The Galaxy. / Volume 5, Note on Digital Production Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 822 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ACB8727-0005 /moa/gala/gala0005/

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The Galaxy. / Volume 5, Note on Digital Production 0005 000
The Galaxy. / Volume 5, Note on Digital Production A-B

The Galaxy. / Volume 5, Issue 1 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 822 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ACB8727-0005 /moa/gala/gala0005/

Restricted to authorized users at Cornell University and the University of Michigan. These materials may not be redistributed.

The Galaxy. / Volume 5, Issue 1 Atlantic monthly W. C. and F. P. Church, 1866-1868; | Sheldon and Company, 1868-1878. New York Jan 1868 0005 001
The Galaxy. / Volume 5, Issue 1, miscellaneous front pages i-R04B

THE GALAXY. AN ILLUSTRATED MAGAZINE OF ENTERTAINING READING. VOL V. JANUARY I, i868, TO JULY i, i868. NEW YORK: SHELDON & COMPANY, 498 AND 500 BROADWAY. i868. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year s868, by SHELDON & COMPANY, hi the Clerks Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York. A / V I INDEX TO VOLUME V. PAGE. American arid Foreign Theatres Olive Logan 22 American Dining George E. Pond 256 Aphoristic Cynicisms ~nnius Henri Browne 222 A Prolelem Heny lames, 2~r 697 Apple Blossoms May Mother 76! A Trip to the Wyandotte Cave F. M Gray 746 Ballad (The) of Sir Ball W. D. OConnor 328 BeechdaleChapters to ~ Marion Harland 58!, 719 Before Genius ~okn I3nrronghs 42! Black Bess (The) ... .Harriet Prescott S~5offord 517 British Marriage Law and Practice Theresa Yelverton 197 Burgoyne in a New Light William L. S/one 78 Byronism Walter S. McCann 777 Camorra (The) of Naples G. W. AA~leton 641 Case (A) of Mistaken Identity Edward Gould Buftum 188 Cassiterides (The) W. L. A idets ~oo Christmas (The Same) in Old England and New Edward Everett Hale 47 Clementina Kinniside F. Lynn Linton Corner Stone (A) Clarence Cook 144 Cruikshank (Grorge) Clarence Cook 126 Deserted Plantation (A) E. B. Seabrook 308 Dinner (A) Pierre Blot 73 DRIFT-Woon Phil~5 Quilibet 645, 782 Annual House-Swapping; New Hampshire Canvasses; The Alabama Claims; Books, Brains, and Bread; The Travelling Season; Who is our Sovereign; A Nations Repentance and Faith Churches and Amusements. Eccentric Artist (An) D. E. C 638 Elements of Physiology (Huxleys) E. L. Yanmans 6~6 Elder Knapp, the Revivalist George E. Pond 342 Elizahettas Christmas Harriet Prescott Slo5ord 6o Faux-Pas of the Press 7ames Grant Wilson 762 Fight (The) at Fishers Hill ~ames Franklin Fitts 427 Five Years in Japan P. B. Simmons 6o6 Forced Marches ~. W. DeForest 708 Forest Fire (The) Edward S. Ellis 774 From May till Martinmas Mrs. W~ H. Palmer 455 General Washingtons Negro Body-Servant Mark Twain 154 Grasses and Wild Flowers H. A/alan 690 House and the Heart E. R. Sill f 574 How Lamirande was Caught Gaston Fay 355 Jarocho Life Mayne Reid 68s John Bright at Home Richard ~. Hinton 288 Lady Jacqueline Phcebe Cary 679 LITERATURE AN0 ART 652, 778 William Blake, by Richard Grant White; Huxleys Elements of Physiology, hy E. L. Youmans; Art and Artists, hy S. S. Conant; Women Writers and Mrs. Edwards, by Eugene Benson; Various Books, by Richard Grant White. Legend (The) of St. Gwendoline Morgan Dix 258 London Docks N. S. Dodge 766 Loves Largess Helen Hunt 129 Lowlands (The) of the Mississippi Henry L. Abbot 445 Magazine Making The Editor Manners (The) of the Day The Editor 376 Modern French Clubs George M~ Tomle 247 v INDEX TO VOLUME V. PAGH. My Late Senatorial Secretaryship Mark Twain 633 My Note Book A nne M Crane 733 My Spiritualistic Experiences Richard Frothingham 28 Native Wines and Native Games Pierre Blot 631 NEBULAe The Editor 124, 255, 382, 513, 659, 797 ChristmasGeorge CruikshankSunday Laws On this Continent Loves Largess Derivation of SlangPunningCharles DickensAmerican DiningThe Legend of St. GwendolineApathy of tise American PeopleThe Sinfulness of SleepA Ball and a PoemThe Story of Macbeth Female PoppersThe Amount of our ReadingOne Touch of NatureMines and CoinageHono- rary DegreesBooks and PublishersA New ReligionA Case for RetaliationA Womans Word with Monsieur BlotA Mans Word with Monsieur BlotThe Tyng Trial and its MoralWood EngravingThe Grande DuchesseAn Apt Application of ScriptureNew York NamesCongres- sional CourtesiesWomen 2,000 Years AgoArtistic ImaginationPoetry at the Capitol-Womens Waistx 0. P. Riots (The) of 18o9 A. Bromley 636 Our Millionaires T. w 529 Our Railway Management Edward Howland 757 Parting in Hope Thomas Hitchcock 426 Personalism Walt Whitman 540 Pilgrimage (The) to Mecca Edna Dean Proctor 575 Political Outlook (The) D. G. Croly 4! Popular Songs George Waheman 157 Reminiscences of Dr. Wayland JJ7~ L. Stone Iso Secret History (The) of a Subsidized Organ...... .... Olive Logan 317 Selnele E. R. Sill 374 Slsadow (The) on the Wall . Sinfulness of Sleep 7 alas Henri Browng . 259 Slaughtered (The) Frenchman Paul As~erge 472 Snow (The) May Mather 172 Soldier Statesmen Thomas 7ordan . Some Celebrated Shrews Frank W. Ballard 298 Some of our Actors 0. B. Bunce s6~ Southem Troubles and their Remedy 7ames 0. Nayes 365 Spring (i868) Exhibition National Academy....~~.... S. S. Conant 657 Steven Lawrence, YeomanChapter 32 to end Mrs. Edwards 86, 206, 261, 389, 6i8, 66i Story (The) of a Masterpiece Henry 7ames, 7r 5, 133 THE GALAXY MISCELLANY 631, 762 Native Wines and Native Game, by Pierre Blot; My Late Senatorial Secretaryship, by Mark Twain; The 0. P. Riots of 1809, by A. Bromley; An Eccentric Artist, by D. E. C.; The Camorra of Na- ples, by G. W. Appleton; Faux-Pas of the Press, by Jas. Grant Wilson; London Docks, by N. S. Dodge; The Tompkinses, by N. T.; The Forest Fire, by Edward S. Ellis; Byronism, by Walter S. McCann. Three Branches (TIse) of the Government 7ohn Horton Pomeroy 482 To a Lady T. W. Parsons 707 To a Caged Canary Lily Nelson 732 Tumpkinses (The).... H. T 770 Trumpet Smith (The) Charles Dawson Shanly 539 Wedding Song (A) Edgar Fawcett 27 William Blake (Swinburnes) Richard Grant White 652 With my Book .... T. W. Parsons 21 Woman and the Weed Schayler Brzghtley 438 Words and their Uses Richard Grant White 240, 334, 491, 599 Woods and Waters Edmund Clarence Stedman 579 Worthless Laurels Kate Putnam Osgood 297 Wreck Helen Hunt 630 A THE STORY OF A MASTERPIECE. I Li I,

Henry James, Jr. James, Henry, Jr. The Story of a Masterpiece 5-21

THE GALAXY. JANUARy, 1& 68. THE STOThI OF A MASTEI~PIECE. IN Two PAI~TS.PART I. ~~T0 longer ago than last Summer, during a six weeks stay at I~ Newport, John Lennox became engaged to Miss Marian Ev- erett of New York. Mr. Lennox was a widower, of large estate, and without children. He was thirty-five years old, of a sufficiently distinguished appearance, of excellent manners, of an unusual share of sound information, of irreproachable habits and of a temper which was understood to have suffered a trying and salutary pro~ bation during the short term of his wedded life. Miss Everett was,, therefore, all things considered, believed to be making a very goods match and to be having by no means the worst of the bargain. And yet Miss Everett, too, was a very marriageable young lady the pretty Miss Everett, as she was called, to distinguish her from certain plain cousins, with whom, owing to her having no mother and no sisters, she was constrained, for decencys sake, to spend a great deal of her timerather to her own satisfaction, it may be conjectured, than to that of these excellent young women. Marian Everett was penniless, indeed; but she was richly en-- dowed with all the gifts which make a woman charming. She was, without dispute, the most charming girl in the circle in which she lived and moved. Even certain of her elders, women of a larger experience, of a heavier calibre, as it were, and, thanks to their being married ladies, of greater freedom of action, were practi- cally not so charming as she. And yet, in her emulation ~of the social graces of these, her more fully licensed sisters; Miss Everett was quite guiltless of any aberi:atioa from the strict line of maidenly dignity. She professed an almost religious devotion to good taste,~ and she looked with horror upon the boisterous graces of many of her companions. Beside being the most entertaining girl in New York, she was, therefore, also the most irreproachable. Her beauty was, perhaps, contestable, but it was certainly uncontested. She was the least bit below the middle height, and her person was marked by a great fulness and roundness of outline; and yet, in, spite of this comely ponderosity, her movements were perfectly I C THE STORY OF A MASTERPIECE. light and elastic. In complexion, she was a genuine blondea warm blonde; with a midsummer bloom upon her cheek, and the light of a midsummer sun wrought into her auburn hair. Her features were not east upon a classical model, bnt their expression was in the highest degree pleasing. .1-Icr forehead was low and broad, her nose small, and her mouthwell, by the envious her mouth was called enormous. It is certain that it had an immense cal)acity for smiles, and that when she opened it to sing (which she did with infinite sweetness) it emitted a copious flood of sound. Her face was, perhaps, a trifle too circular, and her shoulders a trifle too high; but, as I say, the general effect left nothing to be desired. I might point out a dozen discords in the character of her face and figure, and yet utterly fail to invalidate the impression they pro- duced. There is something essentially uncivil, and, indeed, unphilo- sophical, in the attempt to verify or to disprove a womans heauty in detail, and a man gets no more than he deserves when he finds that, in strictness, the aggregation of the different features fails to make up the total. Stand oft; gentlemen, and let her make the addition. Beside her beauty, Miss Everett shone by her good na- ture and her lively perceptions. She neither made harsh speeches nor resented them; and, on the other hand, she keenly enjoyed in- tellectual cleverness, and even cultivated it. Her great merit was that she made no claims or pretensions. Just as there was nothing artificial in her beauty, so there was nothing pedantic in her acute- ness and nothing sentimental in her amiability. The one was all freshness and the others all honhommie. John Lennox saw her, then loved her and offered her his hand. In accepting it Miss Everett acquired, in the worlds eye, the one advantage which she lackeda complete stability and regularity of position. Her friends took no small satisfaction in contrasting her brilliant and comfortable future with her somewhat precarious past. Lennox, nevertheless, was congratulated on the right hand and on the left; but none too often for his faith. That of Miss Everett was not put to so severe a test, although she was frequently reminded by acquaintances of a moralizing turn that she had ]eason to he very thankful for Mr. Lennoxs choice. To these ssurances Ma- nan listened with a look of patient humility, which was extremely becoming. It was as if for his sake she could consent even to be bored. Within a fortnight after their engagement had been made known, both parties returned to New York. Lennox lived in a house of his own, which he now busied himself with repairing and refurnish- ing; for the wedding had been fixed for the end of October. Miss Everett lived in lodgings with her father, a decayed old gentleman, who rubbed his idle hands from morniug till night over the pros- pect of his daughters marriage. THE STORY OF A MASTERPIECE. John Lennox, habitually a man of numerous resources, fond of reading, fond of music, fond of society and not averse to polities, passed the first weeks of the Autumn in a restless, fidgetty manner. When a man approaches middle age he finds it difficult to wear gracefully the distinction of being engaged. He finds it difficult to discharge with becoming alacrity the various petits SOiflS inci- dental to the position. There was a certain pathetic gravity, to those who knew him well, in Lennoxs attentions. One-third of his time he spent in foraging in Broadway, whence he returned half-n- dozen times a week, laden with trinkets and gimcracks, which he always finished by thinking it puerile and brutal to offer his mis- tress. Another third he passed in Mr. Everetts drawing-room, during which period Marian was denied to visitors. The rest of the time he spent, as he told a friend, God knows how. This was stronger language than his friend expected to hear, for Lennox was neither a man of precipitate utterance, nor, in his friends belieg of a strongly passionate nature. But it was evident that he was very much in love; or at least very much off his balance. XVlien Im with her its all very well, he pursued, but when Im away from her I feel as if I were thrust out of the ranks of the livine) \Vell, you must be patient, said his friend; youre destined to live hard, yet. Lennox was silent, and his face remained rather more sombre than the other liked to see it. I hope theres no particular difficulty, the latter resumed; hop- ing to induce him to relieve himself of whatever weighed upon his consciousness. Im afraid sometimes Iafraid sometimes she doesnt really love ~ Well, a little doubt does no harm. Its better than to be too sure of it, and to sink into fatuity. Only be sure you love her. Yes, said Lennox, solemnly, thats the great point. One morning, unable to fix his attention on books and papers, h bethought himself of an expedient for passing an hour. lIe had made, at Newport, the acquaintance of a yomipg artist named Gilbert, for whose talent and conversation he had conceived a strong relish. The painter, on leaving Newport, was to go to the Adirondacks, and to be back in New York on the first of October, after which time he begged his friend to come and see him. It occurred to Lennox on the morning I speak of that Gilbert must already have returned to town, and would be looking for hi visit. Sb he forthwith repaired to his studio. Gilberts card was on the door, but, on entering the room, Len- nox found it occupied by a strangera young man in painters garb, at work before a large paneL He learned from this gentle 8 THE STORY OP A MASTERPIECE. man that he was a temporary sharer of Mr. Gilberts studio, and that the latter had stepped out for a few moments. Lennox ac- cordingly prepared to await his return. He entered into conversa- tion with the young man, and, finding him very intelligent, as well as, al)parently, a great friend of Gilbert, he looked at him with some interest. lIe was of something less than thirty, tall and robust, with a strong, joyous, sensitive face, and a thick auburn beard. Lennox was struck with his face, which seemed both to express a great deal of human sagacity and to indicate the essential tempera- ment of a painter. A man with that face, he said to himseli does work at least worth looking at. He accordingly asked his companion if he might come and look at his picture. The latter readily assented, and Lennox placed him- self before the canvas. It bore a representation of a half-length female figure, in a cos- tume and with an expression so ambiguous that Lennox remained uncertain whether it was a portrait or a work of fancy: a fair- haired young woman, clad in a rich medheval dress, and looking like a countess of the Renaissance. Her figure was relieved against a sombre tapestry, her arms loosely folded, her head erect and her eyes on the spectator, toward whom she seemed to move Dans un fldt de velours trainant ses petits pieds. As Lennox inspected her face it seemed to reveal a hidden like- ness to a face he well knewthe face of Marian Everett. He was of course anxious to know whether the likeness was accidental or designed. I take this to be a portrait, he said to the artist, a portrait in character. No, said the latter, its a mere composition : a little from here and a little from there. The picture has been hanging about inc for the last two or three years, as a sort of receptacle of waste ideas. It has been the victim of innumerable theories and experi- ~nents. But it seems to have survived them alL I suppose it pos- sesses a certain amount of vitality. Do you call it anything? I called it originally after something Id readBrownings poem, My Last Duchess. Do you know it? Perfectly. I am ignorant of whether its an attempt to embody the poets impression of a portrait actually existing. But why should I care? This is simply an attempt to embody my own private impression of the poem, which has always had a strong hold on my fancy. I dont know whether it agrees with your own impression and that of most readers. But I dont insist upon the name. The possessor of the picture is free to baptize it afresh. THE STORY OF A MASTERPIECE. 9 The longer Lennox looked at the picture the more he liked it, and the deeper seemed to be the correspondence between the ladys ex- pression and that with which he had invested the heroine of Brown- ings lines. The less accidental, too, seemed that element which Marians face and the face on the canvas possessed in common. lie thought of the great poets noble lyric and of its exquisite sig- nificance, and of the physiognomy of the woman he loved having been chosen as the fittest exponent of that significance. He turned away his head; his eyes filled with tears. If I were possessor of the picture, he said, finally, answering the artists last words, I should feel tempted to call it by the name of a per- son of whom it very much reminds me. Ah? said Baxter; and then, after a pause a person in New York? It had happened, a week before, that, at her lovers request, Miss Everett had gone in his company to a photographers and had been photographed in a dozen different attitudes. rrhe proofs of these photographs had been sent home for Marian to choose from. She had made a choice of half a dozenor rather Lennox had made it and the latter had put them in his pocket, with the intention of stopping at the establishment and giving his orders. lie now took out his pocket-book and showed the painter one of the cards. I find a great resemblance, said he, between your Duchess and that young lady. The artist looked at the photograph. If 1 am not mistaken, he said, after a pause, the young lady is Miss Everett. Lennox nodded assent. His companion remained silent a few moments, examining the photograph with considerable interest; but, as Lennox observed, without comparing it with his picture. ~ My Duchess very probably bears a certain resemblance to Miss Everett, but a not exactly intentional one, he said, at last. The picture was begun before I ever saw Miss Everett. Miss Everett, as you seeor as you knowhas a very charming face, and, during the few weeks in which I saw her, I continued to work upon it. You knoxv how a painter workshow artists of all kinds work: they claim their property wherever they find it. What I found to my purpose in Miss Everetts appearance I didnt hesitate to adopt; especially as I had been feeling about in the dark for a type of coun- teiiauce which her face effectually realized. The Duchess was an Italian, I take it; and I had made up my mind that she was to be a blonde. Now, there is a decidedly southern depth and warmth of tone in Miss Everetts complexion, as well as that breadth and thickness of feature which is common in Italian women. You see the resemblance is much more a matter of type than of expression. Nevertheless, Im sorry if the copy betrays the original. 10 THE STORY OF A MASTERPIECE. I doubt, said Lennox, whether it would betray it to any other perception than niine. I have the honor, he dded, after a pause, to be engaged to Miss Everett. You xviii, therefore, ex- cuse me if I ask whether you mean to sell your picture? Its already soldto a lady, rejoined the artist, with a smile; a maiden lady, who is a great admirer of Browning. At this moment Gilbert returned. The two friends exchanged greetings, and their companion withdrew to a neighboring studio. - After they had talked a while of what had happened to each since they parted, Lennox spoke of the painter of the Duchess and of his remarkable talent, expressing surprise that he shouldnt have heard of him before, and that Gilbert should never have spoken of him. His name is BaxterStephen Baxter, said Gilbert, and until his return from Europe, a fortnight ago, I knew little more about him than you. Hes a case of improvement. I met him in Paris in 62; at that time he was doing absolutely nothing. He has learned what you see in the interval. On arriving in New York he found it impossible to get a studio big enough to hold him. As, with my little sketches, I need only occupy one corner of mine, I offered him the use of the other three, until he should be able to bestow him- self to his satisfaction. When he began to unpack his canvases I found I ha~ been entertaining an angel unawares. Gilbert then proceeded to uncover, for Lennox~ s inspection, sev- oral of Baxters portraits, both of men and women. Each of these works confirmed Lennox~ s impression of the painters power. He returned to the picture on the easel. Marian Everett reappeared at his silent call, and looked out of the eyes with a most penetrating tenderness and melancholy. lie may say what he pleases, thought Lennox, the resem- blauce is, in some degree, also a matter of expression. Gilbert, he added, wishing to measure the force of the likeness, whoiu does it remind you of? I knoxv, said Gilbert, of whom it reminds you. And do you see it yourself? They are both hmdsome, and both have auburn hair. Thats all I can see. Lennox was somewhat relieved. It xvas not without a feeling of discomforta feeling by no means inconsistent xvith his first mo- ment of pride and satisfactionthat he tliou~ht of Marians pe- culiar and individual charms having been subjected to the keen appreciation of another than himself, lie was glad to be able to conclude that the painter had merely been struck with what was most superficial in her appearance, nd that his own imagination supplied the rest. It occurred to him, as he walked home, that it would be a not unbecoming tribute to the young girls loveliness THE STORY OF A MASTERPIECE. 11 on his own part, to cause her portrait to be painted by this clever young man. Their engagement had as yet been an affair of pure sentiment, and he had taken an almost fastidious care not to give himself the vulgar appearance of a mere purveyor of luxuries and pleasures. Practically, he had been as yet for his future wife a poor manor rather a man, pure and simple, and not a millionaire. He had ridden with her, he had sent her flowers, and he had gone with her to the opera. But he had neither sent her sugar-plums, nor made bets with her, nor made her presents of jewelry. Miss Everetts female friends had remarked that he hadnt as yet given her the least little betrothal ring, either of pearls or of diamonds. Marian, however, was quite content. She was, by nature, a great artist in the misc err scene of emotions, and she felt instinctively that this classical moderation was but the converse presentment of an immense matrimonial abundance. In his attempt to make it im- possible that his relations with Miss Everett should be tinged in any degree with the accidental condition of the fortunes of either party, Lennox had thoroughly understood his own instinct. He knew that he should some day feel a strong and irresistible impulse to offer his mistress some visihle and artistic t6ken of his affection, and that his gift would convey a greater satisfaction from being sole of its kind. It seemed to him now that his chance had come. What gift could be more delicate than the gift cf an Qpportunity to contribute by her patience and good-will to her husbands pos- session of a perfect likeness of her face? On that same evening Lennox dined with his future father-in-law, as it was his habit to do once a week. Marian, he said, in the course of the dinner, I saw, this morn- ing, an old friend of yours. Ah, said Marian, who was that? Mr. Baxter, the painter. Marian changed colorever so little; no more, indeed, than was natural to an honest surprise. Her surprise, however, could not have been great, inasmuch as she now said that she had seen his return to America mentioned in a newspaper, and as she knew that Lennox frequented the society of artists. lie was well, I hope, she added, arid prosperous. Where did you know this gentleman, my dear? asked Mr. Everett. I knew him in Europe two years agofirst in the Summer in Switzerland, and afterward in Paris. lie is a sort of cousin of Mrs. IDenbigh. Mrs. Denbieh was a lady in whose company Marian had recently spent a year in Europea widow, rich, childless an invalid, and an old friend of her mother. Is he always painting? Apparently, and extremely well. He has two or three as good 12 THE STORY OF A MASTERPIECE. portraits there as one may reasonably expect to see. And he has, moreover, a certain picture which reminded me of you. His Last Duchess ? asked Marian, with some curiosity. I should like to see it. If you think its like me, John, you ought to buy it up. I wanted to buy it, but its sold. You know it then? Yes, through Mr. Baxter himself. I saw it in its rud!mentary state, when it looked like nothing that I should care to look like. I shocked Mrs. Denbigh very much by telling him I was glad it was his last. The picture, indeed, led to our acquaintance. And not vice versa, said Mr. Everett, facetiously. How vice versa ~2 asked Marian,innocently. I met Mr. Bax- ter for the first time at a party in Rome. I thought you said you met him in Switzerland, said Lennox. No, in Rome. It was only two days before we left. He was introduced to me without knowing I was with Mrs. Denbigh, and indeed without knowing that she had been in the city. He was very shy of Americans. The first thing he said to me was that I looked very much like a picture he had been painting. That you realized his ideal, etc. Vxactly, but not at all ia that sentimental tone. I took him to Mrs. Denbigh; they found they were sixth cousins by marriage; he came to see us the next day, and insisted upon our going to his 8tudio. It was a miserable place. I believe he was very poor. At least Mrs. Denbigh offered him some money, and he frankly accepted it. She attempted to spare his sensibilities by telling him that, if he liked, he could paint her a picture in return. He said he would if he had time. Later, he came up into Switzerland, amid the follow- ing Winter we met him in Paris. If Lennox had had any mistrust of Miss Everetts relations with the painter, the manner in which she told her little story would have effectually blighted it. He forthwith proposed that, in consideration not only of the young mans great talent, but of his actual knowledge of her face, he should be invited to paint her portrait. Marian assented without reluctance and without alacrity, and Lennox laid his proposition before the artist. The latter requested a day or two to consider, and then replied (by note) that lie would be happy to undertake the task. Miss Everett expected that, in view of the projected renewal of their old acquaintance, Stephen Baxter would call upon her, under the auspices of her lover. He called in effect, alone, but Marian was not at home, and he failed to repeat the visit. The day for the first sitting was therefore appointed through Lennox. The artist had not as yet obtained a studio of his own, and the latter cordially offered him the momentary use of a spacious and well-lighted THE STORY OF A MASTERPIECE. 13 apartment in his house, which had been intended as a billiard room, but was not yet fitted up. Lennox expressed no wishes with regard to the portrait, being content to leave the cboice of position and costume to the parties immediately interested. He found the painter perfectly well acquainted with Marians points, and he had an implicit confidence in her own good taste. Miss Everett arrived on the morning appointed, under her fathers escort, Mr. Everett, who prided himself largely upon doing things in proper form, having caused himself to be introduced beforehand to the painter. Between the latter and Marian there was a brief exchange of civilities, after which they addressed themselves to business. Miss Everett professed the most cheerful deference to Baxters wishes and fancies, at the same time that she made no secret of possessing a number of strong convictions as to what should be attempted and what should be avoided. It was no surprise to the young man to find her convictions sound and her wishes thoroughly sympathetic. He found himself called upon to make no compromise with stubborn and unnatural preju- dices, nor to sacrifice his best intentions to a short-sighted vanity. Whether Miss Everett was vain or not need not here be declared. She had at least the wit to perceive that the interests of an enlight- ened sagacity would best be served by a painting which should be good fiemu the painters point of view, inasmuch as these are the paintings chief end. I may add, moreover, to her very great credit, that she thoroughly understood how great an artistic merit should properly attach to a picture executed at the behest of a pas- sion, in order that it should be anything more than a mockery-a parodyof the duratiin of that passion; and that she knew in- stinctively that there is nothing so chilling to an artists heat as the inferference of illogical self-interest, either on his own behalf or that of another. Baxter worked firmly and rapidly, and at the end of a couple of Iiouv~ he felt that he had begun his picture. Mr. Everett, as he sat by, threatened to he a bore; laboring apparently under the lml)ression that it was his duty to beguile the session with cheap aesthetic small talk. But Marian good-humoredly took the painters share of the dialogue, and he was not diverted from his work. The next sitting was fixed for the morrow. Marian wore the dress which she had agreed upon with the painter, and in which, as in her position, the picturesque~ element had been religiously suppressed. She read in Baxters eyes that she looked supremely beautiful, and she saw that his fingers tingled to attack his subject. But. she caused Lennox to he sent for, under the pretense of obtain- ing his adhesion to her dress. It was blnek, and he might object to black. He caine, and she read in his kindly eyes an augmented edition of the assurance conveyed in Baxters. He was enthu~i 14 THE STORY OF A MASTERPiECE. astic for the black dress, which, in truth, seemed only to confirm and enrich, like a grave maternal protcst, the youn~ girls look of undiminished youth. I expect you, he said to Baxter, to make a masterpiece. Never fear, said the painter, tapping his forehead. Its made. On this second occasion, Mr. Everett, exhausted by the intellect- nal strain of the preceding day, and encouraged by his luxurious chair, sank into a tranquil sleep. His companions remained for some time, listening to his regular breathing; Marian with her eyes patiently fixed on the opposite wall, and the young man with his glance mechanically travelling between his figure and the canvas. At last he fell back several paces to survey his work. Marian moved her eyes, and they met his own. Well, Miss Everett, said the painter, in accents which might have been tremulous if he had not exerted a strong effort to make them firm. Well, Mi.. Baxter, said the young girl. And the two exchanged a long, firm glance, which at last ended in a smilea smile which belonged decidedly to the family of the famous lau~h of the two angels behind the altar in the temple. Well, Miss Everett, said Baxter, going back to his work; such is life So it appears, rejoined Marian. And then, after a pause of some moments: Why didnt you come and see me? she added. ~ I came and you werent at home. Why didnt you come again? What was the use, Miss Everett ? It would simply have been more decent. We might have become reconciled. We seem to have done that as it is. I mean in form. That would have been absurd. Dont you see how true an instinct i[ had? What could have been easier than our niecting? I ::ssure you that I should have found any talk about the past, and mutual assurances or apologies extremely disnorecable. Miss Everett raised her eyes from the floor and fixed them on her companion with a deep, half-reproachful glance, Is the past, then, she asked, so utterly disagreeable? Baxter stared, half amazed. Good heavens! he cried, of course it is. Miss Everett dropped her eyes and remained silent. I may as well take advantage of the moment, rapidly to make plain to the reader the events to which the above conversation refers. Miss Everett had found it expedient, all things considered, nut THE STORY OF A MASTERPiECE. 15 to tell her intended husband the whole story of her acquaintance with Stephen Baxter; and when I have repaired her omissions, the reader will probably justify her discretion. She had, as she said, met this young man for the first time at Rome, and there in the course of two interviews had made a deep impression upon his heart. He had felt that he would give a great deal to meet Miss Everett again. Their reunion in Switzerland was therefore not entirely fortuitous; and it had been the more easy for Baxter to make it possible, for the reason that he was able to claim a kind of roundabout relationship with Mis. Denbigh, Marians companion. With this ladys permission he had attached himself to their party. He had made their route of travel his own, he had stopped when they stopped and been prodigal of at- tentions and civilities. Before a week was over, Mrs. Denbigh, who was the soul of confiding good nature, exulted in the discovery of an invaluable kinsman. Thanks not only to her naturally unex- acting disposition, but to the apathetic and inactive habits induced by constant physical suffering, she proved a very insignifi- cant third in her companions spending of the hours. How delight- fully these hours were spent, it requires no great effort to imagine. A suit conducted in the midst of the most romantic scenery in Europe is already half won. Marians social graces were largely enhanced by the satisfaction which her innate intelligence of natural beauty enabled her to take in the magnificent scenery of the Alps. She had never appeared to such advantage; she had never known such perfect freedom and frankness and gayety. For the first time in her life she had made a captive without suspecting it. She had surrendered her heart to the mountains and the lakes, the eternal snows and the pastoral valleys, arid Baxter, standing by, had inter- cepted it. He felt his long-projected Swiss tour vastly magnified and beautified by Miss Everetts part in itby the constant femi- nine sympathy which gushed within earshot, with the coolness and clearness of a mountain spring. Oh! if only it too had not been fed by the eternal snows! And then her beautyher indefhtiga- ble beautywas a continual enchantment. Miss Everett looked so thoroughly in her place in a drawing-room that it was~ alniost logical to suppose that she looked well nowhere else. But in fact, as Baxter learned, she looked quite well enough in the character of what ladies call a fright that is, sunburnt, travel-stained, over- heated, exhilarated and hungryto elude all invidious comparisons. At the end of three weeks, one morning as they stood together on the edge of a falling torrent, high above the green concavities of the hills, Baxter felt himself irresistibly urged to make a declar- ation. The thunderous noise of the cataract covered all vocal utterance; so, taking out his sketch-book, he wrote three short words on a blank leaf. He handed her the book. She read his THE STORY OF A MASTERPIECE. message with a beautiful change of color and a single rapid glance at his fi~ce. She then tore out the leaf: Dont tear it up! cried the young man. She understood him by the movement of his lips and shook her head with a smile. But she stooped, picked up a little stone, and wrapping it in the bit of paper, prepared to toss it into the torrent. Baxter, uncertain, put out his hand to take it from her. She passed it into the other hand and gave him the one he had at- tempted to take. She threw away the paper, but she let him keep her hand. Baxter had still a week at his disposal, and Marian made it a very happy one. Mrs. Denbigh was tired; they had come to a halt, and there was no interruption to their being together. They talked a great deal of the long future, which, on getting beyond the sound of the cataract, they had expeditiously agreed to pursue in common. It was their misfortune both to be poor. They determined, in view of this circumstance, to say nothing of their engagement until Baxter, by dint of hard work, should have at least quadrupled his income. This was cruel, but it was imperative, and Mariun made no complaint. Her residence in Europe had enlarged her concep- tion of the material needs of a pretty woman, and it was quite natural that she should not, close upon the hec!s of this experience, desire to rush int& marriuge with a poor artist. At the end of some days Baxter started for Germany and Holland, portions of which he wished to visit for purposes of study. Mrs. Denbigh and her young friend repaired to Paris for the Winter. Here, in the middle of February, they were rejoined by Baxter, who had achieved his German tour. He had received, while absent, five little letters from Marian, full of affection. The number was small~ but the young man detected in the very temperance of his mistress a cer- tain delicious flavor of implicit constancy. Shereceived him with all the frankness and sweetness that he had a right to expect, and listened with great interest to his account of the improvement in his prospects. He had sold three of his Italian pictures and had made an invaluable collection of sketches. He was on the high road to wealth and fame, and there was no reason their engagement should not be announced. But to this latter proposition Illarian demurreddemurred so strongly, and yet on grounds so arl)itrary, that a somewhat painful scene ensued. Stephen left her, irritated and perplexed. The next day, when he called, she was unwell and unable to see him; and the next and the next. On the evening of the day that he had made his third fruitless call at Mrs. Den- bighs, lie overheard Marians name mentioned at a large party. The interlocutors were two elderly women. On giving his atten- tion to their talks which they were taking no pains to keep private, THE STORY OF A MASTERPIECE. 17 he found that his mistress was under accusal of having trifled with the affections of an unhappy young man, the only son of one of the ladies. There was apparently no lack of evidence or of facts which might be construed as evidence. Baxter went home, la mort dana l4rne, and on the following day called again on Mrs. Denbigh. Marian was still in her room, but the former lady received him. Stephen was in great trouble, but his mind was lucid ,and he addressed himself to the task of interrogating his hostess. Mrs. Denbigh, with her habitual indolence, had remained unsuspi- cious of the terms on which the young people stood. Im sorry to say, Baxter began, that I heard Miss Everett accused last evening of very sad conduct. Ah, for heavens sake, Stephen, returned his kinswoman, dont go back to that. Ive done nothing all Winter but defend and palliate her conduct. Its hard work. Dont make me do it for you. You know her as well as I do. She was indiscreet, but I know she is penitent, and for that matter shes well out of it. lie was by no means a desirable young man.~ The lady whom I heard talking about the matter, said Stephen, spoke of him in the highest terms. To be sure, as it turned out, she was his mother. 1-us ~aother? Youre mistaken. His mother died ten years ago. Baxter folded his arms with a feeling that he needed to sit firm. Allons, said he, of whom do you speak? Of young Mr. King. Good heavens, cried Stephen. So there are two of them ? Pray, of whom do you speak? Of a certain Mr. Young. The mother is a handsome old woman with white curls. You dont mean to say there has been anything between Marian and Frederic Voild! I only repeat what I hear. It seems to me, my dear Mrs. Denbigh, that you ought to know. Mrs. Denbigh shook her head with a melancholy movement. Im sure I dont, she said. I give it up. I dont prefend to judge. The manners of young people to each other are very differ- ent from what they were in my day. One doesnt know whether they mean nothing or everything. You know, at least, whether Mr. Young has been in your draw- ing-room? Oh, yes, frequently. Im very sorry that Marian is talked about. Its very unpleasant for me. But what can a sick woman do? Well, said Stephen, so much for Mr. Young. And now for Mr. Kino Mr. King is gone home. Its a pity he ever came away. Is THE STORY OF A MASTERPIECE. In what sense? Oh, hes a silly fellow. He doesnt understand young girls. Upon my word, said Stephen, with expression, as the music sheets say, he might be very wise arid not do that. Not but that Marian was injudicious. She meant only to be amiable, but she went too far. She became adorable. The first thing she knew he was holding her to an account. Is he good-looking? Well enough. And rich ? Very rich, I believe~ And the other? What otherMarian? No, no; your friend Young.~~ Yes, hes quite handsome. And rich, too? Yes, I believe hes also rich. Baxter was silent a moment. And theres no doubt, he re- sumed, that they were both far gone? I can only answer for Mr. King. Well, Ill answer for Mr. Young. His mother wouldnt have talked as she did unless shed seen her son suffer. After all, then, its perhaps not so much to Marians discredit. Here are two handsome young millionaires, madly smitten. She refuses them both. She doesnt care for good looks and money. I dont say that, said Mrs. Denbigh, sagaciously. She doesnt care for those things alone. She wants talent, and all the rest of it. Now, if you were only rich, Stephen added the good lady, innocently. Baxter took up his hat. When you wish to marry Miss Everett, he said, you must take good care not to say too much about Mr. King and Mr. Young. Two days after this interview, he had a conversation with the young girl in person. The reader may like him the less for his easily-shaken confidence, but it is a fact that he had been unable to make light of these lightly-made revelations. For him his love had been a passion; for her, he was compelled to believe, it had been a vulgar pastime. lie was a man of a violent temper; he went straight to the point. Marian, he said, youve been deceiving me. Marian knew very well what he meant; she knexv very well that she had grown weary of her engagement and that, however little of a fault her conduct had been to Messrs. Young and King, it had been an act of grave disloyalty to Baxter. She felt that the blow was struck and that their engagement was clean broken. She knew that Stephen would be satisfied with no half-excuses or THE STORY OF A MASTERPIECE. 19 half-denials; and she had none others to give. A hundred such would not make a perfect confession. Making no attempt, there- fore, to save her prospects, for which she had ceased to care, she merely attempted to save her dignity. Her dignity for the mo- ment was well enough secured by her natural half-cynical coolness of temper. But this same vulgar placidity left in Stephens memory an impression of heartlessness and shallowness, which in that par- ticular quarter, at least, was destined to be forever fatal to her claims to real weight and worth. She denied the young mans right to call her to account and to interfere with ji~er conduct; and she almost anticipated his proposal that they should consider their en g-agernent at an end. She even declined the use of the simple logic of tears. Under these circumstances, of course, the interview was not of long duration. I regard you, said Baxter, as he ~tood on the threshold, as the most superficial, most heartless of women. He immediately left Paris and went down into Spain, where he remained till the opening of the Summer. In the month of May Mrs. Denbigh and her prot~g~ went to England, where the former, through her husband, possessed a number of connections, and where Maria ns thorou~hly un-English beauty was vastly admired. In September they sailed for America. About a year and a half; there- fore, had elapsed between Baxters separation from Miss Everett and their meeting in New York. During this interval the young mans wounds had had time to heal. I-us sorrow, although violent, had been short-lived, and when he finally recovered his habitual equanimity, he was very glad to have purchased exemption at the price of a simple heart-ache. Reviewing his impressions of Miss Everett in a calmer mood, he ma(le up his mind that she was very far from being the woman of his desire, and that she had not really been the woin~ a of his choice. Thank God, lie said to himself; its over. Shes irre- c:ainiahly light. Shes hollow, trivial, vulg~ r. There had been ir~ his addresses something hasty and feverish, something fictitious a 11(1 unreal in his fancied passion. Half of it had been the work of the scenery, of the weather, of mere juxtaposition, and, a ye all, g o~ the young girls picturesque beauty; to say nothing of the almost suggestive tolerance and indolence of poor Mrs. Denbigh. And finding himself very much interested in Velasquez, at Madrid, hc dismissed Miss Everett from his thoughts. I do not mean to oiler his judgment of Miss Everett as final; but it was at least con- scientious. The ample justice, moreover, which, nuder the illusion of seiitin~ei~t, lie had rendered to her charms and gr ces, gave him a right, when free from that illusion, to register his estimate of the arid spaces of her nature. Miss Everett might easily have accused him of injustice and brutality; but this fact would still stand to 20 TIlE STORY OF A MASTERPIECE. plead in his favor, that he eared with all his strength for truth. Marian, on the contrary, was quite indifferent to it. Stephens au~rv sentence on her conduct had awakened no echo in her con- tracted soul. The reader has now an adequate conception of the feelings with which these two old friends found themselves face to face. It is noe(i ful to add, however, that the lapse of time had very much di- ininished the force of those feelings. A woman, it seems to me, ought to desire no easier company, none less embarrassed or em- barrassing, than a disenchanted lover; premising, of course, that the process of disenchantment is thoroughly complete, and that some time has elapsed since its completion. Marian herself was perfectly at her ease. She had not retained her equanimityher philosophy, one might almost call itduring that painful last interview, to go and lose it now. She had no ill feeling toward her old lover. His last words had beenlike all words in Marians estimationa mere fapon de pa~rler. Miss Ev- erett was in so perfect a good humor during these last days of her maidenhood that there was nothing in the past that she could not have forgiven. She blushed a little at the emphasis of her companions remark; but she was not discountenanced. She summoned up her good humor. The truth is, Mr. Baxter, she said, I feel at the present moment on perfect good terms with the world; I see everything em rose; the past as well as the future. I, too, am on very good terms with the world, said Baxter, and my heart is quite reconciled to what you call the past. But, nevertheless, its very disagreeable to me to think about it. Ah then, said Miss Everett, with great sweetness, Im afraid youre not reconciled. Baxter laughedso loud that Miss Everett looked about at her father. But Mr. Everett still slept the sleep of gentility. Ive no douht, said the painter, that Im far from being so good a Chri~tin as you. But I assure you Im very glad to see you again.~~ Youve but to say the word and were friends, said M~ nan. We were very foolish to have attempted to be any thing else. Foolish, yes. But it was a pretty folly. Ali no, Miss Everett. Im an artist, and I claim a right of property in the word pretty. You mustnt stick it in there. Nothing could be pretty which had such an ugly termination. It was all false. Wellas you will. What have you been doing since we parted? Travelling and working. Ive made great progress in my trade. Shortly before I came home I became engaged. Engaged ?d Ia bonne heure. Is she good ?is she pretty? WITH MY BOOK. 21 Shes i~t nearly so pretty as you. In other words, shes infinitely more good. Im sure I hope she is. But why did you leave her behind you? Shes with a sister, a sad invalid, who is drinking mineral waters on the Rhine. They wished to remain there to the cold weather. Theyre to be home in a couple of weeks, and we are straightway to be married. I congratulate you, with all my heart, said Marian. Allow me to do as much, sir, said Mr Everett, waking up; which he did by instinct whenever the conversation took a ceremo- nious turn. Miss Everett gave her companion but three more sittings, a large part of his work being executed with the assistance of photographs. At these interviews also, Mr. Everett was present, and still deli- cately sensitive to the soporific influences of his position. But both parties had the good taste to abstain from further reference to their old relations, and to confine their talk to less personal themes. HENRY JAMES, JR. WITH MY BOOK. ~ HE waits, to curiosity a prey, kJ Wondering what gift will greet her festive day; Fly, thou dull thing! and hail her with a song: I have withheld my messenger too long; For in those eyes the beautiful disdain Methought I saw, made me misprize my strain. But now that Christmas brings the bolder mind I fling my fancy to Decembers wind, And my caged bird unprison to the blast, To soar, and light upon her hand at last. Go greet my lady, not where fiatterers throng, But in her closet let her spell thy song; And ask no thanks; for often with her look She gave me many volumes for my book. I And she hath spoke not many times nor much (Some feel a stroke what others call a touch); But when she spoke, and when I listened first, Twas like an orchestras harmonious burst; And when she smiled, and I received her smile, It seemed a sun-break out on Capris Isle. T. W. PARSONS. 2

T. W. Parsons Parsons, T. W. With my Book 21-22

WITH MY BOOK. 21 Shes i~t nearly so pretty as you. In other words, shes infinitely more good. Im sure I hope she is. But why did you leave her behind you? Shes with a sister, a sad invalid, who is drinking mineral waters on the Rhine. They wished to remain there to the cold weather. Theyre to be home in a couple of weeks, and we are straightway to be married. I congratulate you, with all my heart, said Marian. Allow me to do as much, sir, said Mr Everett, waking up; which he did by instinct whenever the conversation took a ceremo- nious turn. Miss Everett gave her companion but three more sittings, a large part of his work being executed with the assistance of photographs. At these interviews also, Mr. Everett was present, and still deli- cately sensitive to the soporific influences of his position. But both parties had the good taste to abstain from further reference to their old relations, and to confine their talk to less personal themes. HENRY JAMES, JR. WITH MY BOOK. ~ HE waits, to curiosity a prey, kJ Wondering what gift will greet her festive day; Fly, thou dull thing! and hail her with a song: I have withheld my messenger too long; For in those eyes the beautiful disdain Methought I saw, made me misprize my strain. But now that Christmas brings the bolder mind I fling my fancy to Decembers wind, And my caged bird unprison to the blast, To soar, and light upon her hand at last. Go greet my lady, not where fiatterers throng, But in her closet let her spell thy song; And ask no thanks; for often with her look She gave me many volumes for my book. I And she hath spoke not many times nor much (Some feel a stroke what others call a touch); But when she spoke, and when I listened first, Twas like an orchestras harmonious burst; And when she smiled, and I received her smile, It seemed a sun-break out on Capris Isle. T. W. PARSONS. 2 AMERICAN AND FOREIGN THEATRES. TJ NTIL late years, the stage decorations of American theatres have been of so poor a description that my first entrance into a prominent London theatre, about ten years ago, struck me with speechless astonishment at the beauty of the misc en sc~ne, which was far above anything I had ever seen in Americaof whose theatres I had been a habitu~ both in front and behind the scenes~~ since my earliest childhood. The play, I remember, was one in which Miss Amy Sedgwick appeared, and the whole performance was so good that it was to me like a revelation in his- trionic art. Passing my time about equally between Paris and London for the six years following this event, I was al)le to form a pretty cor- rect idea of theatrical matters in these two centres of civilization, and to compare their theatres with those of America when I re- turned to my native country in 62. Then I found that American managers had discovered the great fact that comfortable seats in the auditorium, plenty of chandeliers, and the tabooing of babies in arms, were not all that was required to make a play attractive, and had consequently begun to adopt the European plan of mounting every piece which they thought destined for a run. This needed reform soon bore its fruits; and now it is not too much to say that New York can safely compete in almost every respect with any London theatre, whatever its grade. I dare not extend the boastful comparison to the theatres of Paris, for the trail of the Gynzinase is over me still, and the halo of the Comedic Francaise is as bright a nimbus in memorys heaven as though five years, head- ed by a rebellion, punctured with a war, closed with a peace, had not ~asse(l since I sat in that classic temple and listened to Bri- tannicus. Many pieces which have been brought out in London and considered well mounted there, have been transferred to New York and placed upon the stage in such a way as quite to throw their original decking into the shade. As an instance, I may cite the comedy of Ours, which an English officer who had seen the piece in Lo~idon and had taken a great interest in it on account of having served in the Crimean war, told me was placed on the stage at XYallacks Theatre so much better than in London as almost to be unrecognizable. This was not due, however, to the superiority of the scenic artistsfor in this direction the Americans are riot yet to be compared to the Englishbut to the extreme care be- stowed upon other details by the management: the reckless extrav

Olive Logan Logan, Olive American and Foreign Theaters 22-27

AMERICAN AND FOREIGN THEATRES. TJ NTIL late years, the stage decorations of American theatres have been of so poor a description that my first entrance into a prominent London theatre, about ten years ago, struck me with speechless astonishment at the beauty of the misc en sc~ne, which was far above anything I had ever seen in Americaof whose theatres I had been a habitu~ both in front and behind the scenes~~ since my earliest childhood. The play, I remember, was one in which Miss Amy Sedgwick appeared, and the whole performance was so good that it was to me like a revelation in his- trionic art. Passing my time about equally between Paris and London for the six years following this event, I was al)le to form a pretty cor- rect idea of theatrical matters in these two centres of civilization, and to compare their theatres with those of America when I re- turned to my native country in 62. Then I found that American managers had discovered the great fact that comfortable seats in the auditorium, plenty of chandeliers, and the tabooing of babies in arms, were not all that was required to make a play attractive, and had consequently begun to adopt the European plan of mounting every piece which they thought destined for a run. This needed reform soon bore its fruits; and now it is not too much to say that New York can safely compete in almost every respect with any London theatre, whatever its grade. I dare not extend the boastful comparison to the theatres of Paris, for the trail of the Gynzinase is over me still, and the halo of the Comedic Francaise is as bright a nimbus in memorys heaven as though five years, head- ed by a rebellion, punctured with a war, closed with a peace, had not ~asse(l since I sat in that classic temple and listened to Bri- tannicus. Many pieces which have been brought out in London and considered well mounted there, have been transferred to New York and placed upon the stage in such a way as quite to throw their original decking into the shade. As an instance, I may cite the comedy of Ours, which an English officer who had seen the piece in Lo~idon and had taken a great interest in it on account of having served in the Crimean war, told me was placed on the stage at XYallacks Theatre so much better than in London as almost to be unrecognizable. This was not due, however, to the superiority of the scenic artistsfor in this direction the Americans are riot yet to be compared to the Englishbut to the extreme care be- stowed upon other details by the management: the reckless extrav AMERICAN AND FOREIGN THEATRES. 23 agance in furniture, pianos, paintings, etc., of whose richness I can give no better idea than by saying they looked as though trans- planted from a Fifth avenue drawing-room. It seemed to me during my different visits to London, and in conise o~ conversation about theatres with English people, that an idea prevailed that, in American theatres, were invariably presented entertainments of a low order, and that American audiences were composed in great part of Pikes Peak miners sitting in the best boxes in their shirt-sleeves and with their legs up. To visit one of those American theatres, and to observe the elegance of the ladies toilets, the stunning get- up of the jeunesse gre enhaeked of New York, the wild extravagance of outlay iu both sexes, is to correct this idea at once. As for the entertainment itseW it is usu- ally as near the European model as three times the money expend- ed on it there can make it. In England, I found prevailing a rather stupid rule, that a lady must he in full dress~ to go to the best seats in any theatre; and I well remember with what annoyance I removed my bonnet, in obedience to a peremptory command to that effect from the ticket- seller at Astleys. To enter that sacred abode of horsey art, I was told, I must he in full dress. To go in full dress to a circus seemed a very stupid thing to do. Besides, did the mere removal of the obnoxious bonnet constitute full dress in England ~ My own American idea of full dress meant a diamond miecklace and as little else as possible. Then, again, the gentlemen of our party had thick shoes on, und, if I ani not mistaken, these xvere rather muddy from walking about London streets all day engaged in sight-seeing. Their dress, however, was not objected to; and, my bonnet re- moved, the whole party was immediately in that full dress which the high-toned entertainment presented at Astleys rendered indispensable! This same full dress so generally prevailing in England is fre- quently so shabby that the appearance of an English theatre com- pares most unfavorably with that of the same species of entertain- ment iii America. I do not now speak of the toilets of those Eng- lish ladies who can afford any Parisiau luxuries their taste may dic- tate, but rather of that large middle class of gentlewomen who, compelled to be in Pill dress, compromise the matter by appearing in old-fashioned aiid unbecoming opera cloaks, with faded artificial roses in their hair, and not infrequently soiled gloves. Perhaps these same ladies have bonnets or round hats and neatly-fitting velvet or silk jackets at home, in whichif they were allowed to wear them at theatresthey would look ac well dressed as the American ladies. That the American custom is an agreeable and convenient one is very evident from the fact that English ladies visiting Paris theatres, where it is also in vogue, quickly amid gladly 24 AMERICAN AND FOREIGN THEATRES. adopt it. Nor can it be urgcd that there is anything inelegant about it; for bonnets and street-jackets, as all continental travel- lers know, are not pronounced mauvais ton even at the Italiens in Paris. In regard to the comparative excellence of the acting at Ameri- can and foreign theatres, I may quote Mr. Boucicault, who says it is better here than in England; and in the better class of our theatres I think it is. The only branch in which we are immeasur- ably distanced is in the field of broad burlesque, which American actors and actresses as a class are thoroughly incapable of portray- ing. In America the actresses who aspire to this line break into clog-dancing and banjo-playing, and, as they draw crowds and pro- yoke laughter, they erroneously fancy they have reached the sum- mit of burlesque excellence. Where American histrionic talent shines most brightly is in line sentiment or tragedy, and were it not that the American accent is so distasteful to English. ears, I think such an actress as Mrs. Chan- frau, and one or two beautiful and sympathetic young women now charming American audiem~ces, would scarcely have the meed of praise withheld from them by that London public which every player naturally holds in such high esteem. It is rather curious that the American accent should be so un- pleasant to English audiences, while the English accent is received without comment by the American public. It is as far from your house to my house, as it is from my hoase to your house. If the Yankee twang is objected to by London au(iiences, I see no reason why dropped and inserted hs~ and the like should not be rebelled against by Americans. For it must be remembered that while a few br~gh t particular stars of England consent to shine in the American horizon, that same horizon is densely clouded with the very refuse of the British stage; the tramRs of circuit actors; such barn-door mout hers as lived and travelled even in Hamlets time. These are the people who, in receipt of salaries such as the leading professionals in England do not obtain~ are constantly grumbling at and abusing the country, and threatening to returw to I1Eng- landa menace they always fail to carry out. The French accent appears to be rather an advantage than otherwise in London, when we r member the success of Mr. Fechter and Mlle. Stella Colas. In New York, however, we carry the cosmopolitan spirit still fur- ther by supporting a French theatre, two German theatres, two helha troupes, one lyric and one dramatic, and a French operato say noThing of wandering Japanese, Chinese, and Arabs! These polyglot performances are not, as one mi glit suppose, sustained solely 1. y the forehrn-born citizens who speak the foreign tongues in which they are given; but, with an absurdity which words thu to expr~s, they are listened to by vast crowds of Americans, who sit AMERICAN AND FOREIGN THEATRES. 25 for from three to six mortal hours listening to a play whose language they do not understand. I am very certain in no other country in the world would Madame Ristori have been able to make in one short season the great sum of one hundred and fifty thousand dol- lan for her own share. The pit, which is so common in London, has in American theatres no existence, except in the sole instance of the Old Bowery Theatre, where the odorllbrous peanut is munched, and the critical nenboy takes his nightly sup of histrionic honors. The peanut is a production of Southern soil, and I believe is unknown in Eng landthrice happy in the ignorance; and asin German music halls c-a-k-e-sp-r-e-t-s-e-l-s are hawked with sleepy perseverance, so in the Old Bowery Theatre an odious little ragamuffin carries about a ricketty basket containing apples, oranges and candy, while above and before all, bonne-bouoAe intended for dirty bouchee, p-e-a-n-u-t-s makes vocal all the air. The Bowery boy may be jacketless, hatless and barefcoted, but he purchases largely of the crisp-coated nut, and thereupon rises on the atmosphere a strange earthy odor which no one who has once smelled it can ever forget. This theatre, howeve; is, as I before remarked, a solitary exception. In all the numberless theatres which America can boast of or blush for, there is no other iustance to record where the gin- ger beer so disagreeably frequent in English ji4ts is allowed to be popped; there are no apples, oranges, nor other edibles; in fact, PO pit at all. The dress of American actresses us more luxurious than any one who has not seen it would believe; as far above that of English actresses as a pond is above a dollar; so extravagant, indeed, that, in spite of the large salaries given, actresses are almost invariably required to do so much in the way of toilet, that it is no unusual thing for them to be largely in debt at the box office; the yearly benefit only sets them square again with the world, leaving a them in the unpleasant predicament of having worked the whole season for nothing but a livelihood. Nor can they ever be said to reach that point where what is t6chnically known as a wardrobe has been purchased, and will now serve them the rest of their days. The American actress must vary her dress with every vary- ing fashion. Modern comedies require modern toilets, and that the are expensive, every married man can testify. It is Mated of Miss Madeline Henriques, the last leading lady of Wallacks, that she said her salary was not much more than sufficient to keep her in boots and gloves. Her father being a successful merchant, and her benefit receipts being always enormous, enabled her to hold the position with #daL This extravagant system of stage toilet was inaugurated by a leading actress known to every visitor of New York theatres during the last ten yearsMrs. John Hocy, 26 AMERICAN AND FOREIGN THEATRES. a fortunate lady who made one of those splendid matrimonial partis which actresses are reput~d to be in the habit of making so frequently. This lady, whose husband unselfishly permitted her to remain on the stage merely because she was fond of it, had a merchant-princely income at her disposal and spent it in a regally- artistic manner of habiting herself: Lady Teazlewho would rather be out of the world than out of the fashion was less elegantly attired than her American impersonator. Jitlia in the Hunchback was going to have not brooches, i~i ngs and ear- rings only, but whole necklaces and stomachers of gems. Mrs. Hocy, who played the part, had all these. Julia says, then will I show you lace a foot deepcan I purchase it? Mrs. Ilocy had purchased it long ago. Nor has this extravagent system gone out with the retirement of Mrs. Hoey. It is true other actresses can- not boast of such diamonds and laces as hers; but for silks, velvets, satins, rn oires, and the countless paraphernalia of a fashionable womans toilet, those who succeed her dare not be far behind. Au item copied from Paris papers informs us that Adelina Patti recently wore a dress that cost two thousand francs. I do not know why American newspapers should copy this as an extraor- dinary bit of information, for it was a frequent thing to see Mrs. Ilocy on the stage with a dress which cost twice that amount; and even now it is quite a common matter for actresses to wear dresses which cost two and even three hundred dollars. English actresses coming to America and bringing the thin satins and well- worn velvets which have served them for years are frequently sur- prised to see subordinates of the company walk on the stage so finely dressed as quite to overshadow themselves. Strolling behind the scenes, we find pretty rauch the same set of rules in vogue in American theatres as in those of Englamid. We have no national anthem to be sung, which necessitates the assist- ance of every member of the company; the dirge in Romeo and Juliet is now cut out, and the masquerade scene of the same piece is generally filled up by supernumerary aid, or not filled up at all; but the chorusses of Macbeth and Pizarro still call for the grumbling lyrical efforts of every individual, from the lead- ing lady down to the call-boy, in American as in English theatres. The halcyon days of comfort for players, both in England and America, are over, it appears. No longer are succulent viands pre- pared for stage eatino; no ionger are bottles of porter provided for stage drinking; indeed, nothing is provided for stage drinking now-a-days, and actors sigh as they drink it out of golden paste- board goblets and solid wooden jugs. Perhaps this is the reason why the festive bowl is so often drained by professionals in private. Except in a few theatres which cling to the old customs, the luxury of a call-boy has been dispensed with, and players are now obliged A WEDDING SONG. to hang wearily around. the wings till the cue is given and they may go on. Formerly, they were permitted to remain in the green-room nntil within about five minutes of their appearance, and thus much fatigue was saved. Now, in many cases, the green- room itself has been dispensed with, and the call-boys occupation is, like Othellos, gone. The disappearance of the green-room was caused by the new fashion of building stores, warehouses and the like, on the ground story of theatres, which reduced the tem- ples of histrionism to the smallest possible space, scarcely provid- ing for dressing-rooms, much less for the luxury of the green-room. This system prevails principally in the West, for in New York, Boston and Philadelphia theatres are conducted with more liberal- ity than anywhere else in the United States. OLIvE LOGAN. A WEDDING SONG. A BREEZE from over the willowy lawn Is softly swaying the rose so white, That I found at the window this happy morn, Waiting to show me how it was born As I lay asleep last night. Sister Alice is married to-day: O rose, have you come to wish her well ? To waft that blessing you cannot say, And only the birds can tell? Right merrily reign her bridal sun, And bravely, in his realm of blue! For nobler wife was never won, And gentler maid the world has none, Than Alice through and through. Along the path the lovers take, What bounteous bloom the lilacs lift! I think they have opened for her sweet sake, And are Gods own wedding-gift! EDGAR FAWCETT

Edgar Fawcett Fawcett, Edgar A Wedding Song 27-28

A WEDDING SONG. to hang wearily around. the wings till the cue is given and they may go on. Formerly, they were permitted to remain in the green-room nntil within about five minutes of their appearance, and thus much fatigue was saved. Now, in many cases, the green- room itself has been dispensed with, and the call-boys occupation is, like Othellos, gone. The disappearance of the green-room was caused by the new fashion of building stores, warehouses and the like, on the ground story of theatres, which reduced the tem- ples of histrionism to the smallest possible space, scarcely provid- ing for dressing-rooms, much less for the luxury of the green-room. This system prevails principally in the West, for in New York, Boston and Philadelphia theatres are conducted with more liberal- ity than anywhere else in the United States. OLIvE LOGAN. A WEDDING SONG. A BREEZE from over the willowy lawn Is softly swaying the rose so white, That I found at the window this happy morn, Waiting to show me how it was born As I lay asleep last night. Sister Alice is married to-day: O rose, have you come to wish her well ? To waft that blessing you cannot say, And only the birds can tell? Right merrily reign her bridal sun, And bravely, in his realm of blue! For nobler wife was never won, And gentler maid the world has none, Than Alice through and through. Along the path the lovers take, What bounteous bloom the lilacs lift! I think they have opened for her sweet sake, And are Gods own wedding-gift! EDGAR FAWCETT MY SPIRITUALISTIC EXPERIENCES. T GAVE last month some account of my first experiences in inve - tigating the mystery of Spiritualism. Whether my experience was or was not singular, I am not prepared to assert. I believe, how- ever, that others xviii testify to similar visitations and tri is. Per- haps the majority of those who undertake to explore this great subject may sooner weary of the task than I did; perhaps they may not be so impressible by spiritual influences as I; or, it may be, they stoutly refuse to listen to supernatural communications, re- fusing to believe them to be such. I cannot advise any one to hold converse with the spirits as I did, and I do not blame those who soon turn axvay bewildered, awe-struck, and shocked by what the mediums reveal to them. But, harassed, tormented, and almost maddened as I was by my self-appointed task, I was irresistibly led on to continue my inter- course with the unresting inhabitants of the other sphere. I hay told how a spirit, calling himself Franklin, appeared to me through every medium I consulted; how he strove to remold my religious convictions, and to teach me a new system of morals which would lead me to abandon my wife and children, and ally myself to the spiritual affinity which came to me in the guise of a beautiful and intellectual woman, and at last announced herself tome as Charlotte Bront~. I have described how, excited by what I had passed through, I seemed to be given up, one night at the Astor House, in a strange, wild vision, to the dominion of the spirits, and that when morning found me threatened with congestion of the brain, my physician xvarned me to give up this unhallowed intercourse with the other world, if I wished to keep outside a mad house. I was half insane, I knoxv, but I determined before I slept to learn the reality of my vision. The physician had no sooner gone than I rose, dressed myse~ and, ordering a carriage, rode to the house of a famous spiritualist, living on one of the up4own avenues. I kne~v him for an honest man, and I thought his experience might help me to solve this mystery. I found him about leaving his house to go down to his business; but he kindly invited me into his library, and listened patiently to the recital of my strange experience. I had nearly finished my story, when he said, suddenly, He is here now, standing beside you.~~ Who? I asked. He hesitated, and then, in an uncertain tone, ansxvered, Frank- lin. Now he has one hand on your shoulder, and with the other is

Richard Forthingham Forthingham, Richard My Spiritualistic Experiences 28-41

MY SPIRITUALISTIC EXPERIENCES. T GAVE last month some account of my first experiences in inve - tigating the mystery of Spiritualism. Whether my experience was or was not singular, I am not prepared to assert. I believe, how- ever, that others xviii testify to similar visitations and tri is. Per- haps the majority of those who undertake to explore this great subject may sooner weary of the task than I did; perhaps they may not be so impressible by spiritual influences as I; or, it may be, they stoutly refuse to listen to supernatural communications, re- fusing to believe them to be such. I cannot advise any one to hold converse with the spirits as I did, and I do not blame those who soon turn axvay bewildered, awe-struck, and shocked by what the mediums reveal to them. But, harassed, tormented, and almost maddened as I was by my self-appointed task, I was irresistibly led on to continue my inter- course with the unresting inhabitants of the other sphere. I hay told how a spirit, calling himself Franklin, appeared to me through every medium I consulted; how he strove to remold my religious convictions, and to teach me a new system of morals which would lead me to abandon my wife and children, and ally myself to the spiritual affinity which came to me in the guise of a beautiful and intellectual woman, and at last announced herself tome as Charlotte Bront~. I have described how, excited by what I had passed through, I seemed to be given up, one night at the Astor House, in a strange, wild vision, to the dominion of the spirits, and that when morning found me threatened with congestion of the brain, my physician xvarned me to give up this unhallowed intercourse with the other world, if I wished to keep outside a mad house. I was half insane, I knoxv, but I determined before I slept to learn the reality of my vision. The physician had no sooner gone than I rose, dressed myse~ and, ordering a carriage, rode to the house of a famous spiritualist, living on one of the up4own avenues. I kne~v him for an honest man, and I thought his experience might help me to solve this mystery. I found him about leaving his house to go down to his business; but he kindly invited me into his library, and listened patiently to the recital of my strange experience. I had nearly finished my story, when he said, suddenly, He is here now, standing beside you.~~ Who? I asked. He hesitated, and then, in an uncertain tone, ansxvered, Frank- lin. Now he has one hand on your shoulder, and with the other is MY SPIRITUALISTIC EXPERIENCES. 29 pointing to his bust, which you see on the top of the book-shelf yonder. He smiles and looks at you, with a good deal of affec- tion. In a moment he said, addressing the, to me, invisible vision, I thank you for this visit; but, just now, this gentleman and I would be alone. I shall be glad to see you ~igain. I am at home almost every evening. Come, and we will have a cosy chat to- gether. lie paused for a few minutes, as if listening, and then, rising from his chair, he continued, Before I can do that I must know more of your purposes; meanwhile treat your subject tenderly; for his brain is in a highly-excited condition. A moment more he listened, and then, bowing very low, said, Good-day. Be sure to give me a visit shortly. What did he want of you? I asked impatiently. That I should induce you to do some work he has set his heart Upon. But, hush Light a cigar to quiet your nerves, and let him get well out of hearino I lighted the cigar, and had enveloped myself in a cloud of smokeso eagerly did I puff away, when drawing his chair close to mine, the gentleman said in a low whisper, lie is not Frank- lin; though he wears his clothes and has his features. I did not tell you at first for fear of offending him. Then who is he ? I do not know. He is a stranger to me; but Franklin I know welL He and Bacon drop in upon me nearly ev cry evening. Then he is, as 1 have thought, some evil spirit, who has been deceiving me? He has been deceiving you; hut it does not follow that he is an evil spirit. lie ha~ not the eye of one, and he did not regard you with looks of hatred. Spirits, you know, can assume any form, and t.hey often counterfeit great men to gain attention. And what is there peculiar about the eye of an evil spirit ? It burns like a black flame, and has a deep, malignant look, such as you have seen in some species of owls. Evil spiri.ts are your real nightbirds; and fhe owl is only a type of his spiritual fellow. And what do you think of my vision? That it was a real vision; hut that your body was not moved from the bed, nor your soul transported to the celestial regions. You were psychologized, aud made to see what was passing in the mind of the spirit. Then it was not the result of an over-excited brain and a dis- ordered imagination? No doubt it was, partly; for if your brain had not been over- worked, the spirit might not have been able to so control you. 30 MY SPIRITUALISTIC EXPERIENCES. You have been about to so many mediums, and taken on so many magneti sins, that your mind has got a little off its natural balance. There is always danger in going to many strange mediums. The true way is to keep to but one; then you can hold full possession of yourselg and easily detect a false spirit. Iloxv, when you cannot see him, can you detect the false spirit? By charging him in the name of Christ to tell the truth. Why in the name of Christ? Because he is Godat least the only God known in this corner of creation. This spirit has told me that he was only a man. Spirits teach as many creeds as the clergy, and as many phi- losophies as can be found in the books. In fact, I believe that all creeds, and all philosophies, have their origin in the other world, and come down from spirits to mortals. Then of what earthly value is Spiritualism? Of incalculable value; for it proves that if a man dies, he will live again; and that one truth, demonstrated beyond the possibility of doubt, is enough to offset all the error, and all the evil that spimits are now bringing into the world. That night I went home by the New London boat, and on the way fell in with a gentleman who told me of a remarkable medium who lived in Boston. I was still weak and giddy, from the effects of my attack; but I determined to seek this medium, and, in a final interview, give the counterfeit Franklin a discourse upon truth-tel- ling thut would do him good for at least a century. The spiritual investigator will often find himself in strange quarters; so, after ascending the dingy staircase of a dilapidated house near the Back Bay, I now found myself in a meagre back room over a provision store. The medium was a stout, florid woman of about forty, and she readily assented to my request for an interview. Letting fall the curtain, she seated herself in a chair near the window, and in a few moments her face, arms and shoulders began to twitch and her eyes to close, and then, in a drawling tone, she said, Why, how queer!, Dont you see? The room is full of sparkssparks like them that is let off by a lectric battery. Its meant for you, and I know what it isit~ Franklin! I know him, for hes tranced me afore, and I allers feel him through my head; and hes awful strong. Disgusted at the thought of any one even bearing the name of Franklin, talking through such an ungrammatical mouthpiece, I said, somewhat tartly, I came to hear from the spirit, not from the medium. Well, you shall; but dont be so snappish about it. You shall, for hes got tight hold of me, and in a minnit hell begin to MY SPIRITUALISTIC EXPERIENCES. 31 reel off the philosophy for you. I guess, by your looks, youre a philosopher; theyre all pale and sickly-looking. I made no reply, and in a moment, with a few more convulsive jerks and gyrations, the woman went off into apparent unconscious- ness. Soon she said, and in the same drawling tone ~s before, Ilaint you satisfied yet? Satisfied of what ? I asked. That Im Franklin, Well, you orter be. Didnt he tell you that it was me, and that I felt good natured to ye? What he? Why, the old man on there to Yorkhim as they call the Chris- tian Spiritualist. Yes, he did~ and he said you were there. NYoll, I was; and he said, too, that I had one hand on yer shoulder, and pointed with tother to my hust on his book-shelf It is not your bustit looks no more like you than it does like Aristides. What der ye mean? What I say. You have been deceiving me from the begin- mug ; you are not Franklin. Yer thinkin so dont make it so. I tell ye I am. Ill not bandy words with you. Tell me in the name of Christ whether you are Franklin or not. There was a short pause. Then, with a laugh that showed two rows 9f very ugly teeth, the spirit, or the woman, said ~CXXTell, I haint; but how did ye find out thet thet would bring it out of mc Now and then I read the New Testament, and last night my eye fellon a passage in John which says: Every spirit that con- fesseth that Jesus Christ is come in the flesh, is of God; and every spirit that confesseth not that Jesus Christ is come in the flesh, is not of God: and this is th at spirit of Antichrist, whereof ye heard it should come, and even now already it is in the world. Ye kin quote Scripture up to any one I ever see ;ye orter hey been a pn4son. They meant to make me one, but I thought myself unworthy of the mission. And ye thort yerself unxvorthy of my mission? I thought it umBvorthy of me. Well, yer awful good; but Ill try ye afore yer a year older. Now you are showing the cloven foot; you are of Antichrist. I haint of Antichrist. I know nothin about Christ; I never seen him, and dont believe there ever was such a man. 32 MY SPIRITUALISTIC EXPERIENCES. \Yell, say no more! You contradict yourself. You are a deist as well as an atheist. Go, and never come to me again. Without a word, the medium gave a sudden start, and opened her eves upon the daylight. She sat silent for a moment, and then, looking up at a clock which was on the mantle, said: Yer hour haiut up yet, and I in impressed to say to ye theres a right pretty ooman here as wants to talk with ye. It wont cost ye no more. I had seen quite enough of this kind of manifestation ; but an insane spirit of curiosity led me to reply, Well I will listen. The womans eves again closed, and then rising, and coming to where I sat on a ragged sofa, she took my hand, and said: He meant no harm; yell forgive him for deceiving you. Yes and thank him into the bargaiu; for he has shown me some of the dangers of Spiritualism. Thet is spoke jest like yeyer the best man that ever lived. Its for thet thet I loved ye so the first minnit I saw ye, she answered, putting her other hand on my shoulder. Quietly holding her back, I asked, Who are you that love me so? Why, yer wife, yer sperrit bride, yer owa beloved. And with a quick movement she sank down by my side on the sofa. half amused and half iudignant, I said, And what is your name? Her head sank to my shoulder as she answered, Why, Char- lotte, your oxvn Charlotte Bront; [not BronUj her as told ye of the airy cottage beyond the delectable mountains, where we shall live and love for ever. I tore her arms away, and springing quickly to my f~et, made rapidly for the door, saying, as I did so, you profane the nume of a good woman. You are an impostor and a cheat. My hand was on the knob of the door, when the woman said, Look a here, Mister; yeve forgot the pay. Its only a dollar. I turned around. She was standing erect, but her eyes were still half closed, and she was making passes down her face as if to re- move the influence. I paid the fee, and left the house, fully determined to never again meddle with spirits or Spiritualism. But my nervous system had received a more severe strain than I was at first aware of Often, for days after this, while walking the streets, or engaged in the duties of my profession, I would he seized with a sudden giddiness, that would have prostrated me, had I not taken prompt and powerful doses of belladonna, from a phial which I always carried in my pocket. I swallowed enough of this subtle poison to kill tea robnst men; but for weeks it was all that kept me up, or enabled me to go abQut in safety. At last it lost its power over m~, and I xvas obliged to give up 33 MY SPIRITUALISTIC EXPERIENCES. work, and remain shut up in my residence. I grew rapidly worse, and soon could not walk across the floor without support, or remain long in a recumbent position without sinking into a sort of trance, from which no effort could awaken me. When conscious, I was painfully sensitive to the slightest sound; the closing of a door, a footfall on the floor, the soft rustle of a silken dress, or the rumble of a carriage in the distant street, would strike on ray nerves like a blow on an anvil, and give me exquisite torture. I had several physicians, but, though they all agreed upon the cause, none could suggest a cure for my malady. At last I gave up hope, and set about putting my house in order, for the silent journey along the dark valley. I made my will, carefully looked over my life insurance papers, and dictated some directions to my attorney, about the settlement of ray affairs. The work occupied nearly the whole of one day, and when it was done,it was early candle-light. Then, as my attorney rose to leave rae, I said to him, Be good enough to call up ray wife and chil- dren. No, no ! he answered ; not now; you are too weak ; wait until morning. No; I would see them now. I am stronger and, better than I have been for a fortnight. This settlement has relieved my mind and onven me new Vioor. Then they camemy little boy of five, my little girl of ten, and my wife, who is their mother. They gathered near me on the sofuthe little boy upon my knee, the little girl by my side, and my wife at my feet, holdin~ lily hand and looking up cheerfully in my face, though in her heart she was weeping, most sadly. It was a mild, autumnal nightone of the first of the Indian Summer. Not a breath stirred the great trees in the court-yard, and the soft air from my garden came in at the window, flllino the whole room with fragrance. Gradually the sweet influences of the night stole over my senses, and, for the first time in many months, my vdses beat ~ pertect unison with nature. I was at rest in a strange joy; and though but a moment before I had looked ~almnly at death, I now clung to life with a strange and desperate tenacity. I will not die, 1 thonght to myself. I will not diemy life half finished, and the joys of this beautiful world, as yet, almost untasted. You skall not die, said a soft voice, borne inwardly into my ear. You shall not die, for I will save you! Oh! bless you for those words; but can you, will you, save rue? I canI will. Though the evil prevail for a time, the good at last shall triumph. What do you meanwho are you U 84 MY SPIRiTUALISTIC EXPERIENCE& Then the invisible presence of which I was conscious came near- er, and, while a soft touch fell upon my head, it answered, Who should I be but your ownyour own beloved, who is ever watch- ing over you! Hethe evil manhas been given power over you for a day, but now the morrow has come, and I may help you. Do you mean it is he who has taken any my strength and re- duced me to this condition? I do. He has sapped the very springs of your lifedrawn from you those vital forces whose total loss is the death of the body. And howcan you help me? By giving you of my life and my magnetism. But I cannQt do it alone, for I am spirit and you are mortal. I must do it through a living womanthrough her whom you know. She must be your wife; yet it will not be her, bat me; and our union will only be a little hastened. I looked around for my wilb and children. They were gone, and so was the room, and the familiar furniture. I was out under the open sky, and from it the stars, like living things, were looking down upon me. I raised my hand and cried for help to resist this temptation. Instantly a voice within me-which was not mine, though it spoke with my lips, and uttered my unconscious feeling aid, Begone, begone to your home among the shadows. Then I opened my eyes. The little circle was again about me. My wife was chafing my hands and limbs, and my children were about my neck weeping. Oh, dear, dear father, said my little girl, Im so glad; you were so cold, and you talked so strange, that we feared you were dying. The following morning passed without my usual trance; but in the evening, as I lay alone in my room, I became conscious of the same invisible presence. You will not turn away, it said, not turn away from your own Charlotte. Begone, I answered, begone, and let me die in quiet.. Die I it answered. You will not die 1 Only the good die young; they whose hearts are dry as Summers dust burn to the socket. I thought I was the best man that ever lived! I answered. You can go, for I see your foot again, and it is cloven. A loud, prolonged, fiendish laugh then rung in my ears, and at its close I heard the words: Well, I am the devil; but P11 not have the name without the game. Ill torment you to suicide. Well, do your worst I do not fear you. God will not permit me to be tried beyond my strength, and,, in his good time and way, he will help me. There was another fiendish laugh, and then the presence left me. 35 MY SPIRITUALISTIC EXPERIENCES. This time my eyes were open, and I am sure that I was in entire possession of all my senses. Space will not permit me to detail the strange experiences that followed. I verily believe, that for nearly a month afterward, I underwent what spirit nalists terai infrstatiom. Dunn gailmy waking hours a band of fiends seemed constantly about me, howl- ing in my ears, and filling the air with the most horrid oaths and blasphemy. With all the strength of my will, I braced myself to the conflict. I read the Bible; I talked with my pastor; I prayed with strong crying and tears; I went to God, and asked him to rid inc of the demons. Bat all was of no avail. Still I heard the awful oaths, and still the horrid din sounded in my ears, making life a torment. But the terrible struggle called out my dormant energies, and, insensibly I grew stronger. At last I could walk about, and go into my garden. The fresh, pure breath of the leaves, and the now decaying flowers, revived nw, and infused into my veins sonic of the abounding life that is everywhere in nature. Then my physician advised me to travel. I did so. Taking my little daughter with me, I went southward. By day I lived in the open air, and at night, I slept with the arms of my little girl about me. Either her innocent spirit kept them at bay, or the strange scenes helped to draw mc away from myself; whichever it was, I grew decidedly better, though I was not wholly delivered from the powers of darkness. After a fortnight, I set out to return home, and arrivin~ in New York just after dark, I bethought mc of the Christian spiritualist. With my little daughter, who now never left me, I went to him that evening. He received mc kindly, and before I had spoken a word, said, You have suffered. I have how did you know it? The bogus Franklin was here two nights ago, and told me all. He said you had repulsed him with taunts and contumely; and he had taken revenge, by bninoino about score you a of devils. lie is the worst devil among them. Hush! do not say so. Never speak cvii of a spirit; the good will of a dog is better his ill-will, and these dogs can attack us secretly, and without warning. Amid do you believe that man is so at the mercy of demons. No, not a well man; he can stand alone; but one whose nerves are so shattered as yours arc, must have outside help to save him from death, or insanity. What help? The help of Christ. I wrote you only yesterday to call upon 36 MY SPIRITUALISTIC EXPERIENCES. him. You know that he says, in my name you shall east out demons? I know, but Christ is God, and I have called upon him. Have you read the Gospels for nothing? Does not Jesus say, No man cometh to the Father, but by me? His is the only name under heaven, given among men, whereby we may be saved. It is the appointed order, and you cannot be helped without conforming to it; for spiritual laws are as inflexible as natural laws. I thanked him, and then recounted my experience, asking, at the close, if he thought it was infestation. Most assuredly I do, he answered. I have often witnessed it. It may be called the first stage of possession, and we cannot doubt that, without disbelieving the plain testimony of Scripture. And why do we not read of similar things in profane history? We do; but they go there under the names of deinonism and witchcraft, and are now generally disbelieved. They are, however, as true as anything in history. Some of the best of men have been possessed and infested, and Luther himself practised exorcism.~~ It seems to me strange, I answered, that a good Providence should allow demons to torment mortals. It is no more strange, he replied, than many other things that we see every day. Why do infants suffer? Why are the sins of the fathers visited upon the children, to the third and fourth generation? We cannot tell; but we can rest in thisthat God is all goodness and all wisdom. And this bogus Franklin, did he tell you who he was, and why he followed me? No, he did not. He evidently kept something back, but I will have it from him. I never yet met a spirit whom I could not win by kindness and forbearance. He said he knew your father on the earth, but had lost sight of him in the spirit world. Knew my father! Ah! that accounts for my having his name from the medium so correctly. And it must have been my good angel that, even then, inspired me with distrust of that evil spirit. Undoubtedly it was. We are never left alone, and if we seek aright for help, we shall come off more than conquerors throfigh him who loves us. I went away early, but after that night the demons left me, and I have never since heard oath or blasphemy from the lips of any but a mortal. The sensible reader will be surprised if I say that, after this ex- perience, I again attempted the investigation of Spiritualism. But I did. The subject has a strange fascination. It draws one like the wine cup or the gaming table, and when lie has once received aii inkling of its occult laws, it is next to impossible to resist the inclination to probe deeper into its mysteries. I MY SPIRITUALISTIC EXPERIENCES. 37 it was weeks before I fully recovered my health and strength; but, when I did, I was found again among the mediums. iloxvev- er, I did not again neglect my customary pursuits, nor a gain en- age in the investigation with the absorbing interest which had before so nearly wrecked my nervous system. I saw many mediums, and conversed with many spiritsspirits of high and low degreefroni the seventh heaven, and, for aught I know, from the seventh hell; but only on two or three occasions did I again receive word or sign from the counterfeit Franklin. On one of these occasions I had gone to keep an appointment ~vith the Broadway medium I have already mentioned. It was just in the edge of the evening, and I found his office closed; but seeing an open door near by, on which was the name of another medium, I rapped at it, and inquired if the gentleman would soon return to his apartment. I was told that he undoubtedly would, and was asked to walk in and await his coming. I did so. Two women were in the room, and, after a little conversation, one of them told me that she had the gift of spirit-sight, and asked if I would like to know what spirits, she saw about me. I answered that I would, and the medium then went on to describe a man and a woman; the man tall, dark, wearing black clothes and a white cravat, and evidently a clergyman, and the woman young, grace- ful, with large, dark eyes, wavy, brown hair, and a moss exquisite complexion. I asked who they were, and then the medium said that over my head, coming out in letters of fire, she saw a certain name, which she mentioned. I remarked that it could not be the name of either of the spirits. No, she answered; it is your own name; but coming out now, in the same letters, are the words Charlotte Bront~. I waited for no more, but took up my hat and left the apart- ment. Some time after this, I was again in New York, and while there visited a medium who was a total stranger to me. She was an un- educated woman, but she gave me a masterly disquisition on the principles of fictitious writinganalyzing most ably Scott, Bul- wer, Dickens, Hawthorne, and Charlotte Bront~, and pointing out their agreements and differences, and the sources of their power. At the close of the s~amce, I asked the name of the spirit commu- nicating, and the answer was Charlotte Bront~. The same evening, I cailed again upon the Christian spiritualist, whom I had now come to regard more as a friend than as an ac- quaintance. As I entered his library lie said to me, I had an engagement out this evening; but I have staid at home, because I knew you were coming. I have made an interesting appointment for you. With whom? 3 38 MY SPIRITUALISTIC EXPERIENCES. The bogus Franklin. He said he was with you to-day at a mediums, and again deceived you by giving the name of Charlotte Bront~. I suspected as much, I answered, and I think I had better not meet him. I think you had; he is well-disposed, and regrets that he has practiced upon you.~~ We sat for some time after this, talking on indifferent subjccts, and then my companion, rising suddenly, and shaking by the hand something that, to me seemed like a shadow cast by the gas-light, said, I am glad you have come. I was fearful you would dis- appoint us. Then the voice I had so often heard, borne again inwardly into my ear, answered, I have been unavoidably delayed. I did not intend to be late. Sit down, said my friend. Ye both feel kindly toward you. I thank you, answered the spirit; but I will not sit until he says I am forgiven. Then sit down at once, I said. I freely forgive you. The voice was husky and tremulous that answered, Blood will tell, young man! That is spoken like your father! I have met him within the hour, and, from his own lips, have heard the words you have just spoken. My father! have you met him? I asked, eagerly. Yes it was he that detained me. Where is he now? ~ Where I hope some day to be. But he always watches over you. It was he who saved you from the evil I would have done you. An indescribable emotion passed over me; but a single doubt rested on my mind, and I said, Then why has he never communi- cated with me? Because you sought truth, not him, and his knowledge of spirit- life is limited. He has been here only thirty years. It was better that you should leain from spirits who have been higher and lower than he has. He has brought such spirits to you, and has kept you from deception and danger. But he did not prevent your deceiving me. No; in that he was overruled by those who are higher than he. That temptation was necessary to your spiritual gm~owth. None of usspirits or mortalscan progress without passing through trials. You once accused me of talking like a parson; I might retort on you now.~~ You might, for I am a parson; but I am now only stating a great spiritual law. Well, what had my father to forgive you? MY SPIRITUALISTIC EXPERIENCES. 39 We both had something to forgive. Listen, and I will tell you: My name is Avery; and thirty-three years ago, your father and I lived in the same little town in Rhode Island. lie was a cotton manufacturer, I a poor clergyman. Among my parish oners was a young woman, named Cornell, who worked in your fathers mill, and attended my meeting. She was one day found suspended to the limb of a tree, in a solitary place near the village. She had no doubt committed suicide, to avoid the exposure of her shame; but there were some indications of foul play, and it was by many sup- pose(1 that she had been first strangled and then hanged to give her de th the appearance of suicide. I had been intimafo with her fami- lv, and the gossips connected my name with hers, but falsely. Your flither heard of this, and it excited his suspicions. lie had me ar- rested on the charge of murder, and used all his influenceI thou~ht at the time unfairlyto secure my conviction. After a long and agonizing trial and imprisonment, I was acquitted; and then, be- fore I left the court room, I went to your flither, and told him I would follow him through the world; that I would not rest, day or night, till I had visited upon hini some of the misery he had heaped upon me. These threats were heard by others, and they excited public indignation against me to so high a pitch, that I could not stay to execute my purpose. I went away, but I came again, intending to burn his mill, and~ perhaps to do a murder. He was just dead, so he had escaped me.. I had been pronounced innocent, but I was a branded man.. Everywhere I went mcii shunned me, and, after a few years of wretched life, I came to this world of retribution. Here~ my first inquiry was for your father, but he had gone on, again beyond my reach, and then I determined to pay my cliebt to his son. I came~ back to earth seeking you, but you had left your native village,.. aud gone I could not learn where. For more than twenty years I~ sought youit was looking for a drop in a great oceanbut I found you at last. I could not reach you except through a medium, I lured you to one, and you know the restmy iniquity and your trial. IDo you now forgive me? I do, I answered, and I am sorry that twenty years of your life have been so wasted. But, there is a future for all men who have the virtue to repent, and the energy to atone. Let K hope. that is as true in your world as it is in oars,, It is, thank God, it is., I am aware that the tale told by this unhappy man may seem to many like the wildest fiction. I do not know but it is; yet I can assure the reader that many a wilder tale has been heard by thou- sands who have undertaken a thorough investigation of Spiritual- ism. If its phenomena be true, it holds within its bosom all the secrets of human life and history; ani may not those secrets now 40 MY SPIRITUALISTIC EXPERIENCES. and then well up from the overcharged spirit to thrill us with hor- ror? My spiritual investigations were not confined to the history of the unhappy Avery. My purpose was to learn something of the undiscovered country from whose bourne such travellers do re- turn; but it is not within the scope or design of this paper to make a statement of the truths announced to me by the spirits. In- deed, such a statement would require a volume, not an article; for the doctrines of Spiritualism are as numerous, diverse and contra- dictory as those of all other theologies put together. In fact, they are the doctrines of all other theologiesPagan, Mohammedan, Jewish and Christianthat have appeared in the world, ~nd con- sequently no intelligible aiid consistent system can be founded upon them. I cannot think that Spiritualism is intended to be a revelation of religious truth. It is simply an opening of the door between this life and the other; and through this open door we may catch glimpses of the future state of immortal man; but we may not take spirits as our religious guides, for they, like us, are but men- a little older, it may be, than we are, and a little higher in the scale of existence, but still menweak, deluded, imperfect, and often wicked, and knowing no more of God or of the great truths of our faith than are taught to us in the Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ. The conclusions to which I have arrived after four years of care- ful investigation are, that ~~piritualism is a great fact, not a philos- ophy; and that it should be made a science, not a religion. Let the man who is assured of his immortality go to the law and to the testimony (Isaiah, viii., 19, 20), and wait until these facts are digested into a science; l?ut let the one doubtful of a future life investigate if he will, but, as he values his soul, let him investigate only with the Bible in his hand, and always bear in mind that it tells him to believe not every spirit, but to try the spirits, whether they are of God; because many false teachers are gone out into the world. RICLIAnD FROTnINGHA THE POLITiCAL OUTLOOK. THERE are, it is to be regretted, but few organs of public opinion that consider the results of popular elections from an independent or non-partis. u stand point. Yet it is desirable, even for partisans, that, occasionally, discussions of public events and lessons of elections should be pres2nted which are neutral as regards party, and disinterested as regards persons. To treat of the recent State elections in this spirit, is the object of the present article. The significance of the elections which have been held (luring the present year, aud more particularly during the months of October and November, no one will dispute; hence it cannot but be in- tructive to point out the causes which led to the victory of the Democratic party, and to strive to forecast the probable e eeL upon the presidential contest which awaits us in 1868. The causes of the recent defeats of the Republican party may be briefly summed up as follows: 1. Its position with reference to local issues, such as the Excise and Sunday law in New York, and the prohibitory and license laws in 3L ssachusetts and Maine. 2. The general stagnation in business. There has been no corn- mercial panic during the last eighteen months, because extended credits, which are the prime cause of panics, did not exist; but business inca all over the country have lost money. There has been a shrinkage in the values of provisions, cotton, woollens, and, in a word, in every manufactured product. Gold arid real cstate are still held at fictitious prices, but, in time, will settle down to a proper level. There has been distress in all branchcs of business, a diminution of apparent fortunes, and the pressure of taxation has been keenly felt. The chief cause of this state of affairs has been the contraction policy pursued by Secretary McCullough. But, whatever the cause or causes may be, the responsibility is attributed to the party in power, and, as is always the case in a free country, whatever of popular dissatisfaction may exist is visited upon it. 3. The developments of frauds in the Revenue iDepartinent and in the management of the canals in New York State, have exercised great influence upon the voters of this common wealth. It has been the misfortune of the Republican party that its members were officials in these departments, and that they are known to have profited by the waste and corruption of which alarming revelations are made every day. 4. The negro suffrage issue. The fact cannot be ~ainsaid that

D. C. Croly Croly, D. C. The Political Outlook 41-47

THE POLITiCAL OUTLOOK. THERE are, it is to be regretted, but few organs of public opinion that consider the results of popular elections from an independent or non-partis. u stand point. Yet it is desirable, even for partisans, that, occasionally, discussions of public events and lessons of elections should be pres2nted which are neutral as regards party, and disinterested as regards persons. To treat of the recent State elections in this spirit, is the object of the present article. The significance of the elections which have been held (luring the present year, aud more particularly during the months of October and November, no one will dispute; hence it cannot but be in- tructive to point out the causes which led to the victory of the Democratic party, and to strive to forecast the probable e eeL upon the presidential contest which awaits us in 1868. The causes of the recent defeats of the Republican party may be briefly summed up as follows: 1. Its position with reference to local issues, such as the Excise and Sunday law in New York, and the prohibitory and license laws in 3L ssachusetts and Maine. 2. The general stagnation in business. There has been no corn- mercial panic during the last eighteen months, because extended credits, which are the prime cause of panics, did not exist; but business inca all over the country have lost money. There has been a shrinkage in the values of provisions, cotton, woollens, and, in a word, in every manufactured product. Gold arid real cstate are still held at fictitious prices, but, in time, will settle down to a proper level. There has been distress in all branchcs of business, a diminution of apparent fortunes, and the pressure of taxation has been keenly felt. The chief cause of this state of affairs has been the contraction policy pursued by Secretary McCullough. But, whatever the cause or causes may be, the responsibility is attributed to the party in power, and, as is always the case in a free country, whatever of popular dissatisfaction may exist is visited upon it. 3. The developments of frauds in the Revenue iDepartinent and in the management of the canals in New York State, have exercised great influence upon the voters of this common wealth. It has been the misfortune of the Republican party that its members were officials in these departments, and that they are known to have profited by the waste and corruption of which alarming revelations are made every day. 4. The negro suffrage issue. The fact cannot be ~ainsaid that 42 THE POLITICAL OUTLOOK. this question entered largely into the recent political canvass, directly in Ohio, Minnesota and Kansas, less directly in New Jersey, and indirectly ia all the other States in which elections were held; nor xviii it be denied that, in every case, it contributed to the in- crease of the Democratic, and the decrease of the Republican vote. Ohio, for instance, is undoubtedly a Republican State by a majority varyiu~ from thirty to forty thousand, and upon any issue Thich distinctly divides the two p rties, the result is sure to be in favor of the Republicans by at least thirty thousand majority. In the late canvass in that State negro suffrage was clearly presented, and in a vote larger by 2,689 than any ever polled in the State, was voted down by a majority of 38,353. The following are the com- plete figures of the vote on the proposed amendment to the State Constitution providing for negro suffrage: Against the amendment 255,34~1 For the amendment 216,987 Majority against the am~ndment 38,353 But, apart from the mere prejudice of race involved in this ques- tion, negro suffrage was presented to the North in its most un- favorable aspect. In New York, Ohio, New Jersey or Connecti ut, the right of negroes to vote would have no appreciahle effect up n the result of the elections in these States, since the negro vote would be so very small. But in South Carolina, Georgia, Florida, and the other Southern States, it would be a revolution of por- tentous magnitude. Even Republicans, who believed i~ to be not only just, but inevitable, were appalled at the prospect of rich~ prosperous and populous portions of the country beiug t:ansferre to the control of a mass of voters who but yesterday we- e un- educated slaves. If slavery was the demoralizing, soul-blighting institution that it was generally held to be by the North previous to the late war, plainly enough its victims could not be fit to dis- charge the highest offices of citizenship. If they were fit to be rulers in one-third of the Union, equally clear was it that slavery was a much better institution than it had been sui pos~d to be. To avoid all misapprehension, it should be added th~ t this st tement is presented simply as the view taken of the question by moderate Republicans. Such were the chief influences which worked against the success of the Republican party in the elections of 1867, and xvhich, ~f not checked, will insure its defeat at the approaching Presid utial election. Despite this apparently gloomy prospect, to the impartial observer of the political field it is evident that this party has the best chances of electing its candidate for President in 1868. It must not be overlooked that the Republicans ni-c in a large ma- jority in all of the Northern States save one or two. On this point THE POLITICAL OUTLOOK. 43 the elections of October and November cannot be mistaken. The following table of the votes of the States in which State officers were chosen, and of New Jersey, is, in this connection, very instructive: STATES REPUBLICAN. DEMOCRATIC. REP. MAJ. DEM. MAJ. California 40,359 46,905 9,546 Iowa 90,789 58,880 31,909 Massachusetts 95,598 68,862 26,727 New Jersey 51,114 67,468 16,354 New York 324,017 373,886 49,869 Minnesota 34,870 29,543 5,327 Ohio 243,605 240,622 2,983 Pennsylvania 266,824 267,751 927 Wisconsin 73,212 68,438 4,774 Total 1,120,388 1,225,355 71,720 76,696 Compare these figures with those of the votes cast by the same St tes at the last Presidential election,to wit: STATES LINCOLN. MCCLELLAN. REP. MAJ. DEM. MA~J. California 58,968 42,255 16,443 Iowa 89,705 49,596 39,479 Massachusetts 126,742 48,745 77,997 New Jerse 60, ~23 68,024 7,301 New York ... 368,735 361,986 6,749 Minnesota 25,060 17,375 7,685 Ohio 265,154 205,568 59,586 Pennsylvania 296,391 276,316 20,075 Visconsin 83,458 65,884 17,574 Total. 1,374,036 1,135,749 245,598 7,301 An examination of these two tables reveals the fact that at the ~ate elections there was in the Republican ranks a large silent vote; even allowing that the gain of 89,606 in the Democratic vote of 1 867 in the, e States canie from the Republicans (which is almost beyond the bounds of probability, if not of possibility), there re- ~in 164,042 Republican votes unaccounted for except on the hy- pothesis that they were not polled. The Democrats, it is clear, voted almost to a mar especially on the negro suffrage issue, but their opponents failed to show their strength. Ohio fuinishcs a very pc~tirient illustration of this point. In that State the Repub- licans polled 243,532 votes for Governor, whereas, on the question of negro suffrage, there were but 216,987 votes cast in its favor; while on these two issues the Democratic votes were respectively 240,622 and 255,340, showing very plainly that at least 26,500 Re- publicans refrained from votiug at all on the qucstion of negro snifrage, or voted against it, yet came to the support of their can- didate for Governor. There is, therefore, every reason for believing that the vote of 1867 was intended by the moderate Republicans to convey the same moral to the leaders of their party that the 44 THE POLITICAL OUTLOOK. Democratic victories in the Middle States in 1862 did to the then existing Republican Administration. They were significant, no as showing that the country was becoming Democratic, but that a great many Republicans were dissatisfied with the course of public events, and with the actions of their own party leaders. But what of the future? It is plain that if Congress, at its ses- sion of 18678, does nothing to reform the Internal Revenue De- partment, if the business of the country is to go from bad to worse, and if no practicable scheme be proposed fbr pacifying the Soutl and restoring the Southern States to the Union, the Republicai party must expect to be defeated at the Presidential election. There is, however, every reason to infer from the tone of the Repubiica~ press and of those of its leaders who have spoken since the late elections, that it will profit by the reverses of 1867 as the adminis-- tration of President Lincoln did by those of 1862. Whatever may be said against the Republican org~anization, it must be owned that it has shown itself to be a very flexible party, and willing to adapt itself to the varying phases of public opinion. Its history is full of records of its changes, not only in n me, but in doctrines~ Originally composed of diverse elements, such as Whi~s, Demo crats and Know Nothings, it incorporated Barnburners, Free Soil ers, Anti-Nebraska Democrats, and every section of the Democralic party that showed a disposition to revolt was encouraged so to do and its leaders given positions of profit and honor. The case is far different with the Democratic party. It has not only retained it~ name for more than a generation, but has been intolerant of dis- sent, and has permitted no modifications of its platform save such as it could not help or were forced upon it by its opponents. Once the movement party, during the great slavery agitation and the en- suing war it became the conservative party. Mr. John Stuart Mill has called tbe conservatives of England, as compared with their opponents, the ~stupidest party an epithet which is tin in a certain sense of the Democratic party of the United States~ Not that its leaders are stupid or that it does not include a ~re t many very clever men, but, from the position which it is compellec to occupy, it necessarily embraces nearly all the stolid and ignorant voters, especially such as are influenced by prejudice of race. As a party, it has shown no fie. ibility, its leadership has been very un- wise, and its position during the war was, to say the least, unfortu- nate. History will yet do justice to its defence of personal rights ~nd of the lii erty of the press during the progress of an exac crat- ing civil war; but upon its contemporaries its action hes been un- fortuate for its reputation, however undeserved that eputation may be. It is safe to say that this party does not contain to-day on statesman who has the comprehensive ideas, breadth of view, sug- gestivene ss and mental grasp, to fitly lead a great party in a Presi THE POLITICAL OUTLOOK 45 dential contest As a political organization, it lacks brains, sound leadership, and generous ideas. So far as mere statesmanship is concerned, the Republican party is no better off than its rival; but it has shown itself to be more ready to conform to the changing aspects of public affairs, and gen- erous, if not wise, in its various programmes of action. In de- manding universal suffrage, without respect to race or color, it has placed itself in accord with the spirit of the age. The tendency of modern thought and civilization everywhere is toward the widest possible extension of the right of suffrage. But the Re- publican party undertook to run faster than public sentiment. It is one thing to idvocate an ideally perthct scheme of representa- tion, but quite another to insist upon giving the elective franchise to a mass of ignorant negroes, and at the same time withhold it from the politically-educated whites. For this, the country is not yet prepared. The Republican party must expect defeat if it insists upon the adoption of negro suffrage in the shape that it has assumed in the Southern States. What, then, must it do to carry the next Presidential election? 1. It must nominate Ulysm S. Grant as its candidate for the Presidency. 2. It must thoroughly reform our Internal Revenue system; must reduce the tax on whiskey to one dollar a gallon, so as to re- move the temptation to defraud the Government; it must pm laws throwing open positions in the Revenue Department and Cus tom House to all applicants, without regard to party, after com petitive examinations; in other words it must pass some such bill for the reform of our civil service as that proposed by Mr. Jeuckes at the last session of 9ongress. 3. Concerning reconstruction, it must adopt something like the following programme and apply it to the States which will ask admission under their new constitutions: (a) Universal amnesty. (6) Equal rights of the white and black races before the law. (c) Impartial, not universal, suffrage.. (d) An educational qualiuica. tion for voting, such as the ability to read and write and solve a problem by the Rule of Three to the satisfaction of an i& partia2l tribunal appointed by the General Government. (a) A provision to be inserted in every new State Constitution for the compulsory education of the whites and blacks in the Southern States. This programme, or one of similar import, ought to be satisfkc- tory to the entire Southern people, both whites and blacks. Uni- versal amnesty would permit all the whites to vote, whereas great numbers are now denied that right. The educational test would give the rehabilitation of the Southern States to the white m& jority, with whom the North, excepting an inconsiderable faction, wish it to be. Equal rights with the whites before the law would be se 46 THE POLITICAL OUTLOOK cured to the negroes, and, when qualified by education, an equal voice in the choice of rulers. Each race furthermore would be stimulated to educate itself as soon as possibl& The Republican party cannot hope for success if it uphold negro suffrage as developed at the recent election in the Southern States; at the same time it cannot afford to be untrue. to itself and renounce its negro wards. By adopting, through its representatives in Congress and its State and National Conventions, such a compromise a; the one just proposed, it will yield no principle, will bring the Southern States into full relations with the Union and secure its success at the Presidential election under the leadership of General Grant. As constituted at present, the Democratic party will find it ex- tremely difficult to take ground that will be acceptable to the majority of the people of the North. At its National Convention, which will meet next Summe; the Southern States, of course, will be represented, a fact the importance of which cannot be over- estimated in attempting to forecast the future of that party. The delegates from the States will probably urge the nomination ot some man identified with peace during the late war, such as Pendle- ton, Vallandigham, Thomas H. Seymour, or, possibly, Horatio Seymour. As regards the platform, their influence will tend topre- vent the Democratic party from taking that position on the negro question which a great many of the Northern delegates will wish to take, to wit, eqnal rights for all before the law, and the willing- ness to accept an educational qualification for suffiage.. Unable to take this stand, the party will have to content itself with a negative platform, including one plank favoring the payment of the national debt in greenbacksfor upon this the West and South will insist another denouncing the corruption of the Republican party, and still another objecting to negro suffrage in any shape. With such a platform, the result of the ensuing election would not be con- sidered as doubtful as it might under other circumstances. It has been the aim of the writer to present in this article a can- did estimate of the prospects for success of the two great political parties of the country at the approaching Presidential election. This estimate is based upon a survey of public sentiment as mani- fested at the present time, and its probable drift during the coming six or eight months upon the prominent issues of the day. He is aware that in such an active community as ours the scenes shift very rapidly at times, and, possibly, new questions may arise which will press upon the country for immediate decision, but there are no indications, at this time, that any such will overshadow those which have been mentioned in this article. THE SAME CHRISTMAS IN OLD ENGLAND AND NEW. T lIE first Christmas in New England was celebrated by some people who tried as hard as they could not to celebrate it at all. l3ut looking back on that year 1620, the first year when Christmas was celebrated in New England, I cannot find that any- body got up a better ffte than did these Lincolashire we6 vers and plough men who had got a little taste of Dutch firmness, and resolved on that particular day, that, whatever else happened to them, they would not celebrate Christmas at all. Here is the story as William Bradford tells it: Ye 16. day ye winde came faire, and they arrived safe in this harbor. And after wards tooke better view of ye place, and resolved wher to pitch their dwelling; and ye 25. day begane to erecte ye first house for comone use to receive them and their goods. You see, dear reader, that when on any 21st or 22d of December you give the children parched corn, and let them pull candy and swim candles in nut-shells in honor of the lauding o-f the Fore- fathersif by good luck you be of Yankee blood, and do ither of these praiseworthy thingsyou are not celebrating the anniver- sary of the day when the women and children landed, wrapped up in water-proofs, with the dog and John Carver in headpiece, and morion, as you have seen in many pictures. That all came after- ward. Be cool and self-possessed, and I will guide you through the whole chronology safelyOld Style and New Style, first landing and second landing, Sabbaths and Sandays, Carvers landing and Mary Chiltons landing, so that you shall know as much as if you had fifteen ancestors a cradle, a tankard, and an oak chest in the May- flower, and you sh~ll conic out safely and happily at the first Christ- mas day. Know then, that when the poor Mayflower at last got across the Atlantic , Massachusetts stretched out her right arm to welebme her, and she came to anchor as early as the 11th of November in Provincetown Harbor. This was the day when the compact of the cabin of the Mayflower was signed, when the fiction of the social compact was first made re~ 1. 1-lere they fitted their shallop, and in this shallop, on the sixth of Deceniber, ten of the Pilgrims and six of the ship~ s crew sailed on their exploration. They caine into Plymouth harbor oii the tenth, rested on Watsons island on the eleventhwhich was Sundayand on Monday, the twelfth, landed on the nininland, stepping on Plyniouth rock arid marching inland. to explore the country. Add now nine days to this date for the

Edward Everett Hale Hale, Edward Everett The Same Christmas in Old England and New 47-60

THE SAME CHRISTMAS IN OLD ENGLAND AND NEW. T lIE first Christmas in New England was celebrated by some people who tried as hard as they could not to celebrate it at all. l3ut looking back on that year 1620, the first year when Christmas was celebrated in New England, I cannot find that any- body got up a better ffte than did these Lincolashire we6 vers and plough men who had got a little taste of Dutch firmness, and resolved on that particular day, that, whatever else happened to them, they would not celebrate Christmas at all. Here is the story as William Bradford tells it: Ye 16. day ye winde came faire, and they arrived safe in this harbor. And after wards tooke better view of ye place, and resolved wher to pitch their dwelling; and ye 25. day begane to erecte ye first house for comone use to receive them and their goods. You see, dear reader, that when on any 21st or 22d of December you give the children parched corn, and let them pull candy and swim candles in nut-shells in honor of the lauding o-f the Fore- fathersif by good luck you be of Yankee blood, and do ither of these praiseworthy thingsyou are not celebrating the anniver- sary of the day when the women and children landed, wrapped up in water-proofs, with the dog and John Carver in headpiece, and morion, as you have seen in many pictures. That all came after- ward. Be cool and self-possessed, and I will guide you through the whole chronology safelyOld Style and New Style, first landing and second landing, Sabbaths and Sandays, Carvers landing and Mary Chiltons landing, so that you shall know as much as if you had fifteen ancestors a cradle, a tankard, and an oak chest in the May- flower, and you sh~ll conic out safely and happily at the first Christ- mas day. Know then, that when the poor Mayflower at last got across the Atlantic , Massachusetts stretched out her right arm to welebme her, and she came to anchor as early as the 11th of November in Provincetown Harbor. This was the day when the compact of the cabin of the Mayflower was signed, when the fiction of the social compact was first made re~ 1. 1-lere they fitted their shallop, and in this shallop, on the sixth of Deceniber, ten of the Pilgrims and six of the ship~ s crew sailed on their exploration. They caine into Plymouth harbor oii the tenth, rested on Watsons island on the eleventhwhich was Sundayand on Monday, the twelfth, landed on the nininland, stepping on Plyniouth rock arid marching inland. to explore the country. Add now nine days to this date for the 48 CHRISTMAS IN OLD ENGLAND AND NEW. difference then existing between Old Style and New Style, and you come upon the twenty-first of December, which is the day you ought to celebrate as Forefathers Day. On that day give the children parched corn in tokenofthe new provant, the English walnut in token of the old, and send them to bed with Elder Brewsters name, Mary Chiltons, Edward Winslots and John Billingtons, to dream upon. Observe still that only these ten men have landed. All the women and children and the other men are over in Provinceton harbor. These ten, liking the country well enough, go across the bay to Provincetown where they find poor Bradfords wife droned in their absence, and bring the ship across into Plymouth harbor on the sixteenth. Now you will say of course that they were so glad to get here that they began to build at once; but you are entirely mistaken, for they did not do any such thing. There was a little of the John Bull about them and a little of the Dutchman. The seven- teenth was Sunday. Of course they could not build a city on Sun- day. Monday they explored, and Tuesday they explored more. Wednesday, After we had called on God for direction, we came to this resolution, td go presently ashore again, and to take a bettor view of two places, which we thought most flttlngfcr us; for we could not now take tlmeforforther search or consIderatIon, ourvictuals being much spent, especially our beer. Observe, this is the Pilgrims or Forefathers beer, and not the beer of the ship, of which there was still some store. Acting on this resolution they went ashore again, and concluded by most voices to build Plymouth where Plymouth how is. One recoin- mendation seems to have been that there was a good deal of land already clear. But this brought with it the counter difficulty that theyhadtogohalfaquarterof a mile for their wood. Sothere they left twenty people on shore, resolving the next day to come and build their houses. But the next day it stoned, and the people on shore had to come back to the ship, and Richard Britteridge died. And Friday it stoned so that they could not land, and the people on the shallop who had gone ashore the day before could not got back to the ship. Saturday was the twenty-third, as they.counted, and some of them got ashore and cu( timber and ckrried it to be ready for building. But they reserved their forces still, and Sunday, the twenty-fourth, no one worked of course. So that when Christmas day came, the day which every ma; woman and child of them had been trained to regard as a holy dayas a day specially given to festivity and specially exempted from work, all who could went on shore and joined those who had landed already. So that William Bradford was able to close the first book of his history by saying: Ye 25. day begane to erect ye first house for comone use to receive them and their gcods. Now, this all may have been accidental. I do not say it. was CHRISTMAS IN OLD ENGLAND AND NEW. 49 not. But when I come to the record of Christmas for next year and find that Bradford writes: One ye day called Chrismas-day, ye Govr caled them out to worke, (as was used,), I cannot help thinking that the leaders had a grim feeling of satisfaction in sec- ularizing the first Christmas as thoroughly as they did. They wouldnt work on Sunday, and they would work on Christmas. They did their best to desecrate Christmas, a~nd they did it by laying one of the corner-stones of an empire. Now, if the reader wants to imagine the scenethe Christmas celebration or the Christmas desecration, he shall call it which he will, according as he is Roman or Puritan himselg I cannot give him much material to spin his thread from. Here is the little story in thc language of the time. Munday the 25. day, we went on shore, some to fell tymber, some to saw, some to riuc, and some to carry, so no man rested all that day, but towards night so~ue as they were at worke, heard a noyse of some Indians, which caused vs all to goe to our Muskets, but we heard no further, so we came aboord againe, and left some twentie to keepe the court of gard; that night we had a sore storme of winde and rayne. Munday the 25. being Christmas day, we began to drinke water aboord, but at night the Master caused vs to have some Beere, and so on boaLd we had diverse times now and then some Beere, but on shore none at all. There is the story as it is told by the only man who chose to write it down. Let us not at this moment go into an excursus to inquire who he was, and xvho he was not. Only diligent investiga- tion has shown beside that this first house was about twenty feet square, and that it was for their common use to receive them and their goods. The tradition says that it was on the south side of what is now Leyden street, near the declivity of the hill. What it was, I think no one pretends to say absolutely. I am of the mind of a dear friend of mine, who used to say that, in the hard- ships of those first struggles, these old forefathers of ours, as they gathered round the fires (which they did haveno Christian Regis- ters for them to warm their cold hands by), used to pledge them- selves to each other in solemn vows that they would leave to pos- terity no detail of the method of their lives. Posterity should not make pictures out of them, or, if it did, should. make wrong ones; which, accordingly, posterity has done. What was the nature, then, of this twenty-foot-square store-house, in which, afterward, they used to sleep pretty compactly, no man can say. Dr. Young suggests a log cabin, but I do not believe that the log cabin was yet invented. I think it is more likely that the Englishmen rigged their two-handled sawsafter the fashion known to readers of Sandford and Merton in an after ageand made plank for them- selves. The material for imagination, as far as costume goes, may be got from the back of a fifty-dollar national bank note, which the well-endowed reader will please take from his pocket, or from a 50 CHRISTMAS IN OLD ENGLAND AND NEW. roll of Lorillards tobacco at his side, on which he will find the good rednction of YVeirs admirable picture of the embarkation. Or, if the reader has been unsuccessful in his investment in Lorillard, he will find upon the back of the one-dollar bank note a reduced copy of the fresco of the Landing in the Capitol, which will answer his purpose equally well. Forty or fifty Englishmen, in hats and doublets and hose of that fashion, with those odd English axes that you may see in your iEsops fable illustrations, and with their double-handled saws, with a few beetles, and store of wedges, must make up your tableau, dear reader. Make it vivant, if you can. To help myself in the matter, I sometimes group them on the bank there, just above the brookyou can see the place to-day, if it will do you any goodat some moment when the women have come ashore to see how the work goes onand remembering that Mrs. 1-lemans says they sang I thro w the women all in a chorus of soprano and contralto voices on the left, Mrs. Winslow and Mrs. Carver at their head, Mrs. XV. as prima assoluta soprano and Mrs. Carver as prima assoluta contraltoI range on the right the men with W~. l3radford and W. Brewster as leadersand between, fac- ing us, the audiencewho are loxver down in the valley of the brook, I place Giovanni Carver (tenor) and Odoardo Winslow (basso) and have them sing, in the En~lish dialect of their day, Suoni la tromba, Carver waving the red-cross flag of England, and Winslow swing- ing a broadaxe above his head in similar revolutions. The last time I saw any Puritans doing this at the opera, one had a star- spangled banner and the other an Italian tricolorbut I am sure my placing on the stage is more accurate than that. But I find it very hard to satisfy myself that this is the correct idealization. Yet Mrs. Hemans says the songs xvere songs of lofty cheer, which precisely describes the duet in Puritani. It would be an immense satisfaction, if by palimpsest under some old cash book of that century, or by letters dug out from some family collection in England, one could just discover that John Billington, having become weary with cutting doww a small fir tree which had been allotted to him, took his snaphance and shot with him, and calling a dog he had, to whom in the Low Countries the name Crab had been given, went after fowle. Crossing the. brook and climbing up the hank to an open place which was there, he found what had been left by the savages of one of their gar- densand on the ground, picking at the stalkes of the come, a flocke of large blacke birds such as he had never seen before. His dogge ran at them and frightened them, and they all took wing heavily, but not so quick but that Billington let fly at them and brought two of them downone quite dead and one hurt so badly that he could not fly. Billington killed them both and tyed them I CHRISTMAS IN OLD ENGLAND AND NEW. 51 together, and following after the flocke had another shot at them, and by a good Providence hurte three more. He tyed two of these together aiid brought the smallest back to us, not knowing what he brought, being but a poor man and ignorant. Hee is but a lazy Fellowe, and was sore tired with the weight of his burden, which was nigh fbrtie pounds. Soe soon as we saw it, the Governour ani the rest knew that it was a wild Turkie, and albeit he chid Billing- ton sharply, he sent four men with him, as it were Calebs and Joshuas, to bring in these flrstlings of the land. They found the two first and brought them to us; but after a long search they could not find the others, and soc gave theni up, saying the wolves must have eaten them. There were some that thought John I3illington had never seen them either, but had shot them with a long howe. 1)e this as it may, Mistress Winslow and the other women stripped them they had, cleaned them, spytted them, basted them, and roasted them, and thus we had fresh foule to our dinner. I say it would have been very pleasant to have found this in some paiimpsest, but if it is in the palimpsest, it has not yet been found As the Arab proverb says, There is news, but it has not yet come. I have failed, in just the same way, to find a letter from that rosy- cheeked little child you see in Sargents picture, looking out of her great wondering eyes, under her warm hood, into the desert. I overhauled a good many of the Colton manuscripts in the British Museum (Otho and Caligula, if anybody else wants to look), and Mr. Sainshury let me look through all the portfolios I w nted hi the State Paper Office, and I am sure the letter was not there then. If any body has found it, it has been found since I was there. If it ever is found, I should like to have it contain the following state- meat: We got tired of playing by the fire, and so some of us ran down to the brook, and walked till we could find a place to cross it; and so came up to a meadow as large as the common place in Leyden. There was a good deal of ice upon it in some places, but in some places behind, where there were bushes, we found good store of berries growing on the ground. I filled my apron, and William took off his jerkin and made a bag of it, and we all filled it to carry imp to the fire. But they were so sour, that they puckered our mouths sadly. But my mother said they were cranberries, but not like your cranberries in Lincoln- shire. And, having some honey in one of the logs the men cut down, she boiled the cranberries and the honey together, and after it was cold we had it with our dinner. And besides, there were some great pompions which the men had brought with them from the first place we landed at, which were not like Cia- derellas, but had long tails to them, and of these my mother and Mrs. Brewster and Mrs. Warren, made pies for dinner. We found afterwards that the Indians called these pompions, askittcs squash. But this letter, I am sorry to say, has not yet been found. Whether they had roast turkey for Christmas I do not know. I do know, thanks to the recent discovery of the old Bradford manu 52 CHRISTMAS IN OLD ENGLAND AND NEW. script, that they did have roast turkey at their first Thanksgiving. The veritable history, like so much more of it, alas! is the history of what they had not, instead of the history of what they had. Not only did they work on the day when all their countrymen played, but they had only water to drink on the day when all their countrymen drank beer. This deprivation of beer is a trial spoken of more than once; and, as lately as 1824, Mr. Everett, in his Pil- grim oration, brought it in high up in the climax of the catalogue of their hardships. How many of us in our school declamations have stood on one leg, as bidd en in Lovells Speaker, raised the hand of the other side to an angle of forty-five degrees, as also bid- den, and repeated, as also bidden, not to say compelled, the words, I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their almost des- perate undertaking, and landed at last, after a five-months passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth, weak and cxlv usted from the voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, depending on the charity of their ship-master for a draught of beer on board, drink- ing nothing but water on shore, without shelter, without means, surrounded by hostile tribes. Little did these men of 1020 think that the time would come when ships would go round the world xvithout a can of beer on board; that armies would fight through years of war without a ration of beer or of spirit, and that the builders of the Lawrences and Vinelands, the pioneer towns of a nexv Christian civilization, ~would put the condition into the title-deeds of their property that nothing should be sold there which could intoxicate the buyer. Poor fellows ! they missed the beer, I am afraid, more then they did the play at Christmas; and as they had not yet leained how good water is for a steady drink, the carnal mind almost rejoices that when they got on board that Christmas night, the curmudgeon ship-master, warmed up by his Christmas jollifications, for he had no scrnples, treated to beer all round, as the reader has seen. With that tankard of beeras those who wemit oii board filled it, passed it, and refilled itends the history of the first Christmas in New England. It is a very short story, and yet it is the longest history of that Christmas that I have been able to find. I wanted to compare this celebration of Christmas, grimly intended for its desecration, with some of the celebrations which were got up with painstaking intern tion. But, alas, pngeants leave little history, after the lights have smoked out, and the hangings have been takemi away. Leaving, for the moment, King Jamess Christmas and Englishmen, I thought it would be a pleasant thing to study the contrast of a Christmas in the countries where they say Christmas has its most enthusiastic welcome. So I studied up the war in the PalatinateI went into CHRISTMAS IN OLD ENGLAND AND NEW. 53 the chronicles of Spain, where I thought they would take pains about ChristmasI tried what the men of la religion, the Ru- guenots, were doing at Rochelle, where a great assembly was gath- cling. But Christmas day would not appear in memoirs or annals. I tried Rome and the Pope, but he was dying, like the King of Spain, and had not, I think, much heart for pageantry. I looked in at Yienna, where they had all been terribly frightened by Beth- 1cm Gabor, who was a great Transylvanian prince of those days, a sort of successful Kossuth, giving much hope to beleaguered Protes- tants farther west, who, I believe, thought for a time that he was some sort of seal or trumpet, which, however, he did not prove to be. At this moment of time he was retreating I am afraid, and at all events did not set his historiographer to work (lescribing his Christmas festivities. Pas~ing by Bethlem Gabor then, and the rest, from mere failure of their chronicles to make note of this Christmas as it passed, I returned to France in my quest. Louis XIII. was at this time reigning with the assistance of Luynes, the short-lived favorite who preceded Richelien. Or it would, perhaps, be more proper to say that Lnynes was reigning under the name of Louis XIII. Louis XIII. had been spending the year in great activity, deceiving, thwarting, and undoing the Protestants of France. He had made a rapid march into their country, and had spread terror befbre him. lie had had mass celebrated in Navarreux, where it had not been seen or heard in fifty years. With Bethlem Gabor in the ablative with the Palatinate quite in the vocativethese poor Huguenots here outwitted and outgeneralled, and Brewster and Carver frecz- lng out there in America, the Reformed Religion seems in a bad way to one looking at that Christmas. From his triumphal and almost bloodless campaign, King Louis returns to Paris, and there, says Bassompiere, he celebrated the fdes this Christmas. So I thought I was going to find in the memoirs of some gentleman at court, or unoccupied mistress of the robes, an account of what the most Christian King was doing, while the blisters were forming on John Carvers hands, and while John Billington was, orwas not, shooting wild turkeys on that eventful Christmas day. But I reckoned without my king. For this is all a mistake, and whatever else is certain, it seems to be certain that King Louis XIII. did not keep either Christmas in Paris, either the Christians of the Old Style, or that of the New. Such, alas, is history, dear friend! When you read in to-nights Evening Post that your friend Dalrymple is appointed Minister to Russia, where he has been so anxious to go, do not suppose he will make you his Secretary of Legation. Alas! no; for you will read in to-morrows Tim es that it was all a mistake of the telegraph, and that tile dispatch should have read OShaughnessy, where the dispatch looked 4 54 CHRISTMAS IN OLD ENGLAND AND NEW. like Dairymple. So here, as I whetted my pencil, wetted my lips, and drove the attentive librarian at the Astor almost frantic as I sent him up stairs for you five times more, it proved that Louis XIIJ. did not spend Christmas in Paris, but that Bassompiere, who said so, was a vile deceiver. Here is the truth in the ]V4rcmre Fan~aisflattering and obsequious Annual Reoistcr of those 0 days: The King at the end of this year, visited the frontiers of Picardy. In this whole journey, which lasted from the 14th of December to the 12th of January (New Style), the weather was bad, and those in his Majestys suite found the roads had. Change the style back to the way our Puritans counted it, and observe that on the same days, the 5th of December to the 3d of January, Old Style, those in the suife of John Carver found the weather bad, and the roads worse. Let us devoutly hope that his most Christian Majesty did not find the roads as bad as his suite did. And the Kino continues the crcure, sent an extraordi- nary Ambassador to the King of Great Britain, at London, the Marshal Cadenet (brother of the favorite Luynes). He departed from Calais on Friday, the first day of January, very well accom- panied by noblesse. He arrived at Dover the same evening, and did not depart from Dover until the Monday after. Be pleased to note, dear reader, that this Monday, when this Ambassador of a most Christian King departs from Dover, is on Monday the 25th day of December, of Old Style, or Protestant Style, when John Carver is learning wood-cutting, by way of encouraging the others. Let us leave the King of France to his bad roads, and follow the fortunes of the favorites brother, for we must study an English Christmas after all. We have seen the Christmas holidays of men who had hard times for the reward of their faith in the Star of Bethlehem. Let us try the fortunes of the most Christian Kings people, as they keep theft second Christmas of the year among a Protestant people. Observe that a week after their own Christmas of New Style, they land in Old Style England, where Christmas has not yet begun. Here is the ]Jlercmre B~anazss account of the Christmas holidaysflattering and obse- quious, as I said: Marshal Cadenet did not depart from Dover till the Monday after (Christmas day, 0. 5.). The English Master of Ceremo- nies had sent twenty carriages and three hundred horses for his suite. (If only we could have ten of the worst of them at Plymouth! They would have drawn our logs for us that half quarter of a mile. But we were not born in the purple!) lie slelI)t at Canterbury, where the Grand Senesehal of England, well accompanied by English noblemen, received him on the part of the King of England. Wherever lie passed, the officers of the cities CHRISTMAS IN OLD ENGLAND AND NEW. 55 made addresses to him, and offers, even ordering their own archers to march before him and guard his lodgings. When he came to Graresend, the Earl of Arundel visited him on the part of the King, and led him to the royal barge. His whole suite entered into twenty-five other barges, painted, hung with tapestry, and well adorned (think of our poor, rusty shallop there in Plymouth bay), in which, ascending the Thames, they arrived in London Friday the 29th December (January 8th, N. S.). On disem- barking, the Ambassador was led by the Earl of Arundel to the palace of the late Queen, which had been superbly ad mag- nificently arranged for him. The day was spent in visits on the part of his Majesty the King of Great Britain, of Prince of Wales, his so; ad of the ambassadors of kings and princes, residing in London. So splendidly was he entertained, that they write that on the day of his reception he had four tables, with fifty coven each, and that the Duke of Lenox, Grand Master of England, served them with magnificent order. The following Sunday (which we could not spend on shore), he was conducted to an audience by the Marquis of Buckiugham ~or shame, Jamie! an audience on Sunday! what would John. Knox have said to that!) where the French and English nobilk. ty were dressed as for a great feast day. The whole audience was. conducted with great respect, honor and ceremony. The same evening, the King of Great Britain sent for the Mhrshal by the. Marquis of Buckiugham and the Duke of Lenox; ad his Majesty and the Ambassador remained alone for more than two hours, with-. out any third person hearing what they said. The following days were all receptions, banquets, visits and hunting parties, till the. embassy departed. That is the way history gets written by a flattering and obsequi..- ous court editor or organ at the time. That is the way, then, that the dread sovereign of John Carver and Edward Winslow spent his Christmas holidays, while they were spending theirs in beginning. for him an empire. Dear old William Brewster used to be a ser- rant of Davisons in the days of good Queen Bess. As h% blows his fingers there in the twenty-foot storehouse beibre it is roofed,. does he tell the rest sometimes of the old wassail at court, and the Christmas when the Earl of Southampton brought Will. Shakespeare. in? Perhaps those things are too gayat all events, we have as. much fuel here as they have at St. James. Of this precious embassy, dear reader, there is not a word,. r think, in Hume, or Lingard, or the Pictorial ~~still less,, if. possible, in the abridgements. Would yen like, perhaps, after this.. truly elegant account thus given by a court edico; to look behind, the canvas and see the rough. ends of the worsted? I always like to. It helps me to understand my morning Advertiser or my 58 CHRISTMAS IN OLD ENGLAND AND NEW. Evening Post as I read the editorial history of to-day. If you please, we will begin in the Domestic State Papers of England, which the good sense of somebody, I believe kind Sir Francis Pal- pave, has had opened for you and me and the rest of-us. Here is the first notice of the embassy: Dec. 18. Letter from Sir Robert Naunton to Sir George Calvert. . . . The King of France is expected at Calais. The Marshal of Cadenet is to be sent over to calumniate those of the religion (that is, the Protestants), and to propose Madme. Henriette for the Prince., So they knew, it seems, ten days before we started, what we were coming for. Dec. St John Chamberlain to Sir Dudley Carleton. In spite of penury, them is to be a masqne at Court this Christmas. The King is coming in from Theobalds to receive the French Ambassa- do; Marshal Cadenet, who comes with a suite of 400 or 500. What was this masque? Could not Mr. Payne Coffier find up the libretto, perhaps? Was it Faith, Valor, Hope, and Love, founding a kingdom, perhaps? Faith with a broadaxe, Valor and Hope with a two-handled saw, while Love dug post-holes and set up timbers? Or was it a less appropriate masque of King Jamess devising? Dec. 55. This is our day. Francis Willisfourd, Governor of Dover Castle, to Lord Touch, Warden of the Cinque Ports. A French Ambassador has landed with a great train. I have not fired a salute, having no instructions, and declined showing them the fortress. They are entertained as well as the town can afford. Observe, we are a little surly. We do not like the French King very well, our own Kings daughter being in such straits yonder in the Palatinate. What do tbese Papists here? That is the only letter written on Christmas day in the English Domestic Archives for that year I Christmas is for frolic here, not for letter-writing, nor house-building, if ones houses be only built already I But on the S7th, Wednesday, Lord Arundel has gone to meet the French Ambassador at Gravesend. And a very pretty time it seems they had at Gravesend, when you. look on the back of the embroidery. Arundel called on Cadenet at his lodgings, and. Cade- net did not meet him till he came to the stairhead of his chamber- doornor did he accompany him further whenhe left. But Arundel was even with him the next morning. He appointed his meeting for the return call in the etreet; and when the barges had come up to Somerset House, where the party was to stay, Arundel left. the Ambassador, telling him there were gentlemen who would show him his lodging. The King was so angry that he made Cadent apologia Alas for the Court of Governor John Carver on this CHRISnEAS IN OLD ENGLAND AND NEW. 57 sidefour days old to-dayif Massasoit should send us an am- bassador! Ws shall have to receive him in the street, unless he likes to come into a palace without a roof! But, fortunately, he does not send till we are ready! The Domestic Archives give another glimpse: Dec. so. Thomas Locke to Carleton: The French Ambassador has arrived at Somerset House with a train so large that some of the seats at Westminster Hall had to be pulled don to make room at their audience. And in letters from the same to the same, of Jan. 7, are accounts of entertainments given to the Ambassador at his first audience (on that Sunday), on the 4th at Parliament House, on the 6th at a masque at Whitehall, where none were allowed below the rank of a Baronad at Lord Doncasters en- tertainmentwhere 6,000 ounces of gold are set out, as a present says the letter, but this I do not believe. At the Hampton enter- tainment, and at the masque there were some disputes about pre- cedency, says John Chamberlain in aother letter. Dear John Chamberlain, where are there not such disputes? At the masque at Whitehall he says, a Puritan was flouted ad abused, which was thought unseemly, considering tlii state of the French Protest- ants. Let the Marshal come over to Gov. John Carvers court and see one of our masques there, if he wants to know about Puritans. At Lord Doncasters house the feast cost three thou- sand pounds, beside three hundred pounds worth of ambergris used in the cooking, nothing about that six thousand ounces of gold. The Ambassador had a long private interview with the king; it is thought he proposed Mad. Henriette for the Prince. He left with a present of a rich jeweL He requested liberation of all the imprisoned priests in the three kingdoms, but the answer is not yet given. By the eleventh of January the embassy had gone, and Thos. Locke says Cadenet received a round answer about the Protest- ants. Let us hope it was so, for it was nearly the last, as it wha. Thus. Murray writes that he proposed a match with France-a confederation against Spanish powerand asked his Majesty to abandon the rebellious princesbut he refused unless they might have toleration. The Ambassador was followed to Rochester for the debts of some of his trainbut got well home to Paris and New Style. And so he vanishes from English history. His Mug made him Duke of Chaulnes ad Peer of France, but his brother the tkvorite died soon mAe; either of a purple fever or of a broken heart, and neither of them need trouble us more. At the moment the whole embassy seemed a failure in England, and so it is spoken of by all the English writers of the time whom I have seen. There is a hunting French Ambassador 58 CHRISTMAS IN OLD ENGLAND AND NEW. come over lately, says Howel, and I believe his errand is naught else but compliment. . . . . He had an audience two days since, where he, with his train of ruffling long-haired Monsleurs, carried himself in such a light garb, that after the audience the king asked my Lord Keeper Bacon what he thought of the French Ambassador. He answered, that he was a tall, proper man. Aye, his Majesty replied, but.what think you of his had piece? Is he a proper man for the office of an ambassador? Sir, said Bacon, tall men are like hones of four or five stories, wherein com- monly the uppermost room is wont furnished. Hard, this, on us poor six-footers. One need not turn to the biography after this, to guess that the philosopher was five feet four. I think there was a breeze, and a cold one, all the time, between the embassy and the English courtiers. I could tell you a good many stories to show this, but I would give them all for one anec- dote of what Edward Winslow said to Madam Carver on Christmas evening. They thought it all naught because they did not know what would come of it. We do. And I wish you to observe, all the time, beloved reader, whom I press to my heart for your steadiness in perusing so far, and to whom I would give a jewel had I one worthyto give, in token of my consideration (how you would like a Royalston beryl or an Attleboro toparP). I wish you to observe, I say, that on the Christmas tide, when the Forefathers began New England, Charles and Henrietta were first proposed to each other for that fatal union. Charles, who was to be Charles the First, and Henrietta, who was to be mother of Charles the Second, and James the Second. So this was the time, when were first proposed all the precious in- trigues and devisings, which led to Charles the Second, James the Second, James the Third, so called, and our poor friend the Pre- tender. Civil warRevolution-1715J 445Preston-Pans, Fal- kirk and Cullodenall are in the dispatches Cadenet carries ashore at Dover, while we are hewing our timbers at the side of the brook at Plymouth, and making our contribution to Protestant America. On the one side Christmas is celebrated by fifty outcasts chop- ping wood for their firesand out of the celebration springs an empire. On the other side it is celebrated by the noblean of two nations and the pomp of two courts. And out of the celebration spring two civil wars, the execution of one king and the exile ot another, the downfall twice repeated of the royal house, which * Mrs. Remains sp they did not seek bright jewels of the mlnerwhlch was fortunat% they would not have found them. Attleboro Is near Plymouth Rook, but its jewels are not from mines. The beryls of Royalaton , but they are far away. Other good mined jewels,I think, New England has none. Her gameS poor, and I have yet seen no good amothysts. CHRISTMAS IN OLD ENGLAND AND NEW. 59 came t.o the English throne under fairer auspices than evei. The whole as we look at it is the tale of ruin. Those are the only two Christmas celebrations of that year that I have found anywhere written down You will not misunderstand the moral, dear reader, if; indeed, you exist; if at this point there be any reader beside him who corrects the proof! Sublime thought of the solemn silence in which these words may be spoken! You will not inisunder- stand the moral. It is not that it is better to work on Christmas than to play. It is not that masques turn out ill, and that those who will not celebrate the great anniversaries turn out well, God forbid! It is that these men builded better than they knew, because they did with all their heart and all their soul the best thing that they knew. They loved Christ and feared God, and on Christmas day did their best to express the love and the fear. And King James and Cadenet,did they love Christ and fear God? I do not know. But I do not believe, nor do you, that the masque of the one, or the embassy of the other, expressed the love, or the hope, or the faith of either! So it was that John Carver and his men, trying to avoid the cel- ebration of the day, built better than they knew indeed, and, in their faith, laid a corner-stone for an empire. And James and Cadenet trying to serve themselvesforgetful of the spirit of the day, as they pretended to honor itwere so suc- cessful that they destroyed a dynasty. There is moral enough for our truer Christmas holidays as 1867 leads in the new-born sister. EDWAImD E. hALE. ELISAIB~iTTAS CHThTSTMAS. AUANY years ago Elisabetta married. It must have been I~lElisabetta who married, ill-natured people said, because it was impossible to imagine the lover who chose her of free wilL But, then, these people could not remember Elisabetta in her youth, with the sweet face, and clear, pale skin, Ii~hted by those grea brown eyes like tender moonsso pathetic and Ihir a face that the gaze lingered there and forgot to descend to the wry a id dwarfe ungainliness of the hunch-backed body. Perhaps it was fortunate for her that the husband, who could dis- cern the beautiful intelligence looking through those eyes, diec~ early, before the films of time obscured them. But Elisabett never thought so; she was sure that he who once read that rede aright, would have been constant to the end, and she possessed he soul in patience until that hour when the flesh should shrivel away and leave her more lovely and more free than even his f ith h~ic held hei. Her choicest day-dream was to picture him when he should see her as she was. In the early years of her marriage Elisabetta had borne a son. 4 lie came to comfort her when her companion died. In her love she forgot her loss. It was his child, a portion of his spirithims if, new-made and innocent, but all informed with her own life, her own nature, It was not that she lost remembrance of her dead husbarv in the child, but she and her husband had become so thoroughly one that, feeling his continued existence through every pore of her being, she loved the boy for both. She looked in his hh e eyes till she could not see them for the tears of delight in her own. Shure he has his fathers eyes in the head of him! s id Nor , hen eforth her guardian and protector. Almost in his infancy the little Seb~ stian manifested signs of ai uncommon understanding. It might be that planetary brilliance which is destined to move in a life-long orbit and give ii~ht to generations, or it might merely b~ that surcharge of vitality which, spreading over the childhood of so many, deceives th heart witi expectationa rank growth like that of those splendid puff-balls, which, after all, contain only a pinch of dust. His mother, how- ever, believed unfalteringly, as it is the way of mothers, that he was designed for extraordinary things, and bemoaned herself tha out of her insufficient annuity she should never be able to re r him as he merited. One day, when Sebastian was quite a lad, Elisabett received a call from her husbands brother. She had little to complain of in

Harriet Prescott Spofford Spofford, Harriet Prescott Elizabeth's Christmas 60-78

ELISAIB~iTTAS CHThTSTMAS. AUANY years ago Elisabetta married. It must have been I~lElisabetta who married, ill-natured people said, because it was impossible to imagine the lover who chose her of free wilL But, then, these people could not remember Elisabetta in her youth, with the sweet face, and clear, pale skin, Ii~hted by those grea brown eyes like tender moonsso pathetic and Ihir a face that the gaze lingered there and forgot to descend to the wry a id dwarfe ungainliness of the hunch-backed body. Perhaps it was fortunate for her that the husband, who could dis- cern the beautiful intelligence looking through those eyes, diec~ early, before the films of time obscured them. But Elisabett never thought so; she was sure that he who once read that rede aright, would have been constant to the end, and she possessed he soul in patience until that hour when the flesh should shrivel away and leave her more lovely and more free than even his f ith h~ic held hei. Her choicest day-dream was to picture him when he should see her as she was. In the early years of her marriage Elisabetta had borne a son. 4 lie came to comfort her when her companion died. In her love she forgot her loss. It was his child, a portion of his spirithims if, new-made and innocent, but all informed with her own life, her own nature, It was not that she lost remembrance of her dead husbarv in the child, but she and her husband had become so thoroughly one that, feeling his continued existence through every pore of her being, she loved the boy for both. She looked in his hh e eyes till she could not see them for the tears of delight in her own. Shure he has his fathers eyes in the head of him! s id Nor , hen eforth her guardian and protector. Almost in his infancy the little Seb~ stian manifested signs of ai uncommon understanding. It might be that planetary brilliance which is destined to move in a life-long orbit and give ii~ht to generations, or it might merely b~ that surcharge of vitality which, spreading over the childhood of so many, deceives th heart witi expectationa rank growth like that of those splendid puff-balls, which, after all, contain only a pinch of dust. His mother, how- ever, believed unfalteringly, as it is the way of mothers, that he was designed for extraordinary things, and bemoaned herself tha out of her insufficient annuity she should never be able to re r him as he merited. One day, when Sebastian was quite a lad, Elisabett received a call from her husbands brother. She had little to complain of in ELISABEflAS CHRISTMAS. 61 him; he was a man of integrity, and it was he who had settled upon her, in her early widowhood, that annuity which saved her from poverty. But she was conscious that, however superior was her own line to his, yet he looked upon her misshapen frame, as one of the worst blurs to which his family pride could stoop. She had. a little pitiful vanity; she lingered before her glass and brushed the wave of brown hair more smoothly down the slope of her forehead, and turned to adjust the cape again over the shoulders that would protrude their deformity, ere she went down. The brother greeted her with kindness, informed her that he was about returning to India, and proposed to take Sebastian with him as his son, educating him for the position he should give him, and insuring his advancement for life. A shiver ran over Elisabetta from top to toe; her heart sunk within her after one great shock; she knew as well in that instant that she should let the boy go as she did when the last tip of the mast sparkled between horizon and blue sky above him. But she made some feeble show of resistance. Ah I she pleaded, clasping her knees and gazing up at the robber, do not takehimfromme! Heisalllhayel I do not propose to take him from ye; replied the other. He shall write to you and receive your letters as often as he chooses. He win return to you, I trust, an honorable an& wealthy man of whom you can be proud. But will he be proud of me 7,, cried Elisabetta,.touching the key-note of her after-life. If he stays with me he win never knowit will come upon him gentlythat his mother has been less favored by heaven than other women, he will love her so. But when he returns, after many years and the lapses of forgetfulness, and finds her old,. perhaps hideousfor this fair face of mine I cannot hope to keepit is a fair face, sir!, sobbed Elisabetta. It is indeed. Wellthen? No, he cannot be proud of me, God knows I He will not even be fond of me. Oh, no, no, no, I cannot give it up! His love is too sweet, too dear. Do not ask meI have so little You will pardon me, said the brother then, more gently, if I urge that your selfish desire for his affection is depriving the boy of advantages, the loss of which he may one day feel as bitterly as you would now feel thd loss of his affection; and which loss, when he has arrived at manhood, may, in turn, occasion you that of the very affection which now you prize so highiy. Elisabetta, bewildered by this grand speech, waited a minute to unravel fronly getting the word loss for a clue-and before she spoke again, Sebastian entered, a splendid child, a sunbeam coming in behind him and making a glory of his hair, a shock of 82 ELISABEflAS CHRISTMAS yellow curls, while his eyes blazed by their own light whole skies of happy sunshine in themselves. Elisabetta looked at him, and her hart seemed to leave her body and throb only in his. Then the words of her brother-in-law began to beat themselves out in her brain, each one distinctly as a hammer on an anvil. She broke into a great sob. You may take him, sir I, wept she. You may take him; but, oh! the marrow of my life goes with him I And through every one of those far foreign years, Sebastian remembered the fair face, with its brown eyes bathed in streaming tears, just at that momeht when his mother drew him to herseK and the escaping thickness of her dark curls fell forward and down and veiled the two faces from all but each other. They werq long and lonely years that followedtwenty of them one after one, more uniform than the beads of a rosary. It seemed as if her heart had been cut open and the boys image torn out, it bled so at first when she came across the things that once had been daily trifles; a tasselled cap, which she could hang upon her hand, and, turning the tiny fist this way and then that, simu- late the motion of a head beneath, was for long both a pang and a consolationbut not all the simulation in the world would give her the turn of the bright hair, the laugh of the blue eyesbut the sight of a leather sling, a hockey-stick, a top, often made her take to her bed with grief She sat up in that bed, of nights, to look, in the shadow, across his own little empty bedstead, with its coverlet white as the eider don, if perchance through the gray and the glimmer she might picture his head on the pillow there, all radiant with dewy sleep~ She hungered fo~ him, and was more forlorn than if she had committed him to the kind keeping of the churchyard, for then she might one day hope to have him again, to have him and hold him and fold himin; but nowif her son came back to her her sonyet here her hope rebelled against her fear. How can he come back anything else? she dem~nded. I shall not lose him so long as blood is thicker than water! The first letter, when Nora brought it in, seemed due to no earthly agency; it came like a benediction out of hesven; she wore it over her heartshe had gone about with leaden heels, but this gave feathers to her feet She counted the days and months that made the years, and saw her lit vanish away from her with delight There was something sad in the little woman s waiting; all her hope, her joy, her comfort, stored up in that single day when she should put her arms about her child once more. When she remem- bered that it would not be the same boy again, never t!ie little child, the ache was sorer than at his first departure; but she schooled herself sternly. He is so tall now, she said; his hand is the size of that; what a picture he would be in his old clothes, to be sure! This cap would not cover his hair~ and kissing into ELISABETTAS CHILISTMA& 68 it, and filling it with sighs, many a capful of wind must have sal- lied out from her seaward window to swell the ails of the passing ships. What a hand he writes, she said to Non, over every missive; ah, what a lad he is by this time! Oh, if he stood before me I could not live in this crooked bodyI should burst it and leave itas the dead do their cerements at sight of the great resin rection angel! But letters were less frequent as the boy grew older and became absorbed with his surroundings; occasionally his uncle caused him to send a picture of himself in various periods of growth; he had one of his mother, the fair and brown-eyed faceshe had never meant to send another. But it came over her one day that he was loving still that sweet face of her youthno longer hersand he must know the truth, she must send him a likeness of herself to- day, as illness and pain, wariness and the heavy hand of years had stamped the lines; she fond the courage at last and had it done; there was not a flattering touch upon itif from pure pity there were anything the painter had softened, there was nothing he had suppressed; it was all therethe eyes that had shrunken into twinkling pitfalls in the parched skin trailed over by moth and wrinkle, the mouth that, once hungering so for the kisses of her child, had grown prominent as the flesh had withered from it, and now sufibred its ragge& upper lip barely to cover the darkened teeth that hung like fangs above the lower one, the hair grizzled into gray- ness. She had said that he would find her oldperhaps hideous. Alas! there was no perhaps about it. But the ship that carried that burden went don; Sebastian never saw the picture. After she leaned that, she took heart again, sunning herself in that distant love, perhaps enjoying it all the more that she felt it to be a stolen thing, not hers, but that young Elisabettas. Yet, if the years had been lonely, they had not been bitter; the gift of bestowing solace upon others had lent them a tinge of sweet- ness all theirown: she lived in an old seaboard town where the return of every fishing fleet made many women more desolate than herselt for having come to calmness now, she knew that she had still this treasure beyond the seaher boy, whose last likeness every day she took out and cried over, till, through the multiply- ing lenses of the tears, there was not one, but a dozen Sebastians this son, whose mere possession was a bliss, round whom her exist- ence put forth rejoicing tendrils, though continent and ocean inter- vened; and where trouble was, there was Elisabetta. Those whom she comforted in sorrow, whom she fed from her small store, whom she nursed in sickness, forgot to find her uncomely in their grati- tude; and when with them there came upon her face such a light of heaven, such a shadow of Gods own good will to men, that she had 64 ELISABETTAS CHRISTMA& a better fairness than any bloom of youth could give. But Ella- bettas mirror never showed her this light on her old thee, and she be- lieved herself to be a grotesque monstrosity, pure and simple. It is due, perhaps, to th& people who agreed with her, that they also sel- dom saw her except on Sundays, the only day when she dressed her- self before a glass; and, when arrayed in a stiff flowered silk, remain- ing to her from some ancestress, wearing the wonderful Indian shawl which Sebastian had sent her, with jewels in her ears and on the fingers that grasped her ivory-headed stick, and with her wizened face almost buried in the ruffles of old yellow lace which lined her scuttle of a bonnetshe looked like the Witch of Endor. Owing to Elisabettas deformity, or to the injury which caused it, she had been oppressed at intervals for years with fierce neu- ralgic pains, whose needles, darting through her nerves, were only dulled by laudanum; she owed much of the change in her counte- nance to these pains, the irritability they occasioned and the endeavor to overcome it, and to the use of the blessed poison that, after its work is done, brands the brow with its broad arrow. Nevertheless, she was of that temperament which so hates to ac- knowledge defeat, and so seldom suffers itself to be daunted, that it slurs over misfortune, and, if substance fails, informs the present just as well with phantoms. She had something to use up every hour, and sat purring over her small duties a happier woman, on the whole, than many for whom fate has smoothed a velvet way. She had a faculty ol living in yesterday as well as in to-morrow, so that her year and a day of bliss, as you might say, spread itself over all these barren hours, in crossing which she had lost, trait by trait, line by line, the youth and comeliness which once had seemed to be merely the expression of her soul; but her soul was all as beautiful to-day. It had indeed the ripened bloom of the perfect fruit upon it; yet, face and figure, she was old and hideout She amused herself with little dramas of her emotionsthe sail, that seemed a rising mist, that crept nearer, yet gray as a ghost, that ruffled its whiteness and swelled out broad and full upon the gale, in her fancy of the moment, lifted all its towers of linen over him; he stood upon the deck beneath; he was watohing every landmark; his eyes danced as the low headlands heaved into light, as Pier Head light rose on the one hand and Bay Vue waded out with its lantern on the othe; as they swept between the marshes, over the sandbars; his heart leaped at sight of the old fort and answered its guns with a throb; he grew impatient as they followed the channel in and out the hundred coves skirting the breakers; he was longing for his mother, and she, oh she, for him I Now the anchors rattled in their chains, she could hear their very plunge beside the mooringa moment, and he would be herehark I was that wheelsa step upon the pathoh, the same elastic spring in ELISABEflAS CHRISTMA& 65 ita voice, how sweet, how deepand then the arms about her neck, the warm,warm cheek to hers, their lips clinging together, and such glad rain of tears I Ah, it was ailmore real to Elisabetta, more real and precious, than many a pers6n~s actual life is to that person who sees it drift by and never enters into its depths either. of joy or sorrow. As time went by, Sebastians deserted toys and garments ceased to be a source of trouble to Elisabetta; they were her chief pleas- ures instead; many a morning did she spend before the chest of drawers that now contained them, taking out piece by piece, and filling every one with her memories; she even went back to the little baby clothes that she fashioned once with such doubt and such delight, now yellowing as they lay, and as she lifted them daintily the lace seemed to fall round plun~p and dimpled arms afresh, the soft skirts to cover pink and perfect feet, tiny rings of gold peeped out from the frostwork of the caps, blue eyes laughed up at her, and rosy lips pouted for kissesshe gave them, again and again, mother kisses, warm and tender, and lingering as if they sank into the sweet soft flesh that was so inflnitely dearer than her own; after every such morning she seemed to have had him visibly and palpably, and the rocked away beside the Autumn fire or at the Summer sunset window, crooning happily to herselt as if her boy had been with her all day, and with so great a change upon her face that her little neighbor Bessie, lookink up at her, wondered to see another woman there. Often in June mornings she was buy with a needle at her east- em window; this window overlooked a garde; a demesne of flowers run to riot, crimson and blue, and gold and spotless white, that slanted don to a brook of amber waters and scattered foam, emp- tying into the broad blueness of the cove. It was an unkempt garden, the blossoms overflowing the beds, the vines entangbng the paths; wistarias hung their purple clusters over fence and trellis, roses began to leave their hearts and blush across their sheaths, pints of dark violets started out of their heart-shaped leaves before one~s feet, white lilies stood up like rows of spirits with their gold harps in their hands, and wildernesses of nasturtiums, lik fallen flame, ran down to quench their heat in the waters of the brook that delayed inshore with more quiet curves and pools to mingle its azure arrow heads and yellow cowlilies, and all its reeds and pur- ple flags with the flaunting scarlet of the poppy, and spires of blue- bells close at hand. Over all a sheeting sunshine lay, dewdrope sparkled, and honeysuckles and sweetbrier, fallen and climbing, and filling again, made the air heavy with fragrance. Her wealthy neighbor owned this garden, and planned and plotted for its wild- ness, so ~at, while nature mined to have taken the place again to herselt it was he who had taken nature captive; but Elisabetta 66 ELISABETTAS CHRISTMAS. owned it just as much, perhaps enjoyed it more, watched it bloom into color freshly every morniugwhea out of the darkness of night, daffodil or coreopsis first showed its gold, followed by white rose an(i whiter phlox, till, last of 11, blue larkspur, harebells, and heaven were revealed; so long as Summer lasted, the world was thus re- made each morning for Elisabetta. She peopled the place afresh whenever her neighbors daughter Bessie came tripping lip the de- vious ways to her own windowfor, instead of the gr cious young maiden, two children were idling there in the delicious spot, tossing handfuls of flowers at one another, amid laughter that showered down like the blossom-petals, weaving crowns, wading the bi-ook, sucking haney out of the nectariesand one was Sebastian. iliessie could steal in and rummage the work-basket, and search into the nooks of the inlaid desk that Sebastian had sent borne, unreproved at that timefor work had fallen into the lap, and Elisabetta was busy with company that demanded eyes and hand, and heart alike. But Bessie was her name-child, and had many privilege, more- over, be cause of the chrism that perforce anointed Sebastians playmate. She was a charming ~iorsel of beauty herself, as fiesh and as wild as if she had grown out of the very garden, and just at that delightful age, when the world, veiled in dreams of romance, seems ready to open with a touch; so wayward as to be like a strain of music that hums all day in the ear with ineffable sweetness, but forever eludes the voice, and so lovely as to resemble nothing ma- terial so much as a bursting rose; her breath was the breath of the ruornin g, her eyes those stars just melting back into the azure. Sometimes when Elisabetta was only incidentally thinking of Sebas- tian, she used to seat Bessie on her footstool and hold her two hands and gaze at her with pure pleasure. Bessie was welcome to search through the sandal-wood desk, for there were Sebastians letters, and there were not eyes enough to explore their pages, and testify to the skill and affection of the writer. Answering these letters w s, after all, the great diversion of Elisabettas life; she prep red in her mind what she would say, for a week beforehand, she took the choicest sheet of her foreign paper, her finest pen, she iPvoked heavens blessing, and, day after day till the Indian mail closed, she wrote some lines that should let her son into her own life, and cause him to take her into his ; her communion with him then was So l)uIe and positive, that she took a comfort iu the composition almost equal to daily companionship; she could have repeated them every one by h cart, just as certainly as she could have done those from him; she had come, more by their means than any other, to recog- nize that Sebastian was no longer now a boy, but .a manshe the mother of a full-grown, bearded man and no more iemcmbu eth her pain, for jox that a man-child is born into the world l~er lit- tie heart beat too high for her body, a color caine upon her withered ELLSABEflAS CHRIST& EA& 67 cheek; she put on her lace cap, and would have Non get out the best chinafor thetea table, and went down stairsupon her cane or Bes- sies arm as stately ushe could hobble. I wonder what the sweet old soul would have thought if she could have looked into her boys real 11th, and seen some things whose remembrance might have called. a color upon his tanned foreheadfor many a day, and have understood that he was not altogether supernal, but had, like all humanity, a mortal streak in him; but she never knew of such a possibility her baby, her boy, had waxed into something like a strong-winged angel, and stood for that with her until the day she died. But, excepting this ideal of her son, she had only two things in her house on which to waste all her motherliness, old Fly, the faithless hound, and a crow that had never uttered a syllable; for Elisabetta lived such a silent life that the crow had no chance for improvement, and Non, while the black thing watohed her with burning eyes, re- garded him with secret awe, and had fhw doabts as to his being in league with the deviL Elisabetta used to paus6 before his perch, however, and, when coaxing him with almonds, try to say the one word mother, that she might Jiear it repeated; but then, as if it were too sacred to be trusted, or she feared the mockery it might make, or her voice was held by a reverential diffidence, the word always faltered on her lips, and somehow, never made more sound than a whisper. But the more faithless the hound, the more silent the crow, the more Elisabetta valued them; she recogiaised herself this yearning brooding quality of her heart, and conjectured that Elisabeth, the mother of John, patron saint and prototype of moth- en, had her in peculiar care. She was grateful in those days for slender merci6sthe poor little hunch-backed woman. The only seasons that Elisabetta failed to fill with enjoyment in this child of hers was when sliretohed upon her bed in a fever of pain, when the weight of her curved spine, pressing on ganglions of sore nerves, made her scream and hold her breath and bury her face in her pillow, while she cried it through and through with mis- ery and longing for Sebastian; her spirit yearned for him the; her arms ached for him, it seemed to herthat he could destroy her suf- fering, that his touch would soothe these stabs to stuporwllbn he was still young the thought was if she could but nestle her face to his little warm cheek on the pillow, sleep would come; and, after- ward, she said that he would take her in his arms now, she was so small, and he a man so tall and grand, and carry her up and don the room, he would lift her out and bear her through the garden walks, or drive her in a coach along the sea wall for a breath of the reviving east wind; the sight, the sound, the touch of him, if she must bear agony, would make that agony endurable. Sometimes, but that was seldom, she reached a rapt condition, in whose religious ecstacy she supported every pang without a murmur, and 88 ELTSABEflAS OHRISTMA& . even with rejoicing, remembering who had suffered worse afihic- tions, and praising God that she might share them; but oftenest the woman overcame the saint, and she writhed with her pain, and wept for her son. It had been one of Elisabettas troubles after Sebastlank depar- tare, that then she could do nothing more for herchild; she could make him nothing to wear in that climate; she had no means to buy him costly presents, had his uncle, in giving everything himselt left her any room; she darned the small socks that he had left, toed off the worn mittens freshly, though the holes had been precious, and laid them all away. Her annuity sufficed to keep her from want, to pay her doctots bills and Nons, and the taxes of her pew, leaving her a trifle for charity. On this trifle she never impinged; she would have given up her pew scarcely sooner than her life, so fondly did she count upon the day when she should pass up the broad aisle on her sons arm, in the face of all the gazing congregation. She never thought of the figure she would make, so much was she admiring with the admiring congregation. There was, then, nothing in which she could retrench, and could she retrench, there was equally nothing that she could do with her savings for Sebastian. But at last, one Sunday, as she put off the stiff silk, folded away in silver paper and camphor wood the Indian shawl, and, after feasting her eyes on the lace inside her ancient bonnet, consigned that too to the charge of lock and keyvanities, she knew, and one of her crosses that she could never quite withstand the temptation of enjoying them even on a Sunday; after this was done, and she sat in her clean cap and apron, with her spectacles upon her nose, and her Bible inher lap, there came to her an idea, like an inspiration, she said, in whose contemplation she experienced more satisfaction than in anything that had happened since her boy went away to be a man. She took no butter on her roll that night, and no sugar in her tea, and told Non that a second drawing of the teapot without any fresh leaves, would do for the next morn- ingonly Non laughed her to scorn, and prepared her breakfast as usuaL Non loved the little woman with all her big heart; she had opened the door to her when she caxae home on her wed- ding day, in her arms had Sebastian first been placed, she had been Elisabettas servant and her friend through joy and through sorrow; but, for all that, she was in her own line as great a tyrant as a prime minister, and constantly made it a source of congratulation to herself that, unlike the maid who had the poor old widow Gray in charge, she did not give her mistress her tea at four oclock in the afternoon, and, tucking her up in bed with the first star, be oft herself on an evening gossip. So, when Non on Saturday night found the pat of butter of the same size as on the previous Sunday evening, and the bowl of sugar at the same level, she began to coin- ELISABETTAS CHRISTMAS. prebend the situation, sweetened the tea, and spread the bread for her mistress with her own hands, and then gave her a piece of her mind as to the sinfulness of playing with her health for the sake of a few coppers, and assuring her it was what she never expected from the likes of her! Elisahetta cried a little, but where was the use, when Nora was inexorable? So she lost no time in casting about her for some other method of effecting her designs; yet where was the use again? She never bought herself anything, so she could not save there, and Nora would not let her hurt her eyes sitting in the dark to spare candles. But Providence helps those that help themselves, and one day she sallied out to the shops when Nora was off guard, and caine home with her arms full of split zephyr and crochet needles, and directions for shells and scallops, and busied herself, till hands and brain and back ached alike, over fixncy articles in German wools, for which the shopmen paid her a pittance of a price. It cost her an effort to ask for the work, she had a world of pride, and felt that she brought some degra- dation to all the dead and gone dust, to her husband, to her child, in taking pay for handiwork. So, to make a just equipoise in the matter, she had soup in the old silver punch bowl at dinner, and lifted a cover chased with armorial bearings from the rye pudding which she ate off a china plate worth ten times its weight in gold. Nora could not gainsay this new arrangement, for she never knew exactly but that this work was a gift for some friend, nor could she exactly tell when one piece was finished and another was l)egun; she remonstrated, indeed, against the continued employ- macnt, but here Ehsabetta was firm, and when Nora declared that if she made herself sick with her folderols she might get a nurse where she could, she put her work away, and rose after Nora was too deeply asleep to dream, that she might finish it. She worked as constantly as people work for bread; she was interrupted by illness, by rue umatic joints, by fingers too much drawn up to handle the needle; it took three years before she counted a hundred dol- lars for her wagesall was laid by in silver pieces that, to her eyes, seemed to cast a glory around the room. At length, when another year was numbered, she carried back the last bit to the shopruan, put away her crochet needle, and took her bag of dollars to the bank herself that she might draw a cheque for their amount in form. Some weeks afterward, there hung upon the chief side of her parlor wall a proclamation engraved and illuminated with cop- per-plate and black letter and flourishes, a wonder of parchment, printing press, and penmanship, framed in an elaborate carving of thorns and thistles. This parchment bad cost her the hundred silver dollars; the frame had cost her nearly half as much again; it was the certificate of a life membership for her son Sebastian, in the Foreign Missionary Society. A cartoon of Raphaels, filling 5 70 ELISABETTAS CHRISTMAS. the whole side of her house, would not have afforded Elisabetta a tithe of the rapture that this sheet of parchment gave her. She used to go in and survey it as if it were the certificate, too, of Sehastians right to Heaven, as if it were his painted portrait, as it it were himself. She kept the shades down in that room, lest it should fade or tarnish, but now and then she drew them up and threw open the hlinds, and let a dash of sunshine fall across it, and sat down before it as if her perfect work were done. All that was in the early years; since then three times their nuta- ber had slipped by, and stilt Elisabetta sat alone, with Nora in the next ioom, and the crow and the hound on either si(le. So quiet had these years all heen, so even their flow, so filledsave foi seasons of sicknesswith placid satisfaction or scarcely less pheid yearning, that one might he forgiven for doubting if any radical change that broke up all their current would he truly welcome. But only those might doubt who did not know Elisabetta. Not welcome her sons return? Not rejoice over heaven? And now the long score of absence was drawing to its close, the year was dying with it, and Sebastian was corning home. It was August when she opened the letter. lie would be with her, it said, before the New Year. lie was already then upon his homeward path. Ehisabettas prayers for his safety flocked up to heaven so that they might have darkened the way; she had found something to do for her child. Still, if the truth must be told, the prayers were, more than otherwise, a measure of precaution, a sacrifice to unpropitious fortunes. She had a certain sort of assurance that he would be wafted with fair gales to her door. After depriving her of him for twenty years, she felt, perhaps, as if Heaven owed her that much; sometimes, though, she remembered herself and. trem- bled lest she should be found like those people of antiquity who were blasted as they became irn pious over their successes and defied the gods. But., for all that, never a happier woman walked than this little woman hobbled; she was cestacised, the world was a reservoir of joy from which she drew exhaustlessly; she shed her wealth of content on all aroundon Nora, on old Fly, on Bessie, and the bird. Now, she told herself the good ship Falconer was speeding down the Indian seas. She pictured its passage day by day through splendid waters under splended skies, as if traversing the liquid heart of some enormous sun-smitten jewel, speeding, speeding, whether Elisabetta walked, or sat, or sleptalways hurry- lug toward her, always the great swans of the sails curving out their snowy bosoms on the breeze, always the sea ploughed into foam before the bows, yielding a dazzling furrow as the buoyant thing careered away. She put herself to sleep at night fancying the edges of low, palm-plumed islands which perchance it skirted she rose in the dead of the dark to look up at the soft skies hazed ELISABETTAS CHRISTMAS. with Summer stars, and seemed to see, instead, the shadow of purple heavens nuder which it sailedgreat heavens that soared to dark and deep infinitude with flashing of a million diamond dew-drops on their mighty wings. Now, she said, the Falconer doubled the Cape of Good hopeand with every morning Elisabetta herself doubled it, too. When at last Elisabetta felt certain that the Falconer was shoot- ing up the Atlantie, every day neirer and nearer, you would have said her body eould no longer eoi~tain her spirit, so did that spirit spring and leap like a fountain sending up shafts of bubbles in the snn. She could not dance about the house, but she limped about it restlessly, setting it to rights where it had never been at wrongs, and giving it a thorongh burnishing so long beforehand that it had to be burnished all over again. She nearly killed the crow with loaf-sugar, and the hound with cream; she felt that their measure was doled out so stintingly since they had no son Sebastian coining home, and she so wanted everything to be as happy as herself: She would just as nearly have killed Bessie with the maps on which the paths of Indian ships were traced, had not I3essie felt a bashful pleasure in the things almost equal to Elisabettas own. Nearer, every day nearer; so much less of the round side of the world be-- tween them, so much less of the long stretch of still airnearer every day nearershe d. red not believe it. Then, as if; in expect-. lug the man, she vaguely felt herself doing injustice to the child whose childhood she had lost, his shadow again filled every nook of the house. When the smell of afternoon smoke fell on the air,, and, under a blushing sunset, the boys went driving the cattle home,,, she looked among those boys for him, she was perpetually seeing him coming in and throwing down his cap, swinging on the gate with his gingersnap in hand, rocking on the shallo~v shore of the cove with little Bessie in the float. She forgot, indeed, for a while,, that Sebastian was a manforgot that Bessie was a woman of more than twenty Summers. It had been a plan of hers that they should marry one another. It had occurred to her that he could never fail to come home with all this bloom and beauty wait- ing to be his wife, as long before he went they had promised; but just now she could remember nothing but two children, in the flush of tender years, tirelessly playing together; when the soft~ Indian Summer breeze dallied by her it seemed her boys sweet breath upon her cheek; when the later Autumn wind rustled among: the crisp and fallen leaves, she believed she heard his footsteps~ scuffling through the garden paths; sometimes, across her dreams,, the lappimum- of the tide before her door-stone seemed the deep re- freshing breath that she used to listen for when breathed from his tiny bed. She plotted to tell him hoxv th~ t tiny bed belonged to a little boy that she had lost, and how he would tell 11cr that she had 72 ELISABETTAS CHRISTMAS. lost him only to find him doubly, to find him dearer, and loving her as no boy could; and he should take her in his arms and kiss her when he said it. She walked along the beach, but she never saw the breakers; gossips dropped in for quiet chat, but she never knew what they talked about; she went to church, but she beard no sermon. The burden of her bearing was her boy, day and night; no thought, no action, but her boy. So blithe was she, that she was a pleasure to people; they shared the satisfaction with her as if by an enchantment, and all the eyes of all the houses along thc old sea-wall were wide and watchful Christmas week, and look- ing for the good ship Falconer. The cracked earth had longed for snow to cover it, but none had come until this week; when the sky began to veil itself and a hesi- tating shower of flakes fell downward, paused and fell again, then seemed to think the sky a better lodgrnent after all, aiid clung mid- way between heaven and earth, till all the still air was frozen. With that a low wind soughed up out of the eastern ocean, a portent- ous kind of wind that the waves of the broad bay recognized and grew white before, that came in long and longer sobs, tore through the black sky, by nightfall, and drove the snow before it in blind- ing gusts and falls, and slapped the icy sea-foam against Elisabettas windows. Elisabetta never heeded it. Sometimes, when the Fal- coner was as far away as Africa., and a Summer storm had shivered through the sky, she had waked and quaked all night with fear and tribulation, but here when it might be that not a hundred miles of angry water rushed between the Falconer and its destruction, she fiAt positive that Sebastian would never have taken passage with a ship-master who had not sagacity enough to keep off the coast in any such stress as this; and so she hummed above her work, and at ten oclock went np stairs, said her prayer for her boy, and, despite the hurly-burly of sleet and wind and sea, slept alt night like a baby. There was not much snow on the ground next morning, after all, Elisabetta thought on looking out; not so much of a storm as Nora would have had it, though the sleet still fled before the wind, and the angry sea boiled white. She came down to breakfast, Nora de- clared, as composed as a clock. It was the day of Christmas Eve. I think I will see if everything is right in the pantry, said Elisa- betta. I dont know hoxv it isI am sure the Falconer ~vill never think of making harbor in such falling weatherbut something teils meyes, something tells me, that I shall see my boy to-night. An its a carpse yed be looking at, if ye did, cried Nora when the door had closed behind her mistress. Fallino weather be- dad! an it a fall that the cats thimselves is buried under. And if it had not been for the sake of viewing the pantrys contents with an appreciator, Nora would have been cross enough the rest ELISABETTAS CJIRISTiXIAS. 73 of the day to have given her mistress something else to think about. As it was, following her, and beholding the look of complete grati- fication with which Elisabetta was regarding the crisply-roasted ducks, she forgave the want of worry concerning the storm, and returned to her pristine good nature. Shure they looks like the angels in heaven, she said. Theyre that beautiful with the brown breasts of them. An whin the young master sets his fork intil the juicy sides forninst yedye be after minding, inam, that its in that same spot there hell be putting the fork of him? Dade, Im as big a fool as herself! she added, under her voice and her apron. But though Noras tears spurted through her fingers at sight of all the reparation for the feast, Elisabetta surveyed everything with the same calmness as if Sebastian came home every day to dinner; the crimson and white mosaic of the tarts, the vast pudding, into which such strata of citron and plums had been stirred that each raisin stoo(l lip like a separate nightmare, the crystal-clear ap- plc juice that filled the plate round the turnover that had the word Sebastian pricked upon its cover, the luscious whips, and all manner of toothsome nicknacks; the whole array flanked with such jars of sweetmeat, strawberry, quinces, and damson, such store of chutney, curry, and all Indian sauces, such white bread, arid such black cake, that the house seemed garrisoned against starvation, but given over to indigestion, for a month. Then Elisabetta brushed her hand across the window-pane, and was sorry, as she saw the thick air, that Maggie S hagreugh could not come for her chicken to-day, nor Katy for her mince pie, and then she went up stairs to see, as if she had not seen a hundred times before, if Sebastians room was all as it should be. Nor was anything wanting there the best chamber had been appointed, the bed, the curtains, the toilet covers, were white as the storm without; Nora must light the fire now, that the chill might utterly disappear. The drawerful of woollen socks, which she had knit for him was right, but she sorted them anew; she changed the towels just for the sake of changing them; then she went and filled the vases with flowers from the stand in the sitting-room window that were accus- tomed to drink the sun from morning to night, blood-red calceola- rias, snowy chrysanthemums ,golden hyacinths, s omeviolets,arose the room was sweeter than a gardenand then she sat down and enjoyed it for a while. By that, it was dinner time for Elisabetta, and after dinner, a sleep and a dream before the fire. It was close on the swift-footed twilight when Elisabetta woke. Her first step was to the window, and still the tempest was tearing on. She shivered in a little draught, but would not say, even to herself, that there had been no such storm along these shores in all the years that she could recollect. You could not see a rod before 74 ELISABETTAS ChRISTMAS. you for the whirling whiteness. Suddenly a rosy flash shot through all the driving atmosphere, illumined the snow flakes till they glis- tened like dancing sparks of fire, and spread a lane of glory across the waters of the bay, and fir, far oat at sea. Elisabetta followed it with her glad eyes, arid then she saw, or fancied that she sa~v ~iO~ht never could have reached so fara sail on which the brioht- ness smotea white, white sail, a glittering peak of mast. She never questioned whether at such time a ship w9uld be scudding under hare poles, riding out the gale in the face of the wind, or bearing clown full-bosoined on her death ; she never thought of can- vas torn to ribbons by the teeth of the raging east, of any (loomed apparItion; it was enough for her that she had seen a sail; whose sail hut the Falconers? Her boy would be here, then, to-night only to-night! she had known it all along. How he was to coin- pass it, she never askedthat was Sebastians business: he knew his own affairs. But as instantly as it came, the splendor of sunset was gone; and then the Christmas hells began to ring. They rang an hour; she listened to them with stretched ears ; they were used to strike upon the tingling air so keen and vibrant that the kindling stars seemed to be the sparks their contact struck; but, listen as she might to-night, the wind carried all their tones the other waythere came only a muffled sound of funeral feet, a jangle, a breath of music suffocating in the snow ; but by and by when it was time that they were done ringing out their heraldry of Clmri~tnias cheer to all the uproarious heavens, the deeper sound that had mingled with them still pealed ona low boom of a bell, a single tone, full of foreboding and fateso the great ships bell of some mighty Indianman, fixed fast upon the breakers and rolling with the onslaught of the serried waves, might have tolled and tolled the knell of all the souls on board. Elisabetta would not have tea brought in; so Nora had only drawn the curtains and brightened the fire, and then together they had taken out a stocking from a nook of the closet, and had gone up stairs and hung it from the lofty bed-post in Sebastians room; that it was Sebastians, no need to say; in the toe, fine lawn hand- kerchiefs, a wrought cigar-case, watch-guards and invisibles, hut, further up, the once-coveted turnover and bunch of Spanish grapes, and then a tiny toy violin, a long penny trumpet, a sugar clove, and a fluffy rabbit, a six-~~ei~i~y box of paints, and a little jointed doll reaching her arms over the top, like a preacher from the pulpit, haranguing on vanities; they laughed gleefully over their jest; they talked to each other about his waking in the night and his eye happening on its dun outline in the snow-lighted air, how he would reach forward, forgetfully and half bewilderedly, as if he had grown back to be a child again, and feel with one hand all down its length, and then relapse into sleep ; and how by the ELISABETTAS CHRISTMAS. Th early morning he would stir them with loud accordant blasts upon the tin truml)et and the violin; when they turned away they had enjoyed their little drama as if it had been an actual occurrence. As Elisabetta crossed the room to descend, she paused, by heaven knows what fatality, to arrange a toilet-cover, and as she did so , she stared full at herself in the mirrora thing she had not done before for years on Sundays a single sidelong glance had been more than enough for her. She had been thinking of Sebas- tian as her boy, naturally enough ; then, incidentally, of herself as hi~ fair young, brown-c yed mother. The rising of that aged, wrinkled, fhnged ud grizzly hag in the gla~s before her struck her such a blow as Death himselg rising in skeleton guise, with hour-glass and scythe, might have given. She leaned her two hands on the table and stared till every one of the hateful linca- ~nents was cut in upon her. She went down stairs with her h~ nds upon her heart, which had. been beating so i~erc~dy all day with the wddness of expectation. E!isabett, sat down before the fire, and wished that Bessie were there with her caresses, to assure her she was not so detestable; and then she mocked herself for desiring all that brilliance to be the ~oil of her withered yellowness. She suddenly asked herself what had become of the pale-faced xvoman, who once had a lover, an(I whose beautiful brown hair had fallen forward and veiled her chiLls fa~e on the day when his uncle e: me for himso unsel sh, ~hc bad forgot ten her, her whole life had been love for others; the tears fell fast now as she bemoaned her. And Sebasti n to come iciac to such a thing as this for his mother; he fresh from that enchanted land beyond the sea; his heart full of hope; his eyes of beauty, to be blasted with such a sight as she! That malevolent and disgustful facelook which way she would, she seemed to see it now. Ah ! what an awakening to him. lie never got that pic- ture. What a pang for him! Sh wished the sea were running over her headthe ice-cold, cruel sea, that was roaring so like a beast for its l)ieY. She went and pulled aside the curtain and looked cuta white viiderne~s of tempest swept by the black pana. What ailed all the lights to-night? Where was Pier head light that she was wont to see laying its beanis upon the water? Where the light of the Race, that wheeled from dark to dawn on its way, a star of many colors ? Where were the white channel lights ? Where the great golden sheet of the Bay Vue light? hind the thick and. deathly weather drowned them all? She dropped the curtain, caught another glimpse of herself in the darkened window-glass as she did so, an returned to her chair and to the train of mildew-like thought. Could Sebastian love such an object, she asked, its fearful head coming out of the breast? Could he care for her with any feel- in g hut compassion? Would he not loathe her before he could know ELISABETTAS CHRISTMAS. and understand that there was any good and tender worth beneath that horrid mask with its dewlap of a chin? It seemed to Elisa- betta that then, indeed, she had lost her child. She was sufferin keener agony than she had known in all those twenty years; her throat ached with the emotion ; there were pains in her heart as if a hand were tightening and tightening round it. She had a mis- trust, as much more terrible than that of the mother who, having surrendered her little child to the grave, fears lest the shiiiin., spirit it becomes under all the influences of heaven shall fail to take her for its own again, when, smirched with earth-soil and travel-stains, she once more stands before it, as the body is grosser than the soul. Oh, all this comfortable love that she had longed for, this support of her decaying years, had suddenly slipped away, and she tottered for some stay. Her eyes fell on the beautiful boys picture hanging high before her, with the firelight playing over it till it seemed as if curls stirred, lips trembled, eyes sparkled, smiles shifted on the canvas, and then came to her the injustice that sh did her child. Had he no remembrance, no faith, could he h ye failed to learn her loving heart when every week such a transcript; of it had always lain before him? If she wore the disguise of a devil, through it all would he not know his mother? Her he rt beat up and stifled her with thick, unwonted breathings, thus sud- denly she was so sure he would! Could he be any other now than the little child that first learned the meaning of life from her eyes? Ah, what a darling he was! Who had ever such a laughhow it began with a dimple, and rippled and rippled till the whole face broke up in glee! those eyesthey held heaven! that fragrant, downy cheek of hisif she could bury her mouth there now witi a thousand kisses! Never had mother such a child. Sometimes when he used to dance on her lap she had trembled and caught him to her bosom, fearing and fancying lest he should put forth wings and fly away like an angel. All at once, as the thoughts thronge. over her in a fever, she essayed to turn at a noise. Had some Que spoken? had the crow moved upon the perch and uttered the sonud that she had never dared to teach him? had some onu called her Mother? At that same moment there fell upon the turmoil and riot of th storm something like a blow commanding it to stillness. A dull, damp thud. A ship among the breakers, her gun bellowing for aid and bursting as it gave mouth. Every form in every house along the old sea-wall had started to its feetevery form hut one. The jetty, the causeway, the beach, were lined whh men and xvoinen struggling ngainst the weather, and shouting to one anothei~, amid the deafening fury of the night, in mighty voices that the mightiev wind forced down their throats ~gain. But Ehisabetta had not stirred. They cuuld guess the hulk impaled on the goring rock ELISABETTAS CHRiSTMAS. 77 just as she had dragged her anchors and drifted broadside on with the wind and tide; they could divine a single and broken mast re- maining, raking the horizon, rising with the long roll of the ocean as it thundered in npon her, and settling down again, everywhere packs of black, clamoring waves leaping upon her and over her, each bearing away new fragments, and all shaken by great shocks of sea that feathered her with foam. They saw dark objects cling- ing to the rigging; they heard a cry that rose ahove the scream of the elements, that rode upon the incoming of the wind and chilled the blood with terror. And then there was nothing more to see, save a league of rushing froth and blackness, and here and there, it might be, the head of a swimmer battling for the beach. Was he battling, this nearest one of all? or were the waves toss- ing him in on their shoulder~, lightly and swiftly, and with the feet to shore? \Vliy did that wall of emerald rear and pause, then slowly curl along its length into a crest of silver and shoot up the soft sand of Elisabettas cove as sweetly as if urged only by the rising tide? When it crept whisperingly down again it had left a lifeless shape upon the beach, face upward to the night; and the peol)lc flocking round it, who had learned the lines of all his like- nesses by heart, knew it for Sebastian. They lifted the man, drowned and dead, and carried him gently to his mothers house, which he might enter once again, a guest for so short a time. Elisabetta never noted their coming. She did not see the lanterns nor hear the voices. She was entertaining that presence that comes to none but once; and when they paused, and Bessie, whom they had summoned, with her yellow locks clustered wetly round her blanched face, went in before, she found Elisa- betta sitting no more alone, but gone to join her son. You think the story a sad one? A deaths head carried round the feast to admonish the revellers? That is because, rather than Gods best blessing, you hold as a dark evil the boon of death; because you do not hail the hand that, out of a cloud, opens the door into a condition of which this life is but the shadow; because you believe in your eyes which shell one day be dust in their sockets, and do not feel and know that unsubstantial sphere to 1)0 a more real one than this dissolving planet; because the crude de- lights of this rudimentary being seem to you s~veeter than all the hopes of eternity. You forget that now Elisabetta has her son, secure, inseparable, and heart to heart; that now the marred and miseral)ie flesh has fallen away, nd pure, and fresh, and free, ex- panding like a flower in full and fuller beauty under the delicate air of that new life, she leads on her child, thro ugh atmospheres of warmth, aiid love, and bliss, into the heart of that heaven where there is no more sea. HxrIuuT PuEscori Spovronn. BUHGOYNE IN A NEW LIGHT. NE of the most noticeable features of the present time is the interest manifested in historical investigation. For III ny years the historical societies of New York City and New England stood alone in this work. Within the past few years, however, societies of a similar nature have sprung up in diffQrent sections o~ the country, which, by their i~ivalry, have greatly stimnlate(i taste among Americans for historical research. Nearly every State now has a society devoted especially to putting into durable form for posterity its history, and many counties have, likewise, organi- zations for pieserving local history, which turn their knowledge over to the laryer societies of the States. The formation of these sooleties has already produced valuable rest Its, chief mono which is the exploding of no small number of statements tk t have hitherto i)een regarded as verities in history. Jane McCrea, dressed for her wedding, no longer receives the tomahawk in her brain while on her way to l~er~loveralthough the picture of the scene will doubt- less for a long while to conic be repeated in childrens pictorial reading books. The romance which Captain John Smith tells of having his brains saved by Pocahontas, and which every one used to read and take for gospei, conies, at least, very near to being dis- pelled in a clear and apparently exhaustive statement in the Nortl American for January, 1867. Nor does this stop hcre. If the case is made out, and Smiths mendacity is proved, niuch of th early history of Virginia will have to be revised. And yet hk story, with nothing to sustain it, and a strong neg~ tive evidence against it, has maintained its place in history for more than two centuries, and would, perhaps, still do so for many years to come but for the recent development of a taste for historical investiga- tion. The statement of Mr. Irving that the hessians bore the brunt of the battles of Stillwater and Saratoga is shown to be erroneous by several journals of erman officers recently published. Only one Hessian reginient was in those battles (the rest were in Long Island and in the Southern department), and that one bore no part whatever in the action, the Il3runswickers alone participating. Nor is it Aniericans only who have had their pet traditions rudely dispelled. European countries are beginning to have a similar ex- perience. Robin Hood and Will Sc~ rlet turn out to be but a couple of ragged, sorry knaves. William Tell, driven by persever- in g historical investigators from S xv itzerland further and further north, finally disappears in a rude Norse legend dating many

William L. Stone Stone, William L. Burgoyne in a New Light 78-86

BUHGOYNE IN A NEW LIGHT. NE of the most noticeable features of the present time is the interest manifested in historical investigation. For III ny years the historical societies of New York City and New England stood alone in this work. Within the past few years, however, societies of a similar nature have sprung up in diffQrent sections o~ the country, which, by their i~ivalry, have greatly stimnlate(i taste among Americans for historical research. Nearly every State now has a society devoted especially to putting into durable form for posterity its history, and many counties have, likewise, organi- zations for pieserving local history, which turn their knowledge over to the laryer societies of the States. The formation of these sooleties has already produced valuable rest Its, chief mono which is the exploding of no small number of statements tk t have hitherto i)een regarded as verities in history. Jane McCrea, dressed for her wedding, no longer receives the tomahawk in her brain while on her way to l~er~loveralthough the picture of the scene will doubt- less for a long while to conic be repeated in childrens pictorial reading books. The romance which Captain John Smith tells of having his brains saved by Pocahontas, and which every one used to read and take for gospei, conies, at least, very near to being dis- pelled in a clear and apparently exhaustive statement in the Nortl American for January, 1867. Nor does this stop hcre. If the case is made out, and Smiths mendacity is proved, niuch of th early history of Virginia will have to be revised. And yet hk story, with nothing to sustain it, and a strong neg~ tive evidence against it, has maintained its place in history for more than two centuries, and would, perhaps, still do so for many years to come but for the recent development of a taste for historical investiga- tion. The statement of Mr. Irving that the hessians bore the brunt of the battles of Stillwater and Saratoga is shown to be erroneous by several journals of erman officers recently published. Only one Hessian reginient was in those battles (the rest were in Long Island and in the Southern department), and that one bore no part whatever in the action, the Il3runswickers alone participating. Nor is it Aniericans only who have had their pet traditions rudely dispelled. European countries are beginning to have a similar ex- perience. Robin Hood and Will Sc~ rlet turn out to be but a couple of ragged, sorry knaves. William Tell, driven by persever- in g historical investigators from S xv itzerland further and further north, finally disappears in a rude Norse legend dating many BUltGOYNE IN A NEW LIGHT. 79 centuries back. The romantic story of the Maid of Orleans has, also, recently been tampered with; and, notwithstanding a late history of the ill.tted girl, two or three learned French antiquaries hare become convinced that the burning at the stake is a myth, and that the maiden, rescued at the stake, became a wife tnd mother, and that some of her descendants are now living in the south of France. There has recently appeared in Germany a history of the Ger. man Auxiliary Forces in the war of North American Independence, which illustrates this characteristic of the present age in a remark- able manner. This work, which is made up of some sixty hitherto unpublished manuscript journals and orderly-books written during the Revolution by Brunswick and Hessian officers, who served here during that time, throws a flood of light upon the period of our national history to which they refer, and especially upon the campaign of General Burgoyne. And while the evidence there presented dissipates, in a great measure, the halo which remoteness has thrown around the great generals of that periodblinding us to their deflciencesyet the errors that have hitherto obtained con- cerning that campaign are of such a serious nature as to justify an attempt to place before American readers the plain truth in relation to an event which, in its results, was the most important of any in our Reroluttonary annals. The campaign of General Burgoyne is to be ascribed more to his~ own blunders and incompetency than to any special military skill on the part of his conquerors. Up to the time that, having forced the evacuation of Ticonderoga, he took possession of Skeenshorough (Whitehall) all had gone well. From that point, however, his for- tunes began to wane. His true course would have been to return to Ticonderoga, and thence don Lake George to the fort of that name, whence there was a direct road to Fort Edward, instead of which he determined to push on to Fort Ann and Fort Edward over roads that were blocked up by the enemya course which gave Schuyler ample time to gather the yeomanry together and effectually oppose his progress. Nor was this all. On his ar.rival at Fort Ann, instead of advancing at once upon Fort Edward, and thence to Albany before Schuyler had time to concentrate his forces in his front, he sent a detachment of Brunswickers, under Colonel Baum, to Bennington to surprise and capture some stores which he had heard were at that place. General Riedesel, who commanded the German affies, was totally opposed to this diversion, but being overruled, he proposedthat Baum should march in the rear of the enemy, by way of Castleton, toward the Connecticut river. Had this plan been adopted, the probability is that the Americans would not have had time to prevent Baum from falling unawares upon their rear. Burgoyne, however, against the advice of Riedesel and 80 BURGOYNE IN A NEW LIGHT. Philips, insisted obstinately on his plan, which was that Baum should cross the Battenkill opposite Saratoga, move down the Con- necticut River in a direct line to Bennington, destroy the magazine at tha.t place, and mount the Brunswick dragoons, who were des- ignated to form part of the expedition. In this latter order a fatal blunder was committed, by ern~)loying troops the most awkward and heavy in an enterprise where everything depended on the greatest celerity of inovementwhile the rangers, who were lightly equipped, were left behind! Let us look for a moment at a fully-equipped Brunswick dra- goon as he appeared at this time. He wore high and heavy jack- boots, with large, long spurs, stout and stiff leather breeches, gaunt- lets reaching high up upon his arms, and a hat with a huge luft of ornamental feathers. On his side he trailed a tremcndous broad- sword a short but clumsy carbine was slung over his shoulder and down his back, like a Chinese mandarins, dangled a long queue. Such were the troops sent out by the British general on a service requiring the lightest of light skirmishers ! The latter, however, did not err from ignorance. From the commencement of the campaign, the Enolish officers had ridiculed these unwieldy troop- ers, who strolled about the camp with their heavy sabres dragging on the ground, saying (which was a fact) that the hat and sword of one of them were as heavy as the whole of an English prival cs equipment. But, as if this was not sufficient, these light dragoons were still further cumbered by being obliged to carry flour and (hive a herd of cattle before them for their maintenance oa the way. The result is easily foreseen. By a rapid movement of the Americans, Baum was cut off from his English allies, who fled and left him to fight alone with his awkwardly-equipped squad an enemy far sul)erior in numbers. After maintaining his ground for more than two hours, his ammunition gave out, and, being wounded in the abdomen by a ballet, he was forced to surrender, having lost in killed three hundred and sixty men out of four hundred. Yet, even with all these disadvantages, it is doubtful upon whose banners victory would have perched, had not l3urgoyne, though having ample time, failed to support Baum by keeping Breymans division too far behind. In justice to the British general, however, it should be stated that he was fair enough to acknowledge the bravery of the Germans in an order from headquarters on the 16th of August. With the failure of this expedition the first lightning flashed from Burgoynes hitherto serene sky. The soldiers, as well as their officers, had set out on this campaign with cheerful hearts, for, the campaign successfully brought to a close, all must end in the triumph of the royal arms. Britons never go back,~ Bar- goyne exultantly had said as the flotilla passed down Lake Chum- plain. Now, however, the Indians deserted by scores, and an BURGOYNE IN A NEW LIGHT. 81 almost general consternation and languor took the place of the previous confidence and buoyancy. Beyond Fort Edward the country was more thickly peopled with German, Dutch and English settlers. The latter, pretending to be goo 1 Royalists, were allowed by Burgoyne, against the strong representations of his officers, not only to carry their arms~ hitherto, but to stroll about the camp at their leisure and without any restr:~int. These men, however, says Riedesels journal, were all but Royalists. They consequently improved the opportunity to gaii intelligence of all the occurrences in the army by appearances, and they forthwith communicated to the commanders of the enemys forces that which they had seen and heard. having finally crossed the Hudson, those of the German dragoons that were left were horsed. Their number had now dwindled to twenty, and this number constituted the entire cavalry force of the invading army. Having chosen Schuylers house for his headquarters, Burgoyne, on the 15th of September, gave the order to advance in search of the enemy, supposed to be somewhere in the forest; for, strange as it appears, that general had no knowledge of the enemys position, nor had he taken ally pains to inform himself upon this vital point. The army, in gala dress, with its left wing resting on the Hudson, set off on its march with drums beating, colors flying, and their arms glistening in the sunshine of that lovely Autumn day~ It was a superb military spectacle, says an eye-witness, reminding one of a grand parade in the midst of peace. They pitched their camp that night at Swords house. On the following morning the ene~ mvs drums were heard calling the men to arms; hut, although in such close proximity, the invading army knew not whence the sounds came, nor in what strength he was posted. Indeed, it does not seem that up to this time Burgoyne hnd sent off patrols or scouting parties to discover the situation of the enemy. Now, how- ever, he mounted his horse to attend to it himselg taking with him a strong body guard, consisting of the four regiments of Spccht and ilesse-Hanan, with six heavy pieces of ordnance, and t~vo hundred workmen to construct bridges and roads. This was the party with which he proposed to scout, and, if occasion served these were his words to attack the rebels on the spot. This remarkable scouting party moved with such celerity as to accomn- plish two and a half miles the first day. The night of the 18th of September passed quietly. The patrols that had finally been sent out, returned without having seen any trace of the enemy. indeed, it is a noteworthy fact, that througW out the entire campaign Burgoyne was never able to obtain the least knowledge either of the position of the Americans or of their movements; whereas, all of his own plans were publicly known 82 BURGOYNE IN A NEW LIGHT. long before they were officially given out in orders. This is con- firmed by Mis. General Riedesel in hcr valuable ]etters from America. I observe, she writes at this time, that the wives of the oflicers (British) arc beforehand informed of all the military plans. riblis the Americans anUcipate all onr movements, and expect us wher- ever we arrive; and this, of course, injures our affairs. Finally, a further advance was again orderedau advance which pinclci~ee dictated should be made with the greatest caution. The army was now in the immediate vicinity of an alert and thoroughly aroused enemy, of whose strength they knew as little as of the country. Notwithstanding this, however, the army not only was divided into three columus, each marchin~ sevei.al uliie5 apart, but at ten oclock in the morning, a cannon, Tired as a signal for the advance, echoed through the still , green aisles of the primeval forest, informing the Americans of the position and the forward movement of the British. At length a sharp firing in the direction of the centre told the rear delayed by a broken bridgeof the proximity of the enemy. After waiting for some time in vain for orders from his commander- in-chief, Riedesel ordered his men to push forward to the snl)l)ort of their comrades ; but they had scarcely advanced six hundred paces when another bridge must be repaired. Finally, having removed this obstacle and beaten a path through the dense underbrush, they arrived at a cleared height, and beheld their comrades below iii an open l)lain, engaged iii a close centest with the Americans, who were themselves mostly concealed by a thick wood. The details of this action, known as the battle of Freemans Farm, need not here be recapitulated. It is suflicient for the present purpose to say; tlmat when Riedeselwhose timely arrival alone saved the allay from a total routhad for the moment repelled the Americans, and Fin- zer and Breyman were preparing to follow up the advantage, he was recalled by Bargoyne and reluctantly forced to retreat. General ~chuy1er, referrino to this in his diary, says IlIad it not been for this order of the British general, the Amnericans would have been if not defeatedat least held in such check as to have made it a drawn battle, and an opportunity afforded the British to collect much provision, of which he stood sorely in need. rrlie British of- ficers also shared the samne opinion. Frazer and Riedesel severely criticised the order, telling its author in plaimi terms, that he did not understand how to avail himself of his advamitages. Nor was this feeling confined to the officers. The piivates gave vent to their dissatisfaction against their general, in loud expressions of scorn as he rode down the line. This reaction was the more striking, because they had placed the utmost confidence in his capacity at the begin- ning of the expedition. They were, also, still more comlfirmne(l in their distike, by the general belief that he was addicted to drinking. Neither does this seem to have been owing to ami un willingness to BURGOYNE IN A NEW LIGhT. 83 fight, or a lack of esprit, for when, a few days subsequently, the men were reduced to one pound of meat, and the same aliO\Vance of bread per diem, they put up, says iRiedesel, with this, as also with all the fatiguing labors, duties, and night watches, with the greatest patience und perseverance. During the period of inaction which now intervened a part of I3urgoynes army, says the private journal of one of his officers, was so near the Americans that we could hear his morning and evening guns, his drums, and other noises in his camp very distinctly ; but we knew not in the least where he stood, nor how he was posted, much less how strong he was. Undoubtedly, naThely adds the journal, a rare ease in sueb a situation. however, it was supposed that the right wing of the Americans was on the side toward the valley but in order to settle this point, as well as to colleet forage for which the army was reduced to great straits, a reconnoissance in foree was determined on for the 7th of October. We pass over the details of this reconnoissaucewhich resulted in the (IC th of Frazer and the complete defeat of the Britishto the retreat that followed on the 8th, the same lack of judgment on the part of I3urgoyne is apparent. Had that general, as Riedesel and Phillips advised, fallen immediately hack across the hudson, and taken up his former position behind tlie Battenkill, not only would his communications with Lake George and Canada have been restored, but he could, at his leisure, have awaited the movements of Clinton. B argoyne, however, a little before daybreak on the morn- in g of the 9th, gave the order to halt, greatly to the surprise of his whole army. Every one, says the journal of Riedesel, was, notwithstanding, then of the opinion that the army would make 1)nt a short stand, merely for the better concentration of the army, as all sa v that haste was of the utniost necessity, if they would get out of the dangerous trap. At this time the heights near Saratoga were i)Ot yet occupied by the Americans, and up to seven oclock in the morning the retreating army might easily have reached that place, and thrown bridges across the Hudson. Burgoyne, however, thought otherwise, amid, against every expectation, gave time sur- prising order that the army should bivouac in two lines and await the (lay. Thus the precious moments, on which the lute of ami army, if not of an empire, depended, were squandered. Mr. Ban- crot~, seemingly with more charity toward the English commander than he has shown to several contemporaiieous American generals, ascribes tins delay to the fact that Burgoyne was still clogged with his artillery and baggage, and that the night was dark and the road weakened by rain. But according to the universal testi- mommy of all the manuscript journals extant, the road, which before this was sufficiently strong for the passage of the wagoas and bag- gage, becamiie, during the halt, so bad by the continued iaia that 84 BURGOYNE IN A NEW LIGHT. when the army again moved, at four oclock in the afternoon, it was obliged to leave behind the tents and camp equipage, which fell most opportunely into the hands of the Americans. Aside, boxy- ever, from this, it is a matter of record that the men, through their offi- cers, pleaded with Burgoyne to be allowed to proceed, not withstand- ing the storm and darkness; while the officers themselves, says Mis. Riedesel, pronounced the delay madness. But whatever were the motives of the English general, this halt lost him his army, and, perhaps, lost the British Crown her American colonies. In the night of the 10th the drenched army marched through Saratoga,* and attempted to cross the Hudson. It was now, how- ever, too latethe river was already guarded ; and, wading the Fishkill with the water shoulder deep, they bivouacked in a wretched position on its opposite bank. The army, having a(lvanced hut a short distance from their first camping place of the preceding night, were still more astonished at this new delay, and again requested to be allowed to push on. Burgoyne, however, would not, permit it; and while the nrmy were suffering from cold and hunger, and every one was looking forward to the immediate future with apprehei~- Sioli, the illuminated mansion of General Schuyler, says the Brunswick journal, rang with singing, laughter, and the tinkling of glasses. There Burgoyne was sitting, with some merry com- panions, at a dainty supper, while the champagne was flowing. Near him sat the benutithl wife of an English commissary, his mis- tress. Great as the calamity was, the frivolous general still kept up his orgies. Some were even of opinion that he had merely made that inexcusable stand for the sake of passing a merry night. Riedesel thought it his duty to remind his general of the danger of the halt, but the latter returned all sorts of evasive answers. This statement is corroborated by Mis. Riedesel, who also adds: The following day General Burgoymie repaid the hospitable shel- ter of the Schuvler mansion by burning it, with its valuahle bains arid mills, to the ground, under pretence that he might be better able to cover his retreat, but others say out of mean revenge on the American general. rrhe golden moment, howevei, had fled. The followino mornino the 10th, it was discovered that the Americans already occupied the Battenkill on the opposite bank of the Hudson, while Staik, with txvo thousand men, held the river at Foit Edwaid. Thus hemmed in and completely invested on all sides, the amticles of ca- pitiilation were signed by the respective chiefs of the two armies on the 1 7th of Octobem; and the same day the Bmitish marched out of camp and laid down their arms. The victory was complete. The reader must bear in mind that this is not ~he Saratoga watering place of modwr days, but the old toxvn of Saratoga, upon tire margin of the Hudson River, rendered famous by the massacre of its people in 1745. BURGOYNE IN A NEW LIGHT. 85 W~ have entered into the campaign of General Burgoyne with some minuteness, that we may learn from it a lesson of charity in judging of the conduct of our generals during the late civil war. Seen through the glamour of tradition, our Revolutionary generals on both sides seem to be demigods, whom it has been wor3e than sacrilege to criticise adversely. 1f however, a comparison be instituted between this campaign, conducted by one of the greatest generals of his age, and those undertaken to subdue the Rebellion, it will appear that in all that constitutes military skill and general- ship, the advantage, notwithstanding our hasty and harsh criticisms at the time, is greatly in favor of the latter. Nor will this state- ment lose in force when it is remembered that most of our officers and men in the late conflict consisted of raw and undisciplined militia, whereas those who composed the army of Burgoyne were veteran troopsthe flower of the English and German armies trained in many a hard-fought battle on the plains of Flanders. The avcrnge march of our armies was thirteen miles a day through forests and fallen timber as impenetrable as any that opposed the progress of the English. Burgoynes average march was three and a half miles a day; more frequently one mile; and it was considered a very respectable feat if he made two miles. Yet we all remember the impatience with which we denounced our own armies for what seemed the slowness of their movements. If we were horror-struck when, after the first battle of Bull Run, the Quaker guns~ deceived the commander-in-chief, several miles off, as to the situation and force of the enemy, what shall be said of a general who, posted so near his opponents lines as to hear the ordinary noises of a camp, knew absolutely nothing of his strength or position? Nor does the parallel end here. The reader will recall the deep chagrin among, the loyal masses when it was ascertained that everything occurring. within our lines was at once known to the enemy, who thus antici- pated every movement, while to us all of their plans were as a sealed book. It was then that, in our anguish, we were wont to hold our generals directly responsible for a state of things which, it was claimed, they might easily have prevented, forgetting that precisely the same experience attended Burgoyne durin~ hi~ entire campaigna circumstance, moreover, rendered additionally sur~ prising from the fact that the army of the British general was. composed, in a large measure, of fbreigners speaking a strange tongue, whereas the Union and Confederate armies were connected by the closest ties of kindred. Indeed, a calm, dispassionate review of that which was accom- plished in our late civil struggle, tested by the performances of our Revolutionary characters, cannot fail to bring out in strong and. favorable relief the exploits of our more recent military heroes. WILLIAM L. STONE. 6 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. B~ MRS. EDWARDS, Author of Archie Lovell. CHAPTER XXXIJ. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. lOVE, they say, cannot exist Without jealousy. Can jeal- Id ousy exist, I Wonder, Without love? This Dora Law- rence asked herself one drizzling December evening as she stood by the parlor window of Asheot, playing dreary tunes, her usual occupation, on the glass, and looking out across the wet, leafless garden for Stevens return from hunting. Can jealously exist without love? Doras Was not a mind given in a general way to the solution of nice psychological difficulties, but this question was one which, during the past fortnightthe fortnight that had elapsed since Katharines returnshe had put to herself pretty frequently. The fact is, I suppose, there are different sorts of jealousy; she went on in her thoughts, after crossing to stir the fire and look at herself in the unflattering, dull old glass over the mnntel~shelf; then returning more drearily than before to her watch beside the window; and what I feel is a remote variety, not following the general laws of the species. A woman who was jealous in the good orthodox fashion would be jealous under any circumstances. I should not. If I had amuse- ments, if I had friends, I should be grateful to any one Tho would keep Steven away five or six hours a day and then send hini back in a better temper in the evening! Im jealousif it is jealousy just because I hate other people to be amused and me not. La laam I bad? Am I wicked at heart? Is it much to want my little bit of distraction, my little bit of pleasure when all the rest of the world are amusing themselves without me? And as Dot leaned her head against the window, heavy tearsfor she was not en toilettehad no complexion this afternoonbegan to roll slowly down her miserable face. Five oclock came but no Steven; and about ten minutes after the usual time old Barbara, unbidden, brought in candles and tea. Dot was seated by the fire now; her little figure curled up in the solitary arm-chair the room possesseda huge structure, affording no available rest either for the back or headwith her face buried down in her hands. She looked up, white as a ghost, and with her dark eyes looking darker and bigger than usual, at the old servant.

Mrs. Edwards Edwards, Mrs. Steve Lawrence, Yeoman 86-122

STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. B~ MRS. EDWARDS, Author of Archie Lovell. CHAPTER XXXIJ. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. lOVE, they say, cannot exist Without jealousy. Can jeal- Id ousy exist, I Wonder, Without love? This Dora Law- rence asked herself one drizzling December evening as she stood by the parlor window of Asheot, playing dreary tunes, her usual occupation, on the glass, and looking out across the wet, leafless garden for Stevens return from hunting. Can jealously exist without love? Doras Was not a mind given in a general way to the solution of nice psychological difficulties, but this question was one which, during the past fortnightthe fortnight that had elapsed since Katharines returnshe had put to herself pretty frequently. The fact is, I suppose, there are different sorts of jealousy; she went on in her thoughts, after crossing to stir the fire and look at herself in the unflattering, dull old glass over the mnntel~shelf; then returning more drearily than before to her watch beside the window; and what I feel is a remote variety, not following the general laws of the species. A woman who was jealous in the good orthodox fashion would be jealous under any circumstances. I should not. If I had amuse- ments, if I had friends, I should be grateful to any one Tho would keep Steven away five or six hours a day and then send hini back in a better temper in the evening! Im jealousif it is jealousy just because I hate other people to be amused and me not. La laam I bad? Am I wicked at heart? Is it much to want my little bit of distraction, my little bit of pleasure when all the rest of the world are amusing themselves without me? And as Dot leaned her head against the window, heavy tearsfor she was not en toilettehad no complexion this afternoonbegan to roll slowly down her miserable face. Five oclock came but no Steven; and about ten minutes after the usual time old Barbara, unbidden, brought in candles and tea. Dot was seated by the fire now; her little figure curled up in the solitary arm-chair the room possesseda huge structure, affording no available rest either for the back or headwith her face buried down in her hands. She looked up, white as a ghost, and with her dark eyes looking darker and bigger than usual, at the old servant. STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 87 Theres no good bringing tea yet. Your master is out as usual. You know very well I wouldnt begin without him. ~ l3arbara set down the candles and the tea-tray; stood for a minute erect and silent; then cleared her throat, twice, thrice, and came over the room to Doras side. My dear, she said, dontee fret! Steven didnt ought to leave you as he does, and I mean to tell him so. Ive baked some hot cakes, such as you like, and done you a bit of ham on the grill, and doee sit up and make a good tea. There was never a man yet brought home quicker by his wifes keeping au empty stomach and worriting after him. If the kitchen clock had suddenly broken out into words of human sympathy Dot could scarcely have been more taken aback than by the sound of Barbaras voice, speaking to her in kindness. What should she know of that old hearts passionate love, and pas- sionate jealousy? How guess that in pitying her, Stevens neglected wife, Barbara was but joining issue against the ~voman whom she looked upon as the common enemy of bothKatharine Fane? I am sure I dont feel as if I could cat, said Dot with a gulp; but at that moment the odors of hot cakes and broiled ham came in from the kitchen, and she got doxvn out of her chair. This damp weather makes me hoarser than ever, andand my head aches. I dont think I shall ever know what it is to feel well again! She did in truth look desperately ill at this moment; as many women, whose good looks depend upon art, do, when art chances to be laid aside. Barbara looked at her long and steadily. Mrs Steven, sail she, when I first heard of Stevens marryingyes, and when I first seen you here, and no more suited to farm ways than I should be to sit up on a sofy alongside the Squires lady my heart was set Set against me! cried Dora, as she hesitated. I am sure you neednt mind speaking the truth. I am getting to see pretty well how much everybody at Ashcot cares for me! Well, I knew that my poor boy had done a foolish tbing by marrying out of his class and out of his religiontheres the truth and I showed it. You did! cried Dora. And nownow, Mrs. Steven, went on Barbara, with a quiver of the lip, I say, wherever the fault was before marriage, the fault of your unhappiness now will lie at Stevens door! What business has he riding here ~nd there, to hounds one day, coursing the next at the side of those who should blush to see him thereand you, not married two months, alone, fretting by yourself In our class of life weve no soft words for those who come in between man and wifebut the gentrys waysthe gentrys ways. said Barbara, 88 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. with rising passion, are different to ours in most things, as the Lawrences have found to their cost before this! Mrs. Lawrence bit her lip and looked steadily down at the faded pattern of the carpet. The surface comedy, not the hidden pathos of every situation of human life, was always what really impressed Dot vividly; and she had all the trouble in the world not to laugh at this moment. She, Dora Fane, listening to virtuous homilies from old Barbara! Dora Fane pitied, as a wife whose heart was breaking over a faithless husbands neglect! Mechanically, Mrs. Lawrence passed her fingers down over her pocket to make sure that two letters, which had reached her by the mornings post, were lying safe there. I couldnt hear a word against Steven, and I dont know who the other person is you speak of. He rode to the meet with the Squire and Miss Fane to-day. Of course, if I was strong, I would like to ride too, but Im not strong, andand I could never wish Steven to be in better company than my Uncle Frank and my dear cousin Katharine. She said this with as pretty an air of self-sacrifice as can be imagined, and Barbaras stern heart softened more and more. Youll never be strong, she said, as long as you mope indoors by yourself and dont breathe the air from one weeks end to another, and so Ill tell Steven to-night. Why dont he set up a pony shay and drive you about a bit, as his Uncle Joshua used his wife? cried Barbara, forgetting, probably, the unending source of strife which that very pony shay had been between herself and Mrs. Joshua. Oh, Im sure I dont want any fresh expense incurred for me, said Dot, modestly. Perhaps, if we had a pony carriage, it would bore Steven to have to drive me in it. What would do me good, I think, and not cost much, she gave a quick look at Barbaras face, would be a little changethat is, I mean if Steven thought it right to leave the farm. It would be hard to say what Steven does think right now, said Barbara, with a solemn shake of the head, as she walked off out of the parlor. But he shall hear my mindhe shall hear my mind! This Dora overheard as the old womans firm, heavy step went down the passage. Those whom God hath put to- gether here the welcome sound of crackling fat told Dora the ham was coming off the fire, and the rest of the quotation was lost. And not all the gentry in England shall hinder me from telling Steven what I think of him, ayeand of her, too! A minute later the hot scones and ham, with extra good tea and extra thick cream, were set upon the table, and poor Mrs. Law- rence, considering the state of her delicate throat and of her wounded affections, managed to make a really admirable high tea. STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 89 I tried so hard to eat, she said, when Barbara took away the empty plates. Mr. Lawrence may not be home for hours, and I dontwanthimtoflndmemorefaintandweariedthanlcanhelp when he does come. While these things went on in his household, Steven was riding slowly some through the lanes at Miss Panes side. I have said that it was a raw December evening. The sky was overcast; the air charged wit moisture; the roads were ankle-deep in mud; the bare trees dripping and forlorn. But a raw December evening, like most other things or seasons, takes its coloring mainly from the prism through which human eyes view it. To Dot, alone at the farmhouse window, with her own thoughts (and a new-gotten letter worse than her thoughts) tbr companionship, no sky had ever been so black, no world so unutterably, hopelessly full of gloom as the sky and the world she looked at to.day. To Steve; after a first-rate ran, with the glow of animal heat and spirits in his veins, with Katharines face beside him in the twilight, the world, for this short half-hour, was well nigh as bright a world again as it had been under the sunshine of June. What had he to do with Miss Pane now? What hope could stirin his heart at being near Lord Petres future wifehis own waiting for him with poor childish babble, with unsympathetic voice, at home? What did Miss Pane feel for him but pitying toleration as her cousins hue- band? What but madness could make him haunt her as he did; mindless of all past misery she had wrought him; rewarded for twenty-four hours by the touch of her friendly hand, the good morning of her friendly voice? Well, Steven Lawrence was madloved Katherine Pane still, you seethere is the answer. Hehadtoridebackwithherto theDene this evening,for the squires horse had fallen lame early in the run, and out of the dozen men who volunteered to her home, Miss Pane, naturally, had chosen her cousin Stevenso she called himfor an escort. Scarce- ly twenty sentencesnone for very certain that would bear record- ingpassed between them as they rode along. No man living was more profoundly ignorant than Steven of the art of conversation. Unless he spoke the truthwhich, while he lived, he mitat never speak to Katharine Pane-he held his peace. But titers is the si- lence that comes from having nothing to say: the silence that comes from having too much: and, perhape, this last is as eloquent as any speech we know of To Katharine at all events those rutty lanes, that long expanse of common leading from Stout- mouth to Clithero had never seemed so short as to-night She had got back much of her bodily strength during the last fortnight, which showed that her own system of tonics was a good one; that Brighton life, and want of exercise and thinking of herself and her own troubles, had been mostly to blame forher white cheek And 00 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOiIAN. as for spiritswell, throughout all this portion of her life Katha- rine Fane never gave herself time to think whether her spirits were good or bad. She got up the second that her eyes were open in the inornin g; went with a sort of feverish zeal through her usual du- ties at the school house and in the parish; walked, rode, dutifully visited poor little Dot at Asheot, saw Steven Lawrence on the kind of terms she would have done had he been her brother; and when night came was sure of sleep through sheer bodily fi tigue. Arc you trying to kill yourself; Kate? her mother asked her more than once, when, in spite of rain and wind and early snow, Katha rine would appear of a morning in her h bit and hat as usual. And, not myself, mamma, was Katharines answer, I am not trying to kill myself; but a moping laziness which took possession of me awhile since, and which I am determined shall die. Leave nie alone, mamma dear. When my enemy is dead and buried, Ill stop quietly at home, and do worsted work, and sing songs and be ilk other people again. Well, to-night the enemy was slain, or so she began to think The horrible distaste for life which used to overcome her in Brighton was gone; so much at least was clear. She was living on terms of good will with Steven; meeting him daily; wishing, God knows, to see him happy in his home, and to be his friend and Doras! And the Wintry smell from the purple-brown fields had never seemed so fresh to her, or the way home, through the rutty lanes, or across Stourmouth common so short! Of course the enemy was slain. A pure, new affection, such as she might have felt if heaven had given her a brother bad replaced the feeling which had diedwhich should have died! on Stevens wedding day; and Steven; oh, Steven was happy enough; no doubt of that! Were men like wo- men in their capacity of remembering? Her imagination had led her astray just at first about his life being paralyzed. His farm and his horses and his gun filled Stevens heart, and it was well so. I The enemy was slain, the requiem chanted, and both had come back to the prosaic, well-beaten road of life along which men and women do walk contentedly when the first Summer days are past; the first roses, with their blossoms and their thorns, plucked and dead. They rode silently up the avenue to the Dene, and into the stable yard. The head groom was away; only one of the stable-lads and Katharines great setter pup came out in the d~ rkness to me them; and for the first time it fell to Steven to help Miss Fane t dismount. Oh, thanks, I can jump down very well by myself; cried Kath- arine, as he came up to her side. I am quite accustomed to mount. and dismount alone. Saying this she disengaged her foot hastily from the stirrup, gathered her habit together in her hand, then, STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 91 either from the horse swerving, or from the puppy springing up to greet her, or both, missed her balance and, but for Steven, would have fallen heavily to the ground. He caught her; he held her up ia his arms, one second, not longer than a groom would have held his mistress if he had saved her from falling. But in that second Katharine Fane knew that the enemy the enemy wrho was slain; over whose grave the requiem was chant- edbad come back to life. With a hurried good night, a hurried shake of the hand, she ran past him into the house; and Steven, after lingering to see a light shine from an upper window that he knew, rode away home to Ashcot, and to his wife. Old Barbara met him at the kitchen door. lie was splashed from head to foot; his handsome face glowed with health, and something more than health; and lie was whistling. Yes, thought Bar- bara, a man leading such a life as his whistling. The old wo- mans face was solemn as a church-yard slab. She raised up a can- dle and surveyed him up and down with cold scrutiny. You are here at last, then, she said. Yes, said Steven, with perfect good humor, I am here, not killed this time, you see, Barbara. Barbara coughed dryly. Im never afeard but youll take care of yourself, Stevenof yourself, and of your own pleasures! If you looked a little after others, too, youd do well Im thinking. Heres Mrs. Steven been fretting herself till shes sick, and no wonder. Your wife is sick, Steventheres the long and short of itand its ill of you to be riding and gallanting after other folks, and her sick at home, and so I tell you. Riding, gallanting after other folks? cried Steven, the blood rushing hotly to his face. What, in Gods name, are you talking about? I didnt expect such nonsense from you, Barbara! Must a man leave off in the middle of a long run because he happens to have left a wife at home, or what? A man should remember, whether hes on horseback or afoot, that he has a wife at home, said Barbara, undaunted. You chose her, and you did wed her, Steven, and I say its no mans part to neglect her now. Just at this juncture the parlor door opened, and Steven, Steven! have you come at last? sounded faintly in Dots voice; attuned to that plaintive minor, the like of which the hearts of most mar- ried men have had occasion to respond to in their lives. With his conscience pricking him horribly, Steven went forward to meet her. Im really not fit to come near you my love, he cried, Im mud all overthe country was never in such a stateand, and I hope Dora you have not waited tea for me. Illjnst run and change my clothes and 92 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. Oh dear, not for my sake! cried Dora, going back to the fire. Jts my bed-time, I shant be up ten minutes longer. After sitting alone all day long Im sure one has not heart to care whether peo- ples clothes are covered with mud or not. She sat down very upright indeed, in the tower of an arm chair, and stared disconsolately at the fire. Steven pushed to the door, shutting out the distant thunders of Barbaras voice, and came across the room to his wifes side. Dora, he said, after lookin g down at her white face for a minute or two, Im sorry I left you alone so long. It wont happen ngain. It was the best run we have had this season, and the Squires horse unfortunately fell lame, and I had to take your cousin back to the Dene. If it hadnt been for that I should have been here an hour ago, or more. Dot smilcd; the most unpleasant smile Steven thought, he had ever seen on her face. What a bore for you! Ilow you must have anathematized Uncle Frank and his horse in your hearts. both of you. Steven, perfectly abruptly this, I wonder how you would like it, I wonder what you would say, if I went on as you do? Steven did not answer. The suddenness of the attack left him, as his wife intended it should do, no time to collect his thoughts. Of course, I know that the world makes one rule for men, and another for women, went on Dot; but you dont belong, or pr& tend not to belong, to the world, and I ask you, on your conscience, what you would think if any man was to run after me; spend the same number of hours with inc daily, as you do with Katharine? Dear Kate is perfectly blameless, cried Mrs. Lawrence quickly; warned, perhaps, by some rising expression round the corner oI Stevens lips. She likes riding and hunting, and no doubt finds you a pleasanter companion than Uncle Frank. Kate is my best friend, and I hate myself for feeling a little jeajealous! Dot hid away her face, but I cant help it, and I know you never loved me! and Ive been alone, holding out her hand to him, eight hours and twenty minutes. Oh Steven, Steven! The big manly heart of Steven Lawrence was overoome in an in- stant. He never thought of defending himself he felt with shame and contrition that he was guilty; and Doras skilful generosity in withdrawing blame from Katharine had disarmed him on the one point where he might have found strength. Ive been selfish to leave you, Dora. My poor, foolish little Dora! to think you should have fretted for me, though. As ifwhy my dear, what can you have to be jealous of now? He knelt down at her side, and Dora put her arms round his neck and kissed him. Barbara, marching sternly in just then with sup- per for her master, found them so; and was remindedlong after- STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 93 ward that likeness haunted herof a certain picture of Samson and Delilah in the family Bible. As an ally, stronger than all others against Katharine Pane, she had joined issue with Stevens wife an hour before; yet had she never liked, never trusted her so little as at this moment. Poor Barbaras ignorant love, you must remember, was that of a mother for her first-born; and such love is apt to be prophetic in its intui- tions. CHAPTER XXXIII. DORA CONQUERS. Fon the economy of the plan I undertake to answer, said Dora. Five hundred francs, twenty pounds a month, for an apartment in the Champs Elys6es, is ludicrouslysimply ludicrously cheap! and living, if one knows what one is about, can be reduced to a mere nothing in Paris. Doras husband opened his eyes wide. Oh! I know what you mean, Steven, cried Mrs. Lawrence; we flai~g money away when we were there. I suppose people always do when they are first marriedthat extravagant English hotel! those preposterous wines! table dhdte dinners every day! best places at the theatre! Now, if we were living there alone in an apartment, just see the difference. We have our coffee in the niorning, a little dish (I could dress it myself), with a glass of com- mon wine at noon, a simple dinner at six; and then, as people of our means ought, go to a cheap place at the theatreif, indeed, we felt ourselves justified in going to theatres at all. I could keep our living there to a less sum, actually less, than it costs us here at Asheot, and it seems to me that anything in the world is better than spending ones money on doctors bills. But, of course, you will do as you like, added Dot, with resignation. I tell you of the offer I have got, and now it rests with you, dearest, to accept or reject it. Stevens supper was over; and Dora, with a great deal of nub nmtion on her face, was kneeling dutifully beside him while he smoked his last pipe beside the fire. You know who Grizelda Long is? she went on, as Steven remained ominously silent on the subject of Parisian happiness and Parisian economy. The poor girl was one of our bridesmaidsdont you remember? I remember, said Steven, no girls except your cousin and the Miss Ducies. There was an ill-favore elderly woman. That was Grizelda! that was Grizelda ! cried Dora, clapping hem hands with friendly exultation. Poor dear timing, she cer- taimily is not pretty, and I dont pretend to care for her, Steven, but 94 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. shes the most obliging creature living. Now, just let me read you a bit of her letter. Youll feel differentlyI know you willwhen you hear what she says about the apartment. Mrs. Lawrence put her hand into her pocket, drew forth an en- velope bearing a French stamp and postmark ; then leaning for- ward, so that her husband might look over her shoulder, if he chose, took out the sheet of foreign paper it contained, and began to read aloud My ownmy ever dear Dora. So the letter began; and Steven, little as the deciphering of handwriting was his forte, could not but see the words. IIgood gracious! I must have put my letters into the wrong envelope ! This is not Grizeldas. Dots face fired crimson, and she crushed the letter hastily back into her pocket. Au here it is, to be sure. How dreadfully stupid I am getting in my old age, Steven. And who is My own, my ever dear Dora from, then? said Steven, looking steadily at his wife. Youve been talking about jealousy, Dora. Suppose I was to become suddenly jealous, and say I insisted on reading that letter through? The tone of his voice was jesting, but there was a look about his mouth that Dot did not likejust a shadow of the look that she had first seen that day when he spoke of Dawes dishonesty, and of his own lynch notions respecting the administration of jus- tice. You may read anythingeverything I possess, Steven, I am sure! and as she said this, Dot moved away nearer to the fire, and the small hand farthest from her husband closed tightly over the letter in her pocket. My o waever dear Dora is from our dear old governess, Miss Hayes, who, as it chances, is also in Paris just now. She writes like a man, both in handwriting and style, said Steven laconically. I didnt know women were ever so afibetion- ate in their way of addressing each other. Oh! dear, yes! listen to Grizelda, cried Dora, unfolding the second letter, with self-possession thoroughly restored, Grizelda who has not spoken to me a dozen times in her life, and who, I know cant really like me My dearest Dora: It affords me the greatest pleasure possible to be of a little use to you and your husband. I must confess I wrote to her, Steven. I thought as the Phantom was in Paris there could be no harm in setting her to find out about prices whether we went or not. Such apartments as you require are very hard, al- most impossible, to get; but by a most singular chance, I believe I could at this moment put you into exactly what you want. My great friends, the Honorable Mr. and Mrs. Dynevor poor old Gil- STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 05 zelda, and her honorables ! are obliged, by clear Lord Eastineaths death, to go to Dublin, and are willing to let their apartments for the remainder of the term, two months, at a nominal rent. I have pre- vaileci on them to let the matter stand over till I get your answer, and in great haste, and with affectionate love to Miss Fane when YOU see her, and remembrances to Mr. Lawrence, I am, dearest Dora, your attached friend, GJZIZELDA LONG. P. 5.The Dynevors ask the ridiculous price of five hundred francs a month! Entresol, sunny side of the Champs Elys6cs; everything very small, but large enough for two people and a ]& ~ench servant. Of course, you bring your own plate and linen. G. L. And now, Steven, cried Dora, I put it to you, honestly, is the offer tempting or is it not? It is not at all tempting to me, said Steven, laying down his pipe, and looking straight before him into the fire. We spent six times as much as we ought when we were in Paris the last time, and, as far as I could see, got very poor enjoyment for our money. Dot made him a little mock reverence, and smiled. A humid red thanks for the compliment! You are speaking of our honeymoon, my dear. I am speaking of Paris, said Steven, and I believe if we had gone to any other place on earth I should have liked it better. If you really want change you shall have it, he went on. Ill take you for a week to Ramsgate, anyxvhere you like, but dont speak of Paris. Paris isnt suited to our means or to me. Twenty pounds a month may seem ridiculously cheap to your friend, Miss Long. I call it ridiculously dear. At all events, it is a vast deal more than I can afford, or than I mean to pay. Then the thing is settled, said Dora,with the corners of her mouth twitching. As to Ramsgate, I thank you! I would rather take to my room, and remain there all the Winter, than go to Ramsgate. The thin~ is settled. I am illI believe my left lung is seriously affected. I get thinner and my cough gets worse every day, and I thought Paris would set me upand we have an offer, whatever you may say, of extraordinary reasonable lodgin~s there. Of course, if you cant afford it, I say no more. I am not consifited in the housekeeping expenses, therefore you must excuse me for my ignorance of your means. Two hunters in the stable certainly dont give one the idea of extreme poverty. Im obliged to keep horses for the farm, said Steven. Be- sides, I ride to sell, as you know. The chestnut is as good as sold to Lord Haverstock at this moment. ~ And when the chestnut is gone? I am thinking of buyin~ that gray filly of Mills, if I find shes up to my weight. He is only asking forty sovereigns for her, and 90 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. Forty sovereigns! interrupted Dora. The exact sum ic- quired for two months hire of my poor little apartment! And before the season was a quarter over Id engage to sell her again for eighty, said Steven. You dont understand, Dora. Horse-dealing, in a small way, is part of my business, and fbr my horses to be seen I must ride them. Tis a business, he went on, that my father and grandfather, and every one belonging to mnxr name, have tried their hand at, and none of us made a bad thing ni it yet. Business! said Dot, with a flash of her great eyes. Won- derfully pleasant business, I must say! To go for my he~ lth to Paris would be very insipid, compared to the business of hunt- ing, as well mounted as any man in Kent, at Katharine Fanes side! Katharine Fane! cried StevenI regret to add with an angry expletive closely following cant you leave her name alone ? What has she to do with this senseless scheme about going to Paris? Everything, said Dot, calmly; all her good temper returnng at the sight of Stevens anger. Or, rather, she has everything to Jo with the senseless scheme not being carried out. I am not play- ing at jealousy, Steven, and you are not playing at admir~ tion of mv cousin ! When you first offered to marry me you told me you had loved her as well as a man could love a woman so frr above him in rank; that there were things impossible to get over in a day, et cet~a; but that you would try honestly to give me the first place in your heartand so I accepted you. Steven put his hand up, wearily, across his forehead. So I accepted you, went on Dot, thinking, out of self-respect alone, that you would treat me with consideration when I was yonr wifeI who, at least, had never despised, never misled you! Here another exclamation not worthy, alas ! to be recorded, broke from Stevens lips. Ah! its very well to be violent, very well to use language like that, said Dora. I say Jam right, and that I have justica on my side. Why, your own servant, little as she likes me, pities me, and condemns your goings on and the way you leave me here alone. However, Ill say no more to you, Steven. Ill tell Kate, who has been good to me always, what I suffer, and ask her to have pity on me. Steven grasped hold of her wrist with sudden passion. Do you know what you are talking about? he exclaimed. Do you know what you mean when you threaten to expose this absurd dis- cussion to your cousin ? Dora came a little nearer to her husband again, and looked down, nothing daunted, into his eyes. My dear, she said, dont hurt STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. (37 incmy poor little wrists havent much muscle in thcm ! and just me a 1ilain, straightforxvard answer, pleasc, to what Pm going GiVe to ask von. 112 re you got over your old dream about Katharine? Is it natural that I should like you to be with her, and away from mc, every day and all day long of your life? Iwe spoke of this when I came in, said Steven, and I prom- ised that I would remain at home with you more. You forgave iae freely, remember, Dora. I looked upon the story as finished. Ab, if it could only be so ! said Dora, with a sigh. But Im afraidIm afraid there are some stories that are never quite finished while we live! She drew her hand from his, then stole it round his neck again. Im no good; Ive no place in the world, she sobbed. Why do I fret at being ill? Why dod want Paris, or any other place, to set me up? Ill stop here alone, dear Stevenhere at Asheotand never ask for a change, and nev er,if I can help it, be selfish or jealous about your amusements again 1 She cried, great tears like a childs running down her cheeks for two or three minutes. At last, How soon is this apartment to be vacant? asked Steven. His voice was changed. He felt really touched, really conscience-stricken by her sudden outburst of resigna- tion. Ive been thinking, Dot, that, some way or another, Ill manngc for you to have it. Perhaps we might contrive so that I neednt be with you the whole time? Oh dear, yes, cried Dot, readily. That is, you know, if you were really wanted on the farm. And we must do what we can to make uV afterward for the expense. If you think Paris will do you good, my dear, you shall go there, I promise you. Dearest Steven !therell be no expense as regards dress, for, of course, Ive got all my wedding things not worn. What will the Ducies say? ill write and ask how soon we can have the rooms to-night. Oh, I do feel in such spirits already! The tears were on her cheeks still. Well go by Havrewhat does sea- sickness matter? Its the cheapest way, and I mean to save every shilling that I can. We neednt have a regular servant; a char- woman at fifteen sons a day xvould be quite enough, with my knowl- edge of cooking. So lucky, Grizelda Long is to be in Paris for the Winter, isnt it? Very lucky, said Steven, absently; and your other friend, Miss Hayes, too. Oh, as to Miss 1-layes, said Dot, a good deal of color coming into her face again at the mention of her old friends name, I dont really care much about herindeed she will most likely have left before we get there. Our friendship is a thing of the past. I shant want society, you know, Steven. To walk about in the 98 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. bright air will be enough for me, and to visit the galleries and places of interest with you, dear. Steven thought silently of the galleries and places of interest they had wearied through during their honeymoon; and in a few minutes time Dot (singing and jumping, ia spite of her thiity years, like a child who had been promised a holiday) ran up stairs, and he was left alone. The first great contest, the first real struggle for power, was over, he felt, between himself and his wife; and his wife had conquci-ed. It was well that she had done so! Rigidly taking himself to task as he sits here, still in his splashed hunting-clothes, staring with moody face into the fire, Steven feels that he has been disloyal to Dot~a, to the only heart that beats for him, that belongs to him in the world. All the free-lance morality, the tawdry Don Juan doctrines of the school of Mr. Clarendon Whyte are unknown to poor, ill-educated Steven. He is no betterfeels himself to be no betterthaa other men; is passionate, easily beset by tempta- tion, weakly prone to fall. But he is narrow-minded enough to hold sternest unflinching opinions concerning honesty and justice and the knowledge that he loved Katharine Fanefollows her, dreams of her, thrills at the touch of her handcomes over him at this moment, accompanied by a sense of something very like dis- honor. He looks back to his treatment of Dora from the hour of their marriage till this; knows that he has never loved her; knows with what automatic kindness he has sought to hide his want of love; knows how the happiest hour in the twenty-four has always been that in which, with blessed sense of liberty, he has broken from her side and found himself free to seek Katharine Fane. Why, to-day, this poor little wife of his fretting for him by the fireside, what guilty hopesno, not hopes; he has nonewhat guilty in- toxication filled him as he rode along, silently watching her face in the twilight! What madness made him forget everything iu the happiness of holding her for a moment in his arms, half an hour before Doras kiss of welcome was to meet his cheek at home! Was this state of divided allegiance, this hankering after the woman who had deliberately rejected him, a life worthy of a man to lead? Nay, more, was it not dishonoring to Katharine as to Dora that the latter, in her inmost heart, should have cause, however slight, either of jealousy or distrust? He had loved Miss Fane from the first, you must remember, with a love that the majority of men would disbelieve in, or, perhaps, possess no line to fathom; even under the first intolerable smart of his disappointment, in the society of Lord Jiaverstock and of Lord Haverstocks friends, had formed no theory of women unworthy for one white sister, Katharine, to take her place in it. He might de- grade his love: he might degrade himself. His ideal of woman- STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 99 hoodso he thoughtcould never be lowered while Katharine lived; and in his blind worship of her, all other women, Dora among the rest, had become exalted. He knew his wife to be vain and artificiala creature unaccountably made up of small caprices, gold dust, millinery, without an employment, without an interest in life that he could understand, but still a woman, with all her smaller demerits, more than worthy of his reverence. What worse sins could he laid to Doras account than undue love for balls and theatres, or, perhaps, a half-foolish, half-tender feeling for Mr. Clarendon Whyte in days gone by? Happy for him if his own conscience ~ould show as unblotted a score! Well, she had conquered now, poor child, and it was best for him that she had done so. In obeying her wishes he would be taken bodily away out of the reach of temptation; would be forcednot into forgetting: that was impossiblebut out of the groove, at least, of loving Katharine Pane! Would have learned to live with- out her before her marriage should divide them more irrevocably still and forever. He thought all this honestly; and yet, if the inmost desire of his heart could have availed him, Stevens life had been arrested at this very turning-point of its course. Which of us, midway in some doubtful enterprise, has not felt the same? has not shrunk, cowardly, from the thought of any progress beyond the present scanty good? He had lost Katharine, but he saw her daily; was nothing to her but a sort of upper groom or tolerated humble relation, yet was tha. The past, with its honeyed poison, its alternation of fierce joys and miseries, was over; that moment in the boat when she had let him hold her hands, that moment on his marriage-day when they had bidden silent farewells and he had guessed the meaning written on her white faceall over. The future belonged to Dora and to Lord Petres. If the presentthis very bubble on the foam, this very break of the wave upon the shorewould but stay! And already the wave has broken, the bubble burst; arid Dora, up stairs, is tearing Mr. Clarendon Whytes letter into smailest atoms, while she vacillates in her mind between lilac serge and bronze-ljrown silk as a suitable costume wherein to travel to Paris. ChAPTER XXXIV. BACCARAT. EARLY next morning Mrs. Lawrence, her health already improved, walked over to the Dene, and, not a little to her surprise, found Katharine a powerful auxiliary as to the P~ ris scheme. Mrs. Hilliard, whose temper was ever fitful on Sundayit was her cus- tom to replace sensational by theolo~4cal fiction on that daywent 100 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. dead against the proposiron from the first. Other people in delie te health were obliged to stay, Winter and Summer, wherever their husbands chose to live. A wife with her hcnt in its l)ioper plnee should look above, not around and outside n~ own home, for solace and support. I do look above, Aunt Arabella, said Dot, and I see (lamp. in great patehes, all over the ceiling. Its the damp th~t makes mc so ill. As to my heart being in its right place, I very much doubt ittis for that I want to have a Paris opinion. Uncle Frank, what do you say? If we have money enough to go, and as Steven is willing to do anything for my health, do you think theres any great sin in my wanting to have eight weeks more of amusement before I settle down in Asheot for life? I think Paris the worst place possible for you to go to, answered the Squire, early Mabille recollections and generM visions of extravagance and money-borrowing rising before his mind. It may be very well for you, but whats your husband, who doesnt know six words of French, to do with himself? ~ hy, 1I, who speak the language, said the Squire, with pardmable vanity, always find a week of Paris enough for me. Lawrence is a man taken up with his out-door pursuits. Hell be as miserable as a bandycoot cooped up in a Paris entresoland during the best part of the hunting season, too I dont know anything about bandycoots, said Irs. Lawrence, but I know I am perfectly miserable, cooped up alone there at Asheot! Why are husbands, and husbands amusements, always to be studied so much, I want to know? Its very pleasant, no doubt, Uncle Frank, for Steven to shoot or course or hunt every day in the week with you and Katharine but why am I not to be considered? Im a human being, I suppose, although I do labor under the immense disadvantage of being a wife. And then it was that Katharine, to Dots astonishment, struck boldly in to the rescue. Katharine, like Steven, had h~ d her lonely meditations, her remorseful vigil the night before. I agree with you thoroughly, Dot. I think that people like pa~ a and me cant judge how miserable the country is to you in Winter; Now; papa, I ask you, mustnt a southerly wind and a cloudy sky scorn very different to poor Dot at home to what they do to you and me just as we skirt round Barlows wooda promising, soft rain in our faceand hear the first bay of the hounds in the dist nec? If if Steven, was against this Paris plan it would be different, but he is not, and I say Dot ought to go. She is not looking strong, arid just now, at the beginning of Winter, a change of air may do won- ders for her. And later in the afternoon, when the cousins were alone together, Katharine did more than express favorable opinions: she offered, STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 101 Dot faintly protesting against such generosity! the loan of one hundred pounds in furtherance of the scheme. Dont refuse me, (lear Dot, she said. My m& iey lies at the bank, of no use to me or any on~ & se. Everything I want, and dont want, papa buys me, as you know. Sometimes, added Katharine, half sadly, I think my fate is to be like that of Miss Kilmansegg. Gold, gold, nothing but gold, and never an ounce of happiness to be bought with it and she sighed. Well, said Dot, whoever Miss Kilmansegg may have been, if she had plenty of money I envy her. My dear Kate, money does everything. If I could keep a carriage and see my friends ~ibont me, and rebuild Asheot, and have proper servants, and go up to town when I liked, I should be the happiest woman in Kent. Our difference of tastes dividesmust divideSteven and me now, whereas if we had plenty of money we should never know whether our tastes were different or not, because each could gratify them. And you will accept what I ask you, then U Dear K aharine! you put it in such a way that I feel it impos- sible to refuse. So the matter was settled. That night a letter was written bid- ding Grizelda Long take the apartments, in Stevens name, off the hands of the Honorable Augustus Dynevor, and, a week later with packages, said old Barbara, enough for six decent families when she was youngMr. and Mrs. Laxvrence again started, by the afternoon Folkestone train, on their road to Paris. It is better so, Kate, said the Squire, on the evening of their departure. I shall miss Lawrence, and so will you, for a bit, but I believe its as well Dot should have her way, just at first. Wheii she has gone through two months with Master Steven in an entresol you may take my word for it she will have had enough of Paris ! The man was never meant to live in cities, and my own opinion is we shall see him back here in Clithero before a fortnight is past. But the Squires prophecy did not come true; indeed, to judge from Dots letters, it seemed that Steven quickly fell as much under the influence of Parisian enchantment as his wife. At first, Steven is a little bit puzzled to know what to do with him selg Mrs. Lawrence wrote; but we are always together, and I try to interest myself in whatever I think most likely to interest him. Then, later on, after rose-colored accounts of balls and partiesfor Dot was beginning to make her way into society I cant say that Steven cares for such things, she would say, but he goes, and is very patient. Then, later still: I have engagements fom every afternoon and every evening of the week, and dear Steven, I am glad to say, has found friends and ocenpations that suit him, too.. We are perfectly contented, both of us; my health is wonderfully better-my heart, tell Aunt Arabella, quite in its right place! and 102 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. I shall neve; never forget that it was chiefly your kindness, Kate, that enabled us to come here. Steven Lawrence leading a contented town life, with Mends, with occupations that suited him! Katharine, guided by I know not what instinctive fear, dispatched a letter at once to George Gordon, who was in Pads, bidding him to write her word without delay as to how Dora and her husband were getting on. Dot tells me she goes out a great deal; but among what kind of people? wrote Miss Pane, and does her husband accompany her? Lord Petres, as you know, is going through his usual Christmas martyrdom at Eccleston, so, in his absence, I trouble youwill you forgive me? with my silly question about the gossip of Paris. Dear Captain Gordon, you are so good always in executing my commissions that lam sure you wont mind finding out as much as you possibly can for me about the Lawrences and the Lawrences friends before you write next And, accordingly, five or six days late; she got back this intelli- gence, quite plainly worded, as you see. George Gordon knew Katharine Pane too well to think of putting anything he had to say to her into pretty or dubious phrases: ~ cousin, Mrs. Lawrence, does go out a great dealamong a set of English peo- ple to whom, I should say, Miss Long, or perhaps Mr. Clarendon Whyte must have introduced her. Her husband seldom shows; never m the society of his wife. Is he a rich man? I should hope so. His Mends, I hea; are people whose time is chiefly taken up in playing greaSe-ct-un and Baccarat; and trente-et-m and Baccarat are expensive games, when a man first goes through his apprentice. ship to them in Paris. I Mrs. Lawrence daily in the Champs Elys4es, and sometimes at the opera, but have not yet been ab!e to speak to her. You know how much love Clarendon Whyte and I had for each other of old? Well, whenever I have seen Mrs. Lawrence, as yet, Mr. Clarendon Whyte has happened, unfortu- nately, to be at her side. Clarendon Whyte in Paris, the constant companion of Mrs. Lawrence, Steven going through his apprenticeship at (rent 6-ct-un and Baccarat The news seemed so absurdly, so paljably unlikely, that Katharine, for the first five minutes, laughed over George Gordons letter; then, cafling to mind how Mrs. Dering had ceased -of late to mention Clarendon Whytes name; calling to mind, tOo, a certain halttone of concealment in a good deal that Dot had written about her more intimate English Mendsshe went round to the opposite extreme of credulity, and if she had had the means would have flown off herself to Pads on the instant. True? what :should hinder it all from being true? Had she not had a presenti- ment of evil when she wrote her letter to George Gordon? What love for Steven had,in reality, ever effaced the old folly from Doras STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 103 heart? What stability of character was there to keep Dora straight nuder the temptations of Paris? Wearied with uncongenial friv- olity at home, with engagements for every afternoon and every evening of the week, what more likely than that Steven should seek relief in the society of men abroad, unsuspecting of the perils to which over-much liberty might lead a woman so fickle and so un- ballasted as his wife? After a day and night of silent anxiety for neither to her mother nor the Squire had she courage to confess her fearsKatharine made up her mind for action, and started boldly up to town by the earliest morning train, determined to lay bare the state of the case to Mrs. Dering. Slight though the sym- pathv was between them in matters of sentiment, Katharine had the fullest respect still for Mrs. Derings opinion on all worldly affairs. Dora Lawrence was Arabellas cousin; Doras good name, the good name of Doras husb~ nd, were subjects in which every member of the family must be supposed to have some degree of vested or vicarious interest. Mrs. Dering had friends of her own in Paris, and could at least ~nd out how much truth there was in George Gordons account; at least could advise what kind of warn- in g or of reproach should be addressed to Dora. Bella, she said, within ten minutes of her arrival, I have come to town to-day to see you and the children, of coursebut that is not the real object of my visit. I have something very mis- erable to tell you, something that concerns us all terribly nearly. Read this. And K~tharine drew forth George Gordons letter and put it, without a word of comm6nt, into her sisters hand. Mrs. Dering read it through carefully; folded, returned it into its envelope, and to Katharine. And what is the misery about, kate? and what is it that concerns us all so nearly. Can you ask? cried Katharine. Steven Lawrence spending ins thue at cards. I suppose they play these horrid games with cards. And DotI cant bear to speak of it! Dot going into a doubt- f~~l kind of society alone, or rather with Mr. Clarendon Whyte for ncr companion! What ought we to do? Shall I write? Shall .1 ~t papa to go and look after them? Mrs. Deriug smiled, Doi would pay so much attention to your ietter, or to poor dear papas good advice! You are honest and single-hearted as ever, Katharine, she added, and naturally feel disgusted at what you have heard. I take it all as the painful but inevitable consequence of Doras getting her freedom. She has no ~ inciples, my dear, as I have always told you, and without princi- pleswithout principles, a woman as vain and as fond of pleasure as poor l)ora is tolerably sure to endas she is doing! We must hope for the best, added Mrs. Dering calmly and really so many people have taken up this fashion of being fast that what once wou~ I have put a woman out of society as likely as not may pass unob 104 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. served now. We hear nothing very bad as yet, you must re~ collect. I dont know what yoif call bad! said Katharine, hotly. For a woman as young and pretty as Dot to go about in Paris rithout. her husband, and for the husband to spend his time with his gain- bling associates, seems bad enough to me. Bella, tell me candidly~ had you heard anything of this before? cried poor Katharine. Had you an idea that Dot and Clarendon Whyte were meeting again like this in Paris? I knew that Mr. Whyte was in Paris, and I knew that Dora Lawrence was there dressing and driving and living altogether in very bad style. But small gossip, as you know, Kate, said Mrs. Dering, is not one of my sins. I heard these things, but I did not repeat them, even to you all at home. If ones relations are dis- creditable I never see that anything is to be gained by making a noise about their discreditability oneself. Katharine was silent for a minute or two. I am quite determined to do something, she cried at last, Dot may be foolish and fond of show and attention, but I know she will always mind what I say to her. As to her husband As to her husbandthis Baccarat-playing husband? Steven is too upright of heart to suspect evil in others, said Katharine slowly, and lifting her eyes full to Mrs. Derings. lie may be losing his money at cards. At one time, whenwhen he left off coining to the Dene, papa used to tell me he played too high at Lord Haverstocksused to say that gambling, in som form or other, runs in the Lawrences blood. All this is no busi- ness of mine. It is of Dot and Mr. Whyte that I am thinking, and I say Steven, in his ignorant confidence, might see no evil in an in- timacy that a man of the worldBella, I cant talk about it theres a disgrace even in the suspicion of disgrace! but Ill go to them. Ill make papa take me over to Paris, and Ill bid Steven bring his wife home to Ashcot at once. An indignant light shone in Katharines eyes. You are very enthusiastic, child, said Mrs. Dering, coldly, above all, I remark, in matters where Steven Lawrence is concerned. If you take ray advice, you will just let these people manage their own affairs themselves. Mrs. Lawrence, like many other wives, is more amused by other society than by her husbands. Mr. Lawrence, like many other husbands, is more amused by Baccarat and trente- t-mn than by his wife. Of all things not new under the sun a household like this is the one that the least calls for hysterics or astonishment. But Katharine seemed hardly to listen to i~ is. Derin s optimist and sufficiently-reasonable philosophy. If it was anyone else, STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 105 she said, half to herself; ny other man than Mr. Clarendon XYhvte, I should not feel as I do. And I, said Mrs. Dering, precisely because it is Mr. Claren- don Whyte ~ disposed to be charitable. Mr. Whytewe had best speak openly, Fateis the last man living to ask Mrs. Steven Law ~ence, without position, without money, without anything ! to run away from her husband. II am not thinking of running away, cried Kathariae, her lace afire. Tiieii wh t are you thinking of; Kate, dear? Please let us be easonable. As a companion ia her drives, or a partner at these third-class balls, it seems that Dora could hardly have done bet- Icr than select Mr. Ciarendon Whyte. Ia London, of course, it would be different, but in Paris, particularly among such a set as Dora has got into, Mr. Clarendon Whyte, no doubt, is taken at his own valuation still. Taken at his own valuation? In London it would have been different ! said Katharine, opening her eyes. I dont think when we were at I3righton you would h~ ye spoken like th~ t, Arabella, You seeni to think of Clarendon White now what I, unsupported, have thought of him always. Exactly so, said Mrs. Dering, with perfect evenness of temper. Did I not tell youno? Well, that does show how little I am to e accused of writing gossipping letters! Some weeks ago, just - about the time you returned to Clithero, I think it must have been all poor Mr. Whytes true and authentic history caine to light, and he has never shown his face either in London or Brighton since. I-Ic really was an impostor, Katharine. You were perfectly right in everything you used to say. Some one appe red on the scene who was it now? Well, never mind, some one who knew all about him, anyhow. And the gre t English connections, and the ti~ers he had shot in Bengal, and the sacks he had caused to be thrown in the Bosphorus, were all a fiction. His father was a hat- tcr in Oxford street. Are you sure you wont have a glass of sherry? Im afraid you will have more than an hour to nit be- fore lunch. And you have never seen him since ?I dont want any sherry, dianksyou have banished the man from your house because his Ihthcr was a hatter? I have done nothing at all, said Mrs. Dering, with a quiet smile. I met Mr. Clarendon Whyte at a ball just after this ridiculous story came to light, and he asked me for a dance, and I had none left to give him. A man in that kind of position ought to have come early, or not have attempted to dance. I think, my- scll it would have been more digni fled, perhaps, to have stayed :2 u :v- altogether. day or two afterward, I heard, he left England. 106 STE TEN LAWEEJCE, YEOMAN. What strange vicissitudes there are in some hui an beings lives Kate ! And what strange blanks in some human beings hearts ! thought Katharine, looking at her s~stcrs Ik ndsome, unmoved face. I never eared for Clarendon Wbyte, she said aloud; but if I had ~seen as much of him as you did, Bellaand, re Ily, h used to Le hind to the children, was fond of little Floss, I thinki shoul have been sorry for him in his humiliation, or what he con idered to be humiliation. And so I was extremely sorry for him, said Mrs. Dering, and I always speak well of him now, poor young man. Vh~ tever his birth may have been, I say Mr. Clarendon Whyte had the fecling~ of gentlemanwould the General and I have seen so much of hum had it been otherwise? As to his conquc Ks, in Indian ji ngles an elsewhere, is there a man or woman among us all who doesnt 1 iii rather more tigers in imagin tion than in fact? The principal commandment Mr. Whyte broke, I fancy, was the elevenththat which outweighs all the rest; he was foun out. How is Lor( Petres? still at Eceleston, I suppose? If you do go to Paris, I should strongly advise you to get some of your trousseau there. Dot, with all her sins, is as good an adviser as you can find wher silks and velvets are concerned. Thus, with more of the same nature, spoke Mrs. Dering, honestly and according to her lights. The world to her was a theatre where men and women acted together in masks; where what was said or done, sinned or suffered, unmaske and behind the scenes, matterec nothing. As long as Mr. Clarendon Whyte was received, she had received him. As long as the Lawrences went on like other people, not coming to any open or avowe disgrace, there was something simply ridiculous to Mrs. Dering in gratuitously troubling ones head on their account. If they di come to disgrace, let it p. sswith as little spoken coummentary of om is, the w ll-thongl t-of relations, as possible! As for advice, a toler~bly wide experience of life had taught her that its general effects w re, fh t, to increase the downhill pane of the persons advised secon cily, to react against the adviser. If Mrs. Lawrence (as, it must be allowed, wa possible) was walking just as straight as the reK of the world there could he no need of Katharines presence in Paris; if Mrs. Lawrence was walking crooked, Kathari e, for her own sake, must keep away from her. What woul be the effect of a letter to Ste~ yen? Mrs. Dering was too ignorant of the custcrrs of savage na- tions to say what time effect of anything would be on Steveim Law- rence. She would certainly not advise writing to any ivilized man on a theme so delicate as his own wifes frivolities. Baccarat, it must be remembered, could not, of its very nature, last forever neither could driving in the Champs Elys6es in daily new bonnets STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 1o~ and dresses. As soon as the money was exhausted, Kate might rest assured Mr. and Mrs. Lawrencesteady-going Darby and Joan againwould return to their farm. But all Mrs. Derings reasoning, all Mrs. Derings admirable mo- rality of selfishness, was insufficient to banish the haunting fear that had taken possession of Katharines mind; and so, two days latera letter from Dora coming meanwhile, with still no mention in it of C1~rendon Whytes nameshe mustered courage enough to broach the subject to the Squire. The wisdom of a kind and simple heart might be more serviceable than the wisdom of the world, perhaps, in such a strait as this. Papa, quite abrnp~ly, she began, as they were riding home to dinner, along the same road where she had ridden that 1 it night with Steven, what sort of game do you consider Baccarat 2 Baccarat 2 said the Squire. Well, Ive never played it my- self and never seen it played, but I know it is the favorite game now-a-days at which Englishmen abroad are fleeced by those ras- cally foreigners. Haverstock lost eight thousand pounds at it, they say, the first time he went to Paris after he cam e of age. Pray, Miss Kate, what has put Baccarat into that wise head of yours Steven Lawrence is playing at it, Papa, thats all. I heard so a day or t~ o ago, but I did not like at first to tell you, and Dot is going on very extravagantly, Im afraidI found it all out by acci- dent from a correspondent I have. Bella has heard the same story, too, andand dont you think we ought to do something to try aiid bring them home? Mr. Hilliard was dead silent: sure sian that one of the quick bursts of passion that occasionally exploded in the good little mans heart was brewing. The confounded fool that Ive been! he exclaimed, at 1 st. Leaving the poor girls money in her own hands, as he generously wished, instead of tying it up, principal and interest, as tight as I could tie it. Of course hes playing at Baccarat! I might have known the stock lie conies of well enough to be sure he xvould play Baccarat, and every other devil- ment, when tel ptation came. Gambling with his wifes money, and then, when its gone, expecting me to lend him more! But hes mistakenMaster Lawrence is decidedly mistakenif lie thinks I am going to supply him with means for his pleasant vices. Baccarat, too! A man whose grandfather was no better than a day-laborer, and can scarce spell his name himselg pl ying Bacca- rat! Katharine fired up in a moment. I dont see that the condition of a mans grandfather heightens or lessens the folly of his gam- bling, Papa! and I dont know why we shouhi take for grantcil that Steven, if he is losing at all, is losing Dots momicy. 108 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. Ife must be losino cried the Squire, angrily, and with the perfect conviction of injustice, and he must he losing her money. \Vhose else has he got to lose? But its no busincss of mine its no business of mine! If my advice had been taken they would never have gone to Paris at all. Let him ruin himself; Dora will always know where to look for a home as long as I livebut dont let him come to me for help, thats all I have to tell Mastei Law- rence. Dont let him look to me for help. I hear, too, said Katharinedetermined, now that she had be- gun, to tell her whole story out I hear that Dora is very extrav- n~nt, isis not going on as we could wish. She is alx Tays out at balls and theatres, Papa~, and alonewithout her husband I mean. Very naturally, said Mr. Hilliard. You wouldnt have the poor girl running after hira to the gaming tables and his associates there, would you? You knew what Dora was when you advised her to go to Paris. Of course she is extravagant. Not one woman in fifty, let me tell you, would care to be saving over fr~ nes when she knexv that her husband was ruining himself and her too, by hundreds of pounds. And who says Steven Lawrence is doing anything of the kind? exclaimed Katharine. Oh Papa, I see I had better be perfectly honest with you. Its not Steven ; its not about Steven~ s goings- on that I am anxious, but about Dot. She is in a fast, bad set of people in Paris. She lets herself be seen everywhere with a man for whom she had a foolish kind of half liking before she married, and altogether, I feel, is getting her n~ me lightly spoken of. I didnt like to tell you this straight out, and so I began first about Steven and his card playing. Oh Papa, what does the loss of a little mon- ey matter? It is Dot we must think about and bring hack to Ash- cot at once if we can. Bring Dot back? stammered the Squire. Why Kate, you dont mean to tell megood God, child, what does all this mean? XXThy have you tried to keep it from me? The Squire reined in his horse to a stand-still, and his face got as red as fire. Ye dont mean to tell me that that girlnot married three months, and in love, as I thonght, with her husbands very shadowis mis- conducting herself? Papa, dear, answered Katharine, with down-bent head, there are many things that people do in the world, the fast world now, that you would call misconduct. As much as I know ahout Dora I tell you. She goes to balls and parties continually. She is ~een at them all without her husband and in the society of another man. People generally might think lightly of this, but I, know- ing Steven as I do, think it looks very bad for poor Doras future he PPinC55. Then why dont he look after her? sold Mr. Hilliard. Shes STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 109 vain and pretty, in her stylejust the sort of little woman, poor thing, that these confounded Frenchmen would make much ot Why dont Lawrence look better after her? The Squire loosened his reins and they walked on again through the darkening lanes in silence. At last, Do you think if I was to write to Steven I should do good? Katharine asked; just hint to him that it would be better if if he looked a little closer after his own good name? No, Katharine, no. Never meddle between married people. The Squire said this much in the same tone in which he might have said, Never meddle with burning pitch! However things turn out you are sure to get blamed by both of them in the end. Thats a good deal like what Arabella told me. Her advice was to let everything take its own course. Butoh, Pap; cried Katharine, you and Arabella generally see everything so differ. ently that I must confess I did not expect to get the same counsel from you. Mr. Hilliard put his horse into a trot, and nothing more was said until they were riding up the avenue at home. Kate, my dea; he began then, you were right to tell me of all this, and Im ready to allow I spoke unjustly about Lawrence. The life he has led makes the lad younger than his years, and many an honest enough man will burn his fingers for once in his life, under tempta- tion. Dora is a little foolthat we always knew I but we mustnt let her play the fool worse, or longer than we what do you want me to do child? can help. Now, I want you to take me to Paris for a week, cried Katharine, that is if mamma can spare us. It wouldnt be a great ex- pense? Never mind the expense, said the Squire. And either we would bring Dot home with us, or make Steven promise to take better care of her in Paris. Whether we fail or not, isnt it, at least, worth the trial? And before bed-time that night the plan was settled. Poor Mrs. Hilliard at first was refractory; could not see how Dons affairs mattered to them now that she was married; could still lee why sick and dying people were to be sacrificed because of the ill- doings of those in health. She would go up to Arabellano, she would not: she would destroy herself by going to Paris; no, she would be a blessed martyr, and stay at home, and hopehope that they would enjoy themselves without her! Finally, the scheme of martyrdom carried the daythe Squire promising to bring back a cashmere shawl, silk dress, laces, and gloves, as propitiatory offer. ings; and on the following Monday, two days hence, it was decided that Katharine and Mr. Hilliard should start. Not a.word was to be written meanwhile to the Lawrences. if you want to know 110 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. what a truant schoolboy is about, said the Squire, dont tell him beforehand that you are coming to look at him. If we want really to find out how Dora and her husband are going on, we must walk quietly some fine morning to their lodgings, and just them in their usual, every-day life. And so they did. CHAFfER XXX~ IN 1fl15. DuwGthe first week after his arrival in Paris, Steven Lawrencts life was only passively miserable. The mild open Winter that had been so excellent for hunting in Kent, was detestable to him amid the closeness and mud and fog of city streets, but he endured it. Endured being marched up and down the piassas of the Palais Royal, and of the Rue de Rivoli; endured living in rooms wherein his large figure had scarcely space to turn, and against the ceiling of which he knockedhis head if he attempted to stand upright; en- dured mililnery; eqdured Dora! And at the end of the week said to himself; I have gone through one-eighth of it already. Seven weeks more, and I shall be on the furmalmost free again! After this came brighter weather; also, Griselda Long,.who had been absent for a few days, andon her return to Paris, at once con- stituted herself a daily visitor of Doras; and then Stevens suffer- ings, from passive, became acute ones. Grizelda Long at this time was on one of the lowest spokes even in her poor fortunes wheel. Unpaid. companion, half ladys maid, half interpreter, to a capricious, vulgar worn (the Indian widow who had once been the mainstay of the Knightsbridge house- hold), with a good deal of time on her hands, for the widow had friends of her own, to whom, of course, poor Miss Long could not expect to be introduced, and with no money in her pockets; these were the condition under which Griselda was living out the pres- ent portion of her phantom existence! Just beginning my de- lightful campaign in Paris, the poor soul wrote with unflagging cheerfulness to her London friende. But what to another woman would have been durance viler than the lot of a seamstress sewing her fingers to the bone in her own attic, was bearable to Griselda. She wasifoating still!. Stillableto run afteroddsandends of so- ciety; to organize these odds and ends together; to intrigue among them; occasionally, despite the widow, to show her forlorn, wreathed head in third-class salons, and such conceit rooms and theatre boxes as her friends, of their charity, would give her the right to enter. I how every one, she told Dora on the first occasion of their STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 111 meeting. Lady Cowley and the Russian ambassadress have both unfortunately got influenza; so for the moment I can do nothing for you there. But I how all the ball-giving English and numbers of excellent French people, and I shall be very glad to introduce you. Wbat carriage have you got? My dear Mrs. Lawrence, do you mean to say your husband has got you no carriage? I assure you it is a mistake. It does not do, said Griselda, at the present. mo- ment possessing about fifty-six francs in the world, to be seen in any of these voilwwa 4. remiss. Now forI forget how much a week, but well ascertain to-dayyou can hire the very brougham the Dynevors had. Capital horse, English coachman, dark-brown liveryno one would how it was hired. Dora announced that a brougham, even a brougham hired by the week, would be extravagance entirely beyond her husbands means then lay awake half the night regretfully dreaming of it. Next day, the weather happening to be wet again, she spoilt a new dress by walking to their restaurant dinnerthose cheap Palais Royal dinners at which Steven was so starved, but which were a remove better thaui the horrible attempt his wife made once of cooking something for him at home. And then, as a matter of economy, the hiring of a brougham, with an English coachman, in brown livery, began, day and night to be urged upon Doras husband. This, I say was the beginning of the poor fellows active suffer- ings. He did not want to spend what little money he had of his own (the Squire had already lent him a conaiderable sum to put out upon his furm, and the thought of the debt pressed heavily on him); he would have been more loathe still for Dora to touch the capital of her small marriage portion; and kindly, but with no lack of determination, he told her that the thing was impossible. Cabs he would hire for her,as many and as often as she wished. She need not drive even in the common flexor. of the streets. One of the better kind of Americane she might have, with as clean a dri- ~-er, for a Frenchman, as could be fond, six days a weeknothing as yet would induce him to let Dora amuse herself on Sundaybut a brougham, no! Grizelda Long and her opinions might bevery valuable indeed in their proper place. He was not going to be guided by them. He was not, with extreme determination this, going to set up a sham private brougham, with a sham private coachman, and ridiculous hired liveryto please any one. At the end of some hours, after holding further council with her friend. If you please, Steven, sai4 Dora, as you will not spend your money to please me, may I spend my own? I have a hundred pounds in my desk lying uselessoh, look incredulous I PU show them to you, Bank of England notesmay I spend them, I mean a few of them, in hiring the brougham? It will save you expense intheend. 112 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. Do as you choose, said Steven, turning from her. I have- given my opinion. Acts you like for the future. So the first fruit of Katharines generosity was the setting Mrs. Dora up in her hired brougham, which soon, with the small rose- and-white over-dressed doll it contained, became pretty well known in the eyes of a certain portion of the Parisian public. Dqra, just at first, professed herself averse to driving alone, and poor dear Grizeldas bonnets, she said, were really so unlike what bonnets ought to be, that whatever ones kindly feelings it was impossible to be seen with her by daylight; it was, therefore, manifestly in- cumbent on Steven to be his wifes companion. Living in rooms where he could neither breathe nor stand upright; obliged to dress daily m a frock coat and high hat; dining on Falais Royal dishes that at once sickened and starved him, and now crashed into a lit- tle toy brougham, of which one window, at least, must be always shut for fear of Dons complexion, or because the damp took the curl out of feathers, or the crimp out of hair, or other cogent reason. He bore it for three days; bore physical sufferings almost equalling those of a wild animal in its eight feet of cage; then struck boldly. Would do many other things; would walk, eat, dress, as he was bidden; would never, so help him heaven! torture his limbs into a cursed close car no bigger than a nutshell again while he lived. You neednt use bad language, my dea; said Dora, with thorough amiability. Had the domestic drives been so animated that she need mourn over their discontinuance? Amuse yourself well, kissing her hand to him as she ran, full-dressed, out of the room, ad I, if I can, must find some one else willing to take your place. Was this meant as a threat, Steven wondered afterward? Who shall say? Who shall tell whether it was by purest accident or otherwise, that when Mrs. Lawrence left her carriage by the lake (for this January afternoon was like June; and all the world went to the Bois) she heard the only human voice that had power to make her heartsuch a heart as she possessed! flutter, and turn- ing round saw Mr. Clarendon Whyte, unapproachable in his gloves and necktie as ever, with beautiful blash Mephistophilean smile, at her side? After a surly husband at home, a surly husband using bad words about ones few poor little pleasures, what a change to be in the society of a being whose every mellifluous word is a reproach, flattering to vanity; whose every look is a compliment! I have seen you before, more than once, but not near enough to bow, said Dot, quietly; for whether the meeting was planned or acci- dental it did not seem that either was much taken by surprise now that they had met STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 113 I heard you had arrived, but didnt know whether I ought to call onyour husband, answered Mr. White, with an accent, tra~i- pathetic, on th~t word husband, that made I)ora turn her face away and almost believe in her own mind that she was blusLin~y. The January afternoon was like June; and Mrs. Lawrence, weib~ dressed and animated, met nothing but admiring glances as she wallied up and down in the pale Winter sunshine with Mr. Claren- don Whyte. Poor little butterfly Dot! it was~ the brightest honr by far that she had known since her marriage, this first hour of amusement in which Steven had no part. He was a good, dc ~, honest creature, Steven, and in her very heart she believed she was gre wing to he fond of him. But then Mr. Clarendon Whytes coat was so differently cut, and the turn of his mustache was so fault- less, and his low calibre of intellectI use her own wordssuited hers so exactly, and this was Paris sunshine, and she was one of the prettiest woman walking by that sunny mock lake ! And, ahah (without going too deeply into analyzation of ones happiness) if all life could only be like to-day! All life certainly could not be; only six more weeks and a frac- tion, thought Dot; then let the six weeks and a fraction be turned to the best possible account. So next day, the sun continuing to shine, the brown brougham at the same hour stopped by the lake, and a porcelain inarchioness figure with short fair locks and glitter- ing equipments tripped out, to be joined in ten minutes by an Adonis almost as glittering as herself. And the next day the same thing took place; and the next-as the two were walking along, Dot listening with well-pleased face to her companions murmured platitudes, yet not unmindful of the admiration her own toilette was awakcnin~ in the crowdSteven, maladroitly, inopportunely, as is the habit of these old-fashioned husbands, came across their path. I-Ic stopped for a moment, spoke good-humoredly to his wife, not uncivilly to Mr. Clarendon Whyte; then went on his way, thereby ~howiug more knowledge of life, Dora felt, than might have been expected of him. In the evening, as they were sitting alone in their apartments; for now Mrs. Lawrence had organized a plan of hay- in~ execrable dinners sent in from a neighboring cook-shop; Do- ia, said Steven abruptly, how long have you known that your friend Mr. Whyte w~s in Paris? Oh ! not till to-day, said Dora, rather from sudden loss of self-possession than from a guilty sense that there was anything to conceal. Mr. Clarendon fhyte has just come to Paristhat is, I didnt know he was here before , andand he is going to call on you to-morrow, Steven. He is very kind, said Steven, laconically. It will be pkasaut for you to know some oneto be able to as- 114 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. sociate with men when you are tired of me! cried Dot; Mr. Whyte,ifyoulike,willintroduceyouathisclub. Hetoidmeso to-day. He is very kind, said Steven, once more; then took up his hat and went outthe first time he had done so yet of an evening leaving Dot to her own thoughts. Didhe suspeother, she wondered,uneasily, as soon as she foundher- self alone? Suspect.her, not of the letterthat had been written ad answered from Ashootthat was impossiblebut of prevarication? Did he know that she and Clarendon Whyte had already met? Was he going to watch, to mistrust, to coerce her? In about a hoars time Steven came m again. He walked up to the table where Dot, as usual, was working her brain over new combinations of gorgeous color for to-morrow, took both her hands, and, drawing herto him, bade he; in the kind of tone one would bid a child, look him straight in the face. Dont tell me falsehoods any more, my dear, he said, in a voice that brought the facile tears into Dots eyes. You were walking yesterday with Clarendon Whyteand what wasthereinittohide? Walkwith him,with any one you choose, every day of the week Amuse yourselt and get strong ad well, my poor little Dora, but dont tell me a falsehood again! And Never while I live, Steven, cried Mrs. Lawrence, in a flutter of repentance. I was afraid you might be crossI cant help it, you know, but I en a very little bit afraid of you always! And the; holding down her face, as I was jealous once about you ad Kate, I thought, perhaps I should be jealous about Mr. Clarendon Whyte, said Steven, with a chill sort of laugh. Set your mind at rest, child. When I am jealous of my wife it will be once, ad only oncenot with- out cause, you may be sure. She held up her face; she threw her arms round his neck. Youll never have cause to be jealous of me, Steven! Don?t let us ever talk of such horrible things. Now, how could you possibly know, dearest, that I saw Mr. Clarendon Whyte yesterday? And to thinkdeceitM ma! of your never mentioning it to me! Nay, said Steven, quietly, I waited for youto mention it. ~o~Iknewit,headded,wasbyu5mgmyowneyes. Iwo close behind you when you got out of your carriage by the pond, but you were too much occupied with other people to look at me. To this extent peace was made; to this extent the renewal of Dora!s intimacy with.Mr. Clarendon Whyte was sanctioned by Doras husband. Closely following came a time when little Mrs. Lawrence began to get invitations to balls, through Griselda Long, through Clarendon Whyte, through any one, every one who could open for her the rosy portals of second-class Anglo-Parisian society. And again, as at first starting of the brougham, Stevens attend- STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 115 ance was enforcedfor a week. The torture of standh g for hours in the corners of crowded ball-rooms was not, physically, as imen- durable as being imprisoned in a small, close carriage for n after- noon at a time; but was bad enough. He did not dance himself; had never, indeed, seen the inside of a K 11-room till now and there was nothing edifying to him in the spectacle of his with waltzing with every well-gilt fop, Mr. Clarendon Whyte sac t, who chose to invite her. So, after a week or ten d ys of ball -going, amicably, without a word of remonstrance on either side, it grew to he a thing of course that Steven should just accompany his wife to the scene of her nights dissipation, stand patiently with his hat under his arm for two dances or so ; then slip away, unnoticed, from the house, and go borne to his bed. Dot found that she breathed immeasurably freer after he was gone. Poor, dear fellow! it took away ones enjoyment to know that there was a long-suffering husband, standing like a statue, martyrized for ones selfish pleasures night after night, and really, if one thought of it, what numbers of other m~ rried women went out aloneMrs. D , and Madame C ,and little Lacy 13 (poor inch-deep Dora in what a wake to follow !) What need wes there to torture him by that nightly putting on of dress suit and white gloves at all? Could she not chaperon Grizelda, find sonic one or another to go withmanage to spare poor Steven, at all events? She man- aged itpoor Steven acquiescing only too readilyand before many days were over was classed by the world in precisely the same rank with her precedents, Mrs. D , and Madame C , and little Lady 113- light, ball-going young women, with more or less of ehara& ter between them all, and with husbands too indifferent, or too laree-minded to heed the lateness of their wives hours. Katharine Fane had said rightly that Steven was too straight- forward, too simple of heart to suspect evil in others, but, un- happily, this very straightforxvardm~ess, this very simplicity, ren- dered him the most unsuited of guides for a woman like Dora. A roan of the world might have given her a reasonable degree of freedom and yet have held her in wholesome fear as well. To Steven, in this, as in everything, there. was no medinm corrrse. If his wife chose to go her own road once, she might - o! For h1~ r- ned womendressed as women nn~er the empire do dressto waltz through the midnicht hours in their lsusb~ minds absenee, seemed to him one des~ree less shameful than for them to do so in their husbands sight. The first time that he evem~ saw Dot, ball-clad and waltzing, he underwent a feeling of mingled disgust, indigna- tion and abasementa feeling for which 111 scarce, indeed, know how to find a fitting name. After that night, with or without his presence, smiling upon Mr. Clarendon Whyte, or npou another, or upon a score of others, he felt that it could matter but little. Dora 116 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. had lost her prestige, the ineffable bloom of decent womanhood with which his imagination had invested her. Let it pass She was not, would never be again, what he once thought her, yet was no worse, he told himself; than other women of the world ; was frivolous and pleasure-seeking; about as good a companion for him, Steven Lawrence (Lord Petres words verified already), as a cilded butterfly would have been, buthad loved him enouo~h to become his wife and so merited infinite patience at his hands lie was, as he had said, a man capable of being jealous cisce, and only one e. Tie might feel humiliatedconfessing to himself that his humiliation was the result of ignoranceat seeing his wife among the crowd of a Parisian ball-room. Small doubts, small fears, small suspicions could have no place in Stevens breast. Poor little Dora was taking her pleasure now to fortify herself aoainst the inevitable years to come in Ashoot; and to himself the drossino and the enaineilino and the dancing of fashionable ladies was repugnant,. like his dinners, like his lodgings, like everything, in short, that belonged to this artificial city life. B ut only four more weeks of it remained! Four more weeks and he would be hack in England, working on his farm, breathing pure countiy Ar, sometimes seeing Katharines face. Oh, for some way to make these interminable thirty clays pass quicker! A ma n of seven-and-twenty, of keen, excitement-craving temper~ - mont, companionless in Paris, not without money in his pockets, and seeking desperately, but in vain to make the time pass. To this siagulorly anomalous pass had Steven Lawrences life now arrived. CHAPTER XXX\TL JADEMOISELLE BARRY. u as his habit to rise early; even in these January morn- ~o~v q dressed and abroad ~n the twilight Champs Elys6es or ~u I ~ s roots be(bre eight oclock. At eleven, after a three hours u ii he came home to breakfast, at which meal his wife, if not too ~ird r~eared in dressing-gown and crimping-pins, her Ii cc white (more si~htiy so in Stevens eyes than with the fine complexion it assumed toward noon), her eyes dark and hollow, her Ia uds shaky, her heart and soul occupied with last nights conquests and to-days projectsall of which, with discreet reservations, she poured forth, not unamusingly, into her husbands ears, as she sipped her choco- late. After hreakfast generally arrived the milliner, hair-dresser, dressmaker, or other finery factor for rehearsal of to-nights per- formance, or this afternoons, or this mornings. Dora was suffi- ciently advanced now to require, at the least, four elaborate changes STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. vi of dress a day; and then the master of the establishment per force must turn out again into the streets. The apartment that, as Dot would say, had been sufficient for the Honorable Augustus Dynevor and his wife, was an undeniable apartment, as far as situation went; an apartment rich in carved cornices and bracketsaoainst which Steven, being inconv~niently tall, knocked his headalso in Utrecht velvet, ormolu and mirrors. A bijou of an apartment it was described in the list of Messrs. Arthur & Webb; possessing, indeed, only the trifling drawback that neither fresh air nor light could enter the two six-feet-square dungeons called bedrooms. To fresh air Mrs. Lawrence was as beautifully indifferent as to most other natural~ phenomena ; h~t light, and strong light, is imperatively needfu~l for toilet tables ~f the Second Empire, and so, just till mid-day1 just till anybody was likely to call, would dear Steven mind2 being out ? thus al- lowing M. Alphonse, the hair-dresser, or Mademoisello: Agl~e, the work girl, the use of the salon. He ~urned out, whatever tP~. weather, with perfect cheerfulness; often before The wentpoor, big Steven !would be bidden to hol& a~ satin in these folds, or a velvet in that light, while Dot retired; as far as the limited space would allow, to form artistic judgment of itS effects. Then corn-. menced the daily task of timeYlling; th~ daily weary wa~ks i1~ which, with the inevitable lack of- interest of an uneducated n~au,, he would traverse Paris from, one end to the other and fiud it all blank. No deeper signill43ance than stones and cement in the,. palaces, no pathos in tkp gray old churches, no heart-stirring. history in these imperiaXBoule~rards ~eplncing the old streets where the carmag~ole was da~wed, th~ ~ ~ sung, and whore a king and queen once passed akw~upoa the tumbril to die All was blank to Steven Lawrence, just as a picture is blank to a childs intelli- gence nn~il its rnenAting has been pointed out by some one better taught than himseli Paris was a vast mart ~f expensive toys, he.. saw; toys, through which it was hs~ present lot to walk with closed pockets ah& averted eyes, but of which his wife, in the mu- linery departrneizrt~ might take her fill. A mart in which it was his. portion to wand~r~ unoccupied, from morning till night, seeking to kill the implacable enemy that every day grew more vital, with home interludes of barbers and dressmakers, scandal in xviii h ho. took no inte~est, and gold-powdering, dressing, enamell~ng apd ~eneral rehearsing for a world in whose scene he bore~ and wjshe4 to bear, no~ part. his favorite resting place of a forenoon, when it happened not to rain oi snow1 and whenever even his stout limbs grew tired ~ ceaseless ~ along the pavement, xvas the Luxembourg ga~n~ He never felt so little in Paris as when he sat down. tho~ irnder the leafless chestnuts, smoking (h~ smoked ten hours ~ ~ ~ in 8 118 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. the morning sunshine, and with only children and nurses, an occa- sional priest, book in hand, or slow-paced, gray old pensioner to break the solitude. And so to the Luxembourg, one sunny fore- noon, destined to begin an episode of some importance in his life, Steven Lawrence went; sat down on his accustomed bench, lit his cigar, and began to thinkof Asheot and Katharine, and how to- day, Wednesday, she and the Squire would be riding to the meet, and if the weather there was like this what a day for hunting it would be, with the sun breaking the nights thin frost, and a blue sky already sprinkled with promising fleecy clouds overhead! Kate, my child, said a nian s voice, in English, but with a curious, half-foreign, half-Irish accent, Are you sure now that its not too cold for you to be sitting down? Steven started, his heart set beating in a moment, and sawnot hisI mean not Lord Petres Kate, but a pale, poorly-dressed little girl of nineteen or twenty, in the act of sitting down by him on the bench, and with an elderly man, evidently, from the likeness between them, her father, on the other side. It isnt too cold for me, Papa, she said, in one of those fresh, flute-like voices so rare to hear, so impossible to foyct, and then Steven turned his head, irresistibly attracted, and looked at her full. The girl was not handsome, still less pretty, yet hers was a face few men could pass unnoticed even amid the meretricious beauty, the fine complexions, and bright-hued locks of the Champs Elys6es ~r the Boulevards. The pale cheeks, the brown hair drawn straight off the temples, the plain little bonnet, the well-worn black silk frock, all told of a woman shunning rather than courting attention; ~nd still you were forced to attend to herto remark that she had a slender foot and hand, a graceful tread; that the dress, however poor, was exquisitely clean and modest; in fine, that something inora than beauty drew a sharp line of demarcation between her an4 the crowd of women among whom she walked. She looked Vamad a pair of deep-set gray eyes up at Steven. lie felt as if she spoken to him, took his cigar from his lips, and flung it away. Pr.ay dont let us disturb you, sir, said th~ father, looking u-euad a~id slightly raising his hat. My little daughter is not rery ~t~ro~g, and I chose this bench for her to be in the sun; but ~pray liomat leave off smoking, or we shall feel that we have dis- The tone would have been that of a well-bred man, had it not iheeaju~t a shade more polite, more apologetic than the occasion re- ~juiired. 13wt steven, never hypocritical, was glad of the sound of ~n F~uglih ~v iee, and in a few minutes time found himself talking, or ratvher listenii~g while the ~tranger talked, about all the current gossip ~of Paristhe Emperors last race-horse, and the Empress STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 119 last carriage, the increasing price of apartments, and the new piece that was to be brought out at the Opera Comiquethe usual innocuous matter by which Englishmen abroad supplant the old British themes of polities and weather as material for small talk. Well, I have no doubt that Paris, for people with town tastes, is all that you say, said Steven at last, the stranger having given his opirnon as to the superiority of Paris over every other Eu- ropean city. Now, for rnyself I speak openly, Ive never been so tired of my life as during these few weeks Ive spent here. I3ricks and mortar dont interest me. I find more to look at in a forest or a prairie than in all th~ palaces and show-places that wet-c ever built. A quiet little smile came round the corners of the girls lips. Do you see nothing interesting in the show-place we are sitting under? she said, glancing up over her shoulder at the gray walls of the Luxembourg. Nothing at all, answered Steven. Its a fine building; so are the Madeleine and the Bourse, and when you have seen one you have seen all of them. In a prairie, in an English turnip field you will find life, of one sort or another, and change. In palaces and shui-ches you have dead bricks and mortam-, nothing mom-e. And all tj~iat the bricks and mortat-, all that this old Luxem- bourg must have looked on at when your prairies and fields were just what they are to-day, and will be till the end of the world? Why, the girls face kindled, I think one can hardly look up at these windows above us without seeing the prisoners eager white faces crowding therethe prisoners, dont you m-emember ? who heard the toesin, and saw men wave to theta from the house-tops, but didnt know whether Robespierres downfall was to mean their deliverance or their death? Steven said nothing. He had learned as much of French history as of any other subject at his Canterbury boarding-school, and had tbrgotten all he did learn inthree months. Who was Robespiei-re? Had the toesin sounded a hundi-ed years ago or yestei-day? lIe knew nothing. My little daughter is wonderfully fond of these dry subjects, said the father, in his suave manner. I assure you theres seareely a street or building in Paris she doesnt tell me some quaint stom-y about, as we walk along. We live quietly, you see, sir, and her time is spent wholly at her books or pencil, and in walking with tue. Now ifif it would pass an hour to you to take a stroll with us sometimes, as you dont seem to have overmuch to do with your time? Steven accepted the offer as fi-ankly as it was made. He had been accustomed in the backwoods to see acquaintances formed without letters of introduction, generally without men knowing, 120 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. or seeking to know, each others names, and it did not occur to him that greater circumspection was usual in the life of civilization. The girl meanwhile sat dead silent, her hands clasped together on her lap and looking straight away through the long vistas of the leafless chestnuts. Its the fashion of Englishmen abroad to hold aloof from each other, as if each was a convicted felon, said the father, with pleasant smile (he was a handsome, elderly man, with gray beard and hair, wonderfully white, even teeth, and palish hazel eyes of an indefinite expressionan expression not quite as genial as his smile and manner), but I have lived too long on the Continent to keep up many of our insular prejudices. If I talk to a country- man, and like him, I want no other introduction. Now, where are you staying ? Steven told him; also, his name. Lawrence? dear me, one of the best fellows I ever knew, was called Lawrence. We were like brothers together in the Crimea. I have gone through my little bit of fighting in my day, you see! Your name is spelt ?ah, to be sure, with a w. IIis, poor fel- low, was with a u, so there can be no relationship. Champ Elys 6es, you say? best situation in Paris. Now we live in a very unfashionable quarter of the townobliged, alas, to be economical! Katie, child, have you a card of mine about you? I have not, Papa, said the girl, in the same flute-like voice; but with a cold, distant manner that contrasted singularly with the ultra geniality of the man. Well, staylet inc see, searching within the p6ckets of his surtout, in the button-hole of which Steven remarked for the first time that he wore a little bit of red ribbon. Yes, as luck will have it, I have got my card case. Monsieur Barry, Mademoiselle Barry. And as he spoke he took a card fi-oin a well-worn leather case, and handed it to Steven. One hundred and five Rue des Ur. sulines. You turn away here to the left as you go from the Luxembourg, and cross the Boulevard de Sebastopol. Our lodg- ing is on the third floor of a corner house, immediately facing the Rue St. Jacques. Steven put the card into his pocket, but volunteered no offer of calling; and then, the girl still remaining absolutely silent, the father went on again: Our name, as you will remark, is Irish, but we have lived abroad until we are Monsieur and Mademoiselle even among our English acquaintances. I may say, indeed, we look upon ourselves more as French than English now, dont we Kate? I believe so, Papa. Most of our friends are foreignersbut really we live almno~t entirely to ourselves. I take my girl (she and I arc alone in the world, STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 121 sir) to the theatre sometimes, and twice a week, Wednesday and Saturday, in our little way, said Mr. Barry with humility, we receive. Three or four friends come in, that is to say, to smoke a cigar and play a rubber, or a quiet round game. If such a hum. drum way of spending your evenin~, would be agreeable to you, we should be very gladKatie, my dear, we should be gladif Mr. Lawrence would give us the pleasure of his company at one of our grand receptions! Let me see, this is Wednesday. Well, if you have no better engagement, will you come round to our lodgings to-night? Mademoiselle Barry lifted her eyes for the second time to Stevens; the steady dark-gray~eyes that nullified whatever likeness th~ rest of her face bore to her fathers. Our grand receptions are not very much amusement to me, and as she said this she smiled, and Steven thought her more than handsome. I dont smoke ,and I dont play cards. But you are v cry glad to find some one to talk to you while we old gentlemen doze over our rubber, interrupted Mr. I3arry quick- ly, and rising from the bench as he spoke, Mr. Lawrence I dont know what you say, but I find it too chilly to remain sitting. I suppose you have not time to take a stroll with us through the gardens? Mr. Lawrence had plenty of time, and the walk was lengthened out until long past noon; finally ended in their wandering for a couple of hours together through the gallery of the Luxembourg hours iii which Steven first learned to look at pictures with a dim sense of their being something more thaii painted canvas, framed and ranged on walls! He came home less wearied than he had ever felt after Parisian sight-seeing yet; and at ten oclock that evening started, as soon as he had seen Dora into her carriao-e toward the distant Rue des Ursulines to attend Mademoiselle Barrys reeeption. My husband, of his own free will, gone off to a party ! chat- teis Dot, in the intervals of her first quadrille with Mr. Clarendon Whyte; for Steven had told his little adventure in all integrity to his wife. A party given by some charming people he pickeJ up in the Luxembourg ga~~densan old gentleman friendly enough to ask strangers whose names he doesnt know to his house, and a daughter who seems to he a kind of walking guide-book, with wonderful gray eyes, and a voice like a nightingalea much more fh.scinating person evidently than poor little me! Upon which Mr. Clarendon Whyte bends and whispers some bit of flattery, neither very brilliant nor very original, but which serves its purposesends a thrill of conscious vanity through the shallow, foolish heart of Stevens wife. 9 APIIOI~ISTJC CYNICISM. HE following aphorisms are the opinions of a sentimental ml- .L sogamist who has had many strange experiences with women; who has been thrice married, and thrice divorced; and who is now wandering about the world somewhere, wondering whether the opposite sex is to be loved or loathed. 1-us sentiments are often cynical and bitter, the result, no doubt, of his varying mood. If not always true, they are sometimes e~igrammatic, and are offered for what They are worth. JUNIUs IIENnI BROwNE. Every man is a hero to the woman who loves him. Men never love women whom they do not, and women never love men whom they do, understand. Forever, in the rhetoric of a womans affection, is a sentimental hyper- bole meaning a period of exactly two months. The purest women are the most charitable to others; while those who have most need of forgiveness forgive least in their sisters. A woman makes herself and her lover an exception to the race. CImlia, lying in her lovers arms, wonders how Claudia can permit her dearest friend to touch her hand. Women, in the affairs of the heart, never learn anything by experience, and are entirely incapable of perceiving consequences. Yesterday is the dark ages with them, and to-morrow an impossible era. Women desire to love, primarily, and men to be loved; hence, women idealize, and men analyze, the objects of their affection. Men are won by the love of women; women by the fascination of their own passion. If a woman will not love you, make her hate you, and she is half yours; for hate is too unnatural to her to last, and its first rebound is tenderness, and the second passion. Women like men who hatter them; but love those who despise them. Women become attached to men not for what men do for them, but what they do for men. Gratitude paves the way to their esteem; but selfishness opens the road to their love. A woman who will listen to a declaration of love cannot resist the love itself. Women never pardon in men the defects they possess themselves. They worThip their opposites in the opposite sex. Give a woman her way and she will have her woe. So gifted and so unhappy, is the sweet-sad strain that, soon or late, melts every womans heart. The smallest tenderness outweighs with a woman the greatest sacrifice. She will forget the hero who would die in her behalf for the mere gallant who would give her caresses, and nothing more. Women, in their affections, are either tyrants or slaves. As tyrants, they are independently wretched. As slaves, they are submissively satisfied.

Junius Henri Browne Browne, Junius Henri Aphoristic Cynicisms 122-124

APIIOI~ISTJC CYNICISM. HE following aphorisms are the opinions of a sentimental ml- .L sogamist who has had many strange experiences with women; who has been thrice married, and thrice divorced; and who is now wandering about the world somewhere, wondering whether the opposite sex is to be loved or loathed. 1-us sentiments are often cynical and bitter, the result, no doubt, of his varying mood. If not always true, they are sometimes e~igrammatic, and are offered for what They are worth. JUNIUs IIENnI BROwNE. Every man is a hero to the woman who loves him. Men never love women whom they do not, and women never love men whom they do, understand. Forever, in the rhetoric of a womans affection, is a sentimental hyper- bole meaning a period of exactly two months. The purest women are the most charitable to others; while those who have most need of forgiveness forgive least in their sisters. A woman makes herself and her lover an exception to the race. CImlia, lying in her lovers arms, wonders how Claudia can permit her dearest friend to touch her hand. Women, in the affairs of the heart, never learn anything by experience, and are entirely incapable of perceiving consequences. Yesterday is the dark ages with them, and to-morrow an impossible era. Women desire to love, primarily, and men to be loved; hence, women idealize, and men analyze, the objects of their affection. Men are won by the love of women; women by the fascination of their own passion. If a woman will not love you, make her hate you, and she is half yours; for hate is too unnatural to her to last, and its first rebound is tenderness, and the second passion. Women like men who hatter them; but love those who despise them. Women become attached to men not for what men do for them, but what they do for men. Gratitude paves the way to their esteem; but selfishness opens the road to their love. A woman who will listen to a declaration of love cannot resist the love itself. Women never pardon in men the defects they possess themselves. They worThip their opposites in the opposite sex. Give a woman her way and she will have her woe. So gifted and so unhappy, is the sweet-sad strain that, soon or late, melts every womans heart. The smallest tenderness outweighs with a woman the greatest sacrifice. She will forget the hero who would die in her behalf for the mere gallant who would give her caresses, and nothing more. Women, in their affections, are either tyrants or slaves. As tyrants, they are independently wretched. As slaves, they are submissively satisfied. APHORISTIC CYNICISM. 123 Women always measure their strength in the beginning against men they are on the eve of loving. They make a brave display of hattie at first. But when they once yield, they yield forever. Any man may he his own master; hut no woman can he her own mistres6. Into all close relations, whether of love or friendship, sex enters. Who loves the more, he it man or woman, is feminine; who is the stronger and controls is masculine. No two persons can harmonize with each other who do not harmonize with themselves. Before there is union there must be unity. When womens hearts are touched they are all kindred. The merest dowdy then becomes the sister of the proudest duchess. Women are more jealous through their vanity than through their affection. Jealousy is often a proof of their loveof themselves. Men never want anything of women but the truth; and women give them everything except that. Some women are so incapable of truth that, if your watch confirmed their telling the hour of the day, you would send it to the goldsmiths for repairs. Every man, by the general law, loves all women; all women love one man Men are hy nature polygamists; women, monogamists. Men never fall so deeply in love that they cannot climb out by the ladder of reason. Women have as many heart-breaks as headaches, and with as little serious results. Sentimental statistics show that not one woman in a hundred marries the man she loves. Magnificent lovers make wretched husbands, and excellent husbands thQ worst of lovers. To society women owe their husbands; but to the gods are they indebted for their lovers. If women had ideals, and demanded they should be met, the world would be unpeop~ed. Every woman of poetic organization will love every man of poetic organi- zation, if he have an opportunity to reveal himself. Neither death nor life is so serious as marriage. Yet nothing is entered into half so thocghtlcssly. NEBULI~L CHMSTMAS brings us, with its religious ceremonies, festivities, and pleasant customs which, it is to be hoped that advancing rationalism ~vill never cause to be forgotten. Yet it is worth while, at least for descendants of the Puritans, to remember that the 25th of December is probably not the date of Christs birth; there being reason for believing that he was born in the Spring of the year, a fitting season it would seem for such an event; and that our festivities at Christmas are of pagan originthe dressing of houses with greens being a Druidical custom, and the giving of gifts being a remnant of the Roman Saturnalia. The feast of Yule, now confounded with that of Christmas, was observed at the Winter solstice by all the Northern nations long before the introduction of Christianity. In this particular, as in many others, the early Christian leaders, knowing that~ men will generally abandon their principles more readily than their enjoyments, craftily preserved the old festivities and ceremonies, and gave them a Christian name and significance. The gifts were given to children and servants not in the name of Saturn but iii that of Christ, the receivers, so long as they received the gift, being careless as to the name in which it was given. The very name, Christmas box, which, no longer heard here, is still used in England, keeps in mind a usage and a thing of pagan origin. Gifts of money were given by the Romans at the Paganalia which occurred at the beginning of the year; and the coins were received in earthen pots or boxes, a few of which still exist, one of them at least having been exhumed in England. These pots, in shape and size, are quite like the boxes in which English apprentices in the middle ages received their Christmas presents, and which were also of earthenware. Hence, it seems clear enough that the English Christmas box, which is now the name for the present which the box was formerly used to receive, is directly con- nected with Servius Tulhius Paganalia and also with the Saturnalia. It is generally supposed that the Santa Claus who visits children in this country on Christmas Eveat least, the happy rogues who live in this latitudeand puts into their stockings toys, and sometimes, by way of warning, a whip, is a Dutch saint, and that his visitation and its attendant circumstances are of Dutch origin. This, however, is not the case. The good saints name, or rather the form of it only, is Dutch. St. Nicholas was the patron saint of children, he having restored to life some who had been killed and salted in a tub. He also, according to a mediosval legend, saved the d ughters of a nobleman from disgrace with the consent of their father, by throwing into the house in the night time a mass of gold. hence, presents were put into in the shoes of children in the night time on the Feast of St. Nicholas, which came on the 6th of December, that they might suppose them to be the gifts of St. Nicholas. Now, in the middle ages, and in fact until within two hundred years, children did not wear stockings. Those in humble life had breeches and bare legs, and often bare feet; the rich wore hose which were like the tricot or tights of opera dancers, and covered the lower limbs and body from toe to waist. When the modern stocking came into use that made a more convenient receptacle than a shoe for St. Nicholas favors. These customs were valued by our forefathers partly becaase they were believed to fix points of faith and facts of religious history in the minds of children, just as images were first introduced into Christian

The Editor The Editor Nebulae Nebulae 124-126

NEBULI~L CHMSTMAS brings us, with its religious ceremonies, festivities, and pleasant customs which, it is to be hoped that advancing rationalism ~vill never cause to be forgotten. Yet it is worth while, at least for descendants of the Puritans, to remember that the 25th of December is probably not the date of Christs birth; there being reason for believing that he was born in the Spring of the year, a fitting season it would seem for such an event; and that our festivities at Christmas are of pagan originthe dressing of houses with greens being a Druidical custom, and the giving of gifts being a remnant of the Roman Saturnalia. The feast of Yule, now confounded with that of Christmas, was observed at the Winter solstice by all the Northern nations long before the introduction of Christianity. In this particular, as in many others, the early Christian leaders, knowing that~ men will generally abandon their principles more readily than their enjoyments, craftily preserved the old festivities and ceremonies, and gave them a Christian name and significance. The gifts were given to children and servants not in the name of Saturn but iii that of Christ, the receivers, so long as they received the gift, being careless as to the name in which it was given. The very name, Christmas box, which, no longer heard here, is still used in England, keeps in mind a usage and a thing of pagan origin. Gifts of money were given by the Romans at the Paganalia which occurred at the beginning of the year; and the coins were received in earthen pots or boxes, a few of which still exist, one of them at least having been exhumed in England. These pots, in shape and size, are quite like the boxes in which English apprentices in the middle ages received their Christmas presents, and which were also of earthenware. Hence, it seems clear enough that the English Christmas box, which is now the name for the present which the box was formerly used to receive, is directly con- nected with Servius Tulhius Paganalia and also with the Saturnalia. It is generally supposed that the Santa Claus who visits children in this country on Christmas Eveat least, the happy rogues who live in this latitudeand puts into their stockings toys, and sometimes, by way of warning, a whip, is a Dutch saint, and that his visitation and its attendant circumstances are of Dutch origin. This, however, is not the case. The good saints name, or rather the form of it only, is Dutch. St. Nicholas was the patron saint of children, he having restored to life some who had been killed and salted in a tub. He also, according to a mediosval legend, saved the d ughters of a nobleman from disgrace with the consent of their father, by throwing into the house in the night time a mass of gold. hence, presents were put into in the shoes of children in the night time on the Feast of St. Nicholas, which came on the 6th of December, that they might suppose them to be the gifts of St. Nicholas. Now, in the middle ages, and in fact until within two hundred years, children did not wear stockings. Those in humble life had breeches and bare legs, and often bare feet; the rich wore hose which were like the tricot or tights of opera dancers, and covered the lower limbs and body from toe to waist. When the modern stocking came into use that made a more convenient receptacle than a shoe for St. Nicholas favors. These customs were valued by our forefathers partly becaase they were believed to fix points of faith and facts of religious history in the minds of children, just as images were first introduced into Christian NEBULIE. 125 churches to aid the minds of ignorant and weak-brained worshippers in the formation of the idea of a person to whom their praises and their prayers were addressed. This fixing of events and beliefs in the minds of children by association, was a part of household discipline, which in our forefathers days did not always take so agreeable a shape as that of making presents. Chil- drenpoor, weak, helpless creatures, what did they not endure at the hands of those who were always stronger than they, hut not always so very much wiser 1used to he flogged, not only for punishment hut by way of fixing things in their memories. Thus, on Innocents Daywell named, it would seem, for more than one reasonchildren wore whipped in their beds by their parents in order that the memorie of Herods murder of the innocents might stick the closer. This whipping wa~ no mere sham or formula; it was administered by parents who believed that to spare the rod was to spoil the child, many of whom, we may be sure, found in their creed a convenient excuse for the indulgence of savage passions. In England, the boys of the parish were made once a year to walk over the parish boundaries with the authorities, and were then and there in turn beaten, that they might remem- ber those limits. The custom, called beating the bounds, although the children and not the hounds were beaten, is not yet quite extinct in EngI nd, in some of the remote rural districts of which the bounds are still beaten by the parish beadle, accompanied by all boys subject to his authority. The flogging, bowever, is now omitted, but the boundary, wherever it may lend, is strictly followed by the procession. During a recent perambulation of this kind the procession was brought to a stand. The parish boundary line passed directly through the oven which projected from the side of a farm house. It had been the custom on beating the bounds, for one of the boys to get into this oven, that the line might be followed, and that the important fact that Farmer s oven was not all in the parish, might never be forgotten. But, on the occasion we are speaking of, it happened that the goodwife, for- getful or regardless of the day of the procession, was baking, and her oven was like Nebuchadnezzars fiery furnace. No boy was found willing to play the part either of Shadrach, Meshach, or Abednego; and upon grave consid- eration of the subject, the beadle came to the conclusion that it would hardly do to insist upon the usage under all the circumstances, shocking as it was that the parish boundary should not be followed. Finally, it was decided that the requirements of custom would be fulfilled, pro hctc vice, by a boys clamber- ing over the oven in the line of the boundary; and this, notwithstanding the heat and the uncertain footing given by the rounded top of the l)lace, was done. But to return to our Christmas customs. Mince, or rather minced pies, not only pertain to this seasan, but should rightfully be called Christmas pies. They used to be made in the form of a cradle or a manger, tvnical of the Nativity, and the custom of making a pie of this kind at this season, was derived from the presentation of paste images and sweetmeats to the Fathers of the Vatican on Christmas Eve. The origin of the latter custom has not been discovered; but it probably was, like most others of this kind, Pagan. In the middle ages, the bakers at this season used to present their customers with Yule dough in images of baked paste. This custom has survived in our New Year cakes, or cookies, as the Dutch called them; the figures on which are probably mere descendants and modifications of imcges with Chris- tian names~ which themselves were descendants and representatives of heathen idols. With such tenacity do men cling to a once well-established Popular custom. Minced pies having this origin and this significance, it must be admitted that the Puritans were not quite a narrow-minded as they have NEBULAlI. 126 seemed to be, in their refusal to eat them at Christmas tinm. it is only within a generation that the Presbyterian or Congregationalist descendant ot the Puritan of two centuries ago, has been persuaded to yield his principles and his digestion to the uncovenanted mercies of the maker of Christmas pies profane, idolatrous and indigestible. A SUBSCRIPTION has been started in England to procure funds for a testimonial to George Cruikshank, who, at an advanced age, finds himself, after a life of industry, in not very good circumstances. We presume that he is not actually in want, for he has done a prodigious deal of work, almost all of which has been very popular, and such as, if it had been produced today when artists are so highly paid, would have made him rich; but it is felt that it ought not to be said of George Cruikshank, that he is merely not poor; the present generation of men in middle life owes him more than this; it owes him a generous competence, heartily and gratefully given. Thack- eray once wrote of him: Before the century was actually in his teens, we believe that George Cruikshank was amusing the public. Is there BO way in which the country could acknowledge the long services and brave career of such a friend and benefactor? This appeal has awakened a wide response, and the first men in England, with a few of the men best known in this coun-. try, have agreed to act as a committee to collect a sum of money large enough to cheer the old mans heart with the assurance that the world to which he has given so much pleasure, still remembers him, and would give him pleasure in its turn. The long list of honorable names is headed by that of John Ruskin as President, and includes of living Englishmen almost every name famous in literature, science, and art. Tennyson and Browning, Longfellow and Lowell, Reade and Kingsley, Charles Knight and Robert Chambers, Swinburne and Allin am, among men of letters; Huxley and Acland, Ansted and Wilson, among men of science; Holman Hunt, Fred- erick Leighton, Burne Jones, Arthur Hughes, Ford Madox Brown, John Gilbert, J. A. Whistler, Thomas Woolner, Dante G. Rossetti, William Bur~es, George Street, and John P. Seddon, among artists and architects: these names out of a list of over three hundred, all more or less widely known, and the greater part of them distinguished, will suffice to show that this is no ordinary complimentary testimonial, but that a man is to be honored for whcm no crown is thought fit that is not woven by the very princes of the twin worlds of Art and Letters. One name surprises us by its absence from this roll-call of witsthe name of a man who personally owes more to the genius of Cruikshank than any one whose name is inscribed on it. It is probably merely by accident that the name of Charles Dickens is not to be found in this catalogue. It should have been at the head of it. For so long as Oliver Twist~ shall be read through tears and smiles, so long will Cruikshanks illustrations to that immortal fiction sink with it into the memory, and become forever part and parcel of the worlds delight in it. Never before, perhaps, was an author so fortunate as to meet with such an interpreter, and we shall have to believe Charles Dickens a very different man from what his writings report him, if we are to think him insensible to his obligation or unwilling to acknowledge it. Who that has ever seen it can forget the picture of Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble at tea; or Charlotte opening oysters for Noah Claypole; or Oliver asking for more; or Fagin giving lessons to his boys in pocket-picking; or Oliver, shot in robbing Mr. Maylies house; or Sykes and his dog; or Fagin in prison? The edition that we read when a boy, was illustrated by these etchings, and so deep an impression did they make upon our mind that to

Clarence Cook Cook, Clarence George Cruikshank 126-129

NEBULAlI. 126 seemed to be, in their refusal to eat them at Christmas tinm. it is only within a generation that the Presbyterian or Congregationalist descendant ot the Puritan of two centuries ago, has been persuaded to yield his principles and his digestion to the uncovenanted mercies of the maker of Christmas pies profane, idolatrous and indigestible. A SUBSCRIPTION has been started in England to procure funds for a testimonial to George Cruikshank, who, at an advanced age, finds himself, after a life of industry, in not very good circumstances. We presume that he is not actually in want, for he has done a prodigious deal of work, almost all of which has been very popular, and such as, if it had been produced today when artists are so highly paid, would have made him rich; but it is felt that it ought not to be said of George Cruikshank, that he is merely not poor; the present generation of men in middle life owes him more than this; it owes him a generous competence, heartily and gratefully given. Thack- eray once wrote of him: Before the century was actually in his teens, we believe that George Cruikshank was amusing the public. Is there BO way in which the country could acknowledge the long services and brave career of such a friend and benefactor? This appeal has awakened a wide response, and the first men in England, with a few of the men best known in this coun-. try, have agreed to act as a committee to collect a sum of money large enough to cheer the old mans heart with the assurance that the world to which he has given so much pleasure, still remembers him, and would give him pleasure in its turn. The long list of honorable names is headed by that of John Ruskin as President, and includes of living Englishmen almost every name famous in literature, science, and art. Tennyson and Browning, Longfellow and Lowell, Reade and Kingsley, Charles Knight and Robert Chambers, Swinburne and Allin am, among men of letters; Huxley and Acland, Ansted and Wilson, among men of science; Holman Hunt, Fred- erick Leighton, Burne Jones, Arthur Hughes, Ford Madox Brown, John Gilbert, J. A. Whistler, Thomas Woolner, Dante G. Rossetti, William Bur~es, George Street, and John P. Seddon, among artists and architects: these names out of a list of over three hundred, all more or less widely known, and the greater part of them distinguished, will suffice to show that this is no ordinary complimentary testimonial, but that a man is to be honored for whcm no crown is thought fit that is not woven by the very princes of the twin worlds of Art and Letters. One name surprises us by its absence from this roll-call of witsthe name of a man who personally owes more to the genius of Cruikshank than any one whose name is inscribed on it. It is probably merely by accident that the name of Charles Dickens is not to be found in this catalogue. It should have been at the head of it. For so long as Oliver Twist~ shall be read through tears and smiles, so long will Cruikshanks illustrations to that immortal fiction sink with it into the memory, and become forever part and parcel of the worlds delight in it. Never before, perhaps, was an author so fortunate as to meet with such an interpreter, and we shall have to believe Charles Dickens a very different man from what his writings report him, if we are to think him insensible to his obligation or unwilling to acknowledge it. Who that has ever seen it can forget the picture of Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble at tea; or Charlotte opening oysters for Noah Claypole; or Oliver asking for more; or Fagin giving lessons to his boys in pocket-picking; or Oliver, shot in robbing Mr. Maylies house; or Sykes and his dog; or Fagin in prison? The edition that we read when a boy, was illustrated by these etchings, and so deep an impression did they make upon our mind that to NEBULAE. I2 this day we can never recall the scenes of the written story without at the same time seeing in our minds eye thewe do not hesitate to say it equally powerful work of George Cruikshanks hand. Every edition of Oliver Twist that wants these etchings (and the old editions that contained them are Ion0 out of print), wants a charm that no man living can supply. Not even Leech could have done it, for Leech, with all his gifts, was a child to Cruikshank. Thackeray himself, though he illustrated most of his books with his own hand, was sometimes indehted to Croikshank. At least, one little hook is now before us, written by Thackeray, Stubbs Calendar, or the Fatal Boots, which contains six full-page etchings by Cruikshank in his best manner. The hook is a mere triflethe great novelist may have written it in a daybut Cruikshank has worked over his part of it as if nothing more important had ever called for his help to illustrate, and the result is that a little sketch of which the author was probably not very proud, is made precious by the work of this delicate-handed, delicate-minded interpreter. Merely to catalogue the works illustrated hy Cruikshank would be the task of several days, if indeed it would be possible to make a complete list of them. All of it is, of course, not equally good; much of it, judged by the taste of to-day, has a coarse ~avor, but it is without vulgarity, the fruit of a hale and hearty nature; through all of it we see the noble nature of the man loving good- ness and hating wickedness with all his heart. To those who do not know Cruikshank, and the rising generation sees but little of his work, we would say: make the acquaintance of this master, true as Hogarth in his knowl- edge of human nature, and great as Hogarth in the art of etching. And those Americans who have long known his work, and who owe to it many pleasant hours and many vivid impressions of famous scenes in fiction will be glad, we should think, to show their kindly feelings for the good old man by adding to the comfort of his days, now drawing to a close in a green old age; days that have left behind them an abundant record of purity and depth of feeling, of a hearty love of innocent mirth, and, in spite of his keen eye for their weak points, of a genuine good will to his fellow men. THERE is no unwiser policy than that sour-natured policy which seeks to destroy or to mar the pleasures of other people because they are not accord- ng to the taste, or in conformity with the conyictions, of the ruling power in the state, whQther that be a monarchy or a republic. But the opposition to restrictive Sunday laws is often made upon absurdly untenable grounds. For instance, take the complaint of some of our German adopted citizens, that they are deprived of the liberty of enjoying Sunday according to their national customs. Now, it is the essence of true liberty that it ~hall be en- joyed in such a manner as not to interfere with a similar enjoyment by others. This being generally true, most especially is it true, afortiori as the logicians say, in the case of men coming to enjoy the liberty of a country in which they are foreigners, and into which they are adopted by the generous policy of the men who, or whose fathers, have won that liberty. Against the Ger- man or the French manner of observing Sunday we have not here one word to say; but any reasonable foreigner who will consider the subject calmly must see that if his manner of observing the day is so offensive to his Amer- ican neighbors that it deprives them of their own enjoyment, the fact that his manner is his national manner is an argument rather against than for his claim to be undisturbed. For, in that case, his claim is in simple terms a claim to enjoy all the privileges of a country in which he has only the rights which are given to him, and also to bring into that country a foreign custom 128 NEBULAS. at war with the habits, and disagreeable to the tastes, of the people who gave him his privilege of citizenship. A ud there is another plea, equally absurd, which is made on the same subject not only in this country but in England. For instance, in one of our leading journals, the fact that on a recent occa- sion, Queen Victoria, having a somewhat larger party than usual at dinner on Sunday at Windsor Castle, regaled them after they had left the table with the music of the band, was made the ground of a charge of inconsistency, and of a tirade against oppression, and aristocracy, and privileged classes. The Queen and her ladies and gentlemen in waiting, it was said, may have a band to play to them on Sunday evening; but this gratification is strictly prohib- ited by law to all her Majestys subjects. If the same music had been played at any concert or music hall in London at the same hour, the manager would have been liable to a fine of one thousand pounds, and would have been duly prosecuted by the Sabbath Observance Society. The cases compared are not at all parallel, and that they are not so is apparent from the fact that the pleasure enjoyed by the Queen and her guests is prohibited by law to all her subjects, is untrue. Every one of her subjects, the very humblest, has the same right that the Queen has to enjoyment of music on Sunday evening; r~nd of this right hundreds of thousands avail themselves. That richt is to have and to enjoy as good music as they are able to obtain in any way for themselves in their private apartments. The Queen has a band, because she can afford to have one; some noblemen have bands; almost every regiment has one: people who cannot afford bands have a piano forte, a quartette of stringed instruments, or a chorus in which the performers are sometimes paid professional persons, but generally amateurs. Others divert themselves with a melodeon, an accordeon, a flute, or a fife; and the right of all these people to have this various music on Sunday evening is as well assured as the Queensas well assured as their right to breathe. All that the law inter- feres with in England in regard to music, and all that it interferes with in any part of the United States in regard to drinking, is in regard to the trans- action of public business on that day. If it is wrong for the law to control the transaction of public business at all, to insist that hackinen and that bar keepers shall be licensed, and that promissory notes and contracts shall not be legal if made on Sunday, then it is wrong to insist that theatres and con- cert rooms and bar rooms shall be closed on Sunday, but not otherwise. With the policy of the question we have not here to do, but only with the strange confusion of private and public transactions. But mdny people cannot afford to have a band or to have wine and brandy upun a nice dinner tahle, and must they therefore bc deprived of the privilege of going to a con- cert or a tavern on Sunday evening? We do not say that they should be so deprived, but only that the fact that they are unable to afford music and con- viviality at home is not an argument against the right of a legislature to close theatres and bar rooms on Sunday. People suffer many other depriva- tions from the lack of money. They cannot afford pictures, a liUrary, or costly clothing; and they might just as well, therefore, protest against being deprived of these. If laws operate equally, and every man is allowed the free enjoyment of his own, while he does not interfere with the liberty of others, there can be no reasonable complaints of injustice, althou~h there may be grave doubts as to policy. Iv there be one phrase which more than any other may be set down as an Americanism, and an Americanism of the worst kind, it is on this continent. If a speaker or a writer of a certain type wishes to say that something is or was very big, or very remarkable, or very terrible, he says NEBULIE. 129 that it is or was the biggest, the most remarkable, or the most terrible thing ever known on this continent. Bull Run was reported as the most terrific battle that ever took place on this continent; the pumpkin exhibited at a late Agricultural Fair was the biggestwe beg pardon, the most colos- salpumpkin ever raised on this continent; and Buncorn~e is, always has been, and always will be, one of the most remarkable places, and its people are, always have been, always will be, the most intelligent and enterprising people on this continent. A characteristic example of this use of the phrase in question appears in an account of the strange accident which happened on the railway between Mobile and Montgomery, by which two bears, two tigers, nd a hyena, were set free from their cages, which had been shivered by the collision, nd who, having first dashed into an adjoining forest, came out together to prey upon the carcass of a deer that had been killed by the same casualty by which they were set free. This having been set forth in terms which, in the judgment of the relator, the remarkable incident demanded, we come upon the inevitable territorial superlative. Now, he says, rising to the crest of his narrative, Now occurred one of the most remarkable contests of brutes that has ever taken place on this continent. One distinguishing trait of your man who writes in the continental superla- tive style is, that he always assumes at once that what he relates has taken l)iace on this continent several times before, if not much oftener, and that the case he has in hand is the most remarkable among many. If a she griffin were to be discovered in Utah, or a cherub that could sit down, this writer would immediately assure us that this was the most remarkable she griffin, and that the most perfect chernb, ever seenwe beg pardon again, ever wit- nessed on this continent. The phrase, however, is beginning, although ever so slightly, to go out of use. Another has appeared to which it must give place, and that is, on this hemisphere; this will soon be followed by, on this planet; and this in turn must pass away before another; for, ere long, our su cerlative writer will be contented with nothing less than assuring us that the man or the event that is his subject, is the most remarkable ever wit- nessed in this universe. THuOUGH an unfortunate error, several of the concluding verses of the exquisite poem entitled Loves Largess, by H. H., were omitted when it appeared in the November GALAXY. In justice to the author, and for the benefit of the readers of the magazine as well, we below give the poem entire: LOVE 5 LARGESS. AT my hearts door Love standetli, like a king beside His royal treasury, whose wide Gates open swing and cannot hide Their priceless store. His tonch and hold Its common things to jewels turned; In his sweet fires the dross he burned Away; and thus he won, and earned, And made its gold. So rich I find Myself in service of this king, The goods we spare, in alms I fling, And breathless days too few hours bring Meto be kind

Helen Hunt Hunt, Helen Love's Largess 129-132

NEBULIE. 129 that it is or was the biggest, the most remarkable, or the most terrible thing ever known on this continent. Bull Run was reported as the most terrific battle that ever took place on this continent; the pumpkin exhibited at a late Agricultural Fair was the biggestwe beg pardon, the most colos- salpumpkin ever raised on this continent; and Buncorn~e is, always has been, and always will be, one of the most remarkable places, and its people are, always have been, always will be, the most intelligent and enterprising people on this continent. A characteristic example of this use of the phrase in question appears in an account of the strange accident which happened on the railway between Mobile and Montgomery, by which two bears, two tigers, nd a hyena, were set free from their cages, which had been shivered by the collision, nd who, having first dashed into an adjoining forest, came out together to prey upon the carcass of a deer that had been killed by the same casualty by which they were set free. This having been set forth in terms which, in the judgment of the relator, the remarkable incident demanded, we come upon the inevitable territorial superlative. Now, he says, rising to the crest of his narrative, Now occurred one of the most remarkable contests of brutes that has ever taken place on this continent. One distinguishing trait of your man who writes in the continental superla- tive style is, that he always assumes at once that what he relates has taken l)iace on this continent several times before, if not much oftener, and that the case he has in hand is the most remarkable among many. If a she griffin were to be discovered in Utah, or a cherub that could sit down, this writer would immediately assure us that this was the most remarkable she griffin, and that the most perfect chernb, ever seenwe beg pardon again, ever wit- nessed on this continent. The phrase, however, is beginning, although ever so slightly, to go out of use. Another has appeared to which it must give place, and that is, on this hemisphere; this will soon be followed by, on this planet; and this in turn must pass away before another; for, ere long, our su cerlative writer will be contented with nothing less than assuring us that the man or the event that is his subject, is the most remarkable ever wit- nessed in this universe. THuOUGH an unfortunate error, several of the concluding verses of the exquisite poem entitled Loves Largess, by H. H., were omitted when it appeared in the November GALAXY. In justice to the author, and for the benefit of the readers of the magazine as well, we below give the poem entire: LOVE 5 LARGESS. AT my hearts door Love standetli, like a king beside His royal treasury, whose wide Gates open swing and cannot hide Their priceless store. His tonch and hold Its common things to jewels turned; In his sweet fires the dross he burned Away; and thus he won, and earned, And made its gold. So rich I find Myself in service of this king, The goods we spare, in alms I fling, And breathless days too few hours bring Meto be kind 130 NEBULIE. To souls whose pain, My heart can scarcely dare to greet With pity, while my own complete And blessed joy their loss must mete By my great gain. Diviner air Of beauty, and a grace more free, More soft and solemn depths I see In every womans face, since he I-las called me fair. More true and sure Each mans heart seems, more firm for right; Each man 1 hold more strong in fight, Since he stands ever in my sight So brave, so pure. More of suns fire Than days can use, and more than nights Can name, of stars with rhythmic lights, And sweeter singing flocks, whose flights Can never tire More bloom than eyes Can reach, or hands to grasp, may dare, More music in the constant air, Than each round wave can hold and bear, Before it dies And more of life For living, than all death can kill, More good than evils utmost will Can thwart, and peace to more than still The fiercest strife: All these I find In service of this gracious king: From goods we spare, such alms I fling; And pray swift days more hours to bring, More bonds to bind. Oh happiness! To utter thee, in vain our eyes Seek tears and vainly all speech tries: This thing alone our king denies In Loves largess. n. n. THE subject of the derivation of the homely and quaint phraseology which gives pith and point to the every-day conversation of the plain people, is so full of curious interest that it is not strange to find it awakening the at- tention of an increasing number of diligent students who are doing in this direction a work for the history of our language which may well supplement the labors of such men as Max Muller, Dean Trench, Wedgewood, and our own Marsh, in the more classical walks of linguistic research. Mr. Bartlett, in this country, and Prince Lucien Bonaparte, and Mr. John Camden Hotten, a young English publisher in England, may be mentioned as among the most diligent of recent students into the out-of-the-way dialects which are tribu- tary to the English tongue. Mr. Hotten, especially, shows an enthusiastic devotion to this line of research, and has, in addition to the issue of various NEBULAI~. 131 publications by other authors, himself compiled what he calls a slang dic- tionarya dictionary of nearly 10,000 of the vulgar words, street phrases, and fast expressions of high and low society; rabble-charming words which carry so much wildfire wrapt up in them. One-half of these words are reprint~d from a previous collection issued in 1859; the remainder were gleaned in various ways, a portion of them being derived directly from the different wandering tribes of London and the country, through the help of the chaunters and patterers, or sellers of songs and last dying speeches, in the streets of London. In the course of his etymological researches into the origin of these words, Mr, Hotten traces them through the beggars and thieves back to the Gypsies, who first appeared in England in the reign ol Henry VIII. Within a dozen years after their arrival, companies of English vagrants were formed upon the model derived from them, and a fellowship was speedily established between the English and the foreign rogues. In some cases the Gypsies joined the English gangs; in others English vagrants joined the Gypsies. A necessity for some language which should he a common medium of intercourse hence arose. The secret language spoken by the Gypsies, principally Hindoo, was barbarous to English ears and difficult to learn. English had the same difficulties for the Gypsies. A rude compromise was made, and the result was a singular mixture of Gypsy, Old English and newly-coined words, and gleanings from foreign and thus secret languages, forming what has since been known as the Canting Language, Peddlars French, or St. Giles Greek. Some of the words thus dcri~ed from the Hindoo have passed into common use, such as bamboozle, gibberish, bosh, and the very wordslangwhich gives title to the contraband language. Jockey also came from the Gypsy, in which tongue it means a whip. As George Borrow happily says, many of the words which the philologist has summarily dismissed as of vulgar invention, or of unknown origin, he might have traced to the Selavonic, Persian, or Romaic, or, perhaps, to the mys- terious ohject of his venerationthe Sanscrit, the sacred tongue of the palm- covered regions of md. In addition to the contrihutions of the Gypsies, the language of slang has been enriched by contributions of Dutch, Spanish and Flemish words, introduced by soldiers who had served in the Low Countries, and sailors who had returned from the Spanish Main; by Gaelic and Irish words derived from the Scotch and Irish vagabonds; by words fin- ported hy sailors and organ-grinders from the Lingua Franca, or bastard Italian of the Mediterranean seaports by Hebrew words obtained from the Jew receivers of stolen goods; by Hindostanee words brought by Lascar sailors, and even by contributions from the Latin prayers in use before the Reformation. Thus all tongues are made tributary to the colloquial and vulgar speech of the common people of England, nnd of the thieves and vagabonds as well, many of whose words and phrases, as Mr. Buckle is quoted as saying, are but serving their apprenticeship, and will eventually become the active strength of our language. PUNNING is much contemned by those who affect fastidiousness in wit. And their contempt is just where the pun is, as it is so often, a mere play upon words. But when the play of words involves a play of thought, and the similarity of sound presents simultaneously ideas ludicrously in- congruous, punning is genuine humor, although not the highest. Thus Hoods description of the meeting of the man and the lion, when the man ran off with all his might and the lion with all his mane, attained the acme of whimsical absurdity. Lambs question to the young lawyer about his first bijef Did you address ib Thou great first cause, least understood? was 132 NEBULAI~. the perfection of good-natured humorous satire, as Jerrolds reply to the literary bore who claimed fellowship with him on the ground that they rowed in the same boat Yes, but not with the same sculls was of ill- natured humorous satire. Lambs wit was always kindly; Jerrolds rarely less than cruel. It is well, however, to avoid a pun unless it is of this high 40 ality, or it is very bad and the company is hilarious; for the pun-maker, of all wits, should remember the immortal truth that A jests prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it. Jack Pundit, in whose company the Nebulous Person has sometimes the honor of finding himself; rarely yields to the temptation to play upon words, except in a polyglot, or, rather, macaronie style. The season and the compliments pertaining to it remind us of his remark at a New Years call. His hostess offering wine, which was accepted by him and his companion, told them that her husband had in an ascetic mood endeavored to persuade her to have only tea and coffee, hut that she had persisted in the old cu~om of having wine. Madaaze, said Jack, sons avez bienfait; etpar consequant, bowing over his glass, d votre sans thh This, however, was not polyglot, but merely a French pun. But being present at a squabble in the House of Lepresenta- tives, he said, as he went out, that although it might be doubtful whether poeta nescitur, it was manifest that orator fit. Soon after the great sycamores that shaded Columbia College for generations were felled, he met President King, and expressed his sorrow and surprise at the sacrifice. Yes, said Prex, they are a great loss. Great, indeed; I dont see how old Columbia can get on without them. Ab, I dont see that. Why, because trees faciunt collegium. Some friends were discussing Louis Napoleon, and wondering at his continued success. (It was before the Mexican affair.) Oh, said Jack, its plain enough. You see he is always Zoztaviter in inodo and foughtiter in re. On another occasion he expressed himself quite indifferent as to which side beat in the revolt in British India, because it was Sikhs of one and half a dozen of the other. This jest, we remember failed of prosperity in the ears of the hearers; less, however, because they knew that the Sikhs did not revolt, than because their ears alone could not detect the ambiguous word. They heard only six, and could not see what he saw in his minds eye, iSikhs. Some puns can be quickly apprehended only through the eye. It is unsafe to commit them to unaided speech. But they should not therefore be utterly condemned. If this pun had been made on the spot, with the Sikhs in sight, it would not have flashed in the pan. The success of another of these polyglot performances was made signal by the presence of Ihe very corpUs, or, rather, co~pores delicti. Walking with some friends, who, like himself; were fresher from the hands of Carolus Anthion than they are now, upon the Long Island shore of New York Bay before the Board of Health had purged it of its offal nuisance, lie stopped before one of half a doze canine carcasses which they had encountered, saying, How classical these shores are becoming l Classical? Certainly ; does not Virgil say (and he lingered upon dactyl and spondee): litter o Cur-rae Pretexunt puppies? But it may be questioned whether the crime of punning is not doubled when it accomplishes its atrocious purposes by this cold-blooded distortion of two (anguages.

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The Galaxy. / Volume 5, Issue 2 Atlantic monthly W. C. and F. P. Church, 1866-1868; | Sheldon and Company, 1868-1878. New York Feb 1868 0005 002
Henry James, Jr. James, Henry, Jr. The Story of a Masterpiece 133-144

THE GALAXY. 1~E~HU.AR7Y, 1868. THE STOHY OF A MASTEHPIECE. IN Two PAJiTS.PART IL NE afternoon, when the picture was nearly finished, John Len- nox went into the empty painting-room to ascertain the degree of its ~)rogress. Both Baxter and Marian had expressed a wish that lie should not see it in its early stages, and this, aceordingly,w~s his first view. 1-Jaif an hour after hehad entered the room, Baxter came in, nnannounced, and found him sitting before the canVas, (leep in thought. Baxter had been furnished with a house-key, so that lie niight have immediate and easy access to his ~vork when- ever the humor came upon him. I was passing, he said, and I couldnt resist the impulse to come in and correct an error which I made this morning, now that a sense of its enormity is fresh in my mind. He sat down to work, and the other stood watching him. Well, said the painter, finally, how does it satisfy you.? Not altogether. Pray develop your objections. Its in your power materially to assist me. I hardly know how to formulate my objections. Let me, at all events, in the first place, say that I admire your work immensely. Im sure its the best picture youve painted. I honestly believe it is. Some parts of it, said Baxter, frankly, are excellent. Its obvious. But either those very parts or others are singu- larly disagreeable. That word isnt criticism, I kfrow; but-I pay you for the right to be arbitrary. They are too hard, too strong, of too frank a reality. In a word, your picture frightens me, and if I were Marian I should feel as if youd done me a certain vio- hence. Im sorry for whats disagreeable; but I meant it all to be reol. I go in for reality; you must have seen that. I approve you; I cant too much admire the broad and firm methods youve taken for reaching this same reality. But you can be real without being brutalwithout attempting, as one may say, to be actual. 9 134 THE STORY OF A MASTERPIECE. I deny that Im brutal. Im afraid, Mr. Lennox, I havnt taken quite the right road to please you. Ive taken the picture too much au s& ieux. Ive striven too much for completeness. But if it doesnt please you it will please others. Ive no doubt of it. But that isnt the question. The picture is good enough to be a thousand times better. That the picture leaves room for infinite improvement, I, of course, dont deny; and, in several particulars, I see my way to make it better. But, substantially, the portrait is there. Ill tell you what you miss. My work isnt classical; in fine, Im not a man of genius. No; I rather suspect yqu are. But, as you say, your work isnt classical. I adhere to my term brutcd. Shall I tell you? Its too much of a study. Youve given poor Miss Everett the look of a I)rofessional model. If thats the case Ive done very wrong. There never was an easier, a less conscious sitter. Its delightful to look at her. Confound it, you~ ye given all her ease, too. \Yell, I dont know whats the matter. I give up. I think, said Baxter, you had better hold your verdict in abeyance until the picture is finished. The classical element is there, Im sure; but Ive not brought it out. Wait a few days, and it will rise to the surface. Lennox left the artist alone; and the latter took up his brushes and painted hard till nightfall. He laid them down only when it was too dark to see. As he was going out, Lennox met him in the hall. Exegi monumentum, said Baxter; its finished. Go and look at your ease. Ill come to-morrow and hear your impressions. The master of the house, when the other had gone, lit half a dozen lights and returned to the study of the picture. It had grown prodigiously under the painters recent handling, and whether it was that, as Baxter had said, the classical element had disengaged itselg or that Lennox was in a more sympathetic mood, it now impressed him as an original and powerful work, a genuine portrait, the deliberate image of a human face and figure. It was Marian, in very truth, and Marian most patiently measured and observed. Her beauty was there, her sweetness, and her young loveliness and her aerial grace, imprisoned forever, made inviolable and perpetual. Nothing could be more s~rnple than the conception and composition of the picture. The figure sat peacefully, looking slightly to the right, with the head erect and the handsthe vir- ginal hands, without rings or braceletslying idle on its knees. The blonde hair was gathered into a little knot of braids on the top of the head (in the fashion of the moment), and left fl-ce the almost childish contour of the ears and cheeks. The eyes were THE STORY OF A MASTERPIECE. 135 full of color, contentment and light; the lips were faintly parted. Of color in the picture, there was, in strictness, very little; but the dark draperies told of reflected sunshine, and the flesh-spaces of human blushes and pallors, of throbbing life and health. The work was strong and simple, the figure was thoroughly void of affectation and stiffness, and yet supremely elegant. Thats wha.t it is to be an artist, thought Lennox. All this has been done in the past two hours. It was his Marian, assuredly, with all that had charmed him with all that still charmed him when he saw her: her appealing confidence, her exquisite lightness, her feminine enchantments. And yet, as he looked, an expression of pain came into his eyes, ~ud lingered there, and grew into a mortal heaviness. Lennox had heen as truly a lover as a man may be; but he loved with the discretion of fifteen years experience of human affairs. He had a penetrating glance, and he liked to use it. Many a time when Marian~ with eloquent lips and eyes, had poured out the treasures of her nature into his bosom, and he had taken~ them in his hands and covered them with kisses and passionate vows; he had dropped them all with a sudden shudder and cried out in silence, But ah where is the heart? One day he had said te her (irrelevantly enough, doubtless), Marian, where is your heart? Wherewhat do you mean? Miss Everett had said. I think of you from morning till night. I put you together and take you apart, as people do in that game where they make words out of a parcel of given letters. But theres always one letter wanting. I cant put my hand on your heart. My heart, John, said Marian, ingeniously, is the whole word. My hearts everywhere. This may have been true enough. Miss Everett had distributed her heart impartially throughout her whole organism, so that, as a natural consequence, its native seat was som~ewhat scantily occupied. As Lennox sat and looked at Baxters eonsummat~ handiwork, the same question rose again to his lips; and if Marians portrait sug- gested it, Marinas portrait failed to answer it, It took Marinn to do that. It seemed to Lennox that some strangely potent agency had won from his mistress the eonti~ssion of her inmost soul, and had written it the~e upon the canvas in firm yet passionate lines. Marians person was lightnessher charm was lightness; could it be that her soul was levity too? NYas she a creature without faith. and without conscience? What else was the meaning of that hom-. rihle blankness and deadness that quenched the light in her eyes. and stole away the smile from her lips? These things were the less to be eluded because in so many respects the painter had been, profoundly just. He had been as loyal and sympathetic & s. he had. 136 THE STORY OF A MASTERPIECE. been intelligent. Not a point in the young girls appearance had been slighted; not a feature but hal been forcibly and delicately rendered. Had Baxter been a man of marvellous insightau un- paralleled observer; or had he been a mere patient and unflinching painter, building infinitely better than he knew? Would not a mere painter have been content to paint Miss Everett in the strong, rich, objective manner of which the work was so good an example, and to do nothing more? For it was evident that Baxter had done more. I-Ic had 1)ainted with something more than knowledge with imagination, with iceling. He had almost composed; and his composition had embraced the trnth. Lennox was unable to sat- isfy his doubts. He would have been glad to believe that there was no imagination in the picture but what his own mind supplied; and that the unsubstanti 1 sweetness on the eyes and lips of the image was but the smile of youth and innocence. He was in a muddlehe was absurdly suspicions and capricious; lie put out the lights and left the portrait in kindly darkness. Then, half as a reparation to his mistress, and half as a satisfactioa to hiniseif, lie went up to spend an hour with Marian. She, at least, as he found, had no scruples. She thought the portrait altogether a success, and she was very willing to be handed down in that form to pos- terity. Nevertheless, when Lennox came in, he xvent back into the painting-room to take another glance. This time he lit but a single light. Faugh! it was worse than with a dozen. He hastily turned out the gas. Baxter came the next day, as he had promised. Meanwhile poor Lennox had had twelve hours of uninterrupted reflection, and the expression of distress in his eyes had acquired an intensity which, the painter saw, proved it to be of far other import than a mere tribute to his power. Can the man be jealous ?thought Baxter. Stephen had been so innocent of any other design than that of painting a good portrait, that his conscience failed to reveal to him the source of his com- panions tronble. Nevertheless he began to pity him. lIe had felt tempted, indeed, to pity him from the first. I-Ic had liked hini and esteemed him; lie had taken him for a man of sense and of feeling, and he had thought it a matter of regret that such a mana creature of strong spiritual needsshould link his destiny with that of Marian Everett. But lie had very soon made up his mind that Lennox knew very well what he was about, and that he needed no enlightenment. I-Ic was marrying wiLh his eyes open, and had weighed the risks against the profits. Every one had his particular taste, and at thirty-five years of age John Lennox had no need to be told that Miss Everett was not quite all that she inight be. Baxter had thus taken for granted that his friend had designedly selected as his second wife a mere pretty womaiia THE STORY OF A MASTERPIECE. 137 woman with a genius for receiving company, and who would make a picturesque use of his money, lie knew nothing of the serious character of the poor mans p~ ssion, nor of the extent to which his happiness was bound up in n h it the painter would have called his delusion. His only concern had been to do his work well; and he had done it the better because of his old interest in Marian s bewitching face. It is very certain that he had actually infused into his picture that force of characterization and that depth of reality which had arrested his friends attention; but he had done so wholly without effort and without malice. The artistic half of Baxters nature exerted a lusty dominion over the human halffed upon its disappointments and grew fat upon its joys and tribula- tions. This, indeed, is simply saying that the young man was a true artist. Deep, then, in the unfathomed recesses of his strong and sensitive nature, his genius had held communion with his heart and had transferred to canvas the burden of its disenchantment and its resignation. Since his little affair with Marian, Baxter had made the acquaintance of a young girl whom he felt that he could love and trust forever; and, sobered and strengtlicued by this new emotion, he had been able to resume with more distinctness the shortcomings of his earlier love. He had, therefore, painted with feeling. Miss Everett coald not have expected him to do other- wise. lie had done his honest best, and conviction had come in unbidden and made it better. Lennox had begun to feel very curious about the history of his companions acquaintance with his destined bride; but he was fur from feeling jealous. Somehow he felt that he could never again be jealous. But in ascertaining the terms of their former inter- course, it was of importance that he should not allow the young man to suspect that he discovered in tIme portrait any radical de- fect. Your old acquaintance with Miss Everett, he said, frankly, has evidently been of great use to you. I suppose it has, said Baxter. Indeed, as soon as I began to paint, I found her face coming back to me like a half-remem- J)ere(I tune. She was wonderfully prettr at that time. She was two years younger. Yes, and I was two years younger. Decidedly, you are right. I have made use of my old impressions. Baxter was willing to confess to so much ; but he was resolved not to betray anything that Inrian had herself kept secret. lIe was not surprised that she had not told her lover of her former engagement; he expected as much. But lie would have held it inexcusable to attempt to repair her omission. Lennoxs faculties were acutely sharpened by pain and suspicion, and he could not help detecting in his companions eyes an inten- tion of reticence. He resolved to baffle it. 138 THE STORY OF A MASTERPIECE. I am curious to know, he said, whether you were ever in love with Miss Everett? I have no hesitation in saying Yes, rejoined Baxter; fancying that a general confession would. help him more than a particular denial. Im one of a thousand, I fancy. Or one, perhaps, of only a hundred. For you see Ive got over it. Im engaged to be mar- ried. Lennoxs countenance brightened. Thats it, said he. Now I know what I didnt like in your picturethe point of view. im not jealous, he added. I should. like the picture better if I were. You evidently care nothing for the poor girl. You have got over your love rather too well. You loved her, she was indif- ferent to you, and now you take your revenge. Distracted with grief; Lennox was taking refuge in irrational anger. Baxter was puzzled. Youll admit, said he, with a smile, that its a very handsome revenge And all his professional self-esteem rose to his assistance. Ive painted for liss Everett the best portrait that has yet been painted in America. She her- self is quite satisfied. Ah ! said Lennox, with magnificent dissimulation; Marian is generous. Come then, said Baxter; what do you complain of? You accuse me of scandalous conduct, and Im bound to hold you to an account. Baxters own temper was rising, and with it his sense of his pictures merits. Hovi have I perverted Miss Everetts expression? flow have I misrepresented her? What does the portrait lack? Is it ill-drawn? Is it vulgar? Is it ambiguous ? Is it immodest? Baxters patience gave out as lie recited these various charges. Fiddlesticks! lie cried ; you know as well as I do that the picture is excellent. I dont pretend to deny it. Only I wonder that Marian was willing to come to you. It is very much to Baxters credit that he still adhered to his resolution not to betray the young girl, and that rather than do so he was willing to let Lennox suppose that he had been a rejected adorer. as you say, he exclaimed, Miss Everett is so generous Lennox was foolish enough to take this as an admission. Wheit I say, Mr. Baxter, he said, that you have taken your revenge, I dont mean that youve done so wantonly or consciously. My dear fellow, how could you help it? The disappointment was propor- tionate to the loss and the reaction to the disappointment. Yes, thats all very well; but, meanwhile, I wait in vain to learn wherein Ive done wrong. Lennox looked from Baxter to the picture, and frora the picture back to Baxter. THE STORY OF A MASTERPIECE. 139 1 defy you to tell me, said Baxter. ive simply kept Miss Everett as charming as she is in life. Oh, damn her charms! cried Lennox. If you were not the gentleman, Mr. Lennox, continued the young man, which, in spite of your high temper, I believe you to be, I should believe you Well, you should believe me? I should believe you simply bent on cheapening the portrait. Lennox made a gesture of vehement impatience. The other burst out laughing and the discussion closed. Baxter instinctively took up his brushes and approached his canvas with a vague desire to detect latent errors, while Lennox prepared to take his do- parture. Stay! said the painter, as he was leaving the room; if the pichire really offends you, Ill rub it out. Say the word, and he took up a heavy brush, covered with black paint. But Lennox shook his head with decision and went out. The next moment, however, he reappeared. You may rub it oat, he said. The picture is, of conrse, already mine. But now Baxter shook his head. Ali! now its too late, lie answered. Your chance is gone.~~ Lennox repaired directly to Mr. Everetts apartments. Marian was in the drawing-room with some morning callers, and her lover sat by until she had got rid of them. When they were alone together, Marian began to laugh at her visitors and to parody certain of their affectations, which she did with infinite grace and spirit. But Lennox cut her short and returned to the portrait. He had thought better of his objections of the preceding evening; he liked it. But I wotider, Marian, he said, that you were willing to go to Mr. Baxter. Why so? asked Marian, on her guard. She saw that her lover knew something, and she intended not to commit herself until she knew how much he knew. An old lover is always dangerous. An old lover?~ and Marian blushed a good honest blush. But she rapidly recovered herself. Pray where did you get that charming news? Oh, it slipped out, said Lennox. Marian hesitated a moment. Then with a smile: Well, I was brave, she said. I went. How came it, pursued Lennox, that you didnt tell me? Tell you what, my dear John? Why, about Baxters little passion. Come, dont be modest. ilfodest! Marian breathed freely. What do you mean, my dear, by telling your wife not to be modest? Pray dont ask me about Mr. Baxters passions. What do I know about them? 140 THE STORY OF A MASTERPIECE. Did you know nothing of this one? Ab, my dear, I know a great deal too much for my comfort. But hes got bravely over it. Hes engaged. Engaged, but not quite disengaged. lies an honest fellow, but he remembers his penchant. It was as much as he could do to keep his picture from turning to the sentimental. lie saw you as he fancied youas he wished you; and he has given you a little look of what he imagines moral loveliness, which comes within nn ace of spoiling the picture. Th xters imae~ination isnt very strong, and this same look expresses, in l)Oint of fact, nothing but inanity. Fortunately hes a man of extraordinary talent, and a real painter, and he has made a good portrait in spite of himself. To such ar~nments as these was John Lennox reduced, to stifle the evidence of his senses. But when once a lover begins to doubt, he cannot cease at will. In spite of his earnest efforts to believe in Marian as before, to accept her without scruple and without second thought, lie was quite unable to repress an impulse of constant mis- trust and aversion. The charm was broken, and there is no mend- ing a charm. Lennox stood half-aloof, watching the poor girls countenance, weighing her words, analyzing her thoughts, guessing at her motives. Marians conduct under this trying ordeal was truly heroic. She felt that some subtle change had taken place in her future husbands feelings, a change which, although she was powerless to discover its cause, yet obviously imperilled her prospects. Something had snapped between them; she had lost half of her powcr. She was horribly distressed, and the more so because that superior depth of character which she had all along gladly conceded to Lennox, might now, as she conjectured, cover some bold and portentous desion. Could lie nieditate a direct rupture? Could it be his intention to dash from her lips the sweet, the spiced and odorous cup of bein, the wife of a ~ood-naturecl millionaire? Marian turned a tremulous glance upon her past, and wondered if lie had discovered any dark spot. Indeefi, for that matter, might she not defy him to do so? She had done nothing really amiss. rilbele was no visible blot in her history. It was faintly discolored, indeed, by a certain vague moral dinginess ; but it compared well enough with that of other girls. She had cared for nothing but pleasure ; but to what else were gii~Is brought ill) ? On the whole, niight she not feel at ease? She assuredi herself that she nmight ; but she nevertheless felt that if John wished to break off his engagement, lie wouldI do it on high abstract grounds, aim d not because she had committedl a naughtiness the more or time less. It wouldl be simply because he had ceasedi to love her. It would avail her but little to assure him that she wouldi kindly overlook this circumstance and remit the obligations of time heart. But, in spite of her hideous apprehensions, she comitinued to sumile and smile. THE STORY OF A MASTERPiECE. 141 The days passed by, and John consented to be still engaged. Their marriage was only a week offsix days, five days, four. Miss Everetts smile became less mechanical. John had apparently been passing through a crisisa moral and intellectual crisis, in- evitable in a man of his constitution, and with which she had noth- ing to do. On the eve of marriage he had questioned his heart; he had found that it was no longer young and capable of the vagaries of passion, and he had made lip his mind to call things by their proper names, and to admit to himself that he was marrying- not for love, but for friendship, and a little, perhaps, for prudence. It was only out of regard for what he supposed Marians own more exalted theory of the matter, that he abstained from revealing to her this common-sense view of it. Such was Marians hypothesis. Lennox had fixed his wedding-day for the last Thursday in October. On the preceding Friday, as he was passing up Broad- way, he stopped at Goupils to see if his order for the framing of the portrait had been fulfilled. The Picture had been transferred to the shop, and, when dulST framed, had been, at Baxters request and with Lennoxs consent, placed for a few days in the exhibition room. Lennox went up to look at it. The portrait stood on an easel at the end of the hall, with three spectators before ita gentleman and two ladies. The room was otherwise empty. As Lennox went toward the picture, the gentle- man turned out to be Baxter. He proceeded to introduce his friend to his two companions, the younger of whom Lennox recognized as the artists betrothed. The other, her sister, was a plain, pale woman, with the look of ill health, who had been provided with a seat and made no attempt to talk. Baxter explained that thee ladies had arrived from Europe but the day before, and that his first care had been to show them his masterpiece. Sarah, said he, has been praising the model very much to tie prejudice of the copy. Sarah was a tall, black-haired girl of twenty, with irre~ulai features, a pair of luminous dark eyes, and a smile radi- at of white teethevidently an excellent person. She turned to Lennox wit]1 a look of frank sympathy, and said in a deep, rich voice: She must be very beautifuL Yes shes very beautiful, said Lennox, with his eyes lingeriiit~ on her own pleasant face. You must know hershe must knox4- you. Im sure I should like very much to see her, said Sarah. This is very nearly as good, said Lennox. Mr. Baxter is a great genius. I know Mr. Baxter is a genius. But what is a picture, at the best? Ive seen nothing but pictures for the last two years, and I havnt seen a single pretty girl. 142 THE STORY OF A MASTERPIECE. The young girl stood looking at the portrait in very evident ad- miration, and, while Baxter talked to the elder lady, Lennox be- stowed a long, covert glance upon his fianc~e. She had brought her head into almost immediate juxtaposition with that ot Marians image, and, for a moment, the freshness and the strong animation which bloomed upon her features seemed to obliterate the lines and colors on the canvas. But the next moment, as Lennox looked, the roseate circle of Marians face blazed into remorseless distinctness, and her careless blue eyes looked with cynical familiarity into his own. He bade an abrupt good morning to his companions, and went toward the door. But beside it he stopped. Suspended on the wall was Baxters picture, lily Last Duchess. He stood amazed. Was this the face and figure that, a month ago, had reminded him of his mistress? Where was the likeness now? It was as utterly absent as if it had never existed. The picture, moreover, was a very inferior work to the new portrait. Tie looked back at Baxter, half tempted to den an explanation; or at least to express his perplexity. But Baxter and his sweetheart had stooped down to examine a minute sketch near the floor, with their heads in delicious contiguity. How the week elapsed, it were hard to say. There were moments when Lennox felt as if death were preferable to the heartless union which now star~d him in the face, and as if the only possible course was to transfer his property to Marian and to put an end to his ~x- istence. There were others, again, when he was fairly reconciled to his fate. He had but to gather his old dreams and fancies into a faggot and break them across his knee, and the thing were done. Could he not collect in their stead a comely cluster of moderate and rational expectations, and bind them about with a wedding favor? his love was dead, his youth was dead; that was all. There was no need of making a tragedy of it. His loves vitality had been but small, and since it was to be short-lived it was better that it should expire before marriage than after. As for marriage, that should stand, for that was not of necessity a matter of love, lie lacked the brutal consistency necessary for taking away Marians future. If he had mistaken her and overrated her, the fault was his own, and it was a hard thing that she should pay the penalty. Whatever were her failings, they were profoundly involuntary, and it was plain that with regard to himself her intentions were good. She would be no companion, but she would be at least a faithful wife With the help of this grim logic, Lennox reached the eve of his wedding day. His manner toward Miss Everett during the pre- ceding week had been inveterately tender and kind, lie felt that in losing his love she had lost a heavy treasure, and he ofFered her THE STORY OF A MASTERPIECE. 143 instead the most unfailing devotion. Marian had questioned him about his lassitude and his preoccupied air, and he had replied that he was not very well. On the Wednesday afternoon, lie mounted his horse and took a long ride. I-Ic came home toward sunset, ai~d was met in the hall by his old housekeeper. Miss Ex eretts portrait, sir, she said, has just been sent home, in the most beautiful frame. You gave no directions, arid I took he liberty of having it carried into the library. I thought, and the old woniaa smiled defcrciitially, youd like best to have it iii your owu room. Lennox went into the library. The picture was standing on the floor, back to hack with a high arm-chair, and catching, through the window, the last horizontal rays of the sun. He stood before it a moment, gazing at it with a haggard face. Conic! said he, at last, Marina may be what God has made her; but this detestable cicature I can neither love nor respect! He looked about him with an angry despair, and his eye fell on a long, keen poinard, given him by a frieiid who had bought it in the East, and which lay as an ornament oii his mantel-shelf. He seized it and thrust it, with barbarous glee, straight into the lovely face of the image. He dragged it downward, and made a long fissure in the living canvas. Then, with half a dozen strokes, lie wantonly hacked it across. The act afforded him an immense relief. I need hardly add that on the following day Lennox was married. ile had locked the library door on coniing out the evening before, and he had the key in his waistcoat pocket as he stood at the altar. As he left town, therefore, immediately after the ceremony, it was not until his return, a fortnight later, that the fate of the picture became known. It is not necessary to relate how he explained his exploit to Marian and how lie disclosed it to Baxter. He at least put on a brave face. There is a rumor current of his having paid the painter an enormous sum of money. The amount is probably exaggerated, but there caii be no doubt that the sum was very large. How lie has faredhow lie is destined to farein matri- mony, it is iather too early to determine. lie has been married scarcely three months. HENnY J~x~us, JR. A CORNER STONE. IT is to be supposed that all who take any interest in the progress of architecture in America, have watched with pleasure the recent indications that the profession is tending to that unity of aim and purpose without which no art can make any impression on its time. But, whether there be watchers or not, it is certainly true that, within a very few years, architecture has taken on a new phase in America; not only has the number of architects increased, the number of thoughtful, studious, and earnest men in the profes- sion has also increased, and all the signs promise that, if we have not seen the last of bad buildingwhether that term imply ugly, unmeaning design, or unsound construction, or bothwe have, at least, seen the beginning of good building. It could easily be shown that this improvement, although the sign of it are, as yet, somewhat scattered, is the result of conviction and effort, not of accident; that it is a growth, and not a fkshion. If it should appear on examination, to spring from the thought and labor of several men working quite independently, ad not from the influence of any single one, to be diffused, ad not the work of a clique or schcol, this ought to please us better and to be more reassuring to us; it would prove that the public is being educated, and that the growth is from a root, and not a mere implanted grat Perhaps some will think it is too early to hunt for signs of Spring, and will declare that the bluebird we anounce has sung out of season, and that these crocuses are over bold; but objectors will remember that we do not say the Spring is come, but only that, as the np-country people have it, the back of the Winter is broken. Our bluebird may die, perhaps, and build no nest; the flowers may be covered .with an April snow; but, for all that, the bird ad the flower belong to the Spring, and when they come she is near. The record of what hasbeen done here in architecture already, would, no doubt, prove an interesting study, and would be wo7rth reading. Indeed, it is a great pity that some of our wealthy young men with a taste for architecture that, at present, is only dangerous to the community, because it teases them perpetually to try their hand at what they call original workit is a pity that some one of these gentlemen would not put us all under obligations to him .by visit- ing the older-settled portion of our country, and measuring the fbw interesting examples of brick ad wooden architecture that the vandal hand of taste, and the le cruel hand of time, have left a There is an old church in Binghain, Massachusetts, if not the oldest, then among the oldest, churches in the country. It ought

Clarence Cook Cook, Clarence A Corner Stone 144-154

A CORNER STONE. IT is to be supposed that all who take any interest in the progress of architecture in America, have watched with pleasure the recent indications that the profession is tending to that unity of aim and purpose without which no art can make any impression on its time. But, whether there be watchers or not, it is certainly true that, within a very few years, architecture has taken on a new phase in America; not only has the number of architects increased, the number of thoughtful, studious, and earnest men in the profes- sion has also increased, and all the signs promise that, if we have not seen the last of bad buildingwhether that term imply ugly, unmeaning design, or unsound construction, or bothwe have, at least, seen the beginning of good building. It could easily be shown that this improvement, although the sign of it are, as yet, somewhat scattered, is the result of conviction and effort, not of accident; that it is a growth, and not a fkshion. If it should appear on examination, to spring from the thought and labor of several men working quite independently, ad not from the influence of any single one, to be diffused, ad not the work of a clique or schcol, this ought to please us better and to be more reassuring to us; it would prove that the public is being educated, and that the growth is from a root, and not a mere implanted grat Perhaps some will think it is too early to hunt for signs of Spring, and will declare that the bluebird we anounce has sung out of season, and that these crocuses are over bold; but objectors will remember that we do not say the Spring is come, but only that, as the np-country people have it, the back of the Winter is broken. Our bluebird may die, perhaps, and build no nest; the flowers may be covered .with an April snow; but, for all that, the bird ad the flower belong to the Spring, and when they come she is near. The record of what hasbeen done here in architecture already, would, no doubt, prove an interesting study, and would be wo7rth reading. Indeed, it is a great pity that some of our wealthy young men with a taste for architecture that, at present, is only dangerous to the community, because it teases them perpetually to try their hand at what they call original workit is a pity that some one of these gentlemen would not put us all under obligations to him .by visit- ing the older-settled portion of our country, and measuring the fbw interesting examples of brick ad wooden architecture that the vandal hand of taste, and the le cruel hand of time, have left a There is an old church in Binghain, Massachusetts, if not the oldest, then among the oldest, churches in the country. It ought A CORNER STONE. 145 to be carefully measured and drawn-out, for it is not only veiy agreeably designed externally, but the plan is peculiar, and the construction of the roof presents some interesting points. If no individual will do this from enthusiasm, then perhaps the Institute of Architects will set some one at the task, and publish the result in a special monograph. Then, beside, there are the few wooden houses of the last century, left in such old towns as Gloucester, Massachusetts; houses that, to our thinking, have never been sur- passed in this country in elegance of proportion, comfort of inter- nal arrangement, or the purity of their ornamentation, although this last belongs to a poor period. There were three of these houses when we knew the beloved old town, and we presume that two of them are still standing and good for another hundred years. They belonged to Mr. Hough, to Dr. Dale, and. to Captain Low. In the terrible fire of 1864, Mr. Houghs house, though saved, was seriously injured, and Captain Lows had to be blown up to pie- vent the spread of the flames. Here and there in our older cities, are to he found wooden spires, like that of the 01(1 South Church in Boston, or cupolas, like that of the present New York Post- office, which show a man of taste and perception doing his best in a narrow field and with poor materials. Boston and Philadelphia preserve the most of these indications of a good day in the past, hut New York, which had theni in plenty, has been so flowed over by the stream of emigration and changing populations that her architecture has shifted back and forth, and taken all shapes, like the sand at the bottom of our hay. Hardly anywhere in the country, however, is the study of the earlier building necessary to understand the building of the pres- ent. It cannot be said that there has been a groxvth, as in the older countries, from rudiments modified by successive occupations. Rarely, except in New York, has there been more than one ocen- l)ation. The emigrants brought with them the architectural ideas of their time and country, and reproduced them in literal copies, carrying their desire to see home repeated. so far as to import the very bricks from England and I1oll~nd, but they did not improve upon their models. ilardly ever were they able, in fact, to do more than copy in mini~ture and with diminished orncmentation, the buildings, houses, churches, halls, they had left over seas. Then came the Revolution with its eight years of education, development, discipline; a time of hardship and poverty, suffering and loss, in which art and literature, learning and science, died in their birth, or lived a starved and dwindled life, and architecture had no better chance than the rest. After this came the classi- cal mania, a pale reflection of the affectations of the French First Empire, with its make-believe worship of Greece and Rome; and then camenothing, and then, to-day. We laugh at 146 A CORNER STONE. the classical period, with its wooden pedirnents, its porticos of wooden pillars, and its dread of chimneys; but it was a fatal period, for all its folly. It established itself among us as the official style; gave us Washington Capitols, Patent Offices, Treasury Buildings, Girard College, United States Banks, Custom louses, and keeps on giving them; to-day, even, builds us a new County House, pedimented and pilastered a la mode, and, in all likelihood, will give us a new Post-Office in the same style. The period that followed the classical mania was one of transition. All the people who had money to build with, built pediments and pillars, of stone if they could afford it, which, thank heaven, very few of them couldotherwise, of wood, painted to look as much like stone as possible. If our readers remcmi)er, there was also a little spurt of philo-Egyptianism here and there, which left traces of itself in our Tombs, and in the entrance gate of Mt. Auburn Cemetery, over whose sham, wooden sublimity Fanny Kemble, in her piquant and clever Journal, bursts out into an honest fit of indignation. Beside these there were standing, till lately, a few pri- vate houses, their doors guarded by Sphynxes, and their fronts stuck about with cheerful emblcmsscarabey, winged globes, dog-headed Anubis, Thoth, Ammon, and lotus. But this was mere pedantry and affectation; the whim of rich people, who, as usual, did not know what to do with their money. As for the great body of the people, if they had to build, they followcd the true Gradgrind style, four walls and a roof; with boles for light and air, and larger holcs for ingress and egress. Of architectural design, of beauty, of taste from Dan to Beersheba all was barren. At that time it would have been hard to prophecy from what quarter the next moulding influence would come. If a man had looked to culture, refinement, general education, to produce it, he might have supposed that Boston would be the true east for that sunrisin g ; but, from first to last, the arts owe almost nothing to Boston, and the omens in that quarter are all as unfavorable to-day as ever they were. If art could be suckled on theories, all would go well with her in that pleasant Massachusetts country, but neither art nor artists thrive there. If by chance an artist gets born there, lie has this choice presented very early: To jilt the muse, to starve, oi~ to eoriie to New York. If he be rich, he goes to Paris ,gets airs, and comes back to sing monotonously for the rest of his days, There is no art but French art, and Couture is its prophet. Therefore it happened that, though at the period we speak of; Dame Nature was doing a good many blessed deeds in Massachusetts; might have been seen in the twilight, if one had had eyes, leaning on a rail fence and musing over Concord; oi~, in bright, Summer days, ripening the huckleberries in the sunny Lexington pastures for the little tow-head Socrates, that he might earn his Greek Test a- I A CORNER STONE. 147 ment by picking them; or smilingsuch a smile !as she swung in the crescent moon over that Brook Farm of hers; yet the man she needed. for this work was a slip she tended in another field. They called him Downing the nursery-mans boy; that black- eyed, black-haired lad, sitting studious over his books in the Mont- gomery Academy, helping his father and elder brother in the nurse- ry-, or botanizing with afihble, enthusiastic IDe Liederer, consul from the Netherlands, over the low-lying Newburgh hills. A poor boy, son of poor parents, with no advantages, few acqunintauces, few books ; this was natures instrument to waken our people to a de- sire for beauty and grace. For, before these things can be, they must be desired. And Downings books had much to do with teaching us to desire them. Nature has a snubbing way with her at times; can do unkindest things. One has to put up with much from her, to forgive bi-oken promises, to stand tearful or aghast over her double meanings found out too late; to be brave when she passes by with crowns for others twisted from the laurels he himself has planted. She played false to this boy of hers, as she has done ~vith many another. She gave him a yearning desire for the true, the beautiful and the good; panted the seed deep in his heart, saw it burst the ground, saw leaf after leaf unfold, and then, as if she had wearied of the play, took wing, and left him, and went about her other errands. Thus de- serted, young Downing had to look about him for what help lay nearest, and as ill-luck would have it, he found the very worst ad- visers close at his elbow. For he ~vas not a genius; if he had been, then everything would have been different. Then Nature might have gone or stayed. He would have given her snub for snub~ 0-c- nius converts difficulties to helps, makes something ont of nothing. Downing had not genius, but lie had talent of a rare kind, and bet- ter, perhaps, than talent, he had a clear purpose, and a strong will. There were reasons why for some things he must be dependent on others. His education had been only partial. Things essential to success in the path he had chosen, he did not have, lie could not draw, for instance; could not ever draw a straight line. Others then, must draw for him. Yet the mechanics who worked for him said. that he could always describe with admirable clearness what lie wanted mna(iC, and his eye was so true, that he spied faults with- ont the aid of compass or rule. He had a nature of great sensi- tiveness to form and color; he had great self-reliance; he had a thirst to learn that he might teach; and it is no slight praise to say that from the first, no man can point to an opportunity within his reach and say, This he missed, this he neglected. The real value of Downings work, was not in his positive teach- ings, for, if he had lived, he must have supplanted, n~t merely sup. plemented these by better teachings; it was in the impetus lie gave 148 A CORNER STONE. to the love of beauty, to culture, to the arts that make home beau- tiful. henry IV said, he wished that every French peasant might have a fowl in his pot. Downing, though no king, wished a better wish, and followed it with a deed, lie planted a flower in every poor mans garden. Perhaps, after all, we niust take back some- thing of what we have said against Nature. It may be, if she had made Downing finer, trained him choicer, given him wiser teachers, he might have failed to do his peculiar task. For that task was not to teach the taught, to set wealth at new ways of spending money, to widen the domain of luxury. It was a much higher work than this. It was to infuse into the whole mass of the people a love of flowers and trees, a love of home, and a desire to make home lovable, a desire for a better practical way of living, so as to get the substantial way of living; and no doubt he saw, as well as we, that until the whole people came to be of this mind, and to de- sire these thin~s, the higher teacher, the artist, must work in vain. It may well he that had Downing been asked, when young, whether he thought more would be gained by teaching the rich and educated than by teaching the poor and the untaught, he would have given the answer that his life did not give. It would be wrong to say, out of mere compliment, that, in the beginning, his sympathies were with the poor and the ignorant, or even with the working class, as we must call them, for lack of a better name. The glimpses that he caught of the possible refinements and elegance of life in the houses of a few rich people of real education and culture intoxicated him for a time ; not less, the aroma that 1)reathed from the pages of certain books, suoo~estino a refinement higher still. But this intoxication was necessary to him. lIe needed to look very far beyond his actual surroundings; to know that there was another kind of life, that something better than bread and water is in Gods storehouse, that the earth has better crops than beets and turnips, that beauty is a common possession, and not the exclusive property of the rich nd wise. Certain noses will involuntarily turn up in these later days if a man venture to allude approvingly to Downings books on archi- tecture and landscape gardening ; worse still, if he happen to speak of the houses lie built. But there is nothing surprising if we have outgrown the actual performance of the teacher. Architectuie in England owes an immeasurable debt to Welby Pugin: he had a flaming zeal that outran his own capacity, and worked by the hands of every young architect in the kingdom to lay the corner stone of the revived art of building. Yet Well)y Pugin has left nothing really good in architecture behind him. Downing was not Pugin, nor, as an artist, to be named in the same day; but he had all Pugins zeal in his own world, and did, every day, the best he could. The set an immense number of Americans thinking, and so A CORNER STONE. 149 catholic was he that he sought out and welcomed every one who could contribute anything to help on the work. The first books he got hold ofand there were no better within his reach to be bor- rowed or boughtwere the old men, Repton, Price, andHeaven save the mark !Loudon! He believed in London a long while Loudon who had not the first word of any Gospeland, worse than this, he came under the cruel claw of . It would be scandal- ous to name him, and, yet, for his evil deeds, he well deserves it. His epitaph is writ; tis Vaubrughs: Lie heavy on him earth, for he Laid many a heavy load on thee! But, then, he is not yet ready for his epitaph; he still eats, and drinks, and sleeps, and puts on clothes. This it is not civil to re- gret; but we may, with reason, regret that he still builds, still in- sists on shutting us up in donjons and fortresses, sets us at dinner in vaulted halls, and keeps us waiting at our front doors till the porteullis be raised. What discomfort he has caused, and will cause, till his medi~val spirit shall be at rest! What heaps of money he has wasted, and worse, what numbers he has disgusted with architecture! Yet, for a long time, Downing treated this person with great respect and consideration, acknowledged his in- debtedness to him, put his designs into his books, and recommended him to his friends. The best that we can say for him in this matter is, that he did not continue long the victim of this infatuation. But, as we have said, Downings actual work need not trouble us: tis his influence that makes his name worthy to be remembered. He left no single work, no beautiful house, no permanently-valuable book; but there is no beautiful house built here in our day, there is no garden that woos the Summer, that does not owe something to his memory; his name must long be spoken by Americans with affectionate respect. N\That Downincr did for us, then, was to stimulate the public mind to a desire for a better material way of life. He made us want better housesmore convenient, better built, prettier, with hay windows, gardens, slips of lawn, and good fruit in plenty. lie had that eloquence that he made a man or woman believe that everything beautiful lay just within reach. It seemed the most feasible thing in the world to build a house, and nothing was ever seen like the way the vines would run over it, the roses glow on the lawn, and the trees you only planted yesterday bear fruit to-morrow. Of course all sorts of people indulged in these bewitching ex- periments, and a great many failed from sheer greenness and stu- pidity. Also, a great many succeeded, and even the dull ones often laid a foundation for clever ones to prosper on. The end was, that the first point in education was gained. The pupil was interested. 10 150 A CORNER STONE. To-day, it seems to us, the architects are again in advance of the public. The architects have taken a great stride in the last fifteen years. Mr. Downing taught the general public; he hardly in- Iluenced a single architect. The sudden growth in the profession is owing to several causes. First, individual minds were powerfully stimulated by Ruskin. Then there came over seas a few strong, able, individual men who taught by word and work. Calvert Vaux, Leopold Eidlitz, Wrey Mouldthere is a great debt of gratitude due these men. Then there was the general stimulus of competi- tion and of intercourse, the enlarging effects of travel, photographs and. books, our young, ambitious men sharing in the new-born enthusiasm of their contemporaries in England and France. The architects, then, such of them as deserve the nameand their number is quite respectableare becoming established in good methods of building, in true principles of design; they are studious, reflecting, ambitious to link their names to worthy work; already many of them have done so. But the public has not so high a standard, and seems to care very little for good work. Here it is, to speak candidly, that the negative influences of Downings work are felt almost as positive evil. He did not throw his weight strongly, clearly on the side of good, faithful architecture. He was eager, first of all, for pretty, tasteful results, and showed how they might be produced at the least expense to serve temporary ends. We firmly believe that had he lived he would have come to think differently; but we know, too well, that this was what he thought and what he taught. This is why his books are outworn so soon, and why the young architects to-day hold them in small esteem. They served a certain use, but they lacked the vitality that is given by a principle. In the case of Pugin, it is true he left no monu- mental work, true that he set up for admiration a bad period, a dull and tasteless time; but his vitality consists in the face that he is identified with the teachings of good principles; he stood for earnest, truthful work; he was always hammering a way at the necessity for sound, honest construction. The particular application of his principles is of no account with us to-day, but his principles are everlasting; they are opposed to all sham and deceit. It is true that our architecture is in a bad way. We are building as badly as we can, and as ugly as we can. The other day they took down and carted off two old landmarks of New YorkSt. Thomas Church and Stuyvesant Hall. Certainly these were ugly structures; but are the buildings that will go up in their places like to be a whit better? Miss Jones gives yesterdays bonnet to her maid, and laughs to herself at the figure the creature will cut in the horrid old thing. Are we to suppose that to-days fashion which Sophie Soust or Marie has just opened has any advantage over the discarded top-knot, except that of newness? Look at the A CORNER STONE. 151 new Academy of Music; look at the proposed Cranston Hotel, the new County House, Mr. Beechers Church, the proposed Catholic Cathedral; tis hardly unfair to saylook at the new Post Office. Can we build worse than these things? A few excellent buildings prove that this is the fault of the public, and not of the architect. The Corn Exchange and the Brooklyn Academy of Music, the work of Eidlitz; the New York Academy of Design, by Wight; Moulds churches All Souls, The Holy Trinity, the Presby- terian Church in Forty-second Street, and his Parish School at- tached to Trinity Chapelthese, with, perhaps, Trinity Chapel, by the younger Upjohn, and various smaller buildings by other men, are proof enough that if good work were called for, it could easily be supplied. The fault of our not having good buildings lies, we are convinced, wholly with the public and with the committees that represent the public. Take a single example. The trustees of Mr. Beechers church called for plans for a new building. Many were sent in, among them one by Mr. Mould, a strikingly original work, not merely beautiful and interesting, as is everything that he pro- duces, l)ut remarkable even for hima design whose inventiveness and fitness of adaptation would have made it noticed anywhere. Yet this design was not so much as considered, and we are told by an architect who has no personal reason for his admiration, that he, in vain, tried to get the committee to consider it. Well, we all know what is the result of this committees labors. This is only one example, but they lie thick about us. Here are three great public buildings about to be erecteda new building for the War Department at Washington, a new Capitol at Albany, a new Post Office in New York. Does any one believe that we stand any chance of getting a good building in either of these cases? Ira- mensely costly buildings we shall get, that we may safely reckon on, but nothing good to look at. The new Post Office will only shut off a little more of our scanty napkin of blue sky, and smirk. with some unmeaning phiz or other Classic or Renaissance - at the pretentious and ugly, because unsuitable Herald Office over the way. The truth is that we must wait still longer before the public will be in a position to demand good buildings for its. illoney. We are not educated up to the point where we can take no pleasure in unmeaning ornament, in crude plans, in flimsy con- struction. It needs that we be made to feel, in what is called a practical way, the evils of bad building, the solid advantage of good building. Perhaps the late developments with regard to. in- surance may do something to hasten the day of better things. But it must necessarily be slow work. It cannot be denied that the best teachers would be first-rate buildings, well planned, beautiful in design. The few that have already been erected here have been. of great service in stimulating thought and pointing out a better t52 A CORNER STONE. way. But the fact that the architects themselves are moving in the matter of the public education, that they are combining their efforts to persuade the public to look at the subject of archi- tecture from a higher point than it has been accustomed to these things are matters for sincere congratulatioii; and not the least encouraging element in the prospect is, that these move- ments are the drawing together of influences hitherto separate, and working, if not in opposition, yet apart and solitary, but now brought together out of a common conviction. The professional tour of observation which Mr. W. Ware is now making through England sent out, we believe, by the American Institute of Architects promises to have happy results. Everywhere he has been received with generous cordiality, and all opportunity freely given him to know what has been accomplished and what is being done, in the revival of architecture in England. He has himself; whenever it has seemed to be desirable, addressed the architects at their vari- ous social and professional meetings, and by his good sense, mod- esty, and tact, has done much to excite an interest in the work of our own men. Nor has the result of his visit, thus far, been con- fined to good wishes and sympathy; an interchange of ideas and productions has also been begun. The Royal Institute of Archi- tects has sent out to the American Institute, through Mr. Ware, copies of all its papers, reports of proceedings, monographs, etc., and added to these a large collection of architectural photographs, drawings, and tracings of the works of its members, among whom are to be found every architect of note and ability in the United Kingdom. The American Institute has not been slow to respond to these expressions of good will. It is preparing to make the best return in its power, by sending to England a collection of photo- graphs and drawings representing the progress of the profession in America. This will not be done ia any narrow or exclusive spirit, nor will any attempt be made to give a more favorable impression of our condition than would be just, by sending only the best that has been accomplished here. Invitations have been sent to all the architects who are in any way entitled to the name, to send either drawings, or photographs and tracings of drawings, of their best work, to the Secretary of the Institute, in New York, for transmission to England. The response to this invitation has, thus far, been general, and there is every prospect that a large portfolio wiil be collected. One great advantage of this proceed- ing will be, that our architects will, for the first time, submit their work to competent judgment, and get a verdict on it worth con- sidering. And it is much to be desired that the intercourse thus happily begun between American architects and those of England, should be extended to the French, among whom a movement is taking place, similar to that going on in England, but A CORNER STONE. 153 under far abler leadership. England has no architect the equal of Viollet-le-Duc, as distinguished for his learning and scholarship as for his professional skill, and who, by his enthusiasm, his energy, and wonderful industry, is doing the work of many men in regen- erating architecture in France, and helping it to regain its ancient glory. His Dictionary of Architecture and his Conversa- tions on Architecture, are already influencing our younger men, and sowing the seeds of higher teaching than has yet come to us from any quarter. At home his influence has been great enough to produce an actual revolution, and give a serious blow to the school that has, thus far, arrogated to itself the name of French, and which is responsible, both here and abroad, for much of the degeneracy that architecture has fallen into. It is greatly to be wished that our American Institute of Architecture should ally itself with this important movement, and bring it in some way more directly to bear upon our young scholars. There would be no danger5 in doing this, that we should hazard our prospect of developing a style of architecture suited to our wants as a people living an indi- vidual and peculiar life, under new conditions of climate and tem- perature; for the excellence of M. \Tiollet-le-Duc consists in the prac- tical character of his teachings, in the fact that they are founded, not on whim or fashion, but on principles, and that they are not formal nor degenerate, but enthusiastic and creative. They will not teach our young men to design in a particular style or school; but they lay a broad foundation on which to design well what- ever may be required, to be governed in design by the eternal laws of comiuon sense and nature. We have already had too much of one kind of French influence, and too many bad buildings have been designed, and too many built, iu the style which the present Emperorwhose taste is of a very low orderhas made fashion- able, but which, happily, he has not succeeded in making national. Now let us enter into sympathy with the real Francethe France of intelligence, progressand enthusiasm, and learn what she can teach us of the true principles of building. And let us trust that by another decade, when these buildings that do so little credit to our culture, and are in such ludicrous contrast to the metropolitan claim we so loudly make, shall be tumbled down to make room for others, the public will show its growth in refinement and in- telligence by demanding structures in their place that will repre- sent its highest class, its most thoughtful, its best taughtstruc- tures built, not to be pulled down, but to endureto become a part of our civil and national life, landmarks of our history, lit servants for our noblest uses, silent and venerable teachers of thii~s not to be forgotten or despised. CLAnENCE COOK. GENERAL WASHINGTONS NEGRO iI3ODY-SERYANT. A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. rpuEstiri.ing part of this celebrated colored mans life properly tbegan with his deaththat is to say, the notable features of his biography begin with the first time he died. Tie had been lit- tle heard of up to that time, but since then we have never ceased to hear of him; we have never ceased to hear of him at stated, un- failing intervals. His was a most remarkable career, and I have thought that its history would make a valuable addition to our biographical literature. Therefore, I have carefully collated the materials for such a work, from authentic sources, and here present them to the public. I have rigidly excluded from these pages everything of a doubtful character, with the object in view of in- troducing umy work into the schools for the instruction of the youth of my country. The name of the famous body-servant of General Washington was George. After serving his illustrious master faithfully for half a century, and enjoying throughout this long term his high regard and confidence, it became his sorrowful duty at last to lay that beloved master to rest in his peaceful grave by the Potomac. Ten years afterwardin 1809full of years and honors, he died him- self, mourned by all who knew him. The Boston Gazette of that date thus refers to the event: Georo~e the favorite body-servant of the lamented Washington, died in Richmond, Va., last Tuesday, at the ripe age of 95 years. His intellect was un- impaired, and bis memory tenacious, up to within a few minutes of his decease. He was present at the second installation of Washington as President, and also at his funeral, and distinctly remembered all the prominent incidents connected with those noted events. From this period we hear no more of the favorite body-servant of General Washington until May, 1825, at which time he died again. A Philadelphia paper thus speaks of the sad occurrence: At Macon, Ga., last week, a colored man named George, who was the favorite body-servant of General Washington, died, at the advanced age of 95 years. Up to within a few hours of his dissolution he was in full possession of all his faculties, and could distinctly recollect the second installation of Wa& ington, his death and burial, the surrender of Cornwallis, the battle of Trenton, the griefs and l~ ardships of Valley Forge, etc. Deceased was followed to the grave by the ent re population of Macon. On the Fourth of July, 1830, and also of 1834 and 1836, the subject of this sketch was exhibited in great state upon the rostrum of the orator of the day, and in November of 1840, he died again.

Mark Twain Twain, Mark General Washington's Negro Body-Servant 154-157

GENERAL WASHINGTONS NEGRO iI3ODY-SERYANT. A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. rpuEstiri.ing part of this celebrated colored mans life properly tbegan with his deaththat is to say, the notable features of his biography begin with the first time he died. Tie had been lit- tle heard of up to that time, but since then we have never ceased to hear of him; we have never ceased to hear of him at stated, un- failing intervals. His was a most remarkable career, and I have thought that its history would make a valuable addition to our biographical literature. Therefore, I have carefully collated the materials for such a work, from authentic sources, and here present them to the public. I have rigidly excluded from these pages everything of a doubtful character, with the object in view of in- troducing umy work into the schools for the instruction of the youth of my country. The name of the famous body-servant of General Washington was George. After serving his illustrious master faithfully for half a century, and enjoying throughout this long term his high regard and confidence, it became his sorrowful duty at last to lay that beloved master to rest in his peaceful grave by the Potomac. Ten years afterwardin 1809full of years and honors, he died him- self, mourned by all who knew him. The Boston Gazette of that date thus refers to the event: Georo~e the favorite body-servant of the lamented Washington, died in Richmond, Va., last Tuesday, at the ripe age of 95 years. His intellect was un- impaired, and bis memory tenacious, up to within a few minutes of his decease. He was present at the second installation of Washington as President, and also at his funeral, and distinctly remembered all the prominent incidents connected with those noted events. From this period we hear no more of the favorite body-servant of General Washington until May, 1825, at which time he died again. A Philadelphia paper thus speaks of the sad occurrence: At Macon, Ga., last week, a colored man named George, who was the favorite body-servant of General Washington, died, at the advanced age of 95 years. Up to within a few hours of his dissolution he was in full possession of all his faculties, and could distinctly recollect the second installation of Wa& ington, his death and burial, the surrender of Cornwallis, the battle of Trenton, the griefs and l~ ardships of Valley Forge, etc. Deceased was followed to the grave by the ent re population of Macon. On the Fourth of July, 1830, and also of 1834 and 1836, the subject of this sketch was exhibited in great state upon the rostrum of the orator of the day, and in November of 1840, he died again. WASHINGTONS NEGRO BODY-SERVANT. 155 The St. Louis Republican of the 25th of that month spoke as follows: ANOTHER RELIC OF THE REVOLUTION GONEGeorge, once the favorite body-servant of General Washington, died yesterday at the house of Mr. John Leavenworth, in this city, at the venerable age of 95 years. He was in the full possession of his faculties up to the hour of his death, and distinctly recollected the first and secoad installations and death of President Washin,,ton, the sur- render of Cornwallis, the battles of Trenton and Monmouth, the sufferings of the patriot army at Valley Forge, the proclamation of the Declaration of Inde- pendence, the speech of Patrick Henry in the Virginia House of Delegates, and many ether old-time reminiscences of stirring interest. Few white men die lamented as was this aged negro. The funeral was very largely attended. During the next ten or eleven years the subject of this sketch appeared at intervals at Fourth of July celebrations in various parts of the ~ountry, and was exhibited upon the rostruni with flattering success. But in the Fall of 185~ he died again. The Califdrnia papers thus speak of the event ANOTHER OLD HERO GONEDied, at Dutch Flat, on the 7th of March, George (once the confidential body servant of General Washington), at the great age of 95 years. His memory, which did not fail him till the last, was a won- derful storehouse of interesting reminiscences. He could distinctly recollect the first and second installations and death of President Washington, the sur- render of Cornwallis, the battles of Trenton and Monmouth, and Bunker Hill, the proclamation of the Declaration of Independence, and Braddocks Defeat. George was greatly respected in Dutch Flat, and it is estimated that there were 10,000 people present at his funeral. The last time the subject of this sketch died, was in June, 1864; and antil we learn the contrary, it is just to presume that he died permanently this time. The Michigan papers thus refer to the sorrowful event: ANOTHER CHERISHED REMNANT OF THE REVOLUTION GONEGeorge, a colored man, and once the favorite body servant of General Washington, died in Detroit last week at the patriarchal age of 95 years. To the moment of his death his intellect was unclouded, and he could distinctly remember the first and second installations and death of Washington, the surrender of Corawallis, the battles of Trenton and Monmouth, and Bunker Hill, the proclamation of the Declaration of Independence, Braddocks Defeat, the throwing over of the tea in Boston harbor, and the landing of the Pilgrims. He died greatly respected, and was followed to the grave by a vast concourse of people. - The faithful old servant is gone! We shall never see him more, until he turns up again. He has closed his long and splendid career of dissolution, for the present, and sleeps peacefully, as only they sleep who have earned their rest. He was ia all respects a remark- able man. He held his age better than any celebrity that has fig- ured in history; and the longer he lived the stronger an d longer his memory grew. If he lives to die again, he will distinctly recollect the discovery of America. The above r~sarn~ of his biography I believe to be substantially 156 WASHINGTONS NEGRO BODY-SERVANT. correct, although it is possible that he may have died once or twice in obscure places where the event failed of newspaper notori- ety. One fault I find in all notices of his death which I have quoted, and this ought to be corrected. In them he uniformly and impartially died at the age of 95. This could not have been. He might have done that once, or maybe twice, but he could not have continued it indefinitely. Allowing that when he first died, he died at the age of 95, he was 151 years old when he died last, in 1864. But his age did not keep pace with his recollections. When he died the last time, he distinctly remembered the landing of the Pilgrims, which took place in 1620. He must have been about twenty years old when he witnessed that event; wherefore it is safe to assert that the body servant of General Washington was in the neighborhood of two hundred and sixty or seventy years old when he departed this life finally. Having waited a proper length of time, to see if the subject of this sketch had gone from us reliably and irrevocably, I now pub- lish his biography with confidence, and respectfully offer it to a mourning Nation. iMAIRK TWAIN. P. S.I see by the papers that this infamous old fraud has just died again, in Arkansas. This makes six times that he is known to have died, and alxvays in a new place. The death of Washingtons body servant has ceased to be a novelty; its charm is gone; the people are tired of it; let it cease. This well-meaning but mis- guided negro has now put six different communities to the expense of burying him in state, and has swindled tens of thousands of peo- pie into following him to the grave under the delusion that a select and peculiar distinction was being conferred upon them. Let him stay buried for good now; and let that newspaper suffer the severest censure that shall ever, in all future time, publish to the world that General Washingtons favorite colored body-servant has died again. POPULAR SONGS. TN Chatham street, New York City, between the City Hall and L the l3owery, there used to be an old anatomical museum, from the second story window of which came continuously, since a time to which the memory of young men runneth not to the contrary, the monotonous tones of a hand-organ. It was turned by a dim-eyed, and almost deaf old manthe deafness in this instance, being his gain rather than his misfortuneand from early morning till the time of the closing of the shops, he never left it except to partake hastily of his frugal meal. iDav after day, for years, the passers-by heard those slow old tunes, droning out, apparently slower and slower, as though on the point of dying away, and yet never ceas- ing. Possibly this man had begun his working life at that organ, and had passed his prime, and grown old and deaf earning his daily breadand not much moreby this daily mechanical turning of a crank. It led one to wonder why the living and the thinking force residing in the body of a man, should be cheaper than any unintel- ligent power of steam, or wind, or water that could be chained to turn this crank; and why a human being, noble in reason, infinite in faculties, in form and moving express and admirable, in action like an angel, in apprehension like a god, should become so utter an automaton, with no opportunity on earth for any better work. It led one to wonder whether this mans mother, in the joy at his unfolding reason, had ever thought of the purpose for which he was bornto be a mere machine, a substitute in the present for the per- petual motion of the future. But, in more practical mood, dismis- sing these sentimental fancies, the writer did intend to go in and talk with him some day, at the interval when he ate his cold lunch froni his dinner pailso long a motion of the crank to buy so little and unsatisfactory exercise to the jawsand see whether, after all, under this machine life, one might not find a man there still, a rare man too, full of the memories and histories of all the tunes of half a century, that he had ground out of that organ, and that had come to him in the successive editions of the song books. He might tell us what songs had been popular, how they had risen and waned in public favor, what local events, what queer by-words, what jokes pertinent to the day, but now forgotten, had been sung by the merry people of the time. Some songs had no doubt been suddenly popular, and had as quickly passed to obscurity, while others, like Home, Sweet Home and Yankee Doodle, had always been on his list. It would be curious to know how one song succeeded

George Wakeman Wakeman, George Popular Songs 157-165

POPULAR SONGS. TN Chatham street, New York City, between the City Hall and L the l3owery, there used to be an old anatomical museum, from the second story window of which came continuously, since a time to which the memory of young men runneth not to the contrary, the monotonous tones of a hand-organ. It was turned by a dim-eyed, and almost deaf old manthe deafness in this instance, being his gain rather than his misfortuneand from early morning till the time of the closing of the shops, he never left it except to partake hastily of his frugal meal. iDav after day, for years, the passers-by heard those slow old tunes, droning out, apparently slower and slower, as though on the point of dying away, and yet never ceas- ing. Possibly this man had begun his working life at that organ, and had passed his prime, and grown old and deaf earning his daily breadand not much moreby this daily mechanical turning of a crank. It led one to wonder why the living and the thinking force residing in the body of a man, should be cheaper than any unintel- ligent power of steam, or wind, or water that could be chained to turn this crank; and why a human being, noble in reason, infinite in faculties, in form and moving express and admirable, in action like an angel, in apprehension like a god, should become so utter an automaton, with no opportunity on earth for any better work. It led one to wonder whether this mans mother, in the joy at his unfolding reason, had ever thought of the purpose for which he was bornto be a mere machine, a substitute in the present for the per- petual motion of the future. But, in more practical mood, dismis- sing these sentimental fancies, the writer did intend to go in and talk with him some day, at the interval when he ate his cold lunch froni his dinner pailso long a motion of the crank to buy so little and unsatisfactory exercise to the jawsand see whether, after all, under this machine life, one might not find a man there still, a rare man too, full of the memories and histories of all the tunes of half a century, that he had ground out of that organ, and that had come to him in the successive editions of the song books. He might tell us what songs had been popular, how they had risen and waned in public favor, what local events, what queer by-words, what jokes pertinent to the day, but now forgotten, had been sung by the merry people of the time. Some songs had no doubt been suddenly popular, and had as quickly passed to obscurity, while others, like Home, Sweet Home and Yankee Doodle, had always been on his list. It would be curious to know how one song succeeded 158 POPULAR SONGS. another in favor, to know what time Old Dan Tucker, Oh, Su- sannalI ! The Old Folks at home, Old Dog Tray, The Sil- ver Moon, Jordan is a Hard Road to Travel, Out of the Wil- derness, Dixie, and John Brown, held the public ear. He did not live to play the Cruel War, nor Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, nor to tell me this history of songs; and the treasures of his poor old head were lost to me and to the public forever. No doubt the owners of the museum turned their proprietorship of him to the best possible account after his death by having his skeleton proper- ly prepared for preservation, and hung up among their other ana- tomical curiosities. It is surprising that it should be so, and yet it is probable, that the greater number of the songs which this old man played on the organ during the years which he turned it, were written by one manStephen Collins Foster. Whether it is or is not true that poets are born, not made, it is certainly true that musicians are born. It would seem as though sometimes a human organism became possessed of a spirit of music, wresting it from all the ordinary routine of human life, to be simply the instrument from which should be poured forth strange and magical melodies. Thus we hear of children, of blind persons, of a poor, uneducated colored boy, possessing musical taste and touch that are wonderful. With something like the same thought we are compelled to read the life of Americas great song com- poser, a gifted and wayward man, born with a genius that has made itself felt wherever songs are sung, and yet living an eccentric and unfortunate life. 11e was born, as we learn from a sketch by Mr. Geo. NW. Birdseye, July 4, 1826, in Pittsburg, and died Januai;y 13, 1864, in the New York Hospital, to which place he had been removed from the American Hotel in the Bowery. At the age of seven years he learned to play the flageolet without lessons. His first song was Oh Susannah, published by Peters, of Cincinnati; his second, Open thy Lattice, Love, published by George Willis, of Baltimore, both in 1842, when he was only sixteen years of age. It is said that his first successful effort at composition was inspired by a band of negro minstrels performing in his native town. Going home with their melodies ringing in his mind, he wrote that wild piece of nonsense called the Camptown Races, with its jingling chorus of Du da, dn da, da. Old Uncle Ned, from his pen, was published in 1846. From that time onward he wrote a won- derful series of songs. The works of all the other American com- posers together, up to the year 1864, will not equal those of Foster in the degree of their popularity. Among his songs are, for instance, Old Folks at~ Home, Massas in the cold, cold Ground, Old Dog Tray, Nellie was a Lady, Ellen Bayne, Jennie with the Light Brown Hair, Oh, Boys! Carry me POPULAR SONGS. 159 long, Jennys Coming oer the Green, Beautiful Dreamer, Maggie by my side, I see her still in my Dreams, Nelly Bly, Come where my love lies dreaming, Fairy Belle, etc. Their music was irresistible; it seemed to flash from heart to heart, like the electricity upon the wire. There is nothing in old fables telling of the mysterious influences of music more marvellous than the magic by which the songs of Foster made themselves popular. It was not the result of puffery or advertising. The greater number of the best of his songs, after he came to New York, were composed in the back roomthe bar-roomof an old grocery store at the northwest corner of I-lester and Christie streets. He used to lounge there at a board table, and when his money be- came low, he would take a piece of brown wrapping paper, and prepare to compose a song. He first hummed the tune to himself; it may have been ringing in his head for two or three days before, but the immediate necessity of the hour had not compelled him to put it to paper. He would draw his bars and jot down his notes, and then, still humming it, compose the words. The air came first the air being by far the more important. Yet the words always bore intimate relation to, and were consonant with, the spirit of the music. There were a number of words for which he had a peculiar fancy, especially dreaming and melody, which occur in his songs with remarkable frequency. The name he loved best was Jennythe name of his wife. He loved to sing his own songs, and his favorite was Jennys Coming oer the Green. Beside writing words and music, he sometimes attempted to sketch the illustrated covers necessary to published music, but was not very successful. One day he took a sketch of Willies Return, for the cover of the song Willie, We Have Missed You, to the engraver, who, grievously mistaking its character, said, Ah! another comic song, Mr. Foster? Foster tore the sketch to fragments, and never attempted anything of the kind afterward. One of his last songs was Willie has Gone to the War. He died too soon to give us any very popular war-song; and others have occupied if not filled his place. lie married, in Pittsburg, a daughter of the late Dr. McDougall. He has a daughter living. During his life Foster must have written as many as two hundred and fifty songs. Upon some of his songs he obtained large percentages, but during the latter part of his life he would sell them for a few dollars, though one of them was sometimes sufficient to make a small for- tune for its publisher. It mattered little to him so long as he was able to sustain life. He deserved, and might have received, if he had desired, the honor which society would have been glad to lavish upon one who had so lightened the burden of daily life, so soothed the souls of the sick and weary, so intensified the language of love, sorrow, and 160 POPULAR SONGS. mirth. His music is for all who have music in their souls; it is the heart and not the educated ear that interprets it. It is related that au English poet while on a jonrney, seeing a country serving maid reading his poelus, exclaimed: This is fame. But Foster could not have walked in the streetcould not have at- tended a place of amusement, or an evening entertainment where music was one of the attractionscould scarcely have travelled to the remotest country place, without being likely to hear his own music there. It was played on every kind of instrument, sang and whistled by youn~ men and maidens, business men and matrons, old men and children, by all classes of society, and in all sorts of scenes and places. Yet, but few of those who so loved the music, ever knew anything of its author. Was it an exquisite pleasure to hear thus on every hand, in all his walks, the songs that had origin with hiiuself? or was it rather a painful thought that so few recog- nized him, or honored him for the beautiful strains that had found their sympathetic way into every heart, and set every tongue invol- untarily trilling their music? Among the popular composers of music of the present day are J. U. Thomas, composer of Down by the River Side I Stray, The Cottage by the Sea, Happy he thy Dreams, Beautiful Isle of the Sea, Down by the Gate, Fishes in the Sea, Tis but a Little Faded Flower, etc.; George F. Bristow; Mrs. Parkhurst, composer of Sweet Evelina, etc.; Mathias Keller, composer of the American Hymn, Mother, oh Sing me to Rest, Fairest and Rarest, Afloat on the Tide, Angel Lottie, etc.; George F. Root, composer of The Battle Cry of Freedom, Tramp, Tramp, Tramp,~ Just before the 2I3attle, Mother, The Vacant Chair, Hazel Dell, Rosalie, the Prairie Flower, etc.; Henry Work, composer of Babylon is Fallen,~~ Grafted into the Army, etc. Charles Carrol Sawyer, composer of Mother would Comfort Me, etc.; William B. Bradbury, composer of Marching Along, etc.; Henry Tucker, composer of When this Cruel War is over, etc.; Theodore F. Seward, composer of Rally Round the Flag, Boys, Fling it to the Breeze, The Land we Love, etc.; Buckley, composer of Id choose to he a Daisy, The Captain with his Whiskers, I am Dreaming, Come in and Shut the Door, etc.; Alice Hawthorne, which is the nom do plume of Sep. Winner, of Philadelphia, composer of Listen to the Mocking Bird, What is Home without a Mother, etc.; Charles F. Thompson, composer of Who will Care for Mother now, etc.; D. D. Emmett, composer of Dixie, and many other banjo songs; Joseph W. Turner, com- poser of Mary of the Wild Moor, etc.; Mr. Woodbury, com- poser of Be Kind to the Loved Ones at Home, etc.; J. Ernest Perrin, composer of Beware, etc. Although the air of a song is actually its important feature, yet, POPULAR SONGS. 161 to prove that good words are also an element of success, it is only necessary to mention that the words of Rock me to Sleep, Mother, written by Florence Percy (Mrs. Akers), have been set to different music by as many as seven composers. The music most generally accepted is by Leslie. Among the writers of words for songs, are George Cooper, Mrs. M. A. Kidder, George W. Birds- eye, W. Dexter Smith, Jr., etc. George P. Morris was a very suc- cessful writer of words. Composers, of course, frequently set to music the words of eminent poets, and also often write their own words. There are songs for all emotions and occasions. There are songs for all times and seasons. The most dramatic scenes are necessarily the most appropriate to music. Hejice it is that there are so many sailing songs, and songs for the night and Summer. A Summer evening in the country, or on some beautiful lake, is always pro- vocative of music. It is safe to estimate, says a recent writer, that fully one- third of the most admired songs of the day have in them something about moonlight; and, of course, they are only really appropriate when sung by moonlight. When stars are in the quiet sky. Then most I think of thee, wrote Bulwer many years ago, and music might be addressed in the same terms. Most young people of musical tastes are disposed to follow the advice of the lover in Moores poem: The shortest of ways To lengthen our days, Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear. And Summer nights are usually resonant with the songs of girls and boys as well as of frogs and zephyrs. Our popular songs are not up to the literary mark, perhaps; their sentiment is not double-refined, and even their sense is not always the clearest; but the masses make their choice, and while grander words and finer versifications are left unnoticed, these attain uni- versal circulation. There has probably been an improvement in sentiment, at least, in our best songs, upon those which used to be sung in the olden times. The most famous of those were drinking songs, of which the best known is, perhaps, that written by a chaplain named Walter Dc Mapes, of undue jollity, in the service of Henry II., which commences: Mihi est propositum in taberna mon, etc. It may be noticed that the most popular sentimental and humor- ous songs in the English language are those attributed to the Irish, Scotch or negroes. The quaint and careless variations from the English words, especially in the Scottish and negro songs, seem to 162 POPULAR SONGS. enhance the sentiment and make the humor more poiuted. The songs of Moore and Burns represent the Irish and Scotch, and perhaps Foster will best repre~sent negro minstrelsy as it has taken its prominent position in this country. Since the war, however, we have had genuine negro songs, taken down from the lips of freed- men. They exhibit a reckless and spasmodic use of language; but are very plaintive, and devotional. Here is a weary, and yet hope- ful chant that is often sung at Port Royal: 0 well join the forty tousand by and by So we will! Sowe will! XI,Tell join do forty tousand upon de golden shore, And our sorrows will be gone forever more, more, more, So they will! My way is dark and cloudy, So it is! So it is! My way is dark and cloudy, All de day! And here is one with a beautiful and prayerful burden: Good Lord, remember me! I pray my Lord, as the years roll round, Good Lord, remember me! Oh, Death, he is a little man, And be go from do to do; And he kill some soul and ho wounded some, And he lef some soul to pray. O Lord, remember me! I pray to my God as the years roll round. Do, Lord, remember me. Yet it must be said that there are some of those plaintive songs that are supposed to belong peculiarly to burnt-cork minstrelsy, which possess a charm that compensates for much of their nonsense. That list of bright maidens of which they tell, whose dirges are sung in beautiful tunes, should be, every one of them, an inspiration to a kind and mournful thought. Who is not better for hearing Poor Lost Lillie Dale, Darling Nellie Gray, Dear Evelina, Sweet Evelina, Carrie Lee, Dear Annie of the Yale, Katy Darlincr and poor absurd Rosa Lee? Dey gib her up, no power could save, U ii a li o lie, She ax me follow to her grave, U li a li 0 lao. I take her hand, twas cold as doff, So cold I hardly draw my breff, She saw my tears in sorrow flow And said, Now dont be foolish, Joe, U li a ii 0 la 0 Rosa sleeps in Tennessee U li a li 0 la 0. POPULAR SONGS. 163 And Sweet Kitty Wells: When the birds were singing in the morning, And the myrtle and the ivy were in bloom, And the sun on the hill was a dawning, it was then we laid her in the tomb. hear what kind old Thackeray says: I heard a humorous balladist not long sincea minstrel with wool on his head, and an ultra-Ethiopian complexion, who performed a negro ballad that I confess moistened these spectacles in a most unexpected manner. I have gazed at thousands of tragedy queens dying on the stage, and expiring in appropri- ate blank verse, and I never wanted to wipe them. They have looked up with due respect be it said, at many scores of clergymen in the pulpit without being dimmed; and behold a vagabond, with a corked face and a banjo, sings a little song, strikes a wild note, which sets the heart thrilling with happy pity. I am afraid that the old organ grinder already mentioned, never realized the power of music to incite to tears, laughter, or dancing, or to draw not only men, but beasts and birds to the feet of the player, as it has been stated in popular story. He was scarcely able to lure spectators enough into the museum, with all the attrac- tion of the exhibition thrown into the scale, to pay its scanty ex- penses. Yet we hear in a hyperbolic ditty how, xvith no instru- mont but his mouth, a country boy goes out at nightfall, and charms all intbrior animate creation with his whistling Supper was over, the boy went out, He passed thro the yard and over the stile. The big dog barked as he went along by, And ftdlowed him nearly a mile. And he sat him down on a hickory log, And whistled a lively tune, this boy! Which took the ear of this barking dog, And he wagged his tail for joy! The beetle stopped from pinching the fly, The toad in his bole stood still, And the tom-tit heard with a tear in his eye, And a fishing worm in his bill; And the grasshopper said, I know that air, But I cannot whistle it so The tune of the man with no hair on his head, - Where hair ever ought to grow. In the old traditions we have stories of the wondrous power of music, in the fables of Orpheus and Pan, and in the accounts of the horn of Oberon, which would make every one dance who was not of irreproachable character; of the harp of Siguri, which caused inanimate objects to caper in the wildest confusion; of the Scotch Glenkin dies harp, which would Harp a fish out o saut water, Or water out of a stane; and of the Kandele, invented by Wdmniim~Anen, the supreme god 164 POPULAR SONGS. of the Finnish Olympus, the harmonies of which no mortal hand could awaken, but which, when the god himself touched the strings, accompanying it with his voice, caused the birds of the air, the beasts of the field and the fishes of the sea to listen at- tentively, while even \V4iiniimoinen was himself moved to tears which fell like pearls down his robe. With the grouping of many weird and beautiful fancies, Longfellow, in The Tales of a Way- side Inn, descrihes his Musician: He lived in that ideal world Whose language is not speech, but song; Around him evermore the throng Of elves and sprites their dances whirled; The Stromkarl sang, the cataract hurled Its headlong waters from the height; And mingled in the wild delight The scream of sea birds in their flight, The rumor of the forest trees, The plunge of the implacable seas, The tumult of the wind at night, Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing, Old ballads, and wild melodies Through mist and darkness pouring forth, Like Elivagars river flowing Out of the glaciers of the North. And when he played, the atmosphere Was filled with magic, and the ear Caught echoes of that Harp of Gold, Whose music had so weird a sound, The hunted stag forgot to bound, The leaping rivulet backward rolled, The birds came down from bush and tree, The dead came from beneath the sea, The maiden to the harpers knee. GEORGE WAKEMAX. SOME OF OUR ACTOIRS. IT is often claimed that the acting of the present day is more gen- [ uine and natural than that of former generations, and that the modern stage, breaking u~~ the old conventional models, has sent the actor to nature instead of tradition for his authority and inspi- ration. But it is a great mistake to confound the free-and-easy style of our day with that which we call nature,a style immeasurably inferior to that consummate art which conceals art, and which was once the grace and glory of the stage. It is not enough for the dramatic art to imitate nature. Let us have on the stage men and women just as we find them off the stage, is the current demand. Art is not imitation. If it were merely that, a wax figure in a pea-jacket would be finer than the Greek Slave. I have met, said a veteran poet in my hearing once, a good many actors who could spell, some who could write, but very few who could read. A finished delivery is rare, indeedthat nice and accurate lodgment of emphasis, with the proper inflections, giving each word its due prominence and relation to every other. It illuminates the author and sets his meaning, as it were, on a hill; it renders even indifferent passages luminous, eloquent, and full of expression. Those who have heard Ellen Tree read She never told her love, will know what I mean. A pre-Raphaclite realism, in the nonsensical cant in fashion with some people, is claimed for the modern actors, which the elder schools did not exhibit. What is this realism? When, a few years ago, Matilda Heron was turning the heads of the town, we all heard extravagant praise of her realism, her truth, her fideli- ty to nature. Yet the stage never saw a more artificial actor, in- tensely elaborate, full of poses, and full of mannerisms. We found her out in time, and she is now coldly neglected. She lacked the old-time professional art. She was only successful in a few 1~5le8 in which her peculiar talent and individuality had scope; her triumphs were measured by the range of her genius, and limited by the in- completeness of her art. Her Camille was a great success, because she really employed in it a very consummate artunfortunately, however, it was borrowed. For a hundred nights, she watched a famous Parisian actress in the part, and reproduced every detail of her models business. There is trickery enough in many modern reputations. Suppose that I am small, that I am wiry, that my voice is thin and poor, but I discover I can beat all the world in laughing and crying. I have a 11

O. B. Bunce Bunce, O. B. Some of our Actors 165-172

SOME OF OUR ACTOIRS. IT is often claimed that the acting of the present day is more gen- [ uine and natural than that of former generations, and that the modern stage, breaking u~~ the old conventional models, has sent the actor to nature instead of tradition for his authority and inspi- ration. But it is a great mistake to confound the free-and-easy style of our day with that which we call nature,a style immeasurably inferior to that consummate art which conceals art, and which was once the grace and glory of the stage. It is not enough for the dramatic art to imitate nature. Let us have on the stage men and women just as we find them off the stage, is the current demand. Art is not imitation. If it were merely that, a wax figure in a pea-jacket would be finer than the Greek Slave. I have met, said a veteran poet in my hearing once, a good many actors who could spell, some who could write, but very few who could read. A finished delivery is rare, indeedthat nice and accurate lodgment of emphasis, with the proper inflections, giving each word its due prominence and relation to every other. It illuminates the author and sets his meaning, as it were, on a hill; it renders even indifferent passages luminous, eloquent, and full of expression. Those who have heard Ellen Tree read She never told her love, will know what I mean. A pre-Raphaclite realism, in the nonsensical cant in fashion with some people, is claimed for the modern actors, which the elder schools did not exhibit. What is this realism? When, a few years ago, Matilda Heron was turning the heads of the town, we all heard extravagant praise of her realism, her truth, her fideli- ty to nature. Yet the stage never saw a more artificial actor, in- tensely elaborate, full of poses, and full of mannerisms. We found her out in time, and she is now coldly neglected. She lacked the old-time professional art. She was only successful in a few 1~5le8 in which her peculiar talent and individuality had scope; her triumphs were measured by the range of her genius, and limited by the in- completeness of her art. Her Camille was a great success, because she really employed in it a very consummate artunfortunately, however, it was borrowed. For a hundred nights, she watched a famous Parisian actress in the part, and reproduced every detail of her models business. There is trickery enough in many modern reputations. Suppose that I am small, that I am wiry, that my voice is thin and poor, but I discover I can beat all the world in laughing and crying. I have a 11 166 SOME OF OUR ACTORS. play written with abundance of opportunity to cry and laugh from the rising of the curtain to the going down thereof. Everybody exclaims What natural crying! What natural laughing! Miss Maggie Mitchells Fanchon is a very clever bit of acting; but why call it a representation of the realistic school? Why the real Fanchon, no doubt, had soiled fingers, teeth guiltless of Sozo- dont, and used very bad grammar. Fanchon is just as much an ideal as Juliet or Rosalind. But this method of fitting a character to ones idiosyncracies was not the old idea of the art, and there is no telling what end of geniuses we might have developed had this Yankee trick been discovered a century earlier. An actor, according to the old idea, was one whose art enabled him to create distinct and separate individualities, and was not limited to the reproduction of himself. It was the actors study to enter into and embody the creations of the dramatist, and not order the author to individualize his char- acter to the measure of the performer. Modern comedy acting is usually a bright, brisk, touch-and-go affair, suited to modern plays; but to the mellow and artistic style of a former generation, it is as the light claret wines, now so much in use, to crusty old port. Mere facility in off-hand dialogue will not fit an actor for the old comedy. There is no form of dramatic ex- pression so rare to find as genuine gayety. Mr. Lester Wallack is ~he best of our light comedians. He has a captivating l)rillianey of touch, and supreme elegance of man- ner. He cannot, however, depict genuine gayety, and is forced to substitute for it a sort of refined antic and humorous grimace. his greatest successes in comedy have been in parts like that of Little- ton Coke (in Old Heads and Young Hearts), where a light, 6las~ manner, keen satire, and brisk dialogue, are required. Like all of his family, Mr. Wallack has profound dramatic perceptions, and consequently great talent for the romaiitic drama. In Monte Christo, the mysterious Count in Pauline, and in certain portions of Mel- notte in the Lady of Lyons, he is the most brilliantly picturesque actor on the stage. Much of this power depends on his resources of dress, in which he exhibits a marvellous talent. His get-np is usually superb. In that field he is master almost without a rival. His fondness for the picturesque or romantic drama is very decided, and he is reported to have said that he would take pleasure in act- ing the Count in Pauline three hundred nights in a year. But gayety was my text. The want of an actor who can ade- quately express it excludes from the stage Young Rover, Young Mirabel, and many kindred parts. Who can sustain these delicious r6les, where the gay humors sparkle and dance in glorious exhilara- tion from first to last? I would go far to see Mirabel acted once more. The situation in the last actit is Farquhars Inconstantis one of the most dramatic and thrilling on the stage, and combines a wild SOME OF OUR ACTORS. 167 mirth with passionate intensity that any actor may well shrink from attempting. Murdoch has found favor in the part before a London audience. But Murdoch, with more true mirth than, perhaps, any of his compeers, has not that refined and brilliant lightness of man ncr, that grace, which I have described elsewhere as snuffing a can- dle in a way to make you feel that snuffing candles is the poetry of life, or taking snuff with a grace to witch the world with snuff, taking. Who can act Benedick? Charles Kean, a shrivelled old man of sixty, who looked no more like Benedick than a dried her- ring, gave us by sheer art the best Benedick of many a year. Twenty years ago Mrs. Kean was a Beatrice worthy of the part, an ac- tress of true gayety; and her merry, rollicking laugh, which used to set the house in a sympathetic roar, yet lingers delightfully in my ears. There is not an actress on our stage who can express the gayety of Beatrice, or point Beatrices wit. Where, again, is there a Rosalind, or a ola? Whoever has seen Ellen Tree as Rosalind, will echo this question with regret. We have lately lost from the sta0e the charming Madeline Hen- riquesnot a great actress, but one with a tasteful, finished, society manner, without pretence or affectation, and full of gentleness, grace, and feeling. Even she was incapable of Rosalind, or Viola, or of any ripe and truly intellectual part. She appeared best in quietly-earnest characters, and had more pathos than comedy. Her delicate and refined rendering was healthful for the art; and her marriage, in ending her theatrical career, caused an unusual loss to the American stage. Madeline Henriques is not the only one of our modern actors who, charming in little society parts, would be lost in the rich old drama. Of all the Wallack company only one member catches the spirit of the old comediesnotwithstanding Mr. Wallacks persist- ent attempts to revive themand this is Mr. John Gilbert. lie has a sound, thorough drill, and that perfect knowledge of the tradi- tions of the art which are necess~ ry to old English comedy. Gil- bert has scarcely the unction of the late Mr. Blake in Sir Anthony Absolute, nor the perfect finish of Placicle in Sir Peter Tetnzle, but his range of parts is wider than that of either of those excellent actors. Mr. Wallack ought to produce Henry IV., just to show, what few know, that Mr. Gilberts is the best Falstaff on the stage. It has more breadth, richer coloring, more unctuous mellowness than Hacketts, which, by excessive elaboration, is weakened in vigor and freedom. But Hackett is an admirable actor. His Sir Per- tinax Mac Sycophant, in The Man of the World, is a perfect study. and exhibits a Scotchman of the world in colors supremely vivid, His Rip Van Winkle is far nearer the ordinary conception of that good-for-nothing Dutchman than Mr. Jeffersons, whose performance s praised so much for its naturalness. Jefferson is natural, refined 168 SOME OF OUR ACTORS. full of delicate perceptions, but he is in nowise the real Rip of Irvings story. Jefferson, indeed, is a good example of our modern art. his naturalness, his unaffected methods, his susceptible tem- perament, his subtleties of humor and pathos, are appreciated and applauded; yet his want of breadth and tone, sometimes renders his performances feeble and flavorless. Let us not forget ~Harry Placide, that glorious old actor, now on the Long Island shore, who consents to forget, in sea-side sports, his early triumphs and a long-admiring public. I wish he would oc- casionally revisit the glimpses of the footlights, just to remind ns how Sir Peter Teazle or Sir Harcourt Courtly ought to be acted. With him, probably, will pass away even the tradition of those parts. In his Sir Peter was exhibited a consummate art of which the more modern stage gives us but few examples. It was the ideal of an English gentleman of the olden time. When Placide and Gilbert are gone, Sheridan will have to be shelved. Among all our actors there is none, in my j udgment, who exhibits such power of imagination as Mr. James W. Wallack. Unfortu- nately, this great qualification is marred by mannerisms, and some- times by extravagance. lie is most effective in very salient parts; and nothing on the American stage is so intense in dramatic ex- pression and characterization as his Werner, Gisippus, Melantius (in The Biidal), and the Iron Mask. He has many stage tricks, is apt to play idly with his voice, is angular in gesture, and not always natural in delivery. But he flings into his part a vivid imaeination and passionate intensity of feeling that outweigh a thousand faults. Macready, faulty in the same respects, reached the head of the English stage. Wallacks style, moreover, mellows by time, and his performance last Winter of The Dangerous Game, by its grand reserve and artistic finish, disarms much of the censure just pronounced. In his Henry Dunbar the actor seems translated into the character. Wallack has the family insight into the pic- turesque resources of the art. his Richard III. is unlike any other actors conception of the part; but that fine old actor, Mr. Barry, once said of it that if played in London, it would be a great suc- cess or as great a failure. Of late years he has avoided the part. His Shylock is also a very original performance, and is worthy of being revived, for comparison with Booths. Mr. Booth is a born Hamlet. His youthful figure, graceful de- portment, melancholy bearing, pale and intellectual face, large, in- ininating eye, supply all the external requirements of the character, while his tender pathos, his power of passionate expression, united with his refinement of taste, susceptible temperament and sympa- thetic appreciation, render him the Hamlet of hamlets. He exercises, too, a sort of magnetic power over the majority of his auditors, which bars criticism on their part. He is sometimes crude, SOME OF OUR ACTORS. 169 sometimes does not even accomplish what is technically known as filling the stage. In Hamlet this is not apparent; but in Itiche- lien it renders the performance bald. Mr. Booth does not always give to language its full force of meaning. His emphasis is some- times misplaced; his inflections not always sufficiently marked; his readi% does not always do jnstice to the meaning of his author. He is much too prone to lodge his emphasis on pronouns and prepo- sitions, neglecting what elocutionists call slur, by which insignifi- cant words are touched lightly and trippingly. He often declaims in an elevated monotone, without any flexibility, and hence fails to give to a passage its just expression. But his voice is often very tender and sweet, as his rendering of This was your husband, in the closet scene in Hamlet, testifies. It is as a reader that Mr. Booth is chiefly faulty; but in 1-lamlet he may be justly chargeable with failing to get the antic disposi- tion on. In the interview with his fathers spirit, Hamlet has caught terrible glimpses of the nether world. Grief; horror, awe, passionate sympathy, excited by the unearthly visitationwhat language can express the tumult of these sensations! Strained be- yond measure, his whole nature rebounds into unnatural mirth. I-Ia, ha, boy, sayst thou so? Art thou there, truepenny? Come on. You hear this fellow in the cellarage! \Vell said, old mole! Canst thou work in the earth so fast? So does the distraught prince break out into ribaldry and phantasy of mirth. In Mr. Booths rendering of these words, there is nothing of the tumultuous passion they reveal, no frenzy, no glimpse of intense passion covered, but not hidden, by a wild and feverish mirth. The words are, indeed, wild and whirling, but their utterance is not. All through the play Mr. Booth puts Hamlet in the most studied and elaborated antic disposition possible. In the closing soliloquy of the second act, Hamlets pent-up passion fiuds adequate vent in words. Strangely stirred by the declamation of the travelling actor, and hastily dismissing him, and his faithless friends Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, he bursts into the most passionate self upbraiding. All his conflicting emotions rush pell-mell into expression. Look at the language: 0, what a rogue and peasant slave am I? This is meet, that I must unlock my heart with words, and fall a cursing like a very drab, a scullion! Bloody, bloody villain ! Re- morseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain! Mr. Booth does not utter this speech with the passionate flow and vehemence it requires. When I first heard him deliver it, he attitudinized, declaimed, broke his words up into syllables, and failed to fire the speech with genuine passion; the second time he uttered it flow- ingly, but in a discursive, rambling fashion, still lacking the 170 SOME OF OUR ACTORS. passionate abandon which should eharacterize it. It is a difficult speech to render, and th~ actors nscd to omit it. But, indeed, how rare and wonderful are the qualities necessary for a successful Hamletin whom imagination, philosophy, strange observation, keen sensibility, deep sorrow, yearning aspiration, subtle speculation, melancholy brooding, masculine passions, fem- inine delicacy, are all united! Having spoken so much of Mr. Booths hamlet, let us say a word about Mr. Forrests. We mnst take Forrests Hamlet through the ear, and not the eye. Do not look at him, but hear him only. He acts the part very quietly; in fact scarcely acts i~ at all; he simply reads it delightfully. His rendering of the soliloquies is a study. Forrest in his Gladiator, his Damon, his Cade is far from agreeable; but he is great in a few parts, and in those, it so hap- pens, in which he is the least popular. This Richelien is much more artistic, complete, finished and satisfactory than Booths. His Coriolanus is also a finished, and, barring some of his peculiar man- nerisms, a very fine, performance. As for the charge of rantin~ commonly brought against him, he is at times burly and rough, but in fact does not rant any more than Booth~ Mr. Forrest, with all his sins, would never render a part as Booth does Shylock, in which there is a loud strain of the voice from the beginning to the end. When Dawison, the great German artist, was playing Othello here last Winter, some of the critics highly commended his rendering of what is known as the handkerchief scene, which he uttered with subdued pathos and agonizin~ apprehension, in- stead of in the boisterous manner most of the actors render it. The critics did not seem to know that Dawisons method of acting the scene is not new, Mr. Forrest having long since presented it. Among our careful, earnest, and satisfactory actors is Mr. Daven- port. He be~an his career at the Old Bowery in comic Yankee parts; was taken up by Mrs. Mowatt to play leading parts with her; went to England, and gained much reputation. His manner is hard, and there is somethin~ of the Yankee twang yet in his utterance; still, few of our actors have sounder judgment, or a more thorough mastery of his art. I passed over the Wallack company without alluding to excel- lent Mrs. Vernon, one of the relics of the old Park. She is so nearly blind now that, though her familiarity with the stage renders it quite possible for her to get through her part when once on it, it is necessary to guide her to the entrance and receive her as she exits. She hardly suits some of the new parts in which she is cast; but in the Malaprops and lively widows of the old comedy, she is unap- proachable. Mrs. Vernon was an elderly lady twenty-five years ago, and it is sometimes jocosely stated that the record of her birth was lost in the deluge. And in this same company is Holland, th~ SOME OF OUR ACTORS. 171 veteran of the veterans. What a fine, green old age is his! Ilol- land can be more intensely funny than any man on the stage. He is scarcely so successful in sustained parts as in eccentric bits; and he has the art to take a character for which the author has done nothing, and render it one of the telling features of the play. There is not an item of dress, nor a gesture, nor an expression, nor an attitude that is not considered and sustained with conscientious care. Whcn Booth was playing Hamlet for a hundred nights, Mrs. James Wallack acted the Queen. It was an artistic study. Mrs. Wallack as Anne Waring was a great favorite, and her Elvira in Pizarro was considered remarkable. She is a flue artist, but acts but little, preferring no doubt, the retirement and rural repose of her husbands country seat at Long Branch. Miss Bateinan is cold, statuesque and monotonous, and depends for succcss upon occasional electrical bursts of intense passion. As with Booth, her personal appearance has much to do with her suc- cess. Like him, she has no mastery of delivery. She would find it imuossible to successfully cope with one of Shakespeares intel- lcctual women. We cannot pay our compliments to all our actors, but it would be a grievous offence to omit mention of genial John Brougham. The excellent J. B. insists now on playing only in his own dramas, but it is more satisfactory to think of him as stolid Jack Bunshy, or glorious Joe Bagstock, or dashing Sir Lucius OTrigger. In each of these he was inimitable. Of all our Irish actors, he has been the only one who could act the Irish gentleman; and the Rivals, without Mr. Brougham as Sir Lucius, is difficult to endure. Mr. B. writes a brilliant extravaganza, and acts burlesque in a broad, rollicking, highly enjoyable way. He would do well to re- vive his burlesque of Metamora, written fifteen or twenty years aoo, in which his imitations of Forrest are capital. There is a touch of melancholy in Johns countenance now, that was not so before, and he seems to act without that gusto and relish that char- acterized him in the Chambers Street days with Burton. Brougham and Stuart, it is said, are to unite in conducting a new theatre on Union Square. It is the third enterprise of the kind we hear of. Where are the actors for so many new ventures? Even Wallack, with a prevailing eagerness all through the profes- sion to act under his manaoement finds it difficult to select a coin- 6 pany suitable for his purpose. There are a great many grand actresses, so we hear, to the right and left of us, and yet where is there one who can unite the breeding of society, the finish of the artist and the beauty of person fitly to succeed Madeline lien- riques? When Wallack must go a begging we can hope for no great success with the others. Let us hope the new theatres are not 112 THE SNOW. to open upon us an invasion of the provincials. The recently-burned Winter Garden was almost without an actor with the gait, speech or manners of a Christian. The Merchant of Venice, produced with so much lavish pictorial splendor, was never so wretchedly acted on the metropolitan boards. Of course this reference is not to Booth. Madame Scheller, who is at times excellent, was simply ridiculous as Portiaalthough she read the Plea for Mercy with fine accent and good discretionand all the others were hopelessly incompetent. We neither desire nor need new theatres merely to afford provincial adventurers an opportunity to exhibit of what poor stuff men and woman are sometimes made. The French actors are such consummate actors, because they breathe, think, feel, know and live art, and art only. They are born under its domain, live penetrated through and through by its influence, and are infused by a mastering enthusiasm in behalf of it. THE SNOW. [5EE ILLusTRATION.] SHE comes from shadow-land, With pale, uplifted hand, And footsteps slow Hail, Lady of the Snow! Wide spread her garments white, And float her tresses light, In faintest air Hail to thee, Lady fair! High hang the curtains, gray Of cloud-land far away, With waving fold Hail to thee, Lady cold! Far stretch the woodlands dim; They swell a mighty hymn, And grand and slow Hail, pale one of the Snow! Beneath her footsteps light, The meadows glimmer white; Peace reigns below Hail, Lady of the Snow! MAY MATHER.

May Mather Mather, May The Snow 172-173

112 THE SNOW. to open upon us an invasion of the provincials. The recently-burned Winter Garden was almost without an actor with the gait, speech or manners of a Christian. The Merchant of Venice, produced with so much lavish pictorial splendor, was never so wretchedly acted on the metropolitan boards. Of course this reference is not to Booth. Madame Scheller, who is at times excellent, was simply ridiculous as Portiaalthough she read the Plea for Mercy with fine accent and good discretionand all the others were hopelessly incompetent. We neither desire nor need new theatres merely to afford provincial adventurers an opportunity to exhibit of what poor stuff men and woman are sometimes made. The French actors are such consummate actors, because they breathe, think, feel, know and live art, and art only. They are born under its domain, live penetrated through and through by its influence, and are infused by a mastering enthusiasm in behalf of it. THE SNOW. [5EE ILLusTRATION.] SHE comes from shadow-land, With pale, uplifted hand, And footsteps slow Hail, Lady of the Snow! Wide spread her garments white, And float her tresses light, In faintest air Hail to thee, Lady fair! High hang the curtains, gray Of cloud-land far away, With waving fold Hail to thee, Lady cold! Far stretch the woodlands dim; They swell a mighty hymn, And grand and slow Hail, pale one of the Snow! Beneath her footsteps light, The meadows glimmer white; Peace reigns below Hail, Lady of the Snow! MAY MATHER. THE LADY OF m SNowSee page 172. A DENNETh EVERY one at some tim.e or other, needs to give a fine dinner. For the uses of a well-cooked, well-served dinner are very many. It not only satisfies the stomach, without injuring it; but it has higher offices : it promotes good feeling; it cements friendship; it stimulates wit; it cultivates the taste, and in every way it civil- izes and refines man. Man is defined by philosophers as a cooking animal, to distinguish him from the brute species. Using this definition, I say further that the more civilized the man, and the higher his place in the hu- man species, the more scientific and tasteful his cooking. In fact, a man is known by his dinner. There are a great many people who know a good dinner when they eat it ; but there are very few who know how to prepare, or even to order one. This most important matter is left too often to the judgment of ignorant cooks, or, perhapswhich is only a little betterto skilful cooks, who know very little of ones tastes or temperament, or physical constitution. Some people seem to think it not worth their while to give attention to their eatingsomething beneath the notice of such wise and busy people as theyI should call them foolish and wasteful of themselves. happily for America, however, these silly people are growing fewer and fewer among the cultivated classes. It is beginning to be generally understood that a man in the end loses more time by spending only ten or fifteen minutes at his dinner thau if he gave to it the deliberation of an hour or two, or even more. To get up a good dinner requires thought and attention. But what good wife would begrudge these to increase the health and hap- piness of her husband and children? If she thinks the duty beneath her, she is to be pitied. In preparing the dinner (through her servants, of course, if she is able to have them) she has a fine opportunity to show her taste as well as her affection. For there is no more grat- ifying sight to a cultivated eye, than a beautifully-arranged and well-ordered dinner table: nothing can reflect more credit on the taste of the mistiess of a house. With the view to aid the readers of THE GALAXY in preparing their next fine dinner, I shall give some bills of fare with general di- rections. Of course, the preparation of some of the dishes I name requires skill in the art of cookery; but the necessary skill may be acquired by any one who is willing to give time and attention to the subject. Moreover, I am bold enough to think that, perhaps, my

Pierre Blot Blot, Pierre A Dinner 173-180

A DENNETh EVERY one at some tim.e or other, needs to give a fine dinner. For the uses of a well-cooked, well-served dinner are very many. It not only satisfies the stomach, without injuring it; but it has higher offices : it promotes good feeling; it cements friendship; it stimulates wit; it cultivates the taste, and in every way it civil- izes and refines man. Man is defined by philosophers as a cooking animal, to distinguish him from the brute species. Using this definition, I say further that the more civilized the man, and the higher his place in the hu- man species, the more scientific and tasteful his cooking. In fact, a man is known by his dinner. There are a great many people who know a good dinner when they eat it ; but there are very few who know how to prepare, or even to order one. This most important matter is left too often to the judgment of ignorant cooks, or, perhapswhich is only a little betterto skilful cooks, who know very little of ones tastes or temperament, or physical constitution. Some people seem to think it not worth their while to give attention to their eatingsomething beneath the notice of such wise and busy people as theyI should call them foolish and wasteful of themselves. happily for America, however, these silly people are growing fewer and fewer among the cultivated classes. It is beginning to be generally understood that a man in the end loses more time by spending only ten or fifteen minutes at his dinner thau if he gave to it the deliberation of an hour or two, or even more. To get up a good dinner requires thought and attention. But what good wife would begrudge these to increase the health and hap- piness of her husband and children? If she thinks the duty beneath her, she is to be pitied. In preparing the dinner (through her servants, of course, if she is able to have them) she has a fine opportunity to show her taste as well as her affection. For there is no more grat- ifying sight to a cultivated eye, than a beautifully-arranged and well-ordered dinner table: nothing can reflect more credit on the taste of the mistiess of a house. With the view to aid the readers of THE GALAXY in preparing their next fine dinner, I shall give some bills of fare with general di- rections. Of course, the preparation of some of the dishes I name requires skill in the art of cookery; but the necessary skill may be acquired by any one who is willing to give time and attention to the subject. Moreover, I am bold enough to think that, perhaps, my 114 A DINNER. bills of fare may be of service to persons who order dinners from professional cooks. It is exceedingly difficult and often entirely impossible to give models of bills of fare that can be executed easily. Tastes, and means, and skill, and servants, and accessibility to the market all differ. So, then, in order to help my readers, as much as possible, I shall give them three bills of fare instead of one, so that they may select according to their own taste and to the amount of money they wisb to spend. When I speak of the amount of money to be spent, I do not mean that money alone can make a good dinner; far from it; a clever cook can prepare an elegant dinner with one fifth of the money that is often spent by a poor cook to prepare only indigesti- ble and tasteless dishes. Let my readers bear in mind that the best cook in the world can- not prepare a good dinner in a few hours; therefore, let them make their bills of fare two or three days in advance, in order to enable the cook to do the work properly. There are many dishes which are much better when made in advance; and, moreover, if thus timely prepared, they cost less. I do not need to say that the preparing of a perfect bill of fare requires both skill and study. The art is to so arrange the differ- ent courses that there shall always be maintained a nice balance between them. The savage falls to on whatever is first set before him, and proceeds to gorge himself. But the civilized man, the gas- tronomer, observes fixed laws in the order of his dishes: he never overloads his stomach and dulls his palate by partaking too much of one dish or set of dishes; but always so arranges the succession of dishes that the taste is constantly diverted and stimulated by variety. As I have before this said, a dinner, no matter how grand it may bewhether it is designed for two, or two hundred per- sonsis composed of seven kinds of dishespotage, hors d~uvres, relev~s, entrees, r6tis (or, roast pieces,) entremets, and dessert. Of course, infinite variety may be obtained under this general division. But the order is fixed by sound gastronomical laws, and cannot be changed without injury to health, or the impairing of the pleasure of the repast. Here, in advance, I may say something about wines. No kind of drink should be taken before eating. I protest against cock- tails, bitters, etc. But after the soup, let us have our light claret, or German wine. Mix it with water, if you care more for your good digestion than for momentary gratification. A glass of Madeira it is well to take just before the rdti. With the r~5ti, a superior and richer wine (Chateau Margaux, for instance) is drunk (mixed with water, by the gastronomer). With the dessert comes champagne, which, of course, is not diluted with water. Our din- A DINNER. 175 ncr over, we sip our coffee and cognac, and rest mind and body while di~estion does its wonderful work.. As I have said before, materials for a dinner are exactly like ma- terials for a dress: they require time and skilful hands to put both in proper shape for use 1. POTAGE. Vermicelli. HORS DkEUYRES. Sardines. Celery. R LEvE. Bass au Gratin. ENTREES. Mutton Chops, h la Princesse, Chicken Saut6. ROTI (RoAsT PIECE). Canvas Back. ENTREMETS. Salad of Lettuce, Carrots, fines herbes, Potato Croquettes. SWEET DISHES. Floating Island, Cream Cakes. DESSERT. Cheese, Sweetmeats, Fruits, Bonbons. A potage vermicelli is always good if the broth has been made properly. The sardines and celery served as hors da3uvres, are eaten as appetizers, while the rclco~ and c~tr~es are carved. Bass au giattn and mutton chops princesse, are excellent dishes so is a chicken, if properly prepared with good broth and good wine. A canvas back is better roasted than prepared in any other way; it must be served underdone, with its gravy. Then the salad comes imiHediately after the roast piece, which is followed by the veg- etables, eggs, and cakes. After the cheese, which is always served first, there is no order for the other plates of dessert: they are eaten according to taste. II. POTAGE. Consommd. HORS DkEUVRES. Anchovies, Cucumbers, Sancisson, Horse Radish Butter. RELEvES. Sheepshead, cream sauce, Salmon d la Gen6vaise. ENTREES. Fillet Saute, Chicken in Fricassee, Duck in Salmis, ~Pigeons with Green Peas. ROMAN PUNcH. RSTIS. Robins, or other birds, Haunch of Venison, piquante, or Robert sauce. ENTREMETS. Salads of Lettuce, and Corn Salad, Carrots, au jus, Salsify, Li la crdme, Sorrel, au jus, Turnips with sugar. SWEET DISHES. Omelet an rhum, Charlotte Russe, Eclairs, Cabinet Pudding. DESSERT. Cheese, Compotes of Peaches, Cherries, and Pears; Jellies, Fruits, Bonbons. 176 A DINNER. A consomm~ is generally taken without anything in it, being rich enough by itself. The anchovies, tastily served, are as sightly as they are palatable, and are excellent appetizers; so are the slices of pickled cucumbers and those of saacissor~ do Lyon. Horse- radish bntter is excellent, also. It is made by mixing some good, fresh butter, with a little of pounded or ground horse radish. hors da3uvres are always eaten while the relev~s and entr~es are carved, as appetizers and as pastimes. Sheepshead, cream sauce, is an excellent dish, and scdmom 4 la Cen~vaise speaks for itself. Fillet (tenderloin) saut& when properly cooked with mushrooms or ti~uffles,is a most excellent and substantial dish. It must be done on a good, but not brisk, fire. A more tender and delicate dish of beef cannot be served. A fricass~e of chicken is too well known to require any descrip- tion. After this, we come to the duck in sabnis.~ Have it cooked at least one day in advance; then have good broth, pure claret wine, make the sabmis rather slowly, and serve hot. Pigeons, with green peas, make a sightly, as well as an excellent dish. Buy good, tender preserved peas (beware of those that are more nearly allied to buck shot than to vegetables), add a few table-spoonfuls of gravy to them while they are cooking; place the pigeons tastefully over the peas in the dish, and serve warm. Ten- der peas, preserved, require only a few minutes cooking. If every one has done justice to all the above delicacies, now is the time for the host or hostess to serve a glass of nearly frozen punch Roman punchto each guest, so that its delicate flavor shall prepare the mouth and palate for the succulent dishes vet to be dis- patched. While the punch is being sipped (as punch must be), the robins are helped round, and then eaten as warm as possible. The haunch of venison is placed on the table whole, and left for about one minute, in order to satisfy the sight of the guests, which sense is the first to be gratified, the others always following in its wake. Then it is carved and served. If it has been properly roasted, rather underdone, and if the hair of the lower part of the leg, together with the hoog have been left untouched, it makes a most sightly dish. It is very easy and simple to roast it with the hair on from the first joint to the hoof by wrapping up that part with wet towels while roasting the haunch. Serve it hot, and have a piquante or Robert sauce in a boat, or saucer, and very warm too. After the roast pieces, the salad is helped round, to take away from the mouth and palate all taste of meat that may remain, and prepare them for the delicate dishes of the emtre;nets. Let the cook see that the carrots, salsify, sorrel, and turnips are well done, and that the gravy and cream have not been forgotten A DINNER. 77 to add to their palatable properties. Serve the omelet in turn to the gentlemen, and the Charlotte Russe to the ladies. The latter dish, generally, has the talismanic pi~operty of making the ladies smile most gracefully, and their bright eyes appear brighter and more fascinating. Then come the & lair8 and cabinet pudding, two cakes devised for the mouths of the good, and which no one but those able to appre- ciate their de licate flavors should be allowed to touch. After the above, everything is removed from the table, and the succulent compotes, jellies, fruits, bonbons, etc., are spread all over the table, so that every one partakes of them at pleasure. I. POTAGE. Puree, h la Reine. HORS D~EUvREs. Olives, Tunny, Hazelnut Butter, Smoked Tongue. RELEvES. Turbot, ~ la B6chamel, Vol-au-vent with Sweetbreads, Chicken au Supr~me, Rabbit in Civet, ENTREES. ROMAN PUNCh. ROTIS. Radishes, Beets, Flounder Normande, Fore-quarter of Lamb on a punie. Prairie Hen in Chartreuse, Matelote Marini~re. Quails with Water-cresses, Saddle of Venison, Cranberry Sauce, or with Currant Jelly, Salad of Lettuce and of Celery. Potatoes Souffl& s, Omelet Souffl~e, Cheese, Glazed Fruit, Jellies, Fruits, Green Peas ti lAnglaise, Baba, Compotes, Bonbons. Meringues. Marmalades, Potage d la reime is the richest and most delicate potage that can be made and served at a well-ordered table. But little of it must be served on account of its richness. As soon as the potage has received the attention it deserves, help the olives; the tunny in very small pieces; the radishes and butter; and also the slices of beets and smoked tongue. As we have said previously, these hors dccuvres (appetizers) are passed round after the potage, relev~s, and entr~es. They may also be eaten after the roast pieces; but, generally, salad is eaten after these, instead. Turbot B& liarnel is, unquestionably, a good dish when properly prepared. It was devised by the Marquis of B6chamel, from whom ENTREMETS. Spinach au jus, Cauliflowers, d la Cr~me. SWEET DISHES. Rice Croquettes, DESSERT. Iced Fruit, 178 A DINNER. it derives its name. Some philosophers (anti-royalists and anti- I3onrbonists, of course) pretend that the name was not given to it because it was invented by the Marquis; but, because, that when well made, with good milk, it is white, or, lily-white, as they say; and the lily being the flower of the Bourbons, of whom the Mar- quis was an enthusiastic supporter, his name was given to milk sauce, in derision. Some red republicans of France would not eat anything prepared in B~c1tamel to save their lives. Whats in a name! A flounder Normande requires care and attention; but when well cooked, makes a most excellent dish. Let inc digress here to say that the word sole is often and wrongly put on hills of fare, instead of the word flounder: no soles are found in American waters. Vol am vent is an old acquaintance; and, especially when filled with sweetbreads, is an appetizing one, which does not require any praise to be accepted by all lovers of a good dinner. A fore-quarter of lamb, like a vol am vent, is too well known to require any praise, especially when the pur~e served under it has been properly prepared, and when the gravy of the meat has been well mixed with it. Following our bill of fare, we come to chicken am supr~me. This is the most admirable dish that can be made with chickens. It can be made as costly as desired. It is one of those dishes that satis- fies every body and every purse. It may be made with two chick- ens, as well as with two dozen of them. Next in order is the prairie-bird in Chartreuse. A more sightly dish cannot be devised, especially if deep-colored red beets have been used with taste and fancy to line the mold, together with white turnips and carrots. Persons who have never tasted of a good civet, cannot form an idea of how delicious it is. It is one of those dishes that, once tasted by an appreciative person, can never be recalled without a feeling of hunger. I recommend my readers to prepare the civet four days in advance, and warm it for a few minutes once every day, in the Bain-3farie. The philosophy of warming it, and allowing it to cool again, three or four times, is to make the sauce a little thicker, without evaporating it; the air acting on it while cooling, makes it more unctuous. All that we say of the civet may be applied to the matelote. Now is the time for a good, nearly frozen Roman punch. If well made, its refreshing qualities, together with the charming smiles of the ladies, profusely distributed right and left, and the amiable and gallant little phrases of the gentlemen, prepare every one to eagerly attack those most succulent of birds, quails, well roasted and served with water-cresses, or the saddle of venison, properly roasted also, and served, rather underdone, with a good cranberry sauce, or with currant jelly. A DINNER. 179 There is no better way of getting rid, for the time being, of a good appetite than the partaking of the palatable things we have enumerated above; but as we have several other good things to taste yet, let us try a little salad. Salad, after the roast pieces, is the best thing to take. It is not considered a solid, nor even a nutritious dish; but it is taken as an appetizer, and as a restorer of the palate, which it prepares anew to taste and appreciate the good dishes of the entremets. The vegetables are then helped round, so that every one takes of what he likes, and then the omelet souffl~e, rice croquettes, haba and meringues. All the above dishes are well known, and although the appetite is pretty much gone, still, their sight and flavor are so inviting, that every body tastes them at least. A philosopher of my acquaintance told me that lie never saw a lady cut a meringue yet, that did not enjoy it, and so much so, that the smile of satisfaction it brings upon her face has a most pleasing and captivating effect. As we are now commencing the dessert, I will tell my readers why epicures eat cheese first. Cheese, says Grimod de la Reyni?~re, has the property of taking away from the mouth and palate, all taste that may have been left there by the preceding dishes, and thus prepares them (mouth and palate) for the appre- ciation of the succulent and delicate things of the dessert, and the flavors of the wines. After cheese, there is no order for the other plates of dessert; they are partaken of according to taste. A plate of dessert that is always relished, especially by gentlemen, is the quatre mencliants. It is composed of dried grapes, figs, hazie nuts, aud sweet almonds. It is not eschewed by the ladies either, and more than one pretty face may be seen looking attentively and very earnestly at the effect produced by a berry at the bottom of a class of champagne. PIERRE BLOT. REMINISCENCES OF DR. WAYLAND.* FRANCIS WAYLAND was born on the 11th of March, 1796, in the city of New York. his father, Francis Wayland, Sr., came to America in 1793, and established himself in New York as a currier. Shortly after his sons birth, he became impressed with the idea that it was his duty to preach the gospel: he accordingly gave up his business, now become lucrative, and was ordained as a Baptist minister. As such he served for many years, nntil his death, which occurred at Saratoga Springs, in 1849. His son, Francis Wayland, Jr., graduated at Union College, in 1813, in the same class with the late Bishop Alonzo Potter, of Pennsylvania. Subsequently, he studied medicine in the office of the eminent Dr. Burnt, of Troy, and, having received his diploma, began the prac- tice of his profession in that city. I-Ic had practised, however, but a few months, whenfollowing the example of his fatherhe relinquished the medical profession, and repaired to Andover Theo- logical Seminary to prepare to enter the ministry. here he came under the instruction and influence of Professor Moses Stuart, who was then at the zenith of his career, and of whose kindness and impartiality toxvard him as a stranger and a member of another denomination, Dr. Wayland always spoke with affectionate remem- brance. In 1821 he accepted a call to the First Baptist Church, in Boston; and, in 1827, was elected President of Brown University, in place of Dr. Messer, who had resigned on account of certain peculiar tenets which he was supposed to hold, incompatible with his position as the head of a Baptist institution of learning. Dr. Wayland continued to fill the presidential chair until 1855, when he resigned, and passed the remainder of his life in retirement. His death occurred at Providence, II. I., on the 22d of September, 1865. Such, in faint outline, is the story of the life of a man who for more than thirty years was at the head of one of our oldest and most important institutions of learning, where he exercised an influence over his students comparable only with that possessed by Jonathan Edwards; who made the power of his religious faith and enthusiasm felt throughout Protestant Christendom; whose vigor- ous pen was always busy in the service of education and religion, * A Memoir of the Life and Labors of Francis Wayland, D. D., LL. IX, late President of Brown University. Including selections from his personal remi- niscences and correspondence. By his sons, Francis Wayland and H. L. Way~ land. In two volumes. New York: Sheldon & Co.

W. L. Stone Stone, W. L. Reminiscences of Dr. Wayland 180-188

REMINISCENCES OF DR. WAYLAND.* FRANCIS WAYLAND was born on the 11th of March, 1796, in the city of New York. his father, Francis Wayland, Sr., came to America in 1793, and established himself in New York as a currier. Shortly after his sons birth, he became impressed with the idea that it was his duty to preach the gospel: he accordingly gave up his business, now become lucrative, and was ordained as a Baptist minister. As such he served for many years, nntil his death, which occurred at Saratoga Springs, in 1849. His son, Francis Wayland, Jr., graduated at Union College, in 1813, in the same class with the late Bishop Alonzo Potter, of Pennsylvania. Subsequently, he studied medicine in the office of the eminent Dr. Burnt, of Troy, and, having received his diploma, began the prac- tice of his profession in that city. I-Ic had practised, however, but a few months, whenfollowing the example of his fatherhe relinquished the medical profession, and repaired to Andover Theo- logical Seminary to prepare to enter the ministry. here he came under the instruction and influence of Professor Moses Stuart, who was then at the zenith of his career, and of whose kindness and impartiality toxvard him as a stranger and a member of another denomination, Dr. Wayland always spoke with affectionate remem- brance. In 1821 he accepted a call to the First Baptist Church, in Boston; and, in 1827, was elected President of Brown University, in place of Dr. Messer, who had resigned on account of certain peculiar tenets which he was supposed to hold, incompatible with his position as the head of a Baptist institution of learning. Dr. Wayland continued to fill the presidential chair until 1855, when he resigned, and passed the remainder of his life in retirement. His death occurred at Providence, II. I., on the 22d of September, 1865. Such, in faint outline, is the story of the life of a man who for more than thirty years was at the head of one of our oldest and most important institutions of learning, where he exercised an influence over his students comparable only with that possessed by Jonathan Edwards; who made the power of his religious faith and enthusiasm felt throughout Protestant Christendom; whose vigor- ous pen was always busy in the service of education and religion, * A Memoir of the Life and Labors of Francis Wayland, D. D., LL. IX, late President of Brown University. Including selections from his personal remi- niscences and correspondence. By his sons, Francis Wayland and H. L. Way~ land. In two volumes. New York: Sheldon & Co. REMINISCENCES oF DR. WAYLAND. 181 and whose whole life was illustrated and beautified by a sincere and consistent devotion to the principles of his religious faith. As a teacher, Dr. Wayland was remarkably original. He always aimed to make his pupils think for themselves, and, therefore, en- couraged in the recitation room every one who had doubts upon any particular point, to state them freely. When he perceived that the enquirer was honestly searching for the truth, no one could be more attentive, or take more pains to make the l)oint at issue per- fectly clear. It is truly stated by his biographers, that, in these and all similar cases, lie never argued for victory, but for truth and when he became satisfied that his own positions were unsound, he was prompt to acknowledge the error. At the same time, how- ever, he hated shams of every description; and when he discovered in the questioner a disposition to excite a useless discussion for the mere purpose of display, or any other frivolous object, his manner of terminating the debate was very summary. The following instance is in point A sceptical stndent, promising himself the pleasure of a prolonged contro- versy, once informed the president that he had been unable to discover any in- ternal evidence that the Old Testament was inspired. For instance, take the Book of Proverbs, certainly, it needed no inspiration to write that portion of the Bible. A man not inspired could have done it just as well. Indeed, I have oft- en thought I could write just as good proverbs myself. Very well, my son, perhaps you can, was the prompt reply. Suppose you make the experiment. Prepare a few proverbs and read them to the class to-morrow. The next. It was also his delight to inspire in his pupils aa equal enthusi- asia with himself in the discussion of the various topics that came under discussion. The great secret of this was, that he never chilled them by any formality of manner, nor intimidated them by any needless display of personal dignity. While his discipline was strict, and his authority absolute and undisputed, he never, for a moment, forgot that his duty as an instructor required him to pre- sent truth in its most winning and attractive form to the minds of his pupils. Thus, many, whose footsteps have long ceased to echo through college halls, still recall the too-brief hour devoted to his recitations as the most agreeable incidents of their college life. It has been frequently alleged against Dr. Wayland, both as a teacher and as a man, that he was stern, imperious, and dictatorial, without charity for human frailty. Nothing can be more unjust. His own ideal of right rendered him, it is true, at all times, impa- tient of wilful wrong in others; but once he was convinced that a person sincerely endeavored to do righteven though the flesh sometimes got the masteryno one was more gentle and loving than this stern man. His practical kindnesses toward students struggling after an education, were both numerous and delicate. Nor was this sternnessas many have supposedhabitual. Once freed from the official harness, his intercourse with all was marked 12 182 REMINISCENCES OF DR. WAYLAND. by a geniality of conversation and manner which irresistibly attracted those who were so fortunate as to come within the circle of his intimate acquaintance. Nor was this all. His sense of the ludicrous was most keen; and while his humor was never hilarious, his appreciation of wit in others was quick, and his quiet drollery irresistible. . It sparkled in his conversation, and sometimes in his letters. The writer well remembers that oncein one of the many delightful walks which it was his privilege to enjoy with him-in reply to a question as to the design of a certain building in the distance, he answered with that merry twinkle, which those familiar with him will at once recall, Oh that is for boys whose Latin is badwho have never been taught the distinction of mourn and t~tom. As an orator, Dr. Wayland cannot, in the popular sense of that word, be called great; yet, if to have the gift of speaking with fluency and elegance, and of stirring an audience to the very depths of emotional feeling is eloquence, he certainly possessed that quality in a remarkable degree. There are passages in some of his ser- mons and addresses which, for power and moral grandeur, have been rarely surpassed. Of this nature was his address delivered at the commencement of Union College, in 1854, a year which witnessed the fiftieth anniversary of the presidency of the late Dr. Nott. The occasion, as may readily be imagined, was one of peculiar and thrilling interest. The old Dutch church was densely crowded. On the platform sat the venerable Agamemnon, surrounded by his former pupilsgraduates of half a century, and representatives of three, and even four, generations. Parents and children, grand- children and great grand-children, had gathered to look once more, and probably for the last time, upon that face which had so often been turned upon them with parental and affectionate sympathy. And now the closing passage is reached, and the beloved pupil himself three-scoreturns to the aged patriarch, and thus addresses hini Venerable man! We rejoice to see that thine eye is not dim, though thy natural force is somewhat abated. . . . Long may you yet live to witness the happiness which you have created, and to cherish the geniuc which your inspirations first awakened to conscious existence. And when the Saviour, in whose footsteps you have trodden, shall call thee home. to receive thy reward, may death lay his hand gently on that venerated form, and gently quiet the pulsations of that noble heart. May thy fainting head recline upon the bosom of the Redeemer whom thou hast loved; may thine eye open upon visions of glory which man may not utter, and so may an entrance be abundantly ad- ministered to thee into the joy of the Lord. Heaven will account itself richer as it opens its pearly gates to welcome thy approach; but where shall those who survive find anything left on earth that resembles thee? It will be impossible for any one who reads these printed words, without a personal knowledge of the author, and who has never REMINISCENCES OF DR. WAYLAND. 183 felt the magnetism of his personal presence, to understand the mar- vellous effect they produced upon those who heard them on that impressive occasion. The audience, the building, the speaker him- self; were for several minutes forgotten. When Dr. Wayland closed, said a person, who was present, to the writer, had we at that moment beheld with mortal vision the pearly gates? opening to receive our president, no one would have been startled, but con- sidered it a natural sequence of that which we had just heardso completely were the time and circumstances of the occasion for- gotten Seventy-five bound volumes, written and published by Dr. Way- land (luring his life, including discourses, reviews, lectures and magazine articles, attest the industry of the man. All are replete with thought and varied information, and, it is believed, have ac- complished the purposes for which they were designed. The works, however, on which his reputation will rest as a vigorous and original writer, are his Moral Science, Political Economy, and Intel- lectual Philosophy works which still retain their place as text books, both in this country and in Europe. But, perhaps, lie will be remembered less for these works than for his great and life-long services to the cause of religion and edu. cation. His sermon, preached in Boston, in 1823, upon The Moral Dignity of the Missionary Enterprise, marked an era in the history of missions among all denominations of what are called Evangelical Christians. Up to the period of its delivery, the missionary cause had languished, and its future seemed shrouded in gloom. But the enthusiasm then imparted has never grown cold. The original thought contained in it compelled attention. Candid minds, forced by the broadness and catholicity of its views, saw the hitherto despised enterprise in a new light. The sermon was at once copied into the organs of all denominations of Christians, and the demand for it was so great that four successive editions were speedily ex- hausted. Two years after its publication here, it was reprinted in, England, with an introduction by Dr. Wardlaw, of the Scotch, Church, and passed through several editions, receiving as hearty admiration abroad as it had done in America. The British Evau~ gelical Magazine, speaking of it, says, It is the burst of geumu and of consecrated zeal. We]l may America glory in the man who. could rear such a monument. It may be questioned whether~ with the exception of Websters reply to Hayne, any passage in Amen- can literature has been oftener quoted than the paragraphs which delineate the conquering march of the Christian Church. Nor was the effect of President Waylands sermon upon the Apostolic ~iii~istry (delivered at Rochester in 18~3) less marked. The aim of the discourse was to show that the Christian Church was rapidly departing from its primitive simplicity, arid. that if 184 REMINISCENCES OF DR. WAYLAND. vital Christianity would make itself felt, a speedy return to pure Apostolic preaching must take place. Dr. Wayland had long thought and felt deeply upon this subject, and his discourse was the result of many years of painful observation. The writer dis- tinctly recalls a remark of Dr. Wayland while walking with him one Sunday morning to church. The conversation turning on the late Rochester address, he directed the Presidents attention to the number of persons going up fo the house of God. Yes, my son, he replied, there are a great many, but they are all well dressed, the thought in his mind evidently being that the masses were not there. Growing out of the sermon on the Apostolic Ministry were his Letters on the Ministry of the Gospel, published in I 863. The views enunciated in them struck a chord in many hearts; and the response which they elicited from clergymen and laymen of nearly every denomination, forms some of the most interesting cor- respondence of his life. Bishop Mellvaine, of Ohio, hastened to offer his thanks for so timely a publication. The late Dr. Alexander, of the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church, wrote, Most heartily do I assent to your remarks about the literary tendencies of our theological seminaries. Alas! that in a land demanding life, soul, zeal and martyrdom, so many noble young men mistake the scaffold for the pile, and come out scholars! A Presbyterian clergyman presented a copy of the letters to each of the graduating class at Princeton; and a layman of the same denomination, lion. Wifli m E. Dodge, of New York, to the graduating classes at the Auburn and Union Theological Seminaries. Each letter, Mr. Dodge wrote in a circular letter with each volume, is full of valuable suggestio as, but I wonld call your special attention to the sixth, on the manner of preaching, each part of which I commend to your careful con- sideration. Illis ideas upon the subject of education were of an advanced and liberal character. In 1840 he visited England for fhe pur- pose of investigating the workings of the English institutions of learning, and was received with distinguished respect by Hallam, Sir William Hamilton, Dr. Milman and Dr. Abererombie. Connected with his voyage across the Atlantic is an incident not mentioned in his biography, and which, I believe, is not generally known. It seems to verify, however, in a remarkable manner, his own strong belief in the personal guardianship of a special Provi- dence. On his way from his brother-in-laws house in New York, to the steamer, the carriage broke down, the driver mistook the way, and he arrived at the wharf just in time to catch sight of the ship disappearing in the offing. The disappointment was severe, for circumstances rendered it necessary for him to be in England at a certain time. Far from fretting, however, he remarked to his REMINISCENCES OF DR. WAYLAND. 183 relatives, It is all for the best. Providence undoubtedly has some good reason for delaying my journey. The result certainly justi- fied the remark, for the steamer in which he was to have embarked was none other than the President, the fate of which is still un- known. He was the more convinced that he was, in truth, watched over in a special manner at this portion of his life, since, on his re- turn trip in the Great Western, when a week out, the ship en- countered such a terrific oale that for several hours every one on board expected momentarily to be engulfed. Mrs. Sigourney, who was one of his fellow-passengers, and shared in the danger, has commemorated this circumstance in one of her most felicitous pro- ductions. After experiences like these, we can well believe his biographers when they tell us, in describing his daily routine, that when the mornings work in the garden was over, he spent a little while in prayer in his chamber, at which time he would lay before God any event affecting the household, any unusuat care or embarrass- inent. If a servant were needed, he did not fail to tell Him who watches the fall of the sparrow, and he would say, NYc must wait and see what God will do for us. Returning to this country, after an absence of a year, he pub- lished, in 1842, his Thoughts on the Collegiate System of the United States, the fundamental principle of which was, that to the commercial, agricultural, and mechanical classes should be offered the advantages of such an education as should be best adapted to their wantsthe study of the classics being made optional with those desiring an education other than for professional purposes. The present collegiate system, he argued, cannot main- tain its place. All classes of the community are alike entitled to the benefits of high education; and if unable to find in the colle~ e the educ tion they need, the productive classes will establish insti- tutions for themselves, to which the body of the young will be attracted, and the colleges will become very good foundations for the support of instructors, but few will avail themselves of their instruction. By unwearied, personal effort, he raised a large fund for placing Brown University upon this liberal and catholic basis. The new system went into operation in 1850, and with a result which justified the wisdom of the projecter. Before three years had elapsed, the number of students, which previously had aver- aged one hundred and fifty, averaged two hundred and sixty. Under the old regime the highest class that had ever entered was one hundred and ninety-six ; under the new, two hgndrcd and eighty-three. And of this number each student pursued the study of his own choice. Thus the instructor was not forced to cool the ardor of those who wished to learn, in order to accommodate the indolent and unfaithful. Upon the resignation of Dr. Wayland, in 186 REMINISCENCES OF DR. WAYLAND. 1855, from reasons which it is not necessary to mention, the old system was re~stablished; and to-day, Brown University presents the singular spectaclehaving been the first to break the shackles of traditional usageof sinking again into the old rut, and lum- bering along far in the rear of many of the oldest colleges in the land,* that, having engrafted Dr. Waylands idea upon their old systems, are striving after perfection. It would have been surprising if; with the breadth of view that Dr. Wayland possessed upon religious and educational questions, and with his favorite watchword I go for the human race, he should not have taken a deep interest in the great question of human rights. Although at a distance from political strife, he exercised a powerful influence in moulding public opiniou upoa that subject. With his friends, Dr. Nott and Ambrose Spencer, he was among the first to perceive that the slavery question was destined to become the chief moral and political question of the day. His letters to Dr. Fuller, of Baltimore, upon Domestic Slavery considered as a Scriptural Institution, while characterized by perfect courtesy and temperance, struck blows at the institu- tion, delivered by the brawny arms of a giant. We are informed that the publication of these letters caused his text books to be excluded from the South, thereby curtailing, to a large extent, his income; yet, such was the magnanimity of his nature, thatwhile not abating jot or tittle of principlehe could say in a let- ter to his son upon the assassination of I~resident Lincoln: Let us lay aside all malice and all revenge, and let us firmly do justice to the high as well as the low. Let the moral principle of this nation be strengthened. God has made us the leadino nation ot~ the world. Let us act as it becomes us. Let our example lead other nations in the way of peace and holiness. A sketch of the salient points of Dr. Waylands character, and his influence upon his time, would be incomplete without an allu- sion to his labors with the sick, the insane, and the criminal. The hospitals, the asylums, and the prisons of his State, show the direct effects of his personal efforts in their behalf His name and works were prominent both in the formation of the Butler hospital for the insane, and in every movement for its increased efficiency. In the inauguration of the movements which led to the organization of the Rhode Island Hospitalthe noblest charity, perhaps, of that Statehe took a leading part. His most philanthropic work, how- ever, was the radical reformation he effected in the prison system of Rhode Island; a system which, from all accounts, must have been most deplorable. Before he interested himself in the condi- tion of the prisons, the cells were composed of solid blocks of split * Among these are Harvard, Yale, and Columbia Colleges. REMINISCENCES OF DR. WAYLAND. 187 granite, with the external faces exposed to the cold blasts of Winter, and the internal faces destitute of furring and covering. Daring the cold weather the crystals of frost remained upon the interior surfaces of the cell walls, sparkling in the light, and benumbiug the shivering prisoners. These stone dungeons were also as badly ventilated as lighted. The air was close and almost insufferable. It was not without difficulty, at times, that visitors could avoid vio- lent nausea upon entering the prison. The result was a great preva- lence of rheumatism, pulmonary diseases, and diarrhma, besides contagious and epidemic complaints of peculiar malignity. Neither was any hospital provided for the sick. The moral effect of this state of things was no better. Often ten and twenty convicts were crowded into one cellthe young and yet tender offender catching moral contagion from those utterly depraved.* All this Dr. Waylan d, through the aid of the Legislature, speedily changed. A new building was constructed upon the most approved plans, and iu accordance wiih all the teachings of modern intelligence and humanity. Under his personal supervision, also, the moral and religious condition of the prisoners underwent a corresponding change. He held Bible classes, composed of the convicts and preached regularly to them on each Sabbath. Such ministrations must necessarily have attached them tenderly to his person. When the chaplain, on the morning of Dr. MTaylands death, said to the convicts in the State prison assembled in the chapel, You will never see your friend, Dr. Wayland, again; he is dead, he was interrupted by their sobs. It is related of Michael Angelo, that, once while walking along the streets of Florence, he suddenly observed in the pavement a block of marble of unusual beauty, and immediately stooped down and began to dig it out, unmindful of the scoffs and jeers of those passing. At length, being asked by a friend, why he was digging up a block of stone upon which man had spit and trod, he re- plied: I see an angel in it, and continued his work until he secured the coveted marble, out of which he carved the angelic figure that gave him his immortality. In like manner, Dr. Way- land, in his walks among the convicts, often discovered blocks long trodden upon and despised by man, but which he fashioned into reputable members of society; and some of whom, it is hoped, have, through his instrumentality, become angels of light. WILLIAM L. STONE. * Report of the Chaplain of the Rhode Island State Prison, for 1856. A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY. DURING a residence of eleven years in California, dating from the year 1846 to 185~, I had some stranoe and rude experi- ences, and was the witness of some remarkable scenes. Not the least extraordinary of these dramas of real life, was one in which an innocent man narrowly escaped execution upon the gallows, simply because he had the misfortune to closely resemble a guilty man. In the early Spring of 1851, the city of San Francisco was thrown into a great state of excitement, one morning, upon its residents reading the detailed account of a bold robbery which had been committed, with the accompaniment of a brutal assault, on the pre- vious evening. About six oclock in the evening, when his clerks had gone to dinner, Charles Jansen, the proprietor of a wholesale dry goods establishment, on Montgomery street, was alone in his counting-room, when two men entered the door. Addressing him some common-place remark, one approached him, and, with a bar of iron, felled hint to the floor, while the other proceeded to open the safe; and in a few minutes both had escaped, carrying with them several thousand dollars in coin and gold dust. Upon the return of his clerks, Jansen was found lying senseless and blecd- ing on the floor. I-Ic was removed to his residence, and the next morning had so far rallied as to be able to make a tolerably clear statement of the occurrence, and to give a description of the two men who had attacked him ; a.nd upon the strength of this latter, two men, supposed to be the guilty parties, were arrested on the following day, just as they were stepping on a steamboat bound up the Sacramento. The occurrence created a great excitement in San Francisco. Robberies and murders were, at that time, by no means imufrequent, and it was known that an organized gang, composed in great part of escaped Australian convicts, was burro xved among the sand-hills of the neighborhood, and most of the nightly burglaries and out- rages were attributed to its members. This gang was under the leadership of one James Stuart, a desperate scoundrel, whose name was a terror throughout the entire State; and many crimes had been fixed upon him, and, among others, the murder of the sheriff of Yuba County. By his great skill and finesse, however, Stuart had always succeeded in eluding the search of both the regularly-con- stituted police, and the sharper, more lynx-eyed detectives of the Vigilance Committee.

Edward Gould Buffum Buffum, Edward Gould A Case of Mistaken Identity 188-197

A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY. DURING a residence of eleven years in California, dating from the year 1846 to 185~, I had some stranoe and rude experi- ences, and was the witness of some remarkable scenes. Not the least extraordinary of these dramas of real life, was one in which an innocent man narrowly escaped execution upon the gallows, simply because he had the misfortune to closely resemble a guilty man. In the early Spring of 1851, the city of San Francisco was thrown into a great state of excitement, one morning, upon its residents reading the detailed account of a bold robbery which had been committed, with the accompaniment of a brutal assault, on the pre- vious evening. About six oclock in the evening, when his clerks had gone to dinner, Charles Jansen, the proprietor of a wholesale dry goods establishment, on Montgomery street, was alone in his counting-room, when two men entered the door. Addressing him some common-place remark, one approached him, and, with a bar of iron, felled hint to the floor, while the other proceeded to open the safe; and in a few minutes both had escaped, carrying with them several thousand dollars in coin and gold dust. Upon the return of his clerks, Jansen was found lying senseless and blecd- ing on the floor. I-Ic was removed to his residence, and the next morning had so far rallied as to be able to make a tolerably clear statement of the occurrence, and to give a description of the two men who had attacked him ; a.nd upon the strength of this latter, two men, supposed to be the guilty parties, were arrested on the following day, just as they were stepping on a steamboat bound up the Sacramento. The occurrence created a great excitement in San Francisco. Robberies and murders were, at that time, by no means imufrequent, and it was known that an organized gang, composed in great part of escaped Australian convicts, was burro xved among the sand-hills of the neighborhood, and most of the nightly burglaries and out- rages were attributed to its members. This gang was under the leadership of one James Stuart, a desperate scoundrel, whose name was a terror throughout the entire State; and many crimes had been fixed upon him, and, among others, the murder of the sheriff of Yuba County. By his great skill and finesse, however, Stuart had always succeeded in eluding the search of both the regularly-con- stituted police, and the sharper, more lynx-eyed detectives of the Vigilance Committee. A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY. 189 The description given by Jansen of the man who struck him down, was immediately recognized by the police authorities as a plain and accurate portrait of James Stuart. The police fearing the formation of a Committee of Vigilance, determined to use every effort to arrest the guilty parties, and at four oclock in the afternoon following the night of the assault, they were satisfied that they held in custody the redoubtable Jim Stuart, and his com- panion, Jo Wildred, the undoubted perpetrators of the assault and robbery in Jansens shop. I was at that time the local reporter upon the leading morning journal in San Franesico, and, as such, had every facility of follow- in g up, through its different stages, to its most unexpected termi- nation, this remarkable case. Greater than ever was the excitement when the journals announced in the morning that Stuart and his companion had been arrested. Crowds began to gather at an early hour on the plaza, and the citizens rather freely expressed their opinion that, unless the authorities acted with unusual promptitude in this case, they would save the authorities the trouble of acting at all, and do for Stuart and Wildred themselves. At eleven oclock in the morning, I was informed that a prelimi- nary examination of the two men would take place that afternoon before a magistrate. Jansen, it appeared, had become worse, and it was feared that he would die. It was, therefore, highly import- ant that the men should be confronted with him as speedily as possible, and his testimony taken. This was done. Soon after noon the men were privately conveyed to Jansens apartment, and, in the presence only of the examining magistrate nd his clerk, Jansens medical attendant, another witness, two policenicn, and mnyse~ Jansens testimony was taken, with the warning from his physician that he might be upon the verge of the grave. When the men were introduced, Jansen looked carefully at both of them, scanning thoroughly their features, and then unhesitatingly stated that he recognized the smaller (known as Jim Stuart) as the man who felled him with the bar of iron ; of this he coi Id have no doubt; but was positive that he was the man. As to the other, he was not so sure; but about him his doubts were light. He fully and firmly believed, in short, that the two men who had committed the crime were then before him; and from Jansens room, with Jansens testiniony, then supposed to be that of a dying man, they were taken before the examining magistrate, whose office was in the plaza, in what wus then known as the Adobe Building. The plaza was filled xvitlm an excited populace, and it was evident that trouble was brewing. The prejudice in San Francisco at that time, against all persons who had come to California from Austra- lia, was very strong. Some very bad men had undoubtedly arrived from there, and much of the crime committed in the State might 190 A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY. legitimately be cha~rged uppn them. All the immigrants from Aus- tralia were classed under the general title of Sydney Ducks, and were regarded with great suspicion; and many, indeed, and, among them some very respectable people, had been warned away, and obliged to leave California. When the two men were brought before the magistrate, they gave their names as Thomas Berdue and Joseph Wildred. l3erdue, named in the complaint Stuart, alias Berdue, was a man of about forty years of age, of medium size, with a peculiar sharp face, black piercing eye, and a heavy, bushy black beard. He stated that he had been in the mines; had only arrived in San Francisco a few days before, in company with Wildred, who had been his chum~~ in the mining camp; that he knew nothing of the robbery of Jansen, and that he had never been known by the name of Stuart.. At least half a dozen witnesses were called, hoxvever, who swore positively to his identity with Stuart; and one of them said in his evidence that he had lived for months with him in the same camp, and knew him well, and that he had always there been known as Jim Stuart. This evidence, taken in connection with that of Jansen, could leave no doubt in the mind of the examining magistrate, whose plain duty it was to send the men before the city recorder, who, if he should be equally well satisfied of their guilt, would be obliged to commit them for trial. The recorder was at that hour holding court in the building at the corner of Jackson and Kearny streets, which then served for court-house, police office, and jail. In order to escape the crowd, which was now becoming impatient, the prisoners were taken out by a back way from the magistrates office, and, being placed in a close carriage, were driven as rapidly as possible by side streets to the court-house. But the excited crowd, which had now swelled in numbers to several thousands, soon learned what had been done, and, moved by one common impulse, surged like sea waves through Kearny street, and reached the court-house j ~ist after the two men bad been taken into the recorders court-room. Law at that time in San Francisco was very doubtful, and unre- liable in its operation. Notorious murderers, thieves, robbers, and burglars, it was well known, had, by some corrupt means, succeeded in continually escaping through its meshes, until the people began to feel that the committal of a presumed criminal upon his prelimi- nary examination was equivalent to his final escape. As the excited crowd reached the court-house, and learned that Stuart and Wil- dred had just been taken in, a rush was made for the door, the rail- ing, inside of which the prisoners sat, trembling like aspen, was broken down, and a dozen pioneers, leading the rest, leaped over toward the prisoners box, ready to seize and bear out to the popu- lace the two frightened wretches. It so happened that that after- A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY. 191 noon a volunteer company of soldiers, whose drilling room adjoined the recorders office, were at that very time engaged there in drill. As the crowd broke down the railing which enclosed the sacred snace where justice was supposed to rule, a happy thought struck the recorder: opening a door communicating with the drill-room, there came pouring through it in a second, twenty of the volun- teers, with fixed bayonets, who charged upon the crowd, driving it before them like sheep. In a moment the court-room was cleared, and in another the prisoners, more nearly dead than alive, were hustled for safety into cells in the basement of the building. The American blood, which, up to the time of the civil war, boiled at the sight of the bayonet, was running through the veins of the populace at fever heat. All that afternoon and evening thousands of people remained about the building, shouting for the prisoners, demanding that they should be brought out and instantly executed. Harangues were made, in which the story of the robbery was told ox-er and over again; the tardy course of justice complained of; and the probable escape of the prisoners, if left to be tried by the instituted authorities, predicted. The imagination of the multitude was excited by glowing pictures of San Francisco in flames, while murder, robbery, and rapine were being committed by the gangs of Sydney Ducks~ which infested the city. The invariable con- clusion of all these speeches was, that the prisoners should be im- mediately brought out and hung. In the jail now, however, were fifty men with bayonets and loaded muskets, and not a single one of the loud-mouthed orators felt inclined, or manifested the slight- est disposition to lead his hearers to an assault, which, although it might be successful, might also cost him his life. Toward night wiser counsels prevailed, and, although a considerable number of persons remained about the jail till morning, no demonstrations of a hostile character were made upon it. During the night a compromise was effected betxveen a self-con- stituted committee of commercial men and the judicial authori- ties. It was agreed that on the following day the two prisoners should be given up to the citizens, not to be directly executed, but to he tried by a Lynch Court. The rumor of this arrangement spread through the town at an early hour, and by noon nearly all the male adult population was gathered about the court-house. All were quiet and orderly, however, and seemed disposed to patiently await whatever was to come. A little before two oclock, a young and well-known lawyer addressed the people, advising them of the decision which had been arrived at, and submitting to their consid- eration a number of names of proposed members of the impromptu court. These were voted upon, and the court, in a few minutes, consisting of two lawyers and three merchants, was constituted. A merchant, who afterward became quite prominent as the President 192 A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY. of the Vigilance Committee, of 1856, was appointed prosecuting attorney, and an old and conscientious lawyer was chosen to defend the prisoners. It was on a Sunday afternoon, about three oclock, when Berdue and Wildred were brought trembling into the same room where, the day before, their lives had been saved by the prompt action of the volunteers. In the glance, however, which each of them, iavol- untarily, as he took his seat, cast around upon the multitude assem- bled in the court-room, he saw written upon their faces anything but hope for him. The prosecuting attorney opened his case in a few calm words, and the evidence was proceeded with. Jansen, in spite of his weak condition, was brought down, and gave his testi- mony clearly, distinctly, and with evident conviction of the truth. As to the man Berdue, he again swore positively, while, as to Wil- dyed, he expressed but little doubt. A circumstance had, however, come to light, while Wildred was in jail, which told heavily against him. Upon the right elbow of his coat was found a dried clot of what looked very munch like, and was assumed to be, blood; and upon a piece of goods in Jansens store was found a corresponding blood mark. A clerk testified that this piece of goods was on a counter near the door, and in just such a position, at just such a height,~ that Wildred in escaping might have left the mark upon it as he brushed it with his elbow. The theory of the prosecuting attorney, of course, was, that this was Jansens blood. A number of witnesses testified again, positively, to the identity of Wildreds comfipanion with Jim Stuart. No witnesses were found for the de- fence, and no evidence given; the constables who had been sent out in search of the witnesses, whose names had been given by J3erdue, returning upon the subpamas the statement that they could not be found; and it is altogether probable, that, Ibarful that they too might be compromised by giving testimony in behalf of two such unpopular men, they had left the city to avoid it. At seven oclock in the evening, the prosecuting attorney made his appeal to the jury, demanding the conviction of the prisoners; and he was fol- lowed by their counsel. This latter had, duiing the afternoon, been in conversation with Berdue arid Wildred, and seemed evi- dently convinced of their innocence, and satisfied that in the case of I3erdue there was a great error, and that he was neither the man who aided in the robbery of Jansens store nor the redoubtable Jim Stuart. his plea was one for mercy; for time to investigate more thorouuhly the whole matter; fom- an opportunity to be given to these men, when the passions of the populace should have subsided, to produce, as he assured the jury that they could produce, ample evidence of their innocence. The old man grew eloquent, and evi- dently was affecting the j ury and the crowd, which had waited patiently in the room during the entire proceedings; and, as he A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY. 1198 closed, a round of applause greeted his effort. The jury, after a charge from the presiding judge, retired into an adjoining room, and during the two hours between ten oclock and midnight, Ber- due and Wildred, remaining in the court-room, surrounded by a citizen police force, selected for the occasion, tremblingly awaited the verdict of life or death. Near midnight, the outside throng began to grow impatient, and they were harangued by several of their number. At one time a rush was made into the court-room, with the evident intention of seizing the prisoners, but the firmness of the citizen guard foiled the attempt. Soon after, quite a dra- matic scene occurred. A woman, young and by no means ill-look- ing, bearing in her arms an infant, forced her way into the court- room, as she had forced it through that vast throng about it. Her baby, and her womans weakness, were her passports through that assemblage of rough, excited men waiting and hoping for her hus- bauds execution. She was Berdues wife, and, arrived in the court- room, she threw her babe into his arms, and fell exhausted on the floor, at his feet, where she lay speechless and sobbing, until re- moved to an adjoining room. This little episode, however, had its effect in softening the crowd gathered immediately about the pris- oners. A. little past midnight, the jury sent in a communication to the court , stating that it was impossible for them to agree upon a ver- (lict. A ray of hope shot across the faces of the prisoners, as this announcement was made; but it was changed to a look of dread and horror when the report having reached the outside throng, it was received by them with the general shout of hang them, hang them! In order to allay the excitement, the presiding judge re- quested the prosecuting attorney to address the crowd. This he did, and remieded them that, having placed the matter in the hands of a court of their own choosing, they were hound in honor to abide by that courts decision. His personal popularity, rather than his argument, had the effect to lower the temperature of their pas- sions; and when he returned to the court, all was quiet. It was now one oclock, and the jury again communicated with the judge, stating that they could not agree. The court consulted together a moment in silence, and then, ordering the citizen guard to convey the prisoners back to their cells, the jury was called in and dis- charged; and the court adjourned to meet at the call of the presi- dent. The crowd, wearied with excitement and want of food and sleep, retired rapidly; but several hundred persons remained about the court-room till daylight. The mayor of the city addressed these, and recommended them to retire. He assured them that jus- tice should be done; that the prisoners should have a speedy trial by the regular judicial authorities, and begged them to leave the matter in their hands. The morning journals contained articles 194 A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY. recommending this course, and on Monday, although knots of stragglers remained all day about the court-house, no demonstra- tion was made; and it was generally understood and agreed upon, that, as the grand jury was then in session, the prisoners should be taken immediately before it. 1f was the argument used, the judicial authorities fail to punish them, then we will take them in hand and execute them ourselves without judge or jury. The gr and jury, in the course of the day, found a true bill, and two weeks afterxv~rd the men were tried before the criminal court. The same evidence given upon the lynch trial was repro- duced here, and Jansen, now rapidly recovering, appeared in per- son, and gave in his evidence clearly, distinctly, and positively. Additional witnesses were introduced to prove the identity of 113cr- due with Jim Stuart. Wildreds coat was passed over to a pro- fessed chemist, who reported the clot upon the elbow to be blood. The tiial lasted but a few hours; and resulted in the conviction of both the men upon the crime charged in the indietinentrobbery and both were sentenced to undergo the extreme penalty of the law, fourteen years confinement in the penitentiary of the State. Wildred was immediately conveyed there; but for Berdue, a requisition was in waiting demanding him for trial as Jim Stuart, the murderer of the sheriff of Yuba. The night of his conviction he was taken to Marysville, where the grand jury had already found a bill against him for murder; and in a few days he was tried as Jim Stuart; sworn to for Jim Stuart by at least a dozen wit- nesses, some of whom testified to having lived for months in the same mining camp with him; convicted as Jim Stuart; and, as Jim Stuart, sentenced to be hung in three weeks from the time of his conviction. Meantime, the San Francisco Committee of Vigilance had become a permanent organization. Already some of its members had, by. a union of ruse and force, taken two notorious thieves and robbers out of jail, one Sunday afternoon, when the prisoners were attend- ing religious service; and thirty minutes after the two men, Whit- taker and Mackensie, were swinging front impromptu gibbets, ex- tended from the committee rooms. They were, in reality, a com- mittee of vigilance, and their argus eyes discovered much crime and many criminals. One evening, about a week before the time set for the execution of Berdue, some of the detectives of the committee were out upon a scout among the sand-hills which then stretched between San Francisco and the Mission Dolores. Suddenly and accidentally one of their number stumbled upon a man lying upon the ground, partially covered with branches of the scrub oak, which grew in rich profusion in that vicinity. What was their surprise~ on holding to his face a lantern, at recognizing him as Jim Stuart, the A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY. 195 man, as they supposed, who had just been sentenced to be hung at Marysville. He was taken to the committee rooms, and an agent was immediately dispatched to Marysville. He was even more surprised upon his arrival at learning that Jim Stuart, alias 113 erdue, was still there safe in custody, and was to be duly and legally banged on the following Friday. lie had an interview with the condemned man; and returned to San Francisco, satisfied that he held the key to all this mystery, and that l3erdue was innocent. Ere his retuin, however, all had been explained, and the mystery unravelled. Stuartthe real Stuart, in the hands of the San Fran- cisco Vigilance Committeehad made a full confession. lie ac- knowled the murder of the sheriff of Yuba, and the robbery of Jansens store, and acquitted XVildred of any participation or con- nection with him. The Governor of the State happening to be in San Francisco at the time, after an interview with Stuart, in pres- ence of members of the committee, un mediately forwarded a full pardon to l3erdue. It arrived two days before the time fixed for his execution; and, immediately upon receiving it, he took the boat and came to San Francisco. The real Jim Stuart was hanged by the Vigilance Committee on the day which had been set for the execution of the man to whom his name and crimes had been attributed. Berdue, who was to have been hung that day in his place, was present at the execution. The hanging took place upon California street wharf; and the gal- lows was a derrick, erected there for hoisting merchandise in and out of vessels; to which, at a given signal, in the presence of sev- eral thousand people, the wretched man was run up, and stran- gled. After hanging half an hour, the body was cut down, and dropped from the derrick into a boat, into which the committee surge on, the coroner, and myselg and the oarsmen were the only persons permitted to enter. We rowed over to an engine house near by, where we deposited the body, and where the coroner, with an eye to his fee, proposed holding an inquest. Upon our arrival two more surgeons were admitted; and a niedical examination 01 the body made. The neck was not broken; and, upon lancing a vein, the blood flowed freely; and the physicians were agreed that, with a good galvanic battery, they could have restored Stuart to life. I am fond of dramatic situations, and proposed that we should send for Berdue. This was done, and in half an hour he stood in the presence of his dead rival; standing by the table on which Stuart was lying, and gazing upon his fixed features. It was like a man looking at his own corpse. I never before or since saw such a resemblance. Stuart was, perhaps, a trifle the stouter; but, having seen either one, I think I should have unhesitatingly, at any time thereafter, been willing to swear to the other as that one. It scarcely 196 A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY. seems possible that the men could have so perfectly resembled each other. Next day the coroner held his inquest; and the jury returned a verdict that, the deceased came to his death by strangulation at the hands of some person or persons unknown. The coroner re- ceived from the county a fee ot thirty dollars for this; and liberally treated the jury to beer and cheese at the corner grocery. A purse, to which Jansen liberally contributed, was raised for il3erdue and Wildred, who had also been pardoned; and neither of them willing to run the risk of another such adventure, both returned to Australia. \\Tas it chance alone which directed the steps of the Vigilance detectives to Jim Stuarts burrow, among the sand-hills? Was not the life of an innocent man, even of one so poor and humble as I3erdue, worth more than that of many sparrows; and are we not assured that the Guide, and Governor, and Orderer of all things, suffers hot one of these to fall to the ground without His notice? EDWAItD GOULD BUFFUM. [Just as the above article is going to press we receive word by Atlantic Tele- graph of the sudden death of its author, in Paris, where he had resided during the last eight years as f lie correspondent of a New York daily newspaper. Mr. Buffum was a native of Rhode Island, and the son of Arnold Buffum, who was prominent as one of the most active of New England philanthropists. During the Mexican war Mr. Buffum served as a volunteer, and, the war over, settled in California, adopting the profession of journalism. He was at one time a mem- ber of the Legislature of California, and was the author of two books, on the gold mineS, and on California life. Mr. Boffum was a man of much travel, a keen observer, a clever journalist, and a fluent and acceptable writer. He died at the early age of fortyEDITOR OF TIlE GALAXY.] BPJTISH MARRIAGE LAW AND PRACTICE. (~ REAT BRITAIN is composed of three separate kingdoms, and hence is called the United Kingdom. But this does not by any means signify that Great Britain is united in spirit, or that she has, after seven centuries of vain strugglesince the days of Strongbowsuccceded in getting herself governed by uni- form laws, or achieved that unity of idea which is the power and strength of nationality. A spirit of jealousy and discontent has been kept up and has run festering throughout the three countries. The English persistently entertain a prejudice against the Scotch, and they quietly despise the Irish. The Scotch, in their turn, strong in their own native power, hold both the others in somewhat of digni- fied contempt. The Irish, with their vehement feelings and keen perceptions, keep open their old sores and cherish their present grievances against a country and people by whom they~ re governed, but whose laws and benefits they do not share. But this is a vexed question which I shall only enter upon at present so far as it concerns the marriage law of Ireland. That England despises Ireland with reason, is a proposition that can never be sustained; for the name of Great Britain has shone resplendent to the world through the glory of many an Irish star. Soldiers orators, statesmen, poets~Vellington, Burke, Grattan, Moore, Goldsmith, OConnell, and the late Lord Palmerstonhave all shed a dazzling halo round her shield, which is far from being despicable. But the difference of law aggravates animosities, and keeps up a sense of division, inequality and alien interests. Ireland has been a conquered country; and she has suffered the oppression of her conquerors through many centuries, to keep her such. It is only within the last century that she has received a concession to her rights in the shape of the Catholic Emancipation Act, in 1829. But this was ouly one sore, and she had many. Religious persecu- tion has been the canker worm of that ill-fated country, and, like all such persecutions, it has served only to ~oufirm, in all its stanch- ness, the faith it sought to eradicate. It has indelibly marked Ireland as a Catholic country, so long as Ireland exists at all. And, in whatever part of the world an Irishman is to be found, he has carried his religion with him. The fruits of the persecution of the times of William of Orange, and th~ three Georges, are now ripe and flourishing on the free soil of America. The workers, the hew- ers of wood and drawers of water, the builder, the constructor of great roadsthe arteries of civilization~~zthe brilliant orators and 13

Theresa Yelverton Yelverton, Theresa British Marriage Law and Practice 197-206

BPJTISH MARRIAGE LAW AND PRACTICE. (~ REAT BRITAIN is composed of three separate kingdoms, and hence is called the United Kingdom. But this does not by any means signify that Great Britain is united in spirit, or that she has, after seven centuries of vain strugglesince the days of Strongbowsuccceded in getting herself governed by uni- form laws, or achieved that unity of idea which is the power and strength of nationality. A spirit of jealousy and discontent has been kept up and has run festering throughout the three countries. The English persistently entertain a prejudice against the Scotch, and they quietly despise the Irish. The Scotch, in their turn, strong in their own native power, hold both the others in somewhat of digni- fied contempt. The Irish, with their vehement feelings and keen perceptions, keep open their old sores and cherish their present grievances against a country and people by whom they~ re governed, but whose laws and benefits they do not share. But this is a vexed question which I shall only enter upon at present so far as it concerns the marriage law of Ireland. That England despises Ireland with reason, is a proposition that can never be sustained; for the name of Great Britain has shone resplendent to the world through the glory of many an Irish star. Soldiers orators, statesmen, poets~Vellington, Burke, Grattan, Moore, Goldsmith, OConnell, and the late Lord Palmerstonhave all shed a dazzling halo round her shield, which is far from being despicable. But the difference of law aggravates animosities, and keeps up a sense of division, inequality and alien interests. Ireland has been a conquered country; and she has suffered the oppression of her conquerors through many centuries, to keep her such. It is only within the last century that she has received a concession to her rights in the shape of the Catholic Emancipation Act, in 1829. But this was ouly one sore, and she had many. Religious persecu- tion has been the canker worm of that ill-fated country, and, like all such persecutions, it has served only to ~oufirm, in all its stanch- ness, the faith it sought to eradicate. It has indelibly marked Ireland as a Catholic country, so long as Ireland exists at all. And, in whatever part of the world an Irishman is to be found, he has carried his religion with him. The fruits of the persecution of the times of William of Orange, and th~ three Georges, are now ripe and flourishing on the free soil of America. The workers, the hew- ers of wood and drawers of water, the builder, the constructor of great roadsthe arteries of civilization~~zthe brilliant orators and 13 19S BRITISH MARRIAGE LAW AND PRACTICE. thinkers, are the Irish. They have been, and might have continued to be, all this to Enolind had not Dutch wisdom driven them from the land for America to reap the benefit. Already some of your most prominent generals bear strikingly Irish names. Thus, out of evil has conic good in the fulness of time. The marriage acts which are enforced in England do not apply to Ireland. At the union of the Irish Parliament to England it would naturally be supposed that the laws would be ~uade the same. Unfortunately, such was not the case. The laws were to be made in E~glcm ci, but they were not to be English laws, notwith- standing. Catholics in England were under no disabilities. They could marry whom and as they pleased, according to English law; whereas in Ireland, under the Penal Code, they were banned and barred, and such was the intricacy and complexity it took a wise man to know if he were married or not. Statute after statute fob lowed each other during the reigns of William, Anne, and the three Georges, patching each other up, destroying each other by implied contradiction, and all left standing on the statute book to the mis- cry and confusion of present and future generations. Such an absurdity as the following is easily found: George II., I hereas, It has been found that Papist women have wickedly se- duced Protestant men, faithful subjects of his Majesty, to marry them, to the great peril of their souls or remedy thereof, be it enacted, that any Papist priest who shall marry any Papist wo- man to any Protestant man, etc., and shall be convicted thereog etc., shall suffer the penalty of death, without benefit of clergy 1-lis body shall be hung, drawn, and quartered, etc. This piece of monstrosity actually remained in existence until the reign of WiHiam IV., uncle and predecessor of the present Queen. Subsequently was fulminated another act of George 11.for, in spite of the hang- ing, drawing, and quartering, these wicked Nora Crenas continued to bewitch faiXhful Protestant menwhich enacted that every such mar- ria~ e between Protestant and Papist should be null and void to all iatents and purposes, and any priest convicted of performing such ceremony should be fined the sum of five hundred pounds, or, in de- fault thereog suffer five years imprisonment. Now, inasmuch as, 1ndei the previous unrepealed statute, the unfortunate priest guilty of the heinous offence of wedding Papist maidens to faithful Prot- estant subjects, has already suffered hanging, drawing and quar- tering, it is difficult to see how he is to get himself together again, in order to undergo the rest of the punishment, the payment of fine, or imprisonment. There is something facetious in the legal Irish bull of first hanging a man for a crime and then fining him for misdemeanor for one and the same thing. And this is what is called Irish law. No one who reads through the Penal Statute Book can be surprised at Fenianism. One wrong does not justify BRITISH MARRIAGE LAW AND PRACTICE. 99 another; but it provokes it. In this very day, in this nineteenth cen- tury, this iniquitous Penal Code has dared to assert itself in a court of justice, and declare its legal rigAt to blast forever the fair fame of a Catholic maiden for the alleged crime of seducing a faithful Protestant subject to marry ber~ This bigoted law, the 19th George II., was actually brought forward as a legal protection to bigamy; as a defence for sacrilege in Gods holy temple, as a means of heaping disgrace on a family of high standing and unblemished repute. This law was, in fact, appealed to in the Yelverton case. The Statute Book was brought forth and read over, pondered over, argued over and cursed over. The pages were turned and smoothed out of their place before the frowning eye of the lord chief justice, himself a Catholic. They were thumped upon by the triumphant counsel who upheld the majesty of the law. He asked but the law for his noble clienthis pious Protestant client. He was entitled to it and demanded it. He did not heed the chorus of hisses and groans by which this piece of legal justice was received by his hearersit was the law! Fortunately, the intended victim was not an Irish maiden, but a free-born English woman, with, perhaps, something of the English bull-dog nature lurking behind what Mr. Dickens has described as the baby-like face of the Cenci. She was ready to fight for her right and her honor; and so the faith- ful Protestant subject was put to proof; and found wanting. The marriage was declared legal and valid: there was nothing to bar the sacred rights of those whom God had joined together, ex- cept proving that the man was a professing Protestantit needed to be of the Established Church forsooththe religion of the State; otherwise he could not be a licensed bigamist. Ilenceforth, from 1862, this hoary old Statute Book hid its execrated head in the back cellar or coal-hole until dragged forth by a House of Coin- muons committee, who are sitting upon it now, once for all, to destroy it completely. New marriage laws will be framed, in which the whole kingdom will, it is hoped, participate alike. There is some hesitation about Scotland~ however, which, having the simplest and easiest marriage law, will probably refu~e to ch~inge. Scotebmen are so determinedly Scotch, that it is very dif- ficult to make them bate one jot of their nationality. It would appear that their principle of marriage is the most mor. 1 and nat- ural of all; but the practice of proving it is the most awkward and round-about. The law language is worse than Greek to most people. As a consequence, Scotland has the reputation of being more litigious than any other nation. It adheres to the old Roman and Common Law, which makes marriage a consensual contract, consensus faciat wuptias. This consent may be exchanged in various ways; in the presence of a magistrate, of a minister of Kirk, of friends or relatives, of any stranger, or even without the 200 BRITISH MARRIAGE LAW AND PRACTICE. presence of a third party. Marriage may be constituted by present consentper vcrlxt do presente; by future promise and living togetherper verha do fatnro subsequcuto copula. It may be exchanged in writing, actual written consent to marriage, or writing from which such consent may be reasonably inferred. For instance, it was held in a case of Dobson vs. Dobson, that the defendant, having addressed repeated letters through the post to the lady as Mis. Dobson, and she having lived with him as his wife, the ac- kno~vledgment was sufficient, although no ceremony of marriage was proved or averred. Sometimes a sign suffices. A mau named Macadam, the inventor of the roads which now bear his name, lived on his own estate with a housekeeper or governess. One morning he assembled his household, the housekeeper at their head, and thus addressed them: Yell talc notice this lady is my wife. The housekeeper bowed, and they were dismissed. During the course of the day, Mr. Macadam went into his grounds and there blew his brains out. The ex-governess claimed dower as his widow, and the estates for her eldest son. A fiercely-contested trial ensued, which was eventually decided in favor of the widow and children. Marriage may be constituted without present acknowledgment or written consent, viz., by habit and repute. It is this : If a man and woman live together for a number of years (months will not suffice), conduct themselves respectably as married people, the more especially if there is a family, the law presumes they have entered the married relation, and that consent at some time has passed be- tween them verbally, though not proven. These marriages are the most difflcnlt to establish, ns the proof is usually adduced after the death of one or both parties, to secure property. The great l3readalbane case is such a one. It has occupied the Scotch courts and the House of Lords for the last seven years. The late Marquis of Breadalbane died childless. Two heirs claimed the peerage and estates, the largest in Scotland, amounting to about one hundred thousand pounds a year. The one claimant was the descendant of the direct branch of the family tree; the other was descended from an interloping Scotch marriage of habit and repute. The story is so full of romance, and so illustrative of this Scotch principle of marriage, that a slight sketch of it may convey to the reader a clearer idea of Scotch marriage law and practice than any lengthened legal disquisition. A wild young Campbell, scion of the great house of Breadalbane, and second son of the Marquis, while quartered with his I-Iighland regiment in a small to~vn iu England, saw and fell desperately in love with the beautiful young wife of a small tradesman, a saddler. Veni, vidi, vici, seems to have been his motto as well as Ci~esars, for when the regiment marched off he carried the fair lady along with him, and the saddler was left lamenting, for divorce courts were out BRITISH MARRIAGE LAW AND PRACTICE. 01 of possible reach of tradesmen in those days. The regiment re- turned to Scotland, and there a child being born to them, the young runaway actually went through a marriage ceremony, at which a clergyman officiated, of course, in ignorance of the saddler husband. What their motive could have been in going through a ceremony which Campbell, at least, must have known to be futile, is now locked in the oblivion of the past. Certain it is they continued to live together as man and wife, and remained more faithful to each o:her tha~i their ill-starred union portended. When the regiment was ordered to Canada, the saddlers wife went out with the troops as Mrs. Major Campbell. It was not until several years had elapsed that the saddler died, and Mrs. nd Major Campbell again lived in Scotland together, which, as I have said, makes a marriage of habit and repute, there being now no saddler. It is the grandson of this marriage who claims and has at present obtained possession of the title and estates of Breadalbane. Such are the difficulties and errors which these marriages are sub- ject to. The Scotch law of marriage has become partially familiar to the world through the celebrated Gretna-Green blacksmith, who realized a large fortune by marrying runaway couples from Eng- land. No matter how hotly pursued by raving fathers, or indig- nant brothers; if the happy pair could once skip over the border into the presence of the blacksmith, and take each other for hus- band and wife, it was all in vain to preach or swearit was all so much fuss and fury thrown awaythe deed was done, they were as irrevocably wed as though the Bishop of Canterbury had pre- sided at the ceremony. Any other individual would have answered the purpose as well, but the blacksmith was ever ready to tie the hymeneal knot, and somehow obtained the monopoly, which he kept until his death. He was succeeded by the keeper of the nearest toll-gate across the border, who, however, was shortly dispossessed of his heritage by Lord Broughams bringing in a bill making it necessary to reside twenty-one days in Scotland before jurisdiction could be obtained to perpetrate marriage. This act, of course, put an unhappy end to the lovers refuge, and hundreds of British young men and maid- ens mourned. There are, therefore, three sorts of irregular Scotch marriages quite as binding as the regular, the only difference being in the facility of proof The regular marriages have the banns published in the Kirk, though the marriage takes place in a private house, and it is registered by a public functionary; while irregular marriages have no banns or register, and need to be proved as the parties are best able. Scotland thus affords great facilities for marriages, and, moreover, renders deception and seduction under false pretense almost impossible; for the very act which in England would con- 202 BRITISH MARRIAGE LAW AND PRACTICE. stitute a womans ruin, in Scotland is her safeguard. So, also, there is equal facility for divorce, which is another bone of contention between the txvo countries. English people, weary of each other, but with no remedy at home (the divorce court having only come into practice within the last seven or eight years), rushed over the border and got divorced. Subsequently, when such divorces were brought ill question before an English court, they were repudiated, and the marriage sustained. In cases where the parties on the strength of this divorce had married again, the complication, liti- gation, and misery were, of course, fearful. Cases of this kind often occupy the courts for generations. Dickens description of Jam- dyce vs. Jarndyce was no exaggeration, but a keen expose of facts. The richest estates are often eaten up in the quarrel for them; and litigation only ceases when both plaintiff and defendant are drained of every shilling. One of these interminable cases is now pending before one or other of the courts every session. The plaintiff is a man with silvery locks and bowed with three score years and ten. The suit was commenced by his uncle when he was a baby. His beautiful daughter has taken up the case now to prove her grandmothers marriage, and is pushing it with great spirit and enthusiasm. She is a wonderfully clever woman; but it is sadly probable that the case will see her rich auburn hair as white as her fathers crc the grandmothers marriage is settled. To return to the loosing process, the Scotch law has another action than divorce. It is jactitation, commonly called putting to silence. This is one of those barefaced barbarisms which throw a very doubtful light upon the good old times of our ancestors. It is a disgrace to any civilized statute book, and has long been extinct in the sister countries. Indeed, it is but just to say that this form of action had not been enforced in Scotland during this century until it was exhumed to do duty in the Yelverton case. 1-lence, again, the evil of leaving such disreputable rubbish ale hors of the legal cesspool, to find its into way civilized society. The only object of appealing to it in these days would be to overthrow an existing marriage; and it is only serviceable to protect a man from the consequences of bigamy. For, if he simply wishes to get rid of his wife, he could do so by divorce for incompatibility of temper or what not. But if he has committed a felonious act him- selg he can only get rid of it by striking at the very roots of his first wifes honest famedeclare that she has been living with him in infamy, and that he now wishes to expose her and deprive her of the protection of the supposition that she was his wife. lie craves the court to pronounce him free of all obligations toward the woman, to fine her a thousand pounds, to be paid to him in shape of solatium to the wounded feelings, which the supposition of this womans being his wife has caused. He further prays that BRITISH MARRIAGE LAW AND PRACTICE. ~o3 if she do not at once renounce the character of wife, refrain from the assertion that she ever held that relationship, and cease to call herself by his name, she be fined fifty pounds for every offence, or imprisoned in default, and, finally, that she be put to silence there- anent. Let my readers imagine for themselves the horror and amaze- ment with which the deserted wife received this first billet-dou from the idol of her youthful idolatry, the cherished husband of her soul, united to her, and living with her in the grace of God; the father of her child, the protector of her home, her all on earth, and half her hope in heaven! The wretched slave mother, when sold away from all she loves, and all her natural ties, to a strange home, alone, can hardly feel more desolate, more appalled and hor- ror-stricken than the Scottish wife when the formal document an- nouncing these atrocities is placed within her quivering fingers. She has no redress hut to defend the action, or lie down and die under it. If she fights, it may be through fifteen years of miser- able litigation, in which she must spend every shilling she has to prevent a judgment against her by default. It is in vain she puts forward incontrovertible proof of her marriage. Jactitation admits of explaining away actions by arri~re pens~e. The doctrine of jntention, Ao ~ no consent, is set up, and upon this hobby-horse of metaphysical disquisition, lawyers and judges mount and canter to Coventry-, till one litigant or the other is ridden to de th, or must step aside from dearth of funds; so, whichever can pay the best fee is the winner. It stands to reason that where a man is allowed to appeal to retrospective motives to efface the meaning of an ac- tion which speaks for itselg not law, nor logic, nor equity can be of any avail. Now, he says, you have proved I went through the form of marriage, but no consent was exchanged. I sa yitwas a preconcerted fraud, and I defy you to prove it was not. In no other action would such a plea be tolerated by a court of justice; for the first grand principle of all law is that a man shall not take ad- vantage of his own fraud. Happily, it is probable after this expor~, that the days of jactitation are numbered, and that the bill now before the House of Commons will put it away with the kindred relics of barbarism, with the ancient bridle for scolds, the ducking stool, and the cane as thick as his thumb with which a man might beat his wife. The ardent supporters of Womans Rights, can find abund- ant employment for their energies long before they reach that of voting. Women in England have done something when they have been sufficiently goaded to turn and resist. The Honorable Mrs. Norton, celebrated alike for her exquisite songs and wm.itings, and for her beauty and misfortunes, obtained the right for a woman to hold ~)roperty independent of her husband, wheu living separate from 204 BRITISH MARRIAGE LAW AND PRACTICE. him. This brave and noble woman, uncrushable by tyranny and invulnerable to the malice which the la~v permitted to be inflicted upon her, was the chief means of obtaining a Divorce Court in England. Until eight or ten years ago none but Earls, Dukes, etc., could have such matrimonial grievances remedied. The House of Peers alone could dissolve marriage. Mrs. Nortons letter to the Queen upon this point, showed in vivid colors that while a woman was holding the reins of government, her female subjects were labor- ing under laws no better than such as regulate the relations of the negro and his white master. A more poxverfnl pamphlet was, per- h ps, never penned by man or woman. It had a startling influence not, perhaps, on the Queen, who does not trouble herself about such matters, but upon ministers, legislators, men who have voice and power in the nation. The Divorce Court is now in full operation. Full divorce, a vinczdo, in only granted where capital crime is proved when either party can marry again. Separation (a rnemsct et thoro) is granted for desertion, cruelty, and various other causes. The jurisdiction of this court does not extend to Ireland, and as yet there is no dissolution of Irish marriages, even though the hus- band has not seen his wife for years. Even if the wife has earned, or inherited, a fortune during his absence, the recreant husband can return and possess himself of whatever is hers. In fine, a wife has no legal existence separate from her husband. By the marriage service the husband fictitiously endows the wife with all his worldly goods. But legally, and in reality, he becomes master of hers. The French laws are the best in this respect, for there is al- ways a separate contract as regards property, in which the wife has equal advantages. In England, marriages are only legal when performed in a duly- registered church by any minister, subsequent to publication of banns or license, obtained from Doctors Commons, or before a duly authorized registrar in his office. But the greater part of marriages take place in church, Protestants still adhering to the religious ceremony. As there is no point which so intimately and deeply concerns the well-being of the great human family as marriage, so there is scarcely any other over which Legislatures have so bungled and blundered, and made such a disastrous pot-pourrie. Mar- riage being a Divine ordination, its fulfilment should be left free, and untrammelled by a score of contradictory laws and vexatious regulations. It should not be made valid on one side a streamlet, and void on the other; holy and legitimate if entered into before twelve oclock in the day, infamous and illegal if contracted at a later hour; respectable and decent if the building has been duly registered and the clergyman ordained, disgraceful and damning if the registration and ordination have not been quite en rgle; according to Lord Ardwicks Marriage Act, a union BRITISH MARRIAGE LAW AND PRACTICE. 205 in sacramental grace, if the man declare at the altar of the Lord that he is a Catholic, but a state of shame and sin if he should afterward change his mind and say he is a Protest- ant ; a good marriage if a man give his name John Daniel Jones, but a bad one if it is discovered that he has abstracted a syllable, and that his name is John Nathaniel. As the British marriage law now stands, a man may have three wives legal in different narts of the United Kingdom. This was stated in the House of Commons when the Yelverton case was discussed in Par- liament, and a reform in these laws was pronounced absolutely necessary. Of course, this feat of three wives requires a little con- trivance. But with good lawyers, and a good fortune to back him, a man might not only set a prosecution for bigamy at defiance, but claim the property of the most richly-endowed wife. When we come to consider the amount of domestic misery occasioned by this patch- work marriage lawfalling chiefly on the weaker portion of society, women and children; when we see the wear and tear, the gnawing and corroding effects of litigation for honor, virtue and social status; when we see the broken hearts of wives, deserted in the first marriage, and dishonored of the second, the weary mother claiming legitimacy for her offspring, the down-trodden, shame- branded children vainly claiming the honorable heritage of their pamentsall these things filling the land with wretchedness and sorrow, and that from generation to generationhave no hesi- tation in saying that there needs a thorough and radical reform in the marriage laws of Great Britain. THERESA YELYEImTON. STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. B~ MRS. EDWARDS, Author of Archie Lovell. CHAPTER XXXVII. THE BARRYS RECEPTION. THE Barrys apartment was on the third floor of an old hotel in one of the quietest quarters of the town; an apartment wanting in ormolu and velvet, but open and airy; more hospita- ble, far, Steven thought as he entered, than Doras mouse-trap en- tresol in the best situation in Paris. He was late: Mr. Barry, turn- ing round from the card-table, rallied him as he came in about his fashionable hours: and all the guests, who were coining to the re ception (four or five Frenchmen, none of them in evening dress), were already assembled. Mademoiselle Barry, alone at a little table by the fireside, was drawing. The lamp placed close at her left handthe methodical arrangement of her pencils and papers the silence of the room; the faces of the men around the card-ta- blegave Steven, he knew not why, the idea that the scene was a habitual one in the girls life, lie went up to her at once, and she put down her pencil and bade him, with a friendly-enough smile, take a chair at her side. I neednt interrupt you, said Steven, looking over her work. Go on with your drawing; I should like to watch you. But I cant draw when I am watched, said Mademoiselle Barry, and I am so tired that I am glad to stop. After all you were forced to go through in the Luxembourg, she added, I shouldnt think you wanted anything more in the shape of pictures to-day?~ I went through what gave me pleasure, said Steven in his frank way. This morning made me feel that if I was ever so little better educated, I might get to like picturesafter a fashion of my own. Let me look at your drawing, please. Why, what is it done onwood? I thought people drew on canvas, or card- board, or tackle of that kind. People who draw for money, draw on the tackle their masters bid them use, said Mademoiselle Barry, smiling a little smile to herself at the Englishmans ignorance. Im not a young lady art- ist, sir. I make money, good gold pieces of twenty francs, by my drawings. This sketch will appear publicly as one of the chef

Mrs. Edwards Edwards, Mrs. Steve Lawrence, Yeoman 206-240

STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. B~ MRS. EDWARDS, Author of Archie Lovell. CHAPTER XXXVII. THE BARRYS RECEPTION. THE Barrys apartment was on the third floor of an old hotel in one of the quietest quarters of the town; an apartment wanting in ormolu and velvet, but open and airy; more hospita- ble, far, Steven thought as he entered, than Doras mouse-trap en- tresol in the best situation in Paris. He was late: Mr. Barry, turn- ing round from the card-table, rallied him as he came in about his fashionable hours: and all the guests, who were coining to the re ception (four or five Frenchmen, none of them in evening dress), were already assembled. Mademoiselle Barry, alone at a little table by the fireside, was drawing. The lamp placed close at her left handthe methodical arrangement of her pencils and papers the silence of the room; the faces of the men around the card-ta- blegave Steven, he knew not why, the idea that the scene was a habitual one in the girls life, lie went up to her at once, and she put down her pencil and bade him, with a friendly-enough smile, take a chair at her side. I neednt interrupt you, said Steven, looking over her work. Go on with your drawing; I should like to watch you. But I cant draw when I am watched, said Mademoiselle Barry, and I am so tired that I am glad to stop. After all you were forced to go through in the Luxembourg, she added, I shouldnt think you wanted anything more in the shape of pictures to-day?~ I went through what gave me pleasure, said Steven in his frank way. This morning made me feel that if I was ever so little better educated, I might get to like picturesafter a fashion of my own. Let me look at your drawing, please. Why, what is it done onwood? I thought people drew on canvas, or card- board, or tackle of that kind. People who draw for money, draw on the tackle their masters bid them use, said Mademoiselle Barry, smiling a little smile to herself at the Englishmans ignorance. Im not a young lady art- ist, sir. I make money, good gold pieces of twenty francs, by my drawings. This sketch will appear publicly as one of the chef STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 207 dourres of the Journal de la Rive gauche a week or two hence~ You dont read the Journal de la Rive gauche, I suppose ?it is, I must tell you, one of the poorest Paris papers of one souwell, if you did, you would recognize my drawing therenot by the sketch itself~ all likeness to the original will be too thoroughly ta- ken away in the cuttingbut by the letters K. B. Do you see theni in the corner, here? The scene which the drawing represented was of a character thoroughly suited to the paper for which it was destined: a young man reeling, pistol in hand, from a gambling-roomglimpses of players around the table withinthe outline of a female figure, her arms wildly extended as if to clasp him, in the black night out- side; a scene, melodramatic in conception, faulty in design, but drawn with exquisite fineness of touch, and not without originality and true artistic feeling ia the expression and gestures of the prin- cipal actors. Why, this scene must surely have been taken from life, said Steven, when he had examined the block carefully. I remember seeing one like it, or nearly like it, years ago in Sacramento. Surely, he went on, a drawing such as this is worthy of a l)lace in somethipg better than A halfpenny Paris paper! said Mademoiselle Barry, quietly. No, indeed, it is not. There isnt such a thing, I hold as under- rated talent. We all find exactly the place in the world but as she said this, she sighed exactly the place that we are most suited to fill. When first I began to drawcome and sit by the fire, please; as long as we talk low, we may talkwhen I first thought of drawing for money, that is to say, about two years ago, I had a great opinion of myself. Because I could understand good pictures and was fond of them, and had a pretty-young-lady touch, I thought I was an artist. She smiled: the pensive flitting smile that became her delicate face so well. If people have an overweening opinion of their own ability, she went on, as Steven remained silent, let them try to make money by it. No test so sure, sir. I sent over my first sketches to the , well, to one of the best magazines in Lon- donI know nothing of English magazinesbut the clerk of the English librarywe lived at Brussels, thentold me it was one of the best, and for two months heard nothing of them. Then I wrote to inquire. The sketches of K. B., I heard in three lines of reply, were wholly valueless to the . It was feared they were mislaid. The risk of mis-carriage was always, as K. B. prob- ably knew, incurred by the sender. And after this? asked Steven, interested for the first time in his life, in any venture of art or literature. After this, said Mademoiselle Barry, we came to Paris, and 20S STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. I tried some of the first-class French papers, with the same success. At last an artist, who looked over a sketch I was making in the Louvre one day, told me I must draw on the wood with my own hand if I wanted to get money from the journals. I learned wood- drawino~I mean I taught myself how to do itand, bit by bit, have i.isen to my present position. The Journal da Rice gauche will give me twenty francs at least for this block, and twenty francs to me is a good deal. Steven glanced round involuntarily at the card-table where gold pieces were circulating pretty freely through Mr. Barrys well- shaped hands in the course of the friendly round game. Oh, Papa does not like my drawing for money, said the girl, as if she had guessed his thoughts. lie cant understandper- haps you will notthe pleasure I have in possessing money that has been earned by myself; not bynot by my father putting it into my hand, you knoxv Just as she was speaking, the clock on the mantel-piece struck twelve. Mr. Barry looked round, and the girl rose in a second, and passed with her graceful, noiseless tread into an adjoining room. She came back a minute or two later, bearing a small tray of re- freshnients, set it down in silence on a table near the players, then came back to Steven. After standing for a few moments gazing down intently into the flickering food fire, Mr. La wrence, she said, not in a whisper, but in the kind of compressed voice more difficult than nay whisper to overhear, do you ever play cards? I hope not. It is a pleasant way of spending the time, no doubtmy father is very fond of cards as you see, butbut unless people are very lucky, and luck is so capricious! they generally end by losing an auful deal of money, I think ! Like the hero in your sketch, answered Steven, unsuspiciously. Well, now, Ill tell you exactly how I feel about dards: I must either not play at all, or play too much. Cards, themselves, dont amuse me; but Im ready, only too ready, to be carried away by the excitement of winning or losing; and, as I have no money to spare, the wisest thing is for me never to touch a card at all. TIe spoke iii a tone every word of which was loud enough to reach the cars of the players, but the players seemed all of them too engrossed to attend to anything beyond their game. At the end of another quarter of an hour, Steven and Mademoiselle Barry, still talking together by the fire, there was a move, and one of the Frenchmen, with profuse apologies for breaking up the party so soon, rose to go. He was a little old man, dressed in a dark blue uniform, with a bit of yellow ribbon at his button-hole, and ad- dressed by the remainder of the party, Chevalier. And we all leave off much as we began, said Mr. Barry, care- lessly turning over a small heap of gold pieces at his side. You, STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 209 Chevalier, a little bit better off than the rest of us. Twenty min- utes past twelve, only! This, as the Chevalier with a profound salutation to Mademoiselle Barry, left the room. Kate, my dear, von are close to the clockis it really only twenty minutes past twelve ? That is the time, Papa. Well, then, what do you say, messieurs? turning to his other guests. Shall we go on for an hour or so more or not? One of the men answered something in French ; glancing, as he spoke, at Steven. Ab, said Mi.. Barry, speaking in English, it would be a bad compliment to ask our friend to join us so late in the evening. You wouldnt care to take the Chevaliers place for an hour, I suppose, Mr. Lawrence? We play a humdrum round game, just to while away the time, as you see, and you young men are so accustomed to hVh play. Now dont say yes out of good nature! Steven hesitated. Come and have a glass of wine before we begin, at all events, said Mr. Barry, rising. Katie, my love, come to the table and have some wine. You look tired. The girl obeyed him instantly, as she always obliged him in everything ; drank a glass of claret, ate some fruit, then in her pretty, quiet way, stood chatting to the three or four dingy French- men of whom her reception consisted, while Mr. Bari~y talked with ever-increasing friendliness of manner to Steven. You dont care to take a hand, I see, he remarked at last. Be frank; twill only be for an hour, but I dont like in my own house to break up the game? Oh, if am wanted Ill play, said Steven, and as he spoke he approached the card table, that is to say, if I understand the game you are playing at. We play lansqnenet, said one of the Frenchman, in broken English. Quite easy playyou learn him in tree minute. See, I play ze valet, taking up a pack of cards to further his explana- tion, and ze dame. Your money is for ze dame. I turn, turn, turnla! you gain. Extending the fingers of both hands, as if to show by pantomime the ease with which he would be despoiled of his money by the Englishmans superior luck. Ah, I believe I know something about it, said Steven, taking the Chevaliers vacant chair; he had played lausquenet a good many dozen times at Ilaverstock. Only in England we call it lausquenette. Lausquonet, lansqnenette, mais cast la maine chose, cried Mr. Barry, whe seldom seemed to remember whether he was speaking English or French. The stupidest game in the world, as a game, confidentially this to Steven, but you never can get Frenchmen to 210 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN play at anything else, except baccarat. Whist is too slow for theni; loo they detest. Then turning to the other players, all of whom had now resumed their places, Mr. Barry introduced his guests to each other, formally, and the little round game went on. Mademoiselle Barry went back to the fireside, seated herself in an arm-chair, with her back to the players, and never looked round until an hour, or an hour and a half later, when the game broke up. The moment the men rose from the table, the habitues of the house bowed themselves away, and Steven coming up to Mademoiselle Barry began to wish her good night. No, no, no, Lawrence, cried Mr. Barry, running back from the door where he had been seeing his friends out, and putting his hand on Stevens arm. Stop and have half an hours chat and a friend- ly cigar with me. You havent been very much bored with our quiet evening I hope? Then you must come next Saturdaycome as long as you are in Paris. You lost a little, Im afraid. Well, no, said Steven, I wonfour or five pounds at least. Ah, did you, indeed? I thought de Vitron won, as much, that is to say, as was lost. We play, as you see, very moderately. I scarcely remember winning or losing more than a couple of hun- dred francs inyself in one evening, for months past. Mademoiselle Barry looked up quickly at her fathers face. Ah, said Mr. Barry, without giving her time to speak, my daughter thinks two hundred francs a frightfully heavy sum, poor little Katie! and so it is to us. She doesnt remember a mothers care, Lawrence. From the time she was so high, she has managed, tried rather to manage, my nomadic housekeeping for me. A life spent in great continental cities without mother or sister is a terribly lonely one for a girl; but as much as I can, I make myself her coin- l)anlon. lIe put his arm tenderly round her thin little figure and drew her to his sue. And how have you passed your evening child? Wearied with the sight of old gentlemen and card-playing as usual ? I wasnt wearied at all while Mr. Lawrence talked to me, an- s wered the girl with perfect frankness. As soon as he touched the cards I was alone again, and I never feel very weary when I am alone. As soon as a man touches cards you look upon him as lost, Katie, dont you? said Mr. Barry. It is a symptom of old fogy- ism quite unpardonable in your sight. Nothing really pleases my little girl, sir, but wandering through churches and picture galleries of a morning, and working herse If blind as you have seen, over her wood drawing of an evening, Her only dissipation, poor child, is the theatre. We are going there to-morrow night, by the by, to hear this new thing they are bringing out at the Opera Coinique. You have heard it of course? STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 211 It would be impossible for me to tell you what I have heard, said Steven. I have been taken, I know, to most of the theatres iii Paris, but If one doesnt care for music what a toil of pleasure it is, in- terrupted Mr. Barry, especially if you have not a thorough knowl- edge of the language! Now, I was just going to propose that you should accompany us to-morrow. We go in a very humble fashion walk to the theatre, my daughter in her morning dress, take our places in an obscure part of the house, and, when we have had enough, come away. Such a way of passing the evening would be martyrdom to you no doubt? On the contrary, answered Steven. It is the only way in which, if I could choose, I should ever go to the theatre myself. Then you had better come with us, I think, said Mademoiselle Barry, raising her eyes for a moment to his face. And this was how Stevens apprenticeship to lausquenet and bac- carat was brought about. CHAPTER XXXVJII. MONSIEUR YALENTINS 5KETCU. You cant deny, my dear Steven, that you are always with these people. I hear it from everybody. You have been seen with them in all sorts of placespicture galleries, churches, theatres, even, and, by your own account, you spend your evenings at their house. Now, I have no small jealousy. No, said Dot, loftily, my maxim is perfect confidence, perfect freedom, in married life; but what I (10 say is, a husband who amuses himself as you do has no right-- no right, Steven, to interfere with his wife in any way! And I, answered Steven, differ from you entirely. I spend my mornings in walking about with the Barrys. I go there some- times of an evening, and shall continue to do during the short time we stay in Paris. And I dont choose you to go to this masked ball. Its the first thing I have forbidden you to do yet, Dora, and I insist upon your obeying me. Insist? Because of the expense, or what you believe will be the expense, I conclude ? On the contrary, answered Steven, expense is a subject I have long ceased to think about, as far as you are concerned. As far as I am concerned! cried Mrs. Lawrence, firing. I like that. I lose all the money at baccarat and ecart& I suppose? I am pointed out, by half Paris, as the associate of a set of no- torious, disreputable card-sharpers? Not card-sharpers, said Steven, calmly. I dont think the 212 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. people you spend your time with particularly reputable, but I know no reason why they should be accounted card-sharpers. A great deal more than can be said for your companions, cried Dot, wisely declining the defence of her own friends. I speak much more in sorrow than in auger, Steven, and I think it my positive duty to tell you that Mr. Barry is looked upon among the English as a common blackleg. his accompliceone of his ac- complices, ratheris an old man they call the Chevalier. The Chevalier and three or four other Frenchmen of the same stamp play at his house twice a weekyou see I have heard all about it nominally winning aud losing money among themselves, and then, of course, when they get any poor simpleton into the net, they divide the spoil. There are Englishmen now in Paris who remem- ber Barry in Florence, in Monaco, in Brussels. He lives by his wits, by his dextrous fingers, I should say; just remains in a place until he has plucked a sufficient number of pigeons, or until the police are down upon him, and then goes away, nobody knows where; his daughter, if she is his daughter, with him. Steven had kept his temper admirably hitherto, but at his wifes last words the color rose in an ominous flush across his face. Barry may or may not be what you say, Dora. Until such accusa- tions are brought openly against a man, I, for my part, would never stoop to listen to them behind his back. As for Mademoiselle Barry As for Mademoiselle Barry? Pray dont hesitate, my dear. She is the first quiet, decent woman it has been my chance to come across in Paris, said Steven, with deliberation, and I have found rest and pleasure in her society. Im not, I never shall be, up to the mark of the world you like to live in, Dora. The truth must be told, some day, between us! You took me to your balls and I saw women drestthat I should use the word! as no honest man in my class of life would ever see his wife or sisters dress: with painted lips and cheeks, with dishevelled hair; nakedness in their shoulders, immodesty in their eyes Steven! And I felt a pang. Well, youd never understand what I felt, child, on first seeing you among them. Ridiculous, quite! I know all you would say. A woman of the world must dress and dance and be like others. So you told me, Dora, you remember? I do, sir, and I remember you told me that you were ignorant von confessed it thenignorant of the ways of civilized people, and that you would not seek to make me adopt your absurd, old- fashioned notions. I dont ask you to adopt them now. You have had freedom enough, God knows ! said Steven, and have been to balls enough, and spent money, and lived fast enough in every way, STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 213 without my opposing you. At this masked ball I make a stand. You shall not go to it. The matter is settled. And he rose, and began searching about for his hat among the heaps of silk and velvet that, as usual, filled up every chair and table in the small room. Oh, but the matter is not settled, cried Dot. You neednt take lip your hat; your friends must wait for you to-day. After what you have saidthe cruel, the infamous things you have said of my acquaintance! women receivedyes, received by the world, Steven, I choose to speak openly, too. This Mademoiselle Barry who you say is the first decent person you have spoken to in Paris, is looked upon by every one as simply an accomplice of the mans. How did they first get to know you? Would any respectable man introduce a stranger to his daughter in the Luxembourg gar- dens? I dontI cant stoop to suspecting you of really caring for such society, but I do say that in appearing openly with a per- son like Mademoiselle Barry you outrage public opinion and me. Steven turned round and looked down on Dots face, the small face smaller than ever after all its midnight vigils, haggard now that no rouge adorned it, and with genuine feeling, genuine indig- nation, written on its features; and all the manliness of his nature forbade him, as it had forbidden him that night of her first victory at Asheot, to contend with a thing so small. Dora, my dear, you speak like a child. I was wrong to be vexed with you. You only repeated what some empty-headed fool had told you of Mademoi- selle Barry. She an accomplice! She one of a band of card sharpers! I have committed an outrage on public opinion by being seen with her! Steven laughed aloud. A little, simple- minded girl who lets me walk beside. her through these galleries and show places and teaches meI want it bad enough! who lived here, and who died there, and what this picture means, and the rest of it. And lansquenet and ~eart~ of an evening? Is that another branch of Mademoiselle Barrys tuition? Mademoiselle Barry detests cards, said Steven, shortly. If I had followed her advice I should never have touched a card in her fathers house. The moment play begins she turns her back upon us; sits down to her drawing. Ive told you before how she works out those blocks of hersand never looks round again until the table breaks up. I see: r6le d ingenue: exactly what I was told. Steven, to come from sentiment to fact, how much money have you lost since you made the acquaintance of your friend Mr. Barry and his intel- lectual, simple-minded daughter? Steven did not reply. You can answer at least, said Dot. The question is a fair 14 214 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. one. flow much of our money has already made its way into the Barrys pockets? Well, on the whole, snid Steven, I believe I must have lost about thirty pounds. Till three days ago I had wonwon consider- ably, but on Saturday night the luKe certainly went dead against me. So you see, my dear, I have no secrets; I tell you everything! And he stooped and drew her kindly (not kissing her: the bat- talions of hair pins, the powders, the unguents which surrounded Dora of a morning, did not encourage these old-fashioned amenities of domestic life) to his side. Does Mademoiselle Barry know you are a married man~ Ste- yen? II suppose so, he answered. I have never thought it necessary to talk to the Barrys about my own affairs. And you tell me, on your honor, you are not a bit - . - oh, Steven, you are not a bit in love with her? I dont think you ought to ask me such a question, Dora. But I do ask it! and I do expect you to give me an answer, sir! Well, then, as you will have it, poor little Mademoiselle Barry is the last woman I should ever think of in that kind of way even if I could fall in love, as you call it, with anybody now! Am I to take that as a personal compliment, I wonder? Take it as the plain truth, Dora. You know well enough I never try to pay you compliments. She put one small hand under her husbands arm, clasped it with the other, and so stood meditative for some moments. flow glad I am we have had all this out! she cried at last. How foolish I was not to speak before! You have quite satisfied me about these poor, virtuous, slandered Barrys (only dont lose any more thirty pounds than you can help, for the future, my dear big goose), and ah, Steven, you ccu~t refuse me now about this ball! Every one, is going, went on Dot, not giving him time to speak, Grizelda Long, Lady B., all the people I know. You can come yourself to mount dragon over me, if you will, dear! It will be almost my lastthink of that! my last party in Paris. Dont refuse me Dont force me to refuse you, said Steven. You know very well what I have said already. Dont force me to repeat it. Steven, cried Dot, both hands clasped round his arm, and looking up entreatingly into his face; if you wont let me accept this invitation, at least give me your reasons for declining it. You have never said a word about my going to other balls; why mustnt I go to this? flow can a masked balla fancy ball, rather; half the people wont wear masksbe worse than any other? Can a dress of Louis Quinze or of the First Empire, said STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 215 Dot, with unconscious irony, be less decorous than one of the pres- ent day? Hardly, I must admit, answered Steven. Still, some of these costumes do outrival even what I saw in your Parisian ball rooms. And he pointed to a dozen or so of milliners pictures that were lying in a heap beside Doras workense on the table. And you have been judging of a ball costume by~ these ridicu- lous engravings! cried Mrs. Lawrence. A set of old-fashioned stupidities that some one, Grizelda Long, I thii~k, left here yester- day! No doubt there are all sorts of outrageous costumes to be found among themtheatrical costumeswho knows? But do you think I would appear in one of them? in anything that was not the perfection of aood taste? Now, Steven, I dont argue, I dont wish to oppose you, but will you, just to please rae, let me show you the little dress that, if you did relent, and if I did go, I would weai C She made him, whether he would or no, sit down again; disappeared for a minute into her bedroom; then returned, holding something out of sight behind her, caine and knelt down at his feet. The ball, as you know, my dear Steven, is given by Lady Sarah Adair. I know, said Steven. That fact alone set me against it. Why doesnt Lady Sarah Adair live with her husband?. Because he is a monster, cried Dora, a horrible half-witted creature (she only married him for his money, poor girl!) and he beats heryes, Steven, beats her and throws her down stairs when he is not sober, and the doctor gave a certificate that there was danger to her life in remaining with him. And so she forgets her sorrows by living alone in Paris, and giving masked balls ! interrupted Steven. She lives well thought of by every one; has an old ladyis it her aunt, or his aunt? well, some ones auntas chaperon ; and in- vites all kinds of artists and celebrities, quite the sort of society you would like, to her house. To walk through this ball, they say, will be like walking through a gallery of histoi~ical portraits. There are to be groups illustrative of the different periodseach person dressed by artists, for the part to which he is best suited. Nownow shall I show you my costume, Steven? It has been designed by a celebrated paiiiter who kno~vs me by sight, and Lady Sarah will be in despair at losing me. Not another full- grown person in Paris could fill the character, they say, but me. Will you see it? Show me anything you choose, my dear. Well, here, then, Dot produced a colored engraving. Here, I must tell you, Ls the model for Marie de Medicis. What do you think of it? and she leant across, still holding something in her 216 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. left hand, to point out the beauties of the costume to stevens ignorant eves. A crimson velvet stomacher embroidered with pearls, you see, pearls on the throat and wrists, white silk train2 all worked in richest crimson ani gold. I see, said Steven. A tawdry strolling-actor affair to my taste, but suited, no doubt, to a woman about as tall as I am, and stout in proportion. Exactly, exactly, cried Dot; that dress is for Lady Sarah herselfwho, as you know, poor dear, is one of the unwieldiest women in Paris. Lady Sarah is to be Marie de Medicis, and for menh, Steven, for me is reserved the sweetest little dress of the b ilMarie de Medicis page or train-b earer. Saying which she 1roduced another picturean artists sketch this, artistically col- cred, and bearing a strong likeness to herself in the faceand put it into Stevens hand. Doublet of sky-blue silk, yoa see, dear; little hanging cloak of blue velvet; velvet cap; white plume; tiny rapier in the belt; white satingreat heavens, Steven! cried Dot, starting away as she chanced to look from the picture to her husbands face, what is the matter with you? Youyou want to go in this dress to a ball ? said Steven, each word coming from his lips with dry, measured emphasis. You could endure to have mens eyes upon youyou, a married woman, thirty years of agein a dress like this? I think, before you insult me in that way, you should remem- ber what you are saying! But, as she spoke, Dot rose to her feet and shrunk away from him frightened. People much better than we go to balls in page-costume. Lady Alicia Hall went in the same character last year, andand its very ungenerous in you, Steven, to taunt me with my age. The costume is looked upon by everybody as the perfection of good taste, and M. Valentin, one of the most rising artists in Paris, drew it expressly to suit me. Did lie? was Stevens answer. Then you can write word to Lady Sarah Adair, at once, that you will not attend her ball. Say, if you want an excuse, that you believe your husband will have taken y~u home to his farm before the day arrives. Monsieur Valentins sketch I treat as you ought to have done when it was first put into your hands! And Steven tore the sketch across into six, eight pieces; then, deliberately, without passion, laid the frag- izacuts down in a little pile upon the table. Dora stood for a full minute or more silent, aghast; then she burst out into a flood of tears, IL would rather, much, you had struck me! she cried, the great, dark eyes flaming out from her small face. If you had kept me from the ball, I should at least have had the picture of my toilet to look at! could have made be- lief to myself, almost, when Im back in your horrid Asheot, that STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 2l~7 2[ had worn it. It was drawn for meit was my portraithalf Paris knows Monsieur Valentin drew it for me. Oh, I hate you I hate you ! She set her teeth; she stamped with her little foot. An injury regarding millinery had, as you have seen, been the unpardonable wrong done her in her youth. Millinery still was the one human interest that could wring genuine feeling, genuine passion from what shallow depths she possessed of soul. You are big and strong, and you think, now you have me in your power, you can treat meas you treated that wretched man whom you turned out of your house to starve! But Pm not afraid of you. Ill write and tell Uncle Frank of your violence. What right had you to destroy my poor little picture? my own property, drawn on pur- pose for me, and colored so bright and pretty, andreal gold dust on the hair! said Dot, with choking voice. I had the best right in the world to destroy it, said Steven. The right of a husband who does not choose that his wife should forget her own self-respect, or to see her represented in a dress which I believe many a common play-actress would have the decency to blush for having worn. Write to your uncle, child. Describe the dress you wanted to appear in at a ball of two hundred people, and tell him how I served the model of it. I am not ashamed of what I have done. And once more Steven took up his hat and moved across to the door. And neitherin spite of all those grand declamationsam I ashamed! cried Dora, watching him with flashing eyes. If other women of good position, and good birth, and everything, had not - appeared in page-costume, of course I should never have thought of it, but they haveLady Alicia hall wore this very dressand Im not ashamed, and I dont take your ultimatum as final. Suppose I say that I choose to go to this fancy ball ? I will suppose nothing of the kind. You are talking nonsense, said. Steven, not unkindly, in a voice not very different from that in which he might have addressed a wilful, reasonless child. Nonsense, am I? That remains to be seen. You are not in Central America now, remember, but in civilized Europe, and Im your wife, sirnot your squaw, your slaveand a free agent! If I say that I will stay in Paris, that I will go to Lady Sarahs bvil what then? Why, then, said Steven, laconically, you might stay here, as far as I am concerned, for good. Asheot may be dull and humble Im afraid it is so to you, Dorabut the women who have lived there have beeii honest wives, thank God! Asheot would be no place for a lady who had gone in male attire, and against her husbands wish, to a Parisian masquerade. As he spoke Dot had watched him narrowly, and in her inmost 218 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. hearta heart wholly frivolous, untainted, as yet, by worse than frivolityshe felt that she respected him. Well talk no more of this, she said, turning shortly away. I have not been ungen- crous to you. I have not blamed you, even, as most wives would, for your intimacy with the Barr~s, hut, of course, power is in your hands and you usc it. Thank heaven, the discussion is overt Amen, said Steven, dryly, and left her. CHAPTER XXXIX. RATHARINE GOES OVER TO TIlE ENEMY. lIE had scarcely quitted the house ten minutes when a hired Ilacro, containing two English travellers, drove up before the door. The Honorable Augustus Dynevor was not squeamish as to the quality of air he breathed, remarked the Squire, when he and Katharine, a minute later, had made their way up to the dark, un- savory l~nding of the entresol. The direction you can send your friends in England, is the best thing about the house, I should say but show, not comfort, is just what poor Dot would care for! Now, let me ask for her, Kate, I know the ways of these French servants, and their madame paw visible better than you do. The Squire, as he spoke, gave a long ring at the bell, and whoa Doras fonuno do manageold and inamad-like, as only a Paris charwoman can beanswered it, planted his umbrella well within the door, as an advance guard, before giving her time to speak. 3iadamo cot cdlez maisono. Oh, no, of course not. Kate, my dear, go indont believe a word of itFrench women never tell the truth. Jifais, JWonsiour]Jladamo ost souffirante! Jifadarne me re~it )amais Ic niatin! expostulated the poor mmnad, shrilly. Made. moiselle Agla& ~, shriller still; venoz done parlor 4 008 moo- Siours! Mademoiselle Agla~ was a large-eyed, coffee-hued young person; with a waist of eighteen inches; with green ribbons coquettishly set in glossy, black hairDoras work-woman, ladys maid, and (onfidante, at thirty sous a day. She came forward with the grimace, that among Frenchwomen of her class passes for a smile, awl a little reverence to the Squire. Alaclamo Laurent cot d~sol5o Jionsiour et Aladamo, mais, K2lfais we are going in to see her, said Mr. Hilliard, marching straight past Mademoiselle Agla~, and knocking at the first door he saw with the head of his umbrella. Dora, my dear, in his loud, cheery voice. Dora, still louder, weve travelled all the way from Kent to pay you a morning visit, and we mean to come in whether youre visible or desolate or not. STEVEN LAWHENCE, YEOMAN. 219 And now Agla~ and the mzenad beheld a sight such as their black eyes never beheld before: Madame, in her not too dainty dressing-go ~vn; Madame, her hair in pins, slippered, unrouged, suddenly visible, and throwing her arms round the necks, first of one then the other of these untimely English visitors. Dear Uncle FrankKate, and you never wrote to tell me! Aglc5, cest ma cowsine, ma scear. Viens done voir si lJiliademoisclle est gentille! Steven hasnt been gone ten minutes, you must have passed him close to the house. We have very little room, Uncle Frank, running before them into the salon; our apartment is a modest one, a nut-shell, and Im obliged to do my needle-work in the drawing-room, but I think I can find you a chair. The Squire seated himself gingerly on the edge of one of the crimson-velvet arm-chairsfrom which Dora had first to sweep away a whole avalanche of fineryand looked about the room in a sort of wonder. Patterns and womens work-tools, and a toilette glass on the table; shreds and ribbons on the floor; oceans of bil- lowy-white blonde and muslin everywhere. And is this your sitting room? he cried. And do you mean to tell me you find room for that big husband of yours among all this stock of tool? Have you set up a milliners shop, Mrs. Dora, or what? Dora, her arm round Katharines waist, answered that she had not set up a milliners shopthough no one, alas! as Uncle Frank knew, could be better suited to do so than herself. She had made a good many kind friends in Paris, fortunately for her! and her friends asked her out sometimes, and such modest toilettes as she required (the Squire thought of the bills that had been sent to him for Mrs. Lawrences wedding outfit) she prepared herself. Steven was so seldom at home, and there was so little light on the other side of the house, that she was glad to use, the drawing- room to work in of a inornino And are you getting stronger, Dot, said Katharine, looking down steadily at her cousins face. You are thin, I am nfrnid. You dont look as if the air of Paris had done you all the good we expected. I shall be better, now- you have come, cried Dot affectionately. Iwell, in spite of the kindness of my friends, I must confess I have felt a very little lonely of late! Where are you staying? Hotel Rivolinh, how delightful! we can see each other all day long. I have a carriage by the monthyes, Uncle Frank, it does sound extravagant, but, as I said to Steven, surely it is better to pay the stable keeper than the physician !and I can take you about, dear Kate, and show you Paris. I know a grent many people. I can get you invitations for every night of your life if you choose. Katharine hesitated and looked down at the floor. The Squire 220 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. spoke out boldly. We have not come to Paris for ball-going, Dot, thank you, andand we hhve heard already that you have a numerous acquaintance. Tis to be hoped you look well into the character of your friends, he added; for Mr. ililliard was a man who seldom beat long about the bush in anything he had got to say. English people dont live about on the Continent, as a rule, unless they have very good reasons for not stopping at home, and you know you are fond of pleasure, and if Lawrence, as we hear, does not go with you? The Squire shook his head and looked altogether as though he had very poor opinion of the results to which little Mrs. Doras Parisian friends and their entertainments were likely to lead. Dot shot a keen glance, first at the Squires face, then at Katha- rine s. What had they heard? What was the meaning of this sud- den flight to Paris in the middle of the hunting season? Were they here as Stevens allies, or hers? Was her chance of wearing the blue and silver heightened, in fine, or lessened by their advent? I know the nicest people in Paris, Uncle Frank. You cannot have heard a word against any friend of mine. Miss Longyou remember my bridesmaid, Grizelda Long? well, she introduced inc to dear little Lady 13., and through her a great ninny people have called on me, and And Lawrence, interrupted the Squire. Are his friends the nicest people in Paris, too? You will put that question to him, please, said Dot, drop- ping her eyelids. I can tell you nothing whatever about Stevens friends. He is out all day. I scarcely see him except at meals. Well, said the Squire, looking around him anew, if you have as many yards of muslin about always as you have to-day, I shouldnt say there was much room for him at home. What time is it now? Half-past eleven. You have become very fashionable in your hours, Dotgot into the detestable French habit of dress- in~-~owns, too? A young wife like you ought to be as neat and fresh when she sits down to breakfast with her husband as at any other hour of the day. What do you say, Kate? That evel-y one knows their own failings bestdont you Kate? interposed Mrs. Lawrence. If~ I was strong I would be up with the larkout in the fresh air every morning of my life but Im not strono~ an opportune short, hollow cough interrupted her. I can take nothing till eleven, and then only a cup of choc- olate, and Steven, poor fellow has such an appetite! So its better for each of us to keep to our own hours. I assure you I manage our housekeeping very economically. The old ereatum-e who let you in constitutes our whole establishment, and even her I dont 1)oard, and our dinner is sent from a restaurant, andand we have only two meals a day! added Dot pathetically. STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN 22~ ~ And, it you have a grain of sense between you, will be thank- ful to get back to your own comfoitable home, said the Squire, rising to his feet. The air of this room isnt fit for human lungs, Dora I dont like your looks at all, and I shall tell your husband so. You have had quite enough of Paris, in ray opinion, and had much better give up a little of your town and come back with Kate and me whoa we go? A flush of color caine over Dots face. II should be ready to go to-morrow, she cried, as far as I am concerned. As for Steven Oh, leave Steven to me, said Mr. Hilliard. Ill never believe that Lawrence has got so fond of town life as to want to stay, with you ready to return. Where is he likely to he found? I might stroll out and take a look after him, while you two girls have your talk together about dressmiiakers and furbelows. Kate must stop with me for the day, cried Mrs. Lawrence, ~)ossessing herself of Katharines hand. I shall give up all other engagements now that she has come. Leave her with me, dear Uncle Frank, and dont expect to see anything more of her till six oclock at the earliest. And where shall I find Lawrence? at Galignanis, or where. Ii never heard of Steven~ s going to Galignanis, cried Dot, her eyelids lowered again. If I speak the truth, I have not the slight- est idea where to tell you to look for him. So the Squire went out, to while away the time as best lie might by watching such carriages and horses as at this hour of the day were to be seen; comparing them with tranquil satisfaction in his minds eye with the horses and carriages in London: and Katharine and Stevens wife were left alone to have their talk about fashions and furbelows. Dear Katharine! cried Dot, throwing her arms round her cousin when Mr. Iiilliard had gone. You could not have come at a more welcome time. I have so much to tell youmy heart is so full (Agla~, Agla~, viens done, cried Mrs. Lawrence in her volu- ble French. Take the grenadine into my roomthere is light enough close under the windowand finish the fluting, thysell not a hairs breadth deeper than I have marked, my daughter, and the blonde just to show on the top). I beg your pardon, Kate, dear, but Im obliged to make my dresses at home, and this poor, faithful girl is invaluable to me. Oh Kate! Kate! what an empty farce life seems at times! Whatwhat are blondes and laces with a sick and aching heart? She threw herself down wearily on the same chair where Steven had sat when lie looked at M. Valentins sketch; the torn shreds of paper close beside her on the table; and seemed likely to weep. And all Miss Fanes sympathies froze on the spot. Honest, goner- 222 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. ous though she was by nature, Katharine, at this moment, was a woman prepared to sit in judgment upon a faulty sister; and the rice-powdered check, the hair-pinned head, the tawdry apartment, the eagerness about blondes and fluting, were all taken by her at truest valuation. Valuation, I need scarcely say, wholly unfavor- able to any impending scene of contrition or sentiment. It life seems a farce, its because we make it one, she said bluntly. You and I, and the rest of us, Dora. If you are really suffering, really sick at heart, why go to these parties? Why labor, above all, at the rehearsal, if acting in the play itself gives you no pleasure? Because one never finds the exact point at which to stop, because one thinks every day will bring something better worth living fo 1 than the last; because . . . oh, Kate, dont lecture me! Uncle Frank has done that. If you kne~v all you would pity inc much more than you would blame me. I blame no one, and I do pity youyou, and Steven still more, cried Katharine, in the life that you are leading. Dot, by-the- by, how is it you have never mentioned Mr. Clarendon Whyte in any of your letters to me? Mrs. Lawrence stooped her face down over the little heap of torn paper upon the table. The action naturally enough brought some- thing of color into her white cheeks. Did I not mention Mi. Clarendon Whyte? I can hardly think thatIm sure I meet him often cnou~h! Unless I had mentioned him how did you know he was in Paris? I have heard of his being here from two different sources, said Katharine, severely. I have also heardbut that I wont believe until you tell me it is sothat he is seen a great deal too often at Mrs. Lawrences side. Dot burst into a somewhat forced laugh. My poor, dear Kath- anne! What airs of tragedy do we all give ourselves to-day! First Uncle Frank (no, first the master of the houseI must tell another time about the scene we have had), then me, then you. Mr. Whyte seen too often at Mrs. Lawrences side! Kate, you know me pretty well. Was I, in my most foolish days, a person to be unduly carried away by sentiment. Now that I am married, am I likely, any more than Mrs. DeringI can say nothing stronger to compromise myself or my husband, because Mr. Clarendoi~ Whyte happens to wear excellent clothes, and happens to be ai~ excellent waltzer? Compromise, no; but But allow poor Mr. Whyte to take inc to and from my car~ riage, and give me bouquets, for which he has my spare dances ilj return, and do commissions for me, and escort me and my friend~ STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. to the theatre when my husband is too lazy to go? Certainly, Katharine, dear, I do allow all this. Why not? The one genuine gift with which nature ha~I endowed Dot was the gift of mimicry. She had made her little speech, her self-de- fence, in Mrs. Derings voice, with Mrs. Derings elevation of eye- browconcluding with the half-yawn wherewith Mrs. Dering was wont to dismiss any subject of thorough insignificance. In spite of herseW Katharine was obliged to laugh. Arabella has been a great deal longer man-ic d, a great deal more in the world than you, Dot, and beside General Dering is in a very different position from Steven Law- rence of Asheot, and so his wife may allow herself greater free- dom of action. Is that it, Kate? To a certain extent, yes. In the early days of h~r marriage Arabella lived much more quietly than she does now, and certainly never went out without her husband. And Steven is not General Dering, nor Paris London! cried Katharine, with more energy than logic; nnd I think Gnizelda Long a bad companion for you, and Clarendon Whyte a worse, and you shall give up the remainder of your termPapa is quite right, what good is Paris doing you? and come back home when we do. Yes, Dot, I say you shall. Something admirably like tears made Doras eyes soften. IC Steven would speak like that! If Steven would show genuim, affectionate interest in me, what a different woman I should be! But he does not. Then dont tell me anything about it, cried Katha- rine, stoutly. I would rather not hear one word from you against your husband, please; I cantI will never believe that it is by Stevens wish you lead this wretched life apart that you are now demo- Dora bent down her face once more, and carefully collected to- gether every minutest morsel of M. Valentins sketch. Kate, she said, after a minute, fitting in piece after piece, like a dissecting puz- zle, as she spoke. Your friendship for Steven, much as I admire it, should not, I think, make you unjust to Stevens wife. We do lead a life aparta wretched life, if you choose, for bride and bridegroom of yesterdayand why? Steven never cared for town amusements, the habits of a town life. When you first wrote you used to tell me how much enjoy- ment he used to get out of the parties to which you took him. Exactly. He took no more enjoyment out of parties than I uid out of the lonely Asheot days, when I sat listening to the kitchen clock, and he hunted. Still I bore those days, remember! It was Steven who separated himself from me, not I from him. Miss Fane colored, and was silent. Yes, I bore those wretched days, went on Dot, and Steven, 223 221 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. for the very short time I required such a sacrifice of him, might have borne with my balls and partiesmy frivolities, call theni what name you like! lie has not done so. I-Jo has chosen to let me go into the world by myself; has chosen his own associates, his own life. Whatever you, Katharine Pane, may think, the world has formed a pretty definite opinion as to which has the most grounds for complaintSteven or I. And how do you knoxv what the world says? cried Katharine, warmly. Is there a man or woman living whom you would suf- fer to talk to you about your husbands demerits? My dear Kate, I am not romantic! Always remember that I am not romantic, and am quite capable of looking at my husbands conduct without bias. TIe married menot for love !and in the very first days of our marriage we lived a life apart. Do you mc- member my telling you how I would watch him in Paris before we had been married a weekwatch him and feel that if he once broke loose he was a man to commit any act of desperation or fblly imaginable? Well, he has broken loose, voild. He has broken loose, and a woman who has lived as many years as I have doesnt need to be told what must be thought of him by the world. Stay a few days in Paristalk to your friend George Gordonof all men the last to be prejudiced in my favorand see if you will de- fend Steven so enthusiastically then. I dont defend him! said Katharine. I defend no oneI only say I am certain Steven is not to blame And that I am? interrupted Dot. A la bomric heare, Kath- arine. Some day, if I come to worse trouble than now, dont defend me as you dont defend Steven ; that is all. I shall try always to be just, said Katharine, inflexibly. It was by your wish that Steven caine to Pails. It was by your wish, even according to your own accounts, that you first forced him to balls and parties And it is by my wish that Steven livesshows himself openly to the worldat Mademoiselle Barrys side, said Dora, playing out this, her winning card, with great emphasis. Well, as you choose. What use is there for me to contradict you? Atat Mademoiselle Barrys side? stammered Katharine. Who is Mademoiselle Barry? I dont understandI never heard You never heard! I never told you that Steven had found amusements, found acquaintance of his own? I heard he played too high at cards, said poor Katharine, in an altered voice; that he was among a dangerous set of menit was a little for this that we came to ParisI may tell you now, Dora! Papa thought it would be well for him to speak to Steven himself speak to him and save him, if there was time, from still STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 225 further folly. Save Steven from folly. These good, simple peo- ple had come on no other errand, then, than this! What a load seemed lifted from little Mrs. Lawrences spirit! She saw herself in the azure and silver (Steven, by some adroit coup de maim, conjured away out of Paris) before a crowd of two hundred admiring spec- tators yet! Dont look so desperately concerned, niy dear. Ot course, I know such things happen daily in the worldthat a wife would be only laughed at for taking her husbands neglect too deeply to heart. If Steven observed the 14cm s& tnces I would be silent, but for him to be seen in picture galleries, in the public walks, at theatresthe theatres he wont go to with me! in the society of such peopleit is too much, too much ! cried Dot, shaking her little head, and looking pathetically indignant. And who is Mademoiselle Barry? asked Katharine, present- ly, and with trembling lips. Mademoiselle Barry is the daughter of M. Dermot Barry an Irish gentleman living upon his witsand is precisely the most dangerous kind of woman imaginable for a man as simple as Steven to fall in with. I know the whole story of his acquaint- ance with her; he has told it me himselg poor fellow! Dot never strayed further than she could actually help from the truth; an acquaintance made without introduction in the Luxembourg gar- dens, the father at her side, and beginning with talk about pic- tures and palaces, and the French Revolution, and I know not what besidefor Mademoiselle Barrys strong point, I must tell y on, is intellect. Oh! ~o on, go on! cried Katharine, if; indeed, it is a his- tory that you should tell, or I listen to. It is a history you must listen to if you mean to stay a week in Paris, said Mrs. Lawrence, calmly; and few people, I fancy, will tell it you in language so favorable to Steven as I shall. I dont, I cannot, believe him to be more than infatuated for the moment, as I told him to-dayalas! as I told him not an hour be- fore y on came! He is fond, as we knew long ago, of play, and he has as much play as he chooses, without the trouble of white gloves and evening dress, at the the Barrys house; and then, can it be otherwise, Kate? his vanity is flattered by Mademoiselle Barrys manifest preference for himself. She is clever, no doubt, and sympcdkiq~te (the wife or daughter of a man like Mr. Barry is sure to be sympathique), and her present rdlc is just the one to touch the heart of poor, honest Steven; delicate health, draws of an evening for moneyMr. Barry at her elbow making his hun- dreds and hundreds at lansquenetspends her life in dreaming among picture galleries - . . and in improving the mind of any unusually foolish victim of her fathers, Steven Lawrence at the present moment! upon whose arm she may chance to lean. 226 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. Is she pretty? was all Katharine could ask; then broke down. No, and yes, answered Dot. I have not seen her close, so I go by what Steven himself tells me. Mademoiselle, according to his account, possesses no regularity of feature; only a pair of dark gray eyes, a fragile white hand, an exquisite voicewhy do I)lain women always have fragile white hands and exquisite voices, I wonder? only possesses, to use his own words, a beauty higher and better than all the classical upper lips and rose-leaf com- plexions in the world. That his infatuation will be cured the moment we can get him out of Paris, I do not doubt! cried Dot warming to the part she was enacting, any more than I doubt that his infatuation exists. My dear Katharine, he is never axvay from the Barrys, morning, noon, or night, and in saying this I think I say enough. Now, does the whole fault of our estrange- ment rest with me or not? Forgive me, Dot, forgive me! and coming over to Mrs. Law- rence s side, Katharine caught her hand and pressed it with sud- den warmth to her own. Never fear I will say a harsh word to younever fear I will take Steven Lawrences part again I hat~e douc with him! cried Miss Fane; an expression such as they had never worn before gathering round her lips. And I think, please, we will speak on this subject no more. Only one thing, Kateyou cnn understand how even frivolous pleasures, even attentions of a man like Clarendon Whyte have seemed welcome to me? I can understand everything, answered Kathari~ while tears were they all of pity for Dot ?rose slowly in her eyes. Then she stooped and kissed Mrs. Lawrence with a kiss whose power Dots soul was, fortunately, too shallow to seek to analyze. In these five minutes Stevens warmest friend had defaulted, heart and soul, to the enemy. CHAPTER XL. OX TIlE BRINK OF AVERNUS. Buy the Squire never went over to the enemy at all. Katharine spent the whole remainder of the day with Mrs. Lawrence: waited in the small, close salon, while Mademoiselle Agla~ aided in her mistresss noonday transformation; received Mr. Clarendon Whyte with a friendliness she had never shown to him before, when, at three oclock, that resistless hero came in to receive the daily in- cense upon which his vanity lived; drove with Dora in the Champs Elys& s, and again endured Mr. Whyte, and Mr. Whytes conver- sation, for another hour later on in the afternoon and I am glad STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 22? to say, I know that every word which has been spoken against Dora is mere heartless, idle talk, she told her step-father when they were sitting alone together in the evening. I am ashamed to think, Papa, that I ever listened to a single breath against her. She seems to know some of the nicest people in Paris, and, of course, is admired, and receives attentionpoor Dot! Wherever the fault lies, went on Katharine, with cruel emphasis, for very certain it is not hers. Indeed, I think few women in poor Dots position would bear up one h4f as well as she does! And she sighed. I dont know aaything about bearing up, said the Squire, and I dont understand womens dresses. But it struck me, when I saw you driving together to-day, that Dot had not at all the look of a modest Enghsh wife about herand the room where we called this morning was enough to set any man against staying at home. X\Then I have had a talk with Lawrence, we shall know better what he is about, but Ill not jndge him unheard. If Mrs. Dora left her face as God made it, and went afoot instead of in that ridiculous sham-private broughain, I would he more ready to listen to her coin- plaints against her hush and. And the next morning, at an hour when Dot, as usual, was still sleeping off the effects of the nights dissipation, Mr. Hilhiard came hack, well-pleased and rosy after his early walk into the drawing- room at the Hotel Rivoli; where Katharine, fresh and simply dressed as only an English woman knows how to be at nine in the morn- ingwas waiting to pour out his tea. Well, Kate, Ive seen the culprit and had it out with him! I called there early, and found him at his breakfasta cup of ill-look- ing coffee, ~et on one corner of the table, with that witch for his attendantand we went out together for a walk. Your friend, whoever lie was, seems to have written you very exaggerated ac- counts. Its all right, Kate my love, as far as Lawrence is con- cerned. I am glad you think so, Papa, said Katharine stiffly. Think? it is not a matter of thinking, but of figures, answered the Squire. Two or three more lumps of sugar, if you please, my dear. This French beet-root stuff doesnt sweeten a bit. I asked Lawrence frankly what he was doingtold him I heard he had been burning his fingers, and the rest of itand lie assures me, on his word, that five-and-twenty-pounds would very nearly cover his losses. Oh, it isnt the money alone, said Katharine, holding down her face. Steven Lawrenceno married manhas the right to asso- ciate with such people at all! Kate, my dear, answered Mr. Hilliard, excuse me for telling you that you are talking very great nonsense. Steven Lawrence is a young man, fond, as we know, even at Asheot, of a bit of play 228 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. when he comes across it. Do you expect, when Dora is off to her balls, that he ~vill sit downamong the Inhllineryand read an un- prOving book, or play cribbage with the witch, or what? I think he should respect himself and his wife! cried Katha- rine, angry-eyed; and I dontno Papa, I dont think it a subject for jesting. If Steven Lawrence does not choose to go with his wife into societydecent society! he should at least not outrage her by exhibiting himself with the vile associates to whom he has sunk. E~hibiting himself? Vile associates, cried the Squire, look- ing up from his broiled chicken. Kate, child, keep your indigna- tion for the things you understand. Give your cousin good advice about her dressshe wants it bad enoughand leave Steven alone. If the poor fellow cali get hold of this M. Barry, or any other Eng- lishman, to walk about with, its very natural he should do so, sooner than walk alone. And as to vileness ! if they had been very vile he would have lost more than five-and-twenty pounds by this time, you may be sure. You think of nothing but moneymoney, said Katharine, as if that mattered!~ It matters a great deal to me, answered the Squire. If Steven had made a fool of hiniself my pockets, sooner or later, would have had to pay for it. But, with all his simplicity, the lad is not so ignorant of the world as you would think. He saw a good deal of sharp practice when he was a youth in California; keeps his eyes open, from what he tells me, even on this Monsieur Barry and his friends. Suspects them, yet stoops to be their associate still! interrupt- ed Miss Fane, with cold contempt. Well, as to suspecting, said the Squire, no man of sense ever sits clown to play cards with strangers, without suspecting that his own interest is what it behooves him to watch. You are a trifle unjust it seems to me, Katelike all women, must be a par- tisan, not a friend. Lawrence has found amusements of hi~ own (has spent less on them, probably, than ninety-nine men out of a hun- dred of his age would have done), and because this dont exactly please his wife, and you, through his wife, he is to be called bad names. Katharine remained trifling, nervously, for a minute or two with her teaspoon. Papa, she cried, at last, abruptly, dQ you know every word coming from her lips with an effort that there isa Miss Barry? A Miss Barry! repeated the Squire, still with thorough good humor; well, I hadnt heard of her beforebut what if there is? What does it matter to us if there are half a dezen Miss Barrys? STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 229 Oh, Papa! but Steven walks about the streets of Paris, goes to the theatre with this persona person no one visitsthe daughter of a man like Mr. Barry! My dear Kathariue, said the Squire, just take my advice, and dont listen to any ridiculous, jealous fancies that Dora chooses to take up about her husband. What do you know worse about Miss Barry than about Mrs. Lawrences ladies and honorables? Twas her doing, dragging Lawrence away from the place where he was safe and happyhis own farmand the ball-going, and the hired brougham, and all the rest of the expense has been her doing. Lawrence has played a few games of lansquenethas lost alto~ether something under thirty poundsand, as far as I can see (as you are so perfectly satisfied regarding your cousin) we might very well have saved ourselves our journey to Paris. Still, as we have come, well see all there is to be seen, and then take Dot home with usif we can. I wish I had as good an opinion of her and of her integ- rity, added Mr. Hilliard, as I have of her husband. But Katharine was relentless in her judgments against Steven; relentless, bitter, to an extent that a keener judge of human nature than the Squire might have held to savor rather of jealousy than of the calm and temperate displeasure of reasonable friendship. Deni Kate, in short, thinks quite as I do about your intimacy with these people, Dot tells her husband, with triumph, on the first Oppor- tunity she can find: and, I should think my actions must be a mat- ter of most thorough indifference now and always to Miss Fane! is Stevens answer, as he turns shortly away. And so wben these two meet, Dot finds, not without satisfaction, that they talk a few com- mon-places about Paris, about the weather; part with a cold shake of the hand; and after this first meeting see, and seek to see, each other no more. The ten days for which the Squire had leave of absence passed on; and Dora and Katharine, as far as day-light hours went, were always together. While she lives, Katharine believes that she must remember with remorse and shame that miserable time in Paris The companionship that she put up with of Mr. Clarendon Whyte, and of his peers; the fatuous frivolity upon which she forced her- self to smile; the dressing, the driving, the whirl of outward amusement where her heart was not, and across which Stevens re- proachful face came upon her, ever and anon, like a ghosts! Can any future, can any expiation atone, she asks herselg for the igno- minious rdlc she filled, the share she bore in hastening the oncoming evil; in smoothing the already too smooth downward road alon~ which Doras feet were progressing? So have most of us felt (poor actors, blindly acting our little parts!) when, the performance over, the lights burnt out, gray morning breaking coldly has shown us a dismantled stagea stage of lath and plasterhow different 15 :230 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. from what it looked when we strutted thereour own passions for audienceamid the fever and excitement of the play. Dora, all this time in capital spirits, is conscious of no darker on- cornino- eVil than the day on which she shall, perforce, bid Paris good-by ; of no steeper, down-hill road than that gentle declivity along which she returns daily from her drive in the l3ois. Katha- rine and the Squire have settled to remain until the eleventh, just long enough to see Lord Petres on his return to Paris; the masquer- ade of Lady Sarah Adair is to be on the ninth. How if Steven poor, honest follow !could be brought to see the wisdom of going homesay about the seventhjust to get Asheot ready fbr her, and she return, two or three days later, under the sober chaperon- age of Uncle Frank? Over this possibility Dot only broods; be- lieving silence, at the present juncture of things, her highest wis- dom. But, meantime, Monsieur Valentins sketch has been repaired, patiently, accurately, as ever Madonna of Raphaels was repaired by reverential fingers. And Mademoiselle Agl~ ~ is taking it for her model in the manufacture of a blue and silver dress over which she and Madame cogitate night and day, with stealthy eager- ness. And among the intimate friends of Mrs. LawrenceGrizelda Long and Clarendon Whyte includedthere exists very small fear ns to the train-bearer of Marie de Medicis being found wanting at the last. Thus, then, they stnnd: Dot wearing six delightfully-expensive costumes per day, with hair, complexio~i, cut of dress, views of human responsibility, all up to the last mark of the Second Empire; Katharine Fane, heavy in spirit, but acquiescent, at her side; Mr. Clarendon XVhyteperfumed locks, as usual, well-set around the brainless head, feebly planning as much evil as he knows how to compassher shadow. Poor, honest Steven, loitering, downcast, by Mademoiselle Barrys side through picture galleries of a morn- ing, losing more or less of money every night; chafing, wearying, with impatient henrt, under it all. Thus the drconatis pCrSOUJ3 stand; in readiness for the curtain to rise upon the inevitable last act. The two who possess stout human hearts and capable human brains despondent, ill at rest; Mr. Clarendon Whyte and Dot, quite untroubled in their butterfly consciences, as they dance and flutter, and admire the brilliancy of each others plumes, upon the brink of Avernus. CHAPTER XLI. PROGRESS OF THE SILVER AND BLUE. A WELCOME respitethe solitary change Katharine ever got from Mrs. Lawrence and Mrs. Lawrences associateswas during the forenoona time of day when she and the Squire were free to STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 231 run about Paris after their own fashion, untroubled by the dress and talk and the thousand-and-one monotonous frivolities of butter- fly Champs Elys~es life. Their only companion during these early walks was George Gordon, the old dandy who had first awakened Stevens jealousy at the opera, and whose friendship, in the present sick state of Katharines heart, was more than ever welcome to her. George Gordon talked on none of the themes to which, among Mr. Clarendon Whyte and his fellows, she was forced, silently-indignant, to listen. With George Gordon she could feel once more that she was with a man, her equal, not a popinjay. George Gordon belonged, too, to the pastthe girlish untroubled past, when she had believed herself to be happy in her engagement, and when all the realities of life, the passionate pain, the restless fever of the last miserable months were as yet un- known. With George Gordon, the Squire trotting on contentedly in front, Katharine could linger through the picture galleries and churches, or walk along through the crisp sunny morning air and almost forget that she was in Parisalmost forget that Steven was at Mademoiselle Barrys side and that she had not so much as the right to mourn over his lost allegiance One rainy morning, the clay on which Lord Petres was expected to return ,Mr. Hilliardsick to death, in reality, of Paris and of sight-seeingdeclared his intention of remaining at home by the fire to nurse his rheumatism; and Katharine and George Gordon went off alone to spend the forenoon, for the last time, among the pictures at the Louvre. I hope Papa means to get better by this eveaino said Katharine, as they were sitting in her favorite rest- ing- place midway down the French galleryfor Katharine, I must confess, had no more appreciation of high art than Steven himself preferred, and owned she preferred, Greuze to either Michael Angelo or Titian. If he is not, you must be ~my chaperon, Cap- tain Gordon. We have got a box at the Ch~telct, and, as it will be almost my last Paris dissipation, I should be sorry to have to stay at home. She was looking paler, more spiritless, even, than usual this morning; and George Gordon scrutinized her face steadily. The thing they are playing at the Ch~itelet is Cendrillon still. Nothing whatever to see in it but firexxorks, upholstery and milliners work, with a hundred or a hundred and fifty exceptionably ugly French women dressed as fairies. If Mr. Hilliards rheumatism gets worse, I can assure you you may congratulate yourself on being allowed to stop quietly at home. But upholstery and milliners work are what we like, said Katharine, or, at least, what Dora Lawrence likes. She has seen Cendrillon twice before, and tells inc it is the most beautiful thing that was ever put on the stage. 232 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN Dora Lawrencebut if you go with her you will want neither Mr. Hilliard nor me, said George Gordon. Mrs. Lawrence will chaperon youfor myseli; I am, really and truly, engaged to dine with Petres, if he arrives. Mrs. Lawrence! oh, I never look upon poor little Dot in the light of a chaperon, said Katharine. Most people, she added, with rather a faint smile, would not be as anxious to decline the offer as you are, Captain Gordon. Captain Gordon remained silent and meditative for more than a minute. Miss Fane, he said then, if I speak to you like an old friendIve a right to do so, mind, in virtue of my great age and the length of time I have known you, and Petres, tooI wonder whether you will forgive me? Katharines eyes sank abashed. Instinctively she felt that some mention of Steven, and of Stevens iniquities, was coming. You know quite well I will not be offended, she said. You know I shall be always ready to hear whatever you think fIt to tell me. Well, then, I will say it in three words. We have never spoken yet about the letter I wrote you; Im afraid what I was forced to say in it gave you pain? It gave me infinite pain, answered Katharine, without lifting her eyes from the ground. And your coming to Paris wasa little, perhaps, the result of what you heard. So much I have guessed. Well Oh, dont hesitate, cried Katharine. Tell me in three words, please, as you promised. Well, its a pity you should be seen so much with Mrs. Law- rence, then, said George Gordon, point blank. A great pity. I ought to have had the courage to tell you so long ago. And now Katharine did look up; her face all aglow with indig- nant surprise. A pity I should be seen with Mrs. Lawrence with my cousin? You are prejudiced. You never in your heart liked little Dot, or you would not speak like this. I believe I am the least prejudiced man living, said George Gordon, in his gentle voice. Still, I do hold it a pity that you should help, or seem to help on the intimacy between your cousin and a man like Clarendon Whyte. These things happen every day, of course. Mrs. Lawrence is a very pretty little woman, and very nice little womanI have not a word to say against herand her husband, like a man of sense, reconciles himself to his position. What I do say is, that tis a pity Katharine Fanes name should be mentioned in connection with the Lawrence household. If Petres was in Paris he would tell you the same. There are a few womenjust a very fewin the world, whose names deserve never to be so much as breathed upon, and I hold you to be one of them, you know. STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 233 Arid I hold that the world is a cruel and an unjust world! exclaimed Katharine. You have spoken plainly, so will I. Your letter was the cause that brought us to Paris, and we found found But her voice broke down, died, when she would have forced it to speak a condemning word of Steven! You found Mrs. Lawrence enjoying herself immensely, engaged to three balls a night, half the young men in Paris wild about her, Mr. Clarendon Whyte her inseperable companion, and resolved I found ray cousin less happy than I would have liked to find her in her own home, interrupted Katharine, coldly; and I in- tend to be seen with her, to be intimate with her, always. Let the world say its worstI can bear it I What does the world know of the sorrows we women have to endure silently, in our own hearts? Dora is like ~ childas fond of pretty dresses and dancing as a girl of fifteen. Her life when she returns to England will have few enough pleasures in it, poor little thing! and I am gladyes, Captain Gordon, gladto see her make the most of any poor amusement that she can get now. She needs something more than her own home can give her, heaven knows! And even while she says this with flushing cheeks, with kindling eyes, in her inmost heart Katharine knew every word she utters is uttered against her own conscience, and stops short. And why (more than all other women, that is to say) does Mrs. Lawrence need amusement that her own home cannot give her? George Gordon asked. Dont be angry with methis is the last disagreable thing I shall say, but whyfor you are always logical, Miss Fanewhy, married to so good a fellow as LawrencePetres told me all about himis your cousin to be so deeply pitied? I think you spoke of Steven Lawrence in a very different strain when you wrote to me, cried Katharine, reddening. Pray is he going through his apprenticeship to lausquenet and baccarat still? The subjects of each others failings is one on which I will allow men have fullest right always to he heard. But of Steven Captain Gordon could tell no more than he had already told in his letter. Mrs. Lawrence, the beautiful lit- tle Mrs. Lawrence, la B& ~ Anglaise, as she was called, gilded Parisian youth fixing on the same name for her that she had gone by, sixteen years before, in the Fauhourg St. Marce~ u was a theme upon which half the clubs of Paris talkedin a certain strain. The companions, the actions, the existence of the B~b~s husband were details, naturally, of supremest unimportance to every one. Captain Gordon had heard accidentally that Steven Lawrence spent his time among a set of men where, sooner or later, spoliation was certain; but what of this? Most men had to pay pretty dearly for their first introduction to Parisian play. It might be a good thing for a simple kind of fellow like Dora Law- 234 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. rence s husband to be well fleeced nowwould teach him, at least, the wisdom of playing with men of whose character he knew something, for the remainder of his life. If Dora Lawrences husband was only the simple kind of fel- low that you think! cried Katharine. Unfortunately, he is not, and for a man such as Steven Lawrence is, I would not have much faith in any good that was to be attained through evil. But come away, she interrupted herself hastily, and let us look at the pictures far pleasanter spectacle than the lives of men or women living in the actual world! It was right of you, no doubt, to say what you did, and Imust just do all I can to take care of poor little Dot now. We have each of its our own burden to carry, you knowour own burdens ! And, with a wearier look than hefore upon her face, she rose, and, putting her hand under George Gordons arm, walked away silently at his side down tte gallery. Gre uze and Watteau, as usual, were the favorites with the great crowd of patient female copyists in the Louvre. Almost with a feeling of envy, Katharine looked at these women as she walked along. That brisk-eyed, gray-haired old Frenchwomen enamelling the c~uche C~ass~e on porcelain, with such Chinese fidelity of touch; that slim young girl standing in her linen blouse before the easel, where the exquisite faces of the cottage bride and her sister were growing into life under her l)rush. How peaceful the exist- ence of these artist-women must be, shut away in this quiet gallery from the glare and noise and trouble of the outer world ! What care could they know, save over the drying of paint or varnish? what dcspair hut the momentary nrtist despair of emulating some turn of lip or eyebrow in their models? And, even as she thought this, the girl whom she was watching looked round (showing a free with beauty beyond that of line or coloring on the delicate broad forehead, the mobile, sensitive lips), and Katharine saw, with smtd- den start, a tall tunas figure upon her other side. It was Steven, and this was Mademoiselle Barry. No need for Katharine Fane to be told her name! This woman, whom a moment ago she had ig- norantly enviedthis girl-artist, shut out fromn tlte noise ond tron- ble of the outer world, was Mr. Barrys daughter, the clever ad- venturess, who was educating Stevenholding captive, not his senses alone, but his intelligence, as site, witlt her shallow gift of beauty, had not done in the fairest days of their short-lived friend- ship! Mr. Barry was witlt them, of courseno mother was ever more scrupulously watchful than this Irish a4venturer over his girl but him Katharine never saw. With her hand presscd closer on her companions arm she walked quickly by, giving a cold half- bow to Doras husband as she passed; then, turning to George Gordon, began to smile and whisper with him, just as she had done STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 235 that night when the poor backwoodsman had learned his first bit- ter lesson in civilization at the opera. That was Steven Lawrence himselfdont you remember see- ing him in our box at Covent Garden before he was engaged to Dot ? He has such singular acquaintance that I never know whether I ought to speak to him or not. If it had not been for theperson who was painting, I would have liked to take one last look at the village sisters before bidding them good-by. And she turnedmet Stevens eyes looking after her with the look she knew so welland felt, with sudden repentant revulsion, that all his misdeeds were condoned on the spot! Must not any man of sober sense choose to spend his time thus, rather than amid the parade and glitter, the dressing and driving of the Champs Elys6es? Might not Steven Lawrence find greater profit in Mademoiselle Barrys society than in that of Grizelda Long and Clarendon Whyte, yet be guiltless of infidelity to Dora? If she, Katharine, held out her hand, could she not at this moment save him from the Barrysfrom every dangerous influence in the world? And was it not a duty (quick as thought, itselg came this impulse, now that she had seen the enemy face to face) that she should at least make an effort toward his salvation? Pride, doubtless, for- bade that she should stoop so far; but what mattered pride. This Moloch before whom she had already sacrificed so muehthis Moloch, but for whose senseless worship she might now, instead of looking forward to a starved, a barren future, be leading the whole- some country life for which nature had fitted her? Her hands full of work, her heart of lovefinding pleasure, not in Parisian tol- lettes, but in the seed-time and the harvest; the Summers blos- soming and the Autumns fading; in all the commonest, sweetest joys of human life ; and with the man who loved her, whRse char- acter, whatever it lacked of outward polish or fine breeding, suited hers so utterly, at her side She walked through the remainder of the Louvre and home to the hotel Rivoli in silence, that must have offended any man less devoid of personal vanity than George Gordon. Thenthe Squire still happy over his rheumatismstarted to pay her daily visit to Dora. I have been thinking all this time what you told me, she said, as Captain Gordon was leaving her at the door of the Lawrences apartmentthe m~nad having signified, after slight hesitation, that Madame might be visible for Mademoiselle. So you must not wonder at my being such a stupid companion. V you see Lord Petres this evening say I wish very much to speak to him; also with a tremble of the lip this that I am well, and have been enjoying myself in Paris. Early though it was, Mrs. Lawreaee had already a visitorMiss Grizelda Long. A mass of sky-blue silk, silver cord, and white 236 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. satin, hastily pushed aside on Katharines entrance, was lying be- fore the two women on the table. And now I may go away! cried Grizelda, with playful affectation of jealousy, as Dot jumped up to receive her cousinthe old feeling of mutual repulsion be- tween Katharine and the Phantom had in nowise lessened of late. I suppose, Dora love, we may safely say that everything is set- tIed now? I suppose so, said Dora, brusquely; but if you come to-mor- row morning youll know for certain. Then she followed her friend to the door, exchanged a whisper or two with her at part- ing, and, coming back, seated herself; with a little well-acted yawn of weariness, by Katharine. That good, eager, tiring old Phantom! What a martyr I am to her! What a terribly long eli creatures of her species do take wheu you have once given them an inch? Why didnt Uncle Frank come? Is Lord Petres really expected ? What makes you so early to-day ? Mrs. Lawrence was not thoroughly at her ease, and Katharine noticed it. Papa is laid up with rheumatism, Lord Petres is really expected, and I came early because I have something especial to say to you. What is all this new finery that you and Miss Long were so intent upon? Blue silk and silver, and white satin jacket waistcoatwhat is it? Dora! Is this a costume for the Phantom or for you?~ For neither, cried Dora, promptly; and as she spoke she rose, opeued the door leading to her bedroom, and consigned the whole heap cf millinery into the hands of Mademoiselle Agla~. There is to be a fancy ball, for charity, and Grizelda, who, of course, takes a part in everything, is getting me to help about some of the costumes. It was of this ball she was speaking, with her usual absurd air of mystery, when you came in. Poor dear Gri- zelda! I hope when I shall get to her age I shall have done with all these tiring pomps and vanities! Dot threw herself down again in her arm-chair, and clasped her tiny hands solemnly; Ive had just seven weeks of it all now, and I assure you, honestly, I am tired of my life, and everything in itmyself mostand am quite, quite ready to go back with you and Uncle Frank to England. I am glad to hear yoa say so, said Miss Fane. It was pre- cisely about this I wanted to speak to you. You must come back to England with us, DotI will get Papa to wait another day or two if you chooseand while you are here do try and make Steven go about with you, and dont be seen any more with Mr. Claren- don Whyte. I know from authority I cant doubt that your in- timacy with him isis talked about. Having said which Kath- arine held down her head, and blushed as furiously as if she herself had been guilty. STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 237 NYc discussed all this once before, said Dot, calmly dont think me rude, Kate, I cant help yawning to-dayand I think I told you the exact light in which I regarded Clarendon Whyte, and his friendship! Who is your authority? What can even the most malicious person find to say of me? Why, during the last week, I have never been seen at all except with you. As to making Steven go about with me more Have you tried it? have you done your best to persuade him? cried Katharine, as Mrs. Lawrence hesitated and shook her head wisely. I asked him this morning, Katewoke early on purpose to speak to him before he went outand asked him to go with us to the theatre to-night (I was afraid, from the way Uncle Frank com plumed yesterday, he might be laid up), andKatharine, my dear, imagine what he answered! He had already promisedstrange coincidence !to go to the Chatelet to-night with M. Barry and his daughter, but would come round to my box during the evening. We had already had separate engagements so long that you must not be offended at this refusal. After the kindness he had received from the Barrys, he could not think of breaking his word to them at the last. Now shall we give up going? said Dot, plaintively. Wouldnt it be better to stay quietly at home, for me to spend the evening with you and Uncle Frank, than be placed in such a hu- miliating position as this?~ I am not quite sure that the position is humiliating, was Katharines answer. I have been considering a great deal about all this, Dora, and the conclusion I come to is, that both you and I have judged Steven too harshly. You told me the world had only one opinion of his intimacy with Mademoiselle Barry; it seems that the world has never troubled itself about their intimacy at all! And I have seen herI saw her with Steven in the Louvre not an hour agoand the words went bitterly against her heart to speak, but she brought them out steadily, generously, she looks a quiet, simple little English girlnot at all like the designing ad- venturess we have talked so much about. This much, at all events, I know! Steven would never come to your box from Miss Barrys unless he felt that for him to do so could be no humiliation to you. Wellwellperhaps we had better go, then, said Mrs. Law- ~-ence, narrowly watching the expression of her cousins face. Perhaps a woman alwrays does make the best of a bad position by accepting, or seeming to accept, it quietly. Only one favor I must ask of you, Kateif we goif that is to say, you have a chance of talking to Stevenwarn the pooi~ foolish fellow about the po- sition he stands in; make him promise, if you can (alas, you would have more influence with him than I should!), to return home at 238 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. once, with or without me, as he chooses. Will you do this, Kate, for my sake? I will speak to Steven, certainly, if he gives me a chance of speaking to him, said Katharine, rather hesitatingly. But I dont know why I should ask him to go away from Paris. What })ossible necessity can there be for him to leave before we all go? Loid Petres will be here to-night; Steven always gets on well with him ,and And if I tell you that there is every reason for him to leave at once! If I tell you that his honor may be saved in that way, and that way only! exclaimed Mrs. Lawrence. I have been told to-day nh, how shall I put it into words ?that people begin to say Steven Lawrence does not lose, l~ei~haps, because he and M. Barry under- stand each other so well! Charlie Wentworth, of the Blues, has lost near upon a thousand pounds at the Barrys house iu the last two nights; did your friend, who knows so much of Paris news, tell you that? and they say the police are getting scent of it, and any night they may be all seizedSteven and everybody. Who shall tell whether as victims or accomplices? Mrs. Lawrences voice shook with emotion. And who says this ? cried Katharine, after a minutes silence, broken only by the voices of Mademoiselle Aglite and the mienad babbling, shrieking, as Frenchwomeu would shriek and babble upon the brink of doom, in the other room. Who that knows Steven Lawrence makes this monstrous a~3ertion, and dares to repeat it to you? The person who repeated it was Grizelda Long. (You do not give me your authority for the cruel things that were said of me, but I can guess it! cried Dora, kindling. George Gordon never loved inc. Pity hes not at his favorite amusement, fighting with men, instead of slaying the reputation of helpless, innocent women!) Grizelda Longand in this she acted as a friendtold me this dreadful story about Charlie Wentworth, and the way poor Steven is being spoken of and everything. You promised, once, to be my friend, whatever happened, Kate! hold by that promise now. Dont believe a word that cruel tongues find to say against me, andand get Steven away from Paris, and from the Bai-rys in- fluence! and Dot covered up her face between her hands and wept. I have said before that, following the dictates of such nm-row wisdom as Mrs. Lawrence possessed, she seldom trenched further than was necessary upon absolute falsehood. If the moving of heaven and earth could get Steven out of Paris before next Thurs- dayonly two days henceDora would do her best that heaven and earth should be moved. And Grizelda Long had really told her the story, units only multiplied by teas, of Charlie Wentworths STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 239 losses; Grizelda, with her usual readiness in aught that affected the sapping of a mans character, had, out of her own phantom con- sciousness, evoked the worlds probable opinion of Stevenfor not being ruined! Finally, rather that her story should have artistic finish than because facts authorized the statement, Grizelda had hinted at the likelikood of IMI. Barry and his friends being eventu- ally seized by the police. All that Dot said had truth in itleav- ened by just the necessary admixture of falsehood. And she was sorry in her heart that she need enlist falsehood on her side at all sorry that she was forced to play a double part toward Katha- rine, whom she loved, toward Steven, whom she half-feared, half- reverenced, wholly pitied! If he had been a trifle less bigotted could only have been brought to see that the silver and blue, on the authority of Lady Sarah Adair, might be worn by a decent Christian matron, all this had been spared her! Still, the silver and blue must be worn. That crowning necessity submerged all smaller moralities as to means in Dots conscience. The silver an(l blue must be wornto wear it Steven must he sent away out of Paris, and the influence to send him thence was Katharines. And in a few more days all would be over, she thoughta fresh tinge of remorse seizing her as she watched the quivering pain on Kath- arines face, heard her falter out promises to do her utmost in turn- ing aside this threatened shame from Steven! And sitting by the dull fireside at Asheot she would have the delight of a crowning Parisian success to think over; and StevenKatharine be none the worse for the little white lies into which circumstances had driven her for its attainment. No thought of Mr. Ciarendon Whyte filled Dots soulno human passion, innocent or guilty nothing but passion for the blue silk and silver cord in which her last success was to be won. Unhappily, blue silk and silver cord can, on occasion, be quite as strong a motive power for evil as was ever the love of Cleopatra or of Helen. Stronger, perhaps, in the present great millinery epoch of the world. WOIIDS AND ThEIR USES. t THE TRIFLING NATURE OF THESE ARTICLESMISUSED WORDS. A~JONG the opinions passed in newspapers upon these articles, J7iIh ave seen one in which it was objected that they are trifling, and in which it was said, in terms of kindest consideration, that the public had a right to expect something ~of another kind from their author. I am glad that my critic has ministered occa- sion to me for reminding my readers that my purpose in writing these articles was to concern myself and them merely with such tri- fles as the correctness and the fitness of verbal expression. Whoever may have expected to find in these articles any important contri- 1)ution to the history of language, or to what is called its philoso- phy, or any excursion into the higher walks of philology, except of the most cursory and incidental character, has looked not only for that which was not promised, but for that which at the outset he was distinctly told he would not find. In the first paragraph of the first article it was said that the series would be merely upon words and their uses, past and present; that it would he unsystematic and desultory;~ and that it would be confined, even to the almost entire exclusion of style, to the consideration of words and idioms, good and bad, their right use and abuse, with occasional examination of their origin and their history. It is with no intention of entering upon the great field so well eared by Muller, Renan, and Latham, and so much better by Whitney, or to glean after the more limited harvest of Marsh, or even of Trench, that I am writing these articles. Those writers concern themselves with philology. I here consider the daily use of words with which any philologist will tell my critic philology has noth- ing to do whatever. And, if the contrary were true, the pages of a magazine like this would not be the place for the treatment of such a subject as philology. If the Galaxy~~ or the Atlantic de- pended, even in a moderate measure, npon the public that reads Muller, Latham, Whitney, and Marsh, or even Dean Trench, both those monthly lights of literature would be put out by the time they had completed their next years calendar. I heard re- cently a story of a professor at Oxford, who, being about to address a miscellaneous audience at that seat of learning, illustrated some of his positions by quotations in the original from Arabic writers. A friend objecting that this would be caviare to his audience, he replied: 0, everybody knows a little Arabic. Now, I have discovered that everybody does not know a little Arabic;

Richard Grant White White, Richard Grant Words and their Uses 240-247

WOIIDS AND ThEIR USES. t THE TRIFLING NATURE OF THESE ARTICLESMISUSED WORDS. A~JONG the opinions passed in newspapers upon these articles, J7iIh ave seen one in which it was objected that they are trifling, and in which it was said, in terms of kindest consideration, that the public had a right to expect something ~of another kind from their author. I am glad that my critic has ministered occa- sion to me for reminding my readers that my purpose in writing these articles was to concern myself and them merely with such tri- fles as the correctness and the fitness of verbal expression. Whoever may have expected to find in these articles any important contri- 1)ution to the history of language, or to what is called its philoso- phy, or any excursion into the higher walks of philology, except of the most cursory and incidental character, has looked not only for that which was not promised, but for that which at the outset he was distinctly told he would not find. In the first paragraph of the first article it was said that the series would be merely upon words and their uses, past and present; that it would he unsystematic and desultory;~ and that it would be confined, even to the almost entire exclusion of style, to the consideration of words and idioms, good and bad, their right use and abuse, with occasional examination of their origin and their history. It is with no intention of entering upon the great field so well eared by Muller, Renan, and Latham, and so much better by Whitney, or to glean after the more limited harvest of Marsh, or even of Trench, that I am writing these articles. Those writers concern themselves with philology. I here consider the daily use of words with which any philologist will tell my critic philology has noth- ing to do whatever. And, if the contrary were true, the pages of a magazine like this would not be the place for the treatment of such a subject as philology. If the Galaxy~~ or the Atlantic de- pended, even in a moderate measure, npon the public that reads Muller, Latham, Whitney, and Marsh, or even Dean Trench, both those monthly lights of literature would be put out by the time they had completed their next years calendar. I heard re- cently a story of a professor at Oxford, who, being about to address a miscellaneous audience at that seat of learning, illustrated some of his positions by quotations in the original from Arabic writers. A friend objecting that this would be caviare to his audience, he replied: 0, everybody knows a little Arabic. Now, I have discovered that everybody does not know a little Arabic; WORDS AND THEIR USES. 241 and more, that there are men all around me of intelligence and character and fine personal qualities, who know only a very little English, and that so very imperfectly that, to the extent of my own knowledge of my mother tongue, I have ventured to offer them the instruction that I have found many of them are sensible enough to desire. I was led to do so by the receipt of letters ask- mo ol)inions upon disputed points in the use of language, as to ~ I most of which, among educated people, there should have been no question, although others were more doubtful. Another induce- ment was my seeing in the editors rooms of a newspaper of the highest position in New York an Index Expurgatorius, or list of disused words, in which it was annoudeed that the words in the subjoined list are ignominiously expelled from good society. The list, which was lamentably short, and which, indeed, made no pre- tensions to completeness, was prepared and printed for the use and guidance of the writers employed upon that journal. My present task is merely an attempt to supply the need thus indicated. The need is especially great in this country. That it is so has been strongly urged in these articles; and I have not only set forth the reason of this need, but have endeavored to explain it, and with such detail as would enable my readers to see it for themselves and take it to heart, instead of merely accepting or rejecting my assurance. Those reasons have since been incidentally but ear- nestly and impressively presented by Professor Whitney in his book on Language and the Study of Language, the soundest and ablest work upon its most interesting subject that has yet appeared in English. Summing up his opinion upon this point, Professor Whitney says: The low-toned party newspaper is too much the type of the prevailing literary influence by which the style of speech of our rising generation is moulding. A tendency to slang, to collo- quial inelegancies and even vulgarities is the besetting sin against which we, as Americans, have especially to guard and to struggle. What Professor Whitney thus succinctly declares, I have endeav- ored to set forth at large and to illustrate. Usage in the end makes language: it determines not only the meaning of words, but their suggestiveness and also their influence. For the influence of man upon language is reciprocated by language upon man; and the mental tone of a community may be vitiated by a yielding to the use of loose, coarse, low and frivolous phraseology. Therefore, we should do all that we can to make usage good rather than bad. A case in point, trifling and amusing, but not, therefore, less suggest- ive, recently attracted my attention. Professor Whitney mentions, as one of his many illustrations of the historical character of word- making, that we put on a pair of rubbers, because, when caout- chouc was first brought to us, we could find no better use for it than the rubbing out of pencil-marks. But overshoes of this ma- 242 WORDS AND THEIR USES. terial are not universally called rubbers. In Philadelphia, with a reference to the nature of the substance of which they are made, they are called gums. A Philadelphia gentleman and his wife coming to spend the evening at a house where they were very much at home, he entered the parlor alone; and to the question: Why, where is Emily? answered, Oh, Emily is outside clean- ing her gums upon the mat; whereupon there was a momentary look of astonishment and then a peal of laughter. Now, there is no need whatever of the use of either of the poor words rubbers or gums ia this sense. The proper word is 8imply overshoes, which expresses all that there is occasion to tell, except to a manufacturer or a salesman. There is neither necessity nor propriety in our going into the question of the fabric of what we wear for the pro- tection of our feet, and of saying that a lady is rubbing her rub- beis or cleaning her gums upon the mat; no more than there is in our saying that a gentleman is brushing his wool (meaning his coat), or blowing his nose upon his linen (meaning his pocket- handkerchief). As we make words and determine their significa- tion by voluntary though generally unconscious acts, it is worth some effort to prevent the entrance of such etymological monsters as rubbers and gums, meaning simply overshoes, into the language. Language is generally formed by indirect and unconscious effort; but when a language is subjected to the constant action of such deleterious influences as those above mentioned, it may be well to introduce into its development a little consciousness. The differ- ence between saying he donated the balance of the lumber, and he gave the rest of the timber is trifling; but mans language, like man himscW grows by a gradual accretion of trifles, and the sum of these trifles in our case is on the one hand good and on the other bad English. Therefore they are not unworthy of any mans serious attention. The confusion of the two monosyllables which are of like mean- ing but have different functions, like and as, produces confusion of thought and of statement every day and all around us. Of this I find a very instructive and characteristic example in a London paper of first-rate standing. Noticing a remonstrance of the Lon- don gas stokers against being compelled to work twelve hours in the day for seven days of the week, before huge fires, in a temper- ature which often rises to 180 degrees, the writer, deprecating a strike of the stokers, goes on to say that The Directors could fill their places in three hours from the docks alone; but that does not give them a right to use up Englishmen like Cuban planters. But how have directors of British Gas Companies a right to use up Cuban planters? and how are Cuban planters used up at all? There are no answers to these inevitable questions, and the sen- tence as it stands is sheer nonsense. But a little thought discovers WORDS AND THEIR USES. 243 that what the writer meant to say was, that the directom had no right to use up Englishmen as Cuban planters use up negroes. His meaningless sentence was the result of the confusion of like and as which is common with careless speakers. Thus, for instance, He dont do it like you do, instcad of as you do. Li/ce and as both express similarity, but the former compares things, the latter action or existence. (The terms adjective and adverb, applied to them by grammarians and lexicographers are, if not incorrect, at least imperfect.) For instance, we may say correctly, John is like James, and may express the same opinion by saying that John is such a man as James. We may say, As speech is like Bs, or, A speaks as B does; but not As speech is as Bs, or, A speaks like B does. In framing the sentence quoted above, the writer at first forgot or disregarded this distinction, and afterward remem- bered aad observed it. He used like to compare the action of the British manufacturer and that of the Cuban planter, and then instiuctively perceiving that he could not say, like Cuban plant- ems do, etc., he omitted the verb and left like correctly as to grain- mar but incorrectly as to meaning, as a term of comparison be- tween the men and not between their action. When as is correctly used, a verb is expressed or understood~ The woman is as tall as the man, i. e., as the man is. With like, a verb is neither expressed nor understood. He does his work like a man: which is not ellip- tical for like a man works. Like may be defined as a correlative adjective; as as a correlative adverbal conjunction. VICI~ITY.This word is subject to no perversion of sense that I have observed, but it is very often incorrectly and vulgarly used without the possessive pronoun. Thus, New York and vicinity, instead of New York and its vicinity. With equal correctness and good taste we might say New York and neighborhood, which no one, I believe, would think of doing. This error has arisen from the frequent occurrence of such phrases as, this city and vicin- ity, where this is understood, i. e., this city and this vicinity; as we might say this village and neighborhood. When there is a pro- noun used before the conjunction it need not be repeated, but if there should be none in that position, one is required before vicinity, just as one is before neighborhood, which, in most cases where vicinity is used, is the better as well as the shorter word. CATCH is constantly misused for reach, overtake. Many persons speak of catching a car. If they reach or get to the car, it being at the station, or if they overtake it or catch up with it, it being in motions they may catch some person who is in it,or they may catch scarlet fever from some one who has been in it. But they will not catch it. TnuIsM is often used for truth, as if it were more elegant and scholarly, whereas it is the very reverse. For instance, the follow- 244 WORDS AND THEIR USES. ing scntence from a leading article in a first-rate New York p~ per: That the rents charged for tenements on the lower part of this island are higher than men of moderate means can afford to pay, is a palpable truism. It is no such thing. The writer meant merely to say that his proposition was plainly true, as it is; but this would have been far too simple and plain a style for him. He must write like a moralist or a philosopher. A truism is a self- evident truth: a truth, not merely the truth, in the form of a true statement of fact. Thus, The sun is bright, is not a truism; it is not a self-evident truth, but a self-evident fact. But, All men must die, and Youth is weak before temptation, are truisms, i. e., self- evident or admitted truths. COUPLE. Although the misuse of this word is very common and of long standing, the perversion of meanin in the misuse is so great that neither time nor custom can justify it. It is used to mean simply two; as, for instance, a couple of ladies would have fallen upon the ice yesterday afternoon if they bad not been caught by a couple of gentlemen. Why people should use these three syllables couple of, to say incorrectly that which one syllable two, expresses correctly, it is hard to tell. It would be quite as correct in the above example to say, a brace of ladies, and more surely correct to say a pair of gentlemen. For a couple is not only two individuals who are equal or like, i. e., a pair, but two who are bound together by some close tie or intimate relation; who, in brieg are coupled. rp~y0 railway cars are bound together by the coupling; a man and woman are made a couple by the bond of love, which even the legal bond of marriage cannot a.ccomplish for a man and wife may be separated and be no longer a couple. Twins, even, are not a couple, but a pair. In couple, which is merely the Latin copula anglicisecl, this idea of copulative conjunc- tion is inherent. There is no simpler wasting of breath, and not much worse English, than to speak of a couple of kings or a couple of cherubim. ADOPT.A very strange perversion of this word from its true meaning prevails among the unlettered people, whose misuse of it is daily seen in the Personal Advertisements in the Nexv York Herald. Thus Wanted to Adopt~A beautiful and healthy female infant. It would not, by-the-bye, do at all to say simply a beauti- ful girl. That plain, common word is left to people of common sense, and education, and culture. The advertisers mean that they wish to have the children mentioned in their advertisements adopted. In speaking of the transaction, their phrase is that the child is adopted out, or that such and such a woman adopted out her child. The perversion, it may be said reve~sion, of this word, is worth noticing, not only because of the shifting nature of our society and the influence therein of suddenly-obtained wealth, WORDS AND THEIR USES. 245 which may make a woman who adopted out her child last year a leader of fashion two years hence, having acquired in that time money, dresses, and jewels, and nothing else, but because upon these very advertisements, thus misusing adopt, travellers and foreign writers have founded an argument against the reproductive power of European races in this country. From the many adver- tisements, Wanted to Adopt, it has been inferred that the adver- tisers were childless and hopeless of children. Such readers should consider the following advertisement, which appeared a few days ago. A lady having two boys would like to adopt one. Inquire for two days at 228 Sullivan street. I shall put what I have to say upon the subject of Americanisrus together under a special heading; but I will remark here that this use of adopt is not an Americanism. Those who thus use it it to express exactly the reverse of its proper meaning are almost without exception Irish, or, by birth as well as blood, English. It appears in the advertis- ing columns (and there only) of one or t~vo of our ne~vspapers, and not in those of Great Britain, simply because it would not be allowed to appear in the latter. Even the advertisements in Brit- ish newspapers are edited, that is, supervised and corrected by sonic person competent to that work. Here, any person is allowed to put anything into a paid advertisement that does not make the paper in which it appears liable to prosecution for libel or obscen itv. JEwELiiY.Mnny ladies, and even some men, who should know better, are in the habit of speaking of their jewelry when they mean their jewels. The word thus used is very low caste. Think of Cornelia pointing to the Gracchi and saying, these are my jewelry; or read thus a grand passage in tIme last of the Hebrew prophets, And they shall be mine saith the Lord of hosts, in that day when I make up my jewelry! But, further, jewels are no more jewelry than shrubs are shubbery, slaves slavery, or beggars beggary. Jewelry is properly the name of the place in which jewels are kept, as slavery is the name of the condition in which slaves are kept, as beggary is that of the condition in which beggars are, and as shrubbery is that of grounds filled with shrubs. These words belong to a numerous class ending in ry, which express place, or condition, which is moral place. Such are belfry, library, laundry, bakery, battery, cu~iary, grocery, pottery, armory, irfrmary, bindery, confectionery. From grog we have rightly formed groggery; and our translators of the Bible called Juden, the place of the Jews, Jewry. Now, we might as well call a knot of Jews Jewry or whiskey-skin and gin cocktail groggery, as a set of jewels, jewelry. But jewelry is one of i few of these words which have been per- verted by careless speakers. Such ame confectionary, pastry, and crockery. Confections are made by a contectioner, and kept in a 16 240 WORDS AND THEIR USES. confectionary; paste is kept in a pastry; arid crocks, made by a crocker, are kept in a crockery. All these words have been thus correctly used. We have the proper name Crocker, derived from the occupation, like Baker, Webster, Fuller; and howell (to bring forward one out of numberless examples) tells us iii one of his letters that Felton, the murderer of the Duke of Buckingham, in his attempt to escape was so amazd that he missd his way, and so struck into the pastry, where he was arrested. The perver- sion of jewelry, confectionary, pastry, pottery, and crockery is prob- ably due to the substitution of signs inscribed with words for those first used, which were merely decorated with some device or signwhence the name. The jeweller put up JEWELRY over his shop door, and the crocker, CROCKERY, and so forth; and these names of places were at last misapprehended as names of the articles for sale in those places. As crock passed out of use as a general name (although no one now-a-days has any difficulty in un- derstanding the title of the story of the Crock of Gold ), crock- ery was the first, and is the best established, of these perverted words. Next comes confectionary, although confections is not quite out of use, and might be easily restored; and the common use of paste, pot, and jewel leaves no excuse, except conformity to a bad custom, which perverts meaning, cramps language and violates analogy, for displacing them in favor of pastry, pottery and jewelry. RIchARD GRANT WhITE. MODERN FRENCH CLUBS. 1U~RENCIJ Clubs, as they exist in our generation, possess all of 12 the bad features, without the good ones of A merican and English clubs. If you consider what French society has come to be in these modern days, you will see why; for the French clubs are the legitimate outgrowth of society. People who, reading social history, and deep in the gossipping memoirs of the last century, reflect with a shudder upon what society was in the days of Louis XV. and DuBarrydom, upon the scandals of Versailles when Marie Antoinette was in her soon-to-be clouded glory, upon the subsequent scandals of the Empire, mistake when they conclude that there has been any material improvement in the morals of French society since. It is as bad to-day as it can be, let soft- spoken social philosophers varnish it as they will. Immorality is to-day fashionable; it is, also, by a political com- placence, which it is difficult to comprehend, made lawful; thus, in a despotic country, liberty is given in almost the only direction it should be withheld. This disease, which I plainly characterize as fashionable immorality, is displayed in conjugal infidelities, in every manner of dissipation; and pleasure, it is sad to say, is a synony- mous term for dissipation with both the upper and lower classes and in all those vices which dissipation teaches. The inar~ia e de convenancc is well known to my readersa parental bargain taking precedence of a mutual inclination. Resulting from this custom of social economy is the manner in which young people of the two sexes are kept rigidly apart; and resulting from this separation are those countenanced immoralities which are essentially parts of French society as now constituted. Whether this separation of the sexes was the cause of concubinage at first, or whether the latter was the cause of the former, it is certain that they a~t re- ciprocally upon one another at the present day. It is both true that separation creates concubinage, and that concubinage render8 more rigid the law of separation. I come directly to my proper subject of French clubs by remark- ing that manages de convenanceparental diplomatic successes resulting, as they do in a vast majority of cases, in ill-assorted unions, and in a married life wherein there is no common point of sympathy, and, hence, of harmonyare greatly instrumental in filling and keeping up the clubs. The husband, who has married to double his income or to extend family influence, does not expect to find, and does not find, his proper comforts at home. Home has

George M. Towle Towle, George M. Modern French Clubs 247-255

MODERN FRENCH CLUBS. 1U~RENCIJ Clubs, as they exist in our generation, possess all of 12 the bad features, without the good ones of A merican and English clubs. If you consider what French society has come to be in these modern days, you will see why; for the French clubs are the legitimate outgrowth of society. People who, reading social history, and deep in the gossipping memoirs of the last century, reflect with a shudder upon what society was in the days of Louis XV. and DuBarrydom, upon the scandals of Versailles when Marie Antoinette was in her soon-to-be clouded glory, upon the subsequent scandals of the Empire, mistake when they conclude that there has been any material improvement in the morals of French society since. It is as bad to-day as it can be, let soft- spoken social philosophers varnish it as they will. Immorality is to-day fashionable; it is, also, by a political com- placence, which it is difficult to comprehend, made lawful; thus, in a despotic country, liberty is given in almost the only direction it should be withheld. This disease, which I plainly characterize as fashionable immorality, is displayed in conjugal infidelities, in every manner of dissipation; and pleasure, it is sad to say, is a synony- mous term for dissipation with both the upper and lower classes and in all those vices which dissipation teaches. The inar~ia e de convenancc is well known to my readersa parental bargain taking precedence of a mutual inclination. Resulting from this custom of social economy is the manner in which young people of the two sexes are kept rigidly apart; and resulting from this separation are those countenanced immoralities which are essentially parts of French society as now constituted. Whether this separation of the sexes was the cause of concubinage at first, or whether the latter was the cause of the former, it is certain that they a~t re- ciprocally upon one another at the present day. It is both true that separation creates concubinage, and that concubinage render8 more rigid the law of separation. I come directly to my proper subject of French clubs by remark- ing that manages de convenanceparental diplomatic successes resulting, as they do in a vast majority of cases, in ill-assorted unions, and in a married life wherein there is no common point of sympathy, and, hence, of harmonyare greatly instrumental in filling and keeping up the clubs. The husband, who has married to double his income or to extend family influence, does not expect to find, and does not find, his proper comforts at home. Home has 248 MODERN FRENCH CLUBS. no meaning with him, except as a place to eat and sleep in, occa- sionally to receive in, and, in general, as the last place in the world where it is pioper for him to remain at evening. The inevitable resort is to the theatre, the caf~, and the club. The wife, too, feels no especial call to remain at home. The children, if there are any, are left to nurses and servant-maids. The wife goes to the theatre, but hardly ever with her husband ; or she resorts to a coterie of female friends, and there is initiated into the art of gossip ping, which is easy to the female French nature. If she does stay at home, she has, perhaps, a reception of gentlemen. Often her reception is con- fined to a single gentleman, understood in society to be her favorite; yet this by no means affects her position in that society. The French caf~ is a club, in which all may enter who can pay for what they order; and as there are caf~s of all grades and prices, there are few, even of the poorest, who do not frequent them. The cafe is the club of the man of moderate means, and of means that are less than moderate. From this it is seen that the laborer as well as the nabob deserts his home and has his nightly resort where to pass away the hours of recreation. There is no villaixe in France so small as to be without its caf~ or cabctrct; plunge into the depths of primitive Brittany, among the Alpine slopes of Alsace, and you will everywhere find some place or other which answers to a clubthat is, a place where the male inhabitants can fly for relief from the insipid dulness of home. A ft2te day is an excuse for spending eighteen hours at the cqf~ instead of four or five; on Sunday you will find the male portion of that congrega- tion which has been so reverently kneeling before the altar dis- tributed among the different places of entertainnmnt within half an honr after service is concluded. The French, from highest to lowest, being of a social nature, and given to congregating to- gether on all possible allowable occasions, the men resort to the cqf~s, the women to those little informal tea-drinking clubs which may be called gossip-meetings. What is done at the caf~3.s is not a mystery; the principal recreations are gambling and di-inking these are varied by song-singing and the various gaines which cus- tom has hallowed in each section. The clubs proper, answering as nearly as any to the London and New York clubs, are the resort of a class placed in a pecuniary positioi~ which enables its members to rise disdainful beyond the car. They are palatial, select cafrsdevoted mainly to the same objects, which are pursued, however, in a more gentlemanly manner. They are entirely social in their nature, there being no political clubs known to the public in existence in France at present. The Empire is stringent in the prohibition of political association, and ig perchance, there be any at all, they exist unbe- known to the police, and are clothed with the profoundest secrecy. MODERN FRENCH CLUBS. 249 No trace, therefore, of those wonderful clubs which took their rise with the first ievolution, remains; yet, perhaps, the most famous clubs which ever flourished on earth were those which assumed the importance of political powers during the closing years of the last century. The Breton deputies who came up to Paris to take their seats in the National Assembly, and brought with them the idea of an association among themselves for the end of securing unity, little thought of the kindling of such a blaze from their small spark of a club. But soon the club of the Jacobins was born, and grew with a wonderful growth, and now led the front rank of revolution, and decreed death and law and anarchical dispensation with law. Then followed the Club of the Fenillans, the Club of Royalists, the Club of Girondists; places of significant import, where there wos nightly discussion, and where the conflict of the parties was foreshadowed by their several votes. From these mother-societies in Paris there spread out completely over France daughter-societies, giving informal law to all the provincial communitiesreceiving constant inspiration from the central fountain-heads. How the club fever ended in the Revolution, no one need be told. Mother Jacobin guillotined Mother Giron distand her daughters all through France followed the maternal example. Then Mother Jacobin directed the storm, rode upon the whirlwind, bullied the Assembly, dictated absolute law through the thin lips of sea- green~ Robespierre from her tribune. Then a day came when Mother Jacobin grew white; when the thin-lipped oracle rode through Paris on a tumbril, with a broken jaw ill-bound up, which he had shattered by a pistol-shot which was meant to shat- ter the whole head; and, arrived at the guillotine, the thin lips and bodiless head fell over into the basket. With him died Mothe~ Jacobindied all political clubbing for awhile; for, very soon aftei, the sallow-complexioned engineer, Bonaparte, talked thro ugh cannon throats to Revolution, in front of the Tuileries, and bade it lie still and die, in such a tone that it obeyed. The First Empire, the age of the Restoration, put down political clubs with a stern hand; and, then they arose once more with the second Revolution, but had a poor life, for there was nothing worth getting excited about in the first years of the reign of the Citizen- King. During the present Empire, no such thing has been allowed. It is not wholly incredible that in some dark corner, Democrats and Legitimists may meet and croak and plot, but the rampant days of the Jacobin and its like are over, never to return. The social clubs of to-day, if more innocent as regards politics, are little more, for the most part, than gambling houses of a select and high-toned sort. rrhey are fitted up with all that luxury and ornamentation which French invention, inspired by a national pro- pensity to such things, can devise. There are broad, velvet-car- 250 MODERN FRENCH CLUBS. peted staircases; chandeliers making the interior dazzlingly bril- liant; busts of philosophers, poets, and rnaestros; statues of the ~i~es and Graces, and heathen celebrities; dainty frescoes, em- blematic of pleasure and indolence; gilded walls and sporting pic- tures; elegant billiard and card tables ; palatial restaurants, and prolifically-cushioned reading-rooms. The contrast between the French club-houses, with their ostenta- tious gingerbread adornments, and the English club-houses on Pall Mall, with their massive plain halls, and substautial freedom from picturesqueness, is striking. They are as different as the English character is from the Frenchas English tastes are from French tastes. In the English clubs men mcet to read and discuss the news, to make political arrangements, to write letters, to e~t plain, wholesome roast beef and mutton, and drink health-giving brown stout and ale from Burton-on-Trent. In the Freneh clubs men meet to gossip about women, to sip absinthe and Macon, to smoke and laugh over the joit?mau~c arnusants, and to sit late at the card- tables, flanked by rouleaus of Napoleons dor and five-franc pieces. The Englishman resorts to his club in the morning or afternoon for a specific purposeto meet somebody in particular, to transact business; he goes there in the daily routine, and at night returns to the bosom of his family, with whom he is apt to spend all his evenings, most to his own and their satisfaction. The Frenchman hardly ever goes to his club in the daytime; if he wishes recrea- tion of that kind, he goes to the cag%s. his evenings are almost wholly devoted to the club: as I have said, he seldom thinks it best to remain at home. The appearance of the frequenters of a French club, too, is in marked contrast with that of the kabitu~s of the Pall Mall clubs. Every one who has read the admirable pictures which Thackeray gives of London life in its many points of view, recalls the typical occupant of a bow-window in Pall Mall; the fashionable, well, but substantially-dressed, rotund, roast-beefy and bro wn-stouty, dogmatic-looking gentleman, with heavy seals to his watch-chain, and with a copy of a morning paper under each elbow. A good liver, indeed, a stanch friend of his stomach, yet thoroughly substantial, out-spoken, if rough-spoken, dogmatic, newspaper-reading Englishman. Any one who, being in London, takes occasion to pass through Pall Mall, will not fail of seeing him reproduced at a dozen bow-windows. You may not like his haughty, supercilious air, but you, at least, will not call him frivo- lous, and you will readily believe that he has some stuff in him which is not a sham. The frequenters of French clubs quite fail to inspire one with respect. There is something flippant in the conversation, superfluous in the manner, disagreeably light and in- considerate in the topics and their treatment, disgusting in the pre- dominantly vicious air all about you; it is certainly true that one MODERN FRENCH CLUBS. 251 with moral perceptions cannot remain comfortable in such a place a quarter of au hour. You see men whose gray hairs would any- where else command your respectold men past their three score and ten, toothless, wigged, spectacled, and padded, deaf and half blind, gambling furiously with beardless boys, choking their wheezy old throats with laughter over a tale of successful intrigue, and guzzling brandy by the hour together in a corner. I do not over-state, for I have more than once witnessed what I describe. Men of all ages are mingled together; rascals of all degrees of rascality mingling with youth at all stages of greenness. Men go nightly out of these fashionable clubs ruined in pocket, brain, and self-respect; go home to their wives and tell them that the last Na- poleon has vanished. Successful gamblers go forth, too, with glut- ted pockets, spirt out into the upper worldthe beautiful world, as the French Frenchily call itflash for awhile, then grow dim, and return again to fasten, vampire-like, on other verdancies. You may go into these clubs with the most benevolently-disposed mind, looking on the very sunniest side of human goodness, and you will 1)ave quick proof that these men whom you meet there are given over, for the most part (for there certainly are exceptionslet us hope many more than appear upon the surface), to these besetting vicesgaming, drinking, and incontinence. If there be any depth of character among them, you fail to discover it here; shallowly- thinking Frenchmen, take them as a whole, are too apt to be mis- anthropic, or atheistical, or both. You may go to a club constantly for a month, and never hear one sound, sensible argument on any topic, light or serious, or a single thought expressed worth holding in the memory a moment after it has passed the lips of its utterer. This club life, toothe most disheartening phase of allpasses from generation to generation by paternal example. It is the com- monest thing in the world to see fathers introducing their sons into the clubs; to see fathers and sons adjourning together from home, night after night, to these favorite places of resort. You see sons standing over the tables where their fathers are gamblingsome- times sitting at the same table, and joining in the game. The clubs which I have described are the ordinary social clubs of Paris and the provincial cities; the clubs which answer as nearly as any to the Pall Mall clubs in London. They are very numerous everywhere; the fashion of instituting them has grown up within thirty years, and has extended to the outer borders of France. There are, however, many other clubs devoted to specific purposes. For ipstance, the rage for races and other robust sports, which the French have caught from the English, and which has much increased since the famous victory of the French horse Gladiateur, at the Derby races in 1865, has resulted in the institution of sporting clubs, like Tattersalls, at Hyde Park Corner. These are not like 252 MODERN FRENCH CLUBS. the English clubs devoted to the same object; and are frequented by rich young sports, horse-jockeys, and racing mcii. Books are made up there for the races, and racing literature is abundant in the elegant saloons. But even in these clubs, devoted though they are to a specific purpose, the habitu~s are unable to refrain from the favorite vices. A caf~ and restaurant is always attached to them, and there are gaming tables at hand supplied with cards and markers. While speaking of this vice of gambling, which may almost be termed a national vice in France, it is so universal, let me remark, that there hardly ever occurs a great ball, either private or official, where several rooms are not set apart especially for guests who wish to gamble; and this is particularly true of the balls in the beau-rnondc. For instance, if you go to a ball at the Hotel de Ville, given by the Prefect of the Seine, you will find, beyond the long, magnificent hall where the female rank and beauty of Paris is dancing, several cabinets at which the papas, husbands, and brothers, are busy with the cards and the rouleaus of Napoleons. I have seen the example set, in one of the largest cities in France, by the portly Mayor, in full gold-lace uniform, who sat at the prin- cipal gaming table and staked his gold for all the world to see. At the more private balls, the ladies themselves join in the game ; and the old print showing four old ladies of the court of George the Second, with mountains of head-dress, ferociously quarrelling over the cards and dice, is reproduced in the fashionable saloons of Paris at the present day, every feature of it existing except the antique costume. Returning to the clubs, let me remark that there are few or no sober literary clubs in France. There are great associations, like the Institute and the Academy, where seats are objects of eager emulation with sctvans and authors, and where the best intellectual talent of France is collected; beyond these there is no literary half- way to the gambling clubs I have described. There are also associations of artists, and of musicians, and there are some mis- cellaneous clubs, which unite the ordinary pursuits of gambling and gormandizing with occasional concerts and lectures. The concerts which are given in some of the clubs are of a high order, and are the only redeeming feature of them. There are tasteful little balls decorated for this purpose, just large enough to bold a select com- pany, consisting of a small stage, a pit, and vaulted galleries around the walls. The tickets of the concerts are distributed among their lady friends by the club members; the expenses are paid out of the club treasury. The best singers are selected, and the concerts occur in Winter once a fortnight or once month. The members of the club occupy the galleries, and the invited guests the pit. What strikes every one who enters French society, being a MODERN FRENCH CLUBS. 253 foreigner, is the extremely callous state of the public mind, especially the female public mind, on the subject of gaming. Pious ladies, who are raising a family of danghters, and who would be vastly distressed to miss the daily morning mass, will talk to you at their tables about the gaming at the ball of the night before, and perhaps tell you how much the oldest son won, as if it were the most commonplace, righteous thing in the world. The senti- ments of the French ladies regarding clubs are not of that bitter nature which Thackeray describes the English ladies as having, in the Book of Snobs, and which our American ladies are often heard to utter. Yet it would seem that they have vastly more reason to complain, inasmuch as the clubs lead their husbands, almost inevitably, into vicious ways, beside taking them nightly away from home. The reason why French ladies look with such indifference on the clubs is, what I have already hinted, that they are not, as a class, domestic, and do not place their own enjoyments at home any more than do the husbands ; or, what few enjoyments they do place there, are such as will readily dispense with the presence of the lord and master. As it is, the club is much more a part of the Frenchmans life than it is of the Englishmans or Americans. It is essentially an Institution foi bachelors, and the married Frenchmans course of life is much the same as that of a bachelor. It is not to be denied that there are multitudes of Frenchmen who take a sincere pleasure in home and home enjoyments, who are devotedly fond of and faithful to their ~vixres and children, and who are patterns of hus- bands, fathers, and maUres de la mctzson. But such you will not find nt the clubs, excepting i-arely, and at long intervals. To such clubs are distasteful, for there they have iiothino- tending to en- coui-aoe their domesticity, and much that is disagreeable to a man who apl)1eeiates feminine virtues and home happiness. A century ago, and for a century or two back of that, licentiousness was most fashionable and conspicuous among the higher classesthe court and noblesse. The effect of revolution upon public morals seems to have been to transfer this character to the boargeoisie. The most iuora~, respectable, and really high-toned portion of modern French society is to be found among the old familiesthe relics of the old noblesse, and that class which, through good report and ill report, has clung to their devotion to the old monarchy. Republicanism in France certainly is not moral, whatever other virtues it may possess; it is not good-mannered, nor has it an atom of religious fhith; and little more can be said of imperialismn, which, indeed, is an outgrowth of tired republicanism after all. Another excep- tion, beside that of the old Catholic Bourbon families, moy be made in referring to the shocking prevalence of social vice in Franceof which the clubs are nurseries as well as the creatures 264 MODERN FRENCH CLUBS. and that is the small body of French Protestants, heirs of the Huguenots. Beside that it is fairly to he inferred that the acceptance of that kind of ostracism under which Prot- estants in France labor, is itself a proof of genuine rcligious sincerity, no one can mingle with them without observing at once a sort of Puritan tone of quiet and steadfast morality, and a total want of sympathy with the vicious tendency of so large a propor- tion of their neighbors. Their direct contact with the dominant Catholicism, and the disadvantages under which they labor, in comparison with the latter, seem to often drive them to the ex- treme of rigidity. They mingle little with the world, never indulge in Sunday public amusements, and constantly exert their influence against the prevailing vices of the age. It is very rarely that you will find a Protestant member of a club; they keep aloof from them, and strive to set an example by their simple and domestic habits. All who have had occasion to observe French society will cor- roborate what has beeii said in the present article. What the remedy to its downward tendency will be, when it will act, and under what social awakening, or political or religious revulsion, cannot be conjectured. Political revolution, certainly, has not mended French moralsseems, indeed, only to have aggravated the evil. Perhaps, when religious superstition shall be quite worn out, and the sad transition thiough atheism shall emerge into faith, enlightened by reason, that nation will awaken to its melancholy moral state. GEO. M. TOWLE. NE BULA~L Ma. CHAP,LES DICKENS has no reason thus far to be dissatisfied with either the attention lie has received or the money he has gained since his ar- rival in this country. His second visit to America is plainly to be an era in our literary annals as well as in his life. We shall date from the tinie when Dickens came here to read; and he from the time when he made pots of money in America. This is well, and it is pleasing in our eyes, but not at all surpris- ing. Indeed, we have been somewhat humiliated by observing on the one hand the pleas that were put forth by some of our own journalists for for- giveness and forgetfulness toward him for his American Notes, accompa- rued by complacent and self-gratulatory assurances that Mr. Dickens would find the Americans a much better-behaved people on his second than lie did on his first visit; and on the other by the approving, Jonathan is a gcod boy at heart after all, and bears no malice, comments which the great social caricaturists reception here has elicited from some of the British journals. For, as to the American Notes, not having read them until within the last fortnight, and taking them up with the notion that we should find them stuffed with slandor and tricked out with ill-natured ridicule, we were sur- prised to find thcm fair, perfectly good-natured and respectful; slightly erroneous in some instances, but upon no point of sufficient importance to materially impair the real value of the book ; which, however, is slight from its narrowness of view and its superficiality. In his American Notes, Mr. Dickens is a severe censor upon but three of our national peculiarities, to- bacco-chewing and spitting, scurrilous and corrupt newspapers, and slavery, the fit scourging of which is a good reason, if there were no others, for the creation of a Charles Dickens. It was in the American scenes of Martin Chiuzzlewit that Mr. Dickens misrepresented America; and there lie did hold us up unmercifully to unjust ridicule True, he is a caricaturist, and he has caricatured his own people and the institutions of his own country; but of them he has not written caricature only; while of us and of our society be gave only a caricature of a corner; and the caricature was very great and the corner very small. But what is it to us that lie chose thus to pander to a pitiful prejudice, the offspring of ignorance and resent uncut? If he have any real generosity of soul he will be heartily ashamed of this weakness; if not, and lie is content, we, too, may surely be well contented. As to the rest, Mr. Dickens has given us a great deal of amusement and much genuine pleasure, for which he has received little in return; and we can afford to pay him well for his labor. As to his finding us a better-behaved people than we were at the time of his former visit, it must be suiprisiiig to any close observer of our society to see such an opinion expressed in quarters of any authority. For nothing is surer, or, it would seem, more manifest, than that during the last twenty years our manners and the tone of our society have suffered a great and a widespread deterioration. Take us by and large, and we are less courteous, less deferential to age and to weakness, less careful in the repression of selfishness, coarser in our pleasures, more grossly material in all our views of life. The change is merely that we are much

The Editor The Editor Nebulae Nebulae 255-256

NE BULA~L Ma. CHAP,LES DICKENS has no reason thus far to be dissatisfied with either the attention lie has received or the money he has gained since his ar- rival in this country. His second visit to America is plainly to be an era in our literary annals as well as in his life. We shall date from the tinie when Dickens came here to read; and he from the time when he made pots of money in America. This is well, and it is pleasing in our eyes, but not at all surpris- ing. Indeed, we have been somewhat humiliated by observing on the one hand the pleas that were put forth by some of our own journalists for for- giveness and forgetfulness toward him for his American Notes, accompa- rued by complacent and self-gratulatory assurances that Mr. Dickens would find the Americans a much better-behaved people on his second than lie did on his first visit; and on the other by the approving, Jonathan is a gcod boy at heart after all, and bears no malice, comments which the great social caricaturists reception here has elicited from some of the British journals. For, as to the American Notes, not having read them until within the last fortnight, and taking them up with the notion that we should find them stuffed with slandor and tricked out with ill-natured ridicule, we were sur- prised to find thcm fair, perfectly good-natured and respectful; slightly erroneous in some instances, but upon no point of sufficient importance to materially impair the real value of the book ; which, however, is slight from its narrowness of view and its superficiality. In his American Notes, Mr. Dickens is a severe censor upon but three of our national peculiarities, to- bacco-chewing and spitting, scurrilous and corrupt newspapers, and slavery, the fit scourging of which is a good reason, if there were no others, for the creation of a Charles Dickens. It was in the American scenes of Martin Chiuzzlewit that Mr. Dickens misrepresented America; and there lie did hold us up unmercifully to unjust ridicule True, he is a caricaturist, and he has caricatured his own people and the institutions of his own country; but of them he has not written caricature only; while of us and of our society be gave only a caricature of a corner; and the caricature was very great and the corner very small. But what is it to us that lie chose thus to pander to a pitiful prejudice, the offspring of ignorance and resent uncut? If he have any real generosity of soul he will be heartily ashamed of this weakness; if not, and lie is content, we, too, may surely be well contented. As to the rest, Mr. Dickens has given us a great deal of amusement and much genuine pleasure, for which he has received little in return; and we can afford to pay him well for his labor. As to his finding us a better-behaved people than we were at the time of his former visit, it must be suiprisiiig to any close observer of our society to see such an opinion expressed in quarters of any authority. For nothing is surer, or, it would seem, more manifest, than that during the last twenty years our manners and the tone of our society have suffered a great and a widespread deterioration. Take us by and large, and we are less courteous, less deferential to age and to weakness, less careful in the repression of selfishness, coarser in our pleasures, more grossly material in all our views of life. The change is merely that we are much 256 NEBULYF. more thickly gilt than we were before. We have grown vulgarly rich and rudely strong within the last twenty-five years ; but that is all. In any case, however, the point of our manners and our social tone is not the one on which, after seeing and hearing Mr. Dickens, we should be most anxious in regard to his Judgment. Stepping out from the seclusion of his study, Mr. Dickens has placed himself personally before us, and has offered us all, on pay- ing two dollars each, the opportunity of forming an opinion of him as well as of his writings. That opinion it is, we submit, quite proper for us to say is not such as leads us to accept the author of The Pickwick Papers as an authority upon manners, or an arbiter elegcuetiurn for any people. He is something higher and better than that, it is true; but that he is not. We were aware, of course, that Mr. Dickens, like many men of mark among our- selves, had been in his youth without the advantages of social culture; hut, judging by corresponding cases in this country, we supposed that in tIme po- sition to which his genius had raised him, and which he has held for twenty- five rears, lie must have acquired, if not by development, at least, by imita- tion, a certain tone and manner in which we find him entirely wanting. Mr. Dickens reads very wellunusually well, although, according to our taste and the best British authorities, with some serious faults of infiectiaii which we have not opportunity now for pointing cut in detail. His dramatic power is very greatnot greater than that of several story-tellers whom we have heard in private, but sufficient to have made him a great actor if lie had taken to the stage. We have, however, not heard of a single instance in which Mr. Dickens threw for his hearer a nmv light upon any one of his own creations; but of very many in which hiis presentation of his own per- sonages was found inferior to the ideal in the mind of his hearer. He succeeds notably wi th~ Mr. Winkle, Sergeant Buzfuz, old Weller, and Mr. Micawber; but he fails with Sam Weller, Captain Cuttle, and in all the characters of a higher grade of culture. The reason of the latter failure is to be found in defects which we have already noticed. We have heard Mr. Dickens voice spoken of as somewhat weak and husky; but we could have pardoned these blemishes, had we noticed them in any marked degree, much more easily than a certain tone, inflection, and manner, which uncomfortably reminded us of those of a third or fourth-rate Cockney actor telling stories at a free-and-easy supper table. It is not in comic passages, and in the presentation of low characters only that this is manifest: it pervades his whole readingthe narrative no less than the dialogue amid the dramatic passages. It sadly mars the enjoyment of his really admirable reading of his exquisitely-humorous works; and, joined to the external appearance and manner of the reader, it relieves us entirely of all concern that we might otherwise have felt in regard to the judgment he might form or express up6n our society. Sin, respect your dinner I says Thackeray, with mock solemnity, to his reader, in one of the most charming of his earlier Fi~aser Papems. It was a bit of advice, at all events, which that epicure took to his own heart, carrying his theory into practice for two score years. In America the m~nle is to respect nothimugdinner, of course, included. A magazine article on a dinner an American magazine article on a dinner! and not even on the mstiietics of it, but on the soup and the incA and time wine of itpooh I pooh I thor are trifling with us. Nevertheless, this topic of (linner is a vastly impertant one in America, where habitually is (lone, without doubt,

George E. Pond Pond, George E. American Dining 256-258

256 NEBULYF. more thickly gilt than we were before. We have grown vulgarly rich and rudely strong within the last twenty-five years ; but that is all. In any case, however, the point of our manners and our social tone is not the one on which, after seeing and hearing Mr. Dickens, we should be most anxious in regard to his Judgment. Stepping out from the seclusion of his study, Mr. Dickens has placed himself personally before us, and has offered us all, on pay- ing two dollars each, the opportunity of forming an opinion of him as well as of his writings. That opinion it is, we submit, quite proper for us to say is not such as leads us to accept the author of The Pickwick Papers as an authority upon manners, or an arbiter elegcuetiurn for any people. He is something higher and better than that, it is true; but that he is not. We were aware, of course, that Mr. Dickens, like many men of mark among our- selves, had been in his youth without the advantages of social culture; hut, judging by corresponding cases in this country, we supposed that in tIme po- sition to which his genius had raised him, and which he has held for twenty- five rears, lie must have acquired, if not by development, at least, by imita- tion, a certain tone and manner in which we find him entirely wanting. Mr. Dickens reads very wellunusually well, although, according to our taste and the best British authorities, with some serious faults of infiectiaii which we have not opportunity now for pointing cut in detail. His dramatic power is very greatnot greater than that of several story-tellers whom we have heard in private, but sufficient to have made him a great actor if lie had taken to the stage. We have, however, not heard of a single instance in which Mr. Dickens threw for his hearer a nmv light upon any one of his own creations; but of very many in which hiis presentation of his own per- sonages was found inferior to the ideal in the mind of his hearer. He succeeds notably wi th~ Mr. Winkle, Sergeant Buzfuz, old Weller, and Mr. Micawber; but he fails with Sam Weller, Captain Cuttle, and in all the characters of a higher grade of culture. The reason of the latter failure is to be found in defects which we have already noticed. We have heard Mr. Dickens voice spoken of as somewhat weak and husky; but we could have pardoned these blemishes, had we noticed them in any marked degree, much more easily than a certain tone, inflection, and manner, which uncomfortably reminded us of those of a third or fourth-rate Cockney actor telling stories at a free-and-easy supper table. It is not in comic passages, and in the presentation of low characters only that this is manifest: it pervades his whole readingthe narrative no less than the dialogue amid the dramatic passages. It sadly mars the enjoyment of his really admirable reading of his exquisitely-humorous works; and, joined to the external appearance and manner of the reader, it relieves us entirely of all concern that we might otherwise have felt in regard to the judgment he might form or express up6n our society. Sin, respect your dinner I says Thackeray, with mock solemnity, to his reader, in one of the most charming of his earlier Fi~aser Papems. It was a bit of advice, at all events, which that epicure took to his own heart, carrying his theory into practice for two score years. In America the m~nle is to respect nothimugdinner, of course, included. A magazine article on a dinner an American magazine article on a dinner! and not even on the mstiietics of it, but on the soup and the incA and time wine of itpooh I pooh I thor are trifling with us. Nevertheless, this topic of (linner is a vastly impertant one in America, where habitually is (lone, without doubt, NEBULA9~. 25~ the worst cooking in Cbristendom. The practical question is, how can a reform in cooking be effected? Culinary advice will not effect it; nor xviii appetizing descriptions of good dinners; nor new receipt books, of which some dozens have been published within a few years. Reform in cooking has reached the best city clnbs, and tbe houses of a few rich men who can afford it, and of the gourmands who live to eat. But how can better food, bet- ter cooked, and better served, be brought within the reach of private families of moderate incomes? The trouble is twofold. Excellent cooks are not to be had in sufficient numbers at any price; and, if to be had, what xvitlx their salaries, the numberless pots and pans they demand, and the hulk of raw material theere quire to operate on, his kitchen brings a man of modest gains to the verge of bankruptcy. Had all of us the means of a Vitellius or Lucullus, we might venture on their banquets. However, in the family at home, much reform is practicable in the cooking question, if we in America can only be brought to attend to it. But for that great and always growing class of people who hire houses fitted with hopeless kitchens, and that other class who vege- tate in hotels and boarding housesfor these we must have another remedy. In Rome, Venice, Dresden, Vienna, Berlinin fact, in all the leading Euro- pean cities where pleasant residence is a chief featureand in Paris, above all, the public restaurant plays the part of cook to the private family. This is a custom worthy to be copied in America on a grand and liberal scale. In Paris, for example, a little family of two or three, or four, have their rooms, or a floor. The kitchen is eliminatedso much rent saved, or another room gained. One servant, at least, the cook, is also saved from household expenses, as is the whole paraphernalia of kitchen furniture and utensils. The femose dc snfnage comes in, in the morning, to sweep and make the hed~ and before her has been the porteur deam, to bring water, make fires, and black boots. A score of families divide up the expenses of these servants, and the sum is light for each. Meals come in, hot and hot, and at the very minute, from neighboring restaurants, where they are prepared with a vari- ety and skill hopeless for any private family of moderate income to emulate. Such is the system needed on a high scale in New York and the chief cities of America. We have a few excellent restaurateurs in New Yorkforemost, we need not say, the famous Delmonicos, unsurpassed, in skill, if even equalled, anywhere in the world. The Pelmonicos come from a country famous for its cooks, the Italian cantons of Switzerland, and are illustrious even above their countrymen. More than half the pdtissiers of Florence, von find, on inquiry, to be Saisses (7;-isons. But there is space left for different organizations, outsi(le the sphere of the Delmonicos. We need restau?-axts which, in the first place, shall not be sofrightfullyexpensiveas theirs, not being intended, like Delmonicos, mainly for people of fortunes; and which, in the second place, shall be mainly devoted to furnishing to private houses their daily dinners, of such excellence and variety as it would be hopeless for them to attempt. That culinary sava7it, M. Blot, whose gastronomic genius has frequently corruscated on cooking questions in our GALAxY (and, in fact, gleams in the present number) is going to essay an enterprise of the sort here sketched. A joint-stock company furnishes the capital, and the professional skill and experience of M. Blot will insure its success. Fortunate they who get rid in this xvay of those supreme nuisances of housekeeping, bad cooking and bad servantsbad meals at bad boarding houses, bad dinners at home, in spite of heavy outlays of money and patience. ~58 NEBULAfl. Wiio was Gwendoline.? and when was she canonized? or in what collection can we find the Acts of her holy life? These questions at once suggest themselves to the reader of one of the most charming of the books of the past holiday season.* But there is no answer in the work itself; so that we can do no more than try to he content with this Legend cast upon our shores by that great tide-wave, which is ever rolling on toward the eternal throne, and bearing forward the good deeds of the blessed servants of God, in the full flow of love and sacrifice. Perhaps, after all, Saint Gwendoline was an imaginary person, and this legend is no more than an invention ; and if it should so turn out, the volume will not be less precious ; for the shadow, if shadow it be, has a correspondent substance in the world of realities; the image is a faithful copy, and the soul in which this ideal was born is familiar with the purest and best thoughts of the old Religion, and has caught its spirit and divined its power. In much, and probably in most, of the light literature of the day, there is a perceptible flavor of sensuality, a taint of materialism, which tells a bad story of the state of popular morals. It would seem that the public demand a seasoning of the vulgar, the voluptuous, before the palate can be satisfied if this be not afforded, they turn from the feast. Therefore, a pure, sweet story like this Legend appears t~ be out of place in this debased audde graded age; and for that very reason it is the more important that it should have been written and printed. In the midst of the pruriency and indecency of modern fiction, a book like this shines as a light in a dark place. The contrast is great, and therefore useful. What a bright lily, or other fresh, clean flower is in a chamber of loathsome sickness, such is Saint Gwendohine in the midst of the rouged, false, foul shapes who act as our heroines of romance. It is a page from the volume of that old Religion which is now all hut forgotten, and, by the multitude, despised and set at nought; the Religion whose grand ideas are Love and Sacrifice, and which teaches us, that to give up the hearts desire for Gods sake is not less laud- able, nay is more laudable, than to resign it for the sake of ones neighbor or for ones own advantage. It is the story of an earthdy affection renounced for a heavenly one; of rank, wealth, and influence devoted to the glory of him who divested himself of everything for us; of a crown and a future offered (strange to say!) on the altar of the Lord of Hosts instead of being given to a worldly hover; of a rebellious will utterly subdued by the presen- tation of the law of duty, and the command of Christ; of human devotion rewarded by signal favors from Heaven; of souls helped and saved through the example and the voluntary self-abnegation of another like unto them- selves. These are old ideas; they are not in harmony with modern religious notions, and still less in keeping with common practice; but one can hardly help feeling that, in losing sight of them, we have indeed incurred a grievous loss, and that we shouhd be a better and happier people if we could get them hack. The hardest of our social problems have their solution in the applica- tions of tIme ancient Catholic faith. Mr. Ehaingers illustrations are in full harmony with the character of the book; among them are some which show deep feeling and a true power. The Legend could not have a worthier inter- a preter. Altogether, it is a volume full of refreshment. After reading it, and studying the calm devotional pictures which author and artist set before us, in these brief pages, one is better and stronger, and the inner, spiritual * The Legend of St. Gwendoline, illustrated by J. W. Ehuinger. New York: G. P. Putnam & Co.

Morgan Dix Dix, Morgan The Legend of St. Gwendoline 258-259

~58 NEBULAfl. Wiio was Gwendoline.? and when was she canonized? or in what collection can we find the Acts of her holy life? These questions at once suggest themselves to the reader of one of the most charming of the books of the past holiday season.* But there is no answer in the work itself; so that we can do no more than try to he content with this Legend cast upon our shores by that great tide-wave, which is ever rolling on toward the eternal throne, and bearing forward the good deeds of the blessed servants of God, in the full flow of love and sacrifice. Perhaps, after all, Saint Gwendoline was an imaginary person, and this legend is no more than an invention ; and if it should so turn out, the volume will not be less precious ; for the shadow, if shadow it be, has a correspondent substance in the world of realities; the image is a faithful copy, and the soul in which this ideal was born is familiar with the purest and best thoughts of the old Religion, and has caught its spirit and divined its power. In much, and probably in most, of the light literature of the day, there is a perceptible flavor of sensuality, a taint of materialism, which tells a bad story of the state of popular morals. It would seem that the public demand a seasoning of the vulgar, the voluptuous, before the palate can be satisfied if this be not afforded, they turn from the feast. Therefore, a pure, sweet story like this Legend appears t~ be out of place in this debased audde graded age; and for that very reason it is the more important that it should have been written and printed. In the midst of the pruriency and indecency of modern fiction, a book like this shines as a light in a dark place. The contrast is great, and therefore useful. What a bright lily, or other fresh, clean flower is in a chamber of loathsome sickness, such is Saint Gwendohine in the midst of the rouged, false, foul shapes who act as our heroines of romance. It is a page from the volume of that old Religion which is now all hut forgotten, and, by the multitude, despised and set at nought; the Religion whose grand ideas are Love and Sacrifice, and which teaches us, that to give up the hearts desire for Gods sake is not less laud- able, nay is more laudable, than to resign it for the sake of ones neighbor or for ones own advantage. It is the story of an earthdy affection renounced for a heavenly one; of rank, wealth, and influence devoted to the glory of him who divested himself of everything for us; of a crown and a future offered (strange to say!) on the altar of the Lord of Hosts instead of being given to a worldly hover; of a rebellious will utterly subdued by the presen- tation of the law of duty, and the command of Christ; of human devotion rewarded by signal favors from Heaven; of souls helped and saved through the example and the voluntary self-abnegation of another like unto them- selves. These are old ideas; they are not in harmony with modern religious notions, and still less in keeping with common practice; but one can hardly help feeling that, in losing sight of them, we have indeed incurred a grievous loss, and that we shouhd be a better and happier people if we could get them hack. The hardest of our social problems have their solution in the applica- tions of tIme ancient Catholic faith. Mr. Ehaingers illustrations are in full harmony with the character of the book; among them are some which show deep feeling and a true power. The Legend could not have a worthier inter- a preter. Altogether, it is a volume full of refreshment. After reading it, and studying the calm devotional pictures which author and artist set before us, in these brief pages, one is better and stronger, and the inner, spiritual * The Legend of St. Gwendoline, illustrated by J. W. Ehuinger. New York: G. P. Putnam & Co. NEBULAIX 2.i9 life seems to be renewed. It is like hearing a sermon not one of the dull, hackneyed, commonplace sort, without life or warmth, but such a ser- mon as is preached to us by great Nature in her lonely places, or by ancient religious an in her glorious shrines and sanctuaries, or by a mans own con- sciousness to himself, when thoughts of life and immortality fill the heart, and lift the soul above the fever and passion of this fretful and transitory scene. APATIIY or confidence, which is it that this marvellous American people is showing while changes the most fundamental, the most momentous in their very system of government, are openly planned and almost carried into effect at Washington? A revolution is in progress, and yet the people go about their daily business as if the subject were merely under discussion in some well-known debating society. Gold goes up a little, helped by a heavy boost from the Bulls, but that is all; there is much interest, of morse, but no excitement, and, above all, no commotion. The like could not be attempted in the British Parliament or the French Chambers with- out turning London or Paris topsy-turvy. They have governing classes in Great Britain and in France, and the governed submit more or less quietly to their administration of the government. But we submit abso- lutely. We let the men who have made politics their trade, and who have bought, and wheedled, and intrigued themselves into Congress, not only administer our government, but at least attempt to subvert it, to change its very organic law, and at each new heave upon the lever, we rush, not to arms, but to bulletins, to see the price of gold. We see that this action is unconstitutional, we say that it is unconstitutional, the very leader in these measures declares in euphemistic phrase that the action is outside the Consti- tution; but we are supine, if not indifferent. We seem to say, It is the politicians business. If the boiler bursts, why we are only passengers. We are the governed, and we have a governing class, a class which makes governing its business, and to whose government we submit without a mur- mur, like other governed peoples. But our attitude of apathy or confidence suggests one reflection which is not cheering, which cannot increase our self- respect. We are thus quiet when the fundamental organization of our gov, eminent is threatened. But when the question of a dollar more or less excise on whiskey, of a cent or two more or less the pound on cotton, or on iron, of who shall be the ins and who the outs in the Post Office, the Cus- toms, or the Internal Revenue Offices, what thorough organization, what lively interest, what contribution of money, what rushing of committees to Washington, how the telegraphic wires thrill day and night with the agitat- ing subject! There is more commotion over the appointment of one tax gatherer than over a Congressional resolution which overrides or sets aside the Constitution, in virtue of which only is our national existence. We seem to think less of our political birthright than of a mess of pottage. SLEEP, which casuists tell us is the only condition in which we are without sin, seems to be a state that we are all of us ashamed of, and which many people appear to regard as little less than criminal. If it were not so, why should we regard our bed-chambers as such penetralia of privacy; or deny with an intensity approaching irritation, when discovered drowsing, that we have been asleep? Did you, reader, ever see any one who confessed himself asleep outside of his own chamber, even though he had been totally unconscious for hours, and snoring like a porpoise? We all think sleep dis

Junius Henri Browne Browne, Junius Henri Sinfulness of Sleep 259-260

NEBULAIX 2.i9 life seems to be renewed. It is like hearing a sermon not one of the dull, hackneyed, commonplace sort, without life or warmth, but such a ser- mon as is preached to us by great Nature in her lonely places, or by ancient religious an in her glorious shrines and sanctuaries, or by a mans own con- sciousness to himself, when thoughts of life and immortality fill the heart, and lift the soul above the fever and passion of this fretful and transitory scene. APATIIY or confidence, which is it that this marvellous American people is showing while changes the most fundamental, the most momentous in their very system of government, are openly planned and almost carried into effect at Washington? A revolution is in progress, and yet the people go about their daily business as if the subject were merely under discussion in some well-known debating society. Gold goes up a little, helped by a heavy boost from the Bulls, but that is all; there is much interest, of morse, but no excitement, and, above all, no commotion. The like could not be attempted in the British Parliament or the French Chambers with- out turning London or Paris topsy-turvy. They have governing classes in Great Britain and in France, and the governed submit more or less quietly to their administration of the government. But we submit abso- lutely. We let the men who have made politics their trade, and who have bought, and wheedled, and intrigued themselves into Congress, not only administer our government, but at least attempt to subvert it, to change its very organic law, and at each new heave upon the lever, we rush, not to arms, but to bulletins, to see the price of gold. We see that this action is unconstitutional, we say that it is unconstitutional, the very leader in these measures declares in euphemistic phrase that the action is outside the Consti- tution; but we are supine, if not indifferent. We seem to say, It is the politicians business. If the boiler bursts, why we are only passengers. We are the governed, and we have a governing class, a class which makes governing its business, and to whose government we submit without a mur- mur, like other governed peoples. But our attitude of apathy or confidence suggests one reflection which is not cheering, which cannot increase our self- respect. We are thus quiet when the fundamental organization of our gov, eminent is threatened. But when the question of a dollar more or less excise on whiskey, of a cent or two more or less the pound on cotton, or on iron, of who shall be the ins and who the outs in the Post Office, the Cus- toms, or the Internal Revenue Offices, what thorough organization, what lively interest, what contribution of money, what rushing of committees to Washington, how the telegraphic wires thrill day and night with the agitat- ing subject! There is more commotion over the appointment of one tax gatherer than over a Congressional resolution which overrides or sets aside the Constitution, in virtue of which only is our national existence. We seem to think less of our political birthright than of a mess of pottage. SLEEP, which casuists tell us is the only condition in which we are without sin, seems to be a state that we are all of us ashamed of, and which many people appear to regard as little less than criminal. If it were not so, why should we regard our bed-chambers as such penetralia of privacy; or deny with an intensity approaching irritation, when discovered drowsing, that we have been asleep? Did you, reader, ever see any one who confessed himself asleep outside of his own chamber, even though he had been totally unconscious for hours, and snoring like a porpoise? We all think sleep dis 200 NEBULIE. reputable, that is certain, which may explain the reason why early risers always consider themselves persons of superior virtue, and bully everybody who does not choose to get up when they do. All policemen and custodians of propriet.y deem it their duty not to let any mortal sleep in public on pain of being rudely and indignantly aroused. You mustnt sleep here K we have heard threateningly and violently uttered to quiet gentlemen at hotels, in theatres and the parks, as if they had actually committed not only a breach of the peace, but violated all the arficles of the Decalogue. And if the poor fellows drop off again they are treated as culprits to whom reform is impos- sible. This idiosyncrasy on the part of the preservers of morals and manners we have never quite fathomed. But we opine that our unwillingness to be found asleep lies in the fact that then we are off our guard, and in the power of the wakeful, and resent the imputation of doing what is likely to render us ridiculous by difference for the time being from our immediate cotempora- ries. THE great literary question of the day is, Who wrote Lock me to sleep, mother? upon which momentous subject a Mr. A. M. N. Ball has loaded himself into a book and fired himself off upon an unresisting. public and, not content with this cruelty, has rammed himself down very hard in the Tribune, and let himself off again, with the same purpose and with equal effect. Well, we have read Mr. Balls defence of his claim to the au- thorship of Lock me to sleep, mother ~ which amazing performance we had scarcely heard until we received this Ball in our brain, and which is a very nice little poem in the sentimental styleand without any inouledge of either himself or Mrs. Akers, or of the dispute as to the authorship in question, except Mr. Balls own statement and the testimony which he brings in to support his claim, upon that we decide without hesitation that, who- ever may have written Rock me to sleep, mother, Mr. Ball did not. Moreover, if he were the man to have written it, he would uot be the man to make such a fuss about it. it is right that Mr. Ball should be told that he has in this matter behaved very foolishly. IT is not generally known, we believe, that the story or history on which Shakespeare founded Macbeth, mentions Lady Macbeth as the wife of Duncan. The Thane of Cawdor was a frequent visitor to the castle of Duncan; and, as he was a brave soldier and a gallant and interesting gentle- man for that time, she fell in love with him. After a long intrigue she planned the murder of her lord, whom she had grown to hate; inspired Mac- beth with her idea by appealing to his ambition and passion, and so urged him to the bloody deed, in which she assisted. Such a plot, however, would have been too much like Hamlet, already written and produced on the stage; and Shakespeare, therefore, who was more an artist than has ever been shown, altered the original story for the sake of variety and to suit his own purpose.

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The Galaxy. / Volume 5, Issue 3 Atlantic monthly W. C. and F. P. Church, 1866-1868; | Sheldon and Company, 1868-1878. New York Mar 1868 0005 003
Mrs. Edwards Edwards, Mrs. Steve Lawrence, Yeoman 261-288

THE GALAXYQ MAXRCII, 1868. STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. By MRs. EDWARDS, Author of Archie Lovell. CHAPTER XLIT. RECONCILED. J~ HE morning on which Steven Lawrence met M. Barry and his J daughter in the Luxembourg gardens had, as I have said, com- menced an episode, destined to be no unimportant one, in his his- tory. Time pressed upon him heavily still. Was he not in a city, shut away within walls from the sight of trees and sky, from the winds of heavenabove all, from the sense of personal liberty which, to a man only half-tamed like Steven, was as the very breath of life itself? But, yet, each day as it passed was no longer an actual enemy to be drugged, got rid of at any cost, as in the time when accounts of his wifes balls, and when his own aimless wander- ings along streets and boulevards, had been his sole resource. The shallow little sarcasm by which Dot had sought to describe his intimacy with Mademoiselle Barry had (as is often the case with shallow sarcasms) a deeper significance than the speaker sup- posed. In a certain sense, the last three weeks had been educat- lug Steven Lawrence rapidlyeducating him as only the society of a refined and gifted woman can, perhaps, ever educate a man whom accident rather than incapacity has debarred from culture in his youth. Lingering by Mademoiselle Barrys side in the ~IEil de Bceuf at Versailles, or on the spot where the Bastille fell, he had had the story of the great revolution brought before him vividly, picturesquely, as no book-labor of his own could ever have brought it. Through her informal teaching he had been led to see that within cities, at easels, desks, looms, pale-faced men had lived, and might be living, lives nobler, manlier (if to help on human progress be manly) than those of land-tillers in Kent, or even of hunters in the wilderness. From lips to whom the theme was one of love, he had been taught dimly to discernhe, a Lawrence, and a Shilohite~ 17 202 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. what beauty shone from the Venus of Milo, the Magdnlen of \Teroncse, in the Louvre. In line, he had stood, with uncertain fcct as yet, upon the threshold of that world of intelligence and of art in which the girl herself lived. Dora was quite right. In three short weeks Mademoiselle Barrys influence had begun to educate ~ Steven Lawrence. To any softer feeling than friendship, even had Steven been a free man, it is more than doubtful that the intimacy would have led. Love is a passion so singularly-little dependent upon develop- ment of intelligence, or, indeed, upon mental process of any kind I Mademoiselle Barrys evident liking for himself touchedI will not say, with Dot, his vanitybut his gratitude; her voice, and face, and pretty feminine ways made their friendship an infinitely warmer one than any friendship that he could have felt for a man. He was sorry for her. With the instinctive sympathy all line natures know for each other, divined with what repugnance this sensitive, girlish heart must shrink from a life to which affection for her father bound her. Here, with gratitude, sympathy, pity, his feelings for her began and ended. Katharine Fane goes past him, si iling, on George Gordons arm; half-turns her face, blushing, softening (fairer than all pictures or marbles in all galleries of the world), and the old madnessthe sickening jealousy, the hopeless pain which yet holds in it a sweetness no pleasure can ever yield, is back upon him and poor little Mademoiselle Barry, forgotten Katharine Fanes influence had in very truth blotted his entire life for him; he owed his marriage to her; she had made no secret as to the side she took in his divided household; had asso- ciated with Doras associates, had lived Doras life, had never given him more than a cold bow, or colder word, since she came to Paris. But she had looked at him with softened, blushing face, with wistful pity in her eyes, now! And in a secon~f1, all the blessed Summer hours in Kentthe hour when he found her, the children in her arms, upon the waste; the hour when they were alone at sunset on the seaall the supremest golden hours of his love returned, in one great wave, across the yeomans heart, .and he forgave her. That story never could be finished, it seemed. That book must open at the same page to the end. For the first time since he had known them Steven was invited to dine at the Barrys house to-day. On former occasions he had either met them at the theatre to which they were going, or they had dined together first at a restaurant. But to-day was an excep- tional festivitygot up to celebrate Mademoiselle Barrys birth- day a grand affair of evening costume, and a premire loge do face, M. Barry said, putting his arm tenderly round his daughter -when she came in, dressed for dinner. Katie, child, you are STEVEN LAWRENCE~ YEOMAN. 263 looking charming I You will make quite a sensation at the Ohite- let tonight I Charlie Wentworth, of the Blues the infatuated loser, by Griselda Longs computation, of near upon a thousand poundsp- was the fourth member of the party, and broke out at once into such florid compliments as became his years and innocence. Steven was silent; and the girls quiet eyes thanked him. Her beautyik indeed, she it at allwa beauty that could never show to poorer advantage than amid the brilliant coloring, under the glare and gaslight of a theatreeven in speaking to his daughter, a too-palpable note of flattery made itself heard through every word II. Barry uttered. To-night her small, pale face was paler than usual; she was dressed in sober-gray silk, a black vail pinned, mantilla-fashion, in her hair, falling round her throat and shoulders, no ornament but a bouquet of flowers, Stevens birthday gift,inherhand. The enemy is only a plain, badly-dressed enemy, after all, Kate, remarked Mrs. Lawrence, when Mademoiselle Barry made her ap- pearance among the gorgeous toilettes and complexions at the ChAt- elet (a poor little, sensitive plant in a hot-house full of flaming, many-hued exotict9. What tastes some people have! You see them nearly opposite us? Papa and Mademoiselle decorously in front, and Charlie Wentworth, the victim to be slain, with my hus- band in the background I Having said which, Dot straightway forgot her husbands existence, and resigned herelf tothe pleasures the highest her nature knewof seeing half the glasses in the houpe directed to the DAbS Ataglaiee, the fancy, the fashion of the hour; and of listening to the soul-thrilling platitudes of Mr. Clar- endon Whyteor any other worshipper; this to Dot was a matter of merest detail, who might be near her during the remainder of the evening. Who is that English lady who looks at our box so often? said Mademoiselle Barry, turning round, when the first act was nearly over, to Steven. The lady in white, and with a white, flower in her hair. She looks like the same person who bowed to youin the gallery this morning. And so she is, answered Steve; absently. flat lady is Miss Fane, a Menda distant connection, I would sayof ours. And the little girl with the fair hair and great dark eyes? The little girl is Ms Lawrence. Youryour- My wife; said Steve; with rather a short laugh. Ah, Mad- emoiselle you never knew before that I had the happiness of being married? Witkwt answering a word Mademoiselle Barry turned away and resumed her contemplation of the lamplit gardeuscene upon 264 5TEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. which the curtain was about to falla scene replete with those cunning effects of light and shade, those exquisitely-contrasted groups in which the fairy pieces of the Ch~telet excel, and which (whatever may be said of their worth, intellectually) must always possess a certain charm, a certain practical value, to an artists eyes. Her eyes must be dim to-night, the poor child thought. She had worked too late in the gallery this afternoon, oror the gas pained her, for stage and audience alike, darkened boxes, and fairy palace, gai~den, lit with its hundred lamps, swam before her in a sort of mist. Exert yourself to talk a little, said her father in her ear, the affectionate, genial expression on his face, but a tone his daugh- tcr understood in his whisper, Lawrence has left the box already, and the other is not to go awaydo you hear? Then aloud, You look pale; you find the house too warm for you, my Katie; and as he said this M. Barry rose and opened the door of the box. Mr. Wentworth, will you give my daughter your arm? We shall have time to take a few turns in the foyer before the begin- ning of the next act. The foyer of the Chatelet, opening out many-windowed upon its broad stone balcony, was thronged, for to-night was the first ap- pearance this Winter of Irma Mari6, and the world of Paris had gone in full dress to see her. Close beside the central opening to the boxes stood a group of Englishwomen~Mademoi5elle Barrys eyes lighted on them in an instantDora Laxvrence, Katharine Fane, Grizelda Long, with a crowd of young men, English and French, fluttering around-old Grizelda, herself noteworthy for an hour, as the companion of Wi belle ~ Leaning on Charlie XVent- worths arm, and her father by her side, Mademoiselle Barry walked up and down before them several times (enduring much severe scrutiny from the phantom eyes of Miss Long and the superbly-contemptuous eye-glass of Mr. Whyte), and at last, just as the bell was ringing for the second act, Steven came up directly in the presence of his wife and his wifes friends, and spoke to her. Why, Lawrence, I thought we had lost you! cried M. Barry, putting his hand, with friendly familiarity, upoii Stevens shoulder. I was just saying to Katie I was afraid you had grown tired of us and gone away. Not at all, answered Steven. I have only been getting a breath of fresh air on the balcony outside, and And he started, hearing his own name spoken close behind him, and turning, found liitn~e1f face to facc with Katbarine Fane. I want to speak to you, she said, looking up at him earnestly. Can you spare mc five minutes? I will not detain you longer from your fyiends ~, STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 265 Steven stopped, of course, and Mademoiselle Barry, with a half bow and a just perceptible increase of color upon her face, walked on with her father and Charlie Wentworth in the direction of their box. I wanted so much to speak to you! Katharine repeated; andand Dora and I thought perhaps you would not be angry if I interrupted yol4just for a minute or two. Will you forgive me? And before he could answer, her hand, all in a tremble, rested on his arm. They had never been alone together since they rode back last through the December twilight from the hunting-field; and, in- voluntarily, the heart of eachhere amid the artificial glitter, the brocades, the diamond-dust, the patchouli, of this Parisian crowd went back to Clithero! To a road across a dusky moorland; to lanes fresh with the Wintry smell of new-ploughed earth; to a shadowy avenue with dead leaves faintly rustling in the boughs above . . - I thought you never meant to speak to me any more! said Katharine, very low. And, How could I tell what nnswer you would give me if I did? was Stevens reply. Only this: not another word of explanation; yet they were reconciled. Dot, who was returning to her box on the arm of Mr. Clarendon Whvte, looked hack at them with a friendly little nod and smile, thea disappeared in the crowd. CHAPTER XLIII. PAlMS BY LAMPLIGHT. IT was a brilliant Winter nicht. Cloudless and white with stars quivered the frozen sky above the lamplit glare, the noisy turmoil of the great city: the atmosphere was intensely clear: a sprinkle of new-fallen snow showed forth in sharpest relief the living phan- tasmagoria of horses, carriages and men that swept in one ever- changing, ever-monotonous stream across the Place of the Chatelet. A different world from Clithero! said Katharine, after a long silence. how will you and Dot ever be able to go back to our dull village life after the excitement both of you have been going through here? Dora must answer for herself, was Stevens reply. The only really happy hour of my Paris experiences will be the one in which I find myself starting hack toward Ashcot. You must know this, he added. You must know pretty well what kind of excitement this shut-in city life can be to me. They were standing, side by side, upon the balcony of the Chat- elet; deserted, now that the performance had begun, by all but themselves; and Katharines hand had rested, till this instant, upon Stevens arm. She took it hastily away. Papa and I have been 200 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. here more than a week, Mr. Lawrence, and have scarcely seen you yet! If you find no excitement in P~ris, it seems to me that you have at least plenty of engagements, of friends a cruel little em- phasis on that word to fiil up your time. My en~a~ements, said Steven, consist in loitering through picture galleries (as you saw inc to-day) or idling through the streets of a morning. My friends are M. Barry and his daughter. TI I had thought you wanted me, I should have been with you every day since you have been here. But you have not wanted me, Miss Katharine, and you have shown it! There was no more possibility now than there had ever been of talking to Steven with the enigmatic circumlocution of good breed- ing, so Katharine found herself constrained t.o speak out. And because webecause you have wrongly fancied that we did not wish to see you, has that been a reason why you should visit our misdeeds npon poor little Dot? a reason why you should spend your life with these persons at whose side I have twice seen you to-day? If we have not striven to compete with them, sirif I hare been cold to you when by chance we have metit has been It has been? said Steven, as she hesitated. Let me hear, please, what accusation you have to bring against me. Mv accusation is, that you dont care for I)ot as you ought! cried Miss Fane. You have not been married four months, you are bride and brideg-room still, and yet you are never together, and you let Dot go where she chooses, and you spend your own time with people who are unxvorthy of you. Then she stopped short. Those are three accusations, not one, said Steven, and my conscience acquits me on all of them. I care for Il)oraas I always did; I let her go where she chooses because I have not the power to constrain her, and I spend my time at present with a person very much more than worthy of inc. With M. Barry, that is to say? No, with MI. Barrys daughter, answered Steven, quietly. M. Barry and I find no more to say to each other now than on the first day of our acquaintance. I-Ic is a man whose life has been passed within wallshas never handled a gun or ridden across country in his life! has no interest beyond the gossip of the news- papers or the pavementbow the Emperor looked to-day, what Bismnark is reported by private telegram to have said yesterday And what victims M. Barry, himselg is likely to have at bac- carat and ~ ci rt~ in the evening, interrupted Katharine. Steven, if we are to talk to each other at all, let it be as we have always talkedfrankly. You have told me, you know, that while you lived you would always speak the truth, and only the truth, to STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 267 me. Of your friend, Mademoiselle Barry, I knowI wish to know nothing. Of the father, I hear about as bad things as it is possible to hear said of a man, and, for our friendships sake her voice changed a little I warn you about him. Dont be seen with M. Barry any more, dont go to his house again. It was for this I wanted to speak to you. Come back with Dot and me and see lapa this evening, instead of remaining with the Barrys. Now I askI beg this of you as a favor to myself. Will you refuse me? I have no right, I feel, to advise you, she went on, as Steven did not answer; no right to request anything of you now. Once, long ago, I think, perhaps, you would not have refused a request of minebut that time is over. I know very well that it is not I who ought to be saying this to you now, but Dora and you live divided lives, and so I thoughtthought you would forgive me at least if I spoke! People are saying things I cannot bear to hear about your intimacy with M. Barry; and what we want is that you should go back to England at once, and let papa and me bring Dot with us. At all events, dont go to their house any more promise me you wont? Dont even be seen again in their box to-night? For a minute Steven stood irresolute. Ask me anything else, he said, at length. I will go back to England when you choose to-morrowonly too gladly. I am engaged, have been engaged for days, to spend this evening at M. Barrys house. Mademoiselle Barry is the only friend Ive made in Paris, remember; and, even with your l)idding me, I dont see how I could pay back her kind- ness with discourtesy at the last ! Oh, as you choose, said Katharine, grown frigid in an instant at Stevens kindly mention of the enemy. I see that I over-esti- mated the influence an old friendship might have over you still! But at least I have done what Dora wished in warning you. M. Barry is spoken of openly as an adventurer and a card-sharper. At any hour may be exposed, they say, with his frie~c~s, by the police. Remain his associate or not, as you choose. Perhaps you will take me back to poor Dora now. I have kept you too long already from the society that gives you pleasure. She put her hand within his arm again. The touch, cold and distant though it was, thrilled through Stevens heart. Tell me what I am to do, be exclaimed, and you know that I will obey you. What are the Barryswhat is all the world, compared to the chance of losing you? I am not to speak to Mademoiselle Barry any more? Very well. She will call me unmannerly, un- grateful, with justice. So long as von forgive me, wilt let me be with you, what does it matter? L~s LaneKatharine, shall we go back to the days when I used to walk with you in Summer? Nonot to those, Im a fool, I dont know what Im sayingto 263 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN that last night when I rode back with you from Stourmouth to the Dene. You have not forgotten it? We can go back to nothing, said Katharine, very low. Every day of our lives dies with all its folly, and is buried as it passes. Anti tis best so. Im not the same Katharine Fane who walked with yon in Summer, you must know ! She tried, with indiffercat success, to laugh. I have grown older and wiser, curcd, I hope, of some of my faults even ! Then Oh ! Steven, with a suci- den outburst of repentance, she cried, I was wrong ! I spoke un- justly in what I said just nowforgive me. You will return home with Dot and me to our hotel; but, of course, you must go and say good-by to Mademoiselle Barry. I was unjusthave been a little unjust toward von, I think, in my heart, ever since we came to Paris, a ad I repent of it! I ask you to forgive me. All I claim all I can ever claimis a sisters right, remember, to care for your happiness and for Dora~ s. Happiness! repeated Steven, under his breath, ah ! that is a word I have no call to think about now. When happiness does come to me it is by snatches like thisten minutes, after weeks of such a life as mine has been since I saw you last! Sometimes I think, he went on, that people like Clarendon Whyte, or poor little Dora~, have the best of it. Coats and waistcoats make the one happy, silks and ribbons and her mock-fine brougham the other. And they dress and drive, and dance, and know neither deeper pains nor higher pleasures till they die! Pity she married me! he criedall this more as if he were unconsciously speaking aloud than addressing Katharine she would have been happier with any other man than with me, and, but for her, I would have sold the farm, and gone back to old Klaus in the backwoods, the only life suited to me, long agO. Gone back to the woods! rcpeated Katharine. Sold Ash- cot! Oh, you know very well you are not saying this in earnest. As if Asheot would ever pass away from the hands of the Law- rences If I had not married it would have passed from mine, said Steven. When I came home from America I had set one hope, one desire, before jny eyes, and, if I had gained that, life on the old farm, hard as it is for a man to get a living out of his land, would have made me more than contented. As it is As it is you have your work, you have yonrsclf to think of, just time same ! interrupted Katharine. Should a man let his life be spoiled through one misadventure, the shipwreck of one foolish hope? Does any of us possess exactly what we once dreamed in his blindness would have suited him? In time Dora and you will grow more like of mind than you arc now. She will go STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 269 backpoor little Dotstronger to endure the country after the tonic of all this Paris gaycty, and then A burst of military stage music, a tumultuous clapping of hands, reached them at the instant from the interior of the theatre. Some jest of Hurluberlas, some misadventure of Jolicocos, in the fairy piece, setting all its Parisian spectators into childish ecstacies of amusement. While we live our lives will be as much apart as our thoughts are at this moment, said Steven, calmly. And, for Dora cer- tainly, the best thing that could happen would be for me to go back even now to the woods, and to my old mate there. A man of my age is too old to educate. There is the truth of it. Only one influence could ever have altered me, and that Ive missed. The story is told. I thought Mademoiselle Barry had been educating you, as you call it, said Katharine. I thought, from what Dot told me, that you were beginning to care for pictures and statues, and~his- torical associations, and I know not what beside, under Mademoi- selle Barrys influence? Mademoiselle Barry has taught me enough to show me that I know nothing, answered Steven. Enough to make me see, as I never did before, my proper place in the world. Miss Katharine, he turned to her abruply, why did you never teach me how ig- norant I was? With Mademoiselle Barry I feel at every minute how much other men have read and thought, and done. With you With me you certainly were never made to feel that! said Katharine, quickly. I am too stupid, have read too little my- self; ever to make another person conscious of his intellectual de- fects. With you, he answered, I felt that I, Steven Lawrence, could becomejust what Katharine Fane chose to make of me! That was part of my madness. I was ignorant, and yethow was it? five minutes of that ignorance seemed to raise rue higher than all the learning I can go through again while I live? M. Barry looked up as Steven entered the box with all his ac- customed obsequious friendliness, making room for him at once behind his daughters chair. I was only waiting for your return to to, whispered the girl, as Steven leaned forward to address her. Poor Papa thought it would be such a treat for me to go to the theatre, for once, like a grand lady, in a box on the first tier, but no performance has ever given me so little pleasure as Cendril- Ion. Papa, when you are ready, I am. If we leave at once we shall be able to get out before the crush begins. She rose, drew her mantilla close round her tired, pale face, then 2~O STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. leaningfor the last time in her lifeon Steven Lawrence s arm; Charlie Weutwortli in keeping of M. Barry in front; left the box. You return with us, I suppose? she said to Steven, when they bad walked together for a minute in silence. M. de Vitron, the Chevalier, and half a dozen others are coming to do honor to my l)irthday. A palpably bitter tone enterino- her voice at the word honor. Im afraid I shall have to say good-bye to you at the door of the theatre, answered Steven. By to-morrow evening I find that I shall be able to start for England, and to-night I must return home early. Ah, Mademoiselle, he added, how shall I ever thank you enough for your kindness, for the good you have done me dur- ing the last three weeks? She lifted her eyes, the honest, girlish eyes, quite steadily to his. What does this mean? she said. What have you heard about us? Tell meI would rather hear it from your lips, and now! Dont be afraid of hurting me. You will do me a greater favor by speaking frankly than by silence, I assure you. I have heard, said Steven, gravely, xvhat concerns myself, and myself alone, and while I live I shall remember your kindness to me with gratitude. Perfect respect, a great, a chivalrous gentleness was in his voice; but the blood flushed up in a hot tide over Mademoiselle Barrys face. And Papa? Shall you remember Papa as you will me? I would rather not be well thought of by any one who would not think the same of him. If I had known you longer, she went on, hurriedly, I would have told you more of the troubles of poor Papas lifehis poverty, his ill-fortunethings that the world will never know, would never take into accountbut you would have believed me if I had told them to you? I should believe you as I would believe my own soul, said Steven, pressing the poor little hand that trembled on his arm, and I shall remember your father simply as I have fonud him. Of that you may rest assured. Thank you. I have been very glad to know you, Mr. Law- rence! We have spent some pleasant hours together, havent we? Whatever may be true of others, you have not been very much the woi-se, remember, for knowing us, andand; in a frightened whisper this; I am glad, more glad than I can tell you, that you are not coming back to our house to-night. If I had dared I would have told you before not to come, but I was too much ashamed, andwell, no matter. Its all over now. Papa dear; they were at the door of the theatre, and as she spoke she quitted Steven and went over fondly, bravely, to her fathers side; Mr. Lawrence finds~ he cannot come back with us to-night. lIe has got some un- expected news, and returns to England to-morrow. STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 271 For an instant an expression, such as Steven had once or twice already seen at the card-table, disturbed the equanimity of the Irishmans handsome face. It lasted an instant only. Then re- membering young Weatwortlis presencetouched, perhaps, by the piteous quiver of his daughters lipsM. Barry held out his hand to Steven, wished him good-bye, hoped they would meet again; at all eventsif there would really be no time for leave-taking to- i rrow? their good friend must promise to write. Katie was a capital correspondent; a letter addressed to them, poste restante, Paris, would reach them anywhere. A minute later, and father and d~ ughter, Charlie Wentworth in close attendance, were walk- ing away, across the snow-covered pavement, toward a stand of carriages, about fifty yards distant down the boulevard. Steven stood and watched Mademoiselle Barrys figure until it wa~ lostwith a feeling of genuine regret he recognized thislost forever out of his sight; then turned, lighter in spirit than he had been for weeks past, and made his way quickly toward Doras box. And l~ recisely at this moment, hidden back in the corner of a fiacre, a l)oor little girl is breaking her heart for him; hot tears are cours- ing each other down a pair of childish cheeks; two feverish hands clasp some flowersStevens birthday-gift, already fadednpon a hopeless, eighteen-year-old breast! So men and women part from each other every day. To one an acquaintance has been a pleasant episode; to the other, a begin- ning and an end, a tide-mark, after sinking from whose level life shall stagnate on, dull and sunless to the end. If, instead of the neatly-rounded, reciprocal passions of three-volume fiction, the crude, ~iijinished love-stories of all hearts could be made known, I wonder which of the worlds imperial libraries would have space to hold the romances that might be written? Nothing could be prettier than Dots smile of welcome to her husband when he came round to her box. What! all going back together to drink tea with Uncle Frank? How delightful! how incomparably better than any of those vapid, monotonous chain- pazne-suppers she had grown so weary of! The Phantom and Mr. Clarendon Whyte were obliged to go their own road when the party divided at the door of the theatre; the fbrmer bearino Mrs Lawrences excuses to Lady Sarah Adair, who, it seemed, had some kind of friendly reception (was it a rehearsal?) to-night. Receptions, balls, what do I care for them? says Dot, as she sits by the fire, drinking her tea, and believing from her inmost soul in this part of domestic virtue that she is acting. Dear Uncle Frank, this is the happiest evening, really, that I have spent since I left Chithero? Steven saved out of the hands of the Philis- tines (and M. Barry has a wicked face, Steven; I watched him, 272 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. particularly, through my opera-glasses), and our return home com- fortably settled, and everything. I feel that I shall never want to leave Asheot againor not for a year, at least. Paris is very well. It would be insincerity for me to say I dont like Paris, hut home is better. What will Barbara say when she sees us? I must buy a plain stuff gown for her as I go through Londonif I searched Paris I should find no fit present for Barbaraand dear Aunt Arabella! how good to think that this day week we may be all sitting round the fire together, at the Dene. With Mrs. Lawrence in these admirable dispositions, the plans for return were easily settled. Kate, of course, said the Squire, must stay in Paris a day or two longer to see Lord Petresjust allowing Dora time to pack up her thousand and one dresses, and say good-bye to her friendsbut there could be no reason why Steven might not start at once, in order to have things ready for her at Ashcot. And so, Dot having interposed a parenthesis of re- gret about her husband travelling alone, it was finally arranged Steven should go by to-morrow nights tidal train (it would leave Paris at half-past seven, said Dot, thereby proving herselg to every ones surprise, well versed in the dc~ails of Bradshaw), and the rest of the party follow, if Doras leave-taking and bill-paying were completed, on Saturday. And now, cried Mrs. Lawrence, looking with a little yawn at the timt-piece, and putting her hand affectionately on Stevens shoulder, it is quite time for us to go. half-past eleven! We must begin to get ourselves out of these horrible dissipated city hours she had not got to her bed before three, at earliest, for many weeks past and I must be up early to-morrow to pack Stevens things. Ah, how stran~e it will seem to be alone, even for a day, in this big, big Paris without him Mr. Hilliard offered, as a matter of course, to send out fora flacre; but of this piece of extravagance Mrs. Lawrence would not hear. Was not her opera-cloak hooded, a.ud lined with swans- down? had she not overshoes? had not her extravagance, her fool- ish extravaoanceshe was ready to own her faultsalready led into more than enough expense? No, not if Uncle Frank paid for the carriage, would Mrs. Lawrence do anything but walk. It was the pr~nc~p1e of economy which she meant from this hour forth to cultivate. The night was fine, the ground hard. It would be a treat, a treat! cried Dot, the tears rising in her eyes, to have this starlight walkthe last walk, most likely, that she would take in Parisalone with Steven. She hung fondly upon his arm; she prattled, as they walked along, about Barbara and Asheot, and how Steven was to have the parlor arranged (if possible, see about that long-talked-of piano from Canterbury), and what there must be for breakfast on the STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 273 mormn~ of her arrival. And all this time the blue and silver dress, the triumphs of to-morrow night, floated like celestial visions before her brain. Fate, she felt, had smiled upon her efforts. She had managed everyt1~ii~g excellently. Steven was to go to-morrow, saved by her agency from the clutches of those Irish adventurers! She would slip quietly ofi nobody the wiser, to her ball a couple of hours or so after his departureand thengood-bye to Paris, and to toilets, and to Clarendon Whyte! Good-bye to life, and back to Asheot, where she must try to endure existence, try, even, to be a better wife to this poor, confiding Steven, if she can. Cl~nQing tight to the strong arm that upheld her, Mrs. Lawrence tripped, as fast as her little feet would carry her, along the frozeii snowthinking all this, yet still not without remorse for the part she was forced to play stirring at intervals in her morsel of a con- science. If Steven had but been less prejudiced, she mused, re- ~rctfuhly. I-lad let inc accept the invitation openly, offered to go with me, behaved in any way like a reasonable being, how much I should have been saved! The falsehoods half the world tells are due, Im certain, if we could look into the causes of things, to the mistaken prejudices of the othe4 half! So Dora moralized. ChAPTER XLIV. LADY SARAHS MASQUERADE. ALL the next day she kept discreetly within doors and denied herself to visitors. How could she care to talk to strangers on this last day her Steven would be with her? She spoke of their separation as if it were to last for months rather than days; insisted upon packing his portmanteau with her own hands; upon seeing to his buttonsBarbara should not be able to say she had had no time for useful work in Paris! as evening drew on came often to his side, clung to him, kissed him with a warmth that Steven, hereaft& r, held to be the blackest proof of her guilt. it was all i)lanned, lie would say bitterly. In heart she had betrayed me already, and, Judas-like, sealed the betrayal with a kiss. A better woman would have had self-respect enoegh to avoid that part of the business, at least. And yet Dora, in very truth, throughout that day had no guiltier dreams than of blue taffetas, silver cord, and velvet, in her heart! Steven was leaving her free; and she was glad: Steven was being deceived, and she was sorry. And, weakly waveriinr she had not weight for vigorous oscillationbetween these two emotions, she packed his portmanteau or sewed on his buttons one minute; then clung to him, kissed him, tried to hope, even if she were found out, he would not be very angry with her for her false- 274 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. hood, at the next. And then Dot must act, in whatever situation of life she was placednecessity impossible to a man like Steven to recognizemust pose and think of effect, even with no larger audience than herself. Going about from room to room with pale cheeks and straight hair (the hairdresser was ordered for nine), sewing on buttons; jumping up and down on portmanteaus to make them lock; embracing Steven, asking his forgixre ness for her extravagances . . . in all this Dora was but enacting her small version of the kind of domestic repentance she had so often seen on the Parisian stage, to the best of her ability. And what shall you do with yourself this evening? asked Steven, as she clung to his hand at parting. Order a carriage and go round to the Hotel Rivoli, I hope. You will be moped to death sitting here alone by yonrself. Iif I feel better perhaps I may go out! said Dot, with downcast eyes. At present, all I feel inclined for is a good long cry, and then put my head upon my pillow and rest. In saying which she spoke for the moment, absolute truth. As tears, however, would have had the effect of spoiling her looks, she kept them heroically back ; contenting herself with standino for full five minutes at the window from whence she had watched the fiacre bear her hu~band away through the lamplight; after this, instead of resting her head upon her pillow, consigned it to the hands of M. Alphonse, from whence, at the end of three-quarters of an hour, it emerged ,fris~e, gold-powdered, radiant under its little velvet toquet. U)me belle et gracieuse tate dc Rubens, sai(1 M. Alphonse, stepping back awl clasping admiring hands before his work, for M. Alphonse was a man of artistic culture. Whei~eupon Mademoiselle Aglah and the n~ nad cry, Oul, Oum, superbe, magn~fique! in adinirina chorus and Doras hnshand Doras last faint qualms of conscience, nrc forgotten. The first ronud of applause, no matter whether from the gallery or the stalls, has reached the ears of the actress, n nd everythin~ belong- ing to the world without, the world of actual dnll reality, beyond the rouge and gold dust and footlights in which her soul delights, has passed away. At half ten came a rmnO at the door of the apartment, and past Grizelda Long, cloaked and hooded, entered the little disordered salon, where, ~three or four minutes later, Mrs. Lawrence jo:nel ncr Bring in a light, ~~gla~, cried Dot. Tni.n on the ras ml et us see how we look reflected f4omn all the different glasses. Gi 1/C hI dear, take off your cloak, and let us see you. Oh! . nice, indeed! Now, how do you like my dress? Do ~ on thniw the most malicious person could say that there was anythin~ wrnlIo- in my wearing it? Mademoiselle Agla~ had by this tinie turned on the gas, and Dot STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 275 stood directly under its light before one of the long console glasses which lined the walls of the salon. It would be difli cult to imagine a moic charming picture than the little creature made, in the long- coveted blue and silver of her page dress. iJer tiny hands and feet, her short, fair hair, her little, round throat, might have be- longed, in truth, to the child of twelve she was designed to per- sonify; and her face, with its marvellous white-and-pink complexion mid lnstrons, dark eyes, seemed to have gained a freshness, a bizarre grace under this boyish travesty, that even the critical eyes of Grizelda Long could not but recognize. You look very well, my dear; and, of course, the propriety or non-1)ropriet y of wearino such a dress must, as I told fom the you first, depend upon ones own moral sense. I dont know that I would have worn it myselg but then you see my dear mother brought u~ up so austerely! (At odd times the Phantom would throw out these vague claims to huir~au kinship). So very aus- terely, and I myself have such a dread of men ever thinking a wo- man unfeminine! And upon this Grizeldas great eyes stole to the reflection of herself in the glass with an expression of kittenish modesty that Dot took off to the life an hour or txvo later with three or four appreciating friends for audience, and Lady Sarah Adairs boudoir for a stage. The subject of Grizeldas probable costume had been one freely discussed among Grizeldas friends during the past fortnight. Miss Miggs, Mrs. Squeers, one of the Witches in Macbeth, the veiled Prophet, the Wandering Jewthese are a few only out of the varied r~pertoire which Dora, Mr. Clarendon Whyte, and others of Grizeldas more intimate friends had made out for her. And in what costume is it to be 5n1)posed Grizelda had arrayed herself? As a B~rg?ire d Ut TKttteauto use the correct technicality of the milli- ners! Her poor sparse hairs combed up from her gaunt temples, plastered, powdered, surmounted by a tiny hat, encircled with rose- buds; her thin arms bared to the elbows; her dress of brocaded silk looped so as to show her poor old feet and ankles, ill-adj~isted rouee heightening the angularity of her cheeks ; a patch coquet- tishly set at the spot where a dimple should have beenbut was not. In this guise was a woman to whom the world was no stage, but bitterest realitya woman who must pinch herself for months to conic to pay for all these gewgawsgoing to present herself be- fore two hundred and fifty spectators at a Parisian masquerade. Your husband is gone, I conclude Y she remarked, whenDot wrapped from head to foot in a cloakthey were driving rapidly along the Champs Elysbes. Mr. Lawrence has been able to tear hhnself from his friends, the Barrys, at last? Yes, he is gone, said Dot; he left before I began to dress, to go by the half-past-seven train, and I amto follow with my uncle and 276 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. cousin in a day or two. Ah! heaveii! Grizelda, she exclaimed, as a horrible possibility for the first time struck her, if heif Steven was to he too late! He said something about our clock being all wrong just before he left. Dots heart beat quick under her spangled satin doublet. She put her face close to the window, gazing out, with a sort of child- isli horror, upon every carriage that passed her on the road. If if Steven was to be too late? she murmured, under her breath. Well, and what if he was? said Grizelda, sharply. At the moment when she and Dot stood, side by side, under the light, a sense, such as she had never felt before, of Mrs. Lawrences levity had entered Grizeldas soul. I hope you dont mean to say you are ashamed of what you are doing? If Mr. Lawrence did miss the tram, and find that you had been to a ball at one of the best houses in Paris, what dreadful harm would be done? lie would kill me, I think. Just that, said Dot. If he saw me in this dress he would kill inc. A cheerful suggestion! said Grizelda, laughing the Phantom laugh. My dearest Dora, why in the world didnt you come as Fatima? It would have been much the fittest character for the wife of such a Bluebeard. I wish I hadnt come at all, said Dora. I wish I was with Steven. I wish But just then their carriage stopped before the entrance of Lady Sarah Adairs house; she heard the distant sound of a waltz, saw the quick-moving shadows that floated to and fro across the win- dows of the ball-room on the first floorand once again Steven, and her own remorse for the part of folly that she was playing, were forgotten. It was now close upon eleven oclock; amid, precisely as Maria de Medicis and her page floated, amId murmurs of applause, into the ball-room, Steven Lawrence was walking home to his lodgings in the Champs Elys& s. lie had been one minute too late for the trainan untoward mischance, brought about chiefly by Doras unconqerable emotion at parting from himand, finding that the earliest train by which he could start would be the Calais mail next moriming, had left his luggage at the terminus, and walked quietly back to spend the evening at the Hotel de Rivoli. Dora he fully thought to meet therefor it was impossible to him to believe in her intention of spending an evening alone, and in tearsbut Dora, as you know, had other employment on hand. Expecting, how- ever, that she would appear before long, the Squire made Steven sit down and play draughts with him beside the fire; Katharine opposite them, with her embroidery; and in this quiet fashion, with cheerful talk of plans for the approaching Spring at Clithero, the evening passed quickly by. At eleven Steven rose and took his STEVEN JLAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 2~7 leave. It was evident, after all, that Doras headache had been no feigiied oneevident that she had, indeed, condemned herself; voluntarily, to spend an evening in her own society; and as he walked along the Champs Elys6es, on his way home, Stevens heart softened at the remembrance of her face as he had last seen it disconsolately leaning over the head of the stairs to watch his de- partuic! He thought how he would go in quietly to her room, watch that tear-stained face a minute upon its pillow, then hear her childish babble of surprise and pleasure as she awoke, and heard him tell the story of his stupidity in missing the train. And even as he thought this, reached the door of his house, and gave ~ gentle, monosyllabic ring at the outer bell. The porter admitted him without question, as usual, and Steven ran three steps at a time up to the entresol, where, after some min- utes delay, the old French servant, sleepy-eyed, and with her cotton handkerchief tied away on the top of her head, opened about three inches of the door and peered out at him. Monsieur! she cried, almost dropping the hastily-lighted ]amp oat of her hand. JIfais ]Jfonsieur est d~jd de retour Y Steven passed by her into the little, dark drawing-room, and the mcenad, following on his heels, lit one of the gas-burners from her own lamp, then retired outside to listen. Mademoiselle Agla~ was sufficiently in her mistresss counsels to know that Monsieur was ignorant of the projected masquerade. Mademoiselle Agla~ and the menad had talked the matter over, with freest expansion of sentiment, with amplest gloze of French coloring respecting cause and elfect. And nownow it was evident to the mcenad mind the catastrophe had arrived! Monsieur departs on his journey; Madame departs to her amusements; Monsieur returns unexpectedly, and paff! says the mcenad half aloud, and with a little snap of her black fingers, tis finished. Would he rage, explode with the got dams, the violence of his barbaric nation, or what? lie laid down his hat, walked quietly up to the cold hearth, and stood there. The drawing-room, as I have before said, opened into Doras bedroom; the door of communication stood an inch or so open, and Steven felthis senses gave him as yet no evidence one way or the otherthat his wife was not there. As usual, the salon bore evidence of having been made to serve as a dressing-room. A tiny slipper lay here, a glove, a morsel of ribbon, a shred of silve cord, there; the mingled odors of half a dozen unguents and essences made the air oppressive as the air of a barbers shop. He stood quiet for more than a minute; then, instead of going into the bedroom at once, walked across the salon half-whistling and with his hands thrust into his pockets, and began to examine a picture which he must have seen a hundred times before, that hung nvon 18 78 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. the opposite wall. It was a French line engraving of the good old vapid school of Regnault and VedaL A lady in classically-sparse drapery, simpering, with downcast face, over an open letter that she holds ia her hand, while with the other she caresses a simpering lap-dog; a servant-woman looking over her shoulder, simpering; a page, his face half in light, half in shadow, simpering at the door; fruits and flowers upon the tapestry-covered table; upon the floor a leash of partridges and a levereta picture bearing the name of Le C~adeau, telling no story whatsoever of human suffering or happiness, nothing but the most insipid record of insipid every-day life! Yet Steven stands before it motionless; examines it as if his very life depended upon unravelling its meaning; only turns away when the striking of a clock at his elbow tells him that a quarter of an hour has already passed since he returned home. Long after- ward, in fever and delirium, the faces of that lady and page shall dwell on and torment his brain as the tune played on a barrel-organ will torment the sick brain of a man who heard rather than listened to it in some moment of impending danger or of loss. He took up a hand-lamp from the table, lit it at the gas, and passed on into his wifes room. It was vacantthat he knew. The disordered state of the dressing-table and floor showed at a glance that Dora had gone, as usual, to a ball: that he expected. Tier tears, her pretty contrition over their past estrangement, her resolves for the future, had been so much actingno more. He went up to her dressing-table, left in a chaos by Mademoiselle Ag1ai~, who, immediately after her mistresss departure, had betaken herself to her own engagements for the evening, and there lay, so exquisitely repaired that the effects of his own act of violence were scarce discernibleM. Valentins sketch. The hair-dresser had required it as a model whereby to execute his Rubens head, and for the first time during the past fortnight, for the first time since the conspiracy was set afoot, Dot had forgotten to put it safe under lock and key before she left. Well, Steven neither tore the sketch a second time, nor uttered the barbaric oaths of his nation, nor showed signs of violence of any sort or kind. He merely stoodsomewhat pale, remarked the menad who still followed and was stealthily watching him through the half-open doorpale, and as if I~e were not quite determined yet what to think or do. As well for her to make friends with some one before the crash came, decided the menad, half frightened, half delighted, at seeing in real life the kind of play she had so often peered at through the gallery-rails of the baulieue theatres; and with a sniff and a cough, meant, palpably, to be one of sympa- thy, she approached. Yes, yes, it was, indeed, like that Madame had departed, like a pretty little young man, as Monsieur saw, and another person had come to seek her and STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 2~79 Allez I said Steven ( dunc voix terri6le, the mienad observed, when enacting the scene next day for Mademoiselle Agla~), and without turning his head; upon which, muttering and shaking her head, the old woman crept away to her own lair under the kitchen dresser, her own speculations as to what would be likely to occur when Madame should return, and he was left alone. Alone. Reader, do you know the fullest meaning of that word? Alone, with only the steepled tongues of the great city meting out, multiplying his loneliness; with the snow and wind of the February midnight beating wpon the window-pane; with a shame dispro- portioned, one may say, to the occasionwhat, indeed, had the man discovered? that his wife had gone in a dress, more or less in- decorous, to a fashionable masqueradefor companionship. One, two, three oclock struck, but still Dora did not return~ and, at last, wearied out, Steven left off pacing such limited area of square feet as the salon possessed, and throwing himself down into an arm-chair beside the cold hearth, fell almost instantly into a kind of heavy sleep. Cold, aye, it was cold, indeedbut no wonder. He was camp- ino~ out with Klaus, and the cries of the goat-suckers told him that the chillest hour of the nightthe hour before sunrisewas at hand. Take heed by my story, by my sorry bit of experience,~~ said the old man, looking across at him in the flicker of the fire- light. Take heed that the eyes do not lie every time they look at you; that the smile is yours, indeed, the hand The dress is a perfect little dress, dearest, says Dot, kneeling by him, and looking upKlaus, the dark forest background, still thereinto his face. But, of course, I would not wear it against your wishes. . . And then a great storm rose, and Klaus and Dora were both shut out from his sight. Colder and colder grew the night. lie heard a low, confused roar, stretched out his hand, with the old me- chanical movement, to clasp his gun, and waking with a start, kne~v where he was. The roar was of the Wintry blast in the avenue without; there lay the ribbons, the silver cord, upon the table; there were the lady and the pa.ge simpering from their frame upon the wall. A sickly minglement of barbers perfumesnot the balmy freshness of the forest sidemet his senses. Five oclock struck, just now, from the distant city clocks, and almost at the same instant came the sound of approaching wheels, of fast-flying horses feet, down the silent Champs Elys6es. A few minutes later, and Dot, admitted by the dTowsy porter, was trip- ping, as lightly as limbs stiff and weary with dancing could trip, up the stairs, half-singing as she went the last galop that had been played at Lady Sarah Adairs ball. Steven, and her vague fear of 2S0 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. Stevens anger; the recollection that this was to be her last Parisian triumph; of the questionable means by which she had at- tained itthese and all the other disagreeable subjects were very far from Dot now. She had been the prettiest woman in the room; Clarendon Whyte, a dozen Clarendon Whytes, had been at her feet. She could still hear the murmurs of admiration that followed her as she moved from room to room; could read the stQry of her success on poor old Grizeldas face as a pair of Phantom eyes watched her from solitary corners of the ball-room, or peered down from unexpected eeries about staircases; could feel the rapture of that moment of moments when M. Valentin, a hundred spectators standing by, had asked permission, to take a sketch of her. A few lines onlyjust to. remind him by how far the fresh and grace- ful original surpassed the poor conception of her embodied in his own first drawing! But I am very willing, if always it is worth the trouble, cries Dot, for when she is most interested in her little parts, the creature acts them alon,d, even to herself. And as she speaks she opens the outer lock of the apartment with her latch-key, the same expression on her face that it had worn for M. Valentins benefit, and, with a start of horror, sees a bright gleam of gas proceeding from the half-opened door of the salon! ChAPTER XLV. AT DAWN OF DAY. Eon a moment her heart seemed to stop beating; then she walked falteringly onentered, and saw her husband. She gave a half cry and stopped short. Steven, II never meant to go! they over-persuaded me. Oh, Steven, forgive me! lie answered not a word, but something in his eyes bade her come up closeclose under the gas, where he could see her full, and Dora obeyed. She had been a fresh and graceful picture in the artistic sight of Mi. Valentin; the prettiest woman present to connoisseurs, English and French, accustomed to the high-rouged beauties of Parisian ball-rooms. To Steven she was hideous. More hideous than any tinsel-dressed ghost, With lips as much too white as the streak Lay far too red on each hollow cheek, that had ever made his heart bleed as a boy in the streets of the Gold Cities. She looked jaded and worn; her paint most like paint, most unlike life; her eyes unnaturally large, and with the bluish shade of a~rt horribly x isible upon the lower lids. As she approached him the fumes of wine, of punch rnin~ling with the stale perfumes of patchouU and mule flews, overcame him with a sense of bodily, sickening repugnance. STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 281 I couldnt withstand the temptation. Ill give my whole life to make amends. And she held out her trembling little hands, in their soiled, torn gloves, toward his. Dont touch me, he said, drawing back, but not taking his eyes a second from her figure. And in the tone of voice in which he spoke those three words Dora knew her fate; fathomed not his ago fly of ~self-abasementthat she could never knowbut his scorn, his al)hOrrence of herself. Ashcot (in a second that threat~ of his returned, with prophetic augury, to her heart) would be no~ l)laCe for a lady who had gone, in male attire and against her hus- bands wish, to a Parisian masquerade! Its done, and there is no use in tragedy scenes now, she said, turning from him with a shame that the eyes of two hundred in- different spectators had not en~endered in her, and crouching down on a low stool beside the cold fire-place. If you hadnt been so harsh when I showed you the sketch, you wouldnt have forced me into all this deceit. however its done and theres an end of it. Aye, said Steven slowly, and turning so that lie could watch her stillfor something in that travestied figure, that haggard, 1ainted thee, that living evidence, so he took it, of his own sullied honor seemed to possess a ghastly attraction for him its all over. \XThat is your object, if for once you can speak the truth, in comino l)ack here to-nio-ht ~ II think I might ask that question, said Dora, with a sickly attempt at a smile. What is your object in coming back here to- night? I thought you were half-way home by this time, Steven. Half-way where ~2 TIalf-way to Asheot . . . oh, dont look at me so! What have I done that I mustnt call Asheot home? Take pity on me. I am weak. I have no one but you. What have I done that you should speak to me in such a voice? You have done, said Steven, without a trace of passion, as yet, what I have no doubt is a common enough thing for women in your fashionable world to do; have deceived, dishonored a husband that trusted you. You might have done it, Dora, he went on; might have sunk even to this! as he spoke his eyes took in every detail of her dress with an expression of loathing I have no words to reader, and yet have degraded yourself somewhat less, I think. There was no need to treble your shame by all the kisses, all the kind words you gave me to-day! Then Dora lifted up her face and spoke out boldly. You are cruel; you are unjust! she cried. Turn me out of your house do as you like. I know pretty well what mercy Ive got to expect. I know how you turned Dawes out to starve at Asheot. You have ~ nature of stone. You can make no alloxvance for faults, for 282 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. temptations that are not yours. I did kiss you to-day; I did give you kind words, and at the time I was sincere. Because I have not exactly your Methodist opinions, because I have not exactly your conscience (elastic, sometimes), your ideas of right and wrong, IL am to be treated as if I had committed a crime. Oh, narrow heart! If you would open your arms to me now, and forgive me, I would be faithful to you till my lifes end. You might take me at this moment, at white heat, and bend me iiito whatever form you chose~ But you will notyou will not! No, as God is my witness, I will not! exclaimed Steven, the tremor of rising passion in his voice. Take you in my arms, dressed as you are, coming from the scenes you come fromyou, my wife? No; to such dishonor I have not sunk. Ive borne a good deal, and forgiven a good deal he went on, and till to- night have thought you honest. Im a Methodistyou are right. Im narrow-minded, hard, may be, of nature, as you say; at all events, your life, and your associates, and your hours, and every- thing belonging to you here in Paris, have been repugnant to me. But Ive borne with them, for Ive thought you honest. She would not lay her head beside my pillow and deceive me, Ive thought, when common sense at times has bade me distrust you. her heart is pure; her follies are those of a child. And Ive forgiven you reverenced you; do you hear that? reverenced you till to-night, andand its all over now. You are no more to me than any woman I may chance to meet in the streets. Lead your own life, where, with whom, you choose. I shall never blame you again. Steven, Steven! dont say that! she cried, starting up wildly. Dont say it. You dont know what you saywhat temptation you thrust upon me. Oh, I am not wicked. 1 am not what you think me! Ill go to Kate in the morning, and take her hand, and swear, looking into her face and yours, that I have never done a worse thing than going to this wretched ball. It was a temptation to me such as you could never understand. M. Valentin made the drawing look so exquisite, and there wasnt another grown person in Paris, they said, who could fill the character but me, and then every costume in the room was designed by artists, you know! It isnt a question of sentiment at all, Steven, if you would only see it so, but of art. Steven laugheda laugh by no means good to listen to. Ive heard a great deal of this ball talk already, he remarked, and I see pretty clear what it ends in. When I told you that the dresses and the dancing of your Parisian ball-rooms were indecent, I was silenced by hearing that those were the usages of the world. When I warned you against your intimacy with different women of your acquaintance, I heard that people whom society countenanced STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 283 I had no business to find fault with. I see you, to my shame, in a dress that unsexes and degrades you, and I am told its not a question of sentiment, but of art. Later onmy God, that I should speak of such things !later on, if I was fool enough to keep you with me, I should wake some morning to a lower depth still, and be told, probably, it was a question not of morality, but of fashion. No, Dora, no; I wishheaven is my witnessI wish to do my duty to you still; but the same roof can cover us two no more. Take your liberty; use it as you choose, and forget me! Tis the best thing that can happen to us both. He turned from hc~, aiXd began to pace up and down the room as he had done while all this was passing through his mind during the silent hours of the night: and his wife watched him. Such a con- trast as they formed! Stevens big figure in the rough morning suit in which he had meant to travel, his arms folded, his head down bentSteven, with almost a womans shame upon his pale, vigil-worn face. Dot in her male attire, all silver and spangles, the rouge that breaking day-dawn now made more distinctly palpable on her cheeks, and with unnatural, lustrous excitememit in her bistre- shaded eyes; the mirrors giving them back from a dozen different points of view; ormolu cupids d:awing shafts at them from various clocks and brackets; the lady with her spaniel, and the page, his face half in sunshine, half shadow, simpering down, with the superior virtue of a hundred years ago, from the walls! Dora was the first to speak. You tell me to take back my liberty, and forget you. Such words come glibly, are easy enough to speak to a man. Do yoLm know what they mean to me? lIe made no answer. Perdition, Steven: just that. I know very well what will be- come of mc. Under all its spangles and gewgaws the wretched little figure shuddered. Women, like Lady Sarah Adair, who can live away from their husbands and keep their position, are women with money. I have none. You cast me away, and the world yes, the nearest friends I have, will be on your side and cast mc away, too. Steven, do you know what the meaning is to a woman ot those two words, cast away? You might have comumanded my duty to your lifes end if you had chosen, he answered, but without looking at her, and you did not choose it. Ill do all that is in my power for you, as f~r as money goes, but Ill never have you at my side again. The false- hood, the wrong are yours, and you must bear the fruits of both. Falsehood! echoed l)ot, drearily, and as she spoke she walked across to the window, stood and watched the cold day struggling with the lamplight in time leafless avenue outside. Aye, what have I been brought up to? what have I lived, and moved, and 284 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. breathed in all these years but falsehood? Steven, abruptly, from the day I was fourteen I have been taught that the greatest virtue for rue was falsehood, and so Ive come to learnyes, living ia the D one, ia the wholesome atmosphere, you will say, of aa English fireside, to look upon respectability as a sham, upon love as a sham (havent I been a spectator of Arabellas marriage, of Katharines engagement?) And now here ia Parisyou wont be- lieve me, Im condemned, still I choose to speakhere in Paris, amid frivolity, dissipation, with men and women neither pos- sessing nor pretending to possess high moral character for my companions, Ive seen something nearer approaching to truth than I ever saw since I left the borders of the Bi~vre, sixteen years ago! And upon thisfor desperation was on her: the desperation most creatures feel when they stand at bay, hard-pressed, irrevocable destruction lying close beneath their feetDora Lawrence told her husband all. Told, not without a certain degree of pathos, the story of her early orphaned years; of the hard work, the strait- ened pleasures of her childhood; of the iiElre Mauprat, and the Squires rescue; of her stunted girlish years at the Dene. And in my whole life Ive never known what love was, but from Kate, she finished, at lastStcvei~ standing stone still listening to her. Uncle Frank took me to his roog sheltered, clothed, fed mea piece of duty he owed to his wifes niece, of course, but performed with the same constitutional skin-deep kind-heartedness he would have shown to any miserable, stray animal that had come across his path. Aunt Arabella, a religious woman, accepted meas her cross. Later on you married me! half out of pity, half pique, who shall say? Not a doubt, my conscience is a warped one. Not a doubt, as Shilohite notions go, for a xvoman in this dress to ap- pear, against her husbands wishes, before two hundred spectafors, is an un-Christian spectaclp. To me life, altogether, is such a mas- querade that I dont know where righteons falsehood ends, and where immoral truth begins. There, Ive said my say. Now, do. cide for me as you choose. And, by a quick side-mpvement, she gained the centre of the room, and looked up, with tight-clasped hands, with eager eyes, and parted quivering lips, into her bus. bands face. And Steven wavered. She was not a bad actress, poor Dot, in her small fashion! Could give sharp enough random pin-pricks at the confusion of right and wrong in human life, which to larger minds is the mournfulest mystery of our existence, never a mark for pointed little facile cynicisins. But it was not the acting, not the piettily-elasped hands, the quivering lipnot the shallow special pleading which made Steven waver. Sophisms as to the difficulty STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 285 of sorting right from wrong, truth from falsehood, were riot at all, as you know, within his mental compass. And pretty feminine act- ingwell, he had seen too much of that since he left the backwoods to be carried axvay by it, with grim daylight resting on the hag- gard, painted face, and dishevelled travesty of the actress! Not these ; but the weakness of his suppliant, called out to all of man- hood that was in the man-just as weakness, forlorn, defenceless, had called to him on that night in Saint Francisco, when Klaus first found him, the victim of his own knight-errantry, in the street. Frivolous, erring, falsehood-stained though he held her to be, this poor, small, human creature, who looked up at him with piteous, bistre-shaded eyes, kad all the odds of life against her at this moment; and he, strong and standing on the sati~ side, could rescue her, as she had said, from perdition yet. This) and this alone, softened him. I can never trust you, never believe in you again ~~bile you live, but Ashcot shall be open to you still Steven! oh! I swear S~vear nothing, ~ he interrupted her, sternly. Dont comae near me! For, if he would have let her, she had clasped his hands, fallen, a repentant Magdalen (in page attire) at his feet. I believe no more in your repentance than in your promises indeed, Ive had about enough play-acting of all kinds to last me my life! Asheot, I say, is open to you. You have deceived me from first to last. Ill never believe in you a gain, and so, as Im not a man to look quietly on at my own disgrace, Ill trust you no further than I can see you for the future. And saying this, and nnder these conditions, you tell me your house is open to me still ? cried Dot ,shrinking hack before the horrible picture that presented itself to her mind. Dont say it dont say. it, Steven! Have faith in me, and I may grow to be worthy of you.. No human being can do well, mistrusted. Suspect a servant, hired from week to week, and see if he does not soon more than justify your suspicion ! I had faith in you once, and you deliberately abused it, said Steven, coldly. A greater wrong committed in hotter blood would not be half so guilty, in my sight, as your premeditated treachery. Steven, I declare that you misjudge me. At the last they over- persuaded me, and And yonr dress was made in a day, and the picture from which twas taken mended, and Katharine for the first time his voice shook slightly Katharine, in her innocence, made the cats-paw whereby to get me out of Paris? Dora, im not quite the fool you take me for; Ive not been thinking alone during the last four or five hours quite for nothing. She stood still. She wavered for an instant, then caught his ~86 STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. hand, clung to it, whether he would or no, carried it to her hot, dry lips. I confess everything! Agla~ and I have been working at the dress, by stealth, for the last ten days. I mended the sketch the very day you tore it, and I did (Im more ashamed of this than of anything)I did work on Katharine to help to get you away. Steven, Im a wicked, treacherous creature, if you will, but I have saved yo?~you dont know from what! Charlie Wentworth lost, I dont know how many hundred pounds at the Barrys last night every one was speaking of it at the balland the police came down upon them, and the Chevalier is in prison, and Barry and his daugh- ter have saved themselves, no one knows where, out of Paris. And, Steven, you shall listen to me. Lady Portcullis, a woman noted not alone for propriety, but for prudery, appeared at the ball as the Empress Josephineclassical draperymuch more risqu~, I assure you, than my poor little page dress; and Mrs. Stanhope, the mother of a family, went as Guinevere. Oh, it is not I that am worse than other people; tis you that are unlike other men! If you had married any other woman of the worldaye, if you had married Katharine herself; you would not have found her come up to your ideas of what women ought to be. If I had married a different woman, ifif even at this mo- ment he could not command his voice, if I had married a woman like Katharine Fane, I would have allowed her no latitude at all. If you had beenother than what you are, the first night I saw you bare-shouldered in a Parisian ball-room would have been the last. You may be sure of that. In other words, Steven, if you had loved me! If you had loved me, you would have held me, as I needed to be held, with a tighter hand. Love me now. Let this miserable night be the beginning of a new life for both of us. Love me and keep me out of tempta- tion for the future. Ive told you everythingabout the 3i~re Mauprat, even, and the way I was brought upeverything. Why cant we resolve to put past errors aside? to love, to trust each other more, and begin our whole life anew? Steven turned from her, and paced three or four times up and down the room in silence. Trust, lovethe strongest, sacredest Ibeling of his naturefeelings having their roots so deep within his breast that only death, he felt, could change them; and here was this poor Parisian doll proposing, as he had heard the people do in operas, to put the past aside (as she would put aside her page costume), because the present happened to be a picturesque sitnation~ We shall never understand each other, Dora; unless a miracle works, we shall never love each other, but Ill keep you out of temptation. Never fear that. You have been open with me, have told me a history which, if youd told it me long ago, might have brought us closer together, perhapsGod knows! At all events, STEVEN LAWRENCE, YEOMAN. 287 you have been open with me, and Ill be the same with you. Ash- ~cot shall be your home now, and till the hour of your death, if you choose to make it so, and, that this scene may be the last of its kind, Ill put it out of your power to disgrace yourself for the future. I, or Barbara, in my absence, will watch you well; and when you do leave home, it will be at my side. Im notGod knows Im notinfluenced by passion in anything I say, but by duty; and youll find that I shall keep to it. She stoodday had broke fully now, and the faces of loth were quite clearand watched him steadily. These are your last words, then? she said. You will not trust me any more? I will have no more play-acting, said Steven. Ive been jealousyou would call it jealousy, I supposeonce, and I told you I was not a man to play at that sort of thing a second time. And whenever I leave home it will be with you? and as long as I live at Ashcot you or Barbara will watch me? Yes. Ah, Steven, you are narrow-hearted, you have no sympathy for me, or for my temptation, but you actI believe thisas you think it right to act. When am I to come home? With Mr. Ililliard and your cousin, answered Steven. In another hour I shall be on my journey again, and you can return, as it was agreed upon, with them. I dont want to injure you by having all this talked of niore than I can help. Thank you, dear. You have behaved very well to me. You have given me no blow, have used no hard name, as many a more passionate husband would have done at seeing his wife return home in such a dress, and (although I, no doubt, have forfeited my right to it) have offered me the shelter of your roof still. Your conscience thats the word, I think !will never upbraid you. And now now Im weary, and Ill go and lie down. As you are to start so soon I suppose this is good-bye between us, Steven? I suppose so, was his answer. You wouldnt kiss me, I dare say? No, I see you wouldnt. Well, without a kiss, then, good-bye. I never meant, remember, to have done anything wicked! And, having thus sfroken, the little travestied figure, with its azure and spangles, its gold-pow- dered locks and wistful, painted face, passed away, like a figure in a dream, from Steven Lawrences sight. - Alone in her room, Dora takes a scented three-cornered note from the doublet of her page dress, cries over it, reads it againagain, ns if all her hope of salvation, poor wretch, were there! At length, but not until the closing of the outer door tells her that her hus- band is indeed gone, falls asleep; the note crushed in her hot hand, and a muttered name that is not Stevens, on her lips. The cur- tain has risen upon the inevitable last act in earnest. JOHN BPJGIIT AT HOME. THREE months ago, I stood in the counting-room of a famous society of co~peratorsT1ie Rochdale (England) Equitable Pioneers. My work being done in that neighborhood, on the fol- lowing day I expected to sail from Glasgow for home. I am sorry that I should be obliged to leave England without seeing your famous townsman, I remarked to William Cooper, the cashier of the association, whose courtesy in providing me with all needed information had been unremitting. You mean Mr. Bright, I suppose? was the quick response. lie reached home this morning, and if you can remain over the next train, Ill go with you to his residence. Finding, by reference to I3radshaw, that I could return to Manchester in time to catch the night express to the north, I most gladly availed myself of the kindne~s. In a few minutes we were on our way up Toad Lane, a corruption of old, or, as the Lan- cashire dialect bath it~ Ode Lane. The original shop wherein the Pioneers began their famous movement is situated in this thor- oughfare, at the head of which stands the handsome pile built for a central store by the society, and to attend the opening of which was the occasion of my visit here. With the co& perative move- ment the name of Rochdale is most beneficently associated. It may not be out of place to state, while we are on the way to Mr. Brights residence, which is on the outskirts, though within the corporate limits of the town, that, in addition to the twenty-six stores, ten reading-rooms, and large library belonging to the loch- dale coi~perators, there are also one of the largest cotton mills in England, the finest fiouring mill in Lancashire, besides the very handsome business block recently erected. The capital stock of these enterprises amounts to over a million and a half of dollars, while the annual sales and returns will reach to three-quarters of a million. All this is owned by mechanics and laborers. During our war the poor-rates of this place were nearly $700,000 less than any town of similar size in the manufacturing district. This was under the distress produced by the cotton famine. The streets of Rochdale present but little evidence of business activity. Few persons would suppose, unless informed of the fact, that nearly one-tenth of all the cotton grown in the world is here manufactured into cloth. These thoroughfares are narrow and steep, while the houses are generally low, old-fashioned, smoke-

Richard F. Hinton Hinton, Richard F. John Bright at Home 288-297

JOHN BPJGIIT AT HOME. THREE months ago, I stood in the counting-room of a famous society of co~peratorsT1ie Rochdale (England) Equitable Pioneers. My work being done in that neighborhood, on the fol- lowing day I expected to sail from Glasgow for home. I am sorry that I should be obliged to leave England without seeing your famous townsman, I remarked to William Cooper, the cashier of the association, whose courtesy in providing me with all needed information had been unremitting. You mean Mr. Bright, I suppose? was the quick response. lie reached home this morning, and if you can remain over the next train, Ill go with you to his residence. Finding, by reference to I3radshaw, that I could return to Manchester in time to catch the night express to the north, I most gladly availed myself of the kindne~s. In a few minutes we were on our way up Toad Lane, a corruption of old, or, as the Lan- cashire dialect bath it~ Ode Lane. The original shop wherein the Pioneers began their famous movement is situated in this thor- oughfare, at the head of which stands the handsome pile built for a central store by the society, and to attend the opening of which was the occasion of my visit here. With the co& perative move- ment the name of Rochdale is most beneficently associated. It may not be out of place to state, while we are on the way to Mr. Brights residence, which is on the outskirts, though within the corporate limits of the town, that, in addition to the twenty-six stores, ten reading-rooms, and large library belonging to the loch- dale coi~perators, there are also one of the largest cotton mills in England, the finest fiouring mill in Lancashire, besides the very handsome business block recently erected. The capital stock of these enterprises amounts to over a million and a half of dollars, while the annual sales and returns will reach to three-quarters of a million. All this is owned by mechanics and laborers. During our war the poor-rates of this place were nearly $700,000 less than any town of similar size in the manufacturing district. This was under the distress produced by the cotton famine. The streets of Rochdale present but little evidence of business activity. Few persons would suppose, unless informed of the fact, that nearly one-tenth of all the cotton grown in the world is here manufactured into cloth. These thoroughfares are narrow and steep, while the houses are generally low, old-fashioned, smoke- JOHN BRIGhT AT HOME. 289 grimed, ugly, and black. The chief evidence of the work done is in the tall chimney stacks and brick buildings, whose presence in~ dicates the manufacturing activity. My companion, a very intelligent gentleman, spoke in terms of warm enthusiasm of John Brightdenying, in an emphatic man- ner, the reports in circulation of his personal unpopularity. No gentleman, he said, was more popular either with his own work- people or the general body of his townsmen. Though the chief work of his life had been toward political reform, no good local worksocial, educational, or moral-passed by without the assist- ance, both of purse and counsel, of the great orator. The firm of John Bright, Brothers was established by the grandfather of the present partners. They were Quakers, as is Mr. Bright himself; though the plain address and formal speech has been discarded. The mills first used by them are still standing. They are small structures, compared to the goodly five-story build- ing which is now used by the firm. There are three brothers in the businessJohn, Jacob, Richard. Jacob Bright will probably rep- resent Manchester in the Reformed Parliament. Passing through the factory yard I was introduced to Richard Bright, whom Mr. Cooper characterized as the sportsman of the family. lie looked the character, though there was quaint gravity mingled in the heartiness with which I was greeted when my nationality was named. Richard Bright is a tall, stalwart, farmer-looking man, of middle-age, whose tastes were, perhaps, indicated by the presence at his heels of a couple of fine hunting dbgs. It may not be out of place to mention here that a nephew of the great orator, who was in the United States when the war began, served for three years as a private soldier in a Pennsylvania regiment. The fact will help to endear the name of Bright to the American people. Mr. Cooper referred to the change that had taken place in the style and manner of Mr. Brights oratorical efforts. When a young man he poured forth his words like a torrent. Metaphor and illus- tration overloaded his sentences. There was an electrifying impet- nosity in his manner which consumed like a flame. Now there is a deliberateness in his utterance which carries more thor9ugh conviction, or arouses more strenuous opposition than the hot and fast words of his early oratorical efforts. His sentences, said my friend, seem now to be compacted with thought, simply but pow- erfully uttered, and delivered with a restrained gravity which give a weight and momentum more wonderful than any impetuosity could do. Mr. Coopers admiration of the orators pluck, and of the won- derful tenacity with which he faced down opposition, reminded me of an incident told me in London by an active friend of our cause. 290 JOHN BRIGhT AT HOME. Speaking of the Confederate agents efforts to induce England to break the Southern blockade, under pretence of obtaining cotton wherewith to set in motion her idle mills, my informant described a great meeting held at St. James Hall, London, in support of the Federal cause, at which Mr. Bright made one of his greatest efforts. On the next night, Lindsays motion to recognize the Southern Confederacy was brought forward in the House of Commons. When John Bright rose to speak, all in the gallery felt that there would be a vigorous attempt to break him down. It had been long since such annoyances had met him there, for he had proved him- self master of the House. Beginning, in his usual impressive man- ner, Mr. SpeakerLast night in St. James hail the last word was drowned in a clamor of cries, coughs, nondescript calls, scuf- fling of the feet, arid the various and indescribable ways by which this assembly of the finest gentlemen in Europe express opposi- tion or impatience. Scarcely had the fury spent itself than again Mr. Bright began: Mr. SpeakerLast night in St. James Hall! The last word was lost, as before, in an increased clamor. As it subsided, Mr. Bright began once more. Again his voice was drowned by the outcry. Again and again he began, for a dozen times at least, until the opposition had spent itself in vain attempts to baffle him. He was as immovable as a granite rock against which the surf dashes itself in vain. Daring the whole of the scene Mr. Bright stood firm, neither raising his voice, nor showing in any other way recognition of the insolence, lie then proceeded with his speech. At its triumphant close the Confederate cause was conceded to be dead, so far as English recognition was con- cerned. But here we are at the entrance to the grounds surrounding Mr. Brights residence. The house occupies the crown of a gentle rise, which gives it a wide view of town and country from its upper win- dows. There is nothing to distinguish it from the usual English homes of the well-to-do class. The grounds are large for a town residence, with the usual velvety, close-mown lawn, the fragrant and radiant flower-beds, and the dark masses of shrubbery. Walking up the broad, circular carriage road, glimpses are had of an ample kitchen-garden, fruit trees, and a conservatory. Time entrance is by a handsome portico. The windows of the drawing- room are long, and open on the lawn. The neat-handed Phillis who answered our ring, recognizing Mr. Cooper, invited us to go round to the library. We did so, and, passing by the windows of the dining-room, we caught sight of Mr. Bright perusing the morn- ing paper. The room into which we were shown was of moderate size, plainly but handsomely furnished with a dark oak suite. One side JOHN BRIGHT AT HOME. 291 was occupied by a well-filled book-case, and the others were hung with fine engravings, mostly portraits, conspicuous among which was an artists proof of Marshalls Abraham Lincoln. Near the window was a substantial library-desk, and behind that a fine marble bust of the great orator himself. Mr. Bright entered in a few moments, greeted Mr. Cooper cordially, and welcomed myself after the proper introduction. Offering an apology for intruding upon him so early after his return from Scotland, Mr. Bright was pleased to say that my letters were a sufficient welcome. John Bright looks a hale fifty-five years. In stature he is about the height of Henry Ward Beecher, though considerably stouter. He has a face of the finest English type, full and open, with gray side-whisker, and a healthy, ruddy complexion. The mouth, chin and lower jaw, express great firmness and vigor. The nose is full, nostrils broad, while the space is broad between the clear, full, gray eyes, which appear capable of great expression. In repose they are mild and kindly. Both brow and head are broad, full and arched high in the coronal region. The whole figuie is cast in a massive mould. lie looks the orator and leader of men, even when silent; and there is in his presence itself a pervading sense of power his manner is pleasant, grave and cordial, yet not un- mixed with a dash of Itauteur and brusqueness that one can readily trace to his business and public life. The brusqueness is that of a busy man, while the hautear is the natural consequence of contests in which he is not only leader, but himself so vital an element. The conversation was chiefly directed at first to Mr. Cooper, whom he congratulated upon the success attendant upon the recent cooperative celebration. Referring to lion. Thomas Hughes ad- dress, Mr. Bright said, I cannot agree with all the criticism made by Mr. hughes as to the conduct and duty of employers, nor do I agree fully with the claim lie makes for the Industrial Partnership idea The last allusion refers to the more recent phase of English co- operation, by which it is proposed that all profits over a fixed per cent. shall be divided in equal parts between labor and capital; thus, in enterprises where conjoint efforts bring profitable results, recognizing labor as property entitled to share in such results. This is the gist of the claim made for labor, by trades unionists, and writers and thinkers, like Prof. Beesley, J. M. Ludlow, Frederic 1-Ini-rison, Thomas Hughes, Vansittart Neale, and others of that school. Mr. Hughes, said Mr. Bright, thinks that new profits will be made by the increased attention workuien give nuder the stimulus of the proposed bonus. This seems to me to be chimerical. how can more be gained, Cooper, in our factories, where the work is 292 JOHN BRIGHT AT HOME. performed by machinery, and the men, in the main, only see to its operation? If saving is to be effected in such establishments, it can only be, it seems to me, by increased attention to markets, and the purchase and sale of raw material and manufactured goods. I believe that employers generally give wages equal to what is done, and there is no wrong in expecting that the hands shall do all they can in return. It is themselves, and not the masters, who do wrong if they fail in this. The new profits Mr. Hughes speaks of will be evidence that labor has not done its whole duty. What is to be done in such cases as ours, for instance? If we lose 1,000 per month, as at present, are we able to pay bonus? Mr. Cooper suggested that under such circumstances the laborer would not expect bonus; but that, on the contrary, having realized the benefit of good times by the new system, they would be found quite ready to share with the capitalist the difficulties of a bad period. Besides, the industrial partnerships proposed to do as all well-regulated enterprises now didprepare for bad trade by re- serving some of the results of good seasons for that purpose. Mr. Bright said he was glad to see all these enterprises tried. They educated the people, as the Pioneers movement had done, in habits of thrift and forethought. This he regarded as their greatest benefit. His criticism was only meant for those who tried to make cooperation the cure for all evils here, thus diverting, to some ex- tent, attention from the great work of political reform. The conversation then turned on American affairs. The fact of my representing the Tri6une at the cooperative conference, naturally suggested inquiry as to Mr. Greeley, and some allusion to his opinions. Of course Mr. Bright controverted the protectionist views of the veteran editor, and, with a touch of irony, remarked that were he an American free-trader, he should be very glad to have Mr. Greeley defend the opposite side. The arguments he uses seem very absurd to me. Mr. Bright paid a very eulogistic com- pliment to Mr. Greeleys historical work The American Con- flict characterizing it as the most comprehensive, impartial and satisfactory one on its topic that he had ever read. During the next hour Mr. Bright questioned me cldsely and in- cisively upon American affairs, showing a remarkable degree of knowledge of them. This was true not only of the main proposi- tions, but of the details involved in our politics. He was very much interested in the account I gave of the condition of the South, based as it was on recent and extended personal observa- tion. In response to a remark of mine as to the eagerness with which the freed people sought education, Mr. Bright said he had been greatly interested in the accounts he had read of this spirit, trnd thought that the truest heroism our war had given Opportunity JOHN BRIGHT AT HOME. 293 to display, was exhibited by the noble women who, in such num- bers, had left their homes and gone to teach the emancipated slaves. He agreed fully with the Republican plan of reconstruction, consider- in g, he said, that Congress was compelled, by the conduct of Mr. Johnson, to adopt temporary military governments. He hoped that, at the earliest possible period, all disfranchisement would ho removed. Mr. Johnson, said Mr. Bright, it is evident, is nothing more than an old-school Southern politician, with unconquer- able prejudices against New England, or the Yankees, as you would say, and an intense sectional pride. His hatred of the Puritan idea, or of New England thought, is much stronger than his love of the Union. He is only a States-Right Democratthat, and nothing more nor less. There seems to me some danger of another outbreak, if your Northern elections should be adverse to the Re- publican party. Mr. Johnsons administration has encouraged the Rebel spirit, which may be still further inflamed if their Democratic friends succeed in those States where elections are pending. I3ut you need not fear any serious trouble, and it is certain that no friend of America here believes there is reason to anticipate per- manent disorder. Your enemies would be glad to see such results, but the success of your Republic has made Democracy respectable in Europe. Nothing succeeds, you know, like success. Of course this was not said continuously, but is the sub stance of the conversation, as my own opinions, given in response to ques- tions, are of no consequence in this relation. Reference was mnde to impeachment. Mr. Bright inquired closely as to what the probabilities were of its being attempted. He seemed to doubt the wisdom of the effort, saying that impeach- ment was a relic of the past, laid away, he thought, for good in England. In response to a remark of mine that the removal of Mr. Stanton and General Sheridan, had, as it seemed then, increased the probability of its being attempted, Mr. Bright said I am sorry to hear it. The remedy seems worse than the disease. You can bear Mr. Johnson better than that. Your Republicans must be very prudent, and be sure to have the best grounds for such an at- tempt, as, in the event of any disorder arising therefrom, it will be said you were the aggressors. The aggressor is always odious. Mr. Bright asked about reports in circulation as to alleged cor- ruption and personal bad conduct on the part of the President, and he expressed, very strongly, his regret, saying that he had hoped the Old World governments had had a monopoly of such conduct and crimes. The words were accompanied with a gesture of the hands which gave added significance to the scorn that lingered in his voice. Soon after Mr. Johnson was inaugurated, he said, I received 19 294 JOHN BRIGHT AT HOME. a letter from Senator Sumner, giving it as his opinion that public sentiment in America would demand the trial, conviction arid exe- cution of some of the Rebel le~iders for treason. This was at the time Mr. Johnson was delivering denunciatory speeches against the Rebels. In replying to Mr. Sumner, I expressed my great re- gret at what he had written. The infliction of death for a political offence, even as heinous as this one, would mar the Republics good fame. That the people should demand justice was natural, and I suggested that, in order to vindicate public morality, the President of the United States should issue a proclamation solemnly setting forth the facts of the Rebellion; what slight causes its movers had for their attempt; giving the reasons they themselves urged, as in the words of Alexander H. Stephens; then enumerating the cost of the war in money, lives, private and public desolation; with the crimes against international obligations and the laws of war of which the Confederacy had confessedly been guilty; and closing the list with the last deed of one of its sympathizersthe assassination of Mr. Lincolndeclare that for all these acts the Rebel leaders had more than deserved death, but that the Republic, too magnanimous and too wise to imitate them in vindictiveness and cruelty, doomed to perpetual exile those only who should be named, never more to be recognized as citizens of the land they had betrayed and the Re- public they had attempted to destroy. Then should have followed a list of those thus exiled, which ought to have embraced all who had held high office in the Union before the war, as members of Congress, of the Cabinet, officers of the Army and Navy, Gover- nors of States, etc., or in the Confederacy when it began and during its progress. This list should have included all who were known to have been guilty of acts of cruelty to the wounded or to pri~- oners. * Mr. Brights statement interested me exceedingly. I wrote this conversation out as soon as I got to Manchester, and am confi dent of having retained all the essential ideas and much of the language he used. A reference was made to the relations of England and the United States. Mr. Bright most earnestly expressed his hope that they might continue to be of the most friendly character. Any disturb- ance of that friendship would be a very serious blow to the Liberal cause in Great Britain. Mr. Sewards latest dispatch to Minister Adams about the Alabama claims, in reply to Lord Stanley, Mr. * Quite recently I mentioned this to Mr. Sumner. He remembers receiving the letter, and said that some time befor~ he had had one of a similar tenor from Richard Cobden, which letter Mr. Sumner read to Mr. Lincoln, himself en- dorsing the proposition it contained. Mr. Lincoln agreed with the general idea, ~nd thought it would be desirable to thus exile the Southern leaders. JOHN BRIGHT AT HOME. 295 Bright characterized as disingenuous. lie thought that Mr. Sew- ard wanted to keep the question an open one during the ensuing Presidential canvass, in order, by the bait of possible trouble with England, to control the Irish-American vote. lie had no doubt that the Alabama claims would be amicably settled, and in our favor. lie did not seem to agree with Mr. Sewards idea that Eng- lands early proclamation of neutrality (though an unfriendly act), entitled the United States to a claim for damages thereon. He had heard that Mr. Sumner agreed with Mr. Seward, and hoped this was not true. Au allusion was incidentally made to Canada, from which I gathered that Mr. Bright believed it would gravitate toward us, and that he thought no one in England would regret it. lie spoke of our representative at St. James with great respect and admira- tion, declaring we were fortunate in having a gentleman of such excellent abilities there at the present time. Mr. Bright spoke in very respectful and appreciative terms of the late Sir Frederick Bruce, and, with reference to the qualifications needed for his successor, asked as to the late ministers standing ia y\Tashington. I was able to assure him, from personal observation, that the English Ambassador had a more cordial understanding with our leading public men, both in and out of Congress, than was the case with any other of the foreign Ministers resident at the national capital. Asking Mr. Bright when he intended to visit the United States, and assuring him that no heartier or more affectionate welcome would or could be given a public man than he xvould receive, he said that it had long been his desire to visit us, but that the work before him in England would probably prevent the desire evei being fulfilled. If he had the opportunity, and should not avail himself of it, he modestly said, it would be because of the ovations that might be pressed upon him. He gave expression to a cordial wish that Mr. Wendell Phillips might soon visit England, declaring that his voice and presence there would greatly aid, not only a clearer understanding of American issues, but materially advance the cause of political liberty there. lIe spoke in terms of the warmest admiration of the eloquence, genius, and high moral value of Mr. Phillips services as orator and teacher, pronouncing him as second, in this view, to no American living. When we finally rose to take leave, Mr. Bright called my attention to the portraits which hung in the room. That of Mr. Lincoln, by Marshall, was a proof, presented by the artist himself. Above it was hung a fine engraved portrait of George Washington, presented to Mr. Bright, as the inscription stated, by the Rev. Mr. Everett, an elderly American gentleman resident in London, after the great speech in St. James Hall, to which I have already made allusion. 296 WORTHLESS LAURELS. On one side of the fireplace hung a fine line engraving of Frank- lin, and on the other side was framed and suspended an autograph of George Washington, being a pass given to some one to go through the American lines at the Highlands of New York. It bears date at Newburgh, I think. The portraits named were, I believe, the only ones of public persons in the room, and this fact, as well as the manner in which Mr. Bright referred to them, was a strong additional proof of the earnest admiration he feels for our institutions, as well of the sincerity of the spirit in which he works for the amelioration of the abuses that afflict the great Empire of which he is one of the most renowned citizens. RICHAnD J. HINTON. WORTHLESS LAURELS. [SEE ILLUSTRATION.] T H US ends the trial of the day: Your picture proves a sure success, And lifts you to the golden way Set high above the common press. Alone at last, your honors old, Insatiate fancy flies, before In quest of triumphs yet untold: So run your musingsnothing more? What of the woman waiting there, Feeding her life on dead delight? So drawing, from the days despair, A sweetness for the lonely night? When careless tongues the tale proclaim The lips of Love should breathe before~ What think you ?can your alien fame The brightness of her youth restore? WORTHLESS LAuREls. See Poem Ih s~gaed by Ji J lJ(flW .s,~y WORTHLESS LAURELS. 297 Full ripely blows the budded rose: The errant bee about her hums, And hives the honey she bestows; For Summer goes and Winter comes: The idle bee, within his cell, In plenty waits another Spring; Nor recketh that no May-time spell The withered rose her bloom shall bring. You drew the girl, with sunny brow, A laughing Hope, untouched by care: Perchance the sad-eyed woman, now, Might serve you for a fit Despair! What though the feet that gain the goal A tender heart must trample down ? rvyhat matter for a darkened soul, So Genius win its due renown? Arts worthy votaries, far above The common cares of mean desire, With lofty truth and generous love Should feed the sacred altar-fire. Degenerate priest! a baser God Usurps the high and holy shrine, Whose offerings, wrung from Lifes best blood, Profane the temple once divine. Was all your love a conscious lie? Your faith a simulated name? Her flushing cheek and drooping eye But studies for a future fame? O artist meagre-souled! your paint Is redder than your blood, forsooth! Throw off your dwarfing Arts constraint, And rise to Manhoods simple truth. KATE PUTNAM OsGooD.

Kate Putnam Osgood Osgood, Kate Putnam Worthless Laurels 297-298

WORTHLESS LAURELS. 297 Full ripely blows the budded rose: The errant bee about her hums, And hives the honey she bestows; For Summer goes and Winter comes: The idle bee, within his cell, In plenty waits another Spring; Nor recketh that no May-time spell The withered rose her bloom shall bring. You drew the girl, with sunny brow, A laughing Hope, untouched by care: Perchance the sad-eyed woman, now, Might serve you for a fit Despair! What though the feet that gain the goal A tender heart must trample down ? rvyhat matter for a darkened soul, So Genius win its due renown? Arts worthy votaries, far above The common cares of mean desire, With lofty truth and generous love Should feed the sacred altar-fire. Degenerate priest! a baser God Usurps the high and holy shrine, Whose offerings, wrung from Lifes best blood, Profane the temple once divine. Was all your love a conscious lie? Your faith a simulated name? Her flushing cheek and drooping eye But studies for a future fame? O artist meagre-souled! your paint Is redder than your blood, forsooth! Throw off your dwarfing Arts constraint, And rise to Manhoods simple truth. KATE PUTNAM OsGooD. SOME CELEBRATED SHREWS. IN treating of Celebrated Shrews, there is, manifestly, small need of calling in the aid of Legend, Fiction or Fancy. Even Poetry must give place to her niore sedate sisterHistory; else we might meander among the early plays of mediteval days, which, scriptural in subject, are far from solemn in tone, and in which even Mrs. Noah is held up to ridicule and contempt as the veriest type of shrewa horrible heresy which Chaucer seems to put faith in, as witness that ungallant speech of Nicholas, in the Canterbury Tales:~ ilast thou not herd, quod Nicholas, also The sorwe of Noe, with his felawship, Or that he mighte get his wif to ship? Him had be lever, I dare wel undertake, At thilke time, than all his wethers blake, That she had had a ship, hireseif alone. But the domestic discords (Noah-westers, so to speak) of the patri- arch do not come within the purview of our present inquiry. Let us rather, with muck-rake and drag-net, make prize of more modern material, which may be found lying loose around and within corn- paratively easy reach. In passing, however, from the distant past into regions this side of the first great navigator, we must not slight the claim which, despite the labored endeavors of friendly expositors in her behalf; Jobs wife presents to be lifted into bad eminence as, perhaps, the earliest of shrews. Her provoking speeches and scant sympathy, while schooling her poor partners patience, reflect small credit upon herselg except in so far as she was honored in being made a means of grace. The perfect work of patience had not else been wrought out in Job, if; losing all beside, the sparing of his wife were not an added bitter in his cnp! Sons and daughters, cattle and sheep, lands and housesall were taken; but a wife was left, a miserable comforter, who could urge the model man to curse God and die. Thus, briefly, our version writes her biography and gibbets her temper. But the Septuagint translation expands her speech into the following shrewish oration: reading it one thinks Douglas Jerrold a plagiarist, and Mrs. Caudle a Bible heroine: After much time had passed, his wife said unto him, How long wilt thou persist, saying, Behold I will wait a little longer in expectation of my deliver- ance? Behold thy memorial is blotted out of the earth; even the sons and daughters, the pains and toils of my womb, whom I have brought forth in vain. Even thou thyself sittest among loathsome worms, abiding all night in the open air; while I, a drudge and a ioanderer from house to house and from place to place, long for the setting of the sun that I may rest from the toils and sor- rows I now endure. Utter some word against the Lord, and die.

Frank W. Ballard Ballard, Frank W. Some Celebrated Shrews 298-308

SOME CELEBRATED SHREWS. IN treating of Celebrated Shrews, there is, manifestly, small need of calling in the aid of Legend, Fiction or Fancy. Even Poetry must give place to her niore sedate sisterHistory; else we might meander among the early plays of mediteval days, which, scriptural in subject, are far from solemn in tone, and in which even Mrs. Noah is held up to ridicule and contempt as the veriest type of shrewa horrible heresy which Chaucer seems to put faith in, as witness that ungallant speech of Nicholas, in the Canterbury Tales:~ ilast thou not herd, quod Nicholas, also The sorwe of Noe, with his felawship, Or that he mighte get his wif to ship? Him had be lever, I dare wel undertake, At thilke time, than all his wethers blake, That she had had a ship, hireseif alone. But the domestic discords (Noah-westers, so to speak) of the patri- arch do not come within the purview of our present inquiry. Let us rather, with muck-rake and drag-net, make prize of more modern material, which may be found lying loose around and within corn- paratively easy reach. In passing, however, from the distant past into regions this side of the first great navigator, we must not slight the claim which, despite the labored endeavors of friendly expositors in her behalf; Jobs wife presents to be lifted into bad eminence as, perhaps, the earliest of shrews. Her provoking speeches and scant sympathy, while schooling her poor partners patience, reflect small credit upon herselg except in so far as she was honored in being made a means of grace. The perfect work of patience had not else been wrought out in Job, if; losing all beside, the sparing of his wife were not an added bitter in his cnp! Sons and daughters, cattle and sheep, lands and housesall were taken; but a wife was left, a miserable comforter, who could urge the model man to curse God and die. Thus, briefly, our version writes her biography and gibbets her temper. But the Septuagint translation expands her speech into the following shrewish oration: reading it one thinks Douglas Jerrold a plagiarist, and Mrs. Caudle a Bible heroine: After much time had passed, his wife said unto him, How long wilt thou persist, saying, Behold I will wait a little longer in expectation of my deliver- ance? Behold thy memorial is blotted out of the earth; even the sons and daughters, the pains and toils of my womb, whom I have brought forth in vain. Even thou thyself sittest among loathsome worms, abiding all night in the open air; while I, a drudge and a ioanderer from house to house and from place to place, long for the setting of the sun that I may rest from the toils and sor- rows I now endure. Utter some word against the Lord, and die. SOME CELEBRATED SHREWS. 299 So much for Mrs. ,Job! One is not inclined to waste much sympathy on Socrates, when it is remembered that he followed no blind Cupid in wedding Xantippe, but that with malice prepense, and confessedly for self discipline, the philosopher courted, married and endured the tempest-teml)ered woman, whose name has passed into a proverb. Moreover, the old Greek had a naughty way of expending all his attractions and fascinations upon the sidewalk committee at Athens, whom he called his scholars; while, for the home market, he never had anything to spare besides his ugly face, with its flat nose, its goggle eyes, its thick lips, not to speak of the bare poll under which he used to scud, or the squat figure, the clumsy, awkward gait, the congenial rags and unsandaled feet, that made up those externals, which alone Xantippe was permitted to study as the exponents of the Aristocratic Philosophy. Who wonders that she preferred to be known in history rather as Xantippe than as Mrs. Socrates? or that, woman as she was, her tongue could be hung otherwise than in the middle while such domestic aggravations formed the bulk of her experience? Considering the duplicity he practiced in making his choice of a wife, Xantippes curtain lectures found in Socrates an audience fit, though few. Scaliger seems to have caught a Tartar, too; for what except matrimonial miseries could have extorted from him so savage a sentence as Febris hectica uxor, et non nisi morte avellenda. A wife is a hectic fever, and not to be cured but by death. Salmasius had a termagant wife, whose tongue served to illustrate the patience of her learned lord, and whose loud-mouthed conceit was a standing advertisement of her own stupidity and her husbands genius. Burton, the author of that quaint medley, the Anatomy of Melancholy, was not brave enough to run the risk of marrying; but he kept his cyca and ears open, and remarked, oracularly, I never tried, but, as I hear some of them say, ]~Jiare, haud mare, vos mare acerrimu2m, an Irish sea is not so turbulent and raging as a litigious wife. After which specimen of free translation he lugs in the well-wived Stoic, Seneca, as declaring, Scylla and Charyb- dis are less dangerous; there is no beast that is so noxious. Sir Thomas More was none the happier for his matrimonial ex- perience, for we are told that his wifes temper was as harsh as her manners were sordid, and that her disposition was so morose as to suggest her husbands advising her to play on musical instruments, if so be she might soften it. Pasquier, whose eloquence and learning placed him at the head of French advocates in his day, and whose pleadings against the Jesuits made him a formidable opponent of the order, had a wife so noisy as to be a nuisance. To rule his household he was obliged to drown her vociferations with thunder tones of his own. Un 300 SOME CELEBRATED SHREWS. fortunate wretch that I am, he cries out, I who am a lover of universal peace! But to have peace I am obliged ever to be at war! Poor Pasquiers assertion reminds us of the very married man who acknowledged that he enlisted as a soldier in our Mexican war for the sake of having peace! In 1590, the Earl of Shrewsbury (how well named !), living apart from his wife, was made the recipient of a letter from the Bishop of Litebtield and Coventry, in which occurs this passage: But some will saye, in your lordships behalfe, that the Countesse is a sharpe and bitter shrewe, and, therefore, licke enough to shorten your life, if shee shonid kepe yow. Indeede, my good Lord, I have heard some say so; but if shrewdnesse or sharpnesse may be a just cause of separation between a man and wiefe, I thinck fewe men in Englande would keepe their wives longe: for it is a common jeste, yet trewe in some sense, that there is but one shrewe in all the worlde, and everee man bath her: and so everee man must be ridd of his wife, that would be ridd of a shrewe. Connubial felicity must have been a rarity in England, then-a-days, if the worthy Bishop is to be believed. Perhaps, however, the prelate was thus neatly confessing that Ite had her. Albert Durer, the celebrated painter of Germany, upon whose tomb is found the inscription: Light of the ArtsSun of Artists Painter, Engraver, Sculptor, without example, was the unfortu- nate victim of a shrewish mate, whose conduct at times compelled the Light of the Arts and Sun of Artists to hide himself under a bushel by running away from home. It is even stated that t.his womans furious disposition and violent temper literally worried Durer to death. At least so says Pirkheimer. Burghen, too, the eminent Dutch landscape painter, endured a similar purgatory; for his Xantippe was wont to stir him up and prevent his sleeping, by thumping with a stick against the ceiling of the room directly be- neath that in which the artist was expected to be always at work. Mrs. Berghen compelled her henpecked husband to prove the fact of his being awake by stamping his foot on the floor. Could do- mestic despotism further go? And d propos of artist married life, we ought not to omit mention of Fuselis original and characteristic method of disarming his wife when her anger had got control of her discretion. She was, we are told, a spirited woman, and one day, when she had wrought herself into a towering passion, Fuseli launched this sarcastic shot at her: Sophia, my love, why dont you swear? You dont know how much it would case your mind! Was Shakespeare henpecked? This momentous question, if the great dramatists last will and testament be made the rcspondent, would seem to be answerable affirmatively, for, while bcquests were therein made to his daughters, Judith and Susanna, to his sister, Joan Hart, and his three nephews, William, Thomas and SOME CELEBRATED SHREWS. 301 Michael Hart, as also to many of his Stratford friends ani com- panions, no mention compliments or enriches Anne Hathaway, save that single line interpolated after the will had been completed, and which simply says: I give unto my wife my second-best bed, with the furniture. By inference we are placed in the double dilemma of imagining either that the wife had been forgotten by her hus- band, while so many others had l)een remembered, or had been purposely punished thus for shrewish practices which lingered in her liege lords memory. Men do not so easily forget their wives as to leave them only an interlined mention in their wills, and of the two hypotheses that which writes down Mrs. Shakespeare as a shrew has some semblance of foundation. A clear case of bearding the lion in his den was made out when the second wife of Sir Edward Coke, the British lawyer, undertook, and most successfully, the systematic henpecking of her since illus- trious husband. Lady Hatton, the woman in this case, proved herself more than a match for Cokes none-too-lamb-like temper, and worried everything but his life out of him during a long-drawn- out term of nearly forty years. In fact, his persistency in not dying was, itself an aggravating feature; as is proved by her re- turn, with every mark of disappointment, from a journey under- taken suddenly, one day, when the report of his death had stimu- lated her hopes of capturing his mansion and other effects. When eighty years old this resplendent victim of the matrimonial confi- dence game felt himself alone on the earth, suspected by his King, deserted by his friends, and detested by his wife. What a melan- choly and humiliating confession from the lips of one who had been Lord Chief Justice of Englandand all because of his marrying a shrew! Dr. Andrew Bell, who endowed with 120,000 an institution for the education of youth in the city of St. Andrews, receives the fol- lowing first-rate notice of his domestic life and connubial infelici- ties from the pen of Thomas de Quincy, the opium eater: Most men have their enemies and calumniators. Dr. Bell had his, who hap- pened, rather indecorously, to be his wife, from whom he was legally separateddivorced a rnensd et thoro. This legal separation did not prevent the lady from persecuting the unhappy doctor with everlasting letters endorsed outside with records of her enmity and spite. Sometimes she endorsed her epistles thus: To that supreme of rogues, who looks the hang-dog that he is, Doctor (such a doctor!) Andrew Bell. Or, again: To the ape of apes and the knave of knaves, who is recorded to have once paid a debtbut a small one, you may be sure, it was that he selected for this wonderful experi- mentin fact~, it was 4-~-d. Had it been on the other side of 6d., he must have died before he could have achieved so dreadful a sac- nfl cc. Many others, most ingeniously varied in the style of abuse, 302 SOME CELEBRATED SHREWS. I have heard rehearsed by Coleridge, Southey, Lloyd, etc., and one, in particular, addressed to the doctor, when spending a Summer at the cottage of Robert Newton, an old soldier, in Grasruere, presented on the hack two separate adjurations, one specially addressed to Robert himselg pathetically urging him to look sharply after the rent of his lodgings; and the other more generally addressed to the unfortunate person as yet undisclosed to the British public (and in this case turning out to be myself) who might be incautious enough to pay the postage at Ambleside: Dont grant him an hours credit, she urged, upon the person unkno~vn, if I had any regard to my family. cash down!! she wrote twice over. Why the doctor submitted to these annoyances, nobody knew. Some said it was mere indolence; but others held it to be a cunning com- promise with her inexorable malice. The letters certainly were open to the public eye; but, meantime, the public was a very narrow one; the clerks in the post office had little time for digest- ing such amenities of conjugal affection; -and the chance bearer of the letters to the doctor would naturally solve the mystery by supposing an extra portion of madness in the writer rather than an extra portion of knavery in the, reverend receiver.~~ Whitefield, of blessed memory, married a widow of not far from forty, hut neither fat nor fair, who had graduated from gayety into a pseudo-godly frame of mind. The union was not a long path of peace and pleasantness; for, after an unhappy matrimonial cx- pel-icuce on both sides, we aie comforted by the statement that her death in 1768 set his mind much at rest. That other famous Methody, John Wesley, at forty-eight, mar- ned misery in the peisou of a Mrs. Veazie, a widow with thur chil- dren and a fair fortune. Settling her money npon her, he made the stipulation that he should not abridge the number of sermons preached, nor the number of miles travelled, without reflecting how surely he was saddling himself with a perpetual incumbranee by thus entering the marriage state. We are told that at first she conformed to his ascetic habits, and travelled with him, but soon grew tired of his rigid and iestless life, and of the society of the humble Methodists to whom she was introduced. She began to grumble, hut Wesley was far too busy to attend to her wails; then she grew jealous, opened his lett5s, followed him from town to town as a spy, and plagued him in every way, openly and secretly, that her malice could contrive. Southey waxes warm over her henpecking proclivities, and says: By her outrageous jealousy and abominable temper she deserves to be classed in a triad with Xantippe and the wife of Job, as one of the three bad wives. Wesley, however, was made of sterner stuff than to endure, with Jobs patience, this visitation of Satan, and so he writes to her: Know me and know yourself; suspect me no more, asperse me SOME CELEBRATED SHREWS. 303 no more, provoke me no more. Do not any longer contend for mastery, for power, money, or praise; be content to be a private, insignificant person, known and loved by God and me. Of what importance is your character to mankind? If you were buried just now, or if you had never lived, what loss would it be to the cause of God? After putting Wesley through the purgatory of a twenty years~ experience of her shrewishness, this graceless creature tnrned her back on his house, taking with her his papers and journals, which latter she never returned. A refreshingly sim- ple entry iu Wesleys diary tells the story of her flight, expresses his ignorance of its cause, and thus concludes: A~om eain reliqui, ~on dimissi, non rerocaboI did not forsake her I did not dismiss jer, I will not recall her. Ten years afterward Mrs. Wesley died at Camberwell, and now continues to decay beneath a stone, whose inscription says she was A woman of exemplary virtue, a tender parent, and a sincere friend the same being a lie, with circum- stance, in its suj~pressio yen respecting her true character as an un- womanly wife. Fortunate indeed was the great Methodist in possessing a pious placidity of temper, which enabled him to de- clare, I feel and grieve, but by the grace of God I fret at noth- ing. At a recent sale of autographs in London, the catalogue be- gan with a collection of Wesleys letters to his renegade wife. Their character and worth, in the opinions of collectors, were as follows: A very painfully-written letter, of eight pages, on the differences between him and his wife, brought 6 17s. Gd. ; an- other, relating to Mrs. Wesleys keeping his papers, in which he says, Will not even men of the world say, what a wretch is this, first to iob, then to expose her own husband? 2 2s. ; another, presenting a long and pitiful chapter of complaints and dislikes, 2 lOs.; an other, of grave accusation against Mrs. Wesley for hav- ing taken some of his private letters from his bureau, 2 7s.; an- other, relating to his choosing his own company, which had been a bone of contention between him and his wife for more than seven years, 2 2s. ; and so on. These Epistles of John, evidently, were not modelled after their Scriptural namesakes How much of a shrew she was, in general, we do not know; but the wife of the author of Ains worths Latin Dictionary merits such an appellation for having committed to the flames, in a fit of ill- temper, the entire manuscript from the letter A to the letter S of that monumental work of patient erudition. Her pretext was that its compilation occupied too engrossingly her husbands time; and this crowning act of literary murder ended the series of those con- stant con~plainings, whereof, we may imagine, the dictionary fur- nished a pivot for her tongue to ievolve upon perpetually. What dismay, akin to despair, must have seized upon poor Ainsworth as he saw the work of years turned to ashes in a trice! No wonder 304 SOME CELEBRATED SHREWS. that it cost him twenty years of laborious life to complete his colossal undertaking, with such an incumbrance upon his assiduity! Upon the strength of a very brief acquaintance, the poet Wy- cherley married the Countess of Drogheda, a gushing widow, who had both money and good looks. Would that we could say she had an amiable disposition as well. But this we cannot say. Los- ing Court favor, the poet lost therewith the sunshine of his domes- tic life; for, instead of supplying the mishap by a genial temper and the sensible expenditure of her abundant means, the ci-devaut Countess rendered Wycherleys misery superlative by her conduct and conversation. Macaulay thus admirably sums up the case: Lady Drogheda was ill-tempered, imperious, and extravagantly jealous. She had herself been a maid of honor at Whitehall. She well knew in what estimation conjugal fidelity was held among the fine gentlemen there, and watched her town husband as assiduously as Mr. Pinchwife watched his country wife. The unfortunate wit was, indeed, allowed to meet his friends at a tavern opposite to his own house. But on such occasions the win- dows were always open, in order that her ladyehip, who was posted on the other side of the street, might be satisfied that no woman was of the party. The death of Lady Drogheda released the poet from this distress; but a series of disasters, i iii rapid suc- cession, broke down his health, his spirits, and his fortune. His wife meant to leave him a good property, and left him only a law- suit. Many years afterward, at seventy-five, Wycherley, to spite his nephew, married a young girl; but his honeymoon was a short one, and, before ten days had elapsed, the old bridegroom was sum- moned to the place where they neither marry nor are given in mar- ]-iage, and where shrews are de trop. A first-class shrew, essentially, was Sarah, Duchess of Marl- borough; although, mayhap, her soldierly lord was less the victim of her temper than were those who endured its fuller fox-ce after the Dukes death had left her no husband to worry. handsome, high-strung, ambitious, and talented, she was none the less arro- gant, irascible, and over-bearing; so much so, indeed, that Alison found it problematical whether she aided her husbands fortunes in after life most, by hor influence at Court, or marred them by the supercilious demeanor which involved her in continual quarrels, and, at length, entirely alienated the affections of his sovereign. Taking offence one day at the Duke, she determined to punish him, and, knowing how proud he was of her beautiful tresses, she sheared them all off in her fury, and placed them where he could not fail to notice them, in the hope of vexing him. But hates labor was lost; for the great man, who always loved her far better than she deserved, made no ado over the matter; and, after years had passed, and he with them, the spiteful creature discovered the SOME CELEBRATED ShREWS. 305 long-lost locks treasured up by him in his cabinet among the things he had prized most highly. When she had done her share toward worrying out his life, and his will came to be read, it was found that the Duke had left her ten thousand pounds, with which to spoil Blenheim in her own way, and an additional twelve thou- sand a year to keep herself clean with and go to law. Blenheim was a well-picked bone of contention, costing three hundred thou- sand pounds, and constantly keeping the Duchess, and Vanbrngh, its architect, in a turmoil of bad temper. She would never allow him to enter the house when finished, and he always called her that ~x icked woman of Marlborough. When the Duke was lying palsied, beyond the reach of recovery, the Duchess one day followed Dr. Garth down stairs, swearing at him like the veriest trooper, until he effected his retreat. We may well believe that, althongh never unnerved by a battle, the great Captain succumbed and wilted when the tongue-artillery of this ill-tempered woman made him its target. She was sharp enough to detect her own portrait when Popes Queen Sarah was read to her (as though it were in- tended for the Duchess of Buckiugham). You cant impose upon mc, she said, and hastened to buy its suppression by sending the Twickenham poet a thousand pounds. Pope pocketed the money, and ungratefully gave her immortal infamy as Atossa, i. e., the Insatiable, in his Characters of Women. One of her grand- daughters, who had displeased her, was pilloried by having her poitrait hung in the old hags reception-room, blackened and labelled Shes blacker far within. In compiling her Memoirs and fighting Vaubrughs laxvyers she passed her declining years, and though she gave Nat. Hooke four thousand pounds for his literary labor on that production, her liberality was diluted by the squabbles she all the time kept np with him about religion. At last she met her match. Death sunimoned her; but instead of coming down grace- fully, which, of course, was not to be looked for, she fonght fiercely to the end and then died game. When the physicians said she must be blistered or she will die, her high mightiness retorted I wont be blistered, and I wont die. Notwithstanding this, the grim monster wore her out, until, finally, with affected insouci- cwce, she muttered that she cared not how soon the stroke of death came. Life left her, at length, snarling and growling; and, sinking into compulsory silence, at eighty-four, she lets fly this Parthian arrow and goes down with all sail set: I think one cant leave the world at a better time than now, when there is no such thing as real friendship, truth, justice, honor, or, indeed, anything that is agreeable in life. A poor husband persecuted by the vixenish cussedness of a companion, such as has been above described, might well wish that a certain English custom of selling wives could be introduced again 306 SOME CELEBRATED SHREWS. as a remedial measure. On an occasion of this kind, as late even as April 7, 1832, at Carlisle, one Mrs. Thomson was eloquently shuffled off, at public auction, by her husband, in words following, to wit: Gentlemen, I have to offer to your notice my wife, Mary Ann Thomson, otherwise Williams, whom I mean to sell to the highest and fairest bidder. Gentlemen, it is her wish as well as mine to pnrt forever. She has been to me only a born serpent. I took her for my comfort, and the good of my home; but she became my tormenter, a domestic curse, a night invasion, and a daily devil. Gentlemen, I speak truth from my heart, when I say, may God deliver us from troublesome wives and frolicsome women! Avoid them as you would a mad dog, a roaring lion, a loaded pistol, cholera morbus, Mount Etna, or any other pestilential thing in nature. Now, I have shown you the dark side of my wife, and told you her faults and failings, I will introduce the bright and sunny side of her, and explain her qualifications and goodness. She can read novels and milk cows; she can laugh and weep with the same ease that you could take a glass of ale when thirsty. Indeed, gentle- men, she reminds me of what the poet says of women in general: Heaven gave to women the peculiar grace To laugh, to weep, to cheat the human race. She can make butter and scold the maid; she can sing Moores Melodies, and plait her frills and caps; she cannot make rum, gin or whiskey, but she is a good judge of the quality from long expe- rience in tasting them. I therefore offer her with all her perfec- tions and imperfections, for the sum of fifty shillings. It is proper to add that the account of this curious performance concludes with the statement that, after waiting about an hour, Thomson knocked down the lot to one Henry Mears, for twenty shillings and a Newfoundland dog; they then parted in perfect good temper Mears and the woman going one way, Thomson and the dog another. Such an arrangement seems to throw into the shade, as regards swiftness and certainty, even the far-famed facilities of the Indiana law of divorce. Another English invention for the cooling off of shrews and scolds, was the ducking stool, respecting which Chambers, in his admirable Book of Days, has presented many curious particulars. The London Evening Post of April 27, 1745, gives a record of one of the latest inflictions of this peculiar punishment. Last week, says the Post, a woman that keeps the Queens head Ale-House at Kingston, in Surrey, was ordered by the court to be ducked for scolding, and was, accordingly, placed in the chair, and ducked in the river Thames, under Kingston bridge, in the presence of 2,000 or 3,000 people. The details of the performance are thus described by M. Misson, a peripatetic Frenchman, who visited England about the year 1700, and whose range of observation happened to include SOME CELEBRATED SHREWS. 3O~ an occasion of the kind referred to: This method of punishing scolding women is funny enough. They fasten an arm chair to the end of two strong beams, twelve or fifteen feet long, and parallel to each other. The chair hangs upon a sort of axle, on which it plays freely, so as alxvays to remain in the horizontal position. The scold being well fastened in her chair, the two beams are then placed, as near to the centre as possible, across a post on the water side, and being lifted up behind, the chair, of course, drops into the cold element. The ducking is repeated according to the degree of shrewishness possessed by the patient, and generally has the effcct of cooling her immoderate heat, at least for a time.~ Still another device for pivot-tongued femininityand English, too, at thatwas the scolds bridle, or brank, which is mentioned by Dr. Plat, in his History of Staffordshire, in these terms : They have an artifice at Neweastle-under-Lyne and Walsall for correcting of scolds, which it does so effectually that I look upon it as much to be preferred to the ducking-stool, which not only endangers the health of the party, but also gives the tongue liberty twixt every dip, to neither of which this is at all liableit being such a bridle for the tongue as not only quite deprives them of speech, but brings shame for the transgression, and humility thereupon before it is taken off; which being put upon the offender, by order of the magistrate, and fastened with a padlock behind, she is led around the town by an officer, to her shame, nor is it taken off till after the party begins to show all external signs imaginable of humilia- tion and amendment. This bridle, or brank, we are told i~y Chambers, had a quite formidable look, and consisted of hoops of metal passed around the neck and head, opening by means of hinges at the sides, and closed by a staple with a padlock at the back; a plate within the hoop, projecting inward, pressed upon the tongue, and formed an effectual gag. We have spoken of a few individuals, panel ex 2nultis, whom his- tory has held up on high as monsters among men~ s wives. Others might easily be added to the list; but we refrain. And yet, with what serene satisfaction will the reader, whether married or single, recall to mind the fact that even the most limited circle of acquaint- ance does not exclude examples of shrewishness in private life; and how rejoicingly some of us may lay the flattering unction to our souls that a merciful Providence has spared us this infliction Immunity in such a case is highest happiness. Ignorance here is bliss, indeed; for he who, in respect of shrews, increaseth knowl- edge increaseth sorrow, and, if iu the enjoyment of peace and quiet- ness at home, we may believe and boast, with Prior: From ignorance our comfort flows; The only wretched are the wise. FRANK W. BALLARD. A DESERTED PLAINTATION. APPENING on hilton Head in the Spring of 1S62, I made use of a free permit, which was courteously extended to me from headquarters, to wander as far as was consistent with safety, and, indeed, often much farther, over the adjacent islands, the homes of the wealthy planters of the coast of Carolina. There was nothing peculiarly attractive to a visitor in the style of these settlements, for, as a genera] thing, they seemed to me much plainer than the means of the inhabitants would have warranted. Indeed, these people seemed to have lived in that fashion of plain bounty and substantial comfort which is peculiar to sections entirely rural, that is, removed from those tastes and influences which the near vicinity of great cities always imparts. Nor was the rather mo- notonous beauty of the exceedingly level country calculated to de- tain a traveller, notwithstanding the semi-tropical luxuriance of its ancient forests, and the noble spread of its majestic rivers. I can- not say that I did not enjoy with intense relish the freshness of the early season, more delicious in this soft climate than in any other portion of this continent, brighter and more balmy than in the chillier regions of the North, and appealing to the senses with a more grateful contrast than in more tropical sections, where the smaller degree of the change from Winter to Summer renders less perceptible the glories of the lovelier period. Some of the April mornings, when the elements were especially favorable, quite sur- passed description; and it was with an almost magical impression of subdued delight that I loitered under the rosy skies through the far arcades of the grand oak forests, greeted by the songs of inun- merable birds, whose notes rang clearly with a dewy illusion of sound peculiar to the season and clime. But the charm which especially bound me, was the utterly de- serted condition of the country. Other lands may have displayed in a greater degree the ravages of xvar, but in the history of mod- ern times no section, of equal extent and equal population, ever underwent so complete a desolation as that produced by the vol- untarv exile of these zealous Carolinians in their devotion to the cause which they had chosen. Not a single loiterer, seduced by the comforts of home, or held by the chords of that affection which bind men so powerfully to their firesides, violated what they con- sidered the national honor by remaining. So sudden had been this flight, that in a great majority of cases none, or at most very few, of the articles of household use had been removed. Houses with-

E. B. Seabrook Seabrook, E. B. A Deserted Plantation 308-317

A DESERTED PLAINTATION. APPENING on hilton Head in the Spring of 1S62, I made use of a free permit, which was courteously extended to me from headquarters, to wander as far as was consistent with safety, and, indeed, often much farther, over the adjacent islands, the homes of the wealthy planters of the coast of Carolina. There was nothing peculiarly attractive to a visitor in the style of these settlements, for, as a genera] thing, they seemed to me much plainer than the means of the inhabitants would have warranted. Indeed, these people seemed to have lived in that fashion of plain bounty and substantial comfort which is peculiar to sections entirely rural, that is, removed from those tastes and influences which the near vicinity of great cities always imparts. Nor was the rather mo- notonous beauty of the exceedingly level country calculated to de- tain a traveller, notwithstanding the semi-tropical luxuriance of its ancient forests, and the noble spread of its majestic rivers. I can- not say that I did not enjoy with intense relish the freshness of the early season, more delicious in this soft climate than in any other portion of this continent, brighter and more balmy than in the chillier regions of the North, and appealing to the senses with a more grateful contrast than in more tropical sections, where the smaller degree of the change from Winter to Summer renders less perceptible the glories of the lovelier period. Some of the April mornings, when the elements were especially favorable, quite sur- passed description; and it was with an almost magical impression of subdued delight that I loitered under the rosy skies through the far arcades of the grand oak forests, greeted by the songs of inun- merable birds, whose notes rang clearly with a dewy illusion of sound peculiar to the season and clime. But the charm which especially bound me, was the utterly de- serted condition of the country. Other lands may have displayed in a greater degree the ravages of xvar, but in the history of mod- ern times no section, of equal extent and equal population, ever underwent so complete a desolation as that produced by the vol- untarv exile of these zealous Carolinians in their devotion to the cause which they had chosen. Not a single loiterer, seduced by the comforts of home, or held by the chords of that affection which bind men so powerfully to their firesides, violated what they con- sidered the national honor by remaining. So sudden had been this flight, that in a great majority of cases none, or at most very few, of the articles of household use had been removed. Houses with- A DESERTED PLANTATION. 309 out an inhabitant were found in full condition for the occupation of the families which had fled; chambers with all the appliances of comfort; parlors decked with splendid furniture; libraries stocked with valuable books. It was with a novel sensation that I wandered for weeks through this cultivated wilderness, this soli- tude of vacant human habitations. This employment exercised a singular fascination over my mind, not devoid of that melancholy, a slight trace of which is always a component of the highest enjoy- ment. Generally entirely alonefor the presence of others re- pressed my imagination, and marred my pleasureand, when it was absolutely necessary, with as few companions as possible, I was accustomed to wander for miles, from settlement to settlement, strolling np the great avenues, the finest in the world, and linger- ing about the lonely houses. The pleasurable emotions, which this utter absence of human beings amid all the signs and apparatus of human life excited, are almost inexplicable, and I yielded, day after day, to the dreamy charm of my self-imposed solitude, follow- ing the threads of the quick-springing fancies which the peculiar circumstances of the deserted country around me awakened. I happened one lovely evening on the line of the pickets npon the northeastern limit of Port Royal Island. Broad, open marshes spread for several miles between the stream, upon whose banks I was standing, and, I think, the Combahee river, whose course, gradually approaching that of the former, brought their waters to- gether many miles nearer the ocean. The eye, gazing fi-om this point over the dead level of the intervening marshes, caught an occasional glimpse of the surface of the Combahee in some of its hold sinuosities, and was enabled to trace with tolerable accuracy the flow of its current, until it passed out of this watery prairie, and disappeared afar amid the woods of the distant mainland. The sun, sinking low at this hour in the clearest of skies, lit with level rays the broad landscape, and touched into vividness the prevailing green, which garnished it far and wide with fresh and lovely tint. My attention had become rivetted upon a little island, which lay several miles away upon the farther bank of the Combahee, and apparently at no great distance from the shores of the adjacent mainland. The peculiar rounding vegetation of the live oaks, which grew closely along its shore, stood out clear and bright against the opposite light of the setting sun; and, embowered amid what seemed, from its greater density, a grove at the nearer ex- tremity of the island, the roof of a large mansion was visible. This roof was of old-fashioned construction, with four sides rising in shape of a pyramid almost to a point, and having a gable on the side nearest the river, reaching half way to its summit. In the cen- tre of the upper portion of this gable, and just appearing above 20 310 A DESERTED PLANTATION. the tops of the trees, was a circular window, the glasses of which, happening exactly at the extremity of the angle of reflection from this point, shone red and flame-like in the distance. It was this peculiarly bright reflection that had first attracted my notice. I ascertained from the men on the station that the house itself only became visible in the evenings under the light of the western sun; and I found that they had been accustomed to watch with curios- ity, not unmingled with superstitious awe, this fiery beacon that marked the hour of the closIng day. They told nie, also, that often, about the hour of twilight, and more frequently during the stillness of moonlit nights, they had heard the baying of a dog upon this distant island. My informant had scarcely finished speak- ing, when, fhr over the waters, faint, yet distinct and clear, I heard it, a deep, sad note, the melancholy of whose cadence was enhanced to my imagination by the circumstances, the hour and the scene. The distance from our lines was great; the island lay in danger- ous proximity to the line of the enemys pickets, which, they told me, ran all along the shores of the mainland, and might naturally be expected to be in especial force at the mouth of so large a river and yet so powerful an inclination drew me to this lonely little provinceand the sombre old mansion, coming out thus weirdly to sight amid its dusky grove, like an omen of the approaching night, exercised so mysterious a spell over my mind, that I de- termined, at all hazards, to visit it as soon as the requisite arrange- ments could be made. The venture was not, indeed, so great in reality as it appeared at first sight; for this tract, on account of its isolated position, was outside of the limits of occupation of both parties, and the only danger consisted either in a chance encounter with some occasional party like my owna possibility which was lessened by the rigor of military regulationsor in a pursuit, in ease I was observeda contingency, all the probabilities of which were iu my favor, as the exercise of the most ordinary vigilance would give me a start sufficient to render capture hopeless. My request was met by some opposition at headquarters, which a little urgency overcame, and so, after I had been laughingly committed to the consequences of my own rashness, the requisite permission was obtained; and, early on a beautiful morning, a fexv days after- ward, in a boat manned by six stalwart seamen, I was moving swiftly, with a favorable current, toward the coveted bourn of my desires. The island, on a nearer approach, viewed from a direction which exposed it laterally to view, appeared of much greater dimensions than it had seemed from the first point of my observation. It ex- tended back among the creeks and marshes that surrounded it for a distance of about two miles, and, narrowing as it approached the A DESERTED PLANTATION. 311 main river, ran out into a point which terminated in a bank of a few hundred yards in length. The whole of this point was occupied by the settlement and the snrrounding grove. Landing at a small wharf of palmetto logs, I advanced up a broad walk, white with beaten shells, beneath the dense foliage of large cedars on both sides, whose over-arching boughs met above with such astonishing regularity that the vista beneath presented the appearance of a pointed Gothic arch. This walk terminated at an open space, in the centre of which, upon a hillock rising with soft declivity on every side, stood a large mansion, the antiquity of whose appearance was increased by the stains of weather which the long absence of care had allowed to dim its exterior, and by the luxuriant ivy which enveloped its sides and wreathed its window casements. The shell walk, dividing at the point at which I was standing, passed with circular sweep around the summit of the hillock like a terrace; and between this and the smaller paths radiating from the house, the spaces, enclosed with low palings of light lattice work, were covered with a profusion of beautiful flowers which, notwithstanding the want of attention displayed by their wilder growth, were blooming brightly, and loading the balmy air of the niorning with soft and exquisite odors. Outside of the circular walk a range of tall sycamores ran around the sides of the hill, and beyond, for acres on every side, spread a level grassy lawn, covered here and there with gigantic live oaks streaming with the gray moss which so strangely decorates these grandest of the trees of the world. The house before me was a square and massive structure, of plain, old-fashioned architecture, built with two stories of wood upon a high basement of brick, and having in frontin- stead of the piazza, which is generally so conspicuous a feature of Southern housesa broad porch resting upon brick arches, and covered by the roof of the gable that I had observed at a distance. Two windows on the front stood open, one in the upper story, and another in the lower upon the porch. The Sabbath stillness was only broken by the plaintive cooing of the doves which had made their nests among the branches of the oaks. The very spirit of solitude seemed to possess the spot, and a feeling of sadness, akin to the emotion awakened by the aspect of death, filled my mind as I gazed around me on the vacant grove and deserted house. I had advanced but a few steps when a large and handsome dog, of the spaniel or setter species, perhaps aroused by the sound of my footsteps, leaped from the open window upon the porch, and, bound- ing forward with a quick bark, stood at the top of the steps regard- mg me with eager eyes and erect ears. A moments scrutiny brought a genuine expression of disappointment over his face~ He C) A DESERTED PLANTATION. came slowly down the steps, and, notwithstanding my efforts to fix his attention, walked around the house and disappeared from sight. He was the solitary tenant of the lonely place. Poor brute I lie little knew that his faithful tryst would never be fulfilled, and that the master, whose coming he had awaited through so many long days and nights, was doomed never again to tread these walks or to stand within those halls. The door was shut and latched on the inside. Upon entering through the open window, I found myself in a large panelled chamber, whose furniturenone of which, as far as I could per- ceive, had been removedwas of a massive and antique pattern. The sofa upon which I sat, made of solid mahogany, dark with age, was of such large dimensions that the front of each of its arms was ornamented by two beautiful Corinthian columns of considerable size, resting upon a broad pedestal below, and supporting above the extremities of the heavy and elaborately-carved entablature which ran around the top. Marks upon the walls showed that the pictures which had hung there had been removed. A large frame, however, from which the canvass had been cut, still occupied its place against one of the sides of the room, and over the high and elaborate mantel hung a portrait of an elderly man, of a dark and haughty countenance, wearing a long queue, an old-fashioned military cocked hat, and the scarlet uniform of an English officer. A rent which had been inflicted upon this picture, extending across the right cheek almost to the eye, enhanced the forbidding aspect with which, to my fancy, this stern old warrior seemed to regard my un- warranted intrusion; and this idea grew so upon my mind that it was with a feeling of actual relief that I turned away from the steady gaze which seemed to follow me as I moved. I passed across the large hall or entry-way, extending entirely through the house, in the back part of which a broad circular stair passed downward to the basement and up to the higher story. The hollow sound with which the long-slumbering echoes responded to my footfalls, and the dim light from the occasional window that stood open, just sufficient to create an indistinct gloom, through which the surrounding objects appeared with an unnatural aspect, excited a superstitious feeling within me which I vainly strove to resist. The apartment opposite to the one I had first entered evidently, from its fittings, the dining-roomwas entirely closed, and while groping across it in the faint light in order to throw open one of the windows, I was suddenly startled by the shadowy appa- rition, upon my left side and near the wall, of the lower portion of a human figure. My hand had already sought my pistol, when I discovered that it was only the reflection of my own form in one of those mirrors, extending to the floor, with which many old-fashioned 313 A DESERTED PLANTATION. side-tables are ornamented. The mistake was ludicrous, and I after- ward laughed heartily to myself at the tragic style of my harmless encounter with my own image; but the incident, occurrin gin that lonely place and hostile country, was sufficient for the moment to disturb my equanimity to a degree which, perhaps, I have not fully confessed. This room, as, indeed, every one in the entire house, was com- pletely furnished, although there was a greater confusion and injury of the articles in this than in any other. A closet in the panelling stood open, and upon its shelves, and also upon the floor in front of it for yards around, were strewed the wrecks of a large quantity of glass and China ware, some of it of the finest and most costly description. I opened a door in the back of this room, and found myself in a small but exquisitely-fitted library. A few of the books were lying on the floor, and some had been injured by the effects of the air and rain which had entered at an open window; but the majority of them, although covered with dust and cobwebs, stood in good order and preservation on the shelves of the high oaken cases that completely surrounded the walls. The encroaching ivy, having crept in at the open window, had fixed its tendrils upon the carved corner of one of the cases, and thence had spread itself in fantastic shape over the backs of many of the volumes, so as almost entirely to hide them from sight beneath the strange covering of its inter- lacing vines and green foliage. Several steps, reaching from the floor to the sill of this window, were covered with flo~ver pots, the plants in which were all dead, with the exception of a few gerani- ums, which still preserved a sickly life. The apartment was fur- nished in a style of careless elegance, displaying a cultivated but eccentric taste in a collection of articles of varied fashion and color, uniting in a general effect of soft but irregular luxury. The cur- tains and carpets, both sadly injured by exposure and the long absence of care, were of fine material, but totally different fashion; and the same discordance pervaded all the ornaments and fittings of the rather crowded room. The pictures here, as elsewhere in the house, had been removed, but there was a profusion of busts and statuettes, some of them scattered in fragments over the floor, others still standing on brackets, on pedestals, on the mantel, and all around upon the cornices of the book-cases. A huge lounging chair, whose red Morocco covering was rent in places and stained throughout, was drawn up before the hearth, and on the right of it stood a circular writing-table, upon which lay a large open volume, having between its leaves a book-mark made of ribbon, so faded that it was impossible to discover its original color. The book- 314 A DESERTED PLANTATION. mark was embroidered in exquisite needle-work, with the motto, aristocratic in moral, if not in expression: Qui se couche avec des chiens, se teve cevee des puces. The book was Gibbons Rome, and the page told of the Apos- tate Julians vain attempt to contradict prophecy by rebuilding the temple of Jerusalem. The arrangement of the chair, the table, and the book, led to the irresistible conclusion that they were still standing as they had last been placed by the hand of the exiled owner of the mansion; and as I took my seat in the chair, the train of thought suggested by this idea led me to trace in fancy a history for the place, and to follow with melancholy divination the present fortunes of its inhabitants, thus torn from an abode so replete with all that could conduce to human happiness, and, apparently, so en- deared by the associations which had linked it with the lives of generations of men. My imagination carried me back to the time when the sail of the European upon yonder bay first startled the red man, whose wigwam may have stood beneath these very oaks, and his canoe moored to that very shore. I thought of that event- ful day, perhaps bright and beautiful like the present, when the discerning eye of the English settler first marked as his future home this spot amid the broad landscapes of these green savannas. I followed in fancy the mansion, from the date of that distant epoch, through the many years that had passed a~vay in silent lapse of re- volving seasons, in succession of political vicissitudes, in continued change of social habits and customs, in the varied phases of the human life that had circulated within its hallsbirth, youth, age, and death, the hopes and endeavors, the griefs and the joys, all the chal]ging events and emotions, so trifling to contemplation, so momentous to experience, which crowd the drama of our brief existence. Every object aroundthe books, the furniture, the very walls themselvesseemed to speak with mute eloquence of all this mortality, of which, through generations, they had been the silent witnesses. I pictured to myself these rooms in some happier hour, gleaming with light and resounding with revelry; and, again, when the gloomy dispensation of a darker season had brought the pale visitor into some one of the chambers overhead, I thought how woe and desolation of the heart may have crouched around this very hearth, in mockery of the surrounding splendor. Suddenly I started to my feet, thrilled by a heavy metallic clang which reverberated through the death-like stillness of the house. A large Dutch clock upon the stair had struck the hour One. It is probable that this clock had stopped without having entirely run down, and that the sudden change in the temperature, caused by the entrance of the air through the windows I had opened, had A DESERTED PLANTATION. 315 affected the metal so as to produce the unexpected stroke, which had so rudely interrupted the train of my reverie. This sudden recall reminds me to give such meagre information with regard to the owners of this estate as I was able to procure by inquiry after the termination of the war. This house was built about the middle of the last century by a retired admiral of the English navy, undoubtedly the original of the grim portrait I saw hanging in the parlor. This gentleman left two sons, both of whom retired from the country at the period of the Revolution on account of their sympathy with the royal cause, but were encouraged to re- turn after the declaration of peace by the liberal policy of the vic- torious party. The family, one of the most conspicuous in the State for wealth and high social accomplishments, increased in numbers awhile, and then gradually diminished, until at the period of the war there remained but a single representative, the heir of all their possessions. This was a young man, who, after receiving his col- legiate education at a Northern histitution, had passed several years at a foreign university, and had returned to this country and dwelt upon his ancestral estate only fQr about a year before the breaking out of the war. He was represented to me as having possessed a tine person, graceful manners, a generous spirit, excellent talents, and a cultivated literary taste. Espousing with enthusiasm the cause of his native section, he embarked at an early period of the struggle, as an officer of cavalry, upon the perilous career which was destined soon to extinguish his brilliant prospects, and to ter- minate in his person the line of his honorable race. During the second year of the war, amid the vicissitudes of a fierce cavalry combat, a brother officer, retiring from the confusion of an unsuc- cessful charge, encountered him, pale and faint, sitting on the ground beside his horse, which had been slain by a fragment of shell, and vainly striving to stanch the blood which was running redly from a huge sabre cut over his head. He begged his friend to save himselg and to leave him to his inevitable fate. He was never seen nor heard of afterward; the sad roll of the missing was his final record; and it is reasonable to conclude that his form is lying in an unknown and unhonored grave beneath the distant soil of Viroinia. A locked drawer in the writing-table excited my curiosity to such an extent, that, after much debate of the matter with myseig and with some compunction, I broke a hole in the bottoiu of it, and drew from the cavity a large number of papers and letters. The letters, which were neatly parcelled and labelled according to the names of the writers, were in several languages, and all addressed to the same person, at various places both in this country and in Europe. They evidently constituted the correspondence of a young 316 A DESERTED PLANTATION. man, embracing letters of varied character and style, from grave parental injunction, eloquent with the earnest care and tender affec- tion which sanctify domestic influences, to sprightly and coquettish 6illets-doax, breathing the spirit of that pardonable levity with which youth, by the kindly provision of nature, compensates itself for the cares of manhood and the sufferings of age, and notes of deeper mystery, mere erratic records, over which charity cannot but consent to cast the veil of forgiveness and oblivion. Among the papers were a number of prose compositions, brief and elabor- ate essays ~on various subjects, and a small book of manuscript poems of no inconsiderable merit. After exploring the chambers in the upper story, I ascended to the roof by means of a step-ladder in the entry-way, communi- cating with a trap door above. From this commanding point on every side broad landscapes met my delighted gaze. Toward the ocean the prospect was unbounded, the trees on both sides of the bay, which widened as it receded, presenting more and more at greater distance a spectral, incomplete appearance, like the shading lines of a picture. The foliage of the trees far and near displayed in the early season every shade of green from dark to pale. The sun, in the clearest of skies, was illuminating the scene with the full splendor of his vertical rays. While the majestic expanse of the landscapes on every side, and the blue arch of the magnificent heavens above, inspired a feeling of sublimity, the nearer and minuter features of the scene filled me with a sense of beauty; but the gladness with which my heart responded to the fair reflections of the face of nature was tempered by sorrow, when I thought of the desolation which reigned throughout this lovely territory, and the misery with which the violence of human passions had marred its goodliness. A loud shout below arrested my attention. One of the sailors had run up to the house with the information that a party of the enemy was approaching. A glance showed me two large boats filled with armed men, as yet at a distance of more than a mile, rapidly descending the river. I hurried down through. the house, only stopping in the library to take the book-mark from the table as a memento; and a fe~r moments afterward was leaving the island as sxviftly as my stalwart oarsmen, incited to strenuous exer- tions by dread of captivity, could propel our boat through the water. After a little while the other party came into sight around a headland of the marsh; they stopped and rested on their oars a moment, and then, as if convinced of the hopelessness of pursuit, turned and commenced pulling slowly up the stream. E. 13. SEABJIiOOK. THE SECRET HISTOIRY OF A SUBSIDIZED OI~GAN. ANY one who has a file of the National Intelligencer for the year eighteen hundred and fifty-seven, can easily acquaint himself with the fact that the person who supplied Paris corre- spondence to that journal in the Spring of that year was a zealous Napoleonistpuisquil ny a plus de Bonapartes, one of the exiled O~4eans princes sneeringly and amusingly said in a recent political pamphlet. The person who supplied Paris correspondence to the National Intelligencer in the Spring of the year eighteen hundred and fifty-seven, was an American from Charleston, South Carolina. To him we shall give, alone of all persons who figure in this history, the cloak of a fictitious name; and, beyond this, fiction will have no place in the present paper. The National Intelligencer had informed its correspondent that its columns were not to be used as a medium for the gossipping letter so easily dashed off by scribbling tourists, but were to con- tain serious views of the political situation of France. Upon this hint, Mr. Peyton (the new correspondent) began with an ecstatic review of the Emperors policy, his value as a social regenerator, his wide-spreading charity, his honor, his trustworthiness, and a great deal more balderdash of the same quality. The result was an early dismissal from the National Intelligencer. Before the dismissal was received in France, however, the letters had attracted attention at the ]FIiinist~re de lInterieur, and, easily tracing their source through the passport registry and the minute surveillance of the Paris police, the Emperor instructed his Secretary to invite the writer to call at the palace, which invitation was of course accepted. The first question which the Secretary and Chief of Cabinet asked Mr. Peyton was, whether he had been sent to France to inspect the condition of the country, political and social, by the American Government? The answer to this was, no; the letters were the opinions of an observer who had been greatly struck with the flourishing condition of the country under the reign of Napoleon III. This response gave great satisfaction. Then and there it was intimated that the Emperor was much pleased with the letters, and that if Mr. Peyton saw fit to continue to lay before the American people truthful and favorable views of his Majestys policy, such as these, there was little doubt that emolument, of a character that no one could despise, would follow. Mr. Peyton avowed himself a devoted partisan of Napoleon III., confessed that he was then engaged in writing a biography of that monarch, was clapped on the back by the delighted Secretary, and returned with flying colors to his wife.

Olive Logan Logan, Olive The Secret History of a Subsidized Organ 317-328

THE SECRET HISTOIRY OF A SUBSIDIZED OI~GAN. ANY one who has a file of the National Intelligencer for the year eighteen hundred and fifty-seven, can easily acquaint himself with the fact that the person who supplied Paris corre- spondence to that journal in the Spring of that year was a zealous Napoleonistpuisquil ny a plus de Bonapartes, one of the exiled O~4eans princes sneeringly and amusingly said in a recent political pamphlet. The person who supplied Paris correspondence to the National Intelligencer in the Spring of the year eighteen hundred and fifty-seven, was an American from Charleston, South Carolina. To him we shall give, alone of all persons who figure in this history, the cloak of a fictitious name; and, beyond this, fiction will have no place in the present paper. The National Intelligencer had informed its correspondent that its columns were not to be used as a medium for the gossipping letter so easily dashed off by scribbling tourists, but were to con- tain serious views of the political situation of France. Upon this hint, Mr. Peyton (the new correspondent) began with an ecstatic review of the Emperors policy, his value as a social regenerator, his wide-spreading charity, his honor, his trustworthiness, and a great deal more balderdash of the same quality. The result was an early dismissal from the National Intelligencer. Before the dismissal was received in France, however, the letters had attracted attention at the ]FIiinist~re de lInterieur, and, easily tracing their source through the passport registry and the minute surveillance of the Paris police, the Emperor instructed his Secretary to invite the writer to call at the palace, which invitation was of course accepted. The first question which the Secretary and Chief of Cabinet asked Mr. Peyton was, whether he had been sent to France to inspect the condition of the country, political and social, by the American Government? The answer to this was, no; the letters were the opinions of an observer who had been greatly struck with the flourishing condition of the country under the reign of Napoleon III. This response gave great satisfaction. Then and there it was intimated that the Emperor was much pleased with the letters, and that if Mr. Peyton saw fit to continue to lay before the American people truthful and favorable views of his Majestys policy, such as these, there was little doubt that emolument, of a character that no one could despise, would follow. Mr. Peyton avowed himself a devoted partisan of Napoleon III., confessed that he was then engaged in writing a biography of that monarch, was clapped on the back by the delighted Secretary, and returned with flying colors to his wife. 318 A SUBSIDIZED ORGAN. As the first earnest of imperial favor, Mr. Peyton received the position of Paris correspondent to the Morning Chronicle, the oldest, and, until the epoch of its decadence, just prior to Mr. Pey- tons connection with it, perhaps the most respectable and prominent journal in London. For ninety years it had lived an honorable life. In its columns Boz won his first triumphs. Between the cinis- saries of the Emperor and the owners of the Mornincr Chronicle an arrangement had long existed by which it was understood that, for the sum~ of one hundred pounds a month, the Emperors Secre- tary was to have the privilege of inserting in the English journal any bit of news, any French opinion, which he saw fit; and this was to come ostensibly from the unbiassed English mind of its conductors. This connection was freely confessed by Monsieur Mocquard (the Emperors private Secretary and Chief of the Cab- inet), to Mr. Peyton, though, of course, under the ban of secrecy. But the owners of the Chronicle which was now beginning visi- bly to decline, became dissatisfied with the smallness of the monthly allowance made to their journal, and said that if more money were not given them, their paper must stop publication, proceedings for debt would be instituted, and the whole French connection would be exposed. This disclosure the Emperor was naturally most anxious to avoid, and, to put an end to the imbroglio, the owners of the Chronicle requested Mr. Peyton, the new correspondent whom they at once saw was high in power, to inquire if the Em- peror would not like to buy the paper out and out,free of debt, for eight thousand pounds sterling, or two hundred thousand francs. The persons making the proposition were Sergeant Glover and William Moore, of London, who were then in possession of the Chronicle. This offer was communicated to Monsieur Mocquard, who in turn spoke of it to the Emperor; and, at the request of his Majesty, Mr. Peyton went down to Compeigne, where the Court was then sojourning, for the purpose of discussing the feasibility of the plan. This was Mr. Peytons first interview with the Em- peror, who seemed to be pleased with so much devotion at the hands of an American, and kindly said: Qaoiquil qrrive, je me charge de votre a~enir (Whatever happens, I charge myself with your future)one of those pleasant pie-crust promises, tradition- ally made to be brokenand which was. The upshot of the inter- view was the decision that the Chronicle should be purchased at the sum named, and that Mr. Peyton should be the ostensible owner of it; though in reality the property, which all hoped would one day be valuable, was to belong to the Emperor. But as so exalted a personage could scarcely be known as the proprietor of a journal which he was particularly anxious the English people should not know was in the least degree under French influence, Mr. Pey A SUBSIDIZED ORGAN. 319 ton took the purchase-money, went to London, and to this day stands registered in the Somerset House as owner and proprietor of the Morning Chronicle. The purchase was effected through the agency of Messrs. Maugham & Dixon, Solicitors, Bedford Row, London; and we may state that Mr. Peyton has always blamed this firm for the disasters which followed the sale. For at the sale began the troubles. Rdying on the penetration of his solicitors for a careful and conscientious examination of the deeds, and a rigid exclusion of any line or word which would un- favorably affect the interests of their client, Mr. Peyton signed the deed without having sufficiently acquainted himself with its con- tents, and, to his amazement and dismay, afterward found that the sellers of the property had inserted a clause by which Mr. Peyton made himself responsible for all the debts of the Chronicle, when his previous understanding was that eight thousand pounds was the price of the Chronicle,free from de4t. Within a week began Pey- tons tortures on the score of money. It was understood that the subsidy whieh the Chronicle was to receive should be fixed at the sum of twenty thousand fi-aucs a month, being eight hundred pounds, or exactly eight times what it had received during the ow nershi~ of Mr. Moore, and it was hoped that in less than a year the journal would pay its own expenses, and in a twelvemonth after that, per- hapsdelusive hope !make money. Speeding back to Paris, Pey- ton laid before Mocquard the sad state of the case in regard to the unfortunate clause of the debts, and, as perplexed as Peyton him- selg Mocquard counselled secrecy on this head. We must not tell the Emperor just yet, said he; wait till some day when I find him in a perfectly good humor a day which never caine. The aphorism of the Dead Sea fruit was now illustrated in Pey- tons daily life. Tortured beyond expression to procure money enough to enable the Chronicle to coach over (to use the English phrase) from week to week, he was also in continual hot water with Mocquard, whose impatient nature manifested itself in reproaching Peyton for his lack of shrewdness in allowing that unfortunate clause to be inserted in the deed, and his want of edi- torial tact in permitting so fine a journal, backed by so much money, to languish so completely. The greatest cause of strife between Peyton and Mocquard in the affairs of the Chronicle was in the date of the payment of the subsidyMocquard contending that the twenty thousand francs should be paid every calendar month, Peyton that it should be paid every four weeks. About this time, too, another evidence of Peytons want of tact was made evident, and affected him, as usual, in the Chronicles weak pointits exchequer. On taking the Chronicle out of the hands of Messrs. Glover & Moore, Mr. Pey .320 A SUBSIDIZED ORGAN. ton had been unwise enough to retain the services of Mi. F., a well-known and ill-known Bohemian of Londona man wielding a facile and elegant pen, a graduate of Oxford some decades before, and at present an ardent devotee of the sherry bottle. Fully conscious that the Chronicle was the Emperors paid or- ganMr. F. believing that so powerful a sovereign was made to fleece, and that the proper duty of mankind was to fleece him, made ducks and drakes of the money sent him from Paris by Pey- ton, who, on his part, was obliged to supplicate, plead, and almost threaten Mocquard each time it fell due. His incompetency no longer admitting of a doubt, Peyton found himself obliged to discharge the now irate Mr. F., who, as might have been expected, vowed instant vengeance on Peyton, the Chronicle, and the Emperor, holding up the pet bug-a-booexposure of ~he French connection. But how was the exposure to be made? Alas! Mr. F. had ample evidence of the fact in the shape of letters scrawled by Peyton in Paris to Mr. F. in London, in which our friend Nap. and my partner Louey Napo., was frequently alluded to when Peyton was in a jocular mood; a others written when more seriously inclined, in which the affairs of the subsidized organ were discussed with dangerous freedom. These letters Mr. F. placed in the hands of a solicitor, and, after much fruitless struggling, Peyton found him- self mulcted in the sum of six hundred pounds sterling, which he paid over to obtain re-possession of these stupidly-written, criminat- ing documents. Beside this, Mr. F. received indemnification for losing his situation, so that, upon the whole, he may be said to have fared well. He will, perhaps, laugh when he reads these lines, and congratulate himself on having had so vacillating a su- perior as Peyton in the matter of the Morning Chronicle, for, with any other style of man to deal with, Mr. F. would surely have received condign punishment. Of course, this matter had also to be kept a secretnot only fi-om the Emperor, but even from Mocquardfor Peyton was sorely afraid to confess that he had committed what Mocquard would not fail to characterize as the grossest of indiscretions, and the troublesome part of all this secrecy was that the money had to be eked out of the subsidy in some way. To make it more awkward, an excuse was framed, and Mocquard importuned to advance the monthly allowance of twenty thousand fi-aucs, and, after much pes- tering on the part of Peyton, and many dia1~les and sacr~ noms on the part of Mocquard, the latter promised to advance half of one months subsidy. By the time he had made up his mind to this, Peyton had returned to London, and knowing this, Mocquard ad- dressed himself to Mrs. Peyton. The letter is now before us as we write: A SUBSIDIZED ORGAN. 321 Mv DEAR MADAM: I intend to call upon you to-morrow (Friday), for the pur- pose of handing to you ten thousand francs, with whose use you are acquainted, according to the notice which Mr. Peyton has given me. I beg you to wait for me about one oclock r. w. I shall be charmed to press your hand, and to renew to you the assurance of my sincere friendship. MOCQUARD. Ten thousand francs fell far short of the sum to be paid Mr. F., and poor Peyton gave him notes of hand for the remain- der of the debtif such it might be called. Of course, Mocquard supposed that the advanced subsidy went for the legitimate ex- penses of the paper, never imagining that Peyton had put his lin- gers in a trap for the second time. Mr. F. was replaced by Mr. Thornton Hunt, son of Leigh Hunt, the poet (and who now occupies a similar position on the Daily Telegraph ), whose salary was fixed at the somewhat extravagant figure of twelve guineas a week. The affair of Mr. F. naturally suggested to Peytons mind the advisability of a plan which his wife had often urged upon himthe removal of his residence at once to London, where he might have a daily personal supervision of the workings of what might and should have been this mag- nificent property, and to no longer trust it to other hands. But this was a sacrifice which Peyton found himself unable to make. Loving Paris with an ardor which no words can paint, hating Lon- don with ludicrous force, Peyton preferred the life of anxiety he was now leading, with its only occasional supervisionary visits to the newspaper office in the Strand, to the calmest existence in the hated and murky British capital. Mocquard consulted about the change, good-naturedly gave up the question, telling Peyton to use his own judgment in the matter (as if Peyton had any to use), add- ing, as an additional excuse for Peytons lingering in Paris, that in case he ~vent to London to live, in all probability the money would have to go through the French Embassy there, and the Em- peror did not want the Embassy to know anything about it. This remark formed sufficient pretext for Peyton to at once abandon the dreaded idea of removing to London, and the conse- quence was that the affairs at the office in the Strand went on in the same reckless and disastrous way as before. During all this time Peyton kept up the farce of writing a biog- raphy of the Emperor, and many opportunities were afforded him to facilitate a work which in reality had ceased after a dozen pages. Notable among these facilities was what was called the Times Scrap Book (Mocquard pronounced it Le lieernes), which contained a collection of political articles cut fi-om the columns of the London Times, all treating of Napoleon III., and enunciating the most diverse and opposite opinions which it were possible for the brain of man to conceive, or pen to indite. These the Emperor had carefully gathered together, and with his own hand written 322 A SUBSIDIZED ORGAN. comments on them. In the sprawling chirography which is famil- jar to us all through his autograph and its engraved fac-simile at- tached to his various portraits, might be seen such words as these: See Article No. for a complete refutation of this falsehood. L. N. In Article No. this journal says exactly the reverse. Fine criticism, in truth. L. N. And other annotations of a similar sarcastic character. The Times Scrap Book the Emperor eventually presented to Peyton for the fur- ther purpose of making use of the knowledge it conveyed in the columns of the Chronicle; for the Times was now beginning to hurl thunderbolts at the Chronicle and unhesitatingly to denounce it as a subsidized journal, a disgrace to the country in which it 1~T~I5 issued, a stain on the escutcheon of the British-lion-newspaper press, and much more of a like character. Conscience doth make cowards of us all, and the guilty Chronicle, with the vacillating and incom- petent Peyton at its head, made buit feeble effort at refutation, and, day by day, the once noble and powerful Chronicle sank lower and lower into the slough of political despond. The Times Scrap Boolc was never much used by Peyton in the manner desired by the Emperor, but lay in grim state on a table in his drawing-room, where it carried off the honors from the photograph albums as a curiosity of the most curious sort. So much was it esteemed by Mr. John Bigelow (then Consul, since Minister to France), who took the greatest delight in examining it, that he offered Peyton one thousand francs for it, well knowing that in years to come, when the great leveller, Death, should have paralyzed the hand which had done this clipping, and pasting, and annotating work, the value of the book, as a curious souvenir of Napoleon III., would be greater than even now. But Peyton would notperhaps dared notsell it, and kept it by him till it shared the fate of every- thing the mans hands touched. It was lost. Spite of himselg Peyton was now obliged to pass the most of his time in London, as the Chronicle, hopelessly entangled, encoun- tered a new enemy in the person of the Count (now Duke) de Per- signy, an obstinate and zealous partisan of the dyaastie Napoleonienne, who had recently been sent to fill the post of Ambassador to the Court of St. James. Easily suspecting that the Chronicle was subsidized by his sovereign, Dc Persigny, in few but explicit words, attacked the subject, and told the Emperor that it was a piece of folly to keep pouring money into the rotten cof- fers of the old house in the Strand, when the same money, judi- ciously and secretly distributed about among other, and live journals (of which the Morning Post was to be one), would be of vast benefit to the cause of Imperialism in England. The Chron- ides opinion, said Dc Persigny, ~vent fo~ nothing in a political sense; and it was quite true that so strong had the hatred of it A SUBSIDIZED ORGAN. 323 become, through the next-to-certainty that it was French money which was greasing the wheels with which it coached over, that on more than one occasion threats were made of the intention of the mob to attack the Chronicle building and tear it to the earth, if its obnoxious sentiments were not changed to conform with the opinions of a nation which is by blood and breeding thoroughly antagonistic to everything French. But the Emperor, willing to take De Persignys advice, now discovered to his cost that in taking upon himself the care of the Chronicle he had placed on his back an Old Man of the Sea worse than the torturer of Sinbad. It would be easy enough to throw over the political director; to use bad faith with a man who, as the Emperor plainly said, he believed was fool though not knave (and folly was much worse than knavery in the imperial eyes); but how to get rid of the obligations entailed upon him through the employment of sixty individuals at different salaries (from Mr. Thornton Hunts twelve guineas, down to the porters twelve shillings), that was a graver question. That Peyton was to be summarily dealt with soon became evi- dent. Since his forced exile in London his wife had been in the habit of touching every month the sum of two hundred and fifty francs, which had been accorded him for services on the press ever since the earliest days of his intimacy with Mocquard. This little douceur came out of a bureau, or counting-house, buried in one of those dark streets which thread their way through the Latin Quarter, over the Seine, down through the aristocratic Faubourg St. Germain, near the Pantheon, up mysterious dark staircases, at the end of a moss-grown court-yard where, behind baize doors, muf- fle-hinged, speaking eloquently of silence, silent men moved about, counting money, paying it out, and making silent, but significant entries in ponderous ledgers. Signing her name in this book, Mrs. Peyton saw there the names of correspondents of newspapers whose chefs little suspect that they are thus in receipt of bribes from the French Government; notable among these stood the name of the principal correspondent of the Independanee Beige, a power- ful and fearless sheet, which proves a constant thorn in the side of the expedient -seeking Emperor of the French. Several corre- spondents of presumably unpurchasable English journals were also port~s on the listsome for larger sums than Peyton, some for smaller. Mrs. Peyton was now politely informed by the official that her husbands name had been erased from the list, and it was, there- fore, impossible to pay her the money. The sum in itself was the merest of trifles, but straws did their usual office, and showed that the Chronicle was soon to be blown to the winds. 324 A SUBSIDIZED ORGAN. Perhaps the disastrous d6nouement might have been somewhat deferred, if it had not been much hurried on through the workings of that unfortunate clause in the purchase-deed. Au old debt, which for months had been hanging, like the Damocletian sword suspended by a hair, over Peytons shrinking head, now descended. Immediate payment was demanded. When we say that it was for the large sum of three thousand pounds, it will be seen that it was not possible to eke this amount out of the subsidy, or to obtain it by any other means than a positive demand for it as a just and legal indebtedness from the imperial owner of the Chronicle. This demand Peyton unwillingly was compelled to make, thus disclosing to the astonished and indignant Emperor the secret of the inserted clause relating to indebtedness which passed unnoticed on the pur- chase-deed; revealing also the subsequent bad management of the organ, of which, Mocquard asseverated, Peyton had been giving constant and delusive hopes of success. This in turn Peyton de- nied; and between mutual crimination on the parts of these two, anger on the part of the Emperor, and the I-told-you-so satisfac- tion of Dc Persigny, the position of Peyton became one of such intense anxiety that in less than a month his hair became thickly sprinkled with those tell-tale gray threads whose name is mental agony; and his frame grew emaciated to that extentand so rapidlythat one of his friends coarsely but strongly expressed his condition as sweatino- blood. This dreadful state of affairs was brought to a close by Peytons wife, who had received a letter from her husband in London, in which he begged her to employ that force of character which she possessed and he lacked, and to make a last eflbrt to obtain the three thousand pounds from the Emperorin default of which he (Peyton) would be dragged off to a debtors prison, and, at the best, be forced to take advantage of the bankrupt act, which would rob him not only of every penny he possessed, his furniture, and every well-loved household god, but also deprive the wife of all her little trinkets of jewelry, even to her watch. And all for what? For a debt for which he was not morally responsible, for which he had received nothingand all because an Emperor chose to be dis- honest, a Secretary deceitful. While his wife was pondering on what was best to be done, she received from London this imperative telegram: For Gods sake, get the 3,000 by twelve oclock to-day, or I shall be dragged to prison. P. It was then nine in the morningon Friday. Without a mo- ments consideration, Mrs. Peyton went to the palace. Passing the guichet de lEmpereur without difficulty, although, as usual, a sentinel was stationed there heavily armed, she crossed the court- A SUBSIDIZED ORGAN. 325 yar ci of the palace and made her way to Mocquards pavilion. There she was met by a man who knew her well; a huissier, or usher, named Felix, who was wont to receive her with many smiles and much obsequiousness. It was now evident he had received the mot d ordre from his superiors; or, perhaps, he might have over- heard the Chronicle affair discussed, and had drawn his own conclusions as to whom he was to snub, and to whom he was to be gracious. At all events, his manner to Mrs. Peyton on this occasion was of that lofty nature at once so amusing and so impertinent, coming from the servant-source. Mrs. Peyton asked for Monsieur Mocquard. Your letter of audience, Madame, if you please, said Monsieur Felix, extending his hand. This was doubly an affront, because he knew quite well that she had always been permitted to dispense with this formality. Tell him Madame Peyton is here, said she, imperatively, and bestowing on him a glance so full of contempt for his changed bearing that, without another word, he made her a deferential bow and withdrew, returning presently to tell her that M. Mocquard would receive her in a little moment. Mocquards little moments were long. It was near eleven oclock before he admitted Mrs. Peyton into his cabinetand Pey- ton in London, to be dragged off to prison at twelve oclock on the same day, if the three thousand pounds were not fortheomino It took but a dozen words to explain Mrs. Peytons errand to Mocquard. The three thousand pounds were dueshe must have them (it once. There must be no more refusing; she had come now, and the affair must be settled. Mocquards answer was one long shriek of crimination of Peyton. Moral character, probity, veracityall were declared wanting in the man. With hair almost standing on end at the terrible outlay which had been so fruitlessly made, Mocquard explained to his visitor that the sacr-r-r6 Chronicle had cost the Emperor, in four- teen months, over two millions of francs. This statement may have been exaggerated; nevertheless, when we consider that the advantages accruing from the purchase of the Chronicle were positively nil, the odium from it great, and that a very large sum must certainly have been spent, we can scarcely be surprised at the intensity of Mocquards indignation. However, all this availed nothing now; the three thousand pounds must be had at once, and Mrs. Peyton had come to get it. Mocquard flatly refused to go in to the Emperor (who was in the adjoining room) and ask for the money. It was, he said, as much as his position was worth to again broach a subject which had already caused his imperial master such profound annoyances 21 326 A SUBSIDIZED ORGAN. The Emperor had decided to have done with the whole affairto use his own pleasant words, repeated by Mocquardto throw the Chronicle out of the window. As for the political director, he could go to the devil (still quoting), or to the United States, just as he felt inclined. You refuse, then, to ask the Emperor for this money? said the wife. DesolU cried Mocquard, seeking a pretext, his Majesty has cabinet of ministers to-day at twelve oclock; it is almost that now, and I dare not disturb him. Very well, said she. I will wait here until the Emperor passes, and then I shall myself ask him. So saying she sat down, and picking up a newspaper (which happened to be the hated Imiepcmdance Beige), she began, coolly and leisurely, to all appearance, to read. For perhaps a quarter of an hour there was silence. The old man, angry, impatient, kept glancingnevertheless, with not un- kind eyesat the young woman who sat there braving him-the great himin his own cabinet. For her, with the newspaper within a hands length of her eyes, she saw not a letter of the type before her; but heard, with fearful distinctness, every tick of the clock which told her the meridian was waxing apace. In those moments of torture, she reviewed, step by step, the whole history of this seeming good-fortunethe intimacy with the Emperor and remembered, with that certain satisfaction which always fol- lows the knowledge of a just pre-judgment, that from the very first her instincts had told her that all this would come to no ~ood. Given such a curious and exceptional opportunity, another man might have made himself a power in this Empire; but Peyton was ,a man of no power, mental, moral or physical. The opportunity had crushed, instead of elevating himand all had gone ill. Mocquard seemed to feel that he was not now dealing with Pey~ ton; for, presently, with a hasty and quite unnecessary injunction of Well, wait a minute, he arose and passed into the Emperors cabinet. When he returned he bore in his hands the instrument of Pey- tons present salvationa check for the full amountthree thou- sand pounds! The tears came now; the overstrained nerves relaxed, and all the poor womans firmness disappeared. Poor old Mocquard! He was not so cruel after all! He actually shed tears of sympathy when he saw Mrs. Peyton break down so completely. Mrs. Peyton expressed her thanksher gratitudcbriefly, but sincerely, for there was now no time to be lost. It lacked term minutes to the fatal hourtwelve oclock. A SUBSIDIZED ORGAN. 327 Where, Madame ? inquired the driver. To the first telegraph officequick! She had now time to examine the check. It was drawn on the house of Barring Brothers (where it is said the Emperor has an enormous bank-account), and was worded thus Pray pay to (printed) Mr. Peyton (written) or bearer the sum of (printed) three thousand pounds. NAPOLEON. (Written.) No forgery there. Mrs. Peyton was too familiar with the hand- writing of the Emperor to be deceived. Besides his annotation in the Times Scrap Book, Napoleon had frequently written hints for Chronicle articles, which were given to the political director, and which she had seen. iXirs. Peytons telegram to her husband was brief but pointed: I have got the money. This would have availed Peyton nothing, however, if a London friend of the wifes, relying implicitly on the .truthfulness of her statement, had not advanced him the money on the spot. This was about the end of Peytons connection with the Chron- icle. The Emperor, utterly ignoring him, took the matter out of his hands, without a by-your-leave, and placed it in those of a person who has received the honorary title of the Emperors dirty-work English agent whose name is Smith, and who lives in the Kings Road, London. Whether the tangled skein was ever successfully unravelled can- not now be known. Peyton was too glad to be rid of the responsi- bilities of the Chronicle ever to care to inquire about its welfare or its illfare. Those persons who are familiar with newspaperism in London, however, will remember that the Chronicle, after re- ducing its size, coming out printed on straw paper, and other fall- ings from its once lofty eminence, finally died an ignominious and unlamented death. [In May, 1860, Mrs. Akers (known by her oem de plume of Florence Percy), published her popular poem, Rock Me to Sleep. By the operation of some law of fraud, which Quetelet or Buckle might explain, no less than ten persons, supported by respectable testimony, have since severally laid claim to the ladys verses; and most prominent among them appeared, during the past year, the Hon. Mr. Ball, of the New Jersey Legislature, whose claim was advocated by the Hon. Messrs. Morse and Marsh in probably the absurdest pamphlet ever printed; which, nevertheless, seems to have had sufficient plausibility to obtain general credence for a time. its fate, however, and Mr. Balls as well, were shortly sealed by an elaborate review, signed W, in the New York Times. Never, says the Newburyport Herald, in eerie-comic vein never since Junius hurled his polished shafts at the British aristocracy; never since Demosthenes thundered at Philip; never since poor vexed Job exclaimed 0 that mine enemy had written a book! did ever mortal work catch such double-distilled damnation, such utter annihilation, as did this unhappy bantling of Messrs. Morse and Marsh in that live-column review in the New York Times. By the unanimous verdict of press and public, the Hon. Mr. Ball was at once laid upon the shelf. Since then, however, after the lapse of eight months, determined, one might thh~k, to make his the prime case in the causes ckl,ibres of literary crime, the Hon. Mr. Ball has reappeared (his original eIght witnesses augmented to sixteen), in six and a half extremely mortal columns of fine type in the Tribune, signed with a little ~, and inserted at great cost, as an advertisement. As an ans~ver to the redoubtable W, to whom it is mainly devoted, it is the merest nullity. At this stage of the matter, Thalia, the Muse of Comedy, now takes up the tale-I THJ3 BALLAD OF ~TP~ BALL. Sir Ariost, Sir Pulci bathe, didde bi-inge this ballade ayde, For oue the clavi-citherue sweete, aude eue the rebec isteyde; A ode suethyoketh svelte, theire metodye gaye didde into the measure roame Which seas mosten tyke, iVhenn agen, ale ha/i, Sir Jon hee comes suasehyoge beanie! I. IT was when leaves aro large and long, the month y-clepen May, The Lady Florence Percy sang her magic-woven lay; And for the ladys heart was full with woes ye know not of, Site sang of dark and gentle Death, the comforter of Love. O fair was Florence Percy, with her eyes of pansied blue, Her face of pale forget-me-not, her soul of love-me-true! And sad and sweet the magic song that plaining from her bower, Remained in air, a spirit voice, that sings this very hour Sings passionate, lone, aloft, alow~ till every heart is stirred, And marvels, is it lady then, or deatliful love his bird? II. It was the good Sir Public, the gentle old man gray; He loves the lutes of troubadours, or knights or ladys lay; And though with dire cacophanies his patient ears are sore, He only loves great harmonies, sweet melodies, the more. And hearkening that a~3rial song, all rapt and passion-pale, He spake And is it a ladys voice, or is it the nightingale ? And tell me where she preens her plumes or combs her hair this hour ? And is it in some mournful wood, or in some silken bower? 0 hie, my messengers, and find or if it lady be This singer true and tend~ must be better known to me. III. it was Sir Ball, the enchanter curst, whose carols murder joy ~For households in the jovial realm of Camden and Amboy:

W. D. O'Connor O'Connor, W. D. The Ballad of Sir Ball 328-334

[In May, 1860, Mrs. Akers (known by her oem de plume of Florence Percy), published her popular poem, Rock Me to Sleep. By the operation of some law of fraud, which Quetelet or Buckle might explain, no less than ten persons, supported by respectable testimony, have since severally laid claim to the ladys verses; and most prominent among them appeared, during the past year, the Hon. Mr. Ball, of the New Jersey Legislature, whose claim was advocated by the Hon. Messrs. Morse and Marsh in probably the absurdest pamphlet ever printed; which, nevertheless, seems to have had sufficient plausibility to obtain general credence for a time. its fate, however, and Mr. Balls as well, were shortly sealed by an elaborate review, signed W, in the New York Times. Never, says the Newburyport Herald, in eerie-comic vein never since Junius hurled his polished shafts at the British aristocracy; never since Demosthenes thundered at Philip; never since poor vexed Job exclaimed 0 that mine enemy had written a book! did ever mortal work catch such double-distilled damnation, such utter annihilation, as did this unhappy bantling of Messrs. Morse and Marsh in that live-column review in the New York Times. By the unanimous verdict of press and public, the Hon. Mr. Ball was at once laid upon the shelf. Since then, however, after the lapse of eight months, determined, one might thh~k, to make his the prime case in the causes ckl,ibres of literary crime, the Hon. Mr. Ball has reappeared (his original eIght witnesses augmented to sixteen), in six and a half extremely mortal columns of fine type in the Tribune, signed with a little ~, and inserted at great cost, as an advertisement. As an ans~ver to the redoubtable W, to whom it is mainly devoted, it is the merest nullity. At this stage of the matter, Thalia, the Muse of Comedy, now takes up the tale-I THJ3 BALLAD OF ~TP~ BALL. Sir Ariost, Sir Pulci bathe, didde bi-inge this ballade ayde, For oue the clavi-citherue sweete, aude eue the rebec isteyde; A ode suethyoketh svelte, theire metodye gaye didde into the measure roame Which seas mosten tyke, iVhenn agen, ale ha/i, Sir Jon hee comes suasehyoge beanie! I. IT was when leaves aro large and long, the month y-clepen May, The Lady Florence Percy sang her magic-woven lay; And for the ladys heart was full with woes ye know not of, Site sang of dark and gentle Death, the comforter of Love. O fair was Florence Percy, with her eyes of pansied blue, Her face of pale forget-me-not, her soul of love-me-true! And sad and sweet the magic song that plaining from her bower, Remained in air, a spirit voice, that sings this very hour Sings passionate, lone, aloft, alow~ till every heart is stirred, And marvels, is it lady then, or deatliful love his bird? II. It was the good Sir Public, the gentle old man gray; He loves the lutes of troubadours, or knights or ladys lay; And though with dire cacophanies his patient ears are sore, He only loves great harmonies, sweet melodies, the more. And hearkening that a~3rial song, all rapt and passion-pale, He spake And is it a ladys voice, or is it the nightingale ? And tell me where she preens her plumes or combs her hair this hour ? And is it in some mournful wood, or in some silken bower? 0 hie, my messengers, and find or if it lady be This singer true and tend~ must be better known to me. III. it was Sir Ball, the enchanter curst, whose carols murder joy ~For households in the jovial realm of Camden and Amboy: THE BALLAD OF SIR BALL. 329 Nor Jersey lightning lights their woes who hear his griding strain Nor Jersey eider balms their brainsthey never smile again. A tief of the wurrld, Sir Finnegan bold of Ireland him would call; And said ye, strike the blasted lyre, Sir Fia would whack Sir Ball. With a double quadrille of toadies true, a gruesome companie, All into the field on donkeys two called Morse and Marsh rode he. He stood on the backs of his brace of hacks, in equitation foul And either donkey wore what seemed a human jobbernowl. And he in a horses harness good was blithesomely arrayed, For such he had sold and gotten him gold, and 0 it was his trade! So on he had put his equine suit, and said: Come death or wrack, At least well die, like the Thane of Fife, with harness on our back. By the donks support, their, necks athwart, a huge bull-fiddle did show, And rantingly and dauntingly Sir Ball did rosin the bow. 0 never before on such a sight the bardic sun did shine! This beats me hollow, said bright Apollo, and stared with all his eyne. It was the donkeys Morse and Marsh that first the silence broke, And like Sir Balaams ass the twain not only brayed but spoke. And though an angel stood in their path, and said Beware this day, They spoke not like that sapient beast, but quite their natural way. With slubberdegullion bribble-brabble, seventy pages long; They said Sir Ball alone devised and sings the ladys song. Strike up, Sir Ball, thy dulcet voice will deep conviction bring! And then with horrible cruelty, Sir Ball did play and sing. Ball-fiddle and leathery-brazen lungs did blare the ladys lay, All intermixt with a song of spooks and Tophets goblins gay. And with Mother, 0 mother ! the dissonant staves were all one mutual cry Mother, 0 mother, my mother, I blubber, I holler, I howl, I sigh The storm in my breast, mother, wont let me rest, mother; clouded and sabled I weep; Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to wake, mother, rock me to wake and to sleep And have ye heard the love-loin cat, Sir Tom, when he mianis and meows ? And have ye heard the sleepless dog in the yard, with his wild bow-wows? And have ye heard the cats and dogs convolved in war together? Conceit ye then of the tuneful strain Sir Ball did bellow and blether! Jaw-cracking metrification dire, and rhythm that rends the bowels: Hoarse, horrible mutual massacre of consonants and vowels; Calathumpias dins and calliopes yells, all sorts of aural wrong, All stridors mad menagerie let loose, were in that song. And Go it, go it, noble poet! the donkeyfied did bray; And Hooraw! our pote this pome he wrote! the toadies all did say. But into his ears at the earliest blast Sir Public jammed his thumbs, And skedaddled as fast as the guiltiest wretch who knows the devil comes. Apollo fled and hid his head in the realm of the dead below The sweet and silent pallid realm where discord~ cannot go. The deaf they chuckled; dismay, despair c~nvulsed each thing that hears; The stones were happy; the corn resolved it never would come to ears! y. It was the race of Boobies, whom I hate with hatred sore, 330 THE BALLAD OF SIR BALL. And pray their heads may tumble off and roll about the floor; And every one of them patted his paunch, and sleeked his colloppy jowls, And smirked and sighed in ecstacy, and looked as wise as owls; And sleepily said We cannot doubtand proofs are staggering things The ladys silence looks like guiltbesides, how sweet he sings! Behold his cloud of witnesses !The Original Jacobs arisen! Whereat the toadies dinned the air with shrieks Its hisnits hisn! But pale in latticed southern skies a ladys face did shine, And sad and fiery on the wind a clear voice murmured Mine. And above, a scowl began to knit the deeps of the inner air; And below, it was a fearsome thing to hear Sir Public swear. vt. It was the bold Sir Doubleyou (now, Muses, lend your vim! I show a proper self-respect in well-describing him.) A bow-shot from her bower he rode between the barley sheaves; The sun came dazzling through and flamed upon his brazen greaves; A red-cross knight forever knelt to a lady in his shield, That sparkled like a planet bright upon the yellow field; His gemmy bridle glittered, like the branch of stars Ive seen Hung in the golden Galaxy, Sir Churchs Magazine; Thick-jewelled shone his saddle-leather as he onward came; His helmet and his helmet plume burned like one burning flame; On burnished hooves his war-horse trod; his brow in sunlight glowed; His coal-black curls from underneath his splendid helmet flowed: Some bearded meteor trailing light, he might be likened to; And tirra lirra by the river sang Sir Doubleyon. ( All Tennysons, the Boobies cryye devilish race malign, If ever Sir Ball has laid a lay, these golden eggs are mine!) VII. It was the bold Sir Doubleyou, the mortal foe of wrong, He heard the ladys inj ury, he loved the ladys song. Forth from the sheath he flashed his sword, and burst like thunder in; One stroke the bovine fiddle broke and flindered all the din. And then with hilt and mail~d fist, he turned the donkeys sore All to a bloody zebra-stripe and pard-like spots of gore. And Marsh he meekly cluttered off and sought his legal pale; And Morse, all red and black and blue, made tracks for Cherry Vale. Then whirling up his terrible brand, upon Sir Ball he drave, And clear and clean from head to chine, he him asunder dave. Lie thus, he said, whom lying thus, no minstrel ever can fear. And the Boobies blinked at the cloven corse, and murmured, Too severe. But the gay New Jersey editors did dance within their dens, And gayly wrote those jolly blades the tale with bright steel pens. And Sir Raymond praised the doughty deed of knightly derring-do; And Sir Sedley, Knight of the Hound Table, declared it just and true; And Sir Prentices jests flew out of his beard as only fly they can; And the chill Sir Godkin said, Auhuma very unfortunate man.~ And the good Sir Public clapped his hands and bade the joy-bells ring; And spirit-sweet in the air again the ladys song did sing. TILE BALLAD OF SIR BALL. 331 It was such baleful weird-craft th