THE GALAXY. VOL. XYJI.JANUARY, 1874.No. 1. TilE DUKE OF ARGYLL. CAN there be any position more enviable for its combination of comfort and dignity than that of an English duke P A kings is a weary life, even though the monarch be a despot and can do whatever he pleases. A prince is always oppressed by the responsibilities of his rank, and has always to keep thinking, if he be a respectable prince, of whether this, that, an(l the other thing is right and proper to do. The late Prince Albert was particular- ly fond of lounging about streets alone, and looking into shop windows, and lie found it a hard trial to give up this harmless~and inexpensive amusement; but lie had to forego it nevertheless, for only think of the crowd the Queens hus- band would have had at his heels if he had ventured upon a saunter along Pic- cadilly! I am now speaking of England only, for we have most of us seen l)rinces in other countries strolling through the principal streets of their capi- tals as free and unmolested as General Grant when he walks alono Pennsyl- vania avenue. But in England, to be a prince is to be doomed either to per- petual state or the uncomfortable risks of an incognito, which make the most harmless excursion seeni like a wild and lawless escapade. The Duke of Ed- inburgh does indeed get into a hansom cab now and then and make a friend- ly morning call, but the Duke of Edinburgh could hardly venture to stroll down the Strand and look into a sbop window. But an ordinary duke, a duke who is not of the blood royalwhat a happy position is his! He may go where lie likes and how he likes. He might mount on the roof of a penny omnibus if it pleased him. Poverty itself is not more independent; the Spartan, borne U~Ofl his shield, is not more free. And then, think of the position, the digni- ty! I wonder whether it would be possible to convey to an American any ad- equate notion of the social position of an English duke P Hardly any words could do it. No gifts of genius, eloquence; statesmanship, success, could place an English commoner on a social level with a duke. A man may have saved the State, but that does not make him socially equal to a duke. An ordinary lord is nothing. The Queen makes such peers by the half dozen; but within uiy time there has been only one duke added to the peerage, and he, before lie became a duke, was a marquis, with a title dating back for about a century. A duke can afford to be civil to everybody, because presumption itself cannot make an inferior person suppose that lie is equal to a duke. If lie is a mem- ber of government, he niny be as deferential as lie pleases to the Prime Mimi- Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by SHELDON & CO., in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 6 THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. [JAN. ister, but for all that Mr. Gladstone or Mr. Disraeli knows well enough how vast the SoCial difference between the duke and hhnself. The duke may invite you or me to a dinner party or an evening party, and we may think him a very civil, kindly, and delightful person; but we do not get any nearer to the duke, nor does the duke for a moment entertain the notion that we have the presumption to think of getting nearer to him. The difference between an English duke and an ordinary human creature is as that between a lion and a domestic cat. The two beings may resemble each other to some extent, and seem as if they belonged to the same family, but they always remain a lion and a cat. The English Tories lately were in want of a leader in the House of Lords. They have an earl of great influence, talent, and judgment, son of a famous Prime Ministerthe Earl of Derby. They have the Marquis of Salis- bury, a man of brilliant gifts and of stainless political integrity. But by the unanimous agreement of the party they chose for leader the Duke of Rich- rnonda dull, respectable, worthy sort of man, without political capacity or training of any kind. He was choseii because, although he has neither brains nor knowledge, he is a duke. There is a young man in the house of Com- mons, and in the ministry, who has held for years office of higher rank than ever would have been given to Edmund Burke, or than has yet been given to John Bright. He is not a brilliant young man. He is a solid, stolid, heavy sort of personintellectually, I mean. Otherwise lie is a man bright enough. He is not, or at least he was not, a virtuous young man. He first became fa- moiis as the patron of Anonyma. In personal appearance and style of address be reminds one of Rawdon Crawley. lie was urged into politics as a means of occupying his manly energies and distracting himself from more directly baneful amusements. He has not worked badly. He has charge now of one of the most important and critical of our home departments. He is listened to with a certain degree of attention by the house of Commons whenever he makes a speech, and in society he rather patronizes Gladstone. He is the son and heir of Englands richest duke. I happened to come lately on an old num- ber of Vanity Fair I mean the illustrated paper of that name. It con- tained a portrait, humorously exaggerated, of a certain English duke who bears an illustrious name, but who is himself sul)posed to l)e rather scam pish in his ways. The few lines of description which accompnnied the portrait praised the dul~e very highly for his good nature and moderation, because, as the writer put it, a man with so much wealth, influence, and power, might have done almost boundless harm if he had been so inclined. The praise, of course, was sarcastic, and the comment was very si~,nificant. Our dukes, to do them justice, are not half so bad, or even so stupid, as might fairly have been expecte(i. Their titles are not all drawn from the most honorable sources, however we in England may revere them. For exam plc, there was not long since in the House of Lords a sharp personal controversy between the Duke of Richmond, who leads the Tory party, and the Duke of St. Albans, who holds under government the remarkable office of Captain of the Yeomen of the Guard. Both these eminent peers derive their titles from one source. They spring from rival mistresses of Charles II. What a divinity doth hedge a king! In private life people would be rather ashamed tohave it known that even their great-great-grandmother was a loose woman. But when a king can give a title, such a pedigree becomes an honor. We have only some twenty dukes altogether, and of these the Duke of Buceleuch, the Duke of Grafton, the Duke of St. Albans, and the Duke of Richmond are all sprung 1874.] THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. 7 from the amours of Charles II. Of the twenty dukes whom we are proud to possess, there are not more than two or three who can be said to have made for themselves any reputation whatever for ability. Two or three are re- noxvned as scamps, two or three have made a respectable position in Parlia- ment; the rest have nothing but their rank and their wealth. Is not that enough? What motive has a duke for exertion and ambition? He cannot raise himself in the world. A man cannot be higher than a duke in English society, unless he is a prince of the blood royal. If the Duke of Richmond bad written Oliver Twist, The Neweomes, Middlemarch, the Idyls of the King, and the Ring and the Book; if he had rivalled Huxley and Tyn- dali in science, and excelled Herbert Spencer in mental philosophy; if he had won the battle of the Alma, aud managed successfully the national finances, he would still, above and beyond all this, i.e the Duke of Richmond. He could not by any merits or achievements add a cubit to his stature in English society. Therefore it is much t6 the honor of a duke when he tries to be something else as well as a duke. He is a man so shut off from most of the temptings of human ambition, that if he shows any inclination to do anything except live and be a duke, it is positive evidence of some genuine and disinterested pur- pose. Therefore the Duke of Argyli is well worth writing of, and ought to be held in honor. He is not, to be sure, an English duke, but then he comes from one of the proudest stocks of the very proud Scotch nobility. He is the MacCallum More, a son of the great Calium (or Cohn), the founder of the house. In Scotland he is regarded as a sort of sovereign overthe region where his estates lie. As everybody knows, his eldest son is married to the Princess LoUise, daughter of Queen Victoria. The Duke of Argyll might, therefore, hold himself free from any need to struggle after personal distinction, and it is to his great honor, morally as well as intellectually, that he has led so busy a life and worked hard in such varied fields of labor. He is not very rich; that is, he is not among the rich dukes. His wealth xviii not compare with that of the Duke of Devonshire, or indeed with that of several other peers; but he is rich enough to maintain the dignity even of his station, and the laborious duties which he undertakes bring him no gain that could be worth his consid- eration. On the whole, and apart from his political opinions and his general enlightenment, he is, I think, the most respectable of all our dukes, merely because of his steady love of work. But when we add to this consideration the fact that his political sympathies have always been enlightened, and that almost every good cause has found an earnest advocate in him, I think we may consider that in personal merit he stands among our dukes like Saul among his brethren. It is only in metaphor and in merit, however, that he thus overtops his brother dukes. A less imposing figure it would not be easy to find. The Duke of Argyhl is a small man, with a feeble frame and a shambling walk. His fair, fresh face is surmounted by a chevelure which used to be of a bright red tint, but now is becomin~ly chastened by a tinge of soberizing gray. He throws his head as high in air as he can while he walks, and seems to sniff the breeze like one of the stags upon his native mountains. He always gives one, the impression of a little man who makes himself rather ridiculous by fancy- ing that he is of gigantic stature, and comporting himself accordingly. He walks through the lobbies and corridors of the House of Lords with his hands in his ~vaistcoat pockets and his hat on the back of his head, and looks as if he thought himself a person whom it would be rather dangerous to approach. 8 THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. [JAN. Indeed, it is generally believed that the Duke of Argyll is not deficient in self-conceit. When he wns a young man this quality used to come out rather strongly in him. The Duke of Argyll began life very soon. He is now only fifty years of age, and he has been a prominent public man for nearly thirty years of that time. Lord Houghton, in proposing his health at a public dinner some time ago, said good-humoredly that the Duke was, I think, seventeen when he wrote a pamphlet called Advice to the Peers, and he has gone on advising us ever since. Pursuing the career of his friend, Lord Houghton xvent on to say that soon after that he got mixed up with ecclesiastical affiLirs and was excommunicated. I am not sufficiently well acquainted with the history of the controversy in which the Duke of Argyll engaged so early, as to know whether he underwent at anybodys hands the awful ban of excommunica- tion. My impression was that despite his youth, and the perfervidum ingenium Scotorum, he contrived rather to hed~e and to evade the difficulties on both sides. The controversy was a famous one. It concern(d the freedom of the Church of Scotland from the legal supremacy of lay patronage; and it led to the great secession of upwards of four hundred clergymen and a large body of the laity, who, under the leadership of Dr. Chalmers, founded the Free Church. Into this controversy the Duke of Argyll, then Marquis of Lorne, rushed with all the energy of Scottish youth, but in it he maintained himself, I think, with a good deal of the proverbial Scottish caution. He wrote in 1842 (being then nineteen years old, and not seventeen as Lord Houghton sup- posed), and his first contribution to the controversy was entitled A Letter to the Peers, from a Peers Son, on the duty and necessity of immediate leisla- tive interposition in behalf of the Church of Scotland, as determined by con- siderations of constitutional law. This letter recommended that lay patron- age should be abolished by legislation. Dr. Chalmers welcomed the young controversialist as an important and able adherent. But the Marquis of Lorne was not prepared to follow the great divine and orator into actual seces- sion. The heirs to dukedoms in Great Britain seldom go very far in the way of dissent. The Marquis published another pamphlet in the form of A Letter to the Rev. Thomas Chalmers on the Present Position of Church Affairs in Scotland, in which, while retaining his own views on the lay-patronage principle, he declined to accept the doctrine of Chalmers that lay patronage and the spiritual independence of the Church were, like oil and water, iminisci- ble. The Free Church movement went on, and the young Marquis drew back. He subsequently vindicated his course and reviewed the whole question in an Essay on the Ecclesiastical History of Scotland an able treatise, into which, however, the readers of The Galaxy would hardly care to follow him. These were the literary beginnings of the author of the Reign of Law. When he published the Essay on Scottish Ecclesiastical I~istoi~y lie was twenty-five years old. Meanwhile, the young controversialist had becom~ Duke of Argyll on the death of his father in 1847. Ho inherited a seat in the House of Lords, not, however, as Duke of Argyll, but as Baron Sundridge in the English peerage. A Scottish peer does not possess the right of sitting in the House of Lords. Scotland elects at the beginning of each Parliament sixteen peers, who repre- sent her in that house. Ireland sends twenty-eight representative peers there, who, unlike those of Scotland, are elected for life. But a great many Scotch and Irish peers have English titles as well, and by virtue of those titles sit in the House of Lords; and the Duke of Argyll is one of those. Nothing cai~ 1874.1 THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. 9 seem more perplexed and complicated to a for6igner than the arrangements of our peerage. For example, most strangers are acquainted with the general principle that a peer can only have a seat in the House of Lords, and cannot have anything to (10 with the House of Commons. So far everything is clear. But the first time a foreizner listens to a debate in the House of Commons, he hears perhaps the Marquis of Hartington make a speech. He asks how. this comes to pass, and he is told that the Marquis of Hartington is in fact no mar- quis at all, but merely Mr. Spencer Campton Cavendish, eldest son of the Duke of Devonshire, having, according to English usage, the title by cour- tesy of marquis, a title without any legal effect, and which will not serve as a description of its possessor in any formal document. If the son of the Duke of Devonshire has to be described formally, he is spoken of as the Hon. Spencer Campton Cavendish, commonly called Marquis of Hartington. He therefore may be elected to sit in the House of Commons, which House in fact swarms ~vith elder and younger sons of the nobility, bearing courtesy titles. This much, too, our foreigner easily understands; but he suddenly re- members that Lord Palmerston was a member of the House of Commons up to his death at the age of eighty-one, and he asks in consternation, was his too only a courtesy title, and was Lord Palmerstons father living at that tinier It has to be explained to him that Lord Palmerston was a peer with a genuine title of his own; but then he was only an Irish peer, not entitled, unless elected a representative peer, to sit in the House of Lords, and therefore qualified to be chosen as a member of the House of Commons. Then perhaps he is puzzled about Lord Russell, who he knows sat in the House of Commons for a long time and now sits in the House of Lords, and who has not succeeded to any peerage in the mean time, for the head of the house of Bedford is alive and well, and Lord Russell is far out of the way of the succession in any case. But here comes in a new condition of things. The Queen conferred upon Lord John Russell in 1861 a peerage of his own, and he sits in the House of Lords as Earl Russell. In fact we have at least five distinct classes of nobles who possess or are courteously gifted with titles. There are peers of England, peers of Ireland, peers of Scotland, peers of the United Kingdom (created since the legislative union of the three countries), and the sons of peers who bear titles of courtesy. The peers of England and those of the United Kingdom sit in the House of Lords by right, and cannot be elected to the House of Com- mons. The Irish and Scotch peers sit in the House of Lords only when they are elected as representatives of their order there, and when not so elected they may be chosen to sit in the House of Commons if they can render them- selves acceptable to a constituency. The bearers of courtesy titles may sit in the House of Commons, but not in the House of Lords. This digression ma seem a little dry and wearisome, but I think it will be found of advantage to American readers in enabling them to understand some of our English parlia- mentary arrangements which strangers generally find it difficult to master. The Duke of Argyll, then, came to sit in the House of Lords as Baron Sun- dridge. I may mention perhaps that this latter title is that under which his name is formally recorded in the division lists, but that he is always spoken of and alluded to hy his ducal title. He distinguished himself by plunging al- most instantaneously into the thick of debate. The young Scotebman much astonished the staid and formal peers. They had been accustomed to debates conducted in measured tones and with awful show of deference to age and political standing. The young Duke of Argyll spoke upon any and every 10 THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. [JAN. subject in a sharp and clear voice, with astonishing fluency, and without the slightest reverence for years or authority. Young as he was, he looked still younger. With his small form and his thin, fresh-complexioned face, his bush of fiery hair and his shrill tones, he sometimes seemed more like a saucy Scotch schoolboy quarrelling over a game of marbles, than a peer of the realm de- bating in the House of Lords. To speak the plaia truth, the general impres- sion of that House for a long time was that sheer impudence and nothing else was the chief characteristic of the young MacCallum More. The late Earl of Derby was leader of the Conservative party. He was one of the two or three really great parliamentary debaters of the time, and although not possessed of any remarkable capacity as a statesman, he had won the supreme command of his party by his energy, his force of character, his wealth and territorial rank, his long experience of public affairs, and his never-failing command of invective and cf declamatory eloquence. This was the Earl of Derby of whom Macaulay said that the science of parliamentary debate came to him by instinct; and he bad been famous, when he sat in the House of Commons as Lord Stanley, by the prolonged passage of arms in which he fairly held his own against that Titan of debate, Daniel OConnell, who had crushed up Disraeli as a steam- hammer might crush a cocoanut. The young Duke,of Argyll had the temer- ity before long to make a sharp personal attack on the Earl of Derby. The peers were as much astonished as the spectators round the tilt-yard in Ivan- hoe, when they saw the strange young knight strike with his lances point the shield of the formidable Templar. Lord Derby himself was at first per- fectly bewildered by the unexpected vehemence of his inexperienced young opponent. But he soon made up his mind, and fairly went for MacCallum More. lie bore down upon the Duke of Argyll xvith all the force of scornful invective which he could summon to his aid. For the hour the Duke of Ar- gyll was as completely overthrown as if he had got into the way of a charge of cavalry. He was in metaphorical sense left for dead upon the field. El- derly peers smiled gravely, shook their heads, said they knew how it would be, and congratulated themselves that there was an end of the impudent young Scotchman. But they were quite mistaken. MacCallum More knew of course that he had bcen soundly beaten, but he did not care. He got up again and went in jnst as if nothing had happened. His courage was not broken; his self-confidence moulted no feather. After a while he began to show that there was a great deal in him more than self-conceit. The House of Lords found that the red-haired lad really knew a great deal and had a wonderfully clear head, and they learned to endure his dogmatic and pr9fessorial ways. He never grew to be popular in the House of Lords, and I believe is not pop- ular anywhere. His style is far too self-assured and pedantic, his faith in his own superiority to everybody else is too evident, to allow of his having many enthusiastic admirers. Moreover, though the Duke of Argyll has shown him- self a much sounder and better man than most people at first believed him to be, he is far indeed from holding the place which his manner would seem to claim as a right. He never could be in politics more than a second-class man; and he is not even a remarkably good second-class man. Every commenda- tion that is given him must be qualified. lie has written one or two remark- able hooksfor a duke. He has been a very liberal politicianfor a duke. He is a good speakerfor one who never had any oratorical gift. Of all the noblemen who have been put into high office during my time, merely because they were noblemen, he is, I think, on the whole, the ablest and the best. But 1874.] THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. 11 he has nothing like the solid ability and general information of the present Earl Derby, who is now fairly set down as only a second-class man. In force and brilliancy he is not to be compared with the Marquis of Salisbury, who now seems unlikely, despite all his promise, ever to attain a place in the first class. The Duke of Argyll, however, soon got into high office. With his rank, his talents, and his energy, such a thing was inevitable. He joined the government of Lord Aberdeen in 1852 as Lord Privy Seal, an office of great dignity but no special duties, the occupant of which therefore has only to give his assistance in council and in general debate. Since that time the Duke of Argyll has held many offices. I need not follow him through his various de- partments. Enough to say that whenever the Liberals are in power the Duke of Argyll always as a matter of course holds some high office. The place he at present holdsthat of Secretary of State for Indiais one of the highest and most important in the service of the Crown. When Mr. Gladstone be- came Prime Minister, in 1868, he offered tbe place of Secretury for India to John Bright, who had always taken great interest in the government of un- dostan. But Brights views were peculiar, and he neither saw his way to carry them out nor cared to take the office if he could not realize them, and therefore he declined the offcr. Mr. Gladstone then tendered the office to the Duke of Argyll, who accepted it, and has discharged its duties since without dis- credit, but without any marked success. I have already compared the Duke of Argyll with the Marquis of Salisbury, whom he resembles in a certain brusqueness of self-assertion, and who held the office of Secretary for India under the Tory government shortly before it passed into the hands of the sub- ject of this sketch. But the Marquis of Salisbury, Tory and reactionist though he be, showed a capacity for government andwhat was least expected of hima sympathetic faculty of understanding the wants of a foreign race, and of seeing from their point of view, such as I do not suppose the Duke of Ar- gyll has ever displayed. Despite the tranquillizing dignity of growing years, the Duke of Argyll still bursts out every now and then into one of those ebullitions of fervor which astonished the House of Lords so much in his younger days. Tern- pestuous eloquence was the epithet bestowed upon one of the Dukes speeches not long since by the clever Tory lawyer, Lord Cairns. But the speechwhich I heardwas rather like that part of the tempest which is made up of the sudden and chilly blast that soon dies away. It was a speech in which the Duke of Argyll so far forgot himself, the place, and the respect due to a high. office and a great judge, as to apply the expression ribald to a very just and temperate remonstrance urged by the Lord Chief Justice of England against a certain unlucky law appointment made by Mr. Gladstone. The Duke of Argyll apologized almost immediately after for the unparalleled rude- ness of his language, and people on the whole were rather amazed than otherwise at the unexpected display of the old vehemence returning at so inconvenient and inappropriate a time. When the Duke of Argyll is not vehement he is rather an uninteresting speaker. He is fluent, hut formal and pedantic, and his speeches are not brightened by fancy or humor. As an after-dinner speaker he is especially ineffective. To be heard to advan- tage, he should be taken either in the sudden heat of some parliamentary contest, or else when addressing from the lecturers platform some scien- tific or philosophical society. In political life he has ~given his measure, and I think we may safely assu me that he will never be a great statesman. 12 THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. [JAN. It is true that many English public men reached an age far exceeding that of the Duke of Argyll without having given any evidence of the remarkable capacity which they afterwards displayed. The Duke of Argyll is only fifty years old, and not many of our public men have much chance of distinguish- ing themselves in the higher paths of statesmanship before that age. Of our rising men, those whoni we consider our younger men, those who are only now beginning to be tested in high office, the majority are older than the Duke of Argyll. Mr. W. E. Forster is several years older; Mr. Stansfeld, Sir Staf- ford Northcote, and many other men of the same political rank, are likewise older. But the Duke of Argyll was in office of the highest rank years and years before most of these men were in parliament at all. He began his pub- lic life by stepping at once into higher places than almost any of these ha~ yet attained. Therefore we may fairly consider that we have seen the Duke of Argyll fully tested, and that we know the whole extent of his political capa- city, lIe suffers perhaps under the disadvantage which presses on the meridian years of a beauty who has come out into society too young. People remember her a belle for so many seasons that they set her down as positively pass6e while she is yet young. In the same wily we all remember the Duke of Argyll as a public man for more than thirty years, and we cannot hel assum ing that he must be growing 01(1. p Everybody knows that the Duke of Argyll has sought and, to some extent, found distinction as a writer. He has been a rather frequent contributor to the Edinburgh Review and one or two of our graver weekly periodicals, and he has written The Reign of Law and Primeval Man. I am not now performing the part of a critic, and in any case it would be quite super- fluous to enter into any elaborate disquisition upon works which have already been so carefully reviewed by the critics of journals of the United States and England. But while I recognize the amount of thought and reading shown in each ( The Reign of Laxv seems an especially clever attempt to bring to- gether the irreconcilable), I cannot believe that either book would have at- tracted much attention if it had been written by an anonymous author. There are passages of 1)0th in which the self-reliant composure of the author in deal- ing with great theories and great names brings back the memory of the earlier days when the astonished peers heard their strongest chanipions assailed and their most venerable conventionalities set at naught by the intrepid young Duke from Scotland. The Reign of J~awis like everything else the Duke of Argyll does. It is far above average work. It would be sure to be read with attention even if it were not written by a duke. But it is not one of the ~hooks that force themselves upon the public. It is one of the books that, al- Though good enough in themselves and worthy of careful rca ding when once ~they are found out, stand in need of some external impulse to push them into ~notice. The name of the Duke of Argyll did this for The Reign of Law. The book is like its author. The Duke of Argyll has undoubtedly made a very good Cabinet Minister, but he would probably never have been a Cabinet Minister if he had not been Duke of Argyll to begin with. I have heard the Duke of Argyll spoken of by Americans as the radical i~nke. He is radical in a manner, that is, for a duke. But he is not what .Americans would seriously call radical if they were to compare his political opinions with those of any Englishman of the advanced party. He may he called radical when compared with extreme Tories and reactionists. More- over, lie has a great dash of the philosophical radicalism which is so much cul 1874.] THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. 13 tivated of late, and which any nobleman may adopt if, like the Duke of Argyll, he has intelligence and culture; for at the present moment it really means very little in the way of positive change. According to Major Pendennis, re- publicanism sits prettily enough on a young patrician in early life. So philosophical radicalism sits prettily enough on a peer in mature life. In either case it is only an ornament or a foil; care will be taken that it is put aside if any occasion shall arise for doing real work. The Duke of Argyll has, however, always shown himself a steady Liberal, and gone properly with his chiefs. He deserves great credit for having been better than some or most of his chiefs during the American civil war, for he took the right side and held to it manfully. One of the best speeches I ever heard the Duke of Argyll deliver was made in honor of that right side after it had succeeded; and the Duke was entitled to join in celebrnting its success, for he was one of the few who had believed in it when failure seemed possible, and who had upheld it when such upholding was in England a task of something like odium. The speech to which I refer was made on the occasion of a public breakfast given in St. Jamess Hall, London, to Mr. William Lloyd Garrison of Boston. The occasion was remarkable in itself; it was made still more so by some of the men who were present. Mr. Bri~ht was in the chair, and deliveredit was not very long before his illness and breakdownthe last really great speech of that long chapter of his career. It was well described by the London Spectator as one of those grand and massive speeches in which more weight of moral passion is concentrated than any other living orator is capable of expressing. It was delivered in a low, thrilling tonealmost a monotone as smothered as if the orator feared the strength of his own emotions and the force of his own words, and kept both down under a continued restraint. Every word fell with measured emphasis on the earslow, solemn, musical. Earl Russell was there, and spoke with quite unwonted energy and vigor, when he retracted and manfully expressed regret for his mistaken judgment of President Lincoln and the policy of the American Governuient. John Stuart Mill delivered one of those marvellously touching speeches, so feeble in their delivery, so vacant of all rhetorical grace, but which become positively elo- quent by the virtue of lofty thought, generous feeling, and pure lucid English. The late Rev. Frederick Maurice was there; so was Professor huxley; so was Herbert Spencer; so were ever so many other distinguished men who do not often make an appearance at political demonstrations. The Duke of Argyll spoke, and spoke admirably. The occasion to be commemorated, the victory to be celebrated, were such as to engage at once his intellect and his feelings, and there seemed to me to be moments when he almost rose to something like oratorical dignity. At all events, he came nearer to that height than I had ever known him to do before or have ever known him to do since. Will it seem ungracious if, after having said so much, I remark that never- theless most Americans who visit this country appear to me to form an ex- travagant opinion of the influence and intellect of the Duke of Argyll? On the very occasion which I have been describing, my esteemed friend Mr. Gar- rison, whom nobody can suspect of any veneration for mere rank, delivered a speech in which he placed the Duke of Argyll first and foremost without a peer, he snidamono the Englishmen who, during the American civil war, were able to understand its nature, and to give a clear and unequivocal tes- timony in behalf of the right. Then, after him, Mr. Garrison went on to say, came our respected and honored chairman, Mr. Bright and so on. I am 14 THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. [JAN. sure this was Mr. Garrisons sincere convictionthat the Duke of Argyll really was the political and intellectual leader of the party who stood up for tile right in England during that struggle, and that Bright, Cobden, Stuart Mill, Goldwin Smith, Francis Newman, Professor Cairns, and others, loyally fol- lowed their leader. This is a sort of mistake that only a stranger could possi- bly make. It would be as reasonable to say that M. Thiers has been led by the Prince de Joinville, or that the Germans conquered the French by the ge- nius of the Crown Prince who directed the movements of Moltke. The Duke of Argyll deserves high honor for the part he took at that memorable crisis; hut his influence upon England was simply nothing when compared with that of Bright or Mill, or even that of Goldwin Smith and Professor Cairns. I am glad the Duke of Argyll was on the right side, but it would not have mattered much even if he had not been. Our dukes, be it always understood, are only ornamental for the most part. The Briton is content to bow down to them, and even to adore them socially, and he likes to have a duke as the nominal leader of every movement. But pray do not fall into tile mistake of supposing that we in England really think onr dukes are necessarily great men, or that we b~lieve them capable of moving the political world. Theirs is a state greatness, a social greatness altogether. When the real political struggle comes, we only think about the real politicians and statesmen. The Duke of Argyll is comparatively a small man in politics and in thought. There is no way of measuring him by such men as Gladstone, and Bright, and Disraeli, and Mill, and Carlyle. A (luke is the most acceptable figurehead even in politics, as in the case of the Tories and the Duke of Richmond. But the figurehead does not impel the vessel or keep her in her course, or bring her into port. Take an inexorable test of political importance in Englandthe manner in which speeches are reporled. Let the Duke of Argyll speak at some public meeting at which Mr. Gladstone or Mr. Disraeli or Mr. Bright (if he were once more a figure on a platform) were to speak, and which the papers had not space enough to report in full. Would they divide the spoils equally, and give a similar condensation of duke and statesman? Not at all. The speech of the statesman would be given in full, and the duke would get whatever space was left. The English are a practical people, even in their devotion to rank. They will not let their devotion cost them too much. They will bow to the idol, but for instruction and work they turn to the great men. To sum up, then, the Duke of Argyll is, in my opinion, by far the ablest and the best of all the dukes. He would be a man deserving of respect on his own merits, in any case. If he had been born in the middle class he would probably have made quite a respectable name as a contributor to reviews and all the better class of periodical literature, and he would, perhaps, if he had some money, have found a seat in the House of Commons, and in time have been appointed the under secretary of a department. He would have been respected, as he is now, for ills iligh private character and his attention to busi- ness, and people would perhaps have smiled a little more undisguisedly than tiley do now at his occasional bumptiousness and habitual tendency to magnify ilis office. Beyond this I do not think he could ever fiave got, if he had begun life as Mr. Campbell. It is to his credit that he has not studied, striven, and succeeded any the less, although he was born to a dukedom. JUSTIN MCCARThY. THE WETHEREL AFFAIR. CHAPTER LIIL THE WETHEREL WILL FOR SALE. Two or three days previous to Nestorias adventure with Count Poloski, Walter Lehming had received a startling visit from Edward Wetherel. The usually collected and serious, if not downright sombre young man was in a state of eager and cheerful exhilaration; he came running up Lehmings stairway, rushed into his study without knocking, and tossed a billet to him with the words, Read that. Walter glanced over the bit of manuscript, and saw tbat it was an anony- mous letter addressed to Mr. Edward Wetherel, the writing in the fashion of print, and the signature Darkness. The will exists, he read. It cuts you off with a shilling. You can have it, if you will pay one hundred thousand dollars; otherwise it will be of- fered to the other heirs, who will be sure to take it. If you accept, put an ad- vertisement in the Herald, saying, Terms agreeable, and signing your name. Then I will instruct you how to open further communication with me. As Lehming read, his long, sallow, homely, but sweet fnce flushed deeply, and when he had finished he looked up at Edward with an expression of deep joy, a joy which he might not fully explain. If the letter were honest, if Ed- ward had not fabricated it himself (and Lehming did not think of that imme- diately), then it appeared certain that the murderer of Judge Wetherel was some commonplace, mercenary ruffian, and that this young man here present, this connection and friend, was innocent. Here we have the assassin! exclaimed Wetherel, pacing the room excit- edly and with countenance uplifted. Here we have the bloody hand showing itself. The question is how to seize it. Wonderful! replied Lehming, with an intonation of profound gratitude. But what is to be done? I cannot pay this money, continued Wetherel, halting with the bended head and folded arms of reflection. I am not the heir, if this document is found; no, nor in any case. But I think myself justified in promising it. Are we bound to keep the truth with murderers? Just think how easily this wretch has baffled justice thus far. The authorities of Connecticut gave up the search for him long ago, and I suppose wisely; the criminal was no doubt beyond their jurisdiction before his crime was a day old. He came to New York at once; he came instantly and instinctively to this sink of undisturbed lawlessness; this letter proves almost positively that he is here to-day, and he has probably been here all the while. Yet for three months our forceas the police weakness sarcastically calls itselfhas been pursuing him, or making a show of pursuit. For three months I have been urging and bribing our de- tectives and patrols to keep up the chase. Not a word have the drones, or idiots, or scoundrels brought me that has been worthy of attention. You speak very strongly, said Lebming. however, considering what you have suffered, I dont wonder. Any man in your situation would suspect a thousand things

THE WETHEREL AFFAIR. CHAPTER LIIL THE WETHEREL WILL FOR SALE. Two or three days previous to Nestorias adventure with Count Poloski, Walter Lehming had received a startling visit from Edward Wetherel. The usually collected and serious, if not downright sombre young man was in a state of eager and cheerful exhilaration; he came running up Lehmings stairway, rushed into his study without knocking, and tossed a billet to him with the words, Read that. Walter glanced over the bit of manuscript, and saw tbat it was an anony- mous letter addressed to Mr. Edward Wetherel, the writing in the fashion of print, and the signature Darkness. The will exists, he read. It cuts you off with a shilling. You can have it, if you will pay one hundred thousand dollars; otherwise it will be of- fered to the other heirs, who will be sure to take it. If you accept, put an ad- vertisement in the Herald, saying, Terms agreeable, and signing your name. Then I will instruct you how to open further communication with me. As Lehming read, his long, sallow, homely, but sweet fnce flushed deeply, and when he had finished he looked up at Edward with an expression of deep joy, a joy which he might not fully explain. If the letter were honest, if Ed- ward had not fabricated it himself (and Lehming did not think of that imme- diately), then it appeared certain that the murderer of Judge Wetherel was some commonplace, mercenary ruffian, and that this young man here present, this connection and friend, was innocent. Here we have the assassin! exclaimed Wetherel, pacing the room excit- edly and with countenance uplifted. Here we have the bloody hand showing itself. The question is how to seize it. Wonderful! replied Lehming, with an intonation of profound gratitude. But what is to be done? I cannot pay this money, continued Wetherel, halting with the bended head and folded arms of reflection. I am not the heir, if this document is found; no, nor in any case. But I think myself justified in promising it. Are we bound to keep the truth with murderers? Just think how easily this wretch has baffled justice thus far. The authorities of Connecticut gave up the search for him long ago, and I suppose wisely; the criminal was no doubt beyond their jurisdiction before his crime was a day old. He came to New York at once; he came instantly and instinctively to this sink of undisturbed lawlessness; this letter proves almost positively that he is here to-day, and he has probably been here all the while. Yet for three months our forceas the police weakness sarcastically calls itselfhas been pursuing him, or making a show of pursuit. For three months I have been urging and bribing our de- tectives and patrols to keep up the chase. Not a word have the drones, or idiots, or scoundrels brought me that has been worthy of attention. You speak very strongly, said Lebming. however, considering what you have suffered, I dont wonder. Any man in your situation would suspect a thousand things 16 THE WETHEREL AFFAIR. [JAN. Yes, I do speak strongly, interrupted Wetherel. I am embittered and enraged. I sometimes think that half our organization of justice, from the highest officials to the lowest, is in league with crime, or afraid of it. Just look at the way things go in this single matter of homicide. No murderer is ever found out who shows forethought in his sin, or common prudence in hid- ing himself. And when a man is caught red-handed, he is not promptly and honestly tried, or he is not punished. There are nearly thirty assassins in our jails now, whom the law apparently dares not lay hands on, or covertly de- sues to save. It is uncivilized, horrible to all upright souls, terrifying to all good citizens. There is a paralysis of justice and of public morality. The individual is left unprotected; he must defend himself from crime by his own strength and cunning; he must do as he would in Calabria or the Isle of Mur- derers. He cannot afford scruples in dealing with the criminal classes. Much as I hate and despise deception, I must personally tell this villain a lie, and perhaps many lies, in the hope of entrapping him. I dare not intrust the work to any one else, for fear that it will not be done faithfully and rightly, or not done at all. All my confidence in the ability or the purity of our correc- tional system is gone. Besides, whatever else may happen, I must clear my own name. I must! he added, with a passion of utterance which revealed long and acute suffering under the imputation of guilt. Do as you must, said Lehming, after a pause of painful deliberation, for any and every fashion of falsehood was hateful to him. When you have learned more, let me know if I can help you. So, under the pressure of what seemed relentless necessity, an advertise- ment of xvords deceiving~ was inserted in the Herald, informing Dark- ness that his terms were agreeable. Then came another letter; it ofi~red a meeting, but not with Wetherel; some less formidable messenger must be sent, bearing the money; the place indicated was a wharf near the Battery, and the hour three in the morning. I will go, volunteered Lebming, after Edward had read the note to him. But what about the filthy lucre? What sort of ghost or simulacrum of it can I carry P I must have something to hold in my hands while I talk with this wretch and try to divine who he is. Counterfeit bills would answer best, muttered Edward. They could be got from the police for this purpose. But it is horrible pitch to touch for any purpose. Let me have a simple package of waste paper, said Lehming. lean do something with it. ~I can at least make sure that there is a man at the end of this mysterious correspondence. Besides, there are possibilities. Chance may favor me. I may recognize him, may follow him, may bring about an arrest. Of course I can do nothing in the way of seizing him myself. You know I can neither fight nor run. But Providence may help. At the very least something will be gained. I shall be able to testify to a fact which will go to sho~vyour innocence. To think that it should need showing!~ groaned Wetherel. But I thank you. Only, do you consider that you risk violence? This may be a mere trick to delude a man with money about him into a place where he can be waylaid. This fellow, too, when he finds that the package is a fraud, may assault you. I will leave my watch and wallet at home, replied Lehining. As fot my poor little carcass, it is not of much account, and I will risk it. Some ouc must go. 1874.] THE WETHEREL AFFAIR. 17 So Lehming went, enveloped in an old loose cloak, and carrying under it a large sealed package, which had such a preposterously overt air of sham- ming great value that lie was more than once tempted to throw it away. He started at two in the morning, for he had of course decided that he must go on foot to the rendezvous, and the preliminary throbbing of his auxious heart told him that he would not be able to walk fast. The streets were desertcd, even brawlers and drunkards having sought refugc within doors from the keen December air; and as he looked up and down the long avenucs of silence, bordered by monstrous walls which threw out not a gleam of li lit, he had an impression as if he were traversing a necro polis. The only persons whom he met were two or three isolated and nomadic policemen, who seemed to be en- gaged in trying doors to see if they were locked. I am doing their work for them, he thought soniewhat bitterly, and passed them by without asking for their assistance.. By times his mind leaped forward to the interview which awaited him, and sought to fashion it into some shape which would be manageable to his powers. His vivid imagination enabled him to struggle painfully with incidents which had not yet happened. and to take anxious part in a dialogue which might never be spoken. He was in the condition of a man who plays a game of chess in his thoughts, striving to arrange an interminable series of moves in such a fashion as to make them sure of success against every imaginable coun- terplay, and fighting with an adversary who has even the unknown to aid him, but who yet must be beaten. His game workcd badly; he was not fitted for the fencing of intrigue and for encounters with ruffians; and, knowing his own weakness in such matters, he could not fancy himself as getting the better of his antagonist. His supposititious controversies with the mysterious villain of the Battery all ended, no matter how ofte~ he recommenced them and how eagerly he bent his mind to them, in discomfiture. The incognito wormed out secrets and divulged none; he secured the sealed package and discovered it to be a sham; he failed to exhibit the will, and successfully hid his guilty visage. Wearied at last with these confusing and disheartening forereachings, Lehming struggled to clear his brain of them and to trust that the trial would bring him inspiration. I will do the best I can, he murmured. And may Heaven help me, as it sometimes does help the foolish. Then another troublous subject gradually invaded his mind, like a tide stealing over a low and dikeless land, driving out of it all present life and con- firming the future as a waste. He was engaged in an enterprise which, if completely successful, would prove the innocence of Edward Wetherel; and one result, one morally certain result, of such a rehabilitation would be to give ~ Kestoria back to her betrothed lover. He himself felt sure of it, and that surety was a dagger to him. He knew now, if he had never known it before, that he loved the girl with all his heart and mind and strength. She had never yet seemed to him, and indeed we might also say that she had nevem really been, so beautiful, so sweet in her ways, so noble and pure and alto. gether charming, as she appeared to his imagination in this momentous houi when he was doing his feeble best to hand her over to another. He remem. bered her smilethat tender starlight sparkle which had so often transmitted to him messages of gratitude and friendship, and which had sometimes lighted up the dusky abysses of his humility with glimmers of trembling hope. He re~ called her various expressions, her thoughtful face, her sorrowful face, her 18 [JAN. THE WETHEREL AFFAIR. face of cheer, her rare face of gayety, all her faces, all familiar to his soul, all capable of appearing before his minds eye at an instants summons, or with- out a summonS. His meditations concerniug her were not philosophical, nor hardly intelligent. They were vision and emotion; he saw and felt, rather than thought. It was a farewell. He gave her up; he sacrificed himself, as he was accu~ tomed to do; he walked onward the quicker in order to hasten the sacrihee. It was a most sorrowful struggle, and every moment or two his eyes took des- perate flights toward heaven in search of strength to bear it, dropping back wearily to earth with no other help than a suffering sense of resignation. An an~el passing by might have seen a human dwarf striving to rejoice in the hope that lie was working out good and happiness for others, and meanwhile wiping the tears from his cheeks. In this dolorous and sublime hour of re- nunciation he would not forbid himself tears. He must have that feeble con- solation, and he felt that he was worthy of it. It was surely not much to ob- tain, but he thanked God for it, so humble was he. Oh, merciful Father, he whispered, thanks, thanks, for tears! Perhaps a man is never so worthy of a woman as when, for her betterment and in spite of the pleadings of his heart, he resigns her to another. The very grief and meekness with which he lets go all claim to her brings him near to that divine ideal of love which renders all and requires nothing. Lehming, always purer of egoism than most human beings, was just now nearly fit, one may dare to say, for translation. Meanwhile his thoughts devoured the long way, as if they had been a cha- riot of fire; and of a sudden he was surprised by discovering that he had reached the Battery. The dark open space, snowless as yet and lighted by few lamps, its apparent size increased by the breadth of the invisible river be- hind it, seemed to him at first a daunting desert to approach. He paused a moment, wondered whether he should be waylaid, and then once more set for- ward steadfastly. Reaching the iron fence which then surrounded the Battery, and which by night was closed to prevent scenes of disorder and dramas of crime, he turned to th~ right and soon found the place of rendezvous. It was a small open wharf, bare at the time of all lumbering of merchandise, and of course jutting out into the sombre expanse of the North river. As lie glanced along its dim edge, feebly illuminated by a single lamp, he could at first see nothing but ghostly outlines of shipping in the stream and a few distant lurid gleams which indicated the position of Jersey City. This man means to sail to-morrow for Europe, he said to himself as he halted. But will he come~ Yes, he had come; there was a figure lying on the extreme verge of the wharf; and, as Lehming approached, it rose to an erect position. CHAPTER LIV. THE MASK TORN OFF. TIm man who rose from the edge of the wharf to meet Lehming wa~ wra~ ped long loose o ished with a hood or capote which covered in a ~, vercoat, furn his head and shadowed his visage. Lehming did not recognize him; he could simply see that he was a tall man about as tall as Wetherel; all other peculiarities of figure were shrouded 1874.1 THE WETHEREL AFFAIR. 19 and disguised by that voluminous garment. Presently, too, as the unknown turned his face a little toward the wharf lamp, he perceived that that face was masked. The mask was a commonplace, grotesque affair, such as may be seen grimacing unchangeably through any toyshop window, and such as chil- dren buy to scare smaller comrades with. The nose was prodigious, the color of the lumpish cheeks was gross and glaring, and the huge mouth was moulded to counterfeit a clownish laugh. There was sohiething preternaturally horrible in the contrast between this leering, smirking simulacrum and the supposed homicidal character of its wearer. When within six or eight feet of the figure Lehming halted, and asked in a voice which he could not quite steady, Is this Darkness? Yes, replied the other. The utterance, like the shape, was unrecogniza- ble. There was now a moment of silence during which Lehming rallied his thoughts and his strength for fresh speech, meanwhile listenin~ to the lapping of the waters at the base of the wharf, and noting also a dull, faint thumping as of a boat beating against the timbers. I come to you, he resumed, from Mr. Edward Wetherel. Very well, responded the mask. There was no doubting or questioning; the speaker had the air of being quite sure of the authenticity and good faith of Lehming; it seemed probable that he might have recognized him. Have you the paper? asked the d~varf, after another pause. What paper? was the cautious answer. Lebming, after pondering a moment over this reticence, inferred from it that he must fully state his business, or the other would make no disclosures. I was sent here, he said, to receive from you the will of Ju(lge Jabez Wetherel, which you agreed to surrender to his nephew for one hundred thou- E sand dollars. It is here, replied the stranger, slightly touching his breast with one hand, while the mask nodded and leered its inimutable grimace, as if it were some Mephistophelean spectator of the drama who scoffed and sneered at the two human actors. Will you let me see the willmerely to make sure that you have it? asked Lehming. The goblin visor shook a slight negative, and the hollow voice beneath it muttered: I must first see the money. There was a long and troubling silence, broken only by the swashing of the ripples and the thumping of the unseen boattwo sounds which were very strange as being audible on the verge of a great city, and very disquieting as suggesting easy homicide and the secure escape of the criminal. The disguised man did not turn; the boat behind and below him was evidently his and no others; at least, so he believed. Had he turned, he would have seen some- thing to give him alarm; he would have seen a face peering over the edge- beam, with its eyes fixed on him. Lehming, while fumbling with his sealed package and debating whether he should hold it forth, chanced to discover this head. At first he thought that the mask had a comrade there, and in his nervousness he involuntarily recoiled a pace. But in the next breath he saw a hand rise before the mysterious head, with one finger laid across the lips, as if en.ioining silence. Then it occurred to him that perhaps the police were at hand; that XVethierel might have thought it best to advise them of the inter- view; that somehow or other justice had stumbled upon the trail of this mis- doer. At all events a crisis had come, and he must do his best to help it for- 20 TIlE WETHEREL AFFAIR. [JAN. ward; he must engage the attention of the mask to keep him from turning to see his peril. So he handed out his fraudful bundle, at the same time say- ing in a louder voice than he had yet used, Where is the will? I must look at this first, returned the unknown, beginning to tear off the sealed envelope. It was natural enough that he should doubt whether a hun- dred thousand dollars had been brought him in the night by an unattended dwarf; only a very idiot of a rogue would believe in such an Arabian Nights adventure without ocular evidence of its actuality. He moved a little nearer to the wharf lamp, and continued to unroll the package with hands that shook quite visibly, his visor meanwhile grinning its hideous paper gratulation. Mean- time the head behind him changed to a full figure, which stealthily grew up on the extreme verge of the wharf, whatever noise it made being drowned by the lapping of the water. Lehming tried not to look at it, for fear of warning the mask. He felt sure now that a policeman, or perhaps a party of the police, had watched the outgoings of this criminal and followed him to the rendezvous. In great trepidation, and dreading by moments lest his thjobbing heart should beat him to the earth senseless, he dropped his eyes and awaited the result. Slowly, with a deliberation indeed which seemed to risk all chance of sue- oess, but steadily and without a sound that could reach the ear, the stranger moved toward the mask until he was within less than ten feet of him. Then he sprang, and instantly there was a furious struggle between the two, the one striving to escape and the other to hold fast, and both gasping out short, hard breaths loaded with curses. Lehming saw a sparkle between them as of drawn steel, but could not distinguish which grasped it, nor whether a blow was struck. Fearful, however, that the policeman would be hurt or overcome, he advanced to give him aid. But at this moment a new figure appeared on the scene, climbing up the dock and running toward the combatants. Lehmin~ had just time to notice that this man, like the first, was not in police garb, but wore a short shaggy box-coat and slouched hat, when he heard some one mut- ter, as if throngh clenched teeth, Upset that little fellow! Almost instan- taneously, and before he could think what the phrase meant, the last arrival gave him a fisticuff which laid him prostrate. It was a terrible blow; it be- reft him of consciousness. WThen he came to himself some time must have elapsed, for all was quiet He lay still upon the wharf, just where he had fallen, with the lamp dimly shin- ing in his eyes. He was chilled through; his cloak had been thrown open, as if to ~xainine his clothing, and, as he afterwards discovered, his pockets were turned inside out. Raising himself on one elbow, and lifting his bruised, ach- ing, dizzy head, he looked about h~m. At a little distance lay what seemed a corpse. It was the man with the capote. He rose, tottered toward this man, knelt by his side, and surveyed him at- tentively. The leering, grinning mask was still on the face, giving a horrible air of farce to this homicidal tragedy. It was not, however, fastened there, but had evidently fallen oft or been torn off, and then carelessly replaced, per- haps in mockery. Lehming gently removed this painted ghost of hilarity, and stared at the uncovered visage with an amazement which nearly drowned his horror. Edward! he exclaimed. No, it is Poloski. Yes, the dead man who lay there, the man who had volunteered to surrender the will of the murdered Judge Wetherel, was certainly Poloski. It is the finger of God, continued Lehming, impressed by that wonder 1874.] TILE WETHEREL AFFAIR. 21 and awe, and that instinctive, impulsive belief in the supernatural, xvhich arc apt to descend upon us when we do happen to see a great crime followed by remarkable punishment. Now all is explained, he resumed after a moment. Nestoria mistuok this man for Edxv~rd. Ah, well, she will be happy. lie is innocent. Meantime, he was gently opening the large coarse overcoat which envel- oped the fallen figure. A moisture on his hands arrested his attention, and ifting them to the light, he saw stains of blood. Then, looking closely, he discovered in the clothing the clean-cut rents of stabsseveral stabs, one of them close to the heart, if not penetrating it. What does this mean? he exclaimed, looking fearfully around him. Why should the detectives leave us here? He had already searched in vain for Poloskis pulse with his chilled and glassy fingers. He warmed and softened them between his lips, and renewed his groping for signs of vitality. There was no movementyes, there was a feeble, uncertain fluttering; or was it the beating of his own blood P Lehming feared this man, abhorred him, and almost revolted from touching him; yet he bent over him with an intense eagerness to see him live, dragging at him in spirit, one might say, to get him up the slopes of death. And Poloski still had breath in him ; after some minutes he opened his eyes. It was the first time that Lehming had ever had the gaze of a vitally injured man fixed on his face; and he trembled all over, every fibre of his flesh seemed to quiver and crawl, with an agonizing thrill of pity. Shall I gc and bring help? he whispered, stooping close to the sufferer. Poloski did not at once reply, but it was probably not because he did not understand; for even a mortally wounded man does not become delirious until fever arrives; at first, if he has his consciousness, he has his reason. 1his mans silence spran~ mainly no doubt from weakness, though partly also, it may be, from fear. Who that Lehming would seek would be likely to bring Poloski help, or fail to bring him further harm? Yesgo, he said at last, in a faint gurgle, at the same time turning his eyes toward the city. Lehming rose and set off in the direction of the Battery, trusting that there he might find a policeman, should accident favor. lIe ought of course to have secured the will first, but in his tenderness for this suffering and seemingly dying fellow creature he had not attempted to rummage for it, if indeed he had not temporarily for~otten it. Poloski, faint as he doubtless was, remem bered it only toL~ well; he had the presence of mind, resolution, aud hardness of the practised criminal. The moment he was left alone he thrust his hand slowly inside his blood-stained vest, broke open a loosely stitched seam with his numbed fingers, and drew forth the document. His strength was as yet far from gone. A man may be terribly lacerated and still retain much muscular force. I have known a soldier, who had fallen unconscious with a mini6 ball through his lungs, to recover his senses and run a hundred yards or more for covert, there to fall again in a swoon. So Poloski, with five stabs in his body, two of them sure to be fatal, was able not only to secure this paper, but to mangle it with his teeth. But the work of destruction was not completed when Lehming reappeared; he had recollected the will and he came running to save it. Terrible as such a struggle must have been to him, he seized the wounded ninas quivering hands and wrenched from them the bloody fragments. 22 THE WETHEREL AFFAIR. [JAN. I haveruined you, whispered Poloski, with a ghastly grimace which strove to be a smile. Youand those cursedDinnefords. Youshall have iiothino Think Heaven! replied Lehming with honest gladness. It is as it should be. Justice has been done by hands most strangely called to it. Poloski stared at him; but the stare was that of a fading consciousness; he was once more swooning. His eyes had scarcely closed when new actors ap- peared upon the scene. As Lehming was gathering up and putting into his pockets the smaller tatters of the will he heard footsteps advancing rapidly down the wharg and presently saw two men enter the circle of light about him. One of them was Edward Wetherel and the other detective James Sweet. You are alive then! exclaimed Edward, joyfully. I have suffered horrors about you. It was a foolish plan and a foolish risk. I could not help coniing to see what had happened. But, and here he glanced at the pros- trate Poloski, what is that? Jimmy! its the Poloski chap! exclaimed Sweet, who had already dis- covered the body and coolly squatted himself to inspect it. And haint he been skewered. though? I say, Mr. Lehming, but youve had a busting 01(1 time with him, lie added, glancing with wonder and admiration at the little man, whom lie regarded as the conqueror of Poloski in single combat. I was talking with him when Lehming began to explain. Then he turned to Wetherel and whispered rapidly, He tore up the will, but I have the pieces. I was talking with hi in, he resumed aloud, when souie men climbed up over the wharf and assaulted him, knocking me down and going ofi~ before I recovered. I had an idea that they were police or detectives. Detectives? interrupted Sweet. The devil! he at once argued ad- veisely. Detectives wouldnt cut him up that way and then leave him; theyd want the rewards. Some of his own private friends done thissome of Rileys gang most probablybet you what you like it was Rileys ganggo you my whole pile on it. Whats he got in his mouth? he continued, turn. ing once more to the pallid face under his elbow. Its a piece of ,~aper, by Jove! Hes been tryin to swallow it. Inserting his horny fingers iiito Poloskis mouth, he unlocked the teeth with some difficulty, extricated a tattered scrap of paper, and held it up to the light. Look here! he went on; this concerns you gents. Theres Wetherel on this. Jabez Wetherel? asked both Ed~vard and Lehming, as they eagerly bent over him. No, added the former. Only Wetherel, and not the whole of that. The signature is destroyed. The signature! exclaimed Sweet, aghast with sudden comprehension. What! was this the will? The Wetherel will? And Poloski had it? Then he was the murderer. So that was what this nights business was about. Oh, Mr. Wetherel! youve played it rough on me. Youve cut me out of the re- wards. You brought me here, an kep me a-waitin, an never told nie a thing when I could a caught the man. I only brought you because I accidentally met you, replied Wetherel, i~ little moved by this ncth~e groan of distress, wrenched from the detective~ s in niost pocket. You had failed completely so far. Never niind. You shall b well paid. Somewhat comforted, Mr. Sweet touched Poloski with his boot and fell to moralizing. So this is the way the world goes, is it? Accident is the Boss. 1874.] THE WETHEREL AFFAIR. 23 Here is the Wetherel Case, what Ive been workin at for three months and more, bust open all by itself. Police aint nowhere. Detectives dont count. Justice takes the back seat. Well, he sighed, facing about upon Lehming, you are a lucky custow er. You git the swag, I spose. A round tw6nty thousan! By jimmy, some fellows hit it, aim where they will! be sighed again, surveying the misshapen, heavy-laden Lebming with really pathetic envy. The dwarf might have said, I have lost a quarter of a million, and lost it gladly, but he did not say it, nor think of it. He turned to Edward and asked anxiously, Can you tell whether this man is still living? I think not, hesitated Wetherel, seeking in vain with his chilied fingers - for Poloskis pulse. I cannot be sure yet, but he seems to me dead. Lehming shuddered. Without one call to preparation! he thought; why did I not utter it? An instant later, worn out with the labor, hardship, and anxiety of this tragedy which was now over, he sat down on the rimy planks of the wharf; very faint. hurry oft and get a hack, said Wetherel to Sweet. He must be taken flome. CHAPTER LV. FACE TO FACE. IT was a long time before Lehming awoke from his swoon, and when he did recover his senses he found himself exceedingly weak, as if he had barely escaped froni the strangling coil of death. But he was in good hands, for he had been carried to the house of Mrs. F inneford, and that tender mother in Israel had had him put to bed, and was now watching over him. There, go to sleep again, were the first words that he heard on opening his eves. You cant do better than sleep. YesI can do better, he whispered after a minute of vacant gazing, during which his memory of the past and his full intelligence of the present returned to him. Where is Nestoria? Must you see her now?~ objected Mrs. Dinneford, not in the least guess- ing how much the girl was to him, but merely judging him unfit for conversa- tion with any one. Are you sure that you can bear it? I can bear it best now, murmured Lebming, his mind fixed on the fact that he must surrender Nestoria to Edward, and feeling that he could do it easiest in this hour of weakness, which was so near to unconsciousness. Mrs. Dinneford went out, but almost immediately returned, leading the girl by the arm and prattling cheerfully: She was just dressed, and bent on seeing you. Nestoria came up to the bedside in her quiet, quick way, took Lehmings hand, and whispered, My poor, dear friend! I have found the will, he said at once, while something like a tear gus.. tened in his eyes. Poloski had it. He was the murderer, added Nestoria. Lehming looked up at her with surprise, she had spoken so promptly and assuredly. I saw him yesterday, she continued. I thought he wa~ EdwardMr Wetherel. When I found that he was not Mr. Wetherel I felt sure that he must be the murder er 24 THE WETHEREL AFFAIR. [JAN. And you had believed Edward guilty? asked Mrs. Dinneford. Nestoria fell upon her knees, buried her face in the bedclothes, and sobbed violently, exclaiming from time to time, Oh, what injustice! I saw him by night, she went on after a while. And they do surely re- semble each other. I thought he was Edward. I was sure of it. But, oh, what injustice! I can never forgive myself. He never can forgive me. No man could forgive such an imputation. And from me especially, whc was bound to believe in him, and had promised to trust him! Oh, it is unpardona- ble! And I was all wrongwrong all the way through. I have been wrong in concealing this thing. I should have spoken; I should have told what I knewor thought I knew. Then there might have been an explanation. The truth might have come to light long ago. What misery I have made for mny~ self and others by disobeying my conscience! I shall never be forgiv& .. either on earth or in heaven. We have all been wrong, whispered Lehm ing, venturing to put his sal- low hand on her sunny head. My hiding of you was wrong. My not insist- ing with you for an immediate divulgence of the truth was wrong. It was of a piece with the general lack of proper feeling in America toward crime. I have done what soft-hearted people do who sign petitions for mercy to ussas- sins. I have done what unfaithful policemen and jurymen and judges and governors do. I have son ott with a false and unwise and sinful pity, to shield sin from punishment. Even when I fully believed Edward to be guilty, I wanted to save him from the gallows, or at least to put off justice. We have been wrong, and I more than all, for I knew it. It has turned out well, but not through our meritsonly through the compassion of God. But as 1-le has benignly directed, so I trust that He will patiently pardon. how can we doubt the infinite mercy? broke in cheerful, confident Mrs. Dinneford, always ready to be a medium for heavenly revelations, especially those of a comfortable character. havent we been already guided and de- livered in the most wonderful, long-suffering, salvatory, rcassurin~, convinc- ing manner? What might have happened to us but for these gracious deal- ings? ~Thmat if that murderer had been permitted to carry away Alice to some of his dens of blood? But Apollyon was beaten there, and at every point; and those who combated him have been brought through victorious, in spite of their errors; and they will have undeserved for~ iveness as surely as they have had undeserved succor. And as for you two little creatures falling into ag- onies of remorse about what has befallen, why it is certainly the most extraor- dinary sight that I ever beheld in my life. I should as soon expect to hear two pet lambs go to groaning over their sins because the wolf had killed the wmitchdog. In my humble opinion, if our Heavenly Father bad no worse chil- dren than you, it would be a very respectable family. Of course, I dont want to encourage you to boast yourselves in the face of the divine perfection. A~ Tupper says, Humility mainly becometh a man in converse with his Maker. But there is such a thing as a child of Adam dealing over-strictly with him- self, and holding himself to account a~ if he were a god instead of a feeble, soft-hearted, muddle-headed mortal, and, in short, exalting himself under pre- tence of a super~human responsibility and contrition. Its as though a butterfly should claim that line was the chief of sinners, because he failed to fly as Imigh as an eagle, or as though the automaton trumpet-player should put on dust and ashes because he blew a poorer tune than the man who invented him. I do oclieve that you two have done the best that God gave you the sense and heart 1874.] THE WETHEREL AFFAIR. 25 to do. Let us forget our little selves and our infinitesimal shortcomings, in sarveying the wisdom and power and goodness of Deity. It does seem to me that all has ended well enough to make all worthy souls turn their various murmurs into a song of content. Here is this poor murderer dead, as Edward just now sends word to me; gone off after a short revival of consciousness, in which he talked about his Origins of Speech, and wanted some charitable body to finish them for him; but not suffered to depart until he had confessed his crime in the hearing of the police, and so cleared the innocent. And here are all the rest of us spared to see the unravelling of this bloody web of mystery, and knowing each other to be guiltless. There is our crowning mercy. No more suspicions of ensanguined foot-tracks in our midst! No Cain among us with a mark on his forehead! What an awful scene, by the way, that is in Macbeth where Lady Macbeth washes and washes her hands in vain! Our hands are clean, and we know it. What we have done of evil is to suspect wrongfully. We must bow down to Edward and ask his pardon. I shall send a note to him at once. She paused in her torrent of speech, glanced anxiously and yet with a hu- morous expression at the girl beside her, and then asked, Shall I say any- thing for you, Nestoria? I wrote to him last night, replied Nestoria, looking Mrs. Dinneford full in the face with that frankness and bravery which her eyes always had. I told him how I had suspected him, and how I had come to believe him inno- cent. I asked his pardon. He will get the letter to-day. And as soon as he gets it he will come here, said Mrs. Dinneford with smiling excitement, as of a woman who sees a bridal at hand. I should not think he would ever wish to see me again, murmured Nes- toria, shaking her golden head sorrowfully. Mrs. Diuneford merely patted the girl on the shoulder; she believed that an hour of purest happiness was coming to her; but sympathetic and garru- Ions as she was, she would not forestall it by babbling. Lehming, meanwhile, his pallid face propped up by a pillow, gazed at Nestoria with an indescribable tenderness, rejoicing in the joy which would soon be hers. He felt sure that she did not even guess of his love for her, and the fact that he had never re- vealed it gave him some small gladness. Had she known it, the knowledge might have troubled her now, when her other troubles were departing. Balm thou~h her pity might have been to him, he would not have purchased it at the cost of any diminution of her happiness, so entirely had he given her his unselfish affection. Some hours later, while Mrs. Dinneford and Nestoria were together in the parlor, the door bell suddenly fell into a violent agitation, and the girl divined the arrival of Edward Wetherel: She turned pale at once, and caught her hostess by the skirt of the dress, whispering, I cannot see him alone. The warm-hearted lady took her by the shoulders, pushed her gently back upon a sofa, kissed her, and left the room. When Edward entered he saw his betrothed sitting moveless and seeuiingly unable to move, her childlike face as pale as it could be, and her blue eyes fixed on him in a kind of fascination of dreadful expectancy. He knew at once that the letter which she had written him, imputing great wrong to herself and humbly begging his forgiveness, had been no mere verbal exaggeration, and no statement of momentary emotion, but an honest overflow of deep remorse and penitence. His very flesh shook with pity for such trouble, and with longing to put an instant end to it. With- 26 THE WETHEREL AFFAIR. [JAN. out a word he advanced softly to her, knelt on one knee at her feet, took both her hands in his and kissed them passionately. Oh, no, no, no! I am not worthy, broke out Nestoria, the tears rolling down her cheeks. You must not show me any kindness. You must not like me. I am unworthy of your trust. I have wronged you dreadfully and Un- pardonably. But you have righted me, replied Edward, rising and taking a seat by her side, while still holding her hands. You believe in me now? Yes, I know now that you are good, said the gir], sobhing so violently that her words were hardly distinguishable. I know that you are far bettcr than I am, very far better. than I have been. I cannot talk about it. Did you get my letter? Did you read where I asked your pardon? I did, and I pardoned, he answered, comprehending her intense humil- iation and remorse, and believing that the blunt assurai~ce of forgiveness would not pain but comfort her. Do you still blame yourself? I do not. Appear- ances were darkly against me. The life that I had led was my condemna- tion. What a life it must have been, and was! I ought to ask your pardon for being such a man as that you could reasonably believe great ill of me. I ought to ask your pardon, and not you mine. Well, I trust that I have changed. I am at your feet once more. I ask you again to judge whether I am worthy to be your husband. Will you take me? Oh, I must not, groaned Nestoria. It would be so wrong in me, after all I have done! Dont you think I need any punishment? she burst out ve- hemently. Dont you see that you and everybody ought to punish me? I have broken my word to you and my faith with society. I am a wicked, wicked woman. No, no! pleaded Edward. Dont say that; at least not now. We will talk of your responsibility to society another time. What you did, you did for love of me, and I can only hold you the dearer for it. Do submit your mind and heart to niine. Do answer my question. He put his arm around her, drew her gently close to him and forced her to lay her head upon his shoulder. Oh, I am so weak against you! whispered Nestoria, a calmer expres- sion stealing over her convulsed face. I am so unable to resist you! Then you will be engaged to me once more? he begged. Willyo u? With a sigh which had the echo of sobs in it, Nestoria murmured brokenly, If you wish itif you will have it soI mustyes. But I alone will be engaged, she continued, as he drew her closer and kissed away her tears. You shall be free. You shall turn me off whenever you wish. Promise it, Edward! Do you? No, he replied, holding her face between his hands and looking down into her eyes with a smile. I bind myself to you forever. Oh, how can you! she exclaimed, giving up the contest and letting her head fall on his breast. After she had lain there a little while she suddenly caught up one of his hands in both hers, and before he could prevent her, pressed it to her lips. It was an instinctive, unpremeditated, passionate gesture of joyful humiliation, absolute confidence, and absorbing love. It apprised him, as perhaps nothing else could have done, that he had given his heart to a heart which wns Alto- gether his, and which by its power of affection was worthy of all that he could give. 1874.] TIlE WETIIEREL AFFAIR. 27 Herein, that is to say in her capacity of living for others, lay the greatness of this simple girl, such greatness as she could claim. Amid all her ignorance of the world, amid her incompleteness of education and her youthful limita- tions of thought, amid her resultant errors of judgment and of conduct, she was possessed by a heroic self-abnegation and an almost superhuman affection. Even when this man by her side had appeared to her quite dead in trespassei and sins, she had still so loved him that she could not denounce him to just l)unisllment, and could not but continue to hope, against the evidence of her senses, in his innocence, and was willing to bear every extremity of suffering for his sake. Indeed, the central fact of her story is simply this, that in some natures love is lord of all, ennobling them in spite of misdoing. It must be conceded that there has appeared in this story no grand triumph of conscience or of wisdom, recommendable for wide imitation. Nestoria, a merely finite and fragile creature, has been guided by pungent emotion rather than by cool and large reflection. But at least her emotions have not con- cerned her alone; she has not lived, as a selfish woman in her place might have done, to enjoy herself and to have a good time; she has been lov- ing enough to bear through dolorous months the burden which seemed to be- long to another. And with regard to her one evil dee4, the persistent con- cealment of a supposed criminal, we may allege in her excuse that circum- stances had placed her in a position of singular difficulty, and that those cir- cumstances had been prolonged by the immoral inefficiency of our judicial system, so that American society must shoulder a part of her blameworthiness. Well, she had fought out her wretched battle, and now she was receiving her reward. She was lying on the heart of a man intelligent enough to divine what stings of terror and of conscience she had borne for his sake, and grate- fully loving enough to cover both her bygone sorrows and her clinging re- morse with a flood of consolation. CHAPTER LVI. WHAT BECAME 01? ThEM ALL. An! this cannot lastthis ought not to last, Nestoria exclaimed of a sud den, drawing herself back from Edward and looking him in the face with a strange mixture of fear and joy. I am too happy, she went on. I do not deserve any such happiness. It will be surely taken away from me, unless I become more worthy of it. I must strive in some way to be more fit for it than I have been and am. Do you know what I have long thought that I must do as soon as this mystery should clear away and I could see to stir? I have felt that I must pass the rest of my life in suffering to do good, instead of suffering, as I have done, to do evil. I have wanted to go as amissionary, she faltered out, with a piteous, pleading gaze into his eyes, as if doubting whether he would let her go. We know already that Wetherel was of the firm and even masterful caste of souls, such as his ancestors had mostly been before him, in spite of their prevailing devoutness; but the look of tenderness Which he now bent upon Nestoria showed that over her he intended to hold no sceptre of unper- suasive rule. This one being was to be on equal terms with him, time asso- ciated monarch of their united life, at least so far as she should desire. 28 THE XVETHEREL AFFAIR. [JAN. My dear child, our existence is to be one, he said gently, at t~he same time kissing her hands. I do not wish to dissuade you from obeying your conscience, nor from going where you can do the most good to others. But must we not consider also where I can be useful? You are already possessed of a foreign language which xviii enable you to be at once of worth on a mis- sion. I should have to study years to acquire that language. Moreover, I have not even a profession; there are more years of waiting and preparation and meanwhile life is hurrying by. Then, on the other hand, among my own countrymen there is work all ready for me, and more tban I can do. If I am forced to retain a portion of my uncles estate, I shall have means to enter upon large philanthropies, such as I can myself oversee. I have thought this all over many times already, and decided that I can be usefullest in America. Oh, there are huge plans for doing good in my poor head, he added, with an apol- ogetical smile. But, grandiose as they are, they may come to something. Will you not let your decision wait until you can hear about them? Ah, yes, sighed Nestoria, conscious, and joyfully conscious, too, despite her scruples, of that weakness of love which trusts all to the love of a stronger soul. You must be considered. You can do far more in the world than I. You must not be planted in poor earth because I might grow there to my own satisfaction. I leave everything to you. It was not a painful act of submission, although she did for an instant have a vague fear lest she were doing wrong, and lest her fretful conscience might some day assault her because of it. And now footsteps were heard, and Nestoria ran away to hide L~er happi- ness, rustling out of one door as Mrs. Dinneford, Alice, and Lebming entered by another. The elder ladys eye sought Wetherels face with a cordial yet humorous glance of inquiry. It is all as it should be, said the young man; whereupon Mrs. Dinne- ford smiled with pleasure, while Lehming, too shrewd at guessing, turned pale. Then there was much talk about the adventure of the past night, the won- derful discovery and punishment of the murderer, and, in short, about the whole WTethierel Affair. Only one thing remains to be settled, said Edward. That is the own- ersuip of this estate. I have pieced the will together as far as may be, and shown it to a lawyer. He says that it is worthless. The signature of the tes- tator is torn off and partly destroyed. The signatures of the witnesses have entirely vanished. The provisions are more or less incomplete. In short, it is worthless. I am the heir. It is well, assented Lehming, in a firm voice, while Mrs. Pinneford and Alice uttered some murmur of assent, which was naturally less clear and emphatic. I will tell you what I propose, continued Edward. I propose to pay in full the legacies to philanthropic and religious objects, so far as they can be made out or inferred. So much must be done out of respect to the life- long character of the dead as a lover of his fellow men and of his Maker. You agree to that, I see. But after that, what? You must admit that it is a weighty, and at the same time a delicate question. I have tried to decide upon some plan of division, without being able to satisfy myself. I hate offered you the whole, and you have refused. Nor will I take the whole. There we ~re at a deadlock. You three must help me out. 1874.] THE WETITEREL AFFAIR. 29 It reminds me, put in Mrs. iDinneford, of the favorite exhortation of a pious, speechless deacon whom I used to know. Brethren, he used to say, prayer-meeting after prayer-meeting, brethren, we mustnt have too much delicacy. What the good old slow creature meant by it I never could im- agmn e, nor, I dare say, he eitber. Bnt it applies to our situation sur~ly. We are bothered by too much delicacy. Somebody ou~ht to speak plainly and in business-like fashion; and when it conies to business, I say let the men begin. Certainly, nodded Wetherel. Come, Walter, you are a just man; tell us what shall be done. I have a whim, replied Lehming with a smile I have a whim which settles my portion. It seems to me that I may fairly claini the rewards, all of them; those offered by the authorities and by the estate, those offered for the discovery of Miss Bernard aiid of the criminal. They come to twenty thousand dollars. That sum will just serve me. I claim it, and no more. Dont interrupt me, Edward. You called on me to jud~e this case. Well, as for these excellent Dinneford ladies, lie continued, smiling from one to an- other, they oL~ght surely to be as liberal, or magnanimous, or just, or what- ever it may be, etween them, as I am alone. I give up a quarter of a mil- lion which doesnt belong to me. Let them club together and do the same. That leaves them a quarter of a million, which is not pinching poverty, even in these times. As for the heir at law, turning to Wetherel, let him take his half million and hold his peace. There, you have my arbitration, and I sincerely hope that no one will oppose it. There was a general smile, which was clearly one of satisfaction, and which ended the discussion. In short, such were the terms according to which this fastidiously delicate matter of settling the Wetherel estate was finally de- cided. The Dinnefords were more than content with their allotment, arid Lebming positively refused to accept aught but what he had assigned iiimself. And now John Bowlder rumbled into the house, as big and noisy and cheerful and unpractical as ever. There is your dollar, Walter, were his first words, meanwhile thrusting a bill into Lebmings breast pocket. Take it before I become vainglorious over it and assume it as a blazon, or tnrn greedy and put it at interest. Take it as a present, if not otherwise. It is a curiosity. It is Bowlders only dollar, the only one that ever really belonged to him, because the only one that he ever carried. lie wants never to see it again. He desires no mora dollars from that source. He prefers money that has been left him. Toil is all very well for the predestined and habituated sons of toil; but the soul which basks in its own sunshine can he happiest without it. By the way, I hear that the Wetherel mystery has exploded, and that Nettie Fulton has reappeared out of it as Nestoria Bernard. Life is protean. It is also a Nemesis. Nemesis at times interferes within Proteus, and tears off his disguises. Meanwhile the tranquil soul looks on, and thinks it as good as a play, taking that much inter est in it, and no more. The girl Nestoria, however, I should like to see There is somewhat about her which is good for the spectator, making him both happy and benign. So Nestoria was sent for, and Bowlder greeted her with affectionate uproar, very absurd in a philosopher. I rejoice heartily, ho admitted, that your worries are over. I am 80 VOICES. rJAN. driven to profess at least as much common humanity as that. You are one of the magicians, and bring me down to earth. How does poor Imogen Eleonore get on? asked Nestoria. Is she lonely? Tell her I shall soon come to see her. Poor Imogen has taken to herself another likewise poor creature, and gone into the moonshine of betrothed bliss, returned Bowlder. A lover of ancient days came down from Vermont yesterday, and carried her off this morning with such ease that it seemed as if she were carrying him off. It is not often that two souls take on a duality more promptly. She promised wed- ding cake in time. Her last words to me were, Farewell, a long farewell! Let us hope that she spoke prophetically, solemnly added Bowider, who had at last discovered that Miss Joness grandiose conversation had the emptiness as well as the gaudiness of a soap bubble. The Turks believe that idiots are inspired. But that credence is not a part of my religion. At all events, I desire to hear no more of Imogen Eleonores inspirations, and warn you against her as being not heavenly hut mundane, and poor at that. Au! she had not helped you, said Nestoria thoughtfully. I owe 11cr much kindness. I must think how I can repay her. We need add no more, unless the reader would like to know that Alice Dinneford, blessed with a sufficient fortune and some experimental wisdom, means to have an American husband of the usual sort, and will urobably flQ~ ~d it hard to get one. VOICES. I HEXR them in the raindrops As they patter on the leaves, Or one by one descending From the eaves. They whisper in the sunshine As it cheers us after rain; But I look to see their faces All in vain. They call me in the breezes That dance upon the stream, Yet I know not what they utter What they mean. But when at eve I linger By the grave of one held dear, These voices fall the sweeter On my ear. Are they voices of Forever, Sweetly calling me to come, To a resting- place eternal, In their home? FRANK ABBER BROWN.

80 VOICES. rJAN. driven to profess at least as much common humanity as that. You are one of the magicians, and bring me down to earth. How does poor Imogen Eleonore get on? asked Nestoria. Is she lonely? Tell her I shall soon come to see her. Poor Imogen has taken to herself another likewise poor creature, and gone into the moonshine of betrothed bliss, returned Bowlder. A lover of ancient days came down from Vermont yesterday, and carried her off this morning with such ease that it seemed as if she were carrying him off. It is not often that two souls take on a duality more promptly. She promised wed- ding cake in time. Her last words to me were, Farewell, a long farewell! Let us hope that she spoke prophetically, solemnly added Bowider, who had at last discovered that Miss Joness grandiose conversation had the emptiness as well as the gaudiness of a soap bubble. The Turks believe that idiots are inspired. But that credence is not a part of my religion. At all events, I desire to hear no more of Imogen Eleonores inspirations, and warn you against her as being not heavenly hut mundane, and poor at that. Au! she had not helped you, said Nestoria thoughtfully. I owe 11cr much kindness. I must think how I can repay her. We need add no more, unless the reader would like to know that Alice Dinneford, blessed with a sufficient fortune and some experimental wisdom, means to have an American husband of the usual sort, and will urobably flQ~ ~d it hard to get one. VOICES. I HEXR them in the raindrops As they patter on the leaves, Or one by one descending From the eaves. They whisper in the sunshine As it cheers us after rain; But I look to see their faces All in vain. They call me in the breezes That dance upon the stream, Yet I know not what they utter What they mean. But when at eve I linger By the grave of one held dear, These voices fall the sweeter On my ear. Are they voices of Forever, Sweetly calling me to come, To a resting- place eternal, In their home? FRANK ABBER BROWN. VIEWS ABROAD. -THE FRENCH PRESS. THE news paper can hardly be said to exist in France. The French paper is a local paper of an inferior kind, and in the matter of city items, for ex- ample, the difference between the French reporter and his American fellow is striking. One makes a dry statement of facts without comment; the other amplifies and works up the material into a column. A man jumps off the Pont Neuf and is drowned; of this the Frenchman makes a dozen lines or less, where the suicide is meagre ly described. The American, taking the same fact, would be~in with a contrast to whet the appetite, such as: Last night, while tile inhabitants near the Pont Neuf were wrapped in peaceful slumber and the moon shone down on the tranquil waters of the Seine, etc. Then would follow conjectures as to the cause of the act, and the probabilities would be silown in favor of unrequited love, jealousy, destitution, as the case might be; after this would be the minute description of the corpsetemperament, face, expression, clothes; the pockets would be turned inside out, and if a scrap of writing were found it would be transcribed and used as material in con- structing a theory as to tile cause of the suicide. If tile identity were ascer- tamed, tile historian of the event would go to the dead mans lodjngs, write a description, interview ilis relatives or friends, find out tile incidents of ilis life which might have any bearing on his deatil. In addition to this the writer would probably make tile demise point a moral. This, in a word, is American reporting, wilich is commendable in enterprise and industry, but requires a cheek, to be successfully pursued, foreign to French character arld customs. Were a reporter to call on the Duke de Brogue as a public man and ask ilim ilis views on public affairs, he would be shown to the door as an impertinen.C fellow who Ilad taken an unwarrantable license. In America, the probabili- ties are that the public man would enter into a lengthy conversation with tile reporter, and answer any questions that migilt he put to hinl. The power of tile press, an(i the panting after celebrity, or even notoriety, on the part of many public men, contribute largely to the license usually accorded to tile American reporter. In view of suspension or suppression, the Frencil press is comparatively weak, and the French law deals in a summary manner with him who scales tile walls of private life for journalistic purposes. To be thrust out of the door and reenter by thecoal-hole, in tile exercise of reporto- rial functions, is purely an American experience. To commit a misdemeanor in order to gain admittance to a prison, to feign madness in order to procure entrance into an asylum, are incidents which belong only to the life of an American reporter. file audacity and work of this indefatigable seeker after news are only appreciated by the American reader when he is condemned to foreign newspapers. In Paris, the reporters of city items are of a lower grade than those wi~o give an account of the proceedings of the National Assembly at Versailles. These last usually limit themselves to a synopsis of the speaking, colored ac- cording to the politics of the journals for which they write, the whole enlbrac- ing from one thousand to fifteen hundred words. In Washington, two or three thousand words ~re telegraphed every day, as long as Congress is in session, to each prominent New York daily, and this lengthy telegram gives the man

VIEWS ABROAD. -THE FRENCH PRESS. THE news paper can hardly be said to exist in France. The French paper is a local paper of an inferior kind, and in the matter of city items, for ex- ample, the difference between the French reporter and his American fellow is striking. One makes a dry statement of facts without comment; the other amplifies and works up the material into a column. A man jumps off the Pont Neuf and is drowned; of this the Frenchman makes a dozen lines or less, where the suicide is meagre ly described. The American, taking the same fact, would be~in with a contrast to whet the appetite, such as: Last night, while tile inhabitants near the Pont Neuf were wrapped in peaceful slumber and the moon shone down on the tranquil waters of the Seine, etc. Then would follow conjectures as to the cause of the act, and the probabilities would be silown in favor of unrequited love, jealousy, destitution, as the case might be; after this would be the minute description of the corpsetemperament, face, expression, clothes; the pockets would be turned inside out, and if a scrap of writing were found it would be transcribed and used as material in con- structing a theory as to tile cause of the suicide. If tile identity were ascer- tamed, tile historian of the event would go to the dead mans lodjngs, write a description, interview ilis relatives or friends, find out tile incidents of ilis life which might have any bearing on his deatil. In addition to this the writer would probably make tile demise point a moral. This, in a word, is American reporting, wilich is commendable in enterprise and industry, but requires a cheek, to be successfully pursued, foreign to French character arld customs. Were a reporter to call on the Duke de Brogue as a public man and ask ilim ilis views on public affairs, he would be shown to the door as an impertinen.C fellow who Ilad taken an unwarrantable license. In America, the probabili- ties are that the public man would enter into a lengthy conversation with tile reporter, and answer any questions that migilt he put to hinl. The power of tile press, an(i the panting after celebrity, or even notoriety, on the part of many public men, contribute largely to the license usually accorded to tile American reporter. In view of suspension or suppression, the Frencil press is comparatively weak, and the French law deals in a summary manner with him who scales tile walls of private life for journalistic purposes. To be thrust out of the door and reenter by thecoal-hole, in tile exercise of reporto- rial functions, is purely an American experience. To commit a misdemeanor in order to gain admittance to a prison, to feign madness in order to procure entrance into an asylum, are incidents which belong only to the life of an American reporter. file audacity and work of this indefatigable seeker after news are only appreciated by the American reader when he is condemned to foreign newspapers. In Paris, the reporters of city items are of a lower grade than those wi~o give an account of the proceedings of the National Assembly at Versailles. These last usually limit themselves to a synopsis of the speaking, colored ac- cording to the politics of the journals for which they write, the whole enlbrac- ing from one thousand to fifteen hundred words. In Washington, two or three thousand words ~re telegraphed every day, as long as Congress is in session, to each prominent New York daily, and this lengthy telegram gives the man 32 VIEWS ABROAD. [JAN. ner as well as the matter of speeches, the ~incidents of the chamber, as well as of antechambers, coat and committee rooms appertaining, to say nothing of the news political and social about the town. Congress recognizes the im- portance of the work, and the power behind it; by extendin~ facilities to the workers in tl]e way of good seats and newspaper information. In the theatre at Versailles where the National Assembly meets, the reporters are placed in the top tier, at such a distance from the presidents chair and speakers tribune, that at times they hear with difficulty what is going on. Favors are accorded to them grudgingly; their recognition is little more than toleration; they are far from standing on the solid ground of their fellows in the American capital; and to these unfavorable circumstances is owing, in some measure, the in- feriority of their work. The want of enterprise in the French journal is especially seen in the tele- grams from London, where much of the news concerning their own country is taken from the Times, which has sources of information inaccessible to any French journal. The English paper shows patience and cleverness in the man it sends abroad to furnish it with news; he must know how to get his matter as well as to write it; must have, in addition to literary acquirements, that social education without which the doors of court society are closed to him, and consequently the principal avenues of political news. Foreign cor- respondence is a feature comparatively unknown to French journalism. In America, there is a wide-spread education reaching to the poorer classes, which makes newspaper readers. In France, the poorer classes, and even a large portion of the middle class, do not read newspapers, and this cQntracts the field of journalism. That political education which almost all Americans possess extends and strengthens journalism, and in this the lower classes of France are almost entirely deficient. The most ignorant American has some idea of the outline history of his country, and the ignorant Frenchman none. Those of the lower class who read, such as concierges, cab-men, servants, etc., generally are to be found in the towns, and their literature consists of cheap novels and the Petit Journal a very small paper sold at one son, which is read for its continued melodramatic stories. Thus, the imperfectly developed intelligence of this class, in the absence of political training, finds its literary pleasure only in the exploits of a hero after its fashion, or the beaux maiheurs of the son journal. The reader must be created first, the journal comes afterward. In Amer- ica, the common school is the foundation of the journal in having created a nation of readersnot uninformed, but critical icadems, exacting the best work. In France, as a rule, the people are ignorant of what transpires outside of their own country, and of much that is inside of it. Knowing but little of foreign countries, manners, and customs, these are matters which do not in- terest them; and as the readers make the journal, the editor does not know much more than they. Whenever the journalist ventures beyond the national boundarythe Chinese wall which shuts out foreign intelligencehe is apt to blunder in whatever he undertakes. Hence the readers are occasionally fur- nished with information about the city of Ohio and the State of Saint Paul. The polities and orthography are like the geography. The ordinary editors knowledge of the United States is easily summed up: It is a free country; Washington was the father of it; Lincoln emancipated the negroes; it is the land of Barnum the great humbug; all Americans worship the dollar, and say go ahead, wear beards under their chin, and dress in black frock-coats; the girls are diablement free in their ways, and the married women are prudes; all 1874.] VIEWS ABROAD. 00 Americans are rich, and all right is the key-note of the language. This in substance is what is seen here and there in tile ordinary paper when the land of Columbus is touched upon. The American father, followed by a dozen children with prayer-books in their hands, wending their way up tile Champs E1vs~es to church in the middle of Sunday, presents to the French mind a con- tinual puzzle. Opinions are divided as to the American government nccord- ing to tile politics of the papertile Republicans affirming that it is a model government, and the Monarcilists that it is badly organized and short-lived. All tile advertisements of a French paper do not take up the half of one of its pages. It is not the custom to advertise in the newspaper. Tilis is done in a small pamphlet of perhaps thirty pages, called the Journal des Petites Affiches, where are found the advertisements usually seen in the American newspaper. Tilis journal is usually consulted in the caf6s or little reading rooms of the glass-covered passages, but is not bou~,1lt by individual pur- chasers for their special wants, being too dear. Yet the majority do not make their wants known through this medium, nor read it to supply them. Tile administration of everything touching public wants is so admirable in France, that there is not the same necessity for publicity as in America. The government provides a man with cigars, and lends ilim money on his watch at five per cent. interest. The government, in a word, supplies the wants of its citizens wherever it call, in a parental way, and this leaves but little initiative to tilem. This is the principal reason why a great newspaper cannot be es- tablished in France, for such a one cannot exist without that system of adver- tising which prevails in England and America, and which is the foundation of influential journalism in both countrks. Another reason ilardly less import- ant is the precarious character given to newspaper capital through censure and suppression of journals by the government of France. The practice of signing each article, which is observed in France, may pos- sii)ly lessen the influence of the journal, but it is advantageous to tile writer, who thus becomes known, and his literary reputation grows into a capital upon which he can rely for regular returns. The impersonality of a paper like the London Times undoubtedly gives effect to its leaders, to say noth- ing of that majestic tone which is the key-note of the establisilment. Thus, if, after reading one of those leaders on state questions in wllich the writer takes his survey from an elevation equal to tilat of the premier of the nation, the discovery were made tilat the author was John Smith, a Bohemian of uncer- tain resources and character, the article would lose much of its prestige. In one case it is the individual opinion of John Smith, an English Giboyer; in the other, it is the majestic and prudent judgment of a tribunal. JolIn Sulith, in silence and obscurity, passes his life in furnishing opinions worthy of Glad- stone, the institution which he helps to maintain absorbing his personality, and sometimes drawing upon Ilis vitality unto death; for this journalistic Juooer- naut does sometimes crush those who devote their lives to its construction. Tilis makes John Smiths profession the most ungrateful of all. This is remedied in the French system of signing everything that goes into tile journal, and tilus each man is judged by the public according to his work. In tilis way, sometimes an honorable reputation in literature is made with a dozen brilliant articles. In the London Times establishment, with the se- crecy with which authorship is surrounded, the same articles might be written during a score of years without knowledge of the author on the part of the public. In the French press there is responsibility in addition to publicity, each writer being held accountable before the law and the public for ev~y. 84 VIEWS ABROAD. [JAN. tbing he writes. This, with the reprehensible practice of duelling which exists in France, is the reverse of the medal, for there is hardly an editor in Paris who has not been shot at, or who has not crossed swords, on account of his journalistic work. The result is that the journalist usually carries his sword behind his pen. These combats generally arise from trivial causes, and occa- sionally the life of some man of rare talent is sacrificed through the truculency of some unknown man whom the world might spare without loss. The French editor does not produce more than half as much work as his American fellow, and he receives more pay. When the French writer makes two articles in a week, each of about fifteen hundred words, he has performed what is considered fair work; and he receives for this a salary of twenty thou- sand francs a year, or about seventy-five dollars per week in gold. In New York, the hi~best grade of salaries in the offices of the best papers, as a rule, does not exceed seventy-five dollars in currency, and the writer does double the work of the French journalist. Besides, the work of the American is done under unfavorable circumstancesat ni~ht, in haste, based on the latest news by telegraph; while that of the Frenchman is done leisurely in daylight, for the latest news feature, which is considered of such importance in America, is not required here. There are instances where higher salaries are paid, as in that of Edmond About, attached to the XIX Si~cle, who receives thirty thousand francs a year. Several writers are paid from twenty-five to twenty- eight thousand, and with such compensation they do not stand so far hehind men in other professions as journalists do in America; for the professional man outside of journalism is not as well paid in France as in our country, where the leading lawyers and doctors make forty or fifty thousand dollars a year. Journalism is pursued in France more like other callings than in America, where the man is absorbed by his paper. The Frenchman finds time to live a more leisurely and healthy life. The night work, especially, of America, is what exhausts the journalist, makes him pale and jaded, and occasionally breaks him down in middle age. In France the appearance of the journalist is not different from that of a person in any other profession. The centralization of Paris weakens journalism in the provinces, where it scarcely deserves the name. The institutions of America, to say nothing of race, are favorable to its development throughout the country, and there are newspapers with a national reputation out of New York, hut there are none out of Paris. Chicago Tribunes~~ and Springfield Republicans~~ are found only in the United States, where the inhabitants of the provinces are as exact- ing in the way of news as those of the metropolis. The absence of the keen curiosity to know what is transpiring at the earliest possible moment, is a trait of French character. It is given to no newspaper, though it should bring the latest news from the moon, to divert him from his pleasures. It will read as well to-morrow as to-day, is his usual response when a journal is handed to him in the hours of his dist~ actions. The American frets and worries about the news he has read and the news to come; the Frenchman takes it easier, and orders another bottle of Saint Julien between the paragraphs. As a practical people we put business before pleasure, and the newspaper conforms to the rule in furnishing energetic and instructive articles on the practical affairs of life. When it comes to a matter of business there must be no trifling, but dead earnest. There is no time to laugh until the dollar is pocketed; that done, the joke may be told. Indeed, there is so much zeal ex- hibited in the pursuit of this dollar, that there are cases where the time for 1874.] VIEWS ABROAD. 35 laughing never comes. The industry shown in the chase after the coin is ac- counted meritorious, and the man of leisure is censured for his idleness. There is something intolerant in the man of trade in hunting down the lounger who presumes to follow that mode of life which affords him the most happiness. In Wall street he is worse than 0lie encumbers the soila tree producing no fruit, namely, dollars. Society says he is a good-for-nothin~ idler, and the church affirms that his hands are at the service of the evil one. And after all, the lounger is perhaps wiser than those who censure him. If he idles, it is because be finds happiness in doing so, and this is the secret of life. Now, the French are tolerant of every mode of existence provided it does not con- flict with the written law of the country, anti every man is at liberty to seek his pleasure wherever he can find it. They put business and pleasure on the same footing, considering one as important as the other. This view naturally finds expression in their journals, where light, sparkling anecdotes anti epi- grams hol(l a place as prominent as the serious article. The duel on one side and the summary way of executing law on the other, keep the French journalist within the bounds of propriety in his aggressions and discussions. Something more than public opinion is necessary to impose a reasonable restraint. In America this generally suffices; that it does not in France, is shown by the excesses of a free press under the Commune, when it became a daily vomit. Passion burns too fiercely in the breast of these peo- ple for a free press. fhat exaltation in their character which creates the Marseillaise, also drives them into wild excesses with th~~ pen. The fine frenzy must he paid for; it is a compensation in Nature. There is safety only between official suppression and the so-called field of honor, the former play- ing a much more important rOle than the latter. The machinery of the gov- ernment for keeping down turbulent writers and conserving in oderation, is naturally imperfect because unjust, making as it does a partial distinction be- tween its political friends and enemies; but such as it is, it is the best modera- tor that can be found. The love of fair play across the channel controls the action of the government as far as it has anything to do with journalism; but in France this is never the case, no matter what form of government exists. If the Charivari were to imitate Punch in its political cartoons, and put the premier of the nation on a tight-rope in the ti~hts and spangles of the cir- cus, or the minister of finances in the ~arments of an old woman with cork-. screw ringlets and reticule, its suppression would probably follow. No illus- trated paper has the right to caricature any man, public or private, without his written permission, which is not usually given until the caricature has been seen. ~Punch has for a long time kept up a fire of raillery at the vol- unteer movement in England, putting officers anti men in a ridiculous light. Were Charivari to treat military men anti movements in the same way, the government would interfere and stop it. There is not the same ~~apacity for taking a joke here as in England. Gladstone and Disraeli laugh over their travesties, where their French contemporaries grow angry. The French papers are superior to the American in all criticism touching music, painting, sculpture, and the drama. These are subjects which occupy a secondary place in the American journal, in small type, and are usually written by one of the subordinate writers. Where nrt is concerned, the edu- cation of the first grade of American writers is much behind that of France; and notwithstanding the mediocrity of the former in this respect, the subject is generally handled by the reporter only. The importance attached to this in France is shown in the kind of men employed. Th~ophile Gautier, who 36 VIEWS ABROAD. [JAN. probably wrote the purest French of his dayit is to be regretted that as much cannot be said of his subjectsdevoted the greatest portion of his time to art criticism in the journal to which lie was attached. Francisque Sarcey makes a study of every new play represented in the theatres of the capita]. France is a nation of theatre-goers, songsters, and art-worshippers, and he must be no tyro who writes about what they know so well. A certain kind of theological training in America has kept back the growth of art. The evil one is lielieved to lurk in the operatic airs of the great masters, and in the nude limbs of pagan pictures. There is brimstone about the footlights. The jour- nalist, reflecting as he does the opinion of his public, has generally taken his cue from the pulpit, and spoken of these things to anathematize them. In France the pastor or priest does not try to turn away the flock from the picture or the theatre. It is a difference of race; and this gives full play to the best faculties of the art critic. The theatre is so attractive to the FreAch reader that some of the principal journals have, in addition to the leading article of criticism on the first page, a daily review in small character on the last page, of a light nature, such as gossip about players and dramatic authors. Sculpture and painting are deemed of such importance, that during the annual art exhibition of the month of Maythe Salonall the journals of Paris give leading articles about it as long as it is open, in which the merits and defects of every picture and statue of note are exhaustively discussed. To the French critic there is sonic- thing sacred in art. Friendship will not arrest his pen if the picture is bad. Prettiness will not save the actress if her acting is poorand he remorselessly hisses. French people do not read papers so much for instruction as amusement, and the sheets which present information, even of a serious kind, under a gay envelope, are the most sought after. The demand for this kind of a jour- nal is so pronounced, that it is surprising that all the journals have not con- formed to it. The Figaro is a type of this kind of journalismaffecting to furnish everything in the most agreeable form. The leading article on its first pagecalled the Ohroniqueis usually devoted to the prominent subject of the day, is lightsome, witty, and superficial. This work belongs to the highest grade of writers, numbering three or four, in the editorial staff of the Figaro. Following this is the Echos de Paris, something like the for- mer Minor Topics of the New York Times, but not as well done. After this are placed a few meagre telegrams from half a dozen provinces of France. The ground floor of the first page is devoted to a story, which is generally con- tinued for months. The second page has a column of Paris au Jour le Jour, which, as its title indicates, treah, of matters Parisian. A column or two follows under the heading of La Journ6e, where home news is given in characteristic manner, and which is equivalent to the city items of a New York paper. After, is the Gazette des Tribunauxa report of cases before the courts, which, as a rule, is fairly done; then a column or two of biography or historical reminiscences. Following this is a column of the Bourse in which financial matters are treated superficially and with a certain degree of facetiousness. Then a column of musical criticism on the la~t music, and an- other on theatrical gossip, under the heading of La Soiree The& trale; and this, with the advertisements and a large programme of the entertainments of the evening, completes the paper. Cheap political journalism was inaugurated in France by Emile de Girar- din. This energetic publicist established the Presse at the reduced price 1874.] VIEWS ABROAD. 37 of three sonspreviously the price had been doublethrough the aid of ad- vertisement and puff. The revolution was accomplished at the cost of fierce polemic on all sides, and the death of a contemporary, Armand Carrel, whom de Girardin killed in a duel arising out of the discussion. There had been no advertising to speak of before the starting of the Presse, and those who op- posed the system affirmed that it was a sign of the decadence of the press, so little did these men know of journalism. M. de Girardin wont a stop fuftlier: left the Pressein a flourishing conditionhaving disposed of it on advan- tageous termsand bought the Libert~, then leading a quiet and rather un- profitable existence, and put the price down to two sons, which was under the cost of the journal, but he covered the loss by the profits of his advertisements. One of the features of the revivified paper was a new idea evory day by the new editor, which usually took up a column, and was the newspaper sensation of the time. The Libert6is still one of the political journals of France, but M do Gi- rardin has retired from it through old age. his r6le as a journalist under the Empire was influential, and to his efforts to some extent were duo the constb tutional privileges accorded during the latter part of the Napoleonic reign, and the appointment of Emile Ollivier as a member of the Cabinet. After the death of Carrel he announced his intention of never fighting another duel, and he adhered to his resolution. His prominence in politics was about the same as that of Messrs. Greeley and Raymond, although very unlike either of them in character. The dean of the creators of journals, and the most successful in a money way, is M. do Villemessant. His fashion of conducting a newspaper is famil- iar to the American public which buys cherry pectoral and mustang liniment wide but judicious advertising. He is like the manager of one of the travel- ling theatres seen in the villages in the neighborhood of Paris, who, standing at the door of his show, beats the bass-drum, tells of the wonders within, and invites all to enter for a mere song. He is liked by his editors and reporters, and the public also, but it does not take him seriously when he tries to write seriously of his donvictions. In a word, inM. de Villemessant are combined the showman, the bagman, and the journalist. The Figaro is the most successful of his creations, the active control of which he has surrendered to others, he now living a comparatively retired life on account of advancing years. Rochefort acquired his reputation as a writer in the Figaro, where his articles were much sought after when they assumed a political complex- ion. Indeed, the Rocimefort articles were such a success that they for a time compromised the paper, the government having issued the one or two prelim- inary notices against it which preluded suppression. Then (le Villemessant hurried off this enfant terri& le to Italy, under pretence of gettin~ him to write articles on Italian art, the two making the voyage together. Rochefort soon after embarked in the Lanterne, every number of which was a sensa- tion. The vitality in a newspaper once established is remarkable. The Figa- ro is an example of this. It is something inferior to the Gaulois and the Ev~nement, yet its circulation is double that of one and treble that of the other. People have acquired the habit of reading it, and are averse to chang- ing. The grooves of habit are deeper in an old civilization than a new one. It does not take the American long to come to a decision as regards the stop- ping of a paper; the Gaul holds on to it until it becomes insupportable; the wife must be consulted, and perhaps an uncle or two. As there are few advertise- 38 VIEWS ABROAD. [JAN. ments in the French paper, its vitality is more in its circulation than in its ad- vertisements. With the system of signing articles in France, the editors naturally become conspicuous, and the names of some become ideutified with and represent dif- ferent ideas in religion, politics, and art. Paul de Cassa~nac of the Pays represents the audacious wing of the Bonapartists, ready with sword and pen to advance the interests of his party-bold, consistent, demanding the whole loaf or none, a sort of Mameluke of the empire, with a taste for hazardous duty, but without pay, for he has never been the recipient of emolument from the dynasty which he so zealously supported, and for whose return to power he still labors. Edmond Tarb~, of the Gaulois, is less rash than the editor of the Pays, and may be said to come nearer the opinions of the rank and file of the party, his boldness being leavened with a certain degree of prudence. Conservatism, so far as it is to be found among Bonapartists, is represented in the Ordre, which is supposed to hold the views of such men as Rouher, Magne. etc., who stand hehind it. In the discussion of polities, the organs of the Bonapartists are more truculent than those of any other party. They appear to be still fresh from the lessons of the Dfike de Morny, who taught that an empire was established by audacity, and who, contrary to most theorists, had his fact be- hind his theory. The first empire taught them the same lesson, and these teachings of both empires, lodged in the minds of the Imperialists to-day, find expression in their journals. What they call their polemics are conducted in a fierce, personal, neck-or-nothing manner. Their activity, and their devotion to their cause, considering what it is, to an American is singular. Morny was their great man, and they try to follow his tactics, even to the Gentlemen, you know we are playing our heads in this game the Dukes words to his fellow conspirators on the eve of the coup detat, which some of those men thought was a very ghastly joke. The beaux sabreurs of the first empiie are to he found in the ranks of the Bonapartists to-day, with their traditional cour- age, ready, if ever an opportunity presents itself, to overthrow the govern- ment and re~stablish the dynasty of the man of Waterloo. The leading legitimist organ is the Gazette de France, the oldest news- paper in the country, of which Jules Janicot is the managing editor. It runs in the groove of ancient days, dull, slow, free from coarseness and vitupera- tion, and is read only by the supporters of th~ Count de Chanibord. M. Janicot, a comparatively young man, elaborates and reiterates the principles of the sleepy old gentlemen of the past who dwell in the Faubourg Saint Germain, ~and holds aloft their white flag and fleur-de-lis, and they make much of him. Their fidelity to their writers and speakers is well known. The R6puhlique ~ is the chief organ of the Republicans, and is believed to be somewhat under the control of Gambetta. The political writers of this paper fight with visors down, it being conducted under the impersonal system, by way of an experiment. The tone of this journal is good, and its leaders are perhaps abler than those of any of its French contemporaries. It is evidently one of the main objects of the R6publique Fran9aise to prove to the nation, by its form and ability, that refluement and intelligence are not confined to the ranks of the opposing parties. M. Rauc, who fought a duel with Paul de Cassagnac of the Pays the fruit of a newspaper discussion is known to be one of the principal editors of the leading Republican organ. There are two other Republican journalsthe Bien Publique and the Temps which also observe a certain dignity in discussion. The former 1874.] VIEWS ABROAD. was the organ of Thiers when he was at the head of affairs. The Temps is behind the R~pub1iquein political leaders, but is probably the best newspaper in Paris; it is also impersonal. The extreme left of the Repiib- lican party, which the opposing parties derisively call the Nonvelle Couche Sociale, is represented by the Rappel and the Avenir National, whose readers belong to the lower strata of society. A member of the National Assembly said, I do not affirm that the Republicans are rogues, but that the rogues are found only among them. There is a good deal of truth in this, which finds confirmatory testimony in the courts of justice, where the criminal, ten to one, if he has any politics at all, is a Republican. This impu- tation is heavy to bear, especially in the case of the ~Rappel and the Aye- nir, which are not conducted with the dignity that characterize two or three other Republican journals already named. They are frothy, aggressive, and injurious to the party to which they belong, although they may be sincere and their zeal may be well meant. These sheets may not be Communistic, but they are nearer the Commune than any other paper. To the lovers of order this objection weighs like an incubus upon the Avenir especially, and it is watched with unceasing vigilance by the Government. The Avenir Natio- nal takes the place of the Corsaire, which was suppressed by the MacMa- hon government. The Journal de Paris is the principal organ of the Orleanists, and M. llerv6 is its principal editor, his relations with his party being much the same as those of M. J. Gustave Janicot with the Legitimists. The Univers and the Monde are religious journals of Ultramontane character; the Union is half secular and half religious, the favorite journal of the- French priesthood. The Patrie, in politics, gives a kind of conditional support to the claims of the Bonapartists. The Libert6 and the Soir are indefinable. When Thiers w~as President they were Republicans, but when his goverement was overthrown they withdrew. The daily pictorial paper, the Charivari, is of a healthy republican faith, and renders considerable service to its party. Chain, the inexhaustible delineator, furnishes three or four designs every week, which occupy its third page, and its satires of the first page are written by Pierre V6ron, the proprietor, with considerable spirit. The pictorial papers of Paris are numerous, and with the exception of the Charivari are all weekly. Notwithstanding the eminent position of Edmond About in the world of letters, he is not altogether successful as a journalist, for the paper which he conducts, the XIX Si~cle, has a small circulation and an uncertain fu- ture. It was thought when this paper was started that in securing the services of two such men as Francisque Sarcey and Edmond About, it would soon be placed on a solid footing, but these hopes have not been realized. M. About, who is so sure of himself in writing a book like Contemporary Greece, is uncertain in politics, and in the interest of art it is to be regretted that he ever took charge of a political journal. It is the old story of Dumas the elder over again, who when praised for his writings preferred to hear that he was a good cook. Abouts articles in the XIX Si~cle are brilliant and able, but they do not inspire confidence, owing probably to an impression that his course in politics has been vacillating and inconsistcnt. Had Louis Veuillot of the Univors been a preacher, he would have been a French Beecher. Had Henry Ward Beecher been the journalist of a relig- ions paper, he would have been an American Venillot. M. Venillot is more aggressive and lcss tolerant than Mr. Beecher, but had they been brought up 40 VIEWS ABROAD. [JAN. in the same climate and been surrounded by the same institutions, there would have been but little difference between them. It is generally conceded in Paris that he is the strongest journalist that it contains. His work i~ often coarse, but almost always clear and vigorous. If he deems it necessary, he can employ the language of the fish-women of the Halle with as much force as they. The champion of religion, he has offered to fight duels with his secular colleagues. There are times when he gives the church no little trou- ble, but he pleads her cause with such power that his sins are easily con- doned. One of the wittiest political writers of the press in Paris is John L~moine, who writes one or two articles a week in the DThats, and this is all the work he does, or at least all that appears in print. He is the single writer left on that paper who is up to the level of the old traditions when such men as Pnivost-Paradol wrote for it. M. Lemoine seldom writes unless he has something to say, and as a rule hits the target of public favor unerrin~ly; taking time and rolling up all his ammunition into one lump to fire it off with effect. He is reproached with being too fond of sensation in his word-paint- ing, but this is rather a virtue than a fault in a journalist, and his readers gen- erally think so. He seems to have been the inventor of combined words like homme-poisson, homme-cheval, as applied to the En~,lish. There are sonic journals whose political complexion it is difficult to catch, such as the Paris Journal. It is opposed to the republic, and thus one knows what it is not, rather than what it is. The D6bats is also of this de- scription, and somewhat changeable of late. Principle may be important, but capital is more so, and the D~bats likes to be under the flag of the power that is. It supported the government of Thiers until its overthrow, which was virtually the overthrow of the republic, since when it has been en- deavoring to get into the ranks of the Monarchists with as good a grace as it can. It is hard for a journal to conserve a neutral position in politics, how- ever well it may be conducted, for the Frenchman, as a rule, only reads the journal which represents his views. Opinions contrary to his own irritate him, and he has not the patience to read them. The D6bats has abandoned the Republicans, but it is not yet known to what branch of the party in power will attach itselfLegitimist, Royalist, or Bonapartist. The D6bats has had more celebrities attached to it than any other ex- isting journal; among these may be named Michel Chevalier, St. Marc Girar- din, Jules Janin, Erckmann-Chatrian, Laboulaye, Tame, Renan, J. J. Weiss. The unfortunate Pr6vost-Paradol, during his connection with the paper, wa~ one of its most effective writers. He also wrote during some time the Paris correspondence of the London Times, for he wrote English that required little or no correction; indeed, some of his admirers aflirm that he was as nrnch at home in it as in his native tongue, but this doubtless is an exaggera- tion. The French journal, indifferent as it is, has made some progress, for there is considerable difference between it and Mirabeaus Courrier de Provence and Camille Desmoulins Vieux Cordelier, but it has lagged far behind the journal of En~land and the United States. The Anglo-Saxon race has a monopoly of the complete newspaper. Journalism can only reach its highest development in th~ midst of liberal institutions, where it is untrammelled and individnal initiative is allowed full sway; and such institutions ~re not adapted to the French character. ALBERT RHODES. LIINLEY ROCHFORD. Br JUSTIN MCCARTHY. CHAPTER VII. TIlE BEAUTIFUL CYNTHIA. QUITE an event occurred one day. This was the visit of Mrs. Courcelles and her daughtertwo ladies of whom Linley had heard a good deal, who had been friends of Mr. Rochfords before his marriage, and whose opin- ion Linley vaguely understood that her husband valued considerably. Mrs. Courcelles was a widow and lived in a different part of the country, but visited London often with her daughter, and passed much the greater part of her life in paying visits. She was of good family and had a bishop among her near relations; but her means were not large. Just now she happened to be stay- ing with a friend a few miles off, and bad seized the opportunity of coming to express her felicitations to her old friends young wife. Having come, the ladies remained, in country fashion, to luncheon. Linley had heard of the beauty of Cynthia Courcelles, and had often longed to see her. Most women, whatever some people may say to the contrary, love to look on a beautiful woman. Linley had not the faintest gleam of that sort of pitiful physical jealousy which makes some small-headed creatures of her sex unwilling to acknowledge the beauty of another woman. So she was de- lighted to have an opportunity of seeing Cynthia Courcelles. She was not disappointed. Miss Courcelles was a woman of exquisite l)eauty. She might have been called superb but that there was so little of the sensuous about her form or face. She was a beauty of moonlight and marble, not of Titian and the sun. She was tall, almost too tall; slender, upright as a column, with dark hair, smooth over a small white forehead, and a face of won- derful purity, only faintly lighted now and then by the dawn of a blush that died in its dawn. She sometimes looked at one with her lips parted by a sweet, half-pensive smile, and her small white teeth displayed, and she was evidently going to say something very kind and sweet; and the faint blush dawned and died, and then the eyelids drooped, and the parted lips closed, and the desired utterance did not come. Some other thought had risen within the maidens heart, or some sudden, melancholy memory had blown like a wind across her genial purpose an(l puffed its light out; or she had checked herself, too sensitive to give full expression to her friendly meaning. Whatever the expitnation of this charming exhibition9 the effect on the beholder was im- mense. It far outshone any eloquence of words. It gave the idea of an ex- quisitely sensitive, refined, and thoughtful nature. Nor was it an artifice or beautiful imposition of any kind. It only meant that Cynthia thought for the moment she had something to say, but found on trying that she had not. Mrs. Courcelles, too, was very tall, and indeed very like her daughter, al- though her nose was perhaps a little too large and her complexion was not now quite so white. Still her figure was so straight and youthful that at a dis- tance she might easily be taken for Cynthia. Many a man had hastened his steps believing himself to be approaching the daughter, until as he came near he found that she turned into the mother. Decidedly Mrs. Courcelles ought to

LIINLEY ROCHFORD. Br JUSTIN MCCARTHY. CHAPTER VII. TIlE BEAUTIFUL CYNTHIA. QUITE an event occurred one day. This was the visit of Mrs. Courcelles and her daughtertwo ladies of whom Linley had heard a good deal, who had been friends of Mr. Rochfords before his marriage, and whose opin- ion Linley vaguely understood that her husband valued considerably. Mrs. Courcelles was a widow and lived in a different part of the country, but visited London often with her daughter, and passed much the greater part of her life in paying visits. She was of good family and had a bishop among her near relations; but her means were not large. Just now she happened to be stay- ing with a friend a few miles off, and bad seized the opportunity of coming to express her felicitations to her old friends young wife. Having come, the ladies remained, in country fashion, to luncheon. Linley had heard of the beauty of Cynthia Courcelles, and had often longed to see her. Most women, whatever some people may say to the contrary, love to look on a beautiful woman. Linley had not the faintest gleam of that sort of pitiful physical jealousy which makes some small-headed creatures of her sex unwilling to acknowledge the beauty of another woman. So she was de- lighted to have an opportunity of seeing Cynthia Courcelles. She was not disappointed. Miss Courcelles was a woman of exquisite l)eauty. She might have been called superb but that there was so little of the sensuous about her form or face. She was a beauty of moonlight and marble, not of Titian and the sun. She was tall, almost too tall; slender, upright as a column, with dark hair, smooth over a small white forehead, and a face of won- derful purity, only faintly lighted now and then by the dawn of a blush that died in its dawn. She sometimes looked at one with her lips parted by a sweet, half-pensive smile, and her small white teeth displayed, and she was evidently going to say something very kind and sweet; and the faint blush dawned and died, and then the eyelids drooped, and the parted lips closed, and the desired utterance did not come. Some other thought had risen within the maidens heart, or some sudden, melancholy memory had blown like a wind across her genial purpose an(l puffed its light out; or she had checked herself, too sensitive to give full expression to her friendly meaning. Whatever the expitnation of this charming exhibition9 the effect on the beholder was im- mense. It far outshone any eloquence of words. It gave the idea of an ex- quisitely sensitive, refined, and thoughtful nature. Nor was it an artifice or beautiful imposition of any kind. It only meant that Cynthia thought for the moment she had something to say, but found on trying that she had not. Mrs. Courcelles, too, was very tall, and indeed very like her daughter, al- though her nose was perhaps a little too large and her complexion was not now quite so white. Still her figure was so straight and youthful that at a dis- tance she might easily be taken for Cynthia. Many a man had hastened his steps believing himself to be approaching the daughter, until as he came near he found that she turned into the mother. Decidedly Mrs. Courcelles ought to 42 LINLEY ROCIIFORD. [JAN. have been an advantageous companion for Cynthia. Any suitor would have the opportunity of realizing exactly what Miss Cynthia would be like when matronly and middle-aged, and the most fastidious could not complain of such a presence in a partner of say fifty. Miss Cynthia looked unutterable kindness at Linley, and at Linleys hus- band, and allowed her hand to rest for just a little friendly sympathetic mo- ment in the hand of the latter, as who should say, I joy, oh, believe me. to see you happy. Mrs. Courcelles was immensely kind, considerate, and patroniz- ing to Linley. We are such old acquaintances of Mr. Rochfordor at least I am! Mrs. Courcelles explained. My daughter can hardly be called an old acquaint- ance. She is, I should think, about your age. But she has known Mr. Roch- ford much longer than you have; and I knew him long before you were born. Our acquaintancethat of Mr. Rochford and myselfwas not long cer- tainly, said Linley smiling. I suppose we must have had rather tropical natures. You have lived in the tropics, I believe, said Mrs. Courcelles, in the tone of one who was about to add, I dont say that it was your fault. Oh, no, said Linley. I never lived anywhere but in England and at Bonn on the Rhine. Indeed! I had an idea that you had lived principally in India, or the East, or somewhere of that kindwhere women come to maturity more rapid- ly and are niore energetic andwhat shall I say? Vivid? Not that exactly, and yet perhaps that may convey the idea. This, thought Linley to herself, highly amused and not in the least an- noyed, is an evident suggestion that it was I who did all the love-making, and perl~aps actually carried Mr. Rochford off! We were nearly all English girls at Bonn, she said, and anything but vivid, I am sorry to say. I fear we were all rather remarkable for stupidity. Not you, most certainly; and Mrs. Courcelles smiled sweetly; that could never apply to you. Oh, no. The woman who charmed Mr. Rochford could have had no stupidity about her. He was always so fastidious. He hardly ever saw a woman but he found some fault with her. I used to ask himonly in jest of course, and using the freedom of an old friendship whether he expected that the Tenth Muse or the Lost Pleiad would be brought on earth to marry him. I have heard friends of his say that they never knew him to give unqualified praise to any womanexcept perhaps one. That of courseI need not saywas before he had seen you. It is the old story, said Linley good-naturedly, of the girl and the sticksthe girl who rejected all the straight and shapely ones, and had to put up with a crooked little thing in the end. Mrs. Courcelles smiled again. No one can call you crooked, I am sure. The perfection of figure, I thinkfor a lady who is not tall. I rather admire women who are not tall, and I believe a great many gentlemen have the same preference. Mr. Rochford, I rememberat least I thinkwas an admirer of height and stateliness; but he had not then seen what charm there can be in smaller proportions. My Cynthias rapid growth was a great source of alarm to me and to Mr. Courcellesmy husband whom I have lostwhen she was a child. She shot up like some tall and slender flowera lily perhaps. When ~he was fourteen she was within an inch of her present height. 1874.] LINLEY ROCHFORD. 43 I never saw a finer figure than Miss Courcelles, said Linley, or a more beautiful face. She is generally considered good-looking, Mrs. Courcelles assented mod- estly. Her portrait and minewe are taken togetherwill probably be in the Academy this season. You will see it of course when you go to town. We shall not allow our names to appear, though. Have you ever had your por- trait done? No? Well, not yet, I suppose. But Mr. Rochford will of course have it done. A low dress, I should say, with some kind of patterned silk violet or deep gray perhapsand lace. That would become you, I should think. Cynthia and I are in walking costume. I fancy that shows a tall figure to better advantageI mean to less disadvantage. This was all rather tiresome; and Mrs. Courcelles always talked t~te-~-t~te. With four people in a room, and she being one of the company, there were al- ways two distinct groups. She now perhaps thought that she had talked long enough to Linley, or that Cynthia had talked long enou~h to Mr. Rochford; so she turned gracefully to him, and, if so rude and coarse an exuression might possibly be used, shouldered Cynthia on to Linley. Linley did her best to converse with Miss Courcelles, but the effort was not successful or even satisfactory. Perhaps Cynthia was reserved with strangers; an odd thing for a belle of a good many seasons, Linley thought to herself. But she certainly did not talk with Mrs. Rochford as she had talked with Mr. Rochford. With him she never ceased, and there was an expression of sweet deferential respect, or even homage, for his opinions and his utterances all the time of their conversation, which she naturally could not be expected to feel or exhibit toward a young womanyounger even than herself, and with whose merits and graces, whatever they might be, she was personally unacquainted. Linley liked her perhaps all the better for that. Sh& thought a young woman like Miss Courcelles ought to look up with admiration and deference to a man of Mr. Rochfords talents and position. What a pretty contrast! Mrs. Courcelles 0bserved smilingly to Mr. Rochford, and pointing with her fan to Cynthia and his wife. It was a pretty contrast, and something more than pretty. Linley and Miss Cynthia sat in a recess near a window, so that the sunlight fell upon the group they made. The two young women were disposed by chance so that the spectators saw each to the best advantage. Cynthias statue-like face was in profile; Linley, whose charm was all in eyes and expression, had her full face turned to the lookers-on. Linley was animated and roused by the resolve to play the part of an agreeable hostess, and piqued a little by the exquisite immobility of Miss Courcelles. Her complexion was a little heightened, and in her eyes and even eyebrows there was a half-aroused humorous expression ~vhich Rochford at once understood and hardly liked. Miss Cynthias parted lips wore the sweet, indulgent, sympathetic smile which she put on or took off as though it was a respirator. Your wife is very prettyquite pretty, I think, Mrs. Courcelles said. Is she not pretty? I am not an impartial authority, Rochford said rather sullenly, for he had an uncomfortable growing conviction that Linley was mentally making fun of the beautiful Cynthia. No, indeed. I dont wonder now any longer, I am sure. Though we did wonder a good deal at first. Of course we must, you knowthe thing came so suddenly. But now that we have seen Mrs. Rochford we can easily under- stand. 44 LINLEY ROCHFORD. [JAN. Mamma! Cynthia said, having glanced through the window, Mr. Val- entine! So your friend Mr. Valentine is with you? Mrs. Courcelles asked. I thought he was in town. He only came down the day before yesterday. Valentine to that zen- tleman, who came lounging into the room with a sun-and-wind-browned face, and wearing a gray shooting-jacket Mrs. Courcelles has just been kindly asking for you. Mr. Valentine did not, it must be owned, seem to Linley as if he were par- ticularly delighted with the presence of the ladies. To see you in the country at such a time is an unexpected delight, Mrs. Courcelles, he said. You bring us o.f course the latest news of the fashion- able world? Any marriages in high life? Are five-o clock te:~s in fashion yet? Is piety worn this season? How are all the dear dukes and the charming mnrquisesand do they drive the day-coaches yet? But, Mr. Valentine, you ask me for news us if you had been months out of London! You only came down the day before yesterday, and I have been in the countryhow long have we been in the country, Cynthia, my love? Three days, mamma. Not longer, darling? I think not, mamma. Let me see: Thursday, this is? We left town on Monday. Yes, we may call it three days; but it seems long. Meanwhile Valentine had dropped the subject and betaken himself to the recess with Miss Courcelles and Linley. Where did we meet last, Mr. Valentine? Cyiithia asked kindly. In the Row, Miss Courcelles. You were good enough to salute me as you rode by on your beautiful bay. I was seated on a chairrather, I should say, a seatone of the wooden seats that you dont pay for. I dont care to pay a penny. A penny save(i, Mrs. Rochford, is a penny earneddont they say? Well, I earned an honest penny that day, and virtue was rewarded, for I saw Miss Courcelles. She saluted me, although I sat on that wooden seat with an old lady from the country and a private soldier for chance companions. I had no right to expect such condescension, had I, Mrs. Rochford? I dont know why you talk so, Mr. Valentine, Cynthia replied almost earnestly. I am sure I dont see any cofidescension; I never thought of anything of the kind. That makes it all the more graceful, Valentine said gravely. The noblest beings are least conscious of the descent when they kindly notice us common creatnres. For anything you could have known to the contrary, the old lady on the seat might have been my aunt, and the soldier my cousin in the army. I know that you have no aunt, and if you had a cousin in the army he woul(lnt be a person of that class, Miss Courcelles said decisively. Thank you, Miss Courcelles. You have done me justice and restored my self-respect. It is something to know that ones friends do not even sus- pect him of anything so discreditable. Might I give you a small hint of ad- vice in return? Cynthia bent her head and smiled. I was only going to say that it seems to memay I go on?as if you oughtnt to have that bay horse. 1374.] LINLEY ROCHFORD. 45 Indeed? Why not, Mr. Valentine? hardly becomes your complexion, I think. I have thought of it many times since; turned it over in my mind a great deal. You know I am a sort of half artistsort of, you understand. Not for moneythat of course you know; but I am fond of pictures; still more fond of living pictures. Then what would you have, Mr. Valentine? Gray, I think; or white perhaps; or even black, but certainly not bright bay. Mamma, do you hear what Mr. Valentine has been telling me? Yes, my love; very kind, I am sure. As a man of literary talent, and art, and that, Mr. Valentine ought to know. But I regret to say that Cynthias bay is the only horse we have that a lady could ride. Do you ride much, Mrs. Rochford? I dont ride at all, said Linley. I have never learned. She had been silent for some little time in her recess watching the whole group and listening in a half-puzzled way. She could see clearly enough that her husband was uncomfortable, and she assumed that he was terribly bored. She would have liked to go and stand beside him and throw her arm over his shoulder, but something told her that he would not wish her to do so. Mr. Valentine seemed perfectly grave and earnest while he talked to Cynthia in what Linley thought so ridiculous a way. She did not quite understand things. For the first time since she had crossed the threshold of her home she had an odd sensation, as if she were only a stranger who had no business to be there. But you will learn now? Mr. Rochford will teach you. Mr. Rochford taught Cynthia, and took great trouble with herso kindly. You would look so well in the Row! Dont you love London, Mrs. Rochford? I hardly knoxv Londonindeed, I mi~ht say I dont know it at all. But I am quite prepared to love it. And you will have a nice housesuch a very nice house! not one of those poky little places that they build nowunless one is a millionaire of course, and can build a house for himself, like a Rothschild, or somebody of the kind. Mrs. Rochford will ask you both to come and pay us a long visit when we get settled in London, said Rocliford eagerly. You will ask our friends, Linley, and insist on their giving us the pleasure of a visit in town. Cynthia smiled her brightest thanks. Linley of course hastened to offer her invitations, a little amused at the idea of her having a house of her own in London, and the power of inviting people there. You are so very kind! Mrs. Courcelles replied. We shall be delighted, I am sure. We cannot live in London now, Cynthia and I, and it is so pleas- ant to go there sometimes and see our friends. The ladies presently took their leave. Both the gentlemen were assiduous in their attentions, but Mr. Valentine managed to secure to himself the pleas- ur6 of handing Miss Courcelles to the carriage. Linley watched them from the open window. She did not know that little Sinda stood near the steps to look at the ladies. Who is that little creature? Mrs. Courcelles asked, surveying the girl with curiosity. Some prot~gee of my wifes, Rochford answered coldly. A poor child from Dripdeanham whom she is going to bring up, I believe. A pretty child, too, but rather odd and bold, I think. Well, dear, you are very pretty. What are you looking at? 46 LINLEY ROCHFORD. [JAN. At the lady, Sinda said brusquely, pointing to Miss Courcelles. You mustnt point at people, child! Thats my daughter. What do you think of her? I like her; she~ is so lovely. I want to be like thattall and beautiful. Mrs. Courcelles smiled and passed on to the carriage. This little episode Linley did not see. But when the carriage had driven off and the two gentlenien turned to re~nter the house, she saw Mr. Valentine throw his arm, in his boyish, familiar way, over Rochfords shoulder, and burst into a laugh. A divine creature! Valentine exclaimed, as he entered the room and seated himself on the music stool with his back to the piano. Miss Courcelles? She is a beautiful girl, said Liuley, assuming that the remark was addressed to her. I never saw a finer presence. Ah, but her mind, her heart! There, Mrs. Rochford, you have her no- blest possessions! Beauty is but skin-deep. Flay the Venus herself and see what she will look like then. What a hideous idea! please dont pursue it. Just a little, only a very little, for the sake of illustration. Thus, then. you see it would be possible to mar the beauty even of Miss Courcelles. Di- vested of skin, I suppose she would look likewell, Ill not pursue the idea. But no flaying process, I warrant you, could reach that noble creatures mind or heart. Has she neither mind nor heart? The mind of a sparrow, the heart of a jellyfish. I know her, bless her! XVhy so angry with her? She cant be so stupid as all that, for she told me that she had gone very far in mathematics. I bant explain how far. Oh, you have learned that already? Yes, she lived at one time with her uncle the Bishop, and he has a craze for mathematics; and, look you, he has no child! My sweet Cynthia devoted herself to mathematics to please him. She used to rise at four in the morning in summer, and puzzle over them, and she did succeed in learning something. No; I was wrong in saying that she has the mind of a sparrow. That was rhetorical exaggeration. In her cold, dry way, she has a certain mastering faculty. Well, it does her some credit to have learned anything; and perhaps it was only done to please her uncle, without any view to his money. Perhaps so. Let us be charitable, however, and suppose it was for the sake of the prospective money. Anyhow, it is her one accomplishment, and she is proud of it. She thinks it sets off her beauty by giving her a flavor of oddity. I wonder you can be so ill-natured. I thought men were more magnan- imous. Mr. Rochford had been silent all this time. He had thrown himself, ac- cording to his fashion, on a sofa, and was lazily inhaling the perfume of a flow- er. But he now turned his head, and said, with the easy, good-natured sumile which well became him: Valentine can never forgive Miss Courcelles and her mother, Linley. He was madly in love with herwith the daughterand neither would listen to his love. Valentine was not in the least disturbed by this attack. He laughed and said: Dont believe all that, Mrs. Rochford. They did listenboth of them; 1874.] LINLEY ROCHFORD. 47 Cynthia with placidly attentive ear at first, when they assumed that I was a favorite of fortune like Louis; and even after they found out that I was noth- Ing of the sort, they kept me on, thinking that the more attendants Cynthia had the better. But I soon found her out. Wouldnt she have married Louis if he had only asked her? Is all this serious? Linley asked. It was serious enough to me for a while. I really thought I was madly in love with the girl. I insisted to myself that there must be a soul hidden somewhere in that wonderful piece of mechanical symmetry. I didnt know for a long time how tiresome she was; at least I wouldnt admit it to myself. At last it was borne in upon me with a heavy wave of stupidity. Before your rejection, or after? Before, I assure you. I did ask her to marry me because I thought, after having made such a fool of myself, I was bound to do that much. Of course I knew she wouldnt have me, and she knew that I knew she wouldnt. It was a graceful ceremony only. We parted perfectly good friends. Theres nothing unkindly or bad about the girl. I think she rather likes me still. If she married a Prime Minister, I fancy she would get her husband to offer me a consulship, or something of the sort. Her mother doesnt like me because she thinks I discouraged Rochford from falling in love with Cynthia and propos- ing to her. So I did, and very proud of it I am. Think of her sitting in the seat of my Mrs. Rochford; think of her being called Mrs. Rochford, and playing on that piano that the hands of my mother and my queen so often touched. Oh! I sayI beg pardon! For, roused by the thought of such desecration, he had given the keys of the consecrated instrument a great bang, which made them rattle with a med- ley of sudden, shattered, and discordant sounds. I hope you dont object to my playing on that piano, Linley said. You seem as if you were resolved that no one should ever play on it again, and that it must be broken. No, Mrs. Rochford, said Valentim~e with perfect gravity; I dont object. You are in your right place when you play on it, for you are fond of my lazy lad here, and you can understand how to be his companion, and I can hand over my care of him to you with a light heart. But yu yourself? Miss Courcelles surely has not blighted your whole existence? Not in the least. I was only twice in love. First when I was at school, with a girl in a cake shop. She had beautiful eyes. I saw poetry and heaven and what not in them. Even then I could not help observing that her hands were rather large and red; but I didnt care. I never ventured to speak to her except in the way of business, asking for cake, and all that. But I know I looked all my soul, and I am sure the girl used to laugh at me. She after- ward married a policeman. Such is life! Well, and you? By that time I had outgrown my love. The next was Miss Courcelles. That, too, I have survived. Now I have passed out of all that sort of thing, and dont believe I have in me the capacity for any more of it. I have hung up my dripping garments. Mrs. Rochford, you know my history! Now tell me why you smile, and what you are thinking of? Oh, nothing in particularat least, nothing that I care to tell. But I do ask you. I am very curious to know. I shall ask Louis to ex- ert his authority and compel you. 48 LINLEY ROCIIFORD. [JAN. May I say it, Louis? If he likes to hear it, dear; if he insists. The responsibility be his if he hears anything that is not complimentary. I dont mind in the least. I prefer outspoken sincerity to anything. Mrs. Rochford, you smiled in a peculiar way when I said I had told my story. I should just like to know what you were thinking of. Well, then, you really wont be offended? Not in the least. I was only thinking what a great deal of talk you have. Everybody laughed, and Mr. Valentine laughed the loudest of all. I believe I am rather fond of talking, he said, and Louis here isnt. He is indolent and likes to be talked to. I am glad you saw my weakness so soon, Mrs. Rochford, for now the worst is known and I need not keep myself any longer under such restraint. I have already explained to you my theory, or rather I should say my discovery in morals: that the smaller weaknesses are all to be cherished and indulged. It is generally understood, I believe, that where mice are you dont have rats. But I am very fond of talking, Linley pleaded pathetically. What am Ito do? Talk to Louis all the time when Im not here; talk to Miss Courcelles in Londonyoull have opportunity enough. My most terrible rival is old Tux- ham. We have fearful struggles, each demanding and neither conceding la parole. Rochford sits and listens and laughs. I delight in arguing with old Tuixham and contradicting everything he says. But we are good friends for all that. During the evening Linley was prevailed upon, -against her better inclina- tions, to give her imitation of Mr. Platt and of ~ Platt, and of Mr. Tux- ham. Mr. Rochford was delighted and Valentine laughed heartily. Then, of her own accord, Mrs. Rochford favored her listeners with a wonderful imita- tion of Mrs. Courcelless accent and way of grandly giving out her words. This delighted Mr. Valentine much fi~ore than Rochford; and, as if she had not done enough for fame, Linley threw off a surprising piece of mimicry, wherein the sweet soft words of nothingness and the lip-parted smile of the divine Cynthia were faithfully reproduced. This unspeakably intensified the joy of Valentine; but Linley saw, with something like pain and self-reproach, an expression of dissatisfaction in the face of her master. Oh, I feel ashamed of myself and all this folly! she suddenly exclaimed, and she ran out of the room and showed herself no more there that night. CHAPTER VIII. Mn. TUxHAMS INVITATION. ONE of Mr. Tuxhams favorite topics, when he happened to be in a com- plaining humor, was the (lining system of modern life. He was always gim~d- ing at Rochford for his indulgence in eating, his varied food and wines, and his late hours. Rochifords happy and easy kind of egotism took no offence at this. On the contrary, )~e was rather gratified~ perhaps, to have his character and even his defects thus openly discussed. The subject was always interest~ ing to him, and became only the more so when Linley spiritedly undertook his defence, and routed Mr. Tuxham utterly by making him angry. It amused 1874.] LINLEY ROCHFORD. 49 Rochford to see people angry, as the fighting or supposed fighting of spiders amused Spinoza. You must come and dine with me, both of you, Mr. Tuxham exclaimed one day, at my hour and after my principles, and Ill show you when and how human beings ought to live. I thought you never ate or drank at all, Tuxham, Valentine said. I never saw you do either, and you always gave us to understand that you never did. I venture to think that mine is the only healthy appetite in the company, Mr. Tuxham replied except of course Mrs. Rochfords. I dont believe she has been driven to breakfast off absinthe and artichokes. I can eat anything, said Valentine. I never tried absinthe and arti- chokes, but I dare say I could do nicely with them. I havent ever had anything of the sort for breakfast, said Linley, and I am very healthy; but I dont think, Mr. Tuxham, I care to be held up as an illustration of a supreme capacity for breakfast-eating. I think I would rather you had described mesay, as the Tenth Muse (I am borrowing from Mrs. Courcelles), if you want to pay a compliment. But I dont, madam; and I think a good healthy appetite in a young womai~ is a great deal finer quality than any attribute of a muse. But the question is, will you all come and dine with mein my house, on my princi- ples, after my fashion? In the cause of science and human progress, said Valentine, there are few dangers I would not brave. Tuxhain, count on meany day, any hour, while I am in this part of the world. Will you come, Rochford? Well, you know I hate dining out But this wont be dining out, Valentine interposed. It will probably take place at ei~ht in the morning, and will consist of sawdust pudding, com- pounded by Tuxham himself in a stone jar. It will be a dinner for a man, not for a male cook, Tuxham replied. Well, Rochford said, bracing himself up for an efibrt, I am a little cu- rious about the experiment. Ill go, Tuxhain, but dare not promise to eat. Ill look on; and Ill eat if I may venture, and see my way. Good! then there is our party. Am not I to go, Mr. Tuxham? said Linley. After having conlplimente(l me, and me only, on a fine appetite, am I to be left with bare imagination of a feast? No, my dear; I assumed of course that your husband would bring you if he thought fit. I am of the old-fashioned patriarchal way of thinking; I re- gard the wife as the apanage of the husband. Rochford will bring you if he likes. Oh, pray bring me! pleaded Linley; I am very curious. Mv dear, said Rchford patting her hair, our friend Tuxham knows very well that I couldnt do without you. Not I; what do I know of your new-fashioned ways in London? Im glad you are coming, Mrs. Rochford; because I dont intend that any servant shall wait upon us at dinner. I hate to dine where servants are hanging about, and I shall want you to help me. Rochford is too indolent to do anything, and Valentine would only make a succession of blunders. You may count on my help, Liuley said; Ill do all the xvaiting if you like; I think I could he rather clever at that sort of thing. 50 LINLEY ROCIIFORD. [JAN. The matter is settled then, said Tuxham, except as to the day. When shall that be? Are the preparations to be gigantic? Valentine asked. Is it to be a feast in the manner of the ancients? If so, we had better fix a day when the season is over and Rochford comes back from town. Two hours for preparation will suffice. I am not Lucullus nor Vitellius; and I would not have such guests inside my doors if I knew them. Shall we say to-morrow? To-morrow? Oh, thats sudden! Valentine began. Let it be to-morrow, Rochford interposed. If it is put off any longer, I shall have time to think over it, and shall lose courage perhaps. I detest even pleasures that hang over one in anticipation. To-morrow then it shall be. And the hour? Valentine asked. Five oclock. Now, why five? Why not healthily early, or agreeably late? The days work of a rational and educated being, whatever it is, and supposing him to do any work, said Tuxham, sardonically glancing at Valen- tine, who had put the question, ought to be all over at five. Then he ought to dine for health, enjoyment, and rest. Five is a very good hour, said Linley. It is, Mr. Tuxham explained; for then people have just time to rest and think and talk after dinner, and go to bed at ten. No sensible person ought to be out of bed at ten. I hate sleeping, Valentine. observed; its so stupid and senseless. I like to be awake and active, especially at night. Why, no fellows faculties ever begin to burn brightly until eight. I never get an idea worth the having until I hear the sable garments of the night sweeping through my marble halls. Youll never be like me at my time of life, Tuxham said gravely Theres comfort yet, Valentine placidly remarked. As for Rochford, hell never see my years. Oh, Mr. Tuxham, for shame! Linley exclaimed, turning quite pale; how can you say such things? Rochford smiled with a kindly smile at her sudden emotion. Valentine steadily leaned his chin upon his hand, wherein he grasped his beard, and looked curiously at both of them, as one might do who was sympathetic with the affections and sorrows of humanity, but had himself no concern in them. Tuxhams no prophet, Linley, Rochford said, as you will soon find out. My dear, the elder man said rather softly, I forgot you were here, or I should never have talked my nonsense. Besides, I might be Mr. Rocbford~ father, and your grandfather; and besides, I dare say, you are romantic and girlish enough not to like the idea of seeing your husband turn into an old man. At your age the tragic is allowable. Nothing delights young people more than the contemplation of early death. I dont think so, Linley said. Early death for ones self, perhaps, but not for others. Young people, said Valentine dogmatically, like thinking about early death beeause they are so simply egotistical, and fancy it a grand and romantic sort of thing to lie in some beautiful spot with all Nature and the world Ia- 1874.] LINLEY ROCHFORD. M menting for them. If they would only have the sense to picture all Nature and the world as not caring a farthing whether they lived or diedin fact, not even noticing or knowing when they were deadwe should hear a good deal less about the beauty of early death aad the bounty of the gods. Oh, no; I dont agree with you at all, Linley interposed. I used to think in that way, or fancy I thought so, Valentine coolly went on, when I was young. Now I dont. Thea I was egotistic, and called ego- tism sublimity of soul, and romance. No, I dont like to think of a time com- jug when that sky will be as blue, and that water will flash, and the trees will wave, and the birds will sing, and, as the Ettrick Shepherd says in the Noctes, me no there to listlistlisten! I dont feel that, Linley said emphatically, I know I dont. If I were dying, I should be glad to thinkit would comfort methat others were going to be happy in the sunlight when it had ceased to shine for me. It would still be a kind of living in the world, to know that ones friends were happy there. For Heavens sake, Rochford broke in almost pettishly, let us not talk any more of old age and death! I hate gloom of that kind. Linley, my dear, thut may be all very well for you with your twenty years and your health fit for the huntress Diana. Do have some consideration for your less fortunate elders, who know what it is to have their livers out of order. Rochford had grown good-humored again by the time he had approached the end of his lit- tle speech. Your liver, I promise you, shall take no hurt by my dinner to-morrow, said Mr. Tuxham. But you would do better, Rochford, if you rose earlier, walked more, and ate less. Look at me! In years I am sixty; in physique I am thirty. Come to-morrow and take a lesson Good morning, niy dear; good morning, gentlemen. Tuxhamn took his leave, and Linley went to her own little room feeling stran~ely dispirited and uncomfortable. The frequent allusions made by Tuxham to her husbands indoleft and epicurean habits always annoyed her. They seemed as if they must be intended to lower him in her eyes; and even to have that effect. But to-day they came accompanied by more alarming suggestions. Was he really then an invalid? Was his life in danger; and was she to whom that life was so far more precious than her own not to be allowed to know of it? She suddenly saw Valentine pass her window lounging with a ineersehaum in his mouth. She threw her hat on, went quickly out, and accosted him. He put down his pipe, and seemed a little astonished. Mr. Valentine! I want to talk to you; I want to ask you a question. But first I wish to know whether you can give inc a serious straightforward answer, without any badinage, and as if you were not talking to a child. If you cant do this, or dont think me worth any seriousness, just say so. She spoke with a certain warmth, to him not intelligible, to herself not ex- plained, but really meaning that she resented any levity, past and real, or only future and possible, on any subject connected with her husbands very name. Perhaps you will tell me what the question is, Mrs. Rochford. That will be the easier way of testing my capacity to make you a wholesome answer. Isis my husbandyour friendin bad health? Is he in (langerof any kind? Does lie need any care that I could give, and would if I only knew? Is that all? Valentine asked, looking greatly relieved. I can answer you quite seriously, Mrs. Rochford; but it wouldnt be much amiss even if I LINLEY ROCTIFORD. [JAN. answered not seriously. Theres nothing particular the matter with Louis, except too much ease, constitutional indolencetoo much of his own wayand the effects that conic of these things. Thank God! I am so relieved and happy, Mr. Valentine, and you will forgive me 1ff seemed a little angry. I thought you were all a little too flinch given to levity. Tuxham has been alarming you? Well, Tuxham is always an alarmist; but at the sanie time lie is a fine old fellow, too, who sees a long way into things There now, you alarm mc again! There is some truth in what lie was saying? No, no; there is no truth in it in that sense, as you look at it. Louis ought to be in as good health as ~ny nian in the world; but Tuxhani of course sees that he is too apt to lead an unhealthy and indolent sort of life, and would like to quicken him out of it if lie could. I should like it too; but you see I cant accomplish it. Can nobody? If not you, then nobody. I? What can I do? Really, Mrs. Rochford, I cant explain to you very clearly. But I think somehow you might influence himpardon me if I speak rather frankly more than you do. You seem to lead two lives in this house, and not one. But I only do as lie wishes miie. He wouldnt like my teasing hini to do this thing and that for his good even. He would come to think nie tiresome and to wish me away. You cant understand How a woiiian feels? No; that is quite true. If I think it for the good of niy friend that he shall take a certain course, I tell him so, without caring how it may affect me in his eyes. I am thinking of him, not of myself. But you are only his friend; you are not his wife. It niatters little to you; he is not all the world to you. If he is displeased with you, you go away and have other occupation and friends and your ~wn lifeuntil he finds that you were right, and welcomes you back again. But with me it is so dif- ferent! How could I exist for days and days under his displeasure? how could I endure to know that lie thought my presence and my advice a plague? You talk of a mans friendship! I am talking of a womans love. I always thought a womans love was ever so much more unselfish than a mans friendship, Valentine said, apparently relapsing into his habitual manner; we read so in most novels, I think. Fancy being a dreary mentor to ones husbanda tormentor! said Lin- ley plaintively. Fancy his dreading ones coniing, turning instinctively away at the sound of ones footfall. Do you want me to bear that fate, Mr. Valentine? I want you to do ~mnythiing that is righit, he replied; and lie stopped short in hiis walk and looked fixedly at her, with a severity in his expression of which she had not thou~ht his face capable. Mrs. Rochford, there is one powerful tie between you and nie. We are both attached in our ways to Louis. I see his faultsno, they are hardly faultshis weaknesses. I cant cure them, but I think you can. I didnt approve of hiis marryingI neednt tell you that; above all, I didnt approve of his niarrying so very young a woman as you are. I may be young, but I am not quite a fool; certainly I am not a child, said Linley. 1874.] LINLEY ROCITFORD. So I found out very soon. I saw that you had some sense and force of character. Thank you; I ought to be much obliged. And therefore I want you to exercise a closer and better influence over your husband. You must make him feel that he has a wife. Now you have brought this talk on yourselfdont blame rue! I tell you plainly that a wo- man who takes no real part in a mans life, who uses no healthy influence over him, who takes no pains to strengthen him where she sees he is weak, and is afraid to do anything but to amuse him and make things seem pleasant such a woman Well, Mr. Valentine! go on, pray! She isnt a mans wife at all! No! what then is she? She iswell, his slave, his toyanything you like; but I dont call her his wife. Linley looked at him for a moment with the quick light of scorn and anger in her eyes. A little tempest of conflicting emotion swept through her; and then the quiet, well-disciplined independence of her soul reasserted itself. I might he forgiven if I todk offence at your words~ Mr. Valentine, she said; but I am unselfish enough to know that they were only spoken out of your affection for my husband, and that is everything with me, and I (10 see that there is some truth in what you say. Well, I will try to do better! There I even thank you for what you have said. Tie looked at her with a kind of surprise, and with a pained expression, as if he felt that he had not quite fairly judged her; and he was hastening to speak, when she smiled the kindliest; cheeriest smile she could summon up, and left him. That day was an era in Linleys married life. That day she first shed lonely tears. But she came out strengthened and cheerful, re- solved to spread no needless cloud, around her, and determined to try to be more truly and fully her husbands wife. Except as his wife, to minister to him and do good for him, I am accounted as nothing, she said to herself. I am nothing else to them. I dont suppose a woman can have a better destiny in life. Anyhow, I accept that as my destiny; and I will make the best of it. CHAPTER IX. MR. TUXHAMS DINNER PARTY. MR. TUXHAM lived in a wind-blown cottage on the very top of a little hill. The front windows of the cottage looked on the sea. A little garden with a wooden paling divided it from the waste. The garden had a few flowers al- ready beginning to bloom, and one or two trees, their tops blown backward by the constant sea breezes. A narrow walk, neatly tiled off; led up to the low- browed porch, through which the abode of the veteran was entered. Some- times the door was opened by a woman, sometimes by a man, occasionally by a little boy, often by a little girl, and not uncommonly by the little boy and girl together. Tuxham, when he came to settle in the neighborhood, bought the cottage from the late Mrs. Rochford, and set to beautifying it after his own fashion. He intended to live a very solitary life, and as he preferred the at- tendance of women to that of men, he engaged the services of a very elderly dame, whose residence beneath his roof even IDripdeanham scandal could find no fault with. This old lady kept things in order, and prepared his meals for [JAN. 54 LINLEY ROCHFORD. him. But in time Mr. Tuxham began to observe that a bouncing young wo- man used to go in and out rather often, and gradually seemed to settle down and make the place her home. This was the daughter of his housekeeper, and Tuxham could not find it in his heart to raise any objection to her helping and kceping company with her widowed mother. But as he had stipulated for quiet and solitude, he thought it best became his dignity as master of the house not to see the unauthorized intruder. Therefore, even when she rushed against hhn in the dark passa~e, Tuxham persistently i~nored the robust young woman. Nay, even when she actually brought him his breakfast with her own hsnds, her mother being otherwise engaged, he would not admit that he was aware of any temporary change in the personnel of his attendance. At length the bouncing girl got married, and for a while disappeared. Tuxham longed to ask what had become of her, for now her broad and smiling face had grown pleasant to him. But to inquire would have been to admit her exist- ence, her intrusion, and consequently the disregard of his authority, and there- fore he wisely abstained. It was not very long, however, before lie encoun- tered her in the dark passage again, and she appeared to have resumed her old occupation. XVhere, Tnxham thought, can the poor things husband be? Has he deserted her already? Is he dead? Where indeed was he but in Tux hams own kitchen, where he breakfasted, dined, and supped every day, being a wonderfully good-for-nothing, soft-headel, idle fellow. For some time the new-coiner made a show of going home every evening, but at last he too squatted quietly under Tuxhams roof, and appointed himself gardener, thatch- er, paling-mender, boot-cleaner, etc., to the establishment, while occasionally doing a stroke of work here and there in Dripdeanham. Tuxham saw all this and opened the eyes of wonder, but was amused and bore it. At length the mother, poor old Mrs. Beverill, came to die, and Tuxhani paid for the funeral, and first and finally recognized the established fact by saying bluntly to the dau~hmter, You keep her place; stay here as long as you like, all the lot of you The result of which was that the cottage at last held five inmates, and that the little boy and girl, born of the bouncing young woman and the soft- headed man, sometimes opened the door to visitors. This day, however, Tuxham himself opened the door for Mr. Rochford and Linley, who came in a light open carriage, Rochford not loving to walk any- where. Very pretty an(I bright looked Linley, with her cheek a little crim soned and her Imir a little blown by the wind, as she stepped lightly to the ground and was welcomed by her host. She stopped for a moment to look over the broad sea, and shaded her eyes from the sun. Rochford, who had descended with greater digmiity and slowness, was instantly assailed rather than greeted by Mr. Tuxham. An honor beyond precedent for my poor abode, said the latter, to have the hermit of Epicureanism come from his favored home! Shall we not plant a tree, Rochford, to mark the occasion of your first condescending to dine out in this region? I ani not wrong, surely? This is your first venture? Mine is the honored roof? Well, Tuxham, Rochford replied good-humoredly, I am doing more for you than you can be persuaded to do for me. You ne~rer will come to dine with me. Ill come in London, Toxham said, when I go up there next. As I cant dine after my own fashion in town, I suppose I might as well adopt yours. I shall save something at all events, and theres a comfort in that. What are you looking at, my dear? 1874.] LINLEY ROCUFURD. 55 Only the sea, Mr. Tuxham, LInley answered, turning round and ceasing to shade her eyes. You are fond of the sea then? Rochford isnt. lie has a schooner yacht here, and he never sails in her. But he is going to take me for a cruise round the south coast, Linley said, always eager to defend her master when there seemed even the slightest imputation against him. Ay, when? caust tell? Tuxham observed. Has he fixed the day? No, he leaves that to me. Yes, I dare say. Well he might leave you that prerogative. It wont much affect the result. Mi. Tuxham, you are a faithless, ill-omened, prophesying person! said Linley; and if you dont repent I shall declare downright war against you. how can you look to-day over that sea and not get to think more highly of your fellow creatures, and above all, of my husband? Tuxharn laughed grimly. Thats just as good and logical moralizing as half the stuff we rea(l and preach, lie said. Look at the seaisnt it grand? Listen to the birdsdont they sing prettily? Then why dont you love your fellow creatures, and think everything is for the best? Meanwhile when is the solemn banquet coming off? asked Rochford. I am rather curious to know whether I shall be able to eat any of it or not. The time hasnt quite come, said Tuxham, pulling out a huge chronom- eter, and neither has Valentine. I am a little particular about him, because he and I are not the best of friends. Then Tuxham gave his arm to Linley and led her into the cottage. It was not so small as it seemed to be from the outside, and the room where they were to dine looked almost spacious in its bareness. A round ta- ble covered with drapery of unimpeachable whiteness, a small side table, a few chairs, and an oaken bookcase, made the only furniture of this room. There xvere no pictures or ornaments of any kind; no flowers in the window or on the chimney-piece; no mirrors. The walls were not papered, but painted a light cream color. The one great beauty and ornament of the room was the sea with its far-sparkling little waves seen through the open window. What a vast collection of sticks! Linley said as they crossed the little hall, where the most remarkable object was a very forest of upright sticks and canes, arrayed in stands of bronze. My trophies and relics, Tuxham explained. I have a weakness for col- lecting sticks. I bring fuom every place I visit and care for an embodied memory in the shape of a stick. That thick cane there I cut in the woods of Trinidad; that next to it grew in one of the South Sea islands. Theres a tough bit of hickory that flourished once in sight of Niagara, and anotherthere is a branch of a tulip tree that was draped with moss in a forest in South Car- olina. I cut a sapling from near Parnassus, and dried it into hardness; and see that wretched thing near itthat is one of the absurdities you buy, if you are silly enough, as I was, at WTaterloo. Theres a bit of blackthorn with which I once thrashed an impudent l)eer, and theres a shillelagh that I saw holding its own in a Tipperary faction fight, and received as a gift from the hero of the day. There are lots of others that you wouldnt ~are aboutI mean with memories of places that are only personal. But now that one, seethats a stick Rochford gave me. I get a stick from everybody I take a fancy to, as the lady in the Arabian Nights got a ring from every one of her lovers. I always choose a stick when I go to take a stroll, according to the mood 56 LINLEY IIOCHEORD. [JAN. I am in. I summon up the memory I wish to have attending me, like a ia- miliar. Ought I to present you with a stick, then? Linley asked. I am not much of a judge of sticks, but still- You shall give me a stick before you leave this place this eveninox Tux- ham answered in high good humor. Ill shoxv you how and all about it. So here comes our friend at last! Mr. Rochford now lounged in with Valentine, the latter having his arm thrown over Rochfords shoulder in his fauiiliar, boyish way, and talking all the time. When greetings were interchanged, Mr. Tuxham led his guests into the room, having touched a little bell as he passed, to signify to his at- tendants that the dinner time and the company had arrived. Just as he was entering the room with Linley on his arm, he stopped and said: Bnt, I beg pardonI had quite forgottenyou wont like to dine in your hat? And he looked with an air of embarrassment at Linleys pretty hat and feather. Well, may I not leave it there? Linley asked smiling, and pointing to the stand on which the hats of the gentlemen were already arrayed. Certainly, my dear, if you like, if that will do, the host said, partly re- lieved. But I didnt knowI xvasnt certainyou are the first woman who has ever dined here, and I was not sure whether some settling of hair might not be necessary. We havent even a looking-glass within hail except up stairs. Dont be distressed for me, said Linley, taking off the formidable hat and throwing it on the hall table; my hair never is or could be smooth, and it doesnt matter in the least, Mr. Tuxham. Everybody must promise not to be critical. Then there is your place, with your face to the sea, since you love it so well. I shall sit next, and can look at you and the sea at once. I make no scruple about putting Rochford xvith his back to sea and wave, for he cares about neither; nor Valentine, because ho sees so much of both that he can af- ford to do without the sight for once. I thought we were to recline on couches, Valentine said, and we are to sit upright on commonplace chairs! This is disappointing. We might al- most as well be in Belgravia. You will soon find out that you are not in Belgravia, Mr. Tuxham re- plied. Mr. Rochford looked rather weary already. Linley, glancing at him, feared that he was terribly bored, and she felt concerned for him. She enjoyed the whole thing: the novelty of this odd dinner party, the place, the open win- dows, the sea, the sky, the queer Bohemian unconventionality and freedom. Linleys sunny and sensitive temperament was made to catch up every little breath and gleam of joy that might any~vhere happen to float across the field of her life. But she was sorry for her husband, who of course could not be expected to find any pleasure in such trifling; and for the first time she felt positively comforted by the presence of Mr. Valentine, who had thrown himself entirely into the spirit of the thing, and seemed like an emancipated school-boy. Rochford brightened up into a kind of interest when the dinner a~tually be- gan. He had a faint fond hope that something might come of it which would show him how to in(lulge at once an epicurean love of eating and impaired di- gestive power. He had ever a vague dream of a cheap and possible heroism 1874.] LINLEY ROCHFORD. 67 to be stirred up within his own breast, by the sight of some dishes at once Spartan in their simplicity and agreeable to the taste, which would enable him to forswear forevermore the ephemeral and fatal joys that are bougbt with dyspepsia. He came to Tuxhams table as an uncertain Voltairean valetudi- narian might visit a holy well, ashamed to confess that in his heart there was a lurking hope of cure from its openly-contemned waters. The banquet had many difficulties outside itself to contend witb. Rocbford was too much in earnest about dinner; Valentine was too little in earnest. Tuxham bad certain supposed principles of hygiene to expound and illustrate; Rochford was in hope of being instructed, even though only by a sort of incan- tation of xvhich he was ashamed to acknowledge the force. Valentine did not cafe a rush whether the dinner was good or had, illustrated a principle or did not, so long as he was allowed to talk when he liked and to fire oft a j oke at Tuxham. Linley only wanted the whole thing to be pleasantlike a sort of picnic. Each stage of the banquet only diminished Rochfords dim and secret hope, and left him more and more blank and disappointed. Valentine some- times kePt on talking on some totally different topic, while Mr. Tuxham was trying to explain the profound principle that lurked in this, that, or the other peculiarity of food or arrangement. No one but the host and Rochford took the affair seriously from the first; and not many moments had passed when Rochford had to acknowledge surely and sadly to himself, that the path of safety did not lie open for him, as for the Trojan hero, where he might least have expected it. Linley had offered her services as an attendant and assistant to the host from the first, but Mr. Tuxliam announced with some pride that no such dis- turbance of her persond comfort and of her dignity as a guest would be needed, In fact Mr. Tuxham had arranged matters so that his own chair stood near the door, and between him and the door, almost at his elbow, was a little sido table. The attendants, therefore, had not even to open the door, but merely to put the succeeding dishes on the side table and depart without saying a xvord. Then Tuxham acted as his own butler. The plan was admi- rable in many ways, but it was liable to the distinct disadvantage that when- ever the door was opened a wild draught swept through the room, which sported with the tablecloth as if it would whisk it off and carry it through the windows away out to the sea. The beauty of this room. Tuxham said in the tone of a lecturer, is its airiness. In a fashionable dining-room you are poisoned with heated and un- changed air, with the glow of lampsperhaps even gasa.nd the scent of hot- house flowers. Every dinner eaten under such conditions is a nail driven into ones coffin. You ought to drive a nail into that tablecloth, suggested Valentine, or it will be away on the wings of the wandering breezes. You are afraid of the (Iraught, I dare say. Nothing frightens yoing men like fresh air, in these days! Rochford is shuddering already! How different from his wife, who is able to enjoy it. Well, I should be ashamed to look a woman in the face if I couldnt stand a puff of spring air. I like it of all things, said Valentine. One feels exactly as if he were in a lighthouse. I expect to see a sea gull dashing in every now and then. We had better hold our plates, I think. You observe, said Tuxham didactically, each plate has a large glass and a small glass placed beside it. The little crowd of wine-glasses at an ordi- nary dinner table is a positive nuisance. Here we shall only have one kind of 58 LINLEY ROCHFORD. [JAN. drink each, and the two glasses are put merely because I couldnt tell before- hand which each of you might choosc. We have excellent light claret, still better ale; best of all, clear spring water. Mrs. Rochford, what will you have? If I might have some claret and water I dont myself approve of spoiling the water, but you may have the priv- ilege. Rochford? Not any of the three for me, thank you. I think, Tuxham, I shall sim- ply look on and study how to dine hereafter. I may perhaps become a con- vert more easily that way. I 11 try the beer, said Valentine, for it looks tempting. Is that all you have? People would do better not to drink at meals at all, said Tuxham. I have made certain concessions, but I dont want to go too far outside my prin- ciples. Soup, Mrs. Rochford? Vegetable soup; nothing that is not at once light and nutritiousnone of the stodgy puddle which your city people fatten on. Heres soup which Flora herself might have fed on. Its very nice, Linley said; at least I think so. Doesnt it taste a little like boiled grass? Valentine asked. In a certain sense it is boiled grass. What could be purer, healthier, more nutritious than certain grasses? Is it part of your principle that it must be eaten lukewarm? Valentine inquired. It is, most certainly. Nothing can be worse for health and the nerves than the swallowing of heated soups. Rochford shuddered. I think it would be none the worse for a little salt, said Linley mildly. Isnt it exclusively composed of marigolds? said Valentine. The v are pretty things, but a little tasteless, Tuxham. I never allow a morsel of salt to be put in anything served at my table, Mr. Tuxham replied. Three-fourths of the ills of modern life, physical, men- tal, and moral, begin with the eating of salt. If I had a wife and children, they should never touch salt. Mr. Tuxham, meanwhile, swallowed his soup in considerable quantities, and with an appearance of very keen relish. Nobody else was able to make any decent pretence of likino it Rochford became amused as he observed the heroic efforts of the other two guests. Valentine began talking about things in general. A dish of beans comes next, Mr. Tuxham announced. French beans, dried after a peculiar and special fashion, and cooked in milk, or rather in cream. These have all the substance and nutrition of the best flesh meat. Linley tried the beans, but found timeni so utterly without taste that she could not make anything of them. Mr. Tuxhams principal theory seemed to her to be the elimination of savor from everything. No sauce of any kind was on the table. You dont like my beans, madam? the host said, fixing a stern eye upon her as he saw her falling back quietly upon bread. Dont you think they want taste, just a little? she urged modestly. The vice of all our modern living, madam, is the perpetual stimulation of the palate by taste. I am endeavoring to return to the condition of the nat- ural human being. What does man require? Nutrition, to sustain and repair 1874.] LINLEY ROCHFORD. 59 his forces; not stimulus, to provoke him into eating when he really needs no food. The whole idea of my system is embodied in this dish of beans. Roch- ford, you must try some of this. Here you have the theory condensed. Rochford shook his head. He knew it was of no use trying. The theory had not yet been developed by man that could persuade him to reorganize his life on the basis of boiled beans. Meanwhile Valentines beans had been standing untasted and almost un- noticed before him. He had suddenly struck som~ vein of paradox, and was delighting himself by working it out; and he listened with much impatience to Tuxhams interruptions. I think, on the whole, he said at last, I would rather dine with a gour- mand than with a dietetic reformer. The one fellow enjoys his dinner and lets me alone; the other cant take care of his own health without preaching to me to take care of mine. My dear Tuxham, a great orator once exclaimed, Give me freedom or give me death! His sentiments are mine. But I want you to taste those beans, Mr. Tuxham urged. Much de- pends on these. Valentine reluctantly consented, and cautiously tasted the critical dish. Well, the host inquired, have you nothing to say? I insist upon it, as a scientific man, that these beans are sufficient for the staple food of the future human being. They have the finest and most sustaining qualities of the very best flesh meat, without any of its detrimental properties. Not bad, Valentine said. Good sort of thin ~, I should say, to take on a hunting excursion on the American prairies, or some such place. They would last a long time, and might defy climate and ciiai~ges of weather, I sup- pose. Linley, being really hungry, had resolutely settled down to bread and claret- and-water. Luckily, however, some slices of delicate and well-roasted mut- ton intervened at fhis period of the feast. Tuxham introduced these under protest. I dont approve, Tuxham gloomily explained, of a dinner which consists wholly of vegetables. A little flesh meat, mutton or venison, care- fully roastedwisely, but not too well roastedlends a certain force and con- sistency to the feast. Rochford, will you not try? Thanks. I think Ill have just a little and a glass of claret. This seems a degree more reasonable, Tuxham. Rochford began hopefully, but the mutton was not done after his fancy, and he put down his knife and fork with son~etl~ing like a sigh. To Linley and Valentine the mutton was welcome, but there was not much of it. how I love to look at that sea! Linley said after a pause. Its sound is better than music. The praises of music, Valentine declared, are, on the whole, exagge- rated. How can you say soyou who seem to love music so much? Of course I love it. I am one of its adorers. But in my sober moods, when not under the spell of the enchantress, I can see how we overpraise her. People say music has the fullest power of expression. Dont believe it. The highest and quickest way of speaking to our memories, hearts, and so forth, is not through the ear, but through the nostrils. The chance breath of a flower will sometimes bring back all the scenes and memories of half a dozen years of youth. The perfume of one particular flower the other day, as I passed along a street in London, kept me in the fairyland of memory for a wholG day. Pift~ ! puff! and London for the time ceased to exist. 60 LINLEY ROCHFORD,. [JAN. There is some truth in that, said Linley of the flower, I mean; but why disparage the music? I dont care about music, Mr. Tuxham said; it spoils interchange of ideas. But I never supposed that anybody really cared for it any more than I do. I thought it was a sort of thing that people saidabout the liking for music and all thatlike the Hope youre well, and Glad to see you. It belongs to a certain age, Rochford remarked. We grow out of it. I rather think I was fond of music once. But you always say you like me to sing to you, Linley said, surprised. So I do, my dear. The dreamy effect is very soothing after dinner. Sends him to sleep, grumbled Tuxham. Now, madam, are you not proudof the effect of your skill? What it is to have a wife! Talkino of after dinner, are we supposed to be after dinner? Mr. Val- entine asked. Is the feast over, Tuxham? are there not even pippins and cheese to come? / Dried apples, said the host, are the only fruits I recommend, except, of course, the fresh fruits in the season, if we can ever be said to have any fruit season in this climate. Then, in fact, it comes to this, that for those who dont care about dried apples, the dinner is over? Of course it is over. What could any rational creature, who cared for nerves, brain, and digestion, desire beyond vegetable soup, beans, roast mut- ton, and claret? That is then your model dinner? I am proud to say that it is. I think I should like a dried apple, Mr. Tuxham, said Linley, partly be- cause she wished to like everything and partly because she was still rather hungry. But when the dried apples came, Linley found she might as well strive to eat shoe-leather. Mr. Tuxham devoured everything with the air of entire satisfaction, and when he had finished his meal poured himself a glass of water and drank it with the remark that wise people seldom drank any- thing during a meal, and only took water or other fluid when the meal was over. Undoubtedly a sort of gloom had settled on the company. Now, then, the host asked pere niptorily, I hope you all liked my style of dinner? Well, Valentine replied, speaking for myself, I dont know, Tuxham, that it is a particularly bad style of dinner. I expected worse. You made too great a flourish of trumpets about it, my good fellow. I expected something extraordinary. It was a little eccentric as a dinner, but not eccentric enough to ask a fellow to. If you hadnt made such a talk about it, I tl~ink I should have none through the whole thing, from the gronndsel broth, or whatever it was, down to the little preparations in wash leather that Mrs. Rochford has been so good-naturedly trying to eat, without noticing anything in particular. I dont think I should have iioticed anything either, Liuley said, laugh- ing. I think it was a nice dinner; but I should have liked anything with those open windlows and that sea! What pleasure you all lose, Rochford observed with a melancholy smile; you creatures of imperfect sense and maimed capacity, who dont know a good dinner from an inferior one. I dont mean anything personal to your en- tertainment, Tuxh:Lm, for of course I dont call that sort of thing a dinner at all. But a naturq that cannot appreciate the harmony, the artistic beauty and pro~ 1874.] LINLEY ROCHFORD. 61 priety of a really go6d dinner, is much worse off than that which has no sense of music or color. Now, I like to he one thing or the other, Valentine broke in; either you, Rochford, with whom dinner is an art, or myself, with whom it is a means of satisfying hnn~er. But to be like Tuxhani, pestered with theories and fads about health, and further tormented by a longing to be eccentric, I consider an intolerable condition of things. My dear Tuxham, your dinner would have been well enough if you hadnt made it a dead failure by too much of the puff preliminary. You led us to expect audacious eccentricity, and you set us down to niere commonplace, sircommonplace! Ive devised for myself mauy times in town dinners a dozen times more absurd, and I never gave myself airs or made a bawling about it. Why will you set up for being eccentric, my venerable friend, if you dont Parry the thing properly out? Oh hush, pray! pleaded Linley, observing that Tuxhams eyes were be- ginning to flame. ~ I dont mind him, madam, Tuxham said in tones that were surcharged with wrath. I dont mind him. He knows that I never affect anything, and he knows that if there is anything I especially hate, it is to be thonght ec- centric. My dear Tuxham, I never meant to annoy you, or make you angry. Am I angry, sir? Angry? What right have you to think me angry? Well, I dont say that I (10, but a snperficial observer perhaps might Only a very superficial observer then, said peace-making Linley, break- ing in upon the dispute, although she felt with a certain sense of shame that her husband rather enjoyed it. Meanwhile, Mr. Tuxham, miglitlbeg for a glass of water? Linley knew that the glasses were all removed, that the host had no l)ell in the room, and that therefore he would have to go into the hall to summon one of the servants. By this di~ersion she hoped to break up the discourse alto- gether. I think it is very unfair to vex Mr. Tuxham, she said, the moment he had gone. Very unfair; lie is a kind, good man. He is a good old fellow, said Valentine coolly, but I cant always stand his affectation of originality. I hate affectation of all kinds. Still, as we are in his house, I think we ought to affect good manners even if we have them not, Linley said emphatically. Rochford looked up surprised; Mr. Valentine colored deeply. Linley felt her heart beat, but she had spoken, and meant to stand by her speech. My dear Linley, Rochford said, you hardly seem to have considered the meaning of your words I am afraid the meaning is only too clear and too just, Valentine said cheerily. Mrs. Rochford, we have got into a bad and selfish habit here of indul~ing our various hnmors and whims of speech too much, and I am hear- tily glad there is some one at last to rebuke us. Look here, Tuxham, to the host, who jnst came in, I fear I have been talking rudely. Mrs. Rochford tells me so I dont think I told you so in particular I meant to include the three. If so, Tuxham, I am sorry for it, and I ask you to accept my apology. Tuxham smiled cordially, and held out his long, lean hand. We all mean nothing down here, my dear, he said to Mrs. Rochford. We get into rough, odd, provincial ways, and gird at each other to pass the 62 LINLEY ROCHFORD. [JAN. time. You will teach us better habits, I hope. Wiat are you looking for, Rocliford P The carriage has come, said Rochford, leaning indolently out of the Window. I ordered it for this hour. So soon? and I havent made a convert of you to my mode of dietary! I fear I am a hardened sinner, Tuxham, and I niust try to corrupt you if I can. Now, Linley, my dear. Mr. Rochfords leave-taking was not very ceremonious. Nobody seemed to mind, however. Mr. Tuxham gave Linley his arm, with grand, antique dignity, to conduct her to the carriage. Will you not come with us? Linley said to Valentine. She was feeling a little penitent. Thank you, no. I am going to have a ramble with Tuxhamif he will come, or alone if he wontalong the shore. One doesnt often see such a sunset in England. Linley wished in her heart that she might have a ramble alone along the shore. The sea trembled in the sunlight, an(l the whole atmosphere was full of ecstasy. She felt, too, something like a chilly little shiver, for she thought she had displeased her master. When they reached the little garden, Tuxham said, You have forgotten something, Mrs. Rocliford. My tributemy embodied memory! Oh, yes, certainly, said Linley, the stick. But where am I to get it? Here, of course. Now look here, this cherry tree. I will pull down this branch for you, and you shall cut it oft~ Then Ill shape it to suit my own fancy afterward, but it will be your gift all the same. You want a knife? here but no, I wont lend you mine. A knife cuts love, they say, and I want you to be always very fond of me. Rochford wont refuse to allow you, I know. But, Mr. Tuxham, a philosopher like you to care for silly old proverbs! Do lend me your penknife. Not I. Silly old proverbs are as likely to be right as anything else, so far as I can see. Mr. Valentine doesnt believe in such stuff, I know. Hell lend me a knife. Mr. Valentine produced his weapon, and with it Linley hacked and hewed stoutly at the branch till it gave way. Then, with a face which the exercise had somewhat caused to blush, she turned to her host an(l presented the me- morial, and was eager to escape. It shall be a relic, said Tnxham gravely, and shall accompany me when I walk in the dark, melancholy evenings of autumn. What a gloomy association! Why should my memorial accompany you then? Because thea I shall want some reminder of sunshine and freshness and spring. Come, now, thats very pretty and complimentary, said Linley. No another word or syllable, Mr. Tuxhamn, I beg of you. Dont spoil that dainty little compliment. Thus talking lightly she got into the carriage, and Rocbford, who had been exchanging a word or two with Valentine, took his place beside her. She was far from feeling as merry as her words would have pictured her. There was an expression on Rochfords face which chilled her, and which she scarce- ly seemed to undrstand. She was glad when the carriage bore them from Mr. Taxhams door. 1874.] LINLEY ROCHFORD. 68 Did I speak too rudely, Louis dear? she asked earnestly, as the carriage bore them away, for she really only wished to be set right. I didnt think of it, and it seemed a pity to vex that kind old man; but I know now you didnt like me to speak in that way. I dont like scenes of any kind, Linley But, my Louisscenes? There surely wasnt any scene. Something like it, I think. I detest all that sort of thiu~, Liiiley. I dis- like women taking on themselves to prescribe laws of bearin~ and you are rather too young, my dear, for such undertakings. I wish I hadnt been fool- ish enough to go there at all. The whole thing was disagreeable and uncom- fortable. Then Rochford lapsed into silence, and though Linley started many topics, she could not succeed in bringing from him any more than polite assent or acknowledgment in the fewest available syllables. After a while, and when she had resisted with heroic sense of duty the distressing conviction, she had to admit the knowledge that her master was out of humor and sullen. She had seen that sort of thing often with some of the girls at Bonn, and had won- dered at it, and felt half grieved, half contemptuous; but she no more sup- posed that mature men of culture and talents were liable to such a pitiable lit- tle complaint, than she supposed that they were hysterical or afraid of spiders. Yet there was her handsome, gifted, heroic master, unmistakably out of hu- mor, and simply sulky. Alas! it is hard to sustain ones hero-worship through its smaller trials. For Linley that evening the very sunset and the sea had lost their charm. To do Rochford justice, however, it must be owned that the mood did not last long. The cook seemed to have made amends in the dinner for all the vexations of the day, and her masters handsome face beamed with sunny satisfaction as he enjoyed each course and expatiated upon it. To Linley this eight oclock feast was a mere pageant, for whatever the defects of the Tux- ham dinner, she had been able to eat enough of it to render a second dinner impossible. But she did all she could to seem appreciative of everything that her master liked, and at last even Rochford saw her efforts at gastronomy, and smiled. You dear child, he said, I know you are trying to please me by affect- ing to like your dinner, and I see that you cant touch a morsel. You are the best of creatures, Linley, but you cant acquire that sort of taste, and you are better without it. I am afraid you will think men are sadly unromantic and unheroic creatures, Linley. Confess that in your poetic days, on the banks of the Rhine, you never dreamed of being wooed by a Roland who was fond of a good dinner. Girls are always ridiculous, but I think I had less of romantic dreamings than some of the others. I was rather busy, perhaps. My romance began with my marriage. But come, now, confess: is not the romanceno matter when it began a little disturbed by the heros appreciation of his dinner? Oh, I dont know; we take that as an unimportant detail. Achilles seems to enjoy his dinner remarkably well in the Iliad. So lie does, said Rochford contentedly. Well, Linley, if you were a man, you would find a time come round when a good dinner would seem bet- ter than any dream. AlthoughI dont knowValentine cares no more for what he eats than you do. PHYSICAL IMPEDIMENTS TO SOCIAL SUCCESS. THAT bodily infirmities will disqualify men and women otherwise well en- doxved for making an agreeable figure among their fellows, seems an obvious truism; yet it is not the most salient or the most serious defects that disqualify the most. The blind may be excellent musicians, the lamepara- doxical as it soundsvery fair dancers; men whose physical beauty has been destroyed by fearful accidents, have overcome the repulsive effect of their faces by the charms of their conversation. Very often the impediment gives no outward sign of its presence; very often also it is something not precisely adapted to furnish a subject of polite conyersation. Fancy a young woman, witty and wealthy, handsome and fond of society, andsubject to a chronic complaint of the kind that Swift would have been delighted to describe in his most disagreeable verse, and to which the more prudent writer of our own day scarcely dares allude. It not unfrequently happens that meanness, mis- anthropy, half a dozen false reasons, are currently assigned for the non-per- formance of some ordinary social duty, when the real cause is an unsoundness of the not-to-be-talked-about sort. Even a defect which involves no personal suffering, and can only he ex- hibited in its results, may be a great social drawback. Everybody knows that a successful portrait-painter niust have what is called a good eye for like- nesses, must readily discriminate the peculiarities of different faces and re- cognize them at once. But everybody has not observed that the want of this quality may be so marked as to interfere seriously with a mans social com- fort and success. A person may find it as diflicult to remember the majority of the faces which lie meets in society, as he would find it, if not musical, to remember the greater part of the music which he hears. Either these faces present an entire blank to him when they meet his face again, or they make a dubious and frequently incorrect impression. He is, therefore, in constant risk of confounding different people together, and thus giving great offence. For, as a general rule, no man or woman likes to be mistaken for any other man or woman. Of course, like most general rules, this one has an excep- tion, comprising a small class of persons. The reader of Thackeray will recol- lect the fat ~nan at Mrs. Perkinss ball who dresses after Beaumorris. There are persons who try to make themselves the doubles of certain models whom they admire, and these are naturally flattered if taken for their idols. But this class is small, and almost entirely confined (I believe) to the male sex. Generally the mistaken party is offended. And though the mistakers defect is purely physical, as purely as if he were very near-sighted, it is so little known as generally to be confounded with a mental defectabsence of mind or inattention. So that if the face-forgetter has any tendency to ab- sent-mindedness, nay, if he belongs to a profession the members of which are supposed to have this tendency more than other people (say, if he is an author or a professor), he will be suspected of star-gazing when he ought to be at- tending to the ordinary social courtesies. To be sure, experience may give a man tact enough to avoid the nppearance of not knowing his uuknown inter~ locutor, and the ordinary banalities of fashionable conversation may save him from committing himself.

PHYSICAL IMPEDIMENTS TO SOCIAL SUCCESS. THAT bodily infirmities will disqualify men and women otherwise well en- doxved for making an agreeable figure among their fellows, seems an obvious truism; yet it is not the most salient or the most serious defects that disqualify the most. The blind may be excellent musicians, the lamepara- doxical as it soundsvery fair dancers; men whose physical beauty has been destroyed by fearful accidents, have overcome the repulsive effect of their faces by the charms of their conversation. Very often the impediment gives no outward sign of its presence; very often also it is something not precisely adapted to furnish a subject of polite conyersation. Fancy a young woman, witty and wealthy, handsome and fond of society, andsubject to a chronic complaint of the kind that Swift would have been delighted to describe in his most disagreeable verse, and to which the more prudent writer of our own day scarcely dares allude. It not unfrequently happens that meanness, mis- anthropy, half a dozen false reasons, are currently assigned for the non-per- formance of some ordinary social duty, when the real cause is an unsoundness of the not-to-be-talked-about sort. Even a defect which involves no personal suffering, and can only he ex- hibited in its results, may be a great social drawback. Everybody knows that a successful portrait-painter niust have what is called a good eye for like- nesses, must readily discriminate the peculiarities of different faces and re- cognize them at once. But everybody has not observed that the want of this quality may be so marked as to interfere seriously with a mans social com- fort and success. A person may find it as diflicult to remember the majority of the faces which lie meets in society, as he would find it, if not musical, to remember the greater part of the music which he hears. Either these faces present an entire blank to him when they meet his face again, or they make a dubious and frequently incorrect impression. He is, therefore, in constant risk of confounding different people together, and thus giving great offence. For, as a general rule, no man or woman likes to be mistaken for any other man or woman. Of course, like most general rules, this one has an excep- tion, comprising a small class of persons. The reader of Thackeray will recol- lect the fat ~nan at Mrs. Perkinss ball who dresses after Beaumorris. There are persons who try to make themselves the doubles of certain models whom they admire, and these are naturally flattered if taken for their idols. But this class is small, and almost entirely confined (I believe) to the male sex. Generally the mistaken party is offended. And though the mistakers defect is purely physical, as purely as if he were very near-sighted, it is so little known as generally to be confounded with a mental defectabsence of mind or inattention. So that if the face-forgetter has any tendency to ab- sent-mindedness, nay, if he belongs to a profession the members of which are supposed to have this tendency more than other people (say, if he is an author or a professor), he will be suspected of star-gazing when he ought to be at- tending to the ordinary social courtesies. To be sure, experience may give a man tact enough to avoid the nppearance of not knowing his uuknown inter~ locutor, and the ordinary banalities of fashionable conversation may save him from committing himself. 1874.] PHYSICAL IMPEDIMENTS TO SOCIAL SUCCESS. 65 Even little inklings of adventure, touch-and-go escapes, happen in this Way. Sometimes your face betrays you, and when you think all is going on smoothly, suddenly your friend horrifies you with the exclamation, I see you havent the least idea of who I am. Once I dined with a gentleman whose name I did not know. It happened in this wise. I had gone, in ore on busi- ness than for pleasure, to pass a few days at a fashionable watering-place. Soon after my arrival I was accosted by name. Who the speaker could be I had not the remotest idea, except that he appeared to be all rioht. There was nothing about him which recalled the reporter or the gamblerthe most dan- gerous charncters in such localities. At that happy time we had no rino and my ways of life had never brought me into contact with any lobbyists, State or federal. In fine, lie seemed to be a gentleman of our set; I took it for granted that lie was, and took my chance of finding out who lie was. By-anti-by lie informed me that, being in mournin~, and for other reasons, he dined in his own rooms; it was just about dinner time; would I join him? There was no excuse or indeed particular reason for not accepting; I accepted. It was soon manifest that my host had no objection to hear himself talk; this propensity of course I encourage(l, and rather set myself to draxv hini out. So he rattled on agreeably enough, for like Ulysses (not the President) he had seen the cities and observed the manners of many nations; but not a word did lie drop which helped me to determine his identity. At length, xv hen we had reached our fruit and were leisurely sipping a bottle of good Bordeaux, he fell into the dramatic while relating a discussion which lie had held with an English tourist: Thompson, says I, and so on and so on. But, Vanderlyn, says he, et ~etera, et cetera. With the name the whole man came to me at once. I had known him and his family l)y reputation for years, but we had only niet before on one occa- sion. To be sure, it was a pretty long occasion, a sea voyage which lasted a fortnight; but I hAad always seen him in rough attire and a cap and long beard, so that his store clothes and shaved face xvere a perfect disguise and puzzle to mc. We have often dined together since, but I fear he has never found me again so good a listener, and I iiever see him without think- ing of that mysterious prandiation. When a man has the painters faculty of recollecting faces, and xvith it a quick and retentive memory of sniall facts, the combination gives him great social power. This was Macanlays case. lie never forgot the face of a man whom he had met in society, and with the face lie remembered all the salient facts connected with the owner of it. Few thin s are more flattering to an ordinary mortal than being thoroughly remembered by a great lion with whom he has perhaps had a brief interview several years before. I doubt if this faculty exists to any great extent among our public men; indeed, I have often l)een surprised at the absence of it. A Russian baron of the true (livine- right school once maintained to me that this ~vas an effect of republican in- stitutions, or, whiat came to the same thing, that the opposite was a result of monarchical institutions, lIe said that kings and princes were obliged to see a great many persons, xvherefore Providence had conferred on them various means of being gracious to those persons, of which prompt recognition was one. Thus reasoning might have had more xveight xvith me had it not been called out by an anecdote which I xvas relating to show the weakness of a cer- tain king on this very point, but xvhich my baron quietly accepted as aim ihlus 66 PHYSICAL IMPEDIMENTS TO SOCIAL SUCCESS. [JAN. tration of the monarchs capacity. Seriously, I believe the ability to be phy- sically rather than mentally (or morally) grounded, and it would be so useful to our politicians that we cannot suppose them neglecting it were it to be acquired by study and practice. Nor can we see why our institutions should dis- countenance its acquisition, unless we assume theni to be radically hostile to every possible form of politeness or anything resembling politeness. Here it may not be irrelevant to remark that, although portrait-painting has always been, for obvious reasons, one of our most popular and lucrative branches of art, we have not many good portrait-painters an(l very few even tolerable car- icaturists. Another and more plausible reason assigned is, that our public characters see a great many more men than any European potentate or states- man does. Allowing this to be true, we may ask if the painter or caricaturist is bewildered, or if he is not rather inspired, by number and variety of faces. Still it may be that a continual swarm of strange countenances will so fatigue the attention as to prevent its exercise till the strangers are really no longer seen, in the full and proper sense of the word, and of course cannot be remem- bered. A slight constitutional infirmity or delicacy, not hindering a man from the pursuit of his ordinary work or exercise, niay prove a clog on him in fashion- able society, just where it might be supp~scd of the least consequence. He may have weak lungs or a sensitive throatno actual disease, but symptoms and dangers. lie is not hindered from walking or riding, if well wrapped up, but through all the cold season he incurs some risk by uncovering his chest and wearing a low waistcoat even in the house. He must therefore either peril his health when he goes to dinners and evening parties, or must wear a sort of half dress, with a mornino waistcoat and cravat. And of course all this applies in a greater degree to a woman, subject to our barbarous style of full dress. If she even puts on a lace cape habitually, she is apt to be deemed pru(lish, or accused (fearful charge!) of having bad shoulders. The reader may smile at so much importance being given to a necktie, but the cravat ever since Brummel has been an institution, especially in England. There are some queer stories anent English cravats. One which I believe to be literally true has Ilistoricus Harcourt for its hero. I cannot but think Mr. Ilarcourt (unless he has greatly changed w~thiu twelve years) very unjustly qualified as a bore. But despite his gifts of person and mind, he may very well have been a disagreeable man iu certain circles; he was always arrogant and, as Cantabs say, bumptious, and at times boldly unconven- tional. Early in his career he met with some great moral chill. I forget whether his offers had been rejected by a young lady or a parliamentary con- stituency; at any rate he was terribly disgusted with the world, and longed to find something like the boots of Bombastes. At last the i(lea struck him. He was invited to a soiree at some great ladys where the Queen was expected to appear, and in fact did appear. llarcourt appeared alsoin a black tie. London society trembled to its base. The Morning Post fulminated an article on the decline of morals and manners as exemplified by the intrusion of black cravats into the presence of royalty. Everybody declared Vernon llarcourt odd, an expression which means a good deal in an Englishman s mouth, and is generally applied to eccentric gentlemen who jump out of win- doxvs after cutting their wives throats. Btmt there was no do lunatico inqui- rendo writ issued upon the future Historicus; on the contrary, he had made a hit and become a lion. 1874.] PHYSICAL IMPEDIMENTS TO SOCIAL SUCCESS. 67 Yes, the English are particular about cravats. It is the rule that no one can be admitted to any part of Her Majestys opera house except ia full dress, which would rigidly imply a white cravat, though I am not absolutely certain that black ties are excluded; but any speck of color on a man is as strictly prohibited as a bonnet on a ladys head would be. A French gentleman once presented himself at the pit entrance. His dress coat and black trousers and waistcoat and gants de beurre frais were all en r~gle, but his embroidered cravat showed a minute flower of some color. Cant come in, sir. Why not? Not full dress. Mr. Gaul let off some mild ejaculations, and re- quested to know how and why he was not in full dress. Colored cravat, sir. The ready-witted Parisian retired to a corner of the lobby, whipped off the offending article extemporized a white tie with his pocket handker- chief, and walked in triumphant. Returning from this digression, let us look back to what was said at the outset, namely, that very obvious and grave physical defects might not prove social disqualifications. Analogous to this is the fact that confirmed invalids may enjoy a great deal of society. The only question is, what kind of society? And we may answer, almost any kind except that of the ball-room; anything indoors which does not demand late hours or being continually on ones feet. Unless suffering in the throat or lungs, the invalids conversational powers are unimpaired. This is obvious enough, but some persons would hardly asso- ciate the ideas of weak health and good living. Yet they ofteu go together. Many invalids, especially elderly invalids, absolutely require the best eating and drinking they can get. Others, though obliged to practise discretion, enjoy very much the things which they, can take in the limited quantities allowed them. And thus you will find persons who are hardly able to walk from the carriage into the house, b~t once comfortably seated in the house are the most genial and entertaining of gue~ts. The formal dinner party, however, with its extreme length and its dangers of overheated rooms and stupid neighbors, is apt to be too fatiguing; afternoon receptions, with informal collations always ready, are the great delight of the valetudinarian. Not that they were in- vented expressly for this class; they are the refuge of all those who like so- ciety, but do not reoard society as made up of perpetual dancing, with rare inteiludes of amateur music. In our hideous xvintcrs, when outdoor recrea- tion is almost impossible for weeks together, these receptions supply the place of exercise by the mental fillip they give; just as a man whom some accident has shut up in the house by himself all day will find his appetite for dinner better if he has studied or written or used his mind in some way, than if lie has lounged vaguely about and read newspapers. And the light refreshments ap- propriate to the occasiona biscuit, a sandwich, a cup of bouillon, a glass of sherry, a plate of galantineare not of a nature to disturb digestion or interfere with the subsequent enjoyment of dinner. The difficulty at first was to find men enough; but fortunately the slaves of the counting-house and the danc- ing machines do not absorb between them all the male material, and the op- portunity soon developed (as it always does) much that had before existed in a latent state. The introduction of day receptions into the fashionable programme was a very positive step in American civilization. Of course the practice may be abused, like everything else. It is abused at Washington, but only by official people, through official necessities. Some innocent and sanguine person, who thought that day receptions were 68 A SIGH. [JAN. unsuited to a commercial community (that lovely mercantile spirit again!), re- cently insisted that the evening was the only time for an American entertain- ment, but also insisted that we. must go back to the simple evenings of our fathers. Exactlyand to the two-story brick houses. and the population of 200,000. It would be just as easy as ~oing back to Palurns pyramids. For my own part, I am not the least inclined to be laudator temporis acti, if the aeti refers to anything qaorum pars fuianything which I am old enough to re- member. The fashionable society of my youth was nearly as bad as it could be in everything but technical morality. It understood good eating and drinking very well, and dress very fairly; in saying this we have exhausted the list of its merits. It had no artistic or literary proclivities. It had no amusement but dancing, and on Sundays and other occasions, when the men could find no women to (lance with, they went to sleep or gambled. It had no proper esprit de corps, and allowed itself to be bullied and insulted by clerks and reporters and any outside influence that had the requisite audacity. Now that it is gone, some say that our present fashionable society is worse. It may be. With God all things are possible and many things are possible with another party. But I shall require more personal experience (which I am not vei.y likely to have) before assenting to the proposition. Surely when millionaires are proud of being art students, and female leaders of fashion write in The Galaxy, the outlook is not so very bad from an intellectual point of view. And it is to the intellectual and artistic elements of society that we must look for an antidote to the absorbing mercantile and material elements, since the notion of asceticizing a great and wealthy community is sheer absurdity. CARL BENSON. A SIGH. HOW can I live, my love, so far from thee, Since far from thee my spirit droops and dies? Who is there left, my love, for me to see, Since beauty is concentrate in thine eyes? My only life is sending thee my sighs, Which, as sweet birds fly home from deserts lone, Fly swift to thee as each swift moment flies, Uprising from the current of my moan. But closed is still thy heart of cruel stone, And my poor si~hs drop murdered at thy feet; For which while I in grief do sigh and groan, New hosts arise to meet a death so sweet. Then, love, give scorn; for if love thou didst give, How could I love thee in thy sight and live? VIRGINIA VAUGhN.

68 A SIGH. [JAN. unsuited to a commercial community (that lovely mercantile spirit again!), re- cently insisted that the evening was the only time for an American entertain- ment, but also insisted that we. must go back to the simple evenings of our fathers. Exactlyand to the two-story brick houses. and the population of 200,000. It would be just as easy as ~oing back to Palurns pyramids. For my own part, I am not the least inclined to be laudator temporis acti, if the aeti refers to anything qaorum pars fuianything which I am old enough to re- member. The fashionable society of my youth was nearly as bad as it could be in everything but technical morality. It understood good eating and drinking very well, and dress very fairly; in saying this we have exhausted the list of its merits. It had no artistic or literary proclivities. It had no amusement but dancing, and on Sundays and other occasions, when the men could find no women to (lance with, they went to sleep or gambled. It had no proper esprit de corps, and allowed itself to be bullied and insulted by clerks and reporters and any outside influence that had the requisite audacity. Now that it is gone, some say that our present fashionable society is worse. It may be. With God all things are possible and many things are possible with another party. But I shall require more personal experience (which I am not vei.y likely to have) before assenting to the proposition. Surely when millionaires are proud of being art students, and female leaders of fashion write in The Galaxy, the outlook is not so very bad from an intellectual point of view. And it is to the intellectual and artistic elements of society that we must look for an antidote to the absorbing mercantile and material elements, since the notion of asceticizing a great and wealthy community is sheer absurdity. CARL BENSON. A SIGH. HOW can I live, my love, so far from thee, Since far from thee my spirit droops and dies? Who is there left, my love, for me to see, Since beauty is concentrate in thine eyes? My only life is sending thee my sighs, Which, as sweet birds fly home from deserts lone, Fly swift to thee as each swift moment flies, Uprising from the current of my moan. But closed is still thy heart of cruel stone, And my poor si~hs drop murdered at thy feet; For which while I in grief do sigh and groan, New hosts arise to meet a death so sweet. Then, love, give scorn; for if love thou didst give, How could I love thee in thy sight and live? VIRGINIA VAUGhN. LANG ~YNE AT LAUSANNE. I T is only about a century ago that the romance of the Nouvelle H~loise brought Lake Leman into fashion, and it might have gone out of fashion again with that romance, and many other things of that time which have so utterly passed away, had not the landscape mania of the nineteenth century kept the lake in vogue. Such, however, is the used-up condi- tion induced in tourists by the modern fa- cilities of travel that it is rare to find any one now approaching Lake Leman in the gushing condition so prevalent seven- ty years ago, when people wept at Meil- lerie or went disputing all over Clarens about the site of the too famous bos- quet. Althou~h other lakes have given a name to a school of poetry, there is none with whose shores are linked so many souvenirs of literary renown. Among the Swiss lakes, the lake of Lu- cerne is by many thought more beautiful, but how different are its associations! The plain of Griitli, Altorf, the bay of Un, take us back to our early youth, when the story of Gesler and Tell, the apple, the storm on the lake, kindled our enthusiasm over the stories and legends that cling aronnd the origins of Swiss his- tory. Lake Leman, on the other hand, leads our thoughts to the great authors whose works have been the delight of our maturer years. How rich is the catalogue which might he made of the brilliant in- tellects whose names are associated with the shores of Lake Leman; the reform- ers, the naturalists, the romancers, the poets, the historians, who have dwelt here. Calvin, De Saussure, Rousseau, Byron. Sismondi, Voltaire, Gibbon, Ma- dame de Sta~lthese are but a few of those who have lived here, or who have said or sung the beauties of the scene. It would be impossible within our limits to include them all; we have therefore chosen a single point, and shall endeavor to re- call the literary memories of Lausanne by selections from the writings of the dis- tinguished authors who, towards the end of the last century, made that little city an attractive centre of literary interest. Lausanne, the capital of the canton of Vaud, charmingly situated on the slopes of Mont Jorat, about a mile above the shore of Lake Leman, recalls to us at once the name of Gibbon, who, having been sent here for education in his youth, chose it as the home of his declining years. Lest the traveller ofthe present day should be caught napping in his literary remi- niscences, the immense sign of the hOtel Gibbon, almost the first thing to greet the approaching stranger, seems to have la- belled the town for all tune to come. The occasion of Gibbons first coming to Lau- sanne is emnin~ntiy characteristic of the student and the man of books. Having entered at Magdalen College, Oxford, he falls into the hands of very careless tutors, who leave him to follow entirely his own bent; and his bent being to read every- thing he can lay hands on, he ends by reading himselt into a belief in transub- stantiation and all the leading dogmas of the Romish Church. Thus it was not by the foolishness of preaching, nor by the sensuous beauty of a brilliant ceremonial, but only by the reading of books, that the insatiate student was brought into the churchs fold. The chief of these books were Bossuets Exposition of the Cath- olic Doctrine, and his History of the Protestant Variations. As Gibbon him- self expresses it, I surely fell by a noble hand. Having reached this belief, he steals off to London, and finds a priest to shrive and admit him to the Holy Roman Catholic Church. But what follows? A repudiation so decided of the thirty-nine articles of the Anglican faith naturally resulted, as soon as known, in the expul- sion of the neophyte from Magdalen Col- lege; and the angry father sent his boy (July, 1753), at the age of sixteen, to a Calvinistic pastor at Lausanne, to be won from the error of his ways. The history of Gibbons religious belief may be said to end here; as well through his own reasoning as through the arguments of his tutor, he lost his conviction of the truth of the real presence, and with that fell his belief in the Romish creed. A year or two after his corning to Lausanne he went through a form of returning to

LANG ~YNE AT LAUSANNE. I T is only about a century ago that the romance of the Nouvelle H~loise brought Lake Leman into fashion, and it might have gone out of fashion again with that romance, and many other things of that time which have so utterly passed away, had not the landscape mania of the nineteenth century kept the lake in vogue. Such, however, is the used-up condi- tion induced in tourists by the modern fa- cilities of travel that it is rare to find any one now approaching Lake Leman in the gushing condition so prevalent seven- ty years ago, when people wept at Meil- lerie or went disputing all over Clarens about the site of the too famous bos- quet. Althou~h other lakes have given a name to a school of poetry, there is none with whose shores are linked so many souvenirs of literary renown. Among the Swiss lakes, the lake of Lu- cerne is by many thought more beautiful, but how different are its associations! The plain of Griitli, Altorf, the bay of Un, take us back to our early youth, when the story of Gesler and Tell, the apple, the storm on the lake, kindled our enthusiasm over the stories and legends that cling aronnd the origins of Swiss his- tory. Lake Leman, on the other hand, leads our thoughts to the great authors whose works have been the delight of our maturer years. How rich is the catalogue which might he made of the brilliant in- tellects whose names are associated with the shores of Lake Leman; the reform- ers, the naturalists, the romancers, the poets, the historians, who have dwelt here. Calvin, De Saussure, Rousseau, Byron. Sismondi, Voltaire, Gibbon, Ma- dame de Sta~lthese are but a few of those who have lived here, or who have said or sung the beauties of the scene. It would be impossible within our limits to include them all; we have therefore chosen a single point, and shall endeavor to re- call the literary memories of Lausanne by selections from the writings of the dis- tinguished authors who, towards the end of the last century, made that little city an attractive centre of literary interest. Lausanne, the capital of the canton of Vaud, charmingly situated on the slopes of Mont Jorat, about a mile above the shore of Lake Leman, recalls to us at once the name of Gibbon, who, having been sent here for education in his youth, chose it as the home of his declining years. Lest the traveller ofthe present day should be caught napping in his literary remi- niscences, the immense sign of the hOtel Gibbon, almost the first thing to greet the approaching stranger, seems to have la- belled the town for all tune to come. The occasion of Gibbons first coming to Lau- sanne is emnin~ntiy characteristic of the student and the man of books. Having entered at Magdalen College, Oxford, he falls into the hands of very careless tutors, who leave him to follow entirely his own bent; and his bent being to read every- thing he can lay hands on, he ends by reading himselt into a belief in transub- stantiation and all the leading dogmas of the Romish Church. Thus it was not by the foolishness of preaching, nor by the sensuous beauty of a brilliant ceremonial, but only by the reading of books, that the insatiate student was brought into the churchs fold. The chief of these books were Bossuets Exposition of the Cath- olic Doctrine, and his History of the Protestant Variations. As Gibbon him- self expresses it, I surely fell by a noble hand. Having reached this belief, he steals off to London, and finds a priest to shrive and admit him to the Holy Roman Catholic Church. But what follows? A repudiation so decided of the thirty-nine articles of the Anglican faith naturally resulted, as soon as known, in the expul- sion of the neophyte from Magdalen Col- lege; and the angry father sent his boy (July, 1753), at the age of sixteen, to a Calvinistic pastor at Lausanne, to be won from the error of his ways. The history of Gibbons religious belief may be said to end here; as well through his own reasoning as through the arguments of his tutor, he lost his conviction of the truth of the real presence, and with that fell his belief in the Romish creed. A year or two after his corning to Lausanne he went through a form of returning to 70 LANG SYNE AT LAUSANNE. [JAN. the Protestant church and partook of the sacrament, but this was probably the last flicker of his faith. Gibbons first impressions of Lausanne gave little promise of his future attach- ment to the place. I had now exchanged (he writes in his memoirs) my elegant apartment in Magdalen College for a narrow, gloomy street, the most unfrequented of an un- handsome town, for an old, inconvenient house, and for a small chamber, ill con- trived and ill furnished, which, on the ap- proach of winter, instead of a companion- al)le fire must be warmed by the dull, insensible heat of a stove. From a man I was again degraded to the dependence of a school-boy. Mr. Parilliard managed my expenses, which had been reduced to a diminutive state; I received a small monthly allowance for my pocket-money; and helpless and awkward as I have ever been, I no longer enjoyed the indispensa- ble comfort of a servant. My condition seemed as destitute of hope as it was de- void of pleasure. I was separated for an indefinitewhich appeared an infinite term from my native country; and I had lost all connection with my Catholic friends. I have since reflected with sur- prise, that as the Romish clergy of every part of Europe maintain a close corre- spondence with each other, they never attempted, by letters or messages, to res- cue me from the hands of the heretics, or at least to confirm my zeal and constancy in the profession of the faith. Sijch was my first introduction to Lausannea place where I spent nearly five years with pleasure and profit, which I afterwards revisited without compulsion, and which I have finally selected as the most grate- ful retreat for the decline of my life. The sojourn at Lausanne during the imnpressiOnal)lC years of youth from six teen to twenty-one left its lasting imupres- sion on Gibbon. He returned to England very French for an En~lishman, and his first literary effort was an esssy on the study of literature, written in the French language. Fortunately for English let- ters, a long service in the Hampshire militia and a life in Parliament identified the future historian with his native coun- tryreanglicized him, so to speak. Dur- ing all the weary years of the American Revolution he sat in Parliament a silent member, but voting steadily for all the measures of Lord North; and on the fall of that minister he lost the small place he had obtained through the ministerial influence, and retired from political life. But it is with Gibbon on the shores of Lake Lemnan that we are more especially occupied, and we find him at Lausanne not only busied with religion but with love. Although he cannot with accuracy be classed with the school of the Ency- clopsedia, he possessed essentially that phi- losophic nature to attain which was the ardent aim of those brilliant wits of his century. Whatever part they took in life, it was to be taken philosophically, and when death came the anxious inquiry arose among the surviving comrades, Has our friend me the dread enemy like a philosopher? Almer this fashion Gibbon met Cupid, and during his youthful resi- dence at Lausanne paid a philosophic adoration to Miss Susan Carchod, the daughter of a village pastor. In later years, with philosophic calmness, he gives us the history of how love may be made by a philosopher. I found her learned without pedantry, lively in conversation, pure in sentiment, and elegant in manners; and the first sudden emotion was fortified by the habits and knowledge of a more familiar acquaintance. She permitted me to make her two or three visits at her fathers house. I passed some happy days there in the mountains of Burgundy, and her parents honorably encouraged the con- nection. In a calm retirement the gay vanity of youth no lqnger fluttered in her bosom; she listened to the voice of truth and passion, and I might presume to hope that I had made some impression on a virtnous heart. At Crassy and Lausanne I indulged my dreams of felicity; but on my return to England I soon discovered that my father would not hear of this strange alliance, and that without his consent I was myself destitute and help- less. After a painful struggle I yielded to my fate; I sighed as a lover, I obeyed as a son; may wound was insensibly heal- ed by time, absence, and the habits of a new life. My cure was accelerated by a faithful report of the tranquillity and cheerfulness of the lady herself, and my love subsided in friendship and esteem. Would, the readers of the Nouvelle HMoisc, whose first ideas of Lake Le- man were as the scene of St. Preuxs joys 1874.3 LANG SYNE AT LAUSAWNE. 71. and lamentations, have believed Lhat on these same shores love had been made so philosophically and without transports? Gibbon remained a bachelor all his life, but in after years, when MIle. Carchod had become the celebrated Mine. Necker, the acquaintance was renewed, and it was to Mine. Necker that he turned for counsel when he at one tune thought of taking a wife as a companion for his de- clining age. Mine. Neckers advice was against late marriages, but as a sort of offiuet and source of consolation, she like a good wife recommended to him her hus- bands book on Llmportance des Opi- nions religieuses a very natural act in Mine. Necker, for it was a settled principle in the Necker family that M. Necker was a genius; and the mother and daughter, however disunited, always agreed upon this point. Probably no one would be more astonished than his daughter, if she were to return to the world, to find that in the latter half of the nineteenth cen- tury that great genius M. Necker is best known as the father of Mine. de Sta~l. Gibbon himself was too old at the open- ing of the French Revolution to enter into the stream of new ideas of which (9orinne was one of the apostles. He speaks of her several times in a casual way in the course of his letters; Once he alludes to her, in passing, as a pleasant little woman, and again, in writing to 1i~dy Sheffield, October 22, 1784, he says: They (the N~ckers) have now a very troublesome charge, which you will experience in a few yearsthe disposal of a baroness. MIle. Necker, one of the greatest heiresses in Europe, is now about eighteen, wild, vain, but good-natured, and with a much larger provision of wit than beauty. What increases their difficulty is their reli~ious obstinacy of marrying her only to a Pro- testant. Although Gibbons early love passed away in a sort of philosophic vapor, he possessed all the gallantry of his time, to which his great corpulence in his later years must have lent an air of solemn gravity. There is even a story of his full habit leading hiia once into direful straits; it has no better authority than that not too veracious gossip, Mine. de Genlis, but is amusing even if not true. Finding himself one day, says Mine. de Genlis, t~te-& -tJte with Mine. de Crousaz for the first time, Gibbon, de sirous of seizing upon a moment so favor- able, threw himself suddenly upon his knees, and declared to her his love in the most passionate terms. Mine. de Crousaz replied to him in such a manner as to take from him all desire to repeat so fine a scene. Gibbon put on an expression of consternation, but remained on his knees in spite of repeated requests to reseat himself; he was immovable and silent. Rise, sir, repeated Mine. de Crousaz. Alas! madame, replied the unhappy lover, I cannot. In fact his corpu- lence would not allow him to rise with- out help. Mine. de Crousaz rang the bell and said to the servant who came in, Help up Mr. Gibbon Among Gibbons contemporaries at Lausanne was the celebrated Tissot, the most widely known physician of his time, whose great reputation vied with the at- tractions of the landscape in bringing crowds to Lausanne. Tissots Avis au Peuple sur sa Santa was one of the most popular books of its day, and was trans- lated into fourteen languages. This book, written with the hope of ameliorating the sanitary condition of the people of Vaud, became the fiishion all over Europe. Mine. de Genlis practised medicine in the villages on her estate, as she says, avec mon Tissot ~ la main. This lady had, however, a mania for knowing how to do everything, even to bleeding. Her own account of her medical practice is very characteristic of her insatiate ac- tivity. I practised medicine constantly at Genlis, she writes, with my Tissot in my hand, and associated with M. Ra- cine, the village barber, who always caine very gravely to consult me whenever he had any patients. We went together to visit them; my prescriptions were con- fined to simple teas and broth, which I usually sent from the castle. I was at least of service in moderating the zeal of M. Racine for einetics, which he pre- scribed for almost every ill. I had per- fected myself in the art of bleeding; the peasants often came and asked inc to bleed them, which I did; but as it was known that I always gave them from twenty-four to thirty sous after a bleed- ing, I had soon a great number of patients, and I suspected that they were attracted by the thirty sons. After that, I bled no more unless by the direction of M. Milet, 72 LANG SYNE AT LAUSANNE. [JAN. surgeon of La lkre, who came to Genus every eight or ten days. The visit of Mine. de Genus to Lan- sanne was made during Gibbons resi- dence in England; she did not therefore meet him there, but she saw much of Tissot, visited, as everybody did, the rocks of Meillerie, and won her usual triumphs with her harp, even to causing a dis- tressed widower to faint with emotion. In describing her tour in Switzerland she says: I stopped at Lausanne, where I wish- ed to consult M. Tissot in regard to my mothers health. People caine at this season from all parts of Europe to consult this celebrated physician. On my arrival at Lausanne it was impossible to find a lodging. While NI. Gillier and NI. Ott were searching in vain, I sat wearily in the carriage with my maid. A young man, said to be the Prince of Holstein, whom I had met in the library at Bale, was at his window, recognized me, saw my dilemma, came down to the carriage, opened it, begged me to get out, and held out his hand, saying that, he would take me to a lady who would give me a lodg- ing. Delighted with this adventure, I allowed him to conduct me. At the end of the street he led me into a house. We go up the stairs, pass through several rooms, and come to a pretty parlor, where 1 find a lady ~vith a pleasant face, alone, and playing the guitar; it was Mine. de Crousaz, afterwards Mine. de Montolieu, the author of some clever translations of German romances. The Prince mentions my name, tells my embarrassment, and asks Mine. de Crousaz fbr rooms for me in the house of her father-in-law, who was absent. Mine. de (Jrousaz welcomes me with much grace, rises, and leads me im- mediately to her father-in-laws house, after sending for my travelling coinpan- ions, and establishes me in charIning rooms with an enchanting view of the lake of Geneva. I passed twelve days at Lausanne constantly with Mine. de Crou- saz. They gave me fates and balls and concerts; I sang and played the harp as much as they wished. I was taken charming excursions on the lake; I did not fail to go and see the rocks ofMeillerie. The circle of Mine. de Crousaz was ex- ceedingly agreeable. I saw every day M. Tissot, who seemed flattered that I knew all his works by heart; he was very fond of music, and I was very happy to play the harp ,for him. On one of these evenings which we passed together I had a sad triumph, which gave me much pain. A gentleman dressed in mourning was present, whom I had never before seen. I sang remarkably well the air Jai perdu mon Eurydice, of which Gluck himself had taught me the style and expression ; in tIme middle of this air the gentleman in mourning burst into tears, and suddenly faiuting fell senseless into the arms of his neighbor; he had lost, three months before. a wife whom he adored. Mine. de Crousaz, who had already heard me sing this air, but who wa~ not near me at the moment, made nie a sign not to sing it; unfortunately 1 did not understand her. In Eynards Life of Tissot there is a pretty picture of social life at Lausanne, in which Gibbon appears in a much more favorable light than in the malicious gos- sip of Mine. de Genlis. The story has also a further zest added to it by the laughable misapprehension of the poor Germuan, evidently of that Wertherian school which has unfortunately disap- peared b3fore the goose-step and martial glory: A German highly educated, but natu- rally ardent and enthusiastic, presented hiInself, furnished with excellent letters of recommendation, to one of our profes- sors at Lausanne, and expressed to 1dm his desire to make the acquaintance of the immortal author of the Avis au Peu- ple. The professor was going that even- ing to visit Mine. de Chavriare, who re- ceived the most agreeable people of Lau- sanne. He proposed to the gentleman to introduce him there; it was in the coun- try. At the moment when they arrived at Mine. de Chavriares the company had just been playing gaines and were pay- ing the forielts. One of the company was playing on a violin, while a gentle- man of remarkable corpulence appeared to be searching the room for something he could not find. At len~th time violin gave forth louder sounds, and the stout gentlemanit was no less a personage than the illustrious Gibboncame arid to(ik the hand of M. Tissot, whose figure, tall, di~nified, and cold, formed the most complete contrast with his own. But this was not enough; the violin continued to play, arid they were both obliged to dance 1874.] LANG SYNE AT LAUSANNE. 73 several figures cf a minuet, to the great delight of the whole assemblage. It was the payment of the forfeit due from Gib- bon, whose joyous temperament readily lent itself to this form of pleasantry. But this was precisely what was not compre- heuded by the German, whose sensibility and emotion at this spectacle had been plainly visible. The following year, what was the astonishment at Lausanne on learning that he had taken it all seriously, and that in the account of his travels, which he had just printed, he cited as one of the most remarkable occurrences the advantage of having seen the celebrated historian of Rome and the illustrious philanthropist, the benefactor of human- ity, intertwining dances and harmonious steps, and thus recalling the beautiful days of Arcadia, all whose antique virtue and simplicity they possessed. Lu the winter of 1757 came to Lausanne the greatest man of his day, Voltaire, and this and the two succeeding winters he passed there in a perpetual round of verse-making, festivities, and private theatricals. Voltaire on his return from his unlucky visit to Prussia decided to establish himself on the borders of Lake Leman, but had not yet made a choice of a permanent abode. He had at one time five residences on the lake: three near Geueva, L~s Ddlices, Tournay, and Fer- ney; two at Lausaune, one iu the town and one at Mourion. Rampant ainsi dune tanhre dans lautre, he writes to the Duchess of Saxe-Gotha, je me sauve des rois et des arm~es. To an- other he says: All these residences are necessary to me. I am delighted to pass 5.) easily from one frontier to the other. If I were only a Genevese, I should be too subject to Geneva; if I were only a Frenchman, I should he too subject to France. I have made a destiny for my- self alone. I have an odd little kingdo~a in a Swiss valley. I am like the Old Man of the Mountain: with my four proper- ties Lam on all fours. Mourion is my little eabin, my winter palace sheltered from the cruel north wind. Then I have ar- ranged for myself a house at Lausanne which would be called a palace in Italy. Jud~,e for yourself: fifteen windows look upon the lake to the right, to the left, and in front; a hundred gardens are below may garden, bathed by the blue mirror of the lake; I see all Savoy, and the Alps rising in amphitheatre, on which the suns rays cause a thousand variations of light and shade. This house is now No. 6, rue du Grand Ch~ne, at Lau- sanne. Voltaires letters at this period are full of his beautiful lake, of which he can see twenty leagues from his bed; but sometimes we have the reverse of the pic- ture: I write you from my bed, where I am suffering the torments of the damn- ed, having before me beautiful gardens, a charming country, a fine lake; on my right the Jura mountains, on my left the eternal snows of the great Alps, and in my body the devil. The little circle of society at Lausanne naturally welcomed with enthusiasm so distinguished an addition to their number. The wealth of Voltaire enabled him to keep an open house to all comners, and on the plea of ill health he excused himself from returning their visits. To the Abb& Olivet he writes from his country-house of Mourion, near Lausanne: I had no idea of happiness until I caine to live in retirement, in a house of my own. But what retirement! I have sometimes fifty persons at table, I leave them with Mine. Denis, who does the honors, and go and shut myself up. I have built what would be called in Italy un palazzo; but I like none of it except niy room full of books, senectutem alunt. The canton of Va~md was at this period subject to the oligarchy of Berne, and governed by bailiffs sent from Berne, who were not slow to magnify their office. The sly wit of the Vaudois was ever ready to revenge itself by making a butt of these pompous tyrants, and it was not long before a story was about of the ad- vice the bailiff had given to Voltaire. M. de Voltaire, said the bailiff, they say that you write against God; that is had, but I trust that he will pardon you. They add that you rail at religion; that is again very bad; and against our Lord Jesus Christ; that is also had, hut I hope nevertheless that he also will pardon you in his great mercy. M. de Voltaire! take good care not to write against Their Excellencies of Berne, our Sovereimrn Lords, for you may count upon it they would never pardon you. What especially delighted Voltaire at Lausann~e was the success of his private theatricals, for which he had a great pas- sion. A theatre was fitted up at the 74 LANG SYNE AT LAUSANNE. [JAN. country house of Monrepos, near Lan- sanne, then owned by the Marquis de Langalerie. The theatre was arranged in a barn adjoining the house, in such a manner that although the actors were in the hay-loft the audience was in the house. To this day one may hear the anecdote t9ld in Lausanne, that once in Zaire, when Voltaire as Lusignan exclaims, Oji suis- je? guidez mesfaiblesyeux, a wag called out, Sei~neur, cest le grenier dii maitre de ces lieux. Vol- taire is never wearied of writing to his friends about his theatricals. I play the old man Lusi~nan las- sure you, without vanity, that I am the best old fool to be found in any com- pany. To his friend Thiriot: 1 wish that you had passed the winter with me at Lausanne. You would have seen new pieces performed by excellent actors, strangers coming from thirty leagues around, and my beautiful shores of Lake Leman become the home of art, of pleas- tire, and of taste. To his niece, Mine. de Fontaine: The idlers of Paris think that Switzerland is a savage country; they would be very much astonished if they saw Zaire better played at Lau- sanne than it is played at Paris; they would be still more surprised to see two hundred spectators as good judges as there are in Europe. . . . Ii have made tears flow from all the Swiss eyes. We might cite page after page from Vol- taires letters all equally enthusiastic, but fortunately we have a calmer and more disinterested witness of these triumphs in Gibbon. Before 1 was recalled from Switzer- land, writes Gibbon, I had the satis- faction of seeing the most extraordinary man of the age; a poet, a historian, a philosopher who has filled thirty quartos of prose and verse with his various pro- ductions, often excellent and always en- tertaining. Need I add the name of Voltaire? After forfeiting by his own misconduct the friendship of the first of kings, he retired, at the age of sixty, with a plentiful fortune, to a free and beautiful country, and resided two win- ters (1757 and 1758) in the town and neighborhood of Lausanne. My desire of beholding Voltaire, whom I then rated above his real magnitude, was easily gratified. He received me with civility as an English youth; but I cannot boast of any peculiar notice or distinction. Vir- gilium vidi tantum. . . . The highest gratification which I derived from Vol- taires residence at Lausanne, was the uncommon circumnstance of hearing a great poet declaim his own productions on the stage. He had formed a company of gen- tlemen and ladies, some of whom were not destitute of talents. A decent thea- tre was framed at Monrepos, a country house at the end of a suburb; dresses and scenes were provided at the expense of the actors, and the author directed the rehearsals with the zeal and attention of paternal love. In two successive winters his tragedies of Zaire, Alzire, Zn- lime, and his sentimental comedy of the Enfant Prodigue, were played at the theatre of Monrepos. Voltaire repre- sented the characters best adapted to his years, Lusignan, Alvarez, Benassar, Euphemon. His declamation was fash- ioned to the pomp and cadence of the old stage; and he expressed the enthusiasm of poetry rather than the feelings of na- ture. My ardor, which soon became con- spicuous, seldom failed of procuring me a ticket. The habits of pleasure fortified my taste for the French theatre, and that taste has perhaps abated my idolatry for the gigantic genius of Shakespeare, which is inculcated from our infancy as the first duty of an Englishman. We began these desultory gleanings from the literary souvenirs of Lausanne with an allusion to Jean Jacques Rous- seau as having brought Lake Leman into fashion. The associations of Rousseau with Lausanne are not, however, impor- tant, with the exception of its being the scene of a boyish freak which would have been long ago forgotten had it not found a place in the Confessions. In 1732, when he was about twenty years ofage, Rous- seau made his ridiculous debut at Lau- sanne as M. Vaussore de Villeneuve, com- poser and teacher of music. During a short absence of Mine. de Warens from Annecy, Rousseau had undertaken a jour- ney to Fribourg, and on his way back, in- stead of returning directly by way of Nyon, he turned off toward Lausanne, wishing, he says, to revel in the view of the beautiful lake which is seen in its greatest extent from Lausanne. As he approached Lausanne, he says: I coin- pared myself in this pedestrian pilgrim- age to my friend Venture arriving at 1874.] LANG SYNE AT LAUSANNE. 75 Annecy. I became so much excited with this idea that, without thinking that I had neither his grace nor his talents, I took it into my head to play at Lausanne the part of a little Venture, to teach music, which I did not know how to do, and to say that 1 was from Paris, where I had never been. . . . I endeavored to approach as near as possible to my great model. He called himself Venture de Villeneuve; I by an anagram converted the name of Rousseau into that of Vaus- sore, and I called myself Vaussore de Villeneuve. Venture understood compo- sition, although he had said nothing ahout it; I, without understanding it, boasted of my knowledge of it to every- body, and although I did not know how to note down the simplest ballad, gave myself out as a composer. This is not all. Hav- ing been presented to M. de Treytorens, professor of law, who was fond of music, and had concerts at his house, and being anxious to give him a specimen of my talents, I set myself to composing a piece for his concert with as much ef- frontery as if I had known how to go about it. I had the perseverance to work for a fortnight at this precious composi- tion, to make a fair copy of it, to write out the different parts, and to distribute them with as much assurance as if it had been a masterpiece of harmony. This piece in the playing resulted in a confused jumble of discordant sounds, but the performers had the wit to see that their best vengeance was to play it sober- 1y through to the end, although they were choking with laughter; while the audience would have been glad to have been able to close their ears as effectually as they were opening their eyes. Poor Rousseau, sweatin~ great drops, covered with shame and confusion, yet afraid to run away, was compelled by his execu- tioners, as he calls them, to beat the time to the end. The house is still pointed out in Lausanne where occurred this lu- dicrous scene. After this, not finding much employment as a music-teacher, Rousseau had plenty of time to revel in the scenery. He went to Vevay for two days, and daring that time, he says, I conceived for that town an affection which has followed me in all my travels. and caused me at length to place there the characters of my novel. I would gladly say to those who possess taste and sensibility, Go to Vevay, visit the adja- cent country, examine the localities, go about upon the lake, and say if nature has not made this beautiful region for a Julie, for a Claire, and for a St. Preux; but do not look for them there. The misanthropic irony of Rousseaus conclusion (ne 1 s y cherchez pas) is no longer needed. Of the thousands of vis- itors who yearly throng the great hotels of Vevay and Lausanne, how many in the rush of fashion ar~ probably looking there for Julie or St. Preux? Nobody seeks theum, and if they were by chance to ap- pear they would at once be set down as a pair of last-century bores. Yet while in this scenery-hunting age the beauties of the landscape possess still all their at- tractions, doubly fortunate is the thought- ful tourist who finds the natural beauty of Lake Leman enhanced by the charm that ever clings around a spot so often chosen by genius as its favorite abode. A FLOWER OF THE SNOW. A WOMAN stood on the high steps locking the school-house door, and as she dropped the clumsy iron key into her basket and turned to go away, mechanically her eyes wandered over the familiar scene, the frozen water and bleak islands in front, the icy cliffs behind, and on either side the houses of the little vii- lage, lifeless and buried in the snows of a six months winter. Desolation! she murmured a land of desolation and death! and descending the steps, she walked down the narrow path dug out between the snow drifts, unmelted month after month, and piled higher with each successive storm until they formed a wall even with her head. The school-house thus left to itself for a week, the Christ- mas vacation, was a three-story square frame house, with rows of blindless win- dows that seemed to gaze like staring eyes down on the village below, and spy out all its sins. It was originally built as a dormitory for the Indians when they assembled on Giant Island for the annual payment; but the sons of the forest per- sistently refused to occupy the abode made ready for them, and although they were repeatedly escorted thither by the United States Agent, and although they repeatedly expressed in flowery hyper- bole their admiration for the white mans lodge, just as repeatedly were they found wrapped in their blankets on the beach the dormitory tenantless on the hill be- hind them. No wonder they could not sleep there, was Miss Morans thought as the slow-speaking trustee told her the story while showing her tle building where she was to rule; ugly white- washed piece of utility! An Indian brought up in the Gothic arches of the forest, with the free air of heaven to breathe, would stifle in those geometri- cally square rooms. And so they slept out doors, and were such fools that they never knew the com- fort of a good warm house! But all In- dians are born fools, you know, Miss Mo- ran, concluded the trustee. And he but echoed the opinion of the whole frontier, and even expressed it mildly, as harsher epithets were generally used by the sail- ors and fishermen who formed the popu- lation of Giant Island. The early autumn came; the maples turned red and gold among the faithful pines, and let fall their leaves one by one through the still Indian summer days; then one night a north wind came down upon the island and whirled them away, and at last even the juniper curled up, the larches ceased to beckon on the heights, and the gray moss shrank away from the pines. Winter began, the school opened, and Miss Moran found occupa- tion for thoughts and hands in teaching and governing her motley throng of scholars, French-and-white, French-and- Indian quarter-breed, half-breed, and even pure undiluted Ohippewasturdy little rascals who did not know what truth was; and how should they, since it formed no part of the Indians code of morals? It was hard work, for the schoolmistress had a conscience, and tried each day to do each days duty faithfully. It was a contesta contest of will; the will of one slender woman against the will of fifty undisciplined, half~wild chil- dren. But the slender woman con- quered. The late spring came reluctantly up from the south and thawed the thick ice around the island; slowly the great blocks moved out to sea, and then a ship came round the point bringing news from below, as the islanders called the out- side world; the lights shone again in the deserted towers, and looking from her dormer windows the mistress saw in the east the gleam of Bois-Blanc, and far down in the west the flash of Waugo- schance, showing the way through the straits. A green tinge came over the forests on the mainland, and the deep snows disappeared, not melting, as they do in warmer latitudes, but seeming to crumble into dust and blow away. More ships sailed through the south channel, the smoke of steamers was seen, and finally the juniper stretched out its fairy rings, and the larches held out their green hands again, and beckoned over

A FLOWER OF THE SNOW. A WOMAN stood on the high steps locking the school-house door, and as she dropped the clumsy iron key into her basket and turned to go away, mechanically her eyes wandered over the familiar scene, the frozen water and bleak islands in front, the icy cliffs behind, and on either side the houses of the little vii- lage, lifeless and buried in the snows of a six months winter. Desolation! she murmured a land of desolation and death! and descending the steps, she walked down the narrow path dug out between the snow drifts, unmelted month after month, and piled higher with each successive storm until they formed a wall even with her head. The school-house thus left to itself for a week, the Christ- mas vacation, was a three-story square frame house, with rows of blindless win- dows that seemed to gaze like staring eyes down on the village below, and spy out all its sins. It was originally built as a dormitory for the Indians when they assembled on Giant Island for the annual payment; but the sons of the forest per- sistently refused to occupy the abode made ready for them, and although they were repeatedly escorted thither by the United States Agent, and although they repeatedly expressed in flowery hyper- bole their admiration for the white mans lodge, just as repeatedly were they found wrapped in their blankets on the beach the dormitory tenantless on the hill be- hind them. No wonder they could not sleep there, was Miss Morans thought as the slow-speaking trustee told her the story while showing her tle building where she was to rule; ugly white- washed piece of utility! An Indian brought up in the Gothic arches of the forest, with the free air of heaven to breathe, would stifle in those geometri- cally square rooms. And so they slept out doors, and were such fools that they never knew the com- fort of a good warm house! But all In- dians are born fools, you know, Miss Mo- ran, concluded the trustee. And he but echoed the opinion of the whole frontier, and even expressed it mildly, as harsher epithets were generally used by the sail- ors and fishermen who formed the popu- lation of Giant Island. The early autumn came; the maples turned red and gold among the faithful pines, and let fall their leaves one by one through the still Indian summer days; then one night a north wind came down upon the island and whirled them away, and at last even the juniper curled up, the larches ceased to beckon on the heights, and the gray moss shrank away from the pines. Winter began, the school opened, and Miss Moran found occupa- tion for thoughts and hands in teaching and governing her motley throng of scholars, French-and-white, French-and- Indian quarter-breed, half-breed, and even pure undiluted Ohippewasturdy little rascals who did not know what truth was; and how should they, since it formed no part of the Indians code of morals? It was hard work, for the schoolmistress had a conscience, and tried each day to do each days duty faithfully. It was a contesta contest of will; the will of one slender woman against the will of fifty undisciplined, half~wild chil- dren. But the slender woman con- quered. The late spring came reluctantly up from the south and thawed the thick ice around the island; slowly the great blocks moved out to sea, and then a ship came round the point bringing news from below, as the islanders called the out- side world; the lights shone again in the deserted towers, and looking from her dormer windows the mistress saw in the east the gleam of Bois-Blanc, and far down in the west the flash of Waugo- schance, showing the way through the straits. A green tinge came over the forests on the mainland, and the deep snows disappeared, not melting, as they do in warmer latitudes, but seeming to crumble into dust and blow away. More ships sailed through the south channel, the smoke of steamers was seen, and finally the juniper stretched out its fairy rings, and the larches held out their green hands again, and beckoned over 1874.] A FLOWER OF THE SNOW. 77 the cliffs, as if saying to the distant ships, Friends, come up hither. The sum~ mer was short but vividly beautiful, and the mistress closed the school-house door, and spent the vacation abroad in the woods, among the dark pines, in the gay company of the water-maple, on the beach with the wash of little waves at her feet, or above on the bare cliffs with the golden sunshine warming her being into unwonted luxuriance. She blossom- ed, this pale bud, and one saw the un- expected bloom, and admired it, until in the warmth of admiration it opened into a red rose. The fort on the height was garrisoned with the full complement of officers and the small number of men usually found at the Western lake posts. A major, captain, two lieutenants, a surgeon, and chaplain, lived close together within the little stone enclosure, and Miss Moran, who had made her home in the chaplains house, found herself one of the military family whether she willed yes or no; but she willed yes. Originally coining to Giant Island for her health, alone in the world save some distant New England cousins, educated in books but ignorant of life, a self-repressed, self-contained, hard-working woman, the idea of spend- ing a year or two in this remote, isolated place had pleased her fancy, wearied with the monotony of a city public school. So she staid, and be~,an life and love to- gether; for as for the first time she loved, she realized that for the first time, also, she lived. Maxwell Ruger, Lieutenant Second Inhiintry, U. S. A., a stalwart young Saxon, with close-cut curly yellow hair, blue eyes with a steel glint in them, ruddy cheeks and fairy blue-veined tem- ples like a childthis was the knight who flashed into the crystal mirror of our modern Lady of Shalott. But no weakness, no boyishness accompanied this Saxon beauty; the bold outline and reso- lute mouth showed a will, while the ease of manner always found a way. Evi- dently, here was an accomplished young society man exiled on a rock. Coining and going, Max Huger noticed, at last, the girl coining and going also; pacing up and down the parade-ground on bitter days, he saw on the opposite side a womans figure wrapped in a gray cloak; reading by the window, the only reader in the garrison as he scornfully supposed, he observed some one at the oj)posite window bending over a book; chancing to call upon th~ chaplain one afternoon, he found George Eliots Mill on the Floss, Hawthornes Blithedale Romance, an abstract of Kant, and a book of Roman Catholic meditations piled together on a side table. Your books, Dr. Burns? he asked, idly opening one of them. Nay; they belong to the teacher, Mistress Moran, replied the old chap- lain, taking a pinch of snuff. A senthuentalist, with ringlets, a drawl, and sighing allusion to her past, Ill be bound! thought Max. The next morning he strolled over and found a pale dark-eyed woman, cold, silent, and unin- teresting. Why does she read such books? he thought; and, having noth- ing better to do, he set to work to find out. There is nothing more fascinating than discovery, and to ardent minds terra in- cognita is far more attractive than the home acres, however beautiful. Miss Mo- ran proved to b~e totally without the usual feminine ways; free, frank, and honest in her conversation, what she said had the charm of novelty to the society adept, and he found himself starting all kinds of subjects just to hear her opinions, which were often very unlike the cut-and- dried opinions of the fashionable world. There is nothing more agreeable than to feel ones self perfectly appreciated and understood in all ones various moods. Argumentative Max found here a mind that followed his subtlest windings; that comprehended his half-expressed fancies; that understood his lightest touches of humor, and was ready to plunge with him into those deep shadowed waters of feeling over which society talk usually glides hastily, half fearing, half ignoring their existence. The first winter passed, and these two were much together; she, one of many to him; he, the only one of all the world to her. The summer brought its changes, gay company thronged the beautiful isl- and, the maples saw city belles at their feet and no doubt wondered over them, the larches listened and heard sweet con- versations, and the cliffs kept their own secrets. Then, who so gay as the hand- some young officer? Who so much liked ~ 78 A FLOWER OF THE SNOW. [JAN. Who so much engrossed? And yet Mis- tress Moran, as the chaplain called her, refused to see the truth, excused it to herself, denied it, and resolutely held around her the old enchanted atmosphere, breaking away on every side in spite of her grasp. She lived on the garnered sweetuess of the past, and revelled in a vague, indefinite poetry. Not that she made vcrses. Only the unsatisfied or un- happy women make verses. She lived her poetry instead of writin0 it, so that when, at last, the red and yellow caine back to the maples, when the last sum- mer visitor had fled away southward, when Maxwell Ru~er returned to seek his fellow exile, he found her full of sweetnessthat sweetness that belongs only to a woman loving and loved. ig- noran~ as a child of the world and the worlds ways, the mistress trusted impli- citly. She loved: therefore she was loved. This was her creed. One indian summer Saturday, Miss Moran climbed the islands height and seated herself on the grassy mound of old Fort Holmes; idly she noted the ancient earthworks and tried to call up the combatants of a hundred years be- fore; but the peace of the purple air fill- ed her mind and drove away all thoughts save a warm, dreaming contentment, and when Max appeared through the vista of the colored maples, she scarcely stirred, so harmonious seemed his presence with the place and hour. Of what are you thinking? said the soldier, throwing himself down beside her, and taking off his cap. Of you, she answered dreamily, turning her eyes toward him. The golden warmth lighted up her face, bringing the red to cheeks and lips, and a softness to those deep eyes. Her soul had come to the surface and was looking out, and Max felt a strange thrill as, for the first time, something penetrated to the depths of his being. It is l)ut seldom that souls see each other face to face in this world of masks and armor; some- times there is a glimpse, sometimes a re- cognition, but instantly the visor is down again, and all is blank. In this case, however, there was no armor, no mask; and so beautiful grew the face with this soul-light in the eyes that the young man involuntarily bent his head and pressed his lips upon the hand lying idle on a bunch of red leaves. How beautiful you are! he murmured. What is your name, dear? You never told me. It is an odd nameFlower; my mother was named so. Most people sup- pose it is Flora, and I never correct them. But I should like you to know and use the name. Neither spoke again; speech was not needed, but through the golden noon they sat there together in the half-sweet, hal1~ sad atmosphere of the Indian summer, and Max read a whole heart-history in those deep eyes surrendered so fearlessly to his gaze. Some eyes are like oceans, and Flowers eyes had an oceans depth. Winter came; the last schooner with ice-coated rigging sailed round Bois- Blanc, the last steamer hurried through the western gate past Waugoschance, leaving the island alone in the freezing straits. The village sank into its winter lethargy, the villagers plodded on their little rounds wrapped in skins, the In- dians slept through the twenty-four hours like their friends the bears, and the offi- cers at the fort began to sweep the ice with spy-~lasses in search of the welcome black speck, the dog-train that brought the mails from the outside world. The schoolmistress attended to her dai- ly duties, hut she did not find them dull; an inspiration filled her life, in her heart was entire confidence, and she asked nothing more from her Creator. She was entirely content. A more practical mind or a mind more experienced in life would have questioned or planned. She did neither. She merely enjoyed her new happiness, and gave no thought to the morrow. And yet, if any one bad ques- tioned her and pressed the subject upon her, no doubt the questioner would have found at the bottom the certainty that one day she should be Max~s wife; this seemed to her as certain as the coming morrow. One day, early in December, she lin- gered in the school room after her schol- ars, with many shouts and rough strug- gles on the stairs, had finally dispersed; tIme great stove, taking in long logs of wood, still glowed hot in the cold twi- light, and the mistress sat by the hearth musing. At length a desire seized hera desire to look off over the icy straits to- ward the south; and taking a key, she climbed up to the loft and out on to the roof of tIme high building, where, stand- 1874.J A FLOWER OF THE SNOW. 79 ing in the shadow of the chimney, she gazed over the frozen water and the blue mainland, and, in imagination, further stillon to the land of the orange and palm. Over the ice moved a black speck, the dog-train bearing the mails. She knew the carrier well, a sturdy Canadian Frenchman, whose boys were among her brightest scholars; this man came and went through the winter, and to many island exiles he and his leader dog, Pierre, were the heroes of the year. The mistress, although she cared little for her few letters, appreciated the great dog who brought them, and often stopped to pat his shaggy bead when he was off duty. At length, dreamily as she had as- cended, dreamily she went down, and made her way throu~lm the dusky hall to the school-room below. The sound of voices roused her, and through the half- open door she saw two persons, Max Ruger and pretty Jennie Brown, the old sergeants daughter, a young girl whom she was teaching in her leisure hours. What they said she did not hear, but her eyes took in Maxs half-caress, the girls evident pleasure, the hands clasped as though accustomed to each other; this she took in, and saw but one interpreta- tion to the scene: Max loved Jennie; Jennie loved Max. After an instant which seemed an hour, the pallid mis- tress turned away noiselessly and mechan- ically retraced her steps to the roof. There amid the icicles she sat with un- covered head like a snow image until the night came. The feeling in her heart was like death; she seemed to be on the edge of a bottomless pit, and dark shapes with rustling wings mocked at her as they flew by. She never doubted the inter- pretation she had put upon that scene, any more than she had doubted that other interpretation of the Indian summer idyl; she could not doubt; her mind was not of the analytical order. She could only feel, and feel intensely. The greatness of her love made the greatness of her de- spair; tbere was nothing half-way or conditional in either. Such natures are rare; but of such are the great ones of the earth made. Great for good, and, when blighted, great for evil also. Heaven help them! As for comprehending what it really was, an idle flirtation brought about by pr3pinquity and habit, that would have been impossible even had it been explained to her; for the schoolmistress knew nothing of the ways of the world, and she could only judge others by her own intense self. At length, frozen in soul and body, she slowly left the snowy r6of, passed down through the dark halls, and climbed the hill toward the fort. Seeking the ser- geants quarters, she entered without knocking and found Jennie alone in the little room. Surprised and abashed at the sight of this unwonted visitor, the girl rose; but before she could put her words toget her, the mistress spoke, and strangely gentle was her voice. Tell me, Jennie, she said, does Lieutenant Roger love you? AIm! how that title sounded in the poor speakers ears; to her, he had ever been Max. The young girl blushed as with downcast eyes she replied, Yesm; at least he says so. Ten times more knowledge of the world, twenty times more coquetry dwelt in this childs heartan islander born and bred than in the educated woman of twenty- six who stood before her. And do you love him, Jennie? I think hes very nice and handsome- like, of course, began Jennie, puckering the hem of her apron, and wondeiing what the mistress could know about her little secrets; to Jennie, Miss Moran seemed, as she expressed it, old as the hills. Answer me, girl! cried the mistress, blazing into sudden excitement as Jennie hesitated. Maxwell Ruger loves you. Do you love him? Yesm, please, that is, I falter- ed Jennie, beginning to cry; certainly thi~ part of her flirtation was a most un- expected addition. That is enough! interrupted Miss Moran sternly; then placing her hand under the dimpled chin, she raised the frightened face and looked long into the blue eyes. It is afair face, she mur- mured; God bless you, child! and was gone before the startled girl had recover- ed from her surprise. What a queer woman the mistress is! she thought as she braided her hair. I dont suppose she has any idea how many lovers I have had. Max Roger makes eight, I do declare, and I am only just sixteen. Do I love him? she wanted 80 A FLOWER OF THE SNOW. [JAr. to knowof course I do. I love them all. But, on the whole, I think I like Moses best. Eight lovers! No, the mistress did not know it. She knew nothing of the ver- satile fancies of a village flirt, nothing of the inveterate habit of love-making which haunts young officers in times of peace (not in times of war, however; those late fiery years showed us the iron under the gilt); she only knew herself, and all night she wrestled with her love. The next day she went through her school duties in a state of torpor, but the even- ing brought again its agony; why is it that all pain is ever worst at ni~ht? A week passed, and then she caine forth a changed woman, the bloom gone, the light gone, and a veil let down over those deep eyes. When she came to Giant Isl- and she was a statue, and now she was a statue again; but in the mean time she had known what it was to be alive. It is probable that Pygmalions god- dess found it very hard to go back into the marble again! And Maxwell Ruger? Perplexity, as- tonishmnent, and anger succeeded each other in his mind; it was with great difficulty he could find Miss Moran, and when he found her she was not there. That is, the open gaze wns veiled, the sweet intentness had grown chilled, the earnest manner had turned repellant. He could not find in this closed, faded bud the rose that had opened under his gaze, red and fragrant. It is a whim, he thou~ht at first; she will change soon. But Mistress Moran had no whims. She is angry; that will pass before the week is out, was the next idea. But Mistress Moran felt no anger. Then he sought her out, and tried the old fasci- nating subjects of conversation; but al- though he did his best, he elicited only a few unresponsive words in reply. He knew, then, how much he had depended upon that earnest answering mind that seemed but another self, only sweeter and more gentle. At length, baffled, disap- pointed, and depressed, he left the statue to itself, and idly took up his little romance with the sergeants daughter. To do him justice, he knew well that he had his full match in the village coquette, and also that she would probably end the game by marrying one of the storekeepers of the town. He had no suspicion that Miss Moran had discovered this pastime of his. Jennie had come to the school- house for a book, he had come to walk back with the mistress; they met by ac- cident, and both supposed Miss Moran had gone home; if Jennie afterwards suspected that her penchant had been discovered, she took care to keep her suspicion to herself, flirting, meanwhile, as much as she could with the handsome young officer, and keeping at the same time a quiet Scotch eye upon the village suitor whommi she intended to accept in her own good time. Another week passed, and, tired of his pastime, longing for the old look, the old voice, Max returned to his old habits; he followed the mistress to and from the school, he met her on her solitary walks, he called persistently at the chaplains cottage. But she took to going to school by way of the icy clifl~, she changed her wonted routes, and finally refused to see him altogether. On Saturday, a clear, cold, dazzling day, Miss Moran slipped away from the fort, and turning into the snowy woods, made her way up to old Fort Holmes; here there was a firm ice- crust, and she paced to and fro in the cruelly cold sunshine, pursuing her con- stant labor of self-repression, educating herself to her future life with stern de- termination. Suddenly Maxwell Ruger stood before her. They had not met be- fore for days, and the color surged into her I~ce, as, taken by surprise, her eyes wore for a moment their old look. Then the red faded, tIme lids dropped. lie loves her; she loves him, she repeated to herself, as if the words were a formnula against evil. She knew but one kind of love, poor ardent heart! Flower, where have you been all these days? W hat have you been do- ing? said Max wiLh a long look of his blue eyes; some eyes make one moment seem like five. Lieutenant Ruger, I have been learn- ing a new life. Why new, Flower? It must be so. Are you then tired of the old? No; but it has forsaken Ine. You have forsaken it and me, Flow- er; and oh, how lonely I have been ! said Max, speaking the truth with the impulse of a boy; the frank honesty of this woman seemed to draw out the truth 1874.] A FLOWER OF THE SNOW. 81 even when buried under mountains of strange, poor, plain schoolmistress, no conventionalities. longer young, ignorant of the world, Again came the color, and the depth in without friends or fortune? Quick the eyes; but she did not speak. thronging came objections, came obsta- Why have you changed so, Flower? des, came the habits of a lifetime, came You have made me suffersuffer keenly, the great voice of society. No, no, pursued the young man, watching her no, they cried; a hundred tiiucs changing face.. no! Aud the thinker quailed before Suffer! she answered, turning to- these voices, and resolved to wait a while. ward him with all her heart in her voice; At any rate, there need be no hurry, Jmake you suffer! And tenderly she whatever I decide, he said to himself took his hand in both her own, while the stifling the inward conviction of his heart. tears rose in her eyes. And the voices accepted this compromise, Yes; I have suffered, but not now, and let him go home, finally, to a restless replied Max, irresistibly drawn toward afternoon and sleepless night. her. You are more to me than any one The mistress lived through the last else, Flower. three days of school in alternating hope That is false. You are a liar! cried and despair; fiiiut hope, fierce despair. the mistress, springing away from him as Perhaps, after all, there was a shade of the bitter thought of Jennie came into interest in her, poor and plain as she her mind. Strong words, perhaps; hut was; she said over and over to herself they simply expressed her plain meaning. Maxs half-tender words, and tried to Miss Moran, I never forgive such ac- make of them a hope. But her old lishit cusations from man or woman, replied of reliance on fact brought back Jennies Max, pale with anger. ile never so iiiuch image; her uncompromising honesty as thought of Jennie; he had allowed showed her that she had no ground for himself to be carried on to an expression hope, and she felt that she must flee. It of real feeling; that was a great deal for was not pridc.- Poor girl! she had no him; and to be met in this way! pride. It was the instinctlve feeling that Do I ask your forgiveness, Lieutenant sends the wounded hart into the thickest Roger? It is you who should askyou shade to die. I must go, she thought who should suffer! AIm, you little know through the short sad day; I must go, how I could love you. And you have she moaned through the long wild night. chosen her! Do you, then, like dolls? The last hour of school came; she locked Jennie is but a doll. No, no. I am all the door, and gave one last look at the wrong. I am always wrong. What ama scene before her; it was then thiLt she I but a poor unlovely, unlovable woman, murmured, Desolation! a land of de- while youOh, leave me to myself, or solation and death! I shall die! And as she uttered these The next day, the eve of Christmas, the wild words, with a cry of anguish Flower fires were not lighted in the school-house, Moran turned and fled down the slope, for the weeks vacation had begun. Max- dmsappearing in the snow-covered under- well Roger noted the absence of smoke brush, from the chimney, and his thoughts turn- Maxwell Roger made no attempt to fol- ed to the upper rooma with the dormer low her; with whirling thoughts he con- windows across the parade-ground. Then, tinned pacing up hnd down on the crust angry with himself, he started off across for hours. Like a thunderbolt out of a the island witti a party of soldier wood- clear sky, these words had pierced through cutters for tIme day. I am bewitched! all his coverings of worldliness, all his he thought. I will see what hard work armor of pride, all his network of eti- can do to break through the web. quette, and reached his heart. Flower And while he was working with all his loved him! This pale, silent woman might in the snowy forests toward the loved him! Thmis deep-blooming ardent north, over the frozen straits toward time girl loved him! And how did she love south went Flower Moran walking by the him? An instantaneous conviction filled side of the dog-train, fleeing from him us his mind that such a love is never given he fled from her, the long journey in the but once to any man. bitter weather seeming as nothing to a But did he love her? Did he love this longer endurance of her bitter sorrow. 82 A FLOWER OF THE SNOW. [JAN. Toward night Max Ruger returned through the forest to the fort, half blind- ed by driving snow. A norther had come sweeping down from the eternal ice-fields, bringing with it one of those raging storms which are dreaded even in the semi-arctic latitirde of Giant Island. Half frozen and breathless, Max reached the garrison enclosure at last. The day had been spent in vain warfare; neither the work nor the weather had been able to drive out the image of that one woman, and now, weary and child-like, he turned where his heart led him, to the chaplains cottage. Here he found the old man alone by the fire. It is a wildering evening, he said after some conversa- tion; and sad am I, Lieutenant Ruger, to think of the mistress out in this storm of Satans devising. She may perish; and doubtless she had her good points her good points. What ! cried Max springing to his feet with a chill rushing to his heart. Didnt you know she had gone, man? She went this noon with Antoine and the mail-train. She set her face like a flint nothing would stop her. She gave me her hooksmuch good they are, tooand she left her love for you. Her love for rue! repeated Max with the sound of tears in his voice as a gust shook the house. Which route did they take? To the mainland first; then she will go across the country to the first railroad; further than that she would not tell, but I suspect she will travel to Main., where she has relatives. In fifteen minutes Max Ruger Was out on the ice, an old half-breed, and Jaune, a veteran dog, the best pilot on the island, with him. It is certain death, said the villagers peeping through round holes made in the frost that covered their small windows by means of hot cents. But Max paid no attention to these prophe- cies. Combated long, wounded at every point, repressed, stifled, and chained, love had at last broken its bonds and con- quered. Now that she was gone, he knew that he loved this woman; now that she had fled, he must follow; he realized that life was a blank without her. The old doubts, determinations, and obstacles seemed so much chaff in the face of the overwhelming feeling that had at last risen to the surface. In forsaking, she had triumphed; in despairing, she had conquered. Though death itself lay in the path, reach her he must. She left her love for me! he thought as the fierce wind struck him in the open straits; while I have that, I have all. The late afternoon found the dog-train steadily pushing southward; part of the way the mistress had ridden on the little sledge, but most of the time she preferred walking, unmindful of the fatigue. The carrier had expected to reach the first sta- tion early in the evening, but when the driving snow came down upon them he grew anxious; cold and colder blew the biting wind and icy grew the flakes, until each one stung like a missile. The air was- dark with the storm, the cold be- numbed the man~s senses, he grew con- fused and lost his bearings ; but the faithful dogs went steadily on, and the higher intellects humbly followed them. Bent by the force of the wind, blinded, chilled, stumbling over the hummocks, the two pushed on, hoping each moment to see the lights of the station, until sud- denly one of the dogs faltered and seem- ed at fault, turning in his tracks asif try- ing to draw his companions in the oppo- site direction. It is Pierre, the wisest dog of all, said the carrier despairingly; now may the Holy Virgin help us, for we are lost! And falling upon his knees in the snow, he began to mutter incoherent prayers. Get up, Antoine; yoi~ will freeze to death! cried the mtstress, shaking his arm with all her strength as she saw the fatal lethargy creeping over bun. See, are not those the lights? And thus incited, the man struggled on a while longer; it was a contest of will. The will of the spirited woman kept the drowsy man from utterly failing. The strange glamour of freezing caine over him, and he longed to lie down in the soft, beautiful snow. The thounht of his position as mail-carrier kept him up for a time; then home, wife, and children served to excite his waning courage; and last the maxims of his religion. All these ideas were vividly kept before him by time mais- tress, but at last even these failed; and as the darkness came, with that gentle oh- ~tinacy peculiar to such cases, he laid himself down and fell asleep, a sleep which, if unbroken, before many hours must end in death. 1874.] A FLOWER OF THE SNOW. 83 Thus was Flower left alone with the dogs. Lifting the unconscious man by slow degrees on to the sledge, she covered huin with furs, and then she went to Pierre, and bending down pat her arias aroand his neck. She was so utterly desolate, so utterly alone, that the great dog was like a friend. He seemed to understand, too that wise old Pierre !for after replying as well as he could to her caresses, he bark- ed sharply at his cowering companions as if to rouse them to a sense of duty, and turning led the way backward, going steadily on as if sure of his direction. Thus they journeyed, the dogs, the sleep- ing man, and the lonely woman, on, on, over the ice. Hours passed; the snow clouds blew away and the stars caine oat, each one bright as a new moon in the clear air; the cold grew more intense, and striking a match the mistress saw that it was mid- night. How many long hours were still before her! To stop was death, and mechanically she walked on. She began repeating to herself all the poetry she knew, verse after verse, with painful ef- fort; anything to keep herself awake. Tennysons fines seemed to chime in with the night, and over and over she slid them: Deep on the convent roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon; My breath to heaven like vapor goes; May my soul follow soon! Break up the heavens, 0 Lord! and fhr Thron~h all you starli~ht keen Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In rajinent white and clean. He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strows her lights helow, And deepens on and up! the gates Roll back, and far within For inc the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin. The Sabbaths of eternity One Sabbath deep and wide; A light upon the shining sca- The Bridegroom with his Bride I 0 St. Agnes, help me! ~ she mur- mured. If you can hear me (who knows? perhaps you can), have pity upon me. Then came dark thoughts tempt- ing her to death. Why not lie down anddie? said a voice at her ear. Death will be easy and sweet. I will not be a coward, she answer- ed mutely. What have you to live for? pursued the voice. To conquer myself. You cannot do it. I can! Life will be long and lonely. I know it. He will marry. Yes; Jennie, or some one like her. After all, his is but a shallow soul. Not so; his heart is noble, his soul is deep. Why, then, did he not love you? Thou mocking spirit, leave me! Do I not know that I am unlovely and un- lovable? Ama I not trying to do right? Have I not left all that is dear to me in life to follow my wretched, lonely way through the world? Get thee behind me, Satan! and with an incoherent prayer the tempted soul struggled on in the torpid body. A clear sky is ever the most pitiless. The bitter cold brought suffering, pain, and torture to the wearied limbs, sounds in the ears, and lights dancing before the eyes. TIme mistress had but one thought, to walk on. Once she faltered, but Pierre turned back and rubbed his shaggy head against her hand, with a dogs sa- gacity foreseeing the danger. Roused, she went on, moved by machinery, and a verse caine to her, as if written in letters of fire in the air: And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying; neither shall there be a~y more pain. He that overcometh shall inherit all things. Over the ice came the pursuing party. They too had suffered in the blinding snow and freezing cold that followed; they too had lost the track and were following a dog, old Jaune, who stalked on steadily with three legs and capered with the fourth after a fashion of his own. But they had brandy to aid them and five hours less of the cold, since they had not started until twilight. About mid- night the brandy gave out, and the sen- sation of freezing seemed to creep through every vein; even Jaune lagged behind, and scarcely noticed his masters voice. Then the higher intellect assumed the sway. Max encouraged the drooping dog, spoke sharply to the failing half-breed, and kept his little band on and together, 84 A FLOWER OF TIlE SNOW. [JAN. But not without effort. His own brain seemed to wander; he saw palm trees and great lilies floating on still rivers; perfumes came to him and the sounds of distant music, voices calling his name and beautiful faces smiling upon him. I am freezing, he thought, and if 1 feel the cold, where is Flower? Something seemed to answer, She is dying. Save her. A few drops remained in the flask; calling the do,~, he poured the liquor into his mouth, hoping to stimulate the fhiling instinct which was their only dependence. Old Jaune coughed over the new sensation, stood awhile in doubt, and then stalked on; the half~breed followed in dazed obedience, and Ruger, who had not prayed for years, prayed now. It was a strange prayer. If I can but save her, Lord, I will not mind dying, he said; and then he ut- tered those words which young and old turn to in times of troublethe Lords Prayer. In the course of another hour Jaune suddenly gave a sharp bark, and started off furiously toward the left. The men, startled into consciousness, followed with difficulty. Presently they heard a distant sound. The mistress, walking in a dream, be- came vaguely conscious that Pierre was growling a long, low growl; the other dogs, his abject slaves, stood still, but the mistress walked on; she seemed to have lost the power of stopping. Then came a rush old Jaune and Pierre had met, and Max held Flower in his arms. The first gray light of dawn was rising in the east; soon they could look into each others eyes, and what they saw there warmed their chilled blood and drove away the shadow of death. Not far to the south the outline of land could be traced, and thither they went, a happy party. Twas there the dogs were going, said the half-breed; they can always find the way to St. Jean, trust them for that. But I never thought of the island, it lies so far out of our course. Soon a light gleamed before them in the dusk; the dogs saw it too; Pierre barked, and his slaves took up the chorus. Jaune, untrammelled by harness, started off on a voyage of discovery, and came back to execute a series of wild circles around the two lovers, while the other dogs looked over their shoulders in admi- ration and drew the sledge in jerks, vent- ing their envy in short yelps. A few moments more, and the party arrived at an island on whose bank stood a long log house with one lighted window. The door yielded to Maxs push, and in they burst, dogs, sledgo, and all, upon Pare Ronan, the recluse of St. Jean Mission. May the saints defend us! ejaculated the astonished old man. Oh, Flower, my darling, I love you love you with all my soul, said Max, as the ruddy fire-light shining on the mistresss pallid, shrunken face showed him how near she had been to death. And for answer, Flower threw her arms around his neck and hid her poor face her poor happy faceon his breast. The saints defend us! said P& e Ronan a~ain. In the mean time Jaune had dragged from the table a platter of meat, broken the dish, and set to work on his stolen dainty with much snapping ol jaws and eager gulping, which enjoyment Pierre and his satellites, still tugging to get the sledge through the door, saw with ra~ e, and howled their disapproval in chorus, at the same time tangling themselves hopelessly in their harness, and at last rolling on the floor together, a biting, snarlin~ heap. TIme saints defend us! said poor Pare Ronan for the third time. Devoutly en- gaged in his Christmas matins, alone as he supposed with his conscience and the angels, he was suddenly overwhelmed by a crowd of men, women, and dogs, coming from no one knew where; some embracing each other before his very priestly eyes, some apparently dead in sledges at the door, others stealing his only roast, and still others howling, growling, fighting, and biting on his floor. He might well ask to be defended! But the old priest had a kind heart, and when he had recovered his senses and comprehended the meaning of the scene before him, he set to work so actively that soon the half.frozen visitors were made comfortable with warmth, food, drink, and kind words. With the aid of the half-breed who served him as cook and acolyte, he succeeded in restoring the lethargic mail-carrier, still asleep in the sledge; time voyageurs and Indians will 1874.] A FLOWER OF THE SNOW. 85 come back from deaths very door, like their friends the bears. At eleven oclock the company assem- bled in the loghouse parlor, rested, warm- ed, and refreshed. It was a long, low room, with a great fireplace at one end, where whole logs blazed. Red calico cur- tains hung over the small windows, buf- fiilo and bear skins lay over the uneven floor, and the log walls were made warm with Indian blankets hung from roof to floor; rough shelves held some rare and costly book3, and one glowing picture in a gilt frerne hung on a background of blanket, where the li~ht could strike across it. It was a young ~irl in a French court dressa lovely, piquant face. St. Th& ~se the acolyte called it; but Floxver saw no signs of saintship. The mistress had heard vague stories of this recluse of St. Jean Mission. It was said on Giant Island that he had been a man of mark in France, but for some un- known cause he had suddenly entered the priesthood, sailed for America, and shut himself up in that lonely, remote spot, St. Jean Mission. He would not even come to visit the good Catholics of St. Denis; St. Denis was the parish church of Giant Island. Nearly forty years had Pare Ro- nan lived at the Mission. At first pack- ages containing books and other rarities came to him from France, but gradually all communication between the exile and the outside world ceased, and he was left alone with his little flock of Indian con- verts. It was said he was by no means a bigot; that he was Catholic in the broad- est sense of the word, and had even been heard to say of a Presbyterian, Eh, what does it matter? Worship we not the same God? This successor to Phre Marquette still lives, a hale old man, whose courtly man- ners vouch for the truth of his Parisian origin; he still lives up in the northern straits, for this story is founded upon fact, and its descriptions are taken from real life. My friends and children, began P~re Ronan, before we enjoy oar Christ- mas meal, shall we not celebrate a little Christmas service of praise and thanks- giving for your escape from death? Flower rose from her seat by the hearth. Yes, father, she said earnestly; we are not of your faith, but we can offer up our prayers together. And first, give me your blessing; I feel that it will be bless- ing indeed. So saying, she knelt before him, and the old man gave the blessing with ear- nest solemnity. Amen, said the In- dian acolyte. The little service began; the Cana- dian mail-carrier joined in devoutly, the half-breed followed as well as he could, and the mistress knelt by the bench and poured out her thankful heart in silent ~rayer. Max moved nearer to her and took her hand; he was jealous even of heaven. Oh, the scales of compensation are bal- anced better than we know! her great love bad gained a great love in return. When the last amen had been said, Maxwell Ruger rose; a gravity that was almost solemnity rested upon him, as, with military brevity, he said, Father Ronan, will you marry us nowMiss Mo- ran and myself? We are quite ready. A cry burst from the mistresss lips; it was the involuntary protest of the fem- inine nature against that masculine, mas- terful assumption, which nevertheless it secretly loves. You do not oI~ject, Flower? said Max, taking her hand ten- derly. Oh, Max, I am sososo plain! whispered the mistress, breaking down in her speech, and at last bringing out the thorn that rankled deepest in her heart. You are not plain to me, darling, said Max; nor was she to any one else. From that moment a beauty came to her, the beauty of perfect happiness. The flower had bloomed into a perfect rote. And thus they were married,on Christ- inns morning, in that old log house at St. Jean Mission, with a Canadian mail-car- rier, a halPbreed, and five dogs for wit- nesses. CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON. 6 LINGUISTIC AND LITERARY NOTES AND QUERIES. II. TIlE ODIUM PIIILOLOCICUM. SOME months ago the writer of these desultory papers on words and their uses received a letter asking whether, in his opinion, the phrase my soldiers heart, in a passage the rest of which he cannot now recall, could mean anything else than the heart of my soldier, and whether it could possihly mean ray sol- dierly heart. Within half an hour of the receipt of the letter, a gentleman un- known to him called at his office, and, making at least all due apology for the in- trusion, hut with an eagerness of inquest only decorously restrained, begged a de- cision upon the same phrase, asking whether any intelligent person on meet- ing it could understand it in any other sense than my soldicrly hear t, and if such a person could by any possibility take it in the sense the heart of my sol- dier. The answer given is not to our present purpose; it was not, however, a decision. But a day or two afterward two gentlemen made an early call at the house of the same bewildered person, and with munch warmth of manner, although with perfect courtesy, desired to submit a phrase to his considera ion ; it was my soldiers heart could it mean? etc. The phrase, it seems, had come up at some private theatrical performance, or socra- ble literary gathering, and there was a dispute about it; and very l)lainly, from tIme manner of the inquiring parties, the discussion had become heated. Not long afterward the same person was politely stopped in Broadway by a strange gentle- mnan~who, with an air of profound gravi ty, said that there was a matter which he had long wished to bring to his attention; and the seriousness with which this was ut red awakened curiosity, not to say ap- prehension. Suspense was soon relieved by the inquiry, Is it right to say, To- morrow is Friday, or To-morrow will be Friday? In this case the reply was very prompt and decided: .Indeed, sir, I dont know; its a matter I have never thought about ; which evidently both surprised and puzzled the inquirer. True, a moments reflection on the part of the questioned person, as he turned away, brought up the lines, To-morrow is Saint Valentines day, All in the morning betimes, etc which had some 1)carin~ upon the subject. But that was one of those happy thourhts which to unready men always come just too late. In both these cases I was chiefly inter- ested in the evident earnestness and ea- gerness of the querists. They were not merely curious, or desirous ot inferma- tion, but showed unmistakably that they took the matter to heart. Now in neither case was the question one that should have troubled any man for a moment. As to my soldiers heart lie mneanin~ of the phrase, like that of countless others, must be determined by the context and as to whether we should say To-morrow is Friday, or To-morrow will be Friday, al- though one may be better than the other, either may be defended on the grounds both of usage and of reason. These incidents have a hearing upon a subject which the Nation has happily discussed under the well-chosen heading, The Odium Philologicum. The writer of the article (which it is almost needless to say is apropos of the assault made in Recent Exeruplilications of False Phi- lology upon the author of Words and their Uses, and the retort of the latter) begins by saying: That verbal criticism is sure to end sooner or later in one or more savage quarrels, is one of the most familiar facts of the literary life of our day. According to him, this rule has no exception; and speaking for the paper in which he writes, he says: We have seen so many illustrations of the ten- dency of these attempts to haprove popu- lar speech to end in vituperation, that we have felt ourselves oMi~ed in the in- terests of peace to exclude them from our columns. The case of Mr. Moon is then cited; the result of some articles by him on Good Grammar in the late Round Table being, according to this writer, a series of rows, in which Moon was

LINGUISTIC AND LITERARY NOTES AND QUERIES. II. TIlE ODIUM PIIILOLOCICUM. SOME months ago the writer of these desultory papers on words and their uses received a letter asking whether, in his opinion, the phrase my soldiers heart, in a passage the rest of which he cannot now recall, could mean anything else than the heart of my soldier, and whether it could possihly mean ray sol- dierly heart. Within half an hour of the receipt of the letter, a gentleman un- known to him called at his office, and, making at least all due apology for the in- trusion, hut with an eagerness of inquest only decorously restrained, begged a de- cision upon the same phrase, asking whether any intelligent person on meet- ing it could understand it in any other sense than my soldicrly hear t, and if such a person could by any possibility take it in the sense the heart of my sol- dier. The answer given is not to our present purpose; it was not, however, a decision. But a day or two afterward two gentlemen made an early call at the house of the same bewildered person, and with munch warmth of manner, although with perfect courtesy, desired to submit a phrase to his considera ion ; it was my soldiers heart could it mean? etc. The phrase, it seems, had come up at some private theatrical performance, or socra- ble literary gathering, and there was a dispute about it; and very l)lainly, from tIme manner of the inquiring parties, the discussion had become heated. Not long afterward the same person was politely stopped in Broadway by a strange gentle- mnan~who, with an air of profound gravi ty, said that there was a matter which he had long wished to bring to his attention; and the seriousness with which this was ut red awakened curiosity, not to say ap- prehension. Suspense was soon relieved by the inquiry, Is it right to say, To- morrow is Friday, or To-morrow will be Friday? In this case the reply was very prompt and decided: .Indeed, sir, I dont know; its a matter I have never thought about ; which evidently both surprised and puzzled the inquirer. True, a moments reflection on the part of the questioned person, as he turned away, brought up the lines, To-morrow is Saint Valentines day, All in the morning betimes, etc which had some 1)carin~ upon the subject. But that was one of those happy thourhts which to unready men always come just too late. In both these cases I was chiefly inter- ested in the evident earnestness and ea- gerness of the querists. They were not merely curious, or desirous ot inferma- tion, but showed unmistakably that they took the matter to heart. Now in neither case was the question one that should have troubled any man for a moment. As to my soldiers heart lie mneanin~ of the phrase, like that of countless others, must be determined by the context and as to whether we should say To-morrow is Friday, or To-morrow will be Friday, al- though one may be better than the other, either may be defended on the grounds both of usage and of reason. These incidents have a hearing upon a subject which the Nation has happily discussed under the well-chosen heading, The Odium Philologicum. The writer of the article (which it is almost needless to say is apropos of the assault made in Recent Exeruplilications of False Phi- lology upon the author of Words and their Uses, and the retort of the latter) begins by saying: That verbal criticism is sure to end sooner or later in one or more savage quarrels, is one of the most familiar facts of the literary life of our day. According to him, this rule has no exception; and speaking for the paper in which he writes, he says: We have seen so many illustrations of the ten- dency of these attempts to haprove popu- lar speech to end in vituperation, that we have felt ourselves oMi~ed in the in- terests of peace to exclude them from our columns. The case of Mr. Moon is then cited; the result of some articles by him on Good Grammar in the late Round Table being, according to this writer, a series of rows, in which Moon was 1874.] LINGUISTIC AND LITERARY NOTES AND QUERIES. 87 compelled to tell several of his adversaries his low opinion of their morals and man- ners, and in which they repaid him in kind. If ii remember rightly, this is, to say the least, a very strong characteriza- tion of those discussions; but it may be admitted that, with some not important qualification, the Nation is right as to the bitter controversies which frequently follow verbal criticism, if not as to its es- sential tendency to provoke them. It is not in the interests of verbal criti- cisma department of human endeavor for which I have not the highest respect that I say that such tendencies on the part of those who practise it are much to he deplored. To produce one hook, one page, one stanza, nay, one line, which cheers, lifts up, and heartens, or even only delights the soul of man, is a worthier ob- ject of desire than to achieve whole vol- umnes full of learning and the nicest crit- ical discrimination. But Walter Sav- age Landorhimself a worker in this fieldsays, We have seen that whoever has been most eminent in scholarship and genius, among the ancients and ourselves, has been most studious to correct the finn- perfections of his native tongue, con- firming this general observation by the re- mark that the subject is one which oc- cupied more than the merely leisure hours of Cicero and Cmsar. Why, then, should a department of literary labor, the purpose of which is so laudable, the end so desirable, be degraded by savage quarrels and vituperation ? And, time subject being one than which there can be no other which is more essentially ab- stracted from all personal interests or bearings, who is in fault when the quar- relling and the vituperation begin? Surely he who first drags the discussion of an abstract subject down into person- ality. If one writer produces an article or a book, the purpose of which is to correct the imperfections of his native tongue, and he confines himself strictly to that aim, attacking no one, disparag- ing none, and another writer, who takes a different view of the subject, assails him with personal acrimony and personal dis- paragement, whose is the disgrace and whose the shame? Should the latter re- tort, upon whom does the responsibility of the quarrel rest? Even in physi- cal conflict, if a man kills an assailant he may put in the plea son assault demesne, and be sure of a verdict ofj ustifiable hom- icide. As to the reason of so unreasonable a tendency to bitter personality, the writer in the Nation propounds this theory: Criticism of a mans speech is an implied attack on his parent%e, education, and social positionpoints upon which most men are, reasonably or unreasonably, very sensitive. It will not do to tell a man that his pronunciation is inelegant, or his use of language incorrect, because that implies that his parents were vulgar or ignorant people; and to point out his solecismns, or his lack of etymological knowledge, is to insinuate that his educa- tion was neglected, or that he has not as- sociated with correct speakers. Nor will you escape the odium phmlologicum by re- fraining from personal criticism and cit- in~ examples from dead authors; for this cannot be done without assailing forms of expression which some ea~er, listen- ing enemy is himself in the habit of using, and you will surely become the victim of his wrath; because, again, by your criticism you assume a position not only of grammatical but of social superi- ority. Then comes a vengeful attack, and your writings are picked to pieces, and the pieces are examnined mechanical- ly, separating them totally from the thought with which you were full when you produced thema process which no one, it is said, stands very long with equa- nimity, because nobody can be subject- ed to it without being presented to the public somewhat in the light of an igno- rant, careless, and pretentious donkey. Against such injury the assailed party defends himself, and generally carries the war into Africa This is ingenious and plausible, and very well put; so well, indeed, that it might be accepted but for one reasonit is inconsistent with the facts. As to the implication of social inferiority involved in an unfavorable criticism of a mans use of language, that surely could be a matter of concern only to those who are conscious of some such inferiority. A mans very defence of himself upon this ground, or even his resentment of the implication, involves a kind of confession. The assertion, I ama as good mis you, implies a latent consciousness that I am not. And as to defects of edu- cation, particularly of such education as 88 LINGUISTIC AND LITERARY NOTES AND QUERIES. [JAN. qualifies a man to write even about his own mother tongue, that is no disgrace, and is quite consistent with, and in countless cases accompanies, more than usual ability of one kind or another, and a social position not inferior to any. To make disparaging personal and social re- fi3etions, even by implication, and still inure by direct dragging of them into literary discussion, would seem to be an unmistakable sign of innate vulgarity of soul, if not of low breeding. A man who does that can hardly have the mens con- scia recti as to his own social condition; and to assume, when ~ou ore not men- tioned, that some reflection is cast upon you, is to rival the clown who said, They snickered, an lm sure it was me. To insist that you are by implication called a vulgarian, and to bawl out, Youre an- other! as, for example, the author of the b )ok which is the proximate cause of the Nations article did, is at the very least to show a great deficiency in tact. It is that old thing which is, either from a sjcial or linguistic point of view, worse than a crimea blunder. And it is in this case somewhat surprising; for Dr. Halls education, not to say his scholar- ship, is undeniably such as should have protected him against the unpleasant con- sciousness that he was in any way, even implicitly, disparaged in a book contain- ing not a single allusion to him, or to anything that he had written. No, this odium philolo.qicum must have some other source than the wounds of social vanity; and I myself am happily, or unhappily, able to show that the facts are against the supposition of such an origin. Can it be believed that, for in- stance, the gentlemen of whose excitement and heatI will not say asperityin re- gard to my soldiers heart I became aware as I have told in the beginning of this article, resented any assumption of social superiority, or even of superiority in education, by any one of the parties to their dispute? They were all of one so- cial set, and of one grade of education. There was not a shadow of assumption of any kind apparent on either side, or of any suspicion of such assumption. Is it to be supposed for a moment that the numerous inquiries by letter, or in per- son, which gave the hint for Words and their Uses, and which partly fur- nish the occasion of these articles, were in any sort a confession of the social in- feriority of the writers to the person to whom they were addressed? Such a thought did not occur to him for a mo- ment. And on the other hand, according to this very ingenious theory so cleverly set forth in the Nation, is not the fact of the continued favor shown to the book of which they are the cause, and the con- tinued freedom and kindness with which its author is approached on such subjects, proof positive not only that he has not been guilty of such assumption, but that be is free from even the suspicion of such offensive foolishness? The truth is that the men who quarrel on this subject do so because they are quarrelsome; they sneer because they like to sneer. Quarrelling suits their temper, and brings them before tIme world; and sneering is not only an affec- tation of loftiness, but is easy if one only knows how to do it and will set to work at it diligently. And verbal criticism being in itself small business, suited to the capacity of men who, unlike Cicero, Cmsar, and Landor, are not equal to greater subjects, it is a department of literature to which minds of some sub- tlety and little breadth, pedantic learning but no largeness of scholarship, find themselves attracted, and in which they may reasonably hope to attain some suc- cess. ([am not magnifying muine office, I know; but that I macan never to do.) It is natural that such men should attack and vituperate those who dare to differ from them. They have no intellectual charity. They are puffed up with their own conceit; as to which Erasmus tells uswhat we might know without his telling, wherefore we think him wise that chiefly these synging men, sophis- ters, rhetoricians, and poets do excel therein; ~ and in this respect verbal critics seem to surpass their cousins ger- man, the sophisters and the rhetoricians. Moreover, the bitterest and most numer- ous quarrels between verbal critics have not had for their subject or their occa- sion the vernacular tongue of the contro- vertists; a fact which is fatal to the specious theory that the wrath of such conflicts has its direful spring in resent- ment of the assumption of social supe- riority. The long, bitter, and personal * Praise of Folly. Chaloners translation, 1549. Sig. Ii. 1874.] LINGUISTIC AND LITERARY NOTES AND QUERIES. 89 controversy hetween Bentley and Boyle on the Epistles of Plialaris, and that pro- Voked by the Clericus and Grotius edition of Menander, will occur to every s9holar. And even in this country middle-aged men can remember the dispute, hardly less acrimonious than able, betweeen a Har- vard professor of Greek and a distin- guished New York scholar, which was not a whit the less bitter because it turn- ed entirely upon Greek readings, and there conid have been no question of so- cial position or of breeding or education implicated. And that pleasant but rather weak and goody book, Memoirs of a Quiet Life, tells us how the controversy, well known before to scholars, which arose upon the publication of an edition of Terence by Bishop Hare, led to a quar- rel between him and his intimate friend Dr. Bentley, which lasted many years, and not only broke up their former warm friendship, but left them open, unrecon- cilable enemies until the Bishops death. Indeed, the pseudo-philologists and the classical editors and critics of the last century too commonly wrote of each other with scorn, and scoffing, and l)ersonal dis- paragement, with offensive insinuation and with vituperation. Brunck was emi- nen tin this school of literary Billin gsgate. In all these cases there was no question as to vernacular speech, oras to breeding, or associations, or even education. Thecon- trovertists were presumaal)ly equal in social position and advantages of education, and they quarrelled about the proper reading of the text of Greek and Latin authors. And the savage sneers and flings at each other with which some of the Shake- spearian commentators of the last cen- tury and the earliest years of the present argued the question of the proper read- ing of the gentle author whose works they had undertaken to restore and to illustrate, are like in motive and in spirit, and have a like bearing upon the point in question. For although the subject of their dispute was indeed the English language, it was not the colloquial lan- guage of their time, but the text of an Elizabethan dramatist; and the ques- tions which they discussed were entirely removed from all considerations touching the birth, breeding, association, and per- sonal habits of the disputants. Yet one has only to read Giffords notes on Ben Jonson, to see a characteristic exhibition of the bitter and personal spirit which animated and informed these controver- sies. It is upon these bad models that the well-read-in-critical-literature author of Recent Exemplifications formed his critical style and manner, ac- cording to our only means of jud~ing. Even in later years the Collier-folio con- troversy broke up long existing friend- ships. Alexander Dyce, himself the most placid, considerate, and courteous of crit- ical writers, gave mortal offence by his mere opinions in that matter, and saw more than one old literary companion in arms fall from him. The tenacity with which men cling to flincies which have led them captive, and the devotion, ardor, and even fierceness with which they do battle for some notion about a matter of not the slightest personal concern to them, is one of the most notable manifest- ations of perverseness exhibited in human nature. I rememberseeing one gray-haired gentleman almost insult another gray- haired gentleman because the latter ex- pressed some doubts that an old half-breed Indian was the veritable Louis XVII. of France, who died in the Temple at Paris. Now he had no more personal interest in Louis XVII., dead or alive, than in Mel- chisedec. Why, it was but the other day that I saw a man of intelligence and kind heart maintain, with glowing cheek and flashing eyes, the authenticity of a certain old delf teapot, and fling out half- earnest scorn and contempt upon those who could not take his view of its genu- ineness and.tlme interest of its associations. All these acrimonious critical contro- versies, chiefly literary, historical, and an- tiquarian, have their origin in intellec- tual pride and obstinacy; and they are heated the more or the less according to the enthusiasm or the earnestness of the controvertists. When warmth and ear- nestness, which may be weak but are not unamiable, are debased by personal ac- rimony and endeavors at personal dis- paragement, it must be attributed to the individual tastes and moral traits of the attackin~ party. These quarrels, like everything else, must be begun; and according to my observation, it will be found that from the first era of critical literature down to the present year they have had their origin in the arrogance, the insolence, and the disposition to personal offence of some man of more or 90 LINGUISTIC AND LITERARY NOTES AND QUERIES. [JAN. less learning, who resented what he deem- ed the unwarrantable interference of some writer less learned than himself; for instance, like Warburton, who, in the preface to his edition of Shakespeares plays, declared his intention to have given the reader a body of canons for lit- eral [i. e., verbal] criticism,drawn out in form, for two reasons, one of which was to deter the unlearned writer from wantonly trifling with an art he is a stianger to, at the expense of his own reputation, and the integrity of the text of established authors; and who in the end, like Warburton, was scour~ed by a man of less learning with the triple lash of fact and argument and ridicule.* But we are all somewhat inclined to doubt not only the competent informna- tion but the perfect soundness of mind and candor of soul of those who will in- sist upon their right to ride our bobby after their own fashion. Only one man is calmly indifferent upon such matters, and looks down upon these trifles from the serene heights of contemplative phi- losophy. Bat he unfortunately is a man whose opinions, since the appearance of a certain book, no one need care much about.t * Edwardss Canons of Criticism, 1748, 7th Ed., 1765. [f The mild and Pecksniffian tone of a letter recently Dublished by Dr. Hall in the Na- tion, with its demure talk about the lan~ua~e of gentlemen, has led some of our correspon- dents to suppose that we have opened the pa~es of The Galaxy to an nuprovokedattack upon a most unoffending pundit. Quotations from Dr. Halls book would best correct this impres. sion, but as this would occupy valuable space most unprofitably, we quote in preference a characterization of the book by one of the ablest of our contemporaries, Old and New, edited by Ed~vard E. hale. This is a curiously scorn- ful and acrid discussion of questions about the derivatiou, meaning, amid use of words. He [Dr. hall] has not the mildness and sweet- ness of manner which should belon~ to a judge, nor even to an advocate, nor even to an execu- tioner. . - . Except that time illhstration is directly inverse as to the intellect en~aged, there is one still more appropriate in respect of the unfeeling nature of the work performed, and particularly as to the strong but not graceful agility shown it is that embodied in the well- known sayin~, Every one for himself, as the jackass said when he danced among the chick- ens. - . - The little treatise is stimulating, learned, useful, and almost always correct; but it would be difficult to discover another modern publication in which so much ability is shown in a spirit so excessively bitter Time may change our contemporarys opiniomi as to the EARLY ENGLISH VERBAL CRITICISM. As we were slow to write a grammar of our own tongue, even on false, i.e., on Latin principles, so were we to enter on the field of English verbal criticism. The Gardens of Eloquence and Arts of Rhetoric, and the like, which appear- ed in the Elizabethan period, had little or nothing to do with the origin, the mean- lug, or the forms of English words; and even Puttenhamas Arte of English Poesie touches those subjects but in- cidentally. It was not until 1770 that the first work of avowed English verbal criticism that is known to sue appeared. it was entitled Remarks on the Eng- lish Language, in the Nature of Vange- lass Remarks on the French ; being a Detection of many Improper Expressions used in Conversation, and of many others to be found in Authors. To which is pre- fixed a Discourse addressed to his Ma- jesty.* it was anonymous, but its authors name was Robert Baker. lie was not a scholar; knew no Greek and almost no Latin, but seems to have been familiar with French. Nor was he an his- torical etymologist, for that science was in his day undeveloped; and as to Sanscrit, its very existence was known to but a few Western scholars, and its value as a key to Indo~European language structure was unsuspected. He erred sometimes as indeed who does not?but beinr a man of good sense, of considerable culti- vation, and of good taste in literature and in art, and having given macli thought to his subject, he produced a little book which was of real service, and the effect of which is plainly visible upon English speech. To muere usage and authority he did not silently subunit ; for what he deemed errors mu usage were the very subjects of his criticisma, without regard to the reputation of the authors in whose works he detected them; and among those whose incorrect use of words or faulty construction of sentences he re- marked upon were Locke, Addison, Swift, Bolingbroke, Warburton, Mel- moth, Warton, and Harris, the author of Hermes. His criticism was always correctness of all of Dr. Halls judgments; but his personality and his bitterness admit of nei- ther doubt nor changeED. GALAXY.I * The address to the king appeared only in the first edition, it having been omitted from the second as too outspoken and presuming. 1874.] LINGUISTIC AND LITERARY NOTES AND QUERIES. 91 respectful, without usperity or personal sneers at those whose errors he pointed out; and in censuring the usage of au- thors then living, particularly those of minor fame, he often consider~itely avoid- ed mentioning names, using the phrase an author or a writer. His liken- ing of his book to Vaugelass, published in 1647, does hardly justice to hiInself; f)r unlike Vaugelas, he attempted little in the way of etymology (although, with his a~sumed prototype, he erred when he did so), and, unlike Vangelas, he was neither priggish nor pedantic, nor was ho a courtier, or a precisian, or a lover of speaking fine. His book consists of one hindred and twenty-seven remarks upon what were then common usages among the best speakers and writers, as any one familiar with the literature of that time well knows ; and tIme justice of his stric- tures and their effect are evident from the fact that almost all the solecisins which lie censures were ere long abandoned by good writers, and gradually ceased to be heard among educated speakers. It may be of interest to my readers to kno~v some of the faults in phraseology and of the misuses of words which were thought worthy of remark by the first English verbal critic, one hundred years ago. I shall select not only those which have been altogether given up. Among them are as follow for as follows, which still has some support in respectable usage ;clmay for chaise, the latter being niistaken for a plural; as some people who wish to be very correct now speak of the corp of an army, or of a widow mourning over the corp of her husband, or, as I was told by a lawyer, of the claw ofastatute, to avoid the bad ~ramnmar of saying a clause ; ingenuity in the doable sense of ability, cleverness, and of ingenuousness, is pointed out as a blemish; the latter sense it has lost demean for debase or lessen ;he is came for he is come ;set for sit, and lie for lay; propose for purpose;whom for who; as whom you would say passed their afternoons, etc. ;tis him, tis her, tis me, tis them, for tis he, tis she. tis I, tis they ;mutual for common; an error not infrequent now even amaong educated peo- Ple ;eit her and neither used as plural: as neither of them are ;contemptuously for contemptibly, meaning with con- tempt; the latter, being thea most coniinmnly used, has now passed out of use ;fell fmrfallen; as, the horse hasfell, which is said to have been then used by uiany writers ; indeed, the liteiature of that tiiime is full of a like use of the past tense of the verb for the participle it was a usage, but neither sense nor English ;both, as in they both met, and in those two men are both e}ual in capa- city, which is justly pronounced non- sense ;agreea le, suitable, conforcable, for agreeably, suitably, conforma ly; as lie performed agreeable to his proInise, he conducted himself suitable to the occa- sion; a usage comInon in that day, but indefensible of course, and since then abandoned ;safe for safely, as I arrived here sqfely, instead of safe; an error not uncommon now, and among those who are anxious about their gram- mar ;dare for dares, as lie dare not do it for he dares not, etc. ; whmicim, although it is mentioned, rightly, as the usage of numbers of people and of many authors,Baker says appears to me to give a person an air of illiteracy; but we hear of no offence taken at this assumption of social superiority ;en pas- sent for in passing, justly condemned as sheer affectation ; the mimisplacing of only, either, and neither, as in Theism can only be opposed to polythicisrim or athme- ism, and LIe was neither learned in the languages nor philosophy ; which has in its smipport time usage of centuries of years and centuries of ammthmors, but which has been since seen to be indefen- sible according to the structure of the English sentence, and which has almaust disappeared ;the fimlse construction 1 was going to hace done so and so, which has like authoritative sup~)ort, and which is in like manner indefensible. Of the subjects of Bakers one hundred and t~venty-seven Remimarks I have room to mention only these, which are not the most important, but which unite somne in- terest with comeveniency for citation. To these I will add one other, his condemana- tion of the phrases different to, as this is d~fferen~ to that, and djerent than, as in time sentence I found your afikirs had been managed in a different manner than what I had advised, which is quoted from Melmnoths Cicero. Both these are set down as being neither English nor sense, which is true of them; and yet for both of them there is the authority of 92 LINGUISTIC AND LITERARY NOTES AND QUERIES. [JAN. long and eminent usage. They are inter- esting as being peculiarly British mis- usages; neither of them having ever ob- tained a foothold in America. In- deed, there would seem to bc something peculiarly puzzling to our British cousins in the proper use of djerent, or they could hardly have flillen into the confli- sion of two such phrases as different to and different than, even the latter of which is now heard from some of them who are not uneducated.* In the course of his criticism of the former phrase, Baker makes a remark which shows that he had a just. estimate of the relative weight of usage and reason in determining the pro- prieties of language. He says: I know that custom often reconciles improprieties of this sort; yet there are some cases where it never reconciles them entirely, and this appears to me to be one. I would therefore give my vote for different from, and would banish the expression of different to. He submits to usage if needs must; but he does not accord with it if it is inconsistent with reason. He speaks very decidedly, and yet expects his decision to be received only as his vote. He says boldly that he would banish the expression different to; and yet, although that was even more than this the day of savage quarrels about questions of verbal criticism, we hear of no personal attacks upon him by the users of c4fferent to, be- cause of an affectation on his part of social superiority, and an implication that they were bred among people whose English deserved banishment The reader has probably seen already that between the first book of verbal crit- icism upon the English language and the last there are sonic strong points of like- ness; and if any enger, listening ene- my of the author of the latter, on either side of the ocean, is ready to find a like- ness between them in their errors and de- ficiencies, he is welcome to all the com- fort he can derive from so doing. Bakers book did not profhss to be etymological, or, in the proper sense of the word, phi- lological. Indeed, it could not have been philological wIth the meaning which the * J~ is proper that I should say that I did not meet with Baker s book, which is not a common one, until some months after writing my letter to the Nation, published Sept. 12, 1872, in which I expressed the opinion that my own criticism of dtflerent to (in 1854) was the earliest eonQcmuatiou of that phrase. word has now; for the philology of our day, the only true philology, was in Ba- kers day unknown. And yet his book had a laudable purpose, and, as we have seen, did good, although it is a small af- fair. No other in its purpose or its pie- tensions is Words and their Uses, the author of which hopes for it only that it may effect a like and perhaps a greater good. One language hath no law but use: and still Runs blinde, unbridled, at the vul~ar s will. Another s course is curiously iuclosd In lists of Art; of choice fit words composd. One, in the feeble birth, becomnmiu~ old, Is cradle-toomnbd: another warreth bold With the yeer-spinaers. One, unhappy-founded, Lives in a narrow valley ever bounded Another with the learned troop doth presse From Alexanders Al rs even to Fez.* SCIENTIST. This word has been brought to my at- tention by more than one correspondent. It has attained a certain degree of usage among those who it would seem are dis- satisfied with scientific man and man of science, and who doubtless, with like displeasure of literaryman and muon of letters, will soon contrive some dread- ful combination in ist to use in their stead. Scientist appears to me, as it does to many others, intolerable both as being unlovely in itself and improper in its formation. Sample-room language gives us drinkist, shootist, walkist, and the like, with an undisguised incongruity which has a ridiculous effect, partly at least intentional, if not wholly so. Those words are regarded as the creations of ex- quisite humor by the persons who use them; nay, their very use is looked upon as an indication of latent powers which would place the user, if he would but let himself out, foremost in the ranks of the noble army of American humorists. If after that remark my bones should be found bleaching upon the ensanguined plain, let the Chief of Police immediately arrest Mr. Lowell, Mr. Bret Ilarte, and Colonel John Ilay, without detailing of- ficer A or officer B to work up the case. But, to our scientists. We say normally naturalist, geologist, organist, etc., and may properly use as many more words formed in like manner as we choose to coin. But I can find no lawful instance corresponding to scientist, which might * Sylvesters Da Bartas, Babylon, 1621, p. 261. 1874.] LINGUISTIC AND LITERARY NOTES AND QUERiES. 93 well go with drinkist and shootist. If we would, we could say sciencist; and let who will say it, and hiss himself proper- ly in the saying of it. But we cannot break up the sibillation with a t, for even the noun scientia will yield us only ti, which in sound is sh, and sciential (noun) and scientialist must be left to the lovers of agential; and if we assume the obsolete scient as its base, the meaning of our new word will be knowingist. At an earlier day, the suffix er seems to have been the principal, if not the only means of expressing both the doer of an act and the practiser of an art or craft; e. g., murderer, astiologer. Still a dis- tinction between the two purposes was, in a manner, preserved by confining the suffix for the former purpose generally to a verb, and for the latter to a noun, s. e., the name of the art or profession prac- tised. A more modern development in the same direction has led to the free ap- propriation of the Greek suffixes of use, zze, ssm, ist, making upon nouns, after the Greek model, verbs of using, i. e., of using the thing named in the stein, e. dogmatize, abstract nouns of usage, e.g., dogmatism, and personal nouns for the user of the thing, e. g., dogmatistwords an acquaintance with which will not be denied by certain critics to the present writer. A movement toward symmetry and consistency leads us to avoid new coinage in er upon substantive roots, such for instance asgeologer and organer would be. There is not only a weakness but a sort of insincerity in the interchanging and confusing of these transplanted and assimilated suffixes, now woll distin nish- ed and valuable, and valuable of course gous. just in the degree in which their exact and distinctive senses are maintained. And I here remark upon an astonishingly neg- lected differenceneglected by men who should and do know betterbetween time terminations ize and yse. Both of these, indeed, are from the Greek, but the latter has nothing in common with the former, although it is frequently confounded with it, not beinn a suffix at all, but represent- ing the Greek 2uJ sd, a loosening, as in paralgse and analgse, which are often ab- surdly spelled paralgze and analgze, and which we may perhaps look to see spelled paralize and analize in what has been call- ed the good English of the future.~ This consideration of terminations ex pressing the doer and the doing, suggests a few remarks upon MUsIcIANEa. I am nsked, in the course of a long kind letter, whether the author of Recent Ex- emplifications is in earnest in treating musicianer as a real English word. Cer- tainly he is. To him it is an English word because, to use his own phrase in regard to other vocables, he has met with it in the course of his reading. lie belongs to a class who, if a certain combination of sounds or letters has been uttered by somebody, somewhere, at some timeno matter who, where, or whenpounce upon it, classify it, label it, and pigeonhole it for preservation and classification. For instance, we are told in the same passage which embalms musicianer, that leseerer is still used in some parts of England for lesser or less. And what if it is? So do Lord and Lady Duberly, in Colmans Heir at Law, again and again call Dr. Pangloss a tutorer; and one fact is of just as much value as the otherthat is, of none at all.* The author appears to be gravelled for lack of matter in his endeavor to illustrate his notion of the formation of parishioner, as his only ex- ample from literature is fmscherer for fish- er, from Capgraves Chronicle. But here is a mite of contribution to his alms- basket of wordssermoners, quite analo- gous with parishoners: Quen he sendes his messagers, That es at sai his sarmouneres. English Metrical Homilies of the Fourteenth century,p. 147. Here is another, victorers, alsd analo- She performed the same to a few that were nexte of her kinne, according to the liability of her present fortune; for if blie should have used ye Persians pompe tlmeiin, the Macedous mi~ht have envied it, which heing victorers, used no great curiositie in the matter.Brendes Quism- tus curtius, 1592,fol. 40 hi. The latter ivord is scattered freely through Brendes book. The passage given above is interesting for its use of curiositg (a word which I have heretofore remarked upon), and also of should have, * In the same passage we are gravelyinform- ed that the modern chickens contains an s add. ed to chicken, itself a pimiral. This, in ~a book addressed, if not to scholars and philologists, at least to educated and critical readers Why not give us a little information about children, and even about hrethren and oxen? 94 LINGUISTIC AND LITERARY NOTES AND QUERIES. [JAN. for had. In the lines from the Metrical Homilies, that es at sni for that is to say shows a peculiar use of at which occurs several times in those homilies, and is not uncommon in old northern English. To turn back to the occasion of this digressionthe Recent Exemplifica- tions way of studying language has a certain real value, and to a l)rofessed ety- mologist is to a certain extent necessary. The difficulty with many of those who study language in that manner is that they cannot conceive of the propriety of studying it in any other, and that they come to setting store by all sorts of rub- bish, as we have seen. And if they lose one of their precious finds, they are as distraught about it ns a hen bereaved of her one chicken. How touching is the lamentation of the Recent Exemplifier that he cannot pioduce an example of musicianer! lie weeps and wrings his hands over the lack, in a supplementary fashion, in a note at the end of his lovely little volume. He regrets that the ex- istence in English literature of musi- csaner . . . must here be left un- established. This is woful indeed, for he had previously said that snusi cianer is not yet ol)solete. lie is in a fklse position. But no, I rush again to his rescue. He will be ungrateful. But inca always are ungrateful. Was not I ungrateful for the gentle court- esy and singleness of purpose with which he devoted himself to my service? What should I expect? This priceless word, which he has met again and again in old books, occurs in a ballad published about thirty years ago in London. He will find it in the last line of the follow- ing stanza as Jaques says, we call them stanzas [This old girl that was gon to be tied To the man shed so iou~ been a-wishin hers, Give a big spread of hued, roast, an fried], An she axed all the villa~e musicianers. There is his word, withits existence in English literature, and its non-obsolete- ness at once established. True, I cannot remember the name of the ballad, nor eke of the author thereof; and to tell the whole truth, I have thrgotten its very sub- ject, and only the last line of this stanza is genuine; that alone having remained in my memory, as it were by what he calls special providence in the mundane or- der for his only use, benefit, and be- hoof The three preceding lines are my o ivn unwort my fitbricationlinmhs which I have added to the grand torso, conscious that where the restoration joins the orig- inal, the modern iuii)inges upon tIme an- tique must be l)ainfull apparent. But he may be sure of the genuineness of the last line, which contains the precious word. (Would he not have treated me more tenderly, not to say respectfully, if he had 5u51)ected that all the while this toad had that jewel in his head?) I re- member having in my youth the book that contained the ballad. It was adorned with cutsbut of a different kind from those which gave to Recent Exemplifi- cations its only zestand all down the page marched the village musicianers, blowing their brains through various tubes, more or less twisted, of wood and iron. I shall never forget it; and the memory of it has enabled me to show at least my gratitude.* A BUNDLE or Quznixs. 207 EAST 52d ST., NEW YORK, SEPT. 29, 1873. DEAR Six: You are doing a good work, etc., etc., etc. tMy correspondents ivill pardon my omission of their kind and encouraging remrarks.] I would ask you, can nothing be done to get s-id of that barbarism of speech which has lately come into vogue, introduced by our American journalists, of placin~ the adverb bet~veen the sign of the infumitive mood and the verb; as, she is learning to ele~antly dance, instead of to dance ele~aatly? 1 hope to soon recover my health. I propose to to-morrow return home. For the benefit of my health I have resolved to four miles walk every day. I am unable to fully understand you. This collocation is grossly unclassical, not being found in any standard author of any age. I can see nothing gained by it but the ~ratitication of disgustin~ pedantic pride or a malicious plea- sure in torturing cultivated ears. Will you tell me whether to say en or between the horns of a dilemma, and why? Also the os-i- gin of the Latin phrase, cum graao salts? Many good American writers confound at fault and ia fault. .1 noticed the other day that does. At fault is a lmuntsman s phrase. The hounds ni-c said to be at fault when they have lost scent of the game, and are runuin~ hither and thither to find it. In fault si~nifles in el-i-or; at fault, in perplexity. Permit me also to ask how long we are to * This ballad was published in small 4to or square l6mo form, and contained a dozen or a score of pages. The illustrations were some- what in Richard Doyles style. Copies of it must be in this country. Should any of my rearlers happen to have one, I should be glad to hear of it. Or perhaps he would at once kindly send it addressed to Fitzed~var(1 Hall, LL.D., Hill-House, Wickhana Market, England. 1874.] LINGUISTIC AND LITERARY NOTES AND QUERIES. 95 use daily a class of forei,n words before incor- ~oratin~ them and auglicizin~ the pronunciation? Take the French word d~but, for instance; not one American in five hundred can pronounce it correctly. The u he sounds like 00. The French, when they adopt a foreign ~vord, gallicize it at once; they make the pronuncia- tion bend to their own laws. The Spaniads say Gil Bias; hut final s is silent in French; the French therefore say Gil Bla (a broad). The French lan~uage stanils on its di~nity; our ver- nacular has no di~nity to stand on, so it crouch- es. Is it always to be a parasite? Why dont we say debutt? Because, if we did, we should lau~h at one another. We dont laugh when we say deboo, for the sufficient reason that we dont know that we are speaking had French. Yours respectfully, D. R. T. The foregoing letter is given as a fair specimen of the many received by the writer of these articles ; not one in a hundred of his correspondents being a person whom he has ever seen, or with whom he has any acquaintance, even by way of correspondence. Hereafter, ex- cept in cases of special interest, letters themselves will not be given, but the sub- ject of tile inquiry will be briefly set forth. D. R. T. gives information as well as asks it. He is so clearly right about the placing of the adverb as to make coin- ment unnecessary. The examples which he gives are in themselves a condemna- tion of the fashion wisich he regards with such disfavor. Distinguished precedent might be shown for this construction, as for many other bad uses of language; but it is eminently unenglish. As to a dilemma, the proper word of re- lation is between; because a dilemma ~i 2ii7j~uu, meaning two established posi- tionspresents to a disp utant two un- pleasant alternatives, called horns, of which lie is obliged to accept one. When the dilemma is presented he is upon neither horn ; and he never is upon both. 6~um grano salis has its point from a sort of pun which is lost in the transla- tion with a grain of salt. Sal has for its secondary meaning wit, men- tal acumen, intellectual good taste and judgment; and so, to take a thing cum qrano salis is to use caution and dis- crimnination in giving it credence or con- sideration. As to foreign words adopted by us, whether French, Latin, Greek, or what not, their complete naturalization is of course to be effected only by time, and frequent and general usage; and the question as to when this has been accom- lished is also of course to be determined only by observation. The usage with re- gard to the plural is a good guide. For example, inde is an unmodified Latin word, of which the plural is indices, which was formerly used. But no one would now say indices, except when us- ing the word in a scientific way- Of memorandum, the Latin plural memoran- da is used by some, the English memo- randums by others, showing, as luatter of history, a yet imperfect naturalization of the word, and criterion has more com nionly criteria us its plural; for which I can see no sufficient reason. It would seem to be a sensible and, to use my cor- respondents expression, a dignified way to naturalize such words completely as soon as possible. N~evertheIess, lie would be a bold man who should speak of an actresss debutt, and of her debuttiny- lt may be doubted, however, whether, if he could not say dbbut, he might not better say debutt than deboo. MAKING VISITS, omt PAYING~~ VISITS. MADISON AVENUE, October 12. DEAR ME. GRANT WulTE: In the book which you have revie~ved with such a pungent pen, amid with a personal severity so differemit from your usual maiiisera hook which, not- withstandin~ its subject and my sex, my inter- est in the author of~ Words amid their Uses led me to read, amid to dislikeI see you are foumid fault with for writing make a visit, which is said to be imo lon~er English. No~v, of course, you know that we all miow say pay a visit, but ~vhen I was a girl I remember that my mother used to say make visits. Will you kindly tell us time rea- son of the change, and how making visits has ceased to be English, and obli~e others besides Yours sincerely, F. B. As to the reason of the change which my fair correspondent inqtiires about, I know little or nothing. For it she nmust doubtless hold her own sex responsible, they being of necessity the arbiters of fashion in such purely social muatters. It is not improbable, however, that the change from make to pay expresses subtly that recognition of calling as a social dutysomething rather disagreeable which must be done, not for pleasure or from inclination and with tIme desire of en- joying the society of our friends, but be- cause it is something which, in the social cant phrase, we owe to society. So we pay it. In this matter, however, I ama an open 96 LINGUISTIC AND LITERARY NOTES AND QUERIES. [JAN. rebel against the constituted authority of which my correspondent is a representa- tive; for the reason that the use of the word pay in regard to ones visits to friends and acquaintances is an implied degradation of social intercourse, and a very poor compliment to the person to whom a visit is paid. Thereibre, in spite of the behests of fashion, making visits seems in my judgment better than paying visits. As to the time when the latter caine into vogue here, it cer- tainly must be longer ago than my corre- spondent can remember. Perhaps her mother also had some really sociable no- tions about visiting. And the phrase pay a visit is not even such a compar- atively new one as the author of the book she refers to would seem to think. It is a hundred and fifty years old at least. Here is one instance of its use in litera- ture about as old as that. lt is from Samuel Wesleys ~Ielissa, A. D. 1734: Nor gads to pay, with busy air, Trifiin.~ visits here and there. As to how a word, and above all a phrase, can cease to be English, that I can neither explain nor understand; al- though how a phrase might be in coin- mon use and not be English is quite comprehensible. A phrase may pass out of vogue, or become unfashionable; b~t whether it is English or not is to be ducided by other laws than those of fash- ion. su~xxas or AGE, AND WINTERS. BALTIMORE, September 9, 1873. DEAR SIR: XVlli you be kind enough to give your ol)mnion in decision of a dispute which it has been decided to submit to you? What is the ori~in of the phrases so many summers old as upplied to a young woman, and so many winters old as applied to an old man? An answer will oblige Yours respectfully, F. P. The reserve and good faith with which F. P. puts his question does not conceal the nature of the dispute in which it had its origin. The first phrase, as it appears, for example, in such an exprsssion as a maiden of fifteen summers, is of course ued with the fanciful purpose of con- necting summer with youth and beauty; and although just a little namby-pamby- ish and affected, it is not at all forced or unnatural. The measurement of an old mans life by winters has of course a sun ilar but converse feeling as its motive. But while the former is very new, the latter is very old; and the former is framed upon a mistaken apprehension of the latter in its original signification. The expression so many winters old has come down to us from our Anglo- Saxon forefkthers, by whom it was used with no reference to declining life and snowy hair. They measured long time in speech by winters, and said. winters where we say years. In the following lines from Chaucer winter is used to ex- press the age of a man in the flower of a lusty manhood: There was a Monke. a faire man and a bolde; I trowe a thritty winter was lie olde. The Shipmannel Tale, 1. 12955. In the following passage from the late Anglo-Saxon le~cmid of the Discovery of the Holy Rood the use of winter for year is made very plain: Thada wns agan an liund wintra & thri & thrit- ti wintra nfter cristes tliro~vnn,.,e & dpstige to heofenum, tha rixode constantinus, etcEd. Marris, p. 3. That is: When that was gone a hundred winters and tbree and thirty winters after Christs suffering and uprising to heaven, then reigned Constantine, etc. We should say a hundred and thirty-three years. The reason of this usage was that in the southern angle of what is now Den- mark, whence the Angles came, the cold part of the year was so predominant that winter naturally came to mean, or rather to be taken for the whole year, although they had the word gear, of which our year is a mere modernization. This pre- dominance of cold was found by the first Christian missionaries to the extreme northern peoples of Europe an obstacle in their way. For the Christian religion being first promulgated in countries in which heat was most dreaded, the penal- ties of sin were naturally pronounced to be a prolonged residence in a very high temperature. But when the missiona- ries went toward the North Pole, and began to threaten the chilly heathen with the punishment which had such terrors for the dwellers around the Mediterranean sea, the former, in whose religious myth- ology Hel was a very cold place, replied, If your Hel is so very warm, we dont much mind going there. Se non ~ vero, ~ ben trovato. RICHARD GRANT WHITE. A Wll~OW INDEED. I AM not going to deny at my time of life, and in this age of the world, that women are changeable. it has come to be one of the fixed facts that no one wastes argument upon; nearly all women acknowledge it at once, as I do; hut what we do contend for, with one voice, is, that we never change without good reason. When my friend Isabel Deane suddenly sank from a pinnacle of proud and happy wifehood into a desolate and heart- broken widow, it was a change quite proper, and to be expected, that she should turn her fkce to the wall, and refuse to be comforted for many days. John Deane had been her lover, as well as her husband, as lone as he lived, and all the world quoted them as a model of married happiness. His death was sud- den, and all the more overwhehuiug to the wife who had lain so serenely on his strength that she had never need to put out her own. I am an old maid myself, but I can dimly iina~ine what it might be to lean ones heart and sohl on a good man for many years, till ones bones were all bent that way, and then how long it might take, when the support was snatched away, to grope lamely about the world, till one could learn to stand upright again. I offered Isabel no consolation, because I knew of none; I just sat down with her and her children day after day. When she gave long wistful looks at the por- trait of her husband which hung always before her, I made her look at the babys smile; but when I saw her needle go hard through her work for falling tears, I could only let the baby go, and cry with her. As week dragged after week, Isabel began to take up the stitches she had dropped in mother-love, and the real strength that was in her, hitherto dor- mant, sprang up full-armed for her chil- dren. She had been wounded well-nigh unto death, but half a dozen soft little bands did much to soothe and stroke away the pain. Isabel will come round at last. She must have some idol, and since the big one is broken, she will set up three little ones in its place, and the worship will go on in her temple all the same, i said to a friend whom 1 was visiting for a week, when Mr. Deane had been dead about three months. I had liked John Deane very well myself, if Isabel must marry at all, which seemed strangely necessary to her happiness, as it does to many other women, i rather preferred him to any one else as her husband. lie was wholly devoted to her, which was no more than she deserved, and for a man he was very little in the way. Never- theless, i returned to her with a certain inward comfort in the thought that she would be more than ever my friend, when she had fairly settled into the new groove that widowhood would make for her. To my blank surprise and consternation, i found her urgin~ forward all possible preparations to go abroad with her chil- dren for an indefinite time. Her eyes were hard and cold as if she had no more tears left, and the corners of her mouth were sharply drawn as of one in the fixed habit of enduring pain without mentioning it. Her manner had a brisk abruptness, that i had never no- ticed before. The household habits, which had become a little demoralized by the presence of sorrow, had suddenly strai~ht- ened into the utmost order. The ser- vants eyed me curiously to see if i would notice the change, and mnade many furtive attempts to talk about it. i could not have been more bewildered ifa soft, pink baby had suddenly hardened under my hand into one of those grim old statues that keep guard over Egyptian tombs. She did not seem to manuge it, but I could never see her alone, and she carefully ig- nored my hints at the change in liner. Her beauty had always been warmed and heightened by happiness; she needed sweet excitements to keep a flush in her naturally pale cheek, and dewy bright- ness in her large gray eyes. When the sun is saying good night to the snow peaks of the Jungfrau, she colors like a blush rose; but when the sun is gone she turns pale and gray, and is nothing but a cold rock after all. This was precisely

A Wll~OW INDEED. I AM not going to deny at my time of life, and in this age of the world, that women are changeable. it has come to be one of the fixed facts that no one wastes argument upon; nearly all women acknowledge it at once, as I do; hut what we do contend for, with one voice, is, that we never change without good reason. When my friend Isabel Deane suddenly sank from a pinnacle of proud and happy wifehood into a desolate and heart- broken widow, it was a change quite proper, and to be expected, that she should turn her fkce to the wall, and refuse to be comforted for many days. John Deane had been her lover, as well as her husband, as lone as he lived, and all the world quoted them as a model of married happiness. His death was sud- den, and all the more overwhehuiug to the wife who had lain so serenely on his strength that she had never need to put out her own. I am an old maid myself, but I can dimly iina~ine what it might be to lean ones heart and sohl on a good man for many years, till ones bones were all bent that way, and then how long it might take, when the support was snatched away, to grope lamely about the world, till one could learn to stand upright again. I offered Isabel no consolation, because I knew of none; I just sat down with her and her children day after day. When she gave long wistful looks at the por- trait of her husband which hung always before her, I made her look at the babys smile; but when I saw her needle go hard through her work for falling tears, I could only let the baby go, and cry with her. As week dragged after week, Isabel began to take up the stitches she had dropped in mother-love, and the real strength that was in her, hitherto dor- mant, sprang up full-armed for her chil- dren. She had been wounded well-nigh unto death, but half a dozen soft little bands did much to soothe and stroke away the pain. Isabel will come round at last. She must have some idol, and since the big one is broken, she will set up three little ones in its place, and the worship will go on in her temple all the same, i said to a friend whom 1 was visiting for a week, when Mr. Deane had been dead about three months. I had liked John Deane very well myself, if Isabel must marry at all, which seemed strangely necessary to her happiness, as it does to many other women, i rather preferred him to any one else as her husband. lie was wholly devoted to her, which was no more than she deserved, and for a man he was very little in the way. Never- theless, i returned to her with a certain inward comfort in the thought that she would be more than ever my friend, when she had fairly settled into the new groove that widowhood would make for her. To my blank surprise and consternation, i found her urgin~ forward all possible preparations to go abroad with her chil- dren for an indefinite time. Her eyes were hard and cold as if she had no more tears left, and the corners of her mouth were sharply drawn as of one in the fixed habit of enduring pain without mentioning it. Her manner had a brisk abruptness, that i had never no- ticed before. The household habits, which had become a little demoralized by the presence of sorrow, had suddenly strai~ht- ened into the utmost order. The ser- vants eyed me curiously to see if i would notice the change, and mnade many furtive attempts to talk about it. i could not have been more bewildered ifa soft, pink baby had suddenly hardened under my hand into one of those grim old statues that keep guard over Egyptian tombs. She did not seem to manuge it, but I could never see her alone, and she carefully ig- nored my hints at the change in liner. Her beauty had always been warmed and heightened by happiness; she needed sweet excitements to keep a flush in her naturally pale cheek, and dewy bright- ness in her large gray eyes. When the sun is saying good night to the snow peaks of the Jungfrau, she colors like a blush rose; but when the sun is gone she turns pale and gray, and is nothing but a cold rock after all. This was precisely 98 A WIDOW INDEED. [JAN. the change in Isabel Deane. Her face was like a transparent picture, softly glowing when the light of happiness was behii1d it, but without that light it was no picture at all. She had let her house on a long lease, and all her affairs were as carefully set- tled as if she were going out of the world. Y)u behave as if you had received sentence of everlasting exile, I said to her on her last day, when she could no longer escape me. 1 !oie it may he so, she replied, looking straight at the wall; I have suf- fered so much here, that, hut for the childrens interest, I should be glad to see this house burnt to the ground. I looked at the wall, too, and perceived that Mi. Deanes portrait had been re- moved. You will take it with you, of course, I said, by way of making talk. Oh, no; it would be a troublesome package. I have sent it to Mr. Deanes sister; she always admired and wanted it. had grief turned the woman to stone? I took her chin in my hands, and made her look at me, while I entreated her with tears to tell me what blight had fallen on her. Dont you remember the da~ when John sent home that portrait to surprise you on your birthday, and you went oa your knees to it xvith delight, as if it had been an altar? You were distracted with joy that day. Since then I have known what it was to 1)e distracted in other ways, and only for the childrens sake I would have died and made no sign. You see a change in me, l)ut I feel it ; and I assure you I do not find any more comfort in it than you do, but it cannot be helped. That is nonsense! It can be helped if you will look at it in the right way. I have looked at it in all ways, and there is no right way but to take up my cross and bear it to the end. I can bear it better if I am away from all that can remind me of the old days. I shall not come home till I have outgrown even the memory of them. ~That memory was your dearest treas- ure when I left you for that short week, Isabel. Yes, but you forget that the world was made in a week. It is long enough for moths to corrupt or thieves to break throu~h and steal our greatest trensure. Do not speak lightly of a week,~ she said with a woful smile that had better have been a sob. Isabel, you break my heart, I cried out. Do I? Then you will be in thefashion. Womens hearts were made to be broken. The crack comes late to some and early to others. I had a long probation, but it caine at last all the same. She went away across the sea next day with all her flock, but the dregs of her bitterness staid with me. I had be- lieved iii her, and been disappointed; it is not an uncommon experience between lovers, and I am assured that the sensa- tion is very uncomfortable. I certainly found it so in my o~vn case. There must have been leaves on leaves folded away in her character, that I had never found or suspected, to account for the savage clman~e in a womnan who had been all womanly. It injured my digestion and disturbed my sleep ; for it forced me to take to pieces all my pet theories about women and make them over again. Her infrequent letters told nothing of her real life; they were full of glittering generalities about pictures and catlie-. drals, and now and then a bitter jest on the hollowness of life. Married happiness seemed to provoke her to special wrath. The trail of the serpent was over all her thoughts. When I pressed her about her own health, she wrote, I am always well enough to bear my burdens, such as they are. Nothing can kill a woman, you know. But one or two travellers who saw her at Heidelberg (where she had fixed hem- self, to be near her brothers, who were in the university) brought word that she was white and wan, and only the shadow of her former sehf~ I have been bored to death lately, she wrote once, with the devotion of Cousin George and his new wife. They may be called vagabonds, having no visi- ble means of support; but love is to be food and drink and lodging, to say noth. ing of clothes. The deluded woman thmnkm she has power to keep him always at hem feet, and it would not surprise nine at ab if he were already, in his heart, a litth 1874.] A WIDOW INDEED. 99 weary of her. Women are so easily de- ceived tbat I wonder men have taken so much pleasure in doing it through all ages. I begin to favor the French cus- tom of selectin~ wives and husbands for ones children, instead of leavin~ theta to their own devices in the most important matter of their lives. The only ohjection lies in one of old Fullers nutshells: Tis to he feared that they who marry where they do not love, will love where they do not marry; but people will do that any way, and after all, love is only the right side of grief.? When George Deane and his deluded wife came home I charged them, on their honor, to give me a true and unvar- nished account of Mrs. Deanes condition of body and mind. They had been so wrapt up in one another, that they had not seen much change in her as to man- ner, but they had somehow got it into their fi)olish heads that she had not lived happily with her husband, as she would never talk of him even to her children. I speedily disabused their minds of that notion; for, as I have said before, Isabel and her husband had never ceased to live in their honeymoon till his death. Isabel had been abroad five years when she sent me a golden curl of her daugh- ters hair, braided with iron-gray, which she insisted was her own. I sat twisting it about my finger with my heart full of rebellion against the evil fkte that had taken her clean out of my sphere, when I had counted on a double share of her society fer the rest of my life. This is the conclusion of the whole mat~r, I said to myself for want of anybody else to say it to. Blessed he those who expect nothing, for they will not be disappointed. And on that instant the postman, dart- ing up the steps in the rain, held up a letter to my window. It was a very thin letter, and held only these words: Miss DENNISON: If you will come monad to the ilusseil street infirmary as soon as possible after receiviu~ this note, you may do some good, and greatly oblige Yours truly, MARIA STONE, Matron of Infirmary. Doing good in hospitals had never been my forte, and I was morally certain that I had never laid eyes on a woman of the name of Maria Stone. Besides all this, it rained as if it were the first day of another deluge, and most likely the letter was meant for another Miss Dennison; Dennison being a com- mon name, and the prefix Miss commoner still, and growing more so. I am ashamed to say that I hesitated some minutes with my rubber shoes in my hand ; but curiosity, rather than be- nevolence, finally carried the day, and I went forth on a long, wet walk to Russell street. Are you Miss Dennison? said a woman, who seemed to be waiting to let me into the infirmary. Yes. Miss Eleanor Dennison? Yes. Then you are the lady wanted. It was comfort in may soaked condition to hear even that, though I put no faith in it. I was led through a room containing seven or eight beds, all occupied by con- valescent patients, into a small one, so dark that I could not distinguisis anything for a moment. Is she here? I heard a womans voice ask fisintly, and, guided by tile sound, I saw a woman lying on a narrow bed, propped up with pillows. I am Miss Dennison, I said, but I am very wet, and may give you a chill. It dont matter, she returned, after waiting for a prolonged coughing~fit to pass. Nothing can ilurt me, and I must say quickly what I have to say. Even then I felt a certain impatience that I had been dragged out on such a day, to hear tile dying confession of a stranger, who probably intended it for some other person. How often, but for our hard-working guardian angels, we should pass by with a sniff and maiss forever the most blessed opportunities of our lives! I sat down by the womans bed, and she grasped the cape of my waterproof as if to be certain that I should not es- cape her. She was much emaciated (her cheekbones stood out like rocks at low water) , and having been a very dark bru- nette in her best days, her coal-black hair and extreme sallowness made a ghastly contrast with the white pillows at her back. Are we alone? she asked when the m~stmon vent out and closed the door, without noticing my silent entreaty for her to remain. I glanced over the room and perceived A WIDOW INDEED. another bed, in which the outline of a hu- man figure was visible under the cover- let~ Not quite; there seems to be some one asleep in the other bed. Yes, shes asleep fast enough, and she wont trouble us with her dreams; its the only kind of sleep worth having. She died while the matron was down stairs. For mercys sake, let me go and tell her! I said, horrified at her careless manner. It is for mercys sake to the living that I have sent for you. Never mind the dead. The woman was not in the least wild in her manner, and paused only to cough at intervals. I ala Madeleine Dejoux,a seamstress, who worked three months once for Mrs. John Deane, making up the wardrobe for one of her babies. I think it was the second boy. I used to see you, Miss Den- nison, every day, and you have changed very little. But I was handsome then, with a brilliant Spanish sort of beauty; you would not suppose it, to see me now? I have given no thought to the mat- ter at all, I said, a little sharply, reco~- nizing her at last as one whom I had for- merly disliked, and suspectin~ that she was about to confess the theft of Isabels gold thimble, or something of the sort. I suppose not, but you must give both thought and understanding to the rest of what I have to say. Mr. Deane and his wife, as possibly you have noticed, were the most perfectly happy married people that I ever saw. Being so long under their roof, I bad every opportunity to observe it. I always sewed in a little room, adjoining their bedehamber, which Mrs. Deane used as a nursery; indeed, she usually sat there with the only child she had then. She treated me kindly, after a fash- ion, but somehow she seemed to make no difference betweeu me and the servants in the house. I was just a person who served her purpose, and she wanted no more to do with me. I bad been taught that my good looks were to be my fortune, and she never noticed them at all. She was a plain-looking woman at times when she had no color; but if she had been a full-fledged angel, Mr. Deane could not have been more convinced of her beauty. He fairly worshipped the ground she walked on, and when I could hear them billing and cooin~ over their boy, I would grind my teeth with sheer envy of her happiness. I tried in every way to attract Mr. Deanes attention, even to lacing his wifes boots after she found it difficult to stoop; but he had eyes only for her Ibot, and never saw the scarlet flower in my hair. I held his boy till my arms ached, and tried to magnetize him with my touch; but I might as well have been so much empty air; for him, there was but one woman in the world. It is not a safe occupation for a young girl to try such experiments. I had not been in the house two months before I loved him with all my heart, and he scarcely knew me by sight. lie had a habit of reading aloud to his wife for an hour or two every day, and one book, in which they were much interested, was James Greenwoods Seven Curses of London. Mrs. Deane pretended great sympathy with the poor wretches that it described, and talked very lovingly of the fitllen ones of her own sex; of course Mr. Deane loved her for it more than ever, if that were possible. They gave it up, however, after read- ing a few chapters, because she said in her mawkish way that it was too painful to be true. I hope she has found out by this time that because thin~s are painful they are all the more likely to be true. I got the book out of the library again as soon as they returned it, and finished it by myself. If you have read it (and if you have not, I recommend it to you and all other starched-up women, who have seen nothing but the whited side of this sepulchre of a world)l say, if you have read it, you cannot Ikil to remember a certain chapter which, after describing many forms of villainy in the way of anonymous letters, goes on to detail a very ingenious method of getting money out of widows and orphans, called the dead-lurk. After a man dies somebody writes a very familiar letter purporting to come from his mistress, or an accomaplice in some piece of wickedness, asking for money according to promise, as if they had not heard of his death. The odds are that the poor womnan, hoping to preserve her husbands name from the stain and too [JAN. 1874.] A WIDOW INDEED. 101 disgrace of an investigation, will send the money. Women are so credulous that they will believe one story as soon as an- other. I admired the talent and acute- ness of such a trick; it was to me the cream of the book, and I did not think it too painful to be true. About a month afterward Mrs. Deane happened to hear me use a vulgar word before her little boy, who repeated it at once. It was just a slip of the tongue, not worth noticing; but she could not make fuss enough about it, and sent me away directly. She was too self-right- eous to give me any recommendation to her friends, and I had to go into a strange place, with very little money and no cer- tificate of character. But never mind that now; she has had her reward! 1 soon found people enough to look at my black eyes and the flowers in my hair, and I caine to grief of course. You have been looking all along as if you expected it. I came to grief without delay, as I said, but I got some pleasure on the way, perhaps as much as my betters in the long run. I got on well enough till a slight cold turned to a cough, and I began to grow sick and poor equally fast. I had one child to support; he was then about five years old, the only creature who ever loved me. But I see you are not inter- ested in him; nobody ever was interested in him except his mothcr. I had no prospect before me but a lin- gering death in the poorhouse, while my lovely, blue-eyed boy would be cuffed about some orphan asylum till lie was old enough to work. In this evil case, when I was in sorest extremity, I saw the death of John Deane in a newspaper, and all my old wrongs at his wifes hands rushed over me like a flood; at the same moment I remembered the Seven Curses of London, and the trick that I had ad- mired so much. I dont pretend to make any defence (you are too hard-hearted to admit it,, if I did), but I was desperate, and I could not see my boy starve. With the utmost care and deliberation I put together a letter, addressed to Mr. Deane, which would have carried convic- tion, even to your mind, that I had been near and dear to him. It was long and affectionate, and signed by my own name. It. referred to those first days when he had spoken kindly to me in the sewing-room, and to my meeting him more and more 7 often afterward away from home, and how wiser than a serpent he had been in never letting his wife suspect it. It spoke of our blue-eyed Johnniehow proud he would be to show papa, on his next visit, his first jacket and trousers. It spoke of my being wholly dependent on him in my ill health, and how blessed I had been in gaining the love of so good a man. It re- minded him ever so delicately of a certain allowance that he had promised to make me from the beginning of that current year; but the one thing that carried con- viction to Mrs. Deanes mind, and I knew it would when I thought of it, was my telling him in the letter how Johnnie had seen his back in the looking-a lass, and had discovered a mole, just like papas, on his shoulder. I happened to be aware of this mark on Mr. Deanes shoulder from overhearing his sister say that all her family had it precisely in the same spot, and she had looked for it on her nephew as he sat on my lap. I studied every sentence of that let- ter, as one studies the fiice of a sick child, looking for hope in it. My love for Mr. Deane had never gone out of my heart (first love never does, I think), and in all these years I had kept account more or less closely of his habits and welfare. I knew that he was often driven from home by his business, and that he was obliged to be away many days at a time. I sent the letter in fear and trembling, and bided my time. In a few days I had a notice from a banking-house in New York that a certain sum would be paid me every year by order of Mrs. Isabel Deane. It was precisely the amount of the allowance I had mentioned in my letternot an ex- travagant sum, but just enough to sup- port my boy and me decently. She could spare it well enough, and, after all, I dont know why I should be sorry for doing it. She had had more than her share of happiness, but I have often wondered how she took my little thunderbolt. I heard she went to Europe with her children. Madeleine Dejoux had said all this in a high, constrained voice, as if she had been wound up to run just so many minutes. Shenow shrank down among her pillows, and seemed to be bracing herself to re- ceive my wrath in whatever form it might break upon her. 102 A WIDOW INDEED. [JAN. For one black instant I had a savage longing to clutch her throat and shake out of her what little life she had left, but the great joyfulness of the tidings that I could send to isabel swept it away. I should have been a pagan indeed to give another turn to the rack on which remorse and disease had long bound her. I felt only contempt for the workings of such a mind, when she looked into my eyes again. I see you have been furious, she said, reading me as if I were printed in the largest type; but now you have turned scornful. You used to be a devout admirer of Mrs. Deane, who, with all her tameness, could fascinate mea and wo- men both. I know all the wires that men are pulled by, hut I never had a wo- man friend unless you will be that one. 1! I, your friend! I said with a shudder that I did not try to hide. Never mind, she said wearily; I can do without it as I have always. I see your interest in me ends with this inter- view. You would trample me under your feet if you could help Mrs. Deane by it. That is of course. I may think of you in connection with Mrs. Deanes sor- row as one thinks of the serpent in the ruin of Eve: we follow her fortune ever after, but I dont know that anybody cared what became of that particular ser- pent. I was sore tempted, she pleaded, and 1 could not see my boy starve. Where is your boy now? Oh, he is dead. I never repented till then. And if he had lived you would never have undeceived your victim; you would have let her drag out her life in torturing doubt of her husbands faith? Yes, I think so. And I think so too, I said, drawing my cape, which she had never let go, out of her hand. You are mistaking re- morse for repentance; but at least, to give you your due, you have done one good thing before it is too late. She turned her face away from me with a movement of impatience, as if she half grudged even that one white thread in a whole life woven out of evil, and I went quietly out of the infirmary and ran all the way to my own honse. While Madeleine Dejouxs words were fresh in my memory, I wrote every one as she had spoken them; but they could not reach Isabel in less than a fortnight, and I would not prolong her pain even that length of time. I wrote half a dozen telegrams before I could hit on a form of words that satisfied me. One was: Madeleine Dejoux has con- fessed her deception. And another: The woman who wrote a lyin~ letter to you is dying, but I feared the telegram would be opened by a stranger, or by one of the children, before it should reach Is- abel, and the questions and surmises as to its meaning would be endless. At last I settled on this: Glad tidings of great joy. Look for a letter. Then I made three copies of Madeleines confession, and sent them on successive days to Heidelberg, that Isabel might be nearly sure of getting one of them if the others foiled. Then I sat down and folded my hands, so to speak, feeling myself the centre of a great stretch of peace and calmness, as people do after a troublesome piece of work is fairly finished, and folded up and laid away for future use. I never saw again the wild, self-tortnr- ing woman who had first stolen and then restored Isabels comfort, but the matron sent me a notice of her death two or three days after my visit to her. Th less than two months Isabel came home, bringing her children. She looked worn and altered, but the sweet, soft dew of happiness again brightened her eyes and flushed her cheek. Her talk, as of old, was full of simple, innocent, woman- ly matters, untouched by the sarcasms which had come over the sea in all tlie~e years, and had pricked me like arrows. We spoke no word of all that had come and gone between us. We just buried the u~ly skeleton, and put no stone to mark the place. But when she was again settled in her old home, with her work-table in front of Mr. Deanes por- trait (which she had beg~ed from his sis- ter), I sometimes caught her returning glance as she gazed long upon it, and I constantly read in her face, Forgive me, forgive me, 0 my husband! To hear with eyes is part of loves fine wit, and ours was but a womans friendship, but I loved Isabel Deane well enough for that. ELLA W. THoMPsoN. OThER FOLKS MONEY. ~THAT do you understand by VI business? somebody once asked of Talleyrand. Lar~qent dau- tres other folks moneywas the re- ply. The answer was given in the light of his long experience as priest, prince, courtier, diplomatist, and man of the world; and if at the time it contained a touch of sarcasm, no such suspicion could to-day attach to the response. Busi- ness, at least so far as the charmed cir- cles of metropolitan finance are concern- ed, means indeed other peoples money; and it may not be uninteresting to inquire who are the mysterious personages whom the witty Frenchman denominated oth- er folks. First, I have to premise, they form a very large community. Like all commu- nities it is mixed perhaps not easily classified, since the types merge a good deal into each other. There is the aristo- cratic quarter and the spendthrift quarter; the moderate-man-of-means quarter, the lucky fellows quarter, the exceptional quarter, and the sharks. After this come the democracy and flying artillery, and so on and so on, running down to very small figures. I shall undertake to sketch only a portion of these. It the reader will take the trouble to look through the advertising columns of our daily journals, he will find paraded in conspicuous type, under the head Fi- nance, various attractive cards or no- tices by persons calling themselves bank- ers, or claiming to be banking-houses. These cards or notices proclaim to the public, among other thin~s, that the par- ties receive deposits and allow a certain rate of interest on daily balancessome four, some five per cent.and permit the depositor to draw for his money at sight. I have myself, before the late panic, counted twenty-one of these advertisements in a single journal of the day. What do they mean? They mean Largent dautres. These fascinating publications, which are got up, by the way, in a most patron- izing style, are simply applications to the public to borrow money without security. Suppose these banking-houses should change their phraseology somewhat and announce as follows: Wanted to bor- row all the money we can get in order to increase our business. We offer no se- curity for it, but we will allow five per cent. interest and pay back the loan when- ever called for. How much cash would the advertisement bring to their coffers? Our notice is an imaginary one. The bankers indulge in no such brutal plainness of speech. They blandly an- nounce, We receive deposits (amiable souls !) subject to drafts at sight, and allow interest thereon. What a strong phrase deposits! and what impos- ing, soothing, trustful words are those of bank and banker. What is it to deposit? According to Webster, it is to lodge in the hands of a person for safe keeping. What is a bank? The same authority tells us it is a com- mon repository of the money of individ- uals or of csmpanies. And banker? One who keeps abank. And bank- ing? Quoting still from Webster, we find it is the business of establishing a common fund for lending money, dis- counting notes, issuing bills, receiving deposits, collecting the money on notes deposited, negotiating bills of exchange, etc. It is by assuming the solid front and port of solid institutions that these adver- tisers attract other folks money. Now, reader, if you had one or five thousand dollars to invest, and a worthy man, a neighbor for example, who is known to you to be well above-board and doing a safe and profitable business, should ask you to lend him the money, of- fering only his note on demand with in- terest for it, how quickly you would de- cline. You would say to yourself: This may be perfectly safe, but I cannot af- ford to take the risk of this persons busi- ness; which I certainly do when I lend him my money without security. Yet you practise what is much more danger- ous. You deposit the cash in one of these banking-houses, and not only take the danger of an ordinary business,

OThER FOLKS MONEY. ~THAT do you understand by VI business? somebody once asked of Talleyrand. Lar~qent dau- tres other folks moneywas the re- ply. The answer was given in the light of his long experience as priest, prince, courtier, diplomatist, and man of the world; and if at the time it contained a touch of sarcasm, no such suspicion could to-day attach to the response. Busi- ness, at least so far as the charmed cir- cles of metropolitan finance are concern- ed, means indeed other peoples money; and it may not be uninteresting to inquire who are the mysterious personages whom the witty Frenchman denominated oth- er folks. First, I have to premise, they form a very large community. Like all commu- nities it is mixed perhaps not easily classified, since the types merge a good deal into each other. There is the aristo- cratic quarter and the spendthrift quarter; the moderate-man-of-means quarter, the lucky fellows quarter, the exceptional quarter, and the sharks. After this come the democracy and flying artillery, and so on and so on, running down to very small figures. I shall undertake to sketch only a portion of these. It the reader will take the trouble to look through the advertising columns of our daily journals, he will find paraded in conspicuous type, under the head Fi- nance, various attractive cards or no- tices by persons calling themselves bank- ers, or claiming to be banking-houses. These cards or notices proclaim to the public, among other thin~s, that the par- ties receive deposits and allow a certain rate of interest on daily balancessome four, some five per cent.and permit the depositor to draw for his money at sight. I have myself, before the late panic, counted twenty-one of these advertisements in a single journal of the day. What do they mean? They mean Largent dautres. These fascinating publications, which are got up, by the way, in a most patron- izing style, are simply applications to the public to borrow money without security. Suppose these banking-houses should change their phraseology somewhat and announce as follows: Wanted to bor- row all the money we can get in order to increase our business. We offer no se- curity for it, but we will allow five per cent. interest and pay back the loan when- ever called for. How much cash would the advertisement bring to their coffers? Our notice is an imaginary one. The bankers indulge in no such brutal plainness of speech. They blandly an- nounce, We receive deposits (amiable souls !) subject to drafts at sight, and allow interest thereon. What a strong phrase deposits! and what impos- ing, soothing, trustful words are those of bank and banker. What is it to deposit? According to Webster, it is to lodge in the hands of a person for safe keeping. What is a bank? The same authority tells us it is a com- mon repository of the money of individ- uals or of csmpanies. And banker? One who keeps abank. And bank- ing? Quoting still from Webster, we find it is the business of establishing a common fund for lending money, dis- counting notes, issuing bills, receiving deposits, collecting the money on notes deposited, negotiating bills of exchange, etc. It is by assuming the solid front and port of solid institutions that these adver- tisers attract other folks money. Now, reader, if you had one or five thousand dollars to invest, and a worthy man, a neighbor for example, who is known to you to be well above-board and doing a safe and profitable business, should ask you to lend him the money, of- fering only his note on demand with in- terest for it, how quickly you would de- cline. You would say to yourself: This may be perfectly safe, but I cannot af- ford to take the risk of this persons busi- ness; which I certainly do when I lend him my money without security. Yet you practise what is much more danger- ous. You deposit the cash in one of these banking-houses, and not only take the danger of an ordinary business, 104 OTHER FOLKS MONEY. [JAN. but of all the speculationreckless and otherwisethe house may indulge in. It would give you a shiver, Ii imagine, could you trace your five thousand dol- lars after handing it over to the youthful individual who is called receiving tell- er, and who flippantly passes it into the drawer while you walk out relieved and delighted. I do not propose to do this for you; but if you have paid attention to other advertisements of the same house, by which they earnestly recommend to the same public, of whom they are trying to borrow money, the bonds of a certain railroad in course of construction, or the shares of a most promising scheme for making money, some glimmering of the truth ought to dawn on your unsuspect- ing nature as you complacently take your place among the great company of other folks. Neither are these bankers and banking-houses so much to blame. You yourself are to blame. Notwithstanding they talk to you of depositing your money with them, they promise you at the same time five per cent, interest on it; and unless you are an idiot you must comprehend that if your hankers pay you uninterruptedly five per cent., they will uninterruptedly employ your money so as to pay themselves much more than that; and when they break, as from time to time they must and do, you have no right to whine over your loss or become indignant that your deposits are not re- turned to you. The fact -is, you never had any deposits in the house as such. You loaned your money at five per cent., and have lost it. And this brin~s me to the pith of my subject. I shall say noth- ing more about the persons whom it is a terrible irony to call bankers, except to remark that they are fellow creatures possessing fine digestive properties, which produce an immense amount of audacity and cheek. I will, however, devote a few words to the other folks who help them bank, and then pass to the various classes of the community dau- tres. To think is troublesome; to act ac- cording to our thought is difficult, says the great German. Man is not naturally an industrious animal. We welcome what is done to our hands. We cheer- fully give place to the individual who will do our work for us without charge to our- selves. We gladly receive and entertain ready-made arguments which jump with our general conclusions. It is pleasant to have some one to defend both our poli- tics and our creed. Hence the influence of a favorite newspaper, and of a pastor in whom we confide. It is quite the same with many in the matter of disposing of spare funds. To the chronic impecunious it will appear like a tale of fairyland to say there are in this free and happy coun- try a great many persons who have money in hand to dispose ofsome much, some little. Well, to these thought is trou- blesome, and in regard to money there is no lack of persons willing and eager to think for them. But they are not to be caught by chaff. They decline the mod- est suggestion of this or that friend, and yield themselves up to the advice of their banker, whose business it is to ~ know all about investments. And so he does. After their cash has remained a reasona- ble time on deposit, drawing five per cent. interest, an investment is recoin- mended by the cautious potentate, who has taken months to consider; which in- vestment naturally is in the valuable se- curities he himself has for sale, and in which, if the truth were known, their cash was placed about five minutes after it had been so carefully deposited for safe keeping. We have very little sympathy for this class dautres if they do lose their money, which not infrequently happens. They ought to have known better, and with this comforting suggestion we leave them to their fate. Scattered over the length and breadth of the land are a large number of little banks. Those who control them are fre-. quently not enterprising enough to keep their money well invested at home, or what is more apt to be the case, they are attracted by the inducements of a larger rate of interest elsewhere. The conse- quence is, they send their money to the city banks or bankers, whence it goes into all sorts of collaterals furnished by va- rious persons in business, and by various companies of various kinds, all of whom must have cash at any price. I must, therefore, to a certain extent, reckon these little country banks in the class dautres. The trustful young widow, or the un- married sister, whs places her funds un- resemmvedly in the hands of a brother, or 1874j OTHER FOLKS MONEY. 105 brother-in-law, or family friend, each of whom is doing such a good business! furnishes another specimen of the com- munity dautres. I am sorry to add, the chances are nine out often that, as a result of her trustfulness, she will be brought to keeping a sewing-machine or a boarding- house for a livelihood. Another large array consists of the le- gion of depositors in our many banks real banks, I mean, whose capital is paid in, whose circulation is secured, and which (however the stockholders may sometimes have to suffer) can mainly be relied on to pay back the cash intrusted to them. And what a lot of cash it is! The banks of the city of New York alone hold about two hundred million dollars on deposit! The other folks who own this money, out of which the banks make ten million dollars per annum, are of all sorts and conditions of men and women individuals and firms who are continually putting in money and drawing it out; gamblers who must keep a pile con- stantly on hand; respectable, well-to-do retired gentlemen, who collect their rents and interest and place them in bank to meet their current expenses; and still more wealthy persons who have a fondness for keeping a large sum of ready cash al- ways on hand. Ladies of large and of smaller means employ the banks, and the questionable ones afford their quota. This immense class of other folks are of the involuntary kind. They have not the in- tent to help these institutions make mon- ey. They use them merely as a conve- nience. Nevertheless it shows that the business even of le~itimate banking is in a great degree made up of largent dau- tres. than to the class who already possess it. A great proportion of the retired wealthy desire to live with as little trouble as pos- sible. Beyond the commonOst routine they do not think at all, and they do not give an idea to the employment of their funds, after they are placed by some- body in whom they confide. It is the same too with large numbers who are not retired, but who are occupied in other matters. Hence springs the evil I com- plain of. Money is diverted from its pro- per channels to flow in unnatural direc- tions. Large cities, in the ordinary course of trade and commerce, become the re- positories of immense sums,, just as they are entrepots for every kind of the earths productsfor fabrics from the manufhc- turer and merchandise of all sorts. Money flows inand flows out again in a healths, natural way, just as articles of commerce arrive and are distributed. To object to such accumulations in our banks, would be like criticising the law of gravi- tation. But this is not what I refer to. I speak of the habit of so many of the class dautres who, without thought om~ reflection, send their money to the city as the safest and most lucrative thing to do with it. In this way we have an un- healthy accumulation in easy times and an unnatural pinch in bad times. The money finds ready employment in foster- ing schemes which are purely speculative, for we must bear in mind it belongs to other folks,~ and there is no one to ex- ercise any careful control of it. It is true these foolish people frequentlyI may say generallylose all; but they are apt to keep silence, while the lucky few are loquaciousaudjubilant. If to-day we could go. through the thriving towns of New Let me say, in parenthesisfor I do not York and New England, and, Asmodeus- propose to discuss the subjectthat I shall like, not only uncover the roofs but look much regret to see the plan adopted by into the desks of the well-to-do farmers, the banks to allow interest on ~leposits. mechanics, and professional men, clergy- It will change their character; it will men included, it would greatly surprise make the banks more eager to secure high you to discover how much money these rates of remuneration; and worse than all, people have intrusted to New York and it will cause the depositor to be still more Boston in the hope of big returns. From indifferent to the personal supervision of many a pocket-book you would draw his funds; and this, as I shall presently forth a handsomely engraved railroad attempt to show, should be regarded as a bondperhaps several of themwhose great evil, unused coupons made painfully manifest Quick-witted and alert as Americans the condition of the investment advised are acknowledged to be, it is a fact that by their friend in the city to whom the these qualities belong rather to the class money was sent. Letters, too, would be who are attempting to make money found from the same friend expressing 106 OTHER FOLKS MONEY. [JAN. regret at his inability even to pay the in- terest due on a small deposit of cash, much less restore the cash itself These particular occurrences need not challenge our sympathy, because the persons had the money to lose and parted. with it from their abundance. And should the recent crash teach country banks and coun- try people to keep away from the cities and endeavor wisely to invest their small sums in their own neighborhood, it will have worked a real good. As to individ- uals, we can only lecture them, hoping they will listen. For the little banks. since they are under legal control, they should be compelled to loan their funds in the country where they are located. T.he returns of many a small bank in New En~jand, with a capital of bnt one hundred thousand dollars, show more than half of it to be loaned in Chica~,,o, drawing ten per cent. interest. Many of these investments have lately come to griefconveying, it is to be hoped, a salu- tary lesson. This is something apart. The Government should deal with the banks. What I desire is to earnestly call on other folks who have money, more or less, to pay personal attention in put- ing it out. You live perhaps in the coun- try, remote from town. In the thriving village near you is a master mechanic or a small manufacturer to whom a moderate loan would render a great and lasting service. Investigate the case; see if his security is ample, and give him a helping hand. Such investigation will do you good. It will be in striking contrast with your present habit of sending cash to your city friend, while you will be free from feverish dreams of a quarter per cent, a day rudely broken hy an unpleas- ant awakening to find the money gone. This suggestioii seems equally well in the city. I offer not a particle of advice as to what you shall do with your money. I only say, exercise your personal judg- ment and attend personally to what con- cerns you. You do not gamble your- self; beware of taking the counsel of gamblers. Interest yourself in the seeth- ing ebb and flow of humanity about you, and you will become more of a human yourself. You have not to risk anything in doing this. All I ask is, notwithstand- ing thought is troublesome and action difficult, try really to think and act on your own account. There is another class dautres to whom my observations in no sense apply, and who are, I fear, quite beyond my reach. So far from being personally inattentive to the investment of their funds, they look after it with remorseless keenness and subtlety. This class of other folks are the sharks of that large community. They put everybody they come in con- tact with under contribution. Do you see that fine row of houses owned by Mr. X? Ask him how they were erected, and he will answer with a sigh, Laigent dautres. He will tell you he passes a slavish life in renting the buildings, col- lecting the money, and paying all out for interest on the mortgages, for taxes, and repairs. This is unfortunately true of a great proportion of business operations. This class dautres mix up in them, weave meshes for the actors, get all the control they want, and compel the apparent prin- cipals to work for them like galley slaves. You see them everywhere and in every- thing. With these I do not propose to dealI mean in this article. RIchARD B. KIMBALL. MR. BLACK TO MR. ADAMS. To THE HONORABLE CHARLES FRANCIS ADAMS: AMONG a certain class of the Amer- ican people a desire prevails that your Memorial Address on the late William H. Seward should receive a full- er examination than Mr. Welles has given it. His papers are very strong and clear; but there are certain fundamental questions which he does not touch, and which the friends of constitutional gov- ernment cannot allow to be washed in Lethe and forgotten. In my attempt to supply some of his omissions, .1 address you directly, because in that form I can best express my great respect for you while 1 try to expose the errors which I think I bave detected in your address. Your reputation for stainless integrity, f,r great talents, and for liberal princi- ples, gives your words almost the author- ity of an oracle. There is, perhaps, no man in this country whose naked asser- tion would go further than yours, at home or abroad. If you have pronounced an erroneous judgment on an important matter, it should be subjected to a free revision. This is an important matter. Mr. Sew- ard was so connected with the greatest events of the last twenty years, that a mis- representation of his life is a falsification of public history. Besides, he differed so widely from all his predecessors and many of his contemporaries, that unqualified ap- proval of him implies the severest con- demnation of them. Your own conscious- ness of this is betrayed in your harsh de- nunciations of those who committed no crime but that of being opposed by him. If Mr. Seward was not a wise and virtu- ous manif he was unfaithful to his pub- lic dutiesif his policy tended to the cor- ruption of morals and the consequent de- struction of popular libertyif he was not true to the Constitution and laws which he often swore to executethen you have done a most pernicious wrong in holding him up as an example for others to follow. I hope I have made a sufficient apology for the presumption of which I seem to be guilty in declaring that your address is full of mistakes. Your comparison of Mr. Seward to Per- icles was rash and extravagant. A little reflection and another reading of Plu- tarch will satisfy you that the New York politician bore not the slightest resein- blance to the illustrious Athenian whose transcendent genius as a military com- mander, orator, scholar, philosopher, lawgiver, judge, and jurist, brought the greatest people of the earth to the summit of their glory in arms, in arts, and in lit- erature. The difference could not be greater. As men they had something in commonorgans, dimensions, senses, af- fections, passionsand each was remark- able in his way; but everything that dis- tinguished them from the rest of the world equ~ally distinguished them froma one another. They were alike in Ao char- acteristic quality, moral or mental. There is not one parallel passage in their histo- ry. A true picture of Mr. Sewards life will not show a single feature which can be recognized even as a miniature likeness of any trait in that of Pericles. It is easy to eulogize a man by apprs- priating to him the qualities of another whom history has already consecrated to ~he admiration of mankind. This cheap and compendious mode of dealing with the fame of an ancient hero or sage, by transferring it in bulk to a modern favor- ite, is often resorted to, and almost al- ways fails of its purpose. Mr. Lincoln was said by his admirers to be a repro- duction of Socrates; Robespierre was the Aristides of the French Assembly, and Klootz was Anacharsis. Congress and the State legislatures are full of Catos. We have them among the directors of the Credit Mobilier. I have heard Mr. Ames described as one who was Catonior Ca- tonemore severely virtuoos than the sternest of Roman censors. Your ana- logue is more absurd than any of these. You might as well have carried it out by showing that Mr. Thurlow Weed was the counterpart of Aspasia. But Pericles is not the only famous man that suffers at your hands. Mr.

MR. BLACK TO MR. ADAMS. To THE HONORABLE CHARLES FRANCIS ADAMS: AMONG a certain class of the Amer- ican people a desire prevails that your Memorial Address on the late William H. Seward should receive a full- er examination than Mr. Welles has given it. His papers are very strong and clear; but there are certain fundamental questions which he does not touch, and which the friends of constitutional gov- ernment cannot allow to be washed in Lethe and forgotten. In my attempt to supply some of his omissions, .1 address you directly, because in that form I can best express my great respect for you while 1 try to expose the errors which I think I bave detected in your address. Your reputation for stainless integrity, f,r great talents, and for liberal princi- ples, gives your words almost the author- ity of an oracle. There is, perhaps, no man in this country whose naked asser- tion would go further than yours, at home or abroad. If you have pronounced an erroneous judgment on an important matter, it should be subjected to a free revision. This is an important matter. Mr. Sew- ard was so connected with the greatest events of the last twenty years, that a mis- representation of his life is a falsification of public history. Besides, he differed so widely from all his predecessors and many of his contemporaries, that unqualified ap- proval of him implies the severest con- demnation of them. Your own conscious- ness of this is betrayed in your harsh de- nunciations of those who committed no crime but that of being opposed by him. If Mr. Seward was not a wise and virtu- ous manif he was unfaithful to his pub- lic dutiesif his policy tended to the cor- ruption of morals and the consequent de- struction of popular libertyif he was not true to the Constitution and laws which he often swore to executethen you have done a most pernicious wrong in holding him up as an example for others to follow. I hope I have made a sufficient apology for the presumption of which I seem to be guilty in declaring that your address is full of mistakes. Your comparison of Mr. Seward to Per- icles was rash and extravagant. A little reflection and another reading of Plu- tarch will satisfy you that the New York politician bore not the slightest resein- blance to the illustrious Athenian whose transcendent genius as a military com- mander, orator, scholar, philosopher, lawgiver, judge, and jurist, brought the greatest people of the earth to the summit of their glory in arms, in arts, and in lit- erature. The difference could not be greater. As men they had something in commonorgans, dimensions, senses, af- fections, passionsand each was remark- able in his way; but everything that dis- tinguished them from the rest of the world equ~ally distinguished them froma one another. They were alike in Ao char- acteristic quality, moral or mental. There is not one parallel passage in their histo- ry. A true picture of Mr. Sewards life will not show a single feature which can be recognized even as a miniature likeness of any trait in that of Pericles. It is easy to eulogize a man by apprs- priating to him the qualities of another whom history has already consecrated to ~he admiration of mankind. This cheap and compendious mode of dealing with the fame of an ancient hero or sage, by transferring it in bulk to a modern favor- ite, is often resorted to, and almost al- ways fails of its purpose. Mr. Lincoln was said by his admirers to be a repro- duction of Socrates; Robespierre was the Aristides of the French Assembly, and Klootz was Anacharsis. Congress and the State legislatures are full of Catos. We have them among the directors of the Credit Mobilier. I have heard Mr. Ames described as one who was Catonior Ca- tonemore severely virtuoos than the sternest of Roman censors. Your ana- logue is more absurd than any of these. You might as well have carried it out by showing that Mr. Thurlow Weed was the counterpart of Aspasia. But Pericles is not the only famous man that suffers at your hands. Mr. 108 MR. BLACK TO MR. ADAMS. [JAN. Seward once put in the plea of insanity for a negro accused of murder; and you pronounce his argument one of the most eloquent in the language. The speeches of such men as Meredith, OConor, and Reverdy Johnson are nowhere; and Ers- kines magnificent defence of Hatfield is rivalled if not eclipsed. Your claim of great professional ability for Mr. Seward is one of the most surpris- ing you have made. The conviction is al- most universal that he knew less of law and cared less about it than any other man who has held high office in this coun- try. If he had not abandoned the law, he might have been a sharp attorney; but he never could have risen to the ~ipper walks of the profession. He would have been kept in the lowest rank, not by want of mental capacity or lack of diligent habits, but by the inherent defects of his moral nature. He did not believe in le- gal justice, and to assist in the honest ad- ministration of it was against the grain of all his inclinations. You yourself are frank enough to own that it was not an occupation congenial to his taste, but that, on the contrary, he held it in aversion. Being so constituted, it was impossible for him to tread the mountain ranges of jurisprudence. He mi~,ht as well have tried to be a great theolo~,ian without faith in the gospel. In fact this was Mr. Sewards c6te faible all through. If he had understood and respected the laws, he would have led a totally different life, and perhaps the general decay of our political institutions would not have taken place. But let us go over the particular case of which you have given a most elaborate report, derived, no doubt, from Mr. Sew- ard himself; or from somebody else who was decidedly his comes and fidus Achates. Your ~wn facts and conclusions.will show Mr. Sewards real grade as a lawyer, and at the same time test the value of your judgment upon his merits. A negro was indicted for the wilful, de- liberate, and cold-blooded murder of a whole family. The proofs of his guilt were very clear, and the public mind was, naturally and justly, pervaded with a de- sire that he should suffer the punishment due to him by the laws of God and man. it was legally necessary that somebody should appear for him at the trial. But you say that this duty was made so dan- gerous by the excited state of public feel- inc,, that when the trial was called all the crowd of professional men hung back in terrorall except William henry Seward; but he, defying the enormous hazard, and takiug his life in his hand, stepped forward and undertook the ser- vice. And this you declare to have been a scene of moral sublimity rarely to be met with in the paths of our common ex- perience. The moral sublimity of this scene will cease to dazzle you when you recollect that no counsellor ever exposes himself to the slightest danger by defending a criminal. There is no instance on record in which the public wrath, roused by a crime, has been vented in acts of violence upon the counsel of the malefactor, for putting in truthfully and honestly the best answer he could to the charge. Even falsehood, though it provokes contempt, is largely tolerated because it can do no harm in a competent court. The asser- tion that Mr. Seward was in personal danger is contradicted by all experience in similar cases, and therefore wholly in- credible. This acting as volunteer coun- sel for criminals was then, and has al- ways been, as safe as it is common. The heroism of it in this case was an after- thought possibly of the hero himself probably of the comes; certainly it did not come spontaneously into your head. The dramatic interest of your story is further spoiled by the fkct that he did not volunteer unexpectedly, at the mo- ment when the cause was called, when everybody else was scared, and after the judge had become hopeless of getting an attorney bold enough to assist him in complying with the forms of law. in Mr. Sewards speech, as quoted by you, he referred to a preliminary hearing which lasted two weeks, and at which he had appeared for the prisoner. fle was then publicly connected with the cause as fully as he was afterwards. The knowled,~e of the whole bar that Mr. Seward was already concerned might have accounted to you for their silence at the trial, without the imputation of cowardice which your statement implies. It is not certain, but the inference is a fair one from all the circumstances, that Mr. Seward sought the case anxiously, as fur- nishing a desirable opportunity to dis- play himself before the people. 1874.] MR. BLACK TO MR. ADAMS. 109 The insanity of the negro at the time of the murder was the oniy defence Mr. Seward set up for hiia. It was utterly fuse. This is conclusively shown by the record. The jury was impartial, honest, and uncc~mmitted by any previous expres- sion of opinion; the ability and int~grity of the j ud~e is not denied; if any reason- able doubt of the prisoners sanity had been raised by the proofs, his acquittal would have been perfectly certain. But the jury, upon their oaths, found him guilty, and the judge, satisfied that the verdict was right, pronounced sentence of death. The sample of the argument which you produce shows that, instead of being able and eloquent, it was literally no argu- ment at all. It has no application what- ever to the subject matter under consid- eration. It makes no allusion to the evi- dence, and does not refer, even in the re- motest manner, to any rule or principle of law. It is a mere parade d~f his own magnanimous and disinterested benevo- lence, manifestly not intended to influence the tribunal but to attract the adinira- tion of the outside crowd to hiinselL Nothing could be more injudicious, in worse taste, or more out of place. The court and jury, having a case of life and death in their hands, and feeling the weight of their obligation to decide it rightly, must have listened to this irrele- vant trash with painful impatience. Mr. Seward, nothing daunted~ by the righteous judgment of the court and jury, persisted in interposing every possible dilatory measure, and thus de- layed justice from time to time until, at last, the ne~ro died in prison. Then came the hour of his triumph. A post- mortem examination of the brain made by seven physicians displayed indica- tions of deep chronic disease. This, in your opinion, clearly proved that he had been right from the start; that is to say, Mr. Sewards assertion that his client was insane at the time of the mur- der, in a way which made him irresponsi- ble for that crime, though contradicted by his actions during life, was establish- ed by the condition of his brain after death. Your acknowledged good sense, and that moderate amount of physiologi- cal science which you possess in common with all well-inforraed men, should have prevented you from believing this. The post-mortem indications of a brain disease not immediately fatal are very obscure; supposing them to be plainly traced, no anatomist can tell how long or how short a timue the disease existed; it may have existed, and it often does, without derang- ing the mental faculties in the least; no human skill can find anything in the matter of the brain from which a specific state of the mind can be inferred; and it is a monstrous absurdity to suppose that seven physicians, or seven hundred of them, could, by dissecting this negros brain, demonstrate that he was afflicted with a particular form of mental insanity which irresistibly impelled him to com- mit murder two years before he died. The sequel of this story, as you tell it, would show that Mr. Seward not only sacrificed l~imself, but magnanimously plucked down ruin upon his political friends. You words are: here he was not only injuring his own interests, but those of the party with which lie was as- sociated. In vain did it labor to disavow all connection or sympathy with him. The press, on all sides, thundered its de- nunciations over his head. The elections all went one way. The Democratic party came sweeping into the ascendant. And all about the life of a negro idiot. These amazing facts were not known or suspected before you uttered them. The political history of onr country has not instructed us that all the elections of that period turned upon the trial of a negro at Auburn, New York, or that one party was completely wrecked and another swept up to the seats of power merely be- cause Mr. William H. Seward tried in vain to procure the acquittal of a mur- derer on false pretences. It cannot be true. The odium of his conduct, what- ever that may have been, was all his own. It had no possible connection with any question at issue between the parties of the nation. It was as likely to produce an earthquake as the great political revo- lution which you assert to have been its consequence. The good faith with which you make the statement is not question- ed; but it is such an outrage on histori- cal probability as no prudent writer of acknowledged fiction would adopt. Its extravagance would deform the plot of a romance. It shocks the mind of an in- telligent reader like the narrative of the German novelist who tells how the peace 110 MR. BLACK TO MR. ADAMS. [JAN. of Europe was broken by a naval conflict on the Ohio river, between fleets of Eng- lish cruisers and French merchautmen, in 1751, when, as every~ schoolboy knows, the Ohio had never felt the pressure of any craft heavier than a birch canoe. it seems that Mr. Seward was, about the same time or a little before, employed ha another negroa convict in the State prison, who had killed one of his asso- ciates. Here also the defence was a false one. You despatch your account of the trial by saying: The argument rested on the insanity of the prisoner. But it carried no weiyht. Within a month the convict was tried, condemned, and exe- cuted. What else could have been ex- pected? Do you think this felonious murderer should have gone unpunished? If yes, why? Because Seward was his counsel? Because the defence was a false one? Or, simply because he was a ne- gro? You say, in a mournful tone, that Mr. Sewards conduct in this matter was not viewed favorably in the neigh- borhood. Are you not the most unrea- sonable man in the world to think that it should have been? Attempts to get crim- inals off by false pleas are often forgiven, especially when the fraud is defeatud by the justice of the courts; but they are never regarded with approbation or favor by an honest community. Mr. Sewards behavior in these two cases, though it hardly deserves the se- vere and universal condemnation which you say it received from all classes of the people who witnessed it, was, no doubt, very discreditable to a man of mature years who had held the highest executive office in his State. It must have pre- pared all who knew him to expect that his course as a politician would come to no good. That love of justice, that rev- erence for truth, and that high regard for the public safety which he did not display in his forensic efforts, are as necessary to a statesman as a lawyer. We will see if you have exaggerated his merits in one capacity as much as in the other. He began his active political life with Anti-Masonry. A charge was publicly made that one William Morgan, a citizen of western New York, had been forcibly seized by Masons and taken out of the State to prevent him from revealing the secrets of their society. To kidnap a freeman and lawlessly carry him away beyond the reach of habeas corpus or other relief, was at that time regardea as a most atrocious crime; and the people in great numbers cried aloud for the pi~nish- ment of the malefactors. A judicial in- vestigation was obviously proper; the ac- cused parties were indicted and tried. Mr. Seward took no part iii the le~al pro- ceedings which were instituted to ascer- tain the truth of the charges and to pun- ish guilt according to law. That was a business to which you say, with truth, he had an aversion. He set himself the task, more congenial to his taste, of hissing up popular prejudice against those who were known to be innocent. A faction was organized which became lo- cally powerfhl. He worked himself to the front of it, and was elected State Sen- ator. The managers of this political enterprise seem to have had no sincerity. They pro- fessed to believe that the country could not be safe until every Freemason was exelud- ed from office and stripped of his influence; but as soon as they could, they transfer- red themselves and their followers, with- out reservation of body or soul, to another party, which John Quincy Adams de- scribed as a base compound of Royal Archmasons and Hartford Convention Federalists, held together by no bond but that of a common hatred for better men than themselves. They fostered the growth of Anti-Masonry until it was large enough to selljust as a dealer in live stock fattens a calf until it is ready for the market, and then lets it go for what it will fetch. That Mr. Seward had any faith in the Anti-Masonic creed is render- ed extremely doubtful by the alacrity with whicjh he entered the service of the base compound, an~ the rewards he took for doing so. if his indignation was actually excited by the abduction of Mor- gan, he must have got bravely over it be- fore he boasted to Lord Lyons of his own exploits in the kidnapping line. The just and reasonable, as well as the chari- table conclusion is, that on these, as on other subjects affecting the rights of his fellow citizens, he had no convictions whatever. You are out in your chronology when you say that Anti-Masonry made him Gov- ernor of New York for two terms, unless you mean to credit Anti-Masonry with 1874.] MR. BLACK TO MR. ADAMS. 111 what Whiggery did in pursuance ~f the bargain and sale. But in fact Mr. Seward, before his election as Governor, had shown the flexibility of his political principles by supporting Masons as heartily as he had ever opposed them. It cannot be said that he was not true to the Whi~s as long as he was with them and of them, or that he did not earn the promotion they gave him. He went through thick and thin for tariffs, banks, internal improvements by the General Government, distribution ofsurplus revenueall their superstitions; and in 1840 he kindled in the general blaze of enthusiasm for hard cider and coon skins. He never once broke faith with theni by discountenancing any par- tisan slander which could weaken the De- mocracy in its desperate struggle to pre- serve, protect, and defend the Constitu- tion. There is no evidence that he ever con- taminated his fingers with base bribes, or put into his own pocket the wages of any special iniquity; but Mr. Welless state- ment is undeninbly true that he was inti- inately associated with the leaders of the most corrupt rings at Albany and Wash- ington, and devoted much of his parlia- mentary skill to the promotion of their schemes, while they in return were the most efficient supporters he had for the Presidency. As a public debater he was distinguished almost exclusively by elab- orate efforts to propagate those licentious doctrines which have since demoralized the public service and put common hones- ty out of countenance. One incident you mention which is so characteristic of you and him both, that it must be adverted to. In 1848 the Buf- falo Convention nominated Mr. Van Bu- ~en and you as candidates fir President and Vice-President, against General Tay- lor, the Whig, and General Cass, the Democratic candidate. Mr. Seward pro- fessed to believe most devoutly in your anti-slavery platfbrm. Nevertheless ho voted and spoke for General Taylor, a planter holding many slaves in one of the richest cotton-producing States. You were astonished and grieved at this incon- sistency, which seemed at first blush too preposterous to be countenanced for a moment. You have puzzled over this mystery ever since, in the belief that some solution might be given creditable to his patriotism and sincerity; and your expla nation is still very far from a clear one. You do not go the right way about it. Your mistake consists in looking for the motives of his conduct among those high public considerations which would have influenced your own in a similar situa- tion. The riddle is easily read. You have only to remember that Whiggery was strong enough to make him a Sena- tor in Congress, for which he was at that time a candidate, while you could do nothing for his personal interests. Would he go o~?t empty-handed from a party which was able and willing to give hiia his back pay, for the sake of uniting his fortunes with a forlorn organization like yours? Would he leave that moun- tain to batten on this moor? Was it not preposterous in you to expect such a sacrifice? You thought, like Othello, that he should be honest; he believed, with Jago, that he Should be wise, for honestys a fool, That knows not what it works for. It is now more than time that we turn to his achievements in the field of nation- al politics, a~td especially to his dealings with the Southern States on the slavery question. Thanks to your researches and your candid account of the result, we are at no loss to understand the character of these measures or the animus with which he advocated them. You inform us that long before he be- came Senator he made a speech at Au- burn in which the deliberate claim of a right in the Federal Government to eman- cipate slaves by legislation was not less remarkable than the miscalculation of the force of the passions which led the South, in the end, to the very step that brought on the predicted consequences. The miscalculation you speak of was thus set forth by Mr. Seward himself in the speech from which you quote. The South, said he, will never, in a moment of re- sentinent, expose themselves to a war with the North while they have such a great domestic population of slaves ready to embrace any opportunity to assert their freedom and inflict their revenge. In other words, Federal legislation on the domestic concerns of the Southern States, however unjust it might seem to the Southern people, would be quietly sub- mitted to by theta for fear of a Northern war accompanied by negro insurrection and massacre. This brilliant and humane 112 MR. BLACK TO MR. ADAMS. [JAN. conception wins your approval, and proves, in your opinion, that Mr. Seward had a special genius for administering government in a country of laws. With these views he came into the na- tional councils, and made it known with- out delay that the experiment was to be tried incontinently. At the very outset of his career in Congress he began to press the bloody cup to the lips of the South. As soon as he had a voice in the Federal legislation he announced that emancipation was near and inevitable. It might he peaceable or violent, nnd every effort to hinder or delay it would tend to the consummation of violence. lie would hear of no compromise and offer no terms to the South. For them there was but one alternative: submission or death. This mode of beginning his Sena- tonal duties, persistently followed up, made him your beau ideal of a great statesman; far superior to Clay and Cal- houn, who equally relucted at his pol- icy; and towering high above Webster, who never could make up his mind to meet it fully in the face, because he saw there the Union broken into dishonored fragments and the country drenched with fraternal gore. By many persons who knew him well, these ferocious demonstrations of hostility to the public peace, the Union, and the Constitution, were regarded as the clap- trap of a mere demagogue; shams intend- ed to cajole the ultra Abolitionists, and flatter their cruel rapacity with hopes of blood and plunder which would never be gratified. Those who held this opinion, while they did not think him a dangerous man, had a most unspeakable contempt and detestation for his character. But others took him in a more serious way. Southern men especially believed it un- safe to despise his threats of pain and ruin.. They watched his gathering strength with dread and terror, and when his fortunes culminated in the possession of supreme authority, they felt that their hour had come. You found it easy enough to say that he was the greatest of American states- men, and that he proved it by proposing such legislation as this. But consider a moment whether it was consistent with any true idea of wisdom or justice. You will concede the simple point that Congress had no jurisdiction over the subject of slavery in the States. Wlmt he contemplated and desired and worked to accomplish could not be done without afraudulent breach of time trust on which he and all others held and exercised the powers of the Federal Government. The practicability of carrying out the usurpa- tion was based on the assumption that the Southern people would choke down their resentment and submit tamely to be stripped of their constitutional rights; and this you admit to have been a miscal- culation of the passions which would be roused by the attempt, it follows that Mr. Sewards political chef dceuvre con- sisted merely of a fraud and a blunder compounded together. Have you not proved your great statesman to be alike destitute of principle and prudence? He pleaded the salutary instructions of economy and the ripening influences of humanity in favor of his measures. These instructions~ and influences have probably made so deep an impres- sion on your susceptible heart, that you are willing to condone both the fraud and the blunder for their sake. You will not assert the infiimous maxim that the end justifies the means; but you have made up your mind that Mr. Sewards object in le~,islating on the internal affairs of the South was, in itself; so beneficent as to make a breach of his fidelity to the Constitution a venial sin if not a virtue. And you think the passions of the South were so monstrous and unnatural, that to miscalculate and ignore them was not a very bad mistake after all. But look a little further. The South- ern people sprang from a race accustom- ed for two thousand years to dominate over all other races with which it came in contact. They supposed themselv.s greatly supericr to negroes. Most of them sincerely believed that, if they and the Africans must live together, the best and safest relation for both that could be established between them was that of master and servant. They thought it could not be abolished without a revolu- tion disastrous to their material pros- perity and fatal to their social organiza- tion. They did not think it sinful. The Bi- ble furnished evidence satisfactory to them that God himself had framed a constitu- tiqa and laws for his chosen people, wlmich made Israel a pro-slavery commonwealth as much as Virginia or South Carolina. 1874.) MR. BLACK TO MR. ADAMS. 113 Their religious teachers had told them for ment on this subject all their other rights many centuries that the canons of the would be taken away; once placed with- Christian church did not oppose it, but out the pale of constitutional protection, would hold them morally responsible only their Northern enemies would cut them for the abuse of the power it gave them, up root and branch. They knew that the fathers of the repub- Of.course I admit that in all this the lic, and other men, the best and greatest Southern people were blindly wrong. of all the ages, had lived according to They should have understood their Bibles this faith and taken it with them through differently, They ought to have known the valley of the shadow of death. Some that the negro was at least their equal, of them believed it a dangerous evil, but if not their superior. They were besotted did not see how to get rid of it. This not to see that Northern Abolitionists last class were especially resentful of out- were the wisest, virtuousest, discreet- side interference. They felt, as Jefferson est, best of human beings, whose ten- did, that they had the wolf by the der hearts were always overflowing with ears; they could neither hold on with pure benevolence, and who wished to con- comfort nor let go with safety; and it trol the local governments and domestic made them extremely indi~nant to be business of the South, not for their own goaded in the rear. In all that country, profit or pleasure, but solely in the inter- from the Potomac to the Gulf, there was ests of God and morality. If they had probably not one man who felt Oonvinced seen things, as you see them, in, this true that this difficult subject should be deter- light, they would have surrendered their mined for them by strangers and enemies. right of self-government upon the first Seeing that we in the North had held summons. But they could not so under- fast to every pound of human flesh we stand the business. It was with them owned, and either worked it to death or simply non possumus. The faith of a sold it for a price, our provision for the people, delivered and kept from genera- freedom of unborn negroes did not tend tion to generation for thousands of years, much to their edification. They had no cannot b~ changed in a moment. Inde- confidence in that ripening influence pendence, bravely won and long estab- of humanity, which turned upthewhites lished, is not often given up without a of its eyes in horror at the sight of a ne- struggle. Burke, speaking of these same gro compelled to hoe corn or pick cotton, communities, warned the British Parlia- and yet gloated oveI~ the prospect of in- ment that slaveholders were, by their surrection and massacre. They were very habits of masterdom, made more nearly unanimous in the opinion that this vigilant, jealous, and hardy than other Yankee intrusion into their affairs was men in the defence of their own liberties. prompted by rancorous hatred of the Everything was unpropitious to the white people, or that it proceeded, at spread of your doctrines among them. best, from that monkey-like spirit of mis- There was not a population on the habit- chief which is never content without able globe less prepared than they were thrusting its unwelcome nose into some- to appreciate the duty of pnssive submis- bodys kitchen or somebodys church. sion. You must notjudge them by your- They had a tradition among them that it self, or apply to them the lofty standard was not their fathers who brought the of your own conscience. You contem- Africans to this countrry. They charged plated things from a different point of the cruelties of the slave trade and the view, and had means denied to them of horrors of the middle passage upon the understanding their religious and political English and the Yankees; the planters wants. Even yet they cannot see as you merely received the savage negroes, tamed do the infinite blessing they enjoy in being and domesticated them, taught them to subjected and abjected to Yankee rule. work, converted them to Christianity, or- It has been ever thus. A sinful people ganized them into churches, and gener- can never appreciate the holiness of the ally did more to improve their condition, strangers who kill and rob them for their materially and spiritually, than all the good. Philip II. and the Duke of Alva de- missionary societies that ever existed. termined to lay the Low Countries waste, Moreover, they had a suspicion that if and extinguish the heresies of the people they gave up their right of self-govern- in their own blood. This was to save 114 MR. BLACK TO MR. ADAMS. [JAN. their souls. The King expressed the ob- ject in his tersest Latin Malo regnum vastatuin quam dainnatum. But the Dutch relucted at this mode of salva- tion as much as Clay and Calhoun, and the whole population in a moment of re- sentment determined to die in the last ditch. The righteous souls of the En~lish Puritans were vexed from day to day that Catholicism should exist in Ireland. It was a relic of barbarism; it was a blighting curse ; there was an irrepressible conflict between it and the great truths which Puritanism had adopted. So tIme Puritans, impelled like you by disinterested zeal in a great cause, and not at all by avarice or hatred, plundered the Irish, killed them by thou- sands, took possession of timeir churches, banished their native leaders, and set up a government of strangers to tax, tithe, confiscate, and impoverish them. The Irish resisted tjhisfought it for centu- ries and to this day they cannot under- stand the purity of the Puritans. I admit that passions like theseso ineradicable and so deeply seated in the nature of manshould not be wantonly provoked. Certainly the ma~istrate or senator who bases his public policy on a miscalculation of them, is not fit to bear the rule of any country. The mis- calculation of your statesman was so gross and palpable, that it excites our special wonder how any man of common under- standing could have made it. The wan- ton violation under any circumstances of a compact so sacred as that embodied in the Federal Constitution was alone suffi- cient to produce some feeling. To violate it for the purpose of breaking up import- ant domestic relations in fifteen States, against the will of the States themselves and of all their people, was a most ag- gravating outrage. But to follow this with a declaration that it would be en- forced by a negro massacre, incited and led by the authorities of the government which the victims themselves had built up to protect them, was calculated to make tIme coolest blood boil over. You yourself tell us that the neighborhood of Auburn was intensely and not unnittural- ly excited by the act of a single negro in the murder of a single family. What, then, must have been the natural indigna- ti()n of Southern communities when they heard themselves threatened with a gen- eral slaughter? Yet Mr. Seward, in counting the consequences of his mneas- ures, lelt all these passions out of his cal- culation. It is hard to conceive how the dishonesty of breaking a politicaL trust could be coupled with folly more extreme. Mr. Sewards reputation niust rest for- ever on the three things which made him especially notorious all the world over. his fume, so superior, in your opinion, to that of the men who framed our laws and administered them faithfully for three- quarters of a century, was not won as they won theirs. He was remarkably defective in nearly all the qualities which gave so much grandeur to their charac- ters. But he was unquestionably greater than any or all of them put together on The Higher Law, The Irrepressible Conflict, and The Little Bell Of these, you touch the first in a gingerly way, and avoid all mention of the other two. If his theory and practice on these points are indefensible, you wronged your country and yourself by callin,,, him a public benefactor and setting him up as a li,,ht and a landmark to guide his successors. Your reference to the Higher Law might be considered evasive if it were not yours. You will excuse me, I nra sure, for saying that your attempt to explain it, and your sneer at the opposition it met with as a macre outcry against an obvious truth, show that you under- stand nothing about it. I transcribe your words: It was in this speech also that he enunciated the doctrine of a higher law than the Constitu. tion, which have rise to an infinite amount of out- cry from even a very respectable claps of people, who were shocked at the license thon~ht to be implied by such an appeal. But it seems to me that no truth is more obvious than this: that all powers of government and le~islation are close- ly restricted within a limitation beyond which they cannot pass without being stripped of their force. This limitation may be purely material or it may l)e moral; but, in either case, its power is similar if not the same. It is a familiar story which is told in the books of Canute, the treat Danish conqueror of Britain, that once, when his courtiers were vying with each other in magnifyin~ their sense of his oiunipoteuce, lie simply ordered his chair to be approached to the advancin, tide of the ocean and loudly commanded the waves to retire. The flaiterers nn(herstood the hint, and were abashed by this witherin,, illustration of the higher law. From this it is apparent that you sup- pose the assertion of the Higher Law to have been a mci-c warning against at- tempts of legislation and government to 1874.] MR. BLACK TO MR. ADAMS. 115 overstep the material or moral limitations which would strip them of their force. But this is a palpable misconception. You will surely admit that there never was any question nor any argument pro or con about the powers of government and legislation to work miracles on the material creation. Did Mr. Seward think it necessary to deny that an act of Con- gress could make the sun change its ap- pointed time for rising and setting, or bid the main flood bate its usual height, or invert the force of gravita- tion so that the rain would fall upwards and the smoke tumble down? Never since the beginning of the world did such thoughts enter a sane mind. That the courtiers of King Canute affected to be- lieve in his power to stop the waves by a royal order, and that he proved the con- trary by actually trying the experiment, is a childish fable, never treated as a his- toric fact, much less as a withering il- lustration, by any grown man except yourself. Your interpretation of the Higher Law as operating to fix moral limitations to legislative power is equally inaccurate. You say that the limitation to legislation may be either purely material or it may be moral; but, in either case, its power [i.e., the power of the limitation] is sim- ilar, if not the same. Here you mean, it you mean anything, that a rule of civil conduct, enacted and prescribed by the supreme legislative authority of an estab- lished State, is as powerless if opposed by a moral objection as if it were in conflict with a material force. You think it safe to affirm that the mere iniquity of a law does, propria vigore, defeat the intent of the lawgiver, in the same way that the winds and tides are said to have defeated Canutes proclamation to the waves of the Northern ocean. Reason and history both contradict you. From the days of Nhnrod to the time of Grant, mankind have been governed by laws as bad us the cruel perversity of their rulers could make them; but, so far from being inef- fcctual, the nations of the earth have groaned under them and struggled against them in vain. Many recent enactments of Congress are open to the gravest moral ol~Iections, but no jot or tittle of them falls to the ground for that reason. The infamous combination of Yankee and negro thieves who now have the govern- ment of the Southern States in their hands are every day using their power to op- press and plunder their subjects in ways which shock all sense ofjustice; but their laws are remorselessly executed; right is overborne and wrong revels in its insolent triumph. Here in Pennsylvania a similar class of miscreants have for years been preying like vultures on the prostrate body of the commonwealth. It would be a delightful discovery to find that their enactments are stripped of all force by the self-acting power of the moral limita- tions which they transgress. But we have no hope of such relief, or uny relief at all. Only the other day, in a conven- tion to reform the constitution, an effort was made to provide for the annulment of future immoral laws upon judicial proof of bribery and fraud used to pro- cure their passage. The convention voted it down. Your fellow-disciples of Mr. Seward who lead us here not only deny that there are any moral limitations to the powers of government and legislation, but they believe that none ought to be imposed even in the grossest cases of the worst laws, known to be passed by the most open, shambless, and impudent cor- ruption. The Higher Law doctrine is not an as- sertion that the powers of government and legislation are subject to material or moral limitations, or any limitations what- ever. On the contrary, it spurns even the limitations of the Constitution, end asserts the right of the ruler to pass all boundaries which his physical force is strong enough to throw down. In words perfectly free from ambiguity, and by a long series of public acts which admit of no doubtful construction, Mr. Seward taught disobedience to the Con- stitution as a duty, and contempt for it as a patriotic sentiment. This principle (if it be lawful to call it a principle) was adopted, avowed, and acted upon by his party with almost entire unanimity, whenever and wherever they found their wishes opposed by a constitutional inter- dict. By him and by them the old notion that the law of the land ought to be obey- ed was scoffed at; and the practical as- sei%ion of a legal right which they de- sired to invade was, in cases without number, punished as a crime. This is th& hi~her law which you must vindi- cate if you desire to prove Mr. Seward a statesman. He did not propose to substitute an~ 116 MR. BLACK TO MR. ADAMS. [JAN. other rule of condu~t, derived from higher authority, in place of the system estab- lished by our fkthers. It is not the w11 of God as revealed in his word that was to be obeyed. The higher Law, as ex- pounded by his school, is, theoretically and practically, above all law, human or divine. It looks down upon the Deca- logue with as much contempt as it does upon the Habeas Corpus act. It has no more respect for Moses than for Wash- ington. Those who received it earliest and worked hardest to propagate it were notorious for their ribald abuse of Chris- tianity. When they met periodically, at Framiagham and elsewhere, to proclaim the Higher Law, their invectives against the Constitution were accompanied by blasphemies against God too shocking to be repeated. They had men among them who professed to be Christian preachers. How many were wolves in sheeps cloth- ing, and how many sheep in wolves cloth- ing, I know not; but the leading one said that their object was to be accomplished by the ruin of the American church as well as the destruction of the Federal Government. The doctrine was also sup- ported by Christian statesmen ; but you know, of course, that recent evidence proves their religion to have been a mere disguise. In fact the Higher Law, in its whole character, is so directly in conflict with every precept of the Bible, that no man who has the least respect for one can possil)ly believe in or practise the other. This Higher Law, scouting the law of God and manwhat is it? It is simply not law at all, but license to use political mouth-honor, breath, power in any way that will promote the Which the poor heart would fain deny, but dare interests or gratify the passions of him not. who wields it. It tells those who ad- minister the government that they may do whatever they con do. It abolishes all law, and puts in its place the mere force which law was made to control. Jura negat sihi nata; nihil non arrogat armis. How thoroughly it disregards the rig/i/s of men, and how exclusively it respects the mights of men, is seen in the whole history of its administration by Mr. Seward himself. His first enunciation of it was connected with his movement against the South. That part of the Union, being encumbered by its negroes and afraid of them, was too weak to de- fend its constitutional rights, and might, therefore, become the prey of the spoiler. lie never once kidnapped a citizen until This feature of Higher Law was kept in mind by the Administration afterwards. When the publishers of the Chicago Times showed their pluck by resisting a tyrannical order, and the people rushed to their rescue, the decree was revoked. The Higher Law invades only the rights of the weak and the defenceless. Called by other names, the Higher Law was practised often before it was intro- duced here. Amurath, securing his throne by killing all his brothers and uncles; Herod slaughtering the innocents; Nero persecuting the Christians; Mine. de Pompadour fllliBg the Bastile with vic- tims of her petty spite; Lola Montez set- ting her dogs on the student.s at Munich for doubting tIme j)olitical wisdom of t~e he had the organized physical force of the nation at his back. His victims were powerless mnen and women, who had no defence but their innocence. His great diplomatic achievement which you vaunt so loudly illustrates the rule clearly. Mason and Slidell were captured from a British vessel in plain violation of public law. But if there was a law higher than the Constitution and higher than all laws of God and man, it must also be higher than the law of nations. Why should not the Higher Law have free course to run and be glorified on sea as well as on land? The President could not see his way through these logical dif- ficulties, and the Cabinet was all in a mud- dIe. Mr. Blair denounced the conduct of Wilkes as an indefensible outrage which would be sure to make trouble,. while Mr. Se~vard was as much delighted as if one of imis deputy kidnappers had broken the head of an honest judge or dragged an independent editor to prison. But he remained in this frame of maind only as long as he supposed that England could not or would not resent the injury. He understood his own code well enough to know that it did not ap- ply to a case in which the right was de- fended by a force strong enough to repel the wrong. When, therefore, England armed herself and uttered her stern de- mand for immediate reparation, his whole tone was changed. He not only backed squarely down, but he signalized the hu- miliationof the Higher Law by long-wind- ed andsuperfluous praises of legalj ustice 1874.] MR. BLACK TO MR. ADAMS. 117 Kings mistressall these acted upon the same kind of law that Mr. Seward de- clared to be higher than the American Constitution. It reduces free ~overninent to a personal despotism. The citizen who voluntarily submits to it is a slave in his soul. It will not do to say that the Higher Law was set up merely to meet the exi- gencies of the war, and had but a tem- porary reign. That Mr. Seward stabbed the Constitution in the back only after secession had struck it a blow in the face, would not be a valid excuse if it were true, nor a true one if it were valid. In point of fact the higher Law was pro- claimed, urged, and advocated by him and by others as early as 1850, at a time of profound peace, and without reference to wars or rumors of wars~ Its worst acts were done before the war, after the war, and at places where war never existed. Tn 1867, two years after the peace, it embodied itself in the reconstruction laws, which did not leave one single provision of the Constitution unviolated. At the present moment it is adhered to with as much tenacity as ever. Do you know any meuil.er of the dominant party who ab- jures it, or professes to have been con-. verted to the doctrine of legal obedience? Have you the least reason to doubt that the Abolitionists would to-morrow unite in a compact body to traniple down the plainest constitutional rights of. their op- ponents, North or South, if that were necessary to win supreme power, to re- tain possession of it, or to quell a danger- ous opposition? They may act within the forms of law for their own conve- nience and safety; but where law that can be overborne stands in their way, what reason is there to believe that they will respect it? Let me tell you a fact. In 1865, months after the peace, at the political metropolis of the nation, in full sight of the Executive Mansion, the Cap- itol, and the City Hall, where the courts were in session, a perfectly innocent and most respectable woman was lawlessly dragged away from her family and bru- tally put to death, without judge or jury, upon the mere order of certain military officers convoked for that purpose. It was, take it for all in all, as foul a mur- der as ever blackened the face of Gods sky. But it was done in strict accord- ance with Higher Law, and the Law Dc- 8 partment of the United States approved it. Now mark you: within less than three months last past the present Attor- ney-General officially referred to this as a precedent entirely fit to he followed. This may not be very important in itself, but it is significant as showing that the reign of Higher Law is not over yet. Can you promise that it ever will be? Is there not reason to fear that this doctrine has poisoned all the streams of justice? In every institutional government, whether it be a republic or a limited muon- archy, the delegation of its powers is coupled with an express condition that they shall be exercised only in a pre- scribed way, and within certain defined limits. The violation of this condition, un- der any pretence whatsoever, has always, everywhere, and by all tolerably honest men, been regarded as a base and treach- erous breach of the most sacred trust that can be confided to human hands. Among us no man can get possession of any offi- cial authority without first making a solemn covenant with God and his coun- try that he will be faithful to the funda- mental law, and he mast seal that cove- nant with an oath. Can anything he more damning than the doctrine which teaches inca to seek office and take this oath with a predetermination to break it? Is any species of wilful, deliberate, and corrupt peijury at once so debasing and so mischievous? Yet the author and finisher of this atro- cious firith is your model of a statesman. You find your highest standard of political orthodoxy in his precept arid his example. The men who made the Constitution and took it as a lamp to their feet and a guide to their path command none of your re- spect. Jefferson, the great apostle of liberty secured and regulated by law, is summarily set aside, and his modern disciples who have kept their oaths are cast into deep shadow by the founder of an opposing school which mnakes sys- tematic perjury the corner-stone of its policy. The expression of such senti- ments by a man like you is a deep injury to the cause of liberty and justice. You know what time Irrepressible Con- flict was as Mr. Seward uttered it at Rochester. [ present an analysis which you will admit to be accurate, lie an- nounced that 1. There was then a conflict between 118 MR. BLACK TO MR. ADAMS. [JAN. the North and the Southnot merely a conflict of interests, opinions, and feelings to be determined peaceably by reason or law; but, 2. It was a conflict between the oppos- ing forces of the Northern and Southern States. Actual war already existed; the relation of the parties was that of belli- gerent enemies. 3. The determined purpose of this war, on one side, was to plant slavery in the North by force, and on the other, to abolish it in the South by similar means. This, of course, involved the complete subjuga- tion of the defeated party. 4. The conflict was irrepressilie. The dogs of war were loose and could not be chained up again. 5. The conflict should not be stopped; it must go on until all the rights of one section should be trampled down under the hostile feet of the other. Woe to the conquered! You are, of course, aware that this was a mere invention. There was no such con- flict as he described. The wish of himself and his party friends to visit the South with fire, sword, and famine may have been very strong, but the declaration that the Southern States were using their forces, or intended to use them, fbr the purpose of introducinD African slavery into the North, was such an offence against the known truth as admits of no palliation or excuse. Yet it was believed and taken imito the hearts of thousands and tens of thousands. Large bodies of men combined together in sects or parties are often excited to a kind of madness. In that condition their appetite for falsehood is unappeasable, and the gluttony with which they swal- low it down is incalculable. One half :the En~lish pedple believed the trans- parent lies of Titus Qates about the Popish Plot, and the other half did not dare to contradict it. Know-Noth- ings without number believed the frightful stories of Maria Monk and her coadj.utors. And the Abolitionists be- lieved Mr. Seward. lie understood them and had taken the exact measure of their credulity. This time he made no mis- calculation of the passions~~ he would stir. Believing him, they saw in the $outh a cruel enemy preparing to crush out their domestic institutions, to sub- iert their State governmcnts, and to smash up the whole framework of their society. On the minds of the Southern people the effect was still worse. To my certain knowledge it made more secessionists than all other causes put together. To every persuasion we addressed them in favor of legal obedience, union, and peace, Sewaids speech furnished an answer. How was it possible, they said, for them to obey a Constitution which we treated as a dead letter? Could one party keep a compact if the other wantonly broke it? The Union! a ionflict is not un- ion; and, as to peace, your foremost man has told us that there is no peace. The terrible difficulties of their situation tar- alyzed their judgment. Exasperation took the place of that cool fortitude which had carried them through previous trials. Wisdom forsook their counsels. They gave up to their domestic foes the ship which they bad often defended against foreign enemies and trusted their destiny to secession _____ that fatal, that per~dions bark, Built in the eclipse and rigged with curses dark. Did Mr. seward know what he was doing when he started this Irrel)ressihle Conflict? If he did not, how can you feel any respect for his judgment! But his newspaper organ at Albany (the Even- ing Journal ) said for him that he did intend what happened; and he himself, about 1865, bragged that he had privately predicted the battle of Gettysburg many years before the war broke out. The Irrepressil)le Conflict was, then, on his part, a cold-blooded and deliberate preparation for the sacrifice of life and property on a scale of enormous magni- tude, involving men, women, and chil- dren of every class and color in the North as well as the South. You think him wholly unlike Cleon, as being vastly bet- ter. But what did that unprincipled tan- ner ever do, or propose to do, that was comparable to the atrocity of the Jive- pressible Conflict? You will smiy, as you have said, that Cleon stimulated the passions of the Athenians to the massacre of the male population of Mitylene. But, remember, there were only about five thousand male Mitylen~ans all told (less than two thousand actually suffered), and they were foreigners and enemies. On the other hand, that population which Mr. Seward stimulated the passions 1874.] MR. BLACK TO MR. ADAMS. 119 of the Abolitionists and negroes to inas- sacre were his fellow-citizens, living with him in the bonds of sworn amity, under a common government, which owed equal protection to theni and himself. Perhaps you will plead for Seward that the South- ern people were slaveholders and poor white trash whom it was no harm to kill; but I reply, on the part of Cleon, that the Mitylenmans were slaveholders also. Your contrast between Seward and Cleon is almost as much a failure as your analogy hetween him and Pericles. Before you asserted that Mr. Seward saved the country, you ought to have re- membered that, if the nation had been saved from him and his followers, and the Irrepressible Conflict which they, cre- ated, it would have needed no other sal- vation. Now as to the Little Bell. The same Higher Law which gave the Federal Gov- eminent power to legislate against the States in defiance of the Constitution would logically justify any executive out- rage that might be desired for personal or party purposes on the life, liberty, and property of individuals. Such was Mr. Sewards theory, and such was the prac- tice of himself and his subordinates and some of his collengues. I will not paiI~ you by arecitalof the wanton cruelties they in- flicted upon unoffending citizens. I have neither space nor time nor skill to paint them. A life-size picture of them would cover more canvas than there is on the earth. You were abroad as Minister to England when most of them were done; but every wind bore you the reports, and you must have blushed for your country when you saw her degraded in the eyes of the whole world. Since the fall of Robespierre nothing has occurred to cast so much disrepute on republican institu- tions. When Mr. Seward went into the State Department he took a Little Bell to his office in place of the Statute Book, and this piece of sounding brass came to be a symbol of the Higher Law. When he de- sired to kidnap a free citizen, to banish him, to despoil him of his property, or to kill ~im after the mockery of a militaty trial, he rang his Little Bell and the deed was done. This man, to whom you would assign a place in history above all other Amer- ican statesmen, took a childish delight in the perverted use of his power; and die- played it as ostentatiously as one of those half~witted boys who were sometimes raised to the purple in the evil days of the Roman empire. He boasted of it on many occasions, and crowed over the Brit- ish Minister, telling him that his Queen could not do so much. Lord Lyons was dumb. Victoria had no Little Bell of that kind; she swore at her coronation to govern according to the laws of the realm, and she must keep her oath. For more than two centuries no English monarch had tried the experiment of higher Law on his people. Under Charles 1., Strafford declared that the Kings little finger was thicker than the loins of the la~v; but he was tried for this and put to death as a traitor. For acting upon Straf- fords suggestion the people rose upon the King himself, dragged him to the block, and chopped his head off; and the God ofjustice looked down from his great white throne in the heavens and smiled upon the deed. You may answer (as the disciples of your school generally do) that the men and women who have suffered under this tyrannous rule were mere Democrats, Cop~erheads, Union-savers, Dough-fhces, Sonthern symiipathizers, Bourbons who forget nothing and learn nothing, enter- taining opinions out of date and unfavor- able to Abolitionists, dangerous voters, improper persons, whom it was decidedly advisable to take off; and, as that could not be done according to law, it was ri~ht to do it against law. I will not affirm that the Democracy had any merits, hut ask you merely to recollect that a legal right is always respectable even though the person who claims it does not stand high in your esteem. Besides, it was not expected that the party in power would oppress themselves. The law is, therefore, made to no purpose at all if it does not shield the weakness of their op- ponents. You cannot understand the value of a free constitution unless you imagine yourself in the situation of a minority, under the Higher Law rule. Then you will see the other side of the question. To deprive Democrats of their hereditary rights and pen them up in dungeons by the thousand without jury- trial or habeas corpus may be no more than a fair concession to the ripening influence of humanity, and to rob them 120 MR. BLACK TO MR. ADAMS. [JA. is according to the salutary instructions of economy; therefore, these are pleas- ant employments for Abolitionists. But there is a difference between doing and suffering. How would you like it your- self to be throttled by the minions of the higher Law? If you had been kidnapped and imprisoned or beaten and robbed by the hirelin~s of executive malice, or in- sulted by a mock trial before a body of pliant tools organized to convict, per- haps you might have learned to value the Constitution as highly as it is valued by the worst of the Copperheads. You would understand then how the Bill of Rights has come to be regarded as the gospel of the weak. It is even possible that you could in that case appreciate the admira- tion which Pitt expressed for Mayna Charta when he said that three words of that bad Latin were worth more than all the classics. As it is, you have no special cause to dislike arbitrary power, and you can aibrd to admire the man who threw down the defences of personal liberty. But you must not expect to be joined in this by that portion of the people who need the protection of a frec government. Mr. Welles presents the subject of your eulogy in a very unpleasant light~ In- stead of the sagacity, candor, and patri- 6tism for which you credit him, he was cunning and treacherous, to low ends industrious, and crooked in all his ways. I am no voucher for this, but besides Mr. Welless own unquestioned veracity, and the circumstantial corroboration of his statements, there is a reason a priori for believing all he says, and more too; the man who was notoriously false to the Con- stitution he swore to support, could not oe true to anything. By Mr. Welless paper it is distinctly made known that Mr. Seward, as soon as he came into office, concocted a scheme for the surrender of Fort Sumter into the hands of the Secessionists; that he drew General Scott into it, and tried to get the Presidents assent also; that the Presi- dent having declined to surrender, and determined to reinforce the place, a con- fidential friend and protege of Mr. Seward notified his confederates in the South of the movement about to be made; that the whole plan and arrangement of the Ad- ministration for the relief of the fort was brought to nothing by a series of secret, deceptive, and underhand maneeuvres which Mr. Seward carried on witheut the knowledge of the War or Navy Depart- ment; and that, while he was thus be- traying his own associates, he wrote to Secessionists that his faith pledged to them would be fully kept. These accusa- tions seem to be proved by overwhelming evidence. I do not suppose that this will shake your faith in Mr. Sewards integri- ty and wisdom, or detract one atom from your admiration for the grand simplicity of his character. But suppose such a rev- elation to be made concerning a member of the Buchanan administration, what would you say? Would you present him to the country as its best example of a statesman, or would you hang him up for the execration of the world? Would you sing pmeans to his virtue, or cleave the gen~ral ear with horrid speech about his wickedness? You were a member of Congress when the election of Lincoln took place, and your conduct between the election and the inauguration was supposed to justify the respect which was felt for you by all the true friends of the country. I thought your speeches were the best rebuke that could be giVen to the intemperate nmnlice of your party, which adopted no policy but that of slandering the existing ad- ministration. I am sorry if I mistook you, and, if I was right, I will not cite you against yourself, for the argumentum ad hominem proves nothing. But Mr. Sewards behavior during that critical pe- riod was not worthy of his place. Your account of his situation at that time differs from his own. You say, in substance, that though he ought to have been early secured in a post, and other posts ought to have been filled under his advice, yet nothin~ was done for him un- til quite late in the session, when his friends were disposed to advise him to re- ject the tardy offer. But, on the contra- ry, his own written declaration is that it was early understood that he was to be appointed Secretary of State, and that he was regarded as representing not only the incoming administration but the party by which it was elected. It is certain that his ego et re meus style of speaking about himself and Mr. Lincoln created a gener- arh)elief at Washington that he would be the Wolsey of the new administration, with Law in his voice and honor in his hand; while others would be subordinate, and the President himself little more than ~ 1874.] MR. BLACK AND MR. ADAMS. 121 figurehead. In fact, he carried out this notion after he went into office, much to the disgust of his colleagues, as you may learn from Mr. Welles and Mr. Blair. holding a position like this, a word fit- ly spoken by him would have saved the country from a whole Iliad of woes. But he was narrow-minded, short-sighted, and destitute of the magnanimity needed in such a crisis. Instead of rising to the height of the occasion, he showed himself a mere politician. To tell what little things he did during that memorable win- ter would require a good-sized volume; but there lives not even in your partial remembrance one great act to mark him as a patriot or statesman. Since you and Mr. Welles and Mr. Blair have put on record your personal reminiscences of him, I will add my con- tribution, believing that the fact I am about to mention throws a broader light on his public character than any which you have given. Whelm the troublGs were at their worst, certain Southern gentlemen, through Judge Campbell of the Supreme Court, requested inc to meet Mr. Seward nnd see if he would not give them some ground on which they could stand with safety in- side of the Union. I consented, and we met at the State Department. The con- ference was long and earnest. I cannot, within these limits, set forth even the substance of it. He seemed conscious of his power, and willing to use it in the in- terests of peace and union, as fhr ns he conld without the risk of offending his own party. What could he do? Many propositions were discussed, and rejected as being either hnpracticable or likely to prove useless, before 1 told him what I felt perfectly sure would stop all contro- versy at once and forever. I proposed that he should simply pledge himself and the incoming administration to govern according to the Constitution, and upon every disputed point of constitutional law to accept that e position of it which had been or might be given by the judicial authorities, lie started at this, became excited, and violently declared he would do no such thing. That,~ said he, is treason; that would make me agree to the Dred Scott case. In vain I told him that he was not required to admit the cor- rectness of any particular case, but mere- ly to submit to it as the decision of the highest tribunnl, from which there could be no appeal except to the sword. You will see that if such a pledge as this had been given and kept, the war could not have taken place; it would have left nothing ~o fight about; and the decent men of the Anti-Slavery party would have lost nothing by it which. they pretended to want, for even i~he Dred Scott case had enured to their practical benefit. But Mr. Seward must have given up the Higher Law and denied him- self the pleasure of kidnapping Demo- crats. I had never before heard that treason was obedience to the Constitution as con- strued by the courts; but this l)Iepared me to learn, as I did some time afterward, that the correlative virtue of loyalty con- sisted in trampling the laws under foot. What should the world think of the statesmanship which introduced these notions? I do not know, but I believe, that Mr. Seward, in consequence of the conversa- tion above mentioned, got Mr. Limmcoln to commit himself in the inaugural by the absurd and mnisch.ievous declaration that he would not take his law froma the Su- preme Court, but would take it from the Clmic~igo Convention. Your address has undoubtedly done much to diuminish what little confidence was left in the Government as a protec- tion to our personal rights. We cannot help but feel that the security of life, lib- erty, and property must be fearfully slen- der in a country where a citizen of your standing can openly say that the owner and tinkler of the Little Bell was a states- man wl~~ose example ought to be univer- sally copied. You are a leader of the party calling it- self Liberal Republican, whose l)lat- form is a protest against iniquity in hi~,h places, and whose mnovements are a strug- gle for the restoration of honest govern- ment. Your compatriots know; if you do not, that the evils they deplore were in- troduced by the man you advise thema to imitate. The party you oppose for its hideous corruption has but fiishioned its moral and political principles upon the model which you now declare to be full of beauty and goodness. Your personal consistency is nothing; but to go back in this way, not only on yourself, but on your friends and your country, is too bad. J. S. Ba~cK. DRIFT-WOOD. THE HOLIDAY HOMILY. CHRISTMAS comes