THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. VOL. XXXII. MAY, i886. No. i. AMERICAN COUNTRY DWELLINGS. I. LODGE OF CR AS. J. OSBORNE, ESQ., MAMARONECE, N. Y. DASSING from one I branch of our archi- tecture to another, we realize how many are the dangers which beset its~ path. Much of our ec- clesiastical work, as we have seen, has been fettered by the wish to follow inappropriate prec- edents; very many of our buildings for com- mercial use have been pauperized by com- plete indifference; aud for long our city dwellings were stereotyped and stunted in dull reiteration of some unintelligent de- sign. And now, in considering the domestic architecture of our smaller towns and our country places, we shall see still another tendency at work for evil the tendency to- ward ignorant, reckless originality. But the same fundamental sin has underlaid all these various superficial sins, and the reformation which now begins to show in each and every branch is due in each and all to the fact that we are repenting of this fundamental sin are beginning to feel the necessity for basing all our work on ralional foundations, for tak- ing as our guide intelligent, cultivated thought, not apathy or impulse, not mere vague artistic aspirations nor a merely formal adherence to the examples of some other age. It is not strange that in buildings our country homes we should have shown ourselves more original, more American than elsewhere. Here most of all have we been forced to meet or at least to deal with new and diverse requirements. Our climate and the habits of life it engenders, our social conditions and the variety of needs they create, our sites and surroundings, as well as our main material, wood all have been most unlike those of other nations. In no other architectural branch have we been thrown so largely upon our own resources; therefore in none was the development of some kind of originality so probable. And thus that native character which gives more general signs of its existence than are commonly perceived which some- what tinges all our work, however featureless or however imitative nowhere else reveals itself so clearly as in our country homes. No- where has its accen.t been so pronounced, and nowhere has its voice been broken by so few wholly alien~ notes. An inquiry into its vari- ous manifestations must begin with our very earliest products. Every one knows what were the first of all our country dwellings those old farm-houses, built by Dutch or English settlers, which still survive in many a quiet spot. Nothing could be more simple, more utilitarian, more with- out thought of architectural effectiveness. And yet such a farm-house is often extremely good in its own humble way good in its general proportions, and especially in the agreeable Copyright. i886, by THE CENTURy Co. All rights reserved. 4 and sometimes picturesque, yet simple and sensible, outlines of its roof. More decided in character, of course, are those colonial dwellings which soon were built for a highet than the farming class. Whether of Dutch or of English origin, a family likeness marks them all, for the English model itself had been influenced by Dutch ideas. Everywhere the details are classic, but in their choice and application many variations showed themselves as the years went on. Sometimes a very plain pattern has been followed, sometimes columns and pilasters give a more ambitious air. The open- ings are noxv rectangular and now round- arched, with fan-lights in their heads. The porches, and especially the doorways, are often charmingly designed and delicately carved. But here again, as with the farm-house, the roof is apt to be the best and most attractive feature. Truly good and very charming is the gambrel roof with its quaint and useful dor mers, and the hipped roof, which does not run to a peak but is stopped at a broad balustraded central platformas, for example, in the oft- illustrated Longfellow house at Cambridge. Hundreds of these colonial dwellings still stand all through New England and New York State and all along the Atlantic seaboard; and even when they are built of wood their charm is incontestable. Ofcourse we know that many of their features are not intrinsically appropriate to this material. Yet how much of the original excellence survives the unlawful translation from one material into another how much solidity and simplicity of effect, how much of the truly architectural merit of good outlines and beautiful proportions, how much of that expression of mingled dignity and re- finement, which is surely a pleasant expression for any dwelling to put on. In his sparse but intelligently applied detail, moreover, the colonial architect showed a truly artistic per- ception of the way in which the ornamenta HOUSE OF GEORGE E. FEARING, ESQ., NEWPORT, E. I. AMERICAN COUNTRY DWELLINGS. Al//ER JOAN COUNTRY DWELLINGS. 5 tion appropriate to stone should be altered when it came to be wrought in wood. And inside his structures he built such spacious, well-proportioned rooms, such comfortable or such stately stairways, and, once more, such simple yet pure and artistic decoration, that we cannot but respect his memory, cannot but rejoice in the legacy he has left us. Greek temples copied in wood and put to domestic uses (an innovation which Thomas Jefferson did very much to foster) were of course much less defensible were wholly in- defensible, in fact, since they showed not merely a translation from one material into another, but a radical and foolish transforma- tion of the structures very purpose. Yet even for these houses one is tempted to say a good word or two such a word as I have already tried to say for our public buildings and churches of like fashion. At least they are not vulgar, wild, and frivolous in effect, as have been our products so often since their day. But there came a time when the traditions of classicizing art died out, when our early The illegitimate employment of the word /iazza instead of veranda hardly deserves to he called, as it so often is called, an Americanism. According to an English glossary, piazza is very frequently and very ignorantly used to denote a walk under an arcade. But not only the ignorant have thus used it even in Eng- land; for I know of treatises on architecture, written nearly a century ago, wherein the cloisters of a convent are calledpiazzas. Be its illegitimacy as it may, bow- VOL. XXXJJ.~. forms and ideals were abandoned even by the most conservative, the most provincial. Imi- tative experiments of various kinds were tried at this time, as they have been tried at all subsequent times; but in general we re- nounced all outside help, all attempts at style of any sort, and fell back upon such native intelligence as we possessed. The re- sultant product was a mere plain, bald, clap- boarded box, surrounded with a wide piazza and arranged inside in the simplest and most obvious fashion, and, inside and out, wholly lacking decoration. The presence of the piazza, however, and of the Venetian blinds, and the total absence of anything else that possibly could be called a feature, of them- selves sufficed to make these houses distinc- tively American, thoroughly original in effect.* Beautiful they certainly were not; and yet when they were built the New England vil- lage put on the aspect which made its name proverbial for a neat, cheerful, pretty domes- ticity. This aspect, in truth, was not prima- rily architectural, but resulted chiefly from the ever, the term has in its present American sense all the warrant any term need have that of long, con- sistent, and exclusive use. The common term in the South is veranda, which is absolutely correct; and in the West, porch, which, again, is incorrect. But in the Northern and Eastern States one invariably says piazza, and therefore I should feel it to be sheer pedantry did I oblige myself to wrile a different word. HOUSE OF MAJOR BEN: PEELEY POORE, INOIAN HILL, MASS. 6 AMERICAN COUNTRY DWELLINGS. lack of all poverty, squalor, and unthrift, and from the wide spacing of the houses, which turned the village into a succession of green lawns, gay garden-plots, and broad grassy streets, over which the thick-set elms and ma- ples arched their vaults of verdure. And yet the houses themselves did contribute something to the pleasant picture. Their universal white paint, unbroken save by green blinds and gray shingled roofs, increased the air of cheerful- ness and purity, and was not discordant with the omnipresent foliage and with the bright blue of our sky. Then, although they had no architecture properly to be so called, though they were bald and bare and unsubstantial- looking when winter stripped off natures beauty, and were marred by the close, rigid lines of their clapboard covering, they gave a negative sort of satisfaction by their utter modesty and frank simplicity. They looked like the work of a people who could not do anything in the way of art, but who had at least the good sense to recognize the fact and to make no abortive efforts. And finally, the one real feature they did possess the long and xvide piazza was a most excellent invention, though an invention in a quite rudimentary stage as regarded artistic treatment. But it was not very long ere we began to be dissatisfied with such negative qualities as theseto ask for something more positive, which, we hoped of course, would be some- thing beautiful to the eye and satisfactory to the mind. And then our rural vernacular entered upon its would-be artistic stage. There have been critics of late years (not only in this country but in England also) to lay all the shortcomings of modern architec- ture upon the very existence of the profes- sional architect. They find the root of all evil in his undisputed supremacy, as having disinherited the naif artisan ; in his anti- ARCH AND SCREEN ON STAIRWAY IN HOUSE OF HENRY YILLARD, RSQ., DOBBS FERRY, N. Y. AMERICAN COUNTRY D WELLING S. 7 quarian study, as having led to a soulless eclecticism or a dogged attachment to some bygone style; in his self-conscious cultivation, as having killed all native impulse. In the great architectural ages, they say, architecture was a popular art, of which there were no theorizing, dogmatizing, controlling professors, but to which few men were wholly strange. It was merely a part and parcel of the worlds general work, practiced spontaneously and developed unconsciously with the general development of the people. And, as the future must always repeat the past again an as- sumption which I quote never, unless the box, and sprang from a truly popular desire to give this a beauty it too plainly lacked. There is plenty of literature relating to its development, but literature only of a certain kind, in the shape of curiously illiterate hand-books for the use of client and mechanic, filled with ready-made designs which are pro- lifically varied, and yet are alike from first to last in their general spirit and effect. The great number of such books Every Man his Own Architect may be given as their generic title goes far to prove the unpro- fessional, spontaneously popular nature of the movement; and the entire absence of all other same state of things can be brought about contemporary literature, theoretic or critical, with us, need we hope to see a living, char- is sufficient to complete the evidence. These actenstic, national, and therefore worthy architectural movement. In view of such theories, it may be instruc- tive to call attention to the fact that our country is the only one which in this age has known a development such as they approve. Our rural vernacular developed in igno- rance, not in knowledge; instinctively, not self-consciously; and it was wrought by the hand of artisans, and not of an educated archi- tectural profession. It took nothing from the earlier colonial work; it was based wholly on the wooden copy-books, assisted by the witness of our memory, show how we went to work to give our box more architecture. Intelligent thought was not the wind that filled our sails, nor w-as trained skill at the helm. A vague, igno- rant wish for something agreeable to the eye, a bold ignorant use of superficial, rapid, showy means toward getting itthese were the mov- ing, guiding powers. Client and mechanic worked harmoniously together, undisturbed by the professional architect with his inherited styles and methods and ideals, and his con- scious, definite aims. The simple artisan, VESTIBULE, ARCH, AND SCREEN IN ME. VILLARD S HOUSE. 8 AMERICAN COUNTRY DWELLINGS. whose advent we are told is so desirable, act- ually had for a time full sway. Nor ought our theorists to cavil at the fact that he was not the master mason but the boss carpenter; for should the artisan have been any other than a carpenter when wood was the material we chiefly used? This carpenter, then, worked as sponta- n eously, as untheoretically, as entirely after his own native lights, as carelessly of school tradi- tions, rules, and precedents, as is possible to a modern man. He did not invent all his feat- ures, but no man has done this since the very dawning of the art. He invented some, how- ever, and he borrowed just as his untutored taste saw fit, and adapted just as his untutored hand found most convenient. He twisted his square box into odd card-house shapes in a determined desire for picturesqueness ; or he left it square and, with a peculiarly bold and naif movement of appropriation, crowned it with that form of covering which Mansard had applied to the palaces of France. None too pleasing, it seems to me, even in its proper size and station, this so-called French roof was ludicrous indeed when set on top of our flimsy little wooden walls in a greatly dimin- ished but still all-too-massive form. It was supremely ludicrous and supremely ugly, yet no feature we have ever made our own has been more universally beloved. Then our customary white paint was deemed too simple or too un~sthetic, and all the tints of the diligent but tasteless modern man- ufacturer were essayed, either one by one or a dozen at a time. Scarlet and canary-yellow were not too bright, malarial greens were not too depressing for the experimental energy of the moment. One house would almost imitate a circus-tent, and the next would look like an emanation from the Dismal Swamp. Nor do I exaggerate when I say a dozen tints at a time. I have counted often, and once, for ex- ample, I counted nine colors in the body of a house, with several more in the Scotch-plaid pattern of its roof. And then we borrowed features here and there and everywhere to give them queer, abortive shapes in oursoft pine wood. Cornices, brack- ets, balustrades, and pediments of Renaissance lineage; turrets, pinnacles, finials, and gables which had once been Gothic all were now Americanized together, and were adorned with decoration that was chiefly, I should say, American in its first estate. And all the decoration took flat, shallow, mechanical, outline shapes, fitted for execution with the jig-saw and for application with the glue-pot. \Vith these delightful helpers, with the eccentric paint-brush, and with a clumsy turning-lathe and molding-plane all their colonial skill and grace forgotten our builder wrought FARM-HOUSE OF LYMAN C. JOSEPHS, ESQ., NEWPORT. AMERICAN COUNTRY DWELLINGS. 9 both his borrowed and his invented motives into structures unlike all else on earth besides, but with such a consistent, persistent family likeness among themselves, and such an iden- tity of feeling and effect running through all their varied items, that they reveal indeed a national style, all the more national since it was accepted with such national satis- faction. The rural vernacular was neither local in its birth nor local in the degree of unanimity with which it was adopted. It seems to have developed everywhere almost at once, and for a generation its authority was everywhere supreme. From the tiniest cottage to the most ambitious residence, from the suburban villa to the huge summer-resort hotel, from the village street to the Newport avenue, everything for a time spoke the same dialect, though, of course, with diversities in emphasis and elaboration. I do not say there was no dissent. The plain wooden box still survived; occasionally we had a would-be Gothic cottage or a pseudo-Swiss chalet; and when brick or stone was used a simple utili- tarian respectability was sometimes preserved, though perhaps the more common tendency was to overlay even these materials with showy decoration wrought in wood. Nor were in- stances wholly wanting when a much more positive, a distinctly artistic, excellence re- vealed itself. One such example we see in our illustration of Mr. Fearings house at Newport, which was built before the recent rise of our new school of domestic architecture, yet is still one of the most attractive among all its varied neighbors. But I am sorry to say that a Swiss and not a native artist must be credited with its virtues. If we count up, however, all the dissentient voices of every kind and value, we still find that they hardly weaken to a perceptible extent the unanimity of the vernacular chorns. Evidently we failed in this attempt to pro- duce architectural art, but not because we lacked for aspiration. The very extrav- agance of our misdeeds shows the eager- ness of the effort we had been making. Why was it so fruitless an effort? Must we con- clude that its outcome proves us wholly and hopelessly, then, now, and forever, without artistic aptitude? Or should we lay the whole blame on mere immaturity? Should we argue that failure in this early stage counts for little as proof or prophecy of any kind, hav- ing been but a youthful, temporary stumble on what was none the less the right path to follow? Or ought we to decide, on the other hand, that we failed because the path HOUSE OF MRS. MARY HEMERWAY, MANCHESTER, MASS. I0 AMERICAN CO JVTI? V D TVELLINGS. we followed was izot the right onebecause the ignorant, naff, popular way of attempt- ing architecture is intrinsically mistaken, is a way that will kill, not foster, such gifts as we may possess, that will prevent and not insure such progress as we may be capable of making? I think, in spite of the critics I have quoted, that the last explanation is the true one. Of course there was a period with many na- tions in the past when their builders were not learned, cultivated, theorizing when in- stinctive, untrained effort did such work as was done and conquered such steps as were gained. But these were primi/ive periods, when work of no kii~d was professional, when no knowledge was codified, and no effort was theorizing or self-conscious. Art in its earlier stages was then certainly brought out of ignorance, as were all the other treas- ures of civilized humanity. But we are not in a time or a condition when such births are in order. We are not a primitive people, but the heirs of all the ages; for surely the mere fact that we have crossed an ocean does not disin- herit us. It is as utterly foolish to talk of throw- ing away our legacy of art, and of beginning afresh with the intent to develop something American, as it would be to hold the same lan- guage with regard to science, industry, mor- als, manners, feelings, tasteswith regard to any other of those civil- ized necessities or senti- ments or requirements which are ours as much as Europes. All history proves this fact, if proof is needed. Every page and line of that long record which certain critics have so misread (for the mere delight, it would seem, of cham- pioning a paradox) proves, when rightly read, that no people ever deliberately threw away its artistic inheritance; and proves also and as a natural consequence, be it noted, that never, save in really primitive pcriods, was architecture pursued in a thought- less, untrained, popular way. There is no presence more clearly and constantly to be recognized all through the varied story, which begins in the gray Egyptian centuries and carries us over so many lands and ages, than the presence of him whom in the strictest sense of the word we must call the professional architect. Especially often has it been said that in the middle ages there were no architects nothing but a multitude of artisans who were consummately skilled in practical things, but who applied their skill unrefiectingly, instinctively; who labored much as bees labor at their honeycomb; who builded better than they knew; who built well, in fact, just because they did not know how well, did not see distinctly what they were aiming at, but were guided in some occult way by the spirit of the age. In- spired masons is the queer term that has been invented for them, and that is used as a HALL IN HOUSE OF SAMUEL TILTON, ESQ., NEWPOET. counter-term to the professional architects of modern days. How absurd such ideas seem when one knows what the medkeval styles really were perhaps the very last styles of all that could possibly have been wrought untheoretically by even the most inspired of artisans, could possibly have been developed without definite, conscious aim, were a people never II fessional architects, and were never called aught else. And if in other cases the architect ze;as something else as wellwas prince or monk, bishop, sculptor, master mason what does it matter? The educated, deliberating, theorizing mindthis is the thing in question. This always directed in all ages, though, of course, with varying degrees of knowledge and of skill, according as the general intel- so artistic; how absurd when one knows that their fundamental power and excellence lie, not in that decorative richness which strikes and holds the popular eye (and which was in truth largely the work of the subordi- nate artisan), but in their incorporation of the profoundest scientific knowledge, their logical following out of the strictest mathematical formuke, their realization of the highest and the subtilest artistic theories. And how foolish must seem the attempted elimination of the professional architect to those who have even a slight acquaintance with contemporary records. Scanty, mutilated, casual, confused, and superficial though those records are, there has been compiled from them an astonishingly long and unbroken list of men who were widely famous just for their theoretic knowledge of their art, men who were recognized as pro- lectual standard of one age varied from the general intellectual standard of another. This should have the credit of medfreval no less than of classic triumphs this, and not that mere blind, passive, multiple human tool, wielded by the spirit of the age, which certain critics have imagined as a fetich for their worship. Perhaps it may seem, as we look back where all things are blurred in a dim far perspective, as though the spirit of the age had done it all; and in truth it is a potent spirit, one upon which the architect is greatly dependent for help or hindrance, nay, for his own birth and nature and impul- sions; and it is often a naif, unconscious spirit. But all history showsand nowhere more plainly than in the very chapter which tells of medheval architecturethat it can never do great and lasting work save through AMERICAN COUNTRY DWELLINGS. DINING-ROOM IN MR. TILTONS HOUSE. 12 AMERICAN COUNTRY 19 WELLING S. the hands of specially qualified instruments, can never fully express its impulses save through the mouth of accredited high priests. And these instruments, these priests, can never themselves individually be blind, naif, and ig- norant in their efforts. They must know very well what they want to do, and must have learned very thoroughly all that their age can teach them with regard to the best way of doing it. Believe me, to manage rightly our inherit- ance of art, we must have as our executives those who really know and understand it. And we must manage it rightly, for we could not get rid of it if we would. It would not only be a folly to throw it awayit would be an actual impossibility. If it does not remain to help, it will remain to hinder; if not for inspi- ration, then for contamination. For look once more at our own unfortunate essay in inde- pendence. I have said that the artisan who developed our vernacular wrought as spontaneously, as instinctively, as is possible to a modern man. But this is just the point: no civilized modern man, how- ever ignorant, however self-reliant, however far removed from the sources of transmitted knowledge and the springs of transmitted influence, can ever hold himself quite outside the current, can ever be in a state even approaching to primitive ignorance, absolute simplicity, aboriginal inde- pendence, unsophisticated freshness of memory and thought and eye. Un- tutored effort meant with our artisan what it must always mean with mod- ern men merely a crude and in- sufficient, instead of a wise and suc- cessful method of inventing; and a haphazard, stupid, tasteless, instead of a skillful, law-abiding, artistic meth- od of adaptation. Dim and fragmen- tary as was our builders knowledge of precedent and architectural theory, it was still great enough to preclude the possibility of his beginning at a really independent starting-point and working out a new salvation for him- self. Nor could we, his clients, have suppressed our complex, imperious, practical necessities, our vague but strong and sophisticated expressional and artistic aspirations, and have waited while a slow, century-long de- velopment from some primitive start- ing-point went on. He knew too much, we knew and desired too much, for this. But for the other method for the sensible, scientific, and artistic use of the inherited materials which forced themselves upon us both he and we knew far too little. This is the truth the truth that mere common sense might teach, and that all history but illustrates: our contented ignorance is the scapegoat which should bear the burden of our failures. All history teaches this, I repeat once more; for if we are to judge the present by the past at all, we surely must be careful that the terms of the comparison correspond. And then it is not with the primitive commu- nities of old, but with the most highly complex and sophisticated communities that have ever been, that we shall compare our own. For what is the superficial fact that we are a new nation on a new soil to the fundamental fact that we are an old people with all the charac- teristics this term implies ? And the history of our prototypes proclaims, I say, that in- stead of blaming our architecture for being too professional, we should blame it for be- ing not by a thousand degrees professional enough should blame it in that its execu- tives, whatever they have called themselves, STAIRWAY AND WINDOW IN MN. TILTONS HOUSE. AffERICAN COUNTRY DWELLINGS. have too commonly lacked the knowledge, the training, the cultivated taste, and the edu- cated, refined common sense which in every great building age have been the corner-stones of effort and the inspiration of success.* It is possible that, even though we long follow the best path and strive in the best way, we may never have a really great building age in America; for its advent will depend in great part, of course, upon whether or no we are gifted with artistic aptitude. I wish only to insist that our results need not be taken as decisive upon this last point until we do follow the best path and strive in the best way; until we go to work, and long per- sist in working, as we confess we ought to work in every other department of human effortbuilding intelligently on a wide knowl- ~ The architecture of the rural Swiss is sometimes cited as an example of an appropriate and artistic prod- uct which must have heen developed unprofession- ally, and, therefore, as an example for our following. VOL. XXXII.3. edge of what has been done before, not think- ing a bastard modern primitiveness a desir- able foundation; systematizing our efforts, not wasting ourselves in crude experiments; keeping definite aims and ideals in view, not waiting lazily for the spirit of the age to speak through empty minds and untrained hands. If hitherto we have seemed to show little enough of artistic aptitude, let us take comfort from the confession that we have been very ignorant, and that we have had a very childish trust in the capabilities of ignorance. For, be it noted, not only in the branch which I have dwelt upon as the most conspicuous example, but in every other branch as well, the name of American architecture has been dis- graced by a multitude of works in which no ar- chitect ever had a hand. What should have been But there is no real analogy hetween the two cases nothing more than the very shadowy analogy which lies in the use of the same materials under totally dif- ferent social and temporal conditions. FIREPLAcE IN HOUSE OF HORACE WHITE, RSQ., ELBERON, N. J. 4 AMERICAN COUNTRY DWELLINGS. his task was confided too often to those who claimed his name without sufficient warrant, and as often to those who did not even dream of claiming it at all. Have we not seen how the builder wrought in our city homes when the speculator was his partner? Are we not well aware that he was often joined in a similar partnership with a very different client from the speculator with the most lavish and ambitious of owners? Do we not all know in our own home neighborhoods the builders factories and warehouses, his town halls and his public schools, his railway stations, even his churches? And can we say that their species is not still prolific? Now at last it has come into active competition with another and a better species. But that the fittest shall survive in this one special struggle for existence, depends almost entirely on you to whom I speak on the wide general public of future clients, on the patrons who in this art are so immensely potent a power. Cer- tainly, as compared with even a very recent period, this public has to-day a better appre- ciation of the importance of trained profes- sional skill in building. But such appreciation is still not distinct or strong enough; and it is by no means thorough enough. That is looked upon as a luxury for great occasions which is, in truth, a necessity for all occasions great and small, and which, under the right conditions, is an economy instead of an indul gence. I do not say that we could always have acted up to this belief even had we held it very firmly. When the local builder bore undisputed sway there certainly was not a trained and skillful architect languishing for want of patronage in every little village. Nor even when, in village or in city, one who believed himself to be such was given the helm, was he always able to steer a triumphant or so much as a safe and sensible course. Nor would I insinuate that builder and architect were always themselves to blame for not bet- ter deserving the higher title except in so far as they were contented with the lower. But I do say that their condition and ours was a great misfortune, a hopelessly ham- pering misfortune; not a necessary stage in progress, nor, still less, a fortunate chance which, had we only been a more artistic nation, we should have utilized toward the best possible results. And I do insist that it is the duty of our public as well as of our architects themselves to try to make our art ever more and more professional. But enough and more than enough of gen- eralities. It is quite time that I should prove my own arguments by the evidence of our most recent work in the branch with which at the moment we are specially concerned. For such proof can, I think, here be found. It is certainly not open to question that our best country homes and our average coun FIREPLACE iN HOUSE OF ISAAC BELL, ESQ., NEWPORT. AMERICAN CO UN7R Y DWELLINGS. 5 try homes of to-day are infinitely better than future paths, and most especially those which the best and the average of twenty or even of dealt with the new necessities of iron. He ten years ago. But it is just as little open to was so enthusiastic and versatile that every question that the professional architect branch of the art appealed to him even the now plays a much more important part in their then despised branch which includes country construction or, a gain, that this architect is homes. All this did good, I repeat, not only as becoming year by year more professional him- influencing other workers, but as raising the selfthat is, more widely differentiated from generally received opinion with regard to the mere artisan in quantity of knowledge, in the utility of an architect in architecture. But thoroughness and quality of training, in refine- in this last respect we are most of all indebted, ment of intelligence, in width of artistic hon- perhaps, to the force of character and witch- zon, in processes and theories and ideals. ingness of tongue that enabled Mr. Hunt to One name, I think, deserves to be men- tioned here with especial honor. It would be difficult to overestimate the good influence Mr. Richard Hunt has had both upon the profession itself and upon its status with the public. When he began to practice such an education and equipment as his were almost anomalous with us, while to-day (of course not by any means solely, but yet, I think, partly through his example) they are getting to be thought essential and getting to be not quite exceptional. He was so industrious a xvorker, moreover, that the sum of his results formed a very large lump of leaven a re- markably large lump, seeing that they were not all, like the results of too many others, patterned upon one shallow, monotonous scheme. He was so full of ideas that he ex- perimented very widely and diversely. Not all of his experiments, we may grant, were successful. But as they were based on knowl- edge, not ignorance, all were useful as sys- tematizing future efforts and marking out lay hold of the stolid, indifferent, obstinate, or timid client, and lead him whither he would have him go. I do not feel that in saying this I overstep the line which divides legitimate im- personal from illegitimate personal commen- tary; for, let it be in the other arts as it may, in the architects art personal force and per- suasiveness are essentially part and parcel of the required endowment. As I have said so often, this art depends upon direct, special, reiterated acts of patronage to a degree quite peculiar to itself; and as every new commis- sion differs from every other, an artists past record is not always taken indeed, cannot always be taken as a guarantee of future success. Therefore he who has not a modicum of personal persuasive power runs a great risk of being obliged to followthose whom he ought to lead. I do not say how it might be in an ideally artistic community; there, perhaps, all excellence would be self-evident to all in anticipation as in fact, and no discussion or persuasion necessary. But as communities LIBRARY IN HOUSE OF SAMUEL GRAY WARD, ESQ., LEROX, MASS. i6 AMERICAN CO UN7R Y DWELLINGS. stand to-day, that architect will be most ser- viceable to his clients, as well as to his art and to himself, who (other things being equal, I mean, of course) can persuade them most convincingly that he knows best. When Mr. Hunt began to practice this seemed a very strange proposition to the ears of the free and independent American citizen espe- cially when he was intent upon the structure of his own home. The fact that it now carries ~ How often do we still hear some house-father of the elder generation proclaim with child-like pride: II had no architect; the builder and I did it all or, more likely, I and the builder. And how inva- riably does the fact reveal itself in a very different way from that which he supposes! Perhaps this is as good a time as any to acknowledge the personal debt with it a sound much less of novelty and offense is largely due just to this one champion.* Of course Mr. Hunt was not the first to try to improve upon the vernacular type of country dwellingto try to put architectural coherence and something which might truth- fully be called design in the place of the fantastic and yet mechanical medley which prevailed. Doubtless he was not even the first to do this with real ability and radically right ideas to of gratitude I feel to Mr. Howells for having set be- fore my readers so delicately trenchant a dramatic picture of the difference between the old rgime and the new in matters architectural. Silas Lapham and his new house and his architect will, I am very sure, advocate my conclusions far more persuasively than all my own theoretic preachments. DININO.ROOM IN MR. wARnS HOUSE. AMERICAN CO UN77R Y DWELLINGS. 7 back the effort. But so far as I know he was the first who perceptibly stemmed the popular current, who started any conspicuous and permanent stream of improvement. His work differs in many ways from that which is most characteristic of to-day. And yet he should be ranked as the forerunneras what the Ger- mans call the road-breaker-----of the younger band who are doing such good service now. In the matter of interior treatment both as regards the nice provision for complicated practical needs, and as regards variety and beauty of architectural effect as well his in- novations were especially remarkable and salutary. When speaking in a former chapter of the gradual growth in beauty our domestic interiors have undergone, I remarked that it showed at first in the shape of mere extrinsic charmof upholsterers decoration, so to say and that we were satisfied for a time with this ere we bethought ourselves that intrinsic architectural charm might be still better worth the having. But Mr. Hunts houses should be noted as exceptions. His efforts after archi- tectural beauty began long before the decora- tive movement declared itself. For a long time the homes he built were much better in their main constructive features than in their decoration or their furniture, though at a much later day the rule was the reverse of this. Coming now to speak of our current work in this department, I find the task extremely difficult. In no other branch do controlling needs, desires, and opportunities vary so widely and perpetually; nowhere else are possibil- ities of excellence or failure so manifold in themselves or so dependent upon the differing characters of different sites. And this makes it peculiarly hard, of course, to select exam- ples these being necessarily few in number so that they shall be in any sense /y~ical examples. That is to say, a town hall which is successful in one small town might have been just as successful in a hundred others; the plan and fa~ade which are good for a narrow city lot might be just as good in Chicago or St. Louis as in New York or Bos- ton; but a country home that is admirable at Newport, for example, could hardly be re- peated at Mt. Desert or in the Catskills, not even to meet the same owners needs often could not be repeated on any other Newport site. It is peculiarly difficult, moreover, to describe even the individual excellence of any country home, for this excellence is not only individual to so exceptional a degree, but in this country is also, in the majority of cases, of a comparatively modest, unaccented kind; lies in the harmony of minor, detailed virtues; is not to be explained by the citation of con- FIREPLACE IN STUDIO OF H. H. RICHARDSON, RSQ., BROOKLINE, MASS. i8 AMERICAN C~UNTRY DWELLINGS. spicuous features, or characterized by reference to anything very pronounced in the way of style. The architectural virtues of a palace or a mansion are emphatic and describable, but the architectural virtues of a cottage are retiring and elusive are very apt to evaporate entirely from the words in which one tries to write them down. I must there- fore make it my chief aim to point out certain factors which, in spite of the endless diversity of our problems, nevertheless enter into almost all of them; and to note certain tendencies which, in spite of the varied character of our efforts, nevertheless may be said to character- ize those efforts as a whole. The examples I shall briefly note in illustration must not be accepted as being better than all others, but merely as being most familiar to my eyes. Indeed, their illustrative value depends to no small degree just upon the fact that I can say they are not better than all others. I have already hinted that when the Amer- ican architect labors in this branch he can get an unusually small amount of help from his foreign brethren. Continental excellence can- not be very useful to him, for the fundamental ideas which prevail in continental lands with regard to what country homes should be are radically different from those which prevail with us. The fundamental ideas which prevail in England, on the other hand, do strongly resemble ours. But our social conditions are so peculiar to ourselves, and our climate also, and our consequent habits of life, that even English teachings must be vastly modified in the application. Of course I do not mean to contradict everything I have written above to say that we do not need to use all possible learning, to incorporate many transmitted ideas and many borrowed motives, here as elsewhere in our art. I merely mean that here even more than elsewhere we should not, can- not copy should study the results of other lands and ages only as one studies literature, not as one studies grammar.~~ This fact has clearly proved itself within the last few years. An effort has been made to copy the domestic style which now rules in England, that so-called Queen Anne, which our grandchildren will call Queen Victoria, and it has proved the impossibility of direct imitation as distinctly as the ver- nacular had already proved the futility of thoughtless, ignorant originality. Fortunately we have not been as long in learning the sec- ond lesson as we were in learning the first. It is true that we cannot just yet say that it is thoroughly learned cannot say that our im- itative Queen Anne is yet extinct. But it is dying fast, I think, and to-day it does not in- clude those which we deem our most charac teristic, much less those which we deem our most successful efforts. But why is not the Queen Anne cottage, which in its best state at home has charmed the eye of many an American and thoroughly ful- filled his coi~ception of what a country home should bewhy is it not able, if transplanted to our own soil, to meet at least a certain class of needs? Try to live in one, and you will see. In the winter season you will have snow where the Englishman has rain, and will find his pictur- esquely complex roof a snow-trap, not a snow- shed. You will have far greater cold than he, and will need a plan that does not put too many difficulties in the way of warming from a common center. Winter and summer you will have sunshine of a strength he knows only in his dreams, and his house will very likely give you more windows than you want. And in summer you will have heat of a po- tency he would hate to know even in his dreams, and his house will most certainly not give you the thing you want most of all a piazza. And, again, you will very often wish to make a much more extensive use of wood than he ever makes in these modern days. Of course you may use your wood in place of his brick; you may modify his roofs, change his plan, alter his openings, and add your own piazza. If~ however, you do this with the in- tent to copy the effect of his house as nearly as you can, you will utterly spoil his creation and produce a bastard thing which will neither satisfy your eye nor wholly meet your needs. And this is just what has been done in a very great many cases. If, on the other hand, you make the necessary changes with intelligent thought and artistic feeling as your helpers, instead of with imitative effort as your fetter, the result will not be the Englishmans house at all, but something essentially different, essentially your own. And this too, let us rejoice to note, is done more often and more successfully year by year. From current English fashions we have certainly learned a great deal besides the mere fact that we cannot copy them; and we should be peculiarly grateful that our in- terest in them has led us to take an inter- est in genuine Queen Anne and Georgian workthat is, in the work so many exam- ples of which are to be found upon our own soil. Our colonial homes have of late been the objects of much earnest attention, and the fact is very fortunate. It would have been unfortunate, however, had not our architects approached them in a more sensible spirit than that which has swayed some of the crkics already quoted. For, after saying much in a vague way with regard to what ought not to be done in Amer AMERICAN COUNTRY DWELLINGS. ica, these advisers have given at least one bit of decided counsel with regard to what ought to be donehave declared that we ought to look back at our colonial examples and to reproduce them as faithfully as we can. These examples, they assert, are the only ex- amples at once American and good; and they are so very goodso charming, so char- acteristic, and so appropriate to our wants that we need not try to improve on them. If, however, we throw aside a very natural sentimentality which clings about the subject, and if we then compare our colonial homes not merely with their later rivals, the clap- boarded box and the vernacular villa, but with a sensible ideal of what the homes of to-day might be and should beif we do this, we find that our critics assertions hardly sustain themselves. We need not quarrel over the question whether the colonial house is American or not. In any strict sense, of course, it does not deserve the name; nothing does save the wigwam of the North and the pueblo of the South. Of course its patterns were all im- ported, and sometimes their treatment was very strictly imitative more strictly imita- tive, I should say, than the treatment of any of our later products whatsoever. But certain frequent features as, for instance, one or two sensible and charming modes of roofing may fairly be called original; and when the translation into wood occurred, that was cer- tainly American enough. Then our colonial work has stood longer than any dther, and is identified with whatever historic associations we can call our own; and it is all so analogous as to offer an instance of the flourishing on our soil of something that may be called a co- herent, comprehensible, all-pervading style. All these facts, together with its undeniable charm, certainly give it a strong hold upon our affections, and a priority of claim among the proper objects of our study. But the main question is not as to its Americanism, and is not as to its charm; the main question is, does it indeed wholly meet the needs of to-day, practically, expressionally, and artistically? Practically it does not. Its air is indeed as of a delightfully complete domesticity, but it by no means fulfills to the modern American mind the promise it holds out to the eye. In relation to the habits we have acquired during more than a century of rapidly changing existence, it is not one-half so livable as it looks. It provides only for the simplest, most unvaried and homogeneous domestic and so- cial customs, and only for housekeeping of what now seems a very primitive pattern. Whatever the pa/erfamilias might feel about it, neither the mater nor her executives could 19 live at their ease to-day or work at their best in an unmodified colonial interior. If they happen to dwell in an old one, there are sen- timental compensations which perhaps suffice. But when a new home is in question the case seems wholly different. And the alterations in plan and arrangement which are necessary to meet the change in main requirements, and to provide for a hundred subordinate new re- quirements, must be of such a character that the old exterior pattern cannot often be retained. For this pattern is certainly not flexible, elas- tic, given to indefinite extension and the indefinite multiplication of minor constructive features. The effect of quiet dignity which is its greatest charm depends very largely just upon its simple, unbroken outlines, and its broad, unbroken masses. And in thus deciding with regard to its practical sufficiency, have we not also decided with regard to the expressional and artistic sufficiency of the colonial home? Our more freely social, more lavish, more varied and complex ways of living cannot find full and truthful expression in any colonial pattern, nor our growing love of art full and lawful satisfaction. We still want to be dignified in our architectural voice, still to be refined, still to be quiet; but the dignity, the refinement, and the repose must be of a different char- acter from those which appropriately marked the dwellings of our ancestors. The simpler types among these are extremely puritanical; and I do not think the adjective fits ourselves. And the ornater types, even if they had not also much of the same accent, are the least well fitted for reproduction in our most usual material; for, excusable though the practice was a hundred years ago, it would be inex- cusable to-day to build Doric porticoes or to frame Ionic pilasters out of pine boards painted. In short, we may say of our colonial homes what we may say of the contemporary homes of England: our architects should study them, but cannot copy them. When to a cer- tain degree their features and their general effect have been reproduced, the result seems peculiarly pleasing and most appropriately American. (At least this is true of the Eastern States. It would not be so true, I think, of the Western which may be taken as proof in passing of how desirabilities vary in this department of our art.) But many extraneous features and many variations of old features and old modes of working must be introduced if the result is to be sensible and satisfactory. And for some of these the point of departure must be found in the vernacular. Incapable of self-development into anything good, it yet cannot be cut down root and branch; it must 20 AiVIERICAN CO UN?]? Y DWELLINGS. yield us certain buds of excellence for devel- opment along with other grafts. Its piazza, for example, absolutely imposes itself upon the conscience of every American architect. To develop it into a beautiful and constructive instead of an ugly, make-shift, superadded feature, and to bring it into perfect harmony with all his other features, many of which will have come from very different sources this is one of the most vital problems with which he has to deal; and also one of the most diffi- cult, and the one of all others which most emphatically forbids him to imitate any pre- vious product, most emphatically prescribes that if he builds good country houses for the Americans of to-day, they will be essentially unlike all others. But I have come to the utmost limits of a The lodge on Mr. Osbornes place at Mamaroneck, Major Poores house, and all the interiors except the studio were designed by Messrs. McKim, Mead & long chapter, and must postpone all further comment to another. The illustrations here- with given reveal something in the mean while with regard to our current efforts. I would only say once more that the revelation is of necessity imperfect; that no such illustrations can tell the whole truth as to form and pro- portion, much truth as to detail, or any truth as to color; and, especially, cannot speak distinctly as to that perfect adaptation of a house to its surroundings which is one of the most vital of all virtues. As our conditions run, it is sometimes a virtue very difficult of attainment. Nevertheless it is one which we are earnestly striving to attain, and already with a degree of success that goes far to prove there lie within us some latent sparks of true artistic aptitude. JL G. van Rensselaer. White; the studio and the lodge at North Easton by Mr. Richardson; Mrs. Hemenways house by Mr. Emer- son, and the Newport farm-house by Mr. C. S. Luce. LODGE OF FREOERICK L. AMES, ESQ., NORTH EASTON, MASS. THE MINISTERS CHARGE; OR, THE APPRENTICESHIP OF LEMUEL BARKER.* BY W. D. HOWELLS, Author of Venetian Life A Modern Instance, The Rise of Silas Lapham, etc. XI. ~~[HAT makes Lemuel such a gift, said VI Miss Vane, in a talk which she had with Sewell a month later, is that he is so supplementary. Do ~QU mean just in the supplementary sense of the term? Well, not in the fifth-wheel sense. I mean that he supplements us, all and singularif you will excuse the legal exactness. Oh, certainly, said Sewell; I should like even more exactness. Yes; but before I particularize I must express my general satisfaction in him as a man-body. I had no idea that man-bodies in a house were so perfectly admirable. Ive sometimes feared that we were not fully appreciated, said Sewell. Well? The house is another thing with a man- body in it. Ive often gone without little things I wanted, simply because I hated to make Sarah bring them, and because I hated still worse to go after them, knowing we were both weakly and tired. Now I deny myself nothing. I make Lemuel fetch and carry without remorse, from morning till night. I never knew it before, but the man-body seems never to be tired, or ill, or sleepy. Yes, said Sewell, that is often the idea of the woman-body. Im not sure that its correct. Oh, dont attack it! implored Miss Vane. You dont know what a blessing it is. Then, the man-body never complains, and I cant see that he expects anything more in an order than the clear understanding of it. He doesnt expect it to be accounted for in any way; the fact that you say you want a thing is enough. It is very strange. Then the moral support of the presence of a man-body is enormous. I now know that I have never slept soundly since I have kept house alone that I have never passed a night without hearing burglars or smelling fire. And now? And now I shouldnt mind a legion of burglars in the house; I shouldnt mind being burned in my bed every night. I feel that Lemuel is in charge, and that nothing can happen. Is he really so satisfactory? asked Sewell, exhaling a deep relief. He is, indeed, said Miss Vane. I couldnt exaggerate it. Well, well! Dont try. We are finite, after all, you know. Do you think it can last? I have thought of that, answered Miss Vane. I dont see why it shouldnt last. I have tried to believe that I did a foolish thing in coming to your rescue, but I cant see that I did. I dont see why it shouldnt last as long as Lemuel chooses. And he seems per- fectly contented with his lot. He doesnt seem to regard it as domestic service, but as domestication, and he patronizes our ineffi- ciency while he spares it. His common sense is extraordinary its exemplary; it almost makes one wish to have common sense one s self. They had now got pretty far from the original proposition, and Sewell returned to it with the question, Well, and how does he supplement you singularly? Ohi oh, yes! said Miss Vane. I could hardly tell you without going into too deep a study of character. Im rather fond of that, suggested the minister. Yes, and Ive no doubt we should all work very nicely into a sermon as illustrations; but I cant more than indicate the different cases. In the first place, Janes forgetfulness seems to be growing upon her, and since Lemuel came shes abandoned herself to ec- stasies of oblivion. Yes? Yes. Shes quite given over remember- ing anything, because she knows that he will remember everything. I see. And you? Well, you have sometimes thought I was a little rash. A little ? Did I think it was a little? Well, a good deal. But it was all nothing to what Ive been since Lemuel came. I used to keep some slight check upon myself for Sibyls sake; but I dont now. I know that Lemuel is there to temper, to delay, to modify Copyright, 1885, by W. D. Howells. All rights reserved. VOL. XXXIT.4.

THE MINISTERS CHARGE; OR, THE APPRENTICESHIP OF LEMUEL BARKER.* BY W. D. HOWELLS, Author of Venetian Life A Modern Instance, The Rise of Silas Lapham, etc. XI. ~~[HAT makes Lemuel such a gift, said VI Miss Vane, in a talk which she had with Sewell a month later, is that he is so supplementary. Do ~QU mean just in the supplementary sense of the term? Well, not in the fifth-wheel sense. I mean that he supplements us, all and singularif you will excuse the legal exactness. Oh, certainly, said Sewell; I should like even more exactness. Yes; but before I particularize I must express my general satisfaction in him as a man-body. I had no idea that man-bodies in a house were so perfectly admirable. Ive sometimes feared that we were not fully appreciated, said Sewell. Well? The house is another thing with a man- body in it. Ive often gone without little things I wanted, simply because I hated to make Sarah bring them, and because I hated still worse to go after them, knowing we were both weakly and tired. Now I deny myself nothing. I make Lemuel fetch and carry without remorse, from morning till night. I never knew it before, but the man-body seems never to be tired, or ill, or sleepy. Yes, said Sewell, that is often the idea of the woman-body. Im not sure that its correct. Oh, dont attack it! implored Miss Vane. You dont know what a blessing it is. Then, the man-body never complains, and I cant see that he expects anything more in an order than the clear understanding of it. He doesnt expect it to be accounted for in any way; the fact that you say you want a thing is enough. It is very strange. Then the moral support of the presence of a man-body is enormous. I now know that I have never slept soundly since I have kept house alone that I have never passed a night without hearing burglars or smelling fire. And now? And now I shouldnt mind a legion of burglars in the house; I shouldnt mind being burned in my bed every night. I feel that Lemuel is in charge, and that nothing can happen. Is he really so satisfactory? asked Sewell, exhaling a deep relief. He is, indeed, said Miss Vane. I couldnt exaggerate it. Well, well! Dont try. We are finite, after all, you know. Do you think it can last? I have thought of that, answered Miss Vane. I dont see why it shouldnt last. I have tried to believe that I did a foolish thing in coming to your rescue, but I cant see that I did. I dont see why it shouldnt last as long as Lemuel chooses. And he seems per- fectly contented with his lot. He doesnt seem to regard it as domestic service, but as domestication, and he patronizes our ineffi- ciency while he spares it. His common sense is extraordinary its exemplary; it almost makes one wish to have common sense one s self. They had now got pretty far from the original proposition, and Sewell returned to it with the question, Well, and how does he supplement you singularly? Ohi oh, yes! said Miss Vane. I could hardly tell you without going into too deep a study of character. Im rather fond of that, suggested the minister. Yes, and Ive no doubt we should all work very nicely into a sermon as illustrations; but I cant more than indicate the different cases. In the first place, Janes forgetfulness seems to be growing upon her, and since Lemuel came shes abandoned herself to ec- stasies of oblivion. Yes? Yes. Shes quite given over remember- ing anything, because she knows that he will remember everything. I see. And you? Well, you have sometimes thought I was a little rash. A little ? Did I think it was a little? Well, a good deal. But it was all nothing to what Ive been since Lemuel came. I used to keep some slight check upon myself for Sibyls sake; but I dont now. I know that Lemuel is there to temper, to delay, to modify Copyright, 1885, by W. D. Howells. All rights reserved. VOL. XXXIT.4. 22 the effect of every impulse, and so I am all impulse now. And Ive quite ceased to rule my temper. I know that Lemuel has self-control enough for all the tempers in the house, and so I feel perfectly calm in my wildest transports of fury. I understand, said Sewell. And does Sibyl permit herself a similar excess in her fancies and ambitions? Quite, said Miss Vane. I dont know that she consciously relies upon Lemuel to supplement her, any more than Jane does; but she must be unconsciously aware that no extravagance of hers can be dangerous while Lemuel is in the house. Unconsciously aware is good. She hasnt got tired of reforming him yet? I dont know. I sometimes think she wishes he had gone a little farther in crime. Then his reformation would be more obvious. Yes; I can appreciate that. Does she still look after his art and literature ? That phase has changed a little. She thinks now that he ought to be stimulated, if anything that he ought to read George Eliot. Shes put Middlemarch and Romola on his shelf. She says that he looks like Tito Malema. Sewell rose. Well, I dont see but what your supplement is a very demoralizing ele- ment. I shall never dare to tell Mrs. Sewell what youve said. Oh, she knows it, cried Miss Vane. Weve agreed that you will counteract any temptation that Lemuel may feel to abuse his advantages by the ferociously self-denying sermons you preach at him every Sunday. Do I preach at him? Do you notice it ? asked Sewell nervelessly. Notice it? laughed Miss Vane. I should think your whole congregation would notice it. You seem to look at nobody else. I know it! Since he began to come, I cant keep my eyes off him. I do deliver my sermons at him. I believe I write them at him! He has an eye of terrible and exacting truth. I feel myself on trial before him. He holds me up to a staimdard of sincerity that is killing me. Mrs. Sewell was bad enough; I was reasonably bad myself; but this! Couldnt you keep him away? Do you think its ex- actly decorous to let your man-servant occupy a seat in your family pew? How do you sup- pose it looks to the Supreme Being? Miss Vane was convulsed. I had precisely those misgivings! But Lemuel hadnt. He asked me what thenumber of ourpew was, and I hadnt the heart or else I hadnt the face to tell him he mustnt sit in it. How could I? Do you think its so very scandalous? I dont know, said Sewell. It may lead to great abuses. If we tacitly confess our- selves equal in the sight of God, how much better are we than the Roman Catholics? Miss Vane could not suffer these ironies to go on. He approves of your preaching. He has talked your sermons over with me. You oughtnt to complain. Oh, I dont! Do you think hes really softening a little toward me? Not personally, that I know, said Miss Vane. But he seems to regard you as a channel of the truth. I ought to be glad of so much, said Sewell. I confess that I hadnt supposed he was at all of our way of thinking. They preached a very appreciable orthodoxy at Willoughby Pastures. I dont know about that, said Miss Vane. I only know that he approves your theology, or your ethics. Ethics, I hope. Im sure theyre right. After a thoughtful moment the minister asked, Have you observed that they have softened him socially at allbroken up that terrible rigidity of attitude, that dismaying retentive- ness of speech? I know what you mean! cried Miss Vane, delightedly. I believe Lemuel is a little more supple, a little less like a granite bowlder in one of his meadows. But I cant say that hes glib yet. He isnt apparently going to say more than he thinks. I hope he thinks more than he says, sighed the minister. My interviews with Lemuel have left me not only exhausted but bruised, as if I had been hurling myself against a dead wall. Yes, I manage him better from the pulpit, and I certainly oughtnt to com- plain. I dont expect him to make any re- sponse, and I perceive that I am not quite so sore as after meeting him in private life. THAT evening Lemuel was helping to throng the platform of an overcrowded horse-car. It was Saturday night, and he was going to the provision man up toward the South End, whom Miss Vane was dealing with for the time being, in an economical recoil from her expensive Back Bay provision man, to order a forgotten essential of the Sundays supplies. He had already been at the grocers, and was carrying home three or four packages to save the cart from going a third time that day to Bolingbroke street, and he stepped down into the road, when two girls came squeezing their way out of the car. Well, Im glad, said one of them in a voice Lemuel knew at once, t theres one mans got the politeness to make a little grain o room for you. Thank you, sir ! she added, THE MINISTERS CHARGE; OR, THE APPRENTICESHIP OF LEMUEL BARKER. with more scorn for the others than gratitude for Lemuel. Youre a gentleman, anyway. The hardened offenders on the platform laughed, but Lemuel said simply, Youre quite welcome.~~ Why, lands sakes H shouted the girl. Well, if taint you. Stira! she exclaimed to her companion in utter admiration. Then she added to Lemuel, XVhy, I didnt spose but what youd a ben back home long ago. Well, I am glad. Ben in Boston ever since? Well, I want to know! The conductor had halted his car for the girls to get off; but, as he remarked with a vi- cious jerk at his bell-strap, he could not keep his car standing there while a woman was asking about the folks, and the horses started up and left Lemuel behind. Well, there! said Manda Grier. F I haint made you lose your car! I never see folks like some them conductors. Oh, I guess I can walk the rest of the way, said Lemuel, his face bright with a pleasure visible in the light of the lamp that brought out Statira Dudleys smiles and the forward thrust of Manda Griers whopper- jaw as they turned toward the pavement to- gether. Well, I guess f Ive spoke about you once, I have a hundred times, in the last six weeks. I always told Stira youd ben sure to turn up bfore this f youd ben in Boston all the time; n t I guessed youd got a disgust for the place, n t you wouldnt want to see it again for one while. Statira did not say anything. She walked on the other side of Manda Grier, who thrust her in the side from time to time with a lift of her elbow, in demand of sympathy and cor- roboration; but though she only spoke to an- swer yes or no, Lemuel could see that she was always smiling or else biting her lip to keep herself from it. He thought she looked about as pretty as anybody could, and that she was again very fashionably dressed. She had on a short dolman, and a pretty hat that shaded her forehead but fitted close round, and she wore long gloves that came up on her sleeves. She had a book from the library; she walked with a little bridling movement that he found very ladylike. Manda Grier tilted along be- tween them and her tongue ran and ran, so that Lemuel, xvhen they came to Miss Vanes provision mans, could hardly get in a word to say that he guessed he must stop there. Statira drifted on a few paces, but Manda Grier halted abruptly with him. Well, fyoure ever up our way we shd be much pleased to have you call, Mr. Barker, she said formally. I should be much pleased to do so, said Lemuel with equal state. 23 Taint but just a little ways round here on the Avenue, she added. Lemuel answered, I guess I know where it is. He did not mean it for anything of a joke, but both the girls laughed, and though she had been so silent before, Statira laughed the most. He could not help laughing either when Manda Grier said, I guess if you was likely to forget the number you could go round to the station and inquire. They got your ad- dress too. Manda Grier, you be still! said Statira. Stira said thats the way she knew you was from Willoughby Pastures. Her folks is from up that way, themselves. She says the minute she heard the name she knew it couldnt a ben you, whoever it was done it. Manda Grier! cried Statira again. I tell her she dont believe t any harm can come out the town o Willoughby, any- wheres. Manda! cried Statira. Lemuel was pleased, but he could not say a word. He could not look at Statira. Well, good-evening, said Amanda Grier. Well, good-evening, said Lemuel. Well, good-evening, said Statira. Well, good-evening, said Lemuel again. The next moment they were gone round the corner, and he was left standing before the provision mans, with his packages in his hand. It did not come to him till he had transacted his business within, and was on his way home, that he had been very impolite not to ask if he might not see them home. He did not know but he ought to go back and try to find them, and apologize for his rudeness, and yet he did not see how he could do that, either; he had no excuse for it; he was afraid it would seem queer, and make them laugh. Besides, he had those things for Miss Vane, and the cook wanted some of them at once. He could hardly get to sleep that night for thinking of his blunder, and at times he cowered under the bedclothes for shame. He decided that the only way for him to do was to keep out of their way after this, and if he ever met them anywhere, to pretend not to see them. The next morning he went to hear Mr. Sewell preach, as usual, but he found himself wandering far from the sermon, and asking or answering this or that in a talk with those girls that kept going on in his mind. The minister himself seemed to wander, and at times, when Lemuel forced a return to him, he thought he was boggling strangely. For the first time Mr. Sewells sermon, in his opinion, did not come to much. While his place in Miss Vanes household was 24 THE MINISTERS CHARGE; OR, still indefinitely ascertained, he had the whole of Sunday, and he always wrote home in the afternoon, or brought up the arrears of the jour- nal he had begun keeping; but the Sunday af- ternoon thatfollowed, he was too excited to stay in and write. He thought he would go and take a walk, and get away from the things that pestered him. He did not watch where he was going, and after awhile he turned a corner, and suddenly found himself in a long street, planted with shade-trees, and looking old- fashioned and fallen from a former dignity. He perceived that it could never have been fash- ionable, like Bolingbroke street or Beacon; the houses were narrow and their doors opened from little, cavernous arches let into the brick fronts, and they stood flush upon the pavement. The sidewalks were full of people, mostly girls walking up and down; at the corners young fellows lounged, and there were groups before the cigar stores and the fruit stalls, which were open. It was not very cold yet, and the children who swarmed upon the low door-steps were bareheaded and often summer-clad. The street was not nearly so well kept as the streets on the Back Bay that Lemuel was more used to, but he could see that it was not a rowdy street either. He looked up at a lamp on the first corner he came to, and read Pleasant Avenue on it; then he said that the witch was in it. He dramatized a scene of meeting those girls, and was very glib in it, and they were rather shy, and Miss Dudley kept behind Amanda Grier, who nudged her with her elbow when Lemuel said he had come round to see if any- body had robbed them of their books on the way home after he left them last night. But all the time, as he hurried along to the next corner, he looked fearfully to the right and left. Presently he began to steal guilty glances at the numbers of the houses. He said to himself that he would see what kind of a looking house they did live in, any way. It was only No. 900 odd when he began, and he could turn off if he wished long before he reached 1334. As he drew nearer he said he would just give a look at it, and then rush by. But 1334 was a house so much larger and nicer than he had expected that he stopped to collect his slow rustic thoughts, and de- cide whether she really lived there, or whether she had just given that number for a blind. He did not know why he should think that, though; she was dressed well enough to come out of any house. While he lingered before the house an old man with a cane in his hand and his mouth hanging open stopped and peered through his spectacles, whose glare he fixed upon Lemuel,~ till he began to feel himself a suspicious char- acter. The old man did not say anything, but stood faltering upon his stick and now and then gathering up his lower lip as if he were going to speak, but not speaking. Lemuel cleared his throat. Hmmn! Is this a boarding-house? I dont know, crowed the old man, in a high senile note. You want table-board or rooms? I dont want board at all, began Lemuel again. What? crowed the old man; and he put up his hand to his ear. People were beginning to put their heads out of the neighboring windows, and to walk slowly as they went by, so as to hear what he and the old man were saying. He could not run away now, and he went boldly up to the door of the large house and rang. A girl came, and he asked her, with a flushed face, if Miss Amanda Grier boarded there; somehow he could not bear to ask for Miss Dudley. Well, the girl said, she rooms here, as if that might be a different thing to Lemuel altogether. Oh! he said. Isshe in? Well, you can walk in, said the girl, and Ill see. She came back to ask, Who shall I say called? Mr. Barker, said Lemuel, and then glowed with shame because he had called himself Mister. The girl did not come back, but she hardly seemed gone before Manda Grier came into the room. He did not know whether she would speak to him, but she was as pleasant as could be, and said he must come right up to her and Stiras room. It was pretty high up, but he did not notice the stairs, Manda Grier kept talking so; and when he got to it, and Manda Grier dashed the door open, and told him to walk right in, he would not have known but he was in some- bodys sitting-room. A curtained alcove hid the bed, and the room was heated by a cheer- ful little kerosene stove; there were bright fold- ing carpet-chairs, and the lid of the wash-stand had a cloth on it that came down to the floor, and there wereplants inthe window. There was a mirror on the wall, framed in black walnut with gilt molding inside, and a family-group photograph in the same kind of frame, and two chromos, and a clock on a bracket. Statira seemed surprised to see him; the room was pretty warm, and her face was flushed. He said it was quite mild out, and she said, Was it? Then she ran and flung up the window, and said, Why, so it was, and that she had been in the house all day, and had not noticed the weather. She excused herself and the room for being THE APPRENTICESHIP OF LEMUEL BARKER. 25 in such a state; she said she was ashamed to be caught in such a looking dress, but they were not expecting company, and she did suppose Manda Grier would have given her time to put the room to rights a little. He could not understand why she said all this, for the whole room was clean, and Statira her- self was beautifully dressed in the same dress that she had worn the night before, or one just like it; and after she had put up the window, Manda Grier said, Stira Dudley, do you want to kill yourself? and ran and pulled aside the curtain in the corner, and took down the dolman from among other clothes that hung there, and threw it on Statiras shoulders, who looked as pretty as a pink in it. But she pretended to be too hot, and wanted to shrug it off; and Manda Grier called out, Mr. Barker! will you make her keep it on? and Lemuel sat dumb and motionless, but filled through with a sweet pleasure. He tried several times to ask them if they had been robbed on the way home last night, as he had done in the scene he had drama- tized; but he could not get out a word, except that it had been pretty warm all day. Statira said, I think its been a very warm fall, and Manda Grier said, I think the summers goin to spend the winter with us, and they all three laughed. XVhat speeches you do make, Manda Grier! said Statira. Well, anything better than Quaker meet- in, I say, retorted Manda Grier; and then they were all three silent, and Lemuel thought of his clothes, and how fashionably both of the girls were dressed. I guess, said Statira, itll be a pretty sickly winter, if it keeps along this way. They say a green Christmas makes a fat grave-yard. I guess youll see the snow fly long before Christmas, said Manda Grier, or Thanks- giving either. I guess so, too, said Lemuel, though be did not like to seem to take sides against Statira. She laughed as if it were a good joke, and said, Taint but about a fortnight now till Thanksgiving, anyway. If it comes a good fall of snow before Thanksgivin,wont you come round and give us asleigh-ride, Mr. Barker? asked Manda Grier. They all laughed at her audacity, and Lemuel said, Yes, he would; and she said, Well give you a piece of real Willoughby Center mince-pie, if you will. They all laughed again. Manda Grier! said Statira, in protest. Her folks sent her half a dozen last Thanksgivin, persisted Manda Grier. Al anda / pleaded Statira. Manda Grier sprang up and got Lemuel a folding-chair. You aint a bit comfortable in that stiff old thing, Mr. Barker. Lemuel declared that he was perfectly comfortable, but she would not be contented till he had changed, and then she said, Why dont you look after your company, Stira Dudley? I should think youd be ashamed. Lemuels face burned with happy shame, and Statira, who was as red as he was, stole a look at him, that seemed to say that there was no use trying to stop Manda Grier. But when she went on, I dont know but its the fashion to Willoughby Center, they both gave way again, and laughed more than ever, and Statira said, Well; Manda Grier, what do you spose Mr. Barkerll think? She tried to be sober, but the wild girl set her and Lemuel off laughing when she re- torted, Guess hell think what he did when he was brought up in court for highway robbery.~~ Manda Grier sat upright in her chair, and acted as if she had merely spoken about the weather. He knew that she was talking that way just to break the ice, and though he would have given anything to be able to sec- ond her, he could not. How you do carry on, Manda Grier, said Statira, as helpless as he was. Guess I got a pretty good load to carry! said Manda Grier. They all now began to find their tongues a little, and Statira told how one season when her mother took boarders she had gone over to the Pastures with a party of summer-folks on a straw-ride and picked blueberries. She said she never saw the berries as thick as they were there. Lemuel said he guessed he knew where the place was; but the fire had got into it last year, and there had not been a berry there this summer. Statira said, What a shame! She said there were some Barkers over East Willoughby way; and she confessed that when he said his name was Barker, and he was from Willoughby Pastures, that night in the station, she thought she should have gone through the floor. Then they talked a little about how they had both felt, but not very much, and they each took all the blame, and would not allow that the other was the least to blame. Statira said she had behaved like a perfect coot all the way through, and Lemuel said that he guessed he had been the coot, if there was any. I guess there was a pair of you, said Manda Grier; and at this association of them in Manda Griers condemnation, he could see that Statira was blushing, though she hid her face in her hands, for her ears were all red. He now rose and said he guessed he would 26 THE MINISTERS CHARGE; OR, have to be going; but when Manda Grier interposed and asked, Why, whats your hurry? he said he guessed he had not had any, and Statira laughed at the wit of this till it seemed to him she would perish. Well, then, you set right straight down again, said Manda Grier, with mock severity, as if he were an obstinate little boy; and he obeyed, though he wished that Statira had asked him to stay too. Why, the land sakes! exclaimed Manda Grier, have you been lettin him keep his hat all this while, Stira Dudley? You take it right away from him! And Statira rose, all smiling and blushing, and said: Will you let me take your hat, Mr. Barker? as if he had just come in, and made him feel as if she had pressed him to stay. She took it and went and laid it on a stand across the room, and Lemuel thought he had never seen a much more graceful person. She wore a full Breton skirt, which was gath- ered thickly at the hips, and swung loose and free as she stepped. When she came back and sat down, letting the back of one pretty hand fall into the palm of the other in her lap, it seemed to him impossible that such an elegant young lady should be tolerating a person dressed as he was. There ! began MandaGrier. Iguess Mr. Barker wont object a great deal to our going on, if it is Sunday. S kind of a Sunday game, anyways. You posed to games on Sunday? I dont know as I am, said Lemuel. Now, Manda Grier, dont you! pleaded Statira. Shall, too! persisted Manda. I guess if theres any harm in the key, there aint any harm in the Bible, and so it comes out even. Dyou ever try your fate with a key and a Bible? she asked Lemuel. I dont know as I did, he answered. Well, its real fun, n its curious how it comes out, oftentimes. Well, 1 dont spose theres anything in it, but it is curious. I guess we hadnt better, said Statira. I dont believe Mr. Barkerll care for it. Lemuel said he would like to see how it was done, anyway. Manda Grier took the key out of the door, and looked at it. That keyll cut the leaves all to pieces. Cant you find some other? suggested Statira. I dont know but maybe I could, said Manda Grier. You just wait ahalfa second. Before Lemuel knew what she was doing, she flew out of the door, and he could hear her flying down the stairs. Well, I must say! said Statira, and then neither she nor Lemuel said anything for a little while. At last she asked, That win- dow trouble you any? Lemuel said, Not at all, and he added, Perhaps its too cold for you? Oh, no, said the girl, I cant seem to get anything too cold for me. Im the greatest person for cold weather! Im real glad its comm winter. We had the greatest time, last winter, continued Statira, with those Eng- lish sparrows. Used to feed em crumbs, there on the window-sill, and it seemed as if they got to know we girls, and theyd hop right in- side, if youd let em. Used to make me feel kind of creepy to have em. They say its a sign of death to have a bird come into your room, and I was always for drivin em out, but Manda, she said she guessed the Lord didnt take the trouble to send birds round to every one, and if the rule didnt work one way it didnt work the other. You believe in signs? I dont know as I do, much. Mother likes to see the new moon over her right shoulder, pretty well, said Lemuel. Well, I declare, said Statira, thats just the way with my aunt. Now youre up here, she said, springing suddenly to her feet, I want you should see what a nice view we got from our window. Lemuel had it on his tongue to say that he hoped it was not going to be his last chance; he believed he would have said it if Manda Grier had been there; but now he only joined Statira at the window, and looked out. They had to stoop over, and get pretty close together, to see the things she wished to show him, and she kept shrugging her sack on, and once she touched him with her shoulder. He said yes to everything she asked him about the view, but he saw very little of it. He saw that her hair had a shade of gold in its brown, and that it curled in tight little rings where it was cut. on her neck, and that her skin was very white under it. When she touched him, that time, it made him feel very strange; and when she glanced at him out of her blue eyes, he did not know what he was doing. He did not laugh ashe did when Manda Grier was there. Statira said, Oh, excuse me! when she touched him, and he answered, Perfectly ex- cusable, but he said hardly anything else. He liked to hear her talk, and he watched the play of her lips as she spoke. Once her breath came across his cheek, when she turned quickly to see if he was looking where she was pointing. They sat down and talked, and all at once Statira exclaimed, Well! I should think Manda Grier was makin that key! Now, whatever happened, Lemuel was bound to say, I dont think shes been gone very long. Well, youre pretty patient, I must say, THE APPRENTICESHIP OF LEMUEL BARKER. 27 said Statira, and he did not know whether she was making fun of him or not. He tried to think of something to say, but could not. I hope shell fetch a lamp, too, when she comes, Statira went on, and now he saw that it was beginning to be a little darker. Perhaps that about the lamp was a hint for him to go; but he did not see exactly how he could go till Manda Grier came back; he felt that it would not be polite. Well, there! said Statira, as if she di- vined his feeling. I shall give Manda Grier a good talking-to. Im awfully afraid we re keeping you, Mr. Barker. Not at all, said Lemuel; Im afraid Im keeping you. Oh, not at all, said Statira. She became rather quieter, till Manda Grier came back. Manda Grier burst into the room, with a key in one hand and a lamp in the other. Well, I knew you twod be holdin Quakers ,, meetin. We haint at all! How dyou know we have? Have we, Mr. Barker? returned Statira, ii~~ simultaneous admission and denial. Well, if you want to know, I listened out- side the door, said Manda Grier, and you want sayin a word, either of you. I guess I got a key now thatll do, she added, set- ting down her lamp, and I borrowed an old Bible t I guess taint gon to hurt a great deal. I dont know as I want to play it much, said Statira. Well, I guess you got to, now, said Manda Grier, after all my trouble. Haint she, Mr. Barker? It flattered Lemuel through and through to be appealed to, but he could not say any- thing. Well, said Statira, if I got to, I got to. But you got to hold the Bible. You got to put the key in! cried Manda Grier. She sat holding the Bible open toward Statira. She offered to put the key in, and then she stopped. Well! Im great! Who are we going to find it for first? Oh, company first, said Manda Grier. You company, Mr. Barker? asked Sta- tira, looking at Lemuel over her shoulder. I hope not, said Lemuel, gallantly, at last. Well, I declare! said Statira. Quite one the family, said Manda Grier, and that made Statira say, Manda! and Lemuel blush to his hair. Well, anyway, continued Manda Grier, youre company enough to have your fate found first. Put in the key, Stira. No, I shant do it. Well, I shall, then! She took the key from Statira, and shut the book upon it at the Song of Solomon, and bound it tightly in with a ribbon. Lemuel watched breathlessly; he was not sure that he knew what kind of fate she meant, but he thought he knew, and it made his heart beat quick. Manda Grier had passed the ribbon through the ring of the key, which was left outside of the leaves, and now she took hold of the key with her two fore- fingers. You got to be careful not to touch the Bible with your fingers, she explained, or the charm wont work. Now Ill say over two verses, t where the keys put in, and Mr. Barker, you got to repeat the alphabet at the same time; and when it comes to the first letter of the right name, the Bible will drop out of my fingers, all I can do. Now, then! Set me as a seal on fume heart A, B, C, D, began Lemuel. Pshaw, now, Manda Grier, yo~ stop! pleaded Statira. You be still! Go on, Mr. Barker! As a seal uj5on thine arm , for love is as strong as death dont say the letters so fast/eal- ousy as cruet as the grave dont look at Stira; look at me ! the coals thereof are coals of fire youre sayin it too slow now which hat/i a most vehement fame. I declare, Stira Dudley, if you joggle me! Many wa- ters cannot quench love; neither can the foods drown ityou must put just so much time be- tween every letter; if you stop on every par- ticular one, it aint fair a man would give all the substance of his house for love you stop laughin, you two ! it would be utterly consumed. Well, there! Now we got to go it all over again, and my arms most broke now. I dont believe Mr. Barker wants to do it again, said Statira, looking demurely at him; but Lemuel protested that he did, and the game began again. This time the Bible began to shake at the letter D, and Statira cried out, Now, Manda Grier, youre making it, and Manda Grier laughed so that she could scarcely hold the book. Lemuel laughed too; but he kept on repeating the letters. At S the book fell to the floor, and Statira caught it up, and softly beat Manda Grier on the back with it. Oh, you mean thing! she cried out. You did it on purpose.~~ Manda Grier was almost choked with laughing. Do you know anybody of the name of Sarah, Mr. Bayker? she gasped, and then they all laughed together till Statira said, Well, I shall surely die! Now, Manda Grier, its your turn. And you see if I dont pay you up. I guess I aint afraid any, retorted Manda Grier. The bookll do what it pleases, in spite of you. 28 THE MINISTERS CHARGE; OR, They began again, Statira holding the book this time, and Lemuel repeating as before, and he went quite through the alphabet without any- thing happening. Well, I declare! said Sta- tira, looking grave. Lets try it over again. You may try, and you may try, and you may try,said Manda Grier. It wont do you any good. I haint got any fate in that line. Well, thats what were goin to find out, said Statira; but again the verses and alpha- bet were repeated without effect. Now you satisfied? asked Manda Grier. No, not yet. Begin again, Mr. Barker! He did so, and at the second letter the book dropped. Statira jumped up, and Manda Grier began to chase her round the room, to box her ears for her, she said. Lemuel sat looking on. He did not feel at all severe toward them, as he usually did toward girls that cut up; he did not feel that this was cutting up, in fact. Stop, stop 1 implored Statira, and Ill let you try it over again. No, its your turn now! No, I aint going to have any, said Sta- tira, folding her arms. You got to, said Manda Grier. The rest of us has, and now youve got to. Haint she got to, Mr. Barker? Yes, said Lemuel, delightedly; youve got to, Miss Dudley. Miss Dudley! repeated Manda Grier. How that does sound. I dont know as it sounds any worse than Mr. Barker, said Lemuel. Well, said Manda Grier, judicially, I shd think it was bout time they was both of em dropped. T any rate, I dont want you should call me Miss Grier Lemuel. Oh! cried Stira. Well, you are get- ting along, Manda Grier! Well, dont you let yourself be outdone, then, Stira. I guess Mr. Barkers good enough for me awhile yet, said Statira, and she hastened to add, The name, I mean, and at this they all laughed till Statira said, I shall certainly die! She suddenly recovered herself those girls seemed to do everything like lightning, Lemuel observed and said, No, I aint goin to have mine told at all. I dont like it. Seems kind of wicked. I ruther talk. I never could make it just right to act so with the Bible. Lemuel was pleased at that. Statira seemed prettier than ever in this mood of reverence. Well, dont talk too much when Im gone, said Manda Grier, and before anybody could stop her, she ran out of the room. But she put her head in again to say, Ill be back as soons I can take this key home. Lemuel did not know what to do. The thought of being alone with Statira again was full of rapture and terror. He was glad when she seized the door, and tried to keep Manda Grier. II guess I better be going, he said. You shant go till I get back, anyway, said Manda Grier hospitably. You keep him, Stira! She gave Statira a little push, and ran down the stairs. Statira tottered against Lemuel, with that round, soft shoulder which had touched him before. He put out his arms to save her from falling, and they seemed to close round her of themselves. She threw up her face, and in a moment he had kissed her. He released her and fell back from her aghast. She looked at him. I I didnt mean to, he panted. His heart was thundering in his ears. She put up her hands to her face, and be- gan to cry. Oh, my goodness ! he gasped. He wav- ered a moment, then he ran out of the room. On the stairs he met Manda Grier coming up. Now, Mr. Barker, youre real mean to go! she pouted. I guess I better be going, Lemuel called back, in a voice so husky that he hardly knew it for his own. XII. LEMUEL let himself into Miss Vanes house with his key to the back gate, and sat down, still throbbing, in his room over the L, and tried to get the nature of his deed, or misdeed, before his mind. He had grown up to man- hood in an austere reverence for himself as regarded the other sex, and in a secret fear, as exacting for them as it was worshipful, of women. His mother had held all show of love-sickness between young people in scorn; she said they were silly things, when she saw them soft upon one another; and Lemuel had imbibed from her a sense of uhlawfulness, of shame, in the love-making he had seen around him all his life. These things are very open in the country. Even in large villages they have kissing-games at the childrens par- ties, in the church vestries and refectories; and as a little boy Lemuel had taken part in such games. But as he grew older, his reverence and his fear would not let him touch a girl. Once a big girl, much older than he, came up behind him in the play-ground and kissed him; he rubbed the kiss off with his hand, and scoured the place with sand and gravel. One winter all the big boys and girls at school began courting whenever the teacher was out of sight a moment; at the noon-spell, some THE APPRENTICESHIP OF LEMUEL BARKER. 29 of them sat with their arms round one another. Lemuel wandered off by himself in the snows of the deep woods; the sight of such things, the thought of them, put him to shame for those fools, as he tacitly called them; and now what had he done himself? He could not tell. At times he was even proud and glad of it; and then he did not know what would be- come of him. Butmostlyit seemed to him that he had been guilty of an enormity that nothing could ever excuse. He must have been crazy to do such a thing to a young lady like that; her tear-stained face looked her wonder at him still. By this time she had told Manda Grier all about it; and he dared not think what their thoughts of him must be. It seemed to him that he ought to put such a monster as he was out of the world. But all the time there was a sweetness, a joy in his h,eart, that made him half frantic with fear of himself. Lemuel! He started up at the sound of Sibyl Vanes voice calling to him from the dining-room which opened into the L. Yes, maam, he answered tremulously, going to his door. Miss Vane had been obliged to instruct him to say maam to her niece, whom he had at first spoken of by her Christian name. Was that you came in a little while ago? Yes, maam, I came ~ Oh! And have you had your supper? II guess I dont want any supper. Dont want any supper? You will be ill. Why dont you? I dont know as I feel just like eating anything. Well, it wont do. Will you see, please, if Jane is in the kitchen ? Lemuel came forward, full of his unfitness for the sight of men, but gathering a little courage when he found the dining-room so dark. He descended to the basement and opened the door of the kitchen, looked in, and shut it again. Yes, maam, shes there. Oh ! Sibyl seemed to hesitate. Then she said: Light the gas down there, hadnt you better? I dont know but I had, Lemuel assented. But before he could obey, And Lemuel! she called down again, come and light it up here too, please. I will, as soon as Ive lit it here, said Lemuel. An imperious order came back. You will light it here now, please. All right, assented Lemuel. When he appeared in the upper entry and flashed the gas up, he saw Sibyl standing at the reception- room door, with her finger closed into a book which she had been reading. Youre not to say that you will do one thing when youre told to do another. Lemuel whitened a little round the lips. Im not to do two things at once, either, I suppose. Sibyl ignored this reply. Please go and get your supper, and when youve had it come up here again. Ive some things for you to do. Ill do them now, said Lemuel fiercely. I dont want any supper, and I shant eat any. Why, Lemuel, what is the matter with you? asked the girl, in the sudden effect of motherly solicitude. You look very strange, you seem so excited. Im not hungry, thats all, said the boy doggedly. What is it you want done? Wont you please go up to the third floor, said Sibyl, in a phase of timorous dependence, and see if everything is right there? I thought I heard a noise. See if the windows are fast, wont you? Lemuel turned, and she followed with her finger in her book, and her book pressed to her heart, talking. It seemed to me that I heard steps and voices. Jts very mysterious. I suppose any one could plant a ladder on the roof of the L part, and get into the windows if they were not fastened. Have to be a pretty long ladder, grumbled Lemuel. Yes, Sibyl assented, it would. And it didnt sound exactly like burglars. She followed him half-way up the second flight of stairs, and stood there while he ex- plored the third story throughout. There aint anything there, he reported without looking at her, and was about to pass her on the stairs in going down. Oh, thank you very much, Lemuel, she said, with fervent gratitude in her voice. She fetched a tremulous sigh. I suppose it was nothing. Yes, she added hoarsely, it must have been nothing. Oh, let me go down first l she cried, putting out her hand to stop him from passing her. She resumed when they reached the ground floor again. Aunty has gone out, and Jane was in the kitchen, and it began to grow dark while I sat reading in the drawing-room, and all at once I heard the strangest noise. Her voice dropped deeply on the last word. Yes, it was very strange, indeed! Thank you, Lemuel, she concluded. Quite welcome, said Lemuel dryly, push- ing on towards the basement stairs. Oh! And Lemuel! will you let Jane give you your supper in the dining-room, so that you could be here if I heard anything else? I dont want any supper, said Lemuel. The girl scrutinized him with an expression of misgiving. Then, with a little sigh, as of 30 THE MINISTERS CHARGE, OR, one who will not explore a painful mystery, she asked: Would you mind sitting in the dining-room, then, till aunty gets back? Id just as lives sit there, said Lemuel, walking into the dark dining-room and sitting down. Oh, thank you very much. Aunty will be back very soon, I suppose. Shes just gone to the Sewells to tea. She followed him to the threshold. You must I must light the gas in here, for you.~~ Guess I can light the gas, said Lemuel, getting up to intercept her in this service. She had run into the reception-room for a match, and she would not suffer him to prevent her. No, no! I insist! And Lemuel, she said, turning upon him, I must ask you to excuse my speaking harshly to you. I was agitated. Perfectly excusable, said Lemuel. I am afraid, said the girl, fixing him with her eyes, that you are not well. Oh, yes, Im well. Im pretty tired; thats all. Have you been walking far? Yes not very.~~ The walking ought to do you good, said Sibyl with serious thoughtfulness. I think, she continued, you had better have some bryonia. Dont you think you had? No, no! I dont want anything, protested Lemuel. She looked at him with a feeling of baffled anxiety painted on her face; and as she turned away, she beamed with a fresh inspiration. I will get you a book. She flew into the reception-room and back again, but she only had the book that she had herself been reading. Perhaps you would like to read this? Ive finishedit. I wasjust lookingbackthrough it. Thank you; I guess I dont want to read any, just now. She leaned against the side of the dining- table, beyond which Lemuel sat, and searched his fallen countenance with a glance contrived to be at once piercing and reproachful. I see, she said, you have not forgiven me Forgiven you ? repeated Lemuelblankly. Yes for giving way to my agitation in speaking to you.~~ I dont know, said Lemuel, with a sigh of deep inward trouble, as I noticed anything. I told you to light the gas in the base- ment, suggested Sibyl, and then I told you to light it up here, and then I scolded you. Oh, yes, admitted Lemuel: that. He dropped his head again. Sibyl sank upon the edge of a chair. Lem- uel! you have something on your mind! The boy looked up with a startled face. Yes! I can see that you have, pursued Sibyl. What have you been doing? she demanded sternly. Lemuel was so full of the truth that it came first to his lips in all cases. He could scarcely force it aside now with the evasion that availed him nothing. I dont know as Ive been do- ing anything in particular. I see that you dont wish to tell me! cried the girl. But you might have trusted me. I would have defended you, no matter what you had done the worse the better. Lemuel hung his head without answering. After a while she continued: If I had been that girl who had you arrested, and I had been the cause of so much suffering to an innocent person, I should never have for- given myself. I should have devoted my life to expiation. I should have spent my life in going about the prisons, and finding out per- sons who were unjustly accused. I should have done it as a penance. Yes! even if he had been guilty ! Lemuel remained insensible to this extreme of self-sacrifice, and she went on: This book it is a story is all one picture of such a nature. There is a girl whos been brought up as the ward of a young man. He educates her, and she expects to be his wife, and he turns out to be perfectly false and unworthy in every way; but she marries him all the same, although she likes some one else, because she feels that she ought to punish herself for think- ing of another, and because she hopes that she will die soon, and when her guardian finds out what shes done for him, it will re- form him. Its perfectly sublime. Its en- nobling! If every one could read this book, they would be very different. I dont see much sense in it, said Lem- uel, goaded to this comment. You would if you read it. When she dies she is killed by a fall from her horse in hunt- ing, and has just time to join the hands of her husband and the man she liked first, and tell them everything it is wrought up so that you hold your breath. I suppose it was reading that that made me think there were burglars getting in. But perhaps youre right not to read it now, if youre excited already. Ill get you something cheerful. She whirled out of the room and back in a series of those swift, nervous movements peculiar t~o her. There! that will amuse you, I know. She put the book down on the table before Lem uel, who silently submitted to have it left there. It will distract your thoughts, if anything will. And I shall ask you to let me sit just here in the reception-room, so that I can call you if I feel alarmed. All right, said Lemuel, lapsing absently to his own troubled thoughts. THE APPRENTIcESHIP OF LEMUEL BARKER. Thank you very much, said Sibyl. She went away, and came back directly. Dont you think, she asked, that its very strange you should never have seen or heard anything of her? Heard of who? he asked, dragging him- self painfully up from the depths of his thoughts. That heartless girl who had you arrested. She wasnt heartless 1 retorted Lemuel indignantly. You think so because you are generous, and cant imagine such heartlessness. Per- haps, added Sibyl, with the air of being il- lumined by a happy thought, she is dead. That would account for everything. She may have died of remorse. It probably preyed upon her till she couldnt bear it any longer, and then she killed herself. Lemuel began to grow red at the first ap- prehension of her meaning. As she went on, he changed color more and more. She is alive! cried Sibyl. Shes alive, and you have seen her! You neednt deny it! Youve seen her to-day! Lemu~ rose in clumsy indignation. I dont know as anybodys got any right to say what Ive done, or havent done. Oh, Lemuel! cried Sibyl. Do you think any one in this house would intrude in your affairs? But if you need a friend a sister I dont need any sister. I want you should let me alone. At these words, so little appreciative of her condescension, her romantic beneficence, her unselfish interest, Sibyl suddenly rebounded to her former level, which she was sensible was far above that of this unworthy object of her kind- ness. She rose from her chair, and pursued: If you need a friend a sister Im sure that you can safely confide inthe cook. She looked at him a moment, and broke into a malicious laugh very unlike that of a social reformer, which rang shriller at the bovine fury which mounted to Lemuels eyes. The rattle of a night-latch made itself heard in the outer door. Sibyls voice began to break, as it rose: I never expected to be treated in my own aunts house with such perfect ingrat- itude and impudenceyes, impudence Iby one of her servants! She swept out of the room, and her aunt, who entered it, after calling to her in vain, stood with Lemuel, and heard her mount the stairs, sob- bing, to her own room, and lock herself in. What is the matter, Lemuel? asked Miss Vane, breathing quickly. She looked at him with the air of a judge who would not con- demn him unheard, but would certainly do so after hearing him. Whether it was Lemuels per- ception of this that kept him silent, or his con- 3 fusion of spirit from all the late rapidly succes- sive events, or a wish not to inculpate the girl who had insulted him, he remained silent. Answer me! said Miss Vane sharply. Lemuel cleared his throat. I dont know as Ive got anything to say, he answered finally. But I insist upon your saying something, said Miss Vane. What is this impildence 7 There hasnt been any impudence, replied Lemuel, hanging his head. Very well, then, you can tell me what Sibyl means, persisted Miss Vane. Lemuel seemed to reflect upon it. No, I cant tell you, he said at last, slowly and gently. You refuse to make any explanation what- ever? Yes. Miss Vane rose from the chair which she had mechanically sunk into while waiting for him to speak, and ceased to be the kindly, generous soul she was, in asserting herself as a gentlewoman who had a contumacious ser- vant to treat with. You will wait here a moment, please. All right, said Lemuel. She had asked him not to receive instructions from her with that particular answer, but he could not al- ways remember. She went upstairs, and returned with some bank-notes that rustled in her trembling hand. it is two months since you came, and Ive paid you one month, she said, and she set her lips, and tried to govern her head, which nevertheless shook with the vehemence she was struggling to repress. She laid two ten- dollar notes upon the table, and then added a five, a little apart. This second month was to be twenty instead often. I shall not want you any longer, and should be glad to have you go nowat onceto-night! But I had intended to offer you a little present at Christ- mas, and I will give it you now. Lemuel took up the two ten-dollar notes without saying anything, and then after a moment laid one of them down. Its only half a month, he said. I dont want to be paid for any more than Ive done. Lemuel! cried Miss Vane. I insist upon your taking it. I employed you by the month. It dont make any difference about that; Ive only been here a month and a half. He folded the notes, and turned to go out of the room. Miss Vane caught the five-dollar note from the table and intercepted him with it. Well, then, you shall take it as a present. I dont want any present, said Lemuel, patiently waiting her pleasure to release him, but keeping his hands in his pockets. You would have taken it at Christmas, said Miss Vane. You shall take it now. 32 THE MINISTERS CHARGE; OR, I shouldnt take a present any time, re- turned Lemuel steadily. You are a foolish boy! cried Miss Vane. You need it, and I tell you to take it. He made no reply whatever. You are behaving very stubbornly un- gratefully, said Miss Vane. Lemuel lifted his head; his lip quivered a little. I dont think youve got any right to say Im ungrateful. I dont mean ungrateful, said Miss Vane. I mean unkind very silly, indeed. And I wish you to take this money. You are behav- ing resentfully wickedly. I am much older than you, and I tell you that you are not be- having rightly. Why dont you do what I wish ? I dont want any money I havent earned. I dont mean the money. Why dont you tell me the meaning of what I heard? My niece said you had been impudent to her. Perhaps she didnt understand. She looked wistfully into the boys face. After a long time he said, I dont know as Ive got anything to say about it. Very well, then, you may go, said Miss Vane, with all her hauteur. Well, good-evening, said Lemuel pas- sively, but the eyes that he looked at her with were moist, and conveyed a pathetic reproach. To her unmeasured astonishment,he offered her his hand; her amaze was even greater more infinite, as she afterwards told Sewell when she found herself shaking it. He went out of the room, and she heard him walking about in his room in the L, put- ting together his few belongings. Then she heard him go down and open the furnace- door, and she knew he was giving a final conscientious look at the fire. He closed it, and she heard him close the basement door behind him, and knew that he was gone. She explored the L, and then she descended to the basement and mechanically looked it over. Everything that could be counted hers by the most fastidious sense of property had been left behind him in the utmost neatness. On their accustomed nail, just inside the fur- nace-room, hung the blue overalls. They looked like a suicidal Lemuel hanging there. Miss Vane went upstairs slowly, with a heavy heart. Under the hall light stood Sibyl, picturesque in the deep shadow it flung upon hex~ face. Aunt Hope, she began in a tragic voice. Dont speak to me, you wicked girl! cried her aunt, venting her self-reproach upon this victim. It is your doing. Sibyl turned with the meekness of an osten- tatious scape-goat unjustly bearing the sins of her tribe, and went upstairs into the wilder- ness of her own thoughts again. XIII. THE sense of outrage with which Lemuel was boiling when Miss Vane came in upon Sibyl and himself had wholly passed away, and he now saw his dismissal, unjust as be- tween that girl and.him, unimpeachably right- eous as between him and the moral frame of things. If he had been punished for being ready to take advantage of that fellows ne- cessity, and charge him fifty cents for chang- ing ten dollars, he must now be no less obviously suffering for having abused that young ladys trust and defenselessness; only he was not suffering one-tenth as much. When he recurred to that wrong, in fact, and tried to feel sorry for it and ashamed, his heart thrilled in a curious way; he found him- self smiling and exulting, and Miss Vane and her niece went out of his mind, and he could not think of anything but of being with that girl, of hearing her talk and laugh, of touch- ing her. He sighed; he did not know what his mother would say if she knew; he did not know where he was going; it seeme~i a hun- dred years since the beginning of the after- noon. A horse-car came by, and Lemuel stopped it. He set his bag down on the platform, and stood there near the conductor, without trying to go inside, for the bag was pretty large, and he did not believe the conductor would let him take it in. The conductor said politely after a while, See, d I get your fare? No, said Lemuel. He paid, and the con- ductor went inside and collected the other fares. When he came back he took advantage of Lemuels continued presence to have a little chat. He was a short, plump, stubby-mus- tached man, and he looked strong and well, but he said, with an introductory sigh, Well, sir, I get sore all over at this business. There aint a bone in me that haint got an ache in it. Sometimes I cant tell but what its the ache got a bone in it, ache seems the biggest. Why, what makes it? asked Lemuel, absently. Oh, its this standin; its the hours, and changin the hours so much. You haint got a chance to get used to one set o hours be- fore they get em all shifted round again. Last week I was on from eight to eight; this week its from twelve to twelve. Lord knOws what its going to be next week. And this is one o the best lines in town, too. I presume they pay you pretty well, said Lemuel, with awakening interest. Well, they pay a dollar n half a day, said the conductor. THE APPRENTICESHIP OF LEA/C/EL BARKER. 33 Why, its more than forty dollars a month, said Lemuel. Well, it is, said the conductor scornfully, if you work every day in the week. But I cant stand it more than six days out o seven; and if you miss a day, or if you miss a trip, tthey dock you. No, sir. Its about the mean- ~st business I ever struck. If I want a mar- ried man, n if I didnt like to be regular about my meals and get em at home th my wife, I wouldnt stand it a minute. But thats where it is. Its regular. A lady from within signaled the conductor. He stopped the car, and the lady, who had risen with her escort, remained chatting with a friend before she got out. The conductor snapped his bell for starting, with a look of patient sarcasm. See that? he asked Lemuel. Some these women act as if the cars was their private carriage; and you got to act so too, or the lady complains of you, and the company bounces you in a minute. Stocks owned along the line, and they think they own you too. You cant get em to set more than ten on a side; theyll leave the car first. Id like to catch em on some the South End or Cambridge cars; Id show em how to pack live stock once, anyway. Yes, sir, these ladies that ride on this line think they can keep the car standin while they talk about the opera. But youd ought to see how they all look if a poor woman tries their little game. Oh, I tell you, rich people are hard. Lemuel reflected upon the generalization. He regarded Miss Vane as a rich person; but though she had blamed him unjustly, and had used him impatiently, even cruelly, in this last affair, he remembered other things, and he said: Well, I dont know as I should say all of them were hard. Well, maybe not, admitted the conductor. But I dont envy em. The way I look at it, and the way I tell my wife, I wouldnt want their money f I had to have .the rest of it. Aint any of em happy. I saw that when I lived out. No, sir; what me and my wife want to do is to find us a nice little place in the country. At the words a vision of Willoughby Pas- tures rose upon Lemuel, and a lump of home- sickness came into his throat. He saw the old wood-colored house, crouching black within its walls under the cold November stars. If his mother had not gone to bed yet, she was sitting beside the cooking-stove in the kitchen, and perhaps his sister was brewing something on it, potion or lotion, for her hus- bands rheumatism. Miss Vane had talked to him about his mother; she had said he might have her down to visit him, if everything went on right; but of course he knew that Miss Vane did not understand that his mother wore bloomers, and he made up his mind that her invitation was never to be accepted. At the same time he had determined to ask Miss Vane to let him go up and see his mother some Sunday. S furs we go, said the conductor. F youre goin on, you want to take another car here. I guess Ill go back with you a little ways, said Lemuel. I want to ask ~ou Guess well have to take a back seat, then, said the conductor, leading the way through the car to the other platform; or a standee, he added, snapping the bell. What is it you want to ask? Oh, nothing. How do you fellows learn to be conductors? How long does it take you? Till other passengers should come the con- ductor lounged against the guard of the platform in a conversational posture. Well, generally it takes you four or five days. You got to learn all the cross streets, and the principal places on all the lines. Yes? It didnt take me moren two. Boston boy. Yes, said Lemuel, with a fine discour- agement. I presume the conductors are mostly from Boston. Theyre from everywhere. And some of em are pretty streaked, I can tell you; and then the rest of us has got to suffer; throws suspicion on all of us. One fellow gets to stealin fares, and then everybodys got to wear a bell-punch. I never hear mine go without thinkin it says, Stop thief! Makes me sick, I can tell you. After a while Lemuel asked, How do you get such a position? The conductor seemed to be thinking about something else. Its a pretty queer kind of a world, anyway, the way everybodys mixed up with everybody else. Whats the reason, if a man wants to steal, he cant steal and suffer for it himself without throwin the shame and the blame on a lot more people that never thought o stealin? I dont notice much when a fellow sets out to do right that folks think everybody else is on the square. No, sir, they dont seem to consider that kind of complaint so catching. Now, you take an- other thing: A woman goes round with the scarlet fever in her clothes, and a whole car- ful of people take it home to their children; but let a nice young girl get in, fresh as an apple, and a perfect daisy for wholesomeness every way, and she dont give it to a single soul on board. No, sir; its a world I cant see through, nor begin to.~ 34 THE MINISTERS CHARGE; OR, I never thought of it that way, said Lemuel, darkened by this black pessimism of the conductor. He had not, practically, found the world so unjust as the conductor implied, but he could not controvert his argu- ment. He only said, Maybe the right thing makes us feel good in some way we dont know of. Well, I dont want to feel good in some way I dont know of myself; said the con- ductor very scornfully. No, thats so, Lemuel admitted. He remained silent, with a vague wonder flitting through his mind whether Mr. Sewell could make anything better of the case, and then settled back to his thoughts of Statira, pierced and confused as they were now with his pain from that trouble with Miss Vane. What was that you asked me just now? said the conductor. That I asked you? Lemuel echoed. Oh, yes! I asked you how you got your place on the cars.~~ Well, sir, you have to have recommenda- tions they wont touch you without em; and then you have to have about seventy- five dollars capital to start with. You got to get your coat, and your cap, and your badge, and you got to have about twenty dollars of your own to make change with, first off; com- pany dont start you with a cent. Lemuel made no reply. After a while he asked, Do you know any good hotel, around here, where I could go for the night? Well, theres the Brunswick, and theres the Van-dome, said the conductor. Theyre both pretty fair houses. Lemuel looked round at the mention of the aristocratic host- elries to see if the conductor was joking. He owned to something of the kind by adding, Theres a little hotel, if you want something quieter, that aint a great ways from here. He gave the name of the hotel, and told Lemuel how to find it. Thank you, said Lemuel. I guess Ill get off here, then. Well, good-evening. Guess Ill have to get another nickel from you, said the conductor, snapping his bell. New trip, he explained. Oh, said Lemuel, paying. It seemed to him a short ride for five cents. He got off; and as the conductor started up the car, he called forward through it to the driver, Wanted to try for conductor, I guess. But I guess the seventy-five dollars capital settled that little point for him.~~ Lemuel heard the voice but not the words. He felt his bag heavy in his hand as he walked away in the direction the conductor had given him, and he did not set it down when he stood hesitating in front of the hotel; it looked like too expensive a place for him, with its stai~ glass door, and its bulk hoisted high intc air. He walked by the hotel, and the: came back to it, and mustered courage 1 in. His bag, if not superb, looked a deal more like baggage than the lank which he had come to Boston with; h bought it only a few days before, in ho going home before long; he set it dow some confidence on the tessellated fl ~ cheap marble, and when a shirt-sl. drowsy-eyed, young man came out of room or booth near the door, where there was a desk, and a row of bells, and a board with keys, hanging from the wall above it, Lemuel said quite boldly that he would like a room. The man said, well, tbey did not much expect transients; it was more of a family- hotel, like; but he guessed the)T had a vacancy, and they could put him up. He brushed his shirt-sleeves down with his hands, and looked apologetically at some ashes on his trousers, and said, well, it was not much use trying to put on style, anyway, when you were taking care of a furnace and had to run the elevator yourself; and look after the whole concern. 1-us said his aunt mostly looked after letting the rooms, but she was at church, and he guessed he should have to see about it himself. He bade Lemuel just get right into the elevator, and he put his bag into a cage that hung in one corner of the hallway, and pulled at the wire rope, and they mounted together. On the way up he had time to exphin that the clerk, who usually ran the elevator when they had no elevator-boy, had kicked, and they were just between hay and grass, as you might say. He showed Lemuel into a grandiose parlor or drawing-room, enormously draped and upholstered, and furnished in a composite application of yellow jute and red plush to the ashen easy-chairs and sofa. A folding-bed in the figure of a chiffonier attempted to occupy the whole side of the wall and failed. Im afraid its more than I can pay, said Lemuel. I guess I better see some other room. But the man said the room belonged to a boarder that had just gone, and he guessed they would not charge him very much for it; he guessed Lemuel had better stay. He pulled the bed down, and showed him how it worked, and he lighted two bulbous gas-burners, con- trived to burn the gas at such a low pressure that they were like two unsnuffed candles for brilliancy. He backed round over the spacioua - floorand looked about him with an unfamiliar, marauding air, which had a certain boldness, but failed to impart courage to Lemuel, who trembled for fear of the unknown expense. But he was ashamed to go away, and when the man left him he went to bed, after some THE APPRENTICESHIP OF LEMUEL BARKER. .ious investigation of the machine he was ep in. He found its comfort unmistak- He was tired out with what had been ning, and the events of the day recurred irmoil that helped rather than hindered er; none evolved itself distinctly enough the mass to pursue him; what he was .y aware of was the daring question aer he could not get the place of that who had kicked. the morning he saw the landlady, who ~alled Mrs. Harmon, and who took the pay ~is lodging, and said he might leave his .~ag awhile there in the office. She was a large, smooth, tranquil person, who seemed ready for any sort of consent; she entered into an easy conversation with Lemuel, and was so sympathetic in regard to the difficulties of get- ting along in the city, that he had proposed himself as clerk and been accepted almost be- fore he believed the thing had happened. He was getting alittle used to the rapidity of urban transactions, but his mind had still a rustic difficulty in keeping up with his experiences. I suppose, said Mrs. Harmon, it aint very usual to take anybody without a refer- ence; I never do it; but so long as you havent been a great while in the cityYou ever had a place in Boston before? Well, not exactly what you may call a place, said Lemuel, with a conscience against describing in that way his position at Miss Vanes. It was only part work. He added, I wasnt there but a little while. Know anybody in the city? Yes, said Lemuel, reluctantly; I know Rev. David L. Sewell, some. Oh, all right, said Mrs. Harmon, with eager satisfaction. I have to be pretty par- ticular who I have in the house. The boarders are all high-class, and I have to have all the departments accordingly. Ill see Mr. Sewell about you as soon as I get time, and I guess you can take hold right now, if you want to. Mrs. Harmon showed him in half a minute how to manage the elevator, and then left him with general instructions to telf~everybody who came upon any errand he did not understand, that she would be back in a very short time. He found pen and paper in the office, and she said he might write the letter that he asked leave to send his mother; when he mentioned his mother, she said, yes, indeed, with a burst of maternal sympathy which was imagined in her case, for she had already told Lemuel that if she had ever had any children she would not have gone into the hotel business, which she believed unfriendly to their right nurture; she said she neverliked to take ladies with children. He inclosed some money to his mother which he had intended to send, but which, 35 before the occurrence of the good fortune that now seemed opening upon him, he thought he must withhold. He made as little as he could of his parting with Miss Vane, whom he had celebrated in earlier letters to his mother; he did not wish to afflict her on his own account, or incense her against Miss Vane, who, he felt, could not help her part in it; but his heart burned anew against Miss Sibyl while he wrote. He dwelt upon his good luck in getting this new position at once, and he let his mother see that he con- sidered it a rise in life. He said he was going to try to get Mrs. Harmon to let him go home for Thanksgiving, though he presumed he might have to come back the same night. His letter was short, but he was several times interrupted by the lady boarders, many of whom stopped to ask Mrs. Harmon some- thing on their way to their rooms from break- fast. They did not really want anything, in most cases; but they were strict with Lem- uel in wanting to know just when they could see Mrs. Harmon; and they delayed some- what to satisfy a natural curiosity in regard to him. They made talk with him as he took them up in the elevator, and did what they could to find out about him. Most of them had their door-keys in their hands, and dangled them by the triangular pieces of brass which the keys were chained to; they affected some sort of neg/i~1e breakfast costume, and Lemuel thought them very fashionable. They nearly all snuffled and whined as they spoke; some had a soft, lazy nasal; others broke ab- ruptly from silence to silence in voices of nervous sharpness, like the cry or the bleat of an animal; one young girl, who was quite pretty, had a high, hoarse voice, like a gander. Lemuel did not mind all this; he talked through his nose too; and he accepted Mrs. Harmons smooth characterization of her guests, as she called them, which she deliv- ered in a slow, unimpassioned voice. I never have any but the highest class people in my house the very nicest; and I never have any jangling going on. In the first place, I never allow anybody to have anything to complain of, and then if they do complain, Im right up and down with them; I tell them their rooms are wanted, and they understand what I mean. And I never allow any trouble among the servants; I tell them, if they are not suited, that I dont want them to stay; and if they get ~to quarreling among them- selves, I send them all away, and get a new lot; I pay the highest wages, and I can always do it. If you want to keep up with the times at all, you have got to set a good table, and I mean to set just as good a table as any in Boston; I dont intend to let any one com 36 THE MINISTERS CHARGE. plain of my house on that score. Well, its as broad as its long: if you set a good table, you can ask a good price; and if you dont, you cant, thats all. Pay as you go, is my motto. Mrs. Harmon sat talking in the little den beside the door which she called the office, when she returned from that absence which she had asked him to say would not be more than fifteen minutes at the outside. It had been something more than two hours, and it had ended almost clandestinely; but knowledge of her return had somehow spread through the house, and several ladies came in while she was talking, to ask when their win- dow-shades were to be put up, or to say that they knew their gas-fixtures must be out of order; or that there were mice in their closets, for they had heard them gnawing; or that they were sure their set-bowls smelt, and that the traps were not working. Mrs. Harmon was prompt in every exigency. She showed the greatest surprise that those shades had not gone up yet; she said she, was going to send round for the gas-fitter to look at the fixtures all over the house; and that she would get some pot- ash to pour down the bowls, for she knew the drainage was perfectit was just the pipes down fo the traps that smelt; she advised a cat for the mice, and said she would get one. She used the greatest sympathy with the ladies, recognizing a real sufferer in each, and not attempting to deny anything. From the dining-room came at times the sound of voices, which blended in a discord loud above the clat- ter of crockery, but Mrs. Harmon seemed not to hear them. An excited foreigner of some sort finally rushed from this quarter, and thrust his head into the booth where Lemuel and Mrs. Harmon sat, long enough to explode some formula of renunciation upon her, which left her serenity unruffled. She received with the same patience the sarcasm of a boarder who appeared at the office-door with a bag in his hand, and said he would send an express- man for his trunk. He threw down the money forhis receipted bill; andwhenshe said she was sorry he was going, he replied that he could not stand the table any longer, and that he be- lieved that French cook of hers had died on the way over; he was tired of the Nova Scotia temporary, who had become permanent. A gentleman waited for the parting guest to be gone, and then said to the tranquil Mrs. Harmon: So Mellen has kicked, has he? Yes, Mr. Evans, said Mrs. Harmon; Mr. Mellen has kicked. And dont you want to abuse him a little? You can to me, you know, suggested the gentleman. He had a full beard, parted at the chin; it was almost white, and looked older than the rest of his face; his eyes were at once sal and whimsical. Lemuel tried to think wher~ he had seen him before. Thank you; I dont know as it would do any good, Mr. Evans. But if he could havG waited one week longer, I should have haO that cook. Yes, that is what I firmly believe. Do you feel too much broken up to accept a ticket to the Wednesday matin6e at the Museum ? No, I dont, said Mrs. Harmon. But I shouldnt want to deprive Mrs. Evans of it. Oh, she wouldnt go, said Mr. Evans, with a slight sigh. You had better take it. Jeffersons going to do Bob Acres. Is that so? asked Mrs. Harmon placidly, taking the ticket. Well, Im ever so much obliged to you, Mr. Evans. Mr. Evans, Mr. Barker our new clerk, she said, introducing them. Lemuel rose with rustic awkwardness, and shook hands with Mr. Evans, who looked at him with a friendly smile, but said nothing. Now Mr. Barker is here, I guess I can get the time. Mr. Evans said, well, he was glad she could, and went out of the street- door. Hes just one of the nicest gentlemen Ive got, continued Mrs. Harmon, following him with her eye as far as she conveniently could without turning her head, him and his wife both. Ever heard of the Saturday Af- ternoon? I dont know as I have, said Lemuel. Well, hes one of the editors. Its a kind of a Sunday paper, I guess, for all it dont come out that day. I presume he could go every night in the week to every theater in town, if he wanted to. I dont know how many tickets hes give me. Some of the ladies seem to think hes always makin fun of them; but I cant ever feel that way. He used to board with a.kreat friend of mine, him and his wife. Theyve been with me now ever since Mrs. Hewitt died; she was the one they boarded with before. They say he used to be dreadful easy-going, n t his wife was allt saved him. But I guess hes different now. Well, I must go out and see after the lunch. You watch the office and say just what I told you before. (To be continued.) W .D. Howe/is. mm THE FLOUR-MILLS OF MINNEAPOLIS. JN this age of shams, Minneapolis on the head of a flour-barrel has I adulterations,and become a guaranty of the excellence of its con- frauds,itisapleas tents. The millers of Minneapolis have sought ure to become ac- out the best inventions, avoided cheap pro- quainted with a cesses, stopped at no expense to get the best city that owes its results, and trusted consumers to know a good growth and pros- thing and to buy it at a fair price. They have perity to the man- made a great deal of money; other industries ufacture of a good, have gathered around their own, and in a re- honestarticle,and markably short space of time a great commun- to earnest efforts ity bas assembled at the Falls of St. Anthony, to improve the exemplifying to a high degree the best charac- quality of that ar- teristics of Western urban lifeindomitable tide so asto make enterprise in business, joined to a love for the it the best of its refinements and graces of a high civilization. kind to be found Rapid ashasbeen the growth of the place, there in the markets of is nothing crude inks appearance. Thebusiness the world. Such thoroughfares are better built than those of a city is Minneapolis, in the State of Minnesota. many Eastern towns of double its population; Its remarkable development in recent years from the residence-streets are broad shady avenues, an obscure village to a handsome, busy, ener- bordered by pretty houses, each standing alone getic town of one hundred and thirty thousand in the midst of flowers and foliage, and each inhabitants is due partly to its saw-mills but having an agreeable individuality; the public chiefly to its flour-mills. The latter have multi- schools take rank with those of the New Eng- plied in number and grown in dimensions and land cities; the numerous church edifices be- spread their names wherever commerce carries speak liberality and taste, and exhibit the large the breadstuffs of the West, because they make assortment of sects which seem to be essential, a grade of flour nowhere surpassed. The word in new as well as old regions, to the expression VOL. XXXJI.5. MARKET-HOUSE AND BRIDGE PLACE. f y V

THE FLOUR-MILLS OF MINNEAPOLIS. JN this age of shams, Minneapolis on the head of a flour-barrel has I adulterations,and become a guaranty of the excellence of its con- frauds,itisapleas tents. The millers of Minneapolis have sought ure to become ac- out the best inventions, avoided cheap pro- quainted with a cesses, stopped at no expense to get the best city that owes its results, and trusted consumers to know a good growth and pros- thing and to buy it at a fair price. They have perity to the man- made a great deal of money; other industries ufacture of a good, have gathered around their own, and in a re- honestarticle,and markably short space of time a great commun- to earnest efforts ity bas assembled at the Falls of St. Anthony, to improve the exemplifying to a high degree the best charac- quality of that ar- teristics of Western urban lifeindomitable tide so asto make enterprise in business, joined to a love for the it the best of its refinements and graces of a high civilization. kind to be found Rapid ashasbeen the growth of the place, there in the markets of is nothing crude inks appearance. Thebusiness the world. Such thoroughfares are better built than those of a city is Minneapolis, in the State of Minnesota. many Eastern towns of double its population; Its remarkable development in recent years from the residence-streets are broad shady avenues, an obscure village to a handsome, busy, ener- bordered by pretty houses, each standing alone getic town of one hundred and thirty thousand in the midst of flowers and foliage, and each inhabitants is due partly to its saw-mills but having an agreeable individuality; the public chiefly to its flour-mills. The latter have multi- schools take rank with those of the New Eng- plied in number and grown in dimensions and land cities; the numerous church edifices be- spread their names wherever commerce carries speak liberality and taste, and exhibit the large the breadstuffs of the West, because they make assortment of sects which seem to be essential, a grade of flour nowhere surpassed. The word in new as well as old regions, to the expression VOL. XXXJI.5. MARKET-HOUSE AND BRIDGE PLACE. f y V 38 THE PLO UR-MILLS OF MINNEAPOLIS. of the religious life of the United States; there is a good street-ear system, a steam rapid-transit line, and, what is of more importance, the be- ginnings of a good sewerage system; and the shops are spacious and full of attractive wares. Indeed, one can live on as easy terms with modern culture and comfort in this new town on the Upper Mississippi as in Hartford, or Providence, or Albany, or any other of the second-rate cities of the Eastern States, and enjoy besides all the peculiar movement and stimulus of Western life. All this has been achieved in the face of an obstacle such as no other among the new cities of the West has been compelled to en- counter the existence, close at hand, of an older town of considerable prestige, possessed of rail and water communications and of an established trade. The business center of St. Paul is only seven miles distant from that of Minneapolis, and the corporate bounds of the two municipalities touch. St. Paul is the capital of the State, and stands at the head of navigation on the Mississippi. Where the steamboat stopped, the town naturally grew up. The trade of the surrounding newly set- tled country centered there, and it became the terminal point for the railroads building into the North-west from Chicago and Milwau- kee, and the starting-point of the railroads leading to still newer regions in northern and western Minnesota and Dakota. Any plan for developing a second city on a site just around the bend of the river and almost within view from St. Paul might well have seemed chimerical forty years ago. The census of June, i86o, gave St. Paul io,6oo inhabitants, and Minneapolis 5809; that of 1870 showed St. Paul to have 20,300, and Minneapolis 13,066. By i88o Minneapolis had passed its rival in the race, having 46,- 867 inhabitant to St. Pauls 41,498. Accord- ing to the State census of i88~, Minneapolis had 129,200 people, and St. Paul 111,397. The first and enduring impetus to the growth of Minneapolis was the superb water- power furnished by the Mississippi River at the Falls of St. Anthony. The great river leaps over the soft limestone rocks in a sheer plunge of about twenty-five feet,. which with the descent of the rapids above makes eighty- two feet fall within the limits of the city. Level banks on each side of the stream afforded ample opportunities for mill-sites, and the volume of water was so great that there was no fear of its failing in summer droughts. The pictures of the Falls of St. THE FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY, 1842. (FROM A PAINTINO OWNED BY COLONEL WILLIAM S. RIND, MINNEAPOLIS.) OLD SAW-MILL AT THE FALLS. THE FLO (JR-MiLLS OF MINNEAPOLIS. Anthony which most of us remember to have admired in the school geographies bear no sort of resemblance to the real falls of to-day. There are no forests now, no island, and no rocks, and in place of the wild fall there is only a planked water-slide that looks like a mill-daman enormous and magnificent mill- dam, truly, but nevertheless a mill-dam. The whole sweep of the fall has been covered with an apron of planks to prevent the rocks from being worn away, and to save the cata- ract from being converted into a rapid. The real dam, a short distance above the falls, affords power to numerous saw-mills, and within it there is a boom to catch logs. In the winter and spring the falls, thus tamed and fettered, are still very beautiful, the rush of waters over the symmetrical curve of the dam affording a striking spectacle; but in summer, when most of the volume of the cur- rent is taken out to feed the mill-races, there is little to be seen but an imposing structure of dry planks. The United States Government built the plank covering to the falls and the dam above, and maintains them. This statement struck me as a joke when I first heard it. The functions of government as construed by Congress in appropriation bills are very elastic, but I had never imagined that they could be stretched to apply to the building of mill-dams. Con- 39 gress did not ostensibly build the Minneapolis dam as a dam, however, but as a work to preserve the navigation of the Mississippi above the falls. If the falls should give way, the water in the upper river would be lowered to such an extent that navigation would be impossible. True, there are no boats running above the falls, and there have been none since the railroads were built, but this fact made no difference in the argument. Some- body might want to run a steamboat at some time in the future. So Congress preserved the falls from destruction by preventing the wearing away of the rock, and in doing so the government engineers incidentally built a fine mill-dam. The dam is not for the public ben- efit, however, for the companies owning the water-power rights collect the tolls for the use of the water, and none of the revenue goes either to the government or the city treasury. The twenty-six great flouring-mills stand in single and double rows on both sides of the river below the falls. They consumed last year about 24,000,000 bushels of wheat and made 5,450,163 barrels of flour an amount more than sufficient to supply with bread the entire population of the city of New York. The aggregate daily capacity of the Minne- apolis flour-manufacturing concerns is 33,973 barrels, and their wheat-consuming capacity is THE FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY, ~885. THE PLO (JR-MILLS OF MINNEAPOLIS. 40 35,000,000 bushels a year. Some one has estimated that the wheat demanded for the daily consumption of the mills requires for its transportation 266 cars, or a solid train of a mile and three-quarters in length, and that to move the daily product of flour and mill-stuff there are required 328 cars and i6 locomotives, or more than two miles of solid train. When W. W. Eastman built the first mill at the Falls of St. Anthony, Minnesota flour was ranked as the poorest of any made in the West. Minneapolis might have kept on making low-grade flour to this day, remaining an in- significant town, were it not for the investigating brain of a French savant, Joseph Perrigault, who in- vented the iniddhings-purifier in i86o. Theinven- tion was brought to this country by ex-Governor C. C. Washburn of Wisconsin in 1871, and put into one of his mills atMinneap- ohs. It was soon improved by Na- than La Croix and George T. Smith, practical millers, and in a IN THE MILLS. little while sur- prising results were developed. The mid- dlings-purifying machine, and the process of gradual-reduction milling of which it forms a part, have built up the beautiful city of Minneapolis, and sent a million of people out on the prairies of Minnesota and Dakota. What a wonderful result from a French- mans studies of dust particles floating in the atmosphere and settling in the pigeon-holes of a writing-desk! The statement sounds extravagant, but it is within the bounds of fact. Before Perrigaults invention was adopted at Minneapolis, the spring wheat of the North- west was worth on an average thirty cents a bushel less than the winter wheat of Iowa, Missouri, and Kansas. Why? Because the berry of the spring wheat is small, dark-colored, and hard, and its husk clings tightly. The old process of milling, while it answered well enough for the white, soft-berried winter wheat, did not thoroughly remove the bran from the spring wheat, and left the flour dark in color and of inferior quality. Besides, the relative percentage of flour obtained was small. It did not matter much if a little of the light-colored bran on the winter wheat was left in the flour, but any mixture of the dark bran of the spring wheat was at once ap parent. Fur- thermore, as we shall see by an exami- nation of the wheat - berry, the most nu- tritious por- tion lies next the bran, and to take out only the white center of the kernel was to produce necessarily an inferior flour. With the enormous difference of thirty cents a bushel against them, farmers in Minnesota were at a serious disadvantage in comparison with those of the winter-wheat belt. The settlement of the fertile prairies of northern and western Minnesota progressed very slowly. Nobody tried to raise wheat in the rich valley of the Red River of the North. Immigration poured into Kansas, but could not be coaxed into Dakota. All this was changed by the middlings-purifier and the new process of gradual-reduction milling. The spring wheat known as number one hard became the most valuable of any for the making of flour. The conditions of farm- ing in the North-west were immediately changed. The great natural product of the region came into brisk demand. From the hard wheat of the north-western prairies a flour was made by the mills of Minne- apolis which commanded a higher price in New York than St. Louis winter- wheat flour, until then the favorite among Western brands. Population poured into Minnesota and Dakota, railroads were built, towns sprang up as if by magic, and the bare plains were turned into wheat-fields. In order to understand what is accomplished by new-process milling, one must first study the wheat-berry. Examined under a mi- croscope, the husk or bran is found to consist of five coats. These are, first, the epicarp, or outer coat of longitudinal cells; second, the mesocarp, or inner coat of longitudinal cells; third, the endocarp, of transverse cells which look like cigars placed side by side, an appearance which has given to this envelope thename of the cigar-coat; fourth, the episperm, or outer seed-coat; and fifth, the tegmen, or inner seed-coat. All these cover- ings are of woody fiber. The three outer ones have no value whatever as nutriment. The two inner coverings contain a substance called cerealine, for which some nutritious quality is claimed, but not admitted by all millers. Next we come to the perisperm, a layer of gluten-cells containing chiefly albuminoids or nitrQgenous matter, and finally to the endo- sperm, which forms much the greater part of the bulk of the berry, and is composed of 4 starch-grains mingled with minute albuminoid cells. At one end of the berry is a tuft of fine vegetable hairs, called the brush, and at the other is the chit, or germ, which contains the germinal principle. The Connecticut vegetarian Sylvester Graham, whose name is everywhere in the United States applied to bread made from unbolted flour, was right in his day in saying that much of the most valuable nutritious property of the wheat was taken out with the bran and never got into the white bread-loaf. The perisperm, which contains a large proportion of nitrogenous or muscle- building material, is closely attached to the inner husk, and was in great part carried off with the bran in the old process of milling, leaving the bolted flour somewhat impoverished by its loss. The new or gradual-reduction process,however, saves nearly all of this layer of the wheat-berry. It is a mistake to suppose that the bran itself is of any value as nourishment. The fibers of wood which compose it are of no more use as food than chips or shavings. They produce a mechanical, irritating effect on the digestive apparatus, but that is all. The devotees of Graham bread, who imagine that they are benefiting their stomachs and bracing up their bodies by eating a quantity of bran every day, are radically wrong. Perhaps they get some gain from taking less fine concen- trated food, but vegetables or fruit would serve THE FLOUR-MILLS OF MINNEAPOLIS. BARREL-HOIST AND TUNNEL THROUGH THE WASHBURN MILL. 42 THE FLOUR-MILLS OF MINNEAPOLIS. ndoqx~rzn. A/ksoectT Knd& a,p. Api.9pezrn. ~jrnem. ?enyxrm. the purpose better than the husks of wheat. The white loaf made from new-process flour contains a much larger proportion of food- substance than the Graham loaf of unbolted flour, the percentage of phosphates and glu- ten being greater in the white flour than in the wheat itself. Credit is universally given in Minneapolis to the late Ex-Governor Cadwalader C. Wash- burn of Wisconsin for the introduction of new- process milling, both as concerns the French middlings-purifier and the Hungarian roller system. This honor is freely awarded by millers who were Washburns rivals in his lifetime, as well as by those who were his business associates, and by the citizens of the town generally. He is always spoken of as the father of modern milling in America. A man of strong will, sturdy integrity, kind heart, and great enterprise and courage in business affairs, he impressed himself strongly on his time, in the North-west, and has left a record which two States cherish with equal pride. His home was at Madison, Wisconsin, and his public career as a general officer in the Union army during the rebellion, as a member of Congress both before and after the war, and as Governor, was identified with that State; but his business interests lay in his later years chiefly in Minnesota. He belonged to the famous Maine family of Washburns, and was one of seven brothers, five of whom distinguished themselves in public life. Four occupied seats in Congress from four different States Israel from Maine, Elihu B. from Illinois, Cadwalader C. from Wisconsin, and William D. from Minnesota. Israel and Cadwalader C. became Governors of their respective States, and Elihu B. and Charles A. represented the nation at foreign courts. Cadwalader C. was also a Major- General of Volunteers. He was born at Liver- more, Maine, in i8i8, and died at the Hot Springs of Arkansas in 1882. During the later years of his life he built the great mills at Minneapolis which bear his name and which were his special pride. The strength of Governor Washburns char- acter was strikingly shown by his behavior in the face of the terrible calamity which de- stroyed his mills in 1878. One evening in May of that year, just after the day force had left the big Washburn Mill and before the night force had all come, the flour-dust that filled the air and covered the walls, floors, and machinery took fire and exploded with a de- structive force as tremendous as that of dyna- mite. In an instant the towering structure of solid stone was changed to a heap of ruins. The fire was blown into four other mills near by, and one after another blew up and crum- bled into confused heaps of stones and ma- chinery. The explosions succeeded each other at intervals as regular as if a battery of siege- guns had been fired in order. Eighteen men were killed. Half the milling industry of Minneapolis was obliterated, and the whole city was appalled at the terrific effects of a de- stroying agency the existence of xvhich had hardly been suspected. News of the tragedy came to Governor Washburn at his home in Madison. He had an appointment for the next morning with the Regents of the Univer- sity of Wisconsin to determine upon a site for an astronomical observatory, the money for building which he had presented to the insti- tution. The Regents met, supposing that the Governor had left for Minneapolis as soon as the news of the destruction of his mills had reached him. To their surprise he walked in- to the room promptly at nine oclock, as calm as though nothing had happened, and insisted on dispatching the business before the Board instead of talking about the disaster. Next day he stood by the smoking ruins of his great mills. Friends gathered around to condole with him on the destruction of a million of dollars worth of property. To them he said, The money loss is not to be considered; I think only of the poor victims and of their families. The mills shall be rebuilt at once. And they were rebuilt as rapidly as the cour- ageous and energetic old Governor could push on their construction. There have been no more mill explosions at Minneapolis. Science and invention went to work upon the problem of their cause and cure. The deadly dust is now drawn from millstones arid purifying machines byair-currents; it is thus captured and confined, and made to yield a tribute of good flour. The spirit of murder, which, to, borrow a line from Tennyson, lurked in the very means of life, has been exorcised. A great flouring-mill is a wonderful aggre- gation of delicate and ingenious mechanical processes. The manner in which the wheat, middlings, and flour circulate through the eight or nine stories, from side to side, from Me~ Endoci2r/ 1u1:perRL Teymeii Pen~pe~rm THE WHEAT BEEEY. THE PLO (JR-MILLS OF MINNEAPOLIS. 43 floor to floor, from machine to machine, no- night. There is no racket or clatter amid where needing the help of human hands, these serried rows of apparatus. The whole makes it seem like one vast living organism. great building hums and pulsates with a A comparison with the circulation of the blood dull, buzzing noise, but no particular piece in a vital frame readily comes to mind. From of enginery seems to give out a special note. the time the grain comes into the mill in cars As the sounds of a great city mingle in a sub- to the packing up of the fine flour in barrels, dued roar, so do the thousand voices of the through all the processes of sifting, cleaning, mill unite to produce a single continuous grinding, purifying, separating, etc., everything effect upon the ear. is automatic. No workman touches the prod- Let us follow the wheat in its journeys uct save in the way of supervision. Indeed, the through the mill. Descriptions of machinery laborers stand related to the machines about are dull reading at best, and we may agree at as the policemen do to the moving crowd in the start to look at the various processes only Broadway. They see that order is preserved long enough to get a reasonably clear notion and the movement is not clogged. The wide of their nature and effects. Our description apartments of the mill, crowded with machines applies to the Washburn A Mill. The wheat ranged in regular lines, seem deserted as the is first received in a hopper holding eight visitor roams through them. Perhaps in a hundred bushels, for weighing; then it goes distant corner a man may be perceived, slowly into a bin and is elevated by buckets on end- moving about, looking phantom-like in his less bands to another bin in the fifth story. white garments, seen through a mist of flour- From this bin conveyers long wooden dust, He is an assistant miller, who perhaps boxes in which revolve large iron screws has a hundred roller mills in his charge, carry it along to the cleaning-house, where it all briskly grinding away from morning to goes throughmachinesthat take out the sticks, PACKING. 44 THE FLO Uk-MILLS OF MINNEAPOLIS. SLUICE-GATE. straws, and other coarse impurities. This is only a sort of rudimentary cleansing. The grain is now elevated to the top of the clean- ing-house attached to the mill, and deposited in large bins. There are eight of these bins, and their aggregate capacity is eighty thou- sand bushels. Next it is draxvn to the mill- separators machines which by a series of sieves, combined with a powerful suction of air, take out the oats, corn, pieces of earth, and other small impurities. All the refuse is sold for chicken-feed. There still remains an objectionable element in the grain which must be gotten rid of the seeds of cockle and other weeds, which from their resemblance in weight and size to the wheat-berries have es- caped the sifting and blowing process. A long cylinder covered with indentations and called the cockle-separator captures these seeds as they roll along, leaving the good grain to pass by. There is still another process before the wheat is ready for milling. Into a big cir- cular iron box, within which are a multitude of revolving brushes, it goes, and every individ- ual grain gets thorough- ly dusted before it leaves. Thus cleaned and brushed and separated from bad company, the wheat is carried into subterranean bins below the mill, which, like those in the elevator, hold the enormous quantity of eighty thousand bushels. These vast reservoirs of good, clean grain are drawn upon for the grind- ing machinery. The grain on leaving them is carried to the top of the mill, where it descends to the rolls. Crushing the kernels between chilled-iron rollers, in- stead of by millstones in the old way, is a part of what is called new- process milling. This system was first intro- duced in Hungary, and when brought to this country in 1876 was speedily taken up by American inventors and improved upon by many devices concerning the number, size, and speed of the chilled-iron cylin- ders, the shape and posi- tion of the grooves cut in them, and other mat- ters. The principle remains the same, however, and we must give foreigners the credit for it. This principle is the gradual reduction of the berriesby successive grindings between grooved rollers revolving at unequal rates of speed, which exercise the double effect of crushing and cutting. The roller-mills are small, compact little machines, not as large as a farmers fanning-mill, and the grain at its first reduction process passes through six of them. After each grinding, or reduction, as it is called, the product goes up several floors above to the separating-reelslong round or octagonal cylinders, covered with bolting cloth. The scalping-reel with its coarse wire cloth lets the middlings and flour through and throws off the broken wheat for the next reduction. The product which passes thr~5~i~h the cloth goes to other reels covered with silk cloth of different grades of fineness, which evolve from fifteen to twenty per cent. of a medium-grade flour, separate the loose bran, THE FL 0 Uk-MILLS OF MINNEAPOLIS. 45 and send the middlings along for the next rived at one or two millimeters only, I saw process. In some mills a machine called a them throw themselves on the surface of the dismembratoris used, and comes next in table, obeying, evidently, a law of attraction, order. It has two steel disks, one stationary the causes of which have never heen ex- and one revolving, each carrying a multitude plained. Here was the reason why all the of needles, which work like the pins on a shelves of the library or the pigeon-holes of a threshing-machine. The effect is to knock off secretary are found to he charged with an pieces of flour and middlings attached to bran. equal cloud of dust. The atoms, moving hon- Next come the sorting-reels, acting on the zontally, do not fall until they are close to the same principle as the separating-reels, and surface of a solid hody. It makes no differ- dividing the middlings, now clean pieces of ence how high the shelf is, or how small the wheat nearly free from loose hran and flour, pigeon-hole, the exposed surface collects a into several different grades of fineness, quantity of dust proportionate to the quan- The middlings-purifiers now receive the tity of atoms which come within the sphere of sorted products of the reels. In spite of all its attraction. From this M. Pernigault con- the sifting and shifting which the crushed cluded that by causing the dust-laden air from grains have been subjected to, there are still the middlings-purifier to circulate in passages specks of bran and considerable dust adher- of great horizontal dimensions and small yen- ing to the middlings, which if not taken out tical elevation, he would succeed in securing would make the flour dark in color and other- the deposit of nearly all the dust. He soon wise inferior in quality. The purifier was the invented an apparatus which was successful great invention which revolutionized milling, beyond his hopes. This apparatus, a good deal by making the prime purpose of the grading modified and improved by American inven- processes to get as little flour and as much tors, is called the dust-collector, and is a middlings as possible, instead of as much flour big wooden box divided into many compart- and as little middlings, and further, in its re- ments, in each of which is a blanket-covered sults, by adding eight per cent. to the yield of frame of zigzag shape. The dust-laden air is flour per bushel, and by making spring wheat, drawn successively into these compartments. once despised by millers, yield the best quality When the blanket is loaded a valve is closed, of flour. Described in the simplest terms, and another opened into the next compart- it is a big box containing sloping frames covered with silk cloth and shaken by an eccentric. Underneath the frames brushes work back and forth to keep the meshes of the cloth from getting clogged by the flour passing through. On the top of the box is a fan-exhaust which keeps up a suction of air through the cloth screens. The essential feature of the operation is a nice adjustment be- tween the pneumatic lifting force of the air-current taking up the fine bran and dust, and the force of grav- ity carrying the cleansed middlings through the cloth. In this and in the dust-collecting apparatus lies the great value of the invention. Perrigault, the French SaVa/Il, who died in i88i at the age of seventy- one, some twenty years ago began investigating the movements of at- oms floating in the air of a room. He observed that these molecules described light curves of a nearly horizontal figure; that when they came within one or two centimeters of a table they appeared to be at- tracted little by little. To quote his own language, They slowly sank, but they sank; and when they ar- VOL. XXXII.6. A GROUP OF MILLS AS SEEN FROM THR RIVRR. 46 THE PLO (JR-MILLS OP MINNEAPOLIS. ment; the dust is shaken down into a conveyor which takes it to a bolting-reel, and from it is obtained considerable low-grade flour. The middlings are not yet ready for the final reduction into flour. There still remains an element to be extracted and cast out the germ, which, being of about the same size and shape as the middlings themselves, has accom- panied them in all their progress. The germ is of a yellow color and a rather oily nature. If retained it makes the flour yellow and sticky. It is nutritious, however, and in England a food for infants is prepared from it. To get rid of this element, the middlings are put through roller-mills having smooth rolls of iron or porcelain, which flatten the germs so they can be sifted out by bolting-reels. The extracted germs are added to bran to make feed for animals. Now, at last, thoroughly purified, the middlings are raised to the eighth floor of the building and deposited in seven large bins according to fineness. The purified middlings freed from germs go through from one to six additional reduction processes by rollers before the final grinding, in each of which some flour is taken away. In the Washburn Mills the last grinding of the middlings is done by stones. Some mills use no stones at all. There is a difference of opin- ion as to whether stones can wisely be aban- doned altogether. The gradual-reduction proc- ess in connection with the middlings-purifier can be wholly performed by stones, and was thus carried on at Minneapolis until the in- troduction of rolls. Of late the tendency in all mills in this country and in Europe is to- wards the entire abandonment of stones, but many of the best millers claim that this ten- dency has gone too far, and that the old-fash- ioned upper and nether millstones, which date back to prehistoric times, will in future have a place in all large mills which seek to produce the highest grades of flour. We have not yet followed the flour to the last process that of packing into barrels. This is performed by a rising platform pushing the barrel up around a sheet-iron cylinder communicating with the flour-bins on an up- per floor, and covering it as it is filled. In the mouth of the cylinder is a revolving wheel with blades which cut the flour out of the cyl- inder and pack it in the barrel. A scale con- trivance stops the machine when the exact number of pounds have been packed. The barrel is then headed by hand the only manual-labor process from first to last in the whole progress of the wheat-berry to the flour- barrel. The best grade of flour is that ground from the purified middlings, because it contains the largest percentage of gluten; the second best is obtained from the wheat during the proc- esses of crushing; the lowest grade comes from the tailings of the middlings-purifying machines. The product no longer valuable for flour reductions is called shorts, and is sold for feed. If this contained only pure bran, it would be of no value as food for animals, for the husk of the wheat-berry, as we have seen, is not at all nutritious; but in spite of all the crushing and grinding and sifting, some starch and gluten adheres to the particles of bran. The two chief milling firms of Minneapolis are Washburn, Crosby & Co., at the head of which is John Crosby, an associate of the late Governor, and Pillsbury & Co. The Pills- burys have also an ex-governor in their firm, John S., who was Governor of Minnesota be- ween 1876 and 1882. There are four of them, two brothers and the two sons of one of the brothers New Hampshire men by birth. Their A Mill is said to be the largest in the world, its capacity being 5200 barrels a day. Their two other mills can turn out 2500 barrels. Their total investment in mills and elevators is two million dollars, and is believed to be the heaviest single investment in the world in a mill- ing-plant. The manager of the firms affairs is one of the younger members, Charles A. Pillsbury. When he began milling in a small way at the Falls of St. Anthony, Minneapolis flour rated very low, and the peculiar notion concerning it was that the wheat of the neigh- borhood from which it was ground was of a poor quality. At Hastings, Minnesota, was a mill of pretty good reputation supposed to be grinding a better wheat. Mr. Pillsbury xvent to see it, and as he walked through the mills he took some wheat from the hoppers to chew, as millers are in the habit of doing, and man- aged to put a few handfuls in his pockets. When he got home he compared the kernels carefully with those his own mill was grinding, and found there was no difference. He then made up his mind that it was better milling and not better wheat he needed, and for years he bent his energies and resources to improving his machinery and processes. Next to Governor Washburn, he was the first to adopt the middlings-purifier. While special honor is due to the Pillsburys and the Washburns for the development of milling at Minneapolis, the smaller millers should come in for a fair share of praise. They have participated in the spirit of the great firms, and like them have labored to produce the best results. The ambition of all has been to produce the best flour that could possibly be made. How profitable their busi- ness has been may be gathered from two facts. For three years the patent flour, as it was called, sold at the uniform price of ten TO THE MEMORY OF H H 47 dollars a barrel at the mill, although the price of wheat fluctuated between sixty cents and a dollar and a quarter a bushel. A member of one of the great firms drew out in the course of a few years a million of dollars on an original investment of one thousand. Competition has of late so reduced the profit on Minneap- olis flour that the saving effected by putting ten hoops on a barrel instead of twelve is thought important at some of the mills. The palmy days when the margin between cost of production and market price at the mills was two dollars a barrel are gone forever. For the twenty-four millions of bushels of wheat ground at her mills last year Minne- apolis drew upon Minnesota and Dakota, and to some extent upon Iowa, Wisconsin, and Nebraska. Next year she may want thirty millions of bushels, but so rapidly are the prairies of Dakota turned into wheat farms that she will soon not be obliged to seek new sources of supply. During the crop year ending September I, 1885, she received 32,- i 12,840 bushels, a larger aggregate than even Chicago could show. With the great Dakota and Manitoba wheat- fields, adding from ten to twenty per cent. to their average with every successive years im- migration, lying close at hand, and with the remarkably productive new grain-belt of the Pacific slope as a reserve accessible by a di- rect line of railroad, the Minneapolis millers need fear no check to their vast industry for want of an adequate supply of the raw material to manufacture into flour. Indeed, there seems to be nothing to prevent the fur- ther growth of the industry. True, it may be argued that the wheat-belt has constantly shifted its location in the past, moving in this century from central New York to Ohio; then to Indiana and Michigan; then to northern Illinois, southern Wisconsin, and Iowa; and later to Minnesota, Dakota, Kansas, and Nebraska. The answer is that it can go no farther west; that somewhere on the conti- nent there must be an ultimate wheat-grow- ing region or regions, just as in Europe there are found such regions in southern Russia and in the plains of Hungary, where wheat has been the staple crop since the days when they were the granaries of the Roman legions; and, further, that experience shows that the prairies of Dakota and Manitoba, and the hilly bunch-grass plains of eastern Washing- ton and Oregon, are peculiarly adapted for the constant production of the king of cereals. And for favorable conditions for grinding wheat no place in the world can compare with Minneapolis, if success is the measure of natural advantages. It is on the highways of rail transportation which lead from the grain- fields of the North-west to the great cities and sea-ports of the East. Nature turns its hun- dreds of wheels with an unfailing water-power, the climate is healthful and invigorating, and finally, it possesses an enterprising, intelli- gent, inventive population, made up of excel- lent elements drawn from the Eastern States, and broadened and energized by the oppor- tunities and the liberalism of Western busi- ness life. Its people believe enthusiastically in their city, and work together heartily to further its interests. Eugene V Smalley. TO THE MEMORY OF H. H. O SOUL of fire within a womans clay! Lifting with slender hands a races wrong, ~7~Those mute appeal hushed all thine early song, And taught thy passionate heart the loftier way; What shall thy place be, in the realms of day? XVhat disembodied world can bold thee long, Binding that turbulent pulse with spell more strong? Dwellst thou, with wit and jest, where poets may? Or with ethereal women (born of air And poets dreams) dost live in ecstasy, Teach new love-thoughts to Shaksperes Juliet fair, New moods to Cleopatra? Then, may be, The woes of Shelleys Helen thou dost share, Or weep with poor Rossettis Rose Mary. Thomas U7en/reor/k fligginson.

TO THE MEMORY OF H H 47 dollars a barrel at the mill, although the price of wheat fluctuated between sixty cents and a dollar and a quarter a bushel. A member of one of the great firms drew out in the course of a few years a million of dollars on an original investment of one thousand. Competition has of late so reduced the profit on Minneap- olis flour that the saving effected by putting ten hoops on a barrel instead of twelve is thought important at some of the mills. The palmy days when the margin between cost of production and market price at the mills was two dollars a barrel are gone forever. For the twenty-four millions of bushels of wheat ground at her mills last year Minne- apolis drew upon Minnesota and Dakota, and to some extent upon Iowa, Wisconsin, and Nebraska. Next year she may want thirty millions of bushels, but so rapidly are the prairies of Dakota turned into wheat farms that she will soon not be obliged to seek new sources of supply. During the crop year ending September I, 1885, she received 32,- i 12,840 bushels, a larger aggregate than even Chicago could show. With the great Dakota and Manitoba wheat- fields, adding from ten to twenty per cent. to their average with every successive years im- migration, lying close at hand, and with the remarkably productive new grain-belt of the Pacific slope as a reserve accessible by a di- rect line of railroad, the Minneapolis millers need fear no check to their vast industry for want of an adequate supply of the raw material to manufacture into flour. Indeed, there seems to be nothing to prevent the fur- ther growth of the industry. True, it may be argued that the wheat-belt has constantly shifted its location in the past, moving in this century from central New York to Ohio; then to Indiana and Michigan; then to northern Illinois, southern Wisconsin, and Iowa; and later to Minnesota, Dakota, Kansas, and Nebraska. The answer is that it can go no farther west; that somewhere on the conti- nent there must be an ultimate wheat-grow- ing region or regions, just as in Europe there are found such regions in southern Russia and in the plains of Hungary, where wheat has been the staple crop since the days when they were the granaries of the Roman legions; and, further, that experience shows that the prairies of Dakota and Manitoba, and the hilly bunch-grass plains of eastern Washing- ton and Oregon, are peculiarly adapted for the constant production of the king of cereals. And for favorable conditions for grinding wheat no place in the world can compare with Minneapolis, if success is the measure of natural advantages. It is on the highways of rail transportation which lead from the grain- fields of the North-west to the great cities and sea-ports of the East. Nature turns its hun- dreds of wheels with an unfailing water-power, the climate is healthful and invigorating, and finally, it possesses an enterprising, intelli- gent, inventive population, made up of excel- lent elements drawn from the Eastern States, and broadened and energized by the oppor- tunities and the liberalism of Western busi- ness life. Its people believe enthusiastically in their city, and work together heartily to further its interests. Eugene V Smalley. TO THE MEMORY OF H. H. O SOUL of fire within a womans clay! Lifting with slender hands a races wrong, ~7~Those mute appeal hushed all thine early song, And taught thy passionate heart the loftier way; What shall thy place be, in the realms of day? XVhat disembodied world can bold thee long, Binding that turbulent pulse with spell more strong? Dwellst thou, with wit and jest, where poets may? Or with ethereal women (born of air And poets dreams) dost live in ecstasy, Teach new love-thoughts to Shaksperes Juliet fair, New moods to Cleopatra? Then, may be, The woes of Shelleys Helen thou dost share, Or weep with poor Rossettis Rose Mary. Thomas U7en/reor/k fligginson. IDUNA.

IDUNA. IDIJNA. I HAD just passed through that first really I passionate part of a mans life which gen- erally comes somewhere in his third decade, and had entered upon the brief period which invariably follows, when, in our comparative inexperience, we think that we have so felt all that the world gives of enjoyment or sorrow, that, if not incapable of new or strong emotion, we are at least quite beyond the possibility of surprise. I was more than startled, however, when, in the first compla- cency of this latter time, I received a request which I could not, and which indeed I had no desire to disregard. In his will my father had enjoined upon me that whenever and whithersoever a lifelong friend should summon me, I should immediately and literally obey the call. I was then to learn something of great importance to myself. As may well be imagined, I had at one time and another thought much of the probable nature of the communication thus to be made; but as the years passed and the summons did not come, I had gradually ceased to think of the matter. But now I had received it, and without an hours delay I started in obedience to it. Mr. Dacre I will so call him, for if it so happens that you have never heard of him it will be as well as if I used his real name, and if, as is more than probable, you have known him by reputation, I can thus present him to you without encountering the impediment of a preconception or any possible prejudice arising from association Mr. Dacre, my fathers friend, was hardly known to me. I did not remember that I had seen him even when a child, and I had only heard of him in later years in the vague, fitful way in which travelers hear so much from home. I knew that he had once been very prominent politi- cally, and that he had held high office. I h~d always understood that he was a man of great wealth, and lately I had heard him described as a man of strange character a misanthrope, a pagan. At the most successful moment of his career he had been stricken down by the death of his young wife. He had never fully recovered from the blow. Renouncing power and ambition, he had withdrawn wholly from the world, of which he had been so important a part, and had retired to a great estate in a secluded and beautiful part of a country dis- tant from the scene of his former life. There he lived in splendid solitude. It was near sunset when I arrived, after a VoL. XXXII.7. long journey, at my destination. Looking about me in some perplexity as to what was to become of me, I saw a servant in quiet livery, who immediately approached me and informed me that the carriage was waiting. I entered it at once and was driven rapidly away. I had not gone far when I felt a cool breeze, and soon I caught glimpses of the sea, which in the lowlight of the hour seemed,in the distance, but a dull, slaty expanse. It was abeautiful evening, and as the carriage rolled along the smooth, hard road I fell into a revery in which mem- ories and expectations strangely mingled. I felt that my life had indeed held its way only over the barrens of existence, when such a scene of peaceful beauty brought to me no blossom or blade of tender memory; I won- dered if aught awaited me in these new surroundings that could give me the full, healthy interest I so lately had known. I wondered in a vague, listless fashion if it might be so. That was all. I could not believe such a thing probable or possible. The lights shone in the windows of a cot- tage by the roadside as I passed, and when I reached the stately pile which was Mr. Dacres home, it was too dark to distinguish anything in detail. I could only see the heavy mass of a huge building against a dusky sky. Evi- dently I was not taken to the great entrance, but to a private doorway. A curiously shaped sconce, which seemed almost heavy with a crushed-down throng of lights striving towards uprising, gave forth a subdued glow in the hall through which I was conducted by a servant who, it was plain, had awaited my arrival; but even by this slight illumination I saw something of the internal splendor of the house. The man led me up a flight of stairs, and, after conducting me through a long corridor, ushered me into a suite of spacious rooms looking on the sea. He informed me that dinner would be served in an hour, but that Mr. Dacre desired to see me in the library as soon as I should be ready. I dressed hastily, for I was very eager to meet my host very anxious to learn as soon as possible what I could not doubt was very important to myself. I passed down the main stairway into the central hail and was shown the way to the library. The serried volumes, almost murmur- ous with accumulatedmeaning, thronged along the high walls. As I entered, the only occu- pant of the immense room came forward to ID UNA. 50 meet me. I knew at once this was Mr. Dacre. I had seen many a man who might well awaken reverence or awe, many who held by inheritance or who had won proud position or wide authority, many surrounded by the aureola of rank or crowned by the nimbus of fame, but I had never seen any more striking personage than my fathers friend. I had never seen any man of such personal signifi- cance, of such grand physical aspect, of su9h apparent power and knowledge blended in such harmonious air, and all borne with the habitual grace of one long accustomed to lifes best associations. You are my friends son, he said in strong, resonant voice, adding, as he grasped my hand with the assuring warmth of welcome, You have lost no time in coming. I like that. I told him I could but obey my fathers command so solemnly expressed. Many would have found cause for delay, he said, half to himself. The announcement of dinner interrupted our conversation, but Mr. Dacre lingered as if expecting some one. My daughter Alda is late, he said. She is with her sister. I heard this announcement with great sur- prise, for I did not know that Mr. Dacre had any children. In a moment the door was opened and a young girl entered. Light and frail was the form that met my sight so slight, so fine, that it seemed, in her, human clay had found a hitherto unknown purity. As light through delicate porcelain, so some unearthly radiance shone through the diaph- anous face. She moved as if imponderable, and as she came towards us I saw in her cheek the fair, false glow that tells so surely of ap- proaching death. At dinner we talked only ofindifferent things. I never would have imagined that Mr. Dacres life was one of isolation and monotony. He might still have been the active director of great affairs. Every subject upon which we touched, even such as had only recently caught the attention of the world, seemed entirely familiar to him. Alda spoke little, but in all she said she showed wide knowledge and infinite refine- ment. After she had mentioned her sister, whose name I now first heard was Iduna, I became more than curious to know why she too did not dine with us, but was held from inquiry by some inexplicable feeling. There was no need, however, for inquiry, as Alda almost immediately said: My sister is very young, and has seen hardly any one. She has lived so quiet a life that any change might excite her too much. Instead of producing the calming effect of an explanation, what she said only excited my interest the more. I was not satisfied. I could not understand why I felt as I did, but I was sure something was held from me, that some mystery was here. Dinner came to an end, and Alda rose and left me alone with Mr. Dacre. Though my life had been such as to give me a certain amount of self-confidence, and though contact with the world had long ago brushed away the delicate bloom of youthful shyness, I felt an unaccountable restraint in his presence. It was hardly light enough when I came, I said, at last freeing myself from the momentary constraint, to see the beauty of your place. You will like it, he said, and he spoke with an overmastering sadness that now, since I had seen Alda, I thought I could under- stand, but which I was yet to learn I had lit- tle fathomed. It is a fine place, and I would be glad if people of my race had always lived in it. If it takes three generations to make a gentleman, it takes certainly as many to make a home. It has not always been yours? No. It came to me as you see it, rich in so much that arises from the picturesquely blent life of other days. The present, I said, hardly understanding exactly what I meant, often has unworn at- tractions for me, sometimes more subtle and even more striking than those of the past. It is true, he answered quickly. Our time has its own charm. The humblest life has a meaning that formerly could hardly have belonged to the highest. When our knowledge is so great, when our interests are so complex, when our relations are so broad, when all the world is our home and every man our neighbor, who would wish for the narrow circumstances of an earlier age? He had forgotten himself, and the sentences came with a vigor I had not expected. He continued for some time to talk with the same animation and directness. I hoped that he might make some allusion to the cause of my summons, but he did not. Before I was aware of it I found that without questioning me he had led me to speak of my life, to dis- close almost my inner self. Startled into sud- den consciousness, I felt very much as might an intelligent animalcule aware that he was in the focus of a solar microscope. I knew that my moral and mental fabric was as evi- dent to him as might be the structure of the creature beneath the lenses, and I felt myself powerless to escape. Why he wished so closely to learn the strength, the weakness, the very texture of my character all, in short, that I was I did not discover. ID UNA. You have, he said finally, led the life of many rich and fairly educated young men of the day not doing anything particularly foolish or singularly wise. However, it is more important not to do foolish things in this world than to do wise ones.~~ I replied that although I had no particular ambition, still I did not despair of leading a life which would prove satisfactory to myself, even if it might not be one which would be generally called successful. The truly successful man, he replied, as has already been said of the greatest rogue, is never found out. Success is a bitter- ness, something depending on the power to use men and amuse women. Success, he spoke with a strange intensity, success, a moment of satiety after years of want; for success is always intrenched behind a fail- ure, won through and beyond the fosse of defeat. Success, he continued bitterly, when a man must so often be a charlatan to succeed in the world, a fool to enjoy it, and yet strange paradox a hypocrite to seem satisfied to leave it. We sat at the table a short time, and then went out on the terrace, from which we could look on the sea, now lit by the rising moon. Mr. Dacre told me that Alda could not bear the night air, and added that she always spent the evening with her sister. But little more was said, as he soon left me, telling me that he should not see me at breakfast, but that he hoped to meet me in the library at eleven. oclock in the morning. As I sat smoking late into the night, I pon- dered deeply on what I had heard and seen, seeking a solution of the multiplying ques- tions which arose. I thought of the probable nature of the communication which I could not doubt was to be made to me in the morning; but gradually perhaps because I had long ago exhausted all power of conjec- ture in that direction my thoughts wan- dered. Why had I not seen Iduna? What could be the reason for her seclusion? I hoped that the morrow might bring also an answer to these questions. I arose early, after a night of fitful sleep, and, breakfasting alone, I spent the time be- fore the appointed hour in exploring some part of the extensive grounds. The place was more splendid even than I had thought it. It was exactly eleven when I entered the library and found Mr. Dacre seated where I had first seen him. He seemed wearied, or he was really more worn and older than I had thought him. He did not rise, but, glancing at me, pointed to a chair near his own. I suppose, he began, that you have no idea why I have sent for you ? 5 I said that I had not. You have never thought of marriage? he asked abruptly. I replied, in great amazement, that I never had in any personal sense. Your father and I, he continued, with the same directness and gazing steadfastly at me, as you well know, were dear friends, friends in that rare, long friendship which no doubt dare ever assail, a friendship stronger than life. When my daughter Iduna was born, ten years after yourseig your father and I agreed we but ratified an agreement our life-long friendship seemed to have made for us that you should marry. I was utterly astounded. Although my conjectures had taken, as I supposed, all pos- sible and impossible directions, I had never thought of anything of the nature of this announcement. I did not, or rather I could not reply. It was the wish of your fathers latter life of his death-bed. I sat by that death- bed; I saw the gathering darkness of the great calamity close around him. He was for the moment too much moved for further speech, but he soon controlled himself and went on. I had before seen those I loved pass away, and from my earliest years I had been awed by the consciousness of deaths fearful presence, but not till then did I fully learn lifes lesson. I did not understand him, but I did not even think of asking what he meant. His wish has long been mine, and now, when we first meet in your maturer years, I find it stronger than ever before. He paused for a moment. I promised your father when he died that when Iduna grew older I would inform you of our agreement. In the mean time you were to know nothing of this, you were to be ee; for I would have no inexperienced, Jomesticated, home-taught being, led only by the lines of our compact. I wanted a man, vivid, schooled by eVents, strong *n complete manhood, to win my child, appreciating how much he won. I was so busied with my crowding thoughts that I still sat silent. And now, he continued somewhat hesi- tatingly, I have to disclose something, something which may make all impossible, something which places my child apart from all the world,--something which makes her higher than any living being, something so strange, so exceptional, that you will not at first fully realize the meaning of what I say. I looked at him in wonder. What I am about to reveal to you, he went on, has arisen from the conditions of 52 ID UNA. my own life. I have never known that full, whole happiness which some contend is pos- sible. I have never even known the light heedlessness which passes with the world for happiness. I have never been happy either in the true or the accepted meaning of the word. One by one I have seen those die to whom my heart was bound by every ligament of love. From my young years the world has seemed to me but an endless vault, where the footsteps brought no progress, the voice awoke no echo, where the eye dwelt on no color, and the ear listened to tidings from no real land, through which life struggled to its end, borne down with its one whole truth, the dread truth that all is nothing. Why are the words of the wise man all that there is of wisdom all is vanity? At the time when men should be exultant in their life, their strength, my friend, my true friend, was hurried from me. He hesitated, but almost immediately continued. What I then thought a culmination was after all only a degree of grief. I loved her mother, the strong voice shook. I was doomed to watch her slowly failing strength, to see the beginning, the progress of that insidious disease by which death most stealthily approaches its victims. The children lived, Alda, who I feared might soon follow her mother; Iduna, younger, and strong with the principle of life. I had suffered, and I wished to spare them. Could I not, throughout this life, cheat death himself death, the true source of all our woe, the destroyer of every hope? All life must end, and the bitter knowledge taints its every moment. Faiths to me remember, I speak only of myself seem but the inventions of men, subterfuges, evasions of the truth that there is nothing beyond the grave, evasions that promise much but allay nothing. I would give all I possess for the faith of the humblest, the faith that beyond this life we may be wh.t this magnificent human nature, freed from hindering passion, stripped Qf encumbering flesh, immeasurable in all it is, should be, I would give all for the sweet, the abiding, the all-sustaining faith of the humblest who believes. I was determined that Iduna for Alda already knew the truth should live a life happier than any ever before led by human being. She should know nothing of the taint, the terror of existence. She does noh She does not know that there is such a thing as death. He fell back in his chair exhausted. Through her whole life, he soon con- tinued more, calmly, Iduna has been guarded, kept from the terrible knowledge. She was too young to know of her mothers death. Alda believed that she had inherited the fatal disease, but has always kept such knowledge from her sister. Only thus could Iduna have led the happy life she has. In almost entire renunciation of individual exist- ence, Alda has lived for her sister has given her life, that must at best be short, to make her sister happy. And Iduna has lived as no one has ever lived before, happier than any human being,for of all animate things, boasted, boastful man is the poorest. Look at the lowlier dwellers on the earth the denizens of the air and of the sea. Through their lives they seem filled with the gladness of immortality. The meanest thing that crawls basks in the sunlight of its existence, unchilled by the thought of death. But, he continued, the time has now come for her to learn the truth,for learn it some day, sooner or later, she must. Alda will follow her mother,not soon, I think, for I have done what I could, and then Iduna must know. I have sent for you that you may tell her all. I have sent for you in fulfillment of my agreement with your father. My hope, my whole hope, is now in you. Win her, and under the dominion of strong and revealing love she can best hear the truth. But, I said, I You will find her young and fair, he in- terrupted. Win her, and you will be the happiest among men. But, I continued, I have not the vanity to think I might succeed. She is hardly more than a child. She has seen no one, and if she had, you are not one to fail in finding favor in a young girls eyes. He placed his hand on my shoulder as he spoke, with the greatest kindliness he had yet shown me, and, seeming to loose the tension in which he had held himself he almost smiled. You shall see Iduna at luncheon, he continued. But remember, what you under- take will not be easy. You must not let fall a word which could awaken even an inquiry as to what she does not know. Mr. Dacre arose and silently left me. I did not stir. The wonderful, and even the strange, had always held a charm for me. It seemed that through them I could often best catch glimpses of that underlying princi- ple, that intellectual picturesqueness, that essential of clear, high pleasure, which we, half sneeringly, call romance, that romance which, often hidden,lies in the life of everyone, and which, once discovered, explains much and glorifies all. Already, and with strange forerunning feeling, I was half in love with this young girl, so singularly blessed or cursed. I was so busy with my thoughts that the time passed quickly, and the hour for my pres- entation to Iduna came before I realized it. Mr. Dacre met me, and led me through a JD UNA. long gallery, where, in the pictures on the wall, I recognized the color or the manner of many a great painter, to a part of the house where I had not yet been. He paused before a heavily curtained door, and said to me in a low tone: Be on your guard. The room into which he led me was singu- larly different from the others I had seen. I felt as if I had passed out of some dark cav- ern into the clear noontide. Here all was graceful, fanciful, bright. The broad day fell on light tones and delicate textures. Flowers were everywhere, and through the large, low windows I could see what I can best call a garden, a garden in the meaning of the word in the time of Cowley and Evelyn, with carefully kept walks and trim beds, gay with the blooms of midsummer. Alda was seated at a piano, on which, I noticed, lay a violin, but she rose as we en- tered. I gazed upon her delicate face, where still deepened the expression of calm resigna- tion, with a new interest now that I had been told about her life. Iduna will be here in a moment, she said. Almost as she spoke, a porti?re was lifted and a young girl entered the room. She was not only the most beautiful crea- ture I had ever seen, she seemed a being such as vagrant fancy or imaginations self may only show for a momenta realization of the vision of some rapt, rare hour, Jovelier than I might ever hope to see in life. I would not attempt to describe her had I never seen her again, for I was more than dazzled. Even now I can say little more than that her hair was dark, and that she had dark eyes, eyes that looked steadily at you, trusting, un- hesitating, questioning, as the grave eyes of children, appealing to you for revelation of strange things, wonderful, but by no possi- bility untrue. She seemed the embodiment of youth; of air from out some fresh break in the sky; of sunlight, the only thing in all this material world ever unquestionably new; of all that is healthful and joyous in nature. Good-morning, papa; you are late, she said. I thought you were not coming. I can hear her voice now, so clear and yet so full of meaningvibrant, it almost seemed, with harmonies of far association. Yes, answered Mr. Dacre, but I have brought one who will help me bear any re- proach. I am very glad you have come, she said, looking at me gravely. Papa, I fear some- times, is very lonely. I had been greatly perplexed when I thought what might be the difficulty of avoid- ing allusion to all that I had been told to 53 avoid. But now, when I was in her presence, I felt at once that this would be more than easy. Had I not been told all that I had, I would not have thought that her life had been in any way unusual; she appeared so perfectly natural, and so like any other very intelligent and well-brought-up young girl. He hardly need be so, I said thought- lessly, in my new confidence. One might be utterly happy here without seeing a soul. She looked up at me quickly in a startled way. A soul, she said, and then, pausing a moment, added, I wonder what you mean. Anybody, I replied confusedly, as Alda glanced at me warningly. A soul, she repeated musingly. It must be some new word. We will go to luncheon, said Mr. Dacre, almost sternly. I saw Iduna look at him in surprise as if such tone were new to her, and then follow Alda into the next room. A maid served the dainty luncheon, for Iduna had an independent establishment, and none of the servants were men. I have not seen this part of the grounds, I said, looking out of the window. It is my own garden. Not even Alda touches a leaf in it. There I gather my own roses, she said, and am wounded by my own thorns. It must give you a charming occupation, I replied, resolved to be as safely commonplace as possible; and then, remembering the piano and violin I had seen, I added, But you have others; you are fond of music. Above all else, she answered enthusias- tically, but I like my violin better than my piano, it is a very wonderful one. I will show it to you after luncheon, no, I will get it now, and she impulsively rose. Music is the only thing that is quite safe, said Mr. Dacre after she had left the room. See, she said as she returned with the violin, it was made more than two hundred years ago by a man of the name of Stradi- varius. I am going to ask papa to have him make another for me. She spoke with such simple belief, such con- fidence in what she said, that I did not for the moment appreciate its remarkable nature. It seemed for the instant that the master still livedstill wrought at Cremona. Alda seldom, spoke, and I could see that her eyes followed every motion of her sister with tender interest. She seemed utterly lost in Iduna and to have no thought for herself. It was startling in its strangeness and pathos, the relation existing between these two young girls, so far apart in thought, so close in love, 54 ID UNA. so different, and yet made so alike by the serenity and isolation of their lives. Iduna spoke of herself with the utter unre- serve of a child. I am a little sad sometimes, she said, but papa tells me I live very much as other girls do, only that I am happier than they, and of course he knows. Alda knows much more than I do, and she says as he does; but if I knew as much, I am sure I would not be sat- isfied to live as she does. Sometimes I think I would like something else, what, I do not know. Alda tells me that the world is very large, and I know there is much in it I would like to see. I go to the big globe, and I find a little dot called London, which Alda tells me is a great city where there are millions of people, and then I find another little dot called Paris, which is another great place, where she says that they would understand me if I spoke French; but when I ask papa about them he says they are wicked and ugly. But still I should like to see themonce. I have seen them, I answered, and I am sure that they would only make you un- happy. But, continued Iduna, there are other things. I know about the opera, for Alda has told me, where there is a crowd of peo- ple and wonderful music; and then there are balls where everything is beautiful and you dance. Oh, I sometimes want it all to begin. She paused, and as she gazed afar off, her eyes caught luster from the lights of the vague and brilliant scenes that arose before her. After luncheon, while Mr. Dacre and Alda sat under the shadow of a huge awning, for the noonday heat was great, 1 walked with Iduna in her garden, The fairest garden in her looks, And in her mind something infinitely beyond the wisdom of The wisest books. But does this really interest you ? she asked. Why should it not? I replied. I should think, she said, that a man who can go everywhere would not care for such things. I am sure I should not. But and she stopped suddenly I must not say this. You saw how grieved papa looked at luncheon. Soon we reached a weather-stained stone seat that hjd been placed at a commanding point, and sat down. How beautiful ! I exclaimed involunta- rily, looking out on a wonderful expanse of verdant land and glistening sea. Is it? asked Iduna. 1 have never seen anything else. We looked for a moment in silence on the scene. Tell me about it, she said with a pretty air of command. What? I asked. The great, big world. I am never tired of hearing about it. There must be other beau- tiful places, and it must be full of lovely things and charming people. And of great wrongs and forbidding sights, I added. That is what papa says, she replied sor- rowfully. What a fine dog, I exclaimed, wishing to turn her thoughts in another direction, as a large mastiff took his slow, lounging way down the walk. Is he not handsome? she said. And I have others, and I have birds. Do you know, she continued after an instants hesitation, something so strange happened to one of my birds. What? I asked. About a week ago, she said, speaking with an air of mystery, I found it lying in its cage quite cold and stiff. They said that it was not well, as they say I am ill when my head aches after I have been in the sun, but this was not like that. It lay very still. I do not think that it could move at all. She looked up at me inquiringly. They took it away, and it only came back yesterday. And is that strange? No, and her pure, clear eyes met mine in actual demand. But I do not believe that it is the same bird. Are you not mistaken? No; I am quite sure, she replied. But why did they not bring back my bird? I could make no answer. Mr. Dacre and Alda soon joined us. I saw that he thought I had remained long enough, and therefore, though I would have given much to have seen Iduna longer, I accompanied him on his almost immediate return to the house. Alda did not leave her sister. The coming ofastrangerisa great event in her life, said Mr. Dacre as we walked along, and her excitement, I feared, would be great. He looked at me with his peculiarly piercing glance, evidently striving to see what impres- sion Idunas beauty and grace had made. It was plain that he was satisfied with what he saw, though I doubt if he recognized the full extent of my feeling. Beside all else I felt as if I had stood in some place hallowed by heavens highest attributes, peace and eternal duration. Iduna almost seemed to me the immortal being she thought herself, whose only world could be the world in which she thought she lived. ID UNA. Tell me, I said, how has she been kept in ignorance so long? Love can do much, he answered, and she has always had her sisters care. When her mother died I withdrew from the world. I, who had hitherto known only a fevered and intense existence, desired to live in complete seclusion. My disappearance caused at the time much surprise, but as the years have passed I have been forgotten, and now at last am left in peace. I came here in the hope that my children might escape the disease that I knew threatened them. Here I have ever since remained, with what content mem- ory and prescience allow me. Alda and Iduna have been as you see them, always alone, Alda learning much, that she might teach her sister. And thus Iduna has been able to know all usually known by young girls, except those fictions called histories, and those histories called fictions. And why should she know these ? the first so often false records of actual existences, which, having received the sanction of time, serve the world as well as truths; the second true records of unreal existences, called false because they are but the creatures of imagination, and which in the comparative simplicity of their incompleteness can only be fully understood, and are therefore more truth- ful than the real; existences, however, in that very incompleteness so different from multiform humanity that they are as delusive to the inexperience of youth as they are un- satisfactory to the wisdom of age. It amazed me, and I dwelt upon it after Mr. Dacre had left me, that he should fail to rec- ognize that Iduna could not learn without danger the truth incompatible with every thought of herlife that truth which none of us could bear save through its habitual and famil- iar but almost unrecognized presence. I saw that a great danger threatened her, and I deter- mined that I would, if it were possible, avert it. A few days passed, and already the time when I was away from Iduna seemed a sum of hateful seconds, minutes, hours, to be borne as best it might. I regarded it only as so much superfluous existence. I was torn, worn, per- plexed by all that at its best is pain and at its worst is pleasure. In short, I was in love. I sought the sea, as have the lovers of all ages, and in the ceaseless beat and regular pulse of the changing, changeless waves I seemed to find a certain peace. I sometimes almost brought myself to be- lieve that Iduna was touched with something which, even if recognized, would be inex- plicable to herself something trembling towards love for me. I could hardly believe it possible that such happiness could be mine, and yet it seemed I sometimes saw it saw 55 the unrecognized truth that only the wordless eyes express. Those were very happy days, little prepar- ing us for what was to come. One night Alda, who usually dined with Mr. Dacre and myself, sat with me, as the breeze was soft and warm, on the terrace, in the strong, white moonlight. Iduna, she said, has lately passed the most eventful days of her life. Your own life, I answered, has scarcely been one of greater variety. Not in incident, but in thought; for I have always known of the last great change. You must have found your task some- times a hard one. No, she replied, for it has been no task; it has been a duty which I have loved to fulfill. You know that my belief is the same as my fathers, that our acts only are im- mortal; that every action of our lives starts a series of events that continues always, in- creasing and widening forever. When I was a little girl he explained it all to me. I have always known I must die, as it is called, very soon. She spoke with a calmness pathetic in its deep despair. And in all I have done I have only gone on living a life that is to live. I listened, profoundly moved. The dread of death, she continued, robs us of all real happiness. Could my sister have led the glad life she has, had she known the truth? Would not every hour have been darkened by the coming doom? Could I bring sorrow on one I loved as I loved her, and would I not have done this if she had known all? And now She looked at me in an agony of supplica- tion. Will you, can you help me? she said, in a low, thrilling tone. I will do anything, I answered, any- thing. I have no one to whom I can go for help but you. Your father, I suggested. He least of any one, she said, and I saw that she slightly shuddered. I dare not tell him. Can you not tell me? I asked. I do not know. Wait, I was weak, it was an impulse. I must see what is right. She sat silent for a long time, almost rigid in the intensity of thought. I must go, she said, suddenly rising. Later in the evening when alone I tried to read, to write, but could do neither. My life was strange and difficult. When with Iduna I was forced to assume a gayety I might not feel. I must be no spot in her sunshine, no blot on the face of her fair world. With IDUNA. Alda I felt all the suffering of a life without joy in the present, without hope for the future; I shared her sorrow as I seemed to share Idunas happiness. They were both excellent musicians, play- ing with great skill and feeling, and Iduna Alda did not sing often sang for me with- out the slightest embarrassment, and with the free, natural impulse of a bird. Her voice was pure and rare, and moved me deeply. Then I first noticed a slight shade of care in any- thing she did, and I wondered what could have taught her the low, wild sadness that throbbed in those glorious tones. Her songs were, of course, such as could awaken no sus- picion of the truth kept from her. One day I came upon some sketches made by the sisters, which showed great artis- tic feeling and much technical excellence. How did you learn to do this? I asked Iduna. Oh, she exclaimed, Alda taught me. She has taught me everything. As Iduna always had been, so was she now, deeply interested in the outer world. She regarded me, as a new-coiner from that won- derful place, with the same feeling of awe and admiration with which people of old must have looked upon some one who had just returned from a long and perilous journey through distant and unknown countries. She could not have viewed me with more curios- ity had I been an inhabitant of another world, and indeed I could not have come from one any stranger than the one she pictured to herself. As I realized more and more what she thought, I was more and more amazed. To her Velasquez still wielded his heroic brush, Titian yet created his wondrous tones, and Rembrandt held sway over light and shadow. To her Handel still wrote ora- torios, Mozart operas, and Schubert songs. To her many a great writer of the past, known through verses untouched with mortality, still lived. I wondered how much she had really learned of the great names of history, and I once incautiously spoke of Napoleon. Napoleon, she said; who is he? A very great man. Does he make music orpictures orpoetry? None of these, I answered. But you say he is a very great man. I could not tell her that he was a great soldier, something she could not understand. But what does he make? she insisted. Nothing. Then how is he great? Oh, I know, she exclaimed suddenly; he does a great deal of good. Then how is he great? The ruler of a people is always great, i answered evasively. But he is only great because he can do so much good, she replied triumphantly. So you see I was right. I tried to learn her simple ideas of the con- ditions of life. I found that she had not hitherto sought to explain much; indeed, she had not been allowed to see much that she would think should be explained. She lived absolutely secluded, and never talked with any one except her father, Alda, and myself. I like, she said, to think of the crowded world, to imagine myself in cities, to fancy that I wander through their streets, to listen to the sound of many voices. I wonder if what I think is at all like what they really are. I could not tell her how much her radiant visions differed from reality. Within a few days I again found myself alone with Alda on the terrace. I want, she said hurriedly, to finish what I began to tell you. Yes, I answered, and I felt that what she was about to say was of such a nature as to preclude formal speech. I have not dared to tell my father. I do not know how he could bear it. I have struggled alone with my sorrow. She paused, looking wistfully out over the sea. I shall not live much longer. I uttered an abrupt exclamation of dissent. I am not as strong as you all think I am. Day by day I have striven to appear well, but I am afraid I cannot much longer maintain the deception. At any moment I may be too weak to act my part, and I tremble to think of what will happen to him to Iduna. I saw in an instant of fearful recognition the terrors of the impending catastrophe. If Mr. Dacre were called upon again to bear the visitation of his dread enemy,if Iduna were suddenly to learn that she must thus part from her sister, and that every thought of her life was mistaken, I could but fear the worst. I ask you for help, she said. I have, as I told you, no one else to whom I can go. What can I do? I asked eagerly. What- ever you want me to do I will do. My father must know the truth. And you wish me to tell him, I exclaimed, almost in terror. Yes. I cannot do it. I stood appalled at the difficulty, the pain- fulness of what she proposed, but never for an instant did I think of refusing to do as she wished. I will tell him, I answered quickly, that you say you are not as strong as he thinks you arenot that you fear the worst. Indeed, I added, I cannot believe that I need say that. ID UNA. Even what you tell him will shock him greatly, she said, entirely disregarding the latter part of what I had said. But he must be told. Wait wait, she said suddenly. Wait at least another day. I may be better. I will find an opportunity to tell you what to do. I must think. I passed a night of agonizing thought. I could only hope that Alda, overcome by mor- bid fancies, imagined herself worse than she really was. I could only await, with what cour- age and confidence I might, the course of events. I was more impressed than ever with the strangeness of my position when I met Jduna on the following morning. She was standing with the bright sunlight falling on her, and the scarlet, yellow and purple glories of the summer about her. In her hand she held a dead butterfly. It was a wondrous allegory, this fair young creature looking with such gentle interest at this emblem of the soul. I thought she gazed upon it as some angel might upon some newly disembodied spirit. See, she said, glancing up perplexedly from the gorgeously colored thing, some- thing is the matter with it. I think it must be broken. She spoke as she might of a watch that had stopped running. Yes, I answered, as if in inquiry, and anxiously awaiting what she might say. Will it never fly again? she asked. I affected to examine it with great care. It is very strange, she went on, but what becomes of them when they are broken? Are they not mended? No, I replied. Why? I suppose, I answered, no one cares enough for them. But I do the beautiful thing. Take it, she said, with an air of authority, placing the dead insect in my hand, and have it mended. She was for a moment lost in deep thought, and then asked: But are people never broken? I dared not answer. If I should fall from the top of the cliff, I should be broken? Yes, I replied. And then I should be mended, she con- tinued meditatively. It is all very strange. I never thought of it before. I once saw a man who had but one arm. He looked very poor. I suppose he was mended badly. My presence in her fathers house had awakened, her to many an inquiry, and she seemed now on the very verge of the great discovery. Mr. Dacre told me that she had 57 changed greatly in a short time. Heretofore she had heard everything with the simple confidence of childhood, and indeed, in much, she was but a child. But now she seemed to have grown suddenly older, and there ap- peared a vague doubt in her voice, and a certain misgiving in her eyes. Still her world seemed really untouched; still she lived among her own fair visions, thinking Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought. But in her mind there was unaccustomed activity, intermittent, but evidently increasing. I remember that very day we saw a bird soaring in the air, and that she murmured the first half-dozen stanzas of Shelleys Sky- lark. Spirit? I interrupted. Oh, she answered, do you not under- stand?a fairy. Do you believe in fairies? I asked. Of course, she answered, looking at me in surprise. Do not you? Some do not, I said. How very strange, she replied wonder- ingly. But everything is very strange now. I feel as I never have felt before. I feel as if I were far away somewhere in a place I had never seen before. I feel as if I were lost. She seemed indeed lost in vague wonder- ment, and to distract her attention I asked her if she knew the rest. Oh, yes, she answered, with a quick re- turn to her own glad self. She repeated the last four stanzas. The others had evidently not been taught to her. I awaited all day, with great anxiety, the promised message from Alda, but none came. I tried to hope that all might still be well. But in the evening what little confidence I had was in a moment destroyed. You must tell him, she whispered hur- riedly, as I held back a curtain for her to pass. Tell him the most that you think is right. After she had taken a step or two she turned back. Tell him soon, she said; tell him to- morrow. I felt that we were on the verge of some terrible experience. I could not but believe that what she feared must soon come to pass. Her accents of anguish carried conviction, and I shuddered at the thought of what might be immediately before us. Early the next morning I received a hurried note from Mr. Dacre begging me to come to him with all speed. Before he spoke I saw that his anguish was terrible. ID UNA. Alda, he said, shudderingly, is very ill. With a quick prescience of impending evil that only long suffering could give, he fore- saw all. I had not expected so rude an awakening. I asked him what he had done, and learned that he had sent to the metropolis for a famous physician who was to come with all the speed unlimited expenditure could make possible. Iduna had often been left alone while Alda was with Mr. Dacre, and it was therefore easy to keep her from suspecting anything. I would be able satisfactorily to answer any inquiry about her sister by saying that she was busy with her father. As I entered the room I paused for an instant at the door. Iduna was singing, and I caught the refrain of a song I had written for her: A grief that comes Is a joy when sped; And a joy, after all, Is a grief when fled. What do you know, I asked, trying to speak cheerfully, of griefs and joys? Oh, very much. What is a grief? I asked, and I thought that she might soon know grief greater than she could bear. A grief, it is when the winter comes, when the night draws on, when the day is dark with clouds. Her deep sympathy with nature was height- ened by her utter ignorance of anything really like human experience, and she there found a source for grief which is common to us all. I thought that indeed sorrow must be equal in all lives. Her sensitive nature felt the mourn- ful aspects of the outer world with singular intensity, and she was as much affected by such subtle and generally disregarded influences as is an ordinary mortal by the harrowing oc- currences of life. And joy? I continued. It is when you hear gay music, when the flowers come, and when the sun shines. Music for her but expressed the changing phases of nature. To her it had never sobbed a dirge or pealed a requiem. During the afternoon the physician arrived. We awaited what he might say in agonizing suspense. I was with Mr. Dacre when the opinion was given, and I could see that he tried to prepare himself to hear the worst. The great physician, with that gentle, scarcely broken impassibility, which, as a frequent bearer of the tidings of death, he had insensibly acquired, spoke hesitatingly, but positively. He tried to break all to us as gently as possible, but did not attempt to conceal the truth. There was no room for hope. The disease has made such inroads, he said finally, that I must warn you that the end may be very near. Mr. Dacre did not even raise his head. He said nothing until we were alone, and then he burst wildly forth: Again the curse has come upon me. Again must I endure the unutterable agony of a last parting. Death, Death, my enemy and my conqueror, when will you complete your work and make me your grateful victim? He paused in sudden thought. But Iduna, he exclaimed. She cannot be told, I said decisively; it might kill her. It might kill her! he repeated slowly as if at first he did not apprehend what I said; and then he added, as if its full meaning had suddenly flooded in upon him with all the anguish and dismay it could bring, I had thought she might live on happily, and that when she learned the truth her happy years would help her to bear it. It might kill her! Outraged death fills me with a new terror. His grief and horror overcame him. What can be done? he asked at length helplessly. We must tell her that Alda is going away, I answered, feeling that something must in- deed be done, and being unable in my con- sternation to think of anything better. Yes, he replied obediently. We will gain time, Alda may recover, all may be well yet. I went immediately to Iduna, whom I now felt it my duty to protect. She again asked for Alda, and I told her that she was busy with her father, thinking it wise to delay as much as possible the announcement that her sister was going away. She was painting, and she showed me her work. Is it like a city? she asked. It was the city of a dream. Tall palaces rose one above another, fountains plashed in the great squares, and through the marble ways poured throngs of people, clad in gold and purple. On the broad, dark waters of the harbor rode stately ships, while a sky of per- fect blue bent down to meet the dim and distant mountains. Faulty though the work might be, and inspired as it was by the pictures of Turner, the effect was indescribable. It was a vision dazzling, bewildering, beautiful, that she alone could have seen. As the day passed, Alda became stronger and asked to see her sister. Though no real farewell was possible, she wished to speak once more to Iduna. Unnatural, horrible even as such an interview must be, who could deny her this last request? She insisted, I was after- wards told, on rising, and leaning on her ID UNA. 59 father, almost carried by him,she reached Idunas apartments. I would have withdrawn, but Mr. Dacre motioned me to remain. You have not come all day, said Iduna reproachfully. Alda, as soon as she was in the presence of her sister, seemed to regain her strength in a marvelous manner. Yes. Why? I am going away. Going away! repeated Iduna in wonder. Yes. Oh, I am so glad! I involuntarily put out my hand, seeking support. Glad glad, Iduna! said Alda slowly. Yes. Glad, so very glad! You will see so much, and when you come back you will tell it all to me. But, said Alda, and to me who knew her infinite anguish it seemed she spoke with a calmness not of the earth, I may be gone a long time. A long time, answered Iduna in amaze- ment. There is no long time. We have all time. What can it matter? Nothing. And you will see the world, you will see all of which we have talked and dreamed. How happy you will be. If you are happy, then I am happy. I am happy, only and she paused. I should be so glad to go with you. It is a journey upon which I must go alone. Where? I do not know. And why? I cannot tell. Will papa go with you? Already Aldas strength was failing; in- deed, I do not think she could have borne longer the agony of that last, strange parting. Shall I see you again before you go ? Iduna asked. No, replied Alda, for the first time losing her marvelous self-control. I am going now. I shall think of you every moment, said Iduna gently. Parting had, in her belief that life was endless, no meaning such as embitters the slightest separation from those we love. Mr. Dacre had stood as if stupefied by be- numbing woe. His eyes were fixed and mean- ingless and his lips painfully rigid. He looked like one in a trance. As the sisters drew close in an embrace which I knew would be the last, I turned away. Once out of Idunas sight, Aldas will sus tamed her no longer, and she sank uncon- scious. I feared that the end might come even then, and waited for some time before I returned to Iduna. I expected that she would immediately ask me if her sister had gone, but the thought that Alda would have remained after parting with her would have been im- possible to her. The sky, which for days had been the per- fection of calm, clear blue, now seemed hazy and hot, and in the distance could be heard the low rumble of thunder. I saw Iduna start, and that a slight tremor passed over her. You are afraid, I said. It is terrible, she exclaimed. If it comes while Alda is away, I do not know what I shall do. The hours dragged slowly by, and leaving Iduna, I sought news of Alda. Mr. Dacre was with her, and the attendants said that she was sinking fast. I returned to Iduna. She was gazing pensively upon the land- scape, which now lay under the lessening light of a fair sunset sky; for, as sometimes hap- pens towards evening, the threatening heavens had cleared and all was soft and golden. I have been thinking of Alda, she said. Yes. I feel a sadness that I never knew before. I wonder why she went. She told you that she must. She told me she could not tell me why she went, but she will tell me some time. I had often been struck with Idunas sim- ple faith, and was not now surprised at her content with our inadequate explanation. Nothing seemed unnatural to her, for the rea- son that all her life was so unnatural. The wildest fancy of the most marvelous fairy tale would have seemed, in her ample trust, possi- ble and usual. I do not feel as if I were myself, she con- tinued, rising and walking rapidly up and down. Something is coming something I cannot understand. What? I asked. I feel as if a darkness had fallen over everything. Indeed, she seemed strangely changed. A fear lay in her eyes that I had never seen before. But I will think of Alda, she continued. I will try and imagine where she is. I will think of her in the world so new to her. I will think of her looking with wondering eyes on so many strange things. I will think of her away off in that great wide place. Her words were hideous to me in their ter- rible significance. Alda might indeed be in a new, strange world, stranger even than Iduna 6o ID UNA. could imagine, so strange that philosopher or visionary in all earths generations has never been able even to approach conception of it. That night Alda died. She was conscious until the last, and even at that supreme moment thought, as she had done all her life long, of others rather than herself. She spoke cheeringly to her father, trying to comfort him in his unutterable agony. She did not speak of Iduna, except to repeat her name again and again in tones of longing tenderness. When I heard some time after midnight that the end had come, I went out into the darkness, in my grief I could not endure the confining walls, and paced the echoing terrace until the sun rose. I did not see Mr. Dacre. He had not left the room where Alda died, and now sat, the physician told me, speechless by her side. I found Iduna as she had been the day be- fore, disturbed, restless, almost wild. Tell me, she said, coming eagerly to- wards me, has Alda really gone? Yes, I answered. She could not know in what sense her sister had gone from her. I did not know. I have been thinking all night; it seemed that you were all keeping something from ~ Evidently she did not expect an answer; I did not make any. I remember, she continued, that a long time ago, a very long time ago, I once saw a book that had a strange word in it. I do not know why I remember it now, unless for the reason that it is the only thing that has ever really troubled me, and that now when I am so sad I think of it. You must not trouble yourself about a word, I said, but she did not hear me. The accumulated questionings of years of vague uncertainty seemed to be taking form. As steam, at first invisible, becomes perceptible vapor as it rises, and finally falls in drops, so were the dim exhalations of her doubts re- solving themselves into questions. It was a little word, she went on, and I asked Alda what it meant, but she said it was something I must not know. How could a word mean something I must not know ? Remember that I loved her passionately, wholly, unquestioningly, and you will perhaps understand with what torture I heard her speak as she did. I could do nothing to help her. I could only try and keep her from learning that ghastly truth which, suddenly heard in all its awful entirety, none could bear. She said I must not know what it meant, and so I cannot ask you about it. There are things, then, we should not know? Yes, I answered. How strange! The world seems stranger every day. And must we not know, too, why we must not know? Often. The day was intensely hot, and I told Iduna that the heavy, stifling atmQsphere had affected her. No, she replied, but I feel as if some- thing was to happen. I feel as I do before the thunder and the lightning come. I feel what Alda told me is called terror. About noon a servant informed me that Mr. Dacre desired to see me. I was to meet him in the library. When I entered no one was there, and as I stood wait- ing all the incidents of my stay in the house passed in rapid review. I thought of the happy, peaceful hours that at first flew so swiftly by, hours in which my love for Iduna had grown to an overmastering passion. I thought of Aldas first appeal to me that night on the moonlit terrace, a night that seemed so very far away and yet was in reality so near. I thought of that last interview between the sisters. Mr. Dacre entered. I could not believe it possible that such a change could have taken place in so short a time. He came towards me with the bent form and hesitating step of great age. As he slowly approached, I could see how his cheeks had fallen, how sunken were his eyes. His very voice was different no longer of rich, vigorous tone, but weak and quavering. Iduna, he said, is she well? Yes, I replied. She does not know? he continued. But she must. In time she must. It might kill her now. I have dared too much, he said wildly. This is my punishment. My faith in faith- lessness is gone. That indefinable power that men in all ages have held in awe in the fair deities of the ancient world, in the harsh tyrants of untutored savages, in the more perfect conceptions of a later timethat power I have outraged. Thisthis is my retribution. I caught him as he fell, and, placing him in a chair, I dispatched a servant for the physi- cian. Mr. Dacre had fainted. As the restora- tives were applied I happened to glance through the window. The oppressive heat of the day was not lessened by a breeze, and I saw that dark, heavy clouds, glowing with a yellowish purple, were rising over the sea. It was the storm that had threatened through the day. The clouds came on with the swift- ness, the apparent intensity of purpose pecu- liar to the summer, and low, but deep, I could A BETROTHAL. 6i hear the mutter of the thunder. I thought of Iduna, but at that moment the physician called upon me to assist him. I felt the first hot, sickening gust of a newly awakened wind, and saw a blinding, brilliant flash of lightning. I could hear the stroke of the rising waves on the beach. A deep gloom overspread earth and sea. The big drops of the hastening rain began to fall, and the lightning was almost incessant, the roar of the storm continuous. The wind blew a hurricane. The rain fell, it almost seemed, in a solid, steely mass, and in the wind and darkness the tumult was inde- scribable. Remembering Idunas fear of the thunder, I longed to return to her, but stood for a moment irresolute, doubting if I should leave her father. Suddenly, together, there came a crash as if the world itself were shattered,a flash, a starting sinew on the arm of God. The bolt had struck the house. I stood appalled. I could hear the rush of the frightened servants through the halls, and then there was comparative stillness. What a shriek I My heart seemed to stop beating. I started in the direction of the sound. Hastening on, I came to the room from which the cry pro- ceeded. I paused upon the threshold, stunned by what I saw. Iduna lay upon the dead body of her sister. In the excitement of the moment, and abandoned by her attendants, in her terror of the storm, she had fled to seek her father, andshe was alone with death. Hearing me approach, she looked quickly up. Help me help me! she cried agoniz- ingly. What can have happened? I cannot awaken her; she is so white and cold and still. I am afraid of my sister. Alda! Alda I Even in her terror it seemed she sought with multiplied kisses to give warmth, motion to the inanimate body. I stood in speechless horror. I could not tell her that her sister would never awake again. I could not then reveal this terror and mystery of the world. I could not tell her what it was. I could not tell her that this was death awful in any form even to those who through life have anticipated its coming. Can you do nothing? she cried in piti- ful anguish, as she looked up at me. Nothing. Is it true ? she exclaimed, while a strange, tremulous look as if reason itself were shaken came into her eyes. Is this the thing I feared? She grasped my arm and spoke almost in a whisper. Is this what I once dreamed something that must come when we can neither move nor breathe nor speak? I thought, she continued, her voice becoming hoarse, almost raspingly hoarse in horror, it was not true, and yet I dared not ask. Tell me, she spoke so low that I could hardly hear her as she pointed to her sister, is this that word death? I did not speak. It is true, she shrieked, and starting back from me she fell to the floor. THIS strange story was told to me by an old friend whom I had not seen for a long time. He told it to me as we sat before the sinking fire in the last hours of a winter night. We had been at the great ball of the year, and he had come home with me. As he fin- ished the flame flickered low, and I noticed that the gray light of morning was beginning to steal through the curtains. A white rose dropped from his button-hole and fell among the ashes of many cigars. Did she die? No, he answered slowly and gently. Within eventless walls where even the pres- ent time seems measureless, Iduna lives. She is one of a religious sisterhood. She seeks the immortality she once thought was hers. George A. Hit5bard. A BETROTHAL. 1 LOVE you, he whispered low I In joy, for a moment bold; And suddenly, white as snow, The warm little hand grew cold. I love you, again he said, And touched the soft finger-tips; But shyly she bent her head To hide the two trembling lips. I love you: she turned her face. His heart overfilled with fear; When lo, on her cheek the trace Of one tiny passion-tear! I love you, he gently spoke And kissed her, sweet, tearful-eyed; The rose-blossom fetters broke: I love you, too, they replied. Frank Demps/er Sherman.

A BETROTHAL. 6i hear the mutter of the thunder. I thought of Iduna, but at that moment the physician called upon me to assist him. I felt the first hot, sickening gust of a newly awakened wind, and saw a blinding, brilliant flash of lightning. I could hear the stroke of the rising waves on the beach. A deep gloom overspread earth and sea. The big drops of the hastening rain began to fall, and the lightning was almost incessant, the roar of the storm continuous. The wind blew a hurricane. The rain fell, it almost seemed, in a solid, steely mass, and in the wind and darkness the tumult was inde- scribable. Remembering Idunas fear of the thunder, I longed to return to her, but stood for a moment irresolute, doubting if I should leave her father. Suddenly, together, there came a crash as if the world itself were shattered,a flash, a starting sinew on the arm of God. The bolt had struck the house. I stood appalled. I could hear the rush of the frightened servants through the halls, and then there was comparative stillness. What a shriek I My heart seemed to stop beating. I started in the direction of the sound. Hastening on, I came to the room from which the cry pro- ceeded. I paused upon the threshold, stunned by what I saw. Iduna lay upon the dead body of her sister. In the excitement of the moment, and abandoned by her attendants, in her terror of the storm, she had fled to seek her father, andshe was alone with death. Hearing me approach, she looked quickly up. Help me help me! she cried agoniz- ingly. What can have happened? I cannot awaken her; she is so white and cold and still. I am afraid of my sister. Alda! Alda I Even in her terror it seemed she sought with multiplied kisses to give warmth, motion to the inanimate body. I stood in speechless horror. I could not tell her that her sister would never awake again. I could not then reveal this terror and mystery of the world. I could not tell her what it was. I could not tell her that this was death awful in any form even to those who through life have anticipated its coming. Can you do nothing? she cried in piti- ful anguish, as she looked up at me. Nothing. Is it true ? she exclaimed, while a strange, tremulous look as if reason itself were shaken came into her eyes. Is this the thing I feared? She grasped my arm and spoke almost in a whisper. Is this what I once dreamed something that must come when we can neither move nor breathe nor speak? I thought, she continued, her voice becoming hoarse, almost raspingly hoarse in horror, it was not true, and yet I dared not ask. Tell me, she spoke so low that I could hardly hear her as she pointed to her sister, is this that word death? I did not speak. It is true, she shrieked, and starting back from me she fell to the floor. THIS strange story was told to me by an old friend whom I had not seen for a long time. He told it to me as we sat before the sinking fire in the last hours of a winter night. We had been at the great ball of the year, and he had come home with me. As he fin- ished the flame flickered low, and I noticed that the gray light of morning was beginning to steal through the curtains. A white rose dropped from his button-hole and fell among the ashes of many cigars. Did she die? No, he answered slowly and gently. Within eventless walls where even the pres- ent time seems measureless, Iduna lives. She is one of a religious sisterhood. She seeks the immortality she once thought was hers. George A. Hit5bard. A BETROTHAL. 1 LOVE you, he whispered low I In joy, for a moment bold; And suddenly, white as snow, The warm little hand grew cold. I love you, again he said, And touched the soft finger-tips; But shyly she bent her head To hide the two trembling lips. I love you: she turned her face. His heart overfilled with fear; When lo, on her cheek the trace Of one tiny passion-tear! I love you, he gently spoke And kissed her, sweet, tearful-eyed; The rose-blossom fetters broke: I love you, too, they replied. Frank Demps/er Sherman. CONTROL. O HUNGER, Hunger, I will harness thee And make thee harrow all my spirits glebe. Of old the blind bard Herve sang so sweet He made a wolf to plow his land. Sidney Lanier. PARALLEL with the eastern and western shores of the bay of San Francisco, and flanking the beautiful and fertile Santa Clara valley south of that inland sea, stretch the inner and outer Coast Ranges of California. The inner range is the more commanding of the two, owing to its higher elevation and bolder front. It rises abruptly from a narrow plain bordering the eastern side of the bay; and, in one unbroken line drawn across the eastern horizon, it stretches southward until lost in the hazy distance. A person standing at the south end of San Francisco Bay and running the eye along the ridge of this range, after the sun has passed the meridian, will observe, almost due east, a point of light of dazzling brilliancy on the top of what appears to be a small flat-topped knob, no larger ap- parently than a half-section of a billiard-bali. The little knob is the summit of Mount Ham- ilton, the highest peak in the range, and named after the late Rev. Laurentine Hamil- ton; and the bright point of light is the reflection of the sun from the north dome of the Lick Observatory, from fifteen to twenty miles off as the crow flies. The donor, James Lick, was born at Fred- ericksburg, Lebanon County, Pennsylvania, August 25, 1796. He began life as an organ and piano maker, first at Hanover, Pennsyl- vania, then at Baltimore, Maryland. In 1820 he started in business on his own account in Philadelphia, but soon after emigrated to Buenos Ayres, where for ten years he success- fully prosecuted his trade. He subsequently moved to Valparaiso and later to California, where he arrived with a moderate fortune in the latter part of 1847. He spent the remain- der of his days in California, dying in San Fran- cisco October I, 1876, leaving an estate worth nearly $4,000,000. He was such an unlovable, eccentric, solitary, selfish, and avaricious character that, it may be fairly said, had it not been for one of the last acts of his life, he would have died unwept, unhonored, and unsung. This one act was a contradiction of his whole life. A little more than two years before his death Mr. Lick conveyed all of his great fortune by trust-deed to a board of trustees, to be divided mainly among public charities, and for the erection of important public, industrial, scientific, and hygienic in- stitutions. For reasons never publicly ex- plained, the instrument was twice revoked before his death, and a new board of trustees appointed each time, the last having been appointed only a month before he died. The Lick estate, at the time of James Licks death, consisted largely of unimproved real estate in San Francisco and elsewhere in the State. The most important improved property was the hotel in San Francisco bearing Licks name and the Lick mill near San Jos6. In connection with the latter there is an in- teresting romantic story. It is said that in Licks younger days he courted a well-to-do Pennsylvania millers daughter, but his suit was successfully opposed by the old miller on

CONTROL. O HUNGER, Hunger, I will harness thee And make thee harrow all my spirits glebe. Of old the blind bard Herve sang so sweet He made a wolf to plow his land. Sidney Lanier. PARALLEL with the eastern and western shores of the bay of San Francisco, and flanking the beautiful and fertile Santa Clara valley south of that inland sea, stretch the inner and outer Coast Ranges of California. The inner range is the more commanding of the two, owing to its higher elevation and bolder front. It rises abruptly from a narrow plain bordering the eastern side of the bay; and, in one unbroken line drawn across the eastern horizon, it stretches southward until lost in the hazy distance. A person standing at the south end of San Francisco Bay and running the eye along the ridge of this range, after the sun has passed the meridian, will observe, almost due east, a point of light of dazzling brilliancy on the top of what appears to be a small flat-topped knob, no larger ap- parently than a half-section of a billiard-bali. The little knob is the summit of Mount Ham- ilton, the highest peak in the range, and named after the late Rev. Laurentine Hamil- ton; and the bright point of light is the reflection of the sun from the north dome of the Lick Observatory, from fifteen to twenty miles off as the crow flies. The donor, James Lick, was born at Fred- ericksburg, Lebanon County, Pennsylvania, August 25, 1796. He began life as an organ and piano maker, first at Hanover, Pennsyl- vania, then at Baltimore, Maryland. In 1820 he started in business on his own account in Philadelphia, but soon after emigrated to Buenos Ayres, where for ten years he success- fully prosecuted his trade. He subsequently moved to Valparaiso and later to California, where he arrived with a moderate fortune in the latter part of 1847. He spent the remain- der of his days in California, dying in San Fran- cisco October I, 1876, leaving an estate worth nearly $4,000,000. He was such an unlovable, eccentric, solitary, selfish, and avaricious character that, it may be fairly said, had it not been for one of the last acts of his life, he would have died unwept, unhonored, and unsung. This one act was a contradiction of his whole life. A little more than two years before his death Mr. Lick conveyed all of his great fortune by trust-deed to a board of trustees, to be divided mainly among public charities, and for the erection of important public, industrial, scientific, and hygienic in- stitutions. For reasons never publicly ex- plained, the instrument was twice revoked before his death, and a new board of trustees appointed each time, the last having been appointed only a month before he died. The Lick estate, at the time of James Licks death, consisted largely of unimproved real estate in San Francisco and elsewhere in the State. The most important improved property was the hotel in San Francisco bearing Licks name and the Lick mill near San Jos6. In connection with the latter there is an in- teresting romantic story. It is said that in Licks younger days he courted a well-to-do Pennsylvania millers daughter, but his suit was successfully opposed by the old miller on

CONTROL. O HUNGER, Hunger, I will harness thee And make thee harrow all my spirits glebe. Of old the blind bard Herve sang so sweet He made a wolf to plow his land. Sidney Lanier. PARALLEL with the eastern and western shores of the bay of San Francisco, and flanking the beautiful and fertile Santa Clara valley south of that inland sea, stretch the inner and outer Coast Ranges of California. The inner range is the more commanding of the two, owing to its higher elevation and bolder front. It rises abruptly from a narrow plain bordering the eastern side of the bay; and, in one unbroken line drawn across the eastern horizon, it stretches southward until lost in the hazy distance. A person standing at the south end of San Francisco Bay and running the eye along the ridge of this range, after the sun has passed the meridian, will observe, almost due east, a point of light of dazzling brilliancy on the top of what appears to be a small flat-topped knob, no larger ap- parently than a half-section of a billiard-bali. The little knob is the summit of Mount Ham- ilton, the highest peak in the range, and named after the late Rev. Laurentine Hamil- ton; and the bright point of light is the reflection of the sun from the north dome of the Lick Observatory, from fifteen to twenty miles off as the crow flies. The donor, James Lick, was born at Fred- ericksburg, Lebanon County, Pennsylvania, August 25, 1796. He began life as an organ and piano maker, first at Hanover, Pennsyl- vania, then at Baltimore, Maryland. In 1820 he started in business on his own account in Philadelphia, but soon after emigrated to Buenos Ayres, where for ten years he success- fully prosecuted his trade. He subsequently moved to Valparaiso and later to California, where he arrived with a moderate fortune in the latter part of 1847. He spent the remain- der of his days in California, dying in San Fran- cisco October I, 1876, leaving an estate worth nearly $4,000,000. He was such an unlovable, eccentric, solitary, selfish, and avaricious character that, it may be fairly said, had it not been for one of the last acts of his life, he would have died unwept, unhonored, and unsung. This one act was a contradiction of his whole life. A little more than two years before his death Mr. Lick conveyed all of his great fortune by trust-deed to a board of trustees, to be divided mainly among public charities, and for the erection of important public, industrial, scientific, and hygienic in- stitutions. For reasons never publicly ex- plained, the instrument was twice revoked before his death, and a new board of trustees appointed each time, the last having been appointed only a month before he died. The Lick estate, at the time of James Licks death, consisted largely of unimproved real estate in San Francisco and elsewhere in the State. The most important improved property was the hotel in San Francisco bearing Licks name and the Lick mill near San Jos6. In connection with the latter there is an in- teresting romantic story. It is said that in Licks younger days he courted a well-to-do Pennsylvania millers daughter, but his suit was successfully opposed by the old miller on A CALIFORNIANS GIFT TO SCIENCE. 63 the ground of Licks poverty. The erection of the mill near San Jos6 is said to have been the fulfillment of a vow, made at the time of his rejected suit, to build a mill which should be far superior to that of the Pennsylvania miller. He is reputed to have spent $200,000 in its construction. The interior was finished in costly California woods, highly polished. It is safe to say there never was built in the world a mill like it in this respect, and before it was burned it was regarded as one of the curiosities of the neighborhood. After bequeathing a number of small lega- cies, ranging from $2000 to $5000 each, to a number of James Licks friends and relatives, the trust-deed provided for the expenditure of $700,000 for the construction and equip- ment of an astronomical observatory for the University of California. Then $25,000 was bequeathed to the San Francisco Protestant Asylum; the same amount to the city of San J os6, for the construction and support of a similar institution; $io,ooo for the purchase of scientific and mechanical works for the use of the Mechanics Institute of San Francisco; $io,ooo to the California Society for the Pre- vention of Cruelty to Animals; $~ooo for the erection at Fredericksburg, Pennsylvania, of a granite monument to the memory of Licks mother; similar amounts for the same pur- pose in respect to his father, grandfather, and sister; $ioo,ooo for the founding of The Old Ladies Home at San Francisco; $~~o- ooo for the erection and maintenance of free public baths in San Francisco; $6o,ooo for the erection of a bronze monument in Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, to the memory of Francis Scott Key, author of the song, The Star-Spangled Banner; $ioo,ooo for a group of bronze statuary representing the history of California, to be erected at the City Hall of San Francisco; $540,000 for the founding and erection of a California School of Mechanical Arts; and $i~o,ooo to John H. Lick. To avoid what threatened to be a long, costly, and uncertain lawsuit, involving the sanity of James Lick and the validity of the trust-deed, the trustees increased the amount assigned to John H. Lick to $535,000. After all these bequests shall have been paid, the residue of the estate, if any there be, is to be divided equally between the California Acad- emy of Sciences and the Society of California Pioneers, both of which organizations had previously received donations of valuable pieces of real estate from Mr. Lick. From the foregoing it will be seen that an observatory for the University of California was the most cherished of all of Mr. Licks pet schemes of public benefaction. There is good reason to believe that he had nursed the idea for a great many years before he began to put it into practical shape. His am- bition concerning it knew no bounds. He imposed the obligation in the trust-deed of erecting a powerful telescope, superior to and more powerful than any telescope yet made. At the time the trust-deed was made the largest telescopes in existence were the twenty-six-inch refractor in the Naval Ob- servatory at Washington, D. C., and Lord Rosses six-foot reflector at Parsontown, Ire- land. The Washington telescope was erected in 1873, and it was then considered that the limit of possibility in the size of an achromatic objective had been reached. Since then, how- ever, Grubb, the English manufacturer, has constructed a twenty-seven-inch refractor for the Imperial Observatory at Vienna, Austria; and the makers of the United States Naval Observatory telescope Alvan Clark & Sons, Cambridgeport, Massachusetts have made another twenty-six-inch refractor for the Uni- versity of Virginia, and a splendid thirty-inch glass for the Imperial Observatory at Pulkowa, Russia, which was not long ago accepted by Baron Struve, the Imperial Astronomer. The contracts for these large glasses were made while the board of Lick trustees were engaged in removing the obstacles which stood for a time in the way of executing the trust-deed. When they were, therefore, ready to let a contract for a telescope superior and more powerful than any telescope yet made, they found themselves compelled to choose between a refractor with an aperture of more than thirty inches in diameter and a reflector exceeding seventy-two inches in diameter. Their choice was in favor of attempting the former. In January, i88i, they contracted with Alvan Clark & Sons for the manufacture of an achromatic astronomical object-glass of thirty-six inches clear aperture (this being the largest the Clarks would venture to con- tract for), to be delivered November I, 1883. The price was fifty thousand dollars, of which amount twelve thousand dollars was paid when the contract was signed. The flint-glass disk was successfully cast by Feil & Sons, Paris, France, early in 1882, and has since then been in the hands of Alvan Clark & Sons. Its companion, the crown-glass disk, was cast and ready for shipment at the close of 1882, but the material was so brittle that it unfortunately cracked in packing. The difficulties attending the casting of the crown disk have been extraordinary. No glass of the dimensions required had ever been cast or attempted before the Lick Observatory contract was awarded to the Clarks. Thirty or more blocks were cast by the Feils before one was obtained that would be acceptable. 64 A CALIFORNIANS GIFT TO SCIENCE. The wrecks are arrayed along the walls of their factory as curiosities. The first block, as has been already stated, was broken in pack- ing for shipment. Many contained irremedi- able flaws. Others were destroyed in anneal- ing, and others again were damaged beyond repair in cooling. At one time the prospects of the great telescope appeared hopeless. The elder Feil had retired from business, leaving his glass-works in charge of his sons. destined to bear his name. A spur of the Sierra Nevada near Lake Tahoe, Mount St. Helena, Mount Diablo, and Mount Hamil- ton in the Coast Range, were brought forward as candidates for the honor. After consider- able deliberation and frequent consultation with good authorities, Mr. Lick decided in favor of Mount Hamilton, the little knob in the inner Coast Range already referred to. The wisdom of his selection has since been abundantly demonstrated. To Professor Ed- ward S. Holden belongs the honor of first recommending this site in 1874.* Mount Hamilton is situated thirteen miles due east of the city of San Jos6, which is the nearest point of railroad connection, and fifty miles south of San Francisco. Its summit is divided into three peaks, the lowest and the most southerly being the site of the observa- tory. In preparing the foundation of tlje ob- servatory, the cap of this peak was cut down They made a great many castings and ex- periments in annealing, but without success. To make matters worse, they went into bank- ruptcy. Alvan Clark then expressed his doubts of such a large glass ever being suc- cessfully made, deeming it among the impossi- bilities. At this stage in the history of the telescope, the elder Feil took charge of the establishment, and after several more failures succeeded in casting and annealing a satis- factory glass. The cheerful intelligence was communicated in the early part of Septem- ber, 1885, that the glass was then being pre- pared by Feil for shipment to Alvan Clark & Sons. It will take the Clarks a year to grind and polish the glass, after it reaches their manufactory. James Lick reserved for himself the selec- tion of a suitable site for the observatory thirty-one feet. Viewed from the Santa Clara valley, Observatory Peak presents a horizon- tal line against the blue skyin the background, four thousand two hundred and eightyLfive feet above the level of the sea. Before the selection of Mount Hamilton was made, the land was fortunately in the hands of the Federal Government. Through the agency ofAaron A. Sargent, then United States Senator from California, Congress made a grant of sixteen hundred acres, embracing a circle of over one mile below the summit of the mountain, for the uses of the observatory. An additional tract of one hundred and ninety acres of timber-land principally black oak was secured with University of California land scrip. The total domain of the observa- tory is consequently seventeen hundred and ninety acres. * Professor Holden has since accepted the Presidency of the University of California. GROUND-PLAN OF LICK OBSERVATORY. A. Main building; B. Transit house; c. Heliostat; D. Photograph house; E. Meridian circle house. i. North dome; 2. clock-room; 3. Shop; 4. Dormitory; 5. Visitors room; 6. west hall; 7. Secretarys room; 8. Library; g. Directors office; io. Long hall; as. South dome. A CALIFORNIANS GIFT TO SCIENCE. 65 Inasmuch as the site was practically in- accessible, Mr. Lick made the selection of Mount Hamilton conditional on the construc- tion of a suitable wagon-road to the summit by the county of Santa Clara. The condition was accepted, and in due season a road was built, at a cost of seventy-five thousand dol- lars. This thoroughfare, which is known as Lick Avenue, is twenty miles and a half in length, and is one of the best roads west of the Rocky Mountains. The grade in no place exceeds six feet and three-quarters in one hundred feet. There is no part of it where a carriage team cannot trot comfortably up the grade. Before reaching Lick Avenue from San Jos~, there is a delightful drive of five miles and a half along a splendidly mac- adamized and level road called Santa Clara Avenue, which passes by some of the most noted vineyards and orchards in the State, and is lined on each side with a double row of Monterey pine and cypress, the vigorous, sturdy growth of the former contrasting strongly with the delicate foliage and shapely branches of the latter. The twenty-six miles from San Jose to the top of Mount Hamilton can be made with a reasonably good team in four hours, the return trip in three hours; and there are few pleasanter or more picturesque drives in California. The road in ascending the range for many miles overlooks the beautiful valley, whose strawberry patches, onion gardens, VOL. XXXIJ.8. vineyards, orchards, and wheat-fields~make a charming piece of natural patchwork, extend- ing twenty miles or more to the south. Two small valleys within the inner Coast Range are crossed before the foot of Mount Hamilton is reached. One of them, Halls Valley, is largely under cultivation. But the greaser or native Californian element predominates among its inhabitants. One of the ranch houses, which nestles close to the roadside under the broad branches of an old live-oak tree, will suggest to the wayfarer a Pike County home, and a glimpse of the lank, un- kempt tenants will make the suggestion all the stronger. The farm stock have their home under the broad veranda of the one-story cot- tage, and the poultry find a roost under its roof. But the larger portion of the valley is carefully cultivated, and the vine and the fig-tree are conspicuous among its prod- ucts. Smith Creek, at the base of Mount Hamilton, is a favorite rendezvous for camp- ing parties from the cities. The gurgling stream abounds in trout, and the mountain slopes and gorges in the neighborhood are full of game. Smith Creek is seven miles by the road from the observatory, but it is only two miles in an air-line. Looking up the al- most vertical flank of the mountain, a glimpse of the glistening dome, apparently close by, is to be had. In these two miles the road has to overcome a vertical rise of nearly two thou- SUMMIT OF MOUNT HAMILTON, LOOKING SOUTH FROM RESERVOIR PEAK. (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY LORYRA & MACAULAY. 66 A CAL JEORNIANS GIFT TO SCIENCE. LICK OBSERVATORY, WEST VIEW, SHOWING MAIN ENTRANCE AND NORTH DOME. (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY H. B. MATHEWS.) sand feet, and ascends in a zigzag course. At some points a dozen laps of its windings can be seen at one glance within a distance of half a mile. Near the summit it winds twice around the peak. On the saddle of the ridge, uniting the three peaks of the mountain, a cozy cluster of white frame buildings nestles in the shadow of Observatory Peak, which protects it from the keen west wind. The village consists of the superintendents residence and office, the cabins used by the men employed at the ob- servatory, a blacksmith shop, outhouses for live stock, etc. The ridge is so narrow that the rear half of the superintendents residence hangs on a slope steeper than the roof of a house, and a few feet from the front is the other slope of the mountain, which is quite as abrupt; and there is no change in the grade on either side for at least a thousand feet. Work was begun on Lick Observatory July 23, i88o. Few people have any conception of the difficulties which had to be overcome before the enterprise could have hoped of success. Everything food, tools, building materials, and water had apparently to be carried to the top of the mountain from the valley. For a long time after work began it was so in fact. Water used for all purposes had to be hauled from Smith Creek. Subse- quently a small spring was discovered three hundred and ten feet below the summit of Observatory Peak, and a road seven-eighths of a mile in length had to be constructed to reach it. The highest of the three peaks, which is one mile north-east of the site of the ob- servatory, was selected for reservoir purposes, and on it tanks having a capacity of eighty- seven thousand gallons were erected. Subse- quently a large reservoir, capable of holding at least three hundred thousand gallons of water, was excavated in the solid rock, and carefully cemented, as a substitute for these tanks. A small reservoir of similar construc- tion has also been established on the smaller of the three peaks of the mountain. By the use of steam force-pumps and a long line of pipes the water is now raised from the spring into the reservoirs, and by another system of pipes it is conveyed by gravitation through the settlement and to the observatory. The daily capacity of this spring is never under ten thou- sand gallons in the driest season. Lumber, cement, lime, stone, and all other building materials had to be hauled from the valley below. Fortunately a bed of excellent brick clay was discovered on a small bench on the west slope of the mountain, eight hun- dred feet below the summit, but two and one- half miles by the road, and adjacent to it was a spring of water heavily charged with sulphur. All the bricks used in the erection of the massive walls of the observatory were made on that spot, effecting thereby an enormous saving in labor and money. The sandstone caps for telescopic piers, window lintels and sills, etc., were quarried in the outer Coast Range near Gilroy, at the south end of Santa A CALIFORNIANS GIFT TO SCIENCE. 67 Clara valley. There was not an ounce of any- level with the greatest diameter of the dome. thing suitable for the work where it was needed The frame of the dome will be of steel. The on the summit. Even the trap-rock exca- inside of the envelope of the upper hemisphere vated in preparing the foundation, although will be of paper, and the outside of steel hard as flint,rapidlydecomposedwhenexposed plates. The lower half of the sphere will be a to the weather. Thus for five years the work mere skeleton of the framework. Around it has been pushed ahead; but it will be at least there will be two fixed galleries for observers, two years more before the observatory will be assistants, and students. The observers chair ready to be transferred to the regents of the will be hung opposite the shutter, sliding on University of California, in accordance with an arc nearly corresponding with the arc of the provisions of the trust-deed, the eye-piece of the telescope. This chair The plan of Lick Observatory provides for will be twenty-two feet in length and five a structure two hundred and eighty-seven feet feet in breadth. Shutter and chair will be of in length, a transit house, meridian circle, a nearly corresponding weight, and under the photo-heliograph and heliostat, and a photo- personal control of the observer. As the chair graph house. The main building stands nearly ascends, the shutter will slide down into the: due north and south and fronts the west. The domes are at each extremity. The south dome will contain the great telescope. Its foundations have been laid in the solid rock, deep enough to be below the reach of frost; but it cannot be finished until the focal length of the telescope shall have been determined, and that cannot be done until the objective glass shall have been made. This dome will be the largest of any observa- tory in existence. Its great size presents many difficult problems for solution. Correspondence has been carried on by Captain Floyd, the president of the board of trus- tees, with the best-known astrono- mers of all countries, touching the various details of the work. An immense volume of this corre- spondence has accumulated. The outcome of it all has been the devisingbyCaptainThomasE THE GREAT DOME AND TELESCOPE. (FROM A DESIGN DRAWN BY CAPTAIN THOMAS R. FRASER.) Fraser, a very clever young engi- neer, who has been in the employ of the lower hemisphere, ascending again as the trustees as superintendent of construction chair descends. By this arrangement, and with since work began, of a dome which shall be the aid of a supplementary shutter overlap- a seven-eighths sphere, resting and revolv- ping the opening above, there will be only so ing on a tower seventy-five feet in circum- much of an opening in the slit of the dome ference. The object of the seven-eighths as will be absolutely necessary to expose the sphere dome is manifold. In the first place, objective of the telescope. With the galleries the friction in moving it will be a minimum, and chair so arranged and adjusted, and the A hemisphere dome of the same diameter broad aisle under the framework, which has would rest on a tower having a circumference a floor surface of two thousand square feet, of two hundred and seventeen feet. The the seven-eighths dome will contain much tower would need be of enQrmous strength to more spare room than a dome on the ordinary carry the weight, and the friction in revolving plan furnished with a movable ladder-chair.. the dome would offer a resistance over one The aisle will afford room for an astronomical hundred per cent. greater than the seven- library, for visitors and other purposes, with- eighths sphere. For the seven-eighths sphere, out interfering with the working of dome,. which is likely to be adopted, unless some fatal chair, or shutter, as would be the case in other defect not yet revealed shall in the mean time systems. The observer in the Lick dome will be detected, the external tower will be raised be able to perform all his work at the eye-piece: 68 A CALIFORNIANS GIFT TO SCIENCE. of the great telescope free from intrusion or interruption, and he will be saved the fatigue and loss of time incurred in ascending and descending a ladder-chair thirty feet or more in height. The dome will weigh fifty tons. It will roll on an endless harnessed carriage. The sole and bed plates will he perfectly pro- tected from any variations of temperature, so that there will he no trouble from expansion and contraction. The following table shows approximately the ratio of quantity of mate- rial, cost, and resistance to motion of a hemi- ~spherical dome compared with a seven-eighths sphere, both being sixty-five feet inside diam- eter: ~2 st here. Quantity of metal I Quantity of masonry I Cost of metal Cost of masonry Total cost of dome Total weight above rollers .. . . Length of track in one revolution.. 217 feet Resistance to motion s15kere. 1.1 .59 1.26 .915 1.35 75 feet .46 Shutter, chair, and dome will be moved by hydraulic power, controlled by the observer in his chair, after a plan devised by Captain Floyd. A SEA OF FOG, LOOKING WEST FROM OBSERVATORY PEAK. (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY LORYRA & MAcAULAY.) NORTH OOME, FROM THR ROOF OF THR OBSERVATORY. (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH RY H. R. MATHRW5.) A CALIFORNIANS GIFT TO SCIENCE. 69 Pending the completion of the thirty-six-inch objective by the Clarks, Captain Frasers plans have been submitted to the criticism of Amer- ican and foreign astronomers, photographs of the drawings and copies of the specifications having been sent to them. Interesting criti- cisms some favorable and some unfavorable, but none affecting the feasibility of the plans have been received from accomplished astron- omers. A working model six feet in diameter, made by Captain Fraser with his own hands, gives perfect satisfaction. The north dome, which has been finished for some time, contains a splendid twelve- inch equatorial made by the Clarks, which has been mount- ed for more than three years. This dome is twenty-nine feet six inches in diameter. It is twenty-four feet in height, and thirteen feet five inches in dia- meter at the base and eight feet at the top, which is capped with a block of Gilroy sandstone, on which the telescope is mounted. In the base of the pier is a large vault for the storage of valua- bles. It is considered one of the finest structures ever built to sustain a twelve-inch equa- torial. Midway between the two domes is a broad central hall, opening on the west and the east sides, to the right of which, looking westward, are the visitors room, dormitory for observers, and clock room; to the left, the secretarys room, library, and computors room. The framework of the north dome is made of steamed bent oak. The covering is thin cop- per sheeting, plated inside with tin and outside with nickel. It is this bright nickel cov- ering reflecting the suns rays which makes the dome visible afar off. Through the em- ployment of these light materials, the weight of the dome has been reduced to a minimum. It consequently requires less effort to revolve it, and there is less strain on the walls of the tower. The shutter covering the opening through which the telescope is pointed is a rolling sheet of corrugated steel, attached to wire ropes sliding on friction-pulleys. The sides work in groo~es discharging into the drain-channel of the dome, so that when the shutter is down no moisture can get inside. This shutter when rolled up is only one foot in diameter, and is far enough back to give the observer at least six inches clear in the zenith. It is worked by endless wire ropes conducted to pulleys attached to the lower side of the dome opposite the slit, which are set in motion by hand-ropes. The dome re- volves on a harnessed endless triple-wheeled carriage and double track. The outer and inner wheels run on these tracks. The middle wheel receives the friction of the iron girder forming the base of the dome. Guide-wheels run on an inside plate, and a clutch grips a rim on the upper edge of this plate, anchor- ing the dome securely to the tower. An end- less wire rope running in a groove around the outer rim of the tower, over a couple of large pulleys, and then through the wall to a drum set in a recess inside, is the simple machinery used for revolving the dome. It is now worked by hand, and can be operated easily by a child. It is intended ultimately to work this and all other machinery in the observatory by hy- draulic power. Suitable piping has been laid under-ground throughout the building to carry water for domestic use and hydraulic power and for gas, with which the structure may be illuminated hereafter. Hydrants have been placed at convenient intervals along the pipe line, from the spring to the reservoir, and from the latter to the observatory, for use in case of fire in the buildings or in the chaparral on the mountain slopes. INTERIOR OF NORTH DOME THE TWELVE-INCH TELESCOPE. (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH RY LORYRA & MACAULAY.) A CALIFORNIANS GIFT TO SCIENCE. 70 The transit house is east of the north dome, and is made of corrugated galvanized sheet iron, standing on a foundation of brick set in the solid rock. It contains, besides a four-inch transit instrument, a sidereal clock a splen- did timepiece of Amsterdam make, two chronometers made by Negus of New York, a chronograph, and a portable four-inch comet-seeker. The wooden shutter is worked by means of a lever, and is so nicely bal- anced that, although weighing five hundred pounds, a pull of ten pounds is sufficient to raise it. The photo-heliograph and heliostat, photo- graph house, meridian-circle house, a large brick residence for the astronomers employed at the observatory, and all of the main build- ing, excepting the south or great dome, have been completed. The meridian-circle house has double walls, the outer one being of iron and the inner of wood. An equable tempera- ture is thus secured in the interior. It contains a six-inch meridian-circle of the best qu?iity, constructed by A. Repsold & Sons, of Ham- burg, which is the pride of the observatory. Adjoining the meridian-circle house, but lower down the eastern slope of Observatory Peak, is the astronomers residence, a large double brick structure. A covered passage joins the upper story to the meridian-circle house, which will enable the astronomers to pass to and fro without exposure to the weather. No part of the main building of the observatory, excepting the north dome and the library, has been furnished. The library con- tains already about fifteen hundred bound vol- umes, all carefully selected, and also a large number of unbound pamphlets and magazines pertaining specially to astronomical matters. A telegraph and telephone line connects the observatory with the system of the Western Union Telegraph Company at the city of San Jos6. The view from Observatory Peak is mag- nificent in its range and varied beauty. Excepting a small patch in the north-east, which is shut out by the other peaks of the mountain, the horizon in every direction is unobstructed. Half a dozen towns and cities may be seen or located within a radius of fifty miles. Through the depressions in the outer Coast Range, lying west of Santa Clara valley and twenty miles off~, may be seen at sunset the waters of the Pacific Ocean. The Sierra Nevada, one hundred and thirty miles to the east, come out sharp and distinct at sunrise. A snow-capped peak, supposed to be Lassen Butte, one hundred and seventy- five miles distant, is occasionally visible in the north. On an exceptionally clear day a full-rigged ship with all sail set has been ob- served through a glass emerging from the Golden Gate and entering San Francisco Bay, fifty miles off. The country lying to the north, east, and south-east is very rugged. The valleys are deep and narrow. One of the gorges in the vicinity of Mount Hamilton is reputed to have been a favorite retreat of J oaquin Murietta, the famous bandit whose name was a terror to the early settlers of the State. A spring, situated a mile and a half east of Observatory Peak, at which he is said to have drawn water, now bears the name of Joaquins Spring. The outlaw could have selected, in those days, no securer retreat. He was perfectly safe in it from pursuit, as it was then practically inhccessible. The gap in the outer Coast Range caused by Monterey Bay, now one of the most popular watering- resorts in California, is visible in the south, and the outline of Salinas valley is traceable in the hazy distance beyond. RESIDENCE OF OBSERVATORY ASTRONOMERS. (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY H. E. MATHEWS.) A CALIFORNIANS GIFT TO SCIENCE. Dense fogs are among the atmospheric phe- nomena common to the California coast. The west wind, which blows almost every after- noon through the summer season, brings up a great bank of fog from the ocean as the sun sets. This rolls inshore in the evening, filling the coast valleys, and enveloping the outer Coast Range. It pours into Santa Clara valley from the Golden Gate on the north, and from Monterey Bay to the south, and climbs the flanks of the inner Coast Range during the night. This sea of fog, from the summit of Mount Hamilton, is a weird and beautiful sight in early morning before the sun has had time to dissipate it. It resembles nothing so much as the heaving, wavy ocean whence it came, excepting that it differs from it in color. Its fleecy surface glistens like burnished silver. On no occasion has this great fog-bank ever been known to overtop Observatory Peak. in November, 1882, during a strong gale, the fog was driven higher up the mountain than ever before, so far as is known, reaching the four-thousand-foot line. The phenomenon was so interesting that a photograph of the scene was taken from the roof of the obser- vatory. It is rarely that these coast fogs reach an elevation of two thousand feet, as deter- mined by observations made by Professor George Davidson, of the United States Coast and Geodetic Survey, and their average height is fifteen hundred feet. This freedom from the coast fogs greatly enhances the value of Mount Hamilton as a site for an astronom- ical obseryatory. The trade-winds, which drive the fog inshore, blow strong and steady all night long on the summit through the summer season, frequently attaining a velocity of thirty miles an hour, and humming a cheer- ful melody in the ears of the observer in the dome. The approximate geographical position of Observatory Peak has been determined by Professor S. W. Burnham, of Chicago, at longitude 1210 21 40 west and latitude 370 21 3 north. The great altitude and southerly position of Lick Observatory give it a zone of fifteen or twenty degrees farther south to sweep with its telescopes than any other American or any European observatory. It was this fact, and the purity and steadiness of the atmosphere on the mountain, that en- abled Professor Burnham, during a sojourn extending from August ij, 1879, to the ~6th of the following October, to catalogue forty- two new double stars with the aid of a six-inch refractor temporarily mounted in a small can- vas dome. One of these double stars was 470 i8 south declination. Close pairs, he says, can be observed at least down to 430 south declination. Of the sixty nights then 7 spent by Professor Burnham on the mountain, he found forty-two nights to be first-class for astronomical purposes, seven were medium nights, and eleven were cloudy and foggy. On the first-class nights he was able to use the highest powers advantageously, getting sharp, well-defined images, and he was able to measure satisfactorily the closest and most difficult double stars within the grasp of the instrument. On medium nights only moderate powers, say up to 200, were profitably used. It is claimed that the astron- omer may be sure of at least 250 good nights in every year on Mount Hamilton, i~o of which will be such as are rarely enjoyed at any of the Eastern observatories. The atmosphere on Mount Hamilton is remarkably dry. It is a condition which has charmed the professional soul of every as- tronomer that has visited it. The average difference between the wet and dry bulb thermometers Professor Burnham found for the first five weeks of his stay to be ,8~ ~, giving, by Blanfords tables calculated for a mean barometer, 25.8 inches, a relative humidity of about .27. . . . The lowest rela- tive humidity was .o6. . . . The average daily maximum temperature in the shade, for the first five weeks, was 880, and the minimum 640. The thermometer at 9 P. M. would ordi- narilybe I2~ or i~0 lower than at 3 P. M. . During the last two weeks a much lower tem- perature was reached, on one occasion the minimum thermometer indicating ~ As the summer and fall weather of one year in California is like that of every other year, the results noted by Professor Burnham may be accepted as fairly applicable to the sum- mer and fall weather of any year at Lick INTERIOR OF MERIDIAN CIRCLE HOUSE. (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH RY H R MATHEWS.) 72 A CALIFOENIANS GIFT TO SCIENCE. Observatory. In the winter the snow accumulates to the depth of about four feet, and gales are not unusual, although the greatest veloc- ity recorded is under fifty miles an hour. The snowfall sometimes temporarily cuts off communica- tion with the valley, reaching two thousand feet down the mountain s sides. The transit of Mercury in i88i was successfully observed at Lick Obser- vatory by Professor Edward S. Hol- den; and Professor Simon Newcomb at one time thought of adopting it as his station for observing the transit of Venus, December 7, 1882. An examination of the meteorological record of the mountain and of the State generally, as far back as such had been kept, showed, however, an unfavorable condition of weather pre- vailing on or about that date. Professor Newcomb therefore abandoned the idea and went to the Cape of Good Hope. After he had thus decided, President Floyd invited Pro- fessor David P. Todd of Amherst College to direct the observations of the transit which it hadbeen fully resolved should be made, weather permitting. The invitation was accepted, and the results were of the most satisfactory char- acter. The weather was remarkably favorable. The air was absolutely tranquil, the sky cloud- less, the temperature never falling to sixty degrees, and rising nearly to seventy degrees in the shade at noon. Observations of the // ~NTERIOE OF THE PHOTOGEAP1~ HOUSE. transit and two contacts at egress were made by Captain Floyd with the twelve- inch equatorial, and of the contacts by Profes- sor Todd with the four-inch transit instrument, mounted on its reversing carriage. But the most important work of the day was photo- graphic. One hundred and forty-seven plates were exposed, of which one hundred and twenty-five were available for micrometric measurement. The Mount Hamilton photo- graphic record of the transit of Venus has since been treated, in computing the general results, as among the most valuable of the observations of that rare and interesting celes- tial phenomenon. A triplicate of these photo- graphic records and certain materials used in making them, which may have to be referred to in computing the results, form the first batch of strictly original scientific data stored in the vaults of Lick Observatory. Of the larger public institutions provided for in James Licks trust-deed, the observa- tory is the only one which the resources of the estate have as yet enabled the trustees to do anything with. The property constituting the estate might have been disposed of years ago, but it would have been at ruinous prices, and some of Mr. Licks benefactions would never have been consummated. Only such property has been sold~ as commanded a fair TO WILL H LOW price and as was necessary to dispose of to pay the expenses of the observatory and the personal legacies and private monuments named in the trust-deed. To the trustees the administration of the ~estate has in a great measure been one of love. The compensation allowed each one in the trust-deed is only one thousand dollars per annum. Up to the 31st of August, 1885, there had been spent on the observatory three hundred thousand dollars. What it will cost by the time it is completed cannot be stated. But the trustees believe that of the seven hundred thousand dollars assigned to the observatory in the trust- deed, there will be enough left, after the struc- ture is finished and the great telescope mounted, to constitute a fund for the perpetual main- tenance of the institution (including the regu- lar employment of an efficient corps of as- tronomers) by the regents of the University of California. There remains, however, only the south dome, for the reception of the great telescope, to build. Its dimensions will de- pend upon the focal length of the telescope. 73 As soon as that shall have been determined, work on the dome will begin. Its foundations have already been laid, and the bricks for its walls are on the ground. It is the belief of the trustees that they will be able to transfer the observatory to the University regents in 1887. Strange to say, James Lick made no pro- vision in the trust-deed or any other written instrument for the disposition of his remains; but some time during the last year of his life he expressed a wish to a friend that his body be buried on Mount Hamilton, within or ad- jacent to the observatory. In the base of the pier sustaining the great equatorial telescope, it is intended to construct a vault thirty feet in diameter and the same in height. In this vault the body of James Lick will probably find its last resting-place. He was a solitary in life, and in death he will also be isolated. But the observatory, from which there are hopes of great accomplishments in the future, will be his magnificent tomb and monument, as well as a precious instrument for the advance- ment of the most sublime of the sciences. Taliesin Evans. TO WILL H. LOW: IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF THE DEDICATION OF HIS DRAWINGS FOR KEATS~ S LAMIA. 1/OUTH now flees on feathered foot. I Faint and fainter sounds the flute, Rarer songs of gods, And still Somewhere on the sunny hill, Or along the winding stream, Through the willows, flits a dream; Flits, but shows a smiling face, Flees, but with so quaint a grace, None can choose to stay at home, All must followall must roam. This is unborn beauty: she Now in air floats high and free, Takes the sun, and breaks~ the blue; Late, with stooping pinion flew Raking hedgerow trees and wet The above verses and the following words from his letter to his friend are here printed by permission of the author: I have copied out on the other sheet some verses, which somehow your pictures suggested: as a kind VOL. XXXII.9. Her wing in sjlver streams, and set Shining foot on temple roof. Now again she flies aloof, Coasting mountain clouds, and kissed By the evenings amethyst. In wet wood and miry Jane Still we pound and pant in vain; Still with earthy foot we chase Waning pinion, fainting face, Still, with gray hair, we stumble on, Tillbehold! the vision gone. Where has fleeting beauty led? To the doorway of the dead :~ Life is gone, but life was gay: We have come the primrose way! Robert Louis Stevenson. of image of things that I pursue and cannot reach, and that you seem no, not to have reached, but to have come a thought nearer to than I. This is the life we have chosen; well, the choice was mad, but I should make it again.

TO WILL H LOW price and as was necessary to dispose of to pay the expenses of the observatory and the personal legacies and private monuments named in the trust-deed. To the trustees the administration of the ~estate has in a great measure been one of love. The compensation allowed each one in the trust-deed is only one thousand dollars per annum. Up to the 31st of August, 1885, there had been spent on the observatory three hundred thousand dollars. What it will cost by the time it is completed cannot be stated. But the trustees believe that of the seven hundred thousand dollars assigned to the observatory in the trust- deed, there will be enough left, after the struc- ture is finished and the great telescope mounted, to constitute a fund for the perpetual main- tenance of the institution (including the regu- lar employment of an efficient corps of as- tronomers) by the regents of the University of California. There remains, however, only the south dome, for the reception of the great telescope, to build. Its dimensions will de- pend upon the focal length of the telescope. 73 As soon as that shall have been determined, work on the dome will begin. Its foundations have already been laid, and the bricks for its walls are on the ground. It is the belief of the trustees that they will be able to transfer the observatory to the University regents in 1887. Strange to say, James Lick made no pro- vision in the trust-deed or any other written instrument for the disposition of his remains; but some time during the last year of his life he expressed a wish to a friend that his body be buried on Mount Hamilton, within or ad- jacent to the observatory. In the base of the pier sustaining the great equatorial telescope, it is intended to construct a vault thirty feet in diameter and the same in height. In this vault the body of James Lick will probably find its last resting-place. He was a solitary in life, and in death he will also be isolated. But the observatory, from which there are hopes of great accomplishments in the future, will be his magnificent tomb and monument, as well as a precious instrument for the advance- ment of the most sublime of the sciences. Taliesin Evans. TO WILL H. LOW: IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF THE DEDICATION OF HIS DRAWINGS FOR KEATS~ S LAMIA. 1/OUTH now flees on feathered foot. I Faint and fainter sounds the flute, Rarer songs of gods, And still Somewhere on the sunny hill, Or along the winding stream, Through the willows, flits a dream; Flits, but shows a smiling face, Flees, but with so quaint a grace, None can choose to stay at home, All must followall must roam. This is unborn beauty: she Now in air floats high and free, Takes the sun, and breaks~ the blue; Late, with stooping pinion flew Raking hedgerow trees and wet The above verses and the following words from his letter to his friend are here printed by permission of the author: I have copied out on the other sheet some verses, which somehow your pictures suggested: as a kind VOL. XXXII.9. Her wing in sjlver streams, and set Shining foot on temple roof. Now again she flies aloof, Coasting mountain clouds, and kissed By the evenings amethyst. In wet wood and miry Jane Still we pound and pant in vain; Still with earthy foot we chase Waning pinion, fainting face, Still, with gray hair, we stumble on, Tillbehold! the vision gone. Where has fleeting beauty led? To the doorway of the dead :~ Life is gone, but life was gay: We have come the primrose way! Robert Louis Stevenson. of image of things that I pursue and cannot reach, and that you seem no, not to have reached, but to have come a thought nearer to than I. This is the life we have chosen; well, the choice was mad, but I should make it again. PERTURBED SPIRITS. I. HEN it was announced that Mr. Fran- VVcisM eredith had been appointed secre- tary to the council of the Saint Nicholas Relief Society, the friends of the other can- didates for that office were violently indignant, and declared that the appointment was one conspicuously unfit to be made. The friends of Mr. Francis Meredith smiled pleasantly as they protested mildly in his behalf; they said that he would do very well after he mastered the duties of the post, and that the work was not onerous, even for a man wholly unused to any regular occupation; but while they were saying with their tongues that Fanny Meredith was a good fellow, in their hearts they were wondering how a round young man would manage in a square hole. From this it may be inferred that the oppo- nents of the appointment were altogether in the right, and that one fortunate man owed the place to a freak of favoritism. It may serve to indicate the character of Mr. Francis Meredith to record that to his intimates he was known, not as Frank, but as Fanny. He was a charming and most lady- like young man, who toiled not neither did he spin. He owed his exemption from labor and his social standing to the fact that he was the only son of his mother, and she a widow of large wealth. He had managed, somehow or other, to creep through college in the course of five years. He was a kindly youth, but heedless, careless, scatterbrained, and fixing his mind with ease only on the one object of his existence the conducting of a cotillion. To conduct the cotillion decently and in order seemed to Fanny Meredith to be the crowning glory of a young gentlemans career. Unfortunately his mothers trustee made unwise investments and died, leaving his affairs curiously entangled, and it became necessary for Meredith to do something for himself. He scorned a place under govern- ment; besides, he could not pass the exam- ination with any hope of appointment. As it happened, Mrs. Merediths trustee had been the secretary of the council of the Saint Nich- olas Relief Society, and his death made, it possible to work out a sort of poetic justice by giving the post to Fanny Meredith. It is difficult to speak without awe of that august conclave, the council of the Saint Nicholas Relief Society. During the original Dutch ownership of Manhattan Island, and before New Amsterdam experienced a change of heart and became New York, certain wor- thy burghers of the city had combined in a benevolent association which continued its labors even after the English capture of the colony and through the long struggle of the Revolution. When at last New York was firmly established as the Empire City, no one of its institutions was more deeply rooted or more abundantly flourishing than the Saint Nicholas Relief Society. It was rich, for it had received lands and tenements and here- ditaments which had multiplied in value and increased in income with the growth of the city. It did much good. It was admirably managed. It had a delightful aroma of an- tiquity, denied to most American institutions. It was fashionable. It was exclusive. To be a member of the Saint Nicholas Relief Society was the New York equivalent to the New England ownership of a portrait by Copley,it was a certificate of gentle birth. To be elected to the council of the Saint Nicholas Relief Society was indisputable evi- dence that a mans family had been held in honor here in New York for two centuries. Just as the court circles of Austria are closed to any one who cannot show sixteen quarter- ings, so the unwritten law of the Saint Nicho- las Relief Society forbade the election to the council of any one whose ancestors had not set- tled in Manhattan Island before it surrendered to Colonel Nicolls in 1664. Among the des~endants of the scant fifteen hundred inhabitants of New Amsterdam were not a few shrewd men of business. The af- fairs of the Saint Nicholas Relief Society were always ably and adroitly managed, and the property of the society was well administered. Its annual revenues were greatly increased by a yearly ball given just before Lent allowed the ladies of fashion time to repent of their sins. This public ball for it was public practically, as any man might enter who could pay the high price asked for a ticketbeing patronized by the most fashion- able ladies of New York, was always crushingly attended, to the replenishment of the coffers of the charity. To this public ball there suc- ceeded, after the interval of Lent, a private dinner of the council, invariably given on the Tuesday in Easter week, the Tuesday after Paas. The Dutch word still lingers, and per- haps the Paas dinner of the council of the

PERTURBED SPIRITS. I. HEN it was announced that Mr. Fran- VVcisM eredith had been appointed secre- tary to the council of the Saint Nicholas Relief Society, the friends of the other can- didates for that office were violently indignant, and declared that the appointment was one conspicuously unfit to be made. The friends of Mr. Francis Meredith smiled pleasantly as they protested mildly in his behalf; they said that he would do very well after he mastered the duties of the post, and that the work was not onerous, even for a man wholly unused to any regular occupation; but while they were saying with their tongues that Fanny Meredith was a good fellow, in their hearts they were wondering how a round young man would manage in a square hole. From this it may be inferred that the oppo- nents of the appointment were altogether in the right, and that one fortunate man owed the place to a freak of favoritism. It may serve to indicate the character of Mr. Francis Meredith to record that to his intimates he was known, not as Frank, but as Fanny. He was a charming and most lady- like young man, who toiled not neither did he spin. He owed his exemption from labor and his social standing to the fact that he was the only son of his mother, and she a widow of large wealth. He had managed, somehow or other, to creep through college in the course of five years. He was a kindly youth, but heedless, careless, scatterbrained, and fixing his mind with ease only on the one object of his existence the conducting of a cotillion. To conduct the cotillion decently and in order seemed to Fanny Meredith to be the crowning glory of a young gentlemans career. Unfortunately his mothers trustee made unwise investments and died, leaving his affairs curiously entangled, and it became necessary for Meredith to do something for himself. He scorned a place under govern- ment; besides, he could not pass the exam- ination with any hope of appointment. As it happened, Mrs. Merediths trustee had been the secretary of the council of the Saint Nich- olas Relief Society, and his death made, it possible to work out a sort of poetic justice by giving the post to Fanny Meredith. It is difficult to speak without awe of that august conclave, the council of the Saint Nicholas Relief Society. During the original Dutch ownership of Manhattan Island, and before New Amsterdam experienced a change of heart and became New York, certain wor- thy burghers of the city had combined in a benevolent association which continued its labors even after the English capture of the colony and through the long struggle of the Revolution. When at last New York was firmly established as the Empire City, no one of its institutions was more deeply rooted or more abundantly flourishing than the Saint Nicholas Relief Society. It was rich, for it had received lands and tenements and here- ditaments which had multiplied in value and increased in income with the growth of the city. It did much good. It was admirably managed. It had a delightful aroma of an- tiquity, denied to most American institutions. It was fashionable. It was exclusive. To be a member of the Saint Nicholas Relief Society was the New York equivalent to the New England ownership of a portrait by Copley,it was a certificate of gentle birth. To be elected to the council of the Saint Nicholas Relief Society was indisputable evi- dence that a mans family had been held in honor here in New York for two centuries. Just as the court circles of Austria are closed to any one who cannot show sixteen quarter- ings, so the unwritten law of the Saint Nicho- las Relief Society forbade the election to the council of any one whose ancestors had not set- tled in Manhattan Island before it surrendered to Colonel Nicolls in 1664. Among the des~endants of the scant fifteen hundred inhabitants of New Amsterdam were not a few shrewd men of business. The af- fairs of the Saint Nicholas Relief Society were always ably and adroitly managed, and the property of the society was well administered. Its annual revenues were greatly increased by a yearly ball given just before Lent allowed the ladies of fashion time to repent of their sins. This public ball for it was public practically, as any man might enter who could pay the high price asked for a ticketbeing patronized by the most fashion- able ladies of New York, was always crushingly attended, to the replenishment of the coffers of the charity. To this public ball there suc- ceeded, after the interval of Lent, a private dinner of the council, invariably given on the Tuesday in Easter week, the Tuesday after Paas. The Dutch word still lingers, and per- haps the Paas dinner of the council of the Saint Nicholas Relief Society may have helped to keep it alive and in the mouths of men. To attend to the annual ball and to the Paas dinner were the chief duties of the sec- retary of the council; it is possible even to assert that these were his sole duties. He had nothing whatever to do with the management of the society; he was the secretary of the council only; and it was precisely because the obligations of the office were little more than ornamental that the friends of Mr. Francis Meredith maintained his perfect ability to fulfill them satisfactorily. He had been elected at the January meeting of the council, and he was told to exercise a general supervision over the arrangements of the ball, which was to take place just in the middle of February on Saint Valentines day, in fact. I wonder how Fanny Meredith will make out, said Mr. Delancey Jones, when he heard of the appointment. Fanny Meredith is a good-looking fellow, and a good fellow too, and the girls all say he dances divinely; but he is more different kinds of a fool than any oth~ man I know! gs it happened, Fanny Meredith had very little to do with the ball, but he did that little wrong. He blundered in every inconceivable manner and with the most imperturbable good humor. He altered the advertisements, for ~ne thing, just as they were going to the news- papers and without consultation with any one; and the next morning the members of the council were shocked to see that tickets would be for sale at the door until midnight there having been hitherto a pleasing convention that tickets could be had only by those vouched for by members of the society. Then, at the February meeting of the council, he arose with the smile of a man about to impart wisdom and suggested that as the clergymen of New York were always willing to lend a helping hand to charity, it would be a very clever de- vice if they were to request the rectors of the fashionable churches to make from the altar formal announcement of the ball, with full particulars as to the price of tickets and the persons from whom these might be purchased. And when the night of the ball arrived at last, and Fanny Meredith was requested to welcome the journalists who came to write it up and to provide for their comfort, internal and external, he said something to Harry Brackett, who had been sent up from the Gotham Gazette to provide a pictur- esque description of the ball, to be supple- mented by the more personal notes of the society reporter. Just what it was that Fanny Meredith said to Harry Brackett no one has ever been able to ascertain exactly, but, whatever it was, it took the journalist 75 completely by surprise; he looked at the sec- retary of the council for a minute in dazed astonishment, and then, his sense of humor overcoming his indignation, he said slowly, Somebody must have left a door open some- where, and this thing blew in! But the petty errors the new secretary com- mitted at the ball were as nothing to the mighty blunder he made at the Paas dinner of the council. The Saint Nicholas Relief Society may have any number of annual sub- scribers, but it has only two hundred members elected for life. From these two hundred mem- bers is chosen a council of twenty-one. Among the members are many ladies, and at least a third of the council are of the sex which wears ear-rings. It is this mingling of sharp men and clever women in the council which gives its strength to the Saint Nicholas Relief Society. In nothing is the skill of the man- agement shown to more advantage than in the choice of members of the council. There are young ladies, there are old bachelors, there are substantial matrons, and there are fathers of families; and they dwell together in unity, so far, at least, as the Saint Nicholas Relief Society is concerned. A meeting of the council presents a sight at once hetero- geneous and characteristic. Possibly it is this variety of persons and of points of view that makes the council of the Saint Nicholas Relief Society so successful as it has been in its task of administering wealth and of minis- tering to the needy. Certainly the dissimilar- ity of character and the unity of object help to make the annual Paas dinner a season of refreshment. Most of the members of the council are busy, but it is very rare indeed for one of them to be absent from his seat or from her seat, as the case may be, at the Paas dinner. The number of the council is twenty-one, and has always been twenty-one. Fanny Meredith forgot all about the Paas dinner until reminded of it less than a week before Easter. Then he rushed off to the old-fash- ioned restaurant where the dinner was always given, and he spent four hours there in the ordering of a proper series of courses for twenty-one people. He had seized the near- est annual report of the society, and he gave it to a copyist with a score of blank invitation cards, telling her to send them out to the mem- bers of the council, in accordance with a list printed at the end of the report. The copyist did as she was bidden, and the invitations went forth by the post. But when the members of the council as- sembled on the evening of the Tuesday after Easter they were only thirteen in number. They waited nearly an hour for the other PERTURBED SPIRITS 76 PERTURBED SPIRITS. eight, and then they sat down ill at ease. While they were yet eating their oysters Mr. Francis Meredith came in to gaze on his handiwork. Mr. Jacob Leisler, Jr., asked him if he had sent all the invitations. Of course I did, he answered; you dont think I could make a mistake about a little thing like that, do you? To this leading question there was no answer; so Meredith continued, taking a report from his pocket: I wouldnt trust myself to write them, so I gave this list to a copyist, and I put all the envelopes in the post myself. Let me see that report, said Mr. Leisler, hokling out his hand. Mr. Jacob Leisler, Jr., was the chairman of the finance committee, and a man speaking with authority. On the present occasion he was presiding. The unsuspecting Fanny gave him the pam- phlet. Mr. Leisler glanced at it, read the list of the council, turned to the date on the title- page, and then inquired calmly: Mr. Meredith, do you know when this preport was printed? Last fall, of course, answered the secre- tary. Just twenty-two years ago last fall, Mr. Leisler returned; so if you have invited to this dinner here to-night the council whose names appear in this report, you have not asked the eight absent members who are alive, and you have asked eight members who are dead! And that accounts for the empty chairs here. Fanny Meredith laughed feebly, and then he laughed again faintly. At last he mur- mured, I seem to have made a mistake. As he shrank away toward the door, amid an embarrassed silence, Mr. Leisler whispered harshly to a mature and sharp-featured lady who sat at his right: And we seem to have made a mistake when we elected him to be secretary to the council. There was a gentle murmur of assent from the members of the council, in which nearly all joined, excepting a young old maid with frank eyes and cheerful countenance, who was sitting about half-way down the dinner- table, with a vacant seat by her side. She looked at the abashed Fanny Meredith with a compassionate smile of encouragement. Since you have not attended to your duty, said Mr. Leisler severely, checking the helpless secretary on the threshold, since you have not seen that the other members of the council received invitations, of course they will not come we cannot expect them. We must dine by ourselves thirteen at table. I cannot speak for the others, but to me it is most unpleasant to see those eight empty chairs! As the crestfallen Fanny Meredith retreated hastily from the dining-room, he could not help hearing this rebuke heartily approved by the council. II. ALTHOUGH Mr. Jacob Leisler, Jr., and Mrs. Vedder, the energetic lady on his right, and Miss Mary Van Dyne, the pleasant-faced old maid farther down on his left, and Mr. Joshua Hoffman, who sat beside her, and the rest of the thirteen members of the council who were present, saw eight empty chairs, which made awkward gaps in the company about the boardalthough they could count only thirteen at table, it is to be recorded that in reality these eight chairs were not empty. They were filled by those to whom the cards of invitation had been sentthe former mem- bers of the council, dead and gone in the score of years and more since the printing of the report which the new secretary had used. To the eyes of the living the eight seats were vacant. To the eyes of one who had power to see the spiritual and intangible they were occupied by those who had been bidden to the feast. How the invitations had reached their addresses no one might know, but they had been received, and they had been accepted; and the invited guests sat at the council as they had been wont to sit there twenty-two years before. Perhaps the invita- tions had gone to the Dead Letter Office, and so had been forwarded to the dead whose names they bore; perhaps they had been takenbut speculation is idle. It matters not how or by whom the invitations had been delivered, there sat the ghostly guests, in their places around the dinner-table of the council. There they sat in the eight chairs, which to the eye of man were empty. It was the first time that the dead had been bidden to this feast of the living. It was the first time since they had laid down the bur- dens of this world that they had been allowed to mingle with their friends on earth. It was the first timeand they feared it might be the last, and they were eager to make the most of their good fortune. For a long while they sat silently listening with avidity to all stray fragments of news about those whom they had left behind them in the land of the liv- ing. Some of these spectral visitors had only recently quitted this life, and perhaps they were the most anxious to learn the sayings and doings of those they had loved and left. Some of them had been dead for years, and their placid faces wore a pleasant expression of restful and comforting tranquillity. One of PERTURBED SPIRITS. 77 them, a handsome young fellow in a dark arm. Yet it seemed to the man who had left blue uniform with faded shoulder-straps, had her a widow that the air of domineering fallen twenty-two years before in the repulse determination he recalled so well was not a of Picketts charge at Gettysburg. Another little softened, as though from want of use. had gone down in the !7z1/e de 1V~c, in the She has missed me! he said to himself. Bay of Biscay, in 1872. A third, a venerable How gladly would I have her scold me man with silvery hair and a gentle look in his now as she used to scold me so often, if only soft gray eyes, had died of old age only a few she could see me! She could not rebuke me months before. for being late this time, but she could easily Mr. Jacob Leisler, Jr., sat at the head of the find something else to find fault about. I table, and at his right hand was Mrs. Vedder, shouldnt care how much she bullied me, so a square-faced lady of an uncertain age, with long as I could tell her I was here. And grizzled hair and a masterful mouth. The then, he concluded cautiously, if she made chair on her right was apparently empty, it too hot for me, I could be a ghost again, and to her evident dissatisfaction. Probably her she would be so surprised! annoyance would have been acutely increased Just then Mr. Leisler spoke to the spouse had she been aware that the invisible occu- of the spook. pant of this place by her side was Jesse Van I was beginning to fear that we might be Twiller, her first husband, dead these ten deprived of your presence too, Mrs. Vedder, years or more, during eight of which she had he said. Were you not a little late? been another mans wife. Jesse Van Twiller looked at his old friend Jesse Van Twiller had been among the Leisler in the greatest surprise. Why had he earliest to arrive; and when he found that his addressed Mrs. Van Twiller as Mrs. Vedder? wife was to sit next to him he was delighted. The first husband even turned and looked at No ~ook ever wore a broader smile than the chair next to his, on the chance that that that ~~hich graced his features as Mrs. Vedder was occupied by the lady addressed; but Mr. nook her place at table by his side. But his Leislers own wife sat there. His astonish- joy was commingled with a portion of appre- ment increased as he heard his wifes answer. hension, as though he feared his wife as much Yes, she said, we were late. But it as he loved her. He was a little man, of a was not my fault. The doctor is a most un- nervous temperament, with a timid look punctual man. and an expression of subdued meekness, as The doctor? thought Van Twiller. though he was used to be overridden by What doctor? and what had she to do with an overbearing woman. He glanced up as any doctor? Had she been ill? She seemed his former wife sat down. He seemed dis- to be in robust health. concerted when her eyes fell on him with no Dr. Vedder is a busy man, rejoined Mr. look of welcome recognition. For a moment Leisler, and perhaps he cannot control his he wondered if he had offended her in any time. way since they had parted. Then, all at once, So it was Dr. Vedder his wife had been he knew that she had not seen him: he was waiting for. Van Twiller looked across the invisible to mortal eyes. He chafed against table at Dr. Vedder, whom he knew very this condition; he wanted her to see him and well and had never liked. Dr. Vedder was a to know how glad he was to see her. To be sarcastic man, with a sharp tongue, and a there by her side, to be able to stretch his knack of saying disagreeable things. It was arm about her waist as he had done in the Dr. Vedder who had once asserted that Van days of yore, to long to fold her to his heart Twiller had no more sense of humor than a which beat for her alone, and to be power- hand-organ. Suddenly, with a sharp pang of less as he was even to communicate to her jealousy, Van Twiller recalled a vague, fleet- the fact of his presencethis was most pain- ing, and half-forgotten memory of Dr. Ved- ful. The poor ghost felt that fate was hard ders admiration for Mrs. Van Twiller. He on him. He would have given years of his remembered that the doctor had once de- spectral existence for two or three hours of dared that he liked a masterful woman, and human life. that Mrs. Van Twiller was a Katharine with a These were his feelings at first. Then he poor Petruchio quite incapable of taming her. wondered how she would receive him if she Thats no reason he should keep his wife knew he were in her presence. He gazed at waiting, said the former Mrs. Van Twiller her intently as though to read her thoughts. plaintively. She was older than she was when he had His wife! repeated Van Twiller to him- diedthere was no doubt about that. She self. Who is his wife? had the same commanding mien, the same I was never treated in that way by my superb port, the same majestic sweep of the first husband, continued the lady. VOL XXXII.io. 78 Her first husband! The poor ghost shrank back. At last he saw the change in the situation. His wife was not his wife any more. She was the wife of Dr. Vedder, a man whom he had disliked always, and whom now he hated. He was seized by a burning rage of jealousy, but he was powerless to express his feelings. His condition was hard to bear, for he could see, he could hear, he could suffer, and he could do nothing. As Van Twiller was thinking this out hotly, the sharp voice of Dr. Vedder stabbed him suddenly. I have noticed, remarked the doctor, who was seated exactly opposite his wifes first husband, that a woman always thinks more highly of a man after he is dead and gone. She is ready enough to praise him when it is too late for the commendation to comfort him. I believe a widow doubly cherishes the memory of a hen-pecked husband. With the suave smile of a conscious peace- maker, who sees possible offense in a speech, Mr. Leisler said, You are bard on the widows, Doctor. Not at all, the doctor answered, with a dry little wrinkle at the corners of his mouth, not at all. I am a scientific observer, making logical deductions from a multitude of facts. To the m~n who lives out West, the only good Indian is a dead Indian; so to the widow, the only good husband is the dead husband! Im sure, cried Mrs. Vedder indignantly, that Mr. Van Twiller would never have said anything like that. Certainly not, her husband replied. Van Twiller couldnt, for Van Twiller wasnt a scientific observer. A covert sneer in Dr. Vedders tone as he said this cut little Van Twiller to the soul, and again he longed for material hands that he might clutch his rival by the throat. At the thought of his absolute inability to do aught for himself, he shivered with despair. It was perhaps some frigid emanation from Van Twiller which affected Mrs. Vedders nerves, for she shuddered slightly before replying to her husband. It is not for us to bandy words now about Mr. Van Twillers attainments, she remarked deliberately. He was truly a gentleman, with all the mildness of a gentleman, quite incapable of giving any one a harsh word or a cross look. In fact, he had absolutely no faults at all, said Dr. Vedder sarcastically. But if he could then have seen the expression on the pallid face of his predecessor, he would have been in a position to contradict his wifes last assertion. He had very few indeed! replied his wife; in my eyes he was perfect! She paused for a second, and Van Twiller wished that she had believed in his perfection while he was alive. Then she added bitterly, To know him was to loVe him! The drylittle wrinkle returned to the corners of Dr. Vedders mouth as he answered quietly, Perhaps so I didnt know him well! And again the poor ghost writhed in invis- ible anguish, utterly helpless to resent the insult. I remember Mr. Van Twiller distinctly, remarked Mr. Leisler blandly; he was an easy-going and good-natured man, with akind word for everybody. In fact, he was everybodys friend, Dr. Vedder returned, and nobodys enemy but his own. His best quality in my eyes is that he is not here to-night. The doctor could not know that the little man at whom he was girding was separated from him by the breadth of the table only, and was suffering with his whole being as every sneer reached its mark far more surely than he who shot the chance arrow could guess. You are bitter, said Mr. Leisler easily; I fear you are a misanthrope. The doctor laughed a little, and answered, No, Im not exactly a misanthrope or even a misogynist, but I have ceased to be philan- thropic since I discovered that man is de- scended from a monkey. Mrs. Vedder was about to make a hasty re- ply to this, when she caught the doctors eye. To the surprise of Van Twiller, she hesitated, checked herself suddenly, and said nothing. He wondered how it was that his wife had changed; he knew that she had never quailed before his eye; and he found himself doubt- ing whether he would not have preferred to see her show her old spirit. He saw that she was sadly tamed now; and he marveled why he should regret the quenching of her fiery spirit. She did not seem the same to him, and he missed the old mastery to which he was accustomed. This blunted the joy of the meet- ing he had anticipated hopefully ever since he had received the invitation. His wife was no longer his. She was not even the woman he had loved, honored, and obeyed for years. The poor ghost felt lonelier than he had ever felt before. He began to regret that he had been permitted again to come on earth. A waiter had filled Dr. Vedders glass. He took it in his hand. No, he said, Im not a philanthropist; I take no stock in the ag- gressive optimism of the sentimentalists. In fact, I suppose Im a persistent pessimist. What is my fellow-man to me or my fellow- woman either? PERTURBED SPIRITS. PERTURBED SPIRITS. 79 Mr. Jacob Leisler, Jr., was not a man whose perceptions were fine or quick, but he was moved to resent clumsily the offensiveness of these words. But your wife he began. Oh, my wife ! interrupted Dr. Vedder; my wife and I are one, you know. Van Twiller looked at Mrs. Vedder to see how she would take this. She said nothing. She smiled acidly. It was not doubtful that she was greatly changed. I try to shape my course by the doctrine of enlightened selfishness, continued the doctor. Let us enjoy life while we may. Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die. In the struggle for existence the fittest survive and the weakest are weeded out and so much the better! Both Mrs. Vedder and Mr. Leisler made ready to reply, when the doctor suddenly went on, sharpening his voice to its keenest edge: So much the better for him! Your dead man is your happy man. He has no enemies, and even his widow praises him especially if she has remarried. In fact, he has all the virtues, now he has no use for any of them. Then the doctor raised his glass. The toast of the English in India suggests true wisdom, after all: Ho! stand to your glasses steady! The world is a world of lies; A cup to the dead already, And hurrah for the next man that dies! Mr. Leisler drew himself up with dignity and addressed the doctor with a stiff severity of manner: I am surprised, Dr. Vedder, that you should express such views of life on such an occasion as this. I confess I do not hold with you at all. I You cannot lure me into a debate at din- ner, the doctor answered, as Mr. Leisler paused for fit words to express his complicated feelings. I never get into a discussion at table, for the man who isnt hungry always has the best of the argument. The unfortunate spook, forced to listen to this unmannerly talk of the man who had mar- ried his widow, sat silent and abashed. He knew not what to think. He did not recog- nize his wife. When he was alive she had been full of fiery vigor and of undaunted spirit. He would never have dared to address her thus boldly and to brave the wrath which was wont to flame out, at odd moments, like forked lightning. In dumb wonder he waited for her swift protest; but she said nothing; whereat he marveled not a little. Mr. Leisler asked himself why Dr. Vedder was unusually disagreeable this evening, for the doctor was a clever man and could make a pleasant impression when he chose. With the hope of turning the talk into a more cheerful channel Mr. Leisler addressed Mrs. Vedder. Isnt Miss Van Dyne looking very well to-night? he asked. Mrs. Vedder looked down the table at the cheery and young-looking old maid. Yes, she answered, after a moments hesitation, she seems almost happy; but then, she is not married. She has been faithful to the memory of her lost love, said Mr. Leisler. Let me see how many years is it now since Captain De Ruyter was killed at Gettysburg? You dont mean to tell me that you be- lieve that a woman has been in love with a dead man for twenty-two years, do you? Dr. Vedder asked with an incredulous smile. Why not? returned his wife. The doctor evaded an answer to this direct question. If your diagnosis is right, she has had a dull enough time of it, he said. And she has nothing to show for her devotion. Virtue is its own reward, Mr. Leisler remarked judicially. But love isnt, the doctor replied. Love is like this champagne, and ~e raised his glass; it is very sparkling when it is young, but as it gets older it loses its flavor. He emptied the glass and set it down. And if one is all alone with it, there may be a head- ache the next morning. What has made you so sarcastic this evening? asked Mr. Leisler. I dont know, Dr. Vedder answered. I am in company with evil spirits, I think. If I were a believer in such things, I should say that I was subject to an adverse influence. And I was all right when I came. Perhaps it is this wretched dinner. Perhaps it was the dinner,~but little Van Twiller was conscious of a throb of ill-natured joy at the thought that it was possibly his presence, all unknown as it was, which had thus disturbed the equanimity of the doctor and revealed his lower nature. He looked at Mrs. Vedder, and he saw she was eating her dinner slowly and in silence, with a stiffening of the muscles of the face a sign he had recognized readily enough. After all, continued the doctor, these are the two great banes of mans existence dyspepsia and matrimony. Come, come, Mr. Leisler said cheerfully, you must not abuse marriage; it is the chief end of life. It was very nearly the end of mine, re- turned Dr. Vedder; I caught such a cold 8o PERTUkBED SPIRITS. in the church that I have not been into one since.~, Just then one of the waiters came to Mr. Leisler with a request that he should change his place for a little while, and take his seat at the other end of the table, where there was a vacant chair. Glad of an excuse to get away from a man in ill-humor, Mr. Leisler apologized to Mrs. Vedder and withdrew to join his other friends. Van Twiller saw a red spot burning brightly on Mrs. Vedders cheek, and he knew that this was another danger-signal. She bent forward toward her husband, and in a low voice, trembling a little with sup- pressed ire, she hissed across the table, I see what you are after! But you will not succeed. I can keep my temper though I bite my tongue out. It takes two to quarrel, remem- ber! It takes two to get married, retorted Dr. Vedder, so that proves nothing. For the first time the poor ghost saw his wifes eyes fill with tears. Mr. Van T~viller never treated me so, she said hurriedly. I wish he were alive now! The dry little wrinkle came back to the corners of the doctors mouth, but he made no reply. Little Van Twiller looked from one to the other, as they stared at each other. Then he said to himself, sighing softly: Well, well, perhaps it is better as it is! III. ~iss MARY VAN DYNE was sitting almost in the center of one side of the long dinner- table. At her right was Mr. Joshua Hoffman, a man whose heart was as large ks his purse was long, and who kept both open to the call of the suffering. At her left was a vacant chairor what seemed so to the eyes of the living men and women at the table. They did not know that it was occupied by Remsen de Ruyter, whose maiden widow Mary Van Dyne had held herself to be ever since a bullet had reached his heart on the heights of Gettys- burg. For nearly twenty-two years now she had lived on, alone in the world, but never lonely, for she had given herself up to good works. Her presence was welcome in the childrens ward of every hospital, and the love of these little ones nourished her soul and sustained her spirit. Between her and Joshua Hoffman there were bonds of sympathy, and they had many things in common. The good old man was very fond of the brave little woman who had tried to turn her private sorrow to the benefit of the helpless and the innocent. They were glad to find themselves side by side at table, and they talked to each other with interest. You are not really old, Mr. Hoffman, she was saying; you look very young yet. To-night I wouldnt give you fifty! My dear young lady, you havent fifty to give, he answered with a smile; and if you had, why, I should then have a hundred and twenty-fivewhich is more than my share of years. You are not really seventy-five? she asked. Really, I am seventy-five. I am a past- due coupon, as I heard one of the boys say- ing on the street the other day, returned Joshua Hoffman, with a smile as pleasant as hers. And how old am I? she inquired. Whatever your age is, he answered, to- night you do not look it! Shall I arise and courtesy for that? she asked, blushing with pleasure at his courtly compliment. You see I like to be flattered still, although I am an old maid of two-score years.~~ Really now, my child, said the old man, you are not forty? Let me seeit does not seem so very long ago since he came and told me how happy he was because you had promised to marry him. Does it pain you to talk of him now? I think of him always, day and night. Why should I not be glad to talk about him with you whom he loved, and to whom he owed so much? He was a good boy, Joshua Hoffman continued in his kindly voice. I can recall the day he told me about you; it was a fine, clear morning in early spring. It was the i6th of May, 1863, she said simply. He had asked me to marry him the night before, and he said that you were the first he would tell. He was a good boy, and a brave boy, and he died like a man, said the old man gently. Then he relapsed into silence as his thoughts went back to the dark days of the war. Miss Mary Van Dyne was also thinking of the past. Unconsciously she lived again in her youth when she first saw Remsen de Ruyter, a bright, handsome boy, scarcely older than she was: he was only twenty-one when he died. They had loved each other from the first, although it was a whole long winter before he had dared to tell hera long winter of delicious doubt and fearful ecstasy. She recalled all the circumstances of his avowal of his love, and her cheeks burned as PERTURBED SPIRITS. she thought of the gush of unspeakable joy which had filled her heart as he folded her in his arms for the first time. She remembered how, two nights after, before they had told the news to any one but her mother and his benefactor Joshua Hoffman, she sat next to him at this annual dinner of the council of the Saint Nicholas Relief Society; they were the very youngest members, and it was the first time they had been asked. So strong was the rush of memory of the happy scene, that she gave a quick glance at the place on her left, as though half-expecting to see him seated there still. And there he was by her side, al- though she could not see him now. He was there, but he could not speak to her; he could not tell her of his presence; he could not tell her how he loved her still, and more than ever. It was hard. Yet he was glad to be by her side, to see her, to look into her frank face, to gaze on her noble eyes. And she felt comforted, she knew not why, as though by an invisible presence. Her heart was lifted up. Although the grass had woven a green blanket over his grave for now more than twenty years, he did not seem so far from her. She hoped she would not have so long to wait before she might join him, never again to be parted. Then her thoughts turned to the last time she had seen him, the morn- ing his regiment had left New York for the front. It was a beautiful day early in June when he came to bid her farewell for the last time. They talked all the morning seriously and hopefully. Then the hour came at last, and all too soon. She bore herself bravely; without a tear she kissed him and held him in her arms for a minute, and bade him go. She watched him as he walked away. How well she could recall everything which her senses had noted unconsciously during the two min- utes before he paused at the corner of the street to wave his hand before he vanished forever. There were roses beginning to blow in the little bit of green before the house; there was a hand-organ in the next street from which faint strains of John Browns Body came over the house-tops; the noon whistle of a neighboring factory suddenly broke the silence as he blew her a kiss, and went out of her sight to his death. Then she had been able to get to tier room somehowshe never knew howand to throw herself on her bed before she broke down. The memory was bitter and sweet, but never before had it been as sweet. She turned her eyes on the vacant chair by her side, and involuntarily she reached out her hand. It grasped nothing, it felt nothing, yet her fingers tingled as with a shock of joy. She gazed at the empty chair again in charmed wonder. She could not tell what subtle influence of peace and comfort enveloped her as she mused upon the past with her arm resting on the chair beside her. Then her glance fell on a card beside the plate, and with a sudden suffusion of the eyes she read his name. The new secre- tary of the council had used the list of twenty- two years before, and again his place had been set beside hers. The tears which veiled her sight hid the empty chair from her for a minute, and if she turned her head she might almost fancy that he was seated there. It was a fancy only, but it pleased her to indulge in it. It brought back the happy past. It brought him back, almost, for a fleeting minute. And he, as he sat there, could make no sign. With the keen intuition of love, he read her thoughts in her face. He knew that she was thinking of him, and that in the thought of him she was happy again. And thus the long dinner drew to an end at last. When the president gave the signal for the withdrawal into another room that the usual business meeting of the council might take place, the members rose together. Joshua Hoffman was silent, as though he divined her mood and sympathetically respected it. He offered her his arm, and she took it, looking back regretfully, with a longing and linger- ing gaze, at the place where they had sat side by side. Iv. As THE living members of the council left the dining-room, the ghostly guests gathered together to talk over what they had seen and heard. Only Remsen de Ruyter was silent; his feelings were too sacred to find vent in words. He alone wore a smile of consolation and comfort. The rest chattered along in tumultuous conversation. It has been a strange experience, said the very old gentleman, a very strange ex- perience. More painful than pleasant, I think, little Van Twiller remarked. I thought we had been invited as a compli- ment, said another of the ghosts discontent- edly, but it seems it was all a mistake of the new secretary Fanny Meredith, they call him. Excellent young man !the old gentle- man declared with emphasis an excellent young man ; so thoughtful of him; so con- siderate of the feelings of his elders. I shall accept his invitation next year. So shall I ! added several voices. Oh, Ill come too, said Jesse Van Twiller. I want to see what will happen next. Only Remsen de Ruyter said nothing. 82 RE UNION V. BUT long before the next annual dinner of the council of the Saint Nicholas Relief So- ciety, the resignation of Mr. Francis Mere- dith had been requested, and in his stead there had been elected a secretary of more trustworthy habits; and the new secretary was very particular in sending out the invi- tations to the next annual dinner. So the poor ghosts never had another chance. If they had been asked again, there would have been one more of them, for ten days after the dinner which Fanny Meredith had so miserably mismanaged Dr. Vedder died suddenly. The new secretary took great pains also in the ordering of the dinner, and in the arrang- ing of the guests. His efforts were rewarded; there was general satisfaction expressed by the members of the council; and he was con- gratulated on the most successful dinner ever given. Amid the pervading gayety of the occasion there was only one guest who regretted the dinner of the year before. This was Miss Mary Van Dyne. She said nothing about it to any one; indeed, she was accus- tomed to keep her feelings to herself. But she missed an inexplicable something which had made the other dinner the most delightful memory of her later life. Brander Aki//hews. REUNION. REGIMENTAL OFFICERS, 1885. IT is twenty years, my comrades, twenty solid years to date, Since we were stripling captains, dapper youngsters slim and straight; And now in portly manhood, wise and serious, we are met, To gossip of the stirring times of sword and bayonet. Our portly manhood, as above, our silvered heads and all, May be respected, more or less, by circles large or small; But, my comrades, all the honors of our civil walks and ways Seem but empty to the glory of the old heroic days. Yet the martial pomp and grandeur, failing somehow to connect, Were not always clearly present at the time, I recollect. There were dusty, weary marches, not romantic in the least, More especially if rations chanced to fail for man or beast. There were times when human nature had to murmur just a bit; There were seasons of bad language, yes, the truth I must admit; There were bivouacs in the rain or snow, black darkness overhead, The sodden ground beneath us, with a fence-rail for a bed. But what appetites for lobscouse, and what dinners large and free, Supplemented by a canteen full of Commissary B; With the haughty Sothrons hoe-cake, and the colored auntys pie, And a streamlet for a finger-bowl, if one meandered by. Do you remember, comrades, how we fought and overcame Those guerilla ducks and turkeys, war-like pigs and other game? And those savage rebel chickens, who would die, but never yield, Whom we faced with deathless valor on so many a Southern field? Though we murmured, though our language was at times a trifle queer, Though we had but little reverence even for a brigadier, Though we grumbled at the Government with almost every breatR, Yet we faced the gray battalions, all undaunted, to the death. We fo.ught them and we killed them, and they killed us in return; But we never thought to hate them, and we never cared to learn. We met them on the picket lines, with flags of truce between: They were Johnnies, we were Yanks, and better friends were never seen. What anomalies and contrasts! I recall a day in June, When the world was warm with summer, and the birds were all in tune;

82 RE UNION V. BUT long before the next annual dinner of the council of the Saint Nicholas Relief So- ciety, the resignation of Mr. Francis Mere- dith had been requested, and in his stead there had been elected a secretary of more trustworthy habits; and the new secretary was very particular in sending out the invi- tations to the next annual dinner. So the poor ghosts never had another chance. If they had been asked again, there would have been one more of them, for ten days after the dinner which Fanny Meredith had so miserably mismanaged Dr. Vedder died suddenly. The new secretary took great pains also in the ordering of the dinner, and in the arrang- ing of the guests. His efforts were rewarded; there was general satisfaction expressed by the members of the council; and he was con- gratulated on the most successful dinner ever given. Amid the pervading gayety of the occasion there was only one guest who regretted the dinner of the year before. This was Miss Mary Van Dyne. She said nothing about it to any one; indeed, she was accus- tomed to keep her feelings to herself. But she missed an inexplicable something which had made the other dinner the most delightful memory of her later life. Brander Aki//hews. REUNION. REGIMENTAL OFFICERS, 1885. IT is twenty years, my comrades, twenty solid years to date, Since we were stripling captains, dapper youngsters slim and straight; And now in portly manhood, wise and serious, we are met, To gossip of the stirring times of sword and bayonet. Our portly manhood, as above, our silvered heads and all, May be respected, more or less, by circles large or small; But, my comrades, all the honors of our civil walks and ways Seem but empty to the glory of the old heroic days. Yet the martial pomp and grandeur, failing somehow to connect, Were not always clearly present at the time, I recollect. There were dusty, weary marches, not romantic in the least, More especially if rations chanced to fail for man or beast. There were times when human nature had to murmur just a bit; There were seasons of bad language, yes, the truth I must admit; There were bivouacs in the rain or snow, black darkness overhead, The sodden ground beneath us, with a fence-rail for a bed. But what appetites for lobscouse, and what dinners large and free, Supplemented by a canteen full of Commissary B; With the haughty Sothrons hoe-cake, and the colored auntys pie, And a streamlet for a finger-bowl, if one meandered by. Do you remember, comrades, how we fought and overcame Those guerilla ducks and turkeys, war-like pigs and other game? And those savage rebel chickens, who would die, but never yield, Whom we faced with deathless valor on so many a Southern field? Though we murmured, though our language was at times a trifle queer, Though we had but little reverence even for a brigadier, Though we grumbled at the Government with almost every breatR, Yet we faced the gray battalions, all undaunted, to the death. We fo.ught them and we killed them, and they killed us in return; But we never thought to hate them, and we never cared to learn. We met them on the picket lines, with flags of truce between: They were Johnnies, we were Yanks, and better friends were never seen. What anomalies and contrasts! I recall a day in June, When the world was warm with summer, and the birds were all in tune; HA WTHORNE S PHILOSOPHY 83 Peace and beauty all about us, death and danger just ahead, On our faces careless courage, in our hearts a somber dread. Then the skirmish line went forward, and the only sounds we heard Were the hum of droning insects and the carol of a bird; Till, far off, a flash of fire, and a little cloud went by, Like an angels mantle floating down from out an azure sky. Then a shell went screaming oer us, and the air at once was rife With a million whispering hornets, swiftly searching for a life; And the birds and insects fled away before the rebel yell, The thunder of the battle, and the furious flames of hell. Other memories come thronging. When our shoulder-straps were new We were nearly all the world, but now, alas, we are so few: Then we marched with ringing footsteps, looking gayly to the fore; Now with wistful, dreamy glances, we look back to days of yore. If the spirits of the dead revisit earth for weal or woe, We might fancy they would join us, those dear friends of long ago. Hush, who knows what ghostly comrades may have come with noiseless feet, In the old familiar friendliness, to make our band complete? David L. Proudfi/. HAWTHORNES PHILOSOPHY. THE profession of literature in America is not even now irresistibly inviting; repu- tation and profit are still to be obtained at less cost of time and labor in other ways. But if we go back sixty years, and imagine ourselves to be young people of twenty-two or three, with only a collegiate experience of life and the world, and living in a third-rate New England town, with no railways and no soci- ety, the prospects of a literary career would probably seem nothing less than meager. Hawthorne, at the outset of his life, before he had accomplished anything, had not the humility which characterized him afterwards. His mother and sisters admired him, none of his companions and peers were his intellec- tual superiors, and he was inwardly conscious of power and ability. The only thing that could temper his good opinion of himself was books. They showed him that there had been menin the world better than any he had met Homer, Caesar, Shakspere, Napoleon, Goethe; but he could reflect that these giants had also once been young fellows like himself, with per- haps no better grounds for ambitious dreams than he had. Who could tell whether, if he had the faith to try, he might not rival the renown even of such names as these? The secret of the young mans character,~~ as he himself autobiographically observes in The Ambitious Guest, was a high and abstracted ambition. He could have borne to live an undistinguished life, but not to be forgotten in the grave. Obscurely as he jour- neyed now, a glory was to beam on all his pathway though not, perhaps, while he was treading it. But posterity should confess that a gifted one had passed from the cradle to the tomb with none to recognize him. Allow- ing for artistic emphasis, this expresses Haw- thornes early view of his own aspirations. He did not covet a quick and cheap success stares and shouts and greasy night-caps tossed in the air; but he wished to be so spiritually great that only after he was gone should the world awake to a comprehension of his great- ness. He wanted to win the prize in the night, as it were, and be off before anybody was up to congratulate him. He did not wish his struggles, his anxieties, the sweat of his brow, to be visible. Let it be said only that a spirit once visited the earth, and worked wonders there, and vanished before any were aware of him. This was visionary and impractical enough, the dream of inexperienced youth, and not devoid of an element of selfishness; but it was lofty and refined, and agreeably in con- trast with average ambition. It could not be realized, for no man has become great with- out first being made to confess his abject brotherhood with and dependence upon the race; but it was worth feeling for a time. Il- lusions are soon cured, but not every one is so fortunate as to experience a noble illusion. Meanwhile, it was Hawthornes concern to put himself to the proof. There never seems to have been any doubt in his mind as to the path in which he should seek renown. While we were lads together at a country college, he writes to Bridge, doing a hundred things that the faculty never heard of,or else it had

HA WTHORNE S PHILOSOPHY 83 Peace and beauty all about us, death and danger just ahead, On our faces careless courage, in our hearts a somber dread. Then the skirmish line went forward, and the only sounds we heard Were the hum of droning insects and the carol of a bird; Till, far off, a flash of fire, and a little cloud went by, Like an angels mantle floating down from out an azure sky. Then a shell went screaming oer us, and the air at once was rife With a million whispering hornets, swiftly searching for a life; And the birds and insects fled away before the rebel yell, The thunder of the battle, and the furious flames of hell. Other memories come thronging. When our shoulder-straps were new We were nearly all the world, but now, alas, we are so few: Then we marched with ringing footsteps, looking gayly to the fore; Now with wistful, dreamy glances, we look back to days of yore. If the spirits of the dead revisit earth for weal or woe, We might fancy they would join us, those dear friends of long ago. Hush, who knows what ghostly comrades may have come with noiseless feet, In the old familiar friendliness, to make our band complete? David L. Proudfi/. HAWTHORNES PHILOSOPHY. THE profession of literature in America is not even now irresistibly inviting; repu- tation and profit are still to be obtained at less cost of time and labor in other ways. But if we go back sixty years, and imagine ourselves to be young people of twenty-two or three, with only a collegiate experience of life and the world, and living in a third-rate New England town, with no railways and no soci- ety, the prospects of a literary career would probably seem nothing less than meager. Hawthorne, at the outset of his life, before he had accomplished anything, had not the humility which characterized him afterwards. His mother and sisters admired him, none of his companions and peers were his intellec- tual superiors, and he was inwardly conscious of power and ability. The only thing that could temper his good opinion of himself was books. They showed him that there had been menin the world better than any he had met Homer, Caesar, Shakspere, Napoleon, Goethe; but he could reflect that these giants had also once been young fellows like himself, with per- haps no better grounds for ambitious dreams than he had. Who could tell whether, if he had the faith to try, he might not rival the renown even of such names as these? The secret of the young mans character,~~ as he himself autobiographically observes in The Ambitious Guest, was a high and abstracted ambition. He could have borne to live an undistinguished life, but not to be forgotten in the grave. Obscurely as he jour- neyed now, a glory was to beam on all his pathway though not, perhaps, while he was treading it. But posterity should confess that a gifted one had passed from the cradle to the tomb with none to recognize him. Allow- ing for artistic emphasis, this expresses Haw- thornes early view of his own aspirations. He did not covet a quick and cheap success stares and shouts and greasy night-caps tossed in the air; but he wished to be so spiritually great that only after he was gone should the world awake to a comprehension of his great- ness. He wanted to win the prize in the night, as it were, and be off before anybody was up to congratulate him. He did not wish his struggles, his anxieties, the sweat of his brow, to be visible. Let it be said only that a spirit once visited the earth, and worked wonders there, and vanished before any were aware of him. This was visionary and impractical enough, the dream of inexperienced youth, and not devoid of an element of selfishness; but it was lofty and refined, and agreeably in con- trast with average ambition. It could not be realized, for no man has become great with- out first being made to confess his abject brotherhood with and dependence upon the race; but it was worth feeling for a time. Il- lusions are soon cured, but not every one is so fortunate as to experience a noble illusion. Meanwhile, it was Hawthornes concern to put himself to the proof. There never seems to have been any doubt in his mind as to the path in which he should seek renown. While we were lads together at a country college, he writes to Bridge, doing a hundred things that the faculty never heard of,or else it had 84 HA W2HORNE S P[JILOSOPHY been the worse for us, still it was your prog- thing. He was indulging his abstracted am~ nostic of your friends destiny that he was to bitionto the top of its bent. He w~s resolved be a writer of fiction. And a fiction-monger, not to declare himself until the curiosity and in due season, he became. Even before he enthusiasm aroused by his anonymous writings went to college he remarks, in a letter to his had reached such a pitch as to render con- mother, that none of the ordinary professions cealment no longer possible. But he seemed are to his taste, but that to be an author! likely to remain undisturbed a long time. And yet, under the circumstances, he could Critical insight, literary appreciation, were scarcely have fixed upon a less promising not the strong point of our ancestors; and the pursuit. channels through which literature could reach Not only were the chances of success all them were correspondingly scanty. Had Haw- against him, but the mere fact of his adopting thorne begun with a Scarlet Letter, he such a calling would bring him into disrepute. might possibly have found some recognition; There is a grossness, he says, in the con- but, even supposing his genius to have been ceptions of my countrymen; they will not be as yet equal to such an achievement, other convinced that any good thing may consist scarcely less indispensable requisites were want- with what they call idleness. The principle is ing. I have another great difficulty, he excellent in its general influence, but most wrote at the time the Twice-told Tales ap- miserable in its effects on the few who violate peared, in the lack of materials; for I have it. I had a quick sensitiveness to public opin- seen so little of the world that I have nothing ion, and felt as if it ranked me with the tav- but thin air to concoct my stories of. And ern-haunters and town-paupers with the again: I used to think that I could imagine drunken poet who hawked his own Fourth all passions, all feelings and states of the heart of July odes, and the broken soldier who had I and mind; but how little did I know! been good for nothing since last war. The Moreover, the vein and style of his writing not life of New England was a practical, material only was not popular, but never has become life, and the only standard for a man was so; and the number ofhisreadersto-dayisvery what he could do in open, active competition much less than the most moderate outside with other men: the more he could add to estimate would be likely to make it. Widely as the physical wealth of the country, the better his name is now known, not one in a thousand man was he. The tavern-haunter and the of those who are familiar with it have ever town-pauper, having no ambition and no pride read a line of his inditing. A page of sound or sensitiveness, were serene under oppro- criticism here and there, and the avowed brium; but for Hawthorne a good deal of admiration and homage of the best contem- courage and self-confidence was needed to porary intellects, have given him whatever defy the popular prejudice. popular vogue he can claim. Courage in abundance, and self-confidence Neither can he be acquitted of having also, he no doubt had; but he was too young voluntarily deepened his own obscurity. The and not phlegmatic enough to maintain an ab- consciousness of being at odds with the spirit of solute composure. His attitude was rather, his time and surroundings had the effect of as he intimates, a species of light-hearted making him build the wall of separation still desperation. Not having any immediate higher. Naturally reserved, the dread of un- means available for proving public opinion to sympathetic eyes rendered him an actual re- be in the wrong, he took refuge in defiance. cluse. What passed for society in Salem was, He made no effort to conciliate his unsympa- indeed, as destitute of attraction as society thetic neighbors, but withdrew himself from can be, and an intelligent man, with thoughts their society, perhaps in a youll-be-sorry- and a soul of his own, might well shun con- some-day kind of spirit, and settled him- tact with it; yet Hawthorne, while his reserve self as best he could to show that he was the was still balanced by his youth and innate best judge of what was good for him. The sociability, for the last is by no means in- world even his own little world adjusted compatible with the first, might easily have itself without difficulty to this order of things, accommodated himself to the situation. But, and never once troubled itself to ask or to having once admitted the repellent chill, he conjecture how the ambitious author was get- was never afterwards to recover from its ef- ting along. Nor is this extraordinary; for the fects. His predicament bore some resem- author took unnecessary pains to cover such blance to that of his own Wakefield, who, light traces as he made. Whatever he wrote having left his wife one night for a joke, found was either signed with fictitious names or not himself prevented by some nameless and in- signed at all; and, during the first eight or tangible perversity from returning to her for ten years, probably not half a dozen human twenty years. An influence beyond our con- keings were aware that he had written any- trol lays its strong hand on every deed which HA WTHORNE S PHILOSOPHY 85 we do, and weaves its consequences into an iron tissue of necessity. And again he re- marks that amid the seeming confusion of our mysterious world, individuals are so nicely adjusted to a system, and systems to one an- other and to a whole, that, by stepping aside for a moment, a man exposes himself to a fearful risk of losing his place forever. Unlike Wakefield, however, Hawthorne spent his period of self-banishment in something else besides speculating as to what Mrs. Wakefield thought of his absence; and, whether he gained or lost by his long solitary vigil, the literature of his country unquestionably gained. Hawthorne himself, when he was thirty-six years old, began to perceive that a Providen- tial wisdom may have overruled his imprison- ment, in order that, living in solitude till the fullness of time was come, he might still keep the dew of his youth and the freshness of his heart. In point of fact, this whole episode of his career is extraordinary, both intrinsically and in its results. It is as picturesque and emblematic as anything in his own tales. From the obscurest, he was destined to become perhaps the foremost man of letters in Amer- ica, and to secure that end he must be kept apart from the rush of civilization for a space. The knights-errant of old watched their armor previous to embarking on their enterprise; the young Indian chiefs were made to undergo a period of solitude and fasting before being admitted to full standing; Bunyan wrote his book in Bedford jail; and Hawthorne, in Salem, withdrew himself from the face of man, and meditated for twelve lonely years upon humanity. He came forth a great original writer. But the example is by no means one to be followed. Hardly one man in a thou- sand would escape being ruined by such an experience, let alone deriving any advan- tage from it. Upon Hawthorne apart from its influence upon his literary quality it pro- duced an ineffaceable impression. He con- stantly recurs to it, both in his tales and else- where. Was there ever such a weary delay in obtaining the slightest recognition from the public, he asks, as in my case? I sat down by the wayside of life like a man under en- chan.tment. Trouble, he says in another place, is the next best thing to enjoyment; and there is no fate in the world so horrible as to have no share in either its joys or sor- rows. For the last ten years I have not lived, but only dreamed of living. And again he alludes to my heavy youth, which has been wasted in sluggishness for lack of hope and impulse, or equally thrown away in toil that had no wise motive, and has accomplished no good end. But the goodness of the end became apparent afterwards. The truth seems to be that Hawthorne who, in addition to his genius, which is always indefinable, was a man of wide sym- pathies and penetrating insight got more benefit from his own society than he could have derived from any other society open to him. Providence, according to its custom, had in view not so much the individuals happiness or preferences as his possible uses to mankind. He was destined to do a certain work, and to that end were needed, not only his native abilities, but an exceptional initia- tion, or forty days in the wilderness. He must meditate upon life abstractly without either the confirmation or the bias afforded by actual experience. By this means would gradually be created within him an intuitive touchstone or standard of truth, unadulterated and indestructible, by which he might investi- gate and analyze, without danger or confusion, the problems and perplexities of the human heart. When once this standard had been established, the spell of seclusion might safely be broken, and the neophyte be suffered to go forth among men and prove his prowess. The effect was much the same as if Hawthorne had been born full-grown, with all the spiritual wisdom and reserved power that may come from half a lifetimes patience and meditation. He might be compared to his own Ernest in The Great Stone Face: Angels seemed to have sat with him by the fireside; and, dwelling with angels as friend with friends, he had imbibed the sublimity of their ideas, and imbued it with the sweet and lowly charm of household words. . . . His words had power, because they accorded with his thoughts; and his thoughts had reality, because they har- monized with the life that he had always lived. The organization of a man who could endure such a vigil must, of course, have been excep- tionally thorough, and his nature unusually wholesome; and such we know to have been the case with Hawthorne. But perhaps as valuable a trait as any was his delectable lei- sureliness his imperial refusal to be in a hurry. This was apparent very early, and indeed youth is apt to fancy that time is prac- tically inexhaustible; but that leads to lazi- ness, and between laziness and leisureliness there is a great diffetence. Hawthornes space was not within the limits of the day or the year, but within himself. He had an instinc- tive persuasion that the garden of his mind had been well sown with all necessary seeds, and that they would grow up in their due season. At all events, he would not pull them up to see how they were getting on. He took his harvests as they came, and was in- clined rather to delay than to hasten their ripening. The need for him to be patient was 86 not more strong than his power to be so. In the second place, he had humor; not face- tiousness orbuffoonery, a forced or imported brilliance,but innate humor, that plays about the subject like the lambent flames of incan- descent coal; following in this the system of his entire development, which was endog- enous. He had gravity, but not solemnity; there were no arid spots in him; his percep- tion of the vastness of the creative plan kept him from becoming lugubrious over any par- tial revelation of it. This deep and subtle smile does not, however, appear in his earli- est writings, when he was trying his prentice hand, and was more anxious about the treat- ment than about the matter. The humorous passages of Fanshawe are not spontaneous and the papers referring to Oberon, repub- lished after Hawthornes death, have a posi- tively morbid strain in them. Another valuable quality, and one not often allied to a genius so refined as his, was his imperturbable com- mon sense, which preserves even his most imaginative flights from extravagance. Even when we enter the Hall of Fantasy, or are among the guests at A Select Party, or try the virtues of Dr. Heidiggers Experiment, still we feel that the great, round, solid earth of which Hawthorne speaks so affec- tionately is beneath our feet. He does not float vaguely in mid-air, but takes his stand somewhere near the center of things, and always knows what he is about. Tracing back his fanciful vagaries, we invariably find them originating in some settled and constant mid- dle ground of belieg, from which they are measured, and which renders them compre- hensible and significant. Such being the man, and such the circum- stances, let us see how they acted upon one another. We know, on his own confession, that his beginnings were by no means free from difficulties. He had to learn how to write, like other people. Hitherto, he says in Passages from a Relinquished Work, from which quotations have already been made Hitherto I had immensely underrated the difficulties of my idle trade; but now I recog- nized that it demanded nothing short of my whole powers, cultivated to the utmost and exerted with prodigality. No talents or attain- ments would come amiss: wide observation, varied knowledge, deep thoughts, and spark- ling ones; pathos, levity, and a mixture of both; lofty imagination, veiling itself in the garb of common life; and the practiced art which alone could render such gifts available. Knowing the impossibility of satisfying myself, even should the world be satisfied, I did my best, investigated the causes of every de- fect, and strove with patient stubbornness to remove them in the next attempt. It is one of my few sources of pride that I followed my object up with the firmness and energy of a man. When a young man first attempts authorship, especially if he have selected the vein of fiction, he is apt to be misled by some traditional and artificial conception of litera- ture. Literature, he fancies, must be some- thing quite distinct and different from life, and demands a new code of manners and cast of thought. It is only later that he discovers if he make the discovery at allthat the best lit- erature is the simplest and most translucent expression of the mind that produces it; that much as there is to be learnt, there is yet more to unlearn. The redundancy and uncertainty of ordinary speech must be reformed, but its naturalness and spontaneity must be pre- served. Hawthorne, as we know, burnt more than he published of his earlier writings, and we are therefore debarred from following the steps of his self-emancipation; but there is one little tale, The Antique Ring, which he did not include in his republications, and which probably is as good an example of all that he wished to avoid as could now be found. With the exception, indeed, of an oc- casional allusion to the dusky glow of the gem, there is nothing in either the conception or the treatment of the story that recalls the Hawthorne that we know. The precise date of the composition can only be conjectured; but conjecture would place it very far back indeed. Hawthornes boyish contributions to liter- ature took the form of sentimental little poems of no originality or value; and The Antique Ring would seem to be scarcely one remove above them. Between it and The Great Carbuncle, for example, the gulf is im- mense. A better vein was probably struck in the Seven Tales of my Native Land, which had witchcraft for their theme, and which his sister, to whom Hawthorne showed them, and who was an excellent judge, has commended. ~At all events, every allusion to witches that ~urvives in his published work is effective ~tnd characteristic; and the point of view ~Trom which he regards those picturesque be- ings is entirely peculiar to himself; in no other one direction is his indefinable genius more apparent. As regards the Seven Tales, however, he is said to have remarked that they were not true; and we may infer that the witches were allowed to have too much their own way in them that their broom- stick flights left the great, round, solid earth too far behind. For the human nature in Hawthornes witches those that have been preserved to us is at least as prominent as their supernatural attributes, and, indeed, is HA WTHORNE S PHILOSOPHY HA WTHORNE S PHILOSOPHY 87 what gives these attributes their best effect. what no one else has done before or since If, in the Seven Tales, the author allowed to write Hawthornesque romance. He in- himself to be subjectively dominated by his vented a new definition of romance, and his own witches, no wonder he was carried be- proprietary rights in the domain he discovered yond the limits which his reflection could jus- have never been infringed upon. Hawthorne tify. The horror would be too fantastic and was neither afraid of his imagination nor in unmitigated, and devoid of that element upon subjection to it; like Prospero, he wielded which he uniformly insists so strongly a easily his magic wand, and smiled at the ter- moral. There is one story among the rors of the storm he created. Through the Twice-told Tales which might almost be black frown of the clouds he saw the smiling numbered in the discarded category, The sunshine and the peaceful blue; and deeper Hollow of Three Hills. But it was well than the roar and tumult of thunder and tem- worth retaining, for once in a way. pest he heard the quiet chirp of birds and the But if Hawthornes improvement was very homely murmur of daily life. great, it seems also to have been very rapid. We may conclude, then, that Hawthornes Some of the earliest published pieces, collected apprenticeship practically came to an end at in the Twice-told Tales and The Snow about his twenty-seventh year; the two or Image, show, in a modified form, many of three surviving pieces (including Fanshawe) the excellences belonging to the later pro- known to have been produced before that ductions. He partly accounts for this by the date being not only inferior to his later work, remark that in youth men are apt to write but different from it in aim and significance. more wisely than they really know or feel; He was now able to say whatever he wished, and the remainder of life may not be idly and was beginning to find out what he wished spent in realizing and convincing themselves to say. The latter accomplishment might of the wisdom which they uttered long ago. seem, in view of the writers peculiar sur- The truth that was only in the fancy then roundings, the more difficult feat of the two. may have since become a substance of the But Hawthorne was still too fresh to the busi- mind and heart. Disraeli has a similar ob- ness to admit discouragement on this score. servation in his preface to Vivian Grey. The flow of fancy, he says, soon came on But it is also to be remembered that the me so abundantly, that its indulgence was forty-five sketches, or thereabouts, republished its own reward though the hope of praise in the two volumes above mentioned, are also became a powerful incitement. Indeed, all that survive of the labor of a dozen years; no passage in a writers career is so agreeable which, considering that he was always a diligent as this first enjoyment of the faculty of expres- worker, leaves a very large number to be ac- sion; every passing hour suggests a new counted for. It was these, no doubt, that theme, and the wealth of material opening Hawthorne informs us he burnt, without out before him seems inexhaustible. Every- mercy or remorse, and moreover without ~ny thing being untried, he feels an impulse to try subsequent regret; and it is in them that everything; nothing is common or unclean, we should have traced the development of because the point of view from which he looks his thought and style. Nevertheless, all allow- upon it is his own. ances being made, the fact remains that he As was remarked just now, Hawthorne had schooled himself with unusual promptness~~ no hesitation about making literature his pro- and severity; a fact the more remarkable, fession; but there is nothing to show that he inasmuch as he had not the benefit of outside originally anticipated devoting himself exclu- criticism, which we of a later age enjoy in sively, or mainly, to fiction. As a matter of? such profusion. He was his own critic, and fact, however, though many of his pieces are plied his office with a truly Puritanic harshness. explicitly historical, and many others what He was perhaps aided in this by the curious might be termed essays, he inevitably threw duality of his nature, his imaginative and about them all the glamour of a fictitious at- his matter-of-fact selves, which were always mosphere. He saw things picturesquely, or keeping each other in check. Most men in even pictorially; and his reflections, upon whom the imagination is highly developed are whatever subject, assumed a figurative form. prone to be seduced by its allurements; but He has been called, in complimentary phrase- the spirit of Hawthornes stern and square- ology, a poet; but the remark is truer than N\. visaged ancestors was strong within him, and, most such compliments are. He is a poet, while it restrained him from excess, enabled inasmuch as his mind tends instinctively to him with rare impunity to career narrowly humanize everything to impose upon every upon the verge of absurdity without ever object of thought or sensation a human figure tumbling off. In other words, his self-poise or order. His view is comprehensive and was such as to make it possible for him to do classifying, sensitive to analogies, and analytic 88 HA WTHORNE S PHILOSOPHY because it has first been constructive. He admits nothing unrelated, but recognizes the central love and energy organizing all things. All these are poetic gifts, enabling their pos- sessor to sum up and re-create the seeming chaos of phenomena, and to give it novel and enlightening utterance. But Hawthorne, how- ever well fitted inwardly or spiritually to be a poet, was preserved therefrom by such com- paratively external and accidental obstacles as an unmusical ear and an aversion to the trammels of rhythmical expression. I say preserved in no invidious sense, for, gen- erally speaking, nothing can be better than a poet. But extraordinary emergencies require exceptional prescriptions; and America~s ~s- thetic want at that period seemed to demand precisely Hawthorne and nothing else. The voice was Jacobs, but the hands were Esaus. Poetry is essentially a perception of the spirit- ual reason and relation of things; but the American genius, which is not primitive and childlike, cannot give a full account of itself in measured feet and rhymes; it must speak at times with the directness and artlessness of homely conversation, and be poetical in its influence rather than in its aspect. In neg- lecting the poetic form, therefore, Hawthorne proved himself in accord with the tendency of the age, which ignores form just in propor- tion as it insists upon the spirit. Art, subjectively considered, is the means adopted by the artist to tell what is in him; and Hawthorne, up to the epoch of The Scarlet Letter, was moved to utter himself upon three classes of subjects philosophy, history, and that derivative and sublimation of the two which is called Story. But so strong in him was the instinct of Story that it colored and shaped his treatment of the former topics. His essays take the form of allegories, and his historical pieces assume the aspect less of narratives than of pictures. He cannot be satisfied with simply telling us what happened; he must bring us to look upon the scene as transacted in his imagination. Man is his game the living human being; nor will he consent even to follow the familiar metaphysical device, and, in his philosophical speculations, separate the subject perceiving from the object perceived. To do so was, in his opinion, a mere logical analysis of a living experience an attempt to resuscitate the body of knowledge after its soul has fled. He blended the artificial scientific distinction of subject and object in the living life or con- sciousness which miraculously knows. There- fore his philosophy always expresses itself in allegory at least, if not in actual examples of human experience. Abstractions will not suit him; practical illustrations are his only wear. Andif he willnot divorce philosophy from man, neither, on the other hand, will he divorce man from philosophy. In other words, he will not ~be a mere painter of external life, of manners, ~of appearance; he must penetrate the secret of his characters, and know, and demonstrate either explicitly or implicitly, not so much the how as the wherefore of their actions and con- ditions. Thus it happens that all his stories have their moral. Thought, he says, has always its efficacy, and every striking incident its moral. To be at a los~ for a moral would be tantamount to not knowing what he had been writing about; to understand a thing is to moralize it. Taking a comprehensive view, we might put the matter in a phrase by say- ing that he turns his philosophy into human beings, and his human beings into philosophy. But the older he grew, the more did he in- cline to the latter process in preference to the former. He relinquished the allegories and the allegorical essays, and found all the stage he needed for them and for his historical material in the imaginative circumstances of romance. We need not suppose that Hawthorne made these discriminations deliberately, or even consciously. Like most wholesome and well- poised natures, he evinced great spontaneity of thought and action; and among the four maxims which he recorded for his use in his thirty-second year is to do nothing against ones genius. He was probably led to ro- mance as th~ fittest vehicle of his thoughts by sheer love of artof beauty in its most highly organized form. In his investigations into the human mind and heart, he never acts theepart of the surgeon or dissector; the liv- ing and breathing creature stands before us, and Hawthorne seems to endow us with a power to see through its fleshly walls into the workings beneath. But the fleshly walls are always there; there is nothing of the French or of the modern American analyst in our romancer. He clothes and veils his concep- tions; he never strips or disembowels them; there is always reverence and delicacy in his attitude, though there is always, too, unswerv- ing insistence upon the truth. This talk about cold-blooded dissection is quite b6side the mark. Hawthorne comprehends the person- ages of his dramas, and he is tender to them precisely because he comprehends them. He has assumed their trials and infirmities, and has looked out of their eyes before he investi- gates them with his own. If there be a faculty which I possess more perfectly than most men, he says, it is that of throwing myself mentally into situations foreign to my own, and detecting the circumstances of each. Cold-blooded dissection, under such cir HA WTHORNE S PHILOSOPHY 89 cumstances, would be a kind of imaginative suicide. He loved humanity; and no one who reads his books in an intelligent spirit can avoid feeling stimulated on the humane side. But the profound and unsensational charac- ter of Hawthornes workthe artistic beauty and repose of its form lays it open to a singu- lar objection. It makes us wish to discover its author in it; and at the same time, and for the same cause, it baffles that desire. Every- thing is so smoothly finished that we can with difficulty find the workman in his pro- duction. Nevertheless, he is there, and with due attention he may be discerned. In al- luding to the objections taken by some of the more crabbed of his critics to the per- sonal tone of his introductions and prefaces, Hawthorne remarks that if he has touched upon facts which relate to himself, it is only because they chanced to be nearest at hand, and were likewise his own property. But these things, he adds, hide the man in- stead of displaying him. You must make quite another kind of inquest, and look through the range of his fictitious characters, in order to detect any of his essential traits. This was written in 185 i, and of course refers to the pieces (except The Scarlet Letter ) produced previous to that date that is to say, to the Twice-told Tales, the Mosses from an Old Manse, and the Snow Image collection. In these volumes, then, we are to look for a reflection of the character and de- velopment of Hawthornes mind. Here we shall find the materialsthe germsfrom which his creations were evolved. In several of the essays, especially, the blending of sub- stance and form is not so complete as to ren- der disintegration an abstruse matter. In the least guarded of them, however, the reader is curiously bamboozled, so to speak, as to the real point at issue. He is amused with a superficial phantasmagory of figures and scenery, and does not realize that the tune which sets these puppets dancing is the true gist of the whole matter. And yet this bam- boozling seems to be almost involuntary on Hawthornes part; one would say that he was deceived himselg and that the philosophical remarks and conclusions which he makes were but the fruit of a chance suggestion aris- ing out of the concrete topic. Indeed, it is evident that his disquisitions aim not so much at establishing his claim to be an original thinker, as to ally himself in thought and be- lief with the mass of his fellow-men. The sketches, he tells us, are not the talk of a secluded man with his own heart and mind, but his attempts to open an intercourse with the world. His seclusion was an accidental and external matter only; he wished to merge himself in the general human nature, and to prove his right to be assimilated with it. Truth, not singularity, was the garment that Hawthorne coveted; for truth, while it gives its possessor the freedom of all societies, is also the real cloak of invisibility. The more closely we envelop ourselves in it, the less obtrusive become our impertinent personal lineaments. Who can see Shakspere in his plays, or Pheidias in his statues? And the truth which Hawthorne perceived perhaps more profoundly than any other was that of the brotherhood of man. By inheri- tance and training he tended towards exclu- siveness; but both his heart and his intellect showed him the shallowness of such a scheme of existence. So far back as 1835 we find him canvassing the idea of some common quality or circumstance that should bring to- gether people the most unlike in other respects, and make a brotherhood and sisterhood of them the rich and the proud finding them- selves in the same category with the mean and the despised. In the following year he defines his conception more minutely. He will class mankind, first, by their sorrows; for instance, wherever there are any, whether in fair mansion or hovel, who are mourning for the loss of relatives or friends, and who wear black, whether the cloth be coarse or superfine,they are to make one class. Secondly, all who have the same maladies, whether they lie under damask canopies, or on straw pal- lets, or in the wards of hospitals, they are to form one class. Thirdly, all who are guilty of the same sins, whether the world knows them or not, whether they languish in prison, look- ing forward to the gallows, or walk honored among men, they also form a class. Then proceed to generalize and classify all the world together, as none can claim utter exemption from either sorrow, sin, or disease; and, if they could, yet death, like a great parent, comes and sweeps them all through one dark- some portal all his children. In elaborat- ing the scheme in the Procession of Life,~~ he finds, however, that Sin and Death are the broadest badges of humanity. Diseases are as proper subjects of human pride as any relations of human rank that man can fix upon. Disease is the natural aristocrat. He is not satisfied, either, with the idea of forming a separate class of mankind on the basis of high intellectual power. It is but a higher development of innate gifts common to all, and it may be doubted whether the peculiar relation of intellectual persons to one another may not vanish as soon as the procession shall have passed beyond the circle of the present world. Even grief is not an invari- able bond of alliance, for if the influence of the HA WTHORNE S PHILOSOPHY 90 worlds false distinctions remain in the heart, acter, above them all is the breadth of then sorrow lacks the earnestness that makes Providence! it holy and reverend; if the mourner have Another of Hawthornes strongest percep- anything dearer than his grief, he must seek tions was of the artificiality of our present civ- his true position elsewhere. When, however, ilization, and of the superfluities and absurdi- the trumpet sounds for the guilty to assemble, ties to which custom has insensibly blinded even the purest may be sensible of some us. Earths Holocaust is the symbolic faint responding echo in his breast; many, clearing out of these abuses. Rank, govern- however, will be astonished at the fatal im- ment, property, literature, and the gallows pulse that drags them thitherward. Nothing is are consumed one after the other; and then more remarkable than the various deceptions the radicals would do away with marriage, by which guilt conceals itself from the per- theology, and even with the Bible. But Haw- petrators conscience. This idea of the catho- thorne will not allow the radicals to carry him licity of guilt runs through all Hawthornes off his feet; and though he is ready to admit productions. Man, he says (in Fancys that nature is better than any book, and the Show-Box), must not disclaim his brother- human heart deeper than any system of phi- hood even with the guiltiest, since, though his losophy, yet he puts his finger unerringly hand be clean, his heart has surely been pol- upon the weak spot in all reformations; and luted by the flitting phantoms of iniquity. though the observation is put into the mouth Again, the storyof Young Goodman Brown of a personage whose complexion was in- perhaps the most remarkable piece of im- deed fearfully dark, and his eyes glowed with aginative writing in the whole list of Haw- a redder light than that of the bonfire, it is thornes works inculcates the same appall- none the less unanswerable. Be not so cast ing lesson of fraternity in sin. Evil is the down, my good friends, says this lurid in- nature of mankind! exclaims the fallen an- dividual; you shall see good days yet. gel. When the friend shows his inmost heart There is one thing that these wiseacres have to his friend, cries the dying Father Hooper, forgotten to throw into the fire, and without the lover to his best beloved; when man which all the rest of the conflagration is just does not vainly shrink from the eye of his nothing at all; yes, though they had burned Creator, loathsomely treasuring up the secret the earth itself to a cinder. of his sin, then deem me a monster, for the And what may that be? eagerly de- symbol beneath which I have lived and die! manded the last murderer. I look around me, and, lo! on every visage a What but the human heart itself? said Black Veil! the dark-visaged stranger with a portentous But though he thus insisted upon the darker grin. aspects of human association, Hawthorne was Purify that inward sphere, adds Haw- far from neglecting the other side. Speaking thorne, and the shapes of evil that now of the reformers and theorizers, in The Hall f seem almost our only realities, will turn to of Fantasy, representatives of an unqtiiet shadowy phantoms and vanish of their own period, when mankind is seeking to cast off accord; but if we go no deeper than the the whole tissue of ancient custom like a tat- intellect, and strive, with merely that feeble tered garment, and noting the apparent instrument, to discern and rectify what is incompatibility of their various notions, he wrong, our whole accomplishment will be a nevertheless perceives the underlying bond of dream. On the other hand, if reform be not union. Far down beyond the fathom of the always beneficial, it can do no lasting harm: intellect, he says, the soul acknowledges not a truth is destroyed; only what is evil that all these varying and conflicting develop- can feel the action of the fire. The Titan of ments of humanity were united in one senti- innovation, in short, is double in his nature, ment the struggle of the race after a better partaking of both angelic and diabolic ele- and purer life than had yet been realized on ments; but Providence still stands. behind, earth. Or, once more, alluding to the religi- and overrules all to its own ends. ous sectarians, he observes that truth has an But he took more pleasure in imagining intoxicating quality when imbibed by any the condition of the world after all mistakes save a powerful intellect, and often impels the and irrationalities were done away with or quaffer to quarrel in his cups; so that each forgotten. We who are born into the worlds sect surrounds its own righteousness with a artificial system, he says ( New Adam and hedge of thorns, and, though their hearts be Eve), can never adequately know how lit- large, their minds are often exclusively filled tle in our present state and circumstances is with one idea. Nevertheless, though their natural, and how much is merely the interpo- own view may be bounded by country, creed, lation of the perverted mind and heart of profession, the diversities of individual char- man. It is only through the medium of the HA WTHORNE S PHILOSOPHY 9 imagination that we can loosen these iron fet- ters which we call truth and reality, and make ourselves even partially sensible what prisoners we are. And then he carries his newly created pair through a days wandering about Boston, on that day when everything physical that can give evidence of mans present position remains untouched by the hand of destiny; but no breath of a creative being, save themselves, disturbs this earthly atmosphere. The satire is gracefully and deli- cately managed. Such a pair would at once distinguish between art and nature. Their instincts and intuitions would at once recognize the wisdom and simplicity of the latter; while the former, with its elaborate perversities, would offer them a continued suc- cession of puzzles. They behold each other without astonishment; but perhaps no other stride so vast remains to be taken as when they first turn from the reality of their mutual glance to the dreams and shadows that per- plex them everywhere else. They approach a church, attracted by its spire, pointing up- wards to the sky, whither they have already yearned to climb; as they enter the portal, Time, who has survived his former progeny, speaks with the iron tongue that men gave him to his two grandchildren. They listen, but understand him not; nature would meas- ure time by the succession of thoughts and acts which constitute real life, and not by hours of emptiness. They dimly feel some religious influence in the place, but are trou- bled by the roof between them and the sky. They go out and kneel at the threshold, and give way to the spirits natural instinct of adoration towards a beneficent Father. But, in truth, their life thus far has been a con- tinual prayer; purity and simplicity hold con- verse at every moment with their Creator. Passing onward, they come to that hospi- tal whose patients were sick and so were the purest of their brethren with the plague of sin. Every remedy had been tried for its extirpation except the single one, the flower that grew in Heaven and was sovereign for all the miseries of earth man never had attempted to cure sin by Love! His system had been one of fear and vengeance, never successful, yet followed to the last. Escap- ing thence, they enter a private mansion, most of the contents of which are a puzzle to them. The pictures, for example, do not in- terest them, for there is something radically artificial and deceptive in painting. This recalls Heines apothegm Painting is noth- ing but a flat falsehood. The statue of a little child, however, impresses them more agreeably. Sculpture in its highest excel- lence is more genuine than painting, and might seem to be evolved from some natural germ by the same law as a leaf or a flower. They next enter a bank, where is hoarded the mainspring, the life, the very essence of the system that had wrought itself into the vitals of mankind and choked their original nature in its deadly gripe. As Hawthorne elsewhere remarks, however, the desire for wealth is the natural yearning for that life in the midst of which we find ourselves. Be that as it may, to Adam and Eve all the bul- lion in the bank is no better than heaps of rubbish. A further discovery is that of a library, which excites Adams curiosity; but Eve draws him forth again in good time, else all the perversions, and sophistries, and false wisdom so aptly mimicking the true, all the narrow truth, so partial that it becomes more deceptive than falsehood, all the wrong principles and worse practice, the pernicious examples and mistaken rules of life, all the specious theories which turn earth into cloudland, and men into shad- ows, all the sad experience which it took mankind so many ages to accumulate, and from which they never drew a moral for their future guidance, the whole heap of this disastrous lore would have tumbled at once upon Adams head. Surely this view of liter- ature is a radical one for even an American author to hold. Hawthornes religious faith was of an al- most childlike simplicity, though it was as deeply rooted as his life itself. It was not his cue to insist upon the rational explanation of all mysteries; and if he had felt the long- ing for some master-thought to guide me through this labyrinth of life, teaching me wherefore I was born, and how to do my task on earth, and what is death, yet he recognized the vanity of attempting to unveil the mysteries which Divine Intelligence has revealed so far as is needful to our guidance, and hid the rest. What is essential is intui- tive; and he remarks that a blind man might as reasonably contend that a reflection in a mirror does not exist, as we, because the Creator has hitherto withheld the spiritual perception, can therefore contend that there is no spiritual world. Nor is that world a dark realm of nothingness; it fulfills all the wants of the human soul; nor need we even doubt that mans disembodied spirit may re-create time and the world for itself, with all their peculiar enjoyments, should there still be human yearnings amid life eternal and infi- nite. The riddle of the Sphinx does not keep him awake o nights; perhaps, he thinks, the reason of our existence may be revealed to us after the fall of the curtain; or, not im- possibly, the whole drama, in which we are 92 HA WTHORNES PHILOSOPHY involuntary actors, may have been performed ing to Mr. Smooth-it-away, the directors for the instruction of another set of spectators. had caused forges to be set up for the manu- This last, however, is a fanciful theory, not a facture of railroad iron. The giants Pope sober belief; and for a man who has become and Pagan are dead; but their cavern is oc- wedded to a theory there remains, in his cupied by an amorphous monster of German opinion, little hope. There is no surer extraction, Giant Transcendentalist by name, method of arriving at the Hall of Fantasy who shouted after us, but in so strange a than to throw ones self into the current of a phraseology that we knew not what he meant, theory; for, whatever landmarks of fact may nor whether to be encouraged or aifrighted. be set up along the stream, there is a law of At Vanity Fair everything proceeds swim- nature that impels it thither. And let it be mingly until the old-fashioned pilgrims make so; for what is good and true becomes grad- their appearance, when there were these ually hardened into fact, while error melts two worthy simpletons, making the scene look away and vanishes. Therefore, he adds, wild and monstrous, merely by their sturdy may none who believe and rejoice in the repudiation of all part in its business or pleas- progress of mankind be angry with me because ures. Another station was formerly the I recognized theirapostles and leaders amid the castle of the redoubted Giant Despair; but fantastic radiance of those pictured windows, since his death Mr. Flimsy-Faith has repaired I love and honor such men as well as they. it (in a modern and airy style of architecture), These are the words of an optimist, though and keeps an excellent house of entertainment not of an extreme one; but it is noticeable that there. And so they rattle along, at the tail the deeperthelevelatwhichHawthornemoves of a thunderbolt, with Apollyon for engineer, the more optimistic does he become. He i~ until they arrive at the river, where a steam not an advocate; he holds the scales impar- ferry-boat, the last improvement on this im- tially; but his most momentous conclusions portant route, stands ready to receive them. are also his most hopeful ones. A humorous But the wheels, as they began their revolu- or saturnine eccentricity might have attracted tion, threw a dash of spray over me so cold more curiosity; but, once more, he wished so deadly cold, with the chill that will never to open an intercourse with the world, and leave those waters until Death be drowned in eccentricity is a porcupines coat. He aimed his own river that, with a shiver and a not to startle or to titillate his hearers, but to heartquake, I awoke. Thank heaven, it was say only what the unprejudiced judgment of a Dream! Some people object to allegories; mankind must agree to. To do this without but, deftly managed, they give wings to satire. once descending to commonplace is the feat The historian of The Celestial Railroad is of the highest genius; yet so well has Haw- at any rate chargeable with the same indis- thome accomplished it, that one has to ponder cretion that is ascribed to Elliston in The his utterances more than once to realize how Bosom Serpent that of breaking through revolutionary many of them are. the tacit compact by which the world has He seldom indulges in satire; but when he done its best to secure repose without relin- does so, itis to good purpose. The Celestial quishing evil. Railroad is a most felicitous conception, and It might be objected to an analysis such is touched with a masterly hand. It exposes as has been indicated (rather than made) in the modern tendency to postpone the warn- the foregoing pages, that Hawthorne is sub- ings of conscience, to glide over and round stantially a romancer, a teller of tales, the grim realities of life, and to skim com- and that, therefore, his excursions into fortably forward from the cradle to the grave, other regions are of little practical signifi- outwardly respectable, but inwardly stained cance. But the story was never the chief with every indulgence. Christians old friend object in Hawthornes writings; the skeleton Evangelist presides at the ticket-office having once been designed, he immediately though some malicious persons deny his! forgot all about it, and devoted all his ener identity, and even pretend to bring compe- gies to the flesh-and-blood of the composi- tent evidence of an imposture. Among the tion. And this flesh-and-blood is no mere fashionable folk at the railway station there appendage; it is wrought out of the authors was much pleasant conversation on indifferent very life. In order that the outward beauty topics; while religion, though indubitably of the completed work may be adequately ap- the main thing at heart, was thrown tastefully preciated, it is, therefore, necessary to under- into the background. Even an infidel would stand something of its inner organization and have heard little or nothing to shock his sensi- secret genesis. It is alive, and has the inex- bifity. The Valley of the Shadow of Death haustible fascination of life the depth be- is artificially lighted, and there is a stopping- yond depth. It is illuminated by imagination place at the mouth of Tophet, where, accord- and graced by art; but imagination only ren HA WTHOZ?NE S PHILOSOPHY 93 ders the informing truth more conspicuous, and art is the form which symmetrical truth inevitably assumes. In short, save as regards the merest externals, nothing in Hawthornes fictions is fictitious. And therefore we lose what is best in them, unless we learn how to read between the lines how to detect the writers own lineaments beneath the mul- tifarious marks wherewith he veils them. These shorter sketches, covering a wider area of thought than the complete romances, are consequently more transparent; and they show us how The Scarlet Letter and The Marble Faun came to be horn. They show us, too, the value of his early seclusion, which caused him to begin with meditation instead of with observation, and thus to produce things with souls in them, instead of hollow shells painted to resemble life. However we may probe or test his writings, we shall find no vacuum in them; the material envelope is sometimes imperfect, but the spiritual reality is always there. Hawthorne himself perceived his defects much more keenly than his excellences, and his effort to improve is constantly visible. He endeavors to balance his rare faculty of in- sight by the comparatively common faculty of outsight; and the volumes of his note-books are the patent records of this study. His aim, therefore, was the perfection which only Shak- spere has attained; but Hawthorne was the bud of Shaksperes full-blown rose. He widened every year; his roots were nourished by the Shaksperian soil; and his perfume had a purity and potency which will, perhaps, cause it to linger in the memory as long as that of the mighty Elizabethan. fzlicuz Hawthorne. VOL. XXXJJ.ii. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE (ABOUT 1862). (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY SILLSBRE, CASE & co.) THE BREEDING OF FANCY PIGEONS. I know it as an art and a mystery. Darwuz. THE breeding of fancy pigeons is fascinat- ing and engrossing beyond the conception of those who have not engaged in it. Says Crabbe, and truly, Whether tumblers, crop- pers, carriers seize the gentle mind, they rule. The pigeon-fancier acknowledges the thrall, but pleads in excuse for submitting to it, not more the gratification it affords to the creative instinct and love of harmony of his artist nature, than the benefit he finds in its recreative action upon his mind; that with the problems its study forces upon him for solution, new thoughts are awakened, new emotions are excited, and, returning from things ethereal to things mundane, it is with brain refreshed and perceptions quick- ened. The pigeon-fancieris the artist among breed- ers. His work of living pictures is the outcome, and to satisfy the same longing that incites the painter, the sculptor, or the connoisseur. Sometimes, Pygmalion-like, his bird is his ideal, brought, by his love of it, to the life; or the purpose is defined, and he strives to fill the outline; or he cannot fashion or por- tray, and he finds his satisfaction in possessing, counting the value in the difficulties in the way to it, or in the measure of anothers ap ARCHANGEL. (BRED BY W. BROEMER, BALTIMORE, MO.) YELLOW NUN. (OWNED BY W. W. WALKER, BRIDGEPORT, CT.)

THE BREEDING OF FANCY PIGEONS. I know it as an art and a mystery. Darwuz. THE breeding of fancy pigeons is fascinat- ing and engrossing beyond the conception of those who have not engaged in it. Says Crabbe, and truly, Whether tumblers, crop- pers, carriers seize the gentle mind, they rule. The pigeon-fancier acknowledges the thrall, but pleads in excuse for submitting to it, not more the gratification it affords to the creative instinct and love of harmony of his artist nature, than the benefit he finds in its recreative action upon his mind; that with the problems its study forces upon him for solution, new thoughts are awakened, new emotions are excited, and, returning from things ethereal to things mundane, it is with brain refreshed and perceptions quick- ened. The pigeon-fancieris the artist among breed- ers. His work of living pictures is the outcome, and to satisfy the same longing that incites the painter, the sculptor, or the connoisseur. Sometimes, Pygmalion-like, his bird is his ideal, brought, by his love of it, to the life; or the purpose is defined, and he strives to fill the outline; or he cannot fashion or por- tray, and he finds his satisfaction in possessing, counting the value in the difficulties in the way to it, or in the measure of anothers ap ARCHANGEL. (BRED BY W. BROEMER, BALTIMORE, MO.) YELLOW NUN. (OWNED BY W. W. WALKER, BRIDGEPORT, CT.) THE BREEDING OF FANCY PIGEONS. 95 preciation or envy. l3ut, whether the one or the other, there is no economic purpose to weight its wings and bring his fancy low. The influences of the pigeon-fancy are re- fining in the habits one must fall into in being with the birds, in the enforced quiet and gen- tleness without which the best efforts are lost, in the patience with which one must work and wait for long-deferred results, and in the dis cipline of the often accompanying disappoint- ment. The pigeon-lover is notably kind and gentle-mannered. He is also thoughtful, since his work demands the action of his mind, and the love of it compels the effort. It may be childs play as a beginning, or seem to be so to the mere looker-on; but great men and good, princes, poets, prelates, and judges, are in the ranks of the fancy, and find their solace RED JACOBIN. (OWNED BY H. V. CRAWFORD, NEW YORE CITY.) HOMINO PIGEON, BABY MINE. (OWNED BY E. H. COROVER, REYPORT, N. J.) FIRST YOUNG BIRD TO MARE DYER 250 MILES THE DAY OF LIBERATING IN THE AUTUMN RACES FROM LYNCHEURO, VA., 338 MILES. 96 THE BREEDING OF FANCY PIGEONS. and their pleasure in their pigeon-lofts, and in the company of their birds. Columba, the family name of the pigeon, is from the Greek kolumba;,, to dive, giving us the word dove, by which pigeons were until lately known, and which has reference to the birds peculiar movement of the head when walking. The family is in three grand divis- ions: C. livia, the blue rock or wild bird; C. affnis, the duffer or domesticated; and the artificial or fancy pigeon. The blue rock is found in the true type only among the cliffs and rocks of Great Britain and the adjacent islands, where none of its members show a deviation in color or form from the one character. All alike avoid the haunts of man, and refuse to submit to domestication. Says Macgillivray, Amongst the many hundreds I have seen I have never observed any remarkable variation in form or color. The rock exists in all parts of Eu- rope, and with only sufficient variation from the true type to admit of classification for locality; and in each variety there is the same likeness observable in the colonies of the true type, showing the modification to be due to climatic influence or forced habit. The duffer is the bird imported for and known at shooting matches as the blue rock, and is otherwise termed the rockie and the dove-house pigeon. This variety seeks the companionship of man, frequenting and rear- ing its young in the nooks of church stee~iiles and public buildings. In undisturbed colonies there is great variation in color and markings, but none in structure. Both the blue rock and the duffer have the beak long, slender, and of horn color, and the eyes, feet, and legs bright red. There is also a striking resemblance in contour, but here the likeness ends. The blue rock has the body color of light blue except upon the rump or lower part of the back, which is white. The folded wings and tail also show the black bar caused by the terminal spot of black upon each of the secondary and tail feathers. The duffer is dark slaty-blue through- out except upon the wing-coverts, where, each feather being tipped with a lighter shade, there is a checkered appearance. SCOTCH FANTAIL, QUEEN OF THE SCOTS. (FEOM LOFT OF BUNTING HANKIES, BONOENTOWN, N. 3.) THE BREEDING OF FANCY PIGEONS. 97 IMPROVED ENGLISH FANTAIL. (OWNED BY J. 0. HOWLAND, WOECESTEE, MASS.) The class of fancy pigeons is made up of a great number of varieties, each distinct in marking or form or both; these variations being so controlled in breeding as to bring them within certain defined limits. The ideal bird of each, whatever the tendency of the variety, is built upon the lines of harmony and perfect symmetry. The origin of the fancy pigeon has been a vexed question with naturalists and wise men through the past century, and is still open. Mr. Charles Darwin experimented with pigeons for years for material for his work upon Va- riations under Domestication, and to sustain his theory of the blue rock as the parent stock. But while with his eye single to the purpose of that theory he satisfied the conditions and his followers, there remains reason for doubt. 98 TILE BREEDING OF FANCY PIGEONS. One experiment was especially interesting, and its results were offered as the conclusion of the whole matter; but viewed from another stand- point it bears a different significance. The Dar- win argument for the blue-rock origin is the fre- quent recurrence of the peculiar white-rumped, black-barred blue of the cliff bird, as spots. To show this he mated a black barb with a pure white fantail, also a blackbarb of another strain with a red-spot; and, as a third pair, young of the two pairs. The young of the third nest was, as he predicted, the typical blue rock. The experiment is curious in the fact that blue is not a color of the barb of which one-half the cross was made up; the white is the common dress of the fantail, and the spot is a century- old breed and supposed to be established. Mr. Darwin calls attention to this, but does not re- ferto the more important item of the alien types brought into the combination. Practical and unprejudiced breeders would accept the re- sult, but not the Darwinian conclusion that, therefore, the blue rock is the progenitor. Their work has taught them that in too vio- lent and far-fetched crossing, as in bringing together these birds of African, Indian, and German manufacture, the artificial taints are neutralized in the admixture, and the sang pur, or simplest type of the genus, asserts itself. The same result follows when in-breed- ing is carried too far, and the artificial element upon which the character depends becomes weakened, and if not re~nforced, eliminated; that is, there are indications of, if not complete return to, the blue-rock type. Against the Darwinian theory is the fact that the blue rock exists in abundance at the very doors of the English, the most expert of breeders; the problem and the conditions are given in the existing varieties, and the so- lution is most earnestly desired by fancier- scientists skilled in the knowledge and art of breeding. But their every effort is in vnin, for the one and single reason that the blue rock shows no appreciable variation in form or color. The blood has no wayward tendency upon which to build, and no material diver- gence from the one type can be provoked without the addition of a foreign taint. The pigeon is unique among the feathered creation in the similarity of the sexes, the habits during incubation, the provision for and manner of feeding the young, the helpless and crude condition of the young when it leaves the shell, and its phenomenal development and early maturity. In structural points there are also peculiar differences. The long intestine is of greater length than in any other bird, while the ccecum is merely rudimentary, and secretes only mucus. Some varieties lack the oil- glands, and all are without the gall-bladder. But I am pigeon-liverd, And lack gall to make oppression bitter. Hamlet, Act ii., scene 2. ORIENTAL FRILLS. BLONDINETTE, HAsSAN. SATINETTE, PAcHA. (OWNED BY OR. H. B. OWEN, OCEANIC, N. J.) TIlE BREEDING Of FANCY PIGEONS. 99 It is this lack in its digestive make-up that accounts for the inordinate desire for salt, characteristic of this alone of the known bird- world, and which must be considered as a craving for an absolute essential to its health- ful existence. The feathers of the pigeon are peculiar in having the shaft short and downless and with but a slight hold upon the skin. All varieties shed a peculiar dust from the plumage in greater or less quantities, so that any place occupied by pigeons for some time will have its surface covered with a peculiar bloom. The pigeon is naturally monogamous and mates for life, but, under the artificial con- ditions of confinement in the loft, the love of the male for home duties and care of the young will often lead him to maintain two es tablishments, when his efforts to do double duty during the time of incubation and feed- ing will be unremitting and amusing. Two eggs make up the setting. One is laid at about two oclock in the afternoon, the other about forty-five hours later. The time of incubation is seventeen days. The sex of the hatch is generally male and female; thus, a doos cleckinis the Scotch term for a family of two children of opposite sex. But tbis depends greatly upon the relative age and condition of the parent birds. During incubation the hen sits from four oclock in the afternoon until ten the next morning, when she is relieved by the male. The food of the newly hatched bird is a thin curdy secretion of the glands of the crop known as pigeons milk, and exists alike in both parents. BLACK BARB, BLACK PRINCE. (OWNED BY 0. N. NEWELL, NEW YORK CITY.) DUN CARRIER, SUCCESSFUL. (OWNED BY N. 0. WILSON, BRIDGEPORT, CORN.) 100 THE BREED/NG OF FANCY PIGEONS. Its presence is only influenced by incubation; thus, a barren hen can be induced to sit upon eggs, and when the young appear she with her mate will be prepared to feed them. In feeding, the beak of the young is inserted in that of the parent, and the food is dis- gorged from the crop into it by a peculiar convulsive movement of the body of the parent. While the secretion is unmixed with grain, the beak of the young is soft, and the bird is known as a peeper; but as the grain is added the beak hardens and the voice changes, and it is a squeaker. When ready to leave the nest and face the world for it- self; it is a squealer, or, in market parlance, a squab. When six weeks old it is able to take care of itself, and its parents probably have a second pair of eggs to claim their attention. The old classification of fancy pigeons was the high-class, the fancy breeds, and the toys; but with the increase of standard require- ments in certain of the middle class and the increase of varieties in others, this has been changed to high-class, frills, tumblers, and toys. Of the old order it was said, The toy fancy is but the entered apprenticeship degree; of the fancy breeds it is that of the fellow- craft, and the high-class rank as the master degree. One may understand both the first and never rise to the dignity of the third; but one cannot know the last thoroughly without holding the other two as a mere stepping-stone to knowledge. The pigeon-fancy antedates the Christian era. Pliny tells us that many are mad with the love of these birds, and will detain you to tell of their pedigree and breeding. And he hands to posterity the name of a Roman knight, one Lucius Axius, not for victories in the arena or sacrifice in Romes quarrels, but who used to sell a single pair of pigeons for upwards of four hundred denarii. The first book on pigeons was the Ayeen Akbery, written in 1595 for Akbar, the Mogul Em- peror, by his prime minister, Abdool Furjool. In this we learn that twenty thousand pigeons were carried with the court; that the Em- peror of Turan sent presents of rare varieties to his brother sovereign, and that the gifts of traveling merchants were most acceptable when of valuable breeds of pigeons; that aside from those used as message-bearers and kept for food, there were seventeen varieties bred for their appearance only, and the pigeon-master by crossing the breeds, which had never before been attempted, improved BLUE PRIEST. (OWNED BY E. H. MOGEE, MELEOSE, MASS.) THE BREEDING OF FANCY PIGEONS. I0I them wonderfully. This number of varieties was probably exceeded in India centuries before, since the ancient Sanskrit, we are told, has more than twenty-five names for different classes of pigeons, all referring to characteris- tics by which one sort was to be known from another. A century after the Ayeen Akbery, a book about pigeons was written in Persian by Musari Sayzed, by order of his sovereign. The object of the breeder of pigeons is so dif- ferent from that of all other breeders in being solely to maintain the fancy points of color and outline, and with no reference to utility, that they scarcely meet on common ground in their methods. His material is the most impression- able known, and being wholly artificial is as unstable. His first work is to fix upon his ideal, and so far order his material in the breeding stock as to make it possible to build and to repair for a long time without adding new blood. But, when new blood is an abso- lute necessity, he seeks it strong in the point in which his strain is weakening, and then only uses it by crossing it into the strain and working with the rejuvenated stock, as the knowledge of its tendencies may direct, re- VOL. XXXIJ.12. membering that the male influences the exter- nal points, and the hen the size, structure, and constitution. The tendency of all colors is to pale, and to enrich or maintain the colors of pigeons, birds of different colors are bred together. In birds of the same blood, as a rule, the young follow in color and marking the parent of the same sex; while in matings of different colors and of different strains the young follow the color and marking of the opposite sex. The breeder sometimes resorts to counteraction, that is, making up a deficiency in one of a pair by superabundance of that point in the other; but this is only for typical points, and never for points of development of growth, where it is only excellence, and excellence that does not produce deterioration. The carrier, the acknowledged king of pigeons, has in its name the source of a great annoyance to its sensitive fancier. He admits for it an ancestry dating back to the message- bearers of Persian kings and Turkish sultans, and that the peculiarities of structure the prominent wing-butts, the great muscular de- velopment which gives the full-rounded breast, the wing best adapted to speedy and long- THE OWL-TURBIT AS DESCRIBED BY J. W. LUDLOW, BIRMINGHAM, ENGLAND. 102 THE BREEDING OF FANCY PIGEONS. continued flight, and the protruding eyeball peculiar to the traveling bird, all points he values for their part in the perfect symmetry that these were all fixed in its day of useful- ness as the courier of royalty. But he is careful to explain that he has counted out all useful qualities and practical values in the bird of to-day; that the points he values highest are those of development of growth, to perfect which his bird is carefully secluded from the deteriorating influences of sun and outdoor air; that the name is only applica- ble to it for its elegant carriage, one of its most valued and to be remarked properties; that it is only the ignorant who could con- found the grand high-class bird with that little shapeless message-bearer, the homing pigeon. The carrier has always been held in the highest esteem in England. Moore, writing in 1735, tells of a fancier in Bishopsgate street who kept a silver hatchet and block with which to chop off the heads ofthose condemned to death, that being of the blood royal they ought not to die after the manner of the com- mon herd. It is the most quarrelsome and savage of the pigeon family. The old proprietary in- stinct is dominant, and unless perches are so partitioned that boundaries are defined, there are battles in which the best suffer most, be- cause the most highly developed in points which place them at the mercy of others. It TURBITS. is by nature one of the hardiest, but the un- natural conditions under which its most valued points are alone to be developed render it one of the most delicate. The only chance for condition is in having the breeding hens ro- bust and in giving the youngsters the freedom of flight until the head-properties begin to de- velop. The first promise for perfection lies in the beak. This must be long, but appear still longer; also straight, with the mandibles of about equal size and fitting together close. The wattle of the beak is the most artificial point of the bird and the most difficult to ob- tain. That upon the upper mandible begins from in front of the mouth and increases by lateral growth. Seen in profile it appears to rise in three sections, the last the highest and tilt- ing slightly forward. That of the lower mandi- ble, the jewing, is in three small knobs, one at each side and one before the juncture of the two. Exposure to the atmosphere shrinks this cere, destroys the whitish bloom, and tinges it with pink. The eye-cere is secondary in requiring less care to obtain good. The skull of the carrier should be long, flat, and narrow, and the eye-~ere which adds to this effect is of course the most valued. This cere, known as the rose variety, is of good diameter, even edge, and extends over the top of the skull, not above it, thus add- (OWNED BY H. LANCASTER, BALTIMORE, MD.) AMERICAN FANTAIL. (BRED BY J. 0. HOWLAND, WORCESTER, MASS.) THE BREEDING OF FANCY PIGEONS. 102 ing to its apparent length and decreasing the apparent width. The gullet is the space from the termination of thejewing to the beginningof the neck. This should be well curved in to decrease the apparent depth from the top of the skull and add to the apparent length of the neck. This one point with the slender long neck has al- most the controlling influence in the appear- ance. The wings fold close above the tail, nearly reaching to its end; while the tail, if the feather is the apportioned length, just touches the ground. The colors of the carrier are black, dun, blue, and white. Red and yel- low have been tried for, but are. impossible, since neither can be bred from the colors of the variety, and brought in from another; the carrier points are lost when color is gained, and the color is lost in getting back to the carrier type. Color-points in the variety rank very low and are not disqualifying. The carrier-fancier has his anticipations brightest when at ten months old his bird is at its best in style and carriage, and to be raised or dashed when the head-points begin to develop in the second year. The bird re- quires five years at least to mature, but the third year will determine its character. The length of the bird from tip of beak to end of tail is seventeen and one-half inches. The standard for judging the carrier is as follows: Beak and beak-wattle: length, shape, and thickness of beak, each 4; color 2; shape of upper wattle To; lower wattle 3, color ~ texture 2 35 Space between eye and beak-wattle 3 Eye-wattle: regularity of build 5; diameter 5; texture ~ lacing 2 i6 Skull: narrowness 5; flatness 2 7 Gullet Neck: length 6; slenderness 5 . Shoulders: flatness and width 3 Breast: width and fullness 4 Length of flights and tail 4 Thigh ,,,.-,..,..... 7 Length 5 Color 4 500 The barb, although the antithesis of the car- rier in every point, is its nearest relative. The young of the two during the first few days af- ter hatching can scarcely be distinguished, but the building once begun, it is with opposite purpose. The barb is short in beak and down-faced; that is, the forehead and beak are in almost a continuous line. It is small in size, with the WINO AND TAIL OF A LACED OLONDINETTE. BLACK TRUMPETER cocK. (OWNED BY F. A. ROMINEL, BALTIMORE, MD. I 104 THE BREEDING OF FANCY PIGEONS. neck short, breast broad, legs short, flights long, and carried each side of the tail. The gullet is well curved in to increase the appar- ent size of the bead. The skull is broad and of equal length and breadth a perfect curve from the crown to the begirning of the beak-wattle, and arched from side to side. The beak is short and thick, the mandibles of like shape and boxed; the eye is pearl or white. The beak-wattle is divided in the mid- dle, and resembles a small bean split open and laid across the beak, and simply fills the juncture of beak and head. The jewing is three small knobs of cere in the middle of the lower mandible, and each side of the gape of the mouth. The beak-wattle is white, and the jewing of deep flesh-color. The eye-wattle matures in the third year, and should be of equal breadth, thickest at the outer edge, the eye standing out in the center like the hub PYGMY POUTERS. (OWNED BY DR. COOK, OF UTICA, N. Y.) SARAH BERNHARDT AND CLEVELAND, ENGLISH POUTEES. (OWNED BY CHARLES BECKER, BALTIMORE, MD.) THE BREEDING OF FANCY PIGEONS. 105 of a wheel. This wattle is a bright red. A front view shows the good barb head very square, the eye-wattle rising above the skull and standing away from it, thus giving a broader, more massive appearance. An in- dented groove each side of the face is peculiar to the variety and gives character to the face. The barb is in red, yellow, dun, white, and black. The only blues known are in the lofts of the Princess Charles of Prussia. The various colors are so bred together that the color of the prospective young of almost any mating is uncertain. The barb is of African descent and ancient lineage. Poor Mary Queen of Scots, writing from her prison in 1574, says, I beg you to procure me pigeons, hens from Barbary (barbs), to keep in cages, as I do my birds, a pastime for a prisoner. Willughby says he was first told of the barb by his friend Philip Skippon (Major-General Philip Skippon, the associate of Cromwell in the civil war). The pouter, next in standard order, is of another character, if character can be claimed for the great rollicking fellow that is so fond of attention and so winsome as a pet when at home, and so sulky and unattractive when away from his loft or among strangers. How gracefully their breasts they blaw! Their limbs are lang, their waists are sma. The brawest bird ye ever saw, An king o doos, the pouter. The variety is oldest of the English breeds. Aldrovandus wrote of it in i6oo, but its pe- culiarities were fixed long previous. On the sign-board of the old inn at Brentford fre- quented by Shakspere and his friends, the pouter is pictured much as it would be to-day for the same purpose. Early in 1700 it had given place in higher columbarian circles to the almond tumbler, but was still the idol of the silk-weavers of Spitalfields. From their lofts it passed gradually into Scotland and Ireland, and suddenly, about twenty-five years ago it was discovered that there was not a good pouter to be found in all England. The grand and perfected bird, winning at English shows, was British, but, alas! not English. This caused the revival of the fancy for them in its old home. To see a pouter at its best, says Rev. Dr. Headley, he must be among the smaller varieties. He seems always to be delighted with little Mrs. and Miss Tumbler, cooing after them and paying them all attention, while the little ladies prance in front of him on their tiny feet, and, liking the no- tice of the tall fellow, show off at their best, while the pouter rears himself still higher, blows himself out, and bends and VOL. XXXII. 13. bows like the poplar with the wind playing upon it. The pouter should be large, measuring twenty inches from tip of beak to tip of tail, but so proportioned as to appear taller. He should be so upright that a line drawn through the eye will strike the top of the arch of the wing-bow and end at the cen- ter of the foot without departing from the perpendicular. The crop when blown out should be globular and borne well up. To add to the effect of the girth just above the wing- bow should be slender. The legs should be long,with the thighs well displayed, and closely covered with short, soft feathers, which grad- ually increase in size and quill to the toes, where they spread upon the ground at right angles with the foot. The most difficult point to obtain, says Charles Becker, is the apparent length of leg, since this is so far governed by other conditions that the bird may actually measure well and yet not show it. The rule should never be put to the leg of a pouter, but the length should show to the eye in the general effect. Of what value, says Robert Ful- ton, is that property which one cannot see unless he has a rule in his pocket? But apparent length is not all. Fulton adds, No sooner do you get a grand-limbed bird in the nest than the chances combine against it, and your troubles, so far from being ended, are only fairly begun. The legs are almost as soft as jelly until the age of three weeks, and, in spite of care, the least cold is liable to paralyze them. Again, the least wrench or strain, owing to the softness of the joints, will produce de- formity. These are only the beginning of the many difficulties. The pouter-breeder must be the genuine fancier, else he would never persevere in the midst of the cruel disappoint- ments his fascinating pursuit must occasion him. Color Mr. Becker considers an easy point. His rule is to mate like colors unless a cross is necessary, when reds may +W used for blacks, reds, and yellows; silvei3 and blacks for blues. The cross of the black and the red often produces the sandy, a valuable bird for crossing whites, in its colors being broken, since, as a rule, the young follow the parent true in color, and from this cross are almost always pure and excellent whites. He would also mate rough-limbed to thin-limbed and gayly marked to close-marked. The pr& perties of the pouter in order of value are, length of limb, crop, slenderness of body, length of feather, color, and marking. It was said of Sir John Sebright that he would go up a chimney to look at a good pigeon, and he was as well known in lofts of io6 THE BREEDING OF FANCY PIGEONS. Spitalfields (not much better than chimneys) as in Parliament. It is to his work that we are indebted for the pygmy pouter, the bantam of the pigeons. This pouter in miniature pre- sents the same difficulties in breeding, and is amenable to the same laws, as the large va- riety. The clean-legged Austrian pygmy, or Brfinner, is another bird, and found at its best in Prague and Vienna. Neumeister says of it, Its length is about eleven inches when full- grown, and its weight seven and one-half ounces. When not inflated it is not much bigger than a blackbird, and may be drawn through the thumb and finger. The trumpeter may be divided into the toy and the Russian. The former is the joy of the German fancier. He breeds it in all the colors, and in splashes, checkers, and solids; he puts bars on the wings, changes the color of the crest, the rose, and the boots; giving it as many names as he can produce varieties. The Russian, on the contrary, is a study in black and white, no other colors entering into its make-up. It is very high-class in the difficulties of the rose, crest, foot-feathering, and delicate constitution. The rose is the tuft of feathers covering the head from the base of the beak to the crest at the back, and overhanging the eyes so that the bird can only see what is beneath it. This must be a peffect rosette, the feathers diverging from the center regularly, and lying smoothly. The crest is at the back and extends from eye to eye. The white eye and beak afford a strong con- trast to the intense black of the plumage. The half-blinded condition of the bird and its exces- sive foot-feathering combine to give it a grop- ing character and a slow and heavy gait. The first Russians were carried into Eng- land some twenty-five years ago, and soon after passed into Ireland, where the old cock Warsaw and its descendants laid the foundation for its fancy. The bird has its name from the peculiar and long-continued sound of its cooing. This is caused by a valvelike fold of the membrane of the crop over the opening, by which air enters the __ crop freely but escapes with difficulty, and much as water gurgles from a bottle, each gurgle producing the tum, tum, turn of the trumpeters coo. The jacobin is of continental origin, and has its name from the fancied resemblance in the hoodedround white head to the cowl and shav- en head of the friar. The bird is small in body, the loose silky feathering giving it a size to which its weight does not correspond. It may be described as a long, slender, white bird, enveloped in a colored cloak covering just the shoulders, thus allowing the white flights, rump, tail, and thighs to be seen below. The legs and feet are clean, the eye pearl, and the cere bright red. The difficulties are in the adornings of the head. The hood is formed of feathers rising from the back of the neck, and their continuation inclosing the neck is the chain. The tippet is formed by feathers falling backwards over the shoulders and back. The rose is the center from which the chain and tippet feathers part; its lateral growth, meeting at the back of the neck and forming the mane, completes the line of beauty, which, viewed in profile, begins at the breast, extends around the neck to the top of the head, and around the shoulders to the breast again. The colors are red, yellow, black, and white, with blue tried for. The jacobin is not only one of the most beautiful of the pigeons, but it possesses difficulties to delight the most ardent fancier. India is the source of the fantail, but it is not the Indian bird that wins in the show-pens of the present. Willughby in 1676 wrote of it as the Broad taild Shakerscalled Shakers because they do almost constantly shake or wag their heads up and down. Broad tailed from the great number of feathers they have in their tails, and when they walk up and down they do for the most part hold their tails erect like a hen or Turkey Cock. The bird at pres- ent exists in extreme types, with a third as a compromise of the two. The extremes are the English and the Scotch, and the medium bird is ordinarily the prize-winner. From the same beginning the English worked first for tail, and with carriage and nervous motion secondary if at all. The Scotch, on the contrary, gave style, carriage, and trembling movement first place, and tail a last consideration. The result is for the Scotch a small, delicately formed and featured bird, with motion so in excess that sometimes the tail is no longer carried erect, but, almost funnel-shaped, rests upon the ground. The English bird is longer, coarser, and loose in feather, with tail full and carried either upright in a perfect circle or even more forward, sometimes covering back and head. The eye of the English bird is in line with its feet, and its breast is protruding and upraised. The head of the Scotch is car- ried much farther back, sometimes even to the root of the tail-feathers. The feet of both va- rieties are small, and the tread appears to be on tiptoe. The eye is brown and with a gen- tle beaming expression found in no other. The eye of a Venus, says a fancier of it. The bird is peculiar in structure in being with- out the oil-gland, and in having more than the usual coccygeal vertebrae. Thus the car- rier has six, the pouter eight, and the fantail nine. The owls, turbits, and orientals make up THE BREEDING OF FANCY PIGEONS. 107 the frilled varieties. In all there is the gen- eral resemblance in the short, plump body; short, stout beak; the frill of curled feathers upon the breast; and the thin feather- covered membrane, the dewlap, extending from the base of the beak to the top of the frill. The owls are African, English, and Chi- nese. The African is at home in Tunis, whence many thousands have been sent to England, and of which scarcely dozens remain. The bird is the smallest of the family, and so delicate that its term of life out of African air is very limited. The English owl is fair in size, with eye round and prominent, the dewlap well developed, and the frill extending to the lower point of the breast. In the Chinese this frill-feathering is excessive, even extending up about the throat to the eyes. In judging owls, says John D. White, one of its best breeders, more importance is given to the shape of the head and beak than to the frill, since, in breeders parlance, a point of boneis less easily secured than a point of feather, and therefore should count for more. The turbit is sometimes ignorantly termed a shouldered owl; that is, an owl with its wing- coverts colored and the body white. This is an error, since the material and difficult differ- ence to obtain lies in the contour of the head. In the owl the measurement from the center of the eye to every part from front to back of the head should be equal, but in the turbit it should be less from the top of the skull; that is, the skull slightly bevelled. The feathers at the back of the turbit head are sometimes inverted or curled upward, forming the point, or the shell crest, whereas the owl head is always unadorned, plain. The turbit is in all colors, and may be of one throughout, or with body white and wings or tail colored. The turbit-owl J. W. Ludlow describes as a cross of the turbit and owl, and in a measure resembling both. They are more particularly bred in the Eastern hemisphere and are in solid colors and mortles. The orientals are the gems of the fancy, combining, as they do, the grace of the owl- pigeon with a peculiarly rich-colored plumage. The varieties have their origin in Turkey, and the characteristic white spot upon the tail, found in no other variety, is no doubt due to their ancestor, C. leuconofa, the wild bird of the Himalayas, or C. rujestris of Central Asia, the only others thus marked. The varieties are threethe turbiteen, the blondinette, and the satinette. Of the two last named, the satinette is probably the original type, and the blondinette the result of a cross of it with the owl. Each of the two has its varieties classed by their marking. The colors of the orientals are peculiar to them, in being pinkish brown, orange, or sulphur, seal, brown, purplish black, and very light blue. A marking peculiar to it is the arrow point, the effect of a wedge-shaped mark of darker shade at the edge of the feather just at the midriff. There are but two collections of orientals in America, the one that of Dr. H. E. Owen at Oceanic, New Jersey; the other that of John E. Teal in Cleveland, Ohio. While the runt is the weakest and most for- lorn of pigs, by the contrariness which char- acterizes our fancier it is the name given to the largest, and most robust among pigeons. The Roman runt, oldest of known varieties of pigeons, had its origin near the shores of the Mediterranean, where it has long been classed as poultry. Its main point is size. The Leghorn runt, while of equal weight with the Roman, is peculiar in standing high upon long, bare legs, its neck curved like the letter 5, and its tail and wings carried high; these peculiarities winning for it the name of hen pigeon. The archangel has its name from arc-en- del, the rainbow, given with direct reference to its exceedingly rich-colored and iridescent plumage. This variety was introduced into England from the continent early in the century by Sir John Sebright, his birds at his death passing into the hands of the Earl of Derby. The swallow, magpie, starling, nun, priest, and others are of the toys. All are the result of the German breeders skill and the ten- dency of the duffer stock, from which they are bred, to variation. This toy fancy had its origin in Germany, where it is carried to the greatest perfection. The object in it is to combine the colors and marking to produce certain effects, and to make the colors retain their brilliancy and depth. The names given to the varieties refer to a fancied resemblance in the marking. E. S. Starr. EVOLUTION AND THE FAITH.* THE fears that were felt when the doctrine of evolution was first offered to the world were not unnatural nor derogatory to the dig- nity of earnest minds. When a new and revo- lutionary doctrine involving the nature, the action,and the destiny of humanity is proposed, there is an intuitive wisdom or instinct of self- preservation in man that prompts him to turn on it with resentment and denial. Truth is mans chief heritage; it is his life, and is to be guarded as his life. If lost, he knows that it cannot easily be regained. It is like the golden image of Vishnu that the Hindu was taking to his home from the sacred city: if once laid upon the ground, it could not be taken up again. The keeping of truth is not intrusted merely to our reason, but to our whole nature; every faculty and sentiment, down even to fear and pride, may properly be used in the defense of it. Reason may at last decide what is truth, but not until it has won the consent of the whole man. The period between the exchange of theories is one in which human nature does not appear in its nobler guise, but a profound analysis shows that it is acting with subtle, unconscious wisdom. It is better also in the end that a doctrine which is to become truth should run the gauntlet of general denial and opposition. By far the greater part of what is proposed as true in every department turns out to be false. Theories more in number than the wasted blossoms of the May fall fruitless to the ground. If human nature as a whole did not turn on the conceits and dreams that are of- fered to it, truth itself would have no chance; it could not extricate itself from the rubbish of folly that overtolerance hassuffered to accumu- late. Truth becomes truth by its own achieve- ment; it must conquer human nature before it can rule it,win it before it can be loved of it. This wise spontaneous treatment ofnew theories delays their acceptance even when proved true, but always with advantage to the truth; for however fair the final form is to be, it comes unshaped and with entanglements, and often, like some animals, it is born blind. Its first need is criticism, and even criticism based on denial rather than on inquiry; only it must be criticism, and not blank cdntradiction. The advent of the doctrine of evolution is an illustration of these wise and wholesome processes. When it was first proposed in scien- tific form more than a hundred years ago it was justly tossed aside in scorn, as too crude and naked for presentation in the world of thought. Its revival within the latter half of the century provoked a similar storm of disdain and denial; but it kept its feet, bore its opposition bravely, and now may be said to have won a position, but by no means in the same form in which it first appeared. The evolution that is now gaining general acceptance is very dif- ferent from the evolution propounded twenty years ago. Then it claimed and defined its place in the universe, which it proposed to fill to the exclusion of philosophy andreligion. But to-day its place and limits are defined by phi- losophy, and instead of having the universe as its exclusive domain, it has only a section of it which it holds as the gift, and as still under the supremacy, of philosophy. Having at last be- come presentable to the world of thought and grown shapely and yielded to limitations, it is winning the suffrage of the world and assuming its place in the hierarchy of truth that min- isters to humanity. Definition and distinction will be made farther on, but some theory prop- erly known as evolution may now be con- sidered as established and as ready to enter into the practical thought of the world. It may be said that evolution is not yet proved; that it will be soon enough to adjust our faith to it when it has ceased to be a hy- pothesis and become a full-established theory. The line between hypothesis and theory is seldom defined; it is not a line, but a region. There is much in the doctrine of evolution that is still hypothetical, as there is still in astronomy. But we have sailed far enough in this voyage of search after the creative method to warrant the belief that we draw nigh to the land of our quest. The sea-weed of the shore drifts by on the tide, the odors of spicy groves float on the wind, the birds come and go as from a near home, the dim outline in the horizon is chang- ing from cloud to solid land. The quest is practically ended, and now that we are so near as to catch the ominous thunder of the surf, it is wiser to look out for harbor and anchorage than run the risk of breakers; for evolution, like the coast of all knowledge, is lined by de- structive rocks, and also by inlets that run within where safe possession may be taken. In accepting evolution, it is well to remem- ber that we make no greater change than has several times been made in all the leading departments of human knowledge. In soci- ology the despotic idea yielded to the monar See Immortality and Modern Thought, by the same author, in THE CENTURY for May, i885.

EVOLUTION AND THE FAITH.* THE fears that were felt when the doctrine of evolution was first offered to the world were not unnatural nor derogatory to the dig- nity of earnest minds. When a new and revo- lutionary doctrine involving the nature, the action,and the destiny of humanity is proposed, there is an intuitive wisdom or instinct of self- preservation in man that prompts him to turn on it with resentment and denial. Truth is mans chief heritage; it is his life, and is to be guarded as his life. If lost, he knows that it cannot easily be regained. It is like the golden image of Vishnu that the Hindu was taking to his home from the sacred city: if once laid upon the ground, it could not be taken up again. The keeping of truth is not intrusted merely to our reason, but to our whole nature; every faculty and sentiment, down even to fear and pride, may properly be used in the defense of it. Reason may at last decide what is truth, but not until it has won the consent of the whole man. The period between the exchange of theories is one in which human nature does not appear in its nobler guise, but a profound analysis shows that it is acting with subtle, unconscious wisdom. It is better also in the end that a doctrine which is to become truth should run the gauntlet of general denial and opposition. By far the greater part of what is proposed as true in every department turns out to be false. Theories more in number than the wasted blossoms of the May fall fruitless to the ground. If human nature as a whole did not turn on the conceits and dreams that are of- fered to it, truth itself would have no chance; it could not extricate itself from the rubbish of folly that overtolerance hassuffered to accumu- late. Truth becomes truth by its own achieve- ment; it must conquer human nature before it can rule it,win it before it can be loved of it. This wise spontaneous treatment ofnew theories delays their acceptance even when proved true, but always with advantage to the truth; for however fair the final form is to be, it comes unshaped and with entanglements, and often, like some animals, it is born blind. Its first need is criticism, and even criticism based on denial rather than on inquiry; only it must be criticism, and not blank cdntradiction. The advent of the doctrine of evolution is an illustration of these wise and wholesome processes. When it was first proposed in scien- tific form more than a hundred years ago it was justly tossed aside in scorn, as too crude and naked for presentation in the world of thought. Its revival within the latter half of the century provoked a similar storm of disdain and denial; but it kept its feet, bore its opposition bravely, and now may be said to have won a position, but by no means in the same form in which it first appeared. The evolution that is now gaining general acceptance is very dif- ferent from the evolution propounded twenty years ago. Then it claimed and defined its place in the universe, which it proposed to fill to the exclusion of philosophy andreligion. But to-day its place and limits are defined by phi- losophy, and instead of having the universe as its exclusive domain, it has only a section of it which it holds as the gift, and as still under the supremacy, of philosophy. Having at last be- come presentable to the world of thought and grown shapely and yielded to limitations, it is winning the suffrage of the world and assuming its place in the hierarchy of truth that min- isters to humanity. Definition and distinction will be made farther on, but some theory prop- erly known as evolution may now be con- sidered as established and as ready to enter into the practical thought of the world. It may be said that evolution is not yet proved; that it will be soon enough to adjust our faith to it when it has ceased to be a hy- pothesis and become a full-established theory. The line between hypothesis and theory is seldom defined; it is not a line, but a region. There is much in the doctrine of evolution that is still hypothetical, as there is still in astronomy. But we have sailed far enough in this voyage of search after the creative method to warrant the belief that we draw nigh to the land of our quest. The sea-weed of the shore drifts by on the tide, the odors of spicy groves float on the wind, the birds come and go as from a near home, the dim outline in the horizon is chang- ing from cloud to solid land. The quest is practically ended, and now that we are so near as to catch the ominous thunder of the surf, it is wiser to look out for harbor and anchorage than run the risk of breakers; for evolution, like the coast of all knowledge, is lined by de- structive rocks, and also by inlets that run within where safe possession may be taken. In accepting evolution, it is well to remem- ber that we make no greater change than has several times been made in all the leading departments of human knowledge. In soci- ology the despotic idea yielded to the monar See Immortality and Modern Thought, by the same author, in THE CENTURY for May, i885. chical idea, which in turn is now yielding to the democratic idea. In philosophy the de- ductive method has yielded to the inductive. In religion the priestly idea is yielding to the ministerial. So in accepting evolution as the general method of creation in place of that which has prevailed, we only repeat the history of the exchange of the Ptolemaic sys- tem for the Copernican, and of tho~ new theories of astronomy and geology that forced us to redate the age of the world and of mans life upon it. The wrench to faith and the apparent violation of experience are different, but no more violent than were those of the past. The present incompleteness of evolution has its analogy in the Copernican system, which waited long for the additions of Kepler and Newton; and geology is still an unfinished story. Nor are we justified in with- holding our assent to evolution because we cannot each one for ourselves verify its proofs. The vast majority of men could not now verify the Copernican system; it has not even won recognition in human speech; the sun rises and sets, and will so be spoken of while men watch its apparent motion. Evo- lution is an induction from many sciences, chemistry, astronomy, mathematics, geology, botany, biology, and it is impossible that any but the special student should critically make the induction. But the Copernican system was an induction from mathematics, and even from those higher forms of it that ordinary men never have traced. Its accep- tance was, and is still, an act of faith. Belief in evolution should be easier because it is confirmed by several sciences working on in- dependent lines. It is not the biologist alone who proposes evolution, but the astronomer, the chemist, the geologist, the botanist, and the sociologist. I cannot examine and test their processes, but I can trust their conclu- sions. I do not, however, thus make myself the slave of their opinions, for these opinions run off into other fields where I may be as good a judge as they. I may represent a science as real as theirs, and possibly larger and more authoritative. Hence, in accepting evolution as a probably true history or theory of the method of creation, we do not necessa- rily yield to all the assumptions and inferences that are often associated with it. It is not above criticism. Like the germ-seeds of which science treats, each one of which threatens to possess the whole earth, and would do so if not checked by other growths, so evolution shall we say through affinity with its chief theme? threatens to take possession of the universe. But its myriad thistledown, blown far and wide by every breeze, meets at last the groves of oak and pine that limit and de 109 fine its spread. All about these various sciences stands the greater science philosophy under which they are included, from which they draw their life, and to which they must bow. Evolution is to be feared not in its bare doctrine of development, but in the scope and relations assigned to it. If it be regarded as universal instead of general, as inclusive of all things instead of a part of all things, it is fatal to morals and religion. If it be regarded as supreme, it gives its own law of necessity to all else. But if it is subordinate to philosophy7 if it is considered as under thought-relations,. if it is held as finite and relative, it carries no~ danger to morals or religion or faith. It may- possibly modify but it cannot overthrow them7 simply because they stand in a larger order. But evolution is not to be accepted in a sim- ply negative way, because it can no longer be resisted. We are under no obligation to accept any truth until it is serviceable. It is possible to conceive of truths that would be of no value to men, such as the constitution of other orders of beings; if made known, it might be passed by. But evolution, prZperly regarded, is becoming tributary to society, and seems destined to clarify its knowledge, to enlarge and deepen its convictions, to set it upon true lines of action, and to minister to the Christian Faith. Amongst the important services it has begun to render is that it is removing a certain em- pirical thread that has been interwoven with previous theories of creation. The unity of creation has never been seriously denied ex- cept by extreme thinkers of the dualistic school. But the principle of unity has not been recognized until of late. The bond or ground of unity was justly found in God, but that conception merely asserted that because God is one there is unity in all created things. This may be faith, but it is not philosophy. May not faith become also philosophy? Unity exists not only because one God created all things, but because He works by one process, or according to one principle. As knowl- edge broadens and wider generalizations are made, we find a certain likeness of process in all realms that indicates one law or method; namely, that of development or evolution. One thing comes from another, assumes a higher and finer form, and presses steadily on towards still finer and higher forms. We find the same method in matter, in brute life, in humanity, in social institutions, in govern- ment, in religions, in the progress of Chris- tianity. Let not this thought disturb us. Do we not see that otherwise the universe could have no unity? If God worked on one prin- ciple in the material realm, on another in the vital, on another in the social, governmental, EVOLUTION AND THE FAITH hO EVOLUTION AND THE FAITH and moral realm, there would not be a proper universe. These realms might indeed be reg- ulated and kept from conflict, but they would break up the universe into parts separated by chasms, render knowledge difficult, vain, and disjointed, and create a certain antagonism opposite to the nature of mind. Man would be correlated not to a universe, but to sepa- rate systems and orders, and these varied cor- relations would have no underlying unity. It would be difficult to prove the unity of God as against a harmonious polytheism or sover- eign Jove. We might believe in one God, but we could not prove our faith. If matter has one principle in its process, and life another, and morals another, why not as many gods? It has not been easy to keep dualism out of philosophy. But, with one principle or method in all realms, we have a key that turns all the wards of the universe, opens all its doors in the past, and will open all in time to come. Knowledge becomes possible and harmonious; a path opens everywhere; the emphasis of the whole universe is thus laid on the unity of God. And when we find not only one method or principle, but the direction of its action, we obtain a prophecy and assurance of the final result of creation that falls in with the highest hopes of Christianity; for the process tends steadily towards the moral. The Church has hoped and striven for a righteousness that shall fill the earth. It may need only its faith to animate and guide it, but it is not amiss to lay its ear upon the earth, and hear, if it can, the same word. It is not amiss to see men in prehistoric ages, forsak- ing caves and living in huts, using first a club and then a bow, ores and then metals, nomadic and then in villages. It is not unhelpful to the hope of mankind to see despotism yielding to a class, and the class yielding to the people; personal revenge pass- ing into social punishment of crin4~ by law, and justice slowly creeping to higlYer forms; penalty first as vindictive, then retributive, and now at last reformatory; first a concep- tion of God as power, then as justice, and finally as love. These evolutionary processes may be woven into the cord by which the Church binds itself to its mighty purpose. It thus secures a broader base for the generali- zation of its working truths; for the pyramid will not pierce heaven unless it rests upon the whole earth. No truth is perfect that is cut off from other truths. Evolution not only perfects our conception of the unity of God, but it strengthens the ar- gument from design by which his goodness is proved. This argument may be based on the course of civilization, or on the structure of the eye, or on the working of love. Paleys argument, as Bishop Temple has well shown, stands, with slight modifications, on as strong a basis as ever. But if we can look at the uni- verse both as a whole and in all its processes and in all ages, and find one principle work- ing everywhere, binding together all things, linking one process to another with increasing purpose and steadily pressing towards a full revel4ion of Gods goodness, we find the ar- gument strengthened by as much as we have enlarged the field of its illustration. But if one part of the universe is abruptly shut off from another, if no stronger bond of unity be assigned to it than that of creative energy, and only the near-lying fields of design are used, then the argument is abridged and may even fall short of an absolute conclusion. It is felt by some, especially on the first contact with evolution, that it puts God at a distance and hides him behind the laws and processes of nature. The apprehension is worthy, for we need and crave a near God, and may well dispute any theory that puts him at a distance or fences him off by impene- trable walls. The universal and unappeasable cravings of the heart may always be opposed to what seem to be the laws of nature; for there is a science of the spirit that is as im- perative and final in its word as the observed processes of nature. But evolution, properly considered, not only does not put God at a distance, nor obscure his form behind the or- der of nature, but draws him nearer, and even goes far towards breaking down the walls of mystery that shut him out from human vision. In other words, in evolution we see a revela- (ion of God, while in previous theories of crea- tion we had only an assertion of God. In evolution we have the first cause working by connected processes in an orderly way; in former theories we had a first cause creating the universe by one omnipotent fiat, ordaining its laws, and then leaving it to its courses or merely upholding it by his power. In respect of nearness, we at once see that evolution brings God nearer than do the other theories. Their hold upon the mind is not at this point, but at another mistaken for it. The religious mind delights in mystery; it is an unconscious assertion by the highest faculties of our nature that we transcend the knowable that we belong to, and live and have our destiny in, the infinite. Hence we shrink from theories that seem to undertake to explain God and his working, and repeat with complacence the ancient phrase, It is impossible; therefore, I believe. It gratifies our reverence to abuse our reason. There is in all this a thread of truth, but the fine thread of reverence is not cut nor drawn out of the web of faith by trans- ferring the mystery of creation from a point EVOLUTION AND THE FAITH III of time and space beyond creation and putting it continuously into the processes of creation. Mystery enough there is and always will be, and Gods ways will never become so familiar and plain that they shall fade into the light of the common day. Instead, this drawing God down and into the processes of creation as a constant and all pervasive factor, deepens the sense of mystery and awe when we have turned our eyes in that direction. The poet plucks a flower out of the crannied wall, holds it in his hand, and says: Little flower but if I could understand What you are, root and all, and all in all, I should know what God and man is. In these simple lines we have an expression of the true ground of that form of reverence which is bred by mystery. It is not wonder at primal creation that moves the poet, but the creating power lodged and at work in every roadside flower. Goethe puts the same thought into statelier lines: No! 53uch a God my worship may not win Who lets the world about His finger spin A thing extern; my God must rule within, And whom I own for Father, God, Creator, Hold nature in Himself, Himself in nature; And in His kindly arms embraced, the whole Doth live and move by His pervading soul. Milton built his great epic of creation upon an original creative fiat, but his conception is like his cosmology, traditional and unshaped by poetic insight. The greatest poet in these later centuries, he still lacked the highest of poetic qualities sympathetic insight into nature. Tennyson in his one line, Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet, betrays a truer sense of God in creation than is to be found in Paradise Lost. It is true that a change in our conception of creation requires a readjustment of our feelings of reverence; and in the transition there may be danger of losing it altogether. It is always easier to change our beliefs than our feelings, and the mind more readily ac- commodates itself to necessary changes than do the sensibilities. But, whatever the danger and cost, such changes must be made, and in the end there is gain. The eyes are dazzled when a new window lets in more sunshine, and light does the work of darkness, but soon all things are seen more clearly. It cannot be said that, as yet, the conception of creation by evolution touches the mind so deeply and reverently as the former conception. We are still occupied by the details and by the won- der of the truth, and have not connected it with its relations, nor learned to think and feel under it. When a meteor falls to earth, men at first take more heed of its shape and composition than of its origin. It will be found that as we live on under the great truth and discern increasingly its wisdom and har- mony, the old sense of reverence will come back to us and become a finer, deeper, intenser feeling than it was under the old conception of creation. It will also be a more intelligent and better-proportioned reverence. It may be questioned if the reverence excited by the bare fact of creation has any great value. That God created the universe is a truth of supreme importance in philosophy and religion, but a valuable reverence is to be drawn from the later phases and outcome of creation rather than from its beginning and its earlier stages. The first active law in creation of which we know is that of gravitation, but no moral feeling is awakened by the fact that matter attracts inversely to~the square of dis- tance. The condition of the world as it first took spherical shape could only be regarded with horror, and animal life in the paleozoic ages repels us by its amorphous shapes; nor is it pleasant to picture our not very remote ancestors. Reverence is not to be stirred by that part of creation which is behind us, but by creation as a whole, and by its end. It is only under a theory of evolutionary creation that we can truly wonder and adore God. Otherwise, how shall we think, how feel, before the Power that created those long orders of beings that simply ravened and de- voured one another? If those orders were created independently, if they are not neces- sary links of a whole united in an evolution- ary process, their creation cannot be rationally reconciled with any worthy conception of God. But seen as transient forms in an ever- growing process, thrust aside and buried under Devonian strata, and yielding to more shapely and complex orders, and so climbing by an ever-finer transition to some final and perfect end, we not only can tolerate them in thought, but adore the directing Power and delight in his method. But the feeling of reverence only possesses us as we discern the creative process issuing in man as a moral being. Were crea- tion cut short at man as a physical being, there would be nothing in it to command our rever- ence, as there would be nothing to satisfy our reason. Nor should it disturb us to find that our moral qualities have their first intimations in the brute world; that we find in the higher animals hints, forecastings of moral faculty and actions; that as our bodies bear some organic relation to the brutes, so also may our minds. Body is not mind, but they are organi 112 E VOL U7ZON AND THE FAITH cally related; sensation is not consciousness, but the latter is conditional on the former. So man is not a brute, but he is organically related to the brute, and the relation may touch his whole nature. Our feeling on this point should be determined not by the first look, but by its final bearing. If it invalidated our moral faculties, or robbed them of their dignity, or made them less imperative, or separated them in any degree from God, we should be justified in rejecting the theory on the simple ground that these faculties consti- tute a science in themselves, as commanding and real as physical science. To disown mind before matter is stultification. But there is no such alternative. A relation of the moral faculties to brute qualities may exist without impairing the divineness of con- science and reverence and love. But what- ever our feeling, we cannot ignore the fact that in the brute world there are intimations or semblances Qf moral faculties; nor need we hesitate to say that they are united by the secret cord of the creative energy. The man of science, observing the development, says that it is brought about by natural forces; the philosopher may grant it, but adds that it is brought about by an intelligent force working freely and progressively, and therefore possi- bly by increments. Moral qualities are not found in the brutes, but there are the grounds of themthe stufl so to speak, out of which they are constituted, though not the essence that gives them their particular na- ture. Their presence there is only an indica- tion that the moral is in the mind and purpose of God, even so far back as in the brute worlda foregleam of the approaching issue. They show the divine purpose to crowd in the moral as soon and as fast as possible, prophe- sying it long before it can appear, impatient, as it were, with the dull processes behind, and pressing on with yearning speed towards his moral image. We have spoken altogether too long of the brutes with contempt as though they had nothing of God in them, and were wholly alien to ourselves. It is no degradation of human love that it is organi- cally linked with the brooding care of a brute for her young, nor of self-sacrifice that it is so related to a lioness dying for her whelps, nor of fidelity that it is akin to that of a dog dying for his master. They are not identical, but they are related: they spring from one root, but they reach forth to different issues; they have one motive in common, but in man they have also other motives and other rela- tions. The rudimentary forms of moral quali- ties in the brute world simply show that the moral element and purpose is present in the entire creative process. For it was not power that brooded over the elements at the begin- ning, but love; and the laws of nature are not the cold formulie of mathematics, but are laws of righteousness and truth. In the most absolute sense these laws are holy, and when they begin to work in the higher brutes, they must by their very nature assume a moral aspect or semblance; it cannot be kept out. Life, in its more complex forms, is so depen- dent upon the moral, or what is practically moral, that it cannot be maintained without it. There could be no gregariousness in the animal world without the action of principles that are essential to morality. It is no im- peachment of the dignity or value or impera- tiveness of a moral faculty, that it has come about by growth and differentiation. Indeed, it may stand all the firmer if its root reaches through all grades of life, and strikes down to the center of the earth. If I can trace my moral qualities throughout the universe, I cer- tainly will not respect them less than if I found them only in some corner of it. We are on false lines of thought when we try to di- vide creation; more and more does it appear to be an indivisible thing bound together by some mysterious, internal bond of unity. It does not follow that because a moral faculty is brought to full appearance by a combination of qualities or feelings, it has its origin or its essential potentiality in those qualities and feelings, or that it contains no more than is formed in them. A combination of two things that produces an effect that neither could produce alone, implies more than is to be found in the two things: there is the idea or the Aroportion of the combina- tion upon which the effect depends; and this must come from some mind that ordained the proportion, and not from the things them- selves. An acid and a base when mingled precipitate a salt, but they are not the authors of the salt; the law of the relation between the acid and the base is the author. The whole process may be set down in mathemat- ical terms, but all the more is it evident that the product originates in the mathematical thought underlying it. The same maybe true of the moral faculties; they may appear as the results of brute qual- ities through long growth and differentiation, but they are not on that account to be re- garded as the product of brute qualities, but of the law under which they have come about. And so far froni moral faculties originating in brute qualities, though their history may lie in them, they do not become moral except as they cease to be brute qualities. A flower is a flower only by refusing to be a leaf, though it comes about by differentiation from a leaf. So conscience or reverence may have come EVOLUTION AND THE FAITH 3 about by evolution through brute qualities, but they become themselves only by ceasing to be what they were. They get their real and essential nature from the mind that is behind in, curn c/ subthe whole process. If the conclusion disturbs us, if we shrink from linking our nobler faculties with pre- ceding orders, it is because we have as yet no proper conception of the close and inte- rior relation of God to all his works; nor do we stop to see that our attempts to sepa- rate ourselves from the previous creation are reflections upon Gods handiwork. Much of the talk upon the theme has a Pharisaic taint. Let us be thankful for existence, however it came about, and let us not deem ourselves too good to be included in the one creation of the one God. The fact that man may be organically re- lated to the material and brute world does not in itself determine either his nature or his destiny. So long as he is what he is, it does not matter what his history has been, though it may be a matter of consequence how by what agency he is differentiated from the brute. But the bare fact of his development from lower nature is not itself a fact that de- termines anything. It is a hasty and imper- fect logic that conjures dark visions out of the relation, and reasons that if man is developed from the brutes he will share their fate. Ori- gin has nothing to do with destiny; we can measure one as little as the other, and we know too little of either to use them as terms of close argument. I may be bound to phys ical and brute nature by the cord of origin, but that cord does not bind my destiny. A bird might be tied to the earth by a thread of infinite length and the knot never be un- loosed, yet it might fly forever into the heavens and away from its source. It is an unreason- able contempt of lower nature that makes us fear it. As we find God in destiny, so we may find him in origin present at both ends of his own process and in equal power. Indeed, our chances destiny-wise may be all the better because we are thoroughly inter- woven with the whole creation. It is possible that we must be organically connected with the previous creation in order to share in the eternal order before us; that only thus can we be included in the circle of endless exist- ence. If man is a sporadic and unrelated creation, his destiny hangs upon the arbitrary will that so created him, and gets no promise or assurance from the great order of the uni- verse and its Creator. Nor need we be disturbed by the claim of an organic relation between the various orders of existence, lest no place be found for the truths and doctrines of religion. This has been the chief ground of alarm in the past. This firm linking of creation into one, this eduction of one phase from another by a natural proc- ess, seems to many to shut off the possibility of a revelation, of miracle, of an incarnation, of moral action, of immortality. It seems easier to defend these truths when a creative chasm, so to speak, has been placed be- tween man and the rest of creation; man is more easily handled as a moral and spiritual being when he is treated as an independent creation. It has been feared that if such a chasm were not insisted on, man as a moral being would fall under the laws of the previous creation, and be swamped in necessity, and swallowed up in the general destruction of the previous orders; that so unique a fact as the incarnation could have no justification; that miracle could not be defended in the presence of hitherto universal law; that moral .action could not be discriminated from the in- stinctive action of the brutes, whose action in turn could not be discriminated from the chemic and dynamic action of matter, thus throwing the chain of materialism about mind and spirit. I grant that these fears would be well grounded if certain theories of evolution were to be accepted as settled such as the theory that matter has within itself the poten- tiality of all terrestrial life, and goes on in its development alone and by its own energy; a theory that may stand for the various me- chanical and atomic doctrines that deify force and dispense with cause. But this theory is now an outcast in the world of thought, and is branded with rejection by every science that uses thought, for the simple reason that it is a theory that renders thought impossible. These fears would also be well grounded if the theory were established that what is called force or the forces were invariable never more nor less; that they worked only by transmutation and within the original limits; that force itself is an entity. This theory also has no tenable place in philosophy. What is calledforce is the method of the action of a cause, and is not a self-acting entity. Force can proceed only from a will. It is absurd to say of any inanimate thing that it is a force; it may transmit force, but only as it has first received it. Force cannot be conceived except as proceeding from a will; nor can it be ob- served except as acting under a thought-re- lation that is, intelligently towards an end by design. Nor is it the invariable and eternal thing it is claimed to be. Matter existed logically if not otherwise before force, and must therefore have received its force from some source or reservoir; and as it works in thought-relations it must have come from an intelligent source that cherishes a design. The 4 claim that force is invariable because it is so observed is fallacious, simply because observa- tion is limited. In the morning we see the sun go up, and till noon we might say that it will go up forever, but night reverses our observa- tion. It would have been necessary to be present when the foundations of the earth were laid, to be able to say that as the chemic and dynamic passed into the organic there was not an addition of a force. Indeed, when the origin of force is considered, we need not think of it as forever exactly so much and no more, but only as the steady pressure of the Eternal hand upon matter, working uniformly indeed because there is an affinity between force and steadiness, and a Divine wisdom in uniformity; but we are under no compulsion either of reason or of observation to assert that this force is without variation. Force begins where we know not till we postulate God; and it ends how and where it goes we know not. That it is without play, that it may not be rhythmic and so analogous to the divinest of arts, that it is worked by ne- cessity and not by freedom, is an assumption that is contradicted by every conscious act of the human will. A system that works by law or apparent necessity towards will or freedom as an end, must be grounded in freedom. In the early orders of creation, the Divine hand held steadily and evenly the lever of the great engine as it ran along the grooves of changing matter; but when a brute, seeing an enemy in one path, chooses another, there is a hint at least of self-generated force. And it is idle to say that the changes wrought by man on the face of the earth are not the products of his creative will. These phantoms of necessity, of materialized virtues, of instinctive morality, need no longer disturb us; they are vanishing before the growing light of reason. It is not the better way to assail them with indignant denial; our fierce weapons cleave them through, but they stand, like Miltonic devils, as before. Nor can we exorcise them by the magic of faith; they thus cease to frighten us, but they are not dispelled. The light only will drive them to their caves, and the light is growing. When evolution is regarded, not as a self- working engine, an inexorable and unsuper- vised system, a mysterious section of creation assumed to be the whole,but rather as a proc- ess whose laws are the methods of Gods action, and whose force is the steady play