THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. MAY, 1882. No. i. THE CANADIAN MECCA. HAD ~OU been a pagan Iroquois on the war-path from Onondaga* in the summer of i66i, standing on the Isle of Orleans, below Quebec, with the scalps of your Huron and French foes at your belt, you would have seen the remnant of the hated Christian Indians paddling in their bark canoes across the St. Lawrence to the northern shore. From the bluff of land where the picturesque church of St. Fran9ois has stood for over a century and a half, you would have seen your enemies who had sold their ancient birthright for a mess of French rum and trinkets, steering for havens of refuge amid a rich panorama of forest and mountainsome of them up stream, where they found shelter under the guns of Quebec; most of them toward a great peak of the Laurentian chain of hills, where, close to the shore, a small stone chapel and a few houses marked the site of Petit Cap,one of the old- est settlements on one of the oldest roads in Canada. Had you stolen before day-break at low tide across the water, and paddled through the marsh, you might have listened until you heard the bell for morning vespers, and then gliding ashore, you might have crept behind the brush and watched a procession of French and their Huron allies, headed by the priests, slowly marching to the chapel, and repeat- ing the invocation: fesus, Marie, Joseth, foachim, e/ Anne, seeourez-nous, while your blood boiled with hate, and your fingers tingled to get at their hair. About a century later, had you been a loyal English colonist of New York, you might have followed the Highlanders in their attack on the French and Hurons along this same road, and in this same little village, then named Sainte Anne. And if tradition be true,and a possible fable *As New York was then called. is as good for a gobemouche as a positive fact, you might have seen the same little chapel delivered by the mysterious interposition of the saint herself, when the troops tried three times in succession to set it on fire, after the rest of the village had been burned. And now, one hundred and twenty-two years later, you may quietly run down on a holiday trip from Donnacona s ancient throne, the peaceful citadel of Quebec, to this same little village, now called Ste. Anne de Beaupr6, or more affectionately, La Bonne Ste. Anne, and known as the most venerated shrine of the Roman Catholic Church in Canadathe soul and center of reputed miracles as won- derful as any that stirred the heart of medi~eval Europe. Though not accepted without re- serve by the more educated classes, they are as sacred to the superstitious habitant along the St. Lawrence as is the mother-shrine of Ste. Anne dAuray, in Brittany, to the credu- lous sailors in the Morbihan. The heathen red-skin of Onondaga has long since been Christianized, and is passing away. The English colonies, which had a sworn foe in the New France at the north, have become a great and independent nation. The old French colony, with its brilliant story, has disappeared in the Dominion of Canada, and Richelieus grand scheme of a French trans- atlantic empire has its mockery in the small fishing-islands of Miquelon and St. Pierre, off the south coast of Newfoundland. Little did Richelieu imagine, when he excluded the Huguenots from France and her colonies, that he was doing as much as possible to add to the wealth of the Protestants of Europe and to the prosperity of the Puritans of New England, and that one of the results of his policy was to be the perpetuation of the very heresy he hated. Persecution often makes a VOL. XXIV.i. [copyright, 2882, by THE CENTURY co. All rights reserved.] VOL. XXIV. 2 THE CANADIAN MECCA. barren cause prolific. It has been the mother of great men and great nations. Little did Champlain imagine, when he prohibited the psalms of the Huguenots on the St. Law- rence, that a few more years would see the feur-de-7z~ lowered forever from the city he founded; and France, once the mistress of the whole American continent north of Mex- ico, reduced to a few fishing-islands, equal to a square of fifteen miles! There that little rem- nant of French-American territory lies, as if to remind us of the past glory of a noble nation. Amid all these vicissitudes, our little Canadian shrine has slept its Rip-van Winkle sleep; until to-day, with the revival in Europe of the medi- teval trust in miracles, and in the efficacy of pil- grimages, an effort is here being made to waken the Canadian mind to the belief that La Bonne A PILGRIMAGE TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO THE CANADIAN MECCA. 3 PILGEIMS ON THE C6TE DE BEAUPEE. formed by Christ. Though Quebec city, with its sixty dioceses, is mentioned in a bull of Pius IX. as the metropolis of the church in Ameri& a, you will need to rub your eyes to make sure that you are not in Belgium. Un- der the French re4ime it was the heart of the colony, and was a spiritual as well as a mate- rial fortress. Ste. Anne de Beaupr~ was one of its outposts. But who was this saint so revered long ago by the Camfdian voyageur and habitant, and whose intercessioy~, all the world over, now seems to be supplanting that of all other saints? It might be enough to know that, in 1876, the Pope declared Ste. Anne to be patroness of the Province of Quebec, though it is not stated how this affects the claim of St. Joseph, who has long been the patron of all Canada. But who was Ste. Anne? Tradition says she was the mother of the Virgin Mary, born of one of the family of David, and that her mother had predicted the birth through her of the Saviour. Having died at Jerusalem, she was buried in the family vault. When you are at our Canadian shrine you may see, in a little glass case, a confused mass of dried, broken bones, which you are told are those of the saint. You will ngtturally be curious to know how they got out of the family vault in Jerusalem into a little hamlet in Canada. In the time of Tvfar- cus Aurelius, the infidels destroyed all the monuments in the Holy Land, but, ac- cording to tradition, one coffin could be VILLAGE OF LA BONNE STE. ANNE. Ste. Anne is as advantageous to faith as Michael Angelo believed the climate of Arezzo was favorable to genius. There was no obstacle at any time in Canada to the full development of the Gallican church of France; and it is no wonder that pilgrimages should become an institution of the old French province, and that it should be claimed that more miracles have been wrought through the relics of a dead saint than are known to have been per- 4 THE CANADIAN MECCA. neither burned nor opened, and being thrown into the sea, floated off to the town of Apt, in Provence, where it lay for a long time buried in the sand. One day some fishermen caught in their net an enormous fish, which clearly by its actions showed that fishes have in- stinct and reason, and that St. Anthony knew more than we give him credit for, when he preached to them, This fish struggled so hard that it made a deep hole in the sand on the shore, and when the fishermen dragged it out, the coffin of Ste. Anne appeared in the hole. No one in Apt could open the coffin. The bishop Aurelius placed it in a crypt, put a burning lamp before it, and had it hermetic- ally walled up. Seven hundred years later, Charlemagne, moved by the appeal of a deaf and dumb boy, caused a certain wall to be destroyed, in which the coffin was found. I remember visiting a beautiful cathedral in Apt, on the bank of the Calavon, said to have been erected on the exact spot where the fish leaped and the coffin was found. A short journey from the Celtic monuments of Carnac, in Brittany, is the little hamlet of Ste. Anne dAnray, the most famous shrine of the saint in the world. On a f6te-day, a few years ago, I saw the special pilgrimage, and its associations with our Canadian shrine made the visit one of much interest. I must say, however, that the Canadian pilgrimages are never the scene of such debauchery as those in Brittany, for the devil seemed to have made it his holiday at the two Old- World pilgrimages witnessed by me. Relig- ious ceremonies clashed with vulgar open-air dancing, and peasants who had just kissed the saintly relics, came out of church and boastingly swallowed brandy, glass after glass, in a deliberate effort to make themselves drunk. Our Canadian Mecca has an authentic date IN AN OLD CRADLE. back to i6~8. A habitant of Petit Cap gave the parish priest of Quebec a portion of land, upon condition that in that year a church should be begun on the spot. The site was accepted, duly consecrated, and dedicated to Ste. Anne, the patroness of sailors. The foun- dation-stone was laid by the French governor. It is said that a peasant of Beauprd, who had pains in his loins, went, out of devotion, to lay three stones of the foundation, and was suddenly cured; and that a woman who had been bent double for eight months by some affliction began to invoke the saint as soon as she heard of the miracle, and was instantly A YOUNG PILGRIM THE CANADIAN MECCA. 5 PILGRIMS AND STRANGERS. 6 THE CANADIAN MECCA. able to stand on her feet, and as well able to move all her limbs as she had ever been. Miracle after miracle followed, until the sleepy little hollow was the talk of all New France. Soldiers, as they paced their beat on the fort, looked down the river as if they expected to see a vision. The peasantry grouped together in large family circles, just as they love to do to-day, and as the big logs crackled in the great fire-place, some one who had been to the shrine recounted his experience and gave reins to his imagination, and all piously crossed themselves when he had concluded. Pilgrims flocked to the New-World wonder on the St. Lawrence, and during the seventeenth cent- ury there were never less than a thousand on the feast-day of Ste. Anne. At all seasons of the year, individual pilgrims were seen going afoot along the C6te de Beaupr~, and in win- ter in their sleighs on the frozen river. The Micmac Indians came regularly from New Brunswick for trade, and before feast-days their canoes were seen coming up stream to he shrine, where they built birch-bark huts to shelter the pilgrims. In fact, the whole coun- try was excited by the mystery, and many churches were built in honor of the saint. It was a regular custom of vessels ascending the St. Lawrence to fire a broadside salute when passing the place. We who live in this age of electricity, and who affect to be beyond astonishment, but gape at every new sensa- tion as if the world was yet in its teens, may imagine the thrill of wonder which would run through the minds of the simple peasantry, and the superstitious voyageurs, when the miracles were told. It was not with the touching and simple spirit which led many to flock to the holy place in Jerusalem, in the time of the old Jewish law, that I went to La Bonne Ste. Anne. Nor was it with the unquestioning de- votion of the Canadian peasant. I was simply a holiday lounger in search of the picturesque, with no more faith in La Bonne Ste. Anne than in the dozens of other shrines I had seen in Europe, and with a strong belief in the statements that, after the Crusades, innu- merable relics were sold to the Latins by th cunning Greeks and Syrians, and that several skulls of the same saint were found within a hundred miles of each other. What I had seen of the pilgrimages in Brittany and Bel- gium did not raise them in my estimation. The picturesque in Brittany could not conceal the dirt and mental degradation. I remem- bered, too, an incident upon the arrival of our train, when little Breton boys and girls met us with offers, for a son, to say prayers for us. One who is familiar with the many genial and admirable traits of the French-Canadian peasantry, the superior moral and spiritual tone, and the respectability, cleanliness, and sobriety which put them above the same class of Continental people, would have no thought of seeing here the vice and licentiousness A CANADIAN INTERIOR. THE CANADIAN MECCA. 7 common to the Breton gatherings. The French-Canadian peasant may not know how to read; he may fear the spiritual threats of his priest more than the punishment of the civil law; but as a rule he is a peaceful Chris- tian according to his light. Ste. Anne, to many of them, is as sacred as was Jerusalem to the Jews, and no doubt our good countryman pities and prays for me and my heresy; and, had he been born a Mohammedan, would no doubt have believed that he who died without mak- ing a pilgrimage to Mecca might as well die a Jew or a Christian. Almost any morning in summer you may get the early boat just below Dufferin Terrace, and see dozens of quiet people muttering their devotions to themselves, each carrying his or her burden of trouble to Ste. Anne. The crowded pilgrimages which are under- taken by whole parishes en masse have much the appearance of an ordinary picnic, and most of the pilgrims suggest the idea that they come more for the green way than for devotion. But you cannot mistake the sin- cerity and superstition of those individual pilgrims who go down to the shrine without ostentation. They are mostly women, many widows, and nearly all dressed in the con- ventional black dress, with black bonnet and long crape veil. You may go down by steamer or by road. If you go by water you can study these people better; but when you see the rich landscape you will wish you had taken the road; from the C6te de Beaupr6 you see the lovely water-scape, and then you will wish you had gone by steamer; so I will indulge you in both. We need no scrip, staff; or scallop-shell; no unshod feetthough once I saw a bare- footed pilgrimage below Cacouna; no gray gabardine girt with cincture; no asceticism, but a comfortable steamer or a double car- riage, with every modern comfort cheek-by- jowl with much medkeval usage. The river was alive with boats, steamers, barges. Half a dozen steam-yachts, used as tugs, were puffing consequentially, and scud- ding between Quebec and Pointe Levi. One little David had steamed up to a Goliath of a ship which had just crossed the Atlantic, and had taken the conceit out of the monster by lashing itself in some way to its side and puff- ing up the river with it, like a dwarf arresting a giant. After the usual jargon we were off; and had time to look about among our pas- sengers. They were mostly pilgrims, and all French of the poorer class. But, no matter how poor, the French-Canadian is a model of tidiness. Like a sunflower amid ivy, there was the traditional young man from the country, arrayed, on a hot day, in black kid gloves, a flower in his coat, and a feather in his cap. Beside himvery much beside him his own sweet Genevieve, blushing in colors enough to make the rainbow pale, and every part of her jacket and the white veil over her face covered with little bits of red glass balls; a poor mother, holding a sick child in her arms, walking up and down the deck in a sort of penitential agony, and refus- ing any help, though many of the kind- hearted women proffered their aid; several very desolate-looking widows. I had been told that few, if any, ever went to Ste. Annes to return thanks for blessings received, but the uncharitable statement was here refuted, for several poor women were en route especially to express gratitude for the recovery of per- sonal health. One dear old lady, rheumatic and almost blind, was led about tenderly by her son. As I saw her thin gray hair and bended frame, and watched the affection of her boy, my heretical spirit found a feeling that made us kin, and, while refusing to believe in Ste. Anne, I prayed inwardly for her recovery. I would have sung my paeans of praise had the dear old soul found the fountain of youth in the waters of Ste. Anne, and had she been able to leave her crutch among those on the pyramid in the church. Alas! I saw her returning in the afternoon more feeble than when she came. One pale, thin girl had fasted for five days, having read that, like Moses and Elias, Ste. Anne and her husband fasted entirely for forty days, and wept per- petually. A giri with inflamed and bandaged eyes was going with her father to perform a novena, or nine days religious exercise. Two nuns were chatting together; a solemn servant of some convent held in one hand a five-minute sand-glass, which she turned as the sand ran out, saying her prayers at the same time. Two rubicund priests promenaded the deck. The rest of the pilgrims were fair types of the ordinary peasant, and were either ignorant or weak-minded. Look at the splendid scenery before, be- hind, on either side. The Isle of Orleans, with its broad brow, is in front. The ships for England sail off to the southern channel. One fancies he can smell the sea here, and it may not be mere fancy, for the tide rises ninety miles above Quebec, and the water is brackish. It is out this morning, and there along the shore and up among the shiny rocks, the bateaux and wood-boats lie waiting for the flow. Just below us, as we keep to the left of Orleans, we meet two steamers tugging two great rafts, and the hardy Indian and French voyageurs wave their hats to us. There lies the Church of St. Pierre, upon the hill of Minigo, as the Indians called Orleans, built one hundred and twelve years 8 THE CANADIAN MECCA. ago, on the site of a chapel erected in i6~i. Looking to the left now, we see Montmo- renci Falls, shining in the morning sun like a broad ribbon of molten silver, the dark shadows of the right bank casting long lines of gloom into the glen. As we pass the falls, we are wedging in between Orleans on the right, and gaps and grooves on the main-land to the left, eaten by ice and rains. Zigzag foot- paths run up to the hill-tops from the river and road-side; narrow strips of land, fenced into all sorts of geometrical figures, straggle up over the hills into the horizon; clumps of pines are seen along the shore; and above and about the trees are the picturesque white farm-houses, with their gray, brown, and red roofsa perfect chain, long drawn out, of quaint hamlets set in frames of mountain and river; peeps of the blue Laurentian Mountains far behind; the white houses of Chateau Richer hugging the shore; and be- hind them the hills rolling up into waves of land, until they run to a peak of two thou- sand six hundred and eighty-seven feet to form Mount Ste. Anne, then droop into the valleys, and again run up against the blue sky to form the home of the bear and the blue-berryCape Tourmente. Here and there you see the stone churches and bright spires, both on the main-land and on the island. Look back now from the stern. I once heard a world-wide traveler say he had MOUNT STE. ANN~. THE CANADIAN MECCA. never anywhere seen such a picture as this view back at the city. Quebec and Pointe Levi seem to be blended in one semicircular bay of bright water, lapping a dazzling array of glit- tering gems. The citadel looks clear cut, as if its masonry had been run into a mold. We see barges, with loads of hay or wood, and with only two hands on board, trusting to a rough sail and a stout oar to get to their destina- tion; fresh-water sailors in heavy boats, push- ing their oars before them as they face the bow, as one sees so often on Continental rivers and as often elsewhere on the St. Lawrence, about Quebec. The Isle of Orleans reposes like an emerald in the water at the point where the fate of a continent was decided. There on its bosom St. Fran~ois sleeps, as if the dread Iroquois had never yelled tbeir war- whoop on its hills; and if history has no echoes to stir you, come with me from that quiet little hamlet some autumn, with gun and rod, on the broad meadows of Argentenay, or among the marshes of the Chateau Richer, and I will promise you as fine a bag of snipe and duck as you can get anywhere within sight of civilization on this side of New Brunswick. What feasts of wild fowl, what epicurean relishes with Parisian cookery, they must have had in the way of game when peace reigned in the old chateau of St. Louis on the rock, the castle of the French gov- ernor, and life in this part of New France, brilliant with the wit and song of the nobility of Louis XIV., was more feasting than fast- ing; when Orleans was called the Isle of Bacchus, because of its great grape-vines, and of the fish, honey, and melons with which the red-skins regaled Jacques Cartier. I wonder Parisian wit did not try upon the Indian the civilizing influence of Parisian cookery; for it is related of a convert who lay at the point of death that he anxiously inquired ifs, in the pale-face heaven to which he was going, he would get pies to equal those which the French had given him. All about hereon mountain, in valley, on island, on riveryou can trace the richest pages of Ca- nadian and much of American history. Mem- ories of Jacques Cartier, Sir William Phipps, Champlain, Frontenac, Wolfe, Montcalm, Carleton, Arnold, Montgomery, Murray, rise from the surroundings. And then you may come down from your imagining and see Huron and Iroquois merging into French and English, and the queer jumble of Indian, Norman, Breton, English, in name, in face, in speech, in religion, slowly but surely blend- ing, as the centuries roll away, to form one people. Is it not a bit of early British his- torythe story of the Norman, Dane, and Saxonbeing repeated in the New World? VOL. XXIV.2. 9 But now we see the sun playing on the convent-spire of Ste. Anne; Cape Tourmente and Orleans seem to meet, and the river has the appearance of a great bay. Long ribbons of the characteristic Canadian fence run crookedly up to the crest of pines; a fringe of houses lies along the shore. And now the main-land and the island divide; the open river shows the line of the hazy shore down- stream, and we are approaching the long wharf and the toll-gatherer of our Mecca. But come back with me to Quebec, and drive through the romantic hamlets of tbe C6te de Beaupr6, with its endless interest in life, char- BY THE ROAD-SIDE. I0 THE CANADIAN MECCA. acter, and scenery. This is by far the most charming way to visit Ste. Annes, especially if you have good company, if you like walking, and can talk the patois. If, too, you ever have walked through Normandy and Brittany, you can find no more fascinating trip for its asso- ciations than this C6te de Beaupr~. If you are fresh from the story of Evangeline, you will enjoy it doubly, for though the people are losing a good deal of their picturesque char- acter, and you will rarely see the toque b/eu of the habitant, yet in the same room you may often see grandmother at her spinning-wheel and granddaughter at her sewing-machine; you may cut into by-ways, and even get peeps into the low-roofed and high-peaked houses as you pass, that will bring back the poets words and carry you into the eighteenth cent- ury. There are old men and old women, old houses and old habits, old agricultural and domestic implements and furniture, and old china enough to gladden the heart of any antiquarian. I fear, though, that the province is being stripped of its old clocks. This trip by land is delightful. Early one morning we left the St. Louis Hotel in Quebec. If you are going ten miles into the country here, you are sure to receive bon voyage / as often as if you were going to Hong- Kong. Passing through St. Roches and crossing the bridge over the St. Charles River, we were soon out in the open country. We were at once struck with the fondness of the people for flowers. Little squares and bits of land are devoted to their culture. They hang from gallery and window, around wall and well, and grow in wooden boxes, old jars, and miniature birch-bark canoes. Big and beauti- ful dahlias of all colors nod their full heads to us; the marigold, whose seeds were brought from France by the early explorers; the holly- hock, fox-glove, China-aster, and Normandys flaming favorite, the sunflower, and other old- fashioned flowers of old-fashioned people, beautify and brighten the surroundings. Little houses, like stables, often just big enough to shelter a cow or a horse, and little gardens, are characteristic of this truly Canadian road. Springs of crystal water run down the hill into troughs for the horses, as in Swiss vil- lages. All along for miles from Beaupr~, the hill-side is luxuriant with wild plums, which are gathered and sent to the city market. Along this road you will see some of the choicest specimens of the early French farm- houses, built of rough stone and mortar, with high-peaked roof and big chimney, often built out beyond the level of the gable, and with projecting eaves and dormer-windows. Some of these old houses are contemporaneous with the conquest of Canada. Most of them are close to the road, and the fences on each side are as a rule very ragged, except among the best farmers. Little picket-fences, some of them over a century old, are characteristicmany of them so tattered that they remind you of the broken hedges of Tipperary, where, when a pig goes through a hole, he finds he is still on the same side of the hedge. The tall Lombardy poplar is an old-time favorite of the Canadian farmer. Some of the stables and barns have thatched roofs and a peculiar projection, at the gable or at the sides, sev- eral feet beyond the line of the foundation. At the same time you can see here as fine modern farm-houses and barns as in any other part of the province. Montmorenci Falls is the first rest. Then you have a charming drive over the hills until you come to the quaint hamlet of Ange Gar- dien, where there is a small oratory at the entrance and another at the exit, and in the middle of the village the old church. As our carriage rolls on, little boys and girls with bare head and feet chase beside us, holding out bouquets in the hope that we will buy. They do not turn hand-springs like the waifs who follow the travelers carriage in England. Sometimes children offer you a glass of spring- water, or raspberries or strawberries in cones of birch-bark. They are an improvement upon the way-side beggars of Savoi in Switz- erland; for our Canadians have not arrived at the high art of mendicancysinging songs in groups, chanting ballads in honor of Ste. Anne, or blowing Laurentian horns in lieu of Alpine. The children one meets on this road are most interesting. The C6te de Beaupr6 is historically prolific in babies, and you may see many charming children, such as one diminutive artist in mud-pies, or the little vagabond who roosts on the fence and sings out his Bon lour, ALnisleur, as you pass; or the three little graces whom we meet com- ing out of school, in their pretty Canadian hats and aprons. And here are two genuine rustic boys from the hill-tops, going to Ste. Annes to sell bottles at the holy fountain. You will never forget the native courtesy of these little men and women, as they doff their hats or courtesy to you. The grace, the look of the eye, and the movement of the body surely it is natures own, and la belle France can show none lovelier. One of the institutions of this road is the healthy beggar, who is usually a good pedes- trian, and with no such show of feigned afflic- tion as the fraternity of the south and west of Ireland. Generally they are masterpieces of patchwork. Invariably they are as dirty as Bretons. Every village has its tolerated staff of these creatures, who go about as if they THE CANADIAN MECcA. II had some sort of succession from the beggars of scriptural times. If the apostles had lived in our day and traveled on the road to Ste. Anne, they would not have had to go out into the lanes to bring in the beggars. The beggars would have swarmed on the road to welcome the apostles. If you have seen the dogs used in small carts in Belgium by the market-peddlers, either tandem or abreast, you ~vill recognize their lineal descendants along the C6te de Beau- pr6. Even the women who drive them will remind you of Ghent and Bruges. These dogs are to the peasant here what the pig is to the peasant of Munster. They lie on the galleries or sun themselves undisturbed at the door, and are allowed the run of the house. They are large black mastiffs, patient beasts of burden, without enterprise enough to bark. They do a great deal of hard work, are more domesticated than the coolie, and a sort of aid-de-camp to the horse at whose heels, or under whose cart, they trot. Near them sits an old lady on a bench knitting socks, wear- ing a cap the fashion of which her great-grand- mother brought from St. Malo. In a few moments we trot into the heart of our Mecca and pull up at The Retreat, a cozy and clean hotel, kept by an English fam- ily who are as intelligent as they are hospita- ble. Mine host has a telegraphic instrument in the house. It was regarded with superstition by the habitant, whereas it is one of supersti- tions worst foes. We had arrived several hours before an expected grand pilgrimage coming down the river in chartered steamers, like the trai;;es de fieZ! at Lourdes. The vii lage consists of one long street, and, were it paved with stone, would bear a strong resem- blance to village streets in Switzerland, with the projecting signs, gables, and galleries of the many little aube~ges. Every house is an improvised inn, and all the fishermen are am- ateur inn-keepers. The street lies at the foot of the hill, and, as you go through it, you will see faces and figures that constantly re- mind you of the coarse women seen in similar streets in Swiss villages. Mosf French-Cana- dian country-women become stout and wrin- kled in middle life, owing to the excessive heat of the houses in winter, badly cooked food, and hard work; but those who have to go up and down these steep bills become especially clumsy. It is wonderful to see these heavy women going up the zigzag hill- roads, swinging their arms at right angles from their shoulders, and climbing fences like a man. One of the characters of Ste. Anne is our jolly harness and shoe makera woman on the shady side of sixty. If her deportment has been neglected, she is thoroughly honest and happy, as she smokes her clay pipe and shoves her spectacles up on her forehead to take a better look at her visitors. You may laugh at her ancient cap, but if you could find out why she laughs at you, you would learn that she laughs at your modern bonnet. Just over the way we saw, through an open window, a real live Evangeline, in her pretty Norman cap, at a spinning-wheel. Let us walk down to the other end of the village: what has become of the ancient church built in i66o? To the right of the road stands a large structure a few years old, disa- greeable in its ostentatious modernness. What right had they ruthlessly to destroy the old one? We are told that the walls were crack- ing. So much the better. To the left stands a small chapel, also modern, yet wearing a genial aged look. This was built out of the stones of the ancient chapel. The pictur- esque double bell-tower of the old building surmounts this chapel, and a part of the old interior was utilized, but one misses the plain fa9ade, with its rose-window and its Norman doors; gone altogether is the atmosphere of antiquity which hovered about the old in- terior. Look down the road toward The Re- treat. Is it not as if you were transported to a Swiss village? Painted on the gable-end of one house, you read: Ici BONNE MAIsoN DE PENsIoN. And there, fastened to a stable, is the sign: BUREU DE POSTE OFcIE, in very unclassical French. And what is this huge sign projecting out into the street? E. LACHANCE, E~oux DE DLLE. MERCIER. MAIsoN DE PENsIoN (E. Lachance, hus- band of Miss Mercier. Boarding-house). And next door has another, surmounted by a fish: MAIsoN DE PENsION. DLLE. MERcIER. Thereby hangs a tale: The house of Mercier had two daughters, one of them fair, fat, and forty, who was the belle of the parish. Many a pilgrim from Quebec went to Ste. Anne more to see this maiden than to pray. An enterprising rival, who kept the hotel next door, cast sheeps-eyes upon the goddess; she succumbed, and became his wife, and transferred her interest in the hotel business to her liege lord. The old house still kept up the old sign of Miss Mercier, and the ingenious benedict took down his old one and had it repainted, so as to announce to the world that he bad married, and was in posses- sion of the great attraction of the rival house. But there the steamers come, and soon two thousand pilgrims land on the wharf. A brass band leads the way, and the people file up in long procession, dusty but devoted, many, no doubt, with mingled hopes and fears. Over THE CANADIAN MECCA. 12 THE OLD CHURCH. forty cripples limp along on crutches, or sup- paintings by the Franciscan monk Lefran9ois, ported by friends, and a pitiable sight it is. The who died in i68~. Hung upon a decorated procession enters the new church, where, at pedestal is a handsome oval frame or reli- the high altar and at the sides, a number of quary like a large locket, surrounded with priests preside. As you enter, you see a large garnets, and having in its center a rich cross money-box, of ancient date and curious con- of pearls. Besides this, you see the collection struction, fastened to a pillar by iron stan- of bones said to be the relics of the saint, chions. The quaint padlock is opened by an consisting of a piece of one finger-bone, ob- old-fashioned bed-key. Over the side doors tamed in 1663, by Bishop Laval, from the are rude ex vozo paintings, representing won- chapter of Carcassonne, and which was first derful rescues from peril by water through exposed to view on the 12th of March, 1670. intercession to Ste. Anne. Over the altar is a In another case there is a piece of bone of picture of the saint by Le Brun, the eminent the saint, obtained in 1877, but the Redemp- French artist, and the side altars contain torist Fathers, who have charge of the mission, THE CANADIAN MECCA. 3 out any such intercession is familiar to every student, and is no doubt an undeveloped branch of medical science. A coincidence is not a miracle, neither is this power of the will over the body a miracle. Among the long list of reputed miracles, the following from a man- ual of devotion will be sufficiently suggestive: In the year 1664, a woman broke her leg. As the bone was fractured in four places, it was impossible to set it. For eight months she was unable to walk, and the doctors gave up all hope of a cure. She made a lu2ve//a, in honor of the saint, and vowed that if she was cured she would visit the shrine every year. She was carried to the church, and during the communion she put aside her crutches and was cured at once. Sworn testimony is given as to instant recovery in diseases said by phy- sicians to be incurable by ordinary means, and among the particular favors accorded to the parish, the temporal as well as spiritual is not forgotten. The Bishop of Montreal says that it is Ste. Anne who obtains for it rain in the time of drought. For it is a pious tradi- tion among you, says he, that a little pict- ure representing Ste. Anne, with her august do not know to what part of the body it be- longs. The dry bones of the saint do not appear to differ in glory from those of a sin- ner. The church also claims to own a piece of the true cross upon which our Saviour died, and a piece of stone from the foundation of the house in which Ste. Anne lived, brought from France in 1879. Also theremaybe seen a superb chasuble, given by Anne of Austria, mother of Louis XIV., and some silver crucifixes. Nothing, however, will excite more curiosity than the great pyramid of crutches, and aids to the sick and the crippled, twenty-two feet high, divided into six tiers, and crowned by a very old gilt statue of the saint. The collection is very curious and principally home-made, com- prising plain walking-sticks, odd knobbed fancies of sexagenarians, queer handles, and padded arm and shoulder rests, made of pine, oak, birch, ash, hickory, rock-elmof all common and many novel designs. A half- leg support testifies to a reputed removal of anchylosis of the knee-joint by intercession to the saint. I have no desire to sneer, but that there is some imposition and much imagina- tion about these miracles no impartial mind can doubt. One may carry his charity to the verge of believing that implicit faith in inter- cession to a saint, with mingled hope and fear and a strong determination to force a cure, may in some cases really throw off disease; but the power of mind and will over the body with- HOLY-WATEE FOUNT AND POON-BOX. IN THE NEW CHUECH, ON THE SITE OF THE OLO. 4 THE CANADIAN MECCA. daughter, is the instrument of Gods mercy which the pilgrims pin on their coats and towards you. dresses, like the shells worn by the pilgrims During the service in the church, the pil- who have visited the shrine of Ste. Anne in grims crowd up to the altar and kneel in long Brittany. Heaps of little brass and plaster rows in front of the balustrade. The officiating statues, photographs, beads, and other trink- priests carry the relics in one hand and a ets, attract the visitor. The air is full of handkerchief in the other, and touch the glass babble from the crowds of tired yet talkative cover to the lips of the worshipers, wiping it people sitting on the grass or the benches, after each kiss. eating their luncheon out of huge carpet- As you come out, you see pilgrims around bags. Two girls, who had heard from me the fountain, drinking its water and filling of the wonderful well in Brittany, were bottles to carry home. It is not the original throwing pins into the fountain to find out well, which is said to have been the scene of their matrimonial prospects, and laughing cures as miraculous as those performed at heartily over their efforts. When the pins fell Lourdes; but if it was justifiable to move the head foremost, hope grew sick; when the church, why not the well? As you turn to the points first touched the water, the prospect left, you see a picturesque way-side oratory, of marriage within a year was certain. I built of rough stones and mortar, from which noticed that, like the Chinese praying to his a stream of water comes from the hill. A walk along this road is very interesting. You may see the black cross against the wall of every house. The heraldic emblem of Berne is not more revered in that city than the statue of Ste. Anne here, and in every house you see it in plaster, brass, or picture. An old cemetery here has been used so much that the beadle told me he had himself laid three long rows of people, burying them indiscriminately side by side, and on top of each other~- first come, first served. Those who pay from twenty- five to a hundred dollars may be buried under the new church, the vaults of which are specially reserved for this purpose. Little rustic booths do an active business in memorials of the saint, in the shape of medals, favorite idol for more money, they both persisted until the test turned the right way. Coming back to our hospitable Retreat, we saw a fascinating study of life and charac- ter. A tidy, handsome village girl had a boy seated on a stool on the sidewalk in front of her house, and was vigorously clipping his shaggy locks, catching the d~bris in her apron, which she had tucked around the lads neck. Surely some pilgrim to Ste. Anne will lose his heart if he risk his hair to the pretty bar- ber, thought I. It turned out that some pil- grim had, and that she was a fishermans wife. Every house seems to share in the profits of the pilgrimages, for though the older habi- tants hardly ever spend a sou, youth and beauty must have its fling. You see barrels of root EX VOTO PAINTING, 1754. THE CANADIAN MECCA. 5 or spruce beer, huge slices of brown bread and butter, berries, gingerbread, boiled corn on the cob, and other Canadian luxuries, on the sills of the windows, or on rough deal tables at the doors. Inside you see long rows of solemn white cups and saucers, and piles of plates. In one little auberge there is a queer character, with a monstrous hump on her back and another on her nose. She has been living at Ste. Annes for seven years, inter- ceding every day for the reduction of her de- formity, but it increases with her age. But what song is that stealing over the water, like a Canadian voyageurs refrain? THE COLLECTION OF CRUTCHES. i6 ESTRANGEMENT A boat laden with pilgrims from the Isle L_~~~7L~_~2-L~rn~rn-EVi~Er4z2 of Orleans is making for our shore, and the ~ ~L~L~zzztzz~xA voices rise and fall with the dip of the oars Vierge ~ sa - re con dolt ses en-fants. Dai-gnez, Salute the true rhythm of the canotier. __ ______ ______ ________ ____ ___ - ~ --U---, _ p ---p ,.---U __ 8~zzz ~ ~ ~Lzt~z-zziI ___4~~ ___ ___ _ _ ___[_ _ __ __ _ __ Vers son sanctu - ai - re, de-puls deux cents ans, La Anne, en un si beau jour, de vos enfants a - gud-er la-mour I W George Beers. ESTRANGEMENT. THE path from me to you that led, Untrodden long, with grass is grown, Mute carpet that his lieges spread Before the Prince Oblivion When he goes visiting the dead. And who are they but who forget? You, who my coming could surmise Ere any hint of me as yet Warned other ears and other eyes, See the path blurred without regret. But when I trace its windings sweet With saddened steps, at every spot That feels the memory in my feet, Each grass-blade turns forget-me-not, Where murmuring bees your name repeat. James Russell LowelL ~ AT THE FOUNTAIN OF BLESSEO WATER. REFRAIN.

i6 ESTRANGEMENT A boat laden with pilgrims from the Isle L_~~~7L~_~2-L~rn~rn-EVi~Er4z2 of Orleans is making for our shore, and the ~ ~L~L~zzztzz~xA voices rise and fall with the dip of the oars Vierge ~ sa - re con dolt ses en-fants. Dai-gnez, Salute the true rhythm of the canotier. __ ______ ______ ________ ____ ___ - ~ --U---, _ p ---p ,.---U __ 8~zzz ~ ~ ~Lzt~z-zziI ___4~~ ___ ___ _ _ ___[_ _ __ __ _ __ Vers son sanctu - ai - re, de-puls deux cents ans, La Anne, en un si beau jour, de vos enfants a - gud-er la-mour I W George Beers. ESTRANGEMENT. THE path from me to you that led, Untrodden long, with grass is grown, Mute carpet that his lieges spread Before the Prince Oblivion When he goes visiting the dead. And who are they but who forget? You, who my coming could surmise Ere any hint of me as yet Warned other ears and other eyes, See the path blurred without regret. But when I trace its windings sweet With saddened steps, at every spot That feels the memory in my feet, Each grass-blade turns forget-me-not, Where murmuring bees your name repeat. James Russell LowelL ~ AT THE FOUNTAIN OF BLESSEO WATER. REFRAIN. CARLYLE IN IRELAND. Chelsea, 4tth Oct., 1849.I will now, my long confused wayfarings of the summer being ended, endeavour to write down with, all de- spatch what I can remember of them. After much sorting of paper-rubbish, reading over of all the Irish letters to my wife and kindred, and in some measure clearing the decks (not for action yet, alas, no, no !) set about this, which I partly consider a clearing of my own mind, as some kind of preparation for ac- tion. Faxit. REMINISCENCES OF MY IRISH JOURNEY. Saturday, 3oth June, 1849.After endless agonies of preparation, natural to a poor stationary, sedentary, biliary, and otherwise much bewildered mortal, about eight in the morning I got on board the Chelsea steamer here, at the Cadogan Pier; left my poor wife gazing sorrowfully after me, and, in a close, damp-sunny morning, was wafted swiftly down the river. Memory now is a blank nightmare till I reach the wooden platform swinging on the river just above London Bridge, north side, and call earnestly for some boatman to take my luggage and me to the At/done, at Alderman Stairs. Boatman comes, a ragged, lean greasy and sooty creat- ure, with hurried toilsome eyes and shallow shelf chin a wholesome small nature, terri- bly beaten upon and stunted who cheer- fully takes me in; zealously descends the river with me, tide against him; whisks his way like a needle thro innumerable impedi- ments of ships, rafts, barges; sweating, panting, eyes looking still more toilsome, jacket doffed, shelf-chin still more protruded; and at half- past nine, reaches the Athione, a dingy dirty- looking Dublin steamer (but a steamer and mode of travel I had chosen against my lazy wishes, and in obedience to my insights and determinations); and, after rowing round (steward or third-mate at first refusing to let down the steps) puts me on boardtakes is. 6d. with protest, the double his fare, and splashes away again about his business. There am I on board. Steamer lying all, to an unexpected degree, as if in a kind of greasy sleep. /2 fare de- manded by some landsman interested seems the liveliest fact. Canaille of various kinds, Irish by look,: getting itself located in the fore-deck; one yellow-faced, roughish, very slight-made Irish figure in cap half-drunk VOL. XXIV.3. fixes my attention, by his endless talk to stewards etc., seemingly about nothing at all or next to nothing: a sorrowful phenomenon often confirmed afterwards. Half-pay Serjeant looking figure,clean old Lancashire physi- ognomy of fifty (old Indian soldier, now at Falmouth, as I learned afterwards) is talking insipidities about the news fromthe papers, I forget what. Other figuresthe more spectral in my memory, somewhat Jike spectral flies in a spectral gluepot! I was very sick in body, perhaps still more so in soul; and had, by no means, a lively mirror of attention to hold up to them. At ten oclock, nevertheless, with unexpected precision, a bell rang, the steam mechanism began growling, and we jumbled forth on our way. To the river-mouth I remember little with distinctness; the day had settled into grey; with more than enough of east-wind now that our own velocity was added to it. The brick-chaos and ship-and-boat-chaos of big London till after Greenwich lies across my remembrance like an ugly indistinct smear, full of noise and confusion, no figure distinct in it. Passengers, one after one, came on board; at Greenwich a great many soldiers recruits and invalids Irish both, the latter from India, and bad subjects mostly, as I learned afterwards,these came on board at Gravesend in great number, drunk many of them, with or without officers (without it after- wards turned out); a nasty sight rather. Pilot- boats hooked themselves astern of us, and went shoving thro the foam; sometimes as many as 4 boats at once: pilots looking out for a job,favored by the steamers. A tall antelope or panther figure in red coat (about Gravesend, I think) misses the proper boarding-place from his boat; steps into one of these pilot-boats, cool he amid the tumult of noises and splashing of spray; and twists gallantly aloft over the stern; dashes the spray from self and papers, and with a brisk calmness which I could not but admire, stept smiling forwards to his place, the foredeck: a corporal of foot; commander he, as I found, of the broken military there. An exceedingly tall lank simple-looking Irish gentleman came on board thereabouts too,whom I afterwards named to myself the Irish Toots (see Dickens). A very short well-conditioned cockney-looking gentleman had likewise come. I took him for the captain of these Majestys forces of ours; but found afterwards he was a tourist, looking

CARLYLE IN IRELAND. Chelsea, 4tth Oct., 1849.I will now, my long confused wayfarings of the summer being ended, endeavour to write down with, all de- spatch what I can remember of them. After much sorting of paper-rubbish, reading over of all the Irish letters to my wife and kindred, and in some measure clearing the decks (not for action yet, alas, no, no !) set about this, which I partly consider a clearing of my own mind, as some kind of preparation for ac- tion. Faxit. REMINISCENCES OF MY IRISH JOURNEY. Saturday, 3oth June, 1849.After endless agonies of preparation, natural to a poor stationary, sedentary, biliary, and otherwise much bewildered mortal, about eight in the morning I got on board the Chelsea steamer here, at the Cadogan Pier; left my poor wife gazing sorrowfully after me, and, in a close, damp-sunny morning, was wafted swiftly down the river. Memory now is a blank nightmare till I reach the wooden platform swinging on the river just above London Bridge, north side, and call earnestly for some boatman to take my luggage and me to the At/done, at Alderman Stairs. Boatman comes, a ragged, lean greasy and sooty creat- ure, with hurried toilsome eyes and shallow shelf chin a wholesome small nature, terri- bly beaten upon and stunted who cheer- fully takes me in; zealously descends the river with me, tide against him; whisks his way like a needle thro innumerable impedi- ments of ships, rafts, barges; sweating, panting, eyes looking still more toilsome, jacket doffed, shelf-chin still more protruded; and at half- past nine, reaches the Athione, a dingy dirty- looking Dublin steamer (but a steamer and mode of travel I had chosen against my lazy wishes, and in obedience to my insights and determinations); and, after rowing round (steward or third-mate at first refusing to let down the steps) puts me on boardtakes is. 6d. with protest, the double his fare, and splashes away again about his business. There am I on board. Steamer lying all, to an unexpected degree, as if in a kind of greasy sleep. /2 fare de- manded by some landsman interested seems the liveliest fact. Canaille of various kinds, Irish by look,: getting itself located in the fore-deck; one yellow-faced, roughish, very slight-made Irish figure in cap half-drunk VOL. XXIV.3. fixes my attention, by his endless talk to stewards etc., seemingly about nothing at all or next to nothing: a sorrowful phenomenon often confirmed afterwards. Half-pay Serjeant looking figure,clean old Lancashire physi- ognomy of fifty (old Indian soldier, now at Falmouth, as I learned afterwards) is talking insipidities about the news fromthe papers, I forget what. Other figuresthe more spectral in my memory, somewhat Jike spectral flies in a spectral gluepot! I was very sick in body, perhaps still more so in soul; and had, by no means, a lively mirror of attention to hold up to them. At ten oclock, nevertheless, with unexpected precision, a bell rang, the steam mechanism began growling, and we jumbled forth on our way. To the river-mouth I remember little with distinctness; the day had settled into grey; with more than enough of east-wind now that our own velocity was added to it. The brick-chaos and ship-and-boat-chaos of big London till after Greenwich lies across my remembrance like an ugly indistinct smear, full of noise and confusion, no figure distinct in it. Passengers, one after one, came on board; at Greenwich a great many soldiers recruits and invalids Irish both, the latter from India, and bad subjects mostly, as I learned afterwards,these came on board at Gravesend in great number, drunk many of them, with or without officers (without it after- wards turned out); a nasty sight rather. Pilot- boats hooked themselves astern of us, and went shoving thro the foam; sometimes as many as 4 boats at once: pilots looking out for a job,favored by the steamers. A tall antelope or panther figure in red coat (about Gravesend, I think) misses the proper boarding-place from his boat; steps into one of these pilot-boats, cool he amid the tumult of noises and splashing of spray; and twists gallantly aloft over the stern; dashes the spray from self and papers, and with a brisk calmness which I could not but admire, stept smiling forwards to his place, the foredeck: a corporal of foot; commander he, as I found, of the broken military there. An exceedingly tall lank simple-looking Irish gentleman came on board thereabouts too,whom I afterwards named to myself the Irish Toots (see Dickens). A very short well-conditioned cockney-looking gentleman had likewise come. I took him for the captain of these Majestys forces of ours; but found afterwards he was a tourist, looking i8 CARL YLE IN IRELAND. at all the capital Cities, Paris last year, Dublin this; he had a small tear-store (from which I guessed a wife too); his big blue eyes, silly us he was, had at times a beautiful sorrow in them while he sat silent in the evening on deck for a while; a rough pug-facetamed into perfect peaceable politeness, had in it an air of limited rationality, veracity and English wholesomeness, which pleased me. But I must get on! Somewhere on the river a big fat Englishman of fifty stept on board, burly, black, pock-marked, one eye shut (seemingly out, but it proved to be in too, on occasion): some trader (one would have hoped, in bacon and edibles) to the Plymouth region, I after- wards found. Our other cabin passenger, where entering I noticed not, was an elderly Lancashire or Cumberland man, you could not say of what quality below a gentn.; feeble- minded, good-humoured, his old wrinkly face grew quite blown-out at last, the eyes almost shut up, by inflammatory regimen of whiskey & c. and want of sleep before the voyage ended. I did not in the least hate, yet how little either, did I pity this poor old man. Alas, wrapt up in our own black cares (which we ought to conquer, and keep moderately conquered, if we stood to our post), shut up the soul of man from feeling for his brother, surely an ignoble state! let this suffice for our ships loading. I remember very vaguely Enth, much more so Southend or rather the name of Southend and its long Pier (a cockney bathing-place). I have a dim tint of grey-green country and spectral objects enough there rushing past me all that day and after- noon. Our Captain, an excellent, civil, able, old Welshman, kept aloft on the platform; very obliging when you spoke to him. I went twice there with a cigar, looked down into the sea of Irish rabble, and began to decipher type-faces of the Irish. The light boats, we passed near to two or three of them; the dreariest objects I ever in this world saw; the Gird/er Tongue & c. on their several shoals of those names; must keep a light burning at night; the two men have no func- tion else whatever; I suppose they can eat tembly, and sleep nearly the whole day. Their boats were bobbing and capering in the wild surf; narrow was the share otherwise these poor fellows had of this Universe. It is a wild expanse of shoals and channels, this Thames mouth. I had never been on that side of it, at least never in daylight, having usually in former voyages passed by the Nore. Of Broadstairs and Ramsgate, nothing but a tremulous cloudy shadow remains. Ditto of Deal. I saw Walmer Castle, Duke of Welling- tons, looking down on us with wings of planted wood; less memorably some big Hotel, perhaps more than one, its windows glittering in the bleared windy sunset,not beautiful to me they, or anything, in that sad mood. Dover (lived at twenty-four years before, one autumn) looked grim enough in the twilight; I could recognise almost nothing of my old localities, the new entrance of the tunnel was not recogniseable except as a small blotch. How I took tea & c. and went to bed is quite abolished from recollection; too well can I recollect the snoring of my one-eyed provision friend,whose eating at tea, whole chickens and plates of ham vanishing before him, I do now recollect! Also that I got up, probably about midnight; was told we were opposite Brighton, but could see no token of that or of anything but a dim flat coast with some kind of luminous gleam all along where sea met land; whereupon I had to smoke a pipe, and descend to my lair again. Cyclops snoring still more effectively nowseldom or never heard such snoring, which was not a stream, diastole and systole, but a whirlpool rather, or system of whirlpools, bottomless maelsiroms and sandy systis conjoined (ah me !), for the man was nearly suffocated by cloud curtains and by vanished plates of ham. I have a dim but certain recollection of jump- ing out of my bed or drawer at last, indig- nantly dashing his curtains open, with some passionate demand to cease that beastly gurgling and gluddering, in the name of all the devils! Whereby at least my heavy provisional friend did awake; and I fell asleep and heard no more of him for that night. Poor fellow; not a bad creature, after all; there seemed a kind of healthy banter in him, a merry vivid eye; probably an excellent dealer in bacon, praiseworthy as a British citizen of 1849; but he did eat excessively, and his snoring was to me at once hateful and terrible,poor fellow after all! Sunday morning (i July) at seven came on deck: beautifully sunny morning, Isle of Wight, Ventnor region lying close at hand, and the ship motionless waiting for the turn of the tidewind had gone round from east to west in the night: we hung for about an hour with little, at first with next to no motion, opposite that southwest region of the little Island. The special localities, none of which were known to me beforehand, I did not get committed to memory. A straggling hamlet (perhaps about Dunnose, I cant now find on the map any name that fixes itself as the name then given me) with a kind of bay and clayey unbeautiful coasts, this stood distinct; less so other struggling human objects; and now only Ventnor itself figures as absorbing the whole vivid past of the scene. A steepish slope, very green but rather treeless; houses and little gardens CARL YLE IN IRELAND. 9 sprinkled over a good part of it, connected by oblique paths; grass-surface very beautiful everywhere, shrubberies apparently flourish- ing; a pleasant group of dwellings hung out there against the morning sun,and one of them, I know not which, had been John Sterlings last dwelling! I looked intently, with many thoughts. Bonchurch not visible nowhad it been? I knew also (what was curious to think of) that John Forster, little dreaming of my whereabout, was in one Whites at Bonchurch, down from London that very morning. Far elsewhither was I bound. With eye or with glass, looking never so intently I could discover no human or even living figure; which proves perhaps that our distance was greater than the short distance it appeared to be. Toots very loquacious when he could get a chance, came talking about Dr. McHale of Tuam ( Chuam he called it) and Nangles of Achil Island; and how John had cursed them all with bell, book, and candle etc. which I shook oft; not believing it at all literally in spite of Tootss evident bona fides, and wishing indeed to see Ventnor rather than it. After Ventnor, talk with the half-pay Serjt. Major; Wight now flitting faster by us, the ship being under full movement again. Of Indian soldiering; mainly about the economics, difficulties, etc., of loco- motion for armies; but above all things the trices of articles in the various markets, allow- ances of grogwhat you could ge4 and pocket or swallow, by your soldiering in Indiathis was the theme of my half-pay Serjt. A most healthy practical man; sim- plicity itself, and yet savoir-faire enough, tough as leather, and a stroke in him (I could see) like that of a quarter staff of oak. Man worth remembering, told me of his pensions, promotions, appointment now (to some mili- tary charge of a district, I think) at Fal- mouth: as good as one hundred pounds in all, sir, which is very well, you see; more total absence of bragging, nay of self con- sciousness or of any unwholesome element it was impossible to see or figure. Soldiering like working, in such men; strong both ways, as native oak: the strongest kind of men. After Wight, Needles & c. (terribly worn, al- most dilapidated and ruinous ugly-looking) had rapidly flowed past,perhaps before ten oclock,the coast left us; Southampton & c. far in the distance, passed unnoticed, and I think I must have taken to read Quaker Pims book on Ireland which else passed unnoticed. Or perhaps I went to sleep? Probably that was it? Yes, in my notebook (pencil) it is marked so fell asleep on deck a little in the sun Lowards noon. N. B. After three days more there is not even a pencil scrap, nothing but the letters to help me to decipher what was the exact day of this or that occurrence still remem- bered by me. It turned out now there had a man been lost last night. The g6od old Captain so re- ported it. On Saturday evening, most of the poor Irish wretches of invalids got more or less completely drunk; some of them even on entering, had needed no completing. One of them, a lean, angry, misguided, en- tirely worthless looking creature, age per- haps forty, came staggering upon the quarter- deck, and made a turn there: turn nearly completed, he came right upon the captain who of course ordered him oWwhich order, tho given mildly enough, the poor drunk wretch felt to be insulting to his honour, and swore fiercely not to comply with. A scuffle had ensued (Captains hand got twisted): all of us started up to conjure the poor wretch & c.; he did then turn off, abashed, perhaps repentant, had taken more drink for consolation; was last seen about mid- night: it was now he that was never to be seen more! The Irish physiognomies I studied often from the upper platform: besides my yellow friend with the cap, I had made out some five or six type-physiog- nomies, which I could recognize as speci- mens of Irish classes of faces: there was the angry-bewildered, for instance the poor wretch that went overboard, or a still better yet left on board, a lean withered show of a creature with hanging brows, droop nose, mouth-corners drooping, chin narrow, narrow eyes full of sorrow and rage; I have a right to be here, sir, I want my ration! said he once. There was there a blonde big tiger-face (to whom I lent a light for his pipe); this is of mixed breed, I think a north-country face: noble possibility quite marred. Irish sailor at the helm in wig and storm hat; bulky, with acquiline face and closed mouth, wild cunning little eye: like Jock McDonald of my early years. Ah me! These faces are still very clear to me; and were I a painter, I could draw them; others, one or two, not thought of again till now, have got erased; I was struck in general with the air of faculty misbrei4 and gone to ~waste, or more or less excellent possibility much marred, in al- most all these faces. The man had found himself so enveloped in conditions which he deemed unfair, which he had revolted against, but had not been able to conquer, that he had so to speak, lost his way; a sorry sight, the tragedy of each of these poor men; but here too surely is a possibility; if the Irish faculty be good, you can breed it, put it among conditions which are fair or at least fairer. 20 CARL YLE IN IRELAND. Portland Bill: it was on awakening from one of my deck sleeps, well on in the afternoon that this object: a muddy-beached little Island, I found,perhaps an Island only at high tide :shapedrather like a battle bill: was that the origin of the name? From this point the Coast continued our neighbour again; by degrees Dorsetshire passed, and then Devonshire with its gnarled rocks (as if they were whinstone or limestone, and Scotch rocks) winded rapidly off; as the evening sankviewless now, damp, and rather windy, as we were running into the teeth of the breeze. Many caves, gnarled promontories, rock islets; trim houses and fields, no human creature visible; a silent English sabbath country,like the dream of a sabbath. Mate, of whom anon, points out Plymouth light in the thickening dusk; past ten we make the light: Breakwater with its red lamp with its sudden calm of sea, and tumult of boats; we were in some most dark, strait place, with rain beginning, and they called it Plymouth Harbour. Tootss talk to me, while the bustle went on, about an Irish lord (just dead?) and his brother, transcendent blackguards, beautiful once, dance or dinner of innumer- able improper-females in London oncepity rather that I have forgotten that: but of Toots who could do anything but forget? Smooth-flowing shallow shameless river of talk; always in one or two minutes, when I could not bodily get away from him, my thoughts slid far away. These transcendent Irish lords were connected, somehow by mar- riage with the late Duke of Gordon. Of my night in this harbour there remains yet sad memorial; in a scrawl of a letter begun about midnight to my wife! Enough here to record the stages or chief epochs: i. To bed very sleepy. Toots and the Lancashire Non- significant, talking serious jargon for about an hour in the cabin, wouldnt let me; I remember, the poor cockney tourist had been asking for a pen, remembered Post Office here, and started up to write, by way of deliverance from that ear-torment :~. Writing with ear-torment still worn near at hand, my Provisional friend (0 Heaven I thought he had been gone, never to snore more) stept in, evidently full of food and porter; at sight of him I start,can write no farther; lock up my writing case, wait im- patiently that Toots and Non-significant would end. 3. Try bed again; cant at all. Toots and Non-significant stumble in, rain patters on the deck, Provisional friend takes to snoring blubbergurglegludder! I start up and don my clothes; find in the cabin too a poor under-steward snoring, loudly but humanly, and have not the heart to awaken him. Uncertain what to do, fly on deck, smoke (under my umbrella), try not to despair; find at last a side cabin with nothing in it but rubbish of clothes, a sofa and an open window; fling myself down there, thanking Heaven, and fall sound asleep till eight next morning. Monday, 2dJuly.All busy when I came on deck; sunny morning, boxes, bales, persons getting or got on board; soon sail; have seen nothing of Plymouth, see little even of the harbour except confusion of ropes and ships ;size of it guessable at less than I ex- pected. Tract of town (Cutwater they called it?) stretching back on the right as we sailed out; buildings like public storehouses, or offi- cial houses farther down; two neat women step hurriedly on board there. Misventurous Irishwomen, giving up their plan of emigra- tion to Australia, and cowering back to Ennis in Clare, as I afterwards learned; sisters, Misses Hewit by name. Breakwater a stone glacis, with light-tower (perhaps Cannon- tower too) and small esplanade at the end, some frigates scattered about; it was Ply- mouth Sound; pretty enough in the summer morning after such a night. Various new figures now on board; new prey to Toots. I spoke to none; hoped they would leave at Falmouth where we were to call. Sick gen- tleman in big wicker cradle lay on the deck; poor fellow! paralytic in the lower extremi- ties, going to Dublin for surgery, attended only by a rough clown of a servant; his eyes look mild and patient, tho sad; intelli- gent white face; age probably about thirty- five; they shifted him round out of the sun; not to embarrass him, we had to forbear look- ing at his cradle or him. Cornish coast, as that of Devonshire had been, gnarled rocky; indented all along, harbour and sound (when once you had opened it) at the bottom of each little bay Pol something or other, when you asked the name. An interesting event to me. Looe: that is Looe, that strait hardly perceptible crack or notch in the rocks there.Poor C. Buller, poor old years of his and mine! Fowey-harbour entrance was marked by white spots, a couple, painted on the rocks; not find it otherwise. Toots preying on the new- comers. Hum-in-rn. Drum-rn-in! with a strong Irish intonation in it. Many trim sloops of one pattern, with red sails and con- spicuous label ( P. H. No. i, etc.? some- thing like that) were nimbly cutting about: Pilchard-boats, sir! All busy here, crowded steamer crossed us on the left; pleasure-trip, Falmouthto the Eddystone probably. Half- pay Serjeant did the honours of the Coast as we approached his new home; has liberty CARL YLE IN IRELAND. 21 seemingly of the quarter-deck, but feeds and sleeps in some region of his own. About noon or after, past St. Mawes and on the left past Pendennis,Falmouth; and moor there for about an hour which proved two hours and more. I might, had I foreseen that latter fact, have gone ashore to see Barclay Fox and Co., if nothing better; nay, I was near going, had my foot on the ladder towards a boat, but in the scrambling tumult gave it up again, and decided to stay and look about me and pensively smoke and consider. John Ster- lings house was there too; but nobody could tell me which; tho one, a brisk young damsel did point out the warehouse of the Foxes, a big house near the sea. Falmouth might contain three or four thousand souls (as the look suggested to guess); it hung, pleasantly enough, tho much too bare-looking, on the slope of the acclivity and down close to the Sea; reminded me a little of Kirkcaldy, except that this was squarish in shape, not a long town rather a loose town, as I judged; one street near the sea, main street I suppose, on the level; the sloping thoroughfares I judged to be mostly lanes. The country looked bare; the harbour land-locked is beautiful, and if deep must be excellent. Assisted clown to screen the poor invalid gentleman in his cradle from the hot wind- less sun; fixed up my own umbrella over him, which the clown afterwards told me, in confidential gratitude, was a graat sup- poart Sent a card ashore to Fox; admired the clean, sturdy, clear-looking boatmen; watched their long dangerous loading and disloading. Toots had gone, Provisional friend (0 joy!) had gone; hoped we should now have a stiller time. About two the steam growled again, and we got under way, close to the little pleasant Castle of Pendennis this time, a trim castellated height with trim paths & c. (one company in it, Serjt. Halfpay had said); and so again out to the open deep. Our 2 Irishwomen from Ennis in Clare with their clean summer bonnets (mere clean calico, folded full over paste board, with a tack or two; much admired by me) had come to the quarter-deck; wished evi- dently to be spoken to; were by me after others of us. Father had been a Lieutenant of foot with pension, mother too with pen- sion; both being dead, resources were all out: parson had advised emigration, free passage to Australia was certain if we would deposit ~i 2 in advance; deposited, sold off, came to Plymouth, found the free passage a passage among parish paupers, and shrinked (of course) at the notion of it! Officers had been extremely helpful and polite; got us back, with difficulty, our 12 and here we are, wending our sad way home again! A more distressing story I had not lately heard. For both the women, ladies you could not have hesitated even in the poor-house to call them, were clearly of superior faculty and quality: the elder some forty-five perhaps, a ruggid brave- looking woman; the younger delicate, grace- ful, and even still beautiful, tho verging towards middle-age also. The two unfortu- nates, was there nothing other for them by way of career in the world but this! The younger was quite pleasant company; but at the Lizard or earlier began to grow sick, grew ever sick, and I had to lead her to her place, a horrible den called Second Cabin, and there leave her sister and her. Ill-nature of the stewardess, tiff between the good old captain and her because of these poor Miss Hewits. Bring me our basket, pray sir! Stewardess will give it you! were the last words of the elder from her dark den. Stewardess knew nothing of their basket, not she; old captain awoke from his after dinnner nap, reproached the woman for her greedy hard character, ordered h~r to know the basket, which, with very angry tears, assisted by me and my soothing elo- quence, the creature at last did. Base, in many cases, under certain aspects, is the mind of man! The Lizard point we would pass before dinner; stormy place of cliffs, high cliffs, rough water; I found that in shape it did resemble somewhat the head of a lizard,at least on the western sides it does. We were past the southern most land of Britain then; but the tossing of the water did not abate as promised; the evening light glared wild and sad upon the solitary sea, to the Lands-end, that was the word now. Coast still high and all rock; Lands-end stretching out black ahead; it was towards sunset when we actually reached it; passed it round the lighthouse at the dis- tance perhaps of a mile. The wildest most impressive place I ever saw on the coasts of Britain. A lighthouse rises on a detached rock some considerable space ahead; many de- tached rocks, of a haggard skeleton character, worn haggard by the wild sea, are scattered about between the lighthouse and end of the firm cliff; that cluster, where the lighthouse is, had seemed to me like the ruins of a cathedral for some time. Very wild and grim, impressive in itself and as the notablest of British capes. A farmhouse called by sailors First and last stands very near to the ex- tremity; farther round to the west are villages and many houses visible, mining village you are told; the promontory itself is among 22 CARL YLE IN IRELAND. the highest I have seen (much higher than St. Bees I thought); sheer and black. A boat or two, poor specks of piscatory human art, were seen rocking and paddling among the angry skeleton rocks in these ever-vexed waters; where they were to land, or how get up to First and last one didnt well see. But here at last is the spectre of the mixed cathe- dral,a lighthouse among haggard sea-beat rocks, namely; and we are round the Lands- end, getting round towards the western side of it, and had better look well our last. The sunshine now went ou4 angry breeze blew colder from dark cloudy skies,baddish night, probably? Some poor laboring ship, with patched sails and not otherwise of prosperous aspect met us just past the lighthouse, borne into the grim evening, it on its way, we on ours; and the Lands-end was among the things that had been; standing for the Tuscar, sir Tuscar light on the coast of Wexford, one hundred and thirty miles off. And so the evening and the morning had been a new day. As there was nothing to be seen on deck but the dim tumult of sea and sky, I suppose I must have gone early to bed: I can remem- ber shutting my little cabin door, (for the harsh stewardess, in hope probably of a shilling, had volunteered to make a bed for me in the place where I had found refuge the night before) with a satisfied feeling, and turning in with great hope: but, alas, it proved far otherwise. My first experience in the new bed was a jolt that nearly threw me out: the wind had risen, was still rising; the steamer pitched, rolled, tumbled, creaked and growled: doors banging, mens feet and voices sounding, and the big sea booming and roaring: not a wink of sleep could be had all night, hardly could ones place in bed be maintained. Some time, perhaps between three and four I went on deck to smoke; a wild wet stormy dimness everywhere; the mate dripping from every angle of his face and personwith thin wet shoes on, I remem- berapproached my shelter, talking sea stoic- isms to me, admitting that it was a roughish night: noticeable fellow this; very civil, very good-humoured, sliding about (for he trailed his limbs and feet with thin shoes) to put this and that detail in order always; voice thin, creaky, queruloushesitatory, and as if it couldnt be troubled to speak; a rocking,. sliding, innocent-hearted sea-pedant (as such I had classed him); with lips drawn in, puckered brow, and good-humoured eyes ~re- tending to be wearier than they were; came from the Medway, had been wrecked, traded to Aberdeen, was now puddling about in these seas ;may he prosper, poor fellow! I flung myself next on the sofa, under mis- cellaneous wrappage, and did then get some stony sleep till the morning fairly broke. ]uesday,~rd July.On deck between eight and nine, all hands looking out for the Tus- kar when doing nothing else; old captain and a wretched passenger or two trying to walk the quarter-deck (impossible for any two-footed land animal); big sheets of spray dashing over them from time to time. A wild grey tumult; sight and sound everywhere of the rather dismal sort in sea and in sky. One ship or perhaps two at various times visible; elsewhere no Tuskar, no motion that was not of the chaotic powers. Sailors made a wave or motion or sound of some sort from the plat- form, captain too looked; Tuskar at last! In a few instants more I also could see it; white pillar or tower rising steady amid the tumult of the waters, strange and welcome; some twelve miles ofl they said. We turned now gradually to the right: for Arklow head, for Wicklow do., then was Dublin itself to come. Wind, as we turned from it on our new course, grew softer somewhat and water smoother, but all day it was gusty, very un- comfortable and too cold. The poor sick gentleman had passed the night on deck, his cradle well screened under tarpaulins; and didnt seem much hurt by the rough weather. Lancashire Non-significant, who took a little punch perhaps too often, seemed greatly out of sorts; his poor face, red as vermilion in parts, and swollen as if you had blown up all its old wrinkles with wind ;poor devil; yet he ate again at breakfast, and made no com- plaint, took nothing amiss. Wexford Harbour, visible only as a blank on the line of coast, was a mere tradition to us. Wexford and Wicklow hills (I supposed about Eniscorthy and Ferns) many common- place looking hills of moderate height and complex arrangement now visible. Vinegar Hill, a peaked flat cone, conspicuous enough among the others. Thought of the Battle of Vinegar Hill, but not with interest, with sorrow rather and contempt; one of the ten times ten thousand futile fruitless battles this brawling unreasonable people has fought, the saddest of distinctions to them among peoples! In heavens name learn that re- volting is not the trade which will profit you. The unprofitablest of all trades, if you exceed in it! In heavens name either be at peace, or else try to fight with some chance of success! Hill of Tarah visible too, of conical shape; but not the historical-illustrious Tara,that is in Meath, I think; tho that too is but moderately illustrious to me. Arklow Town I didnt see at all; under- stood there was next to no town, but remem CARL YLE IN IRELAND. 23 bered Wooden Ludlows adventure there, and could have liked to take some picture of the ground with me. Wicklow head, beauti- ful trim establishment of a light-house there, properly three towers (one or else two of them having proved wrong built), accurately white- washed, walled in, with paths & c., a pleasure to look at upon the brown way. These gen- erally like that of Devonshire or the lower forms of Scotch coast; interior not ill-culti- vated; houses trim enough from the distance, fields fenced and some small stragglings of plantation even. Behind Wicklow Head, in a broad shallow bay looking rather b/eared; found Wicklow Town, kept looking at it as we sailed northward right away from it; lies in a hollow on the southern side of the bay screened by Wicklow head from the east windsrather a feeblish kind of County Town; chapels, a steeple, slate roofs, thin cloud of smoke; perhaps 2 or towards 3 thousand inhabitants, as I judged. In all these seas we saw no ship. Absolutely none at all but one Wicklow Fishing-sloop, of the same form but quite rusty and out of repair as the Cornish Pilchard-sloops of yesterday; alas one, & in this state of ineffectuality. A big steamer farther on, making from Dub- lin towards Bristol (I think our captain said); this and a pilot boat not employed by us; except these three we saw no other ships at all in those Irish seas that day. Wonderful & lamentable! chorus all my Irish friends; and grope for their pikes to try and mend it! Bray Head I had seen before; and Bray, but couldnt make my recollections correspond. Beautiful suburban country by the shores there, on the Dublin side. Works of Wicklow Railway, hanging over the sea, I remember, probably about Bray Head. Afternoon sink- ing lower, wind cold, bleary, loud; no dinner till one got to Dublin: wish we were there. Dublin Bay at last; Kingston with its small exotic rows of Villas hanging over the saltwater; Dalkey Islet, with ruined church, close on the other side of us; Kingstown Harbour, huge square basin within granite moles, few ships, small business in it, wild wind was tossing some filament of steam about (mail steamer, getting ready I suppose for Holyhead), and the rest was idle vacancy. Long lines of granite embankment, a noble channel with docks, miles of it (there seemed to me), and no ship in it, no human figure on it, the genius df vacancy alone possessing it! Will be useful some day I suppose? The look of it, in ones own cold wretched humour, was rather sad.Dublin Harbour at last; a few ships actually moored here, along the keys nearest to the City. Tumult, as usual; our key was on the north bank. Miss Hewits came up, specially begged me not to leave their luggage once on shore till they themselves came with the remainder of ~it: did so, tho little able to wait; was hardly ever in a more dej5lorable state of body than even now. Despatched the Miss Hewits; got into a cab myself escaping from the un- utterable hurlyburly. Imperial Hotel, Sack- ville street! and was safely set down there, in wind and dust, myself a mass of dust and inflammatory ruin, about 6 or 7 in this evening of Tuesday, July 3.What a pleasure to get fairly washed, and into clean linen and clothes, once more! small wholesome dinner in the ground storey; fine roomy well- ordered place: but, alas, at the Post Office there was no admittance, all shut at seven. I had to take that disappointment, and in- stead of receiving letters write letters. Imperial-Hotel people, warned I suppose by Fitzgerald (Miss Purcell the proprietresss nephew) had brightened up into enthusiastic smiles of welcome at sound of my name: all was done for me then that human waiterage in the circumstances could do; I had a brisk- eyed deft Irish youth by way of special attend- ant, really a clever, active, punctual youth, who seemed as if he would have run to the worlds end for me at lifting of my finger: he got me cloakpins (my little bed-room the quietest they had, wanted such); bath tubs, attended to my letters, clothes, messages, waited on me like a familiar fairy. Could they have got me into a room really quiet, where I might have really slept, all had been well there. But that was notpossible; not there, nor anywhere else in Jnns. Ones pow- ers of observation act under sad conditions, if the nerves are to be continually in a shatter with want of sleep and what it brings! Un- der that sad condition, as of a gloomy press- ure of waking nightmare, were all my Irish operations, of observation or other, trans- acted; no escape from it; take it silently therefore, say nothing more of it, but do the best you may under it as under a law of fate. About io at night, still writing letters, I received John OHagans visit; a note from Duffy, who was dining there, had lain waiting for me beforebrisk innocent modest young barrister, this John OHagan; Duffys sister-in-law did by no manner of means let rooms; so her offer of one, indicated in Duf- fys note, had to be at once declined: Duffy himself would be here in half an hour. Wrote on to my mother or to Jane: Duffy came soon after the time set. Drank a glass of lemonade from me, I a glass of punch; took my letters of introduction home with him to scheme out a route, gave me a road series drive here first, then there, & c. for Dublin 24 CARL YLE IN IRELAND. introductions on the morrow; and after a Kennedy); other brother is Lord Baths agent silent pipe I tumbled into bed. in Monaghan,Izence chiefly those attentions Wednesday, 4th fuZy.Breakfast in the Pub- to me. Ladies gone,pale, elderly earnest- lic room: considerable company; polite all, eyed lean couple of sisters, insipid-beautiful and less of noise among them than when I little wife. Dr. Cooke Taylor is an- was formerly there: arrangements all perfect; nounced, a snuffy, babbling, baddish fellow, toasted bacon, coffee, toast, all right and whom I had not wished at all specially to well servedNo letters for me at the Post- see.Strange dialect of this man, a Youghal Office! strange, but no help. Car ( a shil- native, London had little altered that; im- ling an hour ) about noon (I think) to go mense lazy gurgling about the throat and pal- and deliver my introductions; got a body of ate regions, speech coming out at last not so letters just as I was stepping out on this much in disti;ict pieces and vocables, as in errand: all right, I hope, Postmaster mis- continuous erudition, semi-masticated speech. taken before! MDonnel of the National A peculiar smile too dwelt on the face of poor Schools, engaged, very well; to Board of snuffy Taylor; I pitied, but could not love Works, Poor-law Power not come; Larcom himwith his lazy gurgling, semi-masticated, just coming, read my letters in his room, go semi-deceitful (and self-deceiving) speech, away then as he has not yet got his business thought and action. Poor fellow, one of his done. In Merrion Square Doctor Stokes in: books that I read On the Manufacturing clever, energetic, but squinting, rather fierce, regions in 1843, was not so bad; Lord sinister-looking man,at least some dash of Clarendon, a great Patron of his, had got him that suspectible in him: to dine there, never- a pension, brought him over to Ireland theless, to-morrow eveningDoctor Kennedy and now (about a fortnight ago, end of Septr.) not at home, Sir R. Kane do. (out of town); I learn that he is dead of cholera, that, better Sir Duncan Macgregor, found him, an excel- or not so good, I shall never see him again! lent old Scotchman, soldierly, open, genial, We drove home together that night, in Dr. sagacious: Friday night to dine with him; Kennedys car; I set him out at his house left my other military letters there, and drove (in some modest clear street, near Merrion to Mrs. Callans (Duffys sister-in-law ) ; Square); two days after, I saw him at the had missed Pim the Quaker before; in Lon- Zo6logical breakfast; gurgle-snuffle, Cockney- don; left Forsters letter, declining to see and-Youghal wit again in semi-masticated the other members of the firm just now. dialect, with great e~g5ressio;zs of regard for Long talk with Mrs. Callan, Dr. C., and me, as well as with other half or whole un- Mrs. Duffy; Duffy in his room ill of slight truths ;and so poor Taylor was to vanish, cold. Home to Imperial again; with a notice and the curtains rush down between us im- that I will go and bathe at Howth ;find penetrable for evermore. Allah akbar, Allah Dr. Evory Kennedy at the door as I am Kerim / inquiring about that; go in with him, talk; Thursday, 5th July.What people called, he carries me in his vehicle to the Howth what bustle there was of cards, and people, Station, not possible for this night; can do it and appointments, and invitations in my little at Kingston, drives off for the station thither, room, I have quite forgotten the details of with repeated invitations that I will dine with (letters indicate more of it perhaps): what I him,finds on the road that Kingston also can remember is mainly what I did, and not will not do, and renews his entreaties to dine, quite definitely (except with effort) all or the which seeing now no prospect for the even- most of that. ing, I comply with Ky.; drives me all Notes and visitors, hospitable messages and about; streets beautiful, but idle, empty; persons, Macdonnel, Colonel Foster, Dr. Ken- charming little country house (name irrecov- nedyin real truth I have forgotten all the erable now), beyond some iron-foundry or particulars; of Thursday I can remember only forge-works, beyond Rev. Dr. Todds, on a dim hurly-burly, and whirlpool of assiduous the Dundrum or Ranelagh side: wife and sis- hospitable calls and proposals, till about four ters all out to receive us: sisters, especially oclock when a Sir Philip Crampton, by no elder sister, expected to be charmed at sight means the most notable of my callers, yet of Thomas Carloil! tho whether they now the most noted in my memory, an aged, adequately were or not, I cannot say. rather vain and not very d4p-looking Doctor Pleasant enough little dinner there; much of Physic, came personally to drive me out, talk of Pitt Kennedy, a brother now with drive me to the Phoenix Park and Lord Napier in India; vivid inventive patriotic Lieutenants, as it proved. Vapid-inane look- man, it would appear, of whose pamphlets ing streets in this Dublin, along the quays they promised me several (since read, not and everywhere; sad defect of waggons, real without some real esteem of the headlong Pitt business vehicles or even gentlemans car- CARL YLE IN IRELAND. 25 riages; nothing but an empty whirl of street cars, huckster carts and other such trash- ery. Sir Ps. talk, Twistleton mainly Phoenix Park, gates, mostly in grass, monu- ment, a pyramid, I really dont remember in admonition of what,some victory per- haps? Frazers Guide-book would tell. Hay going on, in pikes, coils, perhaps swaths too; patches of potatoes even: a rather dim- mish wearisome look. House with wings (at right angles to the body of the building) with esplanade, two sentries, and utter solitude, looked decidedly dull. Sir P., some business inside, tho Ldship. out, leaves me till that end; I write my name, with date merely, not with address, in his Lordships book ( havent the honor to know her Ladyship,) am con- ducted through empty galleries, into an empty room in the western (or is it northern ~) wing, am there to wait. Tire soon of waiting; walk off leaving message. Sir P. overtakes me before we reach the gate; sets me down at my h6tel again, after much celebration of his place in the Wicklow Hills, etc., after saluting an elderly rou6 Prince or Graf something, a very unbeautiful old boiled-looking foreign dignitary (Swede, I think) married to some- bodys sister ;and with salutations, takes himself away, muttering about Zodlogical society breakfast on Saturday, and I, barely in time now for Stokess dinner, behold no more. Stokess dinner was well replenished both with persons and other material, but it proved rather unsuccessful. Foolish Mrs. Stokes, a dim Glasgow lady, with her I made the re- verse of progress,owing chiefly to ill-luck. She did bore me to excess, but I did not give way to that; had difficulty however in resist- ing it; and at length once, when dinner was over, I answering somebody about something chanced to quote Johnsons, Did I say any- thing that you understood, Sir? the poor fool- ish lady took it to herself; bridled, tossed her head with some kind of indignant-polite inepti- tude of a reply; and before long flounced out of the room (with her other ladies, not remembered now), and became, I fear, my enemy for ever! Petrie, a Painter of Land- scapes, notable antiquarian, enthusiastic for Brian Boru and all that province of affairs; an excellent simple, affectionate lovable soul, dear old Petrie, he was our chief figure for me: called for punch instead of wine, he, and was gradually imitated; a thin, wrinkly, half- ridiculous, yet mildly dignified man; old bachelor, you could see; speaks with a pant- ing manner, difficult to find the word; shews real knowledge, tho with sad credulity on Irish antiquarian matters; not knowledge that I saw on anything else. Burton, a young Por trait-Painter; thin-acquiline man, with long thin locks scattered about, with a look of real Painter-talent, but thin, proud-vain; not a pleasant man of genius. Todd, antiquarian parson (Dean or something), whose house I had seen the night before: little round-faced, dark-complexioned, squat, good humored and knowing man; learned in Irish Antiquities he too; not without good instruction on other matters too.These and a mute or two were the dinner; Stokes, who has a son that carves, sitting at the side; after dinner there came in many other mutes who remained such to me. Talk, in spite of my endeavours, took an Irish-versus-English character; wherein, as I really have no respect for Ireland as it now is and has been it was impossible for me to be popular! Good humor in general, tho not without effort always, did maintain itself. But Stokes, the son of a United-Irishman as I heard, grew more and more gloomy, em- phatic, contradictory: after eleven I was glad to get away. Petrie and others in kindly mood going with me so far as our roads coin- cided; and about twelve (I suppose) I got to bed,and do not suppose, also, but know, that there was a wretched wakeful night appointed me: some neighbouring guest taken suddenly ill, as I afterwards heard. (I must get on faster, be infinitely briefer in regard to all this! Friday, 6th fuly.Stillin the bath-tub, when my waiter knocked at the door, towards 9; and so soon as let in, gave me a letter with notice that some orderly, or heiduc, or I know not what the term is, was waiting in some vehicle for an answer. Invitation from Lord Clarendon to dine with him on Satur- day: here was a nodus! For not having slept, I had resolved to be out of Dublin and the noise without delay; Kennedy had pressed me to his country-house for a dinner on Sat- urday, and that, tho not yet in words I had resolved to do, his hospitality being really urgent and his place quiet;and now has the Lord Lieutenant come, whose invitation abol- ished by law of etiquette all others! Out of the cold bath, on the spur of the moment, thou shalt decide, and the heiduc waits! Po- lite answer (well enough really) that I am to quit Dublin that evening, and cannot come. Well so far; so much is tolerably ended. New very polite note came from Lord Clarendon offering me introductions & c. an hour or two after; for which I wrote a 2nd note, not needed, thousand thanks. This morning I had to breakfast with OHagan, where were two young Fellows of Trinity great admir- ers & c. and others to be. Fellows of Trinity, breakfast and the rest of it accordingly took effect: Talbot Street 26 CARL YLE ZN IRELAND. I think they called the place,lodgings, re- spectable young barristers. Hancock the Political-Economy Professor, whom I had seen the day before; he and one Ingram, author of the Repeal Song True man like you man, were the two Fellows; to ~whom as a mute brother one Hutton was added, with invitation to me from the parental circle, beautiful place somewhere out near Howth,very well as it afterwards proved. Dr. Murray, Theology-Professor of May- nooth, a big burly mass of Catholic Irish- ism; he and Duffy, with a certain vinaigrous pale shrill logician figure who came in after breakfast, made up the partyTalk again England versus Ireland; a sad unreasonable humour pervading all the Irish population oii this matter England does not hate you at all, nor love you at all; merely values and will pay you according to the work you can do! No teaching of that unhappy people to understand so much. Dr. Murray, head cropt like stubble, red-skinned face, harsh grey Irish eyes; full of fiery Irish zeal too, and rage, which however he had the art to keep down under buttery-vocables: man of considerable strength, man not to be loved by any manner of means! Hancock, and now Ingram too, were wholly English (that is to say, Irish-rational) in sentiment. Duffy very plaintive with a strain of rage audible in it. Vinaigrous logician, intolerable in that vein, drove me out to smoke. Not a pleasant breakfast in the humour I was then in! University after, along with these two fel- lows: Library and busts; Museum, with big dark Curator Ball in it; many knick-nacks, Skull of Swifts Stella, and plaster-cast of Swift: couldnt write my name, except all in a tremulous scratchy shiver, in such a state of nerves was I. Todd had, by appointment, been waiting for me; was gone again. Right glad I to get home, and smoke a pipe in peace, till Macdonnel (or somebody) should come for me !Think it was this day I saw among others, Councillor Butt, brought up to me by Duffy: a terrible black burly son of earth: talent visible in him, but still more animalism; big bison-head, black, not quite unbrutal: glad when he went off to the Galway Circuit or whithersoever. Sad reflexions upon Dublin, and the ani- mosities that reign in its hungry existence Not now the Capital of Ireland; has Ire- land any Capital, or where is its future capital to be? Perhaps Glasgow or Liverpool is its real capital city just now! Here are no longer lords of any kind; not even the sham- lords with their land-revenues come hither now. The place has no manufactures to speak of; except of ale and whisky, and a little poplin-work, none that I could hear of. All the litigation of Ireland, whatever the wretched Irish people will still pay for the voiding of their quarrels, comes hither; that and the sham of Government about the Castle and Phoenix Park,which could as well go anywhither if it were so appointed. Where will the future capital of Ireland be! Alas, when will there any real aristocracy arise (here or elsewhere) to need a Capital for re- siding in About four p. m. as appointed, Macdonnell with his car came. Son of a United Irish- man, he too. Florid handsome man of 45 with grey hair, keen hazel eyes, not of the very best expression: active, quick, intelli- gent, energetic, with something smelling of the Hypocrite in him, disagreeably limiting all other respect one might willingly pay him. Talis qualis, with him through the Streets. Glassnevin tollbar, woman has not her groat of change ready; streaks of ir- regularity, streaks of squalor noticeable in all streets and departments of things. Glass- nevin Church; woody, with high enclosures, frail-looking old edifice, roof mainly visible: at length Glassnevin model-farmnearly the best thing, to appearance, I have yet seen in Ireland. Modest slated buildings, house, school and offices, for real use, and fit for that. Slow-spoken heavy-browed, school- master, croaks out sensible pertinent speech about his affairs: an Ulster man (from Lame, I think; name forgotten), has forty-five pupils, from seventeen to twenty-one years; they are working about, dibbling, sorting dungheaps, sweeping yards. Mac. speaks to several: coarse rough-haired lads, from all sides of Ireland, intelligent well-doing looks thro them all. Schooling alternates with this hus- bandry work. Will become National School- masters,probably factors of estates, if they excel and have luck. Clearly, wherever they go they will be practical missionaries of good order and wise husbandry, these poor lads; anti chaos missionaries these: good luck go with them, more power to their elbow! Such were my reflections, expressed partly in some such words. Our heavy-brow- ed croaking-voiced friend had some thirty Cows; immense pains to preserve all manure, it is upon this that his husbandry turns. A few pigs, firstrate health in their air. Some thirty acres of ground in all; wholly like a garden for cultivation: best hay, best barley; best everything. I left him and his rough boys, wishing there were iooo such establishments in Ireland: alas, I saw no other in the least equal to it; doubt if there is another. Mac. talking confidentially and with good insight too of Archbishop Whately CARL YLE IN IRELAND. 27 & C., set me down at the H6tel, to meet again at dinner. Hasty enough toilette, then Sir Dn. Mc Gregors close Car, and I am whisked out to Drumcoudra where the brave Sir Dn. himself with wife and son, and a party in- cluding Larcom and two ancient Irish Gen- tlemen & c are waiting. Pleasant old country-house; excellent quiet- ly genial and hospitable landlord: dinner pleasant enough really. McDonnell sat by me, somewhat flashy; Larcom opposite, perhaps do. but it was in the English style. Ancient Irish gentn. were of really excel- lent breeding, yet Irish altogether: these names quite gone (if ever known, according to the underbreath method of introduction), their figures still perfectly distinct to me. In white neck cloth, opposite side, a lean figure of sixty; wrinkly, like a washed blacksmith in face, yet like a gentn. too, elaborately washed and dressed, yet still dirty-looking; talks of ancient experiences, in hunting, claret drinking, experiences of others his acquaintances, all dead and gone now, which I have entirely forgotten; high Irish accent; clean dirty-face wrinkled into stereotype, of smile or of stoical frown you couldnt say which: that was one of the ancient Irishmen; who perhaps had a wife there? The other, a more florid man with face not only clean but clean-looking, and experiences somewhat similar; a truly polite man in the Irish style: he took me home in his car. Sir Dn. had handed me a general missive to the Police Stations Be service- able, if you ever can, to this traveller, which did avail me once. At home lies Ken- nedys letter, enjoining me to accept the Lord Lieutenants dinner, whither he too is going; which I have already refused! What to do to-morrow night? Duffy is to be off to Kilkenny; to lodge with Dr. Cane the Mayor; who invites me too (Duffy, on the road to OHagans breakfast, shewed me that), which I accept. Saturday, ~th July.Wet morning; wait for Kennedys promised Car,to breakfast in the Zodlogical gardens. Smoking at the door, buy a newspaper, old hawker pockets my groat, then comes back saying Yer Hanar has given me by mistake a three- penny! Old knave, I gave him back his newspaper, ran upstairs for a penny,dis- cover that the threepenny has a hole drilled in it, that it is his,and that I am done! He is off when I come downPetrie under an umbrella, but no Kennedy still, We call a car, we two; I give him my Note to Cham- bers Walker, Barrister, whom he knows, who will take me up at Sligo, when he (P) will join us, and we shall be happy. Well ;we shall seeMuddy Street, rain about done; Carboy coming over one of the bridges, drives against the side of our car, seemed to me to see clearly for some instants that he must do such a thing, but to feel all the while that it would be so convenient to him if he didnt,a reckless humour, z~gnoring of the inevitable, which I saw often enough in Ire- land. Even the mild Petrie swore, and bran- dished his umbrella. How could I help it?; could I stop, and I goin so rapid! At the gate of Zodlogical which is in Phoenix Park, were Hancock, Ball of the Museum, another Ball of the Poor-law, Cook Taylor (for the last time, poor soul !), and others strolling under the wet boscage: breakfast now got served in a dim very damp kind of place (like some small rotundo, for limited public- meetings),unpleasant enough wholly; and we got out into the gardens, and walked smoking, with freer talk (of mine mainly) good for little. Animals & c.,public sub- scription scantyGovernment helps :adieu to it. In Kennedys car to Sackville Street; Poor-law Ball and a whole set of us; pause at Sackville street, part go on, part will take me to Royal Irish Academy, after I have got my letters of this mornings post. With Han- cock I settle that Hutton this night shall lodge me at Howth; that he and Ingram shall escort me out thither, when I will bathe. Nerves and healthach Gott, be silent of them! Royal Irish Academy really has an inter- esting museum: Petrie does the honours with enthusiasm. Big old iron cross (Smiths name on it in Irish, and date about 1100 or so, in- genious old smith really); Second Book of Clogher (tremendously old, said Petrie), torques, copper razor, porridge-pots, bog butter (tastes like wax), bog-cheese (didnt taste that, or even see); stone mallets (with cattle-bones copious where they are found, old savage feasting-places): really an in- teresting museum, for everything has a cer- tain authenticity, as well as national or other significance, too often wanting in such places. Next to Petrie, my most assiduous expositor was the Secy., whom I had seen at Stokess; a mute, but who spoke now and civilly and to the purpose. Bustle-bustle. Evory Ken- nedy and others making up a route for me in the library room; at length, in a kind of par- oxysm, I bid adieu to them all, and get away, to the hotel to pack and settle. Larcom next comes: for an hour and half in Board of Works with him. Sir W. Pettys old survey of Irish lands (in another office from Ls); Larcoms new one,very ingen- ious; coloured map, with dots, figures referring you to tables, where is a complete account of all estates, with their pauperisms, liabilities, 28 CARL YLE IN IRELAND. rents, resources: for behoof of the Poor-law Commrs. and their electoral divisions; a really meritorious and as I fancy most valua- ble work. Kirwan a western squire accident- ally there; astonished at me, poor fellow, but does not hate me, invites me even. Larcom to hotel door with me: adieu, adieu! to the hotel people too, who have done all things zealously for me, and even schemed me out a route for the morrow (wrong, as it proved, alas!) I bid affecting adieus; and Ingram and Hancock bowl me off to the Howth Railway. Second-class, say they, but gentn. tho crowded: Dublin cockneys on a Saturday. The Hutton house, that evening amid Josinian really well-conditioned people: much should not be said of it. Hospitalitys self: tall silent-looking Father Hutton (for they live at Ballydoyle, this side of Howth) meets me with hopes & c. at the Station there: car is to follow us to Howth, where I am to bathe, whither we now roll on. Bathe, bad bathing-ground, tide being out, wound heel in the stones (slippers were in the Bath- ing Machine, but people didnt tell me); Cornish Pilchard-sloops fishing here; dirty village; big old Abbey over-grown with thistles, nettles, burdocks and the extremity of squalor, to which we get access thro dark cabins by the back windows,leaving a few coppers amid hallelujahs of thanks. Car, get wrapped, and drive to Lord Howths gate: admittance there, to those of us on foot, not without difficulty: beautiful avenue, beautiful still house looking out over the still sea at eventide; among the beautifullest places I ever saw. Lord Howth a racer away now, with all his turf-equipments; Cornish people obliged to come and fish his Bay,his mainly for 500 years back, I believe. Call in by a Cousin Hutton (poor George Darleys class- fellow, a barrister, I afterwards find) who is to go with us; twilight getting darker and darker,I still without dinner, and growing cold, reduced to tobacco merely! Arrive at last; succedaneum for dinner is readily provided, consumed along with coffee; night passes, not intolerably, tho silence for me was none; alas, on reflecting, I had not come there for silence! Cousin Hutton and In- gram off; a clever indignant kind of little fellow the latter. Mrs. Hutton, big black eyes struggling to be in earnest; four young ladies sewing,sckdne kinder truly.At last do get to bed; sleep sound till 6., bemoaned by the everlasting main. No train (Sunday) at the hour given by Imperial Hotel peo- ple, so it appears! The good Huttons have decided to send me by their carriage. Ex- cellent people; poor little streetkin of Bally- doyle fronting a wide waste of sea-sands (fisher people, I suppose): peace and good be with you! Sunday, 8th fuly.Escorted by Hancock and young Hutton, am set uown at Imperial Hotel, and thence my assiduous Familiar brings out luggage, in a Car to Kildare Rail- way Station, (in the extreme west,Kings or Temple-bridge, do they call it?): three-quar- ters of an hour too soon; rather wearisome the waiting. Fields all about have a weedy look, ditches rather dirty; houses in view, ex- tensive some of them, have a patched di- lapidated airlime-pointing on roofs (as I gradually found) is uncommonly frequent in Ireland; do. white-washing to cover a multi- tu~1e of sins: grey time-worn look in conse- quencelime is everywhere abundant in Ire- land; few bogs themselves but are close in the neighborhood of lime. Start at last: second class but not quite Gentn. this time; plenty of room however. Irish traveller alone in my compartment; big horse-faced elderly; not a bad fellow (a Wex- forder ?),for Limerick I suppose. Two Irish gents (if not gentn.) in the next com- partment (for we were all visible to one an- other) ; mixed rusticity or cockneity, not remembered, in the other. Gents had both of them their tickets stuck in hatband; good, and often seen since in Scotland and there: talked to one another, loud but empty: first gent beaming black animal eyes, florid, osten- tatious, voracious-looking: a sensual gent; neighbour had his back towards me, and he is lost: both went out awhile before me.Kil- dare Station between twelve and one (I think): indifferent porterageCountry with hay and crops, in spite of occasional bogs, had been good,waving champaign with Wicklow Hills in the distance; railway well enough, tho sometimes at Stations or the like some little thing was wrong.Letter of the Inscrip- tion knocked oW or the like. This then is Kildare :but alas I nowhere see the City; above all, see no Peter Fitzgerald, whom II expected here to receive me. In the open space, which lies behind the station, get a view of Kildare, round tower, black and high, with old ruin of cathedral, on a height half a mile off; poor enough City to all appear- ance! Ask for St. Bridgets Fire Tower- house that once was; nobody knows it; one young fellow pretends (and only pretends I think) to know it. Two gentlemen, fat fellows, out of the train seemingly had seen the label on my luggage; rush round to ask me eagerly, Are you Mr. Thomas Carloil? I thought they had been Fitzgerald, and joyfully an- swered and enquired: alas, no they were Mr. Something else altogether, and had to roll away again next instant. Seeing no Fitzger CARL YLE ZN IRELAND. 29 aid I had to bargain with a car-man (I think there was but one), and roll away towards Halverstownup a steepish narrow road to Kildare first. Kildare, as I entered it looked worse and worse: one of the wretchedest wild villages I ever saw; and full of ragged beggars this day (Sunday),exotic altogether, like a Village in Dahomey. Man and Church both, knots of worshipping people hung about the streets, and every-where round them hovered a harpy- swarm of clamorous mendicants, men, women, children :a village winged as if a flight of harpies had alighted in it! In Dublin I had seen winged groups, but not much worse than some Irish groups in London that year: here for the first time was Irish beggary itself From the centre or top of the village I was speeding thro, when the Cathedral and Round Tower disclose, or properly had disclosed, themselves on my right: I turn a little to survey them; and here Fitzgerald and lady, hospitable pair, turn up and make themselves known to me ~ la bonne heure. Beggars, beggars; walk through the wretch- ed streets, Nunneries here, big chapel here, my hosts are Catholics: I went smoking in their carriage till they make a call; wont give beggars anything who depart, all but 2 young fellows, cowering nearly naked on oppo- site sides of me 20 yards off Thke this groat and divide it between you! Explosion of thanks; exeunt round the cornerresented one: Ach, yer honor! He wont give me the two pence Then why dont you lick him, you blockhead, till he either die or give it you? Two citizens, within hearing, burst into a laugh.Home to Halverstown, pleasant rough-cultivated Country, ragged hedges, fer- tile weedy fields, one good farmstead or two: Mrs. Purcell welcomes us with genial smiles. Monday, 9/h July 1849.Went from Hal- verstown to Glendalough, wonderful passage, especially after Holywood a desolate hamlet among the hills. Scarecrow figures all busy among their peats, ragged all, old straw hats, old grey loose coats in tatters, vernacular as- pect all. Horse unwilling to perform uphill, at length down hill too; we mostly walk. Young shepherd, very young gossoon (had been herding with somebody for no wages),~ was now sent home to the Churches, where he had a brother (minor) and sister left,fibbed to me (as I found in the begging line), other- wise good and pitiable, I made him mount downhill. Resemblance to Galloway, in the hills, or to the pass beyond Drevien; hills all black and boggy some very craggy too; cattle kylors, sheep mongrels : wild stony huts, patches of corn few yards in area. [Woman near Kilcullen milking a goat in the morninggoats frequent enough here, pick living in the ditches] Wicklow Gap; Lead Mines; stones on the road. Guide (a sulky stupid creature) drives over it eyes open.Like much here, like potatoe-culture. Cottages mostly cabins to the right hand under the road, and more frequent all the way down. Some mine-works (water wheel going), many mine shafts all the way down. At bottom inn, shop, swift river steps; beggars, churches, churchyard, wreck of grey antiquity grown black; round tower Cathedral, small Church with arch roof still entire, and little round belfry (? windows in it) at one end. Third church there; then lower and upper lake opening. Strait cul-de- sac of a glen, a spoke (or radius) making an angle with Wicklow Gap Glen: fit Jot among the black mountains for St. Kevin to macerate himself in. Scarecrow, boatman; big mouth, rags, hunger and good humour, has his chance (of this best with strangers) by way of wages. Woman squirrel clambering on the rocks to shew St. Kevins Bed; which needed no shewing at all; husband had deserted her, children all dead in workhouse but one; shed under a cliff; food as, the ravens. New carman, rapid, good-humoured and loquacious; miner hurt among the hills; man galloping for doctor and priest; howl of womans lamentation heard among the twilight mountains; very miserable to hear. No whiskey at Twainers; handsome gift of milk by pretty daughter brought sixpence all the same. Home about ten; expense enor- mous, 30/ or more to me. Tuesday iotA July.Lane, the Scotch farm- er; excellent farming; Gentn. (Burrowes) that wouldnt allow draining. 8oo people took the Common; priest had petitioned Peel io years ago, but took no notice; peasant vag- aries did, and here their cabins and grottos all are. Fitzs brother (a useful good servant) has a cabin and field there, with wife in it; good ground if it were drained. All Com- mons have been settled that way; once they were put away from, and the ditches levelled twice (so said our first Carman, a fine active lad) the third time it held, and so they stay. OConnor (Mrs. Purcells brother) a smart dandyish landlord, complained dread- fully of these Commoners now mostly Jaufers; nobodys property once, now his (to bed). All creatures, Love among the rest, cling to the potatoe, as the one hope or pos- sibility they have or ever dream of; look upon the chance of failure, as our Sulky did upon the stone perhaps Ill get over it. In the afternoon Curragh of Kildare, best of race- courses, a sea of beautiful green land, with 30 THE DREAMER. fine cropt furze on it here and there, a fine race-stand (like the best parish church) at one end, saddling house, & c.; racing apparatus enough; and work for about 10,000 people if they were set to it instead of left to beg, (circle of 3 miles, 4,000 acres, look?) New- bridge village and big barrack; Liffey both at Kilcullen and it; Monastey Mrs. P. saluted priest; people all lounging, village idle, silent, many houses down.Railway, whirl of dust, smoke and screaming uproar, past Kildare again, past Athy (A-thigh) old walls, now a village, Wexford hills on this hand, Qs County hills on that: good green waving country alter- nating with detestable bogs to Carlowsaw into the grey old hungry-looking stones as we whirled past in the evening sunRailway Station, broken windows there (done by mis- chievous boys), letters knocked oW & c., now and then all the way from Dublin. Car at Bagnalstown, eloquent beggar. More power to you wherever you go! The Lord Almighty preserve your honor from all sickness and hurt and the dangers of the year! & c., & c. Never saw such begging in this world; often get into a rage at it. On to Kilkenny (over the Barrow & c.); noisy vulgar fellow, talks, seems to know me. Castle Inn door; Dr. Canes, where I now am [writing in dressing gown] 7 a. m. not having slept; morning the flower of summer; town old decayed and grey. (To be continued.) Thomas CarlyZe. THE DREAMER. OH, I have sailed Where others failed; Found polar seas and Happy Isles, And gone a million million miles, Through summer and through snowing! And I have seen Old Pan between The oaken vistas, as I passed Low banks Lycinus overcast, His oaten pipe a-blowing. Sometimes, on seas, Sweet melodies Of phantom voices fill the sky, And fairy barges pass me by, Bound out for El Dorado. Through frozen noons And torrid moons, Toward stranger noons and moons I steer; Through wood and waste I journey near, The Valley of the Shadow. In crowded throngs, I hear strange songs, And blare of trumpets sounding by Old villages and castles high, And pied and daisied hollows; Or see, between The springs young green, The gleaming shpulder, pearly white, Of laughing dryad, in swift flight, The gay faun hotly follows. Sometimes the night Is filled with light, And all the sweet myrrh-thickets glow With softened yellow, when below Ten thousand lanterns quiver. Through outer glooms, And trailing blooms, I sweep into enchanted lands, Fast skimming oer the golden sands Of Bagdads storied river. And dancing girls, In dreamy whirls, By palace-doors that brightly gleam, Float through like visions in a dream, The sweet thought follows after. And eyes meet eyes, In loves surprise; Hearts beat, and loud the wailing flute. And murmur of the drowsy lute, Do mimic happy laughter. The grace that gleams In poets dreams And lovers thoughts I still pursue; For me the sunlight paints the dew, And lilies perfume-laden. To me bird-song And joy belong, And poles come near, and stars draw nigh; For me doth droop the laughing eye Of arch and tender maiden. L. Frank Tooker.

30 THE DREAMER. fine cropt furze on it here and there, a fine race-stand (like the best parish church) at one end, saddling house, & c.; racing apparatus enough; and work for about 10,000 people if they were set to it instead of left to beg, (circle of 3 miles, 4,000 acres, look?) New- bridge village and big barrack; Liffey both at Kilcullen and it; Monastey Mrs. P. saluted priest; people all lounging, village idle, silent, many houses down.Railway, whirl of dust, smoke and screaming uproar, past Kildare again, past Athy (A-thigh) old walls, now a village, Wexford hills on this hand, Qs County hills on that: good green waving country alter- nating with detestable bogs to Carlowsaw into the grey old hungry-looking stones as we whirled past in the evening sunRailway Station, broken windows there (done by mis- chievous boys), letters knocked oW & c., now and then all the way from Dublin. Car at Bagnalstown, eloquent beggar. More power to you wherever you go! The Lord Almighty preserve your honor from all sickness and hurt and the dangers of the year! & c., & c. Never saw such begging in this world; often get into a rage at it. On to Kilkenny (over the Barrow & c.); noisy vulgar fellow, talks, seems to know me. Castle Inn door; Dr. Canes, where I now am [writing in dressing gown] 7 a. m. not having slept; morning the flower of summer; town old decayed and grey. (To be continued.) Thomas CarlyZe. THE DREAMER. OH, I have sailed Where others failed; Found polar seas and Happy Isles, And gone a million million miles, Through summer and through snowing! And I have seen Old Pan between The oaken vistas, as I passed Low banks Lycinus overcast, His oaten pipe a-blowing. Sometimes, on seas, Sweet melodies Of phantom voices fill the sky, And fairy barges pass me by, Bound out for El Dorado. Through frozen noons And torrid moons, Toward stranger noons and moons I steer; Through wood and waste I journey near, The Valley of the Shadow. In crowded throngs, I hear strange songs, And blare of trumpets sounding by Old villages and castles high, And pied and daisied hollows; Or see, between The springs young green, The gleaming shpulder, pearly white, Of laughing dryad, in swift flight, The gay faun hotly follows. Sometimes the night Is filled with light, And all the sweet myrrh-thickets glow With softened yellow, when below Ten thousand lanterns quiver. Through outer glooms, And trailing blooms, I sweep into enchanted lands, Fast skimming oer the golden sands Of Bagdads storied river. And dancing girls, In dreamy whirls, By palace-doors that brightly gleam, Float through like visions in a dream, The sweet thought follows after. And eyes meet eyes, In loves surprise; Hearts beat, and loud the wailing flute. And murmur of the drowsy lute, Do mimic happy laughter. The grace that gleams In poets dreams And lovers thoughts I still pursue; For me the sunlight paints the dew, And lilies perfume-laden. To me bird-song And joy belong, And poles come near, and stars draw nigh; For me doth droop the laughing eye Of arch and tender maiden. L. Frank Tooker. OPERA IN NEW YORK. III. A SINGLE season brought the operatic ad- venturers in Astor Place to bankruptcy. Fol- lowing upon two splendid performances (one of Romeo by the veteran prima-donna, Catarina Barili-Patti, in which, notwithstanding the lack of freshness in her voice, she delighted the most appreciative part of her audience by her splendid and truly imposing display of the grand style in the old Italian school of sing- ing, and one by Truffi of the Jewess in Verdis Nabucco, in which, by her nobility of per- son and of action, and no less by her fine musical declamation, she made an impression never to be effaced from the memories of those who received it), the doors of the new and beautiful lyric theater were closed, with great uncertainty as to when and by whom they would be re-opened. New York was not, however, left without Italian opera, and that of no mean order. The Havana company returned in the spring of 1848, and appeared at Niblos Theater. Their visits to New York were regular for a few years, and were events of musical impor- tance. Not only was the number of the prin- cipal artists large, and their merit great, but such a chorus, and an orchestra so well filled and so ably directed (always by Arditi), American audiences were not accustomed to; nor were operatic performances of such com- pleteness common even in Europe, except in some two or three of the great capitals. And these performances were given at a very low price; the object of the manager, Seiior Marty, of Havana, being less to make money by the visits of his company to America, than to keep them together and preserve their health, and diminish his expenses during the sickly season in Cuba. Their visit this season was made remarkable by the appearance of a tenor, Salvi, who, as a vocalist, among the eminent tenors who have been heard in New York, was second only to Mario, the greatest of his time, and since whose retirement the world tias heard none worthy even to be called his successor. Although Salvi was past his youth when he first sang in New York, his voice was yet in perfect preservation. It lacked nothing that is to be expected in a tenor voice of the first class: and it had that mingling of manliness and tenderness, of human sympa- thy and seraphic loftiness, which, for lack of any other or better word, we call divine. As a vocalist, he was not in the first rank; but he stood foremost in the second. His presence was manly and dignified, and he was a good actor. But it was as a vocalist pure and sim- ple that he captivated and moved his audi- ences. He was heard in America at brief intervals during a few years, and his influence upon the taste of the general music-loving public was very considerable and wholly good. Singing at Niblos, at Castle Garden, and other like places, at which the price of admis- sion was never more than one dollar, and was generally fifty cents, he gave to multitudes who would otherwise have had no such op- portunity, that education in art which is to be had only from the performances of a great artist. In purity of style he was unexception- able. He lacked only a little higher finish, a little more brilliancy of voice and impressive- ness of manner, to take a position among tenors of the very first rank. Of these, how- ever, there are never two in the world at the same time, scarcely two in the same genera- tion; and so Salvi prepared the public for the coming Mario. His forte was the cantabile, and his finest effects were those in mezza voce, expressive of intense suppressed feeling. More than once, when he sang ~7g5irto genz14 as he rose to the crescendo of the second phrase, and then let his cry pass suddenly away in a dying fall, I have heard a whole house draw suspended breath, as if in pain; so nearly alike in their outward manifestations are pain and fine, keen pleasure. With the Havana company came also at this time Signora Steffanone, a soprano, with- out some mention of whom these sketches would be thought ungratefully imperfect by all those who remember her satisfying voice, her admirable style, and her pleasing although notably ample person. It seemed as if she might and should have been a great prima-donna; and, always pleasing to the most exacting hearers, at certain moments, on certain nights, she rose to grandeur, and aroused her audiences to enthusiasm. But as time went on she deteriorated rather than im- proved; and it was saidtruly, I believe that she was addicted to habits of self-indul- gence, which in the end are ruinous to a man and are swiftly destructive to a woman. In this year, 1848, Max Maretzek made his appearance in the New York musical world, in which he was destined to fill the place both of musical director and operatic manager, some-

OPERA IN NEW YORK. III. A SINGLE season brought the operatic ad- venturers in Astor Place to bankruptcy. Fol- lowing upon two splendid performances (one of Romeo by the veteran prima-donna, Catarina Barili-Patti, in which, notwithstanding the lack of freshness in her voice, she delighted the most appreciative part of her audience by her splendid and truly imposing display of the grand style in the old Italian school of sing- ing, and one by Truffi of the Jewess in Verdis Nabucco, in which, by her nobility of per- son and of action, and no less by her fine musical declamation, she made an impression never to be effaced from the memories of those who received it), the doors of the new and beautiful lyric theater were closed, with great uncertainty as to when and by whom they would be re-opened. New York was not, however, left without Italian opera, and that of no mean order. The Havana company returned in the spring of 1848, and appeared at Niblos Theater. Their visits to New York were regular for a few years, and were events of musical impor- tance. Not only was the number of the prin- cipal artists large, and their merit great, but such a chorus, and an orchestra so well filled and so ably directed (always by Arditi), American audiences were not accustomed to; nor were operatic performances of such com- pleteness common even in Europe, except in some two or three of the great capitals. And these performances were given at a very low price; the object of the manager, Seiior Marty, of Havana, being less to make money by the visits of his company to America, than to keep them together and preserve their health, and diminish his expenses during the sickly season in Cuba. Their visit this season was made remarkable by the appearance of a tenor, Salvi, who, as a vocalist, among the eminent tenors who have been heard in New York, was second only to Mario, the greatest of his time, and since whose retirement the world tias heard none worthy even to be called his successor. Although Salvi was past his youth when he first sang in New York, his voice was yet in perfect preservation. It lacked nothing that is to be expected in a tenor voice of the first class: and it had that mingling of manliness and tenderness, of human sympa- thy and seraphic loftiness, which, for lack of any other or better word, we call divine. As a vocalist, he was not in the first rank; but he stood foremost in the second. His presence was manly and dignified, and he was a good actor. But it was as a vocalist pure and sim- ple that he captivated and moved his audi- ences. He was heard in America at brief intervals during a few years, and his influence upon the taste of the general music-loving public was very considerable and wholly good. Singing at Niblos, at Castle Garden, and other like places, at which the price of admis- sion was never more than one dollar, and was generally fifty cents, he gave to multitudes who would otherwise have had no such op- portunity, that education in art which is to be had only from the performances of a great artist. In purity of style he was unexception- able. He lacked only a little higher finish, a little more brilliancy of voice and impressive- ness of manner, to take a position among tenors of the very first rank. Of these, how- ever, there are never two in the world at the same time, scarcely two in the same genera- tion; and so Salvi prepared the public for the coming Mario. His forte was the cantabile, and his finest effects were those in mezza voce, expressive of intense suppressed feeling. More than once, when he sang ~7g5irto genz14 as he rose to the crescendo of the second phrase, and then let his cry pass suddenly away in a dying fall, I have heard a whole house draw suspended breath, as if in pain; so nearly alike in their outward manifestations are pain and fine, keen pleasure. With the Havana company came also at this time Signora Steffanone, a soprano, with- out some mention of whom these sketches would be thought ungratefully imperfect by all those who remember her satisfying voice, her admirable style, and her pleasing although notably ample person. It seemed as if she might and should have been a great prima-donna; and, always pleasing to the most exacting hearers, at certain moments, on certain nights, she rose to grandeur, and aroused her audiences to enthusiasm. But as time went on she deteriorated rather than im- proved; and it was saidtruly, I believe that she was addicted to habits of self-indul- gence, which in the end are ruinous to a man and are swiftly destructive to a woman. In this year, 1848, Max Maretzek made his appearance in the New York musical world, in which he was destined to fill the place both of musical director and operatic manager, some- 32 OPERA IN NEW YORK. times one, sometimes the other, sometimes both, for more than a decade, with distinction, and not without success. He was a clever and well-instructed musician, but was inclined to seek success by the art 6f management rather than by the management of his art. He can- not be said to have done anything to educate or to elevate the public taste; but it would be unjust not to say that he appears never to have done anything willingly to degrade it. Under his baton, sometimes under his management, there were unseasonable seasons and dis- jointed performances of many old operas and some new ones, by companies made up of a jumble of all or some of the materialsdis- Iedz membraof companies which had gone to pieces; most of this leading only to insol- vency, and nothing of it being here worthy of special mention. But Maretzek himself al- ways showed ability. He merely could not do what was impossible. In the summer of 1850, SeiXor Martys com- pany came again from Havana to New York, and this time with an array of musical force that had in it something of grandeur. The chorus was large, and rich in well-trained voices; the orchestra was filled in like manner, Bottesini being the first contra-basso and Ar- diti the musical director and conductor; and the leading vocal artists were Tadesco, Stef- fanone, Salvi, Badiali, Marini, and others sec- ond only to them. The Park Theater had been burned to the ground in 1848, just half a century after it was first opened, and this noble opera company went almost perforce to Castle Garden, having gone first for a short time to Niblos, and afterward to Astor Place. Castle Garden, which has been given over for many years to the invading hordes from Europe, was at one time (and to the present elder generation of New-Yorkers it must seem not long ago) the most widely known and generally frequented place of popular amusement in the city. It began to be so used in the days when the lower part of Broadway and Greenwich street were fash- ionable, and when the Battery was the favor- ite promenade; the great walk being thronged, on fair afternoons, by elegant folk who took there their daily needed constitutional of air and gossip.* At Castle Garden were the * Thus described by an already forgotten New York writer, Frederick Cozzens, in his exquisite imitation of Spenser, Sir Clod his Undoinge: With Placket lind, with joyous heart he hies To where the Batterys Alleys, cool and greene, Amid disparted Rivers daintie lies, With Fortresse brown and spacious Bridge betweene Two Baths, which there like panniers huge are seen: In shadie paths fair Dames and Maides there be With stalking Lovers basking in their eene, And solitary ones who scan the sea, Or list to vesper chimes of slumberous Trinity. grand exhibitions of fire-works; from Castle Garden balloons went up in the days when that peril supplied the craving for excitement now afforded by the flying trapeze; at Castle Garden the American Institute had its first fairs; at Castle Garden there were concerts and theatrical performances and operas; and there Beethovens Ninth Symphony was performed, and well performed, at a time whereof those who went with large eyes and long ears to hear it at Steinway Hall, big with a consciousness of first discovery of its great- ness, have no memory. There, or at Niblos, in the summer of i8~o, this great company performed Norma, Verdis Attila, La Favorita, Lucia, LElisir dAmore, I Puritani, Lucrezia Borgia, and, of course, Ernani,no opera season then without Ernani, if there were a soprano in the com- pany equal to it, and generally, also, if there were not. And the Havana troupe had in Steffanone and Tadesco two admirable Elvi- ras, the former always singing with intelli- gence and dramatic power, and the voice of the latter gushing out in great floods of lim- pid sound that drowned the ear in sensuous delight. In the Havana company at this time, how- ever, there was an artist who gave New York a fresh and fine sensation~ of musical pleasure, such as it had not had for years. This was Angiolina Bosio. She appeared without any heralding; and, indeed, she was then entirely without reputation. But it was one admi- rable trait in the management of this noble company that there was never any preliminary puffing, either of its individual members or of it as a whole. There was the company. It would perform Norma, or Ernani, or Lucia to the best of its ability; come and hear it. Bosios name had never been heard or seen in New York, until it appeared on the play-bills. When she came upon the stage her audience saw a woman not very young, slen- der and not tall, with little beauty of feature, except a pair of luminous and expressive dark eyes,a person, indeed, quite insignificant, except for those eyes and for a certain dis- tinction and elegance of manner. When she sang she displayed a voice not remarkable for either power or compass; nor could her style be called eithey impressive or brilliant. But ere long,in the course of a few evenings, she was recognized as an artist of a very high grade of merit, and becamethis entirely un- known and not beautiful womanthe prime favorite of the company. Angiolina Bosio, born at Turin, in 1824, and educated in music at Milan, had sung in Italy, in Spain, and in Den- mark with some success, but not enough to at- tract any attention in London, or Paris, or St. 33 OPERA ZN NEW YORK. Petersburg, or at New York. She, however, New York, where a different reception awaited appeared in Paris at the Th~atre Italien, in her; and I believe that I myself had the 1848, but obtained no recognition of her pleasure of writing the first criticisms in which talent, not even, as her biographer records, her vocal talent was recognized. I remember, a passing remark. Her immediate engage- too, that as I was writing one night (after her ment for Havana by Marty brought her to performance of Lucrezia Borgia, I believe), I thought of the charm that was in her face, notwithstanding its lack of beauty, and of her lustrous eyes, and I wrote her name Lady Beaux yeux; and she must have forgiven me for spelling it wrong, for she took the blunder with her to Europe, where she was known by it afterward. Like Malibran, and like Bottesini, Bosio, soon after her great success in New York, attained a great reputation in Europe. Soon; not immediately, however. She was engaged at the Royal Italian Opera, at Lon- don, where she appeared in June, ~852, as Norma in LElisir dAmore, one of the parts in which she was most admired in New York. But, as her biographer says, she did not create by any means a favorable impres- sion; her voice appeared worn, and her in- tonation sharp; ** * and she was pronounced a good second-rate singer, nothing more. At the end of the season, however, Madame Grisi having declined to sing in I Puritani, Bosio was asked to undertake Elvira. She did so; and all at once Phiistia woke up to the perception that Bosio was a great artist. She became the talk of musical London. Mr. LORENZO SALVE (FROM A PRINT BELONGING TO THE COL LECTION OF THOMAS J. MCKEE, ESQ.) VOL. XXIV.4. 34 Gye engaged her immediately for three years. She went to Paris, and there had like suc- ~cessshe who only a year or two before, and after she had completed her studies, and was in the first freshness of her voice, had sung there without exciting a passing remark. From this time she was recognized as one of the great prima-donnas of her day. Her voice was a pure, silvery soprano, remarkable alike for its penetrating quality and for a charm so fine and delicate that it seemed almost intel- lectual. But she was not a remarkably dramatic singer, even in light comedy parts, which best suited her; and her style was not at all declamatory. She sang; and in her vocaliza- tion she showed the results of intelligent ~tudy in the old Italian school. Her phrasing was incomparably fine, and the delicacy of her articulation has been surpassed by no modern prima-donna, not even by Alboni. Thus much of her as a vocal artist; but her charm was greatly personal. Although her acting was always appropriate and in good taste, and at timesas, for example, in the saucy widow of Don Pasquale very captivating, she never seemed to throw herself wholly into her part. She was always Angiolina Bosio, and appeared on the stage like a lady performing admirably in private theat.ricals. Her bearing was a delight to her audience, and seemed to be a performance, whereas it was only herself. She sang the music of all the great operatic composers to the admiration of the public and the critics of the most exacting disposition; but she was greatest in Rossinis operas, and in Bellinis and Donizettis. Yet her exquisitely charming and finished performance of Zerlina should not be passed over unmentioned. In i8~6 she went to St. Petersburg, where she got gain and glory, which tempted her to return there again and yet again; and there, after having been nominated by the Emperor premi?re can/a/rice to the imDerial court (she being the first who ever had that honor), she suddenly died in April, 1859, in the prime of her life and of her powers; for she was not yet quite thirty-five years old. This was the career of the woman of whom her biographer says, after recording the indifference with which she had been received in Paris, and before recounting the details of her slow rec- ognition in London, that between these two non-eventful and semi-eventful periods, being in New York, Philadelphia, and Boston, she was ardently admired by the Americans. Possibly if the writer had known more, or had known anything of the Americans, and of the capacity for the recognition of musical talent which they have never failed to show, she might have given more importance to their ardent admiration of the unknown Bosio. Such recognition as Bosio received in New York is always more or less reciprocal in its benefit, and her performances here for two seasons were an education of the public taste in the appreciation of all the most delicate re- finements of the art of vocalization. In this respect we owe her hardly less than we owe to any one of the greatest among her prede- cessors and successors, although they were Malibran, Caradori, Jenny Lind, and Alboni. And yet another vocal artist of distinction belonging to this company, being, indeed, its musical manager, received at this time in New York his first recognition. This was the baritone Badialithe great baritone, as he was afterward called in Europe. Signor Ba- diali, too, brought no reputation to New York, simply because he had none to bring. He had never before been heard of anywhere. But his noble voice, his fine style, and his re- markable powers as a dramatic vocalist were at once appreciated by the critics and the public of New York, and he became a prime favorite, and so continued for some years. Afterward he went to London, where he was so much admired that he said, I wonder that I never thought of coming to London before. In this year, r8~r, New York enjoyed a performance of Norma by Catarini Barili- Patti. It was the last time that the grand old Italian style of singing was heard in America. I am inclined to think that it has never since been heard even in Europe ;that large sim- plicity of manner, severe and yet not hard; that thoroughness, that constantly present sense of the decorum of art, died out before we, who were brought up on Donizetti and on Verdi, came to the enjoyment of operatic delights. Catarina Barili-Patti, the eminent mother of a still more eminent daughter, uttered the last notes of an expiring school, and closed her own career in the town in which Adelina Patti, her child but not her pupil, began her splen- did course of triumph as the most brilliant vocalist of her day. Perhaps it should be remarked that about this time Signorina Teresa Parodi appeared in New York as a prima-donna, and won great and well-deserved favor. She was an excellent Norma, a part which she much affected. She did not, however, produce any appreciable effect upon public taste, and was soon forgotten. The two great musical events of the second half of the nineteenth century in America, as be- fore in Europe, were now impending; I mean, it is hardly necessary to say, the appearance of Jenny Lind and of Marietta Alboni. Jenny Linds career has no claim upon our atten- tion here; and, indeed, any remarks upon it would be out of place; for before she crossed the Atlantic she had abjured the stage, and OPERA IN NEW YORK. OPERA IN NEW YORK 35 during her long sojourn in the United States she was heard only in the concert-room. Moreover, there has recently appeared in the pages of this magazine a full and appreciative account of her American experiences.* There remains to be remarked upon her only the fact that so closely and exclusively did she rivet the attention of the musical public upon herself that, prudent although she was, she was in this unlike Prudencethat when she was present all the other divinities were absent. Little interest was manifested by New-Yorkers in operatic or concert music of a high order, other than hers, during her performances. When she left the city for other places, fashion would assemble at the opera, if there were one; and, indeed, mere fashion did this at all times; but the true music-lovers of the most cultivated society did not thus quickly and rudely disturb their memories of the great artist. Perhaps Mlle. Parodi might have made a stronger impres- sion upon the public of New York had she not had the ill-fortune to make her American d~ut in the first flush and fury of the Lind excitement. t She sang, during the next few Jenny Lind, by Sir Julius Benedict, accompan- ied by a full-page portrait, appeared in this magazine for May, i88i. It is, perhaps, just worth while to say that Mlle. Parodi is mentioned above a little before her place in the course of musical events. Jenny Lind preceded her a few weeks; the Swede having appeared at Castle Garden on the 12th September, 1850, and Mlle. Parodi at Astor Place on the 4th November following. Minute accuracy on nnessential points is not pro- fessed nor sought in these sketches. I am not writing a book of reference. months, with good acceptance in Norma, Lucrezia, Gem ma di Vergy, Gio- vanna di Napoli, Ii Barbiere, Semira- mide. About the same time, Truffi appeared in Parisina and Il Giuramento, and Mr. Maurice Strakosch brought out at Astor Place his very clever opera, Giovanna di Napoli, which, however, did not obtain more than a succ?s des/ime, that most unsuccessful of all so-called successes. In 1851, Jenny Lind was singing in New York, from the first week in May until the 6th of June; and then came the Havana company again, and with it the enchanting Bosio. I find in my scrap-book an article which I wrote on the 9th of June, 185i, which is noticeable because of its laudation of her, and because her biographer says that she returned to Europe in i8~i, and was engaged by Mr. Gye for the season of 1852, for the Royal Italian Opera of London, where she obtained her first European success. She was, therefore, in the summer of z8~ i on the eve of departure from the scene of her triumphs. From this time, although there was opera at Astor Place in the spring of 1852, and Jenny Lind returned as Madame Goldschmidt to give a series of concerts, there was no mu- sical event of any note until the appearance of Alboni at Metropolitan (or Tripler) Hall, on the 23d of June in that year. Her coming had been announced, of course, and some- thing of her reputation was known to all mu- sical people; but nothing had been done to get up an excitement or even to awaken an interest in her movements in the general un- musical public. Thos it was, too, when she came before the public in London and in Paris. In London she had appeared, almost unknown in the midst of the Jenny Lind craze (April, 1847), with Grisi and Tamburini, TRIFLERS HALL, OR METROPOLITAN HALL, 1854. (FROM AR OLD PRINT IN THE COLLECTION OF GEORGE P. BLuRs, R5Q.) ALBONI, (FROM ,~ J700RAPH By LE JEUNE.) 36 OPERA IN NEW YORK in Semiramide. Her success was assured before the end of the first act. Nevertheless, when she sang, the following October, in Paris for the first time, many of the Parisians asked, Who is this Alboni? They found out who she was on the next morning. It was because of this neglect to blow her own trum- pet that the audience at her first concert here, although large enough to be respectable, even in relation to her merits, was not crowded, not a throng, and that she never had what the newspapers call ovations. Her audiences were always large; and they were composed almost exclusively of the most earnest and most cultivated lovers of music. Alboni was probably the greatest singer the world has seen since Malibran. She was not, in all respects, fitted to be a great operatic prima-donna; but as a vocalist, pure and simple, she was, both by her natural gifts and by her art, first among the foremost of her generation. When she came to New York, in 1852, she was thirty years old, and was, like Jenny Lind, in the full maturity of her marvelous powers. She had been taught the elements of vocalization by Bagioli, but to his schooling she had the incomparable good fortune to add instructions from Rossini, who saxv her talent, and at a time when, in his own words, she sang like an itinerant bal- lad-singer, predicted her success. To his teaching may probably be attributed her love of his music and her mastery of it. She sang his great contralto parts as they had not been sung since the time of Pisaroni, the greatest contralto and the ugliest woman that ever trod the Italian stage. Alboni had appeared at Vienna, at Dresden, and at St. Petersburg before making her great success at London and at Paris, which was in 1847, five years before her visit to America. All that was known of her was that she was much thought ANGIOLINA BOSIG. OPERA IN NEW YORK 37 of in Europe, and that she was very stout; so that there was a poor joke current at the time that she was not all bony, but all fatty. There was not even the first spark of such a raging blaze of excitement as there had been about Jenny Lind. As to what she was, and how she sang, and the impression she produced, I do not know that I can do better than to quote from the article I wrote on the night of her first appearance in New York, and from its two immediate successors, the follow- lowing passages: * Madame Alboni herself then appeared for the grand cavatina in Semiramide. As we saw her before we heard her, our first thought was that she had been unjustly and ungallantly treated on the point of her personal attractions. Although her am- plitude exceeds even the most accommodating stand- ard of symmetry, her features are unquestionably fine, and her face needs only a little attenuation to be decidedly handsome. [In fact, Albonis face was a noble one of the pure Italian type, and very charming It may be worth while to say, and it is not foreign to our subject to say, that I wrote the musical criti- cisms which appeared in the New York Courier and Enquirer at this time, while Mr. George William Curtis performed the same office for the Tribune. in its expression. Her hair grew around her broad, low, white brow in that arched outline which is found in the finest antique statues, and her mouth was beautiful. Her smile was charming, and not only because it re- vealed the whitest of coral-set teeth; and her laugh infected the air around her with hilarity. It was im- possible not to laugh with her. But to resume my next mornings criticism.] Madame Albonis voice im- presses the ear at once with its sumptuous quality. There is not a moments question as to the imperial rank of this gift of nature to her. Its powers are in- stantly manifest, and not only so, but in a moment they are all displayed. Its supremacy was as com- pletely asserted at the close of the recitation of the first air as at the end of the concert. The impression was reiterated. It could not have been deepened. In this voice is the chief power of the singer. It is what we hear that we enjoy, not the thought that what we hear brings up. And it is in the quality, the calibre, and the copiousness of the voice, rather than in its ex- tent or its flexibility, that its charm is found. It has a cool lusciousness which is peculiar. It comes bubbling, gurgling, gushing from that full throat and those gen- tly parted lips, and reminds us of draughts of which poets have sung, but of which Bacchantes have only dreamed. Perfect equality throughout it has not; its rather thin, plaintive, and hautbois-like tone in the upper register being somewhat inconsistent with the large and pompous character of the lower portion; but this is an inequality of quantity only. The qual- ity is throughout an extensive range (from F in the bass clef to C in alt of the G clef) identical. In all E. FREZZOLINI. 38 OPERA IN NEW YORK other respects it seems to us, on a single hearing, to be unimpeachable. Her style is not peculiar in any particular, save in the ease and freedom hy which it is marked. Many hearers will he charmed by the care- lessness of her manner. She seems to give no thought to what she does, hut merely to let the flood of song pour itself forth. There are some who will regard this as the perfection of art. Her recitative in the cavatina from Semiramide was large, simple, and grand, an(l her execution of the aria admirable, but the most charming performance of the evening would have heen the duet from Don Pasquale, were it not for the wanton heed and giddy cunning with which she threaded the mazes of A~ouz fu mesta. The duettino was so exquisitely sung, expressed so fully the fair, serene loveliness of the composition, that those who are curious in pretty sayings might well have called it moonlight made audible. As to the rondo from Cenerentola, was there ever anything heard like it, or will there ever be again? Miltons charming paradoxical phrase, which we have already applied to it, alone helps us to express the quiet recklessness with which she thridded the intricate mazes of this lovely rondo. Every group of notes was a cluster of gems; every note was perfectly beautiful in itself, and beau- tiful in its place; and with these vocal jewels she played with a seeming pleased and unconscious care- lessness, as if an infant sought a moments sport in unstringing and scattering priceless pearls. That which is perfectly beautiful in its kind seems the more beautiful the more its beauties are scanned; and whatever may be the relative rank whiCh zesthetic criticism may hereafter assign to the style of Madame Alboni, there can be no doubt, we think, in the mind of any one gifted with the ability to judge, that, in her style, her singing is as purely and absolutely beautiful as it is possible for anything earthly to be. There seems to be nothing wanting in the concurrence of voice, style, and method to make every phrase she utters complete in its expression of richness of re- source, and of elegance, and in its sensuous charm. Added to this there is an indefinable something, more delicate than expression, yet akin to it, which makes her song float like a seductive aroma around her hearer, penetrating to the most delicate fibers of his heing, and pervading him with a dreamy delight. This was manifest even in Di Jiacer, which, by the w~iy, seems more suited to her style than Unci voce. It is in the music of Rossini that the peculiar character BROADWAy THEATER. (FRoM OLD PRINT ei COLLECTION OF DEn. P. BLuER.) of Madame Albonis talent finds its best expression. The geniality, the fullness of life, the impressible gayety of soul and conscious animal enjoyment which pervaded his music, even in its most dignified pass- ages, in detail and in their union suit her. Their union, indeed, is her nature. She and Rossini have souls akin; and she is, to use a phrase of the day, hut his medium. Yet, last evening, Bellini had in her such an interpreter of one of his loveliest and most pathetic compositions as is rare even among great prima- donnas. A/i non credeci as sung by her will be a treas- ured memory with all the devotees of music who were fortunate enough to hear it. How grandly was it phrased! how delicately accentuated! Yes, indeed; now, after almost thirty years, I can hear with my minds ear the marvelously, almost miraculously, beautiful way in which she uttered the few notes of this simple phrase r~ t) with which she closed this movement, and which, passing in an instant, almost in the twinkling of an eye, yet had in every note, and in this relation of each note to its prede- cessor and its successor, and in its conception as a whole, and in its execution, an enchant- ing, subduing charm which produced a feel- ing of mingled transport and humiliation. One was tempted to go and kneel down before her and do something abject in grateful acknowledgment of this manifestation of supreme musical divinity. My readers will probably observe in these paragraphs a varied and gradually enhanced appreciation of the great contralto. Yet it is difficult to explain how it was that with her unique voice,a voice to which no other that has been heard for fifty years can be compared either in volume or in quality, and with a method absolutely perfect, and a style the charm of which can hardly be expressed in words, she failed to stir her audiences as deeply as other singers did, who were less gifted and less accomplished. This negative trait of her performances be- came more apparent when she appeared in opera, which she did on the 27th of Decem- ber, 1852, at the Broadway Theater, a large house then standing in Broadway, nearly opposite the old Hospital, in which, during its short existence,of about ten years,there was much good acting and singing. There Alboni went through a brief operatic season, beginning with La Cenerentola and in- cluding La Figlia del Reggimento and La Sonnambula. The stage did not in- crease her attractions. She was not an actress; she was not a great operatic prima- donna; she was a singer simply and abso- lutelythe greatest singer of her half-century; OPERA IN NEW YORK 39 nothing more. Not that she was awkward on the stage, or that her acting was without intelligence; but that it was matter-of-course acting; she did pretty well what she had seen others do better, and, at times, pleased her audience by the personal expression of her own gayety of heart and rich animal nature. Nor was her figure at all suited to Cinder- ella, to Amina, or to the Daughter of the Regiment. As she appeared with her kej/i and her canteen, one could not but think of a young Falstaff in short petticoats, and of the old Falstaffs death being a march of twelve score. Yet this woman had in her heart a yearning to perform the grandest dramatic part known to the modern lyric stage. One day I was with her in her own apart- ments, she avowed to me her disappointment with the degree of her success in America, where Mlle. Lind had gained a fortune, and she hardly enough to buy wine with. Pres- ently, nodding her handsome head to me, she said: Un segreto / and then drew back, and looked at me with an arch smile, like a child. Per esser fe/ice I I rejoined, luckily think- ing of the Brindisi which she sang so splendidly. Si, si! she merrily cried, clapping her fat hands, and breaking into a soft peal of laughter, so charming and so infectious that a Grand Inquisitor, Torquemada himself, much more a young man fanatico per la niusica, must have joined in it. Then, with mock gravity, she said: Quando io sarb stata buon ragazza ~er lungo tempo, voglio ;;ii fare una presenta [When I have been a good little girl for a long time I mean to make myself a present], adding, in reply to my look of in- quiry, La Norma. Lo eanterb per piacere solo [Norma. I shall sing it only for pleas- ure]. Why not sing it now? I asked. Ah, she replied, one must scream a little to sing Norma, and I do not yet know how to scream. Yes, this queen of contraltos, not content with all the triumph she had achieved, hank- ered after Norma, the part of all parts for which she was most unfitted both in voice and in person, and to which her style was not less unsuited. Nor was she able to restrain her impatience for the long time which she had at first proposed; for on the 28th of January, 1853, she appeared at the Broadway Theater for the first time as Norma. To my surprise, she not only sang the music with passion and with fervor, but in her action showed intuitions of dramatic power which I had never before remarked in her. In the second act she was even fiercely impetuous. She must have brooded over the part until it took complete possession of her. It was a very great performance, regarded from a cer- tain point of view; but Norma-ly it was open to objection. Much of the music was trans- posed; and, on the other hand, her figure was composed of such a connected system of globes and ellipses that it was impossible to accept her as the Grand Priestess of the Druids, although we had not yet seen Grisi. I have not discovered any record of her per- formance of this part in Europe; and New York has at least the distinction of Albonis first appearance, if not that of her only ap- pearance, as Norma, as an incident in its operatic annals. Excepting Malibran, no singer, not even Jenny Lind, did so much as Alboni did to elevate and purify the taste of the higher class of music-lovers. She became the model, the standard by which others were to be tried. In the summer of 1853, she returned to Europe, and in July was married to the Conte di Pepoli. She was wealthy, but did not withdraw entirely from her prima- donna life until some years had passed. She is now not heard of, even in her retirement. We must turn back a little from our con- tinued companionship with the great contralto to give our attention to a soprano of hardly less eminence and of a more splendid career Sontag, who made her first appearance in America at Metropolitan (Tripler) Hall, on the 27th of September, 1852. This was a very re- markable event; for Sontag was born in i8o~ and she, who had sung with Malibran, and had been her rival, and then her reconciled friend (as we have already seen in the first of these sketches), was here in New York, where Malibran had more than a quarter of a cent- ury before taken her first step to glory, and had given America its first operatic sensation, opening the rich and varied musical spectacle of which I have been able to give but a sketch made up of outlines and of dots; and Mali- brans rival was here in all her early beauty of person and of voice. The occasion was briefly this. Henrietta Sontag, after a musical career in which all the possible experiences of a prima-donna of the first class were ideally combined,after en- chanting all Europe by her voice, her singing, her acting, and her beauty,was married in 1828 to Count Rossi, a Sardinian nobleman. The marriage was secret on account of the opposition of the Counts family, although Mlle. Sontag, whose position among artists was exceptional, had been ennobled by the King of Prussia, under the title of Mlle. de Lauenstein. The marriage, however, trans- pired in 1829, under circumstances painful to the beautiful and unimpeachable young ma- HENRIETTA SONTAG AS DONNA ANNA IN DON JUAN. (FROM THE ENGRAVING BY GIRARD AFTER THE PAINTING BY P. DELAROCHE.) OPERA IN NEW YORK 4 tron. Ere long she retired from the stage, and lived in such privacy as was possible to one who was not only the wife of a noble diplomate but herself a distinguished person. The revolution of 1848 ruined what there was to ruin in Count Rossi; and the Countess, laying aside her title and resuming the name under which she had acquired a reputation still remembered all over Europe, returned to her public artist-life. To the surprise and de- light of Europe, she was still the enchanting Henrietta Sontag of twenty years before. After two or three years of renewed Euro- pean success, she came to New York. The end of my article on her first concert is the following paragraph: Madame Sontag began last evening a strange and brilliant phase of her eventful career Whenshe gath- ered her first laurels, the met~polis of Chin& might as soon have tempted her seaward as the metropolis of this Republic, which then held no such position. But since that lovely woman who last evening charmed thousands by the mere grace of her presence, first awoke the enthusiasm of Europe, we have become a mighty nation, and this has become a great city, one of the great centers of art and civilization on the globe. We have been growing old; and in our wearying, wearing struggles onward, the whole nation has be- come haggard and care-worn, even to making us a proverb and a by-word; but she seems to have drunk of the fabled spring which bestowed eternal youth and loveliness; and now to our faded youth comes this blooming matron, with all the bright gifts that were ever hers only mellowed by the gentle touch of enamored Time. It seems as if she might go on sing- ing and charming the world forever; and as if our children might be enchanted, as we are now, by her who, save for the unimpeachable purity of her life, might then, if not now, be called, for her unfading youth and grace, the Ninon de lEnclos of song. Sontag, however, was only forty-seven when she came to New York. But she looked, in the concert-room at least, not more than twenty-seven: and a middle-aged musical connoisseur, a French gentleman, who had heard her in Paris in her youth, said to me that he found no change in her voice, except perhaps a little, a very little, loss of fullness and strength in the lower notes. Her singing was just what it had been before. A more remarkable preservation is not known in the annals of art. Hardly less astonishing had been her vocal precocity. It is told of her that at eight years of age she stood upon a table and there sang the grand aria of the Queen of Night in the Zauberfl6te, doing this in childish simplicity, her arms hanging beside her, and her eye following the flight of a butterfly, while her voice, pure, penetrat- ing, and of angelic tone, flowed as uncon- sciously as a limpid rill from a mountain- side. Afterward she had the advantage of singing childrens parts under the direction of VOL. XXIV.5. Von Weber, then director of the orchestra at the Prague theater. Sontags voice was an absolute soprano, of full but not of extraordinary compass or re- markable power. Its peculiar beauty lay in its quality, that angelic tone which, as we have seen, it had even in her childhood, and in its union of flexibility with firmness. She rivaled the most skillful violin-players in the rapidity, the exactness, and the solidity of tone with which she ran scales, diatonic and chromatic, and with which she executedfiori- lure, and trills singly and in succession, and even staccato scales of two octaves. But she never sank into an accurate musical machine. There was always the inexplicable enchant- ment of quality, the angelic tone, in whatever she sang; and her style, although never grand, impressive, or deeply pathetic, was always charming. In person she was like her voice, not grandly beautiful, but very pretty, be- witching in her ways, and always elegant, probably the most lady-like prima-donna that ever trod the stage; unless we must except that captivating embodiment of stately ele- gance, Mlle. Frezzolini, who came here in 1857, when her personal and vocal attractions were on the wane, but who preserved in the expression of her face and in her bearing a beauty that could nev& r fade. She was the ideal of a beautiful great lady of the olden time. Sontag was always graceful, always seemed to express a certain daintiness of soul and body; she was personally reserved and retiring; and kept herself as aloof from the borders of Bohemia as if she had been a crown princess. Twenty years of life in courts, where, from the position of her husband, she sometimes had precedence of all other embassadors wives, had developed and per- fected in the ennobled Mlle. de Lauenstein a social sentiment in this regard which was innate, and which was part of the charm that had made kings and princes of the finer sort her ardent and respectful admirers. Her figure was pretty; but she was celebrated for no beauty but that of her hands and feet. Her complexion was fair; her large eyes were a soft, pale blue; her hair a light auburn, in which, when she was here, she did not attempt to conceal a few streaks of gray, just perceptible in society, but invisible on the stage. At her first concerts here, the wondefful young violinist, Paul Jullien, appeared with her. He wasthen a mere boy; hardly more than a child, for he was but ten years old; but his performance was already that of a virtuoso, and his tone and style were nearly those of a great master of the instrument. One evening, after Madame Sontag had been 42 OPERA IN NEW YORK. here about a month, I went, at one of her concerts, to her private room, where she had been kind enough to receive me before, for she was one of the very few prima-donnas with whom I was on familiar terms. En/rez / said a male voice when I knocked at the half-open door. I entered, and what should I see but Count Rossi and Paul Jullien sitting together over a basin of water, which was be- tween them on the sofa. Count Rossi looked up and smiled as he held out his hand with- out rising, and then blew into the bowl. He was engaged with Paul (who a few minutes before had astonished a delighted and culti- vated audience) in sailing paper-boats, which the little fellow had begged the Count to make for him from concert programmes. The basin from Madame Sontags wash-stand fur- nished the sea on which the fragile fleet was launched. The boy continued his amusement until Madame Sontag entered, and then hastily drying his hands upon another con- cert bill, took up his violin, and while I was yet musing in wonder at the strangeness of the scene, my rumination was disturbed by the outburst of applause which greeted the entrance of the little boat-sailer upon the stage. Madame Sontag soon appeared in opera at Niblos Theater, where she performed Rosina in Ii Barbiere, M~trie in La Figlia del Reggimento, Amina in La Sonnambula, Lucia di Lammermoor, Lucrezia Borgia, Adina in LElisir dAmore, and Zerlina in Don Giovanni. Her dramatic success was not great. As Rosina she was captivating; as Marie she was pleasing; but in the serious parts of even La Sonnambula and Lucia she failed to impress her audience, except by her exquisitely finished singing, and as Lu- crezia Borgia she failed wholly, except in ren- dering the tender and delicate beauty of Quanfo e be/b. I felt obliged to say this very plainly, and at last, owing to a perver- sion of what I had said, to declare that every tragic opera, and every act of every tragic opera, and every scene of every act of every tragic opera, in which she has appeared, have plainly shown to close observation that what- ever knowledge, and taste, and hard work may have done for her, she is wholly deficient in tragic power. Nor, indeed, had she much dramatic power of even the comic sort. She was arch and elegantshe never could be other than elegantas Rosina; but in La Figlia del Reggimento she was entirely lack- ing in that comic power, which, for example, we have all admired so much in Minnie Hauks performance of Carmen. Moreover, she looked older on the stage than in the concert-room. In her ordinary dress no one ever thought of her age, only of her charm; but when she was tricked out and touched up as the daughter of the regiment, it put ten years upon her face, and she looked like a middle-aged woman playing young. I found her most youthful and most charm- ing in private, and in particular on one occa- sion when I dined with her and her husband just before she left New York for the South and Mexico.* Even in the concert-room she lost somewhat of that seductive personal charm, partly intellectual, partly physical, which had made her, next to Malibran, the most idolized prima-donna of modern days. She was very intelligent, talked with spirit, with wit, and sometimes even with humor. And at table she showed the wondrous beauty of her hands. I have known no woman, ex- cept Mrs. J. S., with such hands. Of her conversation, I chie~y remember her lively but rueful description of the boredom of high society in England, which she underwent as the Countess Rossi, wife of the Sardinian diplomate. Her visit to America was fatal to her. She died in Mexico, on the 17th of June, 1854, of cholera. * I desire to remark here upon a matter somewhat personal, and yet not foreign to a sketch of the history of opera in New York. My personal intercourse with Madame Sontagwas not at all affected hy my strong ad- verse criticisms upon her serious acting, as I feared it wo& ild he. In regard to such matters I had a somewhat peculiar experience. I had been brought up in such a se- cluded way that I was entirely ignorant, as ignorant as a little child, of the manner in which theatrical and operatic and journalistic matters were managed, having, indeed, never been half a dozen times in a theater when I was called upon to write criticisms upon operatic perform- ances. Absolutely unacquainted with the machinery of puffing, I had never even suspected that the laudatory articles that I saw in newspapers could be paid for, or that there could be an interested motive for the expression of adverse opinion. But I soon found out the true state of the case, to my sorrow. For my articles did much to spoil and break up the business of musical criticism, so called, in New York, which then was in the hands of a few old hack newspaper writers, men equally in- competent and venal. Whatever the value of my criti- cisms, they were absolutely independent; equally regardless of the interests of artists, managers, and of the journal in which they were published The Courier and Enquirer, then the leading newspaper of the city. And I made myself inaccessible to artists and their agents. I had stipulated at first that my name should be concealed, as I (then a law student) had no desire to go into journalism. But after about one year my identity was discovered, and I was ap- proached on all sides. I then laid down for myself an absolute rule, from which I never swerved, not in a single instance, during the ten years in which I wrote musical and dramatic criticismsthis was not to make the acquaintance of an artist, either singer or actor, until after Ihad fully expressed my opinion in regard to him or her, so that there was nothing to be gained even by being civil to me; also never to ask a favor of any kind, however slight, from a manager or from the agent of an artist; so that I never even asked a seat or a ticket from one. Without a dollar to spare, I yet subscribed for my seat at the opera for the season. THE TRANSFERRED GHOST 43 One artists manager, a little German Hebrew, was so incensed at my severe criticisms that he gave me notice that I should not be admitted to his concerts, even with my bought ticket; but in the end he thought better of this. Furious at his inability to modify my criticisms, or to approach me in any way, he went to the editor of the paper in which they were published (with which I had then no connection), and accused me of being paid by a rival artist to injure his busi- ness. He was detained and a messenger dispatched for me, the office in which I was a student being near by. To his evident surprise I soon came in; and he was then invited to repeat his accusation. He could not refuse. I stepped up to him and said: You know that you are lying, and if you dont confess it, Ill ____ and I stretched out my hand. He fled precipitately, but soon returned with a law- yer, and said that he would have me arrested and bound over to keep the peace, unless I would give him my word, in the presence of the lawyer and the editor, that I would not harm him. I, laughing, told him he might do as he pleased, but assured those gentlemen that I would not touch him. His accusation was utterly disregarded, and he was sent about his business; for the editorthe late Charles Kingknew me well, as his junior, Mr. Henry J. Raymond, also did, and I went on my way unquestioned. This fellow, however, who was a shrewd, able business man, and as unscrupu- lous as an adder, threatened me with vengeance, and fulfilled his threat by scattering abroad his insinua- tions, sowing them in willing and often in fruitful ears. The fact that, from my strict adherence to my pre scribed course, they could not possibly be true, was my consolation; but it did not help me with the writers for the other papers, who, with one exception,Mr. Curtis,pursued quite a contrary course. It was under these circumstances that Count Rossi called upon me, and said that his wife would like to know me. I told him frankly my rule, and the reason for it. Dame, he replied, vous avez raison. Mais, ne soyez j5as trap d~fficiie. Venez nous voir,je vous prie, sans faron. Nous ne sommes pas comme les aufres. I accepted the invitation, but not until I had written two or three more articles. And it was some time after I had written my partly adverse articles that I received a dinner invitation from the Count and Countess Rossi ; for I remarked that in her private relations she took her rank. Jenny Lind was not so magnanimous. When she first appeared, my criticisms withheld from her an acknowledgment of eminence in the Italian dramatic school of singing. At this she took offense; which not all my praise of her singing in what is sometimes called the classical school could do away. I was among the most enthusiastic of her admirers, and the journal in which my articles appeared gave her more attention than any other singer that ever came to New York, and did more for her than any other journal at that time could do. But she never forgave my first qualification of my praise, and she showed her pique in various ways. And thus it was that I never spoke with Jenny Lind, or saw her except upon the platform of a concert-room. Nor did I ever meet Grisi and Mario, who soon followed her to New York, and who will next engage our attention. Richard Grant White. THE TRANSFERRED GHOST. THE country residence of Mr. John Hinok- man was a delightful place to me, for many reasons. It was the abode of a genial, though somewhat impulsive, hospitality. It had broad, smooth-shaven lawns and towering oaks and elms; there were bosky shades at several points, and not far from the house there was a little rill spanned by a rustic bridge with the bark on; there were fruits and flowers, pleasant people, chess, billiards, rides, walks, and fishing. These were great attractions, but none of them, nor all of them together, would have been sufficient to hold me to the place very long. I had been invited for the trout season, but should, probably, have finished my visit early in the summer had it not been that upon fair days, when the grass was dry, and the sun was not too hot, and there was but little wind, there strolled beneath the lofty elms, or passed lightly through the bosky shades, the form of my Madeline. This lady was not, in very truth, my Mad- eline. She had never given herself to me, nor had I, in any way, acquired possession of her. But as I considered her possession the only sufficient reason for the continuance of my existence, I called her, in my reveries, mine. It may have been that I would not have been obliged to confine the use of this possessive pronoun to my reveries had I con- fessed the state of my feelings to the lady. But this was an unusually difficult thing to do. Not only did I dread, as almost all lovers dread, taking the step which would in an in- stant put an end to that delightful season whicb may be termed the ante-interrogatory period of love, and which might at the same time terminate all intercourse or connection with the object of my passion; but I was, also, dreadfully afraid of John Hinckman. This gentleman was a good friend of mine, but it would have required a bolder man than I was at that time to ask him for the gift of his niece, who was the head of his household, and, according to his own frequent statement, the main prop of his declining years. Had Madeline acquiesced in my general views on the subject, I might have felt encouraged to open the matter to Mr. Hinckman, but, as I said before, I had never asked her whether or not she would be mine. I thought of these things at all hours of the day and night, par- ticularly the latter. I was lying awake one night, in the great bed in my spacious chamber, when, by the

THE TRANSFERRED GHOST 43 One artists manager, a little German Hebrew, was so incensed at my severe criticisms that he gave me notice that I should not be admitted to his concerts, even with my bought ticket; but in the end he thought better of this. Furious at his inability to modify my criticisms, or to approach me in any way, he went to the editor of the paper in which they were published (with which I had then no connection), and accused me of being paid by a rival artist to injure his busi- ness. He was detained and a messenger dispatched for me, the office in which I was a student being near by. To his evident surprise I soon came in; and he was then invited to repeat his accusation. He could not refuse. I stepped up to him and said: You know that you are lying, and if you dont confess it, Ill ____ and I stretched out my hand. He fled precipitately, but soon returned with a law- yer, and said that he would have me arrested and bound over to keep the peace, unless I would give him my word, in the presence of the lawyer and the editor, that I would not harm him. I, laughing, told him he might do as he pleased, but assured those gentlemen that I would not touch him. His accusation was utterly disregarded, and he was sent about his business; for the editorthe late Charles Kingknew me well, as his junior, Mr. Henry J. Raymond, also did, and I went on my way unquestioned. This fellow, however, who was a shrewd, able business man, and as unscrupu- lous as an adder, threatened me with vengeance, and fulfilled his threat by scattering abroad his insinua- tions, sowing them in willing and often in fruitful ears. The fact that, from my strict adherence to my pre scribed course, they could not possibly be true, was my consolation; but it did not help me with the writers for the other papers, who, with one exception,Mr. Curtis,pursued quite a contrary course. It was under these circumstances that Count Rossi called upon me, and said that his wife would like to know me. I told him frankly my rule, and the reason for it. Dame, he replied, vous avez raison. Mais, ne soyez j5as trap d~fficiie. Venez nous voir,je vous prie, sans faron. Nous ne sommes pas comme les aufres. I accepted the invitation, but not until I had written two or three more articles. And it was some time after I had written my partly adverse articles that I received a dinner invitation from the Count and Countess Rossi ; for I remarked that in her private relations she took her rank. Jenny Lind was not so magnanimous. When she first appeared, my criticisms withheld from her an acknowledgment of eminence in the Italian dramatic school of singing. At this she took offense; which not all my praise of her singing in what is sometimes called the classical school could do away. I was among the most enthusiastic of her admirers, and the journal in which my articles appeared gave her more attention than any other singer that ever came to New York, and did more for her than any other journal at that time could do. But she never forgave my first qualification of my praise, and she showed her pique in various ways. And thus it was that I never spoke with Jenny Lind, or saw her except upon the platform of a concert-room. Nor did I ever meet Grisi and Mario, who soon followed her to New York, and who will next engage our attention. Richard Grant White. THE TRANSFERRED GHOST. THE country residence of Mr. John Hinok- man was a delightful place to me, for many reasons. It was the abode of a genial, though somewhat impulsive, hospitality. It had broad, smooth-shaven lawns and towering oaks and elms; there were bosky shades at several points, and not far from the house there was a little rill spanned by a rustic bridge with the bark on; there were fruits and flowers, pleasant people, chess, billiards, rides, walks, and fishing. These were great attractions, but none of them, nor all of them together, would have been sufficient to hold me to the place very long. I had been invited for the trout season, but should, probably, have finished my visit early in the summer had it not been that upon fair days, when the grass was dry, and the sun was not too hot, and there was but little wind, there strolled beneath the lofty elms, or passed lightly through the bosky shades, the form of my Madeline. This lady was not, in very truth, my Mad- eline. She had never given herself to me, nor had I, in any way, acquired possession of her. But as I considered her possession the only sufficient reason for the continuance of my existence, I called her, in my reveries, mine. It may have been that I would not have been obliged to confine the use of this possessive pronoun to my reveries had I con- fessed the state of my feelings to the lady. But this was an unusually difficult thing to do. Not only did I dread, as almost all lovers dread, taking the step which would in an in- stant put an end to that delightful season whicb may be termed the ante-interrogatory period of love, and which might at the same time terminate all intercourse or connection with the object of my passion; but I was, also, dreadfully afraid of John Hinckman. This gentleman was a good friend of mine, but it would have required a bolder man than I was at that time to ask him for the gift of his niece, who was the head of his household, and, according to his own frequent statement, the main prop of his declining years. Had Madeline acquiesced in my general views on the subject, I might have felt encouraged to open the matter to Mr. Hinckman, but, as I said before, I had never asked her whether or not she would be mine. I thought of these things at all hours of the day and night, par- ticularly the latter. I was lying awake one night, in the great bed in my spacious chamber, when, by the 44 THE TRANSFERRED GHOST dim light of the new moon, which partially filled the room, I. saw John Hinckman stand- ing by a large chair near the door. I was very much surprised at this for two reasons. In the first place, my host had never before come into my room, and, in the second place, he had gone from home that morning, and had not expected to return for several days. It was for this reason that I had been able that evening to sit much later than usual with Made- line on the moonlit porch. The figure was cer- tainly that of John Hinckman in his ordinary dress, but there was a vagueness and indistinct- ness about it which presently assured me that it was a ghost. Had the good old man been murdered? and had his spirit come to tell me of the deed, and to confide to me the pro- tection of his dear ? My heart fluttered at what I was about to think, but at this instant the figure spoke. Do you know, he said, with a counte- nance that indicated anxiety, if Mr. Hinck- man will return to-night? I thought it well to maintain a calm exterior, and I answered: We do not expect him. I am glad of that, said he, sinking into the chair by which he stood. During the two years and a half that I have inhabited this house, that man has never before been away for a single night. You cant imagine the relief it gives ~ And as he spoke he stretched out his legs and leaned back in the chair. His form be- came less vague, and the colors of his garments more distinct and evident, while an expression of gratified relief succeeded to the anxiety of his countenance. Two years and a half! I exclaimed. I dont understand you. It is fully that length of time, said the ghost, since I first came here. Mine is not an ordinary case. But before I say anything more about it, let me ask you again if you are sure Mr. Hinckman will not return to-night? I am as sure of it as I can be of anything, I answered. He left to-day for Bristol, two hundred miles away.~~ Then I will go on, said the ghost, for I am glad to have the opportunity of talking to some one who will listen to me; but if John Hinckman should come in and catch me here, I should be frightened out of my wits. This is all very strange, I said, greatly puzzled by what I had heard. Are you the ghost of Mr. Hinckman? This was a bold question, but my mind was so full of other emotions that there seemed to be no room for that of fear. Yes, I am his ghost, my companion re plied, and yet I have no right to be. And this is what makes me so uneasy, and so much afraid of him. It is a strange story, and, I truly believe, without precedent. Two years and a half ago, John Hinckman was danger- ously ill in this very room. At one time he was so far gone that he was really believed to be dead. It was in consequence of too pre- cipitate a report in regard to this matter that I was, at that time, appointed to be his ghost. Imagine my surprise and horror, sir, when, after I had accepted the position and assumed its responsibilities, that old man re- vived, became convalescent, and eventually regained his usual health. My situation was now one of extreme delicacy and embarrass- ment. I had no power to return to my orig- inal unembodiment, and I had no right to be the ghost of a man who was not dead. I was advised by my friends to quietly maintain my position, and was assured that, as John Hinck- man was an elderly man, it could not be long before I could rightfully assume the position for which I had been selected. But I tell you, sir, he continued, with animation, the old fellow seems as vigorous as ever, and I have no idea how much longer this annoying state of things will continue. I spend my time try- ing to get out of that old mans way. I must not leave this house, and he seems to follow me everywhere. I tell you, sir, he haunts me. That is truly a queer state of things, I remarked. But why are you afraid of him? He couldnt hurt you. Of course he couldnt, said the ghost. But his very presence is a shock and terror to me. Imagine, sir, how you would feel if my case were yours.~~ I could not imagine such a thing at all. I simply shuddered. And if one must be a wrongful ghost at all, the apparition continued, it would be much pleasanter to be the ghost of some man other than John Hinckman. There is in him an irascibility of temper, accompanied by a facility of invective, which is seldom met with. And what would happen if he were to see me, and find out, as I am sure he would, how long and why I had inhabited his house, I can scarcely conceive. I have seen him in his bursts of passion, and, although he did not hurt the people he stormed at any more than he would hurt me, they seemed to shrink before him. All this I knew to be very true. Had it not been for this peculiarity of Mr. Hinckman, I might have been more willing to talk to him about his niece. I feel sorry for you, I said, for I really began to have a sympathetic feeling toward this unfortunate apparition. Your case is indeed a hard one. It reminds me of those persons who have had doubles and I suppose a man would often be very angry indeed when he found that there was another being who was personating himself. Oh, the cases are not similar at all, said the ghost. A double or doppelganger lives on the earth with a man, and, being exactly like him, he makes all sorts of trouble, of course. It is very different with me. I am not here to live with Mr. Hinckman. I am here to take his place. Now, it would make John Hinckman very angry if he knew that. Dont you know it would? I assented promptly. Now that he is away I can be easy for a little while, continued the ghost, and I am so glad to have an opportunity of talking to you. I have frequently come into your room, and watched you while you slept, but did not dare to speak to you for fear that if you talked with me Mr. Hinckman would hear you, and come into the room to know why you were talking to yourself. But would he not hear you? I asked. Oh, no, said the other, there are times when any one may see me, but no one hears me except the person to whom I address my- self. But why did you wish to speak to me? I asked. Because, replied the ghost, I like occa- sionally to talk to people, and especially to some one like yourself, whose mind is so trou- bled and perturbed that you are not likely to be frightened by a visit from one of us. But I particularly wanted to ask you to do me a favor. There is every probability, so far as I can see, that John Hinckman will live a long time, and my situation is becoming insupport- able. My great object at present is to get myself transferred, and I think that you may, perhaps, be of use to me. Transferred! I exclaimed. What do you mean by that? What I mean, said the other, is this: Now that I have started on my career I have got to be the ghost of somebody; and I want to be the ghost of a man who, is really dead. I should think that would be easy enough, I said. Opportunities must continually occur. Not at all! not at all 1 said my compan- ion, quickly. You have no idea what a rush and pressure there is for situations of this kind. Whenever a vacancy occurs, if I may express myself in that way, there are crowds of appli- cations for the ghostship. I had no idea that such a state of things existed, I said, becoming quite interested in the matter. There ought to be some regular 45 system, or order of precedence, by which you could all take your turns like customers in a barbers shop. Oh dear, that would never do at all! said the other. Some of us would have to wait forever. There is always a great rush whenever a good ghostship offers itselfwhile, as you know, there are some positions that no one would care for. And it was in conse- quence of my being in too great a hurry on an occasion of the kind that I got myself into my present disagreeable predicament, and I have thought that it might be possible that you would help me out of it. You might know of a case where an opportunity for a ghostship was not generally expected, but which might present itself at any moment. If you would give me a short notice. I know I could arrange for a transfer. What do you mean? I exclaimed. Do you want me to commit suicide? Or to un- dertake a murder for your benefit? Oh, no, no, no! said the other, with a vapory smile. I mean nothing of that kind. To be sure, there are lovers who are watched with considerable interest, such persons hav- ing been known, in moments of depression, to offer very desirable ghostships, but I did not think of anything of that kind in connection with you. You were the only person I cared to speak to, and I hoped that you might give me some information that would be of use; and, in return, I shall be very glad to help you in your love affair. You seem to know that I have such an affair, I said. Oh, yes, replied the other, with a little yawn. I could not be here so much as I have been without knowing all about that. There was something horrible in the idea of Madeline and myself having been watched by a ghost, even, perhaps, when we wandered together in the most delightful and bosky places. But, then, this was quite an excep- tional ghost, and I could not have the objec- tions to him which would ordinarily arise in regard to beings of his class. I must go now, said the ghost, rising, but I will see you somewhere to-morrow night. And rememberyou help me, and Ill help you. I had doubts the next morning as to the propriety of telling Madeline anything about this interview, and soon convinced myself that I must keep silent on the subject. If she knew there was a ghost about the house she would probably leave the place instantly. I did not mention the matter, and so regu- lated my demeanor that I am quite sure Madeline never suspected what had taken place. For some time I had wished that Mr. THE TRANSFERRED GHOST 46 THE TRANSFERRED GHOST Hinckman would absent himself; for a day at least, from the premises. In such case I thought I might more easily nerve myself up to the point of speaking to Madeline on the subject of our future collateral existence, and, now that the opportunity for such speech had really occurred, I did not feel ready to avail myself of it. What would become of me if she refused me? I had an idea, however, that the lady thought that, if I were going to speak at all, this was the time. She must have known that certain sentiments were afloat within me, and she was not unreasonable in her wish to see the matter settled one way or the other. But I did not feel like taking a bold step in the dark. If she wished me to ask her to give herself to me, she ought to offer me some reason to suppose that she would make the gift. If I saw no probability of such generos- ity, I would prefer that things should remain as they were. THAT evening I was sitting with Madeline in the moonlit porch. It was nearly ten oclock, and ever since supper-time I had been working myself up to the point of making an avowal of my sentiments. I had not positively determined to do this, but wished gradually to reach the proper point, when, if the prospect looked bright, I might speak. My companion appeared to under- stand the situationat least, I imagined that the nearer I came to a proposal the more she seemed to expect it. It was certainly a very critical and important epoch in my life. If I spoke, I should make myself happy or miser- able forever, and if I did not speak I had every reason to believe that the lady would not give me another chance to do so. Sitting thus with Madeline, talking a little, and thinking very hard over these moment- ous matters, I looked up and saw the ghost, not a dozen feet away from us. He was sitting on the railing of the porch, one leg thrown up before him, the other dangling down as he leaned against a post. He was behind Made- line, but almost in front of me, as I sat facing the lady. It was fortunate that Madeline was looking out over the landscape, for I must have appeared very much startled. The ghost had told me that he would see me some time this night, but I did not think he would make his appearance when I was in the com- pany of Madeline. If she should see the spirit of her uncle, I could not answer for the consequences. I made no exclama- tion, but the ghost evidently saw that I was troubled. Dont be afraid, he said I shall not let her see me; and she cannot hear me speak unless I address myself to her, which I do not intend to do. I suppose I looked grateful. So you need not trouble yourself about that, the ghost continued; but it seems to me that you are not getting along very well with your affair. If I were you, I should speak out without waiting any longer. You will never have a better chance. You are not likely to be interrupted; and, so far as I can judge, the lady seems disposed to listen to you favorably; that is, if she ever intends to do so. There is no knowing when John Hinckman will go away again; certainly not this summer. If I were in your place, I should never dare to make love to Hinckman s niece if he were anywhere about the place. If he should catch any one offering himself to Miss Madeline, he would then be a terrible man to encounter. I agreed perfectly to all this. I cannot bear to think of him! I ejacu- lated aloud. Think of whom? asked Madeline, turn- ing quickly toward me. Here was an awkward situation. The long speech of the ghost, to which Madeline paid no attention, but which I heard with perfect distinctness, had made me forget myself. It was necessary to explain quickly. Of course, it would not do to admit that it was of her dear uncle that I was speaking; and so I mentioned hastily the first name I thought of. Mr. Vilars, I said. This statement was entirely correct, for I never could bear to think of Mr. Vilars, who was a gentleman who had, at various times, paid much attention to Madeline. It is wrong for you to speak in that way of Mr. Vilars, she said. He is a remarka- bly well educated and sensible young man, and has very pleasant manners. He expects to be elected to the legislature this fall, and I should not be surprised if he made his mark. He will do well in a legislative body, for whenever Mr. Vilars has anything to say he knows just how and when to say it. This was sp9ken very quietly, and without any show of resentment, which was all very natural, for if Madeline thought at all favor- ably of me she could not feel displeased that I should have disagreeable emotions in regard to a possible rival. The concluding words contained a hint which I was not slow to un- derstand. I felt very sure that if Mr. Vilars were in my present position he would speak quickly enough. I know it is wrong to have such ideas about a person, I said, but I cannot help it. The lady did not chide me, and after this THE TRANSFERRED GHOST 47 she seemed even in a softer mood. As for me, I felt considerably annoyed, for I had not wished to admit that any thought of Mr. Vilars had ever occupied my mind. You should not speak aloud that way,~~ said the ghost, or you may get yourself into trouble. I want to see everything go well with you, because then you may be disposed to help me, especially if I should chance to be of any assistance to you, which I hope I shall be. I longed to tell him that there was no way in which he could help me so much as by taking his instant departure. To make love to a young lady with a ghost sitting on the railing near by, and that ghost the apparition of a much-dreaded uncle, the very idea of whom in such a position and at such a time made me tremble, was a difficult, if not an impossible, thing to do; but I forbore to speak, although I may have looked my mind. I suppose, continued the ghost, that you have not heard anything that might be of advantage to me. Of course, I am very anxious to hear, but if you have anything to tell me, - I can wait until you are alone. I will come to you to-night in your room, or I will stay here until the lady goes away. You need not wait here, I said; I have nothing at all to say to you. Madeline sprang to her feet, her face flushed and her eyes ablaze. Wait here! she cried. What do you suppose I am waiting for? Nothing to say to me indeed !I should think so! What should you have to say to me? Madeline, I exclaimed, stepping toward her, let me explain. But she had gone. Here was the end of the world for me! I turned fiercely to the ghost. Wretched existence! I cried. You have ruined everything. You have blackened my whole life. Had it not been for you But here my voice faltered. I could say no more. You wrong me, said the ghost. I have not injured you. I have tried only to encour- age and assist you, and it is your own folly that has done this mischief. But do not de- spair. Such mistakes as these can be explained. Keep up a brave heart. Good-by. And he vanished from the railing like a bursting soap-bubble. I went gloomily to bed, but I saw no ap- paritions that night except those of despair and misery which my wretched thoughts called up. The words I had uttered had sounded to Madeline like the basest insult. Of course, there was only one interpretation she couldput upon them. As to explaining my ejaculations, that was impossible. I thought the matter over and over again as I lay awake that night, and I determined that I would never tell Madeline the facts of the case. It would be better for me to suffer all my life than for her to know that the ghost of her uncle haunted the house. Mr. Hinckman was away, and if she knew of his ghost she could not be made to believe that he was not dead. She might not survive the shock! No, my heart could bleed, but I would never tell her. The next day was fine, neither too cool nor too warm; th~ breezes were gentle, and na- ture smiled. But there were no walks or rides with Madeline. She seemed to be much en- gaged during the day, and I saw but little of her. When we met at meals she was polite but very quiet and reserved. She had evi- dently determined on a course of conduct, and had resolved to assume that, although I had been very rude to her, she did not under- stand the import of my words. It would be quite proper, of course, for her not to know what I meant by my expressions of the night before. I was downcast and wretched, and said but little, and the only bright streak across the black horizon of my woe was the fact that she did not appear to be happy, although she affected an air of unconcern. The moonlit porch was deserted that evening, but wander- ing about the house I found Madeline in the library alone. She was reading, but I went in and sat down near her. I felt that, although I could not do so fully, I must in a measure explain my conduct of the night before. She listened quietly to a somewhat labored apology I made for the words I had used. I have not the slightest idea what you meant,? she said, but you were very rude. I earnestly disclaimed any intention of rudeness, and assured her, with a warmth of speech that must have made some impression upon her, that rudeness to her would be an action impossible to me. I said a great deal upon the subject, and implored her to believe that if it were not for a certain obstacle I could speak to her so plainly that she would understand everything. She was silent for a time, and then she said, rather more kindly, I thought, than she had spoken before: Is that obstacle in any way connected with my uncle? Yes, I answered, after a little hesitation, it is, in a measure, connected with him. She made no answer to this, and sat looking at her book, but not reading. - From the expression of her face, I thought she was somewhat softened toward me. She knew 48 RUSSIAN CHRISTIANITY VERSUS MODERN JUDAISM her uncle as well as I did, and she may have been thinking that, if he were the obstacle that prevented my speaking (and there were many ways in which he might be that obsta- cle), my position would be such a hard one that it would excuse some wildness of speech and eccentricity of manner. I saw, too, that the warmth of my partial explanations had had some effect on her, and I began to be- lieve that it might be a good thing for me to speak my mind without delay. No matter how she should receive my proposition, my relations with her could not be worse than they had been the previous night and day, and there was something in her face which encouraged me to hope that she might forget my foolish exclamations of the evening before if I began to tell her my tale of love. I drew my chair a little nearer to her, and as I did so the ghost burst into the room from the door-way behind her. I say burst, although no door flew open and he made no noise. He was wildly excited, and waved his arms above his head. The moment I saw him, my heart fell within me. With the entrance of that impertinent apparition, every hope fled from me. I could not speak while he was in the room. I must have turned pale, and I gazed steadfastly at the ghost, almost without seeing Madeline, who sat between us. Do you know, he cried, that John Hinckman is coming up the hill? He will be here in fifteen minutes, and if you are doing anything in the way of love-making, you had better hurry it up. But this is not what I came to tell you. I have glorious news! At last I am transferred! Not forty minutes ago a Russian nobleman was mur- dered by the Nihilists. Nobody ever thought of him in connection with an immediate ghostship. My friends instantly applied for the situation for me, and obtained my transfer. I am off before that horrid Hinckman comes up the hill. The moment I reach my new position, I shall put off this hated semblance. Good-by. You cant imagine how glad I am to be, at last, the real ghost of some- body. Oh! I cried, rising to my feet and stretching out my arms in utter wretchedness, I would to Heaven you were mine! I am yours, said Madeline, raising to me her tearful eyes. Frank R. Stockton. RUSSIAN CHRISTIANITY VERSUS MODERN JUDAISM. Let us go thank the Lord, who made us those To suffer, not to do this deed. Old Play. THE spontaneous action of the prominent citizens of London and New York, without distinction of creed, in protest against the Russian atrocities committed upon the Jews, happily renders unnecessary any denunciation on the part of a Jewess. In the April number of THE CENTURY Mine. Ragozin set forth the Russian side of the question, which ap- pears to her sufficient explanation of a state of affairs characterized by the London Times as a scene of horrors that have hitherto only been perpetrated in medkeval days during times of war. Murder, rape, arson, one hundred thousand families reduced to homeless beggary, and the destruction of eighty million dollars worth of property, such, in fewest words, are the acts for which an excuse is sought. The perusal of a single bookthe work of Mr. Jacob Brafmann, a Jewish apostate in the pay of the Russian Governmenthas forever demolished, in her mind, the fallacy that the Christians have been persecuting the Jews, and has estab lished in its stead the conspicuous fact that the Jews have been always, and still are, per- secuting the Christians, especially in Russia. This great truththat a handful of wretched Jews are undermining the well-being of the largest empire of the globeMine. Rago- zin is confident will commend itself to the acceptance of all unprejudiced minds. Let us first disabuse our readers of the sophistical distinction made by Mine. Rag- ozin, in common with many other writers, between the two kinds of Jews, and the idea that a vast dualism essentially charac- terizes this extraordinary race. Behind this subtle error lurk all the dangers that have threatened the existence of the people, for whatever calumnies be refuted by a Jewish spokesman, the answer is ever ready: These charges do not apply to you, and such as you. But how can you be sure that such outrages are not committed by some barbarous sect of your tribe? Now, we can be sure of the Jewsmore so, perhaps, than of any other

48 RUSSIAN CHRISTIANITY VERSUS MODERN JUDAISM her uncle as well as I did, and she may have been thinking that, if he were the obstacle that prevented my speaking (and there were many ways in which he might be that obsta- cle), my position would be such a hard one that it would excuse some wildness of speech and eccentricity of manner. I saw, too, that the warmth of my partial explanations had had some effect on her, and I began to be- lieve that it might be a good thing for me to speak my mind without delay. No matter how she should receive my proposition, my relations with her could not be worse than they had been the previous night and day, and there was something in her face which encouraged me to hope that she might forget my foolish exclamations of the evening before if I began to tell her my tale of love. I drew my chair a little nearer to her, and as I did so the ghost burst into the room from the door-way behind her. I say burst, although no door flew open and he made no noise. He was wildly excited, and waved his arms above his head. The moment I saw him, my heart fell within me. With the entrance of that impertinent apparition, every hope fled from me. I could not speak while he was in the room. I must have turned pale, and I gazed steadfastly at the ghost, almost without seeing Madeline, who sat between us. Do you know, he cried, that John Hinckman is coming up the hill? He will be here in fifteen minutes, and if you are doing anything in the way of love-making, you had better hurry it up. But this is not what I came to tell you. I have glorious news! At last I am transferred! Not forty minutes ago a Russian nobleman was mur- dered by the Nihilists. Nobody ever thought of him in connection with an immediate ghostship. My friends instantly applied for the situation for me, and obtained my transfer. I am off before that horrid Hinckman comes up the hill. The moment I reach my new position, I shall put off this hated semblance. Good-by. You cant imagine how glad I am to be, at last, the real ghost of some- body. Oh! I cried, rising to my feet and stretching out my arms in utter wretchedness, I would to Heaven you were mine! I am yours, said Madeline, raising to me her tearful eyes. Frank R. Stockton. RUSSIAN CHRISTIANITY VERSUS MODERN JUDAISM. Let us go thank the Lord, who made us those To suffer, not to do this deed. Old Play. THE spontaneous action of the prominent citizens of London and New York, without distinction of creed, in protest against the Russian atrocities committed upon the Jews, happily renders unnecessary any denunciation on the part of a Jewess. In the April number of THE CENTURY Mine. Ragozin set forth the Russian side of the question, which ap- pears to her sufficient explanation of a state of affairs characterized by the London Times as a scene of horrors that have hitherto only been perpetrated in medkeval days during times of war. Murder, rape, arson, one hundred thousand families reduced to homeless beggary, and the destruction of eighty million dollars worth of property, such, in fewest words, are the acts for which an excuse is sought. The perusal of a single bookthe work of Mr. Jacob Brafmann, a Jewish apostate in the pay of the Russian Governmenthas forever demolished, in her mind, the fallacy that the Christians have been persecuting the Jews, and has estab lished in its stead the conspicuous fact that the Jews have been always, and still are, per- secuting the Christians, especially in Russia. This great truththat a handful of wretched Jews are undermining the well-being of the largest empire of the globeMine. Rago- zin is confident will commend itself to the acceptance of all unprejudiced minds. Let us first disabuse our readers of the sophistical distinction made by Mine. Rag- ozin, in common with many other writers, between the two kinds of Jews, and the idea that a vast dualism essentially charac- terizes this extraordinary race. Behind this subtle error lurk all the dangers that have threatened the existence of the people, for whatever calumnies be refuted by a Jewish spokesman, the answer is ever ready: These charges do not apply to you, and such as you. But how can you be sure that such outrages are not committed by some barbarous sect of your tribe? Now, we can be sure of the Jewsmore so, perhaps, than of any other RUSSIAN CHRISTIANITY VERSUS MODERN JUDAISM. 49 people in the world, their history being the oldest among civilized nations, their social and moral code having remained unaltered through all time, and the vicissitudes of their fate hav- ing exposed them to almost every test which can affect individual or national character. The dualism of the Jews is the dualism of humanity; they are made up of the good and the bad. May not Christendom be divided into those Christians who denounce such out- rages as we are considering, and those who commit or apologize for them? Immortal genius and moral purity, as exemplified by Moses and Spinoza, constitute a minority among the Jews, as they do among the Gentiles, but here ends the truth of the matter. Facts dis- prove even the plausible theory that, where Judeaphobia has longest prevailed, there has been a corresponding fundamental degen- eracy in the race, for their suppleness and elasticity seem almost without bounds. From the identical conditions which Mine. Rago- zin describes in Russia as fatal to the moral and intellectual development of the Jews (the internal restrictions of the kahal and the cramping tyranny of external laws) sprang in Germany, as soon as a breathing-place was opened, the generation of Moses Mendelssohn and his gifted family, including Felix, Fanny Hensel, and Dorothea Schlegel, Heine the poet, Edward Gans, Ludwig Bdrne, Doctor Zunz, Rahel von Ense, Henrietta Herz, and others. And to-day, after little more than fifty years of Jewish enfranchisement, the German Christians are making a piteous outcry that the Jews are usurping the intellectual, political, and financial control of the state. It is not the Jews of the Bible, but the Jews of the Talmud, to whom we object, assert the Russians, and the uninitiated Gen- tile is willing to believe that the Talmud is but a compendium of barbarous laws and puerile catch-words; consequently that its votaries must be a peculiarly degraded, nar- row, and obnoxious set. The truth is that all (orthodox) Jews with whom Americans and Europeans are acquainted are Talmudists. The Talmud is, in great part, a modification of the barbarous injunctions contained in the Bible, which continues to be also one of the text-books of Christendom. Many of the most ridiculous, hair-splitting subtleties of the Talmud are simply introduced for the purpose of rendering impossible the fulfillment of harsh Scriptural commandments. As for the intrin- sic merits of the book, the life and precepts of the Rabbi Hillel, therein narrated, antic- ipate those of Jesus; even the golden rule is formulated in its pages, while the literary beauty of its purely poetical passages is occa- sionally of the highest order. In Southern Russia and the Crimea lives a certain small sect of dissenting Jews, said to be fast dying out, called the Karaites, who reject the Talmud, and who have always been ostentatiously favored by the Government. In the midst of the prevailing Jewish reign of ~terror, they have lately been accorded full rights of citizenship. They number less than five thousand among the three million Jews of the Russian empire. When, therefore, the Czar and his apologists exclaim: How can you accuse us of persecuting the Jews? It is not the Jews but the Talmudists whom we abhor: consider our kindness to the Karaites, it is just as if a savage race, bent upon exterminating the Christians, were to make an exception in favor of the Quakers, or as if the Turks were to say: We bear no grudge against Europeans. True, we oppress and kill Montenegrins, Roumanians, and Bulgarians, but who ever heard of our touching an Amer- ican missionary! Mine. Ragozin dilates upon Mr. Brafmanns heroic act of conver- sion to Christianity, and explains the tre- mendous obstacles and dire penalties that lie in the way of such a feat on the part of a Jew. What can be more natural than that one who has safely defied, as Mr. Brafmann has done, the withering curse of the kizerem, which Mine. Ragozin quotes in full, should reveal the secrets of the prison-house whencd he has escaped? Now, be it submitted to the com- mon sense of any reasonable being: Is it an advantage to-day, socially, civilly, or politi- cally, to be a Jew? Is not every bribe, both spiritual and secular, held out by modern society to persuade the Jew to become a pros- elyte? Naturall~r, the Jewish church itself does not offer reward to renegades, but it is not to be supposed that the emancipated Jew stands greatly in awe of a malediction in which he no longer believes. Mine. Ragozin, as a Rus- sian, cannot be ignorant of the fact that if in a single instance, the anathema which she transcribes were pronounced over the head of a baptized Jew, the priest who had uttered it would be denounced without delay to the authorities, and the midnight arrest, con- demnation without trial, and the mines of Siberia would be his portion. There are hun- dreds of converted Jews in Russia, going about freely and transacting business among their own people as well as among Christians. Such a thing as an indignity, much less an injury, offered to them at the hands of their former co-religionists, has never been heard of. The path from Judaism to Christianity, so far from being encompassed with terrors, is in reality made smooth and easy by every device which can be invented by missionary societies on the part of the Christians, and 50 RUSSIAN CHRISTIANITY VERSUS MODERN JUDAISM every temptation that can be suggested by practical convenience and worldly ambition in the mind of the Jew.* Mine. Ragozin, then, bases her entire arraignment of Jewish char- acter and institutions upon the documents supplied by a Jewish convert, at the request of the Russian Government. What would Christendom have thought of a statement put forward by the Turks after the Bulgarian massacres, drawn up by a renegade Christian who had entered the service of the Ottoman court? Yet it is precisely such a document as this which we are asked to accept in extenuation of the outrages committed by Russian mobs. There is but one answer to the charges against the Jews, which Brafmann pro- fesses to base upon quotations from the Talmud: they are singly and collectively false. They have not even the doubtful merit of originality, being simply a revamping of the wearisome old perversions, garblings, dis- tortions, mistranslations of the spirit and letter of the text, which have been fully refuted by documents familiar to the whole read- ing public. For the subtle meaning of the Talmud we need not go to a bribed rene- gade and thief, who had the documents abstracted for him ( convey the wise it call! ), not without danger, by a friend from the Jewish archives. Charges of a similar nature to Mr. Brafmanns, but incomparably worse, were satisfactorily refuted two hundred years ago by Manasseh ben-Israel, in his famous petition to Oliver Cromwell. If a Moslem were to print an expurgated copy of the Bible, citing all the barbarous passages and omitting all the humane and noble features, what would Islam think of the corner-stone of Christianity? Yet this is precisely what the Jew-haters have done with the Talmud. Modern philosophical crit- icism, no less than a study of Jewish history, and a dawning appreciation of the nobility of the Jewish type of character, have dis- pelled among all thinking and cultivated minds the web of calumny spun by bigotry and folly around these remarkable volumes. For a general reply to such libels as Braf- manns, I refer such of my readers as are disposed to credit them to the writings of Emmanuel Deutsch, the Jewish scholar, said to be the original of George Eliots Mordecai, and to the works of the orthodox Christian clergyman, Dr. Franz Delitzsch, one of the greatest living Orientalists. The Talmud (says the latter in his Talmud Jews, pub ~ As soon as Brafmann had taken this perilous step, Mine. Ragozin tells us he received a comfort- able and honorable position in an ecclesiastical seminary. lished in i88r, in answer to the attacks of a Jew-baiter) is a parliament in which the voices of five centuries hold converse. It can easily be believed that nonsense by the side of sense, absurdity by the side of wit, cordial humanity beside harsh intolerance, ludicrous superstition beside true faith, are to be found therein, especially when we remember the character of the age in which it was produced, and whose testimony it is. Obscure phrases, and sentences in the spirit of the New Te~ta- ment, flourish side by side. The malicious trick of picking out the evil of the book, to build up a monumental protest against Jewish character, has been performed again and again. Jews who have been driven into the obscure recesses of noisome Ghettos have been invariably accused of practicing all these degrading customs which Mr. Brafmann has exposed. How does it happen that, whenever the full light of civilization has been allowed to stream upon the Jews, these shadowy hor- rors vanish without leaving a trace? Has the Jew changed his code? No, not since the days of Moses. But the Christian has granted him the freedom of the sunshine, and the mere light of day has revealed the unreality of the nightmares of darkness. The mysterious clew to the Jewish question which Mine. Ragozin has discovered is no secret document, but a book called Le Livre du Kahal, published at St. Petersburg in French and Russian in 1869. Surely no government could tolerate for a single moment so monstrous an anomaly as the community therein described. Certainly not with its eyes open! And yet here, on her own showing, the hundred Argus-eyes of the Russian Government, the most absolute of modern despotisms, bave been opened for twelve consecutive years, and the kahal still exists with the sanction of the law. If halfnay, if a single one of these allegations could have been substantiatedcould not the three million Jews of the empire have been transported en masse to Siberia for fel- ony and treason? Stripped of all circumlocution, the kahal is simply a Jewish congregation under the spirit- ual direction of the minister and the temporal direction of wardens and trustees. Mine. Ragozins representation of its powers and functions would lead one to suppose that she was describing the court of the Russian auto- crat hin~self. Are we actually to believe that Christendom is a watery lake, and that the Gentiles are silly fish, to be baited, hooked, and devoured by a race of miserable pariahs? A tolerable acquaintance with history would have taught Mine. Ragozin, on the contrary, that the property of Jews has been always RUSSIAN CHRISTIANITY VERSUS MODERN JUDAISM 5 considered the natural patrimony of Chris- tian potentates and people, who found means to despoil their victims without even making a pretense of being snugly sheltered by the law. Here is her account of the unholy proc- esses of the Jews: The proposed victim is tempted into borrowing, and enticed on and on by proffered facilities as long as it is sup- posed he still has a chance of rescue. When he has become entangled in the meshes of renewed bills and compound interest, wholly beyond the range of his resources, the blow descends, and the fortunate purchaser enters into open possession of his secretly long- cherished property. Ridicule, not argument, is the only possi- ble reply. What mystic powers are inherent in the Jew to enable him to entice into bor- rowing any sane man who does not wish to avail himself of the convenience of modem commercial exchange? Would not a man ignorant of the rules of renewed bills and compound interest be held responsible by all rational people for his own recklessness and stupidity, not to say unscrupulousness, if he borrowed money wholly beyond the range of his resources to repay? With what words would Mine. Ragozin characterize a Jew who borrowed money of a Christian on such terms, and when the blow descended (I. e., when the bill came in), protested that he was inno- cent of the debt, and had been abused by a Christian sharper? Mine. Ragozin does not even represent (as, indeed, she could not truthfully do) that the Jew speculates in this manner upon the ignorant peasant. Jews do not live in villagesthere is nothing for them to do there; they prefer more populous and wealthier centers. Thus, it is the rich, experienced merchants of Warsaw and Mos- cow whom we are to imagine as falling a helpless prey into the meshes of a band of wretched outcasts, who are watched with untiring vigilance and suspicion by the officers of the law. Whoever wishes to know what exploitation really means may turn to Wallaces Russia, page 464: The peasant who accepted land from a proprietor rarelybroughtwith him the necessaryimplements. *** He was obliged, therefore, to borrow from his land- lord, and the debt thus contracted was easily converted into a means of preventing his departure if he wished to change his domicile. * * The proprietors were the capitalists of the time. The muzhik was probably then, as now, only too ready to accept a loan without taking the necessary precautions for repaying it. The laws relating to debt were terribly severe, and there was no powerful judicial organization to protect the weak. Now, who is guilty of sucking out the blood of the people? The Russian Chris- tian who exploitsthe benighted peasant, or the persecuted Jew who lends money, on well-established conditions, to wealthy business men? That the Jews should ever form a hostile state within the state is rendered impossi- ble by a solemn Biblical injunction command- ing fidelity to the ruling government: And seek the welfare of the city whither I have banished you, and pray in its behalf unto the Lord, for in its welfare shall ye fare well. * There is no such thing, therefore, as an independent disloyal Jewish community, in Russia or out of Russia. Mine. Ragozin tells us that the Jews trade upon the weakness of the innocent creatures aroi~ind them, by entering largely into the liquor business. All the public-houses in Russia, she says, are kept by Jews. She seems to forget that drunkenness is notoriously the national vice of Russia, and is spread over the whole empire of which the Jews inhabit one seventh part. Recent statistics prove that drunkenness in Russia increases in inverse ratio to the proportion of Jews in the population, being worst in those provinces whence they are excluded, while the old kingdom of Poland, where they swarm, is less affected by the national vice than any other part of the empire. Mine. Ragozin excuses the weakness of her compatriots by explain- ing that the vodka, or whisky, is, in modera- tion, a necessity of existence to the poor, half- starved peasant warmth in the inhuman winter cold, mirth in his rare hours of rest, * * * medicine in sickness. * * * But how easy the slip into excess! The impartial ob- server will, of course, agree with Mine. Ragozin that, when the fatal slip into excess occurs, the responsibility lies, not with the self-in- dulgent peasant, but with the inn-keeper who offers for sale that which, in modera- tion, is the staff of life! A credible eye- witness informs me that he saw a Jewish inn- keeper threatened with violence for refusing to sell any more liquor to peasants already stupefied with intoxication. If the Russian Christian would imitate the virtue of his fellow-countryman, the Moslem Tartar, who contrives to resist the inhuman winter cold notwithstanding the fact that his religion exacts a rigid sobriety, the trade of the Jew- ish inn-keeper would be curtailed in a more humane and legitimate manner than any yet suggested by Russian legislators. Mine. Ragozin accuses the Jews of mo- nopolizing the butcher trade, and feeding whole districts upon meat which is little bet- ter than carrionselling the refuse of their market to Christians, in accordance with the * Jeremiah, xxix. 7. (Literally translated.) 52 RUSSIAN CHRISTIANITY VERSUS MODERN JUDAISM. injunction of the Mosaic law: Ye shall not eat of anything that dieth of itself; thou shalt give it unto the stranger that is in thy gates, that he may eat it, or thou mayest sell it unto an alien, for thou art an holy people unto the Lord thy God. (Deut. XLV. 21.) ( The Devil can cite Scripture for his pur- pose.) The above verse alludes to meat which Christians do not object to use, but which is forbidden by Jewish law. According to the latter many maladies, such as perfora- tion of internal organs, hardening of tissues, etc., render unfit for food meat which no Gentile would reject. Every Jew knows that to sell diseased or tainted meat to Christians is as unorthodox as it is immoral, and would lead, moreover, directly to the penitentiary. If any one believes that Mine. Ragozins construction of the text be true, let him look over the fourteenth chapter of Deuteronomy, breathing, as it does, the broadest spirit of hospitality, humanity, and what is called now- adays Christian charity. Moses specifies the food from which his people must abstain, and enjoins them, after collecting the tithe of their increase, to turn this into money and spend it according to their hearts desire, and enjoy it with their households, and with the Levite that is within their gates. Thou shalt not forsake him, for he hath no part or inheritance with thee. And the Levite, * * * and the stranger, and the fatherless, and the widow which are within thy gates, shall come and shall eat, and shall be satis- fied, that the Lord thy God may bless thee in all the work of thine hand which thou doest. (Deut. xiv. 27-29.) Such is the spirit of this barbarous Mosaic code, which has been superseded in Russia by the law of love! Moreover, even on Mine. Ragozins own showing, the Christians who are willing to pay the same price as the Jews can have the best meat! We know that, in the Middle Ages, numberless people were willing to swear at the stake that the Jews had poisoned all the wells of Europe; the old foe simply wears a new face, and the Jews are at their old tricks of wholesale murder. We learn from Mine. Ragozin that the Jews, while equally sheltered by the laws with all their fellow-subjects (which is false), scrupulously perform every year a public religious ceremony [the Kol-Nidreli], which offers a loop-hole of release from the obliga- tion of keeping any oath or promise made to the Government, or to individuals belonging to the state religion.~ Here is the truth about the Kol-Nidrek: On the Day of Atonement, which is a solemn fast for the Jews, the hasty vows that have been forgotten during the previous year are remitted by means of a special prayer, called the Kol-Nidrek. Lest there should be any misunderstanding concerning this prayer, a note appears in all Jewish rituals (Russian as well as American), to the effect that the formula has been con- trived in order to remit to the public their hasty vows, but not to absolve any one from an oblz~g-ation or a /udicial oath. The prayer is responded to by the entire congregation in these words: They shall all be null and void, without power or confirmation. And it shall be forgiven to the whole congregation of Israel, and to the stranger who so/ourneth among them; for all the people did it igno- rantly. How little of a conspiracy against the ruling government is intended by this innocent form is evinced additionally by the fact that, directly after this, comes the prayer for the Government. The Gentile, whose promises are forgiven, gains fully as much in- dulgence from the formula as the Jew. The high commercial standing of the Jews in America (not to speak of their record in all other civilized countries where they have been treated like human beings) proves this peo- ple to be scrupulously observant of promises, oaths, and business engagements. In the great financial scandals of our day, notably in Belgium, says Emile de Laveleye, only Christians have figured. * As for the Jews being equally sheltered before the Russian law with their Christian fellow-subjects, if any further proof be needed than the recent unpunished outrages upon their lives and property, I will cite the latest au- thority upon the subject, M. A. Leroy-Beau- lieu, whose magnificent work LEmpire des Tsars, now in course of publication, affords the fullest and clearest exposition yet made of the actual condition of Russia: Even since the latest reforms, the Israelites still remain in regard to their domicile, their prop- erty, and their elective functions, subject to certain restrictions, which make them a sep- arate class even in the midst of the classes ~o which they belong. This inferior position en- tailed upon the Jews has, doubtless, much to do with the participation of a certain number of them in the political crimes of recent years, while the rigors demanded against them from time to time, by the patriots of Moscow, Kiev, and Petersburg, are little calculated to inspire them with love and respect for the imperial laws. (Page 283.) It is false that the Jews are kept aloof by their own rulers from modern culture. Wit- ness the disproportionate number of Jews and J ewesses thronging the universities, to which * Lettres dItalie, p. 68. Bruxelles, x88o. RUSSIAN CHRISTIANITY VERSUS MODERN JUDAISM. 53 they have only recently been granted admis- ceming the unclean habits of the poorer sion. More than fifty per cent. of the students classes of Russia. J quote again from M. at Kiev University are said to be Jews. They Leroy-Beaulieu: are not allowed, except in specially privileged cases, to live in Kiev proper; they live out- side, and walk in and out of the town morn- ing and night. There is but one limit fixed to the tyranny of Russian laws against Jews, and that is the caprice of absolutism. Over and above the law is enthroned the Czar. Hence, although until the year i86i the Jews were literally reduced to the level of pariahs by the stereotyped phrase to all people, with the exception of the Jews, which followed every clause of the Russian code, the Czar reserves the arbitrary right to confer whatever honor he please upon any individual Jew. If Russian Jews be as Mine. Ragozin repre- sents them, they are what Russian Christians have made them. Was it not Heine who said: Every country has the Jews it de- serves? Mine. Ragozin says the Jews are hated not because of different race, religion, dress, peculiar customs, etc., but because of their servility, their abjectness, their want of manliness, their failure to stand up for themselves and resent injuries. Any one who aims at being as strictly logical as Mine. Ragozin might know that it is in vain to expect the virtues of freemen from a community of slaves. Of this same people, a prominent American Christian clergyman (Rev. Dr. How- ard Crosby) publicly declared a few weeks ago: It is the glory of America that she finds among the Israelites the purest and strongest elements of republican liberty. The Hon. J. W. Foster, late United States minister at St. Petersburg, writes: I do not mean to convey the impression that the Jews of Russia are equal in intelligence and social standing with their co-religionists of the most enlight- ened countries of Europe and America. Far from it. But they are superior in education and thrift to the same class among whom they belong. The cry against the Jews, in most countries where they have had protection from the law, is not that they are servile, but that they are arrogant. According to Mine. Ragozins statement, the Jews, herding together in unutter- able filth and squalor, are a loathsome and really dangerous elementa standing institu- tion for the propagation of all kinds of horri- ble and contagious diseases. We know how rigidly the sanitary and hygienic laws of the Mosaic code have been obeyed by Jews in all countries, and how frequently the almost miraculous vitality of this people has been ascribed to such obedience. On the other hand, we have authoritative testimony con- The very precautions necessitated by the cold are far from wholesome. In order to resist the winter, Russians have to live in a heavy, thick atmosphere of vitiated air, which is seldom renewed. In his wooden izba, often surrounded with an embankment of dung, the peasant huddles with his whole family around the enormous stove, on which they all sleep at night. The climate is as unfavorable to cleanliness as to health. * * * The peasant is condemned to live in a stifling atmosphere, impregnated with miasma. The hot, infected air of his cabin germinates myriads of insects, and all kinds of parasites swarm around. The ordures thrown out of the house disappear in the snow, and recover all their fetidness in the spring. Nothing can exceed the stench of a Russian thaw. Even in the towns, the filth cannot always flow freely through the sewers, which are stopped up by the ice. The snow, which resembled sand or pounded glass under the sleighs, is transformed into a thick, nauseous mud, from which ones boots carry the emanations in- doors. Under such sanitary conditions, it is no won- der to see this people a prey to all sorts of epidemics, and even the plague itself make its appearance still in European Russia, as it did at Vetlianka in 1879. * * * The necessity for being well muffled up is for the peo- ple an obstacle to cleanliness as well as to health. The peasant sleeps in his clothes, and passes night and day in the same sheepskin touloup. It is true that he takes a vapor-bath once a week, but unfortunately he is obliged to put his clothes on again, which are infested with vermin. ( LEmpire des Tsars, pp. 129, 130.) Mine. Ragozin will have difficulty in con- vincing those who are conversant with such facts as the above that the Jews are the cause of Russian pestilence. It must be borne in mind that Russia forcibly retains this canker in her body politic. Emigration as well as immigration is prohibited to the Jews. When General Ignatieff proclaimed, a short time ago, that he confidently expected the Western frontiers to be soon opened to the Israelites, probably very few Americans real- ized that this generous extension of privilege meant freedom to leave, not to en/er, the empire. The present emigration is effected by means of wholesale and public bribery of Govern- ment officials, in which the Jews have to squander thousands of rubles. Mine. Rag- ozin seems to think that, in acts of official corruption, the criminal is he who offers, not he who accepts, a bribe, and she wishes to guard her country against the evil effects of the unlawful favors shown to the Jews. Let it be remembered, too, that the Jew offers a bribe to protect his property and life, the Christian accepts it to enrich himself surrep- titiously at the expense of others. Mine. Ragozin melts with compassion to think of the long line of exiles emigrating across the Amoor, driven out by the extortion of the Jews. It has been popularly supposed that the mines of Siberia, the notorious Third Section of the late Czars Imperial Chancel 54 RUSSIAN CHRISTIANITY VERSUS MODERN JUDAISMJ lerie, and several articles of the Russian code, had some connection with the restlessness of the Russians. But Mine. Ragozin assures us it is a petty tribe of clever Jewish traders, gagged, bound, and restricted in every way by the tyranny of unjust laws, who are sucking out the blood of all the Russias.* A companion- picture to Mine. Ragozins fancy-sketch of the melancholy procession of moujiks may be actually seen by any American who crosses the ferry to Wards Island, New York, where are huddled together hundreds of homeless refugees, among whom are not a few men of brilliant talents and accomplishments,the graduates of Russian universities, scholars of Greek as well as of Hebrew, and familiar with all the principal European tongues,engaged in menial drudgery and burning with zeal in the cause of their wretched co-religionists. There are the results of every kind of atrocity, which impelled these despoiled exiles, not from one district to another of their own country, but across the wide Atlantic to an unfamiliar land. No American who has seen them, and heard from their own lips the simple narration of their sufferings, will have much compassion left to spare for the whisky-ruined peasants described by Mine. Ragozin. Of these hor- rors, no one in whose veins flows a drop of Jewish blood can speak with becoming com- posure.t The position of the Jews in Russia Among five hundred refugees at Brody there was not a single money-lender. They were all artisans and traders. t The problem of the Amoor and other Russian em- igrants is a simple one. A thrifty, sober people like the Jews, side by side with a class of besotted idlers like the majority of the moujiks, is bound to win material prosperity. Tourgu~neff, in his last novel, Virgin Soil, gives us a tragic picture of deserted Russian villages, and the real key to their misery, in a poem supposed to be written by the hero: SLEEP. It was a long time since I had seen my birthplace, but I did not find the slightest change in it. Deathly torpor, absence of thought, roofless houses, ruined walls, filth and stench, poverty and misery, insolent or melancholy eyes of slaves,everything has re- mained the same. Our people is emancipated, and its hand rests as before, inert by its side. Nothing, nothing has changed. In one single point we have otitstripped Europe, Asia, the whole world. No, never have my dear compatriots slept so terrible a sleep. Every- thing is asleep; everywhere,in the village, the city, the teZt~ga, the sleigh,by day and night, standing and sitting, the merchant, the tchinovnik, sleep; in his tower sleeps the watchman, in the cold snow and beneath the burning sun; the prisoner sleeps, and the judge dozes. The peasants sleep a death-like slumber; they reap, they plow, they sleep; they thresh the wheat, they continue sleeping; father, mother, children, all sleep. He who strikes and he who is struck sleep equally. Only the tavern is awake, with its eye always open! And pressing between his five fingers a jug of brandy, with his brow on the North Pole and his feet in the Caucasus, sleeps in an eternal slumber our fatherland, holy Russia!~ has been likened to that of the Chinese in the United States, but the two cases bear no analogy. The Jews have not emigrated to Russia: they are in the land of their forefathers. Says ex-Minister Foster: It is true that for centuries past Russia has had laws prohib- ing the immigration of the Jews; but the conquest of the provinces in the South-west brought in more than two million Jews as subjects of the empire. Mine. Ragozin points with dignified com- placency to Russias millions of Moham- medan subjects living peaceably amidst the Christians. Who ever heard of an outbreak against them? Let us not be deceived by this specious plea. Russia is only semi- Euro- pean; fully two-thirds of her enormous bulk lies in Asia. While the Mohammedans of Eu- ropean Russia bear about the same numerical relation as the Jews do to the Christian popu- lation, yet she is bounded on the south by the Ottoman Empire itself; at her eastern gate lies Persia, a Mohammedan power which she is ever anxious to conciliate, and a large part of her territory embraces provinces which are wholly Mohammedan. In Asiatic Russia, says M. Leroy-Beaulieu, the Tartars have for congeners as well as co-religionists the Khirgiz, the most extensive of all the Turkish branches; in Turkestan the Turcoinans and the Osbegs; in the Caucasus the Kumuks and other small tribes, and even in Siberia Mohammedans who have more or less claim to the title of Tartars. (Pp. 88, 89.) India, with her population of fifty million Moham- medans, generally supposed to be the ulterior aim of all Russias policy, lies not far distant. Now, if we imagine a huge Jewish sover- eignty intrenched on the borders of the Russian Empire, and powerful allies scat- tered about in every direction, it is not diffi- cult to believe that the outbreaks against the Russian Jews would be as infrequent as are those against the Mohammedans. The latter have their mosques, their schools in which the Koran is the basis of instruction, and their inollahs, or umpires, just as the Jews have their synagogues, their beth-din, and their kahal. But the Russians have not yet found it necessary to see in such institutions a standing menace to the existence of the Russian Empire. That the Jews are as a rule shrewd, astute, and sharp at a bargain no one will deny; that a rapacious envy of their gains is at the bottom of all the religious and political out- breaks against them, I am as firmly con- vinced as is Mine. Ragozin herself. But none the less is it a fact that this envy, ashamed to appear under its proper name, seeks to dis- guise itself under the mask of any and every RUSSIAN CHRISTIANITY VERSUS MODERN JUDAISM other sentimentpatriotism, self-preservation, religious zeal, righteous indignation in a thou- sand forms. But is it not as puerile as it is monstrous to assert that the Christians, who outnumber the Jews by millions, who have the whole power of the law and the throne to back them, not to speak of the prejudice of the whole civilized world in their favor, can find no other weapons than tyranny, violence, and murder to preserve them against the Jew, who has nothing but his wits? When Peter the Great was petitioned to grant the right of settling in Russia to a colony of Jew- ish merchants, he replied, jestingly, Why, they would starve to death among the Rus- sians. Concerning Russian business habits, Bielinski, one of the most distinguished of their contemporary authors, writes: When I go shopping in the city, while my ears are deafened and my human dignity is insulted by the vulgar policy of our national business community, advertising its own wares and almost forcibly dragging purchasers into the shops, then do I realize that I have fallen among the greatest swindlers in the world! What is to be done? The Russian is born so! We condemn this Asiatic ostentation, this cringing politeness bordering on servility, this shameless boasting, and can only say, like the fish to the angling-line, it has always been thus in Russia. * Down with the Jews ! say tbe Loyalists; they are at the bottom of Nihilism! Down with the Jews and all the property-holding classes! yell the Nihilists. When the pitcher falls upon the stone, says the Talmud, woe unto the pitcher! When the stone falls upon the pitcher, woe unto the pitcher! Whatever befalls, woe unto the pitcher! Mine. Ragozin tells us that in all cases Jewish riots begin spontaneously! In other words, we are to accept them as natural phe- nomena, like volcanic eruptions or earth- quakes, for which only the inscrutable laws of Providence are responsible. According to her, race-animosity or religious intolerance has never been at work in connection with them, and she continues, with truly feminine logic: The difference between the Middle Ages and now, apart from the mild form of the re- cent paroxysms consequent on the general softening of mens natures, is chiefly this: then, religious feeling was actively mixed up with economical grievances, while now it is totally absent, and never could this medkeval specter be dragged forth to the light of our very sober, unfanatical age. Let us once and forever drop this sentimental Liberal slang, invented by the Liberal press of Germany, Bielinskis works, ii., 28. 55 which is controlled by emancipated Jews. To a Russian mind and heart, the recent par- oxysms may seem to have assumed a very mild form indeed, consequent on the general softening, etc. To an American, they do not appear in such a rosy light. Here is the pict- ure the Hon. W. M. Evarts draws of them not from accounts of German Hebrews, but of English journals, such as the London Times, which have sent a thrill of horror through all civilized Christendom. These per- secutions, these oppressions, these cruelties, these outrages, have taken every form of atrocity in the experience of mankind, or which the resources of the human tongue can describe. Men have been cruelly murdered, women brutally outraged, children dashed to pieces, or burnt alive in their homes, etc., etc. Is this what Mine. Ragozin calls the sentimental Liberal slang of a Hebrew jour- nalist, inflamed by a mistaken national zeal ? * Amid the vast amount of savage prejudice still existing against the Jews, says the Pall Mall Gazette, cultivated dislike had better hold its tongue. The Russian persecution of the Jews, of which we are only now re- ceiving the horrible details, has been going on for fully three years. The outbreak at Ielizavetgrad, which furnishes Mine. Ragozin with a convenient introduction, was by no means the beginning of the trouble. In March, 1879, nine Jews were brought up for trial in the Caucasfis, on the charge of hav- ing slain a Christian child and tapped its blood for Passover; and the same hideous fiction, the identical medi~eval specter, was revived simultaneously in several districts, invariably leading to riot, pillage, and mur- der. The cold-blooded tone in which Mine. Ragozin relates the disturbance at leliza- vetgrad enables us to realize, as we could not otherwise have done, the spirit in which such outrages are perpetrated. The mob behaved with remarkable coolness and dis- crimination. What did they do? Why, they simply sacked, gutted, and ruthlessly de- stroyed the homes of hundreds of innocent people, made a bonfire of their effects, tore up like waste paper bank-notes to the amount of thousands of rubles, offered in ransom by the wretched victims, and not being able to resist their only weakness, they drank themselves into a state of hopeless intoxica- tion, and were in some cases almost drowned in the liquor that had bestialized them. Is not this a pleasant picture of humanity? That the riot was prompted by no love of gain * How tenderly soft must be the natures of men who, in one case authentically reported in all the lead- ing journals, poured kerosene oil over a human being and set it on fire! 56 ROMANCE. is proved in Mine. Ragozins eyes by the fact that the rioters retained nothing, and their object was simply to despoil and cripple, not to enrich themselves. Some simpletons who came in from the country, and took posses- sion by the wagon-load of the valuables piled up in the market-place, actually did not know they were committing a blamable act! Sanc/a sin~pIici/as! what precious innocents these Rus- sians must be! Mine. Ragozin is obliged to confess that such extenuation, however, can- not be admitted of the conduct of some well- dressed women in carriages, who carried off jewels which they were afterward obliged by the officers of the law to relinquish. Of course, the consideration that the law was boilnd to interfere, at some time or other, to protect even Jewish subjects had no con- nection whatever with the extraordinary moderation the rioters evinced in destroy- ing, rather than retaining, their spoils! No lives were lost, owing to the prudence of the Jews. The poor creatures at bay shut themselves up in their houses, and only when they were occasionally so foolish as to fire a pistol in defense of their hearths and homes did this good-natured mob show mani- fest signs of irritation. Hebrew lawyers and physicians were not molested, they being considered useful members of society! At Odessa, Kiev, and Warsaw, Mine. Ragozin cannot say as much for her countrymen. She is obliged to confess that blood was shed, and even, by a lamentable mistake, some innocent Christians were sacrified who happened to be passing through the streets. Mine. Ragozin, in her account of the out- rages, so far, from exculpating her compa- triots, has taken from them the one human excuse (not justification) which even a mob may plead in self-defensethe influence of unbridled passion. She simply reduces them to the level of fiends, as calculating and cunning as they are merciless. But it were an insult to our readers to fancy that any extenuation, however plausible, of such horrors could have a moments weight with them. Were Mine. Ragozins (or Brafmanns) state- ments ten times true, rather than the stale and flimsy libels which they are, they would bear no relation whatever to the deeds she attempts to explain. Mr. Evarts has put the question upon the only ground which Americans need consider or act upon: It is not that it is the oppression of Jews by Russiansit is that it is the oppression of men and women by men and women: and we are men and women! Emma Lazarus. ROMANCE. Mv Love dwelt in a Northern land, A dim tower in a forest green Was his, and far away the sand And gray wash of the waves was seen The woven forest-boughs between: And through the Northern summer night The sunset slowly died away, And herds of strange deer, silver-white, Came gleaming through the forest gray, And fled like ghosts before the day. And oft, that month, we watched the moon Wax great and white oer wood and lawn, And wane, with waning of the June, Till, like a brand for battle drawn, She fell, and flamed in a wild dawn. I know not if the forest green Still girdles round that castle gray, I know not if the boughs between The white deer vanish ere the day: The grass above my Love is green; His heart is colder than the clay. A;idrew Lang.

56 ROMANCE. is proved in Mine. Ragozins eyes by the fact that the rioters retained nothing, and their object was simply to despoil and cripple, not to enrich themselves. Some simpletons who came in from the country, and took posses- sion by the wagon-load of the valuables piled up in the market-place, actually did not know they were committing a blamable act! Sanc/a sin~pIici/as! what precious innocents these Rus- sians must be! Mine. Ragozin is obliged to confess that such extenuation, however, can- not be admitted of the conduct of some well- dressed women in carriages, who carried off jewels which they were afterward obliged by the officers of the law to relinquish. Of course, the consideration that the law was boilnd to interfere, at some time or other, to protect even Jewish subjects had no con- nection whatever with the extraordinary moderation the rioters evinced in destroy- ing, rather than retaining, their spoils! No lives were lost, owing to the prudence of the Jews. The poor creatures at bay shut themselves up in their houses, and only when they were occasionally so foolish as to fire a pistol in defense of their hearths and homes did this good-natured mob show mani- fest signs of irritation. Hebrew lawyers and physicians were not molested, they being considered useful members of society! At Odessa, Kiev, and Warsaw, Mine. Ragozin cannot say as much for her countrymen. She is obliged to confess that blood was shed, and even, by a lamentable mistake, some innocent Christians were sacrified who happened to be passing through the streets. Mine. Ragozin, in her account of the out- rages, so far, from exculpating her compa- triots, has taken from them the one human excuse (not justification) which even a mob may plead in self-defensethe influence of unbridled passion. She simply reduces them to the level of fiends, as calculating and cunning as they are merciless. But it were an insult to our readers to fancy that any extenuation, however plausible, of such horrors could have a moments weight with them. Were Mine. Ragozins (or Brafmanns) state- ments ten times true, rather than the stale and flimsy libels which they are, they would bear no relation whatever to the deeds she attempts to explain. Mr. Evarts has put the question upon the only ground which Americans need consider or act upon: It is not that it is the oppression of Jews by Russiansit is that it is the oppression of men and women by men and women: and we are men and women! Emma Lazarus. ROMANCE. Mv Love dwelt in a Northern land, A dim tower in a forest green Was his, and far away the sand And gray wash of the waves was seen The woven forest-boughs between: And through the Northern summer night The sunset slowly died away, And herds of strange deer, silver-white, Came gleaming through the forest gray, And fled like ghosts before the day. And oft, that month, we watched the moon Wax great and white oer wood and lawn, And wane, with waning of the June, Till, like a brand for battle drawn, She fell, and flamed in a wild dawn. I know not if the forest green Still girdles round that castle gray, I know not if the boughs between The white deer vanish ere the day: The grass above my Love is green; His heart is colder than the clay. A;idrew Lang. GEORGE INNESS. IT is little short of impertinent to write of a painter who, in his own work, has already ex- pressed himself a thousand times better. But there are many who never see his pictures, and many who, seeing them, lack the habit of judging and do not understand. The natu- ral refuge of the writer on art is the common- place of praise, extracted either from the com- ments of the artist on his own productions, or from utterances, private or public, on the part of his friends. For who cares to be dogmatic VOL. XXJV.6. in the analysis of work which the painter alone understands, and he not always thoroughly? By much more is the hazard greater when one comes to consider the subtler processes which go before the worknamely, the mental and moral processes which give that work its value. We meet with a picture that gives us a pleasant feeling; it is a graceful figure that one would like to have in ones home; or a landscape that recalls memories of happy days. Having become possessed of it, there UNDER THE GERENWOOD.

GEORGE INNESS. IT is little short of impertinent to write of a painter who, in his own work, has already ex- pressed himself a thousand times better. But there are many who never see his pictures, and many who, seeing them, lack the habit of judging and do not understand. The natu- ral refuge of the writer on art is the common- place of praise, extracted either from the com- ments of the artist on his own productions, or from utterances, private or public, on the part of his friends. For who cares to be dogmatic VOL. XXJV.6. in the analysis of work which the painter alone understands, and he not always thoroughly? By much more is the hazard greater when one comes to consider the subtler processes which go before the worknamely, the mental and moral processes which give that work its value. We meet with a picture that gives us a pleasant feeling; it is a graceful figure that one would like to have in ones home; or a landscape that recalls memories of happy days. Having become possessed of it, there UNDER THE GERENWOOD. 58 GEORGE INNESS. is a period of enjoyment which ends either pleasurably or ill. In one case, it fits into place and becomes a spiritual comrade; in the other tedium sets in, and one feels that its absence would be a relief. But now and then we come upon a picture that may not be certainly and at once pleasurable in its effect, but it arrests the attention with a shock. We may be troubled before it; but if we are not hampered by prejudices or schooled learn- ing.if we have resolved not to take opinions at second-hand, but to be brave enough to ad- mire what gives us sensations of pleasure, or akin thereto,we may be sure that, to us at least, the work of art is a masterpiece. Our taste may change. Ten years hence we may have come to other conclusions, sounder or less sound. But, for the time being, this is the picture that reveals to us a glimpse of that shadowy paradise of which the gate-keeper is genius. Some such shock has befallen the writer while looking at more than oneyes, more than tenof the landscapes of George Inness. A private opinion, to be sure, and perhaps worth no more and no less than that of any- body else. But when one has such a sensa- tion,it is interesting to follow it back and see if there is not good reason for its existence. Are the technical processes by which the art- ist reaches these effects marked by the free- dom and variety, the grasp and certainty, which characterize a master of his profes sion? And behind the technical work does there lie a mental labor which will explain to some extent the excitement produced in the mind of the observer? These few pages are scant space in which to make the trial, but possibly a more pretentious medium would only serve to show more plainly how thread- bare is the attempt. Looking at the life of Inness from the out- side, it is merely that of a thousand other artists. He had few advantages of education; became an engraver; was overtaken by ill health. He had his days of enthusiasm and hope. He married and brought up children one a painter of promise, with children of his own. When fortune smiled he enjoyed three stays in Europethe last, and most fruitful of beautiful work, being of four years duration. He shared the struggles of American art before the warits well-meant but not always wise encouragements after the war, its period of dejection and loss of prestige. There have been years in his life when he sold pictures quickly at very high prices, succeeded by more years when he made nothing. He has felt the fallacious stimulus of our good times, and endured the wholesome discipline of our hard times. And what is the up- shot of it all? Well, for one thing, the lack of pettiness seen in his work might reasona- bly be attributed to this varied experience. As devoted to his studio as J. J., the painter drawn by Thackeray, and as careless of the PINE-GROVES OF BARBARINI VILLA. GEORGE INNESS. business portion of his profession, neverthe- less, Inness has not been able to escape the usual lot of men. Black Care has peeped over his shoulder and insisted on having a hand in his work. Another thing is the ab- sence of early paintings. What has become of all the pictures painted before i86o, when the pre-Raphaelite movement was beginning to have its echoes on this side of the water? Sold to all sorts of people, at all sorts of prices, in all sorts of ways; destroyed, many of them, painted over by their maker, scat- tered to the four quarters of the earth. There would have been no chance for this artist to coddle his pictures and concentrate his art upon itself, even if it had been strongly in his nature to do so. Another result: no possibil- ity of becoming self-conscious and affected, like too many of his English cousins in art. Severely as the social fabric of New York handled him, there was breadth in its treat- ment. If it did not buy his pictures, it was either because it was honestly ignorant of their value, or because it thought it could not afford the money. But there was no social caste to drive artists and writers into one of two fatal pathseither into revolt at the fret- ting and pervasive tyranny, or into those grimaces which often prove a passport to success. Inness has suffered; but there has never been a necessity here, as there was in England, that painters of genius should band them- selves together into a Pre-Raphaelite Brother- 59 hood, which answered scorn for scorn, and social snubbing by artistic snubbing. Elastic, like our government, the social atmosphere in which he found himself was full of crudities, but full of life; if there was no great support in it, there was no demoralizing influence exerted by it upon his art. He fought his way along by his own methods, without the depress- ing feeling that, let his genius be ever so great, ninnies were being born every day whom a large body of his fellow-citizens would rank above him. The acid that bit into the soul of Carlyle was present in Amer- ica in such a feeble, dilute condition that the painter need never feel its presence. Inness seems never to have had even so much of social ambition as to make him wish to knock at those doors in his city which are least ready to open to men neither rich nor well-accredited. Sufficient for him were his own family, his studio, and his private circle of friends. A steady workman at his profes- sion, he would go to nature for impressions, simply, neither with boast nor with too much hope. Sometimes it is plain that he has labored hard at his sketches; hours and days pass while struggling at one scene. In such cases the work is minute, painstaking, almost painful. For his nature is most excitable, and can only be made to apply itself by the strongest exercise of will. But then the ben- efit of self-restraint shows unerringly in the sketch. On other occasions, he has been an impressionist in the fullest sense of the term. LLUS1~ OF A STORMY DAY. 6o GEORGE INNESS. Overwhelmed by the beauty of a scene, the play of light and shade, the balance of clouds, distant hills and nearer masses of forest, he has dashed his paint on with hardly a line of pencil or charcoal to guide him, working in that rapt condition of mind during which the lapse of time is not felt, in which the mind seems to extend itself through the fin- gers to the tip of the brush, and the latter, as it moves on the prepared surface, seems to obey the general laws of nature which fashioned the very landscape that is being counterfeited at the instant. These were mo- ments of the painters ecstasy, rare enough in comparison with cooler moods, but leav- ing their mark with equal unerringuess. From sketches taken under such varying circum- stances have arisen in the quiet of his studio the procession of landscapes issuing from his hand during the past thirty years. Grave landscapes and gay, landscapes noble and plain, expressive landscapes and those that told of indifferent moods. Some touch a height of magnificence that gives one cause to remember the great men of former days Claude, Poussin, Rosa, Ruysdael, Constable, Turner. Others have the sturdy look of Rousseau. But Inness is not an imitator or follower of any of these; if he had one merit only, it would be originality. Genius more varied is not unknown and genius that has broader limits. But in his own lines as a landscapist and colorist he is like no one else. Consider his Stone Pines at Monte Mario, and Hickory Grove at Medfield, Mass., his Coming Storm, and Light Triumphant. It is only at a distance that the work of Inness seems to be unvaried. It is always landscape, and always one feels the indi- vidual manner which has not been allowed to degenerate into mannerism. But the moods in which the different pictures have been conceived are often varied, and then another key-note of color is struck. Some- times that note is laid down on the can- vas at the start; its complementary color is added; then follow the other colors and their shades of color, all with reference to the first. Again, it may seem better to reverse the order somewhat: the key color is washed over later. Inness has learned to subordinate his materials; they flow plastic under his brush or thumb. A disciple of the older school, he seldom uses the palette-knife or brushes of extraordinary character, yet, if he thought better effects could be gained through them, he would not hesitate a moment to use them. This may seem trivial; it is only mentioned to show that, notwithstanding the intensity of certain of his convictions, which will presently be mentioned, he has no narrowness regarding the methods of his work or the tools employed. When the right mood is on he becomes dra AN AUTUMN MORNING. GEORGE INNESS. matic, although always as a landscapist, and reaches closely to the borders of the sublime. There is a moorland piece which shows this trait well. Heavy bowlders encumber the moor; one almost hides a farm~house, whose gray roof, were it not for the smoke at its chimney, might be taken for another masS of rock. A figure is detected in the open central space. The sky is magnificent with heavy, black rain~clouds, that reflect the ruggedness of the moor; in the center, and as a counter- part of the farm~house roof, is a brilliant white cloud that has caught the sunlight. There is a fine glowing effect in the heavens and in the dis- tant moor that is aided by the smoke and the little curling white clouds above the heavier masses. This is not direct work from nature it is pure dramatic imagination. It is based on a very different scene. The original is a comparatively sober copy of a real landscape, in which thickets and woods stand or the bowlders, a peaceful train of cattle fills a green meadow in the center, and in which the bed of the wild stream, that seems at one time to have spun the bowlders about like ~~~ling~stOnes, is a placid river. The nar- row realist will be likely to object to a picture which he will say is one of c/tic. But what then? eat thingif Suppose it is. C/tic is a gr you are great enough in art to use and not abuse it 62 GEORGE INNESS. It has become almost hackneyed to divide the works of a painter into so many styles, more or less representative of varying peri- ods of his development. The habit is con- venient as affording a method of obtaining a comprehensive view it is also the natural method, for artists often do materially change their styles. Vith Inness, distinctions of the kind are not sharply defined, yet they exist all the same. His art has been very slow in development. He does not accept philosophical ideas suddenly, nor without great stress of thoughta veritable spiritual combat. Three epochs may be distinguished in his work, but their borders overlap, and it would be rash to affirm absolutely in every case to which of the three a picture belongs. With due deference, therefore, to the possi- bility of mistake, these three styles may be postulated: An ante-war style, consisting of painstaking, rather stiW analytical work, simi- lar to that of many of his comrades in the Hudson River School, etc. Secondly, a war style, which we may consider the result of the agitation produced by the four years of tumult and national anguish, and which shows itself in fluidity of outlines, a breaking-up of the old rigidity, a new grasp of what is magnifi- cent in landscape breadth, a throwing over- board of the pettiness of the former style. This may also be called the Italian style of Inness, not so much because he learned from the Italian masters,his influences were rather French, Flemish, and Dutch,but because he painted Italian scenes. Finally, a post-war style, in which he now works without loss of the good in his previous efforts, but with com- plete control of his art. If big words are not out of place, the present may be called his synthetic style as opposed to the analytic of the days before the war. In the figure he was never grounded, partly because of an over- whelming tendency to landscape, but also because of illness in youth and the lack of sound instruction to be had in New York when he was a boy. It is heresy to suggest that in the end the omission has served him, But is it not imaginable that the lack of early training, such as artists get easily to-day, kept him poor and humble and forced him to greater efforts in the only branch of painting he could follow? There remains the personality behind the artistic product. A painter deserving the name of artist works, consciously or unconsciously, from inner rules which he has, as it xvere, invented for himself. It is easily conceivable that he may be a great artist, and yet un- equal in his work; a genius, arid surpassed by lesser men in deftness of hand. But behind his pictures he must have intellectual and moral forces more potent than those of the ordinary craftsman of his profession, and also possess naturally either a fair share of facility LOITERING. GEORGE INNESS. 63 in the expression of his ideas, or else such in- domitable will that he overcomes that lack in his temperament by hard labor. Now, Inness piques himself on the logic displayed in the management of his landscapes. His methods are the result of much observation of nature and the pictures of modem and ancient mas- ters. Particulars are reasoned out with a rigid- ity of logic that sounds dry. His groping after truth has been as constant as it was earnest. Yet there is plenty of imagination and poetry in the scenes. Back of the landscapes, in whose confection rules founded on logic that can be expressed in the n~.athematical terms have been strictly followed, lies the whole world of immaterial spirits, of whom Sweden- borg was the latest prophet. Not for Inness the wild extravagances of technique belonging to the later pictures of Turner. The so-called Slave-ship is a bugbear. He has a horror of the illogical presence of floating iron chains and of marine monsters unknown to the merely human eyeneither fish, flesh, nor good red herring. His contempt for the Slave-ship is so great that one is half per- suaded that there is self-illusion at the bottom, and that some day Inness will awake to the fact that the picture which shocked him so much is just the picture he would prefer out of all the other eccentricities of Turner. He regards as unmanly, if not positively ignorant, the fashion Turner had of placing the van- ishing pointthat point to which all the parallel lines seem to tendto the left or the right of the picture, instead of near the center, thus disturbing its repose. Butpara- dox as it may seemalong with such dry and technical axioms, such Phi iis/ersckaft, in a true artist goes the fact that to Inness the whole cosmogony of inner spirits superintends the creation of the pictures. He is nothing if not an idealist. He is, in fact, without being of a compli- cated nature, an artist with more than one side to his character. Alternately one might take him for a poet or a Philistine; an idealist or a hide-bound realist; an impres- sionist or a pre-Raphaelite. Beginning under the influence of Durand, he saw the limita- tions of that good but restricted painter. From Thomas Cole he had the same repulsion that shows in his criticism of Turner. The pre-Raphaelite influences in their English shape were strong enough to make him try more than one study in that direction. But good senseor, shall we say, the intuition of genius ?saved him from exhibiting much that smacked strongly of a movement wholesome as a preparation but misleading when taken literally. The impressionists also leave him cold, for has he not been, on many occasions, an impressionist? Some of his studies are faithful imitations of nature pursued for weeks at a time. Others, as we have said, are dashed in during the heat of imaginative creation. Like some of the great Dutchmen, like their reverential followers Constable, Corot, Rousseau, landscape is to this artist the high- est walk of art. It not only represents the nature that we see and the human feelings that move us when we look on nature, but something that includes both. It is an ex- pressionfeeble enough, to be sure, but still an expressionof the Godhead. In the mind of Inness, religion, landscape, and human nat- ure mingle so thoroughly that there is no separating the several ideas. You may learn from him how the symbolization of the Divine Trinity is reflected in the mathematical rela- tions of perspective and at~rial distance. That such ideas are not mere whims with him is attested by various papers published in the magazines where he has given some of his thoughts. He not only believes what he says, but tries to carry out in his pictures this inter- relation of art and religion. He is too much of an artist to make the result hard and abso- lute, as, to choose an extreme example in the opposite direction, Holman Hunt did in The Shadow of the Cross. Holman Hunt seeks to return to the simplicity of the Van Eycks in treating religious questions, and would like to make himself a pious burgher of the tenth century in order to accomplish it. Inness is a modern to the last degree, and, thrown in upon himself by a scoffing world, tries to ex- press his religious opinions under the veil of landscape. Perhaps even that is saying too much. Do his landscapes hint of religion? Does he try to express religion? We should say no. It is rather the methods by which he does them that are governed in his own mind by religious ideas. The result is fine, but, to the world, too far removed to be un- derstood as religious in motive. Let us, then, rather say of his religion that he does not ex- press, but hides it, in his art. Holman Hunt uses religious scenes to point a moral. Inness uses his convictions of a world religion in order to adorn a tale. Out of all the land- scape-painters stimulated and over-stimulated by the civil war, a few are emerging here and there into the position of masters. A rough and unideal schooling has been theirs: the public ignorant and uncritical; the press ig- norant and hypercritical, or else fulsome in praise. Here an artist would be ruined by the injudicious support of friends and followers; there another was starved mentally and pinched actually by lack of notice. The sur- vivors in the struggle are such landscape~ 64 LOVE CR0 WNED. painters as Homer Martin, George Fuller, and others. Inness belongs to the scanty band. He is often compared to Rousseau. No doubt Rousseau had some effect in crystalliz- ing the ideas of Inness in landscape art, but the latter is in no sense his follower. The limita- tions of Rousseau have not been maintained who knows whether wisely or not? Truly American in this, Inness has demanded more elbow-room than his great Parisian contem- porary. Inside his own wider field he is also more versatile. Strangely enough, he approaches in temperament and physique a type that is considered Gallic. Black, slender, agile, not tall, vivacious of gesture, rapid in talk, easily moved, imaginative within sharply defined bounds, he is more of a Gaul than the average Frenchman. The name Inness means island in the Irish and Highland Scotch dialects of the Celtic. Mr. Inness is probably of comparatively pure Celtic blood, and may, for that reason, be dowered with ideality, opinionativeness, enthusiasm. in talk he becomes so carried away by the subject that he forgets how time is flying. What pleases him best is to have many pictures in process of making at one time. Then, having them arranged about his room, he likes to attack one or the other, as the mood strikes him. It is the insatiable craving for movement and variety which makes him picturesque even while at work on what are often considered sober landscapes. No painter labors harder; but the intensity of his work must find relief in change of mood and method. Habit has made him love the chains that bind him in his studio, but his excitable mind must have vent. For that reason one can see in his studio, side by side on different easels, a careful wood interior that has just escaped the commonplace by a happy flood of light which he has poured into a blue patch of sky, caught again on a trickling stream and reflected off on the nodding heads of blackberry vines; a wild stretch of desola- tion on a moor, with an accompanying drama of cloud-forms; or a railway embankment with laborers and supply-train on the long sweep of red clay, and, beyond them, the steeples of a New Jersey town. There are even genre picturessmall groups of girls at play, and such attempts at work foreign to his best vein. But in these the landscape is always the valuable part. Inness paints Nature as the Ossian of the Highlands sang of itin its great outer, rather than in its little inner, form. Henry Eekford. LOVE CROWNED. A MAIDEN, with a garland on her head, Sat in her bower between two lovers: one Wore such a wreath as hers; the other none. But him, in merry wise, she garlanded With that she wore; then, gayly, took instead The others wreath and wore it as her own; Whereat both smiled, each deeming she had shown Himself the favorite. Though she nothing said Concerning this by any spoken word, Yet by her act, methinks, the maid preferred The lover she discrowned. A friendly thing Or whimsicalno morethe gift she gave (A queen might do as much by any slave), But he whose crown she wore was her hearts king. John Godfrey Saxe.

64 LOVE CR0 WNED. painters as Homer Martin, George Fuller, and others. Inness belongs to the scanty band. He is often compared to Rousseau. No doubt Rousseau had some effect in crystalliz- ing the ideas of Inness in landscape art, but the latter is in no sense his follower. The limita- tions of Rousseau have not been maintained who knows whether wisely or not? Truly American in this, Inness has demanded more elbow-room than his great Parisian contem- porary. Inside his own wider field he is also more versatile. Strangely enough, he approaches in temperament and physique a type that is considered Gallic. Black, slender, agile, not tall, vivacious of gesture, rapid in talk, easily moved, imaginative within sharply defined bounds, he is more of a Gaul than the average Frenchman. The name Inness means island in the Irish and Highland Scotch dialects of the Celtic. Mr. Inness is probably of comparatively pure Celtic blood, and may, for that reason, be dowered with ideality, opinionativeness, enthusiasm. in talk he becomes so carried away by the subject that he forgets how time is flying. What pleases him best is to have many pictures in process of making at one time. Then, having them arranged about his room, he likes to attack one or the other, as the mood strikes him. It is the insatiable craving for movement and variety which makes him picturesque even while at work on what are often considered sober landscapes. No painter labors harder; but the intensity of his work must find relief in change of mood and method. Habit has made him love the chains that bind him in his studio, but his excitable mind must have vent. For that reason one can see in his studio, side by side on different easels, a careful wood interior that has just escaped the commonplace by a happy flood of light which he has poured into a blue patch of sky, caught again on a trickling stream and reflected off on the nodding heads of blackberry vines; a wild stretch of desola- tion on a moor, with an accompanying drama of cloud-forms; or a railway embankment with laborers and supply-train on the long sweep of red clay, and, beyond them, the steeples of a New Jersey town. There are even genre picturessmall groups of girls at play, and such attempts at work foreign to his best vein. But in these the landscape is always the valuable part. Inness paints Nature as the Ossian of the Highlands sang of itin its great outer, rather than in its little inner, form. Henry Eekford. LOVE CROWNED. A MAIDEN, with a garland on her head, Sat in her bower between two lovers: one Wore such a wreath as hers; the other none. But him, in merry wise, she garlanded With that she wore; then, gayly, took instead The others wreath and wore it as her own; Whereat both smiled, each deeming she had shown Himself the favorite. Though she nothing said Concerning this by any spoken word, Yet by her act, methinks, the maid preferred The lover she discrowned. A friendly thing Or whimsicalno morethe gift she gave (A queen might do as much by any slave), But he whose crown she wore was her hearts king. John Godfrey Saxe. [Begun in the November number.] THROUGH ONE ADMINISTRATION.* BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT, Author of That Lass o Lowries, Haworths, Louisiana, A Fair Barbarian, etc., etc. CHAPTER XIV. DURING the hot days and nights of the next few weeks, Tredennis found life rather a dreary affair. Gradually the familiar faces he met on the avenue became fewer and fewer, the houses he knew one after another assumed their air of summer desertion, offer- ing as their only evidences of life an occa- sional colored servant sunning him or her- self on the steps; the crowds of nursery-maids with their charges thinned out in the parks, and the freshness of the leaves was lost under a coating of dust, while the countenances of those for whom there was no prospect of re- lief expressed either a languid sense of injury or the patience of despair. But after all, Tredennis said, on two or three occasions, as he sat in one of the parks in the evening, after all, I suppose most of them havean object, adding the last two words with a faint smile. He was obliged to confess to himself that of late he found that the work which he had regarded as his object had ceased to satisfy him. He gave his attention to it with stern persistence, and refused to spare himself when he found his attention wandering; he even undertook additional labor, writing in his moments of leisure several notable articles upon various important questions of the day, and yet he had time left to hang heavy on his hands and fill him with weariness; and at last there came an evening when, after sit- ting in one of the parks until the lamps were lighted, he rose suddenly from his seat, and spoke as if to the silence and shadow about him. Why should I try to hide the truth from myself? he said. It is too late for that. I may as well face it like a man, and bear it like one. Many a brave fellow has carried a bullet in his body down to his grave, and seldom winced. This is something like that, I suppose, only that pain And he drew a sharp, hard breath, and walked away down the deserted path without ending the sentence. He made many a struggle after this to resist one poor temptation which beset him dailythe temptation to pass through the street in which stood the familiar house, with its drawn blinds and closed doors. Some- times, when he rose in the morning, he was so filled with an unreasoning yearning for a sight of its blankness that he was overwhelm- ed by it, and went out before he breakfasted. It is weakness and self-indulgence, he would say, but it is a very little thing, and it can hurt no oneit is only a little thing, after all. And he foun~l a piteous pleasure at which at first he tried to smile, but at which before long he ceased even to try to smile in the slow walk down the street, on which he could see this window or that, and remem- ber some day when he had caught a glimpse of Bertha through it, or some night he had spent in the room within when she had been gayer than usual, or quieterwhen she had given him some new wound, perhaps, or when she had half-healed an old one in some mood of relenting he had not understood. There is no reason why I should under- stand any woman, was his simple thought. And why should I understand her unless she chose to let me? She is like no other woman. He was quite sure of this. In his thoughts of her he found every word and act of hers worth remembering and even repeating men- tally again and again for the sake of the mag- netic grace which belonged only to herself, and it never once occurred to him that his own deep sympathy and tender fancy might brighten all she did. When she speaks, he thought, how the dilillest of them stir and listen! When she moves across a room, how natural it is to turn and look at her, and be interested in what she is going to do! What life I have seen her put in some poor, awkward wretch by only seating herself near him and speaking to him of some common thing! One does not know what her gift is, and whether it is well for her or ill that it was given her, but one sees it in the simplest thing she does. It was hard to avoid giving himself up to such thoughts as these, and when he most needed Copyright, i88i, by Frances Hodgson Burnett. All rights reserved. VOL. XXIV.7.

[Begun in the November number.] THROUGH ONE ADMINISTRATION.* BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT, Author of That Lass o Lowries, Haworths, Louisiana, A Fair Barbarian, etc., etc. CHAPTER XIV. DURING the hot days and nights of the next few weeks, Tredennis found life rather a dreary affair. Gradually the familiar faces he met on the avenue became fewer and fewer, the houses he knew one after another assumed their air of summer desertion, offer- ing as their only evidences of life an occa- sional colored servant sunning him or her- self on the steps; the crowds of nursery-maids with their charges thinned out in the parks, and the freshness of the leaves was lost under a coating of dust, while the countenances of those for whom there was no prospect of re- lief expressed either a languid sense of injury or the patience of despair. But after all, Tredennis said, on two or three occasions, as he sat in one of the parks in the evening, after all, I suppose most of them havean object, adding the last two words with a faint smile. He was obliged to confess to himself that of late he found that the work which he had regarded as his object had ceased to satisfy him. He gave his attention to it with stern persistence, and refused to spare himself when he found his attention wandering; he even undertook additional labor, writing in his moments of leisure several notable articles upon various important questions of the day, and yet he had time left to hang heavy on his hands and fill him with weariness; and at last there came an evening when, after sit- ting in one of the parks until the lamps were lighted, he rose suddenly from his seat, and spoke as if to the silence and shadow about him. Why should I try to hide the truth from myself? he said. It is too late for that. I may as well face it like a man, and bear it like one. Many a brave fellow has carried a bullet in his body down to his grave, and seldom winced. This is something like that, I suppose, only that pain And he drew a sharp, hard breath, and walked away down the deserted path without ending the sentence. He made many a struggle after this to resist one poor temptation which beset him dailythe temptation to pass through the street in which stood the familiar house, with its drawn blinds and closed doors. Some- times, when he rose in the morning, he was so filled with an unreasoning yearning for a sight of its blankness that he was overwhelm- ed by it, and went out before he breakfasted. It is weakness and self-indulgence, he would say, but it is a very little thing, and it can hurt no oneit is only a little thing, after all. And he foun~l a piteous pleasure at which at first he tried to smile, but at which before long he ceased even to try to smile in the slow walk down the street, on which he could see this window or that, and remem- ber some day when he had caught a glimpse of Bertha through it, or some night he had spent in the room within when she had been gayer than usual, or quieterwhen she had given him some new wound, perhaps, or when she had half-healed an old one in some mood of relenting he had not understood. There is no reason why I should under- stand any woman, was his simple thought. And why should I understand her unless she chose to let me? She is like no other woman. He was quite sure of this. In his thoughts of her he found every word and act of hers worth remembering and even repeating men- tally again and again for the sake of the mag- netic grace which belonged only to herself, and it never once occurred to him that his own deep sympathy and tender fancy might brighten all she did. When she speaks, he thought, how the dilillest of them stir and listen! When she moves across a room, how natural it is to turn and look at her, and be interested in what she is going to do! What life I have seen her put in some poor, awkward wretch by only seating herself near him and speaking to him of some common thing! One does not know what her gift is, and whether it is well for her or ill that it was given her, but one sees it in the simplest thing she does. It was hard to avoid giving himself up to such thoughts as these, and when he most needed Copyright, i88i, by Frances Hodgson Burnett. All rights reserved. VOL. XXIV.7. 66 THRO UGH ONE ADMINISTRA ]LON refuge from them he always sought it in the society of the professor; so there were few evenings when he did not spend an hour or so with him, and their friendship grew and waxed strong until there could scarcely have been a closer bond between them. About two weeks after Richard Amorys departure, making his call later than usual one evening, he met, coming down the steps, Mr. Arbuthnot, who stopped, with his usual civility, to shake hands with him. It is some weeks since we have crossed each others paths, Colonel, he said, scruti- nizing him rather closely. And, in the mean- time, I am afraid you have not been well. Amory called my attention to the fact a short time ago, responded Tredennis, and so did the professor. So, perhaps, there is some truth in it. I hadnt noticed it myself. You will presently, I assure you, said Arbuthnot, still regarding him with an air of interest. Perhaps Washington doesnt agree with you. I have heard of people who couldnt stand it. They usually called it ma- laria, but I think there was generally some- thing He checked himself somewhat abruptly, which was a rather unusual demon- stration on his part, as it was his habit to weigh his speech with laudable care and de- liberation. You are going to see the pro- fessor? he inquired. Yes, answered Tredennis. The idea was presenting itself to his mind that there was a suggestion of something un- usual in the questioners mannerthat it was not so entirely serene as was customary, that there was even a hint of some inward excite- ment strong enough to be repressed only by an effort. And the consciousness of this im- pressed itself upon him even while a flow of light talk went on, and Arbuthnot smiled at him from his upper step. I have been to see the professor, too, he was saying, and I felt it was something of an audacity. His invitations to me have al- ways been of the most general nature, but I thought I would take the liberty of pretend- ing that I fancied he regarded them seriously. He was very good to me, and exhibited won- derful presence of mind in not revealing that he was surprised to see me. I tried not to stay long enough to tire him, and he was suf- ficiently amiable to ask me to come again. He evidently appreciated the desolation of my circumstances. You are finding it dull? said Tredennis. Dull! repeated Arbuthnot. Yes, I think you might call it dull. The people who kindly condescend to notice me in the winter have gone away, and my dress-coat is packed in camphor. I have ceased to be useful, and even if Fate had permitted me to be orna- mental, where should I air my charms? There seems really no reason why I should exist, until next winter, when I may be useful again, and receive, in return, my modicum of entertainment. To be merely a superior young man in a Department is not remuner- ative in summer, as one ceases to glean the results of ones superiority. At present I might as well be inferior, and neither dance, nor talk, nor sing, and be utterly incapacitated by nature for either carrying wraps or picking up handkerchiefsand you cannot disport your- self at the watering-places of the rich and great on a salary of a hundred dollars a month, and you could only get your sordid months leave, if such a thing were possible. Ihave been dull myself, said Treden- nis, hesitantly. If it should ever occur to you to drop in and see a fellow-sufferer, said Arbuthnot, it would relieve the monotony of my lot, at least, and might awaken in me some gener- ous emotions. Tredennis looked up at him. It never has occurred to you so far, I see, was Arbuthnots light reply to the look, but if it should, dont resist the impulse. I can assure you it is a laudable one. And my humble apartment has the advantage of comparative coolness. When Tredennis entered the library, he found the professor sitting in his usual sum- mer seat near the window. A newspaper lay open on his knee, but he was not reading it he seemed, indeed, to have fallen into a reverie of a rather puzzling kind. Did you meet any one as you came in? he asked of Tredennis, as soon as they had exchanged greetings. I met Mr. Arbuthnot, Tredennis an- swered, and stopped a few moments on the steps to talk to him. He has been entertaining me for the last hour, said the professor, taking off his glasses and beginning to polish them. Now, will you tell me, he asked, with his quiet air of reflect- ive inquiry into an interesting subject, will you tell me why he comes to entertain me 7 He gave me the impression, answered Tredennis, that his object in coming was that you might entertain him, and he added that you were very good to him, and he ap- peared to have enjoyed his call very much. That is his way, responded the professor, impartially. And a most agreeable way it is. To be born with such a way as a natural heritage is to be a social millionaire. And the worst of it is, that it may be a gift entirely apart from all morals and substantial virtues. Bertha has it. I dont know where she got iL THRO UGH ONE ADMINISTRATION. 67 Not from me, and not from her poor mother. I s~y it may be apart from all morals and substantial virtues. I dont say it always is. I havent at all made up my mind what attributes go along with it in Arbuthnots case. I should like to decide. But it would be an agreeable way in a criminal of the deepest dye. It is certainly agreeable that he should in some subtle manner be able to place me in the picturesque attitude of a dig- nified and entertaining host. I didnt enter- tain him at all, he added, simply. I sat and listened to him. He is frequently well worth listening to, commented Tredennis. He was well worth listening to this evening, said the professor. And yet he was light enough. He had two or three Eng- lish periodicals under his arm, one of them was Punch, andand I found myself laughing quite heartily over it. And then there was something about a new comic opera, and he seemed to know the libretto by heart, and ran over an air or so on the piano. And he had been reading a new book and was rather clever about itin his way, of course, but still it was cleverness. And then he went to the piano again and sang a captivating little love-song very well, and after it, got up and said good-nightand on the whole I regretted it. I liked his pictures, I liked his opera, I liked his talk of the book, and I liked his little love-song. And how should he know that an old dry-bones would like a tender little ballad and be touched by it, and pleased because his sentiment was discovered and pandered to. Oh, it is the old story. Its his wayits the way. I am beginning to think, said Tredennis, slowly, that his way might be called sym- pathy and good feeling and fine tact, if one wanted to be specially fair to him. The professor looked up rather quickly. I thought you did not like him, he said. Tredennis paused a moment, looking down at the carpet as if deliberating. I dont think I do, he said at length, but its no fault of histhe fault lies in me. I havent the way, and I am at a disadvantage with him. He is never at a loss, and I am; he is ready-witted and self-possessed, I am slow and rigid, and I suppose it is human that I should try to imagine at times that I am at a disadvantage only because my virtues are more solid than his. They are not more solid; they are only more clumsy and less avail- able. You dont spare yourself, said the pro- fessor. Why should I spare myself? said Tre- dennis, knitting his brows. After all, he never spares himself. He knows better. He would be just to me. Why should I let him place me at a disadvantage again by being unjust to him? And why should we insist that the only good qualities are those which are unorna- mental? It is a popular fallacy. We like to believe it. It is very easy to suspect a man of being shallow because we are sure we are deep and he is unlike us. This Arbuthnot This Arbuthnot, interposed the professor, with a smile. It is curious enough to hear you entering upon a defense of this Arbuth- not. You dont like him, Philip. You dont like him. I dont like myself, said Tredennis, when I am compared with himand I dont like the tendency I discover in myselfthe tendency to disparage him. I should like to be fair to him, and I find it difficult. Upon my word, said the professor, it is rather fine in you to make the effort, but giving him one of the old admiring looks you were always rather fine, Philip. It would be finer, sir, said Tredennis, coloring, if it were not an effort. No, said the professor, quietly, it would not be half so fine. And he put out his hand and let it rest upon the arm of the chair in which Tredennis sat, and so it rested as long as their talk went on. In the meantime, Arbuthnot walked rather slowly down the street, quite conscious of find- ing it necessary to make something of an effort to compose himself. It was his recog- nition of this necessity which had caused him to change his first intention of returning to his bachelor apartment after having made his call upon Professor Herrick. And he felt the ne- cessity all the more strongly after his brief en- counter with Colonel Tredennis. I will go into the park and think it over, he said to himself. Ill give myself time. He turned into Lafayette Park, found a quiet seat, and took out a very excellent cigar. He was not entirely surprised to see that, as he held the match to it, his hand was not as steady as usual. Tredennis had thought him a little pale. The subject of his reflections, as he smoked his cigar, was a comparatively trivial incident taken by itself, but he had not taken it by itself, because in a flash it had connected itself with a score of others, which at the times of their occurring had borne no signifi- cance whatever to him. His visit to the professor had not been made without reasons, but they had been such reasons as, simply stated to the majority of his ordinary acquaintance, would have been received with open amazement or polite discredit, and this principally because they 68 THRO UGH ONE ADMINISTRATION were such very simple reasons indeed. If such .persons had been told that, finding him- self without any vestige of entertainment, he had wandered in upon the professor as a last resource, or that he had wished to ask of him some trivial favoror that he had made his call without any reason whateverthey would have felt such a state of affairs prob- able enough, but being informed that while sitting in the easiest of chairs, in the coolest possible negligee, reading an agreeable piece of light literature, and smoking a cigar, before his open window, he had caught sight of the professor at his window, sitting with his head resting on his hand, and being struck vaguely by some air of desolateness and lassitude in the solitary old figure, had calmly laid aside book and cigar, had put himself into conventional attire, and had walked across the street with no other intention than that of making the best of gifts of entertainment it was certainly not his habit to overvaluethose to whom the explanation had been made would have taken the liberty of feeling it somewhat insuf- ficient, and would in nine cases out of ten privately have provided themselves with a more complicated one, cautiously insuring themselves against imposture by rejecting at the outset the simple and unvarnished truth. Upon the whole, the visit had been a suc- cess. On entering, it is true, he found him- self called upon to admire the rapidity with which the professor recovered from his sur- prise at seeing him, but as he had not been deluded by any hope that his first appear- ance would awaken unmistakable delight, he managed to make the best of the situation. His opening remarks upon the subject of the weather were not altogether infelicitous, and then he produced his late number of Punch, and the professor laughed, and, the ice being broken, conversation flour- ished, and there was no further difficulty. He discovered, somewhat to his surprise, that he was in better conversational trim than usual. It is a delusive condition to be in, he explained to the professor, but expenence has taught me not to be taken in by it and expect future development. It wont con- tinueas you no doubt suspect. It is the result of entire social stagnation for several weeks. I am merely letting off all my fire- works at onceinspired to the improvidence by your presence. I am a poor creature, as you know, but even a poor creature is likely to suffer from an idea a day. The mental accumulations of this summer, care- fully economized, will support me in penury during the entire ensuing season. I only conjure you not to betray me when you hear me repeat the same things by installments at Mrs. Amorys evenings. And saying it, he saw the professors face change in some subtle way as he looked at him. What there was in this look and change to make him conscious of an inward start, he could not have told. It was the mer- est lifting of the lids, combined with an almost imperceptible movement of the muscles about the mouth, and yet he found it difficult to avoid pausing for a moment. But he accom- plished the feat, and felt he had reason to be rather proud of it. Though what there is to startle him in my mention of Mrs. Amorys evenings, he reflected, it would require an intellect to explain. Being somewhat given to finding entertain- ment in quiet speculation upon passing events, he would doubtless have given some attention to the incident even if it had remained a solitary unexplained and mystifying trifle. But it was not left to stand alone in his mind. It was not fifteen minutes before, in draw- ing his handkerchief from his breast-pocket, he accidentally drew forth with it a letter, which fell upon the newspaper lying upon the professors lap, and for a moment rested there with the address upward. And the instant he glanced from the pretty feminine envelope to the professors face, Ar- buthnot recognized the fact that something altogether unexpected had occurred again. As he had looked from the envelope to the professor, so the professor looked from the envelope to him. Then he picked the letter up and returned it. It is a letter, Arbuthnot began, a let- ter _____ and paused ignominiously. Yes, said the professor, as if he had lost something of his own gentle self-possession. I see it is a letter. It was not a happy remark, nor did Arbuth- not feel his own next effort a particularly suc- cessful one. It is a letter from Mrs. Amory, he said. She is kind enough to write to me occasion- ally. Yes, responded the professor. I saw that it was from Bertha. Her hand is easily recognized. It is an unusual hand, said Arbuthnot. And her letters are very like herself. When it occurs to her to remember mewhich doesnt happen as frequently as I could wish J consider myself fortunate. She writes as she talks, and very few people do that. He ended with a greater degree of com- posure than he had begun with, but to his surprise he felt that his pulses had quickened and that there had risen to his face a touch of warmth suggestive of some increase of THRO UGH ONE ADMINISTRATION 69 color, and he did not enjoy the sensation. He began to open the letter. Shall I he said, and then suddenly stopped. He knew why he had stopped, but the professor did not, and to make the pause and return the letter to its envelope and its place in his pocket without an explanation required something like hardihood. She is well, and seems to be taking ad- vantage of the opportunity to rest, he said, and picked up his Punch again, returning to his half-finished comment upon its cartoon as if no interruption had taken place. As he sat on his seat in the park, apparently given up to undivided enjoyment of his cigar, his mind was filled with a tumult of thought. He had not been under the influence of such mental excitement for years. Suddenly he found himself confronting a revelation per- fectly astounding to him. And so I am the man! he said, at last. Jam the man! He took his cigar out of his mouth and looked at the end of it with an air of deliber- ate reflection, as is the masculine habit. It doesnt say much for me, he added, that I never once suspected itnot once. Then he replaced his cigar, with something like a sigh. We are a blind lot, he said. He did not feel the situation a pleasant one; there were circumstances under which he would have resented it with a vigor and happy ingenuity of resource which would have stood him in good stead, but there was no resentment in his present mood. From the moment the truth had dawned upon him, he had treated it without even the most in- direct reference to his own very natural feel- ings, and there had been more sacrifice of himself and his own peculiarities in his action when he had returned the letter to his pocket than even he himself realized. It was not the letter to show him, was his thought. She does not know how much she tells me. He would have understood it as I do. He went over a good deal of ground mentally as he sat in the deepening dusk, and he thought clearly and dispassionately, as was his habit when he allowed himself to think at all. By the time he had arrived at his con- clusions, it was quite dark. Then he threw the end of his last cigar away and rose, and there was no denying that he was pale still, and wore a curiously intense expression. If there is one thing neither man nor devil can put a stop to, he said, it is an experience such as that. It will go on to one of two endsit will kill her or she will kill it. The wider of the mark they shoot, the easier for her, and as for me, he added, with a rather faint and dreary smile, perhaps it suits me well enough to be merely an alle- viating circumstance. Its all Im good for. Let them think as they please. And he brushed an atom of cigar-ash from his sleeve with his rather too finely feminine hand, and walked away. CHAPTER xv. Hx paid the professor another visit a few days later, and afterward another and another. What, said the professor, at the end of his second visit, is it ten oclock? I assure you it is usually much later than this when it strikes ten. Thank you, said Arbuthnot. I never heard that civility accomplished so dexter- ously before. It is perfectly easy to explain the preternatural adroitness of speech on which Mrs. Amory prides herself. But dont be too kind to me, Professor, and weaken my reso- lution not to present myself unless I have just appropriated an idea from somewhere. If I should appear some day au nafure4 not hav- ing taken the precaution to attire myself in the mature reflections of my acquaintance, I shouldnt pay you for the wear and tear of seeing me, Ill confess beforehand. I once told you, said the professor to Tredennis, after the fourth visit, that I was not fond of him, but there had been times when I had been threatened with it. ~This is one of the times. Ah! with a sigh of fatigue, I understand the attractionI understand it. The following week, Tredennis arrived at the house one evening to find it in some confusion. The couj5e of a prominent medical man stood before the pavement, and the servant who opened the door looked agitated. The professor, sir, he said, has had a fall. We hope he aint mlich hurt, and Mr. Arbuthnot and the doctor is with him. Ask if I may go upstairs, said Tre- dennis, and, as he said it, Arbuthnot appeared on the landing above, and, seeing who was below, came down at once. There is no real cause for alarm, he said, though he has had a shock. He had been out, and the heat must have been too much for him. As he was coming up the steps he felt giddy, and lost his footing and fell. Doctor Malcolm is with him, and says he needs nothing but entire quiet. I am glad you have come. Did you receive my message? No, answered Tredennis. I have not been to my room. THRO UGH ONE ADAi7NISTRA lYON 70 Come into the library, said Arbuthnot. I have something to say to you. He led the way into the room, and Treden- nis followed him, wondering. When they got inside, Arbuthnot turned and closed the door. I suppose, he said, you know no more certainly than I do where Mr. Amory is to be found. And as he spoke he took a telegram from his pocket. What is the matter? demanded Tre- dennis. What has This came almost immediately after the professors accident, said Arbuthnot. It is from Mrs. Amory, asking him to come to her. Janey is very ill. What! exclaimed Tredennis. And she alone, and probably without any physician she relies on! Some one must go to her, said Arbuth- not, and the professor must know nothing of it. If we knew of any woman friend of hers we might appeal to her, but everybody is out of town. He paused a second, his eyes fixed on Tre- denniss changing face. If you will remain with the professor, he said, I will go myselg and take Doctor Wentworth with me. You! said Tredennis. I shall be better than nothing, replied Arbuthnot, quietly. I can do what I am told to do, and she mustnt be left alone. If her mother had been alive, she would have gone,if her father had been well, he would have gone,if her husband had been here But he is not here, said Tredennis, with a bitterness not strictly just. Heaven only knows where he is. It would be rather hazardous to trust to a telegram reaching him at Merrittsville, said Arbuthnot. We are not going to leave her alone even until we have tried Merritts- ville. What must be done must be done now. I will go and see Doctor Wentworth at once, and we can leave in an hour if I find him. You can tell the professor I was called away. He made a step toward the door, and as he did so Tredennis turned suddenly. Wait a moment, he said. Arbuthnot came back. What is it? he asked. There was a curious pause, which, though it lasted scarcely longer than a second, was still a pause. If I go, said Tredennis, it will be easier to explain my absence to the pro- fessor. And then there was a pause again, and each man looked at the other and each was a trifle pale. It was Arbuthnot who spoke first. I think, he said, without moving a mus- cle, that you had better let me go. Why? said Tredennis, and the unnatural quality of his voice startled himself. Because, said Arbuthnot, as calmly as before, you will be conferring a favor on me, if you do. I want an excuse for getting out of town andI want an opportunity to be of some slight service to Mrs. Amory. Before the dignity of the stalwart figure towering above his slighter proportions, he knew he appeared to no advantage as he said the words, but to have made the best of himself he must have relinquished his point at the outset, and this he had no intention of doing, though he was not enjoying himself. A certain cold-blooded pertinacity which he had acquired after many battles with himself was very useful to him at the moment. The worst thing that could happen to her just now, he had said to himself, ten minutes before, would be that he should go to her in her trouble. And upon this con- viction he took his stand. In placing himself in the breach, he knew that he had no means of defense whatever.. that any reasons for his course he might offer must appear, by their flimsiness, to betray in him entire inadequacy to the situation in which he seemed to stand, and that he must present himself in the character of a victim to his own bold but shallow devices, and simply brazen the matter out; and when one reflects upon human weakness, it is certainly not to his discredit that he had calmly resigned himself to this before entering the room. There was no triviality in Tredenniss mood, and he made no pretehse of any. The half- darkness of the room, which had been shaded from the sun during the day, added to the significance of every line in his face. As he stood with folded arms, the shadows seemed to make him look larger, to mark his pallor, and deepen the intensity of his expression. Give me a better reason, he said. Arbuthnot paused. What he saw in the man moved him strongly. In the light of that past of his, which was a mystery to his friends, he often saw with terrible clearness much he was not suspected of seeing at all, and here he recognized what awakened in him both pity and respect. I have no better one, he answered. I tell you, I miss the exhilaration of Mrs. Amorys society, ,and want to see her, and hope she will no~ be sorry to see me. And having said it, he paused again before making his coup detat. Then he spoke deliberately, looking Tredennis in the eyes. That you should think anything detrimental to Mrs. THRO UGH ONE ADMINISTRATION 7 Amory, even in the most shadowy way, is out of the question, he said. Think of me what you please. I shall think nothing that is detrimental to any man who is her friend, said Treden- nis, and there was passion in the words, though he had tried to repress it. Her friendship would be a good defense for a man against any wrong that was in him, said Arbuthnot, and this time the sud- den stir of feeling in him was not altogether concealed. Let me have my way, he ended. It will do no harm.~~ It will do no good, said Tredennis. No, answered Arbuthnot, recoverin ghis impervious air, it will do no good, but one has to be sanguine to expect good. Perhaps I need pity, he added. Suppose you are generous and show it me. He could not help seeing the dramatic side of the situation, and with half-conscious irony abandoning himself to it. All at once he seemed to have deserted the well-regulated and decently arranged commonplaces of his ordinary life, and to be taking part in a theat- rical performance of rather fine and subtle quality, and he waited with intense interest to see what Tredennis would do. What he did was characteristic of him. He had unconsciously taken two or three hurried steps across the room, and he turned and stood still. It is I who must go, he said. You are sure of that? said Arbuthnot. We have never found it easy to under- stand each other, Tredennis answered, though perhaps you have understood me better than I have understood you. You are quicker and more subtle than I am. I only seem able to see one thing at a time, and do one thing. I only see one thing now. It is better that I should go. You mean, said Arbuthnot, better for me? Tredennis looked down at the floor. Yes, he answered. A second or so of silence followed, in which Arbuthnot simply stood and looked at him. The utter uselessness of the effort he had made was borne in upon him in a manner which overpowered him. Then, he remarked at length, if you are considering me, there seems nothing more to be said. Will you go and tell the professor that you are called away, or shall I ? I will go myself, replied Tredennis. He turned to leave the room, and Arbuth- not walked slowly toward the window. The next moment Tredennis turned from the door and followed him. If I have ~ever done you injustice, he said, the time is past for it, and I ask your pardon. Perhaps it is not justice I need, said Ar- buthnot, but mercyand I dont think you have ever been unjust to me. It wouldnt have been easy. In my place, said Tredennis, with a visi- ble effort, you would find it easier than I do to say what you wished. I You mean that you pity me, Arbuthnot interposed. As I said before, perhaps I need pity. Sometimes I think I do, and the slight touch of dreariness in his tone echoed in Tredenniss ear long after he had left him and gone on his way. CHAPTER xvi. IT was ten oclock and bright moonlight when Tredennis reached his destinationthe train having brought him to a way-side sta- tion two miles distant, where he had hired a horse and struck out into the county road. In those good old days when the dwelling of every Virginia gentleman was his mansion,~~ the substantial pile of red brick before whose gate-way he dismounted had been a mansion too, and had npt been disposed to trifle with its title, but had insisted upon it with a digni- fied squareness which scorned all architect- ural devices to attract attention. Its first owner had chosen its site with a view to the young shade-trees upon it, and while he had lived upon his property had been almost as proud of his trees as of his mansion and when, long afterward, changes had taken place, and the objects of his pride fell into degenerate hands, as the glories of the man- sion faded, its old friends the trees grew and flourished, and seemed to close kindly in about it, as if to soften and shadow its decay. On each side of the drive which led down to the gate-way, grew an irregular line of these trees, here and there shading the way from side to side, and again leaving a space for the moonlight to stream upon. As he tied his horse, Tredennis glanced up this drive-way toward the house. There is a light burning in one of the rooms, he said. It must be there that He broke off in the midst of a sentence, his attention suddenly attracted by a figure which flitted across one of the patches of moonlight. He knew it at once, though he had had no thought of seeing it before entering the house. It was Bertha, in a white dress and with two large dogs following her, leaping and panting when she spoke in a hushed voice, as if to quiet them. She came down toward the gate with a 72 THRO UGH ONE ADMINISTRA liON light, hurried tread, and, when she was within a few feet of it, spoke. Doctor, she said, oh, how glad I am how glad! and, as she said it, came out into the broad moonlight again and found herself face to face with Tredennis. She fell back from him as if a blow had been struck herfell back trembling, and as white as the moonlight itself What! she cried, is it youyou 7 He looked at her, bewildered by the shock his presence seemed to her. I did not think I should frighten you, he said. I came to-night because the pro- fessor was not well enough to make the jour- ney. Doctor Wentworth will be here in the morning. He would have come with me, but hehad an important case to attend. I did not think you would come, she said, breathlessly, and put out her hand, grop- ing for the support of the swinging gate, which she caught and held. There was no one else, he answered. He felt as if he were part of some strange dream. The stillness~ the moonlight, the heavy shadows of the great trees, all added to the unreality of the moment; but most unreal of all was Bertha herself?, clinging with one trembling hand to the gate, and looking up at him with dilated eyes. I did not think you would come, she said again, and it startled meand She paused with a poor little effort at a smile, which the next instant died away. Dont dont look at me! she said, and, turning away from him, laid her face on the hand clinging to the gate. He looked down at her slight white figure and bent head, and a great tremor passed over him. The next instant she felt him standing close at her side. You must notdo that, he said, and put out his hand and touched her shoulder. His voice was almost a whisperhe was scarcely conscious of what his words were he had scarcely any consciousness of his touch. The feeling which swept over him needed no sense of touch or soundthe one thing which overpowered him was his sud- den sense of a nearness to her which was not physical nearness at all. Perhaps I was wrong to come, he went on; but I could not leave you aloneI could not leave you alone. I knew that you were suffering, and I could not bear that. She did not speak or lift her head. Has it been desolate? he asked. Yes, she answered, in a hushed voice1 I was afraid so, he said. You have been alone so longI have thought of it al- most every hour of the day; you are not used to being alone. Perhaps it was a mistake. Why do you tremble so? I dont know, she answered. My poor child! he said. My poor child! And then there was a pause which seemed to hold a life-time of utter silence. It was Bertha who ended it. She stirred a little, and then lifted her face. She looked as he remembered her looking when he had first known heronly that she was paler, and there was a wearied softness in her eyes. She made no attempt at hiding the traces of tears in them, and she spoke as simply as a child. I thought it was the doctor, when I heard the horses feet, she said; and I was afraid the dogs would bark and waken Janey. She has just fallen asleep, and she has slept so little. She has been very ill. You have not slept, he said. No, she replied. This is the first time I have left her. He took her hand and drew it gently through his arm. I will take you up to the house, he said, so that you can hear every sound; but you must stay outside for a little while. The fresh air will do you good, and we can walk up and down while I tell you the reason the professor did not come. All the ordinary conventional barriers had fallen away from between them. He did not know why or how, and he did not ask. Sud- denly he found himself once again side by side with the Bertha he had fancied lost for- ever. All that had bewildered him was gone. The brilliant little figure with its tinkling orna- ments, the unemotional little smile, the light lat~h, were only parts of a feverish dream. It was Bertha whose hand rested on his arm whose fair young face was pale with watching over her childwhose soft voice was tremu- lous and tender with innocent, natural tears. She spoke very little. When they had walked to and fro before the house for a short time, she said: Let us go and sit down on the steps of the porch, and they went and sat there to- getherhe upon a lower step and she a few steps above, her hands clasped on her knee, her face turned half away from him. She rarely looked at him, he noticed, even when he spoke to her or she spoke to him; her eyes rested oftener than not upon some far-away point under the trees. You are no better than you were when you went away, he said, looking at her cheek where the moonlight whitened it. No, she answered. I did not think to find you looking like this, he said. Perhaps, she said, still with her eyes THROUGH ONE ADMINISTRATION 73 fixed on the far-away shadows, perhaps I have not had time enough. You must give me time. You have had two months, he returned. Two months, she said, is not so long as it seems. And between the words there came a curious little catch of the breath. It has seemed long to you? he asked. Yes. She turned her face slowly and looked at him. Has it seemed long to you? she said. Yes, he replied, long and dreary. She swayed a little toward him with a sort of unconscious movement; her eyes were fixed upon his face with a wistful questioning; he had seen her look at her children so. Was it very hot? she said. Were you tired? Why did you not go away? I did not want to go away, he answered. But you ought to have gone away, she said. You were not used to the heat, and Let the light fall on your face so that I can see it! He came a little nearer to her, and as she looked at him the wistfulness in her eyes changed to something else. Oh, she cried, it has done you harm. Your face is quite changed. Why didnt I see it before? What have you been doing ? Nothing, he ar~swered. He did not stir, or want to stir, but sat al- most breathlessly still, watching her, the sud- den soft anxiousness in her eyes setting every pulse in his body throbbing. Oh, she said, you are illyou are ill! How could you be so careless? Why did not papa She falteredher voice fell and broke. She even drew back a little, though her eyes still rested upon his. You were angry with me when you thought I did not take care of myself; she said; and you have been as bad as I was, and worse. You had not so many tempta- tions. And she turned away, and he found himself looking only at her cheek again, and the soft side-curve of her mouth. There is less reason why I should take care of myself, he said. You mean she asked, without moving ---- that there are fewer people who would miss you? 1 do not know of any one who would miss me. Her hands stirred slightly, as they lay in her lap. That is underrating your friends, she said, slowly. But altering her tone it is true, I have the children and Richard. Where is Richard? he asked. 1 dont know: When you heard from him last, he began. He is a bad correspondent, she said. He always finds so much to fill his time when he is away. There is an understanding between us that he shall write very few letters. I am responsible for it myself, because I know it spoils everything for him when he has an unwritten letter on his conscience. I havent heard from him first yet since he went West. She rose from her seat on the step. I will go in now, she said. I must speak to Mrs. Lucas about giving you a room, and then I will go to Janey. She is sleeping very well. He rose, too, and stood below her, look- ing up. You must promise not to think of me, he said. I did not come here to be consid- ered. Do you think an old soldier, who has slept under the open sky many a night, can- not provide for himself? Have you slept so often? she asked, the very triviality of the question giving it a strange sweetness to his ears. Yes, he answered. And often with no surety of wakening with my scalp on. Oh! she exclaimed, and made an invol- untary movement toward him. He barely restrained his impulse to put out his hands, but hers fell at her sides the next instant. I am a great coward, she said. It fills me with terror to hear of things like that. Is it at all likely that you will be ordered back? I dont know, he replied, his uplifted eyes devouring all the sweetness of her face. Would that The very madness of the question forming itself on his lips was its own check. I dont want to think of it, he said. Then he added, As I stand here I look up at you. I never looked up at you before. Nor I down at you, she returned. You are always so high above me. It seems strange to look down at you~ It was all so simple and inconsequent, but every word seemed full of the mystery and emotion of the hour. When he tried after- ward to recall what they had said, he was bewildered by the slightness of what had been uttered, even though the thrill of it had not yet passed away. He went up the steps and stood beside her. Yes, he said, speaking as gently as he might have spoken to a child. You make me feel what a heavy-limbed, clumsy fellow I am. All women make me feel it, but you more than all the rest. You look almost like a child. But I am not very little, she said; it is only because I am standing near you. 74 THROUGH ONE ADAUNISTRA TION I always think of you as a small creature, he said. I used to think, long ago, that some one should care for you.~~ You were very good, long ago, she an- swered softly. And you are very good now to have come to try to help me. Will you come in? No, he said, not now. It might only excite the child to-night if she saw me, and so long as she is quiet, I will not run the risk of disturbing her. I will tell you what I am going to do. I am not going to leave you alone. I shall walk up and down beneath your window, and if you need me you will know I am there, and you have only to speak in your lowest voice. If she should be worse, my horse is at the gate, and I can go for the doctor at once. She looked up at him with a kind of wonder. Do you mean that you intend to stand sentinel all night? she said. I have stood sentinel before, was his re- ply. I came to stand sentinel. All that I can do is to be ready if I am wanted. But I cannot let you stay up all night, she began. You said it had been desolate, he an- swered. Wont it be less desolate to know thatthat some one is near you? Oh, yes! Oh, yes 4 she said. But Go upstairs, he said, and promise me that, if she still sleeps, you will lie down and let your nurse watch her. The gentle authority of his manner seemed to impress her curiously. She hesitated as if she scarcely understood it. Idontknow, she faltered. You will be better for it to-morrow, he persisted, and so will she. I never did such a thing before, she said, slowly. I shall be beneath the open window, he said, and I have the ears of an Indian. I shall know if she stirs. She drew a soft, troubled breath. Well, she said, I willgo. And, without another word, she turned away. He stood and watched her as she moved slowly across the wide porch. At the door she stopped and turned toward him. But, she said, faint lines showing them- selves on her forehead, I shall be remember- ing that youare not asleep. You must not remember me at all, he answered. And then he stood still and watched heragain until she had entered the house and noise- lessly ascended the staircase, which was a few yards from the open door, and then, when he could see her white figure in the darkness no more, he went out to his place beneath the window, and strode silently to and fro, keep- ing watch and listening until after the moon had gone down and the birds were beginning to stir in the trees. CHAPTER xvii. AT six oclock in the morning, Bertha came down the stairs again. Her simple white gown was a fresh one, and there was a tinge of color in her cheeks. She slept nearly all night, she said to Tredennis, when he joined her, and so did I. I am sure she is better. Then she put out her hand for him to take. It is all because you are here, she said. ~ When I wakened for a moment, once or twice, and heard your footsteps, it seemed to give me courage and make everything quieter. Are you very tired? No, he answered, I am not tired at all. I am afraid you would not tell me if you were, she said. You must come with me now and let me give you some breakfast. She led him into a room at the side of the hall. When the house had been a mansion, it had been considered a very imposing apart- ment, and, with the assistance of a few Wash- ingtonian luxuries which she had dexterously grafted upon its bareness, it was by no means unpicturesque even now. I think I should know that you had lived here, be said, as he glanced around. Have I made it so personal ? she re- plied. I did not mean to do that. It was so bare at first, and, as I had nothing to do, it amused me to arrange it. Richard sent me the rugs and odds and ends, and I found the spindle-legged furniture in the neighborhood. I am afraid it wont be safe for you to sit down too suddenly in the chairs, or to lean heavily on the table. I think you had better choose that leathern arm-chair and abide by it. It is quite substantial. He took the seat, and gave himself up to the pleasure of watching her as she moved to and fro between the table and an antique sideboard, from whose recesses she produced some pretty cups and saucers. What are you going to do? he asked. I am going to set the table for your break- fast, she said, because Maria is busy with the children, and the other nurse is with Janey, and the woman of the house is making your coffee and rolls. You are going to set the table! he ex- claimed. It doesnt require preternatural intelli- gence, she answered. It is rather a simple thing, on the whole. It seemed a very simple thing as she did it, THRO UGH ONE ADMINISTRATION. 75 and a very pretty thing. As he leaned against the leathern back of his chair, beginning vaguely to realize by a dawning sense of weariness that he had been up all night, he felt that he had not awakened from his dream yet, or that the visions of the past months were too far away and too unreal to move him. The early morning sunlight made its way through the vines embowering the window, and cast lace-like shadows of their swaying leaves upon the floor, and upon Berthas dress when she passed near. The softness of the light mellowed everything, and intensified the touches of color in the fans and ornaments on the walls and mantel, and in the bits of drapery thrown here and there as if by acci- dent, and in the midst of this color and mel- lowed light Bertha moved before him, a slen- der, quiet figure, making the picture complete. It was her quietness which impressed itself upon him more than all else. After the first moments, when she had uttered her cry on seeing him and had given way in her moment- ary agitation, he had noticed that a curious change fell upon her. When she lifted her face from the gate all emotion seemed to have died out of it; her voice was quiet. One of the things he remembered of their talk was that they had both spoken in voices so low as to be scarcely above a whisper. When the breakfast was brought in, she took a seat at the table to pour out his coffee and attend to his wants. She ate very little herself, but he rarely looked up without find- ing her eyes resting upon him with wistful interest. At least, she said once, I must see that you have a good breakfast. The kindest thing you can do this morning is to be hun- gry. Please be hungry, if you can. The consciousness that she was caring for him was a wonderful and touching thing to him. The little housewifely acts with which most men are familiar were bewilderingly new to him. He had never been on suffi- ciently intimate social terms with women to receive many of these pretty services at their hands. His unsophisticated reverence for everything feminine had worked against him, with the reserve which was one of its results. It had been his habit to feel that there was no reason why he should be singled out for the bestowal of favors, and he had perhaps ignored many through the sheer ignorance of simple and somewhat exagger- ated humility. To find himself sitting at the table, alone with Bertha in her new mood,Bertha quiet and beautiful,was a moving experience to him. It was as if they two must have sat there every day for years, and had the pros- pect of sitting so together indefinitely. It was the very simplicity and naturalness of it all which stirred him most. Her old vivid gayety was missing; she did not laugh once, but her smile was very sweet. They talked principally of the children, and of the com- mon things about them, but there was never a word which did not seem a thing to be cherished and remembered. After a while, the children were brought down, and she took Meg upon her knee, and Jack leaned against her while she told Tredennis what they had been doing, and the sun creeping through the vines touched her hair and the childs, and made a picture of them. When she went upstairs, she took Meg with her, holding her little hand and talking to her in pretty maternal fashion, and after the two had vanished, Tredennis found it necessary to pull himself together with a strong effort, that he might prove himself equal to the con- versational demands made upon him by Master Jack, who had remained behind. I will go and see Janey again, she had said. And then, perhaps, you will pay her a visit. When he went up, a quarter of an hour later, he found his small favorite touchingly glad to see him. The fever from which she had been suffering for several days had left her languid and perishable-looking, but she roused wonderfully at the sight of him, and when he seated himself at her bedside, re- garded him with adoring admiration, finally expressing her innocent conviction that he had grown very much since their last meet- ing. But it doesnt n~atter, she hastened to assure him, because I dont mind it and mamma doesnt, either. When in the course of the morning Doctor Wentworth arrived, he discovered him still sitting by the bedside, only Janey had crept close to him and fallen asleep, clasping both her small hands about his large one, and lay- ing her face upon his palm. What! said the doctor. Can you do that sort of thing? I dont know, answered Tredennis, slowly. I never did it before. He looked down at the small, frail creature, and the color showed itself under his bronzed skin. I think shes rather fond of meor some- thing, he added with naive/c, and I like it. She likes it, thats evident, said the doctor. He turned away to have an interview with Bertha, whom he took to the window at the opposite end of the room, and after it was over they came back together. 76 THROUGH ONE ADMINISTRA lYON She is not so ill as she was yesterday, he said, and she was not so ill then as you thought her. He turned and looked at Ber- tha herself. She doesnt need as much care now as you do, he said, thats my impres- sion. What have you been doing with your- self? Taking care of her, she answered, since she began to complain of not feeling well. He was a bluff; kindly fellow, with a bluff; kindly way, and he shook a big forefinger at her. You have been carrying her up and down in your arms, he said. Dont deny it. No, she answered, I wont deny it. Of course, he said. I know you carrying her up and down in your arms, and singing to her and telling her stories, and holding her on your knee when you werent doing anything worse. Youd do it if she were three times the size. She blushed guiltily, and looked at Janey. Good heaven! he said. You women will drive me mad! Dont let me hear any more about fashionable mothers who kill their children! I find my difficulty in fashionable children who kill their mothersand in little simpletons who break down under the sheer weight of their maternal nonsense. Who was it who nearly died of the measles ? Butbut, she faltered, deprecatingly, I dont think I ever had the measles. They werent your measles, he said, with amiable sternness. They were Jacks, and J aneys, and Megs, and so much the worse. But, she interposed, with a very pretty eagerness, they got through them beauti- fully, and there wasnt a cold among them. There wouldnt have been a cold among them if youd let a couple of sensible nurses take care of them. Do you suppose Im not equal to bringing three children through the measles? Its all nonsense, and sentiment, and self-indulgence. You like to do it, and you do it, and, as a natural consequence, you die of somebody elses measlesor come as near it as possible. She blushed as guiltily as before, and looked at Janey again. I think she is very much better, she said. Yes, he answered, she is better, and I want to see you better. Who is going to help you to take care of her? I came to try to do that, said Tredennis. Bertha turned to look at him. You ? she exclaimed. Oh, no! You are very good, but now the worst is over, I couldnt Should I be in the way? he asked. ~Sne drew back a little. For a moment she had changed again, and returned to the or- dinary conventional atmosphere. No, she said, you know that you would not be in the way, but I should scarcely be likely to encroach upon your time in such a manner.~~ The doctor laughed. He is exactly what you need, he said. And he would be of more use to you than a dozen nurses. He wont stand any of your maternal weakness, and he will see that my orders are carried out. Hell domineer over you, and youll be afraid of him. You had better let him stay. But you must settle it between you after I am gone. Bertha went down-stairs with him to re- ceive a few final directions, and when she returned, Tredennis had gently released him- self from Janey, and had gone to the window, where he stood evidently awaiting her.. Do you know, he said, with his dispro- portionately stern air, when she joined him, do you know why I came here? You came, she answered, because I alarmed you unnecessarily and it seemed that some one must come, and you were kind enough to assume the responsibility. I came because there was no one else he began. She stopped him with a question she had not asked before, and he felt that she asked it inadvertently. Where was Laurence Arbuthnot ? she said. That is frue, he replied, grimly. Lau- rence Arbuthnot would have been better. No, she said, he would not have been better. She looked up at him with a curious mixt- ure of questioning and defiance in her eyes. I dont know why it is that I always manage to make you angry, she said; I must be very stupid. I always know you will be angry before you have done with me. When we were down-stairs When we were down-stairs, he put in, hotly, we were two honest human beings, without any barriers of conventional pretense between us, and you allowed me to think you meant to take what I had to offer, and then, suddenly, all is changed, and the barrier is between us againbecause you choose to place it there, and profess that you must regard me, in your pretty, civil way, as a creature to be considered and treated with form and ceremony. Thank you for calling it a pretty way, she said. And yet there was a tone in her low vc~ice which softened his wrath somehowa rather helpless tone, which suggested that she had THE SONS OF CYDIPPE. 77 said the words only because she had no other resource, and still must utter her faint protest. Is it for me, he went on, to come to you with a civil pretense instead of an honest intention? I am not sufficiently used to con- ventionalities to make myself bearable. I am always blundering and stumbling. No one can feel that more bitterly than I do, but you have no right to ignore my claim to do what I can when I might be of use. I might be of use because the child is fond of me; and in my awkward fashion I can quiet and amuse her as you say no one but yourself can. Will you tell me? she asked, frigidly, what right I have to permit you to make of yourself aa nursemaid to my child? Call it what you like, he answered. Speak of it as you like. What right does it need? I came because His recollection of her desolateness checked him. It was not for him to remind her again by his recklessness of speech that her husband had not felt it necessary to provide against contingencies. But she filled up the sentence. Yes, you are right, she said. As you said before, there was no one elseno one. It chanced to be so, he said; and why should I not be allowed to fill up the breach for the time being? Because it is almost absurd, she said, in- consequently. Dont you see that? No, he answered, obstinately. Their eyes met, and rested upon each other. You dont care? she said. No. I knew you wouldnt, she said. You never care for anything. That is what I like in you,and dread. Dread? he said; and in the instant he saw that she had changed again. Her cheeks had flushed, and there was upon her lips a smile, half-bitter, half-sweet. I knew you would not go, she said, as well as I knew that it was only civil in me to suggest that you should. You are generous enough to care for me in a way I am not quite used toand you always have your own way. Have it nowhave it as long as you are here. Until you go away I shall do everything you tell me to do, and never once oppose you againandperhaps I shall en- joy the novelty. There was a chair near her, and she put her hand against it as if to steady herself, and the color in her face died out as quickly as it had risen. I did not want you to go, she said. You did not want me to go? No, she answered, in a manner more baffling than all the rest. More than any- thing in the world I wanted you to stay. There, Janey is awakening! And she went to the bed and kneeled down beside it, and drew the child into her arms against her bosom. (To be continued.) THE SONS OF CYDIPPE. By sacred Argos Polycleitus carved, In Indian ivory and Persian gold, To Hera, mother of all, dreadful, benign, A glorious statue in his darkened house. Straight from her throat ran the pure folds, and fell In seemly curves about her unseen feet: The fillets of her lifted head were bound With broidered stories of the Fates and Hours; Scepter and ripe pomegranate, as was meet, Her queenly hands sustained, and by her side The rustling peacock spread his gorgeous train.

THE SONS OF CYDIPPE. 77 said the words only because she had no other resource, and still must utter her faint protest. Is it for me, he went on, to come to you with a civil pretense instead of an honest intention? I am not sufficiently used to con- ventionalities to make myself bearable. I am always blundering and stumbling. No one can feel that more bitterly than I do, but you have no right to ignore my claim to do what I can when I might be of use. I might be of use because the child is fond of me; and in my awkward fashion I can quiet and amuse her as you say no one but yourself can. Will you tell me? she asked, frigidly, what right I have to permit you to make of yourself aa nursemaid to my child? Call it what you like, he answered. Speak of it as you like. What right does it need? I came because His recollection of her desolateness checked him. It was not for him to remind her again by his recklessness of speech that her husband had not felt it necessary to provide against contingencies. But she filled up the sentence. Yes, you are right, she said. As you said before, there was no one elseno one. It chanced to be so, he said; and why should I not be allowed to fill up the breach for the time being? Because it is almost absurd, she said, in- consequently. Dont you see that? No, he answered, obstinately. Their eyes met, and rested upon each other. You dont care? she said. No. I knew you wouldnt, she said. You never care for anything. That is what I like in you,and dread. Dread? he said; and in the instant he saw that she had changed again. Her cheeks had flushed, and there was upon her lips a smile, half-bitter, half-sweet. I knew you would not go, she said, as well as I knew that it was only civil in me to suggest that you should. You are generous enough to care for me in a way I am not quite used toand you always have your own way. Have it nowhave it as long as you are here. Until you go away I shall do everything you tell me to do, and never once oppose you againandperhaps I shall en- joy the novelty. There was a chair near her, and she put her hand against it as if to steady herself, and the color in her face died out as quickly as it had risen. I did not want you to go, she said. You did not want me to go? No, she answered, in a manner more baffling than all the rest. More than any- thing in the world I wanted you to stay. There, Janey is awakening! And she went to the bed and kneeled down beside it, and drew the child into her arms against her bosom. (To be continued.) THE SONS OF CYDIPPE. By sacred Argos Polycleitus carved, In Indian ivory and Persian gold, To Hera, mother of all, dreadful, benign, A glorious statue in his darkened house. Straight from her throat ran the pure folds, and fell In seemly curves about her unseen feet: The fillets of her lifted head were bound With broidered stories of the Fates and Hours; Scepter and ripe pomegranate, as was meet, Her queenly hands sustained, and by her side The rustling peacock spread his gorgeous train. 78 THE SONS OF CYDIPPE. For ancient Chrysis, from her wrinkled hands Letting the torch down fall in obscure sleep, Careless, not breathed on by the serious gods, Had touched the old Her~eum with white flame, And like a dream the fabric, full of prayers, Vows of forgotten athletes, maidens gifts, Robes of dead priests, echoes of hymns and odes, Had glared against the noonday, and was not. So, nigher to Canathus, on lower ground, Nearer the bright sea, myriad-islanded, Argos had built her outraged deity A nobler fane among those holy trees Platans and elmsthat drank her virgin spring; And all was done, and on this certain day, From the dark house, shrouded and swathed in cloths, The dread majesLic goddess passed in state To be unveiled within her own abode. Then while the people, clustered in the sun, Shouted and pressed, and babes were held aloft, At one shrill summons of the sacred flute, In all her gold-and-white magnificence, The austere god smiled on her worshipers, Who suddenly fell silent in their awe. Then came a shout, and from the woodland road, Craving a passage through the whispering throng, Two youths appeared, under a shameful yoke, Flushed with the sun, and soiled with dust, and bowed, Who dragged a chariot with laborious arms, Bleeding and chafed; and on the chariot sate With a thin bay-leaf in her aged hair A matron with uplifted eyes elate. Then while all wondered, and the young men sank, Breathless and glad, before the glorious god, The high-priest lifted up his voice, and said: Blessed art thou, Cydippe, blessed be Thy sons who shamed themselves to bring thee here! Oh, not in vain for Biton, not in vain For Cleobis, the unfruitful toil, the sweat, The groaning axles, and the grinding yoke! Unoiled their limbs, unfilleted their hair, Unbathed their feet, hateful to maids and harsh, But to the gods sweeter than amber drops That gush from fattest olives of the press, Fairer than leaves of their own bay, more fresh Than rosy coldness of young skin, their stains, Since like a sacrifice of nard and myrrh Their filial virtue sanctifies the winds. Then slowly old Cydippe rose and cried: Hera, whose priestess I have been and am, Virgin and matron, at whose angry eyes Zeus trembles, and the windless plain of heaven With hyperboreaff echoes rings and roars, Remembering thy dread nuptials, a wise god, Golden and white in thy new-carven shape, Hear me! and grant for these my pious sons, Who saw my tears, and wound their tender arms Around me, and kissed me calm, and since no steer THE HELLENIC A GE OF SCULPTURE. 79 Staid in the byre, dragged out the chariot old, And wore themselves the galling yoke, and brought Their mother to the feast of her desire, Grant them, 0 Hera, thy best gift of gifts! Whereat the statue from its jeweled eyes Lightened, and thunder ran from cloud to cloud In heaven, and the vast company was hushed. But when they sought for Cleobis, behold He lay there still, and by his brothers side Lay Biton, smiling through ambrosial curls, And when the people touched them they were dead. Edmund W Gosse. THE HELLENIC AGE OF SCULPTURE. WITH Alexander the Great begins a new era in the history of Greece and in the history of the world. Like a tornado, bearing all before it, we see this Greek conqueror sweep- ing over the East, overturning vast empires, and shaking the hoary civilizations of Asia to their very center. But in his wake follow the clarifying influences of Hellenic culture. Spreading, now, far beyond the narrow limits of Greece, it leaves its impress on that great period which, extending down to the preva- lence of Roman dominion throughout the an- cient world, is generally called the Hellenic age. The kingdoms of the Ptolemies, of the Seleuci& e, of Thrace, and of Macedon now occupy the foreground of history; and the smaller Greek states of old are bandied back and forth between the jealous sovereigns, or, as in the case of Rhodes, preserve an almost uninterrupted neutrality. The once proud republics of Greece thus became dependent on the favor of the most powerful. The old historic rights were gone. Should we add to this picture the terrible crimes of most of the ruling houses, their breaches of faith, their cruel selfishness in disregarding the rights of others, we should have some idea of what the historian has recorded of these troublous times. But, besides these distresses within, bar- barians, wild, devastating hordes of Gauls, or Galatians, as the ancient Greeks called them, overran Greece from the north, and, passing the Hellespont, spread terror, also, among the flourishing cities and states of Asia Minor. Following Alexander, in his course, to the shores of the Nile and far into the heart of Asia, we may trace the life-giving influence of Greek civilization, and watch its growth. We see, springing up all over the vast region he conquered, numberless Greek cities, not the monotonous conglomerates of the Orient, but corporations, having vigorous internal life, and calling into play the powers of the individual citizen. The story that Alexander founded sixty cities among the barbarians, Droysen declares, is not exaggerated, and the fact that this great Greek colonizer only began the work, is abundantly proved by what is recorded of his successors. But how brief are the accounts given of the way in which these cities were laid out; of their temples, palaces, and theaters, and of the wealth of statuary and relief which adorned them! The stories of the splendor of Alex- andria and of Antioch, of the palaces and

THE HELLENIC A GE OF SCULPTURE. 79 Staid in the byre, dragged out the chariot old, And wore themselves the galling yoke, and brought Their mother to the feast of her desire, Grant them, 0 Hera, thy best gift of gifts! Whereat the statue from its jeweled eyes Lightened, and thunder ran from cloud to cloud In heaven, and the vast company was hushed. But when they sought for Cleobis, behold He lay there still, and by his brothers side Lay Biton, smiling through ambrosial curls, And when the people touched them they were dead. Edmund W Gosse. THE HELLENIC AGE OF SCULPTURE. WITH Alexander the Great begins a new era in the history of Greece and in the history of the world. Like a tornado, bearing all before it, we see this Greek conqueror sweep- ing over the East, overturning vast empires, and shaking the hoary civilizations of Asia to their very center. But in his wake follow the clarifying influences of Hellenic culture. Spreading, now, far beyond the narrow limits of Greece, it leaves its impress on that great period which, extending down to the preva- lence of Roman dominion throughout the an- cient world, is generally called the Hellenic age. The kingdoms of the Ptolemies, of the Seleuci& e, of Thrace, and of Macedon now occupy the foreground of history; and the smaller Greek states of old are bandied back and forth between the jealous sovereigns, or, as in the case of Rhodes, preserve an almost uninterrupted neutrality. The once proud republics of Greece thus became dependent on the favor of the most powerful. The old historic rights were gone. Should we add to this picture the terrible crimes of most of the ruling houses, their breaches of faith, their cruel selfishness in disregarding the rights of others, we should have some idea of what the historian has recorded of these troublous times. But, besides these distresses within, bar- barians, wild, devastating hordes of Gauls, or Galatians, as the ancient Greeks called them, overran Greece from the north, and, passing the Hellespont, spread terror, also, among the flourishing cities and states of Asia Minor. Following Alexander, in his course, to the shores of the Nile and far into the heart of Asia, we may trace the life-giving influence of Greek civilization, and watch its growth. We see, springing up all over the vast region he conquered, numberless Greek cities, not the monotonous conglomerates of the Orient, but corporations, having vigorous internal life, and calling into play the powers of the individual citizen. The story that Alexander founded sixty cities among the barbarians, Droysen declares, is not exaggerated, and the fact that this great Greek colonizer only began the work, is abundantly proved by what is recorded of his successors. But how brief are the accounts given of the way in which these cities were laid out; of their temples, palaces, and theaters, and of the wealth of statuary and relief which adorned them! The stories of the splendor of Alex- andria and of Antioch, of the palaces and 8o THE HELLENIC A GE OF SCULPTURE. triumphal arches there to be seen, of the sacred images in the groves, the costly pict- ures and statues in the private apartments, are tantalizing in their meagerness. And yet, by gleanings from the poets and inferences from the imitative art of the ensuing age, many features in the activity of these Hellenic times have already been traced. Thus, look- ing through a thick veil, the practiced eye has read backward, as it were, from the familiar ruins of Roman times up to greater Hellenic originals behind them. So Helbig, in his Untersuchungen fiber die Campan- ische Wandmalerei, has most skillfully traced the paintings of Pompeii back to the decora- tions of the Greek houses in this post-Alex- andrian age, and has shown, as well, that much of the sculpture of the Roman time is only the echo of stronger, more original, art that had gone before. Of late, excavations have happily come to the rescue in disclosing the treasures of that obscured age. The discovery in Samothrace of a number of temples, with their sculptural decoration, and the glorious figure of victory- bringing Nik6, is followed by astounding reve- lations at Pergamon. How much more re- mains hidden for us beneath the soil of Asia Minor, where numberless beautiful Greek cities flourished, it would be hazardous to conjecture; and one need but question the topographer of Asia Minor, to find how many ancient sites are, as yet, untouched, and how sanguine are his hopes for a rich harvest, in the future, from this virgin soil. The Greeks, who, in an earlier age, had been confined to the narrow limits of their native land, now had the world opened up to them, and, indeed, were driven out into this greater world, by those highly wrought and varied activities which burst the bonds of soil, seeking a freer outlet. Sometimes as thrifty tradesmen or bold adventurers, again as travelers or physicians, and often as hireling soldiery, Greeks were met with everywhere, from the Indies in the East to Massilia (modem Marseilles) in the West. This wider field and intenser life brought with it, among other features of the time, an increased pursuit of knowledge. The stirring tempests and ever-changing scenes through which the age passed, stimulated to thought and reflection. The history of literature, the sciences of arch~ology, philosophy, grammar, and astronomy, now flourished as never before. Anatomy was raised by men like Erasistratus to the rank of an independent study, wielding, as monuments show, a powerful influence on artists and art. Asiatics, in their turn, now visited Greece, and everywhere, as the nations were thrown together and became better ac quainted, a feeling of brotherhood was awak- ened. The sharp distinction between Greek and barbarian now disappeared; the Greeks recognized many admirable traits in those they had once despised, and even at the courts of Demetrius Poliorcetes a semi-Hellenic, semi-oriental, etiquette was introduced. The products of oriental art were, also, eagerly sought after, as we learn from literary notices, and from oriental remains in Greek graves, such as those discovered in the tomb of a Greek lady, in Southern Russia. Although oriental art exercised much influence on Greek drapery and the minor decoration of the time, as appears from the paintings on vases, it seems to have little affected sculpture, except, perhaps, in rousing it to the use of more inn- tastic combinations, as well as to more splendid undertakings, as we see in new marbles from Pergamon. Hand in hand with Greeks, wherever they emigrated, went their love of art. Alexander tarried long at Ephesus, in the society of the painter Apelles, before launching out upon the sea of Asiatic conquest; he enjoyed, likewise, the intimate friendship of the gifted sculptor, Lysippus. The eagerness with which people in high position, as well as in private life, collected art treasures, and the large sums they paid, testify to a general apprecia- tion of the beautiful. Mnason, of Elatea, we learn from Pliny, paid to Aristides a sum equal to twenty thousand dollars for a picture of the battle with the Persians, and to Ascle- piodorus seven thousand dollars for a picture of the twelve gods, and for each hero painted for him by Theomnestus he gave three hundred and ninety dollars. King Attalus, of Pergamon, is said to have bid one hundred and seventeen thousand eight hundred and eighty dollars for a picture by Aristides, at the sale of the Corinthian booty, after Mummiuss conquest; and Aristotle tells us that, even in his time, statues and paintings formed an indispensable part of the furniture in rich houses. Indeed, so highly were works of art prized, that through them political favor was sometimes sought. Aratus, of the Ach~ean League, says Plutarch, sent pictures of the old Sicyon school to Alexandria, to win the aid of the Egyptian King Ptolemy III. for his imperiled cause. Nicoinedes, of Bithynia, so longed to own Praxiteless Aphrodite, that he offered to pay off the entire debt of the city of Cnidus; his offer, however, was declined. Be- sides thus encouraging art, by making gen- erous purchases, building temples, laying out new cities, and the like, some of these rulers, as Plutarch tells us, even tried their hand as practical artists. Attalus III., the last king of Pergamon, modeled in ~iax and cast and chis LIFE-SIZE MARBLE HEAD. (GLYPTOTHEE, MUNICH.) VOL. XXIV.8. 82 THE HELLENIC A GE OF SCULPTURE. eled in bronze. Antiochus Epiphanes sought recreation in the studios of artists in metal. A familiarity with art processes seems to have been shared by private citizens as well. The prevalence of monarchical institutions doubtless produced changes in society which affected art. Hitherto, the individual had been greatly influenced by his participation in public affairs. Now, as the guidance of state affairs became concentrated in the hands of the monarch, this essential groundwork of the old Hellenic civilization was gone. From motives of self-interest, or preference, men now developed in a single direction. They became, in a word, specialists, and the pro- fessions were sharply sundered, as they had not been in older Greece. Protogenes, who was living in Rhodes, during the siege of that city, painted quietly in his garden, which stood in the midst of the enemys camp; and when asked by the hostile leader, Demetrius, how he ventured to remain outside the walls, re- plied that he knew Demetrius warred against Rhodes, and not against art. Here Protogenes frequently received the besieger, who proved his appreciation of the painters work by spar- ing a certain quarter of the city, for fear of injuring his picture of Jalysus and the Dog. Men of each callingpoets, learned men, and actorsnaturally clubbed together, and the professional classes became sharply defined. It is not strange that these new classes, each bearing its peculiar and characteristic stamp, should have offered a fruitful and attractive field for art. So comedy, we find, caught the unique features of city life, developing to great perfection the type of the adventurous soldier, the wealthy citizen, the artist, the artisan, the parasite, etc.; idyllic verse busied itself with the rural classes, shepherds, hunters, and fisher-folk; and sculpture and painting did not fall behind the sister art of poetry. So the fisherman, as sung in verse,weather- beaten and tough-skinned,appeared in stat- ues, doubtless, like the one in the Vatican, where the humble costermonger is crying the fish he carefully holds in a basket. So the actor was represented as wearing the mask and other curious paraphernalia of his calling, such as the false stomach, etc., as seen in many statues in the Villa Albani. One, for instance, has taken off his mask, as if in answer to the applause of the public. The social position of woman was also greatly changed. Issuing from the almost oriental seclusion of former times, she took a more prominent part in public affairs; and there was, besides, far greater freedom of inter- course between the sexes. Ladies appear, moreover, to have had an intriguing influence in the affairs of government. A species of gal- lantry began to show itself. An astronomer called a comet Berenices Hair, and a poet makes the warlike hero of old Achilles cover the hand of Deidamia with kisses, doubtless reflecting the customs of the day in his verse. On the one hand, the ladies of the court seem to have become more stately, and on the other, there was a tendency to coquet- tishness which, perhaps, is reflected for us in the more elaborate and ambitious toilets, as represented on the monuments. In spite of the social and political fermentation of this age, mercantile activity was great, and material prosperity developed extensively, under the patronage of wise rulers. As a striking instance, the vigorous republic of Rhodes, a noted center of ancient trade, succeeded in amassing great wealth, which was devoted largely to the patronage of art. Here, towering above the harbor, was to be seen that renowned colossus of the sun-god, one of the seven wonders of the world. But Rhodes boasted more than a hundred colossi, any one of which would have made any other city celebrated. Her artists seem to have formed a new and independent school, whose ramifications extended into Asia Minor. With this general increase in wealth came a wide-spread luxuriousness. The size and magnificence of enduring works, such as the Samothrace Nik~, the Pergamon altar, etc., as well as the lavishness with which art was applied to beautify ephemeral public festivals, are characteristic of this time. The fashion was set by Alexanders unbounded extravagance in piling up a mountain of precious treasure to be burned on the funeral pyre of his beloved Hepha~stion. Ten thousand talents were set apart for this purpose, and an additional two thousand were contributed by friends, high dignitaries, and the Babylonians. A part of the wall of Babylon was torn down to furnish material for the structure, which arose, in five divisions, to a height of two hundred feet. The whole gleamed with gold, purple cloth, decorative paintings, and statuary. On its summit stood sirens of costly workmanship, out of which sounded the funeral dirge. Amid sacrifices, mourning processions, and songs of lament, this gorgeous pyre was given to the flames. Offerings now followed in honor of the hero Hepha~stion, Alexander himself consecrating the first gifts. Ten thou- sand bullocks were slain as sacrifices to the glorified friend, and the whole army was in- vited to a grand repast, still other festivities following on the ensuing days. Alexanders successors vied with one another in gorgeous pageantry and lavish public ceremonies. Great but silent revolutions were taking place in the old modes of thought and feeling. THE HELLENIC AGE OF SCULPTURE. 83 In older times, the conception of the gods, their working and overruling providence, had expressed itself in sacred stories and incidents, analogous to human deeds and sufferings. These the exuberant Greek fancy had multi- plied indefinitely, each tribe, each locality indeed, modifying them, and adapting them to their peculiar circumstances and local be- liefs. Out of this very profusion grew the ne- cessity of order and arrangement. Once these myths were the expression of what mankind, in its childhood, had seen and felt; but could they suffice to solve the problems of a think- ing age? Stretching their hands out beyond the old cosmogonies, men sought to grasp the eternal principles of the world, and of the very gods themselves. They found a spiritual power over all, which molded exist- ing matter, and striding forward, they arrived at a rational philosophy, which recognized, and at last embraced, a pure and noble deism. And yet, although affected by this new at- mosphere, the people still clung to the religious traditions of old. The Athenians might laugh at impious jokes in comedy, and admire the bold infidelity of a Diagoras, yet they con- tinued to celebrate their festival in honor of Athene in the old way, and punished with great severity those who made light of the sacred mysteries. It is not strange, then, that we do not hear in this period of the develop- ment in plastic art of new ideals of the great gods; but only of the repetition and variation of that perfect array created by the genius of the centuries gone before. Nor is it strange that, when representing inferior mythical beings, the artists fancy, like that of the poets, seems to break loose from the more sober ancient myths, and to riot in new fan- tastic creations of tremendous power, as we see in the great frieze of the Pergamon altar, recently discovered,or that it finds vent in a garrulous, story-telling language, as in the representation of the Telephus myth, in the small frieze of the same altar, which will be considered later. This straining after higher satisfaction than the old gods and myths could give, was, moreover, greatly stimulated by external conquest, with its widened fields of vision. The opportunities for studying and observing the relig- ions and worship of conquered nations confirmed the dissatisfac- tion with local worship. Hence, it was possible for Alexander to. worship the deities of Babylon and Egypt, as well as his own, and to honor, in the God of the Jews, that highest power in which Aristotle had recognized the eter- nal, creating reason. With such a widened religious horizon, the Greek god Hades could wander to Alexandria, there to be honored with statues, temples, and altars as the Gr~eco-Egyptian Serapis; and, on the other hand, the Egyptian deities Isis, Anubis, and Harpocrates, in Hellenic form, could find worshipers in the Greek states of Asia Minor, as well as in Athens, Corinth, and the interior of the Peloponnesus. But this very acceptance of so much that was foreign was fraught with many dangers to the Greek world. Turning to strange and unknown superstitions, the mysteries of Isis, of Mithras, and of the Cabin gained impor- tance. Astrology, witchcraft, and the dreaded influence of the sibyls worked like a species of intoxication. If we may judge from existing remains, sculpture seems now to have well-nigh de- serted its old home in Athens and the Pelo- ponnesus, and to have found a regal welcome in the rich kingdoms of Asia Minor, and in the island republic of Rhodes. The few monuments in Athens which may be traced to the third century n. c., compared with the same class in the preceding century, show great sinking in ability and conception. The beautiful large tombstones of careful work- manship are supplanted by monuments very small and carelessly executed. A law made by Demetrius, of Phalerus, in the latter part of the fourth century n. c., limited the size of tombstones. Doubtless, the troublous times, VOTIVE RELIEF TO PAN AND THE NYMPHS. POUND AT GALLIPOLI. (VIENNA.) 84 THE HELLENIC A GE OF SCULPTURE. and the insecurity of property at Athens, had much to do with this falling off. The story that the Athenians raised three hundred and sixty statues to Demetrius, of Phalerus, in thirty days, and then destroyed them, to raise new ones to his successful enemy, though hard to believe in detail, suggests that there must have been much activity of a serv- ile kind. Moreover, we cannot doubt that sculptors continued to be employed to a certain extent, since Demosthenes nephew succeeded in having a statue of the great orator put up in Athens in the midst of those trying times, and many votive reliefs bear the marks of this age. These are, however, mainly interesting on account of their myth- ological information and inscriptions. Like these Athenian reliefs in composition, but superior in workmanship, is that graceful tablet from Gallipoli, now in Vienna. It represents a grotto sacred to the nymphs and to Pan. This small semi-goat, semi-hu- man god, sits in the corner, with legs crossed, and is blowing his rustic syrinx. Toward an altar below him, Hermes, with staffthe kerykeion or Latin caduceusin hand, leads three nymphs, a sisterly group of gracefully moving figures, their drapery blown by the wind. In feature and elaborate coiffure they resemble strongly a beautiful little marble head recently found in Patras, as well as that larger head of the same type which is one of the great treasures of the Munich Glyptothek, and which, doubtless, came originally from Greece. We know, alas, very little of the art of the third century B. c., but such heads as these, and the terra cottas from Tanagra and Corinth, seem to indicate that taste and artistic ability were still at no low ebb in Greece itself. The direct channels by which the influence of the richly developed art of the Phidian and the following age passed over to new fields of activity, are only partially known. We know that the influence of Alexan- ders court sculptor, Lysippus, passed over to Rhodes through his pupil Chares, of Lindus. The recent German excavations on the summit of Pergamon have brought to our knowledge still another skillful master of the school of Lysippus in Asia Minor, one Xeno- crates, who executed bronze statues, and was also a celebrated writer on art. Xenocrates name may still be read on a slab belonging to one of the pedestals which stood near the temple of Athene, on its ancient piazza. Here were once to be seen bronze figures, which we may now believe were originals of such celebrated works as the statue popularly known as the Dying Gladiator. R. Bohns view of this beautiful ancient square, restored from accurate study of the site, and from fragments there discovered, may give us, even to-day, a distinct idea of the spot where Xen- ocrates work was to be seen. On still an- other pedestal, from this beautiful site, may be read the fragmentary name ~muX~q~ (rax- iteles), doubtless a part of the word Prax- iteles, and, perhaps, pointing to a descend- ant of the renowned Athenian master of the same name, since it was customary among the Greeks to pass on the same name in a family for many generations. If this Praxiteles was, then, really a grandson of the older mas SMALL MARBLE HEAD FOUND AT PATEAS. (BEELIN MUSEUM.) THE JIELLENIC A GE OF SCULPTURE. 85 ter, the fact would indicate the influence of coins. The goddess, towering above the green Athenian as well as Peloponnesian art in of the holy place, appeared on the prow of a Asia Minor. But the extent of this relation- marble ship, discovered, also, on this now ship with the older Greek art-centers is still wasted site. She seemed rushing by, with uncertain. We do not yet know to what raised wings and trumpet, heralding victory. degree art developed independently in these As fragments recently adjusted to the bosom new fields, since safe comparisons are only show, both arms were raised. With one hand beginning to be made on the basis of the she held the trumpet to the mouth, and with excavations which are still unearthing new the other, probably, held high the wreath of treasures in Asia Minor. victory. Before long, the statue, with its mag And yet, in the monuments from the Hel- lenic age, different streams of artistic ex- pression are already evident. An intensified realism in detail and tremendous action are found, combined with ideal form of great power, as seen in the colossal Nik~ of Sam- othrace, who sweeps down with lightning speed,the powerful form, with its rushing drapery, seeming to force us to make way for the imposing goddess of victory as she passes. This great statue, now in the Louvre, was erected in the sacred shrine at Samo- thrace by Demetrius Poliorcetes, early in the third century ii. c., in thanks for a naval vic- tory, as is shown by comparison with his HEAD OF DEMOSTHENES. (ATHENS.) nificent drapery and intense life, will be raised again on its ancient prow, forming one of the greatest attractions of the Louvre; a worthy sister of the Venus of Melos, and a speaking witness to the power of the sculptor of the third century before our era. There are, moreover, in the Hellenic age, signs of a going back to the excessive simplicity of archaic work, as illustrated in a head from Pergamon, now in Berlin, in which the lack of detail and the stiff severity seem a pro- test against the luxurious forms of the other monuments there found, calling to mind the preraphaelite tendency of to-day. But a great striving of that age, starting in 86 THE HELLENJC A GE OF SCULPTURE. science with Aristotle, seems to have been to grasp the reality of things. So, in history, not merely the great main facts were given, but every particular. When Xenophon, of an elder day, described a historical person, he men- tioned only what was essential to his charac- ter; but now, descriptions of appearances, clothing, and habits were added, making the picture more vivid. The same tendency ap- pears, also, in marble and bronze portraits of this time, some of which have recently been excavated; others are preserved to us in Roman imitations. The sculptors represented men just as they lived and walked among them, and grasped characteristics of form and face with startling force and naturalness, quite different from the ideal generalization of the earlier age. Let us but compare the portrait of Pericles, now in the Vatican, with that of Demosthenes in the Royal Gardens at Athens. Although the former is only a feeble copy from an original of the fifth cent- ury B. c., it is evident that the artist has shown us the great Pericles through the veil of ideality. Demosthenes, on the other hand, we seem to see bodily before us. His fur- to light by the excavations at Olympia. It rowed brow, knitted eyebrows, closely pressed was found in a part of the sacred grove, far lips, we feel confident, show us the noble removed from the great temple where the patriot as he appeared to the Athenians daily, statue to which it belonged doubtless stood. and make us regret that the speaking head is The neck shows signs of having been roughly so fragmentary. cut away from the trunk, and its site and An original of this time is the magnificent mode of concealment indicate that this head life-size bronze portrait-head recently brought had been hidden by tbe plunderer, whose inten- tion was to dispose of it, as he had already done with the metal body. In this head we see a powerful athlete, as the wreath in his hair indi- cates; so brutal are his features that we are tempted to associate him with professional prize-fighters. That he had won the Olympic victors wreath of wild olive, appears from a single leaf of sheet-bronze still above the right temple, showing that other leaves had, also, been fastened on to the shaggy hair after the head was cast. The swollen ears mark him as a combatant in the boxing-game, and his portrait-features may indicate that he was one of those thrice victorious, to whom the honor of a portrait-statue, in the sacred grove, was allowed. What a contrast this profile to the ideal faces with which we are familiar in earlier Greek art! Gone is the line of beauty in forehead and china brush-like beard mak- ing more pronounced the projection of the brutal chin far beyond the upper part of the face. In contrast to portrait-heads of an earlier time, each detail of skin and hair is brought out. by the most skillful use of the burin, the locks being made more natural by strong fur- rows, graven parallel with their general flow. The same care in chiseling is seen also in the skin, and not only in parts in tension over MEAD OF PEEICLES. COPY OF AN ORIGINAL OF THE FIFTH CENTURY B. C. (VATICAN.) PORTRAIT-HEAD, ~ui~z~, OF A VICTOR IN THE OLYMPIC GAMES. (OLYMPIA.) THE HELLENIC A GE OF SCULPTURE. 87 the forehead, but also in the wrinkled folds about the eyes, especially in the uninjured right side of the face. Indeed, the charac- teristics of this ancient athlete have been so admirably caught, that we do not won- der that his great strength and determined will won the prize on the ancient boxing- ground. By comparing this head with those of the fourth century B. c., and with the Perga- mon marbles, and remembering that with Lysippus a strongly realistic style of portrait- ure was encouraged, we gain a clew to its age. Placed alongside the so-called Mauso- los of the British Museum, from the Mauso- leum at Halicarnassus, this bronze athlete seems much more realistic in its concep- tion. The Mausoleum was erected about the middle of the fourth century B. c., and hence we may conclude that this athlete, with its more developed portraiture, belongs to a later date. Contrasted, on the other hand, with any one of the giants of the Pergamon frieze, which are from the second century n. c., this head seems reserved in style. Compare, for instance, the bold mod- eling of the disheveled eyebrows of the Pergamon giants with the careful regularity with which those of this athletes head are graven. Such characteristics in treatment make it probable that this bronze head is somexvhat older than the giants, and belongs to the third century B. c. But, besides such accurate and admirable portraits of living persons, of which other examples are found on coins of this time, the poets and sages of the past received similar life-like forms. This tendency was pro- nounced in Alexanders great sculptor, Lysip- pus, and the efforts to portray persons of whom no iconical statues existed continued after him. So old Ihsop, the poet of fable, and the seven wise men, who had lived in the sixth century n. c., came in for a share in plastic portraiture. Among the recently dis- covered Pergamon inscriptions is one showing that the monument once supported a portrait of the ancient lyric poet Alca~us, Sapphos admirer. Fortunately, among existing monu- ments there are a few masterpieces of this kind, showing how out of the sayings of these old men the character had been read and brought to marvelous expression. In heads of Homer, the blind old man and divinely in- spired singer of Greek imagination seems represented to us bodily. Aesop almost speaks to us in that marble in the Villa Albani which Burckhardt calls the concentrated ideal of a witty cripple. In the head of Hippocrates we see the kindly and genial physician. So, probably, the idea of Socrates developed, in this age, under the immediate influence of Platos vivid description of the great philosopher. But this fondness tor reality, as seen in the portraits of that time, did not stop with them. Many other subjects which occupied the attention of poets and artists were treated in a like realistic manner. Life, after Alexan- der, as we have seen, had greatly changed in many respects. The multiplication of large cities throughout the civilized world, with their dense populations, the more intense and ex- cited life, the over-refinement which pervaded some ranks, and the sharp isolation of the different classes, were influences which tended to introduce artificiality and shut men out from direct communion with nature. The idyl deals, by preference, with the children of nature, untainted by civilization, and living in unclouded union with fountain, forest, field, and flock, and the sculptors fancy busies FISHERMAN. ~VATICAN.) itself with fishermen, shepherds, or merry, rollicking childhood. In consequence of this spirit, many walks in life which had been hitherto well-nigh unheeded in art are now represented in all their attractive and many of their forbidding features: the fisher- man, already alluded to, appears with his excessively plain face and horny skin, as well as the plump form of the baby, in all its roundness and presumptuous strength; wrestling, perhaps, with an animal, or playing with a huge mask, or carrying a vase. Such statues, we learn, were often used as signifi~ 88 THE HELLENIC A GE OF SCULPTURE. cant decorations of fountains; those of chil- we hope that he may succeed. How true dren being, also, not infrequently found as the vigorous form and homely peasant face, tombstone monuments, and how charming the workmanship of the The Boy Extracting a Thorn from his Foot, marble! Although not ideal, the features ap- a marble statue of rare workmanship in the peal to us, and were we asked to choose to-day British Museum, and, in general composition, some pleasing ornament for garden or shady but not in detail, like the Bronze Boy of the fountain, we could not do better than select Capitol, is a speaking witness to this spirit this rustic, with his wounded foot, who in of the Hellenic age. Volumes have been ancient times; likewise, decorated a fountain, written on the severer bronze figures at Rome, as may be inferred from the holes in his rocky discussing the probability of the Bronze Boys seat. This fondness for homely scenes at this MARBLE STATUE OF BOY EXTEACTINO A THOEN FEOM HIS FOOT. (BRITISH MUSEUM.) being an original of the archaic period of time passed out beyond every-day life, and Greek art. Fiirtwiingler, in a masterly argu- invaded the realms of mythology as well. ment, has shown, however, that its spirit can In Hellenic poetry, even the Olympic gods only be that of an early naive time, and the engage in trivialities like every-day people. discovery of the fine naturalistic marble of the Thus, Hermes is made to blacken his face with British Museum seems clearly to confirm his ashes, in order to scare the naughty children brilliant theory. This marble boy, bending of the gods. Little Artemis, three years old, over his raised foot, with open mouth and as she visits Heph~estuss workshop, climbs intent gaze, is so deeply absorbed in extract- upon Briareuss knee, and plucks out of his ing the offending brier that our sympathy shaggy breast a handful of hair. Aphrodite with the rustic lad is at once enlisted, and offers a reward to any one who will bring THE HELLENIC A GE OF SCULPTURE. 89 BRONZE HEAD OF SATYE. back her runaway child, Eros, or she takes the infant god to learn music of a shepherd, to whom, however, the little mischief-maker teaches love. In plastic art, like any human child, Eros plays with the weapons of the mighty heroes. It is this merry, roguish child of later myth who has become the pet figure among the Greek gods in modern times. How different this chubby busybody is from the youth of earlier art,the dreamy, love-whispering god, personifying a world of soul-influence, who has been shown by Fiirtwiingler, in an article entitled Eros in der Vasen Malerei. No less interesting is the transformation among the followers of Dionysus, that changes the almost sentimental, graceful satyrs of the fourth century B. c. into homely forms suggested by the peas- antry, and overflowing with roguish fun and mischief. This is admirably illustrated by a male satyr, six inches high, recently discovered in Pergamon, now one of the choice treasures of the Berlin Museum. Here the sylvan sprite VOL. XXIV.9. has become a thorough rustic in character and form. Drawing back, he raises his right hand, which once doubtless held his short shep- herds crook, and parries a blow. So brimming full of mischievous glee is his homely, almost bestial face, that we seem to hear his boister- ous laugh, and are tempted to join in his contagious merriment. In his left hand he carries the syrinx, an attribute which seems to have been borrowed from the god Pan. The merry, pleasure-loving satyr of an older art took life too easy to be at enmity with any being. But this satyr expresses fully the changed ideas of the new times, even though in pose he re~choes that of Myrons Marsyas, a master-work of a previous century, transmitted to us in a marble copy in the Lateran Museum. Thus, the Pergamon satyr fights in earnest, like any young mortal, although the old, roguish satyr-look lights up his face, and his large mouth, low nose, and pointed ears tell us of his animal nature. An admirable head in the Munich Glyp (OLYPTOTHEK, MUNICH.) 90 THE HELLENIC AGE OF SCULPTURE. tothek, about life-size, and originally from the Villa Albani, is so like in spirit and work- manship to the works of this age after Alex- ander that we may give it a glance. It shows us another of these merry followers of Dion- ysus, his face alive with smiles, and his features so much like those of a simple peasant lad, that, were it not for his large, pointed ears, we might be tempted to consider him a genuine shepherd. Unfortunately, the modern neck and bust, on which the head rests, do not cor- respond well with the features. We naturally expect a face so merrily laughing to be ro- guishly tipped, but it has been restored as most primly erect. By covering the neck and 1)ust while looking at this head, the expression of fun and hilarity in the face, now seeming to verge toward a grimace, now toward the mer- riest sport, will be astonishingly enhanced. Although somewhat nobler in feature than the Pergamon bronze, there is. no mistaking the same rustic character and naive boorishness here also given to one of Dionysuss suite, and rendered with a startling naturalness in the minutest detail. Not the least of the attainments of sculpt- ure, during this age, was the noble rendering of race peculiarities. This is well illustrated by the fragment of a statue in the British THE SATYR MARSYAS, AFTER MYRON. (LATERAN MUSEUM, ROME.) Museuma rare bronze head, which was dis- covered at a depth of eleven feet under the mosaic pavement of the ce/la in the temple of Apollo at Cyrene, in Northern Africa. Here we see the curly hair, thick lips, and other features of the negro given, in striking contrast to the Greek and Roman types. The eye-sockets, once doubtless filled to imitate life, are now empty, but the marvelous details of hair and beard are still perfect. So vigor- ous is the conception of this head, and, in workmanship, so like the head of the bronze athlete found at Olympia, that we may safely believe it to belong to the same age, that is, the third century B. c. It was then that the Greek colonies of Cyrenaica were in a flour- ishing condition, and it wOuld have been most natural that some African king from a neighboring province should there have dedi- cated a statue of himself in the temple of the Greek god Apollo. In this matter of race- portraiture, however, Pergamon stands at the front, offering us celebrated works of great power, representing the sturdy form and face of the ancient Galatians. Most widely known among these statues is, doubtless, that fallen figure of the Capitol, which is commonly called the Dying Gladiator. Wandering back in imagination to the time of the Apocalypse, we find that Per- gamon was then the seat of one of the seven churches in Asia, but, passing on, still farther back, to two centuries B. c., we find it the capital of a powerful Greek kingdom. To-day, traveling due north from Smyrna, and following up the river Caicus twenty miles inland, we should come upon this ancient site, now called Bergama, a flourish- ing Turkish town. From the blue sea, even, we may descry, at the base of mountain ranges in the background, the craggy summit of the Acropolis, from which, in those ancient times, there went out great power into the surround- ing world, shattering and hurling back hordes of barbarian Galatian invaders. And here it is that modern excavations have discovered great art-treasures, throwing untold light on the sculpture of that remote age. The origin of the Pergamon dynasty was as follows: Lysimachus, one of Alexanders gen- erals, and an aspirant to regal power, being hard pressed, left a vast treasure, $14,000,000, in Pergamons impregnable fortress, in the keeping of a faithful servant, Philetrerus. But Lysimachus, having killed his own son, incurred the just indignation of many of his followers. Among these was Phileta~rus, who was so out- spoken in the condemnation of his master as to incur the enmity of the ruling house. Driven, in self-defense, 280 B. c., to take possession of the fortress and treasure, he declared himself THE HELLENIC A GE OF SCULPTURE. 9 independent, and thus founded a dynasty, which was to become one of the richest and most attractive of the age. From the time of its foundation by the obscure Phile- t~erus, the character of this Pergamon house compared most favorably with that of the other ruling houses of the day. Public and private virtue was a marked feature of its rulers. Elsewhere we find brother turned against brother, and father even against son; here the members of the family were devoted to each other. The devotion of the royal sons of Attalus I. to their mother, a woman of humble birth but noble character, expressed itself in temples dedicated to her, one of which, it is recorded, was sculptured with mythic and other scenes illustrating the de- votion of sons to mothers. An inscription just discovered at Pergamon, on a pedestal which occupied the beautiful piazza about Athenes temple on the Acropolis, makes still more vivid this family affection, the stone letters telling us that Attalus II. put up this statue to his mother, Queen Apollonis, be- cause of her love to him. Moreover, the Pergamon princes were not oriental despots, but desired the good opinion of their subjects and allies, to whom, even though Romans, they were always true. They manifested a great regard for Greece itself and the intercourse was lively between this rising city and the old seats of culture in Hellas. In Sicyon, Attalus I. raised a heavy mortgage on an Apollo temple, and restored it to free use. In 197 B. c., he made a pres- ent of ten talents of silver and ten thousand measures of wheat to the same city. For the former favor the citizens had erected to him a colossal statue on the market-place, near Apollos statue, but now they honored him with a golden statue, and a yearly festival. After the earthquake at Rhodes, in the third century B. c., that city also experienced the munificence of this monarch. These Per- gamon princes encouraged the sciences and arts most liberally. As memorials of their largeminded wisdom in these matters, were the royal library at Pergamon and their sculptural monuments, recently discovered, which were the admiration of the ancient world, and give to us astonished moderns a glimpse of those days of departed glory. These princes were, moreover, Greek rulers of a Greek people, thus forming a happy union which did not exist in all the other empires of the day, and which was, doubtless, BRONZE HEAD WITH NEGRO FEATURES, FROM CYREER. (BRITISH MUSEUM.) 92 THE HELLENIC A GE OF SCULPTURE. most favorable to awakening those capabili- ties which still lay dormant in Greek art. But for the achievement of anything great and noble in this art, there was needed the inspiration and impulse of a heroic spirit and glorious deeds, just as much as in the old days of Phidias. Fortunately, once more the Greeks were privileged to win glorious vic- tory, not over the Greeks or jealous rivals alone, but such as the Athenians had once won at Marathon over invading barbarians. As Miltiades and his braves had conquered the Persians on the plain of Marathon, so now Attalus and his people overwhelmed the barbarian Galatians who threatened their homes. The Galatians of Christian times are well known to us, through the Apostle Pauls epistle, but we are less familiar with the deeds of their fierce forefathers who, about the third century before the apostles time, were tempted away from their northern homes by stories of marvelous treasure piled up in Greek temples and shrines. Pouring down into Macedonia and Hellas, plunder- ing, burning, and massacring wherever they went, they even attacked Apollos sacred shrine at Delphi. Passing over into Asia Minor, they levied heavy tribute everywhere, and spread panic and terror before them. Pausanias, in describing their deeds in Greece, cannot find words strong enough to depict their atrocities. He also tells us how they raged against the weak of their own number, killing those who could not follow in the flight. Suffice it that we have some idea of the anguish and distress they left behind them, and of the formidabidness of the foe Attalus had to meet. To appreciate this fully, however, we must hear what Pausanias relates of the fierce bravery and fearless scorn of death of these half-naked bar- barians. The only protection they had in FIGHTING PERSIAN, VOTIVE GIFT OF ATTALUS TO ATHENS. (VATICAN.) THE HELLENIC A GE OF SCULPTURE. 93 battle, he tells us, was their shields, and they had little knowledge of the science of war. Like vild beasts they attacked the enemy, with a vehemence and courage which is almost unparalleled. Nor did their fury cease so long as breath was in their bodies, even when felled by the battle-ax or sword, or when pierced by arrow or spear. Some even drew the spear out of their wounds and hurled it at the enemy, or used it in close hand-to-hand fight. The giant-like stature and the power of these bar- barians are also described by Diodorus, who makes the picture more vivid still, by telling of their tough skin and bristling hair, made still stiffer by the use of a peculiar salve, and by being brushed off from the forehead down toward the neck, as is seen in the heads of Pan and satyrs, by which treatment it be- came thick, and much resembled horses mane,. A few had the beard entirely shaven; others, and especially those of rank, left only the mustache, but so long and full as to cover the mouth. They carried into battle a bent horn and a large shield. Their favorite adornment, he adds, was the t isted neck- band of metal, called the torque, still found in Celtic graves. From inscriptions recently discovered in Pergamon, it seems that Attalus and Eumencs did not have to contend with the Galatians alone, but also with their ally, Antiochus Hierax, whom, also, the Pergamon princes finally overcame, When those barba- rians, some time before, had swarmed about Apollos sacred shrine at Delphi, it was piously believed the god himself had appeared, de- scending from the high heavens in light su- pernal, and, shaking the glittering eyes, had wrought deliverance from their mad attacks, In accordance with a time-honored custom, the Greeks then consecrated statues to the delivering deities, as th nk-offerings, among which were bronze statues, one of them, doubtless, being the original of the Apollo Belvidere and its numerous copies of later times, Pliny, in a tantalizingly short sentence, tells us that several artists represented the battles of Attalus and Eumenes against the Galatians, mentioning Isigonus, Pyromachus, Stratonicus, and Antigonus. One of the discoveries recently made at Pergamon throws unexpected light on these works, showing us where they stood, telling us what victories they celebrated and the gods they honored, as well as the names of a few of the artists; two of which, although muti- lated, correspond with Plinys record. The fragments containing this information go by the name of the battle monument, and con- sist of inscribed slabs of dark gray marble, which made up different pedestals, as R. Bohn has shown after careful study of the sub- ject. On the top slabs, traces of the feet of stat- ues are to be seen, of such a character that we may be sure they were of bronze; bits of bronze fingers and drapery have also been found, but, as might be expected, the valuable metal statues themselves have long since THE DYING GALATIAN, FALSELY CALLED THE DYING GLADIATDR. (CAPITUL MUSEUM, EDME.) 94 THE HELLENIC A GE OF SCULPTURE. disappeared. Wandering, to-day, over the ancient pavement of the lofty terrace of the Acropolis of Pergamon, cleared at last of rubbish and grass, we look upon a glori- ous view spread out at our feet; we trace the beautiful Caicus valley out into the plain and see the blue Mediterranean beyond. Gazing immediately around us, we behold to our right the fragments of the ancient temple of Athene Polias, the revered goddess of this height. Turning to the north and east, the eye falls upon the spot where the col- umns of Attalus IIs stoa, rising in two stories, form a stately colonnade, inclc?sing two sides of the holy square. Filling out the picture, we would delight to dwell upon the balustrade of the upper gallery, sculptured all over with trophies of war, shields (like that on which falls the Dying Gladiator), helmets, chariots, spears, etc., so suggestive in their composition that, as we study them in beauti- ful fragments, preserved in Berlin, we almost see the confusion of battle, and hear the din of clanging armor. Besides decorating their own Acropolis, the Pergamon rulers remembered also Athens, the ancient seat of Greek glory. There Atta- lus II. likewise built a stoa, and Attalus I. sent thither votive offerings of sculpture, which were seen in the ancient citadel by Pausanias, who tells us that these figures stood on the south wall, and measured about four feet in length. Here were represented (i) the historic victory of Marathon over the Persians, and (2) its mystic prototype, the bat- tle of the Athenians with the Amazons; two other groups, the counterparts of these, as it were, completing the offering. In one, Atta- luss victory over the Galatians was repre- sented, and, in the other, a speaking mythic parallel, the combat of the gods with the giants. One of the statues of these gods, Dionysus, Plutarch informs us, was pr~cipi- tated, in a great storm, from the lofty Ather~ian Acropolis into the theater below, but the fate of the remainder is recorded by no ancient writer. The rough mass of the long pedestal was discovered a few years since by B6ttcher, on the south wall of the Acropolis, but no statues were found. The keen eye of Brunn, however, has detected, scattered through the galleries of Europe, marble statues corre- sponding in size and subjects to those men- tioned by Pausanias. Awakened by Brunns observation, others have identified additional statues sent by Attalus to Athens, of which ten are now known to us, there being three in Venice, four in Naples, one in the Vatican, one in the Louvre, and one at Aix. Nine of these admirable little marble statues may be traced to their discovery in the neighborhood of the baths of Alexander Severus at Rome, early in the sixteenth century, proving that they are not, as some have conjectured from their realistic character, the work of the contemporaries of Michael Angelo. They were, no doubt, brought from Athens, at the time when Greek works were imported on a wholesale scale, to the capital of the Roman state. All the statues represent war- riors from the conquered side: one a beau- tiful Amazon; another, a muscular, shaggy- DYING GALATIAN. (BACK VIEW.) THE HELLENIC A GE OF SCULPTURE. 95 haired giant; another, a youthful Persian. How powerfully the passions of war and the peculiar features of races not Greek were represented, will appear from a glance at the bristly-haired and sinking, but still fighting, Galatian of the Venice Mu- seum, or at the cowering Persian of the Vatican. We are impressed by the striking similarity in the attitude of one other of these little statues to that of the so-called Dying Gladiator. That greater marble works, similar in character to those de- scribed, were also executed by the ancient sculptors of Pergamon is evident from the statues of finer workmanship, but simi- lar in subject, in the museums of Rome. One of these is the so-called Dying Gladiator of the Capitol, the other, that less celebrated but equally powerful work in the Villa Ludovici, representing a despairing warrior, standing on his long, oval shield. With one hand he plunges a dagger into his own neck, with the other he holds, in his relaxed grasp, the arm of his wife, dying at his side. The sight of this victim of the warriors mad despair, and the pathos of her sinking, alone alleviate the painfulness of this ter- rible scene. So great is the resemblance between this upright figure of the Villa Ludovici and the so-called Gladiator of the Capitol, that we could easily believe them to be brothers. Notice, besides, how all the characteristics of the Galatians of old, as known from history, are expressed in both these forms: the giant frame, tough, leathery skin, bristling hair, long, overhanging mus- tache, circling torque, large shield, bent horn, and nudity in battle, as well as the wild, un- bridled passion of the barbarian. Comparing the dying figure of the Capitol and the Ludovici group with the small statues of Galatians, Attaluss votive gifts to Athens, above described, we find, moreover, a striking similarity, which makes it clear that these two greater statues, likewise, represent Pergamon s fierce northern enemies. That they once dec- orated Pergamons summit seems confirmed by the recent discovery there of a marble torso of a similar fallen warrior, of beau- tiful workmanship. The Dying Galatian and the Ludovici group were, moreover, dis- covered together, in the sixteenth century, in the gardens of Sallust, in Rome, and are of a kind of marble found only in Asia Minor. This discovery in Rome, and not Pergamon, is explained by the well-known mania of the Romans for pirating Greek art, and since the last ruler of Pergamon left by will his treasures to that ~reedy people, it would be natural for them to remove many statues they found in his city to the Tiber. How admirably the sculptor in Pergamon caught the strongly pronounced physique of the barbarian foe! Not only the general features, giant size, powerful build, and rug- gedness of that people, who terrified even warlike Romans as well as more peaceable Greeks, are given in these statues, but the details of their firmly knit muscles, callous skin (toughened by exposure), the broad skull, pointed chin, low-bridged nose, high cheek- bones, overhanging eyebrows, and bristling, thick hair,peculiarities still met in some branches of the Teutonic race. The difference in the treatment of the skin, with its leathery folds, in these barbarians, especially at the waist, appears in contrast to the Hermes of Praxiteles, with its soft skin of the ideal Greek race. The partial polish of the statue of the Dying Galatian seems to be a most successful imitation of the smooth surface of bronze, the, peculiarities of which are even more closely followed in the treatment and minute details of the short, stiff hair. On the supposition that these statues once stood in the Acropolis of Pergamon, Bohn, in his restored view of the open square about the temple of Athene, has put the Ludovici A GALATIAN WARRIOR AND HIS DYING WIFE. (VILLA LUDOVICI, ROME.) 96 THE HELLENIC AGE OF SCULPTURE. group and the Dying Galatian on the long pedestal in the front of the picture. In these statues, the innermost being of the Galatians is, moreover, powerfully portrayed. The fury of wild beasts, we are told, seemed to seize them as they rushed naked into battle. If they lost the day, they gave way to a frenzy of despair, taking their own lives as well as those of the wounded and feeble among them. On a relief in Rome we see a barbarian plung- ing a dagger into his own breast, under the very hoofs of his victors horse. Brennus, the Galatian chieftain who had dared to storm Apollos shrine, we are told, took his life when vanquished. So, also, the Ludovici Galatian, having slain his wife, now destroys himself. The dying warrior of the Capitol no longer shows brave defiance. Death has stricken him, too, probably in consequence of a fatal stab received at the enemys hand. It has often been supposed that, like the Ludovici Galatian, he had taken his own life, but his manner of falling, the one fact that the wound is on the side away from the heart, and the other that some one has withdrawn the weapon from the gash, seem to prove that a victorious enemy has robbed him of his life. The sword in this statue is a later addition. How different these intensely tragic and realistic monuments from the Greek sculpt- ures preserved to us from earlier times. The Pergamon artist, in common with the spirit of his time, could not have represented other- wise the barbarian who had just overrun his land and caused him so much distress. Prince and people had seen and fought the dreaded enemy too recently, and knew his uncouth face and powerful frame too well, and had suffered too much at his hand, to be satisfied with only ideal or symbolic represen- tation of him. The sculptor did not then hold on to the older, colorless type of the bar- barian, characterizing him by mere accessories of national costume or armor, while giving him ideal beauty of form and soul, but repre- sented him just as he saw him in nature. The square and rugged forms do not, there- fore, impress by symmetry and exquisite grace of proportion, but by fullness and overflow of power; their very divergence from the Greek bringing out more strongly such wild force. But let us not imagine that the ancient sculp- tor in Pergamon was content with expressing thanks for victory to the gods. His fancy took still higher flights in ideal creations of great power and absolute beauty, as revealed in the sculptures of the Greek Altar re- cently discovered at Pergamon, and now in the Berlin Museum,the tragedy of the ruth- less Galatians being mirrored in the tremen- dous conflicts of gods with giants. But this topic must be reserved for a final paper. Lucy AL Mitchell. SARCOPHAGUS. (CAPITOL, ROME.) JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. IN a liberal sense, and somewhat as Emer- son stands for American thought, the poet Lowell has become our representative man of letters. Not as our most exact scholar, though of a rich scholarship, and soundly versed in branches which he has chosen to follow. Not as an indomitable writer, yet, when he writes, from whom are we surer to receive what is brilliant and original? Nor yet chiefly as a poet, in spite of the ideality, the feeling, the purpose, and the wit that belong to his verse and that first brought him into reputation. But, whatsoever the con- junction that has enabled Mr. Lowell to reach and maintain his typical position, we feel that he holds it, and, on the whole, ought to hold it. His acquirements and versatile writings, the conditions of his life, the mold of the man, and the spirit of his whole work, have given him a peculiar distinction, and this largely without his thought or seeking. Such a nimbus does not form around one who summons it: it glows and gathers almost without his knowledge,and not at once, but, like the expression of a noble face, after long experience and service. I have spoken of one poet as excelling others in the adroitness of a man of the world. Mr. Lowells qualities secure him honor and allies without the need of adroitness. He is regarded not only as a man of letters, but as a fine exemplar of culture, and of a culture so generous as to be thought supra-American by those observers who, while pronouncing him a citizen of the world, are careful to exclude this country from his range. Profes- sor Dowden, for instance, says: Taken as a whole, the works of Lowell do not mirror the life, the thoughts, and passions of the nation. They are works, as it were, of an English poet who has become a naturalized citizen of the United States; who admires the institutions and has faith in the ideas of America, but who cannot throw off his allegi- ance to the old country and its authorities. But here is a manifest assumption. Doubtless, Lowells mirror does not reflect Dr. Dow- dens conception of the life, the thoughts, and passions of this nation, but the critic might revise his conception if better informed. In the poets writings we find the life and pas- sion of New England, to a verity, and the best thought of our people at large. For, when I say that he is a type of American culture, I mean of republican culture, and VOL. XXIV.io. nothing more or less. Those who hold to the republican idea believe that its value is to be found in its leveling tendency; by which I do not mean a general reduction to the low- est caste, but the gradual elevation of a mul- titude to the standard which individuals have reached,among them so many of the writ- ing craft, from Franklins generation to our own. In this respect I do not, of course, mention Mr. Lowells position as distinctive, the names of other scholars and writers instantly come to mind,nor have our men of culture been confined to any guild or pro- fession. Marshall and Story, Pinkney, Wirt, Winthrop, Sumner and Bayard, jurists, ora- tors, and statesmen,soldiers, merchants, artisans, Americans of every class,have shown that culture is a plant that thrives in a republic no less than under royal care. Their number is increasing; the average grade is advanced. If this were not so, republicanism would be a failure: in this matter it is on trial no less than in its ability to promote the establishment of first-class museums, libraries, academies, even without governmental aid. We count Mr. Lowell, among others, as a specimen of home-culture, not of foreign, and especially of our Eastern type. His life shows what the New England culture, not always so fortunate, can do for a man of genius. And thus, even aside from his writings, he is a per- son of note. The tiibutes frequently paid him would of themselves keep his name before us. But it is natural for him to shun publicity, and the movements of authors greatly beneath him are more zealously chronicled than his own; nor is he, I think, so commonly read as a few other poets of his standing. Yet many of his sayings, like those of Emerson, are a portion of our usual discourse and reference, and the people have taken some of his lyrics faithfully to heart. He has written one work which bids fair to become a classic. Whether as a poet and critic, or as a man of affairs, of rare breeding and the healthiest moral tone, Mr. Lowell is one of whom it may be affirmed, in the words applied to another, that a thing derives more weight from the fact that he has said it. Are we conscious, then, of having in view a man better than his best writings? But this may be said of many authors, and there must be, at all events, a live personality behind good work. Lowells sense of this, and of the strength and fullness of existence, keep him void of

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. IN a liberal sense, and somewhat as Emer- son stands for American thought, the poet Lowell has become our representative man of letters. Not as our most exact scholar, though of a rich scholarship, and soundly versed in branches which he has chosen to follow. Not as an indomitable writer, yet, when he writes, from whom are we surer to receive what is brilliant and original? Nor yet chiefly as a poet, in spite of the ideality, the feeling, the purpose, and the wit that belong to his verse and that first brought him into reputation. But, whatsoever the con- junction that has enabled Mr. Lowell to reach and maintain his typical position, we feel that he holds it, and, on the whole, ought to hold it. His acquirements and versatile writings, the conditions of his life, the mold of the man, and the spirit of his whole work, have given him a peculiar distinction, and this largely without his thought or seeking. Such a nimbus does not form around one who summons it: it glows and gathers almost without his knowledge,and not at once, but, like the expression of a noble face, after long experience and service. I have spoken of one poet as excelling others in the adroitness of a man of the world. Mr. Lowells qualities secure him honor and allies without the need of adroitness. He is regarded not only as a man of letters, but as a fine exemplar of culture, and of a culture so generous as to be thought supra-American by those observers who, while pronouncing him a citizen of the world, are careful to exclude this country from his range. Profes- sor Dowden, for instance, says: Taken as a whole, the works of Lowell do not mirror the life, the thoughts, and passions of the nation. They are works, as it were, of an English poet who has become a naturalized citizen of the United States; who admires the institutions and has faith in the ideas of America, but who cannot throw off his allegi- ance to the old country and its authorities. But here is a manifest assumption. Doubtless, Lowells mirror does not reflect Dr. Dow- dens conception of the life, the thoughts, and passions of this nation, but the critic might revise his conception if better informed. In the poets writings we find the life and pas- sion of New England, to a verity, and the best thought of our people at large. For, when I say that he is a type of American culture, I mean of republican culture, and VOL. XXIV.io. nothing more or less. Those who hold to the republican idea believe that its value is to be found in its leveling tendency; by which I do not mean a general reduction to the low- est caste, but the gradual elevation of a mul- titude to the standard which individuals have reached,among them so many of the writ- ing craft, from Franklins generation to our own. In this respect I do not, of course, mention Mr. Lowells position as distinctive, the names of other scholars and writers instantly come to mind,nor have our men of culture been confined to any guild or pro- fession. Marshall and Story, Pinkney, Wirt, Winthrop, Sumner and Bayard, jurists, ora- tors, and statesmen,soldiers, merchants, artisans, Americans of every class,have shown that culture is a plant that thrives in a republic no less than under royal care. Their number is increasing; the average grade is advanced. If this were not so, republicanism would be a failure: in this matter it is on trial no less than in its ability to promote the establishment of first-class museums, libraries, academies, even without governmental aid. We count Mr. Lowell, among others, as a specimen of home-culture, not of foreign, and especially of our Eastern type. His life shows what the New England culture, not always so fortunate, can do for a man of genius. And thus, even aside from his writings, he is a per- son of note. The tiibutes frequently paid him would of themselves keep his name before us. But it is natural for him to shun publicity, and the movements of authors greatly beneath him are more zealously chronicled than his own; nor is he, I think, so commonly read as a few other poets of his standing. Yet many of his sayings, like those of Emerson, are a portion of our usual discourse and reference, and the people have taken some of his lyrics faithfully to heart. He has written one work which bids fair to become a classic. Whether as a poet and critic, or as a man of affairs, of rare breeding and the healthiest moral tone, Mr. Lowell is one of whom it may be affirmed, in the words applied to another, that a thing derives more weight from the fact that he has said it. Are we conscious, then, of having in view a man better than his best writings? But this may be said of many authors, and there must be, at all events, a live personality behind good work. Lowells sense of this, and of the strength and fullness of existence, keep him void of 98 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. conceit. He often has seemed impatient of his art, half-ready to cry out upon it, lest it lead him from green fields and forests, from the delight of life itself. He is not swift to magnify his office above the heroic action of other men. This catholicity is rare among poets and artists, whose dearest failing is a lack of concern for people or things not asso- ciated with their own pursuits. On the other hand, poetry is the choicest expression of hu- man life, and the poet who does not revere his art and believe in its sovereignty is not born to wear the purple. Lowell, in fortunate seasons, goes back from life to song with new vigor and wisdom, and with a loyalty strength- ened by experiences. After all, the man dies, while his imaginative works may survive even the record of his name. Therefore the work is the essential thing; and Mr. Lowells work, above all, is so imbued with his individ- uality, that none can overlook the relations of the one to the other, or fail, in comprehending his poetry, to enter into the make and spirit of the poet himself. II. MR. UNDERWOOD has given some account of Lowells ancestry, and of the conditions which led to the birth and breeding of a poet. We have a picture of the Cambridge manor, Elmwood,a home not wanting in the relics of an old-time family,portraits, books, and things of art. Mr. Lowells father, and his fathers father, were clergymen, orthodox, well- read, bearing honored names; his mother, a gifted woman, the mistress of various languages, and loving the old English songs and ballads, no wonder that three of her children came to be authors, and this one, the youngest, a famous citizen and poet. It is not hard to fill in these outlines with something of the circumstance that, as I pointed out in the case of Mrs. Browning, fore-ordains the train- ing of a genius; that supplies, I repeat, the means of its self-training, since the imagina- tion derives its sustenance like a plant, select- ing and assimilating for itself. All it needs is food, atmosphere, a place to grow. In these Lowell was exceptionally favored, under the influence of local and family traditions, the home-culture, the method of his father, and the taste of the mother from whom he in- herited his bent toward letters and song. His college course made little change in this way of growth. He might fail of advan- tages to be gained from drill and drudgery; but was sure to extend his reading in the direction of his natural tastes, until acquainted with many literatures. His subsequent study of the law probably added the logical disci pline that enables one to formulate ideas. But any voice that would restrict him to his profession must have fallen vainlier than the hens to her false chickens in the pool. In- stinct, judgment, everything, pointed to letters as his calling. The period ohhis start, and his fathers literary tastes, are indicated by his avowal that he was brought up in the old superstition that Pope was the greatest poet that ever lived. This would account for his escape to the renaissance of beauty and romance; just as the repression of an orthodox training may have had much to do with his early liberalism in politics and the- ology. It seems that the light-hearted Cambridge student was eager for all books except those of the curriculum, and troubled himself little as to mathematics and other prosaic branches. This was quite in accordance with precedent, tesle Landor or Shelley, yet I doubt not that he was more than once sorry for it in after years. And I suspect that he passed for what he was, or promised to be, with the Faculty, and became something of an oracle among his mates. There was more eagerness then, at Harvard, than now; the young fellows were not ashamed to wear their hearts upon their sleeves. The gospel of indifferentism had not been preached. The words clever and well-equipped now seem to express our highest good; we avoid sentimentalism, but nourish less that genius which thrives in youth upon hopefully garnished food. Lowell wrote the Class Poem, and took leave to print it, being under discipline at the time appointed for its delivery. Mr. Sanborn neatly points out that it abounded in con- ventional satire of the new-fangled reformers whom the poet was soon to join. As a law graduate, he shortly clouded his professional chances by writing for the Boston Miscel- lany, and issuing a little book of verse. A writers first venture is apt to be a novel or poem. Should he grow in station, it becomes rare, or valued for its indications. The thin, pretty volume, A Years Life, does show traits of its authors after-work, but not so dis- tinctly as many books of the kind. Three years later he termed its contents, the firstlings of my muse, Poor windfalls of unripe experience. But three years are a long time in the twenties. There are a few ideal passages in this book, and some that suggest his forming tendencies. It was inscribed to Una, whom he aptly might have called Egeria, for she was already both the inspirer and the sharer of his best imaginings. A few well-chosen pieces are JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 99 retained in the opening division of Mr. Low- ells standard collection. Of these, Thren- odiais a good specimen of his early manner. The simple and natural lines With a Pressed Flower ~ are in contrast with vaguer portions of the first book, and have a characteristic thought in the closing stanza, where he says of flowers, that Nature, ever kind to love, Hath granted them the same sweet tongue, Whether with German skies above, Or here our granite rocks among. The cullings from A Years Life, with various and riper odes, lyrics, and sonnets, make up the Early Poems of his latest edi- tion, showing his range at the date of their production. Some of the longer pieces lack compact- ness, and betray an imagination still some- what nebulous. The Sirens, Jren6, My Love, Rosaline, are like the first poems of Tennyson, then a nsen star. There is a trace of Shelley in the lines To Perdita, Singing, and The Moon. Allegra is sweet, direct, original. The sonnets upon reading Wordsworth, a sonnet to Spenser (in A Years Life), and one to Keats, afford hints of the poets healthy tastes. Those to Phillips and Giddings prove that he was no laggard in the unpopular antislavery move- ment. As to other reforms, it is plain that he began to have convictions,or, at least, to have a conviction that he had convictions. The Heritage and A Rich Mans Son were taken up by the press, and are still found in our school-readers. Lowell~ s voice was for independence, human rights, the dignity of labor. Some of the love-poetry is exquisite. Its serenity declares that no other word than happiness is needed for the history of the time between the dates of his first and second books. To be sure, he set himself to edit The Pioneer, the conditions being so adverse that poets and essayists who now should make the fortune of a magazine could not prolong its short existence. But we think of Lowell as enjoying to the full those three zestful years, a briefless barrister, perhaps, yet guarded by the Muse, and having the refined companionship of the girl whose love he sought and won. In the year of his mar- riage to Maria White, he published a second volume, whose contents, with other verse composed before Sir Launfal, exhibit his poetic genius in its fresh maturity. The Legend of Brittany, an artistic and legendary poem, was, for that time, quite a significant production, so much so that Poe said it was the noblest poem yet written by an American. It commended itself to him because, unlike some of Lowells verse, it was designed for poetry and nothing elseit is not in the least didactic. And th~t Poe said this, and meant it, shows how few were the longer poems of merit we then had produced. The Legend is a sweet, flowing tale, in the ot/ava rinia, after the mode of Keats and up to the standard of Leigh Hunt. It needs dramatic force in the climax, but is simple and delicately finished. A still better piece of art- work is Rhcecus, that Greek legend of the wood-nymph and the bee. The poet by chance subjected himself, and not discredit- ably, to the test of a comparison with the most bewitching of Landors Hellenics, The Hamadryad. Much might be said, in view of these two idyls, upon the antique and mod- em handlings of a theme. Landor worked as a Grecian might, giving the tale in chiseled verse, with no curious regard for its teachings. Its beauty is enough for him, and there it standsa Periclean vase. His instinct be- came a conscious method. In a letter to Fors- ter he begs him to amend the poem by strik- ing out a bit of reflection which a true hamadryad should cut across: Why should the beautiful (And thou art beautiful) disturb the source Whence springs all beauty? Mr. Lowells Rhcecusis an example of the modern feeling. Passages such as that beginning: A youth named Rhecus, wandering in the wood, are simple and lovely; the scene where Rhce- cus, playing dice, rudely treats the winged messenger, is a picture equaling the best of Landors. But the story itself is preceded by a moralizing commentary, and other glosses of the same kind are here and there. The whole is treated as an allegory conveying a lesson. The wood-nymph herself draws one, tenderly and sadly, at the close: Alas! the voice returned, tis thou art blind, Not I unmerciful. I can forgive, But have no skill to heal thy spirits eyes; Only the soul bath power oer itself. This method confuses the beauty of the poem, though distinct enough in purpose, and characteristic of the New England school. The poet, in truth, felt himself called upon for secular work. With all his love of beauty, he had a greater dread of dilettanteism. The air was full of progress, and he made a gen- eral assay of the new thoughts and enthusi- asms. Reform-verse came naturally from the young idealist portrayed by. his friend Page. The broad collar and high-parted, flowing hair set off a handsome, eager face, with the 100 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. look of Keats and the resolve of a Brook- Farmer. But he was wholly himself, incapa - ble of the affectation whichin a time when poetry is not the first choice of readersmar- kets its wares by posing for the jest and zest of fashion, and brings into contempt the grand old name of poet among those who know po- etry only as a name. Affectation and self-seek- ing in art, as elsewhere, are detestable. Only the genius of Byron, in a romantic period, atoned for his trace of the former. So far as Byron was an actor, he was a great one. It makes no difference whether the affectation be one of virility or of refinement; the self-seeking is apt to be that of the author or artist who de- votes one day in the month to work, and all the rest to advertising it. You may see his outward type in the water-fly Osric, of whom Hamlet says that tis a vice to know him. Such creatures and their habits are the breed of special timesmen with some bit of talent, gaining their paltry ends, and sure to be duly classified at last. And so Osric, as Hamlet dis- dainfully perceives, with many more of the same breed that the drossy age dotes on, has only got the tune of the time * * * a kind of yesty collection, which carries them through and through the most fond and win- nowed opinions. But Lowell, I say, was himself alone, wearing his Arcadian garb, yet hasting to throw aside his crook at the sound of the trumpet. His progressive verse often was fuller of opinion than beauty, of elo- quence than passion. Some of it is in a meas- ure which reformers have seemed to hit upon by an exasperating instinctthe much-abused verse shown at its best in Locksley Hall. With the typical radical, it is enough to make a thing wrong that it is accepted by a major- ity. Lowell found himself with the minority, but the minority then chanced to be the party of a future, and, in essentials, wholly right. If Whittier and himself, like the Lake Poets before them, became didactic through moral earnestness, it none the less aided to inspire them. Their verse advanced a great cause, and, as years went by, grew in quality perhaps as surely as that of poets who, in youth, reject all but artistic considerations. Before Lowells thought and imagination had gained their richness, he had to contend with a disproportionate flow of language, if using forms that did not of themselves restrict it. Prometheus, Columbus, A Glance Behind the Curtain, are studies upon massive themes, weakened because their matter is not compactly molded. Yet the poet had a terse art of saying things, as when he made Crom- well declare that New times demand new measures and new men; and himself said: They are slaves who dare not be In the right with two or three, or, similarly, spoke up for One faith against a whole earths unbelief, One soul against the flesh of all mankind. His manner often was fine: All other glories are as falling stars, But universal Nature watches theirs, Such strength is won by love of human kind. ~ The moon will come and go With her monotonous vicissitude. The melancholy wash of endless waves.~~ His analytic turn early cropped out in the Studies for Two Heads, which is all Lowell as one now would say. The poem To the Past is written with more circumstance than Bryants, but the latter, in simple grand- eur and diction, is the more imaginative. To indicate, finally, the chief reservation of Mr. Lowells admirers, I must own that these poems often are marked with technical blem- ishes, from which even his later verse is not exempt. In trying both to express his con- viction and to find a method of his own, he betrayed an irregular ear, and a voice rare in quality, but not wholly to be relied upon. He had a way, moreover, of dropping like his own bobolink, of letting down his fine pas- sages with odd conceits, mixed metaphors, and licenses which as a critic he would not over- look in another. To all this add a knack of coining uncouth words for special tints of meaning, when there are good enough counters in the language for any poets need. Space can be more agreeably used than by citing examples of these failings, which a reader soon discovers for himself. They have per- plexed the poets friends and teased his re- viewers. Although such defects sometimes bring a mans work nearer to us, the question is as to their influence upon its permanent value. Verse may be faultily faultless, or may go to the other extreme. We are indebted, as usual, to Mr. Lowell himself for our critical test. Writing of Wordsworth, he says that the work must surpass the material, and refers to that shaping imagination which is the highest criterion of a poet. It is a labor that physics pain to recall the verse by which he gained that hold upon his countrymen which strengthens through lengthening years. The public was right in its liking for The Changeling, She Came and Went, The First Snow-fall, than which there are few more touching lyrics of JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. I0I the affections. The Shepherd of Admetus and An Incident in a Railway Car are on themes which moved the poet to harmonize his taste and thought. When called upon, as he supposed, to make a choice between Taste and his conception of Duty, Taste sometimes went to the wall. Doubtless, he grew to see that the line of Beauty does not always follow Dutys follower, and that the surrender of the former itself may be in the nature of a crime. His sense never was more subtle, his taste never more delightful, than in the flawless stanzas on the Phcebe, recently printed in this magazine. The public keeps in store for him the adage of the willful songster. That he can sing was discovered at the outset. One such piece as Hebe decided that point: I saw the twinkle of white feet, I saw the flash of robes descending; Before her ran an influence fleet That bowed my heart like barley bending. It also included his theory of song, and a sound one: Coy Hebe flies from those that woo, And shuns the bands would seize upon her; Follow thy life, and she will sue To pour for thee the cup of honor. To this lesson of his own experience recurs again and again: Whither? Albeit I follow fast, In all lifes circuit I but find, Not where thou art, but where thou wast, Sweet beckoner, more fleet than wind! * * * * * * * * All of thee but thyself I grasp; I seem to fold thy luring shape, And vague air to my bosom clasp, Thou lithe, perpetual Escape! Like other poets of quality, Mr. Lowell has found the Muse, between her inspirations, a coquette and evader. He forms his rule accordingly: Now, Ive a notion, if a poet Beat up for themes, his verse will show it; I wait for subjects that hunt me, By day or night wont let me be, And hang about me like a curse, Till they have made me into verse.~~ From a poet who does this, we shall get flavor, and, in any event, the best of himself. Lowells career, telling equally of use and song, has proved the wisdom of his admonitions: Harass her not; thy heat and stir But greater coyness breed in her; * * * * * * * The Muse is womanish, nor deigns Her lpve to him that pules and plains; * * * * * * * The epic of a man rehearse, Be something better than thy verse; Make thyself rich, and then the Muse Shall court thy precious interviews, Shall take thy head upon her knee, And such enchantment lilt to thee, That thou shalt hear the life-blood flow From farthest stars to grass-blades low. To which one may add, without malice, that Mr. Lowell can give even the Muse lessons in the art of flirting; knowing from long practice that, when she once has yielded her heart, she forgives even the infidelities of a favored lover. There is a beautiful feeling in Lowells poems of Nature. Wordsworth has dwelt upon the contrast between the youthful regard for Nature,the feeling of a healthy and impas- sioned child,and that of the philosopher who finds in her a sense of something far more deeply interfused. The latter is a gift that makes us grave. It led Bryant to worship and invocation; and now, in the new light of science, we seek for, rather than feel, the soul of things. The charm of Lowells outdoor verse lies in its spontaneity; he loves Nature with a child-like joy, her boon companion, finding even in her illusions welcome and relief,just as one gives himself up to a story or a play, and will not be a doubter. Here he never ages, and he beguiles you and me to he share his joy. It does me good to see a poet who knows a bird or flower as one friend knows another, yet loves it for itself alone. He sings among the woods, as Boone hunted, refusing to be edified, and with no wish for improvements. This one section he reserves for life itself: Away, my poets, whose sweet spell Can make a garden of a cell! I need ye not, for I to-day Will make one long sweet verse of play. His manhood shall not make him lose his boyhood; the whiff of the woods, the brooks voice, the spangle of spring-fiowers,these never fail to stir the old-time thrill; our hearts leap with his, and for once forget to ask the reason why. Outside the Pictures from Appledore there is little of the ocean in his verse: the sea-breeze brings fewer messages to him than to Longfellow and Whittier. His sense of inland nature is all the more alert,for him the sweet security of meadow-paths and or- chard-closes. He has the pioneer heart, to which a homestead farm is dear and familiar, and native woods and waters are an intoxica- tion. The American, impressed at first by the oaks and reaches of an Old-World park, soon wearies of them, and takes like a partridge to the bush. What Lowell loves most in nature 102 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. are the trees and their winged habitants, and the flowers that grow untended. The In- dian Summer Reverie is an early and de- lightful avowal of his pastoral tastes. His favorite birds and trees, the meadows, river, and marshes; all are there, put in with strokes no modern descriptive poet has excelled. Brownings capture of the thrushs song is rivaled by such a touch as this: Meanwhile that devil-may-care, the bobolink, Remembering duty, in mid-quaver stops Just ere he sweeps oer raptures tremulous brink, And twixt the winrows most demurely drops. The poems To a Pine-Tree and The Birch-Tree, with their suggestive measures, are companion-pieces that will last. The poet shares the stormy reign of the monarch of Katahdin; yet loves the whisper of the birch in the vale: Thou art the go-between of rustic loves; Thy white bark has their secrets in its keeping; Reuben writes here the happy name of Patience, And thy lithe boughs bang murmuring and weeping Above her, as she steals the mystery from thy keeping. Of Lowells earlier pieces, the one which shows the finest sense of the poetry of Nature is that addressed To the Dandelion. The opening phrase ranks with the selectest of Wordsworth and Keats, to whQm imaginative diction came intuitively, Dear common flower, that growst beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, and both thought and language are felicitous throughout: Thou art my tropics and mine Italy; To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; The eyes thou givest me Are in the heart, and heed not space or time: Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment In the white lilys breezy tent, His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. This poem contains many of its authors pe- culiar beauties and none of his faults; it was the outcome of the mood that can summon a rare spirit of art to express the gladdest thought and most elusive feeling. I think, also, that The Vision of Sir Launfal owed its success quite as much to a presentation of Nature as to its misty legend. It really is a landscape-poem, of which the lovely passage, And what is so rare as a day in June? and the wintry prelude to Part Second, are the specific features. Like the Legend of Brittany, it was a return to poetry as poetry, and a sign that the author was groping for a theme equal to his reserved strength. The Vinland fragment hints at a wider range of experiment. Thus far, in fact, no positively ;iew notes. Lowell had shown his art and insight, a brave purpose, absolute sympathy with Nature. The ferment of hi~ youth had worked itself clear. Occasional pieces, the stanzas to Kossuth, the poem on the English graves at Concord, came from definite convictions and a strong hand. He was a man, well girded, who had not found his best occasion; who needed the pressure of imminent events to bring out his resources and make his work enduring. The question, How can I make a real addition to litera- ture? ofteii must have come to one so pen- etrative. Possibly he was hampered, also, by his own culture. The Dervishs ointment may be too freely applied to the eyes; too close a knowledge of the verities may check ideal effort,too just a balance of faculties produces indecision. Practical success in art must come from every-day ambition and ex- periment. But creative results are apt to follow upon the gift to look at things from without. If Lowell had not utilized his surroundings, he was none the less aware of them. The solu- tion of his problem came when least expected, and as a confirmation of his theory of the Unsought. The clew was not in ancestral or Arthurian legends, but in his own time and at his door-stone. It was woven of the home- liest, the most ungainly, material. It led to something so fresh and, unique that its value, like that of other positively new work, at first hardly could have been manifest, even to the poet himself. iii. THE Biglow Papers ended all ques- tion of Mr. Lowells originality. They are a master-work, in which his ripe genius fast- - ened the spirit of its region and period. Their strength lies in qualities which, as here combined, were no mans save his own. They declare the faith of a sincere and intelligent party with respect to war,a sentiment called out by the invasion of Mexico, unjust in itself, but now seen to be a historical factor in the worlds progress. This was a minority faith, held in vulgar contempt, and there was boldness in declaring it. Again, the Biglow Papers were the first, and are the best, metrical presentation of Yankee character in its thought, dialect, manners, and singular mixture of coarseness and shrewdness with the fundamental sense of beauty and right. Never sprang the flower of art from a more unpromising soil; yet these are eclogues as true JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 103 as those of Theocritus or Bums. Finally, they are not merely objective studies, but charged with the poets own passion, and bearing the marks of a scholars hand. The work plainly shows its manner of growth. The first lyric struck the vein, the poets mind took fire by its own friction, and one effort inspired another. The Papers made an immediate hit; the public in- stinctively passed a judgment upon them, in which critics were able to concur after the poet had made an oj5us of the collected series. Here was now seen that maturity of genius, of which Humor is a flower revealing the sound kind man within the poet. Such a work is, also, an illustration and defense of the tenure of Wit in the field of art. Verse made only as satire belongs to a lower order. Of such there are various didactic specimens. But Wit has an imaginative side, and Humor springs like Irisall smiles and tears. The wit of poets often has been the faculty that ripened last, the overflow of their strength and experience. In the Biglow Papers, wit and humor are united as in a composition of high grade. The jesting is far removed from that clownish gabble which, if it still increases, will shortly add another to the list of offenses that make killing no murder. Mr. Lowell was under thirty at this time, and fairly may be reckoned among poets who have done great work in youth. His leap from provincialism is seen in the accessory divisions of his completed satire. The No- tices of an Independent Press are a poly- gonal mirror in which journalism saw all its sins reflected, and wherewith he scanned not others follies only, but his own, mock- ing our spread-eagleism, anglophobia, and the weaker phases of movements in which himself had joined. He burlesqued in mock Latin the venerable pomp of college-cata- logues and Down-East genealogies. Then fol- lowed a clever analysis of the Yankee dialect, extended and made authoritative in a prefix to his second series. In the very first con- tribution of Mr. Biglow, the native Yankee is immortally portrayed. The ludicrous realism of the transcript is without parallel: Jest go home an ask our Nancy Wether Id be sech a goose Ez to jine ye,guess youd fancy Th~ etarnal bong wuz loose! She wants me fer home consumption, Let alone the hays to mow, Ef youre arter folks o gumption, Youve a darned long row to hoe. How the poet must have enjoyed that stanza! What rollicking delight! But he quickly recalls the inborn pride and patriotism, the sacred wrath, of the true New England, and cries out from a wounded spirit: Massachusetts, God forgive her, Shes a-kneelin with the rest, She, thet ough to ha clung ferever In her grand old eagle-nest! His rejection of the popular ideal of Webster, his branding ridicule of Robinson, Cushing, Palfrey, and his scorn of trimmers, vitalized the Biglow Papers and make their hits proverbial. The first series was a protest not only against the slave-holders~ invasion of Mexico, but against war itself. Twenty-five years later a greater war arose, a mortal struggle to repress the wrong that caused the first. To such a conflict even Lowell could not say nay; his kinsmen freely gave their blood, and bereavement after bereavement came fast upon him. In the second series of the Biglow Papers the humor is moi grim, the general feeling more intense. Still they are not Tyrt~ean strains, but chiefly called out by political episodes,like the Mason and Slidell affair,and constantly the poet seeks a relief from the tension of the hour. One feels this in reading the dialogue, between the Bridge and Monument at Con- cord, suggested by Burnss Twa Briggs, the return to Sunthin in the Pastoral Line, or, most of all, The Courtin. This bucolic idyl is without a counterpart; no richer juice can be pressed from the wild-grape of the Yankee soil. Of the epistles, the tenth has the most pathetic under-tone. It was com- posed, seemingly at a heat, in answer to a request for Sunthin light an cute, Rattlin an shrewd an kin o jingleish. Mr. Biglow justifies the tone of his new series by avowing the immeasurable anguish and per- plexity of the time: Wheres Peace? I start, some clear-blown night, When gaunt stone walls grow numb an number, An, creakin cross the snow-crus white, Walk the col starlight into summer. His heart is full with its own sorrows; he half-despises himself for rhymin, when his young kinsmen have fallen in the fray: Why, haint I held them on my knee? Didnt I love to see em growin, Three likely lads ez wal could be, Hahnsome an brave, an not too knowin? * * * * * * * * Taint right to hey the young go fust, All throbbin full o gifts an graces, Leavin lifes paupers dry ez dust To try an make blieve fill their places! 104 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. He longs for Peace, but invokes her to come, Not like a mourner, bowed For honor lost and dear ones wasted, But proud, to meet a people proud, With eyes that tell o triumph tasted! Come, with han grippin on the hilt, An step that proves ye Victorys daughter! Longin fer you, our sperits wilt Like shipwrecked mens on raPs for water. These final lyrics, less varied and sparkling than their predecessors, are, in not unfrequent passages, more poetical. The authors state- ment of the causes and method of his work is more suggestive than Poes whimsical anal y - sis of The Raven, and not open to the suspicion of being written for effect. The Biglow Papers, as we now have them, form a strongly proportioned work, and are a positive addition to the serio-comic liter- ature of the world. They are almost apart from criticism; there is no prototype by which to test them. Lowell has been compared to Butler, but Hudibras, whether as poetry or historical satire, is vastly below the master- work of the New England idyllist. The titles of a few great books, each of which has no fellow, come to mind as we think of its possi- ble rank and duration, and I observe that Mr. Sanborn does not fear to mention the highest. It is a point in favor of transatlantic judg- ment that the Biglow Papers first gave Mr. Lowell the standing, with those who make opinion in England, which his choicest poems of art and nature had failed to procure for him. From that time their interest in him- self and his work has been apparent. Their university degrees, their estimates of his gen- ius and character, declare him to be one whom the mother-land delights to honor, and have made more distinct the position which, as I have said, he holds among our men of letters. His literary satire, A Fable for Critics, was a good-natured tilt at the bards of Gris- wolds Parnassus,a piece of uneven merit, but far from being open to the chargethat of malevolencewhich Poe brought against it. The estimate of Poe is not unfair, and other sketchessuch as those of Bryant, Haw- thorne, and Dwightare deftly made. Nor could one put a surer finger upon Lowells short-comings than his own in the lines upon himself. The allegory of the fable is trite. Its sections are loosely united, the language and rhythm are at hap-hazard, and, on the whole, it is a careless production, however true to the time and tribe it celebrates. It is hard to conceive why Mr. Lowell should per- mit his editions to retain the extravaganza of Dr. Knott, so little above the grade of the hackney verse in which poor Hood punned and rhymed, not as the poet he was, but un~ der grim compulsion. iv. A POET of intellectual scope will not con- tent himself with verse, as the sole outlet of his thought and feeling. Mr. Lowells essays display his genius in free activity, and have added greatly, and justly, to his authority and standing. I could not select better illustra- tions of the union of the critical and artistic faculties, or of the distinctions and analogies between the verse and prose of a poet. It is to be noted that Lowells political and moral convictions appear chiefly in his verse. His prose appertains to literature, and, with the exception of some graceful sketch-work, bits of travel and reminiscence, has been re- stricted to criticism. His earliest prose volume was of this kind, in the form of Conversations on the old poets and dramatists. These are the ardent generalizations of a young poet, appreciative rather than searching. They are superseded by his maturer survey of their field, but had a stimulating influence in their time. Many who were students then remem- ber the glow which they felt when Lowells early lectures and essays directed them to a sense of what is best in English song. Young enthusiasts, at Cambridge, found him an ideal teacher and professor of belles-lettres. As years went on, his critical pen was rarely idle. A good fate determined that he should be subjected to the demands of journalistic routinethat he should carry the Atlantic Monthly to a sure foot-hold, advancing the standard of our magazine literature; and that he should afterward hold for nine years the editorship of the North American Review. Such a charge overcomes a writers vis inertia~. He naturally becomes his own best contrib- utor, and it was, in a measure, to the spur of his engagements that we owe a notable series of literary essays, many of which first appeared in the review I .have named. Publishers have not found his study a reservoir into which they might insert their taps at pleas- ure. But one must spend time in gathering knowledge to give it out richly, and few com- prehend what goes to a page of Lowells man- uscript. The page itself, were it a letter or press-report, could be written in a quarter- hour; but suppose it represents, as in one of his greater essays, the result of prolonged studiesthe reading, indexing, formulating works in many languages, upon his shelves or in the Harvard library? Of all this he gives the ultimate quintessence, a distillation fra- grant with his own genius. Who can estimate the toil of such work? What can adequately pay for it? There are two guerdons that raise the spirit to scorn delights and live laborious days: Milton sings of onebut the surer is the exceeding great reward of the work itself. Mr. Lowells important reviews and studies, selected with excellent discretion, are con- tained in My Study Windows, ~nd in the first and second series of Among My Books. These, with the Fireside Travels, make up the collection, in four volumes, of his prose works. His style is marked by in- dividuality. Mr. Underwood suggests that the distinctive prose of a poet is necessarily quite removed from general apprehension.~~ The word distinctive seems the one quali- fication that justifies the remark. And how is a poets prose distinctive? Not in rhythmic undulations, if he be a true poet and artist. Such a writer does not lend the semblance of verse to his prose. To do this, he must pro- duce something inferior to either. Few met- rical cadences in the prose of Milton, Gold- smith, Coleridge, Byron, Landor, or Bryant. Its strength and beauty are of another kind. Many of Dickenss passages, we know, can be assorted into lengths of semi-metrical verse; but Dickens, when he tried to make poems, had no great success. Thackeray, whose prose is prose, was, within his range, a charming poet. Longfellows Hyperion is exceptionalwritten as a prose-poem by a young artist fresh from the sentiment of Ger- man mystics and romances. As for Carlyle, he was a poet, as Lowell says, without the gift of song. He invented a special kind of prose as his form of poetic expression. I infer that a poets prose is not removed from gen- eral apprehension by its technique; all things considered, I expect to find it as clear and un- adulterate as that of any laymannot more illogical, not more dependent on the readers intuition to fill out its lapses. A poets instinct is constructive, little given to omissions in prose syntax. If his prose is hard to under- stand, it may be that he is a learned thinker, whose thoughts and references do not come at once within popular apprehension. It is because a poet is more original, not more erratic, than many laymen, that his prose often is so individual. Mr. Lowells is clear enough to those familiar with the choic- est literature. In critical exploits that bring out his resources, he is not a writer for dullards, and to read him enjoyably is a point in evi- dence of a liberal education. His manner, in fact, is Protean, adjusted to his topic, and has a flexibility that well expresses his racy wit and freshness: combined with this, pecul- iarities that irritate the most catholic minds. Outspoken reviewers have subjected it to minute analysis, and declared their sense of 105 its short-comings. Their statement that it is not creative, but critical, is true in the ordinary meaning; yet I doubt if creative criticism and that which is truly critical differ like the experimental and analytic chemistries. Cer- tainly Lowell is a most suggestive essayist. He sets us a-thinking, and, after a stretch of comment, halts in by-paths, or enlivens us with his sudden wit. He has the intellect, held to be a mark of greatness, that puts in motion the intellect of others. But he is charged with querulousness, inconsistency of judgment, contempt for unity, and with the habit of becoming entangled in expression. Attention is directed to the conceits, the whimsical diction and recondite instances, to be found in these essays. Verse, not prose, is declared by a few to be his proper vehicle. The indictment has some foundation, but to what extent does it affect his general merits? Things bad in themselves are often part of an authors essential quality. It seems to me that there is a close analogy between the styles of Mr. Lowells verse and prose, distinct as the two forms are,an analogy to be observed, if I had space to point it out, in the verse and prose of other poets, and inevitable from an authors habits of mind. I cannot better state the matter than by saying that the beauties and faults of the one are those of the other; both are open to the criticisms already made, and to which I may refer again; but each is sustained by a spirit which makes the reader forgive and forget. Under the drift and stubble that float on the surface is the strong, deep current which bears them along, or throws them to the side, and keeps a cen- tral channel clear. Mr. Lowells lighter touches have the grace that is always modern. The Fireside Trav- els make his censors withhold their arrows of the chase, pleased with the landscape and the guide. However exquisite the art of our latest sketch-writers, who is better company than Lowell in Old-World loiterings or more deft in wood-craft and garden-craft at home? His other prose volumes have sturdier char- acteristics. Here are . the companion-pieces on Lessing and Rousseau; the seriesa labor of yearsupon the great English masters, from Chaucer to Keats and Carlyle; the elaborate study of Dante; the off-hand por~ traits of Josiah Quincy, Lincoln, Thoreau; no common subjects these,who grapples them must do his best, or suffer a fall. Other essays, too, that are not soon forgotten: Witchcraft in New England, the famous treatise On a Certain Condescension in Foreigners, and two papers My Garden Acquaintance, and A Good Word for Win- ter,outdoor studies that would have de JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. io6 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. lighted the man of Selborne. The style of the critical prose certainly is not modeled upon Addison and his school; it is scarcely what Lowell himself describes as that exquisite something called Style, which makes itself felt by the skill with which it effaces itself, and masters us at last with a sense of indefin- able completeness. To some it may seem a stumbling-block; but to most, I fancy, it is the self-expression of a versatile, learned, original man. When over-freighted with words from other languages, new and old, the polyglotism implies so close a familiarity with many literatures that he cannot avoid drawing on them for his purpose. A pedant quotes for the sake of a display of learning; Lowell, because he has mastered everything connected with his theme. His style, as I have hinted, sometimes is quaintly influenced by his topic and its associations. Witchcraft revives here and there the manner of more than one seventeenth-century homilist. The English proper of this curious and learned essay, with all its auroral qualities, is less simple and strong than that of the critics noble discourse of Dryden, whose very Latinism seems to befit the spirit of its hero. It should be noted that Lowells polysyllablesand few writers have moredo not weigh down the page; they are accelerative, galloping, even charging, in leap on leap, from section to section. His word-coining is less venial, for he does not lack taste, and at times exer- cises it rigidly. But his humor, learning, and caprice audaciously put it by, with a Go thy ways till I need thee! His comments on Spensers innovations should be self-applied, and especially the words culled from Bellay, who bids his poet Fear not to innovate somewhat * * * with modesty, however, with analogy, and judgment of ear. His linguistic arsenal serves him well: nor does he fail of fine exordiums and perorations, and sentences whose beauty and majesty, as he says of Spensers, he refuses to endanger by experiments of this kind. But we should miss something if we held him to his own formula of the best writing, that in which the component parts of English are most exquisitely proportioned one to the other. Authors who do lay-work for a living, and pursue their art in hours which are the breath- ing-time of other men, are permitted few of the common pleasures for which they needs must crave. Their manuscripts are written in their blood, and the ink grows pale apace. Even the delight of reading, that at once stimulates and draws upon the brain, is for- bidden to one who is harnessed in the van of a professional career. But Lowell, I sus- pect, has been shy of any harness from which he could not bolt at will. His book-feeding has been unstinted, omnivorous: he was born among books, reared upon them, and has taken from them that which enriches him yet leaves them none the poorer. Of all writing-men, he who can read without stint is to be en- vied. Take the essay on Chaucer; it is the result of perfect equipment for a literary task. It is a spring-time brew of philological com- ment and poetic induction: it reeks with fact, flavored by originality. Here is a rare eluci- dation of both the letter and the spirit of Chaucers song; no mere scholar could so illumine the process, and no poet who was not a scholar would venture upon it. Lowell is the contratype of Poe, who made a flourish of scholarship, and was sure of little for which he did not cram. Poes humor, moreover, was a heavy lance, awkwardly and malicious- ly couched; Lowell holds his weapon with grace and courtesy, and has a sword of wit in reserve, should affairs grow serious. His faculty, of scholarly assimilation and repro- duction resembles Montaignes. What he thoroughly enjoys is work like his review of the Library of Old Authors. This paper opens with a talk upon books, pleasant as Lambs gossip and with latter-day thought and criticism beneath the winning style; then follow swift but searching etymological tests of early authors and modern editors, from which the latter come out with some loss of luster. Lowells idea of translation is free reproduction by a man of genius. He values Chapman, and declares that Keats, of all men, was the one to have translated Homer. One would like to see a translation from his own hand, say of Aristophanes: should the text halt, the commentary alone would repay us, and the freest versions by Lowell might be something more original than his origi- nals. His wit inclines him to condense pro- fessional truths in expressions that stick in the memory. The monograph on Spenser sparkles with clever, pointed sayings: Chau- cer had been in his grave one hundred and fifty years ere England had secreted choice material enough for the making of another great poet. Of ancient poetasters, it can- not be said that their works have perished because they were written in an obsolete dialect; for it is the poem that keeps the language alive, and not the language that buoys up the poem. * * * The com- plaints one sometimes hears of the neglect of our older literature are the regrets of arch~eologists rather than of critics. One does not need to advertise the squirrels (this sentence is like Landor) where the nut- trees are, nor could any amount of lectur- ing persuade them to spend their teeth on a JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 107 hollow nut. * * * Any verse that makes you and me foreigners is not only not great poetry, but no poetry at all. Speak- ing of Dunbars works, Whoso is national enough to like thistles may browse there to his hearts content. I am inclined for other pasture, having long ago satisfied myself by a good deal of dogged reading that every generation is sure of its own share of bores without borrowing from the past. And in Witchcraft he says that Sidney seems to have divined the fact that there is but one kind of English that is always appropriate and never obsolete, namely, the very best. With all this point and wisdom, he often can- not refrain from unleashing conceits that fly without stamping their imagery. In a single page he compares Chaucers style to a river and a precious vintage, and contrasts it with the froth of champagne and the folly of Milo. In relation to Shaksperes birth, we have astrology, vinous processes, and alembic projection, following upon one another as illustrations of the coming nativity. After- ward, while censuring language that is lit- erary, so that there is a gap between the speech of books and that of life, Mr. Lowell tells us that a mind in itself essentially orig- inal becomes in the use of such a medium of utterance unconsciously reminiscential and reflective, lunar and not solar, in expres- sion and even in thought! Passages of this sort not unnaturally move other critics, in their turn, to fling a de Ic fabula at the wnter. An author, in truth, should consider how largely the art of wnting consists in knowing what to leave in the inkstand. But Mr. Lowell is not unconscious of these things: he toys with licenses, as if to prove that, next to Chapman, he has the longest wind * * * without being long-winded, of all authors. Nor have we any writer whose ima- gery is oftener strong and exquisite: as in the description of a snowy winter landscape, or at the close of his Milton, or where, in Spenser, he glorifies the handiwork of the witch, Imagination. Lowells scrutiny is sure, and his tests are apt and instant. He is a detective to be dreaded by pretenders. He wastes no rever- ence upon traditional errors, but no man is more impatient of sham-reform, less afraid of odia, whether theological, scientific, or ~es- thetic. As a comparative critic, there are few so well served by memory and reading. In the essay on Milton he treats with novel discrimination the respective modes of Shak- spere, Milton, and Tasso. Writing of Words- worth, Swinburne, and others, he uses the comparative method to good purpose. No one is a better judge of what is original. Most things have been said more than once, and he knows by whom. His standard is the man- ner of saying. In the parliament of the present, he declares, every man represents a constituency of the past; and again, Writers who have no past are pretty sure of having no future; and It is the man behind the words that gives them value. He names Chaucer, Shakspere, Dryden, in evidence of the truth that It is not the find- ing of a thing, but the making something of it after it is found, that is of consequence. In his paper on Wordsworth, he draws a dis- tinction between originality and eccentricity which, I fear, will not soon become obsolete for want of cases in illustration. Striking points are frequent in his critical prose. It is Lowell who says, of Shakspere, that the manner of a first-class poet is incommunicable, and there- fore he never can found a school. His essay on Carlyle, undertaken at a time when few ventured to dispute the old Norsemans au- tocracy, is, on the whole, as just as it is inde- pendent; that on Lincoln could only have been written by one whose convictions rendered him prophetic. Lowells analogical gift is seen in his comparison of Lincoln to Henry IV.~ made before the Presidents assassination had completed the parallel. His declaration, in Spenser, of the qualities of voice that de- fine a man as a poet, is not to be gainsaid, and he also gives us a clever test of the worth of allegory,it must be that which the reader helps to make out of his own experience. It is true that his verdicts are not always such as we agree with, nor do they always agree among themselves. Being a poet, he is prone to express his immediate feeling without sub- mitting it to the principles that, in fact, gov- ern his final judgment. This imparts life to a writer, but subjects him to the charge of in- consistency, especially if it is not his habit to revise past work. Mr. Lowell scarcely does justice to Wordsworths imagination, though keenly alive to the bards puerilities and want of humor. His essay on Dryden, as a pres- entation of the man and poet, is the best of its length, and contains some of the writers finest apothegms; that on Pope is inferior, the critic being so out of personal liking for the figure-head of his youth, as to treat him not without fairness and discrimination, but I think inadequately. He possibly overrates Clough, as a signal representative of modern feeling, yet may be forgiven for this, as he knew and loved him, and was joined with him in the freemasonry of comrades and poets. He has touched very lightly, once and again, on Emerson, but with precision and truth. His analysis of Thoreau is sharply criticised as being narrow, but it did expose the defect- io8 JAMES R USSELL LOWELL. ive side of a unique character, and, all things considered, is the subtlest of his minor reviews. Mr. Lowell rightly holds the highest imag- ination to be, not so much that which gath- ers into the intense focus of passionate phrase, as the faculty that shapes and gives unity of design and balanced gravitation of parts. His work, as we have seen, at times displays the former kind, rather than the latter. It is in dwelling on special traits, with praise or censure, that he seems discursive. Thus, while his Shakspere Once More includes a mas- terly exposition of the dramatists style, it is fragmentaryeven more than need bein the special touches that follow. Other papers fall short in construction; they are not sus- tained upon the scales indicated at commence- ment. This lack of balance, I am sure, is due quite as much to circumstances as to the critics temperament, and largely to the limits of the periodicals for which he has written. His mind seizes upon a great theme, in mass and in detail, and he begins as if to cover it thoroughly. Lessing opens with a broad view of the German intellect and literature Chaucer with a survey of the Troubadour period; and the analogous introductions to Spenser, Dryden, Pope, are of the utmost value. But to complete an essay upon this plan a book must be written. We are none the less grateful for Lowells noble vestibules, even though we find them too large for the structures. Surplusage is a regal fault. We see that he can be an artist at will, though constantly setting the law of his nature above all laws. Some of the greater essays are both various and complete. That upon Dante is a superb example; one need not be a Dantean scholar to comprehend the scope and strength of this prolonged, cumulative, coherent anal- ysis of the Florentines careerfortified by citations, and enriched with a knowledge of Italian history, literature, atmosphere, at the close of the thirteenth century, such as few living men possess. Have I not indicated that the unfailing value of Mr. Lowells prose work consists in freedom and variety that are the true reflex of the man himself? His resources make him prodigal, and he has the brave impatience of a skilled performer who trusts his ear and is none too careful of the written score. We seem to have his first notes, and find them better than the revised drafts of other men. It is a fellow-feeling which leads him to say of Dryden, that one of the charms of his best writing is that everything seems struck off at a heat, as by a superior man in the best mood of his talk. This transfer of his own nature is delightful. He will be free, and his censors should rate his freedom at its worth, and not hold him too rigidly to conventional- ities which he understands, yet chooses to forego. Even the arrangement of his essays seems to be a chance one, but there is an art in the chance. He has given us a series of liter- ary monographs in which Americans may take just pride, for his genius has imparted new light and freshness to the greatest themes. To these he might add equally notable stud- ies of Cervantes, Moli~re, and Goethe. No living man could venture with less presump- tion to summon up once more the spirits of those masters. But already the wealth of his critical product is surprising. I think that a selection of apothegms and maxims could be made from it, which, for original thoughts and wise teaching of the authors art, would be worth more to the literary neophyte, and afford more satisfaction to veteran readers, than a digest of the English prose of any other writer since Landor in his prime. V. MR. LOWELLS prose diversions, so wide in range, could not have been made without some lapse of fealty to the Muse of Song. When, in i868, the volume Under the Wil- lows appeared, a note stated that the poems mostly had been written at intervals during many years. There is, none the less, an air of afternoon about them. They are the songs of a man who in truth has gelebt undgeliebet to revive the motto of his juvenile book and who has lived to love again. Their thought is subtler, their subjectivity that of one who reads the hearts of others in his own. The title-piece is a most refreshing stretch of pastoral verse. Here and elsewhere his sym- pathy with birds and trees continues, and much resembles Landors: But I in June am midway to believe A tree among my far progenitors, * * * * * * * And I have many a life-long leafy friend, Never estranged nor careful of my soul, That knows I hate the axe. The close recalls the very feeling of the Thalysia of Theocritus, yet escapes the parallel displayed in certain idyls of Tenny- son. The opening gives us a finer rhapsody of June, though less apt to catch the popular ear, than the one in Sir Launfal. No com- mon musician can touch so variously a well- worn theme. I do not read these later poems without remembering the moods to which Arthur Clough was subject, and which also affect the verse of another with whom his too brief life was associated. Auf Wiedersehen and its JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 109 Palinode delicate, brooding, dithyram- bicmight seem the work of either Clough or Matthew Arnold, and A Mood and The Fountain of Youth are quite in sym- pathy with that of the last-named poet. Mr. Arnold, like Lowell, delights in accidentals and in haunting measures, often admirably ren- dered. But I think few of his lines are both so sug