THE LIVING AGE. Volume XIII. I N 2739January 2, 1897. From Beginning, Sixth Series, 0. Vol. CCXII. CONTENTS. I. THE OLNEY DOCTRINE. By Sidney Low, II. A FREAK OF CUPID. Conclusion, III. CATHOLiC MYSTICS OF THE MIDDLE AGES IV. THE DUEL OF THE PERIOD IN FRANCE. By James Pemberton-Grund, V. BANDI MIKLOS. From the Hungarian. By Selina Gaye VI. A WINTERS WALK, . VII. A MODERN MORALITY. By Jules Lemaitre. Translated for The Living Age, VIII. THE PURITAN IN HISTORY. By Princi pal Fairbairn Speaker, IX. RECOLLECTIONS OF COVENTRY PATMORE. By R. Garnett, Nineteenth Century, Temple Bar, . Edinburgh Review, Cornhill Magazine, Longmans Magazine, Macmillans Magazine, Revue des Deux Mondes, Saturday Review, P 0 E T R Y. A TRAMPS SONG, SERENADE (1250 A. D.) 2 ON THE UNVEILING OF A STATUE 2 OF JOHN BRIGHT PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY THE LIVING AGE COMPANY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. FOR Six DOLLARS remitted directly to the Publishers, THE LIVING AGE will be punctually for- warded for a year, free of postage. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be 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 THE LIVING AGE Co. Single copies of THE LIVING AGE, 15 cents. GEG. A. FOXCROFT, Manager Advertising Department, 36 Dromfield St., Room 3. .3 11 34 42 50 55 58 61 2 A Tramps Song, etc. A TRAMPS SONG. But leave a glimmering beam, Miranda belamour, To touch and gild my waking dream, For I am your troubadour. All along the dusty road in bright June weather, With the broomlike flame upon the tan- gled banks, While dandelion stalks are crowned with I sound my throbbing lyre, soft grey feather, And sing to myself below; And the big dog-daisies stand in snow- Her damsel sits .beside the fire white ranks. High above the rugged hills, where pine- stems taper Over oak-leaf cushions, float the dappled clouds. All the landscape quivers through a veil of vapor, And the sunbeams sink to sleep in goldeli shronds. Far away, 0 far away, I hear the voices Of the glad birds mingled in their sweet- toned strife. Deep within my veins the throbbing blood rejoices, And my heart goes singing for the pride of life. Crooning a song I know; The tapestry shakes on the wall, And shadows hurry and go, The silent flames leap up and fall, And the muttering birch-logs glow. Deep and sweet she sleeps, Because of her love for me; And deep and sweet the peace that keeps My happy heart in fee I Peace on the heights, in the deeps, Peace over hill and lea, Peace through the starlit steeps, Peace on the starlit sea, Because a simple maiden sleeps Dreaming a dream of me. JOHN DAVIDSON. ARTHUR E. J. LEGGE. ON THE UNVEILING OF A STATUE OF JOHN BRIGHT. SERENADE (1250 AD.). With stars, with trailing galaxies, Like a white-rose bower in bloom, Darkness garlands the vaulted skies, Days adornd tomb; A whisper without the briny west, Thrills and sweetens the gloom; Within, Miranda seeks her rest High in her turret-room. Armies upon her walls encamp In silk and silver thread; Chased and fretted, her silver lamp Dimly lights her bed; And now the silken screen is drawn, The velvet coverlet spread; And the pillow of down and snowy lawn Mantles about her head. With violet-scented rain Sprinkle the rushy floor; Let the tapestry hide the tinted pane, And cover the chamber door; Seven years have fled since on thy honored clay I laid a fading wreath of grateful verse; Willing, once more I come again to-day Thy unforgotten virtues to rehearse. Friend of the friendless else, thou art not dead Whilst still one voice laments thy hon- ored head. Stand. here, great Englishman! earth knows to-day No prouder title than that world-wide name; Though thrones andrank and honors pass away, There comes no cloud that shall obscure thy fame. Here in the precincts where thy years were spent, Inspire, sustain thy well-loved Parlia- ment! SIR LEWIS MORRIS. 2 From The Nineteenth Century. THE OLKEY DOCTRINE. That the settlement of the Venezuela question, SO far as it is in the power of Creat Britain and the United States to settle it, should be received with gen- eral satisfaction in this country, is ex- tremely natural; thatit should be treated as a matter scarcely important enough to rouse interest, or require other than hasty and perfunctory comment, is rather curious. Not ten months ago it was viewed with passionate emotion on one side of the Atlantic, with perturbed and painful anxiety on the other; now it drifts quietly away in a mist of half- understood detail, and we scarcely turn our heads to look at it as it disappears below the political horizon. The ex- perts will have a good deal to do with it before it is quite disposed of; but it may now reasonably be hoped that it will be left in the condition in which it will concern the diplomatists and the law- yers alone, and will not again run any risk of interesting the general public. The precise effect and meaning of the settliement not very many Englishmen have been at the pains to ascertain, nor are they likely to do so. The common sentiment echoes the prudent and well- calculated levity with which Lord Salis- bury treated the subject in his Gulidhall speech. Most of us are much inclined to agree with the prime minister that after all the whole affair was one of no great moment to the people of this country. A trumpery dispute, about some leagues of swamp and forest, with a fifth-rate republic, on one of the odd corners of the empire! Surely the wearied Titan has other things to think about. Even if there is auriferous territory involved, there are plenty of gold mines elsewhere. With all the careful coaching he got from laborious journalists who had worked up the maps and the blue-books, it is probable that the man in the street and the man in the club, on either side of the Atlantic, never quite made out where the Cuyuni River ran or what the Schomburgk line was. He became excited over the question when he heard, i~f he was an American, that the Britisher was trying to violate the 3 sacred doctrineof Monroe; if an English- man, when he was Void that the United States was attempting to bully us out of something which a British colony might justly claim as its own. Now that his political guides and leaders have informed him that a compromise has been arranged which is satisfactory to the honor of both parties, he is quite content to forget the whole affair. In this country there is assuredly no dis- position to look narrowly at the terms of settlement, or weigh too strictly the gains and losses in the diplomatic bar- gain. It is assumedfor the exact de- tails are not yet known, and when tbey are known they probably will not be generally understoodthat while we have given way to the United States, by admitting its right to intervene in the dispute, we have secured the sub- stantial securities for which, as the guardians of British Guiana, we were mainly contending. An equitable ar- rangement has been made by which the long-established prescriptive occupa- tion of the inhabitants of the older colonial territories is recognized; sub- ject to this we are to arbitrate on the whole debatable district, as the United States government has all along de- manded. If there are some who feel that, supposing this arrangement to be prudent and just, it might have been most suitably made before instead of after Mr. Clevelands message; if they find a certain humiliation in the fact that this solution, so long refused to diplomatic pressure, has been some- what precipitately granted when diplo- macy was backed by a threat of war, they are in the minority. There is no denying the fact that in concluding the Arbitration Treaty, Lord Salisbury has satisfied the great body of his country- men. The prevalent sentiment is one of impatient relief. We are glad to be done with a vexatious business; we are only somewhat annoyed to think that, trivial as we are now led to believe it really was, it should have given us some months of occasional anxiety and some moments of genuine alarm. But thongh the boundary question is in itself of no very great importance, the same cannot be said of the episode of The Olney Doctrine. The Olney Doctrine. American intervention, or of the process by which it has been terminated. On the contrary. It would not be surpris- ing if the future historian of the nine- teenth and twentieth centuries should come to consider this series of occur- rences as the beginning of a new epoch in international relations; and he even may see cause to regard it as the most significant and pregnant event of all this annus mirabilis 1896. It is true its importance and interest are much more for the people of the United States than for Englishmen, though the latter too are very closely concerned in it. For Americans the assertion, and the partial recognition, of the new version of the Monroe Doctrine, laid down by Mr. Olney last summer, may have conse- quences that will be felt for generations. It is strange that this aspect of the matter has received very little attention in America and next to none in this country. Both nations are content to welcome the factwhich indeed is gratifying enough in itselfthat their rulers, after getting to high words, and after hesitating as it seemed on the very brink of a serious quarrel, have contrived to adjust all differences by an arbitration ariangement, and have even made the incident the occasion of set- tling the draft of a General Treaty of Arbitratiom In the exultation or the relief with which this comfortable escape from a most awkward embar- rassment is hailed, it is forgotten that, before the solution had been reached, principles had been asserted, and prec- edents laid down, which must become part, if not of International Law, at any rate of public policy. A novel attempt has been made to define the attitude of the United States towards the other governments of the two Americas. A fresh article has been added to the code which regulates the relations of the civilized powers to one another. How far the new system extends, and what its precise meaning and validity may be, are questions which the recent trans- actions have left in much uncertainty. They are at least worth some considera- tion. There are, I know, observers who deny that any such striking results as those suggested have been developed in the course of the Anglo-American ne- gotiations. Nothing, they would say, is changed; there is only a treaty the more. There is a tendency among some American journalists, who have spe- cially supported the action of Mr. Cleve- land and Mr. Gluey, to minimize the im- portance of the state secretarys famous despatch. They refuse to admit that there has been any change in the policy of the United States, or that anything said or done in connection with the Yenezuela frontier dispute has seriously modified international relations. The Times correspondent at Washington has asserted this opinion with a good deal of emphasis; and it seems to have been adopted, after some hesitation, by his employers in London. We have been told the new Monroe Doctrine does not seem very materially to differ from the old one.1 These, however, are the second thoughts of the Times. A day or two previously that journal had com- mitted itself to a much more serious and more logical opIlnion on the meaning of the Washington compact: From the point of view of the United States the arrangement is a concession by Great Britain of the most far-reaching kind. It admits a principle that in respect of South American Republics the IJuice States may not only intervene in disputes. but may entirely supersede the original disputant and assume exclusive control of the negotiations. Great Britain can- not, of course, bind any other nation by her action in this matter, but she has set up a precedent which may in future be quoted with great effect against herself, and she has greatly strengthened the hands of the United States government in any dispute that may arise in the future between a South American republic and a European power in which the United States may desire to intervene. If we choose to turn back to a time be- fore this far-reaching concession had been made, and when it was believed that it would not be made, we shall find the same conviction asserted in stiA more emphatic language It must be observed that the Monroe Doctrine on 1 See the Times November 16, 1896. 4 The Olney Doctrine. whk~h Mr. Olney relies has received an entirely new development in his de- spatch and in Mr. Clevelands message. Lord Salisbury expresses his full concurrence in the view that any dis- turbance of the existing territorial dis- tribution in the Western Hemisphere by any fresh acquisition on the part of any Enropean States would be a highly inex- pedient change. But the recognition of this expediency does not cover the deductions from the Monroe Doctrine which Mr. Olneys despatch puts for- ward, and which President Cleveland makes the basis of the most astounding proposal, perhaps, that has ever been advanced by any government, in time of peace, since the days of Napoleon. It is impossible to admit that the interests of the United States are affected by every frontier dispute be- tween our colonies and their neighbors, and that therefore the right of impos- ing arbitration in every case of the kind must be conceded. I quote from the Times of the 18th of December, the day after the publication of President Clevelandis message; I might quote from almost any other English news- paper of that date. The universal opinion in this country at the time was that the claims advanced by Mr. Olney were a great innovation. And what Lord Salisbury said last autumn, what nine out of ten intelligent Englishmen said last winter, what a number of the most learned and authoritative of American jurists urged as soon as they were made acquainted with the text of the secretary of states note, competent forei~n observers continue to maintain still. T;he best informed French and German journalistsseldom inclined to view the aspirations and pretensions of Great Britain with indulgence de- clared that Lord Salisbury had the better of the argumentative duel; and, though they acknowledge the eciulty and prudence of the compromise which has been reached, they think it neces- sary to point out that it involves possibilities of considerable gravity, not merely to England and the United States, but also to the civilized world in general. The Co7ogn~ Gazetteechoing what is said to be the view of the Ger 5 man Foreign Office insists that a precedent has been established by the joint action of the two Anglo-Saxon powers, the effects of which are likely to be felt long after the British Guiana boundary question has been forgotten. We wish to take the first opportunity of declaring, said the Rhenish news- paper, in an article Which was repro- duced with approval by the semi- official Norddeutsche Zeitung, that the precedent in question is at most an En- glish, and in no way a European, precedent. Nevertheless the German writer admits that the United States has entered upon a line of policy from which it cannot easily withdraw, and that in the future, and in the light of this Yenezuela transaction, American public opinion will unhesitatingly de- mand the intervention of the Federal government in any dispute between an American State and a European power, whether territorial questions be in- volved or not. The Temps, which is the * best instructed of French newspapers where foreign affairs are involved, writes in a similar strain. What specially concerns Frenchmen, it argues, is the countenance Great Britain has given to a novel and ex- treme deduction from the Monroe Doc- trine: Ainsi, du consentement expr~s du Royanme-Uni, le gouvernement de Wash- ington se verra investi du droit de s immiscer dans toute querelle territoriale eatre une puissance europdenne et un Etat du nouveau monde. Ii obtiendra le droit de se porter fort, m~me sans mandat ex- pr~s, pour lun * ses clients. Ii ponrra, daccord avec in puissance europdenne en- gag~e dans le litige, mais sans linterven- tion de lEtat amiricain pue repr~sente lautre partie, r~gler souverainement le mode, les conditions, Ia forme et le fonds de in solution destin~e a mettre fin au conflit. Ce sont Vt de bien grosses innovations en rnati~re de droit international. Elles con- sacrent in supr~matie absolue des Etats- Unis dans leur h~misph~re. There can be no doubt that these French and German publicists are right. Great changes in the relations of 6 the European powers towards the States of the American continent, and in the relations of those States to one an- other, have been produced by the asser- tion on one side, and the admission, at least in part, on the other, of that new and enlarged version of the Monroe principle, which may be conveniently known as the Olney Doctrine. This doctrine is embodied in the de- spatch, so often referred to, of the 20th of July, 1895, emphasized and clinched in Mr. Clevelands famous message to Congress. The despatch is a very ver- bose, voluminous, and elaborate docu- ment, couched in a rhetorical style such as is not commonly employed in formal state papers. But though its argument is loose and its phraseology singularly wanting in scientific precision, its gen- eral meaning is clear enough. To put it briefly Mr. Olneys main propositions are that American questions are for American decision; th:at no European power has the right to intervene forc- ibly in the affairs of the continent, or to seek territorial extension at the ex- pense of any existing American state; that the United States, owing to its superior size and power, is the protector and champion of all other American nations; and that it has the right and duty to intervene in all territorial dis- putes in the Western Hemisphere, whether such disputes directly affect its interests or not. These propositions are deduced from a variety of general state- ments of principle, some of which are of a very remarkable and original charac- ter, such for instance as the axiom that permanent political ~iion between a European and an American State is un- natural and inexpedient Lord Salis- bury, as the representative of an empire which includes Canada, thought it necessary to place on record his em- phatic denial of this extraordinary proposition, and of many other state- ments of fact and theories of politics which Mr. Olneys despatch contained; nor did he assent to the state secretarys view that American questions are for American decision, or concede that general right of intervention in the affairs of the continent which the United States government claimed. The Olney Doctrine. But in that strangely confused and in- definite system which is called Inter- national Law, acts go for more than words. If the jurist will be able to turn to the cogent piece of argument in which Lord Salisbury dismissed the new interpretation of the Monroe Doc- trine, the statesman will point to the fact that the government over which Lord Salisbury presided did eventually comply with the cardinal demand this new interpretation embodied. What- ever we may think of Mr. Olneys his- torical and juristical generalizations, we cannot deny that her Majeistys government has admitted his two main assertions of practical policy. His long despatch boils down to this: the general right of the United States to intervene in American disputes in order to secure that they shall be solved by methods which the government of the Union considers just and equitable. When the two secretaries of state come to close quarters in their despatch~, the argument really turns on this point. You have only the right to intervene on any question which affects your in- terests, said Lord Salisbury, whether the question be in America or else- Where. You may interfere between Venezuela and British Guiana it is true, but merely on the same grounds as you might have interfered, if you had thought proper, between China and Japan. Not at all, said Mr. Gluey; we are not bound to consider whether we have special interests in the matter. The United States may intervene be- cause it is the United Statesnot sim- ply by reason of its high character as a civilized State, nor because wisdom and justice and equity are the invariable characteristics of the dealing.s of the United States; but also because, in addition to all other grounds, its infi- nite resources, combined with its iso- lated position, render it master of the situation. In other words, the United States being by far the largest and the strongest of American powers, defi- nitely asserts its right to a paramount control of the states~system of the con- tinent. And this claim, it must be re- peated, Lord Salisbury has conceded. No one has been able to show that any The Olney Doctrine. special interests of the United States have been involved, or that the republic is more directly affected by the Guiana boundary question than Mexico or Peru, or any other American State. If we have recognized the American claim to determine this dispute, without the in- vitation of one disputant, and over the head of the other, it is an admission of the political hegemony of the United States in the two Americas. The precedent has been established which it is the chief object of the Olney Doc- trine to set up. It may be said that this precedent is not binding in the tribunal of diplo- macy. As I have just shown French and German protests have already been issued, and it will be open to any for- eign government, if the occasion should arise, to declare that the general system of international law cannot be modified by a private arrangement between two powers. But if the civilized world is not committed to the fundamental article of the new doctrine, the United States is;. and that is the true impor- tance of the matter. We have seen how President Monroes message which was in fact a purely academic commentary on events, not followed, or intended to be followed, by definite actionhas become an inseparable part of the public policy of the United States, and has assumed in the eyes of American citizens a sanctity almost equal to that of the Constitution itself. Probably the same weight of authority will not attach to the policy laid down by President Cleveland and Mr. Olney. But authority it will have; the authority of an accomplished fact, and the authority of a successful vindication of a principle which could not be conse- quently abandoned without some ap- pearance of humiliation. America is a democratic country, in which the sov- ereign is an electorate keenly alive to the national dignity and impulsively quick to resent any sacrifice of the national honor. Nothing helps a party in difficulties more than a show of spirit in foreign affairs, nor injures it worse than any suspicion of weakness or pusillanimity. What has been gained by the assertion of the Gluey Doctrine cannot be lost. successive secretaries and presidents must take care that this high-water mark is not obliterated, if indeed it is not pushed further out- wards. One would not give much for the political fortunes of an American statesman, who let it be known that he thought the precedent of 1896 was a mistake, and that he saw no reason why American questions should be reserved for American decision, or why a dis- pute between two powers, neither of which approached to within many hun- dreds of miles of the United States, could not be left to settle itself without calling for the intervention of Washing- ton. No politician could now say that; no party could afford to support him if he did. The United States is practically bound to intervene as protector, cham- pion, and judge in equity whenever territorial changes on the American continent are contemplated, or the rights of an American state are men- aced; to intervene by diplomacy if that will suffice, by fleets and armies if it will not. It is not the object of these few pages to discuss the wisdom or justice of this new policy, but merely to point out that new it is and that it must carry with it new, and weighty, consequences. Many Englishmen will feel a good deal of sympathy with the spirit that ani- mates it. The violent language of Mr. Olneys note, its fulsome and excessive laudation of the United States, its con- temptuous disregard of the suscepti- bilities of other great nations, and its glaring misrepresentations of fact and history, caused natural offence in this country. Behind, however, its extrava- gances and perversities there lies a sentiment for which, even in its audac- ity, Englishmen must feel a certain respect. We are the biggest and also the best power in America, and we mean not merely to boss the show, but to see that the show is run upon the lines we approve. We are Republicans, and we think everybody else ought to be Republicans, because that is the best form of government, and makes people more virtuous than any other.1 We 1 The people of the United States have a vital interest in the cause of popular self-government. 8 dont want European Influence or Euro- pean political methods here. We intend to keep America for the Americans, and make all the peoples of the continent work up to the standard set by our- selves. Therefore no fresh European powers are to get a hand in, and those that are in already are to be cleared out as soon as convenient. Mr. Olney does not quite say this, but it is what his arguments really mean. And if the end could be attained, if it were possible to keep the New World free from the strife, the ambitions, the wearing In- trigues, the jealous rivalries, the burden of armaments, the constant dread, and sometimes the awful reality, of war, which have saddened the Oldwhat Englishman would seek to put obstacles in the way of realizing the comfortable dream? By all means, he would say, let the Americans try the experiment. Only, from the depth of an Old-World experience that ranges over two thou- sand years of fierce conflict among the nations, he may be permitted to remind Americans that the experiment is no cheap and easy one. It will need some- thing more than large words and ele- vated sentiments to carry it to a succes- ful conclusion. Even in embarking upon the modified form of this enterprise which I take to be implied in the Olney Doctrine, the United States has saddled itself with a vast addition to its burdens and its duties. It has assertedsuccessfully assertedfor itself a claim to be the general protector and arbiter of the American continent. The responsi- bility thus assumed is a heavy one. Nothing like it has existed in the world since the downfall of the Roman Em- pire. Many powerful modern States have exercised a hegemony, or suprem- acy, over independent, civilized neigh- bors; but no other has yet attempted to regulate the affairs of a whole quarter of the habitable globe, or to make itself answerable for a large number of separate States, many of them of enor- mous extent, and some of them hun- Tliey believe it to be for the healing of all nations, and that civilization must either ad- vance or retrograde according as its supremacy is extended or curtailed.Mr. Olneys Despatch. The Olney Doctrine. dreds or even thousands of miles dis- tant from its own frontiers. The conti- nent of America is not like Africa. It is not a no-mans land, inhabited by masterless savages. Except the white desolate wastes of the far North, where the continent breaks up among the Polar seas, and a comparatively insig- nificant tract in the extreme South, all AmericaNorth, Central, and Southis, nominally at least, subject to the rule of some organized government recognized by the family of nations, and admin- istered by men of European blood, pro- fessing the Christian religion. What- ever may be the actual facts, in theory, and in the view of international law, the other governments of the Americas have as much right to call themselves civilized, and to claim all the immunities and prerogatives of civilization, as that of Washington itself; and some at least of their States have existed, under settled rule, as dependencies of Euro- pean powers, as long as the United States or longer. Nor are these groups of countries, which are henceforth to consider themselves under the tutelage of the republic, insignificant in re- sources, or in the possibilities of future wealth and greatness. The Union, it is true, is a mighty realm, with its seventy millions of people, its vast area of fer- tile and temperate land, its abounding prosperity, and its magnificent industrial development. Few Englishmen would be inclined to underrate the power and the splendor of the noblest of the daughter States which have sprung from the womb of the Mother of Na- tions. But the tall shadow of the republic has perhaps unduly dwarfed the proportions of others who share with it the heritage of the Western world. We need not forget that along- side the United States there lies a coun- try, still under the imperial crown of Britain, which may also be called great, in all the elements that make for great- ness, except an abundant population; and even that may come before long. In thirty years time the Dominion of Canada may have grown into a nation with. ten or fifteen millions of people, mostly of British descent: a nation large enough to claim its right to be treated on terms of political equality with any neighbor, however populous and power- ful. And if we leave Canada out of account, the repuiAics of South America and Central America are not so unim- portant that their political control can be easy, even for a country so vigorous and powerful as the United States. Mismanaged as it has been by bad gov- ernment, and retarded in its material development by war, bankruptcy, slavery, and revolution, there is the possibility of a great future before Spanish and Portuguese America. Great, in certain way~s, it is already. Mexico has a population of ten millions, and an area equal to all the countries of western Europe together; Brazil is larger than Europe, and larger than the United States, excluding Alaska; the Argentine Republic has fertile land enough to support the combined popula- tion of England, France, and Germany; and even the smaller republics of the North are larger than most European monarchies. These States are not merely huge tracts of uninhabitable desert, like that immense blank area of light soil which makes French Africa fill so much space on the map. Nearly the whole of South and Central Amer- ica is well watered, and it is lavishly endowed by nature with vegetable and mineral wealth; a considerable portion has a climate which does not forbid set- tlement by men of the Caucasian race. Of this splendid slice of the earths sur- face much is still almost virgin to the foot of man. The immense dominion which is called Brazil has only fourteen millions of inhabitants, including ne- groes and Indians. The Argentine is less populous than Belgium. Ecuador, ~olombia, Venezuela, even Peru and Chili, are still only half-explored lands. Who can doubt that these vast expanses of fruitful soil cannot be left forever to a handful of traders and political ad- venturers in a few ports and capitals, and to sparse agricultural settlements round the rim of the coast and along the lower course of the great rivers? And who can fail to believe that as South America fills up its haphazard political arrangements, its accidental and unnatural geographical distribution 9 will be altered? The future history of the continent is likely to be more adven- turous than its past. New states will be created; the old ones will fall to pieces; there must be convulsions and cata- clysms, and probably a struggle for territory, which cannot well be other- wise than violent. There is another point worth considering, though strangely little attention has been be- stowed on it in this country. When the reconstruction of South America begins, it will be difficult to exclude the Euro- pean nations irom a share in the scramble. Some of them may be drawn into it by the natural evolution of events and probably very much against their will. But then the countries of Europe are full, and over full; their surplus population is brimming over into the other quarters of the world; cupidity, industrial enterprise, the desire to gain the necessaries of life on easier terms than they can be got hi comparatively poor countries not fitted to sustain a large population from their own re- sources, are driving them to the outer- most parts of the world, in numbers larger than ever. Rhene or the Danaw from their populous sands poured upon the fields of Italy. The problem is really less interesting for us than for some others. Within the limits of the empire there is good land enough to hold the increase of the British Isles for a hundred years to come. But the German, the Belg~an, the Austrian, the Italian, the Alsatian, the Selavonian, the Scandinavian, pressed abroad by ambition or sheer hungerwhere are they to go? At present they go mostly to the United States; but the United States is not anxious to have them, and will not take them much longer. There is Africa; but Africa is already a fail- ure, since it begins to be plain that the amount of land suited for settlement is strictly limited and a very large part of all that is worth having is in the pos- session of a power which cannot be de- prived of its dependencies fill the strongest navy in the world has been mastered. What every European State wants is a colony capable of sustaining lihe Olney Doctrine. 10 in comfort a iew millions of its own people. It is not at all improbable that Germany, for instance, will find such a colony in southern Brazil, and Italy on the Rio Plata. Let us supposenot an extravagant supposition that some time in the early part of the next cen- tury a couple of millions of Germans find themselves living in southern Brazil, and that they also find the gov- ernment of a gang of half-caste at- torneys and political adventurers at Rio Janeiro no longer tolerable. The Ultianders revolt and are beaten; they appeal to their own government for pro- tection and annexation. What will the United States do? It might annex South Brazil, or all Brazil, itself; or it might merely signify that the Monroe Doctrine, with its authorized glosses, required it to warn off Germany, and leave the inhabitants of Brazil to fight out the question among themselves. In the former case it would have ac- quired a Territory or a new State, of enormous extent, inhabited by an alien race, separated from the rest of the Union by hundreds of miles of sea and land, and needing a military force, much larger than the whole of the present United States army, to police and protect it. In the other case, the civilizing mission of the United States, of which Mr. Olney speaks, might be fulfilled by consigning a nobly fertile region and an industrious population to some such welter of anarchy and mur- derously savage warfare as that which devastated Paraguay and almost exter- minated its male inhabitants thirty years ago. There is another alterna- tive. it is conceivable that even the prestige of the United States might not be sufficient to induce a powerful European monarchy to abandon a large population of its own subjects without a struggle; and if the United States de~ dined to annex Brazil, Germany might take some forcible action whi h would effectually impede that American State from shaping for itself its own polit- ical fortunes and destinies. But this would be antagonizing the interests and inviting the opposition of the United States, and according to the Olney Doctrine would have to be opposed by The Olney Doctrine. the forces of the Union. Whichever alternative is taken the result would involve an addition to the external re- sponsibilities, and an increase of the warlike resources, of the United States. This last result seems to be inevitable. No nation can expect to take over the political control of an entire continent, to make itself answerable for perma- nently maintaining the existing geo- graphical divisions of a group of States so large and (in some cases) so distant as those of the two Americas, and to se- cure the integrity against colonization, annexation, or other forcible intrusion, of territories at once so tempting, so weak, and in such a condition of economic and industrial infancy, with- out being in a position to give effect to its wishes. If the scramble for South America once begins, neither the latent resources nor the moral influence of the United States will avail to protect its clients without the display of effective material strength. The republic will be compelled to provide itself with some of those burdensome appendages to political predominance, under which the peoples of this continent have suf- fered. Amateur diplomatists may con- trive to conduct the external affairs of a nation which is seldom called upon to concern itself with what happens be- yond its own borders; they will require to be replaced by an elaborately (and expensively) trained staff of experts. Both the army and the navy must be brought a good deal closer to the Euro- pean standard. A levy of militiamen and civilian volunteers can no more be relied upon to furnish a completely equipped army corps for service in South America than a fleet of cruisers can be safely left to face a squadron of battleships. President Cleveland has at last provided the United States with a definite and positive foreign policy. It will remain for President Clevelands successors to supply the country with the means of adequately discharging the responsibilities which this policy necessarily involves. The old Monroe Doctrine was one of self-centred isola- tion. A country, which aimed as far as possible at having no political relations with foreign States, could almost dis A Freak of Cupid. pense with the luxury of fleets and armies. But the New Monroe Doctrine (which in some respects is rather the antithesis than the legitimate develop- ment of its predecessor) cannot assur- edly be maintained unless the citizens of the republic are prepared to endure burdens and incur obligations from which hitherto they have been enviably free. SIDNEY Low. From Temple Bar. A FREAK OF CUPID. CHAPTER V. Courthope had struck across to the main road at right angles to the poplar avenue. The poplars stood slim, up- right, more like a stiff and regular formation of feathery seaweed grow- ing out of a frozen ocean than like trees upon a plain. He was nearing a grove of elm and birch which he had not seen the evening before; by the al- most hidden rails of the fence there were half-buried shrubs. So dry, so bard, so absolutely without bud or sere leaf was the interlacing outline of the trees and shrubs, that they too seemed to be some strange product of this new sort of ocean; they did not remind him of verdant glades. Not that beauty was absent, nor charm, but the scene was strange, very strange; the domain of the laughing princess, on whom he had turned his back, was, in the daylight, more than ever an en- chanted land which he could fancy to be unknown in story and until now un- explored by man. Such ideas only came to him by snatches; the rest of him, mind and body, was summed up in a fierce determination to catch the thief and bring back his spoils. Whether by this he would prove him- self honest or guilty, he neither knew nor felt that he cared. Gradually, as he thought less about his snow-shoes, he found that the wide lateral swing which he had been giving to his leg was unneeded. Strange as it seemed, the large rackets did not inter- 11 fere when he took an ordinary step. Having made this pleasant discovery he quickened speed. He did not know whether the girl had stopped laughing and had gone into the house again, but he knew that the falling snow and the branches of the trees must now hinder her from seeing him distinctly. In a moment he was glad of this, for, becoming incautious, he fell. Both arms, put out to save himself, were embedded to the very shoulder straight down in the snow that offered no bottom to his touch; when his next impulse was to move knees and feet he found that the points of his snow- shoes were dug deep, and his toes, tied to them, held the soles of his feet in the same position. What cursed temerity had made him confess to a criminal act in order to be allowed to come on this fools errand? Fool, indeed, had he been to suppose that he could walk upon a frozen cloud without falling through! Such were Courthopes reflections. By degrees he got himself up, but only by curling himself round and tak- ing off his snow-shoes. By degrees he got the snow-shoes put on again, and mounted out of the hole which he had made, with snow adhering to all his garments and snow melting adown his neck and wrists. He now realized that he had spent nearly half an hour in walking not a quarter of a mile. With this cheerless reflection as a companion he went doggedly on, choosing now the drifted main road for a path. Having left behind him the skeleton frorms of the trees, he was trudging across an open plain, flat almost as the surface of the lake which he had trav- ersed yesterday. Sometimes the fences at the side of the road were wholly hidden, more often they showed the top of their posts or upper bar; some- times he could see cross-fences, as if outlining fields, so that he supposed he still walked through lands farmed from the lonely stone house, that he was still upon his ladys domain. He medi- tated upon her, judging that she was sweet beyond compare, although why he thought so, after her mistrust and 12 derision, was one of those secrets which the dimpled Cupid only could ex- plain. He was forced to acknowledge the fact that thus he did think, and that here he was walking, whither he hardly knew, battling with the gale, hustled roughly by its white wings, in danger at every turn of falling off the two small moving rafts of his shoes into a sea in which no man could swim very long. He wondered, should his snow-shoes break, If he would be able to flounder to the rim of the fence? How long could he sit there? Certainly it would seem, looking north and south, and east and west, that he would need to sit as long as the life in him might endure the frost. At length a shed or small barn met his eye. His own approach seemed to ~ave bcen heard and answered from within; the neigh of a horse greeted him. At first he supposed that some horses belonging to the house were stabled here, and neglected because the roads were impassable; then he judged that so slight a shed could not be in- tended for a stable. He answered the animals c.ry by seeking the door. Against it the drift was not deep, for, as it opened on the sheltered side, he had only the snow- fall to scrape away. The door, which had very recently been freed from its crust of frost, yielded easily. iie found a brown shaggy horse tied within, and beside it a sleigh, such as he had frequently seen, a mere plat- form of wood upon runners. Other- wise the shed was empty. Courthope was quickly struck by the recognition of something which set his memory working. The old buffalo-skin on the sleigh was such as was common, but the way it was stretched upon a heap of sacks made him remember the sleigh that he had yesterday passed upon the river, and the keen, sinister face of the driver, which had ill con- trasted with his apparent sleep and stupidity. Courthope tossed aside the skin with a jerk. A rum bottle, a small hoard of frozen bread and bacon, a heavy blanket folded beneath, all seemed to A Freak of Cupid. prove that the driver had made pro- vision for a longer journey. The horse had no food before it; no blanket was upon its back. Probably its driver had not intended to leave it here so long. Where was the driver? This quickly became in Courthopes mind the all im- portant question. Why had he been skulking on the most lonely part of the lake? And now, recalling again the mans face, he believed that he had an evil design. Courthope pursued his way; for, whether the thief had gone farther or remained in this vicinity, it was evi- dently desirable to have help from the nearest neighbors to seek and capture him. Courthope soon reached what seemed to be a dip or hollow in the plain; in this the wind had been very busy levelling the surface with the higher ground. At first he supposed that, for some reason, road and fences had come to an abrupt ending; then he discovered that he merely walked higher above the natural level The thought came to~ him that if here he should break his snow-shoes there would not even be the neighboring fence-top on which to perch and freeze. Suddenly all his attention was coii- centrated upon a dark something, like a bit of cloth fallen in the snow. As he came close and touched the cloth he found it to be the covering of a basket almost buried; pushing away the snow- crusted covering and feeling with eager fingers among the icy contents, he quickly knew that this was no other than the stolen silver of which he was in quest. A thrill of gratitude to For- tune for so kindly a freak had hardly passed through his mind before his eye sought a depression in the snow just beyond. He saw now that a man was lying there. The head resting upon an arm was but slightly covered with snow; the whole form had sunk by its own heat into a cavity like a grave. Courthope lifted the head; the face was that of the man whom he had seen yesterday upon the river. The arms, when he raised them, fell again to the snow like lead, yet he perceived that A Freak of Cupid. life was not extinct. Even in the frost the odor of rum was to be perceived, and breath, although so feeble as to be unseen, still passed in and out of the tightly-drawn nostrils. The touch that would have been reverent to a corpse was now rough. He shook the fallen man and shouted. He raised him to a sitting posture, but finding that, standing as he did upon soft snow, to lift him was impossible, he laid him again in the self-made grave. That posture at least would be most conducive to the continued motion of the heart. Standing upon the other side of the body, Couithopes shoe struck upon an- other hard object iVhich he found to be a case, stolen locked as it was, which contained, no doubt, the other valua- bles whose loss Madge had first discov- ered. The wretch, weighted by a bur- den in each hand, had apparently missed his way when endeavoring to return to the shed in which he had left his horse, and wandering in circles, per- haps for hours, had evidently suc- cumbed to drink and to cold, caught as in a trap by the unusual violence of the storm. There was nothing to be done but return to the house for Morins aid, and, lifting the handles of basket and case in either hand, GourthopeAoubled back upon his own track, thankful that he had already attained to sonie skill in snow-shoeing. As he neared the house his heart beat high at the excitement of seeing Madges delight. He closely scanned the windows, even the tiny windows in the pointed tin roof, but no eager eyes were on the lookout. Loudly he thumped upon the heavy front door. There was somewhat of a bustle inside at the knock. The snow- bound household collected quickly at the welcome thought of a me~sage from the outside world. When the door was opened Madge and the Morins were there to behold Court- hope carrying the plunder. He per- ceived at once that his guilt, it doubted before, was now proved be- yond all doubt. There was a distinct 13 measure of reserve in the satisfaction they expressed. Madge especially was very grave, with a strong flavor of moral severity in her words and de- meanor. Courthope explained to her that the other man was dying in the snow, that if his life was to be saved no time must be lost. She repeated the story in French to Morin, and thereupon arose high words from the French- man. Madge looked doubtfully at Courthope, and then she interpreted. It seemed that the Frenchmans de- sire was to put him out again and lock up the house, leaving the two accom -plices to shift for themselves as best they might. Courthope urged motives of humanity: He described the man and his condition. At length he prevailed. Madge in- sisted that if Morin did not go she would. In a few moments both she and Morin were preparing to set out. It seemed useless for Ciourthope to precede them; he went into the din- ing-room, demanding food of Madame Morin. He found that Eliz had been carried down and placed in her chair in the midst of domestic activities. As soon as she spied him, being in a nervous, hysterical state, she opened her mouth and shrieked sharply; the shriek at this time had more the tone of a childs anger than of a womans fear. With a strong sense of humor he sat down at the table, and she, realizing that he was not immediately dangerous, railed upon him. Viper in the bosom I said Eliz. Courthope, almost famished, ate fast. Daughter of the horsedeech crying give, and sucking blood from the hand it gives! she continued. Sir Charles Grandison would never have kicked a man when he was down, he said. He would have tried to do good even to the viper he had nourished. The memory of Sir Charless well- known method even with the most vii- lainous, appeared to distract her at- tention for a moment. 14 And then they all sent for him and confessed and made amends, just as I have done, Courthope went on; but the fact that a laugh was gleaming ~u his eyes enraged the little cripple. How dare you talk to me, sitting there pretending to be a gentleman! I would rather be allowed to make a better toilet if my reputation were to rest upon a pretence. I never heard of a gentlemanly villain who weut about without collar and cuffs, and had not been allowed access to his hair-brush. A striped jacket and shaved head is generally what he goes about ~n after hes unmasked. If I had been Madge I would not have let you off. Come, remember how sorry Eliza- beth Bennett was when she found she had given way to prejudice. If I re- member right she lay awake may nights. Are you adding insult to injury by insinuating that either of us might be- stow upon you Oh! certainly not, I merely wish to suggest that a young lady possessing lively talents and remarkably flue eyes might yet make breat mistakes in her estimate of the masculine char- acter. The cripple, who perhaps had never before heard her one beautiful feature praised by masculine lips, was obliged to harden herself. Accomplished wretch! she cried iu accents worthy of an ii~ate Pamela. Do you suppose it was the last time I was serving my term in gaol that 1 read our favorite novels? he asked. By this time Morin had passed out of the door to put on his snow-shoes, and Courthope, who had swallowed only as much food as was necessary to keep him from starvation, turned out to repeat the process of putting on his, this time more deftly. Morin had a toboggan upon which were piled such necessaries as Madge had collected. They began their march three abreast into the storm. They went a long way without con- versation, and yet Courthope found in this march keen enjoyment. His heart was absurdly light. To have per- formed so considerable a service for Madge, now to be walking beside her on an errand of mercy, was as much joy as the present hour could hold. It was difficult for him to keep up with the others, yet in doing so there was the pleasure of the athlete in hav- ing acquired a new mastery over his muscles; and the fascination of being at home in the snow as a sea-bird is at home in the surf, which is the chief element of delight in all winter sports, was his for the first time. With the drunken wretch who was almost frozen he felt small sympathy, but he had the sense that all modern men have on such occasions, that he ought to be concerned, which kept him grave. The other two were not light- hearted. Morin, dragging the tobog- gan behind him and walking with his grey head bent forward to the gale, was sullen at being driven in the ser- vice of thieves; afraid lest some sin- ister design was still intended, he cast constant glances of cunning suspicion at Courthope. As for Madge, she ap- peared grave and preoccupied beyond all that was natural to her, suffering, he feared, from the pain of her first disillusionment. This was a sufferiug that he was hardly in a position to take seriously, and yet his heart yearned over her. He thought also that she was pondering over the prob- lem of her next responsibility, and the evidence of this came sooner than fle had expected. When they got to the place where his first track diverged straight to the shed, she and Morin stopped to ex- change remarks; they evidently per- ceived in this the clearest evidence of all against him. Had he not gone straight to the place ~Vhere the accom- plice had agreed to wait? Then Madge fell back a little to where he was now plodding in the rear. She accosted him in the soft tones that had from the first so charmed him, contrasting with her sisters voice as the tones of a reed-pipe contrast with A Freak of Cupid. A Freak of Cupid. those from metal, or as the full voice of the cuckoo with the shrill chirp o~ the sparrow. The soft voice was very serious, the manner more than sedate, the words studied. I am afraid that nothing that I can say will persuade you to alter. a way of life which you seem to have choseli. but it seems to me very ~ad that one c~f your ability snould so degrade bimselL She stopped for a little gasp of breath, as if frightened at her own audacity. Her manner and phrases were an evident imitation of the way in which she had heard advice be- stowed upon vagrant or criminal by the benevolent judge whose memory she so tenderly cherished. It was sec- ond nature to her to act as she fancied he would have acted. Courthope com- posed himself to receive the judicial admonition with becoming humility; his whole sympathy was with her, his mind was aglow with the quaint hu- mor of it. You must know, rebuked Madge, how very wrong it is; and it is~ not possible that you could have difficulty in getting some honest employment. It is very kind of you to interest yourself in me. He kept his eyes upon the ground. I do not know, of course, what led you to begin a life of crime, or in what way you found out what houses in this country were worth robbing, but I fear you must have led a wicked life for a long time (she was very severe now). You are young yet; why should you carry on your nefarious schemes in a new country, where, if you would, you could easily reform ? (Again a little gasp for breath.) I have promised to let you go without giving you into the hands of the law. I am afraid I did a selfish and weak thing, because others may suffer from your crimes, and I wish you could take this opportunity, which my leni- ency gives you, and try to reform be- fere you have lost your reputation as well as your character. It is very kind of you, he mur- mured again; and still as he walked he looked upon his feet. He had no thought now of again denying his guilt; having denied and, as she thought, confessed, he felt that to change once more would only evoke her greater scorn. Let be, his heart said. Let come what will, I will not confuse her further to-day. cHAPTER VI. - They passed the shed, making a straight march, as swift as might be, for the fallen man; but before they reached him they saw some one com- ing, a black, increasing form in the snowy distance. Morin hesitated, if the thief had arisen, strong and able- bodied, it was clear that they had ag~ain been tricked for an evil purpose, Even Madge looked alarmed, and they both together raised a halloo in the patois of the region. The answer that came across the reach of the storm cheered them. The new-corner, a messenger from the nearest village, became voluble as soon as he was within speaking dis- tance. He addressed Madge in broken English, but so quickly and with so strong a French accent that Courthope only gathered part of his errand. He had come, it seemed, from the step- mother to tell something concerning a certain Xavier, who had been sent to them the evening before. Before he had finished calling, Madge and Morin had come to the place where the thief lay, and, looking down upon him, Madge gave a little cry. The new-coiner came up. He looked as if he might be of the grade of a notarys clerk or a country chemist. He did not seem surprised to see who the man was. He began at once with great activity to chafe his hands and face with handfuls of the snow. Madge and Morin were also active with the restoratives. The thief was lifted and laid upon the toboggan. They trod the snow all about to know that nothing remained, and found only a corkless flask containing a few drops of rum. They were all so busy that Courthope had little to do; he stood aside, wondering above all at the way 15 16 they rubbed the man with the snow, and at the astonishment that Madge expressed. The stranger was very nimble and very talkative; pouring out wordts now in French to Madge, he walked with her in all haste to the shed from which the horse again whinnied. Morin, awakening to a sense of urgency, started at a trot, dragging the toboggan behind him; it sank heavily in snow so light. Court- hope lent a hand to the ioop of rope by which it was drawn. He too es- sayed the trot of the Canadian. He was growing proficient, and if he did not succeed in keeping up the running pace, he managed to go more quickly than before. They made fair prog- ress. Looking back, Courthope saw Madge and the stranger emerge upon the road with the little horse. He had not time to look back often to see how they helped it to make its way. They were still some distance behind when he and Morin reached the house. The man called Xavier was carried into the kitchen amid wild exclama- tions from the Morin women. As they all continued the work of restoring him with a hearty good-will and an ex- perience of which Courthope could not boast, he was glad to betake himself to his own room, wondering whether he was now a thief or a gentleman in the eyes of this small snow-bound world. There was, in any case, no one at leisure to prohibit him from making free with his own possessions. When he was dressed a certain shy- ness prohibited him from entering the dining-room in which he heard Madge, Eliz, and the stranger talking French together. He betook himself to the library, to the letters of the Portu- guese nun and an easy-chair. They might oust him with severity, but it was as well to enjoy a short interval of luxury. The room was warmed with a istove; the book was in the old- fashioned type; an almost sleepless night was behind him; soon he slept. It was almost midday when he slept. the afternoon was advancing when he awakened. Madame Morin was stand- A Freak of Cupid. ing beside him arranging a tray of food upon the table. Eh! she said, and smiled upon him. Then she pointed to the food, and de- manded in pantomime if it suited him. Courthope concluded that he had ceased to be in disgrace. He would rather, much rather, have been sum- moned to a family meal, but that was not his lot. He had taken many things with philosophy in the course of the recent hours and he took this also. What right had he to intrude himself? He ate his meal alone. His roving glance soon brought him pleasure for he found that some one had tip-toed into the room while he slept and laid the choicest volume of romance near his chair. The wind had dropped, the snow had ceased falling. Before Courthope had finished his luncheon the young man wbo looked like a notarys clerk came in, using his broken English. He re- marked that the storm was over and that they were now going to get out a double-team to plough through the road. He suggested that Courthope should help him to drive it, and to transport the prisoner to the gaol in the village. One man must be left to protect the young ladies and the house; one man must help him with the team and its burden. The speaker shrugged his shoulders, suggesting that it would be more suitable for Morin to remain, and said that for his part he would be much obliged and honored if Courthope would accom- pany him. Here some plain and easy compliments were thrown in about Courthopes strength and the generous activity he had displayed, but not a word concerning his temporary dis- grace; if this man knew of it he did not regard it as of any importance. He was a matter-~of-fact young man, not much interested in Courthope as a stranger, immensely interested in the fact of the theft and all that con- cerned it At the slightest question he poured out excited information. Xa- vier had been a servant in the house. Mrs. King, who was religious and A Freak zealous, had found in him a convert. He had become a Protestant to please her. (At this point the narrator shrugged his shoulders again.) Then Xavier had asked higher wages; upon that there was a quarrel, and he had left The speakers scanty English was of the simplest. He said, Xavier is a very bad man, much worse than our people usually are. This winter he went to the city and got his wits sharpened, and when he came back he made a scheme. He sent word to Mrs. King that his old father was dying and would like to be converted, too. Mrs. King travels at once with a horse and the strongest servant-man. The old father takes a long time to die, so Xavier comes here yesterday to say she will stay all night; but when he did not come back, his wife she got frightened, and she told that the old man was not going to die, that she was afraid there was a scheme. Now we have Xavier very safe. He may get five years. Upon Courthopes inquiring after the health of the thief, he was told that beyond being severely froistbitten he was little the worse. He was again drunk with the stimulants that the Morins had poured down his throat. The visitor ended the interview by saying that if Courthope would be good enough to drive the team through the drifts his own horse and sleigh would be sent after him the next day. Courthope inquired what was the wish of the young mistress of the house. The other replied that mademoiselle approved of his plan. it was evident that poor Madge was no longer the mistress; the clerk was an emissary of Mrs. Kings and as such he had taken the control. Still, as he seemed an amiable and capable per- son, Courthope fell in with his sug- gestion, inwardly vowing that soon of some domain, if not of this one, Madge should again be queen. Oourthope received a message to the effect that the young ladies wished to see him. There was something in the formal wording of this message, com LIVING AGE. VOL. XIII. 630 of Cupid. 17 ing after his solitary meal, which made him know that they were ill at ease, that they had taken their mis- take more deeply to heart than he would have wished. He had no sooner entered the room where Madge stood than he wished he were well out of it again, so far did his sympathy with her discomfort transcend his own pleasure at being in her presence. Madge stood, as upon the first night, behind her sisters chair. Eliz looked frightened and excited, yet as half en- joying the novel excitement. Madge, pale-faced and distressed, showed only too plainly that she had need of all the courage she possessed to lift her eyes to his. Yet she was not going to shirk her duty; she was going to make her apology, and the apology of the household, just as the judge, her father, would have wished to have t made. It was a little speech, conned before- hand, which she spokea quaint mix- ture of her own girlish wording and the formal phrases which she felt the occasion demanded. Courthope never knew precisely what she said. His feelings were up and in tumult, like the winds on a gusty day, and he was embarrassed for her embarrassment while he smiled for the very joy of it all. Madge confessed with grief that Eliz had mistaken Xavier for Courthope. She said the man from the village had shown them what folly it was to sup- pose that the gentleman could be Xa- vier s accomplice. She begged that same gentlemans pardon very humbly. AL the end he heard some words fal- tered; she wished it was in their power to make any amends. Almost before she ceased speakiag he took up the word, and his own voice sounded to him merry and bold in com- parison with her soft, distressiul speech; but he could not help that, he must speak with such powers as na- ture gave him. There are two ways by which you can make amends, and first I would beg that none of our friends who were here last night should be told of it. I A Freak of Cupid. should not like to think that Emma and Elizabeth, and Evelina or Man- anna Aleoforado should ever hear that I was taken Lor a thief. You are laughing at us, said Eliz sharply. We know that you will go away and make fun of us to all your friends. If I do you will have one way oI~ punishing me that would give me more pain than I could well endure, you can shut me out next time I come to ask for shelter. Oh, but you cant come again, said Eliz, with vibrating note of fierce dis- content; our stepmother will be here. He looked at Madge. I was going to say that the other way in which you could make amends would be to give me leave to come back; and if you give me leave I will come, even if it be necessary, to that end, to get an introduction from all the clergy in Great Britain, or from the royal family. A ray of hope shot into Madges dark eyes, the first glimmer of a smile be- gan to how through her distress. It is an old adage that where there is a will there is a way, and did I not walk on your most impossiule snow-shoes and bring back your sil- ver? Madge looked down, a pretty red be- gan to mantle her pale face, and, as if the angels who manage the winds and clouds did not wish that the blush of so dear a maiden should betray too much, a ray of scarlet light from the sinking sun just then came winging through the dispersing storm-clouds and caused all the white snow-world to redden, and dyed the frost-flowers on the window-pane, and, entering where the pane was bare, lit all the room with soft vermilion light. So, in the wondrous blush of the white world, the girls cheeks glowed and yet did not confess too much. You will allow me to send in your compliments and inquire after Mr. Woodhouse as I pass? This was Courthopes farewell to Eliz, and she called joyfully in reply: You need not send back his mes sage for we shall know that they are all very indifferent. Into the scarlet shining of the west- ern sun, an omen of fair weather and delight, Courthope set forth again from the square tin-roofed house, leaving, as the saying is, his heart behind him. The large farm horses, restive from long confinement and stimulated by the frost, shook their bells with energy. The Morin women displayed such good-will and even ten- derness in their attentions to the com- fort of the second prisoner, in whom they had found an old friend, that, tied in a blanket and lying full length on the straw of a box-sleigh, he looked content with himself and the world, albeit he had not as yet returned from the happy roving-places of the drunken brain. The talkative clerk was glad enough to give Courthope the reins of the masterful horses; he sat on one edge of the blue-painted box and Courthope on the other; thus they started, bravely plunging into the drifts between the poplars. The drifts were all tinged with pink; the pop- lars, intercepting the red light upon their slender upright boughs, cast, each of them, a clear shadow that seemed to lie in endless length athwart the glowing sward. Courthope looked back at the house which had been so dim and phantom- like the night before; the red sun lit the icicles that hung from eaves and lintels, tinged the drifts, glowed upon the windows as if with light from within, and turned the steep tin roof into ~i gigantic rose; but all his glance was centred upon his lady-love, who stood, regardless of the cold, at the entrance of the drift-encircled porch and watched them as long as the sunlight lay upon the land. Was she looking at the plunging sleigh and at its driver, or at the wondrous chasms of light in the rent cloud beyond? His heart told him, as he drove on into the very midst of the sunset which had embraced the glistening land, that the maid, although not regardless of the outer glory, only rejoiced to the full in its beauty because the vision of her 1.8 heart was focussed upon him. HIs heart, in telling him this, taught him no pride, for had he not learned in the same small space of time only to count himself rich in what she gave? And it was for this unreasonable reason that the sunset for him had greater splendor, that for the hour the hard, sad facts of wickedness and misery, even though they lay at his very feet, were as though they were not. Slow was the progress of the great horses; they passed the grove of high elms and birches that, dressed in the snowflakes that had lodged in boughs and branches when the wind dropped, stood up clear against the gulfs of blue that now opened above and beyond. Then the house was hidden, and after that, by degrees, the light of the sun- set passed away. From The Edinburgh Review. CATHOLIC MYSTICS OF THE MIDDLE AGES. There are certain terms of general classification that seem predestined to breed confusion in criticism and thought; and among these the term of Mysticism might be almost considered one of the most pre-eminently bewil- dering. Under the head of Mystics we find included indifferently a Sta. Teresa and a St. Francis d~Assisi, a Macterliuck and a Paul Yerlaine. The epithet, indeed, is one of those of which the significance embraces such varying characteristics that no die tionary can keep pace with the subtle developments it is perpetually acquir- ing. In this case, as in many another, 1. Santa Teresa: her Life and Times. By Gabrieia Cunninghame Graham. 2 vols. London: 1594~ 2. St. John of the Cross: Life of, and Works. The Ascent of Mount Carmel. The Dark Night of the Soul, etc. 2 vols. Translated by David Lewis, MA. London: 1889, 1891. 3. Bless8d Henry Suso: Life of. Related by Himself. Translated by T. F. Knox. London: 1865. 4. XVI Revelations of Juliana of Norwich. Reprint. 1843. 19 no effort of scientist or philosopher avails to set barriers to the fresh in- terpretations of ancient formulas. The friction of common use wears away old limits, and the daily lan- guage of daily life, hurrying past, con- fesses its poverty of invention by a constant adaptation of old verbal sym. bolsbegged, borrowed, and stolen from the most unlikely sourcesto its own immediate exigencies. Thus it is, as we all know and continually forget, that, while the diction of bygone days survives, senses utterly unfamiliar to the past attach themselves to every part of speech, making, in the matter of meanings, a recurrentgameofdefini- tions for the grammarians of each suc- cessive generation. The threefold probi m of past, present, and future is always confronting us in the vocab- ulary of yesterday, to-day, and to-mor- row. What did these words mean once to those in whose footprints we tread, whose voices we echo, with all that gulf of dissimilarity a lingering likeness serves to accentuate. What will they mean on the lips of those to come after us, associated with accu- mulated combinations of memory, recolored with the atmosphere of un- born years, when the very thoughts of which language is to-day the sign au- dible will have assumed aspects our fancy swerves in anticipating? Thus, arrested by the strange riddle of that phase of human life and thought and feeling, presented in the records of those men and women of mediayval Europe to whom by common consent the name of Mystics has been specially accorded, it becomes neces- sary to circumscribe and restrict th~ designation. Further, to analyze what general quality is indicated, from this narrowed point of view, by the term recently applied, without discrimina- tion of species, to so many forms of supernaturalism, to all systems of symbolism, and to most of the ob- scurer manifestations of emotional or intellectual spiritualism. To do this effectually we must in the first place divest mysticism of some .of its at- tributes and accessoriesfrom the Catholic Mystics of the Middle Ages. Catholic Mystics of the Middle Ages. dogmas of special sects, and from the fantastic extravagancies of special schoolswith which it has been in- timately connected. That the Catholic Mystic of the West has been inseverably allied with the miracle-worker and vision-seer is un- deniable. That he and his Protestant brethren, both in the portraitures of life and of fiction, are often and justly identified with the crnde idea of snper- naturalismwith, that is, the idea of preternatural and extraneous powers working by personal or material agen- ciesis equally apparent. Yet, if supernaturalism he regarded as the continent, mysticism holds within that continent a fortressed rainbow coun- try of its own. Even more, it is al- leged by certain initiates that the creed of the supernaturalist is hardly consonant with that of the genuine mystic viewed in the light of later in- terpreters. And there is an under- stratum of trnth in this apparent paradox, for to the mystic, although in ontward substance and form his miracle or vision might be the very same as the miracle or vision of the mere snpernaturalist, the canse would claim another origin. By the writers of earlier ages a clear difference was recognized between one vision and another. The external or bodily showing, of which they speak, and which may be classed as the super- natural vision was not confounded with the ghostly seeing of the under- standing, albeit the same person might at one and the same time possess both faculties of vision. All this was showed by three parts, a fourteenth- century seer says, by bodily sight, by words formed in my understanding, and by ghostly sight. And Serenus de Cressy, the de Cressy of whom the author of John Inglesant has draiwn a winning if not an historical portrait in the romance to which he owes his literary reputationwrites, that those visions which were more pure, ~nUme, and withal more certayne, were wrought by a divine illapse into the spiritual [as distinguished from the sensuall part of the soul These lat ter constitnte, strictly, the visions of mysticism. Indeed, this pervading idea of under- currents of life, of lives within lives. forms an elementary characteristic of the mystics creed. What to the su- pernaturalist proper lies without to him lies within, and while, broadly speaking, the tendency of the super- naturalist has generally been to ma- terialize spirit, that of the mystic has always, however unconsciously, led him to spiritualize the animal creation and to vitalize matter. Sir James Stephen, writing in this journal of St. Francis dAssisi, makes the assertion that each living thing was a brother or sister to him in a sense which al- most ceased to be figurative. To all inanimate beings he ascribed a per- sonality and a sentient nature in some- thing more than a sport of fancy; and Mrs. Graham, in her introduction to the life of Sta. Teresa, notes the naif sympathy with nature and animal life, the community of obedience and wor- ship, with birds, beasts, ana plants, belonging to what may be called the mystic period of Sta. Teresas order. Thus it was no fantastic childishness that impelled St. Francis to preach to mie sirocchie, the birds, or to undertake the conversion of such four-footed felons as the feroeissimo tupo d Agobio. These legends, and they are many, embody a deep-sighted recognition of the multitudinous souls of creation, and as such are but a rational invoca- tion to the life-created to land and serve the life-creator, as to this day the churches sing Benedicite, omnia opera Domini - . . . Later exponents of the mystics faith have betrayed a kindred sentiment. Nature, animal and vegetable, matter itself in its most inert substances, is to the mystic so re- plete with dormant energies that the- oretically there is little scope left for exterior interpositions. Earth, if we may so express the position, can per- form her own miraclesin fact, is al- ways performing them. Such phrases as that employed by Novalis, in whom Moravian traditions lingered, when he says that the plants are language to 20 the earths thoughts, are no empty figures of speech. Lifethe faith has been summarizedslept in the stones, dreamt in the plants, and wakened in man. That this creed is capable of being converted into an irreligious panthe- ism I well know, Coleridge acknowl- edges, referring to Tauler, the four- teenth-century Dominican, to Jacob B~3hme, the Lutheran theosophist of the sixteenth, and to other teachers of German mysticism. But he confesses that their writings at once served to prevent his mind becoming imprisoned by any single dogmatic system, and kept alive, to use his graphic expres- sion, the heart in the head. During his wanderings in the wilderness of doubt, he adds emphatically, if they were a moving cloud of smoke by day they were always a pillar of fire by night, and by their aid he skirted without crossing the sandy desert of unbelief. Whatever, nevertheless, might be the intellectual doctrines of mysticism to whose ipstrumentality Coleridge owed redemption, it must be borne in mind that in practice and action, in coun- tries, times, and minds where primi- tive supernaturalism was a dominant habit of thought, each was commonly co-existent, if not co-extensive, with the other, and that both found similar manifestations in inspired revelations and divine visions, whether the seer were a German ascetic, a heretic cob- bler, or a Spanish ecstatic. Nor is the admixture of mysticism and supernaturalism the only element of confusion in the definition of the former. At every page it is the mcvi- table fate of the mystic to employ the phraseology of symbolism. There is a recurren.t point where the imagery by which he intends to convey the conception of an actuality is fused with the language by which he intends to convey the conception of an alle- gorical figure (Wahrzeichen). A deter- minate boundary line exists, as Novalis points out, to the mental capacities of definite conception, beyond which rep- resentation cannot retain strength or 21 form. There the utterance of the mystic becomes perforce that of the symbolist. Thus the stanzas of Fray Juan de la Cruza puritan among transcendentalistsare written in the language of pure similitudes. He paraphrases the apostrophes of the Song of Solomon, of Spanish sere- nades, of pastoral verses with equal boldness. Where hast thou hidden Thyself And abandoned me in my groaning, 0 my Beloved? Thou hast fled like the hart, Having wounded me; I ran after thee crying; but thou wert gone, are the words the saint of asceticism places in the mouth of the soul. And in another poem, when the soul sets out on her pursuit of perfection, he thus describes the search: In a dark night, With anxious love inflamed, 0, happy lot! Forth unobserved I went, My house being now at rest In darkness and in safety, By the secret ladder, disguised. 0, happy lot! In darkness and concealment My house being now at rest. Or, mimicking the accent of pastoral verse: A shepherd is alone and in pain, Deprived of all pleasure and joy, His thoughts on his shepherdess intent, And his heart by love cruelly torn. In such allegories San Juan strives, as he himself explains, to convey those meanings to the mind of his readers that common speech could not convpy. On the other hand, when Henry Suso sees the Eternal Wisdom seated beside his soul, which, leaning lovingly towards Gods side, and encircled by Gods arms, lay entranced, he is evi- dently attempting to depict what was to him an actuality of spiritual vision. The blending of either method, when the vision of the utterable passes into the vision of the unutterable, should Catholic Mystics oJ the Middle .A ges. Catholic Mystics of the Middle Ages. not, however, be suffered to blur the distinction between the attitude of the pure mystic and tnat of the pure sym- bolist. To the mere symbolist the interconnection of the emblem with that which it allegorizes is accidental, temporal, and artificial, but to the be- liever in the undercurrents of natures vitalities a symbol must be more than a symbol. It must not only represent as an arbitrary cypher the spiritual object symbolized, it must have some fundamental affinity with it; it must possess some radical correspondence of life with life, permanent, essential, and vitaL Setting, however, aside this aspect of the question, it remains to solve the problem, to detect when and where the written language should be taken to represent a similitude, and when and where it must be accepted as sig- nifying an actuality. To unravel this riddle is the thankless task of the commentators, who, each according to his own creed, adhere to the literal or the metaphorical interpretations of equivocal passages, or again explain both away. In their simplicity of soul [Coleridge here is paraphrasing Schelling] the mys- tics made their words the immediate echoes of their feelings. . . . Under the excitement of grasping new and vital truths the uneducated man of genius may easily mistake the tumultuous sensations of nerve, the spectres of fancy, as parts or symbols of the truths opening upon him. Nor to those who are careful to in- quire is such a line of apology with- out plausibility, though San Juan de la Cruzthan whom was no more coni- petent judgeoffers a sterner solu- tion. Their mind and sense and feel- ings [of aspirants yet imperfect in the path of God] are full of fancies, whereby they very often see imag- inary and spiritual visions - . . where- in the devil and their own proper fancy most frequently delude the soul. His sentence was doubtless as well merited as it was uncompromis- ing. Yet when every vision, every sensa- tion, has been sifted, every inspiration analyzed, when the mystics position has been accurately formulated, and his claims confuted or allowed, we, of the laity, may chance to feel that in matters of mysticism the critic labors but in vain. He may reduce it to a system, the science absolument exacte, of M. Huysmanssl biograph- ical fiction; he can supply modern synonyms of obsolete terms, and eluci- date the social or historical surround- ings of bygone thought; he can define its speciestheopathetic, theosophic or theurgic, transitive or intransitive. Nevertheless, when all is said and done, we are inclined to repudiate our obligations to the pen of the expositor, nay more, some amongst us might be well-nigh tempted to believe that we could have understood the text had it not been for the commentary! The truth of the matter is that mys- ticism is rather an atiuosphere than a system, if we except that anomalous school of scholastic mysticism repre- sented in the twelfth century by Hugo de St. Victor, in the thirteenth by Bonaventura (one of whose works was translated into English verse as early as the year 1330), and by which, no doubt, San Juan de la Cruz was strongly influenced. But apart from this school, and considering mysticism from a personal point of view, it plainly belongs to that evasive part of a mans individuality that we con- fusedly call temperament, rather than to that more definite and self-deter- minative fraction we name character. Its very essence is undefinableness; it demands not an explanation but an in- terpretation. Such interpretation is to be found, if anywhere, in the qualities distinguish- ing the Catholic mystics of earlier ages, by the study of their lives and of such writings as they themselves have bequeathed t~ us. Nor are these few in number or inconsiderable in bulk. In the sixteenth century Fray Juan de la Cruz, the great master of contempla- 1 En Route, Huysmans, 1895. Paris. 22 Catholic Mystics of the Middle A ges. tion, as well as Sta. Teresa de Jesus herself, left works adequately repre- sentative of the mystical asceticism of their day. Behind is a multitudi- nous company of volumes: St. Bridgeti of Sweden filled many in the fourteenth century; St. Mechtild2 (the saint whom German criticism has striven to identify with that Matilda f Dantes who gathering flowers by the clear stream has bewildered the commentators of the Divine Coin- edy) wrote five books of spiritual grace; the Visions of B. Angela8 of Foligno, taken down by her confessor, also belong to the fourteenth century. Henry Suso was author of the Book of the Everlasting Wisdom, as well as the authoror relatorof his Life. St. Catherine4 of Siena dictated her Ecstatic Dialogue. Juliana of Nor- wich, to cite those only whose works modern Catholicism has attempted to popularize, became likewise, though in different guise, what the gentle monk Blosius denominates a secre- tary of God. It is a literature full of monotonous repetitions, of raptures that by force of reiteration become the very platitudes of emotion; but full also of a fantastic human interest, of a distinctive beauty of coloring, of a shadowy delicacy of perception, and moreover it possesses not seldom a miracle and passion of thought that not even the barbarisms of language or the vapidity of modern translation can nullify. Of the undaunted Daughter of De- sires commemorated by the poet Crashaw in stanzas of transcendent enthusiasm, Santa Teresa de Jesus, Mrs. Graham has given what may practically be regarded as an exhaus- tive account. From the first, the story of her personal life is crowded with picturesque incident, and its pictur- esqueness has lost nothing at the 1 Revelations of St. Bridget (translated). Lon- don, 1874. 2 Select Revelations of St. Mechtild (trans- lated). London, 1875. 3 Yisions and Jnstrnctions of B. Angela of Fo- ligno (translated). London, 1871. 4 Dialogne of St. Catlierine of Siena (translated). London, 1896. 23 hands of her recent biographer, whose intimate knowledge of the time and country of which she writes lend a graphic vividness to her portrayal of the persons, scenes, and surroundings of that old Spanish world. On Wednesday, Day of San Bertoldi of the Order of Carmelites, on the 29th day of March, 1515, at five in the morning, so runs the brief entry found after her death in Teresas brev- iary, was born Teresa do Jesns, thc~ sinner. Daughter of an illustrious race, Teresa spent her childhood in the city of Avila. The arms of dead soldiers of her blood carved on tombs, blazoned over gateways and arches, on church pillars and in stained windows, confronted her at every turn with memories of their past achievements and of the unforgotten traditions of their fame, as she grew up in the town set amid the wild sierras of Central Spain, where the sombre dignity of medimval Gothic stonework was mingled with the grace of Moorish arabesque. At six years old she too is inspired with dreams of glory; she Thinks it shame Life should so long play with that breath Which spent can buy so brave a death. Taking with her a like-minded child- brother, Teresa sets out for the land of the Moors, that so, she tells the epi- sode in the life written by herself, we might be beheaded there. The childs play of martyrdom frustrated, it was succeeded by games of make- believe hermitages built in her gar- den, where spiritual books are spelt over, and the refrain of eternity, for- ever, forever, forever, is continually upon the lips of the two baby play- mates. Thus, as in most such lives of the saints of Catholic medlievalism, the gospels of holy childhoods, em- broidered with many a fable and legend, are handed down to us by their grave chroniclers, possessing, like the snurious gospels of Christs infancy, a charm that sets sober truLh at defi- ance. Teresas first childhood over, the page is varied with new imagina- tions. Chivalrous romances supersede 24 spiritual studies; for rosaries and crucifix and hermitage come gay dresses and vain companionships; dreams of the world evict the dreams of immortality. But the terror of hell overtakes her renegade heart; the stern doom of sanctity has fallen upon Teresa. It was no light doom in those days, and to fulfil its obligations she must seek the rule of the cloister. The call to the religious life comes, and she obeys, but the sharpness of sense I felt on going out of my fathers house was so extreme, that I believe it will not be greater in the agony of death, she writes. Nor, for the moment, did it seem as if the experience of that second agony would be long delayed. Maladies, the revenge, it might seem, that the soul wreaks upon the body when spirit vic- torious tramples the vanquished senses underfoot, take deadly hold upon the delicately nurtured frame of the girl- nun; she suffers all the tortures racked nerves, crippled limbs, and that intense sadness which disjoints the mind and reasonthat physical pain can inflict upon its victims. Yet Teresa is of the fibre that dies hard; neither the sickness nor the remedies avail wholly to kill her; and as the seasons pass by in the Convent of the Encarnacion4where twenty-five years of her life were to be spenther health in some measure comes back, and it is her soul that suffers a relapse. In that lax social atmosphere of the unre- formed convent locutorio, the ring of the swords and spurs of gay cavaliers mingles with the jingle of the nuns rosaries, secular guests come and go, and Teresa, beautiful of feature, young and keen-witted, trusted by her superiors with honorable freedom, forms friendships with the world which her conscience proclaims to be enmities with God. Again conscience prevails; these vain preoccupations are abandoned. God allows no rivalry of loves, and Teresa must be not only a saint but an ascetic. A new and second birth of her soul lands her, as it were, with feet upon a new shore; she enters a region whose boundaries Catholic Mystics of the Middle Ages. she had before but faintly descried. Raptures and ecstasies, visions ,and il- luminations succeed one to another, and the converse of angels replaces the lost comradeship of friends. I knew not, she says, that it was possible for one to see any one but with the eyes of the body; but henceforth her inner eyes are open. What relation these mystic annals of Teresas girl- hood and earlier womanhood, whether written by herself or by her priest- biographers, bear to reality, it is diffi- cult to divine. Their aim in writing does not correspond to our aim in read- ing, and where they are endeavoring to inscribe the life of a saint we are attempting to decipher the character of a girl. Mrs. Graham has fully ap- preciated, and to a great extent sur- mounted, the difficulty in her effort to reconcile the twothe life of the woman with keen imaginations thwarted, with vehement affections detached and human instincts broken from their oarthly anchorage, and the life of the spiritual politician whose invulnerable courage and pure inten- tion endowed her with power to rev- olutionize the lives of men and women, monks, nuns, courtiers, sinners, and saints who fell under her sway. From the period lying between her forty- first and forty-third years, Teresas record as a simple religious becomes obliterated in the events of her active career of some twenty-six years; her vie intime of the soul becomes subordi- nate to the claims of practical life as the design of restoring the rule of her order to its primitive rigor rises and develops in her mind. Toil, anxiety, fame and offence, honor and strife are henceforth hers, until on the evening of an October day, in the yeai~ 1582 (the nun who had charge of the con- vent infirmary tells the story): Sitting at a low window of the room where Teresa lay, she [the narrator] heard a confused kind of noise . . . and soon after saw a great number of persons all in white and glittering with wonderful splendor, who, passing through the mon- astery . . . came near to the bed where Catholic Mystics of the Middle .A ges. the blessed mother lay; immediately she surrendered her soul to God. The well-known events of her life as one of the great monastic reformers are public property, and she takes her valiant place among the St. Francises, the St. Dominics, the Loyolas of the past ages, claiming the praise and dis-~ praise, the love or enmity of men. It is needless here to review the familiar chronicle of Teresa s successes and failures, her triumphs and defeats in that vivid world of Philip II.s reign a world of chivalry and enterprise and crimeof the Holy Inquisition and of the massacres of Peru. It is with Teresa in her character, or the char- acter ascribed to her, as a mystic; with that chapter of her personal experi- ences (limited, we are informed, to ten years of her later career), and with those pages of her writings that record and analyze those experiences, that we are con- cerned. As a mystic Teresa will prob- ably live in the classification of the Church. Yet we are compelled to ad- mit the truth of her latest biographers repeated assertionsthe Seraphic Doc- tor of Gastile was not essentially or typically a mystic. Mysticism with her lacked somewhat, although it is difficult to define what it is that is ab- sent. The vision of the. mystic is there, but the eyes that see it are not the mystics eyes, and, rapturous as may be the ecstasy of joy or suffer- ing, we are still constrained to feel that it is not Teresa who is absorbed by the vision, but the vision that is absorbed by Teresa. Mysticism with her is rather an episode than a temper- ament. It is not the single-hearted, the single-aimed life of narrower or more passive natures, nor can we help being dimly aware that the brain was ever in some degree a spectator in that spiritual theatre where, by mystic rule, the soul alone might enter. It is possible that outward circum- stance had more than a little influence in determining the quality of her ec- stasies. The story of Teresas miracu- lous communications with the unseen is a singular commentary on the pop- ular belief that the visionary was at all costs and times a growth stimu- lated and encouraged by authoritative Catholicism, a belief at which Vaughan,1 or his Nonconformist con- science, connives. For a long season the dates are indefiniteTeresas vis- ions were made the subject of incred- ulous scrutiny. Discountenanced alike by her most intimate friends and by her spiritual advisers, she was held at the bar of judgment. At that time, the period of her divine revela- tions, it would have taken but a hairs weight more of suspicion and the In- quisition would in all probability have claimed her for its prey, for the Church of that day was fully prepared to endorse the modern dictum that if the mystic of the East is always a slave, the mystic of the West is usu- ally a rebel. Teresas mind was tor- tured by the contagion of doubt and disparagement; while indomitably sin- cere to her perilous faith in herself, that faith became the faith of the ac- cused, it lost its spontaneity, its free- dom, and its simplicity. In the neces- sities of self-defence it became guarded, analytical and controversial; nor when adversaries were silenced and opponents convinced, is she left wholly victor of the field. Her own mind has played traitor and in part gone over to the enemy, nor to the very end are these doubts, ambushed in her own keen intelligence, cancelled. That she was never entirely satisfied as to whether she was not deceiving herself is evident to any one who has read her Life with an unbiassed mind. Her doubts as to whether these things were of divine or diabolical origin tormented her in life and were only stilled as she was nearing the grave, says her biographer, and, though possibly the statement is ex- aggerated, it seems on the whole just. As a hero, as a soldier, as even a hu- morist, her brilliant figure stands out, with beauty of body and beauty of soul, among the kings and courtiers, the saints and the sinners of her time. Hours with the Mystics. Catholic Mystics of the Middle Ages. By all thy dowr of lights and fires, By all the eagle in thee, all the dove, By all thy lives and deaths of love, By thy large draughts of intellectual day, And by thy thirsts of love more large than they. By all these things Teresa will be re- membered when her mysticism is for- gotten and out of mind. Teresas own worus, spoken on deaths threshold. prefigure the years to come with par- tial accuracy. This Saint, shesaid, and aged, tired, and sick, her voice has its old ring of laughter, will be no longer wanted. Of Teresa, as a mys- tic, the world truly, for loss or gain, has no need; and the worlds memory knows what it wants, and for what it does not want it has a convenient trick of oblivion. If the practical uses of mysticism may be traced in the records of Te- resas career, the scholarship, the intel- lectuality, the poetry of mysticism, found in ihe sensitive austerity of the humblest of saints, Teresas greatest disciple, San Juan de Ia Cruz, its most passionate exponent. The Gajahad cf Monks, he celebrates the divine union of love in a hym-i of almost ii~i- paralleled temerity in its adaptatIon of the language of human passion to the expression of the mysteries of the soul. Reading, we are not surprised to learn that the sordid persecutions. the bodily tortures inflicted upon him by unworthy brethren, imprisonments, scourgings, and disgrace, left his spirit serenely untroubled. Thrice only, amongst all the storms of his life, was he accused that he had sinned by dis- composure. Once his humility re- belled against a painter who had painted him by stealth; once, again, when a careless speaker had seemed to liken the poverty-loving Carmelite to the great Bridegroom of Poverty St Francis. The third occasion is un- chronicled. The most compassionate of ascetics, it was said of him that his body was the only creature of God to which he showed no mercy. Of all mystics, he represents perhaps most completely the extreme phase of the emancipation of the spirit from every bondmore, from every facultyof human nature. His is the mysticism of mysticism; the idea itself becomes but a symbol, the most abstract thought less than a metaphor, in rela- tion to what lies behind it. Forms, figures, and natural apprehensions are but hindrances; in the dark night of the lonely soul (the phrase is old as mysticism itself) can the spirit alone attain illumination and achieve its brideship with the divine Bridegroom. It is the mysticism of the supreme sur- render of self, with its supreme com- pensationthe having nothing, and yet possessing all things. But from the lives and works of the Teresas and San Juans, the leaders and marshals of the host, we turn in- stinctively to those less-known, less- remembered figures, who shared the conditions of that enigmatical spirit- ual life without participating in its re- nown. Contradictory as it may seem, the fame of the individual is apt to obscure, if not to pervert, our concep- tions in the study of a type. The criticism of history has touched and retouched the outline of the features, partisan prejudice has alternately de- faced and restored the original, shift- ing traditions have tinted and retinted its primary colors, and, perhaps, more than all those incidents of celebrity, we are dimly, but penetratingly, con- scious, as we look on the portrait exhibited, of the eyes of the thousands who have gazed on it before, who gaze on it now; and in the sense of those thronging beholders we lose possession of that hermitage of thought in which surely the mind should dwell if it would appreciate the spirit of that mysticism whose birthplace was soli- tude, the profoundest solitude of all solitudes, the innermost cloister of the soul. Therefore it is that, from the study of such books as Susos Life and Julianas Revelations we seem to glean a sharper, because a more single, impression~an impression akin to a sensationof the atmosphere and temperament (apart from the doe- trines and systems) of the mys 26 27 Catholic Mystics of the Middle Ages. tics life. Suso himself occupies a lied, the song of bloodshedding, rang midway station between the two great through the lands they traversed. phases of mysticism; that of the anni- hilation of human nature and that of its spiritualization. The outline of his external record is commonplace enough. Heinrich von Berg, known to the world by his mothers name Suess, Latinized Suso, to himself as Aman- dus (which name was revealed of God~, was born at IJeberlingen, in the first year of the fourteenth century. The whole desire of his mother, we learn incidentally, was to live a spiritual life; but her husband was full of the world. Through this diversity she possibly his father alsohad much to suffer. At thirteen ~Ieinrich entered a Dominican monastery, at eighteen he was perfectly converted to God; he became, finally, after enduring much suffering at the hands of his brethren in religion, prior of one of the communities of his order, and died at Ulm at the age of sixty-five. His Life was taken down from his own relation by one of his spiritual daugh- ters, and added to in later years by his own hand, curiously enough, in the name of the nun (Elizabeth Staglin) by whom the earlier portions had been inscribed. His story lies in a sombre his- toric framework. A devotional world, mad with terror under the lash cf plague and pestilence, was offering its holocausts of victims to superstitions which were the sacrilege of faith. A panic-stricken impulse to penitence had clothed itself in the grotesque masquerade of contritionthe rites of the Flagellants. Condemned by the more soler authorities of Church and State, they formed a vagrant pilgrim brotherhood, recruited from every sex and class. They passed from town to town, a dark train, blazoned with the red cross symbolic of propitiatory suf- fering, lacerating themselves on the highways, in the streets and market- places with the iron-pointed scourge the badge and instrument of their eon- fraternityoffering to the eyes of fanatic mobs the spectacle of their self-inflicted tortures. The Geissler Sinner, canst thou to Me atorn.~. Three pointed nails, a thorny crown, The Holy Cross, a spear, a wound? Miracles and crimes followed in their wake, the massacre of thousands of Jews testified to the savage fierceness of this moral plague. Amongst the Christians the thirst for slaughter spread like a fever, while amongst the victims a thirst for martyrdom out- rivalled the lust for blood. Meanwhile the undevotional world was peopled with apparitions, with phantasms of witchcraft and magic, and dominated by the shadowy imaginations of as- trologers, soothsayers, and alchemists. In Susos narrative the spirit of this century is pictured with a vividness and reality Froissart himself, his con- temporary, does not surpass. Miracles occurthe miracles of a period when men found belief in miracles more easy of credence than belief in impos- ture, when every facility of deception existed in a life full of illusions, when the saint was as often the dupe of his disciples as the disciples of the saint, and common incidents and trivial ac- cidents were seen and interpreted by those to whom the agency of the su- pernatural was a familiar key to all enigmatical phenomena. We follow Suso through scenes of peril and ad- venture told with the disjointed di- rectness of a childs narrative, and more than once the incidents of the story recall the wanderings of Charles Reades poor hero, the pious but tim- orous monk Gerard, of The Cloister and the Hearth. One such episode, for sake of its quaint picturesqueness and uncon- sciously grim humor, is worthy to be cited at length, all the more as in it we seem to see embodied in flesh and blood the outward character of the man whose inner record lies upon so different a plane. Once upon a time, when the Servitor [Suso] was returning from the ~4ether- lands, his road lay up the Rhine. He had Catholic Mystics of the Middle Ages. with him a companion who was young and a good walker. Now, it happEned one day he could not keen up with his swift companion, for he had become very tired and ill, iind in consequence the companion had gone ahead of him. The Servitor looked back to see if any one was following in whose company. he might go through the forest, at the skirts of which he had arrived, for it was late in the day. The forest, moreover, was of ill repute, for many persons had been mur- dered in it. The Servitor therefore waited to see if any one was coming. At length two persons approached at a very rapid pace, the one a young and pretty woman, the other a tall ferocious- looking man, carrying a spear and a long knife. The Servitor was struck with 3read at the terribJ~ n~.p~arauce uf thri man. . . . He thought within himself, 0, Lord! what kind of people are these! How am I to go through this great forest, and how will it fare with me? Then he made the sign of the cross over his heart and ventured it. When they were already deep in the forest, the woman came to him and asked him who he was. As soon as he had told she said, Dear sir, I know you well by name. I pray you hear my confession. . . . Alas, worthy sir, it is with sorrow I tell you my sad lot. Do you see the man who follows us? He is by trade a murderer, and he murders people here in this wood. He never spares any one. He has deceived me and carried me off, and I am forced to be his wife. The Servitor was so terrified by these words that he nearly fainted, and he cast a very sorrowful look all round if haply there were any mode of escape; but there was no one to be seen or heard in the dark forest except the murderer. Then he thought within himself, If, weary as thou art, thou triest to flee, he will soon over- take and kill thee; if thou criest out, no one will hear, and death again will be thy lot. He looked upwards very wofully, and said, 0, my God! what is to become of me? 0, death, how nigh thou art! When the woman had finished confess~ ing, she went back to the murderer and besought him privily, saying, Come now, dear friend, go forward and make thy con- fession also, for it is a pious belief that whoever confesses to him will never be abandoned by God. . . While the two thus whispered to each other the Servitors terror knew no bounds, and the thought came to him, Thou art betrayed. Now, when the poor Servitor saw the murderer advanc- ing, his whole frame quivered with dread, and he thought, Now thou art lost. At this point the Rhine ran close to the wood and the narrow path lay along the bank. Moreover, the brother was forced to walk on the side next the water. As the Ser- vitor went along in this manner, the mur- derer began to confess all the murders and crimes he had ever committed. Especially he spoke of a horrible murder he de- scribed thus: I came once into this wood, as I have done to-day, and meeting a venerable priest I confessed to him while he was walking beside me at this very spot, and when the confession was over I ran him through with this knife, and thrust him over the bank into the river. These words, and the gestures which ac- companied them, made the Servitor turn pale, the cold sweat of death ran down his face; he kept looking every moment that the same knife would be thrust into him, and that he would be pushed over into the river. . . . The murderers dam- sel caught sight of his woe-stricken face, and running up. . . . said, Good sir, be not afraid; he will not kill you. The murderer added, Much good has been told me concerning you, and I will let you live; beg God to help and favor me, a poor criminal, at my last hour, for your sake. So the story is told, and strange above all its incongruities of realism is the fact that this frightened monk, whose fear of deaEh is confessed with such perfect simplicity, is the same who narrates with equal simplicity the details of his self-inflicted tortures of twenty-two years of perpetual penance! Their very recital sickens the imagination as he tells how, with ingenious device, he made each hour an unrelenting martyrdom, until macerated and enfeebled, when noth- ing remained except to die, God bade him leave this lower school of de- tachment and live to endure the sharper pains of soul and heart in store for him. Hitherto thou hast struck thyself, now I will strike thee, is the relentless sentence of the di- vine decree, recognizing the incompe 28 Catholic Mystics of the Middle Ages. tence of mans self-immolation to exact the last farthing of the sacrifice. And God, who has hitherto spoilt him as a child with consolations, will now let him wither and starve. Is it not, Suso questions with undeviating faith, by ancient right that love and suffer- ing go together? Loves martyrs in Gods calendar, no less than in the an- nals of mankind, must be ever, ever dying. It is impossible to ignore the fact, from whatsoever point of view we re- gard the mystics visionswhether as the morbid phantasms of hysteria, or as the miraculous manifestations of divine grace, or as the rising to the surface of that inner life of whose existence the senses are normally un- consciousthat to the elder mystic they were bought with a price, with the abnegation of all earths treasures and the purchase money of the body3 utmost anguish. Born before the day of cheap merchandise, his traffic was in truth and literally a dear bargain of hunger and thirst, of tears and blood. If the prize he sought was an illuJon, the cost was, at least, the very reality of all that makes life, to most of us, endurable. Thus Suso bought those radiant hours he chronicles with such candid spontaneity that his faithor his cre- dulityinfects our imagination, if not our reason. For a moment we seem to look through an open door into that far-off land cf the mystic, where, in the matter of religion, there is neither Jew nor Gentile, bond nor free, east nor west, Greek nor Barbarian. From the grated window of the Dominicans cell we catch a glimpse of the flowers of another country, the sunsets of an- other sky, or, if we perhaps fail to see the vision, we still see the eyes that saw it, those cloistered eyes to whose boundless outlook the narrow walls of his spiritual prison could set no hon- ion. One by one the visions rise. In the solitary chapel. where he keeps painful vigil until the watchmans horn announces the daybreak, as the morning star ascends, voices sound with exceeding sweetness singing 29 Arise and be illuminated, 0 Jerusa- lem. Bright princes of heaven bid him look into himself and see how God plays his play of love with his soul, heavenly musicians lead dances swelling up and falling back into the wild abyss of Gods hiddenness. Then tomes stages where visions and contemplations fuse, nor is it easy to detect if the narrative deals with what Suso regarded as an outward image, present to his sight, or an inward image, present only to his understand- ing. Making of material life but aii allegory of the immaterial, orin the sceptics prosemaking the reality into a dream that the dream may become a reality, he transmutes the customs of earth into the rites of the soul: Thus he kept carnival, and thus on New Years night, when young men in their folly go out to make their sweethearts give them garlands, he, too, would go to his eternal love and beg of Him a wreath. So, too, on May Day eve he would set up a spiritual May-tree, saying, Hail, heavenly may bough of the eternal wis- dom! I offer thee to-day, in place of red roses, a heart-felt love; for every little violet, a lowly inclination; for all lilies, a pure embrace; for all flowers of heath or down, forest or plain, tree or meadow, a spiritual kiss; for all songs of little birds on any May Day flight, praises without end. Was it any marvel that in such blend- ings of earth and heaven the boy monk whose childhood had ever greeted the sweet maid, Gods mother, with springs first rose, should see on his two hands and covering his feet, in the weariness of later years, the red roses and green leaves of celestial be- tokenings? Indeed, to such a nature as Susos, a nature which, as some- what wistfully he confesses, could not remain without a love, with un- sullied human affections, and a sensi- tive temperament charged with that keen emotional joy in beauty which to-day makes of a man a poet or a painter, the doctrine of that Inner mys- tical life must have dawned as a gos- pel of divinest revelation. For there sight might survey loveliness, ears 30 might revel in melodies of unsubstan- tial sweetness, unbiamed; there, too how pathetically significant is the fre- quent recurrence of this vision in the ascetic chronicle !childless manhood and barren womanhood might hold the childhood of the whole world, epito- mized as Marys Baby, in the arms of the soul. It was to Suso a doctrine sanctifying his humanity, illuminating the barred and sterile twilight of his empty cell, extending the precarious pcssibilities of time into the secure infinitudes of eternity. Nor are his writings tainted with the cold egoism of a meaner sanctity. God so willing, are the words of Angela of Foligno, the earlier Tuscan mystic, whose Visions and Instruc- tions, taken down by Brother Arnold, her Franciscan confessor, are not without passages of imaginative beauty, it happened at that time that my mother died, who was a great ob- stacle to me in the way of God. And in like manner my husband and all my sons. . . . I received great consola- tion in their deaths. Nor when, in divine vision, the Virgin brings her sleeping child, and he lies with closed eyes in Angelas embrace, does her rhapsody of adoring tenderness efface our remembrance of that cold refer- ence to those dead children of her earthly home who in other days had lain in the arms and been cherished upon the breast where now the eter- nal baby rests. Such estrangement to use no harsher epithetfrom nat- ural human love is wholly absent from Susos character. The chapter which tells of his sisters fall from the obedi- ence of her convent vows, of her sin and sorrow and forlorn abandonment, betrays in every sentence how firmly the fibres of his heart clung to their old attachments. When he heard he became like a stone for sorrow, his heart died ... he went about like one out of his mind. Then the thought came to him, Cast aside all human shame and spring into the deep gulf to her and lift her up. So he seeks and finds the poor refugee of sin, sick and lonely, sitting on a cottage bench. Catholic Mystics of the Middle Ages. His eyes fail him for grief; taking her in his arms he cries, Alas, my child! alas, my sister, alas, gentle maiden! St. Agnes, how bitter has thy feast day become! She, falling at his feet with great tears, pleadsin some sort we divine Susos own teaching in the pleafor pardon. Reverence, she prays, God in me. Alas, my child! is Susos cry, thou, from my child- hood up my heart and souls joy, come hither to me; and, in a later episode. still, he says of a deeply corrupted and impenitent sinner, whose slander- ous accusation has heaped dishonor upon his own fair fame, I honor in her the dignity of all pure women. The scene of quaint pathos, where the baby child of his false accuser is brought to his cell, may well stand foremost amongst the most incongru- ous situations of the great human comedy of real life, where love and tenderness recklessly set at nought the wisdom and prudence and justice of the world. Towards the close of the Life when, one is inclined to guess, the greater part of Susos sixty-five years of mortality have passed over his head, stilling his impulses and silenc- ing the last whispers of unsatisfied cravings, the exterior manifesta- tions gave place, he says, to those which were interior. Then it is that, with a touch of dispassionate indif- ference, he attempts to analyze the gift of the vision~seer in words with which Sta. Teresa and Fray Juan de la Cruz were possibly familiar, for Susos writings, as well as those of Tauler and Eckart, were freely circu- lated in Spanish translations in the century following his death. We are not concerned with the truth or ration- ality of the creed of transcendental theology, professed by each saint alike; it is truly a region upon whose threshold the foot of the heretic may well falter. But whether it be of those profoundest ecstasies of the wholly emancipated soul, or of those simpler visions that, according to their doctrine, lie lower and nearer to hu- manity (visions of the sensual soul). most of us, though with no arrogant nineteenth-century self-complacency, will concur assentingly in the sen- tence with which Suso concludes his expositionthe same phrase occurs in Sta. Teresas writingsonly they who have experienced can understand. These autobiographical fragments of Susos life present us with a picture of the mystic ascetic in his more act- ive personal, spiritual, and divine relationships. The revelations of Juliana of Norwich serve as a comple- mentary type, perhaps the most strik- ing extant, of the modes of thought of the passive ecstatic. XVI Revelations of Divine Love, showed to a devote servant of our Lord, called Mother Juliana, an an- chorete of Norwich; who lived in the Dayes of K. Edward the Third which Revelations were revived from an ancient copy and published in 1670 by Hugh Paulin Cressyis The account of the book supplied by the preface and title-page; and various later edi- tions, Catholic and Protestant, of this eloquent Old England volume, of days when Chaucer was making his Can- terbury Tales, and Sir John Mande- yule had lately finished his Travells, testify to the permanent interest it ex- cited in a certain section of the re- ligious public. It is a book of far less picturesquely colored imagination than the book of the Revelations of St. Mechtild with its vestures of white and rose color, its golden bells and diadems of precious stones, its raiment like Heavens blue besprinkled with blossoms of gold, and its fair five-petalled rose that covers the Heart of God. It has not the prac- tical note of St. Bridgets inspired instructions, which, at least in the selections made by her English editor, betray the accent of the reformer and teacher whose eyes, like those of Sta. Teresa, behold the daily life of earth no less clearly than the spiritual im- ages of eternity; nor will it ever be as- serted of Julianas work, either in praise or depreciation, as the recent translator of St. Catherine asserts of her famous Ecstatic Dialogue, that 31 it is nothing more than a mystical exposition of the creeds taught to every child in the Catholic poor schools. For, humble daughter of her Church as Juliana was, her mysti- cism belongs to a region where truly dogmatic catechisms have no entrance. It is a mysticism at once profoundly personal as it deals with the inner re- lationshi~p of Juliana to God, and fer- vently apostolic as it regards the relationship of God to Julianas even Christenher equals in the common- wealth of Christ. Life, indeed, to her possesses no other aspects. The dis- tractions of Teresas great apostohite, the intellectual vistas of San Juans theological scholarship, even the inter- ruptions of Susos community life and missionary labors, are unknown to the solitary anchorite. No faintest shadow, no passing echo of battles and sieges, of Spanish wars and poisoned princes, penetrated the cell where Juliana, a simple creature, unlettered, living in deathly flesh, on the 13th night of May in the year of our Lord 1373, tooke all her rites of holie church and went not to have liven till dale. Condensed into some few sentences their brevity accentuates the force of the narrativewe follow the record of those night hours of six hundred Mays ago, hours which were to serve as a mere preface to the fifteen ensuing years of mortal sickness, the period of her visions. It is a prelude recall- ing to our memory the words of St. John of the Cross, The soul unable to bear the ecstasies in a body so frail cries aloud to God, Turn away thine eyes from me. Turn them away, 0 my beloved! and the fable of the Morte dArthur is here verified, WThen the deathly flesh beheld the spiritual thing it began to tremble right hard. As we read we become witnesses of the scene. We see the slow dying, the speechless lips, the eyes on which darkness settles like a weight; the limbs are numb, the breath fails, and the womans soul burns it- self free. The picture is complete in all its details. The priest is there and he sets the cross before her. Catholic M~~stics of the Middle Ages. 32 I have brought thee, he tells her, the Image of our Saviour, looke thereupon and comfort thee. But she already thought she was well, for mine eieia were sett upright into heaven. Yet, for obedience sake, she looks. Then the earthly framework fades, one passing mention of the red signet ring upon her hand, to which for roundhead the blood-drops that in ghostly sight fall from Christs lac- erated brows are likened; one simile drawn from the water that dips from the evesing of an house after a great shower, in which we seem for a mo- ment to catch the sound of May rain on the roof, and all the events of tran- sitory life are obliterated. The sharp- ness of that long dying still encompasses her, the natural life of the body, of the senses, of the intel- lect, has surrendered its last citadel, but in that eclipse of mortality the soul, disenthralled from the restrictive conditions of time and space, drawing in its royal train the subjugated fac- ulties, beholds the invisible, hears the inaudible, and apprehends the un- known. And yet with Juliana, as with Suso, it is not so much the manumis- sion of the spirit from the flesh, of which we are made aware, as it is of the flesh with spirituality. The images presented are no vacant meta- phors. Sight has remained sigilt, only the soul has opened a new avenue into the eternities on either side; hear- ing has remained hearing, but by that spiritual contagion its capacities are extended into the infinite. Above all, the heart of the woman has remained a heart, now glad and merry in love for that Lord of hers who will be trusted for he is full homely and courteous, now broken with compas- sion at the spectacle of his despiteous passion. I saw the sweet face as it were dry and bloodless with pale dy- ing and dead languring, thus she describes the opening of one of those earlier visions; she saw the bloodshed and the pain and the blowing of the wind and cold, aad how, she ques- tions, might any pain be more than to see Him that is all my life, all my bliss, Catholic Mystics of the Middle Ages. and all my joy, suffer? The love of a human womanhood rings through every sentence of the sequel. Look up to heaven, a proffer, as it Lad been friendly, said to me, Look up to heaven to His Father. I an- swered inwardly with all the might of my soul, Nay, I will not. Thou art my heaven. I had liefer have been in that paine till doomsday, she adds, than have come to heaven other- wise than by Him, and human, well we recognize it, is the vehemence of that reiterated exclusion of all other paths to joy. Me liked, she says, none other heaven. Once again she touches the same octave, condensing in a single phrase which has seldom been transcended in its brief expres- sion of the possession that leaves the infinity of loves desire still unsati- ated: I saw Him and I sought Him. I had Him, and I wanted Him! Fletchers tenderness, Fords passion, lose color placed side by side with the utterances of this worn recluse whose hands are empty of every treasure. And round all her even Christen, Gods lovers in heaven and on earth, not omitting those dear sinners whose sins by Gods great courtesieit is the word she uses almost oftener than any other in connection with the Deity are forgotten, her warm affections cling. For St. John of Beverley, who it seems was a kind neighbor and of her knowing; for our Lady St. Mary, a simple maiden, but little waxen above a child, as she stood to Julianas beholding; for God himself, the Lord who took no place in his own house, who is a very noble Lord and will save his word in all things (the lan- guage of chivalry echoes fantastically from the outward world of the Black Princes day), and will make all well that is not well, for these her love clothes itself as with the tender im- petus of a childs career. God, it is true, has his secrets; sin and hell trouble her betimes, as they have troubled many another before and since; but a certain gay optimism of faith and hope triumphant, sur- mounts that infirmity of fear. Sin is behovely, but all shall be well and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well, is the refrain of page after pageand little marvel it is, for she saw an high privity hid in God, which shall be known in heaven to us. In which knowing we shall verily see the cause why he suffered sin. In which sight we shall endlessly have joy, and all say with one voice, Lord, blessed mote thou be. For because it is thus, thus it is well. Strange too is it, in an epoch when the physical hell of fire and torture-- such hells as that of Teresas later vision, with long narrow lane, low and dark and close, with mire of reptiles and contracting walls, had branded itself upon the orthodox-to read Julianas quiet words: To me was showed none harder hell than sin; hell was as sin to my sight; and from sin, she gives sad assent to the inexorable law of human weakness, we may not in this life keep us. Yet, even as she makes her concession to the inevita- ble, the old jubilant faith reasserts its sure basis of final victory. In each soul that shall be safe is a goodly will, that never assenteth to sin ne never shall, and in the end blame shall be turned into endless worship, though how and by what deed there is no creature beneath Christ that wot it. Even those to whom her gospel con- veys no certificate of truth may find something to learn in that doctrine of good cheer. This is to give but some slight sketch of those conditions of mind and body and thought belonging to the mysti- cism of the fourteenth and sixteenth centuries. To track its influence in lit- erature, to follow its developments in the copies fiction made from life, and in those other more recent plagiarisms life is accused of having made from fiction, is a task far beyond our scope. That it left the trace of its spiritual glamour is plain enough. The German school of chivalric romance, as repre- sented by Fouqu~ in his legends (mis- estimated in England as childrens stories), or by Nox-alis in his iinfinishec~ LIYD~G AGE. voi~. xiii. 631 33 Heinrich von Oftendingen, is pei meated with it. Perhaps some kindred film crept over Hawthornes pen when he wrote his tales, where, trembling on the brink of the unseen, the fig~ires of his men and women rise in the moonlight of his creative fancy. George Sand, in her strange chronicle of spiritual inheritances Spiridion, has caught something of its atmo- sphere. Its symbolism is echoedwe are tempted to say their pose ap- proaches a parody-by many so-called mystics of our own time, who are fain to assume the gift of the ascetics vision while they withhold the guaran- tee of the ascetics sacrifice. Spurious mysticism there has ver been, super- ficial imitations and artificial emotions. Men forget that to see a vision is not to have become a mystic. To be, if one may borrow the journalists term, an anti-naturalist, is not to have at- tained the ethereal kingdom that flesh and blood cannot inherit. The Chev- alier Maiheur may pierce the hand of the dreamer; le rove qul pleure may visit the dead eyes of the living sinner; to the remorseful penitent les soirs mystiques, with their vibra- tions of les ang~lus roses et noirs, may come;i the experiences of Huys- manss hero, the Parisian mystic of to-day, whose studied emotions and self-absorbed egoism would be less re- volting as features of his sins than of his repentances, may be true to life. But the fact remains that to adopt a symbolic phraseology is not to have assimilated a spiritual temperament, ~lthough be it allowed that in days when originals are lacking the copy- ists themselves may be unconscious of the fraud. And towards them, as towards all who bear by right, or have taken in good faith, the title, the world may well exercise a judgment of forbear- ance. Sleeping dreams there are of the brain, the recital of which in a land, were there any such, where sleep is dreamless; would read as an impos- tors fable. Waking dreams there may 1 Sangesse, Paul Verlaine. Catholic Mystics of the .Middle A ges. 34 be of the soul, towards which our atti- tude is perforce of a like incredulity; yet, maybe, even so and to us, they have their value. Is it not perhaps true, in a wider sense than the writer intended, that ohne die Traume wiir- den wir gewiss frtiher alt? From The Corahull Magazine. THE DUEL OF THE PERIOD IN FRANCE. To fight a great many duels is, in France, the shortest road to the favor of the fair sex or the admiration of the mob. The glamour of ro- mance about a duel and its scenic effects appeal strongly to a people, brave, sensitive, and imaginative, but vain and somewhat theatrical. There is nothing ridiculous to a French- man in Thackerays French chef, who invites his masters daughter to dance and asks Pendennis for his card when tne latter interferes. In France the chef and the commis-voyageur have their affairs of honor. If Tommy Atkins gets a rap from a comrade, a few rounds with the raws settle it. But if one piou-pious cheek be grazed by the angry hand of another, he must square the account sword in hand, like a colonel or a duke. If an accident happens, tant pis, the survivor knows that he will not be punished. Lord Herbert of Cherbury, English ambassa- dor to France in the seventeenth cen- tury, records the fact that in his time every Frenchman worth looking at had killed his man. Captain Gronow of the Grenadier Guards, speaking of Pails under the Restoration, says, If you looked at a man it was enough, for without having given the slightest offence cards were exchanged and you stood a good chance of being shot or run through the body. The testimony of two such witnesses at an intervaL of two hundred years shows the kind of hold duelling has upon the French. From time to time the government has tried to check the practice. Saint Louis issued the first ~dict against it. Philip the Fair, his grandson, another. From the accession of Henry of Na- varre, in 1589, until 1607, six thousand French gentlemen were killed in duels, and in each case the king granted a free pardon. Louis XIII. issued a fresh edict by the advice of his minister, Cardinal Richelien, whose favorite brother had been killed in a duel with the Marquis de M6thines, and Louis XIV. the severest of all. The first, issued in 1626, punished duellists with loss of honors and confiscation of their estates. The survivor of a fatal duel was sent to the scaffold, as were Boutteville de Montmorency and his cousin Count des Chapelles in 1627. The edict of 1679 sentenced prin- ciples and seconds to death. Ser- vants who assisted their n~asters in an affair of honor were scourged and branded. The regent loved duelling, and during the regency duels took place almost daily, as was also the case under Louis XV., but in his reign the duel au premier sang was invented, by which honor was satisfied as soon as blood had been drawn. One of the first acts of the Constituent Assembly was to suspend judgments hanging over those who had taken part in duels; the reason alleged being that in the disturbed state of society men were more prone than usual to provoke one another. The roturiers appeared to envy what had been up to that time an exclusive privilege of the aristocracy. When juries dealt with duelling it was found that while there were eighteen fatal duels between the years 1837 and 1841, in every case the homicide was ac- quitted. Bills to fix a penalty for duel- lists introduced into the French Parlia- ment in 1833 and 1845 were voted down. There is no reference to duels or duel- lists in the French Penal Code. When duellists are punished, it is not for duel- ling but for a breach of the peace. The duel in France grew out of the old feudal method of deciding suits at law known as wager of battle, when the stronger sword was the better plea. The last of these contests took place at 5aint-Germain~en-Laye, in presence of Henri II. and his court, on July 13, 1547, between two French lords, Jarnac and La Chftteigneraie. The former disabled his adversary with a secret coup known The Duel of the Period in Prance. The Duel of the Period in France. 35 to this day in France as to coup de pertinent remark about his muddy coat. Jarnac. Under the Yalois kings duels The duke at once compelled him to dis- were simply murders. In an encounter mount and draw, and in a few moments between three favorites of Henri III. had passed his sword through his body. and three of the Guise faction, the point Not only did the duke fight for the of the sword of Caylus, one of the beaux yeux of the fair, but the latter favorites, caught in the hilt of his ad- sometimes foi~ght for the beaux yeux of versary, dEntragues. As Caylus had the duke; as Madame de Polignac and neglected to bring a dagger, this left Madame de Neste, when a pistol bullet him at the others mercy, and he clipped the tip of the latters ear. pleaded the inequality. We are here Many French ladies indulged in such t~ fightnot to split straws, said follies. Madame de Saint-Belmont was dEntragues, and stabbed him to death. out scores of times both with women Under Henri IV. it was no better, and with men. Pretty actresses, like One dark night, in 1613, the Duke of La Beaupr~ and des Urlis, rivals for Guise met in the Rue Saint Honor6 the the heart of a young gentleman of the coach of the aged Baron de Luz, who court, fought on the stage with swords. was in possession of a secret that com- Des Urlis received a dangerous wound promised the duke, who forced him to in the neck. Madame Chateau Gay de alight and accompany him to where a Murat fought a duel with her faithless swinging lantern afforded sufficient lover, M. de Cadi~res. She attacked light for his purpose. Called upon to him like a fury, but, a clever swords- draw, the old man, hardly believing the man, he kept her at bay until she fell duke to be in earnest, stood feebly on exhausted at his feet, when lifting her his defence. In an instant the Guise tenderly she fell sobbing on his breast had passed his sword through his body. and forgave him. On the following day the old mans son, Few duels were fought during the a mere boy, wrote to the duke a touch- First Republic and the Empire. Re- ing letter entreating the grand seigneur publicans and Bonaprartists, actively en- to honor by crossing swords with him gaged in defending their country a son whom he had robbed of a father, against invasion, had no time for them; The duke acceptedand killed him. the ~migr~s, united by the bond of a In marked contrast to these brutal common misfortune, no inclination. butcheries are the French eighteenth- But the royalists returned with their century duels, not unaccompanied by a king to find Paris swarming with certain subtle refinement, easy grace, Bonapartist officers, driven from the and gentle humor. When dAlbret, by army, and burning to vent their despair a clever thrust, happily despatches the in duels with officers of the king or of wretched husband of poor Madame de the allied armies. Paris was divided S6vign~, mocking Saint M~grin says, into two great eamps. Duels were an A bright amusing fellow this dAlbret every-day occurrence. Chief of the who kills to perfection. The archetype Bonapartists was General Fournier, ~ the dAlbret duellist is the Marshal who had slain a number of promising Duke of Richelieu, a bad man, utterly young royalist officers. He met his unscrupulous with women (who adored match in Fayot, an eccentric royalist, him), but always ready, sword in hand, who wounded him severely in a sword to avenge the most trifling slight to duel, and so terrified him that he fled them as to himself. Before Philipsburg beiiore him from one French city to an- with the Duke of Berwick he was re- other, while the avenger on his track turning splashed with mud to his swore to have the blood of one he al- quarters from the trenches one night ways called the assassin. That the wilen the Prince of Lixen, a cousin of hero of so many duels should show the the Mademoiselle de Guise whom white feather is not so strange. It Richelieu had recently married against takes but little courage to fight a duel, the wishes of her family, made an im- and that courage vanity supplies. Face The Duel of the Period in France. to face with certain death this artificial valor fails. Captain Stewart, a Scottish officer quartered in Jamaica, having had the misfortune to kill a brother officer in a duel, aad resolved never to fight another and refused the cartel of a noted Creole duellist. The latter, how- ever, so insulted Stewart that a meet- ing could no longer be avoided. Stew- art stipulated that they should stand in an open grave deep enough to hold them both, and then, taking the ends of a handkerchief, fire across it. When the Creole saw these dreadful prepara- tions, his heart gave way and he fell in a swoon at the reet of his adversary. The most terrible duel fought at that time in Paris was the one between Colonel D , an old Bonapartist officer, and M. de G , of the Gardes du Corps, a mere youth but of herculean strength. The two men, lashed together so as to Leave their right arms free, were armed with short knives, placed in a hackney coach, and driven at a tear- ing gallop around tihe Place de la Con- corde. They were taken. out of tne coach dead. The colonel had eighteen stabs; the youth only four, but one of these had pierced his heart. The famous generation of 1830 was a fighting one. Old General (afterwards Marshal) Bugeaud, the soldiers idol, le p~re Bugeaud, fought a duel with a brother deputy, M. Dulong, with regard to words spoken in debate, and shot him through the head. The most prosaic, the most bourgeois of all eminent French statesmen and historians, the late M. Adoiphe Thiers, fought a duel when a young man wiith the irate father of a pretty girl whom Thiers, while anxious to marry, did not wed, because he was too poor to support her. Shots were exchanged without result, and the combatants embraced. The famous journalist and iitt~rateur, M. Emile de Girardin, editor of L Presse, fought four duels in 1834 with the editors of other Parisian journals because, the annual subscription to French daily newspapers being at that time eighty francs, he had reduced the price of La Presse by one half, with the result that the circulation of his paper was enor mously increased. In the last of these duels he had the misfortune to kill Armand Carrel, a man of talent and a popular idol. Girardin, who was shot in the hip, had lingered between life and death for weeks before he recovered from his wound, and never, in spite of repeated provocations, could be induced to fight another duel. Duelling, he said, is a fault of our education against which our intelligence pro- tests. But in France you must have killed your man to be able to say that. The Beauvallon duel, in 1845, was a most disgraceful affair. Beauvallon, a young Creole, a brother-in-law of M. Granier de Cassagnac, wrote the chro- nique for the Globe. Dujarier, his an- tagonist, a wild, reckless fellow, was an editor of La Presse. A supper party at the Trois Frbres Proven~aux, at which that prince of shady Bohemians, Roger de Beauvoir, was also present, ended with a game of lausquenet, and Dujarier quarrelled with de Beauvoir and with Beauvallon over the stakes. The latter sent his seconds to Dujarier the next day. The duel was fought with pistols near Madrid, the eafb in the Bois de Boulogne, at eleven oclock in the morning. Dujarier was shot through the head. One of his seconds asserted that on the ground, before the d ci, he had introduced his little finger into the barrel of one of the pistols and had withdrawn it black with powder. As it was understood that the pistols used were to be strange to both parties, this looked like foul play. Beauvallon had supplied the pistols, and he and his second, dEcquevillez, were placed upon their trial for murder. Thanks to the eloquence of their adv~- cate, the famous Berryer, they were acquitted. But through the indiscre- tion of a young Parisian viveur, a M. Meynard, a friend of Beauvallons, it leaked out that the latter had come to his house early on the morning of the duel, and they had gone to the villa in Chaililot of dEcqueviliez, and that be- hind the house, in the garden, Beau- vallon had practised at a mark with the pistols afterwar~ds used in the duel. sending bullet after bullet into the 36 centre of the target. He and his second were rearrested and tried, this time for perjury. Found guilty, they were sen- tenced, the second to eight years and Beauvallon to seven years imprison- ment. Among the witnesses at this famous trial were Alexander Dumas the elder, Roger de Beauvoir, and the afterwards notorious Lola Montez, the mistress of Dujarier, at that time a girl of twenty and an obscure Spanish dancer at the theatre of the Porte Saint Martin. Many duels were fought in France during the Second Empire, especially in the years preceding its fall, which I passed in Paris. The most famous duellists of the day were the Duke of Gramont-Caderousse, the Marquis de Gallifet, Prince Achulle Murat, M. Henri Rochefort, M. Alfonso, Count Maurice dIrison dH~rissem and his brother Georges, the fiery Hanoverian Baron de Malorti, and M. Gaston Jolivet. In 1862 a duel took place at Saint Germain between the duke and a young Irishman, a Mr. Dillon, who wrote the racing articles for Le Sport. The duke took offence at a paragraph in one of them, and commented so severely on it that Dillon called him out. The result of the duel showed the folly of a novice measuring his strength with an accomplished fencer. Dillon, at a word, rushed madly upon the duke, who with- drew a step and pPesented the point of his sword, upon which poor Dillon im- paled himself, and was killed on the spot. It was all over in a few seconds. A year or two afterwards the duke and Count Georges dIrison dH~rissem, of the French Foreign Office, were en- gaged one afternoon in playing for higb stakes with some friends at the Jockey Club. When the clock struck eight, the count, who was a large winner, remarked that he had promised to take two indies to the opera, and would have to take his leave, although he preferred to remain. The duke was the prncipal loser, and to the counts explen~j ion simply replied, Of course bosh! DIrison again expressed his regret at having to leave, and, again the dat& s only comment was, Of coursebosh!j 37 DIri.son, very angry, deliberately tore the numerous I.O.U.s of the dukes the hazard of the game had placed in his poissession into small pices, and strewed them under the table. As the last piece fluttered to the floor, the duke calmly repeated, Oh, yesbosh! In the duel that followed dIrison gave him a sword-wound in the side that brought on consumption and caused his death. Then came the famous de P~ne duel. Henri de P~ne, editor of the Gaulois, the Orleanist organ, published an article in his newspaper in which, describing a ball at the Tuileries, he spoke of the eternal sub-lieutenant who ploughs up with his spurs the luce on the womens flounces. The next mornin~ there were twenty-seven challenges on his dressing-table. A duel was arranged for him with a sub-lieutenant in the Ninth Chasseurs ~t Cheval. It took place at Le V~sinet, near Paris, and a great many officers, including the Mar- quis de Gallifet, were on the ground. In a few moments the sub-lieutenant was disabled by a sword-thrust in the arm. Another officer came forward and said, It is now my turn. De P~ne and his seconds urged the unfairness of a man being called upon to fight two duels in rapid succession. The officer came closer, and snapping his fingers in De P~nesi face said, Monsieur, you are a scamp (un drOle~. De P~ne, in spite of the protest of his seconds, in- sisted on immediate satisfaction. Al- most as soon as the duellists were engaged the officer, who had formerly been fencing master of a regiment, passed his sword with lightning-like rapidity twice throu~h Do P~nes body, perforating the liver. The poor fellow lingered for months between life and death, but ultimately recovered. I saw him at the opera with his wife about a year afterwards. One duel brings on another. There lived at that time in Baden-Baden an American gentleman of large means Mr. Charles Astor Bristedwho, edu- cated at Cambridge, had embodied his experience in a book entitled Five Years at an English University. He The Duel of the Period in France. 38 had also written a novel that had a great success in the United States The Upper Ten Thousand. He amused himself while in Europe by writing clever letters to an American sporting weekly. Wilkes Spirit of the Times. In one of these he sharply crit- icised the action of the officers at the De P~ne duel, and named the Marquis de Gallifet. Some kind soul at the French Legation in Washington cut this letter out and inclosed it to the marquis, with the result that the latter and two of his friends took the first train for Baden-Baden with the inten- tion of calling Mr. Bristed to account. The French seconds came to Mr. Bristeds house on a Sunday, but as he was a staunch churdhman, and the son of an Episcopal clergyman, he declined to discuss the matter then. On the fob lowing day, however, he appointed two gentlemen to act for himMajor Yates, an Englishman who had served in the Austrian army, and Judge Monson, of New York. A duel was fought near Strnsburg. The weapons were mified pistols, and the distance forty-five paces. Two shots were exchanged without results. The marquis had two encounters with the Count de L , an eccentric old gentleman of ancient lineage who lived in the country, was rather careless in his dress, and only visited Paris at long intervals. The marquis and he did not know each other by sight. During one of these visits to Paris he went to the opera, where the marquis and his wife occupied a box. M. de L in his stall was so struck by the exquisite beauty of the lady that he kept his opera-glass fixed upon her face. This put the fiery marquis in a rage, and meeting M. de L in the lobby between the acts he looked him all over very carefully and then spoke to him with scorn. The old man, swift as thought, struck him on both cheeks, saying, It is the Count de L you are speaking to. In the duel the marquis was wounded. When the wound healed he had the count out again, and this time the count was wounded. Honors were easy, and the question of a third duel was discussed, but this time the empemor interfered, and the marquis and the count drove out to the ground on both occasions in hired carriages heated with hot-water pipes (remises chauffdes), Which caused the Parisians to say that, while the gen- tlemen were not at all afraid of death, they were much afrai& of taking cold. The marquis in 1868 was colonel of a hussar regiment. One of his lieutenants was Prince A M. Their garri- son was in a small provincial town, but both being worshippers at the shrine of the same fair lady in Paris, a good deal of their time was spent in the capital. Whenever they came to Paris they sel- dom failed to meet. This caused a bitter feeling, which culminated when the prince went to Paris after having been refused leave of absence by his colonel. The marquis wrote a letter to a friend in Paris, the Marquis de R, in which, speaking from the standpoint of the old French nobility with regard to the new Bonapartist creations, he re- ferred to M in uncomplimentary terms. The marquis was reading this passage aloud to a circle of friends at the club in the Rue Royale when the prince entered the room. He overheard the words coupled with his name, and anxious to know who had paid him this left-handed compliment walked up to the marquis and curtly said, Show me the letter. The marquis declined, when the prince repeated his demand. Never, replied the marquis. Show me the letter, cried the prince, in su~h a tone of suppressed passion that the other, with the words, There, I believe every word of it, handed it to him. Without looking at the letter the prince said, I shall hold you responsible. In the duel with the Marquis de R, after a pass or two, the latters seconds declared the condition of their prin- cipal made it impossible for the duel to continue. Prince M then sought a meeting with his colonel. When the emperor heard it he was furious. The Marquis de Gallifet and his wife were great favorites at court, and among the few of the noble Faubourg who went there, while the prince was to all Intents The Ditel of the Period in France. a member of the imperial family. The emperor sent for the prince, and for- mally forbade the duel. It is said the young officer broke his sword across his knee and threw the pieces at the em- perors feet. The duel took place after all. The prince was a poor swordsman, the marquis an excellent one. On the night before the duel Prince M went to the house of his second, M. dE, of the Spanish Embassy, then said to be the best amateur swordsman in Paris and spent the entire night practising with him in the courtyard a secret coup. At daybreak the prince knew it to per- fection. It required great nerve and quickness, and if it failed it meant death, but on it he pinned his chances of success. On the ground he ran his colonel through the thigh. The latter was carried home in a fuming rage. His last words before he fainted were, A M has beaten me; but next time Ill beat him. There was, how- ever, no next time. The emperor in- terfered again, like a good fairy, and the matter ended with the princes exchang- ing into another regiment. As most foreigners who live for any time in Paris, I regularly attended a fencing school. Though I practised faithfully several hours a day for a couple of years, I only reached a mod- erate degree of proficiency. Six years constant practice are needed to make a good swordsman. A French gentleman learns to handle a foil at the age of seven, and fences schoolthat is, practises single thrusts and parriesfor a long time before he is allowed to en- gage in an assault-at-arms. In addition to the fencing school nearly every French gentleman has a salle darines in his house, where he practises in the afternoon, and sometimes of an even- ing, with his friends. The schools of the great fencing masters are clubs in a way, as tih~ baths were in ncient Rome, and in the intervals of fencing the pupils sip coffee and vermouth, read the newspapers, and exchange the gossip of the day. I went to Pujol, the maItre darmes in the Rue de Morny, not far from the Champs Elys~es. His school was a general rendezvous for 39 many of th~ young Englishmen and Americans in Paris. Pujol was an ex- cellent teacher. He had what most fencing masters lackpatience. He had been fencing master of a cavalry regiment, and was a perfect type of the old troupier, Who in an age when most of the non-coins wear spectacles is fast passing away. He talked the mos~ delicious soldier-French, and that, too, is disappearing, like everything else that marks character. Pujol had wit- nessed the duel between poor Dillon and the Duke of Gramont-Caderousse. It was worth a journey to Paris to hear him tell it. He was walking in the wood at Saint-Germain when he stum- bled across the duellists. Cr& nom. said I to myself, somethings up. They were align~is, ready to begin. Go, said the seconds. LAnglais, he jump in the air; so Monsieur le Due he take a step backso, and ratatapang (an expression not in the dictionary but al- ways used by Pujol to point a thrilling story) the other fall forwardso. They pick him updead; un brave, but no fencer. When a Fren~hman is about to engage in a sword duel he goes to his fencing master and takes a le~on de duel. This costs three or four times as much as an ordinary lesson, and the master usually teaches him one of the secret thrusts that form a part of his stock in trade. In the duelling lesson ~pdes mouche- tdes (small swords with buttons at the end) are used instead of foils, and an- other style practised, more simple and more cautious, with fewer varieties of thrust. The fencer is taught not to ad- vance his own blade too far upon that of his adversary. The great fencing master Grisier used to boast that he had given during his life a hundred and twenty of these lessons, and that in not one of the duels afterwards was a pupil of his killed or even seriously wounded. When a duel with pistols is in the air a Frenchman usually goes to the gallery of Gastinne-Renette, near the Champs Elys~es, and practises at plaster figures (poup~es) or at the life- size image of a man. In those days two of the best shots were the late Duke The Duel of the Period in France. 40 of Hamilton and Count Khevenhueller, of the Austrian embassy. The best pistobshot in Paris to-day is M. Cartier, Who can throw a small piece of silver in the air and hit it before it reaches the ground. His friends have a number of these pieces with the mark of the bullet, presented to them as souvenirs of his skill. A man may do brilliant shooting in a gallery, and then, the conditions being so different, fail to score on the ground. A good pistol-shot was making marvel- lous practic at Gastinne-Renettes poup~es one day, when a spectator re- marked: Very good, but he mig~ht not hit a man at fifteen paces. He said this so often that the pistol-shot lost patience, and, turning to him, said: Suppose we try. They did so the next day. The marksman won the first shotand missed. The other, raising his hat, quietly said: What did I tell you ? A duel with swords fought at this time between MI. A , a wealthy Cuban, whose family own what, next to the Elysee and the British Embassy, is perhaps the finest house in the Rue Saint-Honor~, and MI. Gaston Jolivet, poet, journalist, litt~rateur, and satirist, was, according to the testimony of an eye-witness, one of the most desperate encounters that ever took place nea! Paris. Jolivet, a great friend of MI. Henri Rochefort, had been out a great many times. He wrote some clever satirical verses about his cob leagues of the press, of which I can only recall the four lines that referred to their fondness for duels and decoi-a tions Ii ny a plus de d~shonneur. Nous avons tons la croix de la Legion dhonneur; Si Monsieur Rouher no le veut pas, On ml coupe Ia gorge a quinze pas. After these were published it rained challenges in Jolivets house. This did not embarrass him. He was like a knight of old, ready for all comers at any time, in any place. A, who had a high spirit and was an habitue of the fast set, had fou~ht duels without num- ber. Both be and .Iolivet were fine The Duel of the Period in France. swordsmjen, and in their encounters with others had generally been success- ful. They fought until covered with the blood flowing from numerous wounds, and, being about evenly matched, neither can be said to have had much the best of it. The cause of the duel was never made public. A determined little duellist of those days, as I have reason to remember, was the Vicomte de la P, whose sister was a lady4n-waiting to the em- press. In addition to his numerous encounters with compatriots, he fought duels in 1868, within the short space of a month, with an Englishman, a Ger- man, and an American. The duel with the American took place at Yule dAvray, and I was pres- ent at it as a spectator. Two officers of chasseurs a ~heval acted on behalf of M. de la P, while the American was assisted on the ground by Count Maurice dIrison dH~rissem, after- wards aide-dc-camp of General Trochu, and Count Excelmans, son of the mar- shal. The parties drove twice from Paris to Yule dAvray before the duel could take place. The first day, owing to some misunderstanding, neither party had provided weapons. On the following day both brought a pair of swords. The duellists removed their coats and waistcoats, when the seconds drew lots for choice of place and swords. Those used belonged to the Vicomte de Feulliant, and had already been used with fatal effect. One of them was the lucky one. Those for- tunate enough to secure it had always come unscathed out of an encounter. The Americans second won the toss, and obtained it. rj lie men were placed, when MI. dIrison, joining the points of their swords between his finger and thumb, suddenly dropped them, saying, Allez, messieurs. The encounter, which lasted five or six minutes, was a pretty brisk one. Both were young, active, and fairly hood swordsmen. Each received a couple of slight wounds, when the seconds bade them pause, and, after a brief consultation, stopped the duel. Apropos of French journalists and duelling, I remember calling at the office of a great Parisian newspaper with a friend who wished to have rectified a statement published in it concerning him. When our business was made known we were ushered into a handsomely furnished room on the first floor. Seated at desks, without a trace of pens, ink, or paper, or of any- thing in a literary way except some new novels, together with a few packages of cigarettes, were two gentlemen, whose appearance made a considerable im- pression on me. They were faultlessly dressed in deep black (the duellists color). Each had the ribbon of the Legion in his buttonhole, their long jet- black moustaches were waxed out to a point as fine as a needles, and there was in their whole manner, tbeir voice, their gestures, and the expression of their eyes and mouths, an indescribable something that proclaims the man who at one time or another has worn a uni- f rm. These were the fighting editors, with whom evidently the pen was not mightier than the sword. They were civil, however, and consented to the rectification of the paragraph. As fighting was their trade, they looked at it in a purely business way, and only went out when the demands made were too unreasonable to be entertained. I fancy that they sometimes fought in defence of articles they had never even seen. A good many ducis. ~ sensation have taken place during the last few years. In the one fought between the late M. Floquet and General Boulanger in the garden behind a friends house the stout old civilian pinked the bray g~n~ral handsomely. This unex- pected result did more to destroy the generals popularity than any of his political mistakes. The statesman was in the habit of fencing a couple of hours every day in his private salle darmes in order to keep down a growing embon- point, and was a first-rate swordsman though few knew it. The Marquis de Mores was a gentleman of Whom mili- tant editors of the Paris press stood somewhat in awe, and this respect they extend at the present day to the Count 41 de Dion, the greatest living authority in France on duelling, who has been out scores of times, both as principal and second, and Whose undisputed loyalty and firmness have made it possible for him to pL~event many duels that seemed inevitable. The marQuis killed Captain Mayer in a duel with swords at the lie de la Grande Jatte a few yeais ago, and in a pistol duel with a deputy, M. Dreyfus, wounded him in the arm. When on bus Americaa ranche two cowboys tried to jump - some of his cattle, he and one of his herdsmen fought them off with Win- ehesters, the invaders being similarly equipped. One of the cowboys was killed. There is a oood dc-U of French litera- ture on the subject of duelling. Talle- ment des R~aux, Jean de la Taille, DAlembert (Physiologic du Duel), Colombey (Histoire Aneedotique du Duel, and the amu lug little book Le Duel, part of the Bibliotbeque des Curiosit~s). The most important modern French works on the subject are Les Armes et le Duel, by Grisier, the famous fencin~ master, and the Code du Duel, by the Marquis de Chateauvillard, a recognized authority in France and often quoted before the courts in duelling cases. At a famous trial, Alexander Dumas referred to it, and the judge, diselaiming all knowi- edge of it, asked where it might be found. Dumas replied, In any gen- tlemans library. The ook recognizes. in the duel but three weapons tl~e sword, the sabre, and the pistol. Any other can be used only by mutual can- sent. His chapter on Insults is curious reading. A gross verbal in- sult is no answer to another gross verbal insult. A blow is not an answer to a blow. Force does not constitute a blow; who touches strikes. With ie- gard to this I remember that when that admirable actor Bressant played Armand in La Dame aux Camaiias.~ and strikes the Count d Yarvilie in the ball-room scene, he does so by simply drawing the tips of his fingers lightly across bis breast. There is a great prejudice in France against physical The Duel of the Period in France. 42 violence: Jeux de mainsjeux de vilains. In duelling matters it puts a man out of court. A lame man may refuse swords or sabres owing to his infirmity, or a one-eyed man pistols; but if they have struck the other party they forfeit the privilege. There is. no apology for a blow. In a pistol duel, if a man fire before the seconds have counted three, or half a second too late, he is dishonored, and, if he kills, an assassin. If he fires before the ~word, his adversary may take as long as he likes to aim. The marquis was a firm believer. The laws of honor are as sacred as those of the government. Grisier was not only a great fencer but a man of literary attainments, who reckoned among his friends Dumas, who wrote the preface of his book, and Roger de Beauvoir, who added to it a life of the author. Grisier opened a fencing school in St. Petersburg before he established his salle darme,s in Paris, and his hook is dedicated to the Em- peror Nicholas I. He says a cruel thing of seconds: It is not the arms but the seconds that kill; but later on shows that the services of the unfortunate friends are not always unattended by danger. A gentleman known to Grisier who was second in a duel managed to prevent the meeting, but mortally offended both parties, whom he was obliged to fight. His own principal gave him a sword-thrust that kept him in bed for six months. He shot the other man throu4i the head, and was forced to fly the country. Among the pistol duels of the French is the one on parallel lines. Two lines are traced about thirty feet long and twenty apart. The principals are placed at the opposite ends of these two lines, and advance towards each other at the word, firing at will. They cannot get nearer to each other than twenty paces, must fire while they walk, and must not stop until they have gone the entire distance. This duel is said rarely to end fatally for the principals. But how is it with the seconds? When two ex- citable young Frenchmen fight under such conditions the only safe place for seconds is a cellar. B4ndi Mjkl6s. The cleverest thing and the truest (as far as France is concerned) ever said of duelling is the remark of La Bruyi~re: The duel is the triumph of fashionof vanity, that is. More patrician French blood has been shed in duels than in the Revolution. But duelling is not likely to disappear until French ladies corn- bine to crush it with their disapprovaL At present, by one of those curious contradictions peculiar to the sex, they turn faiiit at the sight of blood, but welcome with a ready smile the duellist who sheds it. When the Prince de Sagan, the arbiter elega tiarum of Paris, fancied not long ago that in one of the characters of a play he himself had been presented by a well-known dram- atist to the Paris public, he called the author out. The duel took place behind the grand stand on a Paris race-course, and was witnessed by a great crowd of delighted spectators, who proclaimed the affair worthy of La R6gence, and were rather disappointed when two shots were exchanged without result. The most attractive feature about Parisian duels is the charming spots near Paris they usually take place in Yincennes, Saint Mand~, Yule dAvray, the lie de la Grand Jatte, and so on. There is always a capital little restau- rant, whose proprietor makes a fortune out of the duellists who come there to breakfast after a bloodless encounter. They order everything on the menu. Duellists usually develop an extraor- dinary appetite after a meeting. Before the duelwell, that is another matter. JAMES PEMBERTON-GRIJND. From Longmans Magazine. BANDL MIKLOS. FROM THE HUNGARIAN OF BENEDEK ELEK. (Abridged Slightly.) Letter First. From Bdndi JIfikl6s. Dearest iVUargit! Your last words when we parted yesterday were: Speak to mamma; and yet, instead of at once obeying your dear commands, I am about to write you a long letter of I dont know how many sheets. lust sit down, Margit, and read my letter quietly. There will be nothing exttaordinary in it. I only want you to know me thoroughly. For, at present, fair Margit, though we have been ac- quainted these four years, you know only this: that at the age of eight-and- twenty I was appointed professor in the university, and that at thirty I proved my gratitude to the government by coming forward as a Parliamentary candidate on the Opposition side, and, what is more, that I was elected. What else do you know about me? That I dress in the latest fashion, go to the National Casino, am seen at the races, and, in fact, everywhere; and that B~tndi Mikl6s was present is a not infrequent announcement in the newspapers, which have more than oace mentioned me as the life of the party. Believe me, dear Margit, I have never for a moment enjoyed this society-life. Suddenly, when the chatter has been most animated, my face has clouded over, and I have involuntarily put my hand to my head. What is the matter, Bdadi? my at- tentive hostess has asked kindly. Oh, nothing! a passing pain in my head; its gone now. AhI if any one had guessed what flashed before my minds eye at such times! But no one ever did. It is wonderful how fortunate I have been hitherto. I know a hundred men who appear in society having a certain air of distinc- tion and a confident manner, and hold- ing distinguished positions too, and yet, all at once, society folks begin to ask one another: But who is this X exactly? Where does he belong? Whi are his people? Possibly the same question has been asked about me; but I dont think so; no, I dont. You are smiling, Margit, and perhaps tapping your little foot impatiently, as you say to yourself: Who is he, pray? Why, a professor at the university; and member for the university too! But, dearest Margit, the question as asked by society cannot be answered in 43 this way. I have often wondered why no one ever showed any curiosity as to my family, ana I believe the only rea- sonable explanation is to be found in my name, which has evidently misled people, without any wish or intention on my part. In my more particular fatherland, Transylvania, there are three sets of B~ndisfirst, the gentry of that name, beggars of good birth, who stick to the land. People here are aware of their existence, but not a living B~ndi of them all has ever made his appearance in Budapest during the past forty years. The second set of Bt~ndis are noblemen without estates. They own a few acres which they plough and sow, and thus live from hand to mouth. The third set are the peasant B~ndis; plain, laboring people, feudal serfs, bound to the soil before 48, now free, but poorer than ever they were. I know! I know. I can see from here that you have found out already which set of B~tndis I belong to. That is it, that is itthe third! A poor, toil-worn old man is my father; a bent-backed old dame is my mother. Know them, dearest Margit, and you will know me. I remember one day, when I was, perhaps, eight or nine, my father said to my mother: Wife, I have been talk- ing to his Reverence, and he advised me to take Mikl6s to the town school. We are poor, we cant do much for him, but, wife, I dont care, even if my little bit of land goesevery scrap of it! I have lived hard enough myself, my son shant live hard too. My dear mother wept. As you (hel) will, said she. I was an only child; but this meant no more than that when my mother sent me provisions from time to time to the gymnasium, she could slip in a form or two as well. For eight years I was servant to some of the gentlemen. I kept their rooms in order, and I lived hard on their 1 Third person singular in original, which peas- ant-women always use in addr~ssing their hus- bands. The latter use second singulai to their wives. B4ndi Mikl4s. 44 bread. I also regularly did their exer- cises, and for this they gave me a few extra pence now and again. My university life I will not attempt to describe, dearest Margit. It was full of terrible privation. But in the third year I distanced all my competitors, and carried off the prizes. One fine day I made my appearance looking as if I had just come out of a bandbox. My comrades op ned their eyes very wide at first, but later on they were accus- tomed to my being always a dandy, and, I believe, even forgot that I had ever been a poor, ragged, hungry-faced student. God alone knows how my dear father distressed himself about me, and how many tears my mother shed. They knew how hard my life was, though I never complained; indeed, the less I complained the more the poor old people ~rieved, and bitterly did they regret ever having sent me to school. I sent them some money, but they wrote back; Dont send any; better come home. We dont want you to starve for us! I wrote that I had enough; but it was of no use, they did not believe me. Dont send any money, my dear son, wrote my father in every letter, for your mother weeps night and day. She believes you are starving, and so do I. Home I went; not to stay, but to ease the poor old peoples minds. I took a pile of newspapers with me to prove that I had an appointment. I took home my books. See, here is my name. I wrote them. Good heavens! how the poor old folk~ did weep! Said my father: My dear ~oy, I shall lie down in my coffin with joy! And I too, wailed my mother; I too. But the money which I had sent home, by little and little, there it lay un- touched in the tulip-painted chest of drawers. Put it in your pocket, my son; we dont need it at all. You are a grand gentleman; you want money. I had to take it back. But you will ask, dear Margit, why I B6ndi Milcl6s. did not tell you all this a long time ago. My dearest, you never once asked me about my relations, though I should so much have liked to talk of my dear, good parents. Well, and suppose I had. Would not you have thought I was mak- ing a parhde of my parents poverty and simple mode of life when it would have been in better taste to talk, if I could, of the family property and dis- tinguished relations? But I mi,~,ht have married you with- out you ever seeing my parents, you think? Yes, I mi~ht have done so; but this is precisely what I dont want to do. Oh, Margit, if you could have hezird these old folks talk of my marriage sometimes in the evening! I shall never see my menyemasszony (my mistress-daughter-inAaw), the old dame would sigh. Nor I either, dame. And then, his honest eyes resting upon my face, the old man would add: You are ~oing to take a wife from some grand family, my boy, I know. We are simple folks. I dont want you to show her to us. It is enough for us to hear of you, and to know that you are happy. Your wife might not be as fond of you, perhaps, if she were to see that you are the son of a poor peasant. We have each got one foot in the grave. My boy, dont bring her home. No, no! and I say just the same. Oh! but I should so like to see her! said the old dame uneasily. If I could but kiss my darlings snow-white face and tiny hand, just. once! But I havent any wife at present, mother dear. Besides, she wont be a stuck-up fine lady. She will ~love you; she will want to see her husbands parents. An ugly old man and an ugly old woman! the old man seemed to age as he spoke. To be sureand now he grexv younger againthey used to look at me thirty years agogrand ladies, too, didnt they wife? And your mother was a handsome woman, too, that she was! And you are handsome still, my dear, good old souls. And, indeed, dearest Mar~it, they are! If you could see them just once; and their house and yard, and tiny flower garden, where they go pit-patting about from morning till night. They are always talking about the lovely young lady whom Mikl6s is ~oing to marry. They dont know who her father and mo:ther are, but she is al- ways floating before their eyes. They often lie awake in the long winter nights. Are you asleep, wife? No, uram (sir); no, 1 cant sleep. Nor I either. Thinkin~ of your son, eli? Just so, rn-am, just so, and the golden-haired menyemasszony. And you are too, eli? Ay, wife, just so! By daybreak the old dame is up and slipping into the next room. the young folks room, where not a soul but the old people ever goes. The old dame has been furni~hiing and adorning it for years past. The nosegay in the long- necked jug on the able is never allowed to fade all the summer through. The little windows are full of flowersmar- joram, verbena, fuchsias, red carna- tionsand she waters them night and morning. One day the two will be stepping out to the gate, and looking down the road a hundred times. Suppose they were to come unex- pectedly! They wont write, theyll just come! These are my parents. and I want to gild their last days. I love you ~vith the love of an honest man. You are my first, my last, and my only love. But if I must chooseMargit, dearest Mar- git, dont let me finish the sentence! And now, tell me; am I to speak to your mother? I ask but one word in anaweryes or no. I kiss your hands, BANDI MnjLOs. Letter Second.From Szeme~jai Margit. Dear B~ndi,You ask me to send just one word in answer to your letter yes or no: and certainly if I were 45 the same to-day that I was yesterday, it would be sy to write either the yes or the no without hesitation. But you must understand, B~ndi Mikl6s, that the Szemerjai Margit who said Speak to mamma exists no longer. I gaze at myself in the glass, but I see a stranger. You have told me the story of your life, and how you, the young man of fashion, were not so long ago a half- starved student, with an old man and woman weeping over you night and day at home. And now they are so happy, you say, and you long to brighten their last days. With whom? With me With me! But, B~ndi Mikl6s, do you know who I am? I know, I know, you will say. But, indeed, you know nothing at all. My father is imperial and royal cham- berlainthat is true! My mother is a baronessthat is also true! But be- yond this you know nothing. Despise me, uram; but when I said And I love you; speak to mammm~, I was telling a lie. I had no love for you, not the veriest grain! Having been brought up to be sensible, I saw that you possessed all the qualifi- cations necessary for the husband of Szemerjai Margita distinguished posi- tion, young, good looks, gentlemanly manners, and so on; and, to grown all, you are of good family. I never gave this last matter so much as a thought; it seemed so muc~h a ma.tter of course. Alas! for me, a thousand times alas! if any one else had told me that you were the son of peasant-parents. But alas! still mome if you yourself had told me only when my word was pledged and I could not honorably draw back. Suppose I were to marry you without love, thinking lightly, as is the fashion in our world: sympathy is enough, what do we want with love ? The difference in my life would amount to this: I should go about with you instead of mamma. You would take me to balls, concerts, races, to drive in the Stefania, to baths, etc. Our life -would be most elegant and cor- rect. I should like you for a compan B6ndi Milcids. B4ndi Miklos, ion, because you are good-looking, clever, distinguished, gentlemanly; and you would like to have me with you, for I am not such a fright, and I am no goose either! I know how to dress, and how to he a pleasant hostess. Well, that is the sort of married life I had pictured to myself. And when the benediction has been pronounced and we are at the station, you will take tickets, not for Venice, butfor Brass6 (Cronstadt), and you will say, Dearest, leL us go and see my parentsmy poor, simple parents ! I am horrified, I quiver in every fibre, when I think of the shock such an unex- pected turn of events would have given me. What, I, Szemerjai Margit, find myself connected with a family of serfs! Monstrous! monstrous! Our marriage could not have been happy, really happy, under any circum- stances, but we might have got on com- fortably enough for some perhaps even to envy us. But what would have fol- lowed upon this would not have been mere lack of happiness. I should have hated you! for you would have lured me into a trap, and that is a crime which you could not have washed out; no! not with an ocean of love, however deep. But see, now here you stand before me, and I shrink away to nothing as I stammer out, Forgive me; uram, for- give me! I see how great you are, and how small am I! Mikl6s, B~ndi Mikl6s, take me by the hand and lift me up, lift me up! Teach me to love you as deeply and truly as you do your parentsthe old people who talk so often of their son Mikl6s and the golden-haired menyemasszony. Ab! it is my face and hand the old dame would like to kiss; mine! mine! And II should like to kiss the horny hands which have raised you from the dust, just for this, only thisfor I feel that God is infinitely gracious to mebe- cause now you will raise me! Mikl6s! hear me. My empty heart is filled with a feeling I have never known before. My fate is in your hands. A new Szemerjai Margit stands before you, and confesses her love for you. What does the world matter to me! I should like to stand on the top of the highest mountain and shout B~ndi Mikl6s loves me! You dont under- stand what it is for one suddenly to feel that she has a heart. You dont understand, for you have always had a heart. I never had till I read your letter. Come, come and speak to mamma. You may come, you may fly! My father and mother know all. Papa read the letter aloud. For a moment his face clouded over, and mamma turned pale.. But then, all at onceif you could but have seenhis words were broken by sobs; and, before he got to the end, we were all three weeping in one anotners arms. Oh! my God! he sobbed; I thank thee for giving me a son, in place of a son. And the grave face, which has never brightened since the death of my brother Andor, was beaming with joy. Mikl6s, you have already made my parents last days golden, and now it depends upon yourself whether I shall do the same for yours. Command me! MARGIT. Letter ThirdFrom Bcindi ,Idnos. My dear Son Mikl6s,With tearful eyes I read the letter in which you tell us, your poor parents, that you are going to take to wife the only daughter of his Excellency Mr. Szemerjay G~bor. Heavens blessing on you both, my hearts children! Your mother and I have been weeping ever since we had your letter, but from. joy. What a hard life you have had, 0 child of my heart, until now that the good God has come to your aid, blessed be his holy name! And how I have worried myself! Well, we shall not go to your wedding, my dear son! It is not for us to Le among smart gentlefolks. They would look down upon us and yo4, too. Your mother would like to be present though, if she could, without being- seen; and so should I, as I tell her. At night, when we cant sleep, we 46 often talk about how we could be there without being seen. We should not certainly dare to get into the steam- carriage. We have once seen it rush- ing away from Brass6, when we were taking in a load of wheat. The price of that load would be just enough, says your mother. It would take two loads, say I. No, my boy, we shall not try the steam-carriage. Besides, it is not for such as we. You write that you are going to bring your wife to see us. My dear boy, think well what you are about. What is there to see in us simple old folks? Our house is clean, but everything in it is home-made. And we cannot treat your wife to delicacies, though we would give her our very hearts. Well, your mother is not so timid as I, though. She tells me I am just to write Come, and the menyemasszony will soon order all as she pleases. The old dame has been talking al- ready to a woman in the village who has lived many years in gentlemens houses, and can, they say, cook such fine dishes thatmeaning no disrespect even the queen would suck her fingers after them! Why, then, let them come! I say to your mother. The little room is like a chapelthat I myself can answer for. There are eight pillows to each of the beds. They were your grandmothers but they have never been used yet. I tell your mother that three apiece would be enough, but it is no use. She says if she had as many again she would have them all out, for she knows that the darling menyemasszony has been spoilt. Well, I believe so too, say I. Her father is a chamberlain, which is something tremendously high, isnt it, my boy? and her mother is a baroness! What we cannot anyhow take in is, how you can venture to ask her hand. We asked his Reverenee; and a Wess- ing be on every word he said, for it eased our minds. He explained that, when any one really loves a man, she does not consider his humble origin. And, my dear son, he also said that you were such a first-rate man, and so dis 47 tinguished, that even a countess might fall in love with you. We gave thanks to God, your mother and I, both of us, that things are as they are. Your mother wanted to make a few letters too, but there is no room in this. What she would have written, however, is, Come home, my dearest son, MiklOs,. and bring my darling golden-haired menyemasszony, too. I eat her little diamond heart. There, then, I have written it! We send our sincere respects. to their Excellencies, your father-in-law and mother-in-law. Give them a hum- ble message from us not to be anxious about their precious daughter while she is here, for we will care for her with the most faithful affection. You, my son, are held in honor by all the folks of the village. They will be waiting for you with a large band of music at the end of the village, where there is to be a gateway wreathed with flowers. We shall just wait in our own courtyard; and I remain your own father, BAxnI JANOS. Letter Fourth.From Margit. My dearest Mamma,It is a week al- ready since I left your arms; a whole week since I, too, became a wife, the happiest wife in the worldthe wife of Bandi MiklOs, son of a poor serf. Is it a dream, or is it the truth? There are moments every now and then when I think it is a dream, a strange dream, and I start up terrified. It is not that I wonder how I, daughter of the imperial and royal chamberlain, can be the Wife of a peasants son. No! the difficulty now is quite the other way; and at times I am seized with a strange wonder as to whether all that Mikids wrote of his parents poverty and privations was not, after all, a pretty romance, in- vented to touch my heart. For, mamma, you must know that I should be unhappy now if my Mikl6s were not what he isthe son of a poor old man with horny hands. No! no! all that MiklOs wrote was true, from the first word to the last; it B4ndj Milcl6s. 48 is the real, sweet truth. As for his position, and the wonderful way in which he takes his place in the great worldthese are mere accessories. It is the true-hearted man whom I adore the man who would not lead me to the altar until his life lay before me as an open book, and the son who has never forgotten his parents, in spite of the vanities and glitter with which he has been surrounded. Oh, mamma! but Mikl6ss parents are dear, good-looking old folks! I dont know how to describe them. Old Bdndi may have been a little taller than Mikl6s in his young days, and is such a fine old man, just such as my Mikl6s will be. Though he is seventy years old, the old mans face is as red as a rosenot all over, but just in one spot, as if he had a little rose painted there. It is the family complexion, said the old man. Then why is not Mikl6s as rosy ? Oh! thats another thing, menye~ masszony. His face was just the same until he deserted us. The air of Pest, manyemasszony, explained the old dame, it is that which has washed out his roses. The old dame! I have not said any- thing yet about her; and I dont know which of them to begin with. She is all heart and sound sense. It is really marvellous, and what I never could have dreamt. I shall never forget our arrival. In- deed, it was exactly as the old man had said. There was a band, and an arch- way, painted and wreathed, and the whole population waiting for us. His Reverence received ~us and made a beautiful speech. Mikl6s stammered out something, but his voice was choked, and my eyes, too, were swimming. I could not see, I only felt that the women and girls were rushing to me and kissing my hands and dress. And yet, what good had I ever done them, poor things? The old folks are waiting ~it home, I heard them say. Yes, there they were, with the gate standing wide openan old man in holi- day-dress, with his hat off and swim- B4ndi Mikl6s. ming eyes, and a kind-looking old dame. I dont know whether it was old B~ndi or Mikl6s who helped me down from the carriage. All I do know is that my head rested for a long time on the old dames bosom, and that she had no Voice to say more than My sweet child! When I was released from her dear, kind arms, the old man, whose eyes were still shining, gently took my hand, and, putting his left tenderly on my shoulder, looked fixedly in my face and said just this, and no more: Now I can believe that you married Mikl6s for love. And then, whether we took the old people, or they us, I dont really know, but we stepped into the entry, and from thence into a room on the rightour roomwhich has been closed to stran- gers for years, and is just as Mikl6s de- scribed it. The walls. are white, with here a wreath of flowers, there one of wheat- ears, and there a picture, and so on, all round. The pictures are what the old dame has cut from the newspapers and had framed, but they are all the por- traits of celebrities. There are wreaths over the beds, too, and all made by the old people. There is not superfluous furniture, but there is all that is neces- sary. The divan is covered with striped woollen stuff, spun and woven by the old dame. The coverlets on the beds, toothe old dame wove them all. As for the embroidered borders of the pillow-cases and the sewingwhy, it is all a work of art! And how clean and neat everything is, in the house and out of it! A flaming red hollyhock pokes its head in at one of the two windows which look into the flower garden. A third window looks into the courtyard, and another, quite small, into the vege- table garden. This is the spy-hole, from which anyftmasszony (my mis- tress-mother) watches the fowls, to see w-hether they are scratching among her plants. Only fancy, mamma; yesterday, as I was looking out of the spy-hole, I caught sight of an old hen scratching among the cabbages. I shished at B4ndi Milcids. 49 her over and over again, but to no pur- one before, and ap~muram is so grate- pose. ful to me for listening. Slush! shish! Dont you go scratch- Mlkl6s just smiles, presses my hand, ing up anyictmasszonys plants! but she and gazes in my face; he, too, is so did not so much as turn round, grateful to me for listening to the old No& ~a! Well, out I ran, caught up a mans stories. And really, mamma, it birch-broom in the entry, and so out into is quite a pleasure to do so. He has the garden. The next moment Mistress seen so much, andwhat I should not Hen was scuttling over hedges and have believedhe has read so much. ditches with a terrible amount of Mlkl6~ has always sent him books and clucking, I promise you. newspapers, and one can talk to him Just as I turned round in stepped about everything exceptthe theatre. anyffmasszony. She clapped her hands That, he says, he does not understand. and cried out, Oh, my sweet, golden- Every night Mikl6s puts me through voiced chicken! in huge delight, an examination. Old Bffndi, too, came out all in a Be honest, ~desem (my sweet), would hurry, and Mikl6s with him, you like to go on somewhere else? There now! said ap~muram (my Mr. Which of the baths shall I take you Papa), there, wife! let us give up the to? management to the young folks; they I dont want to go anywhere, I would keep everything in fine order, protest; I should like to spend the and we could fold our hands and live whole summer here with your old on what is put ready for us. folks. Oh! what ever are you talking of? And it is no affectation, believe me. scolded the old dame. Wherever we might go it would be all Let him talk, said I; I like to hear one to me if Mikl6s were with me. But him so much. would anybody anywhere else be so And apftmuram is joking and telling delighted to have me as these good old stories all day long. He goes by the souls are? I wont part them from name of the old hussar here in the their son as long as we can stay. Of village. That is what any~masszony course I have parted them, anyhow. In calls him too. And he has such a a week or two we shall go, and who number of inteiesting stories to tell of knows whether they will ever see us, the time when he was in the army. He their most precious treasures, again? and his father, and grandfather too, They have reared one child, and for were all hussars. Mikl6ss grandfather whom? For me and no o e else! went to foreign parts; he was in Would it not be heartless of me to France and saw Paris. grudge them a few weeks? Why Ay, but that is a large town, says should I net make their last days the old hussar, repeating what he has golden, when by so doing I please not heard from his father. Pest is but a only them and not only God, but my- village to that. self besides? He knows, though, that Pest has had Oh, mamma dearest! if you could see time to grow a good deal since those the tender, anxious love with which days. these simple folk surround me! They Anydmasszony is constantly telling give themselves no airs to any one, and him to be quiet. Bless you! dont talk they make no parade of their happiness. so much nonsense! Why, Im sure you And what care they take never to be in have told the menyemasszony that tale the way of us foolish young lovers! ten times over already! We often go out in the meadows and And she is quite right. Apamuram rye-fields, and in the wood close by; we tells some of his favorite stories every visit all the places which Mikl6s cares day; but I listen quite gravely and at- for, because he remembers them from tentively, and declare to any~mass- his childhood. I always call the old zonys face that I have not heard tMs folks to come too, and I see from their LIVING AGE. VOL. xiii. 632 A Winters Walk. MARGIT. SELINA GAYE. From Macmillans Magazine. A WINTERS WALK. We too were born in Arcadia. eyes how much they would like to come boldly in. Come, come! I kiss the indeed, they would toddle with us to hands of you both. the worlds endbut come they never will, no not for all the treasures of tbe earth. They have always some excuse. They are not up to going on foot now __________________ adays. And going for walks is not for such plain folks as they. You just go by yourselves, my dear children, you go. The chimney-corner is the place for the old folks. Ay, so it is, so it is! But they accompany us as far as the gate. And they dont take their eyes off us as long as we are in sight. We turn round again and again to nod our farewells, and they nod too; and I seem to hear the old dames voice saying, Oh, my sweet golden chicken! (that is I) and the old man muttering, A fine couple, that they are, a fine couple! They stand looking after us a long, long time, even after we have turned down another road, and they gaze and gaze into the distance on the chance of our reappearing somewhere. No, I will write no more, dearest mamma. I am so infinitely happy that I tremble for fear it should not last. I have everything here but yourselves, I miss nothing but you. Ill tell you what, my own good mamma: Come down here. You and apusica (little papa) take us by surprise. You will find a fly at the station. Get in and tell the coachman to drive to Baczon. Then, when you reach the vil- lage, there is no need to ask any one where old Bflndi J~tnos lives. Just let the coachman drive straight on till he comes to a gate ornamented with the device of a dovecot, on the right side of the way. But there may be other dovecot- gates besides, you say. And so there are. But ap~murams gate bears the following inscription: This house was built, God helping them, by B~ndi Husz~r J~nos, and his wife, Nagy Borb~ia. A blessing on those who come in Peace to those who go out! When you have found this gate, drive Let not ambition mock their useful toil Their homely joys and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. Our own particular Arcady is of such small acreage that you can go through the length and breadth of it in one afternoon; but a thousand and one afternoons would not exhaust its interests. Those interests are of many kinds; there is the scenery, wood and hill and a little brawling brook; there is the wild life of hedgerow and field; there are the things which antiquari- ans love, a ruined abbey, a little lonely church; and, lastly, there is the human interest. The population is indeed scanty, and yet there is, or we fondly think there is, more individuality among our few Arcadians than in a whole urban street; certainly through their eyes one sees further into the backward of time. Let us then attempt to gather to- gether some of our recollections of its old folks, putting them into the form of an afternoons walk; an imaginary afternoon, indeed, and yet made up of many little scraps, as it were, which are not imaginary at all. In the field beyond the lane stands old Franciss cottage. The lane is steep; the limestone rock shews all about it, and the channels which the rain of centuries has worn in it are filled with loose stones. To-day, after a wet night, sparkling little streams are running among them; and the great hill opposite is patterned with streams too, but we cannot see them, for the fog is creeping down and blot- ting out the distance from us. The hedge on each side of the lane is made 50 A Winters Walk. up of hazel trees, from which only a few torn leaves hang now like the ragged banners over a monument, of ruddy sloe-bushes, and of hawthorns still covered with their yellow leaves. A tall branch of wild-rose has run up as high as the topmost branches of the blackthorn, and we think what a sweet bunch of pink roses must have crowned the hedge here last June. Wordsworth had delighted in such a sight when it was summer too with him. upon hawthorn Wild-rose tip-toe stocks Like a bold girl who pranks At wakes and fairs mountebanks, When she stands cresting the clowns head, and mocks The crowd beneath her. The cottage stands in the field, reached only by a foot-path. Along that foot-path Francis has trudged for more than half a century, his limbs moving slowlier with the gathering years; and now he is so bent, he moves so stiffly, that the field seems very long to him. The cottage is white- washed outside; within there is no plaster, only more whitewash which does not conceal the unevenness of the stones and mortar. The fastenings of the door, the wooden handle to pull it to, the latch lifted by a leather thong. are Homeric. She went forth on her way from her room, and pulled to the door with the silver handle and drew home the bar with the thong. A dresser, almost devoid of crockery, a deal table, a few hard chairs,that is all the furniture. There are no pic- tures on the white walls, only an almanack from the village shop which absorbs Franciss weekly bit of money. Seventy years of hard work have brought the old man no more of this worlds goods than this house and these few poor things. He is sitting by the fire when we go in, dressed in a corduroy suit, a linen shirt, home-made as you may see by the uneven work in the collar; around plays her agile with wandring his neck is a colored cotton kerchief tied into a strange bow by his poor, stiff old hands. Mrs. Francis is slowly busy, polishing the grate. She must once have been pretty, and indeed her faded, weary blue eyes are picturesque still as they gleam at you from a faded, weary face. She can hardly reach to do anything she tells you; and Francis, coming in tired from his work, turns his hand to most house- hold duties, and before he goes out in the morning it is he who lights the fire and boils the kettle for her breakfast and his own. The conversation begins of course with the weather. It is an all-impor- tant subject to countrymen with their long walks, their long hours of hedg- ing and ditching and of ploughing across heavy fields. Francis says he thought wed have falling weather since he saw Noahs Ark in the sky o Monday; Noahs Ark, let us say paren- thetically, being some kind of rain- cloud for which the learned have doubtless some other and perhaps less descriptive name. Then a leading question is put, and the conversation slides away to old days at once. The stocks,can Fran- cis remember them? Yes, he can tell us the spot on which they stood, in the churchyard where the road goes by, plain for all folk to see; our ancestors did not think this was a world to hide vices in. But their day was over when Francis was a boy, and he had only heard men speak of those who had been in them. Only the hands of the prisoner were confined; no provision was made for their feet, as seems to have been~the more usual plan. And the stocks led him to a more thrilling recollection. They did hang people in chains in my mothers time, he went on. There was a man as murdered his wife, poisoned her in a cup of broth. As they took him off to tbe Assizes, he did laugh and say h~d be up-side of his accusers yet. But he was up- side o them on the top of a gibbet when they brought un back. He was hung up like a sign-board outsIde a 51 A Winters Walk. public, my mother did say, and the chains would go scre~ak, scre~iak, scre~ak, when there was a bit of wind. The boys used to go out on the green opposite the castle, where the gibbet was, and call to un, Come home to your dinner, Johnnie Jones. That was their play, I suppose. But there was a man as they did call Will the Whistler; he wasnt hardly as sharp as he should a been, and folks got persuading him as there was money hid under the post of the gibbet, and one windy night he went and dug there, and the post did blow down, and then they took up the remains and buried them, I suppose. Then he goes on to tell Us some- thing about ghosts. They do say, so many of his reminiscences begin thus, for your Arcadian will not vouch for more than he has himself seen. They do say as there was a ghost under the bridge, and folks did not like passing it o nights, for one Mr. Vaughan,his sperrit, howeverdid come about there a-terrifying of peo- pie. There was Passon Davies and some other passons, and they brought their books and their cannies to lay the ghost because he didnt let folks have no rest. They had books as could lay ghosts and books as could raise them, so they do tell me. And they laid un, though theyd a hard task to do it, and if hed a overcome them, theyd have been there now, sure. Passon Davies, he called out, Not so fierce, Mr. Vaughan, not so fierce, for some of the cannles did go out and some did burn blue and summat. And Mr. Vaughan, he called out too, and he saId, I was severe as a man, and Im aevere now Im a sperrit Why did he come about that bridge? Mebbe hed murdered some one there, or done summat. Theres no saying what he might a done. And be- sides Parson Davies there was a cer- tain Dr. Evans who had books which could raise and lay ghosts. Francis has a story to tell of how a girl once ~got reading one of his books as could raIse ghosts, unbeknownst to him; and I suppose if shed read a bit further shed a had company in the room before long. But he came in just in time to stop her afore she got to the reading as could raise them. It was curious to hear the awestruck voice in which he said this. Much of the old mans talk would seem flat enough, no doubt, in the cold malignity of print; and for some, which might bear it, we cannot now find room. But room we must find for one of his ballads. Mrs. Francis once told us that as she sat by the fire feel- ing very bad with bronchitis, Francis had repeated many of his old songs to her to cheer her up. Enchanting visions of old ballads rose to our mind when we heard of them; but alas! they were disappointing. They were of the middle Georgian era, and were destitute of all the older ballad-note, born out of long ago. We will end our recollections of Francis for the present with one of his songs; the Bold Dragon he called it, but the dragon proved to be only a dragoon of King Georges after alL A soldier, a soldier, a valiant man was he, He courted a lady of very high degree; Her fortune was so large, it never could be told, And she loved the soldier because he was so bold. My father is a knight, a knight of high renown, If I should wed a soldier, twould bring his honor down, For your birth and mine, love, it never would agree, So take it for a warning, bold soldier, said she. No warning, no warning, no warning will I take, Ill either wed or die for my true lovers sake. The hearing of this news, it made her heart to bleed, And straightways to the church, and were married with speed. And when they were married and coming home again She spied her father coming with seven armed men. 52 She said, My dearest dear, both of us shall be slain. Fear none of them at all, said the valiant dragon. Ride on, ride on, my dear, we ha no time to prattle; You see they all are armed, and fixed for the battle! Then he drawed his broadsword, which made their bones to rattle, And the lady held the horse while the dragon fought the battle. Oh hold thy hand, dear dragon, dear dragon, hold thy hand, And thou shalt have my daughter and ten thousand pound in land! Fight on, says the lady, the portion is too small! Oh hold thy hand, dear dragon, thou shalt be heir to all ! And here we must leave old Francis, a pathetic figure, surely, sitting by his cinder fire and repeating his ballads of youth and happiness. He is a very mine of information as to the old life of the district, and for our part we could listen to him, as indeed we have listened before now, all a winters afternoon; but our readers might be less patient, and there are other dwellers in our Arcady. Retracing our steps down the lane (we believe it is a highroad, but the higliroads here are like lanes in their beauty and perhaps in their rough- ness), we come to the new bridge and there we see old Edwards looming large through the damp autumn mist. He has his great hedging-gloves on, and is turning a wild, tangled hedge into a neat but very dull one. We like these old hedging-gloves with their one space for the four fingers and another for the thumb. They have their like- ness on a miserere of the fourteenth century in Worcester Cathedral; and we please ourselves by thinking that those of to-day are no great improve- ment on those of five centuries ago, as roughly stitched and as unfinished. Edwards wears a smock (a frock we call it here), another old-fashioned gar- ment, but one which is singularly con- 53 venient for wet work, as it is made of a material strong enough and stout enough to resist any rain. But smocks are little worn now; and Mrs. Jones, who used to make them, material and smocking complete, for twelve-and-six- pence, has little demand for her work. We ask after Mrs. Edwards, who was ill, and gone to the homely little work- house in the valley to be cared for bet- ter than old Edwards could care for her in his poor house on the hillside exposed to all the winds that blew. She died yesterday, he said, and put his head down on the gate and cried. Some natural tears he shed, but wiped them soon with a red cotton pocket-handkerchief. And then (do not think he did not really grieve, for indeed he did in his own fashion), he was telling us how she had been as good-looking a girl as ever stepped when he married her, and not one to go chanting about (chattering, we suppose). But she was allus one as did complalil, you mind, if things didnt go straight. Folks have said as I wasnt good to her, but I was. I never heft my hand on her, though mebbe Id got the drink sometimes. I knew summat must have happened afore they sent to tell me, for the door fled open twice yes- terday, and they did alms say that was a sign of summat. Then he goes off to the bridge by which he is working. Those were awkward cor- ners to it, he thought; a man in drink might smash his ribs against them any day. To the moral that a man should not be in drink, he assents very readily. Ay, soberness, thats the thing; soberness is the main thing. And now we come to a house which is plain enough outside, built of the colorless grey stone of the district aad with a grey stone-tilted roof, but which inside has an individuality all its own from the old furniture, the curious old odds and ends from a van- ished world, which it contains. But despite these treasures there is a iu~- saken look about the place. Mrs. Cole A Winters Walk. A Winters Walk. is old and ill; a neighbor comes to look after her once or twice a day, but the rest of the time she is alone. She cau- not read; she does not sleep much, she tells us. We wondered what thoughts she had as she sat there, what back- ward glances into that wonderful past in which she had lived. The life of to~day hardly touched her, and seemed to interest her very little; but, like old Francis, she has many recollections of older times, although they naturally take a more housewifely and domestic form than do his. She had lived in the days when there were spinning-wheels in every house, and when the weav- ers looms were always full of work. She had lived in the days of flints and steels, and remembered how difficult ~L was for numbed fingers to strike a light on those winter mornings, which seemed to be many degrees colder than those of to-day. Her account of the manufacture of rush-lights took one back to Whites Selborne and the chap- ter on this industry, which, even when he wrqte a hundred and twenty years ~igo, was dying out in his Hampshirt~ a testimony, surely, to the greater per- sistence with which old customs have lingered on in this remote Arcady of ours. Another wonderful recollectiou was of a leather suit of clothes worn by her father and very old-fashioned, as she told us, even in his day; a sur- vival hardly of the fittest, for it was, she said, mortal cold and stiff for a days hedging in wet February. The time did not seem to be weari- some to her, beyond the weariness of illness; she was very patient and never complained. Other lives we know of spent thus alone, and by choice, not necessity. On the hillside, in a little whitewashed hovel, lived, and may live still, an old man; The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs. We first met him moving solemnly among the brown fern by his house on a November afternoon, carrying a load of it for bedding for some of those creatures whose companionship was a necessity to him in his lonely life, and for whose comfort he was more careful than for his own. He wore no coat, but over his shoulders was a sack fastened together by a rusty nail. Yes, he had a coat in the house, he said, but he did not trouble to wear it. He had blankets, too, a parcel of blankets sent him by a friend, but he had not undone them; sacks and such-like coverings did well enough for him. Was not that load of fern heavy? No, not particular heavy, but he was getting old in years. He was eighty-five come next Christ- mas day. But why did he live up here all alone? It must be cold and lonely in the winter. No, he liked it; he had always been used to being lonesome, you see. Those whom he liked did not like him, and those who liked him he did not like; thus he summed up his lifes romance, a history not singular indeed. As we left he thanked us for our visit. Its very good of you to come and see carrion like me, he said, using a Shakespearian word. Shall we send that foolish carrion, Mistress Quickly, to him? asked Mrs. Ford of Mrs. Page. The picture of that stooping figure under its load of withered fern, and the shadowed gloom and chill of the little homestead, for which already the sun had set although it was still shining on the opposite hill with a wan autumnal light, was very solemn, very sad. And yet we think the old mau was happy in his own way, wanting uo alleviation from the outer wot 11, occupied with his own slow toils, thinking his own few thoughts. But let us leave these sad ones. There is another house by the road- side into which we must look; a very contrast to that of Mrs. Cole with its Jacobean oak furniture and the, What might almost be Jacobean, dust upon it. It is the village shop, and, like most other village shops, its trade has suffered by the grocers carts from the far~away towns which now pene- trate even into this wilderness. But nothing can diminisa that cheerfulness which Ann Price, licensed to sell snuff and tobacco, as the board over her 54 A Modern Morality. door announces, always keeps in stock. Her daughter, known as Poll of the Shop, was married last week to a fair-haired, blue-eyed Arcadian, and a very pretty village wedding it was, although Davy, the bridegroom, dis- turbed its solemnity somewhat by searching in every one of his huge pockets with hands covered by gloves with mile-long fingers at the moment when he should have produced the ring, and saying audibly, I expect I ha lost un! Mrs. Price is at home, dressed for the afternoon in a close-fitting black cap, a stuff, dress made after the fash- ion of fifty years ago, and a many-col- ored check shawl over her shoulders. Mr. Price, too, has just come in, and although straight from work and stained with the red soil of the dis- trict, he looks curiously fresh and neat; indeed, nothing which was not so could find a home here. But he sits on a chair near the door, and glances. nervously at his muddy boots, as if the lady of his house might re- sent their presence on her clean floor, which is freshly marked out with bands of whitening round the edges of those great fiagstones of which it is made. The polished dresser, the china tea-service (given to her on her wedding, she tells us), the gleaming grate, the fire which seems to burn brighter here than anywhere else; it is a pretty cottage picture. Strangely enough, though Mr. and Mrs. Price are the happiest couple in the parish and make their fourteen shillings a week go further than any one else can make them go, their con- versation always turns, albeit cheer- fully, on the general decadence of peo- ple and things. To-day the falling-off in the girls of the district (with a little pleasant pride, perhaps, in her own good Polly) is her theme. The subject was introduced by hearing a clatter of horses hoofs outside, and by seeing ride by from market (no very surpris- ing sight here) the servant-girl from the neighboring farm, dressed in all her Sunday finery, roses in her large hat, and a big market-basket on her arm. Girls are that gigglety, Mrs. Price says. At the fair last week, she wouldnt have known the girls from their mistresses, they were that dressed, their hats and all! And then old Price takes up the tale. Ay, but they dont keep girls like they did use to at the farms. We were counting a many housen round where they have nurrun [none]. And when I was a young chap there were a sight of squires about here, and now look at the place. I dont know what do all the folks, Im sure. But Mrs. Price turns on him se- verely, mindful, maybe, of those muddy boots. The gentlefoiks wont care to hear about them things, she says, cutting him short in what we hoped was going to he something very interesting on the subject of agricul- tural depression from a laborers point of view; and he sinks into silence in his chair by the door. But now the short grey autumn afternoon is over. Eve lets down her veil. The white fog creeps from bush to hush about. No sound of bird or beast breaks the intense stillness as we cross the high lawns towards home; there is no movement even among the sodden bents above the wet grass. Solitary sheep steal silently up, like ghosts out of the mist, stare dumbly at you, and then stalk away to greater solitudes; and they are the only sign of life. This is Aready seen at its worst per- haps; and yet even at its worst it has charms for some of us. From The Revue des Deux Mondes. A MODERN MORALITY. In the pleald of our young dramatic authors M. Brieux occupies a distinct and singularly honorable place. The rest are all Parisians, dissipated, ill- humored, disenchanted. M. Bricux is no Parisian, neither in spirit, for he is 55 56 absolutely innocent of b~ague or irony practised for its own sake, nor in the choice of his subjects. Blanchette, R~boval and Gear (lEngrenage) are provincial comedies. His very first piece, Artists Homes (Manages dArtistes) was remarkable, as I re- member it, for a certain wholesome directness, which appeared simply mar- vellous upon the shameless boards of the Th~tre Libre. Unlike many of our most brilliant writers, M. Brieux has an exceedingly clear and sure per- ception of the difference between good and evil, and he is fond of em- phasizing this distinction. There is a touch of Poor Richard in him, or of Simon of Nantua. He makes no hunt for rare and nice cases of conscience. He shows his good sense by not shrinking from the commonplaces of morality. All his pieces are didactic comedies. They might almost better be called Moralities or even Banalities. It is not good to educate poor girls above their station, (Blanchette ~ Pharasaism, even when honest, is not virtue. (Monsieur de R~boval Politics are terribly demoralizing. (lEngrenage). Each one of these pieces is, from beginning to end, and without deviation, a methodical dem- onstration of its own maxim. Where M. Brieux is eminently original is in possessing a spirit, not so much hold and daringwhich is common enough as genuinely brave. He approaches those great questions which concern our common humanity as an inde- pendent teacher of keen intellect, sound judgment, and a warm heart. Yet this candid preacher is also a close, truthful, nd often very pene- trating observer of average humanity, and he contrives somehow to impart, even to his most chilling subjects, a certain degree of warmth and color. The marvel is that his Moralities live. His latest production The Benefac- tors (Los Bienfaiteurs) is a didactic eomedy like the others, but glowing with philanthropic zeal, and happily enlivened by shrewd and satirical ob- servation. It begins and proceeds, A Modern Jiforality. after the regular fashion of the im- proving tale. A certain gold-king drops out of the clouds and places his millions at the disposition of the en- gineer Laudrecy and his wife Pauline, thus enabling them to set about realiz- ing those dreams of charity, which they have hitherto made the mistake of confounding with the various forms of alms-giving. I cannot understand how the idea of the piece should ever have been considered obscure or un- certain. The whole end and aim of it is to illustrate the futility of adminis- trative patronizing, fashionable char- ity, its disadvantages both for the helpers and the helped. It As a series of tableaux, each one of which proves a point in the thesis. In one part we have successively exhibited, first, van- ity; second, pretentiousness; third, ob- tuseness; fourth, silliness; fifth, hypocrisy; sixth, rivalriesladies who conduct their works with fuss and chatter. Then we are shown the stiff, cold, suspicious benefactor who dis- trusts himself and is afraid of being done, and so on; in a word both ben- efactors and benefactresses corrupted by the way in which they bestow their benefits. Elsewhere is exposed the corresponding corruptioN of the bene- ficiaries, by a vicious manner of giv- ing; their envy and hostilly augmented by a sense of frightful condescension on the part of those who give; and how the latter, preoccupied with pic- turesque unfortunates~repentant prostitutes and regenerate galley- slavos,incline of necessity to the lazy, the vicious, the liars and drunkards, to the exclusion of the honest and hard-working poor. The consequence is that while the administrative char- ity of Pauline is supplying food and drink to all manner. of hussies and humbugs, one poor woman kills herself and her three children; and in spite of higher wages, schools, orphanages, free pharmacies, and bureaus of as- sistance, the more the Laudrecy hands get the more they want, until at last they go on strike. The gold-king meanwhile is looking on at the twofold experiment and laughing in his sleeve 67 Such as it is, with its command- the earth like so much chaff. Let us ing merits, and its undisguised defects. The Benefactors, though exceed- ingly interesting, might strike one as a little hard (for, after all, these clumsy benefactors have almost all of them the best intentions; it is better to give ill than not to give at all, and it might seem, to borrow Augiers witticism, as though the chief discovery of M. Brieux about charity, is that one had better not attempt it) were not the generous thought of the author made as clear as daylight by the careful juxtaposition of two remarkable scenes. The first is where the workman Pluvi- nage comes to Laudrecy for comfort and counsel, and is briefly dismissed with a five-franc piece. The second is where the same workman tells his master the woful tale of his wifes death, and the master, entirely over- come, grasps the poor fellows hand and lets him sob on his shoulder. These two episodes may not be the most novel in the work but their les- son is unmistakable. That lesson is, that charity, or, more correctly, alms-giving, however abun- dant, and even were it possible, which it is not, to give it an organization less hard and fast than that of a govern- ment office, is never enough. There is need, beside, of kindness, open- heartedness, and a familiar intercourse between rich and poor. A little humil- ity even might not be out of place. In a story which I have read, and the purport of which was to develop a tru- ism analogous to that of M.Brieux, a rich man, after practising a lavish and contemptuous charity, becomes con- vinced of his mistake and expresses himself thus: Pascal was right when he said~ The poor must be served after the fashion of the poor. We must get inside their hearts, and not look down upon them for the degradation and the narrowness of mind, to which we too would have been reduced, had we been crushed by the same necessities. Let us love them at least for their res- ignation, remembering that if they were to rise in their united wrath they could sweep the rich off the face of look carefully for some lingering ves- tige in them of dignity, of nobility. Most of all let us serve them in his- mility. As we would resign ourselves to our own sufferings, even so must we resign ourselves to the misery of others, in so far as it offends our del- icacy. In attempting to relieve, we must not revolt against it; but accept it, as we accept the mysterious pur- poses of Him who knows the reason of things. The end of creation is not to produce plastic beauty, but to pro- mote moral goodness. There is a flavor of Christian mysti- cism about this, but any one may ac- cept,as I do fully,the more 1aica~ conclusions of M. Brieux. I would also remind him that attempts have already been made to realize his idea. In London, and even, I am assured, in Paris, fine ladies have elected to live intimately, and on a footing of equal- ity with the wives and daughters of the poor districts. They have a house, a sort oif modest club,where they dispense tea and ~kee and tailo, and where they go handsomely dressed, for the express purpose of showing that they put no force uuon themselves, but are there as veritable friends. Every west-end lady has her east-end fa. vorite, with whom she gossips as women will, who confides in her, and in whom she confides, whom she calls by a pet-name. Nor have I any doubt that there are excellent beings, who engage in this work with a touching good-faith. But I cannot help fearing that for every one who tastes in a re- union of this kind the pure joy of a return to simplicity, there are sev- eral light and inquisitive spirits, who merely go in for the fun of keeping low company, and the sensation of be- ing hand and glove for the moment, with some youthful outcast. What sort of things do they say to one an- other, I wonder, as they come away? Oh, how hard it is, in the fic~t place, to practise as much charity as we ought, and, in the second place, to practise it as we ought, and effica- ciously! And yet it ought to be very A ]Jfodern Morality. 58 easy, for it is all taught in the New Testament. It is most unfortunate that, over and above the selfishness which life itself infuses into indivd- ual men, the economic conditions of our huge modern societies and the wall of partition which they build up between the rich and the poor, render simply impossible the practice of the entire Gospel. Misery will never be eliminated until all men have bec~ue very good. I say aU, and all as good as possible. But the phrase as good as possible implies the renunciation of almost everything; a life conse- crated to others; a life, to all intents and purposes of sanctity. The admi- rable truth is, therefore, that humaii~ty tends toward the e~tinction of misery exactly in proportion as it tends toward interior perfection; and our spiritual and economic safety will he found to coincide on the e~treme limits of the ideaL It is well to think of these things and the works of M. Brieux which compels us to think of them, some- times very painfully, is worthy of all respect and approbation. Go and look upon this picture drawn by one who is often an excellent artist, and always a perfectly honest man. You will find it by turns amusing and in the best sense of the word edifying and you will occasionally have the added pleas- ure of gratifying some private an- tipathy by the method of applause. The Benefactors is played with con- summate ease and skill by M. Coque- un, and with remarkable talent by his son and others of his supporters. Translated for THE LIVING ACE from Jule Lemaitre. From The Speaker. THE PURITAN IN HISTORY. Mr. S. R. Gardiner, in the first of the Ford lectures on Cromwell, with which he has been instructing and charming Oxford, spoke of Puritanism as a sort of backwater in the main The Puritan in History. stream or volume of English thought and life. It is easy to mistake the meaning of a lecturer who speaks out of his vast wealth of knowledge to an audience much less specially informed than himself, and mistake is still more easy when one whose strength lies in his mastery of detail falls for the nonce into generalities, which are cer- tain to be interpreted in either too vague or too definite a sense. But what puzzled at least one of his hear- ers were the illustrations or proofs he used. They were more curious than conclusive. He cited three names to show what a small place Puritanism filled in the mind of Elizabethan and early Jacobean Englandthose of Shakespeare, Bacon, and Hooker. Hookers polity was indeed anti-Puri- tan, but his theology was not. Calvin was to him incomparably the wisest man that ever the French Church had enjoyed, since the hour it enjoyed him; and while he disagreed strenu- ously with the Genevan polity, yet with the theology which was its basis he was in all essentials at one. Bacon was, if anything, a latitudinarian and an Erastian, but nothing so little as a Laudian or a believer in any jure divino claim for any sacred or civil office, whether named priesthood or kingship. He is as clear as any Puri- tan as to the distinction between the visible and the invisible Church. His notes of the visible are the fa- miliar Puritan notes; and he distin- guishes the Chur6h and the Scriptures in a manner that would have satisfied ~ny Puritan. The one was the taber- nacle which had the custody and hand- ing down of the Scriptures; the other was the testimony which was the very soul of the tabernacle. The affinities, too, of his thought, as far as it con- cerned the relation of God to nature and man, were Puritan rather than Anglican. As to Shakespeare, what Church or system can claim him? He was a son of Elizabethan England, but how much of its history could we re- construct from his plays? What of the wonderful feats of the men who made the English name a terror on the high seas and laid the foundation of our naval supremacy could we learn from him? And what of the conflict with Spain and the fate of the Grand Armada, and the sudden awakening of England from an insular to a really large and catholic life? As a simple matter of fact, we know from him as little of the civil, the naval, or the mil- itary exploits of England in his own day, and even of its social and politi- cal conditions, as we know of its re- ligious. His mind may be a mirror of his world, but we can hardly describe his world as English save by the art or esoteric interpretation, which is as likely to be the creation of the inter- preters dreams as the reflections of the authors mind. We have indeed in his historical dramas great events of English history described, but they were the events of a day which pre- ceded his own, and their interest may well be said to be dramatici.e., hu- man rather than historical. It is hu- manity that interests him, its passions, its disappointments, its loves and il- lusions, its infinite complexity or temper and state, its infinite variety of character and motive and end. Shake- speare speaks for no party. All may claim him, but none can own him. He has the variety of the universal and its impersonality as welL He is the child of no sect, the spokesman of no tendency. He is larger than even his own large age, for he is man, and all that is human is akin to him. And so he can be as little cited to illustrate the tendency personified in Hooker as the ideas impersonated in Cartiwright. It was strange indeed to hear the two men, who represent neither of the dominant theological and ecclesiastical tendencies of their time, cited to prove the ephemeral character of one of them, and that the very tendency which the only Englishman of the period who can claim to be named be- side them distinctly embodied. Spen- ser, alike in the essence of his thought and his attitude to the clergy, was Puritan. We have but to recall his Aigrind, Archbishop Grindal, and his censure of the shepherds who 59 Matched themselves with mighty poten- tates Lovers of lordship, and troublers of states. His elaborate and involved allegories, each lying within and running through the other in rich profusion, disguise rather than express his meaning; but the ethical ideas that possessed him and that were the motive of all his poetry show him to have been thor- oughly penetrated with the Puritan spirit. In the next generation, when its creative power can be measured, we see it embodied not only in states- men like Eliot and Pym, Hampden and Cromwell, but in the man who of all the poets of our English tongue has most clearly the note of intellectualdis- tinction. For Milton is not only in the severity of his spirit and in his political associations, but in the whole attitude of his mind, in the texture of his character, in the convictions that he held with such impassioned strength. the Puritan par excelLence. And he is by no means the exceptional product he is often taken to be. In scholar- ship the foremost English classic was Thomas Gataker, and Gataker was a Presbyterianeven a member of the famous Westminster Assembly. An- other member of the same famous as- sembly was possibly the greatest of all English Hebraists, John Lightfoot. And we may say that the Cambridge Platonists were the true children of Cambridge Puritanism. What Gata- ker was on the side of classical litera- ture, they were on the side of classical thought. They were, all of them, formed in Puritan colleges by Puritan teachers out of Puritan men, and from the side of its thought they were legit- imate developments. Indeed, it would hardly be either a paradox or an ex- travagance were we to say we owe to Puritanism all that is most picturesque in the English thought and life of the seventeenth century. George Fox, indeed, as Mr. Gardiner suggested, represented a strong reaction against the harsher Calvinistic theology and the dry and formal worship which had then become too common; but in the The Puritan in History. 60 basis of his belief, in his doctrine of internal illumination, the light of the Divine Spirit in man, in his aversion to priests, in his conviction that the illuminated people were the vehicle through which God spoke and worked, Fox was essentially the child of Puri- tan tradition. His failure to see this es- sential affinity is one of the most serious defects in Dr. Hodgkins otherwise ad- mirable book. John Bunyan is a rep- resentative man if ever there was one in the England of his day, and he, like Fox, shows the degree in which Puri- tanism had penetrated the common nature of the English people, transfig- ured it, and possessed it with an ideal- ism and an imagination which had before seemed alien to all its temper and all its works. And in a field where it gets all too little credit for its achievements it contributed to form a distinctive English trait; it made and realized our idea of congregational worship. Our popular psalmody was largely its creati;on4he hymn it loved and inspired, and taught the congre- gation to feel that praise was not a matter (for the choir (and the highest act of worship no affair of the priest, but both alike the equal concern of the collective people. And from this has come all the highest poetry of our En- gush common life. It would be possible to illustrate ad inftnitu~n the right of Puritanism to be described as the central current of the great stream of English life, but it were too large a task to be here at- tempted. In a matter of this kind, of course, much depends on definitions. The distinctive element in Puritanism may be described as either a theology or a polity. It would be more correct to say that it was a polity built upon a theology. The theology was by no means peculiar to it. The Lambeth Articles, or for that matter even the authoritative xxxix, were more ex- treme in their Calvinism than the Scotch Confession of 1560. Then Whitgift was as much a Calvinist as Cartwright, Hooker as Travers. Where they differed was as regards the political doctrines which this the- The Puritan in History. ology involved. Two political ideas came logically from what is known as Calvinism. The first was that God was no respecter of persons, or, in other words, the equality of man be- fore him, and so the doctrine that of- ffice as office made no difference in his eyes to the value of the man. It was alien to the very notion of Calvinism that sanctity should belong as by di- vine right to certain persons because of the office they filled. The second idea was that it was through his elect that God lived in the world and gov- erned it; that therefore the religious society took precedence of the secular and could not by it be controlled. Out of the first principle came the idea that kings, courts, and magistrates held their office from God but through the people and for the peoples good. Out of the second principle came the idea that the State could not control the Church; that the Church was under the authority of its own Head, and that were the king as head of the State to interfere with the Church, he would intrude into a sphere where he was no sovereign but only a subject. The combinati,n of these two prin- ciples gave the Puritan movement its specially political character, though, of course, they did not both at once or all at once emerge into explicit and regu- lative potency. In Scotland they formed the basis at once of George Buchanans theory of monarchy and of Andrew Melvilles resistance to James VI., and in England they are the underlying assumptions, though not al- ways as consciously perceived and explicated principles, in the whole Puritan literature, from Cartwrights Admonition to Parliament to Mu- tons polemic against Salmasius. Of course another and qualifying idea came in which may be expressed thua viz., that there was a literaturewhich exhibited the truth as to these things and a society which was their most perfect embodimentthe literature and the Church of the New Testament.. Now it was this that became the basis of the entire civil struggle of the Puritans in England, and we may say that they have been governing ideas in the mind of the English people from then till now. And from this point of view it would be true to say that the Jacobean and Laudian movements were the backwater and the Puri- tan the main stream. For what was the fate of both the Stuart theory and practice in England. The first and immediate result was the civil war and the Puritan revolution. When the revolution had spent itself and the Stuart returned, he returned to exer- cise power for a single generation. He entered in 1660; he was finally dis- missed in 1688; and that dismissal was the ultimate result, for it signified the final breakdown of the theory, so far as the English people were concerned, alike in Church and State. I do not say, of course, that the Whig was a duplicate of the Puritan revolution, but I do not only say that the one made the other possible, but also that the Whig was the victory of princi- ples, though in a very imperfect form, which the Puritan had affirmed and made good. Where the Whig revolu- tion failed most completely was where the Puritan was most in earnestin the matter of the Church. From that failure we all suffer to~-day. It is the source of the perplexity which con- founds us in our present politics. The revolution of 1688 recognized that the monarchy must be broad-based upon the peoples will; that the institutions which expressed the collective life of the State must be in harmony with the minds it organized. But in its ec- clesiastical policy it made a double mistake; made the Church subordinate to the State and attempted to maintain an ecclesiastical system which only identity with the State would have justified. For while England is mo- narchical, it is not in the same sense or degree episcopal, and the attempt to maintain an ecclesiastical polity which exacts uniformity in a State where ecclesiastical uniformity has long been recognized to be impossible, involves a multitude of injustices which those who have suffered from them would be less and worse than human were 61 they slow to feel. This has a very present moralviz., If the policy Par- liament pursues in education pro- ceeded on the principle that there were as valid and as real religious societies outside as inside the Established Church, that the English Church in the only sense in which it is compatible with our civil constitution must be co- extensive with the English people, and that they, as a people, are quite ade- quate custodians, of their own re- ligious traditions and beliefs, well qualified and well disposed to vindi- cate and maintain the same by the ordinary methods and agencies of their public lifewe should have fewer bit- ter controversies, sweeter ecclesiasti- cal relations, and an early and reasonable settlement of the many questions touching the management of the schools for the people. But the Puritan revolution will not be finally accomplished till the independence of the Church from the State in all that concerns the Churchs real and inner life be affirmed and recognized within the realm of England. A. M. FAIRBAJEN. From The Saturday Review. RECOLLECTIONS OF COVENTRY PATMORE. Coventry Patmores work as an au- thor is conspicuous and permanent; but as a man he was less widely known than most of his literary rank, and from his changes of residence, en- vironment, and opinion, he was beheld under very different lights by those who at various periods enjoyed his acquaintance. My acquaintance with him extended over what was, perhaps, the most interesting part of his life, and for a long time almost amounted to intimacy; it may not, therefore, be amiss to offer a few reminiscences while the feelings aroused by his loss are fresh and vivid. When I came, a mere lad, to work in the Library of the British Museum, I was introduced to all my colleagues Recollections of Coventry Patmore. :-~ - 62 with one, doubtless accidental, excep- tion. I was some time before finding out who the tall, spare, silent man was who, alone of the assistants, sat in the Kings Library; who, though perfectly urbane when he did converse, seemed rather among than of the rest of the staff, and who appeared to be usually entrusted with some exceptional task, now cataloguing a mighty collection of sermons from the Kings Library gal- lery, now the pamphlets of the French Revolution. His diligence was cer- tainly exemplary, though he was not considered a particularly able assist- ant from the librarians point of view, and made no pretensions to extensive linguistic attainments or bibliographic lore. I came in time to know that he was a poet, but hardly recognized as such by his colleagues, and I was as unable as they to make anything of his poems of 1844, then only accessible in the first crude version. Tamerton Church Tower, or rather its appen- dages, conveyed more to me; and my acquaintance with him, till then of the slightest, became intimate when I ventured to express to him my appre- ciation of The Betrothal (1854). I presumed, however, to find some fault with what appeared to me the uneven- ness of some of the verses, and the imperfection of some of the rhymes. I well remember the seriousness with which he took my boyish criticism, and the earnestness with which he ad- jured me to declare, did I think him careless or negligent? No? then I might think as I pleased about the verses; but an imputation of poetical slovenliness he would never submit to. This was the prelude to a long series of conversntions, in which I learned lessons invaluable for prose as well as verse. All the faults to which a young writer is most prone found in him a severe censor and an unanswerable an- tagonist. The subordination of parts to the whole, the necessity of every part of a composition being in keeping with all the others, the equal impor- tance of form with matter, absolute truth to nature, sobriety in simile and metapuor, the wisdom of main- Recollections of Coventry Patrn ore. taming a reserve of powerthese and kindred maxims were enforced with an emphasis most salutary to a young hearer just beginning to write in the heyday of the spasmodic school. I discovered after a while that my teacher did not always exemplify his own precepts; that his one principal work was an assemblage of detached beauties without true vital unity; but I saw, too, that this was from no infidel- ity to his own creed, but from lack of faculty to exemplify it as he would have wished; that, although a poet, he was not an artist. I found the same inability to combine separate excel- lences into a whole to pervade his crit- icism; his strictures on single passages were almost infallible, but he seemed unable to obtain a just view of an au- thor as a whole. If there be truth in phrenology, his head must have wanted the organ of Sublimity. He seemed comparatively insensible to the grandeur of even the greatest poets, but no one possessed a more exquisite discernment of their more subtle and recondite beauties. Goethes Faust, for instance, did not appeal to him; but he was enthusiastic, as well as discriminating, in his praise of the same poets Alexis and Dora. His attitude towards contemporary poetry was negativefar too much so. He would not unfairly run down the works of others, but I never could be- lieve that he took much pleasure in them. He reproved me seriously for overpraising the first poems of Wil- liam Morris in a journal to which we both contributed. I had, he said~ screwed the pitch of the paper a note too high, and he should be obliged to give all subsequent poets more praise than they deserved to put them into their true relative position towards the young pre-Raphaclite. At the same time, his judgment in these things as well as in political matters was liable to gusts of paradox and caprice. I have known him extravagantly extol a very middling poet on the strength of a single line that had taken his fancy. I should not do justice to his endowments either as critic or poet Recollections of Coventry Patmore. if I omitted to mention his extraordi- nary keenness as an observer of na- ture. Nothing seemed to escape him; the descriptions in his poems are ac- curate to the minutest detail; and he was no mere observer of natural phd- nomena, but meditated profoundly on their problems. I once heard him hold forth eloquently on the thesis that the apparent confusion of the starry heav- ens must be the most beautiful order if we could only see it, and not long afterwards read in the MS. of Faith- ful for Ever: The bright disorder of the stars Is solved by music. After we had become in a measure intimate, Patmore fell into a habit of showing me his neiwly written verses, and was always most indulgently ready to look at mine. His composi- tion was rapid. 1 have frequently seen twenty or more lines which he had written, he said, in the last half-hour, and refashioning was rarely needful, though he was an unwearied corrector in minor details. In these minutise I was, I think, of some service to him; and I believe it was at my instance that the change of a note of exclama- tion into a note of interrogation was made which obliterated the unreason of the first version of Tamerton Church Tower. It was natural that I should become a visitor at his house, and see the choicest of his possessions, his wife. This admirable lady, her husbands apotheosis notwithstanding, never impressed me as an Angel, but rather as a queen ruling by love and wisdom, a creature not too bright or good for human natures daily food, wise, witty, frank, gracious, hospitable, without flaw or blemish that I could ever discover, but per- fectly at home in this terrestrial sphere. Yet the advance of consump- lion, of which she must have been fully aware, seemed to throw no shadow upon her spirit, and the care of her numerous young family ap- peared to cause no effort or uneasi- ness. Her appearance is well described by her husband, when he sings Her Norman face, Her large brown eyes, clear lakes of love. The expenses of her illness, and of a family of six children, were very try- ing to Patmore, but he fought them bravely by the help of reviewing work, which, from his unfortunate want of interest in contemporary literature, was singularly distasteful to him. Yet there was enough to give the house an air of distinctionvelvet chairs, well- bound books, drawings by Rossetti, Hunt, and Millais. There was no os- tentation, but just enough to bespeak refined taste and lofty self-respect, and a willingness to submit to some privation for their gratificationthe same feeling which in later and more opulent years sent Patmore to the best portrait-painter south of the Tweed. The company was choice as well as the furniture. Ido not remember hav- ing met an uninteresting person, and I have recollections of frequent en- counters with Woolner and the tiwo Rossettis. I remember discussions on Walt Whitman, anticipating much that has been said since; and on Mad- dine Smith, whom the young men of taste and genius of that day were dis- posed to regard as a modern Joan of Arc, inasmuch as she was thought to have poisoned her lover. Poor and proud, and always ready to deem him- self undervalued, Patmore did not go much into society. I have heard him speak, however, of meetings with Car- lyle and Ruskin, Browning and Pal- grave. The three latter were num- bered among his friends, and he was at one time intimate with Tennyson, the manuscript of whose In Memo- riam he rescued from the kitchen of a lodging-house. I may give one anecdote illustrative at once of his humor and his sensitiveness. He had been asked to meet a popular novelist, with a clear hint that the latter was esteemed the bigger lion. I suppose, he said to me, that I ought to feel as proud as a cods head and shoulders brought to the same table as a pheas- cant. He was proud, though not ex- actly of that. But be it recorded to his honor that I never heard him ex 64 press so much satisfaction at anything as the thought that, notwithstanding the strain upon his slender means, Mrs. Patmore had wanted for nothing in her illness. She could not, he said, have been better cared for if she had been an empress. The crotchety side of Patmor& s mind found ample development in his views on politics, where he was pe- culiarly unprofitable. He would dog- matize to any extent, but seemed un- able to produce an argument; and, although painting what he deemed the evils of the time in the blackest colors, he would not take the least practical step to remedy them by so much as voting at an election. Spia- cente a Dio ed ai nemici suoi. Of his religious views I will only record that some years before he joined the Church of Rome, he told me that he believed the bulk of the nation would become Roman Catholic ere long. I said that I thought this improbable. He seemed surprised and added that he for his part would have no objection to profess himself a Roman Catholic but for the denial of the cup to the laity, which he could not digest. I am perfectly certain, however, that he would never have taken this step if the first Mrs. Patmore had lived. Au reste, he might call himself Roman Catholic or Protestant as he pleased, Recollections of Coventry Bairn ore. but he was not and never could be anything but a Patmorean. Many a man has been burned for less than his letter to the Omar Khayyam Club, written only a few days before his death. Patmores retirement from the mu- seum and residence in the country drew us apart, and although there was no interruption of mutual regard, our meetings were comparatively infre- quent. I have confined these remi- niscences to the period when I knew him intimately. In endeavoring to sketch the man I have in a measure conveyed my opinion of his writings. Neither The Angel in the House nor the Odes are quite satisfactory as wholes; the foundations of the former are sandy, its view of domestic rela- tions is open to grave exception, and it remains incomplete because it could not be completed. The Odes are enveloped in a cloud of mysticism. But these imperfections are more than redeemed by exquisite and surprising beauties of detail; and if the writer had possessed a more equable and symmetrical genius, he would hardly have exhibited the depth of insight, the energy of thought, or the intensity of descriptive power in which, among his contemporaries, he is rivalled only by Browning. R. GARNETT. The story of the late Sir John Millais, which follows, is told by a correspond- ent of the Chrowtcle in the painters own words: I found myself seated one evening at a rather grand dinner next to a very pretty gushing girl to whom I had not been introduced. She fired into conver- sation directly she had finished her soup, and as it was May, began with the inevitable question, I suppose youve been to the Academy? I replied that I had. And did you notice the Millais? Didnt you think they were awful daubs? I cant imagine how such things ever get hung! She was going on gaily in the same strain, while I sat si- lent, when suddenly the amused smiles of those around her, and the significant hush, brought her to a sudden stop. She, colored rather painfully, and whis- pered to me in a frightened voice, For heavens sake what have I done? Have I said anything dreadful? Do tell me. Not now, I replied; eat your dinner in peace, and Ill tell you by and by. She did so rather miserably, vainly trying to extract from me at intervals what the matter was, and when dessert came I filled up her glass with cham- pagne and tQld her to gulp it down very quickly when I counted three. She obeyed without protest, and I took the opportunity when she couldnt speak to say, Well, I am Milflas. But lets be friends! Academy.

THE LIVING AGE. Sixth Series, From Beginning, Volume xiii. N 274O4anuary 9, 1897. Vol. CCXII. CONTIF~NTS. I. As OTHERS SEE Us. By Alfred Fouill& ~. Translated for The Living Age, II. GERMANYS FOREIGN PoLIcY. By E. J. Dillon III. THE INFLUENCE OF MACHIAVELLI ON THE REFORMATION IN ENGLAND. By W. Allison Phillips IV. BIRDS AND MAN. By W. H. Hudson, V. BEHIND DIKES AND DUNES, VI. MATHURIN, A SINNER OF PONTIAC By Gilbert Parker VII. TEE ROMAN CHURCH IN FRENCH FICTION, VIII. OUT OF TUNE. By Alexander L. Riel land. Translated from the Norwegian for The Living Age, by Helen G. Green- wood IX. APROPOS OF SOME AUTOGRAPHS. By Augustine Birrell, . . . Speaker, Revue des Deux Mondes, Fortnightly Review. Nineteenth Century, Lonymans Magazine, Blackwoods Magazine. Pall Mall Magazine, Macmillans Magazine,. POETRY. DAYBREAK CREEPS, PIPER PLAY~ DISPOSSESSED, 66 ONLY A BIT OF LAND-LOCKED 66 BAY, 66 66 SUP P L.E M EN T. READINGS FROM AMERICAN MAGAZINES: RELICS OF HISTORIC ROME, . 129 THE NATURALIZATION OF WORDS, 130 A GENERAL OUTGE& ERALLED, 134 THE HUGO LETTERS, . . . 137 THEATRE-GOING INST. PETERS- BURG 138 MAGIC VERSE, . . . 140 THE STRIFES OF 1896, . . . 142 GRANT AS A CADET, . . . 143 Two BITS OF VERSE, . . . 144 READINGS FROM NEW BOOKS: THE ARTIST OF BURNING ROME. By Henryk SienkwiewiCz, . 145 JAMES WARREN TO HIS WIFE. By Alice Brown, . . . 148 R. L. S. By J. M. Barrie, . 152 OLD WORLD NOTIONS ABOUT THE NEW. By Edward lEggleston, 155 A JAPANESE DINNER. By William Eleroy Curtis, . . . 157 POEMS OF JOHANNA AMBROSIUS. By Mary J. Safford, . . 158 BOOKS OF THE MONTH,. . 160 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY THE LIVING AGE COMPANY, BOSTON. 67 72 84 93 99 112 116 123 126 Daybreak Creeps, etc. DAYBREAK CREEPS. Daybreak creeps From the heart of the hill; The fields are chill Where the reaper reaps; Ere the birds awake while the dew lies still My love is the sloth of a pain that sleeps. Noon at crest, And the hills in heat; The swallows are fleet But the reapers rest: Shadows of corn lie over their feet, My love is a shadow against my breast. Night returns To the reaper rest, To the bird its, nest In her woods and ferns. Earth is a shadow beneath nights breast, My love is the light of a fire that burns. ~Daylight breaks From the heart of the hill; Earth lies chill Whom the night forsakes; Ere the birds arise, while the dews lie still, My love in my heart is a pain that wakes. LAURENCE HOIJSMAN. PIPER PLA~! NoW the fui~ii~ces are out,, And the aching anvils sleep; Powi~ the road the grimy rout Tr~irnples homeward twenty deep. 1?iper, play! Piper, play! Though we be oerlabored men, Pipe for~rest, pipe your best, Let us foot it once again! Bridled looms delay their din; All the humming wheels are spent; Busy spindles cease to spin; Warp and woof must rest content. Piper, play! Piper, play! For a little we are free! Foot it, girls, and shake your curls, Haggard creatures though we be! We are of the humblest grade; Yet we dare to dance our fill: Male and female were we made Fathers, mothers, lovers still! Pipersoftly; low and soft: Pipe of love in mellow notes, Till the tears begin to flow, And our hearts are in our throats. JOHN DAVIDSON. DISPOSSESSED. My joys turned ~skyward from their courses even, Caught in the wind of loves unearthly breath, Rose to the radiant privacy of heaven From me, uncrowned beneath, To match their lights with Ariadnes seven. And proud was I to search the dazzling height, For gems once close about my human brow, No more regardful of a mortals right: But I am weary of the vigil now, And stars are only visibleat night. WINIFRED LucAs. ONLY A BIT OF LAND-LOCKED BAY. Only a bit of land-locked bay, With a haunting face on the further side; Yet the ocean as well might bar the way, So far from each other our lives divide. For you jest at times, and at times you pray, And you tread a path that cannot be mine; And the world is with you from day to day, And all that you are I dare not divine. AUBERON HERBERT. From Tlie Revue des Deux Mondes. AS OTHERS SEE US. The judgment of neighboring, and especially of rival nations is a needful check to that which we pass upon our- selves. It has the advantage, more- over, of enlightening us about the improvement or deterioration which may have taken place in our own char- acter; although we have to make al- lowance of course and often a big allowancefor national prejudices, jealousies, and passions. The French, says Ma~hiavelli in his life of Castra- cani,a work now easily accessible to all Italian youth, The French are in- trepid, rather than robust or able. If you can but resist the impetuosity of their first attacks they soon weaken, and lose courage, up to the point of becoming as timorous as women. (This seems rather strong)! More- over, he says, they are extremely im- patient of toil and hardship, and once disheartened they are easily surprised and overcome. He gives as an ex- ample the battle o1~ the Garigliano, and proceeds on this wise: If, therefore, you would get the bet- ter of the French, you must beware of that first impetuosity of theirs. If you can but pro- tract matters, you are sure of success. Machiavelli also charges the French soldier with a thievish disposition and with spending the money of others as lavishly as his own. He will steal to eat, to squander and for the mere fun of entertaining the man whom he has robbed. This last observation is rather acute; but does it not illustrate the sociable nature of the Frenchman and his pressing need of sympathy? He would sooner fraternize with the man whose head he had just broken, than with nobody. He is exactly the reverse of the Spaniard who hides for- ever out of sight what he has pilfered from you. Again he hits off the ner- vous-sanguine temperament off the French: They are so pre-occupied with present good or ill, that they for- get both the insults and the benefits which they have previously received, and coming good or evil is nothing to 67 them. I am not so sure about our readiness to forget benefitsthough the benefits which we have received from other nations are easy to enu- merate; but I should not question the promptitude with which we forget an outrage, unless it be kept constantly before our minds by some question of right or of humanity. It is not our custom to go back to Couradin and Brennus in order to explain the prin- ciple of our antipathies. If the Ger- mans had only beaten us, without trampling on the law of nations by mutilating our country, the Franco- German war would have been as com- pletely forgotten to-day, as the Crimean war against Russia, or even the great wars with England. We acknowledge the resemblancethe physiognomy at once French and gauloisein an ob- servation like this of Machiavellis. They recount their defeats, as though they had been victories! ThOre yoit have the true, buoyant French imagi- nation, expansive, eager to attract at- tention; and the writer proceeds to emphasize yet further our tendency to optimisim by the remark: They have an exaggerated idea of their own pros- perity, and quite look down on that of other nations. Finally he reproaches us with fickleness and levity. They keep their word after the fashion of conquerors. The first engagement one makes with them is always the safest. Besides not being altogether deserved, this accusation seems an odd one on the part of an Italian, and particularly of Machiavelli! All forcl~neus unite in remarking upon our traditional teadiness to take it out in fine talk rather than in ac- tion or in reasoning. The Italian, says the Abbd Galioni, play~ ~witli words, but the Frenchman i~ their dupe. A German psychologist ba~ said of us that ihetoric which is merely an orn,ament for an Italian is an argument with a Frenchman. One of the most scathing critics we ever had was Gioberti. In his famous book on the Primato, he charges the French nation with levity, frivolity, vanity and boastfulness. Our books, As Others See Us. As Others See Us. ~68 ~according to him, are carelessly writ- ridiculous habit of bragging. They ten, shallow, and deficient in wit. describe their own revolutions as This was near the close of the eigh- Cosmic. Gioberti says furthermore teenth century; but how about Des- that we have replaced love of country c~artes, Pascal, and Bossuet? Mans by love of the antipodes; and are al- highest quality, Gioberti goes on to ways parading our adoration of the say, is will. Now the will, among human race. This merciless indict- Frenchmen, is weak and variable. ment concludes by saying that France The genius of Napoleon Bonaparte, enjoys in Europe, and especially in wbo was every inch an Italian, Italy, a reputation for mendacity found in France the most facile and which is due in part to the character convenient instrument for his gigantic of the French language, a poor, weak, designs. The French, who go by unmelodious, ineffective, idiom, and leaps and bounds, and pique them- partly to the ingenuity which the selves on their initiative appreciate French have displayed in appropriat- keenly in others the tenacity of pur- lag the thoughts and discoveries of pose which they do not possess, and others, and marking them with the by which alone they can be governed, stamp of their own frivolity. Characters which are both impres- Leopardi, who hated us almost as sionable and indolent are always those bitterly as Gioberti, speak~ of the su- which are easiest dominated and en- perficiality of that charlatan among slaved by strong and obstinate na- the nations, and elsewhere in a fa- tures. Gioberti adds that after a mous verse, of Francia fceterata e few years Napoleon became intoxi- nera. The milderji~dgments of Oavour cated by success; so that, whereas, at are well known. He defined the the outset he had pursued the Italian French intellect as logic subservient method, which consists in uniting to passion and the Italian diplomatist great prudence to great audacity, later, added ironically that it is a mark of in his blindness, he attempted to gov- French logic to fly into a passion; em with true French fs& ria; that is to especia fly after circumstances have say by abrupt, extravagant, disorderly changed. and destructive methods; the conse- According to Joseph de Maistre the quence being that it took him fewer most prominent feature of the French months to lose his crown than it had character, is its readiness to adopt new taken him years to win it. Gioberti ideas; its chief defect, the impatience represents the French as absolutely which preventis it from examining deficient in the two qualities needful them severally and minutely in order for wielding the sovereignty of the to form general theories upon them. world; and which Italy, be it observed, The Frenchman, he says, proceeds possesses, namely: in the intellectual after a fashion directly the reverse of order, creative power combined with the only sound philosophical method, profound reflection; and, in the prac- that of induction. They begin by tical judgment, tenacity, patience and stating what they call general truths, resolution. The Italians, it appears, founded upon vague perceptions tire m~de of aristocratic stuff; the those glimmerings of ideas which so French, of plebeian. The French- often cross the mind, and hence they man belongs to the populace, by his draw endless conclusions. Hence light and mobile temper, his versatil- those forms of expression so common ity and inconstancy. Moreover vanity, among them, great thought, great the daughter of levity, is a defect idea, to see broadly, to think peculiar to inferior beings, women, largely. This quality of mind is al- children, and the lower orders gen- ways impelling a Frenchman to begin erally. The Romans did not expa- with results. He regards his defect as tiate; they acted; while the French, the a mark of genius; and it is by no champion liars of the world, have a means uncommon to hear it said, in As Others See Us. France, of some system or other, It may be erroneous, but it is none the less a vast conception. It argues genius in the a.uthor. And after re- calling the fact that Newton pondered for twenty years over the problem of gravitation, our satirist adds: No such miracle of patience and wisdom will ever be wrought in France. But he never knew Le Verrier, Claude Ber- nard or Pasteur. The opinion of Bonaparte is highly important, for, as a matter of fact, he was an Italian, who began by de- testing France, and ended by identify- ing himself with her genius. You Frenchmen, said Bonaparte to his contemporaries, You are incapable of desiring anything strongly except equality; and you would readily re- nounce even that, if each one of you could be first Every man ought to have the hope of rising; something on which to feed his vanity. The auster- ity of a repuibliean r~girne would have wearied you to death. . . . Liberty is only a pretext. It is the need of a small class endowed by nature with gifts above the common and for that very reason susceptible of restraint. These profound reflections, tending to slightly Machiavellian applications, re- veal one of the ruling methods of the Napoleonic policy. The German philosophers have done us more justiceall except Schopen- hauer with his famous gibe. The other quarters of the globe have apes. Europe has Frenchmen. But Schopen- hauer has said worse than that, of his own countrymen! The true regener- ator of German philosophy, the ad- mirer of Rousseau and the French Revolution, the great Kant, was con- tent with no snap-judgment. He went into the question thoi~oughly and he describes the French as essentially communicative, not from motives of self-interest but by a spontaneous im- pulse. Hence graceful attentions, a helpful kindliness, and the uni- versal philanthropy which renders such a people worthy to be loved. The French are usually fond, he thinks, of other nations. They es teem the English, for instance, while the Englishman, particularly if he has never left home hates and do~ spises a Frenchman. Rousseau had already described France that amia- ble and gentle people which is hated by all other nations but which hates none(!) The reverse of the medal, according to the German philosopher, is a vivacity not sufficiently controlled by sound principles and, in spite of luminous intelligence, a certain levity of mind. This was true enough in the eighteenth century. The philoso- pher goes on to remark upon a pas- sion for change which tends to tho abolition of certain things merely be- cause they are old; or rather perhaps, because they have been over-esti- mated and on that spirit of revolt from authority which involves reason itself, and which generates an un- bridled and all-destructive enthusi- asm. According to Kant, the merits of the French national character are es- pecially conspicuous in all that con- cerns woman. In France, he says, women might have a greater influence over the conduct of men, in the way of inspiring them to noble deeds, than anywhere else in the world, if only the national spirit were a little more carefully cultivated. And after re- gretting that the Frenchwoman of his day had not kept up the tradition of Jeanne dArc and Jeanne Hachette, he adds the charming bon-mot, It is a pity the lilies do not spin. But Kant was full of confidence in -the future of feminine influence and the admirable effect woman was to have upon national morality, and his last word upon the subject is, Not for all the world would I say with Rousseau, that a woman is but an elder child. Now the question is whether that na- tional character, upon certain of whose traits, all the various witnesses whom we have called, agree, has changed in the second half, and par. ticularly in the last quarter of the present century. This is in fact the charge preferred by those who accuse us of psychological degeneracy. On 70 the one hand we have an Italian soci- ologist, and on the other a German dabbler in psychology branding Us in one breath with intellectual degenera- tion. Have they, as they fondly sup- pose, employed, in the support of their charge, a strictly scientific method? ~ We will return to Mr~ Max Nordau presently; but first let us examine the accusations of the Italian sociologist. In a study of ~social pathology form- ing part of the first volume of his Corso di Sociologia, and first pub- lished in the excellent Revista di filosofla Scientifica in April, 1889. M. A. de Bella hats formally made the diagnosis of our decay. According to this pessimistic practitioner the path- ological element which has filtered down through the strata of French character, is an exaggerated amour- propre, coinciding, at times with van- ity, at others, with pride, but always with intolerance, cruelty and C~sar- ism. He adds that all these faults in- volve a fundamental contradiction; in theory, lofty principles, often in ad- vance of their time; in practice, a complete lack of any principle of die,- nity, or even in many cases of equity. The author then presents his report of our case: First. Pride and vanity. The First Republic, under the consulate of Na.- poleon I. institutes the order of the Legion of Honor. (Observe, it was the French Republic, not the Italian Bona- parte who founded this order of vanity!) The First Republic instead of surrounding herself with equal sister republics, sets up sundry miniature republics, to be disposed of at her own pleasure, such as the Cisalpine, the Ligurian, the Parthenopean. . . The Second Empire directs the destinies of Europe on the same spirit of pride. Italy is treated like a French prefec- ture. . . . (Is this all that France did for Italy during the Second Em- pire?). . . After destroying the re- public of Mexico Napoleon III. estab- lishes an empire there under Maximilian of Austria. . . . Alt the French poets, Victor Hugo included, speak of Paris as the brain of the world. In As Others See Us. all French romances, you will find a fellow-citizen of Rochefort who exter- minates a dozen Germans or Italians with one sweep of the sabre or breaks the heads of ten Englishmen with one blow of the fist. Second. Intolerance and Cruelty. Under Louis XVI. the populace of Paris immolates Foulon, Berthier, etc. Then follows the classic tableau of the Terror. Intolerance and cruelty, it appears, are quite unknown in Italian history. . . The third great symptom of our national danger, the contradic- tion between our theory and our prac- tice, is illustrated as follows. Thi first French republic slew the Vene- tian republic; the second has stran- gled in blood the republic of Rome. All France is howling for Alsace and Lorraine, but not a soul there would permit the restoration of Nice and Cor- sica to Italy(!) The anti-clerical and atheistical third republic, takes Ori- ental Christians under its protection.~~ Such are the chief symptoms of the malady which threatens our national life. Yet the author of the Course of Sociology sympathizes with us in the main. France, he admits, is a great nation. In the arts and sciences, she is on a level with the first in Eu- rope. France is, abdve all, a nation of strong initiative, and this is why her decadence would be an irreparable loss to Europe. But if this is the way we were estimated and judged sine li-a et studio by Transalpine philoso- phers and sociologists in the days of Crispi, fancy the prodigious misunder- standing which must have prevailed during the last few years among the masses of our neighbor nation; and which is, we devoutly hope, about to disappear! In attempting to depict the France of the last few years, M. de Bella has unconsciously described merely the state of the Italian mind toward our country; and one may take leave, to inquire whether that very state of mind has not been more or less pathological. It appears, how- ever, to have been simply political. When he compares Corsica to Alsace- Lorraine, the author sheds far more As Others See liT5. light upon the hidden purpose of his own rulers, than upon ours; while as to protecting the Oriental Christians, it might have been well for Italy if she had relieved us of that duty, with- out considering whether or no such action would have been inconsistent with her Anti-papal policy. In any case, if we had shown no other sign of psychical degeneracy than this, the murdered folks might all be in good health to-day. It is, however, our contemporary lit- erature, our poets and our novelists, who have procured us the heaviest ac- cusations of degeneracy. Let it be granted that our decadents,who are already out of fashion!would have taken us back to the literature of the most primitive~ savages; to those vague successions of visions which may just as well be read backiward as forward; to those alliterations and assonances and verbal quibbles, which abound in the songs of Papuans, ilottentots and Caffirs. This Is literature fallen into its second childhood. But who cares for experiments like these; vgry few of which, moreover, are made in good faith, deliberate nonsense, delirium in cold blood? A literature should not be judged by the antics of a few blas6 individuals, rather than by its ordi- nary undress garb. The well-known indictment of M. Max Nordau against our contemporary literature is hardly more convincing than M. dc Bellas of our national character. According to M. Nordau, our worst symptoms, which, however, he finds prevalent all over Europe, ap- pear in an aggravated form in our poets and novelists. They are ego- tism, mysticism, and the false realism of obscurity. M. Nordau defines mys- ticism an incapacity for attention, clear thought, and the control of sen- sation produced by an enfeeblement of the higher cerebral centres. Under this pompous phraseology, borrowed from the sciences, there appears to be something not quite scientific. Again: Egotism is the result of imperfectly conductive sensorial nerves; dull cen- tres of perception; instincts perverted by the lack of sufficiently powerful impressions; and a vast predominance of organic sensations over representa- tive images. This is why your daugh- ter is born deaf and dumb. What possible information is to be derived from this tableau uosologique worthy of Moliere? Are our poets and men of letters any more egotistical than they were in the days of Ren~ and Werther? In any case it is only a natural conse- quence of the uncertainty in which all objective and impersonal doctrines are involved at the present time. The absence of a common faith turns mens thoughts inward upon themselves. Pathology hais nothing to do with it. As to the obscene realism which cannot be too strongly de- nounced, and to which our police are culpably indifferent, go back to the Middle Ages, or even, to the latest cen- turies. Review the popular and mid- dle-class literature of the olden time. Think of the hardness, the radical im- morality of the vel e gauloise! Even the choice spirits of other days had innumerable vices alongside their vir- tues. Was the literature of the most cultivated classes, especially in the eigbteenth century, any less immoral than now? Finally, under the rubric of mysticism, M. Nordau classes among our maladies, every aspiration toward an ideal world, all pre-occupa- tion with anything outside the narrow round of positive science. To those who claim that science has shown it- self wanting upon the moral and re~ ligious side, he replies by reciting a catalogue of all the latest discoveries concerning the constitution of matter, heat, the unity of force, spec- trum-analyses, geology,. paleontology, chromo-photography, instantaneous photography, and all the rest of it, winding up with the exclamation, And still you are not satisfied! No, we are not; for we have a higher ambition. Spectrum analysis gives us some information about the metals present in the stars, but none concern- ing the true worth and end of exist- ence. He, says M. Nordau, who demands of science a bold and confi Germanys Foreign Policy. dent answer to all the questions of idle and restless minds, will neces- sarily be disappointed for she does not profess to meet such demands. Well and good! You admit then that there are questions upon which positive sci- ence must needs be mute. But is the anxiety which these questions imply concerning the proper employment of life, the marks of an idle, or a. rest- less mind? To classify as mystics and degenerates, all those whose minds and hearts are not completely satisfied by the railway and telegraph is to for- get that religion and philosophy, the collective philosophy of the human race, has always existed and will con- tinue to exist, so long as man shall ask himself, What am I? Whence came I? What ought I to do? What may I hope for? Far from being a mark of decadence these high pre-occupation.s have always characterized the eras of regeneration and of progress. When the mass of mankind feels an instinc- tive need of some theory of the world and of life, we have no occasion to conclude the presence of mystical de- lirium or even of an incapacity for attention produced by the enfeeble- ment of the cortical centres. Since M. Nordau is so fond of associating psychology and biology, he might have discovered a point of comparison in the instinct which impels even crea- tures who are still eyeless to turn toward the light. Introduce a ray of faint light into ~vater which contains protozoa, and they feel it and make for it, ais for an element of life and well-being. So the dimly conscious multitudes will turn toward any far away gleam, which seems to announce the coming of an ideal liberator. In literature, at this moment some- thing is passing away and something is beginning. That which is passing away is brute naturalism. That which is beginning seems to me to be a rec- onciliation between naturalism and idealism. This is all the conclusion fairly to be drawn from the more or less happy attempts of our sym- bolistes and d6cadons. French genius is by no means exhausted. And for the rest, if we have our de- tractors, there are also those abroad who judge us favorably. Under the title of Gallia Rediviva, M. Adolphe Cohn reviews in the Atlantic Monthly for 1895 the circumstances which lead him to believe in a regeneration of the French intellect. After showing that the old positivism and the old materi- alism are giving place on all sides to an earnest interest in high moral and social questions the author closes his paper with these hopeful words, It is a question whether France will ever again give in her adherence, as a na- tion. Whether France will ever again, as a national body, adhere to the dog- matic tenets of Christianity seems, to the writer at least, more doubtful than ever; but she is undoubtedly in search of some ideal form of inspiration, in the comforting sunshine of which all sincere minds may meet and rejoice; and is not such a search to be an- swered by the beautiful words of Frances deepest religious thinker, Pascal, If thou seekest Me, thou hast found Me already? Translated for The Living Age from the French of Alfred Fonilld. From The Fortnightly Review. GERMANYS FOREIGN POLICY. Nowhere is the wish so often father to the thought as in the sphere of news- paper politics, where proof is never called for and paper is patient of all things. Hence the marvels and mir- acles, that are ever taking place there. Peoples, individuals, institutions, lose there the essential characteristics that clung to them for generations and as~ sume others wholly different, as rapidly as the wretched guests of Circe. Statesmen who for years were as shrewd and shifty as the wise Ulysses become Simple Simons in the space of an hour, and whole nations whose lamb- like love of peace was eulogized to the skies but yesterday are branded as hungry wolves to-day. Thus, when the germanys Foreign Policy. 73 Triple Alliance was yet young, the very every department of sCience, physical man in the street, who ran as he re~td, and historical, in studies requiring or did not read at all, was well aware patient research, genial intuition, and in that Russia was the one enemy of all that mere discrimination that winnows men of good-will, and that honest, the chaff from the wheat, the sons of modest, Protestant Germany was the the Fatherland are well to the fore. No mainstay of peace and order on the Con- other people produce such numbers of tinent of Europe. No sooner, however, earnest monks of science, of men who had Kaiser Wilhelm dispatched his tele- withdrew from the busy world, re- gram to President Kruger than that nounce its pleasures, and give them- same man in the street grew suddenly selves wholly up to scientific research alive to the alarming fact that, after all, on an income hardly greater than that Short was the read friend, not of Goldsmiths country vicar. In no Codlin, and that the only blustering, country of Europe or the, world are scheming, and really dangerous power, there so many intellectual giants lost in on the Continent, was and is Germany. great cities or buried away in seques- Fortunately Prince Bismarcks damag- ered villages who, whatever else may lag disclosures followed very quickly on happen on the globe, are concerned only this discovery, and made it furthermore to keep the lamp of learning eternally clear, to our unfeigned delight, that the alig~ht. Nowhere else is education, power of that unscrupulous people, for elementary, intermediate, and high, evil or for good, is short-lived; for Ger- what it professes to be: thorough, ninny, distrusted by Austria, abandoned nicely adjusted to the end in view, sys. by Italy, hated by France, shunned by tematic, and free. England, and thwarted by Russia, now We are wont to sneer at the Germans stands forth in conspicuous isolation, as as slaves, in comparison with true irrevocably doomed as the, man who Britonis who ever will be free; and in sold his soul to the devil and sealed the purely political matters, it must be ad- compact with his blood. mitted that we have a decided ad- These crude notions may possibly cx- vantage over them. But startling as press irrational wishes, but they are the assertion may appear, it is none the certainly not exponents of established less a demonstrable fact that in respect facts. The Germany of Goethe and of that higher and highest boonscien- Schiller, of Kant and Schopenhauer, of tific libertythe Germans are at least Weber and Wagner, of Moltke and Von fifty years ahead of us. And to the Roon, of Helmholz and Rt~ntgen is not significance of this fact we are not yet yet diseased to the core, nor can it be cx- quite alive, though we are painfully pected to drop off as suddenly as Anus picking up ideas on the subject. In the heresiareb just to gladden the the Fatherland, scholars and peda- hearts of its enemies. The Fatherland gogues are not forced slavishly to coa- is tough yet, like Dickenss J. B., fine themselves to the teaching only of tough and devilish sly, and in no those theories which are found to dove- hurry to give up the ghost or the com- tail with received opinions. They enjoy bat. And, considering the extremely the priceless right of presenting and useful mission that has fallen to Ger- propagating the results of their own many, it would be bad tidings for researches, however rudely they may Europe were it otherwise. In spite of clash with traditional views, and how- all our withering denunciations of the ever rapidly they maythreaten to under- fair-haired Teuton, in his invidious mine ancient institutions.1 In order to capacity as underpaid clerk and com- mercial tactician, he has no serious 1 A very interesting case in point occurred in rival, all the world over, in the earnest 1888. herr H~rnack, then professor of theology at the little University of. Marburg, was invited to pursuit of ideals and the self-denying fill the same chair in Berlin. But the orthodox cultivation of science. In all branches party became alarmed and asked that the invita- of knowledge, abstract and technical, in tion be withdrawn. The Supreme Ecclesiastical 74 gauge the difference in this respect between our own land of liberty and the Teutonic Fatherland, we have only to draw a mental picture of what would happen if a theological professor of any of our universities made bold to play the pioneer and to put forward views as revolutionary as those taught by Well- hansen and Harnaek supposing his scientific researches~ had compelled him to adopt such. It is very easy for a nation of Gradgrinds and Cheerybles to underrate the enormous value of an advantage of this abstract kind, but only because it is very difficult to grasp the long chain of cause and effect which spans the gulf that separates the ab- stract from the concrete, the ideal from the real. In this country we pride ourselves on being practical; our compass is expe- rience, and our standard of value for all things spiritual or material, its worth in money. As a consequence, fraught with untold evil, our young men are taught, and they themselves aspire to learn, only those things which it is hoped it will pay them to know. Hence, too, we have much cramming for examinations and very little real study for self-culture. In Germany, on the contrary, love of knowledge for its own sake, apart from its practical and profitable utilization, is studiously in- stilled and successfully communicated to the rising generation, and the result is writ large, among other things, in the vast strides made by German commerce throughout the world. Their country bristles with technical schools, with commercial training colleges, and with special educational institutions for every kind of theoretical learning and practical skill, from the method of dairy farming to the theory of transcendental Council of Prussia claimed to be heard against Harnack, and based their claim on a cabinetorder issued by King Friederich Wilhelm IV., to the ef. fect that their opinion should be taken as to the antecedents and orthodoxy of ~any professor of theology invited to Prussia from a foreign uni- versity, Marburg being foreign at the date of the order. Bismarek, to his credit, threatened to re- sign if Ifarnacks election were not sanctioned. This settled the matter forever. Is such a state of things conceivable in England? Germanys Foreign Policy. resthetics. Their best statesmen are practical psychologists; their average ambassadors not only know the lan- guage, histbry, and literature of the countries to which they are accredited, but likewise the commercial advantages which may be obtained for German merchants there. System, order, thor- oughness, characterize everything they set their hands to, with the sole excep- tion of colonial enterprise, which needs that clearness of eye and steadiness of hand that only actual experience can confer. But is not the conduct of their foreign policy another glaring exception? Has not Germany been condemned out of her own mouth of such unheard-of duplicity as warrant English strictures and will render her diplomatic methods a by- word among nations for generations to come? Has she not; on her own con- fession, endeavored to sell~ Austria to Russia, Russia to Austria, and England to both, and this not so much for the purpose of providing for her own press- ing necessities as in pursuance of the dog-in-the-manger policy of hindering France from acquiring friends and allies? Has she not abandoned Italy to her fate after having first contributed to bring about her ruin, and have not her relations with this country consisted of a series of strenuous efforts to coax us to part with some of our colonial pos- sessions, followed by a number of determined attempts 10 bully us into territorial concessions? Certainly, these assertions have been repeated so often that most people in this country implicitly believe them, and point to them as the origin of our dislike of Ger- many and the Germans. But to what extent, and within what limitations, are they true? This is a question which should be solved by facts, not by bias, and least of all by the sentimentality which springs from kinship. An attempt to deal with it objectively, from a purely German point of view, may prove interesting, were it only as a change; especially as political consequences are wholly out of the question. An alliance between Great Britain and Germany was prob ably never so improoabie as at present, and if I may say so, never less de- sirable from a political poin:t of view. A cordial understanding with Russia seems to promise far more solid and more numerous advantages to either country; but whether even this is within i~ne range of practical politics, none but the ministers actually in power can determine. A rapprochement with Ger- many and the Triple Alliance, which once seemed more than feasible, has been since found to be a wild dream, which the most ardent Teuto-philes among us would certainly not choose the present moment to seek to realize. A purely academic interest, therefore, atraches to the work of picking off and unravelling such threads of method, as, in the light of our present knowledge, can be unwound from the complicated tangle of Germanys international rela- tions. The task is all the more difficult that two wholly distinct and, indeed, opposed systems of foreign policy have been successively followed since the war of 1870; that inaugurated by Bis- marck which lasted down to 1890, and the line struck out by his successors which is still on trial. It is not too much to say that the German Empire, founded by Count ills- marck, constitutes a miracle in the political domain to the full as wonderful as the marvel embodied in the existence of Holland is in the physical sphere. But the similarity ceases as soon as the question of their maintenance arises. Holland is shielded from the inroads of the sea by a machinery which, once set up, needs but little expense of labor and none of intelligence to keep it in- definitely going. Germanys national existence, on the contrary, has to be fought for daily and hourly; and every additional year it survives is, in some sort, a new ~riumph of statecraft, a fresh proof of the rare forethought which leaves practically nothing to chance. To keep tae youthful empire from being swallowed up by the ethnographical seas by which she is surrounded or threatened, is a problem outside the range of ordinary diplomacy, and one might as well hope to accom 75 push the task by the cut-and-dried methods of traditional statesmanship as to keep out the waves from Holland by means of a board containing the arms of the States. Exceptional aims call for exceptional means. With the ethics of the problem, I am not here con- cerned. It is quite possible, as certain English politicians have recently main- tained, that the sacred duty of a pa- triotic statesman of diplomatic duplicity, is to refuse to save it at all. But I fail to see why any such maxim should be binding in diplomacy and yet devoid of force in war; or why it should be applied to one country and not to an- other. We are not privileged to have two sets of weights and measures in matters of morals. The late Kaiser Wilhelm, in his first speech from the throne,1 said, and very truly said: It is not the destiny of Prussia peacefully to enjoy her acquired possessions. It is only by dint of strain- ing to the very utmost her moral and mental energies, by preserving the sin- cerity of her religious faith intact, by a combination of obedience and liberty, and by the development of her military strength, that she can hope to maintain her position in the world. And, dur- ing the thirty-five years that have elapsed since then, Prussiaand the empire which Prussia helped to create have verified th truth of that prophetic saying. They have gone on increasing their military resources, at the risk of causing a revolution at home; they have thwarted the designs of their false friends and open enemies by a series of measures which may be said~to smack of duplicity, but are admitted to have differed from the methods of other nations less in frankness than in fore- sight and ingenuity. Thus, it was a masterly stroke of diplomacy by means of which Bismarek kept Napoleon from moving during the seven weeks war in 1866. Yet it would have booted him nothing, had he not followed it up with another piece of cleverness, which is often characterized as sailing close to the wind, and sometimes as downright 2 In the year 1875. Germanys Foreign Policy. 76 jeception. Into the Treaty of Prague, which was concluded at the close of that war, France insisted upon the in- troduction of a clause stipulating that the southern German States should maintain in the future, as in the past, an international and independent position. This was an insidious move on the part of the emperor of the IArench, and was treated as such by the Germans. Bismarck consented, and the paragraph was admitted; but he had first taken the precaution to con- ciude separate offensive and defensive treaties with the Southern States. There was, it is true, nothing of the simplicity of a dove in this scheming and counter-scheming; but since when has diplomacy been marked by sim- plicity? And which nation has the right to cast the first stone? After having shifted the landmarks of history in 1870, and caused the at- tractive force of political gravitation to change its centre, Bismarck turned his attention to the maintenance of the new status quo. His incubation of schemes for every conceivalMe emergency was undoubtedly the shortest on record, his system of national defence the most comprehensive. The policy that re- suited was peaceful after the signing of the Treaty of Frankfort, or at any rate after the year 1875. It could not well be otherwise. Germany needed undis- turbed leisure to digest and assimilate the annexed provinces, whereas France was eager to strike a blow before her Alsatian friends were changed into Ger- man adversaries. Difficulties and dan- gers beset the statesman on every side; domestic friends combined with foreign enemies, misgivings were insidiously fostered as to the loyalty of certain of the States of the empire; former allies turned aside to sympathize with thevan- quished; Austrias attitude may be gauged by the circumstance that her neutrality during the war had to be guaranteed by Russia; England had been ready to join any European at- tempt to put pressure upon Germany, so as to obtain more favorable terms for France; the bulk of the Italian people sided with Prussias enemies, Garibaldi Germanys Foreign Policy. having given expression to the feelings of his countrymen when he offered his sword to the provisional government of France. It was under these bewilder- ing conditions that Bismarck was called upon to provide for the future safety of the youthful empire. And he successfully achieved the task. The two cardinal points in his comprehensive scheme were the isola- tion of France and the ~maintenance of cordial friendship with Russia. The pursuit of these aims constituted for twenty years the alpha and omega of German statesmanship. Even if there had been no vanquished France, thirst- ing for revenge, the primary duty of the German statesman at the head of affairs would still seem to be the assiduous cultivation of Russias good-will; and if there were no formidable Russia on her eastern frontier, it would none the less behove Germany to keep the republic isolated and friendless. In comparison with these two fundamental aims, her relations towards Great Britain, Italy, and the rest of Europe might well seem as mere dust in the bal- ance. Russia is, so to say, the sun in Ger- manys political solar system, and this for numerous reasons of sentiment and interest which it is needless here to enumerate. Russia and Prussia had been staunch friends for over a century, and some of the most glorious pages of the latters history would never have been written had the helpfulness of the former been less active or more dilatory. To mention but a few instances that suggest themselves to the minds of every well-informed newspaper reader: Russia was neither indifferent nor in- active when the burning question of occupying Holstein arose; she was benevolently neutral when Prussia de- feated and crushed Austria, even though, together with the subjects of the Hapsburgs, several of her own habitual allies had been brought to their knees; she heroically resisted Napo- leons repeated and ingenious attempts to oust Prussia in her friendship, and rejected the bribe offered in the shape of a slice of Turkey to be presented to Germanys Foreign Policy. 77 Greece ;1 during the Franco-Prussian a serious menace to Austria, and a bittei war she was not only benevolently disappointment to Russia herself. The neutral herself, but also coerced Treaty of Berlin, in which it ended, gave Austria into absolute neutrality; and rise to a feeling of great bitterness be- finally, on the conclusion of hostilities, tween the two countries, and the in- she thwarted the movement set on foot, sistance of Germany and Austria on the at first by Count Beust, and then by our Russian evacuation of Bulgaria bade own Foreign Office, to coax or compel fair to break up the friendship of gen- Bismarck to abate his pecuniary and erations. But Germanys need of territorial demands. Russia was so obvious and so pressing Those are but a few instances of the that the old Kaiser set out on a pilgrim- valuable services which Russia, as a age to the northern Canossa.2 where he friend and ally, could and did render succeeded in convincing the czar of his to her neighbor. The nature of the unchanged feelings of friendship, and deadly injuries, which she had it in her in preserving the peace of Europe. power to inflict at critical moments of The other fundamental aim of Bis- PrusPas national existence, can be mareks policy was to keep France en~ gathered fromthe~iistoryof her negotia- tirely isolated. Her bitter hatred of tions with France and Austria since the Germany and her platonic~. love for beginning of the century. It is clear democratic institutions sufficiently es- then that Germany needs the friendship tranged the Republic from the Autoc- of Russia in the future even much more racy. To prevent her from combining than in the past, were it on no other with Austria and Italy other steps were grounds than Russias enormous necessary, and the year in which Kaiser strength. The czar commands the larg- Wilhelm I. visited the Czar Alexander est army in the world, the number of II., at Alexandrove, was the~ birth-year his subjects is increasing at a rate un- of the Alliance between Austria and paralleled elsewhere, and his territory Germany, which was afterwards appar- is inviolable in virtue of a decree of ently strengthened by the adhesion of nature herself. In the customs tariff, Italy. By the term& of this treaty the seeing that Russia is a self-sufficing two countries promised to stand by each empire, he wields an instrument more other in case either was molested by deadly and destructive than the quick- Russia, and to preserve an attitude of est-firing guns. The ill-will of such a benevolent neutrality, should the attack neighbor would be formidable even to a come from any other power. This was nation supported by the friendship of the reward received by Germany in all Europe besides; but to a youthful return for the energetic support she had empire threatened by a vindictive and given to Austria in holding Russia to powerful neighbor in the west, it would the letter of the Treaty of Berlin, and be paralyzing in the present and compelling her to withdraw her troops disastrous in the future. Therefore, from Bulgaria. Italy, however, was whatever other friends Germany may still gravitating towards France, and in win or lose, whatever other advantages spite of her considerable deijt of grat- she may gain or forfeit, it seems evi- itude to Prussia, showed no signs of dent that she must follow in the lines desire to enter into closer r.elations with laid down by her first chancellor and the German Empire. On this, Bis- cultivate Russias friendship, coclte que marck, who had left nothing undone to coilte, or else pay the penalty. conciliate the Republic, encouraged it to his was not, perhaps, a very difficult seize upon Tunis, to which I~taly con- matter in 1870. It was much less easy sidered that she alone possessed any after the Russo-Turkish War, which serious claims. This move raised an came as a painful surprise to Germany, almost impassable barrier between 1 The island of Crete was offered as ~ sort of France and Italy, and in 1882 drove the wedding present to the czars sister, the queen of Greece. 2 Alexandrovo in Russia, on the German fron- tier. This was in September, 1379. Germanys Foreign Policy. enemies. The German chancellor might well regard this. fresh accession of strength to the Triple Alliance as a flattering testimony to his marvellous statecraft; but he must have been utterly purblind, had he viewed it as a serious set-off against Russias coldness. As a matter of fact, nobody was better able to gauge the net value, from a military and po- litical point of view, of each of his actual and possible allies, than Bis- marck. He must have known, there- fore, that the motives which moved the Italian people, or rather the house of Savoy, to break with France and throw in its lot with the Teuton element in Europe, sprang less from a sincere love of peace than from fear of an impend- ing war, hope of political advancement, and thirst of commercial profit. There was a general feeling at the time in Europe that war was imminent, afid there was a specific conviction on the part of Italys statesmen that France might pay off old scores for alleged in- gratitude, in which case Germanys military co-operation would stand them in very good stead. The cost of main- taining three surerfluous army corps was, therefore, in some sort the insur- ance money paid in view of positive risks and possible losses, and would have proved a profitable investment, had the event come off within a reason- able time. But it was hardly to be doubted that as years went on, and the peace of Europe remained undisturbed, a feeling of disappointment must result, and produce a revulsion of Italian senti- ments. For while it is quite reasonable, and may be highly profitable to pay a heavy premium for the insurance of a house during the actual bombardment of the city in which lit is situate, it smacks less of business than of mad- ness to go on paying the same premium in piping times of peace. Moreover, it was no secret that Italys financial and military resources, whatever the num- ber of her army corps might be, were considerably greater on paper than in reality. While, therefore, the tempo- rary advantages, political and diple latter country into the arms of Frances matie, that accrued to Germany from Italys passageover the Rubicon could hardly be exaggerated, her friendship bore no comparison, as a permanent political investment, to the Ru sian alliance, which was still only a plum desiderium. But to the first chancellor nothing was impossible. He knew how to turn his countrys sworn enemies into trusty friends without an apparent effort; and could, without ill effects, chastise her allies with a wholesome severity which, employed by any other statesman, would have infallibly caused a rupture. His curious methods of winning over the late czar, who had an inborn dislike of Germany, were of a piece with all his diplomacy, and remind one of the bold, confident style in which Glouces- ter woos Lady Anne in Richard III. Bismarek set about isolating Russia, and so well did he accomplish the task that he not only drew little powers, like Servia, Roumania, Spain, etc., within the charmed circle of German influence, but actually obtained the hearty co-opera- tion of France under Jules Ferry, and le t Russia with no more powerful friend than Montenegro. At last the czar, who still persevered in his policy of sentiment and preferred the triumph of Conservative principles to the acqui- sition of new provinces, knuckled down and signed that secret defensive treaty with Germany, the existence of which has but recently been disclosed, and the immorality of which is still so emphatically condemned. No more marvellous spectacle than this had ever yet been witnessed mT Lh~ history of diplomacy. Ogniben himself the smooth-faced, oily-tongued, open- minded, Ognibenwas a clumsy tyke as compared with this rough-and-ready German. Here, if ever, it was a ease of the wolf dwelling with the lamb, the leopard lying down with the kid, and the calf and the young lion together, but it was no little child that tried to lead them. The fatling alone, in the guise of Great Britain, kept prudently aloofa circumstance that would seem to have furthered the chancellor~~s in- terest quite as much as her own. 78 It seems unethical to foment distrust and discord among nations, even though the ultimate end in view he peace and unity. But it would also appear that this is the quintessence of modern diplomacy. At any rate the wonderful transformation scene brought about by the German chancellor in 1883, was to a great extent accomplished by these means. Distrust or dislike of Russia had brought one of the allies to ~he arms of Germany, jealousy of Austria an- other, and apprehension of France a third It was a case of extremes touch- ing each other, and attraction being caused by dint of mutual repulsion. But if that un-Christian motive was strong enough to unite these States for a time, it was powerless to keep them together for long, and Bismarek cast about for something in the nature of political cement. He found it in the possible triumphs of diplomatic strat- egy, and embodied it in the doctrine that Great Britain should be forced to feed his lions and his lambs. En- gland, the lightning-conductor of Europe, was the terse way one of his press organs put it. It is not a theory that one can feel very enthusiastic about, however objectively one may regard it; but it was certainly very ad- vantageous from the German point of view, and not incorrect from the stand- point of latter-day diplomacy, in which everything is as fair as in love or war. And Bismarck applied it ener- getically. Our relations with Russia were any- thing but satisfactory at this conjune- tur~, and it was oil, not water, that the Geiman press poured on the flames. Afghanistan was the apple of discord just then, and for a considerable time longer, and Bismarck had litfie difficulty in persuading Russia that Great Britain and France were the prospective ene- mies of the peace of Europe, against whose pranks it would be prudent to prepare. It was against an attack of one or both of those states that the secret Russo-German alliance was sup- posed to provide. Whether an Austro- Hungarian attack was likewise kept in viewtheoretically, there is no manner 79 of doubt on the subjectis a point that has but little interest for Englishmen.1 Certain it is that this all-round arrange- menit conferred inestimable advantages upon Germany, for she could, in impor- tant cases, control Austrias relations towards Russia, and influence Russias policy towards Austria, by means of a convenient interpretation of the words attack and defence. Thus, there is no doubt whatever, that if we had gone to war with Russia in 1885, after the defeat of the Afghans by General Komaroff, we should have, found the clauses of the Secret Treaty enforced against us. This is an undeni~hle fact. Whether it is also a deterrent one, is, considering the conditions of such a struggle, a moot question. But this, and not an understanding with Great Britain, is Germanys true policy, and no cheaper price was ever yet paid, for an inestimable and indispensable alliance than was given by Bismarck for Russias stipulated attitude towards France. For if, instead of Russia drift- ing towards war with Great Biitain in 1885 about the Afghan misunderstand- ing, it had been France who attacked Germany in 1887, in consequence of the imprisonment of SchuThele, the FreEch frontier-agent, the republic would have been in as pitiable a plight as in 1875, when a German attack was feared. One of the last, acts in which Ger- many and Russia stood side by side under Prince Bismarcks regime, was the protest made by the former state gnd supported by the latter, against the alleged encouragement extended by the Swiss republic to foreign socialists and international conspirators. Bismareks dismissal was, followed so far as one may judge by his recent disclosures and by facts.accessible to allby the reversal of his policy in its essential features. That General Caprivi sought to. compnss the same ends, as his illustrious predecessor, 1 It is only fair to say that an attack by Austria upon nussia was practically an impossibility so long as the Triple Alliance lasted. For the em- perors of Germany and Austria had solemnly bound themselves never to impart an aggressive direction to their alliance. Germanys Foreign Policy. 80 Germanys Foreign Policy. there can be no two opinions. But, as exception of a large contingent of the the scholastic saw puts it, quando duo Irish, settle in our colonies, spread a faciunt idem, non ed id , and in this knowledge of our language, import our case their methods were radically difrer- manufactures, and generally strengthen ent. The one, refusing to lean with our empire. The quarter of a million Germanys full weight upon the Trip4e emigrantsmostlyadmirable colonists Alliance, had set great store by Russias whom Germany annually produces, who friendship and co-operation, to purchase set sail for North or South America or and preserve whic~ he was ready to some British colony, and are lost for- deliver up Great Britain to the tender ever to the mother country. Since 1870, mercies of her enemies, to overawe therefore, it has been the ardent desire Bulgaria, and to put the socialists be- of German statesmen, to obtain for their yond tue protection of the law. The country extensive tracts of territory other, content to have but one string suitable for colonizing purposes. Now to his bow, definitely threw in Ger- the only visible chance of realizing this manys lot with the Triple Alliance, patriotic scheme was in Africa, and the refused to renew the secret treaty with Convention of 1890 virtually annihilated Russia, made friendly overtures to En- it. This, of course, may seem but a gland, relaxed the legislation against temporary check on Germanys colonial the socialists, and manifested a certain enterprise, and may have been intended amount of mildness towards the Poles, to be the price of Englands friendship. From a British point of view it is im- But is our friendship nearly so advan- possible to withhold our sympathies tageous to Germany as Germanys from General Caprivi and the new diplomatic hostility might, under Bis- courseif, indeed, British sympathies marcks regime, have become for us? can as yet be expected to go forth to any All the known facts seem to point to statesman, or other person who nas the a negative reply. Commercially the misfortune to be a German. But two countries are uncompromising whether the policy pursued by Bis- rivals, and in the struggle between mareks successors is equally beneficial them Great Britain has everything to to their own country, is a question lose, while Germany has everything to about which mere are two radically gain. Therefore the freedom that opposite opinions in the Fatherland springs from open rivalry, rather tilan itself. the fetters that are forged by political One of Caprivis first acts was to con- friendship, would seem calculated elude the Anglo-German Convention effectually to further the interests of which gave us the Protectorate of the younger competitor. It is difficult Z~anzibar and Wituland, in return for to imagine what Germany could gain Heligoland andhopes. From a British by our friendship, sufficiently worth point of view the agreement seems to having to warrant her in jeopardizing many open to serious criticism and has interests that are admittedly vital: It in fact been severely criticised over and would be very different, if our govern- over again. But from a German angle ment wielded a weapon as formidable of vision, it must appear infinitely more as a customs tariff. If we had it in our distasteful. For Germany, if she is power to levy pr6hibitive duties on ever to become a World-Power in the German goods coming into Great sense in which Russia, Great Britain, Britain, India, and our Colonies, the or the North American Republic is a responsible adviser of Kaiser Wilhelm Weltmaclit, must; among other condi- would assuredly have a very powerful tilons, possess extensive colonies for her temptation to come to a definite under- superfluous population. Russias sur- standing with us. But as we compete plus humanity cQlonizes Siberia., con- with all our rivals on equal terms, this sumes Russian products, pays for Rus- motive has no existence. sian institutions, and fights Russias On the other hand, from a political battles. Our own emigrants, with the point of view, friendship with Great Germanys Foreign Policy. Britain mustas. things now stand prove barren of results. A country like ours, whose army can no longer be spared for extra-imperial purposes, and whose navy is destined solely for the protection of our commerce and our possessions, can hardly be expected to fight the battles of allies whose needs and aims have nothing in common, and much that clash, with our own. And however sincerely our government might by the time sympathize with those objects, it would never venture to engage the nation to sacrifice men or money in their pursuit. Friendship with Great Britain, therefore, in the sense of a conviction such as existed be- tween Kaiser Wilhelm and the Czar Alexander, down to 1890, would, if it were feasible, confer no solid advan- tages upon Germany. In 1890 it was calculated to damage her interests, owing to the soreness that still existed between Russia and England. For it must have seemed a priori probable to M. de Giers and the czar, that Ger- manys motive in attempting to take this step was the formation of a Euro- pean league tending to paralyze Russias influence in Europe. At all eveRts, the construction put upon it by certain organs of the British and German press was eminently fitted to arouse the sus- picions of Russia, who had grown morbidly sensitive since the dismissal of Prince Bismarck. The remainder of what may be termed the personal-confidence-policy inaugu- rated by General Caprivi, whose plain honest ways commanded the respect of all who had dealings with him, was in thorough keeping with the beginning. The pi~ce de resistance was the Triple Alliance; in comparison with this all else was but a hors dceuvre. Thus to Austrias repeated request that Ger- many would choose between her and Russia and embody the choice, if favorable, in a treaty of commerce, he gave a satisfactory reply, not in words only, but in deed. On the other hand, Russias proposal that the Secret Treaty should be renewed between her and Germany, was rejected, and apparently the traditional intimate friendship of the two dynasties lapsed waa it. There is some reason to believe that in the same year the Emperor Franz Josef was informed of this Secret Treaty at Rohnstock, where he met Kaiser Wil- helm. At all events it was the Triple Alliance, and not the Russo-German treaty, that was renewed, and it was followed by the commercial treaties concluded with Austria, Hungary, Italy, and Belgium, which won for their author the title of count. This was Gaprivis way of inaugurating the new foreign policy. The czars reply was somewhat similar, but far more em- phatic, and in less than a month after the renewal of the Triple Alliance, the French Squadron steamed Into Cron- stadt, and the foundations were osten- tatiously laid for that Franco-Russian Alliance which, for fifteen years, it had been Germanys endeavor to hinder at all and every cost. This event Bis- marck maintains, undid the work of generations,~reversed the policy of the first chancellor, and changed the polit- ical face of Europe.l The present German secretary of state for foreign affairs recently inti- mated, in an ingenious and well-consid- ered speech on this subject, that Bismarcks system of political re-in- surance was abandoned in 1890 for the best of reasons. Among others, for in- stance, because it was held to weaken rather than strengthen the guarantee of peace, and because the intrinsic value of the defensive treaties, concluded by any one country, must needs fall off in proportion to their number. Another objection lay, he said, in the difficulty of determining, in case of a breach of the peace, what is really attack and what defence. This, however, if it means anything at all, would seem to deprive of all concrete significance the solemn assurances given by the two imperial founders of the Austro-German Alliance, that they would never impart to it an aggressive tendency. If aggres- sion can always clothe itself in the garb 1 Germany and Russia are still friends, he admits, but only in the sense in whieh Germany and Great Britain were friends when he signed the Secret Treaty wit.h Russia. LIVING AGE. VOL. xiii. 634 81 Germanys Foreign PolIcy. of self-defence, an undertaking of that kind is not worth the paper on which it may happen to be written. At the same time, it is quite true that one good alliance on which the country can im- plicitly rely is worth twenty which may possibly fail when testedalways pro- vided that the one in question is really sufficient for the needs of the State that thus insures itself. Whether Austria- Hungary, Italy, and Roumania com- bined can be trusted to accomplish this as efficaciously as Russia alone would, depends not, perhaps, so much upon the military and financial resources of the respective States as upon their attitude and disposition toward.s Germany. And of this, the ministers pro tern would seem to be the most competent judges. But whether any alliance, which does not include Russia, can in the long run prove beneficial to Germany is a ques- tion of international politics on which Prince Bismarck, one would think, has the best right to be heard. Baron Marschalls contention is that the dis- positions of, say, Russia towards Ger- many are of infinitely more importance than her written promise of help in this circumstance or in that, because, if favorably disposed, her co-operation is certain even without any stipulation; and if unfavorably, it will not be efficaciously given, no matter how solemn the undertaking. And Russias friendliness towards Germany, he avers, is as great to-day as when the first chancellor piloted the ship of State. On this statement Bismarcks friends join issue, and what they urge may be briefly stated as follows. The disposi- tions of one country towards another are best shown by its overt acts, and those of Russia towards Germany are no longer suggestive of the spirit of comradeship whicb the two nations manifested for each other down to 1890. The intimate relations entered into by Russia with Germanys one implacable enemy, the treaty concluded between them which regards the Teuton as the prospective foe, can hardly be taken as indicative of Russias friendly disposi- tion towards her former ally. True, it is only a defensive treaty that links her. to France. But who will undertake to point out the shadowy line of demarca~ tion where defence begins and aggres- sion ends? No doubt, if Germany under Bismarck had a right, while remaining in alliance with Austria, to enter into intimate relations with Austrias prospective enemy, Russia under Lobanoff or Shishkin has the same right of concluding a defensive treaty with Germanys presumptive foe, while entertaining the most friendly feelings for Germany herself. This is undeniable; and yet the consequence usually drawn from it does not by any means follow. For Russia always en- joyed that right, yet refused to avail herself of it as long as Bismarck re- mained in power. Why? Because ot her almost insurmountable aversion to strike up friendship with a State which had identified itself with revolutior.ary or democratic ideas, implying the negation of everything that Russia cherished and revered. This is so true that, in 1887, when Bismarcks press organs caused German capitalists to sell out Russian scrip, and brought about a financial crisis in Russia, the czar, indignant though he felt, would not hear of a rapprochement with France. The gulf between the two countries seemed to him impassable. The czar- dom had always been the champion of Conservatism abroad as at home. Divine right and administrative order, as opposed to constitutionalism and law, were the ideals in pursuit or sup- port of which she .had never hesitated to sacrifice men and money. In Hun- gary she had crushed the monstrous rebel; in Prussia she had helped to cow down the popular movement. With France, the apostle of revolution, she had refused to combine at a time when combination meant the immediate realization of a portion of her Oriental programme, which is still a piurn deside- riurn. There could and should be no compact, it was felt, between the chil- dren of darkness and those of light. It was this ideal current in Russias policy which never once changed until 82 Bismarek had been dismissed, that kept Russia and France apart. It was im- possible for a German statesman artifi- cially to create it, and it would have been folly in him not to profit by it. When, therefore, in 1891, this traditional system was suddenly reversed, and Alexander Ill, ostentatiously listened bare-headed to the Marseillaise, Russia was not merely availing herself of her admitted right to conclude an alliance with France, but likewise publishing urbi et orbi, her utter dissatisfaction with Germanys new policy and her solemn renunciation of Germanys friendship. Every man has a right in his own house to run down-stairs in- stead of walking slowly. But if a bed- ridden man, suffering from rheumatism, rushes wildly down-stairs, it is safe to conclude, if he be in his senses, that the provocation to do so was very strong. Moreover, when Germany concluded an alliance with Austria, in 1879, Bis- marck frankly communicated its con- tents to the Russian czar but the Rus- sian czar has been remarkably reticent as to the terms of the Franco-Russian Alliance. Again, when the czar paid a visit to Germany last September, he made it pretty clear by what he said and did, as well as by what he left unsaid and undone, that he intended his rela- tions towards Germany to be correct and nothing more. Thus, his reply to Kaiser Wilhelms toast was cold, not to say chilling; in Kiel, although the manoeuvres of the German fleet had been interrupted in his honor, he did not don the German uniform to receive the marine officers and Prince Henry of Prussia; and the painful friction that is now making itself felt between the two countries in matters connected with the administration of the customs tariffs, are all conclusive proofs that while there is no acut~ strain between Germany and Russia, neither is there any trace of their traditional friend- ship, nor any prospect of its renewal.1 I The attribution by Bismarok of this momentous result to the efforts of British diplomacy is but a paraphrasticfa9o de parler. The chancellor is too well acquainted with the ways and habits of our foreign representatives seriously to believe 83 The policy pursued by General Caprivi is, say its German critics, per- fectly intelligible, and much might be truly urged in its defencebut only on condition that it be carried out con- sistently. And this, they assert, has not been the case. If the system of reject- ing Russias friendship for the Triple Alliance has any claim to be regarded as statesmanlike, then the support given to Russia for the purpose of de.. priving Japan of the fruitsof hervictory, and creating a precedent which may yet become awkward and retrospective, instead of drawing that rising State within the lines of the league ,of peace, was a grave blunder. Again, if Austria-Hungary and Italy be the real allies, why make high bids for the friendship, or rather the friendly dis- positions of Russia, which are calcu- lated to estrange the sympathies of the members of the Triple Alliance? Or, if it be desirable to do everything possible to keep Russia friendly, why thwart her ardent wishes in Egypt and support England at the moment when the anti- German fever here was at its height? Why, if the cultivation of cordial rela- tions with Great Britain be one of the essential points of the post-Bismarekian programme, have the relations of the two States been allowed to become in- finitely more strained and unfriendly than during the Anglophobe regime of the first chancellor? The final upshot of this six years new course is thus summed up by the friends of Bismarck: The wire between Berlin and St. Petersburg is broken, and irreparably broken, for the sake of the Triple Alliance, and En- ~land; yet the Triple Alliance is cer- tainly not stronger, and is probably weaker than ever before; Germanys relations with Great Britain have come to depend upon passing accidents or popular whims rather than on State considerations; France, whose isolation spelt peace, is become the leading power in Europe, and has changed Germanys staunchest friend into a presumptive them capable of planning and executing a schem of this kind. Germanys Foreign Policy. Machiavelli and the English Reformation. enemy; Germanys colonial dreams are further from realization than ever be- fore, and she has forfeited the com- manding position in Europe which Bismarck had conferred upon her by the waving of his magicians wand. To what extent this criticism is sound is a question for Germans. But to infer, as many of our political writers do, from any or all of the facts alleged, that the Fatherland has been convicted of duplicity, has been found out buying and selling her allies, that she has been reduced, in consequence, to isolation, which is anything but splendid, and may be expected soon to suffer still more dreadful pains and penalties, is to manifest an utter disregard not only for international propriety, but like- wise for the meaning of elementary facts. If diplomacy, as it has been practised by all countries and ages be radically different from circumvention, and war from the negation of Chris- tianity, the writer who makes clear these essential differences w~ll acquire serious chances of abiding fame. To the minds of calm observers both prac- tices are equally open to censure. But in what respect Germany under Bis- marck, deviated from the usages of other diplornatists, except it be in fore- sight and ingenuity, it would puzzle the most scholastic of hairsplitters to, determine. It cannot seriously be maintained that the obligations entered into by Bismarck with Russia were incompatible with those that bound Germany to her other allies. And it is unworthy of a self-respecting publicist to insinuate it. Germany, no doubt, has done this country much harm com- mercially, and bids fair to inflict still greater losses upon the British Empire. But the competition, however keen, is fair; the methods, however we may dis- like some of them, are expressly allowed by the rules of the game. It is the bitter truth, however much it may be gainsaid by optimistic ministers, that our commercial defeat is the result of commercial ir~ferioi-ity, and that we shall never manage to hold our own against our Continental cousins until we humbly confess that fact, and se riously seek to remedy it. The sooner we go to school to Germany, instead of preaching morality to her, the better for ourselves. E. J. DILLON. From The Nineteenth Century. THE INFLUENCE OF MACHIAVELLI ON THE REFORMATION IN ENGLAND. In the widespread and immediate influence which they exercised prob- ably no political writings have ev(r equalled those of Machiavelli. Not that he was the creator of that un- scrupulous statecraft with which his name has been for centuries associ- ated; for Machiavellism (to risk the appearance of paradox) existed before Machiavelli, and he did no more than codify and comment on those princi- ples of policy which he saw applied everywhere about him. But, in doing this, he undoubtedly gave a great im- petus to their use, his treatise The Prince forming a convenient textbook of practical politics, of which Eu- ropean statesmen were not slow to take advantage. Multiplied in numer- ous editions, this work, with its com- panion volume, the Discourses on Livy, in spite of the loud and horn- fled denunciations of old-fashioned moralists, soon found its way into every cabinet and council chamber of Europe, and its cynical maxims have left their impress only too clearly on the policies of the sixteenth and seven- teenth centuries. It may, then, in the light of recent events, be not without interest to in- quire how far English statesmen of the Reformation period were brought under the sinister influence of Machia- vellis genius, and, more especially, to attempt some estimate of its effect upon their ecclesiastical policy. At the outset of such an inquiry we are confronted with one striking and significant characteristic of the En- glish Reformation, differentiating it from contemporary movements in other countriesa certain vagueness of 84 Machiavelli and the English Reformation. outline, by no means altogether due to the obscuring effect of distance, which makes it difficult to arrive at any universally acceptable definition of its principles and aims. As to what happened in Scotland, in Holland, or in Geneva, there can be no contro- versy. In all of these the revolution was abrupt and thorough, constituting a more or less complete breach with the past; and even in Lutheran Ger- many and Scandinavia the retention of a large body of Catholic doctrine and ceremonial was far outweighed by the conscious and deliberate breach of the Apostolic Succession. In En- gland, on the other hand, the move- ment was from th.e first largely conservative, avoiding revolutionary methods, intolerant of extremes, ad- vancing cautiously step by step, and careful of all the ties that bound it to the past, so long as these were con- sistent with the aim of its political leadersthe subservience of the Church to the State. This striking characteristic of the Reformation in England may have been due to the exigencies of the case, and to the natural tendency of En- glishmen to change the spirit rather than the form of their institutions; but it is nevertheless so entirely in accord with Machiavellis principle that, in making innovations, the substance rather than the form should be changed, that, in so far as it was the result of deliberate policy, it may well have been to some extent inspired by him, more especially as there is abun- dant proof of his influence on the methods by which the revolution was effected. That Henry the Eighth was himself directly influenced by any study ot The Prince may be doubted, though he was himself a typical prince of the Renaissancein his culture, his learn- ing, his splendor, and his popular manners, no less than in his cruelty well applied. Yet he was not the ideal ruler of Machiavelli, for he suc- cumbed to that all but universal fail- ing of not knowing how to be wholly either good or bad. He was, to use the words of the late Professor Froude, divided against himself. Nine days in ten he was the clear-headed, ener- getic, powerful statesman; on the tenth he was looking wistfully to th& superstition which he had left. In short, he still nursed his theologica~I conscience, and had not yet learned from Machiavelli to regard religion solely as the handmaid of politics, hi Thomas Cromwell, however, he found a minister to whom his objects were thoroughly congenial, and whose methods were less likely to be affected by inconvenient scruples. That Cromwells ecclesiastical pol- icy was dictated by motives of zeal for Evangelical religion, or sympathy with persecuted truth, is a view which may appeal to some minds; but, in the light of available evidence, it is far more probable that the reforming tendencies of the day were merely used by him, in the true Machiavellian spirit, to further the object which he consist- ently kept in viewthe consolidation of an absolute royal power, under the forms of a constitution, by the aid of a subservient parliament and a terror- ized Church. Nor, in spite of the scarcely impartial opinion of the late Professor Proude,1 is it improbabld that this policy was deliberately based upon Machiavellis teaching. It is admitted that Cromwell spent many yearis in Italy, first as a clerk in a commercial house in Florence, and afterwards as a soldier of fortune or engaged in diplomatic service at vari-~ ous Italian courts. It is not surprising that a politician trained in the school of the Medici and the Borgias should have welcomed the appearance of The Pr~inee, or have been content to use its maxims in the architecture of his own fortunes; and there seems no adequate reason (certainly none Is given by Professor Froude) for doubt- ing the substantial truth of the accusa~ tion of Machiavellism which is brought against Cromwell by Cardinal Pole. Pole affirms fhat the immediate 1 He dismisses Poles accusation of Machiavell- ism against Cromwell in a short footnote. (Hist. vol. ii., cli. vi., p. 109). 85 86 cause of his exile was the rise of Crom- well to power, the results of which he dreaded, because he had had an oppor- tunity of judging of that statesmans principles and maxims of government in a conversation he had once had with him on the office of a prudent councillor. In this decision, he says, nothing influenced me more than my having from that one interview and conversation easily perceived what kind of government we should have, if that man ever held the reins of power namely, a government dangerous and destructive to all honest men.1 Of this discussion, which had been raised by some veference to Wolsey, the car- dinal proceeds to give an epitome. I told him, he says, that it was the duty of a councillor to consider above all things the interest and honor of his sovereign; and I enlarged on these subjects, as they are enforced by the law of nature and the writings of pious and learned men. Cromwell, in reply, poured scorn on the opinions of pious and learned men, as themes good enough for sermons or the dis- cussions of the schools, but of little use in practical politics, and decidedly out of favor at the courts of princes. In his opinion a little experience was worth a great deal of theory, and statesmen who based their policy upon books, rather than upon a knowledge of men and affairs, were apt to suffer shipwreck. For the prudent councillor the first thing to do was to study the princes inclinationsby no means an easy task, since the external deport- ment of princes so often belies their inner character. For it is of the greatest importance that he should in his conversation consistently display an exalted character for religiousness, piety, and the other virtues; without, however, there being the slightest ne- cessity for his inclinations to coincide with it. And in this respect the pru- dent councillor will know how to imi- tate the prince, a result to be obtained with a very little trouble. The cardi- 5 Cf. Apologia ad Carolum V. An abstract is given by Professor Brewer in his essay on the Royal Snpremacy. Machiavelli and the English Reformation. nal was, very naturally, not a little shocked. At this Cromwell expressed no surprise, but told him that, if he were to turn for a while from his stud- ies to the practical affairs of State, he would soon learn the comparative value of experience and theory in the art of government. In these mat- ters, he exclaims, a few sentences from a man of experience are worth whole volumes written by a philoso- pher who has no such experience. For him a book founded upon empty speculation had no value. Platos Republic had been written about two thousand years, and its maxims had never yet been practically applied. On the other hand, he knew of a book which he would recommend Pole to read, written by a practical man whose rules and maxims were con- firmed by every-day experience, a book, adds the horrified cardinal, which, though it displayed the style of a man, I had nevertheless hardly begun to read, when I saw that it had been penned by the finger of Satan. This Satanic work was, of course, Machiavellis Prince. Others have, indeed, abundantly pointed out the Machiavellian nature of Cromwells methods2his govern- ment by terror, his elaborate system of spies, his ruthless sweeping aside of all who stood in his path. As an illus- tration of this system of tyranny it may suffice to take one notable in- stance, closely connected with the Reformation both in its political and religious aspects. The execution of Sir Thomas More and Bishop Fishei has always been regarded as the mas- ter crime of the Cromwellian reign of terror. Even Professor Froude la- mented its necessity, though it was, in his opinion, a necessity.3 It was, it is true, unfortunate that the affair of the Anne Boleyn marriage told fatally to destroy the appearance of probity of motive, so indispensable to the defence 2 See Brewer, Introdnetion to State Papers. History, vol. ii., p. 385, etc. Cf. Mnchia- velli, Discorsi: . . . nessuna nepoblica bene ordinata non mai cancellb i clemeriti eon gli meriti di suoi cittadini. Machiavelli and the English Reformation. of the government; and Europe, no doubt laboring under a misconception of the facts, was filled with indigna- tion. So great, indeed, was this indig- nation that Henry condescended to an explanation. He directed the magis- trates to enlarge to the people on the malicious treasons of the Bishop of Rochester and Sir Thomas More. To the king of France, who had ventured to send a remonstrance, he replied haughtily that the English govern- ment had acted on clear proof of trea- son; treason so manifest, and tending so clearly to the total destruction of the commonwealth of this realm, that the condemned persons were all well worthy, if they had a thousand lives, to have suffered a ten times more terri- ble death and execution than any of them did suffer. And what were these terrible trea- sons about which Henry was so right- cously indignant, as tending to the total subversion of the realm? More had been willing to recognize the right of Parliament to alter the succession; he had been prepared to keep silence on the royal supremacy. What he had not been willing to do was to per- jure himself by denying openly his be- lief in the spiritual supremacy of the pope. If this was treason, of every hundred honest men in the kingdom ninety-nine were traitors. The treasons for which More was condemned had not been on the statute book a year. A few months before his arrest it would have been heresy to affirm what it was now treason to deny. He was not allowed to escape by retiring into private life, as he wished, but was hunted out and, con- trary to all precedent and all natural justice, entrapped into incriminating himself. The true reason for their execution Professor Froude himself gives, though it is difficult for an un- biassed mind to see in it any real jus- tification. They had, he says, chosen to make themselves conspic- uous as confessors of Catholic truth; though prisoners in the Tower, they were in effect the most effectual cham- pions of the papal claims, and if their disobedience had been passed over the act could have been enforced against no one.1 They were, in fact, those uncompromising and conscientious op- ponents of the new order whom Ma- chiavelli classes under the name of the sons of Brutus, and who must, in his view, be slain, if the new order is to be maintained.2 If, then, the influence of Machiavelli is so clearly traceable on Cromwells political methods, it is possible that, in its broader aspects also, his policy was derived from the same source. Especially may he have learned from Machiavelli that astuteness by which he recognized that men are often will- ing to surrender the substance of their rights if they are allowed to retain the shadow, which led him to exercise a despotic government without the open violation of any constitutional form, and, finally, to make the Church the seemingly willing instrument of her own enslavement. And the justifica- tion of this Machiavellian policy is found in the comparatively peaceful course of the Reformation in England. The great bulk of the people, Catholic by education, by instinct, and by the strong conservatism of our race, ac- cepted the new order without realizing to what it committed them. Later on, when the hopes of a reaction became weaker, the discontent of a small mi- nority might express itself in abortive plots; but England was spared the horrors of a Thirty Years War, or of a struggle such as that between the Huguenots and the League; and when, in the next century, the Puritan Rev- olution occurred, its motives were political rather than religious. Even in our day this Machiavellian method of reform still bears fruit, in that it can be seriously argued that the Church of England under Henry the Eighth was the willing instrument of~ her own reformation. With the fall of Cromwell the influ- ence of Machiavelli on the course of ecclesiastical affairs in England came, for the time. to an end. For his strong 1 History, vol. ii., p. 369. 2 Discorsi, book iii., cap 4. 87 88 and far-sighted, if ruthless, policy there was little sympathy found among the crowd of miserable syco- phants who rose upon his ruin, who surrounded the throne during the last years of Henry the Eighth, and held the reins of power under Edward. With Cromwell, as with Machiavelli, the Dudleys, the Seymours, and the Riches had nothing in common, save their unscrupulousness. All grandeur of aim is gone; and for the great policy of Cromwell they substituted the most sordid of private motives, striving by the same unscrupulous means which he had used for public ends to gratify their personal ambition or avarice. it would be a libel on Machiavelli to ap- ply his name to this government of incompetent and selfish factions. It would have been well had they stud- ied The Prince, and taken its les- sons to heart; if Somerset had learned from it to avoid the vacillation and want of decision which characterized him, to abstain from hasty and ill- considered innovations in religion, and to recognize that the true strength of a government lies in the good-will of the people. But the strong policy of Cromwell, in fact, ceased with his death, and it was not until England had been for eleven years, under Ed- ward and Mary, a prey to the misgov- ernment of unscrupulous adventurers, and doctrinaires, Catholic and Prot- estant, that the system which he had initiated was revived again by the ac- cession of Elizabeth. During the reign of Elizabeth, even more than during that of Henry the Eighth, the statecraft of Machiavelli seems to have been consistently ap- plied. The conditions obtaining in England at the time of the queens accession were, indeed, not altogether unlike those which had prompted Machiavelli to write his Discourses. There was the same danger to be feared both from within and from withoutwithin, the never-ceasing war of religious factions, wasting in futile and bloody controversy the best strength of the nation; without the French king bestriding the realm. having one foot in Calais and the other in Scotland; steadfast enemies, but no steadfast friends.1 In both the Dis- courses on Livy and The Prince, whatever differences of principle and method there might be between them. Machiavelli had the same object in viewthe healing of the open wounds of Italy and her liberation from the hated bondage of the barbarian. This, with the necessary differences or circumstance, was also the task that lay before Elizabeth. How well she performed it is matter of history, and need not be enlarged upon here.2 We are more concerned with the policy she pursued, and by means of which she raised England, menaced at her accession by the hostility of France and the scarcely less dangerous friend- ship of Spain, to an unprecedented height of glory and influence among the nations of Europe. This policy, deliberately selected among several al- ternatives, was as novel as it was suc- cessful. How far was it inspired by the writings of Machiavelli? There is evidence, which I will ad- duce later on, to prove that Machia- vellis works were studied by at least one of Elizabeths advisers. But the queen was apt to follow her own courses, and it is certain that no policy could have been forced upon her against her own judgment. The bril- liant results of her long and glorious reign were, in fact, due to her own genius. For, though she knew how to select and keep her ministers, her re- lations With them were always regu- lated on the principles that Machia- velli had laid do~vn; and, whilst she was ever ready to listen to any advice they had to offer, she never allowed her share of the government to be overshadowed by their influence. Even Lord Burleigh, who for thirty- four years continued to enjoy her con- 1 Address to the Council. Cf. Fronde, Hist, vol. vii., p. 5. 2 See Bacons account of the state of England at the time of the queens death in Observations on a Libel, etc. (Works, vol. iii., p. 40, ed. 1824, London). 3 Observations on a Libel, etc. (Bacon, vol. ii., p. 40). Miachiavelli and the English Reformation. Machiavelli and the English Reformation. fidence, was in the habit of deferring to her opinion, and, as Bacon says, there never was a councillor of his Lordships long continuance that was so applicable to her Majestys princely resolutions, endeavoring always, after faithful propositions and remon- strances, and these in the liest words and the most grateful manner, to rest upon such conclusions as her Majesty in her own wisdom determineth, and them to execute to the best.1 rifle guiding spirit of Elizabeths policy, then, is to be sought in the character of the queen herself, whose personality exercised so extraordinary an influ- ence in directing the tendency of affairs during her reign. In some respects Elizabeth ap- proached nearer than her father to Machiavellis ideal prince. The salient characteristics of Henry the Eighth, were, indeed, renewed in her; but whereas he had never quite succeeded in burying the theologian in the states- man, his daughter followed Machia- velli in regarding religion mainly as subsidiary to statecraft, not hesitat- ing, as it seemed, to do violence to her own convictions or predilections if by so doing she could further her policy. That her action was consciously based on a study of The Prince there seems, indeed, to 1c~e no evidence to prove; but there is much to make us suspect that she was not unacquainted with Machiavellis writings. There is a certain theatrical aspect about botn her private and public life, which seems to show that she was acting a carefully studied part;2 and all the in- tricacies of her policy appear to have been based upon some consistent theory of statecraft. Prom Machia- velli it may have been that she bor- rowed that art of political lying which she carried to the verge of comedy, and which she seemed to regard as part of the essential equipment of every diplomatist.8 And, if she was I Cf. The Prince, cap. xxiii. 2 Theodor Mundt (Machiavelli u. der Gang der europidschen Politik points out the dramatic as- pect of The Prince: It is more the question of the study of a part than of a consistent doc- trine. 89 proud of her skill in outwitting others, she was even more so of the penetra- tion which enabled her to see through their deceits. You deal not, she writes to James the Sixth, upbraiding him with breaking his word, you deal not with one whose experience can take dross for good payments, nor one that easily maybe beguiled. No, no! I mind to set to school your craftiest councillor.4 Nor was this high opin- ion of her own powers without founda- tion. Bacon comments on her pene- trating sight in discovering every mans ends and drifts; her inventing wit in contriving plots and overturns;. her foreseeing events; her usage of occasions. ~ And if, in these matters,. she appeared in a large measure to. realize Machiavellis conception of a prudent prince, she did so no less in the broad outlines of her policy. The great problem which, at the be- ginning of her reign, Elizabeth was called on to solve w~s the question of religion; and it is in her religious pol- icy that the influence of Machiavelli may be most clearly traced. The crisis. of the religious revolution had, inoced, already passed when she came to the throne. A few zealots, on one side or the other, might be still anxious to fight out the battle to a decisive con- c~usion, but the nation as a whole was~ heartily weary of a theological war- fare which had reduced the country to the verge of ruin. The accession of the~ new queen had brought back streams of Protestant refugees, breathing ven- geance and destruction against their persecutors, whilst Elizabeths cau- tious procectilags during the first few months of her reign had, for the time,. revived the hopes of the Catholics. But she had, in fact, determined to favor neither of the extreme parties. She knew that in following this course she would have the support of the bulk of the nation, and, with the mass of the nation on her side, she could af- ford to brave the attacks of the small Of. Prince, cap. xviii. Cf. Ellis, Original Letters, vol. i., letter ccxv. A Discourse in Praise of Queen Elizabeth, Bacons Works, vol. iii., p. 35 (London, 1824.) Machiavelli and the English Reformation. number, however zealous they might be, who would be hostile to her sys- tem. Religion, then, was to be no longer the chief motive of government. Henceforward the attention of the peo- ple was to be drawn away from the fatal animosities of theology by the substitution of a new motive for their aspiration, a motive to which religion was to be subservient; and the nation, hitherto shattered by the conflict of rival sects, was to be welded together in a common opposition to the power and arrog~ance of Spain. At the beginning of the reign, in- deed, Philip had still hoped to retain his hold on England, and had offered Elizabeth his alliance. For a moment she hesitated, as well she might, for, situated as she was, the offer was a dazzling one. But she had had the strength and foresight to refuse it. And the policy which she pursued in- stead was that which Machiavelli had recommended for distracted Italy namely, the policy of military reor- ganization,1 or the consolidation of the people by uniting them in a na- tional contlict with a rival power. And just as in Machiavelli the reli- gious motive is made entirely sub- servient to the political, so the national religion became during Elizabeths reign gradually associated in the minds of the people with the national opposi- tion to Spain. Recusancy, which under Edward the Sixth would have been punished as heresy rather than treason, came to be regarded as an offence against the national cause rather than as a religious crime. Eliz- abeth, in fact, cared little about ab- stract propositions of theology. She was quite content to renounce her fathers title of Supreme Head of the Church, if by doing so she could per- suade people to acquiesce more readily in her practical supremacy. She had no desire to pry into mens con- sciences, but she required that every man should bow to the laws which she had made in the interests of the na- 1 Politik der kriegerischen Reorganisation (cf. Theodor Mundi, Machiavelli und der Gang der europiiisclien Politik) tional unity. And the success of this policy is apparent in the religious tran- quillity of the earlier part of her reign, a tranquillity which might have been permanent, had not the bulls of Pius the Fifth blown the smouldering embers of religious zeal once more into a flame; and, even then, the failure of the Catholic plots proves the general soundness of the queens policy. If Elizabeth did not derive her prin- ciples and method of government directly from Machiavelli, it is more than probable that they were sug- gested to her by the moist trusted of her ministers, who, without doubt, had studied him to good purpose. There is, in the library of the Brit- ish Museum, a volume containing copies of Machiavellis Prince and the Discourses on Livy bound up to- gether. These were ostensibly pub- lished at Palermo, in 1584, but are judged, from the evidence of certain initial woodcuts, to have been actually printed clandestinely in London by one John Wolfe. On the title-page of this volume, which is elaborately under- lined and annotated throughout, is the signature W. Cecil. To attempt to prove that it was Lord Burleigh who owned and annotated this book is tempting; but unhappily honesty com- pels me to admit that the handwriting is not his, and that in any case at the date of the publication of the volume his signature would have been W. Burleigh. Yet the name of Cecil, in such a connection, is not without sig- nificance, and it would have been possible to argue from it, with some plausibility, that Machiavellis treat- ises were known to Lord Burleigh. Fortunately, however, there i~ other and more conclusive evidence to prove the same point. Burleigh was in the habit, from time to time, of reducing the outlines of any course of policy he advocated to writ- ing, as memorials for the queens use. Of these memorials several have been published among his papers, and serve to throw no little light on the char- acter of his policy; one of them being 90 of peculiar value, because it not only proves that Burleigh himself was a disciple of Machiavelli, but enables us to form some estimate of how far Elizabeths religious policy was di- rectly influenced by the Florentine writer. This document is published under the title of Advice of the fiord Treasurer Burleigh to Queen Elizabeth in Matters of Religion and State,i and the most important part of it deals with the question of the Catholic mal- contents. With regard to these there were two courses open to the queen. She might either allow them to grow strong, in the hope of making them contented, or discontent them by mak- ing them weaker, for what the mix- ture of strength and discontent engen- ders needs no syllogism to prove. But to suffer them to be strong in the hope of making them contented carried with it, in his opinion, but a fair en- amelling of a terrible danger; for mens natures are apt to strive not only against the present smart, but to revenging by past injury, though they be never so well contented thereafter,2 For on the very first opportunity for reven,,e that presents itself they will remember not the after slacking but the former binding, and so much the more when they shall imagine this re- lenting to proceed from fear; for it is the poison of all government when the subject thinks the prince doth any- thing more out of fear than favor.3 But, above all, there should be no half- measures;4 for no man loves one the better for giving him the bastinado, though with never so little a cudgel; the course of the most wise, most politick, and best grounded estates hath ever been to make an assured- ness of friendship, or to take away all power of enmity.5 Yet here, he 1 Fourth collection of Somers Tracts, vol i., p. 101. 2 iDiscorsi, book iii., p. 4: Mail ingiurie vecchie non furono cancellate da beneficli nuovi. Also Principe, cap. vii. end. Ibid., vol. ii., p. 14; also Principe, end of chap. viii. Ibid., vol. ii., p. 23: Ne usarno mai la via neutrale in quelli di momento. Ibid.: Quel Principe, che non castiga chi 911. adds, I must distinguish between dis- content and despair; for it sufficeth to weaken the discontented, but there is no way to kill desperates, which ill such number as they are, were as hard and difficult as impious and ungodly; and, therefore, though they must be discontented, I would not have them desperate; for amongst many desper- ate men it is like that some one will bring forth some desperate deed.6 A comparison with The Prince or the Discourses on Livy will show that not only the :spirit of the above advice, but in some cases almost the language in which it is couched, is borrowed from Machiavelli. And if the conclusion to which Burleigh is led by the above argument is a just one namely, that the consciences of the Catholics should not be forced by com- pelling them to take an oath contrary to their belief in the papal supremacy he arrives at this conclusion not be- cause it is wrong to force mens con- sciences, but because, in this case, it would be danuerous to the State to do so; and, in dealing out any scant measure of justice to the malcontents, in his opinion the furthest point to he sought was but to avoid their despair. The knot of this discourse is, he concludes, that if your majesty find it eo~venient, on the one side by re- lenting the rigor of the oath, and on the other side by disabling your ui~- sound subjects, you shall neither exe- cute any but very traitors in all mens opinions and constructions, nor yet put faith in any but those who ever, for their own sakes, must be faithful. It was the carrying out of this p01- icy that enabled the apologists of Elizabeths administration, Burleigh himself, Walsingham, and Bacon, to vindicate her conduct towards~ the Catholics by alleging that they were punished, ndt for conscience sake, but for treason. Yet, however strenuously erra, in modo che non possa phii errare, ~ tenuto o ignorante o vile. 6 Ibid., vol. ii., p.28: Notabile a qualunque governa, che mai non debba tanto poco stimare un huomo, che e creda . . . che colul, che ~ ingiuriato, non si pensi di vendicarsi con ogni suo pericolo e particular danno. Machiavelli and the English Reformation. 92 Machiavelli and the English Reformation. they might deny that consciences were forced, however frequently they might reiterate that the government was merely punishing those cases of con- science which had changed their char- acter by exceeding all hounds, and be- come matters of faction, the fact remained that the limits of conscien- tious scruple had been arbitrarily fixed by themselves, and that it was their own policy of making religion an in- strument for the attainment of political ends which had rendered persecution a State necessity. And through the thin disguise of all their arguments in justification of their repressive policy appears the fact that they themselves were half conscious that their real mo- tive and true justification was the Machiavellian doctrine that all means are permissible that conduce to the well-being of the State. Machiavellian in its details, the ec- clesiastical policy of Elizabeth was, like that of Cromwell, Machiavellian also in its broader aspects. The eccle- siastical settlement under ElizabeEll constituted in effect a complete revo- lution in the religious character of the nation. At her accession the queen had found the nation, for the most part, Catholic; when she died it was fiercely and unalterably Protestant. And yet of this tremendous change, so skilfully veiled had been the proc~ss.es, and so carefully conservative the methods, that it was possible for the government to assert, and to assert with some plausibility, that in the polity of the Church no fundamentally new principles had been introduced. In this part (i.e., in the religious inno- vations), runs a proclamation of Queen Elizabeth, we know of no other authority, either given or used by us, as Quene and Gov- ernor of this Realm, than hath ben by the Lawe of God and this Realm aiwayes due to our Progenitors, Soverayns, and Kinges of the same; although true it is that this Authority hath ben in the Tyme of certen of our Progenitors, some hundred years past, as by Lawes, Records, and Storyes doth appere (and specially in the Reign of our noble Father Henry the Eighth and our deare Brother Edward the Sixth) more clearly recognized by all the Estates of the Realme, as the like hath ben in our Tyme; without that thereby we do either challenge or take to us (as malicious Parsons do untruly surmise) any Supe- riority to ourseif to defyne, decyde, or determyn any Article or Poynt of the Chrestian Fayth and Relligion, or to chang any ancient Ceremony of the Church from the Forme before received and observed by the Catholick and Apostolick Church, or the Use of any Function belongyng to any ecclesiastical Person being a Minister of the Word and Sacraments of the Church: But that Authority which is yelded to us and, our Crown consisteth in this; that, considering we are by Gods Grace and Soverayn Prince and Quene, next under God, and all the People of our Realm are imme- diately born Subjects to us and to none ells, and that our Rsi~alme hath of long time, past receaved the Christian Fayth~ we are by this Authorite bound to direct all Estates, being subject to us, to live in the Fayth and Obedience of Christian Relligion, and to see the Lawes of God and Man, which are ordained to that end, to be duly observed, and the Offenders against the same ouly punished, and con- sequently to provide that the Chirch may be governed and taught by Arch-Bishops, Bishops, and Ministers accordyng to the ecclesiastical Auncient Pollycy of the Realme, whom we do assist with our soverayn Power. . . So the clergy are still, according to Elizabeth, supreme in all spiritual matters; her own function is confined to bringing, ns a dutiful daughter of the Catholic Church, the secular power to the aid of religion! Can this be the same voice that threatened to un- frock a certain proud prelate be- cause he tried to defend the property of his see? Whoever desires to introduce re- forms into a State, Machiavelli had written, in such manner as to have them accepted, and maintained to everybodys satisfaction, must retain at least the shadow of old institutions, 1 A Declaration of the Queens Proceedings since her Reign, published among the Burleigh Papers, Haynes, p. 591. This proclamation was issued early in 1570, after the Northern rising. It was previous to the popes Bull of 1570, which threw Elizabeth into the arms of the Protestants. so as to appear to have altered noth- lug, while in fact the new arrange- ments are entirely different from the old.l W. ALISON PHILLIPS. 1 iDiscorsi, vol. i., p. 25. From Longmans Magazine. BIRDS AND MAN. To most of our wild birds man must seem a very anomalous being, eccentric and contradictory in his actions. By turns he is hostile, indifferent, friendly towards them, so that they never quite know what to expect. Take the case of .a blackbird who has gradually acquired trustful habits, and builds its nest in the garden or shrubbery in sight of the friends that have fed It in frosty weather; so little does It fear that it allows them to come a dozen times a ~day. put the branches aside and look upon it, and even stroke its back as it sits on its eggs. By and by a neign- bors egg-hunting boy creeps in, dis- covers the nest, and pulls it down. The bird finds itself betrayed by its confidence; had it suspected the boys ~evil intentions it would have made an outcry at his approach, as at the ap- r)ef,Pance of a cat, and the nest would perhaps have been saved. No douhi the resnit of such an accident would bi the unsettling of an acquired habit, the return to the usual suspicious attitude. Birds are able sometimes to discrimi- nate between protectors and persecutors, but seldom very well I should imagine; they do not view the face only, but the Whole form, and our frequent change of dress must make it difficult for them to distinguish the individuals they know and trust from strangers. Even a dog is occasionally at fault when his master, last seen in black and grey suit, reappears in straw hat and flannels. In a birds relations with other mam- mals there is no room for doubt or con- fusion; each consistently acts after its kind; once hostile, always hostile; and if once seen to be harmless, then to be 93 trusted forever. The fox must always be feared and detested; his disposition, like his sharp nose and red coat, is unchangeable; so, too, with the cat, stoat, weasel, etc. On the other hand, in the presence of herbivorous mam- mals, birds show no sign of suspicion; tney know that all these various crea- tures are absolutely harmless, from the big formidable-looking bull and roaring stag, to the mild-eyed, timorous hare and rabbit, It is common to see wag- tails and other species attending cattle in the pastures, and keeping close to their noses, on the lookout for the small insects driven from hiding in the grass. Daws and starlings search the backs of cattle and sheep for ticks and other parasites, and it is plain that their visits are welcome. Here a joint interest unites bird and beast; it is the nearest approach to symbiosis among the higher vertebrates of this country, but is far less advanced than the partner- ship which exists between the rhi- noceros bird and rhenoceros or buffalo, and between the spur-winged plover and crocodile in Africa. One day I was walking in a meadow where several cows were grazing, and noticed a little beyond them a number of rooks and starlings scattered about. Presently a flock of about forty jack- daws flew over me and sloped down to join the other birds, when all at once two daws dropped out of the flock on to the back of the cow standing nearest to me. Immediately five more daws followed, and the crowd of seven birds began eagerly picking at the animals hide. But there was not room enough for them to move freely; they pushed and struggled for a footing, throwing their wings out to keep their balance, looking like a number of hungry vul- tures fighting for places on a carcase; and soon two of the seven were thrown off and flew away. The remaining five, although much straitened for room, con- tinued for some time scrambling over the cows back, busy with their beaks and apparently very much excited over the treasure they had discovered. It was amusing to see how the cow took their visit; sinking her body as if about Birds and Man. Birds and Man. to lie down, and broadening her back, and dropping her head until her nose touched the ground, she stood perfectly motionless, her tail out behind like a pump-handle. At length the daws finished their feeding and quarrelling and flew away; but for some minutes the cow remained immovable in the same attitude, as if the rare and deligiit- ful sensation of so many beaks prod- ding and so many sharp claws scratch- ing her hide had not yet worn off. Deer, too, like cows, are very grateful to the daw for Its services. In Saver- nake Forest I once witnessed a very pretty little scene. I noticed a doe ly- ing down by herself in a grassy hollow, and as I passed her at a distance of about fifty yards it struck me as sin- gular that she kept her head so low down that I could only see the top of it on a level with her back. Walking round to get a better sight, I saw a jack- daw standing on the turf before her, very busily pecking at her face. With my glass I was able to watch his move- ments very closely; he pecked round her eyes, then her nostrils, her throat, and in fact every part of her face; and just as a man when being shaved turns his face this way and that under the gentle guiding touch of the barbers fingers, and lifts up his chin to allow the razor to pass beneath it, so did the doe misc and lower and turn her face about to enable the bird to examine and reach every part with his bill. Finally the daw left the face, and, moving round, jumped on to the deers shoulders and began a minute search in that part; having finished this he jumped on to the head and pecked at the forehead and round the bases of the ears. The peck- ing done, he remained for some seconds sitting perfectly still, looking very pretty with the graceful red head for a stand, the does long ears thrust out on either side of him. From his living perch he sprang into the air and flew away, going close to the surface; then slowly the deer raised her head and gazed after her black friendgrate- fully, and regretting his departure, I could not but think. Some birds when breeding exhibit great anxiety at the approach of any animal to the nest; but even when most excited they behave very differently towards herbivorous mammals and those which they know to be at all times the enemies of their kind. The nest of a ground-breeding species may be en- dangered by the proximity of a goat, sheep, deer, or any grazing animal, but the birds do not winnow the air above it, scream, make threatening dashes at its head, and try to lead it away as they would do in the case of a dog or fox. When small birds dash at and violently attack large animals and man in de- fence of their nest, even though the nest may not have been touched, the action appears to be purely instinctive and involuntary, almost unconscious, in fact. Acts of this kind are more often seen in humming-birds than in birds of other families; and humming-birds do not appear to discriminate between rapacious and herbivorous mammals. When they see a large animal moving about they fly close to and examine it for g few moment~, then dart away; if it comes too near the nest they will attack it, or threaten an attack. While looking at their nests 1 have had hum- ming-birds dash into my face; the action is very much like that of a sting- less, solitary carpenter bee, common in La Plata. When the tree or bush in which this bee has its nest is ap- proached by a man it darts about in an eccentric manner, humming loudly, and at intervals remains suspended motion- less for ten or fifteen seconds at a height of seven or eight yards above his head; suddenly it dashes quick as light- ning into his face, inflicting a sharp blow. The bee falls as if stunned a space of a couple of feet, then rises again to repeat the action. There is certainly a wide d ifference between so simple an instinctive action as this, which cannot be regarded as intelligent or conscious, and the actions of most birds in the presence of danger to their eggs or young. In species that breed on the ground in open situations the dangers to which bird and nest are exposed are of different kinds, and, leaving out the case of that anomalous 94 Birds and Alan. creature, man, we see that as a rule the birds judgment is not at fault. In one ease it is necessary that he should guard himself while trying to save his nest; in another case the danger is to the nest only, and he then shows that he has no fear for himself. The most striking iastance I have met with, bearing on this last point, relates to the action of a spur-winged lapwing ob- served on the Pampas. The birds loud excited cries attracted my attention; a sheep was lying dowa with its nose directly over the nest, containing three eggs, and the plover was trying to make it get up. It was a hot day and the sheep refused to stir; possibly the fan- ning of the birds wings was grateful to her. After beating the sheeps face for some time it began pecking sharply at the nose; then the sheep raised her head, soon grew tired of holding it up, and no sooner was it lowered than the blows and peckings began again. Again the head was raised, and lowered again with the same result, and this continued for about twelve or fourteen minutes, until the annoyance became intolerable; then the sheep raised her head and refused to lower it any more, and in that very uncomfortable position, with her nose high in the air, she ap- peared determined to stay. In vain the lapwing waited, and at last began to make little jumps at the face. The nose was out of reach, but by and by, in one of its jumps, it caught the sheeps ear in its beak and remained hanging with drooping wings and dangUng legs. The sheep shook her head several times and at last shook the bird off; but no sooner was it down than it jumped up and caught the ear again; then at last the sheep, fairly beaten, struggled up to her feet, throwing the bird off, and lazily walked away, shaking her head re- peatedly. How great the confidence of the plover must have been to allow it to act in such a manner! This perfect confidence which birds have in the mammals they have been taught by experience and tradition to regard as harmless must be familiar to any one who has observed partridges associating with rabbits. The manners of the rabbit, one would imagine, must be exceedingly upsetting to birds of so timorous a disposition. He has a way, after a quiet interval, of leaping into activity with startling suddenness, darting violently away as if scared out of his senses; but his eccentric move- ments do not in the least alarm his feathered companions. One evening early in the month ot March I witnessed an amusing scene near Ockley, in Sur- rey. I was walking towards the village about half an hour after sn~set, when, hearing the loud call of a partridge, I turned my eyes in the direction of the sound and saw five birds on a slight eminence nearly in the centre of a small green field, surrounded by a low thorn hedge. They had come to that spot to roost; the calling bird was standing erect, and for some time he continued to call at intervals after the others had settled down at a distance of one or two yards apart. All at once, while I stood watching the birds, there was a rustling sound in the hedge, and out of it burst two buck rabbits engaged in a frantic running fight. For some time they kept near the hedge. but fighting rabbits seldom continue long on one spot; they are incessantly on the move, although their movements are chiefly round and round, now one wayflight and pursuit ~then, like lightning, the foremost rabbit doubles back and there is a collision, bitings, and rolling over and over together, and in an instant they are up again, wide apart, racing like mad. Gradually they went farther and farther from the hedge; and at length chance took them to the very spot on which the partridges had settled, and there for three or four minutes the duel went on. But the birds refused to be turned out of their quarters. The bird that had called still remained standing, expectant, with raised head, as if watching for the appearance of some loiterer, while the others all kept their places. Their quietude in the midst of that whirlwind of battle was wonderful to see. Their only movement was when one of the birds was in a direct line with a flying rabbit, when, if it stayed 95 Birds and Man. still, in another moment it would be struck and perhaps killed by the shock; then it would leap a few inches aside and immediately settle down again. In this way every one of the birds had been forced to move several times be- fore the battle passed on towards the opposite side of the field and left the covey in peace. Social animals, Herbert Spencer truly says, take pleasure in the conscious- ness of one anothers company; but he appears~ to limit the feeling to those of the same herd, or flock, or species. Speaking of the mental processes of the cow, he tells us just how that large mammal is impressed by the sight of birds that come near it and pass across its field of vision; they are regarded in a vague way as mere shadows, or shadowy objects, flitting or blown about hither and thither over the grass or through the air. My conviction is that all animals distinctly see in those of other species, living, sentient, intel- ligent beings like themselves; and that, when birds and mammals meet to- gether, they take pleasure in the con- sciousness of one anothers presence, in spite of the enormous difference in size, voice, habits, etc. I believe that this sympathy exists and is just as strong between a cow and its small volatile companion, the wagtail, as between a bird. and mammal that more nearly resemble each other in size; for in- stance, the partridge, or pheasant, and rabbit. The only bird with us that appears to have some such feeling of pleasure in the company of man is the robin. It is not universal, not even very common, and Macgillivray, in speaking of the confidence in man of that bird during severe weather, very truly says, In ordinary times he is not perfectly dis- posed to trust in man. Any person can prove this for himself by going into a garden or shrubbery and approaching a robin. We see, too, that the bird shows intense anxiety when its nest is approached by a man; this point, however, need not be made much of, since all visitors, even its best friends, are unwelcome to the breeding bird. Still, there is no doubt that the robin is less distrustful of man than other species, but not surely because this bird is regarded by most persons with kindly feelings. The curious point is that the young birds find something in man to attract them. This is usually seen at the end of summer, when the old birds have gone into hiding, and it is then surprising to find how many of the young robins left in possession of tbe ground appear to take pleasure in the company of human beings. Often before a person has been many minutes in a garden strolling about, he will dis- cover that the quiet little spotted bird is with him, hopping and flying from twig to twig and occasionally alighting on the ground, keeping company with him, sometimes sitting quite still a yard from his hand. The gardener is usually attended by a friendly robin, and when he turns up the soil the bird will come down close to his feet to pick up the small grubs and worms. Is it not prob- able that the tameness of the tame young robin so frequently met with is, like that of the robin who ikeeps com- pany with the gardener or woodman, an acquired habit that the young bird has made the discovery that when a person is moving about among the plants, picking fruit perhaps, lurking insects are disturbed at the roots and small spiders and caterpillars shaken from the leaves? It is certain that birds have exceedingly sharp eyes and retentive memories. Among the birds of the homestead the swallow is another somewhat excep- tional species in his way of regarding man. He is too much a creature of the air to take any pleasure in the com- pany of heavy animals, bound to earth; the distance is too great for sympathy to exist. When we consider how closely he is bound and how much he is to us, it is Lard to believe that he is wholly unconscious of our benefits, that when he returns in spring overflowing with gladness, to twitter his delightful airy music round the house, he is not singing to us, glad to see us again after a long absence, to be once more our wel- come guest as in past years. But so it is. When there were no houses in the land he built his nest in some rocky cavern, where a she-wolf had her lair, and his life and music were just as joy- ous as they are now, and the wolf suck- ling her cubs on the stony floor beneath was nothing to him. But if by chance she climbed a little way up or put her nose too near his nest, his lively twitter- ing quickly changed to surill cries of alarm and anger. And we are no more than the vanished wolf to the swallow, and so long as we refrain from peeping into his nest and handling his eggs or young, he does not know us, and is hardly conscious of our existence. All the social feelings and sympathy of the swallow are for creatures as a~rial and swift-winged as itselfits playmates in the wide fields of air. Swallows hawking after files in a vil- lage street, where people are walking about, is a familiar sight. Swifts are just as confident. A short time ago, while standing in the churchyard at Parnham, in Surrey, watching a bunch of ten or twelve swifts racing through the air, I noticed that on each return to the church they followed the same Line, doubling round the tower on the same side, then sweeping down close to the surface, and mounting again. Going to the spot I put myself directly in their wayon their race-course as it were, at that point where it touched the earth; but they did not on that account vary their route; each time they came back they streamed screaming past my head so near as almost to brush my face with their wings. But I was never more struck by the unconcern at the presence of man shown by these birds swallows, martins, and swiftsas on one occasion at Frensham, when the birds were very numerous. This was in the month of May, about five weeks after I had witnessed the fight between two rabbits, and the wonderful com- posure exhibited by a covey of part- ridges through it all. It was on a close hot morning, after a night of rain, when, walking down to Frensham Great Pond, I saw the birds hawking about near the water. The may-flies were just out, and in some mysterious I TVTNG AGE. VOL. XIII. 635 97 way the news had been swiftly carried all over the surrounding country. So great was the number of birds that the entire population of swallows, house and sand martins, and swifts, must have been gathered at that spot from the villages, farms, and / sand-banks for several miles around. At the side of the pond I was approaching there is a green strip about a hundred and twenty or a hundred and thirty yards in length and forty or fifty yards wide, and over this ground from end to end the birds were smoothly and swiftly gliding backwards and forwards. The whole place seemed alive with them. Hurrying to the spot I met with a little adventure which it may not be inapt to relate. Walking on through some scattered furze bushes, gazing intently ahead at the swallows, I almost knocked my foot against a hen pheasant covering her young chicks on the bare ground beside a dwarf bush. Catching sight of her just in time I started back; then, with my feet about a yard from the bird, I stood and regarded her for some time. Not the slightest move- ment did she make; she was like a bird carved out of some beautifully varie- gated and highly polished stone, but her biight round eyes had a wonderfully alert and wild expression. With all her stillness the poor bird must have been in an agony of terror and suspense, and I wondered how long she would endure the tension. She stood it for about fifty seconds, then burst screaming away with such violence that her seven or eight chicks were flung in all direc- tions to a distance of two or three feet like little balls of fluff and going twenty yards away she dropped to the ground and began beating her wings, calling loudly. I then walked on and in three or four minutes was on the green ground in the thick of the swallows. They were in hundreds, flying at various heights, but mostly low, so that I looked down on them, and they certainly formed a curious and beautiful spectacle. So thick were they, and so straight and rapid their flight, that they formed in appearance a current, or rather many Bird8 and Man. Birds and Man. currents, flowing side by side in oppo- site directions; and when viewed with nearly closed eyes the birds were like black lines on the green surface. They were silent except for the occasional weak note of the sand martin, and through it all they were perfectly re- gardless of me, whether I stood still or walked about among them; only when I happened to be directly in the way of a bird coming towards me he would swerve aside just far enough to avoid touching me. In the evening of that very day the behavior of a number of golderests, disturbed at my presence, surprised and puzzled me not a little; their action had a peculiar interest just then, as the. en- counter with the pheasant, and the sight of the multitude of swailows, and their indifference towards me were still very fresh in memory. The incident has only an indirect bearing on the sub- ject of this paper, but I think it is worth relating. About two miles from Frensham ponds there is a plantation of fir-trees with a good deal of gorse growing scat- tered about among the trees; in walk- ing through this wood on previous occasions I had noticed that golderests were abundant in it. Soon after sunset on the evening in question I went through this wood, and after going about eighty to a hundred yards I be- came conscious of a commotion of a novel kind in the branches above my headconscious too that it had been going oft for some time, and that ab- so Vbed in thought I had not remarked it. A considerable number of goldcrests were flitting through the branches and passing from tree to tree, keeping over and near me, all together uttering their moist vehement cries of alarm. I stopped and listened to the little chorus of shrill squeaking sounds, and watched the birds as well as I could in the ob- scurity of the branches, flitting about in the greatest agitation. It was per- fectly clear that I was the canse of the excitement, as the birds increased in number as long as I stood at that spot, until there could not have been less than forty or fifty, and when I again walked on they followed. One expects to be mobbed and screamed at by gulls, terns, lapwings, and some other species, when approaching their nesting-places, but a hostile demonstration of this kind from such minute creatures as gold- crests, usually indifferent to man struck me as very unusual and some- what ridiculous. What, I asked my- self, could be the reason of their sudden alarm, when my previous visits to the wood had not excited them in the last? I could only suppose that I had, without knowing it, brushed against a nest, and the alarm note of the parent birds had excited thd others and caused them to gather near me, and that in the obscure light they had mistaken me for some rapacious animal. The right explana- tionI think it is the right onewas found by chance three months later. In August I was in Ireland, staying at a country house among the Wicklow hills. There wiere several swallows nests in the stable, one or two so low that they could be reached by the hand, and the birds went in and out regardless of the presence of any person. In a few days the young were out, sitting in rows on the roof of the house or on a low fence near it, where their parents fed them for a short time. After these young birds were able to take care of themselves they still kept about the house, and were joined by more swal- lows and martins from the neighbor- hood. One bright, sunny morning, when not fewer than two or three score of birds were flying about the house, ~.aily twittering, I went into the garden to get some fruit. All at once a swallow uttered his loud, shrill alarm cry and at the same time darted down at me, al- most grazing my hat, then mounting up he continued making swoops, scream- ing all the time. Immediately all the other swallows and martins came to the spot, joining in the cry, and con- tinued flying about over my head, but not darting at me like the first bird. For some moments I was very much astonished at the attack; then I looked round for a catit must be the cat, I thought. This animal had a habit of hiding among the gooseberry bushes, and, when I stooped to pick the fruit, springing very suddenly upon my back. But pussy was nowhere near, and as the swallow continued to make dashes at me, I thought that there must be some- thing to alarm it on my head, and at once pulled off my hat and began to examine it. In a moment the alarm cries ceased and the whole gathering of swallows dispersed in all directions. There was no doubt that my hat had caused the excitement; it was of tweed, of an obscure grey color, striped or barred with dark brown. Throwing it down on the ground among the bushes it struck me that its color and markings were like those of a grey striped cat. Any one seeing it lyin~, there would, at the first moment, have mistaken it for a cat lying curled up asleep among the bushes. Then I remembered that I had been wearing the same delusive, dangerous-looking tweed hat on the occasion of being mobbed by the gold- crests at Frensham. Of course the illusion could only have been produced in a bird looking down upon the top of the hat from above. W. H. HunsoN. From Blackwoods Magazine. BEHIND DIKES AND DUNES. It was a bright and pearly midday, a midday of a pearly brightness to be found nowhere out of Holland, when we came to Haarlem, and took rooms in the Hotel Fuackler. In Dutch hotels, or in many of them, the partitions of the rooms are lathed only; no doubt these were larger chambers once, partitioned thus to meet the demands of custom; and through the laths, and the wall- paper stretched loosely over them, the sounds of voices penetrate easily. It was so in the Hotel Funekier. I am not sure that in the high-pitched mono- tone that reached me then I detected the note of the American, or that I spec- ulated at all about the voice until I met its charming owner later. It struck me only as odd that any living creatures should shut themselves in a Haarlem 99 hotel on such a day, to read aloud and to listen (as my neighbors clearly were doing), instead of being outside in a courtly old city where every ictinker had an interest, and where the very opal- escence of the atmosphere was of a quality unknown save in Holland. The afternoon was all too short for seeing the ancient streets, and the market-place, and the Groote Kerk with its flying buttresses of shops without and the swinging votive-ships within. The drive through the tulip country to Bloemendinal, and the Frans Hals pic- tures (Haarlems ulti mate treasure), had to wait until to-morrow. And when we returned to the hotel, there, still, was the monotonous high-pitch of the reciter next door. In the evening these Boston ladies compared notes with me. The objective of their tour was Bay- reuth some months off. They had been to Bloemendaal the previous day; even they had penetrated the dunes at Veizerend, and seen the Blauwe Trappen: were not the Dutch a ridicu- lous people to set store upon these as mountains? They had arrived at Haar- lem that morning; and they guessed they had seen everything in Haarlem that was worth seeingand it wasnt much. Yes. They had been to the Town Hall, where there were some pie-, tures. Frans Halss? Certainly; they were the biggest pictures of the lot~ they remembered. But had I seen the funny relics in the cellar off the picture- gallery? If not, I had missed the most interesting thing in Haarlem. And they had kept their room in the afternoon as I knew. They didnt tell me what they had been reading. It may have been Motley, and it may have been the Trilby of that season. It didnt much matter; they had done Haarlem in the forenoon. That was years ago, and I have often wondered since, as I wondered then, how any tripperswho do not all come from Boston by any meansare at- tracted to Holland. It is small in ex- tent and wonderfully dear; and even for its size it is poor in sights. In a week, I dare say, and certainly for a cyclist, it would be possible to carry out the Behind Dikes and Dunes. 100 guide-books programme to the letter, seeing every Groote Kerk and Stadhuis, every notable picture, every great river and canal and city and toy-town. Save for the costumes, the tour must be wearisomely monotonous. In the ob- jects of the landscape there is no change; windmills, ditches, church- spires never end, village is a duplicate of village, canal of canal, and the notable buildings have little variety. One has to say the objects of the landscape, for the landscape itself is ever chang- ing. There is in Holland a peculiar landscape quality, solely atmospheric, undefiniable, a thing of light and shadow, appealing to one who has an eye for the picturesque, to one with the painters bent especially, and, when he comes to the practice, leaving him in despair. He looks upon a typical Dutch scenewide fields of deep green, shad- ing to blue as they run side by side with the canals, in sharp perspective to the horizon-line; trees and spires and windmills and red roofs swallowed up in the golden blaze of the day; and, nearer, the pollarded willows, with the yellow weed of the meadow picked out brilliantly between the grey-brown trunksand his fingers itch for the brush. But he will not fix the effect upon his canvas, try as he may. Even the old Dutch masters of landscape missed something of that atmospheric harmony, and the young Dutch painters miss it, pre-eminent in landscape as they are. And at any rate a quality so intangible does not count for much with the tripper. It may be doubted if four out of every five such holiday-makers in Holland are not bored to death before many days are past. The towns offer them little entertainment for the even- ings. The theatres are shut in the tour- ing season, and if they were open it would make little differencefor who understands Dutdh? Sometimes in the cities there are good concerts; but it is a mistake to suppose that the Dutch are a musical people like the Germans. The national genius runs to the more exclusive art of painting stillto design as well as to color. Nevertheless, each year Holland be- comes more and more a touring-ground. For many, no doubt, the attraction is historical. Few things in history have taken the general imagination so viv- idly as the fight for independence of the Dutch Estates; and Alkmaar, Haarlem, Leiden, Den Briel, Breda, Sluys, are illumined by the narrative of Motley, more popular tnan Prescotts, or than Macaulays evenprobably the most popular in the English tongue. And that narrative has emphasized the physiographical position of the Nether- lands. There is a fascination in the idea of a country reclaimed from the sea through centuriesa product of river-deposit silted against sand-bar- riers thrown up by sea and river-cur- rents, kept dry by unwearying action of the pumps, and added to by daily victories snatched from the enemy which must ever be kept at bay. More than all, tourists are tempted to Hol- land by a very commonplace curiosity, ministered to by interiors and costumes, by trifles like the gossiping mirrors in the windows even, rather than by phy~iographical conditions or historic association. For, so far as it is a tourist country, Hollands capital lies in her costumes; not only in the notorious many-plies of the Scheveningen wives, the helmets of the Frisian women, the bodices and kerchiefs of Waicheren, and the Sun- day garb of Volendam and Marken. at which people go out to gape; but also in the soberer every-day dress that will be seen for many a year to come in the fields and gardensin Amsterdam fish- market, say, or of a Saturday forenoon on the Maria Flaats in Utrecht. The Dutch, in some things the most enter- prising in the world, in many others are the most conservative. They cut their corn, and mow their hay, and make their cheese as their great-grandfathers did these things. That is why, in a fisher-house in a Zuider Zee village, you will find to-day an interior that could be matched in a picture of Jan Steen. The railway-women still attend at the level-crossings in their black coats with red collars and their high- glazed hats. Relics of older times peep Behind Dikes and Dunes. Behind Dikes andDunes. out at every corner. Any day you can see in the streets of Amsterdam boys and girls d:ressed in clothes red, on one side and black on the other; they belong to the Amsterdamsche Wees Jongens en Meisjes. It may be fanciful to read in this example of their care of their poor a certain cruelty, or at least want of fine feeling, in the Dutch people withal, which may account for their failure at the supreme moment as colo- nists; but at any rate it is worth remem- bering that these orphans, so cruelly labelled thus by Charity, belong to the same institution which sent out as Wives for the colonists at the Cape, two hundred years ago, girls to whose little affection for the land of their birth Miss Olive S~hreiner attributes the isolation of their Boer descendants to-day from all European influences. Whether he lands at the Hook or at Flushing, the holiday-miE~ker, who is filled with a curiosity to be gratified by these things chiefly immediately turns his steps into the well-beaten tracks be- tween the Zu;ider Zee and the Schelde. He is led thus to most that seems char- acteristic of the country; the Zuider Zee itself with its fleets of fishing-boats, its islands and sandibanks, the dead cities on its shores Enkhuizen. Medemblik, Hoorn, StavorenZaan- dam, of the windmills; Amsterdam, with its narrow streets and busy quays,. its pictures, its leaven of modern ideas working in stiff traditions, fighting, in defiance of its exclusion from the sea, to maintain its commercial prestige against the upstart Rotterdam; Deift, where the Stadhouders sleep encircled by countless canals; the archipelago of Zeeland, insularly conservative: a land of windmill and canal, of deep green fields, treeless almost, of dikes and seas and inland lakes, of curiously cos- tumed fisher and country-folk. Such, not unnaturally, is the tourists concep- tion of the Holland ot his route. Yet the chances are that he has missed the real significance of all that he has seen. Here and there only will he have found himself on a great Dutch dike with green fields lying round cosy farm- towns far beneath him on the one hand, 101 and on the other, a few feet only below where he stands, the waters of the North Sea, it may be, lapping the granite dike-face. Little more than an inkling of what that reclamation means comes to him as he journeys across the flat table-lands of the polders, from Alk- maar to Purmerend. He may compass North Holland without a guess at tragedies comparable only with those of the Khodinsky Plain and the seismic wave in Japan,of scores of villages swallowed up in the sea in a day, and the continent on which they stood be- come a sandbank. Or if he journeys be- tween Amsterdam and Leiden, to see the Haarlemmer Meer which was drained so lately as 1848 at a cost of 700,000, it is certain that, with all his knowledge of these figures, he will not realize that an accident was possible such as we have seen described thus, and based upon the official report of the undertaking: A curious phenomenon occurred in con- nection with the outer dyke of the canal on the east side of the lake, where it crossed an area of floating soil which bor- dered wide ponds near the village of Aalsmeer. An area of many acres, de- tached bythe canal from the old works of defence against the lake, found itself one fine day driven by the tempest from the bank of the canal to the other side of the pond. The proprietor implored the aid of the Commission. His land had floated to the opposite shore, widely separated from his other fields and resting on water that was not his own. By the continued effort of the proprietor and of the Commission these fugitive fields were towed hack to the borders of the canal and pinned in place by piles and. poles which prevented them from undertaking another voyage. Holland of the tourist is like these acres, liable to float away were she not pinned in her place in Europe by piles and poles; but these are hidden under- ground, and so her 4anger is not obvi- ous. It is no wonder if the tripper misses the true significance of what lie looks uponthe all-importance of half an inch of water. We must turn to the map (which ought always to be open at hand when we read of Holland) if we too are not BeUnd Dikes and Dunes. to miss its significance. In the first ~place. this tourist area is the lowest- lying portion of the country. All who -have travelled on Dutch waterways rnust h ye noticed on their course Hack or blue hoards, evidently for water measurements, with white indicating lines, and the letters A.P. A.P., which stands for Amsterdamsche Peil, was the symbol for the ordinary level of the Y at Amsterdam. This was in the days before the Y was drained and made a canal, and when it was an inland lake stretching to Halfweg on the south and almost to Beverwijk on the west; and that ordinary level then is still used as th-e zero point in all water measure- ments in Holland. N-ow if, starting at D-en Helder at the -north of North-Hol- land, we draw a line round the shores of the Zuider Zee to about Naarden, from there south to Gorkum where the Waal and the Maas meet, and then in a south-westerly direction to take in the islands of Zeeland, the line so drawn, - with the coast-line on the North Sea, encloses the tourist area at its most ex- tended reach. Saving the fringe of dunes on the sea the great natural dikes behind which the Netherlands were bornall this area is at or below AP. Whereas, with the exception of a fringe of Friesland (which might al- most be said to be in the tourist route) and of Overyssel, on the east shores of the Zuider Zee, all the remainder of Hol- hand is above AP., and some parts of it, as in the south of Limburg and the centre of the Veluwe, very considerably above it. -The tourist area only, then, is the land of polders and of windmills. The agricultural distinctions are not so strictly marked, for the rich arable tract includes Ze-eland, and stretches east along the Betuwe and north through the valley of the Yssel; but, speaking ~enerally, the tourist, area is rich clay, and the great cattle country. The sandy and gravelly provinces to the east and southGelderland, TJtrccht, IAmburg, and Biabantare plentiful in wood, while North and South Holland have little, and Zeeland and the Fries- land fringe almost none. And these distinctions are not without a further consequence, to be kept in view by the visitor in Holland. In choosing the w-estern strip, the tourist has selected the portion of the country inhabited by the finest races, and most -closely asso- ciated with the valiant deeds of the great wars. It is in the provinces of Holland and Zeeland, which ever led the way in the fight for independence, that you find the most splendid types of men. The seafaring life, and contact with it, widen the horizon of the mind. When you come to the sandy grounds, you are aware of a drop in the plane of intelligence. So it appears c-yen to the casual visitor, ignorant of the statistics that prove it so. As far as education returns can speak, the west and north provinces are the best developed. On the other hand, it must be owned that there are statistics to show that in the scale of morality North and South Hol- 1-and are lower than the south and east, with their patient and duller workers on the sand. Friesland is the honorable exception, standing highest in both re- spects evidently, testifying thus to the fineness and pride of a race that still counts itself better than Dutch. The Frisians are a people by themselves, with a language of their -own. There are some who account for the Taal the language, -so widely differing from Dutch, spoken among the Boer8 of South Africaby the fact that most of the (so-called) Dutch settlers at the Cape were Frisi-ans. All through the development of the Netherlands thIs northern people acted independently; and to this day the Frisian salutes you when you enter his country with a Have you come from Holland? im- plying thereby more than a mere dis- tinction in provinces. By many it is counted the advantage of touring in a small country that you can reach to its extremest borders with- out losing touch of cities and big towns with their accessories of a luxurious civilization. There are perhaps out-of- the-way parts of Hollandof Drenthe, saywhere it will he comforting to know oneself in touch thus; but in most of the country towns and villages the 102 Behind Dikes and Dunes. experiment of putting up for the night carries with it no risks even of discom- fort, unless, indeed, your object in going there at all has been merely to trans- port your club chair and the Times a few degrees east. A spotless cleanli- ness one is certain of everywhere, according to all travellers tales. Con- cerning that, a young Dutch workman in the steam-car between Alkmaar and Dc Ryp once said to us very naively, Sometimes the people here are so taken up with cleaning their pitchers and coppers that they forgot about themselves !but he had been in America. And then he discussed his peoples uncleanliness with a frankness of detail which even residence in the refined society of St. Louis had not made him understand would be uncom- fortable in our ears. How wavy a line that of indelicacy is! If in a foreign country people are constantly jarring our feelings, the lesson is that, be as wary as we may, we must as often, and not more innocently, be jarring theirs. From the beginning, it mnst be remem- bered, sanitation has an almost in- soluble problem before it in a fiat country like Holland; that apart, the Dutch undoubtedly are cleanly, and a people of taste. Their interiors,I am speaking of the dwellings of very ordi- ary folk, as well as of such great houses as those on the Heeren Gracht in Am- sterdam, for example,though formal, are in excellent keeping, with color and ornament rightly disposed. Indeed everywhere, from the vehicles in the country to the ironwork of the towns, a fine application of color and ornament to objects of usefulness is apparent. The humid atmosphere, of course, comes to the countrymans aid in his use in primary colors to veil their crudity early, and a notable artistic age, now past, has left many rel4cs; but hand and eye have not lost their cunning. After cleanliness, cookery; and here possibly there may be more difference of opinion. Cooking is pretty much the same in large hotels everywhere. In the smaller out-of-the-way inns your chances in dining depend upon the do- mestic virtues of the nation you are among. I have heard a Dutchman say that the cooking in his country is the worst in the world. He had not been in England, and that, no doubt, is why I could not agree with him. In the family dinnerthe only ground of com- parisongreater care and capacity are shown than among ourselves. It is a question of head rather than of hand. Maybe the kitchen is more easily ruled than with us; at any rate the Dutch housewife rules it admirably from1 her store, which, like her linen-cupboard, is unmatched. On the other .hand, table decoration is not one of her accomplish- ments; at the ordinary family dinner in good Dutch houses you will not find the tasteful arrangement of flowers which makes delightful a greatly less elab- orate meal in a greatly less pretentious household at home. Everything is directed to a grosser comfort; little elegancies are ousted by contrivances, as cumbersome as they are successful, for keeping multifarious dishes warm. In a word, the Dutch dont eat prettily but what Continental people do? And it is curious that with all their finicking niceness in the preparation of foodand there, no doubt, they give us a lessonthey may require you to eat several courses with the same knife and fork. In many a good hotel still you must ask for a change. That is one of the anomalies in the customs of all countries which superficial ~bservers make the premisses of extraordinary deductions. A clean bed and a well-cooked dinner then, await the daring visitor who pushes into the extremes of Holland for all the variety of landscape and of in- terests which she holds. It may be said at once, however, that he can find all these, or nearly all, without straying farther beyond the tourist area than the province of Utrecht. The city of Utrecht (as a glance at the map will show) lies on the extreme east border of this tourist area. The low meadow- lands flow over the western borders of the province from North and South Hol- land; but they stop at the city walls. Have we reached the Continent at lnst? Louis Napoleon said, when he 103 Behind Dikes and Dunes. came to liJtrecht in his eastern progres- sion. The ancient city is a gate, as it were, to the higner groundthat hilly country of which the Dutch are so jealous when Holland is described as a land of ditch and windmill and treeless field by those who know no better. Probably many who would not fall into the error of speaking of a treeless Hol- land remember only t Haagsche Bosch, through which they passed in their drives out from the Hague, or the Middagter Alide near Arnhem. But from Arnhem to tiJtrecht there stretches still a grand belt of wood that almost keeps true the old saying that a squirrel can go between tnem without touching ground. This lineby Zeist, Doom, Amerongen, Reen.en, Wageningen4s studded with country houses, summer houses for the city merchants, all with their cosy verandahs, and most of them surrounded by the formal arrangement of lakes and fiower-p~ots, so dear to the Dutchman, so petty and ugly in English eyes. Often, however, especially round the country seats of the old families, one finds splendid wood, avenues of beech and fir an~ lime which it would be difficult to match anywhere. In Utrecht province, within sight of the Dom, to go no farther afield, you can walk for miles along ant-run sandy tracks between fragrant pines, through close-set young firs, glimmering grey, veiling as with a smoke the green be- yond; or lie kner-deep in the heather in a great wide waste with no living thing near siave the het-tuters screaming against the turquoise sky. And yet if one had held to the right hand instead of to the left at starting, he would have been led through the fiat deep-green meadows, where the black cattle browse and the blue-bloused boers make the hay, or skirting the cherry- orchiards, or again, past the tall bean- sticks, but always striking canals, reflecting swinging sails and spanned by innumerable bridges. And here, too, are to be found some of the quaintest of the old towns of Holland: Wijk-bij- Duurstede with its castle dating from the days of Charlemagne, and Yssel- stein,close, narrow-streeted, the fiat grey house-fronts fenced with shady lindens, cut to allow the light to reach the windows, crusted with age, the ironwork ornaments of the sixteenth century, say, seeming modern beside their ancientness. One thing only that Holland has, the Utrecht province has notthe sea. And thus, perhaps, in it we miss the greatest charm of all: the approach across the deep green lands to the western dunes, with their deli- cate green helm, the plodding through these scooped sand-hills, and the com- ing out upon the dazzling White sands, shell-strewed, along which the coast summers in the heat haze, with the vil- lages floating in it like a mirage, or is blotted out by the storm, and the North Sea roars in the wind, or is enveloped by the copper mist in which the sun stand~s like a boss oi fire in a burnished shield. Nothing in all inc province is more picturesque or more interesting than the city of Utrecht itself. It is encircled by the Singel, the old fosse, round the inner side of which runs a broad path, the site of the ancient ramparts, por- tions of which remain still. Within, the city is intersected by canalsnumer- ous brancheis of the Kromme Ryn, which at one time evidently was in greatly larger volume than at present, and followed different courses that have been dammed and mined and bridged throughout the centuries, the river being changed in the construction of the city, and itself modifying that construction. All this, however, is too general. Canals intersect all Dutch towns. But the Oude Gracht, the main intersecting canal of Utrecht, has a peculiarity which, so far as I know, is found nowhere elseand it is this. There are, on the sides of the Oude Gracht, dwellings below the level of the street proper. From it you descend 1o tue water by two great steps, as it were: the fall between them forming the front of these dwellings, and the second step being a narrower strip of causeway at their doors. Most of the houses are cellars now, it is true; but there remain some that are inhabited, and by their show of white curtains in the windows, 104 Behind Dikes and Dunes. and flower-pots on the sills, picture what used to be. In earlier days in most Dutch towns, the streets skirting the canals were lined on the waterside by low parapet walls, upon which the folk sat and chatted after the familiar fashion of our own fishing-villages. In front of the houses, too, there were seats (as for that part there are here and there still), and these and the ground on which they stood, often on elevated granite blocks, belonged to the owners of the houses. A little out-jutting rail divided the properties. In course of time, as traffic increased, and space was valuable, the seats disappeared. But the little sep- arate rails remain, sometimes the granite slabs, and such plainstanes as there are are strips of brick set on end, on a level with, and encroaching upon, the crown o the causway. There, we have the history of the eminently uncomfortable streetsnot of Utrecht only, but of all Dutch towns. This natural discomfort of the streets is made infinitely greater by the coach- men. More reckless driving than you find in Holland does not exist anywhere in the worldnot even in Paris. The French cabby sweeps round corners with a malicious gaiety, but the Dutch- man pounds through. The one rule of the road known to Dutch lcoetsiers is that the foot-passenger must get out of it, and this he has to do as best he can by slipping up tnose railed-off slabs or dodging into the shelter of shop-doors. To one accustomed to London streets, the effect of this on perambulation is similar to that caused by scorchers on the wheel. In Utrecht, to make matters worse, the city is traversed by tram-car lines which, instead of lying along the streets in a humane and orderly fashion, wind through them from side to side, like the track,a horse seeks when going up a brae~ This of course is to ease the cart s passage round the corners, which is narrow and jolting with all but the consequence is infinitely disconcerting, and the harsh clang of the warning bells maddening to the nerves. Were the traffic carried on in the streets mainly, life in Dutch towns would be shortened by years. But the canals are the great highways of commerce, and the water deadens, or rather harmonizes, the sounds. The silent motion of the barges, the coolness, the play of color, and the sombre shadows over the bustle deep down on the canal-side, act on one soothingly. These outside seats, the benches on the stoep, the summer-houses on the canal-sides, the little hqated footstool when my lady goes to church, are typical of Holland and of the Holland- ers capacity for sitting still. When the Dutch Indian Civil Servant, in Celebes it may be, shuts his eyes and allows Memory to cast home-pictures on the darkened lids, the most affecting, I think, must be the corner of the verandah all aglow at the tea-drinking hour, where the mother sits amidst the paraphernalia of her laborious house- wiferythe blue Deift, the spoons care- fully resting in their case, the trim spirit-lamp, the singing kettle in the tea-stove, the bowl for hot water in which later on she will wash the cups and saucers with her own handswhile the family sit round her, simmering tranquilly like the teapot, speaking of the exile with wet eyes, but drinking an excellent brand. Such a compound of selfish hand and overflowing heart never was! With a habit so easy that all the world speaks of him as phleg- matic, the Dutchman is watchful and tenacious, enduring of purpose, a taker of long views. He is as provincial in his ideas as he is cosmopolitan of speech, conservative in practice, and republican in the blood; at once frugal and a bon vivant, hearty and formal, the bourgeois of the nations; plain of speech, often brutally truthful, a sufferer of no illusions, nevertheless he is childlike in his affections, even childish in his shows and celebrations thereof; a man of splendid education if small culture; saving of money and scornful of shop. keeping; university-bred and a despiser of the proletariat of the sciences; free from coquetry, unheedful of fashion, desperately vain; methodical and impul. sive, cost-counting and hospitable, and infinitely just. The Dutchman is a puz 105 Behind Dikes and Dunes. zie of character, as doubtless we are to him; a:nd our solution of him cannot fail to be as egregious at points as we know his of us to be. Holland is a highly educated country; those in it who are educated, that is to say, ieach a high standard. For al- though they are under the control of the State, the schools are fee-paying, and the Dutchman has too much of a certain kind of logic to make education com- pulsory until it is free. In consequence, you will meet with many young people who cannot read; and with still more oldmore than ever could be met with among ourselves, for the Bible is not, and has not been as with us, the hand- book of the unlettered. But most con- scripts, it seems, can sign their names at least; and above a very low social status, every one accepts the education which the State provides. And it is thorough. It makes for a very accurate knowledge, for a grasp and retention of fact; and as it starts with a command of several languages, its range is wide. I have been amazed, for example, at the acquaintance with our literature among men and women in Holland who made no cl~ im to learning and, of course, they are more interested in things French and German than in things English. In truth, they do not admire us greatly, however flatteringly they may imitate us. The English have energy, but no taste, the Dutch- man says, and, if he has been in London adds, and they have learned xvonder- fully to keep themselves in order. But, I suppose, no man from Helder to Maastricht but is persuaded that we all knew for months beforehand that Dr. Jim was to head his troops to Johannes- burg, and that as a nation we entered into a conspiracy of silence. He has no conception of the far-reachingness of the press which would make that im- possible, even if we were the Perfidious Albion he holds us. When the Dutch- man in Holland subscribes to a news- paper, it is posted to him direct from the office, laboriously wrapped and with a printed label; there are no news- boys in the streets, no news-agents, and at railway-stations 1 have found it as easy to buy a ~tan4ard as a Rotter- darnrn . You seldom see the pri ted page in the hands of the laborer. In all this there is one advantage at least, questions of taste are left to the de- cision of people of taste. Tom, Dick and Harry do not count, and do not seek to count, in these matters, and men with a commercial talent cannot create a following to bive to their huckstering successes the justification of a con- temporary opinion. The educational system in Holland is too proud for that. A sharp line separates the professional and the leisured classes from the com- mercial, and all above that line have passed through the universities. The course from the elementary schools to these is without a break. The State is careful to see that the public schools are strictly neutral in politics and in reli- gion, and there is a growing dissatisfaC- tion with an education that practically is secular, notwithstanding the high- falutin of the act about all Christian and social virtues. But the particu- lar schools, which are rapidly increas- ing, are under State control; for many years now they have received a govern- ment grant, and have had to maintain a high standard of efficiency. Even private or adventure schools are under the same keen supervision. No one is allowed to establish or to teach in a Private school who cannot satisfy, and (which is more important) continue to satisfy, the appointed examiners as to his or her capacity and morals. The gap between the elementary schools and the universities is bridged oy a sys- tent of secondary educatioa which, if it is not a perfect model for us, is at least a tolerable solution of a problem we in this country have still to face. In all this, let it be confessed, there are traces of the cast-iron methods by which much of the life of Holland is governed. The yoke of the official bears heavily on the necks of toe Dutch (and on ours if we visit them), although, unlike the Germans, they are free from the arrogance or the military. When you move into a town or village, you 106 Behind Dikes and Ih~nes. are met by the demand of the burgomas- ter for a certificate from the burgomas- ter of that you have left. You do not travel a mile on any of the State lines before you learn that man was made for the railways, and not the railways for man. Where the official ceases to rule, Mrs. Grundy steps in with a hun- dred principles of conduct to mould social intercourse upon the punctilio of the country town. Of all this yoke, it is true, there is a lightening; but it is wonderful what the freedom-loving Dutchman will put up with. For ex- ample, railway time in Holland is regu- lated from Greenwich, not from Am- sterdam, and the station clocks liffer some twenty minutes from those of the towns. When you point this out to him, however. the Dutchman has a reply not to be gainsaid. And you? he will an- swer; you have not adopted the decimal system. Whereupon the un- prejudiced Briton cannot but reflect that even his is not the best of all possible worlds. Straight streets and the universities bring us back to Utrecht, and to a very pretty pageant there this summer. There are four great universities in Hol- landat Leiden, Utrecht, Groningen, and Amsterdamand once in every five years each of these commemorates its foundation by a feast-weeka charac- teristic manner. Dutch students, like the Scottish, are not residential, but live in lodgings here and there in the towneach a link of interest, or of self- interest at any rate, between the uni- versity and the citizen. These scattered units, however, or all of them who value the respect of their fellows, are bound together in the Students Corps, the members of which do not pink each other, as in Germany, but are m~:hty fine fellows all the same, and excellent trenchermen. So when, last June, the 260th year of Utrecht University fell to be celebrated, town followed gown into very hi~h jinhs, and discovered, for us fortunate, Dutchmen shaken out of their accustomed formality and become as jovial as any in the canvases of Finns Hals and Van der Heist. For a week the folks were just a little bit daft. The receptions and orations of the opening day were caught up hi a whirl of concert and garden-party, re- union dinner and bal champ~tre, and the feast-week ended with a burst of horseplay more boisterousA than we should tolerate. The crown of all these university celebrations is a mas- querade, representing some historic scene, and on this occasion it was the Tournament in Vienna in 1560, given by Maximilian, King of Bohemia, in honor of his guest, the Duke of Bavaria. It happens that at the present moment Utrecht has many students of great wealth, and this pageant was specially splendid in consequence. Some two hundred students took part in it, half of them representing historical person- ages, the others their heralds and body- guards, and all of them, in armor and flappings and costumes, careful repro- ductions of the originals. For the whole week they played their mimic parts. Men-at-arms stood at every corner, knights in armor pranced in every street. During that time the stu- dent who represented the king held his court, dined in state, with a hundred knights around him, watched the dance from his throne with the beauty of his choice seated beside him, and received the obeisance of the citizens (punctil- ious on the part of the professors) when he rode out with his retinue. On the field of the tournament even he flew his colors over his pavilion set aside that where the oi~ange waved above the young and sweet-lookin~,, Wilhelnlna, and in the name of the Koning his mock majestys heralds announced to the real sovereign that the tournay was at an end. I wonder if the young fellow felt any decline when Sunday morning came, and he had to step out from all the pomp and circumstance of royalty? There were signs at any rate that the coat of mail sat as heavily upon him as the cares of state are said to do. And from the spectators point of view one never quite lost the sense of a mimic showexcept once, when the procession passed through ihe Maliebaan in the darkening to the music of pipes and tambours, when the ostrich plumes of 107 108 the knights reared against the over- hanging branches, and their armor glanced in the light of the torches, in the smoky gloom of which the mimicry was hid for a moment, and the pageant of the sixteenth centu y realized. Utrecht tempts one to potter about in it. There are few sights, so called. An ecclesiastical museum, a town museum containing the model of a Dutch interior of earlier date, now and then an interesting and unpresumin~ exhibition of modern pictures or of arts and crafts,these are all. At one time the city had a repute for pretty women, but I cannot believe that it manages to retain it. One hears much of hand- some women in North Holland and Zee- land and Friesland, with dairymaid color. We may admit the handsome, pliant figures, without any tendency to embonpoint as generally conceived. No doubt the wide breeches of the fisher- men, and an ambition among the peasant women to wear manifold petti- coats (unsatisfied, I am given to under- stand, with fewer than thirteen), carried by means of a bag of sand round the waist, have given rise to the erro- nous conception of the enormity of the Dutch a parte post. But in the towns, at least, the complexion goes early. The truly interesting Utrecht is a crea- tion of the imagination, and imagination peoples it with ecclesiastics. The Dom tower, rising from its centre, command- ing it and half a province besides, tes- tifies to the power of the clergy. To understand the city rightly in its plan, even to-day, you must conceive of it as a city of churches, around which clustered in close squares the houses and cloisters of the clergy. Janskerk- hof, Pieterskerkhof, the Munsterkerk- hof are examples of the squares so formed. Once they were completely shut ofr from the rest of the eity,~some of them even were walled in and moated within the encircling canal; and it was at a comparatively recent date that the many streets broke in upon them. Let the visitor who is sufficiently inter- ested find his way to the Yoetsius- steegje, in the north-east corner of the square, presently joining it with the Behind Dikes and Dunes. Pieterskerkhof, and consider it as the only inlet, and he will get an impres- sion of the plan and appearance of the city in earlier times. And I need no excuse for asking him to linger in the Munsterkerkhof, once he is there. At one side of the square rises the Dom tower, remarkable in little save its height, its singleness, and its detachment. Unlike most Gothic churches, Utrecht Cathedral was de- signed with this one tower only, and is, accordingly, of the unusual height of three hundred and sixty feet. Or we may believe, in perfect accord with history, that, as a tower of great height was required for spying purposes by archbishops surrounded by enemies~ one such wa~s as many as they could undertake. The towers detachment shows that the cathedral was beyond their powers a little. From the choir, which is all that is left of the church, sadly disfigured in its whitewashed in terior,to the Dom tower there is a great open space, the heart and centre of the square, defiled by foot-passen- gers and traversed by the wretched tram-lines of which lament was made before. Now, though before the great havoc-playing storm of 1674. which swept down I know not how maiiy spires like nine-pins, the tower and the choir were joined in one completed cathedral, it seems most likely that the connecting nave was of wood only. During the two hundred and more years in which the cathedral has stood in its present ridiculous state of dismember- ment, the square itself has changed greatly, and always for the worse. Tue new university, on the south-east side, was needed, if we are to judge by the old entrance and staircase which still exist, enclosed in a corner of the present handsome building; but the old build- ings connected with the church, in which it made a home, must have been more in keeping with their neighbors in the square, and were furnished no doubt in a less sumptuous style of upholstery, more in accordance with our ideas of a teaching university. Under the changes in the university these old buildings have undergone a continual and curious ~transformation. And so it is on all sides of the square; the old archbishops palace, on the south, is now a coffee- house. One thing more the visitor ought to notice about Utrecht before he leaves it. A little way beyond the Witte Yrouwe Poort on the east side of the town is a fortress, one of a line which stretches northwards from it by Weesp to Naarden and to Muiden on the moutn of the Yecht, and southwards by Vrees- wijk on the Lek to Gorkum on the Maas. Besides this chief line of fortificat!ons the Nieuwe Hollandsche Waterlinie there is a second of earthenworks thrown up from the Zuider Zee at the mouth of the Eem, by the Gelderscbe Valid, across the Betuwe to St. Andries, in North Brabant; but the enemy cross- ing the eastern and southern fron~ier~ would find slender opposition until the first line was reached. The real defence of Holland, however, is her mortal and ubiquitous enemywater. Three cen- turies ago, the sea from which she snatched bare life bred the men who were to make world-wide conquests for her; it was the sea, allowed its way across her rich fields, that saved ier from the arms of Spain. And were 1-lol- land put to the pinch to~day, as she was when Yaldez sat down against Leiden, inundation would be her safety. East of this Nicuwe Hollandsche Waterlinie, as has been shown, the land slopes up- wards, and in time of war it would be possible to flood the base of this acclivity, and bar the progress of the enemy. who could not sap the waters. The scheme of inundation provides for flooding, as far as possible, by fresh water, so that the land may not suffer more than is necessary. The inundation would reach to such a depth that neither wading nor the passage of big vessels would be possible: and as cer- tain portions of the immersed country would not require so much water as others, regulating reservoirs would be used. Of course the dams dividing the reservoirs, and the railways, would be so many highroads for an enemy, unless these points were commanded by fort- resses along the line; and the sluices 109 must be kept in the hands of the de- fenders. All these things are in the scheme. But the stranger might live a year in the country and never guess at all this preparation. It is another example of the value of a foot or two of dike in Holland, and of how her great works are hidden from the eye. And indeed, after the pictures, there is nothing in Holland half so interesting as her great works, and especially those under the control of the Waterstaat. The great enemy that has to be held at bay is not the ocean alone. But first let it be realized that this enemy is a real and constant danger. In the spring of 1890 I was living in Rotterdam. One Saturday there was a spring-tide, and a high wind was blowing off the ocean. The water in the river mounted higher and higher, as we could see. In the early morning from the Beurs Plein, which was so dry still that the cars were running (being situate higher than the rest of the town lying between the Hoogstraat, the old dike, and the Maas), I watched the water passing out of the neighboring streets into the Remon- strant church. By midday the cars had all stopped, and business-men were making their way home on boats or on lorries or as best they could. Between the Hoogstraat and the river all the streets were underwater; here and there a bridge over a canal appeared above the surface. I took a boat and paid some calls, for the fun of the thing; the voyage was dangerous, because of many sunken rocks in the shape of corner-stones and iron railings, and the like, and my friends interviewed me from the upper windows. There were many comical scenes, and merry on- goings, but indeed our situation was critical. The damage done already, especially on the ground floors of the buildings, was enormous, and a greater evil menaced. The water was within a few inches of the top of the old dike on which is the Hoogstraat; were that surmonnted, the bin,nenstad and the whole country to the north of the city were at its mercy. Fortunately, about three oclock in the afternoon the floods fell. Behind Dikes and Dunes. 110 Now some such danger as that threatens Holland always, and in all parts,for inland inundations and the flooding of the many arms of the Rhine are scarcely less destructive than the irruptions of the ocean. Suppose we run out from Utreclit to Wijk, where the Kromme Ryn strikes north and leaves the Lek to run westwards to Rotterdam. Opposite us lies the fertile Betuwe, to which we will be ferried across presently. Soon .after it crossed the German border, the Rhine had tretched out a great armthe Waalto join hands at Gorkum with the Maas. Between the two, and reaching beyond the Rhine and south of the Maas, and watered across by the Waal, is a ~,reat tract of fertile river clay, known as the Betuwe. It is on thi.s fertile stretch that the ferry-boat has landed us now. A road, scarce more than a path, leads with a gentle acclivity for some hun- dred yards through fat rich fields where this summer day the black-and-white cows are feeding, and peasants are working, and ,,reat-boled willow-trees, unpollarded, cast sweeping shadows to a fine broad road, which follows the course of the river at about a quarter of a miles distance from it. On the outer or river side of the road, among the fields and trees, there are, set on vary- ing elevations, brick and other works, and even a dwelling-house here and there; inland from the road are farm- towns, flanked by the square hay-sheds, and cherry orchards, and more fields. The road itself on which we are stand- ing is above the level of the land on either sideabove the level of the fields sloping gently downwards to the water, and above the level of the steadings and houses and orchards to the south. In fact, we are standing on the dike which bars the way of the river on the norhi side of the Betuwe. It is impossible to believe that there is ever danger in this river flowing pa~3t peacefully hundreds of yards away. Come here in winter, however, and the danger will be evident, or at any rate might be. Then, as likely as not, all this green stretch to the river the uiterwaardenwould be submerged, the Behind Dikes and Dunes. tops of the trees, and the highest-set buildings only, showing above water. A few miles farther down the Lek from where we are standing is the quaint old town of Kuilenburg, at which the traveller from the south by way of Bommel crosses the river. If it is summer, and he looks out of his car- riage window, he will notice that the portion of the bridge which actually spans the water is a small portion of the whole, and that on each side of the river the heavy piers and arches stretch away through dry green fields and he wonders accordingly. Let him come back this way in winter, however, and probably he will find every span to- ~1ected in water, and he will wonder no more. When the waters are out over the uiterwaarden thus, it is io that is most to be feared. The river, lying frost-bound at its winter-level, is sud- denly unlocked in the south, or is blow-u upon by the south wind, and the ice melts, and great blocks come thump- lug down upon the dike here, block upon block; and there are days and nights of terrible anxiety, when vessels that lay in the river are forced up against the dike, and the dike itself, it seems, must be forced, and the waters burst upon the fields within. Such is the fl~ht that may be going on here or there or any- where in the country; and when one has seen it be comes to look with a new respect upon this roadway, compound of earth and mud and stones, and bound together with osiers. Among the Dutch engineering works, of course, this is only a small affair, yet characteristic enough to whet our curiosity for greater. Such, though by no means the greatest, are the sluices at Vreeswijk, some ten miles down the Lek, where the Keulsehe Yaart, which (as its name implies) puts Amsterdam into direct communication with Co- logne, issues upon the river. It is not ilecessary to linger at them, however, for we are on our way to see the still more important waterways from Am- sterdam to the sea. In earlier days, and in earlier conditions of commerce, Amsterdam did not require any such communication. Isolated from the Ger Behind Dikes and Dunes. man Ocean, and shut off from attack on the side of the Zuider Zee because of the Pampus, the great sand-bank chok- ing the mouth of the Y, she flourished without a rival. Sometimes the ships with the merchandise came as far as the Pampus, whence their cargoes were carried to her in the scheeps karneelen, or ships camels, small lighters specially constructed for that traffic; others, too large for the shallows of the Zuider Zee, lightened at Den Helder, away in the north of North Holland, over against Texel. The day came at length, how- ever, when outlet to the sea was impera- tive if the capital was to hold her own at all, and in 1819 was begun, and five years later was finished, the North Hol- land Canal, with an exit at Nienwe Diep. If Nieuwe Diep had nothing save the sluices to show, it would not be worth while the tourist going so far north, unless, indeed, he were impelled, as we were, by an ambition to make a com- plete tour of Dutch - waterways. The locks there, crowded and unrivalled thirty years ago, stand deserted now, eclipsed by the great works at Y-Muiden; in one forenoon this spring, when we sat beside them, delighting in the never-endin~, movement over at the Willemsoord, only one small gunpowder boat for the forts passed through the gates. The North Holland Canal, with its tortuous course and many locks and bridges, has outlived its usefulness. It happened often that the great ocean ships were sighted from the heights at Yelzerend days before they co~uld enter at Den Helder; not infrequently, in severe winters, weeks and even months passed before they reached Amsterdam. So in 1865 the Prince of Orange put the first spade in the sand at Y-Muiden, where it ought to have been put half a century earlier, and the North Holland Canal was dead. But Nicuwe Diep re- mains, the most important naval station in Holland. A wet-dock communicates with the harbor, which is strongly for- tified and kept clear by a guiding dam parallel with the coast-line; and there are dry-docks, an arsenal, naval work- shops, and many naval institutions. A picturesque touch is given to the busy scene when the fishing-fleets from Texel and Wieringen and Urk lie side by side with cruisers and torpedo-boats, and their strangely garbed fishermen mingle with the Dutch blue-jackets on the quay. And when you have seen all that is to be seen at Nieuwe Diep, walk westwards, past the town of Helder and the forts towards the saudhills, along the enormous dikea giant compared with those of the Betuwe, or even with that at Vreeswijk which protects North Holland when the waters, piled into the German Ocean, are carried tide upon tide against her coasts, and rise ten feet, it may be, above the normal. The sight of that Helder dike will repay you for the somewhat monotonous journey to Nieuwe Diep. The North Sea comes thundering no less violently upon the dunes at Y-Muiden, and when these natural barriers were cut there to give an exit to the new canal, timid citizens of Am- sterdam were fearfuland no wonder for their city and for their province. But that is an old story. For itwenty years now the great ships have sailed up to Amsterdam through a fair stretch of polder-land thousandis of acres in extent, reclaimed by the draining of thc Y-gulf in the making of the canal. The triumph of engineering skill over the elements, indeed, has been greater than that of Amsterdam over the inclination of commerce to carry her treasures to other ports. But she will not hive in, and new and larger locks, capable of holding the biggest vessels afloat, are on the point of completion at the present moment. And it was these new locks in the course of construction which dis- covered for us the magnitude and dar- ing of the engineering works of Hol- land. Hitherto we could only conceive, from the palpable difficulties overcome, the labor and skill hidden under ground and under sea; here they were laid bare, It would be foolish to attempt at the end of an article the description of an under- taking which could scarce be satisfac- torily explained in a whole number of Maga. A few general figures convey no meaning; it is useless to tell how 111 Mat hurin. 112 many million cubic metres of sand were lifted from the pit, how many hundred thousand guilders were spent on piles and concrete for the floors and walls, or how an increase of some two feet in the depth of the sill involved an extra expenditure of 30,000, and a risk from the action of ground-water so great that it became a burning parliamentary ques- tion. One must have seen the under- taking in process to understand its magnitude, and that one cannot do now. By this time, I suppose, all that beauti- ful and daring work, lying naked to the sun that summer day we spent at Y-Muiden, is covered up, hidden away, as are all the greatest and most daring works of this wonderful little country. And still the Dutch are dreaming dreams of new conquests from the sea. We are sailing from Nieuwe Diep to Texel. This strait we cro~ss, in which some naval cruisers are manmuvring, was once the mouth of the Yssel; the half-crescent of islandsTexIel, Ylie- land, Tersehelling, Amelandwas part of the mainland then, and the Zuider Zee did not exist. Some token of that is given by the sand-banks that show their bright tops in the cold sunlight on our left. To the right, and behind us, lies the island of Wieringen, like a row of enormous poles topping the water. Farther south, North Holland stretches a spur, a line of blue, into the mists of this wonderful sea. For the sweep of an arm, the horizon-line is the meeting of sky and water. Here it seems are boundaries of Natures own delimita- tion, not to be revised. But the Dutch- man does not think so. In his ambi- tious imagination the scene upon which we are looking takes another shape. From North Holland to Wieringen, from Wieringen again to the mainland of FViesland, runs a gigantic highway. The fisher-craft have disappeared from the sea within. Its bays are become rich pastures; fields stretch from Wier- ingen to Medemblik, from Stavoren to Kampen, the bight of Hoorn is become dry, and the south shore of the Zuider Zee is a straight dike from the Yssel to the Y. There is no longer a Zuider Zee, indeed, but only the inland lake of the waters of the Yssel, which discharge at the sluices at Wieringen; and the dead cities have come to life again. That is the dream of the Dutchman. It is a dream of an addition to his country of some eight hundred square miles; it will cost twenty-five millions, and if the work were begun now, it might be finished in 1930. We were right in say- ing that the Dutchman is a taker of long views. From The Pall Mall Magazine. MATHURIN. A SINNER OF PONTIAC. You may hear Mathurins story from almost any tale-teller in the province of Quebec, where every parish has its professional raconteur, and where every other man is an amateur. But you will hear it told with most fitting sym- pathy and imagination, at the beating of the flax, in the little valley beside Daigrothe Mountain. That is, per- haps, because of the woman who tells it. And when Antoinette Marmotte, who has a voice like a bird, sin~s a verse or two of the song they call Mathurin, the Master of the School, to the beat of the hammers upon the flax, the women pause in their work and weep in a silly sort of way, with- out shame or reproof. Here are two verses of the song with which Antoinette used to play upon their sentimental heart-strings: Connaissez-vous Mathurin, Le maItre d~cole, Cet aimable boute-en-train, Du plaisir raffole? A table, en un gal repas, Sa langue ne tarit pas Sur la gaudriole. Oh! gn~, Sur la gaudriole! Ami lecteur, passe-mol Cette faribole; Le gaIet~ me sert de lol, Comme de boussole; Pour chasser le sombre ennui, ilfatliurin. Je versifie aujourdhui Sur Ia gaudriole. Oh! gu6, Sur la gaudriole! The tale was told to me in the little valley one September morning. Far and near one could see the swinging of the flail, and the laughter of a ripe summer was upon the land. There was a little Calvary down by the river- side, where the flax-beaters used to say their prayers in the intervals of their work; and it was just at the foot of this that Ang~le Rouvier, having finished her prayer, put her rosary in her pocket, wiped her eyes with the hem of her petticoat, and said to me: Ah, that poor Mathurin! I could not guess at first why it was she spoke so; but presently it dawned upon me that she had been praying for the repose of Mathurins soul; though he had been dead at least a hundred years, and she had never known him. But tradition and memory are sweet to her race, and perhaps something in her own life that day had recalled to her the apocryphal scripture according to Mathurin. For some of these stories and legends lie as near to the heart of the race of Ang~le, as Job and Isaiah lie to your lives and mine; perhaps nearer, because Ang~le and her race are closer to the honest earth, from which good stories spring. Ah, that poor Mathurin! I wipe my eyes for him! she said to me again. Tell me all about him, wont you, Mine. Ang~le? I want to hear you tell it, I added hastily, for I saw that she would despise me if I showed igno- rance of Mathurins story. Her sym- pathy with Mathurins memory was real, but ber pleasure at the compli- ment conveyed in my request was also real. Ah! It w~s ver long agoyes. My granmudder she remember dat Ma- thurin ver well. He is not ver big man. He has a faceoh! not ver handsome, not so more handsome as yoursnon! His clothes, they hang on him all loose; his hair, it is all some grey, and it blow about him head. He LIVING AGE. voi. xiii. 636 113 is clean of the face, no beardno, nos- ing like dat But his eye; oh, Msieu, his eye! It is like a coal which you blow in your hand, whew!all bright. My granmudder, she say, Viola, you can li~,ht your pipe with the eyes of that Mathurin! She know. She say that Msieu Mathurins eyes they shine in the dark. My granfadder he say he not need any lights on his carriole when Mathurin iide with him in the dark. J7rairnent, it is all ver true what I tell you all the time. If you cut off Mathurin at the chin, all the way up, you will say the top of him it is a priest. All the way down from his neck, oh, he is just no better as your- eel or my Jeannon! He is a ver good man. Only one bad ting he do. That is why I pray for him; that is why everybody pray for himonly one bad ting. Saprie! If I have only one ting to say God-have-mercy for, I tink dat ver good, I do my penance happy. Well, dat Mathurin him use to teach the school. The cur6 he is ver fond of him. All the leetla children, boys and girls, they all say, Uest bon Mathurin! He is not ver crossnon! He have no wife, no child; just live by himself all alone. But he is ver good friends with everybody in Fontiac. When he go long the street, everybody say, Ah, there go the good Mathurin! He laugh, he tell story, he smoke a leetla, he take a leetla white wine behin the door; that is nosingnon! He have in the parish five, ten, twenty children all call Mathurin; he is godfadder with themyes. So he go about with plenty of sugar and sticks of candy in his pocket. He never forget once the age of every leetla child that~ call him godfadder. He have a brain that work like a clock. My granfadder he say dat Mathurin have a machine in his head. It make the words, make the thoughts, make the fine speech like the cure, make the gran poetryoh, yes! When the king of Englan go to sit on the throne, Mathurin write ver nice verse to him. And by and by there 114 Itfathurin. come to Miathurin a letterviola, dat is a letter! It have one, two, three, twenty seals; and the king he say to Mathurin, M ci mute fois, Msieu. You are ver polite. I tank you. I will keep your verses to tell me dat my French subjects are all loyal like M. Mathurin. Dat is ver nice, but he is not proudnon! He write six verses for my granmudderhein! Dat s someting. He write two verses for the king of Englan and he write six verses for my grail mudderyou see! He go on so, dis week, dat week, dis year, dat year, all the time. Well, by and by dere is trouble in Pontiac. It is ver great trouble. You see dere is a fight against the king of Englan, and dat is too bad. It is not his fault; he is ver nice man; it is the bad men who make the laws for the king in Quebec. Well, one day all over the country everybody take him gun, and the leetla bullets, and say, I will fight the soldier of the king of Ea- glanlike dat! Ver well, dere was twenty men in Pontiac, ver nice men you will find deir names cut in a stone on the church; and den, tree times as big, you will find Mathurins name. Ah, dat is the ting! You see, dat re- bellion you English call it, we call it the War of the Patriotwell, call it what you like, queue diffdrence? The king of Englan smash him Patriot War all to pieces. Den dere is ten men of the twenty come back to Pontiac ver sorry. They are not happy, no- body are happy! All their wives, they cry; all their children, they are afraid! Some people say, What fools you are; others say, You are no good; but everybody in his heart is ver sorry all the time. Ver well, by and by dere come to Pontiac what you call a colonel with a dozen menwhat for, you tink? To try the patriots. He will stan them against the wall and shoot them to deathkill them dead! When they come, the cur6 he is not in Pontiac non, not that day; he is gone to another village. The English soldier he has the ten men drew up before the church. All the children and all the wives they cry and cry, and they feel so bad. Oh! it is a pity. But the En- glish soldier he say he will march them off to Quebec, and everybody knows that is the end of the patriots. All at once the colonels horse it grow ver wild, it rise up high and dance on him hind feet, andvoila! he topple him over backwards, and the horse fall on the colonel and smash him; it smash him till he go to die. Ver well; the colonel, what does he do? They lay him on the steps of the church. Then he say, Bring me a priest, quick, for I go to die! Nohody answer. The colonel he say, I have a hundred sins all on my mind; they are on my heart like a big hill. Bring to me the priest! he groan like that. Nobody speak at firsi; then somebody say the priest is not here. Find me a priest. For he tink the priest will not co~me, be- cause he go to kill the patriots. Bring me a priest, he say again, and all the ten shall go free! He say it over and over. He is all smash to pieces, but his head it is all right. All at once the doors of the church open behind him what you tink? Everybodys heart it stan still, for dere is Mathurin dress as the priest, with a leetla boy to swing the censer. Everybody say to himself, What is this? Mathurin is dress as the priestah! that is a sin. It is a saprie! it is what you call blas- pheme.. The English soldier he look up at Mathurin and say, Ah, a priest! ah, Msieu le Cure! Mathurin look down on him and say, Msieu, it is for you to confess your sins, and to have the office of the Church. But first, as you have prom- ise just now, you must give up these poor men, who have fight for what dev tink is right. You will let them go free this moment! Yes, yes, say the English colonel; they shall go free. Only give me the help of the Church at my last! Mathurin turn to the other soldiers and say, Unloose the men. Miathurzn. The colonel nod his head and say, Unloose the men I Then the men are unloose, and they all go away, for Mathurin tell them to go. Everybody is ver afraid becos of what Mathurin do. Mathurin he say to the soldiers, Lift him up and bring him in the church. They bring him up to the steps of the altar. Mathurin look at the man for a while, and it seem as if he cannot speak to him; but the colonel say, I have give you my word. Give me comfort of the Church before I die. He is in ver great pain, so Mathurin he turn roun to everybody dat stan by, and tell them to say the prayers for the sick. Everybody get him down on his knees and say the prayer; everybody say: Lord, have rn cy. Spare him, 0 Lord; deliver him, 0 Lord, from Thy wrath! And Mathurin he pray all the same as a priest, ver soft and gentle. He pray on and on, and the face of the English soldier it ger ver quiet and still, and the tear drop down his cheek. And just as Mathurin say at the last his sins they are forgive, he die. Then Mathurin as he go away to take off his robes, he say to himself, Miserere mel Deus! miserere mei Deus! So dat is the ting Mathurin do to save the patriots from the bullets. Ver well, the men dey go free, and when the governor at Quebec he hear the truth, he say it is all right. Also the English soldier die in peace and happy, becos he tink his sins are for- give. But then there is Mathurin and his sin to pretend he is a priest! The cure he come back, and there is a great trouble. Mathurin he is ver quiet and still. Nobody come near him in him house. nobody go near to the school. But he sit alone all day in him school, and he work on the blackboar and he write on the slate; but there is no child come, becos the cure has forbid any one to speak to Mathurin. Not till the next Sunday, then the cur6 send word for Mathurin to come to the church. Mathurin come to the steps of the altar; then the cure say to him: 115 Mathurin, you have sin a great sin. If it was two hundred years ago you would be put to death for dat. Mathurin he say ver soft, Dat is no matter, I am ready to die now. I did it to save de fadders of the children and the husbands of the wives. I did it to make a poor sinner happy as he go from the world. The sin is mine! Then the cur6 he say, The men are free, that is good; the wives have their husbands and the children their fathers. Also the man who confess his sinsthe English soldierto whom you say the words of a priest of God, he is forgive. The spirit of God it was upon him when he die, becos you speak in the name of the Church. But for you, blasphemer, who take upon you the holy ting, you shall suffer! For penance, all your life you shall teach a child no more V Ah! Msieu le Cur6 he know dat is the greatest penance for the poor Mathurin! Then he set him other tings to do; and every Sunday for a whole year Mathurin come on his knees all the way to the church, but the cure say, Not yet are you forgive.~ At the end of the year Mathurin he look so thin, so white, ~xou can blow through him. Every day he go to him school and write on the blackboar, and mark on the slate, and call the roil of the school. But there is no answer, for there is no child. But all the time the wives of the men dat he have save, and the children, dey pray for him. And by and by all de village dey pray for him, dey are so sorry. It is so for two years; and then they say that Mathurin he go to die. He cannot come on his knees to the church; and the men whose life he save, dey come to the cur6 and ask him to take the penance from Mathurin. The cure say, Wait till next Sunday. So next Sunday Mathurin is carry to the churchhe is too weak to walk on his knees. The cur6 he stan at the altar, and he read a letter from the pope, which say dat Mathurin his penance is over, and he is forgive; dat the pope The Roman Church in French Fiction. himself pray for Mathurin, to save his soul! So. Mathurin all at once he stan up, and his face it smile and smile, and he stretch out his arms as if they are on a cross, and he say, Lord, I am ready to go, and he fall down. But the cure catch him as he fall, and Mathurin say, The childrenlet them come to me dat I may teach them be- fore I die! An all the children in the church dey come close to him, and he sit up and smile at them, and he say: It is the class in rlthmetic. How much is three times four? And them all answer, Three times four is twelve. And he say, May the Twelve Apostles pray for me! Then he ask, Class in geographyhow far is it roun the world? And dey answer, Twenty-four thousand miles. He say, Good; it is not so far to God! The school is over all the time, he say, and that is only everyting of poor Mathurin. He is dead. When the cure lay him down, after he make the Sign upon him, he kiss his face and say: Mathurin, now ~you are a priest unto God! That was Ang~le Rouviers story of Mathurin, the master of the school, for whom the women and the children pray in the parish of Pontiac~ though the school has been dismissed these hundred years. GILBERT PARKER. liom Macmillans Magazine. THE ROMAN CHURCH IN FRENCH FICTION. It used to be thought that what is known as the religious novel was a peculiar growth of British soil. M. Jules Lem~itre in one of his essays points out, as a strange idiosyncrasy of us islanders, that we are in the habit of mixing up our story-telling with the discussion of all sorts of moral and spiritual problems. In his own happy land if people want a work of edification they buy it separately, and do not expect to find it amalga- mated with a work of fiction. But even in France the religious question has become too urgent to be ruled out of any department of literature. M. Zolas Lourdes and Rome, M. Huys- manss En Route, and the charming tales of M. ~ves de Querdec, to name no others, are striking cases in point among contemporary fiction. No more telling illustration of the strength of the prevailing current of thought could be given than the fact that the Apostle of Naturalism should have devoted two very thick volumes to the examination of certain phases of Catholic life. It is not necessary to say very much about Lourdes ex- cept in so far as it elucidates its suc- cessor. It illustrates M. Zolas familiar advantages and defects as a writer; his easy use of accumulated details so as to produce the desired impression; his power of giving :a symbolic mean- ing to sonie central feature of his story and leaving the reader at last with one strange and grandiose image stamped on his mind, summing up for him the whole spirit of the book. Such, for in- stance, is the hospital train, bearing its load of misery to the place of miracles; this grotesque entity, made up of hun- dreds of souls in pain breathing out their desperate desire in the Latin hymns of the Church, while the peas- ants in the fields look up and listen and wonder as the train speeds by. And on the other hand, one is forced once more to recognize the curious limitations of his powerful mind. His characters have no development; each is represented, as in the old ballads, by a single gesture or phrase; M. de Gue~saint always amiably volatile, like an innocent elderly sparrow; Sister Hyacinthe always gay and ready for duty in a clean apron and cuffs; Marie always innocent and emotional, with her golden hair. Then we note his tremendous assumptions, comical in the case of one who glows with right- eous indignation at the bare thought 116 The Roman Church in French Fiction. of the assumptions of faith; his abso- lute blindness to certain generally admitted canons of conduct; the ha- tred of the ascetic principle or what he considers such, that is responsible for such impossible touches as that of his hero Froments utterance to the woman who confesses to him that her visit to Lourdes as a helper in a great work of charity is merely the cloak for a guilty intrigue, a three days carnival of the flesh, Madam, I pity and re- spect you. In this young abbd M. Zola has sought to represent the conflict be- tween the Church and reason. His father is a man of science, his mother a fair saint. A disappointment in love reinforces his inherited instinct of de- votion by sending him into the Church; but hardly has he donned the cassock, than his fathers spirit awakes in him, and of course wins an easy victory over the vague emotional mysticism which is M. Zolas only idea of religion. M. Zola conceives of all forms of be- lief as the expression of mans need only. The testimony to a response from without the man to the need of his spirit he never seems for an instant to consider, dismissing all the phe- nomena of conversion and renewal of character under spiritual influence as so many instances of hallucination, or at most the reflex action on the soul of its own desire. It would be useless to expect from M. Zola any new light on the phe- nomena of the life of faith; but he is both amusing and instructive when he comes to describe the politics of the faithful. He has a true sympathy and devotion for little Bernadette; the ex- quisite soul, whose dream of the won- der-working virgin created the whole movement of the Lourdes pilgrimages, and who was sent away to die, shut Qut as far as possible from all partici- pation in the triumph of her work. though indeed she would never have cared for, or even understood, the lines on which the Fathers of the Grotto were shaping the work that she had begun. He leaves a vivid im 117 pression of the contrast between the ardent faith and hope of the helpers of the poor, of this great wail of hu- man misery beating at the Virgins sbrine in an agony of supplication, and the commercial spirit that dese- crates the place, the commerce of relics, the keen competition between the clerical organizers and the lay community, with their shops and ho- tels; the passion and the pity, the meanness and the hathos of it all. Pierre Froment is left at the end of the book entirely dominated by his parental instincts, ready to cast his breviary to the moles and the bats. He re-appears in Rome asa Neo-Chris- tian socialist, a fervent worker among the poor of Paris, convinced that the mission of the Church is to set herself at the head of a great social move- ment for the benefit of the masses. Encouraged by such work as the Mar- quis de Munns in France, by Car- dinal Mannings attitude in the dockers strike, and by Cardinal Gib- bons sanction of the movement of the Knights of Labor, he writes a book, indicating what he conceives to be the part of the Church in the reorganiza- tion of society, and finds to his great surprise that while he supposes him- self to have been writing in the in- terests of religion, he and his book have been denounced at Rome. The situation is obviously studied from the episode of Lamennais and the AvenAr; but the extreme simplicity which M. Zola attributes to his hero in this stage hardly harmonizes with the picture of his disillusioned state at the close of the volume on Lourdes. How he arrives at Rome in the pious conviction that an accused priest who comes to defend himself finds all the doors opening before him of them- selves, and how he finds himself from the outset entangled in a mysterious web of intrigue, is pictured with all the impressiveness that comes of M. Zolas mastery of cumulative de- tail. The matter, which had seemed so simple in Paris, of gaining an audi- The Roman Church in French Fiction. ence of the pope and defending him- self to the head of the church di- rectly, appears now as a thing only to be attained by infinite diplomacy. Thus the influential Cardinal Nani en- larges on the necessity of extreme prudence. He ventured to say that it would be wise to distrust the imme- diate personal surroundings of the pope. Alas, his Holiness was so good, was so prone to think well of every one, that his confidential servants were not always chosen with the nec- essary care. You never knew to whom to appeal, nor into what snare you might not walk unawares. He even indicated that it would never do to appeal directly to his Eminence the sccr ary of state, because he was in- volved in, and paralyzed by, a perfect network of intrigue. And as the car- dinal spoke thus, very gently and with perfect unction, the Vatican seemed like a place guarded by treacherous and jealous dragons, a place where you dared not enter a door, risk a step, hazard a limb, without being quite certain beforehand as to whether you would not leave your corpse there. So by degrees in the antique city, sleeping its age-long sleep, dreaming its dream of eternity, the passionate young priest finds himself cheated with receding hopes, baulked, in a way that is dark to him, of his honest de- sire to explain himself face to face with the spiritual Father of Christen- dom. Long before his audience with the pope approaches the sphere of the practicable he has fallen a victim to the subtle discouragement of his sur- roundings; he finds how helpless he is with his simple faith and his child- like imaginings in a net-work of in- ternational complications. More than this, as he grows familiar with the city, and follows out the habits formed in Paris in works of charity and pity to the miserable vic- tims of ruinous speculation, he realizes the isolation from the poor and humble of the splendid ecclesiastical corpora- tion that calls itself the hierarchy of Rome. His dream of the Galilean, the gentle Jesus of the miserable and de- spised, the little ones of the earth, becomes to him more and more im- possible of realization. It is thus that the pope appears to him, at the pres- entation of Peters Pence, or celebrat- ing mass at Saint Peters. As if in a setting of goldsmiths work, his thin waxen body seemed to be stiffened in his white vestments heavy with gold embroidery. He kept a hieratic and haughty immobility, like a dried-up idol, gilded centuries ago, among the smoke of sacrifices. Amid the death- like stillness of the face the eyes alone lived,eyes sparkling like black dia- monds, fixed far off, out of earth, on the Infinite. He had not a look for the crowd; he lowered his eyes neither 1o rig~ht nor to left, absorbed in heaven and unknowing what was happening at his feet. And this idol, thus carried about, as if deaf, dumb, and blind in spite of the brilliance of his eyes, in the midst of this frenzied crowd which it seemed neither to hear nor to see, assumed a formidable majesty, a dis- quieting grandeur, all the stiffness of dogma, all the immobility of the wrap- pings with which it had been exhumed and which alone held it erect. Certainly this is not the view of any possible priest that ever wore cassock. These are the reflections, not of the Abbe Froment, but of the naturalist Goliath swelling in indignation against the very shadow of the Christian habit in its distinctive features of self-dis- cipline and contemplation. But the Abb~i Froment is only a mouthpiece. His Christianity is nothing but a vague humanitarianism, deriving its inspira- tion indeed from the teaching of Gali- lee but divorced as far as possible from all that gives body and definite- ness to that teaching, from doctrine, from discipline whether of self or so- ciety, from the great distinctively Christian virtues and from that habit of mind and soul which alone makes the sustained practice of charity pos- sible. A man, to whom religious con- templation is a madness and the obligation of purity a degrading super- 118 The Roman Church rn French Fiction. stition, cannot possibly paint a soul in the act of transition from one form of belief to another. We cannot sym- pathize with the Abbe Froment in the loss of his faith; we see only too clearly that he never had it. There is no psychological interest in the ac- count of Pierres gradual awakening, though it is devised with a great deal of mechanical ingenuity; He seemed absurd to himself, with his dream of a purely spiritual papacy, in this ancient seat of glory and earthly do- minion. But the worst is that the reader shares Pierres impression about himself, and not least so when, on returning from his unsuccessful ex- pedition, his belief in his Church finally shattered by his interview with the pope, he finds salvation, so to speak, in a manual of popular science. That, which M. Zola never will or can under- stand, is just the fact which makes his characters unreal and the evolution of his story mechanical. The Christian consciousness in the poor devotees of Lourdes and Rome, in Cardinal Boc- canera with all his pagan pride, in the pope, whom he represents simply as the heir of C~sars rage for dominion, clutching with his senile power at the sceptre of the world, warming his miserable remnant of life in the glow- ing thought of the treasure which stands in a triple coffer at his bed-side, nay, even in the frantic ambition and unprincipled intrigue of the College of Cardinals,these are all things to be reckoned with. No one who really possesses the scientific spirit, of which M. Zola talks so much and has so little, can deny the importance as phenomena if nothing else of the attested experi- ences of men Who rowing hard against the stream Saw distant gates of Eden gleam, And did not dream it was a dream. Amid all the clash of rival beliefs and unbeliefs thoughtful men are be- coming less and less inclined to deny the value of the testimonies, reiterated age after age, to some response from the Beyond to the human cry. This poor man cried and the Lord heard him; it is not possible for any one who has come into vital contact with souls of which this is the sincere lan- guage, to fall back on an elementary manual of physics as the long-sought key to the universe. M. Zola has been forced by the current of the times to undertake a subject with which he has no kind of sympathy, and in spite of all his vast ability he deals with it like a schoolboy. Even the great scene of the book, Where Pierre has audience of the pope, telling as are many of the details, leaves us cold. The book, in short, is a tract, with all the faults of a tract; it is written to edify the faithful according to the Gospel of Naturalism. There is much brilliant descriptive writing; indeed, as a critic has said with truth, a valuable guide-book to Rome might be quarried out of M. Zolas pages, and, it may be added, without seriously damaging the story, which is a doubtful compliment to the composition of the work. The old followers of Garibaldi, one of those old men who remain more virile and more passionate than the young, Santonobo, the peasant priest, with his Italian vengeance, Count Prada, Darlo, Benedetta, and above all the old car- dinal, proudly true to the traditions of his house and his faith in the midst of the decadence in which he lived and the ruin which he foresaw, these and others are living figures; and the book itself possesses, what M. Zolas works seldom fail of, a certain grandeur and massiveness of total effect. But it is a tract for all that, an eternal plea for the things of the flesh. The cant of the beauty and glory of nature, the insistence on the natural, by which is meant the merely animal side of human life, is going, it may be hoped, somewhat out of fashion; but M. Zola, still firm in his devotion to a receding standard, is as far as ever from seeing that he who aims at being nothing more than a natural man, is very apt to become considerably less than a beast. This attitude is respon- sible for some serious blemishes of 119 120 tone and taste in what is otherwise, with all its inadequacy, a finely con- ceived and carefully executed work, not unworthy of its authors reputa- tion. M. Huysmanss En Route ap- proaches the subject from an entirely different point of view. M. Zola, as we have seen, even when he thinks he is adopting the point of view of a be- liever, looks at the Church inevitably from the outside. It is to him a great political sy.stem; and his heros faith crumbles because the Father of Chris- tendom does not step down from his throne to mingle in the conflict as the chief of a socialist propaganda. There is no more of the religious essence in his books on Lourdes and Rome than in Hansards Debates. M. Huys- mans has hazarded a very different and much more difficult flight. His is really, what the other book only pre- tends to be, a drama of the interior life. His hero, a Decadent writer with an exasperated sense of the exquisite, is paying for a long course of sensual excess by a bitter disgust of life. It is this that draws him to what is gloomy and morbid in the art of the Middle Ages, the Dance of Death, the throned skeleton, the dread of the flesh, the hatred of life. So we find him haunting the churches of Paris, and by preference those that have most of this early Gothic spirit. And yet though the dregs of the cup of pleasure are bitter on his palate, habit persists where inclination has died. I have no wish to pray, he says of himself. I am haunted by Catholi- cism, intoxicated by its atmosphere of incense and wax. I prowl about the Church, touched to tears by its prayers, searched to the marrow of my bones by its psalmody and chants. I am sick of my life, tired of myself, and yet how far from leading another ex- istence. . . . And then,and then,if these feelings come to me in sacred places I become hard and dry of soul again the moment I leave. My heart is a callosity, a burnt-out cinder; I am good for nothing. The Roman Church in French Fictzon. Still as he haunts these sacred places, the beauty of holiness, that ideal beauty of which in his worst moments he has never ceased to be a worship- per, speaks to him, draws him by se- cret persuasive ways to itself. Like Saint Augustine, he has been a lover of love, amans amai-e; and amid the austere loveliness of lost Gothic art, with the exquisite boys voices chant- ing the ancient plain-song of the Mid- dle Ages, his whole being melts in a confused longing for purity, for deliv- erance. He curses the ignominy of his existence. Horrible temptations, rem- iniscences of a perverted youth, assail him at the moments when this longing is almost on the point of transforma- tion into a settled will. He hates him- self and yields; he rises and falls again, sinning by what seems an odi- ous compulsion, and loathing himself with an impotent rancor that has no strength to say, This shalt not be. Gradually, as in obedience to the counsels of his spiritual advisers, he continues to frequent the churches and to kneel with those who pray, the in- tense selfishness of his preoccupation begins to give way to something of sympathy for those poor pensioners of the divine pity whom he sees at ves- pers at Saint Sulpice; those unhappy ones who came to claim from Heaven a little of that love which men refused them; and he ended, he who had only prayed for himself, by joining his on- sons to theirs, by praying for them. The fierce disgust of the sated sensu- alist for all humanity, and especially for that half of it which he has most wronged and by which he has most suffered, gives place in him to a deep sense of human pity and human kin- ship. Even the poor workwomen at the early mass touch him with frater- nal feeling. They knew,those poor souls who came to seek in the com- munion the force to live through their day of weary toil and servile exigence. that they were the living abode of God, and doubted not that, in confiding himself to them, he required of them in turn that they should remain hum- The Roman Ghzirch in French Fiction. ble and sorrowful. And what did it matter to th~m, then, that their days were passed in the narrow round of menial employment? In the old days he had studied with the interest of an artist enamoured of strange forms of human consciousness, the lives of the great Mystics. Now he himself began to feel, through the con- sciousness of his own self-absorption and misery, something of that divine love which .had seemed to him then a pitiful, an almost ludicrous halluci- nation. He begins to conceive what may he that passion of the human and the finite for the First and only Fair, even while he says self-dspairingly, If I think of Him, it is only to ask of Him a little happiness. The priest, to whom he refers him- self, treats him with all the skill of a man accustomed, not only by years of experience but by the tradition of his office, to the direction of souls. There is something strange to a Protestant reader in the rapidity of his spiritual diagnosis, his masterly inactivity, so to speak, in his certainty that the truth will justify itself and the wanderer find his way home along the path marked out by temperament and cir- cumstance. And yet, while he seems to do nothing, he gives in reality the necessary impetus at the right mo- ment; he speaks the critical word; un- til the neophyte finds himself led, he knows not how, trembling, shrinking, doubting still, to the portal from which he had fancied himself forever ex- cluded. The book is a piean of the contem- plative life which the world ignores. The doctrine of mystic substitution, says a monk of La Trappe to Durtal in his retreat, escapes them com- pletely. They cannot understand that the substitution of the innocent for the guilty, when it is a question of endur- ing a merited penalty, is necessary. It does not realize that by being willing to suffer for others the monks estab- lish a solidarity of good which forms a counterpoise to the solidarity of evil. God knows by what cataclysms this unconscious world would be threat- ened if, in consequence of a sudden disappearance of all the cloisters, this saving equilibrium were removed. The mystic view of substitution, which is by no means peculiar to that Church which has preserved the sys- tem of the cloistered life, rests on the idea of the souls union with her Lord in his sufferings, even as that great mystic Saint Paul spoke of filling up what was left behind of the sufferings of Christ. So in all ages, holy men and women have borne the sins of their loved ones, or of all who lie in wickedness, and amid the revel of a careless world have lifted up the holy hands of intercession without wrath or doubting. The highest sanctity is not an ab- sorption in a selfish happiness of com- munion with the Divine; this is a love that dwells among the rocks, and whoso follows the Fair Shepherd must walk after him through the shadows of death and bear in his turn the woes and miseries of humanity. The legends of the Mystics tell us of saints who have actually attracted to them- selves by sympathy the bodily mala- dies of those for whom they prayed; but what is this to the sympathy with the spiritual anguish of him who as- pires to the mystic union of the Lord of Sorrows? This is a hard saying, and yet its invincible attraction ap- pears once more in this story of a De- cadent. It is not ease, brightness, pleasure, after all, that attracts man. The thing that lies deepest in his heart is the instinct of devotion, the passion of sacrifice. To this phase of modern Catholicism M. Huysmans has given a singularly penetrating and touching expression. You drive very well, says Durtal to the monk who takes him to the sta- tion from the Trappist convent in which he has spent his period of re- treat. Yes, I forgot to tell you that beside my other functions I exercise at need that of coachman. And Dur- tal thought how wonderful are these men who live the inward life in God. 121 122 When they consent to descend again to earth they are the wisest and the most audacious of business men. In other surroundings these men would have just as easily created great fac- tories and founded banks. And it is the same with the women. When you think of the practical business faculty and the diplomatic self-possession which an abbess must possess in order to rule her community, you have to allow that the only women, truly intel- ligent, truly remarkable, are not to be met in the drawing-rooms of society, but at the head of cloisters. Have men ever fathomed the abso- lute sanity of saintliness, or the im- mense power over oneself and the world wielded by a soul that is pure of all self-seeking? It is easy to smile at the visions, the hullucinations if you like, of a Saint Teresa; but what are these in all mystic literature but at- tempts to express the inexpressible, the things which Saint Paul wisely kept silence upon as not lawful to he uttered? But turn from the babbling in which the soul strives to express the infinite, to her mighty work of or- gani~ation and reform; you do not find the hysteric visionary there, but an eminently wise, sane, and energetic woman, not of the world, but master- ing it from a height above it. The Mystics of the Seventeenth Cen- tury, Madame Guyon, F~n~lon, and even the beloved Saint Francis de Sales, come poorly off in the conversa- tions between Durtal and his hosts; and Catholicism, as generally under- stood and practised, fares very little better. F~n6lon and his fello~ws, he decides, were a set of financiers and valets. But in their case there was a certain charm, a certain talent; whereas now the bishops are for the most part neither less intriguing nor less servile, but they have neither tal- ent nor dignity. They are drawn from the worst set of the priesthood; they are ready for anything; try them and you find them souls of old usurers, low tricksters, and rascals. After all, there is much in the crit- the village grocer and boot-maker and The Roman Church inlFrench Fiction. icism that serious Catholics have lev- elled at the book. It seems sincere; it contains passages of thrilflng religious emotion, of tender and almost pro- found religious thought. For example: There are two ways of getting rid of a thing which troubles you, to throw it from you or to let it drop. The first implies an effort of which the soul is perhaps not capable; to let it fall costs you no trouble; it is sim- ple, without fatigue and within the reach of everybody. To throw it from you implies a certain interest, a cer- tam animation, even a certain fear; to let it fall is indifference, absolute con- tempt. Believe me, use this means, and Satan will flee. Yet how little can our English world understand the passionate care about the details of church-music and architecture which agitates this singular convert. How puerile it would seem to an earnest An- glican not to be able to pray in a par- ticular church because Gounods music was sung there instead of Palestrina 5. That absorption in unessential detail, which is the bane of an excessive and effeminate culture unbraced by moral energy and earnestness, is felt every- where and gives a singular disquieting attraction to this bizarre and fascinat- ing book, perhaps the most character- istic fruit up to the present time of the mystic reaction in France. M. de Querdecs tales do not call for an elaborate analysis. They represent a popular phase of liberal Catholicism. His cur6 is in reality what the Abbe Froment pretends to be, a sincere and zealous young priest imbued with an ardent sympathy for the toilers of the world, and perfectly convinced that Rome is the destined instrument of their emancipation. In his village he takes full advantage of the reconcilia- tion of the Church with the republic to interest himself in the social ques- tions that crop up in such places. His frank republicanism creates at first a misunderstanding between him and the local lord of the soil, who is sulk- ing, like Achilles, in his tent because the rest of the municipal council will not take his advice or let him govern them for their good. How he recon- ciles the count to the village and the village to the count, lays hold of the young people, interests himself in co- operative farming, and is finally re- warded by well-earned promotion to a wider sphere, is very prettily and con- vincingly told, if perhaps somewhat in the manner of The Monthly Packet. The Lettres dun Curd de Canton opens with a scene or two of delicious humor, where the curd, just arrived at the big manufacturing town which is to be his future field, is besieged by priests from neighboring parishes and honorable women not a few, anxious to possess themselves of what they call his method, whereas the good man has -no method at all, and does noth- ing but bring his sanctified common sense to bear on each case as it arises. As we read these books one after another, different in aim, in scope, in style as they are, and poles apart in sympathy, they still leave behind them the impression of the tremendous en- ergy and vitality of that form -of reli- gion with which they are concerned. It is not for us to say which is nearer the truth. M. Zola with his common people, tranquil in unbelief, on which he builds his hopes for the future of his country, or M. de Querdec with his certainty that the hostility of the peo- ple to the Church is a mere matter of misunderstanding. One thing we note; the issue is between Catholicism and unbelief. Protestantism is regarded, as High Churchmen in this country re- gard Unitarianism, namely, as no faith at all. And in the tremendous preten- sions, and ever-fresh vitality of this organization, we almost accept its own proud boast, Semper ubique et omnibus; and we say to ourselves that if she be not indeed the eternal witness of God, she must be the crowning temptation of these last days, the power en- throned in place of God, to be the su- preme test of the faith of his children, upon whom the ends of the world have come. 123 Translated for Tlie Living Age. OUT OF TUNE. She ascended the polished marble steps gracefully, doubtless supported by her knowledge of her great beauty. She took her appointed place in the grandest and most royal of drawing- rooms as if to the manner born. Yet little or nothing was known of her origin. Rumor had it, that she came from the lowest ranks. Her life began in a Parisian by-way, amid surroundings whose vice and misery can only be conceived by those who have had a like experience, it seemed only a question of time until vice should overwhelm her and draw her down to destruction. But it happened, when she was about fourteen years of age, that in crossing one of the better grade of streets, she attracted the attention of a wealthy and philanthropic man. She was on her way to the little shop in Rue des Quatres Vents where she worked for a woman who furnished hot-house flowers for balls and thea- tres. It was not her rare heauty alone that attracted the stranger, for upon the half developed features, was the shadow of a coming struggle between evil influences and a character natu- rally good. And, knowing only too well the awful power of evil, and the citys many unfortunates, he deter- mined if possible to save this brand from the burning. As she was utterly alone in the world, it was no very difficult matter to obtain the necessary authority over her. He gave her a name and sent her to one of the best convent schools in Paris and soon the good alone seemed to dominate her. She developed an amiable if some- what indolent disposition, a refined and charming manner, and a most mar- vellous beauty. When she had arrived at womans estate her benefactor married her. And, in spite of the great difference in their ages, the marriage was a com- paratively happy one, since he had the Out of Tune. Out of Tune. utmost confidence in her and she was entirely worthy of it. In France, man and wife are not so closely hound as with us; therefore, perfect sympathy is not so indis- pensable an adjunct to married life. She was not radiantly happy hut she was contented, full of deepest grati- tude towards her husband and enjoy- ing to the utmost the luxurious surroundings that became her so well. The world knew that she had not al- ways been accustomed to luxury, but since it was impossible to learn any- thing with certainty Paris, haying more important things to consider, forgot to question and wonder. She had forgotten her past. She had forgotten it as we forget the roses, the silken ribands, and the old love letters of our youth which we have laid aside in some hidden coffer now rarely opened. And yet, if there comes a time when we cast a glance into that old coffer, how quickly we notice if a rose or a single silken band is missing for in a way we cherish them, those mingled memories of bitter and of sweet! So she had forgotten her past; laid it aside and cast the key away. Sometimes at night, in her dreams, the terrors of her childhood r 3turaed. A heavy hand was grasping her shoul- der to rouse her and send her out into the cold, dark morning with her flow- ers. Then she would rise in her bed and gaze out into the darkness in af- fright. But the silken coverlet over which her fingers strayed, the downy pillow beneath her head and the rich lace hangings about her soon calmed her fears. And when the dream angel drew away the mists of sleep she sank back, realizing that it was but a dream. She leaned languidly back against the soft cushions of her stately car- riage as it rolled towards the palace of the Russian Ambassador. The nearer it came to its destination, the slower grew its motion until it moved forward but a step at a time. In the square before the palace, now all ablaze with light, an immense crowd had gatherednot merely loiter- ers hut grey-haired laborers and work- ing women, even some members of the demi monde packed closely together and massed upon each side of the car- riage-way. They fai~ly showered co:7tr~e witti- cisms about in the Parisian of the streets. She heard expressions unfamiliar to her ear for years and flushed as she thought, that doubtless of all the occu- pants of that long line of carriages, she alone understood Bohemia. There was food for thought in each of these faces. She amused herself by studying them and even reading their inner thoughts by the light of mem- ory. No, she had not lost the key to that old coffer. She drew it forth now arid gave herself up to reminiscence. How often as a child she had de- voured with ea,,er, envious eyes the grand ladies on their way to some ball or theatre! How bitterly she had wept over the blossoms that, half asF~ep, she was twining to adorn some proud beauty! Here about her was the same envy,. the same bitter discontent. And those dark, grave-visaged men, who with half-angry; half-pathetic glance eyed the stately equipagesshe recognized them all. Had she not as a tiny girl crouched in a corner and heard their feverish talk of lifes injustice, of the tyranny of the rich, of the poor mans right which he had but to stretch forth his hand and wrench from his oppres- sors? She knew how they hated it allthe sleek horses, and the haughty coach- menyes, but more than all the own- ers of all this grandeur, the remorse- less vampires, the grand dames whose jewels and cosmetics cost more than their entire lifes work could bring them! Meanwhile the carriage moved slowly forward; memory again turned 124 Out of Tune. the wheel and the picture shifted to a scene from her old school life. It was the story of Pharaoh and his chariots perusing the Israelites through the Red Sea. Strange to say, she had kept her childish idea of the waves be- lug red as blood. And now she saw them parted and standing in two great walls on each side of the Egyptians. And Moses spake and stretched out his staff over the waves and the wall of waters came together and swallowed Pharaoh and all his chariots. She knew that the walls of humanity on each side of her were wilder and more dangerous than the waters of old. It needed but the voice of a Moses to cause them to close over in wreck and ruin. The thought made her shrink back out of sight not in fear but in sudden shame. For the first time in her life she was ashamed of her useless, careless way of livingsurely it was an injustice to suffering men and women. Was her true place in this softly- cushioned carriage among the tyrants and oppressors? Did she not rather belong out in the common herd? Half-forgotten thought and feelings raised their heads like beasts of prey, long caged. She was but an alien in her brilliant social life in such utter contrast with the degradation her childhood had known. She seized her costly opera cloak as if to tear it off. The carriage stopped before the palace door. She descended with her usual charming ease and grace, and a young attach6 acting as page hurried forward and was delighted when she graciously accepted his escort, and almost over- whelmed with joy at what he deemed a friendly glance and the dim possibil- ity that her hand trembled slightly as she took his arm. A