THE LIVING AGE. Sixth Series, ~ OQAn+AI~~, 0 1%~O7 From Begimuii~, Volume XVI. I I ~ Vol. CCXV. CONTENTS. I. UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF GEORGE CANNING II. In NATURES WAGGISSI MOOD. /By Paul Heyse. T anslated for The Living Age by Harriet Lieber Cohen. Part V., III. THE NOVELS OF ME. GEORGE GIss- ING. By H. G. Wells, IV. ROME. By Arthur Symons, V. CURIOSITIEIi ABOUT CRUSTACEA. By Thomas R. R. Stebbing, VI. SCENES OF REAL LIFE: COUNTRY PLEASURES. Translated from the French of Gyp for the Living Age, VII. THE WILD DOGS. By Bernard Capes, VIII. DELAGOA BAY. By JohnGeddie, IX. THE SUPERSTITIONS OF SHAKESPEARES GREENWOOD. By George Morley, . Knowledge, Contemporary Review, Cosmopolis, Nineteenth Century, Les Annales, Blackwoods Magazine, Chamberss Journal, POETRY. RAIN IN THE RWER, A WOMANS LETTER, .2 2 LABUNTUR ANNI, 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, cr 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-order. should be made ~ayabTe to the order of Tmi LIvING AGE Co. Single copies of THE LIVING AGE. 15 cents... Quarterly Review, 3 17 22 28 37 46 51 56 60 Rain in the River, etc. RAIN IN THE RIVER. Lo, the image of mans endeavor; 1 oam and bubbles that burst and flee: Rain in the riverrain in the river Rain in the river that hastes to sea. Tears are flowing for ever and ever, Many for sorrow, and some for glee: Rain in the riverrain in the river Rain in the river that hastes to sea. Resignation that falters never; Bitter revolt at the wrongs that be: Rain in the riverrain in the river Rain in the river that hastes to sea. What shall hearten us? What deliver? Virtue and Truth that make wise and free: Rain in the riverrain in the river Rain in the river that hastes to sea. May we have courage to fight forever, And never to yield, tho our blood may be Rain in the riverrain in the river Rain in the river that hastes to sea. HERBERT E. CLARKE. A WOMANS LETTER. Women should never write, I know: and yet I write That you may tell My heart afar, and read it now with clearest sight, As at farewell. I shall trace nothing fair that does not fairer dwell In your minds store; But words which love re-echoes oft will find a spell Neer heard before. Oh! may they bear you joy! I wait for it. Withal I watch here long. At times meseems I pass hence hearing your foot-fall Amid the throng. And when you take in solitude the silent way Across the land, Turn notif swallow darting round your feet in play Should touch your hand. For I as soon shall pass. All passes Summer warm, And flower, and bee! And you go hence with them. I stay where autumn storm Weeps heavily! But if of life we climbed at morn in hopes and fears The upward slope Divide we to descend. See now I keep the tears, Keep you the hope. Ab! nay, so indefeasible the bonds that link Our souls, our, fate, To wish you days of sorrow would, C friend! I think Be self to hate. MARcELNE VALMORE. LABUNTTJR ANNI. In the old years distance, I remember well, How a passing shadow came with each passing bell: Elder generations passing swift away: Yet the shadow came and went; youth again was gay. In the midway distance, I remember well, Deeper fell the shadow then with the pass~. lag bell: Warrior, statesman, poet, priest, mighty in their day, All our manhood mourning wept when they passed away. Now there is no distance more, near the goal at last: Time has nothing left to give; all is of the Past: Father, mother, sister, brother, none are left behind; Only in the old tree still sings the old sea- wind; Sings as in those distant years long, long ago, Cradle-song of childhood once, age s death-song now: Sings with moanings manifold the won- ders of the sea, Peril, loss, adventure, hope, and a better hope to be. Spectator. A. G. B. 2 Unpublished Letters of George Uannivg. From The Quarterly Review. UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF GEORGE CANNING.1 A short time ago, while hunting in the depths of a large chest which has stood undisturbed for many years against the wall of a gentlemans library, the writer of this article discovered a num- ber of letters. Among them were more than a hundred letters and notes writ- ten by George Canning to his lifelong friend, John Hookham Frere. Some fill two or three large sheets of paperthe stiff hand-made paper of those days; others are of the most trivial nature, in- vitations to dinner, and the like. They are too few in number and too frag- mentary to make a book; but some ex- tracts from them are here offered In the hope that they may serve as a founda- tion for a chapter in that ideal Life of Goorge Canning which has yet to be written. The story of the rupture between Pitt and Canning has been told from various points of view. Stanhope in his Life of Pitt expresses a dignified regret that so highly gifted a man as Mr. Can- ning could not see the necessity of fol- lowing Pitts lead, while Lord Sid- mouths biographer plaintively bewails the unhappy disposition that led Mr. Canning to torment so good a man as Mr. Addington. Cannings own opinion of the matter is given in his letters to Frere in the years 1801Lo05. The general impression has always been that Pitt resigned office in 1801 on account of the kings refusal to consider the Roman Catholic claims. Such, no doubt, was the ostensible cause of his retirement. But Frere, whose close friendship with Canning and other pub- lic men gave him every opportunity of knowing what passed behind the scenes, was always of the opinion that the Roman Catholic question was used by Pitt as a cover for his real motive. In the face of the national distress from deficient harvests, England was left, by the defection of allies, abso- lutely alone to carry on the contest with I The Political Life of the Rt. Hon. George Canning. By Augn8tus Granville Stapleton. Three vols. London, 1831. -. all Europe. She must have a breath- ing-space; but Pitt did not believe that any peace with France could be lasting, and knew at the same time that a transitory and illusory peace could only damage his own prestige. He therefore determined to leave to other hands the credit of making and, if pos- sible, maintaining such a peace. Lord Malmesbury shared this opinion. It looks at times to me, says his diary In February, 1801, as if Pitt was playing a very selfish and, in th~ present state of affairs, a very criminal part; that he goes out to show his own strength and under the certain expectation of being soon called upon again to govern the country with uncontrolled power. In the autumn of 1800 Pitt and Lord Grenville had drawn up a scheme for the relief of the Irish Catholics, by which a political test was to~ be substi- tuted for the sacramental test hitherto imposed upon all persons holding office under the crown. The king was not in- formed of the project. Pitt may have thought that his Majesty would yield in the end, as he had yielded on several previous occasions, against his own firm convictions, or the indolence caused by bad health and low spirits from which the minister had been suf- fering may have made him neglectful. In the mean time, the chancellor, Lord Loughborough, whom Pitt had pri- vately consulted in the matter, betrayed the scheme to the king. George III. in- stantly took alarm. Did his ministers wish him to violate his Coronation Oath? At the Levee on Wednesday, January 28th, 1801, he intimated to Wyndham (secretary at war) that he should consider any person who voted for the measure as personally indis- posed towards him. Such a public declaration of the kings feeling obliged Pitt to tender his resignation on Janu- ary 31st. At first the king hesitated to receive It. I shall hope that Mr. Pitts sense of duty will prevent his re- tiring from his present situation to the end of my life. But Pitt could not ac- cept the compromise offered to him that the ministers should take no fur- ther steps in the matter of Cathollc relief, and that the king should refrain from expressing any opinion on the 3 k Unpublished Letters of George Canning. question. The speaker of the House of Commons, Henry Addington, was there- fore invited by the king and encouraged by Pitt to form a Cabinet. Before this was completed, the king, who had been greatly agitated by the controversy, was seized with one of his old attacks of mental derangement from which he had been free for the last twelve years. Pitt and Addington, the one minister de facto, the other de jure, were obliged to carry on the government together, and to confer on th,e necessity of a Regency Bill. But in the beginning of March the king recovered his senses. A hop pillow prescribed by Addington is said to have enabled him to sleep, and in a short time he could transact business. Pitt resigned the Exchequer Seal on March 14th. For him and for Lord Grenville, and for those members of his Cabinet who had supported him on the Irish question, there was no other course open. But there were some promising men who had held the lesser offices under his government whom it seemed unnecessary to displace; and there were others who might be willing to join the Substitutes, as George Ellis nicknamed them, if such a pro- ceeding did not involve hostility to Pitt. He therefore made it a part~ular re- quest that his retirement should not af- fect his friends. Someamongst them his brother, Lord Chathamfound their attachment to Pitt obliged them to re- main; others, as Charles Ellis bitterly writes, felt their friendship for him and their duty to their country particu- larW and more strongly to call upon them to take office in support of their country at the crisis when he deserts it. (This is evidently a hit at Lord Eldon, who took the Great Seal only in obedience to tile kings command, and at the advice and earnest recommenda- tion of Mr. Pitt). A few resigned, giv- ing as their reason that, when Pitt, the only man in their opinion fit to be min- ister, went out, they followed his ex- ample. Canning had been joint paymaster to the forces. He wrote to Frere from the pay office on March 24th, briefly an- nouncing the change in his circum- stances. The new ministers are in, and the old ones out; I am out with them, I and Leveson; and that is all in the House of Commons. Lord Gower~ and that Is all in the House of Lords.. Everybody else remains. This, how- ever, was not the case. Pitts intimate friend, Mr. Long (afterwards Lord Farnborough), resigned, as did also Mr. Rose. There is something of poetic jus- tice in the fate of Lord Loughborough. George III. was not the man to encour- age double-dealing; and the chancellor, instead of gaining any preferment, found himself obliged to give up the Great Seal to Lord Eldon. Most of Pitts friends were hurt by his conduct, but to Canning it was something more than a passing grievance. From the be- ginning of Cannings political life, Pitt had taken particular notice of him, treating him with the nearest approach to affection that his undemonstrative nature was ever known to show. Can- flings father, who died young, was dis- inherited by his family in consequence of an imprudent marriage, and Canning owed his education and start in life to the kindness of an uncle. Pitt was anxious that the young man, whom he already regarded as his political heir, should find a rich wife, and no one seemed better pleased than himself when Cannings choice fell upon Joan, the daughter of Major-General Scott, a lady with a fortune of 100,000. The wedding took place in July, 1800. Frere thus described it to his nephew: I was to be best man, and Pitt, Canning, and Mr. Leigh, who was to read the ser- vice, dined with me before the marriage, which was to take place in Brook Street, We had a coach to drive there, and as we went through that narrow part, near what was then Swallow Street, a fellow drew up against the wall, to avoid being run over, and peering into the coach, recog- nized Pitt, and saw Mr. Leigh, who was in full canonicals, sitting opposite to him. The fellow exclaimed, What, Billy Pitt, and with a parson too! I said, He thinks you are going to Tyburn to be hanged privately, which was rather pudent of me; but Pitt was too much ab- sorbed, I believe, in thinking of the mar- riage, to be angry. After the ceremony he was so nervous that he could not sigi~ as witness, and Canning whispered to mo to sign without waiting for him. He re- garded the marriage as the one thing needed to give Canning the position neces 4 Unpublished Lettcrs of George Canning. sary to lead a party, and this was the cause of his anxiety alx~ut it, which I would not have believed had I not witnessed it, though I knew how warm was the regard he had for Canning. Had Canning been Pitts own son, I do not think he could have been more interested in all that re- lated to this marriage. Lord Brougham once compared Can- ning to a hothouse plant unduly forced. Success came to him too early in life. With brilliant talents, a large fortune, and Pitt for his friend, all the world seemed at his feet. When Pitt, without a word of warning, suddenly retired from the field, leaving his country and his friends to do as best they might, the disappointment was too great to be borne. Addington vainly endeavored to per- suade Canning to remain, anxious, no doubt, that the satirists talents should be enlisted on his side. It is but just to A. to say that his behavior throughout was fair, mild, and conciliatingmuch beyond what I could have adopted to any friend or foe. So owns Canning In one of his letters to Frere, but he takes care to add immediately: Such is his behavior to everybody, friend or foe, and I therefore take it as no particular merit to myself, and ascribe it to him only in justice, not in praise. Throughout the early part of the cor- responuence Canning plumes himself on his own good behavior towards Add- ington in a manner that is sometimes absolutely comic. ~Te are excellent good friends, A. and I so much so in his estimation that the other day it was used as a topic of per- suasion to a friend of mine whom a com- mon friend of his and A. wished to take office, that there could be no objection on my account, for that A. considered me as perfectly kind and cordial towards him. In the first bitterness of surprise and disappointment, Canning wrote a full account of all that had passed for the benefit of Frere, who was then envoy extraordinary at Madrid, and sent it to Pitt, that the ex-minister might see how his conduct was regarded by some of his followers. The letter was lost on its way to Spain, and for months after- wards all Cannings letters to Frer~ 6 open with a lament over its disappear- ance. In his correspondence it served the same office as the great fire at Wolfs Crag in Caleb Balderstones domestic economy; information of every soi-t was contained in it. Pitts answer to this communication may be read in Stanhopes life. It ut- terly disclaims the notion that there has been anything unkind, much less unfair, in any part of my conduct, or anything either for me to excuse or for you to complain of or to forgive. It is calm, dignified, not unkindly in tone but it was not adapted to soothe Can- nings resentment. Outwardly he and his chief parted on the old friendly terms; but he was smarting with a sense of injury that nothing could palli- ate. He withdrew to his recently pur- chased country-house South Hill, and there beguiled his time with farming, playing with his eldest son, who had come suddenly Into the world in the midst of the bustle and confusion of Cannings retirement from the Pay Office, and with writing long letters to Frere. It is curious, in all these letters, to note how Cannings heart was yearning after his old Idol and his old occupa- tions, although he affected to think that his friendship with Pitt and his polit- ical life were alike over. I considered my intercourse with P. as closed for.- ever, he writes on July 12th, 1801; and then proceeds to pour out his grievances against his former leader in a confused medley: Confidence, just enough to mislead and not enough to guide; enough, and more than enough, to make one feel ones self a party to all that he did, and bound there- fore in common honor to share in all the consequences of it, but stopping short of the point at which one might have begun to see that he had an intention of separat- ing himself from those who ought natu- rally to be his followers; a complete and unreserved sacrifice of me to A.not (I am willing to believe) because he loved me less, but yet on what other principle to account for it ?a want of candor which I have never met with in him beforeand a stubborn self-satisfaction in the con- sciousness that whatever I might thinLk or feel I could never easily make my case good to others, but should be obliged to 6 acquiesce ultimately in the broad, general, and, in respect to me, utterly false de- scription of having acted singly against his known wishes; the rest, the how and why, being, as he knew, between ourselves only. All this, and more, Canning lays to Pitts charge, and then goes on to re- count all that he had done for Pitts sake: I had a pride and pleasure in exhausting all the sacrifices that I could make for him, in adding to those of office, of ambi- tion, of hopes and prospects which he did not choose to take to himself, the more ac- ceptable offerings of all the prejudices and dislikes, proud, resentful, or jealous feel- ings as he would call themall the natu- ral and justifiable, manly, and consistent judgment of others and estimation of one s self, as I think themwhich, indulged to their full extent, would have made a cor- dial reconciliation between A. and me im- possible. This sacrifice I did make; how, you would have known in detail, if my long letter and its inclosures had reached you. You would have known too in equal detail how this sacrifice had been met on the part of him who was the subject of it. Nevertheless, at the close of the letter we learn that Pitt was expected at South Hill. In the next letter, Canning alludes with an air of superior pity to Poor P., who had expected that peace would be concluded before midsum- rner: It is very extraordinary that all his own experience should have taught him no bet- ter, but he certainly did believe that the existence of a determined disposition to peace on our own side only would bring it about, in spite of Bonaparte. I apprehend he is undeceived by this time. It was balm to Cannings wounded feelings to find Pitt in the wrong and himself in the right; and when Pitt came to South Hill for the christening of the son and heir, all went smoothly. The Princess of Wales was also pre~- ent, and the ceremony was performed by Cannings relative, Mr. Leigh, who had officiated at his wedding. You would have found Pitt and Leigh as capable of being brought intQ. collision at dinner that day as they were some months before at your grand dinner on the day of my marriage; but the princess be- ing by, and understanding P. as well as she does, and Sneyd helping her to a just understanding of Leigh, the effect was much more happy. It is very extraordi- nary, but P., with all that he has done and thought and seen, is such pure nature that Leigh himself is scarcely more an ing~nu than he. On Pitts return to London, he busied himself with the negotiations for peace. which had been carried on for some time without success by the secretary of state for foreign affairs, Lord Hawkesbury (Jawk, as Charles Ellis irreverently styles him). The Prelim- inary Articles were signed on October 1st, 1801. Public opinion was well x- pressed by the saying: It is a peace which everybody is glad of, though no- body is proud of. The country needed rest, but there was a general feeling that France had been allowed to get the better of us in the negotiations. In the mean time Canning chafed at his seclu- sion: Retirement is well enough at sixty-four, but at thirty-one it is rather to be borne, it it must come, than sought or continued if you can avoid it. I own this to you, and yet I know nobody who has more to make them happy, or who is more happy and more thankful for the means of happiness within their power, than I am. But the thought will obtrude itself now and then, that I am not where I should benon hoc pollicitus. Here It may not be out of place to say a few words concerning her who was Cannings chief means of happiness the Joan to whom there are so many loving allusions in her husbands let- ters. Mrs. Canning never figured prom- inently in fashionable or political so- ciety. Stapletons Life and Times of George Canning scarcely notices her existence; and other biographers gan- erally content themselves with givft~g her maiden name and the amount of her fortune. From these letters to an inti- mate friend, we can gather some idea of what she was to her husbanda de- voted helpmate, a loving companion, a sympathetic listener, a prudent adviser. She identified herself completely with his Interests: Joan and I think that Unpublished Letters of George Canning. Unpublished Letter8 of George Canning. Joan and I are doing thisare often- repeated phrases. But hers was not the blind submission of a weak mind to a strong one; she had the courage to take Pitts part against her husband in the worst days of their estrangement. Joan bears all like a little heroine are the concluding words of Cannings first letter to Frere, written in the time immediately following Pitts resigna- tion; although in her state of health, the excitement and confusion around her, and the fatigue of moving house, must have been peculiarly trying. If she could sympathize with her husbands cares, he could enter into hers, as !s shown by one of his letters, written when the Princess of Wales was ex- pected at South Hill in the course of the following week: Joan is at this moment bustling about the new Chintz Bed . . . which Mr. Smith, the Windsor upholsterer, has sent home all wrong done upnever was any- thing like the blunders which that uphol- sterer has fallen into on this occasion. It would be tedious to particularize them all suffice it to say the bed does not at all answer the expectations formed of it, and if the princess condescends to sleep soundly in it, it must be more from her own goodness than the beds desert. Mrs. Canning seems to have been deli- cate. Her husband makes several allu- sions to her bad health. Freres mother writes in the February of 1802, that Mrs. Canning has been alarmingly ill, and that Canning, having sat up with her for one or two nights, has grown quite thin and worn with anxiety and nursing. Cannings children were also very dear to him. When the eldest son, George Charles, arrives, he is pro- nounced by his father to be one of the finest boys, if not the very finest, that ever was seen; but when my new lit- tle boy, William Pitt, makes his ap- pearance, Canning is equally proud of him. Toddles (afterwards Lady Clancicarde) once brings a most impor- tant letter to an abrupt conclusion by in- sisting that her father shall play with her. But the farm and the nursery could not long take the place of the House of Commons, although he was too pnud and too sore to take any share in public affairs except with his pen, which for the next few years was an unfailing source of irritation to the government. Lord Malmesbury notes in his diary at the time of Pitts retirement from of- fice: Canning told me Pitt had made him promise not to laugh at the speakers appointment to the Treasury; and this was alt he could possibly undertake. It was a promise that was soon broken. In the letter to Frere already quoted, Ellis gives some lines which Canning had written to the popular tune of The Little Plough-boy, and begs Frere to finish the parody: So great a man, so great a man, so great a man Ill be, Youll forget the stupid Speaker who sat behin the Lee. In former years the three friends had been wont thus to write for the Anti- ,Taoo bin, one falling in so perfectly with the others ideas that it is still a doubtful point how far each was re- sponsible for The Rovers or The Needy Knife-grinder. Canning never lost his taste for writing verses, al- though he took no trouble to preserve what he had written. Every one knows the epigram on the relation between the two ministers: Pitt is to Addington As London to Paddington. Another, not so well known, was writ- ten when blockhouses were built to guard the approaches to the Thames: If blocks can from danger deliver, Two places are safe from the French: The one is the mouth of the river; The other, the T~easury Bench. But Canning sometimes struck a higher note, as on May 28th, 1802, when a number of Mr. Pitts friends gave a dinner at the Merchant Taylors Hall to celebrate his birthday. Pitt himself ~C was not present, and some of the old- fashioned Tories looked askance at the proceedings. John Frere, M. P. for Norwich, writes to his son the ambas- sador, on May 25th, Friday next Is the birthday of Mr. Pitt, when about one, thousand of his friends dine together. Tis a foolish thing, I think, and putting Unpulilished Letters of George Owining. him somewhat on a level with Mr. Fox. Canning wrote the fine song The Pilot that weathered the Storm, to be sung at this dinner. The much-desired peace already seemed to be on a precarious footing, and the last verse of the song must have had an ominous sound in the ears of many of the assembly: And oh, if again the rude whirlwind should rise, The dawning of peace should fresh dark- ness deform, The regrets of the good and the fears of the wise Shall turn to the Pilot that weathered the storm. On October 5th, 1802, Canning and his wife were at Walmer Castle as the guests of Pitt, who had been alarmingly ill. For one day, if not longer, his life was certainly in danger. But when Canning wrote to Frere, the patient was recovering strength daily. During his convalescencewhile I, of course, spared all painful and perplexing subjects of discussion, and endeavored to make him feel at his ease, as if I had no political notions to trouble him with, I haveor rather we have (for Joan is a great help to me in this as in everything else, and loves poor P., and has always taken his part in the worst times)been in the way to pay him litfie attentions, which, though nothing in themselves, he has ap- peared not to dislike at our hands. As soon as Pitt began to recover, Can- ning beset him with representations of the deplorable state to which the coun- try was reduced in consequence of Add- ingtons misrule. Though I cannot say that he has always cordially agreed with me, yet he has every day found it more difficult to maintain a difference of opinion. . . . Would to God he could he brought to see while it is yet time that with such Champions as Buonaparte and the Dr. on either side this country has not a fair chance of be- ing kept on its legsthat a change there must inevitably heand that there is but one man, and that one himself, to whom we can look for safety in any aiternative, whether of peace or war. I am persuaded that this is more and more felt every hour in all parts of the Kingdom, and that the Doctor could not do better for lrhnself, and can in no other way do common jus- tice by the king or the country, than to ne- gociate for himself as quick as may be a retreat with honors and emoluments, and entreat Pitt to take off his hands a weight that ought never to have heen placed there. No endeavors of mine are wanting to put this necessity in its true light here. And yet I understand that the Dr.s friends, so far from being obliged to me for the service which they suppose me to be desirous of rendering him, are extremely disgusted and angry at my visit to Wal- mer.1 The visit to Walmer seems to have brought back all the old devotion to the idol which, but a little time before, Can- ning had sworn should be broken in pieces. Alone and in declining health, the great statesman was in a softer, more human mood than when he penned that lofty answer to the ysunger mans outburst of jeal6usy and disap- pointment; and Canning, who had never known a father, was glad at heart to return to his allegiance to one who re- garded him as a son. I have had opportunities of quiet, com- fortable, uninterrupted conversations, such as for two years past I have desid- erated in vain, and have had the satisfac- tion of finding, after that two years inter- val, filled as it has been with the meat un- pleasant events, and with consequent dif- ferences of conduct and opinion, no change in P., no diminution of cordiality or confi- dence, and a gradual but I think growing approximation of sentiments in regard both to persons and things. Canning, now firmly convinced that the country was as weary as himself of the Dumplin Ministry, as Lady Malmesbury contemptuously styles them in a letter to Frere, began immedi- ately to collect signatures to a petition requesting Addington to resign in favor of Pitt. Matters were progressing well when Lord Mulgrave betrayed the proj- ect, and Pitt sent his commands tha$ no further steps should be taken by his friends. Canning was forced to obey, and consoled himself by writing lam- I In another part of the same letter Canning professes himself as consoled by the extreme baseness and inbecility of the Dr. and his Cftm- peers which looks as if the cordiality of his reconciliation with Addington had declined. 8 Unpublished Letters of George Canning. poons against the Doctor, his family, and his adherents, and by grumbling, as usual, to Frere. I am confident, perfectly confident [he writes on August 25th, 1803] that had not my plan of last November been betrayed to Pitt (by Muigrave), and had P. done what he ought to have done, turned a deaf ear to the disclosure and let the thing go on as if he had known nothing of it, the governmemt would have fallen be- f ore the end of the before Christmas ses- sion. Another attempt was made to bring back Pitt, on the eve of war, in the March and April of 1803. On this occa- sion it was Addington who proposed his return. But Pitt refused to take office, unless he were assured that the king wished him to do so. He made no other conditions, only reserving to himself the power of declining the undertaking altogether, if he could not form such a government as would enable him in his judgment to conduct the affairs of the nation with a fair probability of suc- cess. But the same Cabinet could not possibly include Addingtons party and the Grenvilles, who were among the most able of Pitts supporters, and the negotiations were broken off. The negotiations for peace with France were also proving of no avail. Deceived by our readiness to grant all that was contained in the Preliminary Articles, Napoleon increased his de- mands. England, on the other hand, thought that enough, if not too much, had been conceded, and would yield no further. The final rupture came when we refused to give up Malta to the Knights of St. John. On May 18th, 1803, war was declared in the kings name. Pitt resumed his parliamentary at- tendance, and a change of some kind seemed imminent. On June 3d, Colonel Patten moved for a vote of censure on the remissness and want of vigilance of the ministry previous to the decla- ration of war. The course of action which Pitt had marked out for himself forbade him to join in the censure; on the other hand, he could not openly sup- port the ministers against his own party. He therefore moved that the question should be put by and that the House should proceed to the orders of the day. Only fifty-six followed him into the lobby, and Canning was not among them. The king and the gov- ernment were rejoiced at this signal de- feat. Cannings opinion is given in a letter to Frere, dated Whitehall, June 9th, 1803: Our great project for the session has failed. A. is not out. Nor P. likely to be in But the next best object is fully at- tained. P. is completely, avowedly unmis- takably, and irrevocably separated from A., and if not in direct hostility to him, re- strained from being so only by considera- tion for the K. This consideration pre- vented him from speaking out on Friday night what he thought of the conduct of the ministers in the late discussion with F (rance). He took a middle line, which, as middle lines generally do, and generally ought to do, led to discomfitpre and dis- grace. He divided but 50. We, his friends, who had already declared against A., could not in honor or consistency fol low him in this division(one or two did, but in mass we could not)we had after- wards a division of our own, when Pitt was gone out of the House. Then follow the names of the thirty- four who supported Colonel Pattens motion, divided by Canning into Gren- villes and Windhams, Us or Pitts Friends, and Lord Fitzwilliams. All P.s moderate friends went away. Fox and most of his immediate followers did the same. Those of o14 Opposition who did stay, voted with GoverameaL Bootle shirked, and Boringdon voted with Government in the House of Lords, after joining for the last two months as heartily as heart could desire, in the cry against the Dr. No matter. I am glad he has been brought to the test. Others (upon the whole) stood it well. And we could muster a few more than are here re- corded. After several vain attempts to induce Pitt to take some more decisive line of his own, Canning left town for Wel- beck, where Mrs. Canningwas then stay- ing on a visit to her sister, the Duchess of Portland, firmly resolvedso he de- clarednot to set foot again In the - 1 Cannings friend, Lord Boringdon, afterwnrds Lord Morley. 10 House of Commons until the next ses- sion. But when I had been about three weeks at Welbeck, I was surprised by the sight of a Division in the House of Commons on an amendment of P.s to a Tax Bill. I thought it right to hurry up to Town with all possible speed, in hopes of being in his next Minority. But while I was upon the road he had divided once more with a select 24and after I reached Town there was no further opportunity. I was glad, however, that I came. And so, I thought, was he. The difference of my Vote from his on the Motion for Censure, had been made the grounds of reports of Quarrel and final Separation; which the appearing at his side for a week together in the House, ready to follow him, if he had found occasion to try his strength (or rather expose his weakness) a third time completely did away. I was glad, too, to have an opportunity of seeing the prog- ress which had been made, in the cours~ of his parliamentary attendance, in con- tempt, dislike, and thorough ungoverna- ble indignation against the Dr. and his whole System. It was no small sat- isfaction to me, whom he, and his neutral friends, the Camdens, Villiers (Longs per- haps), etc., had been accusing of passion and acrimony to find that P. was in a tem~ per to which mine was mildness~ whenever he was personally opposed to A., and that he had in the judgment of impartial peo- pleand still more (as you may suppose)~ according to the cry of the Ministerialists infused into the debates a degree of con- temptuous asperity not likely (one should imagine) to be generated upon the modifi- cations of a Tax Bill. Canning was disposed to think that Pitts conduct at this time was doing him no good in the public opinion. Whether the refinement of refusing tq condemn them for the great mass of guilt which (in his opinion as well as in mine, and that of those who composed our mi- nority) Ministers had been accumulating ever since the Peace of Amiens, and then dividing against them upon petty amend- ments in Revenue Clauses, be likely to have the effect which he no doubt intends it should, . . . or that the plain, unre- fining, downright, fatheaded Publiewill see nothing in the distinctions which he has taken but bad generalship, clumsy opposi- tion, good opportunities romantically lost, and ill ones vexatiously sought for to re- pair themthis I do not pretend to deter- mine. I have my own opinion; but it is right to confess that it is not the prevail- ing opinion even among our own friends. Leveson, on whose judgment I am gen- erally inclined to place much reliance, and who has certainly been better able to judge from having been on the spot the whole time (while I have been absent, with the exception of about a week, for the last three months of the Session), conceives that P. had done himself good and the Government much harm in the House of Commons. . . . I see no reason now why A.s administration should not hobble on and outlast the Country. And this is the more provoking, as I do really think that there are means and hopes of raising the Country to a pitch of glory and power, such as it has never attained before, if the administration were in able hands. Nay, I am not sure that the tendency to rise is not so strong, that it wilt rise in; spite even of the overlaying suppressive stupidity of the present people. And then they will have tbe credit of what they could not help, and a long lease to ruin us at their leisure. In this letter to Frere, Canning en- closed a pamphlet which had lately ap- peared. No names are mentioned, and the pamphlet itself is not forthcoming, but it is clear that it must have been the celebrated Cursory Remarks upon the State of Parties by a Near Ob- server, which professed to give an ac- count of the recent negotiations be- tween Pitt and Addington. It accused Pitt of deceit in pledging himself to sup- port Addingtons government without having the least intention of fulfilling the pledge, and of making no effort to restrain his own party. Canning was singled out for special blame. Mr. Pitt unequivocally approved the peace. Mr. Windham, the Grenvilles and their adherents, as decidedly affected to la- ment and condemn it; while the personal friends of Mr. Pitt and the members most attached and devoted to him by the habil* of private life, took the liberty of disclaim- ing him for their leader and indulged in every species of rancor, malice, and hos- tility against the person who had the pre- sumption to fill his vacant place in the Cabinet. Of this party, Mr. Cnnning~ if not the founder, had the reputation of be- ing the leader. Unpublished Letters of George Canning. Unpublished Letters of George Canning. The Near Observer then made merry over Cannings displeasure at Pitts re- fusal to join in the vote of censure. I know indeed that to Mr. Canning Mr. Pitt has not appeared to have acted with sufficient energy and character in this memorable vote. . . . Mr. Cannings indignation has carried him so far that he has scarcely since made his appearance in the House; but I hope he will forgive the weakness of his right honorable friend and return. He taunted Canning with being a mere partisan and stickler for the house of Grenville, and asked him Whether he had been juster to himself and to his own just pretensions and char- acter than we have seen him to the sensi- bility of his friend and patron, when he condescended to become a hero of squibs and epigrams. a leader of doggrel and lampoon, a power in the war of abuse and invective, an instrument of Mr. Windham, and an auxiliary of Cobbett? The writer of the pamphlet was un- known. Canning believed him to be a member of the House of Commons, trom many minutiae which would have escaped a person out of doors. Copies of it were sent to several persons by Mr. Vansittart, secretary of the treasury, which naturally led Pitts friends to think that Addington was responsible for it. Canning made an attempt to find out something from the publisher, but without success. Hatchard is sworn to secrecy, and will not tell me. He behaved very well about it, for he brought me the proofs of the part relat- ing to myself, offering to refuse to pub- lish it if I objected; but I saw nothing to object to. With the pamphlet Canning enclosed a copy of a letter from Pitt to Adding- ton, which has also disappeared. P., at the time that he gave it to me, absolutely forbade its being communicated except to two or three Persons them in London. But the transaction is now so long past that it is a matter of history~ and the representation so impudently given of it in the Pamphlet niakes it necessary that the statement should accompany it. This letter from P. to A. was the conclusion of the Negociakion. A., I believe, did reply to it, but his 11 reply was mere bother and lame exculpa- tion and profession; except indeed that he insinuates, or rather asserts pretty roundly, that P. first intImated to him, A., his desire to be brought into office, and that he, A., thought he was coming up ex- actly to his wishes, in proposing to bring him in as he did, with the present Govern- ment and in aid of it. This, P. says, is a lie. For the rest, you will find the Pam- phlet entertaining enough, and may rely upon it as their party creed. I think it might be well answered, and have had some thoughts of answering it myself, but I shall probably be too lazy, and I shall at all events wait to see what turn P.s mind takes toward the Meeting of Parlia- ment in November before I make up my mind whether to give myself any more trouble about party politicks in or out of Parliament. The Cursory Remarks were so widely read and discussed that some an- swer had to be made; but Pitt had suf- fered too much from the enmity caused on all sides by Cannings jeux desprit to entrust him with such a delicate task, and Canning was again a disappointed man. When he next writes to Frere, the doctors pamphlet has become the most atrocious instance of private ill- gratitude and personal injustice that ever was published. . . . I should have been very glad to be asked to undertake the answer. Unasked I would not meddle with it. Proffered services are too cheap to be prized. And I am now pretty well used to the difference between open and tacit encouragement, and know what it le to act on ones own conviction that what one is doing is agreeable to those for whose sake it is done, at the risque of being dis- avowed in the face of the world for an ir- regular and ungoverned zeal, if the result should be unsatisfactory or the policy of the hour changed. Had P. expressed a wish and promised to abide by my answer, I should have been ready to do my best, and I could have done it better than I ever did anythingI am sure I could. But I ~Z hope it was not owing to a sneaI~ing dispo- sition to separate his case from that of his friends; I hope it was not from that motive that he preferred putting it into other hands. But in other hands I am afraid it is,whose I know not. I know only that the opportunity of publishing it to advan- tage is lost by having deferred it till after the meeting of Parliament, till the minds 12 of people are full of other matters, and the attack itself forgotten, though the mischief done by it is not likely to be so soon effaced. The person whom Pitt invited to an- swer the Near Observer was Mr. Courte- nay, son of the late Bishop of Exeter, who had published an essay on finance which met with general approval. His pamphlet was written from Longs notes under Pitts superintendence, and is entitled A Plain Answer to the Mis- representations and Calumnies con- tained in the Cursory Remarks of a Near Observer; by a More Acute Ob- server. It is well and clearly written, with a dignity and self-restraint which contrast favorably with the violent in- vective of the Near Observer; but the impression left on the readers mind, whether from accident or design, is that Pitt was separating his case from that of Canning. When the Near Observer thinks (most mistakenly) that it would have been so easy for Mr. Pitt to have controuled and guided the parliamentary conduct of Mr. Canning, it will not be thought unreason- able in me to suppose that Mr. Addington may have some influence over the conduct of the Secretaries of the Treasury. Further on it is expressly stated that Mr. Pitt disapproved highly of Mr. Cannings parliamentary conduct. After this, reconciliation between Pitt and Addington was impossible. The state of Pitts health made him slow to agree to the course which his friends urged upon him. In a conversation with Lord Malmesbury, he described himself as assailed in prose and verse by his eager and ardent young friends, Canning and Leveson. Can- ning was growing very impatient of Pitts delay. He pauses, and hesitates, and shirks, and shuffles, to avoid going into direct open avowed parliamentary opposition; but it is all in vaim Go he must, like all ex-Ministers before him, a little sooner or a little later; and if he will not let me go before him, I must wait his time. There was not much longer for the restless spirit to wait. The kings ill- ness precipitated the crisis. Grenville ULpublished Letters of George Canning. formed a junction with Fox, and made overtures to Canning. Canning replied on February 20th, 1804, in a letter a copy of which, in his own handwriting, is among the Frere papers. He agreed that a change of ministry was impera- tive, but he warned Grenvijie that he considered himself as unpiedged as to any connection with any new govern- ment (however otherwise unexception- able) in which Mr. Pitt should not be in- cluded. When Addington resigned in April, 1804, it was proposed to form a com- prehensive administration which should include Fox and Grenville. But the king was determined against ad- mitting Fox, and Grenville would not take office without his new ally. Pitt was bitterly indignant at Grenvilles re- fusal to support him. I will teach that proud man I can do without him, he exclaimed, if it costs me my life. Canning at first declined to take part in the new administration, giving as his reasons that he was not yet ripe for office, and that Pitt might be accused of partiality in choosing him. Perhaps lie was beginning to see how much harm he had done to his patrons cause in the last three years. In the end he con- sented to become treasurer of the navy. Unfortunately for us, Frere left Madrid in the summer of 1804, and we have only a few triumphant lines sent by Can- ning to meet him on the road towards home: How P. at length came forward in Par- liamenthow the Government was obliged to turn itself outhow the scheme of a large comprehensive Administration had nearly succeeded, and by what means it failedhow I did all 1 could for itand how I would fain have been left out of that which was formed instead of itbut how, in spite of myself, I am Treasurer of the Navy, are matters for many a long conversation. Having plenty of work, and having Frere within reach, Canning now wrote fewer and briefer letters, with slight references to public events. Pitts last years of office were troubled by quar- rels amongst his followers. Mr. Ad4- ington, under the new title of Lord Sid- mouth, became president of the Council, Unpublished Letters of George Canni?g. to the great disgust of Canning, who promptly tendered his resignation, but was induced to withdraw it. Lord Hardwicke and Mr. Foster had a violent dispute. Cannings account of it is not very clear, but he describes Pitt as try- ing to reconcile them in his usual bal- ancing way. Lord Sidmouth soon found his posi- tion unbearable, and retired, as was announced to Frere in the following lines scribbled on a small sheet of note- paper: Sat., July 6, 1805. The Doctor is out again. So things may come about again. here could be no sympathy between the brilliant genius and the good dull man whom George III. styled his owm chancellor of the exchequer. But a change was approaching, be- side which all other changes sank into nothing. Pitts health had long been failing, ano he died on January 23d, 1806. There are no letters from Canning to Frere until the September of that year; it is easy to imagine that what he felt could not be set down on paper. In 1812, when speaking at Liverpool, Canning said: To one man while he lived I was devoted with all my heart and all my soul. Since the death of Mr. Pitt_I acknowledge no leader; my political allegiance lies buried in his grave. From the time of Pitts death, he was indeed a masterless man. He stood alone, and had to face the consequences of his past misdeeds. An accidental meeting with Lord Sidmouth brought about a reconciliation, but there were others who had felt his stings, and who were ever ready to avenge themselves. He had his private sorrows, also. Little George, who had developed an Incurable lameness in his childhood, be- came a hopeless invalid, and died in March, 1820, to his fathers inexpres- sible grief. On all sides were half- estranged friends and half-reconciled enemies. Frere, to whom he always turned for sympathy, had settled in Malta, only visiting his friends in En- gland occasionally. Old hopes were gone, old visions faded, and Canning was fast breaking down beneath the load of toil and anxiety. The two long- est letters in the Frere collection, writ- ten in 1823 and 1825, show how times had changed with him. After Lord Londonderrys suicide Canning returned to the Foreign Office, and had been greatly occupied by the troubles in the Peninsula. The Revolu- tion, which began in Spain in 1820, spread to Portugal. John VI. of Portu- gal was ready to grant a new Constitu- tion. Both he and his chief adviser, the Marquis Palmella, felt that the old des- potism was dead. But he was goaded on the one side by the revolutionaries, who demanded the Constitution of 1812, and on the other by the Abso- lutists, headed by his own wife and son, who would hear of no changes. In 1823 Louis XVIII. sent the Due dAngoul~me into the Peninsula with a ~rendh army to crush the rebels. Canning would fain have sent an English army to expel the invaders, but he saw that the risk would be too great. He therefore ac- knowledged the independence of the Spanish-American colonies, and, to use his own words, called the New World into being to redress the balance of the Old. The first of the two letters, dated August 7th, 1823, opens with something of the old spirit. Canning has treated Frere scandalously, but he will atone for it by stopping the Malta mail until his letter is finished, which may, from the inconvenience which it will occasion to the general correspondence of the island, be accepted by you as an atone~ ment. First, let me thank you for all your com- munications, verse as well as prose. I do not laugh at your solution of prophecies. I do verily feel sometimes as if the ends of the world were come upon us. It is clear that the present state of things can- not last. It is one of heaving and strug- gling between conflicting principles. Which will get the better, Heaven knows; but that the struggle cannot be eternal is plain. Apropos to this topick (singularly apropos~, here comes Mr. Owen of Lanark for a second audience (one of two hours I have already given him, to my infinite cost and suffering); his purpose being to 13 14 show that nothing hut the establishment of his parallelograms can cure the evils of the world, and especially of Ireland. I wont see himI wont. I am writing to Mr. Frere by the Malta Mail, and Mr. Owen may set off for Lanark if he will; but see him now I will not. So to pro- ceed. Coming down to mere earthly things, I was delighted to find your notions of what was the best line in politicks tally with my own. I do not deny that I had an itch for war with France, and that a little provo- cation might have scratched it into an eruption. But fortunately the better rea- son prevailed; and I look back on the de- cision with entire and perfect self-con- gratulation. Never was the Country so completely satisfied with the course taken by the Governmentor, I might say, so grateful for it. For they saw and felt felt in their own hearts and judged by their own feelingsthat there was a great temptation the other way. The truth is that the French Govern- ment never seriously resolved upon the war, and upon the plan and object of it, but suffered themselves to be driven on from position to position (politicaL position I here intend) by the Ultrageous party of their followers, their pokers and goaders, and have been lured on from one military position to another in Spain, by the unex- pected facilities of their advance, till they are now at the extremity of the Peninsula with all the fortresses unreduced behind them. A failure before Cadiz would rouse the population against them, and make their retreat as murderous as their advance has been bloodless. The capture of Cadiz would involve them in difficulties of another sortthe Allies, with Russia at their head, being all for the Re Absolute, and the French being pledged to some- thing liberal and representative, and the Spaniards agreeing upon nothing but to hate and persecute each other. We are out of all this, and have no disposition to get into it. Neither Spain nor France care much for our interference unless we would interfere as partisans; but the Allies la- ment themselves heavily at our separation from them, and can~not, for their lives, imagine how it has happened that in dis- claiming their principles we should have said what we really mean, and should thereafter continue pertinaciously to act as we have said. A little prudery, a little dust for the eyes of the House of Commons, they could understand, and were prepared for it; but this real bonft fide disajjproba tion astounds them, and the sturdy adhe- rence to it, when nobody is by, when we might just lift the mask, and show our real countenance to them without the worlds seeing it,this is really carrying the jest too far, and they can tell us plainly that they wish we would have done and cease our funning. The history of this I could tell tbem in two words~or rather, in the substitution of one word for another for Alliance read England, and you have the clue of my policy. The most perplexing part of the affairs of Spain is the influence that the good or ill turn of them (be good or ill which it may) is likely to have upon those of Portugal. Palmella is there in a most critical situa- tion. If the French are baffled in Spain, a new Jacobin Revolution may break out in Portugal. If they succeed, that evil may be avoided; but another of an oppo- site sort may spring up, in an Ultrageous fashion, fatal to all modification, and trun- dling Palmella and his mederate Reforms out of doors. The best thing for all the world would be a compromise in Spain; but that is the one thing not to be had. Long years of havoc must precede it. Connected with the questions of Spain and Portugal are those of their respective Americas, which are severed, beyond all doubt, from their respective Mother Coun- tries forever. What a world does this consideration open! Yet with Europe and America thus pressing upon my attention, and Africa too for we have Slave Trade matters in abundance (and Malta too was in Africa till Van1 moved it by Act of Parliament), shall I own to you, I often turn with longing eyes to the Quarter of the World which I have abandoned, and wish myself governing some eighty or a hundred mil- lions in the shades of Barrackpore. Noth- ing but the Event of this time twel ye- month2 could have changed my destination; and whatever might be the dictate of pub- lick duty (and I believe I estimated that aright) I am far from sure that publick duty alone would have induced me to ac- quiesce in the change. But poor Joan could never abide the thought of India, nor Harriet either. They had made up their minds to go with me; but when the opportunity so unex- pectedly arose of my staying here with them, and in a situation and under circum- stances. to all outward appearance, so full 2 Lord Londonderrys suicide. Unpublished Letters of George Canning. Unpublished Letters of George Ganni~g. of all that just ambition required, why, it was impossible to resist; and most re- luctantly I gave up the solid for the shin- ingease, wealth, and a second publick life in. the House of Peers, for toil, incon- venience, and total retreat after a few, a very few, years of splendid trouble. The sacrifice was enormous; but it is made. You can have no conception of the labor which I undergo. The two func- tions of Foreign Secretary and Leader of the House of Commons are too much for any man, and ought not to be united; though I of course would rather die under them than separate them, or consent to have separation in my person. I have no reason to be personally dissat- isfied with the Session. . . . My business has been rather to defeat prophecies, and to disappoint calculations of evil, than to seek occasion for what I do not want, ad- ditional iciAo~ in debate. I have been very forbearing in combat, using the scalping- knife never above once or twice, and al- most disusing keener and brighter weap- ons till I am in danger of being thought exceedingly dull. This, because it was prophesied that I should lay about me. And as to the conduct of business, I have studiously and anxiously put Peel and Robinson as forward as possible, never taking their concerns out of their hands, and only supporting them en seconde Zigne where necessary. This, because it was foretold that I should engross and forestall everything. In short, I doubt whether Mr. Pelham himself, in the days of Whig stagnation, would have been a quieter Minister. But oh that we had such days and nights of Godssuch superlim laboras Mr. Pel- hams was! The exhaustion of strength is really terrible. What do you think of ten hours per day as the average of our sit- ting for four days in the week, and fo~ seven weeksfrom Whitsuntide to the end of the Session? The average from Easter to Whitsuntide was only nine; that of the Session before Easter, only six. But the latter two-thirds were overwhelming; and not the less so from the utter uninterest- ingness of greater part of the discussions~ Ten hours of the four-and-twenty in the House of Commons (for I am always there) leave you exactly fourteen for the necessary occupations of food and rest and for the whole business of my Office, not to mention the details of all other busi- ness that is to come before Parliament. Society, you may suppose, is out of ~tJ~e question; exercise and air wholly so. 115 I do not think I have many years work ii~ me, and when I retire, my retirement will be like Bertrams tropick night, sudden and total. A new reign, a new Parlia- ment, and some other Epoch, I could an- ticipate as likely te produce this result. I sometimes feel as if I might say to afford this opportunity; for although the world supposes that I have arrived exactly where I wished to be, I am arrived ten years toc late for enjoyment and perhaps for advan- tage to the Country. However, and when it may, my political life shall end with my present situation. I will not engage again in contentious politicks, nor will I live in th world, after I have taken leave of politicks altogether. how little does the world be- lieve how little I personally care about the time when all this may happen. The second letter was not written till January 8th, 1825, and opens, like the ether, with an apology: My occupations are overwhelming. The same Office in 18089 was nothing in point of work compared with what it is now and the House of Commons was nothin when taken (as I then took it) arbitrarily and occasionally, compared with the eter- nal Sitting to which I am now doomed, whether there be anything worth sitting for or no. . . . I came hither [Bath] to be out of the way, .and to lead a quiet life for a week or ten days with Liverpool. I have two younkers of secretaries, whom I work very hard all the morning, till about half-past one, when Liverpool presents himself at the door on a grey mare, and with a pair of huge jack-boots, of the size and consistency of fire-buckets (only not lettered). I mount a grey horse to join him on his ride (with one or other of my aide-de-camps), and with boots not quite so large and stiff as his, but in re- venge, with a pair of large gouty woollen shoes over them. In this fashion we pa- rade through the Town to one of the out- lets towards the downs; gallop for an hour and a half, and then return to finish our respective Posts and dress for dinner. We dine regularly at Liverpools. In the even~ lag I send my younkers to the play or ball and I go and drink tea with my mother and then about half-past ten home to But where are Joan and Harriet all this time? you will say. Why am I at Bath without them to nurse me? Why, they are at Paris, on a visit to the Granvilles, a ad most fortunately they had set out for 16 Paris before my attack of gout came on. Otherwise I should not have got them away; for which I should have been very sorry. . . . Their reception has been at- tentive and flattering beyond measure by King, Court, Ministers, Ultras, and Lib. eraux, for there is certainly this peculiar- ity abeut me, thatwhile Kings and Courts, etc., are civil as to a Minister, the Liberals are still more forward on account of what Prince Metternich considers as my Revo- lutionary principles. This is not however true of all Kings and Courts. I am afraid that there is one who, if he knew how, would send me to any Court or Kingdom so that he could get me out of his own. And yet, I take my oath, I serve him honestly, and have saved him, in spite of himself, from a world of embarrassments in which a much longer entanglement with Prince Metternich and his Congresses would have involved him. It is not generally known, but the truth I really take to be, that my fall was deter- mined upon not many weeks ago. The South American Question was the step that was to trip me up; and there were those deep in the secret Cabals of who warned their friends that the Ides of December would see a change. The Ides of December, however, came, and they are gone; and here am I still, with the South American Question carried,non sine pul- vere, but carried. As you, no doubt, re- ceive the English newspapers, I need only say that what you read in them upon this subject is nearly correct. I did, while I lay in bed at the Foreign Office, with the Gout gnawing my great toe, draw the In. structions for our agents in Mexico and Columbia which are to raise those States into the rank of Nations. I did, the day after I rose from my bed, communicate to the Foreign Ministers here (and first in order, as beseemeth, to those of the Holy Alliance) the purport of those In- structions. The thing is done. They may turn me out if they will and if they can- Non tamen irritum Diffinget !nfectumque reddet an act which will make a change in the face of the world, almost as great as that of the discovery of the Continent now set free. The Allies will fret; but they will venture no serious remonstrance. France will fidget; but it will be with a view of hastening after our example. The Yan- kees will shout in triumph; but it is they who lose most by our decision. 1 Name Illegible. Uipublished Letters of George Canning. The great danger of the timea danger which the policy of the European Systea~ would have fosteredwas a division of the world into European and American, Re- publican and Monarchical; a league of worn-out Governments on the one hand and youthful and stirring Nations, with the United States at their head, on the other. We slip in between, and plant ourselves iu Mexico. The United States have gotten the start of us in vain; and we link once more America to Europe. Six months moreand the mischief would have been done. Had they turned me out upon this ques- tion (and I would have gone out if I had not carried it), it would have been only to bring me in again with all the commerce and manufactures of England at my heels. They therefore (whoever may be com- prised in that they) thought better of it; but no doubt they will be on the watch to revenge themselves, when they may; and I must walk with cautioff and good heed, knowing that there are mines and trap- falls all around me. Liverpool and I have agreed throughout, and he has acted with me most firmly and strenuously. Could they have separated him from me, I think they would have ventured the trial. I think I have pretty nearly exhausted all that I had to tell you of myself. Of public concerns, Ireland only gives us any uneasi- ness. And that not so much from appre- hending any immediate danger of an ex- plosion there (for there is none, I verily believe), as from the apparent and utter hopelessness of ever bringing that un- happy Country to a settlement. It never was in such a state of prosperity never. Land pays its rent; Commerce in- creases rapidly; Manufactures are planted in parts of the kingdom where never be- fore Capital ventured to trust itself; Jus- tice is administered with a more even hand than ever before, and is acknowledged by the people to be so; and even the sore Evil of tythes has, by an Act of last year (one of the wisest ever passed by a legislature), been in all instances lessened, and in many entirely removed. But in the midstof all these blessings (for such they are) the demon of religious dis~ cord rages with a fury hitherto unknown. The Catholick Demagogues fear that the equitableness of Lord Wellesleys admin- istration should put Catholick Emancipa- tion out of sight; and the old Protestant faction take advantage of the indiscretions and violences of the demagogues, to spread an alarm of rebellion; to decry Lord In Nature 8 Wag gish Mood. Wellesleys system of leniency and impar- tiality, and to call for the return of the iron times. Such is the real history of the factions which now ngitate Ireland. But I hope, and I believe, the storm will pass away without bursting. As to any practical good to be done in respect to the Catholicks, they have made that hopeless for years to come. This Country is once more united as one man against them. Tbe new feature in the case of Ireland at present is the interest which Foreign Powers take in it. France, and more es- pecially the Jesuit and propagandist party in France, certainly have their eyes fixed upon the struggle; and if the Foreign Min- isters thought (as they most undoubtedly did), nnd wrote to their Courts in 1818 and 1821, that England was about to be swal- lowed up by a Revolution, it is not won~ derful that they should now be inspiring fears (or in some instances, perhaps, hopes) of the like Catastrophe in Ireland. But they will be disappointed. A few unpleasant nights in Parliament we shall have; but six months hence Mr. OConnell and the Catbolick Association will be witi Spa-fields and Manchester; and the Prot- estant fanaticks and polemicks will, I hope, have shrunk back into their shell. It was almost the last letter which he wrote to the friend of his boyhood. Pitts heir, like Pitt himself, was struck down in the midst of his work. To him, as to Holbeins laborer in the field, the summons came to lie down beside the uncompleted furrow: Its a long field, says Death, but well get to the end of it to-dayyou and I. IN NATURES WAGGISH MOOD. BY PAUL REYSE. Translated for THE Livixo AGE by Harriet Lieber Cohen. PART V. On high days and holidays when everybody was out of doors, all intent on seizing a breathing time from labor and routine, Mr. Theodore Hinze would sit aloft at his window and, mother-of- 1 Copyright by The Living Age Company. LIVING AGE. VOL. XVI. 804 pearl opera-glass in hand, follow his old-time custom of gazing down at the passers-by, drawing the while his own sagacious and philosophic conclusions. A pastime still more to his liking was watching the growth of the plants and flowers in the garden opposite. He had come to regard these as his private possession. ~My carnations are doing finely this year, or ~My tea-roses are not budding as well as usual, he would say to Magnus. But though the garden failed to arouse Magnuss inter- est, the small one-story house next it was more successful, and he would lis- ten with close attention to Hiuze 5 stories of its occupants, the grey-haired couple whose love for each other was shown in so many beautiful ways, and about whom the little man never tired of talking. They had had an only daughter; she had died, after a short but happy marriage, leaving in turn a little girl, and of the brightness which the childs presence in the house might have brought them, they were de- prived, since she had been sent to boarding school. These and many other matters of more or less conse- quence had been imparted by the tailors wife who, like many another, made her neighbors business her own. It seems to me, said the dwarf to hi attentive auditor, that of all the common pleasures from which we are shut off, this Is the one of which we have most right to complain. What a great thing it must be to grow old with the woman you love, to laugh at teouble when she is at your side to bear it with you. Nowwe two old bachelors supposing, of course, that we have entered into an indissoluble partner- ship, and you know you have not here there was a little quiver in the voicetold me what your ideas are If you do not change your mind and Magnuss forehead gathered into a troubled frown, this partnership will last till the end. Well then, there was a jubilant note in Hiuzes treble, we are quite as good as married, and to my thinking we make a handsome couple. I am i7~ 18 sure we get along more amicably than many a married pair. The husband is well under discipline and the wife never takes advantage of her pow er. Who is the husband, asked Magnus with a smile. The idea of asking such a question! said the little man excitedly. Which of us follows his trade, and which of us confines himself to the housekeep- ing? Which made the proposition that we should cast in our lots together, and which at first coyly opposed it? W ho wears a Turkish dressing-gown and a fez, and is generally in the right in disputes, rarely following up his vic- tories since the wisest always gives way? True, at the first glance, your size might be offered as an objection, but that must not be taken into ac- count for in spite of your height you are much the more timid, not to men- tion your nervousness. Why, I have to be as careful with you as the tailor with his wife when she is ill. So, after all, there is only one thing lacking to a perfectly happy marriage, the hope of a son and heir to carry on the fam- ily. Bat heaven was yet to bless this mar- riage, which surely was of her making, with the longed-for child. During the following winter, on one of their noc- turnal expeditions, Hinze descried from his observation tower the figure of a lad stretched out on a mound by the wayside. He drew Magnuss atten- tion to the pitiful sight, and stooping carefully the kind-hearted giant 1~oked closely at the sleeping boy whose face, in the moonlight, showed unusual beauty, though hunger and cold had left their stamp on it. His clothes marked him a foreigner; he wore a black peaked hat, a lambs wool jacket and sandals. His small bundle he had put under his head for a pillow, and a smooth stick about which his little fist was tightly curled in sleep, indicated that he was on a journey and had pre- sumably lost his way. The sleeper stirred, opened his eyes and at sight of the double-headed giant sprang up; seized his bundle and took to ignominious flight. But the seven league boots presently overtook the fly- ing heels, and the dwarf, slippin~ quickly to the ground, made such gen- tle overtures of peace in his childish voice that the boys fears were quieted and he yielded a sleepy consent to his new found friends taking him home. The tailors wife was not over-re- sponsive to the midni~ht rousing, but her ill-humor vanished at sight of the handsome boy, and the mother-heart went out to his helplessness. She ar- ranged a bed for the waif in the studio, helped Magnus cook him some supper and then tucking the coverlid close about the little form bade her lodgers good-night in a voice in which the tears were struggling. In the lads jacket pocket was aletter written ostensibly by a German painter in Rome to a brother artist in Diissel- dorf. The writer hoped that the model he was sending would do him credit; the boy was the handsomest to be had in a ten-mile circuit, just turned thir- teen, clever for his age, and came from a family of models who for the past three generations had lived for art and art alone. He had provided Dominico with a passport, money and an itiner- ary, hoped he would reach his destina- tion safely, etc. But besides this letter, coat. and trousers pockets contained nothing. Of itinerary, money and passport the lad had been robbed by some sharper, and then turned adrift. He had continued his journey afoot, his lustrous black eyes and glossy waving hair helping him not a little to procure shelter and food on the way. This story Dominico told the next morning in such German as he had picked up among the painter folk in Rome, and his broken speech made the tale the more pathetic. Of the two listeners Magnus was the more especially touched, for while the little wood-engraver studied the mon- els face with his artist-eyes and forgot pity in admiration, his friend was tak- ing counsel with himself how best to set this crooked matter straight. AlL alive as he was with indignation at the treatment the child had received, gfave questionings as to the future of this In Natures Wag gish Mood. In Natures Waggish Mood. young life strangely linked to theirs steadied his mood. We will not allow this, he said at last. It would be a sin and disgrace if we two did not do all in our power to rescue this helpless child. To be brought up for nothing but to be stared at all his life, to be admired, to be cop- ied, to be You forget that this is a question of art, interrupted Hinze deprecatingly. Art! What is art that she dare drag a man from his high estate to be a mere feast for the eyes? According to your argument you would justify the sculptor who nails his model to the cross so as to carve his crucifixion. So far your fetich has not harmed the lad, since honor and shame have as yet no vital meaning to him; if he never learns to know them, so much the worse for him, so much the more des- picable of those who have helped him to his shamelessness! No, we will keep him here. We will make a man of him, not a showpiece, and if he amounts to nothing more than a hack- driver or a scavenger that will be bet- ter than to have him a model, a jointed puppet. Without more ado he wrote a letter to the chief of police, stating the case simply and clearly, and offering to adopt the child and educate him. The letter finished, Hiaze picked it up, read it carefully and said: You know, my dear fellow, that a wife can- not dispose of her property without her husbands consent, neIther can she de- cide matters of moment for the chil- dren alone. You will permit me He took the pen and subscribed his name to a postscript wherein he agreed to the above-mentioned proposition and stipulated to pay half the expense in- curred. The officer responded to the note in person; the case seemed to interest him. The singular partnership entered into by this strangely mated pair ex- cited surprise in one to whom surprises were rare. But the peculiarity of the ease threatened tedious complications and much detailed correspondence, and he agreed to the adoption pro tempore; 19 at all events until the rightful owner- ship of the child could be established. The legal proceedings dragged along at such a leisurely pace that the winter passed and no claimant appeared to dispute with the two friends the guar- dianship of their foundling. Magnus wrote at once for an Italian grammar and dictionary, and by their aid, reg- ularly gave his foster-son lessons in Germanlessons that went better than those in writingat which little lazy- bones showed himself a refractory pu- pil. A suit of clothes from the tailor~ converted the foreign-looking child, as far as garments went, into a native- born; and in this array he was taken out to walk daily by the tailors wife~ since air and exercise he must have~ and his adoptive parents were loath to have him out of nights. A playmate was found for him in a lad of his own age who lodged in the house; sweet- meats and dainties were showered on him by lavish hands; in truth, he was treated like a princeling. And yet the lad was not happy. He would sit for hours, his hands idly folded, looking with great questioning eyes first at the giant, then at the dwarf. Whether he felt something abnormal in this associ- ation with men who might have stepped out of a fairy book it was dif- ficult to discover, for his German could not help him to the expression of any but the simplest emotions. And no one questioned him. One night the two friends returned, healthily tired from a long walk through field and lanea magnificent thunder-storm had subsided and the soft summer rain that followed had tempted them out of doorsHinze stopped in the studio for a peep at the sleeping boy before he mounted his ladder, Magnus struck a light, shielded it with his hand and the two walked on tiptoe to the corner where the little bed stood. He is not here! cried Magnus hoarsely and the candle shook in his hand. Where can he be? Hinze was up the ladder in a mo- ment. He could be heard icoking in all corners, pushing aside furniture, un In Natures Wag gish Mood. locking closets, then his door opened and it was evident that he was making search for the child through the house. An anxious silence, then footsteps again overhead, and from the top of the ladder came the treble voice, broken with sorrow: It was not to be, old fellow. We must submit to the inevitable. It was not intended that any one else should enter our lives. Shall I come down to you so that the night will not be so long for either of us, or do you think we had better make search for the boy now? No answer; and the little mans face grew whiter with a new-born fear. Then Magnuss voice, low and with an attempt at steadiness: Shut the door and go to sleep. You are right; it was not to be. He was not happy with us. Can we blame him? Would not we too go out into the world, if we were like the others? Good-night, Theodore. It was the first time he had called him by his Christian name. Nothing was ever heard of the run- away and his name was never again mentioned by those whose lives he had filled with hope for so brief an inter- val. And as though each one felt that he owed it to the other to make com- pensation for the loss they had both suffered, rarely a day passed without some fresh sign of the love that was binding them closer. Through this finer intimacy which sympathy called forth it happened that Magnuss eyes were opened to the fact that a change was coming over his little friend. Sum- mer was on the wane, vines were turn- ing crimson, leaves were fluttering earthward, and bare spaces were show- ing between the branches; this last change seemed of especial importance to Hinze, who would drop his tools many times a day and, opera-glass in hand, gaze dreamily into the garden opposite. To Magnuss queries as to Ls absorption he would return rather confused and improbable answers, his litLie face growing as red the while as though autumn were painting it with her brightest colors. One day, however, he threw .off all concealment and said, with an effort that evidently cost him dear, Magnus, I have a confession to make. Im afraid I have been walidug on forbid- den paths. Au honest fellow does not look after pretty girls unless his wife knows about it. But, seriously, you know my principles and understand perfectly th~t I am in no danger of for- gctting them. The fact is that when I first saw that exquisite face over thereit belongs, you know, to the granddaughter of the old couple, she has just returned from boarding school well, when I saw it I thought that I had never beheld anything so perfect among all humankindthe humankind from which we are shut offthis with a sighand since then I seem to be bewitched. The instant she enters the garden my heart begins to beat and I jump up from. my wdrk, as though there were an electric battery between the balcony yonder and my chair. Then, fight as I may, I must drop my tools and stand at the window and fol- low her every movement. Come up here a moment and tell me if you can conceive a being more exquisite than she is. Magnuss head appeared through the trap-door, thereupon his whole body, then with head and shoulders bent well forward he crept to the attic window and tried to adjust the opera-glass to his vision. The attempt was unsuc- cessful as the glasses were intended for eyes much closer together than his; then he fell upon the happy expedient of looking through but one of the lenses, and by its aid plainly distin- guished the slender figure of a young girl who, judging from the pleasure she showed in gathering her bunch of flow- ers, admiring each dainty blossom as she plucked it, was intent on her task, and on that alone. Well, what say you? What do yo~ think of her? asked Hinze, stretching out his hand for the glass. This long and silent observation was a strain on his patience. She is quite nice, and Magnus backed out of his uncomfortable posi- tion and turned toward the stairway. 20 In Natures Wag gish Mood. Nice! You are a barbarian, a sav- age! Did you notice the fine ovul of her face, the grace in the lines of the cheek, and the curve of the chin? And those innocent eyes and that mouth! Could Raphael have had a fairer model? And look at the pose of the bewitching little head, and its grace- ful movement, and the brown curls as the wind stirs them, and the dilation of the nostrils when she laughs And you have seen all that through your glass? Stuff and nonsense! Youve dreamed it all. Dont take it ill of me, Theodore, butyou are scatter- ing your principles to the winds and falling head over ears in love Magnus,there was something quite solemn in the little many s voice as he spoke, something quite dignified in his gesture as he laid down the glass with which he had again been looking at the object of his adorationI think you do not quite understand my ideas of honor. Even if this breast were not encased in a triple coat of mail, I would not pretend to raise my eyes to such a rare little lady as that. But this I will admit freelyI do have bad half hours when I think how matters might have shaped themselves had circumstaeces been different. Were I of ordinary size the fact that my father was an insignificant hair-dresser, and hers a baron would not deter me from trying at least to win her; and I venture to say that my stand- ing as an artist, my record as a man, would never shame her. As things are you need never fear I xviii be unfaithful to our pact. To this and further self-justification Magnus had nothing to say; and al- though he appreciated the heroism that dwelt in the tiny breast, there was sore trouble in his own great heart as he saw how this passion was overmas- tering his friend. Too often it hap- pened that the dwarf, as he sat in friendly chat in the studio, would sud- denly excuse himself on some flimsy pretexta message to send to the pub- usher, or a note to write to a brother- artist, or a glass of wine to be taken for a feeling of faintness, or what not. 21 And then for hours at a time he would forget to come back, and Magnus would reflect that there was evidently much to be seen in the garden that day. It was seldom that the forlorn fellow looked through the green muslin, that curtained the lower half of his win- dows, at the girl whom he had grown, gradually and in spite of his native kindliness of heart, to hate. And yet he could not help acknowledging to himself, that it was a gracious sight to watch the grandmother leaning on the fair girl as they walked arm in arm over the leaf-strewn paths, or to see the old man on the balcony, leaning back in his easy-chair, placidly watch- ing the smoke-wreaths curl up from his pipe and casting a loving glance from time to time at the granddaughter half buried behind the ne~wspaper she was reading to him. But in the attic chamber overhead there was a much more appreciative witness of the enchanting scene, and at every turn and twist of the shapely head, the heart In the manikins bosom beat audibly, and the manikin was happy in his pain. The affair was beeoming serious. haze was not only losing his appetite and sleep, but neglecting his work even when he was nOt at his post of observation. Magnus felt that the insidious disease must no longer be suffered to run its course un- checked and he decided upon a dras- tic measure. It seemed to him that the trouble was largely due to the distance that separated the love- sick little fellow from his enchantress, and that if he could but bring them into closer proximity one great step toward recovery would be made. Not only would the intoxicating perfume of flower and shrub, the obscuring mist, be eliminated but the disproportion in size would present itself in a more glaring light than through the opera- glass, which made the girl appear much of a size with the fairy princess of the little fellows childhood. The diplomats proposal, made in an off-hand way, that Hinze should try, with the connivance of the tailors The Novels of Mr. George Gissing. wife, to get a nearer view of the young lady, to slip into the garden, for in- stance, and so steal a glance at her face from under the shelter of a tall shrub, met with a rebuff as sad as unex- pected. I see what you are counting upon, ~ the dwarf, a lovers distress show- ing beneath his smile. You propose treating me as the confectioners do their apprentices, surfeiting them at first with sweets so that they will have no craving after them later. But your aim runs wide of the mark this time, old boy. My love for this dainty little piece of womanhood is purely Platonic. One never tires of admiring a noble work of ai-t, let one approach it ever so closely. Every time I see my mig- nons face I discover new beauties in it. Beside, old fellow, do you think I could lend myself to such a cowardly piece of deception? That scarcely suits my character. Fancy her dis- covering the little artifice by some acci- dent, and staring at me as though I were a freak just escaped from the museum. Do you not think I woQid be overwhelmed with shame? Do you think I could ever raise my eyes to hers again? No, Christopher, dont trouble your wise old head about me. I promise to behave as reasonably as my years and experience would lead you to expect. What matter about my appetite? I have noticed lately a cer- tain inclination to corpulence and I have no intention of letting it destroy the small amount of figure I do pos- sess. What slight comfort was to be gath- ered from these assurances Magnus ac- cepted, making a virtue of necessity; had he known the foolhardy scheme re- volving at that moment in Hinze s brain he would have realized that he was taking shadow for substance. [To BE CONTINUED.] From Tlie Contemporary Review. THE NOVELS OF MR. GEORGE GISSING. In the general acceptation and. in the spirit of most reviewing, a cheerful alacrity of story, together with certain grammatical observances, are appar- ently the end of the novelists art. It is, no doubt, the most obvious function of the novel of commerce, that it should fill, if possible without resort to split infinitives, the gaps where the texture of unadventurous lives thins out to the blankly uneventful. But if the novel is to be treated as literature, it must rise unmistakably above this level of bogus gossip entertainingly told. Tried by the lower standard, it is doubtful if the nov- els of Mr. Gissing would procure him a favorable verdict; it is said they are depressinga worse fault surely even than unreadableness. But in the study, at any rate, they are not so lightly dismissed. Whatever their value as pastime, it is undeniable that so soon as Mr. Gissings novels are read with a view to their structural design and implications they become very sig- nificant literature indeed. The earlier novelists seem to have shaped their stories almost invariably upon an illustrative moral intention, and to have made a typical individual, whose name was commonly the title of the novel, the structural skeleton, the sustaining interest of the book. He or she was presented in no personal spirit; Tom Jones came forward in the inter- ests of domestic tolerance, and the ad- mirable Pamela let the light of restraint shine before her sex. Beauty of form does not seem to have been sought by the earlier novelistssuffice it if the fabric cohered. About the central char- acter a system of reacting personages and foils was arranged, and the whole was woven together by an ingenious and frequently complicated plot. The grouping is at its simplest and best in the gracefully constructed novels of Jane Austen. As the novel developed in length under the influence of periodi- cal publication, the need of some sus- taining structure of ampler dimension~ than the type individual led to the com- plication of plot to hold the bulk to- gether. Plot grew at last to be the curse of English fiction. One sees it in its most instructive aspect in the novels of Dickens, wherein personages, de- lightfully drawn, struggle like herrings in a net amidst the infinite reticulations of vapid intrigue. Who forgets Mr. 22 The Novels of Mr. George Gissing. Smaliweed, and who remembers what he had to do with Lady Dedlocks se- cret? And in the novels of Wilkie Col- lins the plot in its direst form tramples stark and terrible. But in the novels of Dickens there also appears another structural influence. As Poe admirably demonstrated, the plot of Barnaby Rudge collapsed under its weight of characters, and the Gordon riots were swept across the complications t the story. The new structural con~eptiou was the grouping of characters and mci- dents, no longer about a lost will, a bid- den murder, or a mislaid child, but about some social influence or some far- reaching movement of humanity. Its first great exponent was Victor Hugo, as Stevenson insists in one of his all too rare essays, and in the colossal series of Baizac each novel aims to render a facet in the complex figure of a modern social organization. Zolas Lourdes and Rome, and Tolstois War and Peace are admirable examples of this imper- sonal type of structure. This new and broader conception of novel construc- tion finds its most perfect expression in several of the works of-~Turgen6v, in Smoke, for instance, and Virgin Soil, each displaying a group of typical individuals at the point of action of some great social force, the social force in question and not the hero and heroine being the real operative inter- est of the story. No English novelists of the first rank have arisen to place beside the great Continental masters in this more spa- cious development of structural method. The unique work of Mr. Meredith and the novels of Mr. Hardy are essentially novels of persons, freed from the earlier incubus of plot. Diana and Ethelberta, Sir Willoughby Patterne and Jude, are strongly marked individuals and only casually representative. In the novels of Disraeliin Sybil, for example political forces appear, but scarcely as operative causes, and George Eliot and Mrs. Humphry Ward veil a strongly didactic di~sposition under an appear- ance of social study rather than give us social studies. Within the last few years, however, three English novelists at least have arisen, who have set them- selves to write novels which are neither studies of character essentially, nor es- sentially series of incidents, but delib- erate attempts to present in typical groupings distinct phases of our social order. And of these the most important is certainly Mr. George Gissing. The Whirlpool, for instance, Mr. Gissings latest novel, has for its struc- tural theme the fatal excitement and extravagance of the social life of Lon- don; Rolfe, Carnaby, Alma, Sybil, Red- grave, and Mrs. Strangeways are, in the first place, floats spinning in the eddy. The book opens with the flight of the insolvent Wager, leaving his children to the landladys tender mercies, and broadens to the vivid contrast of the suicide of Frothingham in his office, while his home is crowded with a multi- tudinous gathering of the semi-fashion- able. The interlacing threads of the story weave steadily about~ this theme. Rolfe marries Alma, and for a couple of years they live an ostentatiously simple life in Wales, only to feel the fatal at- traction grow stronger, and come cir- cling back at last towards the vortex. Carnaby and his wife wander abroad seeking phantasmal fortunes for a space, but the fortune does not come and the exile becomes unendurable. Sooner or later the great eddy of strenu- ous vanity drags them all down (saving only Rolfe) to shame and futility, to dis- honor and misery, or to absolute de- struction. The design has none of the spare severity that makes the novels of Turgen~v supreme, but the breadth and power of its conception are indisput- able. It is, perhaps, the most vigor- ously designed of all the remarkable series of novels Mr. Gissing has given us. But the scheme of his Emanci- pated is scarcely less direct, presenting as it does, in an admirably contrived grouping, the more or less complete re- lease from religious and moral re- straints of a number of typical charac- ters. In the Year of Jubilee is more subtly and less consistently planned. ~ The picture of lower middle-class bar- barism, relieved by the appreciative comments of Mr. Samuel Barmby, vora- cious reader of a latter-day press, was conceived in a fine vein of satire, but the development of the really very unenter- taming passions of the genteel Tarrant 23 24 robs the book of its unity and it breaks up into a froth of intrigue about a fool- ish will and ends mere novel of a very ordinary kind. But Samuel Barmby, with his delightful estimate of progress by statistics, the savage truthfulness in the treatment of the French sisters, the description of Nancys art furnishing, the characters of Horace Lord and Crewe, atone for a dozen Tarrants. So far as the structural scheme goes there is an increased conventionality of treatment as we pass to Mr. Gissings earlier novels, to Thyrza, Demos, and The Nether World, and from these the curious may descend still lower to the amiable renunciations in A Lifes Morning. The Unclassed has its width of implication mainly in its name; it is a story of by no means typical persons, and with no evident sense of the larger issues. But The Nether World, for instance, albeit in- disputably plott~sque, and with such violent story mechanisms in it as the incredible Clem Peckover and that im- possible ancient, Snowdon, does in its title, and here and there in a fine pas- sage, betray already an inkling of the spacious quality of design the late works more and more clearly display. Witness the broad handling of such a passage as this: With the first breath of winter there passes a voice half-menacing, half-mourn- ful, through all the barren ways and phan- tom-haunted refuges of the nether world. Too quickly has vanished the brief season when the sky is clement, when a little food suffices, and the chances of earning that little are more numerous than at other times; this wind that gives utterance to its familiar warning is the avaat-courier of cold and hunger and solicitude that knows not sleep. Will the winter be a hard one? It is the question that concerns this world before all others, that occupies alike the patient work-folk who have yet their home unbroken, the strugglers fore- doomed to loss of such scant needments as the summer gifted them withal, the hope- less and the self-abandoned and the lurk- ing creatures of prey. To all of them the first chill breath from a lowering sky has its voice of admonition: they set their faces, they sigh, or whisper a prayer, or fling out a curse, each according-to his nature. The Novels of Mr. George Gissing. The treatment of the work of Mr. Gissing as a progress, an adolescence, is inevitable. In the case of no other im- portant writer does one perceive quite so clearly the steady elimination of im- maturities. As a matter of fact his first novels must have been published when he was ridiculously young. I cannot profess research in this matter, but a raid upon dates brings to light the fact that a novelit is unnecessary to give the curious the titlewas published be- fore 1881. It was long, so long that a year, at least, must have gone in the writing of it. And a convenient com- pendium of literary details informs me that in this year of grace 1897 Mr. Giss- ing is thirty-nine years old. This helps one to observe, what is still apparent without this chronological assistance, that he has been learning life and his art simultaneously. Very few novels indeed, of any literary value, have been written by men below thirty. Work es- sentially imaginative or essentially superficial a man of three-and-twenty may do as well as a man of forty; ro- mance of all sorts, the fantastic story, the idealistic novel, even the novel of manners; all these are work for the young, perhaps even more than the old. But to see life clearly and whole, to see and represent it with absolute self-de- tachment, with absolute justice, above all with evenly balanced sympathy, is an ambition permitted only to a man full grown. It is the consequence of, it is the compensation for, the final strip- pings of disillusionment. There am I among the others, the novelist must say, so little capable, a thing of flimsy will, undisciplined desires and fitful powers, shaped by these accidents and driving with the others to my appointed end. And until that serene upland of despair, that wide and peaceful view point is reached, men must needs be partisans, and whatever their resolves may be, the idealizing touch, the part tiality, the inevitable taint of justifica- tion, will mar their handiwork. Through all the novels of Mr. Gissing, fading with their progress, indeed, and yet still evident even in the latest, runs this quality of bias, that intervention. Very few of them are without a mdst favored character. In the Whirl- pool Rolfe plays the chief sympathetic The Novels of Mr. George Gissing. part. Contrasted with the favored characters of the earlier works he is singularly inert, he flickers into a tem- porary vitality to marry, and subsides; his character persists unchanging through a world of change. The whole design is an attraction, a disastrous vortex, but he survives without an ef- fort; he remains motionless and implies fundamental doubts. He reflects, he does not react. He has, in fact, all the distinctive inhumanities of what one might call the exponent character, the superior commentary. If he errs he errs with elaborate conscientiousness; in all the petty manifestations of hu- manity, irritability, glimpses of vanity, casual blunders and stupidities, such details as enrich even the most perfect of real human beings, he is sadly to seek. Beside such subtle, real and sig- nificant characters as the brilliantly analyzed Alma, Hugh Carnaby and his wife, Buncombe, Felix Dymes and Morphew, he gives one something of the impression one would receive on getting into an omnibus and discovering a re- spectably dressed figure of wax among the passengers. But Rolfe is but the survivor of a primordial race in the Gissing universe; like the ornithorhyn- chus he represents a vanishing order. Personages of this kind grow more im- portant, more commanding, more influ- ential in their human activities, as one passes towards the earlier works, and to compare Rolfe to Waymark (of The Unclassed) and that eloquent letter- writer, Egremont, in Thyrza, is to measure a long journey towards the im- personal in art. In The Nether World there are among such indubi- table specimens of the kindly race of men as Pennyloaf and the Byasses, not only good characters but bad also. The steady emancipation is indisput- able. In ~ne little book at least, The Pay- ing Guest, published about a twelve- month ago, the exponent personage has no place; so that is, indeed, in spite of its purely episodical character, one of the most satisfactory of Mr. Gissings books. It presents in a vein of quiet satire, by no means unfeeling, and from a standpoint entirely external, the meagre pretentiousness of a small sub- urban villa, the amazing want of intelli 25 gence which cripples middle-class life. It is compact of admirable touches. The villa was at Sutton, so conveniently distant from London that they had a valid excuse for avoiding public enter- tainmentsan expense so often imposed by mere fashion. And while the nego- tiations for the Paying Guest were in progress, at this moment a servant en- tered with tea, and Emmeline, sorely flurried, talked rapidly of the advan- tages of Sutton as a residence. She did not allow her visitor to put in a word till the door closed again. These are hap- hazard specimens of the texture. Their quality is the quality of Jane Austen, and whenever in the larger books the youthful intensity of exposition, the stress of deliberate implication relaxes, the same delicate subtlety of humor comes to the surface. Nearest to The Paying Guest, in this emancipation from the idealizing stress, c6me that re- markable group of three figures, Eves Ransom, and the long novel of New Grub Street. Apart from their aspect as a diminish- ing series of blemishes, of artistic dis- figurements, the exponent characters of Mr. Gissing deserve a careful consid- eration. If they are, in varying propor- tion, ideal personages, unstudied inven- tion that is, they are, at any rate, un- conventional ideal persons, created to satisfy the author rather than his read- ers. Taken collectively, they present an interesting and typical development, they display the personal problem with a quality of quite unpremeditated frankness. In that very early novel, The Unclassed, the exponent char- acter is called Waymark, but, indeed, Egremont, Quarrier, Ross Mallard, Tarrant, and Rolfe are all, with a vary- ing qualification of irony, successive Waymarks. At the outset we en- counter an attitude of mind essentially idealistic, hedonistic, and polite, a mind coming from culture to the study of life, trying life, which is so terrible, so brutal, so sad and so tenderly beautiful, by the clear methodical measurements of an artificial refinement, and express- ing even in its earliest utterance a note of disappointment. At first, indeed, the illusion dominates the disappointment. The Unclassed is still generous be- youd the possibilities of truth. It deals 26 with the daughters of joy, the culi- nary garbage necessary, as Mr. Lecky tells us, to the feast of English moral- ity; and it is a pathetic endeavor to prove that these poor girls areyoung ladies. Jane Snowdon, the rescued drudge in The Nether World, Mr. Gissings parallel to the immortal ruarchioness, falls short of conviction from the same desire to square reality to the narrow perfections of a refined life. She is one of natures young ladies, her taste is innate. She often laughs, but this instinct of gladness had a very different significance from the animal vitality which prompted the eonstant laughter of Bessie Byass; it was but one manifestation of a moral force which made itself nobly felt in many another way. The implicit classification of this sentence is the es- sential fallacy of Mr. Gissings earlier attitude: there are two orders of hu- man beings. It is vividly apparent in ~Thyrza. It is evident in a curious fre- quency of -that word noble through- uut all his works. The suburban streets are ignoble, great London altogether is Ignoble, the continent of America also, considered as a whole. This nobility is a complex conception of dignity and space and leisure, of wide, detailed, and complete knowledge, of precision of speech and act without flaw or effort; it is, indeed, the hopeless ideal of a scholarly refinement. As one passes to the later novels the clearness of vision increases, and the tone of disappointment deepens. The Emancipated is a flight to Italy to es- cape that steady disillusionment. Peo- ple say that much of Mr. Gissings work is depressing, and to a reader who ac- cepts his postulates it is indisputable that it is so. The idealized noble women drop out of these later works altogether, the exponent personages no longer marry and prosper, but suffer, and their nobility tarnishes. Yet he clings in the strangest way to his early standards of value, and merely widens his condemnation with a widening ex- perience. In Eves Ransom and New Grub Street the stress between an increasingly truthful vision of things and the odd, unaltered concep- tion that life can only be endurable with leisure, with a variety of books, agree- The Novels of Mr. George Gissing. able furniture, service, costume, and re- fined social functions, finds its acute ex- pression. The exponent charactera very human onein New Grub Street, Reardon, is killed by that conflict, and the book ends in irony. Happiness is the nurse of virtue, said Jasper. And independence the root of happi- ness, answers Amy. True. The glorious privilege of being independentyes, Burns understood the matter. Go to the piano, dear, and play me something. If I dont mind I shall fall into Whelpdales vein, and talk about my blessedness. Ha! Isnt the world a glori- ous place? For rich people. Yes, for rich people. How I pity the poor devils!Play anything. Better still if you will sing, my nightingale! So Amy first played and then sang, and Jasper lay back in dreamy bliss. So ends New Grub Street with the ideal attainedat a price. But that price is still only a partial measure of the impracticability of the refined ideal. So far, children have played but a little part in Mr. Gissings novels. In The Whirlpool, on the other hand, the im- plication is always of the children, chil- dren being neglected, children dying un- timely, children that are never born. The Whirlpool is full of -the sugges- tion of a view greatly widened, and to many readers it will certainly convey the final condemnation of a noble way of life which, as things are, must necessarily be built on ignoble expedi- ents. Mrs. Abbotts room, A very cosy room, where, amid books and pictures, and by a large fire, the lady of the house sat reading Ribot, would surely have been the room of one of the most exem- plary characters in the -days before New Grub Street. But the new fac- tor comes in with, She had had one child; it struggled through a few months of sickly life, and died of cog- vulsions during its mothers absence at a garden party. In the opening chap- ter, moreover, Rolfe speaks of children, putting the older teaching into brutal phrases: Theyre a burden, a hindrance, a per- petual source of worry and misery. Most wives are sacrificed to the next generation The Novels of Air. George Gis~ing. an outrageous absurdity. People snivel over the death of babies; I see nothing to grieve about. If a child dies, why, the probabilities are it ought to die; if it lives, it lives, and you get the survival of the fittest. The fashionable, delightful, childless Sybil hates housekeeping. And Alma, pursuing the phantom of a career as a musical genius, leaves for the fu- ture one little lad, slight, and with lit- tie or no color in his cheeks, a wistful, timid smile on his too-intelligent face. In the early novels it would seem that the worst evil Mr. Gissing could con- ceive was crudity, passion, sordidness and pain. But The Whirlpool is a novel of the civilized, and a counter- vailing evil is discoveredsterility. This brilliant refinement spins down to extinction, it is the way of death. London is a great dying-place, and the old stupidities of the homely family are, after all, the right way. That is The Whirlpools implication, amounting very nearly to a flat contradiction of the ideals of the Immature Emancipated. The widowed Mrs. Abbott, desolate and penitent, gets to work at the teaching of children. And finally we come on this remarkable passage: It was a little book called Barrack Room Ballads. Harvey read it here and there, with no stinted expression of de- light, occasionally shouting his apprecia- tion. Morton, pipe in mouth, listened with a smile, and joined more moderately in the readers bursts of enthusiasm. heres the strong man made articu- late, cried Rolfe at length. Its no use; he stamps down ones prejudice. Its the voice of the reaction. Millions of men, natural men, revolting against the softness and sweetness of civilization; men all over the world, hardly knowing what they want and what they dont want; and here comes one who speaks for themspeaks with a vengeance. Undeniable. But I was waiting for the but, said Mor. ton, with a smile and a nod. The brute savagery of it! The very lingohow appropriate it is! The tongue of Whitechapel blaring lust of life in the track of English guns. He knows it; the man is a great artist; he smiles at the voice of his genius. Its a long time since the end of the Napoleonic wars. We musl4 look to our physique, and make ourselves ready. Those Lancashire operatives, lam- ing and killing each other at football, turn- ing a game into a battle. Women turn to crickettennis is too softand to-morrow theyll be bicycling by the thousand; they must breed a stouter race. We may rea- sonably hope, old man, to see our boys blown into small bits by the explosive that hasnt got its name yet. Perhaps, replied Morton meditatively. And yet there are considerable forces on the other side. Pooh! The philosopher sitting on the safety-valve. He has breadth of beam, good, sedentary man, but when the mo- ment comes The Empire; thats be- ginning to mean something. The average Englander has never grasped the fact that there was such a thing as a British Em- pire. By God! we are the Briti~h Empire, and well just show em what that means! Im reading the campaigns of Belisa- rius, said Morton, after a pause. What has that to do with it? Thank he~ave~~ nothing whatever. I bore you, said Harvey, laughing. Morphew is going to New Zealand. I had a letter from him this morning. Here it is. I heard yesterday that H. W. is dead. She died a fortnight ago, and a let- ter from her mother has only just reached me in a roundabout way. I know you - dont care to hear from me, but Ill just say that Im going out to New Zealand. I dont know what I shall do there, but a fellow has asked me to go with him, and its better than rotting here. It may help me to escape the devil yet; if so, you shall hear. Good-bye! He thrust the letter back into his pocket. I rather thought the end would be pyrogallic acid. He has the good sense to prefer ozone, said Morton. Of course Rolfe here is not Mr. Giss- ing, but quite evidently his speeches are not a genuinely objective study of opinions expressed. The passage is es- sentially a lapse into exposition. The two speakers, Morton and Rolfe, be- come the vehicles of a personal doubt, taking sides between the old ideal of re- fined withdrawal from the tumult and struggle for existence, and the new and growing sense of the eternity and uni- versality of conflict; it is a discussion, 27 i~ 28 Rome. in fact, between a conception of spa- cious culture and a conception of strug- gle and survival. In his previous books Mr. Gissing has found nothing but tragedy and the condemnation of life in the incompatibility between the refined way of life and life as it is. But here, in the mouth of a largely sympathetic character, is a vigorous exposition of the acceptance, the vivid appreciation of things as they are. Enough has been written to show that The Whirlpool is a very remarkable novel, not only in its artistic quality, but in its presentation of a personal atti- tude. The clear change in the way of thinking that Mr. Gissings Rolfe is formulating (while the Whirlpool should be devouring him) is no incidental change of one mans opinion, it is a change that is sweeping over the minds of thousands of educated men. It is the discovery of the insufficiency of the cultivated life and its necessary insin- cerities; it is a return to the essential, to honorable struggle as the epic factor in life, to children as the matter of moral- ity and the sanction of the securities of civilization. To those who are familiar with Mr. Gissings work, the conviction that this character of Rolfe marks a distinct turning-point in his development will be inevitable. That his next work will be more impersonal than any that have gone before, that the characteristic in- sistence on what is really a personal dis- content will be to some extent allevi- ated, seems to me, at any rate, a safe prophecy. Mr. Gissing has written a series of extremely significant novels, perhaps the only series of novels in the last decade whose interest has been strictly contemporary. And even this last one, it seems to me, has still the quality of a beginning. It is by reason of his contemporary quality, by virtue of my belief that, admirable as his work has been, he is still barely ripening and that his best has still to come, that I have made this brief notice rather an analysis of his peculiarities and the ten- dencies of his development than the essay I could write with ease and sin- cerity in his praise. H. G. WELLS. ROME. From Cosmopolis. J. The last sunset of the year had beea stormy; the whole sky, as I saw it from. the Pincio, blazed like a confiagration; fire caught the furthest roofs of Rome, and seemed to sear the edges and out- skirts of the city, like a great flame com- ing down from heaven. This flame burnt with an unslackening ardency long after the sun had gone down below the horizon; then the darkness began to creep about it, and it grew sombre, drooping into purple, withering into brown, dwindling into a dull violet, and from that wandering into a fainter and fainter greyness, until the roofs, jutting: like abrupt shadows into the night, seemed to go up like smoke all round the city, as if the great fire were smoul- dering out. Darkness ~came on rapidly, there was no moon, and as I stood, just. before midnight, by the side of the Forum, under the shadow of the Arch of Septimius Severus, I seemed at first: to be standing at the edge of a great black abyss. Gradually, as I looked down, I became aware of a sort of rocky sea, a dark sea of white and slender- rocks, which, as I watched them, seemed to heighten into the night. Near the triumphal arch I could distin-~ guish the eight smooth columns of the Temple of Saturn; there, on the other side of this gulf, was the Palatine; and but a little to my left, though unseen~ the Arch of Titus, and the Colosseum. In those imperishable ruins, which are still, after more than twenty centuries, the true Rome, the Rome which really exists, I saw the only human immortal- ity which I had ever visibly seen. The twelve strokes of midnight, coming from the Christian churches on all sides, sounded faintly, as if they did but reckon the time of years, not of cen- turies. It was Pagan Rome that laste~, and Pagan Rome means humanity, working, regardless of itself, and with the world at its feet, as a quarry to build from. This Rome, even in ruins, bows the mind before its strength, its pur- pose, its inflexible success. I had come- to Rome, thinking that it was as the city- of the popes that I should see the eter Borne. nal city. I was filled only with a sense ~of the power of things earthly, the eter- nity of an art wholly the work of mens hands, as I turned away from the Forum, in those first moments of the new year. I looked back: the Arch of Septimius Severus stood up, white and .gigantic, blotting out the sky. The soul of Rome, as one gradually realizes it, first, I think, and not least intimately, from the Aurelian Wall, then from the Colosseum, the Pantheon, the Forum, the Stadium, and then piece by piece, from the Vatican, the Diode- tian, the Capitoline galleries of sculp- ture, is a very positive soul, all of one piece, so to speak, in which it is useless to search for delicate shades, the mys- tery of suggestion, a meaning other than the meaning which, in a profound enough sense, is on the surface. All these walls, columns, triumphal arches, the facade of the Pantheon, have noth- ing to tell us beyond what they were meant to tell; and they were meant to ~answer certain very definite purposes, and to do their work splendidly indeed, but without caprice. This simplicity of purpose Is what makes Roman architec- ture so much more satisfying than even fine Renaissance architecture; and there is little fine Renaissance work in Rome: the Cancellaria, a palace or two. In architecture, more perhaps than in any other art, nothing is so easily compre- hended, so immediate in its appeal to the instinct, as that greatest art, which is classic. Think for a moment of St. Peters, while you stand before the outer wall of the Colosseum. That shell of rough stone-work, from which every trace of ornamentation is gone, gives, even at first sight, a sense of satisfac- tion, because of the easy way in which those perfectly natural proportions an- swer to the unconscious logic of the eye, notwithstanding the immensity of the scale on which they are carried out; while St. Peters leaves you bedazed, wondering, inquiring, as before a prob- lem of which you have not the key. For beauty of detail, for the charm which is not the mathematical charm of proportion, the moral charm of strength, the material charm of grandeur, do not come to Rome. You will find no detail neglected, for all detail is part of .a whole; but you will find no detail over 29 which the workman has grown amor- ous, into which he has put something of his soul, over and above the work of his hands. To the Roman mind, as I have come to realize it for myself, after a winter in Rome spent in trying to make my gen- eral notion of these things particular, the world about one was always a very real, very desirable thing, quite enough for ones whole needs in a life which was at once a brief flutter of that winged thing, an~mula, vagula, blan- dula, and also a moment which it was possible to perpetuate, by the work of ones hands, or the hands of slaves, working to order. In a world which seemed to lie at their feet, conquered, the sense of power, which the Romans had in so actual a degree, sharpened their desire to appropriate all the re- sources of what lay there before them, to enjoy its whole beauty, and to leave behind them, by their own effort, the assurance of what they had so vividly enjoyed. That monumentof the baker, outside the Porta Maggiore, made to imitate the homely utensils of his trade, and still telling us that Marcus Ver- gilius Erysaces, who lies under those stones, sold his bread in the city, seems to me a significant indication of this resolute hold on the earth, on the days work, and this resolution to perpetuate it. It is the more significant, because for the most part a mere citizen in Rome must have counted for very little. As the world was for Rome, so Rome was for the State, and the State, after all, was for the Ca~sars. And so it is that we find the one really satisfying work in sculpture left by the Romans to be the Antinous, repeated over and over again, in an almost me- chanical carrying out of the will of Hadrian, but coming, at its best, to a kind of perfection. Antinous is the smile of the eternity of youth, and the smile is a little sad, for all its gracious acceptance of the sunlight. It is sad with youths sensitive consciousness of the first cold breath of wind which comes to trouble that sunlight; a wist- fulness which is the wistfulness of ani- mals, and in which the soul and its re- grets have no part. Perfect bodily sen- sitiveness; the joy and sadness which are implicit in mere human breathing; 30 Rome. a simplicity of sensation which comes at once into the delightful kingdom of things which we are so painful in our search for, and thus attains a sort of complexity, or its equivalent, without knowing it; life taken on its own terms, and without preference of moment to moment: it is all this that I find in the grave, and smiling, and unthinking, and pensive head of Antinous, in that day- dream of youth, just conscious enough of its own felicity for so much the more heightened an enjoyment of that pass- ing moment. II. Looking at Antinous, or at a young Roman model who lies on those spec- tacular steps of the Trinit~ de Monti to-day, you realize that the Romans were born without a soul, and that in all these centuries of Christendom they have never acquired one. It has been the genius of the Catholic religion, whose temporal seat, so appropriately, has always been at Rome, to divine and to respond to this temperamental ten- dency of the people who have given it power. At Rome it is natural to found empires; the seven hills await them. Religion never could be mystical at Rome; it must have its part in the world, with all the power of the world, and all the worlds hold on temporal felicity, and it is by an appeal to after all largely the pagan sentiment in life and thought that the popes have been able to succeed the Ca~sars. Never was any mystical city of God so solidly based on the stable powers of the earth. Church has succeeded temple, and you find the church superincumbent, quite literally, as in S. Clemente, stratum above stratum, the chapel of Mithra under the apse of the Christian basilica; or, as in S. Lorenzo fuori le Mura, where church after church, built over and into one another, is supported by columns, crowded with friezes, set together with- out design or order, out of ancient tem- ples or palaces. Just as the theatre, dancing, music, were a part or append- age of the State religion, so the Church has taken to itself all that is finest in spectacle, all that is rarest in singing. Those perfumed and golden gifts of the three old Magi to the young Christ, the gift of the world and its delicactes, were not given in vain. All the churches in Rome are full of incense and gold. To see St. Peters is to realize all that is strongest, most Roman, nothing that is subtle or spiritual, in the power of the Church. This vast building, the largest church in the world, imposes itself upon you, wherever you are in Rome; you see the dome from the Alban or the Sabine hills, from which the whole city seems dwindled to a white shadow upon a green plain. Before it lies all Rome, be- hind it the vague desolation of fruitless fields, ruinous houses, a mouldering wall, a few ragged trees. I climbed one evening, about sunset, on a day when the sky itself had the desolation of brooding storms, to the strip of narrow, untrodden ground behind it, which rises from the Via Scaccia, going down on the other side to the Via della Zecca. It stood there hiding the whole city and half the sky, a vast grey bulk; now and again the moon, looking through a rift in the clouds, touched the leaden roof with a finger of light; the cypresses, seeming to lean against the white walls at the base, turned blacker, a few gas lamps shone about it like gold candles about the high altar; and gradually, as I watched, light after light sprang up out of the deep streets and precipitous houses, the hills grew darker and more vague, and the solid mass itself, now a looming greyness, seemed to float like a great shadow into the depths of the night. And always, by day, looked at from within or without, it is by its im- mensity, its spectacular qualities, that it is impressive. To walk across the floor is like taking a journey; voices chanting in a side chapel can only just be heard from the opposite aisle; and, looking at the four piers which support the dome, one remembers that the church of S. Carlino alle Quattro Fon- tane, by no means a small church, i~ exactly the size of one of those four piers. Everything, the whole decor~- tion, in order that it may be in proper- tion to the scale of the bnilding, is ex- aggerated, and almost no detail bears an intimate examination, or can give one a separate sensation of pleasure; for the few lovely things, like Michel Angelos Pieta, are lost in little chapels, where they exist quietly, in their cor- ners, like a fine, silent criticism of all Rome. this display, these florid popes and angels, this noisy architectural rhetoric. And St. Peters, impressing you, as it certainly does, with its tremendous size, strength, wealth, and the tireless, endur- ing power which has called it into be- ing, holds you at a distance, with the true ecclesiastical frigidity. You learn here how to distinguish between what is emotional and what is properly eccle- siastical in the Catholic Church. St. Peters is entirely positive, dogmatic, the assertion of the supremacy of the Church over the world; never mystic, as in one of those dim Spanish cathe- drals, that of Barcelona, for instance; nqr yet fantastic, full of strange, pre- cious wonders of the world, brought from afar off, as in St. Marks. It is florid, spectacular, but never profane; suggesting, as it does, what is the strength, and what are also the meta- physical limitations of the Church, it never suggests, as St. Marks does, the human curiosities which may become a strange vice, as easily as a singular virtue. Nor is it, like St. Marks, in the midst of the city, where the heart of the city beats, where one sees a homely crowd wandering in and out all day long, looking in on the way home from market, as one might look in for a mo- ment at a friends house. High Mass at St. Peters, as I saw it on Christmas Day, said by Cardinal Rampolla, was an impressive ceremony, indeed, but it was said mainly to a crowd of curious strangers. The large, rigid figure in the red robes and the gold mitre, who sat there under his golden vestments, lifting a white gloved hand on whose third finger shone the emerald ring set with diamonds, performed the sacred functions with a dignity which was a little weary, and in the priests expressionless way, with that air of fixed meditation (as of a continual com- merce with heaven) which is the Churchs manner of expressing disap- proval of the world. Where I seemed to see a real devotion was in the peasants from the Campagna, who passed with their rough cloaks rolled round them, and kissed St. Peters foot devoutly, leaning their foreheads against it; the women carefully rubbing the toe with their handkerchiefs before kissing it. I saw the same deep feeling in a fifteentTi 31 century church into which I went that afternoon, S. Agostino, a church famed for its devotion. A whole wall waa covered with little gilt-framed votive offerings, silver hearts, and pious vows, and in front of them many poor old women sat and knelt, praying with closed eyes; others lifted their children to kiss the foot of Sansovinos patrician Virgin, the compassionate Madonna del Parto. I found a different, but perhaps not less sincere company of worship- pers, in S. Luigi del Francesi, before that screen of candles, like burning gold, gold light rising flamelike out of gilt candlesticks, which enshrined for their devotion the unseen presence of the Sacrament. But at the Midnight Mass in the same church, which was at- tended by a special permission, I was once more in that atmosphere of posi- tive, unspiritual things which I had breathed in St. Peters, ajid which seemed to me so typicai of Rome. The church was filled to its furthest corner by a brilliant crowd; the music, played by organ, harp, and strings, and sung by somewhat uncertain voices, was florid and brilliant; and far off, at the golden end of the church, white against the gold light, seven rows of candles rising like an arch of pure gold, the priests moved through the sacred ritual. Near me were some Italians, two of them women of the finest aristocratic type, with faces carved like cameos, a touch of cruelty in their dark, vivid, reticent dignity; and these faces, looking on as at a show, and prepared to look away the moment it was no longer amusing, seemed to bring all the strength of the worlds hold on one into the perfumed atmosphere of the place. Looking, as I could not but look, at these beautiful pagan faces; perfect as Roman medals, I felt that they were Rome, and that Rome was at least sure of this world, whatever her admiration, her curiosity, her possible dreams, of another. III. The grandeur that was Rome: that phrase of Poes sums up perfectly the impression which Rome, even now, makes upon the observer. The secret of what is most impressive there is the choice (miraculous, we are led to sup- pose, and can well believe) of its site. 32 Rome. A city built upon seven hills, hills which have arranged themselves, naturally, with such an art of impressive composi- tion, can have no rival among the cities of the world in its appeal to the sense of material grandeur. That the Senate should throne itself upon the Capitol, that the palaces of the Ca~sars should have been on the Palatine or the Esqui- line, was an almost incalculable aid to the pomp of state. St. Peters, seen in the sky from all Rome, thrones Catholi- cism on a similar eminence. Every- thing in Rome impresses by its height, by an amplitude of adjusted propor- tions, which is far more than the mere equivalent of vast spaces covered, as in London, invisible for its very size. The pride of looking down, the pride of hav- ing something to look up to, are alike satisfied for the Romans, by what na- ture and art have done for Rome. This Roman grandeur began by being tremendously simple. I find all the grandeur of Rome in even so late a work as the Aurelian Wall, and that is noth- ing but a bare, brown, precipitous line of masonry, patched with the mendings of all the ages. The Colosseum, the Pantheon, for all their original splendor of decoration, still exist with such po- tency, now that they are reduced to the bare elements of their construction, be- cause the simplicity of that construction was the primary concern of Vespasian and Titus, of Agrippa and Hadrian, in building them. Effect is aimed at, and the effect is always that of Impressing by size; but the effect is sought legiti- mately, with the finest materials, their most natural, however sumptuous, ar- rangement, and that Roman way of go- ing straight to an end, like their roads, though at the cost of an army of men, a treasury of gold. In the work of the Middle Ages, of the Renaissance, of the seventeenth century, we find the same effect aimed at, but with a sumptuous- ness not duly subordinated, and turn- ing frequently (as in the extravagances of the typical Bernini) into colossal bad taste. Yet still, to this moment, Rome is the most pompous, the most magnifi- cent, of Western cities. Was there ever a more imposing public square than that vast, florid Piazza del Popolo, by which, before the days of the rt~jlways, strangers entered Rome; almost no- where entirely commendable in detail, but with what an art of effect in its remote corners, into which no crowd can stretch, its three long, straight, nar- row vistas into the city, its terraced and columned heights, its great gateway? The square in which St. Peters stands, with that colonnade which Bernini set up in his one moment of genius; the dark, irregular, half-concealed palace of the Vatican holding on to a corner of the great church; the square itself, with its obelisk, the two fountains, the stones worn by all the pilgrims of the world; no other square makes quite the same appeal to one, or suggests so much of the worlds history. And how impres- sive, certainly, how sumptuous, are all these immense, never quite architec- turally satisfying churches, heaped against the sky at the corner of every square, dignifying the yoverty of even the humblest streets, leaving, like S. Paolo fuori le Mura, infinite riches run to waste in the unpopulated Campagna! You can scarcely walk five minutes in any direction without coming on some- thing, perhaps incongruous where it is, like the eleven Corinthian columns of Hadrians Temple of Neptune, forty feet high, now filled up with modern brick-work, and made into the Ex- change; something absolutely startling, something vast and sudden, it may be only the Trevi Fountain, it may be the theatre of Marcellus, the Capitol itself. And the appropriate d6cor of life awaits every occasion, ready set; for what oc- casion is there in life which was not an- ticipated and prepared for, with learned, foreseeing taste, centuries ago, in those times when Rome had per- fected the arts of life as now only the Eastern races ever dream of perfecting them? Think, in the baths of Caracalla or of Diocletian, among the trees and ruins of the Palatine; or, with less of the historic effort, in the gardens of the Villa Albani, with their alleys of shaves box, carved into niches for statues; the Villa Borghese, with their avenues of ilex, their grassy amphitheatre; of the Villa Doria-Pamphili, which is like an English park, laid out by a French gardener; in the Bosco of the Villa Medici, wild and delicate, with its stair- case going up between the trees to the sky; think what a decor lies before one, Rome. gone to waste, or at least wasted, for a life of the most triumphant pleasure! To live in Rome is to understand all the colored and spectacular vices of the Ca~sars, all the elaborate sins of the Renaissance. Occasions so great as these have gone, but the possibilities re- main, awaiting only their opportunity. Iv. Rome is a sea in which many worlds have gone down, and its very pavement is all in waves; so that to drive through these narrow streets, and across these broad squares, in which there is no foot- way over which a wheel may not drive, is like rocking in a boat on slightly un- easy water. The soil everywhere heaves over still buried ruins, which may hold (who knows?) another Apoxy- omenos. And, as no other great city in the world is, the whole of Rome is one vast museum, in which the very galler- ies, palaces, churches, which contain the finest of its treasures, are themselves but single items in that museum which is ~Rome. And what gives to all this precisely its special charm, and also its special value to the student, is that Rome is still a living city, the capital of a nation, and with an actual life of its own, which, often enough, can be seen in its direct descent from antiquity. The Roman people have always had a sense of the continuity of their national life, of their literal part in the inherit- ance of their ancestors. One sees it, sometimes with a quaint grotesqueness, in the simple-minded way in which, just as they Christianized pagan temples, so they have always taken to themselves and turned to their own uses the monu- ments of all the ages: Pasquino, Mar- forio, Madama Lucrezia, the Bocca della Verit~ the religion of one age becoming the mouthpiece for the satire or criti- cism of the next, as the pagan gods in exile, in the Christian Middle Ages, be- came demons, haunting the souls of men with their perilous beauty. One sees it, at the present day, in that singu- lar deification of Vittorlo Emanuele, which is really an apotheosis, after the manner of the apotheoses of the Roman emperors; and quite after their ruthless manner is that waste of thousands in the destruction of certain old streets, which were beautiful, for the propeY 33 view of an equestrian statue, which will be hideous. And then, in the actual museums, the palace of the Vatican, the palace of the Conservatori, the baths of Diocletian, what a prepared atmosphere one finds, and how much more at home in these courts, frescoed nails, papal summer-houses, Carthusian cloisters, are all this white, chosen humanity of statues, which, if they remember their august abodes, must certainly pine less for Greece, which they left so early, than any other marble beings in the world. Since I have been in Rome I have realized, for myself, many things about Greek art, which not all the study of sculpture in London, Paris, and Berlin had taught me; and I have been able to see it, not only as the greatest, the most classic art of the world, but as the most living, responsive, inti- mately delightful. And this is certainly because I have seen it where it could be seen more like something in its natural place, less like something on show, than anywhere out of Greece. And in painting, too, one has the op- portunity of making certain not unslin- liar discoveries. Rome is not rich ia easel-pictures, nor yet in altar-pieces, but it is only in Rome that it is pos- sible to realize, to the full extent of their gifts and limitations, the pictorial genius of Michel Angelo, of Raphael, and of Pinturicchio. Michel Angelo in the decoration of the Sistine Chapel, Raphael in the decoration of the Stanze and Logge, Pinturicchio in the decora- tion of the Appartamento Borgia, of the Vatican, is seen working as the painter loves to work, in the one really satisfy- ing way in which he can work archi- tecturally, for the adornment of a given space, which is part of the es~ sential life of a building. And so these frescoes, as no picture in a museum could ever be, are an actual part of Rome, precisely as much a part of it as the Vatican itself. In the Sistine Chapel there are ad- mirable paintings by Botticelhi, by Sig- norelli, by Perugino, but one can see nothing there but Michel Angelo. And the emotion of first seeing this im- mense world created by Michel Angelo seized me with a delighted awe, such LIVING AGE. VOL. XVI. 805 34 Rome. as I could imagine to have stirred in the soul of Adam when he awoke and beheld the world. Other things are beautiful, exquisite, subtle, but these seem to contain all beautiful and ex- quisite and subtle things, and to dis- regard them. In the passion of this overwhelming life which burns through every line, there is for once the creat- ing joy of the artist, flawless, unim- paired, unchecked, fulfilling its desire as not even the creeks have done; for desire, in them, was restrained by a sense of delicate harmony, to which it was the triumphant self-sacrifice of their art to conform. Here we have no sense of even so much of mortal concession to the demands of immor- tai~ty; but the unbounded spirit seems to revel in the absoluteness of its free- dom. Here, at last, here indeed for the first time, is all that can be meant by sublimity; a sublimity which attains its pre-eminence through no sacrifice of other qualities; a sublimity which (let us say it frankly) is amusing. 1 find the magnificeiit and extreme life of these figures as touching, intimate, and direct in its appeal, as the most vivid and gracious realism of any easel-picture; God, the Father and the Son, the Virgin, the men and women of the Old Testament, the Sibyls, the risen dead of the Last Judgment, all these tremendous symbols of whatever has been divined by the spirit or sought out by the wisdom of the ages, crowd upon one with the palpable, ir- resistible nearness of the people who throng one in one s passage through the actual world. It seemed to me then, it still seems to me, strange that I should have felt it, but never before had I felt so much at home among paintings, so little of a mere spectator. One seems to be of the same vivid and eternal world as these joyous and med- itative beings, joyous and meditative even in hell, where the rapture of their torment broods in eyes and limbs with the same energy as the rapture of God in creation, the woman in disobedienee, or Isaiah in vision. They are close to one, I think, partly because they are so far away; because no subtlety in the eyes or lips, no delicacy in the fold of garments, none of the curious and discoverable ways by which art imi- tates and beautifies nature, can dis- tract one from the immediate impress of such passionate and obsessing life. Art ceases to approach one indirectly, through this sense or that, throogh color, or suggested motion, or some fancied outlook of the soul; it comes straight to one, boldly, seizing one at once by that instinct of immediate rec- ognition, by which, except here, only perhaps the direct works of God have ever approached and revealed them- selves to the soul of man. Now turn to Raphael. Here, on the contrary, we have art so obvious in its concealment of art that it becomes the idol of the crowd, and ceases to inter- est the more curious dreamer before pictures. Raphael is the instinctively triumphant perfection of the ideal of the average man; he is what scarcely the greatest of painters can be, and what only mediocre paiiiters have du- sired to be. Here is the simplicity of what is called inspiration; the ease of doing, better than any one else, what the greater number would like, better than anything elsie, to do. And he is miraculous; y~t a miracle which just fails to interest one; because, I think. he is essentially exterior, and his pic- tures a dream of the hand rather than a dream of the soul. Even that peace which he can convey with so delicate a power, seems to me rather the slumber than the ecstasy of peace. His Ma- donnas hav~~ no foresight in their eyes of the seven swoeds with which the divine child is to pierce their breasts. His gracious saints have never, before they attained sanctity, suffered all the enlightening ardors of sin. His mar- tyrs have no memory, either of death, by which they have passed, or of heaven, to which they have come. All the persons of his pictures live, some- what unthinkingly, in the moment which their gesture perpetuates; they have but that gesture. We see eternity in the moment of fierce meditation which Michel Angelo calls up b~fore us, as if thought in the brows and Rome. hands were about to relax or resolve itself into some other of the unaccount- able moods of so elemental a being. In the painful, intense face of a Velas- quez we see the passionate frailties, the morbid, minute hatreds of a long race of just such suffering and reticent beings. And in the smile which wan- ders, lurking in the imperceptible cor- ner of lip or eyelid, across the faces of Leonardo, we see the enigma of whatever is most secret, alluring, in- explicable, in the mysterious charm of human beauty; that look which seems to remember, and is perhaps only a for- getfulness. But the people of Raphael live in the content of that one gracious moment in which they lift their hands in prayer or benediction, or open their untroubled eyes to that moments sun- light. The art of Pinturicchio, which can now, since the opening of the Apparta- mento Borgia in the Vatican, be stud- ied more completely at Rome than even at Siena, is another, a more primitive, but not less individual aft. Those frescoes, simply as decorations, are as beautiful as any decorations that were ever done; and they are at once an arabesque, in which everything seems to exist simply in order that it may be a moments beautiful color on a wall, and a piece of homely realism in which every figure seems to be a portrait, and every animal, tree, and jewel to be painted for its own sake. There is not a little naivet6 in the design, a tech- nique in which there is none of the con- fident sureness of hand of either Ra- pLael or Michel Angelo, but a certain hesitation, an almost timid recourse to such expedients as the use of stucco in relief, and even of painted wood, glued upon the fiat surface to represent a tower or a gateway. But you feel that the man has something to say, that, to be more accurate, he sees pic- tures; and that this simple, and sump- tuous, and real, and imaginary world, which he has called into being in order that it may remind us of the world about us, and be more beautiful, and so be a delight to the eyes and a repose to the soul, is not only an unsurpasss~ 35 piece of decoration but the revelation of a temperament to which beauty was perhaps more beautiful for its own sake than to any other painter. Pin- turicchio loves the world, animals, trees, human faces, the elegance of men and women in courtly, colored dresses, youth with its simple pride off existence, kings for their gold and pur- ple robes, saints for the divine calm of their eyelids and the plaintive grace of their slim hands, all the worlds beauty as It comes up like the flower of the grass, and especially that beauty which takes no thought of itself; and he loves it with so simple and humble and absorbing a love that he paints it just as he sees it, almost without think- ing of his own share in the work. That is why this select and colored world of his, in which there is no passionate or visionary life, as in Michel Angelo, nor that composed and conscious pres- ence in time and space of the poople of Raphael, lives with such simplicity, as if filled with a calm and joyous sense of its own beauty. To live under the decorations of Michel Angelo would be as exhausting as to live in a world in which every person was a person of genius. To live amongst the decora- tions of Raphael would be to live amongst people of too placid, too ami- able disposition, and too limited intelli- gence; it would become a weariness. But one need never cease to live hap- pily amongst the men and women whom Pinturicchio saw walking in beautiful robes, that were never woven so finely by hands, in meadows of gold flowers, that never grew out of the brown earth, always finding heaven, a heaven of chrysoprase and chalcedony, at a turn of the way, and without sur- prise; for these and their abode have the beauty that we desire LO find in the world, in what is most homely, obvi- ous, and frequent in it, the beauty that is there, if we could see It, alid the beauty that for the most part we do not see, because we are too sophisti- cated, too conscious of ourselves, and because we discover too thoughtful a consciousness of themselves In nat- ural things. 36 V. To realize the greatness of Rome, it is not enough to have seen the Colos- seum, St. Peters, the churches, pal- aces, ruins, squares, fountains, and gardens; you may have seen all these, and yet not have seen the most beau- tiful possession of Rome: the Cam- pagna. Seen from the Alban hills, Rome is a mere cluster of white houses in a desert, a desert as variable in color as the sky. Lost in that wilderness, a speck between that wilderness and the sky, it seems a mere accident in a vis- ible infinity. And now remember that this vast Campagna is simply the pleasure park of Rome; that it is left there, feverous and unproductive, the loveliest of ruins, in order that Rome may have the pride of possessing it; and think if any city in the world pos- sesses so costly and magnificent a lux- ury. It is one of the many delicate sur- prises of Rome to come suddenly, at the end of a street which had seemed lost in the entanglements of the city, upon a glimpse of the Campagna or the hills. And those hills, rising up from the plain to the sky, their soft lines, under certain weather, indistinguish- able from either, opalescent, changing color as the wind scatters or heaps the clouds, as sunlight or scirocco passes over them, have something of the un- tiring charm, the infinite variety, of the sea. Drive a little way into the Cam- pagna, and you might be on the Pam- pas, or in the desert which is about the ruins of Thebes. An almost audible si- lence descends upon you, in which the world seems asleep. A shepherd leans motionless upon his staff; the sheep move drowsily about him; and you hear the tinkle of the bell. To see Tivoli, loud and white with waterfalls, a little grey town set upon grey and cloven rocks, fringed with the silvery green of olive trees; to see any one of the castelli, one would willingly cross a whole country; and they lie, Frascati, Albano, Genzano, Marino, Ariccia, Rocca di Papa, at the very gates of Rome, within the compass of one days drive. These casteilt are all Rome. fantastic and improbable; white, hud- dled, perched like flights of white birds that have settled there; hanging over volcanic chasms that have burst into lakes, fertilized into vines and olives; Wild trees, their grey trunks leaning this way and that, seeming to race up and down the hillside, like armies meeting in battle; each costello with its own rococo villas, like incrustations upon the rock; each a stello set on its own hill, as if it had drawn up the ladder after having climbed there; a little city of refuge from the perils of the plain. They hold the Alban lake between them, and Lake Nemi, which -sleeps with the deepest sleep of any lake I have ever seen, in the most rest- ful arms of land. And each has its own aspect. Frascati, as one turns in and out of its streets, opening suddenly on vague glimpses, as if cut by the sides of a frame, is like a seaside vil- lage; and one cannot help imagining the wash of waves, instead of the grassy plain of the Campagna, at the end of those coiling streets. Rocca di Papa is like an eagles nest, perched high on the mountain, with its shady square in front of the little church where you hear old women praying aloud. Marino has an air of the coun- try, with its fierce men, its somewhat bold, handsome women, its thronging children. Ariccia hangs picturesquely against the very side of the hill, jut- ting out into space. Each has its va- riety of primitive life, of rococo archi- tecture, of running water, of trees, of volcanic rock, of lake scenery. And for those who care greatly for the deli- cate shading of colors as they change over a sensitive landscape, to look from these heights is to look down, from dawn till sunset, upon a paradise of the daintiest colors in the world, in that jewelled desert which lies abort Rome. But the Campagn~a is most wonderful, most itself, at sunset; and sunset in Rome should be seen from the Via Appia, as I saw it during a memorable drive in mid-winter. Look- ing back from the mound beyond the Casal Rotondo, Rome seemed far off, dwindled by. distance, all its towers Curiosities About Crustacea. and domes and roofs white, set in the hollow of the hills. Nearer to me, 1~ rascati, a white sparkle upon the dark Alban hills; bet~ween, along the sky, the Apennines, their snow lying caressingly against the clouds; and be- low, all around me, the desert of the Campagna, the long grey line of the aqueducts seeming to impress itself, with a certain insistency, upon the otherwise timeless waste of the great plain. A church bell sounded faintly, like the sound of a cow-bell, from a lit- tle white church on the Via Appia Nuova; the air was still, clear, cold, with a marvellous serenity in its soft brightness; and as I looked across the Campagna, going out desolately towards the sea, I could just distin- guish a light shining along the line of dark trees at the edge of the horizon. izicaring a slow ereaking of wheels, I looked down, and saw in the road two lounging oxen drawing a load of sil- very hex boughs. Two peasants went by, lounging like the oxen, in their long-haired garments of undressed skins; shepherds who had come down from the Apennines for the winter, with their flocks and herds, and had encamped upon the plain, in the little conical huts which rise out of it so strangely. Sunset was beginning, and, as we drove back along the Via Appia, the clouds which had obscured--the sun cleared away, and the sky seemed to be washed with colors which were at once fiery and watery; greens of an in- expressibly luminous delicacy, paler and softer than any grass or leaf that ever grew, but with the ardor in them of growing things; pinks that were like the inner petals of rose-leaves, flushing on the horizon to a fierce golden red, which burned in the tops of the trees like a conflagration, and at the edges floating away into paler and paler gold, and from that into the green of moon- lit water, and from that into a blue, which was the color of shallow water under very faint sunlight, a blue which deepened overhead into the vast out- stretched dome of the sky. The air grew chill, with that intense cold which seems to come down out of tfl~e sky upon Rome, for an hour after sun- set. We drove back, along the straight road, between the ruined tombs which had once stood at the gates of the vil- las of Romans, and which stand now, in their ruins, seeming to look, as the Romans loved to look, on the road which was the worlds highway; that long road, leading into the eternal city (upon which, indeed, the ends of the earth are still visibly come) out of the vague world. In so beautiful a desola- tion, at which the soul shivers away into that loneliness which is the souls ecstasy before eternal things, I said to myself that here, if anywhere upon earth, God and man had worked to- gether to show at one glimpse all the glory of the world. ARTHUR SYMONS. From The Nineteenth century.. CURIOSITIES ABOUT CRUSTACRA. The astounding ignorance of the - man I Such were the words of Samuel Wilberforce on hearing that Pope Pius the Ninth had supposed him to be a mere professor, instead of a bishop simulated indignation meet for a par- donable mistake. Far other vials of - wrath should be out-poured on the worse than papal blifidness with which: the carcinologist is continually af- fronted. In their astounding igno-- rance many~ who fancy themselves well educated, have never even heard the name, let alone knowing what it means. That editor, therefore, de- serves well of his country and his time, who opens his columns to the much- needed and impressiv explanation that a carcinologist is a student of crustacca. To have won this single forward step in public education is something of value. But there are still deplorable depths of darkness to be dealt with. In unhappy contrast with the boasted enlightenment of the nineteenth cen- tury, there is the painful fact that persons in the upper and middle classes Curiosities About Crustacea. of society frequently confound crusta- eea with the molluscs which they are pleased to speak of as shell-fish, not so much from the old notion that what- ever comes out of the sea must be in a manner fishy, as from the more mod- ern one that whatever is sold by the fishmonger may decently be regarded as fish. People advanced in life and in respectable circumstances will confess, quite unabashed, and as though It were nothing to be ashamed of, to having always thought that there was only one kind of woodlouse. Could any- thing be more afflicting? Not seldom they confound in their muddled ideas the crayfish of the river with the craw- fish of the ocean, or, on the other hand, suppose that a crawfish Is a lobster, or again are miserably deluded into con- fusing the Norway Lobster, elegant in shape and hue, with the common lobster, just because myriads of the latter come to our markets from Nor- way. One thing indeed is generally known, and of this piece of knowledge the modern world is excessively proud. as though it were a recent discovery, that the portrait of a live lobster ought not to be colored red. There is also a vague impression that the marine painter was wrong when he attached the claws of the great eatable crab be- hind the rest of its legs instead of in front of them. How safely, without fear of fault-finding on the part of the public, might he have introduced into his picture a Spiny Lobster wearing claws, though It has none, and a com- mon lobster with only one pair of them, though in fact it has three. It is true that the second and third pairs are small, but they are quite distinct and easy to perceive. Really, if the general reader and or- dinary seeker after knowledge would bring his powerful mind to bear on the subject, he would find that there is in the study of crustacea as much variety of interest, as much facile amusement and as much perplexing difficulty, as much opportunity for observation and experiment, as much incitement to hunting and collecting, and exploring the recesses of land and sea, hs there is in any 6ther fashionable province of exertion. To be more explicit, it can compete on favorable terms with circle-squaring, butterfly-catching, the ascent of lofty mountains, the search for the North Pole, the tabulation of authentic ghosts, the viewing of neb- nba, the counting of asteroids, and the prospecting of stars so distant that we cannot tell whether they are still in existence. Novel-reading and money- making are omitted from this list of examples, lest the objection should be raised that these are necessaries of life, while the study of crustaceans is only a luxury. It is difficult in brief space to give any adequate idea of the extent of the subject. A few species are familiar on the table. These are agreeable to the eye, because the expectant palate pro- nounces in their favor. They have absorbed an unfair amount of atten- tion. Hence it is little understood that crustaceans have an Importance in the food-supply of the globe far beyond that which belongs to them as gratify- ing the appetite of mankind. The spe- cies of them are to be counted by thou- sands. Their dwelling-places are ex- tremely varied. Their manners and customs are often not a little remark- able. Their diversity of form is such that in this direction it might well be said, The force of Nature could no further go. First among the proverbs of Solo- mon, which the men of Hezekiah, king of Judah, copied out, stands that which says, It Is the glory of God to conceal a thing: but the honor of kings Is to search out a matter. The prov- erb speaks as though there were some- times a direct Intention in Nature to puzzle and mystify the student, to put him on his mettle In dealing with the intricacy of the problems. There.~$is the playfulness of a riddle propounded, the seriousness of an education de- signed. Nowhere are these appear- ances more obtrusive than in the class of crustacea. Only by slow steps have naturalists come to know Its proper boundaries, which still at one or two i)oints are subjects of dispute and civil 38 Curiosities About 6rustacea. war. As for the poor unhappy people who are not naturalists, it is often dif- ficult to persuade them that a wood- louse is as much a crustacean as a crab. Little do they think that here also belong shorehoppers and barna- cles, as well as hosts of creatures op- probriously misnamed water-fleas and fish-lice. It must in truth be allowed that, while some members of the class are large and striking, gallantly armed, brilliantly colored, and alto- gether very finely endowed, there are others in many respects much the re- verse. These latter, for the sake of a safe, a quiet, and an easy life, have assumed such disguises, or renounced so many characteristic features, that comfort with content rather than peace with honor has fallen to their lot. Ignoble, misshapen, and obscure, lives the parasite; retrograde, de- graded, and spiritless, but far from be- ing an outcast. On the other hand, among the free-living species there are many which, without combining every excellence, are severally conspicuous for at least one. Thus, some are in size minute but resplendent in color- ing, some without brilliance are strongly armored, some feeble in ac- coutrement are fleet of foot or nimble- witted. Some - can build themselves houses. Some can dig and delve. Some that seem in every way defence- less still keep their place in nature by an almost incredible fecundity. It is likely that a great whale eats as many crustaceans as a great city, and yet the little animals known as whale food are in far less danger of becoming ex- tinct than the monster which devours them. Quite at the head of society in the class of crustacea stand the crabs. Among these the differences of form are extremely numerous, demanding the epithets round, oval, square, ob- long, triangular, smooth, spiky, tuber- culous, flat, globular, lumpy, nugget- like, and others. The shape is chiefly determined by the carapace, that part of the integument which in our eatable crab not only looks like a pie-dish, but iS often used like one. Though~ ex posed to this ignominy after death, in the animals lifetime the carapace covers and protects its vital organs, the gills, the heart, the stomach and intestine, and that concentrated ner- vous system by which the crab is en- nobled above its fellows. In no small degree, however, is the general facies of a crab affected also by the many differences in pattern of the legs. These are in some cases inordinately long and spider-like, in others short and compact. The tips may be nar- row and pointed, or flattened out into oar-blades. Especially the claw-bear- ing pair in front are characteristic by their massiveness or elongation or want of symmetry, or by some quaint- ness of outline, as the likeness to a cocks comb, or again by being small, and short, and smooth, and compara- tively symmetricaL As for the squares and circles of the carapace, these are diversified by all sorts of projections and indentures, while the triangles may be equilateral, obtuse-angled, or produced into an angle extremely acute. In regard to size, there are gradations from crabs comparable in look and dimensions to so many little pebbles up to the giant crab of Japan, which, to less than a foot square of carapace, attaches arms portentously extending as much some- times as a yard and a half on either side. All the crabs have short, more or less insignificant, tails, which they fold closely and moreover tenaciously under their breasts, as though they were appendages not quite dignified for animals of advanced intelligence, and as though in consequence the owners were somewhat touchy about them. The folding of the tail, it is true, is found in some degree in al- most all the higher ranks of the crus- tacea, but not the concealment or the ~ insignificance. On the contrary, the tail part in lobsters, crayfish, prawns, and shrimps is in a fine bold style of architecture; it is used with vigor and displayed with a kind of pomp. In a crabs tall there is nothing to eat. In a crawfish there is comparatively littl& 39 40 to eat except what is in the tail. The best known kinds of long-tailed crusta- ceans in our islands are pretty sharply discriminated in point of size, but it is .a mistake to suppose that the scale is everywhere the same. In some parts of the world there are crayfishes as large as our lobsters and in some parts there are prawns larger than our cray- fishes. Near akin to the wood-lice which we find under stones and slates and decaying leaves and loosened bark, there are numbers of marine ani- mals of the same general structure with the same number of legs and the same kind of jaws and eyes and breathing-plates. Among these the show-piece, the prodigy, is a quite modern discovery. Though it has some small and interesting pe- culiarities of its own, it is in general appearance by no means unlike a wood-louse, but to equal it in dimen- sions the wood-louse would have to be nine inches long by four inches broad. This hitherto unique monster was dredged up by the American steamer Blake from a depth in the Atlantic of nearly one thousand fathoms. In the old pharmacopoeia one of the common- est woodlice was applied to the cure of the jaundice. Had it only been known then that the woodlouse was a sort of shrimp, a little land lobster, how much disgust might have been spared to the patient. But that perhaps would have been thought to impair or cancel the efficacy of the medicine. It might well be wondered why of all animals a woodlouse was chosen for a drug, did not the trivial name of Pill Millepede offer an explanation. This crustacean carries the folding of the tail to the length of making one extremity of its body touch the other. It rolls itself into a perfect ball. It is a pill moulded by nature. Who could doubt its me- dicinal virtue? That it was pounded up in Rhenish wine before being taken was no doubt a late and weak conces- sion to the fancies of fastidious in- valids. Those who did not rejoice in good food thus delicately prepared de- served to undergo the alternative rem- edy, still, it is said, sometimes~. pre Curiosities About Grustaeea. scribed, of having to swallow a live spider rolled up in butter. Readers who do not wish to take upon trust the statement that such an- imals as woodlice and sandhoppers be- long to the same class as crabs and lobsters and shrimps, should compare specimens of each kind piece by piece. After some experience the conviction will begin to force itself upon them that the various parts and appendages of all these dissimilar animals have an extraordinary correspondence, part for part, appendage for appendage. Except that for this purpose the fin- gers must be employed with some deft- ness, as well as the eyes and brain, the pleasure of the work will be analogous to that of the accomplished scholar who compares such a book as Para- dise Lost with its lineage of thought and genius and expression in the liter- ature of Europe for over two thousand years. Not without a wondering sat- isfaction will the observer find himself able to trace essential agreement through all the intricacies of difference produced by the widening and con- tracting, lengthening and shortening, crumpling and expanding, of joints and segments. Here there is coales- cence of several pieces into one; here there is subdividing or muidplying, so that in ph& e of one piece there are many. In oi~e animal the coat will be a stony fabric, perhaps with added cor- rugations or massive warts; in another it will be smooth and horn-like; in a third a pliant skin-like membrane; yet in all three the basis of the investiture will be found to be the substance called chitin. Beyond the agreement thus discernible between group and group of the animals, there is the al- most more surprising agreement be- tween the successive appendages which they have in common. These have their distinguishing names of an1enn~, and mouth-organs, and claws, and walking-legs, and swimming-feet, and so on. In most instances these are as fully (istiact in appearance as in name. Nevertheless, there are in- stances in which swimming-feet closely resemble antenn~, in which Curiosities About Crustacea. antennae are pediform, in which there are no claws to be distinguished from the walking-legs, in which the walking legs have become swimming-feet, or are endowed with claws. Among the very jaws there are some which are sometimes comparable to appendages of the tail, and others unmistakably leg-like. To be convinced that this is no exaggeration a student has only to detach the several appendages, and, when they have been well mixed up. set himself to apportion them to the parts of the body from which they have been separated. By the time that he has learned to do this without hes- itation, he will have learned to accept the statement above made. He will perceive that there is a readiness, as it were, on the part of any one append- age to assume the form more usually characteristic of another. This helps to establish the unity of the crustacean class, for we do not find the character- istic forms of its appendages assumed elsewhere in the antenn~ of insects, for example, or the legs of spiders, or the mouth-organs of sea-urchins. Let this also be noted: the crab, the lob- ster, the prawn, have each but ten legs, claws included; the shorehopper and the woodlouse have fourteen legs apiece. At first sight the difference is very considerable. But count the ap- pendages of the mouth in each. Then the balance is exactly restored. In the lobster, living or dead, the two pairs of jaws or mouth-organs which stand outermost are not only easy to see, but it is easy to see how leg-like they are. 1 hey are, in fact, the equivalents of the first two pairs of legs in the shore hopper and its fellows. Moreover in the latter group there are certain spe- cies which hold up the first four of their fourteen feet close to their mouths in a manner which seems to saywe wish we could be decapods; we would be if we could, but we cant. In the Entomostraca and barnacles, to be sure, a beginner may not be able at once to recognize the cousins of a crab. For this, the young forms have to be taken into the comparison as well as the adult. It should be remember~d also that what may appear inexplica- ble when only a few species are known becomes simple on a survey of the whole group. Still it must always be at first rather surprising to learn that in the guise of a minute mussel we have a crustacean, and to find that by the apparatus neatly concealed within the closely-fitting valves, this creature, so like a sluggish mollusc, unlike it can walk and swim about in a very lively manner. It has too that distinguish- ing mark of a crustacean, the complete shedding of its skin. For not only does it cast off the close-fitting valves but with them the coating of its jaws, its limbs, its gills, its furniture of hairs and spines. This is a wonderful piece of conjuring many times re- peated every year in countless pools by myriads of these animalcules. The same phenomenon is not less common nor much less surprising in other and quite differently organized Entomos- traca. But the strangeness of it will appeal more forcibly to the eye in larger forms of higher rank. At the seaside, sand and seaweed are cheap, sea-water is inexpensive, an aquarium can be fitted up without much trouble. Into such a vessel let a little shore crab be introduced. Little it should be by preference, because the larger ones are so mischievous, intractable, and diffi- cult to keep within bounds. Like many other wild animals, the shore crabs combine the two qualities of be- ing extremely patient of hunger and extremely voracious. For the special object in view the guest is rather to be pampered with food than humbled by starvation. But it needs no refine- ments of cookery. Scraps of raw fish will content it. Still more to its satis- faction will be a supply of shorehop- pers or other small shrimp-like ani- mals, among which it can find the pleasures of sport combined with the duty of taking nourishment. In no long time, if all goes well, from ample food will result an increase of the an- imals bulk. But its crustaceous en- velope is not elastic. As it will not stretch, it must yield to the strain and burst. This happens, not with any ir 41 Curiosities About Grustacea. -J regular disruption, but as it were at certain seams which open so neatly that they can eventually close again as if they had never been apart. With ~~hat a sense of relief must the crab which has outgrown its clothes shuffle off this mortal coil! After this has oc- curred the aquarium will exhibit two crabs though previously it had but one. There will be a living crab with pul- sating heart and circulating blood and active brain and muscles extending and retracting the limbs. Beside it there will be its ghost, pallid and mo- tionless, without mind or muscle, but with the framework complete of cara- pace and claws, pedunculate eyes and delicate antenna~, and all the elaborate apparatus of mouth-organs, cesopha- gus, and stomach, as well as every tooth and fringe of hair with which the various parts are appropriately furnished. It is a curious spectacle to see this facsimile, this model taken from life, side by side with what may be considered its former self. The mask is empty, but the image is fault- less. It is a natural sculpture above all decent cavil of criticism, although very likely the impressionist would say that it shows rather too much at- tention to detail. To observe the crab In the act of com- ing out of its coat is not easy. It ever chooses darkness and retirement for the process, and would fain remain in pri- vacy till its new vesture, which is soft and yielding to admit of muscular ex- pansion within it, has acquired defen- sive solidity and hardness. In its ten- der condition it should be supplied with small and delicate food, not little spiky prawns which might seriously interfere with its digestion. An aquarium once established may be put to a further use, for espying the be- havior of some of the common spider- crabs. Many of these have long been well-known objects. Overgrown with living seaweeds, and sponges, and zoophytes, they look not a little dis-, reputable. Their unkempt and dis-1 orderly appearance recalls to mind the~ description of the field of the sluggard. They seem to be in evil case, tl~e due re-I ward of their own disgracefully indo- lent habits. But things are not always what they seem. It now turns out that these crafty animals for their own pur- poses deliberately prefer to look like a bit of wild submarine landscape. Nor do they leave the matter to chance. They very carefully dress and undress themselves, so as to be in harmony with their surroundings. This is no doubt a question of taste, though not exactly in the sesthetic sense. The experimental proof on which their new character has been established can easily be repeated in an aquarium, either by stripping the specimen of the dress it actually wears, to see whether it will or will not renew it, or else by introducing it into a minia- ture forest differently colored from that on its own back. This is the most inter- esting experiment; for, if It succeeds, the crab will Itself strip off the plants and animals which form its garb, and instead of them carefully affix a fresh plantation from its new neighborhood. Among the easily obtainable crusta- ceans, then, of our own waters and our own land, there are curiosities to be ob- served which will increase in number and interest with every step taken in quest of them. But the field of pursuit may be extended to every country and every climate. Widely distributed over the warm regions of the world is a genus of crabs, the name of which signi- fies Laughable, a name given because of the oddity of their appearance. This oddity, we are in politeness bound to mention, is limited to the males, which have one claw so enormously developed that in some cases It is twice the size of the animals body. It would certainly be thought that a caricaturist was run- ning into absurd extremes, if he made a picture of a pugilist with his arm from the elbow to the finger-tips equalling all the rest of his frame put together, or if he made a sketch of a cricketer with a bat as big as himself. Even a child would conclude that the puny posses~r could never wield these monstrous weapons, and that the over-exaggera- tion gave an effect rather of helpless- ness than of power. Notwithstanding this obvious criticism, the Laughable Crab wields his portentous arm ~with the greatest efficiency and skill. Since it belongs or~ly to the male, it will sur- prise no one to hear that it is used in Curiosities About C~ru~tacea. many a knightly encounter to determine romantic affairs of the heart. The same stalwart arm that wins the loved one also folds her to his breast. The waving and brandishing of the massive club allures her to his side. It acts as a substantial door to the mouth of the burrow when the owner is ensconced within. Dr. Alcock, of the Indian Marine Sur- vey, has recently studied some of these crabs in the muddy tidal swamps of the Godavery and Kistna in the presidency of Madras. Here vast swarms of them live in what he describes as warrens, and a trespasser on these has his atten- tion attracted by a sight worth going some distance to see. The surface of the mud is everywhere alive with twinkling objects of a pearly pink color. The mud, in fact, is riddled with countless burrows, and at the mouth of each stands the little crusta- cean tenant or freeholder. The bright twinkling is produced by the ceaseless brandishing of his giant arm. At the time of Dr. Alcocks visit the females present were only in the proportion of one to ten of the males. Perhaps the majority of the tenderer sex were at- tending to domestic duties elsewhere. The few present in the warrens were feeding in apparent unconcern, without any show of feminine coquetry. But if one of them came near a burrow, the owner of it was far from displaying a reciprocal coolness and self-restraint. On the contrary, it would exhibit the greatest excitement, raising itself on its hindmost legs, dancing and stamp- ing, and frantically waving its beauti- fully colored big claw. Another kind of crab, closely allied to the preceding, has a name meaning Swift-of-foot, in allusion to the extreme rapidity with which it can scour over tne ground, baffling the pursuit of a man on foot, and with the wind in its favor outstripping a horseman. One of the species, found on the coasts of North America and the Antilles, bur- rows to a depth of three or four feet in the sand just above the reach of the surf. In the winter it quits its seaside lodging, and migrates inland, there making a fresh burrow in which it hibernates, after having ingeniously closed its dwelling so as to leave no sign of an entrance from the outside. Dr. Alcock has observed a species of these swift-footed crabs swarming on all the sandy shores of India. These excavate tortuous burrows, and at the least alarm each one eagerly retreats, if pos- sible, to his own special fortress. When there, he takes measures not to conceal his presence, but to let it be known, just as a human grandee hoists a flag on his castle to signify to an admiring neigh- borhood that he is at home. The crab, however, makes its announcement in a different manner. As the song of the male grasshopper is due to the friction of his hind legs against the wing cases, so in various crabs and lobsters a kind of language is produced by the so-called stridulating apparatus. In these Indian crabs the larger claw has a long finely toothed ridge on the palm and a similar ridge on one of the basal joints. When the palm is folded against the arm, the first ridge can be worked across the sec- ond like a bow across a fiddleonly in this case the bow is several times larger than the fiddle. The sounds resulting from this and other arrangements in the crustacea may be compared with those which we ourselves produce by ringing a bell or striking a gong or whistling or clapping our hands. They do not suffice for carrying on a protracted argument or discussing metaphysics. Yet they are useful and significant enough to ex- press entreaty, warning, and command. In the case of the Red Ocypode Crab, when stridulating within its resonant burrow, the noise produced is compared to a low-pitched whirr and a high- pitched growl. As the creatures flee to their burrows for protection, it might be thought foolishly contradictory on their part to give notice of their whereabouts by these enchanting sounds. But once underground they cease to fear their human foes, whereas the circumstances of a hurried and tumultuous retreat ex- pose them to the chance of serious an- noyance from their own companions. Dr. Alcock, therefore, reasonably sug- gests that the growling is Intended to warn other crabs that the burrow is al- ready occupied. It is like the case of the busy Roman who in person told his friend that he was not at home. 43 44 In East Africa and the Philippine Islands there is a tiny crab, with a body scarcely half an inch long. Its claws are only of moderate size, and not very unequal. By way of trivial name it may be called the Window-pane Crab or the Mirror Crab. On the under side of its body and on both sides of the fourth joint in each of its legs, there are trans- parent oval spaces like so many panes of glass or framed mirrors. There is reason to suppose that these have a tele- phonic character. The animals can produce sound by rubbing together parts of their trunk and limbs, and whatever advantage they may derive from the power of making a noise is likely to be closely connected with their power of hearing it. Strange as it may seem that the sense of sound should be distributed to arms and legs and breast, we ourselves have the sense of touch diffused all over the body with far more advantage than inconvenience. These crabs no doubt find a benefit in having acoustic arrangements far more ex- panded than vertebrates would desire. The Swedish naturalist, Dr. Carl Auri- villius, has been recently studying the Mirror Crab at Mindanao. There, at low tide, a large stretch of mud is left uncovered by the retreat of the very shallow waters. There, too, as in the swamps of the Godavery, a wonderful sight is to be seen. All the ground, from the bank above almost to the limit of the retreating tide below, is sweetly twinkling with blue and yellow, a play of color due to the incessant movement of innumerable little crabs with bluish bodies and yellow legs. At the slightest scare they run away in troops, each in- dividual taking the earliest opportunity of slipping into its hole, or, if necessary, hurriedly digging a new one. Dr. Au- rivillius remarks that a naturalist chas- ing them under a tropical sun has a rather discouraging experience. Every step he takes forward, at the mere sight of him or at the sound of his footfall, whole regiments of the crabs sink into the ground. It reminds one of the clansmen of Roderick Dhu in The Lady of the Lake, where, at the wav- ing of the chieftains hand, Down sank the disappearing band; Each warrior vanished where he st~od~ Curiosities About Urustacea. In broom or bracken, heath or wood; Sank brand and spear and beaded bow~ In osiers pale and copses low; It seemed as if their mother earth Had swallowed up her warlike birth. The crab scuttling away on the tips of its toes, holding up its claws in fighting- trim, carries its body in an almost verti~ cal position. The stalked eyes sur- mounting its erect body enable it to- keep in view both the pursuer behind and the desired refuge in front, so that hope and fear may alike lend wings ~o its retreat. For maintaining the per-~ pendicular, it has a very singular ar- rangement of the tail-part. Of this the middle segment, instead of separating as usual Its two neighboring segments, allows them to approach one another, and itself depends between them to the ground, thus forming a kind of prop like the milking stool strapped on to a Tyrolese cowherd. To observe the varied ingenuity of crustaceans in burrowing, it is not nec- essary to run the honorable risk of a sunstroke in the tropics. On all the sandy shores of our own islands there are many species which can easily be watched and studied. Wary and clever and quick as many of the burrowers are, both here and elsewhere, they fall a tolerably easy prey alike to men and birds and fishes. Seldom are they harmful to any animals except those which are much smaller in size or lower in organization than themselves. By way of exception, the burrowing of crayfishes in America sometimes so weakens the embankments of the Mis- sissippi that the river breaks through and floods the surrounding country. Certain small wood-boring crustaceans also do much damage to submarine tim- ber in our own and many other coun- tries. The burrowers easy to capture are those which make their home between tide-marks, and which like to spend a~~- part of their time in the open air. It makes a great difference when the bur- row is so placed as to be permanently under water, or when the excavators never come out until their tunnels have been inundated by the flowing tide. Several of our British crustaceans which behave thus are, in consequence, 4 Curiosities About Crustacea. ~seldom seen. They are rare, not neces- sarily because they are few, but be- cause they are difficult to catch. They ~tre obtained by digging in swampy mud, dredging in deep water, opening the stomachs of fishes, and other pre- carious chances. Through being so un- common they have been left without trivial or familiar names, and it is use- less to inquire after them among fisher- folks by their scientific appellations. Still, the intelligent reader will be grati- fled to learn that round our coasts may be found specimens of the Subterranean Queen of Beauty, of the Starry Life-be- low-Ground, of McAndrews Beauteous Shrimp. The Queen of Beauty, though living in what might be described as a mud hovel, is still an elegant creature, with a delicate skin and rosy markings on a pale ground. It carries a fan, but this consists of its own tail. Something like a shrimp in size, and more like a lobster in appearance, it combines with .a body about two inches long a claw of nearly the same length. As in so many other instances, though it has a pair of claws only one of them is monstrously developed, it may be the left or it may be the right. This great weapon has a stouter crust than belongs to other parts of the animal. The chief part of its bulk is in the two joints known as the hand and wrist, while those which con- nect these with the body are so slight by comparison that one might expect the whole claw to come off at the first effort of energetic use. The secret is that its construction is not meant for employment in the conditions with which we are most familiar, but only in the softly cushioning and weight-reliev- ing environment of water. At the time of moulting, this creature must undergo a rather excruciating squeeze in draw- ing the flesh of the dilated hand and wrist through the narrow joints of the upper arm. For though at that crisis all the parts are in a very soft condition, yet, as far as the proportions go, it is much as if, in taking off a glove, one had to draw the palm of ones hand through the gloves little finger. Of the companionship between crus- taceans and other kinds of animals there is not space left to speak, nor can much be said of the diversity of dwell- ing-places to which crustaceans accom modate themselves. Every one can un- derstand that, while the tail of a lobster requires to be protected by a hard shell of its own, the hinder part of a hermit crab needs no such rigidity because the borrowed shell serves its purpose. So also, unless the tail part of the hermit were soft and twisted, it could not fit the coil of the univalve which it inhab- its. It might have been thought rash to guess that hermit crabs, confronted with other circumstances, such as the absence of univalves, would not neces- sarily have spiral hind bodies. But the deep-sea dredgings of late years have discovered species in which the tail is in fact perfectly symmetrical. To one of these has been given the name of the Straight Timber Hermit. Jt is a small slender species obtained by the Blake in deep West Indian waters. It inhabits tubes excavated in bits of wood or the hollow stems of plants open at both ends. Of these two doorways it blocks the front one in the usual manner with its big claw, but the back door it makes out of the terminal segments of its tail, which form a bilaterally symmetrical operculum of calcified plates. This difference in its household arrange- ments affects its habits as well as its structure, for it enters its dwelling head-foremost, whereas ordinary her- mits are under a necessity of going in tail first. Among the smaller crusta- ceans there are some which occupy tubes constructed by themselves and open at both ends. The economy in size of these tubes is such that they seem to fit the animal to a nicety with nothing to spare. Nevertheless, the suppleness of the little shrimp-like oc- cupant is so great that, after putting out its head at one end, it can withdraw it. and doubling upon itself, surprise the spectator by protruding its head from the opposite end. With every game, be it chess or cricket, lawn-tennis or football, or golf, or any other, the incidents described or witnessed excite a lively interest pretty much in proportion to the practical knowledge of the game possessed by the readers or onlookers. It is the same with the game of natural history. To the ignorant the players seem wonder- fully fond of wasting their time. The objects with whk~h they amuse them- 45 Scenes of Real Life. selves are regarded as disagreeable to look at and unpleasing to touch, pos- sibly dangerous, certainly disgusting. Whether scuttling, crawling, wriggling, or jumping, the unexpected movements of these odious animals give a shock to the nerves. Happily, as a rule, they are as eager to be quit of us as we of them. The tenderhearted, who in practice de- test what in theory they feel bound to admire, are thus relieved from meas- ures of active hostility by the reciproc- ity of repugnance. For all that, there is no being so homely, none so venomous, none so encased in slime or armed with swordlike spines, none so sluggish or so abrupt in behavior, that it cannot win our favor and admirationthe more the better we know it. However it may be in human society, with the naturalist it is not familiarity which breeds con- tempt. On the contrary, with every step of his advancing knowledge he finds in what was at first indifferent, unattractive, or repulsive, some wonder of mechanism, some exquisite beauty of detail, some strangeness of habit. Shame he feels at having so long had eyes which seeing saw not; regret he feels that the limits of his life should be continually contracting, while the boundaries of his science are always ex- panding; but so long as he can study and examine, he is so far contented and happy. THOMAS R. R. STEBBING. From Les Anm4les. SCENES OF REAL LIFE. COUNTRY PLEA5URE5: A 5HORT DIA LOGIJE. The country-house of the dowager Mine. de Gardevu, on the day of the sewing- circle. In theportrait gallery some twenty ladies, seated about an immense table covered with cloth, spools, tape-measures, cushions bristling with needles, scissors of many sizes, etc., etc., are working for the poor; others scattered about the room are running sewing-machines. By the side of the great fireplace from the depths oJ an armchair, the dfwager watches her nephew Jean, who is dr%un- ming on the window. The Dowager. Still raining? Her Nephew. Still, aunt. The Dowager. Would you like the Figaro ~ Her Nephew. Oh!No thank you, aunt. It is three days old. The Dowager. Heavens, child; its only just come! Her Nephew. I know itand I thank you for offering it to mejust as much as though it were new. The Dowager. Rainy days are a little slow in the country. Her Nephew (aside). And the others, too! The Dowager. It is true that Look! See there! I fancy Mine. de Verpr6 is looking for something. Do you want anything, my dear? Mine. de V. Yes ~ some thread. Theres no number three. The Dowager. Jean! In the large cup- boardthe left-hand sidein the back a little box on the fifth shelf. Have you found it? Take a spool of number three. (Nephew Jean takes the spool to the lady, who after giving one glance, gets up and goes herself to the cupboard.) The Dowager (to Jean, who resumes his place at the window). Didnt you find the number three? Her Nephew. Oh, yes. Only I took a spool of black, and it was to hem a pocket-handkerchief. It seems it wasnt the thing. (He starts for the door.) The Dowager (in an undertone). Stay here, you great baby. I promise to send you on no more errands. I thought you would like to help the ladies. Her Nephew. If they were pretty, per- haps it might amuse me; but, Lord! The Dowager (laughing). You exagger- ate. Just look at Mine. de (4reuze. A perfect picture! Shall I keep her to dinner? You will be less bored Her Nephew (eagerly). Oh, dont. .1 much prefer the cure! The Dowager (laughing). Rather a dif- ferent style! Come, dont put on that expression! You look so unhappy Her Nephew (letting himself go). But thats what I amunhappy. The truth is, my good aunt, that, fond as I am of you, I am so bored here, that if you only 46 Scenes of Real Life. realized how much, you would take pity on me and send me back to Paris. The Dowager. Not a bit of it! It does you a world of good to spend a month in the country! Good air; a regular life, free from excitement Her Nephew. But I dont need to be turned out to pasture. A few years from now, may-be--- The day may come, when youll wish you could get rid of me! But, meanwhile The Dowager. Meanwhile, you are very well off here. You can go on tramps, take plenty of exercise Her Nephew. Can I? I am losing my figure, on the contrary, growing posi- tively obese. You wont even let me go out with a gun, nowadays. The Dowager. Because you are al- ways getting into a mess with the neighbors. Her Nephew (with conviction). Oh, your neighbors The Dowager (glancing at the ladies). Hush! Do hush! Not so loud! Her Nephew (very softly). Oh, your neighborsand neighborhood dinners! And the calls, when we set off in the little basket phaeton, you and 1, with no groom, so as not to tire the horses! And I have to drive! We walk up all the hillsand go down at the same pace! And that isnt all. You abso- lutely insist on the horses being watered on the way The Dowager. Poor beasts! Surely thats no great hardship! Her Nephew. It wouldnt be, if there were such a thing as a stable-boy at any of the inns where we stop: but there never isI do the pumping! And how slowly those horses drinkespecially BellerephonI know I could empty the bucket quicker than he. The Dowager. We are never in a hurryand so Her Nephew. As far as that goes, no! On the road, one is happy, relatively. But once In those drawing-rooms, where the scanty furniture is covered with horsehair, and the clocks dont go, where you never see a flower, nor a book, nor a paper, nor a piece of work Ugh! How do your neighbors spend their time? Answer me that, aunt! The Dowager. How? Her Nephew. Yes. What can they 47 find to do? Bite their nails? That is only amusing when one is littlebe- cause it is forbidden. And what con- versation! Never a topic of general in- terestaiways local! The free schools of the district. And the prefect. And the mayor. And tweedle-dum. And tweedle-dee. I feel as if I were in prison. It is horrible! The Dowager. Oh, ihere are some amusements. Her Nephew. A rubber of whist with an aged neighbor, who hasnt a penny in his pocket, but who is stone-deaf, and yet loses his temper every time his part- ner utters an exclamation. How does he make out that you say anything, thats what I keep asking myself! Oh, I was forgetting among the amuse- ments, the time for the post-man, which is also the time for lunch. You always hope hell bring you something. You watch; but nobody con~xes The post-man must have taken a drop too much. They have the bad habit of giv- ing him lunch in five or six houses on his route. No taking a drive till the post- man has been, so we wait, and wait. Finally he comes, slightly red but smil- ing. He hasnt any letters, but it is four oclock, and beginning to rain. No drive for that day. The Dowager. You sumph! That pic- ture Her Nephew. You darent say I have exaggerated, aunt. You see it, your- self. In heavens name, how do you propose that I should fill up my time? The Dowager. You might take little trips about the country, which is ex- quisite. Her Nephew. Do the sights? But I was brought up here! Do you want me to tell you how many leaves there are on eharlemagnes beech-tree, or what fences need repairing, or how many trees have been planted since last year? The Dowager. The evenings are a trifle long,that is when there is no- body Her Nephew. On the contrary, my dear aunt, it is the evenings when there is somebody, when the guests have to be taken to see the starsto shiver on the terrace so as to enjoy the beauty of the evening! The Dowager. There certainly have i~ 48 been wonderfully beautiful evenings here, this year! Her Nephew. And at St. Germain, too! Believe me, my dear aunt, theres noth- ing like a pretty house at St. Germain or at Fontainebleau. So easy for peo- ple to come to see you The Dowager. And for people to get away from me, you scamp. Thats your idea, isnt it? Her Nephew. Well, I warrant I shouldnt be so anxious to get away, if I could do so easily. To me, difficulty is always inspiring The Dowager. To-morrow the Grand- coeurs are coming. You Her Nephew (completing the phrase). You shall take Mine. de Grandcoeur fishing. She is so fond of fishing! Thats it, isnt it? The Dowager. Precisely. Her Nephew. Oh, I knew it! Every time she comes, I have the pleasure of going out on the water with her. The Dowager. She is charming! Her Nephew. Maybe; but unendur- able. You have to put on her bait, and get your hands all daubed up with the filthy stuff, and then unhook the fish, if by chance she has a bite. Shes so fond of fishing, Mine. de Grandcoeur is! Only she doesnt like to put on the worms nor take off the fish, because thats dirty. So she runs on, like an idiot. Do you think that is a bite, Monsieur Jean! No, really, it isnt a bite. Suppose we row round a little. Row round! Oh, yes! The pleasures of a pond! I have to pull like a profes- sional: I mop my face. Monsieur Jean, suppose we row round a little more! What do you say? As you please, madame! I give myself another mop, and off we go. At last we land; I tie ~up the boat, and we go back to the house, only to find that the little de Grandcoeurs have hooked it. I have to go and hunt them up. I see them on the islandthey got over in the punt. I call to them, Come back at once! We cant get into the boat, msieu: weve been forbidden. The Dowager. The children arent to come tomorrow; I didnt ask them. Her Nephew. My dear aunt, I thank you. But, probably to me is reserved The joy of going to wait for the p~irents Scenes of Real Life. at the railway-station. How well I know those trips to the stationto meet a guestwho doesnt come! Oh, hasnt he come? He must have taken the other train. Hell be here at 11.25. So back I come at 11.25I, I, who used to think there werent enough trains! The Dowag . Its true: youve been to the station a good many times this last fortnight! Her Nephew. Thats all right! I like it better, anyway, than I do taking your guests out shootingI shouldnt mind going by myself, but to escorC those two, singly or collectively It is horrible. The Dowager. How do you mean? Her Nephew. Just that. You keep re- iterating, Whatever happens, keep with them! Now to keep with them, when one of them never stops and the other never starts, is not precisely easy! And when, for rest and refreshment, we drop into a neighbors, as we did last Friday, and find that he abstains! That caps the climax! The Dowager. But I ordered you a nice little dinner that night to make up. Her Nephew. Oh, yes! with a choco- late souffl5 made expressly for me. I adore chocolate soufJl~s! Only, just as we got to it, we heard a most hideous racket below-stairs. It was your worthy butler, who had got dead drunk and wanted to kill things. Of course I went down. As I left the room, I cast a side-glance on the soufthl; it was per- fect,delicate, light, a bubble. When I came back, it was fiat and gummy as a wafer, and old Antoine grinned at my expression as he passed me the dish! The Dowager (laughing). Poor Jean, I beg your pardon. I dont notice all these details! It did strike me the other day, when we were in the town, that your face was a yard long. Her Nephew. At the Fair 0, Lord! I felt like a fool! We walk up and down, you and I! You say we musl~ show ourselves. Everybody talks ti~ youcomes crowding up round you Are you running for deputy, aunt dear? The Dowager. I wont drag you to the Fair again. When I have anything to say to those good people, I will get them out here and Her Nephew. Here! Merciful Heav ens, thats worse yet! The other day, when the band stopped on its way back from the competition Have you for- gotten? The Dowager. Forgotten? Well, no! They did get on my nerves, poor boys. Her Nephew. Boys! With beards, and spectacles! There they stood, ranged in line in front of the terrace, and you kept nudging me and saying, Go and make a little speech. What did you expect me to say to them? The Dowager. You made out very well. Her Nephew. But it was hot work! GentlemenMusic is a fine thing wind-instruments especiallyand so on. I think you could have said it quite as well as I, aunt. The Dowager. That reminds me. I promised the leader of the band to get a paragraph into the Progressiste Parle- mentaire and I wish you Her Nephew. Would go to the news- paper office? Oh, the times Ive been to the offices of the local papers! You al- ways send me to carry your messages, on the pretext that you dont much like journalists. The Doweger. Quite true. Her Nephew. Well, do I? Seriously now? You cant expect them to say anything about the band in the paper. Its so awfully, hideously out of tune, and the leader a perfect donkey! The Dowager. I dont deny hes a donkey, but he is also my butcher, and lf I put him out he will give me bad meat. Her Nephew (smiling). It strikes me he does that as it is. The Dowager (uneasy). You think It bad? Her Nephew (fervently). Dont I. The Dowager. Ive said to myself more than once: It strikes me this meat has a tasteslightundefinable Her Nephew (eagerly). Just so! Dont lets try to define it, because then The Dowager. Besides, we shall have game for a while now. Its almost time for the big shoot. Her Nephew (taken aback). The big shoot! Oh, heavens! What if you were to wait a few days, my dearest aunt, till I was gone? The Dowager. No, Indeed! I want you to be there to organize LIVING AGE. VOL. xvi. 806 49 Her Nephew. Organize! Invite! Re.. ceive at the entrance; offer refresh- ments and line up the tax-collector, the mayor, the inspector of highways, the xight-minded Inn-keeper who election- eers for our party, the postmaster The Dowager. Nonsense: we have a postmistress. Her Nephew. The rich peasants who have done you a good turn, or put you The Dowager. I shall have some old friends staying In the house as well Her Nephew (uneasy). Old friends? The general, perhaps? Yes? Oh, come now! Hell describe for the fortieth time the taking of Smala! He will also inform us that Bon-Maza was no ordi- nary man: there was in him an in- vincible audacity joined to great intelli- gence and set in a framework of mysticism and fanatlcism.- Oh, I know the rounding of that phrase by heart! Ive tried so often not to listen to it, that Ive ended by remembering it. The Dowager. I dont say that the general is always very entertaining, but he is really more so than Her Nephew. Than M. de Crouton? Well, rather! (Movement on the part of the dowager.) You dont mean to say that hes coming too? I ought to have guessed It. He is another typealways tells you about the impeachment of the Cabinet. And is your friend the old beauty coming? The one who had her portrait painted by a pupil of M. Ingres, and who describes in tearful accents the exquisite turban worn by Mine. Sophie Gay when she played La Juive? Are we to have her? The Dowager (laughing). Oh, you naughty boy! She really was a perfect beauty, in old days. Her Nephew. All right! But whats that to me? I would so much rather she were moderately attractive now! The Dowager. Youve certainly a spite against her! Her Nephew. Quite so! In the first place, she has a little dog that I loathe and I have to smile amiably when it rubs up against me! Then at the theatre when I have the honor of going with you two to the Op& a-Oomique-you know our little theatre partiesher back prevents me from seeing the beauties of the classic drama! What a Scenes of Real Life. Scenes of Real Life. back it is, and how much of it she shows! The Dowager. You are too much! Her Nephew. Theres more of her! When she is in the box, as I know my manners, I have to help her on and off with her wrap: and then, she always loses something, bracelet, handker- chief, or brooch. Then I scratch matches and go crawling round on all fours till I find the vanished treasure. Oh, its delightful! And the getting home again! As she has no footman nor you either when you have me!I have to go look for the carriage before the fall of the curtain. I rush round for a quarter of an hour, calling Joseph, Joseph from rue Montalivet. No an- swer. I come back shivering or drip- ping according to the season, and she gives a scream, an idiotic little scream, Oh, how silly I am! I forgot to order the carriage, so, of course it wont come! Then you come to the rescue, aunt, with your usual graciousness. I will drive you home, my dear. I shall really enjoy it. And you make her get in, and you desert me, me who have been taking athree hours dose of the Domino Noir or the Dame Blanche just to please you, for you cant suppose I should care to go to those plays my- self. Now, is that fair? I leave It to you. The Dowager. No, it isnt fair. Now are you satisfied? But you must admit that at Paris I leave you pretty free. I dont often nag you. Her Nephew. Dont you? What do you call the Sundays at the Gonserva- toire, and the Academy installations? Im always told off for the Academy functions. Im the only one of your nephews who doesnt kick. The Dowager. After all the occasions are rare Her Nephew. Rare? Theyre always dying! But never mind Paris; weve enough to manage here! The Dowager. I admit that the life here hasnt much variety orstir: but you live in the whirl all the rest of the year and it seems to me that a month of quietpeace- Her Nepl& ew. Peace! oh, yes! Such an appropriate term! The other day I came within one of a duel. You know all about itwith that sulky old party whom Cyprien had sued. The Dowager. He kept killing my partridgesour partridges! Her Nephew. Quite so! All the same he wrote you an insolent letter, in which he said that it was only your petticoats which prevented your receiv- ing a message from him by other hands than those of the postman. Naturally, as I was here, I had to take a hand in the game; naturally, too, he got out of it and I looked like a fool! See here, you are the best of aunts,an ideal aunt! But your following, what a lot! (He gives a glance of despair at the mem- bers of the sewing-circle who are all chat- tering themselves hoarse.) Men and women each worse than the other. The Dowager. I dont say that they are very attractive; but all the same I shall have to entertain them all, before I go back to Paris. Her Nephew (in a funk). A dinner! Another! But you gave one only a fort- night ago! I took the men to the smok- ing-room. They stayed two hours and a half! There was one fat man who smoked a pipe. As for me, I coughed for my sins, all the time! The Dowager. But you smoke! Her Nephew. Yes, I smoke. But I dont care much for other peoples to- baccoespecially when the other people are of the type of the fat man and his pipe. The Dowager. You might invite your own friends. Her Nephew. But, my dear aunt, when I invite them, you find fault about them all the time. This one is too noisy: that one empties your cellar: the other flirts with my cousins when they are here. In short, no matter what line they take, it doesnt suit you. You wont even put up with my dog, my poor Toc, who is so good, so handsome, and above all, so clean! And you pet the nasty little dog of your friend there; a vile cur th~t never leaves her! It should have been immortalized in the portrait painted in 1840 by the pupil of M. Ingres; Its old enough! It drags itself round on legs that sprawl out from under it, with only strength enough left to tear my trou- sers! And that is the dog you like! The Dowager. How silly you are! (To 50 one of the ladies who is vainly tryilW to thread a needle.) Cant you thread it, my dear? The Lady. Why, no. I cant see the eye. The Dowager (aside to her nephew). She doesnt see the eye. Her Nephew. She ought to put on spectacles. The Dowager. Come, come! Arent you more gallant, more attentive than that? (To the lady.) My nephew, who has very strong sight, will give himself the pleasure of threading your needle Her Nephew (whispers). I will, but youll never catch me again at your sew- ing-circle, aunt dear, never! (He goes most politely up to the lady with the needle.) Translated for The Living Age, from the French of Gyp. From Blackwoods Magazine THE WILD DOGS. A CHAPTER FROM THE REMINISCENCES OF THE COMTE DE MIJETTE. I. It was on a night of middle Yend& miaire in the year two (to affect the whimsical jargon of the sansculottes) that I issued from my burrow with an intrepidity that was nothing more nor less than a congestion of the sensibil- ities. Fear at that time having fed upon itself till all was devoured, was converted in very many to a humorous stoicism that only lacked to be great because it could not boast a splendid isolation. Suspect of being suspect Citizen Chaumettes last slash at the hamstrings of hopehad converted all men of humane character to that re- ligion of self-containment that can alone spiritually exalt above the ca- prices of the emotions. Thousands, In a moment, through extreme of fear be- came fearless; hence no man of them could claim a signal inspiration of courage, but only that subscription to the terms of it which unnatural condi- tions had rendered necessary to all bet 51 lievers in the ultimate ethical triumph of the human race. I do not mean to say that I was tired of life, but simply that it came to me at once that I must not hold that test of moral independence at the mercy of any temporal tyranny whatsoever. In- deed I was still so far in love with ex- istence physically, as to neglect no precaution that was calculated to con- tribute to the present prolonging of it. I wore my frieze nightcap, carmagnole, sabots, and black shag spencer with all the assumption I could muster of being to the shoddy born. I had long learned the art of slurring a sigh into a cough or expectoration. I could curse the stolid spectres of the tumbrils so as t~ deceive all but the recording angel~ and, possibly, Citizen Robespierre. Nevertheless, with me, as~ with oth- ers, precaution seemed but a condition of the recklessness whose calculations never extended beyond the immediate day or hour. We lived posthumous lives, so to speak, and would hardly have resented it, should an arbitrary period have been put to our revisiting of the glimpses of the moon.~~ On this night, then, of early Septem- uer (as I will prefer calling it) I issued from my burrow, calm under the intol- erable tyranny of circumstance. De- siring to reconstruct myself on the principle of an older independence, I was mentally discussing the illogic of a system of purgation that was seek- ing to solve the problem of existence by emptying the world, when I became aware that my preoccupied ramblings had brought me into the very presence of that sombre engine that was the concrete expression of so much and such detestable false reasoning. In ef- fect, and to speak without circum- bendibus, I found myself to have wan- dered into the Faubourg St. Antoine into the place of execution, and to have checked my steps only at the very foot of the guillotine. It was close upon midnight, and, overhead, very wild and broken weather. But the deeps of atmo- sphere, with the city for their ocean bed, as it were, lay profoundly undis The Wild Dogs. The Wild Dog8. turbed by the surface turmoil above; and in the tranquil Place, for all the upper flurry, one could hear oneself breathe and think. I could have done this with the more composure, had not another sound, the Import of which I was a little late in recognizing, crept into my hearing with a full accompaniment of dismay. This sound was like licking or lapping, very bestial and unclean, and when I came to interpret it, it woke in me a horrible nausea. For all at once I knew that, hidden in that dreadful conduit that strong citizens of late had dug from the Place St. Antoine to the river, to carry away the ponded blood of the executed, the wild dogs of Paris were slaking their wolfish thirst. I could hear their filthy gutturizing and the scrape of their lazy tongues on the soil, and my heart went cold, for lat- terly, and since they had taken to hunting in packs, these ravenous brutes had assailed and devoured more than one belated citizen whom they had scented traversing the Champs Elys6es, or other lonely space; and I i~as aware a plan for their extermina- tion was even now under discussion by the committee of public safety. Now, to fling scorn to the axe in that city of terror was to boast only that one had adjusted oneself to a necessity that did not imply an affectation of in- difference to the fangs of wild beasts for such, indeed, they were. So, a suicide, who goes to cast himself head- long into the river, may run in a panic from a falling beam, and be consistent, too; for his compact is with deathnot mutilation. Be that as it may, I know that for the moment terror so snappet- at my heel that, under the very teeth of it. I leaped up the scaffold stepswith the wild idea of swarming to the beam above the knife and thence defying my pursuers, should they nose and bay me seated there at refugeand stood with a white desperate face, scarcely daring to pant out the constriction of my lungs. There followed no sound of concen- trated movement; but only that stealthy licking went on, with the oc- casional plash of brute feet In a bloody mire; and gradually my turbulent pulses slowed, and I thought myself a fool for my pains In advertising my presence on a platform of such deadly prominence. Still, not a soul seemed to be abroad. As I trod the fateful quarter ten min- utes earlier, the last squalid roysterers had staggered from the wine-shops the last gleams of light been shut upon the emptied streets. I was alone with the dogs and the guillotine. fiptoeing very gently, very softly, I was preparing to descend the steps once more, when I drew back with a muttered exclamation, and stood star- ing down upon an apparition that, speeding at that moment into the Place, paused within ten paces of the scaffold on which I stood. Above the scudding clouds was a moon that pulsed a weak intermittent radiance through the worn places of the drift. Its light was always more suggested than revealed; but it was sufficient to denote that the apparition was that of a very pale young woman a simple child she looked, whose eyes, nevertheless, wore that common expression of the dramatic intensity of her times. She stood an instant, tense as Cor- day, her fingers bent to her lips; her background a frousy wall with the legend Propri~t~5 Nationale scrawled on it in white chalk. Significant to the inference, the cap of scarlet wool was drawn down upon her young blondes curlsthe gold of the coveted perukes. Suddenly she made a little move- ment, and in the same instant gave out a whistle clear and soft. Yes, it was she from whom it pro- ceeded; and I shuddered. There below me in the ditch were the dogs; here fore me was this fearless child. For myself, even in the presence of this angel, I dared scarcely stir. It was unnatural; it was preposterous came a scramble and a rush; and there, issued from the filthy se~wer, was a huge boarhound, that fawned on the little citoyenne, and yelped (under The Wild Dogs. her breath) like a thing of human understanding. She cried softly, Down, Rade- gonde! and patted the monsters head with a pretty manner of endearment. Ah! she murmured, hast thou broken thy faith with thy hunger? Traitor!but I will ask no questions. here are thy comfits. My sweet, remem- ber thy pedigree and thy mistress. She thrust a handful of sugarplums into the great Jaws. I could hear the hound crunching them in her teeth. What was I to do?what warning to give? This childthis frail wind- flower of the nightthe guillotine would have devoured her at a snap, and laughed over the tit-bit! But I, and the nameless gluttons of the ditch! They were therepart at least of one of those packs (recruited by gradual degrees from the desolated homes of the proscribedof ~rnigr~s) that now were swollen to such formidable pro- portions as to have become a menace and a nightly terror. The dogs were there, and should they scent this ten- der quarry, what power was in a sin- gle faithful hound to defend her against a half hundred, perhaps, of her fellows. Sweating with apprehension, I stole down the steps. She was even then preparing to retreat hurriedly as she had come. Her lips were pressed to the beasts wrinkled head. The sound of her footstep might have precipitated the catastrophe I dreaded. Citoyenne! Citoyenne! I whis- pered in an anguished voice. She looked up, scared and white in a moment. The dog gave a rolling growl. Radegonde! she murmured, in a faint warning tone. The brute stood alert, her hair bris- tling. Bid her away! I entreated. You are in danger. She neither answered nor moved. See, I am in earnest! I cried, loud as I durst. The wild dogs are below there. Radegonde! she murmured agafn. Ah, mademoiselle! What are two rows of teeth against a hundred? Send her away, I implore you, and accept my escort out of this danger. My faith! she said at last, In a queer little moving voice, it may be as the citizen says; but I think dogs are safer than men. I urged my prayer. The beauty and courage of the child filled my heart with a sort of rapturous despair. The good God witness I am speak- ing for your safety alone! Will this prevail with you? I am the Comte de Muette. I exchange you that confi- dence for a little that you may place in me. I lay my life in your hands, and I beg the charge of yours In re- turn. I could hear her breathing deep where she stood. Suddenly she bent and spoke to her companion. To the secret place, Radegonde and to-morrow again for thy conflture, thou bad glutton. Kiss thy Nanette, my baby; and, oh, Radegonde! not what falls from the table of Sainte Guillotine! She stood erect, and held up a solemm finger. The hound slunk away, like a. human thing ashamed; showed her teeth at me as she passed, and disap-- peared in the shadows of the scaf fold. I took a hurried step forward. Near at hand the pure loveliness of this citoyenne was, against its surround- ings, like a flower floating on blood. She smiled, and looked me earnestly in the face. We were but phantoms to one another in that moony twilight; but in those fearful times men had learned to adapt their eyesight to the second plague of darkness. Is it true? she said, softly. Mon- sieur le Comte, it must be long since you have received a curtsey. She dropped me one there, bending to her own prettiness like a rose; and then she gave a little low laugh. Truly that city of Paris saw some strange meetings in the year of terror. ~I, too, she said, was born of the noblesse. That is a secret, monsieur, to set against yours.~ The. Wild Dogs. I could but answer, with some con- cern: Mademoiselle, these confessions, if meet for the holy saint yonder, are lit- tle for the ears of the devils advocates. I entreat let us be walking, or those in the ditch may anticipate upon us his benediction. Ma foi! she said, it is true. Come, then! We went off together, stealing from the square like thieves. Presently, when I could breathe with a half re- lief, You will not go to-morrow? I said. To feed Radegonde! Ah, monsieur! I would not for the whole world lose the little sweet-tooth her goodies. Each of us has only the other to love in all this cruel city. So, my child! And they have taken the rest? Monsieur, my father was the rest. He went on the seventeenth Fructidor; and since, my veins do not run blood, I think, but only ice-water, that melts fro a my heart and returns to freeze again. I sighed. Nay, she said, for I can laugh, as you see. And the dog, my poor child? She ran under the tumbril, and bit at the heels of the horses. She would not leave him, monsieur; and still and still she haunts the place. I go to her,when all the city is silent I go to her, if I can escape, and take her the sweetmeats that she loves. What of that? It is only a little while and my turn must come, and then Radegonde will be alone. My hair, monsieur will observe, is the right color for the pe- rukes. She stayed me with a touch. I am arrived. A thousand thanks for your escort, Monsieur le Comte. We were by a low casement with a ledge before itan easy climb from the street. She pushed the lattice open, showing me it was unbolted from within. She thinks me fast asleep, she said. Some day soon, perhaps, but not yet. - I did not ask her who she was. I seemed all mazed in a silent dream of pity. It is quite simple, she said, when no cavalier is by to look. Will the cit- izen turn his head ? She was up in an instant, and step- ping softly into the room beyond, leaned out towards me. On the mo- ment an evil thing grew out of the shadow of a buttress close by, and a wicked insolent face looked into mine with a grin. A sweet good-night to Monsieur le Comte, it said, and vanished. Shocked and astounded, I stood rooted to the spot. But there came a sudden low voice in my ear: Quick, quick! have you no knife? You must follow! i had taken but a single uncertain step, when, from a little way down the street we had traversed, there cut into the night a sharp attenuated howl; and, in a moment, on the passing of it, a chorus of hideous notes swept upon me standing there in indecision. My God! I criedthe dogs! She made a sound like a plover. I scrambled to the ledge and dropped into the room beyond. There in the dark she clutched and clung to me. For though the cry had been bestial, there had seemed to answer to it something mortalan echoa human scream of very dreadful fear,there came a rush of feet like a wind, and, with ashy faces, we looked forth. They had himthat evil thing. An instant we saw his sick white face thrown up like a stone in the midst of a writhing sea; and the jangle was hellish. Then I closed the lattice, and pressed her face to my breast. He had run from us to his doom, which meeting, he had fled back in his terror to make us the ghastly sport Lie had designed should be his. How long we stood thus I know not. The noise outside was unnameable, and I closed her ears with her hair, with my handsnay, I say it with a passionate shame, with my lips. .She sobbed a little and moaned; but she clung to me,. and I could feel the beat- 54 The Wild Dogs. ing of her heart. We had heard win- dows thrown open down the street one or two on the floors above us. I had no heed or care for any danger. I was wrapt in a fearful ecstasy. By and by she lifted her face. Then the noise had ceased for some time, and a profound silence reigned about us. Ah! she said, in a faint reeling voice. Radegonde was there; I saw her! Mademoisellethe noble creature- she hath won us a respite. Her breath caught in the darkness. Yes, she said. There is a peruke that must wait. Suddenly she backed from me, and put the hair from her eyes. If you dare, monsieur, it necessi- tates that we make our adieux. Au revoir, citoyenne. It must be that, indeed. She held out her hand, that was like a rose petal. 1 put my lips to it and lingered. Monsieur, monsieur! she entreated. The next moment I was in the street. II. Who was my little citoyenne? Ah! I shall never know. The terror gripped us, and these things passed. Incidents that would make the pas- sion of sober times, the spirit of rev- olution dismisses with a shrug. To die in those days was such a vulgar com- plaint. But I saw her once more, and then when my heart nestled to her image and my veins throbbed to her remem- bered touch. I was strolling, on the morning fol- lowing my strange experience, in the neighborhood of the Champs Elys~es, when I was aware of a great press of people all making in the direction of that open ground. What arrives, then, citizen? I cried to one who paused for breath near me. lie gasped, the little morose. To ask any question that showed one ignorant 01 the latest caprice of the executive was almost to be suspect. 55 Has not the citizen heard? The Committee of Safety has decreed the uestruction of the dogs. The dogs ? Sacred Blood! he cried. Is it not time, when they take, as it is said they did last night, a good friend of the Re- public to supper? He ran on, and I followed. All about the Champs Elys~es was a tumultuous crowd, and posted within were two battalions of the National Guard, their blue uniforms resplendent, their flint- Jocks shining in their hands. They, the soldiers, surrounded the area, save towards the Rue Royale, where a gap occurred; and on this gap all eyes were fixed. Scarcely was I come on the scene when on every side a laughing hubbub arose. The dogs were being driven in, at first by twos and threes, but pres- ently in great numbers at a time. For hours, I was told, had half the gamins of Paris been beating the coverts and halloolag their quarry to the toils. At length, when many hundreds were accumulated in the free space, the soldiers closed in and drove the skulking brutes through the gap towards the Place Royale. And there they made a battue of it, shooting them down by the score. With difficulty I made my way round to the Place, the better to view the sport. The poor trapped gatflards ran hither and thither, crying, yelping some fawning on their executioners, some begging to the bullets, as if these were crusts thrown to them. And my heart woke to pity; for was I not wit- iLessing the destruction of my good friends? The noisethe volleying, the howl- ing, the shrieking of the canaillewas indescribable. Suddenly my pulses gave a leap. I knew herRadegonde. She was driven into the fire and stood at bay, bris- tling. Nanette! cried a quick acid voice; Nanetteimbecilemy God! It all passed in an instant. There, starting from the crowd, was the fig- ure of a tall sour-featured woman, the 56 tiny tricolor bow In her scarlet cap; there was the thin excited musketeer, his piece to his shoulder; there was my citoyenne flung upon the ground, her arms about the neck of the hound. Whether his aim was true or false. who can tell? He shot her through her dog, and his sergeant brained him. And in due course his sergeant was In- vited for his reward to look through the little window. These were a straw or two In the torrent of the revolution. It was Citizen Gaspardin who ac- cepted the contract to remove the car- casses (some three thousand of them) that encumbered the Place Royale as a result of this drastic measure. How- ever, his eye being bigger than his stomach, as the saying is, he found himself short of means adequate to his task, and so applied for the royal equipages to help him out of his diffi- culty. And these the Assembly, enter- ing into the joke, was moved to lend him; and the dead dogs, hearsed In gilt and gingerbread as full as they could pack, made a rare process~on or it through Paris, thereby pointing half-a- dozen morals that it is not worth while at this date to insist on. I saw the show pass amidst laughter and clapping of hands; and I saw Badegonde, as I thought, her head loll- ing from the roof of the stateliest coach of all. But her place should have been on the seat of honor. And the citoyenne, the dark wiiidow, the ripping sound in the street, and that bosom bursting to mine in agony? Episodes, my friendmere travelling sparks in dead ashes, that glowed en instant and vanished. The times bris- tied with such. Love and hate, and all the kaleidoscope of passionpouf! a sigh shook the tube, and form and color were changed. Butbutbutnh! I was glad thenceforth not to shudder for my heart when a blonde perruque went by me. BERNARD CA~PES. Delaqoa Bay. From chamberss Journal. DE~AGOA BAY. A glance at the map of South Africa reveals some of the reasons why Del- agoa Bay is accounted a key of the polit- ical situation in that part of the world. In its immediate neighborhood meet the territories of three out of the four civilized powers that share among them the region lying south of the Zambesi. The fourthGermanywould welcome nothing more gladly than a chance of planting itself in this strategic spot, and ousting from thence Briton, Boor, and Portuguese. For Delagoa Bay is the finest and most capacious harbor on the east coast of Africa. Its geographical position makes it the nearest point of access to the rich gold-bearing and farming lands of the Transvaal, and the natural outlet of its trade. With Pre- toria, Lourepeo Marques Is already con- nected by a line of railway, which, for political, fiscal, and other reasons, is specially favored by the government of the Transvaal State. Within the last few years the volume and value of its commerce have vastly increased. Quays, streets, and public buildings have started up out of the swamp, and strips of foreshore that but lately might have been had for an old song are bid for at ransom prices by competing syn- dicates. It is, however, the future rather than the present facts of the trade of the Bay and port that engage the thoughts of statesmen and commercial speculators. Another generation will find it of im- measurably greater importance than it is to-day. It must grow up with the magnificent country on the tablelands behind it, and a large part of the traffic and intercourse with the British colony in Rhodesia, as well as with the South African Republic, is likely to pass through Delagoa Bay. This it is that explains why an obscure and unhealthy nook of Africa should twice have beep the subject of international arbitra- tions, one of them still pending; why its history is to be found embalmed in many blue-books; why it should from time to time be made the subject of par- liamentary discussion and of alarmist newspaper paragraphs, telling of the in- trigues of this or that power to secure Delagoa Bay. it by seizure or purchase; why every- body understood the significance of the step when, at the crisis of the recent difficulties with the Transvaal, a British squadron was moved to Delagoa Bay. It may be asked how it is that we were so long in discovering the impor- tance of Delagoa Bay, and especially how it came about that, after having it partly in our hands, we should have let it go again. The same question might be put, and would elicit a still more un- satisfactory reply, concerning the other breaks in the continuity and stability of our South African Empireas, for in- stance, the two Boer republics lying north and south of the Vaal, both of which were for a time under the British flag. Rulers and governments, espe- cially when they have to exercise con- trol from so great a distance off as Downing Street, cannot be expected to look deeply into the future, or to fully appreciate all the bearings of local facts. South African progress, it must also be remembered, has been made not only at infinite trouble, but at enormous cost to the home country. There have been timeshappily the present is not one of themwhen, through native wars and Dutch worries, the Imperial Cabinet and the nation have been sick of South Africa. Who could have foretold, when her Majesty came to the throne, the im- mense significance which Delagoa Bay would attain before her reign was over? At that time settlement from the south had barely reached the Orange River; much of the Cape Colony was still unex- plored deserta wild game preserve as yet untouched by civilized man. The discontented Boers were only preparing for their trek into the unknown re- gions beyond the Gariep; in Natal, Din- gaan ruled with authority undisputed in the room of his father, Chaka; Moseli- katse and his Matabele were the lords of the present Transvaal Republic; and a third Zulu power, the Gaza tribe, were in possession of the country adjoining Delagoa Bay. Portugal slept an en- chanted sleep on the strip of East Africa which she claimed on the strength of discoveries made by her navigators nearly three centuries ago, and of dubi- ous treaties with the Emperor - of Monomotapaa sleep from which she 57 has only lately been awakened by the activity of other powers. Her author- ity in 1837 did not extend beyond the range of the guns of her military posts; and Louren~o Marques had a little be- fore failed even to keep at bay the asse- gais of the Zulus. It is unnecessary to enter far into the question of the conflicting claims of Portugal and of Great Britain to the southern side of Delagoa Baythe Por- tuguese right to the territory north of the Espiritu Santo (the name given to the estuary of the Umbelosi River), in- cluding the site of Louren~o Marques, was not disputed by us. The matter was judicially decided by Marshal Mac- Mahons award in 1875. Dr. MCall Theal is probably right in his opinion that both claims were weak, but that that of Portugal was the more skilfully presented. It rested chiefly on the ground of original discovery and of in- termittent occupation; that of Britain on more recent annexation and conces- sion by native tribes. The decision turned much on the Interpretation to be given to an old treaty between Portugal and Great Britain, in which the terri- tories of the former were defined as ex- tending from Cape Delgado to the Bay of Louren~o Marques, which Portugal contended must embrace the whole shores of that bay. It was discovered in 1502 by Antonio da Campo, the commander of one of the vessels of Vasco da Gamas squadron, whose ship, becoming disabled, put in for shelter at this spacious inlet. From the natives, with whom the Portuguese began intercourse in characteristic fashion by kidnapping, a rumor seems to have been gathered of a great lake in the interior; and under the impression that the centre stream of Espiritu Santo estuary flowed from this imaginary res- ervoir, the discoverers bestowed on these waters the name of Bahia da Lagoathe Bay of the Lakewhich in a modified form it still bears. One gathers from the narratives of the Portuguese voyagers that the native tribes dwelling between the Bay and the Cape Colony were very different, in their political and tribal divisions at least, from the Kaffir raees that now occupy the region. A shipwrecked crew that traversed the distance nearly a 58 hundred years later than Da Campos time met with not a single tribe bearing the same name as that of any now exist- ing; African dynasties are of still briefer duration than those of Europe. Portugals interest in the district was confined to trading in ivory, slaves, and gold-dust that even then came down in small quantities from the interior. No attempt was made to exercise control over the natives, nor do objections ap- pear to have been raised when other nationsthe Dutch and the Britishbe- gan to visit the Bay. Thus when in 1721 an expedition from Holland, at- tracted by the report of gold-mines in the back country, landed and built a forton the site of what is now Lou- ren~o Marquesthey were left unmo- lested, and only abandoned it some years later on account of lack of trade and the unhealthiness of the spot. The Dutch, to whose rights in South Africa this country afterwards succeeded, were therefore the first to attempt the permanent occupation of Delagoa Bay; for hitherto Louren~o Marques so called from a trader who visited the spot in 1545had been but a place of call and barter for the ivory and slave merchants, and for an occasional official from Mozambique. It was not until 1781 that the Portuguese founded a sta- tion on the site of the old Dutch fort, and it was not until after the present reign began that the present town of Louren~o Marques took its rise. By many claims and acts the Portu- guese had asserted their right to this northern side of the Bay. But it was supposed that its southern shores, with the Bay islands, were still open to occu- pation; and they lay within the limits of the twenty-fifth degree of latitude, up to which in other direction the Brit- ish authority established at the Cape was supposed to extend. The first indi- cation given on the part of this country that the prospective value of Delagoa Bay was recognized was when, in 1822, the surveying expedition of Captain Owen entered it, and receiving from the Portuguese commandant of the fort the assurance that the natives were not sub- ject to the Lisbon government, pro- ceeded to accept the cession by the chief Mazeta of the land lying along the Tembe River, and from Makasane of Delagoa Bay. the country between the Maputa and the sea. At the same time, as Dr. Theal observes, new names were affixed to lo- calities; the estuary of the Espiritu Santo was dubbed English River; the Da Lagoa became the Dundas, which has in turn been driven out by the old Bantu name of the Umbelosi. So far were the Portuguese from be- ing in a position at this period to combat the British claims, that they were them- selves, ten years later, driven from their fort by the warriors of the Gaza tribe. The question of the ownership of Dela- goa Bay did not, indeed, excite any in- terest until the emigrant Dutch farmers had moved into the country between the Vaal and the Limpopo, with British au- thority following hard on the heels of these runaway subjects of the crown, as the law then regarded them. They began eagerly looking out for some ac- cess to the sea that would make them finally independent of controlling hands and troublesome taxes, to seek escape from which they had fled into the wil- derness. Natal was closed to them when it was made into a British colony. The next opening to sea and to the world was through Delagoa Bay; and in that direction the eyes of the Boers be- came more and more fixed. Other eyes, however, were turned towards the same quarter. As the Boers trekked north- ward into these dry and healthy up- lands, whose mineral wealth was as yet unsuspected, British authority felt it- self compelled to move after them, re- luctantly and with many halts, and by interposing between them and the sea, prevent the introduction of new ele- ments that disturbed our native policy and might jeopardize our hold on South Africa. It was in pursuance of this policy that Captain Bickford, of H.M.S. Narcissus, in 1861 raised the British flag on Inhak and Elephant Islands, and proclaimed the adjoining territory an- nexed to the colony of Natal. Then, indeed, moved thereto partly by the republic founded beyond the Vaal, whose independence had been recog- nized seven years before by the Sand River Convention, Portugal took meas- ures to assert her rights, and in order to strengthen her case, took care to acquire whatever territorial claims had been al- ready put forward in this quarter by the Delagoa Bay. Boers. The outcome of it all was the arbitration, the effect of which has al- ready been described; it gave to Portu- gal more territory, lying to the south of the Bay, than she had asked for. Thus at an early stage of this interest- ing game of empire we had apparently lost one of the trump cards. Not en- tirely, however, for in the course of the negotiations that preceded the arbitra- tion a pledge was obtained from Portu- gal that she would not part with the territory in dispute to any other power until she had given Britain the refusal of the acquisition on the same termsa pledge which, as we shall see, has since been confirmed, defined, and extended. But the fact is that in 1872, when arbi- tration was agreed upon, few people in Africa or in Europe dreamed that any other power would attempt to gain a footing in the region between the Zam- besi and the Cape. Enlightenment came when, some twelve or thirteen years later, Prince Bismarck, having completed the unification of Germany and rid himself of other home cares, be- gan to look abroad in search of a colonial empire, and through his agents set the example of the scramble for Africa.~~ In the mean time the Thansvaal State had fallen into anarchy and bank- ruptcy; and Sir Theophilus Shepstone, with a few policemen at his back, had stepped across the frontier, and had an- nexed it to the British Crown. The military power of the Zulus had been encountered and broken in the coast country between Natal and Delagoa Bay. Again the winning cards were in our hands; but again they were given up or endangered. The Transvaal was surrendered to the insurgent Boers, un- der burden, however, of suzerain rights, since modified into an oversight of for- eign policy. Zululand was parcelled out among thirteen native kinglets. And no sooner had we acted with this prodigal generosity than we found rea- son to repent our want of foresight. By a piece of diplomatic sharp practice, Germany cut out for herself a huge cantle of territory In South-west Africa. Economically worthless, it Is politically of the nature of a thorn in our side. Its importance has been largely nullified, by the fact that we still hold the one useful harbor on this coast, Walfish Bay, and that our advance in Bechuanaland, cov- ering the trade-route to the north, has effeetually cut off German territory from the Boer Republics. Very different, however, was the situ- ation on the eastern side, where only a comparatively narrow band of coast country interposed between the Trans- vaal and the Indian Ocean. From with- out and from within sedulous efforts were made to break through this bar- rier. Herr Lfideritz, the founder of Angra-Pequena, attempted to plant an- other German colony in St. Lucia Bay, but was starved out. The Boers have broken the Convention line, and have eaten their way through a good part of Zululand towards the sea. The rest of it we have been in time to place defi- nitely under our flag; and by agreement with Portugal we have joined up the territories of the two powers, by parting Tongaland between them. The recent surrender of Swaziland to the Pretoria government has brought it nearer than ever to Delagoa Bay; and the Transvaal had also the opportunity of acquiring way-leave for an alternative line of railway and of access to the sea through British Tongaland to Kosi Bay, as a condition of joining a South African Customs Union. But fate and circumstances have In the mean time diverted these schemes and made Louren~o Marques more than everthe vulnerablepoint of South-east Africa. Three main factors have yet to be mentionedthe railway, the gold dis- coveries of the Rand, and the extension of British settlement and authority throughout the region from the Lim- popo to Lake Tanganyika. The Dela- goa Bay railway question is a long and perplexed one; it is still under arbitra- tion at Geneva, and the award has not yet been pronounced as to the amount of compensation due to the American and British projectors and investors, on account of the high-handed action of the Portuguese government in seizing the line on the ground of the expiry of the contracted time for completion. But the railway itself is an important polit- ical as well as commercial fact. In carrying it through the Limpopo Range and the swamp-lands beneath, great en- gineering difficulties had to be over- 59 60 The Superstitions of Shakespeares Greenwood. come. On it, under its Boer-Hollander management, President Kruger relies as one of his mainstays against that in- rush of British influence which has come along with the wealth drawn in almost fabulous quantity from the quartz-veins of the Rand. This last it is that feeds, and must continue to feed, the trade of Loureno Marques and in- crease the importance of Delagoa Bay that counteracts all the obstacles, in the shape of the pestilential climate, the surrounding swamp and forest, the tsetse fly, and, last but not least, the vis inertiw of Portuguese officialdom, that before stood in the way of its prosper- ity. It has stimulated also those stories, current on the continent, of a project by which, under cover of an ex- tension of the charter and powers of the Mozambique Company, the administra- tive and fiscal control of the Bay would be placed in the joint hands of the Transvaal government and of a syndi- cate of Berlin capitalistsin breach of the spirit, at least, of the London Con- vention and of the Anglo-Portuguese treaty of June, 1891, under which the right of pre-emption is extended to all the possessions of Portugal south of the Zambesi. These documents are among the strong cards that are left us; and they need to be played with care and finesse as well as vigor. But besides and be- yond, as assurance that no lever in- serted at Delagoa Bay or elsewhere will break up our South African empire, there is the northern spread of British settlement and enterprise, up to and be- yond the Zambesi; there is our para- mount power on the sea. Who holds the sea holds Delagoa Bay, and South Africa, in the hollow of his hand. JOHN GEDDIE. From Knowledge. THE SUPERSTITIONS OF SHAKESPEARES GREENwOOD. If it is remarkableand I think it is that the dialect form of speech now in vogue in rural Warwickshire should have survived for a period of between three and four hundred years, it is also noteworthy that the supersfitions should have existed for a like term, and should still survive in some of their most famous forms at the end of the nineteenth century, in an age which plumes itself upon its civiliza- tion and enlightenment. This is the more remarkable bearing the fact in mind that Warwickshire Is the central county of England, open to all the in- fluences of modern civilization, and in many seasons of the year simply over- run with visitors, who may be sup- posed to bring with them the new ideas, the new fancies, and the new language of a new people. The survival of superstition is, I think, to be traced to the original woodiness of leafy Warwickshire, which made it a dark land in which nature could play her many moods both night and day; and these would, no doubt, operate strongly upon the minds of the simple, almost primeval, woodlanders with an energetic and perhaps a fatal effect; because people who are cut off, as it were, from all civilizing influences are more prone than townspeople to regard the move- ments of natural life as evidences of the supernatural, and to associate with an invisible and evil agency the simple workings of the laws of Nature. Yet the curious fact remains that the most famous survivals of superstition in Warwickshire have occurred in the Yale of the Red Horse, which lies in the Feldon, or open country, south of the Avon; whereas the woodland, which embraces the ancient Forest of Arden, is on the north of the river; and although superstition in many forms is rife there to-day, the more celebrated cases are indigenous to the soil of the south, growing out of Shakespeares own immediate neighborhood, and are perhaps to be traced to the proximity of the Rollright Stones, on and aroun~ which so much superstition continues to cling. What I may call the gentler forms of superstitious feeling are common to both woodland and Feldon. The for- ester, the ploughman, the milk boy, the- field girl, the housewife, and indeed all peasants of whatever age, condition,. or calling, will turn their moneyif they have any; if not they will borrow two halfpence for the occasionfor luck at hearing the first note of the cuckoo. The waggoner, returning home to his cottage in a combe on a summer evening after a hard days work, would feel uneasy in mind if yne magpie in- stead of two flew over his head. He would persuade himself that sorrow was in store for him. In his simple country jargon: One magpie means sorrow; two mirth; Three a wedding; four a birth. So when he saw the one magpiethe fateful onehe would cross himself or raise his hat to it, to prevent the bad luck which would otherwise follow. Such forms of superstition as these, and many others to which I shall pres- ently allude, are peculiar to the peas- ants in all the villages and hamlets of Warwickshire; so far, however, as an Intimate knowledge of the life of the peasants has enabled me to discover it is only in the Vale of the Red Horse, and more especially in the immediate vicinity of the villages of Kineton, Ty- soe, and Long Compton, where super- stition, amounting to an unslayable be- lief in witchcraft, has existed in an acute form during the past twenty years, and still survives in spite of the march of education. Perhaps the surroundings of the vil- lage of Long Compton have something to do with the survival there to this day of a staunch belief in witchcraft. It is just on the southern border-line of leafy Warwickshire, is planted in a gentle hollow, and is quite close to the King Stone of the Rollrights. The community, too, is extremely small, and is practically untouched by the en- lightening influences of modern prog- ress. In September, 1875, there were in the opinion of James Heywood, a dweller in the locality, no less than sixteen witches in the village of Long Comp- ton. The man was not singular in his opinion; many others shared the same extraordinary belief, though they were more passive in their actions than Hey- wood. In the same village there had 61 lived from her birth to the age of eighty a woman of the peasant class named Ann Tennant. By some means the poor old lady had drawn upon her the unwelcome attentions of certain villagers, who, led by the modern War- wickshire witch-hunter, James Hey- wood, and filled with the superstition of the neighborhood, became firmly convinced that she had the evil eye and was a proper witch. No doubt the man, ignorant boor though he was, had imbibed some knowledge of witches and of the man- ner of testing them. It is clear, in- deed, that he had determined to test, or rather to kill, Dame Tennant, for, chancing to meet her out one day gath- ering sticks for the coming winter, he stabbed her with a pitchfork, and so severely that the wound proved fatal, and the poor victim of deeply-seated superstition died almost immediately. How surely the cloud of superstitious belief had faflen upon the mind of this man was shown in the defence he made for the murder he had com- mitted. If you knows, he said, the number o people who lies i our church- yard, who, if it had not been for them [the witches], would be alive now, you would be surprised. Her [the de- ceased] was a proper witch. His muind was thickly overlaid with super- naturalism. He saw witches every- wherein everything. When water was brought to him in the police cell he roundly declared that there were witches In It. Heywoods method of attacking the supposed witch was evidently a sur- vival of the earliest and most famous style of superstitious incantation of the Anglo-Saxons, called stacung (or sticking), which consisted in sticking spikes, pins, or thorns into the detested person, with the expression of a wish that the wounded part might mortify or wither away. In most parts of En- gland where a belief in witchcraft has existed, this has been the form which the testing has taken, though in some instances, as Sir Walter Scott states, clay images of the detested persons were made and stuck over with pins or spikes. The Szperstition8 of Shakespeare8 Green wcod. 62 The Superstitions of Shakespeares Greenwood. T~ie year 1875 was quite a witch year in the vale of the Red Horse. All the lit- tle lonely villages, clustering there in si- lence and suspicion, were bitten by the craze for witch finding. Whether Long Compton started the cry or not cannot well be determined, but it passed mys- teriously from village to village and made a very sad time for ancient dames. One such suffered at the village of Ty- soe, a short distance from Long Comp- ton. She was reputed by her neighbors to be a witch, so much so that some people came over from Brailes, an adja- cent village, and, taking her una- wares, scored her hand with a corking pin, in order, as they said, to nullify the effects of the evil eye she had cast upon them. To draw blood was always the favor- ite method of dealing with supposed witches. That there were persons thought to possess the power of witch- craft in Warwickshire, and that blood was drawn from them, three hundred years ago, may be assumed from the fact that Shakespeare alludes to the practice in the first part of King Henry VI.,, when he makes Talbot say to La Pucelle Blood will I draw on thee: thou art a witch; And straightway give thy soul to him thou servest. It is an interesting though painful fact, therefore, to notice that blood should have been drawn from a supposed witch in Shakespeares own neighbor- hood so recently as the year 1875. Superstition in Warwickshire has from a very early period associated it- self with a staunch belief in the appear- ance of the night coach. This is a form of vision-seeing quite peculiar to woody districts, and similar to the spec- tral apparition of the boggart, which was formerly asserted to be so often seen in the neighborhood of Meriden anciently called the Miry Den, be- cause of its swampy conditionwhich is seated in the thick portion of the once famous Forest of Arden. A night coach is recorded to have nightly ridden over the fiats and hills in the district of the villages of Mickleton, on the Gloucestershire border, and II- mingti~n, within the boundary lines of leafy Warwickshire. Many people staunchly averred that they saw this phantom coach, and even to this day the memory of it remains deeply rooted in the minds of the old and solitary inhab- itants, the uncanny story having been told to them by their superstition-en- thralled ancestors. This coach has been described by those who professed to have seen it as a heavy family coach, at that datesomewhere about 1780 grown old-fashioned, and drawn by six dark horses. Its course was over the springy turf of the hills towards the Gloucestershire boundary of the county, whence it passed abruptly over the brow of the steep hills into the deeps be- neath, in a manner which never could have been accomplished by an earthly coach, drawn by six natural horses, and driven by a natural coachman. I am sometimes disposed to think that there may be traced some connection between this night coach and the famous spec- tral six-in-hand of the equally famous Elizabethan knight, One-handed Bough- ton, of Lawford Hall, near Rugby, in the north-west district of Warwick- shire, as this coach appeared about the same date, and made its excursions dur- ing the nocturnal hours, which was of course quite natural in a phantom coach. What the particular cause of the nightly racings of One-handed Bough- ton was, cannot precisely be deter- mined; but that his spirit was by some means violently exercised, and that men of light and leading firmly believed in the apparition, maybe assumed from the fact that several Warwickshire gntle- men and clergymen met together one night when One-handed Boughton was taking his nightly ride, and by bell, and book, and prayer, succeeded in catching his perturbed spirit, and enclosed it in a phial, which they threw into a neigh- boring marl pit filled with water. As showing the grip which these old~~ time superstitions have upon the mind of the Warwickshire rusticthough I must confess that there is something mysterious and unexplainable in this case of One-handed Boughton, and am reminded of the speech Shakespeare puts into the mouth of Hamlet: There are more things in heaven and earth, The Superstitions of Shakespeares Greenwood. Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophyit may be of interest to note that in the early seventies, though the old hail at Lawford had long. since been razed to the ground, there was a revival of the belief in the ghostly visitation of One-handed Boughton, and it exists to this day in the vicinity of Rugby. One instance among several was af- forded by a Mr. John Watts, an old and respected inhabitant of Rugby, who died about the year 1863, aged ninety- three. He was, it is said, one day out walking with a friend in the neighbor- hood honored by the appeaiance of One- handed Boughton, when the friend sud- denly started, and, pointing to a dis- tance, cried, There is One-handed Boughton I Mr. Watts averred that he stared with all his might in the direc- tion indicated, but he could see nothing whatever. It is probably owing to the still leafy and undulating condition of Warwick- shire that so many of the current super- stitions have become conneeted with outdoor life. There are strong beliefs in haunted houses, and it would be strange if there were not in a country so rich in historic mansions, each of which has its own particular romance, and many of which have their own fa- miliar spirits; but where the supersti- tious hold upon the peasant mind is greater is in the vicinity of ancient fab- rics whose character is shadowed by some grim story that has come down through the ages, where some dark deed of bloodshed committed in the past has woven a cloud of superstition and fear, which generally results in the so-called appearance of a ghostly visitant to some of the rustics. Thus we find, and not unnaturally when the romance and history of the place is recalled, that the spirit glamour has settled down upon the ancient seat known as Guys Cliffeone mile from Warwick by the Coventry roadnow the residence of Lord Algernon Percy, son of the Duke of Northumberland; and also over Blacklow Hill, a slight eminence a little distance north-west of the Cliffe. This very picturesque house, charm- ingly seen at the end of a venerable av- enue of Scotch firs, is, as every reader of 63 English and Warwickshire history is probably aware, the scene in which is laid the romantic story of Guy, Earl of Warwick, whose exploits in love and war form a subject which, if mythical, as antiquarians declare, has neverthe- less developed into a belief which cen- turies have not removed, and which no amount of antiquarian discussion can exorcise. Blacklow Hill is the historic spot upon which the witty and un- scrupulous Gaul, Piers Gaveston, Earl of Cornwall, and favorite of Edward II., lost his head at the instigation of Guy de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick called by Gaveston the Black dog of Ardenand other powerful barons: so that the survival of superstitions in and around this spot is, as I have said, not unnatural. Hard by Blacklow Hill there is a tract of waste land called Ganersile Heath. No peasant will linger there jilter night- fall, for strange sounds are said to be heard issuing through the thick foliage. At the dread hour of midnight it is averred that dismal bells toll from Blacklow Hill, and as the paifrey upon which Gaveston was led to execution there was richly caparisoned and wore a string of bells round its neck, supersti- tion has come to regard this sound as proceeding from the spectre of man and horse, which, during the past five hun- dred years, is supposed to have trav- ersed the road from Warwick Castle to the place of execution, just as the grue- some cavalcade did in real life upon that doomed midnight or early morning. A curious superstition, which amounts to the firmest belief, surrounds a struc- ture called Littleham Bridge, a lonely spot on the highroad between Hampton Lucy and Stratford-on-Avon. Here, on the night of the 4th of November, 1820, Mr. William Hirons, a yeoman of the neighboring village of Alveston, was set upon and murdered by four ruffians. He was found dead in the morning, with his head resting in a hole, and from that day to this, a period of seventy-five years, every attempt to fill the hole again has, it is said, been ineffectual. This is the local belief and affirmation. If the hole is filled with earth at night, it is empty again the next morning. What strange being or power performs this nocturnal act, no man knoweth; but 61 The Super8titions of Shalcespeare8 Gree~wocd. that it is a foundation of the very deeply rooted superstition can be ascertained by any one who visits the spot, and in- quires about the tragedy and the hole from the inhabitants of the locality. The two stories connected with the Ladies Charlotte and Margaret Clopton both of which must have been known to Shakespeare, the first of which he is thought to have utilized in Romeo and Juliet, and the other in Hamlet are of a character so romantic and lam- entable that it is no wonder they should have added the phantom touch to the old edifice; both ladies, indeed, have enjoyed the reputation of having walked in spirit about the house and grounds of their home ever since their untimely deaths, more than three hun- dred years ago. The scene of Charlotte Cloptons tragic story is laid at Strat- ford-on-Avon Church during the black plague, which greatly decimated the population of the classic town in 1564, and which, no doubt, was the means of many persons being burled alive in War- wickshire. In his Visits to Remark- able Mansions, William Howitt alludes to the story in the following words: In the time of some epidemic, the sweating sickness or the plague [the black plague], this young girl sickened, and, to all appearances, died. She was buried with fearful haste in the vault at Clopton Chapel, attached to Strat- ford Church, but the sickness was not stayed. In a few days another of the Cloptons died, and him, too, they bore to the ancestral vault; but as they de- scended the gloomy stairs they saw by the torchlight, Charlotte Clopton, in her grave clothes, leaning against the wall; and when they looked nearer she was Indeed dead, but not before, in the agonies of despair and hunger, she had bitten a piece of flesh from her white round arm. Of course she has walked ever since. If in the case of Charlotte Clopton there are mythical elements which throw doubt on the actuality thereof, it is not so with regard to the mournful fate of Margaret Clopton, whose story Shakespeare has made use of in Ham- let, the fair Margaret being thought to be the prototype of the gentle Ophelia. This young and beautiful lady, having fallen in love with a man of whom her parent, Sir William Clop- ton, disapproved, and being forbidden the society of her lover, sought the only method of escape from a painful thraldom which seems open to lovesick maidens. Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, said the troubled Laertes; and the same might be said oi Margaret Clopton, for, being wrought up to agony point, she drowned herself in a pond in the grounds of Clopton House, which is shown you to-day, and the legend runs that the fair young ladys spirit still haunts the scene in the silent watches of the night. Superstitions regarding birds are very extensive in Warwickshire and very steadfastly entertained. The cuckoo during the winter is changed by rustic faith into the sparrowhawk; the yellowhammer is supposed to drink three drops of the devils blood each May morning; and the robin is believed to have scorched its breast with hell fire, near which it had ventured for a beakful of water. There is also an- other and far more tender superstition attached to the robin which is faith- fully held by village folk of religious inclinings; it is to the effect that the robin crimsoned its breast in adminis- tering to the needs of our Saviour when on the cross. With this, the prettiest and tenderest of all the superstitions at present in vogue in Warwickshire, I bring this paper to a conclusion. The subject is one that is surrounded with the deep- est interest, inasmuch as the bent of rustic feeling in this delightful county towards a belief in the supernatural is, as I have attempted to show, almost as strongly marked to-day, in spite of t~(e wide-reaching influence of civilization and education, as It was in the days of Shakespeare; though in his time the aspect of Warwickshire was more cal- culated to inspire the mind with eerie feelings than it is now. GEORGE MORLEY.

THE LIVING AGE. Volume xvi. O77OA~+1d~1. Vol. CCXV. Sixth Series, No ~ .LO~I. From Beginning, CONTENTS. I. BISMARCK IN RETIREMENT. By G. Val- bert. Translated for The Living Age, II. MRS. OLIPHANT AS A NOVEMST, III. IN NATURES WAGGISTI Moon. By Paul Heyse. Translated for The Living Age by Harriet Lieber Cohen. Part VI. (Conclusion), . . Two AMERICAN WOMEN, A NINE DAYS KING THE TRUE STORY OF EUGENE ARAM. By H. B. Irving THE RANEE. By H. J. Bourchier. THE GIANT TORTOISE OF ALDABRA, IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. Revue des Deux Mondes, Blackwoods Magazine,. Qaarterly Review, Macmillans Magazine, Nineteenth Century, Leisure flour, Spectator, 67 74 85 90 103 113 122 126 POETRY. To CYNTHIA 66 THE HAVEN, OLD AGE THE GRAVE, THE GRAVE, 66 66 SUP P L EM EN T. READINGS FROM AMERICAN MAGAZINES: THE FRENCH LANGUAGE A WORK OF ART SCALING A NORWEGIAN GLACIER, A HOTEL PORTERS DAY, GOLF, SIR ISAAC HOLDEN AT HOME, A LETTER OF MARIE ANTOI- NETTE, A GERMAN CRITIC, Two SONNETS, . READINGS FROM NEW BOOKS. THE OTHER NAPOLEON. From the Inedited Letters of Napoleon 129 First 141 130 THE ETERNAL FEMININE. By Ag- 132 nes Repplier 144 134 A TRAGEDY OF THE PLAINS. By 136 E. Hough 146 AMBITIO nLESS. By Florence Con- verse 149 138 139 140 BOOKS OF THE MONTH, 152 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY THE LIVING AGE COMPANY, BOSTON. 66 TO CYNTHIA. Think not that with your gay Apparel I fain would quarrel. Tis but a Niggard who denies To Beauty her Accessories. As well condemn the Violetts blue For sparkling in the Mornings Dew, Or Meadows when enriched they be With Spring-times sweet Embroidery. But, when the cunning of the Dress Provokes a proud Self-consciousness, When Girdles clasp and Ribands tie Permit the Thrills of Vanity; When flowing Silks and Lace I see Eclipsing sweet Simplicity Then, of a surety, I confess I love not Art but Artlessness. ELLA FULLER MAITLAND. OLD AGE. It may be, when this city of the nine gates Is broken down by ruinous old age, And no one upon any pilgrimage Comes knocking, no one for an audience waits, And no bright foraying troops of bandit moods Ride out on the brave folly of any quest, But weariness, the restless shadow of rest, Hoveringly upon the city broods; It may be, then, that those remembering And sleepless watchers on the crumbling towers Shall lose the count of the disastrous hours Which God may have grown tired of reckoning. Athennum, ARTHUR SYMOKS. THE HAVEN. Of lifes fair boons, not least its brevity: Thy fragile barque, some merciful decree Hath saved from cruising on a shoreless sea. For, ordered otherwise, thy heart would grow Aweary of the endless ebb and flow Of waters, whose confines no man might know. Ever the changeless, infinite expanse, No isle or headland to relieve thy glance, Sure, this were bondage past deljyerance! Ah! better thou shouldst feel the bitter blast, And fare with tattered sail and broken mast, So that thou reach the anchorage at last. Though round thy prow the adverse cur- rent flows, And baffling winds thy eager course op- pose, A peaceful haven waits thee at the close! Leisure Hour. FREDERIC J. Cox. THE GRAVE, THE GRAVE. (Mahlmann). Blest are the dormant In death: they repose From bondage and toiment, From passions and woes, From the yoke of the world and the snares of the traitor. The grave, the grave is the true liberator! Griefs chase one another Around the earths dome: In the arms of the mother Alone is our home. Woo pleasure, ye triflers! The thought- fu.l are wiser: The grave, the grave is their one tran- quillizer! Is the good man unfriended On lifes ocean path, Where storms have expended Their turbulent wrath? Are his labors requited by slander and r~ineor? The grave, the grave is his sure bower- anchor! To gaze on the faces Of lost ones anew, To lock in embraces The loved and the true, Were a rapture to make even Paradise brighter. The grave, the grave is the great reuniter! Crown the corpse then with laurels, The conquerors wreath, Make joyous with carols The chamber of death, And welcome the victor with cymbal and psalter: The grave, the grave is the only exalter! JAMES CLARENCE MANn AN. To Gynthia, etc. Bismarcic in Retirement. From The Revue des Deux Mondes. BISMARCK IN RETIREMENT. Since the twentieth of March, 1890 since the fatal day when Bismarck was sent to the rearwhen, to use his own expression, his master broke his head, Prince Bismarck, on certain oc- casions, and especially when he has had fools to deal with, has pretended to bless the hand that dealt the blow, the happy change which had taken place in his life, the sweetness of the leisure which he now enjoys. No longer feeling on his shoulders the heavy weight which he had carried too long, he had, he assured us, been restored to himself, to liberty; he was his own master, he could at last take rest. Politics, he observed, is a wearying profession, a thankless task. It is an art, foundeu on guess-work, and at the mercy of accidents. It is a question of calculating probabilities, your business being to divine what your adversary is likely to do, and to frame, by the result, your own combi- nations and plans. If all goes well. you gather laurels; if not, you pass for a fool. Things went well in 1866; they might have turned out quite differ- ently. Again he said: To predict the des- tinies of states is much the same thing as predicting fair weather and foul. To do this you must forecast, far ahead, the inclinations and resolutions of some important person who lives at a long distance from yourself; and even when this is accurately done, it is still essential that the maneuvres you have planned be executed at the propitious moment. All these anxie- ties wear out the body and murder sleep. To watch over the fate of mil- lions of men, and still more, of millions of moneytruly the task is too heavy. Such were some of the deliverances of this hermit withdrawn from the world. But more often he complained bitterly of the feeling of utter empti- ness which he experienced, of the idle- ness to which he had been condemned. He declared that each morning when he woke, it seemed strange to him to have nothing more important to ~ than to wind up his watch; that, at seventy-five, he felt too youngfar too youngto do nothing; that when on~ has been a politician for forty years, it is impossible to be anything else; and that his only means of filling his days was to think and talk politics. One could but wish, all the same, that he would make up his mind never to think or speak of them again. It was what was expected of him by his opponents, by his enemies, by all those whom he had annoyed, humiliated or injured, and who had greeted his fall with a sigh of relief. It was also what was expected by his former admirers, and still more by those who had once courted him or accepted his favors, and, who, having nothing further to hope from the fallen minister, were turning their uneasy eyes tAvard the rising sun; in a word, by the great company of those craven friends who feel themselves ill-used when they are placed in the alternative of disgracing themselves by their Ingratitude or compromising their future by a dan- gerous fidelity In misfortune. These hoped that he would do his best to be forgotten and even pretend to be dead already; that this man, who had governed Germany and Europe and made such a noise in the world, would behave in the future like one of those docile and well-trained children who find no difficulty in keeping both legs and tongue quite still. They or- dained that he should busy himself merely with the cultivation of his gar- den, the storing of his crops and the thinning of his forests, and that his favorite diversion should be the offer- ing of peaches to his dog, Tyras, who, it appears, is a confirmed vegetarian. Spend your years of retirement, shrieked his enemies, in redeeming your soul, and repenting of your num- berless sins in the silence of contri- tion. We entreat you to consider your dignity, implored his shame- faced friends in milder tones, under pretence of consulting his reputation, and by the intermediary of a Saxon newspaper. Is it not dishonoring your past to allow yourself to be inter- 67 k Btsmarck in Retirement. viewed by foreign journalists, after having accomplished the boldest deeds of your day? Astonish us by your ab- negation, by your resignation! Do not follow the example of those actors, who have long played the hero, and cannot endure seeing another attempt the rOle. Have an eye to your mem- ory, that men may be able to say of you: He was a true Olympian. His life was as harmonious as a symphony, as grand as an epic. Make the end of your life worthy of its beginning! Dis- appear from this world like a sinking sunnot like a waning moon! Despite the eloquence of the Saxon newspaper, Prince Bismarck went his own way; being resolved, at all costs, to discover some congenial occupation, which might prevent his dying of ennui. He is no bibli~,-maniac, has no passion for trInkets, does not collect butterflies, cares but moderately for literature and the fine arts. If the day ever had been when he was an en- thusiastic farmer, when, to quote Mine. Bismarcks somewhat exag- gerated statement, he cared more for the size of a turnip than for all the politics of Europe, he had by his own confession too long neglected agricul- ture, to be able to return to it with pleasure. Add to this that he has never boasted of his philosophy nor claimed any resemblance to that prae- torian prefect of the time of Hadrian, who, having fallen into disgrace, set off to end his days tranquilly in the country, saying, I have spent seventy years on the earth; I have lived seven. He has never prided himself on being a saint, and though he gives himself out as a good Christian, he has more than once confessed that he was not good enough to love those who had no liking for him, and that, to the end of his days, he proposed to return affront for affront. They demanded that he should keep silence, he made up his mind to keep talking; and fully to ex- plain his policy on all points. Thus he has by turns broken a lance with an enemy, or taken a fierce delight in em- barrassing by his recriminations the odious clique of false friend~ who had flattered themselves that they would be able to keep on good terms with the vanquished without compromising themselves wita the victors. Moreover, his case was altogether peculiar. Such and such a minister, when dismissed, had been a broken man, worn out before his time; he had had his day, come to the end of his rope. Another had lost credit by his imprudence, by his folly; another was the victim of a revolution, which he had not been clever enough to foresee or control. When men are thus clumsy or unlucky, it is right that they should bury themselves in oblivion, solitude, and silence. If they persist in talking, if they set themselves up as critics or counsellors of their successors, the malicious are quite justified in remind- ing them that a coachman who has upset his carriage ought to refrain from harangues on the art of driving, or that a druggist who has caused the death of a man through a blunder, is expected to shut up shop. Prince Bismarck was struck down at the height of his fame and good for- tune; he fell, as a sound tree, full of sap, falls under the woodmans axe. He had committed none of those glar- ing mistakes which compromise the destiny of a statesman; he had experi- enced none of those serious defeats which show that the star is paling. The task which he had begun was prospering, and nothing seemed to in- dicate that his glance was become less clear, his hand less sure, that the hour of retreat had struck. He was put on the shelf because his young master wanted to be his own chancellor, and because many people felt that he had held office too long. Comparisons are odious, as he himself once said, but I think I should be well within the truth in affirming that my unexpected fall delighted as many people as did the death of Frederick the Great. All my good friends drew a long breath, sniffed in the air, and cried, At last. They could not forgive me for having been prime minister for twenty-eight years at a stretch. Twenty-eight years! Think of it! What insolence! His 68 Btsmarclc in Retirement. system of government was so far from bankrupt, that the Emperor William II., when he took leave of him declared he should often take his advice, and even went out of his way to state that he had no intention of inaugurating a new line of policy, and that the new fashions would absolutely reproduce the old. Did not this authorize Bis- marcks speaking freely, constituting himself a judge in such matters? No one was so competent to decide whether his pretended disciples had profited by his teachings, whether they remained faithful to his traditions and principles, whether the new policy bore his hall-mark, whether the child were his own. I have left the boards, said he; my part in the performance is that of spectator merely. I am only a private citizen who likes to dabble in politics; but I have paid for my orchestra stall, and with it, or so I fancy, for the right to criticisealways provided that I do so fairly and like a gentleman, hissing neither play nor troupe. And for the first few months, he kept his word. He spoke of his successors and his master with moderation, with apparent good wiil. He seemed to have laid it down as a rule that he would be tactful, and not burn his bridges. He may have counted on his lucks turning, or even upon the conscience of the king. The most artful politicians have their illusions and their moments of candor. Shortly before his fall, during an interview which he had at Berlin with the emperor of Russia, he had been asked by Alexander III. whether he felt sure of remaining in office, and he had answered: Sire, I am abso- lutely sure that I possess the unlimited confidence of my master, and I believe that I shall stay at my post till the end of my days. His master betrayed his trust cruelly, but he did not lose all hope. He flattered himself, no doubt, that things would go from bad to worse, that they would be obliged to recall him, or at all events to have re- course to his good offices, and sound advice; that, though he might never again tread the stage, he would at least 69 be stage-manager. Later, tired of waiting, perceiving that his successors were taking themselves seriously, and thought they could get on without him, he became more aggressive. He made up his mind to treat the new chancel- lor, Caprivi, minister of foreign affairs, as Minister Foreign to Affairs; he protested that the policy of Germany was directed by a half-pay trooper and a briefiess barrister. His irrita- tion increasing day by day, he even ventured to complain of a certain young sporting-dog, that barks at everybody, bristles up at everything, noses round everywhere, and turns a room topsy-turvy in less than no time. He knows that his offences will never be punished; that he is protected against all prbsecution by the privilege of genius and by the worship of mil- lions of Germans, who consider his fame a national possession; that, after his death, his very enemies will forget his failings, that they will give him a splendid funeral, where the emperor will be chief mourner. M. Johannes Penzler has undertaken to collect in five great volumes, all the words and deeds of Bismarck from the day when he became a private citizen with a taste for dabbling in politics. The first of these volumes is just out, and takes us from the twentieth of March, 1890, to the eleventh of Febru- ary, 1891. Those were the days when the expressions of the prince were somewhat restrained; but we may be sure that even when M. Penzler comes to the time when his Excellency threw off all restraint, he will approve every- thing and always give the verdict for his hero. Bismarck has often com- plained of his detractors and his en- emies; he has never given us his views on those indiscreet admirers, who push enthusiasm to idolatry, and fall down and worship him. It Is not enough for them to describe him as a politician of genius, one of the greatest who has ap- peared in history. They maintain that impeccable and infallible, having no passion save love of the public weal, he has always sacrificed to this, his own personal interests. They laud his Bis~narc1c in Retirement. generosity and his gentleness; they el~..ss him with the peace-makers, the meek, who shall inherit the earth. They try to persuade us that in all his disputes, he was never in the wrong, that he never injured anybody, that there are no shadows in the picture, that this star of first magnitude shines with the purest of rays; M. Penzler is one of those intrepid German panegy- rists who pursue with enthusiasm their chosen profession of polishing up suns and taking out all their spots. All the same, his book is extremely interesting. But he makes a mistake in believing that future biographers of the great man will find in this collec- tion of scraps, documents at once in- structive and precious, on which they may draw with entire confidence. The despatches and letters which he has collected, are authentic, no doubt, but for the most part unimportant, and the thanks returned by the illustrious her- mit when presented with the freedom of some German city, give us no in- formation. Even heroes find it hard to devise any new sauce, when serving up these dishes of compliments! The newspaper articles are much more cu- rioussome indeed are distinctly worthy of attentionbut M. Penzler admits that the prince never composes these, but merely gives the journalists the main points, the canvas, which they then embroider as they choose. He always reserves to himself the right of disowning them, of explain- ing that they do not represent his thought. The paper which M. Bismarck most frequently honors with his confi- dence, with which he maintains close relationsthe Hamburg Newshas sev- eral times warned us that its staff is alone responsible for the articles in its calumns; that while readers are at lib- erty to dislike them, it is strictly for- bidden to ascribe them to any source whatever. With regard to the conver- sations between Bismarck and those interviewers to whom he deigns to open his lips, the same journal informs us that his remarks depend on his humor at the moment; the stafe of the weather, and of his health; on certain circumstances which he takes into ac- count, and also on the personality of his questioners, their manner of inter- rogating him, and the topic which they take up. Still more true is it that the turn which he gives to these long talks, depends above everything on his per- sonal convenience, on the interest which he may feel in a given case, in explaining or concealing his real senti- ments. However abundant may be the docu- ments and materials prepared for them, his future biographers will not be able to dispense with the gift of divination, and they will judge him rather by his deeds than his words. It is dangerous to trust what he says; it is dangerous to distrust him too ut- terly. Treating men with a supreme contempt, and at the same time pre- occupied with the judgment of pos- terity, now he takes pleasure in defy- ing the opinion of the public and now exerts himself to win its approval. Sometimes he pushes frankness to cyn- icism; sometimes he wraps himself in an impenetrable mantle, andto use oue of his own expressionsis to be seen only across a wall of fog. But on no occasion has he said what he should have said. They talk of making use of the X rays to discover dutiable articles which may be hidden in a travellers trunk. What a pity that one cannot employ the radiograph to read the tortuous windings of Prince Bismareks pro- digious memory! There would be found, limpid and clean-cut as a crys- tal, all the history of the time with its minute details and its obscure under- currents. He said on one occasion: Truth has no value for the Slav; truth is to them but the subjective image called up .Jy their fancy or their desire; they feed themselves on appearances; they be- lieve whatever they want to believe. Though he has some drops of Slavic blood in his veins, he had never been the dupe of appearances. His is~ not that lazy imagination, which idealizes or disfigures realities, but one which 70 Bismarcic in Retirement. boutlines them with absolute precision. Moreover, this man of bronze, who has never troubled himself about being charitable towards his neighbor, has a wonderful suppleness of mind. He replaces charity by an intellectual al- truism, which enables him to get in- side other mens skins, to understand their feelings, their embarrassments, their interests, their secret longings; to examine their hidden thoughts, to probe their hearts and their plans. If he has defined politics as a calculation of human probabilities, his own calcu- lation has always been based upon a profound knowledge of situations and of men. He is not infallible; he has made mistakes. Do not set them down to any mental error, but to his fiery temperament, to his proud and stormy temper, to his nerves, his passions, his rancors, whose disturbing influence has now and then interfered with his calculations. What is truth ? queried Pontius Pi- late. Truth is what Bismarck says to himself and does not say to other men. He has his moments of expansion, of caressing and talkative boa 1& omie and then it is that you should be on your guard. He excels in the art of setting things out in false colors, and when he promises to tell everything, you may be sure that he will omit the principal point. The historians who consult M. Penzlers collection, will do well to be on their guard, and not take certain checques payable to bearer for gold nuggets. In 1890 an interviewer hav- ing said to the owner of Friedrichsruhe that he was accused in Russia of hav- ing undertaken to bring Russian stocks into bad odor: That is a mistake; rest assured that in this matter I am wrongfully accused. He added: I give you my wordnot the word of the diplomat who duped Napoleon, but the word of Prince Bismarck. This sounds well, but by what sign is one to discern whether one has to deal with Prince Bismarck or with the diplomat who duped Napoleon? Possibly Tyras knows; dogs have such keen scent! But he Is discreet. Somebody who had a chance to tidk with the prince was astonished at the marvellous facility with which he com- posed variations on a given theme. M. Penzlers book furnishes us with ex- amples of the variations improvised by this clever artist. In his interviews, as in his suggestions to the papers, he often returns to the relations between Russia and Germany; It Is a subject which weighs on his mind. He cannot bear to be accused of having contrib- uted by underhand means or wilful neglect, to that cooling of the tradi- tional friendship between Russia and Germany, which was so profitable to his country and so very advantageous to himself. It has been alleged that he never for- gave Prince Gortschakoff for having interfered in his affairs in 1875, and thwarted his new designs against France; and that he had something to do with Russias being forced, by the Congress of Berlin, to forego the ad- vantages of the treaty of San Stefano. These are pure calumnies, according to him, and his self-defence consists of an attackhis favorite method. In April, 1890, he said to a St. Petersburg jour- nalist, M. Luvow: I always approved of the Russian alliance; it was you who treated us as Prussacks, as dirt under your feet, and of course our relations suffered in consequence. Your great Cortschakoff, who, in his huge vanity, always treated me as his pupil, wished me well as long as my importance was slight; but he never forgave my coming to the fore, and he did everything he could to injure me, even when my pol- icy would have been beneficial to Rus- sia. I tell you, honestly, I was truly anxious to advance at your side, hand in hand; and at the Berlin Congress I was as Russian as a German can be. I was in truth nothing but the secre- tary of Count Schouvaloff. Then, under an impulse of nervous irritabil- ity, breaking his pipe, he went on in French: Why did Russia withdraw her confidence from me, and then give me a kick in the back? Why did she make threatening speeches to us in 1879? Why am I made the object of undeserved recriminations? Ask your 7 Btsmarck in Retirement. diplomatists; they know to what I have reference. Some months later he spoke in the same vein to another Russian journal- ist, but this time the tone was less bit- ter, and he did not break his pipe: To prove to you how great was the good will of my old William and myself towards you, let me tell you that dur- ing the whole course of the Russo- Turkish war we followed your opera- tions with as much sympathy and at- tention as if they had been those of our own army, and that our joy was keen, when, after your repulse at Plevna, we saw you cross the Balkans so rapidly. You complain, above all, of my conduct at the Berlin Congress; do not forget that that Congress met in response to the desIre of Russian diplomacy. A bold assertion, to which, on a later occasion, he gave the lie. In the spring of 1878, he now continues, I was out of health, but when Count S~houvaloff came and begged me, in the name of the Emperor Alexander II. to convoke that Congress, could I refuse? We shared the task between us, Schouvaloff and I. He undertook to gain the participation of England; I that of Austria. From beginning to end, I was truly at the orders of Rus- sia; I gave in to all the desires of the Russian plenipotentiaries; I supported them in all their claims. Is it my fault if these were not supported by facts? At that time I attached so much im- portance to the Russian alliance that I bore Gortschakoffs airs without a murmur. They really treated me at times like a flunky who had been slow about answering the bell. Nobody had ever suspected up to that time that the back-bone of Prince Bismarck was so flexible, nor that he was so eager to serve his friends. Soon after this the Aflgemeine Zeitung published a remarkable article on a pamphlet, just published at Leipsic with the following title, How the Duke of Lauenburg, Prince Bismarck, has been the Promoter of the Russo- French Alliance. Among the many articles, collected by M. Penzler, and of which the authenticity is gmtranteed by him, there are few which show their. origin so clearly. Ideas, style, argu- ments, close reasoning, under which can be discerned a passion, fiery, though controlledall bear the mark of the lion. Bismarck is no longer chatting with an interviewer, he is ad- dressing more competent judges whom he despairs of convincing that in 1878, his one thought was to make himself agreeable to Russia, and that as soon as she touched the bell, he would hurry to her, saying: Here I am, you have but to command. It was said, in this article, that the calling of the Congress had been de- manded by England and Austria to the keen displeasure of Russia, though she had to swallow the pill; that she had come out of the war against the Otto- man Empire, with an army in bad con- dition, with an empty treasury, and in a state of utter isolation, and that, under such circumstances even a vic- torious power has to submit to the in- tervention of Europe; that everybody agreed in considering the stipulations of the treaty of San Stefano as inad- missible; that the man who asks too much, gets nothing; that if the Berlin Cabinet had upheld the Russian claims, it would have had all Europe on its shoulders; that the only rOle for it to play was that of an honest broker: that Bismarck, then as always, took as his one rule of conduct the interests of Germany; that without doubt, he had formerly been under great obligations to Russia in his differences with Aus- tria and France, but that gratitude is not a political concept, and that if the statesmen at St. Petersburg expected to be repaid by favors, they mistook the man they were dealing with, and have only themselves to blame for their cruel deception. He had taken a different tone with the two editions ~f the Novoje Yremja, but the self-contra- diction does not disturb M. Penzler; true devotees never discuss their divin- ity. Some one once asked how it hap- pened that the councils, which are in- fallible, so often differed in their eon- clusions; a real believer answered: It is to try our faith; each was right in its 72 Bisrnarck in Retirement. season. Whether Bismarek calls a thing black or white, his panegyrists always accept his judgment, and never complain of his taxing their credulity. Another topic is often discussed in the conversations reported by M. Pens- ler; namely, socialism~, and we must do Prince Bismarck the justice of saying that, on this head, his tone never varies; although the opinions which he professes to-day agree but ill with cer- tain acts for which the conservatives reproach him, and of which he perhaps himself repents. He declares that the workman with a vote is a formidable power, with which even the strongest governments must reckon; was it not he who gave Germany universal suf- frage? He also declares that in sub- stituting for the repressive policy, con- ciliatory measures, his young master has yielded to the impulses of a gen- erous and candid soul, untaught by ex- perience, but that to flatter oneself that one can remove mankind beyond the reach of a dangerous propaganda and the influence of the preachers of IJto- pias by trying to improve its con- dition, is a vain imagining, a mere chimera. Bismarck might be reminded that he himself once nursed this illusion, that when he busied him- self with insuring the workman against accident, illness, and the risks of old age, he was coquetting with socialism. He pretends that this is not the same thing; he gets out of the dilemma by subtle distinctions; it would be ~more simple to confess that once upon a time he tried an experiment which did not succeed. His theories on social democracy may be summed up in a few words. I for- give my emperor for having requested my resignationso he says in sub- stance to the pilgrims admitted to the honor of questioning their oracleHe is young, ardent, active, he wants to make all men happy; but I do not my- self believe that it is possible that they should be happy. Can you name a pol- itician, a student, an artist, a lawyer, a manufacturer, who is perfectly sat- isfied with his income and position? However rich, successful, well-borii~ or well-placed he may be, do you know a man who desires nothing further? In short, do you know a contented man? How can the workman be so ~ Few pleasures, many cares, many priva- tions, such Is his lot. Pay him five dol- lars a day and before long, his wife will be clamoring for ten to dress her children or herself, and she will keep up her demands till he has caught the contagion of her discontent. The lot of the lower classes is greatly improved, and they are less happy than they used to be; as their wages increase, their needs multiply, and their appetites be- come more keen. At bottom, the uni- versal discontent of both laborer and millionaire has its use. Were all men happy they would go to sleep; the hu- man race would stagnate in disgraceful inertia; its enjoyment, exempt from all desire and all disquiet, wohld be that of those half-savages, on their fortu- nate isles, who live on air, sunshine, cocoanuts and bananas, which they are not even forced to cook. He goes on to say that the greater part of the discontented workmen are not dangerous; that they have common sense enough to distrust the chances of a revolution, but that one can never be sufficiently on ones guard against the turbulent minorities, which are the mi- norities that control the world. He reminds his hearers that eloquent im- postors are forever ascribing to the government the countless natural and inevitable misfortunes to which man- kind is liable; that a government which compromises and comes to terms with these ill-omened charlatans, disgraces itself; that every concession made to social democracy is a sort of black- mail, the tribute paid by the inhab- itants of the Lowlands of Scotland to the Highland chieftains. He concludes in these words: My young master has a kinder heart than I, and he can- not be expected to have the wisdom of an old man whose hair has grown white in office. He wanted peace, I, war; for the sooner it comes the easier It will be to win. The greatest virtue for a government is energy, and a cer- tain amount of severity is necessary, 73 74 some maladies only yield to violent remedies. True philanthropy some- times consists in consenting to blood- shed, in crushing a seditious minority, for the greater gain of the law-abiding, peaceable majority. Such is my pro- found conviction, and it is one cause of my disgrace. The year 1897 had in store for Bis- marck a great gratification. His young master has mended his ways; he seems to have become disgusted with his pol- icy of conciliation. When he took the helm of government into his own hands, there was a general truce, a great calm entered into mens minds, everybody felt grateful to him for hav- ing relieved them of the omnipotent man who had ruled them with a rod of iron, and all tried to win his favor. It was then that Bismarck compared him to Penelope, surrounded by the suitors. lie flattered himself that he should be able to play them off one against the other, completely subjugate them by the flattery of his facile, hearty, and abundant speech, keep his ascendancy by his personal prestige, and that they would be the docile instruments of his peculiar theories. But truces do not last forever. He met with opposition, experienced more than one defeat; and abandoning his hope of pleasing every- body, he resolved to please only him- self. He has been reproached with making laws about everything, with wanting to keep in leading-strings a nation, patient, it is true, but in which day by day the consciousness of its rights and its dignity is gaining ground. Such was the tenor of the speech delivered at Wiesbaden the other day by Professor Reinhold, which has excited much comment. He dared to affirm, That a coalition of disaf- fected citizens was forming all over the country, and that almost every one to-day belonged to the opposition. The Emperor William II. is as fond of experiences and experiments as of travel. When he finds he has made a mistake, he does not persist; he has not yet said his last word. He is now try- ing a combative policy, he has come to a breach with his double parliament; Mrs. Olipliant as a Novelist. why be surprised that he has asked the aid and advice of the great statesman who was ever a fighter? As a pledge of peace, he has sacrificed those of his ministers who were in bad odor at Friedrichsruhe, and already the alma- nacs are prophesying that Bismarck will again be chancellor. This Is going rather fast. Bismarck once said that there should never be two bulls in one herd and William II. is as fully per- suaded of this as he. Translated for The Living Age from the French of G. Valbert. From Blackwoods Magazine. MRS. OLIPHANT AS A ~OVEL1ST. Few temptations bes~et the critic so closely as the temptation to be guided by personal feeling. Our estimates of many a mans work are unconsciously colored by the view we happen to have formed of his character or life. If nothing were known about Burns, or Byron, or Shelley, save the respective dates of birth and death, the average criticism of their poetry would be much saner than it is. In some instances, like that of Shakespeare, the world is lucky enough to know nothing of the authors personality. 0 nimium fortunati sua si bona norint! But man seeks out many inventions, and it is just in such cases that human ingenuity is tortured to eke out a scanty measure of literary criti- cism with liberal supplies of biographi- cal conjecture. Barnes Newcomes method of handling Mrs. Hemans and the poetry of the affections will always be popular, though no one would dream of denying as an abstract proposition that the literary merit of Jane Eyre, for example, depends upon considera- tions to which impertinent gossip and dubious legend are wholly lmmaterial~ or of affirming that Wuthering Heights must be judged in the last re- sort by nice distinctions as to the pre- cise degree of profligacy attained by Branwell Brontii. It is one thing, however, to see the pit- fall and another to avoid it. Practice, as usual, toils painfully and tongo inter- Mrs. Oliphant as a Novelist. 75 callo after precept; and no common de~ tion, yet consistent and well-digested--- gree of watchfulness and self-restraint it is not unworthy to be ranked with must be exercised by the critic called Lockharts life of Burns or Southeys upon to review the work of one who of Wesley. Neither are the readers of was distinguished throughout a long Maga likely soon to forget the ripe and busy life by a rare combination of and sagacious criticism, often brilliant, intellectual and moral excellences, and ever shrewd and ever kindly, which she whose name was synonymous with un- contributed to these pages over a tract wearying industry, with unswerving of many years. Yet we believe that in rectitude, and with Christian resigna- fiction Mrs. Oliphants genius found its tion and fortitude under neavy trial and truest and most adequate expression, bereavement. Others have spoken else- and that the qualities which character- whereand spoken for the most part ize her historical, biographical, and not otherwise than she herself would critical writings are there displayed in hnve chosenof Mrs. Oliphants private even greater intensity. life. The curtain has been lifted a lit- No one, we take it, familiar with the tie to give the world a momentary long series of her novels could doubt glimpse of what was passing on that that their author held firm and well- studiously sequestered stage. Nor, so fixed views on many subjects. That the far as we are aware, has a single dis- whole bent of her opinion was Conserv- sonant voice broken the harmony of the ative is manifest enough, and her code tribute of praise and respect which the of ethics was as old-fashioned as the pressto its own honorhas paid to one Ten Commandments. Shi was too wise so very different both in her methods to believe in panaceas for the distem- and in her aims from many of its more perature of mankind, or to suppose that noisy heroes. Fresh as her loss is in the human nature could be revolutionized memory, it is with a feeling of profound by the invention of a taking formula or diffidence, and with no ordinary sense the turning of a felicitous phrase. of itsfor uspeculiar difficulty, that Towards the opening of her literary we resume the task of surveying her career the world was engaged in work as a novelist1a task entered schemes for regenerating the masses; upon with a light heart some months and she laughed good-humoredly in before the melancholy tidings came, Margaret Maitland at lectures, popu- first of her illness, and then of her lar education, and all such early-Vie- death. torian prescriptions for hastening the In thus confining our attention to the millennium. Towards its close the fiction that came from her pen, we are world was agitated by projects which, very far from meaning to disparage the professing to aim at the salvation of vast body of work which Mrs. Oliphant the social organism, to borrow a cant l)roduced in other departments of litera- phrase, were in reality subversive of ture. Few are so richly endowed as she civilized society altogether. If the was with the enviable faculty of assim- reader of her novels fails to find a vig- ilating historical or other information orous and sustained polemic on behalf and imparting it to the public in an of those institutions on which the very agreeable manner. Still fewer have so existence of the community depends, he thoroughly learned the secret of the must remember that since the time of biographers art. Her life of Edward the Anti-Jacobin considerations of taste, Irvingto name but one of her perform- decency, and good sense, if not of ances in this kindis little less than a principle, have forbidden violent at- masterpiece. Copious, yet not diffuse; tacks upon the family, or the open proc- bristling with detail, yet coherent and lamation of the gospel of free love. But erderly; fed from innumerable sources while he will seek in vain for any such through countless channels of informa- stirring outburst as the memorable Passages in the Life of Mrs. Margaret castigation inflicted in Maga nearly Maltiand of Sunnyside. Henry Colburn, I~on- two years ago upon a writer who shall 4on, 1849. Chronicles of Carlingford: Salem be nameless, he will find that the ordej~ ~iapel. William Blackwood & Sons, Edinburgh and the conventions which society, half aud London, 1863. And other works. - consciously, half unconsciously, has es 76 tablished for its own preservation and well-being are everywhere tacitly as- sumed and heartily acquiesced in. Mere theories of life, of course, and mere opinions on ethics or theology, however tenaciously held, are poor stuff in themselves to make a novel out of, as several notorious and terrible examples in recent years have taught us. From one point of view they may be thought an actual disqualification for the busi- ness of an imaginative writer, as tend- ing to contract the range of the sympa- thies and to check the flow of the more generous emotions. It may even be contendedthough we think the conten- tion unfoundedthat Mrs. Oliphants cast of thought is specially apt to be mischievous in this respect. However the fact may be in other cases, no such result assuredly is apparent in her work. On the contrary, she invariably shows herself keenly susceptible of new impressions, and acutely sensitive to ideas in the air. One aspect of this sensibility is revealed in the adroitness with which she would pick up some vexed question, or some craze, of the hour, and interweave it with the novel she happened to be writing at the time. Just as she availed herself of an ex- traordinary group of religious phenom- ena occurring in the west of Scotland, and made it serve as the basis of The Ministers Wife, so, when people were chattering in magazines about euthan- asia, she seized upon the problem and presented it in concrete form with ex- traordinary force and poignancy in the earlier part of Carit~ and so, later on, the Crofter question was made to play its part in The Wizards Son. Perhaps the most curious illustration of this readiness in making use of some passing fashion or mode of thought is supplied by Kirsteen, which was written just about the time when fine ladies took to keeping milliners shops. Borrowing the hint, Mrs. Oliphant made her heroine turn mantua-maker, but with some temerity threw the date of the story sixty or seventy years back, with a result by no means unpleasing, if artistically rather unsatisfactory. The truth is that some risk is involved in the exercise of a gift more suited to the journalist than to the writer of fiction; and to be up-to-date. which is ~sen Airs. Oliphant as a Novelist. tially the function of the former, means too often for the latter to be behind the times in the reckoning of posterity. But Mrs. Oliphant displayed this sym- pathetic and sensitive quality in a much more important and legitimate manner, by showing her ability to enter into and to understand views of life and conduct towards which in the abstract she can have felt nothing but antipathy. She neither distorts nor exaggerates them, but rather puts the best possible face on them, and brings into prominence the element of reason or justice which may, perhaps, lie hidden under a mountain of discontent that resembles contrari- ness, and complaint that sounds no more rational than the grumbling of a spoilt child. No one, we should sup- pose, had more scorn than she for the New Woman movement, or for the attempt that has been made to over- throw the accepted laws which regulate the relations between the sexes, and to substitute for them, not even the least elevated of ideals, but, the actual work- ing standard of a portion of the male sex. Yet we doubt if the root-idea of the feminine revolt has ever been more clearly and temperately set forth than in the following passage from The Wizards Son: All women are not born self-denying. When they are young the blood runs as warmly in their veins as in that of men; they, too, want life, movement, sunshine, and happiness. The mere daylight, the air, a new frock, however hardly obtained, a dance, a little admiration, suffice for them when they are very young; but when the next chapter comes and the girl learns to calculate that, saving some great matri- monial chance, there is no prospect for her but the narrowest and most meagre and monotonous existence under heaven, the life of a poor, very poor sijigle woman who cannot dig, and to beg is ashamedis it to he wondered at that she makes a desper- ate struggle anyhow (and alas! there is but one how) to escape. Perhaps she likes, -~ too, poor creature, the little excitement of flirtation, the only thing which replaces to her the manifold excitement which men of her kind indulge inthe tumultuous joys of the turf, the charms of play, the de- lights of the club, the moors and sport in general, not to speak of all those develop- meets of pleasure, so-called, which are impossible to woffien. She cannot dabble Mrs. Oliphant as a Novelist. a little in vice as a man can do, and yet return again and be no worse thought of than before. Both for amusement and profit she has this one way, which, to be sure, answers the purpose of all the others, of being destructive of the best part in her, spoiling her character and injuring her reputation,but for how much less a cause, and with how little recompense in the way of enjoyment! The husband- hunting girl is fair game to whosoever has a stone to throw, and very few are so charitable as to say, Poor soul Again, it is remarkable how much of Mrs. Oliphants interest seems to centre in certain of her female characters, who in real life would by no means deserve unqualified approbation. If some of her heroines are mild and savorless, she is not the first great novelist against whom such a charge has been brought. But the study of a woman not, of course, vicious in the technical sense, but inspired by no very lofty aims, iiot succumbing to her environment, but getting the better of it, rising superior to every fresh difficulty, doggedly pur- suing the ends she has set before her- self, and employing in that pursuit the panoply of cunning and intrigue with which her sex is supposed to be en- dowed, seems to have attracted her irre- sistibly, and to have evoked her powers to their fullest extent. Julia Herbert in Tne Wizards Son (apropos of whom the passage we have just quoted was written), though her portrait can scarcely be called a full-length, is sketched with wonderful directness, fidelity, and animation. Phoebe Beecham, in a last belated Chronicle of Carlingford, is no less admirable, and her final triumph over old Mr. Copper- head, whose son she has determined to marry, must be hailed with acclamation by every kind-hearted reader. Best and greatest of all is Lucilla, the heroine of Miss Marjoribanks, which is perhaps Mrs. Oliphants most signal success as a piece of analysis and character-draw- ing. Besides its workmanship the cob- webs spun by the subtlest of American novelists seem composed of the coarsest pack-thread. Yet amidst the intricate tangle of motives and feelings, so deli- cate and slight that a heavier or less steady hand would have made sad work of them, there still beats a woliians 77 heart; and to find a revelation of fem- inine character to match this one we must turn to Emma or to The Mill on the Floss. Into some descriptions of character, it is true, Mrs. Oliphant seems to have been unable to enter, or at all events she was unable to reproduce them with dis- tinctness and effect. What we may call the actress or adventuress type of woman, for example (a specimen of which may be found in A Poor Gentle- man), had doubtless not come within her own immediate observation; and her attempt to depict it suggests many remi- niscences of other peoples novels. Ad- venturesses after all are kittle cattle, and few are the writers who have made an it with them, to borrow Mr. Beechers phrase from Salem Chapel. Similarly Mrs. Oliphants heart seems to fail her in the portrayal of villains. Jack Wentworth and th Miss Wode- houses brother in The Perpetual Curate are not the real thing, and the raffish Underwood in The Wizards Son does not abound in vitality. For precisely the opposite reason she is equally unsuccessful with her million- aires and parvenus, who are painted in the most repulsive colors. Mr. Penrose, in Madonna Mary, who seems really to have had no more serious fault than that of being a sharp and prosperous man of business, is shaken and worried, so to speak, much in the same way as any character whom she particularly dislikes is dealt with by Miss Ferrier. Mr. Copperhead, in Phoebe, Junior, comes off even worse; while Pat Tor- rance, in The Ladies Lindores, is re- volting in his brutality, and is so over- drawn as to throw the whole picture out of keeping. We wish indeed that the same severity of treatment had been applied to Oswald Meredith in Carita a most finished young snob and cad, whom Mrs. Ohiphant lets down all too gently for his deserts, out of fondness, we suspect. for his affectionate mother. ~ Even if this enumeration does not ex- haust Mrs. Ohiphants failures, and we do not pretend that it does, the suc- cesses remain in a vast majority. There is that rabid evangelical Mrs. Kirkman In Madonna Mary, worthy to hobnob with old Lady Southdown; and there is Winnie Percival, spoilt and Mrs. Oliphant as a Novelist. incomprise, in the same book. There is Miss Charity Beresford, that pungent old lady in Carit~ and there is the old maid of the helpless, weeping, and gen- erally fusionless variety, exemplified by her niece Miss Cherry, or by Agatha Seton in Madonna Mary. There are Miss Dora, Miss Leonora, and Miss Ce- cilia Wentworth, the aunts of the Per- petual Curate, whose place is with Jacky, Nicky, and Grizzy Douglas; and there is Mrs. Fred Rider in that short but telling sketch, The Doctors Fain- ily4he foolish and incapable wife of a selfish neer-do-weel, and almost the only female personage in her works towards whom the authors attitude is one of unqualified disapproval. Among men, there is Kirsteens father, Douglas of Drumcarro, old West Indian slave- driver and West Highland laird; there is Lord Lindores (a portrait which strikes us as particularly true to nature), whose easy-going amiability is trans- formed into inexorable worldliness by unexpected accession to a title and a landed estate; there is his son, Rintoul, rampant in his ingenuous worldly wisdom, and as firmly set himself upon marrying a penniless beauty as he is upon his sister marrying riches and po- sition; there is the father of the Rose in June, Mr. Damerel, the embodiment of refined epicureanism and self-indul- gence; and there is Dr. Marjoribanks, the hard-headed parent of the incompa- rable Lucilla. Our list has been com- piled, so to say, at random; it contains no character of more than secondary im- portance; and we have left the rich treasures of the Scottish stories and of the Carlingford series practically un- drawn upon. Yet, such as it is, it may satisfy the most sceptical of the wide extent and diversified nature of Mrs. Oliphants domain. Her talent was born6 only if it be born6 for an author to keep his head, to refuse either to clamor for the burning down of ninety-nine per- sons houses in order that the hundredth may have a meal of roast-pig, or to join in the shrill and importunate pleading of the socially mutilated fox in favor of tails being generally dispensed with. The most conclusive proof, however, of Mrs. Oliphants keen susceptibility to impressions is the remarkable vivid- ness with which she could convey them. There is no more prominent feature in her art than the combined precision and delicacy with which the physical and social surroundings of her characters are indicated. Her novels are rich in atmosphere; the setting of the gem is a subject of anxious care; the back- ground of the picture is not left to take care of itself; nor are the dramatis per- sonw permitted to wander about seeking for a lost milieu, or a moude which once was theirs. Even the weakest of her books begins well. There is no beating about the bush. Miss Austen herself scarcely enjoyed more fully the gift of putting the reader au fait of the situa- tion, or of mapping out in a few bold and sweeping strokes a serviceable carte du pays. The pity is that, in Mrs. Oh- phants case, her hand often seems to tire so soon, and that as the work pro- ceeds the lines become somewhat vague and blurred. To us, in truth, it seems the merest paradox to pretend that she would not have written better had she written less. But take her at her best, and dissatisfaction vanishes. Every street in Carlingford seems familiar to us. If we put up for a night or two at the Blue Boar, we should need no guide to take us round the town: first to Tozers shop; then to Mr. Vincents lodg- ings at the High Street end of George Street; on to Salem. Chapel in Grove Street; winding up, after a dash through Pricketts Lane and Wharfside, and a peep at the elaborate decorations at St. Roques, with a sumptuous lunch- eon at one of those comfortable man- sions that stand in dignified seclusion behind the high brick walls which front Grange Lane. Our only fear would be that the temptation to greet that portly shopkeeper or yonder ascetic-looking clergyman on the strength of old ac- quaintance might prove overwhelming. And it is the same with quite different scenes. Miss Rhoda Broughton in Joan has gone very far to make us realize or remember what summer may mean in poky quarters bounded by a dusty highroad. But we mop our fore- heads even harder as we pant and groan with worthy Mrs. Burchell up the steep hill which leads to Miss Charity Beres- fords delightful house in the neighbor hood of Windsor, and, once arrived at our goal, are transported by the deli- 78 cious coolness, the undisturbed repose, and the exquisite fragrance of the gar- den with its innumerable roses. What an acute perception Mrs. Oliphant had of the little matters that make all the difference between comfort and discom- fort in externals! Again and again she reverts to the res angustet domi, contrast- ing it with the results of opulence; and the large family living on narrow means is one of her favorite topics. It is the afternoon of a dull and soaking autumn day; the mother is worrying over her ac- counts in a vain endeavor to make two and two amount to five, or to three, as the case may be; the distracted father has perhaps slipped off to his library to write a sermon; the small and barely fur- nished sitting-room is full of children, the younger ones with jammy fingers and dirty pinafores, the older attempt- ing to keep order, and wrangling among themselves. It needs but the entrance of an untidy maid-servant with an Ill- trimmed and evil-smelling paraffin-lamp to give the finishing touch to a pathetic study of squalor and discomfort. What reader of Mrs. Oliphant but can call to mind more than one such picture? In none of her stories is the effect of atmosphere more triumphantly at- tained than in those where the scene is situated in Scotland; for Mrs. Oliphant knew her native country, and she knew its people. And if we may discriminate where all is excellence, she seems to reach her very highest level when she sets foot in the Kingdom of Fife. Katie Stewart, one of her most beau- tiful productions, and the first of a long series of stories to adorn the pages of Maga; John Rintoul, a simple yet affecting tale of life in a fishing village; and the Romance of Ladybank, a slight but singularly graceful sketch are all very different in kind from one another. Yet they have this in common, that each of them transplanted from the soil of Fife would forfeit the greater part of its peculiar charm and virtue. What could excel the description in Katie Stewart of a well-known por- tion of the East Coast? The little town of Anstruther stands on the side of the Firth, stretching its lines of grey red-roofed houses closely along the margin of the water. Sailing past its lit- tle quiet home-like harbor, you see one or 79 two red sioops peacefully lying at anchor beside the pier. These sioops are always there. If one comes and another goes, the passing spectator knows it not. On that bright clear water, tinged with every tint of the rocky bed belowwhich, in this glis- tening autumn day, with only wind enough to ruffle it faintly now and then, looks like some beautiful jasper curiously veined and polished, with streaks of salt sea- green, and sober brown, and brilliant blue, distinct and pure below the sunthese lit- tle vessels lie continually, as much a part of the scene as that grey pier itself, or the houses yonder of the twin towns. Twin towns these must be, as you learn from those two churches which elevate their little spires above the congregated roofs. The spires themselves look as if, up to a certain stage of their progress, they had contemplated being towers, but, changing their mind when the square erec- tion had attained the form of a box, sud- denly inclined their sides towards each other, and became abrupt little steeples, whispering to you recollections of the Rev- olution Settlement and the prosaic days of William and Mary. In one of themor rather in its predecessorthe gentle James Melvill once preached the Gospel he loved so well; and peacefully for two hundred years have they looked out over the Firth, to hail the boats coming and going to the sea-harvest; peacefully through their small windows the light has fallen on lit- tle children, having the name named ovnr them which is above all names; and now with a homely reverence they watch their dead. A row of houses, straggling here and there into corners, turn their faces to the harbor. This is called the Shore. And when you follow the line of rugged pave- ment nearly to its end, you come upon boats, in every stage of progress, being mended,here with a great patch in the sidethere resplendent in a new coat of pitch, which now is drying in the sun. The boats are well enough, and so are the glistering spoils of the herring drave; hut quite otherwise is the odor of dried and cured fish which salutes you in modern Anstruther. Let us say no evil of itit is villanous, but it is the life of the town. Straggling streets and narrow wynds climb a little hrae from the shore. Thrifty are the townsfolk, whose to-morrow, for generations, is hut a counterpart of yes- terday. Nevertheless, there have heen great people hereMaggie Lauder, Pro- fessor Tennant, Dr. Chalmers. The world has heard of the quiet hurghs of East and West Anster. Mrs. Oliphant as a Novelist. 80 A mile to the westward, on the same sea-margin, lies Pittenweem, another sis- ter of the family. Turn along the high- road there, though you must very soon re- trace your steps. Here is this full magnifi- cent Firth, coming softly in with a friendly ripple, over these low, dark, jutting rocks. Were you out in a boat yonder, you would perceive how the folds of its great gar- ment (for in this calm you cannot call them. waves) are marked and shaded. But here that shining vestment of sea- water has one wonderful prevailing tint of blue; and between it and the sky linger yonder the full snowy sails of a passing ship;here some red specks of fishing- boats straying down towards the mouth of the Firth, beyond yon high rockhome of sea-mewsthe lighthouse Isle of May. Far over, close upon the opposite shore, lies a mass of something grey and shape- less, resting like a great shell upon the waterthat is the Bass; and behind it there is a shadow on the coast, which you can dimly see, but cannot definethat is Tantallon, the stronghold of the stout Douglases; and westward rises the abrupt cone of North Berwick Law, with a great calm bay stretching in from its feet, and a fair green country retreats beyond, from the water-side to the horizon line. Turn now to the other hand, cross the highroad, and take this footpath through the fields. Gentle Kellie Law yonder stands quietly under the sunshine, watching his peaceful dominions. Yel- low stubble-fields stretch, bare and dry, over these slopes; for no late acre now yields a handful of ears to be gleaned or garnered. But in other fields the harvest- work goes on. Here is one full of work- peoplequieter than the wheat harvest, not less cheeryout of the rich, dark, fra- grant soil gathering the ripe potato, thea in a fresh youthful stage of its history, full of health and vigor; and ploughs are pacing through other fields; and on this fresh breeze, slightly chilled with. coming winter, although brightened still by a fer- vent autumnal sun, there comes to you at every corner the odor of the fertile fruit- ful earth. Maggie Lauder, Professor Tennant, Dr. Chalmers! How charmingly this characteristic little stroke of humor en- livens the whole! Yet even more vivid and moving than this description of the external features of the locality is the following picture of domestic life: The night is dark, and this ruddy win- Mrs. Oliphant as a Novelist. dow in the Milton is innocent of a curtain. Skilfully the fire has been built, brightly it burns, paling the ineffectual lamp up there in its cruse on the mantelpiece. The corners of the room are dark, and Merran, still moving about here and there, like a wandering star, crosses the orbit of this homely domestic sun, and anon mys- teriously disappears into the gloom. Here, in an armchair, sits the miller, his bonnet laid aside, and in his hand a Galedonian Mercury, not of the most recent date, which he alternately elevates to the lamp- light, and depresses to catch the bright glow of the fire-for the millers eyes are not so young as they once were, though he scorns spectacles still. Opposite him, in the best place for the light, sits Mrs. Stewart, diligently mend- ing a garment of stout linen, her own spin- ning, which time has begun slightly to affect. But her employment does not en- tirely engross her vigilant eyes, which glance perpetually round with quick scru- tiny, accompanied by remark, reproof, or bit of pith.y advice-advice which no one dares openly refuse to take. Janet is knitting a grey rig-and-fur stocking, a duplicate of these ones which are basking before the fire on John Stew- arts substantial legs. Constantly Janets clew is straying on the floor, or Janets wires becoming entangled; and when her mothers eyes are otherwise directed, the hoiden lets her hands fall into her lap, and gives her whole attention to the whispered explosive jokes which Alick Morison is producing behind her chair. Over there, where the light falls fully on her, though it does not do her so much service as the others, little Katie gravely sits at the wheel, and spins with a downcast face. Her dress is very care- fully arrangedmuch more so than it would have been in Kellie-and the graceful cambric ruffles droop over her gloved arms, and she holds her head stoop- ing a little forward indeed, but still in a dignified attitude, with conscious pride and involuntary grace. Richly the flickering firelight brings out the golden gloss of that curl upon her cheek, and the cheek itself is a little flushed; but Katie is deter- mindedly grave and dignified, and vex~y rarely is cheated into a momentary smile. For he is here, this Willie Morison! lin- gering over her wheel and her, a great shadow, speaking now and then when he can get an opportunity; but Katie looks blank and unconsciouswill not hear him and holds her head stiffly in one position rather than catch a glimpse of him as he sways his tall person behind her. Other Mrs. Oltphant as a IVovelist. lingerin~ figures, half in the gloom, half in the light, encircle the little company by the fireside, and contribute to the talk, which, among them, is kept up merrily Mrs. Stewart herself leading and directing it, and only the dignified Katie quite de- clining to join in the gossip and rural rail- lery, which, after all, is quite as witty, and save that it is a little Fifish, scarcely in any respect less delicate than the badi ye of more refined circles. Its no often Anster gets a blink o your daughter. Is Miss Katie to stay lang? asked a young farmer, whom Katies dress and manner had awed into humility, as she intended they should. Katie yes no often so mim. What for can ye no answer yoursel ? said Mrs. Stewart. Lady Anne is away to England with Lady Bettyfor Lord Colvilles ships come in, said Katie, sedately. Theres nobody at the Castle but Lady Erskine. Lady Anne is to be back in three weeks: she says that in her letter. In her letter! Little Katie Stewart then receives letters from Lady Anne Erskine! The young farmer was put down; visions of seeing her a countess yet crossed his eyes and disenchanted him. Shell make a bonnie lady; theres few of them like her; but shell never do for a poor man s wife, he muttered to himself, as he with- drew a step or two from the vicinity of the unattainable sour plums. But not so Willie Morison. Ill be three weeks o sailing mysel, said the mate of the schooner, scarcely above his breath; and no one heard him but Katie. Three weeks! The petulant thoughts rushed round their fortress, and vowed to defend it to the death. But in their very heat, alas! was there not something which betrayed a lurking traitor in the citadel, ready to display the craven white flag from its highest tower? It Is indeed in delineating the ordinary domestic relations and in recording the emotions to which they give rise that Mrs. Oliphant excels any novelist of her generation. The particular relation which seems to have interested her mcst was not the conjugal, though that was frequently her theme, and Dr. and Mrs. Morgan, for example, in The Per- petual Curate, are a couple whom Bal- zac need not have been ashamed to call his own. The relationship on which she dwells with most insistence, and tQ which she constantly reverts, is that of LIVING AGE. VOL. XVI. 808 parent and child. This proposition scarcely stands in need of illustration; but an excellent specimen of her treat- ment of the topic will be found in The Wizards Son, where Walter Methven and his mother live in a state of perpet- ual friction. Walter is leading an idle and useless life, with which, in his bet- ter moments, he is disgusted, but to which his mothers petulant and inju- dicious remonstrances always drive him back. The daily necessity of justifying it to another was almost the sole thing that silenced his conscience. The young man thought or persuaded himself that his mothers vexatious watch over him, and what he thought her constant suspicion and doubt of him, had given him reason for the disgust and impatience with which he turned from her control. He pictured to himself the difference which ~a fathers larger, more generous sway would have made in him; to that he would have an- swered, he thought, like a ship to its helm, like an army to its general. But this petty inle, this perpetual fault-finding, roused up every faculty in opposition. Even ~~hen he meant the best, her words of waining, her reminders of duty, were enougi to set him all wrong again. He thought, as a bad husband often thinks when he is conscious of the worlds dis- :l1)prOval, that it was her complaints that were the cause. And when he was re- minded by others, well-meaning but in- Thdicious, of all he owed to his mother, his mind rose yet more strongly in opposi- tion. his spirit refused the claim. This is a very different picture from that of the vidows son, whose ceaseless inspiration is his sense of duty to his mother, an1 ador~ng gratitude for her care and love; but it is perhaps as true a one. A young man may be placed in an unfair position by the excessive claim made upon his heart ~nd conscience in this way, and so Walter felt it. He might have given all that, and more, if nothing had been asked of him; hut when he was expected to feel so much, he felt himself half-justified in feeling nothing. Thus the situation had become one of strained and continual opposition. It was a kind of duel in which the younger combatant at leastthe assailed person whose very will and independence were hampered by such perpetual requirements never yielded a step. Here is no mere dissection and analy- sis: the situation is firmly grasped and 81 82 Mrs. Oliphant realized, and therefore is vividly pre- sented. Mrs. Oliphant seems somewhat to have distrusted her own power of doing anything like justice to scenes and cir- cumstances which had not come within the range of her own direct observation and experience. There is a modest dis- claimer, for Instance, In Madonna Mary, of any attempt to describe life in India: a disclaimer which forcibly re- minds us who It is that rush in where persons like Mrs. Oliphant fear to tread. Never was the Chinese Metaphysics ~nethod so diligently practised in fiction it is to-day; and Mr. Potts talented contributor might well blush at the pop- ularity of his Ingenious device. His- torical characters are vamped up out of catch-words and anecdotes, and the re- suit is as pleasing and satisfactory as a patchwork quilt; while portentous puffs announce that the new masterpiece of some pretentious coxcomb has been re- vised in appropriate passages by sol- diers, sailors, scavengers, actors, horse- jockeys, members of the swell mob, music-hall artistes, and the clergy of all denominations. Many glaring sole- cisms would certainly be avoided if cer- tain popular novelists would condescend to have their descriptions of polite so- ciety castigated by a committee of the nobility and gentry. But we prefer Mrs. Oliphants habit of frankly avow- ing ignorance, pure ignorance, and be- lieve that she was well advised in her ditlldence. Withal her knowledge of history, at all events, and all her attach- ment to the past, the strictly historical novel was a genre in which she was wholly unsuccessful. Magdaien Hep- burn, if it be readable, is nothing more. What then, it may be asked, of the re- gion which Mrs. Oliphant made pecul- iarly her ownthe region believed by most people to be wholly beyond the scope of the senses, the region of the unseen, of the supernatural? Mrs. Oliphant manifestly had a strong pre- dilection for topics transcending the limits of ordinary human experience, and we believe that in yielding to it she at once gratified the taste and stimu- lated the interest of an immense section of the public. We should rather conjec- ture, indeed, that she shared the illog- ical though widespread opinion that as a Novelist. every well-attested case of a ghostly apparition is, somehow or other, an ad- ditional testimony to the truth of re- vealed religion. Whether such a belief contributes to the effective telling of a ghost-story may, however, very well be doubted; and Mrs. Oliphants ghost- stories, though workmanlike and dex- terous (for she never relapsed into the amateurish), are neither very favorable specimens of her powers nor compa- rable to the efforts of ottiers who were perhaps less inclined to believe than she. She is even more disappointing when she employs the supernatural in a long story. The mysterious stranger in The Wizards Son is excellent up to a cer- tain point; but how is a being to be held in awe whose very existence (as we are told) comes to be doubted by the persons whose lives he has powerfully influ- enced? A spectre who is merely the means of conveying moral lessons, and who once incurs the suspicion of repre- senting nothing more imposing than some great moral or immoral principle, has lost his true occupation. Wander- ing Willies Tale, The Phantom Ship, and The Haunters and the Haunted represent the three sound methods of dealing with the supernatural; and if its adaptability to the requirements of the moralist first put the public on the scent of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, that was the books misfortune rather than its fault. In A Little Pilgrim Mrs. OiiVhant of course approaches the unseen on a much more serious and solemn sidea side on which no thinking man would willingly cast ridicule or contempt. We trust we are fully conscious of the sim- ple and unaffected pathos, and of the deep and heartfelt reverence, with which the subject of the next world is treated; and we are sure that the pages of that little volume have carried conso- lation and refreshment to many a sor- rowful and penitent heart. If the thing must be done, it could by no possibbity be done better. Yet is not tu ne quv- sieris a safe maxim in all such matters? The speculations of the great pagan poet as to the future state, couched in the noblest diction, and abounding in the most memorable and affecting pas- sages, may be read and re-read without any feeling of incongruity. But for the Mrs. Oliphant as a Novelist. Christian (so it seems to us), the wiser course is to remain satisfied with such hints as revelation affords, and to re- train from attempting to penetrate a secret which the Supreme Lawgiver has involved in mystery. An indescribable sense of futility seems to be left behind by those excur- sions into the supernatural. Granted that the city of Semur, in the Haute Bourgogne, was seized upon for three days by les morts in clouds and darkness, what is the ultimate result of their occupation? Nothing. When the inhabitants are permitted to return to their homes, everything resumes its former course. No ones character is permanently altered for better or for worse; and the only tangible outcome of the terrible visitation is that wonderful visions are attributed by the Sisters of Mercy to Pierre Plastron, who had re- mained behind in the town and seen nothingas happy a flash of insight that into human character as can be found in all Mrs. Oliphants writings. We heartily agree with those who think A Beleaguered City a great book. But its interest lies not in the super- natural, but in the human; not in the doings of the ghostly invaders, but in the conduct of the men and women who they drive outside the walls. The ~rife and the mother of the Maire are admirably characterized and dis- criminated. But it is Martin Dupin, the Maire himself fussy, consequential, half-sceptical, half-credulous, affection- ate, and stubbornwho dominates the book, and, in truth, he is one of Mrs. Oliphants greatest triumphs. Once more, too, we notice the astonishing ease, accuracy, and skill with which the atmosphere of life in a French provin- cial town is diffused over the work. These, then, are two of Lie main quali- ties that mark Mrs. Oliphants writings the sympathetic and masterly delinea- tion of character, and the vivid presen- tation both of external scenes and of the circumstances in which the action of her personages takes place. When these excellences co-existwhich they by no means always dolittle room is left for plot; nor was plot one of Mrs. Oliphants strong points. Not that she dealt in wild improbabilities, or inconceivable complications, or impossible disentan- glements. Tact she never failed in. We can picture to ourselves how a writer of coarser fibre and more vulgar instincts would have revelled in marry- ing Mr. Vincent to Lady Western, or how one of a more sarcastic and fiery temperament would have made him abandon in disgust the errors of dissent and embrace those of the Church. Mrs. Oliphant knew better than either. Thus she kept well within the bounds of good sense and accuracy, and paid her readers the compliment of assum- ing that their intelligence was at least not below the average. We recollect of chancing once in a country inn upon a romance from the pen of a female writer whose popularity with the lower middle class is unbounded, and who, unless our memory is at fault, found a post-card from a veteran statesman to bq. the step- ping-stone to success and fame. The book contained an account of a Scottish criminal trial, in which, of course, the hero, through no fault of his own, was the prisoner. He was tried by a jury of twelve; the jury disagreed in their ver- dict; and the prisoner consequently came up for a second trial on the fol- lowing day. Mrs. Oliphant would have been ashamed of such a tissue of inac- curacy. Her law may not be always plain; and we have never quite made out what Mrs. Lennox wished to do with Grace in Margaret Maitland, and why Graces guardian let her do it. But there are no glaring or outrageous blunders; and it says much for her accu- rate habit of mind that in the decade which witnessed the decision of the Yelverton case she wrote a novel turn- ing on the law of marriage in which no hole can apparently be picked: a task which considerably exceeded the pow- ers of Wilkie Collins. The truth is, that in reading Mrs. Oliphants novels one does not stop to think of the fable. One may sometimes look back and admire the ingenuity which brings about unexpected - com- binations of the pieces on the board, as in Phoebe, Junior, where the least likely thing in the world would seem to be the close friendship of Tozers grand- daughter, and Mr. Northcote, the dis- senting firebrand, with the family of so excellent a churchman as Mr. May. But 83 84 Mrs. Oliphant in nine cases out of ten the question one asks is not, What will the next conjunc- ture be? but, Given a certain conjunc- ture, how will the various characters comport themselves? When melo- drama is introduced it is ineffective: the mysterious Mrs. Hilyard is the one blot on Salem Chapel. Probably Mrs. Oliphants most successful attempt in the tragic vein is The Ministers Wife: an impressive and powerful story, for all its inordinate length. But, after all, what lingers in the memory is not the hero, or the heroine, or the villain, but the talk at John MacWhirters smiddy, or the dialogue between the minister and Mr. Gaibraith when the materials have been brought in, and the toddy has been brewed. The crowning grace ~f the novelist of manners is a gift of humorous observa- tion, and it is one of which the Fates have been lavish to women. Miss Edge- worth (in her childrens hooks), Miss Austen, Miss Ferrier, Miss Catherine Sinclair, and George Eliotwriters of very different degrees of meritdis- played it in rich measure. ~ven Miss Bront~ had a little; and many a woman of comparatively mediocre abilities has written delightful novels merely by giv- ing it full play. Mrs. Oliphant, as every reader of the Looker-on and of her reviews in Maga knows, possessed it in abundance, and it brightens all her novels. The parish ministers wife who thought it became her to show a spe- cial interest in the East; the view of dissenting Carlingford that a grocers lady has a right to anything her parents can afford, but that it would never do for a ministers wife to swell herself up and try and ape the quality; Mr. Tozers vigorous pronouncement that clever young men aint the sort for Salem (we want them as is steady-going and them as is consistent, good strong opinions, and none o your charity); Miss Leonoras meek air of self-contradic- tion when she disclaimed infallibility; Miss Wodehouses instinctive disincli- nation to admit that anybody ever had been happy,these are but a few sam- ples of a humor, spontaneous, refresh- ing, and free from any tincture of malice. as a Novelist. Differences of opinion must neces- sarily exist as to which of Mrs. Oil- phants novels is the best, and we should not be disposed to quarrel with any one who awarded the palm to Margaret Maitland. Modelled obvi- ously upon Gait, it is a work of ex- traordinary finish and maturity for a young girl to have produced. The very idiom in which it is written is peculiarly attractive, and harmonizes perfectly with the subject and scope of the tale. No genuine Scot can surely fail to be grateful to Mrs. Oliphant for her pic- tures of his compatriots. Her Scottish servantsher Margts, and Baubles, and Rousesare perhaps a little con- ventional. What Scottish servant in the fiction of the last seventy years has not owed much to Andrew Fairservice and more to Caleb Balderston? But all the rest of Mrs. Oliphants Scots char- acters come fresh from the mint, and bear the stamp of nature. If the pres- ent generation believes all it is told, it must be at a loss to form any consistent conception of the Caledonian of the humbler classes. According to one set of informants, he is a drivelling senti- mentalist with a sob ever ready to be merged in an ostentatious cough (hoast, we should say, or pech) on the shortest notice. According to an- other, his normal and habitual standard of thought, speech, and conduct is that of a hind returning from a hiring mar- ket. Mrs. Oliphant falls in with neither faction; but perhaps her pages convey a notion of her fellow-countrymen some- what nearer the truth. Gait and Sir Walter, at least, seem to be on her side, which ought to count for something. Those, too, who are ecclesiastically minded may note that the feelings of the better sort of Non-Intrusionists at the time of the Disruptionthe old high-Church sentiments which Pieir descendants have bartered for the bar- ren formul~ of English dissentare portrayed in Margaret Maitland with a power quite beyond the reach of the most eloquent of high-flying tub-thump- ers. With all respect and admiration for Margaret Maitland, however, our Natures Wag gish Mood. own view is that Mrs. Oliphant reached the zenith of her art in the Carlingford series. What judicious selection of ma- terial! What dexterity of handling! What lightness of touch! It was a happy thought to group the characters round Church and Chapel, and it would be hard to say of which division the idiosyncrasies are most happily touched off. Perhaps, if anything, the dissent- ers are superior in execution. Or is it only that they are a little more amusing, and afford a more promising subject for humor to play about? Comparison with Trollope is, of course, irresistibly suggested; and we are not prepared to say that in Barchester Towers he did not reach as high a level as Mrs. Oil- phant. The vast mass of his work, however, seems to us to be inferior in quality to hers; and he was at all times apt to fall into a hastiness of construc- tion, and a provoking slovenliness of diction, to which at her busiest she was a stranger. The future social historian, at all events, will find much matter in the Chronicles of Carlingfordwill find, indeed, the most apt and trust- worthy of commentaries on Mr. Mat- thew Arnolds favorite texts. It is needless to run over the familiar char- acters who fit so admirably into the pic- ture as a whole. But we must own to an exceptional regard and liking for Mr. Tozer. The scene at the meeting in the chapel where he takes up the cudgels for Mr. Vincent is one not easily f or- gotten. We have already indicated the opinion that Miss Marjoribanks is un- rivalled as a study of female character. Salem Chapel has perhaps more bloom and freshness, yet we know of no PART vi. substantial ground on which either should be preferred to The Perpetual Curate. We decline, accordingly, to draw invidious distinctions, and beg leave to bracket the three at the very top of the first class. A great deal is heard nowadays of the profession of literature, and a singu- lar enough profession it must be, to judge by the utterances of its self-con- stituted spokesmen. To blow your own trumpet, to brag about your income; to make popular applause the sole and- ~ Copyright by the Llvi~g Age Company. final test ~f literary merit; and to whim- per because you have no handle to your name,that is the sum and substance of professional conductnew style. One essential item we had inadver- tentlyomitted: toabuse publishers in the most insolent and vindictive language. If there be any who are disgusted with the endless round of self-advertisement and vanity, and who hate to see an hon- orable calling degraded by its profess- ing champions, let them turn aside and contemplate the career of Mrs. Oliphant. They will there find an illustration of how distinction and success may be won without the aid of any of those miser- able arts, the practice of which, though infallibly disastrous to the finest graces of character, appears to be the rule rather than the exception. The results achieved by her geniussome of which we have endeavored to point outare not within the reach of all. The gifts of humor, sympathy, tolerance, penetra- tion, good sense, and felicitous expres- sion cannot wholly be commanded by human effort. But he who enters upon a literary life with Mrs. Oliphant for a model may rest assured that at its ter- mination self-respect and independence will remain unimpaired, and that he can leave behind him the legacy of an un- tarnished name. IN NATURES WAGGISH MOOD.1 BY PAUL HEYSE. Translated for THE LIvINo Aoz by Harriet Lieber Cohen. A longing that was growing stronger and stronger and would not be denied was consuming the little knight; it was such a harmless longing, too, only tl~e desire to hear the voice of his song- bird of the gardenand yet he dared not divulge it to his friend for fear of the ridicule which the confession would bring on him. His eyes had rested on a charming picture for the past few evenings; the opening of the little gar 85 In Natures Waggish Mood. den gate, the passing out of the old lady and her granddaughter, and their almost immediate disappearance around the nearest corner. The picture inspired a hope. A few questions cau- tiously put to the tailors wife drew forth the information that the young lady was fond of going to the theatre and that she and her grandmother went often unescorted. as their part of the town was so quiet and respectable. At once Hinzes plan was formed. Late the following afternoon Magnus complained of a frightful toothache, and begged Hiuze to leave him to him- self; he would silence the nerve with a ied-hot wire and then try to get a little sleep. The opportunity had come. Hinze stationed himself at his recon- noitring post, heard the garden gate click, and saw the pair go out arm in arm. Then followed an hour of silent waiting, but as soon as darkness had fairly settled down the treble voice might have been heard making solici- tous inquiry, through the trap-door, as to his friends condition. The answer was satisfactory; the operation had been successful and sleep was not far off. Then preparations began in good earnest. The very thought of his toilet created a tumult in his mind. His best clothes were brushed and inspected with scrupulous care, his hair was parted and smoothed with all the nice attention that a mother bestows on her eldest-born as she dresses him for Sun- day school. His hat was tried on now in one position, now in another, and then an artistic stroke or two given to the soft crown. Finally the stick was picked up, the door was opened, and down the stairs flew the liLile gentle- man, whistling a merry tune to keep his heart up. Whatever feverish excitement pos- sessed him vanished in the peaceful- ness of the night. He kept well in the shadow, as always, and, reaching the theatre, selected the quietest corner of the steps for his waiting-place. Fully an hour he sat there; the minutes were long, he was growing restless, his pulses throbbed. He compared him- self to a wicked knight lying in am- bush to carry off a beautiful princess and all that this tiny knight meant to carry away with him was the memory of a voice. At the sound of approach- ing footsteps, especially if they were heavy ones, the little adventurer would shrink further back into shadow and pull his hat lower over his eyes; for his own safety he cared little, for ihe success of the enterprise, much. The night was mild and yet he felt a slight shudder creep over him, his head swam, and he had to make an effort to retain consciousness. The timely open- ing of the theatre doors roused him; in a moment he was up and on the alert, every trace of weakness gone. A friendly heap of stones, left by some workmen, served him as a van- tage post; standing on tiptoe he could overlook the entire throng. The audi- ence dispersed slowly, but finally the object of his quest appeared, her foot- steps slow and measured, as she led the old lady carefully down the steps into the street. The heap of stones was promptly abandoned, and the knight- errant strode boldly forth behind his lady-love and her duenna, so close be- hind that he could hear every word of their conversation. And the voicethe voice that he had come so far to hearwas soft and clear and altogether lovely. There was a thrill in it that made his pulses beat tumultuously, it penetrated and warmed his very being; and the low laughter fell like rich, enchanting mu- sic on his ear. How bright she was, how gay and merrya very child in her pleasure! How she rattled on about the play with involuntary little bursts of laughter at her recollections But as it sti-uck nine she grew suddenly serious, and wondered how grand- father was getting on, and there was a self-reproachful note in the voice at thought of grandfathurs solitude and her own happy selfish pleasure. Then she quickened her step, and then apol- ogized to her grandmother, for fear she was hurrying her too much. Presently she paused and drew back, for imme- diately in front of her a man With a battered high hat, coat and vest wide 86 In Natures Wag gish Mood. open, and a torn umbrella over his head, came staggering down the street, humming a maudlin air, and clutching at trees and railings for support. At sight of the girl, he raised his hat and with a brutal laugh and oath cried out: So youve come, have you, darling? Where have you been all the time, while Icursed holethey drugged the drinkbut thats nothing. Im all right. Well dance the night through. Send the old witch home; we dont want hercomegi me your hand. What, little one! Dont you know me? Dont you know He stepped closer and again stretched out a clumsy hand toward the girl who had placed herself directly in front of her grandmother and, in spite of her mortal terror, gazed straight into the drunken mans eyes. Please let me pass, she said in a trembling voice. You are mistaken; they are expecting us at home. Then came a fresh outburst of oaths from the drunken brute, while the old lady besought the girl to make good her escape. Be off! cried a thin, boyish voice at the girls side. Cant you see that you are disturbing the ladies? Do you hear me? Clear out this minute or The drunkard started and put his hand to his forehead. The girl turned to see where the voice came from, and beheld a childish figure close at her side. Do not be alarmed, miss, said the owner of the boyish voice as he doffed his hat and stood, brandishing his stick, between her and the object of her fear. He will not hurt you. He has made a mistake in the person and no doubt is sorry for it now. Come with me. He held out his hand as though to assist her in passing but he had reck- oned without his host, for the wretch, recovered from his first surprise, stood with a leer on his face, holding his um- brella directly across the way and ef- fectually preventing further progress. Whats come into your head, little boy? he cried. Do you want to teach grown up people manners? Make your- self scarce, or Ill spear you with my 87 umbrella as I would a frog. But my girl here His speech remained unfinished for at the last word his umbrella was dashed violently from his hand and thrown upon the sidewalk. Ha, ha, you little devil, he cried thickly, his red face growing redder still with anger. Is that what youre up to? You want to have a round of fisticuffs with me, do you? By G you shall have it. He seized the child, as he supposed him, lifted him high in air, shook him, and then flung him with drunken fury against the nearest house. From the little defender came a low groan, the girl gave a cry of horror, the old woman screamed for help, and in a few seconds the spot was filled with the idle and curious. The situation was clear at a glance and summary justice would have been dealt the mis- creant had not he suddenly sobered, struck right and left with such well- aimed blows that the half-hearted crowd shrunk back and allowed him to escape. In their indignation at the assailant the crowd had forgotten his victim; not so the girl who, half blinded by her tears, knelt by the unconscious little figure and staunched the blood that was flowing fast from a wound in his breast. Lamps were brought from the nearest house; the crowd now pressed more closely about the dwarf and ex- clamations of pity were heard on every side. A policeman at last wedged his way through the mass, recognized Hinze and ordered him to be taken to his lodgings at once. By this time the girl had lifted the little body in her arms, and, at the officers orders, begged that he might not be taken from her; it might pain him to change his position and he seemed to be breathing more easily. So, followed by many of the curious, she tenderly bore her brave defender to hIs house, and prayed God she might not be taking him home to die. Why did not Theodore come? Mag- nus, now that the storm of pain was spent, lay exhausted on his bed, won- 88 dering why he did not hear the little footsteps overhead, why everything was so strangely still. Perhaps Theo- dore, for fear of disturbing him, was walking about in his stocking-feet, but that explanation was not a satisfactory one and try as he would he could not sleep. Presently there was the sound of footsteps in the street, then a noise in the house. Magnus Jumped up. A sud- den fear drove him up the ladder; he pushed open the trap-door and stepped into the room. Theodore, he cried, have you gone to bed ? No answer. He groped his way to the table, lit the lantern and held it aloft. There was no one in the room. Where could Hinze be at such an hour? He would go and ask the people in the house. The thought had scarcely shaped itself when there was a sound of voices on the stairs, the door was pushed open and into the room came Theodores little lady, in her arms Theodore him- self. The grandmother, the tailors wife and the other lodgers of the house followed close behind her. No one noticed the towering figure against the wall, staring wildly, un- able to utter a word. The girl laid her helpless burden gently on the bed, and sank on her knees at its side. Only the low wailing of the tailors wife and the whispered questions and answers of the other women disturbed the still- ness of the room. Again the door opened, very softly this time, and a doctor entered the chamber. He lis- tened to an account of the accident, made a careful examination of the lit- tle patient, chafed the t~mples and ad- ministered some restoratives that were at hand. He lives! cried the tailors wife, her tears bursting out afresh. The dwarf opened his eyes; they roved wearily over the faces clustered about the bed, then fell on the pale, anxious countenance of the young girl at his side. A faint smile settled on the pain- drawn lips; a color rose to the blanched cheeks. Ah! he sighed, and in his sigh there was bliss so true, so rare, that it seemed as though heavens light were flooding the little soul. lie felt In Natures Wag gish Mood. for one of his ladys hands, took it and feebly carried it to his lips, murmuring unintelligible words the while. Then the little face grew stern, the girls hand slipped from his grasp, and a growing anxiety crept into his eyes as though he were seeking for some one he could not find. Christopher! he murmured faintly. With a hoarse cry of despair the giant staggered forward and fell on his knees beside the girl. The tiny hand was laid on his arm; once more a smile hovered over the bloodless lips, then the head was turned to the wall, the hand slipped nervelessly down, and the little flame of life was spent. The white-faced girl was led from the chamber, curiosity seekers stole out one by one, the tailor gazed blankly about the room wondering what he must do next, while - his wife wept quietly. At last she dried her eyes with the back of her hand, touched Magnus gently on the arm and asked if he would not go down to his room; she would remain with the body for the night. Her only answer was an impatient shake of the head. Could she bring him anything? Did he want a lamp? Her husband, whose sensibil- ities were perhaps more finely attuned than his wifes, led her away and Mag- nus was left alone. The dark lantern cast but a dim light about the room, the canary, who had begun singing his bravest when lights were high and voices many, was once more silent; doors were closed and a hush fell over the rudely awakened household. Mag- nus did not stir. More than once the tailors wife crept to the door and peeped through the keyhole; always in the same position was the little figure on the bed, always in the same position the gigantic form at the bedside. The candle flickered and went out; the room was left in darkness, and tt~e weeping woman could no longer see within. When, next morning, she noiselessly entered the attic, Magnus gazed at her ominously with his bloodshot eyes, as though questioning her right to set root in the consecrated room. Undaunted by this mute repulse she declared that the body must be dressed, and Magnus must leave the chamber, for the coffin was already ordered. No other hands than hers should touch the dear body, this she swore; Mr. Magnus knew what store she set by Mr. Hinze, had he been her own child she could not have cared for him more. But Mr. Magnus must not see the preparations; it would be too much for him. She would call him when all was ready. The stricken man looked at her as though she were speaking to him from some immeasurable distance. Finally he roused himself, felt his way to the trap-door and went slowly and pain- fully down the steps. Once below he fell on his bed like a tree that has finally given way to its own weight. In a few minutes a leaden sleep closed his eyes. The morning passed, and it was after- noon before waking brought back the mourner to his misery. There seemed a mountain weight on his chest; he could not catch his breath, and throw- ing his arms wildly about him in the effort to breathe, he woke and stared blankly at the sun-flooded room. His mind was slow to act. Was this real, this terrible thing that was gradually unfolding itself? Was it real or was it but a vision of the night? He jumped from his bed and rushed to the foot of the stairs to listen. Yes, there were voices overhead, and footsteps. He sprang up the ladder, pushed open the door and stood gazing, his tumbled hair in wild disorder at the scene before himat the pine coffin with its white ornaments, the wreaths and flowers on the floor, the women grouped about the body of his friend, listening with tears and moans of pity to the tailors wife, as she recounted the details of the acci- dent. Like a swarm of sparrows at sight of an owl, the women fled from the start- ling apparition. The room was cleared in an instant. Magnus stepped up within, crossed to the door and bolted it. How long had the dear body, so de- fenceless in death, been subjected to the prying gaze of morbid curiosity 89 from which the living soul had so shrunk? There should be no more of this sacrilege. He stepped to the coffin, took the cross from the folded hands, substituted in its stead the wanderstab, and laid the lantern close to the dead mans side. Perfect peace rested on the little face; peace and the beauty of holiness, not a trace of pain or sorrow; and yet the peace was not that which broods over innocent childhood, rather that which wraps the conqueror about; and the wreath of flowers above the head was as the wreath which rests fittingly on the brow of the knight sans peur et sans reproche. At the stroke of twelve that night, Magnus closed the coffin, screwed fast the lid, made the little Turkish dress- ing gown and fez into a bundle which he hung upon his arm, and shouldering the casket passed softly down the stairs and out into the night. The following morning the chief of police was summoned from the half hours leisure he permitted himself with his newspaper by two urgent calls. The first visitor was the tailors wife who, greatly agitated, told of the death in her house of a lodger, Mr. Theodore Hinze, of the disappearance during the night of body, coffin and all, and of the presumably simultaneous disappearance of another lodger, a Mr. Christopher Magnus. Her conclusion was that Mr. Magnus had committed the robbery. The womans prompt discharge of her duty in thus giving immediate notice of the circumstance seemed to afford her no little relief. On her heels entered a forester with the information that shortly after mid- night he was in the fir forest beyond the town, and there saw on one of the by-paths, a frightful spectre of more than common height who carried some- thing on his left shoulder. This he dis- covered on closer approach to be a childs coffin. He had feared to accost the terrible phantom, but had followed close behind him, and, in the light af- forded by an opening in the woods, dis- covered that it was no ghost but a tre- mendously tall man whose eyes were In Natures Waggish Mood. 90 streaming tears and who carried the burden on his shoulder as though it were a casket containing the most pre- cious jewels. At the end of the forest he had not ventured to follow further, but he had plainly seen the giant enter a deserted building by the river and close the door behind him. Investigation was begun at once. The chiQf of police conducted the search in person. On reaching the abandoned dwelling the excellent official, whose warm heart had led him to maintain an exceptional attitude toward these ex- ceptional men, knocked gently at the locked door and begged the prisoner to come out. No answer came to the cour- teous summons, not the faintest sound to show that there was life in the ill- fated place. Then Magnuss old friend, the farmer, offered his advice. There was no doing anything with big Chris- topher, he said, when he was in one of his ugly moods; at such times he was as hard to get at as a badger in his burrow; but those moods did not last long with himhe was as a rule of a very good dispositionand probably by to-morrow morning he would open the door of his own accord; even though he were provided with food he had no way (if getting water and it would be fool- ish to batter down the door, for thirst would soon drive him out of his hole if nothing else would. The best thing the police could do would be to go home and leave the place guarded so that the poor fellow could not steal off by means of his boat on the river. The guard was stationed all in vain. No attempt was made to elude the watch; no signs of life disturbed the stillness of the gloomy fastness, though many times a day the self-made pris- oner was commanded to come out and give himself up. At the end of the sixth day the police officer determined that his authority should no longer be defied. He ordered the door to be opened and threatened to break it down if his order was not immediately respected. His words might as well have been addressed to the air. A few sturdy blows of an axe, and daylight penetrated the darksome room whose Two American Women. roof-windows had been fast closed. The sunshine fell full on the gigantic form seated on the ground, his back against the hearth, his mighty head sunk over his breast. On the bench op- posite him lay the Turkish dressing gown and the little fez, of the coffin there was nothing to be seen. The peasant pushed his way through the awe-struck men and, touching the offi- cer on the arm, pointed to some freshly upturned earth near the hearth in front of the motionless shape. The officer nodded, stepped up to the quiet form, placed his hand upon the shoulder and called Magnus by name. The move ment caused the form to fall forward. The soul had long taken flight but the lifeless body sank heavily down on the little mound it had so lovingly guard~d for six days and nights. [THE END.] From The Quarterly Review. TWO AMERICAN WOMEN. The story of the colonization of Amer- ica and of the War of Independence is one with which English readers are familiar. Yet hackneyed though it is, the books which we have named at the head of this article show that it is still capable of fresh treatment. In each of the volumes devoted to Women of Colonial and Revolutionary Times, and especially in Margaret Winthrop and Eliza Piuckney, we have pictures of American life, not as it was lived by explorers, statesmen, or soldiers, but as it was lived by women. The back- 1 ~ Margaret Winthrop (wife of Governor John Winthrop of Massachusetts By Alice Morse Earle. London and New York, 1896. 2 Eliza Pinckney (wife of Chief Justice Pinek ney). By Harriott Horry-Ravenel. London and New York, 1896. 3. Mercy Otis Warren (sister of James Otis). By Alice Brown. London and New York, 1896. 4. Dorothy Payne Madison (wife of James Madison). By Maude Wilder Goodwin. London and New York, 1896. 5. Martha Washington (wife of George Wash- ington). By Anne ffollingsworth Whartdn. New York, 1897. Two American Women. ground to each portrait is rather social and domestic than political and public. English Puritans of sturdy build and de- termined character, who left the Old World for the New at the bidding of their consciences, cared little for hard- ships as compared with freedom and ad- venture. But for a woman like Mar- garet Winthrop the change from an ag- ricultural county in England to Massa- chusetts,a narrow strip of country hemmed in between the ocean and the forest,meant far more and cost a greater effort. The biography of Eliza Pinckney, again, presents a picture of womans life in a typical slave state in the eighteenth century, and shows how a South Carolinian gentlewoman worked and lived among her negroes in the same benevolent, beneficent spirit in which the best of her English con- temporaries played the part of Lady Bountiful to their manorial dependents. The five volumes cover the period from 1631 to 1849, from the date of Margaret Winthrops landing in Massa- chusetts to that of the death of Dolly Madison. But the two biographies to which we shall confine our attention are those which best illustrate the distinc- tive features of the series. They are the most feminine, and the least polit- ical in plan and detail. They not only span the period from colonization to independence, but they also bring out in the clearest fashion, by contrast or com- parison, the different characteristics of the two great groups of colonies, and thus exemplify the force of that patri- otic ardor which could alone have fused such opposite elements into one national whole. In 1618, John Winthrop, eldest son of Adam Winthrop, of Groton Manor, near Sudbury in Suffolk, was thirty years of age, a widower, a justice of the peace for the county, and a prosperous Lon- don lawyer, having chambers in Tem- ple Lane, near the Cloyster. He was, in the best sense of the word, a typical puritan. The materials out of which his character were built were of the massive kind that pro- duces dignity, stability, and simplicity. He had little of the brilliance of intel- lect, or the quick-witted activity of mind, which distinguished the genera- tion of men that was now passing away. He shows none of the geniality, the ex- pansiveness, the rich sympathy, the effervescence of the Elizabethan tem- perament. But he was a man of solid worth, cautious of speech, just in all his dealings, temperate and frugal to aus- terity in his life. His grave and weighty endowments at once corn- inanded respect and ensured sobriety of judgment. Self-restrained and self-re- liant, he had that firmness and fortitude of mind which withstood difficulty and peril, like a rock against a tempestuous sea. Men of this stamp were needed to found a New England. The more bril- liant Elizabethans were bold explorers of Eldorados, and daring freebooters on the Spanish main; but they had not the tenacity of purpose which could alone create permanent colonies. Some higher object than greed of lucre, some more sustaining motive than the spirit of adventure, were needed before men could grapple with nature in that death- struggle in which the early colonists were compelled to engage. Underneath this massive strength of character, there ran, as with most strong men, a deep vein of tenderness. John Winthrop proved himself to be a loving husband and a kind father. Though his love-letters are couched in Scriptural phraseology, he was also an ardent wooer. The following passage carries us back in its language to the days when the Puritan was a man of one book, and that book the Bible. Yet in thought and feeling, beneath the borrowed phrases, there burns the steady flame of real passion, which, alike in love or war, made the language of the Scripture no figures of speech, but words from the heart: And now, my sweet Love, lett me a whyle solace my selfe in the remembrance of our love, of xvcli this springe tyme of ac- quaintance can putt forthe as yet no more but the leaves and blossomes, whilest the fruit lyes wrapped up in the tender budd of hope; a little more patience will disclose this good fruit, & bringe it to some ma- turitye: let it be 0r care & labour to pre 91 Two American Women. serve these hopefull budds from the beasts of the fielde, and from frosts & other in- juryes of the ayre, least 0r fruit fall off ere it he ripe, or lose ought in the heautye & plensantnesse of it . . . Or trees are planted in a fruitfull soyle: the grounde, & patterne of or love, is no other but that between Christe and his dear spouse, of whom she speaks as she finds him, My Wel- beloved is mine & I am his; Love was their banqueting-house, love was their xvine, love was their ensigne; (Cant; 2) love was his invitinges, love was hir faynt- inges; love was his apples, love was hir comforts; love was his embracings, love was hir refreshinge: love made him see hir, love made hir seeke him; (Jer; 2. 2. Ezek; 16) love made him wedd her, love made hir follow him; love made him hir saviour, love makes hr his servant (Jo; 3. 16 Dent; 10. 12). Love bred or fellowshippe, let love con- tinue it, & love shall increase it, until deathe dissolve it. The prime fruit of the spirit is love; (Gal; 5. 22) truethe of Spirit & true love; abound wth the spirit & abounde wth love; continue in the spirit & continue in love; Christ in his love so fill 0r hearts wth holy hunger and true appetite, to eate & drake wth him & of him in this his sweet Love feast wch we are now pre- paring unto, that when or love feast shall come, Christ Jesus himselfe may come in unto us, & suppe wth us, and we wtb him; so shall we be merrye indeed. The woman, to whom this letter was written in 1618, was Margaret Tindal, then twenty-seven years of age, the daughter of Sir John Tindal, one of the Masters in Chancery, who, two years before, had been shot dead with a dagge by a disappointed litigant. In 1618 she married as his third wife John Winthrop. The marriage was discour- aged by her relations; but she remained firm, and was rewarded in the complete happiness of their wedded life. She proved a true mother to her four step- children, as well as to her own sons and daughter. No portrait of Margaret Winthrop ex- ists. But to her husbands eyes, at any rate, she was a woman of great personal attraction. Years after they were mar- ried, he speaks of his longing to see again that sweet facethat lovely countenance I have so much delighted in and beheld with so great content. Her character, on the other llhnd, stands out clearly enough in her letters and her actions. We see her in religious matters seeing eye to eye with her hus- band, intent upon her household duties, careful of his creature comforts, send- ing him to his London chambers the simple products of her country farm, obedient to his wishes even in matters of dress, and, for his sake, giving up the ornaments which for Virgins and Knights Daughters, & c., may be comely and tollerable web yet in soc great a change as thine is may well admitt a change also. Yet though thus submis- sive to her husbands wishes, Margaret Winthrop was a woman of high mettle and undaunted courage. Her fearless- ness in greater matters was all the more admirable, because, in smaller things, she was not above a womans tremors. Her husbands work compelled him to live in London, while sh~ remained in Suffolk, counting the days for his return at the end of the law terms. The sep- aration was irksome to both, and John Winthrop proposed to take a house on the Surrey side of the river. I must [writes his wife] aledge one thinge, that I feare in your cominge to and fro, lest if you should be ventrus upon the water, if your passage be by water wch I know not, it may be dangerous for you in the winter time, the wether beinge colde and the waters perilous. And so I shoulde be in continuall feare of you lest you should take any hurt. The Lord [she continues] in mercy upholde us and strenkthen us by his holy spirit. I cannot but with greefe beare yor longe abscence, but I hope that this will be the last time we shall be so long asunder, web doeth sumwhat stay and comfort me. Yet this woman, thus submissive to her husbands wishes and timorous for his safety in crossing the Thames, did not shrink from encouraging him, at the bidding of his conscience, to face the perils of the voyage to America, or from herself following him to their home in the New World. Well might Winthrop speak of her in his journal as a helpe and encouragement to her husband in his duties, wherein soe many wives ar~ so great a hindrance to theirs. To a man like Winthrop the times, In 92 Two American Women. spite of his domestic happiness, were evil. This Land [he says] growes weary of her Inhabitants. . . . All artes & frades are carried in that deceiptfull and unrighteous course, as it is almost impos- sible for a good & righteous man to maine- tayne his charge and hue comfortablie in any of them. The ifonutaines of Learning & Religion are corrupted. His thoughts began to turn with long- ing towards the New World. In Oc- tober, 1629, the offer came to him from the Massachusetts Bay Company to go out as governor. He did not hesitate. His mind was made up at once. In March, 1630, he had taken leave of his wife, and embarked on board the Ar- bella, bound for New England. With him sailed his two youngest sons. In the autumn of the previous year he had written to his wife, preparing her for their separation. Margaret Win- throps answer shows the mettle of which she was made. I knowe not how to expresse my love to thee or my desires of thy wished welfare, but my heart is well knowne to thee, which will make relation of my affections though they be smalle in appearance; my thoughts are more on our great change and altera- tion of our course heare, which I beseech the Lord to bless us in & my good Hus- band cheare up thy hart in the expecta- cion of Gods goodnesse to us, and let nothing dismay and discourage thee; if the Lord be with us who can be against us; my grefe is the feare of staying behind thee, but I must leave all to the good Providence of God. A few days were spent together, and then husband and wife were parted, he to face the dangers of the voyage, she to endure the harder trial of waiting in suspense. On board the Arbella riding at Cowes, Winthrop, on March 28, 1630, writes a last letter after the parting was over. And now [he says] my sweet soul, I must once again take my last farewell of thee in Old England. It goeth very near to my heart to leave thee; but I know to whom I have committed thee even to Him, who loves thee better than any hu~and can; who hath taken account of the hairs of thy head, and puts all thy tears in his bottle: who can and (if it be for his glory) will bring us together again with peace and comfort. Oh, how it refresheth my heart to think that I shall yet again see thy sweet face in the land of the living! that lovely countenance that I have so much delighted in, and beheld with so great content. Mondays and Fridays at five of the clock at night, we shall meet in spirit till we meet in person. Yet if all these hopes should fail, blessed be our God, that we are assured we shall meet one day, if not as husband and wife, yet in a better condi- tion. Let that stay and comfort thine heart. Neither can the sea drown thy husband, nor enemies destroy nor any adversity deprive thee of thy husband or children. Therefore I will only take thee now and my sweet children in mine arms, and kiss and embrace you all, and so leave you with God. Farewell, fare- well. I bless you all in the name of the Lord Jesus. Seventy-six days later Winthrop landed in New England. He found the colony in a deplorable state. The win- ter had been severe and prolonged. Ill- fed, badly lodged, and scantily clothed, many of the colonists had died. The survivors were weak and sick, and their provisions were well-nigh ex- hausted. Winthrops first care was to send back the Lyon for fresh supplies; his next, to house and shelter the new settlers, while yet the summer lasted. Winter was soon upon them. Pierced to the bone by the fierce east winds, and chilled to the marrow by frosts and snow, the colonists died by the score. Hemmed in between the ocean and the gloomy forests, they kept starvation at bay by gathering clams and mussels from the frozen shore, or collecting ground-nuts and acorns. When they were almost at deaths door, and tne governor had scraped his last handful of meal from his only remaining barrel, ~$ a vessel dropped her anchor in the Bay. It was the Lyon, laden with provi- Sbus from home, and bringing news of the birth of Winthrops daughter Ann. Throughout this gloomy period Win- throps resolution never faltered, though my much business bath made me too ofte forgett mundayes and frydayes. Two American Women. Writing to his wife, who was coming out to join him, he says: It is enough that we shall have heaven though we should passe through hell to it. We heer enjoye God and Jesus Christ. Is not this enough? What would we have more? I thanke God, I like so well to be beer, as I do not repent my cominge; and if I were to come againe I would not have altered my course, though I had foreseen all these Afflictions. I never fared better in my life, never slept better, never had more content of minde, ~vch comes meerly of the Lords good hande, for we have not the like meanes of these comforts beer wch we had in En- gland. A list of the stores which Margaret Winthrop was to bring with her might be compiled from the different letters written by her husband. From the con- tents of such a list may be gathered the wants of the infant colony. Ill diet at sea had bred a fatal disease among the new settlers, and against this danger he specially warns his wife. For the voyage itself, fresh provisions were to be laid in. She was to provide herself with cooking utensils, not for- getting a case to boyle a pudding in; a store of un- nen for use at sea; some drinkinge vessells & penter & other vessels; & for phisick you shall need no other but a pound of Doctor Wrights Electuarin lenitivu, & his directions to use it, a gallon of scirvy grasse to drinke a little 5 or 6 morninges togither, wth some saltpeter dissolved in it, & a little grated or sliccd nutmege. Among other stores are mentioned linnen, woollen, beddinge, brasse, 1)euter, leather bottells, drkikinge homes, & c. Axes of severall sorts of the Braintree Smithe, or some other l)rime workman, whatever they coste, some Augers great and smale, can- dies, sope, and store of beife suett. To his eldest son, who was expected in the same ship, he sends further instructions as to meal, peas, oatmeal, Suffolk cheese, sugar, fruit, figs, pepper, salt- l)etre, conserve of red roses, mithridate, pitch, tallow, and wine vinegar. Oiled calf skins, the strongest welt leather shoe~ and stockings for children, and hats of all sizes. If you could bring two or three hundred sheepskins and lambskins, with the wool on, dyed red, it would be a good commodity here; and the coarsest wolen cloth (so it be not flocks) and of sad colours, and some red. It is worthy of remark, that, with the exception of some sacke to bestowe among the saylors, no mention is made of spirituous liquors of any kind. In August, 1831, Margaret Winthrop sailed in the ship Lyon. With her went her little daughter Ann, who died at sea. After a voyage which lasted ten weeks, the Lyon reached New En- gland on November 2, and Winthrop de- scribes the honors with which the gov- ernors wife was received on landing with her husband. A love of pomp and ceremony is one of those~human failings in his character which make it more at- tractive. The ship gave them six or seven pieces, as they left the side. On shore, the captains, with their com- panions in arms, entertained them with guard, and divers vollies of shot and three drakes, while the people flocked in from the country with stores of pro- visionsfat hogs, kid, venison, poultry, geese, partridges, & c., so as the like joy and manifestation of love had never been seen in New England. The welcome was warm and kindly. But from the homely beauties of the rich meadows of Suffolk, then the best farmed county in England, the change to the wild forest lands of the New World must have been startling. Mar- garet Winthrop was not, however, the woman to shrink from hardship, or lament the loss of comforts which she had deliberately abandoned. Her new home at Boston was a wooden struc- ture, containing six rooms, besides of- fices and garrets, plain without and within, and barely furnished. It stood till the war of American Independence, when it was destroyed by the British soldiers for firewood. Its whole con- tents, at Winthrops death, including the wearing apparel, arms, and armor, were valued at only 1031. lOs. lid. Tl~e inventory is not without interest. On the ground floor were the hail, 94 Two American Women. the living room of the house,the parlor and the study. The hall contained a table and cover, a cupboard, six chairs, a round white box, and a pair of snuff- ers. In the parlor were a standing bed with a down mattress, bolster, pillows, and coverlet, two trundle bedsteads, and two chests. In the study, filled with carpenters tools, were probably ranged the thirty-nine theological books which Winthrop bequeathed to Harvard College. To a notable housewife, such as Margaret Winthrop had been in her own country, the contents of the kitchen were even more meagre. Here there were 1 table, 2 chairs, and 2 stooles, some old pewter, a pestle and mortar, four brasse potts, three posnets or porringers, a kettle of copper, another of brass, and a third of some metal not described; a skellet, a brass pan, and two pewter candlesticks. Two pair of trammels, an iron bar, and tnree spits complete the list of utensils. The rooms above, the Hall chamber, the Porch chamber, and the Parlor chamber, were even more scantily furnished. The sup- ply of linen was small. More than a fourth of the whole value of the con- tents of the house consisted of clothes. Among the latter three pairs of gloves are valued at 31. 7s. Gd. Yet Margaret Winthrop never seems to have regretted the loss of the luxuries of her English home. She had passed the seas to inhabit and continue in New England, and she made herself happy there. In the midst of a year of dis- tress, when crops had failed owing to cold and wet summer, she wrote to her son in England: When I thinke of the troublesome times and manyfolde destractions that are in our native Countrye, I thinke we doe not pryse oure happinesse heare as we have cause, that we should be in peace when so many troubles are in most places of the world. The duties of a housekeeper, and those which belonged to her husbands office, occupied her mind. The question of do- mestic service was already one which caused grave anxieties to the mistress of a house. It does not appear that Winthrop had in his family any Moores or negroes; but he received in 1634 a license to entertain an Indian as a household servant. Margaret Winthrop seems to have been more for- tunate in her domestic arrangements than some of her neighbors. Living as she did in a town, she had less difficulty in procuring English servants than those householders who inhabited coun- try districts. Mary Dudley, for in- stance, who lived farre from ye Baye, at Cambridge and Ipswich, was led a sad life by her maids. I thought it convenient [she writes to her mother] to acquaint you and my father what a great affliction I have met withal by my maide servant, and how I am like through God his mercie to be freed from it; at her first coming she carried herself dutifully as became a servant; but since through mine and my husbands for- hearance towards her for small faults she hath got such a head, and is growen soe insolent that her carriage towards vs, es- pecially myselfe, is vasufferable. If I bid her doe a thing shee will bid me to doe it myselfe, and she says how she can give content as well as any servant but shee will not, and sayes if I love not quietnes I was never so fitted in my life for shee would make me have enough of it. If 1 should write to you of all the reviling speeches and flithie language shec hath vsed towards me I should but grieve you. Apart from the difficulties and hard- ships which naturally fell to the lot of early emigrants, the life had many com- pensations. There was, as yet, little of the joyless gloom which, in the second generation, hung so heavily over New England. Puritans though they were, the people were not morose, witch- haunted fanatics. Society was con- genial, for in tastes, interests, and re- ligion, the new settlers were united. Many graduates of Oxford or Cam- bridge lived in the immediate neighbor- hood of Margaret Winthrop; many others were old friends anu neighbors ~$ from the eastern counties; tbe majority were people of substance and well con- nected in the Old World. Life, more- over, was stirring and picturesque, and it centred round Margaret Winthrops home. French Catholics, such as the Sleurs dAulnay and La Tour, intrigued against each other in Winthrops Hall 95 96 Two American Women. chamber. Sojourners, like Sir Harry first the congregations were held in the Vane or Hugh Peter, came and went. open air under a tree; then they gath- Daring adventurers, such as Captain ered, it is probable, in Governor Win- Underhill or Captain Cromwell, re- throps house; finally, a mud-walled lieved the sombreness of Puritanism by meeting-house was built. Here were a dash of the wild and reckless buc- held the week-day lectures; here also, at caneer. the Sabbath services, John Wilson as Training-days on the Common, and pastor, and John Cotton as teacher, ac- still more the annual installation of companied by much doleful singing, magistrates at Boston, were scenes ministered to the spiritual wants of the which glowed with some of the sunny community. Already those religious richness of Elizabethan times. The differences had sprung up, which after- processions through the street, and wards bore such bitter fruit in the col- across the market-place, to the meeting- ony; Roger Williams was preaching house, on these festive occasions, were against theocratic government; Anne not without their pomp and ceremony, Hutchinson was busy with her revela- while in appearance the crowd of on- tions and prophesyings; and Samuel lookers was far more varied and pictur- Gorton taught that there was no such esque than any gathering in the Old places as heaven or hell. Such troubles World. The train-bands of colonial sol- scarcely disturbed the serene faith of diers, whose burnished armor, pikes, Margaret Winthrop. Yet the close of and muskets shimmered in the sun, her life was in other ways full of made a brave show, as they marched to anxiety. Her husbands estate had suf- the sound of drum and clarion. Behind fered by his devotion to the business of them came the group of magistrates, the state, and he was reduced to pov- large of build, and square of coun- erty. But he was not destined to leave tenance, wearing that demeanor of nat- his wife a widow, and penniless. On ural authority, which in the New World June 14th, 1647, when he was entering inspired the respect of men who had his eleventh term as governor, Margaret placed the ocean between them and Winthrop died. In his Journal Win- their kings, princes, and all degrees of throp thus records his loss artificial nobility. If the dark clothes of English emigrants gave to the crowd In this sickness the governours wife, a prevailing tint of sombre hue, yet the daughter of Sir John Tindal, Knight, left black cloaks, starched bands, and st~- this world for a better, being about fifty- six years of age; a woman of singular vir- pie-crowned hats of the elders, were tue, modesty and piety, and specially be- varied with other and brighter figures. loved and honoured of the country. Here, for example, stood apart a group of Indians in all their savage finery, Winthrop only survived his wife two their red and yellow ochre, their years; but, we regret to add, he lived feathers, their bows and arrows, their long enough to marry a fourth time. curiously embroidered deerskin robes, The next volume in the series, Eliza surpassing in impassive gravity the Pinckney, carries us over a whole cen- most sour-visaged Puritan. There, tury and lands us in South Carolina, the again, rollicked a party of bearded, sun- most typical of the slave states. The blackened seamen, half traders, half change is one not merely of climate, buccaneers, puffing clouds of smoke soil, and products; it is social, political, from under their broad brimmed hats of religious, moral, and industrial. W& ~ palm-leaf, and drinking from their leave behind the democratic, commer- pocket flasks huge draughts of aqua cial group of Northern States, self-gov- vitw, though both tobacco and brandy erning republics in all but the name, were forbidden to the townsfolk. with their elective, representative, self- Such were some of the aspects which taxing assemblies, their independent the New World presented to Margaret congregations, their condensed popula- Winthrop. More important by far was tion, their small plots of land, town- the religious life of New England. At ships, town meetings, and village poll- tics. We enter the colonial monarchies of the Southern States, with their eccle- siastical hierarchies, their oligarchical society, their huge landed estates, tilled by slaves, their isolated life, and their feudal administration of local govern- inent and justice. It is as a representa- tive of this planter aristocracy that the portrait of Mrs. Pinckney is painted. And a charming picture, we may add, is that which her descendant has drawn and set against a background of the oc- cupations, customs, manners, and hab- its of thought of women of South Caro- lina in the eighteenth century. In 1738 Eliza Lucas, then a girl of fif- teen, the daughter of Colonel George Lucas, an officer in the English army, who afterwards became governor of Antigua, settled with her mother and younger sister in South Carolina. En- glish by birth, and educated in England, she threw herself with surprising en- ergy into the life by which she was sur- rounded in her new home. Her father had barely time to purchase land and settle plantations, before he was re- called to the West Indies. Mrs. Lucas was an invalid, and to the elder daugh- ter fell the charge of all domestic affairs. At an age when most girls are still at school, she had on her shoulders the care of three plantations. Writing in 1740 to a friend in England, she thus describes her life: Wee are 17 mile by land, and 6 by water from Charles Town where wee have about (agreeable families around us with whom wee live in great harmony. I have a little lil)rary well furnished for my Papa has left moe most of his books) in weli I spend l)art of my time. My Musick and the Garden weli I am very fond of take up the rest that is not imployed in business of wch my father has left inc a pretty good share, and indeed twas unavoidable as my Mamas bad state of health prevents her going thro any fatigue. I have the business of 3 plantations to transact, wch requires much writing and more business and fatigue of other sorts than you can imagine, but least you should imagine it too burthensome to a girl at my early time of life, give mee leave to assure you I think myself happy that I can be useful to so good a father. The management of a plantation was LIVIXG AGE. VOL. XVI. 809 97 in itself no light task. Miss Lucas be- gan her day at five oclock in the morn- ing. Her first visitor was the planta- tion nurse to ask for advice and medi- cine; then came the housekeeper and the division of daily work to two hundred men and maids. Letters had to be writ- ten to the overseers crowded with minute details of planting operations, sheep-shearing, bacon-curing, soap-boil- ing, wood-cutting, salting of beef, or loading of vessels. Under the eye of the mistress the maids were set to their wool-carding, spinning, weaving, cut- ting and making of clothes. When once the machine was set in order for the day, it probably ran with smoothness. But Miss Lucas was not content to work l)y routine. She was full of schemes. Now she tries an experiment of sending eggs packed in salt to the W~est Indies. At another time she cultivates plots of ginger, cotton, lucerne, or cassada, to see whether such crops were suited for the highlands of South Carolina. Her experiments in indigo proved a source of wealth to the colony. After many disappointments, she succeeded, for the first time, in establishing her crop, and mastering the secret of its preparation. Just before the Revolution, the annual value of the export of indigo was 1,107,- (3601.no slight boon for a girl to have bestowed upon the province. When, asks her biographer, with pardonable l)rlde, will any New Woman do more for her country? In the midst of this busy life, Miss Lucas made time to gratify other tastes. Devoted to music, she regularly set aside certain hours in the day to its study, and writes to ask her fathers permission to send to England for Can- tatas, Weldens Anthems, Knollys rules for tuning. She loved reading, and did not disdain novels. Her friend, Colonel Piuckney, kept her supplied with books, though one of her neighbors thought she would spoil her marriage and make herself look old long before she was so, by her love of literature. I send herewith [she writes] Coil Piuckneys books, and shall be much obliged to him for Virgils works, notwith- standing this same old Gentlewoman, Two American Women. 98 (who I think too has a great friendship for me) has a great spite at my books, and had like to have thrown a voim of my Plu- tarcks lives into the fire the other day, she is sadly afraid, she says, I shall read my- self mad. Besides her interest in farming, her passion for music, her taste for litera- ture, she had a genuine love of nature. She devotes a page of foolscap to a de- scription of a nest of mocking-birds. She spent hours in her garden, where she tried to acclimatize new varieties of plants. She delighted in trees, and speaks of them in stilted style indeed, yet with genuine enthusiasm: Being a sort of enthusiast in my Venera- tion for fine trees, I look upon the de- stroyers of Pyrford Avenue as sacriligious Enemies to posterity, and upon an old oak with the reverencial Esteem of a Druid. It staggered my philosophy to bear with patience the Cutting down one remarkable fine tree, weli was directed by an old man by mistake, and I could not help being very angry with the old fellow tho he had never offended me before. Nor was Miss Lucas in the least un- feminine. She is unaffected in her de- light when a box comes out from En- gland, containing materials for new clothes, books, and apples. The arrival of such boxes was looked forward to with something more than curiosity when almost all the luxuries, and many of the necessaries, of life came from the mother country. Carriages, bedsteads, furniture, and baskets were made in England. Even the materials for the fashionable fad of japanning tea-cad- dies were imported. Meddicines also came from home, and Miss Lucas, who suffered from headaches, had to wait six months. before Dr. Meads prescrip- tion could be made up. At her own home she was an admirable specimen of the squires wife. It was part of her daily life to visit the sick on her planta- tions. Fond of children, she not only taught her little sister, but lieki a school for a parcel of little negroes~ Jl~ager to be useful to those around I~er, she studied a law-book in order t~ make wills for her poor and uneducated neigh- bors, who have a little lanU, a few slaves and cattle to give their children, that never think of making a will till they come upon a sick bed, and find it too expensive to send to town for a law- yer. She knows, she says, that she has done no harm, for I cond my lesson very perfect; but the most comfortable remem- brance of all is that the Law makes great allowance for Last Wills and Testaments, presuming the Testator could not have Council learned in the Law. But after all, what can I do if a poor Creature lies a-dying, and their family takes it into their head that I can serve them? I cant re- fuse; butt when they are well, and able to employ a Lawyer, I always shall. Society in South Carolina had much of the charm and many of the faults that characterize the society of a territorial aristocracy. It brought plenty of gaiety into the active life of Miss Lucas. Balls at Charles Town, when the fleet came in, were great events. Miss Lucas tells her father that she had danced a min- uet with his old acquaintance, Capt. Brodrick. A Mr. Small (a very talkative man) desires his best respects, and says many obliging things of you, for weli I think myself obliged to him, and therefore punished my- self to hear a great deal of flashy nonsense from him for an hour together. Then there was vizeting among her country neighbors. For the most part visits were paid by water. Rowed in long canoes by six or eight negroes, who sang in perfect tune as they swung their paddles, she landed at one of the pri- vate wharves which were indispensable to a country house. If she drove, she went with her mother in a coach drawn by six horses, the gentlemen perhaps riding by the side on their spirited Chickasaws. The homes of the planter aristocracy were built on the English model, baronial mansions, with large rooms wainscoted in long narrow pan- els, with high carved mantels and deep window-seats. Hospitality was gener- ous. Lavish dinners, where wine and food were alike plentiful, served with fine silver, damask, and Indian china, were followed by the scraping of fid- dles, and a dance in which, either in- doors or out, in the ballraom, the serv Two American Women. Two American Women. ants hall, or on the lawn, the whole household, white and black, took part. Grave minuets, or cheerful country- dances, were danced with gentlemen in powdered hair, square cut coats, long waistcoats, breeches, and buckled shoes, by Miss Lucas and her girl friends, dressed in their best attire of brocade or lute-string, with huge hoops, and tow- ering heads, and high-heeled shoes. One other feature in the character of this South Carolinian gentlewoman re- mains to be noticed. She was unaffect- edly religious. In the pleasant fashion of an elder sister she warns her brother against the sneers of Voltaire or the jibes of the Encyclopedists. Her sim- ple piety stands out in her private de- votions, or in her Resolutions, from which we can only qu. ce the last few words: All these resolutions by Gods assistance I will keep to my lifes end. So help me, O my God! Amen. Memdum. Read over this dayly to assist my memory as to every particular con- tained in this paper. Miss Lucas was now twenty-three years of age. Her father had already proposed to her two eligible suitors. As to the first, she knew him too slightly. As to the other, he was too old; the riches of Chili and Peru, if he had them, could not purchase a sufficient Esteem for him to make him my husband. She therefore begged to make her own choice. It was not long in coming. In 1744 she married Colonel Charles Pinek- ney, a childless widower, twenty years her senior, whose first wife had been her dearest friend. He was a man hold- ing a very distinguished position in the colony, an eminent lawyer, Speaker of the House of Assembly, and a wealthy planter. Their marriage, which proved a very happy one, is thus announced to a girl friend: I am sure you will pardon me, my dear Cosen, tho I have not achi?ibwledgd the re- ceipt of your letter by Mr. Symons, and thanked you for the barberrys (which were very good), when you consider that I have had so weighty a matter upon my hands as that of matrimony. I see you smile and wonder, that difficult girl (thats yr phrase) ever married, that filled her own head, and was always preaching up to you the great Importance of a matter of wch the generality of people make so light. Nay, you did not scruple telling me that I should never get a man to answer my plan, and must therefore dye an old maid. But you are mistaken. I am mnrried. and the gentleman I have made choice of comes up to my plan in every title. As a married woman Mrs. Pinckney continued to live the same active life as before, though her anxieties were in- creased by the birth of three children, two sons and a daughter. In 1752 her husband accepted the position of Com- missioner of the Colony in London. A voyage of twenty-five days from Charles Town brought them to England. It is curious to read that their first step was to hire a house at Richmond for inoculation against the small-pox. Thia important precaution taken; she desired. as a loyal subject. to see whattherewas~ of royalty. A long and interesting ac- count is given of her visit with her hus- band and children to the widowed Prin cess of Wales at Kew. Carrying a pres- ent with them for their little girl to give, they sent in a card thus inscribed: Miss Harriott Piuckney, daughter of Charles Pinckney, Esqr, one of His Majestys Council of South Carolina, pays her duty to Her Highness and humbly begs leave to present her with an Indigo bird, a Nonpareil, and a yellow bird, wch she has brought from Carolina for her Highness. The little girl and her present, the father and mother and their two boys, were received by the princess with the greatest cordiality, saw the whole fam- ily, and apparently had an Interview which lasted considerably more than two hours. The princess and her daughters asked a number of questions, some of which were of a domestic char- acter, such as whether Mrs. Pinckney suckled her own children. Others re- lated to the colony, its constitution, its foundation, its manufactures; others to the Indians, their color and manners, others to the homes of South Caro- linians, their food, their wine, their mode of eating and dressing turtle. Among other observations which Mrs. Pinckney makes are these two. She 99 Two American Women. notes the heartlessness of Londoners, and comments on the very disagreeable habit of perpetual card-playing. The Pinckneys remained in England till March, 1758, when troubles on the frontier, arising out of the Seven Years War, made her husbands return neces- sary. They left behind them their two boys to be educated in England. Hardly had they landed in South Caro- lina than Mr. Pinckney was struck down by fever and died. After the first agony of grief was over, his widow de- voted herself to the education of her daughter and the care of her estates. She had also to choose a school for her sons. Charter House is mentioned but only to be dismissed. Harrow, she thinks, can hardly be called a publick school, and as Doctr Thackeray is dead I dont think of that. Finally West- minster is decided upon, and there both boys eventually went, Thomas, the youngest, becoming Captain of the Town Boys. In 1768 Mrs. Pinckneys daughter married, and she was now a lonely woman. Already the shadows of the coming Revolution were beginning to gather. But South Carolina was firmly bound to the Mother Country, not only by commerce, but by the tie of personal loyalty. Few of the natives of the prov- ince even dreamed of cutting theni- selves adrift from England, however strongly they might sympathize with their brethren at Boston. Up to 1775, few signs of the approaching storm ap- pear in Mrs. Pinekucys letters. With her sons it was otherwise. In 1709 the eldest, Charles Pinckney, returned to South Carolina, after tak- ing his degree at Oxford and being called to the Bar. Years of absence in England had not weakened the attach- ment which he and his brother Thomas felt for their native country. A picture had been painted of him, before he left the Old World, which represents him in the attitude of declaiming against the Stamp Act, while his brother was nick- named by his English companions The Little Rebel. How deeply the latter felt the threatening aspect of affairs, is proved by the fact that he had studied the art of war at the Military Academy at Caen. and, as the following extract from a letter to Mr. Ladson shows, had prepared himself in other ways for the outbreak of hostilities. At this period [writes Thomas Pluck- ney] American politics occupied much of the public mind in London, and the young Americans attended a meeting of their countrymen convened by Dr. Franklin, Mr. Arthur Lee, Mr. Ralph Izard, & c., for the purpose of framing petitions to the Legislature and the King, deprecating the Acts of Parliament, then passing, to co- erce our Country. But the petitions not having the desired effect, and foreseeing that an appeal must probably be made to arms, we endeavoured to qualify ourselves for the event and hired a sergeant of the Royal Guards to drill us at your Fathers lodgings. From him we obtained the knowledge in military service we could de- rive from a person of his rank. It is not our purpose to follow the course of the struggle which ended in American independence. In the North- ern States matters advanced far more rapidly than in the South, as was only to be expected from the social, religious, industrial, and political differences be- tween the two great groups of colonies. In the one case, separation was prob- ably inevitable; in the other, it might have been at least postponed. The life of Mercy Otis, who in 1754 had married James Warren, illustrates the rapid growth of the desire for independence in Massachusetts, which was the hot- bed of revolutionary feeling. Mrs. War- ren was from the first in the thick of the fray. As the wife of James Warren, the sister of James Otis, the intimate friend of John and Samuel Adams, the per- sonal enemy of Governor Hutchinson. and a bitter political satirist, she herself played no inconsiderable part in the movement. She was, however, a woman without a spark of hum~4~, whose mind was always on stilts, never stooping to chi~nicle small beer, rarely addressing even her husband except in academic style and with measured decorum. She begins one of her letters ~with the statement that she will. for once ignore politics, having so much to tell her husband of domestic interests. 100 Two American Women. 101 She then describes a walk with her Congress had come into operation, and sister-in-law, Mrs. Otis. no British goods were imported. We moved [she says] from field to field and from orchard to orchard with many reflections on the tumultuous joy of the Great and the gay and restless anxieties of political life. Nothing was wanting to compleat the felicity of this Hour of Rural Enjoyment but the company of Strephon & Collin Whose observations might have improved the understanding while their presence would have gladdened the Hearts of their favourite Nymphs. From such a woman it would be vain to expect those homely touches, which not only heighten tragedy by the force of contrast, but help us to realize how ordinary women pursued the even tenor of their ways under the gathering black- ness of the Revolutionary storm. For these we must return to the letters of Mrs. Pinckney, the main interest of whose life was still centred on the careers of her sons, the health of her daughter, the growth of her grandchild, the engrossing cares of household du- ties or the simple pleasures of society. Here we find in abundance those petty details which, by their juxtaposition with graver subjects, bring out into fuller relief the tragic forces at work in America. Interwoven with tender mes- sages, domestic anxieties, or local gos- sip, runs a crimson web of allusions to political events, which, though at first slender, gradually widens till the whole texture is red with the horrors of war. Between Mercy Warren and Eliza Pinckney there was little in common. Character, tastes, early associations, in- terests, circumstances, were all unlike. Yet, under the pressure of the national struggle, the two women see eye to eye, and feel, heart with heart, the same 1)atriotic devotion to the cause of Amer- ican independence. Mrs. Pinckney, at the beginning of the momentous year 1775, was living at Charles Town. It is not altogether un- characteristic of the woman, that one of the first hints of the gravity of the situ- ation comes through her difficulty in performing a shopping commission for her daughter in the country. In Febru- ary, 1775, the decree of the Contineiltal Jones sent me word [writes Mrs. Pinck- ney] that the stores had been searched and lie could not get a bit of fine washing Pa- villion gauze [mosquito net] anywhere. I afterwards sent old Mary, with directions not to miss a store, and to let them know it was Cash. After two or three days search she got me some coarse stuff for ~ch I payed rea(ly money. At the close of the same letter is an allusion which brings before us the first visible sign of resistance. I send, she says, 16 Cake knots for my dear Boy to whom remember me tenderly. Mrs. Prioleau, tis thought, will dye of a pleurisy. Mrs. Priolean did die, and. as mourning goods were all imported. she was followed to the grave by her relatives and friends clad in many- colored garments. Her next letter describes a picnic, at which Thomas Pinckney contrived some ingenious glasses out of white paper. Then follows another letter, full of a mothers pride in the exceedingly becoming appearance of her sons wig and gown, accompanied by a passing al- lusion to the solemn day appointed by the Congress of the province for fast- ing and prayer for guidance. I am just [she says] come from Church where I heard from Mr. Smith a very good patriotic Xtian like sermon, attended to by the audience with great seriousness; there was a prayer suited to the occasion. The Assembly came in a body, with the Speaker at their head and the mace car- ried before him. Men in South Carolina had perhaps made up their minds that war was in- evitable. General Moultrie, for in- stance, in his Memoirs describes this service as an affecting scene. Every one, he says, knew the occasion, and all joined in fervent prayer to the Lord to support and defend us in our great struggle in the cause of Liberty and our Country. But Mrs. Pinckney was still hopeful. A few days later in the year 1775, she writes to her daughter to tell~ of the death of an old friend in England and of the latest political news: 102 A packet came in on Sunday night, it rained all aay yesterday and I did not know it to inform you by Sam. Poor Lady Charles Montagu is dead, She died at Exeter. I cant tell you much Publick news, but what I have heard is as follows, [hat ye American affairs wear at home a more hopeful aspect. The King has prom- ised to receive the petition, Jamaica has petitioned, the rest of the Islands are about to do it, as well as the London Mer- chants, The Trades-people clamour ex- tremely; Mr. Fox is not so violent as he used to be against us. Capt. Turner is also arrived and says there is a prospect of the acts being repeald. Pray God grant it may prove true! In April, 1775, the battle of Lexington began the war, and, two months later, Mrs. Pinckneys two sons had gone into camp with the First Regiment of South Carolina troops. Nowhere perhaps in America was the rending asunder of friendships or the division of families more widely felt than in South Carolina. The Loyalists were strong in numbers, and, when the struggle came, it as- sumed the form of civil war, with Colonel Tarleton and General Marion as the leaders of the two parties. For the first three years after the outbreak of hostilities, life in the province was lit- tle affected by the contest. But in 1779 the storm burst upon them in all its fury. Mrs. Pinckney lost nearly every- thing that she had, and was reduced to poverty. She never complained. Dont grieve for me my child [she writes to her son] as I asure you I do not for my- self. While I have such children dare I think my lot hard? God forbid! I pray the Almighty disposer of events to pre- serve them and my grandchildren to me~ and for all the rest I hope I shall be able to say not only contentedly but chearfully, Gods Sacred will be done! Tu 1780 Charles Town capitulated to the British on condition that the cit- izens, under a general parole, were to be left unmolested in their homes and prop- erty. The terms were not kept in the spirit, even if, by a technical interpreta- tion of the language, they were adhered to in the letter. Domiciliary visits were made in search of rebels still in arms; the roads were patrolled by troops who intercepted all who were not furnished with official permits; houses were plun- dered or burnt; slaves were carried off, not to be freed, but to be sold in the West Indies; no property was safe against the exigencies of public service. So the war dragged on. But in 1782 the people knew that its end was near, and in December of that year the British troops took to their ships, leaving Charles Town to be occupied by the Ragged Continentals. Mrs. Pinckney survived by ten years the restoration of peace. Happy in her children, her only sorrow, as she writes in 1786, was the loss of friends. Outliving those we love is what gives the principal gloom to long protracted life. There was never anything very tremen- dous to me in the prospect of old age, the loss of friends excepted, but this loss I have keenly felt. This is all the terror that the Spectre with the Scythe and Hourglass ever exhibited to my view, Nor since the arrival of this formidable period have I had anything else to deplore from it. I regret no pleasures that I cant en- joy, and I enjoy some that I could not have had at an early season. I now see my children grown up, and, blessed be God! see them such as I hoped. What is there in youthful enjoyment preferable to this? Mrs. Pinckney died in May, 1793, happy in the knowledge that her two sons had done good service to the United States. Her letters reveal a charming character, and we are grate- ful to her biographer for giving us the pleasure of making her acquaintance. It is when we read her biography, which is chiefly based on her own letters, that we most regret, for the sake of our de- scendants, the decay of letter-writin~~ Novels in abundance the present genera- tion will leave behind them; but we are inclined to think that, a hundred years hence, English men and women would sacrifice them all for a bundle of the sim- ple letters, never intended for the public eye, which our ancestresses used to write in the leisured eighteenth century. Two American Women. ~A Nine Days King. From Macmillans Magazine. A NINE DAYS KING. The seventh of July, 1647, is a mem- orable date in the history of Naples. It was on the morning of this day that a vulgar quarrel between some fruit- sellers from rascally Pozzuoli, the sbirri, and the people of the town itself, grew into a tumult which, gathering force and fury with success, became a storm that raised a simple fisherman to kingly power and shook the very foun- dations of Spanish rule in Italy. About this time Mazarin was at war with Spain in Flanders and Burgundy, and a diversion being necessary he deter- mined upon attacking his enemies in their foreign possessions. Accordingly the French took Piombino and, having effected a permanent lodgment there, remained watching their opportunity to strike again. Spain knew well where the blow could be delivered; she knew that her neighbor had not forgotten the days when Naples had heard the sound of French trumpets, had seen the golden lilies wave above her walls, and had bowed before a Charles of Anjou or a Charles of France. The city was in a troubled state, money being needed to pay Spanish sol- diery, and Spanish governors being re- solved on obtaining it at any risk. The revenue, which already came in through taxes of various kinds, conniv- ance at gaming-houses and like places did not meet the pressing requirements of the hour; so Arcos, the new viceroy, after careful consideration, hit upon the profoundly original expedient of still further taxing his subjects. As a result, not only wine and flour, but also fruit rose in price. To lay imposts on a people, even a conquered one, is an undertaking which usually demands some little adroitness, lest the governed should suspect that the delicate distinction between shear- ing and fleecing had not been suffi- ciently observed. Indeed the Neapoli- tans themselves on this occasion began to harbor some such doubts. But as yet they only murmured a little louder than their wont and endeavored to evade the recent enactments as m.uch as possible, smuggling home the contra- band commodities under various dis- guises, and when discovered paying heavy fines or going to prison. Pretty, black-eyed Bernardina Aniello, for in- stance, was detected cheating the mighty Spanish king of his few gran4 on the bag of flour she carried in her arms, swathed round so as to resemble a child in swaddling clothes; and peo- ple said that her husband, one Tomaso Aniello, sold nearly all he possessed in the world to pay the forfeit she had in- curred that he might have her back with him the sooner to their cottage in the great market-place. But of all the taxes the one upon fruit was the most obnoxious to the people, because it struck everywhere. Other things they might dispense with: meat, for in- stance, they seldom saw; bread could be made go a long way; but fruit, fruit which grew around in such profusion, little guarded on account of its plenty, peeping over every garden wall, bloom- ing on every terrace, meeting the eye wherever an orange grove could rise or a vine-shoot find hold for its ten- drils,it was hard to pay a tax on that. No wonder then that discontent was rife, and that one calm night the Cus- tom House was sent flying into the air, no one knowing how the powder had been introduced or by whose hand the train had been fired. The warning was, however, despised; another Custom House was built; no remission was made in the hateful taxes, no lenity shown in the manner of levying them; and immediate danger not being appre- hended, the portly Arcos slept secure. behind the pikes of his German guard and the matchlocks of his Spanish foot. The feast of Our Lady of Carmel oc- curs in the middle of July. The period was one when spectacular exhibitions had a strong attraction for the popular eye, and when a holiday would be~ -~ thought to pass heavily enough without excitement of some kind. On this par- ticular festival the Neapolitans used to be regaled with a sham fight fought out in their market-place; the assault and capture of a great wooden fortress de- fended by one troop of boys and at- 103 A Nine Days King. tacked by another, styled Alarbes, who were trained many days previously by merry-tongued Masaniello, as the hus- band of Bernadina was familiarly called. As usual, he and his band were engaged practising in the market-place for the great event on the morning of this bright July day, 1647. A slight disturbance had arisen there, the dan- gerous folk from Pozzuoli being the originators. These people were utterly unlike the merry nimble lazzaroni who spend their days basking in the sunlight and their nights beneath the shelter of some friendly portico, happy because they exist, neither knowing why nor caring wherefore. The men of Poz- zuoli dwelt away from the city, and from the time of Toledo, the first Span- ish viceroy, bore an evil name. Be- tween them and the authorities it was natural little love should exist, and that little was fast disappearing now during the argument of a very vexed question which Pozzuoli had raised: who was to pay the fruit-tax, the lying Neapolitan hucksters whose profits were enor- mous, or they themselves, the honest tillers of the soil? Bitterly and hotly the townsfolk retorted that the pay- ment should not fall on them, who never made profit on anything in these bad times, who were already half ruined, and so on, with the true profes- sional whine. Then a clamor rose, fed by sullen reiteration on one side and shrill declamation on the other. The study of political economy was being pursued with a vengeance. A few men of property, who happened to be early abroad, seeing the danger of such a dis- pute, sought out Andrea Naclerlo, dep- uty of the people. They found him about to sail for Posilippo, because it was Sunday, and the beautiful gardens in the vicinity drew from the city on such occasions every one who could af- ford a boat for the bay or a mule for a trot along the splendid Chiaja. Naclerlo returned instantly, disem- barking at the Tanners Gate; but when lie reached the market-place the dis- turbance was becoming wilder, the Pozzuoli men heaping savage abuse on the tradespeople and the police; while the tax-collectors yelled for immediate payment. He strove to quiet the half- roused passions of the multitude by of- fering at last to pay the contested tax out of his own pocket, but either un- heeding, or not hearing him, the col- lectors and ~birri, in all the ruffled dig- nity of office, took a fatal step; bring- ing out the great scales, they began to weigh the fruit by force. This mad- dened the people of Pozzuoli, who, dashing down their merchandise cried, Take what ye can get; we come here no more! Melons, figs, oranges, all rolled down upon the pavement, a wel- come windfall to the hungry Alarbes, who, desisting from their task of re- hearsal, scrambled between the legs of the crowd for the luscious booty. Thereupon the disappointed tax-gather- ers attacked them, while the people took their part, using the fruit as weap- ons, and being reinforced by a large contingent from the Lavinaro, a dirty and populous quarter of the town. On this new arrival the crowd merged into a mob; Naclerlo was dragged away by some friends; while amid tumultuous rejoicing, the papers, account-books, and furniture belonging to the Custom House were burned. News of the com- motion had by this time reached the palace, and Arcos despatched two no- blemen for the purpose of enquiring into it. The method adopted by those gentlemen was simplicity itself: riding quietly into the market-place they promised the abolition of all taxes. The people listened, silent with wonder; and the noble envoys would have probably succeeded in their pacific efforts if Masaniello, who had hitherto been playing the part of mediator, had not now come forward, and, elbowing his way into the centre of the wavering crowd, began to harangue it. Since his wifes imprisonment thei~e had come a change in the fishermans demeanor. He had grown reserved, even at times irritable, and was known to be at deadly feud with the servants of the madcap Duke of Maddaloni, be- cause, as tradition avers, having quar- relled with them over the sale of some fish, they had, beaten him. People also 104 A Nine Days King. whispered that he counted among his acquaintances Ginijo (ienuino, a turbu- lent man who had experienced the ex- tremes of fortune. Once high in honor with the great Ossuna, Arcoss prede- cessor, he had lived to wear a captives chain at Oran, and now, returned to Na- ples, alike unbroken by toils and unchas- tened by sorrow, was hiding fresh plots beneath the cowl of an ecclesiastic. Masaniello, on concluding his speech, advised the rioters to seek the palace it- self and there learn the truth of those concessions. Acciamations greeted the proposal; the cavaliers were separated, a crowd following each, surging around the saddle-skirts, grasping at the reins with eager, filthy hands, peering up- ward into the riders faces with wolfish eyes that as yet expressed more than the tongue had framed to speech, and deafening them by their horrid din. The rascality of Naples was making holi- day. No wonder Don Tiberlo Carafa, one of the ambassadors, promised any- thing, everything, while round him pressed that frenzied sea of humanity, rolling on in resistless course towards San Lorenzo, the residence of the su- perior magistrate, screaming for the privileges of Charles the Fifth, not knowing or caring what they were, but echoing the shout of Genuino, who, now iii his element and secure behind his disguise, prompted every cry which went up from the masses. What won- tier that Carafa died, raving mad in a monks cell at Castelnuovo, after the horrors of that hour? Meanwhile, the other nobleman was being impelled by his motley escort in the direction of the palace, Masaniello running before, waving a tattered ban- ner, and cheering for the king of Spain. Arcos had taken no precautions; even the guard in the courtyard had not been increased, it being probable that he did not wish to further exasperate the people by an untimely display of force, or that he despised the demon- stration. Possibly, too, the gentlemen who were lounging on one of the bat. conies only smiled at first, seeing the figure Ettore, Prince of Satriano, pre- sented as he approached, carefully g.uid 105 ing his restive steed lest lie should come down under the rushing feet of his Ill-smelling attendants. However, they soon perceived that the affair threatened to become serious, for every moment the advancing multitude in- creased and with each addition came fiercer tumult. Don Carlo Caracciolo, one of these siq~oi-i, left the balcony and descending to the palace gates, kept the foremost ranks at bay while he learned particulars from Satriano and sent a report to the viceroy. After some further parley it was understood that Arcos was really in favor of abol- ishing the taxes on both wine and fruit. Then came a demand for the remission of the tax on flour, Masaniellos voice in all probability rising loudest. Carac- ebb objected; he had a growing sense that the more the deputation obtained the more exacting it would become; but the time for expostulation was past. The crowd, now closely packed, yielded to its momentum, moved slowly up against the gate-piers, choked the entrance for a moment, and the next pushed through and flooded the en- closure. Caracciolo fell back with those around him, and, as lie re-entered the palace, sent word to the viceroy that he would find safer quarters in the neighboring fortress of Castelnuovo. The people followed with laughter and jeers, tramping up the broad white stairs at whose head they encountered the first obstacle that had as yet been opposed to them, the German body- guard, who, crossing their halberds, held the door of the first saloon, while those within secured it, a similar pre- caution being taken with the other doors of the suite. Meanwhile, Arcos himself spoke from one of the bal- conies, telling the rioters beneath that their claims would be considered, their grievances redressed, and the taxes les- ~ened. Those whom he thus attempted to soothe did not understand him; they were in a whirl of excitement, and soon, through sheer instinct, began to throw stones. The mob inside had now overpowered the guard, broken their pikes, and were thundering at the door of the first saloon. It was high time to 106 think of retreat; the courtiers fled on every side, and Naclerio, who had also come to the palace, hid himself in the apartments of the vice-queen. With a crash, drowned by a yell of triumph, the shivered door fell in. Arcos re- pented too late of not having followed Caracciolos advice, for now he realized that lavish speech and brittle promises were vain. The confused trampling of coming feet, the frequent fall of shat- tered glass or splintered woodwork borne to his ears between frantic shrieks, told him, more plainly than even the white-lipped fear of his flying attendants, that the cup had overflowed at last, and that Naples was in rebel- lion. There was not a moment to lose. Or- dering the doors to be locked behind him, Arcos hastened by a small spiral stairway into the square. The palace was abandoned, but to what a fate! Its floors shook beneath the tread, its walls re-echoed the oaths of the victori- ous mob. The people were pleased enough with their success to be wan- ton; they were sufficiently angered by the resistance they had encountered to wreak vengeance upon everything within reach. It was a veritable joy to smirch the faces of those beautiful women on the walls; to dig the pike- head into the canvas where their love- liness lived; to shatter with one brave blow the marble on balustrade or bal- cony; to hack and hew everything which had ministered to the comfort of their oppressors; and then to fling all this ruin down upon the stones below, where already lay the parasol that had shaded the governor of the great Col- lateral Council with the torn papers of its secretary. Arcos had barely left the palace when he discovered that the drawbridge of Castelnuovo had, through some mis- taken order, been raised. Return was impossible, for the rioters, having found out his mode of escape, were searching the neighborhood; his only chance of safety now lay in seeking shelter at a convent belonging to the Minimi a lit~ tie distance off. To reach it, however, he had to cross the square, and. while A Nine Days King. doing so, a group of his pursuers recog- nized and seized him. A knight of St. Jago passing by tore him from their clutches, and put him into his own car- riage but the traces were cut, the coachman dragged from his seat, and Arcos recaptured. Again he was res- cued, this time by a chance party of noblemen, who beat off his assailants and placing him in their midst, half dead with fright, forced a passage through the mob. Guessing their des- tination, the rabble rushed to the con- vent gates, but the nobles were upon them before they could effectually block the approach. The heavy bolts were drawn back; one instant of tempestu- ous fury met by desperate courage, and the viceroy was saved. Caracciolo thrust him forward, and amid a hail of stones he reeled in among the trem- bling monks, while his baffled pursuers, now strongly reinforced, flung them- selves upon the gate, shrieking for his l)lood, and making the stout bars quiver despite the beams with which those inside hastily secured them. It was a terrible moment, but help was now at hand. Above all this in- fernal tumult rose a voice which all Naples revered, and, through the seeth- ing masses slowly came a man whom the most furious there dared not shoul- der aside, Ascanio Filomarina, the car- dinal archbishop. He had been about to leave the city, but hearing of the dis- turbances had insisted on returning, al- though warned not to do so; and his ap- pearance in the square at this critical moment probably averted a terrible scene of bloodshed. Through Filoma- rino the viceroy communicated again with his loving subjects and once more glibly promised the abolition of all taxes. The archbishop immediately sent messengers to distant parts of the town for the purpose of proclaiming the good news; at his suggestion the Custom Houses and the tax-booths were pulled down; while he himself, as he relates, on his way back to the Gate of the Holy Ghost, published every- where the governors concessions. It was a time when all things were pos- sible; and incredible as it may seem, A Nine Days King. the riot might have been appeased by those simple means more suited to the domain of opera bouffe than the sphere of practical politics, if there were not other forces to be reckoned with beside the fickle, aimless multitude surging hither and thither in the great square. Would plotting Genuino forego his dreams of revenge because a kind- hearted priest came between a mob and its victim? Would Aniello, the obscure fisherman, who had just tasted the sweetness of power and seen men obey him, forget the insult to his wife or the blows of Carafas servants? Hatred is not so easily appeased; gratified vanity and awakened ambition are not so lightly renounced. Accordingly, the good archbishop had scarcely disap- peared when rioting began afresh. Dis- appointed cupidity was at work; the l)eople felt cheated, surprised into for- bearance against their wills, and were eager to indemnify themselves for their late indulgence to the pursy little man whom they had by the throat a few minutes before. Neither the prince of Montesarchio nor Don Prospero Tuttavilla could ob- tain a hearing from the populace. And the peoples voices too were soon drowned by the rattle of musketry and the cries of wounded men: a Spanish guard, which belonged to the palace, having been attacked by the people the soldiers were firing with deadly effect. Meanwhile Arcos was puffing labori- ously up the steep acclivity leading to St. Elmo, where he knew he could find safety at last; and the various garri- sons of the city, realizing that their number were too small for effective ac- tion, were retiring to a park which ad- joined the palace and Castelnuovo, whose stout walls already sheltered the vice-queen, the ladies of her suite, and many wealthy families. The Insurrection had now spread throughout all Naples. The dwellings of those who had grown rich by farm- ing the taxes were marked out for de- struction, the terrified owners flying, without a thought of resistance, to the beach, where they offered the boatmen gold to take them off to Posilippo, -any- 107 where away from the rage of those upon whose misery they had battened so long. Thus approached the close of this eventful day; on one side unreasoning terror, on the other intoxicating suc- cess. But worse was to come. With the deepening shadows of evening the most abandoned criminals in Naples crept forth from their hiding-places; creatures around whose gaunt limbs hung in tatters the rags which still marked their sex and who shrunk as yet from even the fitful glare of the passing torches, forth they came half dazed to their Saturnalia, a hideous troop, the embodied sins and shames of a great city. Later in the night these, with many more, rushed to the prisons, broke open several, and yelled in the startled ears of murder, lust and rapine the welcome news that -they might come forth and work their will by the light of burning roof-trees. High above all this horror the church-bells tolled piteously, while the sacred edifices themselves were lit up. The Theatine~ and Jesuits, leaving their convents, moved in processional order through the streets, chanting aloud but in vain. The lustiest voice that ever woke the Miserere or intoned the Dies Ira~ had no power to quell the delirium of unbridled hordes with years of neglect and tyranny to avenge. By degrees, however, the chaos resolved itself intc at least the appearance of organized action. Following the advice of Genuino, an attack was made upon the swordcutters shops throughout the city, the people thus obtaining weap- ons, powder, and five pieces of can- non, all their operations being directed by Masaniello. Soon again the grey light of morning fell upon the troubled town, upon the dark squadrons drawn up in the park, and upon the blanched cheeks of the ~Z watchers behind the embrasures of Castelnuovo. The roll of the rataplan mingled with the matin-bell, for the citizens were being now arrayed in mil- itary order, not having forgotten their training under former rulers. Strangers now began to pour into the 108 town from various quarters. Young farm-servants with downy cheeks and wondering eyes jostling the swarthy banditti of the mountains; they had all come on the same errand and were all armed in some fashion. Arcos, who had meanwhile gone from St. Elmo to Castelnuovo, not yet aban- doning the hope that something might be done by diplomacy, had again opened negotiations with the rebels. He selected the Prince of Montesarchio for his envoy, caring little whether that nobleman lost his life in the attempt, for the viceroy, despite the loyal ser- vices they had just rendered him, longed as eagerly as any rioter around Masaniello to see the power of the na- tive nobility weakened and their ~)restige lowered,a desire which was gratified during the progress of the in- surrection and the war following. The mission of Montesarchio was fruitless; even the oath he took in the church of the Carmelites had no effect. Still the viceroy persevered, feeling sure he would gain his point if only a popular nobleman could be found to act as envoy. This, however, was no easy thing, for the Neapolitan gentry like the Caraccioli, the Mintoli, the Pig- natelli and the rest, had no claim either to the confidence or respect of their fellow-citizens, being simply on a small scale what their medi~eval prototypes had been throughout Italy, the sys- tematic oppressors of the weak and the defenceless. At length a churchman suggested the name of Diomed Carafa, Duke of Maddaloni, and after much de- liberation, failing a more presentable personage, Arcos determined to employ him. The chances in favor of the new en- voy, whose past career had not re- vealed any special aptitude for diplo- matic service, were eagerly discussed. It was remembered now, for the first time probably, as something to his credit, that he had not sinned very deeply against the people; while on the other hand his reckless prodigality, his frequent duels, the headlong impetuos- ity of his character, and the splendid accessories of the vivi(1, maBy-sided A Nine Days King. life he led, charmed the popular imagi- nation, investing with a halo of ro- mance a personality which would have been striking enough without even the added glamour of rank and fortune. Moreover, though related to the former viceroy, Medina, lie had often openly broken the Spanish laws, troops being sent against him sometimes and quar- tered on his vast estates, which proved a mine of wealth to the government, seeing that within a few years he had been fined one hundred thousand ducats. Even at the very time when his help was sought by Arcos, he was occupying a prisoners cell in Castel- nuovo on account of some unusually violent deed. Such was the Duke Dio- med, leader of many a revel and hero of many a brawl, who now entered the market-place of Naples in the novel character of peace-maker, a part he had been induced to assume on condi- tion that he and his brother, Giuseppe, who shared his captivity, should be pardoned. Naples was at this moment virtually ruled by three men, Masaniello, Ge- nuino, and one Domenico Perrone, for- merly captain of sbtrri, now bandit, and yet destined to play a sinister part in the bloody drama. Of these the fisherman was undoubtedly the most single-minded, and in another age it is probable that the circumstances which raised him to power would have devel- oped only his nobler qualities; as it is, the measures he concerted during the first days of the revolt show him t~ have been possessed of rare adminis- trative abilities; nor was it till the close of his career, when terror had trans- formed his nature, that he proved him- self the insensate tyrant of the people for whom he had done and suffered so much. Maddalonis embassy failed like the others. The citizens would have uo deceitful promises, but vociferously demanded the privileges of Charles the Fifth, which gave them, through their deputies, a right of veto on all matters concerning the town. After a short parley, Carafa hastily retired, leavim~g the rebels to renew their work of destruction, which was now being systematically carried out. With the aid of his colleagues Masa- iiiello drew up a list of houses belong- ing to those who had recently become rich, aud when night again came its (larkuess was dispelled by the blaze from many a villa. Confusion reigned in the town. Again the churches were illuminated; again the religious orders l)assed through the streets, endeavoring to stem the flood of license; and once more their efforts were vain, for noth- ing could quench the fury that, having smouldered so long in crushed and bru- talized hearts, leaped up at last, resist- less and consuming, finding its expres- sion in the terrible cry of the crowds as they watched the burning roofs: That is our blood! May those so per- ish in hell who have sucked it out of us! The morning brought fresh troops of adventurers, flushed by sack and pil- lage, from the country outside, and with them came Maddaloni bearing a fresh olive-branch. This time it took the shape of a paper granting the par- don of past offences and guaranteeing abolition of all taxes levied since the days of Charles the Fifth. The experi- inent proved disastrous. The people ~erceiving the evasion, interrupted the envoy while reading; they sought no pardon; they demanded the privileges; they would be content with nothing else; this was mere mockery! Fired by the howls of the crowd and inspired by the memory of his wrong, Masaniello suddenly sprang upon Maddaloni, and tore him by his lon~ ringlets from his horse, while the mob screamed with de- light, for it was a glorious thing to see this redoubtable seigneur down in the dust at a fishermans feet. Duke Diomeds escort returned without him. The people now resumed their pillage, until they were recalled to hear what (liuseppe Carafa, the next messenger from Arcos, should lay before them. They heard him, Masaniello presiding but would make no terms, and sending him back, hurried off to new plunder. Over forty palaces were consumed that day. - 109 Sorely against his will the viceroy was at length obliged to employ Cardi- nal Filomarino, who was little likely. he knew, to become a party to any sub- terfuge. Indeed it is a significant fact that between the clergy of Naples and its temporal rulers there was scant cor- diality. Armed with the charter of Charles the Fifth, which contained the much- vaunted privileges, Filomarino repaired next day to the market-place. He was courteously received, but when he be- gan to read and explain those priv- ileges so pertinaciously demanded, he found that his audience was either im- patient or indifferent; and even while lie spoke orders were given by Masa- niello himself in direct opposition to the pacific nieasures he was advocat- ing. The rioters were in no mood for conciliation; they were flushdd with re- cent success, too, having taken prison- ers a few divisions of Spanish soldiery whom Arcos had called to his aid. Moreover, they were well armed now and provided against surprise, the prin- cipal streets being commanded by can- non, while from the lofty steeple of San Lorenzo their flag floated side by side with that of the king of Spain. Nat- urally, their mental attitude had under- gone considerable modifications. The night of this day closed in like the preceding ones, amid triumph and destruction, the fisherman becoming infuriated by the news that Diomed Carafa, who had been detained pris- oner under the guardianship of Per- rone, had succeeded in escaping. This he did through the good offices of the bravo, having been acquainted with honest Domenico in his several charac- ters of police officer and outlaw. Anger was not the only passion excited in Masaniehlos breast when the parties of men sent out by him to retain the duke returned empty-handed, for he knew this roisterer would never forget or for- give the insult he had received. Filomarino, who had meanwhile ~e- turned to the convent of the Carme!- ites, did not relax his efforts. and at length, after earnest entreaties a ad - wearying negotiations, a compromise A Nine Days King. A Nine Days King. was effected, practically on the lines laid down by Masaniello. All this labor was rendered vain by the impetuosity of Maddaloni, who. thirsting for revenge, did what aiiy other gentleman of his time would have done: he commissioned Perrone to take the fishermans life. The at- tempt was to be made in the Carmel- ites convent itself while the banditti were to create a disturbance outside by attacking the people. By a strange co- incidence, the moment selected for striking the fatal blow was when Masaniello should stoop to sign the agreement entered into between the fortress and the town. The Plot ho~v- ever miscarried; Perrone lost his life miserably; and after a furious struggle both within and without the convent, the banditti were rovted with terrible carnage. As if to intensify the genero] horror, a cry was raised that the wells of Poggio Reale had been poisoned; but the growing panic which this statement caused was promptly checked by Fib- marinos drinking, in the presence of the people, a little of the suspected water. A new turn was here given to the popular indignation by tIe discov- ery on Perrones person of a letter in- plicating not only Diomed Carafa but his brother Giuseppe. A fruitiess search, made immediately through the city, was on the point of being aban- doned, when Masaniello himself learned from a dying bandit that Giuseppe was just then awaiting the issue of the attempted assassination at the convent of Santa Maria la Nuova. Thither four hundred armed and infu- riated men instantly directed their steps. Warned of his danger, the no- bleman fled, disguised as a friar, hav- ing hurriedly penned a note to Arcos for help; but the missive being inter- cepted, only served to guide the mob upon his track the more readily, know- ing as they did every winding of the dark narrow lanes in the vicinity of the convent. Finding himself closely pur- sued, he staggered, breathless and fainting up-stairs into the room of a common woman, promising her treas- ures untold if she would hide him for a while. Possibly he remembered hav- ing heard in some forgotten time how a great Earl of Flanders thus escaped his enemies by appealing to a womans pity; but the creature whose cupidity or compassion he endeavored to excite did not resemble the good housewife of Binges. Leaning from her window she beckoned to the pursuers beneath to come up. Carafa met them des- perately, offering two thousand pis- toles for his life. Scorning the bribe they dragged him away, and severing his head from his body, presented the hideous trophy to Masaniello, who, hurling filthy insults at it, beat the pal- lid features with a stick! This is bad enough; but it was surpassed by the demoniac fury exhibited towards the corpse by a man whom Carafa had once made kiss his feet. We shudder while we read, but who can fathom the depths of hopeless suffering, of impo- tent rage, that had long since over- whelmed the souls of those frantic wretches who now vented their spite upon the headless carcass in whose shadow they had so often crouched? The downward career of the fisherman had begun. For him there was no more peace, no more security; he had offered insults to the living and the dead Ca- rafa that could never be condoned. ~t attack made upon him in the convent of the Carmelites was already bearing bitter fruit. Fear makes the worst of tyrants; and as it was with Commodus, so also was it with Masaniello. Great precautions were taken to guard against a new surprise. During the night every householder was obliged to keep a lamp burning before his door, and no person, except priests bearing the last rites of their Church to the dying, were allowed to appear in the streets during the two hours after midnight; even the ecciesiasties were forced to lay aside their loi~g gowns, lest such a dress should afford disguise for a bandit. But there was another danger yet more difficult to avert, which harassed thenceforward the fishermans waking hours, for he knew that his enemies were familiar with a deadUer weapon than the assas 110 A Nine Days King. sins dagger. Accordingly, through fear of being poisoned, he almost starved himself, eating only just suffi- cient to sustain the life he clung to so passionately. Of little comfort to Masaniello was the brocaded dress in which Domenico Garguilo portrayed him, guiding his white steed at the head of an applaud- ing multitude; the same costume pos- sibly that he wore in the presence of the Spanish governor, when on the fifth day of the insurrection Filomarinos heroic efforts were crowned by success, and it was graciously notified to the faithful people of Naples that not only would their own privileges be con- firmed, but new ones added, together with remission of all punishment due for the crimes committed during the late outburst. The place of meeting between Masaniello and Arcos was in the palace which had been reoccupied after the first burst of popular fury had passed away. It was in the saloon of Alva, amid the sheen of burnished arms and the rustle of silken draperies, that they came face to face. Nothing had been left undone to impress the fisherman with the majesty of Spain, and everywhere upon the walls his eye encountered some fresh apotheosis of Spanish enterprise or of Spanish valor. Masaniello knelt; Arcos assisted him to rise, spoke kindly, and threw over his shoulders a gold chain, but all the while the formidable military display ~utside the palace, and the skilful ar- rangements within, were producing their designed effect. If it be true that Demosthenes faltered before Philip, what can be expected from a simple fisherman who thus recognized for the first time the magnitude of all he had done and dared? A meaner mind might have borrowed courage from its very hate, a greater from the consciousness of its own worth; but this man was only a toiler of the sea, suddenly ele- vated to a pinnacle of fortune which his wildest dreams could not have scaled. His spirit was not sufficiently phlegmatic nor sufficiently self-con- tained to review the past or support the present with equanimity; and thus~ it 111 happened that, while the shouts of the populace outside echoed in his ears, Masaniello, captain-general of the most taithful people, fell fainting at the feet of Arcos. The interview was followed a few days later by an imposing ceremony, during which the concessions granted were fully explained, the whole con- cluding with a Te Deum intoned most fittingly by Filomarino. As Masaniello returned on foot through the com- panies of the people, who were to re- main under arms for the next three months until the royal assent should be formally given from Madrid, he was everywhere saluted by lowered stand- ards, while the bells rang out the joy- ous news that peace had returned to Naples. But what of her liberator, her cham- pion? For him peace wouldnevermore stoop to enter the humble little cottage in the market-place. The Man of the People had had his hour, and the end was fast approaching. His abnormal mode of life was rapidly undermining both strength and intellect; to his ex- cited imagination a dagger lurked under every cloak, a poisoned draught in every cup. We see the poor terrified soul, harassed by mortal dread, urged onward down its darkening path towards the only exit possible from a world where to live in fear is to live in hell. We read how the sumptuous fur- niture, the rich hangings of gold bro- cade, the costly pictures, the jewelled vases, the magnificent plate belonging to Maddaloni; were dragged from their hiding-place in the convent of Santa Maria della Stella, and piled up, a glit- tering heap, in the market-place, while troops of armed men scoured the adja- cent country in search of the owner; for the living Carafa was the spectre which haunted Masaniello amidst the courtesans, the fiatterers, and the feast- ers whom his new wealth gathered readily round him. Unable to reach this terrible foe, he vented his rage on all that had been his, the villa at Posi- lippo, the mansion at Santa Maria della Stella, even the servants and the poor trembling musicians,nothing escaped. 112 But as the reputation of a great man strikes his traducers from the tomb, so the silent, tireless hate of Maddaloni struck Masaniello from afar. The in- terception of a letter in cypher from the (luke, the more sinister because unin- telligible, goaded the fisberman to fresh acts of madness. Now he will dine in his enemys desolate palace, now, changing his mind, in a neighboring convent, the heads of Carafa and his father, hacked out of their portraits, looking down suavely on the repast from the pikes which transfix them. Anon, clad in a richly laced suit be- longing to the duke, a diamond buckle gleaming in his hat-band, he gallops, a pistol in each hand. to the viceroys gondola, whence he bathes and is dried with fine Dutch linen; or. seated on the little stage he had caused to be erected before his house, he gravely receives the petitions presented him by his trembling clients, while the people in the neighborhood are busy removing their effects in anticipation of the clearance to be made for the grand palace their champion intends to build. It is at once a grotesque and a ter- rible picture; and as it rises before us we recognize the inevitableness of the catastrophe it foreshadows. Yet the (leath he feared so much he recklessly inflicted on others. To be condemned by Masaniello it was only necessary to be accused by one of the mob; until even his immediate followers began to dread their leaders outbursts, no one knowing when his own turn might come and his head go to swell the num- ber of grinning skulls which stood in a ghastly row above the market-place. Other grave reasons there were also, for dissatisfaction with the existing order of things. Those who sold food felt that they could not make an honest profit on their merchandise so long as the administration of their liberator continued. It was true that he had freed them from their taxes; but what gain was that if he forced them to sell their oil and corn at a fixed, and of course at an absurdly low price? The captain-general of the most faithful people had clearly but a dim idea of political economy. Meanwhile, his mortal enemies were not idle, and assassins were again hired to rid the viceroy of the kings most faithful servant, with the connivance of Genuino, the treacherous sedition- monger, who was yet to end his dis- honored days a fugitive from the scorn of his countrymen. The day of the Feast of Mount Carmel was fixed for the murder. On that fatal morning the fisherman entered the church called Del Carmine, where Filomarino had just celebrated mass. With hasty and uncertain steps he ascended the pulpit, whence he addressed the dispersing congregation in a rambling speech. He complained of the inconstancy of the people, enumerated his services, fore- told what would befall them if they de- serted him, spoke of his sins, and ad- vised others to confess theirs before the holy Virgin. He was interrupted, how- ever, by an old woman, the traditional mouthpiece of popular common sense. who told him that the Motiler of God would not listen to such nonsense; and finally some monks dragged him away to a cell, where he soon fell into a pro- found slumber, the first probably for many hours. From this sleep he was rudely aroused. The conspirators, hav- ing witnessed the scene in the church, determined now to strike the blow, now, when there were no guards in their way, and the crowd had recoiled in vulgar horror from the madman~ but the good monks, guessing their in- tention, endeavored to conceal the locality of Masaniellos room. The sleeper was aroused by the clamor. Mistaking the voices for those of his own friends, he rushed out into the pas- sage at the same moment as the assas- sins pressed into it. They fired as lie advanced, and he fell instantly riddlod with balls. One of them then hacld~d the head from the body, and all has- tened off, bearing the bloody thing aloft and cheering for the king of Spain. Soihe boys, possibly a contin- gent of those very Alarbes he had been training little more than a week ago, took up the corpse between A Nine Day8 King. The True Story of Eugene Aram. them and buried it outside the city walls. At first, the populace received the news of their heros fall with sullen apathy, and it was not until the next day (when bread suddenly rose in price) that they woke to the full extent of their loss. Then, in a burst of grief, they exhumed the body, replaced the head, and laid their darling, richly at- tired, upon a satin-draped bier. Pop- ularity has been well defined as the breath of a mob, which smells of its source and is gone ere the sun can set upon it. But the people will always sorrow over a broken idol, even though they may have acquiesced in its de- struction. Let their hero be a Clodius or a Ca~sar, once dead they remember only his bounty or his triumphs. Thus it was with Masaniello. Four thousand ecciesiastics, by order of Filomarino, led a train of forty thousand mourners; a grand and impressive sight as it slowly passed from the church of the Carmine through the city amid mur- mured prayers and chanted litanies, whose responses mingled with the sol- emn tolling of bells and the clash of presented arms. Night had fallen ere the long proces- sion returned to the church, and there, at the threshold of the sacred edifice, they laid him to rest, that charitable hearts, passing to and fro across the grave, might perchance put up a peti- tion for his soul to our Lady of Carmel. In after years, when he had become a memory, it was proudly remembered how Naples had never so honored a ruler before, and that from haughty Toledo to splendid Ossuna, no prince or viceroy of them all could boast so im- pressive a funeral-train as Masaniello, the fisherman of Amalfi. From The Nineteenth Century. THE TRUE STORY OF EUGENE ARAM. The poet, the novelist, and the drama- tist have vied with one another in lend- ing the charm of romance to the history of Eugene Aram; love and remorse have lIvING AGE. VOL. xvi. 810 113 spread their becoming cloaks over his misdeeds; the commonplace of fiction has adorned the commonplace of fact. But it not infrequently happens that in disengaging fact from fable, the plain truth from the attractive lie, real cir- cumstances come to light as interesting and extraordinary as any that can be invented by the imagination of the story-teller. To record as distinct and yet present in the one man the attri- butes of the thoughtful and gifted scholar and those of the sordid and de- liberate murderer must surely yield a more profitable and singular result than the endeavor to blend the two into a sympathetic whole by melting together in the crucible of lachrymose heroism those discrepancies which lie at the very root of character, and everlast- ingly mock the efforts of the methodical biographer to force consistency upon the inconsistent. Eugene Aram was born at Netherdale in Yorkshire in the year 1704. His father was a gardener, but a gardener of more than ordinary skill; he pos- sessed a remarkable knowledge of bot- any, and was an excellent draughts- man. He had originally been in the service of Dr. Compton, the Bishop of London famous for his resistance to James the Second, and, on leaving the bishop, had gone into the service of Sir Edward Blackett at Newby in York- shire. Yorkshire was the native county of the Arams, who had not always been gardeners. Their name they derived from the village of Aram, or Haram, on the south bank of the Tees. In the reign of Edward the Third the family was possessed of three knights fees near Newark. They would seem to have gradually gone further south until one Aram is found a professor of divin- ity at Oxford; another, whom Eugene saw, a Commissioner of the Salt Tax under Queen Anne, living at his seat in Hertfordshire. The branch to- which Eugene belonged, and which had ap- parently remained in Yorkshire, must have fallen from the high state of their ancestors, or had never emerged like the others from their original obscurity. The first is the more likely supposition; for Eugene Aram, though driven by cir 114 cumstances to associate with the shop- keepers and ale drapers of Yorkshire villages, was always feared and re- spected as a very high, proud man, soli- tary and retiring. lie was himself fully conscious of his superiority in respect of birth and lineage, for it is to his investi- gations that we owe these details of his ancestry; and his assiduous study of an- tiquities makes his information on this point the more reliable. His portrait, too, in the Newgate Calendar, said by those who had seen him to be a very accurate likeness, shows a face in which there is little trace of the rough and homely; and throughout his life he seems to have attracted the regard and confidence of those whose stations in life were above his own. Whilst working at Newby with Sir Edward Blackett, Eugenes father had bought a little house at Bondgate, near Ripon, in which he installed his wife and child, visiting them in his intervals of leisure. Here Eugene was sent to school and instructed in the Testament. At the age of fourteen he joined his father at Newby, and, with the help of Sir Edward Blackett, who seems to have been attracted by his intelligence and zeal for study, entered upon that career of intense and unwearied appli- cation to various branches of learning on which rests his real claim to honor- able recognition, and which only the misfortune of circumstance has ren- dered fruitless of a great result. He first applied himself to mathematics, and, self-taught, mastered the ghastly problems of the higher algebra. But his studies were interrupted at the age of sixteen by his being sent to London to fill the place of bookkeeper in the counting-house of a relative of Sir Ed- wards, a Mr. Christopher Blackett. After remaining two years in the count- ing-house Aram was attacked by a very severe form of small-pox. His mothers anxiety was so great at her sons illness that she was only prevented from jour- neying to London by Eugenes giving up the counting-house and returning home. Here the young man resumed his mathe- matical studies, and at the same time dived into poetry, history, and -antiqui- ties. But these new mistresses quite seduced him from his boyish love; poor mathematics were cruelly deserted: the charms of the other three, he writes, quite destroyed all the heavier beauties of numbers and lines whose applications and properties I now pur- sued no longer. As the time had come when Eugene must choose a profession, he settled upon that of a schoolmaster as the one for which he was best fitted. With that intention he returned to Netherdale, his birthplace, and there engaged himself as teacher in the village school. At Netherdale, according to Aram, he com- mitted the first great error of his life, took the first unfortunate step which started him on his progress to the gibbet he married. Of his wifes family nothing is known, except that Aram thought her very much beneath him. shunned her in the street, and never spoke to her in public. Those who re- membered her described her as a tidy little body, a very weak, soft kind of woman, to whom Aram made an indif- ferent husband, a kind of woman who can hardly have affected the destiny of Aram so powerfully as he subsequently asked his friends to believe. One friend, more indiscreet and reckless than the rest, speaks of Mrs. Aram as low, mean, and vulgar, unworthy the lofty intellect of her husband, for whom a Newton and Erasmus could alone have been worthy companions. But we shall see that the sublime visionary could stoop at timesand for purposes ot his ownto society that would have been very distasteful to Newton or Erasmus, and far lower and meaner than that of his vulgar wife. Not that this inconsistency should be any re- proach to Aram, for it is always the privilege of a husband to suffer in his companions what he resents in his wife; but, when we are confronted with the high pride of the profound and solitaty scholar shocked and wounded by the vulgarity of the tidy little body, we must make very sure that the high pride is not selfish vanity, and the do- mestic picture presented the canting old story of the great man who is unhappy and unappreciated at home. Whatever the joys or disappointments The True Story of Eugene Ararn. The True Story of Eugene A raw. of his early married life, Arams zeal for learning was increased teniold. A con- sciousness of his deficiencies which he acquired as soon as he began to teach others, and an irresistible covetousness for knowledge, drove him to unexam- pled industry. He taught himself En- glish and Greek grammar from Lilly and Cambden by learning the entire books by heart. He then entered on Latin, puzzling out the meaning of the language for himself, spending some- times a whole day over five lines and never leaving a passage till he had per- fectly comprehended it. Then followed the Greek Testament, of which he parsed every word as he proceeded. When he had done this he felt himself strong enough to read Hesiod, Homer, Theocritus, Herodotus, and Thucydides. These labors, the achievements be it re- membered of a self-taught, compara- tively uneducated man, occupied some ten years. In the study of language he had hit on the true bent of his intellect, the department of learning in which he could hope to achieve something; and neither change of place nor force of cir- cumstances ever from this moment hin- dered his continual researches. When, in 1734, William Norton, Esquire, his friend, sent a horse and man to fetch the learned schoolmaster to Knaresborough, the change of scene only meant a change of study; Hebrew succeeded Greek, and he began to go through the Pentateuch in the original tongue as at Netherdale he had gone through the Greek Testament. And, he writes, he would have done more dur- ing the ten years he kept the school at Knaresborough if other things had not encroached on his time. What were those other things? There was the school, there was a family of six children, and there was pecuniary embarrassment. The ten years school- mastering in Knaresborough had not been profitable; by the end of the year 1744 Aram had mortgaged tne house at Bondgate which he had inherited from his father, and owed a considerable sum of money to his friend Mr. Norton, who had probably put him into the school in the first instance. But, in the face of subsequent events, the question sug- gests itself, Had these debts arisen only from the failure of the school? Was Arams course of life during these ten years confined to the study of Hebrew and to the instruction of the youth of Knaresborough? There is mystery sur- rounding these ten years at Knaresbor- ough. In 1744, without a word of warn- ing or preparation, without a hint as to the development of such a catastrophe, we find Aram, the solitary student, the man of high pride, who cannot even condescend to acknowledge his wife in the street, this man of learning, re- spected by all classesby the lettered for the real depths of his acquirements, by the unlettered for the enormous pro- fundity of thought which in their eyes constant solitude betokenswe find this same Aram the associate of. the lowest villains in the perpetration of a mon- strous fraud, and the associate of the~ greatest villain of them all in the mur- der of their fellow conspirator. Next door to Arams school in Knares- borough was the shop of a flax-dresser by the name of Richard Houseman. This Houseman was a dark, ill-looking fellow, broad set, round-shouldered, and wearing a brown wig, the real picture of a murderer, as a neighbor described him. His only companion in his flax- dressing was a large black raven that perched itself at the top of the steps leading into his shop. He was looked upon as belonging to the thoroughly bad set in Knaresborough, a set which in- cluded Daniel Clarke the shoemaker, Terry the ale draper, Lies the usurer, and Levi the Jew. These men were re- garded by the good people of Knares- borough as equal to any villainy. When, at the beginning of 1744, a Jew pedlar boy who travelled with jewelry in the neighborhood disappeared, report said that Houseman and Daniel Clarke had murdered him. That may or may not have been; but certain it is that about this time Houseman and Clarke had hit on a very much more profitable form of enterprise than murdering a pedlar boy for a few trumpery provin- cial trinkets. The new scheme was no rough and ready highway murder, such 115 116 as might spring from the brain of the flax-dresser or the shoemaker; it was a subtle and ingenious fraud, and argues tne presence of a superior intellect in the councils of the criminals. This was the scheme: Clarke had married a wife who was possessed of a fortune of 2001.; the money remained for the present in the hands of her relatives, who seem to have been unwilling to give it up until they were satisfied that Clarke was a man of some substance, and not an im- pecunious person who would spend his wifes fortune as soon as she got it. Clarke and his advisers saw in this re- luctance of the relatives to part with the fortune a means of securing not only the 2001., but a substantial sum of money in addition to it. On the strength of his wifes reputed fortune on the one hand, and to impress the re- luctant relatives on the other with an idea of his substance, Clarke was to order from various tradesmen plate, linen, jewelry, watches, rings, and other articles. On the strength of these ex- tensive purchases, which would argue substantial means, the relatives would part with the money. As soon as Clarke had the money and the unpaid goods on his hands, he was to disappear with his share of the booty, leaving the rest in the hands of hi~ confederates. The guilt of the fraud would thus attach to (Aarke alone, who would be safe away, while his accomplices would wait a con- venient time to realize their shares of the profit. This plan, excellent in itself, is only imperfect as regards Clarke, who is condemned thereby to a perpetual exile, whilst his friends remain at home rejoicing. However, he appears to have been weak enough to have accepted it, and to have been prepared to say good- bye to Knaresborough forever. Such was the main plot; but there was an under-plot also, in which Daniel Clarkes part called for an even greater sacrifice and a more compendious fare- well. As soon as the fraud was accom- plished, the booty in Clarkes hands, Houseman and the third party, the lat- est recruit ii~i the rascality of Knares- borough, were to murder the shoemaker and share among two instea1~of three Mrs. Clarkes money and the unpaid articles. The disappearance of Clarke and his property would favor with the public the idea that he had absconded, and so divert suspicion from his mur- derers. His murderers! Richard Houseman and Eugene Aram! For it was the schoolmaster who had joined the flax- dresser and the shoemaker in their lat- est venture, and, with his neighbor Houseman, was to remove Daniel Clarke out of harms way. Somehow or otherin what exact manner it is impos- sible to saythe studious recluse had drifted into an alliance with the mur- derous-looking shopkeeper next doer, and had become sufficiently intimate with him to engage in the darkest of his designs. Aram had made Clarkes ac- quaintance in his love of botany; Clarke was a skilled florist, and he and Aram spent many delightful hours in scaring away cats from the schoolmasters gar- den. In these hours it may have been that Aram learnt something of his com- panions projects, and was perhaps through him introduced to Houseman. Himself under the stress of financial difficulties, he saw in the rude designs of these rascals a means of relieving his own embarrassments, and, in the per- fection of an intelligent plan, built up murder on robbery. Mankind is never corrupted at once; villainy is progres- sive and declines from right, step by step, till every regard of probity is lost and every sense of all moral obligation perishes. Thus spake Eugene Aram in his own defence, and certainly, in his case, these downward steps are hidden from us; suddenly, to our infinite amazement, the callous murderer emerges from the pensive seclusion of the student. Aram has not, however, left us with- out any apology. After his conviction and sentence, he told the clergynTian who visited him that he murdered Clarke because he suspected him of an intrigue with his wife, and that at the time he considered he was doing right. Either Aram is here telling the truth, or, on the threshold of death, deliberately blackening his wifes character to jus The True Story of Eugene Aram. The True Story tify his own conduct. He can only be judged in this circumstantially. Whilst local report is silent as to any connec- tion between Clarke and Mrs. Aram, it is not silent on the unfeeling indiffer- ence with which she was treated by her husbandan indifference which makes his sensitiveness as to her moral con- duct rather fantastic. The Genti ans Magazine of 1759, the year of his execu- tion, describes his conduct towards her as inhuman. The murder of Clarke, too, is surrounded by circumstances that, to a great extent, soil its character as an act of retribution on the part of a wronged husband. His devoted apolo- gist says that all his children but one took after their mother, and that conse- quently Aram never considered them as his owna rather severe conclusion. Vanity, if it does not cause crime, sel- dom fails to accompany it, for there is no surer extinguisher of remorse. If, in his early treatment of his wife, Arams vanity of birth and talent made him shun her in the public place, and asperse his children for their likeness to their mother, may not the same pre- sumptuous vanity that wrote on the eve of his execution the lines: Calm and composed my soul her journey takes, No guilt that troubles and no heart that aches, have prompted him to preserve his repu- tation among men by vilifying the repu- tation of a woman whom to the very last he treated with dislike and con- tempt? The best apology offered on Arams behalf comes from an admirer who, comparing him with Houseman, ex- claims: How much greater the tempta- tion to murder to a man like Aram, with a miserable wife and six children, than to a wretch like Houseman, who could carry all his family under his hat! (al- luding to the large raven). There is a greater semblance of truth in this ex- cuse than in the plea of the faithless wife. By the 7th of February, 1745, Clarke, Houseman, and Aram had, in pursu- ance of their plan, procured the goo~1s, ofEugeneArarn. 117 plate, linen, and jewelry from various tradesmen, and Mrs. Clarkes money from her relatives; the following day Clarke was to quit Knaresborough with his share. But, before doing so, the spoil had to be divided, and for that pur- pose Aram and Houseman invited Clarke to come with them to St. Rob- erts cave, outside Knaresborough, where the division could be made in greater secrecy. About six oclock on the evening of the 7th, Aram came home and told his wife to light a good fire in the room up-stairs. He then went out and did not return until two in the morning with Clarke and Houseman. Something had happened to House- mans wig, for Aram asked his wife for a handkerchief to tie about Dickys head. They did not stop long; Clarke was impatient to be gone; It will soon be morning; we must get off, he said. The three men went out, and Mrs. Aram saw that Clarke carried a sack on his back. At four oclocktwo hours after Houseman and Aram returned, but this time without Clarke. They came up- stairs to the room where the fire was. Mrs. Aram asked what had become of Clarke, to which Aram replied by telling her to go to bed. She refused, and the two men, who seemed to be very anxious to have the fire to themselves, were obliged to go down-stairs and light another. Filled with misgiving, Mrs. Aram listened from above: she could only hear vague sounds. It was well she could not hear too clearly, or she might have caught the words in which Houseman suggested that she should be murdered also for safetys sakea suggestion which Aram did not take up. At seven oclock the two men went out. As soon as they had gone Mrs. Aram came down-stairs and closely examined the fireplace. There were only ashes in the grate then; but on the dunghill out- side she found some burnt wearing ap- parel, and the handkerchief she had lent Dicky to tie round his head, now blood- stained. She could not help concluding from this that something bad hap- pened to Clarke; but when she ex- pressed this natural misgiving to Dicky, 118 he was surprised and could not imagine what she meant. She was right all the same, in spite of Dickys amazement. Between two and four oclock on the morning of the 8th of February, 1745, Daniel Clarke had been murdered by Aram and House- man, and his body buried in St. Roberts cave. How he was killed, or who struck the fatal blow, is uncertain; each man charged the other with actually break- ing Clarkes skull, but to Aram in all probability belongs the credit of that performance. At any rate, from Mrs. Arams account, it is clear that both par- ticipated in the crime, and, from the ordering of the fire by Aram at six on the evening of the 7th and the use to which the fire was subsequently put, it is also clear that, whatever the motive or variety of motives, the crime was pre- meditated. When Clarkes disappearance became known in Knaresborough and the fraud that had been practised in connection with it, Aram and Houseman did not escape suspicion. In order that Aram might not be out of the way if he was wanted, he was arrested for the debt he owed to Norton; and the public was hardly reassured when he promptly ob- tained release by paying off the debt and also the mortgage on the house at Bondgate. In addition to these peculiar circumstances, some of the goods ob- tained by Clarke were found buried in Arams and Housemans gardens. Once more the law laid hands on the schoolmaster, and charged him with a misdemeanor in the matter of Clarkes fraudulent pfoceedings; but Aram was in a short time discharged for want of sufficient evidence. As soon as he was released, he hastily quitted Knaresbor- ough without even waiting to take ad- vantage of his redeemed mortgage on the Bondgate house, leaving behind him his wife and family to shift as best they could. There was no repose for ety- mological study in Knaresborough with that ugly reminiscence mouldering in St. Roberts cave. The next fourteen years of Aram s life, from his quitting Knaresborough in 1745 to his execution at York Th 1759, The True Story of Eugene Ararn. were the years during which, in spite of frequent wanderings and changes of scene and occupation, he completed his study of language and lighted on the etymological discovery which, if not original, as he himself admitted, was at least the realization of a truth at that time unimagined or unappreciated by his contemporaries. London was the first resting place of the wandering scholar. Here he remained for two years and a half, as usher at a school in Piccadilly kept by a Mr. Painblanc. This gentleman, he says, in addition to a salary, further rewarded his services by teaching the eager linguist French. In London Aram found means of realiz- ing what was left to him of the Clarke booty; his profits from that transaction are said to have amounted to about 1601., of which he must have already spent a considerable portion in meeting his liabilities at Knaresborough. On leaving Mr. Painblanc, Aram went to a school at Hayes, where he was engaged as writing master. He remained there some three or four years, after which he spent short periods at various other schools in the south of England, return- ing finally to London. His circum- stances at this time can have been far from prosperous, for on this second visit to London we find him earning money by transcribing Acts of Parliament for registration in Chancery. Ultimately he got an engagement as usher at the free grammar school of Lynn in Nor- folk, where, at the end of seven months, he was arrested for the crime he had committed fourteen years before. It is this period, between the murder and his arrest, that has been seized on by writers of fiction as a period of re- morse and mental agony, made more poignant and terrible by the added dis- tresses of a great passion. Of the latter no trace is to be found except in th~ scandalous whispers of Lynn that ac- cuse the usher of living there with a young lady he described as his niece, but who, on his departure thence, was discovered to have been his mistress. Scatcherd, the rhapsodical apologist, al- ready alluded to, indignantly repudi- ates this anecdote, and refutes it by de The True Story of Eugene Aram. daring that the pseudo-niece was no other than his ever faithful and devoted daughter Sally, who accompanied him through all his wanderings, and, after her fathers death, was so overcome with despair that her morals forsook her and she became the mistress of a gentleman in London. From this dire situation she was rescued by an honest publican in the Westminster Bridge Road, who married her. Of her father she ever entertained devoted and loving memories, believing that his dear spirit was traversing the Elysian fields with the kindred shades of his beloved Homer and Virgil. In the letter Aram wrote describing his wanderings he is silent as to his daughters companionship; indeed, the story of his niece at Lynn is the only possible reference to it. Those who re- member his arrest and his arrival at Knaresborough say nothing of any companion; and Sallys rapturous vis- ion of the Elysian fields has a suspicious flavor of the gushing Scatcherd. Aram was a man of forty when he left Knares- borough, fifty-four at the time of his execution. The extent of his studies and the recollections of the few who have any remembrance of the usher suggest rather the moody scholar of Hoods poem than the passionate youth of Buiwer Lytton. But on the remorseful tortures of the Aram of The Dream history is silent. Such evidence as exists of Arams bear- ing after the murder and during the time of his trial and punishment points, not to a man of intrinsically noble na- ture riven by the pangs of sorrow for a crime committed under the stress of a dire temptation, but to a cold and delib- erate murderer justifying his act to him- self by a kind of sentimental vanity which does not hesitate before slander and falsehood to accomplish its pitiful end. There is not in Arams conduct, from the moment of his return to Knaresborough, a prisoner charged with murder, the slightest evidence of any feeling of remorse. He is calm, confident of his acquittal, unmoved al- together by the painful circumstances of his situation; and when, atter his sen 1119 tence, all hope of earthly salvation is at an end, he contemplates with sublime self-composure the approaching journey of his calm and guiltless soul. If, dur- ing fourteen years of absence from the scene of his crime, his first feelings of remorse had become dulled, surely they would have returned with all their former acuteness when the hour of ex- piation had arrived. Study, continuous and unwearied, was always with him in his years of exile. From the French taught him by Mr. Painblanc he passed to Chaldee and Arabic, concluding with Celtic. When he had completed the study of the last- named language and had compared some three thousand words in that tongue with their equivalents in the Latin, Greek, and other languages, he was able to determine the affinity of the Celtic with the other Eui~opean lan- guages, and, by recognizing this truth, to raise himself from the Newgate Cal- endar into every respectable biographi- cal dictionary. All his papers, all the written records of his work, are lost, but his claim to recognition in this respect has never been disputed. His interest in botany, to which he owed his acquaintance with his victim Clarke, continued with him during his wanderings, and in the Botanical Gar- dens at Chelsea he spent many delight- ful and instructive hours. A gentleman who used sometimes to accompany Aram on his visits to Chelsea remem- bers the humane solicitude with which he would remove from the path any snail or worm for fear of treading on it a delightful trait. But Eugene Aram is not the first scoundrel who has found smashing in a man s head quite con- sistent with kindness to dumb animals; people, the inferiority of whose natures has prevented them from finding any good in their fellow men, are very apt to believe that true human nature re- sides only in cats and dogs. Lynn was the last resting-place of Eugene Aram before the final catastro- phe. He is better remembered here than anywhere else. He is spoken of as sullen and reserved, straying alone among the fiat uninteresting marshes 120 by the river Ouse, dressed in a horse- mans great coat, a great flapped hat drawn over his eyes; anda singular peculiarityif he heard any noise be- hind him, he would not merely turn his head, but swing himself round bodily, as if to confront an enemy. After Arams arrest the headmaster of the grammar school recollected meeting the usher one night outside his bedroom door under very suspicious circum- stances, and ever after congratulated himself on a lucky escape from murder; but the boys liked Aram very well, and he made a good many friends among the neighboring gentry. He was stopping one day with a Dr. Weatherhead, a parson living near Lynn. It was a winters morning; but Aram, always devoted to plants and flowers, was out in the garden helping the doctor with his flower-beds. Whilst they were engaged in this occupation, a horse-dealer called to see the doctor, who was anxious to sell a horse. The dealer happened to come from York- shire, and, as he was talking over the bargain with the parson, he caught sight of the figure of Aram working in the garden. He immediately recog- nized him and told the doctor that he knew his friend. The horse-dealer, his business completed, returned to York- shire, and was able to tell his custom- ers at Knaresborough the whereabouts of Eugene Aram. For the moment the information was interesting; in a month or two it became useful. Early in the year 1758 a laborer, dig- ging stone at Thistle Hill, near Knares- borough, came across a human skeleton. The people of Knaresborough with one voice declared that these must be the bones of Daniel Clarke. Mrs. Aram had already dropped some hints as to the fate of Clarke; now, at the coroners inquest on the newly found skeleton, she told her story of the night of the murder. Houseman was apprehended on her evidence, and confronted with the bones. The coroner, seeing him pale and trembling with fear, bade him take up a bone. Houseman obeyed, but, to the general astonishment, declared that the bone was no more Daniel Clarkes The True Story of Eugene Aram. than it was his. Asked to explain him- self, he said that Eugene Aram had murdered Clarke, whose bones were not those found on Thistle Hill, but were lying buried in St. Roberts cave. There the skeleton of Clarke was un- earthed, according to Housemans indi- cation. Furnished with the horse-deal- ors information, now valuable indeed, Barker and Moore, two Knaresborough constables, set out for Lynn disguised as Yorkshire cattle-dealers. Arrived at Lynn, the constables made inquiries at the local inn, where they were soon able to satisfy themselves that the man they wanted and the usher at the grammar school were one and the same person. Aram was stand- ing in a corner of the playground when he was apprehended, handcuffed, and, amidst the tears of his pupils, driven off in a chaise to Knaresborough with his two captors. It will be seen from this that he did not walk between the two stern-faced men, whose proceedings are so graphically described in Hoods poem. His arrival at. Knaresborough had been eagerly awaited. As he stepped from the chaise at the door of the Bell Inn, the rustic crowd observed with ad- miration his genteel suit of clothes and the elegant frills hanging from his wristsa very different figure from the impecunious schoolmaster who had left them fourteen years bef6re. Since then Eugene Aram had been courted and re- spected by men who were of a position to appreciate the learned and ingenious scholar, who had known nothing of the obscure and nefarious past, who would have been shocked and startled indeed to have seen the elegant frills of the meditative usher trailing over the hand- cuffs. In the parlor of the inn Aram found the vicar and a number of local gentle-~ men whom the singular circumstance~ of the crime and the personality of the criminal had drawn together. Aram conversed freely and calmly with the assembled company, and assured them of his ability to meet the charges brought against him. In the midst of his conversation his wife, who had been The True Story of Eugene Ararn. told of her husbands arrival, entered the room with her children. He took no notice of them till he had finished his conversation with the gentry; then, turning to her, said coldly, Well, how do you do ? He then asked after one of his sons, an idiot; his wife answered tnat the boy was worse; he told her that if she had followed his instructions he would have been better. A year passed between Arams return to Knaresborough and his trial at York in the August of 1759. The interval of time was occupied, presumably, in some attempt to procure such evidence as would convict both Aram and House- man without having to accept the testi- mony of either man against the other. Not that Aram would have offered him- self as a witness against his accomplice: his firmness and courageif such a word may be usedare as remarkable as the trembling cowardice of House- man. Of the latter he spoke with bitter contempt. Young woman, he said to a girl who served him with his meals in York Castle, if you ever get married, dont take a man that has got a hens heart, but choose one that has a cocks. His mind was so composed that even tue parting agony of his dear daughter Sally did not prevent him from giving her a receipt for removing freckles. As she stood sobbing at the gates of the Castle he noticed she had become tanned and freckled with the sun. Poor Sally in the midst of her tears ad- mitted the soft impeachment, but said she didnt know how to get rid of them. Oh, make a wash with lemon juice, that will clear you, answered her father. The trial of Eugene Aram took place at York before Mr. Justice Noel on the 13th of August. To the surprise of Aram, Houseman, who had been previ- ously arraigned and acquitted for want of evidence, appeared in the box as a witness for the crown. It may be partly d