9, 1810, and died in Manchester on December 7, 1895. Although he was not actively connect- ed with journalism until 1846, when he became business manager of the Man- chester Examiner and Times, Mr. Ire- land had been keenly interested in liter- ature for many years, and as early as 1835 had made the acquaintance of Emerson and Robert Chambers. The history of his friendship with Emerson he himself has given in his Memoir and Recollections of Emerson (1892). For nine years (183443) he was a constant visitor at the home of Robert Chambers, coining into contact there with many interesting people. It was through Mr. Ireland that Vestiges of Creation was first published; and later, it was he who divulged the secret of the authorship, as he was the last survivor of the four to whom it had been entrusted. It must remain a matter for infinite regret that he never put together his recollections of the distinguished writers whom he had known. It was on the occasion of a visit to London, in the spring of 1838, that Mr. Ireland made the acquaintance of Leigh Hunt, introduced by Robert Chambers in the first of the following letters EDINBURGH, March 28, 1838. M~ DEAR SIR, A. young friend of mine, who often reads and converses upon your works with me, and is, though in business, capable of appreciating their thought, fancy, and benevolence, is about to visit London, and I have thought of gratifying both him and myself by com- missioning him to take this letter to you, to inquire how you do, and to give you my kind remembrances, and to bring me from your own lips, if possible, some intelligence regarding you. All I have heard of you for some time is that you conduct the Monthly Repository, which is not to be seen in Scotland, or which, at any rate, I have not seen since you began to be connected with it. I should like to know if Fortune is kinder to you than she has been, and how your lambs suck and ewes feed; how your young people, I mean, are getting on. You and the world have somehow been uncon- formable strata, which surely there was no need for; and as I think it owes you something, I should like to learn that it has begun to pay the debt. My friends name is Ireland; he is the son of an eminent Edinbro patriot, and an excel- lent young man, setting aside all regard to literary taste and philosophic princi- ple. Next to Lamb, I believe you are his favourite author, and you can sympa- thize in the pleasure which a young man of refined feelings, brought up in the country, niust be disposed to experience on being admitted to see, in very habit as he lives, one of the objects of his worship. If his good fortune and your convenience unite to favour him with an interview of a few minutes, it will make me, as his friend, your grateful debtor. Trusting to hear all that is good of you, and with sentiments of sincere re- gard, I remain, my dear sir, Yours ever faithfully, ROBERT CHAMBERS. ALEXANDiIE IRELAND TO LEIGH RUNT. EDINBURGH, May 18, 1838. M~ DEAR Sin, I beg your accept- amice of the accompanying works, of

Ethel Alleyne Ireland Ireland, Ethel Alleyne Some New Letters by Leigh Hunt and Stevenson 122-128

122 Some New Letters by Leigh Hunt and Stevenson. SOME NEW LETTERS BY LEIGH HUNT AND STEVENSON. ALEXANDER IRELAND is known to most book-lovers chiefly as the compiler of The Book-Lovers Enchiridion, but it will perhaps be as the friend of some of the greatest literary celebrities of his day that he will longest be borne in re- membrance. And that day was a long one, for he was born in Edinburgh on May 9, 1810, and died in Manchester on December 7, 1895. Although he was not actively connect- ed with journalism until 1846, when he became business manager of the Man- chester Examiner and Times, Mr. Ire- land had been keenly interested in liter- ature for many years, and as early as 1835 had made the acquaintance of Emerson and Robert Chambers. The history of his friendship with Emerson he himself has given in his Memoir and Recollections of Emerson (1892). For nine years (183443) he was a constant visitor at the home of Robert Chambers, coining into contact there with many interesting people. It was through Mr. Ireland that Vestiges of Creation was first published; and later, it was he who divulged the secret of the authorship, as he was the last survivor of the four to whom it had been entrusted. It must remain a matter for infinite regret that he never put together his recollections of the distinguished writers whom he had known. It was on the occasion of a visit to London, in the spring of 1838, that Mr. Ireland made the acquaintance of Leigh Hunt, introduced by Robert Chambers in the first of the following letters EDINBURGH, March 28, 1838. M~ DEAR SIR, A. young friend of mine, who often reads and converses upon your works with me, and is, though in business, capable of appreciating their thought, fancy, and benevolence, is about to visit London, and I have thought of gratifying both him and myself by com- missioning him to take this letter to you, to inquire how you do, and to give you my kind remembrances, and to bring me from your own lips, if possible, some intelligence regarding you. All I have heard of you for some time is that you conduct the Monthly Repository, which is not to be seen in Scotland, or which, at any rate, I have not seen since you began to be connected with it. I should like to know if Fortune is kinder to you than she has been, and how your lambs suck and ewes feed; how your young people, I mean, are getting on. You and the world have somehow been uncon- formable strata, which surely there was no need for; and as I think it owes you something, I should like to learn that it has begun to pay the debt. My friends name is Ireland; he is the son of an eminent Edinbro patriot, and an excel- lent young man, setting aside all regard to literary taste and philosophic princi- ple. Next to Lamb, I believe you are his favourite author, and you can sympa- thize in the pleasure which a young man of refined feelings, brought up in the country, niust be disposed to experience on being admitted to see, in very habit as he lives, one of the objects of his worship. If his good fortune and your convenience unite to favour him with an interview of a few minutes, it will make me, as his friend, your grateful debtor. Trusting to hear all that is good of you, and with sentiments of sincere re- gard, I remain, my dear sir, Yours ever faithfully, ROBERT CHAMBERS. ALEXANDiIE IRELAND TO LEIGH RUNT. EDINBURGH, May 18, 1838. M~ DEAR Sin, I beg your accept- amice of the accompanying works, of Some New Letters by Leigh Hunt and Stevenson. 123 which I spoke to you when I saw you. I should like to know your opinion of both, but particularly of Combes work. It appears to me to unfold very impor- tant views relative to the advancement and amelioration of the species, and af- fords a solution, in my humble opinion, of many of those difficulties connected with the moral government of the uni- verse which puzzle those accustomed to think of such subjects. I sincerely trust that you may pre- serve your health, because upon it de- pend cheerfulness and all the blessings. A Spanish proverb says, He who loves wealth loves much; he who loves friends loves more; but he who loves health loves all. May happier and brighter days be yet in store for you and yours! I retain the most pleasing recollection of my interview with you, and I shall have resort to your works with greater delight than ever, now that I know you. Mr. Chambers desires me to return you his grateful thanks for your kindness to me as his friend. I shall be exceeding- ly happy to hear from you when you have leisure to write; and believe me, I will always continue to feel the liveliest interest in your welfare. Yours faithfully, A. IRELAND. ALEXANDER TRELAND TO LEIGH HUNT. MANCHESTER, May 4, 1845. Mv DEAR Sin, You may not per- haps recollect me; but I shall never forget a delightful evening I spent with you six or seven years ago in Chelsea, where you welcomed me to your house, and allowed me the privilege of a few hours conversationwith you about Lamb, Hazlitt, Coleridge, and Poetry and Life, and all these glorious things. Since then many things have happened to me, both sad and sweet, but all tend- ing to make me love my fellow creatures more and more, and to have stronger and firmer hopes in the advancement of our common nature. I have been for two years residing in Manchester, engaged in commercial pur- suits. I am connected with the Athe~ nlcum, a literary institution of consid- erable importance, and of which you have doubtless heard. My object in writing to you is to ascertain whether you would be willing to be chairman at our next great soir~e. Dickens was our first chairman, Disraeli our second, and we are now beginning to think of a third. Leigh Hunts first letter to Ireland shows that even in the chorus of fame which was then assailing him the author enjoyed the single but sincere note which his young worshiper sounded: CHELSEA, February 21 [about 18401. M~ DEAR Sin, I wish I could write you as long and welcome a letter as the one I have received, and cram it full of all impossible good things besides; but overwhelmed as I am with heaps of writ- ten and printed congratulations, every one of which I am bound in gratitude, as well as impelled with delight, to an- swer, I am forced to make my thanks as brief as I can, consistently with my feelings. Many thanks for the letter it- self, and the length of it, and all you say in it, and the time at which it was written, and above all for the news you tell inc of Mrs. Ireland; for the breath of a woman ever sounds the best as well as the highest of all the notes of joy. With best returns of congratulations to you both, and hope to see you together some day on the green borders of Lon- don (for I am going to flit northward towards my old meadows), I am ever, dear sir, Your faithful and obliged servant, LEIGH HUNT. Like everybody else, Hunt seems to have fallen victim to the memorable epi- demic of influenza in 1841; for he writes from Kensington under date of February 16 of that year: 124 Some New Letters by Leigh Hant, and Stevenson. MY DEAR IRELAND, Pardon this brief word of a note. I have been so unwell with influenza, and am so with the consequences of it, I seem as if I bad been walking a hundred miles, and could nt get the fatigue out of my limbs. Ever most truly yours, L. H. The next letters show that Mr. Ire- lands admiration for his gifted friend continued to find expression: KENsINGToN, May 31. M~ DEAR IRELAND, My friend Mr. Ollier informs me that some weeks ago there was a very kind notice of me in an article in your old godfather the Examiner. I fear the godson must have thought me very insensible for say- ing nothing about it, but I have never seen the article. The number of the Manchester Examiner containingit never came into my hands. Observing the series of notices which your paper was giving of contemporary journals, etc., I had delayed making a remark or two on itself till I had seen the number in question; and its non- arrival was therefore doubly perplexing. Will you have the goodness to inquire whether any accident stopped it at the office? When I receive it I will write again. I have another request to make you; which is, to constitute yourself, for one minute, my spiritual representative at the Amateur supper (luckily for you, you cannot represent me in the flesh), and getting up, glass in hand, drink my kindest affectionate remembrances to my famous friend, and cordialest wishes for the Shakespearean welfare of Knowles. Ever most sincerely yours, LEIGH HUNT. P. 5. You will be glad to know that Webster has accepted my play, and that he promises to bring it out early next season. KENSINGTON, June 23. MY DEAR SIR, A million thanks for papers and their contents, and all kindness. I am forced to write very briefly, owing to a bad biliosified head; but you may well imagine what I feel, at what all kind friends are saying and doing. I hope to thank the Manchester por- tion of them by and by in person, for, if I prosper, there is nothing which will add to my good and pleasure so much as taking a journey or two gratitude- wards: in which hope I am ever, my dear sir, most sincerely Your obliged and faithful friend, LEIGH HUNT. The following extract from a letter of Irelands to Leigh Hunt, referring to the production of Hunts play, A Legend of Florence, in London, shows the con- tinned recollection of the memorable first meeting ten years before: I have just been reading in the Morning Chronicle and Examiner ac counts of your new play. Allow me to express to you the sin& ere pleasure and glow of satisfaction with which I read them. Amongst the many congratula- tions of your friends, be assured none can be more heartfelt than mine. Your works have been to me for years a solace and delight; a kind of sanctuary where I can retire from the rush of this worka- day world. I cannot resist the occasion of sending you a few lines, prompted to it by this pleasing passage in your his- tory. Never shall I forget your kind- ness in permitting me, an entire stranger ( No! I hear you say; an author and his reader cannot be strangers ), to spend a few hours with you some ten years since. That the gray - haired boy whose heart can neer grow old may long be spared to utter sweet and generous thoughts, diffusing wherever they go a cheerful humanity and mirthfulness, is the prayer of Your sincere well-wisher, ALEXANDER IRELAND. Some New Letters by Leigh Hunt and Stevenson. 125 This last letter of Hunts shows his reverence for royalty, and reveals the sensitive vanity of the man. A play is, after all, the last thing in the world on which a man can rationally take criticism. HAMMERSMITH, October 27 [about 1849]. M~ DEAR SIR, Many thanks for your handsome notice of my play. Next to this, your approbation of it. I was particularly pleased to find that Mr. Montgomery gave way to his fervour so properly, on the occasion you allude to. I used to make Ellen Tree laugh, dur- ing the rehearsals of the part, by re- minding Mr. Anderson that he was not to be indecent, but to clasp his mistress right heartily, and as if the only thing to be ashamed of were his doing it by halves. For you know there is apt to be a cold suggestiveness on the stage, on such occasions, which is the most inde- cent of all things. Ah! I wish every- body had understood the play as thor- oughly as her fine nature did, or as that (let me proudly add) of the Queen did. I do not speak of the poetry, but of the heart and justice of it. It would have had a better fortune. But thereby hangs a tale. You speak of the emptiness of the boxes. There were so few men, one night, among the audience at Covent Garden that the same charming actress wittily said, Those are all the good husbands in London. The same in- equality of the sexes will perhaps have been observable in the Manchester au- diences. If so, it might be worth your while (and edifying for them) to notice it. Madame Vestris, with an instinctive apprehension to that effect, wished me to let Agolanti have his wife back again, and said that if I did so she would un- dertake that the play should have a run of sixty nights. I told her that my con- science would not allow me; that I felt I had a piece of legislation in my hands, the duty of which I could not give up; and that as the man was not to be di- vorced (for she would not have the di- vorce in the play, as originally written) nothing remained for justice but to kill him. A queens opinion, however, may do much, in spite of conventional errors. How it happened that the Legend of Florence was not repeated at the Prin- cesss Theatre, as other plays performed at Windsor had been, I have yet to learn, and even to inquire, so strangely in- curious am I, and so much in the habit of waiting events; but I ought to have done so, and must, now that my Auto- biography is to be continued. Strange things have been told me, but I have never investigated them. Not that the Queen had anything to do with them. Her Majesty (God bless the dear, warm- hearted woman) has never done me any- thing but good and honour, from first to last. Perhaps you are not aware that after she had first witnessed the performance of the play at Covent Garden, the Queen, on her way out of the theatre, said to the stage manager, This is a beauti- ful play you have given us to-night, Mr. Bartly. Bartly, with great good na- ture as well as presence of mind, said to the Queen, I think the author would be very happy if I might repeat to him those gracious words of your Majesty. Do so, by all means, said the cordial sovereign. Lord John Russell told me that Prince Albert expressed the same opinion of the piece. You are aware, I believe, that the Queen went more than once to see it at Covent Garden; twice, I know, but Madame Vestris told a friend that she went four times. She afterward had it performed at Windsor; and this, I think, it might have been good for the Man- chester people to be told, in the plays announcements. I had thought of say- ing as much to the manager, myself, in a letter to him; but living so retired, and ignorant of so many things which other people know, I am not acquainted with 126 Some New Letters by Leigh Hunt and Stevenson. his name, and did not like to address him merely by his office. Perhaps, if you, or some friend of yours, have per- sonal knowledge of him, you would be kind enough to convey my compliments to him and state my opinion on the sub- ject; perhaps let him have a sight of this letter. I cannot help thinking, knowing what an effect royalty has at all times, and how just a sympathy the people have with it, in its present English shape, that if the manager were to speak of the play in his bills and announcements as performed by her Majestys command at Windsor Castle, the result to the boxes might be good for all parties concerned. With constant pleasure in rending, every Saturday or Monday (according as the postman chooses to gratify me), both your original articles (often pluck- ing out the whole heart of the questions) and the judicious and entertaining selec- tions which you make from books, I am ever, dear sir, Thankfully and faithfully yours, LEJGH HUNT. Another of the literary men whom Mr. Ireland had among his correspondents was Robert Louis Stevenson. The first of the following letters from him the only real letter of the three; the others are but notes is very characteristic, in- tense, eager, and hopeful. DAvos, SwITZERLAND [1881 ?]. M~ DEAR SIR, This formidable pa- per need not alarm you: it argues no- thing beyond penury of other sorts, and it is not at all likely to lead me into a long letter. If I were at all grateful, it would, for yours has just passed for me a considerable part of a stormy even- ing. And speaking of gratitude, let me at once, and with becoming eagerness, accept your kind invitation to Bowden. I shall hope, if we can agree as to dates, when I am nearer hand, to come to you some time in the month of May. I was pleased to hear you were a Scot, I feel more at home with my compatriots al- ways; perhaps the more we are away, the more we feel that bond. You ask about Davos. I have dis- coursed about it already, rather sillily, I think, in the Pall Mall, and I mean to say no more; but the ways of the Muse are dubious and obscure, and who knows? I may be wild again. As a place of resi- dence, beyond a splendid climate, it has to my eyes but one advantage, the neigh- bourhood of J. A. Symonds. I dare say you know his work, but the man is far more interesting. Davos has done me, in my two winters of Alpine exile, much good; so much that I hope to leave it now forever, but would not be understood to boast. In my present unpardonably crazy state, any cold night sends me skipping, either back to Davos or further off. It is dear, a little dreary, very far from many things that both my taste and my needs prompt me to seek, and altogether not the place I should choose of my free will. I am chilled by your description of the man in question; though I had al- most argued so much from his cold and undigested volume. If the republication does not interfere with my publisher, it will not interfere with me; but there, of course, comes the hitch. I do not know Mr. Bentley, and I fear all pub- lishers like the devil, from legend and ex- perience both. However, when I come to town, we shall, I hope, meet and un- derstand each other, as well as author and publisher ever do. I liked his let- ters; they seemed hearty, kind, and per- sonal. Still, I am notedly suspicious of the trade; your news of this republica- tion alarms me. The best of the present French nov- elists seems to me, incomparably, Dan- det. Les Rois en Exil comes very near being a masterpiece. For Zola I have no toleration, though the curious, emi- nently bourgeois, and eminently French creature has power of a kind. But I Some New Letters by Leigh Hunt and Stevenson. 127 would he were deleted! I would not give a chapter of old Dumas (meaning hiniself, not his collaborators) for the whole boiling of the Zolas. Romance with the smallpox (or the great one), diseased and black-hearted, and fun- damentally at enmity with joy. I trust that Mrs. Ireland does not ob- ject to smoking; aud if you are a tea- totaler, I beg you to mention it before I come. I have all the vices; some of the virtues also, let us hope, that, at least, of being a Scotchman and Yours very sincerely, ROBERT Louis STEVENSON. P. 5. My father was in the old High School the last year, and walked in the procession to the new. I blush to own I am an Academy boy; it seems modern, and smacks of the soil. P. P. S. I enclose a good joke, at least, I think so, my first attempts, and wood-engravings printed by my stepson, a boy of thirteen. I will put in also one of my later attempts. I have been nine days at the art: observe my pro gress. R. L. S. The shadow of illness lay over all the work Stevenson did, but he maintained a merry daring till the end. SPEv VIEW, KIEGEOssIE, August 18 [1883 ?]. M~ DEAR SIR, I am afraid the 14th of September is too late for me, and we 11 have to delay the visit till next summer. I regret this extremely; but I must be thinking of something more to the purpose finding a shelter for my head by that date. I am feeling better, though I have been worse, since I saw you; but I am in hopes that I shall get through the sum- mer, at least, without harm, and then some better climate in winter will en- able me to progress. Summer seems worse than winter, somehow. Pray excuse my delay. This is a for- mula of mine, a elich6. But my wife has had a relapse, and be- tween that and dyspepsia I have not had my head on my shoulders this while past. With many thanks, believe me, Yours very truly, ROBERT Louis STEVENSON. Did I ever tell you with how great an interest I had read your reminiscences of Carlyle and Mrs. C.? If not, it was ten- fold ungrateful. I have not often read anything so convincing. I believe I felt both of them more nearly in your paper than anywhere else. R. L. S. The pages below referred to, which Stevenson found so much pleasure in hav- ing reprinted in the Enchiridion, were taken from an article published in the Fortnightly Review of April, 1881, on The Morality of the Profession of Let- ters. The Hazhitt scheme was a pro- posal by Stevenson to prepare a volume on William Hazlitt for the English Men of Letters series. H6TEL DES ILES DOR, HxkiiEs, FRANcE, Novenber [1883 ?]. M~ DEAR SIR, Much ill health, and a whole odyssey of changes, and a sea of confused affairs must stand my excuse for this long silence. I am now better, much better, and have got to a place where, at least, I take a moments breath; and so I hasten to thank you for your having kindly sent me the Enchiridion, and still more kindly found a place for a word of mine in so select a company. It is much easier for you to imagine than for me to express (that, at least, is an original phrase) the gratification I felt when I saw my name in your collection: I fear it was the extract I enjoyed the most! but the whole work seems admirably done, and I find it Rot only a beautiful little book for the eye, but quite one of those pocket volumes that a man can read and re-read, without end or weariness. The Hazhitt scheme lies, for the pre- sent, high and dry; I do not even see my way to revisit England this year, and it would be tempting Providence to make 128 The Russian Jew in America. sure of the next. I believe I require a long absence and much care, to get pro- perly on my legs again, and the abomi- nable folly of getting well in winter, only to come home and fall ill again in au- tumn, is one which I am eager to avoid repeating. Please pardon me as well as you can for that sort of fault to which, I fear, I have already only too much ac- customed you, and believe me, Yours very sincerely, ROBERT Louis STEVENSON. A. IRELAND, EsQ. As these fragmentary letters show, Mr. Ireland was exceedingly rich in re- miniscence; he could tell of interviews with Sir Walter Scott, De Quincey, and William and Dorothy Wordsworth; he numbered among his friends Thomas Campbell, Leigh Hunt, Thomas Car- lyle, Charles and Mary Cowden Clarke, Oliver Wendell Holmes, James Russell Lowell, Robert Louis Stevenson, and many more. Carlyle, from whose caustic portraiture so few of his friends did not suffer, said of Mr. Ireland in 1847: A. solid, dark, broad, rather heavy ma. ; full of energy and broad sagacity and prac- ticability, infinitely well affected to the man Emerson. And the man Emer- son has said of him, with equal truth and greater warmth: At the landing in Liverpool I found my Manchester cor- respondent awaiting me. . . . He added to solid virtues an infinite sweetness and bonhomie. There seemed a pool of honey about his heart which lubricated all his speech and action with fine jets of mead. At the age of seventy Mr. Ireland retired from active connection with the Examiner and Times, and the gradual failure of the paper (which was actually sold, and passed out of existence some ten years later) obliged him ~o spend the remaining years of his life in the greatest simplicity of living. Ethel Alleyne Ireland. THE RUSSIAN JEW IN AMERICA. ONE afternoon in the summer of 1881, when the Jewish quarter of Kieff was filled with groans and its pavements were strewn with the d6bris of destroyed homes, a group of young men entered one of the synagogues of the ancient city. They were well dressed, and their gener- al appearance bespoke education and re- finement. The rabbi had proclaimed a day of fasting and prayer, and the house of God was crowded with sobbing victims of the recent riots, but as the newcomers made their way to the Holy Ark silence fell upon the congregation. The young men were students of the University of St. Vladimir, and although sons of Israel like the others, their presence at a syna- gogue was an unusual sight. Brethren, said the spokesman of the delegation, struggling with his sobs, we are a committee of the Jewish students of the university, sent to clasp hands with you and to mingle our tears with your tears. We are here to say to you, We are your brothers; Jews like yourselves, like our fathers! We have striven to adopt the language and manners of our Christian fellow countrymen; we have brought ourselves up to an ardent love of their literature, of their culture, of their progress. We have tried to persuade ourselves that we are children of Mother Russia. Alas! we have been in error. The terrible events which have called forth this fast and these tears have aroused us from our dream. The voice of the blood of our outraged brothers and sisters cries unto us that we are only

Abraham Cahan Cahan, Abraham The Russian Jew in America 128-139

128 The Russian Jew in America. sure of the next. I believe I require a long absence and much care, to get pro- perly on my legs again, and the abomi- nable folly of getting well in winter, only to come home and fall ill again in au- tumn, is one which I am eager to avoid repeating. Please pardon me as well as you can for that sort of fault to which, I fear, I have already only too much ac- customed you, and believe me, Yours very sincerely, ROBERT Louis STEVENSON. A. IRELAND, EsQ. As these fragmentary letters show, Mr. Ireland was exceedingly rich in re- miniscence; he could tell of interviews with Sir Walter Scott, De Quincey, and William and Dorothy Wordsworth; he numbered among his friends Thomas Campbell, Leigh Hunt, Thomas Car- lyle, Charles and Mary Cowden Clarke, Oliver Wendell Holmes, James Russell Lowell, Robert Louis Stevenson, and many more. Carlyle, from whose caustic portraiture so few of his friends did not suffer, said of Mr. Ireland in 1847: A. solid, dark, broad, rather heavy ma. ; full of energy and broad sagacity and prac- ticability, infinitely well affected to the man Emerson. And the man Emer- son has said of him, with equal truth and greater warmth: At the landing in Liverpool I found my Manchester cor- respondent awaiting me. . . . He added to solid virtues an infinite sweetness and bonhomie. There seemed a pool of honey about his heart which lubricated all his speech and action with fine jets of mead. At the age of seventy Mr. Ireland retired from active connection with the Examiner and Times, and the gradual failure of the paper (which was actually sold, and passed out of existence some ten years later) obliged him ~o spend the remaining years of his life in the greatest simplicity of living. Ethel Alleyne Ireland. THE RUSSIAN JEW IN AMERICA. ONE afternoon in the summer of 1881, when the Jewish quarter of Kieff was filled with groans and its pavements were strewn with the d6bris of destroyed homes, a group of young men entered one of the synagogues of the ancient city. They were well dressed, and their gener- al appearance bespoke education and re- finement. The rabbi had proclaimed a day of fasting and prayer, and the house of God was crowded with sobbing victims of the recent riots, but as the newcomers made their way to the Holy Ark silence fell upon the congregation. The young men were students of the University of St. Vladimir, and although sons of Israel like the others, their presence at a syna- gogue was an unusual sight. Brethren, said the spokesman of the delegation, struggling with his sobs, we are a committee of the Jewish students of the university, sent to clasp hands with you and to mingle our tears with your tears. We are here to say to you, We are your brothers; Jews like yourselves, like our fathers! We have striven to adopt the language and manners of our Christian fellow countrymen; we have brought ourselves up to an ardent love of their literature, of their culture, of their progress. We have tried to persuade ourselves that we are children of Mother Russia. Alas! we have been in error. The terrible events which have called forth this fast and these tears have aroused us from our dream. The voice of the blood of our outraged brothers and sisters cries unto us that we are only The Russian Jew in America. 129 strangers in the land which we have been used to call our home; that we are only stepchildren here, waifs to be trampled upon and dishonored. There is no hope for Israel in Russia. The salvation of the downtrodden people lies in other parts, in a land beyond the seas, which knows no distinction of race or faith, which is a mother to Jew and Gentile alike. In the great republic is our re- demption from the brutalities and igno- minies to which we are subjected in this our birthplace. In America we shall find rest; the stars and stripes will wave over the true home of our people. To America, brethren! To America! On February 2, 1882, a public meet- ing was held at Chickering Hall, New York. The proceedings were presided over by William R. Grace, then mayor of the city, with Judge Noah Davis, Hamilton Fish, Robert L. Stuart, Anson Phelps Stokes, Charles H. Van Brunt, Joseph H. Choate, and other well-known citizens as vice-chairmen. Ex-Secretary Evarts and the Rev. Dr. Hale were the principal speakers. The resolutions, adopted unanimously, and which met with the hearty approval of the entire American people, recited that the citi- zens of New York have heard with sad- ness and indignation of the sufferings inflicted upon the Jews of Russia, and that in the name of civilization we pro- test against the spirit of medi~val perse- cution. In this age the recognized equal. ity of all men, irrespective of their reli- gious confessions, an essential element in American constitutions, is a principle and a practice which secures the loyal devotion of all classes. This is eminent- ly true of the Hebrews, who constitute faithful citizens and subjects wherever accorded the rights of manhood. The resolutions continued: We sympathize with our fellow citizens of the Hebrew faith in their sorrow for their afflicted brethren in Russia, and in their energetic efforts for the welcome of the exiles. The two gatherings, held in two hemi VOL. LXXXII. No. 489. 9 spheres, mark the opening of an impor- tant chapter in the history of the Jewish race, the beginning of a new great exo- dus of the wandering people. In the summer following the Chickering Hall meeting almost every incoming trans- atlantic steamship brought hundreds of Russian refugees to these shores. Before 1882 the emigration of Rus- sian Jews to America was restricted to the provinces lying about the Niemen and the Dwina, notably to the govern- ment of Souvalki, where economical con- ditions caused Catholic peasants as well as Jewish tradesmen and artisans to go elsewhere in search of bread. Some of these Lithuanian and Polish Jews sought their fortune in the southern dis- tricts of the empire, where their brethren enjoyed a high average of prosperity, while the more venturesome crossed the frontier to embark for the New World. Among the Jews of the south (Ukraine and New Russia) and of the central pro- vinces (Great Russia) self - expatriation was an unknown thing. But with the breaking out of the epidemic of anti-Jew- ish riots, which rendered thousands of well-to-do families homeless and pemini- less, Hebrew immigration to this country underwent an abrupt change in charac- ter as well as in volume. Not only did the government of Al- exander III. blink at the atrocities and practically encourage them, but it even sent a series of measures in their wake which had the effect of depriving new multitudes of stepchildren of their means of livelihood, and of dislodging thousands of families from their long- established homes. The cry To Amer- ica! was taken up by city after city and hamlet after hamlet, till its fascinating echo reached every synagogue in the em- pire. Many left because they had been driven from their homes, and these were joined by many others who, while affect- ed neither by the outbursts of mob vio- lence nor by the new restrictions, suc- cumbed to the contagious example of their 130 like Russian Jew in America. co-religionists and to a general sense of insecurity and of wounded race pride. The effiux which had hitherto been spo- radic suddenly became epidemic. The prosperous and the cultivated an ele- ment formerly rare among the Jewish arrivals at New York came to form a respectable minority in nearly every company of immigrants which, thanks to the assistance of the Hebrew communi- ties of western Europe and of this coun- try, the steamships brought from the domains of the Czar. The Jewish col- lege student, whose faith barred him from the educational institutions of the empire, sought these shores in order to complete his studies, and many a graduated physician, chemist, dentist, architect, and nrtist came here to take up the profession from which he was interdicted at his birthplace. Sixteen years have elapsed. The Jew- ish population in the United States has grown from a quarter of a million to about one million. Scarcely a large American town but has some Russo-Jew- ish names in its directory, with an edu~ cated Russian-speaking minority forming a colony within a Yiddish-speaking colo- fly, while cities like New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, and Boston have each a Ghetto rivaling in extent of population the largest Jewish cities in Russia, Aus- tria, and Roumania. The number of Jewish residents in Manhattan Rorough is estimated at two hundred and fifty thousand, making it the largest centre of Hebrew population in the world. The Russian tongue, which twenty years ago was as little used in this country as Per- sian, has been added to the list of lan- guages spoken by an appreciable portion of the polyglot immigrant population. Have the newcomers justified the wel- come extended to them from Chickering Hall? Have they proved a desirable accession to the American nation? Let another man praise thee, and not thine own mouth; a stranger, and not thine own lips, is a proverb current among the people who form the subject of this paper; and being one of them, I feel that it would be better, before citing figures and facts, to let Gentile Amen- cans who have made a study of the New York Ghetto answer the question. Here is what Mr. Jacob A. Riis, an accepted authority on how the other half lives, has to say of Jewish immigrants They [the Jews] do not rot in their slum, but, rising, pull it up after them. - As to their poverty, they brought us boundless energy and industry to over- come it. - . - They brought temperate habits and a redeeming love of home. Their strange customs proved the strong- est ally of the Gentile health officer in his warfare upon the slum. The death- rate of poverty-stricken Jew - town, de- spite its crowding, is lower always than that of the homes of the rich. - . . I am a Christian, and hold that in his belief the Jew is sadly in error. So that he may respect mine I insist on fair play for him all round. I am sure that our city has to-day no better and no more loyal citizen than the Jew, be he poor or rich, and none she has less to be ashamed of. The late Miss Ida Van Etten, who, as a worker among the factory girls of the East Side, had ample opportunities to study the Russian Jew at close range, found that politically the Jews possess many characteristics of the best citizens. Mr. James B. Reynolds, who, in his capacity of head worker of the univer- sity settlement of New York, has for many years been in direct touch with the people of the very heart of the Jew- ish district, gives the following general description of Hebrew immigrants My acquaintance has been mainly with the Russian, Polish, and Roumanian Jews. The first quality in them wbich impresses me is their intellectual avidity. Much has been said about their desire for gain. But while one must recognize among them an almost universal and certainly commendable desire to improve The Russian Jew in Amerzca. 131 their condition, the proportionate num- ber of those with intellectual aims is larger than that of any other race that I have encountered. An essential ori- ental quality of mind and character also impresses me. This is reflected in a deep intensity of feeling, high imagina- tion, and quickly varying emotions. An- other oriental attribute is an occasional outburst of the extremest idealism, with an utter disregard of the restraining power of circumstances and conditions. This extreme idealism sometimes makes them impractical, but combined with their intellectual traits produces a char- acter often full of imagination, aspira- tion, and appreciation. Another Gentile American whose statement is entitled to consideration is Mr. Lawrence Dunphy, superintendent of the workhouse at Blackwells Island (New York city), who is quoted in the report submitted in 1893 by Dr. Radin, visiting chaplain of prisons, to the Jew- ish Ministers Association. Rabbi, said Mr. Dunphy (in 1892, ten years after the beginning of the great Jewish influx) to the author of the report, I am happy to say that we do not need a Jewish chaplain at the workhouse. We have a very small number of Jews among the prisoners. Yon can be proud of your race: you are indeed a good class of citizens. Usually, the degraded peo- ple confined at the workhouse once are brought back very often; but I have very seldom seen a Jew brought back here a second time. Such are the impressions of Christian Americans on a subject upon which they speak with the coiifidence of positive knowledge, the result of close and un- biased observation. If there are people who take a less favorable view of the Russian and the Polish Hebrew, they are not to be found among those whose op- portunities for studying the subject by personal observation and whose qualifi- cations for the gask are kno~vn to the public. The question of limiting immigration engages the attention of Congress at frequent intervals, and bills aiming at re- form in this directioii are brought before the Senate and the House. In its bear- ings upon the Russian, Austrian, or Rou- manian Jew, the case is summed up by the opinions cited. Now let us hear the testimony of facts on the subject. The invasion of foreign illiteracy is one of the principal dangers which laws restricting immigration are meant to allay, and it is with the illiteracy of the New York Ghetto that we shall concern ourselves first. The last report of the commissioner- general of immigration gives twenty- eight per cent as the proportion of illit- erates among the immigrants who came during the past year from Russia. The figure would be much lower, should the computation be confined to immigrants of the Mosaic faith instead of including the mass of Polish and Lithuanian pea- sants, of whose number only a very small part can read and write. It may not be generally known that every Russian and Polish Jew, without exception, can read his Hebrew Bible as well as a Yiddish newspaper, and that many of the Jewish arrivals at the barge office are versed in rabbinical literature, not to speak of the large number of those who can read and write Russian. When attention is di- rected to the Russian Jew in America, a state of affairs is found which still fur- ther removes him from the illiterate class, and gives him a place among the most ambitious and the quickest to learn both the written and the spoken language of the adopted country, and among the ea~i- est to be assimilated with the population. The cry raised by the Russian anti- Semites against the backwardness of the Jew in adopting the tongue and the man- ners of his birthplace, in the same breath in which they urge tIme government to close the doors of its schools to subjects of the Hebrew faith, reminds one of the hypocritical miser who kept his gate 132 The Russian Jew in America. guarded by ferocious dogs, and then re- proached his destitute neighbor with hold- ing huinself aloof. This country, where the schools and colleges do not discrimi- nate between Jew and Gentile, has quite another tale to tell. The several public evening schools of the New York Ghetto, the evening school supported from the Baron de Hirsch fund, and the two or three private establishments of a similar character are attended by thousands of Jewish immigrants, the great majority of whom come here absolutely ignorant of the language of their native country. Surely nothing can be more inspiring to the public-spirited citizen, nothing wor- thier of the interest of the student of im- migration, than the sight of a gray-haired tailor, a patriarch in appearance, coming, after a hard days work at a sweat-shop, to spell cat, mat, rat, and to grapple with the difficulties of th and w. Such a spectacle may be seen in scores of the class-rooms in the schools referred to. Hundreds of educated young He- brews earn their living, and often pay their way through college, by giving pri- vate lessons in English in the tenement houses of the district, a type of young men and women peculiar to the Ghetto. The pupils of these private tutors are the same poor overworked sweat - shop hands of whom the public hears so much and knows so little. A tenement house kitchen turned, after a scanty sup- per, into a class-room, with the head of the family and his boarder bent over an English school reader, may perhaps claim attention as one of the curiosities of life in a great city; in the Jewish quarter, however, it is a common spectacle. Nor does the tailor or peddler who hires these tutors, as a rule, content him- self with an elementary knowledge of the language of his new home. I know many Jewish workmen who before they came here knew not a word of Russian, and were ignorant of any book except the Scriptures, or perhaps the Talmud, but whose range of English reading places them on a level with the average college- bred American. The grammar schools of the Jewish quarter are overcrowded with children of immigrants, who, for progress and de- portment, are rated with the very best in the city. At least 500 of 1677 students at the New York City College, where tuition and books are free, are Jewish boys from the East Side. The poor la- borer who will pinch himself to keep his child at college, rather than send him to a factory that he may contribute to the familys income, is another type peculiar to the Ghetto. The innumerable Yiddish publications with which the quarter is flooded are also a potent civilizing and Americaniz- lug agency. The Russian Jews of New York, Philadelphia, and Chicago have within the last fifteen years created a vast periodical literature which furnishes intellectual food not only to themselves, but also to their brethren in Europe. A feverish literary activity unknown among the Jews in Russia, Roumania, and Aus- tria, but which has arisen here among the immigrants from those countries, ed- ucates thousands of ignorant tailors and peddlers, lifts their intelligence, facili- tates their study of English, and opens to them the doors of the English library The five million Jews living under the Czar had not a single Yiddish daily pa- per even when the government allowed such publications, while their fellow coun- trymen and co - rehigionists who have taken up their abode in America publish six dailies (five in New York and one in Chicago), not to mention the countless Yiddish weeklies and monthlies, and the pamphlets and books which to-day make New York the largest Yiddish book mar- ket in the world. If much that is con- tained in these publications is rather crude, they are in this respect as good or as bad as a certain class of English novels and periodicals from which they partly derive their inspiration. On the other hand, their readers are sure to find The Russian Jew in America. 133 in them a good deal of what would be worthy of a more cultivated language. They have among their contributors some of the best Yiddish writers in the world, men of undeniable talent, and these sup- ply the Jewish slums with popular arti- cles on science, on the history and insti- tutions of the adopted country, transla- tions from the best literatures of Europe and America, as well as original sketches, stories, and poems of decided merit. It is sometimes said (usually by those who know the Ghetto at second hand) that this unnatural development of Yiddish journalism threatens to keep the immi- grant from an acquaintance with Eng- lish. Nothing could be further from the truth. The Yiddish periodicals are so many preparatory schools from which the reader is sooner or later promoted to the English newspaper, just as the sev- eral Jewish theatres prepare his way to the Broadway playhouse, or as the Yid- dish lecture serves him as a stepping- stone to that English-speaking, self-edu- cational society, composed of working- men who have lived a few years in the country, which is another characteristic feature of life in the Ghetto. Truly, the Jews do not rot in their slum, but, rising, pull it up after them. Foreign criminality is the next evil with which restrictive legislation is to grapple. As to the Jews, it may suffice, in addition to Superintendent Dunphys experience, to point out the fact that while they constitute six per cent of the total population of the state of New York, they furnish only three per cent of the prisoners of that state. When attention is limited to the immigrant residents in the state, which is more to the point, the statistical data on the subject are still more favorable to the Jews. The ratio of foreign-born Jews to the total immi- grant population is fifteen per cent, yet less than five per cent of the foreign-born prisoners in the state are of the Hebrew race. The influx of foreign pauperism is an- other source of alarm to the immigration reformer. The foreign population of this country, says Dr. Wines in his Eleventh Census Bulletin, contributes, directly or indirectly, in the persons of the foreign-born or of their immediate descendants, very nearly three fifths of all the paupers supported in almshouses. In the case of the Jews, however, the situation is more than reassuring. This will be seen by contrasting this general proportion with the figures quoted in Dr. Radins report: That eleven Jew- ish inmates are to be found at the Black- wells Island ahmshouse among a total of 2170 males is sufficient proof how little the poor and needy among us become a burden on public charity. Those who are opposed to the immigration of Jews may heed this. Of far greater importance, however, is the effect which imniigration has upon the general scale of wages. Speaking of the poor and ignorant foreigners who seek these shores, United States Senator Fairbanks observed (in his speech deliv- ered before the Senate in defense of the anti-illiteracy bill, January 11, 1898): Their standard of living and wages is such that they will accept lower compen- sation and harder conditions than our own workmen could or should accept. The natural and inevitable result of their coming will be to depress the wages of labor.... The consideration of the pend- ing measure, as Mr. Blame said of the Chinese exclusion act, connects itself in- timately and inseparably with the labor question. It is labor, then, whose in- terests are to be consulted primarily; and against the Jewish immigrants labor has no grievance. The only time when Jewish laborers threatened to come iii serious conflict with the cause of American workingmen was during the great longshoremens strike of 1882, at the very beginning of the new era in the history of Jewish immuigra- tion. Ignorant of the meaning of strikes, the newcomers blindly allowed them- 134 The Russian Jew in America. selves to be persuaded by representa- tives of ship - owners to take the places of former employees. No sooner, how- ever, had the situation been explained to the scabs than they abandoned their wheelbarrows, amid the, applause of the striking Gentiles. Since then the Jew- ish workmen have been among the most faithful members of the various trades- unions of the country. Outside of the clothing trades, Russian and Polish Jews are to be found in considerable numbers in the cigar industry, in the silk facto- ries and the hat factories of New Jersey, in the shoe factories of Massachusetts, in the machine shops of Connecticut, among the jewelers of Rhode Island, and in sev- eral other trades: in all these employ- ments their relations with their American associates are of the most cordial nature. Whatever may be the social chances of a Jewish banker, the Jewish working- men of New England and their Ameri- can shopmates are on visiting terms. So far from depressing wages and bringing down the standard of living, the Jewish workingman has been among the fore- most in the struggle for the interests of the wage-earning class of the country. If he brings with him a lower standard of living, his keen susceptibilities, his intellectual avidity, and his almost universal and certainly commendable de- sire to improve his condition impel him to raise that standard to the level of his new surroundings. Unlike some of the immigrants of other nationalities, the Essex Street Jew does not remain here in the same plight in which he came. Poor as he is, he strives to live like a civilized man, and the money which an- other workman perhaps might spend on drink and sport he devotes to the im- provement of his home and the education of his children. When Senator Fairbanks speaks of that immigration which does not seek to build homes among us as the most objectionable element, as one whose exclusion will be no loss, he surely cannot refer to the Russian Jew; and if it may be stated as axiomatic that home-builders are good citizens, the Jewish immigrant makes a very good citizen indeed. I have visited the houses of many American workingmen, in New England and elsewhere, as well as the residences of their Jewish shopmates, and I have found scarcely a point of difference. The squalor of the typical tenement house of the Ghetto is far more objec- tionable and offensive to the people who are doomed to live in it than to those who undertake slumming expeditions as a fad, and is entirely due to the same economical conditions which are respon- sible for the lack of cleanliness in the homes of such poor workiugmen as are classed among the most desirable con- tribution to the population. The houses of the poor Irish laborers who dwell on the outskirts of the great New York Ghetto (and they are not worse than the houses occupied by the poor Irish fami- lies of the West Side) are not better, in point of cleanliness, than the residences of their Jewish neighbors. The follow- ing statement, which is taken from the report made by the tenement house com- mittee to the Senate and Assembly of the state of New York on January 17, 1895, throws light on the subject. It is evident, says the committee, that there are other potent causes be- sides density of population at work to affect the death-rate of the tenement dis- tricts, and the most obvious one is race or nationality. It will be observed at once that the wards showing the great- est house density combined with a low death - rate, namely the tenth and sev- enth wards, are very largely populated by Russian and Polish Jews. This is, in fact, the Jewish quarter of the city. On the other hand, the wards having the highest death - rate . . . constitute two of the numerous Italian colonies which are distributed through the city. . . The greatest density (57.2 tenants to a house) is in the tenth ward (almost The Russian Jew in America. 135 exclusively occupied by Jews), which also has the lowest death-rate he low death-rates of the seventh and tenth wards are largely accounted for by the fact previously mentioned, that they are populated largely by Russian Jews. To be sure, life in a tenth ward tene- ment house is wretched enough, but this has nothing to do with the habits and inclinations of its inmates. It is a broad subject, one which calls in question the whole economic arrangement of our time, and of which the sweating system the great curse of the Ghetto is only one detail. Is the Russian Jew responsible for the sweating system? He did not bring it with him. He found it already devel- oped here. In its varied forms it ex- ists in other industries as well as in the tailoring trades. But far from resign- ing himself to his burden the Jewish tailor is ever struggling to shake it from his shoulder. iNor are his efforts futile. In many instances the sweat-shop system has been abolished or its curse mitigated. The sweating system and its political ally the ward heeler are accountable for ninety - nine per cent of whatever vice may be found in the Ghetto, and the Jewish tailor is slowly but surely eman- cipating himself from both. The re- demption of the workers must be effected by the workers themselves is the motto of the two dailies which the Jewish workingmen publish for themselves in New York. The recurring tailor strikes, whose frequency has been seized upon by the funny men of the daily press, are far less droll than they are repre- sented to be. Would that the public could gain a deeper insight into these struggles than is afforded by newspaper reports! Hidden under an uncouth sur- face would be found a great deal of what constitutes the true poetry of mod- ern life, tragedy more heart-rending, examples of a heroism more touching, more noble, and more thrilling, than any- thing that the richest imagination of the romanticist can invent. While to the outside observer the struggles may ap- pear a fruitless repetition of meaningless conflicts, they are, like the great labor movement of which they are a part, ever marching onward, ever advancing. The anti-Semitic assertion that the Jew as a rule avoids productive labor, which is pure calumny so far as the Jews of Russia, Austria, and Roumania are con- cerned, would certainly be out of place in this country, where at least eighty per cent of all Jewish immigrants are among the most diligent wage-earners. As to the remainder, it includes, besides a large army of poor peddlers, thousands of such business men as news-dealers and rag- men, whose occupations are scarcely less productive or more agreeable than man- ual labor. More than ninety per cent of all the news-stands and news-routes in the city of New York are now in the hands of Russian Jews, and most of the rag-peddlers of New England are per- sons of the same nationality. Farming settlements of Jews have not been very successful in this country. There are some Jews in Connecticut, in New Jersey, and in the Western states who derive a livelihood from agriculture, but the majority of the Jewish immi- grants who took to tilling the soil in the eighties have been compelled to sell or to abandon their farms, and to join the urban population. But how many Amer- ican farmers have met with a similar fate! This experience is part of the same great economic question, and it does not seem to have any direct bear- ing on the peculiar inclinations or dis- inclinations of the Hebrew race. It may not be generally known that in southern Russia there are hundreds of flourishing farms which are owned and worked by Jews, although, owing to their legal dis- abilities, the titles are fictitiously held by Christians. Hundreds of Russian and Polish Jews have been more or less successful in busi- ness, and the names of several of them 136 The Russian Jew in America. are to be found on the signs along Broad- way, but the richest is hardly worth a quarter of a million. As to the educated Jewish immigrants, the college-bred men and women who constitute the professional class and the intellectual aristocracy of the Ghetto, judged by the standard of the slum dis- trict, they are prosperous. The first educated Russian Hebrews to come to this country were attracted neither by the American colleges nor by the access of their race to a professional career. In the minds of some cultured enthusiasts, the general craze for shak- ing off the dust of the native land and seeking shelter under the stars and stripes crystallized in the form of a solution of the Jewish question. Of the two move- ments which were set on foot in 1882 by the Palestinians and the Americans, the American movement seemed the more successful. Several emigrant par- ties (the Eternal People, New Odessa) were sent out with a view to establishing agricultural colonies. The whole Jew- ish race was expected by the Americans to follow suit in joining the farming force of the United States, and numbers of Jewish students left the Russian univer- sities and gymnasiums to enlist in the pioneer parties. All these parties broke np, some immediately upon reaching New York, others after an abortive attempt to put their plans into practice, although in several instances undertakings in the same direction have proved partially suc- cessful. The would - be pioneers were scattered through the Union, where they serve their brethren as physicians, drug- gists, dentists, lawyers, or teachers. Only from three to five per cent of the vacancies in the Russian nniversities and gymnasiums are now open to appli- cants of the Mosaic faith. As a conse- quence, the various university towns of Germany, Switzerland, Belgium, France, and Austria have each a colony of Russo- Jewish pilgrims of learning. The impe- cunious student, however, finds a univer sity course in those countries inaccessible. Much more favorable in this respect is the United States, where students from among the Jewish immigrants find it pos- sible to sustain themselves during their college course by some occupation; and this advantage has to some extent made this country the Mecca of that class of young men. It is not, however, always the educated young men, the graduates of Russian gymnasiums, from whom the Russian members at the American col- leges are recruited. Not to speak of the hundreds of immigrant boys and girls who reach the New York City College or the Normal College by way of the grammar schools of the Ghetto, there are in the colleges of New York, Philadel- phia, Chicago, and Boston, as well as among the professional men of the Jew- ish colonies, not a few former peddlers or workmen who received their first les- sons in the rudimentary branches of edu- cation within the walls of an American tenement house. I was once consulted by an illiterate Jewish peddler of thirty- two who was at a loss to choose between a medical college and a dry goods store. I have saved two thousand dollars, he said. Some friends advise me to go into the dry goods business, but I wish to be an educated man and live like one. There are several practicing physicians with a similar history in the Ghetto, and in fairness it must be said that by reading and study, while at col- lege and afterward, some of them have become well - informed and cultivated men. Altogether there are in New York alone about one hundred and fifty Rus- sian physicians, about five hundred drug- gists and drug clerks, some twenty law- yers, from thirty to forty dentists, and several representatives of each of the other professions. The Russian-speaking population is represented also in the colleges for wo- men. There are scores of educated Rus- sian girls in the sweat-shops, and their life is one of direst misery, of over- The Russian Jew in America. 137 work in the shop, and of privations at home. Politically the Jewish quarter is among the most promising districts in the me- tropolis. The influence of the vote-buyer, which is the blight of every poor neigh- borhood in the city, becomes in the Ghetto smaller and smaller. There is no method of determining the number of votes which are secured for either of the two leading parties by any of the several forms of bribery enumerated by Mr. James Bryce; but there are always some reform parties in the field which have no money to put up, and whose vote whatever might be said of their doctrines is exclusively one of principle. At the last municipal election there were four such parties in Greater New York. These were, the Citizens Union, whose can- didate for mayor, Mr. Low, appealed to the voters for purity in municipal elec- tions, the Socialist Labor Party, the Henry George Democracy, and the Pro- hibitionists. In the four Assembly dis- tricts (the fourth, eighth, twelfth, and sixteenth) composing the main Ghetto of the metropolis, the aggregate vote polled by these four reform parties was 8678 (with Low in the lead, and the Socialist as a good second) in a total vote of 25,643, a proportion which gives the Jewish quarter a place among the least corruptible districts in the city. If some immigrants have not the ad- equate conception of the significance of our institutions of which Senator Fair- banks speaks, it is the American slum politician who gives the newcomer les- sons in that conception; and if it hap- pens to be an object lesson in the form of a two-dollar bill and a drink, the po- litical organization which depends upon such a mode of rolling up a big vote is certainly as much to blame as the ignorant bribe-taker. The ward heeler is as active in the Ghetto as elsewhere. Aided by an army of workers, which is largely made up of the lowest dregs of the neighborhood, he knocks, on election day, at the door of every tenement house apartment, while on the street the vote market goes on in open daylight as freely as it did before there was a Parkhurst to wage war against a guilty police organization. This statement is true of every destitute district, and the Jewish quarter is no ex- ception to the rule. As was revealed by the Lexow committee, some of the lead- ing district bosses in the great city, in- cluding a civil justice, owe their power to the political cotiperation of criminals and women of the street. Unfortunately this is also the case with the Jewish neigh- borhood, where every wretch living on the profits of vice, almost without excep- tion, is a member of some political club and an active worker for one of the two machines, and where, during the campaign, every disreputable house is turned into an electioneering centre. If the tenth ward has come to be called the Klondike of the police, so much the worse for the parties who are directly re- sponsible for the evil which justifies both that appellation and the name of Ten- derloin, which is borne by a more pro- sperous neighborhood than the Ghetto. The malady is painful enough, but it is not the guilty politician from whom the remedy is to be expected. As to the Jewish quarter, the doctrine of self- help is practiced by the workiugmen politically as well as economically. In proportion as the intelligence of the dis- trict is raised by the thousand and one educational agencies at work, the many characteristics of the best citizens with which Miss Van Etten was impressed in the Jews of the East Side come to the front, and the power of the corruption- ist wanes. The immigration reformers dread of foreign socialism is scarcely consistent with his classification of the various na- tionalities who immigrate in large num- bers. To judge from the overwhelming social - democratic vote in Germany, a large proportion of the Germans who 138 The Russian Jew in America. come to our ports are socialists, and yet they are placed at the very top of the list of desirable immigrants. Moreover, with some twenty states of the Union officially recognizing the Socialist Labor Party and printing its ballots, a crusade against the doctrine by the government xvould be a self-contradiction. Nor is it true that socialism is a foreign importa- tion. The two socialist aldermen in the country (at Paterson, New Jersey, and Haverhill, Massachusetts) were elected by American workingmen; the new so- cialist organization called the Social De- mocracy is largely composed of Ameri- cans, and makes converts among the na- tive elements of the working class. The Jewish immigrants, at all events, bring no socialism with them; and if it is true that the socialist following among Jewish workingmen is considerable and is grow- ing, they owe it to the economic condi- tions which surround them here and to the influence of the American socialist with whom they come in cont~ct. Like other socialists, they look to the ballot- box for the changes which they advocate. It is the Jewish socialist who leads the neighborhood in its fight against the political and moral turpitude which the politician spreads in the tenement houses. The Jewish immigrants look upon the United States as their country, and now that it is engaged in war they do not shirk their duty. They have contributed three times their quota of volunteers to the army, and they had their represent- atives among the first martyrs of the campaign, two of the brave American sailors who were wounded at Cardenas and Cienfuegos being the sons of Hebrew immigrants. The Russian Jew brings with him the quaint customs of a religion full of po- etry and of the sources of good citizen- ship. The orthodox synagogue is not merely a house of prayer; it is an in- tellectual centre, a mutual aid society, a fountain of self-denying altruism, and a literary club, no less than a place of worship. The study-rooms of the hun- dred~ of synagogues, where the good old people of the Ghetto come to read and discuss words of law as well as the events of the day, are crowded every evening in the week with poor street ped- dlers, and with those gray-haired, misun- derstood sweat-shop hands of whom the public hears every time a tailor strike is declared. So few are the joys which this world has to spare for these over- worked, enfeebled victims of the in- ferno of modern times that their reli- gion is to many of them the only thing which makes life woith living. In the fervor of prayer or the abandon of re- ligious study they forget the grinding poverty of their homes. Between the walls of the synagogue, on the top floor of some ramshackle tenement house, they sing beautiful melodies, some of them composed in the caves and forests of Spain, where the wandering people worshiped the God of their fathers at the risk of their lives; and these and the sighs and sobs of the Days of Awe, the thrill that passes through the heart- broken talith-covered congregation when the shoffar blows, the mirth which !fllls the house of God and the tenement homes upon the Rejoicing of the Law, the tearful greetings and humbled peace- makings on Atonement Eve, the myste- rious light of the Chanuccah candles, the gifts and charities of Puriin, the joys and kingly solemnities of Passover, all these pervade the atmosphere of the Ghetto with a beauty and a charm without which the life of its older resi- dents would often be one of unrelieved misery. How the sweat-shop striker and the religious enthusiast are found in the same person is an interesting question, and the following little episode may not be out of place. It was a late hour during the recent strike of the Vest - Makers Union, and the Jewish quarter was enveloped in the quiet of night. As I made my way like Contributors Club. 139 through the market-place, a merry, bi- zarre hubbub of singing voices broke UI)0fl the stillness of the street. The voices came from a tumble-down frame house, and were traced to three tiny low-ceiled rooms on the second floor. A Holy Ark and a reading - desk beto- kened the character of the place. The little synagogue was crowded with be- whiskered, pious, ragged old men. They sat at long tables, swaying and nodding, curling their side-locks or stroking their beards, as they sang a joyous Sabbath melody. Their faces shone and their voices trembled with emotion. A dark- eyed little girl of ten and her gaunt, sallow-faced father were hovering about, serving barley soup, cake, and beer to the company. I am no waiter, explained the gaunt man. I am a member, like the others; but my wife prepared the feast, and somebody must serve it, so my little girl and I took the task upon ourselves. We are a Mishnah class. We meet every evening, after work, to study the holy words, and now that we have con- cluded the sixth tractate we celebrate the event. Each of us has contributed twenty-five cents, and so we are enjoy- ing what the Uppermost has sent us. What other delights are open to us in this world ? The assemblage proved to be made up of striking vest-makers. Yes, we attended the meeting to-day, said a shaggy, red-haired man, but you know the saying, Half for yourselves and half for your God. To-morrow we shall go to the meeting again. Ours is a just cause. It is for the bread of our chil- dren we are struggling. We want our rights, and we are bound to get them through the union. Saith the Law of Moses: Thou shalt not withhold any- thing from thy neighbor nor rob him; there shall not abide with thee the wages of him that is hired through the night nntil morning. So it stands in Leviticus. So you see that our bosses who rob us and who dont pay us regularly commit a sin, and that the cause of our union is a just one. What do we come to Amer- ica for? To bathe in tears, and to see our wives and our children rot in pover- ty? Tears and sighs we had in plenty in the old country. A frown had settled upon his face, but it suddenly disappeared as he said, with a wave of his hand: Well, this is not the time to discuss matters such as these. We have enough of them during the day. This is our holy feast, a time for joy, not for woe. We have concluded the sixth tractate, thank the Uppermost. The shaggy vest-maker shut his eyes, and with his features relaxed in a smile of unfeigned bliss, he burst out singing and snapping his fingers with the rest. Abraham Cahan. THE CONTRIBUTORS CLUB. THE heroine of our choice has always The Hero- been a more difficult creation me of the than the hero. The pages of ruture. fiction are full of Mortons, Orvilles, Lydgates, Wentworths, Held- ars, irresistible heroes every one, and yet how few of them have won such ladies as they deserve! Sir Walter mercifully draws the curtain over the prosaic sequel of Mortons life. We hope that Lord Orville was amused for a year or two. We know the fate of Lydgate and of Dick Heldar. Captain Wentworth, it is true, won a rare prize, but Anne Elliots are few in fiction as in the world to-day. If we except the lovely sisterhood of

The Heroine of the Future Contributor's Club 139-144

like Contributors Club. 139 through the market-place, a merry, bi- zarre hubbub of singing voices broke UI)0fl the stillness of the street. The voices came from a tumble-down frame house, and were traced to three tiny low-ceiled rooms on the second floor. A Holy Ark and a reading - desk beto- kened the character of the place. The little synagogue was crowded with be- whiskered, pious, ragged old men. They sat at long tables, swaying and nodding, curling their side-locks or stroking their beards, as they sang a joyous Sabbath melody. Their faces shone and their voices trembled with emotion. A dark- eyed little girl of ten and her gaunt, sallow-faced father were hovering about, serving barley soup, cake, and beer to the company. I am no waiter, explained the gaunt man. I am a member, like the others; but my wife prepared the feast, and somebody must serve it, so my little girl and I took the task upon ourselves. We are a Mishnah class. We meet every evening, after work, to study the holy words, and now that we have con- cluded the sixth tractate we celebrate the event. Each of us has contributed twenty-five cents, and so we are enjoy- ing what the Uppermost has sent us. What other delights are open to us in this world ? The assemblage proved to be made up of striking vest-makers. Yes, we attended the meeting to-day, said a shaggy, red-haired man, but you know the saying, Half for yourselves and half for your God. To-morrow we shall go to the meeting again. Ours is a just cause. It is for the bread of our chil- dren we are struggling. We want our rights, and we are bound to get them through the union. Saith the Law of Moses: Thou shalt not withhold any- thing from thy neighbor nor rob him; there shall not abide with thee the wages of him that is hired through the night nntil morning. So it stands in Leviticus. So you see that our bosses who rob us and who dont pay us regularly commit a sin, and that the cause of our union is a just one. What do we come to Amer- ica for? To bathe in tears, and to see our wives and our children rot in pover- ty? Tears and sighs we had in plenty in the old country. A frown had settled upon his face, but it suddenly disappeared as he said, with a wave of his hand: Well, this is not the time to discuss matters such as these. We have enough of them during the day. This is our holy feast, a time for joy, not for woe. We have concluded the sixth tractate, thank the Uppermost. The shaggy vest-maker shut his eyes, and with his features relaxed in a smile of unfeigned bliss, he burst out singing and snapping his fingers with the rest. Abraham Cahan. THE CONTRIBUTORS CLUB. THE heroine of our choice has always The Hero- been a more difficult creation me of the than the hero. The pages of ruture. fiction are full of Mortons, Orvilles, Lydgates, Wentworths, Held- ars, irresistible heroes every one, and yet how few of them have won such ladies as they deserve! Sir Walter mercifully draws the curtain over the prosaic sequel of Mortons life. We hope that Lord Orville was amused for a year or two. We know the fate of Lydgate and of Dick Heldar. Captain Wentworth, it is true, won a rare prize, but Anne Elliots are few in fiction as in the world to-day. If we except the lovely sisterhood of 140 The Contributors Club. Shakespeares heroines whom any cow- ard would die for, there are a scant score of women in English literature whose colors any one of us were proud to wear against all corners. Di Vernon, Doro- thea Brooke, Elizabeth Bennet, Lady Castlewood, Katriona, and a dozen of their kin make up the sum. Our mod- em chivalry must have incentive. Our imagination must be aroused. For im- agination is not dead, but sleeping. It slumbers soundly in the presence of the excellent Marcella, dozes in the face of Bathsheba Everdene, nods over Lord Ormonts Aminta, and turns a deaf ear to the melodious voice of Glory Quayle. But let another Beatrix (oh that there could be another!) come tripping down the stair to meet us in a modern chapter, wearing in our honor her white shoes and her scarlet stockings, and imagination will start up hotly enough at her approach. The heroine such as the imagination cherishes has disappeared from our liter- ature. Her place is filled by intelligent young women of various types. They are preferably serious. Then their forte is religion and their foible philanthropy. They probe the questions of society and life, and become at once the subjects of conversation in serious drawing-rooms. But a heroine of this class is always sub- ordinate in interest to her ideas. She is impersonal, or her personality is obscured by the bright halo of her intellect. Or again, the young woman is any- thing but serious. She may, perhaps, figure in one of Mr. Anthony Hopes ro- mances. Surely she is not a heroine to touch the imagination. Our attention is riveted to the story. In the dove- tailed succession of alarums, excursions, entrances, retreats, adventures, esca- pades, a few brisk words of love are our only key to the ladys character. The swift lunge and parry of her speech amuse, but do not captivate. As we close the book, we are on no nearer terms with her than with some pretty actress when the curtain is rung down. The heroine of to-day is most apt to be a dramatic character. The story is pre- ferably tragic. With grim determina- tion, the novelist stretches his reader on the rack, adjusts the thumbscrews, tight- ens the iron boots. The proof of the novel is in the pain it gives. With few exceptions, the plot is one of two or three established types. The inexpres~ sive She is separated from her lover by the prejudices of caste, as in Mr. Caine, or by the intolerance of parents, as in Mr. Meredith. Or perhaps our story-tellers solve to their own satisfac- tion the problem so popular in the nov- els of France, and ring the changes upon Monsieur, Madame et lautre, as the French critics say. Here the psycholo- gist has free range. Conditions and con- clusion must be scientific, no matter about the reader. The pathos of the story centres round the heroine. She is dramatic, passionate, intense. But it is not the intense, passionate, dramatic woman whom we commonly grow fond of in life. Why should she win us in books? She may be interesting, touch- ing, absorbing, bat that is quite a differ- ent matter. Such cannot be the heroine of our choice. Were her complexities incarnate upon earth, as they may be in a galaxy of women, should we follow her? Surely. Admire her? Perhaps. Love her? No, a thousand times, no! Her passion, beauty, and suffering might conspire to insure the aim, But it s innocence and modesty That polishes the dart, and we are proof against her enmity. Nothing is so elusive as feminine charm. Photograph it, and you will not find its counterfeit upon the plate. Print it in books, and your description is cold as the type that stamped the paper. Only a few great artists have succeeded in this most difficult of portraitures. Whether it be Jane Austen or Ivan Tar- guenieff who draws the picture, we love and are grateful. That a novel without a heroine whom The Contributors Club. 141 we delight to think of is imperfect, few will gainsay. In these days of novel- writing and novel-reading, it is interest- ing to notice how wide the author shoots of the difficult mark. Yet if the novel- ist holds up the mirror to life, great are his opportunities. Mr. Henry James, in a recent essay, comments upon the fresh field offered by the modern business man, whose song has still to be sung, and his portrait still to be painted. This is most true, but how much vaster the. province presented by the modern woman! Away with the humdrum hackneyed models of the past! Away with the Priscillas of an outworn age! Let every novelist set upon his marks, for surely his goal is within sight. The progress of woman is evident on every hand. Far be it from us to belit- tle her advancing strides. Now, discard- ing the thwarting skirt, she climbs the Alps and lends a helping hand to the lagging mountaineer. Now we hear of her directing an army of sweepers and cleansing the Augean streets of Chicago. Now, scarcely pausing to vote, if we may trust the papers, she rushes to mass- meetings and proposes to join the Na- tional Guard. If the existing uniform must be altered, more s the pity, but even so there will be something gained. Or again, she enters the quieter walks of life, and becomes a physician, lawyer, or mere clergywoman. If your novelist is still dissatisfied with these riches of ma- terial, let him turn for his heroine to the sweet girl-graduate. Think of the plot of psychological problems which can be made to thicken about her! Armed from mortar-board to heel, she can meet the hero on his own ground, give him the choice of weapons, and beat him roundly. Let the story-teller sweep the horizon with his literary glasses. Everywhere he will see the army of new women de- manding recognition. Choice is invidi- ous, but choose he must. Now at last he can find a heroine worthy of his novel. A novel, forsooth! Why, she would queen it in an epic, while former heroes flee to Dunciads! These are auspicious times for the maker of heroiues. Well may he look forward to the new century with confi- dence in the approaching consummation of his art. The development of the he- roine will increase the scope of the plot. The seductive villain will be thrown on the defensive, and it is the hero who will be won. The new heroine will be masterful, accomplished, dazzling, if you will, but will she charm? Will it be she whom the young men of the next gener- ation will wish to dream of? Will her qualities go to make their ideals? Will they reverse the novelists process, and run to seek her likeness through the world, or will they cling to the magic memory of the few lovely portraits they possess? The story-teller must pursue his de- stiny. He will sketch the world about him in flattery, caricature, or truth. What will be the heroine of his choice? An forward though I canna see, I guess an fear. FROM the days of papyrus to the nine- Concerning teenth century, when of the Bibilomania. making of books there is no end, biblioniania has affected mankind in more or less intensified form. In- effectually has it been diagnosed and treated by bibliographs of all ages. Pei- gnot defines it as a passion for possess- ing books; not so much to be instructed by them as to gratify the eye by look- ing on them. He who is affected by this mania knows books only by their titles and dates, and is rather seduced by the exterior than the interior. The symptoms of so virulent a disease are not to be mistaken. They can be instantly known, says Dibdin, by a pas- sion for (1) large paper copies; (2) un- cut copies; (3) illustrated copies; (4) unique copies; (5) copies printed upon vellum; (6) first editions; (7) true edi- tions; (8) a general desire for the 142 The Contributors Club. black letter. I would add to these a passion for (9) editions printed at private presses; (10) editions privately bound. A characteristic of the disease is that it succumbs to no known remedies. All applications, external as well as inter- nal, seem but to increase its fervency; neither does poverty allay it, once the craze is on. Many a one so afflicted has gone starving to bed, transported by the possession of an incunabulum for which he has expended his last sou. No con- dition, no age, is exempt, no climate. It rages among royalty as among the com- moner herd of humanity. French book - collectors, and notably the mesdames de France, have displayed peculiar and luxurious tastes in binding. We are told that of the daughters of Louis XV., Ad6laide affected red moroc- co; Sophie, citron; and Victoire, olive. Catharine de Medici was so great a con- noisseur of finely bound books that au- thors and booksellers tried to distinguish themselves in bindings made expressly for her. Such was their success that it was deemed expedient, upon her death, to strip the books of their ornate and cost- ly dress, lest they should fall a prey to her creditors. Marie Antoinette had a library of upwards of five thousand vol- umes in the Petit Trianon; and Ma- dame de Pompadour, whose conduct was not in every respect above criticism, must surely be commended for her love of books, as she was the possessor of three thousand volumes. Her bookbinder was no less a personage than the celebrated Anton Michel Padeloup. Madame de Maintenon, too, had rare and exquisite taste in books and bindings; and enrolled among book-lovers are to be found the names of Marguerite dAngoul~me, Mar- garet of Valois, Diana of Poitiers, as ivell as the Duchesse de Montpensier, La Grande Mademoiselle, the Mar- quise de Montespan, and the Duchesse du Berry. To them we owe some of the finest examples of the bookbinders art. The idiosyncrasies of their dispositions we can almost forgive by reason of that taste which to-day makes glad the heart of the book-fancier. Nor do these names close the list of bibliophilists. Charles the Bald was a lover of books and learning. A Bible was illuminated expressly for his pri- vate use, and his love of learning often carried him to royal extremes. The story goes that one Johannes Erigena, surnamed Scotus, a man renowned for learning; sitting at table, in respect of his learning, with Charles the Bauld, Emperor and King of France, behaved himselfe as a slovenly scholler, nothing courtly; whereupon the Emperor asked him merrily, Quid interest Scotum et Sotuni? [What is there between a Scot and a Sot?] He merrily, but yet mala- pertly answered, Mensa [The table]; as though the Emperor were the Sot, and he the Scot. Of English book-lovers the name is legion. Dibdin tells us that Richard de Bury, tutor to Edward III., and after- ward Bishop of Durham, was the first affected. However this may be, certain it is that he owned more books than all the other bishops of England. Dean Colet and Erasmus abetted the mania, and Sir Thomas More was not exempt. Queen Elizabeth and Lady Jane Grey were given over to bibliophilism; and Henry VII. and James I., both book- lovers, even attempted literary produc- tion on their own account. Pepys, despite his feminine frailties, was a collector of rare books; and sun- dry kicks disposed gratuitously among his servants, his flirtatious deportment at church when full of years; his mal- treatment of the partner of his joys and sorrows, all these are of little moment in comparison with that worthy love of an old book, a rare book, a grave, in- nocent book. His Grace the Duke of Roxburghe conceived a passion for first editions. It has been related with all due authen- ticity that at a certain sale a first edition The Contributors Club. 143 of Shakespeare was offered. The dukes friends were deputed to bid it in, while he viewed the contest at a distance. Twenty guineas and more had been of- fered, when a slip was handed his Grace asking if his friends should continue bid- ding. The duke wrote in reply Lay on, Macduff, And damnd be him that first cries, Hold, enough! It is needless to say that the duke be- came the happy possessor of the folio. Undoubtedly, it is to the bookbinder of the past that we owe in a very large de- gree the extension of the mania. Such exquisite workmen as Grolier, Maioli, Le Gascon, DerOme, and Padeloup worked for all time; and how amazed, not to say dumfounded, would these worthies be to behold the methods we employ to supply the ever increasing demand for books! Nowadays we preserve a book of American manufacture, not for the beauty of its binding, not for the tooling on this one or that, not for the rare qual- ity of the morocco, but, perchance, be- cause it is a first edition of Hawthorne or of Poes Tamerlane, or, what is more than probable, because undue use would soon end in its destruction, such is the ephemeral nature of our art of to-day. The signs, however, are propitious; and when once we have recovered from ex- treme youth, with its hurry and bluster and unsophistication, then shall our ver- satility be turned toward the arts, of which not the least is the art of binding. The peculiar ideas in bookbinding are many and curious. The Golden Ass of Apuleius was once bound in asss skin; a collection of pamphlets respecting one Mary Tufts, reputed to have been con- fined of rabbits, was sent forth to the world in rabbit skin; Tuberville on Hunt- ing was bound by Whittaker in deer skin; Foxs historical works met the gaze of humanity in fox skin, and Bacons works in hog skin. On May 15, 1874, there was sold in Paris, by auction, a part of the library of M. Lucien de Rosuy, father of the emi- nent Japanese scholar. Some of the books, we are told, were bound in cat skin colored garnet and buff; others in the skins of the crocodile, royal tiger, rattlesnake, seal, otter, white bear, and Canadian black wolf. I confess to lit- tle, if any, sympathy for the taste of M. Lucien do Rosuy, authority in binding though he may have been. How much more healthful and normal that of him who has written concerning his simple wants: Of books but few, souse fifty score For daily use, and bound for wear; The rest upon an upper floor; Some little luxury there Of red moroccos gilded gleam And vellum rich as country cream. In addition to the many evils we lay at the door of the French Revolution is the morbid practice of binding in human skin. What must have been the feel- ings of that lady whose lover, a Russian poet, is said to have presented her with a volume of his sonnets bound in his own skin, taken from an amputated leg! More desirable by far, from a moral point of view, as a salutary warning to the young and to evil doers generally, was the practice in vogue in the less enlight- ened past of flaying criminals to obtain materials for binding contemporary legal documents. This recalls an edition of The Newgate Calendar, being the me- moirs of the most notorious characters convicted of outrages on the laws of England since the eighteenth century, the binding of which was ornamented in gold with designs suggestive of the con- tents ; to wit, dark lanterns, masks, pis- tols, handcuffs, shackles, and other re- minders of crime. A public library in Bury St. Edmunds contains a full ac- count of the execution of a murderer, in an octavo voh.une bound in the murder- ers own skin by a surgeon of the town. A more elegant, and certainly a less gruesome habiliment for a book was a piece of the waistcoat of Charles I., in 144 The Contributors Club. which a volume was bound relating to the dwarf Jeffrey Hudson. A copy of the New Years Gift was appareled in a like manner. With this the supply must have been exhausted, since we read of no further use being made of the garment. To the bibliognostic the following lines from Popes Dunciad are eloquent with meaning There Caxton sleeps with Wynkyn at his side, One clasped in wood, and one in strong cow- hide. Another fancy that obtained at an early date was the insertion of jewels into the bindings of books. St. Jerome is said to have exclaimed, Your books are covered with precious stones, and Christ died naked before his temple By a law of March 24, 1583, Henry III. of France forbids the bourgeois to wear precious stones in their dress, but such is the graciousness of his Majesty he allows their books of devotion to be adorned with diamonds, not exceeding four, while the nobility are allowed five, and the princes are not limited as to number. It was the same monarch who, when he instituted the order of Peni- tents, invented a binding consisting of the cheerful device of deaths - heads, cross-bones, tears, crosses, and other in- struments of the Passion, on black mo- rocco, relieved, however, by the inscrip- tion Spes inca Dens. Carlyle, it is said, had no love for books per Se, and Darwin was not de- terred by any sentimental notions of sac- rilege from cutting an unwieldy volume in two for easier manipulation. Not so Petrarch, who would suffer the loss of a leg rather than submit to such torture an edition of the Epistles of Cicero, tran- scribed by himself, and bound so mas- sively as to be constantly falling upon that unfortunate member. But Carlyle was too sairously bent upon the re- formation of humanity, and Darwin too much absorbed in the origin of that hu- manity, to have time for the indulgence of a fancy so pertinacious as bibliophi- lism. If a portion of the Iliad was found in the hands of a mummy, think you it was more precious in the eyes of Car- lyle, the lover of great men, Carlyle, who styles the immortal Johnson the withered pontiff of Encyclopa~dism? To him books were of intrinsic worth only for the soul and thought that were in them. The value of Boswells Letters was not enhanced in Temples eyes be- cause they were discovered in a shop at Boulogne in use for wrapping-paper; nor of Sternes Diary in that it was found in a plate - warmer. He was an admirer of Luthers Table Talk, not because it was unearthed from an old foundation, wrapped in strong linen cloth, waxed within and without, in which condition it had lain since its suppression. And so he writes: In books lies the soul of the whole past; the articulate audible voice of the past, when the body and material substance of it has altogether vanished like a dream. All that man- kind has done, thought, gained, or been, it is lying as in magic preservation in the pages of books. And again: Is it not verily, at bottom, the highest act of mans faculty that produces a book? And as such the Sage of Chelsea rever- enced it; not for any atmosphere of an- tiquity that proceeded from it. But let me not seem to discourage the bibhiomaniacs profession; this were the part of no true bibliophile. Rather do I say, Love a book ! in any way, whe- ther its age, or dress, or thought appeals to you, love it with all the ardor of your soul.

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The North American review. / Volume 82, Issue 490 North-American review and miscellaneous journal University of Northern Iowa Cedar Falls, Iowa, etc. August 1898 0082 490
Benjamin Ide Wheelet Wheelet, Benjamin Ide The Old World in the New 145-153

THE ATLANTIC 4MONTHLY: ~. fr1a~aPnc of ILit~rature, ~~ienc~, art, an~ ~oUtic~. VOL. LXXXIL AUG (1ST, 1898. No. UUCCXU. THE OLD WORLD IN THE NEW. AT a French dinner-table, a few years ago, I found myself opposite a genial English clergyman who was somewhat disturbed by the local tendency to quote values and spaces in terms of francs and centimes, metres and centimetres, instead of in the old - established and well - ap- proved pounds, shillings, and pence, feet and inches. Some attempt was made to interest him in the practical convenience of the decimal system, and he gave po- lite and patient hearing; but the seed fell upon stony ground, where was no deepness of earth, and its first fair pro- mise soon withered away before an ap- peal to the common consciousness of man. I think, said the Englishman, addressing his international audience, everybody will have noticed that when one has small sums to pay, francs and centimes or dollars and cents do well enough; but if any large sum is involved, one is always forced, in order really to appreciate the amount, to reduce it to pounds, shillings, and pence. Socrates, in the Phn~do, compares the people of his day, who thought their world about the IEgean to be the whole, to ants and frogs about a marshy pool. The ants and the frogs we have ever with us. They are antiquarians of Co- penhagen to whom Danish history is the history of the world. They are the school committee men who insist that Kansas schools should teach only Kan- sas history and Kansas geography and Kansas weather. They are the political historians who make the world start afresh with the Declaration of Independ- ence. They are the financial experts who ignore the existence of international values. They are the three wise men of Gotham who went to sea in a bowl. All those who do not know that the ex- perience of the race is one continuous whole, in which dates and boundaries are only guide-posts, and not barriers, are the ants and frogs of Socrates. With- out life perspective and historical per- spective there can be no sound political judgment, least of all in these days, when mighty world forces are twirling the millstones of the gods, and the gar- nerings of the ages are pouring into the hopper. We are living in great times. Forces that have been silently at work for cen- turies are just finding their expression. The closing years of the nineteenth cen- tury are engaged in a process of histori- cal liquidation by which the debtors and creditors of the ages are coming to their due. Scarcely have the echoes of the last contest died away on the shores of the IEgean, where has been the battle- ground and ultimate clearing-house of old world issues, when the new world issues take their shape and choose their battle-ground by the Chinese Ocean. Through the trans-Siberian railway Rus- sia this year finds for the first time an outlet to the open sea, and enters the lists for the empire of the world. The bayonets which in the seventies estab- lished a German Empire are now, under cover of an understanding with Russia, 146 The Old World in the New. opening a way for German small wares erto known. Four years are not past, in a conquest whose menace is toward and the dim vistas of futurity have England. Ill-mated France shares with Russia and Germany their policy of re- stricted colonial markets, and toys with colonizing schemes for which she has more money and ambition than men. The worn-out states and peoples of the old world are passing through bank- ruptcy. Africa is being rapidly appor- tioned as spoil. The English Empire, in consciousness of isolation and peril, draws its own bonds closer, and awakes to tardy recognition of its Western kins- men, of their strength and of their kin- ship of purpose. The United States of America find themselves forced, whe- ther they will or not, to transmute their policy of resisting intrusion into one of assuming the positive responsibilities of a moral hegemony in the West. With- in three years the entire strategic map of international politics has been made anew. Alsace-Lorraine and Constanti- nople no longer represent the burning questions of diplomacy. New issues and vastly larger fields of action have been opened. Three years ago, we felt that our own international issues, so far as they existed, had little relation to the great worlds worry. To-day, we are, for good or bad, in the midst of it all. Intercommunication and rapid transit have been steadily drawing the ends of the earth together. Silent, mighty forces have long been assembling to the melt- ing-pot the stubborn forms and patterns of the older world. Suddenly the fire is lighted. Lord Rosebery, while Premier of Eng- land, made in Parliament the following statement: We have hitherto been fa- vored with one Eastern Question, which we have always endeavored to lull as something too portentous for our imagi- nation; but of late a Far Eastern Ques- tion has been superadded, which, I con- fess, to my apprehension is in the dim vistas of futurity infinitely graver than even that question of which we have hith become the arena of the present, and the Far Eastern Question is at the doors of England and at our own. It is a ques- tion in which all 4he world is involved. The centre of disturbance may be now in China, now in Cuba, now in the Phil- ippines, but the disturbances are all in sympathy. It is a question in which the whole history of our race is involved. Its tangled movements viewed simply in their shifting surface phases yield, however, no intelligible statement. They concern too vast an area, too long a tra- dition; they cannot be understood from the levels of the present. One must seek high ground, for they tell their meaning, they betray the outlines of their plot, only in terms of the world labor, the drama of the history of the race. For great areas and mighty upheavals the geologist must run the gamut from Areh~an and Cambrian to Pleistocene. To-day, in a sense that never before was true, the old, the oldest world of man is sole compe- tent interpreter of the new. When in the year 326 B. c. Alexan- der the Great stayed his eastward march in northwestern India at the Sutlej, and turned his course down the Indus to seek the sea, a boundary line was fixed and set which proved to mean for the history of the human race more than any ever created by the act of man. The eastern boundary of Alexanders empire, running from the Jaxartes River, a tributary of the Sea of Aral, southward along the Pamir ranges, the roof of the world, to the Indus, and then on to the Indian Ocean, divided the world and its history into two utterly distinct parts. The portion which lay to theeast with its two great centres, India and China, and which to-day includes a little over half the population of the globe, had no lot nor share in the life and history of the western part, which we may call our Nearer World. In the long process of mixture and fermentation which history The Old World in the New. 147 has suffered since Alexanders time, all the elements within this Nearer World, stretching from Afghanistan and Persia to the shores of western Europe, have yielded their contribution, small or great,. to the civilization upon which our mod- ern life is based. The history which we study, whether of events, institutions, ideas, or religions, has all been a history of this Nearer World. India and China went their own way. The Nearer World knew little of them, gave little to them, received little from them, until after the discovery of the route around the Cape of Good Hope. The intercourse opened by that narrow way is, in the twentieth century, to tread the three broad highways of the Suez Canal, the trans - Siberian railway, the Pacific route, which represent, respective- ly, England, Russia, America. England, by the Canadian Pacific, shares the Pa- cific route, and she must soon open an- other by rail from the Mediterranean to the head of the Persian Gulf. Alexanders boundary was not a boun- dary of race. It ran across the bands of blood. A section of the Aryan race, isolated behind its barriers, became the dominant caste and the rulers of India, and developed or administered there a form of life and thought utterly distinct from any other product of the Aryan tem- per. It was a boundary set in the his- toric life of man. How real it was the distribution of the great religious faiths of the world will tell. Political institu- tions and boundaries fade and shift; no- thing human yields so permanent a map as faith. The conquests of religions are chiefly those of name and outward form. Unless the population changes, the faith in substance abides. To the east of Alexanders boundary will be found Hinduism, Buddhism, Con- fucianism; to the west, two systems born out of the soil of Alexanders empire, one of the west, Christianity, the other of the east, Mohammedanism, both of them, in history and outward guise of statement, the products of Semitism. If a map of the world should be colored so as to represent the predominant re- ligions of different regions, it would ap- pear that Mohammedanism reaches its eastern frontier essentially at the line drawn from the Jaxartes along the roof of the world and down the course of the Indus; that is, at Alexan- ders old frontier. Its territory repre- sents the oriental or non-occidental por- tion of Alexanders empire. It is itself merely a second growth on western Asiatic soil, a revival and reassertion of orientalism in the reaction from Euro- pean conquest. And yet, when com- pared with the fundamental thought of the systems grown in India and China, it shows itself a creation of our world, and not of the remoter one. Upon our colored map we should find, further, that the territory of Eastern Christianity corresponds in general to the sphere of influence of ancient Athens and Byzantium; that the territory of Ro- man Catholicism corresponds to the do- main of the Western Roman Empire, Italy, the Spanish Peninsula, France, and the Rhine and Danube valleys of Central Europe; while the old Germani, who withstood the legions of Drusus and Varus, are represented still by the indi- vidualistic Protestants of the north. The civilization of the Nearer World had its birth in the two centres Egypt and Babylonia. It was in the long river valleys of the Nile and the Eu- phrates that the two types of ordered life we call by the names Egyptian and Assyrian gained their strength and their individuality. Their meeting-place and agora was the eastern Mediterranean, its coast lands and islands. Here the resultant of the Mesopotamian and Egyptian civilizations united as a female principle with the virility of European occidentalism, and the fruit was that civ- ilization upon which European history, and all the history we have hitherto cared for, is based. 148 The Old World in the New. Consciousness of the power of individ- ual initiative has been throughout the characteristic feature in occidentalism; passive conformity to the ordinance of fate and the settled order of the world, the spirit of orientalism. The West is aggressive, the East passive; the West finds the source of creation and action in the individual, the East in the govern- ing power, be it state or fate. The West looks outward, and seeks to comprehend and control the material universe of its environment; the East looks within, and, learning from the winds and the stars only the lessons of moral order and the mandates of destiny imposed upon the soul, seeks to know and control the things of the spirit. In this fabric of the Nearer World joined of the West and the East, the East supplied the informing spirit, the ordered life, the civilization; the West, the moving will and the arm of power- First Greece, then Rome, then in their turn the peoples of the north, assumed the leadership. Fresh blood of will and empire was drawn constantly from the north. But, however empire might change, the old frontier between the West and the nearer East tended to maintain itself where it was when his- tory dawned, at the A~gean and the Bosporus. Two years ago all eyes were turned toward the ZEgean. Crete, Greece, Constantinople, and the Turk were words on every lip. All issues of international politics were quoted solely in terms of the old Bosporus question. The history of the Nearer World had simply gone back for another bout on the old field, the field on which the first contests were fought, and to which most of the contests since have been re- ferred in real or spectred battle. Viewing history in the large, we can- not fail to see that the world we live in is essentially a Mediterranean world. All its fundamental forms and moulds for law and government, art, architec- ture, and literature, thought and faith, were created beside the Mediterranean; all its political and religious struggles, all its wars, were the fighting over of old Mediterranean questions; and as a system of types and forms, it never can be really understood and known except as it be reduced to Mediterranean terms, and studied in the perspective of a Ro- man, Greek, or Syrian horizon. Such was the life habit of the Near- er World. To-day all this has changed. Suddenly the centre of interest has shifted from the ~gean to the Yellow Sea. A class of questions has arisen, overwhelming, in the magnitude of the issues they involve, all the great ques- tions of earlier days, and none of them admits solution in terms of the Medi- terranean; none of them concerns the Mediterranean, or its peoples, or its history~ That which the silent course of events has long been preparing, now in the fullness of time is come. Almost without a sign of warning we are trans- ferred from the history of the Nearer World to the history of the Great World, and to that history the life and the interests of the great dominant peo- ples of the earth will hereafter belong. To no people is the transition of more profound and fundamental importance than to the people of the United States. It involves for them nothing less than a rethinking of the entire problem of na- tional purpose, destiny, and duty. The old history, which we have called the history of the Nearer World, dealt with the antagonisms and the blending of its two component factors, occidental- ism and orientalism; the new history will record the process of assimilation which follows the uniting of the two halves of the whole world. There can be no question as to which of the two will conquer and control, according to the external forms of conquest; but it is idle for us, in the light of historical experience, to imagine that the blending is to mean nothing more than the absorp- tion of the East by the West, nothing The Old World in the New. 149 more than the exploitation of China and India by the greed and power, or even the enlightenment, of Western nations. Rome conquered Greece, but was con- quered by its art, its manners, and its thought. Europe, in the form of Greece, and then of Rome, subjugated Asia; but Asiatic wealth and luxury reshaped Eu- ropean life, and Europe has its religion from the conquered people. We may easily underestimate the solidity of these civilizations we confront, and the perma- nence of their forms of life arid of their moulds of thought. The economic con- ditions, the political ideas, and the funda- mental religious and philosophic thought of our world cannot and will not escape, in the great leveling that is to come, the most far-reaching and momentous trans- formation. England has touched yet only the surface of India, merely the hem of the garment; but her commerce, the equipment of her life, her governniental mechanism and ideals, have already been radically influenced, and the marvelous effect which acquaintance with Hindu thought is exercising upon mens funda- mental thought of the world has spread far beyond the circles of the learned and of the faddists, and, I am persuaded, can be estimated in its profound importance only by the historians of later days. Both Jndia and China embody types of life and forms of thought which, strange and incomprehensible as they may be to us, have been shapen and polished in the mills of a human experience repre- senting in composite the experience of more human souls than have elsewhere shared a common life. India is the land of the vast and the boundless, the true motherland of the ro- mantic. Endlessly prolific, she sets no restraint on the imagination. So India lacks that which was to the Greek, a~ the representative occidental, the supremest virtue, temperate control, naught to excess. The tumid, redundant forms of her art, as of her literature and her theogony, attest the absence of that sense of due economy and fitness which made the creations of the Greek eternal models of restraint and harmony. To the ag- gressive occidental, time is the opportu- nity of action, time is money; for the Hindu, there were no days or years, and hence no history. The occidental is a pluralist; person- alities, individual psyches, are for him the starting-points, the prime factors of the universe; to enforce personality and make it effective is the mission of life. The Hindu is a monist; the world-all is the starting-point; personality is an aberration from it; to bring this person- ality back to rest, absorbed into accord with the world-all, is the toil and mission of life. Knowledge is the recipe of sal- vation; ignorance is the sin. China is another cosmos. It is pre- eminently the land of the practical. Its world is the established social order of men fixed in forms and conventions, whose authority is absolute, as their rea- sons are past finding out. Life is a drama. Men merely play parts. The look-see (appearance) and the make- see (delusive persuasion) constitute the substance of life. The starting-point and whole of things is neither the world-all nor the individual soul, but the stage and scenery and plot into which the individ- ual must fit the action of his part, and within which take his rOle. There is no truth, no real. With the Greek it is intemperance or slopping over which is the sin, with the Hindu ignorance, with the Chinaman innovation. The purpose of education is, for the Greek, to give personality its maximum of effectiveness; for the Hindu, to endow it with a knowledge that shall reveal the hindrances to union with the world-all; for the Chinaman, to force the individuality, like a Chinese girls foot into a shoe, into the fixed rOle or craft it must use in this present life. The Greek education is frankly the lib- eral education; the Chinese, frankly pro- fessional and technical. 150 The Old World in the New. China has perhaps one fourth the pop- ulation of the globe, but no one suspects it of schemes of imperial conquest. The yellow danger menacing the world comes not from the thrifty tradesmen and peasants of China. China is a na- tion without a fist. Its people are lack- ing in any idea or motive around which could be assembled the sentiments of pa- triotism. Devotion to the honoring of ancestors and solicitude for private gain are the two sentiments of a people who constitute, not a nation nor a state, but a scheme of living. The new history is to be concerned, then, with the assimilation of these two strange and mutually diverse elements of the farther world to the substance of the nearer world, just as the old world history involved an assimilation of West and East. With the parallel goes also a contrast. The old history centred about an inland sea. All its issues had their ultimate home by the Mediterranean. In the new history the world is turned wrong side out. The outer ocean is the agora. Power is estimated in terms of navies rather than of armies. Coal is king, and coaling-stations mark the bonds of empire as the Roman military roads did of old. The pattern of the world has been turned inside out. The old world, like an ancient house, was built to- ward the inside and its colonnaded court; the new is built toward the outside, with windows and veranda. The old history had its Eastern Ques- tion; the new has its Easternmost Ques- tion. In the later phases of the old, Turkey was the sick man; in the new, it is China; and where the car- cass is, there are the eagles gathered to- gether. The old involved the constant query who should be the leader of the occident, Greece, Rome, France, Ger- many, England, Russia? The new asks who shall hold the empire and lead the civilization of the world; shall it be the Slav, the Teuton, or the Latin? The aggressiveness shown by France in colonial enterprise is scarcely more than artificial; it represents no inner need or impulse except as it be a yearn- ing for bonds and shares. France is really smitten with the palsy of her own prudence and thrift. Families are small. Sons are not put through the school of self-reliance. A nation lacking men who know how to take risks and assume the responsibility of their own choices can- not compete for leadership among the peoples. French is the language of a diplomacy which lives on in the close at- mosphere of the old Mediterranean con- troversies; out in the breezy ocean world, the greater world, the medium of inter- national intercourse tends to be English. A colder-blooded people than any of the Latin race will win the contest, in these days of organization and calcula- tion and mechanism and coal. The Ger- man is patient enough and practical enough. He is, like his Anglo-Saxon brother by nature, a stout champion of individual freedom, but lie lacks some- thing his brother possesses. This some- thing it is not easy to describe, but the lack of it allows him to tolerate the yoke of C~esarism, imported from the Latin world; gives him ready adaptability to the institutions of other peoples, so that he is quickly absorbed; and, most char- acteristic of all, forbids his appreciation of a game like football. The character in which the English- man asserts his right to rule an empire is the character demanded by this most truly Anglo-Saxon sport. It is made up of roughness, willingness to risk, ahsence of supersensitiveness, fearful directness, and a sublime devotion to fair play. The typical Englishman believes in venturing, hard hitting, blunt truth-telling, equal justice, and personal cleanliness. England had the start of Continental Europe in preparing for the issues of the new history, in that the English Chan- nel enabled her to free herself early from the more baneful entanglements of the Mediterranean quarrels. England has The Old World in the New. 151 long been living in the world whose agora is the open seas. Not until these last days of the nineteenth century, how- ever, has her one prospective rival, Rus- sia, been able to find a way out into the world. This vast power, spanning at the north half the globe, was until this year pent up as an inland state. Arch- angel and the Baltic ports are ice-blocked for a portion of the year. Yladivostok, founded in 1858, and afterward selected as a terminus for the Siberian railway, is closed to navigation four months in each year. Odessa is blocked at the Bosporus. England has diligently kept the barri- ers up between Russia and the sea. In 1878 she checked her at the gates of Constantinople; in 1886, when Russia was in control of the passes of the Hin- du-Kush, and could see her way out to the ocean by way of Afghanistan, Brit- ish power again raised the dykes, and since then the occupation by England of the Mekran and the Chitral valley has set a double rampart against Russian ad- vance. It remains yet for England to occupy the Persian Gulf, and join it by rail to the coast where Beaconsfield set Cyprus on guard. The events attending the Chinese- Japanese war were of most serious con- sequence to Englands policy and .inter- est. Before the war began, she was the trusted adviser of China, and her pro- tector against Russian aggression. Be- fore the war ended, England found her- self identified with Japan, a nation she had underestimated too long, and sud- denly came to appreciate. Russia, sup- ported by her associates, Germany and France, assumed the r6le of protecting friend discarded by England, checked and nullified the victory of Japan, and China is now almost her vassal. That which it has been the constant aim of English diplomacy and power for years to prevent has come about within this year. Russia has a harbor in the Yel- low Sea, has gained a foothold on the shore of the iceless ocean. The astute- ness of Li Hung Chang, on the other hand, has seen the way for bringing the product of Chinese industry to the West- ern world by the overland route, and China is to be introduced to the West by help and intermediation of Russia. Here- in lies the quid pro quo. Russias strength is in her geographic position. Unmenaced in the rear, span- ning Europe and Asia, and knowing no difference between them, she bides her time, and slowly pushes her way south like a mighty glacier. Gradually the barriers give way. Germany, which once held her in check at the west, is now thanks to Bismarcks anti-English policy, continued by the young Emperor in league with her and in commercial war with England. In Continental diplomacy she is supreme arbiter. Panslavism and the Eastern Church have carried her around Constantinople almost to the shores of the ZEgean, and the first oppor- tunity of Englands preoccupation will give her exit through the Bosporus. Steadily she works her way into Central Asia, where the half-oriental temper of her people makes her government pecu- liarly acceptable, and her administration in general fortunate and wise. Entered in the lists for the world empire are, then, these two. The con- flict is set for which generations have been preparing. Where is our place? Russia is our old-time friend. When- ever we have been at issue with Eng- land, Russia has lost no opportunity to show synipathy with us. England is a mother who has constantly ignored or underestimated us. With a blindness of vision almost unparalleled in all the stupidities of statesmanship, her ruling class have committed wrong after wrong against us, in slight and misjudgment and selfishness, all culminating in the attitude toward us during the war for the pre- servation of the Union. But the heart of the great English middle class has always been right. The English com- mon man, with a fine consciousness of 152 The Old World in the New. affinity, regards us as his own, and re- joices in the American states as a crea- tion and vindication of his own kind. The English country squire is fading away, and the plain commoner is com- ing to a hearing. And we are of one kind. When the battle is set between the Slav and the Anglo-Saxon, our hearts prove us inheritors of more than Anglo- Saxon blood: we are inheritors of the principles embodied in Anglo-Saxon life. The Slav stands for government which has the sanctions of its authority from above and without; the Anglo-Saxon, for one whose authority has its source in the governed themselves. One follows the rule of expediencies, and holds that what succeeds is right; the other builds solid achievement on the things that are real, and believes in the blunt word of truth. One raises the barriers of re- stricted privilege; the other opens the markets and the courts of the world to equal opportunity and even justice. One builds on the distrust of the purposes and the intelligence of men; the other, upon the high optimism of democracy. To one the state is a prison or strait- jacket; to the other it is the training school of the race, where responsibility begets character, and free opportunity begets content. There can be no doubt of our sympa- thy, what is our duty? Has the new order of the world brought us new obli- gations of duty? The old world linger- ing in the meshes of Mediterraneanism afforded us no interests but such as we might well wish to shun with all their en- tangling alliances. The barrier of the ocean removed us from the old world gathered about its inland sea, and set us apart in the far West at one side of the earth. The utilization of this barrier has afforded us the opportunity for es- tablishing ourselves in possession and use of our soil, and for developing our re- sources and our system of government. But now the old world has passed. History is turned inside out. The outer ocean is the agora; the whole world, not half, is involved; and instead of being, as in the old order of things, far at one side, we stand full in the midst, mid- way between Europe and its goal in the Farther East. Sooner than any pro- phet could have foreseen, the question is upon us. Our old-time policy of resisting arbi- trary European interference in the af- fairs of American peoples has been ex- tended, under the pressure of what we believe is a genuine humanitarian senti- ment, into intervention against a Euro- pean misgovernment in Cuba which had passed the limits of toleration, and, hav- ing ceased to be government, had become a case of arbitrary interference in the course of American events. The moment we took this step we be- came involved in the great world pro- blems. Englands position in the Far East hurried her to our side, and gave us her welcome to participation in wider responsibilities for the order of the world. England and America, alienated in terms of the Nearer Worlds life, have found each other on the field of the Greater World. They belong together, and their union means not only a check to the Rus- sian menace, but peace and the orderly development of civilization in the world. Many of us deplored the Spanish war; many of us now look forward with anx- ious solicitude concerning the effect of victory on the victor; but still, as we survey the movements of human history in the large, we cannot fail to see in all that is occurring the inevitable grist of the mills of the gods and the irrefragable judgments of the Weltgericht. Spain and the Middle Ages could not tarry in the West. We, on the other hand, could not shut ourselves within the walled gar- dens of our pleasant domesticity, and shun responsibilities that the commerce and intercourse of the larger world ex- act of those who stand for order and equal justice in the affairs of men. While, then, we may well be called The Trend of the C3ntury. 153 upon now to readjust our conception of national purpose and duty to the new order and our new position, we dare not be false to ourselves or our past. Our charter and creed we must interpret, if no longer in the letter, then all the more scrupulously in the spirit. However the letter and the form may fade and vanish away, there are some things that must needs abide. A nation proclaiming gov- ernment of the people and for the peo- ple cannot impose on conquered peoples a foreign sway, or one that finds its su- preme motive in the benefits accruing to others than the governed. We must stand as we were founded, a nation that draws diverse interests and diverse coin- munities into peaceful cotiperation under recognition of the rights of the individual man, and the self-government of peoples and states. Conquest and empire, and all that be- longs thereto both of method and of idea, are utterly abhorrent to the theory of those institutions through which America has aspired to enlighten the world, and utterly foreign to the structure our f a- thers reared out of their stony griefs and cemented with their faith. It is character that counts in nations as in individuals. Only in loyalty to the old can we serve the new; only in un- derstanding of the past can we interpret and use the present; for history is not made, but unfolded, and the old world entire is ever present in the new. Benjc& min Ide Wheeler. THE TREND OF THE CENTURY. EVERY century has its own character- istics. The two influences which have made the nineteenth century what it is seem to me to be the scientific spirit and the democratic spirit. Thus, the nineteenth century, singularly enough, is the great interpretative century both of nature and of the past, and at the same time the century of incessant and uprooting change in all that relates to the current life of men. It is also the century of national systems of popular education, and at the same time of na- tion-great armies; the century that has done more than any other to scatter men over the face of the earth, and to concentrate them in cities; the century of a universal suffrage that is based upon a belief in the inherent value of the individual; and the century of the corporation and the labor union, which in the domain of capital and of labor threaten to obliterate the individual. I want to trace, if I can, what has been the trend of this remarkable century in the domain of thought, of society, of commerce, of industry, and of politics. Especially I want to do this as it con- cerns life in the United States. I speak first of the trend of thought; for thought, immaterial though it be, is the matrix that shapes the issues of life. The mind has been active in all fields during this fruitful century; but, outside of politics, it is to science that we must look for the thoughts that have shaped all other thinking. When von Helm- holtz was in this country, a few years ago, he said that modern science was born when men ceased to summon nature to the support of theories already formed, and instead began to question nature for her facts, in order that they might thus discover the laws which these facts re- veal. I do not know that it would be easy to sum up the scientific method, as the phrase runs, in simpler words. It would not be correct to say that this process was unknown before the pre- sent century; for there have been mdi-

Seth Low Low, Seth The Trend of the Century 153-165

The Trend of the C3ntury. 153 upon now to readjust our conception of national purpose and duty to the new order and our new position, we dare not be false to ourselves or our past. Our charter and creed we must interpret, if no longer in the letter, then all the more scrupulously in the spirit. However the letter and the form may fade and vanish away, there are some things that must needs abide. A nation proclaiming gov- ernment of the people and for the peo- ple cannot impose on conquered peoples a foreign sway, or one that finds its su- preme motive in the benefits accruing to others than the governed. We must stand as we were founded, a nation that draws diverse interests and diverse coin- munities into peaceful cotiperation under recognition of the rights of the individual man, and the self-government of peoples and states. Conquest and empire, and all that be- longs thereto both of method and of idea, are utterly abhorrent to the theory of those institutions through which America has aspired to enlighten the world, and utterly foreign to the structure our f a- thers reared out of their stony griefs and cemented with their faith. It is character that counts in nations as in individuals. Only in loyalty to the old can we serve the new; only in un- derstanding of the past can we interpret and use the present; for history is not made, but unfolded, and the old world entire is ever present in the new. Benjc& min Ide Wheeler. THE TREND OF THE CENTURY. EVERY century has its own character- istics. The two influences which have made the nineteenth century what it is seem to me to be the scientific spirit and the democratic spirit. Thus, the nineteenth century, singularly enough, is the great interpretative century both of nature and of the past, and at the same time the century of incessant and uprooting change in all that relates to the current life of men. It is also the century of national systems of popular education, and at the same time of na- tion-great armies; the century that has done more than any other to scatter men over the face of the earth, and to concentrate them in cities; the century of a universal suffrage that is based upon a belief in the inherent value of the individual; and the century of the corporation and the labor union, which in the domain of capital and of labor threaten to obliterate the individual. I want to trace, if I can, what has been the trend of this remarkable century in the domain of thought, of society, of commerce, of industry, and of politics. Especially I want to do this as it con- cerns life in the United States. I speak first of the trend of thought; for thought, immaterial though it be, is the matrix that shapes the issues of life. The mind has been active in all fields during this fruitful century; but, outside of politics, it is to science that we must look for the thoughts that have shaped all other thinking. When von Helm- holtz was in this country, a few years ago, he said that modern science was born when men ceased to summon nature to the support of theories already formed, and instead began to question nature for her facts, in order that they might thus discover the laws which these facts re- veal. I do not know that it would be easy to sum up the scientific method, as the phrase runs, in simpler words. It would not be correct to say that this process was unknown before the pre- sent century; for there have been mdi- 154 The Trend of the Century. vidual observers and students of nature in all ages. The seed idea is to be found at least as far back as the time of Ba- con, not to say of Aristotle. But it is true that only in this century has this attitude toward nature become the uni- form attitude of men of science. The results that have flowed from this gen- eral attitude toward nature have been so wonderful that the same method has been employed by students of other sub- jects, with results hardly less noteworthy. To this attitude on the part of men of science toward nature we owe the great advances in our knowledge of natural law which this century has witnessed; and from this increased knowledge of natural law the manifold inventions have come that have changed the face of the world. To the scientific method applied to the problems of the past, by men of letters, we owe our ability to understand the hieroglyphs of Egypt and the cunei- form inscriptions of Babylonia. One of the chief results of the scien- tific method as applied to nature and the study of the past is the change that it has wrought in the philosophic con- ception of nature and of human society. By the middle of the century, Darwin had given what has been held to be sub- stantial proof of the theory of the de- velopment of higher forms out of lower in all living things; and since then, the doctrine of evolution, not as a body of exact teaching, but as a working theory, has obtained a mastery over the minds of men which has dominated all their studies and all their thinking. The con- sequences of the doctrine have been very different in different fields of mental ac- tivity. In the field of religious thought it has undoubtedly been a source of very serious perplexity, because it has con- fronted men with the necessity of re- shaping their conceptions of the divine method of creation according to a theory exactly the opposite of that which had been previously held. When Coperni- cus, in the sixteenth century, began to teach that the earth revolved about the sun, it must have seemed to be doctrine that disputed the most evident of facts. All men in all ages had seen the sun rise in the east and set in the west, and therefore the new doctrine must have appeared, at first sight, to be utterly sub- versive both of the science of that day and of the religion of that day. The men of science, then as now, easily ac- commodated themselves to the new teach- ing as its truthfulness became clear, de- spite its revolutionary character, for to them it meant only a fresh start along a more promising road; but the opposi- tion of the Church reveals the agony of mind that was involved for the Christian believer, in the effort to restate his con- ception of mans importance in the sight of God from the point of view of the newly recognized truth, instead of from the point of view of the old error. Still, men have been able to do this, though it took them a long time to do it. The discovery of Copernicus was announced in 1543; yet I read the other day, in the life of Samuel Johnson, the first president of Kings College in New York city, that it was by him and his col- leagues of Yale, in the early part of the eighteenth century, that even the learned people of Connecticut were led to accept the Copernican theory of the universe instead of the Ptolemaic. Indeed, so late as the first Commencement of Kings College, in 1758, one of the students, in a clear and concise manner, deinonstrat- ed the revolution of the earth round the sun, both from astronomical observa- tions and the theory of gravity, and de- fended the thesis against two of his classmates. These incidents illustrate happily, by the way, how far America was from Europe in those days. It is easy to believe, therefore, that the evo- lutionary conception of creation, with its sublime suggestion of the limitless pos- sibilities of endless development, will in time be accepted as the basis of mens religious thinking as universally as re The Trend of the Century. 155 ligious men now accept the Copernican system of the universe. In the mean- while, it should be a source of comfort to every man whose mind has been trou- bled by this new teaching of science that, in this experience, nothing has happened to him which has not happened before; and it may be observed that if the man of science has thus taught, in a new way, that man is allied to the beasts that per- ish, he has also shown, by his own wide reading of naturallaw, that man is capa- ble of tracing the processes of the in- finite, thus setting the seal of science to the doctrine of revelation, that man, in his essence, is the child of God. The effect of the scientific method and of the doctrine of evolution upon philo- sophy, during the century, has been to bring the philosopher and the man of science closer together. In ancient times the philosopher was in his own person a man of science; that is to say, he not only knew all of the science that was known, but he was himself th~ princi- pal agent in advancing mans scientific knowledge. Through the centuries, as mans knowledge of nature has increased, one science after another has been set aside from the domain of philosophy, so to speak, as a field apart. Thus, as- tronomy, physics, and chemistry have long been recognized as independent fields of knowledge; and the philosopher has left it to the astronomer, the physi- cist, and the chemist to enlarge mans knowledge in those fields. During the nineteenth century even psychology has become, to a great extent, an experi- mental science, so that philosophy, in our day, has come to concern itself once more with all knowledge rather than with special fields of knowledge. Accord- ingly, we find the greatest philosophers basing their philosophies upon the widest possible survey of facts; and the great- est scientists turning from their facts to account for them, as they may, by some adequate philosophy. Thus, the theory of evolution, resting as it does upon the observed facts of nature, has come to dominate the philosophy of the century no less than its science. In the domain of education one sees the same philosophy at work, having for its handmaid the democratic tendency which has marked the political devel- opment of the century. Every public educational system of our day, broadly speaking, is the child of the nineteenth century. The educational system of Ger- many, which in its results has been of hardly less value to mankind than to Germany itself, dates from the recon- stitution of the German universities after the battle of Jena. Whatever system France may have had before the Revo- lution went down in the cataclysm that destroyed the ancient r6gime, so that the educational system of France also dates from the Napoleonic period. In the United States, while the seeds of the public school system may have been planted in the eighteenth, or perhaps even in the seventeenth century, it has only been in the nineteenth century, with the development of the country, that our public school system has grown into what we now see; while in England, the system of national education, in a demo- cratic sense, must be dated from 1870. This attempt on the part of the great nations to provide systematic instruction for the people, from childhood to man- hood, from the elementary school to the university, reflects, as it seems to me, the commingling of the two great ten- dencies of the century, the democratic and the evolutionary. Out of the growth of the democratic principle has come the belief that it is worth while to edu- cate all the children of the state; and out of the scientific method, which has led to the general acceptance of the evo- lutionary theory, has been developed the advance in educational method which is so marked a feature of the last decades of the century. Formerly, it was satis- factory to educate a child according to some preconceived theory, or as it had 156 The Trend of the Century. always been done. To-day, the best systems of education are increasingly based upon the laboratory method, and upon the observation of facts relating to childhood and youth. The new disci- plines, also, are freely admitted on even terms with the old. In other domains of knowledge, such as history and literature, the application of the scientific method has resulted not only in the overthrow of many of our pre- conceived conceptions in regard to the past, but also in the opening up of vast fields of information which formerly were closed to the seeker after truth, because he did not command the open sesame to its treasures. I think, therefore, the statement is justified which I made at the beginning of this paper, that it is to science we must look for the thoughts which, in the nineteenth century, have dominated and fructified all other think- ing. The illumination of the century has proceeded from that source, and the light that has been shed especially by the study of nature has been carried into every nook and corner of human history and human life. But the consequences of the general scientific attitude toward nature which is characteristic of this century have been twofold. Not only has the scientific method furnished a philosophy of na- ture and of human life, but, by the great increase in mans knowledge of natural law to which it has led, it has resulted in endless inventions, and these, in turn, have changed the face of the world. It is not my purpose to catalogue these in- ventions, not even the most conspicu- ous of them. I rather want to point out some of the changes in the life of society which have been caused by them. One of the most noticeable of these re- sults is the great increase in the number and size of cities. What the elevator is to the high building the railroad and the steamboat are to the city. They make practicable a city such as without them could not be. In striking contrast with this tendency of people to concen- trate in cities, we observe, on the other hand, a world movement of people which has been facilitated by the same inven- tions. Mans knowledge of the earth that he inhabits has been made substan- tially complete during the present cen- tury, and the ends of the earth and the islands of the sea have been brought into rapid and easy communication with the centres of the worlds life. In other ages, tribes often migrated from one part of the world to another. The path by which they went was stained with blood, and the country of which they took pos- session they made their own by violence and conquest. But in this century, mil- lions of people, not as tribes, but as fam- ilies and as individuals, have migrated peacefully from Europe to America, to Australia, to Asia, and to Africa. This world-wide movement of the peoples has been made possible only by the inven- tions that have built up the cities; but it also reflects, as it seems to me, the influ- ence of the democratic spirit urging men, in vast numbers and upon their own re- sponsibility, always to seek for conditions of life in which they may enter upon lifes struggle less handicapped by the past. The rapid progress of invention during the century has been coincident with one far-reaching change in the habits of so- ciety, the importance of which is seldom recognized. I refer to deposit banking. Of all the agencies that have affected the world in the nineteenth century, I am sometimes inclined to think that this is one of the most influential. If deposit banking may not be said to be the result of democracy, it certainly may be said that it is in those countries in which demo- cracy is most dominant that deposit bank- ing thrives best. The first bank in the United States was the Bank of Mary- land, opened in Baltimore in 1790. It was open for a year before it had a de- positor. Even fifty years ago the dis- cussions of bankers turned mainly upon circulation. Very little attention was The Trend of the Century. 157 given to the question of deposits. At the present time our banks are coinpar- atively indifferent to circulation; but they aim to secure as large deposits as possible. Deposit banking does for the funds of a country precisely what mobi- lization does for the army of a country like France. Mobilization there places the entire manhood of the country in read- iness for war. Deposit banking keeps every dollar of the country on a war foot- ing all the time. Some one has said that it would have been of no use to invent the railroad, the submarine cable, or the telephone at an earlier period of the worlds history, for there would have been no money at command to make any one of them available before this modern banking system had made its appearance. If this be so, then indeed the part that has been played by deposit banking in the developments of the century cannot be overestimated. During the century the conditions of the worlds commerce have been radically altered. It is not simply that the steam- boat and the locomotive have taken the place of the sailing-ship and the horse; that the submarine cable has supplanted the mails; nor even that these agencies have led to such improvements in bank- ing facilities that foreign commerce is done, for the most part, for hardly more than a brokerage upon the transaction. These are merely accidents of the situ- ation. The fundamental factors have been the opening up of virgin soil in vast areas to the cultivation of man, and the discovery of bow to create artificial cold, which makes it possible to transport for long distances produce that only a few years ago was distinctly classed as per- ishable. The net result of these influ- ences has been to produce a world coin- petition at every point of the globe, both on a scale never before known, and as re- gards articles that have been heretofore exempt from all competition except neigh- borhood competition. Thus, not only has it become impossible to raise wheat pro- fitably in England or even on our own Atlantic coast, but the price of such an article as butter, for example, in the state of New York, is fixed by what it costs to produce a similar grade of butter in Australia. Under the influence of these changes, the merchant of the early part of the century has become as extinct as the mastodon. But if these changes have introduced new and strange pro- blems for the merchant, they have also presented problems of no less difficulty to the statesman. In the first half of the century, China was the great source of supply for both tea and silk. At the present time, more than half of the tea consumed in England comes from India and Ceylon, and more than three quar- ters of the tea consumed in the United States comes from the island of Formo- sa and from Japan. Even in silk China has largely lost her market to Japan and Europe. Who shall say that this gradual destruction of Chinas export trade has not had much to do with bring- ing the ancient empire to the point where it seems about to be broken up? The outflow from the old empire is not suffi- cient to stem the inflow, and the aggres- sive commerce of the outside world ap- pears to be ready to break down the ancient barriers and overflow the coun- try, whether it will or no. This unification of tIme world, and its reduction in size from the point of view of commerce, reveal some tendencies that are full of interest. The general tendency to protection was the first an- swer of the statesman and of the nations to the pressure of competition from new quarters. It represented an effort to make the terms of the world competition between young countries and old, be- tween old countries and new, somewhat more even. The remarkable exception to this tendency presented by Great Britain reflects the exceptional situation of Great Britain among the nations. Her home domain is too small to furnish occupation either for her men or for her 158 The Trend of the century. money, and therefore the people of the little island have swarmed all over the world. As a consequence, Great Brit- ain s commercial policy is, in a certain sense, a world policy; but it is notice- able that the other great nations, whether young or old, being obliged to frame their policy from a different point of view, have hitherto relied, with few if any exceptions, upon protection to equal- ize the terms of the competition. Now, however, a second tendency appears to be discernible. If protection represents the attempt of a nation to hold itself aloof, to some extent, from the competition of the world, the tendency of the aggres- sive nations of Europe to divide up among themselves the undeveloped por- tions of the earth, and even the territory of weaker nations, seems to me to re- present a growing conviction that the policy of protection, from its nature, must be a temporary one; and also to reveal a dimly recognized belief that the true way for the old countries to contend with the semi-civilized, in the long run, is to raise the standard of living in the less advanced countries, so that the semi- civilized shall not be able to drag the most highly developed peoples down to their own level. That is to say, if the first response of the civilized nations to the world competition to which I have referred has been the attempt to limit its unwelcome effects by the erection of artificial barriers at every custom house, the second response seems likely to come in the effort of the strong nations to dom- inate the weak, not for their destruc- tion, but for their uplifting. In other words, civilization, being brought face to face with the competition of the semi- civilized, appears to believe that the best way to preserve its own integrity is to introduce the conditions of civilization everywhere. If this be a correct diag- nosis of the recent developments of f or- eign policy on the part of several of the great nations, it indicates a disposition to secure protection in the future by ag gressive action, rather than by defensive action as heretofore. I am not discuss- ing the merits of the case, but only try- ing to point out the possible significance of movements that are likely to have no little influence on the future. But we should lose sight of one of the most important factors that have been at work in producing these results and in changing the life of men, if we did not consider for a moment the influence of invention in the great domain of industry. In its relation to agriculture this influence appears in three forms: there has been a much more intelligent application of chemistry to the cultivation of the soil; steam power has been very largely sub- stituted for hand power; and the rail- road has made accessible vast areas of country which, in any previous age of the world, it would have been impossi- ble profitably to cultivate. In the sub- stitution of machinery for hand power in the domain of manufacture, two inci- dental results have proved of far-reach- ing consequence, although neither was necessarily involved in the substitution of the machine for the hand. I refer, first to the division of labor, and sec- ond to the interchangeability of parts in many standard manufactured arti- cles. It has added enormously to the productiveness of a factory to divide the labor employed according to the processes. By this means, the labor becomes more expert, the product is in- creased, and the quality is improved. It is true that the action of the laborer thereby becomes also, to a great extent, automatic; but so does the execution of the skilled musician, as the result of his practice and his skill. It is probable that the mind of the laborer, thus largely set free during his hours of toil, is at work quite as busily as before, and in ways that make him more than ever an active factor in the worlds life. The practice of making interchangeable parts in many manufactured articles has also added enormously to the convenience and avail- The Trend of the Cent cary. 159 ability of such articles. The standardiz- ing of the threads of screws, the sizes of bolts, and the like adds beyond measure to the effectiveness of manufacture and to the convenience of industry. But it is a superficial view of these things to suppose that their effect is exhausted in a tendency to cheapen products and to improve industrial opportunity. It is evident that division of labor is possi- ble under freedom only in a community the members of which are animated by mutual trustfulness and mutual respect. Interchangeable parts are of value only when men trade continually with one an~ other. They involve a recognition of the advantage to be had by considering the general welfare rather than simply one s own convenience. That is to say, both of these things reveal and emphasize the tendency to democracy in industry, which seems to me as marked a feature of our times as the tendency to demo- cracy in the political life of men. In other words, industry rests more and more completely upon the mutual inter- dependence of the masses of mankind. Other changes, less material, have taken place in the commercial and in- dustrial world during this same great century. The wage system has become universal, and the corporation and the trade union have become dominant in many branches of industry and com- merce. Commodore Vanderbilt laid the foundation of his fortune by operating a small boat on a ferry. The business of transportation grew under his hands to such an extent that even so exception- ally able a man as he could not control it in his own person. Under the form of a corporation, he was obliged to associate with himself many others, in order to carry on the immense business which he developed. The corporation, in this as- pect, therefore, is democratic, resting as it does upon the substitution of the own- ership of many for the ownership of one. A sailing-ship used to cost comparatively little, and many an individual could af ford to have one or two or a small fleet of them. The modern steamship, on the other hand, is exceedingly costly, and there would be few of them indeed if there were no more than could be owned by individuals. But just as in political democracy there is a tendency on the part of the many blindly to follow one, so in corporations one man is apt to determine the efficiency or inefficiency of the cor- poration. Similarly, in the trade union and other organizations of labor, the or- ganizations which are the most capably led are the most effective. The corporation and the trade union interest me especially from another point of view, because of the strange contrast they present to the democratic tenden- cies of the times. Democracy, as a po- litical theory, emphasizes the equality of men. and the equal rights and privileges of all men before the law. The tenden- cy of it has been, in this country, to de- velop in multitudes of men great indi- viduality and self-reliance. Side by side with this tendency, however, we see the corporation supplanting the individual capitalist, and the, trade union obliter- ating the individual laborer, as direct agents in the work of the world. Strange as this contrast is, both tendencies must be consistent with democracy, for the corporation and the trade union flourish most where democracy is most developed. Indeed, they seem to be successful and powerful just because democracy pours into them both its vital strength. The criticisms that are justly enough launched against both probably spring largely from the fact that, by reason of the rapidity of their development, men have not yet learned how to control them so as to se- cure the maximum of benefit and the minimum of abuse. In this country, I suppose, there are few who would deny that the corporate form of doing business is not only in- evitable, but on the whole advantageous. At the same time, the opinion undoubt- edly would be almost as universal that 160 The Trend of the Century. the abuses in corporate management con- front the country with some of the most serious problems that lie before it. The impersonality of the corporation lends it- self readily to many abuses from which the sense of personal responsibility saves individual men. The corporation, being a creature of legislation, as it has gradu- ally acquired control of more and more of the field of business, has brought all business into relations with the legisla- ture which are as unfortunate as possible. When business was in private control, legislators interfered comparatively little, because those who conducted the business had votes. Corporations, however, have no votes; but they have money; and it is not exaggeration to say that the peo- ple fear, if they do not believe, that the money of the corporations is often more influential in shaping legislation than are the votes of the people. The statement of a railroad magnate, that in Republi- can counties he was a Republican, and in Democratic counties he was a Demo- crat, but that everywhere he was for the railroad, was the cynical admission of an attitude easily understood, but none the less dangerous. When one tries to devise remedies for the evident dangers of the situation, it is not easy to be precise. It is possible, I think, to indicate some directions in which to look for improvement, so far as improvement is possible outside of higher standards of public virtue. The fundamental evil in the corporate form of management, undoubtedly, is the loss of personal re- sponsibility. It is a common remark that as directors men will do things which as individuals they would not think of doing. Indeed, the evil lies deeper than this. Because they are di- rectors, and therefore, as they say, trus- tees for others, they feel constrained to do for the benefit of the stockholders what as individuals they abhor. This reasoning may well be considered falla- cious, but that it is very influential in determining the action of corporate di- rectors cannot be questioned. The re- medy for this loss of personal responsi- bility, so far as there is any remedy by legislation, must come from publicity. When the legislature grants the imper- sonal form for the conduct of business, and grants, in addition, a limited liabil- ity, there is no reason why it should not, at the same time, demand that all of the operations of this artificial person or perhaps I ought to say, of this combina- tion of natural and privileged persons should be matters of public record. The- oretically, I cannot believe that there is any reason why the demand for publicity in relation to the actions of corporations should not be carried to any detail to which it may be necessary to carry it in order to secure the result of absolute hon- esty as toward stockholders, creditors, and the public. It should be observed, perhaps, that corporations naturally di- vide themselves into two classes, those which exercise, by virtue of a public franchise, quasi-governmental functions, and those which conduct purely private business. I think the same rule of pub- licity, as a general principle, should ap- ply to both kinds of corporations; but it is evident that publicity may have to be carried much further in regard to the first kind than in regard to the second. I think there is one other direction in which corporations can be further con- trolled to the public advantage. In many of the states, already, it is impossible to organize a corporation without paying in the capital in cash. If this requirement could be extended so as to demand that neither stock nor bonds should be issued except for a cash equivalent, it would strike at the root of one of the evils in- cident to corporate management which has done much to arouse against corpo- rations popular indignation. I do not know why the law might not require, where stock or bonds are to be issued as the equivalent of invested property, pat- ents, good - will, and the like, that the valuation upon which such issues may be The Trend of the Century. 161 made should be fixed by public authori- ty. The corporation that means to serve the public honestly and fairly is not like- ly to object to being required to have assets of full value for all the securities which it offers to the public. It is the corporation which wishes to make money out of the public dishonestly that aims to float all manner of securities that have no value at all, or only a nominal value. I believe it to be a righteous demand that the laws regulating corporations should protect the public much more adequately than they do now against such frauds. But while it is evident that the cor- porate form of conducting business has been of wide benefit to mankind, despite the abuses that have attached to it, there may not be such general admission of the truth that the trade union and the labor organization have been equally beneficial. It is sometimes said that labor organizes because capital does, and that it is obliged to do so in self-defense. I am far from saying that there is no truth in this statement, but I think that it is only a partial statement of the truth. Labor organizes, primarily, not simply to contend against capital and for self-de- fense, but for precisely the same reason that capital does; that is, for its own ad- vantage. It organizes in response to a tendency of the times which labor can resist no more than capital. It is the re- cognition by labor of the vision of the poet, that the individual withers and the world is more and more. It may not be denied that organized labor has often been cruel in its attitude to laboring men who wish to work upon an individual basis; but it cannot be justly said that it is more cruel than organized capital has been in its own field. The individual competitor has been removed from the pathway of the trust as remorselessly as the individual laborer has been deprived of work by the labor organization. In- deed, I think it may be said that there is no fault that can be charged against or- ganized labor which may not be charged VOL. LXXXII. NO. 490. 11 with equal truth against organized capi- tal. The forms in which these faults exhibit themselves, from the nature of the case, are different, but in both in- stances the fault is the same. In the meanwhile, one has only to consider the protectionist policy of nations in order to be able to understand the protection- ist policy of the trade unions. No labor- ing man can tell at what moment a new invention will appear which will deprive him of his livelihood. It is inevitable, at such a time, that men should draw together and present a common front to the problems of life, rather than attempt to contend with them as individual atoms. It is evident, also, that in many direc- tions the trade union has improved the condition of the laboring man, looked at from the point of view of the mass. It seems to me that the true line of devel- opment, instead of antagonizing labor organization, is to endeavor to make it responsible, so as to substitute for the irresponsibility of the single laborer the adequate responsibility of the great body of laborers. I have been told that in the most progressive labor unions of Eng- land, where the question is an older one than it is here, the aim of the union is to determine by joint action and by agree- ment with the employers the conditions under which the trade shall be carried on, and the tendency is to be indifferent whether the person employed is in the union or out of the union, provided that the standard regulations thus established for the trade are observed upon both sides. Under such a policy the war of the union is waged against inequitable conditions of life, and not against indi- vidual laborers who happen to be outside of the union. It is easy to understand that the employer would prefer to have all such matters entirely under his own control, but it is probably true that, un- der the complex conditions of modern life, this is no longer absolutely possible anywhere; and it is also probably true that, by a general recognition of this cir 162 The Trend of the century. cumstance, the standard of living may be raised in any community, to the great benefit of all concerned. The tendency to democracy in politics is unquestionably the dominant political fact of the century. Not to attempt to trace the operation of this tendency everywhere, it seems to show itself not only in the wide extension of the suf- frage in such countries as England and the United States, but also in the nation- wide army of Germany. It is true that there is little enough of the free spirit of democracy in a military system like that of Germany. On the other hand, the uni- versal suffrage existing in Germany for the election of members of the Reichstag, and the universal demand of the state for military service from all its people, are both of them instances of the use of the democratic spirit of the times in the service of a different polity. In other words, outside of Russia, and possibly even there, monarchical government in Europe is obliged to depend for its sup- port upon the great body of the nation, instead of upon the power of the great and the noble. In England, the mon- archy, although it retains the forms and expressions of power that were natural in the time of the Tudors, has become so responsive to the demands of demo- cracy as to give, in effect, a democratic government. In the United States, the century. though it began with a lim- ited suffrage, ends with universal man- hood suffrage, and even with woman suffrage in some of the Western States. There is one essential difference, how- ever, which ought never to be forgotten, between the democracy of the United States and the democracy of England. The struggle of democracy in England for centuries has been to convert a gov- ernment of privilege into a modern de- mocracy. This implies an hereditary disposition on the part of the great body of the people to look up to men of edu- cation and position as natural leaders, a tendency which still remains to temper very importantly all the activities of English public life. In the United States there is no such tendency. Hence the problem of democracy here is to learn how to educate itself to higher stan- dards, and therefore to the attainment of better results. In other words, de- mocracy in the United States is building on hard-pan, and every advance gained is an advance that reveals the education of the whole people to a higher level. Undoubtedly, universal suffrage and the large immigration of people without any experience in self-government have given form to many of our problems; but I often think there is far too great a dispo- sition among us to magnify the difficul- ties which these conditions present. If all our failures be admitted, whatever they are, the history of the United States is certainly a marvelous one. Surely, it is bad philosophy to assume that our his- tory is what it is in despite of, and not because of, our democracy. It is a nota- ble fact that hardly an immigrant who remains in this country long enough to become a citizen is willing to return to live in his own home. This is a striking testimony to the fact that, whatever our shortcomings, the average conditions of life are freer and happier here than any- where else in the world. And our insti- tutions have certainly sufficed to produce a people of the very highest average of intelligence. The fact is, in my judgment, that our problems arise not so much from uni- versal suffrage as from the effect of the multiplication table applied to all the problems of life. I recollect that Mr. James Bryce, when in this country a few years ago, delivered an interesting lec- ture which he entitled An Age of Discon- tent. In the lecture he pointed out that during the early part of this century the great desire of men was for political lib- erty. But when political liberty had been obtained, he said, instead of ushering in an epoch of universal good will, it had brought with it apparently only universal The Trend of the Century. 163 discontent. Allowing the statement to pass unchallenged, if I were to try to suggest an explanation of this discontent, I should be inclined to say, first of all, that a partial explanation, at least, can be found iu the immense increase of pop- ular opportunity that is due to the spread of democracy, and which has resulted in so magnifying every problem that the world has not yet learned how to deal with many of them. The problems are not only new; in scale they are thorough- ly in keeping with the times, for nothing is more characteristic of the age than the large units of its enterprise. A single building to-day will hold as many tenants as a block of buildings in the beginning of the century; a single bridge of our time will cost as much as twenty bridges of the earlier day; and so one might go through the entire catalogue of private and public undertakings. But size often makes simple things difficult. Any one building a house in the country, when he has dug a well has solved the problem of his water supply; but to supply water for a great city calls for the outlay of millions of dollars, and for the employ- ment of the best engineering talent in the land. Yet nothing has happened except that the problem has been magnified. Thus the difficulties created by the multi- plication table are real; so that the very enlargement of opportunity that demo- cracy has brought with it has faced de- mocracy with problems far harder than were formerly presented to any govern- ment. Another cause of the prevailing dis- content, if that be taken for granted, I find in the constant and uprooting changes in life that have been incident to the rapid progress of scientific inven- tion in our day, and from which no class of people have been exempt. The un- rest is so general and so world-wide that it is not surprising that men are seeking to find for it some remedy which, by its thoroughness, seems to give promise of a complete cure. Every one is conscious of the new problems, but no one is wise enough to see how they are to be worked out. Men want a universal panacea. Accordingly, the anarchist and the nihil- ist say that all government, or even so- ciety itself, is a failure; that the thing to do is to destroy the foundations of government or of society as they now exist, and to start fresh. The commu- nist, less radical, says that society is not at fault, but that the institution of pri- vate property is the source of all trouble. If communism could be introduced, and the people could own everything in com- mon, then, he thinks, the inequalities and injustices of life would disappear. The socialist, on the other hand, recog- nizing the fallacy of both claims, says, No, that is not the trouble. The state, as the one preeminently democratic cor- poration of the day, ought to control the instruments of industry and commerce. When these are controlled by the state, for the general good, instead of being held as now for private advantage, then a better day will be ushered in. And so it goes. It cannot be gainsaid that under every form of government the times are trying mens souls in every condition of life; but there is no uni- versal panacea. There is nothing to be done but patiently to meet each problem in the best way possible, in the confi- dence that in the long run the outcome will be advantageous to mankind. This, at all events, I think may be said of our own people, and of their equipment for the problems of the times: that the American people, in great crises, by their self-control, by their willingness to make sacrifices, and by their evident honesty of purpose, have gladdened the hearts of their friends, and have encouraged those who love to believe that mankind is wor- thy of trust. That our country has not perfectly learned the art of self-govern- ment goes without saying; but that it has made progress in many and difficult di- rections I think must also be admitted. In the meanwhile, some of the pro- 164 The Trend of the Century. blems of greatest difficulty are those which come simply from our size. Mere- ly to get out the vote of a great city, or of a state, or of the nation requires so much machinery as to give to the machine in politics a power that does not always make for the public good. It is not sur- prising, therefore, that wherever this pro- blem is greatest, as in the large cities and the large states, there the tendency to the control of the machine by one man, and to the control of the government by one man through his control of the ma- chine, is the most evident. It does not yet fully appear how the country is to se- cure the legitimate results now obtained through the party machines, without pay- ing to the machines, as such, a price which is out of all proportion to the value of their services. It is not to be believed, however, for one moment, that the wisdom and patriotism of the future will be any less equal to the solution of problems than the wisdom and patriot- ism of the past have been. It is appar- ent that the power of the machine, in the last statement, lies in its control of the power to nominate, because the control of that power opens or closes for every man the door to public life. In some way, it must be made easier for men whose aim is simply to serve the public to get into public life and to stay in it without loss of self-respect. The many movements toward primary reform which look to regaining for the people the con- trol of nominations are movements in the right direction. It is evident that the public instinct has recognized the source of the difficulty, and that everywhere men are at work trying to find a remedy for the evils of which they have become aware. The saying, Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty, did not originate in our day. We are conscious of our own shortcomings and of our own difficulties, and we are apt to forget those out of which the world has grown. We have only to remember these things to gain heart. In a single word, I believe the problem of good government, in our day and coun- try, is largely a problem of education; and in this view it is interesting to recall what was pointed out not long ago by Dr. Stanley Hall, that education is the one thing as to . the value of which all men everywhere, at the present time, are agreed. Not that there is agreement on the methods and detail of education, but all men are agreed that education is a thing to be encouraged, a thing to be de- sired, a thing to be struggled for, and a thing to profit by. In this education our universities have a large part to play. They are already doing much in the di- rection of a constructive study of poli- tics and of society. Perhaps they are not doing enough in the direction of the constructive study of industry and com- merce, for in an industrial and commer- cial age both political and social ques- tions are largely shaped by commerce and industry. In economics, the work of the universities is largely critical, not to say destructive; but because of their ability to illuminate the problems of the present with a broad knowledge of what is being done the world over, as well as with the knowledge of the past, and be- cause of their own inherent democracy of spirit which puts them in vital touch with the spirit of the times, I am con- fident that they may, if they will, make valuable contributions to such a study of industry andecommerce as will cause the universities to become still more impor- tant factors in shaping the future of the country. To sum up, therefore, I should say that the trend of the century has been to a great increase in knowledge, which has been found to be, as of old, the know- ledge of good and evil; that this know- ledge has become more and more the property of all men rather than of a few; that, as a result, the very increase of opportunity has led to the magnifying of the problems with which humanity is obliged to deal; and that we find our- selves, at the end of the century, face to The Proper Basis face with problems of world-wide impor- tance and utmost difficulty, and with no new means of coping with them other than the patient education of the masses of men. However others may tremble as they contemplate the perplexities of the coming century, the children of the universities should find it easy to keep heart; for they know that higher things have been developed in pain and strug of English Culture. 165 gle out of lower, since creation began; and in the atmosphere of the university, with its equality of privilege and wealth of opportunity open to all, they must have learned, if they have learned any- thing of value, the essential nobility of the democratic spirit that so surely holds the future in its hands, the spirit that seeks, with the strength of all, to serve all and uplift all. Seth Low. THE PROPER BASIS OF ENGLISH CULTURE. SURELY it is time our popular cul- ture were cited into the presence of the Fathers. That we have forgotten their works is in itself matter of mere impiety which many practical persons would con- sider themselves entitled to dismiss as a purely sentimental crime; but ignorance of their ways goes to the very root of growth. I count it a circumstance so wonder- ful as to merit some preliminary setting forth here, that with regard to the first seven hundred years of our poetry we English-speaking people appear never to have confirmed ourselves unto ourselves. While we often please our vanity with remarking the outcrop of Anglo-Saxon blood in our modern physical achieve- ments, there is certainly little in our pre- sent art of words to show a literary line- age running back to the same aneestry. Of course it is always admitted that there was an English poetry as old to Chau- cer as Chaucer is to us; but it is ad- mitted with a certain inconclusive and amateur vagueness removing it out of the rank of facts which involve grave and important duties. We can deny neither the fact nor the strangeness of it, that the English poetry written between the time of Aldhelm and Ca3dmon in the seventh century, and that of Chaucer in the fourteenth century, has never yet taken its place by the hearths and in the hearts of the people whose strongest prayers are couched in its idioms. It is not found in the tatters of use, on the floors of our childrens playrooms; there are no illuminated boys editions of it; it is not on the booksellers counters at Christmas; it is not studied in our com- mon schools; it is not printed by our publishers; it does not lie even in the dusty corners of our bookcases; nay, the pious English scholar must actually send to Germany for Greins Bibliothek in order to get a compact reproduction of the body of Old English poetry. Nor is this due to any artistic insen- sibility on our part. Perhaps it will sharpen the outlines of our strange at- titude toward the works of our own tongue if we contrast it with our rever- ence for similar works in other tongues, say Greek and Latin. In citing some brief details of such a contrast, let it be said by way of abundant caution that nothing is further from the present in- tention than to make a silly question as between the value of the ancient classic and the English classic. Terms of value do not apply here; once for all, the pro- digious thoughts of Greek poetry are simply invalua.ble: they permeate all our houses like indirect sunlight; we could not read our life without them. In point

Sidney Lanier Lanier, Sidney The Proper Basis of English Culture 165-174

The Proper Basis face with problems of world-wide impor- tance and utmost difficulty, and with no new means of coping with them other than the patient education of the masses of men. However others may tremble as they contemplate the perplexities of the coming century, the children of the universities should find it easy to keep heart; for they know that higher things have been developed in pain and strug of English Culture. 165 gle out of lower, since creation began; and in the atmosphere of the university, with its equality of privilege and wealth of opportunity open to all, they must have learned, if they have learned any- thing of value, the essential nobility of the democratic spirit that so surely holds the future in its hands, the spirit that seeks, with the strength of all, to serve all and uplift all. Seth Low. THE PROPER BASIS OF ENGLISH CULTURE. SURELY it is time our popular cul- ture were cited into the presence of the Fathers. That we have forgotten their works is in itself matter of mere impiety which many practical persons would con- sider themselves entitled to dismiss as a purely sentimental crime; but ignorance of their ways goes to the very root of growth. I count it a circumstance so wonder- ful as to merit some preliminary setting forth here, that with regard to the first seven hundred years of our poetry we English-speaking people appear never to have confirmed ourselves unto ourselves. While we often please our vanity with remarking the outcrop of Anglo-Saxon blood in our modern physical achieve- ments, there is certainly little in our pre- sent art of words to show a literary line- age running back to the same aneestry. Of course it is always admitted that there was an English poetry as old to Chau- cer as Chaucer is to us; but it is ad- mitted with a certain inconclusive and amateur vagueness removing it out of the rank of facts which involve grave and important duties. We can deny neither the fact nor the strangeness of it, that the English poetry written between the time of Aldhelm and Ca3dmon in the seventh century, and that of Chaucer in the fourteenth century, has never yet taken its place by the hearths and in the hearts of the people whose strongest prayers are couched in its idioms. It is not found in the tatters of use, on the floors of our childrens playrooms; there are no illuminated boys editions of it; it is not on the booksellers counters at Christmas; it is not studied in our com- mon schools; it is not printed by our publishers; it does not lie even in the dusty corners of our bookcases; nay, the pious English scholar must actually send to Germany for Greins Bibliothek in order to get a compact reproduction of the body of Old English poetry. Nor is this due to any artistic insen- sibility on our part. Perhaps it will sharpen the outlines of our strange at- titude toward the works of our own tongue if we contrast it with our rever- ence for similar works in other tongues, say Greek and Latin. In citing some brief details of such a contrast, let it be said by way of abundant caution that nothing is further from the present in- tention than to make a silly question as between the value of the ancient classic and the English classic. Terms of value do not apply here; once for all, the pro- digious thoughts of Greek poetry are simply invalua.ble: they permeate all our houses like indirect sunlight; we could not read our life without them. In point 166 The Proper Basis of English Culture. of fact, our genuine affection for these beautiful foreign works is here adduced because, in establishing our love for great poetry in general, it necessarily also es- tablishes some special cause for our neg- lect of native works in particular. For example, we are all ready to smile with a lofty good humor when we find Puttenham, in 1589, devoting a grave chapter to prove that there rsiay be an Arte of our English Poesie as well as there is of the Latine and Greeke; we remember the crushing domination of the old culture in his time, and before it we wonder complacently at all that icy business of elegant Latin verses and polite literature, and we feel quite comfortable in thinking how completely we have changed these matters. Have we? One will go into few mod- erately appointed houses in this country without finding a Homer in some form or other; but it is probably far within the truth to say that there are not fifty copies of Beo~vulf in the United States.1 Or, again, every boy, though far less learned than that erudite young person of Macaulays, can give some account of the death of Hector; but how many boys or, not to mince matters, how many men in America could do more than stare if asked to relate the death of Byrhtnoth? Yet Byrhtnoth was a hero of our own England in the tenth century, whose manful fall is recorded in English words that ring on the soul like arrows on armor. Why do we not draw in this poem and its like with our mothers milk? Why have we no nursery songs of Beowulf and the Gren- del? Why does not the serious educa- tion of every English-speaking boy com- mence, as a matter of course, with the Anglo-Saxon grammar? These are more serious questions than any one will be prepared to believe who has not followed them out to their logical results. For the absence of this primal Angli- 1 Since this was written (about 1880), two editions of the work have been published here. cism from our modern system goes, as was said, to the very root of culture. The eternal and immeasurable signifi- cance of that individuality in thought which flows into idiom in speech be- comes notably less recognized among us. We do not bring with us out of our childhood the fibre of idiomatic English which our fathers bequeathed to us. A boys English is diluted before it has be- come strong enough for him to make up his mind clearly as to the true taste of it. Our literature needs Anglo-Saxon iron; there is no ruddiness in its cheeks, and everywhere a clear lack of the red cor- puscles. Current English prose, on both sides of the water, reveals an ideal of prose-writing most like the leaden sky of a November day, that overspreads the earth with dreariness, no rift in its tissue nor fleck in its tint. Upon any soul with the least feeling for color the model editorial of the day leaves a profound dejection. The sentences are all of a height, like regulars on parade; and the words are immaculately prim, smug, and clean-shaven. Out of all this regularity comes a kind of prudery in our literature. It ought not to be, that our sensibilities are shocked with strong individualities of style like Carlyles or even Ruskins. One always finds a cer- tain curious reaction of this sensibility upon these men, manful as they are; they grow nervous with the fine sense of a suspicion of charlatanry in using a ruddy-cheeked style when the general world writes sallow-skinned; and hence sometimes too much color in their style, a blush, as it were. We are guilty of a gross wrong in our behavior toward these authors and their like. A man should have his swing in his writing. That is the main value of it; not to sweep me off my legs with eloquent pro- pagandism, but simply to put me in po- sition where I may place the frank and honest-spoken view of another man along- side my own, and so make myself as large as two men, quoad rem. The Proper Basis of English Culture. But we lack a primal idiomatic bone and substance; we have not the stalwart Anglicism of style which can tolerate departures, breaks, and innovations; we are as uncomfortable over our robustious Carlyle as an invalid, all nerves, with a great rollicking boy in the room, we do not know what he may do next. How wonderful this seems, if we take time to think what a strong, bright, pic- ture-making tongue we had in the begin- ning of the sixteenth century, when the powerful old Anglo - Saxon had fairly conquered all the foreign elements into its own idiom I For it is about with the beginning of that century that we may say we had a fully developed Eng- lish literary instrument. Chaucer was not, and could not be, the well of Eng- lish undefiled which Spensers somewhat forgetful antiquarianism would have him. He was fed with two streams of language which were still essentially distinct in many particulars. It was a long while before the primal English conquered the alien elements into its own idioms, longer, indeed, in Chaucers world than in Langlands. Almost every house will furnish the means of placing in sharp contrast the vivacity and robust manfulness of the English language early in the sixteenth century, and the more flaccid tongue which had begun to exist even as early as the eighteenth. Wartons History of English Poetry, for example, collates a couple of stanzas from The Nut-Brown Maid which must belong to the end of the fifteenth or the beginning of the six- teenth century with the corresponding stanzas of a paraphrase made by Prior in 1718. It may not be amiss to make sure by inserting one of these examples here. In the original ballad, the wild lover, testing the girls affection, cries Yet take good hede, for ever I drede That ye could nat sustayne The thornie wayes, the depe valeis, The snowe, the frost, the rayne, The colde, the hete; for, dry or wete, We must lodge on the playne; And us abofe none other rofe But a brake bush or twayne; Which sone sholde greve you, I believe, And ye wolde gladly than That I had to the grene wode go Alone, a banyshed man. I cannot see how language could well have put it feather than that; but, two hundred years afterward, this is Priors idea of the way it should have been said: Those limbs, in lawn and softest silk arrayd, From sunbeams guarded and of winds afraid, Can they bear angry Jove? Can they resist The parching dog-star and the bleak north- east? When, chilld by adverse snows and beating rain, We tread with weary steps the longsome plain; When with hard toil we seek our evening food, Berries and acorns from the neighbouring wood; And find among the cliffs no other house But the thin covert of some gatherd boughs; Wilt thou not then reluctant send thine eye Around the dreary waste, and, weeping, try (Though then, alas! that trial be too late) To find thy fathers hospitable gate, And seats where ease and plenty brooding sate? Those seats, whence long excluded thou must mourn; That gate, for ever barrd to thy return; Wilt thou not then bewail ill-fated lov~, And hate a banishd man, condemnd in woods to rove? Or, if it be objected that this may be an exaggerated single example which proves little, almost every bookcase con- tains Thomas Johness translation of Froissart, in the notes to which occur here and there extracts of parallel pas- sages from Lord Bernerss translation, made in the time of Henry YIII.; and the least comparison of Berners with Johnes shows how immeasurably more bright, many-colored, and powerful is the speech of the former. And this brightness, color, and power make for the doctrine of this present writing, because they are simply exu- berant manifestations of pure Anglicism put forth in the moment of its triumph. We are all prone to forget the odds against which this triumph was achieved. 167 The Proper Basis of English Culture. For four hundred years that is, in round numbers, from 670 to 1070 the English language was desperately striv- ing to get into literature, against the sacred wishes of Latin; and now, when the Normans come, the tongue of Aid- helm and C~edmon, of Alfred and 1- fric and Cynewulf, must begin and fight again for another four hundred years against French, fight, too, in such depths of disadvantage as may be ga- thered from many a story of the relentless Norman efforts to exterminate the native tongue. Witness, for example, Matthew Pariss account of the deposition of the Bishop of Worcester in 1095 by the Normans because he was a superannu- ated English idiot who could not speak French; or Ralph Higdens complaint, as John Trevisa translates it from the Polychronicon: Children in scole, ayenst the usage and manir of all other nations, beeth compelled for to leve hire owne langage and for to construe hire lessons and hire thinges in French; and so they haveth sethe Normans came first into Engelond; moreover, Gentilmen children beeth taught to speke Frensche from ~the tyme that they bith rokked in hire cradle and kumeth speke and play with a childs broche. Eight hundred years the tough old tongue has been grimly wrestling and writhing, life and death on the issue, now under this enemy, now under that, when Lord Berners and Sir Thomas More begin to speak. It is, therefore, with all the sacred sanction of this long conflict that a man can drive home upon our time these fol- lowing charges: first, that it is doing its best, in most of its purely literary work, to convert the large, manful, and simple idioms of Alfred and Cynewulf into the small, finical, and knowing clevernesses of a smart half-culture, which knows 1 As distinguished from the modern scien- tific English, which is certainly an admirable instrument in the hands of Tyndall, of Huxley, and of many more. neither whence it came nor whither it is going; and secondly, that as a people we are utterly ignorant of even the names of the products of English genius dur- ing the first four hundred of the eight hundred years just mentioned, insomuch that if a fervent English-lover desire to open his heart to some one about Beo- wulf, or The Battle of Maldon, or The Wanderer, or Deors Lament, or The Pha~nix, or The Sea-farer, or The Ad- dress of the Departed Soul to its Body, or Elene, or the like, he must do it by letter, for there are scarcely anywhere two in a town who have read, or can read, these poems. In short, our literary language1 has suffered a dilution much like that which music has undergone at the hands of the weaker devotees since the free use of the semitone began. Soon after the chromatic tone had attained its place a wonderful flexibility shows itself in mu- sic, the art expands in many directions, the province of harmony becomes inde- finitely large; but this very freedom proves the ruin of the weaker brethren: the facilities of modulation afforded by the minor chords and the diminished sevenths tempt into unnieaning and cloy- ing impertinences of composition, and these have to be relieved, again, by set- ting over-harsh and crabbed chords in the midst of a too gracious flow of tone. Now, as music has reached a point where it must pause, and reestablish the dominancy of the whole tone, fortifying it with whatever new tones may be found possible in developing the scale accord- ing to primal or what we may call musically idiomatic principles, so must our tongue recur to the robust forms, and from these to the underlying and determining genius, of its Anglo-Saxon2 period. In other words, for what has so far 2 A term for which it is now pretty gener- ally agreed to substitute Old English. I shall use the two interchangeably in this pa- per. 168 The Proper Basis of English Culture. 169 been said has been in defense and expli- cation of the sentence which stands at the beginning of this paper, culture must be cited into the presence of the Fathers. In the humblest hope of contributing to that end, I eagerly embrace the op- portunity of calling the general readers attention to the rhythmical movement and afterward to the spiritual move- ment of an Anglo-Saxon poem dating from about A. D. 993, known as The Death of Byrhtnoth, or otherwise as The Battle of Maldon, which, in the judg- ment of my ear, sets the grace of loyalty and the grimness of battle to noble mu- sic. I think no man could hear this poem read aloud without feeling his heart beat faster and his blood stir. The rhythm of this poem let it be observed as the reader goes through the scheme is strikingly varied in time- distribution from bar to bar. The poem, in fact, counts with perfect confidence upon the sense of rhythm, which is well- nigh universal in our race, often boldly opposing a single syllable in one bar to three or four in the next. I should not call this bold except for the timidity of English poetry during the last two hundred years, when it has scarcely ever dared to venture out of the round of its strictly defined iambics, forgetting how freely our folk songs and nursery rhymes employ rhythms and rhythmic breaks, as Peas porridge hot, for example, or almost any verse out of Mother Goose, which, though complex from the standpoint of our customary rhythmic limitations, are instantly seized and co- ordinated by children and child-minded nurses.1 [Apart from its literary merit, this poem has other features of interest. It is an example, perhaps singular, of an epic contemporary with the events it re- 1 The historical paragraphs following (in brackets) have been supplied by Dr. William Hand Browne. cites, and probably written by one who had a share in the battle. The poets point of view never moves from the Eng- lish side; he does not know what is done or said among the Danes; he knows none of their names, not even that of their leader. We may therefore rely on its be- ing a faithful picture of what was done, said, and even thought during this last resolute stand of England against the vi- kings. The incident itself is memorable. In A. D. 979 IEthelred Lack-Counsel (gener- ally called the Unready ) was crowned at Kingston, and the bloody cloud in the likeness of fire, seen at midnight, which followed that event, may well have seemed to the old chronicler, in the light of later experience, a foretokening of the years to come, when the heavens, night after night, were red with the glare of burning towns and homesteads, and the ground was crimson with the blood of the slaughtered English. For the Danes had begun their terrible invasions, and met with but little resistance. In the next year, Leicester, Thanet, and South~ ampton were plundered, and the inhab- itants mostly slain, says the chronicle; in the next, Padstow in Cornwall was plundered, and Devonshire harried with fire and sword; in the next, London was burnt. We come at last to the year 991, and we are told In this year came Anlaf with ninety- three ships to Staines and harried all roundabout that; and then fared thence to Sandwich, and thence on to Ipswich, and overran all that, and so to Maldon [Essex]. And there against them came the ealdorman Byrhtnoth with his army, and fought with them, and they slew the ealdorman and held the battlefield. And in this year for the first time men coun- selled that they should rather pay tribute to the Danish men for the mickle terror that they wrought at the sea-coasts. And the tribute was at first a thousand pounds. The giver of the counsel was Sigeric the archbishop. 170 The Proper Basis of English Culture. It is plain from this that the fall of Byrhtnoth snapped the sinews of Eng- lish resistance; and from this time forth we read of nothing but feeble and futile musterings of men, without plan or con- cert of action, and all to no purpose: half-battles lost because the support did not arrive in time; fleets ordered to help the land force, and coming after all was over; and ever, says the chroni- cler, when they should have been for- warder, then were they later, am ever the foes waxed more and more. And the tribute grew heavier and heavier, and there was less to pay it with, and leaders like ~lfric turned traitors in sheer despair, until the doomed king, crowning a life of imbecility by a deed of bloody madness, slaughtered the peace- ful colonists of the Danelagh, and Swe- gen came in a storm of fire and blood, hurling the wretched descendant of Cer- dic from the throne, while England bent her neck to the Danish rule. After half a century, two phantoms of a monk and a warrior, Edward and Harold, seemed to wear the Saxon crown; but the mon- archy of Alfred received its death-blow at Maldon, not because the East Saxon militia was broken, but because Byrht- noth fell. And now who was Byrhtnoth? The chronicler, overmuch given to record- ing investitures and deaths of bishops and abbots, tells us but little; but from the Book of Ely, an abbey founded by Byrhtnoth himself, we get glimpses of him, probably from the hand of one who had seen him face to face. He was eal- dorman that is, lord or general of the East Saxons, and one of the greatest nobles in England. He was, says the monkish historian, eloquent of speech, great of stature, exceeding strong, most skillful in war, and of courage that knew no fear. He spent his whole life in de- fending the liberty of his country, being altogether absorbed in this one desire, and preferring to die rather than to leave one of its injuries unavenged. And all the leaders of the shires put their trust altogether in him. After telling of several of his victories, the historian comes to his last fight. His force was far inferior to that of the in- vaders, but he hastened to meet them without waiting for reinforcements, a piece of rashness like that recorded in the poem, where, from mere excess of haughty courage, he disdains to defend the ford of Panta, and lets the vikings cross unmolested, a fatal hardihood which cost him the battle and his life. On his march, when he came to Ram- sey Abbey he asked for provisions for his men. The abbot said that it was not possible for him to feed so great a num- ber, but, not to seem churlish, he would receive as his guests the ealdorman and seven others. Byrhtnoth rejected the mean offer with scorn. I cannot fight without them, he said, and I will not eat without them, and so marched on to Ely, where Abbot IElfsig bounteously entertained him and his force. But the ealdorman, thinking that he had been burdensome to the abbey, would not leave it unrewarded; and on the following morning bestowed upon it six rich manors, and promised nine more, with thirty marks of gold and twenty pounds of silver, on the condi- tion that if be fell in the battle his body should be brought and buried there. To this gift he also added two crosses of gold and gems, and a pair of curiously wrought gloves. And so, com- mending himself to the prayers of the brethren, he went forth to meet the enemy. When he met them,~undeterred by the multitude of foes and the fewness of his own men, he attacked them at once, and for fourteen days fought with them daily. But on the last day, but few of his men being left alive, and perceiving that he was to die, he attacked them with none the less courage, and had al- most put them to flight, when the Danes, taking heart from the small numbers of The Proper Basis of English Culture. iTi the English, formed their force into a wedge, and threw themselves upon them. Byrhtnoth was slain, fighting valiantly, and the enemy cut off his head, and hare it with them to their own country! Plainly a prince of men, and the true king of England at that day, though he never wavered in his allegiance to ZEthelred, my prince. And this last day of the great dim battle in the east, more worthy the poets song than that merely fabulous battle in the west which the late Laureate celebrated in such singing verse, this last agony of the last vigorous struggle to free Eng- land from the ferocious invaders, is the subject of the poem. True, Byrhtnoth is not so musical a name as Arthur, and Leofsunu and Wulfmier sound harsh compared with Lancelot and Percivale; but the fantas- tic chivalry of the Round Table and their phantom-like king are not only his- torically untrue, but merely impossible, a bright-hued web of the stuff that dreams are made of, while these gal- lant men of Essex and their heroic chief veritably lived, and fought, and died where they stood, rather than yield one foot of English ground or forsake their fallen leader; and they were men of our own race, and it maybe that their blood flows in our own veins. Unflinching courage, personal devo- tion to the chief, absolute contempt of death, are matters of course in this war- rior-poets mind, and need no particular eulogy.] I have translated two hundred lines of the poem, which is a fragment, of three hundred and twenty-five lines in all, lacking the original beginning and end, with special reference to two matters. (1.) In the first hundred lines be- ing the first hundred of the poem as it stands I have had particularly in view the send and drive of the rhythm: and to keep these in the readers mind I have made the translation, so far as the end of that hundred, mostly in dactyls, which continually urge the voice forward to the next word, with an occasional trochee for breath and variety. (2.) But in my second hundred lines being those consecutively following the first, up to the hundred and eighty-fifth line of the poem, when I pass to the last sixteen, with an intercalary account in short of the matter of the imitervening hundred and twenty-five I have aban- doned the metrical purpose, and changed the paramount object to that of show- ing the peculiar idioms of Anglo-Saxon poetry: the order of words, the vigorous use of noun and verb, the parallelisms and repetitions (like those of Hebrew poetry, as in the lines near the last, ]Elfnod and Wulfmier lay slain; by the side of their prince they parted with life), and the like. I have thought that the modern reader might contemplate with special profit the sparing use of those particles such as the, a or an, his, their, and others which have made the modern tongue so different from the old, both in its rhythmical work- ing and in its weight or momentum. The old tongue is notably sterner, and often stronger, by its ability to say man, horse, shield, and not the man, a horse, his shield, etc. and it is an interesting question, at least, whether we might not with advantage educate our modern sense to be less shocked by the omission of these par- ticles at need. Without here adducing many ~onsiderations which would have to be weighed before any one could make up his judgment on this point, I have simply called attention to these particles, where modern usage required me to sup- ply them in the translation, by inclosing them in parentheses. In both the metrical and the unmetrical portions of the translation I have dis- carded the arrangement into lines as in- terfering with the objects in view; the poem showing clearly enough, by the 172 The Proper Basis plane of its thought, that it is a poem, though presented in whatever forms of prose. The fragment begins with the last two words of some sentence, brocen wurde (was broken), and then proceeds as follows: Bade then (that is, Byrhtnoth bade) each warrior loose him his horse and drive it afar, and fare thus on to the hand-fight, hopeful of heart. Then straightway the stripling of Offa beheld that the earl would abide no cowardly thing: so there from his hand he let fly his falcon, his beloved hawk, away through the wood, and strode to the battle; and man might know that never that youth would fail from the fight when once he fell to his weapon. There- at Eadric was minded to stand by his ealdorman fast in the fight; forth gan bear his javelin foe-ward, manful in mood, whilever that he in his hands might hold his buckler and broadsword; his vaunt he avouched with his deeds, that there he should fight in front of his prince. Then Byrhtnoth began to array him his warriors, rode and directed, coun- selled the fighters how they should stand and steadfastly hold to their places, showed them how shields should be gripped full hard with the hand, and bade them to fear not at all. When fair- ly his folk were formed he alighted in midst of the liegemen that loved him fondliest; these full well he wist that his faithfullest hearth-fighters weie. Then stood forth one from the vi- kings, strongly called, uttered his words, shouted the sea-rogues threat to the earl where he stood on the adverse shore: Me have the scathful seamen sent, and bidden me say that now must thou render rings 1 for thy ransom, and bet- ter for you shall it be that ye buy off a battle with tribute than trust the hard- 1 Rings, that is, of gold, a favorite form of treasure among our Anglo-Saxon ancestors. of English Culture. dealing of war. No need that we harm you, if only ye heed this message; firm will we fashion a peace with the gold. If thou that art richest wouldst ransom thy people, pay, for a peace, what the seamen shall deem to be due; we will get us to ship with the gold, and fare off over the flood, and hold you acquit. Byrhtnoth cried to him, brandished the buckler, shook the slim ash, with words made utterance, wrathful and re- solute, gave him his answer: Hearest thou, sea-rover, that which my folk say- eth? Yes, we will render you tribute in javelins poisonous point, and old-time blade good weapons, yet for- ward you not in the fight. Herald of pirates, be herald once more; bear to thy people a bitterer message: that here stands dauntless an earl with his war- riors, will keep us this country, land of my lord, Prince }Ethelred, folk and field; the heathen shall perish in battle. Too base, methinketh that ye with your gold should get you to ship all unfought- en with, now that so far ye have come to be in our land: never so soft shall ye slink with your treasure away: us shall persuade both point and blade grim game of war ere we pay you for peace! Bade he then bear forward bucklers, and warriors go, till they all stood ranged on the bank that was east. Now there, for the water, might never a foeman come to the other: there came flowing the flood after ebb-tide, mingled the streams: too long it seemed to them, ere that together the spears would come. There stood they in their strength by Pantas stream, the East-Saxon force and the ship-host: nor might either of them harm the other, save wheu one fell by an arrows flight. The tide outfiowed: the pirates stood yare, many vikings wistful for war. Bade then the Shelter-of-Men2 a war- 2 Byrlitnoth. The Proper Basis of English Culture. 173 hardened warrior hold him the bridge, who Wulfstan was hight, bold with his kinsmen, Ceolas son; he smote with his spear the first man down that stepped over-bold on the bridge. There stood by Wulfstan warriors dauntless, Maccus and IElfere, proud-souled twain; they recked not of flight at the ford, but stoutly strove with the foe what while they could wield their weapons. When they encountered and eagerly saw how bitter the bridgewards were, then the hostile guests betook them to cunning; ordered to seize the ascents, and fare through the ford and lead up the line. Now the earl in his over-bold mood gave over-much2 land to the foe. There, while the warriors whist, fell Byrht- helms bairn 8 to calling over the waters cold : Now there is room for you, rush to us, warriors to warfare; God wot, only, which of us twain shall possess this place of the slaughter! Waded the war - wolves west over Panta, recked not of water, warrior vi- kings. There, oer the wave they bore up their bucklers, the seamen lifted their shields to the land. In wait with his warriors, Byrhtnoth stood; he bade form the war-hedge of bucklers, and hold that ward firm to the foe. The fight was at hand, the glory of battle; the time was come for the falling of men that were doomed. There was a scream uphoven, ravens hovered, (and) the eagle sharp for car- nage; on earth was clamor. They let from (their) hands (the) file- hard spears, (the) sharp-ground javelins, fly; bows were busy, shield caught spear- point, bitter was the battle-rush, war- riors fell, on either hand warriors lay. Wounded was Wulfmmr, chose (his) bed of death, Byrhtnoths kinsman, his sis- The pirates. 2 Voluntarily drew back and allowed them to gain the hither bank, in order to bring on the fight. ~ Byrhtnoth. ters son; he with bills was in pieces hewn. (But) there to the vikings quit- tance made; heard I that Edward slew one sheerly with his sword, withheld not the swing (of it), that to him at feet fell (the) fated warrior. For that his prince said thanks to him to his bower-thane when he had time. So dutiful wrought (the) strong - souled fighters at battle, keenly considered who there might quick- liest pierce with (his) weapon; carnage fell on earth. Stood (they) steadfast- Byrhtnoth heartened them, bade that each warrior mind him of battle that would fight out glory upon (the) Danes. Waded then (forward) (a) warrior tough, upheaved (his) weapon, shield at ward, and strode at the earl; as resolute went the earl to the carl: ~ each of them to the other meant mischief. Sent then the sea-warrior (a) Southern spear that the lord of warriors ~ was wounded; he wrought then with his shield that the shaft burst in pieces and that spear broke that it sprang again. Angry-souled was the warrior; he with (his) spear stung the proud viking that gave him his wound. Prudent was the chieftain; he let his spear wade through the vikings neck; (his) hand guided it that it reached to the life of his dangerous foe. Then he suddenly shot another that his corse- let burst; he was wounded in the breast through the ring-mail; at his heart stood the fatal spear-point. The earl was all the blither; laughed the valorous man, said thanks to the Creator for the days- work that the Lord gave him. Then some (one) of the warriors let fly from his hand a dart that it forth- right passed through the noble thane8 of lEthelred. Then stood him beside an unwaxen warrior,7 a boy in fight; he full boldly plucked from the prince the bloody javelin (Wulfstans son, Wulf ~ The churl, common person or yeoman. ~ Byrhtnoth. 6 Byrhtnoth. That is, a youthful warrior. 174 iSoine Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. m~r the young) ; let the sharp (steel) fare back again; the spear-point pierced that he lay on the earth who before had griev- ously wounded the prince. Ran there a cunning warrior to the earl; he wished to plunder the prince of (his) treasures, armor and rings and adorned sword. Then Byrhtnoth drew from sheath his broad and brown-edged sword and smote on the (warriors) corselet; (but) too soon one of the pirates prevented him; he maimed the arm of the earl; fell to the ground the yellow-hilted sword; he might not hold the hard blade, not wield (a) weapon. There nevertheless some words spoke the hoary chieftain, heart- ened his warriors, bade the good com- rades go forward; now no longer could he stand firm on (his) feet; he looked towards heaven I thank Thee, Ruler of nations, for all the delights that were mine in the world; now do I own, mild Creator, most need that Tl~u give good to my ghost, whereby my soul may depart unto Thee in Thy kingdom. Prince of (the) angels, may fare forth in peace; I am suppliant to Thee that the hell-foes may humble it not! Then the heathen men hewed him and both the chieftains that stood by him; ]Elfnod and Wulfmmr lay slain; by the side of their prince they parted with life. And hereupon as the next hundred and twenty-five lines go on to relate there was like to be a most sorrowful panic on the English side. Several cowards fled; notably one Godric, who leaped upon Byrhtnoths own horse, and so cast many into dead despair with the belief that they saw what no man had ever dreamed lie saw before Byrht- noth in flight. But presently IElf wine and Offa and other high-souled thanes heartened each other and led up their people, yet to no avail: and so thane after thane and man after man fell for the love of Byrhtnoth and of man- hood, and no more would flee. Finally (at line 309, after which there are but sixteen lines more of the fragment) we find Byrhtwold, an old warrior, sturdily bearing up his shield and waving his ash and exhorting the few that remained, beautifully crying: Soul be the scornfuller, heart be the bolder, front be the firmer, as our might lessens! Here, all hewn, lieth our chief- tain, a good man on the ground; for ever let (one) mourn who now from this war- play thinketh to wend. I am old of life; hence will I not; for now by the side of my lord, by the so-beloved man, I am minded to lie! Then ]Ethelgars son (Godric) the war- riors all to combat urged; oft he (a) javelin let hurl a bale-spear upon the vikings; so he among the folk went foremost, hewed and felled, till that he sank in fight; he was not that Godric who fled from the battle. Sidney Lanier. SOME NEGLECTED ASPECTS OF THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR. THE people of every nation have their own way of writing history. With all the thoroughness and care of the German scholars, they have never been quite able to emancipate themselves so completely from certain fundamental proclivities as to present with impartiality all sides of the historical subject that happens to be under investigation. In France, Thiers glorifies the imperialism of Napoleon, and Lanfrey goes as far in the other direction. The Toryism of Hume .and

Charles Kendall Adams Adams, Charles Kendall Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War 174-190

174 iSoine Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. m~r the young) ; let the sharp (steel) fare back again; the spear-point pierced that he lay on the earth who before had griev- ously wounded the prince. Ran there a cunning warrior to the earl; he wished to plunder the prince of (his) treasures, armor and rings and adorned sword. Then Byrhtnoth drew from sheath his broad and brown-edged sword and smote on the (warriors) corselet; (but) too soon one of the pirates prevented him; he maimed the arm of the earl; fell to the ground the yellow-hilted sword; he might not hold the hard blade, not wield (a) weapon. There nevertheless some words spoke the hoary chieftain, heart- ened his warriors, bade the good com- rades go forward; now no longer could he stand firm on (his) feet; he looked towards heaven I thank Thee, Ruler of nations, for all the delights that were mine in the world; now do I own, mild Creator, most need that Tl~u give good to my ghost, whereby my soul may depart unto Thee in Thy kingdom. Prince of (the) angels, may fare forth in peace; I am suppliant to Thee that the hell-foes may humble it not! Then the heathen men hewed him and both the chieftains that stood by him; ]Elfnod and Wulfmmr lay slain; by the side of their prince they parted with life. And hereupon as the next hundred and twenty-five lines go on to relate there was like to be a most sorrowful panic on the English side. Several cowards fled; notably one Godric, who leaped upon Byrhtnoths own horse, and so cast many into dead despair with the belief that they saw what no man had ever dreamed lie saw before Byrht- noth in flight. But presently IElf wine and Offa and other high-souled thanes heartened each other and led up their people, yet to no avail: and so thane after thane and man after man fell for the love of Byrhtnoth and of man- hood, and no more would flee. Finally (at line 309, after which there are but sixteen lines more of the fragment) we find Byrhtwold, an old warrior, sturdily bearing up his shield and waving his ash and exhorting the few that remained, beautifully crying: Soul be the scornfuller, heart be the bolder, front be the firmer, as our might lessens! Here, all hewn, lieth our chief- tain, a good man on the ground; for ever let (one) mourn who now from this war- play thinketh to wend. I am old of life; hence will I not; for now by the side of my lord, by the so-beloved man, I am minded to lie! Then ]Ethelgars son (Godric) the war- riors all to combat urged; oft he (a) javelin let hurl a bale-spear upon the vikings; so he among the folk went foremost, hewed and felled, till that he sank in fight; he was not that Godric who fled from the battle. Sidney Lanier. SOME NEGLECTED ASPECTS OF THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR. THE people of every nation have their own way of writing history. With all the thoroughness and care of the German scholars, they have never been quite able to emancipate themselves so completely from certain fundamental proclivities as to present with impartiality all sides of the historical subject that happens to be under investigation. In France, Thiers glorifies the imperialism of Napoleon, and Lanfrey goes as far in the other direction. The Toryism of Hume .and Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. 175 the Whiggism of Macaulay show that each took a retainer on his side. For such reasons, of the thousands of histo- ries with which the world has heen flood- ed, scarcely more than half a dozen can fairly he said to he alive after the lapse of a hundred years. When one has named the works of Herodotus, of Xenophon, of Thucydides, of Julius C~esar, of Tad- tus, and of Gibbon, what other historical hooks are there, more than a hundred years old, that can he said at the present day to have any real vitality? It is to he feared that the United States has fared no better than other na- tions. The fierce democracy of Bancroft blinded him to the other side, and the federalism of Hildreth gives to his work a kindred quality of partiality and in- completeness. However unconsciously, both were great advocates rather than great judges. Other historians have had the same defects, and the popular im- agination has been obliged to feed itself upon representations more or less incom- plete. Forty years or more ago, one of the foremost of American scholars re- marked, before a large audience of uni- versity professors and students, that his- tory must be rewritten from the American point of view. Although there may have been some reason for such a declaration, there seems to have been no need to give it special emphasis; for, whatever have been the defects of American historians, lack of patriotism has certainly not been one of them. It may well he doubted whether, in any one of the crucial peri- ods of our history, the unsuccessful side has ever been adequately presented. Nor have we been altogether fortu- nate in our historical novels. The im- portance of fiction as a means of por- traying the spirit of a time is not likely to be denied, either by those who con- scientiously take an inventory of their own historical knowledge, or by those who stop to consider how it is that their fellows acquire historical impressions. Very many of us would have to admit that, aside from the somewhat unpala- table and perhaps nauseating intellectu- al pemmican of the old historical text- books, we have derived our knowledge of European history chiefly from the historical romances of Scott and the other novelists and dramatists of this century. After all, history is but the way in which the thoughts, the impres- sions, and the acts of men and women have moved in procession toward some more or less definite end; and it is hard- ly too much to say that this procession has seldom been so vividly represented by the historians as by the great novel- ists and dramatists. Of the craft and the cunning by which Louis XI. made France into a nation, have not the most of us learned more from Quentin Dur- ward than from all other sources put to- gether? Has not Woodstock given us a large share of what we know of the spirit and the atmosphere of the great Cromwellian struggle? Do we not real- ly know more of the essential characteris- tics of Scotch history than we do of the history of New England, or New York, or Virginia? Nobody is likely to deny that The Antiquary and Rob Roy and Kidnapped and A Window in Thrums have done more to make us feel the at- mosphere of Scotch life, and make us know how the Scotch have lived and moved and had their being during the last two centuries, than all the histories combined. The business of acquiring what passes for knowledge is not altogether a ques- tion of accuracy, although on the matter of accuracy itself there is not a little to be said. Every historical scholar, as well as every lawyer, knows that one of the most difficult things in the world is to be certain about a fact. Our courts are organized for the purpose of pro- moting the quest of facts in case of dif- ferences of interests and opinions. Did not the great Burke say that the highest function of government was to put twelve good men into a jury-box? It is by no 1TG Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. means always certain that the historical description is more accurate as a repre- sentation of the moving forces of society than the novel; but even when it is more accurate, it often fails to make any deep impression on the public, because nine persons are having their opinions rapidly formed from the novel, while only one is slowly reaching his conclusions from the study of history. It can hardly be claimed that we in the United States have been very suc- cessful in presenting historical truth in this way. Not many of our novels have left a lasting impression. Hawthornes Scarlet Letter, it is true, by catching the weird and relentless spirit of Puritanism, and impressing it deeply and permanent- ly upon the imaginations of all readers of good English everywhere, has done more to create a strong and correct un- derstanding of the dominant spirit of New England Puritanism than all the histories of New England put together. Perhaps it should be said that service of a kindred nature was rendered by the representative historical novels of Cooper. But all the works of this au- thor had grave defects. Though the pic- ture was less accurate, it was scarcely less impressive; and consequently, it served its purpose, for right or wrong, in essentially the same way. Americans, as well as Europeans, who fed their ju- venile imaginations upon the Leather- stocking Tales formed impressions which subsequent knowledge has found it dif- ficult to erase. So strong was this im- pression that of thousands of people on both sides of the Atlantic it has mat- tered little that every one who has come into close contact with the Indian in- deed, every one who has even at a dis- tance studied his characteristics with care knows that he is a rudimentary human being; that, with hardly a trace of real nobility of nature, he is inferior to the white man, even in those lower qualities in which he has generally been thought to excel. It is of little conse quence that he has easily been outdone whenever he has come into collision with the white man on even terms; that he is outwitted by the frontiersman in the mysteries of woodcraft, and indeed in all those qualities of resourceful cunning which have been supposed to be his pecu- liar characteristic. It is curious to re- flect how hard it has been to eradicate the impressions of the Indian that were stamped into the minds of all readers of novels some two generations ago. Hawthorne and Cooper are the two great delineators of the spirit of the times and the localities of which they wrote; but where, until recently, have we been encouraged to look for another? The name of Mrs. Stowe will undoubt- edly suggest itself to many minds as an adequate answer; but a little reflection will probably convince any thinking read- er that Uncle Toms Cabin is not an his- torical novel in any true sense whatever. That remarkable book was certainly an important contribution to literature and to history. It is no doubt entitled to the unique distinction of having planted con- trolling impulses in the hearts of millions of people, and of having preached its ser- mon with a power that to a vast number of its readers was absolutely irresistible. It may be admitted, moreover, that it is not unfaithful in its delineation of what it portrays; for it probably cannot be successfully denied that every one of its horrors could be matched by some actual occurrence. But it still remains true that as a representation of slavery in its completeness, except as a political tract, it has the fatal defect of presenting a single phase of the subject as if it were the whole. Even its unrivaled effec- tiveness as a political pamphlet cannot rescue it from a one - sidedness which will forever prevent it from taking rank as a great historical novel. Quentin Durward, The Heart of Midlothian, and Henry Esmond are entitled to high rank, not so much because of their exceptional power of plot and description as be- Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. 177 cause of the fidelity with which they portray or reflect all the phases of the life and society which they undertake to present. Bret Harte has described early life in California with a similar spirit, if not with similar success. Simms had some success in depicting certain phases of early life in the South; Miss Mur- free, Joel Chandler Harris, and Thomas Nelson Page have given us graphic pic- tures of more modern conditions. Miss Wilkins has shown with marvelous skill one side of life in New England; and Paul Leicester Ford has made a strong representation of New York political methods in The Honorable Peter Ster- ling. But since the publication of The Spy of Cooper, until within the past year, unless we except Harold Frederics In the Valley, there has been no such representation in fiction of the dominant characteristics of the war for independ- ence. For the most part, we have been obliged to rely, for our impressions of the life and atmosphere of that great contest, upon such representations as the historians have given us. It is not ne- cessary to impute inaccuracy to them, unless it be inaccuracy to give such pro- minence to certain phases of the ques- tion as to leave a warped and imperfect impression upon the mind of the reader. It must be remembered that it is not from the fuller and larger and more carefully prepared histories that popular impressions are derived. They come rather from the books that are used in the public schools. This is evident when we remember how large is the percent- age of the children who never pursue their studies beyond the grammar school grades, and that the masses are obliged to be content with popular books. The school-books naturally present the most obvious events, and they are hard- ly to be condemned for failing to point out the hidden causes which are so often the potent factors of success and defeat. Thus, it has happened that certain very important phases of the war for inde VOL. LXXXII. NO. 490. 12 pendence have received scant consider- ation by those who have had much to do with framing public opinion. Moreover, there is nothing more sure than that the impressions which a child receives of the right and wrong of a dispute are difficult to eradicate. One of the erroneous impressions lodged in the popular imagination is the supposed unanimity, or approach to unanimity, with which the Revolution was undertaken; and there is also a popular impression, equally erroneous, that the logical and the constitutional objections to the Revolutionary policy were weak and insignificant. The fact is that the Revolutionary War was a civil war in a far more strict and comprehensive sense than was the war between the states which broke out in 1861. But there has never been lodged in the popular ima- gination any adequate impression of the tremendous significance of those who al- ways insisted upon calling themselves Loyalists, but who were early stigma- tized by their opponents with the oppro- brious epithet of Tories. Did we not all receive a nearly indelible impression from our juvenile reading that the Tories of the Revolution were men of such thor- oughgoing badness that simple hanging was too good for them? It is now fair, however, to presume that we are far enough away from that exciting period to admit, without danger of bodily harm, that there were really two sides to the question as to whether fighting for in- dependence was the more promising of the two policies open to the colonists. Until the appearance of Professor Ty- lers Literary History of the Revolution, who among the historians had fairly pre- sented both sides of the case? As usual in times of great excitement, the public was divided by more or less indefinite lines into several parties. These may be conveniently classified into four groups, two on either side. Of those who were governors or other offi- cials of the Crown, and consequently 178 Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. were ready to stand by the king through thick and thin, nothing need be said. But a second class of opponents to the Revolutionary movement was far more important, and is entitled to more care- ful consideration. Many, while fully admitting that the policy of the British government was in many respects bad, denied that forceful revolt was the pro- per way to remedy the evils. They be- lieved, and until the outbreak of the war they boldly asserted, that a loyal and persistent support of the party led by Pitt, Burke, and Fox would finally result in the downfall of the Kings Friends and the restoration of the Whigs, with all attendant advantages. They declared with confidence that open revolt would inevitably close the lips of those who in England sympathized with the American cause, and would drive all the members of Parliament to the sup- port of the government in putting down what would be regarded as a rebellion. They declared also that in case of fail- ure to secure the adoption of this policy by Parliament nothing would be lost, in- asmuch as existing evils were far more than counterbalanced by existing bene- fits. They pointed out, moreover, that there was no evidence of a general dis- position in England to oppress the colo- nists, and that there could be no lurk- ing danger in the policy they advocated. There were many, too, who took the ground that in any event success by armed resistance was so overwhelmingly improbable as to be practicably impos- sible, and that an unsuccessful effort would probably augment the evils com- plained of. Then, on the other hand, the Revolu- tionists, also, may be divided into two classes. There were those who protest- ed earnestly against what they regarded as the oppressions of the mother coun- try, but who, up to 1775, believed that reasonable protests would be met with reasonable replies and concessions. The leaders of this class were Washington and Franklin. Then there were those who at the beginning of the dispute were out-and-out advocates of resistance, and a little later out-and-out advocates of in- dependence. It is not strange that the latter class finally got the upper hand and secured the adoption of its policy. In times of intense political excitement it is the thoroughgoing who are apt to have their way. It was the Rhetts and the Yan- ceys who drew Lee and Stephens and the rest of the reluctant South after them into the whirlpool of 1861; and if they had succeeded, they would have been placed in that category of nation- founders in which Otis and Samuel Adams and Patrick Henry now occupy so lofty a position. After all, as has often been said, the most important dif- ference between a revolution and a re- bellion is the fact that the one justifies itself by success, while the other con- demns itself by failure. The importance of the Tory element in the Revolutionary War may be judged either by its numbers or by its respecta- bility. Of the exact relative strength of the Tories and the Revolutionists it is not now easy to form a very confident opin- ion. Indeed, at the time of the war, in the absence of all machinery for taking a census of Loyalists and Revolutionists, the most careful estimate was not likely to be trustworthy. Two facts, however, are certain. One is that the Tories al- ways claimed that if a census could have been taken, or if the question could have been fairly submitted to an unintimidated vote, it would have shown that a very con- siderable majority of the people through- out the country and throughout the entire war were opposed to the policy of resist- ance. The other fact is that those mem- bers of the Revolutionary party who had the best opportunity for observing and judging men, for example, like John Adams, of Massachusetts, and Judge Mc- Kean, of Pennsylvania believed that at least one third of the people were at Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. 119 all times opposed to the war. Moreover, it is obviously probable that many were Loyalists in secret. Indeed, it is well known that in all parts of the country and in all periods of the war many were in the habit of slinking away from the tar and feathers of the Revolutionists, and betaking themselves either stealthily out of the country, or to rocks and caves and other impenetrable hiding - places. Thus, the number of real opponents to the war may easily have been even greater than was apparent. But aside from the opinions of con- temporary judges, if we look into such evidences as are now available, we are forced to the same conclusion. No one can study the energetic and comprehen- sive measures of the various legislatures without seeing that the Tory element was formidable in numbers as well as in character. The records in Massachu- setts show that the Tories were a con- stant source of anxiety and dread. In Connecticut the strength of the opposing element was still greater. In New York the Dutch and their retainers and sup- porters were, as a rule, so notoriously opposed to the war that the Tories in tho aggregate certainly formed a very considerable majority of the population. Here is a typical example. Judge Jones, in describing the election of members to Congress in April, 1775, says: The Loyalists, numbering three fourths of the legal voters, marched in a body to the polls, but their adversaries, having col- lected boys, unemployed sailors, and ne- groes, threatened all who opposed them. The result of this process was that a majority of the ballots cast were found to be in favor of the Revolutionary members. But even the methods of this patriotic mob as portrayed by Jones were not very successful; for in May of 1775 the New York Assembly passed resolutions approving of the course of the British ministry, resolutions which gave great satisfaction in England, and went far to convince the government that the colonial opposition had been greatly exaggerated; that it was indeed insignificant, and could easily be over- come. In New York city, if Washing- ton, soon after his arrival from Boston, had not sent a shivering chill through the enthusiastic opposition of the Tories by promptly hanging the foremost of their leaders, the Loyalist party might have been so successfully organized as to have kept the ~tate solid in its sup- port of the king. It was only this en- ergetic action of Washington, supported as it was a little later by the similar en- ergy of John Jay in judiciously banishing the most formidable of the Tory lead- ers, that finally brought the dominant forces of New York to the support of the war. In Pennsylvania it was long doubt- ful whether the official support of the state could be given to the war move- ment; and that support was never very thorough or very enthusiastic. What Dr. Mitchell, in Hugh Wynne, has repre- sented as the condition in Philadelphia was the condition throughout the state. It is perhaps significant that when, not long after the evacuation of Philadel- phia by Clinton, Arnold was placed in command of the city, he found the To- ries in full social sway, and that he came so far under their influence as to fall in love with the most beautiful and accom- plished of their daughters, a proceed- ing preliminary to that alliance which, years afterward, caused his wife to he called the saddest as well as the hand- somest woman in England. His mar- riage with Margaret Shippen, however happy from a domestic point of view, yet gave an additional motive for Arnolds final plunge. Virginia seems to have had about the same proportion of Tories as Massachu- setts. In North Carolina, the people, throughout the war, were nearly equally divided in their allegiance between the two Georges. South Carolina was Tory; and Georgia was so true to its royal 180 Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. namesake that the state not only refused to supply its quota of troops to the Amer- ican George, but at the moment when the untoward event at Yorktown upset its calculations the legislature was on the point of denouncing the resistance as a failure, and giving its formal allegiance to the British side. But it was not in numbers only that the Tories were formidable. They were even more formidable in influence, char- acter, and respectability. It was natu- ral, of course, that they should include not only the considerable class who held office under the king, but also a very large proportion of those whom we should now ban or bless by calling them conservatives. Thus it happened that in the Tory ranks were many clergymen, lawyers, physicians, as well as college graduates in general. Before the war, these men had been considered not only respectable, but eminent, in their several callings. Professor Tyler has admira- bly shown that even in the political lit- erature of the day the Tories took an important part. While it must be ad- mitted that in the production of the cu- rious concoctions of rhyme and water which in those days passed for poetry the Revolutionary patriots took the lead, yet in elegant, forceful, logical prose, it is hard to see that the writings of such Loyalists as Boucher, Seabury, Leonard, and Galloway were inferior to those of Otis, Dickinson, Paine, and Adams; nev- ertheless, their writings have been quite forgotten. But if we turn from literary merit, and consider simply the soundness or the un- soundness of their political and consti- tutional arguments, we shall find that they are still more worthy of consider- ation. Indeed, the drift of opinion of the most intelligent constitutional critics of to-day, in America as well as in Eng- land, is toward the view that in their constitutional arguments the Loyalist or Tory writers had a strong case. Natu- rally, the long succession of British con- stitutional lawyers, from Lord Mansfield down to Sir William Harcourt, have uni- formly and almost if not quite unani- mously held that, according to the im- memorial custom of the realm, that is, according to the British Constitution, the enactments of the imperial Parlia- ment, consisting of Crown, Lords, and Commons, are constitutionally binding upon all British subjects. While they freely admit the authoritative force of the maxim, No taxation without represen- tation, they insist at all times that the maxim never has had, and has not now, the meaning that was attached to it by Otis, Dickinson, and the other colonial writers. They maintain that, in Parlia- ment, the king, or the queen, represents all the members of the royal family; the House of Lords, all the members of the nobility; and the House of Com- mons, all the commonalty of the colo- nies as well as of the mother country. According to the British theory, every member of the House of Commons repre- sents no more truly the people who elect him than he does also all the other mem- bers of the commonalty, both in Great Britain and in the colonies. It was in accordance with this theory that the great cities of the manufacturing districts, which until recently had never sent a sin- gle member to the House of Commons, were held to be as truly represented as were London and York. This doctrine carried with it the same right to tax the colonies as to tax the citizens of Liv- erpool, Manchester, Birmingham, and Leeds; and the denial of that right by the colonial orators and essayists ap- pears never to have made the least im- pression upon the constitutional law- yers of the mother country. Even Burke, who pleaded so eloquently and vehemently for conciliation with Ameri- ca, freely admitted, and never for a mo- ment denied, that the government was acting within its constitutional rights. His contention was that, although Par- liament possessed the constitutional right Some Neglected A.~pects of the Revolutionary War. 181 to impose taxation, it was nothing less than consummate madness to attempt to exercise that right, inasmuch as such ac- tion would inevitably, sooner or later, result in the loss of the colonies. Now, this was exactly the ground taken by the American rrories, and ex- actly the opposite of the doctrine pro- mulgated by the colonial writers on the Revolutionary side. There were two dominant notes in the contentions of the opponents of the British policy during the whole of the thirteen long years before the spring of 1776. The first was that the British Parliament had no constitu- tional right to tax the colonies; and the second, that it was the duty of the self- respecting colonists to resist the exercise of every unconstitutional act. Accom- panying these assertions was the em- phatic and oft-repeated declaration that nobody sought or was in favor of inde- pendence. As late as the time when the first Continental Congress adjourned in October, 1775, the idea of independence met with no favor from Washington; and Franklin, who was then the Ameri- can agent in London, assured the mem- bers of the British Parliament that he had never heard of anybody, drunk or sober, who favored independence. In view of all these facts, what won- der is it that the Tories, or what may be called the British party in America, con- tained within its ranks many of the most intelligent and the most highly educated people of the colonies? In 1778 the le- gislature of Massachusetts banished and confiscated the property of three hun- dred and ten of the most prominent of the Tory leaders of that state. Who were they? In scanning the list of names, Professor Tyler significantly re- marks that it reads almost like the bead-roll of the oldest and noblest fami- lies concerned in the founding and up- building of New England civilization. Dr. George E. Ellis, some years ago, pointed out the fact that in that list of three hundred and ten persons more than sixty were Harvard graduates. Nor was this exceptional. In the Mid- dle States and in the South the Loyal- ist party contained a large representa- tion of the graduates of Yale, Princeton, William and Mary, and Pennsylvania. Some of these were put to death, some were banished, and some were driven into hiding-places, whence, at the close of the war, they emerged only to be the targets of contempt and of all forms of abuse. A careful investigation of this phase of the contest will unquestionably lead every student to the conclusion that the ranks of the Tories contained a very considerable portion of the most thought- ful, the most intelligent, and the most refined of the colonial people. That every effort should be made to destroy the power and the influence of these people while the war was going on was as natural as the attempt to make the cause successful. But, unfortunately, the severity of public opinion was not re- laxed at the close of the war. Mr. Gold- win Smith has pointed out that there are special and exceptional reasons why the end of a civil war should always be followed by amnesty. But there was no amnesty at the close of the Revolu- tionary War. A single instance will serve as an example of the spirit that was shown. At the final evacuation of Charleston, after the treaty of peace had been signed; the departing British fleet took all the Tories it could carry. Those who, unhappily, were compelled to re- main behind were subjected to the utmost indignities. They were imprisoned, whipped, tarred and feathered, dragged through horse-ponds, and finally twenty- four of their number were hung upon a gallows in sight of the last of the retiring British. So strenuous was the public opinion of the patriots everywhere that even the protests of officers and other men of influence were in vain. General Greene declared that it was an excess of intolerance to persecute men for opinions which twenty years before had been the 182 Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. universal belief of every class of soci- ety; and John Jay denounced the in- judicious punishment and unmanly re- venge, following the Revolution, as without a parallel except in the annals of religions rage in the time of bigotry and blindness. The effect of the spirit so generally shown in all parts of the country was inju- rious in many ways. Mrs. Anne Grant, the vivacious and intelligent Scotch lady who lived for many years in America, and then wrote her interesting and val- uable book, compares the loss of the col- onies in expatriating the Loyalists after the Revolutionary War to the loss of the French in driving out the Huguenots af- ter the Revocation; and Mr. Goldwin Smith, speaking of the fact that the ex- patriated Tories generally betook them- selves, with all their rankling sense of injustice, to Nova Scotia, New Bruns- wick, and the Canadas, remarks that if a power hostile to the republic should ever be formed under European influ- ence in the north of the continent, the Americans would owe such an event to their ancestors who refused amnesty to the vanqnished in civil war. There is another phase of the war to which attention has not perhaps been sufficiently called, namely, what might be termed fortuitous good fortune, in Puritan phraseology, special provi- dence. It is military commonplace to remark that the issue of a battle often turns upon a very trifling circumstance. Napoleon used to say that in war a grain of sand would sometimes turn the scale; and yet that great commander was a firm believer in the doctrine that pro- vidence fights on the side of the heaviest battalions. But in the Revolutionary War providence often seemed to prefer the other side. Several times nothing less than the Puritans providential in- terposition prevented a defeat, which might speedily have ended the contest. For instance, during the siege of Boston, although Tories and spies were every- where, it was never revealed to the Brit- ish that for several months the colonists had not ammunition enough for a single battle. If an assault upon the Ameri- cans had been made, it is difficult t~ see how the British could have failed of overwhelming success. So, too, after the battle of Long Island, when the capture of the entire American force seemed in- evitable, the army was saved partly, no doubt, by the consummate skill of Wash- ington in bringing the boats together, but partly, also, by a dense fog which enabled twelve thousand men, with all their guns and supplies, to cross the river without attracting the attention of the British pickets or the British fleet. When, a little later, in spite of Washing- tons vigorous exhortations and the flat side of his heavy sword, American re- cruits gave way on the first fire of the British at Kipps Bay, the whole of his force in New York seemed to face in- evitable annihilation. The British fleet guarded both shores of Manhattan Is- land, and the British army was above the Americans, opposite to what is now the East Thirty-Fourth Street Ferry. All that was needed to smother the Ameri- can force, and apparently the American cause, was to march without delay across the island, and to hold the Americans with a large army in front and a naval force in the rear, as afterward Wash- ington held Cornwallis at Yorktown. Howes army was more than twice as large as Washingtons; but the doom which the American commander with the flat and the edge of his sword could not prevent, the wit of Mrs. Murray, the resourceful mother of Lindley Mur- ray, readily averted. Occupying the Murray country-seat, or mansion, as it was then called, on Murray Hill, she was directly in the line of the British march. The detention of the army for several hours by her tempting tea and other re- freshments set before the officers ena- bled General Putnam, by a rapid move- ment up the west side of the island, to Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. 183 take the American force out of the trap before it was inexorably closed. A still more striking instance of kin- dred nature was the reason why Gen- eral Howe made his fatal move toward Philadelphia in 1777, instead of sending half of his troops northward to act with Burgoyne. The British plan of cam- paign, which resulted in the capture of the northern army, was so well designed and so comprehensive in its nature as to cause the most serious apprehensions. The plan to attack the Hudson from three directions from Montreal, from Oswego, and from New York cer- tainly gave every promise of success. It failed simply for the reason that there was not proper codperation of the three forces. In the absence of Howes co- operation with Burgoyne, the people of New England and New York so gen- erously destroyed the supplies upon which the enemy depended, and turned out in such force, as to compel the in- vaders either to starve or to surrender. Moreover, St. Leger, even after the defeat of Herkimer at Oriskany, was scared away from the siege of Fort Stanwix by the false report of American successes. These several failures could hardly have occurred but for one very curious incident. The war office in London, as is now well known, having designed the cam- paign, issued general orders for the three expeditions; but, in giving preliminary directions to Sir William Howe, the de- partment ordered him to await detailed instructions. These instructions were duly made out, directing him to divide his force, and to leave in New York only men enough to defend the city against any attacks that might be made by Washington, while with about half of his army he was to march north for the purpose of uniting and co~iperating with Burgoyne. The plan threatened to cut off New England from the rest of the colonies, and also to rescue the state of New York. It is not easy to see how it could have failed if carried out as devised. But the final instructions to Howe did not arrive. His consequent inactivity made it possible for Schuyler at Albany, when he found that Bur- goyne w~s likely to be taken care of, or at least was advancing so slowly through the woods to Whitehall as to cause no special anxiety, to send Arnold up the Mohawk to relieve Fort Stanwix and drive back the invading force under St. Leger. Arnolds success, it will be re- membered, was so rapid and so complete as to enable him to return in time to play the leading part in the final entrapment of Burgoyne. Thus, so far as we can see, it was the delay of the anticipated orders of Howe that left Burgoyne to complete isolation and at the mercy of people who flocked to the standard of Gates. But why did not these orders ar- rive? The reason was not discovered until afterward, when it was quite too late. It was found that the papers had been duly made out for the signature of the minister of war, Lord George Ger- main; but the punctilious fastidiousness of that officer was dissatisfied with the copy that had been prepared, and he ordered that a new and fair copy should be written out before he would sign it. When this copy was completed it was placed in the proper pigeon-hole to await the signature of the minister. Meantime, Lord George, having gone to his country-seat, was absent so long that on his return the order was not recalled to mind. After Howe, acting in accord- ance with the traitorous advice of Gen- eral Charles Lee, had moved toward Philadelphia, and Burgoyne had sur- rendered, the order was rescued from its innocent pigeon-hole to mock the fas- tidiousness of the minister. Had the order been sent, who will undertake to say what its influence would have been on the fate of the Revolution? One other example only will be offered. There is abundant reason to believe that the British government, as well as the 184 Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. British officers, regarded the war as practically at an end, when, in the early winter of 1776, New Jersey had been cleared and Washington had been driven south of the Delaware. Howe had re- ceived his knighthood for the capture of New York, and Cornwallis, thinking his services no longer needed, had sent his portmanteau on board a ship, with the purpose of embarking immediately for home. That audacious recrossing of the Delaware on Christmas night, which caused Frederick the Great to put Wash- ington into the rank of great command- ers, broke up the New York festivities, and called for immediate punishment. When Cornwalliss army played the re- turn move, the Americans were in un- questionable peril. With the broad Dela- ware and its floating ice in Washingtons rear, and a British army twice the size of his own in front, it is not difficult to understand why Cornwallis thought he had at last, as he said, bagged the old fox. If the British commander had attacked vigorously on the afternoon of his arrival, as Washington, Grant, Lee, or any other great general would have done, the chances seem to have been more than ten to one that Wash- ington and his whole army would have been taken prisoners. But Cornwallis was so sure of his game that he made the most stupendous blunder of the war, and decided to refresh his men by a nights sleep. It was a blunder precise- ly like that which prevented General W. F. Smith from taking Petersburg in June of 1864; and it appears to have been simply this mistake that enabled Washington not only to draw his army out of extreme peril, but also to fall upon the enemy at Princeton early the next morning, and, by threatening the British stores throughout the state, to force Corn- wallis back into New York, and so, at the end of the campaign, to take posses- sion of the whole of New Jersey with the exception of two or three stations on the Hudson. When Cornwallis finally surrendered at Yorktown, well might he express his admiration of the wonderful skill which had suddenly hurled an army four hundred miles with such accuracy and deadly effect, and then generously add, But, after all, your excellencys achievements in New Jersey were such that nothing could surpass them. One fact which, in the popular repre- sentations of the Revolutionary War, seems often either to have been over- looked or not to have been sufficiently emphasized, is the remarkable degenera- tion of Congress after the war had really begun. The first Continental Congress had brought together many of the very ablest men in the country. The colo- nies fully realized that questions of the utmost importance were to be consid- ered, and they selected the best men as their representatives. With the possible exception of the Constitutional Conven- tion, no other such body of men has ever yet come together in the history of the country. Its qualities went far to justify the remark of the elder Pitt to Franklin that it was the most honorable as- sembly since the times of Greece and Rome. But its successor was not of the same character. Moreover, for reasons which are not difficult to understand, a marked deterioration took place as time went on. As soon as the Declaration of Independ- ence had been put forth, the people of the individual states began to think of organizing their own governments; and they naturally called into the service of constitution-making the ablest men they could command. To adopt thirteen new constitutions and to set thirteen new gov- ernments in motion made large drafts upon the available intelligence of the country. Added to this depleting influence was the still further necessity of a strong re- presentation in Europe. One has only to recall the names of those who were governors of states, and of those who were engaged in France, in Holland, and Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. 185 in Spain, between 1776 and 1783, to un- derstand that if these men had been in Congress they would have furnished a swaying and a staying power of incal- culable value. Then, too, the army had drawn into its ranks large numbers of prominent men who otherwise would have been in Congress. Nor can we forget what may as well be called the disaffected element. Samuel Adams, as soon as he had succeeded in fairly launching the Revolution, was so ener- getic in the exercise of his doctrine of state sovereignty that he seems to have dreaded the power of the confederated states scarcely less than he dreaded that of George III.; and consequently he was an almost unceasing obstructionist to the cause of military efficiency. The fiery impatience of John Adams was as much in favor of the absurd and impos- sible policy of a short and violent war in the darkest period of the Revolution as was the impatience of Horace Greeley in 1862. Indeed, with the exception of Gouverneur Morris and John Jay, none of the members of Congress seem to have realized that the only practi- cable way of conducting the war to a successful close was the patient policy that was persistently followed-by the com- mander-in-chief. Now, a simple enumeration of these various facts is enough to show why it was that the second Continental Con- gress was so inferior to its great pre- decessor. When we look into its meth- ods of dealing with the war, we ought not to be surprised to find that it was very far from being that unselfish body of intelligent patriots into which it seems to have been converted by the trans- forming and consecrating influence of time. On the contrary, it is not too much to say that one of the greatest difficulties that Washington had to con- tend with was the stupid, meddling, and obstructing inefficiency of those who sat at Philadelphia and at Yorktown for the supreme control of Continental affairs. At some of the meetings of that Con- gress not more than a dozen members were present, arid these were often men of small ability and dogged pertinacity. It was almost harder for Washington to persuade that is, to conquer Con- gress than it was to conquer the British. One who looks through the long and pathetic series of letters of the great commander, and studies them with the single purpose of understanding the re- lations of Congress to the struggle that was going on, is likely to be amazed not only at the wisdom and tact of Wash- ington, but at the almost infinite stupid- ities and difficulties with which he had to contend. The embarrassments that arose from these relations were partly political, but they were also largely mil- itary. New England, though it had heartily supported Washington at the beginning, found its courage oozing out and becoming lukewarm soon after the theatre of active operations ~vas trans- ferred to New York. It is not al- together strange that, while Washington was being driven from the centre of oper- ations and steadily forced out of New Jersey, the New Englanders should point at what they could do at Bennington and Saratoga when they were energetically commanded; or that the New England sentiment, led by John Adams, had, in consequence, some sympathy with the Conway Cabal. Neither Bancroft nor Hildreth nor any one of the older historians has ade- quately described the strength and the nature of the prevailing dissatisfaction. It is only in the light of letters and other documents that have become available within the past twenty years that we are able fully to understand the spirit of the time. Dr. Mitchell shows that spirit perfectly when he puts into the Diary of Jack Gainor these words: Most won- derful it is, as I read what he wrote to inefficient, blundering men, to see how calmly he states his own pitiful case, how entirely he controls a nature violent and 186 Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. passionate beyond that of most men. He was scarcely in the saddle as commander before the body which set him there was filled with dissatisfaction. This expres- sion of the novelist describes the situation better than do any of our historians, with the exception of John Fiske. It may be added that matters were brought to a favorable crisis only when Washington intimated that he might be driven to resignation, declaring, It will be im- possible for me to be of any further ser- vice, if such insuperable difficulties are thrown in my way. Moreover, it was largely the short- sightedness as well as the energy of John Adams which led Congress to tol- erate the policy of short enlistments. This policy Washington tried in every possible way to prevent, but his efforts were only partially successful. It was not till he failed in his appeals to Con- gress, and in his individual appeals to the governors of the various states, that he finally felt obliged to concentrate his views in the memorable Circular to States of October 18, 1780. What can be more instructive or suggestive than the following words? We have frequently heard the be- havior of the militia extolled upon one and another occasion by men who judge from the surface, by men who had par- ticular views in misrepresenting, by visionary men whose credulity easily swelled every vague story in support of a favorite hypothesis. I solemnly de- clare I never was witness to a single in- stance that could countenance the opin- ion of militia or raw troops being fit for the real business of fighting. I have found them useful as light parties to skirmish in the woods, but incapable of making or sustaining a serious attack. This firmness is only acquired by habit of discipline and service. - . - We may expect everything from ours that militia is capable of, but we must not expect from them any services for which regu- lars alone are fit. The battle of Cam- den is a melancholy comment upon this doctrine. The militia fled at the first fire, and left the Continental troops, sur- rounded on every side and overpow- ered by numbers, to combat for safety instead of victory. Not only was Congress inefficient in securing a proper organization, but it was equally inefficient in dealing with supplies. Later investigations have shown that the sufferings at Valley Forge did not arise from a general in- adequacy of food and raiment, but from the fact that the commissariat depart- ment was so woefully remiss in the distribution of supplies where they were needed. It soon came to be known that at the very moment when thou- sands of Washingtons troops were freez- ing and starving for want of blankets and food an abundant supply was ac- cessible not many miles away. The mischief had been done when Congress, in opposition to Washingtons advice, reorganized the commissariat depart- ment in 1777. At that time Congress decided to divide responsibility, and in place of Colonel Joseph Trumbull, who had been the successful head of the de- partment, it put two men with coequal authority to do his work, the one to make the purchases, and the other to distribute the supplies. Then, too, as if for the purpose of insuring chaos, the subordinate officers were made account- able to Congress rather than to the heads of the department. Colonel Trumbull, who was retained in one of the places, was soon so disgusted with the inevitable results that he resigned. Is it strange that at one time the army was two days without meat, and three days without bread? The quartermasters department was scarcely better. It was afterward ascer- tained that at the very time when, as Washington wrote, twenty-eight hundred and ninety - eight men were unfit for duty because they were barefoot and otherwise naked, hogsheads of shoes, Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. 187 stockings, and clothing were lying at dif- ferent places on the roads and in the woods, perishing for want of teams, or of money to pay the teamsters. But even worse than all this, those who provided the supplies were tainted with peculation and fraud. The his- torical student, as he gives up the idea that the legislation of the time was su- premely wise, must also, however reluc- tantly, ahandon the idea that the Re- volutionary period was an age of spot- less political virtue. Again and again Washington pleaded with Congress and with the chief officers of the individual states. In appealing to President Reed, of Pennsylvania, on the 12th of Decem- ber, 1778, to bring those whom he calls the murderers of our cause to con- dign punishment, he unbridled his pas- sion and sent these energetic words: I would to God that one of the most atrocious in each state was hung in gib- bets upon a gallows five times as high as the one prepared by Haman. The situ- ation seemed so desperate that, only six days later, he wrote to Benjamin Harri- son, Speaker of the House of Delegates of Virginia, As there can be no harm in a pious wish for the good of ones country, I shall offer it as mine that each state will not only choose, hut compel their ablest men to attend Congress. But Washingtons prayer, for this once at least, was not answered. When, as time wore on, the French ministers ar- rived, they naturally had little difficul- ty in playing upon the credulity and simple-mindedness of the members. It is now well known that the policy of France in the alliance was twofold. She not only insisted that the colonies should not make peace until independ- ence was recognized, but she was secret- ly determined that the colonies should not be so overwhelmingly successful as to endanger the interests of France and her allies by including the Canadas and the territories lying in the West and South. This latter phase of French policy, revealed as it has been by the publication of the correspondence be- tween the French government and their ministers in America, has made it cer- tain that G6rard, Marbois, and Luzerne employed all those arts of dissimula- tion, as well as of flattery, which have been called the mensonge politique. The letters of Vergennes to the envoys contain frequent references to donat ifs, and those of d~ Circourt to stcours tern- poraires en argent. These expressions refer unmistakably to bribery, for Ver- gennes writes to Luzerne, His Majes- ty further empowers you to continue the gifts which M. G6rard has given or promised, and of which he will surely have handed you a list. The list of persons here referred to, who were to be persuaded with money, has not been disclosed; but Durand tells us that Tom Paine, who was then the secretary of the Committee on Foreign Affairs, and of course knew all its secrets, was en- gaged by the French minister, for a thousand dollars a year, to inspire the people with sentiments favorable to France. No doubt the rascal earned his money, but who the other members were that were thus inspired we do not know. That such inspiration, how- ever, was used to a greater or less ex- tent there can be no possible doubt. One of the biographers of John Jay re- lates that, some thirty years after the events here mentioned, Gouverneur Mor- ris went over from Morrisania to visit his old friend Jay at Bedford. During their conversation Morris suddenly ejac- ulated through clouds of smoke, Jay, what a set of damned scoundrels we had in that second Congress Yes, said Jay, that we had, and the vencr- able ex-Chief Justice knocked the ashes from his pipe. But perhaps the most important of all tbe neglected phases of the Revolution- ary struggle is the stupendous fact that Great Britain was prevented from pro- secuting the war with vigor by complica 188 Some Neglected A spects of the Revolutionary War. tions in Europe. It would only partially express the truth to say that England fought the colonies with one hand tied behind her, or even to declare that it was only her left hand that was free. No adequate impression of the relations of the forces engaged can be obtained without keeping constantly in mind sev- eral all important facts that have too often been neglected. It is necessary to remember that France had but recently been as bitterly humiliated by England as she was a century later by Germany. Those mar- velous years of the domination of the elder Pitt had not only converted the Kingdom of England into the British Empire,. but had accomplished this pro- digious result mainly at the expense of France. It was from the French that India was taken by Clive and Po cock, as Canada was taken by Wolfe and Saunders. Not only was France stripped of her magnificent colonial possessions in Africa, as well as in Asia and America, but she saw her navy everywhere defeated and dispersed, and her commerce completely destroyed. These events had occurred less than twenty years before the outbreak of the American war; and the natural conse- quence was that the hostile feelings of the people of France toward England from 1763 to 1778 were quite as intense as the feelings of the same people toward Germany during the fifteen years after the treaty of 1871. Everybody now knows that if, during that period, Ger- many had in any way become serious- ly involved with a foreign power, the French would have seized the opportu- nity to wipe out the humiliation that had overwhelmed them at Sedan and Paris. Of kindred nature had been the relations of England and France a hundred years before. But even this was not all. The atti- tude of England in regard to the right of search had made her practically the enemy of every one of the European powers. While for some years there was no outbreak, it was evident that nothing but the utmost circumspection could pre- vent a hostile alliance of the most formi- dable character. The fact that Cather- ine II. was prevented from a declaration of war only by the earnest advice of Frederick the Great shows that there was not a little danger of a general European conflagration. Moreover, the English entered upon the American war with a full knowledge of all this rankling hatred upon the part of France, and of the certainty that if at any time the French should see an opportunity to interfere with success they would not fail to do so, and in all probability would draw sev- eral of the other European nations after them. Nor must it be supposed that France had been so completely and permanently crippled as no longer to be formidable. Indeed, the nation had recovered from the material disasters of 1759 nearly as rapidly as, more than a century later, she recovered from the disasters of 1871. But, as their strength grew, the French seemed to remember all the more vivid- ly that their navy had been ruined, root and branch, and that whenever a French merchantman had ventured out of port it had been pounced upon by some watch- ful British cruiser. The armed neu- trality of the Baltic powers had not yet been directed against the supremacy of the sea power of England, and con- sequently not a ship of any nation, sus- pected of transporting goods out of a French port or destined to it, was cx- erupt from search and confiscation; nor could it be forgotten that it was to coun- teract this exercise of what seemed like omnipotence as well as omniscience that the family compact was made which bound Spain to declare war against Eng- land within a year after war was declared by France. It has not always been re- membered by American historians that it was chiefly the discovery of this secret alliance by Pitt, and the opposition of Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. 189 the headstrong young king to the mea- sures by which the great minister pro- posed to thwart the alliance, that led to Pitts downfall, and the substitution of Newcastle and Bute in his place. Moreover, the situation was aggravat- ed by certain other very irritating con- ditions. On the one hand, the needless failure of Byng to relieve Minorca, and the consequent fall of that important island into the hands of the French, was a source of such infinite chagrin to the English that it could not be wiped out by the mere execution of an admiral; while, on the other hand, the possession of Gibraltar by the British was so con- stant a humiliation to the Spanish that an offensive and defensive alliance be- tween France and Spain was the inevita- ble consequence of the situation. These inflammatory elements were so menacing that Pitt, at one time, made the remark- able proposal to Spain to give up Gib- raltar as the price of an alliance for the recovery of Minorca. The mere fact that such terms were offered is enough to show the gravity of the situation. At least, it may be said that if the answer of Spain had been different, either France would never have gone to the help of America, or in doing so she would have had Spain as an enemy rather than as an ally. But, whatever the course of France, the union of England and Spain might easily have turned the scale of the war; for, without the French alliance, it is impossible to see how the colonies could have escaped from being overwhelmed by England and Spain combined. Even if France were not prevented from the alliance, her fleet could not have stood against the united navies of England and Spain; the expedition of de Grasse would have been impossible, and the Yorktown campaign could not have occurred. Thus, it is easy to see that if Pitts proposal had been accepted Eng land might not only have regained Mi- norca, but might also have retained the American colonies. Such a result would hardly have been a dear purchase even at the tremendous price of Gibraltar. The main significance of all these con- ditions for our purpose is the fact that the English knew of the discoveries of Pitt; that they were fully aware that Spain and probably other European nations would be allied with France whenever the French government should see fit to go to the assistance of the revolting colo- nies. As is well known, the consumma- tion of this twofold project would have occurred much earlier than it did but for the natural reluctance of Louis XVI. to assist organized opposition to royal authority. These conditions, moreover, explain why it was that while England had not less than two hundred thousand men under arms, on land and sea, not more than about twenty thousand of them could be spared for the war in America. They also explain why it was that England decided to resort to the un- usual method of using a part of the vast wealth she had recently acquired by her commercial supremacy for the employ- ment of mercenary troops from Germany. From the letters and other papers that are now coming to us in authentic form and in rich abundance, we are learning more perfectly than ever be- fore how it was that the Revolution was achieved. These revelations seem likely to teach us that from the begin- ning to the very end the Revolution was a far more desperate and a far more doubtful struggle than the historians have led us to believe. They teach us also that it was kept from the disas- ter that seemed again and again ready to overwhelm it, chiefly by that watch- ful wisdom of Washington which, to use Goethes phrase, was as unhasting and as unresting as the stars. Charles Kendall Adams. 190 Lights and Shades of Spanish Character. LIGHTS AND SHADES OF SPANISH CHARACTER. THERE is something enigmatical and peculiar in the make-up of the Spaniard, du je ne sais quoi, as a Frenchman might express it. In trying to fathom Iberian ways of thought and feeling, we are frequently forced to fall back on the supposition of a recent writer, that there is something Spanish in the Spaniard which causes him to behave in a Spanish manner. I remember that when I visited Spain, a few years ago, I was somewhat disappointed in the ap- pearance of the country itself, though it has all the beauty of line and color of a land for the most part devoid of turf and trees. I found, however, an ample compensation in the interest afforded by this intense idiosyncrasy of the national temperament. Abandoning the beaten paths of travel, I spent several months journeying over the Peninsula on foot, from the Pyrenees to Gibraltar. In this way, I was enabled to get beyond the French civilization of Madrid, and penetrate to the old Spanish civilization which still lingers in the villages and pro- vincial towns. But even with these op- portunities for observation I was often at a loss to formulate my impressions of the Spaniards. This arose partly from the strong Moorish and Oriental element which combines in them so strangely with European traits, partly from Spain itself being pre~minently the land of puz- zling anomalies. Both in the country and in the national character a shining virtue usually goes hand in hand with an egre- gious fault. In no like area in Europe, perhaps not in the world, do there exist guch extremes of dryness and moisture, heat and cold, fertility and barrenness, such smiling landscapes and such dreary desolation. And contrasts such as we find between the arid steppes of Aragon and the huerta of Valencia, between the bleak uplands of Castile and the palm groves of Elehe, between the wind-blown wastes of La Mancha and the vega of Granada, are not without counterpart in the character of the inhabitants. What, for instance, can be affirmed of a Cata- lan which will also hold true of a native of Seville? I remember that a theatre audience at Madrid thought it the height of comic incongruity when a stage valet declared that he was a mixture of Ga- lician and Andalusian. ( Yo soy una mezcla de Gallego y Andaluz.) It is hard, indeed, to avoid a seeming abuse of paradox and antithesis in speaking of Spain, that singular country, which, in the words of Ford, hovers between Europe and Africa, between civilization and barbarism; that land of the green valley and barren mountain, of the boundless plain and broken sierra; those Elysian gardens of the vine, the olive, the orange, and the aloe; those track- less, vast, silent, uncultivated wastes, the heritage of the wild bee; . . . that ori- ginal unchanged country, where indul- gence and luxury contend with privation and poverty, where a want of all that is generous or merciful is blended with the most devoted heroic virtues, where igno- rance and erudition stand in violent and striking contrast. We almost refuse to credit Madame dAulnoys account of the mingled squa- lor and magnificence, barbarism and re- finement, that existed at Madrid toward the end of the seventeenth century, when Spain, isolated from the rest of Europe, was still free to express her antithetical nature. Throughout nearly everything Spanish there runs this chiaroscuro, this intense play of light and shade. In the history of what other nation do we find such alternations of energy and inertia, such sudden vicissitudes of greatness and decay? On the one hand, Spanish reli- gion in the sixteenth century culminated

Irving Babbitt Babbitt, Irving Lights and Shades of Spanish Character 190-197

190 Lights and Shades of Spanish Character. LIGHTS AND SHADES OF SPANISH CHARACTER. THERE is something enigmatical and peculiar in the make-up of the Spaniard, du je ne sais quoi, as a Frenchman might express it. In trying to fathom Iberian ways of thought and feeling, we are frequently forced to fall back on the supposition of a recent writer, that there is something Spanish in the Spaniard which causes him to behave in a Spanish manner. I remember that when I visited Spain, a few years ago, I was somewhat disappointed in the ap- pearance of the country itself, though it has all the beauty of line and color of a land for the most part devoid of turf and trees. I found, however, an ample compensation in the interest afforded by this intense idiosyncrasy of the national temperament. Abandoning the beaten paths of travel, I spent several months journeying over the Peninsula on foot, from the Pyrenees to Gibraltar. In this way, I was enabled to get beyond the French civilization of Madrid, and penetrate to the old Spanish civilization which still lingers in the villages and pro- vincial towns. But even with these op- portunities for observation I was often at a loss to formulate my impressions of the Spaniards. This arose partly from the strong Moorish and Oriental element which combines in them so strangely with European traits, partly from Spain itself being pre~minently the land of puz- zling anomalies. Both in the country and in the national character a shining virtue usually goes hand in hand with an egre- gious fault. In no like area in Europe, perhaps not in the world, do there exist guch extremes of dryness and moisture, heat and cold, fertility and barrenness, such smiling landscapes and such dreary desolation. And contrasts such as we find between the arid steppes of Aragon and the huerta of Valencia, between the bleak uplands of Castile and the palm groves of Elehe, between the wind-blown wastes of La Mancha and the vega of Granada, are not without counterpart in the character of the inhabitants. What, for instance, can be affirmed of a Cata- lan which will also hold true of a native of Seville? I remember that a theatre audience at Madrid thought it the height of comic incongruity when a stage valet declared that he was a mixture of Ga- lician and Andalusian. ( Yo soy una mezcla de Gallego y Andaluz.) It is hard, indeed, to avoid a seeming abuse of paradox and antithesis in speaking of Spain, that singular country, which, in the words of Ford, hovers between Europe and Africa, between civilization and barbarism; that land of the green valley and barren mountain, of the boundless plain and broken sierra; those Elysian gardens of the vine, the olive, the orange, and the aloe; those track- less, vast, silent, uncultivated wastes, the heritage of the wild bee; . . . that ori- ginal unchanged country, where indul- gence and luxury contend with privation and poverty, where a want of all that is generous or merciful is blended with the most devoted heroic virtues, where igno- rance and erudition stand in violent and striking contrast. We almost refuse to credit Madame dAulnoys account of the mingled squa- lor and magnificence, barbarism and re- finement, that existed at Madrid toward the end of the seventeenth century, when Spain, isolated from the rest of Europe, was still free to express her antithetical nature. Throughout nearly everything Spanish there runs this chiaroscuro, this intense play of light and shade. In the history of what other nation do we find such alternations of energy and inertia, such sudden vicissitudes of greatness and decay? On the one hand, Spanish reli- gion in the sixteenth century culminated Lights and Shades of Spanish Character. 191 in the Inquisition; and on the other, it attained to the purest spirituality and Christian charity in Santa Teresa, Fray Luis de Leon, and San Juan de la Cruz, the last of the great mystics, the splendid sunset glow of medheval Catholicism. The brilliant literature of the Golden Age died away abruptly into platitude and insignificance. Among the masterpieces of this literature itself we pass with lit- tle interval from heights of mysticism and strains of lyric eloquence to the works of the picaresque writers, recount- ing the exploits of rogues and vagabonds. Spanish society, which until recently had no middle class, suggested to Cer- vantes the perfect antithesis of Don Qui- xote and Sancho Panza; and in Sancho Panza himself, the Spanish peasant of Cervantes time and of to-day, there is the contrast between his shrewd mother wit and his ignorance and credulity. Spain has left almost entirely uncultivated that intermediary region of lucidity, good sense, and critical discrimination which France has made her special domain. Perhaps the first requisite to getting a clear notion of the Spaniard is to real- ize in what respects he is not like the Frenchman. We should not allow our- selves to be misled by any supposed soli- darity of the Latin races. In certain essential traits the Spanish differ from the French almost as much as the Hin- dus from the Chinese, and in somewhat the same manner. The chief thing that strikes one in French literature is the absence of what the Germans call In- nigkeit, of inwardness, the subordi- nation of everything in man to his so- cial qualities; among the Spaniards, on the other hand, there is vastly greater capacity for solitude and isolation. In France, reason, insufficiently quickened by the imagination, easily degenerates into dry rationalism; whereas in the land of Don Quixote the imagination tends to break away from the control of the senses and understanding, and is unwill- ing to accept the limitations of the real, and then follows the inevitable disen- chantment when the world turns out to be different in fact from what it had been painted in fancy. Engaiic~ and desengaito, illusion and disillusion, eter- nal themes of Spanish poetry Intimately related to this intemperate imagination of the Spaniard is his pride, his power of self-idealization, his exalted notion of his personal dignity. He is capable of almost any sacrifice when ap- pealed to in the name of his honor, the peculiar form his self-respect assumes, and of almost any violence and cruelty when he believes his honor to be offend- ed. The Spanish classic theatre revolves almost entirely around this sentiment of honor, which is mediawal and Gothic, and the sentiment of jealousy, which is Oriental. It was by working upon his pride and sense of honor far more than upon his religious instinct that Rome in- duced the Spaniard to become her cham- pion in her warfare against the modern spirit. He looked upon himself as the caballero andante who sallied forth to do heroic battle for Mother Church. This self-absorption of the Spaniard has interfered with his acceptance of the new humanitarian ideal. Don Juan, in Moli~res play, tells his valet to give alms to the beggar, not for the love of God, but for the love of humanity. In fact, since the time of Molil~re man has been substituting for the worship of God and for the old notion of individual salvation this cult of Humanity, this apotheosis of himself in his collective capacity. He has idealized his own future, and thus evolved the idea of progress. He has dwelt with minute interest on his own past, and has thus given rise to the his- torical spirit. He has ministered with ever increasing solicitude to his own con- venience and comfort, and has sought to find in this world some equivalent for his vanished dream of paradise. The individual has so subordinated himself to this vast common work that he has al- most lost the sense of his independent 192 Lights and Shades of Spanish Character. value. The individual, said M. Ber- thelot only the other day, will count for less and less in the society of the fu- ture. The Spaniard, however, refuses thus to identify the interests of his individual self with the interests of humanity. He is filled with that subtle egotism, engen- dered by mediawal religion, which neg- lected mans relation to nature and his fellows, and fixed his attention solely on the problem of his personal salvation. In the olden time, it was not uncommon for a pious Spaniard, on dying, to de- fraud his earthly creditors in order that he might pay masses for the welfare of his soul; and it was said of such a man that he had made his soul his heir. The Spaniard remains thus self-centred. He has little capacity for trusting his fellow men, for co~iperating with them and working disinterestedly to a common end; he is impatient of organization and discipline. And so, as some one has remarked, he is warlike without being military. We may add that he is over- flowing with national pride without be- ing really patriotic. He still has in his blood something of the wild desert in- stinct of the Arab, and the love of per- sonal independence of the Goth. You would rather suspect, says an old Eng- lish author, speaking of the Spaniards, that they did but live together for fear of wolves. As a public servant the Spaniard is likely to take for his motto, Apr~s mol le d6luge, or, as the pro- verb puts it, El ultimo mono se ahoga (The last monkey gets drowned). In the Spaniards indifference to bod- ily comfort and material refinements we find traces of the Oriental and medkeval contempt for the body. Le corps, cette guenille, est-il dune impor- tance, Dnn prix ~ m~riter seulement quon y pense? However, those happy days of Spanish abstemiousness which Juan Valera de- scribes have passed, never to return; that golden era before the advent of French cookery, when all classes, from grandee to muleteer, partook with equal relish of the national mixture of garlic and red peppers; when window-glass was still a rarity in the Peninsula; when, if a tenth part of the inhabitants of Madrid had taken it into their heads to bathe, there would have been no water left to drink, or to cook those garbanzos (chick-peas) so essential in the Spanish dietary. But in spite of the spread of modern luxu- ry, which Seiior Valera looks upon with ascetic distrust, the Spaniards still re- main in the mass the most temperate people in Europe. The cruelty of the Spaniard or ra- ther, his callousness, his recklessness of his own life and of the lives of others is another mediawal and Oriental survi- val; and then, too, there underlies the Spanish temperament I know not what vein of primitive Iberian savagery. Ma- dame dAulnoy relates that on a certain day of the year it was customary for court gallants to run along one of the main streets of Madrid, lashing furious- ly their bare shoulders; and when one of these penitents passed the lady of his choice among the spectators, lie bespat- tered her with his blood, as a special mark of his favor. Insensibility to the suffering of animals, though general in Spain, is not any greater, so far as my own observation goes, than in the other Latin countries. Possibly, medheval re- ligion, in so exalting man above other creatures, in refusing to recognize his relations to the rest of nature, tended to increase this lack of sympathy with brute creation. The Spanish peasant belabors his ass for the same reason that Malebranche kicked his dog, be- cause he has not learned to see in it a being organized to feel pain in the same way as himself. Closely akin, also, to the Spaniards media,val and aristocratic attitude to- ward life is his curious lack of practical sense and mechanical skill. The good Lights and Shades of Spanish Character. qualities of the Spaniards, writes Mr. Butler Clarke, alike with their defects, have an old world flavor that renders their possessors unfit to excel in an inar- tistic, commercial, democratic, and skep- tical age. Juan Yalera admits this prac- tical awkwardness and inefficiency of the Spaniard, but exclaims, Sublime inca- pacity! and discovers in it a mark of his mystic, ecstatic, and transcendental na- ture. The Spaniard, then, finds it hard to light a kerosene lamp without breaking the chimney, much as Emerson made his friends uneasy when he began to handle a gun. Unfortunately, nature knows how to revenge herself cruelly on those who affect to treat her with seraphic disdain, and on those who, like the Spaniards, see in a lack of prudence and economy a proof of aristocratic detachment. Qui veut faire lange fait la b~te. After centuries of mortal tension, man has finally given over trying to look upon himself as a pure spirit. (Indeed, in the case of M. Zola and his school, he has tried to look upon himself as a pure animal.) He has been gradually learn- ing to honor his senses and to live on friendly terms with nature. The Span- iard, however, has refused to adjust him- self to the laws of time and space. He is unwilling to recognize that the most sublime enterprises usually go amiss from the neglect of the homeliest de- tails. He has failed to develop those faculties of observation and analysis by which man, since the Renaissance, has been laying hold upon the world of mat- ter with an ever firmer grasp. The splendid sonorities of the Spanish lan- guage serve in its poetry as a substitute for the exact rendering of nature, and take the place of a precise mastery of facts in the speech of the orator in Cortes. The Spaniard is reluctant to mar the poetry of existence by an excessive ac- curacy. Steamboats are advertised in Spanish newspapers to start at such and such an hour more or less (mas 4 menos). Procrastination is the national vice. As VOL. LXXXII. ~o. 490. 13 I walked along the alameda at Saragos- sa, shortly after arriving in Spain, the words I caught constantly rising above the hum of voices were, mafiana, ma- fiana por la mafiana, mafiana (to-mor- row, to - morrow morning, to - morrow). In Spain, says Ford, everything is put off until to-morrow except bank- ruptcy. A thing in Spain is begun late, and never finished, runs a native proverb (En Espafia se empieza tarde, y se acaba nunca); and again, Spanish succor arrives late or never (Socorro de Espaiia 6 tarde 6 nunca). Along with this Oriental disregard for the value of time there is a dash of Ori- ental fatalism. I remember once talking the matter over with an old peasant, as we walked together over the pass of Des- pefiaperros into Andalusia. In this ac- cursed world, he ended by saying, a man who is born a cuarto (a copper coin) is not going to turn out a peseta (a coin of silver). A curious comparison might be made between this true East- ern fatalism of the Spaniard, the fatal- ism of predestination, and that fatalism of evolution which seems to be gaining ground with us. Another Oriental and medheval trait in the Spaniard is his lack of curiosity. Quien sabe? (Who knows?) is the formula of his intellectual indifference, just as No se puede (It is impossible) is the formula of his fatalism. The mod- ern world is coming more and more to seek its salvation in the development of the reason and intelligence; and from this point of view Renan is consistent in ex- alting curiosity above all other vir- tues. Christianity, on the other hand, may justly be suspected of having insuffi- ciently recognized from the start the r6le of the intellect, and at times has inclined to show a special tenderness toward ig- norance. Pascal was but true to the tra- dition of the Christian mystics when he branded the whole process of modern scientific inquiry as a form of concupis- cence, libido sciendi, the lust of know- 193 194 Lights and Shades of Spanish Character. ing. When he felt the rise within him of the new power of the reason which threatened the integrity of his medhe- val faith, he exclaimed in self-admonish- ment, You must use holy water and hear masses, and that will lead you to believe naturally and will make you stupid. Spain, for several centuries back, has applied with great success this panacea of Pascal for any undue activi- ty of the reason. The abject ignorance into which she has fallen is the result, then, partly of Christian obscurantism, and in part of Oriental incuriousness. Which is worse, after all, some of. us may be prompted to ask in passing, this incuriousness of the Spaniard, or that eager inquisitiveness of his antipode the American, which leads him to saturate his soul in all the infinite futility of his daily newspaper? Spain may at least owe to her ignorance some of that wis- dom of little children so highly prized by Christianity. There is more simplicity, kindliness, and naivet6 in Spain than in the rest of Europe, writes Wilhelm von Humboldt to Goethe. Other Western countries are showing signs at present of intellectual overtraining. The impres- sion we get from a typical Parisian Frenchman of to-day is that the whole energy of the mans personality has gone to feed the critical intellect, at the expense both of what is below and of what is above the intellect, of the body and the soul. The critical intellect of the Span- iard has been so stunted and atrophied by centuries of disuse that he has lost the very sense of his deficiency. Educa- tion is as truly the last object of his con- cern as it is the first of the American. Juan Yalera, who has analyzed with great acuteness the causes of spanish decadence, says that Spains head was turned in the sixteenth century by her sudden accession to world-wide dominion, coinciding as it did with her triumph, after seven centuries of conflict, over the Moors. She became filled with a f a- natical faith in herself, with a delirium of pride, and since then has hugged with desperate tenacity, as embodying absolute and immutable truth, those me- dia~val forms to which she ascribed her greatness. In the meanwhile, the rest of the world has been quietly changing from a medheval to a Greek view of culture. It has been discovering that growth is not in one, but in a multitude of directions, and that the nation no less than the individual is greatest which can take up and harmonize in itself the largest number of opposing qualities. France, indeed, has been almost fatally crippled by her attempt to carry into modern times the principle of medimnval exclusiveness. Sainte-Beuve traces to the persecution of the Jansenists and the expulsion of the Huguenots a loss of balance in the French national charac- ter. It was perhaps no idle fancy that led the Parisian Nefftzer to exclaim, as he heard the boom of the German guns about the city in the siege of 1870, We are paying for Saint Bartholo- mews Day! The history of Spain bears still more tragic witness to the truth of Emersons saying that exclu- siveness excludes itself. Nearly all her skill in finance, manufacture, and agri- culture departed from her with the banishment of the Jews and Moriscos; and the Inquisition shut that intellectual element from her life which was needed as a corrective of her over-ardent imagi- nation and narrow intensity. However, modern ideas have fairly got a footing in Spain during the past forty years, and new and old have been arrayed against each other with a truly Iberian vividness of contrast. This bat- tle beween medheval and modern is the favorite topic of recent Spanish literature. It has been treated, often with great power, by novelists like Gald6s, Alar- con, and Valera, and has inspired the work of poets like Nufiez de Arce and Campoamor. It is curious, this spectacle of a nation hesitating between contradic- tory ideals. Spain looks doubtfully on Lights and Shades of Spanish Character. 195 our scientific and industrial civilization, and in the very act of accepting it feels that she is perhaps entering the path of perdition. She does not share our ex- uberant optimism, and has misgivings about our idea of progress. She cannot, like other Western nations, throw herself with fierce energy upon the task of win- ning dominion over matter, and forget, In actions dizzying eddy whirid, The something that infects the world. She is haunted at times by the Eastern sense of the unreality of life. It is no mere chance that the title of the most fa- mous play of Spains greatest dramatist is La Vida es Sueflo, Life is a Dream. This note, which is heard only occasion- ally in English, and notably in Shake- speare, recurs constantly in Spanish from the Couplets of Manrique to Espronceda. Wisdom, often for the Spaniard as al- ways for the Oriental, reveals herself as some strange process of solitary illumi- nation, comparable to the awakening from a dream. The mysterious vir- gin, she calls herself in Esproncedas poem, on whom man bestows his last affections, and in whom all science be- comes mute. Soy la virgen misteriosa De los iiltiinos amores, etc. Whereas Bacon, speaking for the West, says that the way of knowledge is one that no man can travel alone. We might augur more hopefully of Spains attempt to enter upon the path of modern progress if she had been more happily inspired in the choice of a model. Wilhelm von Humboldt, one of the few philosophical observers of Spain, re- marks that her greatest misfortune is her geographical position. All her ideas come to her through France, and France is above all dangerous to her. In that ideal cosmopolitanism of which Goethe dreamed, each country was to broaden itself by a wise assimilation of the ex- cellencies of other nationalities. The actual cosmopolitanism which has arisen during the present century has perhaps resulted in an interchange of vices rather than of virtues. I have sometimes been tempted to see a symbol of this cosmo- politanism in a certain square at Florence whose fine old native architecture has given way to a cheap imitation of the Parisian boulevard; and over the front of one of these modern structures appear in flaming letters the words Gambri- nus Halle! In theory, Spain should have sent hundreds of her young men to German universities and to English and Amen- caa technical schools, in order that they might thus acquire the scientific method of the Teuton and the practical and executive instinct of the Anglo-Saxon. She should have fostered among her sons an interest in commerce, in manufacture, and above all in agriculture; they should have been encouraged to go forth and reclaim the waste tracts of their native land, plant forests, and heal that long- standing feud between man and nature which in Spain is written on the very face of the landscape. Instead of this, she has turned for her exemplar to France, to the ideal, infinite- ly seductive and infinitely false, embod- ied in Paris. She has been guided in this choice by her incurably aristocratic instinct. It is estimated that in the days of Spanish greatness only three million out of a population of nine million con~ sented to work; and Spain still remains a nation of aristocrats. Every true Cas- tilian still aspires to be a caballero, or horseman; the Spaniard is unwilling to come down from his horse and put his shoulder to the work of modern civiliza- tion. I find in an old English author the following judgment on Spain, which has lost little of its truth: The ground is uncultivated partly through the paucity and partly through the pride of the peo- ple, who breed themselves up to bigger thoughts than they are born to, and scorn to be that which we call ploughmen and peasants. . . . And if you take men of that nation, before they have spoiled 196 Lights and Shades of Spanish Character. themselves, either by getting some great office at home or else by much walking abroad, to seek some employment or for- tune there, you shall find them for the most part to be of noble and courteous and quiet minds, in the very natural con- stitution thereof. Whereas, if you show them a new and sweeter way of life, either at home or abroad, it intoxicates them so with the vanities and vices of the world that they are many of them quickly wont to suck the venom in, and become the very worst of men. So that naturally I hold them good; and that by accident and infection they grow easily to be stark naught. The Spaniards, then, have sucked in the venom of the Parisian boulevard, and have raised up in their capital a showy fa~ade of borrowed elegance to which nothing in the country corre- sponds. I know of no more startling contrast, even in Spain, than to pass sud- denly from some gray, poverty-stricken village of Old Castile into the factitious glare and glitter of the Fuente Castel- lana at Madrid. The highest ambition of thousands of young Spanish provin- cials is to swagger about in close-fitting frock coats, and seek for political prefer- ment, any meaner occupation being un- worthy of such noble hidalgos. Govern- ment places are few compared with the number of applicants; they are ill paid and of uncertain tenure, and the office- holder has little choice except to steal or starve. The vicious traditions of the old absolutism have thus united with the new frivolity to produce in the modern Spanish official that harmonious blend- ing of corruption and incompetency with which we are familiar. However, we must remember how lit- tle these afrancesados, these caf6-haunt- ing, Frenchified Spaniards of Madrid really represent the nation. In Spain, even more than in France and Italy, the germs of promise for the future are to be sought anywhere rather than in the upper classes. Even among the upper classes, if we are to judge from recent literature, there are those who do not ac- cept the French ideal of lhomme moyen sensuel, who would have the Spanish character come under certain modern in- fluences, without therefore sacrificing its own native gravity and religious serious- ness. It is encouraging to note in many of the Spanish books published of late years something of that robustness and virility wherein lies the natural superi- ority of the Spaniard over the other Latins. Spain has as yet no decadent writers, no Zola and no Gabriele dAn- nunzio. To speak, then, of the lower classes, there is a singular agreement among those who have really mingled with them as to their natural possibilities for good. I have found in Spain, says Borrow, amongst much that is lamentable and reprehensible, much that is noble and to be admired, much stern, heroic virtue, much savage and horrible crime; of low, vulgar vice very little, at least amongst the great hody of the Spanish nation. There is still valor in Asturia, gen- erosity in Aragon, probity in Old Cas- tile. But how far will these old world virtues of the Spanish peasantry be able to withstand the contact with nineteenth- century civilization? Will not the pro- found poetry of their simple instinctive life fade away at its touch, and the racy originality of their native ways be smothered under its smug uniformity? Will they be able, in short, to make the difficult passage from the medimeval to the modern habit of mind without f all- ing into anarchy and confusion? More than any other land, Spain came under the control of that Jesuitical Catholicism issued from the Council of Trent which has poisoned the very life-blood of the Latin races; which, rather than lose its hold upon the minds of men, has con- sented through its casuists to sanction self-indulgence; which has retarded by every means in its power the develop- ment of those virtues of self-reliance Ny Friend Ah-Chy. 197 and self-control that more than any oth- ers measure a mans advancement in the modern spirit; and now that the Span- iards are escaping from the artificial re- straint of their religion they are left, pas- sionate and impulsive children, to meet the responsibilities of nineteenth-century life. From my observation of the com- mon people, I should say that already the power of the priesthood is broken, that respect for the institution of mon- archy is undermined, and that there is a rapid drift toward republicanism joined to a profound distrust of the present rulers. The desen~,aito, or rude disillu- sion, they are likely to experience before the end of the present struggle may re- sult in some fierce outburst, boding dis- aster to the political jobbers at Madrid. Yet no prudent man would risk a pro- phecy about Peninsular politics; for Spain is to pays do limpr6vu, the land of the unexpected, where the logical and obvious thing is least likely to happen; and that is perhaps one of the reasons why she still retains her hold on the man of imagination. Whatever comes to pass, we may be sure that Spain will not modify immedi- ately the mental habits of centuries of spiritual and political absolutism. In attempting to escape from the past, she will no doubt shift from the fanatical belief in a religious creed to the fanatical belief in revolutionary formuhe, and per- haps pass through all the other lamenta ble phases of Latin-country radicalism. Yet if space allowed I could give rea- sons for the belief that there are more elements of real republicanism in Spain than in France or Italy. This remark, as well as nearly everything else I have said, I mean to apply especially to the Castiles, Aragon, and the northwestern provinces, the real backbone of the Pe- ninsula. In any case, those who have a first- hand knowledge of Spain will be ~loath to place her on that list of dying na- tions to which Lord Salisbury recently referred. She is still rich in virtues which the world at present can ill afford to lose. It remains to be seen whether she can rid herself of the impediments which are rendering these virtues inef- fectual. Will she be able to expel the Jesuit poison from her blood? Will she learn to found her self-respect on con- science, instead of on the medheval sen- timent of honor, and come to rely on action, the religion of the modern man, rather than on Maria Santissima? Chief question of all, will she succeed in tam- ing her Gotho - Bedouin instincts, and become capable of the degree of orderly cooperation necessary for good govern- ment? Alas! the Spaniards themselves relate that the Virgin once granted va- rious boons to Spain, at the prayer of Santiago, but refused the boon of good government, lest then the angels forsake heaven, and prefer Spain to paradise. Irving Babbitt. MY FRIEND AH-CHY. I FTR5T met him at a port on the river, by which shorter but satisfac- torily definite title all China residents designate the great Yangtsze Kiang. The importance of that magnificent natural highway few of those who have not lived in China realize. Flowing thousands of miles through province af- ter province, it bears on its rushing cur- rent hundreds of thousands of tons of produce yearly, in every conceivable kind of craft, from the stately river steam- ers, which remind one of those which ply on the Hudson, the ocean-going tea clip-

Christina Ritchie Ritchie, Christina My Friend Ah-Chy 197-206

Ny Friend Ah-Chy. 197 and self-control that more than any oth- ers measure a mans advancement in the modern spirit; and now that the Span- iards are escaping from the artificial re- straint of their religion they are left, pas- sionate and impulsive children, to meet the responsibilities of nineteenth-century life. From my observation of the com- mon people, I should say that already the power of the priesthood is broken, that respect for the institution of mon- archy is undermined, and that there is a rapid drift toward republicanism joined to a profound distrust of the present rulers. The desen~,aito, or rude disillu- sion, they are likely to experience before the end of the present struggle may re- sult in some fierce outburst, boding dis- aster to the political jobbers at Madrid. Yet no prudent man would risk a pro- phecy about Peninsular politics; for Spain is to pays do limpr6vu, the land of the unexpected, where the logical and obvious thing is least likely to happen; and that is perhaps one of the reasons why she still retains her hold on the man of imagination. Whatever comes to pass, we may be sure that Spain will not modify immedi- ately the mental habits of centuries of spiritual and political absolutism. In attempting to escape from the past, she will no doubt shift from the fanatical belief in a religious creed to the fanatical belief in revolutionary formuhe, and per- haps pass through all the other lamenta ble phases of Latin-country radicalism. Yet if space allowed I could give rea- sons for the belief that there are more elements of real republicanism in Spain than in France or Italy. This remark, as well as nearly everything else I have said, I mean to apply especially to the Castiles, Aragon, and the northwestern provinces, the real backbone of the Pe- ninsula. In any case, those who have a first- hand knowledge of Spain will be ~loath to place her on that list of dying na- tions to which Lord Salisbury recently referred. She is still rich in virtues which the world at present can ill afford to lose. It remains to be seen whether she can rid herself of the impediments which are rendering these virtues inef- fectual. Will she be able to expel the Jesuit poison from her blood? Will she learn to found her self-respect on con- science, instead of on the medheval sen- timent of honor, and come to rely on action, the religion of the modern man, rather than on Maria Santissima? Chief question of all, will she succeed in tam- ing her Gotho - Bedouin instincts, and become capable of the degree of orderly cooperation necessary for good govern- ment? Alas! the Spaniards themselves relate that the Virgin once granted va- rious boons to Spain, at the prayer of Santiago, but refused the boon of good government, lest then the angels forsake heaven, and prefer Spain to paradise. Irving Babbitt. MY FRIEND AH-CHY. I FTR5T met him at a port on the river, by which shorter but satisfac- torily definite title all China residents designate the great Yangtsze Kiang. The importance of that magnificent natural highway few of those who have not lived in China realize. Flowing thousands of miles through province af- ter province, it bears on its rushing cur- rent hundreds of thousands of tons of produce yearly, in every conceivable kind of craft, from the stately river steam- ers, which remind one of those which ply on the Hudson, the ocean-going tea clip- 198 .M~,, Friend Ah-Uky. pers, the coastwise lorchas, and junks of every size, down to the tiny sampans; and every boat bears upon either side a painted eye, for as any Chinaman will tell you, Suppose no got eye, how fash- ion can see; and suppose no can see, how fashion can walkee? Some day the river will be written of as it deserves, and the description of its wonderful gorges and rapids, its varied beautiful scenery, its yearly rising and falling, will be as interesting as instructive. In summer it often reaches a height of forty feet above its winter level, inundating cities and large tracts of land along its banks. It flows through the finest tea-growing coun- try, and all the porcelain which is used in the empire is distributed over its waters. It is ever changing, ever interesting, and always picturesque, seeming to me a necessary background for my friend Ah- Chy, as he was a citizen of one of the river ports. Meeting Ah-Chy first as the compra- dore of one of the largest tea merchants, who was our neighbor and friend, we had many opportunities of acquaintance with him. Tall, handsome, erect, be- tween forty and fifty years of age, with the most wonderful command of pidgin English it was ever my good fortune to listen to, he was a delight to encounter; and our interest in collecting porcelain brought us so often into our neighbors go-down to inspect fresh installments that we encountered him frequently. He had taken a lower literary degree, I be- lieve, and was eligible for official position and promotion. We were a very small foreign com- munity, foreign in China means any nationality not Chinese, fourteen all told; yet a very cosmopolitan little cir- cle, including English, French, Russian, American, Scotch, Danish, and German representatives; and for a time I found 1 Pidgin is a corruption of the word busi- ness, and pidgin English is the queer jar- gon of broken English arranged according to the Chinese idiom, which, ever since its intro- myself in one of the most enviable, de- lightful positions in the world, that of being the only lady in the port. On the occasion of a great review of Chinese troops gathered from many parts of the province, and the consequent con- gregating of its highest officials who were the inspecting dignitaries, it came about that we were bidden to a dinner given at the residence of Chinas large Mer- cantile Marine Company to meet these provincial magnates. The dinner was served entirely in foreign style, doubtless because of the wish to honor the foreign officials present, and to the great delight of the one lady she was included in the invitation. Perhaps her presence was added to make it seem entirely foreign to the Chinese participants. As I entered the drawing-room all the gentlemen rose, and in response to my inclination intended to be very cour- teous toward each of the gorgeously appareled Chinese, and my murmured Ta-yen hao, each in turn raised his hands slowly to his face, the right clasped over the left, while I heard in reply, Tai Tai hao. I had quite forgotten to ask, as I had fully purposed, what was the proper salutation to make on being intro- duced to such high and mighty person- ages; but suddenly remembering that I had always heard my husband addressed as Ta-yen, and knowing it to be a Chinese official title, I boldly made my little endeavor to be polite, and was af- terward told, to my great relief, that I could not have done better. The Chinese were indeed magnificent- ly robed. From the official hat (which, according to their code of manners, it is discourteous to remove), with flaring black velvet rim, in some cases crowned with a beautiful pink coral bead an inch in diameter, from under which peacock feathers hung down over the back to the duction at Macno as the medium of intercourse between foreigners and Chinese, has formed the language in which the greater part of the do- mestic and commercial relations are carried on. Ky Friend Ah-Uhy. 199 coat collar; the satin coats, with medal- lions embroidered in every hue, or per- haps only in shades of blue, and dark soft sable linings, a short coat over a long one of different color; down to the high black satin boots with their wooden white-covered soles, they were each well worth study and admiration. They were stately, decorous, polite, without even the shadow of a smile on their faces, which might have looked expressionless except for the brightness and intelligence of their eyes. Not so the foreign officials present, who, as they bowed in response to my greeting, smiled almost audibly in very evident enjoyment of the scene. It was the first time some of the Chinese gentle- men had been brought face to face with a foreign lady; and to have that experi- ence at an official dinner, to see her in full evening toilette, d6collet6, must have been a terrible shock to their ideas of what was convenable. When dinner was announced by the long - coated Chinese butler, the official highest in rank rose, bowed before me, and offered me his arm. Rising, I took it, or tried to take it; for I occupied my- self all the way from the drawing-room to the dining-room, through a hall unusu- ally long, and we went very slowly, in trying to find out with the tips of my gloved fingers whether or not there was any arm inside the wide, satin, sable- lined sleeve. That there were several layers of silk under-jacket sleeves, be- sides, I made sure, and as I neared the dining-table I had just arrived at what I thought was solid enough to be an arm. How I longed to give it just a little hard pinch to find out if I were correct! But even if I had pinched it suddenly and viciously, looking up into the face of my magnificent escort mean- while, to find out if .he had felt it in the least, I am sure he would have made no sign whatever. He would not have believed the evidence of his own senses if they had endeavored to tell him that a woman, and that woman a foreigner, was trying to pierce the mantle of his dignity. Fortunately, my very little un- derstood duty as the wife of a foreign official kept me from playing any such prank, but it was a terrible temptation. The deftness and aptitude with which the Chinese used the new and utterly unaccustomed knives, forks, and spoons, in lieu of their universally useful chop- sticks, without showing that they were closely watching what ought to be done with them, was perfectly wonderful. They simply waited a second or two af- ter they were served with a course, and, glancing apparently quite casually round the table, proceeded to use whatever the foreigners did and in exactly the same manner. It was fascinating to watch all these details, and I found that I had to keep myself well in hand, for fear that, in my interest and amazement, I should be detected observing them, and should show that I had less politeness than these quiet, keen - eyed, imitative representa- tives of one of the oldest and most cere- monious civilizations. The dinner-table was beautifully de- corated with flowers and leaves laid on the white table-cloth in many different designs, surrounding the quaintly shaped dishes of fruit and sweetmeats. The va- riety of ways in which a Chinese butler can adorn a table is endless and marvel- ous, and was always a pleasure and sur- prise to me in my own home. In China, no hostess needs to oversee the arrange- ments for a dinner-party, but can walk in with her guests as free from care or anxiety as any of them, without even hav- ing looked beforehand to see that every- thing is in order. Each table napkin is folded in a distinctive shape, sometimes imitating a swan or a bird, with a colored paper eye stuck on either side of the ra- ther queer-looking head, while a button- hole bouquet is tucked in at the top, ready for the guest to appropriate as he sits down. The carving and serving are done entirely from the sideboard, and 200 Ky Friend Ah-CIhy. there are as many men to wait at table as there are guests, for each guest brings his own servant. The butler of the host looks after the opening and serving of the wine, deputing the carving meanwhile to some other butler he can trust. I think it shows the prevailing honesty of the ser- vants who are thus gathered together at every dinner-party (and they are many; I can well remember dining out eleven consecutive evenings) that I never heard of a case of theft. All the domestics of the household where the dinner - party was in progress were busy in the dining- room, pantry, or kitchen, the rest of the house being quite unoccupied; and as we never locked up any of our personal be- longings, it would have been easy enough for a servant to slip away and help him- self to anything he might fancy. Chinese butlers have, too, a strange system of give and take, which twenty- five years ago used to prevail much more extensively than it does now; in fact, it was then universal. At the first large dinner-party to which I was invited I went as a bride I found myself eating with my own brand-new knives, forks, and spoons. I stared at them very hard, but there could be no mistake, for there was the fresh monogram. I was dreadfully distressed, but did not dare to say any- thing. When I reached home I told my husband rather tremblingly, for I was quite sure they had been stolen. To my amazement, he only laughed and said, Oh, you will get quite used to it very soon; and when you have too many guests, you will find that instead of ask- ing you to get more supplies the butler will just get your neighbors, and al- ways make up the deficiency. And so it proved. I can well remember, once when my husband had asked eight in to dinner only half an hour before the usual time (one for each of the delicious first spring snipe he had just shot), that there appeared later a splendid roast leg of mutton as one of our courses. Now I knew that we had no mutton, for ear- her in the day the cook had been be- wailing the non-arrival of the Shanghai steamer by which it always came. Turn- ing to the gentleman on my left, I asked, Did your steamer come from Shanghai to-day? Yes. Why? I looked down to the other end of the table, where my husband was carving the unexpected treasure trove with very evi- dent enjoyment. Well, ours did not, said I, and yet He caught sight of the mutton. Oh, I suppose that is mine, he laughed. No doubt yours will come to-morrow, and probably be much better; so I shall be the gainer this time, and shall enjoy it all the more. The cooks kept very strict accounts among themselves, I am sure, and we never suffered by these exchanges, while it was unspeakably comforting to know that at any time, if occasion arose, we could feel quite sure of having our neigh- bors dinner, cooked in his kitchen and handed over the wall, provided only we remembered to invite him. Away in a northern port, a party of bachelors were once enjoying themselves in a happy, hearty fashion round the din- ner-table; and among them was a fresh arrival from Scotland, whose means of smiling were so capacious that really, when he laughed, which he did almost continuously, there was ever present the old danger of the upper part of his head becoming an island. There was also a gentleman who had spent much time in the interior, and whose knowledge of Chinese was both profound and varied. While conversation and laughter abound- ed, he chanced to overhear a remark made by one of the boys who was waiting at table; and, while pretending not to listen, he soon found out that every foreigner present was being spoken of by a nickname which referred to his personal appearance. When the servants had retired, and the foreigners were enjoying their coffee J[fy Friend Ah-Chy. 201 and cigars, the sinologue told the others what he had overheard, and mentioned as many of the sobriquets as he could re- member. The young Scoteimans was not among them, so he proceeded, next day, to find out from his own boy what it was. When he got him into the room, he locked the door, stood with his back to it, and told the badly scared servant he would not let him out until he confessed. By dint of coaxing and threats he finally induced the poor fright- ened Chinaman to blurt out that it was codfish mouth. The entire appropri- ateness of the nickname overcame him, and he shouted with laughter, making the fitness still more apparent. One of the funniest parts of it all was to watch the faces of his friends when he told them the story, which he did many times and often. Their sense of politeness would make them struggle bravely not to laugh; but when, having reached the climax, he bestowed upon them the full comprehen- siveness of his smile, it was absolutely impossible not to join in the hearty laughter which he always led with con- tagious good humor. I have often wondered since in how many other ways we foreigners were ridiculed by our quiet, demure-looking domestics. Bat I must get back to my official dinner, eveu at the risk of being made fun of. Beside me at table, to my great de- light, I found Ah-Chy, and my husband nearly opposite. After dinner had be- gun, one of the Chinese magnates at my husbands side began telling him an ad- venture of the previous evening, when he had accompanied home one of his colleagues who had imbibed too freely of champagne. While he was describing the struggles and antics of his unsteady friend, I looked up, caught my husbands eye, and laughed heartily. The official stared, turned, and asked quickly in Chi- nese (he could neither speak nor under- stand one word of English), Does your honorable wife understand Chinese? When my husband answered in the affirmative, the poor man was painful- ly distressed and shocked, because he thought he had been telling an indiscreet story. He was unnecessarily penitent, making humble apologies and explana- tions, protesting that he had no idea whatever that I understood his language even a little, else he would never have transgressed in such a manner. He was with difficulty persuaded that I was in reality very much amused, and not in the least shocked; which in turn must have upset his ideas, and probably started him wondering as to the emancipation (he would have called it something very dif- ferent) of foreign women. Ah-Chy had been enjoying it all, mean- time, in several ways, and after we had talked on many matters of local inter- est I suddenly said to him, How many piecee wife you just now have catchee [got], Ah-Chy? Just now? Oh, just now have catchee seven piecee, before time have catchee eight piecee, one piecee have makee finish, so just now have catchee seven piecee. Makee finish, what thing you talkee? I no savey what thing belong makee finish. Oh, makee finish belong all same you talkee makee die, one piecee makee die, all same makee finish. What side you number one [first] wife, Ah-Chy? Oh, he belong Kwangtung side, you savey, he no likee stop this side, so he makee stop Kwangtung, you plenty savey China fashion no belong all same for- eign fashion number one wife any time wantee stop he own home. (There is only one gender in pidgin English; everything is masculine.) After a little I turned and said laugh- ingly, Ah-Chy, talkee my [tell me], what piecee wife you likee more better just now? He threw his head back with a hearty laugh, and with a twinkle in his eyes 202 Mj, Friend Ak-U/4 said, Well, I thinkee I likee number five piecee more better just now. He belong good-look-see [pretty] and plenty young.~~ You belong all same Bluebeard with your eight piecee wife, Ah-Chy. Who man you talkee? Who belong Bluebeard? Oh, he belong one piecee man, live long time ago, and he have catchee eight piecee wife, and by and by he no likee, so he cuttee all he heads off. I no belong all same Bluebeard! he cried. What for because I talkee you one piecee wife have makee finish, you talkee my belong all same Bluebeard? I no likee you talkee my so fashion. I appeased him after a time with many assurances that I had only been telling an old fairy tale; but, to my in- tense surprise and amusement, he went next day into my husbands office to ask him, What for your Tai Tai have talkee my belong all same Bluebeard ? On my husbands also assuring him that I was only joking with him, he went away content, for he also dearly loved a joke. The dinner was a matter of so many courses that I have forgotten all about them, as just such dinners of great length and variety were our universal custom, beginning at eight oclock in the evening, and often lasting two or more hours. During the long time we sat at table Ah-Chy was ever ready to amuse me by talking on any and every subject. At times it was wholly impossible for rue to master the torrent of words in their queer pidgin English setting, and then I would laugh and say, Oh, man, man [slower], please, Ah-Chy. At which he would stop, look rather astonished for an in- stant, smile, and answer, Oh, I savey, you no savey all I talkee, and go on again as rapidly as before. The solemn gorgeous official on the other side vindi- cated his idea of what was due to his dignity by treating me with studied though chilling courtesy. He occasion- ally handed me a dish of sweetmeats within his reach, between the courses, as the only acknowledgment of my inferior (because feminine) existence. My vis-~-vis of the bibulous story was at first very circumspect in his further remarks; but I noticed that after he had himself partaken of several glasses of the ever tempting champagne (the only foreign wine the Chinese are univer- sally very fond of) he forgot his late embarrassment, and only now and then regarded me suddenly with a rather frightened look, as if he had just re- membered me, and ought to be careful. The look passed quickly away, but was upsetting to my gravity, and I found myself almost laughing aloud every tinie. It was easy to see that he was a genial soul, and he seemed thoroughly to enjoy the chance of talking so unreservedly with a foreigner who understood him well enough to be able to give back joke for joke in his own language. Some time afterward, my curiosity which was then a source of great distress to my family and friends, and which now I wish I had gratified a thousand times more led me to desire to see the inte- rior of a Chinese pawnshop. The great tall buildings here and there all over the city, raising their blank walls high above the two-storied uniformity of the vast acreage of the other houses, had a sort of fascination for me. Ah-Chy came to my aid. His brother owned a large pawnshop in the city, and he volunteered to escort me thither. I suspect Ah-Chy had had a hand in estab- lishing his brother in pawubroking, and had himself a large interest in the con- cern; for in China as elsewhere this is said to be an exceedingly lucrative busi- ness. However that may be, it happened that one day my husband and I got into our sedan chairs, each with four bear- ers, and preceded by Ah-Chy, also in a chair, were soon swinging along through the narrow, crowded, wonderfully pictur- esque streets of the native city. I was always glad of an opportunity to make Ky Friend Ak-CAy. 203 an expedition into these strange regions, but I was always a little afraid, and made it a rule to have my chair go in advance of my hnsbands; for the coolies went so quickly, and the crowd was so dense, that his chair could easily turn a corner ahead, and in less time than it takes to tell it I might find myself alone on the streets, many miles from home, and with- out the faintest idea how to get back. The natives never got accustomed to the sight of a foreign lady, and any shop we entered was sure to be soon besieged by an eager crowd, jostling one another good - naturedly to get a better view of the stranger. Oh, those streets, tbose streets! How can they be described so that one who has never seen them can even imagine what they are like? The highways of Egypt (Cairo, for instance) have more picturesque coloring, because of the gor- geousness and variety of the head-dresses and clothing of the wearers, gathered together as they are from every nation under the sun. But Chinese streets are unique. The shops, all wide open to the street, with their endless variety of wares spread in full view, are hung on both sides with multitudinous signs of every length and color, brilliant with gold, green, or red lettering. There are evil smells of awful intensity; and the tre- mendous tide of human life is forever flowing through. Tinkers of every kind abound, each plying his craft at the door of the shop which has supplied him with something to mend. Here is a carnival of repairing, cobbling shoes, mending broken porcelain and glass, riveting um- brellas. There are women mending and patching garments for so many cash each, then moving on with their little bamboo stools in search of more work; barbers busy shaving or shampooing customers, or dressing their hair; men with cook- shops slung on their shoulders from a bamboo, one end weighted with the little earthen charcoal stove, the other with the stock in hand, probably cakes to fry in evil-smelling castor oil; children of all sizes playing in seeming unconsciousness of the din around them; beggars in every stage of filth and tatters. There are Bud- dhist priests with shaven heads and dirty yellow robes, and the ever present, ever empty gourd held out for alms; dogs of every mongrel type; coolies emptying into buckets, by means of long-handled bamboo ladles, the drainage from the huge kangs sunk in the ground at street corners; presently they swing the buckets over their shoulders and stride away, ut- terly indifferent to the stench they trail behind; and as if to supplement the coo- lies task, pigs go grunting along, per- forming their office of scavengers. All these and more are crowded together in streets only wide enough to allow two sedan chairs to pass each other. When an official goes abroad in his chair, he usually has a coolie who runs ahead run he must, for the chair- bearers keep up a wonderfully fast gait and shouts at the top of his voice, Chia Quang Ah! which means, I be- lieve, Give light, give light, and is the polite form of saying, Make way, there. I only hope it is more cour- teous than it sounds, but it certainly makes the pedestrians scuttle into the open shops to get out of the way. So heralded, we brushed through the nar- row streets on our visit to the pawnshop. When we entered the huge building I was almost appalled at its size, and amazed at the order and cleanliness of its vast interior. On the long rows of shelves, running up to a great height, with little passageways between, there were thou- sands upon thousands of bundles, each carefully wrapped up, the little tag with its number hanging in full view from the end. The intense silence and the dim light made it so eerie that I was glad to get out into the sunlight again and hear Ali-Chys cheery flow of pidgin English. I have been told that at the beginning of summer the wealthy Chinese all pawn their furs, of which they have an enor 204 2lI~, Friend Ah-Cliy. mous number and variety; redeeming them when the cold weather returns. Out of these pawnshops come a great many of the curios which foreigners find at the shops in the native cities. They are pledged very often by decaying Chinese families, and never redeemed; after a certain length of time I have forgot- ten just how long Ah-Chy said it was the pawnbroker is allowed to sell them. When summer came, Ah-Chy frequent- ly urged us to visit him at his house on an island in the lake near the city; and little knowing the pleasant things in store for us, we started one hot afternoon with some foreign gentlemen friends to see his summer home. As we stepped out of our boat we found ourselves on what seemed to be enchanted ground. No description can do justice to the beauty of the little island. We walked up by tiny circui- tous paths from the marble steps where the waves twinkled against the white stone. At every turn there were de- lightful surprises: a miniature landscape with tiny lakes, little rivulets and water- falls, the daintiest of fairy bridges, toy summer-houses perched in nooks on arti- ficial mountains scarcely twelve inches high; and out of every crevice peeped delicate maidenhair ferns, tiny shrubs, and wee wild flowers. It made an ex- quisite animated willow - pattern plate scene, and oh, so beautiful! On every side were these artificial landscapes, blended so ingeniously with the natu- ral beauties that it was often impos- sible to tell where the one ended and the other began. Here was an ever- green shrub trained on a wire frame to represent a deer, life-size, with head and horns of colored clay, looking strangely queer as they poked out of the body of living green; there were men and wo- men of the same growing shrub, in na- tive costume, life - size, with heads and hands placed in the proper position, and looking, it must be confessed, exceed- ingly grotesque. Dotted here and there were porcelain barrel - shaped garden- seats of every hue, and immense bowls, beautifully decorated, full of water, in which swam the lovely little gold and silver fish of which the Chinese are so fond. With so many claims to our admira- tion on every hand, we went slowly up to the house on the highest part of the island. We were delighted to find that from one balcony we could look straight down into the lake below, and also away to the magnificent range of mountains beyond. From that side there was no- thing whatever to remind us of the great toiling city which lay just behind us, and the view was exceedingly grand. At the invitation of our courteous, smiling host we entered the house. Every- thing was in the most orthodox Chinese style; all the furniture, most elaborate in design, very stiffly arranged. After admiring the many beautiful bronzes, cloisonn6 porcelains, embroideries, lan- terns, etc., we were taken into our hosts bedroom, where there was a magnificent Ningpo canopied bedstead, carved and inlaid with ivory. The sides and foot were in the shape of an enormous circle, the corners filled in with open carved wood and ivory. The blankets were laid in long, straight, narrow folds at the foot of the bed, and the pillows and mat were of the finest woven cane. After praising everything most enthu- siastically, I turned suddenly to Ah-Chy and said, This belong your room? Yes. You thinkee belong number one handsome? Yes, indeed; but what side your six piecee wife have got? I no can see any room this side belong your wife. He drew himself up very quickly to his full height of over six feet (I am only five feet two inches), raised his arm, and, pointing to another pretty building of which we could just see the irregu- lar skyline above the trees and shrubs, said in a tone of perfectly indescribable scorn, Have got that side. Suppose my wantee, my sendee; talkee he come. lily Friend Ah-Chy. 205 Oh! I gasped. Then, pretending to shake in my shoes with fear and con- sternation, I said, I am plenty glad I no belong China wife, Ah-Chy. I no likee any man talkee my so fashion. His face broke into a smile; he really had looked very angry as he answered me. iNow, turning to me with the most courteous inclination, he paid me the preP tiest compliment I have ever received: Tai Tai, suppose my could catchee one piecee wife all same you, one piecee can do, and my all time likee he stop this side. The repartee was so quick and so per- fect that we were all taken by surprise, and my friends and husband greeted it with acclamation. Upon my laughing protest that I could never believe myself capable of equaling eight piecee wife, he began, to my dismay, to enumer- ate my accomplishments, beginning with, You makee number one music, makee ridee bobbery [frisky] pony, and, abet- ted by the encouragement and laughter of my friends, went on through a long list up to the climax, which he reached ia saying, You just now plenty young and have catchee two piecee boy. That appealed to him most, for his own two sons had died, and he had been obliged to adopt one, in order to insure a de~. scendant who would worship at his grave and keep his memory green. It is the greatest misfortune and sorrow a China- man knows to be sonless, and I felt my heart deeply touched with pity for the man, in the midst of the badinage and fun in which we were all engaged. Meantime, we had been sauntering through the rooms, and found ourselves again in the large cool salon overlook- ing the lake, where we rested and did ample justice to the champagne, crys- tallized fruits, and cakes awaiting us. Then the gentlemen lighted their cigars and I a cigarette, to the delight of our host, who congratulated me, saying, Ah, Tai Tai, you can smokee all same China wife. Yes, but my no can smokee pipe, Ah-Chy. Maskee [no matter]. Cigarette more better look see. My thinkee by an by China lady savey smokee allo same. Before we left, Ah-Chy took us to see his dwarfed fir, a tiny but perfect tree, about nine inches high, which grew in a beautiful porcelain flower-pot, standing on a garden-seat, evidently in a place of honor, and showing evidence of the great- est care and attention. He told us it had been planted by his father on the day his son Ah-Chy was born, and it was easy to see that he held it in the greatest veneration. He added quite seriously that when he had been ill the little tree had drooped and pined, recov- ering always as he grew better, and that when he died it would die too. It cer- tainly looked then as fresh and healthy in its tiny way as our host in his vigor- ous manhood, and we sincerely congratu- lated him upon its flourishing condition. He seemed much pleased and touched by our expressing the hope that it would be many a long year before there was any evidence that less fortunate days had come upon either of them. We strolled down to the lake by another exquisite pathway, and, after thanking our host for the pleasure of the afternoon, rowed away into the sunset, leaving him gazing after us with manifest kindliness and good will. Among the pleasant recollections of our leave - taking of the port are Ah- Chys regrets that we were going away, and his warmly expressed hope that we might be ordered back again before long~ Several years afterward, while we were stationed at a southern port, I was much astonished at seeing our usually very solemn-faced butler appear at the draw- ing-room door with a comical smile. It was instantly explained by the announce- ment, Tai Tai, Ah-Chy have got (is here); and in walked my old friend, looking just as well and happy as ever. I chaffed him about being tied to his 206 Where Angels Fear to Tread. number one wifes apron-strings by at least one thread, in spite of the attrac- tiveness of some of the six piecee away up the river. He laughed, and ad- initted having come south to see her, saying, Must wantee come every two or three year, makee look see how fashion have got (how she is). After a long talk over old times, in what seemed to me more rapid pidgin English than I had ever heard even him use, Ah-Chy bade me good-by, reiterating the hope that we might be ordered back to our former home. So out of my life passed my friend; and as I end this little sketch of him I am very conscious that I am loath to fin- ish it. It seems like breaking one of the links which bind me to the old happy, in- teresting life of which he formed a part. Every remembrance of him is pleasant, courteous, and amusing, so that it is not surprising that I am sorry to take leave of my friend Ah-Chy. Christina Ritchie. WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD. I have seen wicked men and fools, a great many of each; and I believe they both get paid in the end, but the fools first. ROBBRT Louis STEYENSOi~. I. iT was a strange crew for the fore- castle of an outward-bound, deep-water American ship. Mr. Jackson, the mate, a gray-eyed giant, looked in vain for the heavy foreign faces, the greasy canvas jackets and blanket trousers, he was accustomed to see. Not that these men seemed to be landsmen; each car- ried in his face and bearing the indefi- nable something by which sailors of all races may distinguish one another from fishermen, tugmen, and deck bands. They were all young men, and their in- telligent faces blemished more or less by marks of overnight dissipationwere as sunburned as those of the two mates who were taking their individual mea- sures. Where a hand could be seen, it showed as brown and tarry as that of the ablest of able seamen. There were no chests among them, but the canvas clothes-bags were the genuine article, and they shouldered and handled them as only sailors can. Yet, aside from these externals, they gave no sign of be- ing anything but well-paid, well-fed, self- respecting citizens, who would read the papers, discuss politics, raise families, and drink more than was proper on pay nights, to repent at church in the morn- ing. The hands that were hidden were covered with well-fitting gloves, kid or dogskin. All had on white shirts and fashionable neckwear; their shoes were polished, their hats in style, and here and there, where an unbuttoned, silk-faced overcoat exposed the garment beneath, could be seen a gold watch-chain with tasty charm. Now, boys, said the shipping-mas- ter cheerily, as he unfolded the Articles on the capstan-head, answer and step over to starboard as I call your names. Ready! Tosser Galvin. Here! A man carried his hag across the deck. Bigpig Monahan. Another, as large a man as the make, answered and followed. Moccasey Gill. Good God! muttered the mate as this man responded. Sinful Peck. An undersized man with a cultivated blonde mustache lifted his hat politely to the first officer, disclosing a smooth, bald

Morgan Robertson Robertson, Morgan Where Angels Fear to Tread 206-221

206 Where Angels Fear to Tread. number one wifes apron-strings by at least one thread, in spite of the attrac- tiveness of some of the six piecee away up the river. He laughed, and ad- initted having come south to see her, saying, Must wantee come every two or three year, makee look see how fashion have got (how she is). After a long talk over old times, in what seemed to me more rapid pidgin English than I had ever heard even him use, Ah-Chy bade me good-by, reiterating the hope that we might be ordered back to our former home. So out of my life passed my friend; and as I end this little sketch of him I am very conscious that I am loath to fin- ish it. It seems like breaking one of the links which bind me to the old happy, in- teresting life of which he formed a part. Every remembrance of him is pleasant, courteous, and amusing, so that it is not surprising that I am sorry to take leave of my friend Ah-Chy. Christina Ritchie. WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD. I have seen wicked men and fools, a great many of each; and I believe they both get paid in the end, but the fools first. ROBBRT Louis STEYENSOi~. I. iT was a strange crew for the fore- castle of an outward-bound, deep-water American ship. Mr. Jackson, the mate, a gray-eyed giant, looked in vain for the heavy foreign faces, the greasy canvas jackets and blanket trousers, he was accustomed to see. Not that these men seemed to be landsmen; each car- ried in his face and bearing the indefi- nable something by which sailors of all races may distinguish one another from fishermen, tugmen, and deck bands. They were all young men, and their in- telligent faces blemished more or less by marks of overnight dissipationwere as sunburned as those of the two mates who were taking their individual mea- sures. Where a hand could be seen, it showed as brown and tarry as that of the ablest of able seamen. There were no chests among them, but the canvas clothes-bags were the genuine article, and they shouldered and handled them as only sailors can. Yet, aside from these externals, they gave no sign of be- ing anything but well-paid, well-fed, self- respecting citizens, who would read the papers, discuss politics, raise families, and drink more than was proper on pay nights, to repent at church in the morn- ing. The hands that were hidden were covered with well-fitting gloves, kid or dogskin. All had on white shirts and fashionable neckwear; their shoes were polished, their hats in style, and here and there, where an unbuttoned, silk-faced overcoat exposed the garment beneath, could be seen a gold watch-chain with tasty charm. Now, boys, said the shipping-mas- ter cheerily, as he unfolded the Articles on the capstan-head, answer and step over to starboard as I call your names. Ready! Tosser Galvin. Here! A man carried his hag across the deck. Bigpig Monahan. Another, as large a man as the make, answered and followed. Moccasey Gill. Good God! muttered the mate as this man responded. Sinful Peck. An undersized man with a cultivated blonde mustache lifted his hat politely to the first officer, disclosing a smooth, bald Where Angels Fear to Tread. 207 head, and passed over, smiling sweetly. Whatever his character, his name belied his appearance; for his face was cheru- bic in its innocence. Say, interrupted the mate angrily, what kind of a game is this, anyhow? Are these men sailors? Yes, yes, Mr. Jackson, answered the shipping-master hurriedly; you 11 find em all right. And, Sinful, he add- ed, as he frowned reprovingly at the last man named, dont you get gay till my receipt is signed and I in clear of you. Mr. Jackson wondered, but subsid- ed, and, each name bringing forth a re- sponse, the reader called off Seldom Hel- ward, Shiner OToole, Senator Sands, Jump Black, Yampaw Gallegher, Ghost OBrien, Sorry Welch, Yorker Jimson, General Lannigan, Turkey Twain, Gun- ner Meagher, and Poop-Deck Cahill. Then the astounded Mr. Jackson broke forth profanely. I ye been shipmates, he declared between oaths, with freak names of all nations, but this gang beats me. Say, you, he called, you with the crojack eye, there, what s that name you go by? Who are you ? He spoke to the large man who had an- swered to Bigpig Monahan, and who suffered from a slight distortion of one eye. But, instead of civilly repeating his name, the sailor said curtly and coolly, I m the man that struck Billy Patter- son. Fully realizing that the mate who hesitates is lost, and earnestly resolved to rebuke this man as his insolence re- quired, Mr. Jackson secured a belaying- pin, and had almost reached him when he found himself looking into the bore of a pistol held by the shipping-master. Now stop this, said the latter firm- ly, stop it right here, Mr. Jackson. After you ye signed my receipt for em you can do as you like; but if you touch one of em fore you ye signed, I 11 have you up fore the commissioner. And you fellers, he said over his shoul der, you keep still and be civil till I m clear o you. I ye used you well, got your berths and charged you nothin. All I wanted was to get Capn Benson the right kind of a crew. Let s see that receipt, snarled the mate. Put up that gun, too, or I 11 show you one of my own. I 11 tend to your good men when you get ashore. He glared at the quiescent Bigpig, and followed the shipping - master who, however, still held his pistol ready over to the rail, where the receipt was produced and signed. Away you go, now, you and your gun, said the mate. The shipping-master, with a good-by call to the crew, scrambled down the side to the waiting tug, which then ga- thered in its lines and steamed away. Wrathful of soul, Mr. Jackson turned to the men. They had changed their position; they were now close to the fife- rail at the mainmast, surrounding Bigpig Monahian, who, with an injured expres- sion, was shedding outer garments and voicing his opinion of Mr. Jackson. He had dropped a pair of starched cuffs over a belaying-pin and was rolling up his shirt-sleeves, and Mr. Jackson was just about to interrupt the discourse, when the second mate called his name. Turning, he beheld him beckoning vio- lently from the cabin companionway, and joined him. Got your gun, Mr. Jackson? asked the second officer anxiously, as he drew him within the door. I ye got mine. I cant make that crowd out ; but they re lookin for fight, that s plain. When you were at the rail they were sayin, Soak him, Bigpig. Paste him, Bigpig. Put a head on him. They might be a lot o prize-fighters. Mr. Becker, squat, broad, and hairy, was not afraid, his duties forbade it; he was simply human and confronted with a new problem. Dont care a rap what they ~ answered the mate. We 11 overhaul 208 Where Angels Fear to Tread. their dunnage for whiskey and sheath- knives and turn them to. Come on; I m heeled. They stepped out and advanced to the capstan amidships, each with a hand in his trousers pocket. Pile those bags against the capstan here and go forrard! ordered the mate in his most officer-like tone. Go to hl, they answered What for They re our bags, not yours Who in hl are you, anyhow What are you You talk like a pliceman. Before this irreverence could he re- plied to, Bigpig Monahan advanced. You re spoilin for somethin, old horse, he said. Put up your hands. He threw himself into an aggressive at- titude, one big fist within six inches of Mr. Jacksons nose. Go forrard! roared the officer, his gray eyes sparkling. We 11 settle this, then we 11 go f or- rard. There 11 be fair play, these men 11 see to that; you 11 only have me to handle. Put up. Mr. Jackson did not put up. He repeated his order, and was struck on the nose; not a hard blow, a preliminary tap which started blood. He immedi- ately drew his pistol and shot the man, who fell with a groan. An expression of shock and horror overspread the face of every man in the crew, and they surged hack, away from that murderous pistol. A momentary hesitancy fol~owed; then horror gave way to furious rage, and carnage began. Coats were flung off, belaying-pins and capstan-bars seized. Inarticulate, half- uttered imprecations drowned the storm of abuse with which the mates justified the shot; and two distinct bands of men swayed and zigzagged about the deck, the centre of each an officer fighting ac- cording to his lights, shooting as he could between blows of fists and clubs. Then the smoke of battle thinned, and two men with sore heads and bleeding faces retreated hurriedly to the cabin, followed by snarling maledictions and threats. It was hardly a victory for either side. The pistols were empty and the fight was taken out of the mates for a time, and on the deck lay three moaning men, while two others clung to the fife-rail, draining blood from limp, hanging arms. But eleven sound and angry men were left, and the mates had more ammuni- tion. They entered their rooms, mopped their faces with wet towels, reloaded their firearms, pocketed the remaining car- tridges, and returned to the deck, the mate carrying a small ensign. We 11 run it up to the main, Beck- er, he said thickly, for he suffered, ignoring in his excitement the eti- quette of the quarter deck. Ay, ay, said the other, equally unmindful of his breeding. Will we go for em again? The problem had defined itself to Mr. Becker: these men would fight, but not shoot. No, no, answered the mate, not unless they go for us and it s self-de- fense. They re not sailors; they dont know where they are.~~ So, while the uninjured men were as- sisting the wounded five into the fore- castle, the police flag was run up to the main truck, and the two mates retired to the poop-deck to wait and watch. But either because the ship lay too far over on the Jersey flats for the flag to be noticed, or because harbor police share the fallibility of their shore bre- thren in being elsewhere when wanted, no shiuy black steamer with blue-coated guard appeared to investigate the trou- ble, and it was well on toward noon be- fore a tug left the beaten track to the eastward and steamed over to the ship. The officers took her lines as she came alongside, and two men climbed the side ladder, one a Sandy Hook pilot, the other the captain of the ship. Captain Benson, in manner and ap- pearance, was as superior to the smooth- Where Angels Fear to Tread. 209 shaven arid manly-looking Mr. Jackson as the latter was to the misformed and hairy second mate. With his fashion- ably cut clothing, steady blue eye, and refined features, he would have been taken for au easy-going club man or edu- cated army officer rather than the mas- ter of a working craft. Yet there was no lack of seamanly decision in the leap he made from the rail to the deck, or in the tone of his voice as he demanded, What s the police flag up for, Mr. Jackson? Mutiny, sir. They started in to lick us, and we ye shot five. Lower that flag at once. Mr. Becker obeyed this order; and as the flag fluttered down, the captain re- ceived an account of the crews misdoing from the mate. He stepped into his cabin, and, returning with a double-bar- reled shot - gun, leaned it against the booby-hatch, and said quietly, Call all hands aft who can come. Mr. Jackson delivered the order in a roar, and the eleven men, who had been watching the newcomers from the fore- castle doors, straggled aft and clustered near the capstan, all of them hatless and coatless, shivering palpably in the keen December air. With no flinching of the eyes, they stared at the captain and the pilot. Now, men, said Captain Benson, what s the matter with you? A red - haired, Roman - nosed man stepped out of the group. Are you the captain here? There s matter enough, he answered defiantly. We ship for a run down to Rio Janeiro and back in a big schooner, and here we re put aboard a square - rigged craft that we dont know anything about, and the stew- ard says she s bound for Callao. And fore we re here ten minutes we re howled at and shot. Bigpig Monahan s got a hole iu his shoulder big enough to shove his fist in, thinks he s goin to die. He s bleedin they re all bleed- in like stuck pigs. Sorry Welch and VOL. LXXXII. NO. 490. 14 Turkey Twain ye got broken arms, and Jump Black and Ghost OBrien got it in the legs and cant stand up. What kind o work is this, anyhow? That s perfectly right. You were shot for assaulting your officers. Do you call yourself able seamen, knowing nothing of square-rigged craft? We re able seamen on the lakes. We can do our work in schooners. Captain Bensons lips puckered, and he whistled softly. The lakes! said he. What part of the lakes? All o them. We live in Oswego; we re all union men. The captain took a turn or two along the deck, then faced them and said: Men, I ye been fooled as well as you. I would not have an Oswego sailor aboard my ship if I could help it, much less a whole crew of them. I ye been on the lakes, and know the aggressive self-respect of your breed. Although I paid five dollars a man for you, I d put you ashore and ship a new crew but for the fact that five wounded men going out of a ship will involve explanation that will delay my sailing and incur ex- pense to my owners. However, I give you the choice, to go to sea and learn your work uncter the officers, or go to jail as mutineers; for to protect my mates I must prosecute you all. Spose we do neither? You will probably be shot, to the last resisting man, either by us or the harbor police. You are up against the law. They looked at one another with vary- ing expressions on their faces; then one asked, What about the bunks? There 5 no bedding. If you failed to bring your own, you will sleep on the bunk-boards. And that stiukin swill the China- man s cookin in the galley, is that for us ? You will get the provisions provided by law, no more; and you will eat in the forecastle. Also, if you have neg 210 Where Angels Fear to Tread. lected to bring pots, pans, and spoons, you will eat without them. This is not a lake vessel, where sailors eat in the cabin, with knives and forks. Decide this matter quickly. The captain began pacing the deck, and the listening pilot stepped forward and said kindly, Take my advice, boys, and go along. You re in for it, if you (lont. They thanked him with their eyes for the sympathy, and conferred together for a few moments; then their spokesman called out, We 11 leave it to the fel- lers forrard, capn, and forward they trooped. In five minutes they were back, with resolution in their faces. We 11 go, capn, their leader said. Bigpig cant be moved without its kill- in him, and says if he lives he 11 fol- low your mate to hell, but he 11 pay him back, and the others talk the same way; we 11 stand by em, we 11 square up this days work. Mr. Jackson, said the captain, overhaul their dunnage, turn them to, and man the windlass. And so, with a crippled crew of schooner sailors, the square-rigger Al- mena towed to sea, smouldering re- bellion in one end of hey, the power of the law in the other, murder in the heart of every man on board. II. Five months later, the Almena lay at an outer mooring - buoy in Callao Roads, again ready for sea, but waiting. Beyond the faint land and sea breeze there had been no wind for several days, and Captain Benson had taken advan- tage of the delay to give a dinner to some captains with whom he had frater- nized on shore. I ye a first-rate stew- ard, he had told them, and I ye the best trained crew that ever went to sea. Come, all of you, and bring your first officers. I want to give you an object lesson on the influence of matter over mind that you cant learn in the books. So they came, at half past eleven, in their own ships dingeys, which were sent back with orders to return at night- fall, six big-fisted, more or less fat captains, and six hig-fisted, beetle-browed, and embarrassed first mates. As they climbed the gangway they were met by Captain Benson and led to the poop, the only dry and clean part of the ship; for the Almenas crew were holystoning the main deck. This operation consists of grinding off the oiled surface of the planks with sandstone, and the resulting slime of sand, oily wood pulp, and salt water made walking unpleasant, as well as being very hard on polished shoe leather. But in this filthy mess the men were on their knees, working the six- inch blocks of stone technically called bibles back and forth with about the speed and motion of an energetic woman over a wash-board. The mates also were working. With legs clad in long rub- ber boots, they filled buckets at the deck- pump and splashed water around where needed, occasionally throwing the whole bucketful at a doubtful spot on the deck to expose it to criticism. As the visitors lined up against the monkey-rail and looked down on the scene, Mr. Becker threw a bucketful, as only a second mate can, and a man who happened to be in the way was rolled over by the unexpected impact. Get out o the way, there! he bawled, eying the man sternly. What are you gruntin at? Water wont hurt you, soap neither. He went to the pump for more water, and the man, gasping and choking slightly, crawled back to his holystone. It was Bigpig Monahan, hollow - eyed and thin, slow in his vol- untary movements; without his look of injury, too, as though he might have welcomed the momentary respite for his aching muscles. Now and then, when the officers backs were partly turned, a man would stop, Where Angels Fear to Tread. 211 rise erect on his knees and bend back- ward. A man may work a holystone much longer and press it much harder on the deck for these casual stretch- ings of contracted tissue; but the two mates chose to ignore this physiological fact, and a moment later a little man, caught in the act by Mr. Jackson, was also rolled over not by a bucket of water; by the boot of the mate, who uttered words suitable to the occasion and held his hand in his trousers pocket, while the little man, grinning with rage, resumed his work. There, said Captain Benson to his guests, see that little devil? See him show his teeth? That is Sinful Peck. I ye had him in irons with a broken head five times, and the log is full of him. I towed him over the stern run- ning down the trades to take the cussed- ness out of him, and if he had nt been born for higher things hed have been drowned. So this is your trained crew, is it, captain? said a grizzled old skipper of the party. What ails that fellow down in the scuppers? Ran foul of the big end of a hand- spike, answered Captain Benson. He 11 carry his arm in splints all the way home, I think. His name is Gunner Meagher. Their names are unique, but they signed them and will answer to them. Look at that outlaw down there by the bitts: that is Poop-Deck Cahill. Looks like a prize-fighter, does nt he? But the steward tells me he was educated for the priesthood, and fell by the way- side. That one close to the hatch, with the red hair and hang-dog jib, is Seldom Helward. He was shot off the crojack yard. He fell into the lee clew of the crojack, so we pulled him in. What did lie do, captain? asked the grizzled skipper. Threw a marlinespike at the mate. Ought to ha killed him on the yard. Are they all of a kind? Every man, schooner sailors from the lakes. Not one knew the ropes or his place when we sailed. I ye set more bones, mended more heads, and plugged more shot-holes this voyage than ever before, and my officers have grown per- ceptibly thinner. But little by little, man by man, we ye broken them in. They re keeping a log, I learn; every time a man gets thumped they enter the tragedy and all sign their names. They re going to law. Captain Ben- son smiled dignifiedly at the outburst of laughter evoked by this, and the men be- low lifted their haggard, hopeless faces an instant and looked at the party with eyes that were furtive, catlike. They could not hear, but knew that they were being laughed at. They got a little law here, resumed the captain. The consul put them all in the calaboose for fear they d desert, and they complained that they were half starved when I took them out. To tell the truth, they did nt throw any grub overboard for a while. Nevertheless, a good four weeks board-bill comes out of their wages. I dont think they 11 have much due them at New York. The na- tives cleaned out the forecastle when they were in jail, and they 11 have to draw heavily oa my slop-chest. Captain, said another skipper of the party, I d pay that crew off. You ought to have let them run, or worked them out and saved their pay. Look at them, look at the devils in their eyes. I notice your mates seldom turn their backs to them. Take my advice; get rid of them. What? answered Captain Benson, with a smile. Just when we have them under control and useful? Oh no. I d only have to ship a crowd of beach-comb- ers and half-breeds at double pay. I ye taken those sixteen hellyons round the Horn, and I 11 take them back. I m proud of theni. Just look at them, he added vivaciously; docile and obedient, down on their knees with bibles in their hands. 212 Where Angels Fear to Tread. And the name of the Lord on their lips, grunted the adviser; but not in prayer, I 11 bet you. Hardly, laughed Captain Benson. Come below, gentlemen; dinner must be ready. Dinner was not ready, but they seated themselves at the cabin table, and while waiting passed around a decanter of ap- petizing yellow fluid, and drank to a speedy and pleasant passage home for the Almena and further confusion to her misguided crew. Then they discussed the depravity of sailors, until the stew- ard, assisted by the Chinese cook, ap- peared with the dinner. For lack of facilities the mild-faced and smiling stew- ard could not serve the dinner in the style which it deserved. He would have liked, he explained, to bring it on in separate courses. But one and all dis- claimed such frivolity. There was the dinner, and that was enough. And it was a splendid dinner; but, either be- cause thirteen men had sat down to the table, or because the fates were unusual- ly freakish, it was destined that not one man there should partake of it. On deck things had been happening; and just as the steward had placed the last smoking dish on the table, a wet, be- draggled, dirty little man, his clothing splashed with the slime of the deck, his eyes flaming green, his face expanded to a smile of ferocity, appeared in the forward doorway holding a cocked re- volver which covered them all. Behind him in the passage were other men, equally unkempt, their eyes wide open with excitement and anticipation. Dont you move, yelped the little fellow, not a man! Keep yer hands out o yer pockets put em over yer heads that s it you too, capn. They obeyed him (there was death in the green eyes and smile), all but one. Captain Benson sprang to his feet with a hand in his breast pocket. You scoundrels! he cried as he drew forth a pistol. Leave this The speech was stopped by a report, deaf- ening in the closed-up space, and Cap- tain Benson fell heavily, his pistol rat- tling on the floor. Shoot me off a yard, will ye? growled another voice through the smoke. In the after door were more men, the red-haired Seldom Helward in the van, holding a smoking pistol. Get the gun, one o you! he called. A man stepped past and picked up the captains pistol, which he cocked. One by one, said Seldom, his voice rising to the pitch and timbre of a trum- pet-blast, you men walk out of the f or- rard companion with your hands over your heads. Plug them, Sinful, if two move together, and shoot to kill. Taken by surprise, the guests, resolute men though they were, obeyed the com- mand. As each rose to his feet, he was first relieved of a bright revolver, which served to increase the moral front of the enemy, then led out to the booby-hatch, on which lay a newly broached coil of hambro-line and a pile of thole-pins from the locker within. Here he was searched again, for jack-knife or brass knuckles, bound with the hambro-line, gagged with a thole-pin, and marched forward past the prostrate first officer, quiet and pale in the slime, and the agonized second officer, gagged and bound to the fife-rail to the port forecastle, where he was locked in with the Chinese cook, who, similarly treated, had preceded. The mild-faced steward, weeping now, was sternly questioned, and allowed his free- dom on promising not to sing out or make trouble. Captain Benson was ex- amined, his injury was diagnosed as brain concussion from the glancing bullet, more or less serious, and he was dragged out to the scuppers and bound beside his unconscious first officer. Then, leaving them to live or die as their subconscious- ness determined, the sixteen mutineers sacrilegiously re~ntered the cabin and de- voured the dinner. When you have cursed, kicked, and Where Angels Fear to Tread. 213 beaten a slave for five months, it is al- ways advisable to watch him for a few seconds after administering correction, to give him time to realize his condition; and when you have carried a revolver in your right-hand trousers pocket for five months, it is advisable occasionally to inspect the cloth of the pocket, to make sure that it is not wearing thin from the chafe of the muzzle. Mr. Jackson had ignored the first rule of conduct; Mr. Becker, the second. Mr. Jackson had kicked. Sinful Peck once too often; but not knowing that it was once too often, had immediately turned his back, and received thereat the sharp corner of a bible on his bump of inhabitiveness, which bump must have responded in its function; for Mr. Jackson showed no immediate desire to move from the place where he fell. Mr. Becker, on his way to the lazaret in the stern for a bucket of sand to assist in the holystoning, had reached the head of the poop steps when this occurred, and, turning at the sound of his superiors fall, bounded to the main deck without touching the steps, reaching for his pistol as he landed, only to pinion his fingers in a large hole in the pocket. Wildly he struggled to re- claim his weapon, down his trousers leg, but he could not reach it; his anxious face betrayed his predicament to the wakening men, and when he looked into Mr. Jacksons pistol, held bySinful Peck, he submitted to being bound to the fife- rail and gagged with the end of the top- gallant sheet, a large rope which filled his mouth and hurt. Then the firearm was recovered, and the descent upon the dinner-party planned and carried out. Without the vocal expression of emo- tion, the conduct of these men, after that good dinner, was somewhat similar to that of a kennel of hunting-dogs loosed after confinement on a fine day. They waltzed, boxed, wrestled, flung each oth- er about the deck, threw handsprings and cartwheels, those not too weak, buffeted, kicked, and clubbed the suffer- ing second mate, reviled and cursed the unconscious captain and chief mate, and when tired of this, as children and dogs of play, they turned to their captives for amusement. The second mate was taken from the fife-rail, with hands still bound, and led to the forecastle; the gags of all and the bonds of the cook were re- moved, and the forecastle dinner was brought from the galley. This the pri- soners were invited to eat. There was a piece of salt beef, boiled a little longer than usual on account of the delay. It was black, brown, green, and iridescent in spots; it was slippery with ptomaines, filthy to the sight, stinking and nauseat- ing. There were potatoes, a year old, shriveled before boiling, hard and soggy, black, blue, and bitter after the process. And there was the usual weevily hard- tack in the bread-barge. Protest was useless. The unhappy captives surrounded that dinner, and, with hands behind their backs and dis- gust in their faces, masticated and swal- lowed the morsels which the Chinese cook put to their mouths, while their feelings were further outraged by the hilarity of the men at their backs, and their appetites occasionally jogged into activity by the impact on their heads of a tarry fist or pistol-butt. At last a port- ly captain began vomiting, and this be- ing contagious the meal ended; for even the stomachs of the sailors were affected. There were cool heads among that crowd of mutineers, men who thought of consequences: Poop - Deck Cahill, square-faced and resolute, but thoughtful of eye and refined of speech; Seldom Helward, who had shot the captain, a man whose fiery hair, arching eye- brows, Roman nose, and explosive lan- guage indicated the daredevil, but whose intelligent though humorous eye gave certain signs of repressive study and thought; and Bigpig Monahan, already described. These three men went into executive session under the break of the poop, to the conclusion that the con- 214 Where Angels Fear to Tiead. sul who had jailed them for nothing would probably hang them for this; and, calling the rest to the conference as a committee of the whole, they out- lined and put to vote a proposition to make sail and go to sea, leaving the fate of their captives for later consideration, which was adopted unanimously and with much profanity, the central thought of the latter being an intention to make em finish the holystoning for the fun they had laughing at us. Then Bigpig Monahan sneaked below and in- duced the steward to toss through the storeroom deadlight every bottle of wine and liquor which the ship carried. Six second mates on six American ships watched doubtingly as sails were dropped and yards mastheaded on board the Almena, and at last sent six din- geys, which could only muster around the mooring-buoy, where a wastefully slipped shot of anchor-chain told that all was not right. But by the time the matter was reported ashore, the Al- mena, having caught the newly arrived southerly wind of the coast, was hull down at sea. Four days later, one of her boats, con- taining twelve sore-headed nien, with faces disfigured and clothing ruined particularly about the knees of the trou- sers by oily wood pulp, came wearily into the roadstead from the open sea, past the shipping and up to the landing at the custom-house docks. From here the twelve went to the American Con- sulate and entered bitter complaint of inhuman treatment at the hands of six- teen mutinous sailors on board the Al- mena, treatment so cruel that they had welcomed being turned adrift in an open boat; whereat the consul, deplor- ing the absence of man-of-war or steamer to send in pursuit, took their individual affidavits; and these he sent to San Francisco, from which point the account of the crime described as piracy spread to every newspaper in Christen- dom. III. A northeast gale off Hatteras: im- mense gray combers, five to the mile, charging shoreward, occasionally break- ing, again lifting their heads too high in the effort, truncated as by a knife, and the liquid apex shattered to spray; an expanse of leaden sky showing be- tween the rain-squalls, across which dull background rushed the darker scud and storm-clouds; a passenger steamer rolling helplessly in the trough, and a square-rigged vessel, hove to on the port tack, two miles to windward of the steamer and drifting south toward the storm-centre. This is the picture that the sea-birds saw at daybreak on a Sep- tember morning; and could the sea- birds have spoken, they might have told that the square-rigged craft carried a navigator who had learned that a whirl- ing fury of storm-centre was less to be feared than the deadly Diamond Shoals the outlying guard of Cape Hatteras toward which that steamer was drift- ing, broadside on. Square-faced and thoughtful of eye, clad in yellow oilskins and souwester, he stood by the after companionway, in- tently examining through a pair of glasses the wallowing steamer to lee- ward, barely distinguishable in the half- light and driving spindrift. At the wheel stood a little man, who sheltered a cheerful face under the lee of a big coat collar and occasionally peeped out at the navigator. What d ye make of him, Poop- Deck? he asked. He s in trouble, Sinful; there goes his ensign American union down. From a flag-locker within the com- panionway Poop-Deck drew out the stars and stripes, which he ran up to the mon- key-gaff. Then he looked again. Down goes his ensign up goes the code pennant. He wants to signal. Come up here, boys! he shouted. Where Angels Fear to Tread. 215 As six men who had been pacing the main deck climbed the poop ladder, he bent on the corresponding code signal to the other part of the halyards and ran it up, while the ensign fluttered down. Go down, one of you, he said, and get the signal - book and shipping - list. He 11 show his number next. Get ours ready, H. L. F. T. One of the sailors sprang below for the books named, the others hooked together the flags forming the ships number, and Poop-Deck resumed the glasses. Q. T. F. N.! he exclaimed. Look it up. The books had arrived, and while one man lowered and hoisted again the code signal which was also the answering pennant the others pored over the shipping-list. Steamer Aldebaran, of New York, they said. The pennant came down, and the ships number went up to the gaff. H. V.! called Poop-Deck, as he scanned two flags now flying from the steamers truck. What does that 2 say. Damaged rudder cannot steer, they answered. Pull down the number and show the answering pennant. Let s see that sig- nal-book. Poop-Deck turned the leaves, studied a page for a moment, then said, Run up H. V. R. That says, What do you want? and it s the nearest thing to it. These flags took the place of the pen- nant, and Poop-Deck again watched; noting first the steamers answering sig- nal, then the letters K. R. N. What does K. R. N. say? he asked. They turned the leaves, and answered, I can tow you. Tow us! exclaimed three or four together. We re all right. We dont want a tow. How can he tow us when he cant steer? He wants to tow us so that he can steer, you blasted fools, said Poop- Deck. He can go where he likes with a big drag on his stern. ~~rrhat s so. Where s he bound? Did nt say; but he 11 fetch up on the shoals soon, if we dont help. Towline s down the fore-peak, said one. Could nt get it up in an hour, remarked another. Yes, we can, re- joined a third. Then, all speaking at once, and each raising his voice to its limit, they argued excitedly: Cant be done Coil it on the forecastle Yes, we can Too much sea Run down to windward Line ud part, anyhow Float a barrel Shut up I tell you we can Call the watch Seldom, yer daft Need nt get a boat over Hell ye can Call the boys All hands with heavin-lines Cant back a topsail in this Go lay down Soak yer head, Seldom Hush Dry up Nothin you cant do Go to hell I tell you, by God, we can Do as I say, and we 11 get a line to him or get his. The affirmative speaker, who had also uttered the last declaration, was Seldom Helward. Put me in command! he yelled excitedly. Do what I tell you and we 11 make fast to him! No captains here, growled one, while the rest eyed Seldom reprovingly. Well, there ought to be. You re all rattled, and dont know any more than to let thousands o dollars in sal- vage slip by you. Salvage? Yes, salvage. Big boat full o pas- sengers and valuable cargo shoals to looward of him cant steer. You poor fools, what ails you? Foller Seldom! vociferated the lit- tle man at the wheel. Foller Seldom and ye 11 wear stripes! Shut up, Sinful. Strike the bell. Call the watch, it s near seven bells. The uproarious howl with which sail- ors call the watch below was delivered down the cabin stairs, and soon eight other men came up, grumbling at the premature wakening, while two more 216 Where Angels Fear to Tread. came out of the forecastle and joined one who, during the signaling, had re- mained forward. Seldom Helwards proposition was discussed noisily in joint session on the poop, and finally accepted. We put you in charge, Seldom, said Bigpig Monahan sternly, against the rule, cause we think you ye got some good scheme in your head. But if you have nt, if you make a mess of things just to have a little fun boss- in us, you 11 hear from us. Go ahead, now, you re capn. Seldom climbed to the top of the af- ter house, looked to windward, then to leeward at the rolling steamer, and called out, I want more beef at the wheel. Bigpig, take it; and you, Tur- key, stand by with him. Get away from there, Sinful. Give her the upper main- topsail; the rest of you, and Poop-Deck, you stand by the signal halyards. Ask him if he s got a towline ready. Protesting angrily at the slight put upon him, Sinful Peck relinquished the wheel and accompanied the others to the main deck. Two men went aloft to loose the topsail, while Poop-Deck exam- ined the signal-book. K. S. G. says, Have a towline ready. That ought to do, he said. Run it up, ordered the newly in- stalled captain, and watch his answer. Up ~vent the signal, and as the men on the main deck were manning the top- sail halyards Poop-Deck made out the answer, V. K. C. That means, All right, Seldom, he said, after examining the book. Good enough; hut we 11 get our line ready, too. Get down and help em masthead the yard; then take em for- rard and coil the towline abaft the windlass. Get out all the heavin-lines, too: Poop-Deck obeyed, and while the main-topsail yard slowly arose to place Seldom himself ran up the answering pennant, and then a repetition of the steamers last message, All right. This was the final signal displayed. It was lowered, and for a half-hour Seldom waited until the others had lifted a nine- inch hawser from the fore-peak and coiled it down. Then came his next orders in a continuous roar Three hands aft to the spanker sheet stand by to slack off and haul in. Man braces for wearing ship, the rest o you. Hard up the wheel. Check in starboard main and crojack braces. Shiver the topsail. Slack off that spanker. His orders were obeyed. The ship paid off, staggered a little in the trough under the right - angle pressure of the gale, swung still farther, and steadied down to a long, rolling motion, dead be- fore the wind, heading for the stern of the steamer. Yards were squared in, the spanker hauled aft, staysail trimmed to port, and all hands waited while the ship charged down the two miles of distance. Handles like a yacht, mut- tered Seldom, as, with brow wrinkled and keen eye flashing above his hooked nose, he conned the steering from his place near the mizzenmast. Three men separated themselves from the rest and came aft. One was tall, broad - shouldered, and smooth - shaven, with a palpable limp; another, short, broad, and hairy, showed a lamentable absence of front teeth; and the third, a blue-eyed man, slight and graceful of movement, carried his arm in splints and sling. I wish to protest, said this man as they climbed the poop steps. I am captain here under the law. I protest against this insanity. No boat can live in such a sea. No help can be given that steamer. I bear witness to the protest, said the tall man. The short, hairy man might also have spoken, but had no time. Get off the poop! yelled Seldom. Go forrard where you belong! He stood close to the bucket-rack around the Where Angels Fear to Tread. 217 skylight. Seizing bucket after bucket, he launched them at his visitors, with the result that the big man was tumbled down the poop steps head first, while the other two followed, right side up, but hurriedly, and bearing some sore spots. Then the rest of the men set upon them, much as a pack of dogs might worry strange cats, and kicked and buffeted them forward. There was not much time for amuse- ment of this sort. Yards were braced - to port, for the ship was careering down toward the steamer at a ten-knot rate. Soon black dots on her rail resolved into passengers waving hats and handker- chiefs, and black dots on the boat-deck into sailors standing by the end of a haw- ser which led up from the bitts below on the fantail. The ship came down until it might have seemed that Seldoms in- tention was to ram the steamer. But not so; when a scant two lengths sepa- rated the two craft, he called out, Hard down! Light up the staysail sheet and stand by the fore braces! Around came the ship on the crest of a sea, sank into the hollow behind, shipped a few dozen tons of water from the next comber, and lay fairly steady with her bows meeting the seas and the huge steamer not a half-length away on the lee quarter. The fore topmast stay- sail was flattened, and Seldom closely scrutinized the drift and heave of the ship. How s your wheel, Bigpig? he asked. Hard down. Put it up a little; keep her ia the trough. He noted the effect on the ship of this change; then, as though satisfied, roared out, Let your fore braces hang forrard there! Stand by heavin-lincs fore and aft! Stand by to go ahead on that steam- er when we have your line! The last injunction, delivered through his hands, went down the wind like a thunder-clap, and the officers on the steamers bridge, vainly trying to make themselves heard against the gale, started perceptibly at tIme impact of sound, and one of them went to the engine-room speaking-tube. Breast to breast the two vessels lifted and fell. At certain moments, it seemed that the ship was to be dropped bodily on the deck of the steamer; at others, her crew looked up a hundred-foot slope to where the other craft was poised at the crest. Then the steamer would drop, and the next sea would heave the ship toward her. But it was noticeable that every bound brought the ship nearer, and also farther ahead; for the sails were doing their work. Kick ahead on board the steamer! thundered Seldom from his eminence. Go ahead! Start the wagon or say your prayers, you blasted idiots! The engines were already turning. But it takes time to overcome three thou- sand tons of inertia, and before the steamer had forged ahead six feet the ship had lifted high above her and de- scended her black side with a grinding crash of wood against iron. Fore and main channels on the ship were carried away, leaving all lee rigging slack and useless; lower braces caught in the steam- ers davit cleats and snapped; but the sails, held by the weather braces, re- mained full, and the yards did not swing. The two craft separated with a roll, and came together again with more scraping and snapping of rigging. Passengers left the rail, dived indoors, and took refuge on the opposite side, where fall- ing blocks and spars might not reach them. Another leap toward the steamer resulted in the ships main topgallant- mast falling in a zigzag whirl, as the snapping gear aloft impeded it, and, dropping athwart the steamers funnel, neatly sent the royal yard with sail at- tached down the iron cylinder, where it soon blazed and assisted the artificial draft in the stoke - hold. Next came the fore topgallantmast, which smashed a couple of boats; then, as the round 218 Where Angels Fear to Tread. black stern of the steamer scraped the lee bow of the ship, jib-guys parted and the jib-boom itself went, snapping at the bowsprit-cap, with the last bite the ship made at the steamer she was helping. But all through this riot of destruction while passengers screamed and prayed, while officers shouted and swore on the steamer, and Seldom Helward, bellow- ing insanely, danced up and down on the ships house, and the hail of wood and iron from aloft threatened their heads men were passing the towline. It was a seven-inch steel hawser with a manila tail, which they had taken to the fore topsail sheet bitts before the jib-boom had gone. Panting from their exertions, they watched it lift from the water as the steamer ahead paid out with a taut strain; then, though the crippled spars were in danger of falling and really needed their first attention, they ignored the fact and hurried aft as one man to attend to Seldom. Encouraged by the objurgations of Bigpig and his assistant, who were steer- ing now after the steamer, they called their late commander down from the house and deposed him in a concert of profane ridicule and abuse, to which he replied in kind. He was str~ick in the face by the small fist of Sinful Peck, and immediately knocked the little man down. Then he was knocked down him- self by a larger fist, and, fighting bravely and viciously, became the object of fist- blows and kicks, until, in one of his whirl- ing staggers along the deck, he passed close to a short, broad, hairy man, who, yielding to the excitement of the moment, added a blow to Seldoms punishment. It was an unfortunate mistake; for he took Seldoms place, and the rain of fists and boots descended on him until he fell unconscious. Mr. Helward himself de- livered the last quieting blow, and then stood over him with a lurid grin on his bleeding face. Got to put down mutiny though the heavens fall, he said painfully. Right you are, Seldom, answered one. Here, Jackson, Benson, drag him forrard; and, Seldom, he added re- provingly, dont you ever try it again. Want to be captain, hey? You cant; you dont know enough. You could nt command my wheelbarrow. Here s three days work to clear up the muss you ye made. But in this he spoke more, and less, than the truth. The steamer, going slow- ly and steering with a bridle from the towline to each quarter, kept the ships canvas full until her crew had steadied the yards and furled it. Then, an un- canny appearance of the sea to leeward and a blackening of the sky to windward indicated a too close proximity to the shoals, and probable increase of wind and sea. The steamer waited no longer. With a preliminary blast of her whistle, she hung the weight of the ship on the starboard bridle, gave power to her en- gines, and rounded to, very slowly, head to sea, while the men on the ship, who had been carrying the end of their haw- ser up the fore topmast rigging, dropped it and came down hurriedly. Released from the wind pressure on her strong side, which had somewhat steadied her, the ship now rolled more than she had done in the trough; and with every starboard roll were ominous creakings and grindings aloft. At last came a heavier lurch, and both crippled topmasts fell, taking with them the miz- zen topgallantmast. Luckily, no one was hurt, and the men disgustedly cut the wreck adrift, stayed the fore and main masts with the hawser, and, resigning themselves to a large subtraction from their salvage, went to a late breakfast, a savory meal of fried ham and pota- toes, hot cakes and coffee, served to six- teen in the cabin, and an unsavory mess of hard-tack hash, with an infusion of burnt bread-crust, peas, beans, and lea- ther, handed, but not served, to three in the forecastle. Three days later, with Sandy Hook Where Angels Fear to Tread. 219 lighthouse showing through the haze ahead, and nothing left of the gale but a rolling ground-swell, the steamer slowed down, so that a pilot boats dingey could put a man aboard each craft; and the one who climbed the ships side was the pilot who had taken her to sea, outward bound, and sympathized with her crew. They surrounded him on the poop and asked for news, while the three men for- ward looked aft hungrily, as though they would have joined the meeting, but dared not. Instead of giving news the pilot asked questions, which the men answered. I knew you d taken charge, boys, he said at last; the whole world knows it, and every man-of-war on the Pacific stations is looking for you. But they re looking out there. What brings you round here, dismasted, towing into New York? That s where the ship s bound, New York. We took her out; we bring her home. We dont want her; dont be- long to us. We re law-abidin men. Law - abiding men? asked the amazed pilot. You bet. We re goin to prosecute those dogs of ours forrard to the last limit of the law. We 11 show em they cant starve and hammer and shoot American citizens just cause they ye got guns in their pockets. The pilot looked forward, answered a nod, and asked, Who s captain? Nobody! they roared. Had enough o captains This ship s an un- limited democracy Everybody s just as good as the next man All but the dogs; they sleep on the bunk-boards, do as they re told, and eat salt mule and dunderfunk, same as we did goin out. Did they navigate for you? Did no one have charge of things? Poop-Deck, here, picked up naviga- tion, and we let him off steerin and standin lookout. Then Seldom wanted to be captain just once, and we let him well, look at our spars. The pilot looked. Then the men ex plained the meeting with the steamer and Seldoms misdoing, and requested infor- mation about the salvage laws. Boys, said the pilot, I m sorry for you. I saw the start of this voyage, and you appear to be decent men. You 11 get no salvage; you 11 get no wages. You are mutineers and pirates, with no standing in court. Any salvage which the Almena has earned will go to her owners, and to the three men whom you deprived of command. What you can get the maximum, though I cant say how hard the judge will lay it on is ten years in states prison and a fine of two thousand dollars each. We 11 have to stop at quarantine. Take my advice: if you get a chance, lower a boat and skip. They laughed at the advice. They had only repressed inhuman brutality. An hour later the pilot pointed to the Almenas number flying from the steam- ers truck. He s telling on you, boys, he said. He knew you when you helped him, and used you, of course. Your re- putation is international and bad. See that signal-station ashore there? You 11 find a police boat at quarantine. He was but partly right. Not only a police boat, but an outward-bound man- of-war and an incoming revenue cutter escorted the ship to quarantine, where the towline was cast off and an anchor dropped. Then, in the persons of a scandalized health officer, a naval cap- tain, a revenue marine lieutenant, and a purple-faced sergeant of the steamboat squad, the power of the law was reha- bilitated on the Almenas quarter deck, and the strong hand of the law closed down on her unruly crew. With blank faces, they discarded, to shirts, trousers, and boots, the slop-chest clothing which belonged to the triumphant Captain Ben- son, and descended the side to the police boat, which immediately steamed away. Then a chuckling trio entered the ships cabin and ordered the steward to bring them something to eat. 220 Where Angels Fear to Tread. Now, there is no record, either in the reports for that year of the police de- partment, or from any official babbling, or from later yarns spun by the sixteen prisoners, of what really occurred on the deck of that steamer while she was go- ing up the bay. Newspapers of the time gave generous space to speculations writ- ten up on the facts discovered by re- porters; but nothing was ever proven. The facts were few. A tug met the steamer in the Narrows about a quarter to twelve that morning, and her captain, on being questioned, declared that all seemed well with her. The prisoners were grouped forward, guarded by eight officers and a sergeant. A little after twelve, a Battery boatman observed her coming, and hied him around to the po- lice dock to have a look at the murder- ous pirates he had heard about, only to see her heading up the North River, past the Battery. A watchman on the eleva- tor docks at Sixty-Third Street observed her charging up the river a little later in the afternoon, wondered why, and spoke of it. The captain of the Mary Powel, bound up, reported catching her abreast of Yonkers. He had whistled as he passed, and, though no one was in sight, the salute was politely answered. At some time during the night, residents of Sing Sing were wakened by a sound of steam blowing off somewhere on the river; and in the morning, a couple of fishermen, going out to their pond-nets in the early dawn, found the police boat grounded on the shoals. On boarding her they had released a pinioned, gagged, and hungry captain in the pilot - house, and an engineer, a fireman, and two deck hands, similarly limited, in the lamp- room. They pried open the nailed doors of the dining-room staircase, and liber- ated a purple-faced sergeant and eight furious policemen, who chased their de- liverers into their skiff, and spoke sternly to the working force. Among the theories advanced was one by the editor of a paper in a small Lake Ontario town, to the effect that it made little difference to a lake sailor whether he shipped as captain, mate, engineer, sailor, or fireman, and that the officers of the New York Harbor Patrol had only underestimated the calibre of the men in their charge, leaving them un- guarded while they went to dinner. But his paper and town were small and far away, he could not possibly know any- thing of the subject, and his opinion ob- tained little credence. Years later, he attended as guest a meeting and dinner of the Shipmasters and Pilots Association of Cleveland, Ohio, when a resolution was adopted to petition the city for a harbor police ser- vice. Captain Monahan, Captain Hel- ward, Captain Peck, and Captain Cahill, having spoken and voted in the negative, left their seats on the adoption of the proposition, reached a clear spot on the floor, shook hands silently, and then, forming a ring, danced around in a cir- cle, the tails of their coats standing out in horizontal rigidity, until reproved by the chair. And the editor knew why. .Miorgan Robertson. DriJ~wood. 221 DRIFTWOOD. THE storm was over. Dawn came with a clear sky and no wind. Though a white-streaked, leaping sea still dashed and thundered upon the encircling reef, the water inside was flat and noiseless save for a gentle plashing at its edge. When, with tropic haste, the sun rose and proclaimed the day, the ocean seemed to have forgotten its anger. Beyond the boiling reef it had become a merry dan- cing sea of sapphires and diamonds, deep blue and sparkling white; inside the bar- rier it lay a placid zone of cobalt, which gradually turned to green as it neared the shore and the yellow sand showed through it. But on the island the palms were bent and tattered; the foliage of the undergrowth was shriveled and black- 9 ened as by a frost; and all along the strand there ran a dark, irregular line of sea-wreck. A few yards above high-water mark, face downward at the foot of a giant palm, lay a man. One arm rested un- der his forehead; the other was stretched out before him. Upon the latter a full- rigged ship had been tattooed. His head and feet were bare, and his torn clothes were still wet. The sun climbed, the heat increased, the frightened birds in the thickets took courage and began to call again, but the man did not move; for he was spent by his struggle with the sea. Later, a gaudy lowrie shrieking over- head roused him, and he sat up, staring about him with wild, frightened eyes. Then, slowly, painfully, he rose, and limp- ing down to the water, he stood, sway- ing unsteadily, with one hand shading his weak eyes, and looked anxiously sea- ward. Now that the tide was out, he could see the swart, jagged crest of the reef upon which the ship had struck. A flock of sea-birds circled and screamed above it in one place, but except the birds, the rocks, and the sea there was nothing. The man sat down heavily, and cov- ered his face with his hands. Again he lifted his head, and gazed sightlessly at the far - away horizon. After a little while a wandering crab caught his at- tention. He watched it stupidly for a moment; then suddenly pounced upon it, pulled off its claws, and carried it above the tide-mark. Now that the instinct of self-preservation was stirred in him, he began to search for food. Instead of striking into the forest, as a landsman would have done, he clung tenaciously to the one thing he knew and called his friend, the sea. The tangled under- brush, the shadowy glades, the mysteri- ous noises of the forest, all caused him apprehension; but on the shore, with the sound of the ocean in his ears and the invigorating smell of seaweed in his nos- trils, he felt more confidence. Some rock-oysters, chipped laborious- ly from the stones uncovered by the tide, appeased his hunger. Water he found in the hollows of the higher rocks. Though the salt spray had mingled with the rain and made it brackish, it con- tented him. Strengthened and encouraged by his meal, he washed the sand from his black hair and beard, cleansed his torn hands and feet, and, manlike, began to plan. He would see what material he had at hand, what wreckage had been washed up, and would search for his shipmates who had taken to the boats. It could not be possible that he alone out of all the ships company had reached the island, he who had been the last to leave the ship. No, surely he was not alone! Cheered by this new thought, he started hopefully along the beach, turning to the right, with a sailors way of doing things with the sun.

H. Phelps Whitmarsh Whitmarsh, H. Phelps Driftwood 221-225

DriJ~wood. 221 DRIFTWOOD. THE storm was over. Dawn came with a clear sky and no wind. Though a white-streaked, leaping sea still dashed and thundered upon the encircling reef, the water inside was flat and noiseless save for a gentle plashing at its edge. When, with tropic haste, the sun rose and proclaimed the day, the ocean seemed to have forgotten its anger. Beyond the boiling reef it had become a merry dan- cing sea of sapphires and diamonds, deep blue and sparkling white; inside the bar- rier it lay a placid zone of cobalt, which gradually turned to green as it neared the shore and the yellow sand showed through it. But on the island the palms were bent and tattered; the foliage of the undergrowth was shriveled and black- 9 ened as by a frost; and all along the strand there ran a dark, irregular line of sea-wreck. A few yards above high-water mark, face downward at the foot of a giant palm, lay a man. One arm rested un- der his forehead; the other was stretched out before him. Upon the latter a full- rigged ship had been tattooed. His head and feet were bare, and his torn clothes were still wet. The sun climbed, the heat increased, the frightened birds in the thickets took courage and began to call again, but the man did not move; for he was spent by his struggle with the sea. Later, a gaudy lowrie shrieking over- head roused him, and he sat up, staring about him with wild, frightened eyes. Then, slowly, painfully, he rose, and limp- ing down to the water, he stood, sway- ing unsteadily, with one hand shading his weak eyes, and looked anxiously sea- ward. Now that the tide was out, he could see the swart, jagged crest of the reef upon which the ship had struck. A flock of sea-birds circled and screamed above it in one place, but except the birds, the rocks, and the sea there was nothing. The man sat down heavily, and cov- ered his face with his hands. Again he lifted his head, and gazed sightlessly at the far - away horizon. After a little while a wandering crab caught his at- tention. He watched it stupidly for a moment; then suddenly pounced upon it, pulled off its claws, and carried it above the tide-mark. Now that the instinct of self-preservation was stirred in him, he began to search for food. Instead of striking into the forest, as a landsman would have done, he clung tenaciously to the one thing he knew and called his friend, the sea. The tangled under- brush, the shadowy glades, the mysteri- ous noises of the forest, all caused him apprehension; but on the shore, with the sound of the ocean in his ears and the invigorating smell of seaweed in his nos- trils, he felt more confidence. Some rock-oysters, chipped laborious- ly from the stones uncovered by the tide, appeased his hunger. Water he found in the hollows of the higher rocks. Though the salt spray had mingled with the rain and made it brackish, it con- tented him. Strengthened and encouraged by his meal, he washed the sand from his black hair and beard, cleansed his torn hands and feet, and, manlike, began to plan. He would see what material he had at hand, what wreckage had been washed up, and would search for his shipmates who had taken to the boats. It could not be possible that he alone out of all the ships company had reached the island, he who had been the last to leave the ship. No, surely he was not alone! Cheered by this new thought, he started hopefully along the beach, turning to the right, with a sailors way of doing things with the sun. 222 Driftwood. The masses of fresh kelp which marked the limit of the seas late flood were mixed with sponge growths, coral, poiyps, shells, sea-fans, and dead fish. The shore was littered with strange things wrenched from the ocean - bed. Some- times the man stopped and looked at these things curiously, and once he put a lustrous cowrie in his pocket. As he walked on and on, however, such objects ceased to interest him; for he was seeking wreckage and his fellow men, and he found neither. At every point that cut off his view he would say, I shall see them when I round that, and he would put forth all his strength to reach it; but each time he stood at the turn and opened a new prospect, dis- appointment awaited him. The day wore on, and he became very weary. His limping gait grew slower and slower. His head dropped on his chest. A wide bay, without a cheering sign, had to be skirted before he could reach the next cape; and he felt that he could not go much farther. Presently, a long white object lay at his feet, and with a cry of joy he opened his half-shut eyes. It was an oar. He looked eagerly round for the boat to which it belonged; but no boat was to be seen, neither was there a footprint nor any trace that one had landed there. Capsized! he muttered despondent- ly, and shouldering the oar he limped on. He had gone but a short distance, how- ever, when he stopped again. This time it was before a fancy ships bucket. The wood was white, the hoops were blue, and the rope handle was an elabo- rate piece of sailor handiwork. As he turned it over thoughtfully with his foot, he started; for he saw that the name painted upon it was not the name of his ship, but that of another vessel. Then he dropped the oar, and found that it too was branded with the strange name. D-r-u-i-d, Druid, lie said. My God! Then there were two wrecks! After a pause he continued: And only one man saved! Ha! ha! ha! What a joke! Ha! ha! and he broke into shouts of hoarse laughter. Suddenly his unnatural merriment end- ed; for far down the beach, near to the waters edge, there was a dark something that moved. Though at the moment it was still, the man could have sworn that he had seen it stir, and was instantly filled with a vague fear. Rigid and breath- less, lie stood and watched the thing. It moved again. Then, cautiously, with min- gled feelings of curiosity, fear, and hope, the man approached it. At one moment it looked like a roll of seaweed, at an- other a seal, and at yet another a human body. As he got nearer, he saw that a rocking motion was given to the thing by an occasional wave that ran up higher than its fellows, and that the thing itself was a woman. Forgetting his weariness and pain, the man ran; then stopped, looking down with dismay at the piteous heap before him. The woman lay on her side in a little bed which the weight of her body and the incoming waves had made in the sand; her face and hands were pallid, her lips were set, and her long brown hair was spread upon the beach like a deli- cate seaweed. About her waist two life- belts had been securely lashed, and from her neck there hung by a silken string a small chamois bag. As the man bent over her he was filled with pity, and tears rolled down his cheeks, tears that were partly for her, and partly for his lonely self. Why, oh why, had she not lived? He touched her cold hands and face, placed his ear to her mouth, but could detect no life. On a sudden a new hope sprang within him, and, growing strong with it, he lifted the woman in his arms and staggered up the beach, where he laid her down in the warm sand, out of the reach of the sea. Quickly loosing the life - belts from about her waist, he found to his delight that she was still warm. Though she was apparently drowned, life was not ex Driftwood. 223 tinct, and, with a sailors knowledge, he began at once to practice the methods used to produce artificial breathing. He worked with grim, deliberate persever- ance, until she breathed naturally; then he restored warmth and circulation by stones which had lain in the sun and by rubbing. At last the woman opened her large blue eyes, and gazed wonderingly into the mans eager face. Then she closed them again and fell asleep. With a great joy in his heart the man rose, and went away to collect shellfish; for he knew now that the woman would not die. After the castaways had lived upon rock-oysters and cocoanuts for two days the man made a fire-drill, and by dint of much labor produced fire, which he kept burning day and night. With a sharp stone he hewed out a rude spear for spearing fish, and a throwing-stick to kill the many tame birds that flew about the island. Turtle eggs he found in a cove near by, and in the forest an abun- dance of yams and plantains. When there was no longer any need of being anxious about food, he built the woman a little hut of boughs, so that she might be sheltered from the heavy rains and be alone. The woman, however, grieved exceed- ingly, and would not be comforted. All day she sat in the shadow of the palms, staring at the sea. Though she tried to be brave before the man, he would often return from hunting or fishing to find her weeping bitterly. Fearful that she would go mad or die, he tried to distract her by seeking her advice and help. He taught her to twist cocoa fibre into strings and ropes, to make a net from the same material; he stripped the life- belts of their canvas coverings, and asked her to make him a coat; he took her with him to the cove for turtle eggs and to the forest for fruit, making pretense always that he needed her assistance. And ever he spoke in strong, hopeful words of the future. Some day, he told her, a ship would come and carry them away from their island prison. So cheery, so full of faith was he that she came to believe him; whereupon her grief abated and her cour- age came back. One day he came to her and said, On the other side of the island I have found a better place to live than this. There is plenty of good water and fruit, and a high cliff from which to keep a lookout; and a signal - fire lighted on the cliff could be seen for thirty miles. Shall we go? The womans eyes brightened, and she said, Yes ! yes ! Let us go at once. When they reached the new place, and the woman saw the cliff, the crystal riv- ulet that went singing across the yellow sand to the sea, and the wealth of gay, perfume - laden flowers that decked the slope, she cried, Oh, how beautiful! For the first time since she had been upon the island she smiled. As soon as they were settled in their new camp the man began to build a huge bonfire on the bald summit of the cliff. As all the wood had to be carried from below, and as he had neither axe nor knife to aid him, the task was a long and hard one. He laid alternate layers of dry wood and green branches, so that the fire, when lighted, should send up a column of black smoke. It took him three weeks to raise the pile to the size he wanted, and during this time the wo- man helped him bundle the wood and cooked their simple meals. When the great work was finished and ready for the torch, they went up and looked at it admiringly, and both were filled with eager hopefulness. They felt now that they were ready for the ship; that when she caine they should be seen and saved. Each morning and evening they climbed to their lookout, the man carrying a large bundle of sticks, the woman a small one; for it pleased them to increase the size of their beacon. Panting they would reach 224 Dr~J~wood. the top, and, dropping their burdens, seat themselves in the cool breeze of the height, to scan the horizon and anticipate the coming of the ship. Sometimes they speculated upon her, wondered from which direction she would come, whether she would be a steamer or a sailing ves- sel, and whither she would take them. The ship, indeed, was the one theme of their conversation, their one and only hope, their future. Time went on, the weeks grew to months, but no vessel appeared. Such was their faith, however, that they did not cease to believe, nor stop adding fuel to their great unlighted beacon. In this common work and faith, in spite of daily disappointment, they drew closer togeth- er, and were strangely content. Plain food, physical labor, and an open-air life brought the color back to the womans cheeks, gave health and vigor to both man and woman. Laughter came to their lips easily, gladness to their eyes they sang as they worked, went hand in hand through the forest plucking flowers, and, as though by magic, became chil- dren again. They deceived themselves into think- ing that these things were born of sym- pathy and their mutual interest. Yet, notwithstanding this, there was one sub- ject which they guiltily avoided, the past. In the beginning the past had been their chief topic, but as the months went by they tacitly agreed to bury it. The man, being an ingenious, handy fellow, made tools out of the iron hoops of the bucket he had found, and with them manufactured many things that they needed. Before the rainy season set in he built a stone house for the wo- man, which he made waterproof with a thatch of reeds; and for himself he hol- lowed out a little cave at the foot of the cliff. As soon as these things were ac- complished he set to work making a bark canoe, for he wished to search the bar- rier reef for wreckage. In everything they did, however, nei ther the man nor the woman forgot that their work was but a makeshift, that it was merely to tide them over until they were rescued. Nor did they cease to climb the cliff morning and evening, nor to add continually to their monster sig- nal, nor to plan for the coming of the ship. And in all they undertook, all their plans and anticipations, they found a happiness which constantly brought them nearer and nearer together. By the calendar which the man had scratched upon the smooth surface of a rock, the castaways had been imprisoned by the sea nearly five months before the awakening came. Then, one day, while he was gathering fruit, he looked out over the ocean and saw a great white vessel standing close in to the island. There- upon he ran down quickly to the beach where the woman was, crying joyously, The ship! The ship! When she saw it she laughed and cried by turns. For a moment they stood hold- ing each others hands very tightly, and looking rapturously at this the realization of their one hope. Their ship had come at last! Then the man plucked a burning brand from the camp-fire, and ran with all his speed up the winding pathway they had worn to the beacon. On the way he snatched a handful of dry grass, with which to kindle the blaze. Excited, breathless, and flushed, he impatiently shook himself clear of the view-destroy- ing underbrush, and reached the hilltop. The vessel was then almost abreast of the cliff, and so near that he could look down and see people upon her deck. Realizing that no time was to be lost, the man knelt hurriedly at the foot of the bonfire, thrust the dry grass beneath a mass of small dead wood, and began to blow the smoking flrebrand into life. At the third puff, however, he stopped; his hands fell limply at his sides; his face became contorted, and he shrank back from the pile, shuddering. For at The Tinkling Simlins. 225 that moment there came to him know- ledge, and with it fear. He knew then that he loved the woman, and he knew that the lighting of the fire meant separa- tion. Fearfully he laid the brand down; then rose and edged away from it as though it were a snake. I will not! I will not! he mut- tered fiercely. I will tell her the brand went out. After a brief struggle, however, the mans better nature asserted itself, and he came back. With a trembling hand he again lifted the fire-stick. Once more the charcoal glowed; once more he was on the point of sending aloft the signal. But as he hesitated he heard quick steps behind him, and a sound, half cry, half sob. He turned, and saw that it was the woman. Now, when the man and the woman looked into each others eyes they under- stood all. With a smile upon her love. illumined face, the woman lifted th~ fire- brand and threw it into the sea beneath them. Then the man opened his arms, and the woman came to them. And there at the edge of the cliff, with their signal-fire behind them, these two, who had drifted so strangely together, stood and watched the ship sail away. A thin haze rolling up from the south- ward soon enveloped the vessel. She be- came a phantom shape, then a thin dark line, which grew fainter and fainter, and finally disappeared. H. Phelps Whitmarsh. THE TINKLING SIMLINS. IT was admitted that there was no other man around North Pass who could get together so good a force of berry- pickers as Abe Tweedy, or Twiddy, as he was known by word of mouth. He went out into the wilds of Johnson Coun- ty to engage them in April; imported them to the Floyd farm, near the pass, in May, when strawberries were begin- ning to ripen; and bossed them with forceful patience and suavity until the last blackberry was off the vines in Au- gust. The inhabitants of old John- sing were a lawless people in those days, but it was Tweedys boast that in ten years there had been no killings in his gang, and scarcely ever a fight or a drawn knife, while the quarreling was only enough to give a little human in- terest to the long, hard seasons. Year after year the same families joined his force. Friendships or jealousies which had been interrupted during the winter began afresh along the strawberry rows, and ran their course from the bleak, chilly, VOL. LXXXII. NO. 490. 15 showery days when Tweedy kindled a bonfire on the edge of the field, so that his gang could warm its numbed hands and dry its dew - drenched clothing, to other days of perfect sunshine and de- light; and on to others still, when the aroma of the raspberries hung like an overpowering incense in the quivering air, and Tweedy advised the pickers to put moist raspberry leaves in their hats and bonnets to keep off the sun. It was the beginning of such a day of fainting heat, and Tweedy had made the rounds of the field with a water- bucket and a dipper. He passed over a little rise of ground, and found him- self near a girl who had fairly buried her head in the waving branches of a tall raspberry bush, and was searching for the great, red, perfect berries which grow beneath the leaves. Fine warm day, he said, setting down the bucket, and taking off his hat to wipe his forehead. The girl did not seem to hear, so he stood a moment

Mary Tracy Earle Earle, Mary Tracy The Tinkling Simlins 225-235

The Tinkling Simlins. 225 that moment there came to him know- ledge, and with it fear. He knew then that he loved the woman, and he knew that the lighting of the fire meant separa- tion. Fearfully he laid the brand down; then rose and edged away from it as though it were a snake. I will not! I will not! he mut- tered fiercely. I will tell her the brand went out. After a brief struggle, however, the mans better nature asserted itself, and he came back. With a trembling hand he again lifted the fire-stick. Once more the charcoal glowed; once more he was on the point of sending aloft the signal. But as he hesitated he heard quick steps behind him, and a sound, half cry, half sob. He turned, and saw that it was the woman. Now, when the man and the woman looked into each others eyes they under- stood all. With a smile upon her love. illumined face, the woman lifted th~ fire- brand and threw it into the sea beneath them. Then the man opened his arms, and the woman came to them. And there at the edge of the cliff, with their signal-fire behind them, these two, who had drifted so strangely together, stood and watched the ship sail away. A thin haze rolling up from the south- ward soon enveloped the vessel. She be- came a phantom shape, then a thin dark line, which grew fainter and fainter, and finally disappeared. H. Phelps Whitmarsh. THE TINKLING SIMLINS. IT was admitted that there was no other man around North Pass who could get together so good a force of berry- pickers as Abe Tweedy, or Twiddy, as he was known by word of mouth. He went out into the wilds of Johnson Coun- ty to engage them in April; imported them to the Floyd farm, near the pass, in May, when strawberries were begin- ning to ripen; and bossed them with forceful patience and suavity until the last blackberry was off the vines in Au- gust. The inhabitants of old John- sing were a lawless people in those days, but it was Tweedys boast that in ten years there had been no killings in his gang, and scarcely ever a fight or a drawn knife, while the quarreling was only enough to give a little human in- terest to the long, hard seasons. Year after year the same families joined his force. Friendships or jealousies which had been interrupted during the winter began afresh along the strawberry rows, and ran their course from the bleak, chilly, VOL. LXXXII. NO. 490. 15 showery days when Tweedy kindled a bonfire on the edge of the field, so that his gang could warm its numbed hands and dry its dew - drenched clothing, to other days of perfect sunshine and de- light; and on to others still, when the aroma of the raspberries hung like an overpowering incense in the quivering air, and Tweedy advised the pickers to put moist raspberry leaves in their hats and bonnets to keep off the sun. It was the beginning of such a day of fainting heat, and Tweedy had made the rounds of the field with a water- bucket and a dipper. He passed over a little rise of ground, and found him- self near a girl who had fairly buried her head in the waving branches of a tall raspberry bush, and was searching for the great, red, perfect berries which grow beneath the leaves. Fine warm day, he said, setting down the bucket, and taking off his hat to wipe his forehead. The girl did not seem to hear, so he stood a moment 226 The Tinkling Simlins. looking at her. Her skirt was soaked to the waist with the heavy dew which shimmered on the leaves and berries, her sleeves were wet to the shoulders and clung about her strong round arms, and even the ruffle of her sunbonnet was limp from brushing against the vines. It was very early although it was so warm. The sun was low in the east, and its light fell in an almost level flood of gold across the tops of the vines, which were all staked and trained high, so that the field looked like a vineyard. Far away towprd the horizon, the morning shadows were still lurking among the wild blue hills. It seemed a pity that the girl should be soaked with dew and have her head buried in a raspberry bush. Tweedy tried a new tone. Look out you pick them berries clean, Cynthy Lence, he said. She straightened herself, and pushed her bonnet back from a calm-looking face with moist curls flattened against lie temples. Pears to me, when I stand on my haid in a bush, it s a sign I in searchin pretty close for em, she an- swered, freeing the curls with her hand. Tweedy lifted the dripping dipper out of the bucket and held it toward her. I knowed you would nt stop workin long enough to take a drink lessn I faulted yore work, he said. It aint my place, as boss, to make a fuss about anybodys doin too much; but jus count- in myself as Abe rrwiddy, I caint sense why you drive yoreself so hard. If you want to show that you can pick two boxes to Buck Andersons one, you done that long ago. The girl had come a step toward him to take the dipper, but her hand dropped and she did not take it. Pshaw! he said, holding it out fur- ther. She shook her head. Pshaw! he repeated, you re the faithfulest worker I ye got in this field; you dont need any boss, an someway I caint never eount myself as anything but Abe Twid- dy when I m talkin to you. . . . Stan still a minute; it s bound to be said. I caint help seem that you-uns is workin yoreself so unmerciful jus because Buck Anderson married that old Widder Tate instead of you. He s a heap sorrier about it n you be, an she s run him right up agia the wall, too; he das nt lift a eyelash lessn she says, Eyelashes up like we used to play. It dont look to me like there s the stuff in him for a girl to keer so much about. The girl was looking at him so stead- ily that he began to hesitate. You see, Cynthy, I m a mighty old acquaintance of yorn, he apologized. I been boss- in you now since you was jus big enough to stan under the raspberry vines an pull the berries offn the low branches; they mosly went into yore mouth, too. Now dont it look like it was tolable nateral I should take an interest? She smiled at him with a sparkle of resentment in her eyes. Nobody s keepin you from takin an interest, if you want to, she said. I doiit keer. All the rugged lines in Tweedys face took a sudden downward turn. He was not used to finding himself of small ac- count, and if any one who cared had been watching him, it would have been evi- dent that he was not only perplexed, but pained. At last he picked up the water- bucket and started along the row, but, pausing, looked at the girl again. She had bent into the bush once more, and he went slowly away, feeling as if he had lost something there among the raspber- ry leaves. The heat grew more oppressive as the day went on, and Tweedy noticed the list- less, sullen spirit of his gang. The talk and laughter which usually passed be- tween the rows died out, and only an angry mother raised her voice now and then to threaten a child, or Buck Ander- sons wife (still known as the Widow Tate ) was heard railing at her husband. Tweedy himself was indefatigable in good works and in good cheer. He took the heavy hand - crates from the red - faced, The Tinkling Simlins. 227 panting children who were carrying theni to the shed, and, as he passed, he stopped to joke with the row of old women who were playing truant openly and smoking their pipes in the shadow of a tree. But his jokes fell back on him like those of an actor who is facing a stolid house. There was no air stirring, the weight of the atmosphere rested heavy on the field, and all the time he was thinking of Cyn- thia with her head hidden in the rasp- berry hush. Again and again he started to go to see if she still had it there; but talking to her seemed so useless that he did not go until the whole force worked its way over the knoll which had sepa- rated her from the others, and he caught sight of her & dy a few bushes beyond the place where she had been before. She was picking as slowly and wearily as any of the rest, and he hurried to- ward her, reproaching himself for hav- ing taunted her. After all, it was quite as much a pity for her to work slowly as to work swiftly on account of a man like Anderson, and he was ready to tell her so, when he noticed that Anderson and his wife were picking on the row next hers. Through all the season he had been quietly keeping them at a dis- tance from her, but that morning she had come into the field so much earlier than any one else that she had already passed over the knoll when the others began, and so he had been careless in giving out the rows. Andersons black head and thin shoulders were moving rapidly toward Cynthia, but his wife had come to a full stop, and was staring over the bushes at the girl, with a pair of cold blue eyes. Tweedy knew that the Widow Tate had more ,than once drawn a knife and attacked persons against whom she had a prejudice; and as she finally strode forward from one bush to another, he fancied he could see the swing of a knife in the limp folds of her gown; his thoughts followed her with forebod- ing, even while he called himself a fool, and took off his hat and fanned himself as if fanning up a new idea. The widow seemed to have seen all she wished to see of Cynthia, however, and Tweedy drew a breath of relief as he saw her fill the last box in her hand-crate and start off toward the shed. Tweedy hurried away, too, suddenly realizing that he was not plain Abe Twiddy, but a boss, and that this would be a good time to do a little bossing in the parts of the field at a distance from Cynthia; he called them the far parts of the field. Meanwhile, the pickers moved slowly along their rows, and the sun rose slow- ly higher and shot its rays at them with greater force. Cynthia could feel the sharp impact of the heat upon her head; she could feel, too, the strange piercing of an unseen steady gaze. Thinking the Widow Tate might still be looking at her, she tried to keep her own eyes doggedly upon her work; but at last she glanced up, and saw the widows sunbon- net just passing out of sight on its way to the shed. It was Buck Anderson who was looking at her. She had not seen him so close at hand for nearly a year, and his haggard face startled her. It did not seem possible that this was the man with whom she had gayly raced the field last season; for though he might not have been a strong man then, he had been free and light-hearted. She had never seen a human soul in punish- ment before, and she took an involunta- ry step toward him, wonder and pity in her eyes. Anderson glanced over his shoulder to be sure that his wife was out of sight, and then hurried toward her, shaking as if he had a chill. I ye wanted a chance to talk to you, he began in a husky voice. I pretty nigh died las winter, an I 11 die this winter, so I can talk where a well man would be obleeged to keep his mouth shet. After I had axed yon-uns, an you would nt have me, Cynthy, If was plumb wild; I did nt keer what I did, an I jus got married out of devil~ 228 The Tinkling Simlins. ment, because I knowed folkses would say I d throwed you-uns over to git the Widder Tates wheat farm in the bot- toms; an I lowed it would spite you to have the name o bein cut out by the widder. I reckon she took me because she had seed how fast I could work, an she allowed I d make a right good hand on her farm an hyar in the berry fields before wheat harvest; but she drove me too hard. I took a cold last winter He stopped with a sort of gasp from having said so much and spoken so rap- idly. He seemed to have very little strength, and Cynthia noticed that he reeled slightly and put his hand to his head before he went on, while his eyes sought hers with a weak mans long- ing for compassion. She drove me to work when I was nt fit, he began again, trying hard not to make each word an appeal. I had had pneumony, an goin out like that I pretty nigh died. Cynthia was struggling against the shock of the change in him. Her eyes roamed out across the field as she lis- tened to his nervous, hurrying voice, and half consciously she noted how many of the pickers had stopped work to stare across the walls of shimmering green, and wonder what her old lover was saying to her while his wife was gone. They were all like Tweedy: they thought that she had been mourning for him. She was glad that it was she who had borne the humiliation of their sympathy instead of Anderson, yet she resented their inquisitive interest and their theo- ries. It was not her fault that a man too slight for her to love had loved her, though perhaps, if she had been think- ing less of other things, she might have seen that he eared for her, and have kept him from caring quite so much; but she had thought of nothing except to be the best and swiftest picker in Abe Tweedys gang. What made you work when you was nt fit? she asked. Anderson shook his head. You-uns could nt onderstand it, he said wearily. You-uns is one of the sort that jus goes as they please, an dont gee nor haw when folkses jerk the lines; but I m mighty tender to the bit. I don know how she did it, but she jus slipped a curb into my mouth the first day, an she s been a-gee-hawin an a-whippin me up ever since. I lowed I would nt git the chance to say airy word to you- uns before I was drove onderground, an I wanted to tell you that I only mar- ried for devilment, an she s paid me out, that s all. He stopped, but his hollow, sorrowful eyes still lingered on the girls face, and, for the first time in her life, her heart admitted the claim of l~s unanswered love. Even his weakness suddenly be- came sacred from the judgment of her strength. Her face grew full of sorrow for him, but though her lips moved once or twice, she could not find a word to say. The silence of the breathless morning was so deep that she could almost hear what two women were whis- pering together in a row near by. Oh, Anderson began again in his hoarse, eager voice, you dont lay np no grudge agin me, do you? I did it for devilment, but I ye been paid out aready; an when I think Ive got to go on an live with her till I die, an have her stand by me then an shet my eyes, I reckon I 11 have paid more than the little spite it was to you to have a man you did nt keer for throw hissef away. Cynthia went a step closer to him, regardless of the sharp laugh with which the women ended their conference in the other row. Her heart seemed to beat itself against a barrier of wordless- ness. Buck, she said, I m mighty sorry for you, an if I ye ever laid up any grudge or keered a little, it aint any- thing beside what you ye been through; an I 11 say it before my Maker, it s all my fault. I I wisht there was some- thing I could do. The Tinkling Simlins. 229 Anderson looked at her, wondering if all the feeling in her face could be for him; and when he saw it really was for him, a sob came up into his throat, and with a single broken word he went back to his row. Just then Tweedy came along, his water - bucket swinging at his side. What s the matter? lie asked Cyn- thia. You ye scarcely moved a foot since I was talkin to you an hour ago. She smiled a little, and there was still something tender in her eyes. Pears to me you-uns is mighty hard to please to-day, Mr. Twiddy, she replied. A hour ago you was faultin me cause I picked too fast. Well, you was pickin too fast, he said, and his voice was testy; thar s a gait betwixt runnin yore head off an standin still. He had never spoken like that to her before, and she looked at him with a startled face. I was tryin to please you-uns, she began, that is, in the first place. Jus the las few minutes I been talkin to Buck Anderson. So J ye heard an seen, he said. The word of it is clear acrost the field. Her features hardened. An you come acrost to stop it ? she inquired. Well, hem the boss, I naterally have to come this way once in a while, he returned evasively, stooping to pull off a red berry she had missed. It did not prove to be as ripe as he had thought. He jerked at it until it crumbled in his hand, and then laughed as he threw the pieces away. She watched him scorn- fully, but when he finally looked up at her, though his lips still laughed, his eyes were as frank and steady as her own. I m in an awkward place, Cyn- thy, he said. I know you think I meddle too much, an yet I m bound to keep things as quiet an peaceable as I can; an somehow, I m hound likewise to keep you from trouble, if I can. I know you call it yore own business if you choose to pass a word with Buck, same as if he was any other man, an so t is; an yet this whole field has got its eyes open a - watchin, so whatever the Widder Tate dont see, she 11 hear. You dont know her the way I do. I room next em in the barracks, an I hear her goin for him nights. She s the illest-natured woman I ever met up with, an if she gets a notion that you an him is takin notice again, thar 11 be the devil to pay. I wisht you d promise me, Cynthy, not to speak him airy other word. The girl shut her lips. If thar s the devil to pay, I reckon them that owes him 11 have to do it. I aint never had no dealins with him, she said. But that s the trouble with the old boy, Cynthy, the foreman explained. He jus collects whar he has a mind to, without lookin at his books. An thar s another thing, though it aint easy for a man to name it to a honest girl that he s seed growia up right out of the shadder of the vines, the way you have: even if the widder did nt jump on you with a knife some time when you was nt lookin, thar s nothin like a fieldful of long-tongued berry-pickers to blacken a girls name. Cynthia set her hand-crate down very slowly under the bushes, and her hands fell by her sides. Oh, Mr. Twiddy, she said, do you think I keer? If they can make me black so easy, I d ruther be made black an have it done. I dont reckon such kind o talk as theirn 11 be heard at the jedgment seat more the rattlin of a dry ole las years sim- lin full o seeds. You know what the Bible says about them that have not charity, they are become as soundin brass an tinklin simlins. What do I keer if all their round simlin heads bob up an rattle together all acrost the field? Sist! whispered Tweedy. There was a murmur in the air as if a breeze had arisen to shake all the pickers 230 The Tinkling Simlins. tongues. Here and there heads leaned across rows to meet heads leaning from the other side. Some were turned to look at Cynthia and Tweedy, and at An- derson, who was walking in a queer dazed way beside his row, and picking scarce a berry. Others were looking With interest at the Widow Tate, as she marched heavily and slowly down the path from the shed. Cynthias lips curved disdainfully. They had ought to thank me an Buck, she said. They aint feelin half so played out with the heat as they was a hour ago. Pore child! Tweedy sighed, as if he were summing up all her waywardness and his pity for her. You dont mind it very much now, an you dont need to, cause it 11 die out if it aint fed; but caint you pictur how it ud be if it kep on? I ye had flies buzz about my head till I was nigh distracted, but I suppose you think it ud bemean you to take no- tice of a fly. I ye heard em, Cynthia said. They ye kep a-buzzin in my ears jus the way you-uns does, an whenever I brushed em off they d come right back. Mr. Twiddy, you-uns is so skeered o peoples tongues, dont you reckon yore gang 11 be puttin our names together if you spen so much time bossin me, when I m knowed to be the best an fastest picker in the field? Her tone stung Tweedy, and for a mo- ment a glow of resentment tried to fight its way through the sunburn on his face; but as he stared at her, seeking for a re- tort, and yet uncertain whether to retort or to turn on his heel, something spoke to him out of the unchanging depths of his tenderness for her, and he under- stood the burning of injustice, the suf- fering, and the humiliation which held council behind her curving lips and brightened eyes. The anger died out of him, just as discord gives way to silence or to something sweeter, and he looked at the girl in a way that she could not understand. And yet there was nothing he could say to her, and he turned away, leaving her wishing that he had spoken, so that her own words might not sound so clearly in her ears. The ripe berries were gleaming con- spicuously along the row where Buck Anderson had hurried forward without picking them, and Tweedy, in his official character, could not pass them by. He walked swiftly from bush to hush, sweep- ing off a berry here and there as he passed, until he had a handful of the red, fragrant, half-melting jewels with which to accuse Andersons carelessness; but Anderson was nowhere to be seen. Tweedy went on, glancing between the bushes; for lie expected to find Buck stooping somewhere out of sight, picking from the low branches. Along the row from the other end the Widow Tate was approaching; she was looking for Anderson, too, her hard eyes resting an instant on every bush, seeking for some stir among the leaves. Presently she hur- ried forward, calling loudly, What s the matter with you? What you doin down thar ? Tweedy came up and found her stand- ing beside Anderson, who had fallen be- tween the bushes and lay in their shadow. Something of the green tint of the leaves was on his face, and he looked as if he were dead, but the widow did not kneel to touch him; she only bent, looking a little closer, and stirred him with her foot, repeating her questions. Tweedy stooped, and passed a hand across his head and felt above his heart. The widow straightened up and f old- ed her arms. He s only playiii off, she said. He does hit when he gits tired o work. Several of the pickers had already ga- thered, and were elbowing one another around the two bushes which sheltered Anderson, but they waited for Tweedy to speak. I reckon it s sunstroke, Tweedy said. We 11 carry him straight to the The Tinkling Simlins. 231 barracks, Mis Anderson, an put him in wet blankets. I dont know what the chances are, but I m afeard He reached out for his water - bucket, and dashed its contents over Andersons head and face. Oh, he 11 git well, the woman said in her harsh voice, which was sometimes more cruel than her thought. Hit takes a mighty little to git him down, an a mighty lot to git him up; but he 11 git well, an I 11 have him to nuss all through wheat harvest. Cynthia had come up with the others, and when she saw Anderson the sunken blankness of his features appealed to all in her that was strongest and most gen- tle. After his wife had spoken there was a moment of silence, and then Cyn- thia leaned toward Tweedy and said very slowly and clearly, Let me watch be- side him, so he 11 not wake up to be twitted with the trouble that he s made. I 11 take keer of him if he lives, an if he dont live 1 11 not begrudge the time it took me to shet his eyes. So many people had heard her that Tweedy could not ignore what she had said. Dont be foolish, Cynthy, he answered quietly, although he felt out- raged by her folly. Mis Anderson am t goin to grudge nothin to the pore feller, now he s down. If you want to help, run to the shed and tell Mr. Floyd to send a man on horseback after the doctor. Cynthia beckoned to a boy, and seat him on the errand. Some of the men helped Tweedy to lift Anderson and carry him down the row; most of the pickers followed, and, with the green barriers on either hand to prevent strag- gling, the little procession started to leave the field. Cynthia fell into the line, but Andersons wife stood at one side, like a spectator, her face and figure quite rigid except for the slow swelling of the veins upon her forehead. A report that she had stayed behind reached Tweedy, and he halted. Come on, Mis Anderson~ an git things ready for him! he called back, trying to make his tone ignore Cyn- thias interference; and then, more sharp- ly, as the woman did not stir, Come on! She came on with long, cumbrous strides, overtaking the bearers just as they left the field. You-uns need nt call me, Abe Twiddy, she said, stepping into the foremans path and confronting him with a heavy, quivering face, you-uns need nt call me to come an nuss a man that married me to be took keer of, when his pore triflin heart was bound up in Cynthy Lence. I ye seed him stan an look at her acrost the rows. He would have took up with her soon or late, an now that she s spoke like she did to spite me, I make her a free gift of him, alive or dead. She turned on Cynthia, who had come forward, with her head raised and her eyes sparkling, as if to accept the gift. I Oh, I know what s kep you-uns from lookin at him or speak- in to him all the season, she cried, you - uns has been afeard o me; but now I take all these men an women t~ witness that you need nt be afeard o me no more. I m goin back to the bot- toms to harvest my wheat, an I make you-uns a free gift of him. Look at him, an see if hit dont do you proud to git what you been seekin fur so long. Tweedys eyes took fire. Go, he said, go, Mis Anderson, an dont bring yore black heart acrost my path agin. You - uns has been tired o yore bargain these months back, an now yore makin a girls quick speech the excuse for throwin off what you dont want onto her, an tryin to put a slur onto her at the same time. I know yore kind. You git mad, an then you make yore temper serve yore turn. Take yoreself ont o this field, but dont you let man, woman, or child hear you say that you gave yore husband to Cynthy Lence, or I 11 see to it that yore tongue s stiffened so you caint say it agin. I give you- uns, an all you-uns that s listenin, to 232 The Tinkling Simlins. onderstand that, alive or dead, Buck An- derson is lef with me. He started forward, leaving the wo- man glowering after him on the edge of the field. Some of the pickers stayed with her, talking in an eager group; the others followed more silently toward the barracks. Cynthia walked beside Twee- dy. I thank you - uns for closin her mouth, she said, but I want to take keer of Buck, jus the same. You caint, said Tweedy shortly. But I want to, the girl insisted. I I owe it to him, Mr. Twiddy. Tweedy had borne a great deal that day; the last shred of his patience was worn through, and his personal feeling was mingled in such an inextricable tan- gle with his duty that it seemed useless for him to try to tell what was the right thing to do, or to make a stand for doing it, even if he could decide. The girl was her own keeper, after all. You know what y& re askin, an what it means? he said. I know that I m askin to do the las thing that one human can do for anoth- er, Mr. Twiddy, Cynthia answered, looking at him as if she had suddenly grown older than he. You-uns knows that Buck Anderson aint goin to git well. Tweedy was too human and too sorely tried to rise to what she asked of him. We 11 take him to his room, an turn the widders things out of it, he said gruffly, an you-uns can do as you please about sittin thar an keepin watch. Thank you, Mr. Twiddy, the girl said, with a deference that was galling after she had made her point. When they reached the long, many- roomed shed known as the barracks, Tweedy turned upon his troop of curi- ous-eyed, pusj7ling, busy-tongued retain- ers, almost as if h& saw for the first time that they had left the field. We dont want no crowdin an gabbhin here, he said sharply. Me an Cyn- thy is all that s needed, an out yonder the berries are meltin on the vines. Go back to yore rows an work yore peartest till I come an give you the news. If the Widder Tate is hangin around, tell her to yoke up her oxen an git. She 11 find her plunderment lyin here outside the door. He and the men who were helping him laid Anderson down on a straw pallet, and then he started off to the well for water to keep up the cold drench- ing which had been his first thought in the field; the others went with the re- treating gang of pickers back to their work. As Cynthia watched them go, and waited for Tweedy to come back with his unfailing, practical water - buckets, she seemed bitterly unneeded. Ander- son might never return to consciousness; and even if he wakened, the mere ab- sence of his wife would be more than he had hoped for as a final grace. The murmuring of voices died away as the pickers ambled out of her hearing, but she knew that, freed from Tweedys pie- sence and her own, every tongue was un- bridled out there among the raspberries. In spite of Tweedys championship there would be no more escape from comment than from the heat that was glimmering everywhere, over the green fields and the dry ploughed ground, and far over the faint, quivering, shadowless hills. Even the few, like Tweedy, who would take her part against the others would be convinced that she had defied Ander- sons wife from love of Anderson; and as she stood there waiting, she went down into that place of regret and futile rebellion where generous natures some- times pay the price of their unselfishness, and the tears that start burning toward the eyelids freeze before they fall. Then Tweedy came hurrying from the well, and the fight for Andersons useless life began. The doctor came late and went quick- ly, leaving no encouragement behind him; and as all effort to revive Anderson grew into the conscientious formality with The Tinkling Simlins. 233 which the living strive to detain the dying, even when their engagement with death is inevitable, Tweedy, in his turn, began to feel useless in the room. The persistence with which Cynthia knelt beside the unconscious man compelled Tweedy to defer to her, and he left her frequently, to go out and supervise the field. In one of his absences Cynthia heard a stir outside, and, glancing up, saw the Widow Tate and a few compan- ions corning up the slope toward the bar- racks, trying to prod the inertia out of a pair of oxen who had been in pasture and were loath to change their way of life. Cynthia did not look again, but she was acutely conscious of every motion that was made and every word that was spoken while the oxen were yoked to a heavy lumber wagon, and the scanty and disor- dered furnishings outside the door were gathered up. A shadow darkened the doorway, and the girl knew that some one was standing there with arms akimbo, and looking at her. Other shadows came in silence; then there was a hoarse laugh, they all turned away, and Cynthia heard the widow clamber into her wagon and crack her whip like a man; the wagon-wheels began to creak, and finally to rattle, as the weight of the wagon urged the oxen into a rapid pace down- hill. Twilight fell at last like an absolution for the tortured spirit of the day. Even the voices of the pickers were hushed to a sort of peace, as they straggled in from work, and began to build little outdoor fires that sparkled brightly in front of the barracks, under the shadow of the trees. The women bent over the fires, cooking, and voice called to voice, asking or offering the commonplace services of life, but with unusual gentleness, as peo- ple speak when at any moment a guest may enter. Tweedy neither stayed long with Cynthia nor was long absent, but guarded her in every way and saw that she needed nothing. When twilight bad changed to night, and the little evening fires had all gone out, except here and there a coal that blinked like a red glow- worm in the dark, he stood beside her for a little while, looking down at her and at Anderson. The thought of himself had yielded utterly to a great compassion for the sad ending of their love. Anderson would die that night, and he could not bear that Cynthia should feel that even the kindest eyes were watching her, un- less she wished it, when the final renun- ciation came. Do you want me to stay with you ? he asked, after a time. If I dont stay, I 11 be right next door, an I 11 hear if you even tap on the wall. I thought per- haps you d ruther be alone. As the girl looked up at him, the lamp- light glistened upon teardrops in her eyes. Thank you, Mr. Twiddy, she answered, you-uns is mighty kind. I d ruther be alone. Tweedy hardly knew what he did. He stooped suddenly and kissed her fore- head. You pore child! he whispered, and left the room. During the long hours of the night Cyn- thia had the long years of her future for companionship. The white moon- light came in at the doorway, and crept toward Anderson, and finally retreated, fearing to intrude. Once or twice she heard Tweedy get up from his bed, and pace softly back and forth in his room, and with the knowledge that he was awake her longing for his companionship grew almost into a cry. Once she went to the door and looked out over the lone- ly raspberry field, where a thin white fog had settled under the moonlight; but the breath of it was cold, and she feared that Anderson might open his eyes and not find her, if his soul returned to ask for a farewell, before it went upon the way which it was seeking in the dark. A change had come over him even in the moment she was gone. He breathed in sharper and more infrequent gasps, and the lines of death had sunk deeper in his face. She bent above him, watch- 234 The Tinkling Simlins. ing with such intense sympathy that her own breathing seemed almost linked with his, as she waited for each throe, think- ing that each would be the last. But with the tenacity of feebleness his life fought on and on. At last, quite unex- pectedly to herself, Cynthia tapped upon the wall. Tweedy was with her in an in- stant; and when she reached out a trem- bling hand, he took it without a word, and they watched together while the gray light of morning gradually dispelled the moonlight, and on until full dawn, when Anderson died. Cynthia knelt beside him for a little while, but she did not need to close his eyes, for they had not opened to look at her. It was as if, at the moment when he turned away from her in the field, he had known that he had all it was right for him to claim, and his heart had been too full to ask for more. Tweedy stood apart and waited until she came to him. Then they went out- side. There was no stir yet about the barracks, for the overworn pickers were sleeping beyond their usual time. The sun had not risen, but its clearly drawn rays spread like a crown above the east- ern hills, and the sky was scintillant. Only the lower hills and the deep green valleys lay shadowless and still in the diffusion of brightness, like a childs fea- tures that are waiting solemnly for life to set its seal of character upon them. Tweedy broke the silence in a low voice. I spoke hard to you-uns yes- terday, more n once, Cynthy, he said, but I want you to forgit it all, if you can. I was only wantia to see you as happy as you had a chance to be; but now that I see how much deeper yore misry was than I reckoned, thar aint nothin but sorrow for you in my heart an love. The last word was spoken so gently, so much as an added tenderness, that it could not have pained or offended the deepest sorrow, yet Cynthia was startled by it. She looked at him curiously. You-uns does well to pity me, she said. I dont keer what all the others says an thinks, but I want you-uns to know the truth, cause you wont be on- charitable, even to Buck. I aint never loved him. It was him loved me. Tweedy passed his hand across his brow. You-uns did it all for a man you did nt love, lie exclaimed, you dared all them tongues? She nodded. I I owed it to him. Without knowin, I had led him on. Tweedy looked off over the hushed, expectant earth. My God, lie said softly, what would you do for the man you loved? The girls breath came in an unex- pected sob. Oh, Mr. Twiddy, she faltered, I might have to tell him so. He might nt know it for hissef. Tweedy turned. Her face was tremu- lous, but consecrated by the love which she had hidden for so long; and as their eyes met they forgot that there was any- thing but love in all the world. The glory brightened in the east, and the air stirred like an awakening along the fields. One after another the sleepy pickers came out of the barracks, saw the two figures below them on the hillside, and whis- pered back and forth with brightening eyes. At last Tweedy put her gently away from him. I had ought to go an call the gang, an tell them that pore Buck is gone.~~ Cynthia glanced over her shoulder and laughed as she saw the pickers bend- ing discreetly to kindle their morning fires. The simhins has been watchin, she said, an they 11 be tinkhin pearthy to.day. Do you keer? Tweedy shook his head. Before them sunshine and shadow flashed like a smile across the earth, as the sun rose over the distant hills. Mary Tracy Earle. The Commodore. 235 THE COMMODORE. I REMEMBER him as well as though I had seen him yesterday. There are some figures that memory does in sil- houette, and that of my grandfather is one, the lines all definite and clear, and standing out above the flotsam and jetsam of the human tide like some grand old figurehead. A tall man, a little stooped about the shoulders, with long, thin arms and legs which seemed to be without bones, so that he could tie them up and twist them about, and fling them out in a rattling old hornpipe, such as I have never seen performed by any one else, before or since. His ship, the Grampus, was a full- rigged man-of-war, with more stays and halyards in her rigging than there were threads in the piece of Honiton lace which my grandmother wore on her head. She lay at anchor, the ship, I mean, although the same might be said of my grandmother; for in proportion to my grandfathers love for a roving life was her aversion to going abroad. Well, as I said, she lay at anchor off the Navy Yard, over which the Commodore was in command. Every day of his life and he was an old man then lie went down to the dock, threw off his land togs, took a header into the water, and, with a splash and a yell, struck out with a bold stroke for his ship, a good two miles dis- tant. He rode the waves like a cork and climbed the rigging like a cat, scram- bling up the ships side, over the rail, and never drawing breath till he had put betwixt fingers aiid toes every blessed spar and rope, from stem to stern, focas- tle to inizzentop. Summer or winter, it was the same to him. My grandmother, who was a very aristocratic and proper personage, poor, dear lady, went to great pains to prepare a bathing-suit and bath-towel for these aquatic exploits. One fine day the whole Navy Yard was startled to behold Hard Tack, my grandfathers great Newfound- land dog, going from pillar to post in a full suit of bed-ticking trimmed with scar- let braid, and with a towel wound around his head like the turbaned Turk. Af- ter that, no lady could take her walk abroad until after the Commodore had completed his constitutional tub and donned his clothes. Nothing more characteristic than those clothes could be imagined. They seeai now to me very beautiful, but to my childish vision they were exceedingly queer, and something to be just a bit ashamed of. The finest and best qual- ity of broadcloth was used in the man- ufacture of the garments which made him the central figure of our little com- munity. Their color was the regula- tion navy blue. The trousers were bell- shaped, very wide at the ankles, and flapped when he walked, and they came up almost to his chin, under his waist- coat of yellow nankeen, with gilt but- tons. The coat had long, full skirts, with lapels in front, over which rolled a wide linen collar with a flaring black silk tie. His headgear was a cap of cloth, like his clothes, which bulged out all around, and had a visor of patent lea- ther. This came down well over his nose, which was Roman, and quite on a par with his chin as to firmness. The finishing touches to his attire were pa- tent - leather pumps and a white silk handkerchief the size of a sail. These, and a fresh shave every morning, with a plentiful sprinkling of bay rum, made up the sum total of his extravagances. But I must not forget the carnations which all the year round he wore in his buttonhole, and which vied in color with the rosiness of his cheeks. His eyes had the greenish gray-blue of

Justine Ingersoll Ingersoll, Justine The Commodore 235-244

The Commodore. 235 THE COMMODORE. I REMEMBER him as well as though I had seen him yesterday. There are some figures that memory does in sil- houette, and that of my grandfather is one, the lines all definite and clear, and standing out above the flotsam and jetsam of the human tide like some grand old figurehead. A tall man, a little stooped about the shoulders, with long, thin arms and legs which seemed to be without bones, so that he could tie them up and twist them about, and fling them out in a rattling old hornpipe, such as I have never seen performed by any one else, before or since. His ship, the Grampus, was a full- rigged man-of-war, with more stays and halyards in her rigging than there were threads in the piece of Honiton lace which my grandmother wore on her head. She lay at anchor, the ship, I mean, although the same might be said of my grandmother; for in proportion to my grandfathers love for a roving life was her aversion to going abroad. Well, as I said, she lay at anchor off the Navy Yard, over which the Commodore was in command. Every day of his life and he was an old man then lie went down to the dock, threw off his land togs, took a header into the water, and, with a splash and a yell, struck out with a bold stroke for his ship, a good two miles dis- tant. He rode the waves like a cork and climbed the rigging like a cat, scram- bling up the ships side, over the rail, and never drawing breath till he had put betwixt fingers aiid toes every blessed spar and rope, from stem to stern, focas- tle to inizzentop. Summer or winter, it was the same to him. My grandmother, who was a very aristocratic and proper personage, poor, dear lady, went to great pains to prepare a bathing-suit and bath-towel for these aquatic exploits. One fine day the whole Navy Yard was startled to behold Hard Tack, my grandfathers great Newfound- land dog, going from pillar to post in a full suit of bed-ticking trimmed with scar- let braid, and with a towel wound around his head like the turbaned Turk. Af- ter that, no lady could take her walk abroad until after the Commodore had completed his constitutional tub and donned his clothes. Nothing more characteristic than those clothes could be imagined. They seeai now to me very beautiful, but to my childish vision they were exceedingly queer, and something to be just a bit ashamed of. The finest and best qual- ity of broadcloth was used in the man- ufacture of the garments which made him the central figure of our little com- munity. Their color was the regula- tion navy blue. The trousers were bell- shaped, very wide at the ankles, and flapped when he walked, and they came up almost to his chin, under his waist- coat of yellow nankeen, with gilt but- tons. The coat had long, full skirts, with lapels in front, over which rolled a wide linen collar with a flaring black silk tie. His headgear was a cap of cloth, like his clothes, which bulged out all around, and had a visor of patent lea- ther. This came down well over his nose, which was Roman, and quite on a par with his chin as to firmness. The finishing touches to his attire were pa- tent - leather pumps and a white silk handkerchief the size of a sail. These, and a fresh shave every morning, with a plentiful sprinkling of bay rum, made up the sum total of his extravagances. But I must not forget the carnations which all the year round he wore in his buttonhole, and which vied in color with the rosiness of his cheeks. His eyes had the greenish gray-blue of 236 The Commodore. the sea, and his hair on either temple was soft and white as the crest of a wave. He carried under his arm a brass spyglass, which he delighted in leveling upon certain ladies who on sunny afternoons took coy promenades, under funny little parasols, on the parade-ground. He had one habit which my grandmother had tried in vain to break. This was to whittle. Wherever he went he carried an old black clasp-knife and a piece of pine wood. Clothes-pins were his predi- lection, and he could be tracked all over the Navy Yard, from one end to the other, by a trail of shavings; and as he whittled he hummed in a monotonous voice, which seemed to start somewhere under his cap and come down through his nose, The Girl I left behind Me. This was his favorite tune; I do not think he ever knew any other, and he could never quite master that, but after a few bars would run foul of Days of Absence, and get beached on Oft in the Stilly Night, two exhilarating ditties much af- fected by my grandmother. At this he would pull up taut, with a pucker and a long breath, back water, and go at it afresh, until he had launched his original theme successfully on waters which were not always confluent. Everybody loved the Commodore, but I think the two human beings who were perhaps the most reckless in their admi- ration were myself and a wretched old hulk of a creature, whom my grand- father, for reasons best known to him- self, called Shuttlecock. No one knew him by any other name, and no one knew where he hailed from, except that the Commodore had picked him up some- where during the war of 1812, and brought him home with him, that is to say, as much as was left of the poor fel- low after the battle of Lake Erie. Not only did my grandfather give to this remnant of humanity a living, but he bestowed upon him in addition a wooden leg, a glass eye, an ear-trumpet, and a piece of white plaster to cover the place where his nose had been. For alas! Shuttlecocks nose had been blown off on the field of battle. His winter quarters were in a small, square house, built of stone, with neither doors nor windows. It had a chimney on top and an iron scuttle, and it was a blood-curdling sight to see old Shuttlecock, with a rope lad- der twisted about his waist, crawling, in the dusk of winter, like a huge limpet over the gray walls, to drop mysterious- ly down through the roof. This rude dwelling was set where the beach was bleak and the waves rolled high. But when summer set in be betook himself to a fishing - cabin, which was simply a small one - roomed hut set on a raft, which my grandfather had brought up from Chesapeake Bay, and which, by his orders, had been anchored under the protection of the lee shore. Here old Shuttlecock fished, smoked his pipe, and sat and stewed in the hot sun from its rising to its setting. A more harm- less, happy soul than he never breathed. My grandfather knew this, and I knew it too, and it little mattered to old Shut- tlecock that he was an object of aversion and terror to everybody else for miles around, my grandmother included, who invariably explained him as a pensioner of her husbands. This made the Com- modore angry, and he would hasten to correct the impression of patronage which her term implied. Crony, sir, Shuttlecock is my crony, sir, I beg you to understand; and if it is a question of pensioner, then the term should be ap- plied to me, and not to him. No one ever knew what the service rendered my grandfather had been, but, whatever its nature, it had bound the two men to- gether with bonds which no worldly con- sideration could break. Mrs. Catherine Cull had been my mothers nurse, and now was mine. Every Saturday afternoon, when the weather allowed, my grandfather would take her and me, and Hard Tack the dog, and Plum Duff the tiger cat, and The Commodore. 23T a large white canvas bag in which he had put baccy and grog and fruit and all sorts of goodies. Then we would be tumbled into a rowboat, and the Coin- inodore would pull us across the bay to Shuttlecocks cabin. Such ecstatic afternoons! The light in the old fel- lows one eye, when he turned it on my grandfather, seemed to illuminate all the place. We made lemonade in a conch shell, and we ate strawberries out of lit- tle black and blue mussel shells, and we had bread and butter spread by Nurse Cull with the Commodores knife when he was not whittling, and he and old Shuttlecock would drink their grog and spin their yarns, the wooden leg bobbing up and down the little cabin with a gentle hospitality which I have missed in many a grander host since then. Plum Duff on my grandfathers knee, and Hard Tack at his feet, looked on with superior approval. My grandfather loved animals. I was a little shaver in long clothes when he came home from his three years cruise along the African coast and through the Indian Ocean. But Nurse Cull would tell me how, when his lady went down to the dock to meet the Commodore, after their long separation, she was scan- dalized to behold a flaming macaw flap- ping its gaudy wings on top of his head, an ape perched on his shoulder, and in his arms a huge tiger cat, the subse- quent Plum Duff. He had made the ships gig which conveyed him to the shore a veritable Noahs ark. Now, as my grandmother could not abide ani- mals, the sight did not add to the rap- ture of her welcome. What she would have done had she been aware that a ring-tailed lemur was sound asleep in his roomy coat-tail pocket, I do not dare to think. Matters went from bad to worse, till one day a baby basket, an elaborate affair with its quilted lining of rose- colored silk and lace and ribbon bows, which had been prepared against an ex- pected event, disappeared. Not a trace could be found of it, until some days later it leaked out, after the arrival of my little sister, that my grandfather had appropriated the basket for Plum Duff. That, certainly, was bad enough, but wait until you hear what happened to the baby herself. Like the basket, she too disappeared, one fine day. She was just two months to a day when this occurred, and she came very near never being a day older. Nurse Cull, as was her cus- tom, had left the little creature sound asleep under the mosquito-netting of her bassinet, after first preparing for her a decoction greatly in vogue at that time for babies. It was a wad made of bread and milk and brown sugar rubbed to- gether and tied up in white cambric. Babies whose mouths closed upon this detestable mess were supposed to go to sleep without a whimper. The afternoon was hot and drowsy. Nurse Cull, I f an- cy, must have dropped off herself, in the next room, for she asserted, on the honor of an honest woman, that she heard no sound from the nursery, but that, at five oclock, when she put down her sewing to take the baby up, she found the cradle empty. Then there was a hue and cry, not only up the street, but down the street. The man in the sentry-box, the marines on dress parade, the men in the brass band, everybody, men, women, and children, in the Yard, turned out in the hunt. My poor mother grew wild- eyed and wan as she went here, there, and everywhere, to return to the emp- ty cradle. Her white face must have scared even my grandfather, when he came home from a long afternoon down the bay. What is it, Polly, my girl? he said. My mother could only wail out, My baby, oh, my baby! I did not tell you, I think, that on land the Commodore was one of the most absent-minded of men. But at sea no one ever caught him napping. A sud- den rush of recollection at the sight of my mother sent the blood from his face, 238 The Commodore. until it was as white as her own. He jerked the timepiece from his fob pocket. It lacked fifteen minutes to the sunset gun. We all thought he had gone stark, staring mad when he ran down the stairs, three at a time, and out at the door, no hat on his head, his hair streaming, and tore down the road like one possessed. The men in the ships boat which had fetched him ashore were well on their way hack, but his whistle, loud and shrill, brought them to with a vengeance, and in a jiffy he had leaped into the stern sheets and was commanding the men to pull as they had never pulled hefore. A twenty-dollar gold piece to every Jack Tar of you, if you get me within speak- ing distance of the ship before that shaking his fist in the face of the great dog-day sun which was fast sliding into the water goes down! His voice, ringing out like a trumpet, was the only sound except that of the oars in the rowlocks. No one, not even my mother, knew exactly what terrible thing was impending, but every one surmised that it must have something to do with the missing baby. Under the sharp, strong strokes of the sailors the boat slid over the glassy sea as fast as a fish could swim. The Commodores eyes glared at the great red ball rolling down toward the waters edge as though he would fix it stock-still in the sky. We on the dock could see the gun- ner come on the ships deck, his figure standing out black and grim against the crimson west. Clinging to my mothers hand, which trembled in mine, I looked back to the house to see that my grand- mother stood in her open window, very pale and more proud than ever. I think she was the only one who knew that my grandfather was at the bottom of this ex- citement, as indeed he was of everything that ever caused a stir in our quiet lives. Nurse Cull caught the glass, which my mother had no strength to hold, and, looking through it, saw that the gunner carried his iron rammer, bag of powder, and wad of cotton, it being before the days of the percussion cap. The sun grew redder and bigger as it neared the heaving water-line. There was not the length of an oar between sea and sun when we could see my grandfather spring to his feet in the hoat and roar something at the men who were pulling for dear life. The tone was so terrible that we could hear it even on shore. The sail- ors bent their hacks till their noses were flattened on their knees and the ribbons on their caps stood out straight behind. And then, with a pull that lifted the boat clean out of the water, with a tre- mendous spurt, they brought it well up to the ships side. Again did the Com- modore thunder out something in that awful tone, this time to the man who was about to ram the charge into the black belly of the cannon, so that he let everything fall upon the deck. The great red disk of the sun was now draw- ing itself under the waves. But before it had quite disappeared my grandfather had cleared the bulwarks of the Gram- pus and snatched from the black mouth of the gun a something long and white and fluttering, something which at a distance looked like a bolster-case, but which caused my poor mother to faint dead away. A great crowd bad gathered on the dock by this time, and oh, what a shout they sent up! The baby! the baby! the baby is saved! Hurrah for the baby! With a three times three and a tiger for the baby! This brought my mother to, and I remember how she laughed and cried and kissed me, and how all the women had their handkerchiefs out, and the men, too, as many as had them. Then across the water came the great boom of the sunset gun, for the first time in its history just one minute after the sun had dipped below the horizon. This was the signal for the sky to un- furl itself like a rose, and, blown by some invisible wind, to disperse in little clouds, which floated rosy and pink in The Commodore. 239 the golden twilight. So that, in my child- ish fancy, quickened by Hans Andersen, I thought the good angels were scatter- ing rose leaves upon the boat which was bringing my little sister back to us. She lay in my grandfathers arms, with her long white dress floating out in the breeze, and his cheek pressed against hers. Then, as the boat came dancing over the waves, the marine band struck up the Commo- dores favorite tune, The Girl I left be- hind Me, and to its spirited measures and amid general rejoicing he landed his precious cargo. After this little pleasantry on my grand- fathers part, he did own up to the babys abduction, but he would never acknow- ledge having forgotten her in the can- nons belly. He said that it was only a joke to shake us up out of our dumps and doldrums. But for all that he was very meek and well behaved up to the day of the babys christening, and then he took umbrage at both my grandmother and my mother because they objected when he, as sponsor, sprang the name Gram- pussina upon my sisters unoffending head. Fortunately, the clergyman was deaf, and this gave my mother a chance to set matters straight. Having most effectually put both the women in the east by noreast, as he expressed it, the Commodore went off in high dudgeon for a weeks visit in New York. The relations between my mater- nal grandparents were most certainly strained. I doubt if my grandmother s& id good-by to her husband, when he started out for New York, a consider- able journey in those days. Young as I was, I marveled at this, because over and over again I had heard my ~mother tell what a romantic love-match theirs had been, and how the fashionable world of Baltimore was up in arms when the beautiful young heiress, Cornelia Mac- Tavish Dulaney Hopkins, stole away from her fathers house, in the dead of night, with a flowered bandbox and a dashing young officer, who had risen by bravery from ships cabin boy to lieu- tenant. I have told you what an aristo- cratic name was my grandmothers, but my grandfather, who had no use for the grandiloquent, always called her Polly Hopkins. Well, he did not stop out his week in New York, but came back after the third day. It was in the afternoon of a scorching day in September, not a breath on land or sea. My grandmother and I and the baby were sitting under the shade of a great butternut tree which grew on the lawn in front of the Com- modores house. At the sight of my grandfather coming up the pebbled walk with its high box border, my mother, dear soul, whose heart was too gentle to harbor a grudge, gave a little cry of joy, and ran to meet him, and to receive on her sweet face a sounding smack. But my grandmother, who thought kissing vulgar, turned away her cheek, so that the salutation meant for her fell on empty air. For all that, however, I think that in her heart she was as glad to have him home as we were, although she did ask him in an icy tone if he had brought any pets in the form of orang- outangs, elephants, boa constrictors, or lions from the menagerie of a certain Mr. Barnum, who at that time was causing the wonders of his show to burst upon the metropolis. Meanwhile I was busying myself with the spyglass, my grandfather lying on the grass with Grampussina lie insisted upon calling her that with- out benefit of clergy crawling all over him. Hello!~ I cried, after scanning the offing. Something in my tone made my grand- father ask, What s up, hub? A flag, sir, said I. Where? On old Shuttlecocks fishing-cabin. Well, exclaimed my grandmother, I declare, the airs of that good-for-no- thing old pauper, setting up his colors as if he were the Lord High Admiral! 240 The Commodore, It s a funny-looking flag, said I, ignoring this interpolation, with my eyes screwed up to the glass. It hangs all limp, but I can see its color, and it s bright yellow. This brought my grandfather up with a bound. He reached for the glass, and clapped it to his eyes. By Beelzebubs buttons, you re right, boy! It s the yellow jack, and old Shut- tlecock s down with some infernal, dev- ilish, damned disease. And, jumping to his feet, I m going to him. This was a bombshell. My grandmo- ther expostulated, my mother wept, and I put my nose up in the air and howled. All to no avail. Go he must, go lie would, and go he did. We all rose and followed him into the house to the medicine closet, to help him pack the old canvas bag with such remedies as he selected from its shelves. In addition to these there was a large bottle of brandy, one of cherry bounce, a roll of red flannel, and a box of mustard. Hanging on the wall was an old-fashioned warming-pan of polished brass. My grandfather started off with this over his shoulder. But when my grandmother beheld him thus equipped, she declared he was insulting the family pride of the Dulaneys, and that her grand- mothers heirloom should not be dese- crated. Under ordinary conditions this would have thrown the Commodore into a towering rage, but now he only sighed, Put the warming-pan back on the wall, and stood on the threshold of the door, gazing with a long, wistful look at my grandmother. But she went on fanning herself, and made no sign. So he turned and left the room. My mother and I accompanied him down to the dock; he, on the way, giv- ing us careful directions for the feed- ing of Hard Tack and Plum Duff, who both followed him to the waters edge. There were little knots of sailors and marines huddled together on the planks, speaking with horror of that yellow rag hanging limp in the humid air. There were whispers of yellow fever, Asiatic cholera, and, dreadest of all, lep- rosy. The men were all scared to death. My grandfather knew this, and when the boat was lowered, and two stalwart fellows with blanched faces stepped for- ward to take their places at the oars, he ordered them back. I am going alone, he said in a firm, low voice. He kissed my mother and me a long good- by. Bear up, my girl, he whispered. It s only my duty I m doing, and I should do for old Shuttlecock what he has done for me. If I never come back, take good care of your mother. And then he stooped and stroked the backs of his two faithful comrades, the cat and the dog. We watched him, through our tears, setting out alone on that awful errand. Under the hot sun the sea lay dead as pulp. At each scoop of the oars might be seen on either side of the boat a yeasty streak, which gleamed livid for a second, like the belly of some skulking shark before it slunk away beneath the waveless waters. The unspeakable depression which hung over the landscape was no match for that which had settled upon the house when we returned to it. We passed from room to room, each one more empty than the others, with the vital presence gone, perhaps forever. On the table in the hall lay the copy of Robinson Crusoe and the wax doll he had brought my sister and me from New York, together with a hamper of fruit from Fulton Market for my mother and grandmother. I choked at the sight. Then we went up to my grandmothers room. The door was shut and the key turned from the inside. In answer to my mothers voice she explained that she had gone to bed with a headache from the excessive heat; would my mother preside for her over the tea-table ? I held back my sobs till the yretched meal was over; but once alone in my lit- tle room, I flung myself down in a wild fLhe Commodore. 241 passion of tears, such as only childhood knows. Then I undressed and crept into bed, to dream that a great hero was being buried. The marine band was playing the Dead March in Saul, I thought, and all the soldiers were march- ing with arms reversed, and the marines had crape bands on their arms, and the barracks were hung with long black streamers. So were Plum Duff and Hard Tack. The drums were muffled, and the flags were flying at half - mast, and the minute guns were booming, and in the distance I could hear the church chimes in the city ringing out across the water Adeste Fideles. Then, amid the tumult, there fell upon my ears a sound I had never heard before: my grand- mother was crying to break her heart. I awoke from my dream to hear the night-watch shouting, Twelve oclock, and all s well ! The moonlight flooded my room, and there, leaning over my bed, was the last person in the world whom I should have ever expected to find there, my grandmother! I raised myself o,n my elbows and rubbed my eyes to make sure that I was not still dreaming. But no; there she was, her face all wet with tears. She had thrown a black lace veil over her head, across her arms she had a white camels hair shawl, and in her hand she held nothing more nor less than the warming-pan of my great - great - grandmother Dulaney. I gaped at her, too astonished for words. Frank, she said in a broken voice, would you mind getting up and dress- ing, and going down with me to the dock? I could not have been more dumfounded had my grandmother then and there proposed our mounting the warming-pan and flying up to the moon. I am sorry to disturb you, child, but I thought it might create comment if I were seen going across the yard so late at night, by myself. Now, the sheer idea of my grandmo- ther walking across the parade-ground at the dead of night, with no other pro- VOL. LXXXII. NO. 490. 16 tector than the family warming - pan, struck me as so preposterous that I al- most laughed aloud. But I was soon in my clothes, and we started off on our noc- turnal expedition. As my grandmother felt the warm, sweet-scented night on her cheek, she drew a long breath. I think, too, she softly sighed. I won- dered if she thought of that other night, so many years ago, of which I had heard my mother tell. Frank, she asked, as we hurried across the empty parade-ground, have you any idea what I am going to do? Not the dimmest, grandmother, re- plied I stoutly, which was a deliberate lie. Well, my child, I will tell you: I am going to carry this over to your grand- father. In her agitation she brought the warming - pan down with a clang upon the paving- stones. It rang out like the tocsin of war, and I thought that we should surely have the whole barracks tumbling out about us. As it was, we startled the sentinel; but I was ready for him with the password, and he let us go unchallenged. Fortunately for us, the streets were deserted. As we neared the dock, my grandmother again spoke. I am wondering, child, said she, how we are to find a boat, at this late ~hour. I would have ordered one earlier in the day, but, with a slight hesitancy, I only resolved to do this half an hour ago. Actually, she was proceeding on the impulse of the moment! Dont you worry about the boat, grandmother, I answered. I have a beauty of my own. Grandad gave it to me on my last birthday, when I was ten years old. I have the key of the boat- house in my pocket. See! I cried, hold- ing it up in the moonlight. Then, after a few minutes, a more serious question arose. Frank, said my grandmother, do you think there will be any one on the dock to row me over? I am a litt~ 242 The Commodore. nervous in trusting myself to a strange man whose habits I do not know. You leave that to me, grandmother, I called out to her over my shoulder, for I was now preceding her upon the dock. I know a fellow who will go with you, and his habits are all right. This seemed to reassure her, and with- out more ado I brought the boat around, and helped her down the steps and into the stern. She gave herself up to the novelty of the situation, having, how- ever, before she embarked, drawn on a very fine pair of lavender kid gloves. No lady, born and bred, could think of going abroad with bare hands. I took the oars, and, righting the boat, got clear of the small craft bobbing up and down about the dock. And now, Frank, she asked, peer- ing about in the moonlight, and resting her gloved hands on the gunwale of the boat, where is the man you promised you would get to row me? I pulled steadily ahead for several lengths before I answered, smiling up at her as I leaned on my oars, Here he is, grandmother. The kid gloves became deprecatory. Oh, Frank, Frank, you have de- ceived me! she cried. You said you would get me a man. No, grandmother, I beg your par- don, I did not. I said a fellow. I said, I know a fellow, and he will go with you, and he has no bad habits, which is true, is nt it? I kept on rowing and talking with an audacious persistency which was too much for the. lady in the stern. But I cannot allow you to run into such danger, child. You must let me out. She said this with a sudden re- turn to her old air of authority. You must stop the boat and let me out this instant, I insist upon it! But you will drown if I let you out here, unless you can use the warming- pan as a life-preserver. It is ridiculous, she gasped, a baby like you riding over his grand- mother in this way. What will your grandfather say. I do not know what he will say, but I do know what he would do, if I did not go with you. But your strength will give out, child, before we get halfway over, she urged in a mollified tone. Then we can rig up a mast and sail out of your shawl and the warming-pan, and trust to them to carry us over! This was too much for her, and she sank back resignedly on her cushions, conquered as much by the beauty of the night as by me; for the night was beautiful beyond words. The great har- vest moon was overhead, and beneath its light the sea lay in a golden lan- guor. Under the spell of its enchant- ment, youth knew the wisdom of age without its weariness, and age knew the freshness of youth without its folly. It made my grandmother young, and me old, so that, rocked on that golden tide, the hearts of the woman and child became one. For the first time in my life I loved my grandmother. All the grief and despair of the day had van- ished; I was ecstatically happy, and so, I think, was she. It mattered little to either of us that the burnished pathway over which we were passing led up to the house of death, for we both knew that that which was dearer than life awaited us there. It was the unreal which held sway. I was a very young child to learn, as I did that night, that it is by the unreal that the soul is en- couraged, and that he who would en- dure must be a dreamer. How young you look, dear grand- mamma, I said, resting on my oars and letting the boat drift, and how heauti- ful, just like the ivory miniature which grandad wears about his neck! How odd, child! she answered. I was just about to tell you how old you seem to have grown, quite like a man, since we started out together. The Commodore. 243 Her face was tender in the golden light, and she trailed one hand, the gloves having been removed, in the wa- ter, as a girl would have done. Do I look like that picture? she sighed. I feel to-night just as I did when I had it painted to give your grand- father. That was a long time ago. I was only eighteen.~~ When she spoke again, it was to echo my own thoughts. I have been thinking, child, she said, that your grandfather will not be at all surprised to see us. Everything to-night seems so natural to me, and just as it should be. And so, I am sure yes, very sure that when he sees us he will say that it is just what he thought we would do. I have no right to expect that he should think this of me, she continued sadly, but I believe he knew all the time that I would come. We were now quite close to old Shut- tlecocks cabin. A red lantern swung under the yellow jack, which hung black in the shadow. My grandfather must have seen us a long way off, for he stood on the rafts edge, as if waiting for us. But there was no surprise on his face, only a great happiness. His eyes were riveted on my grandmother. After a little space of silence, she was the first to speak. Did you think I would come, dear? she asked. Yes, Polly, he replied, I was sure of it. Why? she asked, and lowered her eyes. Because you love me, said my grandfather. No, she answered, that was not the reason.~~ Then, for Gods sake, what was it? he cried, catching his breath. Because you love me, she said, lift- ing her eyes, and reaching out her arms for him to take her from the boat. But at this my grandfather drew back, and broke out in vehement self-denuncia tions. He had been weak and coward- ly to allow us to approach so near this awful danger, and then he drew the most harrowing and alarming pictures as to what the consequences would be if we stayed a moment longer in that pestilential place. Old Shuttlecock, it appeared, had been discovered by the Board of Health in a seemingly critical condition, and they had diagnosed the case as Asiatic chol- era, and taken themselves off in great alarm. That is more than I shall do, de- clared my grandmother from the boat. I have come to share the danger with you.~~ But are you not afraid? said he. I am afraid of nothing where you are, she replied. Not even death? he asked. No, said she, again reaching out her arms to him. Then bring the boat alongside, hub. I did so, and he caught my grand- mother in his arms, and kissed her for dear life, I too coming in for my share. For at least five minutes my grandmo- ther and I tasted all the joy of our beau- tiful act of seif-abuegation, and during that time my grandfather made himself sure of something that many times in his life he had had to doubt. Now, both by word and by look, my grandmother gave him the assurance of her affection. And now, he said at last, now it is my turn to make a confession. Old Shuttlecock is no more down with AsP atic cholera than I am. The Board of Health is all a lot of jackasses, who dont know when a man has had too much watermelo~n. At this turn of affairs, which was truly a let-down for everybody but old Shuttlecock himself, who was blissfully sleeping off the effects of cherry bounce, my grandmother began to grow hysteri- cal. Come, said the Commodore, it is getting late; we must go home. I am 244 Reminiscences of an Astronomer. going back with you. But what in thun- der is this? For in jumping into the boat he had landed plump on the warm- ing-pan, which in the excitement of the moment had been forgotten. By all that s sacred, it s the warming-pan of the Dulaneys! Polly, he asked, pin- ning the camels hair shawl about her shoulders, tell me one thing more: did you bring that, with a look at the warm- ing-pan, to me? But my grandmother evaded his ques- tion. After I was safe and sound in my own little bed my grandfather came into my room. Bub, said he, you re a brick; I am proud of you. But tell me one thing: what was your grandmother doing out on the high seas with her warming- 2 pan. She was fetching it to you, sir, I said. On your word of honor, bub? Yes, on my word of honor, I re~ joined. Well, women beat the Dutch! he exclaimed. Good-night, my boy. Justine Ingersoll. REMINISCENCES OF AN ASTRONOMER. I. I MADE my first trip abroad when the oldest transatlantic line was still the fash- ionable one; and when the passenger felt himself amply compensated for poor attendance, coarse food, and bad coffee by learning from the officers on the pro- menade deck how far the ships of the Cunard line were superior to all others in strength of hull, ability of captain, and discipline of crew. One day a ship of the North German Lloyd line was seen in the offing slowly gaining on us. A passenger called the captains atten- tion to the fact that we were being left behind. Oh, they re very lightly built, them German ships; built to car- ry German dolls and such like cargo. Needless to say, the speaker was not Sir James Anderson, who won knighthood by the part he took in laying the Atlan- tic cable, but he was as perfect a type of the old-fashioned captain of the best class as I ever saw. His face looked as if the gentlest zephyr that had ever fanned it was an Atlantic hurricane, and yet beamed with Hibernian good humor and friendliness. He read prayers so well on Sunday that a passenger assured him he was born to he a bishop. Only those readers who never sailed with Cap- tain McMickan will need to be told his name. In London one of the first men we met was Thomas Hughes, of Rugby fame, who made us feel how worthy he was of the love and esteem bestowed upon him by Americans. He was able to make our visit pleasant in more ways than one. Among the men I wanted to see was Mr. John Stuart Mill, to whom I was attract- ed not only by his fame as a philosopher and the interest with which I had read his books, hut also because he was the author of an excellent pamphlet on the Union side during our civil war. On expressing my desire to make Mr. Mills acquaintance Mr. Hughes imme- diately offered to give mc a note of in- troduction. Mill lived at Blackheath, which, although in an easterly direction down the Thames, is one of the prettiest suburbs of the great metropolis. His dwelling was a very modest one, entered through a passage of trellis-work in a little garden. He was by no means the grave and distinguished-looking man I

Simon Newcomb Newcomb, Simon Reminiscences of an Astronomer 244-253

244 Reminiscences of an Astronomer. going back with you. But what in thun- der is this? For in jumping into the boat he had landed plump on the warm- ing-pan, which in the excitement of the moment had been forgotten. By all that s sacred, it s the warming-pan of the Dulaneys! Polly, he asked, pin- ning the camels hair shawl about her shoulders, tell me one thing more: did you bring that, with a look at the warm- ing-pan, to me? But my grandmother evaded his ques- tion. After I was safe and sound in my own little bed my grandfather came into my room. Bub, said he, you re a brick; I am proud of you. But tell me one thing: what was your grandmother doing out on the high seas with her warming- 2 pan. She was fetching it to you, sir, I said. On your word of honor, bub? Yes, on my word of honor, I re~ joined. Well, women beat the Dutch! he exclaimed. Good-night, my boy. Justine Ingersoll. REMINISCENCES OF AN ASTRONOMER. I. I MADE my first trip abroad when the oldest transatlantic line was still the fash- ionable one; and when the passenger felt himself amply compensated for poor attendance, coarse food, and bad coffee by learning from the officers on the pro- menade deck how far the ships of the Cunard line were superior to all others in strength of hull, ability of captain, and discipline of crew. One day a ship of the North German Lloyd line was seen in the offing slowly gaining on us. A passenger called the captains atten- tion to the fact that we were being left behind. Oh, they re very lightly built, them German ships; built to car- ry German dolls and such like cargo. Needless to say, the speaker was not Sir James Anderson, who won knighthood by the part he took in laying the Atlan- tic cable, but he was as perfect a type of the old-fashioned captain of the best class as I ever saw. His face looked as if the gentlest zephyr that had ever fanned it was an Atlantic hurricane, and yet beamed with Hibernian good humor and friendliness. He read prayers so well on Sunday that a passenger assured him he was born to he a bishop. Only those readers who never sailed with Cap- tain McMickan will need to be told his name. In London one of the first men we met was Thomas Hughes, of Rugby fame, who made us feel how worthy he was of the love and esteem bestowed upon him by Americans. He was able to make our visit pleasant in more ways than one. Among the men I wanted to see was Mr. John Stuart Mill, to whom I was attract- ed not only by his fame as a philosopher and the interest with which I had read his books, hut also because he was the author of an excellent pamphlet on the Union side during our civil war. On expressing my desire to make Mr. Mills acquaintance Mr. Hughes imme- diately offered to give mc a note of in- troduction. Mill lived at Blackheath, which, although in an easterly direction down the Thames, is one of the prettiest suburbs of the great metropolis. His dwelling was a very modest one, entered through a passage of trellis-work in a little garden. He was by no means the grave and distinguished-looking man I Reminiscences of an Astronomer. 245 had expected to see. He was small in stature and rather spare, and did not seem to have markedly intellectual fea- tures. The cordiality of his greeting was more than I could have expected; and he was much pleased to know that his work in moulding English sentiment in our favor at the commencement of the civil war was so well remembered and so highly appreciated across the Atlantic. As a philosopher, it must be conceded that Mr. Mill lived at an unfortunate time. While his vigor and independ- ence of thought led him to break loose from the trammels of the traditional phi- losophy, modern scientific generalization had not yet reached a stage favorable to his becoming a leader in developing the new philosophy. Still, whatever may be the merits of his philosophic theories, it must be conceded that no work on scien- tific method has yet appeared worthy to displace his System of Logic. A feature of London life that must strongly impress the scientific student from our country is the closeness of touch, socially as well as officially, be- tween the literary and scientific classes on the one side and the governing classes on the other. Mr. Hughes invited us to make an evening call with him at the house of a cabinet minister, I think it was Mr. Goschen, where we should find a number of persons worth seeing. Among those gathered in this casual way were Mr. Gladstone, Dean Stanley, and our General Burnside, then grown quite gray. I had never before met General Burnside, but his published portraits were so characteristic that the man could scarcely have been mistaken. The only change was in the color of his beard. Then and later I found that a pleasant feature of these informal at homes, so universal in London, is that one meets so many people he wants to see, and so few he does not want to see. Ostensibly, the principal object of my journey was the observation of a total eclipse of the sun which was to be visi ble in the Mediterranean, in December, 1870. Of another vastly more important object I shall speak subsequently. In view of the interest then attaching 1~o to- tal eclipses of the sun, Congress had made a very liberal appropriation for observa- tions, to be expended under the direc- tion of Professor Peirce, superintendent of the Coast Survey. Peirce went over in person to take charge of the arrange- ments. He arrived in London with sev- eral members of his party a few days before we did, and about the same time came an independent party of my fel- low astronomers from the Naval Obser- vatory, consisting of Professors Hall, Harkness, and Eastman. The invasion of their country by such an army of American astronomers quite stirred up our English colleagues, who sorrowfully contrasted the liberality of our govern- ment with the parsimony of their own, which had, they said, declined to make any provision for the observations of the eclipse. Considering that it was visible on their own side of the Atlantic, they thought their government might take a lesson from ours. Of course we could not help them directly; and yet I sus- pect that our coming, or at least the com- ing of Peirce, really did help them a great deal. At any rate, it was a curi- ous coincidence that no sooner did the American invasion occur than it was semi-officially discovered that no applica- tion of which her Majestys government could take cognizance had been made by the scientific authorities for a grant of money with which to make preparations for observing the eclipse. That the sci- entific authorities were not long in catch- ing so broad a hint as this goes without saying. A little more of the story came out a few days later in a very unexpect- ed way. In scientific England, the great social event of the year is the annual banquet of the Royal Society, held on St. An- drews day, the date of the annual meet- ing of the society, and of the award of 246 its medals for distinguished work in sci- ence. At the banquet, the scientific out- look is discussed not only by members of the society, but by men high in polit- ical and social life. The medalists are toasted, if they are present; and their praises are sung, if, as is apt to be the case with foreigners, they are absent. First in rank is the Copley medal, found- ed by Sir Godfrey Copley, a contempo- rary of Newton. This medal has been awarded annually since 1731, and is now considered the highest honor that scien- tific England has to bestow. The recip- ient is selected with entire impartiality as to country, not for any special work published during the year, but in view of the general merit of all that he has done. Four times in its history the medal has crossed the Atlantic. The first three among us to receive it were Franklin in 1753, Agassiz in 1861, and Dana in 1877.1 The long time that elapsed between the first and the second of these awards affords an illustration of the backwardness of scientific research in America during the greater part of the first century of our independence. The year of my visit the medal was awarded to Mr. Joule, the English physi- cist, for his work on the relation of heat and energy. I was a guest at the banquet, which was the most brilliant function I had witnessed up to that time. The leaders in English science and learning sat around the table. Her Majestys gov- ernment was represented by Mr. Glad- stone, the Premier, and Mr. Lowe, af- terward Viscount Sherbrookc, Chancel- lor of the Exchequer. Both replied to toasts. Mr. Lowe as a speaker was per- haps a little dull, but not so Mr. Glad- stone. There was a charm about the way in which his talk seemed to display the inner man. It could not be said that be had either the dry humor of Mr. 1 The fourth American recipient was Profes- sor Newcomb. THE EDITOR OF THE ATLAN- TIC MONTHLY. Reminiscences of an Astronomer. Evarts or the wit of Mr. Depew; but these qualities were well replaced by the vivacity of his manner and the intellectu- ality of his face. He looked as if he had something interesting he wanted to tell you; and he proceeded to tell it in a very felicitous way as regarded both manner and language, but without any- thing that savored of eloquence. He was like Carl Schurz in talking as if he wanted to inform you, and not because he wanted you to see what a fine speak- er he was. With this he impressed one as having a perfect command of his sub- ject in all its bearings. I did not for a moment suppose that the Premier of England could have taken any personal interest in the mat- ter of the eclipse. Great, therefore, was my surprise when, in speaking of the relations of the government to science, he began to talk about the coming event. I quote a passage from memory, after twenty-seven years: I had the pleasure of a visit, a few days since, from a very distinguished American professor, Pro- fessor Peirce of Harvard. In the course of the interview, the learned gentleman expressed his regret that her Majestys government had declined to take any measures to promote observations of the coming eclipse of the sun by British as- tronomers. I replied that I was not aware that the government had declined to take such measures. Indeed, I went farther, and assured him that any appli- cation from our astronomers for aid in making these observations would receive respectful consideration. I felt that there might be room for some suspicion that this visit of Professor Peirce was a not unimportant factor in the changed position of affairs as regarded British observations of the eclipse. Not only the scene I have described, but subsequent experience, has impressed me with the high appreciation in which the best scientific work is held by the leading countries of Europe, especially England and France, as if its prosecu Reminiscences of an Astronomer. 247 tion were something of national impor- tance which men of the highest rank thought it an honor totake part in. A phy- sicist like Sir William Thomson becomes a peer; a hereditary peer like Rayleigh devotes his life and talents to scientific investigation, becomes a university pro- fessor, and makes researches leading to the discovery of a new chemical element in the atmosphere. The Marquis of Salisbury, in an interval between two terms of service as Premier of England, presides over the British Association for the Advancement of Science, and de- livers an address showing a wide and careful study of the generalizations of modern science. Nor is this intimate relation between intellectual and political work confined to the governing classes. An Englishman may get into Parliament by being an historian, a chemist, or an author, as readily as by being a party manager or a lawyer. More than one American working in a field removed from the public eye may have had some reason to feel that his efforts were more highly appreciat- ed abroad than at home. Mr. George W. Hill, who has made the little post- office of Nyack Turnpike known to math- ematicians and astronomers the world over, is a very modest man. One of the hardest wrestles I ever had with an official superior was in trying to get a Secretary of the Navy to raise his sala- ry to fourteen hundred dollars. A few years later he was one of a procession of distinguished men, headed by the Duke of Edinburgh, who received the degree of Doctor of Laws from the University of Cambridge. In France, also, one great glory of the nation is felt to be the works of its scientific and learned men of the past and present. Membership of one of the five academies of the Institute of France is counted among the highest honors to which a Frenchman can as- pire. Most remarkable, too, is the ex- tent to which other considerations than that of merit are set aside in selecting candidates for this honor. Quite recent- ly a man was elected a member of the Academy of Sciences who was without either university or official position, and earned a modest subsistence as a collab- orator of the Revue des Deux Mondes. But he had found time to make investiga- tions in mathematical astronomy of such merit that he was considered to have fairly earned this distinction, and the modesty of his social position did not lie in his way. In England, the career of Professor Cayley affords an example of the spirit that impels a scientific worker of the highest class, and of the extent to which an enlightened community may honor him for what he is doing. One of the creators of modern mathematics, he never had any ambition beyond the pro- secution of his favorite science. I first met him at a dinner of the Astronomical Society Club. As the guests were tak- ing off their wraps and assembling in the anteroom, I noticed with some sur- prise that one whom I supposed to be an attendant was talking with them on easy terms. A moment later the supposed attendant was introduced as Professor Cayley. His garb set off the seeming haggardness of his keen features so effectively that I thought him either broken down in health or just recovering from some protracted illness. The un- spoken words on my lips were, Why Professor Cayley, what has happened to you? Being now in the confessional, I must own that I did not, at the mo- ment, recognize the marked intellectu- ality of a very striking face. As a re- presentation of a mathematician in the throes of thought, I know nothing to equal his portrait by Dickenson, which now hangs in the hail of Trinity College, Cambridge, and is reproduced in the sixth volume of Cayleys collected works. His life was that of a man moved to in- vestigation by an uncontrollable impulse; the only sort of man whose work is de- stined to be imperishable. Until forty 248 .I?eminiscences of an Astronomer. years of age he was by profession a con- veynacer. His ability was such that he might have gained a fortune by practi- cing the highest branch of English law, if his energies had not been diverted in an- other direction. The spirit in which he pursued his work may be judged from an anecdote related by his friend and co-worker, Sylvester, who, in speaking of Cayleys eve