LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, Volume XXXVII.) No. 1959. January 7,1882. From Beginning, ~ Vol. CLII. I. II. III. .IV. V. VI. VII. CONTENTS. LUXURY ANCIENT AND MODERN, . . Quarterly Review, THE FRERES. By Mrs. Alexander, author of The Wooing Ot. Part XXV., COUNTRY LIFE IN ITALY. Part II., MADEMOISELLE ANGELE, . CRIMEAN TOWN LIFE, . WILLIAM XVHEWELL WORDS OF WISDOM FROM GOETHE, Temple Bar, Cornhil Magazine, Gentlemans Magazine, Temple Bar,. Macmillans Magazine, Blackwoods Magazine, P0 H T R Y. AT VAUCLUSE, MISCELLANY, . . . . . . .3 25 . 34 . 42 . 50 . 55 . 6i 2 . . PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & CO., BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a~ea ~ made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money shouldbe sent in a registered letter. Allpostmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & Co. Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, i8 cents. 2 AT VAUCLUSE. AT VAUCLUSE. I. By Avignons dismantled walls, Where cloudless mid-March sunshine falls, Rhone, through broad belts of green Flecked with the light of almond groves, Upon himself reverting, roves Reluctant from the scene. I. Yet from stern moat and storied tower From sprouting vine, from spreading flower, My footsteps cannot choose But turn aside, as though some friend Were waiting for my voice, and wend Unto thy vale, Vaucluse! III. For here, by Sorgues sequestered stream, Did Petrarch fly from Fame, ai~d dream Lifes noonday light away; Here build himself a studious home, And, careless of the crowns of Rome, To Laura lend his lay: IV. Teaching vain tongues that would reward With noisy praise the shrinking bard, Reminding thus the proud, Loves sympathy, to him that sings, Is more than smiles of courts and kings, Or plaudits of the crowd. V. For poor though love that doth not rouse To deeds of glory dreaming brows, What but a bitter sweet Is loftiest fame, unless it lay The soldiers sword, the poets bay, Low at some loved ones feet. VI. Where are his boo,ks? His garden, where? I mount from flowery stair to stair, While fancy fondly feigns, Here stood his learned lintel, here He wooed the seasons of the year, Here mellowed he his strains. VII. On trackless slopes and brambled mounds The laurel still so thick abounds, That Natures self, one deems, Regretful of his vanished halls, Still plants the tree whose name- recalls The lady of his dreams. VIII. Aught more than this I cannot trace, There is no footstep, form, nor face, To vivify the scene; Save where, but culled to fling away, Posies of withering wi~4flowers say, Here childrens feet have been. Ix. Yet theres strange softness in the skies: The violet opens limpid eyes, The woodbine tendrils start; Like childhood, winning without guile, The primrose wears a constant smile, And captive takes the heart. x. All things remind of him, of her. Stripped are the slopes of beech and fir, Bare rise the crags above; But hillside, valley, stream, and plain, The freshness of hi~ muse retain, The fragrance of his love. XI. Why did he hither turn? Why choose Thy solitary gorge, Vaucluse? Thy Fountain makes reply, That, like the Muse, its waters well From source that none can sound, and swell From springs that neer run dry. XII. Or was it he might drink the air That Laura breathed in surging prayer Or dutys stifled sigh; Feel on his cheek the self-same gale, And listen to the same sweet wail When summer nights are nigh? XIII. It may be. Fame he deeply quaffed: Thirsting for Loves far sweeter draught, Alas, alas for him! Though draining glory to the dregs, He was like one that vainly begs, And scarcely sips the brim. XIV. Is it then so, that Glory neer Its throne with Happiness will share, But, baffling half our aim, Grief is the forfeit Greatness pays, Lone places grow the greenest bays, And anguish suckles Fame? XV. Let this to lowlier bards atone, Whose unknown Laura is their own, Possessing and possest; Of whom if sooth they do not sing, Tis that, near her, they fold their wing, To drop within her nest. XVI. Adieu, Vaucluse l Swift Sorgue, farewell I Thy winding waters seem to swell Louder as I depart; But evermore, whereer I go, Thy stream shall with my memory flow, And murmur through my heart! March, i88i. ALFRED AUSTIN. Macmillans Magazine. LUXURYANCIENT AND MODERN. 3 From The Quarterly Review. LUXURYANCIENT AND MODERN.* THIS book, purporting to be a history of luxury, is a history of manners arid morals, modes of life and customs, arts, industry, commerce, and civilization, in all ages and all quarters of the world. The steps by which every race, nation, or peo- ple of note advanced from rudeness to refinement, or by which so many of them have retrograded to corruption or decay, are accurately traced. The amount of learning, ancient and modern, laboriously amassed and judiciously applied, is im- mense; and the author, far from fancying that he has done enough when he has supplied the materials for reflection, pauses at frequent intervals to suggest inferences or draw conclusions; so that, by the time we have mastered his work, we are not only made familiar ~vith the progress of luxury, but with the economi- cal theories relating to it, the modes of treatment to which it has been subjected by legislators, the fierce diatribes it has provoked from the pulpit, and the curious speculations into which it has seduced philosophers. \Vhat is luxury? Is it an evil or a good? Is it to be relatively or positively considered or judged? Where are ~ve to draw the line between necessaries, com- forts, and superfluities? Le superflu, chose tr~s-n6cessaire, is the well-known expression of Voltaire, and Senior lays down that a carriage is a decency to a woman of fashion, a necessary to a physi- cian, and aluxuryto atradesman4 These seeming paradoxes may turn out very like truths, when we make due allowance for the influence of custom and fashion, when we bear in mind what a complex artificial creature is man as moulded by society: * Histoire du luxe, PrizA et Public, detuis 1 An- IiquitljusquiZ nos yours (History of Luxury, Fri- vote and Public, from A utiquity dovou to our Time). Par H. Baudrillart, Membre de 1 Institut. Deuxi~me Edition. Quatre Tomes. Paris, iSlo. Encyclnp~dia Britannica, art. Political Econ- omv. It has been said of a physician that he must begin where many professional men leave off with a carriage and a wife. By necessaries I understand not only the commodities which are indispensably neces- sary for the support of life, but whatever the custom of the country renders it indecent for creditable people even of the lowest class to be without. All other things I call luxuries. (AuAm SM5TH.) and if any doubts exist on this point, they will be dissipated by the illustrations of human nature, the startling examples of follies and caprice, extravagance and ostentation, with which M. Baudrillarts pages are filled to overflowing. Indeed, according to him, there has been no such thing as a natural, simple, unsophisticated man or woman since our first parents. How often has not the human race been represented as passing step by step from the necessary to the useful, from the useful to the superfluous! Now, the primitive facts con- tradict this. They attest that the superfluous has more than ever preceded the useful, and that very often also the abuse has preceded the reasonable use. Let us endeavor to fix, to describe by some traits, what may be termed the elements of luxury amongst these primitive populations. We can even now indicate the result. It may be stated thus: The primitive man obeys the same instincts as the tuore cul- tivated. He is found vain, sensual, and as re- fined as he is permitted to be by the imperfect state of his means. Nudity adorns before clothing itself: pride is born before modesty. Primitive, Oriental, and Grecian lux- ury, form the subjects of the first volume Roman and Byzantine, of the second; the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, of the third ; modern luxury, of the fourth. The utmost we can attempt is a summary or selection of the salient points and most remarkable passages of each. We may pass rapidly over the chapters in which, reverting to his theory of the indigenous instinctive quality of luxury, the author accumulates instances to show that the rudest tribes and races, however sunk in ignorance and filth, are invariably found adorning or disfiguring their per- sons in some way, and even undergoing prolonged torture, to gratify their vanity. Thus, no later back than 1874, an English traveller, Dr. Comrie, came upon an in- digenous people in New Guinea who did not know the use of iron, and were repul- sively dirty, but had plenty of ornaments, or what they regarded in that light. Rous- seaus doctrine, that disfigurement and distortion, in compliance with fashion or with the view of beautifying, are the fruit of civilization, is demonstrably unsound. 4 LUXURY ANCIENT AND MODERN. The ladies of London and Paris, with their compressed waists and ears pierced for rings, have been surpassed by the Esquimaux, who have a hole made in each cheek to introduce a stone ornament, and by the Cochin-Chinese, who perforate and blacken their teeth. The supreme distinction in some African tribes consists in a species of stock or gorget formed of large shells. So much for the nature! of these savages Our most ridiculous fashions are less so than those by which they are enslaved. As to the vanity of the toilet, the famous Bruinmel himself, that type of a dandy, enveloped in the folds of his immense cravat artistically tied, was less infatuated than our painted savage with his gorget of shells This is confirmed by the most recent work of authority on the prehistoric times We see in all countries, in all latitudes, in the man at least as much as in the ~voman, the passion for adornment. Civilization has singularly increased this passion : but it assuredly existed already in the times ~ve are narrating; and the ornaments of every kind, of every form, of every substance, show what it was in man at the dawn of his existence upon earth. * M. Baudrillart includes under the term l?0-e all the pomps and vanities, all the displays of grandeur and magnificence, all the creations of labor and capital, which have not utility for their well-defined ob- jectin a word, unproductive expendi- ture of every kind. Funeral ceremonies, tombs, and monuments, are comprehend- ed, as well as banquets and palaces. En- tering the East by Egypt, he points to the pyramids as examples of the most extravagant waste of life and treasure, and to the temples (which may be recon- structed to the mi~ds eye from the ruins) as throwing, for grandness of conception, Versailles and the Escorial, St. Peters and St. Pauls, into the shade. The tem- ple of Karnak, which Mr. Fergusson terms the noblest effort of arcliit~ctural magnificence ever produced by the mind of man, is computed to have been four, times as large as Notre Dame; with a * Les Premiers liommes et les Temps Pr~his- toriques. Par le Marquis de Nadaillac. Paris, s8Sz. Vol. i., p. 553. hall supported by a hundred and thirty. four columns as big as the column Ven- d6me and as high as the Obelisk. The Labyrinth, which Herodotus mentions as the principal wonder of Egypt, was an edifice of two stories, containing fifteen hundred rooms in each. The upper chambers, he says, I myself passed through and saw, and found them to ex- cel all human productions. He was not admitted into the lower, which contained the sepulchres of the kings who built the Labyrinth, and those of the sacred croco- diles. The monarchs of the Pharaonic dynasties, by their passion for building combined with boundless munificence, so vividly recall the founder of Versailles, that M. Renan speaks of them as so many prototypes of Louis Quatorze. These Egyptian autocrats also resembled the grand moizargue in their profound indif. ference to the poverty and misery they entailed on their people. Egypt was then, as now, the land of the doomed fe//ak, time immemorially employed in carrying stones upon his back, condemned to excessive toil in all shapes. The pyramids and temples were all equally the product of compulsory labor. That the Egyptians had arrived at an advanced stage of civilization is proved by the position of their women, who en- joyed an amount of independence rarely permitted to women in the East. It would seem from a story told by Herodotus that they did not invariably make the best use of it. A Pharaoh who had lost his sight was told that the recovery of it depended on his finding a faithful wife. He ad- dressed himself first t~ his own, then to others, and when, after a prolonged pe- riod of blindness, his eyes vere at last unsealed by his meeting with the object of his search, he assembled the numerous dames who had been wanting in the heal- ing virtue, and caused the whole of them to be burned. The history of Potiphars wife is repeated almost literally in the fa- mous papyrus of The Two Brothers. From Egypt we are taken to Nineveh, the Nineveh of Sardanapalus, who died the death of an imperial epicure, after dictating the inscription for his tomb: Sardanapalus, the son of Anacyndaraxus, LUXURYANCIENT AND MODERN. 5 built Anchiale and Tarsus in one day: eat, drink, and lust: the rest is nothino Strabo states that Nineveh was sixty miles in circumference. In describing its buildings and speculating upon its habits, Sir A. H. Layard has exhibited the same sort of ingenuity which is displayed by a Cuvier or a Professor Owen when he arrives at the construction of an extinct animal from the study of a bone.* The broad result, founded on his explorations, is that the Ninevites had made considera- ble progress in the decorative arts, al- though in public buildings and in most other respects they ranked considerably below Babylon, where Oriental magnifi- cence reached its culminating point. The extent of the city may have been exager- ated by the ancient historians, but their account of the vastness of the buildings and the amount of precious metals lav- ished on the decorations is confirmed by modern discoverers. Nitocris, the spouse of Nebuchadnez- zar, is described by M. Baudrillart as the soul of his works, and to her is attributed the design of the lake named after her, which served the double purpose of a for. tification and a darn against the Euphrates when in flood. The famous hanging gar. dens are also attributed to female influ. ence, to the longing of a Median princess, born in a more elevated region ,for the coolness and shade of her native moun- tains. There were five of these gardens, about four English acres each, on terraces supported by columns and covered with mould thick enough for the largest trees to take root in it. One of the columns was hollow, and contained an hydraulic machine to raise the required quantity of water. In fact, the art of gardening, with all its modern appliances, including irri- gation and the transplantation of grown trees, was practised in Babylon as effec- tivelv as in the Bois de Boulogne or Hyde Park. The simplest form of worship in the open air was enjoined by Zoroaster; tem- ples and images were expressly forbid- den: whatever luxury therefore prevailed * Nineveh and its Remains. By A. H Layard, 1846. Monuments of Nineveh, 3~49-53. Discoveries in the Ruins of Nineveli and Babylon, 1853. in Iran, the nucleus of the Persian em- pire, was in opposition to the religious spirit, instead of being, as in the other countries we have been surveying, an em- anation from it. The luxury of the em- pire, the empire of Xerxes and Darius, retained the mundane character; and we are again reminded of Louis Quatorze, when we are told that the household of the Persian monarch comprised fifteen thousand persons, and that the sole duty of a number of high officers was to make his bed. Two immense buildings were occupied by the queens and concubines. The royal table was supplied with the choicest eatables and drinkables for which certain localities were renowned. The water came from the Choaspes, and when his Majesty was on the move between the cities which shared his presence, it was transported in silver vessels from the temple of Jupiter Ammon in the Libyan desert; the wine was brought from Chaly- hon in Syria; the cheese from iEolis. The glory of Persian architecture and decorative art ~vas the palace of Persepo- lis, built by Darius, with its marble stair- case which ten horsemen could mount abreast, and its clusters of columns which ~vere compared to forests of lotus and palm-trees. We learn from Herodotus that of all days in the year, the one which the Per- sian celebrated most was his birthday, when the richer class caused an ox, a horse, a camel, and an ass to be baked whole, and so served up to them: They eat little solid food, but abundance of dessert, which is set on table a few dishes at a time. They are very fond of ~vine, and drink itin largequantities. It is also their general practice to deliberate upoa affairs of weight when they are drunk; and then, on the morrow, when they are sober, the decision to which they came the night before is put before them, and if it is then approved of, they act on it; if not, they set it aside. Sometimes they are sober at their first deliberation, but in this case they always reconsider the mat- ter under the influence of wine. In a note on this passage Sir Henry Rawlin- son states that at the present day among the bans vivanzs of Persia, it is usual to 6 LUXURYANCIENT AND MODERN. sit for hours before dinner, drinking wine he generally is towards them, enjoins, and eating dried fruits, such as filberts, Do not strike a woman even with a almonds, pistachios, melon-seeds, etc. A flower, if she had committed a thousand party, indeed, often sits down at seven faults. The following apostrophe is oclock and the dinner is not brought in placed in the mouth of one of the drama- till eleven. ~ tis ~ersonce in the Ramayana: At thy As rich as Cr~sus has passed into aspect, we dream of modesty, of splen- a proverb, and the traditional belief in his dor, of happiness, of glory. We think of wealth is confirmed by history. After a Lakchmi the spouse of Vishnu, orof Rati, sacrifice to the Delphic god of a vast the laughing companion of love. Which number of costly articles, he melted down of these divinities art thou, 0 woman a quantity of gold into one hundred and with~the seducing girdle? On the other seventeen in~ots of two and one-half and hand, we must remember the bayad?res or two talents each, besides causing a lion dancing girls, and there were provinces to be made in refined gold, weighing ten from which women were objects of export, talents, and a female figure of the same as now or recently, from Circassia. M. material four feet and a half high. These, Baudrillart states that King Djanaka, with two enormous bowls, one of gold and amongst presents to a neighboring prince, one of silver, were all sent to Delphi and sent a thousand female slaves ~vith rich deposited in the templef necklaces or collars. 1 he paintings of antiquity, the master- The religious spirit found expression pieces of Apelles and Zeuxis, are only in the most imposing and variegated known to us by description, and yet, from forms. The most ancient pagodas, con- what has been recorded of them, we give structed when Brahmanism was at its the painters credit for having attained the best, are profusely ornamented with sculp. highest qualities of their art. By a parity tured images of remarkable elegance of reasoning we may assume from the All commentary grows pale before the mag. literary monuments of India that, three nificent ruins of the temples of Ellora, which thousand years ago, she had attained to more than any other ruins confuse the human well-nigh the highest point to which lux- imagination. At the sight of these astounding ury can be carried by splendor, refine- edifices, which appear to date from an epoch ment, and taste. In the Indian poem, anterior to Brahmanical civilixation, the devel- the Ramayana, dated thirteen hundred opment of the plastic arts and of public reli- years before the Christian era, the author, gious luxury amongst the Hindoos receives describing the people of the Deccan un- the most striking attestation in the magnifi- der a feigned name, as Gulliver described cence of these teml)les, in the infinite diversity the Engiish court under the guise of the of their details, and the minute variety of the Lilliputian, speaks of the wonders of the carvings. vast city of the Troglodytes, adorned with Chinese civilixation is one of the oldest plantations and gardens, crowded with in the world. Successive changes of palaces resplendent with jewels in flowery dynasty have had little or no effect upon shades, and animated by the presence of the manners and ~vays of life of the nobles attired in the i~ichest vestments people, which would seem to have been and crowned with garlands. Not far stereotyped from the commencement of from thence rose the grand and vast the empire; and, if we may trust Montes- dwellings of the chiefs of the Vanaras, quieu, they have undergone five or six dwellings like white clouds, Fkewise orna- of the revolutionary changes which are mented with splendid garlands, full of commonly subversive of customs and in- precious stones and riches, and contain- stitutions in the West. He says that ing treasures still more valuable, bevies the three first dynasties lasted longest of beautiful ~vomen! because they were wisely governed, and These ladies were attired in the silks, that in general all of them began well. embroidered muslins, and cachemires, Good and bad emperors alternated as in which are at present so highly pri~ed b)- Rome. China had her Trajan and her their sisters of the YVest. But the posi- Antonines, as well as her Tiberius, her tion of the fair sex is somewhat difficult Caligula, and her Elagabalus. It is from to define. Manon (700 B.C.), severe as the history of these last that we learn the * Herodotus; a nature and excess of the luxury which The History of New English Ver- prevailed amongst them. Thus, Chean sion, etc. 13v Georee Rawlinkon, MA. Assisted by I Sino who Coi. Sir Henry Rawlinson and Sir J. G. Wilkinson, 1 reigned eleven hundred years F.R.S. Book L before the Christian era, was famous for t Herodotus, book i., c 50. his cruelties and debaucheries, which LUXURYANCIENT AND MODERN. 7 were shared and encouraged by a wife or concubine named Ta-Ki. He built a pal- ace of marble and kept a public table, which was the scene of drunken orgies, frequently terminating in crime. The greater vassals rose against him and, like another Sardanapalus, finding resistance vain, he caused a funeral pile to be con- structed and threw himself upon it attired in his richest robes. The Chinese are a stationary race; with them it is literally only le prernier~as qul coz2te, for they never take the second. They have invention without imagination. Ingenious and industrious, they never aim at progress or improvement, and if they had been let alone, if the intruding spirit of European enterprise had not penetrated the barrier, they would fain have kept their country hermetically sealed against the foreigner to this hour. Most of the arts of life, many of the most important discoveries, including printing and gun- powder, were known to them when what are now the most advanced nations were in their infancy; and it is startling to think that merely by working out their own ideas, or giving them to be worked out by others, the Chinese might have changed the history of the world. There were two articles of luxury, however, which they were unable to keep to them- selves, porcelain and silk. Specimens of China ware were brought to Europe by the Portuguese in the sixteenth century, but the ceramic art, as since practised at S~vres, Dresden, and Worcester, was un- known or neglected in Europe prior to the eighteenth. The manufacture of porce- lain in China is dated a century before the Christian era, and it is recorded that about A.D. iooo an emperor, some days after his accession to the throne, was re- spectfully requested to indicate the color of the vessels destined for his use. He wrote by way of rescript: In future let them give the porcelain the azure tint of the sky after rain, such as it appears be- tween the clouds. The artisans suc- ceeded in carrying out his wish, and the sky-blue porcelain fetched fabulous prices whilst it lasted. The Roman writers speak of silk as .a product of India, and it was unknown in Europe, except as an imported and rare article, prior to the sixth cehtury; but the Chinese claim for an empress, named Siling-C hi, who lived B.C. 2650, the dis- covery of the art of breeding and domes- ticating silkworms, that q~ winding off their cocoons, and the fabrication of stuffs of silk. She was deified as the discoverer in the threefold capacity, and down to our time, according to M. Bau- drillart, the Chinese empresses, attended by their maids of honor, have been in the habit of offering annual sacrifices to Siling-Chi, and have deemed it a duty to rear silk~vorms. The export of the seeds of the mulberry-tree and the eggs of the worm was prohibited under pain of death, and the prohibitory law was rigidly ob- served for ages, till a Chinese princess betrothed to a king of Khotan, unwilling to dispense with silk, contrived to smug- gle some of the seeds and eggs across the frontier in her hair. But the secret did not reach Europe till A.D. 552, when two monks of the order of St. Basil made a present to Justinian of some of the seeds and eggs, which they brought from China in the hollow of their pilgrim staves. Besides silk and porcelain, we are in- debted to the Chinese for tea. Their bills of fare are varied and comprehensive, but none of their choicest dishes have found favor at European tables; not even the famous birds-nest soup, so highly es- teemed amongst them that not long since a rich widow was giving 4,000?. a year for an island, to ensure a constant supply of the delicacy. M. Baudrillart places the Chinese, as regards both art and cookery, below the Japanese, who in many points resemb~ them ; but, far from being stationary, there is no country which has undergone within living memory so many sweeping changes as Japan, and we must revert to its previous history for illustrations of its characteristic luxury, civil and religious, as displayed by the Mikado, in whom the sovereign and pontiff were combined. Treated as a god, this personage was not allowed to touch the ground with his feet, and on public days he was bound to sit crowned and immovable. The slightest movement was supposed to portend the ~vorst calamity. At his hours of repast, twelve tables ~vere laid out, magnificently served. He chose one, to ~vhich the dishes of all the rest were removed, and he dined to the sound of a deafening crash of music. All the plate with which he was served ~vas broken to pieces on the spot. His garments were ~vorn by no one after him; whoever wore one of them would have found it as fatal as the shirt of Nessus. He was allowed twelve wives, one of ~vhom took precedence as a queen. These ladies had magnificent robes, wo- ven of gold and silver, so ample that it was no easy matter for them to walk. But 8 LUXURYANCIENT AND MODERN. it does not appear that they had their feet compressed from infancy like the Chinese women of the higher class, in whom what in the eye of reason was a de- formity had become by custom an indis- pensable sign of rank. Are English ladies aware that with the high-heeled shoe, which they wear by way of adding to their height,they are destroying the nat- ural shape of the foot, and provoking a by no means complimentary comparison with the Chinese? Tyre and Sidon were the carriers of civilization, the connecting links between all the known regions of three continents, and the richest products of these regions were concentrated in them. The prophet Ezekiel apostrophizes Tyre as the empo- rium of the richest products of every clime: Syria was thy merchant: they occupied in thy fairs with emeralds, pur- ple, and broidered work, and fine linen, and coral, and agate. The men of Dedan were thy merchant : they brought thee for a present horns of ivory and ebony. Tarshish was thy merchant, by reason of the multitude of all kinds of riches, etc. The Phcenician purple speaks for it- self. The Pluenicians were also the in- ventors of glass and the discoverers of the silver mines of Spain. Carthage fol- lowed and rivalled Tyre. It would be necessary, observes M. Baudrillart, to repeat all that has been said of the differ- ent objects of Oriental luxury, to exhaust the list of sumptuosities which were crowded into this metropolis of refine- ment and wealth. Speaking of modern African luxury, as it exists amongst the Arabs in the desert or in the town, he says .that its distinctive feature is sobri- ety, not simply in diet but in vestments and decorative art; and he traces this to the exclusively monotheistic genius of their religion, which expressly forbids the representation of the human figure, and even of every living thing. Everything leading to idolatry, to self- indulgence, to personal luxury in any shape, is strictly forbidden by the law of Moses, and the law is enforced by the prophets in the strongest language they could use. But their very denunciations prove how impossible it is to eradicate or suppress the inborn tendency to disobe- dience, corruption, sensuality, vanity, and sin : Moreover the Lord saith, Because the daugh- ters of Zion are haughty, and walk with stretched forth necks a~d wanton eyes, walk- ing and mincing as they go, and making a tinkling with their feet: therefore the Lord will smite with a scab the crown of the head of the daughters of Zion. In that day the Lord will take away the bravery of their tink- ling ornaments about their feet, and their cauls, and their round tires like the moon, the chains, and the bracelets, and the mufflers, the bonnets, and the ornaments of the legs, and the headbands, and the tablets, and the ear- rings, the rings, and nose jewels, the change- able suits of apparel, and the mantles, and the wimpies, and the crisping pins, the glasses, and the fine linen, and the hoods, and the vails. And it shall come to pass, that instead of sweet smell there shall be stink; and in- stead of a girdle a rent; and instead of well set hair baldness; and instead of a stomacher a girding of sackcloth; and burning instead of beauty. (Isaiah iii.) What a picture is here presented of female fashions and follies! When Ju- dith was preparing to go to the camp of Holofernes, she took sandals upon her feet, and put about her her bracelets, and her rings, and her earrings, and all her ornaments. When she, was an- nounced, he rested upon his bed under a canopy which was woven with purple and gold and emeralds and precious stones; and he came out before his tent ~vith silver lamps going before him. We need do no more than allude to the wives and concubines Of that uxorious king, whose heart, though large, Beguiled by fair idolatresses, fell To idols foul. But Solomon was not the first to treat women as objects of sensual enjoyment, and to degrade whilst seemingly exalting them by flattering their vanity. Ye daughters of Israel, exclaims David, ~veep over Saul, who clothed you in scarlet, with other delights, who put on ornaments of gold upon your apparel. The eminent Orientalist, M. Maspero, objects to Solomons temple that the inexl)erience of the Hebrews in architec- ture made them consider it unique: It was, in fact, to the grand edifices of Egypt and Chaldea what their empire itself was to the other empires of the ancient world, a little temple for a little people. This is true as regards its dimensions, but in point of richness it could hardly be sur- passed. So Solomon overlaid the house within with pure gold: and he made a partition by the chains of gold before the oracle; and he over- laid it with gold. And the whole house he overlaid with gold, until he had finished all the house: also the whole altar that was by the oracle he overlaid with gold. LUXURYANCIENT AND MODERN. 9 And the floor of the house he overlaid with gold, within and without. And for the enter- ing of the oracle he made doors of olive tree: the lintel and side posts were a fifth part of the wall. The two doors also were of olive tree; and he carved upon them carvings of cheru- bims and palm trees and open flowers, and overlaid them with gold, and spread gold upon the cherubims, and upon the palm trees. All the vessels pertaining to the house of the Lord, the altar, the table, the can- dlesticks, the censers, were of gold, as were the hinges of the doors. The wood- work was of cedar exquisitely carved. And all king Solomons drinking vessels were of gold, and all the vessels of the house of Lebanon; none were of silver: it was nothing accounted of in the days of Solomon. The queen of Sheba gave him a hundred and twenty talents of gold, and of spices great store, and precious stones. His navy brought him four hun- dred and twenty talents from Ophir, and the weight of gold that came to him in one year was six hundred and sixty-six talents. The heroic age or ages of Greece ~vill not disprove the theory, that in the rudest and earliest times superfluities precede necessaries. Homers Greeks and Tro- jans had hardly any of what we should deem comforts: neither ~vindows to their houses, nor chimneys, nor forks and spoons, nor cooking utensils for boiling,* nor blankets and sheets, nor body-linen. But their bedsteads ~vere set in ivory and gold with purple coverings and the arms and robes of their leaders and princes were of a richness corresponding with their rank. We cannot pretend, even ~vith M. Baudrillarts help, to trace the steps by which Grecian luxury attained the height to which it arrived at Athens; still less to explain the complicated causes which produced the age of Pericles which enabled a numerically small com- munity to become the source and centre of such a constellation of creative genius, to supply for all time to come the finest examples, the noblest monuments, in poetry, eloquence, philosophy, history, * There is general mention of considerable variety in bread or vegetable food; but meat was all roasted. Homer; by the Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone, Hon- orary Student of Christchurch. London: 1878. This little hook is an excellent summary of Homeric learn- ing. But was not meat generally broiled? See (Book ~) the manner in which, after being cot into small pieces, it was cooked by Patroclus in the tent of Achilles. In the chapter on Art and the Arts, Mr. Gladstone says: Of anything like art, except in metal, the poems give no ~ign.1 He sr~aks of the shield of Achiiles as a magnificent conception, and refuses to re- gard it as the fruit of a later age. dramatic art, statuary, and architecture. Foremost amongst these causes were (~vhat Mr. Grote terms) their expanding and stimulating democracy, their climate, their habits of life, their commercial rela- tions, and their mythology, which, what- ever its moral tendencies, was certainly favorable to art. Their gods and god- desses were idealized human beings, and the most acceptable form of worship was to represent them by images of power, wisdom, strength, and beauty : So stands the statue that enchants the world, So bending tries to veil the matchless boast, The mingled beauties of exulting Greece. The virtuous daughters of the noblest houses were proud to serve as models for a goddess; and even when Zeuxis wished to paint a Helen, the citizens of Crotona told him to choose five of their daughters to copy from. Painting and sculpture could hardly do otherwise than flourish under a reliolon and a sentiment which enjoined the0 cultivation and worship of beauty; and the works planned by Peri- cles were a part of his policy, besides falling in with a state of opinion which deemed no public money wasted that was spent in honor of the gods. When Phi- dias proposed to make his Athena of mar- ble, as more durable and less liable to injury than ivory, he was silenced by the popular voice declaring that economy in such a case was impiety, and insisting that the statue should be made of ivory and gold. The vestibule of the Acropolis cost more than the annual revenue of the republic. The cost of the Parthenon, the Odeon, and the Erechtheion, very much exceeded it; and Pericles was driven to the questionable step of applying to Athe- nian purposes the money lodged in the treasury by the allies for the, common defence. The defence of this misappro- priation is undertaken by Mr. Grote, who contends that his views were evidently panhellenic: In strengthening and ornamenting Athens, in developing the full activity of her citizens, in providing temples, religious offerings, works of art, solemn festivals, all of surpassing attrac- tion, he intended to exalt her into something greater than an imperial city with numerous dependent allies. He wished to snake her the centre of Grecian feeling, the stimulus of Grecian intellect, and the type of strong demo- cratical patriotism, combined with full liberty of individual taste and aspiration. He wished not merely to retain the adherence of the sub- ject States, but to attract the admiration and I0 LUXURYANCIENT AND MODERN. spontaneous deference of independent neigh- bors.* M. Baudrillart claims for Cimon, the son of Miltiades, a share of the credit, popularly ascribed to Pericles, of initiat- ing the works which form the lasting glory of Athens; and Mr Grote states that Phiclias, first brought forward by Cimon, was the director and superinten- dent of all the decorative additions to the city. The architects of the Parthenon and the other buildings worked under his instructions, and he had besides a school of pupils and subordinates, to whom the mechanical part of his labors was con- fided. The position of women at Athens is thus described by Mr. Grote The free citizen women of Athens lived in strict and almost Oriental recluseness, as well after being married as when single. Every- thing which concerned their lives, their happi- ness, or their rights, was determined or man- aged for them hy male relatives: and they seem to have been destitute of all mental cul- ture and accomplishments. Their society pre- sented no charm nor interest, which men ac- cordingly sought for in the company of a class of women called Heta~r~e or Courtezans, liter- ally Female Companions, who lived a free life, managed their own affairs, and supported themselves by their powers of pleasing. These women were numerous, and were doubtless of every variety of personal character. The most distinguished and superior among them, such as Aspasia and Theodot~, appear to have been the only women in Greece, except the Spartan, who either inspired strong passion or exercised mental ascendency. M. Baudrillart selects Alcibiades as typifying the private luxury of the Athe- nians, when they were at the height of their prosperity and chose their favorites from caprice, as they banished their best citizens out of weariness. The extreme beauty of his person largely contributed to his social success. He ~vas a brilliant combination of wit, gallantry, generosity, profligacy, and audacity. He was every- thing by turns and by extremes, and nothing long. His banquets were orgies seasoned by impiety. He incurred ruin- ous expenses for the chariot races. He had a passion for dogs, and i~ reported to have given more than 250/. for one,prob- ably the one which figures in the well- known story. He boxed the ears of one noble person, Hipponicus, for a wager: he slapped the face of another for pre- tending to rival him in expense and mu- nificence as choregist; and he struck a * History of Greece, vol. iv., p. ~ poor schoolmaster for not having a copy of the Iliad. Add some military talent and eloquence of no mean order, and such was the man who shone conspicuous, the observed of all observers, in the city of Pericles, Demosthenes, and Thucydides, of Sophocles and Aristophanes, of Phid- ias and Apelles, of Plato and Aristotle. Mr. Grote says that the leading Atheni- ans who frequented the public games, not only endured his petulance, but were even flattered when he was pleased to bestow it on them. The markets of Athens were abun- dantly supplied with game and fish, and M. Baudrillart suggests that the bill of fare of a rich Athenian of the epoch of Pericles resembled more nearly than might be sul)posed what would now be called a great dinner. Grecian gastron- omy appears to have had as rich a litera: ture as the French, although no entire work on the subject has come down to us. One of the most celebrated was a poem by Archestratus, the intimate friend of one of the sons of Pericles. This great writer [says Athemeus] had trav- ersed earth and sea to render himself ac- quainted with the best things which they had produced. He did not, during his travels, en- quire concerning the manners of nations, as to which it is useless to inform ourselves since it is impossible to chan~-e them; but he entered the laboratories where the delicacies of the table were prepared, and he had intercourse with none but those who could advance his pleas- ures. His poem is a treasure of science, every verse a precept. To this a well-known writer on gastron- omy objects the imperfect state of science at the time. Another ground of scepti- cism is supplied by the accounts that have come down to us of the man himself, who is said to have been so small and lean, that, when placed in the scales, his weight was found not to exceed an obolus; in which case he must have borne a strong resemblance to the Dutch governor, men- tioned in Knickerbockers History of New York, who pined away so imper- ceptibly that, ~vhen he died, there ~vas nothing of him left to bury. But the effects of eating vary with the constitu- tion. In the days when Georae IV. was king, the t~vo greatest eaters, Sir William Curtis and Alderman Shaw, were the fat. test and leanest of the aldermen. Ex- travagance and indulgence in the pleas- ures of the table were not confined to Athens. Polybius states that at Thebes men frequently left their property, not to their children, but to their fellow bons LUXURYANCIENT AND MODERN. II viva uts, on condition that it was spent in feasting; so that many had to give more banquets in the month than there were days. Guecia capta ferum victorem cepit et artes Intulit agresti Latio. The arts may have first reached Rome from Greece; but it was the lust of con- quest that proyed the ruin of republican simplicity, and it was in the process of becoming mistress of the world that Rome contracted the fatal habit of luxury which rapidly assumed proportions surpassing anything recorded in history. All the movable wealth of a conquered king- dom or l)rovince was at the disposal of the conqueror, and a government was a sure fortune to the proconsul or prtetor who made a judicious use of his opportu- nities, and was not afraid of having (like Verres) Cicero for a prosecutor. Jugur- tha made over two hundred thousand pounds weight of silver to Metellus. Pompey extorted five or six millions ster- ling from Armenia: Sylla, three or four millions from a province already over- taxed by Mithridates. Only a part found its way into the public treasury; for the army and the superior officers had their share. Five of Pompeys lieutenants were known to have made large fortunes with his connivance during his Asiatic command. The consul Servilius C~pio, having despatched an enormous sum of gold and silver with an escort, caused the escort to be murdered and the money in- tercepted on its xvav. A Roman general was boasting of the number of prisoners he had at his dis- posal, when a lady present said that she had never seen a man beheaded and should like to see one. He ordered in a prisoner, whom he decapitated with his own hand upon the spot. Livy, who re- lates the incident, adds that the acts of infamy passing in the distant provinces did not stand alone: others were wit- nessed daily nearer home. Foreign cor- ruption had been imported into Rome by the army of Asia. The accumulated spoils of Sylla were so numerous and so varied that, it was said, one might fancy oneself transported into the richest tem- ples of Greece without leaving ones house. Amongst his choicest treasures were the Apollo (in gold) from Delphi, and the Hercules (in bronze) by Lysippus, which had been given by the artist to Alexander and had subsequently be- longed to Hannibal. Syl~ was also a collector of rare books and manuscripts, and was the happy possessor of some original manuscripts of Aristotle which, at the capture of Athens, he had taken from Apellicon of Teos. The dictator had other resources besides the plunder of subject princes and provinces. Who- ever was unlucky enough to have any rare article which he coveted, could be proscribed. A citizen who had never mixed in politics, happening to glance over a list of proscribed persons posted up in the forum, saw his own name at the head: Al), woe is me was his excla- mation, it is my Alban villa that is my death. The profusion of Syllas public entertainments may be inferred from the fact that, during several days after one of them, a prodigious quanity of food was thrown into the Tiber. A satirical sketch of a Roman epicure at table about this time represents him as by no means wanting in discrimination; but it was during the concluding years of the republic that Roman luxury combined taste and refinement with splendor and prodigality. Lucullus was a marked im- provement on Sylla. It must have been a well regulated as well as a magnificent establishment that enabled the host, when C~sar and Pompey invited themselves to supper on condition that he would make no change on their account, to sustain his reputation as an Amphitryon by simply telling an attendant: We sup in the Apollo. There is another story of his saying to his chef who had taken less pains on account of the absence of guests: Did you not know that Lucul- lus supped this evening with Lucullus? The sum to be spent on a supper in the Apollo was fixed at fifty thousand drachms, about 1,400/. This is intelligi- ble if we bear in mind that the Roman epicures were in the habit of sending to the most distant countries for delicacies peculiar to the places, of breeding rare birds for the table, and of incurring boundless expense in pisciculture. The story of feeding lampreys with human flesh sounds apocryphal, but the fish-pond formed an indispensable accessory to the villa, and some of them made pets of their eels and mullets before eating them. We learn from Cicero that Crassus mourned the death of a piscine favorite; and Pliny says: You would find it easier to get a chariot harnessed with mules from Hor- tensius, than a mullet from his fish- ponds. The advocates of the rights of women will haply be surprised to hear that the comparative independence of the Roman 12 LUXURYANCIENT AND MODERN. ladies was regarded as the principal cause of their irregularities, and was far from adding to the happiness or respectability of married life. The dower was kept sep- arate, and the husband who wanted money was a slave to the caprices of the wife. If, says one of the dra,nauis ~ersonc~ in Plautus, all acted like me and mar- ried the daughters of poor citizens, the women would be more controlled by the fear of chastisement and would not in- volve us in such expense. We should have none of them coining to tell us, My dower has more than doubled your fortune you must give me purple and jewels, women-servants, mules, coachmen, lackeys to follow me, pages for my com- missions, carriages for my drives. Per- fumers of shoes are amongst the trades- people who are represented in attendance on the Roman beauty at her toilet. Pliny states that, in ancient times, women at Rome were not permitted to drink wine: A certain Roman dame, a woman of good worship, was by her ovn kinsfolk fain- ished and pined to death for opening a cupboard wherein the key of the wine cellar lay. And Cato doth record that hereupon arose the manner and custom that kinsfolk should kiss women when they met them, to know by their breath whether they smelled of ternefum, for so in those days they termed wine. The fashionable place of summer resort was Bai~, the Trouville and Baden.Baden combined of Rome : Horace dans ce frais s~jour, Dans une retraite embellie Par le plaisir et le genie, Fuyait les pompes cle Ia cour. Properce y visitait Cynthie, Et sous les regards de Lydie Tibulle y modulait les soupirs de lamour.* Bai~e was also the scene of the loves of Catullus and Lesbia. She was no other than Clodia, the sister of Clodius, whom she resembled in her morals if she was guilty of one-half of the irregularities with which she is reproached by Catul- lus. It was not for want of sumptuary laws that Roman luxury went on increasing. Cato took the lead in enacting and en- forcing them. The social p6sition of Women, with the difficulty of controlling them, was the burthen of his speech on the Oppian law: Go through all the laws concerning women, by which our an- cestors have placed a curb on their license Lanaareine. and have subjected them to the authority of men with these laws, numerous as they are, you can hardly keep them under the yoke. XVhat will it be if you suffer them to rise aoains t these - to in- laws, fringe them one t~fter the other, and finally to place themselves on an equality with men? Do you believe that their preten- sions will continue endurable? No sooner will they have begun to be our equals than they will be our superiors. He ~vas answered by the tribune Valerius, who, after recapitulating the many privileges enjoyed by men, indignantly protested against the injustice of depriving the weaker sex of the compensation they had discovered for themselves in dress. What! men were to retain the right to appear splendidly clothed in purple, whilst the Roman matrons were reduced to the simplest attire and saw themselves, they, the spouses of the masters of the world, more meanly dressed than the women of the allied or conquered prov- inces ! What cruel treatment to inflict upon this sex, which has no other joy, no other glory, than the toilet and the care of self-adornment! If the Roman ladies were satisfied with this defence, they must have merited all that the severest censors had urged against them. Cato failed on this occa- sion, but he succeeded in passing a law to limit the amount of fortune a woman might possess by bequest or inheritance, and at the conclusion of his censorship a statue was decreed to him in commemora- tion of his services. He corrected some notorious abuses, but he produced a mis- chievous reaction by overstrained sever- its. He took away the horse, the mark of equestrian rank, from a knight, on the ground that he was too corpulent for ac- tive service. He degraded the senator Manilius for kissing his wife openly by daylight in the presence of his daughter.* The Roman fortunes would not be thought extraordinary at London, Paris, or New York. A French financier, re- puted to have left between twenty and thirty millions sterling, on hearing that the senior partner of a well-known En- glish house had left only a million and a half, exclaimed, Ah, je le croyais plus ~ son aise. Crassus used to say that no man was to be esteemed rich who could not out of his own revenue maintain an army, but his fortune is estimated by Pliny at less than two millions sterling. * Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography, ed- ited by Dr. W. Smith. LUXURYANCIENT AND MODERN. 3 He added to it by commercial enterprises the circus. In the course of the festivi- and the skilled labor of slaves, but the ties instituted by Titus to celebrate the rich Roman commonly lived upon his opening of the Colosseum, five thousand capital: investments were precarious: to wild beasts were let loose and killed by save was to invite proscription; and when the gladiators. The emperor Probus col- popularity led to power and power to lected for a single show one hundred wealth, the patrician demagogue, bent on lions, one hundred lionesses, one hundred making a fortune, began by spending one. Libyan and one hundred Syrian leopards, C~sar owed nearly 300,000/. before he three hundred bears, and six hundred filled any public office. The debts of gladiators. Having caused the circus to Clodius were computed at double the be planted with trees to resemble a forest, sum. Mr. Troilope, in his able and spir- he let loose one thousand ostriches, one ited defence of Cicero, contends that he thousand stags, one thousand does, and did not owe more than a Roman of rank one thousand boars, to be hunted by the might or ought to owe, and a partisan of populace, who were to keep whatever they Wilkes maintained that he did not squint could catch or kill. The fiercer animals more than a gentleman ought to squint, were encountered by the gladiators. It Cicero, after buying one of the finest does not appear how long this show houses in Rome ~vith borrowed money, lasted. writes: Know then that I am so much Although given to illicit pleasures in his in debt that I should be willing to con- youth, Augustus was temperate in his spire, if any one would accept me. We habits after he became emperor, and he collect from his letters that he had sev- tried to check the progress of corruption, eral villas besides his town house. He but it ~vas in the bosom of his own family speaks of them in the tone of the nabob that it proved irrepressible. His daugh. who ordered more phaetons to be ter Julia ~vas the centre of a gay and brought round. His Tusculan villa had glittering throng of young patricians, and belonged to Sylla. A house of Clodius became so conspicuous for her dissolute sold for 90,000/. C~cilius Isidorus be- behavior, that he had no alternative but queathed forty-one hundred and sixteen to exile her. When reproached by a slaves, thirty-six hupdred yoke of oxen, friend for her extravagance in dress, she twenty-seven thousand five hundred head replied: My father does not know how of other cattle, and sixty millions of ses- to preserve his dignity. As for me I terces (5o0,ooo/.) in money. Owing prob- know and shall never forget that I am the ably to the insecurity of tenure, nothing is daughter of the emperor. set down for land. This C~cilius was not Tiberius, whose life at Capri was a dis. a man of taste; or jewellery, plate, and grace to human nature, was fonder of objects of vertu, would have formed no saving money than of spending it, and he inconsiderable portion of his possessions. left an immense sum in the trea~ury, Profuse expenditure was one of the which his successor Caligula managed to stepping-stones of ambition, a matter of dissipate in two years by extravagance of calculation or necessity in an aspirant to the most senseless kind. As if in rivalry high office or command. Crassus, ~vhen of Cleopatra, he swallowed precious a candidate for the consulship, gave a stones dissolved in vinegar, and caused feast of ten thousand tables~ to which all his guests to be helped to gold (which the citizens of Rome were indiscrimi- they carried away) instead of bread and nately invited. Caesar, to celebrate the meat. One of his favorite amusements funeral of a daughter, gave one of twenty- was showering money amongst the popu. two thousand tables with accommodation lace from the Basilica of Julius C~sar. for three guests at each. This entertain- He built galleys of cedar, covered with ment was repeated and exceeded for his jewellery, and large enough to contain triumph. He. brought together more vines and fruit-trees, and had canals cut gladiators and wild beasts than were ever for them along the coast. The stable of produced on any former occasion in a,n his favorite horse, which he talked of amphitheatre, but his exhibitions of this naming consul, was of Inarble, the trough kind were so completely outshone that it of ivory, the harness of purple, and the were a waste of time to dwell upon them. collar of pearls. The set of emeralds and In a document annexed to his testament, pearls worn by one of his wives, Lollia Augustus states as a title to public grati- Paulina, was valued at 400,000/. sterling. tude that he had exhibited eight thousand The principal extravagance of Claudius gladiators and brought more than thirty- was in public games. One of the shows five hundred wild beasts to be killed in I organized for him was a naval combat on 4 LUXURYANCIENT AND MODERN. a lake, in which the galleys were manned by nineteen thousand men. He was fond of good cheer, and was in the habit of inviting himself to the tables of the rich. He came on one occasion with six hun- dred persons in his train. It was to Nero that Tacitus applied the expression, incredibilium cze~itor. What he not only desired but achieved in the way of cruelty and vice would be declared incredible if Roman history had not al- ready shown ~vhat revolting atrocities may be conceived by a diseased imagina- tion and executed by irresponsible pQwer. After the burning of the city, he gratified his taste, in entire disregard of the pro- prietors, in rebuilding it. He at once appropriated a number of the sites and a large portion of the public grounds for his new palace. The porticoes, with their ranks of columns, ~vere a mile long. The vestibule was large enough to contain that colossal statue of him, in silver and gold, one hundred and twenty feet high, from which the Colosseum got its name. The interior was gilded throughout, and adorned with ivory and mother-of-pearl. The ceilings of the dining-rooms were formed of movable tablets of ivory, which shed flowers and perfumes on the compa- ny; the principal salon had a dome which, turning day and night, imitated the move- ments of the terrestrial bodies. When this palace was finished, he exclaimed: At last I am lodged like a man. His diadem was valued at half a million. His dresses, which he never wore twice, were stiff with embroidery and gold. He fished with purple lines and hooks of gold. He never travelled with less than a thousand carr~tges. The mules were shod with silver, the muleteers clothed with the finest wool, and the attendants wore brace- lets and necklaces of gold. Five hundred she-asses followed his ~vife Popp~a in her progresses, to supply milk for her bath. He was fond of figuring in the circus as a charioteer, and in the theatre as a singer and actor. He prided himself on being an artist, and when his possible deposition was hinted to him, he said that artists could never be in want. There was not a vice to which he was not given, nor a crime which he did not commit. Yet the world, exclaims Suetonius, en- dured this monster for fourteen years; and he was popular ~vith the multitude, who were dazzled by his magnificence and mistook his senseless profusion for lib- erality. On the anniversary of his death, during many years, they crowded to cover his tomb with flowers. The utmost excess in gluttony was reached by Vitellius, who gave feasts at which two thousand fishes and seven thousand birds were served up. He prided himself on his culinary genius, and laid every quarter of the empire un- der contribution to supply materials for a dish, which contained livers of mullet, brains of pheasants and peacocks, tongues of flamingoes, roe of lampreys, etc. etc. Tacitus states that he spent what would be tantamount to several millions sterling in less than eight months in eating or giving to eat. Scenes of blood, slaughter, and physi- cal pain, were the delight of Domitian. He was not satisfied with turning the amphitheatre into a butchery or a charnel- house by the numbers of men and even women * who were brought to be killed or mutilated in combat with each other or with wild beasts. He made it the coin- mon place of execution, and the sight of alleged offenders, including Christian martyrs, undergoing the most excruciat- ing tortures of his invention, was the most attractive part of the spectacle for him. Well might Juvenal exclaim, after describing the solemnity with which the grand affair of the turbot was submitted to the council of State, O that such scenes (disgraceful at the most) Had all these years of cruelty engrost Through which his rage pursued the great and good Uncheckd, whilst vengeance slumbered oer their blood.t Martial, on the other hand, has sung the praises of Domitian, and exalted him to the skies for destroying the palace of Nero, throwing open the gardens to the public, and erecting an aml)hitheatre on the site: The portico of Claudia covers with its shades the remains of that palace which is no more. Rome is restored to herself, and under your auspices, C~sar, what ~vere the enjoyments of a master are the enjoyments of the people. ~ In an- other passage of the De Spec/aculis, lie * The subject of one of Martials epigrams is Fc.e- min~ in Amphitheatro corn leone certamen. t Satire V., Giffords translation. The whole satire is devoted to the monster turbot. It is said of one of the epicures intoduced, ror a fish that weighed Six pounds, six thousand sesterces he paid. The fish was a red mullet, which seldom exceeds two pounds in weight. Six thousand sesterces was about ~ol~ A mullet weighing four pounds and a half was brought to Tiberius, who ordered it to be sold by auc- tion. The chief bidders were Octavius and Apicius, and it was knocked down to Octavius for 40?. 4 Reddita Roma sibi est, et snot, te pr~eside, c~sar, Delicize populi, qu~e fuerant domini. LUXURYANCIENT AND MODERN. expatiates on the splendor of the new amphitheatre, declaring that neither the pyramids, nor the palaces of Babylon, nor the temple of Diana, nor the Mauso- leum, could compare with it. It is clear from the Sixth Satire of J uvenal that carving was taught by pro- fessors as an art I boast no artist, tutored in the school Of learned Trypherus, to carve by rule, Where large sow-paps, of elm, and boar, and hare, Getulian oryx, Scythian pheasant, point The nice anatomy of every joint, And dull blunt tools, severing the wooden treat, Clatter around and deafen all the street. My simple lad, whose highest efforts rise To broil a steak, in the plain country guise, Knows no such art. So much the worse for his master. Charles James Fox, in his maccaroni days, took lessons in carving; and prior to the introduction of the present method of service d la Russe, it was an indispen- sable accomplishment to one who did not wish to appear to disadvantage at a din- ner-table. The name of the carving part- ner of a celebrated publishing firm is commemorated by Sydney Smith s pun - Fierurnque secat res (Rees). In Juvenals time, the salary of a good cook was ten times higher than that of a tutor, a man of learning and ability, ~vho, according to Lucian, was deemed well paid with two hundred sesterces a year. The salary of Dionysia, a danseuse, was two hundred thousand. The houses and establishments of the two players in pan- tomime, Bathyllus and Pylades, rivalled those of the richest patricians. There were three Romans named Api- cius, each celebrated for devotion to gas- tronomy. The second, who flourished under Tiberius, was the most famous, and enjoys the credit of having shown both discrimination and industry in the gratification of his appetite; so much so that his name has passed into a synonym for an accomplished epicure. After spend- ing about 8oo,oool. upon his palate, he balanced his books, and finding that he had not much more than 8o,ooo/. left, hanged himself to avoid living upon such a plttance.* Lempriere s version is that he made a mistake in casting up his books, and hanged himself under a false impression of insolvency. A noted bet- ting man, named Smith, made a similar * Dictionary of Greek and Ron~n Biography and Mythology, edited by Dr. W. Smith. mistake in casting up his book for the Derby, and flung himself into the sea. He was fished out, discovered the mis- take, and ever since went by the name of Neptune Smith. Apicius unluckily had no kind friend to cut him down. The outrageous absurdities of Elaga- balus equalled or surpassed those of Cali- gula and Nero. He fed the officers of his palace with the brains of pheasants and thrushes, the eggs df partridges, and the heads of parrots. Amongst the dishes served at his own table ~vere peas mashed with grains of gold, beans fricasseed with morsels of amber, and rice mixed with pearls. His meals were frequently com- posed of twenty-two services. Turning roofs threw flowers with such profusion on the guests that they were nearly smpth- ered. At the seaside he never ate fish, but when far inland he caused the roe of the rarest to be distributed amongst his suite. He was the first Roman who ever wore a complete dress of silk. His shoes glittered with rubies and emeralds, and his chariots were of gold inlaid with precious stones. With the view to a be- coming suicide, he had prepared cords of purple silk, poisons enclosed in emeralds, and richly set daggers ; but either his courage failed when the moment arrived for choosing between these elegant in- struments of death, or no time was left him for the choice. lie ~vas killed in an insurrection of the soldiery in the eigh- teenth year of his age, after a reio-n of nearly four years, during which the Ro- man people had endured the insane and degrading tyranny of a boy. The transfer of the seat of empire to Constantinople changed and adva%ed luxury, without, in a moral or artistic point of vie~v, improving it. Nowhere were sexual pleasures more studiously cultivated or ardently pursued, and they were enhanced by the introduction of an element which checked grossness if it did not restrain vice. Women began to take the lead in a manner that had never been witnessed in Rome; and conspicuous amongst them were actresses married to senators or high functionaries, who were content to forget.that their wives fortunes had been drawn from other sources than the theatre. Nowhere [says M. Baudrillart] have women pushed so far as at Byzantium the researches and the knowing tricks of the toilet. The artificial forms, the deceitful paint, altered more than even at Rome the character of beauty. The sensual Byzantines learned to prefer an em bonpoint sustained by a sedentary life. That 5 i6 LUXURYANCIENT AND MODERN. hair of which they were so vain was but a bor- rowed ornament. The abuse already made by the Roman ladies of false hair became a down- right mania amongst the Byzantines. The yellow hair of the barbarian women was more than ever in request. The same fashion recently prevailed, and is not quite extinct, in the demi-monde of London and Pajis. The Roman satirists wrote more from a wish to give vent to their indignation, display their power, or gain literary fame, than from a sincere desire or rational expectation of effecting a reform. The Christian preachers were actuated by more elevated motives in denouncing the loose lives, with the resulting scandals, of the Byzantine queens of society, who be- came seriously alarmed when John Chrys- ostom, the Bishop of Constantinople, set to work in right earnest to expose and chastise their irregularities. There were well-conducted personages of both sexes who cordially ~vent along ~vith him. The females of Constantinople, says Gibbon, distinguished themselves by their en- mity or attachment to Chrysostom. Three noble and opulent widows, Marsa, Castri- cia, and Eugraphia, were the leaders of the persecution. It was impossible they should forgive a preacher who re- proached their affectation to conceal by the ornaments of dress their age and ugliness. Sir Robert Walpole used to say that he never despaired of making up a quarrel between women unless one of them had called the other old or ugly. The three widows probably resented the sarcasm on their years and looks more than the impu- tation on their morals; but not so the leader of the faction, the young and beau- tiful empress Eudoxia, who was naturally irritated at the presumption of a l)riest in pointing to her from the pulpit and hold- Ing her up as an example of impropriety. The patriarch Theophilus sided with the empress, and the authority of the Church, as in the analogous case of Savonarola, was brought to bear against the reformer, who died in exile after having more than once attained to a degree of influence which caused his fair and frail antagonist to tremble on her throne. It was in the height of his popularity, after the return from his first exile, that he wound up a homily with these words: Herodias is again furious: Herodias again dances: she once more requires the head of John. * * Gibbon. NI. Baudri1l~rt gives a different version, One marked improvement in the public games was effected by Christianity. Ex- hibitions of gladiators and wild beasts were stopl)ed. The circus, much en- larged, grew into the hippodrome, an arena for horse and chariot races; but, far from losing in attractiveness, it became the rage. During several successive reigns Constantinople was one huge Newmarket; it was Derby day all the year round; po- litical and religious differences were sunk in the quarrels of the Blues and the Greens, which assumed at intervals the dimensions of a civil war. On one occa- sion when they came to blows, forty thou- sand spectators were killed, and the steps of the arena ~vere covered with dead bod- ies. Theatrical representations were simultaneously in vogue, but the deprava- tion of the stage is proved by an anecdote of Theodora, afterwards empress, who, if Procopius may be trusted, evaded the law forbidding women to appear in a state of nudity by wearing a narrow girdle or rib- bon round her waist. The authenticity of the anecdote has been disputed, but the existence of the law is not denied and is enough. XVhilst Roman luxury was still in full vigor in the East, it had wellnigh died out in Italy, submerged by the flood of barba- rism. Only scattered traits or recollec- tions of it survived, to be called into life and action at the Renaissance. The rude- ness of the conquering races regarding meals is shown by the manner in which the table of Charlemagne was served. The emperor dined at midday alone. The dukes and princes waited on him, and dined at the same table when he had done; they were succeeded by the counts and high functionaries, who were waited on and replaced by the military suite; and so on through several gradations down to the lowest class of domestics, whose turn seldom arrived before midnight. At the same time Charlemagne encouraged the production of fruit and flowers, as adding to the enjoyments of the people, and was pleased when any special delicacy was presented to him. The Genevese trout are honorably mentioned in the capitula- ries; and it will be remembered that one of these trout, supplied to Cambact5r~s by the municipality of Geneva, was charged three hundred francs in their accounts. The first to transgress the sumptuary laws of Charlemagne were his ~vives (he was nine times married), and his daugh- and the genuineness of the homily in which the words occur is open to doubt. LUXURYANCIENT AND MODERN. 7 ters, who figured at court festivals and in the hunting-field xv ith purple robes or sables, and coronets set with precious stones. The ladies of the Middle Ages unluckily were more distinguished by costly attire than cleanliness, and (coming to a later period) it may be suspected that the Spanish princess who vowed not to change her under-garment till a town xvas taken, and thereby gave her name to a color (coulair fsabeau), did not undergo a very severe penance after all.* The no- blest dames and those most given to dress, says M. Baudrillart, did not wear shifts (chemises) at night except to accomplish a vow. Separate beds were not required for either sex. When the Dukes of Burgundy and Orleans (towards the end of the fifteenth century) made up their quarrel, they slept together in sign of amity. The great bed at Ware was intended for as many as it would hold. The influence of the Renaissance in reviving the vices of luxury, together with the refinement of taste and manners, may be traced in the Florence of the Medici and the Rome of Leo. X.; but it took a long time to reach northern Eu- rope, and in a chapter headed Madness of Luxury, M. Baudrillart takes his ex- amples from France. it was at its xvorst under Charles VI., during whose con- stantly recurring insanity the Queen Isa- bella and her lover, Louis of Orleans (the kings brother), led a life of such shameless extravagance and depravity as to provoke a popular preacher, a monk, to describe the court as under the rule of Lady Venus, accompanied by her insep- arable attendants, gluttony and debauch- ery, corrupting the morals and enervating the courage of the military. He de- scribed the openings in dress which she had invented for the display of her person, as windows of hell. Etre v~tu sans p6chd, simply provoked ridicule. The king in a lucid interval heard of and sent for the monk; which so alarmed Louis, the paramour, that in the hope of averting censure, he announced his intention to pay his creditors. Eight hundred imme- diately left their names at his hotel, to the astonishment of his steward, who told them that his master had done them only too much honor in accepting their goods and chattels or their services; and the prince, having recovered from his tempo- rary alarm, dismissed them with a profane pleasantry. * The heroine of this exploit w~s a daughter of Philip II. The town, Ostend, was not taken for three years. LIVING AGE. VOL. XXXVII. 1874 The words of a song were embroidered on the sleeve of one of this princes robes with five hundred and sixty~eight pearls. To aid in paying the ransom of King John after AgincoUrt, the Duc de Bourbon, also a prisoner, sold his cotte (overcoat) to a London dealer for fifty-twn hundred crowns of gol~. It was embroi- dered with six hundred pearls, besides sapphires and rubies. Articles of dress descended as heirlooms. Robert Sorbon reproached Joinville, before the monarch and more than three hundred knights, with being better dressed than the king: Master Robert, he replied, I am not to blame, saving you and the kings honor, for the garment I wear, such as you see it, was left me by my father and mother, and was not made by my order. The English of the Middle Ages, as of more recent days, took most of their fashions from the French, such as the pointed boots or shoes two feet long, and the dresses with sides of contrasted col- ors, as a pair of pantaloons with one leg blue and the other red. M. Baudrillart, treating Henry VIII. more as an imitator than a rival, terms him a French Francis I. Between them they managed to make a display on the Field of the Cloth of Gold which was more distinguished by costliness than taste. At the ~eflts sou~ers of Choisy were first introduced those admirable pieces of mechanism, afterward carried to perfec- tion by Loriot, the co;~fidante and the ser- vante a table and a sideboard which descended and rose again covered with viands and wines.* These contrivances were merely improved revivals. Describ- ing a baronial supper of the Middle Ages after a contemporary authority, M. Bau- drillart states that the board is strewn with roses; and by an artifice equally renewed from Roman usages, dishes and even a table completely served are some- times seen to descend through an openin~ in the ceiling. When the dishes had been let down, the opening closed, after letting fall a shower of scents and sweet- meats. Lifts and slides were also in use. lt was the pleasure of a wealthy citizen of Paris, Jacques Duchi6, to dine in a room at the top of his hotel, com- manding a view of the city, and the wines and dishes were raised by pulleys. Foun- Lains were common on the tables of the great. Philip le Bel had one in which the wine flowed from the mouths of leop * Rogerss Poems, oct. ed., p. 43~, note. Choisy was a chltean in which Louis XV. occasionally resided with Madame de Pompadour. LUXURYANCIENT AND MODERN. ards and lions into a basin amongst swans Grecian temple, it is superior in grandeur and sirens. In strange contrast to this and sublimity, in all that especially ad- luxury, the place of carpets was long sup- dresses itself to the imagination and the plied by straw. Philip Augustus ordered heart. But we are speaking not of pure that, whenever he left Paris, the straw art, but luxury; and the Escorial, with its which had been used in his chamber gloomy vastness, cannot be passed over should be given to the H6tel Dieu. In in a review of the structures on which the r373, the inhabitants of Aubervilliers greatest amount of treasure has been ~vere relieved from the burthen of sup- spent without reference to any useful pur- plying horses and carriages for the royal pose or reasonable end. Spanish writers progresses, on condition of their supply- have termed it the eighth wonder of the ing annually forty cartloads of straw for world. It was erected by Philip II. in the kings palace, twenty for the queens, performance of a vow, and was meant to and ten for the dauphins. The feudal serve the threefold purpose of a palace, a baron and the ch~telaine might have monastery, and a mausoleum or tomb. chairs, which were rare and regarded as It was dedicated to St. Lawrence, and seats of honor like the fazeteull, but the built in the form of the gridiron on which household and ordinary guests were the saint was broiled. According to the seated on benches and stools. It was computation of Los Santos, accepted as only, we fancy, on pressing occasions that an authority by Prescott, it would take the knights four days to go through all the rooms, the Carved at the meal distance to be covered being one hundred With gloves of steel, and twenty miles. He states that there And drank the red wine through the helmet are no less than twelve thousand doors barrd; and windows in the building: that the weight of the keys amounted to twelve but they ate with their fingers out of the hundred and fifty pounds: and that there dish. As there were no forks in those were sixty-eight fountains in the halls or days, says Scott, describing Friar Tuck courts. The cost was six millions of responding to the invitation of the Black ducats. Knight, his clutches were instantly in The founder of the Escorial was in- the bowels of the pasty. Cedric the fluenced by a religious motive, if a bigoted Saxon incurs the ridicule of the Normans one. The founder of Versailles thought at Prince Johns banquet because he of nothing but his own personal gratifica- dried his hands with a towel instead of tion. He would not hear of completing suffering the moisture to exhale by way- the Louvre, which Colbert pressed upon ing ~them grace fully in the air. When him. He wanted something that should carving was required, it was done with date from him, and be exclusively asso- the dagger. From an inventory of 1297 ciated with his name; something that it appears that Edward I. possessed only should stand out in solitary grandeur one fork. In 1328, Queen Clemence of apart from the capital, which did not Hungary had thirty spoons and one fork. afford breathing-room for the monarch The fork, till long after its introduction, whose emblem was the sun, and his de- was only used to eat fruit or confectionery. vice, LEtat, ces/ izzol. The site was A Duke of Burgundy had one of crystal the worst he could have chosen: and its with a gold handle to eat strawberries, disadvantages, from the nature of the soil Coryat, in his Crudities Gobbled Up, and want of water, could only be over- writing in the reign of James I., says, that come by enormous sacrifices of men and he was called Furcifer by his friends money. Hundreds of workmen, poisoned from his using those Italian neatnesses, by the exhalations, were carried away and namely, forks. replaced at night. Of the twenty thou- Whatever modern Europe may have sand soldiers and six thousand cavalry or owed at the revival to classical antiquity, artillery horses employed, very few were amongst creations exclusively her own found fit for service when they were re- must be named chivalry and Gothic archi- quired for the war. A river, the Eure, tecture, cathedrals and tournaments. A was turned to supply the fountains and tournament at the French or English cascades. Voltaire computes the cost at court, where princes and nobles contended five hundred millions of livres; Mirabeau, for the smiles of highborn beauty, was a at twelve hundred millions; J. B. Say, at finer spectacle than a combat of gladia- nine hundred millions; M. Henri Martin, tors; and if a Gothic cathedral is inferior making allowance for the altered value of in grace and hartnony~of proportion to a money, sets down the cost of Versailles LUXURY ANCIENT AND MODERN. with its dependencies at four hundred mil- lions of francs, or sixteen millions sterling. Both M. Baudrillart and M. Henri Martin seem to think that the nation has got value for its money, that Versailles is a monu- ment of which they have reason to feel proud. History lives in this palace, in these gardens, it gives life even to this my- thology as a perpetual symbol. After all, is it not France which here shows herself to us brilliant, honored, powerful? Con- sidering the year the huge pile was com- pleted, just after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, we should say that it is rather overtaxed, persecuted, impover- ished, depopulated France, that is recalled and represented by Versailles. When Madame de Maintenon asked the grand monarque for money for the poor, he replied: A king gives alms by spending a great deal ( C/n rol fait iau;ndne en d6~ensa;iz beazecoup ). If this was charity, the financiers of his time were eminently charitable. Bretonville, a farmer receiver-general, had an hotel so splendidly furnished that it was an object of curiosity to strangers. His income was computed at 120,000?. a year. Fou- quets country house at Vaux was a fore- shadowing of Versailles. He spent nine millions of livres (Colbert said eighteen) upon it, and razed three villaoes to the ground to round off the domain. The lead used for the pipes to supply the fountains and the images was sold by a subsequent proprietor, for half a million of livres. The banquet to the king and court at this place cost one hundred and twenty thousand livres. The service, comprising thirty-six dozen plates, was of gold. The imprudence of the display amounted to fatuity; and, not content with rivalling his young sovereign in magnificence, he presumed to rival him in love. An object that fixed the royal gaze in going over the chateau was a miniature of Mademoi& elle La Valli~re. The arrest of Fouquet ~vas a foregone conclusion before the entertainment be- gan; and when his accounts were exam- ined, they showed that his personal ex- penses had annually amounted to many millions of livres, without reckoning do- nations to lords and ladies about the court. It was the policy of Louis XIV. to encourage extravagance. The best mode of pleasing him, says St. Simon, was to go in for it in dress, in table, in equipage, in play. He thereby little by little reduced everybody t~ depend upon him for subsistence. The princes and 9 nobles fell into the trap. When Cond~ gave the grand entertainment at Chan- tilly, immortalized by the death of Vatel, his debts amounted to eight millions of livres, including a tailors bill for three hundred thousand. This entertainment cost one hundred and eighty thousand livres: there is ~in item of three thousand crowns for jonquils. The rage for play required no encour- agement. It was as high as it could well be during the kings minority, when we are told of Hervaert, Mazarins banker, losing one hundred thousand crowns at a sitting. It was the proper thing to pay in louis dor. Rohan, not having enough to make up a sum, offered two hundred pistoles to the young king, who refused to receive them. Since your Majesty will have none of them, exclaimed Ro- han, they are good for nothing; and he threw the whole of them out of win- dow. Farther on in the reign le jeu de la Montespan became proverbial. The favorite was known to win or lose more than seventy thousand crowns in a night; and the king as well as the lady grew angry when her stakes were so higWthat the courtiers refused to close with them. Continue, was the kings order to Col- bert, to do whatever Madame de Mon- tespan wishes. On her wishing for a chateau at the gate of Versailles, he bought for her the ancient mansion of Clagny, which at the first glance she de- clared fit only for an opera girl, and or- dered it to be pulled down. Another property was added to it: a chateau, witl~ pleasure-grounds to correspond, was con- structed; and she was finally lodged to her liking for the exact s~uni of 2,861,728 livres, 7 sons, 8 deniers. The great lords and ladies cheated, and made a joke of it. The Duchess de la Fert6 invited her tradespeople to supper. ranged them round a table and played a kind of lansquenet with them. She whis- pered aside to Mlle. Delaunay (Madame de Staal: I cheat them, but only out of what they rob me of. No one, says St. Simon, was more to the kings likin~ than the Duke de C, or had usurped more authority in the world. He was very sl)lendid in all, a great g~mester, and not piquing himself on a very exact loyalty. The female gamesters admitted to Madame de Maintenons evening re- ceptions, finding it impossible to break through a confirmed habit, endeavored to reconcile their cheating with their scru- ples. They came to an understanding that ~vhat was unfairly won should be paid 20 LUXURYANCIENT AND MODERN. back. It may be shrewdly suspected that the example of Sapphira occasionally suggested itself. Digressing to the Spain of the seven- teenth century, M Baudrillart hits it off in a sentence or two. Two words des- ignate it, money and misery: pomp and meanness are united at every turn. As one instance amongst many, he cites the passion for fine linen. But it was par- ticularly dear and rare, and a Spaniard, who might have had six shirts rather coarse, liked to have one very fine and remain in bed whilst it was ~vashed, or dress ~vithout a shirt at all. Gold and silver plate was accumulated till it was useless except for show. The Duke of Albuquerque, besides some twenty thou- sand dishes and plates, had forty ladders of silver; and there ~vas another grandee who had a staircase of silver. Some of them kept open tables, like the Duc dOs- suna, the wealthiest Spanish grandee of our time, but their hospitality had no temptation for foreigners unused to their cuisine. The Duke de Grammont relates that the marshal (Grammont) dined with the admiral of Castille, who gave a su- perb banquet in the Spanish manner, that is to say unwholesome and uneatable. I saw seven hundred dishes served, all with the admirals arms. Everything in them was saifroned and peppered: then I saw them carried away as they came in, and the dinner lasted four hours The es- sential ingredient of Spanish dishes was and is garlic. The pride or vanity of the grandees was to have fine horses. The Duke de Medina de Ia Torres gave twen- ty-five thousand crowns for one of the Andalusian breed. Their carriages were costly, t)ut they were harnessed with ropes tr?s-vilail/s, and the streets of Madrid were in such a state that an ambassadors coach which cost twelve thousand crowns sank in the mud during a procession, to the utter ruin of the velvet and embroid- ery. The royal family and a privileged few had sumptuous litters drawn by mules shod with silver. In that year (1679) says Lord Ma- caulay, our tongue was enriched by two words. Mob and Sham, remarkable me- morials of a season of tumult and impos- ture. M. H. Martin states that the French tonwue was enriched by the term ;niiiionnaire about 1718 or 1719, the years of Laws bubble and M. Baudrillart says that about the same time sfJcide;-, till then a term in metaphysics, was used to express speculatin~on a rise or fall in the stocks, People used to speak of the system of Descartes. They now speak of the system of Law. The words do but translate the displacement of ideas. The human imagination looked ZI~. It no~v looks round, often down- Whilst the bubble lasted, thousands believed them- selves possessed of fabulous wealth, and were in such a hurry to enjoy it that the shops of the jewellers and the upholsterers wei-e welloigh cleared of their contents: the streets were almost impassable from the number of carriages started by the millionnaires, and the supply of meat, fish and game, was insufficient for the demands of the capital. At the house of a Madame de Chaumont, the consumption of meat alone amounted to an ox, six calves, and six sheep a day. A painter paid or got credit for more than four mil- lions of livres for plate and jewellery. He took and furnished one of the finest houses in Paris. He had ninety domestics in his service: he gave one hundred pistoles a pound for new peas, and he circulated the finest wines in movable fountains shaped like figures, which poured forth a spark- ling torrent on the touching of a spring. The coachman passes from the box to the interior of the carriage. The cook is transformed into an Amphitryon, a Lu- cullus. A flower-girl gives dinners more sumptuous than Madame de Prie, or Ma- dame Law. Some of these were so devoid of imagination as to warm ragouts with banknotes, to be able to say they had spent so much upon a dish. The highest class joined in the scramble with the low- est. The Duc de Bourbon, who was showing his portfolio full of actions to M. de Turmenies, provoked and invited the rebuke: For shame, Monseigneu r, your ancestors could only boast of five or six actions, but they were ~vorth more than all yours put together. * The regent and his daughter, the Duch- ess of Berry, had no notion of propriety or self-restraint. They systematically set common decency at defiance. Their sup- pers are correctly described as genuine scenes of Roman debauchery, prolonged to morning, by the light of flambeaux, which seemed to turn the Palais Royal, inaccessible and impenetrable, into a Capri in the midst of Paris. But the regent ~vas a man of sense as well as a man of pleasure, and, although he in- dulged his passions without scruple, he * There was a current story of a celebrated French financier of our time asking his son the difference be- tween a b,aee and a mauvaise ac/ion; who replied that a boone c/ion was a - hare in a profitable affair and a rnaurioise in an unprofitable one. LUXURYANCIENT AND MODERN. 21 took measures for checking the waste of public money, and his consent to the pur- chase of the famous diamond was obtained with difficulty on the plea, urged by St. Simon, that it was for the honor of the crown. Louis XV. had no such scruples, and his prodigality led straight to the financial embarrassments which brought about the Revolution. The expenses of the royal household, exclusive of salaries, are computed at rather more than thirty- two millions of livres, but his dearest lux. ury was Madame de Pompadour, and it would be difficult to over-estimate the cost of this lady to the State, if we take into the account the abuses she sanctioned and the disasters she caused. It appears from the book she kept that during nine- teen years of favor she spent 36,327,268 livres, to which must be added the pres- ents and the bribes. What, exclaims Diderot, remains of this woman who ex- hausted us of men and money, and left us without honor and without energy, after upsetting the system of Europe? The Treaty of Versailles, which will last as long as it can ; the Amour of Bouchar- don, which will be always admired; some stones engraved by Guay, which will as- tonish the antiquaries of the future; a good little picture that will be looked at occasionally; and a handful of ashes ! At all events she left something indica- tive of a taste for art, which is more than can be said for her successors in the same line: there is no redeeming trait about the Do Barry; and even the profligacies of the regent were surpassed by the estab- lishment of the Parc aux Ceifs. Louis XVI. had no expensive taste ex- cept the chase, and he is only so far an- swerable for the state of affairs under him, that he bore with it and permitted it to get rapidly worse. The royal house- hold (maison du rol) grew into an army, and an army living by plunder. It com- prised more than four thousand persons, without reckoning the household troops. What disorder and what robbery! Ex- plain if you can, how Mesdames (the sisters) could burn two hundred fifteen thousand and sixty eight livres worth of wax candles, and Madame Elizabeth con- sume seventy thousand of meat, thirty thousand of fish: how the coffee, choco- late, and refreshments of the king came to two hundred thousand livres a year. The table is set down at 2,177,774 livres; the chase at twelve hundred thousand; the liveries of the huntsmen and grooms at five hundred and fo~y thousand. ln 1778, four years after his accession, the king owed nearly eight hundred thousand livres to his wine-merchant, nearly three millions and a half to his purveyors. There was a faint chance of retrenchment if Turgots administration had been pro- longed, but after his dismissal, mainly through the young queens impatience of restraint, things were permitted to run their course till arrested by the crash. Her love of pleasure was insatiable: hardly a day or a night passed without an entertainment of some sort, and the fash- ions she set were so expensive that (as we learn from Madame Campan) her la- dies ran into debt, the husbands cried out, and grave conjugal differences en- sued. Matters were not much mended when, for the novelty of th~ sensation, she played the country girl in a white muslin frock and a straw hat. In one of her rural entertainments at the Petit Trianon, the park represented a fair, the ladies of the court kept the stalls or booths, and the queen a caf~. The fete cost four hundred thousand livres, and was renewed on a more expensive scale at Choisy. She lavished large sums on her favorites. Mercy undertook to prove that the Princess de Lamballe cost her one hundred thousand crowns a year. High play was another of the queens fatal weaknesses. To get people to play her stakes, she ~vas obliged to give over being select in her society ; and the Comte de Dillon had his pocket picked of banknotes to the amount of five hundred louis in her salon. The revival, under the Directory, of the luxury which had been crushed by the Revolution, is regarded by Mignet as a natural and inevitable reaction. The reign of the sans-culottes brought back the domination of the rich : the democratic clubs the return of the salon. What characterizes the Directory, says M. Baudrillart, was the Roman or Greek dress of the merveilleuses. The years 1796 and 1797 saw them display their arms and bosoms, their sandals (without stockings) fastened with ribbons, their tunics without chemise or petticoat, the costume ei Za sauvage. They wore gold rings above and below the knee, and dia- mond rings on their toes. Fresh clouds obscure the horizon, and then the Consulate rises, and the Empire culminates with a splendor rivalling the palmy days of the monarchy. The great Napoleon assumed state and encouraged luxury from calculation : his nephew both from policy and taste. Napoleon Ill. was fond of pomp and show, besides be- 22 LUXURYANCIENT AND MODERN. ing a confirmed sensualist; and he de- rived a personal enjoyment from his entertainments. They were on a magnifi- cent scale; but the only marked or lasting influence of the imperial court, as regards fashion or manners, was on female dress. The invitations to Compi~gne and Fon- tainebleau were commonly for eight days; and a lady was expected to change her dress three or four times a day, and never to wear the same dress twice. The out- fit for the visit was computed at not less than twelve thousand francs. We have heard a Frenchwoman of the imperial circle complain that she could not dress for less than 1,000/. a year. A milliners bill, on which an action was brought, amounted to 15,000/. for three years, and the fair defendant paid 12,000/. into court. The case was rel)orted in the Gazette des Tribzinaur. This spirit of extravagance proved catching, and extended to En- gland, where traces of it are still discerni- ble. It is not uncommon for a lady at a country house to come down in a morning dress, change it for lawn-tennis or a walk, put on a ;ie~giig1 trimmed with lace for the afternoon tea, and then dress for dinner or a ball.. The only parallel in the male sex must be sought amongst the Jezulesse done who indulge in fancy costumes for the smoking-room. Male dress errs on the side of negligence. The cut of a coat, the tie of a neckeloth, or the pattern of a waistcoat, is no longer a title to fame, and a Brummel or a DOrsay would be a so- cial anomaly or impossibility. No inde- fensible fashion has taken so complete a hold on women of all classes as the fash- ion for false hair. Seventy-five tons of hair from the East paid dut/at Marseilles alone in 1875, and M. Baudrillart com- putes that double that quantity is annu- ally worked up in France. The exports, l)rincipally to England and the United States, are estimated at 75,ooo/. Private luxury under the Second Em- pire found a princely representative in a financier. A journalist waited on the late Baron James de Rothschild to request permission to go over his establishment and take notes. Leave was given, but when the notes had been completed, the baron forbade the publication. The jour- nalist, coolly saying that the prohibition came too late, did publish them. They show that there were separate deparf- ments for soups, sauces, roasting, frying, vegetables, sweets, etc. etc., and that sev- enty-two persons were employed in the kitchens and the cellar. The famous Car~me was for many~years the chef. The fete ~iven by the baron at his chA~ teau of La Ferri~re to the emperor was above all remarkable for the quantity of game provided for the bat/aes; at one of which, so ran the story, a parrot, disguised as a partridge, fell to the imperial gun crying: Vive /em~ereur/ Was it a witticism, a cynicism, or a real mistake of gender in the Amphitrvon when, thanking his imperial guest for the honor done his poor house by the acceptance of his hos- pitality, he said: Jen garderai toujours le m6moire? The French ezzisine has produced no great artist, no Beauvillers or Car6me, for many years, and its most notable profes- soi- has been a Swiss, Lorenzo Delmonico, settled at New York. He died on the 3rd of September last, and from the biograph- ical notice in the Times we learn that, amongst the magnificent repasts served at his establishment, three ~vere pre-emi- nent: the famous Morton-Peto banquet, at which were laid one hundred plates at two hundred and fifty dollars a plate; the Robert L. Cutting dinner; and the Grand Swan dinner, so called because at the centre of the table was a miniature lake in which swans were swimming. - . . For five thousand dollars Delmonico could make fifty people gastronomically com- fortable. It may be admitted that, in cookery and dress, France has given the law to Eu- rope, but ~hen M. Baudrillart claims uni- versal supremacy in matters of taste, manners, and habits for his countrymen, he may be reminded that they have had their occasional fits of Anglomania, dur- ing one of which a French king sharply asked a prince of the blood just returned from England what he had gone to learn there : A penser, replied the l)rince Des chevaux (panser), was the retort. Neither did other nations wait for the French to teach them how to spend money. Vienna, for example, had pleas- ant and immoral ways of its own. Maria Theresa rivalled her daughter Marie An- toinette in her fondness for dissipation, and was not restrained by her spouse. Their court festivities cost six millions of forms a year. Coming to details, M. Baudrilla5 says that the annual consump- tion of wood was twelve thousand cords, and that there were two thousand horses in their stables. As for play, the beauti. ful mistress of the emperor, the Princess Auesperg-Neipper~ lost twelve thousand at a sitting. The seat of Austrian splendor and mu- nificence is the chAteau. There is noth LUXURYANCIENT AND MODERN. 23 ing in England or France to compare with the grand chasse of a Bohemian or Hungarian magnate, an Esterhazy or a Schwarzenberg; nor will there be, till Chantilly is restored. The hero in Pel- ham argues that it is creditable to be arrested, because it shows that one has once had credit. Reasoning somewhat in the same manner, M. Baudrillart names as a sign of more than royal opulence, the fact that Prince Nicholas Esterhazy, who died about 1835, owed forty-five mil- lions of francs. It ~vas this prince who, when Mr. Coke of Norfolk, pointing to a flock of two or three thousand sheep, asked him if he had as many, replied, that he did not know how many sheep he had, but he believed he had two or three thousand shepherds. An English sports- man, who had accidentally shot one of the Hungarian beaters, was told that it did not signify, but the price of a serf was 30/. This was the true grand seigneur mode of treating such occurrences. When the emperor ~vas of the party, the grand huntsman, standing just behind, specified the game as it fell. On one occasion the announcements, without the change of a muscle or a tone, ran thus: Hare, your Majesty. Pheasant, your Majesty. Lord High Chamberlain, your Majesty. English luxury has been always of a fluctuating character. Thus, a sudden fit of extravagance followed close on the peace of 1763. Alluding to the sobering effect of the American war, Miss Berry says: No more was heard of fetes chain- p~tres costing i~,oool.; no more of kitch- en gardens, whose yearly expense was 6,oool. no more of bills with tailors for thousands; no more of sums so great, and property so considerable, depending on the cast of a die, that the gainer dared not profit by more than half of his good luck.* The habits of country life re- tained their plainness. No man intend- ing to stand for his county, or desirous of being popular in it, would have permitted his table to be served with three-pronged forks, or his ale to be presented but in a tankard, to which every mouth was to be successively applied. Sofas conveyed ideas of impropriety, and baths, and every extra attention to cleanliness. and purity of person, were habits by no means supposed to refer to superior purity of mind or manners. The designation of * Comparative View of the Social Condition of En- gland and France. In 1777 Lord lichester lost 53,0001. at a sitting to Lord Carlisle, who offered to take 3,oool. down. There was a balance at one time in favor of one of the players of ~o,oool. Silver-fork School , given to a school of novelists who affected superior gen- tility some fifty or sixty years since, im- plies that the use of the three-pronged fork was only then becoming general; and the introduction of the tub, which consti- tutes an epoch in the domestic economy of England, cannot be dated more than twenty-five or thirty years back. Billy Butler, the sporting parson of Dorset, used to say that he remembered three generations of parsons: the first dined at one and drank ale: the second at three and occasionally drank port: the third at seven and regularly drank claret. A similar change of habits might be traced in other classes, especially in what may be called the upper middle class. There is an increase in the consumption of French wines, partly owing to their cheapness; and there is a cori-esponding decrease in drunkenness. There is also a growing spirit of moderation, the off- spring of good sense, opposed to excess of any kind. We still hear of f6tes costing thousands, of dinners at five guineas a head, of two or three thousand pounds spent on flowers for a ball, but so long as the expenditure has a definite object, so long as it gratifies a refined taste or con- duces to enjoyment, we see no reason to complain. There are writers, however, who con- tend with Louis XIV. that the more money spent in any ~vay the better, under an impression that it gives employment and promotes trade; as there are others who would fain enforce a Quaker-like simplicity in all things. The writer who has gone farthest in praise of extrava- gance is Mandeville, in his once cele- brated work, The Fable of the Bees: or Private Vices, Public Benefits, first pub- lished in 1714. It is a poem with a prose accompaniment in the shape of remarks. The plot of the poem is simple enough: A spacious hive well stockd with bees, That lived in luxury and ease. These insects lived like men and all Our actions they performed in small. The tradesmen were all cheats, the lawyers rogues, the physicians quacks, the clergy hypocrites, the judges corrupt: Thus every part was full of vice, Yet the whole mass a paradise; Flattered in peace and feared in wars They were th esteem of foreigners. The root of evil, avarice, That damnd ill-natured baneful vice, 24 LUXURYANCIENT AND MODERN. Was slave to prodigality, That noble sin; whilst luxury Employd a million of the poor, And odious pride a million more. The commonwealth was in the height of prosperity, when some grumblers cried out: Good Gods, had we but honesty! Mercury smiled; but Jove, in anger moved, t~t last in anger swore, hed rid The bawling hive of fraud, and did. The very moment it departs And honesty fills all their hearts. From that moment the commonwealth declines, and sinks apace into poverty, ruin, and insignificance. The tradesmen are without purchasers, the lawyers ~vith- out clients, the physicians without pa- tients, and the clergy and judges are no longer wanted. The book made a great noise. It has been presented, says the author, by the grand jury. It has been preached against before my Lord Mayor, and an utter refu- tation of it is daily expected from a rev- erend divine who has called me names in the advertisements and threatened to an- swer me in two months time for above five months together. The reverend divine might have spared himself the trouble, for the refutation is contained in the homely adage, Honesty is the best policy. Surely trades and professions may thrive without fraud; and munifi- cence may exist without the noble sin j)rodigality. The cause of luxury is more plausibly advocated by Voltaire in Le illondain. Ainsi lon voit en Angleterre, en France, Par cent canaux circule labondance, Le gofit do luxe entre dans tous les rangs, Le pauvre y vit des vanit~s des grands, Et le travail, gagd par Ia mollesse, Souvre, ~ pas tents, la route ~ la richesse. The article Luxe in his Philosophi- cal Dictionary begins: In a country where everybody went barefooted, was the first man who xvore a pair of shoes luxurious? Was he not a sensible and industrious fellow? May not the same be said of him who had the first shirt? As for him who had it washed and ironed, I believe him to be a genius full of re- sources and capable of governing a State. Yet those who were not accustomed to wear clean shirts, treated him as an ef- feminate aristocrat who corrupted the natiOn. The intended inference is met by M. Emile de Lavelaye, who defines luxury to be that which ~lestroys the l)rOd- uct of many days of labor without bring- ing any reasonable satisfaction. That queen of the ball is destroyin, in the whirls of the waltz a flotince of lace worth ten thousand francs: there goes the equivalent of fifty thousand hours of toil destructive of eyesight; and what advantage has been drawn from it? * But before condemning the queen of the ball, let us see to how many others the censure ~vould apply. It has been computed that gold and silver to the value of two and one-half millions of pounds is annually consumed in France for plate and ornaments, mostly of the tinsel sort that are displayed in the shops of the Palais Royal; and more than a million of gold for similar purposes in Birmingham. A deputation of ribbon-weavers, who came up from Coventi-y full of the dignity of labor and the importance of the work- ing man, were suddenly taken aback by being reminded that the world could d& very well without ribbons. If the thing is useless except as an ornament, the cost matters nothing to the argument, and the beauty with her lace belongs to the same category as the servant-girl with her rib- bon or the shop-boy with his chain. She has, moreover, this advantage: sh ehas indirectly contributed to the production of a delicate work of art, and all enlight- ened utilitarians will allow that whatever gives pleasure to a cultivated taste falls fairly within the domain of utility. If we give up lace, we must give up diamonds and pearls, S~vres china, Venetian glass, and the choicest specimens of goldsmiths work, the masterpieces of Benvenuto Cel- lini. It is only a step further to statues and pictures, and the bare suggesti onis enouo-h to alarm M. Baudrillart for his countrymen. Deprive this French race of these inutili- ties,deprive it of silk to he replaced hy cot. ton, take away the statues, the pictures, the marbles, the bronzes, the velvets, the trinkets, those thousand objects of every kind, woven, spun, plaited, embroidered by fairy fingers and you take from it its employment, its rev. enue, its power, its instruction, the better part of itself. If, he might have added, we are to keep to the solid and material; if the fancy, the sense of beauty, grace, and elegance, are never to be addressed, the higher fac- ulties will grow torpid from disuse, the mind will dwindle and degenerate, and intellectual progress wHl be arrested or flung back. -Race without wants, race without ideas. The rival systems are * Revue des Deux A/ondes for Nov. i, i88o. THE FRERES. 25 well represented by Athens and Sparta. Who thinks of Sparta when we speak of Greece? What has Sparta done for the world, and what would the world be with- out what it owes to Athens? A thing of beauty is a joy forever, and the cre- ations of the age of Pericles are a last- ing boon of inestimable value to man- kind. A French economist cites the saying of an emperor: If one of my subjects does not work, there is in my states some one who suffers from hunger and cold. Sup- pose, says Franklin, a hundred thou- sand French hairdressers suddenly giv- ing up their unproductive labor to clear a hundred acres each. If the land were worth clearing, it would be better cleared by the regular agriculturists; and the evil is not the deficiency but the unequal dis- tribution of food. If all mankind ~vere employed in producing necessaries, a large part of the product would be super- fluities. Capital has been defined as hoarded industry: and Adam Smith de- scribes a man who accumulates it as a public benefactor; but how many would accumulate without the hope or chance of future enjoyment, without the stimulant that luxury supplies? The truth lies be- tween the two extremes, and Mandeville is so far right, that selfishness and vanity contribute in their several ways to the production and circulation of wealth. These qualities are too deeply rooted in human nature to be eradicated, and we must take the evil with the good. But, comparing the present with the past, we cannot allow that /Etas parentum, pejor avis, tulit Nos nequiores. Indeed we are prepared to go farther than Montalembert in his spirited defence of contemporary France, and instead of saying with him that we are not worse, boldly declare that we are better than our forefath ers. From Temple Bar. THE FRERES. BY MRS. ALEXANDER, AUTHOR OF THE WOOING OT. CHAPTER XXXV. IT was the day after this interview. Randal had gone, at Jimmys request, to call upon him at the offic~ in order to carry out some of the financial arrange- ments respecting which Grace was so anxious; and she was busy with some needlework of a homely description, when Maurice Balfour came in, with all the easy familiarity of an izabi/ud, and seated himself opposite her. So you can do needlework? he said, after the first greetings were exchanged, and he had looked at her silently for an instant. Yes, of course. Did you think me incapable ? Well, not exactly; but you do not olve me the idea of a woman who would sit down and sew seams or cook a din- ner. I should like to know what idea I do give you, Maurice. I think nature intended you for a grande dame. But as nature and fortune do not agree in my case, I must do the best I can. I am very fond of needlework. It always soothes me, provided I am not obliged to do too much. Now I am busy preparing my best bibs and tuckers, be- cause I am going to stay with Lady Elton the day after to-morrow for a week, and then I hope to get away back to my mother. Oh, you are going to Lady Elton? rel)eated Balfour, leaning his arms on the table and frowning slightly. That is a confounded bore. We shall see nothing of you. Are you sorry? asked Grace, looking up with a brief arch smile. But you can come and see me. Lady Elton is very fond of you. She thinks you clever and original, and I know not what all. I rather fancy Lady Elton is one of the warm~hearted women who credit those they like with every virtue and excellence. Eh, Grace ? Yes; I am sure she does. Still, however kind she may be to me, I cannot go in and out of her house as I can here. No; not exactly. Nor can I walk with you every day. But if you come to Zittau, we shall have nice long walks and perhaps a ride. Oh! Maurice, would it not be perfectly delicious to ride together again? Perfectly delicious, repeated Balfour, in a low tone, as if to himself. Do you remember Mab at all ? asked Grace, not heeding him, as she threaded her needle. Yes; very well. She was a wilful monkey, and not a bit like you. No; Zwas an angel. 26 THE FRERES. Far better, said Balfour, laughing; a very human girl, with a dash of the devil. What happy days they were at Dun- gar! But I do not think I should ever be happy in the same way again. No, he returned thoughtfully; the past never can return, which is another reason for enjoying the present to the utmost. We can never have it again. There was a pause. You cannot imagine, resumed Bal- four presently, how delightful it is to sit here quietly and watch you work, and just talk to you as if you were my sister. It is like a peep into a new world. I have always been rather a lonely chap. Dont say chap, Maurice, said Grace, with laughing eyes. It is hor- rid! Say a lonely man. It is more effective, and gives the idea of a scathed and blighted being. Well, a lonely man, if you like. I have not met many women at least, ladies and life, I begin to think, is very dull without them. I am sure itis. At any rate, I always feel brighter when I have some men friends with me. First I had Randal, and yourself, and Jimmy Byrne, and my uncle the count (you will like him so much) and Herr von Falkenberg. I have always had some one. You see it is a sort of link with the outer world. In short, I wish I had been a man myself. And if you had, what good comrades we should have been eh, Grace? And he looked at her with a peculiar smile lingering in his eyes. Yes, we should. I think I would have been an engineer too, and we would have travelled all over the world. I im- agine I am more energetic than you are. Are you not a little indolent? Perhaps; but I am not aware of it. Ah! That is very likely. You are not ambitious enough. I think loneliness has something to do with that. But I am not without am- bition, Miss Frere. You dont know me quite yet. Better than you think, cried Grace, with a little nod. And I wish Randal was more like you. Oh, how I wish I could do something to earn money! I dont think you need trouble your- self about that, returned Balfour, sud- denly feeling in his breast pocket. By the way, I quite forget togive Randal back these poems of his. And he pulled forth a packe~of manuscript. Grace held out her band with a sigh. What do you think of them? They are not so bad. That is faint praise I am no great judge, but it seems to me that if you have to think twice about the effect of a poem, it is not poetry. Now here, this treats of the scenery of South America. Randal must have read up well for it. It is all correct enough, and yet any one can feel that he never saw the country. He asked me to look through and point out any error. There are none absolutely; but the whole thing is unreal. Why, Maurice, you are quite a critic! Oh, I have read a little during my wanderings. Do you think me very impertinent, Maurice? No! with a good-humored laugh that show-ed his strong, white teeth under the thick moustaches; but I can see you think me an untutored savage. I suppose I am. What can you expect from a pio- neer? But I do nof think so, Maurice. I like you just as you are, without the pretty tricks and turns of drawing-room gentle- men, who always remind me of elegant polished sword-sticks with keen, cold steel inside. A little unconscious sigh, as she ceased speaking, evidently caught Balfours at. tention. He looked at her gravely for an instant, but she was too much occupied with her work to heed him. You will find sharp steel encased in rough bludgeons too, sometimes, he said carelessly. For my own part I admire grace and polish immensely, per- haps the more because I have not seen much. I fancy there is a certain strength in it. There was another pause. Will Randal consider me a bear if I tell him what I really think of his work? because I must, he resumed. He will be horridly mortified, said Grace. But it would be false, utterly false, not to let him know the waste of time it is to scribble what no one will read, or at any rate pay for. You are right, Maurice. I feel that too; only I have not the heart or the courage to say so; and she began to put away her work slowly and thought fully. Still he must be told the truth. It is much more cruel to let him deceive him- self. Grace did not answer immediately; and after looking towards .her,as if he ex THE FRERES. 27 pected her to speak, Balfour rose, walked to the window and back. You are putting away your work, he said, pausing at the table; and it is less cold than yesterday. Come out and take a walk with me; do, Grace. In a few weeks or months I shall be away in the wilds God knows where. So I want to make the most of the present; and some- how or other, it seems to be more natural to make a comrade of you than of Ran- dal. So come along. When I drift away, I may never see you again. Oh, I shall be very glad to take a walk, Maurice, said Grace, looking at him with a smile, and perceiving vaguely what fine, large, imploring eyes he had, when they woke up from their usual sleepy expression of good-humored indifference. I shall not be long, she added, with a little nod as she gathered her belong. ings together, but I must change my dress. Why, you look well-dressed enough! I should not imagine you cared about dress. Yes, but I do. I love dress rich, soft, costly materials, and furs and jewels and lace above all things. I think dress most important. One of the few reasons which keep me from really wish. ing to be a man, is that I could not wear beautiful things even if I could buy them. I am no philosopher, Maurice. She left the room, and Balfour remained in the attitude in which he had last spoken to her. A true womans love of finery, he muttered; and a look of deep thought gathered on his brow, giving a fi xed,al- most stern, expression to his strong fea. tures, very different from their ordinary aspect. Grace found him still standing there when she returned, but he cleared up di- rectl y. Well, he said, smiling, as he looked at her, are you satisfied? for I am. Not ashamed to be seen with me? asked Grace, as she put a list of small commissions she had received from her mother that morning in her pocket. Does it make you cross to do shop- ping? I do not know I never tried. I will try you today then, said she, locking up her letter in a drawer. And they set forth. Oh, the happiness of this frank, uncon- strained intercourse, this brother-and-sis. terly companionship, tinged as it was with a subtle, salt sweetness, w~ich charmed without suggesting danger or pain, or re sult of any kind! What brightness it lent to the most common details of every-day life ! What interest to the talk of past or future! What piquancy to their good- humored chaff! What a rosy hue even to Tottenham Court Road, and the prosaic circumstances of Shoolbreds on a sell- ing off morning! Grace was almost ashamed of herself for feeling so well and happy after her recent grief, and rage, and humiliation. She could not account for it, and wisely did not make the attempt. Meantime Jimmy, seeing his darlin young ladys painful anxiety on the sub- ject, really bestirred himself; and on the ensuing evening brought her word (con- veyed in a whisper while Maurice and Randal were arguing the question of na- tional education), that he thought he would be able to get her between forty and fifty pounds; and sure, that would make matters square for a bit! You are a dear angel, Jimmy! em- phatically. I only wish I could do you any service half as great. Whisht, now! Mr. Balfour will be hearing. So Grace sat down to pour out the tea, with smiling lips and radiant eyes. Look, Jimmy dear, what sweet flowers Maurice has brought me! pointing to a prettily-shaped basket in the centre of the table. She had been tempted to buy it the previous day, and Balfour had brought a plentiful supply of violets and mignonette to fill it. They are mighty pretty! said Jimmy admiringly, as he settled himself to his evening meal, and vied with Maurice in observant attentions to the fair president. Even Randal, who had been much cast down and fractious, like a convalescent child, cheered up a little under his sisters kindly smile and care of his wants. She feared she had been too harsh in her righteous wrath. Heaven alone knows the exact force of each individual tempta- tion. And supper proceeded very mer- rily, when an enormous ringing of the front-door bell arrested every one in their various occupations. Now whats that? said Mr. Byrne, stopping, knife in hand. He had risen to cut a slice of cold roast beef from a piece of sirloin which might have sat for its picture, and which adorned the chiffonier. Can I see Miss Frere? was dis- tinctly heard through the door. 28 THE FRERES. Lady Elton 1 cried Grace, flying to open it. Dear Lady Elton, I am so glad, and so surprised to see you! May I come in? entering, and paus- ing as she crossed the threshold. Mr. Byrne, I hope you will excuse my intrud- ing at this hour. It must be later than I thought. I would not do so, only I want to consult Miss Frere, all of you indeed, about a matter that must be decided on quickly. I am sure I am proud and happy to see your ladyship, said Jimmy, placing a chair for her. Here ! through the door, Sarah Jane, a dane pleet and cup, and look sharp about it. Turning again to his guest: If your ladyship could spare time to taste a cup of tea, for the evenings are raw, and just try a bit of B~chamel turbot (its made after a receipt of my own), or a shaving of beef, with mixed pickles. Id be honored, and so would Mr. Randal, for its a joint concern, as, no doubt, you are aware, my lady, he continued, with genuine warmth. Oh, do, dearest Lady Elton ! cried Grace, putting her arms around her. It would be so delightful to have you to tea regularly to tea! Thank youthank you very much. You look so delightfully cheerful and comfortable, I will gladly join the party, as you are good enouTh to admit me, she returned, in her soft, refined tones. Mr. Balfour, stretching out her hand to him, very happy to see you. You are one of the council of friends, I suppose? Oh yes! quite one of us, returned Grace. Do send away the carriage. I came in a cab, Grace. And you may dismiss it, Randal. I am sorry to see you looking so unwell. I think I bring you a good prescription. Let me take your cloak, said Randal, coloring. Now, my lady, just the least taste of fish to begin with. My dear sir, your taste is a very bountiful one. And drawing off her gloves, Lady Elton, with her usual good-breeding, put every one at ease by making herself pleas- antly at home. No, Grace, she said, smilin~g as she caught sight of that young ladys expres- sion, there is no use in devouring me with your eyes. I am going to enjoy this excellent B~chamel and a cup of tea, before I say a word of my business. Oh, I am not impatient, said Grace. Do you belie~ her, Mr Balfour? Her eyes tell a different tale. Mr. Randal, hand her ladyship th. bread. Mr. Balfour, the cream, if you please. Thats what we call it, my lady, though I am afraid its not much better than sky-blue. What a cosy party! cried Lady El- ton, looking round, and graciously ac- cepting the dainties pressed upon her. Do you all have tea together every even- ing? Nearly every evening, said Grace. Sometimes Maurice Balfour plays tru- ant. Not often, returned that gentleman. How foolish it is after all to heap up costly etceteras! said Lady Elton, partly to herself, as she smilingly declined an additional supply of B& hamel, and even a shaving of cold beef. How pretty your table looks, and how bright you all seem ! But you possess two rare ingre- dients, which are not to be bought youth and unperverted nature. Nothing more, thank you! I have eaten more than I have done for weeks. Then, Miss Grace dear, Ill just ring for the girl to clear away; and then may- be Lady Elton will tell us what it is. Yes, I will, Mr. Byrne. During the operation of clearing away, she kept Maurice Balfour and Randal in political talk, interesting them both with the tact of a practised conver- sationalist; while Grace and Jimmy added small touches of assistance to the girls efforts. When all was in order, Mr. Byrne solemnly placed a blotting-book, pens, ink, and paper in the middle of the table, and seating himself on one of the horsehair chairs, called every ones attention by a loud ahem ! Why, Jimmy, do you think we are going to make our wills? asked Randal. No, sir; but my lady here made use of the word business ; so it is as well to be prepared to make memoranda or take notes. Quite right, Mr. Byrne. Well, to begin at the beginning, I heard some gos- sil) at the picture-dealers where, you know, I went the day before yesterday, Grace, continued Lady Elton, which induced me to go and meet a certain Sir Alexander Atwell, with ~vhom I have a slight acquaintance, at luncheon this morning. I found that he is on the point of starting for the Nile, Nubia, and heav- en knows where. He is a man of some learning and a great deal of fancy, and as a brand-new baronetcy (he is the second baronet) and five, or ten, or twenty thou- THE FRERES. 29 sand a year is not sufficient distinction for him, he wishes to write an ethno- graphical, arch~ologi cal, and geographical account of his travels. For this purpose, he requires the assistance of a ~vell-bred, tolerably well-educated gentleman as secretary; not too sharp and not too learned, lest he might pluck Sir Alexan- ders ears of corn before the rightful own- er was ready to gather them. Ah! exclaimed Grace. H usht! Miss Grace dear, let us hear her ladyship out, said Jimmy. As Sir Alexanderlike most duet- tanti dabblers hates trouble, he is for- tunately averse to making his wants very publicly known. So I ventured to offer a private recommendation. Young man of ability, not too profoundly versed in ety- mology in fact, rather ignorant of its mysteries well-born, connection of my own, with excellent manners, and keen appreciation of genius in others, a nod and smile to Randal, who began to look interested. Sir Alexander lent an at- tentive ear. Would the young gentle- mans expectations be exorbitant? Be- cause, in view of the great intellectual and sanatory advantages offered, Sir Alexander was not disposed to give a high salary. In short, I do not believe he will go.beyond fifty pounds a year. And he proposes to make the engagement distinctly for two years, with a power on either side of dissolving it, should any decided difference arise. Finally, he has agreed to see you, Randal, to-morrow, at one oclock. There is his card, with my name on the back as your credential. I cannot foresee how he will decide; but it is a chance for you, Randal. A chance indeed! cried that young man, his cheeks glowing with reawakened hope. How can I ever thank you enough? To leave England, and travel with a distinguished li/tirateur, as your friend evidently is why, of all the ap- pointments in the world, this is what I should like best. You have made my fortune. No; not your fortune, returned Lady Elton, smiling. You would have had a better chance of making that at Cart- wright and Co.s. Do not mention that detestable shop, exclaimed Randal, with a shudder. It was nearly the death of me. Oh, Lady Elton, wluit a chance! How I do hope this Sir Alexander will like Ran dal! So do I. I suppose 4t is the best thing we can do. But in two years he will be afloat again, said Balfour, breaking the silence in which he had listened to Lady Eltons account. Quite true, my dear Mr. Balfour; but under the circumstances Whx-, Maurice, interrupted Randal, there is no kno~vino what such an al)- pointment may lead to. I may collect materials for a work myself a poem, a novel. I may attract the notice of other literary men I He paused, as if dazed by the brilliant pictures presented by his imagination. I protest, Randal, cried Lady Elton, laughing, I am almost appalled by the effect of my suooestion. Pray remember that everything is very vague; do not allow yourself to feel too sure. Go and see Sir Alexander, and listen attentively. He much prefers telling you about him- self to hearing about you, and you will be able to get a better idea of the situation from his general talk than from any delib- erate explanation. Do not expect your duties, if he agrees to engage with you, to be all delight ; there will be much that is ennuyant. Oh, I shall not mind that, cried Randal. XVeII, I certainly wish you success; and now let us talk of something else. I am afraid of your eager eyes, Grace, when I think ho~v frightfully disappointed you will be if my scheme fails. Dear Lady Elton! murmured Grace, taking her hand. And you are coming to stay with me to-morrow? You must give her to me for a while, Mr. Byrne. Faith, your ladyships house is fitter for her than a poor place like this, said Jimmy, looking with twinkling eyes at his cherished guest; but the place will look bare and lonesome when she is out of it. Ah, Grace! you are a dangerous in- mate, if your departure creates such a heartbreak! said Balfour, smiling mis- chievously. Pooh, nonsense! she returned, in a careless aside. I wish you would take a holiday, and come to see us in Germany, Jimmy dear, she continued. Do you never take a holiday? Well, no. Ye see at first, what with one thing or another, I never had much money to spare, and me fellow-clerks in the office just thought me a quare little Irish chap and not much company, so I was always by myself, and had no one to make a holiday with. Then I got used to ,30 THE FRERES. it; now it would seem out of the way en- progressed towards a fortunate decision. tirely to leave town or the office. So you For such a temporary engagement and may think, maam I mean my lady. small remuneration, the demand was not the pleasure and delight it was for me to so great as Sir Alexander expected; and see the masters daughter and her dear having gone over and over again all the children here in London; that was my requirements he deemed essential, till best holiday. Randals patience was nearly exhausted, Holiday, Jimmy! cried Grace; the great man wrote to Lady Elton that why, we have filled your life with he had decided in favor of her ~roh~J, trouble! and begged that he would hold himself Ah! Miss Grace, dear, isnt it a bless- in readiness to start in a week from the ing to have some one to take trouble for? present date, as the season was already Mr. Byrne, said Lady Elton, your too far advanced. words have conjured up a picture I shall This epistle of course threw Grace not soon forget. into a state of joyous excitement for the first half-hour; and then a reaction set The departure of Grace the following in. Ran dal would require an outfit and day ~vas a bitterer trial than Jimmy how was that to be procured? Byrne, in his utter unselfishness, would What is ~veighing do~vn your brows, have liked to tell his darlin young lady. child? said Lady Elton, as they drove To come home and find her there, always back, after a fruitless attempt to find Ran. kindly, frank, real, and ready with pleas- dal, the afternoon of the same day on ant, filial attentions, was like a taste of which Lady Elton had received Sir Alex- heaven to the tender, generous, delicate ander Atwells ultimatum. spirit which animated Jimmys quaint lit- Oh, many things. All that is to be tIe frame. And so also was the delight of done before I can get back home again. preparing little surprises for her, of wait- And principally how the money is to ing on her, and looking up to her as a be found to start Randal with all he re- being of exalted rank and faultless na- quires eh, Grace? ture. Yes ; I confess it is a little difficult; His d~votion to the house of Dungar but it must be done. reached its highest pitch of exaltation to- Grace, you are stupidly independent. wards her. She was supreme in his eyes. Thirty or forty pounds will do all he XVhereas even loyalty such as his didnot wants, and I beg you will leave it to me. blind him to Randals shortcomings, and I can spare th.e money easily. I have no though he never would have admitted it one but myself to think of now. Do to mortal, that young gentleman tried his listen. Let it be a debt. You shall give patience sorely, me any acknowledgment you like. But, Now that Grace was gone, h~ consoled child, you are overweighted with family himself by muttering, Sure its all for the cares. They will dry up your youth, and best! This is no place for her. God bless cheat you out of its joys. Come, let Ran- her! I couldnt expect one of the De dal borrow the money from me. Burghs, and an angel, if ever there was You are too too good, sighed one, to be making tea for the like of me, Grace, ~vith an expression of pain in her and putting flowers on me table; ay, and speaking face. We are already ham- brushin me hat of a mori~incr pered, and if Randal takes this money, I Randal sometimes went to dine with see no chance of his repaying you. Lady Elton, and also to spend the evening Well, then,you shall, returned Lady with some acquaintances, to whom, after Elton cheerfully. his temporary seclusion, he seemed more I wish I could. Tell me, can I do a hero than before. But Maurice Balfour nothing to earn any money, Lady Elton? was faithful to the little man, indulging My dear Grace, we will think about him by listening to his long, rambling it. Meantime, I consider that you accept recollections of the family; and more es- my offer. pecially of the ~visdom and goodness of Indeed I do not see what else can be his darlin Young lady. And although done, if Randal is to avail himself of the Maurice chaffed him gently as to his utter wonderful opportunity you have found faith in her many perfections, he never for him. checked the flow of Jimmys eloquence by That is speaking like a sensible girl. displaying any want of interest. Then, dear, the sooner he sets about his Meantime the int~-views between Sir outfit the better. And by all means let Alexander Atwell and Randal gradually him give me a proper acknowledgment of THE FRERES. 3 the money I advance. I trust one day he will be quite able to pay it back. But the real debt your generous, timely help can never be repaid. And for this I am always content to be your debtor. The succeeding days were exceedingly busy. Randal was more than himself again. He recovered looks and spirits with marvellous rapidity, enjoyed rushing from tailors to outfitters, and was in such radiant good humor that he took Graces warnings against unnecessary expense without petulance. I do wish I could see the dear mother before I go, he said one afternoon, as Grace, whohad been shopping with him, sat down to rest in the little Camden town parlor before returning to Lady El- ton. She will be awfully cut up about it, too. And a sad, troubled expression came over his soft, good-looking young face. Yes; but then she will be so pleased at your having so good an appointment. She knows you would go to her if you could. She ought to know that. After all, she is the only creature that really loves me, said Randal, with a slight sigh. Dont you think I love you, Randal ? asked Grace, a little reproachfully, though she looked kindly at him. Oh, you are a good sister and all that, I know. But no; you dont love me! You think me a poor, weak creature. Perhaps I am, but if you loved me, you would believe in me. I know you do not, and I am always more stupid with you than any one.~~ But, Randal, you distress me, began G~ace, touched by the grain of truth in his words. %Oh, there is no use putting a fine point to it. I am a nuisance to you, and indeed I cannot wonder at it, though per- haps if you knew how I have been tempted you would make more allowance. I had such wonderful luck at first, and I could not believe when luck turned against me that it could last; so when I was hard pressed, and half maddened to think that I should be a defaulter among fellows who had seen me hold my head so high, I tried to get some from an old screw of a money-lender; but he wouldnt give me a penny without security, but said, with a sort of a devilish sneer, Wont your rich uncle accept a bill at twenty-one days? I was so riled that something put it into my mouth to say, No; l~t I dare say his son will; and then the old fellow laughed, and croaked out, All right, bring me his name, and you can have what you want! The sound of those words never left my ears till I did it, and then oh, Grace, I wonder I did not blow my brains out the twenty-one days were gone before I could think. Still the luck went against me; yet I was so sure I should win and make it right, that I ~vent on. Then the old beggar renewed, and it cost me a lot for that; and then he renewed again, and said it was for the last time. Then I had no money to try my luck with, and I felt as if I was dying, so I sent for you. Randal, dear Randal, cried Grace, overwhelmed with self-reproach, and deeply touched, I am afraid I seem cold and hard; but I do feel for you, my brother I do indeed: only I have been distressed and worried; and I would have given my right hand rather than have asked Max. XVell, there, I will never name him again, dear Randal , lifting his head and kissing his brow. Let us be close friends and help each other; only promise promise with all your heart never to touch a card again. Never for money, Grace, he said, readily enough. Oh, make no exceptions! XVhy, if I was asked to make up a party at whist by my respected patron, it would not do to refuse. He will like you all the better for being firm. No no; you must not hamper me with impossible conditions. You may trust me. I will never get myself into a scrape again. Heaven grant it! said Grace, with a sigh. There was a pause. Lady Elton has asked me to dinner on Thursday. Who is to be there, Grace? resumed Randal. I am not sure. I am afraid Uncle Frere and Max. Then I am engaged. Really I must hold myself free for Sir Alexander. He said I must dine with him one day this week. There! you look as black as thun- der, Grace. I cannot help it. It is quite as dread ful to me to meet these people as it would be to you; but even for your sake I must do it. We cannot both avoid them with- out being suspected. Well, thank God! I am going out of the country, was Randals conclusion, spoken with such hearty content, that Grace gazed at him, astonished to per- 32 THE FRERES. ceive how readily he threw off regret for the culpable act which had caused them both so much suffering. Lady Elton had roused herself sufTfi- ciently to receive once more a small party to dinner. She had taken one of her strong, tenacious likings to Maurice I3alfour; principally, no doubt, because of his being a messenger from the death- bed of the boy she had loved so dearly, but also on his own account. Something in the indolent but kindly ease of his manners, siml)le and unworldly though they ~vere, pleased and attracted her; and she was interested in trying to discover and to display the treasure ct genius and intellect which she firmly believed lay hid beneath the tranquil surface. She was anxious to introduce him to her brother- in-law, whose influence in a wide business circle might possibly be of use to her new favorite. The party was, as has been said, a small one. The two Freres; Maurice Balfour; the cosmopolite Hungarian, who had been in Constantinople on a secret mission since Grace had last seen him in the Darnell days ; an Australian ex- plorer and a couple of tolerably agree- able nobodies. Grace and a well-pre -served, Anglo. Italian, much - travelled countess were the only ladies besides the hostess. Afraid to commit herself by any sugges- tion, Grace prayed that she might not go in to dinner with Max, while she was dressing. It was the first time she had put on colors since her grandfathers death, and she felt a kind of disgust at their gaudiness. She wore a cream-col- ored dress of some soft material; a bunch of deep crimson roses in her bosom, and another in her hair; her elbow-sleeves decorated with ruffles of rich lace. The tint and form suited her well, though she looked pale, and what color caine to her cheek never stayed there long. That is a pretty dress, and goes very well with your hair, said Lady Elton critically. Did you get it in Ger- many? No; I ot it since I caine here. Things are much dearer at Zittau, and I shall have to appear in colors at the Dal- befsdorf wedding festivities, you know so I thought it was better to buy one here. No doubt. You are a prudent puss. Mr. Balfour, announced Luigi; and enter Maurice, looking more mondi in his evening garb than Grace thought he could. So, he said, taking a seat by her, while Lady Elton went for~vard to receive Madame Manfroni and the Hungarian colonel, who arrived together so you seem quite a woman of the world in even- ing costume. And he looked her all over with his usual attentive, kindly gravity that never disturbed her or quick- ened her pulse. Not very experienced, Maurice, she said, with a smile. I am afraid there is a great deal of the raw country girl about me still. Mr. Frere Mr. Maxwell Frere,, in Luigis most impressive manner. I have been rather anxious to see these formidable relatives of 3-ours, said Balfour, in the confidential tone which was usual between them. The father is rather a solemn buffer, but the young fel- low looks distbz;u/. Here is Grace, said Lady Elton to her brother-in-law. Whereupon Grace went forward with a smile and a blush so sweet and becoming that even Richard Frere might have been melted; and for some reason he greeted her less frigidly than usual. I am sorry Randal is not here, con- tinued Lady Elton. But he is engaged with Sir Alexander Atwell. They are both busy with their preparations. Is he not lucky to get such an appointment? Monstrously lucky, returned Mr. Frere, ~vith an air of somewhat disparag- ing surprise. I was glad to hear of it. When Lady Elton began to speak about Randal, Grace had just given her hand to Max; and feeling his eyes upon her, the consciousness of the true shameful reason of his absence filled her with painful self- abasement. Her eyes sunk under his, and a deep blush spread from her cheek to brow and throat. Moreover, she felt that Balfour was watching her. I congratulate you with all my heart, Grace, said Max, pressing her hand for a moment. Lady Eltons resources are quite inexhaustible. She is wonderfully good wonder- fully considerate, said Grace, with a de- gree of hesitation very unusual to her. It was a comfort to return to her seat beside Maurice Balfour, and even to draw a little nearer to him. But Max would stand before her, and talk to her, calmly and unembarrassed, as though they never had had a stormy interview, and that so lat~ly! In this mauvais quart dheure Balfour THE FRERES. 33 was a great help. Lady Elton, who fol- lowed the Continental fashion of introduc- ing her guests to each other, had pre- sented Maurice to her nephew. And Max Frere was most gracious. He was quite familiar with Mr. Bal- fours name. In short, it had been a household word at Dungar, where he had the pleasure of knowing the rector Mr. Balfours grandfather, he believed. A very agreeable type of the higher eccle- siastic. A picturesque addition to the Dungar group. Did Mr. Balfour intend to make any stay in town? To which civilities Grace listened with an odd, distrustful impatience, though ad- mitting to herself that her cousins man- ner, and voice, and words ~vere all perfect in their way, and contrasting his. finished man-of-the-world style with the natural unstudied ease of her old friend. To her relief, just before the procession to the dining - room was formed, Lady Elton brought up the Australian, and pre- sented him, first to Grace and then to Balfour, saying, in the first case, You will take Miss Frere to dinner.? And to Balfour: No one can tell you so much. about Australia as Mr. Macintyre. Mr. Macintyre was a short, thick man, not fat, but muscular, with a red face, red hair, red whiskers, and, it seemed to Grace, red eyes. Ay, he said, I have travelled pretty well over it as much as a man may. And youll be thinking of going there, Mr. Balfour, Lady Elton tells me?~ He spoke with a strong accent, curling up the tails of his sentences in a fashion suggestive of Glasgow. Before Balfour could reply, the cheer- ing sound of dinner set them in mo- tion; and in the pleasant occupation which succeeded, no consecutive conver- sation was possible. Randals defection has made my table uneven, said Lady Elton, looking round during the first pause, and I did not find any suitable person to fill his place. Is not this Sir Alexander Atwell the man who had a controversy in the Atize- ;zaum with Jenkins, the antiquarian, about some stones, or coins, or some such mat- ter? asked Mr. Frere. Yes. He picked up some trash some- where, which he wished the South Ken- sington people to accept as genuine. He ~vould go to the stake for it himself, re- turned Lady Elton. He and Randal together will discover a good deal in Egypt, slid Max, with much seriousness. LIVING AGE. VOL. XXXVIL 1875 Egyptology has been developed al- most into an exact science, observed one of the nobodies. They say now, that after a little learning, one can read off the inscriptions as you would an article in the Times. What! those strange birds, and beasts, and things one sees on the stones in the British Museum? asked Grace of her neighbor, the Australian. I wonder that learned people do not interest themselves more in the remains of Central America, said Balfour; they are, to my mind, the most curious relics of all. Have you seen them? asked Grace, who was opposite him. Yes, one. You must tell me all about it some day, she returned, at which remark Max looked up sharply from his plate. Well, the only hieroglyphics to be met with in Australia are of natures writing, said the explorer; and though practice might enable you to decipher a good many, there are plenty left to baffle one. You have some thoughts of visit- ing the colony, sir, to Balfour. May I ask if you are thinking of sheep-farm- ing? No. There are some railways and other works in contemplation, and I hope to be one of the engineers. Have you not been in South America, Mr. Balfour? asked Mr. Frere from his place at the head of the table by Lady Elton. I have. Did you happen to meet a man of the name of Darnell out there? Darnell, repeated Grace. Is it possible Oh, not our friend, interrupted Lady Elton; a cousin of his, a neer-do-weel at least lie never seems to have got on here, poor fello~v. Your interest in the rejected is not quite extinct, then? whispered Max into his cousins ear. Grace, I believe you are a coquette. Yes, he was rather unsteady; but he appears to be doing well now, said Mr. Frere. Darnell! he was my chum in Chili, exclaimed Balfour, with animation, and an excellent fellow; a little reckless, but full of pluck. We have stood by each other in some curious scenes; indeed, he saved my life once. How? asked Lady Elton. Oh, it is a long story. Not too long, I am sure, as we are 34 COUNTRY LIFE IN ITALY. interested in both actors, returned the hostess. There is nothing very exciting in it, said Balfour carelessly. You see to be in danger was our normal condition in South America. They were a fearfully rough lot, the navvies, as we would call them; and the whole concern was per. vaded with a life-in-your.hand principle that somehow one got used to. Rather an unprofitable kind of em- ployment, said Mr. Frere, with an air of looking down into an unfathomable depth of ruffianism from the awful height of his own respectability. No, it was not, returned Balfour with his immovable good-humored ease. I was well paid, though I had to wait for my money, and I learned a great deal. There was wonderfully fine engineering on that line. You know, it is all through giant mountains, among superb scenery. But the spirit of man in those regions is very far from divine. We were surrounded by a collection of desperadoes of all nation- alities. Indeed, the president and his prime minister were perhaps the worst of all, for theirs was a sort of intellectual devilry. But that does not tell how Darnell saved your life, said Lady Elton. How were you induced to go to such a place? It was partly accident. I had been employed in Spain, and the work was finished there. A Spaniard, with whom I had become very intimate, induced me to try my luck in Brazil. There I met Dar- nell, and we went together to Chili. Lady Elton made another attempt to elicit the tale of Balfours adventure, but he was not to be deluded into a long story of himself in that mixed company. At all events, Darnell has got himself into a good position now, said Max. Yes, returned Balfour; he is part- ner in the firm of Denny, Calthorpe, and Darnell, the contractors. Is it not rather late in the season for Egypt? asked the Hungarian, breaking a short pause. Yes, returned Lady Elton. Sir Alexander Atwell has been delayed; and, I believe, intends to visit Roumania, or Thessaly, or some such place, during the summer, and return to Egypt in the win- ter. What poems and rough notes we may expect! said Max laughing, to his cous in. And soon after the ladies retired. That Balfour seea~s to have taken up his old intimacy with you just where he left off, said Max, coffee-cup in hand, as he sat down on the sofa beside Grace. How long is it since you last met? Five years. He is not a bad sort of fellow, consid- ering that he seems always to live beyond the l)ale of civilization. Is it true, as I gathered from what he was saying to Lady Elton, that he is going to Germany to Zittau? Yes. Have you resolved henceforth to speak always in monosyllables? I do not think of anything else to say. Grace, why is Balfour going to Zit- tau ? To see us, and also some German friends. You know he was for some time in Germany. No; I know nothing about him, ei- cept that he is a favorite of yours. Yes, he is a great favorite. Max looked hard at her, and she met his eyes calmly and firmly. I am very, very fond of Maurice Bal- four, she said. I believe it, and yet, Grace, the man is only a kind of civilized navvy. Perhaps so. I find him civilized enough. Then I have no more to say, Grace. May I come to complete the family group at Zittau? I know you are mocking, Max. But I would rather not. From The Corohill Magazine. COUNTRY LIFE IN ITALY. PART II. THE PEASANTS. IT has always seemed to me that the well-to-do Italian peasant must think that the world, or at least the world he sees, was made on purpose for him. The soil, with its rich harvests, is peculiarly his own. The fairs supply all his wants in the way of clothes, ornaments, and uten- sils; the padrone is there all ready to be cheated; the priest to look after his soul; processions and fes/as amuse Aim par ex- cellence. When prosperous he knows no unsatisfied desire, and is so thoroughly contented with his lot that he seldom seeks to rise a degree in the social scale. However rich he may become, his habits, manners, and ideas undergo no change. COUNTRY LIFE IN ITALY. 35 Reading and writing are arts which he despises, and never wishes his children to learn. The women are sometimes gorgeous in velvet and silk and gold orna- ments; but their costume is still strictly the peasant costume. The houses are often large; for many branches of a fain- ily will dwell together in a sort of clan, and I have known seven brothers, all ~vith wives and children, live under the same roof. These dwellings of brick with tiled roofs are long and low, with very small unglazed windows, the staircase and oven outside, and the ground floor devoted to the accommodation of the live stock. There is no attempt at adornment inside or out; more unattractive abodes can scarcely be imagined. One of the broth- ers (not always the eldest) is called the vergaro, and his wife the vergara. This couple takes the command, and directs ol)erations. The cultivation of the soil is of course the chief business; every sea- soil has its harvest. The corn is cut in June; Indian corn in August. Early in October is the vintage, and the olives are gathered and pressed at the end of the year. After this, and when the sowing is finished, comes a time of repose from agricultural labor, and then the women are hard at work in the manufacture of clothes for the family. These they lit- erally grow themselves, spinning, weav- ing, and dyeing their own flax; the men, if industriously disposed, make baskets and straw hats. The children are set to guard the sheep and the pigs at a very early age. As for the baby, it is tied into its cradle and left to squall to its hearts content. The interior of the house is neither clean nor comfortable, but it has a certain picturesqueness. From the low-raftered ceiling hangs a goodly array of hams, and the wooden ledge along the wall is ornamented with rows of cheese made of ewes milk, and loaves of Indian- corn bread. A happy family of dogs, cats, hens, chickens, and perhaps a pig of domestic habits, make themselves at home on the stone floor. At the loom by the window one of the women may be seen weaving; and the grandmother will be spinning or knitting by the op~n hearth, on which an oak branch, leaves and all, crackles and blazes. Under a large iron stewpan, where the erba or the polenla is cooking, a ~vatch-dog lies stretched his lazy length at the nonna feet, and with him an imp, rising two, will be sharing a yellow loaf. These watch- dogs perform their duty ~ zealously as to make country walks dangerous to the unwary stranger. On passing a cottage, it is the custom to possess oneself of a good-sized stone ready to throw at the animal, who is sure to spring out upon you with yells; the next proceeding is to call loudly to the peasant inside to see to his dog He there upon beats and curses the poor animal who is doing his duty accord- ing to his lights, and informs vosira sz~r~ noria that there is nothing to be feared non dice mal niente ~ (he never says anything); a statement which strikes one by its audacity when made to an accom- paniment of bow-wow-wow-wow. At har- vest time there is feasting and rejoic- ing. Ham, eggs, and wine are consumed in great quantities. During mietitura scarcely any one stays at home, and all other work is neglected. The harvest- home is usually celebrated by a dance, and it is at this time that marriages are chiefly arranged. The vintage is a qui- eter proceeding, for, although the soil is favorable to the vine, it is not so exten- sively cultivated as corn. For some time before the grape -gathering peasants, chiefly women and girls, may be seen guarding their vines, and forming pictur- esque groups beneath the festooned trees. Were it not for this precaution, all those fine clusters of grapes would disappear as if by magicrespectfor their neighbors property not being among the virtues of these Arcadians. After the gathering, wagon-loads of grapes, some as fine as any in hot-houses, are to be met, drawn by the slow oxen along the roads, on their way to be deposited in a vat with a hole in the bottom. This is placed on the top of a cask, and on it mounts a man or a boy who begins treading the grapes, the juice of which falls into the recepta- cle beneath. This is hard and very un- pleasant work; for a swarm of wasps follow the grapes, and severely sting the naked feet which tread upon them. The sight of the muddy feet increased my distaste for the wine of the country so much, that in deference to my prejudices our wine-treaders were made to wash their feet before beginning their ~vork a ceremony they considered superfluous. The feasts of the Church are strictly observed by the peasants. They are full of superstitions fostered by the priests, ~vhose influence, fast diminishing with the upper classes, is still paramount with the peasantry. The respect is for the offiqe the man himself is often the ob- ject of abuse and scorn. To one whose birth is involved in mystery (and there are many), the insinuation that lie is fig/ia di 36 COUNTRY LIFE IN ITALY. ~re/e is a favorite taunt, and is resented as a cruel insult. I have heard of a priest being waylaid by two brothers who felt themselves in need of spiritual suc- cor. Absolve us from our sins, they commanded; and the holy man, at first refusing to do so, was beaten until he complied. A print of the Madonna is to be seen in every peasants bedroom; none are without some charm concealed about their persons; and scarcely one but has made apilgrimage to Loreto to be- hold the house of the Virgin, miraculously transported thither by angels from the coast of Dalmatia. Every peasant returns thence with arms plentifully tattooed in memory of the consecrated spot. In all corn-fields various little wooden crosses are dotted about in order that the divine blessing may rest upon the harvest. You cannot walk a mile along a high road without coming upon a shrine erected to the Virgin, and no peasant passes the half-effaced daub without making the sign of the cross, and seldom without stopping to kneel and pray. Babies and animals are great sufferers from the prevalent superstitions. Babies are branded at the back of the neck, and dogs on the forehead, to keep them from harm. When I remonstrated with a con- tadina for keeping her dog without water, using the only argument I thought likely to have any weight with herthat it might probably oo mad 011! there is no fear, she replied; he has been branded with the ferro di s: A~z/onio, so no harm can come near him; showing me an ugly scar on the poor brutes fore- head. The utter indifference to the suf- ferirws of animals displayed by all classes of Italians seems an anomaly in such a kind-hearted race. It does not proceed from any love of cruelty, but from mere thoughtlessness. The feelings of the peasants are not often deep or refined. The loss of money or of moneys worth is thought more of than the loss of children, of parents, or of friends. Many a time that I have passed a cottage and asked after a little child I had seen playing at the door, the mother has replied in a cheerful voice, It has gone to Paradise; but if one of the huge, sleek oxen should come to an un- timely end, oh ! then the grief is most noisy and overwhelming men, women, and children throw themselves on the ground, tear their hair, beat their breasts, and howl as if possessed. I once came upon a peasant of my~acquaintance weep- ing by the roadside. I have had a ter rible loss, signora, sobbed he. I, re- membering that his daughter had lately died of fever, began to express my sym- path). Mci che /af;-zga I he exclaimed impatiently (frig-z in that dialect means a girl); it was a cow! as if I must surely understand what a much greater misfor- tune that ~vas. Still there is a kindly feeling among them. I know a young woman who sold her beautiful hair in order to buy a pair of shoes for her mother, and a young man who married an old woman out of gratitude. He was a foundling whom she had tended from his babyhood. He grew a fine young man, and she an ugly, wrinkled old woman. The pair seemed ill-assorted, but there was much true affection between them. I took the mother of a family to England for six months in the capacity of ~vet- nurse. There, in the enjoyment of every luxury, and, what Italians prize most of all, an idle life, she pined to return to her poverty-stricken home, ~vhere food was scarce and incessant labor incumbent upon her. When near the end of our homeward journey, I asked her if she did not expect her husband and children to be at our house, to greet her after such a long absence. Ah, no! she replied with a sigh; the contadini are not like vosszgnorie. But she was agreeably surprised by the sight of all her family on our first arrival, and the scene was affect- ing. Even a brother had walked twenty miles to be assured that she was still alive after a sojourn in our barbarous country, as a rumor had spread that she had suc- cumbed to the hardships of foreign travel. They are a civil-spoken people, and I never met one in my walks who did not greet me with Buon passeggio, Signora Marchesa, or Principessa, as the fit may take them, for they are liberal with their titles. On meeting a little child, it always is Ogni nocia, which is ellipti- cal for May all harm be warded off from it! They are ready enough to enter into conversation, and often display curiosity about that strange country, Inghilterra, where they have heard everybody is rich. What a fertile country it must be! they reflect. Surely, signora, there can be no tree without a vine in your coun- try! When they hear that there are neither vines nor olives, their perplexity is extreme. Where, then, do all the riches come from? The dialect takes some time to master; but when you know that Bs and Vs, Rs and Ls, 0s and Us are convertible letters, some clue is obtained. It must also be remembered COUNTRY LIFE IN ITALY. 37 that long tails are tacked on to the short- est and simplest words ~oco is lengthened into ~oconcino, and for common use again shortened into conci; cosi is spun out into cosintra; si into shine; no into non- ni. Their conversation among them- selves is chiefly agricultural; the state of the crops, and the health of the live stock, not including the children, form the staple of it. No one is ever called by his or her proper surname; one family will be nick- named Gobbo, another Zoppo, a third Matto, for no ostensible reason, as the peculiarities indicated by their nick- names may not be observable in any one of them. Coming once upon a large party of laborers at work upon a hillside, I in- quired, Who may you be? Siamo Cico, was the reply, as with one voice ; but the real name of the Cicos I have never been able to discover, nor is there any clue to the origin of the nickname, unless it were invented to rhyme with Trico, the appellation of a flourishing family who live in the same neighborhood, and whose. real name is Biancucci. The men have discarded their once picturesque costume. On working days they wear a white smock, and on Sundays home-manufac- tured coats and trousers of an exceedingly awkward shape. The earrings, and the red sashes round their waists, with some- times a knife peeping out of their folds, areall that remain greatly to distinguish them from the English rustic. But the womens attire is picturesque enough, es- pecially in summer, when they have un- covered their stays and white chemises. The stays, sometimes of black velvet, but oftener of some more ordinary material, are laced up the back with white or col- ored braids. The skirt, either blue, or striped blue and red, is turned up and looped behind over one or more very short petticoats. A narrow apron of some different color from that of the skirt is always worn out of doors; indoors it is not considered necessary. Gay kerchiefs are ~vorn across the shoulders, and folded square on the head. Enormous gold ear- rings and a coral necklace are considered proper adjuncts. For the height of sum- iner a broad straw hat surmounts the kerchief, and the feet and legs are bare. On festa days they swell out their hips with an enormous number of stiff petti- coats; I have heard of as many as eigh- teen being worn on a grand occasion. The skirt is let down, the chemise is cov- ered with an ill-fitting loose jacket, shoes and stockings are put on and the conta- dma looks as ungainly as, before, she looked graceful. The practice of carry- ing all weights on the head gives a very peculiar swinging walk. A cloth rolled round in a circle is first placed on the head, and on the top of it the basket or pitcher frequently quite askew; but it never falls, and a hand is never raised to support it. I have seen women stoop to pick up something from the ground with- out disturbing the balance of their bas- ket. Land is generally cultivated on the sys- tem here called sisteina colonica; the proprietor supplies capital, the coloni labor, and the profits are supposed to be shared equally; but, as a matter of fact, the padrone seldom gets his legitimate half, because it is perfectly easy for peas- ants to secretly dispose of a great portion of the produce before the division is made, especially as the landlords in gen- eral exercise little or no sul)erintendence over their farms, but entrust that task to theirfa/tore, or steward. This worthy is usually as fond of a quiet life as his mas- ter, and he and the peasants have a gen- eral understanding, which is at once profitable to both sides and conducive to peace. This may partly account for the number of ruined proprietors and of pros- perous peasants. It has been said that the casa colonica often joins on to the casino of the proprietor. Sometimes it all forms one establishment, and the peas- ants are made useful as servants. It fell to my lot at one time to live thus in close quarters with my peasants. The family consisted of two brothers with their wives and children, and their grandfather, who, in consideration of his savings, was housed and fed. I had every opportunity of observing their manners and customs, and did not find them attractive. The women would sit on the doorsteps every Sunday morning, combing their hair and that of the children. This performance only took place on Sunday. It was more elaborate in operation than agreeable as a spectacle. I inquired whether they could not make it convenient to keep their heads a little cleaner. To this the vergara replied that she did not know ~vhat would be thought of her were she to be so fastidious; she was a respectable woman, not given to frequent dressing of the hair and such like coquettishness. The killing of the pig was considered such an agreeable and enlivening specta- cle that it took place (I suppose out of compliment to me) opposite the front door. Two famished dogs continually found the means of emptying the con- 38 COUNTRY LIFE IN ITALY. tents of my larder, which there was always had been executed, all the male portion a difficulty in replenishing, as no eatable of the family (eleven) confronted him in food could be found within ten miles. a menacing attitude, each armed with a No one in the villages round indulged in pitchfork. A. was alone and unarmed, meat unless some ox or sheep had come but going up to the foremost he snatched to an untimely end. The old grandfather the pitchfork from his hand; the rest was in our eyes the flower of the flock, then dropped their weapons, and fled. He ~vorked as hard as his failing strength After this, the family was of course given would allow; and one day my husband, notice to quit. They were rich, and had struck with compassion at his famished land of their own, therefore their eject- appearance, and touched by a way the ment caused them no pecuniary embar- old man had of saluting him respectfully, rassment; but many generations had desired the servants to ask him in to lived and died in that house, and it was breakfast. Nonno, quite overwhelmed not without a certain feeling of commis- by the honor, got himself into a clean eration that I saw the long procession of smock and a pair of boots, and, seated at men, women, and children, with all their our kitchen table, relieved his overbur~ flocks and their herds their wagons and dened heart. His grandchildren, he said, their asses, laden with goods and chattels, treated him in a most unfeeling manner; wend th& r way slowly towards another not only was he made to work hard and home, reminding me vaguely of a Scrip- not given eno ugh to eat, but when he tural exodus. XVe did not replace the alluded to his savings, he was reminded peasants who left, but hired laborers and that they would come in handy for his cultivated these farms ourselves. This funeral expenses. It was long since he system was troublesome, but so much had had such a good meal, and he ~vas more remunerative than the former that much obliged to the padrone. Our rela- we have no reason to regret having been tions with this interesting family ended forced into it; and it is a significant fact by mutual consent, and never do I re- that we obtained the next year, not double, member experiencing a greater sense of butfour times the produce that had come relief than on their departure. This was to our share the year before. Something, not the only class of peasants with whom of course, may have been due to better we could not manage to get on. We cultivation; but an improved system could found our coloni apparently humble even scarcely, in one year, have effected such to servility, but in reality unmanageable. extraordinary results. Labor is cheap; it was in vain that my husband endeav- for seventy-five cen/esimi a man, and for ored to introduce improved methods of forty-five a woman, will work from sunrise farming; they were strenuously resisted. to sunset through a long summer day, and The oxen had always trodden out the many will come from villages several corn, and it got done in the course of the miles off, and return when their work is summer; so why use the threshing-ma- done. One hour for repose and food was chine? Vines had always been trained demanded, and humanity induced us to up trees grown in the midst of corn-fields; prolong it during the extreme heat to two. and although the corn round the tree did The dinner of our laborers consisted of not ripen, and the tree itself sucked up a loaf of Indian-corn bread, and any fruit the moisture necessary to the free growth which might happen to be in season an of the vine, it was still maintained that apple, a pear, or a bunch of grapes; this such vineyards were the most economical. was all. Wine is a rare luxury with the The grapes had always been gathered poorer class of peasants, and meat or before they were ripe, and the wine had eggs rarer still. Between these wretched always been sour; but they liked it so. day laborers, who live from hand to mouth, The cattle could work even when half and those prosperous peasants who have starved; therefore why waste your sub- land of their own, there is a great dis- stance in giving them enough to eat? tinction, and a con fadino grasso who The principal farmer on the property was marries one of the indigent of his own the most obstinate, and his resistance class is held to have made a mesalhance. was at last carried to a pitch which made I was walking once with a contadina a termination of his tenancy indispensa- whose husband was part proprietor with ble. ourselves, and who enjoyed the proud One day when my husband went down title of vergara. We passed a woman to the farm of this troublesome tenant, who claimed acquaintance with her. This to assure himself that some orders he contadina wore a magnificent coral neck- had given respecting the feeding of cattle lace and massive gold earrings, but her COUNTRY LIFE IN ITALY. chemise was patched and her petticoat in rags. Annunziata was moved to tears at the sight of her old friend so come down in the world. This unfortunate person was the daughter of a contadino grasso, and had married beneath her a poor fellow who kept one pig, and inhabited a mud cottage! Many of the poorest of the peasantry eke out their living by tak- ing care of foundlings, for whom a char- itable institution provides. These bas- tardi abound, and the mystery of their origin forms the basis of many a romantic story. They are kept out at nurse until the age of twelve,, when the institution occupies itself with their education and settlement in the world; sometimes they are adopted by their foster parents for good and all. I have not described the looks of our peasants. They are seldom well made; the bodies being long, and the legs short and often bandy, in conse- quence, I believe, of the fascia. But some very pleasant, pretty faces may be seen among them. Blue eyes and flaxen hair are not at all uncommon traces, I suppose, of their northern conquerors but the ccclii branciii, as all light-colored eyes are called, are not prized as in most southern climes; they are lamented as an imperfection. The prevalence of such names as Ermenegilda, E Iminia, Geltrude, seem also to tell of mixture with a Teutonic race. AMUSEMENTS. ALTHOUGH there is no attempt at any- thing which we should call society, no dinner or tea parties, no archery, no pic- nics none, in fact, of our ways for bringing people together~~ yet our neighbors manage to meet and amuse themselves after their own fashion. It is a more hearty fashion than ours, and far more economical; for eating and drinking is not that necessary element in amuse- ment with Italians that it is with us. There is always a band, often very good; and there is generally a theatre where, during the Carnival, some sort of dramatic representation takes place, and this the- atre serves also for a ball-room ; then there are the fairs, which make a rendez- vous for all classes; and, at the risk of appearing irreverent, I must include pro- cessions amongst the entertainments. Italian amateur actors are infinitely bet- ter than English - To simulate emotion, to speak distinctly, to suit the action to the word all this comes naturally to them. A great many are bQrn actors and actresses, and display their talents freely 39 off the stage; for the exhibition of feeling is thought so proper and becoming that they feign it where they have it not. To ~veep at every parting, even with the most casual acquaintance, is thought a point of etiquette, and the art of pumping up tears at will is one of the first to be acquired. Knowing the amount of labor and re- hearsing necessary to getting up private theatricals in England with any success, I was surprised at the facility with which the dullest and most uneducated Italian would learn and recite his part, and with what grace and effect each point would be given. He never mumbles or ~, abbles, or looks as if he didnt know what to do with his arms and legs, or appears to be ~von- deringwhyhe is making such a ridiculous fool of himself, as is the way of the En- glish amateur. The balls are not select; even the peasants are included; and the price of admission is but one soze. There is every variety of class and costume. Some of the ladies will appear masked; others in what they fondly imagine to be the height of the fashion; some in even- ing and some in morning dress, and some in a happy mixture of both. One will wear a low gown and her best bonnet; another will carry, in addition to fan and smelling-bottle, her muff. The band plays on a raised scaffolding. Musicians and dancers cannot always agree. Do you know what it is you are playing? is occa- sionally shouted from below. Do you know what it is you are dancing?~ is the /11 quoque from above. More lively ban- ter follows, ending, perhaps, in a quarrel. The musicians strike ~vork; the dancers reply that it does not matter; but it ends in a reconciliation, and all goes on as be- fore. The peasants prefer dancing in the open air. The only dance known to them in these parts is the salterello. The man and woman dance opposite one another, she looking as if she must fall forwards, and he backwards. Hands are sometimes joined; but this is thought bad form by the peasant aristocracy. Two or three fiddlers play a monotonous, bagpipe-like tune, which is occasionally enlivened by a shout and a gust of song. Then an irn- ~rovisatore will be inspired by his muse, and, like some clergymen who preach cx- tem~ore, has a difficulty in leaving off. The energy which the peasants display after a hard days reaping under a burn- in~, sun, seems amazing; but Italians, though sometimes averse to work, never tire of their amusements. The band plays an important part in all festivities. Dur- ing a wedding it will play operatic music 40 COUNTRY LIFE IN ITALY. inside the church; it brings up the rear in all processions; it celebrates the Be- fana (Epiphany) by going about, much as our waits do, from house to house, and, like the waits, it is apt to become a nuisance. On occasions such as a birth, or a christening, or an electoral tri- umph, or the return from a journey, we have suffered much from the midnight serenade of a particularly zealous band belonging to a neighboring village. Fairs are in force all the year round, and to them flock an immense crowd, of all classes and of all ages. The pea~ants are mostly bent on business. They may be seen, early in the morning, leading their cow, or their pig, or their donkey to sell to the highest bidder; and, late in the evening, they return with some newly- acquired treasure. The fine folks will go later, neither to buy nor to sell, but to meet one another, and amuse the chil- dren, who will be given soldi to exchange for sugar plums and toys. The fair is not always held in the market-place of the vil- lage, but in ai~y open space that may be found available, sometimes far from any village. At a distance, what strikes the eye is a heaving, surging sea of white ox- backs; on nearer approach, many other objects become visible mules, donkeys, pigs, sheep, goats, fo~vls, pots and pans, and earthen utensils, fruit and vegetables. Booths are decked out with gay-colored stuffs, with kerchiefs, necklaces, and ear- rings, with cheap toys and sugarplums in short, all articles of use or luxury that the peasantry can require. The noise is indescribable. What with the lowing, braying, grunting, and cackling of the various animals the greeting, bargain- ing, and quarrelling of their owners the disorder and confusion that prevail make the threading of ones way through the crowd a difficult and dangerous exploit. Having passed with trepidation by the heels of a mule of vicious aspect, you find yourself in danger of impalement on the horns of a bull who is trying to break away from his keepers. In terror you step back upon a set of cups and saucers, whose owner does not let you escape ~vithout paying your damages three times over. Of course no seller dreaihs of of- fering his wares at less than double the price he intends to take, and the buyer would be thought a simpleton indeed were he to offer at first more than half what he means to give. Bargaining, therefore, is a long business; it begins soon after dawn, ~id ends at sunset. Sometimes a few recreations relieve this stern business. I was once taken to a fair where an enterprising attempt at horce-racing had been made. There had arisen un pa dimbrogiio, was explained to us on our arrival at the scene of action. Two jockeys were in vain endeavoring to get started. One steed stood still and kicked; another presently bolted off in the opposite direction from the goal;and, far ahead, the winning horse was indeed galloping at full speed, but with an empty saddle, leaving behind nim a cloud of dust, from which his rider was seen to emerge and straightway follow in pursuit. The game of bowls, or /occie, is a very favorite amusement, but is often forbidden by the authorities, on account of the danger to passers-by, who have to dodge these wooden balls as they fly from one side of the road to the other. Of that most im- moral amusement (if amusement it can be called) the lottery, it is not my province to speak at length. I believe it is a great source of revenue to the government, and I know it is a great source of misery and crime to the people, in illustration of which I will tell an anecdote, which, strange as it may seem, is absolutely true. A lady took her little boy to a neighbor- ing fair. He was a lovely child, with flaxen hair, blue eyes, and a dazzlingly fair complexion. To this pair a well-dressed woman of the middle class, fascinated apparently by the extraordinary beauty of the child, approached: I have a carriage here, said she to the mother; may I take your boy for a little drive? I will bring him back almost immediately. The lady was young and unsuspecting the child eager to go. He was carried off, and in vain the mother waited and watched. The stranger woman never brought back her child. The kidnapper was not a native of those parts. No one there knew who she was, whence she came, or whither she had gone. There seemed no clue to the mystery. The poor mother xvent more than half dis- tracted; but the father, a man of energy and shrewd sense, succeeded in tracking his child to a village far south. Accom- panied by caralinieri, he discovered his son in a loft, and rescued him only just in time from an awful fate. He was about to be murdered, and an altar had been erected on which the victims blood was to spurt. The motive of the intended crime was to ensure his murderess a prize in the lottery; for a soothsayer had recommended for this purpose the sacri- fice of a fair and rosy child. The ghastly COUNTRY LIFE IN ITALY. 41 plot was invented by a priest, for what end I do not know. The priest escaped; the ~voman was put in prison, where she shortly died. She had not borne a bad character, and the dreadful guilt she med- itated appears to have been the result of a sort of madness which the fascination of the lottery is said to bring upon its victims. Perhaps it is fair to add that this happened many years ago. Processions, such as mark certain feasts of the Church all over Italy, have been described so often that I will confine myself to an account of one now nearly obsolete, which takes place once in three years, in a few remote villages. It is on Good Friday. At the morning function in church the whole scene of Christs cruci- fixion is gone through. A life-sized paste. board figure is seen nailed to the cross, and is taken down amidst the sobs and groans of the audience. The preacher explains and dilates upon the crucifixion in a sensational manner, gesticulating and raving in a way which seems more adapted for a theatre than a church. After sunset, the streets are all illuminated with Chi- nese lanterns, hung in festoons across the street, and the procession forms. The first figures are draped in long grey cloaks with hoods over their faces. Some of these drag long and heavy chains attached to their feet; others flagellate themselves over the left shoulder with chains; these are incognito, having some terrible sin to expiate. Stories are told of great but not good signori, arriving in the dead of night from their distant palaces, in the greatest secrecy, in order to do penance in this procession. Having flogged themselves three times round the to~vn, they return to their homes before the village has dis- covered how great a personag& thus hu- miliated himself. After these come a less weird procession in white gowns, and blue or red cloaks all carry long tapers. Then come little children in spangled dresses, with wings fastened to their shoulders, burning incense before a hearse draped with black velvet, and sur- mounted by a crown, on which is laid the pasteboard figure of. Christ. The hearse is followed by a procession of pasteboard figures, all life size, borne upright on ~vooden stands. First the Madonna in black, with her handkerchief to her eyes; then St. John, stretching forth his hands towards her; the Magdalen; and, finally, St. Veronica, displaying the handkerchief on which is impressed the face of Christ. These life-sized figures borne aloft, and tottering on their stanc~, have a ghastly effect. After having paraded three times round the town, the procession enters the church, where the crucifix is now bril- liantly illuminated. They range them- selves around it, and another dramatic sermon takes place. On leaving the church the population proceeds to view various little shows representing phases of Christs passion and crucifixion Christ in the garden, a pasteboard. figure kneeling, and surrounded by plants, well lighted up; Christ scourged, etc. The next morning, early, men go about ham- mering bits of wood, and crying out, Come to mass, in memory of Christs death. This is called the tric-a-trac. COURTSHIP. COURTSHIP and marriage go on of course in remote Italian villages as else- where; and it has been incumbent on me to assist at many weddings, and to listen to many confidences as to how it all came about; the efforts made to get settled, and the difficulties encountered, being told on both sides with en~aging candor. The pros and cons are discussed openly; friends and acquaintances are asked if they will kindly look out for a young lady with a handsome dot for Antonio, or if they will just mention all excellent quali- ties of Maria to the parents of an eligible young man. The relations on both sides haggle and bargain until each side thinks it has done the other pretty completely. XVhen all the preliminaries are settled, but on no account before, the young couple are introduced to one another and told to fall in love. A young lady of my acquaintance came to me for my ~ongrat- ulations on her approaching marriage. I gave them heartily, as she had previously confided to me that having spared no pains with her trousseau, and having it all complete, and tied up with blue rib- bons, it was annoying that the S~OS() should alone be ~vanting, especially as her younger sister was always having offers which she could not accept; for the father was a methodical man, and would on no account have a daughter married out of her turn. 1-laying offered the proper felici- tations, Well, and what is his name? I inquired. Oh, I dont know! Papa has not yet told me that, answered the bride elect. The necessity of giving wedding pres- ents is imposed only upon the near rela- tions of the bride. Odes are cheaper, and many a poet unknown to fame will rhyme industriously when any young lady of his acquaintance gets married. He 42 MADEMOISE - LE ANGELE. will then have his effusions printed on ornamental paper, and on the wedding- day the tables are strewn with original poems, some sentimental, otners lace- tious, and many what we English are supposed to think shoking (always with- out the c), and which are indeed calcu- lated to startle one brought up accord- ing to our ideas of decorum. These improprieties are especially observable in the odes written by priests. It is thought correct to endow the bride in these com- positions with every virtue and grace, but more emphatically that particular virtue or grace in which she is most deficient. Thus an ugly girl will be extolled for her amazing beauty, a stupid one for her ex- traordinary talents, and an ill-tempered one for her angelic meekness of disposi- tion. The mother and sisters of the bridegroom do not go to the wedding they sit at home to receive the pair, who do not immediately start on their honey- moon, but betake themselves first to the brides new home, where some relations of her own will perhaps accompany her, and stay until the next morning. A young man is but little consulted about the choice of his partner in life, and a girl is seldom allowed any voice at all in the matter. A father who said that he would not marry his daughter without her own consent, created quite a sensa- tion by the declaration. The daughter in question exclaimed: Notv, isnt that good of papa? Perhaps it is because mama poveretta had never seen him till she married, and at first she didnt like him at all. The peasants have a freer choice in marriage; a pretty peasant girl will change her betrothal a bood many times before she finds one to her mind. Well, and when are you going to marry Pasquale? one inquires of Assunta, who replies: Oh, I have got tired of Pasquale; he beat me the other day, so I have broken with him, and now I am going to see how Giacomo will suit me. By the time she does marry, neither Pasquale nor Gia- como, but Arigo, she will be very proud of the number of pairs of earrings of which she has despoiled her discarded suitors. She, too, has been working at her corredo from an early age, and will have an oaken chest full of linen for the house and for herself. She returns home after the marriage ceremony and remains ~vith her parents for two or three days; the bridegroom then comes to fetch her home, and it is at his house that the festa takes place. From The Gentlemans Magazine. MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. BY ALICE CORKEAN. CHAPTER I. CHATEAU Jouv, on the confines of Nor- mandy and Brittany, stood amidst its woods, some way out of the, village that bore its name. It was July, and it had rained inces- santly, not for a day or two, not with cheery intervals between the showers, not with an occasional streak of sunshine jo- vially pushing aside heavens door, just to assure the world that all was right, and dry weather would come yet, but dis- mally, doggedly, sullenly for a whole week together. It was still raining. Outside the chateau a trackless, uncharted sea of mud spread, in which stood crest-fallen trees, spiritless hedges, and pallid flowers. Over it the birds flew dejectedly, loW- spirited horses ploughed through. it, and some cows stood mid-leg deep in it, re- gardless of consequences. It was a limp world, that had lost all pluck and showof bravery under the drip-drip scolding of the rain. Inside the chAteau, the company was assenbled in the hall round the log fire that burned in the deep hearth. It was a handsome apartment, hung with sober tapestries and furnished with splendid old oak. Mademoiselle Ang~le de Say, the young chAtelaine, was wont to draw a vivid and gloomy picture of the chAteau to her friends in Paris, painting it as a som- bre abode, buried in the woods, with a sinister northern tower haunted by a ghost; but it was, in truth, a fine man- sion of no great antiquity. It was roomy, commodious, and bore in its exterior and interior arrangements the stamp of a cer- tain stateliness and fine taste. Whatever may have been the sombre colors in which it ~vas the young ladys fancy to paint ChAteau Jouy to her friends, certain it is, that when she came to it, the place was transformed into an enchanted residence, a summer palace, a centre of movement and gaiety. She filled it with her Parisian friends. She al~vays carried a bit of Paris with her wherever she went. \Valks in the morn- ing; rides on horseback through the woods in the afternoon; music, dancing, charades in the evening, were the order of the day, and had continued till this spell of wet weather had set in. Mademoiselle Ang~le s spirit had man- fully borne up against it. She had kept her guests alive by her gaiety, but now MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. 43 ennui was beginning to gain upon her, and with hers their spirits were flagging. Repartees were growing flat, flirtation heavy on hand, billiards monotonous; and voices raised in song sounded hoarse. What was to be done? A vast amount of correspondence that had fallen into ar- rears had been made upbooks and pa- pers had been read nothing now was left to drive back the in-coming tide of ennui. To make matters still more de- pressing General de Say had been called away to Paris on business, and Monsieur Eug~ne Dufresny, an artist of note, a gold medalist at the last Salon, to whom Made- moiselle Ang~le had been betrothed since last spring, was also away, painting a background for a picture, at some twenty miles distance from the chftteau. The company assembled round the wood fire that morning were: two young married couples, the wives had been An- gales friends at the convent where she had been educated; Mademoiselle de Lus- tre, her old maiden aunt; an elderly mar- quise, and Monsieur Henri de Ch~vres, Ang~les cousin, a dapper young man with a sandy moustache and an eye-glass, who paid court to all pretty women. What are we to do? It is death it is despair it is the end of the world that is upon us, said Mademoiselle An- g& le in her bright, joyous voice, looking out of the window at the dripping trees and the agitated puddles. But what elf/zn what, I ask you, did they do in the ark to pass the time during the deluge? asked Monsieur de Ch~vres, apostrophizing the window- panes. They had plenty of occupation, stop- ping the leaks, feedinz the animals, ar- ranging the conjugal quarrels of the many couples, said Ang~le. Occupation is the destroyer of ennui. Here I am quite content, by a good fire, with my- knitting. I wait for the sunshine, said Mademoiselle de Lustre, lifting her voice from the corner where she sat. Since Ang~les mothers death, the good soul had filled her place as her niece s chaperon. She meekly danced behind the damsel in the mad capers she was often bent on performing, following her about with wraith-like fidelity, raising the while a plaintive, reed-like note of protesting platitude. Mademoiselle, my aunt, you are the goddess of wisdom, said Monsieur de Ch~vres, pirouetting round and making her a bow. Minerva ought to be repre- sented absorbed in the eternal knitting of stockings, and ignoring all mortal ennui.~, Ah, my little aunt, said Ang~le, coin- ing to seat herself .on the arm of Made- moiselle de Lustres chair, and playing with the worthy ladys ball of worsted, you would face eternity with compla- cency if you had your knitting in it. The clic-clic of the needles is like a drowsy voice repeating, Down with rebellious thoughts and all the time the stock- ing grows like a grey life of peaceful days. And tapestry- what is that like? asked Madame de Beaumont, lifting a smiling face from her embroidery frame. I am asking myself, said Monsieur de Ch~vres, leaving the window and twirl- ing the string of his eye-glass, what Dufresny is doing in this weather, off there in the wooden barn he has set up for himself ? He is painting a fine effect of mud, and a damp, red-nosed shepherd upon it, imbibing a horror of water for the rest of his days, said Ang~le, laughing and blushing. I can see it from this, she continued, stretching out her hand. It will create a fzu-ore at the Salon. My portrait this year. A sketch of slush next year, ~vith a horrid traml) trudging across it. Such are painters, everything comes handy to them. My niece, you only care for pretty things you are vain. You do not like the poor because they wear rags, and are not clean to look at, said Mademoiselle de Lustre. I give them money. But these un- ~vashed folk in ragswho smell of wet earth if I ~vere an artist I should not choose them as models. But Euo~ne is a poet-painter, so, you understand, he has anointed eyes. You are right, mademoiselle, he is the epic poet of poverty, said Monsieur de Beaumont enthusiastically. Fle will be the epic poet of mud this year, answered Ang~le. It will be mud, as never mud was painted before. To look at it will give you an influenza. ~ You ought to send a dove over it, car- rying a letter, bidding him return, said Madame de Beaumont. My dear, replied AngNe with a laugh that did not bring out her dimples in her cheeks as usual, people who knit and people who paint are self-sufficing. Our dove would be sent back to us, without so much as an olive-branch of greeting. But, she continued, we might defy the weather we might go and fetch him back 44 MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. in a body clothed in water-proofs and But the idea the idea! cried a sh~ in goloshes. chorus of voices. My niece! exclaimed Mademoiselle Well, here it is, answered Monsieur de Lustre with shocked severity. de Ch~vres rising. Let us have the vii- That would not be convenable, re- lage genius up. We do not know ~vhat to plied Ang~le, shrugging her shoulders. do with ourselves. Let Ang~le, our But in this weather you seeone is beauty, give him a sitting. We shall sit inclined to do somethino somethino- b out of the way round. We shall make him talk. We tremendous abrogate the shall see what he can make of that grace- laws make a coup deta/ or else retire ful head. It will be a revelation in por- to bed and stay there till the sun comes traiture. out. What is to be done? He will make me look like an ancient l7ive la rJ,i5ubliqzee / I have an idea, washwoman, said Ang~le. but an idea! cried Monsieur de Ch~vres. No, like a porcelain shepherdess, witi Ah! exclaimed everybody, looking a mouth scarce large enough to insert a towards him. pea, said another. Listen! said Monsieur de Ch& vres, I think he will give you the air of sitting astride on his chair, and joining a Roman emperor, said Monsieur de the tips of his fingers in a bunch. Yes- Ch~vres. terday I went, under my umbrella, to the At any rate, I accept your idea, said Maine on business. There, while wait- Ang~le. Let us have the genius of ing for Monsieur le Maire, I amused my- Jouy up. -. self looking a bout me : here, there, every- But, my niece, remonstrated the where. But what attracts my attention plaintive voice of Mademoiselle cle Lus- rivets it, what fascinates me, is a portrait tre. There is Eug~ne Dufresny. He smooth as this window-pane and has painted your portrait. What will he shining with varnish. The portrait of a say? tub of a man, with a pimple on the side Mv aunt, this portrait ~vill be a foil to of his nose: a complexion of beet-root, his. You reproach me for being vain, and every eyelash painted. A tricolored frivolous, it is Eug~nes fault. He has scarf binding his stomach. A magisterial made me look so pretty. The portrait of frown knitting his brows the image of the village genius will act wholesomely on Justice incarnated in a grocer. Vive la my character. It will be like seeing con- r6/ublique/ say I to myselfit is Mon- tinually hung up before me my face, re- sieur le Maire. As I say this Monsieur flected in a coffee-pot. This, my good le Maire enters. I look at my man; I little aunt, you will admit would cure the look at the portrait. Everything is there most robust conceit, and depress the most pimple~eyelashes~blueytingeabout frolicsome spirits. It will be a penance the lips bilious tinge in the white of the a memento, saying: You will grow eyes all there with inexorable exacti- old. You must wear a wig you must tude. It is Monsieur le Maire to the life! paint, some day. The elderly marquise Monsieur le Maire emphasizedseen in present coughed sharply here, and An- the convex side of a spoon. gale paused; catching the assemblys eyes Well! said Ang~le, as l\Ionsieur de fixed admiringly upon her, she smiled Ch~vres paused to take breath. But I with all her dimples. When my small do not see the idea yet. world is inclined to spoil me with kind- Listen, it is coming. My business ness, you know, I shall have only to look accomplished, That is a fine portrait, up and see myself as I shall be some say I. It is the work of the village day. genius. I patronized him when I came And mademoiselle, my aunt, put in into office, replies Monsieur le Maire, Monsieur de Ch~vres, you understand strutting about like a pigeon in the sun- the artistic interest of comparing what a shine. A right and noble thing to do, I man like Dufresny, and one like our vil- reply with a bow-. I get out, and make labe genius, can make of the same head. my way down the village still ufider my We are all dying of curiosity to see umbrella. I enter the grocers shop. In it, said Ang& le. We owe it to our the back parlor I see a portrait of madame. guests, my aunt. In this weather, you The same tomato coml)lexion, the same see, to bring them down into the country shiny surface; A fine portrait, I say. it is our duty to do something to amuse The good peol)le cry out, It is by our them. Allow me to write this minute to village genius. They tell me his name, I this unknown painter to come. forget it now. Oh, my niece! exclaimed the poor MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. 45 lady in despair, for she knew when An- gale insisted upon anything in this ardent fashion, her little game of opposition ~vas useless. Then you do not know his address. His address! That is nothing. We can find it out. Jacques knows every- thing and everybody. We shall have Jacques up. Ring the bell, Henri. The bell was rung, and Jacques, in his dark livery, imposing and quiet, appeared a minute after. There is a painter in the village ; the people say he is a genius. We want him up, began Ang~le, impetuously, to Jacques, who looked calmly puzzled. Pardon, said Monsieur de Ch~vres, interposing. Can you find out for us, mon ami, the name and address of a painter who has taken the portrait of Monsieur le Maire? He lives in the vil- lage. A light dawned on Jacquess counte- nance. He remembered that Antoine, the under-gardener, had just had the por- trait of his mother taken ; it was a famous likeness. Send Antoine up, ordered Ang~le. A moment after, Antoine was there on the threshold, shuffling his feet and hang- ing his head. Mon ami, said Monsieur de Ch~vres, addressing him in his clear, saccadie voice, you have had the portrait of your mother taken? Yes, monsieur, replied Antoine. A fine portrait, I am sure. It is like her? Yes, monsieur, responded Antoine, with something of pride through his shamefacedness. It is as like as one two-sous piece is like another. And the cap? Oh, the cap! said Antoine, entirely losing his timidity. Its all there, with its pink bows and its borders of lace. Never did I see anything so natural. Im sure of it, said Monsieur de Ch~vres affably. He is a great man, this painter. What is his name? Ah! but, yes, he is a great man! His name is Coic Pare Coic; everybody knows him here. Coic Pare CoYc! that is the name, cried Monsieur de Ch~vres, with a ges- ture of triumph. And how much do they give him for his portraits? asked Ang~le. Thirty francs fifty francs, mademoi- selle. They say Monsieur le Maire gave him one hundred francs. We shall give him three hundred francs, she said with decision, sitting down and dashing off a note. There, Antoine, find out Pare Cofc. Give him this. I suppose the worthy man knows how to read, as he knows how to paint. Find him out. Bring him back. We shall be at the top of the house, in the room where Monsieur Dufresny some times l)aints. . - Antoine disappeared on his mission. Now, she continued, looking round on the company, in what dress shall I sit to our village genius? In an ing~nne costume white muslin, blue sash or in full ball attire ? You look a Greuze in that blue gauze with the roses, said Madame de Beau- mont. Vz, tour le Greu~e, then, replied Ang~le. Go up to Eu~nes painting- room. I shall join you there. When AngNe reappeared in diaph- anous blue draperies, two dripping um- brellas were to be seen jogging alongside of each other up the garden path. Vive in rdpubiique! Here is Pare CoYc! shouted Monsieur de Ch~vres, waving his hand above his head. CHAPTER II. IT was certainly not an imposing figure that stood upon the threshold of the door a few minutes after, bowing to the com- pany. The poor artist carried a heavy paint-box in his right hand; a woollen comforter was twisted round his neck. He was a gaunt, spare, thin-haired man, of about forty-five years of age, with bright eyes, that had a certain keenness of glance. After he had made his bow, he remained still where he was, his figure slightly bent, waiting for an invitation to enter. But there was nothing servile in his attitude; there was a look of gentle, inoffensive conceit about the liumble painter. A slight fit of coughing came upon him as he stood there; and as he lifted his left hand to screen his mouth, it was perceptible that it trembled. There had been a movement of curios- ity when the door had opened, and the gentlemen simultaneously stuck their glasses into their eye-sockets. Ang~le advanced a few paces, and said, with a graceful gesture, En/rez do;ic, mo;z- siezer, ft vons en ~rie. He advanced at once with another bow, half deprecatory, half self-reliant. It was apparent, as he came nearer, that he had a pinched and pallid look ; that his clothes were threadbare, and were marked by that shininess of surface that betrays much 46 MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. brushing. It was evident also that his composure was either assumed or the re- suit of subdued excitement; for in his oestures there was a restrained hurry; and a slight trembling was visible. In the glances that he cast about him, there was a mixture of confidence, elation, and appeal. It is I who am to be your sitter, said Ang~le, moun ting upon the long deal box, covered with green baize, that had been placed there for Monsieur Dufresnys models. The poor painter muttered some unin- telligible syllables. We have seen your portrait of Mon- sieur le Maire, and we 1)resent you our compliments upon it it is a famous like- ness, said the accentuated tones of Mon- sieur de Ch?~vres. A ghastly smile of pride lit up Pare CoThs face. I heard that the gentle- men and ladies had seen the portrait, he replied. It is Monsieur le Maire and his scarf, to the lifeespecially the scarf, said Monsieur de Ch~vres. It is what I heard of that portrait that made me wish to have my likeness from your brush, interposed Ang~le. You are very good, mademoiselle I have down-stairs a canvas Antoine car- ried it for me of the same size as that on which I painted Monsieur le Maire I thought mademoiselle would like to have hers taken in the same style. It is just what I wish ; to be as like Monsieur le Maire as possible, cried Ang~le, trying to steady her voice, as a stifled laugh xvent round the room. The friends of mademoiselle ask no more, said Monsieur de Ch~vres with emphasis. Nothino- more, echoed the two other gentlemen. I feel confident I shall make the por- trait 1like, said Pare CoTh with a grave bow. The kindness and evident appreciation of the company were beginning to tell upon him, the nervous trembling was wearing off: the self-assurance of his bearing was becoming less affected. When Antoine came up with the canvas, he was almost at his ease. Yes, mademoiselle, if you will let me, I shail loser you, he said in reply to Ang~les request. 1 have experience you see twenty years, that counts, he ~vent on with a little vain smile, looking about him; half the success of a portrait is in the rose. That~oseof the maire is mao-i said Monsieur de Ch~vres. I made Monsieur le Maire sit well op- posite to me, square on his haunches, the chest dilated, the eye fixed, it gave him the magisterial air monsieur notices. But poor little me, who am not a maire, how must I sit? asked Ang~le. There is the front rose, that has a good effect, said the l)ainter, Made- moiselle, will you have the kindness to look at me full front, that I may see the two shoulders, and the ~vhole face, and the two hands crossed in front. Like this? said AngMe sittino- bolt upright, swinging herself round in an un- compromising, full-faced /ose, grasping her two hands tight upon her knees. A titter went round the company, the humble artist joined in. Ah ! no, that is not the thing it does not suit made- moiselle somethin b more in character, more graceful, with sentiment. Try, mademoiselle, there is a tose, ah! arose the ladies like, the tips of your two fin~ers against your cheek, the head bent, just so. Pardon me, allow me, the elbow just a little pushed away, and the face a bit turned ; there, there, that is it. Oh! yes, it is perfect! It is sentiment itself If you could only see yourself, cried a chorus of voices. Is it not graceful? said Pare CoYc with innocent satisfaction. There is but one little thing wanting, a flow-er for mademoiselle to hold between the tips of her fingers. A gill y-flo~ver, let me send for a gilly- flower, cried Monsieur de Ch~vres. I must ask these ladies and o-entle- men to have the goodness not to look now ; when I am satisfied, when I feel the portrait is good, a likeness, I shall show it to them. An expression of dis- appointment sho~ved itself on the various faces, and for a moment rebellion was threatened, but Ang~l e insisted that her painter should be obeyed. We can talk, she said to Monsieur de Ch~vres. We may question Mon- sieur CoYc. He may perhaps tell us some of his experiences as a portrait-painter. Certainly and I have experience, answered Pare CoYc, ~vith humble vanity. Listenino- to talk gives animation to the face of the sitter. Monsieur le Maire talked all the time. And so for twenty years you have heen takino- portraits about here. my good man, began Monsieur de Ch~vres, in his quality of spokesman. MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. 47 Yes, monsieur, for twenty years, more or less. They have come for miles about J ouy to me. It is always, Take my por- trait, Pbre CoYc thats how they call me. Then the next question is, How shall I sit? They always ask me that. For the men, the front pose that is the one that suits them, for if they have a chain, or a pin, or shirt-stud, you can also show them off like that. Like Monsieur le Maires chain, said Monsieur de Ch~vres, sweeping his hand across his chest. That was a cizef- da?uzre, that chainun mitigated chrome yellow, every link of it. You are very good, monsieur; but, if I may say it, every one admired that chain it was the marvel of the neigh- borhood. Then for the ladies. The rose they like; it is the attitude mademoiselle has chosen. It suits them. But the grocers wife she, for in- stance her lose was well in front, put in Monsieur de Beaumont, when the stifled laughter behind allowed him to speak. Ah, yes, that one was. You see, monsieur, some like to have their whole face painted their two eyes, and the two corners of their mouth ; while in this Jose you see only one eye and a bit of the other. Thats the objection to it. They like to have the worth of their money, said Monsieur de Ch~vres. Thats it! thats it! exclaimed the artist, joining in the laugh that went round. Pare CoYc had never felt more at his ease. His heart expanded towards these kind and pleasant folk. He painted rapidly, laying his color in even sweeps, as if he were tinting a door panel, with his head on one side to judge the effect of his work. When he left the chateau he was happy. He walked over the mud as if wings grew at his heels. A gro- tesque smile of happiness twisted his lips. As for AngMe, she appeared so beautiful to him, that even in thought he felt afraid to raise his eyes to hers, and as he went he muttered to himself, Gomme elle est belle / co~zme elle est belle / and it is I who am chosen to present her on canvas to the world ! The next day the rain was still falling, but the painter was punctual at his post. There were traces of special adornment in his apparelan extra tinge of shini- ness discernible in his threadbare coat, and he wore a plaid necktie he had bought at the village fair; in his hand he carried a nosegay of homely flowers, wet ~vith the rain, which, shuffling up with a bow of clumsy gallantry, he presented to An- g~le. There was a blundering shyness in his address. She seemed to him even more beautiful than she had done the day before, and lie felt afraid to look at her. Again he petitioned that his picture should not be looked at that day, and Ang~le ordered that lie should be obeyed. She took him under her protection, she was very kind to him, she flattered him she managed him with such admirable tact that his heart uncoiled like a snail out of its shell after rain. After a while his tongue loosened. The poor artist chat- tered of himselflife had been hard at the first start the neighbors had not appreciated him; and, with a contraction of his features that did duty for a smile, lie rubbed his chest and said it had been serr~e in those days. But now the neighbors look up to you as much as they do to Monsieur le Maire ?said Ang~le. Yes, iiademoiselle; so they do. They, are always in and out of my house. When I have finished a picture, it is quite an event in the village; if you heard the good people, it is P~re CoYc, P~re CoYc, on every tongue. You ought to be in Paris, my friend. You ought not to be buried here. It is the portrait of the president you should be doinb, said Monsieur de Ch~vres. Monsieur, you are very good, an- swered the painter. It has long been my wish to be in Paris. As you say, only a few good peasants know me here; but now, perhaps, that I have done niademoi- selles l)ortrait, it has been a good chance for me, for you know hanging up in made- moiselles s& on, her friends seeing it, may wish to have theirs done by the same per- son. That might well be. Then, mon- sieur, I would come. You would make your fortune, with a furore, said Monsieur de Beaumont, sending his voice above the subdued hilarity of the company. I am timid. I am not accustomed to high society, answered Pare CoYc, with a feeble wriggle of his wasted frame. Ahi ! an artist like you can hold up his head with any one, said Ang~le. Thank you, mademoiselle, answered the poor painter, his ~vorn hands trem- bhin with emotion, and his eyes filling. I said that yesterday to myself, coming up here, for you see,}av~zis/eur, I have a cold, and that helped to take the cour- age out of me. Then, I had never been inside a chfiteau. Monsieur he Maire had only a butchers shop, so my heart was 48 beating. But all the time I walked up I repeated to myself, Jean, you are an art- 1st. Artists have been at the court of kings, and the thought gave me courage as thouTh I had drunk a glass of wine. Pare Coic, you are, without exception, the most extraordinary man I ever met. You ought to have a statue erected to you on the Place, exclaimed Monsieur de Ch ~vres. And who knows? There may be one yet, answered ~\ng~le, letting fall a smile on the l)OOt artist that made him feel as if he were already mounted on the pedes- tal of the proposed memorial. He painted on in silence. I am dying with impatience to see the l)ortrait, said Madame de Beaumont. To-morrow, I think I can show it, answered Pare CoYc. It must be smoother. My pictures when they are finished are always so smooth. And shining! put in Monsieur de Ch ~vres. Oh, yes, they shine well ! said P~re Cofc, with a complacent smile. Like a well-varnished pair of boots, suggested Monsieur de Beaumont, making a motion with his hands as if he were using the blacking-brush. Something in the accent caught Pare Cofcs ear; he quickly glanced with a slight flurry about him. It is not the varnish, but the soul that makes them shine, said Ang~le. Pare CoYc laughed with the rest at the young ladys joke, but tears rose in his eyes. Size believed in him. When he reached home he sat in his shabby room, with her portrait before him, doing noth- ing. The liou rs passed, and still he did nothing. He threw back his head, with his eves closed, his poor pinched nose up in the air, he let the afternoon slip, smiling and muttering to himself. Always An- gale was there before him, throning aloft in her blue draperies, and always appear- ing to him so lovely that even in thought he dared not lift his eyes upon her. CHAPTER III. Now these ladies and gentlemen may look at the portrait, said Pare Coic, after having worked a while on the third day. If mad~moiselle will remain where she is, they may compare the copy with the original. It was a hideous, flat, brick-colored thing. the cot~pany were invited to in- spect. There was a pause. The ladies suffered agonies in their efforts to look grave. Some remained still gazing at it~ MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. others put their handkerchiefs to their mouths. The gentlemen surveyed it through their eye-glasses. Bravo! bravissimo! it surpasses my expectation, said Monsieur de Ch~vres, breaking the silence. I am relieved ! said the poor artist, with a radiant countenance. It is always an anxious moment when I show my pic- tures for the first time. But mademoi- selle inspired me. That is evident at a glance. Those eyes. That hair! They are those of Ve- nus herself; of the Queen of Love,, as- serted Monsieur de Beaumont, laying his hand on Pare Coics shoulder. I think it is beginning to come, re- plied Pare Coic, with humble vanity, turn- ing round with a smile. Beginning! my friend. It has come. I vow it is a portrait once seen, never to be forgotten. It smiles well, does it not? said Pare Coic, complacently gazing at his work. It smiles divinely, cried Monsieur de Ch~vres, gathering his fingers into a bunch and blowing them open with a kiss. What I admire most are the e~es, they are so blue, put in Madame de Beaumont, in a thin voice of frightened lauuhter Mademoiselles eyes are the true ul- tramarine tint. I used it almost without white, answeredP~re Cofc. But the eyelashes were there ever such eyelashes! said Madame de Beau- mont. They are heavier than mademoiselles but long lashes, on the lower lid es- pecially, do well in paintino~ said the artist. It is the privilege of art to add beau- ties to nature, said Monsieur de Ch~vres. Not in this case, said the poor artist, shaking his head and making a depreca- tory bow. I hope monsieur is giving me the beautiful rosy tint of Monsieur le Maire plenty of crimson lake in it, said An- g6le. Exactly, you would not know one from the other. A vermilion complex~ ion! answered Monsieur de Beaumont. Straw-berries and cream. The straw- berries predominating well, said Mon- sieur de Ch~vres. P~re Coic cast an uneasy glance over his shoulder at the speaker. It is a little too red for mademoiselle. I shall soon work the pearl tint in. I beg you will not that would spoil MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. 49 all. I wish it to be the same as Monsieur le Maires a pendant to his, said An- gale. It is a pendant it is the counter- part! cried several voices. Not the counterpart; Monsieur le Maire was Justice, mademoiselle is Grace, said Pare CoYc with a bow to Ang~1e. You have said it; in the catalogue of your works, there the two pictures will be labelled, Justice and Grace; said Mon- sieur de Ch~vres. The company tittered, and Pare Coic gave a wintry smile. The portrait is developing the mien of a Roman emperor; your delicate, aris- tocratic nose, mademoiselle, has the im- pressive hook of the eagle, remarked Monsieur de Beaumont, still examining the picture with his eye-glass, and draw- ing in the air an exaggerated curve with his finger. You find the nose too long? said Pare Coic, passing his brush over the painted feature; then with a feeble ef- fort at self-assertion he screwed up his eyes and ducked his head on one side; I do not think so. I find it is quite mademoiselles nose. He looked round, and saw the laughter on all the faces; he quickly glanced to- wards An~le with a perplexed appeal. She was laughing. His eyelids quivered, be grew somewhat pale. Soon the cho- rus took up the whispered strain again he could hear the titters and distinguish some phrases. The eyes look like French plums. What doleful reminis- cences of leeches the eyebrows bring! The hair would make the fortune of a pomatum, if the picture were copied as an advertisement. The chin looks like a slice of cheese. There is a decided inflammation on the top of the nose. Is it a chilblain ? I ;nllst see it I cannot wait another minute, cried Ang~le. I should like to know mademoiselles opinion, said Pare Coic faintly. She jumped down. Oh, mon Dieu she exclaimed with a gasp. What a nose, and what a tangle of hair! A love. sick eagle wearing a wig. P& e Coic looked at her when she re- sumed her seat. She was agitated with suppressed merriment. He worked aim- lessly on, now painting desperately, here and there all over his picture not say- ing a word, his lips drawn, a slight moist- ure on his brow. LIVING AGE. VOL. XXXVII. 1876 That is a famous bow of ribbon on my shoulder, remarked Ang~le when she could trust her voice. It throws Monsieur le Maires scarf completely into the shade, said Monsieur de Ch~vres. The painter laid down his brushes, rose and faced them. I see it now, you are mocking me, he said, in a voice shaking with emotion. You have been mocking me all the time it amused you to invite me to your rich house to laugh at me. Perhaps I dont know how to paintas the rich under- stand paintingbut the poor like my pictures. I have earned my bread hon- estly by them, these twenty years. It ~vas not I who asked to come to your chateau it was you who sent for me. Eli bien! I think it is an unworthy act to send for a man to make a butt of him because he is un~au7!re. He stopped abruptly; in turning he stumbled blindly up against the easel. For a moment lie paused, grasping it to support himself. Then he began hur- riedly with trembling hands to gather to- get her his painting materials. But you misunderstand. It is nothing less than a ckefdwuvre, this portrait. You must finish it, said Monsieur de Ch ~vres. I shall not finish the portrait. I aim not mistaking you, answered Pare Cofe in muffled tones, not pausing in the task of gathering together with half-impotcnt hands his paints and brushes. Well, here is the money, my friend, all the same, as if it were finished, but at least leave it with us, as it is, protested Monsieur de Ch~vres, to whom Ang~le had passed her purse. I shall neither take your money nor leave you my picture, said the artist, suddenly rising from his bent posture for you see, I had rather not have a crust to put into my soup than accept the means of having it from those who mock me and my work. But that is not fair, cried Ang~le. I want my portrait. 1 shall never have another opportunity of being represented with that commanding nose and those languishing eyes. During Pare Coics closing words the door had opened and a man had paused on the threshold in the act of entering. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, clad in a velveteen suit, with leathern gaiters reaching to the knees. His complexion was aglow with the freshness of the wind and rain, and his eyes were bright. A 50 CRIMEAN TOWN LIFE. dark beard covered the lower half of his face. He looked for a moment at the scene before him the gaunt man gesticulating with arm uplifted; the ~vell-dressed crowd of men and ~vomen around him; Ang~le enthroned aloft in blue, garlanded with roses. Some one caught sight of him and exclaimed, CestbDuf,~csuy e;~n. Then followed the hubbub of greeting. The new comer at once made his way to his betrothed, who had risen dimpling and blushing to receive him. He held her hand in his. My dear Ang~le, he said quickly, under hfs breath, this is cruel. Do you not see he feels it? Durino- the exchange of salutations Pare Cofc once more had turned, and stooping down blunderingly resumed the packing tip of his paints and brushes. In his confusion he had squirted a tube of oil-color over his fingers, when he felt a hand upon his shoulder. You are a painter, my friend. I have heard some peasants who sat for me speak of you. I, too, am a painter. Let us shake hands ! The humble artist darted a suspicious glance upward at the sl)eaker. He met the manly mildness of the dark eyes bent upon him, and he half unconsciously let his hand slip into the one outstretched as he felt its strong and gentle grasp close over his, the tension about his mouth re- laxed, and a moist appeal came into his eyes. You see, monsieur, he said, I know how to paint the poor, but I do not know how to paint the rich. That is because we artists can only paint those who sympathize with us, an- swered Dufresny, with cordial emphasis. if we and our models do not understand each other, we are stupid before them. \Ve are all astray. Other people do not undet-stand this, but we kuo-w it. We sizzist have sympathy. Ah, monsieur, how true that is how true ! mumbled the poor painter. Ah you you understand; you are an art- ist. But all the same they have hurt me. You should not let them hurt you, continued Monsieur Dufresny, in those heart-stirring tones. XVhat do they know about art? What do they under- stand of its difficulties, of the labor the honest painting of a bit of ribbon or a flower represents? You roust mind mc, my friend, who am a brother artist, and I tell you I admire you for what you have achieved, unaided. There is not one here myself included who would have had the pluck and ~vork in us to do it. You are very good, monsieur, said the artist, a sob dilating his chest. Now I shall walk home with you. You shall show me your pictures, went on Dufresny, shutting the paint-box with a snap, at ~~-hose lock the shaking fingers of P~re Coic had been vainly fumbling. They ~vent out together, Monsieur Dii- fresny carrying the clumsy box, Pare Coic following with the l)Ortrait. I think, said Mademoiselle Ang~le with staccato accentuation, consideri n~ how little we have had of Monsie6r Du- fresnys society latterly, he might have remained with us to-day. It shows he has a good he art, my niece, said Mademoiselle de Lustre, looking up from her knitting \vith a flur- ried brow. You laughed at that l)OO~ artist; he has gone to console him. He has a good heart. Dufresny is a Don Quixote! Vive bz re~ub/ique/ He is a Don Quixote! cried Monsieur de Ch~vres, waving his hand above his head. From Temple Bar. CRIMEAN TOWN LIFE. TIlE Crimea is a land rather of the past than of to-day; a land of memories rather than of passing events; a land whose period of activity and importance is past, whose time of decay and torpor seems to have come. To England it is a land of memories at once sad and heroic, memories of some glory gained, many great names brought to light to be enrolled forever on the lengthening scrolls of fame, and of much priceless blood and young life spent to very little purpose. To the world in general it is the historic Tauric Chersonese, the land of fabled darkness, whence the dread Cimmerians sallied forth on their errands of spoliation and slaughter; the land of the Scythians, a colony of the Greeks, a kingdom of Mithridates the Great ; another region for the hordes of Genghis Khan to sweep over and hold subject, until in time it passed from his successors to the khans of Turkey, from whose feeble grasp it was half wheedled, half wrested by Russia, beneath whose rule it has, like the Cau- casus, decreased in population and in fruit- fulness. Once, in old days, t~e Genoese settlers CRIMEAN TOWN LIFE. at Kaffa, making use of their favorable position, carried their trade overland even to far Kathay, and made the name of the Tauric Chersonese known far and wide in the world of commerce. To-day, save for its salt and hides, a small quantity of lambs skins of a pecul- iar kind, some wine and less petroleum, and for the grain trade that passes through it from the A~ov, the Crimea is scarcely known. The people who dwell in this land are a mixture of many nations: relics of differ- ent races so blended as to have lost all national characteristics; though amongst them one race at least, the Nogay Tar- tars, claim as pure a lineage as any race on earth. Colonists of many nations dwell amongst the people of the soil: Greeks, Germans, Bulgarians, and Jews; but their numbers grow small year by year, as the bated compulsory military service forces them to emigrate, while the conditions under which foreigners can obtain land in the Crimea are not such as to attract fresh comers. But the business of the present article is not with great matters, such as the poli- tics, or ancient history, of the land, but rather with the quiet home-life of a land once great, but now forgotten. In an area of about eight thousand square miles there are not more than eight considerable towns, and of these Sevasto- pol is a ruin, where all the buildings, save the churches, have been tumbled head- long by shot and shell a ruin which de- rives any importance it possesses not from its magnificent but disused harbor, but from the graveyards which lie around, filled with the dead of other lands. Nine years ago, gutted houses were still unre- paired, the streets were tenanted by gaunt, long-haired swine, half-starved curs half wild, and hawks and blue hen-harriers, ~vho fought for the offal in the deserted streets. Since the days of the Genoese, Theo- dosia has come once to the surface as a fashionable bathing-place, but since then Livadia, the summer, home of Russias empress, has drawn the bathers from Theodosia to Yalta, while the papers of to- day ring the knell of Yaltas prosperity when they tell us that Livadia the palace is to become Livadia the educational estab- lishment; and since the grape cure was like Bath waters, rather a fashion than a reality, the days of Yalta may probably be said to have passed when the days of its patroness ended. 5 Ycnicaleh is tumbled-down ruin, where a few score of Greek lighters dwell, and if the bar of Kertch were ever effectually dredged away, would probably lack inhab- itants altogether. Simpheropol and Ka- rasu-Bazar I know, alas! only by hearsay. The first is the capital of the province built with a view to its work as such, and with that work its importance begins and ends. Karasu-Bazar is the manufacturing town of the Crimea, with a large popula- tion, chiefly Asiatic. Eupatoria has still some small share of prosperity, thanks to her salt, and her mud-baths. As seen from the sea she presents nothing but a bleak shore whereon a forest of windmills takes the place of trees. Kertch remains, the town with the oldest history and best- built houses in the Crimea. Here then on Mithridates Hill let us take our stand, and look out upon the every-day life around us. Kertch is a town of consider- able external pretensions ; seen from the sea with her mosquito fleet at her feet, and her streets growing from the base half-way to the summit of the hill that forms the background of the view, she is a comely little city enough. Round her outskirts roll long lines of round-topped hills ~vhence many a chief has been ex- humed to be conveyed (all that remains of him) to the museum at St. Petersburg. The old hill on which the town is built must have been (if antiquaries ~~-ill for- give the term) rather an old rubbish heap than a natural excrescence of the earth, for deep down in its centre people still dig up broken pottery, and other antique refuse, in such quantities as to preclude the possibility of their having got there by accident. Up the face of the hill goes an immensely broad stairway of ancient moss-grown stone, a relic of long-past grandeur. At the foot of the stairway is a broad square surrounded by good stone houses, and sweet-scented acacias, while farther seaward is the bazaar set round with less odorous drinking-dens, whence day and night come the maudlin strains of the drunken islzvoskc/iik, or the cracked notes of the singing-girls. The bazaar, or public market, is a col- lection of roofed stalls, in which most of the buying and selling in every Crimean town is done. Hither in the morning, the peasant women, in short petticoats, ~vith huge long boots, wrinkled by wear and weather into all unwieldly elephantine shapes, come in to sell their ~vares. Hither the long-haired Ivan, red-bearded and pink-shirted, comes to sell the grebe he shot yesterday, or the fish he took in 52 CRIMEAN TOWN LIFE. the straits by last nights toil. Here demanded for it, it is only because the when their goods are sold Ivan and vendor rather more than doubled the Macha, simple souls, get drunk on their price in the first instance to allow for the earnings at the little stall where Uncle reduction he knew must follow. This Stepan sells the potent vodka, nastiest evil habit of bargaining for everything and cheapest of spirits. Here a few falls heaviest on stran~ ers. Here in the hours later you will find them in loud- bazaar all the necessaries of the kitchen tongued strife, but though the noise of it are to be found spread out before the is great the storm is not a dangerous one, housewifes eyes, and as all the shops are and in a few more hours they will both open and close to each other, a vigorous be peaceably asleep on the broad of their and noisy competition for custom goes backs by the wayside. You think the on which distracts the purchaser but police xvill move Macha or Ivan. Yes, if prevents exorbitant charges. In reality they are in the way, but otherwise they every article of food except groceries is may crack a joke on them, though it must extraordinarily cheap here, but those are needs be an old one, and let the sleeping as extravagantly dear the only really bad dogs lie. All day long the bazaar is loud time for the kitchen in Kertch is about with the shrill voices of quarrellers of Easter, when there is such a glut of lambs both sexes, but blows never follow the in the market, that for weeks nothing else oaths, unless a Tartar or a Greek be is killed, and the whole town has to sub. mixed up in the row then there is a sist on abominably gelatinous mutton of bright flash of steel and murder is done the tenderest age. in the broad daylight. In the morning Her marketing over, Katia trots home when Ivan and Macha have slept off the up the flight of stairs to her eyrie on the effects of their carouse, no sense of hill, a low, whitewashed, stone house, to shame takes hold of them on the con- which she has to pick her way over a road trary, a glow of self-o~ratulation at the without a bottom and some feet deep in memory of the good times they have had mud. If we follow her we shall see how possesses them, and they trudge home to she lives. The door opens into a long. lead a hard, earlyrising, thrifty, but ye corridor, where two or three pots of cac- gods! what a slovenly life, until the accu- tus are filling the whole l)lace with the mulated kopecks shall warrant another abundant glory of their scarlet blossoms. spree. The rooms open off from this corridor Hither, too, Katia the young housewife and display interiors bare of paper, in- comes in the yet early morning, when the nocent of carpets, and not over-crowded fishers are just in from the sea, and their with furniture. The walls are in places glistening spoils are still lively on the hollow, and contain apparatus for heating fishmongers carpets of brown matting. the house of a most efficient and economi- Over her head a modest shawl is tied, cal nature. A fire lighted in these Rus- under her arm is a vast basket, and in her sian stoves will so heat the walls that a hand she grasps tight the rouble or rouble fire on the next day will not be needed. and fifty kopecks which is to buy the days The heat too is evenly distributed, so provisions. Day by day she gets all she that the inhabitants of the house are not wants for herself, not purchasing through obliged to scorch their faces whilst the another or laying in a store for the ~veek, cold freezes their spines as in England. but rather looking forward to the market- But the bright red coals are hidden, and ing as a pleasant exercise for her keen flickering flames and hot ashes lend none wit and shrewd tongue. A smart little of that glow of beauty and coziness to woman of business is Katia and loud of Russian interiors, which in England tongue to boot, as all Russian women are makes the whistling of the bitter wind in the drawing-room as in the bazaar, in and dripping of the eaves only so much the higher circles as much as in the low- music to enhance the feeling of comfort est. Our Katia has an accurate knowl- indoors. edge of prices, ay, and of the individual In Katias house, too, all the windows character of every shopman she deals are double, and throughout the four with as well, but in spite of it all I doubt months during which the waves below are much if she ever gets the best of a bar- bound in the iron grip of frost, those ~vin- gain. Every rascal in the bazaar is pre- dows are never opened to let in a single pared for the haggling match that takes draught of the sweet and piercing fresh place with each successive customer, and air. The ordinary Russian house would if our housewife goes away with a pur- not be popular with children; there are chase obtained for one-half the first price no banisters to slide down, for the best CRIMEAN TOWN LIFE. 53 of all reasons, there are no stairs and no compliment: in three years spent amongst upper story for them to lead to if there them I never discovered where it was, were. saw a cradle, or heard an infantine ~var- All the rooms then are on the ground- whoop. There is rarely a garden to the floor, and most of them have doors open- houses; what flowers the Malo-Russ owns ing into each other. The central room, are either in his balcony or at his garden the reception-room, is as unlike an En- out of town. There is a small yard at glish drawing-room as any one room can the back of the house where Katias hus- be unlike another. There is very little band keeps his pointer and she keeps her furniture a piano, sofa, a dozen chairs one pet, a half-tame starling who year and only one table. Fancy, ye gentle- after year comes to build in the little red women of England, a drawing-room with wooden ckz/et, at the top of a clothes- only one table! No need of careful navi- prop, which Katia has erected for his gation here. Though the floors are pol- benefit. ished, they are bare. There are no loose Returned home from her shopping, our mats and other abominations to slide little friend does more than order the away with you over the slippery surface dinner; by the help of Pacha, the crone, as you enter the room. All the chairs who is her slave of all ~vork, she cooks t, are stiffly set against the wall, and if there and when Ivan Ivannovitch comes home is one picture in the room it is only a por- to dinner at two, the zakozvsk~i (appetizer) trait of the czar. There is,it is true, a of raw herring and garlic, the cabbage gaudy- brass frame with a wonderful rep- soup, and boiled meat have all been not resentation of some saint of the Greek only bought but prepared by his handy Church, deep sunk in it, with a floating little helpmeet. taper ever burning in the chain-suspended And now Katias time has come. After silver vase before it, but this is the elkon, dinner she has done with house and hus- the household god. No pretty trifles band and all other worries for the day. which at home mark a womans presence Arrayed in the latest fashions of Kertch, here meet the eyes. Crewel-work, china- she sallies forth for her afternoon con- painting, water-colors, embroidery, even sti tutional. novel-reading, have little or no place in Fashions arrive somewhat late in the lives of Katia and her class. Open- Kertch from the shores of the well- ing out from the drawing-room are the dressed outer world. I well remember dining-room, where the family generally the first ulster that appeared in the Cri- lives, and the bedrooms, which on f6te- mea earned for its owner the sobriquet day-s are opened and furnished with little of the man in the bed-gown, and many tables of green cloth, to do service as an hour of ridicule ; yet three years later, gaming and smoking rooms. Not that the leunesse dorde of Kertch could hardly you may not smoke in any room in the be prevailed upon to relinquish their uls- house. Au contraire, that ash-pan and ters under the heat of a June sun. cigarettecase on the drawing-room table Still Katia is by no means a badly- are expressly laid there for the use of vis- dressed young person. Gloves from itors, and Katia would be cross indeed if Paris, boots of excellent home make, and she omitted to press a visitor to help a costume that (whatever its shape) is himself and light up before launching neat and stylish, set off her fine figure and on the topies of the day. The offer of a buoyant carriage to advantage, while she cigarette is as sure a prelude to conversa- is in herself as thoroughly coquettish and tion in the Crimea as a review of the sans g~neas it isevergiven towomankind weeks weather is to one in England. to be. Now and again too, as fashions Many people will agree with me that the cycles whirl round, Katia is in the race, Crimean opening i.c~ not the worst. and thanks to the very slowness of her There is no library in Katias house, pace, being a whole lap behind in the probably there are not a dozen hooks in race of fashion, appears for a time to it all told. Neither she nor her husband lead. reads much. There are a few papers at Katia is not rich enough for a droshky the club, and a library of two or three yet, so she flits along on foot through ill- hundred volumes in the town, and this paved streets, catching a glimpse of the with the reading evenings which her still, blue straits, flecked with a hundred friend Marie Feodorovna gives in the sails, as she winds down the hill to the main winter, suffice for all her literary wants. town below. Here she turns still sea- There is perhaps a nursery, but let me ward, and, passing under the white flower P~Y my- lady friends of the Crimea a high wreaths of sweet-scented acacia which 54 CRIMEAN TOWN LIFE. bloom over every fro/toir and are the sole adornment of every back yard, she reaches at length what the good folk of Kertch call proudly their boulevard. This is a raised terrace on the edge of the sea some forty yards broad by three or four hundred long; I speak merely from mem- ory, but I fancy I am not far wrong. A few seats, a dozen acacias, a lemonade- house in the middle, and at one end (a separate establishment) a casino with good dancing-room such is Kertch boulevard, the theatre in which most of the love scenes and social comedies of the little town are enacted. The place being raised above the level of the adjoining ground, fenced in with a parapet, all who strut upon its tiny stage are kept in full view and pass and repass before their audience continually. Here fashionable Kertch passes most of its time from noon till midnight in the summer, and even in the winter the winds rarely sweep so bleakly over it as to find no responsive flutter in a fair pedestrians robes, or the long f or sliouba of some half-hibernating gallant from fortress or iaager. Katia is a mar- ried woman now, so one might suppose that she visited the boulevard more in the character of audience than actress. Not at all. Matrimony provides the belles of Kertch at least with a free pass to the realms of unlimited flirtation, ciga- rette-smoking and prefdrence a game of cards much affected in Russia, not al- together unlike whist, with the element or chance considerably increased. As Katia reaches the boulevards, half a dozen gallants, ranging from gymnasts just finishing their course to grey-haired officers who remember the Crimean War, leave their lounging-places and surround her. On the boulevards every one knows every one else; and owing partly to the frce and easy style of Russian society, the custom of addressing men and women by their Christian names, and chiefly to the narrow- limits of the little world in which all life is here confined, the scene on the boulevards is rather that of a huge family party in their own garden than of the public promenade of a large town. Every one is smoking, men without ex- ception, and married women for the most part. The astonishment of a foreigner on seeing a well-dressed woman, apparently a lady, and certainly a stranger to him, bow-ing to him and asking to be allowed to light her cigarette from the hot ashes of his, may be imagined, but there is noth- ing outrd in such an action here. While Katia and her friends flirt and chatter on the boulevards, or stroll thence up the main street and through the square, up and down which, between row-s of shops and in the most uninteresting of sur- roundings, the equipages of the wealthy whirl by, let us follow her and take a glance at the people on wheels. These are for the most part wives and daughters of officers from th fortress, or the wealth- iest of the merchants. The wheels all roll beneath one I)attern of carriage, the familiar droshky, enlarged and beautified with paint and fur w-rappings beyond the standard of that of the local cab-driver, but still to all intents and purposes the same ~-ehicle. Two ladies lean back in the victoria-shaped body of the carriage facing the horses, and opposite sits a cavalier, his long legs straitened and confined beneath the narrowest and most uncomfortable of seats. On the box sits the driver in black velvet waistcoat, with a skirt like a toga, and holes instead of arms through which the full pink sleeves of his shirt appear. Round his waist is a gaudy sash, and on his head the square cap of Poland. His team (or troika) is driven three abreast, at a canter, the head of the shaft horse looking straight in front of him, the heads of the other two looking l)erpetually back at their tails. One other species of carriage may be seen, but this is a one-horse affair, and used only for sport or business. This, the linaika, is a mere seat on wheels, astride of which you sit facing the horse, the driver sitting in a similar position in front of you. In Kertch there are no drives outside the town, the roads being often impassable and never bearably good. Few if any equestrians are to be seen, and no one thinks of driving himself. In fact, I fancy beyond a machine for locomotive l)urposes, the horse is an unpopular ani- mal in southern Russia, though he is cheap beyond all reason (~Io to ~ and, though small, extremely good. And now as the evening wears on ,the boulevards are filling rapidly. Dozens of uniforms, naval and military, have mixed with the increased crush of millinery. In Russia men who have a right to a uniform seldom possess a suit of mufti, or if they do they never wear it, hence ball-rooms and public l)romenades are great gainers in color and l)ictures(lue effect. It is the half-hour of assignations, and these kept, the various groups will begin ~o move off along the main streets, and if as you fol- low in the stream, you raise your eyes, you will find all the balconies and veran WILLIAM WHEWELL. 55 dabs filling with gay costumes and smart uniforms, while merry laughs and saucy jests lead you to believe that simple though the evening meal of tea and fruit and biscuits may be, there is considerable contentment therewith. Here, in the at- mosphere of the sainovar, the arrange- ments for the evening are made, and hence the different parties flock away to the Cro~vn Gardens or Casino as the case may be. The Crown Gardens is the chief and almost only l)lace of amusement for the people of Kertch, and deserves a word of description. A wilderness rather than a garden, it is full of sweet-scented things growing in wild luxuriance, little troubled by gardener or pruning-hook. In the spring and summer it is a rare haunt for the naturalist, for here first will he see the gorgeous colors of bee-eater and roller, and here and here only will the gold and black of the oriole flash on his delighted vision. Here in autumn come the hares, woodcock, snipe, and here too the hawfinches and buntings, with their numerous enemies of the hawk tribe, abound in winter. Here too it was once our luck to watch for a long morning the quaint manners of the little bittern (Arc/ca rn/hula) while climbing or rather running up the almost perpendicular branches of a large tree. The last of all the birds of natures fashioning to turn Blondin, would, you might imagine, be the little bittern, and yet in spite of his long legs, waders feet, and heavy, badly- balanced body, he runs and does bird gymnastics as easily and safely as a tom- tit or wryneck. But, as may be supposed, our little friend Katia does not go to the Crotvn Gardens to study natural history on the contrary, like most of her country- men, she sees little of nature and cares less for it. But there are in the Crown Gardens a ball-room, a supper-room, and endless dusky avenues, where sweet words sound all the sweeter because perhaps even her lax morality tells her they should not be spoken, and so night after night she walks or drives out there and then comes slowly home by moon- light to stop with her half dozen compan- ions at the Tartar cookshop in the main street, where for a freak they sup on Tar. tar sluts/ilis, or availing herself of the free-handed hospitality of her people, she walks into the first of her friends houses she comes to, and announces her inten- tion of supping there. Formal dinners or entertainments of any kind are ex- tremely rare in Kertch, but these scratch supper parties and extempore teas are matters of daily routine. Supper over, perhaps some of the party stroll off again to their beloved boulevard, where, if a chance visitor should stray he might be astonished to find himself far from being the only person who cares for a stroll in the wonderfully bright moonlight by the sea. Indeed, at two in the morning he may many times see a large audience of both sexes listening to the mellow voices of the crew of one of the boats from the gu nship, as they row over the waveless bay,going on board after a jovial night on shore. As the voices die away, night takes hold of Kertch at last, and the full canine chorus breaks out, with which the nocturnal hours of the city are cursed. So Katia is seen safely home, for the streets are not always safe here, in spite of the noisy storoj (night watchman), whose clattering cudgel and raucous voice disturb the night, and if she thinks at all of her day wasted, it is only because it is Friday, and tomorrow being Saturday, the boulevards will be like a tulip garden, with the gaudy dresses of the Jewesses whose fete-day it is, and to whom for the day the favorite promenade is yielded in much the same spirit in which the native in England retires from his most favorite haunts on the intrusion of Arry the tourist. From Macmillans Magazine. WILLIAM WHEWELL.* THE Life of Whewell by Mrs. Stair Douglas has been favorably received, as it deserved to be; and many of us who knew him as one of the chief figures in Cambridge society twenty years ago can- not fail to be thankful for the volume, and for the materials which it contains for completing our knowledge, by the admis- sion which it affords to his family and inner life. Mrs. Stair Douglas herself touches upon the weak side of the volume when she tells us, in the introduction, that it was originally promised that the domestic and academic correspondence should be edited by Mr. Aldis XVright and herself, and that in consequence of the pressure of other engagements Mr. Wright has un- fortunately found himself unable to fulfil this promise. Undoubtedly a sketch * The L and Selechionsfrom Ike Correspondence of H/il/lam H/hewed, DD., late iViaster of Trinity College, Cambridge- By Mrs. Stair Douglas. Lon- don: C. Kegan Paul & Co., s Paternoster Square. 56 WILLIAM WHEWELL. 1mm the hand of one of the late mas- to supply what is lacking in Mrs. Stair ter of Trinitys academic contemporaries Douglass volume; but owing to the cir- would have been of great value. We feel cum~tances to which I have referred, I in reading the volume that this side of the have taken so much interest both in Mr. portrait is the one which is chiefly defec- Todhunters two volumes and in the third live. It seems too late now to repair the which has lately appeared, that I feel im- defect; at all events the experience of the pelled to jot down a few notes concerning l)ast clearly indicates that it is not likely one of the most remarkable, men whom I to be repaired. have had the privilege of knowin~. It has been stated by a writer in the A controversy used to exist in Cam- Satiird~y Review that several persons bridge as to the proper pronunciation of might, within the knowledge of the writer, Whewells name. He was described in a have been found who would have been newspaper article as a man whose name it willing and able to supply that which is was more easy to whistle than to spell; lacking in Dr. Whewells life. I do not and in practice the pronunciation was know what source of information the somewhat various, some saying You-elI, writer may have had, and I feel some others Woo-elI, or perhaps rather XVhoo- hesitation in controverting a statement elI. On a public occasion, when he recited made by one who seems to be so familiar his own name, I remember that his own with the subject upon which he writes; pronunciation corresponded nearly to the nevertheless, as having been much mixed last of these three, which therefore I pre- up with the arrangements made for pub- sume may be regarded as the correct lishing Whewells remains, I may venture renderin~, of the name. l)erhaps to express with some confidence The account of Whewells boyhood and a doubt as to the aid required having been youth, which we have now in an authe-ntic so easy to find. Without troubling the form for the first time, represents him not reader with details which would not inter- merely as brave and strong, and endowed est him, I may state that I was engaged, with a marvellous power of acquiring at the instance of Dr. XVhewells sister, knowledge, but also as pious and steady, for some months in correspondence with gentle and affectionate.* The gentle side a number of his friends who seemed to of his character has never had justice me either capable of doing the work them- done to it before. We in Cambridge for selves or suggesting those who were the most part saw the strong side, and capable. The result of this correspon- ~ery strong it was; rough, too, sometimes, dence was, that eventually it was arranged as strong things are apt to be; and we that the work should be divided. Mr. were much tempted to think of him as the Todhunter kindly undertook to examine giant who might tread upon us if we were the scientific remains, and prepare for in his wayas the man to be feared and the press such portions as he deemed respected rather than the man to be suitable for publication a task which I loved. It is a delight to find in the letters venture to think that every one who has contained in Mrs. Stair Douglass volume, studied his two volumes * will consider abundant evidence that his heart was of to have been most skilfully and conscien- the gentlest, and that his power of loving tiously performed; while the family and was most abundant; and if his character social side of the picture was undertaken had, as his warmest friends ~vould not by Mrs. Stair Douglas. My experience deny, its rough and rude side, it is pleas- at the time when this correspondence took place, and all that has occurred since, * There is a delightful reminiscence of Whewells boyhood, coniributed to Mrs. Stair Douglass volume lead me to the con clusi on that, whatever by his distinguished Lancasier Contemporary and school- may have been the reason, the competent fellow, Professor Owen: The rate at which Whewell for the task which Mr. Aldis Wright mastered hoth English grammar and Latin accidence man was a marvel, and before the year was oat he had ~vas to have performed, and was prevented moved upward into the class including my elder hrother, engagements b the head master, noting the ease with which Whenell by other - from performino- and a dozen more of the same age. Then it was that ~vas not forthcomino- mastered the exercises and lessons, raised the tale and I need scarcely say that I am not rroino- standard. Out of school I rememher remonstrances in to attempt in a short magazine 1 this fashion:Now, Whesveil, if you say any inure than artice, twenty virgil to-day, well wallop youl But even if I had the requisite qualifications, that was easier said than done. I have seen him, with his hack to the churchyard wall, flooring first one then another of the wallopers, and at last public opinion * Dr. William Whewell, late Master of Trinity Col- interposed. Any two of you may take Wisewell in a lege, Cambridge. An Account of his Writings, with fair stand-up fi,bt, hut we wont have more at him at Selections from his Literary Correspondence. By I. once. After the fate of the first pair, a second was not Todhunter, MA., F.R.S. London: Macmillan & Co., found willing. A grand picture this of a brave and Bedford Street, Covent Garden. strong hoy. WILLIAM WHEWELL. 57 ant to find that no one knew it better than himself. In the elegiac verses which he wrote on the occasion of the loss of his first wife are these touching lines Blessed beyond all blessings that life can em- brace in its circle, Blessed the gift was when Providence gave thee to me Gave thee, gentle and kindly and wise, calm, clearseeing, thoughtful, Thee to me as I was j vehement, passionate, blind: Gave me to see in thee, and wonder I never had seen it, Wisdom that shines in the heart clearer than Intellects light. The softening process, which was the result of exchanoin~ college rooms for a wife and a home, undoubtedly had a most beneficial effect upon his character; and those who knew him in the latter part of his career, after his second marriage, could not fail to be struck by the increase of gentleness, which home influence, combined ~vith Christian principle and self-discipline, had been able to produce~ Some characteristic letters which passed between YVheweIl and Archdeacon Hare on the subject of temper appear in Mrs. Stair Douglass volume: it is remarkable that Hare should have been bold enough, and should have had sufficient confidence in his friend, to venture upon a warning on so delicate a subject, and it is gratify- ino to observe that the warning was kindly received; but I refer to the letters, because I think they afford evidence that \Vhewell was not fully aware of the effect sometimes produced by his manner and behavior. He writes : in the friendship which dictates the warning I rejoice; but I do not much believe in the alleged fault. I think the charge arises from those who have no intercourse with me. I have every reason to believe that those who have to do with me do not think me ruffled, and do not find me more vehe- ment than what amounts to firmness. The truth probably is, that he did not always calculate the weight of his own words and manner; but that he needed Archdeacon Hares caution few Cam- bridge men of his time ~vould deny. Passing away from this question of in- firmity of temper, and rejoicing that through the medium of Mrs. Stair Doug- lass volume the really gentle substructure of love and tenderness has been brought into prominence, and will remain as the l)erl~anent representation of Whew-ells character, I will offer the reader a few remarks chiefly founded upon my own recollections. When I was a young man in Cam- bridge, Whewell was in the prime of his powers. His History of the Inductive Sciences was published while I was an undergraduate ; and I remember him well in the university pulpit, when he preached his course of sermons on the Founda- tion of Morals. I have always thought that the appearance of Whewell in St. Marys, was one of the most impressive that I have ever seen ; his commanding person, his grand brow, his massive head, the very impersonation of physical and mental strength it is difficult to con- ceive a more noble picture. Some of his friends had, I think, represented to him that his sermons had in them too much of moral philosophy and too little divinity; and it was perhaps in consequence of this that he chose for the text of his conclud- ing sermon those words from the Book of Job, Suffer me a little, and I will show thee that I have yet to speak in Gods behalf. There was some talk of Whewell be- coming a candidate for the Rerius Pro- fessorship of Divinity; but he knew his own tastes, and estimated his own fitness for the office more accurately than those who advised him to the step. No doubt he could have filled the chair of divinity with dignity and ~vith a certain kind of success as indeed there was scarcely any science for the chair of which he could not have fitted himself on short no- tice; but the bent of his mind was not towards the fathers, and theological con- troversy would have been most distaste- ful to him. Neither would he have made the study of divinity popular in the mi. versity. He felt, I imagine, that his election would have been a mistake, as it undoubtedly would. The first professorship which he held, and by holding which he made his mark upon the science committed to him, was that of mineralogy. His memoir on the o-eometrical treatment of crystal forms was considered by some of his friends as the very best of his scientific contribu- tions; and it had undoubtedly the merit of being the foundation of the system of crystallography developed by his eminent suc6essor in the chair, Professor Miller. He held the professorship for only four years. - Speaking generally it may be said that Whewell was not really great as a mathe- matician. There are indications in his writings of a certain rude strength, but 58 WILLIAM WHEWELL. he had not the true mathematical instinct: he had no taste for the more refined methods of modern analysis, and so far as I know he made no real mathematical advance. The history and philosophy of science were more practicable to him he took a keen interest in watching the course ot science, and in certain branches, esl)ecially that of the theory of tides, he attempted to make contributions; but any addition to our physical knowledge which he may have made bears no comparison with the greatness of his mental endow- ment, and must not be taken as a measure of the man. The phrase, invented, I think, by Sir David Brewster, according to which science was his forte and om- niscience his foible, is one which must not be taken too strictly. Doubtless he extended his thoughts and studies over so wide a field that they could not fail to be sometimes deficient in depth and thor- oughness, but it is not true that in any proper sense of the word he had a great scientific gift. Neither was he great as a college tutor or lecturer, or as a writer of books for the university; he had not (he temperament which made him sympathize with his pupils and they with him he had not the peculiar gift of imparting knowledge easily and agreeably; and his books were very hard and crude, and totally devoid of elegance. I in ay add that he was not great as an examiner; he did not suffi- ciently consider what the examinees were likely to know; nor did he take sufficient pains to put his questions clearly, or to make them exact. On one occasion, when I had the honor of examining with him, the adjudication of a prize, which hung doubtfully between two candidates, de- pended ultimately upon their respective successes in Whewells papers; where- upon it appeared that both the one and the other, though able men, had been able to accomplish so little the result for each was, in fact, so near zerothat after careful consideration he could not determine that one was better or worse than the other. There is not enough,~ said - he,,, very emphatically, to form an Nevertheless, every one felt in those days that Whewell was our great Cam- bridge man; people might peck at him, abuse his books, find fault with his tem- per, and what not, but every one honored him and felt proud of him. When the mastership of Trinity College became vacant, in 1841, by the resignation of Dr. XVadsworth, there was an almost, perhaus I might say quite, unanimous feeling in Cambridge that Whewell was the right man, almost the only l)Ossible man, to succeed him. It has been hinted that his marriage with Miss Marshall brought hini under the notice of influential patrons, and facilitated his appointment. Such, however, was not the belief in Cambridge- there was a quite predominant feeling that he and no one else must be master, and Sir Robert Peel was not the man to disregard a feeling, with the existence of which I know that he was made well ac- quai nted. As master of Trinity he was the prom- inent feature of the university till the day of his death. He was not the best math- ematician, nor the best scholar, nor the best divine; nor was his judgment always that which the majority of the members of the university chose to follow. He ex- hibited occasionally sad defects of tempel:, and ~vith many he was no favorite ; but there was no one who, on the whole, could be put in the same class with him for intellect and industry and force of charac- ter combined. I may add that his hospi- tality and his geniality as a host left noth- ing to be desired. An anecdote illustrative of his singular readiness in expressing his though tswas told me by Dr. Cartmell, the late master of Christs College. Dr. Cartmell, when vice-chancellor, met the master of Trinity one afternoon, and falling into conversa- tion ~vith him concerning the University Commission, ~vhich had then been re- cently issued, expressed his opinion that it would be an advantage to the university if Dr. Whewell would commit to paper his views upon a subject which was then so interesting to all its members. Whew- ell said he would think about it, and went for his afternoon ride; that same evening, at about seven or eight oclock, there arrived at Christs College lodge an elaborate paper which the master of Trin- ity had composed. He always appeared to me to be a good, because a genuine, conversationalist. He did not indulge in the monologue, but, as a rule, listened patiently to the person with whom he conversed, and was content to take turn and turn about. Sydney Smith wrote from London: When are you coming to thunder and lighten amongst us? The simile was witty, as Sydney Smiths sayings usually were; and there was lightning in Whewehls conver- sation, as well as audible thunder some- times; but the former was generally more notable than the latter, and the abundance WILLIAM WHEWELL. 59 of his resources was so great that upon mind seemed to have preserved some- almost any subject he seemed to be able thing of the old Cambridge feeling, which, to argue best, and to know most, in any by idolizing Newtons methods, retarded company in which you chanced to meet for years the progress of English mathe- him. malics. He ~vas unable to gain much ac- Sometimes, Johnson - like, he would ceptance for his views, but it cannot be knock his enemy down with the butt-end denied, that if mathematics be regarded of his argument. He demolished a nota- simply as niental training, the danger ble Oxonian brother, reputed to have a which he feared is a real one, and the temperament similar to his own, with warnings which he gave so abundantly whom he was maintaining a discussion are not to be altogether despised. upon Gothic architecture, with the follow- The same tone of mind manifested it- ing ~veighty sentence: I studied archi- self in all his conversation, his sermons, tecture under Rick man a man who his speeches. Even in an after-dinner never expressed an opinion upon a sub- speech on a public occasion, I have heard ject unless he felt assured that he thor- him, as chairman, reason out the whole oughly understood it. question of after-dinner speeches almost A story used to be told of him, that on in the form of a syllogism. When a one occasion he was engaged in argument number of persons are met together on a concerning a subject, in discussing which social occasion, it is necessary that some his antagonist took his stand upon a cer- one should express the thoughts and feel- tam article in an encyclop~dia, from ings which they have in common, and which, in fact, he appeared to have gained which have brought them together. the greater part of his knowledge. The That was the major preiniss. I appear discussion was somewhat shortened by a to be the person upon whom the duty quiet remark dropping from Whewells devolves upon this occasion. That was lips : Yes I wrote that article. I re- the minor premiss. Accordingly I will member to have had a somewhat similar proceed to submit to you a series of experience on a small scale. Speaking to toasts. That was the conclusion. He him concerning a certain term used in appealed to reason, even in the case of mathematical lan~ua~e, I was surprised his horse. I was riding with him one day to hear him say, I invented that term when his horse became somewhat fidgety; and he referred me to the memoir in instead of using such language as horses which it had first been used. seem to understand, Whewell looked Whewells mind was essentially argu- down at his beast, and said sternly mentative. He had a great fear, not I How can you be so absurd? think always groundless, lest young men, This hard, argumentative quality of in reading mathematics, and adopting the brain was, however, compatible with the algebraical methods of modern times, coexistence in his mental constitution of should use those methods too much as a a decidedly poetical vein. It was not mill for grinding out results, and should merely that lie obtained the chancellors substitute them for reasoning, instead of medal as an undergraduate, and that lie employing themii intelligently as aids to wrote sonnets Thd elegiacs, and held the reasoning faculty. Men rush, lie strong opinions concernimig Wordsworth; would say, to differentiation on the but his whole soul was full of ~)oetry, and slightest provocation. My own opinion his chief work, the History of the In- used to be that he pushed this view too ductive Sciemices, owes niuch of its far, and that if lie had had his way, Cain- charm to this feature of its authors mind. bridge studies, in the success of which lie Sir John Herschel, if I am not mistaken, took such a constant and lively interest, in the critique on the history, which ap- would not have been helped, but hin- peared in the Edbilverg/z Review, called dered; he would have been glad, as far attention to the dramatic form in which as possible, to reduce all demonstrations the progress of science had been chironi- to a Newtonian form; I doubt whether cled. We have the prelude of a certain he ever completely enjoyed the modern epoch, then the epoch itself, then the application of mathematical analysis to sequel. Doubtless the history of natural physics, still less mathematical analysis science is not the field in ~vhich we should for its own sake. He seemed to think expect to find much room for the devel- that a result was not thoroughly reasoned opment of the poetical faculty; hut the out, unless you could, as in a proposition readableness of Whewells bookand of Euclid or a hemmna of Newton, see right for my own part I regard it as specially through it from beginning to end; his readable is~ I think, very much due to 6o WILLIAM WHE WELL. the possession by the author of a share of that gift which makes a poet. I do not know whether the collection of elegi- acs, which he composed when in seclu- sion, after the death of his first wife, and which are contained in Mrs. Stair Doug- lass volume, will be regarded as any indi- cation of poetical power; he had, I may observe by the way, a great belief in the adaptabiliiy ot English to hexameters and pentameters, in which, perhaps, not many Englishmen share; but certainly, as an indication of deep feeling, and as a proof of the indomitable activity of his mind, which must always be doing some- thing, these verses are very striking. Whewells heart was very much in the study of moral philosophy. He held the professorship for many years, and may almost be said to have founded it. Be- fore his time the chair bore the name of casuistry. I believe it was accel)ted by XVhewell, with the express condition that casuistry should be interpreted to mean moral philosophy; and the formal name of the professorship is now moral theol- ogy, casuistical divinity, and moral philos- ophy. I do not venture to express a jud~- ment upon the results of Whewells studies, as contained in his published volumes; but I imagine that these vol- times will not rank with his work on the inductive sciences. His Bridgewater Treatise had great popularity for many years after its publi- cation, and is not yet, I suppose, quite out of date; but his most popular work was one which vas published anon vmous- ly, The Plurality of Worlds. His name might as well have been printed on the title page; cx pcdc Hcrculem, no one had ever much doubt as to the author; if they had, it would have been dispelled by an appendix which soon appeared, in which the author set up all his critics in a row and knocked them down like nine- pins one after another. I venture to prophesy that this volume will long find readers; not because it appears to me convincing, quite the contrary; but the question of the habitability of the planets and the condition of their inhabitants, if any, is one of those which is sure to crop up from time to time, which can never be conclusively answered, and in discussing which it is almost impossible that The Plurality of Worlds can ever cease to be an element. This remark leads to the more general question which must necessarily occur to the mind of all those who knew XVheweil, or who have known about him will his name and his works live? Certainly he will not appear so remarkable to those who follow him as he did to his contem poraries; his grand form and presence, and all that is connected with the living man, have passed away, and will not leave even that amount of mark upon the sands of time which has been left by some not- able characters. Neither will his name be associated ~vith any special discovery in science or otherwise; nay, even his magnun: opus, the History and Philos- ophy of the Inductive Sciences, is not only open to criticism as to the principles upon which it is based, but also from its very nature is liable to ho suserseded by other works, written by those who came after the first historian and philosopher, and who have the benefit of his previous efforts. The growth of science during the past half-century has, in fact as we well know, and as we may learn mdre particuiarly from Sir John Lubbocks late presidential address at the jubilee meet- ing of the I3ritish Association been so prodigious, that a history written in 1837 must even now be well nigh out of date. Nevertheless it must not be too hastily assumed that the ~vork which Whewell was able to do has been without perma- nent fruit. In the first place, when he wrote his greatest work, he was probably the only Englishman who was capable of conceiving the work, or of carrying out the conception; certainly there were not many who had the intellectual grasp or the industry necessary to success. Then again, as was remarked by Sir John Her- schel, whatever may be thought about this or that portion of the book, it undoubt- edly left the subject in a very different position from that which it occupied be- fore. The tree of knowledge received a shake from the hand of a giant, and a quantity of ripe fruit fell, though much was left behind. In fact, the principle of Whewells efforts seems to be ~vell mdi- cateci by the colophon which lie adopted for his ~vorks, and the motto which he took from the old Greek game; he handed on the lamp; lie gave his knowledge to others in order that they might give it to those who should follow in the intellec- tual race. And thouo-h his actual books may become antiquated, as l)robably they will, still it may well be believed that they ~vill have had an effect in settling the foundations of scientific knowledge, which will be long felt, and will be of permanent value when the volumes themselves have ceased to be generally read. In this re- spect there may possibly be some analogy WORDS OF WISDOM FROM GOETHE. 6r between Whe~vell and his great philo- LIES. sophical predecessor ~vhom he so much Would you tell lies to cheat the people? No! delighted to honor. Bacon has produced Im a plain man, and tell you plainlyNo l an effect upon scientific thought ~vhich But if you will tell lies, cut a broad slice no one would care to measure by the With a free hand, and dont be over-nice! amount of actual reading which his works receive: doubtless the great chancellors writings have a vitality, as proved by re- cent editions of his works, which Whe~v- ells cannot be expected to manifest; but the spirit of Bacon is far more vital than his printed books, and it may be that the impulse and the direction given to scien- tific and philosophical thought by Whew- ells writings may have an influence upon men~ s minds deep and permanent, and not to be adequately measured by the sale of his printed works. HARVEY CARLISLE. From Blackwoods Magazine. WORDS OF WISDOM FROM GOETHE. RULE OF LIFE. WOULDST thou be a happy liver, Let the past be past forever! Fret not, when prigs and pedants bore you; Enjoy the good thats set before you; But chiefly hate no man; the rest Leave thou to God, who knows whats best. LIFE THE SCHOOL OF MANHOOD. A noble man may to a narrow sphere Not owe his training. In his country he And in the world must learn to be at home, And bear both praise and blame, and by long proof Of contest and collision nicely know Himself and others,not in solitude, Cradling his soul in dreams of fair conceit. A foe will not, a true friend dare not, spare him; And thus in strife of well-tried powers he grows, Feels what he is, and feels himself a man. - KNOWLEDGE OF MEN. No man fears men, but he who knows them not; And he who shuns them may not hope to know them. THE WISDOM OF LIFE. Use well the moment; what the hour Brings for thy use is in thy power; And what thou best canst understand, Is just the thing lies nearest to thy hand. PATIENCE. Nay, dont lose heart; small men and mighty nations, Have learned a great deal when they practise patience. THE GOLDEN AGE. My friend, your golden age is gone, But good men still can bring it back again; Rather, if I must speak the truth, Ill say The golden age of which the poet sings In flattering phrase, this age at no time was On earth one whit more than it is to-day; And, if it ever was, twas only so, As all good men can bring it back to-morrow. SELF-KNOWLEDGE. Tis no doubt l)leasant Ourselves with our own selves to occupy, Were but the profit equal to the l)leasure. Inwardly no man can his inmost self Discern; the gauge that from himself he takes Measures him now too small, and now too great, Only in man man knows himself, and only Life teaches each man what each man is worth. QUARRELS. When two men quarrel, who owns the coolest head Is most to blame. GOOD SOCIETY. Reader. What means this rabble of low people here Quack doctor, juggler, beggar, gondolier? Hast seen no good society, that you Should waste good verse on such uncultured crew? Poet. Oh yes! your good society, in the mint Of courts tis coined, and very well I know it ; So fine and featureless, it leaves no hint For smallest touch of nature to a poet. - SELF-LlMITATION. The smallest man may be complete, if he confine his activity within the natural range of his capacities and dexterities; but even superior talents will be obscured, defeated, and destroyed, if this indispen- sable instinct of self-limitation is wanting. Mistakes arising from this defect w-ill come more and more to the front in mod- ern times; for who shall be able to satisfy the demands of an age, living under the stimulus of a constant high pressure, and the excitement of a hot-spurred progres- sion? THE WORLD, AND HOW TO USE IT. Live with the world whoso has nerve To make the world his purpose serve; 62 WORDS OF WISDOM FROM GOETHE. But, if you leave your lofty level To do the worlds vile command, You were as well to let the devil Keep all your gear in hand. CONSCIENCE AND ACTION. The man of action has no conscience in the moment of action only the observer passes a severe judgment. PROPHETS. Who spouts his message to the wilderness Lightens his soul, and feels one burden less But to the people preach, and you will find Theyll pay you back with thanks ill to your mind. MONUMENTS. The marble hears his name, and tells his story. But youll forgive me, if I hint the truth: You gild the monument in honest sooth Not for his honor, but for your own glory. ENVY. Envy must be: een let her feed her grudge! Truth will shine out, when time shall be the judge; Tis an old use that hath been, and will be, That where the sun his liberal light may throw, The heat comes with it, and the grass will grow. YOUTH. Who may be proud? the young: for why? the pride Of life is theirs, and Time is on their side. DIVIDE ET IMPERA. Divide and rule, the politician cries; Unite and lead, is watchword of the wise. SLANDER. Go north and south on German ground, Eastward and westward wander, Two nasty things youll find abound Tobacco-smoke, and slander. UTOPIA. Your lazy loon, if dainty pigeons Up to his mouth well roasted flew, He would not taste them, no, not he, Unless well carved and served up tool PERVERSITY. An ill-starred devil is the man, Who will not do the thing he can; And what he cant, with blind ambition Will do, and works his own perdition. TO-DAT. To-day, to-day, only show valiant face, And you have gained a hundred days of grace. SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY. In still retreat a thoughtful talent thrives, But in the stream and current of the world The character grows strong. SECRECY. Your purpose told to others, is your own No longer; with your will once set at large Blind accident will sport. Who would com- mand Mankind must hold them fast by swift surprise. Nay, more; even with the strongest will we fail To do great things, crossed by a thousand wills With petty contradiction. RICHES. Everyone who knows to use the wealth which he possesses, has enough : to be wealthy is a cumbrous business, unless you know how to use your resources. GOD. INNATE IDEAS. There is a universe within, The world we call the soul, the mind: And in that world what best we find XVe stammer forth, and think no sin To call it God, and our God, and Give heaven and earth into his hand, And fear his power, and search his plan Darkly, and love him, when we can. THE INFINITE. Wouldst thou with thy hounded sight Make survey of the Infinite, Look right and left, and everywhere, Into the finiteyoull find it there. TOLERATION. The Eater nosier is a goodly prayer, That helped poor sinners out of many a scrape: And if one prays it nosier Eater, Well, let it help him in that shape! FREEDOM. Man was not born to say I will be free; No higher good a noble man may wish, Than with a loyal heart to serve a prince Whom he respects and honors. OBEDIENCE. A noble master all may well obey Whose word convinces, where his will com- mands. ORIGINALITY. Youre a disciple of no school, And own no living masters rule; Nor have dead men in Greece or Rome Taught you things better learned at home This means, if I am not mistaking Youre a prime fool of your own making. GOD. No I such a God my worship may not win, Who lets the world about his finger spin A thing extern : my God must rule within And whom I own for Father, God, Creator, Holds nature in himself, himself in nature And in his kindly arms embraced, the Whole Doth live and move by his pervading soul. WORDS OF WISDOM FROM GOETHE. 63 THE DIVINE PROCEDURE. How ? when ? and where? the gods give no reply; What they will do, they do: nor heed your Why? THE BIBLE. I am persuaded that the Bible will al- ways appear to us more beautiful, the more it is understood, that is to say, the more ~ve comprehend that every word in it which we take up in its universal significance, and apply to our own case, had always an immediate and peculiar application connected ~vith the circum- stances out of ~vhich it arose. CHANCE. That which in the enterprises of hu- man beings transcends all calculation, and which is apt to show its power most pre- cisely when human nature is lifting itself most proudly what men call CHANCE this is just GOD, who in this incomprehen- sible way invades our little sphere with his omnipotence, and disturbs our grandest plans, by the intrusion of what to us is a mere trifle, but to him is part of an all- embracing bond. GENUS IRRITABILE VATUM. I know him well; not hard is he to know, Too proud to mask himself. You see him sink Into himself, as if he held the world In his sole bosom, in himself complete A compact world, and all around him else Vanished in blank indifference. It may rise Or fall or float at large, no whit cares he When lo I all in a minute, as when a mine Fires at a spark, at touch of joy or sorrow, Anger or whim, he breaks into a flame And then what he would grasp must own his hold, And all things be that he thinks ought to be, And in a moment to his wish must rise What for long years in the slow womb of time Needs silent preparation. From himself, He with ingenious wilfulness demands The impossible, that he may have a right To ask the same from others. He would bind The two ends of all things with hasty bond In his soul, a task which in a million men One may achieve and lie is not the man; But, clutching madly at the stars, he falls Back to the earth, no bigger than before. LIMITS OF HUMANITY. When the eternal Father of gods and men Soweth with kindly hand Forth from the rolling clouds Lightnings of blessing Over the fields of Earth, Humbly, then, I the last Hem of his garment kiss, With the love and the fear Of a child in my breast. For with the gods May no son of man compare: If upward he soareth, Touching with head sublime Stars that eternal shine, Nowhere he finds there Place for his foot to stand, And with him freely Sport there the birds and clouds. When he with strong And marrowy bones stands On the well-grounded Base of the solid earth, Not even then He dares with the oak compare, Or with the vine That clambers round its trunk. Say what distinguisheth Gods from the sons of men. They are as waves That rolling-on waves flow In an eternal stream: Us the wave lifteth, Us the wave whelmeth, And we are seen no more. Small is the ring That claspeth our life round; And generations On generations, Coming and going, Add link to link Of an infinite chain. THE VOCATION OF MAN. Noble be man, Friendly and good, For goodness alone Stamps him diverse From all the creatures That walk the earth. hail to the unknown - Mightier beings Whom we anticipate! What in the human Typed we behold, Leads to a faith In the primal Divine. For NATURE knows No feeling for man; The sun doth shine On the bad and the good; On fair and on foul With indifferent eye Look moon and stars. Wind and water, Thunder and hail, Rush on their path, And with hasty clutch They seize as they pass This one and that. WORDS OF WISDOM FROM GOETHE. Even so FORTUNE Blindly seizes Now the light locks Of innocent boyhood, Now the bald cro n Of the hoary offender. Bound by eternal All-embracing Iron decrees, We must accomplish Each man his fated Circle of being. But in the human Range of his action, MAN, like a god, May achieve the impossible; He distinguishes, Chooses and judges; And gives to the moment The stamp of endurance. He alone Rewardeth the good, Chastiseth the bad, And all extravagant Random endeavors Binds with the bond Of a common design. And we wisely Adore the Immortals, Deeming them brothered With what is most human, In the great cosmos, Willing and working What in their small lives Men may achieve. The noble man Be friendly and good, Shaping unwearied The useful, the right, Planting before us A sensible type Of those beings unseen Whom by faith we divine! MORNING WORK. Perhaps, on the whole, moderately early rising is now a commoner practice in cities than it was forty years ago. It seems strange that the habit of lying in bed hours after the sun is up should ever have ob- tained a hold on the multitude of brain-work- ers, as undoubtedly it had in times past. Hour for hour, the intellectual work done in the early morning, when the atmosphere is as yet unpoisoned by the breath of myriads of ac- tively moving creatures, must be, and, as a matter of experience, is, incomparably better than that done at night. The habit of writing and reading late in the day and far into the night, for the sake of quiet, is one of the most mischievous to which a man of mind can addict himself. When the body is jatled the spirit may seem to be at rest, and not so easily distracted by the surroundings which we think less obtrusive than in the day; but this seeming is a snare. When the body is weary, the brain, which is an integral part of the body, and the mind, which is simply brain- fonction, are weary too. If we persist in working one part of the system because some other part is too tired to trouble us, that can- not be wise management of self. The feelino of tranquillity which comes over the busy and active man about 1030 or it oclock ought not to be regarded as an incentive to work. It is, in fact, the effect of a lowering of vitality con- sequent on the exhaustion of the physical sense. Nature wants and calls for physiologi- cal rest. Instead of complying with her rea- sonable demand, the night-worker bails the feeling of mental quiescence, mistakes it for clearness and acuteness, and whips the jaded organism with the will until it goes on ~vorking. What is the result? Immediately, the accomplishment of a task fairly well, but not half so well as if it had been performed with the vigor of a refreshed brain working in health from proper sleep. Remotely, or later on, comes the penalty to be paid for unnatural exertionthat is, energy wrung from ex- hausted or weary nerve-centres under pressure. This penalty takes the form of nervousness, perhaps sleeplessness, almost certainly some loss or depreciation of function in one or more of the great organs concerned in nutrition. To relieve these maladies springing from this unsuspected causethe brain-worker very likely has recourse to the use of stimulants, possibly alcoholic, or it may be simply tea or coffee. The sequel need not be followed. Nightwork during student life and in after years is the fruitful cause of much unexplained, though by no means inexplicable, suffering for which it is difficult if not impossible to find a remedy. Surely morning is the time for work, when the whole body is rested, the brain re- lieved from its tension, and mind-power at its best. Lancet. 64 J. S. B.

LITTELLS LIYING AGE. No. 1960. January 14, 1882. From Beginning, Vol. CLII. CONTENTS. CARLYLES ETHICS, MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. Conclusion,. Two STUDIES IN DANTE ENGLISH SATIRE IN TIlE NINETEENTH CEN- TURY KIoTo FAIRIES THE OLD YEAR, IRISH SONG, Cornhill Magazine, Gentlemans Magazine, Contemporary Review, Frasers Magazine, Fortnightly Review, Saturday Review, P0 E T R Y. 66GoNE SEAWARD, 66 SNOWFLAKE, PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & CO., BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remit/ed directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year, free of tostage Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If Ileither of these can be procured, the money shouldbe sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & Co. Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, s8 cents. Fifth Series, Volume xxxvii. I. II. III. Iv. V. VI. 67 - . SO - 97 - 109 115 - . 127 66 66 THE OLD YEAR, ETC. THE OLD YEAR. AN old man stands at a tavern door, His feeble hands are withered and poor; He looks afar, through sleet and snow, But theres never a star to see him go. With tearful eye at the door he waits, And with many a sighhe hesitates; For well he knows, when he leaves that door, Tis for aye he goes, and he comes no more. Theres many a light in the tavern halls, And the wine is bright, and the music falls; For a welcome guest is expected soon, And he comes on the crest of the rising moon. He comes! and the bells ring out glad notes, And the welcome swells from their brazen throats While the waif, cast free to the sleet and snow, Cries, You rang for me just a year ago! Tis the way of all breath since the world be- gan; Tis the shadow of death on the heart of man; For nothing will hold, and nothing is true: Its off with the old, and its on with the new. J. T. BURTON WOLLASTON. Golden Hours. IRISH SONG. [Ats: XVhen I rose in the mOrning.~~] OH! my loves an arbutus, By the borders of Leane,* So slender and shapely, In her girdle of green; And I measure the pleasure Of her eyes sapphire sheen By the blue skies that sparkle Through the soft-branching screen. But though ruddy the berry, And snowy the flower, That brighten together That beautiful bower, Perfuming and blooming Through sunshine and shower, Give me her bright lips And her laughs pearly dower. Alas! fruit and blossom Shall fade on the lea, And Times jealous fingers Dim your young charms, machree. But unranging, unchanging, I know youll cling to me, Like the evergreen leaf To the arbutus tree. Spectator. A. PERcEVAL GRAVES. * The Lakes of Killarney were anciently, sod are often still, called collectively Lough Leane. Dr. Joyces Irish Nausea of Places. GONE SEAWARD. A MERRY tiresome child, an hour ago, That shouted and made haste for lifes mere sake, And knew no why for wanderings to and fro A creature boisterously blithe to be And playtime was all hours when he might wake. An hour ago: and now, great river tide, What mute dead thing is it that thou dost hide? What mute dead thing they cannot win from thee? An hour ago his laughters broke the sky: And then, a foot that slipped, a parted wave, And life that was to be Isas all passed by. A plunge, a struggle, and he has forgot: And tis a nought they seek and cannot save. Give back, great river tide, the thing they seek; Give the unstirring limb, the frigid cheele, Give back the dead; the child returneth not. And tis the common tale of life and death And tis the tale that never shall seem true, For life is ours the while we draw otir breath, And death we know not save its alien name. A restless child that leaped and laughed and grew; And sudden theres but silence and a void. Great river tide, give back the thing destroyed, And, Greater River, bear him whence he came. Macmillans Magazine. AUGUSTA WEBSTER. SNOWFLAKE. WE parted in the winter; And from the distant hill, She watched my ship sail outward Oer the waters cold and still. I could not see the teardrop That glistened in her eye, Nor her dainty kerchief waving, Against the frosty sky. But I knew her heart was breathing A gentle word of prayer I knew her eye was streaming, And her kerchief waving there. I said before I left her, Farewell, my love, farewell; I am sailing to the sunshine, And the land where myrtles dwell; But still usy longing fancy, Will turn to rest witis thee My Snowflake on the mountain, Is more than all to me! You know how the pure snow melteth, When the winters cold is sped; Ay, so before that ship returned, My sweet Snowflake was dead. All The Year Round. 66 CARLYLE S ETHICS. 67 From The Corohill Magazine. CARLYLES ETHICS. I HAVE sometimes wondered of late vhat would bave been the reception ac- corded to an autobiographical sketch by St. John the Baptist. It would, one may suppose, have contained some remarks not very palatable to refined society. Tbe scoffers indeed would have covered their delight in an opportunity for lowering a great reputation by a plausible veil of vir- tuous indignation. The Pharisees would have taken occasion to dwell upon the im- moral contempt of the stern old prophet for the maxims of humdrum respectabil- ity. The Sadducees would have aired their orthodoxy by lamenting his open denunciations of shams, which, in their opinion, were quite as serviceable as real beliefs. Both would have agreed that nothing but a mean personal motive could have prompted such an outrageous utter- ance of discontent. And the good, kind- ly, well-meaning people for, doubtless, there were some such even at the court of Herod would have been sincerely shocked at the discovery that the vehe- ment denunciations to which they had listened ~vere in good truth the utterance of a tortured and unhappy nature, which took in all sincerity a gloomy view of the prospects of their society and the intrin- sic value of its idols, instead of merely getting up indignation for purposes of pulpit oratory. They complacent op- timists, as kindly people are apt to be have made up their minds that a genuine philosopher is always a benevolent, white- haired old gentleman, overflowing with philanthropic sentiment, convinced that all is for the best, and that even the mis- erable sinners are excellent people at bottom; and are grievously shocked at the discovery that anybody can still be- lieve in the existence of the devil as a potent agent in human affairs. If we have any difficulty in imagining such criti- cisms, we may easily realize them by reading certain criticisms upon the Remi- niscences of the last prophetfor we may call him a prophet whatever we think of the sources of his inspirationwho has passed from among us. The reflec- tion which has most frequently occurred to me is one put with characteristic force by Carlyle himself in describino- his siaht of Charles X. going to see the portrait of the child of miracle. How trag- ical are men once more; how merciless withal to one another! I had not the least pity for Charles Dixs pious pil- grimage to such an object the poor mother of it, and her immense hopes and pains, I did not even think of them. And so, the average criticism of that most tragical and pathetic monologue in reality a soliloquy to which we have somehow been admitted that prolonged and painful moan of remorse and desola- tion coming from a proud and intensely affectionate nature in its direst agony a record which will be read with keen sympathy and interest, when ninety-nine of a hundred of the best contemporary books have been abandoned to the moths has been such as would have been ap- propriate for the flippant assault of some living penny-a-liner upon the celebrities of to-day. The critics have had an eye for nothing but the harshness and the gloom, and have read without a tear, ~vith- out even a touch of sympathy, a confes- s~on more moving, more vividly reflecting the struggles and the anguis hofagreat man, than almost anything in our litera- ture. Enough of this: though in speaking of Carlyle at this time it is impossible to pass it over in complete silence. I intend only to say something of Carlyles teach- ing, which seems to be as much misun- derstood by some critics as his character. It should require little impartiality or in- sight at the present day to do something like justice to a teacher who belonged essentially to a past generation. When Carlyle was still preaching upon ques- tions of the day, my juvenile sympathies such as they were were always on the side of his opponents. But he and his opinions have passed into the domain of history, and we can, or at least we should, judge of them as calmly as we can of Burke and of Milton. In the year 1789 you might have sympathized with Mackintosh, or even with Tom Paine, rather than with the great opponent of the Revolution; and you may even now 68 CARLYLE S ETHICS. hold that they were more in the right as to the immediate issues than Burke. But it would, indeed, be a narrow mind which could not now perceive that Burke, as a philosophic writer upon politics, to~vers like a giant amidst pigmies above the highest of his conteml)oraries; and that the value of his principles is scarcely affected by the particular application. Though Carlyle touched upon more re- cent events, we can already make the same distinction, and we must make it if we would judge fairly in his case. The most obvious of all remarks about CarLyle is one expressed (I think) by Sir Henry Taylor in the phrase that he was a Calvinist who had lost his creed. Rather we should say he was a Calvinist who had dropped the dogmas out of his creed. It is no doubt a serious question what remains of a creed when thus eviscer- ated; or,again, how long it is likely to sur- vive such an operation. But for the pres- ent purpose it is enough to say that what remained for Carlyle was the characteris- tic temper of mind and the whole mode of regarding the universe. He often de- clared that the Hebrew Scriptures, though he did not adhere to the orthodox view of their authority, contained the most ten- able theory of the world ever propounded to mankind. Without seeking to define what was the element which he had pre- served, and what it was that he had aban- doned, or attempting the perilous task of drawing a line between the essence and accidents of a creed, it is in any case clear that Carlyle was as Scotch in faith as in character; that he would have taken and imposed the Covenant with the most thoroughgoing and ex aninia assent and consent; and that the difference between him and his forefathers was one rather of particular beliefs than of essential senti- ment. He had changed rather the data upon which his convictions were based than the convictions themselves. He re- vered what his fathers revered, but he revered the same principle in other man- ifestations, and to them this would nat- urally appear as a profanation, whilst from his point of view it was but a legit- imate extension of their fundamental be- liefs. The more one reads Carlyle the further one traces the consequences of this be- lief. The Puritan creed, one may sax, is not popular at the present day for reasons which might easily be assigned; and those who dislike it in any form are not con- ciliated by the omission of its external peculiarities. And, on the other hand, the omission naturally alienates many who would otherwise sympathize. When Carlyle speaks of the Eternities and the Silences, he is really using a con- venient periphrasis for thoughts more naturally expressed by most people in the language peculiar to Cromwell the translation is often given side by side with the original in the comments upon Crom- ~vells letters and speeches and his mode of speech is dictated by the feeling that the old dogmatic forms are too nar- row and too much associated with scholas- tic pedantry to be appropriate in presence of such awful mysteries. He is, as Teu- felsdriickh would have said, dropping the old clothes of belief only that he may more fittingly express the living reality. To Carlyle, for example, the later de- velopments of Irvingism, the speaking with tongues, and so forth, appeared as simply contemptible, or, when sanctioned by the friend whose memory he cherished so pathetically, as inexpressibly pitiable. It was a hopeless attempt to cling to the worn-out rags, a dropping of the substance to grasp the shadow; ending, therefore, in a mere grotesque caricature of belief which made genuine belief all the more difficult of attainment. You are seeking for outward signs and wonders when you should be impressed by the l)rofound and all-pervading mysteries of the universe; and therefore falling into the hands of mere charlatans, and taking the morbid hysterics of over-excited women for the revelation conveyed by all nature to those who have ears to hear. Has not the word spiritual, till now explessive of the highest emotions possible to human be- ings ,got itself somehow stained and de- based by association with the loathsome tricks practised by impostors aided by the prurient curiosity of their dupes? The perversion of the highest instincts which leads a man in his very anxiety to find a CARLYLE S ETHICS. 69 true prophet and spiritual leader to put up with some miserable Cagliostro a quack working miracles by sleight of hand and phosphorus appeared to Carlyle, and surely appeared to him most rightly, as the saddest of all conceivable aberra- tions of human nature saddest because some men with a higher strain of charac- ter are amenable to such influences. But when Carlyle came to specify what was and what was not quackery of this kind, and included much that was still sacred. to others, he naturally had to part com- pany with many who would otherwise have sympathized. Miss Martineau, he tells us, was described as not only strip- ping herself naked, but stripping to the bone. Carlyle seems to some people to be performing this last operation, though to himself it appeared in the opposite light. To Carlyle himself the liberation from the old clothes or external casing of be- lief constituted what he regarded as equivalent to the conversion of the old Christian people. He emerged, he tells us, into a higher atmosphere, and gained a constant inward happiness that was quite royal and supreme, in which all temporal evil was transient and insignif- icant; a happiness, he adds, which he never quite lost, though in later years it suffered more frequent eclipse. For this he held himself to be endlessly in- debted to Goethe for Goethe had in his own fashion trod the same path and achieved the same victory. Conversion, as meaning the conscious abandonment of beliefs which have once formed an in- tegral and important part of a mans life, is a process which indeed must be very ex- ceptional with all men of real force of charactcr. Carlyle, it is plain, was so far from undergoing such a process, that he retained much which would have been lit- tle in harmony with the teaching of his master. For, whilst everybody can see that Goethe reached a region of phil- osophic serenity, we must take Carlyles royal and supreme happiness a little on trust. If his earlier writings have some gleams of the happier mood, we are certainly much more frequently in the re- gion of murky gloom, shrouded by the Tartarean and fuliginous vapors of the lower earth. If his studies of Goethe and German literature opened a door of escape from the narrow prejudices which made the air of Edinburgh oppressive to him, they certainly did not help him to shake off the old Puritan sentiments which were bred in the bone, and no mere external trapping. Critics have spoken as though Carlyle had become a disciple of some school of German metaphysics. It is, doubtless, true enough that he valued the great Ger- man thinkers as representing to his mind a victorious reaction against the scepti- cism of Hume, or the materialism of Humes French successors. But he sym- pathized with the general tendency with- out caring to bewilder himself in any of the elaborate systems evolved by Kant or his followers. The reader, he says in the earlier essay on Novalis, would err widely who supposed that this transcen- dental system of metaphysics was a mere intellectual card-castle, or logical hocus pocus - . - ~vithout any bearing on the practical interests of men. On the con- trary - . . it is the most serious in its purport of all philosophies propounded in these latter ages and he proceeds to indicate their purport, and to hint, as one ~vriting for uncongenial readers, his re- spect for German mysticism. lie thought, that is, that these mystics, transcendentalists, and so forth, were vindicating faith against scepticism, ideal- ism against materialism, a belief in the divine order against atheistic negations; and moreover, that their fundamental creed was inexpugnable, resting on a basis of solid reason instead of outworn dogma. As for the superstructure, the systems of this or that wonderful profes- sor to explain the universe in general, he probably held them to be card-castles mere cobwebs of the brain -at best arid, tentative gropings in the right direc- tion. He had far too much of true Scotch shrewdness even in the higher regions of thought to trust body or soul to the truth of such flimsy materials. This comes out in his view of Coleridge, ~vho so far sympathized with him as to have imbibed consolation from the same 70 CARLYLES ETHICS. sources. No reader of the life of Ster- a steady, unquenchable lio~ht a perma. ling can forget the chapter one of the nent star to every ~vanderin~ bark. most vivid portraits ever dra~vn even by Coleridge would stimulate only to uncer- Carlyle devoted to Coleridge as the tam mii2sin~s, instead of animating to oracle of the innumerable brave souls strenuous endeavor. The same senti- still engaged in the London turmoil a ment utters itself in Carlyles favorite ex- portrait which su~gests incidentally h ow altation of silence above speech a much ~vas left unspoken in the hastier phrase paradoxical if literally taken, but touches of the Reminiscences. We can in substance an emphatic assertion of the see the oracle not answering your ques- futility of the uncertain meanderings in tions, nor decidedly setting out towards the regions of abstract speculation which an answer, but accumulating formidable hinder a man from girding himself at apparatus, logical swim-bladders, trans- once to deadly wrestle with the powers of cendental life-preservers and other pre- darkness. cautionary and vehiculatory gear for set- This is but a new version of the Puritan ting out; ending by losing himself in the contempt for the vain speculations of hu- morass and in the mazes of theosophic man wisdom when he is himself conscious philosophy, ~vhere now and then giori- of an inner light guiding him infallibly ous islets ~voulcl rise out of the haze, through the labyrinths of the world. The only to be lost again in the surrounding Puritan contempt for ~sthetic enjoyments bloom. In his talk, as in him, a ray of springs from the same root, and is equally heavenly insl)iration struggled in a tragi- characteristic of Carlyle. He can never cally ineffectual degree against the weak- see much difference between fiction and ness of flesh and blood. He had skirted lying. Fiction, he says, or idle falsity the deserts of infidelity, but had not of any kind tvas never tolerable, except in had the courage, in defiance of pain and a world which did itself abound in practi- terror, to press resolutely across such cal lies and solid shams. - . . A serious deserts to the new firm lands of faith be- soul, can it wish, even in hours of relaxa- yond. Many disciples have of course tion, that you should fiddle empty non- seen more in Coleridge; but even his sense to it? A serious soul would desire warmest admirers must admit the general to be entertained either with silence or truth of the picture, and confess that if with what was truth, and had fruit in it, Coleridze cast a leaven of much virtue and was made by the Maker of us all into much modern English speculation, a doctrine which will clearly not commend he never succeeded in working out a itself to an ~sthetic world. Poetry, fic- downright answer to the philosophical tion in general, he, (Carlyle the father) l)erplexities of his day, or in l)romulgating had universally seen treated as not only a distinct rule of faith or life. To Car- idle, but false and criminal, and the son lyle this was enough to condemn Cole- adhered to the opinion except so far as ridge as a teacher. Coleridge, in his he came to admit that fiction might in a view, failed because he adhered to the sense be truth. The ground-feelin~ is still old clothes; tried desperately to that of some old Piiiitan, preachii~g, like breathe life into dead creeds; and, en- Baxter, as a dying man to dying men, cumbered with such burdens, could not and at most tolerant of any thing not di. make the effort necessary to cross the rectly tending to edification. Carlyle, of desert. He lingered fatally round the course, belonged emphatically to the im- starting-point, and succeeded only in start- aginative as distinguished from the spec- ing strange, spectral Puseyisms, mon- ulative order of minds. He tvas a man of strous, illusory hybrids, and ecclesiasti- intuitions, not of discursive thought; who cal chimeras which now roam the earth felt before he reasoned; to whom it was a in a very lamentable manner. mental necessity that a principle should The judgment is in many ways charac- clothe itself in concrete flesh and blood, teristic of Carlyle. To the genuine Pun- and if possible in some definite historical tan a creed is nothing which does not hero, before he could fully believe in it. immediately embody itself in a war-cr)-. He ~vanted vivid images in place of ab. It must have a dire5t, forcible application stract formulas. 1-us indifference to the to life. It must divide light from dark- metaphysical was not simply that of the ness, distinguish friends from enemies practical man ~vho regards all such in- both external and internal nerve your quiries as leading to hopeless and bottom- arms for the battle, and plant your feet less quagmires of doubt and a paralysis on solid standing-ground. It must be no of all active will; as an attempt, doomed flickering ray in the midst of gloom, but to failure from the beginning, to get off CARLYLE S ETHICS. 7 your own shadow, and to twist and twirl shape of strange vivid flashes of humor till your pigtail hangs before you; though and insight casting undisputed gleams of this, too, counts for much in his teaching; light into many dark placcs ; and dashing but it was also the antipathy of the imag- off ~raphic portraits with a single touch. inative mind to the passionless analyser And if you miss the serene atmosphere who explains the living organism by of calmer forms of art, it is something to reducing it to a dead mechanism. It is, feel at times as no one but Carlyle can indeed, remarkable that Carlyle had a make you feel, that each instant is the certain comparative respect even for the conflux of two eternities; that our materialist and utilitarian whom he so little lives, in his favorite Shakespearian harshly denounced. Such a man was at phrase, are rounded with a sleep; that least better than the ineffectual dilettante history is like the short space lighted up or dealer in small shams and phantasms. by a flickering taper in the midst of in- Anything thoroughgoing, even a thorough- finite glooms and mysteries, and its great- going rejection of the highest elements of est events brief scenes in a vast drama of life, so far deserved respect as at least conflicting forces, where the actors are affording some firm starting-point. But, passing in rapid succession rising from for the most part, the scientific frame of and ~-anishing into the all-embracing dark- mind, so far as it implies a tranquil dis- ness. And if there is something oppres- secting of concrete phenomena into their sive to the imagination when we stay long dead elements, jarred upon every fibre of in this singular re~ion, over which the his nature. Political economy, which same inspiration seems to be brooding treats society as a coml)lex piece of ma- which created the old northern mythology chinery, and the logic which resolves the with its grim gigantesque semi-humorous universe itself into a mere heap of sep- figures, we are rewarded by the vividness arable atoms, seemed to him hopelessly of the pictures standing out against the barren, and uninteresting to the higher surrounding emptiness some little groups mind. Mills talk and books which of human figures, who lived and moved specially represented this mode of thought like us in the long-past days ; or of vig. for him were sawdustish ; for what nettes of scenery, like the Alpine sunrise is sawdust but the dead product of a liv- in the Sartor Resartus, or the sight of ing growth deprived of its organizing sleeping Haddington from the high moor- principle and reduced to mere dry mdi- land in the Reminiscences, as bright gestible powder? To the poetic as to the and vivid for us as our own memories, and religious nature of Carlyle, such a process revealing unsuspected sensibilities in the was to make the whole world weary, stale, writer. Though he scorned the word- flat, and unprofitable. Carlyle, therefore, painters and description-mongers, no one must be judged as a poet, and not as a was a better landscape-painter. lt is per- dealer in philosophic systems; as a seer haps idle to dwell upon characteristics ora prophet, not as a theorist or a man of which one either feels or cannot be per- calculations. And, therefore, if I were suaded into feeling. Those to whom he attempting any criticism of his literary is on the tx-hole repugnant may admit him merits, I should dwell upon his surpass- to be occasio,nally a master of the pie- ing power in his peculiar province. Ad- turesque; and sometimes endeavor to put mitting that every line he wrote has the him out of court on the strength of this stamp of his idiosyncrasies, and conse- formula. A mere dealer, many exclaim, quently requires a certain congeniality of in oddities and grotesques, who will sac- temperament in the reader, I should try rifice anything to produce a startling to describe the strange spell which it ex- effect, whose portraits are caricatures, ercises over the initiated. If you really whose style is torn to pieces by excessive hate the grotesque, the gloomy, the exag- straining after emphasis, and who sys- gerated, you are of course disqualified tematically banishes all those half-tones from enjoying Carlyle. You must take which are necessary to faithful portraiture leave of what ordinarily passes even for in the search after incessant contrasts of common sense, of all academical canons light and shade. of taste, and of any weak regard for sym- Let us first remark in regard to this metry or simplicity before you enter the that Carlyle himself peremptorily and charmed circle. But if you can get rid of emphatically denied that the distinction your prejudices for the nonce, you xvi ll1he re assumed between the poet and the certainly be rewarded by seeing visions philosopher could be more than super- such as are evoked by no other magician. ficial. The philosopher only reaches his The common sense reappears in the new I goal so far as his analysis leads to a syn. 72 CARLYLE S ETHICS. thesis, or as his abstract speculations can be embodied in definite concrete vision. And the l)oet is a mere idler, with no sub- stantial or permanent value in him, unless he is uttering thoughts equally susceptible of philosophical exposition. The hero, he says, can be poet, prophet, king, priest, or what you will, according to the kind of world he finds himself born into. I confess I have no notion of a truly great man that could not be all sorts of men. The poet who could merely sit on a chair and compose stanzas could never make a stanza worth much. He could not sing the heroic warrior, unless he himself were an heroic warrior too. To this doctrine though with various logical distinctions and qualifications which seem incongru- ous with Carlyles vehement dogmatic utterances I, for one, would willingly subscribe; and I hold further that in strenuously asserting and enforcing it Carlyle was really laying down the funda- mental doctrine of all sound criticism whether of art or literature, or life. Any teaching, that is, which attempts to sepa- rate the poet from the man as though his excellence were to be measured by a radi- cally different set of tests is, to my mind, either erroneous or trifling and superficial. The point at which one is inclined to part company with this teaching is different. I do not condemn Carlyle for judging the poet as he judges the hero for the substan- tial worth of the man whom it reveals to us ; but I admit that his ideal man has a certain stamp of Puritanical narrowness. So, for example, there is something char- acteristic in his judgments not only of Coleridge, but of Lamb or Scott. He judges Lamb as the spoiled child of Cockney circles, as the Baptist in his gar- ment of camels hair might have judged some favorite courtier cracking jokes for the amusement of Herodiass dauThter. And of Scott, though he strives to do jus- tice to~the pride of all Scotchmen, and admits Scotts merit in breathing life into the past, his real judgment is based upon the maxim that literature must have higher aims than that of harmlessly amusing indolent, languid men. Scott was not one who had gone through spir- itual convulsions, who had dwelt and wrestled amid dark pains and throes, but on the whole a prosperous, easy-going gentleman, who found out the art of writing impromptu novels to buy farms with; and who can therefore by no means claim the entire devotion of the rigorous ascetic prophet to whom happi- ness is inconceivable except as the reward of victorious conflicts with the deadly enemies of the soul. To me it seems that the error in such judgments is one of ~omission; but the omission is certainly considerable. For Carlyles tacit assump- tion seems to be that the conscience should be not only the supreme but the single faculty of the soul ; that morality is not only a necessary but the sole condi- tion of all excellence; and therefore, that an ethical judgment is not merely implied in every ~sthetic judgment, but is the sole essence and meaning of it. Our minds, according to some of his Puritan teachers, should be so exclusively set upon work. ing out our salvation that every kind of aim not consciously directed to this ulti. mate end is a trifling which is closely akin to actual sin. Carlyle, accepting or un- consciously imbibing the spirit of such teaching, reserves his whole reverence for riold and lofty natures, deserving beyor~d all question of reverence, but wanting in elements essential to the full development of our natures, and therefore, in the long run, to a broad morality. This leads us to his most emphatically asserted doctrines. No one could assert more forcibly, emphatically, and fre. quently than Carlyle that morality or jus- tice is the one indispensable thing; that justice means the la~v of God; that the sole test of the merits of any human law is its conformity to the divine law; and that, as he puts it, all history is an inar- ticulate Bible, and in a dim, intricate man- ner reveals the divine appearances in this lower world. For God did make this world, and does forever govern it; the loud, roaring loom of time, with all its French revolutions, Jewish revelations, weaves the vesture thou seest him by. There is no biography of a man, much less any history or biography of a nation, but wraps in it a message out of heaven, ad- dressed to the hearing ear and the not- hearino~ It is needless to quote particu. lar passages. This clearly is the special doctrine of Carlyle, embodied in all his works; preached in season and (often enough) out of season; which possesses him rather than is possessed by him; the sum and substance of the message which he had to deliver to the ~vorld, and spent his life and energy in delivering with em- phasis. And yet we are constantly told that Carlyle was a cynic ~vho believed in nothing but brute force. If such a criti- cism~caine only from those who had been repelled by his style from reading his books or, again, only from the shallow and Pharisaical, who mistake any attack upon the arrangerne nts t.o which they owe their comfort for an attack upon the eter- nal laws of the universe it might be dismissed with contempt. And this is, indeed, all that much of the average talk about Carlyle deserves. But there is a more solid ground in the objection, which brings us in face of Carlyles most dis- putable teaching, and is worth consider- ing. We have, in fact, to consider the prin- ciple so often ascribed to him that might makes right; and this may be interpreted into the immoral doctrine that force is the one thing admirable, and success the sole test of merit. Cromwell was right be- cause he cut off Charless head, and Charles wrong because he lost his head. Fredericks political immorality is con- doned because Frederick succeeded in making Prussia great; Napoleon was right so long as he was victorious, and was condemned because he ended in St. Helena. That, as some critics suppose, was Carlyles meaning, and they very naturally denounce it as an offensive and cynical theory. Now in one sense Carlyles doctrine is the very reverse of this. His theory is the opposite one, that right makes might. He admires Cromwell, for example, and Cromwell is the hero after his own heart, expressly on the ground that Cromwell is the perfect embodiment of the Puritan principle, and that the essence of Puri- tanism was to see Gods own law made good in this world. . . . Eternal justice; that Gods will be done on earth as it is in heaven ; corollaries enough will flow from that, if that be there ; if that be not there, no corollary good for much will flow. How does a doctrine apparently at least implying an unqualified belief in the absolute supremacy of right, a convic- tion that nothing but the rule of right can give a satisfactory basis for any human arrangement, get itself transmuted into an appearance of the opposite, of being a kind of Hobbism, deducing all moral- ity from sheer force? Such transmuta- tions, or apparent meetings of opposite extremes, are not uncommon, and the process might perhaps be most forcibly illustrated by a history of the old Puritans themselves. But it will be quite enough for my purpose to indicate, as briefly as may be, Carlyles own method, which is of course guided as well by his temper as by his primary assumptions. He is predis- posed in every ~vay to take the sternest view of morality. He means by virtue, by no means an indiscriminate extension 73 of all - comprehending benevolence, of good-will to rogues and scoundrels, or amiable desire that everybody should have as pleasant a time of it as possible. Justice according to him, and the most stringent and unflinching justice, is the essential basis of all morality. Love, doubtless, is the fulfilling of the law; but along with that truth you must also rec- ognize the awful and mysterious truth, that hell itself is one product of the divine love. Love itself implies the destruction of evil and of the evil-doers. From this assumption it is not surprising if much modern philanthropy appeared to him as mere sentimentalism, a weak sympathy even for the suffering which is the di- vinely appointed remedy for social dis- eases, the mere effeminate shrinking from the surgical knife. The cardinal virtue from which all others miTht be inferred is not benevolence, but veracity, respect for facts and hatred of shams. This was not with Carlyle, as with some of his teachers, an abstract theorem of metaphysics, but the expression of his whole character, of that Puritanic fervor which tested all doctrine by its immediate practical influence upon the will, and which forced even his poetical imagina- tion to spend itself not in creating images, but in realizing as vividly as possible the actual facts of history. Carlyles application of these principles brings out a remarkable result. Puri- tanism, he says, was a genuine thing, for nature has adopted it, and it has grown and grows. 1 say sometimes that every- thing goes by wager of battle in this world; that strength, well understood, is the measure of all worth. Give a thing time; if it can succeed it is a right thing. This is one form of Carlyles essential principle and is it not also the essential principle of Mr. Darwins famous theory? It is an explicit assertion of the doctrine of the struggle for existence, Though applied here to Knox and the Puritans instead of to the origin of species. And yet, as we may note in passing, the evo- lutionists are, as a fact, the most ready to condemn Carlyles immorality, whilst Carlyle could never find words adequate to express his contempt for them. In that thorough carrying out of this princi- ple, Carlyle is approaching that profound problem which in one shape or other haunts all philosophies: What kind of victory may we expect for right in this world? If might and right were strictly identical, it would seem here that we might start md ifferently from either basia. CARLYLE S ETHICS. 74 CARLYLE S ETHICS. This succeeds; therefore it is right, would be as tenable an argument as This is right; therefore it ~vill succeed. Yet one doctrine has an edifying sound, and the other seems to be the very reverse of edifying. Moralists vie with each other in proclaiming their belief in the ultimate success of good causes, and yet indignantly deny that the goodness of a cause should be inferred from its success. We agree to applaud the prophecy, cited with applause by Carlyle himself, that Napoleons empire would fail because founded upon injustice; but we are startled by an inference from the failure to the injustice. But why should there be so vast a difference in what seem to be equivalent modes of reasoning? Carlyles answer would follow from the words just cited. You must, he says, give a thing time. Nobody can deny the temporary prosperity of the wicked, and certainly Carlyle could not deny that injustice may flourish long before it produces the in- evitable crash. The mills of God o-rind slowly, though they grind exceedino small. And, therefore, it may make all the difference whether we make the suc- cess the premiss or the conclusion. For though, in the long run, the good causes n;ay be trusted to succeed in time, and we may see in history the proof that they have succeeded, yet at any moment the test of success may be precarious whilst that of justice is infallible. We may dis- tinguish the wheat from the tares before the reaper has cast one aside and pre- served the other. At the moment the injustice of Napoleons empire was mani- fest, though the cracks and fissures which were to cause its crumbling were still hidden from any observer. By what signs, then, other than the ultimate test of success, can ~ve discern the just from the unjust? That, of course, is the vital point which must decide upon the character of Carlyles morality ; and it is one which, in my opinion, he cannot be said to have answered distinctly. He gi vCs, indeed, a test satisfactory to him- self, and he enforr~s and applies it with superabundant energy and variety of l)hrase. That is right, one may say briefly, which will work. The sham is hollow, and must be crushed in the tug and ~vrestle of the warring ~vorld. The reality survives and gathers strength. Veracity in equivalent phrase is the con- dition of vitality. Truth endures ; the lie perishes. But in applying this or his vast vocabulary of similar phrases, we come to a difficulty. The laroest verac- b ity ever done in Parliament was, he says, Sir Robert Peels abolition of the corn- laws. But how can you do a veracity? What is a lie? a question, as he ob- serves, worth asking by the practical English mind; and to which he accord- ingly I)roceeds to give an answer. He insists, that is, very eloquently and vehe- mently, upon the inevitable results of all lying, and of all legislative and other action which l)roceeds upon the assump- tion of a falsity or an error ~vhich passes itself off for a truth. In all which I, for one, admit that there is not only truth, but truth nobly expressed and al)plied to the confutation of some most pestilent errors; and yet, as one must also admit, there is still an ambiguity. May it not, in fact, cover that exaltation of mere success which is so often objected to him? Some tyrannical institution slavery, for ex- ample lives and flourishes through long ages. Is it thereby justified ? Is it not a fact, and if fact and truth are the same things, is it not a truth sanctioned by the eternal veracities and so forth, and there- fore entitled to our respect? This is one more form of that fundamental problem ~vh ich really perplexes Carlyles moral teaching, and which he has at least the merit of bringing into prominence, though not of answering. In fact, we may recog- nixe in it an ancient philosophical contro- versy not yet set at rest; for, since the beginning of ethical theorizing, thinkers of various schools have tried in one way or other to deduce virtue from truth, and to identify all vice ~vith error. But the reference is enough to show the differ- ence of Carlyles method. He might respect the metaphysician who held a doctrine so far analogous to his own; but the metaphysical method appeared to him as a mere formal logic-chopping where the essence of the teaching escaped amidst barren demonstrations of verbal iclenti- ties. The real answer is here again a new version of the old Puritan answer. The Puritan fell back upon the will of God revealed through the Bible, whose author- ity was manifest by the inner light. If the wicked were allowed to triumph for a time, there was no danger of being misled by their success, for they were con- demned in advance by the plain fact of their renunciation of the inspired guide. For Carlyle, the hero takes the place of, or rather is put side by side with, the older organs of inspiration. Every hero conveys in fact a ne~v revelation to man- kind he conveys a divine message, not, it is true, with infallible precision, or without an admixture of human error, but still the very kernel and essence of his teaching. He may come as prophet, king, poet, or philosopher, and you may reject or accept his message at your peril. You may recognize it, as the Puritan rec- ognizecl the authority of his Bible, by the spontaneous witness of your higher na- ture, and you will recognize it so long as you have not given yourself up to believe a lie. And if you demand some external proofs you must be referred, not to some particular signs and wonders, but to what you may, if you please, call the success of the message; the fact, that is, that the hero has contributed some permanent element to the thoughts and lives of man- kind, that he has revealed some enduring truth, created some permanent symbol of our highest feelings, or wrought some organic change in the very structure of society. There is a danger undoubtedly of confounding some temporary crystal palace or dazzling edifice of mere glass with an edifice founded on the rock and solid as the pyramids. The hero may be confounded with the sham, as unfortu- nately shams and realities are most fre- quently confounded in this world. But they differ for all that, and the true man recognizes the difference as the religious man knows the hypocrite from the saint. The test is indifferently the truth or the soundness of the work ; they must coin- cide; but the test can only be applied by one ~vho really loves the truth. It is easy to point out the dangers of this position. It rests, after all, you may say, upon the individual conviction, and lends itself too easily to that kind of dog- matism in which Carlyle indulged so freely, and which consists in asserting that any doctrine or system which he dislikes is an incarnate lie, and pro- nouncing that it is therefore doomed to failure. And, on the other hand, it may be equally perverted in the opposite direc- tion by claiming a sacred character for every lie not yet exploded. Carlyle, beyond all question, was a man of intense prejudices, and the claim to inspiration, even to the inspiration of our teachers, very easily passes into a deification of our own prejudices. No one was more liable to that error; but it is better worth our while to look at some other aspects of his teaching. For we may surely accept without hesi- tation one application of the doctrine, which is of the first importance with Car- lyle, and which he has taught so inces 75 santly and impressively, that to him more than to any other man may be attributed the general recognition of its truth. The success of any system of thought the permanent influence, that is, of any great man or of any great institution must be due to the truth which it contained, or to its real value to mankind. This doctrine has become so much of a commonl)lace, and harmonizes so fully with all modern historical methods, that we are apt to overlook the service done by Carlyle in its explicit assertion and rigorous applica- tion to facts. XVhen he ~vas delivering his lectures upon hero-worship, intelligent l)eople were still in the attitude of mind represented, for example, by Gibbons famous explanation of the success of Christianity as due, amongst other things, to the zeal of the early believers, as if the zeal required no explanation; when on the other side, it ~~as thought proper to explain Mahometanism, not by the admix- ture of genuine truth ~vhich it contained, but as a simple imposture. Carlyle still speaks like a man advancing a disputed theory when he urges in this latter case that to explain the power of Mahomets sword, you must exl)lain the force which wielded the sword and that the ingenious hypothesis of a downright cheat will by no means serve the turn. This doctrine is no~v generally accepted, unless by a few clever people who still cherish the wire-pulling heresy which makes history a puppet-show manipulated by ingenious scoundrels, instead of a vast ,co-operation of organic forces. Carlyle, however, has done more than any writer to make such barren and degrading explanations impos- sible for all serious thinkers. His Groin- xvell has at least exploded once for all the simple-minded hypocrisy theory, as the essay upon Johnson destroyed the ingenious doctrine that a man could write a good book simply because he was a fool. Whether his portraits are accurate or not, they are at least set before us con- ceivable and consistent human beings. The prosaic historian and biographer takes the average verdict of common- place observers: if he is a partisan, he is content ~vith the contemporary carica- tures of the party to which he belongs; if he wishes to be impartial, lie strikes a rough average between opposite errors; and if he wishes to be dazzling, he calmly combines incompatible judgments. Ma- caulays ~vorks, with all their merits, are a perfect gallery of such portraits rhe- torically excellent, but hopelessly flimsy in substance: of angelic Whigs and fiend- CARLYLE S ETHICS. 76 CARLYLE S ETHICS. ish Tories, and of strange monsters like his Bacon and his Boswell, made by qui- etly heaping together meanness and wis- dom, sense and folly, and inviting you to accept a string of paradoxes as a sober statement of fact. The truly imaginative writer has to go deeper than this. He begins where the rhetorician ends. A great work, as he instinctively sees, im- plies a great force. A man can only leave his mark upon history so far as he is ani- mated, and therefore worthy to be ani- mated, by a great idea. The secret of his nature is to be discovered by a sym- pathetic imagination acting by a kind of poetical induction. Gathering together all his recorded acts and utterances, the masses of recorded facts preserved often in hopeless confusion and misrepresenta- tion by his contemporaries, you must brood over them till at last you gain a clear vision of the underlying unity of character which manifests itself in these various ways. Then, at last, you may recognize the true hero, and discover un- suspected unity of purpose and strength of conviction, where the hasty judgments passed by contemporaries and those who set them upon isolated fragments of his career, make a bewildering chaos of in- consistency. The process is admirably illustrated in the study of Cromwell, and the result has the merit of being at least a possible, if not a correct, theory of a great man. This, again, is connected with another aspect of Carlyles teachingas valua- ble, though perhaps its value is not even now as generally recognized. For the tendency of his mind is always to substi- tute what is sometimes called the dynam- ical for the merely mechanical view of history. It is a necessity for his imagi- nation to penetrate as much to the centre instead of remaining at the circumfer- ence to unveil the actual forces which govern the working of the superficial phenomena, instead of losin~ himself in the external phenomena themselves. The true condition for understanding history is to gain a clear perception of the genu- ine beliefs, the wants and passions which actually sway mens souls, instead of working simply at the complicated wheels and pulleys of the political machinery, or accepting the masses of idle verbiage which conceal our true thouThts from ourselves and from each other. An im- plicit faith in the potency of the machin- ery, and an equal neglect of the real driving force, was, in his view, the orig- inal sin of political theory. The consti tution-mongers of the Delolme or Si6y~s type, the men who fancied that govern- ment (as one of them said) was like a dance where everything depended on the disposition of the figures, and nothing, therefore, on the nature of the dancers, have pretty well passed away. Carlyle saw the same vital fallacies in such nos- trums as the ballot or the scheme so en- thusiastically advocated by Hare and Mill. If of ten men nine are recogniz- able as fools, which is a common calcula- tion, how in the name ot wonder will you ~et a ballot-box to grind you out a wisdom from the votes of those ten men? Never by any conceivable ballot-box, nor by all the machinery in Bromwicham or out of it, will you attain such a result. Wheth- er Carlyle was right or wrong in the par- ticular application I do not presume to say. Such a chanbe as the ballot may. perhaps imply more than a mere change of machinery. But I certainly cannot doubt that he is right in the essence of his contention that a perception of the difference between the merely mechanical details and the vital forces of a society is essential to any sound political theoriz- ing; and that half our pet schemes of reform fail just from this cause, that they expect to change the essence by modify- ing the surface, and are therefore equiva- lent to plans for obtaining mechanical results without expending energy. To have asserted these principles so emphatically is one of Carlyles greatest merits; and if he obtained emphasis at the cost of exaggeration, overstatement, grotesque straining of language and im- agery, and much substantial error as to facts, I can only say that the service re- mains, and is inestimable. Ilut there is a less pleasing qualification to be made. The objection to the ballot as a purely mechanical arrangement is combined, as we have just seen, with the objection founded upon the prevalence of fools. That stinging phrase, mostly fools, has stuck in our throats. The prophet who tells us that we are ~vicked may be popu- lar perhaps, because our consciences are on his side ; but the prophet who calls us fools is likely to provoke our wrath. I, at least, never met a man who relished that imputation, even if he ad- mitted it to contain a grain of truth. But, palatable or not, it is clearly fundamental with Carlyle. The world is formed of dull millions, who, as a dull flock, roll hither and thither, whithersoever they- are led; the great men are the guides of the dull host, who follow them as by an CARLYLES ETHICS. 77 irrevocable decree. They are the he- roes to whom alone are granted real pow- ers of vision and command; realities amongst shams, and knowers amongst vague feelers after knowledge. We need not ask how this theory was reached; whether it is the spontaneous sentiment of a proud and melancholy character, or really a fair estimate of the facts ; or, again, a deduction from the hero doc- trine. With that doctrine, at any rate, it naturally coincides. To exalt the stature of your hero, you must depress his fel- lows. If Gulliver is to be a giant, he must go to Lilliput. There is, however, a gap in the argument which is character- istically neglected by Carlyle. He would never have fairly accepted the doctrine whose was it ? that, though a man may be wiser than anybody, there is some- thing wiser than he namely, everybody. The omission is critical, and has many consequences. For one may fully admit Carlyles estimate; one may hold the dif- ference between a Shakespeare and an average contributor to the poets corner of a newspaper, or between a born leader of men, a Cromwell, and a Chatham, and to the enormous majority of his followers, as something hardly expressible in words one may admit that the history of thought or society reveals the more clearly, the more closely it is studied, the height to which the chosen few tower above the average; one may even diminish the per- centage of the wise from a tenth to a hundredth or a thousandth; and yet one may hold to the superior wisdom of the mass. No ballot-box, it is true, will make the folly of the nine equal to the wisdom of the one. Or it can tend that way only if the foolish majority have some sense of the need of superior guidance. But the ignorance and folly of mankind, their incapacity for forming any trustworthy judgment on any given point, may also be consistent with a capacity for groping after truth, and they have the advantage of trying experiments on a large scale. The fact that a creed commends itself to the instincts of many men in many ages is a better proof Carlyle himself being the judge that it contains some truth than the isolated judgment of the most clearsighted philosopher. The fact that an institution actually makes men happy and calls forth their loyalty is a more forcible argument in its favor than the opinion of the most experienced states- man. And, therefore, the fact that any society is chiefly made up of fools is quite consistent with the belief that it is collec tively the organ through which truth grad- ually manifests itself and wins a wider recocrnition. Securus ludicat o;-bis may be a true maxim if we interpret it to mean that the world decides not as the experimenter but as the experiment. Car- lyle systematically overlooks this blind, semi-conscious process of co-operation upon which the hero is really as depen- dent as the dull flock which he leads. His- tory, as he is fond of saying, is the essence of innumerable biographies. To find the essence of the biographies, again, he goes to the essential biographies; that is, to the biographies of the men who olve the impulse, not of those who passively sub- mit to the impulse. This apotheosis of the individual is dictated by his imagina- tive idiosyncrasies, as much as by his theory of history. He must have the picturesque concrete fact: the living hero to be the incarnation of the idea; and, accordingly, history in his page is like a gigantic panorama in which the l)ainter sacrifices everything to obtain the strong- est contrasts, and makes his lights stand out against vast breadths of unspeakable gloom. The hero is thus made to sum up the whole effectual force, and all that is done by the Greeks is attributed to the arm of Achilles. Some awkward results follow. Frederick is a hero who has ob- vious moral defects, and readers are startled by Carlyles worship of such an idol. Yet it follows from the assump- tions. For Frederick, in Carlyles theory-, means the development of the German nation. That the growth of the German influence in Europe was a phenomenon which naturally and rightfully excited Carlyles strongest enthusiasm requires no demonstration. If the credit of that, as of every other great achievement, must be given to some solitary hero, Frederick doubtless has the best claim to tbe honor. We may no doubt say that Frederick, in spite of this, was selfish and cynical, and may confine our praises to allowino- his possession of perspicacity enough to see the capabilities of his posi- tion. A great man may do an involuntary service to mankind, because his genius inclines him torange himself on the side of the strongest forces, and therefore of what we vao-uely call progress. But the h ero-~vorshipper naturally regards him as not merely an instrument, but the con- scious and efficient cause of the progress itselL Hence, too, the apparent immorality which some people discern in Carlx~les denunciations of red tape formulas, 78 CARLYLE S ETHICS. and the ordinary conventions of society. Undoubtedly, such fetters must snap like packthread when opposed to the deeper forces which govern the growth of na- tions. No set of engagements on paper will keep a nation on its legs if it is rotten at the core, or maintain a balance of l)OXVC~ between forces which are daily growing unequal. It is idle to suppose that any contract could bind, or otherwise can preserve the vitality of effete institu- tions. And hence arise a good many puzzling questions for political casuistry. It is hard to say at what precise point it becomes necessary to snap the bonds, and when the necessity of change makes revolution, with all its mischiefs, prefer- able to stagnation. The hero-worshipper who regards his idol as the supreme mov- ing force, has to make him also the infal- lible judge in such matter. He stands above not the ultimate rules of moral- ity, but the whole system of regula- tions and compromises by which men must govern themselves in normal times, and decides when they must be suspend- ed in the name of the higher law. The only al)peal from his decision is the ap- peal to facts. If the apparent hero be really self-seeking and vulgarly ambitious, he and his empire will be crushed like Napoleons. If, on the whole, his decis- ion be right, as inspired from above, he will lay the foundations of a new order on an unshakable basis. And, therefore, Carlyle is naturally attracted to the revo- lutionary periods, when the underlying forces come to the surface; when the foundations of the great deep are broken up, all conventions summarily swept aside, and the direct as well as the ulti- mate attention is to the great principles of its social life. Therefore he sympa- thizes with Mirabeau, who had swal- lowed all formulas, and still more with Cromwell, whose purpose, in his view, was to make the laws of Enoland a direct application of the laws of God. Puritan and Jacobin are equally impatient for the instantaneous advent of the millennium, and so far attract equally the man who shares their hatred of compromise and temporizing with the world. Here we come to the final l)rOblem. Cromwells Parliament, he says, failed in their attempt to realize their noble and, surely, necesssary attempt. Nay, they could not but fail ; they had the slug- gishness, the slavish half-and-halfness, the greediness, the cowardice, and gen- eral fatuity and falsity of some ten million men against it alas! the whole world and what we call the devil and all his anrels aoainst it! This is the true rev- olutionary doctrine. The fact that a reform would only succeed fully if men were angels is ~vith the ordinary conserv- ative a reason for not reforming at all; and with your genuine fanatic a reason not for declining the impracticable, but for denouncing the facts. We have, however, to ask how it fits in with any such theory of progress as was possible for Carlyle. For some such theory must be held by any one who makes the victory of truth and justice over shams and falsehoods a cornerstone of his system. It has been asked, in fact, whether there is not a gross inconsistency here. If Crom~vells success proved him to be a hero, did not tl)e Restoration upset the proof? The answer, frequently and emphatically given by Carlyle, as in the lecture on the hero as king, is an obvious one. Cromwell represents an intermediate stage between Luther and the French Revolution. Luther told the pope that he was a chi- mera; and the French gave same piece of information to other chimeras. The whole process is a revolt against certain gigantic shams, and the success very inadequately measured by any special incident in the struggle. The French Revolution, with all its horrors, was a return to truth, though, as it were, to a truth clad in hellfire: and its advent should be hailed as shipwrecked mari- ners might hail the sternest rock, in a world otherwise all of baseless seas and waves. And throughout this vast revo- lutionary process, our hope rests upon the certainty of heroes being sent us; and that certainty shines like a polestar, through murk dustclouds, and all manner of downrushin,, and conflagration. It is well that we have a certainty of the coming hero; for the essay seems to show the weakness of all excessive reli- ance upon individuals. Cromwells life, as he tells us eml)hatically, was the life of the commonwealth, and Cromwells life was at the mercy of a stray bullet. Where then is a certainty of progress in a world thus dependent upon solitary he- roes in a ~vilderness of fools, liable to be snuffed out at a moments notice? So far as certainty means a scientific convic- tion resting on the observation of facts, we, of course, cannot have it. It is acer- tainty which follows from our belief in the overruling power which will send heroes when there is work for heroes to do And Carlyle can at times, especially in his earlier writings, declare his faith in such CARLYLE S ETHICS. 79 a progress with full conviction. The English Whig, says Herr Teufelsdrdckh, has, in the second generation, become an English Radical, who, in the third, it is to be hoped, will become an English rebuilder. Find mankind where thou ~vilt, thou findest it in living movement, in progress faster or slower: the ph~nix soars aloft, hovers ~vith outstretched wings, filling earth with her music or, as now, she sinks, and with spheral s~van- song immolates herself in flame, that she may soar the higher and sing the clearer. And the phrase, as I think, gives the theory which in fact is more or less ex- plicitly contained in all Carlyles writ- in~s It is plain, however, that progress, so understood, is a progress consistent with long periods of the reverse of progress. It implies an alternation of periods of reconstruction and vital energy with oth- ers of decay and degeneration. And in this I do not know that Carlyle differs from other philosophers. Few people are sanguine enough to hold that every gener- ation improves upon the preceding. But the modern believer in progress undoubt- edly believes that this actual generation is better than the last, and that the next will be better still; and is very apt to impute bad motives to any one w1~o differs from him. Here, of course, he must come into flat opposition to Carlyle. For Carlyle, to put it briefly, regarded the present state of things as analogous to that of the lower empire; a time of dissolution of old bonds and of a general ferment which was destroying the very tissues of society. So far he agrees, of course, with many conservatives; but he differs from them in rega rding the process as necessary, and even ultimately beneficial. The disease is one which must run its course; the best hope is that it may run it quickly; the attempt to suppress the symptoms and to regain health by making time run back- wards is simply chimerical. Thus he was in the painful position of one who sees a destructive process going on of which he recognizes the necessity whilst all the im- mediate results are bad. To the ardent believer in progress such a state of mind is, of course, repulsive. It implies misanthropy, cynicism, and disbelief in mankind. Nor can anybody deny that Carlyles gloomy and dyspeptic constitution palpably biassed his view of his contemporaries as well as of their theories. The mostly fools expresses a deeply-rooted feeling, and we might add mostly bores, and to a great extent humbugs. And this, of course, implies a very low estimate of the powers of unhe- roic mankind, and therefore of their rights. If most men are fools, their right to do as they please is a right to knock their heads against stone walls. Carlyle perhaps overlooked the fact that even that process may be useful training for fools. But even here he asserted a doc- trine wrongly applied rather than false in principle. It shocks one to find an open advocacy of slavery for black Quashee. But we must admit, and admit for the reasons given by Carlyle, that even slav- ery may be better than sheer anarchy and barbarism; that, historically speaking, the system of slavery representi~ a neces- sary stage in civilization; and therefore that the simple abolition of slavery a recognition of unconditional right, without reference to the possession of the instincts necessary for higher kinds of society might be disguised cruelty. The error was in the hasty assumption that his Quashee ~vas, in fact, in this de- graded state ; and the haste to accept this disheartening belief was but too charac- teristic. That liberty might mean barbar- ism was true; that it actually did mean it in certain given cases was a rash as- sumption too much in harmony with his ordinary aversion to the theorists of his time. This applies to all Carlyles preachings about contemporary politics ; the weakest of his writings are those in which his rash dogmatism, colored by his gloomy tem- perament, was employed upon unfamiliar topics. But the pith and essence of them all is the intense conviction that the one critical point for modern statesmen is the creation of a healthy substratum to the social structure. That the lives of the great masses are squalid, miserable, and vicious, and must be elevated by the spread of honesty, justice, and the un- flinching extirpation of corrupt elements, the substitution of rigorous rulers for idle professors of official pedantry, busy about everything but the essential that is the sum and substance of the teaching. That he attributes too much to the legislative power, and has too little belief in the capacities of the average man, may be true enough. But this one thino must be said in conclusion. The bitterness, the gloom, even the apparent brutality, is a proof of the strength of his sympathies. He is savage xv ith the physician because he is appalled at the virulence of the dis- ease and the inadequacy of the remedy. He may shriek quack too hastily, and 8o MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. be too ready to give over the patient as desperate. And yet I am frequently struck by a contrast. I meet a good friend who holds up his hands at Car- lyles ferocity. We talk, and I find that he holds that in politics we are all going to sheer destruction ( shooting Niagara ), that the miserable Radicals are sapping all public spirit; that faith is being tin- dermined by malcontents and atheists; that the merchant has become a gambler, and the tradesman a common cheat; that the British ~vorkmanis a phrase which may be used with the certainty of provok- ing a sneer ; and, briefly, that there is not a class in the country which is not on the high-road to decay, or an institution be- yond the reach of corruption. And yet my friend sits quietly down and enjoys his dinner as heartily as if he were ex- pecting the millennium. What shall I say? That he does not believe what he says, or that his digestive apparatus was in most enviable order? I know not; but certainly Carlyle was not capable of this. He took things too terribly in earnest. XVhen workmen scamped the alterations in his house, or the railway puffed its smoke into his face, he saw visible sym- bols of modern degeneracy, and thought painfully of the old honest, wholesome life in Annandale of steady, God-fearing farmers and self-respecting workmen. All that swept away by progress and prosperity beyond example That was his reflection; perhaps it was very weak, as certainly it was very unpleasant, to worry himself about what he could not help, and sprang, let us say, all from a de- fective digestion. And yet, though I can- not think without pity of the man of genius who felt so keenly and thought so gloom- ily of the evils around us, I feel infinitely more respect for his frame of mind than for that of the man who, sharing, verbally at least, this opinion, can let it calmly lie in his mind without the least danger to his personal comfort. From The Gentlemans Magazine. MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. BY ALICE coRKRAN. CHAPTER IV. MONSIEUR DUFRESNY did not make his appearance again till dinner-time. A new influx of guests had arrived at the chfiteau. Some neiThbors also had dropped in, and the long table was full. it might be owing to some confusion in the arrange- ments incident to added numbers, or it might be by Mademoiselle Ang~les de- sire, that instead of sitting next herfanc~ she was placed opposite to him at dinner. No allusion was made to the scene of the morning. Before entering the dining- room, Monsieur de Ch~vres had broached the topic; but Dufresnys monosyllabic replies had effectually silenced this young mans airy unconcern. An ~ie was apparently in full tide of spirits. She was prettily dressed, and looked brilliant and gay. She was sitting between the cur6 of Jouy and Monsieur de Ch~vres, and kept her two neighbors laughing by her brilliant sallies and some- what daring repartees. She distributed her coquettish attentions equally between the two, smiling now on one, then on the other. It must be confessed that her bursts of laughter were occasionally loud- er than strict decorum warranted; she seemed rather to wish to attract notice than to evade it. She never looked towards Dufresny; but when he talked to his neighbor, her chatter would some- times drift and her words flag. Mademoiselle de Lustre watched her with an anxious glance, turning occasion- ally to look at Dufresny. He was grave, silent, and appeared preoccupied. When the party migrated to the draw- ing-room, there was a general call for a dance. The heavy curtains were drawn, wax candles burned in the candelabras. In the twilight of the conservatory at one end of the saloll, the tall, pale plants showed like goblins. One of the young married ladies seated herself at the piano, and soon the larger part of the assembly were ~vhirling round to the strains of one of Strausss waltzes. Monsieur Dufresny remained in a group chatting near the mantel-piece. He still wore the preoccupied air he had had at dinner; and as he conversed with the curd, his eyes often followed Ang~le, flit- ting like a brilliant butterfly across the room. Come, Dufresny, admit, said Mon- sieur de Ch~vres, pausing in his waltz with Ang~ie, that this is more civilized than an inn, a barn, and some wet country folk for company? I admit, at any rate, that the contrast is enormous between this and my last evenings surroundings, be replied. I never was in a country house that possessed so much of every resource of luxury and comfort. Velvet curtains, car- pets, candelabras everything! said MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. Madame de Beaumont, taking all in with a comprehensive glance. zVest-ce-~as. one ~vould almost fancy oneself in Paris, said Ang~le compla- cently. The country like Paris ! Here is, in- deed, the last word that praise can bestow upon it! put in Dufresny, with grave banter. I humbly confess, said Ang~le, lift- ing her shoulders ~vith a little shrug, my soul is not that of an artist. It l)refers comfort, asphalte to walk on in wet weather, pretty people prettily dressed, to griminess, mud, and rain-smelling peas- ants. Having said this, she set off waltzing in Monsieur de Ch~vres arms. The next morning the rain had ceased, the sun shone, the ~vorld was brilliant with the freshness and glitter of light, falling on and reflected by a million rain- drops. It was decided by the party assembled round the breakfast-table at Chateau Jouy that the day should be spent out of doors. Monsieur Dufresny was in the painting- room up-stairs, when the door opened brusquely and Ang~le walked in with her rapid step. She was in her riding-habit; a high hat on her head and silver spurs at her pretty heels. Are you not ready? she said. You know we are going in a cavalcade, over the mud, to the Tour de Losano-es It will be amusing. XVe shall swim our horses over submerged meadows and fields. One of us may get drowned on the high-road. From an artistic point of view, too, the excursion is worth making. You see we shall be able to judge the aspect the world presented after the deluge by the view we shall get from the top of the tower. I am afraid I cannot be of the party. I must content myself with imagining the appearance of the earth after the deluge, fi-om that of Jouy, he said smilino- Oh! that painting, always ! Ang~le said, with a little frown. Not that, altos ether! I have prom. ised poor Cofc to go and pay him a visit. I did not see his pictures yesterday. Ang~le played a ra-ta-tum ~vith her foot on the carpet. Cofc! For whose sake we are all in disgrace! It seems to me, you devoted yourself to comforting him yesterday. Is there a necessity for more devotion to- day-? I must go, he answered gently. 1-le is ill, he is poor. He was hurt ye by what may have been a sterday LIVING AGE. VOL. thoughtless joke xxxvii. 1878 on all your parts, but it wounded him. I cannot disappoint him to-day-. We can all go, she exclaimed with a look of insl)iration, and talking in her ardent tones. After all it is right that we should. We ought to repent and make amends. We shall go in a cavalcade; we shall carry off by storm every picture in the house; ~ve shall make the poor man rich for the winter. He shall forget y-es- terdays joke it was a poor joke, I admit. But the weather, you seeit excuses everything. You do not understand, he said, tak- ing her hand. You do not know the poor. Their pride is stronger than that of the rich. It is not hard pride, but sensitive. When wounded they can for- give, but they cannot forget. Should those that threw ridicule on his pictures yesterday come to the humble artist to- day, offering to buy them from him, the recollection of this mocking still fresh in his heart, he would feel this amends but another insult. Why? she asked. Was it, then, so very unkind, what we did? It was worse than unkindit was cruel; and it was well planned to hurt. You take everything au graud sJ- rieu2-, she answered, beating her skirt ~vith her whip. It is the artist nature, I suppose. Big lights and immense shad- ows everywhere. You would evolve a five-act tragedy out of elements that would scarce suffice to make a comedietta for a lever de rideazi. Monsieur Dufresnys brow clouded; he dropped her hand. You (10 not un- derstand, he repeated, and paused. A lecture! I see it comm o she said with a smile. The noise of horses careering, and of voices and laughter rose from the yard below. Come, she continued. They are waiting for us. I do not mind how long or severe the lecture may be; if you will only deliver it to me on horseback, I shall listen very humbly to every syllable of it. No, he answered, I cannot go. It seems to me, replied Ang~le, gath- ering up her skirts, that you only think of the claims of the poor. Yet others, I consider, have claims too. She went to the door and paused a minute on the threshold, waiting; but he did not say a word to detain her. She passed out, shut- ting the door with a slam, after her. Dufresny, soon after she left, made his way to the village. He went through the 82 MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. damp aisles of the wood that stretched between it and the chateau. There was in the air a jocund sense of blitheness ; a feeling, as if earth and sky had made it up; the birds sang, the muddy roads stretched azure-tinted, and every puddle had its rim of light. Du fresny walked on, lost in thought. The fold, the mark of which always contracted his brow, was deepened; the observant keenness of his glance, that gave an impression of energy and vivacity to a countenance that might otherwise have inclined to melan- choly, was veiled. He was not aware when he passed the crucifix that rose guardian-like at the entrance of Jouy, he did not know, when he ~vent by the low, massive church, with its Norman towers and slate roofs ,shining ~vith an inestima- ble brightness over it. The bent and energy of Eug~ne Du- fresnys nature had long passed into the single channel of devotion to art. He had not sought fame, but fame had found him out. He had lived a simple, sincere, retired life, almost entirely spent in the country. The superficial whirl of exist- ence in Paris dried up the sources of in- spiration in him, and he seldom made any long stay there. He had no sympathy for the town aspects of life. It was the dignity, the pathos, and solitariness of laborious poverty that stirred in him the impulse to artistic expression. The life of rugged toil and sacrifice led by the peasantry appealed to him, as did certain aspects of nature and weather; wide, grave stretches of country, that seem monotonous at first sight, and yet possess infinite variety of line and tint, under the shifting influences of cloud and wind. His pictures were realistic, yet imbued with a poetry of their own. He was a man of thirty-five, of set habits, long ad- dicted to a life of work, colored by con- stant and varied feeling under the domin- ion of calm thought. It was noticeable, notwithstanding Eug~ne Dufresnys co- hesion and purpose in life, that not his closest friend could ever divine what step he would take at a moment of crisis. He was a man of strong will, yet with the weakness of the emotional temperament. XVithin the last two months he had en- gaged himself to be married to Ang~le de Say, a young lady who was the very out- come of J~arisian influences. During a short stay in Paris he had painted her portrait, and his artistic sense had found delight in her beauty. She was merry, thoughtless, charming, and he had felt the sway of her grace and vivacity. She had puzzled and interested him. There was the childs hardness of undeveloped sym- pathies in her. She was fantastic, frolic- some, and frivolous, yet he felt sure at times that he saw traces of an underlying generous and tender nature. During that time, when he was constantly thrown into her society, he had, in dreamy moments, half caressed the idea of falling in love with her, but his thoughts had never very seriously gathered about the idea, when, on coming to bid her farewell, the regret in her blue eyes settled everything. That day he asked her hand in marriage, and was accepted. Dufresny now only became aware of his surroundings when he found himself standing before Pare CoYcs cottage. The day before he had seen the two demoi- selles CoYcs. This time the door was opened by an old woman, square-built and weather-beaten. The vivacity of her gray eyes, under the short, thick eyebrows, contrasted with her wrinkled skin. She was dressed in her peasants costume. A few gray locks escaped from under her wide cap, the flaps of which were lifted and pinned above. The skirt was spare; the kerchief, inserted inside the square- cut bodice, was white, as if fresh from the wash. She opened the door cau- tiously, keeping hold of the handle, and eying with suspicion her visitor. Can I see Monsieur Cofc? asked Dufresny. No, monsieur, impossible; he can see no one, she answered decisively. I hope he is not ill. He is very ill, she replied curtly. I am sorry. Tell him I walked over from the chateau to see him. From the chateau Something told me so, answered Mare CoYc, with sub- dued trembling in her tone. No, mon- sieur,fzmais de la vie, shall I let you up to see him. The door was closing. At any rate, give him my name. Tell him that Mon- sieur Dufresny, who walked home with him, called. The closing door stood still, there ~vas a perceptible hesitation, then it opened a little, and through the aperture Mare CoYcs voice sounded, You walked home with him? Yes, madame, on these two feet now waitino for admittance on your door- steps. The door opened a little wider. You carried his box? Yes, madame; and it was a heavy one. You shook hands with him when the others laughed at him? MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. 83 i vow, madame, we shook hands cor- dially, like two brothers of the brush that we are. The door opened wide. It is differ- ent. You are welcome. XVhat a mistake! \Vhat a mistake, monsieur, I was going to make. The gars has been tormenting himself like a soul in pain, with longing to see you but he did not hope it to- day, and I was turning you away; you see my head was full of the others who mocked him. I am sorry he is ill, said Dufresny. It is worse than illness, she an- swered, sinking her voice and glancing l)ack anxiously. The doctor says he has got a bad cold but I believe it is disappointment. Ah, monsieur! they treated him with insult they laughed at him and it was a beautiful picture ~ her voice faltered. But, madame, perhaps you exagger- ate. No, monsieur, he was ill when he went to the chateau but when he came back he was not the same man. I saw it when he walked in here, carrying the picture. He sat there by the fire. Al- ways when he came back from painting, he would call us to see what he had done he would look so pleased so happy- like. Yesterday lie spoke no word, he turned his picture with its face to the wall. Here she flicked a tear from her eye with the corner of her apron. I knew it no use trying to deceive Mare Cofc, s lie resumed with energy. She has not nursed the sick for fifty years for nothing lie is discouraged and it is bad when discouragement comes to the sick man. Dufresny did not speak for a minute. He knew the type to which this woman belonged talkative, but austere, hardworking, religious, with a tinge of fanaticism in her piety. I should like to see him, he said. Do you think I might? I fancy I might cheer him up a little. As Mare Cofc ran up-stairs to prepare her son for his visitor, Dufresny stepped inside. The room he entered had an earthen floor; there was a deep hearth with a saucepan, in which simniered the soup, liangin~ by a chain over the wood fire ; there was a (heal table, some straw-bottomed chairs, two armchairs lined ~vitli cushions of clark cloth quaintly embroidered in bright col- ors, showing figures wearing the national costume. A quantity of zaisselle and jars made of the rough pottery manufac- tured in the province lay about. A finely carved chest of unvarnished oak stood in one corner, in the other was a clock, also of oak with a copper-plate, on which was represented in rude re/oussd work the Holy Family in the manger. Above the fireplace stood a statuette of the Virgimi, with some faded orano-e blossonis at her feet and palm branches above her. It was just such a room as he was in the habit of entering in the peasants cot- tages. The distinguishing features were the l)ictures on the walls, ~vhose peculiar brick-red tint proclaimed them the work of Monsieur Cofc, the village artist There was the Mare Cofc, glistening tre- mendously with varnish, in a cap of un- mitigated white, her strong countenance smoothed down to bland smugness. There were the demoiselles Cofcs, who had abandoned the peasants garb still worn by their mother, simpering and stiff, sit- ting, their arms round each others ex- traordinarily slim waists. One of the young ladies pinched a rose between a thumb and forefinger shaped like sau~ sages, while the other carried a letter. Dufresny had only time to cast a recon- noitring glamice around him when lie was summoned up-stairs. It was a shabby room into which the peasant woman usli- ered him, having little more furniture in it than a bed, at the foot of which stood an easel with a picture turned back upon it. A palette with the colors set lay upon the box, a bunch of brushes unwashed and laden with paint were thrust through the thumb-hole. The walls were covered with sketches. A pipe and an old smok- ing-cap hung over the mantelpiece. The humble room was like the shell of a fish. It was easy to read by it the record of the life led ~vitliin it. Pare Cofc lying back in the bed, with a brown woollen nightcap on his head, and a comforter twisted round his neck, looked dreadfully ill. There was a piteous look of disap- pointment about him; the gentle, lovable conceit that had niarked him the day be- fore was gone; and instead there was a timid, almost nervous expression, in his eyes. When Dufresny entered, a smile widened his lips, lie made a little move- ment as if pulling hiinisehf together, sat up aiid put out his hand. Ahi ! monsieur. Is it ~-ou Yes; and I am grieved to find you in bed, said Dufresny, cordially shaking his hand. Only a cold, monsieur, answered Cofc with plucky eniphiasis. But a cold makes a maii lazy. So you see I took to bed. Quite right ! Lie best thing to do, under the circumstances, is to remain in- 84 MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. side this coverlid. As soon expect a feu dar/~ftce to go up in the rain, as ideas to sprout up in an influenza. Just so, exclaimed CoTh with a harsh laugh it is exactly that, fireworks in the rain, it is just that. As he laughed his eyes gleamed questioningly on his visitor. But it is very good of you to come, monsieur, he went on; I did not hope for a visit from you to-day. But I arran~ed to come I made up my mind nothing should prevent my com- ing to see you, and have a look at your pictures to-day. There are some hanging upyou see, monsieur, the poor artist answered with a gesture of his hand towards the wall and a twist of his features that did duty for a smile; I lie in my bed sur- rounded by my works. Like a soldier on the battle-field, said Dufresny, rising and beginning to look about the room. Come, what nice things you have here They are all done from nature reproduced what I saw. I believe there is some merit in them, answered CoYc, with a ghastly attempt at the old vanity. fhey are full of merit, said Dufresny with kindly humbug. Come, what a good bit of color this is such good light and shade! And here is my old friend Marot the baker, I should know him any- wherehis figure limp as one of his flour-bags and his pompous, rosy face frowning like that of a judge passing sen- tence capital! And there is Monsieur le Cur6 in his long petticoats his kind old nose perpetually nipped by the east wind and his mild, bleared eyes. Why, my friend, this room is a portrait-gallery of the Jouy worthies. Coic laughed loud and queerly as Du- fresny spoke. That is what the people about here say, he replied ; that it is like seeing Jouy reflected in a mirror, to have a look round Pare CoYc s room. Just like it how excellent those sun- flowers are! Dufresny went on, tak- ing down a sketch painstakingly ~vrought out of sunflowers in pots. What lovely sunflowers, so freely and carefully drawn! I should like to buy this Madame Coic, could you tell me the price? The old mother had been loitering about: she now came forward and made acurtesy. Itis thirtyfrancs, monsieur. Thirty francs! nonsense! said Du- fresny indignantly. I would not take it for that price, I am an artist and know something of its value; if you will let me have it for one hundred and thirty francs I shall take it. Come Monsieur CoYc this sketch belongs to me,if you will l)art with it. Thank you, monsieur, if you think it worth something: said Coic, with timid suspicion in his olance. I shall hang it up in my studio in Paris. where every one will admire it, replied Dufresny with emphasis, as M~re Coic went off to pack the sketch. How hard you have worked, my friend! he went on, resuming his survey. Yes, monsieur, that is true Pare Cofc has worked well in his time no one can say nay to thathe has not spared himselffor miles around they have his portraits hanging up in their farms. I have seen them, often! said Du- fresny, and you have made those poor country people happy you have com- forted them for you have sometimes preserved for them the faces of their dead. Ah! those ~vere the o-ood times those were the good times, replied Coic, as if talking to himself. They nsed to say it, Thank you, P~re Coic, the chil- dren will think of the old mother, when she is dead, for you have put her face there up in a frame for them, and I I was proud I did not envy Pare Biot, his barrels of cider, or his fields 1 used to say to myself, You are not rich, but you are the only one in the village who can paint ~vho can make folk happy like that. You have every right to feel so, my friend! the village is proud of you, said Dufresny. Pare Coic did not answer. There was a silence; then he muttered feebly, as if wandering, Those rich peol)le may be right; I do not judge them ; but it is over; they have spoiled my life. Why, friend, said Dufresny cheerily, taking a chair near the bedside, and look- ing down on the worn frame, there are years of work and pluck in you yet! I know better, said the sick man, with feeble querulousness, and if it were not for the old mother downstairs, I would not care; but I take it Pare Coic has turned his pictures with their faces to the wall, never to turn them back again.~~ You are wrong, my friend, said Du- fresny, laying his hand upon the fevered one that lay outside the coverlids, and holding it in his kindly grasp. The body with you is affecting the mind ; you will see life very differently when you get well again. MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. I do 2ot want to see it differently; I want to see it as it is, replied the sick man, with a sudden burst of temper. Well then, last night I saw things as they are. I remained here, monsieur, with my eyes wide open here in the dark and it was always passing before me;on the wall opposite. That beautiful room; I did not know a room could be like that one ~vith its heavy curtains and its soft carpets, and the pictures in it. Ah! those were pictures! I could well see the dif- ference between them and mine. All night I heard those ladies in their silk dresses and those fine gentlemen mocking me You should not care that for the thourht of it, said Dufresny, snapping his fin~xers. Coic did not heed. There was a pause; then he went on, lowering his voice ~When they mocked me, it enraged me, but it was when the demoise/le He broke off, turned his face to the wall, and continued Au, monsieur! She seemed to me so beautiful. I did not dare, some- times, to look at her ; sitting there in her blue draperies, with the smile in her gentle eyes. I used to think in my heart the Virgin must look like that in Para- dise. When I saw her laughing at me, like the others that is what was too much I felt like a poor creature thrown clown in the mud. Fury gained me His voice fell away. He put his face down on the pillow. There came an- other silence, Dufresny walked to the window. As Pare Cofc sang his little requiem of failure and disappointment, with the hollow cough coming between the sentences, the young mans heart was touched with sorrowful indignation. A greater fall would have been less pitiful to behold. The career of humble triumphs could not, at best, have been a long one. it was scarce worth a rainy days amuse- ment to have spoiled the cheer of it. That is how I felt in the night, CoYc ~vent on, in his husky voice, but in the morning I said to myself, They were right. They know what painting is. It is I who am the fool. 1 ought to have remained the carpenter my father was before me. Those rich people know nothing about art, said Dufresny, leaving the window and speaking with resolute ac- cent, as he seated himself at the foot of the bed. Now the way they treated you, is just the way they treat me. If they see an unfinished picture they make fun of it. They turn it into ridicule. Mademoiselle Ang~le would laugh at one of mine un- mercifully, but I would not mind that any more than I would the twittering of a little bird on the roof. As Coic did not answer, Dufresny went on: And as for that beautiful room, with its curtains and carpets, it is not there you will find inspirations for art. Art is on the roadside on the hills. It is where you look for it; where the apple-trees blossom, and Jean runs about bare-legged. Then, as for those toilettes of blue and pink, they are hideous in painting. Now, your mother would make a fine picture in her frilled cap and kerchief. I ~vas looking at your likeness of her down- stairs. That was a picture worth paint. mo The neighbors thought a deal of it, said Cofc feebly. I heard that Monsietir le Maire came to see it, said Dufresny. So he did, monsieur, and the pr6fet came too. Bravo! exclaimed Dufresny, with enthusiasm, drawing his chair nearer the bed. He watchfully led the sick mans thoughts away from sad retrospects and anticipations; asking him questions con- cerning the portrait of this village worthy and of that one. Pi~re CoYcs interest lagged at first, but when fairly moved, he began to chatter with animation of former times. Dufresny was glad to let him talk on. He evinced vast interest in every detail of that brilliant time ; he laughed aloud at the jokes, and cried Bravo! heartily when CoYc modestly repeated the praise he had received. The poor painters eyes kindled, his husky voice had something of a ring of the old contentment, when Dufresny clasped his shaky hand in farewell he sat up in bed. Who knows, monsieur who knows Pare CoYc may yet do a bit of brush-work again, he said. Down-stairs the mother and her daugh- ters were waiting at the door to let their guest out. May the good God bless you, mon- sieur, said the old woman, liftin her hand. It was indeed he who led you here to-day. And when I think of it that I was going to turn you off CHAPTER V. MADEMOISELLE ANGELE had forgot- ten all about Pare Cofc. A month had elapsed, during which she had been to the bums c/c vie-,~ she had only just re- turned to Jouy, and if movement and hubbub be terms synonymous with I)leas 86 MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. ure, there was plenty of it in the chMeau just now. Monsieur Dufresny had not accom- panied his betrothed to the seaside; he had remained behind to work on his pic- ture, hiring for himself a small pavilion a short distance away from the village. Since Ang~les return he had kept himself out of the turmoil of her surroundings by day, but he joined the party in the even- ing. lt might be the contrast which the natural gravity of his deportment pre- sented to the gaiety around, that gave to his aspect when he was at the chateau a certain sadness and constraint. He and Ang~le held with each other but a super- ficial intercourse. Since the day that her lover had refused to join the excursion to the Tour de Losanges Ang~le had not sought him out, nor did he endeavor to draw her into any intimate conversation. She never seemed so full of frolicsome humor as when he was by, laughing aloud, talking brilliant nonsense, coquetting with others, taking vith verve the lead in all the social games and dances. The rela- tionship between the affianced lovers had drifted into something sin~ular and un- usual. Mademoiselle de Lustre could not fathom it. She watched them with flurried glances. Smiling or grave, Du- fresny seemed to her to be endowed with something of the impenetrability of the snhinx; and in her levity it was ~s diffi- cult to understand Ang~l~. It was the third evening after AngNes return from the seaside. A Parisian lady, Madame de R6cy, had joined the party. She ~vas a plump little woman, wearing a coronet of dark hair, never ruffled, over her forehead. She was al- ways dressed in the last fashion. In the afternoon she went about short-skirted, and very countrified in her attire; in the evening she put on a jet-laden skirt trail- ing a yard behind her, ~vhose encumbrance she deftly managed with a kick of her high-heeled shoe. The party was assembled in the court- yard of the chateau. In the vividly dis- mal picture of her country abode, which Mademoiselle Ang~le drew for her friends in Paris, she always excepted the court- yard. It ~vas half harden, half yard; fur- nished with rows of orange-trees in square green boxes, alternating with quaintly cut trees. Old - fashioned flowers grew in clumps; all about reigned a certain pic- turesque artificiality, carrying the mind back to bygone ceremonious days. In the centre stretched a pond, on which sailed two swans, and a couple of pea- cocks strutted about on sunshiny days. These peacocks were Mademoiselle An- gales special l)ride; they almost recon- ciled her to Chateau Jouy, she said. Madame de R6cy was enchanted with all she saw, uttering little screams of de- light between her phrases, and pointing at all the various items with her fan and outstretched hands. But this is delicious this is what I call the ideal country. Those orange- trees those yews trimmed into all sorts of shapes those swans ! But it is a Watteau! Gentlemen, you ought to have guitars and silk stockings, and dear little powdered wigs. You are out of place, you are an anachronism, with your ugly swallow-tails and white neckties. It is true, we are an anachronism. We ought to have velvet breeches and pretty wigs, agreed Monsieurde Ch~vres, gravely sipping his coffee. Ang~le, my dear, it is delicious. I tell you it is delicious, continued Ma- dame de R6cy, walking about and waving her fan. And I, who always tell my friends I am going to expiate my sins when I go into the country, I did not know what the country could be. It would make one turn sinner to come here to do penance. I always used to think of the country as a compound of dirty roads and daisies. And this this is the country c~ /leur d oranger, re marked D ufresny. A la fleur doranger exactly ! re- peated Madame de R~cy, sinking into a chair and sniffing up the perfume. But it is a picture, this courtyard. You ought to paint us in it Angde in pink, I in black we should make a contrast. We should produce a sensation in the Salon. Monsieur Dufresny prefers mud and peasants, put in Ang~le, with a curt laugh. Peasants! Yes, peasants as he sees and paints them; to those I have no ob- jection, said Madame de Rdcy, lifting her eyebrows; only I should like to see them in the flesh. What are they, then, if they are not peasants? asked Dufresny with amused curiosity, sitting astride on a chair op- posite Madame de Rdcy, while Ang~le agitated herself like a star through the gloaming, flitting hither and thither, paus- ing sometimes near the group feeding the swans, but usually keeping in the neigh- borhood of her betrothed. Come now, confess, some great lady of the Faubouro- St Germain stood for you, in short petticoats and a nightcap, MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. 87 for the Clanezese des IJois, said Ma- dame de R6cy, with a glance of coquettish provocation. No, madame, she was a peasant wom- an, peasant for generations; and by my faith, madame, I do not know one great lady of the Faubourg St. Germai nwho, in her petticoats and nightcap, would have had the air this woman had, as I saw her, one evening in the twilight, trudging bare- footed over the mud, with her bundle of sticks on her back. But then she had expression, she had physiognomy, exclaimed Madame de R6cy, in an accent of protest she looked as if she had lived. Lived! And what is it to live? I pray you, madame, exl)lain to me the meaning of a word constantly used in a sort of occult fashion. I confess I am curious to have the definition of it, for after all, it concerns us all. Lived! Well, to live means some- thing else than to vegetate; it means to taste life, but life as we have it in Paris. It means movements, the contact of intel- ligence with intelligence. XVhat say I it means a thousand things, concluded Madame de R6cy, with a flourish of her fan. For instance, continued Dufresny, in the voice of one setting down items in a bill it means chocolate in bed at nine oclock in the morning, ~vith the Fz~garo. Oh, yes, the Fzgaro / absolutely the Fz~aro. It is all Paris brought to my bedside, responded Madame de Rdcy then the Boulevards, shopping, the Bois, the last novel, the first representa- tion at the theatre, visits, the opera With interludes at the pa/issier, in- terrupted Dufresn~. Oh, yes, les re/its pdt6s at Guerre, washed down with a glass of yin de MadeV-e. They are Madame de R6cy kissed her finger-tips. Enough to give dyspepsia to a canni- bal, said Dufresny. Oh, ieave your cannibals alone! They have but the rudiments of digestion. They feed, but do not eat. Life life consists of things one does not speak of before young girls, finished up Madame de Rdcy, glancing at Ang~le. No, I admit it, answered Dufresny gravely; my peasant woman had not lived. She rose at sunrise; she went to bed at sunset; she did not know how to read. There was a cottage full of chil- dren and the good man to look after make and mend for; there was a strip of garden to grow vegetables in for the soup, and the field to work in; in winter there was the wood to gather for the hearth ; and after the days work, al- though my good woman did not know how to read herself, yet she had a great respect for education, and she went and pulled the church bells to pay for her sons teaching at the curds school. She was a worthy woman, I do not doubt it, said Madame de R6cy; but still But still it is not life, replied Du- fresny, finishinb her phrase, with an odd smile, rising and rolling up a cigarette be- tween his fingers. Seriously, I should like to see her your peasant woman. Is she sitting for you now? I shall come and pay you a visit, off there in your barn. - Dufresny did not answer, but remained apparently absorbed in the neat rolling of his cigarette. No, he is not so absorbed in painting as we think, said Ang& le, who had been drawing nearer and nearer to the couple. I know something of his movements. He devotes much time to bringing into shape the productions of a village genius. It is a pity; it is almost a sin. It will be a loss to the world. What do you mean? asked Dufresny, casting a rapid glance at her. You are givin Pare CoTh lessons! You go to see him very oftenevery day, I know it. What other object could you have ? Ang~le said, in her quick, in- cisive tones. We shall see the geniuss pictures hung up in the Salon, all the de- licious hideousness gone from them, the cheeks no longer puffed out, like a school- boys with sweets, the attitudes no longer those of an agony of grace. I can see them perfect nonentities. We shall turn to the catalogue for the painters name; we shall find it Joseph CoTh, di?ve of Eug~ne Dufresny. It ~vill be very amusing; but I I shall feel inclined to go into mourning for something gone out of the world. And I I also, cried Madame de Rdcy, with a dramatic gesture, 1 have heard of your Coic. In pity, before you spoil him, take me to see him. I must have my portrait taken. It will be an heirloom in the family. It must be begun to-morrow ; I shall go to-morrow. It is impossible to-morrow, madame, answered Dufresny curtly. Why? persisted Ang~le. Suppose I were to say, replied Du 88 MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. fresny, looking at her, that it was his ill- him out a martyr. And when I think of ness that brought me to the cottage, not a my portrait! I3y a few strokes I could wish to instruct him. transform it, either into a sign-post for the Oh ! that would be a pity. Pare CoYc inn A la bonne Villageolse, or into the ill! cried Ang~le. We must pray for representation of a Roman emperor. A his recovery. We cannot lose him. He dash or two of the brush dipped into ver- is a curiosity he is something to see. milion and white, would do all that is J ouy would not be Jouy without him. If necessary to the face, a few more and Pare CoYc were to die, he should be pre- I would turn the draperies into afonlard, served in spirits of wine his attitude, or a toga. Do let him come I did like his expression, all his delicious contor- him, you know. Do let us have a little tions and wriggles of conceit. laugh. He does not mind. Angble spoke with something of forced He did mind. For all his clumsy ex- gaiety in her accent. She was half lean- tenor, he had a sensitive nature, an- ~ng against the high box of an orange- swered Dufresny quietly. tree. The massive foliage spread sombre Well, she said petulantly, con- above her head, a ray of the full moon ceited people ought to suffer. It is nidic. shot a pale shaft through the dark leaves, ulous the man should think of himself as and it just touched her hair. Monsieur he does. If he was in a sort of sleep, Dufresny looked at her. She had the dreaming he was a great artist, it might fantastic, careless, mocking glance, that have hurt him to wake him up for a mo- might have belonged to a dryad, looking ment, make him to rub his eyes and see out of her tree, ignorant of all human himself as he is but I know he has grief and sympathy. gone to sleep again, and he is dreaming A singular expression contracted his once more he is Titian. Then, she brow. You are saying things you may went on with a little vexation, as Du- afterwards be sorry for, he said quietly. fresny did not answer her, we wished to Oh ! she replied flippantly, I, too, pay him, so what does it matter? have my ideas of life. They are to sin He would not take the money. You and to repent. Those t~vo active verbs must not forget that, said Dufresny. represent the two needful emotions, the I do not forget it, she answered with pleasurable and the pitiful. Come, she ardor. It has troubled me, the thought ~vent on, as he let the talk drop, will you of it. I have walked about with these take us to see Pare Cofe to morrow? three hundred francs in my l)ocket, till No, for it might make you under- they seem to burn it. Yesteiday, I thought stand repentance too well, he answered I would throw them into the pool, but I brusquely, and he turned on his heel. felt that would be a pity three hundred Your betrothed, my dear, is charm- francs, you know! Then, I meditated fling- ing, said Mad ame de R~cy but some- ing them through Pare Coics window. times he has distinctly the air of Croque- Indeed, I have longed to give him the mi/rune. money. If you will only take me to him We shall be a contrast, replied An- to-morrow-, I shall find some way of get- g~le, laughing rather loud, but without tino- him to put it into his pocket. I shall gaiety. feel quite different then, as if I had got A fe,w moments after Dufresny ~vas rid of a sin. wandering alone about the park; he heard Dufresny hesitated. He looked at her the rustle of a dress trailing on the grass with a sort of perplexity. It seemed as behind him, and the approach of a quick if there was something he wished to say. step. Do take me, she urged. You will Why this mystery? said Ang~le, see, you will be pleased with me. joining him. Why do you wish to keep Still he hesitated then suddenly he P~re Cofc to yourself? Why does he not put away hesitation. come up to paint me? I want my portrait Yes, we shall go to-morrow together finished. to see him, but we must go without Ma- Do not ask; you will know it all quite dame de R6cy. soon enough, he answered, with grave Thank you, oh yes, we shall go with- restrain nt. out her, she said gaily. You will see You speak like an embodied omen of how I will flatter and soothe the poor evil, she said with childish badinage. man. If he is still a little bit awake, he You hedge round with a halo of ro- will go to sleep, and dream-dream he is mance this village genius. You make Velasquez. MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. 89 CHAPTER VI. DIJFRESNY was punctual the next day, and at the appointed hour he found An- gale waiting for him on the steps in front of the house. The chateau was empty by this time. Madame de R6cy had gone with the general, to inspect a site on the top of a hill, where she had set her heart upon building a rustic habitation for herself some day. The other guests had sped various ways; Ang~le had refused their entreaties to reign as usual over their afternoon amusements. She had been mysterious but decided in the ex- cuses she made, Mademoiselle de Lustre alone had remained behind to escort her niece; it would have been against all her traditions of conve;uznce to have allowed her to go alone with her betrothed. Kee, said AngUe to Dufresny, when he joined her, stretching out her hand, in which lay a dainty silk bag, here are the three hundred francs. I have made a purse for them. Pare CoYc shall have them in exchange for my portrait. I shall carry it off to-clay. I shall never be in ~vant of something to laugh at, when I have it hanging up. Dufresny looked at the purse, and held the tender little outstretched hand in his. He did not answer, but it seemed to her that he was going to speak. He dropped the hand, however, without breaking si- lence. They set off together, Mademoiselle de Lustre keeping near Ang~le, or lagging a little way behind her The good lady was rejoicing that matters looked more promising between the lovers; and she kept up a high-pitched monologue of re- marks upon the weather, the aspect of the country, and other various topics. It must be admitted that if the kind soul was somewhat vapid, and did not con- tribute greatly to the general amusement of society, she seldom expected any one to reply to her running comments, and was quite content to talk out a theme to herself until she had exhausted the sub- ject. They took the road to the village, through the crimsoning aisles of the wood, in which departing summer was lighting its funeral pyres. Ang~le was very gay; and agitated her- self as she walked by the side of her betrothed, like a bird fluttering from bough to bough. She was happy; still she was never cjuite at her ease with Monsieur Dufresny. There was a touch of awe in the feeling with which she re garded him; but it was the unreflective awe of a child ; she gave herself no ac- count of it. She did not understand him, and she knew she had the power to charm and to amuse him; this gave an element of excitement to their relationship. Now, as she went on, she plucked the heather, and made bouquets of it, ornamentin the body of her white merino dress and her broad-leaved hat with bunches of pink waxen flowers, and garlands of wild ivy. All the while she babbled gaily, as usual, of Pare Cofc. She wished him to take her fathers portrait, in his warrior s ac- coutrements; the buttons, the gold lace, and fa;iac/ie would give a magnificent scope to his genius. She saw the portrait already; then another village genius might be found who would surround it with martial strains. The whole miuht be en- graved and sold for one sou to the boys at the fair. Mademoiselle de Lustre, behind, catch- ing the word uniform, now held forth on the various uniforms she admired; Monsieur Dufresny walked on, paying apparently little heed to the talk of his companions. An interruption presently came to it. As they neared the village a gil-1 of twelve passed them ; she carried a child, whose head was buried on her shoulder fast asleep; a basket was slung on her arm, full of carrots and vegetables. She was barefooted, and trudged some- what laboriously along, an expression of fatigue slightly ruffling her brow. A picture! said Ang~le, putting her hand under the little maids chin, and smiling up at Monsieur Dufresny. 1hen takino out her purse she dropped a five- franc piece amongst the vegetables. There, ma ;nis,nonne, she said, buy yourself something pretty from me. As the delighted child went on her way, I should take her to the shoemaker, she added, and cover her poor red feet with a pair of boots, but that would spoil all the artistic effect. That is barbarous, said Dufresny smiling; only to look at the barefooted child from a picturesque point of view. But is that not always the way you look at the poor? How to make use of them in your pictures? I trust not, he answered slowly, and paused. But you how do you look at them ? How ? she replied, stopping; then she shrugged her shoulders and laughed. In a more orthodox fashion ,giving them alms, and thereby winning my salva- tion. 90 MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. That is right, took up Mademoiselle de Lustre from behind. There is no surer way of winning our salvation than by being charitable. Monsieur le Curd preached a very good sermon some weeks ago on this. I understand, said Monsieur Dufres- ny, the poorare put upon earth to act as stepping-stones to fame for some and to Heaven for others. In the scheme of creation, they are part of the economy instituted solely for the rich. Oh! said Ang~le uneasily, detecting a sarcasm, admit at any rate that we give t1~em the beau rd/c. Then it is but a fair exchange, they want money, we want opportunities to do good. We give it to each other. This is the mistake you make, AngNe, he answered, as if weighin~ his words, that money can buy exerything. I detect the clatter of the hoofs of your hobby-horse in the distance you are mounting it Pare Coic again, she said gaily. Yes, Pare Coic, he answered. I want to talk to you about him. Let me tell you 1 am getting tired of the subject, she answered. I must speak about it all the same, he repeated. XVeIl I listen, she said, crossing her arms in front of her. Only, I protest I see no harm in what I did. Where was the wrong? He wanted a job. I gave him one. This is an illusion, Dufresny replied hastily. You know, Ang~le, you did not give it for a job. Come now, confess it. There was not the motive of charity actu- ating you. It was the pleasure of seeing the dy wriggling, with the pin through its body. He restrained himself, and re- sumed more gently, It was thoughtless, and I want to lead you to think to im- press you, as I myself am impressed. Oh ! she interrupted petulantly, you ascribe sensitiveness to people who do not possess it. You romance you are an artist. No, you are wrong, he burst out with ill-concealed emotion. You will not see it; you are like a child, with a childs ignorance of life and its suffering. I have seen him constantly since, and know it gave him mortal pain. His sim- pIe belief in himself was lost from that day. He was too roughly awakened. His sprit broke. Ang~le listened impatiently, smiting the trunks of the trees with her sunshade. if you ~vould only drop the subject, she said, with brief accentuation; the tedi- ous subject. I wish with all my heart I had never seen your Pbre Coic. Since that unlucky day you have been nothing but a walking reproach. I think, he said with vivacity, that one day you will admit it was a well-de- served reproach. Let me tell you, once for all, the result of ~vhat I know was done in thoughtlessness was cruelty. She did not answer, and he went on: Perhaps you did not know the circum- stances of his life. You were not aware he had a mother to support. He was ill and suffering also, and if lie was con- ceited, this pride in his ~vork had a beauty in it a beauty that might bring tears to some eyes. As they spoke, they reached the church that stood at the entrance of the village. I want to go into the churchyard for a few moments, Dufresny said, stoppin~. XViIl you come with me? Angble hesitated. She looked flushed and vexed; there was a pout on her pretty lips. Mademoiselle de Lustre protested loudly. She would not o. Churchyards depressed her. The grass was wet; An- gbles dress would be completely spoiled. There had been a knell sounding all the morning; some one had died; perhaps the funeral was going on now. I shall only keep you a few moments, said Dufresny, addressing Angble. Very well, I will go, if you like, she answered. It seems to me a strange fancy. Are you going to make a picture? It will be a gloomy subject. Mademoiselle de Lustre remained ob- stinate. She tried to dissuade Dufresny from his purpose; but after a while she consented that Angble should accompany him, only she must not remain many min- utes. Meanwhile she would wait for them under the church porch. Angble followed Dufresny in silence. He walked on without saying a word. They made their way through the modest tombs. The ample sunlight lay like a hand extended in blessing over the few stone slabs and the crowd of black crosses, with the white-painted epitaphs and the representation of tears upon them. Here and theie were plots of garden flowers, and everywhere the wild flowers crested the grassy billows, at the heads of which the crosses stood. An- g6le, in li er fantastically wreathed hat and dress, picking her steps amon the tombs, looked out of place. Yet there was noth- b 1 the little enclosure there in~ disma in MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. 9 was even a sort of charm in the infinite serenity around. They had not proceeded far, when An- gNe paused and called to Dufresny to stop; but he did not heed her. They were making their way towards an open grave, towards which also, on the other side, a funeral procession was advancing. She saw the crucifix, borne aloft, with the sunlight upon it; the enfvzts de citwzir, carrying the holy water; the coffin, cov- ered with a shabby pall, carried by four men. Behind came the mourners, headed by a peasant woman, her black bodice cut square, her face ricrid with grief, shaded by a large flapped cap; two younger women walked on either side of her. There ~vere several village folk who, when they reached the tomb, disposed themselves on its borders. Ang~le had never assisted at a burial service. A little trembling seized her; she crossed herself hurriedly. Come away, she said, touching Du- fresnys arm. Will you not stay a minute or two? I should like to stay, for I knew him. Who was it? she asked, nervously gathering herself up in her dress, as the scrape of the lowered coffin against the side of the grave ~vas heard, and the chanting began. It was P& e CoYc. She did not answer. He did not dare to look round; but he felt her standing silently and solemnly by his side. Pres- ently he heard a little gasp; he turned, and saw the tears streaming down her face. Let us go, he said, taking her hand to draw her away. No, she replied; I should like to stay to the end. They remained until the ceremony was over and the mourners dispersed; then Ang~le turned away. She had dried her tears, and she walked off with her rapid step and resolute bearing. Why did you bring me here? she said, without looking round. You know churchyards have always a miserable effect upon me. Once, when I was a child, I dreamt I was lost in one. Was it not horrible? All those black crosses and slabs, you know, on every side. He saw that she shivered. I am afraid you feel cold, he said, gently drawing her cloak about her. It is always cold in churchyards. I think the sunshine, out of compliment to the l)lace, strips itself of its warmth when it falls upon one. Aunt must be wonder- ing what has become of us; only (laugh. Ing nervously) she never wonders when she is knitting. She counts her stitches she makes no count of the minutes. Ang~le interrupted herself suddenly, and remained blankly staring before her. I wish the sun did not shine over graves, she resumed querulously. Then, before he could put in a word, she rattled on: Now, I like the catacombs much better; those dark galleries low down under ground, and the living people losing their way in them. That is ju.st what a city of the dead should be; no place for the liv- ing in it. There is such a differen~e be- tween the living and the dead. She shuddered, and gazed with that strange fixitx- before her. Suddenly she turned and looked at Dufresny. What did he die of? she asked brusquely. Pare Coic? He died of congestion of the lungs. How long was he ill ? He fell ill about a month ago, I think. A pause, during which she walked on with an automatic step; then, fixing upon him her eyes, in which was a painful ex- pression, she said abruptly: Then it is true; after all, you were right. We did help to kill him that day. He was frightened at her pallor, and at the alteration of her features. No you are exaggerating. His chest was always delicate. That has nothing to do with it, she said. We helped to kill him. You know it. You would not have brought me here if it had not been so. He noticed that her step was unsteady. Putting his arm about her, he supported her to a bench, upon which she sank. My dear, he said, holding her two hands in his, I ought to have told you before taking you here. You are exag- gerating. He was ill before ; his consti- tution was weak. He died the day berore yesterday, painlessly, even cheerily. The day before yesterday! she re- peated mechanically. 1 remember so well the day he came. I noticed his hand trembled as he stood in the doorway. I thought he was timid. She shut her eyes. I wish I could forget him. He was so gentle. He trusted us. I remem- bei his piteous look when he began to doubt us. I think he clung to his faith in me; he turned to me for protection. I remember he would look at me, as if in appeal, when the others mocked him; yet I joined in the mockery. Here she broke off with a sob. My poor child, said Dufresny. I 92 MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. am to blame. I should not have brought you here. He would have died anyhow. She shook her head, with a sad gesture of denial. b Kind Eug~ne, she said, loosening one hand from his clasp, and caressing his. You are trying to comfort me. But you see, it is not his death only, it is the thouott of the insults, of the outrage we heaped upon him. It is that, it is that. You were right when you said it was a mortal wound we gave him. Ah to think, to think, that I shall have to remember it all hy life, this scene of jeer- ing at an unoffending, hard-working hon- orable man; that I shall always see that poor, infirm figure, and that trembling hand extended. It will be like always feeling denounced before God. And ~vhat was it all done for? she went on, interlacing her fingers convulsively to- gether. Good heavens for what? For a little amusement. She swayed herself backwards and for- wards. Dufresny took her hands and kissed them. It was a freak, my dar- ling, the madcap results of high spirits others took the lead, you only followed. ~ she replied, it ~~as deliberate it was done in cold blood. XVe kept it up for three days. I was the willing instru- ment; I who was the hostess and should have shielded him from insult. Ah how strange it is, how strange, when a sin is brought home to one; and now I must always carry it about in my heart. I used to laugh, I used to amuse myself, but I do not think I ever hurt any one before; but now Dufresny rose and began pacing up and down, bewildered by the effect of the shock of bringing this thoughtless nature before reality. It is no use, Ang~le, he said at last, lamenting and exaggerating. We can never take a word out of the book of life and obliterate it, but we can make the book contain a tenderer story for it. But how? she cried, burstino into sobs. How? I am powerless. It is this. I can repair nothing; I cannot even give him the money I owe him to earn which he came out facing the bad weather in his weak health. He has left a mother unprovided for, said Dufresny gently. Ah! unprovided for, she repeated, her tears stopping a little A mother and two sisters. You think I could help them, she said, looking up to him like a frightened child, wishing to be reassured. If they will only let me, I might ; it seems pos sible. She put her hand up to her brow. My head is so confused, I can think of nothing distinctly. Yet it seems as if I might. Her eyes had brightened, and a timid hope had stolen over her face. She began twisting up the heavy plaits of hair that had fallen from their fastening. Du- fresny waited till she grew calmer, then they went out and rejoined Mademoiselle de Lustre. The worthy lady was still sitting under the porch knitting. The village people, as they came out, had told her of Pare Coles death. She was beginning her lamentations and the recital of her fears at Ang~les delay in the churchyard, but Dufresny drew her thoughts away. He devoted himself to her, and engaged her attention in the near and dear discussion of the guests at the chateau. Ang~le walked silently by his side. She was very quiet. As they neared the house they met the returning groups of visitors. Madame de Racy was in high spirits. She described the site she had chosen for her future habitation. One fitted for a fairy palace, she said. It seemed sus- pended in the air. \Voods grew under it. She must always have a house full of peo- ple when she lived in it, or she would die of fright. It was just the place for brig- ands to prowl about in. It was enchant- ing. She would begin the building next week. There was scarce any time left to question Ano~le as to the manner in which she had spent her afternoon. When the interrogatories began the young lady hurried her guests in. It was time for dinner. They were late. The cook would be furious. At dinner Dufresny noticed that she ate nothing, but she entered with feverish volubility into Madame de R6cys plans for her new house. There must be a tower, a draw- bridge, a ghost. The necessity of a ghost was carried by acclamation. ln the midst of her talk Ang~le would interrupt her- self, and remaiu gazing straight before her; then suddenly she ~vould rush back into the talk, and break into peals of laugh ter. It seemed to Dufresny that she wished to avoid him, yet once or twice he cauTht her gaze riveted upon him, with a frightened and piteous expression. CHAPTER VII. IT was the day after the funeral, Mare Cofc and her daughters had been hard at work, ever since their return from the cemetery. There was going to be a sale in the cottage. Pure C olcs pictures were to be put up for auction, and some of the MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. 93 furniture, too luxurious now to be kept. It was practical, and a matter of house- wifely pride, that every item disposed of should be presented to the Jouy public to the best advantage. The demoiselles CoYc mingled their tears liberally with the dust they swept, but the mother went about, broom in hand, grim, strong-feat- ured; all her years greyly stamped upon her face. She swept and scrubbed un- ceasingly, but every now and then she would pause in her work, sit down up- right, looking into vacancy. In the afternoon she was sitting before the fire in the room down-stairs, her chin in her palm, a parcel of unwashed brushes in her lap, when a gentle tapping came at the front door. It passed unnoticed by the old woman; her thoughts were too far off to pay heed to it, or if she heard, the knocking translated itself into the remembrance of hammer-strokes upon a coffin. When at last it asserted itself more distinctly Mare Coic rose, and gath- erin~ the brushes up in her apron, went forward and opened the door. On the threshold stood a young girl, whose shrinking attitude and timid expression were in singular contrast to her appear- ance of blooming youth and health. A few yards off Mare Coic saw a carriage drawn up. She did not recognize~ her visitor, al- though she had a vague impression that the face was familiar to her. Perhaps she suspected meddling charity, perhaps grief made her repellent, but she stood silent in the doorway; the young girl did not speak either, she remained embar- rassed, folding and unfolding her hands nervously. At last she said, I was pass- ing this way, and I thought perhaps, per- haps, you would let me in to see you.~~ We are in sorrow here, mademoi- selle, replied Mare Coic; we do not want visitors. As the young girl did not move away she ~vent on, in her unresonant voice, If it be anything on business for my son it is too late, it is no use. He is dead. I know it, but it is on business all the same, said the girl eagerly, and in some- thing of the relieved tone of one who at last found a way of beginning what she had to say. I came because, you see, I owe him money. I am his debtor, three hundred francs. I ought to have paid them a month ago, but I was away. I had it on my mind all the time. \Vho are you, mademoiselle? said Mare Coic. By this time her two daugh- ters were standing behind her. I am Mademoiselle de Say, from the chftteau yonder, replied Ang~le faintly, for the converging gaze of those three pairs of grieving eyes seemed to pass like the stino- of a scorching lash across her heart. Monsieur Coic took my portrait; it is for this I owe him. I know, said Mare Coic, suddenly bending her shaggy eyebrows. The portrait did not give satisfaction. My son would not take your money. XVe shall not take it either. Ang~le saw the door closing upon her. The idea that she would not be allowed to make the act of reparation she had set out to make moved her strangely; she felt like one starving, refused a crust. She put out a resisting hand and said brusquely, I amfianc6e to Monsieur Dufresny. The closing door stopped at once. His fiancee? Yes, she answered, timid and blush- ing, now that there was hesitation in her favor. Then come in, mademoiselle, said the old woman gently. All those whom he loves, are loved here, and she led the way within. They xvent into the room where the big clock was ticking in one corner, and the portraits were hanging on the wall. An~ gales eyes rested upon these at once their labored ugliness, their smooth, shin- ing surface, and brick-colored flesh tints struck her with a sense of piteous indi- viduality. Yes, mademoiselle, they are beautiful pictures, said M6re Coic, seeing her lookino- at them. And to think he found the way of doing them all by himself! No one ever showed him how. It came to him like from Heaven. Sit down, mademoiselle, there by the fire. Ang~le sat down the demoiselles Coic hung about the roomand Mare Coic continued in a mechanical voice, Mademoiselle must forgive me what I said just now; when some one we love goes, the head gets muddled; it is like as if only our senseless body was walk- ing about; one should say the Lords will be done, but the thoughts go away from the words. You see, mademoi- selle, she went on, stretching out her hand and pointing, it is always be- holding him, there so quiet and lonesome, that is the worst, he who was always so sociable before. Why, miss, he was as light-hearted like a child, when his brushes were in his hand, never mind- ing the troubles. At first, before the 94 MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. neighbors saw how great a painter he was, I would trudge off miles to sell his pictures. I was proud of my burden. Those were the good times. But these last weeks, when, she continued, with a dramatic gesture, he was so changed, I could not say the Lords will be done. It is often his will the old should bury the young, but this was not like his will. How long is it since he grew so down- hearted? asked AngNe breathlessly. Ever since the day, mademoiselle, the rich people at the chateau laughed at his painting. Do not move, mademoiselle, but would you like this side of the fire? As Ang~le quickly shook her head, she resumed, He was never the same man after. That was the reason I was so uncivil-like, at first, to mademoiselle. Though, when she said she was Monsieur Dufresnysfancie I knew she was never one who had hurt the lad. There came a short pause; then the old woman xvent on in a lower voice. And sometimes, I think, there was something he did not tell me; something on his mind, for now and then he would go wandering like to himself; hed mut- ter. I heard the words, If ske had not mocked me, I would not have minded the others. I think somebody, he trust- ed like, turned against him; and that broke his confidence. Ang~le drew a long breath, and rose quickly from her chair. Perhaps I tire you, mademoiselle, said Mare CoYc, with my talk; but it is a kind of comfort. It does me good to speak to you. You look as if you under- stood how the lad had suffered. You have a heart. You are worthy to be that good gentlemans wife. XVhen he en- tered, Mare CoYc went on, paying no heed to Ang~le, who had approached her, and on whose lips words seemed to be trembling, his coining would change the day to my son. It was like the alms of the good God to him, and that gentle- man knew how beautiful his pictures were. He would say, That is good that is fine. He would cheer him, so that the lad would take up his l)alette and try to do a bit of work, with his poor hands that trembled. Here, the demoiselles Coic departed from the room with a plunge; and for a moment or two there was no other sound but the ticking of the clock in the corner. To say he was not a real artist! resumed Mare Coic, in a voice gruff with the first trembling of tears in it. Those rich pCOpie did not see him die. God forgive the lad! It was not with a prayer he passed away. Do you see, miss, our garden there, the sun was shining on it, and there were the sunflowers. He had not spoken for a long time, and his eyes were shut. Suddenly he opens them looks about sits up with the old smile he had when painting. The beau- tiful sunflo~vers everywhere, he says. They are all round me in the boxes I should like to l)aint them, and he stretches out his hand like for his brushes then he drops back and dies. We did not understand him, said Ang~le, moving about with a restless step; then, kneeling, she took the old womans hand in hers. Forgive us if you knewif you knew how thought- lessly Her voice failed; her bosom heaved. IvThre Cofcs withered hand trembled under the pressure of that gentle touch; Yes, mademoiselle, he had the soul of an artist then meeting Ang~les eyes full of tears, a dry sob rent her throat the austerity of her grief melted, and lay- ing her head down on the girls shoulder, she burst into tears. Dufresny was coming up the garden- plot. He looked in at the window, before lifting the latch of the door, to let himself in. He saw Ang~le, with a look on her face, as he had sometimes seen upon it in his dreams of her; kneeling by Mare Cofcs side, clasping her bowed head. He surveyed the scene a minute or two, and then he turned away without entering. CHAPTER VIII. SEPTEMBER had passed into October, but Ang~l e did not press her father to return to town. The general did not ask better than to stay where he was. He liked the quiet and comfort of the old chateau. He would have contentedly re- mained all the year through in it, looking after his horses and his dogs, leading the life of busy idleness that suited him, if his daughter had allowed him. Every year, until this one, when the days began to shorten and her friends to leave, she agitated to get back to Paris, or she car- ned him off to Nice. This autumn, hoxv- ever, she wished to remain at Jouy. It was her last young girls caprice, she said. In December, she was to be married. Dufresny was away on a sketching- tour, Mademoiselle de Lustre was in Paris, inspecting some of the necessary arrangements. One forenoon in November Eug~ne MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. returned. He had walked a long part of the way, and he arrived unexpectedly at the chftteau. He did not let the servant announce him, but walked direct up to the salon. He pushed the door so gently, that An- gale for a moment did not look up. He had a glimpse of her, ~ittino- her graceful head bent over a book, reading aloud to the general. Eug~ne fancied she looked graver than of yore; but the next minute she had caught sight of him, and all her face brightened with the childlike frank delight he knew. She rose, the general turned his head, and then there came the exchange of greetings. So, here you are still, said Eug~ne, as they sa4 at the eleven oclock breakfast. Yes, it is the little ones wish, an- swered the general. She has got it into her head to remain here; and, my faith, I am not sorry to obey her! Euo~ne looked at Ang~le. Yes, she answered, nodding to him, I wanted you to see, monsieur, that I could remain a whole autumn in the coun- try, a ~vinter even ; and I confess I am beginning to feel a charm in it. The child is full of mysteries. She is changed. She is saying good-bye to her follies, said the general, panting between the intervals of tuggin ~ at an obstinate cork. How is M6re Cofc? What has be- come of her, asked Dufresny. She is sad, answered Ang~le, in an altered voice. They must leave the little cottage next week. They cannot make the two ends meet. Pare CoYcs pictures did not fetch the price they ex- pected; and there were debts. Oh! said Dufresny gravely. What will they do? Mare Cofc expects to get occasional employment as nurse. Still, it is piteous. She must go about from house to house as a stranger; when she was accustomed to a home of her own. And her daughters? I suppose they will go into service. That is their intention, and that is the worst of all. They grieve at parting from each other. Yes, said the general out of breath, and triumphant at having wrested the cork out of the bottle, the little one puzzles me. Imagine, Eug~ne, instead of a pearl necklace her old father wished to give her for a wedding present, fine pearls, round and even, she has coaxed the money it would have cost out of him. What for? She will not tell. Old Rosa- 95 lie is in the secret. They go out together. They return with the business expression of t~vo agents de c/lange. The child is swimming in mystery. And why should I not have a mys- tery. It is my caftrice, said Ang~le, picking out a lump of sugar and putting it into her coffee. But still, pearls ! pearls ! Eug~ne, grumbled the general, fine, round, and even, that would have made her friends turn green with envy. For the little one to refuse them! to ask for the money instead. It is incomprehensible. It goes beyond me. It is entirely mysterious, replied Du- fresny. Perhaps, replied Ang~le, looking at them over the rim of her cup, I am turn- ing miser. These pieces of yellow gold may have a fascination for me, to feel them, pile them up, gloat over them. EugThe laughed. He was a little per- plexed, yet he was happy. Ang~le was changed, and still she was herself. Her look was not less bright, but it had gained depth, and her mouth seemed more mo- bile. The general would not be put off so easily. It w-as incomprehensible to him, that the petite should have a mys. tery. Well, you shall know it one of these days, said Ang~le. My mystery and I shall part company. For this, I shall be sorry. It is amusing to have a se- cret. In the afternoon they set off for a walk. They xvent gaily through the woods, with the autumn sunshine glinting through the yellow foliage, and turning to gold the shreds of mists, that still hung among the branches, frosting with silver the dead leaves and bronzy ferns below. After they had passed the church and entered the village, Ang~le took the lead and turned into a side street. She walked with her light and rapid step in front of her companions. Pausing before a green door, distinguished from its fellows by having no garden before it, she took out a key, inserted it, turned it, and pushed the door open. It led at once into a room, where a wood fire burned; the room was empty, no servant apl)eared. I sent Rosalie in front to prepare for our recep- tion, said Ang~le in explanation. The firelight played upon the wall, and showed it lined with drawers, ornamented with brass rings, and names in black let- ters. A counter rose in front of it. Upon it were placed a pair of scales, some wide 96 MADEMOISELLE ANGELE. glass bottles, filled with dried herbs. On the wall hung pictures, the unmistakable work of Pare CoYc. What is this? Where are ~ve? asked the general, looking around him. This is my pearl necklace, an- swered Ang~le. Come, you have not seen it all. This is the finest l)earl, I ad- mit but there are others. They followed her into a tiny kitchen, opening out in to a garden, with fruit-trees planted in it; then up-stairs, into two bedrooms, fragrantly clean. Ang~le flut- tered hither and thither, pulling the cur- tains, drawing the blinds, pushing the chairs, showing up everything to advan- tage, coming and going, full of zeal. Is it not pretty? Do you not like my l)earl necklace? she asked at intervals, with her bright smile. It is the prettiest necklace in the world; a good fairy might wear it, said EugThe. But I dont understand, said the general. Does it not smell well ? she asked, when they had returned to the shop, taking two glass bowls out, and making her father and lover sniff the aromatic herbs they contained. Is it not like the perfume of the woods in autumn ? Still I do not understand anything about it, remonstrated the general, with an aggrieved air. I do not see an inch ahead of me. It is not your caprice to turn izerboriste, surely? Ang~le laughed, and shruo~-ed her shoulders. It would be a dainty caprice. Then her mood changed. She grew serious. It is for Mbre Coic. You know, fa- ther, I have spoken to you about her. She is old and left unprovided for. Her two daughters would have to go into ser- vice. They are accustomed to a home of their own, and one is a little deformed It would be hard for them. Then, there is a tie between us. As the general opened his mouth to give utterance to a long exclamation, she put her arms about his neck. if you knew all, papa, you would admire my pearl necklace. You would not wish one pearl of it otherwise. You see, she ~vent on, with a little gasp, la mere Cofc is so learned in herbs. The go oci people about will not need a doc- tor when she has her shop. I do like it your pearl necklace, said the general, passing the back of his hand over his eyes. And she will look so well a pic ture! Ang~le went on, addressing Eu- g~ne. Cannot you see her, with her big cap, against this background of wood- en drawers and bottles, listening to the villagers ailments, giving advice, weigh- ing out doses in her scales? Are they not pretty my scales? They are too pretty. It is all too pretty, he answered smilino- it is too much. You are like the beneficent fairy. You do not know where to stop you overwhelm with your gifts. Do you not think she will like the new home I have prepared for her? asked Angble, her face falling. She will be dazed by the luxury and completeness of it at first. She will scarcely know what to do. You must expect that she will have to pull it about and make it a little uglier, before she can feel completely at her ease in it. Angble cast a debating glance about her; then she said, looking at the paint- ings on the wall, The l)ictures will make it seem home-like. I feel as if I could never do enough in reparation. I think she will be happy here, she ~~ent on, after a pause. If I am a bit of a proph- et, I wager this shop will be like that of the barbers, you know, in the Middle Agesa rendez7ous for all the gossip; and poor Pbre Coics pictures and genius will often be the theme of conversation. As she continued speakin~ in her bright, incisive voice, the general installed him- self in an armchair by the fire, stretched out his legs, and began to dose. Then the lovers talked in whispers, Angble bending over the counter, Eug~ne on the other side, sitting in a low chair, holding her hands. She did most of the talk he listened, watching her, with the tnisty sense of happiness at its height. In the twilight, the fire lit up her hair, her pure young forehead, the white draperies about her throat, the flame played upon her eyes. Pare CoYc had queer notions of paint- ing, all the same, said Eug~ne smiling, ashe looked up at the walls where the pictures hung. She looked up also, a little smile upon her lips one of her new smiles. I never see one that I do not feel as I do when I come upon a wayside cross I am inclined to pray. To pray! he repeated. Yes; and when I think of Pare Coic, he always appears with something like a halo round his poor, shabby head. Meeting Eug~nes puzzled expression of countenance, she smiled, althou~ h two TWO STUDIES IN DANTE. big tears were in her eyes. Disengaging one hand from his clasp, she flicked them away. They bring my old self before me, she resumed, in her ardent voice. I see myself as I was before that terri- ble day at the churchyard so thought- less, so hard; and and I know if we had married, you would have been un- happy. I should have dragged you down dragged down your art. When I think of it a fear seizes me, as if I were on the brink of a precipice. Eug~ne uttered an exclamation, and tried to seize her hand; she evaded him, and put it gently on his head. Yes, my bien airn~ you know it would have been so, she said, letting a smile of gold drop upon him through her tears. From The Contemporary Review. TWO STUDIES IN DANTE. I. DANTE AND ROGER BACON. IT might seem as if the whole orbis terrarum of literature which finds its centre in the great name of Dante had been so mapped, surveyed, and explored to its remotest corner, that there was no open- ing for any fresh investigation. The cat- alogue of a Biblioleca Dantesca would itself fill volumes, and the books of which that libary is made up are, many of them, monuments of unwearied labor and life- long devotion to a great task. If I think that I have yet something to add, if not to what has actually been done for it may well be that others have toiled in the same region, of whose labors I am igno- rantyet to what is generally known, it is only that I come in as the gleaner of grapes when the vintage is done, seeing a fe~v clusters still hanging ungath ered, and perhaps only half ripe, upon the topmost bough. In July, i866, I wrote a biograph- ical article on Roger Bacon in the Gon- tem~ora?) Review. I am not, I think, unduly revealing the secrets of the edito- rial cabinet if I acknowledge the author- ship of an article on Dante in the Quar- terly Review for April, 1869. I was led to study the lives and works of the two great representatives of that marvellous medi~val period as seen, on the one hand, in its science, and, on the other, in its l)oetry and theology. I treated then of each apart. Later studies in connec- tion with a translation of the Go nun e- diz, on which I have been engaged for LIVING AGE. VOL. XXXVII. 1879 97 some years, have led me to the conclusion that there was a closer relation between the two than the fact that they were, for twenty-seven years, contemporaries, and that the works of the Franciscan friar may profitably be studied, as throwing light on those of the poet of Florence. The evidence on which I have formed that conviction I now submit to the reader. A preliminary question meets us and calls for examination. Had Dante ever been in England, and if so, at what time, and with what purpose, and with what results did he come as a pilgrim to our shores ? There are not a few, as Mr. Sy. monds remarks in his Introduction to the Study of I)ante, who would tread the high street of Oxford with more reverent footsteps if they had grounds for think- ing that that city also might claim, with Florence and Ravenna, and Verona and Paris, the honor of having once been the home of the poet of the Gomniedia. For the most part, it must be owned, the biographers and commentators are sceptical on this l)oint. They do not see where the distant journey can be fitted into his life. They think that the evi- dence on which the tradition rests is vague and untrustworthy. They do not find traces of the journey in the Go;;zme- dia or in Dantes other works. XVhat, then, is the evidence? (i.) There is the Latin poem of Boccac- cio in which he writes of Dante : Traxerit ut juvenem Phcebus per celsa nivosi Cyrrheos, mediosque sinusque, recessus Natur~, ccelique vias, terr~que, marisque, Aonios fontes, Parnassi culmen, et antra Julia, Parisios dudum, extremosque L?rilannos. (Epist. ad Petrarch.) It is obvious that the last line is intended to emphasize the fact that Dante had trodden the avia Pieriduni boa in the most literal sense; that he had wandered in search of knowledge into the most re- mote and least likely regions, in which no Italian poet before him had ever set foot. The literal fact is the crown and consum- mation of the figurative language which precedes it. Boccaccio, it is true, was a somewhat light-hearted and gossipping writer, but he was born seven years be- fore Dantes death, he knew his sons, and wrote his life, and lectured on his I)oems. In regard to Paris, it is admitted by most biographers that he was right, and most commentators find a reference to I)antes sojourn there in the Paradiso (x. 136 8): 98 TWO STUDIES IN DANTE. Essa ~ Ia luce eterna di Sigieri, Che, leggendo nel vico degli strami, Siilogizzfl invidiosi yen. [There dwelleth Sigieris light eterne, Who, lecturing in the street surnamed of straw, So syllogized, it made mens envy burn.] The poet, with his characteristic minute- ness, remembered the Rue du Fouarre (Straw Street), otherwise known as the Rue de lEcole, in which he had attended the lectures of the professor who, though soon forgotten by his contemporaries and followers, seemed to him worthy of a place among the master theologians of Christendom. Was it likely that the biog- rapher, right in this matter, should be altogether wrong in regard to the Rn- lanai (2.) A more definite statement rests on the authority of Giovanni da Serra- valle, Bishop of Fermo in the early years of the fifteenth century, who translated the Co;~~zed~a into Latin, and wrote a commentary on it. In this he says of Dante (I quote from Fraticellis Vita di Dante, p. 177): Anagogice dilexit theo- logiam sacram, in qu~ diu studuit tant in Oxonlis in regno Angli~, quam Parisiis in regno Franci~, et fuit Baccalaureus in Universitate Parisiensi in qu~ legit sen- tentias pro forma magisterii. Here again we have a statement, written in AD. 1414, and therefore within a century after Dantes death, which, even if it stood alone, might have a fair claim to credit. There are, however, one or two circumstances connected with the Bishop of Fermo which have been overlooked by most commentators, and which give, as I venture to think, a special significance to his testimony. He attended the Council of Constance in AD. 1414, and ~vhile he was there he made his translation of the Gonimedia, at the request of the Bish- ops of Bath and Salisbury, who had come to attend the council as representatives of the English Church (Colliers Church History, bk. vii.). Here, then, we have at least the fact that men in high places in England were so attracted by the name and fame of Dante that they wished to become acquainted with his great poem. Is it not a tenable hypothesis that they brought with them memories of the tradi- tions of their own university life, and that the statement of the Bishop of Fermo as to Dantes sojourn in Oxford may be traceable to Oxford as its source? (3) Can we find any corroborative evi- dence in Dantes writings of this visit to England, as we have found it in the case of Paris? Here, too, the evidence has the character of strong circumstantial probability. If, with all Dante-students, we trace the poets travels in his vivid pictures of the tombs at Aries (Inferno IX. 112) of the arsenals in Venice (Infer- no xxi. 7), and, as we have seen, of the ~ico degli strami at Paris, we can scarcely be wrong in finding a like trace in the description of the coast of Flan- ders: Quale i Fiamminghi tra Guzzante e Brugia Temendo 11 fiotto che in ver lo saventa Fanno lo schermo, perch~ I mar si fuggia. (Inferno xv. 46.) [Een as twixt Bruges and Guzzant * Flemings make, Fearing the flood that on their sea-beach rose, A bank whereon the seas great strength Ihay break.] But what, we may ask, could have drawn the poet, bent on seeking culture, to a region so unattractive? There were no schools of art or philosophy there no master of those who know, at whose feet he could sit and gather knowledge. Is it not probable that he found himself there only in transitu, as a convenient quarter from which he could take ship and make his way to England? Nor are the traces of the English wanderings far to seek. The Abbey of Westminster would be among the first places which the traveller would visit, and in that abbey there was a relic which would connect itself in Dantes mind with an event which, when lie was yet a child (AD. 1271), had sent a thrill of horror through the whole of Italy. Guy de Montfort, son of the Earl of Leicester, had assassinated Prince Henry of England, son of Richarrl Earl of Cornwall, at Viterbo, as he was in the act of receiving the con secratecl host, and had dragged the bleeding carcase through the church. The body of the victim was embalmed and brought to En- gland, and was interred in the Abbey of Hayles. The heart was l)ut into a golden vase, and placed on the tomb of Edward the Confessor, in Westminster Abbey (Barlows Contributions to the Study of the Commedia, p. 125). Is it not natural, with these facts before us, to see in the words with which the Centaur, who is the poets guide in one stage of the In- ferno, speaks of Guy de Montfort * I content myself with transliterating the name, leaving the question whether Dante meant (ihent, ur Cadsand, near J3rtiges, ur Wi seant, near Calais. TWO STUDIES IN DANTE. 99 Colui fesse in grembo a Dio Le cor che n sul Tamigi ancor si cola. (Inferno xii. 120.) [One spirit by itself he bade me note, And said, In Gods own lap he pierced the heart, Which now finds honor where the Thames doth float.] a personal reminiscence of the emo- tions with which he had gazed upon the memorable relic? Other passages at least admit naturally of an analogous ex- planation. The reverence with which he speaks of Henry III. Vedete il re della semplice vita, Seder ht solo Arrigo dIoghilterra; Q nesto ha ne rami suni migliore uscita. (Purgatorio vii. 1302.) [See ye the king, alone mid all the host, Pore simple Henry, wearing Englands crown He in his branches happier is than most.] the allusion to the wars between Edward 1. and Balliol Li si vedr~ Ia superbia ch asseta, Che fa lo Scotto e I loghilese folle, Si che non puo soifrir dentro a sna meta. (Paradiso xix. 1213.) [There shall be seen the pride that thirsts for gain, Which drives the Scotch and English people mad, That neither can within their bounds re- main.] the insight which be shows into the source and character of the hostility between Henry II. and his favorite son E perch~ to di me novella l)arti, Seppe ch io son Bertram dal Bornio, quelle Ch al re giovane diedi I ma conforti. (Inferno xxviii. 1335.) [And that thou mayst true news report of me, Know thou my name, Bertram dal Bornio, Who the young king misled to treachery.] the introduction into the Paradiso (x. 131) of the pre-eminently English scholar, Bede, - these are, all of them, phenomena which, though singly they prove nothing, converge to the same conclusion. If that conclusion be accepted as so far, at least, probable, there remains the fur. ther question, To what period of Dantes life are we to assign this visit to England, this stay at Oxford? For the most part the biographers agree in employing the poets more extended wanderings to fill up the gaps presented by the scanty rec- ords of the years of his exile. I agree, however with Wegele ( Leben Dantes, p. 94), in thinkino- that t hey come far 1, more naturally and probably into a much earlier period of his life. One whose goods had been confiscated, who was dependent on the patronage of this or that noble at Verona or Ravenna for bare subsistence, who had learnt come sa di sale Lo pane altrui, e com ~t duro calle Lo scendere e il salir per 1 altrui scale. (Paradiso xvii. ~86o.) [How salt the taste of bread thou then shalt know, That others give thee, and how drear the way Or up or down anothers stairs to go.] was hardly likely to have the means for such extended journeys. He appears, it may be, too frequently on the ltalian scene of action during those years for the supposition that he undertook these longer and more arduous journeys. If he had undertaken them, they would scarcely have been passed over in the prophetic summary of his wanderinos which he puts into the mouth of Cac- ciaguida, in Paradiso xvii. Lastly, it may be added that such journeys, under. taken for the sake of study, belong, in the nature of things, rather to the ardor of youth pursuing knowledbe, and sitting at the feet of the great masters of those who know, than to the ripeness of age, when the scholar feels that he has com- pleted his work of self-culture, and de. votes himself for long years together to the great task-work of his life. On all these grounds, then, it seems probable that the Paris and Oxford period of Dantes life must be placed before his exile. It falls in with that conclusion that Sigieri, of whom he speaks with a reverence which evidently implies per- sonal knowledge, died before AD. 1300, and that the incident to which he refers in the life of Pierre de la Brosse, who was put to death by Philip le Bel, in AD. 1276 (Purgatorio vi. 22), was more likely to have impressed itself on the mind of one ~vho ~vas in Paris as a student in the last decade of the thirteenth century than it would have been twenty years later. And there is a period in Dantes life in which these distant travellings would have come naturally, almost necessarily, as a relief to a great sorrow. The absolute silence which Dante preserves from first to last as to the marriage of Beatrice, though he dwells repeatedly, both in the Vita Nit- ova and in the Gommedia, on her death, shows how deeply he felt what 100 TWO STUDIES IN DANTE. must, at the time, unless his nature was different from that of other men, have been a crushing blow to all his hopes and aspirations for the future. Of that sor- row he would never speak, would strive not even to think, though, doubtless, with him as with others, the very effort at sup- pression did but intensify his anguish. Had Beatrice passed into a matronlike Donna dci Bardi, with children and chil- drens children round her, later genera- tions might probably have never heard her name. It was not till death had united what the manage de convenance had parted, and he felt that she was his, once more and forever, in a transfigured and glorified beauty, to be worshipped ~vith a purified and profounder love, that lie could brinc~ himself to record the birth and growth of his earlier passion. And even then, as we know throughout the Vita iVuova, the marriage itself is ab- solutely ignored, and treated as though it had not been. On any estimate of psychological prob- abilities it was almost a matter of neces- sity that one suffering as Dante must have suffered should seek relief in travel and in study. as a thousand others have done in like conditions. To pace the streets even of his beloved Florence and to see his Beatrice as the wife of another, would make life intolerable. He was young. His father was dead, and had left him with ample means. It was the fashion of the time for young men in Italy, as in other countries, to complete their education by attending for some few months, now at this and now at that uni- versity. His master, Brunetto Latini, had recently returned from Paris, where lie had sought an asylum during the dom- inance of the Ghibelhine party, and the memorable Tesoro, or TrJsor, which had been written in French, may at once have served to initiate his liupil in the study of that language, and laid open to his view the wide field of an encyclop~- daic knowledge de ouzul sci~ili, on which lie might thus enter. The marriage of Beatrice took place before 1287, when she is named as married in her fathers will. She died in June (possibly December), 1290. The battleof Campaldino, the tirst event after her marriage in which Dante is known to have taken part, was in June, 1289. We have thus an interval of at least two years, probably, indeed, three, unaccounted for, and, on the grounds given above, I offer the hypothesis that they ~vere spent in travel as the most ten- able explanation of the silence of the records. The incidental notices that have been already referred to help us almost to con- struct an itinerary of his progress. As- suming Paris to have been his first des- tination out of Italy, the most natural route for him would have been to make his way by land or sea from Florence to Marseilles. The former would take him through the reo-ions of the maritime Alps, and so give him the experience of the mountain phenomena, the chasms and ra- vines, the snow falling on a windless day, which lie describes so vividly in the In- ferno (xii. 19, xiv. 30). There he would be attracted to the memorable scene at Arles, the wide-spread l)lain looking like a vast cemetery, which furnished the archetype of one bolge of the Inferno (Inferno ix. 112). Thence he would jour- ney up the valley of the Rlione, with it~ affluents, the Is~re and the Saflne, and so to that of the Seine (Paradiso vi. 5860), and so to Paris. Here we may reasonably assume a stay of some months, during which the young Florentine student would be attending the teaching of the school in the Rue du Fouarre, where Sigier i, of the eternal light, delivered his prelections. There, if we compare his own language in the Inferno (xv. io6) with that of Roger Bacon in the Con~endiu;n Studit he may have been led to see how little the culture even of the great scholars of the time availed to save them from unuttera- ble baseness. But to him, as to other students of the thirteenth and of other centuries, there came the desire to pass on To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new; and the twofold lines of study, in both of which Dante sought and attained pre- eminence, would naturally determine his next movements. As a metaphysician and theologian, lie would be led to seek the schools which the c~reat Albert had founded at Cologne (Albert himself had died in AD. 1280), and as a student of physical science, l)erhaps, also, as seeking for such knowledge of Greek as might be attainable, he would be dra~vn to the yet greater Franciscan, who, after having filled Paris with wonder at his indomita- ble industry and his marvellous experi- ments and his wide-spread research, and shared the common fate of those who proclaim z;zvidiosi zeri, had a little before been released from imprisonment TWO STUDIES IN DANTE. and allowed to return to his beloved Ox. ford.. Of the travels to ~vhich this desire led we have sufficiently distinct traces in the Gommedia. He had looked on the Rhine with all the emotion which be- longed to it as the scene of Ctesars tri- umphs (Paradiso vi. 58). He had been at Cologne, and had seen the cappucci bassi Dinanzi agli occhi, fatte del taglia Che per ii monaci in Cologna fassi. (Inferno xxiii. 6163.) [Cloaks had they with hoods low, oer eyes and face Down-hanging, made in fashion like to those XVhich at Cologne are worn by monkish race.] He had learned to place Albert of Cologne on a level with the great Thom- as of Aquinum (Paradiso x. 98). As he made his way thence to England he would pass, as we have seen, through the coun- try between Cadsand and Bruges, which he describes so vividly. The ship which bore him up the Thames would bring him under the shadow- of the great abbey, in which was the heart of the young prince whose murder had filled Italy with horror, and which gains a fresh interest, in addition to all its many memories of the past, from the thought that D ante may have trod its aisles. There the memory of the king of simple life was still held in reverence, and the knightly fame of his successor gave promise of a glorious reign, marred, as we have seen from Dantes point of view, by the insane am- bition, which, at a later date, plunged Enoland and Scotland into internecine ~varf are. And thence, according to the tradition with which we started, the way was clear to Oxford, to which he had probably been drawn by the fame which Bacon had left behind him in the schools of Paris. It remains now to inquire whether that tra- clition is confirmed by internal evidence, and, if I mistake not, we may find that evidence in coincidences hitherto unno- ticed between the works of the two great medi~val thinkers, who were thus brought into contact. Dante, we may remember, may well have heard of Bacons fame even before he arrived in Paris. The three works on which the fame of the Francis- can friar mainly rests were written in 12656, at the request of Pope Clement IV., who when Cardinal Bishop of Sa- bina had visited England, as a papal 101 legate, in the pontificate of Urban IV. On ascending the papal throne he applied to Bacon to send him a report of his stud- ies, and the discoveries to which they had led. In some earlier communication Ba- con had dwelt o& the evils which were eating into the life of the science, the religion, and the polity of the time, and the indefatigable student, in little less than a year, wrote and despatched the Opus Majus, the Opus Afinus, and the Opus Tertium, in answer to this request, pointing out, somewhat after the manner of his great namesakes Ad- vancement of Learning, the defects which he noted in each of these regions, and suggesting the remedies which he thought appropriate. It is in these works, especially in the Opus Tertiurn, that I find the coinci- dences of which I have spoken, and which I will endeavor, as far as my limits allow, to bring forw-ard with sufficient.clearness. (i.) Of all the many digressions of the Gom;;zedia, none, perhaps, strikes the reader as more entirely irrelevant to its main subject than the dissertation in the second canto of the Paradiso on the causes of the spots which are seen on the moons surface; and in which the fanciful superstition of the time saw Cain with his bush of thorns (Paradiso ii. si.) When the poet-seer enters the sphere of the eternal pearl, he seeks for a scientific explanation of the phenoin- enon, and he puts into the lips of Bea- trice, as the guide who was leading him into all truth, physical as well as theologi- cal, what he holds to be the true solution of the problem. The current opinion of the men of science of the time, which he represents himself as having till then shared, found it in the fact that the re- flected light of the moon varied in its brightness according to the degrees of dense or rare in the reflecting body. Beatrice, in a lecture which fills eighty- eight lines, expounds what he looked on as a great discovery, which placed him high above the level of the other physi- cists of the schools. The light of the moon is not the suns light reflected, but proceeds from its own inherent bright- ness. The formal l)rinciple of lumi- nosity varies in degree according to the body- in which it dwells, and this accounts for the dark spots on the moons surface. Da esso vien cio che da luce a luce Par differcute, non da denso e raro: Essa ~ formal l)rinciPiO che produce, Conforme a sua bonta, lo turbo e 1 chiaro. 102 TWO STUDIES IN DANTE [Hence comes it that there seems twixt light and light, This variance, and not from dense or rare: This is the formal cause which works in might Proportioned to its goodness, dark or clear.] XVe smile as we read the hypothesis on which Dante obviously so prided himself, that it seemed to him worthy to be intro- duced as an apocalypse from the lips of his Beatrice. He ~vas below the knowl- edge of his age when he thought himself above it. In rejecting one wrong hypoth- esis, he introduced another that ~vas still more erroneous; antI, after all, his ex- planation gave no true theory of cause and effect. The surface of the moon is, as he puts it, more or less luminous, ac- cording as it possesses in greater or less measure the formal principle of luminos- ity. Lopium endormit farce quil a une vertu so~orzjfique/ Dantes blun- der becomes, however, less startling when we find that he erred in company with the man whose fame for physical science stood almost without a rival in the uni- versities of Europe. Strange as it may seem to those who have learnt to look on him almost as the prophet of that science this was Roger Bacons theory of the moons light. All say that it is the light of the sun reflected from the moon s sur- face ; but he maintains that that light is not reflected, but the proper light of the moon, which, however, is evolved throuah the virtue of the sun in the body of the moon from the potency of its matter (Bacon, Opus Tert., c. xxxvii.). Is not the hypothesis of a relation be- tween the two men, such as I have sug- gested, a natural explanation of this curi- ous coincidence? Can ~ve not think of the young Italian poet sitting at the feet of the gieat Engiish astronomer of the thirteenth century, as afterwards, in the seventeenth, Milton sat at the feet of Galileo? Is not the passage which I have condensed from the Paradiso as dis- tinct an echo of that teaching as the well- known picture in Paradise Lost (i. 286291) is of Miltons reminiscences of Dantes illustrious countryman? The broad circumference, Hung on his shoulders, like the moon, whose orb Through optick glass the Tuscan artist views, ~Xt evening from the to1) of Fesol~ Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands, Rivers or mountains, in her spotty globe. Literature hardly presents, I think, so striking a parallelism. It may be noted as a detail which makes the coincidence still more striking, that Dante describes an experiment as con- firming his hypothesis : Tre specchi prenderai, e due rimovi Da te d nn modo, e laltro piji remosso Tr ambo li primi gli occhi tuoi retruovi. (Paradiso ii. ioo.) [Take thou three mirrors; two of them remove From thee at equal distance, and the last Between the two, and further from thee, move.] The exl)erimentalist is then to place a candle behind him and watch whether the distance of the reflecting surface affects the brightness of the reflection. The exl)eriment is after Bacons own heart. Nothing delioited him more than these arrangements of mirrors. But in this instance he, too, actually rests his theory on a like experiment. The common view was, that the suns light was reflected by the moon, as a candle is by a mirror. The opposite theory was l)roved (it is, perhaps, not easy to see how) per ~qua- litatem angulorum incidentia et reflexio- nis. (2.) This is perhaps the most striking example of the coincidences of which I sl)eak, hut it is not the only one. Once again Dante airs his knowledge of astron- omy by alluding to the error in the juhian computation of the year, which, if uncor- rected, would in course of time alter the seasons, and carry January into spring, or even summer. Ma prima che Gennaio tutto si svern Per la centesima ch ~ laggih negletta. (Paradiso xxvi. 142.) [But ere that January pass to spring, Through that small hundredth men neglect be~ ow, These higher spheres shall with loud bellow- ing ring.] Here, again, we have a point of contact. There is scarcely any point on which Ba- con dilates with greater vehemence than on the Izorribiles errores of the calen- dar of his time. Again and again does he urge his papal correspondent, on the grounds of the confusion which would he caused by its manifold inaccuracies, to undertake the work of correction, which was afterwards effected by Pope Gregory XIII. (Opus Tert. liv). (3.) Dante (Paradiso xiii. 124) names the most conspicuous among the philoso- phers of Greece who had failed to find the truth for which they sought. TWO STUDIES IN DANTE. 103 E di citt sono al mondo aperte prove, Parmenides, Melisso, Brisso, e molti, Li quali andavan, e non sapean dove. [And in the world proofs open of the same, Parmenides, Melissus, Brissus, stand, \Vho knew not of the end to which they came.] It is at least noteworthy to find Ba- con (Opus Tert. xxxix.) giving the same names in the same connection. Par- menides et Melissus credebant quod om- nia corpora mundi fuerunt unum con- tinuum a terra usque ad ultimum c~lum. (4.) Conspicuous as a characteristic of both writers is their pitying recognition of the virtues of the heathen, whom yet their stern theology compelled them to classify among those that were shut out from eternal life. Che tu dicevi: un uom nasce alla riva I)ell Indo, e quivi non ~ chi ragione Di Cristo, n~ chi legga, n~ chi scriva: E tutti i suoi voleri ed atti buoni Sono, quanto ragione umana vede, Seliza peccato in vita e in sermoni. (Paradiso xix. 7075.) [For thou didst say, a man his first breath drew On Indus banks, and there were none to tell Of Christ, or ~vrite or speak the doctrine true; And he in every wish and deed lives well, As far as human reason may descry, And, sinless, doth in life and speech excel.] We ask, where did the poet learn a feeling so much wider and more large- hearted than that of the current theology? The answer is not far to seek. He might have imbibed such thoughts from the writings, perhaps even from the lips, of Bacon: Mirum enim est de nobis Chris- tianis, qui sine comparatione sumus im- perfectiores in moribus quam philosophi infideles. - . - Summus enim zelus casti- tatus, et mansuetudinis, et patienti~e, et constantine, et omnium virtutum fuit apud philosophos (Opus Tert. cxiv.) Elsewhere he recognizes that the old seekers after wisdom had received from God special illumination (Ibid cxxiv.); or, again, in the very accents of Dante, speaks of the philosophers qui cum fue- rint sine gratis gratificante, qu~e facit hominem dignum vita ~terna, in qu~ nos ponimur in baptismo, tamen sine omni comparatione vita eorum fuit melior et in omni vita~ honestate, et in contemptu mundi, et omnium deliciarum, et divitia- rum et honorurn (Go;np. Stud., c. i.). (g) Another point common to the two thinkers is their keen sense of the corrup tions of the Roman Curia and of the reli- gious orders. Thus we have in Dante, speaking of the Franciscan friars as fallen away from the greatness of their tounder: Ma il suo peculio di nuova vivanda E fatto ghiott si, ch esser non puote Che per diversi salti non si spanda; E quando le sue pecore rimote, E vagabonde pitt di esso vann~ Pitt tornano all ovil di latte vote. Ben son di quelle che temono il danno E stringonsi al pastor; ma son si poche Che le cappe fornisce ~OC() panno. (Paradiso xi. 124132.) [But now his flock so eagerly demands New food that it, of sheer necessity, In pastures widely different strays and stands.; And so, the more his sheep thus scattered lie, And further from him wander to and fro, With less milk come they for the flocks supply. Some are there who, in fear of that loss, go Back to their pastor, but so few they he, That little cloth would make them hoods, I trow.] And in Bacon (Compend. Studli, c. Consideremus religiosos; nullum ordi- nem excludo. Videatnus quantum ceci- derunt singuli a statu debito, et novi ordines jam horribiliter labefacti sunt a St. Peter speaks of the state of Rome under his successors, and says that it had not been his intention to be a watchword for hostile armies : N~ ch io fossi figura di sigillo A privilegi venduti e mendaci Ond io sovente arrosso e disfavillo. In vesta di pastor lupi rapaci Si veggion di quassit per tutti i paschi: O difesa di Dio, perch~ pur giaci? (Paradiso xxvii. 4954.) [Nor that I should as seal give force of right To venal and corrupt monopolies, Which make me blush and kindle at the sight. Wolves, in the shepherds garb, with greedy eyes Are seen from hence, through all the mead- ows fair; Vengeance of God, why dost thou not arise?] \Vhile Bacon gives his own judgment: Laceratur enim illa sedes sacra (the Curia Romana) fraudibus et dolis in- justorum. Mores eni in sequuntur ibidern perversissimi; regnat superbia, ardet ava- ritia, invidia arrodit singulos, luxuria dif 104 TWO STUDIES IN DANTE. famat totarn illam curiarn, qua~ in omnibus domi natur. (6.) I suggest that the works of Bacon throw some light on a remarkable pas- sage, in which Dante speaks in the most glowing terms of a thinker, otherwise Un- known to fame. He sees in the sphere wherein dwell the souls of Christian phil- osophers Q uesti, onde a me ritorna il tuo riguardo E illume duno spirito, che in pensieri Gravi a morire gli parve esse tardo. (Paradiso X. 1335.) [He from whom now turns to me thy regard, Is of a soul the light, in thought so stern, It deemed the way to death hoth slow and hard.] This is the spirit of the Sigieri of whom I have already spoken, who is identified as having taught at Paris by the locality ~vhich T)ante names. How is it, we ask, that one whom Danfe thus admires has that admiration as his only record? It is at least curious that Bacon once and again lavishes the highest praise on a Parisian teacher, whom he does not name Unus solus est qui potest in hoc (alchemy), at peritissimu~ est in istis omnibus. . . . Non enim cognosco ni si unum qui laudari potest in operihus hujus scientim; nam ipse non curat de sermonihus et pugnis verborurn, sed per. sequitur opera sapientim et in illis quiescit. Et ideo quod, alji cmcutientes nituntur videre, ut vespertilio lucem solis in crepusculo, ipse in pleno fulgore contemplatur. (Opus Ten., c. xii., xiii.) It is possible that Bacon may mean himself, or his friend Peter of Maharncu- na, of whom he elsewhere speaks in nearly equal terms of praise, but it is against this view that he is not shy of speaking of his own merits in j5roJnic~ persond, and that he often names his friend. Is it not possible that Dantes Sigieri may have been the man thus described? Do not the inzidiosi yen of which the poet speaks precisely correspond with the teaching which Bacon describes, and which had left one whom both he and Dante admired as one of the master spir- its of the age out in the cold, while less ~vorthy teachers had their full share of patronage and popularity? in ~ The state of the University of Paris the last quarter of the thirteenth cen- tury supplies yet another point of com- parison. Dante, in his Inferno (xv. io6), places, in company with h15 own master Brunetto, many who in their day were honored as E letterati grandi e di gran fama, who had yet been stained with the vilest form of impurity. Bacon (Gom~eud. Size- dii, c. ii.) describes a like corruption of morals as having prevailed in Paris in his time Multi theologi Parisiis etqui legerunt in theologia, sunt releTati a civi- tate et a regno Franci~, per multos annos, publice damnati propter sodomiticas vili- tates. (8.) In one point, over and above their keen and ardent xeal in the pursuit of physical science, the poet and the thinker would have found a bond of symj)athy. They agreed in their love and veneration for the mysterious pow-er of music. Mil- tons reference to Casella, whom Dante wood to sing, Met in the milder shades of Purgatory, has made one instance of that reverence a household word in English literature. That which Dante had most loved in Ca- sellas music was that it poured forth the amorous song Che mi solea quetar tutte le voglie. [Which calmed, of yore, my every eager care.] 1-le seeks for its consolation in the terror with which the world behind the veil had filled his soul. And music is, as has often been noted, the pervacbng element both of the Purgatorio and Paradiso. In the one it is the healer of the soul from the sickness contracted during its earthly pilgrimage. In the other it is the utter- ance of the praise of the saints in propor- tion as they drink in the love and light of the beatific vision. Each circle of the mount of purification has its appropriate canticle. Each sphere of the blessed echoes with a strain of marvellous and unearthly sweetness. Nowhere in the whole range of literature has the power of music to soothe and assuage, to purify and strengthen, been so nobly set before us. Bacons language is, how-ever, scarcely less rapturous and glowing (Opus Ten., c. lxxiii.): Mira enim mu- sic~ stiper omnes scientias est et spec- tanda potestas. . . . Mores enim refor- mat, ebrietates sedat, infirmitates curat, sanitatem conservat, quietem somni rn- ducit. If we did but know the inner secrets of the art, brutes would be tamed by its subtle power. Similiter et homi- num animi in quemlibet gratum devotionis raperentur, et in plenum cujuslibet virtutis amorem excitarentur, et in omnem sanita- tem et vigorem. (9.) Common to the two thinkers is a somewhat subtle theory as to the stellar influences, and the power they exercise TWO STUDIES IN DANTE. 105 upon human cbaracter and fortune. They reject the superstition of the vulgar as- trolo~v, and protest against the fatalism to which it too commonly led, and in which they saw a denial of the freedom of mans will, and therefore of his respon- sibility. The soothsayers and divi ners, from Tiresias to Michael Scott, are in one of the pits of Dantes Inferno (canto xx.). He looks on the notion that the planets determined mens fate as having led men to worship the Jove and Mercury and Mars whom they identified with the planets. But he admits their influence up to the limit of its compatibility with human freedom (Paradiso iv.); and ac- counts it the great blessing of his life to have been born under the influence of so propitious a constellation as that of Gemini O gloriose stelle, 0 lume pregno Di gran virtii, dal quali in reconosco Tutto qual che si sia, il mm ingegno. (Paradiso xxii. 112114.) [0 glorious stars, 0 light supremely rich In every virtue, which I recognize As source of all my powers, whateer their pitch.] Dantes teaching on this point is scarcely more than the echo of Bacons (Co;n- pend. Studil, c. iv.): Liberum arbitrium non potest cogi, tamen excitaturfortiter per complexionem corporis et cceli. A ccelo est origo complexionis radicalis per constellationem in conceptione et na- tivitate. (lo.) A comparison of the works of the two writers throws some light on the question which has been raised as to Dantes knowledge of Greek and Hebrew. We have no ground for thinking that he had read a single book in either language, and yet he is fond of airing, as it were, the little that he knows. In the cry of Plutus (Inferno vii. x): Pape Satan, Pape Satan, Aleppo; in the hymn which opens Paradiso vii. : Osanna sanctus Dens Sabuoth, Superillustrans claritate tua Felices ignes horum Malahotli; in his discussion of the divine names, El and Eli, or probably I (=7a/i,) in Para- diso xxvi. 131134, we have instances of some acquaintance with Hebrew. His account of i~rteisrta in the Dc Afonarcli. i.; of tragedy, comedy, antI allegory, in the Letter to Can Grande; of pro- loizol and pizilosop/zia in the Gozivito (ii. 3 ~ ii), shows that he knew at least a little Greek. Roger Bacons knowledge of both lan- guages was probably more extensive. He had read some treatises of Aristotle in the original; he had compared the Vulgate ~vith the Hebrew; he could frame conjectures as to the mystical number of the beast from the numerical value of the letters in the Greek alphabet (Gom~end. Stud. vi.). His ideal of linguistic stud- ies, however, may be measured by his boast (Opus Tart. xx.) that he would undertake to teach either language to any fairly diligent student within three days. Is not Dantes knowledge pre- cisely what we might expect in one of Bacons pupils, taught within these, or perhaps slightly extended, limits? (ii.) A remarkable passage in the In- ferno (xvi. 105) has suggested to most commentators the idea that Dante had at one time taken on himself the vow of the tertiaries of the Order of St. Francis, and had intended to devote himself to the task of reforming the evils of Florence as a l)reacher. Had he done so he mioht have anticipated the career of a Savona- rola. lo aveva una corda intorno cinta E con essa pensai alcuna volta Prenda Ia louza alla pelle dipinta. [I had a cord which round my waist I wore And with it many a time I thought to take The panther with its skin all dappled oer.] If there ever were such a moment in Dantes life, it might well be the time when, in bitterness of spirit and strong enthusiasm, he sat at the feet of the Franciscan teacher. If there ever was a disciple in whom that teacher might see the promise of one who should make the work of preaching a reality, and be, like the Berthold of Regensburg of whom Bacon speaks so admiringly at the close of the 0/us Tertizem, a source of bless- ing and infinite good to thousands of his hearers, it might well be the young Flor- entine ~vho was then at Oxford. (12.) When Dante finds himself in the presence of St. Peter, he describes him- self (Paradiso xxiv. 4648): Si come il baccellier sarma, e non parla, Fin che 1 maestro la quistion propone, Per approvarla, non per terminarla. [As haccalere his arms of proof doth view, And speaks not till the master puts case clear, Not judging, but debating if tis true.] This is, of course, a distinct reminis- cence of Dantes student days. It may have belonged to Paris. It may as well I o6 TWO STUDIES IN DANTE. have belonged to Oxford. If it does not prove the theory I am maintaining, it at least falls in with it. (13.) Dantes mystic prophecy of the reformer of the evils of the Church as one who was to be indicated by the mys- terious numerals of Un cinquecento dieci e cinque, in which commentators see either the ~vord Dux(=Dvx~5I5)or the initials of the name of Can Grande of Verona, finds a suggestive counterpart in Bacons explanation of the number of the beast, in which, among other hypotheses, he names (following Bede) one which finds that number in the two words, Die, Lux, because the Antichrist ~vill say that he is the light of the world (Gomp end. Stud., c. vi.). I close for the present the comparison which furnishes materials for the induc- tion, but I do so with the feeling that it is as yet far from being complete. It would be found, I believe, that an exam- ination of the section on geography in the Opus JIajus would furnish many illus- trations of the allusions to the remoter regions of the earths surface which Dante scatters profusely throughout his poems, that well-nigh every reference of his to the facts of physical science and astronomy might receive fresh light from the thinker who, in these regions of knowledge, was confessedly the master spirit of his time. As Ozanam, in his Da;ite et la R/zilosop/iie Ga//zo/iquc, has shown with an exhaustive fulness which leaves nothing to be desired, that, as a theologian and ethical philosopher, the Florentine poet, whom his epitaph rightly describes as media can henceforth be considered as even approximating to completeness if it ignores the relation between the t~vo. It may naturally he asked why, on the assumption of the indebtedness which I have endeavored to prove, Dante should make no mention of the teacher to whom he owed so much. The answer to that question is not, I think, far to seek. Ba- con, like Dante, was an idealist reformer of abuses in Church and State; but the ideal to which he looked as the pattern of a perfect polity was the very opposite of Dantes. The one, as we know, in the Ghibellinism of his later life, looked to the rule of a supreme potentate as repre. senting the majesty of the Roman em- pire, ruling the nations, for their good doubtless, yet ruling with a rod of iron, at least co-ordinate with the successor of St. Peter, and in his own sphere abso- lutely independent of him. Bacons ideal, on the other hand, was essentially demo- cratic and ecclesiastical. There was but one perfect legislator, and that was Gods vicar upon earth. It was his to dispose of all kingdoms, and to rule over the whole world (Of us irt., c. xiv.). He dwelt upon prophecies, which he urged Clement IV. to fulfil, of a reform- ing pope who should restore the canon law in its purity from the cavils and frauds of the jurists and bring about a reign of universal justice (Ojus lert., xiv.). He recognizes the right of the people to depose and put to death an un- righteous ruler, and to choose another. Not to do this is to disobey God him- self, and men are not responsible for the blood that may thus be shed. If they choose an unworthy ruler, and his unwor- thiness be proved, let them depose him Dantes theologus nullius dogmatis expers, and elect yet another (MS. cited by Charles, Roger Bacon, sa Vie et ses has followed step by step the teachings Ouvrages, p. 255). Dante complained of Thomas of Aquinum, so it will, I that the jurists of Italy were studying the think, be admitted that the evidence now Decretals instead of the Gospel and the produced warrants the conclusion that he Fathers (Paradiso ix. 134). Bacons com- embodies also the physical science of his plaint, on the contrary, was that the study age, as that science was represented by of the canon law was neglected, and that the Franciscan friar of Oxford. I do not men were expending their labors upon the say that the evidence of derivation, civil law the basis of the Ghibeihine though it is the natural inference from the theory of polity which was destroying converging lines of external tradition and the Church of God, and through which internal coincidence, is demonstrative; the whole world was lying in wicked- but, even on the hypothesis of entire in- ness (Gonif. Stud., c. lv.; Of us Tert., dependence, proof has, it is believed, been c. xxiv.). Lastly, and here we come to given that any student of I)ante would the point of diveraence which must have do xveil to prepare himself for his task by touched the author of the Gommedia oaininr some knowledre of the science most to the quick, of keenly very Bacon the thirteenth century, as l)resented by taught that the distinction between hell Bacon, that no commentary on the Gom- and purgatory and paradise was not local, TWO STUDIES IN DANTE. 107 and that there was therefore no motion known the three great names in the Ital- from one to the other as from place to ian literature of the time, shows that there place that the three conditions, that is, was a more real fraternization between the were spiritual states and not places (Opus men of letters of the t~vo countries than Tert., c. i.). has been common since. It was partly, It can scarcely be thought surprising perhaps, consequent on the intercourse of that with these serious differences in England with the papal see, and the con- their conception of the polity of earth sequent missions trom one court to the and heaven that Dante should have de- other partly also to the habits of the dined to assign to Bacon a place in his university life of the time, which led Paradise side by side with Aquinas and Italian students to come to Oxford and Buonaventura. The respect which he Cambridge, and English students to visit felt for him as a teacher and a man would, Bologna and Padua. When Chaucer was however, as naturally deter him from chosen in 1368 as an envoy to Genoa, it placing him in the Inferno or the Purga- was probably because he was already torio. It is significant that he is in like known to possess some acquaintance manner silent about Abelard, though he with the language and literature of the places St. Bernard high in the celestial people to whom he was despatched. The spheres. mission to which he was thus appointed was connected with the marriage of iii. Lionel, Duke of Clarence, a son of Ed ward III., with Violante, the daughter of the duke of Milan, at which Petrarch was present. To this intercourse with the Italian poet, Chaucer refers his knowl- edge of the tale of Griseldis, the Clerkes Tale: I wol tell you a tale, which that I Lerned at Padowe of a worthy clerk, As preyed by his wordes and his werk. He is now cled, and nailed in his cheste, I pray to God so yeve his soule reste. Fraunceis Petrarke, the laureat poete, Highte this clerke, ~vhose rethorike swete Enlumined all Itaille of poetrie. DANTE IN CHAUCER AND HIS FOL- LOWERS. It is a reasonable inference that it was through this converse with Petrarch that Chaucer became acquainted ~vith the Decamerone of Boccaccio, of which he afterwards made such full use in the Canterbury Tales, and with Dante. The manuscript of Dantes works which he brought back with him may reasonably be looked on as the first copy that had found its way to En bland. Chaucer, at all events, was not slow to recognize the greatness of the poet whose life and char- acter presented so vivid a contrast to h~s own. Thus we find in the Prologue to the Legend of Good Women, written prob. ably in 1382: Envie is lauender * of the Court aiway; For she ne parteth, neither night nor day, Out of the house of C~sar, thus saith Dant, where we have a manifest reference to the Inferno (xiii. 64), where envy is painted as * Lanender = laundry-maid, and used by Chaucer as a euphemistic equivalent of mere~rice. IT will not, I think, be without interest to trace the influence of the great poet of Italy on the first, in order of time, of the great poets of England. That influence is all the more remarkable from the con- trast between the character and the works of the two writers. It is scarcely possi- ble to imagine a greater unlikeness in lit- erature than that between the dreamy, yet passionate idealist of the Goinmedia, never losing his self-consciousness, sub- jective to the last degree of subjectivity, and the healthy, objective geniality of Chaucer, sympathizing with all forms of human character, sensual or spiritual, hu- morous rather than enthusiastic, antici- pating almost, or altogether, the all-em- bracing humanity of Shakespeare. The relation of the two in order of time is also significant. Dante died in exile in 1321. Chaucer was born in 1328. Yet by the time the latter had grown up to manhood the fame of the former was rec- ognized not only in his own country, in which, while he lived, he had been as a prophet without honor, but had reached the extreuzi Britanni, whom, as we have seen, he had probably visited in his youth. In 1373, Boccaccio, then at the age of sixty, was appointed to lecture on the Coinmedia at Florence; but Chaucers acquaintance with Dantes writings must have begun at an earlier date, and was probably, as we shall see, traceable rather to Petrarch than to the author of the Decamerone. That he, an English gen- tleman, filling this or that office in the court of Edward III., should thus have I o8 TWO STUDIES IN DANTE. La meretrice, che mai dali ospizio Di Cesare non torse gli ocehi putti, Morte comune, e delle corte vizio. [The harlot ~vho her lewd eyes neer withdrew From the high palace of the C~sars state The common bane and vice of courts she grew.] So again, in the House of Fame (I. 453458), he speaks of iEneas And everiche tourment eke in Hell Saw he, ~vhich long is for to tell. Which paines whoso lists to know lie must rede many a row In Virgile or in Claudian, Or Dante, that it tellen can. In the Canterbury Tales, belonging to the l)eriod of completed culture in Chau- cers life, the quotations are, as might be expected, more numerous. Thus, in the Wife of Baths Tale (67086721) we have \Vel can the wise poet of Florence, That highte Dante, speken of this sentence. Lo, in swiche maner rime is Dantes tale Ful selde up riseth by his branches smale Prowesse of man, for God of his goodnesse \Vol that we claim of him our gentilesse; For of our elders may we nothing claim But temporal thing, that man may hurt and maime. Eke every wight wot this as well as high, If gentillesse were planted naturally Unto a certain image doun the line, Prive and apert, the.n wolde they never fine To don of gentilness the faire office, They mighten do no vilainie or vice. Here the quotation is in part from the Purgatorio (vii. 121122): Rade volte risurge per Ii rami L umana probitate; e questo vuole Quei, che la d~, perch~ da lui se chiami. [But seldom human excellence hath grown Though branches of the tree; this He doth will Who gives it, that we ask of Him alone.] It is interesting, however, to note in the lines that follow these that Chaucers acquaintance with Dante as a poet was not limited to the Gomuzedia. The definition of the nature of true gentilesse is a distinct paraphrase, as a comparison ~vill show, of the cawa-one which opens with Le dolce rime damor, ch io solea. Chaucer writes thus Here may ye see well, how that genterie Is not annexed to possession. For God it wot, men moun ful often find A lordes sone do shame and vilanie. And he that wold han prise of his genterie For he was boren of a gentil hous, And nill himselven do no gentil dedes, Ne folwe his gentil ancestrie that ded is, He nis not gentil, be he duk or en; For vilains sinful dedes make a cherl, For gentilesse nis but the renomee Of thineauncestres, for his high bountie, Which is a strange thing to thy persone: Thy gentillesse cometh from God alone. Compare this with Dante : Per6 neSsun si vanti Dicendo: Per schiatta i son con lei, Ch dli son quasi dei Que c han tal grazia fuor di tutti rei Che solo Jddio all anima Ia dona Che vede in sua persona Perfettamente star~ [Wherefore let no man boast, Saying, By descent her fellowship I share P For half as gods are they Who have such grace with no ill thoughts to mar; For God alone bestows it on the mind, Which he doth perfect find.] The Freres Tale gives a passing humor- ous allusion. The foul fiend appears to a souml)nour, and answers his questions as to the infernal world with the mocking promise Thou shalt hereafterward, my brother dere Come, where thee needeth not of me to lere. For thou shalt, by thine own experience, Conne in a chaiere rede of this sentence, Bet than Virgile, while he was on live Or Dante also. In the Monkes Tale (C. T. 14, 700 772) we have a more elaborate attempt to introduce Dante to the notice of English readers. The tragedy of Llgolino and the Tower of Hunger had impressed it- self, in its unspeakable horror and terri- ble simplicity, on Chaucers mind, and he gives a condensed rendering of it, pass- ing from the first person, in which Dante makes Ugolino tell his own story, to the third. At the close we read Who so wol here it in a longer wise, Redeth the grete poete of Itaille, That mighte Dante, for he can it devise Fro point to point, not o word will he faille. Enough has been said to show that it was through our own morning star of poetry that Dante, as the Italian day- spring from on high, first came within the ken of English readers. Did my limits of space allow, it would be interestiuw I think, to trace the influence of the new element thus introduced in the subsequent ENGLISH SATIRE IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 109 history of English literature. As it is, I must content myself with a few passing notes. Gower, Chaucers friend, per- haps at an earlier date than that of the poems above referred to, mentions in his text Dante the poete, with a marginal account of him as quidam poeta Itali~ qui T)ante vocabatur ((onf. Amant. vii.). Lydgate, in his Fall of Princes,,~ speaks of Dante, of Florence the laure- ate poete, demure of loke, fulfilled with patience, almost as if he had seen the portrait of the Bargello, and mentions the three parts of the Gommedia. The request of the two English bishops at the Council of Constance, which led. the Bishop of Fermo, as stated above, to translate the Com.nedia into Latin, shows that the name of the Florentine was already known to them, and held in honor. In the early poetry of the Tudor periods, Petrarch had, perhaps, a more commanding influence as seen in the sonnets of Wyatt and the Earl of Surrey than Dante; but Puttenham, in his Art of Poesie (i. 31), names both those writers as having studied also in the school of the author of the Gommedia, and in Sackvilles Induction we have a vision of hell, which shows distinct traces of its influence. In 1550, William Thomas published his Principal Rules of the Italian Grammar, with a Dictionarie for the Better Understanding of Boccace, Petrarche, and Dante, and so supplies evidence that the last-named poet com- manded the attention of English students aiming at literary culture. Among these, in the century that followed, the name of Milton is, of course, the most conspic- uous; and his sonnet to Mr. H. Lawes remains as a perpetual tribute from well- nigh the greatest of English poets to the ureatest italian. Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher Than his Casella, whom he wood to sing Met in the milder shades of Purgatory. So, in his Reformation in England, he strengthens his case against the union of Church and State, by quoting from the Inferno (xx. 115): Ah, Constantine, of how much ill was cause Not thy conversion, but those rich domains That the first wealthy pope received of thee. It will not, I think, be without interest to note that one, at least, of the great theologians of the English Church in the seventeenth century was also a student of the Gommedia. Jeremy Taylor, in his Life of Christ (Disc. xiv.), treating of the miracles of the Gospel and especially of those which gave sight to the blind and hearing to the deaf, writes The mir- acles were ~vholly an effect of Divine Power, for nature did not at all co-oper- ate; or that I may use the elegant ex- pression of Dante, it was such A cui Natura Non scaldo ferro nai, n~ batte ancude for which nature did never heat the iron or beat the anvil. In the literature which followed on the Restoration, however, the form of Dante drops into the background. Quotations or allusions are few and far between; and he is, for the most part, conspicuous by his absence. Perhaps the most strikin~ illustration of that absence is to be found in the fact that Addison, in his Notes on Italy, travels through Ravenna and Flor- ence, and does not seem to have bestowed even a passing thought on the great poet who was born in the one city and buried in the other. E. H. PLUMPTRE. From Frasers Magazine. ENGLISH SATIRE IN THE NINETEENTH cENTURY. SATIRE is to be found in all literatures, and has appeared in all at no very late date after their origin. It is plain, how- ever, that it will find most exercise, and afford most study, in complex and multi- form states of society, among jostling incongruities and distracted aims. I3ut to give satire life and force more is need- ed than a sense of the ridiculous. There is needed a sense of ~rievance, whether personal or public, whether of Archilo- chus or of Gower. Satire is essentially a weapon of the weak against the strong, of a minority against a majority. There is always this spirit in it, though the dig- nity of its cause and expression varies through infinite degrees from Thersites to Elijah. But to make its voice a power there must be, even while the abuses it fastens on are dominant, a growing con- viction somewhere that they are indeed abuses, or at least a growing sense of uneasiness and perplexity. Among soci- eties at once joyful and serious, such as those of Greece before the Peloponnesian war, satire seems to appear only in the insignificant form of personal lampoon. It was the breaking up of the old order of life and principles that produced the Aristophanic comedy, as it was the decay r io ENGLISH SATIRE IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. of Catholicism and the feudal fabric that vocacy or picturesque exhibition of an produced the medi~val satire of which opposite ideal, continually suggesting by Piers the Plo~~t~anis a sample. Pen- contrast the absurdity or vileness of the ods of stability and simplicity have un- folly or derradation assailed. We shall happily not been so common in history as be best able to discern the characteristics often to deprive satire of its aliment. of the chief satirists of our century and But never, perhaps, have more conditions nation by considering in what degree, and combined to foster it than in modern Eu- after what manner, they satisfy these req- rope since the French Revolution, and uisites. there have been circumstances peculiar In ridicule of the ridiculous none could to England which have made this in many surpass or even equal Voltaire, nor in- ways its most congenial soil. Notwith- deed in direct exposure of immorality as standing the insularity of our race, it manifested in certain definite institutions, seems to be liable at times possibly customs, or beliefs. What fell peculiarly from causes connected with its mixed to his Enolish successors of the nine- origin to a curious diffidence and divis teenth century was rather the suggestion ion of the national mind against itself, of unconventional views of the world in which appears by no means incompatible general, which should attract interest as with its traditional sturdiness and in- much by the subject as by the object, by difference to foreign opinion. Such in- the strange chemistry of the minds from difference, moreover, is not the same which the mocking and disfiguring light thing as repulsion of foreign ideas and issued, as well as by its effect in the the extension of British intercourse with scene upon which it played. Among other countries mostly of a triumphant these successors of Voltaire the three kind whether through commerce or chief are Byron, Carlyle, and Thackeray. through ~varhad the same effect in the All these were imaginative artists, more eighteenth as before in the sixteenth cen- or less incomplete, as well as satirists; tury, of stimulating the intellectual recep- but though their art helped their satire, tivity and activity of this people. When, it was their satire that was the life-breath however, England was thus assuming the of their art. position, which she might at least show To discuss Byrons qualities as a poet good cause for considering natural to her, at any length would here be out of place, of the foremost pioneer of Europea