THE LIVING AGE: (FOUNDED BY B. LITTELL Ix 1844.) SKVENTH SERIES. Volume Vii. NO. 2909. APRIL 7, 1900. FROM BR~IN~IY~ Vol. CCXXV. JOHN RUSKIN. The name of John Ruskin recalls phases of intellectual activity, so di- verse, even so heterogeneous, that many of those who pronounce it with a com- mon admiration may be said to be thinking of different men. To express any judgment as to the relative merits of these mento decide between the claims of the art critic and the social reformer on the gratitude of their kind may be rather to communicate infor- mation about oneself than to contribute towards a judgment of one in whom, through all these varied aspects of his personality, we must reverence lofty ideals, untiring industry, and disinter- ested devotion to his fellow men. The opinion, here avowed, that the earliest phase of his genius was its brightest, may be partly due to the fact that the glow of its emergence blends with tilat of a far-off youth. When Ruskin speaks of Nature and Art, he seems to me inspired. When he turns to finance, to politics, to the social arrangements and legislative enactments of lnankind, I can recognize neither sober judgment nor profound conviction. Every one must regret such an incapacity. It is a natural instinct which desires to find in the recorded results of every life an exhibition of increasingly fertile activ to have to recognize, without discerning any infidelity to a lofty aim, that the later date points to a lower stage. But the fact, we cannot doubt, is common. Much earnest and patient labor seems fruitless, much rich outpouring is un- preluded by any such labor; the race is not always to the swift, the battle to the strong. Whether the benefactors of mankind have given their harvest early or late is a question full of inter- est to the biographer, by no means de- void of interest for the historian; its answer teaches much that concerns our knowledge of the course of evolution and the relation of epoch to epoch. But when we come to consider the value of the work, and the rank of the workers, it tells us little or nothing. If the work of the eleventh hour may be worth that of the whole day, so may that of the first hour. Let it not be thought, there- fore, that an attempt to estimate the genius and character of a great man removed from us in the fumess of years must aim at minimizing his fame because it is focussed on the first por- tion of his intellectual activity. The world on which the genius of John Ruskin first flashed was very dif- ferent from the world of to-day. When the work of the Oxford Graduate first ity; it is perplexing and disappointing roused vehement disapproval and pas 2 Jokn Ruskin. sionate admiration no single name was before the public which has any special interest for our own time. We had never heard of George Eliot or George Meredith, of Herbert Spencer or Mat- thew Arnold; we knew Charles Darwin as the writer of an interesting book of travels, and Alfred Tennyson as the singer of a few graceful lyrics. The name of Comte was so unfamiliar, that I remember a young man fresh from college, not at all stupid, informing his cousins that it was the French way of writing and pronouncing Kant. We knew nothing of Evolution beyond what we gleaned from the Vestiges of Creation, and any question as to the origin of species would have been asso- ciated by us with the first chapters of Genesis. The popular art of the day was pretty, sentimental, conventional; popular fiction was decorous, heresy was timid, orthodoxy was secure. Sci- ence was rather a respectable comrade of literature than the omnipotent dog- matist and legislator we know to-day. It seems, in looking back, as if nothing was the same then as now, except that which is the same always. This describes the world in which Ruskin wrote and published Modern Painters. But the middle of the cen- tury inaugurated a vast change. The stir of 48 was in the air when first we learned to associate the name of John Ruskin with the heavy green volume so characteristic in its disregard of the readers conveniencewhich was rous- ing such glowing enthusiasm and pro- voking such fierce indignation that the shape of clouds and the proportion of the branch to the tree became subjects almost as dangerous as the Gorham controversy. The year of revolution seems a natural time for the emergence of his genius into fame. The vague, vivid hopes of that era blend well, at least in retrospect, with the new ideas he infused into the current of thought, although he had not himself any sym- pathy with the coming change. The most active foe of one good thing is generally another good thing, and Rus- kins sympathies were diverted from the uprising of the nations, perhaps, by some refraction from that sympathy with classes1 which always opposes sympathy with nations; and which was, no doubt, a strong tendency with him before it became a dominant impulse. At any rate, the reproach sometimes addressed to literary genius, of a want of sympathy with national life, was not wholly undeserved by bun. But it was true of him only as it may have seemed true of Jeremiah. In his genius there was a strong revolutionary element, and it is difficult, in looking back, not to melt it in with the other revolution- ary manifestations of the time. From the first it was as a prophet he ad- dressed the world; it was the ring of hortatory earnestness in denunciation or appeal which gave so vivid an origi- nality to dissertations on matters pre- viously associated with mere dilettant- ism. The tone of the pulpit, enforcing the teaching of the artist, was some- thin~ wonderfully entrancing to a gen- eration knowing that kind of earnest- ness only in connection with religion; and his teaching gathered up much of the attention which was then with- drawing itself from the ebbing tide of the High Church revival. He influ- enced many who hated or despised the High Church revival; some voices sound in my ear, as I write, which seem to protest against a judgment either obliterating from recollection a whole-hearted and characteristic admi- ration, or else associating it with a dis- cipleship the unseen speakers never ap- proached near enough to repudiate. As 1 I need hardly inform any reader that the barbar classes. I am opposing the stratifi~atson of the civil- ous and confusing antithesis of classes an~ ized world to the organic unity of a nation. masses has no bearing here. The masses are John Ruskin. 3 I listen to them, and follow them till their vanishing out of sight, it seems hard to retain my conviction that the life of Ruskin stood in any relation to a great Church movement. And yet it does seem to me that the enthusiasm with which we welcomed the first won- derful volume would have been some- thing different if it had come before the Tracts for the Times, and all that they suggest and imply. How much they suggest and imply which their authors would never have accepted as standing towards them in any relation whatever! How many a great man would draw back in astonishment if he were shown his spiritual heir! I be- lieve that John Ruskin was, in some sense, the heir of John Newman. The successor would have recognized the legacy as little as the testator; still, it remains that we, looking back upon both across the chasm of revolutionary years, may recognize a common ele- ment in their teaching, a common spirit in their learners, a certain analogy in the result. But such a suggestion needs a brief excursion beyond its immediate limits. The spiritual life of the past was bound up with the conception of au- thoritythat is, of visible authority, of guides discernible to mortal eyes in the flesh, or present in the writings which were a solid guarantee for their deci- sion. The men who reverenced the Church and the men who reverenced the Bible have set the keynote of what religion we have known in the first two milleniums of Christianity. The domin- ion of an infallible church was split up 500 years ago by those who asserted the dominion of an infallible book; our own time has recognized the analogy between the two claims, and, setting both on one level, has prepared the way for a conception including all that is true in both, or else for a blank de- nial of any important subject-matter represented by either. The worship- pers of the book and the worshippers of the church have sometimes united their forces against their common foes, but the union is transient, the antagon- ismn has been perennial. Seventy years ago the claims of the church, after a long slumber, began to revive. It was, to many minds, like a breath of spring. The first stirrings of a new belief that an institution visible among men was not merely a commemoration of what had passed away and a promise of what was to come, but nn actual fountain of power and lifethis came as a wonder- ful revival of much besides personal re- ligion. It is still commemorated in beoutiful buildings, in some true poetry, in much interesting fiction; it marks an era in art and literature, and encircles the memories of that time like an at- mosphere, coloring what it did not mould. I have seen a copy of the Chris- tian Year, which bears sympathetic pencillings from William Wilberforce;. in a contemporary copy of the Lyra Apostolica I find initials recalling a much wider divergence from High Church doctrine even than his. It is almost as surprising to trace the hostil- ity as the sympathy which it aroused. The vehement protests against New- manism contained in the letters of Dr. Arnold, for instance, strike one, at the present hour, as betraying a strange ig- norance of issues so close at hand when he wrote-issues beside which his di- vergence from John Newman seems a small thing. It was a movement sway- ing more or less the spirits of men who opposed, repudiated, or even ignored it. But the ebb was rapid, and the strength of the current was soon foigotten. When Ruskin first became famous the current was already slackening. Its Romeward tendencies were clearly rec- ognized; its greatest teacher had openly joined that church, and many were fol- lowing him. The Broad Church, though not so named till later, was beginning to be felt as a stirring of vague hereti 4 John Ruskin. cal tendencies, attractive to what then seemed audacious thought. There was a kind of blank in the world which Rus- kin was eminently adapted to fill. He was, we may say, Catholic and Protes- tant at once. He has told us in his deeply-interesting fragments of auto- biography that his mother made him learn the Bible by heart, and has ac- tually expressed his gratitude to her for the discipline. His Scotch blood some- how benefited by a process which might, one would think, have resulted in mak- ing him loathe the deepest poetry in the worlds literature. The Bible has passed into his hcart, his imagination, not less effectively than into his memory; so far lie is a Scotchman and a Protestant. But he could not be a Protestant in an exclusive sense. We cannot, indeed, say that his writings are untouched by this narrow Protestantism; his criti- cism of Raphaels well-known cartoon of the giving of the keys to Peter seems to me even a grotesque instance of it. To blame a great church painter for translating into pictorial record the sym- bolism of the command Feed my sheep, instead of reproducing with careful accuracy the details of a chap- ter of St. John he may never have read this we must confess to be a strange aberration of genius into something like stupidity. It is so far characteristic that it expresses Ruskins hatred of the Renaissance; but it leads the reader who seeks to understand his real bent of sympathy astray. The spirit of the Renaissance was equally hostile to Catholicism and Protestantism. Rus- kin, by birth and breeding, a child of stern Scotch Protestantism, was, by the necessities of his art-life, an exponent of that which is enduring in the influ- ence of the Catholic Church. For what has given enduring power to Rome, in spite of her association in the past with all that is foul and all that is cruel, is her hold on the vast, deep, lofty rev~la- tion that what we see and what we handleisnot only an object for sightand touch, but a language unfolding to us the reality of that which eye hath not seen and shall not see. This truth, known in ecclesiastical dialect as the Real Presence, however contemptuous- ly ignored or passionately denied in that particular form, is one that will never lose its hold upon the hearts of men; the church which bears witness to it survives crimes and follies, and manifests in every age its possession of something for which the world con- sciously or unconsciously never ceases to yearn. To them that are without, these things are done in parables, is, in some form, the message of almost every great spiritual teacher; it has never been set forth more eloquently than by Ruskin. Sometimes his love of symbolism passes into extravagance. One of the later volumes of Modern Painters contains a passage, for in- stance, on the symbolism of the color scarlet, against which a pencil that was hardly ever permitted such license left a mark of explanation expressing, I will venture to say, the judgment of every sane reader, and though we rare- ly come upon anything in him that is merely extravagant, we often find it very difficult to go along with his pic- torial interpretations. The student who takes with him to the contemplation of any great picture some description from the pen of the great critic is often be- wildered in the endeavor to apply it to what he sees before his eyes. Every one must have felt this, I think, in the case which he chooses as the typical example of imaginationTintorets great picture at Venice of the Crucifix- ion. As we make out the figure of the ass behind the Cross, feeding on with- ered palm trees, in which Ruskin has taught us to see a mournful judgment on the triumphal entry into Jerusalem, we cannot but ask ourselvesHow much did the critic find, and how much did he bring? It is pathetic to remem John Ruskin. 5 ber that he was himself at times con- scious of the doubt. I wonder how much Shakespeare really meant of all that, he once said to a friend, after listening to a lecture on Shakespeare. I suppose, at any rate, he meant more than we can follow, and not less, said his friendFrederick Maurice. Well, that is what I used to think of Turner, he replied, sadly, and now I dont know. I give the reminiscence as il- lustrating the fluctuating revelations of the prophet, his temptations to doubt the revelation, not as an index to the bent of his true thought. Inspiration and doubt are as substance and shad- ow; w~ might almost venture to say that a man must knnw neither or both. He who has never doubted the revela- tion has never, in the true sense of the word, believed it. But the message was in the revelation, not the doubt. Those haunting voices, which comae back as I write, seem again to l)ring their protest against, any association of the lesson of Ru~kin with mystic truth. What we cared for in his teaching I hear them say, was not hidden mean- ing or mystery; it was an escape from all that. He taught us to see things. He opened our eyes to discern what was before us. The waves had danccd and broken on the shore. The clouds had woven gold and silver draperies over our head, and we had looked at them, but when Ituskin anointed our eyes with his euphrasy and rue, we discov- ered that we had never previously seen them. To see the beautiful world is enough; an excursion into that re~iomm would be only embarrassed by this heavy baggage of symbolism. The protest embodies the recollections of hundreds, perhaps thousandsmy own among them. How vividly across the mist of years I recall first reading his description of a wave. The waves, as I read, broke round me on rocks and sand I had known from childhood, yet my feeling was one of perplexity. What can this and that meanover- hanging lips, lacework, etc.I have often seen waves and never all that! It was like reading it in a foreign tongue. Then I looked at the waves, and discovered that never before had I seen one. Perhaps even more have felt this in looking at the clouds; for no spot of earth shuts us off from testing the truth of his description of them. Ruskin did for every reader what spec- tacles do for a short-sighted person. Where we saw a vague blur he gave definite form and distinct color. He did not necessarily pass on a message from the breaking wave and the melt- ing cloud, but he could not have passed on the outward image if to him it had not been much more than an image. It would not have been sight to his readers if to him it had not been thought. Perhaps I muay make my meaning clearer by comparing him with a great poet. Wordsworth saw in Nature the same kind of reflection and interpreta- tion of the moral life of man as Ruskin saw in Art. He brought Wordsworths ideas afresh to the minds of men, dyed with fresh splendor and purified from their clogging accretions. Eloquence is not subject to the invasions of the prosaic in the same way that verse is, and is also more welcome to an average intelligence. To translate poetry into eloquence is, for the tiiue at all events, to hive its meaning a wider audience. One who reads the lines on Peel Castle, on revisiting the Wye, the sonnet begin- ning hail, Twilight, and one or two others, and then turns to many pas- sages in Modern Painters, may test the effect of such a translation. Both writers bring home to the mind of the reader that he who sees only outward things sees these incompletely. If Rus- kin were remembered only as one who had tau~,ht us to look at the outward face of Nature, we should have in- curred a deep debt of gratitude to him, 6 John Ruskin. but he could not have done that if he had done nothing else. He could not have unveiled the beauty of earth and sky unless to him beauty had been also language. If to many of those who were most moved by his glowing words it remained mere beauty, it was much to them because it was more to him. The message of a teacher, as it lives in the mind of a learner, is neces- sarily incomplete. If it is to be a vital growth it must be also a fragment. In calling Ruskin the heir rather of Newman than of Wordsworth, and yet considering his teaching mainly a ren- dering in eloquence of Wordsworths poetry, I have tried to mark the effect of his personality. What we mean by personal influence is difficult to define; in some sense all influence must be per- sonal; and if it be taken as implying an impressive personality, it could not be applied to him. When he first became a familiar figure in London drawing- rooms as a young man, I fancy the effect on the ardent admirers of his book was disappointing. The general impression, as far as I can recall it after fifty years, was somewhat pallid, some- what ineffective. There was nothing in the unsubstantial, but not graceful, figure, the aquiline face, the pale tone of coloring, the hlight lisp, to suggest a prophet. I recall these faint echoes from my girlhood, because in their very insignificance they bring out what I mean by the personal element in his in- fluence. The impression of such a per- sonality as John Newmans, for in- stance (whom I never saw), might have created a glamor concealing the influ- ence of soul on soul. There was no glamor about Mr. Ruskin. I daresay anything which might be so described was at its lowest when he was seen against the background of Society, as he never was after the beginning of his fame. But there could never have been much of it at any time. And yet the element of a personality was as much in his influence as in John Newmans. We judge him imperfectly from his books. He was a fountain of actual, living influence. When I recall the few times of meeting him I have a sense of coming nearer to a human spirit than in recalling the sight of other remark- able men, a sense I could not justify by any words he spoke, even if I could quote them. There was something in him forthcoming, trustful, human. The occasion on which I felt this most was once at the National Gallery, where I was copying a picture, and he came to look at my attempt. He cannot have praised it, or I shoUld remember what he said, but I remember feeling almost embarrassed by the wonderful respect- fulness in his attention. It was not that he was a distinguished man and I a girl producing a mediocre daubwe were, for the time, two students of Turner, standing side by side before a great work. And, again, I felt this, the last time I ever saw him. It was in his drawing-room at Denmark Hill; years had passed and everything was changed. I suppose it was at the sad- dest thne of his life. The world looks black to me, is the only speech I re- member, and I do not remember the words accurately, but they give an im- pression from that visit of which I am certain. It happened to be a very in- convenient visit to him; he had written to beg me and a friend to defer it, and some mistake about his letter brought him his undesired guests in spite of it, but he showed us his Turners as gra- ciously as if lie had been longing to see us, and I felt again how wonderfully he accepted any love of art as an equal platform where we might communicate without any looking up or down. I re- call the sad, wandering expression in his eyes as they met mine, with a won- derful sense of pathos; it was like look- ing into the face of a child. And again I felt that contact with an unshrinking humanity which makes up, surely, a John Ruskin. 7 large part of the reminiscence of all his acquaintance. Perhaps I seem to de- scribe a quite ordinary quality in using those words, yet, in truth, it is very rare. The sense of contact with a hu- man spirit, a real meetingas distin- guished from a passing recognitionis, with most persons, a distinction stamped with preference. It must be a part of the recollection of all personal dealing with him, even when it was not all genial. I remember about the same time as my National Gallery interview, a beautiful girl speaking with impa- tience of his affected humility, and the remark of a hearer that one would be glad of a little even affected humility in him. The two remarks recur with reference to a quality which was, I am sure, deeply sincere, but which, no doubt, seemed heterogeneous with much else in him. It was mainly those who knew him through his books who thought him conceited. Whatever they may have had to complain of, it was not anything that had a touch of conde- scension. Whatever they may have missed, it was not the open door of an hospitable mind. I should sum up the impressions I have tried to revive in saying that Rus- kin seemed to me to gather up all that was best in spiritual democracy. Of what may be called his democracy in a more exact sense I have confessed that I have nothing to say. In spite of some weighty testimony, I cannot re- gard it as even a strong influence, from him on his time; it seems to me rather the vivid expression of a strong influ- ence upon him from others. But it sprang from that central core of his teaching, his belief in beauty as a Di- vine Sacrament. For this belief in- volves the conviction that this table of the Lord must be open to all. From that feast none must be shut out. And the discovery that whole classes are shut out, that the bulk of the worlds workers cannot see the beauty of a tree or a flower, because sordid cares and physical wretchedness weave an opaque veil before their eyesthis dis- covery made Ruskin a Socialist. Why, he seemed always saying, should a message, in its nature universal, be si- lenced by luxury on the one hand, as much as by penury on the other? The feverish hunt for wealth curtains off the influence of Nature almost as much as the desperate struggle with poverty, while the commercial development which creates a few millionaires and a mass of overdriven workers (so he rea- soned) creates also a hideous world. He longed to spread the truly human life. He hated the phase of civilization which cut 6ff, as he thought, from whole classes of men the power to drink in the message of Nature and of Art. Those of his writings which deal with this subject fail to exhibit to my eyes the grace and force which belong to his earlier period. But their true spirit of brotherhood must be acknowledged by all. Ruskin must always have been sin- gularly open to influence from other minds. I remember well his meeting Frederick Maurice at our house, soon after the publication of his Notes on the Construction of Sheepfolds, a lit- tle theological pamphlet which, accord- ing to a story told and probably invent- ed at the time, was bought by a farmer who thought its title an index to its contents. Mr. Maurice was made very indignant by some passage in it which suggested a stricter fencing of the Christian life from the invasion of sin- ners. Mr. Ruskin ought to do pen- ance in a white sheet for such a doc- trine, he said, in a letter to a common friend. The letter was shown to Rus- kin and drew from him a beautifully candid and simple request for explana- tion, unaccompanied by an angry word. Mr. Maurice was profoundly touched, and the little correspondence brought out from those two noble souls a music 8 New England in War- Time. that lingers in my ears as does hardly any other utterance of either. Mine is a dark faith, Ruskin wrote, with a full readiness to be enlightened by one who had applied such severe words to his utterance. It might certainly be said that one who felt his own a dark faith had better not try to enlighten others, but I think the candor and hu- mility of his willingness, under those circumstances, to be enlightened are much more rare and much more valu- able than a modest caution in advanc- ing opinions which had afterwards to be withdrawn. He lived his faith, whatever it was, as fully as ever did a human being. I have said that those who admire him are sometimes think- ing of different men, but that dual per- sonality of which most of us are so mournfully conscious both within and withoutthe seeker after lofty truth, and the compromiser with what is low and narrowof this he knew nothing. He was true to his aspirations; they may not always have been either wise or consistent, but they were always one with his life. A teacher can hardly have a nobler epitaph. Julia Wedowood. The Contemporary Review. NEW ENGLAND IN WAR-TIME. It is difficult to say whether the two Englands, the Old and the New, have or have not more points of resemblance than of contrast. They are very like, and also very unlike. Both are sepa- rated from the rest of the world by tangible barriers, and, in a measure, isolated. England is cut off by sundry seas and watery channels from the con- tinent of Europe and her adjacent islands, and divided from her only land neighbor by romantic, if not very lofty, hills. New England is nearly severed from the rest of the American continent (speaking without minute geographical exactness) by a range of picturesque mountains and two noble and broad- flowing rivers; while the Atlantic Ocean forms an effective barrier between her shores and the continents of this hemi- sphere. If the Old England is physical- ly insular, the New England is penin- sular; and it is possible that the limita- tions which are supposed to character- ize the people of the one are not wholly unshared by those of the other. To explain and define New England is not so unnecessary as it may seem, as several writers and especially nov- elists appear to confound it with the whole of the American Union, oblivious of the fact that it is merely its small easternmost corner, the six states origi- nally settled by the English Puritans, who gave it its name, and the social, re- ligious and intellectual characteristics for which it has long been known. This complete or partial isola- tion has led to conditions of much similarity in the two countries in regard to warsthat is, to the wars of their respective empires, if one may so speak. Both, for many years, have been centres of comparative calm, while the storms of battle have raged without. England, though her armies have been fighting almost continuously abroad, and in or upon the outskirts. of her more distant possessions, has known no war in any large military sense for upwards of two hundred years. New England cannot claim quite so long an immunity, the battles of Bunker Hill and Bennington and the New England in War- Time. 9 encounter at Lexington having taken place within her borders; but even dur- ing the Revolution the main tides of conflict flowed elsewherein New York, New Jersey, and the more Southern States. To find the Puritan States un- der the stress of general warfare with- in their own limits, one must go back to the seventeenth century, to the strug- gles with the native Indian tribes. Here one meets with fighting of the most sanguinary kind, horrors enough and to spare, and, as George Herbert says, anguish of all sizes. There is no more painful reading than the accounts of the night attacks by the stealthy and cruel savages on the unprepared Eng- lish settlements, such as Deerfield, Had- ley and others, and the massacres of men, women and children that fol- lowed. It is the stuff that nightmares are made of. The humane and civilized English of the seventeenth century, speaking, as we always must, in the comparative degree, for there were abundant faults on their own side found themselves plunged back into the conditions of the eighth and ninth, when the Danes over-ran the land, burning town, hamlet and monastery, and sparing none. The battles of the early settlers, in dark forests and treacherous swamps, with Pequods, Narragansets and Wampanoags (names probably more picturesque than their owners) may not have been magnifi- cent, but they were certainly war of the most effective kind, and usually meant little less than the extermination of the vanquished tribes. After the period of original conqhest and occupation, how- ever, the zone of Indian fighting moved westward, and, as I have said, the land saw little warfare on its own soil. The battles with the French, which cost this country the lives of Braddock and Wolfe and first brought Washington into prominence, were fought elsewhere; so, too, were those in the second con- flict with England early in the present century, and, of course, those of the Mexican War some years later, as well as the recent Spanish War with its legacy in the Philippines. It is needless to say that all the operations of the American Civil War were carried on at a distance from the New England States. The two Englands, therefore, are alike in long exemption from internal wars, and in sending forth their citi- zens to wage them in other fields. In the younger community, the closest an- alogy to the conditions now existing here was furnished by the great Civil War of 1861-65. It was called various- ly a war of secession, a civil war, and a rebellion; but with respect to most of the Northern States, it had much more the nature of a foreign war. The fa- mous political line known as Masons and Dixons, which divided the slave- owning states from those in which the peculiar institution has long ceased to exist, was by no ,means unlike the boundary between two different na- tions. I have personally a faint recol- lection of crossing the mystic parallel in early youth, and, although there was no frontier custom-house or marked change in the dress or speech of the people on entering the Southern domin- ions, of feeling myself on foreign ground. it is not, indeed, too much to say that, throughout the greater por- tion of the North, the call to arms by President Lincoln, after the attack on Fort Sumter in 1861, was responded to in much the same spirit that would have been aroused by the invasion of a foreign foe. The lack of military preparations throughout the North at the opening of the conflict is supposed to furnish one of the lessons of history, and the speed with which they were made, when it was seen to be inevitable, another. No large regular army, it is needless to say, with an organized body of reserves and militia to draw from, existed; the I0 New England in War- Time. small standing army of the Union be- ing, at the time, parcelled out into min- ute bodies of men serving as garrisons in various forts or stations widely sep- arated from each other and usually re- mote from the seat of government. The vast Northern army of the war, which began with seventy-five thousand men, enlisted for three months in 1861, was mainly a volunteer one, the draft not taking place till later in the struggle. But all this, again, is matter of history, and straying into wider fields than my title allows. In the New England States the call to war was responded to with an enthusiasm not surpassed in any other part of the country. It is curious that the states which disap- proved most strongly of the war with this country in 1812-14, and withheld their support as much as possible, should have burst into a flame of patriotism at the threat of civil war. But doubtless the issues at stake were felt to be of more importance, and the impending conflict promised to be within strictly sectional bounds. To say truth, from the land of the Puritans, or of their descendants, to the sunny South, it was then a particularly far cry, and the sep- arating gulf was not one of distance only. The bar of social differences and repulsions which slavery and a large slave-owning class had erected, had grown more and more formidable as the years went by. The fitness of the New Englander, whether bred in town or country, for the duties of a soldier was abundantly demonstrated in the proof. The man of the fields, no doubt, had a better phy- sique to liegin with, for my impression is that the New England townsman was then somewhat lacking in robustness, the tide of athletics not having fully set in; but the more varied conditions of urban life, and perhaps a better knowledge of hygienic laws, gave the town-enlisted soldier an advantage in, the malarial and fever-stricken districts of the South. The countryman often fared hardly, and in many places it was no mere figure to say that the climate slew more than the enemy. As a rule, he was not a traveller. Men in the amphibious communities of the coast, it is true, sometimes made voyages, long or short, but the inland farmer and la- borer were apt to be fixtures, except when they went West for good. It is supposed by some that persons of ma- ture life who have never been beyond the boundaries of their parish are pe- culiar to these islands; I have, however, met with individuals in the remoter parts of the land of Longfellow who had rarely or never visited the town nearest them, and regarded the attrac- tions of the more distant centres like Boston, New Haven, and New York, as the French peasant in the poem did the fabled glories of Carcassonne, only with less desire to behold them. Others I have seen who literally had never been out of the township in which they were born. Living, therefore, all his life in a climate of noted healthfulness, if of severe extremes, it is not surprising that the rural New Englander often found the conditions of less tonic lati- tudes more deadly than the enemys bullets. In this respect he was less fortunate than his British brother, whose much maligned climate seems an excellent preparative for every other. Nevertheless, he not infrequently sur- vived the agues of Virginia, and the rigors of yellow fever in New Orleans, as well as the hail of lead, and returned home with a broadened horizon. One indispensable requisite for soldiering he possessed in common with most Americans; he had the hereditary in- stinct of marksmanship, the latent, if not always developed, capacity for shooting straight. The blood of the early Indian fighters still ran in his veins, though he was rarely cognizant of their exploits; and he had enjoyed a fair amount of practice upon the game of New England in War- Time. 11 his native woods and fields, which, de- spite the laxity of the game-laws, was tolerably abundant. It was, however, almost wholly practice with the shot- gun, and upon wild geese and ducks, quails, partridges, squirrels, and the likemost of the larger game having been exterminated with the Indians. Dr. Holmes, in a famous poem, de- scribes the old Queens arm as form- lug a common chimney ornament; but I doubt if, in the country districts, one man in fifty had ever used a rifle or a musket in his life. Indeed, the historic weapon is spoken of as being in a dam- aged condition. If Zekiel, however, could not have given Huldah an exhi- bition of his prowess with the long- ranged arm, as his countrymen of the South and West might still have done their shooting must, at least, have equalled Robin Hoods; they used to drive nails into trees, and hit squirrels and rabbits in the eye, to save the skins, at incredibly long distances with their pea-riflesthe root of the matter was undoubtedly in him. With respect to military drill and discipline, a tradi- tion of training and training-days lin- gered ~it that time in the country, and there was the proverbial sprinkling of colonels, majors, and captains; but it seemed to me that the holders of the titles had gained them at some remote period, when a different order of things had prevailed. In the larger centres I am aware that there were regular volunteer organizations of a good de- gree of efficiency. Coming like Cincinnatus from the plough, or from the factory, the ware- house, and the commercial or profes- sional office, and even from schools and colleges, these excellent citizen-soldiers were first hived in camps for instruc- tion in the rudiments of war. Literally they were of all sorts and conditions. It is said that no other modern army ever had in its ranks so much talent and even genius as this first American volunteer force; and the New England contingent was, doubtless, not behind the others. One heard of sculptors, poets, and Latin scholars serving as pri- vates. Possibly the French army, in the Franco-Prussian War, may have furnished a parallel; but probably the number thus accomplished was smaller than supposed. At the beginning, a large proportion of the officers, espe- cially those of lower rank, were about of the same social standing as their men; but the traditions and actual ex- perience of training, and the respect for authority, wuich has always character- ized the New England race, despite cer- tain apparent instances to the contrary, prevented insubordination. In the Middle and Western States, I believe, there was more difficulty, and some amusing stories were told. There was much conning of tactics and drill-man- uals on the part of the newly-appoint- ed officers, and he who had practical experience imparted to him who had not Within and without the camps there were arduous and unwonted ex- ercises; but good-humor prevailed, and several varieties of the American joke are said to date from those weeks of toil. Musketry-practice, not carried to too fine a point, came in due course; also, though sometimes elsewhere, the donning of uniforms, the oft-pictured cap (of French origin), and the dark- blue coat and the light-blue trousers that have become historic. Then the different regiments moved southward by land or sea. Whichever the route, they were liable to rough usage before reaching the front. In one notable in- stance a land-going force, while still un- armed, was almost as severely handled by the mob in a disaffected town as at a later date by the enemy; and those who travelled by seain fleets of mis- cellaneous craft, hastily chartered, and often mere river-boats suited only for inland watershad a full share of dan- ger, discomfort, and even disaster. Yet 12 New England in War- Time. the experience was inspiriting and memorable. The scenes of departure were enthusiastic; rather more noisy than those which speed our parting bat- talions, Africa~bound in much better vessels, but of the same tenor and tem- per. There were spceches, exhorta- tions, prayers, music, laughter, and the inevitable tears; yet all was taken, I think, somewhat lightly, at least in the earlier departures. Before the final~ex- odus a good many furloughs had been granted, and many families had enjoyed, mostly for the first time in their lives, the spectacle of their men-folk in some- thing other than civilian dress; uni- forms being then a comparative rarity in the land, and even so important a personage as the railway conductor frequently undistinguished in this way from his fellow-mortals. Now, I under- stand it is different. A later stage of the conflict, of course, brought home the actualities of war; the news of meeting armies and the universal tale of losses by death, capture, or disease, and of disablement by w-ounds, with the return of men, injured or otherwise out of action. About this time appeared a number of memoirs celebrating the virtues of certain young men of remarkable piety and promise who had been cut off early in the campaign. These works, usually somewhat thin volumes, adorned with handsome portraits of the I)erishe(i heroes (in uniform), drew so exalted a picture of their characters that one would have thought them more fitly en- listed in the Church militant than in the army of the flesh. Some of these youth- ful Bayards and ilavelocks were of such tender age as to be merely drum- mer-boys; and in all cases one could not but deplore their untimely removal. The representatives of the arts who fell in the earlier battles also had their ele- gists, and together there was much som~- row in many households. Attempts to analyze human motives are usually futile, especially the mo- tives of collective bodies of men. That the New Englander did not leave his farm or his business to redress the wrongs of the negro, need hardly be said; any more than that the British soldier in the present campaign is chief- ly actuated by a wish to prevent the ills which may befall native races in South Africa if the rule of his country is overthrown. Probably few abolition- ists were in the Northern army. Ani- mosity towards his Southern brother was never a characteristic of the aver- age man in New England, though aroused strongly enough when the na- tional property and its custodians at Charleston were assailed. lie desired to make money out of him if possible; and he had comparatively few social relations with him, his successive mi- grations, or emigrations, being towards the West. Again, military glory was not a factor, for the reason hinted at; he was immersed in busincss-enter- prises with which grim-visaged war would have interfered. Nor can the fascination of wearing gilt buttons, as alleged by certain Southern historians, be admitted. Therefore, for these and other reasons, he must be credited with patriotism. He fought for his country, to preserve the Union, his Empire, as his opponent with equally strong pur- pose fou~ht to bring about its dismem- l)erment, and also, no doubt, for the in- stitution of slavery, upon which to him time stal)ility of his world seemed to rest. All this, however, may be said to apply to time whole North. But, happily for themselves, both sides have long since hurled the hatchet, or, what is the same in effect, have joined together in using it upon a foreign adversary. Time very phrases, 1)1CSCrUatiOfl of the Union, right of secession, and so forth, are out- worn and forgotten, though the issues were not wholly unlike those now at stake in the British Empire, a racial 13 New England in War- Time. j)robleln being involved in the later as u the earlier conflict. The land of Lowell and Longfellow, of Emerson and of Holmes, Whittier, and Hawthorne, with its bright skies and clear-flowing rivers, its ranges of rock-ribbed hills and mountains, aus- tere of outline and usually clothed with the forests that still approach near to many of its larger towns, was changed in no single feature by the war. No new military works broke the familiar lines of the landscape. its peaceful, elm-shadowed seats of learning were disturbed by no sieges, bombardments and rude assaults; and no captain, or colonel, or knight in arms, was called on in Miltonic verse to respect the resi- dence or the person of poet or professor. Throughout the land scholastic and academic life, as well as farming and business, pursued their wonted course, and several forms of intellectual activ- ity especially flourished. The vogue of the lecture, for instance, was then at its height and perhaps its best, and other entertainments abounded. Returned soldiers, injured or invalided, and coin- monly in uniform, were much in evi- dence; and all kinds of charitable enter- prises and organizations connected with the needs of the land and sea forces were at work. Patriotic demonstra- tions by no means ceased with the first levy of troops. All the chief national holidays were utilized, the Fourth of July lending itself conveniently, though perhaps not logically, to the purpose. That the day which celebrates the polit- ical separation of a daughter from a parent state should have been found to have lessons against any further divi- sion of the state thus separated, argues an elasticity of function. Possibly it may yet serve as a landmark of inter- national re-union, should that fortunate fate be in store for English-speaking peoples. One feature notably marked the spirit of the New England people throughout the four years of flghting,an unshak- en optimism as to the result. I doubt if, from the first, the most timorous person in the six states, it any timorous t.here were, ever dreamed for a moment of a possible incursion and occupation by a Southern force. Temporary cheeks they may have expected. Of course, saddened and darkened homes, the eter- nal blight of xvar, were many; but losses for the most part were bravely borne. Not painlessly, sang Whit- tier, Not painlessly does God recast And mould anew the nation. There were, however, few material hardships; no women and children toil- ing in the fields perforce; no battle- wrecked towns; no burned homesteads and deserted farms or plantations; no blockaded ports; no makeshifts for clothing and articles of common use; no servile race unsettled by the hope of freedom; no starvation. Emerson could be as cheerful and philosophical as ever, Lowell as humorous and caustic, the Autocrat of many breakfast-tables as sprightly, Longfellow as serene. Haw- thorne, the dreamer, lately returned from Europe, and perplexed and disil- lusioned by the calamity which had be- fallen his land of untrammelled sun- shine, had left it for another. Of course political unanimity did not reign in the extreme Eastern States any more than elsewhere. History, and at least one novel, record the existence in the North of the politically disaffected person. The novel, using the prevail- ing vernacular, called him a copperhead. The vernacular, however, was wrong; for the reptile so named strikes secretly and silently, while the Southern sym- pathizer, as I knew him, was, in most cases, a rather outspoken and some- times noisy person, who vented his opinions on all possible occasions. Prob- ably there were others who did not. In any case, unlike his political counter- 14 New England in War- Time. part in the South, he was in small dan- ger of bodily harm, at least in New England. As a rule, he contented him- self with severe criticism of the meth- ods of the government and the leading generals in carrying on the war. A parallel might be drawn in connection with current events here, but compari- sons are invidious. Moreover, persons of the class, notwithstanding their dis- affection, were not infrequently found as volunteers in the Northern army. But if the inhabItants of the Puritan Peninsula went to war with avidity, so to speak, when it was seen to be un- avoidable, they returned to civil pur- suits with even more satisfaction. The quiet merging of the great citizen force into the mass of the people, as it is called, has been accounted not less sur- prising than their original enrolment. But men had grown weary of fighting. In no long time the whole momentous experiencea campaign carried on by hundreds of thousands and spread over half a continenthad slipped into the past. Pictures of war in endless vari- ety they had seen; men marching, voy- aging, camping; toiling hA trenches, bridging and fording rivers, threading forests and climbing mountains; and fighting everywherein woods, in swamps, on mountain-tops, in ships, boats, forts, and farmhouses. It was a phantasmagoria of life and death; but they had seen enough, and, for the most part, were glad to banish the dream. In many cases it seemed to fade with- out their will. Indeed, numbers of un- doubted heroes suffered from aprovok- ing inability to describe their most pic- turesque experiences, and caused the regret that graphic powers do not neces- sarily go with soldiership. Others of less authentic valor sometimes supplied the deficiency. Descriptions, however, were not wanting, as vivid and perhaps as convincing as the vaunted methods of the Realist, for the war correspond- ent had been busy from the first. The veterans were not the only per- sons willing and even anxious to forget. Throughout the North, and especially in the cities and towns of New England and other Eastern States, many, after the final submission of the foe, turned as if with a sudden revulsion to other things. They had been patriots while the need lasted, or seemed to last; they had supported and toiled for the Union with the rest, perhaps had used the par- ty watchwords and shibboleths; and had been glad of victory. But victory won, decisively and completely, a dis- taste for all connected with the war seemed to fall upon them. It had been noble, virtuous, exemplary, the cause of union and freedom; but, after all, it had been a civil war, politically and in the eyes of the world. An English na- tion fallen out with itselfMarston Moor and Naseby over again after two hundred yearsand on Republican soil! It was, doubtless, inevitable, this na- tional re-moulding, a burden shifted upon their shoulders by the more cal- lous, slave-trafficking centuries; but the ordeal once over it were best forgot. They left patriotism, now somewhat staled, and the labors of reconstruction to the politician, and sought brighter fields: Some made money inordinately in the era of commercial activity and speculation that followed peace. Others,. whom Roger Ascimam might have called better-feathered spirits, especially the younger ones, found nepenthe and re- freshment in literature and art, and in the ~sthetic revival of the latter half of the century. A great many rediscov- ered Europe and its possibilities as an extended pleasure-ground. Passionate, and other, pilgrimages were made to old-world shrines, and for a space Paris became a Mecca. Mr. Henry James, in particular, discovered England and its upper classes, with their value in the way of affording international episodes. New England itself was discovered by Mr. Howells, who, coming from the Past and Present .Reply. 15 West by way of Venice, found in Bos- ton and its cultivated society, and in the homely people of the outlying country districts, an unworked vein of material for his carefully studied pictures. His refined Harvard heroes, as some will remember, were of a younger genera- tion, addicted to hopping back and forth over the Atlantic, and little in- terested in the war their elders had waged, except for its artistic and spec- tacular effects. In later life they may have had experience of their own in the recent naval and military enter- prises of their country. Macmillans Magazine Perhaps in comparing Old with New England in the momentous question of war, I am forcing slight resem- blances. The one, although the only English-founded colony bearing the name of the older state, is now merely the small corner of a nation, while the other is the centre and heart of an em- pire. Both, however, are to-day as they have always been alike in the readiness of their citizens to go any- where and do anything in the way of fighting, and both abound in more or less appropriate memorials to those who have fallen on far-distant fields. A. U. Hyde. PAST AND PRESENT. When lofty Spain came towering up the seas This little stubborn land to daunt and quell, The winds of heaven were our auxiliaries, And smote her that she fell. Ah, not to-day is Nature on our side! The mountains and the rivers are our foe, And Nature with the heart of man allied Is hard to overthrow. Westmlnater Gazette. William Watson. REPLY. Imputes he mortal passions to the mountains? And, for a party stroke, Feigns he that water-ways, and river-fountains Fight for the Boers ill yoke? Enough to answer Englands slanderous son, And brand his calumny, I bore her files to battle, every one, Her LoverOceanI! London Telegraph. Edwin Arnold. 16 Rube. RUBE.* BY H. HEIMBIJRG. II. What lots of things had to be done dur- ing the mysterious season that preceded Christmas! In the evening, when the child was asleep, Gretchen sat on the sofa in my room, and sewed clothes for a doll baby that could open and close its eyes and cry, and had a head covered with long, light hair. With my own hands did I upholster a doll-house, the inmates of which were attired by my sister-in-lawa papa in uniform, a mamma in a lace dressing-gown, and six doll children. We worked with such assiduity that we almost forgot to talk. How she will enjoy it, Rudolph! said Gretchen, at length, and cast an enraptured gaze on the little hat she had just completed. It is so nice that ours is a girl; playthings for a boy are so much harder to find. Children, you are possessed, assert- ed my mother-in-law; the child is al- together too small for such pretty things; she cannot appreciate them, and will be sure to ruin them. But she soon found she had stirred up a hornets nest! Elsie is an unusually clever child, asserted Gretchen, quite red in the face; if she is only a year and a half old she can run and play, and knows ex- actly what she wants. She can already say, give! give! said I, in confirmation, and screams when she cannot have her own way. She is a smart one, and takes after her mother. And last year she always put her hands out for the candles and laughed, observed my little sister-in-law. And she holds her little old doll cx- Translated for The Living Age by Hasket Derby. aetly as Minna holds her; have you not noticed it, mamma? began Gretchen once more. Mamma nodded. If she learns nothing worse than that from Minna. How so? we all inquired in a breath. I dont know why, but the girl does not please me at all. Why not? we again asked; she I)lays nicely with the child. Well, perhaps I am wrong; but, un- less I am much mistaken, she has a follower, said my mother-in-law. I have several times seen her standing on the steps with a man,she always ran off when she saw me coming But, good gracious, mamma, why should she not have a young man? said Gretchen, in extenuation. No, that will never do, my dear, in- terrupted I; a nurse who has a fol- lower is neither one thing nor the otheris unfitted for her place; thinks more of her lover than of our little one; in fact, the long and short of it is that, if such is the case, I shall give her warning. But, Rudolph! My mind is made up, my dear. And you are quite right, too, de- clared my mother-in-law, you will see that it is so. Have you got a tree? Oh, a beautiful fir and lovely bon- bons! cried Gretchen. Mamma, it xviii be the most charming Christmas Eve I ever had. Of course! of course! assented the old lady. It is delightful to light up the candles for a child. Have you got everything for the servants ? Everything, everything! What are you thinking of, mamma? It comes Rube. 17 day after tomorrow! declared Gret- chen. And then she began to count up: The cook, a dress; the nurse, a cloak; the man, a watch. Then she ran across to her mother and whispered something in her ear. But be sure, mamma, and dont forget to be here punctually at five oclock; the little one cannot stay up very late. The Holy Eve had come. What a day it had been! Such radiant faces I had not seen for a long time; Anna laughed in the kitchen, Minna in the nursery; my wife stopped to caress the child every time she had to pass its little bed, and Miss Elsie Lay there, kicked her small legs about and related long sto- ries to herself. The bright, winter sun, with a smile on its own face, looked in at the window, and the whole house was pervaded with the odor of fir bal- sam, candles and cake. With what an air of importance did the young mother bustle about! She could not tell where to begin. In the parlor stood the table all ready for the presents; we had to dress it for just so many; for mamma, and for my sister- in-law, and for my wifes two brothers, who were home on leave; for the ser- vants, and, above all, for the child. They would all make for the child the first thing, and the brothers had not yet seen Gretchen in her capacity of ma- tron and mamma. This day she would shine forth in all her glory; all the silver had been taken out, the finest damask, and for the baby the white embroidered dress with the sky-blue ribbons. Rudolph! Rudolph! Yes, my dear! She came in, breathless, with a note. Only think, Puss! Puss is engaged to the Assessor! Of course he is coming this evening, tooRudolph, see where it says it! Ah! I am delighted! And mamma writes that she will send round some champagne for this LIVING AGE. VOL. vii. 345 evening. Rudolph be sure you get him something in honor of the engagement, a meerschaum pipe or a beer mug or something of the kind; it will never do to leave him out when the presents are given round. Yes, my angel But, be quick! You have got to help me get the tree ready afterwards. Directly, Gi~etchenthat is, as soon as I am ready; I have some little se- crets of my own. So, about three in the afternoon, I started to do my wifes commission. I soon found what I wanted, fought my way through the crowd at the Christ- mas fair, bought a bunch of violets for Grete, looked my fill on the expectant faces of old and young, thought of my little flaxen-haired baby at home, and made up my mind that I was a fortu- nato, a very fortunate fellow. How poor once, how rich now! I thought over my old Christmas Eveshow cold, how gloomy, how cheerless! On one of them I got myself drunk on punch; that was the most hateful Christmas Eve of all. On most of them, however, I sat alone; there was not a single soul to send me a Christmas box to unpack. Of a sudden I thought on the Christ- mas when I bought RubeRube, the trusty companion of my loneliness. How long it was since I had thought of the little fellow! My old man had gone and taken Rube with him; but only think, the dog found its way iback to the stable the very next day. My new man had mentioned this to me, and asked if the creature might stay? I nodded briefly. The dog was a thorn in my conscience, the one sore point be- tween Gretchen and me. Treat him well. Certainly, Lieutenant! The fact was he had not occurred to me since then. This confounded senti- ment! Suddenly I entered a butchers shop and bought a sausage; I intended slipping into the stable before the par- 18 Rube. ty began. But neither Rube nor my man were there; the latter had left his door closed; he must be helping in the kitchen. But inside I heard a joyous sniffing and scratching, and knew where the animal was. Wait a bit, old fellow; you shall have your sausage later. Twilight was just setting in when I opened my door, and loud talking and laughter resounded in my ears. I was, of course, behindhandthey were all there. In fact, it was so. My room was full of people taking their coffee; the brothers, the engaged couple, and my mother-in-law. Where is my wife? I inquired in the midst of handshakings and congratula- tions. In the parlor, at the Christmas tree, and she is waiting for you. Never mind us; we can get along here. In the parlor there was an atmos- phere of festive silence; the tread of the busy little feet were scarce heard on the soft carpet; nought but the subdued rustling of the silk dress, and we spoke in hushed tones; the child was still asleep. Rudolph, she whispered, isnt it sweet, isnt it charming? And she led me up to the little place under the fir tree, where she had piled up all the bright toys. We both stood before them and looked one another in the eye. Our child, our dear child! Then we kissed each other, she wiped away a tear, and we both agreed that life in this world was delightful, that we were too happyshe and I and the child. Isnt it most time to begin? the voice of Gretchens youngest brother, the Ensign, was heard to exclaim outside the door. We sprang apart like detected lovers. Grete disappeared in the nursery, after giving me a final admonition not to peep under the cloth that covered the presents destined for me. And as I quickly deposited the case containing the bracelet she had so long desired, and several other trifles in the proper place for her, I heard her prattling with the child in the next room: Come, Mousy, come; stillkeep still now, the Christmas man is outside. Then I lit the candles and rang the bell, and the mingled chorus of joy and delight was the one familiar to all of my readers who have ever seen a Christmas tree lighted up for the bene- fit of a happy throng. Grete and I had eyes for the baby only; she was passed from one to another, at every cry of joy she was smothered with kisses. Grand- mamma and uncles and aunts, even the gentleman just engaged, laid so many presents at the feet of the little princess that we felt as if we were in a Nurem- berg toy shop. Here, give her a taste of cham- pagne, cried her youngest uncle. By Jove, she knows whats good! Grete, have you seen how your daughter can take it down ? Dont make the child tipsy, entreat- ed my wife. Oh, that will do it no harm. No, I cannot allow that, said grand- mamma; see how her little eyes are drooping! And she almost forced the baby away from us, and disappeared with her in the nursery. At six oclock we sat down at table. In honor of the engaged couple Gret- chen had turned the supper into a din- ner; she made a hasty visit to the child, and then sat down before the steaming tureen. She is sleeping herself sober, said she, with a laugh. Minna is sitting by her bed. You have given her too much champagne, too. We might have passed an hour in joyous conversation, in joking, and in reviving the memories of our childhood; when graudmamma rose and opened the window. Listen, the bells! A hush fell on us all. Each one Rube. 19 seemed possessed with a solemn thought. The young couple had furtively grasped one anothers hands; Gret- chens head rested against my shoulder; my older brother-in-law thought on the maiden whom he secretly loved, on fu- ture Merry Christinasses; the younger gazed seriously into his glass. A lady stood at the window and wiped her averted eyes. She is thinking of papa, whispered Gretchen to me. Then, of a sudden, there mingled with the notes of the bells tones that brought me to myself with a start;it was the half-smothered howl of a dog, a piteous wail, a cry for help. I leaped up. Rube! that is Rubes voice! Where can he be? The wretched little nuisance! How can he have got up here again? I heard Gretchen exclaim, petulantly. I stood in the vestibule and listened. But at that moment everything was still. Rube! Rube! I cried, and flung the outer door open. Nought was to be seen. I stepped into the kitchen; my man and the cook were busily engaged, the latter was just removing a hissing, smoking pan from off the fire. Where is the dog howling? I in- quired. The honest Pole stood with open mouth, a towel and a clean plate in his hands. I dont know, Lieutenant; I was be- low a while ago, and gave him some sausage. He must be in the stable. Thereagain the distant and yet vig- orous scratching, howling, whining! With the speed of lightning I tore through the dimly-lighted parlor and flung open the nursery door. Merciful God! A cloud of suffocating smoke burst forth in my face, with a loud howl a creature leaped up against me, licking me and whining, and then tore back into the room filled with smoke. Half crazed with fear I pressed after him; there I knew my darlings bed to beI felt about gasping for breath, reached over into the crib and lifted out the child; it lay in my arms a dead weight. And now I hurried out from the deathly atmosphere into the parlor. My man had followed close after me, had seen the whole and carried the ter- rible tidings to the festive board. I sat with the lifeless child at the window, which I instinctively opened; my wife had flung herself before me on her knees, pallid with fear, unable to artic- ulate. My child, Rudolph, my child! I heard calling and screaming; I felt my mother-in-law take it from my arms, and sprang to my feet and raised the poor little woman. Come, Grete, be courageous! cried my mother-in-law; watercologne- a doctor! And Gretchen, all of a tremble, hurried to the table on whIch the child had been placed; with un- steady hands she removed its clothes, with unsteady hands and a face dis- torted with woe. The room had been quickly lighted up; all were there ex- cept my oldest brother-in-law and my man who had gone after the doctor. Nought was to be heard save the pant- ing respiration, the half-suppressed sobs of my wife. Be calm, Grete, said the voice of my mother-in-law, calm, my darling! There, now draw off the little shirt. I stood by and saw the pale face of the old lady bent down to the deeply- reddened visage of the child, saw her rub the soles of the feet and the little chest. Not one of us dared to breathe; a long pause, and thenShe is alive, my dear child, I feel her little heart beating! Two large tears rolled down grandmammas cheeks. She lives! cried Gretchen. God be praised! She took up the child, wrapped its coverings around it, and hurried back 20 Rube. to the open window; clear, fresh air surrounded her, and softly, softly, the child began to cry. Cry, my darling, cry away!Lt seemed at this moment a song of de- liverance. I held both mother and child in my arms. Gretchen! Rudolph, it would have been my death. Dont say that, Gretchen. We stood there, our newly-restored child still in our arms. It was pale, but its wide-open eyes were fixed on us. Ah, joy and sorrow are close neighbors! How did it happen, Rudolph I The parlor door was flung open, and a pale, haggard girl rushed in and threw herself at Gretchens feet. Gracious ladyforgivenessmerci- ful God, forgive me! My wife averted her head from her, and signed in silence for her to leave the room. Oh, Lieutenant, moaned Minna, and moved over to me, still on her knees, I was wicked! I had to run to my lover; I had worked him a pair of slippers, which I wanted to give him; Elsie was in a beautiful sleep, and I had forgot- ten to put out the candlethe night lamp gave so little light, and I could not find a candlestick, and so stuck It in the workbasket, and it must have burned down and set the woollen on fire. I was anxious about Rube, who had slipped into the room, and so ran back as fast as I could, andcame too late, Lieutenant! Leave us! I ordered, for just then the doctor entered. The girl staggered out of the room. She is alive, doctor! we called out to him. A pretty state of things! said he, shaking his head and bending down over the little patient. My brother-in- law had already related to him the whole history of the accident. Two minutes later, Lieutenant, and then what lucky chance brought you in at just the right time? Yes, it was a lucky chance, doctor! and my eyes looked gravely at Gret- chen, who slowly cast hers down. Is the child out of danger? she quickly asked, and a deep blush sud- denly overspread her pale countenance. I should think so, madam. Let the little one sleep in another room, one freshly aired. I will call again tomor- row, andtake care of your own nerves. Absolute quiet soon reigned in our dwelling. Every one went away, first giving us a heartfelt pressure of the hand. The crib with the sleeping child stood now in the parlor, close by the Christmas table. By its side knelt the mother, softly sobbing, her head buried in the pillows. Then she arose. Come with me, Rudolph. Where? Come with me. Out she led me by the hand, through the corridor, down the stairs. The dog, Rudolph, the good dog! she whispered at the threshold of the stable. Call him, for he will not mind me. Rube! I cried out into the steamy warmth and darkness of the stable; then there was a rustling in the straw, and he came up to me, whining and barking with joy. Come, Rube! said Gretchen, and took him up in her arms, come! And as we two went back through the yard the starlight of the holy night revealed to me fhe black coat of the dog pressed against the delicate cheek of my fair- haired wife, and I saw the great tear- drops that rained from her eyes, and the hand caressing the creature. Thus, rapidly and in silence, she mounted the staircase. Let him down, Gretchen, he will come of himself, I entreated. But she only shook her head, and once upstairs Mars as a World. 21 she disappeared with the dog in the dining-room. I did not follow her; I stood by the parlor window, and thought over the last few hours. How terrible! A light step in the dining-room, the clattering of plates; Come, Rube, said Gretchen, gently, come! After a while she came up to my side and took me by the hand. Forgive me, Rudolph! For what, Gretchen? The dogRube, our t~ube!I know it has pained you for years, that I I stroked her soft hair. Never mind, Gretchen, all is forgot- ten atthis moment! At that very instant he squeezed him- self through the narrow opening of the door, and trotted up to me. Good old fellow, how shall we ever thank you! He stood before us, wagging his tail, and looked from one to the other as if to say: Why make so much fuss, you silly people? I only did my duty as a good dog! And thus we sat long and silently at the bedside of the child; Rube lay in my lap as in the old days. The joyous and blessed Christmas Eve descended over the earth, and spoke to us of love and peace. Our hands were closely locked in true Chris- tian Thankfulness. Aye, love and peace over the wide world, love and peace in the narrow world of our house. Mark you their blessed influence? When have we looked into each others eyes so lovingly, my Gretchen and I? No shadow, no grudge, between us. You, too, my little black friendyou, too, share in this peace. In cold and hunger you will never again sit on the threshold, and cast on me the touching, imploring gaze of a dumb, ill-treated brutenever again! Softly ticks the clock, softly rustle the fir-trees golden streamers; and soft- ly breathes our darling child. Abide with us ever more, love and peace. MARS AS A WORLD. During the early months of last year many astronomers directed their optic- tubes to the ruddy disc of Mars, which was then conspicuously visible in the midnight sky. The planet did not ap- proach the earth so closely as it some- times aGes in its periodical visitations, but it was high above the horizon, and therefore well situated for observation. Startling discoveries were scarcely ex- pected, though eager eyes were strained in the effort to distinguish new and true markings on the Martian face. But it is, perhaps, just as well that no very novel characteristics were observed; for the absence of new information en- ables fuller consideration to be given to the facts already available. The pres- ent thus seems an appropriate time to make a general survey of the planets features, and to describe some explana- tions of them which have recently at- tracted the attention of astronomers. The first duty of a man of science is to observe accurately and with discrim- ination; the next, to interpret his con- tributions to knowledge. It is, how- ever, much easier to develop keenness of perception than it is to find the cause of the phenomena presented. A good telescope, a clear atmosphere, and an acute observer will add more to as- tronomical knowledge in an hour than can be explained in a lifetime; so facts 22 Mars as a World. accumulate far more rapidly than they can be read. Especially is this the case in celestial matters. For a long time the general features of the planet Mars have been known. A comparatively small telescope shows that more than half the surface is made up of extensive regions of a reddish-yellow tint, while the remainder consists of darker blue- green patches and two white caps around the poles. Arguing from anal- ogy with the earth, the light and dark markings which constitute nine-tenths of the area of Mars are held to repre- sent land and water. But which is land and which is water cannot yet he defin- itely determined, though the general opinion is that the darker portions of the surface represent Martian oceans and the lighter areas land. THE POLAR REGIONS. The nature of the polar caps is known with a high degree of probabil- ity. As the summer advances in the northern hemisphere of ~vLars, the white polar region is seen to decrease slowly until it becomes so small as to be invis- ible to the largest telescopes. This dwindling has not merely been ob- served once or twice, but dozens of times. And not only does the north poi- ar cap shrink continuously as the sum- mer sun shines more strongly upon the boreal hemisphere, but a similar, and just as striking a diminution takes place round the south pole of the planet when the summer season is advancing in the southern hemisphere of 1~Iars. Day by day, and month by month, the polar caps have been measured, and their decrease of size has been proved to take place concurrently with the progress of winter to summer on Mars. No characteristic of the planet is known with anything like the same certainty, and none admit of simpler explanatIon. The polar caps are evidently regions of ice and snow, in every respect similar to our arctic and antarctic seas. Dur- ing the winter in either the northern or the southern hemisphere the frozen pol- ar sea extends its limits; but its growth is checked in spring-time, and as the summer comes on, ~s the sun climbs higher and higher in the Martian sky, the sunbeams gain daily in strength and directness and the ice and snow disappear before them. Polar expeditions on the earth are at- tended with no little danger; the polar exploration of Mars can be accom- plished without loss of life or risk of frost-bite, and with a greater probabil- ity that new knowledge will be ac- quired. Astronomers are the explorers in this case, and by their telescopes they have been able to tind out much more concerning the southern frozen sea of Mars, which, at its nearest, is thirty million miles away, than is known of our own Antarctic regions. In 1894, when the planet was exception- ally well situated for observation, the appearance and changes in the south polar cap were made the subject of inves- tigation by Mr. Percival Lowell, whose volume on Mars has given pleasure to many, and will frequently be re- ferred to in the course of this article. THE MELTING OF THE SNOWS. Two months before the longest day in the southern hemisphere of Mars the polar cap was seen at Mr. Lowells ob- servatory as an unbroken waste of white more than two thousand miles across. Hundreds of square m4les of this Martian ice and snow disappeared daily, melted by the suns rays, and, as it melted, a dark hand appeared sur- rounding it on all sides. The obvious conclusion is that this dark blue ring was water produced by the melting of the polar snow, which interpretation is supported by the fact that as the white cap dwindled the band kept pace with it, and persistently hordered the disap Mars as a World. 23 pearing cro~irn. Moreover, it was the color of water, and the light coming from it was of precisely the same char- acter as that reflected from water sur- faces on the earth. From these facts, then~ astronomers are led to believe and the belief amounts almost to a cer- taintythat water exists on Mars, both in the solid form as snow and ice arni in the liquid condition. Dr. Nansen found the basin of the Arctic Sea much deeper than had been anticipated; but the rapid and total ex- tinction of the polar cap and sea on Mars points exactly to an opposite con- dition of things. Apparently only a small thickness of snow covers the polar land in winter, and the water formed when this melts is very shallow. The actual depth of the polar basin can- not, however, be decided, for, so far as telescopic observations go, the same ap- pearances would be presented whether the snow and water were a yard or a mile deep. The absence of a great oceanic de- pression at the polar regions of Mars seems to be typical of the whole of the planet. On the earth, if all the land were rolled out flat, so as to ~make an even surface, the top of the surface would be about two thousand feet above sea-level, whUe the ocean basin, if similarly smoothed, would be about two miles below sea-level. On Mars, however, the difference of level be- tween the average land surface and sea bottom is probably extremely slight, so that a comparatively small volume of water is able to submerge a large area. The course of events which follow the melting of the polar cap indicate that such is the case. We are at present so well off for water that the melting of polar snow and ice in the summer makes no appreciable difference to the sea-level. But on Mars the unlocking of the frozen seas is of as much im- portance as the annual inundation of the Nile is to the Fellaheen of Egypt. THE CANALS. Mr. Lowells observations show that the polar sea which has its source in the melted snow plays deus ex machinct to all the subsequent seasonal changes on the surface of the planet. The wonder- ful canals or channels which were discovered in 1877, but the reality of which was doubted for nearly ten years, and is not yet beyond suspicion in the minds of hypercritical astrono- mers, seem to be dependent upon the melting of the polar snow for the water to fill them. So soon as the change from snow to water is thoroughly un- der way the canals begin to show them- selves, and the first to become visible are those nearer the polar seathose, in fact, which would be first reached by the wave of water moving into warmer latitudes on Mars. Eventually the orange-red areas of the planetthe regions regarded as continentsare seen to be traversed by canals, which cross the desert-like ground in every direction, as fine, straight, dark lines starting from bays and running to defin- ite centres like the paths in an orna- mental garden run towards the flower- beds. What the canals on Mars exactly are it is difficult to say. The narrowest of them canhot be much less than thirty miles wide, and the average width is about fifty miles, and one measures 3,500 miles. It must be borne in mind, however, that though these lines ap- pear perfectly straight, they may not be absolutely so, for the finest tele- scope in the world could not reveal a deviation of less than fifteen miles to the right or left of the general canal course. The best instruments are thus only coarse analyzers of optical feat- tures, and astronomers cannot be sure- that what is seen by their aid repre- sents the ultimate character of the view. This fact has given a basis to the suggestion that possibly the canals 24 Mars as a World. wind to and fro after the manner of ter- restrial rivers, the details being too minute 1o be separately discerned; but no evidence can be brought forward either for or against this view. The network of lines upon the surface of Mars has been seen by many astron- omers, and many have attempted to in- terpret them, most of the explanations being plausible, but none convincing. If we consider the land surface of Mars to be of a softer nature than the crust of the earthto be, in fact, similar in constitution to our own desert regions, which it closely resembles in color, the flow of water produced by the rapid melting of the polar snows would soon wear a way through it. A narrow canal cut in the dry season would be- come filled in the wet season and the overflowing water would make a much wider channel for itself. Each annual flood might thus flow into wider limits, and in the course of time a broad canal would appear. This suggestion is put forward because, judging from the tre- mendous labor involved in the construc- tion of even a small canal upon the earth, it seems impossible that furrows from thirty to a hundred miles wide could be cut along the surface of Mars. But that is because things are consid- ered too much from the terrestrial point of view, the practicability of engineer- ing projects on Mars being estimated in the light of engineering experience on the earth. It may be as easy for Martian engineers to plough a canal thirty miles wide on the surface of the planet as it is to wear away the soft banks of rivers on the earth by playing upon them with jets of water under hydraulic pressure. On the Mississippi enormous portions of the crumbling bank have been scoured out in this way so as to confine the river to a certain channel. The labor involved in the construction of a canal on Mars would probably be little more than that em- ployed in regulating the flow of the Mississippi, even if no better means of excavation were available. It is, how- ever, quite within the bounds of legiti- mate supposition to think that Martians would possess much more effective ap- pliances than are known to us. Read- ers of Mr. H. G. Wellss War of the Worlds will remember how cleverly he has utilized this idea in his fantas- tic story. IRRIGATION OF MARS. A very attractive explanation of the appearance of the canals upon Mars as the snow cap dies away has been put forward by Mr. Lowell. He holds that what are regarded as canals are not canals at all, but strips of fertilized land bordering a thread of water too small to be perceptible. It has already been stated that Mars appears to be badly off for water, so that the inhabi- tants, if there be any, are dependent upon the melting of the polar snows for practically their whole supply. In this case crops could only be cultivated along strips of land bordering the chan- nel through which the water is made to flow. Mr. Lowell suggests that to be able to live at all, the Martians have had to develop an elaborate system of irrigation, and only, on these irrigated bands does vegetation flourish, the great regions of reddish-ochre tint be- ing dreary wastes of desert land, from which all organic life has long been driven. The scarcity of water on Mars is a natural consequence of the planets great age and small size. Mars is not a fiery youth in the planetary family, but is well advanced in years, and rela- tively much older than the earth. He is smaller, too, for seven planets of his size would be required to build up one globe as large as the earth. As a con- sequence, his duration of life, from the time when he was hurled into the blue as a nebulous mass until he rolls Afars as a World. 25 through space as dead as the moon, is less than that of the earth; for the smaller the planet, the quicker must it cool down, and when the internal heat is gone, life, as we know it, becomes impossible. In all probability a planet dries up with advancing years, the water sinking from the surface to the interior, leaving the ocean floors as dry as they now are upon our satellite. Water is also used up by chemical com- ~ination with various substances, com- mon instances of this kind being afford- ed by plaster of Paris and cement. Mars has apparently not yet lost all its water, but the supply seems to be very limited, and the problem of husbanding what is available, and of utilizing it for the purposes of irrigation, must be to the Martians of paramount importance. Even at the present time the water question has to be very seriously con- sidered upon the earth; but, as our globe grows old, it will become the chief material concern of the surviving rem- nant of humanity, as Mr. Lowell shows it now is on Mars. OASES IN MARTIAN DESERTS. A remarkable feature of the canals on Mars (we still designate them by that word, spite the probability that it does not express their real character) is that they proceed to what seems centres in the middle of the continental area. These dark areas, together with the canals that lead to them, are the only markings on the land surface, and Mr. Lowell regards them as great oases. The majority of the spots are from one hundred and twenty to one hundred and fifty miles across, but one of them is more than five hundred miles long and three hundred miles broad. The spots, like the canals, become more conspicuous as summer advances, the suggested explanation being that they are areas of verdure, which, under the waxing warmth of the suns rays, deep- en in tint and increase in luxuriance. Their evident connection with the sys- tem of dark lines seen upon the planet, their regularity of form, their seasonal darkening, and their distribution over continental regions, give support to the view that they are oases in the midst of Martian deserts, and that the canals have been constructed for the express purpose of irrigating them. Upon these meadows and along the strips of land converging to them, apparently live whatever forms of life Mars is capable of sustaining. DOUBLE cANALS. These interpretations of markings on Mars are very attractive, and they ex- plain satisfactorily the phenomena seen; but one remarkable characteristic the doubling of the canalsremains unintelligible. There is no doubt what- ever that under good observing condi- tions, and at certain seasons of the Mar- tian year, canals which had previously been seen as single dark lines appear double. Side by side, like the twin lines of a railroad, the two canals run to- gether for hundreds and, sometimes, for thousands of miles, the distance be- tween them being from about fifty to two hundred miles. All the canals are not seen double at the same time, or an optical delusion (if nothing worse) might be Suspected. Different canals become duplicated at different times, but seasonable changes appear to gov- ern the twining of all of them. Follow- ing up the idea that the so-called can- als are strips of cultivated land, Mr. Lowell suggests that the doubling is caused by changes in the character of the vegetation. It is not difficult to conceive of crops ripening first near the narrow streak of water which fertilizes them, and afterwards on the outer edges of the cultivated belt; and, if vegetation on Mars is light-colored at one period of its growth, and dark-col 26 Mars as a World. ored at another, the duplication of the lines may be an effect produced by the progressive ripening from the middle of the fertile belts outwards. There is nothing very improbable about this view; nevertheless, it is not an alto- gether satisfactory solution of the puz- zle. In fact, the double canals on Mars tantalize astronomers by their extraor- dinary appearance, and the confession has to be made that the mystery they contain has yet to be unravelled. FLASH LIGHTS. It has been suggested that the canals on Mars are duplicated by the inliabi- tants to call the attention of terrestrial astronomers to their planetthat, in fact, they are signals for us to decipher. From their great length and their de- velopment with the seasons, this opin- ion seems quite untenable, flattering though it is to the human mind. Cer- tain bright flashes, occasionally seen, possess the characteristics of signals to a far greater degree. Mr. Lowell ob- served two flashes of this kind in 1894, but he regards them as due to light re- flected from an ice-slope. His pictur- esque description gives the facts addi- tional interest:A5 I was watching the planet, he says, I saw suddenly two points like stars flash out in the midst of the polar cap. Dazzlingly bright upon the duller white back- ground of the snow, these stars shone for a few moments and then slowly dis- appeared. The seeing at the time w~is very good. It is at once evident what the other world apparitions were, not the fabled signal lights of Martian folk, but the glint of ice-slopes flashing for a moment earthward as the rotation of the planet turned the slope to the proper angle; just as in sailing near some glass-windowed house near set of sun, you shall, for a moment or two, catch a dazzling glint of glory from its panes, which then vanishes as it came. But though no intelligence lay behind the action of these lights, they were none the less startling for being Natures own flash lights across one hundred millioiis of miles of space. It had taken them nine minutes to make the journey; nine minutes before they had reached earth they had ceased to be on Mars, and after their travel of one hundred million of miles found to note them but one watcher, alone on a hill-top with the dawn. These bright flashes should not be confused with the bright prominences sometimes observed on the planets edge. The later were seen for the first time in 1890, and have since been de- tected on every occasion when Mars oc- cupied a good position in the heavens. They may be mountain-tops capped with snow like our own mountains, or they may be white clouds floating in the Martian atmosphere. Accepting the later interpretation (and it is the more probable of the two), the conclu- sion is that Mars has an atmosphere similar to that surrounding the earth, and with clouds moving in it. Strange flocculent white patches sometimes cov- er up permanent markings on the plan- ets face, and their appearance, as well as their evanescent character, afford evidence of the existence of clouds in the Martian sky. POSSIBLE FORMS OF LIFE. Mars thus possesses so many features in common with the earth that it is im- possible to resist the thought that it also has inhabitants. This is, however, by no means equivalent to saying that Martian folk are constituted in the same way as human beings; indeed, every consideration points to the con- trary. Whatever atmosphere exists on Mars must be much thinner than ours, and far too rare to sustain the life of a people with our limited lung capacity. A race with immense chests could live Mars as a World. 27 under such conditions, or a folk with gills like fishes could pass a comfort- able existence in spite of the rarefied air. The character of life anywhere is, in fact, moulded by the external cir- cumstances, and as these are known to be different on Mars from what they are on the earth, Martian inhabitants must have developed peculiar charac- teristics in order to adapt themserves to their environmentsthe forms of life capable of flourishing in attenuated air have survived, while those requir- ing denser air have dropped out of ex- istence. The tenuity of the atmosphere of Mars is not the only fact which sug- gests that the inhabitants of that plan- et are not fashioned aftei the image of man. It is known beyond the possibil- ity of doubt that the force with which a substance is attracted to the surface of Mars is but little more than a third as strong as it is on the earth; or, to express the point in figures, one hun- dred pounds on the earth would only weigh thirty-eight pounds on Mars if tested in a spring balance. In conse- quence of this weaker pull, it would be possible for a human being to perform astonishing feats on Mars without ex- cessive muscular exertion. A man who could jump five feet here could top fif- teen there; he could lift three hundred- weiglit by putting out the same strength as is required to raise one hundred- weight on the earth; he could spring across a road as easily as he now leaps over a mud puddle, and a couple of bounds would carry him to the top of a flight of stairs. But, paradoxical as it may seem, the smaller the planet, and, consequently, the less pull of gravity at its surface, the greater is the probability that its inhabitants are giants compared with us. Terrestrial giants are generally weak in the knees; they are crushed by their own weight. But on Mars they would only weigh one-third as much, and would, therefore, be able to move about in a sprightly fashion, so that an elephant there might be quite a nim- ble animal. Mr. Lowell has pointed out that to place the Martians under the same condition as those in which we exist the average inhabitant must be considered to be three times as large and three times as heavy as the average human being; and the strength of the Mars folk must exceed ours to even a greater extent than the bulk and weight, for their muscles would be twenty-sev- en times more effective. When this fact is considered, and also the de- creased weight of bodies on Mars, it appears that one Martian could do as much work as fifty or sixty men. A Martian coalman could carry two and a half tons with as little fatigue as our own merchant can shoulder one hun- dred-weight, and a Martian navvy dig- ging a canal could easily throw over his shoulder a spade of earth so enor- mous that if a terrestrial excavator saw it he would consider there should be a limit to the amount of work to be done by a man in a day. TELESOOPLO LIMITATIONS. It must not for a moment be supposed that these statements as to the capabil- ity of doing work on Mars and on the earth are mere speculations, for they are physical facts deduced from accu- rite determinations of the size and mass of the planet. But unimpeacha- ble as is the evidence of smaller gravi- tative force at the surface of Mars, and logical as may be the deductions there- from, no mathematical calculations, nor the finest optical instruments at present known, nor the acutest reasoning, can afford the faintest information as to the forms of life upon the planet. There is as yet no possibility of seeing any- thing upon Mars less than thirty miles across, and even a city of this dimen- sion would only be visible as a minute 28 The Coartshzp of Tambala Chalmers. speck. Our telescopes are thus not powerful enough to reveal any details which would prove the existence of sentient beings. All that can be said is that Mars is like the earth in so many respects that if life can exist anywhere beyond the earth, it exists there. But when we think of the multitudinous forms of life the earth bears at this age, and looking backwards along the cor- ridors of time, we regard the strange creatures which were prominent in past epochs, we realize how inexplicably varied is animated nature, and are forced to confess that life on Mars may differ as much from our knowledge of vitality as the simple structure of a The National Review. 0 jelly-fish differs from the complicated system of man. We look at the bright orange-red disc of the planet as it glitters upon the vault of heaven, and we cherish the thought that it bears life of a higher form than the earth can boast. Un there in that beautiful star, are angels, says the mother to her child. The thought is inspiring, but it is also grati- fying to know that the earth appears as a lovely celestial object to Martian folk; it is their evening star, and if there are mothers on the planet, they probably point out our globe to their children as the place of rest and peace where the righteous find their reward. R. A. Gregory. THE COURTSHIP OF TAMBALA CHALMERS. Oh, yes, old Chalmers is here still, said i~II(echnie, in answer to a question of mine. Not at the Mission, of course, but Why, of course? I put in, hastily withdrawing my legs to admit of the passage of a small boy and a large bucket of water, on their way aft. The Explorers deck space was limited, and, as OReilly had just opened the hatch to get out some stores, we had been obliged to remove our long chairs from that haven of refuge. Oh! I keep forgetting that youre new to the couatry, said MKechnie, not without a quizzical gleam in his eye. Youll hear the whole story soon enough. Chalmers had got above him- self, you knowbad attack of swelled head, following on a visit to Cape Town and began setting the clergy right on doctrinal points. So there was nothing for it but to part. Is thaf the true version? I asked, for there was an odd dryness in his enun ciation which aroused my suspicions. I knew Mac of oldin fact, we had been at school together, many years before either of us ever thought of coining to Central Africa. I was not there when it happened, he replied, with dignity. And you will please to remember that I am in the service of the Mission.~~ Oh! all right, I muttered, hastily. But what about Chalmers? Where is he now? He works for Kalkbrennerper~ reira, Kalkbrenner & Co., you know. Old Kalkbrenner gives him 50 a year and a house, and finds him well worth it; for, after all, hes an honest fellow, and capable in his way, though he is such a terribly pragmatical old ass. Youll see him when we get to Port Livingstone. Kalkbrenner has a store and a coffee plantation there, and Chalmers looks after them, and keeps the books, and pays the boys, and all. How did he get that name? The Courtshzjt of Tambala Chalmers. 29 Picked it up at one of the 1\Iissions, I suppose, and it sticks to him. Hes been quite a traveller, has Dr. Chal- mers. Went down to Kilwa, first of all, in a slave-gang, when he was a lad- die of ten or twelvehe was called Tambala thenwas put on board a dhow and taken off by a British man- o -war, and landed at Zanzibar. Then he came up country with Bishop Steere to try and find his own people again, and finally drifted to this neigh- borhood. Hes seen a deal of life one way and another. When he was bap- tized fie was called David and his full name on the Church Register is David Tambala Chalmers. Tambala means a cock, doesnt it? I asked. I was making tentative plunges into the native language with the help of the Mission grammar and dictionary. Yessuits him best of the three, I think. But youll see for yourself. Hes a caution. I believe that, as we thus conversed, we were about six miles from Port Liv- ingstone, as the crow flies. But un- luckily, as some one has remarked, we were not crows; and the winding course of the river, the strength of its current (it was at this time in full flood), the state of the Explorers engines, and the general cussedness of things delayed our arrival till sunset on the following day. I saw before me a neat, white- washed house, grass-thatched, sur- rounded by a broad veranda, and shad- ed by a group of fan-palms. Down the path which led from the front door came a tall native, dressed in a linen suit with a pith helmet on his head. There he is, said MKechnieI suppose he is coming on board. It took some time to get the Explorer warped in to the bank, and while this was taking place I lost sight of the white figure in a crowd of shouting, hurrying natives; indeed, I was so much absorbed in the details of the sceneit was my first experience of the country that had interested me all my lifethat I forgot all about him for a while. Presently I became aware that the bby who had been attending on me during the voyagehimself a former pupil of the Missionwas standing be- side me grinning from ear to ear. This is Dr. Chalmers, sir! he said, with the air of one exhibiting a valu- able and interesting product of the country, and waved his hand majesti- cally towards the individual in ques- tion, who raised his helmet, and ad- vanced with a sweeping bow. Mr. Hay, sir, I have much pleasure to make your acquaintance. I have heard of you from Mr. Vyner, sir. He tells me you come to assist him in de- veloping the resources of this country. It is a fine country, sira mag-ni-fi-cent country; but we need appliances, the appliances of civilization. I felt inclined to sit down and gasp feeblyquite overwhelmed by this tor- rent of eloquencedelivered quietly enough, and with a fairly good English accent. How much more I might have heard about the resources of the coun- try and the appliances of civilization I cannot tellMKechnie intervened. I say, Chalmers, can you put Mr. Hay up for the night? He wont be able to start for Masuku this evening. Oh, yes-s! said Dr. Chalmers, with dignity. Mr. Vyner wrote to me that Mr. Hay was coming, and directed me to have an apartment in readiness. It was ready yesterday, Mr. MKechnie, and I have called Mr. Hays carriers; they will start tomorrow at peep o~ day. MKechnie attempted no replyhe was probably appalled at the splendor of Dr. Chalmerss diction; but he stole a sly wink at me. At this juncture the Explorers skip- per walked up, red in the face from re- cent exertions, and mopping himself 30 The Courtshzui5 of Tambala Chalmers. with a handkerchief originally intended for the native trade, and conspicuously adorned with palm-trees and elephants. Hey! heres the Reverend Doctor! Hows yourself, me boy? and hows the missis ? Dr. Chalmers drew himself up with dignity. Circumstances have occurred to postpone my marriage, he said, freezingly; and his eye rested on MKechnie with an expression which seemed to say that, but for that gentle- mans presence, he would have said more. OReilly slapped him on the back and laughed uproariously. Parson forbidden the banns, hey, Chalmers? Sure, and its myself would he doing the same if I were he, an you afther thryin to inveigle me best dairy- maid. The native did not reply. It was easy to see that he did not enjoy OReillys chaff, but he betrayed no an- noyance, only turned to me and asked quietly if I would like to come ashore now. So far as I could judge, it was only his choice of words that was some- what extravagant; there were no Chris- ty Minstrel antics about him, and, in manner at least, I was inclined to think with no disrespect to our tempestuous but good-natured friendthat he was more of a gentleman than OReilly. Whats this about his marriage? I asked MKechnie, presently, Dr. Chal- mers having gone ashore to get my lug- gage taken up to the house, while OReilly was superintending the hoist- ing of the same out of the hold. I dont quite know. Ive been away down river for the last three months; I heard about it from OReilly, but, you know, a story with him never loses in the telling Whats that? exclaimed the sub- ject of this last remark, who was near- er us at the moment than MKechnie bargained for. Me, the veracious chronicler of British Equatoria? Me, that carries a note-book and a fountain pen in me pockets, an its downright ill Ive been with sucking the ink of that same when it wouldnt draw, not to mintion the ink dryin up wid the cli- mate, to stand before the thermometer and note the exact timperature for fear Id be forgettin it when I wrote me diary at night! Were all looking forward to the book youre going to write when you go home, OReilly, said MKechnie. And yet youll not trust me to tell the story of the doctor there an his col- leen dhu ?for colleen bawn she is not, though as purty an neat a crathur of her color as ever Ive seen. Faith, Ive had thoughts of asking her to be Mrs. OReilly meseif; but then, you see, Id be afther havin to git a dispinsation, an our clargy is terribly down on mixed marges of late. Not to mintion that Mozambique is the nearest place it could be got. Never heed his clavers, Hay, said MKechnie. The matter seems to be that Chalmers, who is a widower of some years standing, and has two lit- tle girls under tenIm sorry for him myself, for hes anxious to do his duty and bring them up decently, and its sore on a man, as youll allowwanted to marry one of the Christian girls at the Mission. Well, and why shouldnt he? Is there any just cause or impediment? MKechnie seemed slightly embar- rassed. They say the girl herself didnt want him. And, of course, Dr. Angus couldnt help that. Thats the offeecial varsion, Mac, me bhoy, said OReilly, with exaggerated mimicry of MKechnies accent, which, by-the-by, was broad enough to sit on, and he rather prided himself on it. Dr. Angus didnt want to lose a useful crathur, and Mrs. A.s pet pupilan them at all the trouble and expense of her traininas they would do if she The Courtsh:j5 of Tambala Chalmers. 31 married out of the Mission. So, when thats the state of things at headquar- ters, an you get asked in a tone of Daniel-come-to-judgment, Do you want to have this man? what would you ex- pect a colleen to do, eh, sir? Its a clear case of intimidationnot intimidation with black thorns an hot water, may be, but Oh! get away with you and your black thbrns! exclaimed Mac, strug- gling between amusement and annoy- ance. Dont listen to OReilly, he just havers even on. You see Lucys been in the Mission from a child; the An- guses really stand in the place of par- ents to her, and theyre naturally anx- ious she should make a good choice. And, of course, it would be more satis- factory for her to remain in the Mis- sion. But supposing she really cared for him, would they have a right to inter- fere in that case? Is she so very young? Shes older than most of these girls when they marry. But here comes our friend, said honest Mac, evidently glad to change the subject. My goods had been got ashore, and the three of us sat down in the veranda to the meal which Chalmers had pro- vided as per instructions of Mr. Vy- ner, as he confided to me. I had the less scruple in extendingmy employers hospitality to MKechnie and OReilly, as the latter had contributed nobly to this entertainment out of the Explor- ers stores. We had tinned salmon and sardines for entr6es, and canned peaches for sweets; while three fowls had been slain and served up to us in the shape of soup and curry, accom- panied by locally-grown rice and sweet potatoes, and half a dozen of the infin- ite varieties of beans wherein the soul of the African delights. Moreover, there were European vegetables, di- minutive and heartless cabbages, very crude potatoes, the size of small mar- bles, and turnips not much bigger, but of excellent flavor, which Chalmers had raised in his own garden, and now pro- duced as freewill offerings out of the pride and vain-glory of his heart. He did not wait on us himself, but he stood by and directed the movements of two fiannel-shirted boys, with an air which would have done credit to the most majestic and highly-trained of butlers. The lemonade and soda-water, however, he brought and uncorked him- self, observing that the boys were un- used to these appliances. OReilly sipped at his glass, put it down, and looked round in a puzzled sort of way, as if the beverage were in- complete, but nothing else appeared to be forthcoming. He then turned to us with a kind of apologetic and admoni- tory cough, as though expecting us to supply the omission; but Mac and my- self became suddenly obtuse, and wait- ed, with interest, to see what would happen. Faifli, then, Chalmers, my jewel, he burst out at last, do ye always serve your soda-water neat? Messrs. Kalkbrenner and Ferreira (I could see that he loved to roll out the firms name in full whenever he got the chance)do not keep aicholic liquors in stock, sir; except as medical comforts, sir Bedad, thats queer then, said OReilly, in a stage aside to myself, for one of thems a German Jew, and the others a Hollander Jew or a Porta- geeIm not sure which. Its against nature, so it is. . . Chalmers, alanna, he went on aloud, can ye tell me on your conscience an honorwhich we all know are very honorable an con- scientious entirelythat ye dont re- quire them medical comforts every day of your life, an frequent in the course of the day? Dr. Chalmers looked fixedly at a point on the landscape, which, in ac- cordance with the laws of perspective, 32 The Gourtsh~j5 of Tambala Chalmers. was immediately behind and above 0 Reillys head. I am a total abstainer, Captain OReilly. (He is that, said Mac, aside to me. Ill say that for him.) And ye never take a holiday, then ? asked OReilly, unabashed. To which Dr. Chalmers vouchsafed no answer. Here, boy! said OReilly, wheres Luwisi? Run down to the boat, ye lit- tle spalpeen, and bring Dont, OReilly, said McKechnie. Can you not wait for your fire-water till we get aboard again? And its condemning Mr. Hay to cold water, yed be Not for me, I struck in, hastily. Please dont send for it for me, OReillyI assure you I prefer lemon- ade! It puts temptation in the boys way, said Mac, in a low voice. I could see that he was really troub- led, and began to find the situation un- comfortable, but, to my surprise, OReilly readily gave way and took his soda-water and lime-juice with a very good grace. In his heart he had a real liking for Macfor all their constant sparringand he was quick enough to see when he had gone too far. Not long after this they took their leave. Mac was going to sleep on board the steamer, and start at dawn, with two or three boys, on his tramp to the Mission. My road to Mr. Vyners plan- tation lay in a different direction. When they were gone I sat still for a while in the veranda chatting with Kalkbrenners factotum. I found him really a very intelligent fellow, and the questions he asked about people and things in England showed that he thought more deeply than the educated native usually gets credit for doing. He was communicative enough on all sub- jects but onehe was unwilling to say much about the Mission or Dr. Angus. After what I had already heard, it was not difficult to guess why; and I must say I respected him for his reticence. Next morning I was awakened at dawn by the bugle which summoned the station laborers to their toIl. A few minutes later, as I was stretching myself inside my mosquito curtain, and thinking that the world looked chilly and miserable, a small boy entered with coffee and biscuits and a message to the effec(or so I understood himthat the carriers were ready when I was. Accordingly I made all the haste I could, and emerged on the veranda, to find Chalmers assigning the various items of my luggage to their respective carriers and starting them on ahead. They didnt look as if they liked it. They are grumbling, sir, he said to me, after a ceremonious greeting, be- cause they will have to go first and shake the dew off the grass, so that it will not be so wet for you. Here is your machila, sir. Two men brought round to the steps a canvas hammock slung to a pole with a mat stretched above to shade me from the rays of the sun, which as yet were not. They held the canvas at what they thought a convenient height above the ground, and grinned sympatheti- cally at my efforts to get in, which re- sulted, first, in falling out on the other side, and next in hitting my head against the pole. Then Chalmers inter- vened, and suggested that they should spread it flat on the ground, laying the pole on one side, which, somewhat to my humiliation, they did, and when I had prostrated myself upon it, picked me up tenderly and shouldered the pole. Dr. Chalmers then arranged the cush- ions behind my headwhich requires a certain knack, as I found out after- wards by bitter experience spread my travelling rug over my legs and tucked it in, and finallysurely the force of thoughtfulness could no further goin- quired whether I was supplied with to- bacco and matches. He had seen me put my pipe into my pocket. You will get accustomed, sir, and subsequently you will not be afraid to change your position, he remarked, ap- parently gathering from my expression that I thought smoking impossible un- der the circumstances. Here is the capitno; he understands English. His name is Peter. Peter came forward, a very solemn- faced young man, with his upper teeth chipped into points like a saw, and blue daisies tattooed where his shirt-front would have been if he had worn such ~n article. He was attired in a white cotton singlet, and a piece of dark-blue calico round his waist, and shivered in the chill morning air. He will tell the men anything you want. I have told him you are going to stop and breakfast in Palombes. The men with the provisions have gone on. He then addressed Peter at some length in the Yao tongue. It is all right, sir. You can trust him. Good-bye, I said, for my men at this point began to move. Oh, no, sir; I will walk with you as far as the end of the plantation. Which he did, and I then took my leave, and the men jogged on with me through a narrow path through a succession of na- tive gardensapparently containing nothing but weeds and dry maize-stalks for the crops had just been gathered in. When we left the gardens and got into the tall grass, I began to under- stand what Chalmers meant about the dew. As it turned out, I was perform- ing for my men the task which had been entrusted to them on my behalf; they had turned aside and hidden them- selves till the machila was past, where- by the path being so narrow that my foremost bearers broad brown shoul- ders completely ifiJed up the vista, my clothes and the canvas were saturated In a short time. But the narrative of my journey does not belong to this tale. LIVIIIG AGE. VOL. vii. 346 33 And what do you think of Chal- mers ? said Mr. Vyner, a few evenings later, when I was resting, after the three days march, at his hospitable bungalow. A bit self-important, eh? and his language is quite too much for me at times! Oh, Robert! said Mrs. Vynera a good soul who took most things very literally. Im sure Chalmers never swearsI never heard him say any- thing one could object to! On the contrary, my dear, its the correctness and propriety of his ex- pressions! But hes a good fellow at bottom;and, talk of conceithes not half so conceited as that pet of Anguss whats his name again? Abraham IsaacIsaac Kabweza, thats the man I cant stand him! Oh, Robert! No, Helen, I cant, thats a fact. You wont hear a word against him, I know, because he turns up his eyes in church, and makes night hideous with crooning hymns out of tune. We had him here as kitchen-boy for a monththat was quite enough! I dont say but the fel- low means welland he certainly did his workbut hes a confounded sanc- timonious prig, and then hes got hold of all Anguss little ways, speaks like him, walks like him. .. . I find Angus trying enough, in all conscience, though I suppose he also means well; but to have him served up in a second-hand native edition is a little too much! I havent seen Dr. Angus yet, I re- marked. And from all I hear it seems a little difficult to form a notion of him. Well, I wont prejudice you. Youll see and hear him soon enough, and youll think him a charming, courteous, scholarly old gentleman, whos been very much malignedfor I can guess the sort of talk youve heard on the riverfrom Ferreira, for instanceor OReilly. I smiled audibly. The Courtsh~j5 of Tambala Chalmers. 34 The Courtshzi5 of Tambala Chalmers. Mind you Im not one of those who run down missionaries on principle. Apart from other considerations, we do need some one to remind us now and then that the natives are not simply as a boy said to me the other day hoes for white men to till the ground with. Thats what infuriates some men against them. Theyve a respect for religion in the abstractas long as it doesnt interfere with the details of their daily lifeand thats where Angus rubs it in, to do him justice. But I thoughtI understood--Dr. Angus was inclined to be a bit arbi- trary himself. Vyner laughed. Thats where the difference between clergy and laity comes in, you see! No, but seriously, my dear boy, when youve lived a little longer in this coun- try, and had men under you, like the Roman centurionand nobody to inter- fere with you when Im not roundyou see whether the instinct of bossing doesnt grow on you! And Angus well, he had peculiar ideas to start with, and he was in a peculiar position had it all his own way out here for years; for you know he was in the country before any trader or planter of us all. The niggers all looked up to him as chief and doctor, and everything else, and thought the sky was going to fall if any one contradicted him. He very seldom saw a white man of any- thing like his own standingtill quite lately. I dont know how it happens that his colleagues have generally been men of inferior position and education, and as f6r the three successive Mrs. Anguss, they have all been his humble worshippers. So, is it any wonder that the man takes much the same view of his position as the German Emperor does of his? Robert, Im sure Mr. Hay is so tired, hes ready to fall asleep in his chair! I was tired when I came to think of it; and though I would willingly have asked further questions, I was quite ready to follow Vyner along the ve- randa to the apartment destined for me, where I slept soundly in spite of the scampering of rats along the rafters, and the howling of hyenas in the long grass outside. Perhaps these uncanny sounds in some indirect way influenced my dreams, for I thought that Dr. An- gus (who, as I had never seen him in real life, appeared to me in the likeness of the celebrated portrait of Savona- rola) was denouncing me by name to a numerous congregation as being a here- tic of several different sorts, and but a shady character in other respects; and having, moreover, acted as best man at the wedding of David Tambala Chal- mers, who, for his part, was formally excommunicated then and there. I was so struck by this vision that I related it at breakfast next morning, greatly to Vyners amusement, who re- marked that first dreams in a new abode were generally propheticand he hoped this one would not prove so. I suppose my early experiences of plan- tation life were much like other mens. As I am not telling my own story, I will not dwell on themonly remarking that after I had been at Masuku some seven or eight months, I was sent to Luchen- ya to take charge of a small outlying estate of Vyners, and entered on the life of a Robinson Crusoe, surrounded by innumerable men Friday. One hot day in November when the whole country was parched and dusty and gasping for the rains, I was swing- ing lazily in my hammock in the sha- diest corner of the veranda. It was nearly time for the afternoon bugle to be blown, and I was just regarding with dismay the prospect of turning out in the heat to superintend the dig- ging of the coffee-pits, when my boy KambembeI remember him as the most portentous breaker of crockery that ever entered my servicecame up and announced the arrival of one Chalama. Somewhat puzzled, I tum- bled out of the hammock and walked round the house to find Dr. Chalmers sitting on the front steps. He rose to his feet and took off his helmeta sadly-battered one by this time. His white shirt bore traces of a journey, and he was evidently tired and footsore. Two small boys were squat- ting at a little distance; beside each, one of the round baskets in which a native stores his provisions, etc., on a journey. They were our friends at- tendants and carriers. How do you do? I said. Glad to see you; come into the shade. Thank you, sir. I have been over to Mr. Ferreiras other plantation of Chipande, and I am now on my way back to Port Livingstone. When I heard you were here I thought I would like to come and see you. It is not very much out of the way. I felt flattered by this mark of atten- tion, though inclined to think it must have been some reason beyond mere politeness. I thought the man looked haggard and worried; and now and then he stole wistful glances at me as if making up his mind to ask me a question. I was not mistakenbut the question didnt come just then. I had to go down to the coffee, so I left him, after issuing instructions to Kambembe to supply him with tea and other refresh- ments, and see to the wants of his fol- lowers. It was in the evening, when I was once more established in the ham- mock, and he sitting on the steps in the moonlight, thatafter answering my inquiries, and telling me all the news of the Mission, the River and the Lake, the gunboat and the Portuguese at Matapwiris, and the rumored disturb- ances up Tanganyika way, he began: Mr. Hay, sirif you were at home in England, and you wanted to be mar- ried, and you went to tell the minister, would he refuse? 35 Why, nonot that I ever heard of. Not unless there were some legal ob- stacle. He repeated the phrase thoughtfully, and asked me what that was. Whyif Id been married before, you know, and my wife was livingor if I wanted to marry my grandmother ororsome one like that. A man may not marry his grandmother, you know. Thats in the Prayer Book. I see. But if there is no legal ob- stacle ? The parson cant refuseat least I think not. Not if youve had the banns put up properly, or got a license. But if he objected, I should simply go to an- other parson, to save unpleasantnese, or to a Registry Office.~~ Registry Office, repeated Chalmers, thoughtfully, as if desirous of getting the words by heart. What is that, sir? I explained, and proceeded to ex- pound, to the best of my ability, the marriage laws of the United Kingdom. And then Chalmers, my man, I said, you~ ye got something on your mind. Cant you tell me about it? He looked at me in a sort of wistful, inquiring waywith the eyes that some times make you think a native is like a noble dog, and then said, I thought I would like to tell you, sir. That time I first saw you at Port Livingstone, you did not laugh at me like Mr. OReilly; and I thought Well, lets hear, I said. And he told meI may condense his narrative how he had fallen in love with Lucy otherwise Chingasonjiand how he had reason to suppose she reciprocated his feelings, and how he had gone to speak to Dr. Angus on the subject, and been snubbed for his pains. Do you think you are good enough for Lucy?the doctor had demanded (Chalmerss imitation of his tone and mannerI had made the doctors ac The Courtsht~z5 of Tambcda Chalmers. 36 quaintance by this timesimply con- vulsed me)and settled the matter summarily by sending for Lucy. Lucy, I regret to say, did not rise to the occa- sion; her courage failed her when con- fronted with those bristling white eye-. brows, and with downcast eyes, shield- ed by a slim bronze hand, she mur- inured, softly: Iai, mzungu. 1 There, you see! said the doctor, triumphantly, and enlarged at length on Chalmerss presumptuous folly, while Lucy retiredto be acidulously congrat- ulated by Mrs. Angus on her good sense-and (as was revealed to Chal- mers in due course) cried herself to sleep that night in a corner of the girls dormitory. This was the incident I had heard of from OReilly. Subse- quentlyon being notified that Mr. Kalkbrenner intended to raise his sal- ary, Chalmers had tried his fate once more, with like result, except that a week or two later, there was brought to him a piteous tear-stained letter, which he showed me. I knew enough Yao to make out the sense of it. She said she loved him with all her heart, and wished to marry himonly the Donna didnt like it, and was trying to persuade her to take Isaac (Mr. Vyner s bate noire) instead. But its infamous! I said. They have no right to interfere in this way. Why couldnt she tell them so to their faces? She was frightened, he said, quiet- ly, and I remembered what OReilly had said about intimidation. It was not easy for a gentle-natured girl to avow her own wishes in opposition to those whom she had learnt to think of as gods upon earth. And I suppose the Anguses were not consciously selfish. Indeed, I happen to know that they honestly looked upon themselves as ex- ceedingly ill-used people. Chalmers had finished, and I smoked on to the end of my cigarette. 1 No, sir. I call It shameful, was the first out- come of my reflections. I shouldnt have thought it of Angus! Chalmers smiled sadly, as one who has had experienee of life. Dr. Angus, sir, he said, solemnly, is like the rotten fig. He is very beau- tiful to behold, outwardly; but if you open him, you will find him full of worms, andand unpleasantness! It was fortunate for me that I was in the shade of the veranda; and I has- tily set the hammock in motion to con- ceal the agitation I could not control. He had no right to prevent your marrying, thats clear, I said, as soon as I could command my voice. But why need you consult him? Its awk- ward, I admit, her living in the house, but she might leave. They cant de- tain her against her will. Wheres her home? His face fell. She has no home. Her relations died in the famine, when she was a little childand she was saved and tak- en to the Mission. She has some dis- tant cousins on Tyolo. But they live a long way off. And even if she could go therewifere could we be married but at the Mission? Dr. Angus would not do it! Nonsense! I said. Hed have to. It would be illegal to refuse. He shook his head. Who is there to make him do It? There are so few white men in this country, and they hear nothingor, If they do, they will not care. Perhaps they think it a good joke, like Mr. OReilly. But the Administration? They will not interfere. They are only too glad that Dr. Angus Is friend- ly with them and does not write letters to Lord Salisbury and the Aborigines Protection Society. This, I own, took away my breath for the moment, but I was too much in- terested in the matter in hand to com The Cour/shzj5 oj Tambala Chalmers. The Courtshi~p of Tambala C,halrners. 37 ment on the extent of Chalmerss infor- mation. Well, I went on, Im not prepared to assert what may or may not be legal under the peculiar circumstances of this Colony or Protectorateor what- ever we call ourselves. But I think you should talk to some one better able to advise you than I. Have you asked Mr. Vyner? I have talked to him in former times, sir, and he was kind, but he always said, Be patient, and Dr. Angus means well! He thinks, concluded Chalmersnot bitterly, but with a cer- tain deliberate sadness, as of one ac- customed to disappointmentthat it is not right to tell a black man that you think a white man is wrong. I dont think Mr. Vyner is like that, Chalmers. I think if he knew a defin- ite way to help you. he would do it. Perhaps things are different nownot like they were when you told him. But what I have been thinking is this: Theres a chaplain at the gunboat sta- tion at Fort Malo4 hear hes just ar- rived. I used to know him in England, and hes a very good fellow. Why dont you and Lucy go down and ask him to marry you? Ill write you a letter to him if you like. Some would have thought that Chal- mers was not much impressed by this, as he looked not at me, but at the bricks of the veranda, and murmured, in soft, level tones: Thank you, sir; you are very gOod. But I was beginning to know the na- tive, and was not disappointed by this reception of my proposal. And Lucy He hesitated. Ive been thinking about that. Do you know my capitao, Jacob? His wifes a very decent person. couldnt Lucy come to stay with them till we can send her down to Fort Malo? Chalmers shook his head. It would not do, sir, he said, with. portentous gravity. And I could not get out of him why. Long afterwards I discovered that he feared my reputa- tion would suffera consideration which, I must confess, had never oc- curred to me. I will write to Mr. Vyner, he said, after a further pause of consideration. I cannot go to him just yet, because I have been several days away from the plantation, and there will be many things to see to; but as soon as I can get away I will go to the Mission, and then I will go and see him. He is kind but I am afraidMrs. Vyner He shook his head in a depressed manner instead of concluding his sen- tence, and I knew what he meant. The good soul was a devout believer in the Angusian infallibility, and, moreover, on terms of intimate friendship with Mrs. Angusa sour, precise woman, doubtless an excellent person in her way, only that way contrasted strange- ly enough with Mrs. Vyners universal, if somewhat inconsequent, kindliness. But, I reflected, that same inconse- quence, when the kind heart was con- fronted with the chance of assisting the course of true love to run smooth, might triumph over much. Who could tell? It was growing late for the weary planter who has to turn out shivering at daybreak. My guest rose to his feet instead of waiting, native fashion, to be dismissed. You leave early, then? I suppose Jacob has seen about your quarters for the night? Im sorry I cant do any more for you, but Ill write to Merry- weather tomorrow, andandwell, you cant do better than consult Vyner. He stood before me, twisting his hel- met in his hands, and began, somewhat haltingly, I thank you, sir. And then, for the first time in my experience, the English language suddenly became In- adequate to the expresion of his feel- ings, and he relapsed into Yao. You have a good heart. Some white men 38 The C~ottrtshz/, of Tambala Chalmers. think when a black man loves a woman and has trouble, it is only a thing for them to laugh at when they are drink- ing with their friends. You did not laugh; no. You listened to me, and have tried to help. And even if you cannot help, I shall not forget. Oh, come! I said helplessly; lets hope itll come all right in the end. There, good-night! And I shook hands with him to his evident gratifica- tion. He left next morning, and what fol- lowed was reported to me piecemeal from various sources. When, a week or two later, he was able to carry out his projected journey, he arrived at the Mission only to find that Lucy was gone. Mrs. Angus said she was a wick- ed, ungrateful girl, and had run away to her native village, where, no doubt, she had married in the native fashion. Conversations with judiciously-selected and sympathizing natives elicited the fact that pressure had been put upon her to marry Isaac Kabweza, a state- ment reluctantly confirmed by honest MKechnie, whom Chalmers sought in the workshops, and cross-examined with merciless rigor. Also, it was hint- ed to him, that she had, in all probabil- ity, not gone to the River. He was on his way to Mr. Vyners, pondering these things in his heart, when he met a little shock-headed urchin, clad in nothing but a few inches of dirty calico, and carrying in his hand a spear and a cleft stick with a letter wedged in it. The boy stopped in the pathway with a grin, but not before Chalmerss quick eye had perceived that the bit of blue, red-lined paperevi- dently a page from an account book-- was addressed to him. The bearer was Lucys second cousins husbands nephew, or thereabouts, and lie came straight from Tyolo. Lucy had already sent a lefter direct to Port Livingstone, but there was a report (happily ~t turned out to be unfounded) that the messenger had been eaten by lions; so she despatched this small kinsman by the longer and safer road which passed the Mission. So Chalmers, instead of going to consult Mr. Vyner, bent his steps towards Tyolo. Lucys relatives welcomed him with effusion. They were decent people though they had never been at a Mis- sion; and, never having seen a white man, they believed Chalmers to be a very passable imitation of one, and treated him accordingly. So you may imagine that he was under no tempta- tion to shorten his stay. And then it turned out, most opportunely, that the people of that village had a kind of hereditary friendship with a village in the neighborhood of Fort Malo, as the native way is in those parts, and were in the habit of exchanging long visits from time to time. There was no earthly reason why one of these family pilgrimages should not take place at once and Lucy join the party. Chal- mers saw them off with their baskets and bundles, and then returned to his own place, going round via Luchenya, so as to see me and report progress. Arrived at Port Livingstone, he found OReilly there with the Explorer on his way down river, and at once engaged his passage to Fort Malo, thus trium- phantly saving appearances in the eyes of black and white alike. Mr. Vyner had once told me that if I needed a change, and work was not very pressing, .there could be no objec- tion to my leaving Jacob in charge, and running over to Masuku for a few days. I had never yet acted on this suggestionthat is, I had never left Luchenya unless Vyner himself, or some other white man, were there in my absence; and, as things were decid- edly slack just then, I concluded that the occasionwarranted my taking a holi- day down to Fort Malo instead. So I wrote to Merryweather~whO had sent a kind and cordial response to my letter The Courfshzjb of Tambala Chalmers. 39 about Chalmerss difficultiesand ac- cepted his general invitation to come and see him, rather more promptly than he probably expected. I did not give him the option of saying that it was not con- venient, reflecting that if he couldnt put me up some one else was sure to do so, if it was only OReilly in the can- vas cabin of the Explorer. So I sent out to engage carriers, and made my preparations, starting early in the fol- lowing week for my three-days jour- ney across country, in the course of which I shot nya2rna, even a bush~buck, and a pig, and two brace of guinea- fowl, so that we entered Fort Malo like a triumphal procession, my men chant- ing my praises at the top of their voices. Merryweather was looking thin and yellow. Fort Malo is not an invigorat- ing place for a new-coiner, but his eye was as bright and his spirit as uncon- querable as of old. Youve come just in time, he said. The marriage is fixed for tomorrow, and my word! I hope its all straight now. Your friend appears to be a born lawyer. Ive never been so cross-ex- amined in my life, and then he pro- duced a Prayer Book and made me go through the whole Marriage Service with him to see if there was anything which he, as a member of the Church of Scotland, could not conscientiously approve of, or which might make him into an Episcopalian without his knowl- edge! Merryweather leaned back in his big chair~ (he was installed pro tern. at the Consulate, with its neat green shutters and picturesquely-cut thatch), and was forced to mop his forehead with an out- size handkerchief. He looked ashamed of the operation, and murmured some- thing apologetic about the climate. I assured him that I was accustomed to keep a pair of sheets handy, but he still looked a little disturbed. I hope its all right. Ive asked El- liott-Price, and he says it is; and were going to register it at the Consulate as well as in my own books. But Ive been inquiring, and inquired of to such an extent, that my minds in a whirl, and I believe I shall wake up and find Ive married our friend to all the pro- hibited degrees at once, or something equally atrocious. Have you seen her? Yes; an uncommonly nice, modest girl she is, too. I must say I respect her spirit, for she is evidently rather timid than otherwise, and it must have required a good deal of courage in her position. But what I cant understand isthis Dr. and Mrs. AngusChalmerss account is naturally biassed, of course. . I stated the facts as far as I knew them. Merryweather drummed with his fingers on the edge of his chair for some time before answering. Judge no man this weather! some- body says in Kipling. I suppose it is true that a long residence in this cli- mate is apt to turn men into arbitrary gents, if theyre not careful. Witness the Stanley expedition and other cases. You and I must look out, old man. I do not judge Dr. Angus, but it appears to me the climate has made an arbi- trary gent out of him. The marriage took place next day in the Consulate veranda. There was a large attendance of Europeans, most of whom, I am afraid, came in the ex- pectation of witnessing something like a nigger minstrel entertainment. They were disappojnted in this respect, but few, if any, regretted it. When Merry- weather read out, Therefore, if any man can show any just cause, I caught OReillys eye. He was purple in the face, and I trembled lest he should in- terrupt the proceedings by any ribaldry. At the same time it darted through my mind that it was scarcely fair to ask that question with Dr. and Mrs. Angus a hundred miles away, and I was seized 40 First Loss. with a wild desire to laugh. But we both controlled ourselves. They were standing up before Merry- weather, Chalmers In a white linen suit which positively glittered with starch and getting up, a pomegranate flower in his button-hole, and a massive silver watch-chain dangling from his waist- coat, with a something on his face which, if he had not been so portentous- ly serious, would have been a smile of self-complacency, as if he felt himself to be a spectacle for men and angels, and an edifying one at that. Lucy was dressed in her ordinary best; she had not been in a position to prepare bridal finery, and the calico folded just under her arms over the short, sleeveless jacket, was snow- white and gracefully draped, and she had a white rose sttick behind one ear In the short hairwhich looked like a black lambs fleeceand wore on her pretty wrists two silver bangles Mrs. Elliott-Price had given her. She was a slim, graceful creature, with a small head and delicate features, and a com- plexion like polished bronze; and, great- ly as she differed from all our previous Ideas of brides, most of us thought we had never seen a prettier one. The Gentlemans Magazine. I, David Tambala Chalmers, take thee, Lucy Chingasonji ... Fortu- nately Osman Adam, the Banyan trad- er, had been able to provide a ring that fitted exactly, so there was no difficulty or delay, though the slender brown fin- gers did tremble so. And then it was over, and Mrs. El- liott-Price came and shook hands with bride and bridegroom, and brought them in to tea and mixed biscuits, al- most an unexampled treat in Lucys life, and, therefore, fitly associated with this high ar~ solemn festival. It is long since I left Africa, but the mail still brings me, from time to time, sententious epistles chronicling the wel- fare of the family whose head was once Tambala, the slave-boy. He still manages a store for Ferreira and Kalkbrenner, very much to their satisfaction apparently, and Lucy, his wife, takes in washing from all the Europeans within reach. They have named their eldest boyunlucky wight Vincent Hay, apparently after my un- worthy self, and the little girl who fol- lowed him is Gladys Helen, the former of which appellations I conjecture to belong to Mrs. Elliott-Price. A. Werner. FIRST LOSS. Ach, wer bringt die sch6nen Tage. Ah! those days beyond renewing Days, the prime of Love and lovely, Who can bring one Instant only Of those golden days again! Still my wounds I foster lonely, Still with sorrow sit, pursuing Withered bliss and living pain. Ah! those days beyond renewing Who can bring them back again! The Saturday Review. W. ~iche~, from the German of Goethe. Dafodils: A Study. 41 DAFFODILS. A STUDY. March, in olden times was considered the beginning of the year. The Daffodil may, therefore, be considered the first flower of the new year; and it may well be regarded as the beginning of its strength. There is no flower that strikes you as so fresh and vigorous and full of life. It has the strength and symplicity of a Doric column. It rises straight from the ground with single- ness of purpose and directness of aim. Round leaves speak of restfulness and fulfilled design, and belong to the later periods of the year; straight leaves, on the other hand, in their upright lines suggest alert progressive movement, and are appropriate to the quick, eager life of youthful spring. In the long, narrow leaves of the daffodil, that seem stem and foliage combined in one, as if nature in her haste had no time to separate them, t~ere is nothing super- fluous. They gird their green garments closely about their loins to do more effectually the work that is set before them in the brief season. The color of the daffodil leaves is of a peculiar glaucous green; a color that speaks of fulness of life, and is more refreshing to the eye than any other. It somehow suggests, as Dr. Forbes Watson well said, the idea of water, the source of all living freshness and cool- ness; not water in a shallow, colorless pool, where there is not enough of it to body forth its own hue, but water in the blue-green state, as it exists in the calm reaches beyond the downward thrust of the foaming cascade falling into the great depths. There you see water in its most vivid coloring; shades of deep green that are in most perfect harmony with the vegetation on the banks of the pool to which it gives rise by its baptism of refreshment, and the laughing foliage that overhangs it, and dips its sportive boughs into the white foam-wreaths. The close association between water and the leaves of the daffodil, with their smooth, cool, vivid-green surfaces, and their fast-growing tissues full of sap, struck the poetic fancy of the an- cients, and originated the myth of Nar- cissus, who was changed Into a daffodil by being in love with his own image reflected in a stream; and to adapt slightly Wordsworths exquisite com- parison, beauty born of murmuring sound did pass into its face. It enables us to realize the far-reaching signifi- cance of such fables as the transforma- tion into a laurelthe freshest, coolest, and most like water of any plantof Daphne, the daughter of a nymph of the rivers chasod by the sun-god Apollo into this shady Inaccessible refuge. And all suefi myths were personifications of the power by which the water that Is born of the rivers is changed by means of the light and heat of the sun into the varied forms of vegetable life. Ruskin puts the lilies into a class by themselves to which he gives the name of Are- thusa, regarding them as the quiet en- during moulds into which the lovely waters, of which the famous fountain is the representative, are changed by the vital breath. The amaryllids, of which the daffodils is one of the fairest members, are indeed the daughters of Arethusa. They grow in the neighbor- hood of water; they are often grown in water only, without any soil; they are the embodiments of its coolest and greenest depths in the pools. They seem to have got their abundant sap out of the storm-clouds that during the 42 Dafl~odils: A Study. late winter and early spring months distilled their moisture into their grow- ing-places. Usually the .green leaves of plants are the first to appear, being of a simpler type and construction than the flowers which are afterwards awakened by the stronger power of the sun. The flower of the daffodil shoots up in company with its long, spear-like leaves mar- shalled around it to defend it from the cold winds of March; but it maintains the general characteristic of spring plants, which is to rise up at once straight from the root. This peculiar- ity is caused by the special dangers to which spring plants are exposed, from the changeableness and inclemency of the weather at that season. Nature, as Tennyson tells us, is more careful of the type than of the single life; and, therefore, spring plants, like the crocus, send up their flowers, which belong, not to the individual, but to the race; not to the vegetable plant that now is, but to the propagative system of the life that is to come, before their leaves or Immediately from their rootso as to accomplish the most important purpose firstand to secure that, whatever hap- pens to the individual plant, the flower, and fruit, and seed of the species of the coming race will be safely provided for. And how lovely is the contrast be- tween the cool, shady leaves that stand sentinel around it, and the rich yellow of the blossom in the centre! We have in this flower of March the beautiful combination of winter and summer, of the rain-cloud and the sun-beam, of the warmth of the sun in its blossom and the coolness and freshness of the floods in its leaves; the whole plant being thus an expressive symbol of the two essential elements that help to make up its lovely life. Besides the legitimate petals of the flower, there is in the daf- fodil a corona or tube, which is a sup- plementary organ to protect the vital stamins and pistils, and to make the blossom more attractive to the few in- sects that are about at this time, in or- der that they may fertilize it. The daf- fodils coming before the swallow dares, and taking the winds of March with beauty, require to work during the whole day and the lengthening eve, in order to secure the speedy perpetuation of the race; and therefore they are adorned with their brilliant hue, which is visible longer than any other color in the lengthening eves; and instead of being the emblem of forsakenness, as yellow is popularly supposed to be, it is made the emblem of attractiveness, drawing the eyes of insects and moths to the lilies, as our own eyes are at- tracted to the golden clouds in the west. The corona tube not only crowns the flower with its supreme beauty, but It is also the cause of its graceful droop- ing shape, the stamens and pistils are protected within it, as I have said, and at their foot is the store of nectar pre- vented by the bending figure of the flower from being dissolved by the dews or rains, which would speedily 9 fill the tube if it were always erect, like a cup. Its corona and petals In this way act as a roof, sheltering the precious honey for the alluring of in- sects from the copious rains that usher in the spring; while the petals and se- pals, spread out as they are on either side, act like wings to balance the weight of the blossom, and to keep It afloat in the air at the top of its long stem with a graceful ease. This is the utilitarian purpose of the droop in the blossom of the daffodil; but what a tender charm does it give to the flower, which is not yet so assured of its posi- tion that it can fearlessly lift up its face into blue skies, and frankly receive the beneficent gifts of heaven into its open goblet! And what a beautiful les- son does it give of the tender mercies that are over all Gods works, as It thus bends its graceful neck in prayer and thankfulness to Him, not daring to Daftodils: A Study. 43 lift up its head. It was the dancing of the nodding daffodils in the spring breeze that made Wordsworths heart dance within him with a youthful joy. But Herrick sees in this peculiarity of the flower only a means of superstitious divination: When a daffodil I see, Hanging down her head towards me, Guess I may what I must be; First, I shall decline my head, Secondly, I shall be dead, Lastly, safely buried! It was, indeed, a strange omen to take from a provision of nature, intend- ed for the very opposite purposeto prolong and perpetuate the life of the plant. It was a prophecy of life, not of death. But in those days of figurative resemblances, the drooping of the head of the daffodil was supposed to picture the bending of the body by disease or weakness to the grave. The droop of the daffodil is very dif- ferent from that of the snowdrop. It is a gradual arching curve like a swans neck; whereas that of the snowdrop is abrupt from an almost straight stalk, that bends only slightly to the weight of the flower. The blossom of the snow- drop, owing to this wise contrivance, has greater freedom to turn round on its stem, and to set its back against the more boisterous storms that prevail in February when the Fair Maids are out; whereas the weather later on is more settled, and the droop of the daffodil ac- commodates itself to it by a graceful curve without injury. This arching curve becomes more marked in double flowers, for, owing to the reversion of slender, thread-like stamens and pistils Into broad, leaf-like petals, the stem has a heavier weight to carry; but be- ing overdone by this heavier burden, much of the beauty and grace of the flower has been lost. No flower has been so frequently doubled as the daf- fodil. In old-fashioned gardens, all the flowers used to be of that charac ter, and it was very rare to find any- where a single flower. This came to be regarded as the natural habit of the plant, and it set the fashion. It was preferred for two reasons: because it presented a more showy appearance, larger flowers and more brilliant color- ing; and, in the second place, this form was more lasting. By doubling a flower and so changing its seed-producing ves- sels into petals, you bring it more closely down to the condition of barren foliage, which, belonging to the indi- vidual, and not to the race, has a much longer term of existence. The flower fades quickly because it is a flower, the instrument of perpetuating the race a quick means to a long end and must speedily give way to the fruit and the seed; but the leaf that is kept as a leaf endureth indefinitely. And yet what a sacrifice you make for the longer con- tinuance of your double flower! You convert it into an artificial flower, that lacks all the fleeting charms of the sin- gle flower. How much lovelier Is the single daffodil that is free to develop all its own parts in its own way! How exquisite Is its frilled corona, which is not broken up into ragged, mop-like pieces! How fairy-like its petalled wings of a paler hue, which give it such a gladsome motion in the breeze! It is, indeed, the frail, perishing single daffodil that is the most beautiful. It is of the simple, and therefore fleeting wild-flower, and not of the doilbie and more enduring garden form, that Her- rick speaks so pathetically; and his words are more beautiful because they have this pathos of perishableness. Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon: As yet the early rising sun Has not attained its noon. Stay, stay Until the hastening day Has run But to the evening song, And having prayed together, we Will go with you along. 44 The blossom of the daffodil has a very singular feature, the significance of which is not commonly recognized. It springs directly from a brown mem- braneous spathe or sheath, looking like a bit of dry tissue-paper clinging close- ly to the base of the flower. It is like a grocers twisted bag or the miniature hood of a Capuchin monk. It seems like a deformity, and you would almost wish to tear it off, and leave the lovely golden blossom to rise directly from its bare, fresh, green stem. But in that case much of its beauty would be de- stroyed and all its significance lost! This feature brings out more thorough- ly the brightness of the yellow blossom against its shrivelled wrapping. Its death in life contrasts more strikingly with the fresh, living juiciness of the stem below and the floral growth above it. The eye appreciates all the more fully the brilliancy of the flower that has sprung out of this dry, mummified sheath, like the cerements of the dead. The decay that has overtaken this part of the plant, when it has reached its highest point, and is about to be crowned with its golden crown of life, reads to us the moral of the transitori- ness of all life. But I see in this withered spathe hanging on the fair green neck of the flower a still more significant lesson, full of happy suggestion. Nature does not drop it as if it were a withered leaf; she persists in keeping it upon the stem, so that we may be duly impressed by it. Ordinary decay is at the extremity of things whose purpose is served. It tadicates the end of their perfection. But the decay of this spathe is not at the end of the stem; for the stem goes beyond it to develop the blossom, and therefore it is only a step in the pro- gress of the plant, only a stage in its unfolding. Why, it may be asked, does the sheath become dry and withered in the daffodil when it retains its fresh,. Daffodils: A Study. continues on that plant unfaded till the flower dies? Is it not because the de- mands made upon the substance and strength of the snowdrop are not so great? Its blossom and the growth ot its stem and leaves are so small that they economize their material and force in the formation of them, and therefore the spathe can preserve the freshness of the rest of the plant. But the needs of the daffodil, created by its long leaves and large blossoms, are so great that the spathe must have its green growth stopped, and must wither in or- der that the blossom may be formed by the sacrifice. it is the dying plant that flowers. Flowers appear at the end of stems where the vital force is far spent, and the substance for making new growth is almost exhausted. Therefore the plant blossoms at the end of the stem. But here in the sheath of the daffodil it rests a while, in order to ac- cumulate fresh material and vital en- ergy to complete the plant in its mag- nificent flower. You notice that the withered mem- braneous spathe at the farthest leafy or vegetative stage of the daffodil Is one of the same simple elementary type and mode of construction as the scales that cover the bulb, from which the leaves and blossoms at first sprang. The daffodil thus in its highest growth goes back to its lowest growth. It dies down to its origin in its most advanced growth, in order to rise again to higher effort and more glorious revelation of what is in it. In the dry, withered sheath we see the recoil or retrogres- sion from the fullest development of foliage enabling the plant in the same way as an athlete takes a step back In order to leap over an obstacle, to pro- duce the highest formation of all, the flower and fruit. Strange it is to see the lovely blossom, that delights the eye with Its golden crown of beauty, springing out of the unsightly shroud- green appearance in the snowdrop, and like spathe, pushing through and be- The Children of the Blood. 45 yond it, making the spathe to be a and deittli itself shall die and drop off mere withered leaf, hanging upon its forever. Such is the glorious Easter last green strength. So our own human hope which the withered spathe life, whose glory is hid in death, shall wrapped round the seed-vessel of the survive, push through and beyond death daffodilor Lent Lily as it is often to the eternal unfolding; and at last calledinspires! mortality shall be swallowed up of life, Hugh Macmillan. The Sunday Magazine. THE CHILDREN OF THE BLOOD. Is this the North Wind sweeping down to snap the storm-bent pine, Or the South Wind whirling spindrift from Fuego to the Line? No! East or West, fling out your best against the sea cliff sheer; Far clearer than your storm-wind is the call that greets us here. Whereer the Three Gross Baniier waves you hear the sum- mons roll, From mountain crest to river bed, from Tropic to the Pole. It floats out oer the lonely veldt, across the prairie grass; It strikes the busy merchants ear where hurrying thousands pass; Then crashing oer the granite peak, It bids the hiliman come; The stockman gathers from the plain, the dalesman from his home. Men hear it in the workshop as it echoes down the street, It stirs the ready hand to arm, the loyal heart to beat, It peals out oer the desert waste, it thunders oer the flood, The Free Lands call to Free Men, to the Children of the Blood. Whereer that brave old Banner flaunts our Triple Cross on high, Whereer the Lions cubs are reared, rings out the stern reply, We hear thy voice, Great Mother, and we answer to thy call, The offspring of thy mighty loins, spread oer the seagirt ball. We stand with thee in union,Lord God, be Thou our guide, Wield Thou the Sword of Justice, but this link let none divide! We bring our lives, a free gift, for the land all freemen love, For liberty and equal law, our charter from above. And as, when dark clouds iowred of old, our Fathers grimly stood, So now, before the Nations, stand the Children of the Blood. The Spectator. C. M. 46 The Evolution of Literary Decency. THE EVOLUTION OF LITERARY DECENCY. Take away your Bonny Afra Behn, said the old lady who, about 1810, bor- rowed and tried to read, the novels that had been the delight of her youth. Very few persons now peruse As- tr~a, who trod the stage so loosely; very few know whether she was more indiscreet than the novelists of the eighteenth century or not. Mrs. Behn died in 1689; she had been the wife of a Dutchman, and, in one of her tales, she asures us that it is quite a mistake to suppose that a Hollander cannot love. This remark, and the circumstance that she anticipated Mrs. Beecher Stowe in taking a negro for her hero in one novel, are all that my memory retains of Astr~ea. They certainly did not leave a distinct and separate stain on my imagination. The familiar anecdote of the old lady whose age rejected as impossible the romances which had delighted Society in her youth, supplies a text for a curi- ous speculation. Wherefore had taste altered so radically in the space of one lifetime? It is a natural but inade- quate reply that taste always does alter in sixty years. Thus, Lady Louisa Stuart, who was born about 1760, found, about 1820, that Richardsons novels, when read aloud, provoked in- extinguishable laughter. In her youth people had wept or sighed over Pame- la; now people mocked, and she mocked with them. Such changes of taste make the pathetic seem absurd, or make what Moliere meant to be comic seem pathetic, at least to refined critics. But we are concerned with a change at once deeper and far more suddena change in morality rather than in style or sentiment. English lit- erature had been, at least, as free-spok- en as any other from the time of Chau- cer to the death of Smollett. Then, in twenty years at most, English litera- ture became the most pudibund, the most respectful of the young persons blush, that the world has ever known. Now, this revolution was something much deeper than the accustomed pro- cess which makes the style and the ideas of one generation seem antiquat- ed and uncongenial to the readers of the next. We quite understand why Mr. Guy Boothby is preferred, say, to Thackeray, and Mr. Henty to Marryat, by the young. Youth detests what it thinks is old-fashioned, and is puz- zled by traits of manners with which it is unfamiliar. But custom will pres- ently stale the authors of to-day, and that change of taste will not correspond at all to a change which, in some twen- ty years, altered the whole tone and character of a national literature. Why, and owing to what combination of causes, did the very plain speech of our first famous novelists in the eighteenth century become a stumbling-block to readers of some thirty years later? Why did decency, or prudery, if any one pleases, come suddenly into vogue between 1770 and 1800? Why were such poems as Sucklings ballad of a marriage published, about 1810, with lines and half stanzas omitted? How are we to account for Bowdier? The change of moral taste was really as great as the change of opinion about witchcraft, which arose between 1680 and 1736. Mr. Lecky has written at length about that revolution, but no- body, as far as I remember, has dis- cussed the other alterationBowdiers alterationin the matter of moral taste. In the first place it did not correspond with a regular sweeping purification of Society. Nobody will say that the Regency, the age of Bowdier, was much more moral than the early part The Ezolution of Literary Decency. 47 of the reign of George III, the age of Wilkes. Yet, between 1760 and 1770, we had Smollett and Sterne for living novelists, while in 1800-1815, we had Miss Edgeworth, Godwin, Miss Austen, Mrs. Shelley, Gait, and Scott. Writers more delicate in language and descrip- tion cannot be, nor could writers be much looser or coarser than those of the previous generation. The change of 1770-1814 lasted till quite recently. Novels were intended to lie on the drawing-room table, and were meant to be fit for the young person. So stern were parents about 1840-1870 that they managed to find Thackeray improper, and we all remember Thackerays own remark that, since Fielding, nobody had dared to draw a man. Colonel Newcome must have been born about 1800, and the Colonel revolted naturally against Joseph Androws and Tom Jones. By our time, of course, taste has altered, and lady novelists intro- duce situations which, I verily believe, would have made Astriua herself blush vermilion. But even now the language of the most advanced writers is far in- deed from attaining the simple breadth of Smollett or Fielding, though many modern ideas expressed in fiction would have made Roderick Random exclaim in virtuous indignation. We have had novels fit to accompany Pe- tronius in the library of Lord Strutwell. A curious point in this evolution is the difference which it exhibits in France and in England. In England, Fielding and others felt it necessary, or desirable, to add coarsenesses to Mo- li~re. In France, the translation of Tom Jones (1749) was at first pro- hibited in the interests of virtue. The French dramatists of the great age of of Louis XIV are as decent, as mealy- mouthed as the dramatists of Greece. The dramatists of the contemporary Restoration in England, and of Queen Annes reign, were notoriously coarse and lewd. The remonstrances of Addi son and the Spectator had no effect on Fielding and Siiiollett. But, just when the old coarseness of these masters was dying out in England, the literature of France, in Diderot, Cr6billon fils, and many others, began greatly to outdo what our novelists had dared. The t-~gime of conscious Virtue and of the philosophes in France rather encouraged than checked such books as Voltaires unspeakable Pucelle. People thought La Pucelle amusing! - A classical example of the change in England is Charles Lambs anecdote about the young lady who looked over his shoulder as he was reading Pame- la. She soon went away, and Lami says that there was a blush between them. This may have occurred about 1815, and Pamela had been the very manual of Virtue from 1740 to 1780, or thereabouts. It was put into the hands of ingenuous youth, and even of cliii- dren. Richardson himself was the mere model of the proprieties, and thought Fielding low. Diderot put Richardson on the same shelf as Moses. Pamela was written, as Scott says, more for edification than for effect. Anticipating the modern clergy who preach on Miss Corelli and Mr. Hall Caine, Dr. Sherlock praised Pamela from the pulpit. The novel was said to do more good than twenty ser- mons, though Lady Mary Wortley Montagu thought it more mischievous than the works of Rochester. Scott also reckoned it apt rather to encour- age a spirit of rash enterprise among hand-maidens than of virtuous resist- ance. As a matter of fact, a genera- tion or two later, Pamela made Lambs young friend uncomfortable. She got up and went away. She be- longed to the new age of Miss Austen, Miss Elgeworth, and Sir Walter. Nor need we, even in this emancipated time, wonder at Lambs young lady. I doubt if many, even of our daring writers, would have the courage (the lack of hu 48 The Evolution of Literary Decency. mor they have) to write several of the scenes which Richardson wrote, and which the clergy applauded from the pulpit. Lately I saw a contemporary picture of a very scantily-draped Pamela, aroused by fancying she heard Mr. B. under the bed. It was not to be called a moral work of art, and I fear that Pamela owed much of its success to qualities which doubtless made no con- scious part of Richardsons design. Indeed, as we read it, we laugh in a strange and improper manner, like the wife of Mr. Arthur Pendennis on one occasion. Quite rapidly, in some sixty years, Pamela lost her reputa- tion, became little better than one of the wicked, frightened away the vir- gins whom she was meant to edify, and sank into a deplorably tedious lamen- tation, as Horace Walpole declares, read only by conscientious students of eighteenth-century literature. The rea- son is not merely that the lowly char- acters are slavish, as Scott observes. The reason is that, to our changed taste, Pamela is both prurient and coarse. Even Clarissa is obsessed, through all its intolerable length, by one dominant idea, and leads up to a catastrophe which we cannot contem- plate with patience. Once more I doubt if our youngest and ablest writers would dare to subject a noble lady to the martyrdom of Clarissa, or would be admired by the general public if they did. It is well known that Dr. Johnson, though he read straight through Ame- lia, told Hannah More that she ought to be ashamed of saying that she had read Tom Jones. One cannot guess what fly had bitten the Doctor. Tom Jones is a really moral work, if we set aside Fieldings leniency towa~rds one inexcusable adventure of Mr. Joness. I presume that Fielding was reprobated because he was humor.. ous. Even now, we find the advanced, and virtuous, and earnest applauding the most squalid horrors of M. Zola and others, while they would fly in hor- ror from Gyp. And why? Obviously because M. Zola is absolutely devoid of wit and humor (which Gyp pos- sesses), and, therefore, may be as abominable as he pleases. Has he not a lofty moral purpose! So, in fact, had Fielding, but, alas! he was humorous all unlike Richardson, Zola, Ibsen, and Toistol. Joseph Andrews not only makes us laugh, but encourages every generous virtue. Still, Joseph was low, and Pamela, in some incom- prehensible way, was elevating. Even now, nobody dares to approach the broad and physically coarse methods of Fielding. We do not think it at all comic that Sophia should fall in an un- becoming manner from her horse, nor can we even imagine why Fielding thought it comic. So far, the change is all for the betterindeed, I am apt to think that it was generally for the bet- ter, except in such extreme instances as when the prudery of James Ballan- tyne spoiled the whole sense of St. Ronans Well; or when Jeffrey induced Dickens to make clotted nonsense of Dombey & SonL~vile damnum in the latter case. It does not appear to me that our ebullient novelists ought really to be hampered by limitations which do not seem to have been resented by Homer, Sophocles, Virgil, Moli~re, and Racine. But our problem is, not the good or evil results of certain restraints on freedom of language and incident, but the wonderfully sudden rise of these restraints between 1770 and 1790. In 1771 Smollett published Humphry Clinker, distinctly his best book. The brutality of Roderick Random, the infamous ferocity of Peregrine Pickle, are here molifled and mel- lowed. But, except in the works of M. Zola or of Swift, there are few passages in literature, if any there are, so physi- cally and so needlessly nauseous as cer The Evolution of Literary Decency. 49 tam of the early letters of Matthew Bramble. Everything disgustful that medical practice could suggest to a brutal fancy is here set forth with elab- orate care. There is something of the ape, of the Yahoo, in these passages at- tributed to the pen of an honorable and benevolent country gentleman. On the chapter of Smells, Smeilfungus, as Sterne called Smollett, is as copious as M. Zola or M. Guy de Maupassant. No- body seems to have objected as some purists did object to the freakish con- temporary lubricities of Sterne. All these great eighteenth-century writers revelled joyously in the necessarily gro- tesque physical side of human nature. It was primely witty to half-poison somebody with a surreptitious dose of medicine. Homely articles of everyday life were constantly dragged in to get a laugharticles that the most emanci- pated novelist of to-day keeps out of his daring pages. And, in thirty years, all these amusing objects, aj~d scores of sets of comic or sensual situations, had become even more impossible in fiction than they are today. Even the author of Tom and Jerry would have given them a wide berth in England, and few authors, except M. Armande Silvestre, venture on them in France. In 1740 Dickens would have had cheap and nasty resources, and would have used them, while the Dickens of 1840 shunned them even more scrupulously than most men. One cannot imagine a change more rapid and more radical. We had not been a prudish people. Chaucer, Shake- speare, Dryclen, Congreve, Smollett, Burns, Sterne, are at the opposite ex- treme from the prudish. Why did we become so dainty between Smolletts death (1771) and the rise of Mrs. Rad- cliffe (1789)? We cannot attribute the revolution to the influence of feminine authors (such as Mrs. Radcliffe, Miss Edgeworth, and Miss Austen), for fem- inine influence in Mrs. Manley, Mrs. LIVING AGZ. VOL. vu. .347 Heywood, and Afra Behn had tended in quite an opposite direction. More- over, it is ladies to-day who throw their caps highest over the windmills, both in licentiousness of idea and physical squalor of themealways, of course, for lofty moral purposes. Again, one cannot see that society was more deli- cate xvhen Rowlandson drew than when Hogarth boldly designed spades (18 spades. The Court of the Regency was not purer than the early years of the Regents worthy father. People were as naughty as when Lady Vane pub- lished the Memoirs of a Lady of Qual- ity. Yet, everything Smollettian and Rabelaisian was banished clean out of literature, and has never returned. Those persons are very young and ill- informed who think that the change is Early Victorian. That theory, if cor- rect, would be intelligible; but the revo- lution was really late Georgian; it arose in an age of heavy courtly licensean a~e when popular life was nearly as rough as it had been Ia 1740. Yet, quite a large class of topics was now h)anished, not only from books, but from conversation between the sexes. Burns, as a peasant, was probably the last poet who took his full swing. By- ron was rel)robated; and Leigh Hunt was 4bbetted (hypocritically, I fear) for the Story of Rimini. None of the three woul(1 have been lunch censured forty years earlier. I have stated the problem, but I do not pretend to solve it. I rememrber no Jeremy Collier, and no Addison, who set about reforming the coarseness of taste, just after Smohletts day; and it does not seem that Jeremy or Addison, when they tried, really produced much effect. The Spectator, in Lambs situ- ation on Primrose Hill, might, indeed, have proved as embarrassing as did Pamela herself. Nor did foreign in- fluences produce the revolution, for France was then hurrying into what had been the English extreme. 50 The Ezolu~tion of Literary Deccncy. If I must make a guess, I would haz- ard the theory that the change was caused by the rise of a larger reading middle class, especially by the increase in the numbers of women of the middle classes, and in the country, who read books. They had not hitherto been lit- erary; they had simply been house- wives and stitcher~ ~ood mothers, not bookish. At no time had their class been so free, in conduct or conversa- tion, as the women in society and in London. What they avoided in life, they disliked in literature. They now l)egan to get into contact with litera- ture through book clubs. There were regular societies of provincial Blues, not spotted by town or court. More- over, we must probably allow a good deal for the many and far-reaching in- fluences of the Wesleyan movement, and of the Anglican Church as affected thereby. The red-faced parsons, absorb- ent of port and of ale, the Parson Trul- libers, died out. What can Mrs. Trul- liber have read? Nothing, probably; but the wives of the Henry Tilneys did read, and doted on Cowper as well as on Clara Reeve and Mrs. Radcliffe. Moreover, even Sterne, with his senti- ment made people desire fiction which could touch the heart as well as amuse, and they got it in Mackenzies Man of Feeling and Julia de Roubign& Shelley, in boyhood, tried to set the ex- ample of didactic novels, meant, he says, to inculcate his metaphysics and morals. When once sentiment, and di- dacticism, and romance, and terror (as in Mrs. Radcliffe and other favorites of Miss Catharine Morland) came in, and were found delightful, humor and liber- tinism went out. Broad farce was not in harmony (despite Dickens) with sen- timent and the wilfully didactic, nor with the horrid, with spectral castles, and inquisitorial dungeons. Smollett had thought such attractions dead for- ever, but he was wrong. They revived, they were hugely popular, they held the field and horseplay w-ent out. Miss Burney, again, could not be expected to sin in the direction of Astrtea. yet she could interest and amuse without such gambols. There were no humorous novelists, or none who are now remem- bered as authors of stories between the days of Smollett and Miss Edgeworth. There arose a forgotten school of his- torical novelists. So nobody was tempt- ed to use the old, simple, animal expe- dients for getting a laugh. Thus the new and great generation of Scott and Miss Austen had no temptation to coarseness or licentiousness; even a moderate freedom would have been fatal, and modern critics may think Scott and Miss Austen senselessly de- cent. On the whole, the most obvious and probable cause of the sharp and sudden revolution of taste was probably what we may call the Wesleyan Reformation acting on the middle classes far beyond the bounds of the Wesicyan cominun- ion. Wesleys movement was really (though he did not know it) part of the Romantic movement; it began in an as- ceticism, and in an emotion, and in su- pernormal experiences after the model of the ideals of the media~val church. Romanticism itself (in spite of some old French romances) is. in essence, a deli- cate thing; knights amorous and er- rant are all unlike the festive wander- ers of Fielding and Smollett. Time squires of romantic lovers are no Straps nor Partridges, and the knights under- stand the maiden passion for a mai(l, in a sense unknown to the lovers of So- phia, Emilia, and Narcissa. The new middle-class lady novel-reader could not put up with time infidelities of Tom Jones, Roderick Random, and Peregrine Pickle. She felt personally insulted (and no wonder) by their behaviour. From all these influences, one ventures to conjecture, the singular and rapid change in taste, and the decent limita- tions on literary art (limitations hither- At Ni~ght in A/arc/i. 51 to conspicuously absent from English fiction) drew their origin. That the once Puritan middle class deserve most of the praise is a theory strengthened by the example of America, where pru- dery as to the use even of simple harm- less phrases (for example, you retire in America; you never go to bed) irri- tated Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes. American literature is assuredly nei- ther licentious nor coarse. But these hypotheses may be inadequate or erro- neous, in which case the problem be- comes vastly more curious and interest- ing. A problem it is; the generation of Scotts father saw nothing out of the way or reprehensible in literary forms which the authors of Scotts generation might, and, of course, did enjoy, but dared not and cared not to follow. Sir Walter himself was an ardent admirer of Smollett, whom, at one time, he was constantly quoting. But Scotts own heroes never once wander from the strict path of a solitary virtuous attach- ment. His one heroine, who, in fact, had transgressed from the path of Dian, was, if I may say so, vio- lently shunted back into it, owing to the prudery of Ballantyne, some of Blackwoods Magazine. whose MS. noze~ on Scotts proof-sheets prove him to have possessed a nice morality. Henceforward every hero was a Galahad, till Mr. Rochester broke away from the rule, and Richard Fex-erel fell into the ancient errors of Captain Booth. Even now a heros con- fessions are less startlingly explicit than those of Roderick Random; and nobody would pretend to interest us in a Peregrine Pickle. or even in a PaIne- Ia. The change. which was born full grown, has laster for a century in Eng- land, which had previously set the very opposite example. It was a change due not merely to the moral revolution tli:tt sprang from the Wesleys, but to a gen-. eral revolt all along the line, in favor of the ideal and the spiritual, and against the godless common-place and brutality of the early Hanoverian tii~ie. The new materh hism of science has probably fostered the new emancipat- ed literature of the strug/orlifeur of M. Daudet. Thus, reactions succeed each other; but. on the whole, in fiction, and not looking at the worse than Smohlettian vulgarity of such plays as Lord Quex, the tendency to a new license seems to have expended itself. A. Lanai. AT NIGHT IN MARCH. Now over all the storm-scarred earth is A radiance of moonlight,calm, serene, There is no sign of spring, no tint of green Upon the faded landscape far out spread. But yet the spring advances,overhead, And sloping nightly westward may be seen Belted Orion where he strides between Bright Sirius and Taurus fierce and dreac~. There are no nights so fair as those of March, No other constellations charm as these. Revolving farther down the vaulted a Th, The Plelad sisters, and faint Hyades Oh! many worlds that roll at His command Dimly we see, who darkly understand G.D.TV. 52 Child of the Infinite. CHILD OF THE INFINITE. I. Sur~, and Moon, and Flame, and Wind, Dust. and Dew, and Day, and Night! Ye ;~ndure.shall I endure not, Though so fleeting in your sight? Ye returnshall I return not, Flesh, or in the fleshs despite? Ye are mighty. but I hold you Compassed in a vaster might. II. Sun. before your flaming circuit Smote upon the uncumbered dark, I within the Thought Eternal Palpitnat, a quenchiess spark, Watched while God awoke and set you ?or a measure and a mark. III. Dove of Heaven, ere you brooded Whitely oer the shoreless waste, And upon the driven waters Your austere enchantment placed, I was power in Gods conception, Without rest and without haste. IV. Journeying Spirit, ere your tongues Taught the perished to aspire, Charged the clod, and called the mortal Through the re-initiant fire, I was of the fiery impulse ~T~.giag the Divine Desire. V. Breath of Time, before your whisper Wandered oer the naked world; Ere your wrath from pole to tropic Running Alps of Ocean hurled, I, the germ of storm in stillness, At the heart of God lay furled. Humors of an Iris/i Country Town. 53 VI. Seed of Earth, when down the void You were scattered from His hand, When the spinning clot contracted, Globed and green at His command, I, behind the sifting fingers, Saw the scheme of beauty plannel. VII Phantom of the Many Waters. When no more you fleet and fall. When no more your round you follow, Infinite, ephemeral, At the feet of the llJnsleeping I shall toss you like a ball. VIII. Rolling Masks of Life and Death, When no more your ancient place Knows you, when your light and darkness Swing no longer over space. My remembrance shall restore you To the favor of His face. Pall Mall Magazine. CIie,1e~ (~. !)., Roberts. HUMORS OF AN IRISH COUNTRY TOWN. Surely in no spot in Great Britain, village or town, can it be possible to feel so far removed from the world as in an Irish country town. That peace which the world cannot give broods over it. Mr. Froude has heard the last echo of the elder world in the church bells, which chime now as they did in the days of virtuous King Harry, who turned the monks adrift. In Cullagh- more, a county town of the Irish Mid- lands, no sound is heard that is peculiar to modern life except the distant roar of the trains hurrying to Cork. One cannot believe, at first, that this is a mother city, whither ever so many little demes look P supplies and help and governaleIlt. Yet even ilere tradesmen can amass the - piles of greasy notes, and banks and public houses are abun- dant. Hither c7ome on market-days the slow donkeys. each stiffly dragging his little cart, which resembles in miniature the huge floats that are allowed to block London streets: the proprietor, male or female, sits on each, contented to jog on half the d~ y. and jog back as pa- tiently as their beasts. Perhaps, like Winky Boss, they measure the distance by pipes of tobacco; though, indeed, the younger won)eL, brave in best clothes and teatilers, smoke notonly ob~ 54 Humors of an Irish Country Town. crones do thatneither do they knit; they are happy enough in having noth- ing to do except twitch the reins at ris- ing ground, until they reach the Mecca whither the heads of countless donkeys are turned. This patch of brown in the midst of long, green pastures, this St. Kilda of towns, to be the eponymous capital of a county! The daily arrival of yesterdays Times or Standard keeps the feeling of isolation ever present. The fact that a reply-pail telegram will bring an answer as surely and quickly as if it were sent between St. Johns Wood and Chelsea is always a fresh surprise, tending to shake the mind from its lonely moorings. The badged and belted telegraph-boy looks an alien In the place, although he also is of the tribe of Ryan. There is something in- congruous about his ted facings, and the red pillar-boxes, as there is about the red regiment in the barracks on the bill. Were Home Rule to come, tele- graph-boys and pillar-boxes would be dressed in green, and no soldiers enter- tained except, perhaps. the Rifle Bri- gade. After all, green is a more rest- ful color. All Gods works here are green or drab-the land green, and the sky drab; man follows in humble imi- tation, for the town and its people are in drab, with parade of green on holi- days. Englishmen think of Southern Ire- land, if they ever think of it in these quiet days, as always fermenting up- wards into lush grass and pigs and cat- tle under warm, everlasting rain. I know one town which can be as cheer- less as the North Sea in winter. The soaking roofs cluster under a high range of hills, which ilC to the south- west, cloud-capped towers with drip- ping sides. On the many days when the wind blows up from the Atlantic these hills extract the due moisture, and the lightened masses roll on to make way for heavier pUYs; from north and east there is no shelter, and the wind, rejoicing in its strength, dashes through the town and measures its force against the dark-browed hills, un- der which the houses seem to be for- lornly cowering, like a herd of cattle that seek shelter at a hedge-side. In summer, if the morning be calm and warm, the mist rises from the valley and floats half way up the hills, as if an intrusive locomotive was laying its white trail. Winter more often veils them in driven clouds and rain, but at rare intervals before sunset the sky clears, and the piled heights seem to have put their heads together in won- der. Through the atmosphere washed by the everlasting rain miles are as yards in your sight, and unsuspect- ed peaks and domes crowd into the pic- ture. Then the wind will give a gentle moan before going to work again, driv- ing a little mist around the more-distant hill-tops; turn away for five minutes, and the swimming vapor puts forth an arm and creeps from pine to pine, dragging itself swiftly from hill to hill, so that when you look again the eyes turn with a shiver to the cheerful gas- lights of the little town. Yet, cold as it can be, the country-folk wear clothes which an English ploughmans lusty shuddering would soon resolve into con- stituent rags. Unclothed and half-fed as the children are, their bones grow long and strong, until they become the tallest men in the British Isles. This, to be sure, is by the action of that great law which yet awaits its Dalton or Darwin, that what suits the Saxon is a misfit for the Cdt and vice versa. The few successes to which English ad- ministration in Ireland can point, are all due to certain empirical applications of this law. Englishmen will never un- derstand this; those that are put in au- thority over us learn nothing as the years advance. Because all the ma- chinery of representative government works smoothly in Englaxid, where the greasing of the wheels is done in secret, Humors of an Irish Country Town. 55 county councils must, therefore, mean justice in a land where the strongest force, social and political, is the ten- dency to disunion. But politics never yet thatched leaky roofs. Here in Cul- laglimore the main road is lined by mud-walled cabins, which rise from mud floors that are low-er than the road- way, so that the rain-water pours over the door-sill. Eyes and ears and nose are offended. The dwellers never wash themselves or their children, who shriek and swear amongst the pigs and poul- try; as turf is dear, they burn malodor- ous substitutes. The air is not redolent of the sharp peat-reek, which is the sweetest smell in an Irishmans nos- trils; if you have been away for a time, it is the faint smell of burning turf, as it mingles with the hedge-rows, which brings close to you that you are no longer in cold, staid England, but have returned to home, sweet home. These dwellers by the wayside, children of Gibeon, have no wish to better their lot by removal; they are contented to dwell whither it has pleased God to call them, so long as he gives them the daily bread which they hate to seek and toil for. All w-ould fain be lords of the cabin whereof their fathers were lords, and though they cannot now sing with Herrick, Here we rejoice because no rent We pay for our poor tenement, the judicial rent is no more than the cabins are worth. It is a life of little ease and no comfort; they look forward to marrying their eldest son, by the matchmakers aid, to a girl with a dow- ry, and then living as lodgers in the same cabin with him and his wife and a new family. The custom is kindly and thriftless, and in England would certainly lead to domestic murder, as, if Zola tells the truth, it does lead thither in France. It is a common- place to say that the Irish flourish any- where save in Ireland, but it is truer that there are no Irish anywhere else, for they change their minds as well as their sky when they fare across the sea, just as the potato, if planted in a tropi- cal climate, becomes something other than itself. So, for all those who live therein, God may have made a better place than Cullaghmore, but doubtless never did. In an English town there is always a middle class, upper and lower, between which sections there is a great gulf fixed, good people who are unwearied in providing occupation for their neigh- bors, and amusements small but dear. Amongst them bazars and sales of work, organ recitals and temperance lectures flourish, with much talk of im- proving ones mind, much talk of doing things for religions sake, all in a vul- gar, tactless kind of way. Except in the three great towns, Ireland has no middle class of this kind, and pays dearly enough for the lack. These peo- ple are those who do most of the work in England, are indefatigable at com- mittees and boards, and see that pub- lic works are not executed to undue private advantage; they constitute pub- lie opinion. No one should blame them because their first motive is self-adver- tisement; they are too useful to be dis- couraged, and it is because of them that comfort is much better understood in England than in Ireland. Here a man is, to speak roughly, a gentleman or a serf. A family of the latter class, if it has enough to eat, is as cheerful and improvident as if the sun always shone through the warm air, and there was no duty on whisky. Bad temper, al- ways snarling and grumbling, is not the gloomy inheritance of Irishmen; there is r~ne of that sullenness which makes the conversation of a workmans compartment on an English railway sound like the growling of a cage of wild beasts. The poorest laborer at work in a tattered coat under the west- 56 Humors of an Irish Couniry Town. em rain is delighted to pause and con- sider a strange face, whilst giving his opinion, usually wrong, upon the com- ing weather. In truth, the middle class in England is stupid, and the Irish peasants are clever, for a narrow edu- cation is worse than none at all. The English workman is no fool, but often sulky and brutal, and intensely suspi- cious of strangers; our country people are quite untrustworthy, with no sense of duty towards their neighbors, but ever so much pleasanter companions. When chance gives them the means they drink long and gaily, having the power of swallowing the very worst whisky with appreciation and gratitude, whilst they continue to remember and venerate the name of Father Mathew. When the statue of the temperance apostle was unveiled in Dublin some years ago, crowds of people came up from the country to show their loving memory of his work; there were count- less bands and banners, unlimited en- thusiasm. The Dublin shops closed to show that they also were in sympathy, and, after the ceremony, strangers and citizens had to appease their hunger and thirst at the public-houses. The orgy in Dublin streets that night must have made Father Mathew in heaven wish he had never lived and preached. At any rate, nobody in the country dis- tricts need ever fear being harmed or insulted by a drunken man on a fair- day or a Saturday afternoon, because, although such a person is perfectly ready to fight the whole world, he only attacks foemen worthy of his steel, honest men who look at things in the same light as he does himself, and never make unpleasantness. The worst class of men in Ireland, the squireens, is almost extinct; there is no room for the men with a little land and less education, who thought themselves above the common farmer, were loud and dirty, and lived only for horses and~ whisky. The bad times were at least as bad for the lean as the fat, and the squireens went under. The Sundays would prove best to the strange Englishman that he is in a f or- eign country and knows nothin~ about Ireland. He will go to church on Sun- day morning, at the usual time to the usual bell, and will find the building, as he thinks, empty, although, in fact, the vicar cannot count an absentee. He forgets that he is no longer on the side of the big battalions, whither Provi- dence has so plainly called him. For the Protestants in the South of Ireland are singing the songs of Zion in a strange land. They have brought their own gods with them, as superior as everything else made in England; but the unfathomable, irresponsible Cdt refuses to have anything to do with them. Those architects who built our churches had no insight into the future, or they would not have built for hun- dreds where ten would come. Henry VIII might fluctuate with evc~ s ~ tad of doctrine, and Cromwell prove how sharp was the sword of the Lord and his earthly saints, but the Irish pre ferred the heavenly saints whom they knew. All that was needed to make Ireland the most loving daughter of the Mother Church was the separation or- der from England; mother and daugh- ter were but drawn closer together by the brute arbitrament of war. Hence it is that an Irish rector is well content if he sees fifty worshippers in a build- ing made to hold five hundred, and counts the regular communicants on the fingers of one hand. He is not overworked on weekdays, nor knows anything of the eating cares that beset the incumbent of an English parish. Work out of church hardly exists for him. Disestablishment has rendered him certain of a moderate income, however feeble his intellect may be, at the same time as it removed all inducement for clever men to enter the church. As liv- lug is cheap in the country, he marries Humors of an frisk country Town. 57 and has many children. But it is a lonely life for him and his wife; there are not over half a dozen families they can visit and receive, and he must wish, idle man though he be, that he could change his little colony for the thousands over whom the priest exer- cises patriarchal sway. A man accustomed to live in English towns, where the lower classes have no religion, is amazed at the manner in which the Roman Catholic fold brings in all its sheep. None remain outside the door, because none dare face thc pains and penalties. Partly by prom- ises, partly by threats, most of all by performance, this Church holds ~ch and poor alike; it can punish and re- ward with eternal penalties and eternal gifts; it is the greatest powc~ below the sky, and uses its strength unmereifuily. On Sunday mornings the little groups coming from the Protestant Church, all of them well dressed and comfortable, as becomes the members of an EnglIsh harrison, often meet the broad wave of frieze and corduroy coming from the Catholic Church, and are filled with a feeling of pride; they are the elect, these the Gentiles; many are called, but they are the few chosen. Some pious alien in the past has built a Presbyte- ilan church and manse; very possibly lie was one of Cromwells settlers. it is reported that the congregation nuin- l)ers four; these four must be on a pin- nacle of spiritual pride. The Sunday afternoons in winter must seem to the Presbyterians utter abomination. One can hardly say that the well-known horrors of a Continental Sunday flourish in the rural districts of Mun- ster, but the people are obviously un- sworn to the Solemn League and Cove- iiant. The air is full of shouts from an upland field, where the wild lads are playing a wild game called Gaelic foot- ball, which Ireland invented of her own special grace and mere motion. In this game you can play at Rugby or Asso ciation according to the exigencies of the moment; rules are unworthy of a f we people, or one striving to be free. The full teams are rarely playing at the same moment, as couples are wont to retire for a few moments and settle dif- ferences while they are fresh. If the spectators are numerous, faction fights are apt to occur, as in the electrical at.- mosphere feuds eighty years old some- times recur to the mind. Gruesome stories will be told you, if you like to listen, of matches in which three or four men were fairly killed, and com- fortably buried, without the coroner or any other foreign official being in- formed. But there are no other forms of Sunday amusements which might provoke Sabbatarian censure, unless poaching be an exception, and that is an ordinary, everyday pursuit, when- ever time can be made for it. You may easily meet in the afternoon a band of youths and dogs, carrying openly down the roads three or four rabbits or hares. The passers by will regard them with a benevolent smile, unless he happens to be a brutal oppressor of the poor, whose game-preserving soul is wrung by the sight. These simple sports are all that exist in the country; cricket is practically unknown, and all the sum- mer a deep peace broods over the long grasses and pasture fields. It is plain that a professional man who has to begin a full days work every morning can enjoy life in these dumb, inert, little Irish towns; but what of the wives and daughters? Their lives resemble that shadowy eX- istence in Hades with which Achilles frightened generation after generatlo u of the Greeks. They might inaiimtain that it is better to be a kitchenmaid in cities, in a poor mans hous.~ ~vlio has little to eat, than to reign a local queen. For these poor women are not even in the country; they have nuieh of the noise and smells of town; and are yet almost lonely among two or three thou- 58 Humors of an frisk Country Town. sand men and women. The~ Protestant rector, the doctor, the banker, make up the whole middle class, and these vic- tims of isolation usually quarrel among themselves. Their women are de- barred from their proper occupation of visiting the poor and tending the sick, there are no matins and evensong to at- tend, and they have to fail back on themselves. Certain pastim~s are in vogue from time to time. At present hockey and golf lighten the weary path, lawn-tennis being quite out of fashion, only to be tolerated in remote country gardens, whose owners have not learnt that tennis-courts ought to become cr0- quet lawns. Hockey, unhappily, can only be played in populous places; it is very difficult to get together twenty- two people who may endure each other as regards social position and religion. Golf is very popular, but lack of pence prevents most links being used in sum- mer, as it would cost too much to keep the grass cut. Salvation has to be sought in the bicycle, and when the gains of the nineteenth century are fin- ally weighed this will be found the greatest. All boys and girls ride in Ire- land, because an intermediate system of education casts money broadcast through the schools, most of which finds its way to the cycle manufactur- ers. If the resident magistrate rides a bicycle all is well, for then the foot- paths are open; but the road contractors are anti-cyclistS, aud do their best to keep them from being profaned by any- thing more modern thaii the ~ss and cart. The lack of social pastimes now- adays, when two or three are gathered together, is distressing. What delightful games our ancestors seem to have known! We are too self- conscious, it appears, to play at them, but our maidens might, at least, try to revive them as weapons of offence. Per- haps some of them are too innocent for the nineteenth century, and some are not innocent enough. Yet the Irish girls might be helped in the capture of a subaltern, their legitimate prey from time immemorial, by Barley~break, or last in hell, by Draw-gloves, or Fox i the hole. What game was it to which Herrick invited Lucia? At stool-ball, Lucia, let us play. It is worth noting that Chapman, in his translation of the Odyssey makes Nausicaa and her maidens play at stool-ball. There could not be a bet- ter precedent. At any rate, there is lit- tle good in people meeting to say, Nous nous ennuyerons ensemble. The sons and brothers are, of course, in Dublin, crowding into the overcrowded professions; the girls stay at home unless weariness drives them to be nurses. There would be a great difference if they had the priceless distraction which English girls enjoythat of doing good to ungrateful families. But the broad- chested, bandy-legged Catholic priest allows no poaching in his covers. He, to be sure, is In no lack of society, and goes nowhere except where he takes un- questioned the highest seat. His des- potic power does no harm to his sub- jects, and goes far to ruin the man him- self. Some score of years ago there had been a family conference to deter- mine whether Tim should be a plough- man or a priest, and when the cloth carried it over the corduroys his fam- ily put their shoulders to the wheel, so that after a weary waiting they re- ceived the patent of nobility. For, as at Rome a family took place among the aristocracy if an ancestor had held cu- rule honors, in Ireland the neighbors look reverently on the cabin that has reared a priest. They justly hold that it is no small thing to have the keys of heaven, to open and shut the door of immortal life on ones fellow-men. It is by no means so good for the priest himself, who is in danger of succumb- ing to ecclesiastical arrogance founded on the paltriest education. English- men brought up as peasants, taught at Humors of an lrislz Country Town. 59 Maynooth, and entrusted with such powers, would be always unendurable; the Irish priest is not always an impos- sible person. Still, one would prefer not to be the national schoolmaster un- der him. We have a railway running through the town, a line more than sixty miles long, which serves a rich country of deep pasture, whence long trains full of bullocks are always being shunted up and down under loud protest. At each extremity of the line are two large cities. The unpunctuality of its trains hurts no one and irritates no one; time is long and cheap in Ireland. Perhaps the Celtic melancholy, about which so much is said, sees clearly that man, brief man, is ridiculous if he lashes himself to fury because he must wait a few minutes breathing Gods good air at a country station. Modern meth- ods have so far prevailed upon our al- truistic companythat it labors not for its own selfish interests the share lists showas to bring excursion trains to the Sunday football matches. As soon as the match is ended the train draws up into the station and stays there; somebody on the engine blows its steam whistle loudly to remind the pas- sengers that they are but sojourners, and have no abiding-place in Cullagh- more. One would think the precaution unnecessary, for these lucky folk, en- ~viously regarded by the townspeople, are asserting ostentatiously in all the public-houses that they are travellers, bona-Jtde travellers. The train slowly fills; those that have come betimes sit down and wait a couple of hours with not an unkind thought towards guard or station-master; when the police are of opinion that all are safely gathered in, the whistling ceases and our visit- ~ors depart. Four or five miles away the up trains stop at a little station to give in their tale of tickets before reaching a junction. On occasions a train has arrived late, so that when in the station Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded. It is said that on the instant ticket-col- lector, guard, and porter retire to their devotions, the passengers waiting pa- tiently, unless they be black Presby- terians or Englishmen. It is part of our new Imperialistic creed to believe that the railway does away with the old-world obstacles and progress; the Soudan will take to studying English literature and science as soon as the iron horse supersedes the camel. Ire- land is one of those despised nations, half sullen and half wild, who would above all things be left to themselves. The people are gentle and cheerful; they have ever had the strangest power of winning over the stranger, but they will neither worry nor be worried. The past stands side by side with the pres- ent; it is not a palimpsest to be labori- ously deciphered. Two miles to our east the railroad runs directly over a holy well. At the side of the embank- ment is a round pool, black and forbid- ding, fed by a never-failing spring; here where the trains thunder by to catch the packet-boat for England, the coun- try people drink of the sacred water, and pray for release from their afflic- tions. When going away they hang their bandages, sad, fluttering rags, on the tree beside the well. Perhaps it may be likened to the tree Ygdrasil, with root fixed in heaven, or to some it may appear like to that whose time- tossed branches Eneas saw in the porch of Avernus: Ulmus opaca, igens, quam sedem Somnia volgo Vana tenere ferunt, follisque sub omni- bus haerent. There would have been no railways in Ireland for the Irish, but they are 60 Tfs Ill Teaching God. cheerfully accepted as part of an imper- fect scheme of existence. A journey to any place has the merit of giving an excuse for merry-making, and soft- skinned and thin-skinned folk have to travel first or second class. There are many skinfuls of whisky in the third- class carriages, and indeed a man needs something to cheer him when seated on a narrow, cushionless ledge against a hard, wooden wall. The Englishman, by perseverance, has made the railway companies see to his comfort; we never persist in making ourselves unpleasant. No magistrates outside this country would have been so rightminded as those who refused to punish a farmer for pitching out of window a man who objected to smoking, and gaily proceed- ed to fine the complainant for leaving a train when in motion. Generation after generation of Eng- lish people have considered Ireland as a necessary evil, a thorn in the flesh, inserted by Providence for its own good ends. The very bagmen at the country hotels feel and show that it is an infe- rior country to which they are selling superior articles. It would be interest- ing to trace the feeling with which Ire- land is mentioned in English literature before the present century. The bur- den of complaint, the Quousque tan- dem, Catilina, abutere patientia nos- tra? may be noticed through the Eliza- bethan dramatists. though, indeed, Shakespeare is more generous. His honest insular hatred spent itself on the French and weasel Scots; his love was for Italy, and to Ireland he gave neither praise nor blame. Yet we feel, espe- cially we who live in the South, that there is no man in England, unless he be an umbrella-maker or waterproof- maker, but has reason every week to thank a careful heaven that placed Ire- land to defend En~land from the At- lantic. It is a national boast with Eng- lishmen that in their climate a man can spend more days out of doors than anywhere else. They are blind to the reason. In this matter, as in some others, Ireland is Englands whipping- boy. Were not this delu~ed island at hand to take the moisture out of the Atlantic rain-clouds, England would be drenched with rain. The farmers would have even more pessimistic ideas on the advantage of sowing wheat, and cricket would not be the national game. Cricketers feel a little anxiety for the morrows game when they read in the evening paper that the barometer is falling fast at Valentia; but on that morrow most of Ireland will be blotted out by the dark rain, and farmers, athletes, sportsmen, foiled once again. Only so much rain as Mun- ster, Connaught, and Leimister cannot manage between themand their capa- city is enormous and sorely triedwill pass on to England, the spoilt darling of fortune. Observe how cunningly Ireland is placed at right angles to the path of the wet southwestersshe pro- tects England like an umubrella held to front the wind. Ernc.~ t Ensor. Oornhlll Magazine. TIS ILL TEACHING GOD. Whemi we look back on all time paths we tried, The turns and windings all. Shall we not own, whereer the paths divide It was the hand we sought to thrust aside That let the blessing fall? Frederick Lan ybridge.. The Living Age. Supplement. APRIL 7, ~9OO. READINGS FROM NEW BOOKS. IN LADYSMITH DURING THE SIEGE.* Weary, stale, fiat, unprofitable, the whole thing. At first to be besieged and bombarded was a thrill; then it was a joke; now it is nothing but a weary, weary bore. We can do nothing but eat, and drink and sleepjust exist dis- mally. We have forgotten when the siege begnn; and now we are begin- ning not to care when it ends. For my part I feel it will never en(1. It will go on just as now, languid fighting, languid cessation, forever and forever. We shall drop off one by one and listlessly die of old age. And in the year 2099 the New Zea- lander antiquarian, digging among the buried cities of Natal, will come upon the forgotten town of Ladysmith, and he will find a handful of Rip Van Winkle Boers, with white beards dowxi to their knees, behind quaint, antique guns shelling a cactus-grown ruin. In- side, sheltering in holes, he will find a few decrepit creatures, very, very old, the children born during the bombard- ment. He will take these links with the past home to New Zealand. But they will be afraid at the silence and security of peace. Having never known anythin~ but bombardment, they will die of terror without it. So be it. I shall not be there to see. But I shall wrap these lines up in a Red Cross flag and bury them among the ruins of Mulberry Grove, that, after the excavations, the unnumbered read- ers of the Daily Mail may, in the en- lightened year 2100, know what a siege and a bombardment were like. Sometimes I think the siege would be just as bad without the bombardtnent. In some ways it would be even worse; for the bombardment is something to notice and talk of, albeit languidly. But the siege is an unredeemed curse. Sieges are out of date. In the days of Troy, to be besieged or besieger was the natural lot of man; to give ten years at a stretch to it was all in a lifes work; there was nothing else to do. In the days when a great victory was gained one year, and a fast frigate ar- ilved with the news the next, a man still had leisure in his life for a years siege now and again. But to the man of 1899or, byr Lady, inclining to 1900with five edi- tions of the evening papers every day, a siege is a thousand-fold a hardship. We make it a grievance nowadays if we are a day behind the newsnew-s that concerns us nothing. And here we are with the enemy all round us, splashing melinite among us in most hours of the day, and for the best part of a month we have not even had any definite news about the men for whom we must wait to get out of it. We wait and wonderfirst expec- tant, l)resently apathetic, and feel our- selves brow old. Furthermore, we are in prison. We *From From Capetown to Ladysmith. By G. w. Steevens. Copyright, 1900, by Dodd, Mead & Co. Price, $1.25. know- now what Dartmoor feels like. 62 In Ladysmith During the Siege. The practised vagabond tires in a fort- night of a European capital; of Lady- smith he sickens in three hours. Even when we could ride out ten or a dozen miles into the country, there was little that was new, nothing that was interesting. Now we lie at the bottom of the saucer and stare up at the piti- less ring of hills that bark death. Al- ways the sanie stiff, naked ridges, flat capped with our intrenchmentsal- ways, always the same. As morning hardens to the brutal clearness of South African mid-day, they march in on you till Buiwan seems to tower over your very heads. There it is close over you, shady and of wide prospect; and if you try to go up you are a dead man. Beyond is the worldwar and love. Clery marching on Colenso, and all that a man holds dear in a little island un- der the North Star. But you sit here to be idly shot at. You are of it, but not in itclean out of the world. To your world and to yourself, you are every bit as good as deadexcept that dead men have no time to fill in. I know now how a monk without a vocation feels. I know how a fly in a beer-bottle feels. I know how it tastes, too. And with it all there is the melinite and the shrapnel. To be sure they give us the only pinprick of interest to be had in Ladysmith. It is something novel to live in this town turned inside out. Where people should be the long, long day from dawn to dayli~ht shows only a dead blank. Where business should be, the sleepy shop-blinds droop. But wilere no busi- ness should bealong the crumbling ruts that lead no whitherclatter wag- on after wagon, with curling whip lashes and piles of bread and hay. Where no people should bein the clefts at the river bank, in bald patches of veldt ringed with rocks, in over- grown ditchesall these you find alive with men and beasts. The place that a month ago was only fit to pitch empty meat-tins into i~ now priceless stable-room; two squadrons of troop horse pack flank to flank with its shelves. A scrub-entangled hole, which, perhaps, nobody save runaway Kaffirs ever set foot in before, is now the envied habitation of the balloon. The most worthless rock-heap below a perpendicular slope is now the choicest of town lots. The whole centre of gravity of Lady- smith is changed. Its belly lies no longer in the multifarious emporia along the High Street, but in the earth- reddened, half-invisible tents that bash- fully mark the commissariat stores. Its brain is not the Town Hall, the best target in Ladysmith, but headquarters under the stone-packed hill. The rid- dled Royal Hotel is its social centre no longer; it is to the trench-seamed Sail- ors Camp or the wind-swept shoulders of C~sars camp that men go to hear and tell the news. Poor Ladysmith! Deserted in its markets, repeopled in its wastes; here ripped with iron splinters, there rising again into rail-roofed, rock-walled caves; trampled down in its gardens. manured where nothing can ever grow; skirts hemmed with sandbags and bow- els bored with tunnels; the Boers may not have hurt us, but they have left their mark for years on her. They have not hurt us muchand yet, the casualties mount up. Three to- day, two yesterday, four dead or dying, and seven wounded with one shell they are nothing at all, but they mount up. I suppose we stand at about fifty now, and there xviii be more before we are done with it. And then there are moments when even this dribbling bombardment can be appalling. I happened into the centre of the town one day when the two big guns The Bunch of Yellow Roses. 63 were concentrating a cross-fire upon it. First from one side the shell came tearing madly in, with a shrill, a blast. A mountain of earth, and a hailstorm of stones on iron roofs. Houses winced at the buffet. Men ran madly away from it. A dog rushed out yelping and on the yelp, from the other quar- ter, came the next shell. Along the broad, straight street not a vehicle, not a white man was to be seen. Only a herd of niggers cowering under flimsy fences at a corner. Anotner crash and quaking, and this time in a cloud of dust an outbuilding jumped and tumbled asunder. A horse streaked down the street with trailing halter. Round the corner scurried the ai~ers~ the next was due from Pep- worths. Then the tearing scream; horror! it was coming from Buiwan. Again the ~tnnihilating blast, and not ten yards away. A roof gaped, and a house leaped to pieces. A black reeled over, then terror plucked him up again, and sent him running. Head down, hands over ears, they tore down the street, and from the other side swooped down the implaca- ble, irresistible next. You come out of the dust and the stench of melinite, not knowing where you are, hardly knowing whether you were hitonly knowing that the next was rushing on its way. No eyes to see it, no limibs to escape, no bulwark to protect, no army to avenge. You squirm between iron fingers. Nothing to do but endure. THE BUNCH OF YELLOW ROSES.* 1 always feared something would hal)pen to Mary, Mrs. Myrover said. I t seemed unnatural for her to be wearing herself out teaching little ne- ~roes who ought to have been working tar her. But the world has hardly been a fit place to live in since the war, and when I follow her, as I must before long, I shall not be sorry to go. She gave strict orders that no colored person should be admitted to the house. Some of her friends heard of this, and remonstrated. They knew the teacher was loved by the pupils, and felt that sincere respect from the humble would be a worthy tribute to the proudest. But Mrs. Myrover was obdurate. They had my daughter when she was alive, she said, and theyve killed her. But shes mine now, and I wont ~Vinrn The wife of His Youth. By Charles W. Che~~nutt. CopyrIght, 1899, by Houghton,. Mifilin & Co. Price, $1.50. have them come near her. I dont want one of them at the funeral or any- where round. For a month before Miss Myrover s death Sophy had been watching her rosebushthe one that bore the yellow rosesfor the first buds of spring, and when these had appeared, had awaited impatiently their gradual unfolding. but not until her teachers death had they become full-blown roses. Wheu Miss Myrover died, Sophy determined to pluck the roses and lay them on her coffin. Perhaps, she thought, they might even put them in her hand or on her breast. For Sophy remembered Miss Myrover s thanks and praise when she brou~ht her the yellow roses the spring before. On the moruin~ of the day set for the funeral, Sophy washed her face till it shone, combed end brushed her hair with painful conscientiousness, put ou 64 The Bunch of rellow Roses. her best frock, plucked her yellow roses, and, tying theni with the treas- ured ribbon her teacher had given her, set out for Miss Myrovers home. She went round to the side gatethe house stood on a cornerand stole up the path to the kitchen. A colored woman, w-hom she did not know, came to the door. Wat yer want, chile ? she inquired. Kin I see Miss May ? asked Sophy, timidly. .1 dont know, honey. Ole Miss My- rover say she dont want no cullud folks roun de house endyoin dis funal. Ill look an see if shes roun de front room whar de copse is. You set down heah an keep still, an ef shes upstairs maybe I kin git yer in dere a minute. Ef I cant I kin put yer bokay mongs de res, whar she wont know nuthin erbout it. A moment after she had gone, there was a step in the hail, and old Mrs. Myrover came into the kitchen. Dinah: she said, in a peevish tone; Dinah! Receiving no answer, Mrs. Myrover peered round the kitchen, and caught sight of Sophy. What are you doing here? she de- manded. IIm-in waiting to see the cook, maam, stammered Sophy. The cook isnt here now. I dont know where she is. Besides, my daugh- ter is to be buried to-day, and I wont have any one visiting the servants un- til the funeral is over. Come back some other day, or see the cook at her own home in the evening. She stood waiting for the child to go, and under the keen glance of her eyes Sophy, feeling as though she had been caught in some disgraceful act, hurried down the walk, and out of the gate, with her bouquet in her hand. Dinah said Mrs. Myrover, when the cook came back, I dont want any strange people admitted here to-clay. The house will be full of our friends, and we have no room for others. Yasm, said the cook. She under- stood perfectly what her mistress meant; and what the cook thought about her mistress was a matter of no consequence. The funeral services were held in St. Pauls Episcopal Church, where the Myrovers had always worshipped. Quite a number of Miss Myrovers pu- pils went to the church to attend the services. The building was not a large one. There was a small gallery in at the rear, to which colored people were admitted, if they chose to come at or- dinary services; and those who wished to be present at the funeral supposed that the usual custom would prevail. They xvere therefore surprised, when they went to the side entrance, by which colored people gained access to the gallery stairs, to be met by an usher who barred their passage. Im sorry, he said, but I have had orders to admit no one until the friends of the family have all been seated. If you wish to wait until the white peo- ple have all gone in, and theres any room left, you may be able to get into the back part of the gallery. Of course I cant tell you whether therell be any room or not. Now the statement of the usher was a very reasonable one, but, strange to say, none of the colored people chose to re- maih except Sophy. She still hoped to use her floral offering for its destined end, in some way, though she did not know just how. She waited in the yard until the church was filled with white people, and a number who could not gain admittance were standing about the doors. Then she went round to the side of the church, and, deposit- ing her bouquet carefully on an old mossy gravestone, climbed up on the projecting sill of a window near the chancel. The window was of stained glass of somewhat ancient make. The The Bunch of re/low Roses. 65 church was old, had indeed been built in colonial times, and the stained glass had been brought from England. The design of the window showed Jesus blessing little children. Time had dealt gently with the window, but just at the feet of the figure of Jesus a small tri- angular piece of glass had been broken out. To this aperture Sophy applied her eyes, and through it saw and heard what she could of the services within. Before the chancel, on trestles draped in black, stood the sombre casket in which lay all that was mortal of her dear teacher. The top of the casket was covered with flowers, and lying stretched out underneath it she saw Miss Myrovers little, white dog, Prince. He had followed the body to the church, and, slipping in unnoticed among the mourners, had taken his place, from which no one had the heart to remove him. The white-robed rector read the sol- emn service for the dead, and then de- livered a brief address, in which he dwelt upon the uncertainty of life, and, to the believer, the certain blessedness of eternity. He spoke of Miss My- rovers kindly spirit, and, as an illustra- tion of her love and self-sacrifice for others, referred to her labors as a teacher of the poor ignorant negroes, who had been placed in their midst by an all-wise Providence, and whom it was their duty to guide and direct in the station in which God had put them. Then the organ pealed, a prayer was said, and the long cortege moved from the church to the cemetery, about half a mile away, where the body was to be interred. When the services were over, Sophy sprang down from her perch, and, tak- ing her flowers, followed the procession. She did not walk with the rest, but at a proper and respectful distance from the last mourner. No one noticed the little black girl with the bunch of yel LIVING AGE. VOL. vii. 348 low flowers, or thought of her as in- terested in the funeral. The cortege reached the cemetery and filed slowly through the gate; but Sophy stood outside, looking at a small sign in white letters on a black back- ground: Notice. This cemetery is for white people only. Others please keep out. Sophy, thanks to Miss Myrovers painstaking instruction, could read this sign very distinctly. In fact she had often read it before. For Sophy was a child who loved beauty in a blind, gro- ping sort of way, and had sometimes stood by the fence of the cemetery and looked through at the green mounds and shaded walks, and blooming flow- ers within, and wished that she might walk among them. She knew, too, that the little sign on the gate, though so courteously worded, was no mere for- xuality; for she had heard how a colored man, who had wandered into the ceme- tery on a hot night and fallen asleep on the fiat top of a tomb, had been arrest- ed as a vagrant and fined five dollars, which he had worked out on the streets, with a ball-and-chain attachment, at twenty-five cents a day. Since that time the cemetery gate had been locked at night. So Sophy stayed outside and looked through the fence. Her poor bouquet had begun to droop by this time, and the yellow ribbon had lost some of its freshness. Sophy could see the rector standing by the grave, the mourners gathered round; she could faintly dis- tinguish the solemn words with which ashes were committed to ashes, and dust to dust. She heard the hollow thud of the earth falling on the coffin; she leaned against the iron fence, sobbing softly, until the grave was filled and rounded off, and the wreaths and other floral pieces were disposed about it. When the mourners began to move to- ward the gate, Sophy walked slowly down the street, in a direction opposite 66 Nekhludojh to that taken by most of the people who came out. When they had all gone away, and the sexton had come out and locked the gate behind him, Sophy crept back. Her roses had faded now, and from some of them the petals had fallen. She stood there irresolute, loath to leave with her hearts desire unsatisfied when, as her eyes sought again the teachers last resting-place, she saw lying beside the new made grave what looked like a small bundle of white wool. Sophys eyes lightened up with a sudden glow. Prince! Here, Prince! she called. The little dog rose and trotted down to the gate. Sophy pushed the bouquet between the iron bars. Take that ter Miss May, Prince, she said, thats a good doggie. The dog wagged his tail intelligently, took the bouquet carefully in his mouth, carried it to his mistresss grave and laid it among the other flowers. The bunch of roses was so small that from where she stood Sophy could see only a dash of yellow against the white background of the mass of flowers. When Prince had performed his mis- sion he turned his eyes toward Sophy inquiringly, and, when she gave him a nod of approval, lay down and resumed his watch by the grave-side. Sophy looked at him a moment with a feeling very much like envy, and then turned and moved slowly away. NEKHLUDOFF.* Suddenly there arose in Nekhliidoffs mind an extremely vivid picture of a prisoner with black, slightly-squinting eyes, and how she began to cry when the last words of the prisoners had been heard; and he hurriedly put out his cigarette; pressing it into the ash pan, lit another and began pacing up and down the room. One after another the scenes he had lived through with her arose in his mind. He recalled that last interview with her. He remem- bered the white dress, the blue sash, the early mass. Why, I loved her, really loved her, with a good, pure love that night; I loved her even before; yes, I loved her when I lived with my aunts the first time and was writing my com- position. And he remembered himself as he had been then. A breath of that freshness, youth and fulness of life 5From Resurreetion. By Count Leo Tolstoy. Translated by Mrs. Louise Maude. Copyright, 1900, Dodd, Mead & Co. Price, $1.50. seemed to touch him, and he grew pain- fully sad. Then he was true and fear- less, and innumerable possibilities lay ready to open before him; now he felt himself caught in the meshes of a stupid, empty, valueless, frivolous life, out of which he saw no means of ex- tricating himself, if he wished to, which he hardly did. He remembered how proud he was at one time of his straightforwardness, how he had made a rule of always speaking the truth, and really had been truthful; and how he was now sunk deep in lies; in the most dreadful of lieslies considered a truth by all who surounded him. And, as far as he could see, there was no way out of these lies. He had sunk in the mire, got used to it, indulged himself in it. How was he to break off his relations with Mary Vasilievna and her hus- band in such a way as to be able to look him and his children Nekhludoj 67 in the eyes? How disentangle himself from Missy? How choose between the two oppositesthe recognition that holding land was unjust, and the heri- tage from his mother? How atone for his sin against Katflsha? This last, at any rate, could not be left as it was. He could not abandon a woman he had loved, and satisfy himself by paying money to an advocate to save her from hard labor in Siberia. She had not even deserved hard labor. Atone for a fault by paying money. Had he not then, when he gave her the money, thought he was atoning for his fault? And he clearly recalled to mind that moment when, having caught her up in the passage he thrust the money into her bib and ran away. Oh, that mon- ey! he thought, with the same horror and disgust he had then felt. Oh, dear! oh dear! how disgusting! he cried, as loud as he had done then. Only a scoundrel, a knave, could do such a thing. And II am that knave, that scoundrel! He went on aloud: But is it possible?he stopped and stood stillis it possible that I am really a scoundrel? . . . Well, who but I? he answered himself. And then, is this the only thing? he went on, con- victing himself. Was not my conduct towards Mary Vasilievna and her hus- band base and disgusting? And my position with regard to money? To use riches considered by me unlawful on the plea that they are inherited from my mother? And the whole of my idle detestable life? And my conduct to- wards Katflsha to crown all? Knave and scoundrel! Let men judge me as they like, I can deceive them; but myself I cannot deceive. And suddenly, he understood the aversion he had lately, and particularly to-day, felt for everybodythe Prince and Sophia Vasilievna and Corney and Missywas an aversion for himself. And, strange to say, in this acknowi- edgment of his baseness there was something painful, yet joyful and quiet- mg. More than once in Nekhliidoffs life there had been what he called a cleansing of the soul. By cleansing of the soul he meant a state of mind in which, after a long period of slug- gish inner life, a total cessation of its activity, he began to clear out all the rubbish that had accumulated in his soul and was the cause of the cessation of the true life. His soul needed cleansing as a watch does. After such an awakening Nekhlfldoff always made some rules for himself which he meant to follow forever after, wrote his diary, and began afresh a life which he hoped never to change again. Turning over a new leaf, he called it to himself in English. But each time the tempta- tions of the world entrapped him, and, without noticing it, he fell again, often lower than before. Thus, he had several times in his life raised and cleansed himself. The first time this happened was during the sum- mer he spent with his aunts; that was his most vital and rapturous awaken- ing, and its effects had lasted some time. Another awakening was when he gave up civil service and joined the army in war time, ready to sacrifice his life. But here the choking-up pro- cess was soon accomplished. Then an awakening came when he left the army and went abroad, devoting himself to art. From that time until this day a long period had elapsed without any cleans- ing, and, therefore, the discord between the demands of his conscience and the life he was leading was greater than it had ever been before. lie was horror- struck when he saw how great the di- vergence was. It was so great, and the defilement so complete that he de- spaired of ever getting cleansed. Have you not tried before to perfect yourself and become better, and nothing has come of it? whispered the voice of the 68 Books and Authors. tempter within. What is the use of trying any more? Are you the only one?All are alike, such is life, whis- pered the voice. But the spiritual being, which alone is true, alone powerful, alone eternal, had already awakened in Nekhlfidoff, and he could not but be- lieve it. Enormous though the distance was between what he wished to be and what he was, nothing appeared insur- mountable to the newly-awakened spir- itual being. At any cost, I will break this lie which binds me and confess every- thing, and will tell everybody the truth, and act the truth, he said, resolutely, aloud. I shall tell Missy the truth; tell her I am a profligate and cannot marry her, and have only uselessly up- set her. I shall tell Mary Vasilievna Oh, there is nothing to tell her. I shall tell her husband that I, scoundrel that I am, have been deceiving him. I shall dispose of the inheritance in such a way as to acknowledge the truth. I shall tell her, Katfisha, that I am a scoundrel, and have sinned towards her, and will do all I can to ease her lot. Yes, I will see her and will ask her to forgive me. Yes, I will beg her pardon, as child- ren do. He stoppedwill marry her if necessary. He stopped again, fold- ed his hands in front of his breast, as he used to do when a little child, lifted his eyes, and said, addressing some one: Lord, help me, teach me. come enter within me, and purify mc of all this abomination. He prayed God to help him, to enter into him, and what he was praying for had happened already; the God within him had awakened his consciousness. He felt himself one with Him, and therefore felt not only the freedom, fulness and joy of life, but all the pow- er of righteousness. All, all the best that a man could do he felt capable of doing. His eyes filled with tears as he was saying all this to himself, good and bad tears; good because they were tears of joy at the awakening of the spiritual 1)eing within him, the being which had been asleep all these years; and bad tears because they were tears of ten- derness to himself at his own goodness. He felt hot and went to the window and opened it. The window opened into a garden. It was a moonlit, quiet, fresh night; a vehicle rattled past and then all was still. The shadow of a tall poplar fell on the ground just op- posite the window, and all the intricate pattern of its branches was clearly de- fined on the clean-swept gravel. To the left the roof of a coach-house shone white in the moonlight. In front the black shadow of the garden wall was visible through the tangled branches of the trees. Nekhltldoff gazed at the roof, the moonlit garden, and the shadows of the poplar, and drank in the fresh, in- vigorating air. How delightful, how delightful; oh, God, how delightful! he said, meaning that w-hlch was going on in his soul. BOOKS AND AUTHORS. The publication of Mr. Leonard Hux- herself to helping and taking care or leys biography of his father has been the nurses, and to nursing such of them postponed, probably until autumn. as fall ill in the care of the wounded. Miss Mary Kingsley has embarked The latest signal success in the field for Cap9 Town, where she will devote of American historical fiction ir Miss Books and Authors. 69 Johnstons To Have and To Hold, which, at last accounts, had passed the 100,OOD mark, and was still in eager demand. While the war in South Mrica has dealt a heavy blow to the English book trade, one English publisher has hit upon a device for stimulating the sale of a series of novels by offering a prize of ~5OO to the reader of any of his books who predicts correctly the day and month on which a treaty of peace will be signed. Mr. Alleyne Irelands little volume on The Anglo-Boer Conflict, pub- lished by Small, Maynard & Co., is an att& npt to present a compact record of the differences between England and the Transvaal, and the negotiations leading up to the present war. The writers sympathies are strongly with England, but he has made a commend- able effort to be fair. Three promising books of fiction are among the spring announcements of Houghton, Muffin & Co.: The Son of the Wolf, a book of stirring and real- istic short stories, by Jack London; Knights in Fustian, by Caroline Brown, a story of Copperhead con- spiracies in Indiana in the period of the civil war; and The Queens Gar- den, by Mrs. M. E. M. Davis, which is said to be a charming romance. The dainty, compact and attractive Beacon Biographies, published by Small, Maynard & Co., have suggested a corresponding series of brief memoirs of eminent Englishmen, the American editions of which will be published by the same house. The new series is to be called The Westminster Biogra- phies and will correspond closely in de- tails, as well as in general plan, to the Beacon Biographies, except that they will be bound in red instead of in blue cloth. Defoe, Wesley and Browning are the subjects of the volumes first on the list. Others beside Catholic readers will find helpful thoughts in the addresses of the Rt. Rev. J. L. Spalding, which are collected in a little book called Opportunity. There are eight of these and they chiefly concern themselves with matters educational or patriotic. The anti-imperialist views of Bishop Spalding are here vigorously set forth. A. C. McClurg & Co. are the publish- ers. The publication of Mr. G. W. Steev- enss last book, From Cape Town to Ladysmith (Dodd, Mead & Co.), will make more deep and poignant the sense of regret for the authors untimely death. Beyond almost any other news- paper writer of his time, Mr. Steevens had the faculty of seizing a salient sit- uation and presenting it in vivid and forceful English. To read these pages is to be in the very centre of the stir of the incidents described, and to share the perils and tedium of the long and wast- ing siege. It is a pity that Mr. Steev- ens was not spared to tell us what the lifting of that siege meant to the be- leaguered garrison and residents. A book sure to arouse both friendly and hostile discussion is a treatise on The Domestic Blunders of Women, which purports to be written by A Mere Man. It deals with the servant problem, the questions of bills and of Ireakage, the proper feeding, clothing, and training of the, as it affirms, down- trodden infant, and the inconveniences to which no less downtrodden man Is cruelly subject. Underneath the hu- morous, and at times exaggerated, tone of many of these skits there is a good deal of practical common-sense, and an uncertainty as to whether they are really the work of a mans pen or not, 70 Books and Au/hors. adds to the interest. Funk & Wagnalls Co. An unusual sense of reality pervades that striking study of tenement life Poor People, by I. K. Friedman. The story does not purport to be told by an out- sider, student of sociology or otherwise, but to come from the pen of one of the lodgers, and to be his simple record dignified, and yet touchingof the crises through which his family passes. The heroine is his daughter, a sewing- girl of a lovely character, and the hero the German watch-mender and writer of plays who lives on the floor above. Strong as the interest in these young people becomes, it is, after all, the writer himself, the anxious father and the patient, cheerful mother, who, in their old age and their affectionate so- licitudes, most insistently appeal to the reader. Houghton, Muffin & Co. The life of Charles Francis Adams, by his son Charles Francis Adams, published in the American Statesmen Series by Houghton, Mifilin & Co., will be immediately recognized as one of the most important volumes in a series of exceptional value. In a sense, it is, perhaps, the most important volume, for the writer has had access to and has drawn freely upon unpublished documents relating to the diplomatic history of a critical period, when the issues of peace and war between the ~United States and England were in the balance, and no human influ- ence did more than the mingled tact and firmness of Mr. Adams, then American Minister to England, to turn the scales towards peace. It is a story of absorbing interest. A problem story, whose scene is laid in a most interesting quarter of the globe, is Evelyn Dickinsons Hearts Importunate, which Dodd, Mead & Co. publish. The hero, Ralph Hazell, with a bitter past to be forgotten, buys a sheep ranch in New South Wales, with the intention of spending all his ener- gies courageously in improving it. The heroine is a beautiful young English woman, Avis Fletcher, who has lived eight years in the Bush, and has a bitter secret of her own, which her de- voted mother, as well as her foster- mother in Sidney, carefully guard from the world. The intimacy of these two people, and the working out of the dif- ference between the judgment of soci- ety and the judgment of the individual, make up the romance. Studies of married life are often un- satisfactory in moral tone, but a nota- ble exception is The Prelude and the Play, by Rufus Mann. The book is earnest, logical, and helpful. The prelude recounts the wooing of a beautiful college girl, an idealist, Alex- andra Gordon, by the manly young cap- tain of the Canterbury eleven, near Botoiph. But the play begins in earnest when Alexandra finds that she must apply to her own needs the elaborate theories as to the retaining or recaptur- ing of a husbands heart with which she so diligently armed herself before marriage. The gradual alienation of the two, and, at last, the conclusion of the whole matter is interestingly por- trayed. Houghton, Muffin & Co. The heroine of Katharine Tynans pretty ~tory, She Walks in Beauty, is difficult to determine, for the title might well fit any one of the four winsome Irish maidens who figure in it. Three of these are daughters of a country gentleman, poor and scholarly, whose pupil, one of the two heroes of the tale, falls in love with Miss Pam. His cold-hearted, worldly mother, a dainty city cousin who may prove to be a rival but doesnt, and a second, elderly herowho rises steadily in the admiration of the reader, and is at last Books and Au/hors. 71 discovered to stand high in the favor of at least one of the heroinesserve as complicators of the plot, which comes to a pleasing disentanglement in the end. As a simple and light-hearted ro- mance for girls, the story will be much liked. A. C. McClurg & Co. Toistol is not the only novelist who can portray passion, seduction, despair and degradation with a masterly though revolting realism. But in the intense moral conviction which unites with a knowledge of human nature at its worst, a belief in its imperishable capacity for the best, he stands unriv- alled. To describe a man of confirmed and vicious habits as awakened by a sudden meeting to a sense of his respon- sibility for the victim of an almost for- gotten passion, as sacrificing career, position and even reputation in the ef- fort to rescue her from the depths to which she had gradually sunk, and as finally succeedingthis is the task which Toistol sets himself in his latest novel, The Resurrection. The action and the reaction of the two lives upon each other affords opportunity for the display of his great powers at their best, and in spite of passages of almost brutal candor, the whole effect of the book is not to depress, but to inspire. The translation by Mrs. Louise Maude is clear and direct. Dodd, Mead & Co. The pioneer who is the hero of Row- lande Robinsons story of the Green Mountain Boys a century and a quarter ago, The Danvis Pioneer, is one Jo- siah Hill, who sets forth, as a young man, to make a home for himself in the wilderness over which Ethan Allen acts as self-appointed guardian. The adventures of the youth, the growth of his acquaintance with Allen, his suc- cesses and failures, his connection with much that concerned Fort Ti, his fights with Indians, his romantic mar- riage that yet was not a romance, and the after-course of a sturdy, effective, well-rounded life, make up the book. It abounds in shrewdness and a humor that is also shrewd, and is a graphic study of stirring times. Houghton, Muffin & Co. The order of everyday life in Poland is still so remote to the intelligence of the average novel-reader that it must serve to give an added zest to a love story of which it forms the setting. In One Year, by Dorothea Gerard, the heroine is Jadwiga, the beautiful daugh- ter of an aristocratic Polish family. The plot is worked out partly by means of letters written home to Eng- land by the cool-headed English gover- ness, who watches the manceuvres of the rival lovers, with a clear under- standing of their respective limitations. The tale is not without a tragic note, and the suggestion of a past mystery is well developed. Dodd, Mead & Co. are the publishers. The Practical Agitation to which Mr. John Jay Chapman invites, in the group of essays bearing that title, which the Scribners publish, is, for the most part, an agitation for the realiza- tion of ideals in politics and govern- mentwith some excursions in the fields of literature and journalism. Mr. Chapman preaches strenuously, but he has also acted strenuously in the direc- tions which he points out; although, as he would himself frankly admit, with indifferent success. His tone is not hopeful, his estimate of public men and policies is decidedly too pessimistic; but it is always somewhat refreshing to hear a voice crying in the wilderness, and it is not necessary fully to accept his judgments to appreciate his sincer- ity. BOOKS OF THE MONTH. Agitation, Practical. By John Jay Chapman. Charles Scribners Sons. Price, $1.25. Andromeda: an Idyl of the Great River. By Robert Buchanan. Chatto & Windus. Anglo-Boer Conflict, The. By Alleyne Ireland. Small, Maynard & Co. Price, $0.75. Bending of the Bough, The. By George Moore. T. Fisher Unwin. Boer States, The. By A. H. Keane, 11. A. Methuen & Co. Capetown to Ladysmith, Prom. By G. W. Steevens. Dodd. Mead & Co. Price, $1.25. Cardinals Musketeer, The. By M. Imlay Taylor. A. C. McClurg & Co. Price, $1.25. Chinatown Stories. By Chester Bailey Fernald. W. Heinemann. Danvis Pioneer, A. By Rowlande Robinson. Houghton, Muffin, & Co. Price, $1.25. Domestic Blunders of Women, The. By A Mere Man. Funk & Wagnalls Co. Price, $1.00. Folly Corner. By Mrs. H. E. Doud- ney. W. Heinemann. Fortune of War, The. By Elizabeth N. Barrows. Henry Ilolt & Co. Four Gospels, The Special Character- istics of the. By Herbert Mortimer Luckok. Longmans & Co. Glimpses of Old Bombay and Western India. By James Douglas. Samp- son, Low, Marston & Co. Hearts Importunate. By Evelyn Dick- inson. Dodd, Mead & Co. Price, $1.25. Heart of the Dancer, The. By Percy White. Hutchinson & Co. Legends of Vergil, The Unpublished. Collected by C. G. Leland. Elliot Stock. Marvels and Mysteries. By Ridhard Marsh. Methuen & Co. Modder River with Methuen, To. By Alfred Kinnear. Octave, An. By W. E. Norris. Methuen & Co. 4iEuvres Compl6tes de Molidre. The Oxford Moii6re. Clarendon Press. One Year. By Dorothea Gerard. Dodd Mead & Co. Price, $1.25. Opportunity, and Other Essays. By J. L. Spalding. A. C. McClurg & Co. Price, $1.00. Poor People. By I. K. Friedman. Houghton, Muffin & Co. Price, $1.50. Prelude and the Play, The. By Rufus Mann. Houghton, Muffin & Co. Price, $1.50. Princess Mary Adelaide, Duchess of Teck. By C. Kinloch Cooke. John Murray. Psychology of Religion, The. By E. D. Starbuck. Walter Scott. Rajab Brooke. By Sir Spenser St. John G. C. M. G. T. Fisher Unwin. Resurrection. By Leo Toistol. Au- thorized Translation by Mrs. Louise Maude. Dodd, Mend & Co. Price, $1.50. Russian Literature, A Ilistory of. By R. Waliszewski. W. Heinemann. She Walks In Beauty. By Katharine Tynan. A. C. McClurg & Co. Price, $1.50. / Songs of the Glens of Antrim. Moira ONeill. Blackwoods. War in South Africa, The. By J. A. Hobson. J. Nisbet & Co. Waters of Edera. By Oulda. T. Fisher Unwin. Worlds Mercy, The. By Maxwell Gray. W. Heinemann.

THE LIVING AGE: ~ ~i~hehIn ~in~ nf ~nnttmpQrarQ ~it~ratnrt antI (F0U~IDED BY B. LITTELL IN 1844.) SEYRETH SERIES. Volume VII. NO. 2910. APRIL hf, 1900. FRoM BEGIS~RIYG Vol. CCXXV. IS IT POSSIBLE TO TELL A GOOD BOOK FROM A BAD ONE? * During the last few months a saying of Voltaires has been sounding un- comfortably in my ears. It occurs in one of his amusing letters from Eng- land. He remarks: The necessity of saying something, the perplexity of having nothing to say, and a desire of being witty are three circumstances which alone are capable of making even the greatest writer ridiculous. A hasty assent to an ill-considered re- quest has placed me where I am to- night. The popularity of Lord Rose- bery has filled this hall, and I feel the direful necessity of saying something, whilst, at the same time, a rigorously conducted self-examination has made plain to me what is the perplexity of having nothing to say. As for the de- sire of being witty, there was a time, I frankly confess, when I was con- sumed by it; I am so no longer. This desire of being witty, sneered at as it always is, has in most cases an honor- able because a humane origin. It springs from pity for the audience. It is given but to half a dozen men in a century really to teach their grown-up contemporaries, whilst to inflame them by oratory is happily the province of a very few, but to bore them well nigh to extinction is within the scope of most * An address delivered at Edinburgh on November 3, 1899. mens powers. This desire to amuse just a little ought not, therefore, to be so very contemptible, springing as it does from the pity that is akin to love. But now, to me at all events, it matters not to whom this desire is related, or by whom It was begot. I have done with It. Ten years in the House of Commons and on the political platform have cured me of a weakness I now feel to be unmanly; I no longer pity my audiences; I punish them. Having made this point clear I pass on. There is something truly audacious in my talking to Edinburgh people on a question of Taste; but it is not only an audacious but an eerie thing to do. I remember, Lord Rosebery, how you were affected, so you have told us, the first time you addressed the society of which you are now president, by the air of old-world wisdom that hung about Lord Colonsay. But, at all events that venerable lawyer was then in the flesh. To-night I seem surround- ed by ghosts in wigs, the ghosts of Edinburgh men all famous In their day, some famous for all days, who, at the very sound of the word Taste uttered after all this lapse of years in this hall, have hurried hither this wet and stormy night, full of doubts and suspicions, to hear how a theme, once 74 Is it Possible to Tell a Good Book From a Bad One. their very own, may come to be han- dled by a stranger at the end of a cen- tury not their own. What else should tempt them back to taste our air Except to see how their successors fare? I shall say nothing to offend these courtly shades. I am far too much in doubt about the Present, too perturbed about the Future, to be otherwise than profoundly reverential towards the Past. Besides, as they cannot speak, it would be ill-bred even topoke a little fun at them. I wish it were otherwise. I wish, how I wish that Lord Rosebery could now call upon Dr. Blair to ad- dress youthe great Dr. Blair, whose Lectures on Taste may still be had of the Edinburgh second-hand book- sellers for a sum it would be ungener- ous to state in figures. After all, the best books are the cheapest. Mr. Hume, the author of ~Douglas, would, I dare- say, conquer the shyness that pursued him through life and say a few words in response to a call; Jupiter Carlyle would probably prefer to reserve till supper time (the meal when mostly truth is spoken) his trenchant criti- cisms. It would be honoring the occa- sion too much to suppose that the great Adam Smith would care to attend, or a greater than Adam Smith, David Hume, a man who, though the twenti- eth century may slip his collar, has, more than any other single thinker, dominated the nineteenth from its tre- mendous beginnings to its sombre close. David Hume is, of all others, the Edin- burgh man I should most like to hear on the ~Standard of Taste. One hun- dred and fifty seven years have gone by since he published an essay on this very subject, to which I shall refer in a minute. I have raised the subject of taste and a standard of taste by asking the qu~s- tion, Is it possible to tell a good book from a bad one? This almost involves an affirmative reply. A well-known Nonconformist divine wrote a short treatise which he entitled Is it Possi- ble to Make the Best of Both Worlds ? But this world, at all events, always persisted (much to the authors annoy- ance) in calling the book How to Make the Best of Both Worlds, whilst in the trade the volume was always referred to (curtly enough) as Binneys Best. The world is a vulgar place, but it has the knack, the vulgar knack, of hit- ting nails on the head. Unless, in the opinion of the author it was impossible to make the best of both worlds there was small probability of a prosperous Protestant divine asking the question at all; and in the same way, unless I am prepared to answer my own query with a blunt negative and to sit down, it be- comes necessary to drop a hint or two as to how a good book may be known from a bad one. First. It is a very difficult thing to do, but difficulty is no excuse. Are there not treatises extant which in- struct their readers how to tell a good horse from a bad one, and even, so overreaching is the ambition of man, how to boil a potato? both feats of great skill and infrequent achievement. Seco d. Not only is the task difficult, but the necessity for mastering it is ur- gent. The matter really presses. It is, I know, usual, when a man lik& myself, far gone in middle life, finds himself addressing a company contain- ing many young people, to profess great sorrow for his own plight and to heap congratulations on the youthful portion of his audience. I am in no mood to- night for any such polite foolery. When I think of the ever-increasing activity of the Press, home, foreign and colon- ialthe rush of money into the maga- zine market, the growth of what is called education, the extension of the copyright laws and the spread of what Goethe somewhere calls the noxious Is it Possible to Tell a Good Book From a Bad One. 75 mist, the dropping poison of haif-cul- tureso far from congratulating those of you who are likely to be alive fifty years hence, I feel far more disposed to offer those unlucky youths and maidens my sincerest condolences and to reserve all my congratulations for myself. The output of books is astounding. Their numbers destroy their reputation. A great crowd of books is as destruc- tive of the literary instinct, which is a highly delicate thing, as is a London evening party, of the social instinct. Novel succeeds novel, speculative treat- ise speculative treatise, in breathless haste, each treading upon the heels of its predecessor and followed by a noisy crowd of critics bellowing and shouting praise or blame. Newspaper para- graphs about the books that are to be, rub the bloom off these peaches long before they lie upon our tables. The other day I read this announcement: The Memoir of Dr. Berry, of Wolver- hampton, will bear the simple title, Life of the Rev. C. A. Berry, D. D. Heavens! what other title could it bear! These paragraphs are usually inspired by the publisher, for nowhere is com- petition more fierce than among pub- lishers, who puff their own productions and extol the often secret charms of their kept authors with an impetuosity almost indelicate. In the wake of the publisher and the critic there sidles by a subtler shape, the literary interview- er, one of the choicest products of the age, who, playing with deft fingers on that most responsive of all instruments human vanity, supplies the newspapers with columns of confessions taken down from the lips of the authors them- selves, who seem to be glad to tell us how they came to be the great crea- tures advertisement has made them, how their first books got themselves written, and which of their creations they themselves love the best. Let us never be tempted to underrate the la- bors of the interviewer. There is apt to be far more of that delicious coni- pound, human nature in the writings of the interviewer than in the works of tfre interviewed. If those authors only knew it, by far the most interest- ing character is their own. But not only is the output enormous~ and what may be called the under- growth rank, but the treatment is too. frequently crude. Penmen, as book- writers are now pleasingly called, are too apt in their haste to carry their goods early to market, to gobble up what they take to be the results of scientific investig& tion, and, stripping them bare of the conditions and qualifications properly belonging to scientific meth- ods, to present them to the world as staple truths, fit matter for sesthetie treatment. There is something half comii~, half tragic in the almost head- long apprehension of half-born truths. by half-educated minds. Whilst the serious investigator is carefully sound-- ing his dim and perilous way, making good his ground as he goes, Till captive science yields her last retreat, these half-inspired dabblers, these ready-reckoners, are already hawking the discovery about the streets, making it the motif of their jejune stage plays and the text of their blatant discourses. To stay this Niagara, to limit this output, is, of course, impossible. Noth- ing can stop it. Agricultural depres- sion did not hit it. Declining trade never affected it. It is confidently an- ticipated that the millionaires of the future will be the writers of really suc- cessful shilling shockers and farces that take the town. Charleys Aunt has made more money than would be represented by the entire fortunes of Sir Walter Scott, Thackeray, and Dickens all added together. Our concern to-night is with none of these fine folks. At the feet of Genius I for one am always ready to prostrate 76 Is it Possible to Tell a Good Book From a Bad One. myself. Nothing will ever induce me to quarrel with genius. Without it there would be no rapture in reading, and small joy in life. Talent must be a very delightful thing both to possess and to exercise. Learning is forever honorable; industry is always respect- able. To be a successful imposter, a really fraudulent author, to live in lux- ury by the bad taste of your contempo- raries, to splash with the mud from the wheels of your fast-driven curricle the blind Miltons and angry Carlyles of your own day as they painfully pedes- trianize the pavement must have an element of fun about it~but it is not for us. I am assuming that we do not belong to the many who write, or to the many who criticise in print what is written, but to the few who read. How are we to tell a good book from a bad one? Not for the purpose of mak- ing money out of the process, but for the solace of our own souls, for the edu- cation of our own powers, for the in- crease of our own joys. It Is done by the exercise of a discriminative faculty called Taste. If you ask that amusing figment, the man in the street, what Taste is, the only answers you are like- ly to get are that Tastes differ, or What is one mans meat is another mans poison, or All is grist that comes to my mill, or De gustThus non cst disputandum, most discouraging re- plies every one of them. Nor would it be wise to attempt to minimize these differences of taste; they are most real. Hume, in the essay I promised to quote from, says only too truthfully: Every voice is united in applauding elegance, propriety, simplicity, spirit in writing; and in blaming fustian af- fectation, coldness and a false bril- liancy. But when critics come to par- ticulars this seeming unanimity van- ishes, and it is found they had affixed a very different meaning to their expres- sions. In all matters of opinion in sci- ence the case Is opposite. The difference among men is there oftener to be found to lie in generals than in particulars, and to be less in reality than in appear- ance. An explanation of the terms commonly ends the controversy, and the disputants are surprised to find that they had been quarrelling while at bot- tom they agreed in their judgment. The truth of this is obvious. We all hate fustian and affectation; but were I to have such bad taste as to inquire whether that popular novelist, Mr. A. B., ever writes anything but fustian, or whether the exquisite style of Mr. C. D. has not a strong savor of affec- tation about It, I should excite angry passions. But as it is Humes contention that there is a standard of Taste, he neces- sarily proceeds to say that though this axiom (namely, that tastes differ), by passing into a proverb, seems to have attained the sanction of common sense, there is certainly a species of common sense which opposes it. Having said this, Hume determined to give his read- ers an illustration of this standard, aud in order to do so he adopted the com- mon and useful device of selecting ex- treme instances. He took two authors so good that all, he thought, must ac- knowledge their goodness, and two au- thors so bad, he thought, that all must acknowledge their badness. Who- ever, he writes, would assert an equality of genius and elegance be- tween Ogilby and Milton, or Bunyan and Addison, would be thought to de- fend no less an extravagance than ir had maintained a mole-hill to be as high as Teneriffe or a pond as exten~ivc as the ocean. Though there may be found persons who give the preference to the former authors no one pays at- tention to such a taste, and we pro- nounce without scruple the sentiment of these pretended critics to be absurd and ridicujous. Humes first illustration will pass mus- ter. In the case of Ogilby v. Milton, Is it Possible to Tell a Good Book From a Bad One. 77 the pursuer has long since been dis- missed with expenses; but otherwise with Bunyan v. Addison, for dearly as we may love Sir Roger de Coverley, and fond though we may be of taking a turn among the tombs in Westminster Abbey with Mr. Spectator, Bunyans Christian and Faithful, his Worldly- Wiseman, Giant Despair, Vanity Fair and Interpreters House have estab- lished for themselves a homestead in the minds and memories of the English speaking race, from which they can only be evicted along with Moses in the Buirushes, Daniel in the Lions Den, the Canterbury Pilgrims, Rosa- lind in the Forest of Arden, and Jean- nie Deans in the Robbers Cave, near Gunnersley Hill, in Lincoinshire. So difficult is it to be a critic! The good-natured ghost of St. David will pardon a reference only made for the purpose of remarking how, if he made a bad shot in 1742, it is more than prob- ablenay, it is certainthat the critics of 1899 do not always hit the target. Th~ fact is, and we may as well rec- ognize it frankly, all critical judgments are, and must ever remain liable to two sources of variation, to both of which Hume refers. The one is the different humors of particular men, the other is the particular manners and opinions of our age and country. There is no escaping from these, and this be- ing so, it is idle to expect the abolition of differences of opinion in matters of taste. How Hume came to go wrong for I assume he did go wrongabout John Bunyan, we can see from his use of the word elegance in conjunction with genius; an equality of genius and elegance, he wrote. Elegance was one of the catch-words of the eighteenth century. It was, at all events, a sensi- ble catch-word, though, like all catch- words, sure occasionally to mislead The upshot of all this is depressing and discouraging to the very last de- gree. In the realms of morals we may believe, with the great Bishop Butler~ that there is in every man a superior principle of reflection or conscience which passes judgment upon himself, which, without being consulted, with- out being advised with, magisterially exerts itself and approves or condemns accordingly. In the region of the exact sciences among a thousand different opinions which different men may en- tertain of the same subject, there is one, and but one, that is just and true. But who will dare so to lay down the law about the life of a book, or the future of a picture, or the reputation of a building; and yet who can doubt that in the realm of Beauty there is a reign of law, a superior principle of re- flection, passing judgment and magis- terially asserting itself on every fit oc- casion? Butlers theory of the conscience has been called the pope in your bosom theory. What happiness to have an aesthetic pope, a prisoner in the Vati- can of your own breast! Speaking for myself, I could wish for nothing better, apart from moral worth, than to be the owner of a taste at once manly, refined and unaffected which should enable me to appreciate real ex- cellence in literature and art, and to de- preciate bad intentions and feeble exe- cution wherever I saw them. To be forever alive to merit in poem and pic- ture, in statue or in bust; to be able to distinguish between the grand, the grandiose, and the merely bumptious; to perceive the boundary between the simplicity which is divine and that which is ridiculous, between gorgeous rhetoric and vulgar ornamentation, be- tween pure and manly English, meant to be spoken or read, and sugared phrases which seem intended, like bill- pops, for suction; to feel yourself going out in joyful admiration for whatever is noble and permanent, and freezing inwardly against whatever is preten- tious, wire-drawn, and temporarythis, 78 Is it Possible to Tell a Good Book From a Bad One. indeed, is to taste of the fruit of the tree once forbidden, of the knowledge of good and evil. But this is simply to extol what has not yet been proved to be attainable. What is good taste? My kingdom for a definition. I think the best is Burkes, given by him in that treatise on the sublime and beautiful which he wrote before he gave over to Lord Rocking- ham and the Duke of Richmond and Lord John Cavendish what was meant for mankind. I mean by the word taste no more than that faculty or those faculties of the mind which are affect- ed with or form a judgment of the works of imagination and the elegant arts. The cause of a wrong taste is a defect of judgment, and this may arise from a natural weakness of the under- standing, or, which is much more coin- monly the case, it may arise from a want of proper and well-directed exer- cise which alone can make it strong and ready. . . . It is known that the taste is improved, exactly as we improve our judgment by extending our knowledge, by a steady attention to our object, and by frequent exercise; they who have not takent these methods, if their taste decides quickly, it is always uncertain- ly, and theh quickness is owing to their ])resumption and rashness, and not to any hidden irradiation, that in a mo- ment dispels all darkness from their iainds. The cause of a wrong taste, says Burke, is a defect of judgment, and here I must add on my own account that nobody comes into this world with a ripe judgment. You are as likely to be born with a silk hat on your head as with good taste implanted in your breast. To go wrong is natural; to go right is discipline. Generation after generation of boys go to schools and universities to be taught to play crick- et, to row, and now to play golf. Each generation reproduces with startling fidelity to the type the same old, famil iar, deep-rooted faults. No generation escapes them, but each in its turn has painfully to be taught to leave undone the things that naturally they would do, and do those things which, If left to themselves, they would most certain- ly leave undone. XYith oaths and re- vilings are they adjured to abandon na- ture and to practise art, to dig up the faults they were born with and to adopt in their place methods which time has approved and discipline estab- lished. Success is very partial, but sometimes it does happen that a pa- tient teacher finds an apt scholar, and then, when after weary months, it may be years, of practice, something like perfection is attained, and we see be- fore us a finished oarsman, a faultless bat, a brilliant golfer, we exclaim with admiration, as we watch the move- ments so graceful, so easy, so effective of this careful product of artifice, How naturally he does it! Gentlemen, if you want to find the natural man at work, you must look for him in the bunkers of life. There you will find crowds of them trying to get out and u~~braiding the ill-luck that (as they think) got them in. Their actions are animated, their language is strong, but neither actions nor language are in good taste. If, then, we would possess good taste we must take pains about it. We must study models, we must follow exam- ples, we must compare methods, and we must crucify the natural man. If there is one thing to be dreaded in these matters it is what is called the unaided intelligence of the masses. A crudely colored oleograph of the Albert Memo- rial may give pleasure to an unaided in- telligence, but is that pleasure to be compared in depth of satisfaction with that which is afforded when the educa- ed eye feasts upon the nature-interpret- ing canvas of a great artist? All, I think, are agreed upon the study of the models; of the things Is z~ Possible to Tell a Good Book From a Bad One. which are attested, the things which, as St. Augustine says, sana mens orn- nium horninum attestatur. The elegant Addison agrees. Literary taste, says he, is the faculty which discerns the beauties of an author with pleasure and the imperfections with dislike. If a man would know whether he is pos- sessed of this faculty I would have him read over the celebrated works of an- tiquity which have stood the test of so many different ages and countries. Ilume says the same thing. So does Goethe, who said to Eckermana, Taste is only to be educated by contemplation not of the tolerably good, but of the truly excellent. I therefore show you only the best works, and when you are grounded in these you will have a stand- ard for the rest which you will know how to value without overrating them. And I show you the best in each class, that you may perceive that no class is to be despised, but that each gives de- light when a man of genius attains the highest point. Mr. Matthew Arnold strongly held the same view, and rec- ommended us all to carry in our heads scraps of Homer and Virgil, of Dante and Shakespeare, of Milton and Keats, and whenever we are required, as we so often are, to admire the worthless and to extol the commonplace to mur- mur these passages under our breath as a kind of taste tonic. Somewhat in the same way the excellent John How- ard used in his prison visitations to se- crete small weighing-scales about his person, and after asking to see a pris- oners ration of food would whip out his machine and convict the gaoler be- fore his face of trying to palm off one pound for two.. Mr. Arnolds pocket scales for testing poets have been ridi- culed, but I recommend their use un- hesitatingly. We may then, I think, assume that the best way of telling a good book from a bad one is to make yourself as. well acquainted as you can with some 79 of the great literary models. Do not be frightened of them. They afford the widest choice; they are for all moods. There fs no need to like them all alike. The language difficulty presses heavily upon some, but, as we are seeking only our own good, and not aspiring to instruct the world, we need not post- pone our own critical education until we can read Sophocles for fun. No doubt it would be well if we all could, but just as it is better to spend three days in Rome or three hours in Athens than never to see those cities, so it is better to read the Antigone in the translation of Mr. Jebb than not to read it at all, it is all very well for scholars to turn up their noses at trans- lations, hut plain Britons, whose great- est book is a translation by divers hands, and whose daily prayers have been done into English for them from the Latin, may be well content if they do not hap- pen to be masters of the languages of antiquity, or of all the tongues of the modern world, to gain through the medium of the best translations some insight into the ways of thought and modes of expression of the sovereigns of literature, the lords of human smiles and tears. But, indeed, with the Gold- en Treasury of Songs and Lyrics~~ in your pocket, and such volumes as Chambers Encyclopa~dia of Litera- ture on your shelf, the man who has only his own English at command has ample room and verge enough within which to cultivate a taste which ought to be sufficiently sound to prevent him from wallowing among the potsherds, or, decked out with vulgar fairings, from following some charlatan in his twenty-eighth edition. We begin, then with traditionwith tradition, which plays so great a part in religion, in law, in life. Genius may occasionally flout it, but I am assuming we have no genius. We shall do well to pay tradition reverence. It would be a nice inquiry whether it is better 80 Is it Possible to Tell a Good Book From a Bad One. for a mans morale to be a rebel or a slave; but I am not concerned with it to-night Veneration for the models does not involve servility. It is a tremendous saying of Landors, We admire by tradition, and we criti- else by caprice. To admire by tradition is a poor thing. Far better, really, to admire Miss Gablegooses novels than pretend to admire Miss Austens. Nothing is more alien to the spirit of pure enjoy- ment than simulated rapture, borrowed emotion. If, after giving a classic a fair chance, you really cannot abide him, or remain hermetically sealed against his charm, it is, perhaps, wisest to say nothing about it, though if you do pluck up heart of grace and hit him a critical rap over his classical costard it will not hurt him, and it may do you good. But let the rap succeed and not precede a careful study, for, depend upon it, It is no easy matter to become a classic. A thousand snares beset the path to immortality, as we are pleased to call a few centuries of fame. Rocks, snows, avalanches, bogs you may climb too high for your head, you may sink too low~for your soul; you may be too clever by half, or too dull for endurance, you may be too fashionable or too outrageous; there are a hundred ways to the pit of obliv- ion. Therefore, when a writer has by general consent escaped his age, when he has survived his environment, it is madness and folly for us, the children of a brief hour, to despise the great lit- erary tradition which has put him where he is. But, I repeat, to respect tradition is not to admire traditionally. Tradition is the most trustworthy advertisement and the wisest advice. Ah, advertisement! there, indeed, is a word to make one blush. Ruskin has somewhere told us that wearenotto buy our books by advertisement, but by ad- vice. rt is very difficult nowadays to distinguish between the two. Into ho~ many homes has the Times succeeded in thrusting the Encyclopsedia Britan- nica and the Century Dictionary? The Daily News has its own edition of Dickens, whilst the Standard daily trumpets the astounding merits of an Anglo-American compound which com- presses into twenty volumes the best of everything. These newspapers ad- vise us in their advertisement columns to buy books in the sale of which they are personally interested. Is their ad- vice advertisement or is their advertise- ment advice? The advice given you by literary tra- dition is, at all events, absolutely inde- pendent. I therefore say, be shy of quarrelling with tradition, but by all means seek to satisfy yourselves that tradition is sound. We criticise by ca- price: this is the other half of Landors saying. The history of criticism is a melancholy one. What are we to say to the blank indifference of your fathers to Sartor Resartus, to Bells and Pomegranates, to the early poems of Tennyson and Matthew Arnold and William Morris, to The Ordeal of Richard Feverel? Are we likely to be wiser than our fathers? All we can do is to keep hard at it crucifying the nat- ural man. This is best done, as Burke said, by ewten~1ing our knowledge, by a steady attention to our object, and by fre- quent exerci8e. In extending our knowledge we must keep our eye on the models, be they books or pictures, marbles or bricks. We must, as far as possible, widen our horizons and be always exercising our wits by constant comparisons. Above all, mutt we ever be on our guard against prejudice, nor should we allow paradox to go about unchained. I go back to Hume. Strong sense united to delicate sentiment, Improved by practice, perfected by comparison, and cleared of all prejudice can alone entitle critics to be judges of the tine arts; and again, he says, It is rare to Is it Possible to Tell a Good Book From a Bad One. 81 meet with a man who has a just taste without a sound understanding. Go get thee understanding, become possessed of strong sense, if thou wouldst know how to tell a good book from a bad one. You may have though it is not likelyHomer by heart, Virgil at your fingers ends, all the great Thodels of dignity, propriety and splendor may be on your shelves, and yet if you are without understanding, without the happy mixture of strong sense and delicacy of sentiment, you will fail to discern amid the crowd and crush of authors the difference between the good and the bad; you will belong to the class who preferred Cleveland to Milton, Montgomery to Keats, Moore to Wordsworth, Tupper to Ten- nyson. Understanding may be got. By tak- ing thought we can add to our intellec tual stature. Delicacy may be ac- quired. Good taste is worth striving after; it adds to the joy of the world. For most men in a brazen prison live, Where In the suns hot eye, With heads bent oer their toil, they languidly Their byes to some unmeaning task- work give, Dreaming of nought beyond their prison wall; And as year after year Fresh products of their barren labor fall From their tired hands, and rest Never yet comes more near, Gloom settles slowly down over their breast, And while they try to stem The waves of mournful thought by which they are prest Death in their prison reaches them, Unf reed, having seen nothing, still unbiest. From this brazen prison, from this barren toil, from this deadly gloom, who would not make his escape if he could? A cultivated taste, an educated eye, a pure enthusiasm for literature, are keys which may let us out if we like. But even here one must be on ones guard against mere connoisseur- ship. aTaste,~~ said Carlyleand I am glad to quote that great name before I have done if it means anything but a paltry connoisseurship must mean a general susceptibility to truth and no- bleness, a sense to discern and a heart to love and reverence all beauty, order and goodness, wheresoever or in what- soever forms and accomplishments they are to be seen. Wordsworths shepherd, Michael, who had been alone Amid the heart of many thousand mists That came to him and left him on the heights, had douhtless a greater susceptibility to truth and nobleness than many an Edinburgh or Quarterly reviewer; but his love, as Wordsworth tells us, was a blind love, and his books, other than his Bible, where the green valleys and the streams and brooks. There is no harm in talking about books, still less in reading them, but it is folly to pretend to worship them. Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes, And pause awhile from letters to be wise. To tell a good book from a bad one is, then, a troublesome job, demanding, first, a strong understanding; second, knowledge, the result of study and com- parison; third, a delicate sentiment. If you have some measure of these gifts, which, though in part the gift of the gods, may also be acquired, and can al- ways be Improved, and can avoid prejudicepolitical prejudice, social prejudice, rellgloud prejudice, irreli- gious prejudice, the prejudice of the place where you could not help being 82 John Englands Outgoing. born, the prejudices of the university whither chance sent you, all the preju- dices that came to you by way of in- heritance and all the prejudices you have picked up on your own ac- count as you went alongif you can give all these the slip and manage to live just a little above the clouds and mists of your own generation, why, then, with luck, you may be right nine times out of ten in your judgment of a dead author, and ought not to be wrong more frequently than perhaps three times out of seven in the case of a liv- ing author; for it is, I repeat, a very difficult Thing to tell a good book from a bad one. Aiwustine Birrell. Coruhill Magazine. JOHN ENGLANDS OUTGOING. I. BUCKLANDS Bucklands was called a house of the old fashion even by the Georgian con- temporaries of the owner of itJasper England. One of the finest mansions in Yorkshire, it stood in the midst of a park, well-stocked with deer, rabbits, ~nd fish-ponds. A long, narrow bowl- ing-green was here, and near to it was a banqueting-room, built, like a stand, in a large tree. Both it and the bowl- ing-green showed signs of long disuse. All sorts of hounds that ran fox, hare, otter and badger were kept by the mas- ter of Bucklands, and it was no un- common thing to see marrow bones litter the great hail of his mansion, which the human occupants of it shared with hounds. spaniels and terriers, and which was hung with fox-skins of the current years killing. lie who looked to find a different state of affairs obtain at Bucklands in the living-room, or, as it was called, the parlor~ was doomed to disappoint- ment, for, in this room on a broad hearth, lay the more favored terriers, hounds and spaniels. In the window- niches. which were very large, and in .the four corners of the room were weapons of the hunt, and on different tables lay bells, old hats with their crowns thrust in, full of pheasants eggs and a store of tobacco-pipes. Opposite to the large entrance-door to this room was a smaller one which opened into a closet in which were kept ale and wine, which never came out except in single glasses. This rule of the houseone sufficiently strange in days so marked by conviviality as those in which Jasper England livedthe maker of it explained on the grounds that he never exceeded himself, nor permitted others to exceed. The grave morality which gave its character to that explanation ruled in another matter. At one end of the room stood a small table with a double desk, one side of which held a Bible, and the other the Book of Martyrs. Those books represented the entire li- brary at Bucklands. It has still to be said that in the closet at the parlors end there was mostly to be found a cold chine of beef, a venison pasty, a gammon of lacon, or a great apple-pie with a thick crust, well-baked. The master of Bucklands was fond of saying that his table cost him not much, but it was good to eat at. Jasper England, at the age of three- John Englands Outgoing. 83 score and tea years, was tall and erect of stature, and of a ruddy complexion with flaxen hair, turning, but not yet entirely turned, to white. His clothes, which, like his house, were of the old fashion, were always of green cloth. He was handsome in spite of a straightness of line in hrow and lips that gave to his face a marked sternness and pride. Very strong and very active, at the age of threescore and ten years he got on horseback without help and rode to the death of the fox. It was noticed that on the hunt of which he was an ardent lover, he was commonly accompanied by two or more of his children, the youth of whom was in strong contrast with his age, for their years ranged from ten to three and twenty. The ten-year-old child, a sturdy little girl, the motherless and sole daughter of Jasper England, was the mistress of Bucklands, and discharged herself of the duties w-hich fell to her in that ca- pacity in a manner which is beyond all praise. Little Dorothy England, however, was unable to cope with a difficulty which, in course of time, arose in con- nection with her brother John. In fact, she, to some extent, brought about this difficulty. II. Dfl~NER AT BUCKLANDS. It looked like the golden age.Such is the dictum of one who was, in his day, privileged to join the dinner-party at Bucklands. Opinions concerning the golden age differ widely, and there are persons with whose conception of it the dinner- party at Bucklands might not accord. The company, which was very large and varied, consisted of the master of the house, his five sons, his daughter, and most of the common domestic ani mals, with a sprinkling of those that are less common and less domestic. Jasper England took the head of 1~s table, a~nd his daughter took the foot. Three sons were provided with seats at one side of it, and at the other the re- maining two lads, and an aged and en- feebled quadruped friend of the family were provided with seats. Other furred and feathered favorites distributed themselves in interstices and at chair- backs, the entire arrangement of things at the outset resembling nothing more than a reversal of the usual order by which human beings betake themselves to a zoological garden to watch the animals feed. The absence of noise and clamor was noticeaible, for, albeit the thump of here and there a heavy tail expressed pleas- urable anticipation, as did the flutter once in a while of feathers, there was none of the loud ebullience which gen- erally makes an animal at a dinner table seem the thing that might be dis- pensed with. This decorum was the more striking that, though, by what under the cir- cumstances was a very sensible ar- rangement, dog-whips formed a part of the table appointments, it was a rare thing for them to be called into play. On the day here in view, being that upon which John England elected, for the first time in his life to run counter to his father In a main matter, the meal did not take quite its general course, though at first there was no in- dication of anything happening other than usual. On the stroke of three oclock the en- tire party was assembled. This punc- tuality was the outcome of a rule re- lentlessly enforced, by which the least deviation from exactness in time was punished by the eviction of the offend- er. A glance at his daughter from the master of Bucklands as usual led to Dorothys describing a circle in air with 9 84 John Englands Outgoing. whipcord, upon which a perfect hush ensued. Grace before meat was then said, and the meal began. For a time all went peaceably. Then a prolonged growl was heard. It had in it a note which to those who have knowledge in certain matters pro- claimed it as not without righteous cause. The master of Bucklands looked again at his daugter. Dorothy, in sisterly loyalty, wore an expression of blank nescience. Jasper England then looked at his sons, one after the other. His gaze alighted at last on the youngest of them. This person had a bone in his hand. The young inmates of Bucklands sometimes dispensed with forks, arti- cles which a hundred years ago were less in use to the entire exclusion of fingers than they are now. Conse- quently the fact of this boys having a bone in his hand did not incriminate him. What did incriminate him was the blush which suffused his face. George, that bone is Jowlers, his father said, indignantly. Make in- stant restitution of it, sir. George made instant restitution of the bone, the blush on his face deepening, for an aggravating circumstance at- taching to his act, was that he had made a raid on the plate set down be- fore the aged and enfeebled four-foot- ed friend of the family. Dorothy, in kindly sympathy with the disgraced delinquent, had ceased to ply her knife and fork, and by means of a furtive action a little spaniel now removed a piece of liver from her plate, and crossed the room with it. Her fault was to find her out, however, and midway in her transit she was brought to a standstill by the master of Buck- lands saying: Doxy, give that liver back to Miss Dorothea 1 The master of Bucklands only called his daughter Miss Dorothea to the brute creature when highly incensed. Doxy retraced her steps, and mourn- fulty did as bidden. A wise axiom has it that discipline must be maintained, and it is certain that an utter impartiality, such as that which marked the rules imposed upon man and beast by the master of Buck- lands, has much to be said in its favor. On the other hand, a dinner which took the course of the one described in the foregoing, has aspects under which it is not entirely delectable. As Doro- thy amiably ate the liver restored to her under compulsion by Doxy, John England uttered a sound which, like the growl of Jowler, had a world of protest in it, while to the master of Bucklands there was not in it that something which proclaims a growl as justified. Accordingly he paused in carrying a morsel to his lips, and said, with an ominous contraction of his face: Son John, you much offend me. The rest of the meal passed In lugu- brious silence, which had reached a painful tensity when it was suddenly broken with a snap. This was the result of a sharp tap- ping at the window. The person who had administered it met the surprised glances of the diners with a smile, and rode on. She was followed by another rider, who passed the window without turning her face. It was usual for these riders, two young gentlewomen, when going the nearest way to their home, to ride through Bucklands Park, and it was not unusual for them to ride past the dining-room window. It was also, when they did this, the custom with them to ride one of them with glance aside, and the other with glance fixed straight ahead. This thing had often been noticed by John, and had never before been made to weigh in his liking of the two gentlewomen. On this occa- sion it biassed him in favor of one of them, and he was conscious of a strong John Englands Ontgozng. 85 desire to see her again. This being so, he observed with gratification that steps were being taken to arrest her progress. Dorothy, with winged feet and the cry of Alce! was speeding after the riders. LI. JOHNS PREFERENCE. Alcewith her full name Alce (or Alice) Steptoewas the cousin of the girl with whom she was riding, and the resemblance between the two kinswom- en, which was heightened by the cir- cumstance that their ages were the same, and that they dressed alike, was so marked that they looked more like sisters than cousins. The fact that the one girl had the manner in Georgian days termed sprightly, and the other the manner which, at the same time, was termed posed, constituted the sole difference between them which was manifest to all. Persons capable of noting finer distinctionschildren, with their unerring judgment on char- acter, and a few adults who had kept clear eyessaw that Alce, taken all in all, was the more lovely and pleasant of the two girls, though Penelope was cast in no common mould. Yet another class of persons held that there was not a pin to choose between the two handsome cousins, excepting in so far ~s the one was a young gentlewoman of fortune, whereas the other was a young gentlewoman not possessed and never likely to be possessed of a for- tune; for, while Penelope was the sole child of a Steptoe who, himself an heir to considerable property, had increased his wealth by a marriage strictly re- sembling that which is extolled in old Tussers five hundred points of good husbandry, Alce was one of many chil- dren, the daughters and sons of a Step- toe who, having started in life with the meagre income of a younger son, had espoused a lady whose heart was her fortune. In view of the fact that Bucklands, owing to generations of extravagant owners, was a deeply-encumbered estate, it was not, perhaps, quite incom- prehensible that Jasper England de- sired his eldest son and heir to retrieve the family fortunes by marrying Pene- lope Steptoe. If Alec had not appeared on the scene there is every reason to believe that John would have fallen in with his fathers wishes, for Penelope was as handsome as she was rich, and, as he happened to be aware, through having known her from her childhood, was as good as she was gay. But Alec had ap- peared on the scene, and her sweet gravity, which, from the first, had pleased John, suddenly took a charm which made him feel that ~he world held nothing so much to be desired as was she. When the two girls made their entry into the room he noticed that his little sister held Alces hand, and that her eyes rested on the pretty, grave face with a greater liking than on the pretty, gay one. The thing de- lighted him in the way that the expres- sion of an unsolicited agreement df opinion delights one who has newly made up his mind upon a subject of high importance. Jasper England, a widower of nine years standing, had acquired In some measure regarding his children the In- tuitions of a mother. His look now passed from his son to his daughter, and he took with perfect correctness the bearings of this case. Having done so, he called his daughter to him with some petulance, and left the room with her. The departure was little noticed, for all the sons of the house were as- sembled in the room, which thus pre- sented a well-filled appearance. Jasper England crossed a corridor with his daughter, and then passed with 86 John England s Outgoing. her into the garden. In it he walked up and down a rugged path with her. Dorothy was accustomed to be taken into confidence by the men and boys who formed her family. She was the only female person not an hireling at Bucklands, and was a grave and wise damsel for her years. If he had had a wife Jasper England would have dis- cussed with her the matter at this time occupying his thoughts. It was a thing for a woman to carry to a successful issue. As it was the woman in little Dorothy was bringing her influence to bear upon it. Jasper looked at his lit- tle daughter, and she returned his look as who should say: Speak, sir, and as the only woman of your family, hold me ready to re- ply. Jasper then spoke. Thy brother John mightily affections an emptypurse, Doll, he said. John, as his sister knew him, was happier with a full purse than an emp- ty one. The little girls soul was not a clod, but, on the other hand so far was Dorothy from being made of moonshine that this feature in her brother did not seem to her to redound to his discredit. She replied to this effect, and her father noticed that the allusion to Alce Step- toe contained in his speech had passed unobserved. He stopped in his walk, Dorothy followed suit, and the man and child looked at one another. The strong light of early afternoon flooded the little girls face. It was a good face rather than a pretty one; the well-shaped features were somewhat too large, and the childs fair skin was densely freckled. The goodness in the face was especially noticeable in the eyes which, while bravely opened, had still a young dreamfulness in them which explained the circumstance that innuendo, even of the broadest, was wasted upon Dorothy England. Jasper grunted, half with pleasure, then he made some remarks on the self-evident in the weather, to whicli Dorothy listened, and at intervals re- sponded with a courtesy born of habit. Meanwhile events in the parlor were taking a course which, by one of lifes little ironies, Jasper England had him- self made it pQssible for them to take. In other words, John was enjoying a monopoly of Alce which it would not have been possible for him to enjoy it her admirer Dorothy had been nearer~ at hand. IV. A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL. Propinquity is so great a factor in love that it was not without much justification that Jasper England con- cluded that his son John would not sue in vain for the hand of Penelope Step- toe. He and she had grown up in the- same countryside, and while she was on all hands allowed to be vastly handsome, opinion was equally unani- mous concerning him as a very pretty fellow. It was not in the nature of things, as they presented themselves to even the least conventional minds in rural England of Georgian days, that the friendship existing between such a couple should not some springtide deep- en into love; and while no surprise was felt that Penelope Steptoe refused suit- or after suitor, John England not hav- ing yet made an offer for her hand, it was quite as little deemed strange that John England took things leisurely, there being no ground evident for him to deem haste necessary. In a word, prior to the coming upon the scene of Alce, the marriage between John and Penelope had heen a fore- gone conclusion with every onethem- selves not excepted. Contrary-wise, when ultimately it did not take plo ce, every one with the exception of them- selves experienced poignant disappoint- ment. John who, had events taken a John Englands Outgoing. 87 slightly different course, would have willingly led Penelope to the altar, felt the elatement natural to one who, hav- ing known a good thing, has come to know a better. Penelope, the while, who would have cheerfuly cast in her lot with John, thus obliging a number of persons, and not disobliging herself, was so far from seeing in him all the gentlemen in the world (to cite her own spirited expression) that, on its becom- ing manifest that John loved her cousin Alce, she very gracefully played the new part assigned to her. It has been said that the parlor at Bucklands, even subsequent to the withdrawal from it of Jasper England and his daughter, presented a well-filled appearance. After a few moments sojourn there, it was borne in on Pene- lope that there were five persons too many present, being herself and four of the family England. She forthwith proposed to Ralph England that he should make her acquainted with the southern hound. This was the newest canine acquisi- tion at Bucklands, and the fame of it under the name applied to it by Pene- lope was great. The face of Ralph England became an illumination. He was the junior by only one year of John, but was so curi- ously youthful-looking that he might have passed for a seventeen-year-old lad. This appearance was, in part, the result of his frail build, which c0ntrast- ed oddly with the sturdy make of his five brothers and his sister; in part it had connection with the circumstance that his face was of a girlish beauty, and extraordinarily ingenuous. Time out of mind the second son at Bucklands had adopted the calling of a clerk in holy orders, and Ralph, the period of whose ordination was now near at hand, was about to become with his true title what he had been since childhood by his nicknameParson. This name, at first used with some irony, had long ceased to be in- vested with that attribute, and it entire- ly accorded with the gentle face of the bearer of it. A striking diffidence in Parson em- phasized the fact that he was a younger son, and a rumor had it that even his little brother George patron- ized the theologian. Be that as it may, it certainly seldom fell to Parsons share to be employed in any important function when John was at home. His great affection for his brother robbed this thing of bitterness, and made him truly thankful when, as now and again, an honorable employment as as- signed to him. Shy as he was, he would not have presumed to offer his escort to the kennels to Penelope Step- toe, and when that young gentlewoman honored him by desiring it, he was sim- pie fellow enou~h to look as happy as he felt. With a spring in his step he led the way to the stables, conscious that his three young brothers in the rear (they followed to watch the play of feature in Penelope when she should be made acquainted with the southern hound) were burlesquing his mien and step, but consoled by the belief that Penelope was unaware of this. He did not speak, because he had nothing to say which he deemed worth saying, in this re- spect differing from his brother George, whose critical standard was lower, and who, encouraged to speak by having observed that there was mirth in a glance of protest which Penelope had found an opportunity of directing at him, said in shrill, young treble: Do you notice, Miss Penelope, that a mustachio is growing on Parsons lip? Indeed I do, George, Penelope an- swered, and though it is not large, tis larger, I am sure, than the mustachio of the cricket. This addendum silenced the wag in George, who was profoundly interested 88 John Englands Outgoing. in zoology, and he said what resolved itself into a statement that it was new to him to hear that an idea prevailed that a cricket had a mustachio. So tis to me, Penelope said, drily, but there is a book I have read in which tis written that this insect has upper and lower lips, with all the other parts of the mouth, and many of them hairy, which I judge to be the learned way of saying that it has a mustachio. George lapsed into a deeper gravity, then a lively conversation took place between him and his brothers, and by the time that the kennels were reached it became manifest that these three members of the party had fallen away. They had gone in search of a cricket. Thus did ingenious Penelope contrive that Parsons pleasure in showing off the southern hound should not be spoilt by those unsparing commentators, his brothers. John and Alce, the while, in a bliss- ful t~te-a-t~te, were laboriously making conversation. It began by Alces say- ing, with a rather disingenuous dubi- ousness in her tone, considering that she had certain knowledge on the point at issue: My cousin Penelope is gone away, I think, Mr. England. I think she is, Miss Steptoe, John England replied, peering round the room to give color to an answer which took the form of a surmise. Alce showed no intention of taking again the initiative, so John was fain to do so. You are come to the Quay, he said the reference being to Bridlington Quayfor the purpose of sea-bathing, are you not, Miss Steptoe? Alce had not come to Bridlington Quay for this purpose, but had come because her cousin was spending the summer season there, and had invited her. Penelope had from her child- hoods days spent the summer season at Bridlington Quay; hence her close intimacy with the England family, to whom she had never been Miss Steptoc. It was to compensate her for the fact that her grandmother was unable to enter into her pursuits with the zest of former days, that Alce had been in- vited to make a sojourn with her, on the understanding that if friendly rela- tions established themselves between the girls, they should continue to reside to- gether. Alce answered John to this effect. I judge the Quay pleases you, he blundered on. Tis an agreeable and healthful place, and there is now a con- siderable resort to it of genteel com- pany. This style of phrasing was not ac- counted so execrable at the end of the eighteenth century, as it should be at the end of the nineteenth, and It did not jar upon Alice Steptoc, though the place thus eulogized was so far from pleasing her that she answered: I have when at Bridlington Quay the feeling which I believe I should have in the metropolis, where, even if you meet your old acquaintances, I am told, they behave very cool and distant, and in some respects unfriendly. This, I suppose, is always so where too many persons are together busied in business or in pleasure. As Alce ventilated this idea, her face, at most times earnest, expressed a depth of thoughtfulness which greatly increased its beauty. I think your cousin Penelope, Miss Steptoe, does not subscribe to these opinions, said John, tentatively. I am sure she does not, was an- swered. It is for this that we are sworn friends. John, who perfectly understood this speech, requested a clearer statement of the theory involved in it. Why, sure you know, Mr. England, Alce said, quietly, that love delights in opposites ? I have heard the .adage which says Great Britain and the European Powers. 89 so, Miss Steptoe, John replie~I, but I believe that love is that which looks for its identical, as near as identical can be, between a man and a woman.~~ Alce blushed vividly. 1 spoke, Mr. England, of two cous- insyoung ladies, she said, in a note of rrotest. You did so, Miss Steptoe, John England conceded, and then he did a thing which a young Georgian gentle- man under given conditions could do, and bate none of his dignity. He fell The LeIsure Hour. upon his knees and vowed that he would not rise until Alce gave him an- sweryea or nayto a proposal which, as he worded it, ran: Will you, Miss Steptoe, consent to become the wife of a gentleman en- tirely and only your lover 2 Alce said neither yea nor nay to this, not from hardness of heart, but from surprise induced by the appearance upon the threshold, at this moment, of Jasper England, by whom the door had. been opened noiselessly. Elsa DEsterre-Keeling.. (To be continued.) GREAT BRITAIN AND THE EUROPEAN POWERS. The recent speeches delivered by Lord Rosebery in the House of Lords have created in the country a more profound impression than the utterances of any public man since the outbreak of the war. The circumstances of his posi- tion, the fact that he has filled the high- est office in the state, and that he was a successful foreign minister at a time when he had to encounter exceptional difficulties, rendered all the greater by the apathy of the country and the per- ilous ignorance of European affairs which was the distinguishing mark of many of his leading colleagues, lend ex- ceptional authority to his warnings and eounsels. Any one acquainted with European politics and with the real claims of continental statesmen, will not be inclined to assert that Lord Rosebery exaggerated the gravity of the crisis in which England now stands. The large number of persons who are not habitual observers of the movement of opinion in Europe, but who have a general view that England is surrounded by envious and hostile neighbors, have observed that some of the most serious and weighty of his ar- guments are corroborated by admis LIYI~ AGE. VOL. VII. 350 sions and statements which have falleir from the lips of more than one respon- sible minister of the crown. Every one knows that at the present moment th~ country is almost denuded of troops; almost every available man and gun has been sent to South Africa, or is about to be conveyed there. Most men realize that it is, at least, possible that an attempt at Interference with the pol- icy of England in South Africa, and with the setlement which her interests in that region demand, may be made by a combination of European powers. That any such interference should be resisted at all risks and hazards, and with the utmost firmness, is the settled conviction of nine out of every ten men who desire that England should main- tain her position amongst the nations of the earth and carry on her Imperial mission. How this interference Is to be resisted, or how it is to be effectually prevented, Is the pressing question of the hour. There are only two possible ways by which the danger may be averted, for I can hardly consider the advice that England should practically withdraw from her position in South Africa, and 90 Great Britain and the Euroj/ean Powers. conclude a peace which would preserve the practical independence of the two South African Republics, as one that can be followed. Such a course would obviously lead to consequences so far- reaching in mischief, that the deplora- ble results which were the outcome of the disgraceful arrangements of 1881 and the feeble concessions of 1884 would be insignificant in comparison. It seems most unlikely that it would be tolerated by the country, and it is hard- ly within the domain of practical poli- tics. But if that advice has no chance of being listened to, Great Britain must be prepared, in order to resist interna- tional pressure, either to enter into al- liances of various kinds, or to follow the more manly policy, and the one which will surely commend itself to the political instinct of the nation, of pre- serving complete independence of ac- tion, and so arming as to be able to maintain that independence against the world. The days during which it might have been possible to obtain alliances on the Continent, which would have stood the strain of reverse or of incompatibility of interests, are past. I am Inclined to doubt whether they ever were really present. History teaches us the light- ness and ease with which nations aban- don allies if they can thereby serve their own immediate interests. The Peace of Basel and the arrangement of Tilsit, will at once occur to the minds of every one. The latter especially is a striking instance in point. On the 26th of April, 1807, Russia and Prussia concluded the Convention of Barten- stein. The high contracting parties solemnly agreed that neither would lay down their arms till the power of Na- poleon was broken in Germany, and the French driven across the Rhine. A few short weeks passed over, and, on the 14th of June, the anniversary of Mar- engo, Napoleon woi~ Friedland. The Emperor Alexander of Russia immedi ately lost heart, and completely sacri- ficed the interests of his ally, for whom he did not stipulate even respect- ful consideration. The real or supposed interests of a country must be consid- ered, as the forces which will determine Its action when real pressure is brought to bear. And from this it follows, that no nation can ever hold a great position in the world except by Its own energy and its capacity for war. It can never reckon on assistance in an hour of diffi- culty or danger from the magnanimity and goodwill of its neighbors,, nor has It any protection for riches or posses- sions, except its fighting strength. The law of antagonism Is as universal in politics as in nature. If, then, a states- man contemplates an alliance with a foreign country, his first consideration should be, what interest the country in question has to form such an alliance, and how far the alliance would stand the strain of adverse circumstances. At the present moment, It Is hard to see what interest any continental state, ex- cept Italy, has to conclude an alliance with England, though it is easy to Im- agine a state of things arising, should England take efficient steps to organize her military resources, which would soon force Germany, and, perhaps, other powers as well, to seek her good- will and even make sacrifices to ob- tain It. I have always myself held that a good understanding between Germany and England is desirable in the Inter- ests of both countries; but I am firmly convinced that this will never be brought about by pursuing the lines of policy in regard to Germany which have been followed by successive gov- ernments in England for some years. There is no country In the world where so much hostile feeling exists to Eng- land as in Germany, and wherever Ger- mans have been gathered together In any part of the world the news of what they describe with the exaggeration of Great Britain and the European Powers. 91 hatred and envy, as English disasters in South Africa, has been hailed with uproarious satisfaction. It Is now almost forty years since I first began to follow German politics. The interest which caused me to watch the phases of the dramatic and heroic struggle for the reconstruction of Ger- many and the closer union of the differ- ent German states became, if possible, greater after the new German Eihpire was called into existence. This has al- ways seemed to me to be the most poi- tentous political fact of the second half of the nineteenth century. For this reason I have endeavored to follow the movement of German opinion with spe- cial care, and long and intimate ac- quaintance with many of the leading statesmen, men of letters, historians, and trusted national leaders of the Ger- man people, has given me some facili- ties for doing so. I deeply regret to say that ever since I can remember, this opinion has been growing steadily more and more hostile to Great Britain, and it has not become less so by such ar- rangements as the cession of Heligo- land, or conventions such as have been entered into dealing with territories in Africa or places like Samoa. I do not desire to criticize these arrangements in detail. It is not important for my argument that I should do so. I merely wish to insist upon the fact that not only have they done nothing to promote the growth of friendly feeling in Ger- many l~owards England, but, on the contrary, they have been interpreted in the former country as indications of nervousness and weakness on the part of the latter. They have tended to pro- duce contempt; and if it is desired to gain the respect of Germany, it is a matter of prime necessity to make it quite clear that, for the purpose of modifying German hostile feeling, Eng- land is not prepared under any circum- stances to pay blackmail. The present Duc de Brogue, In his cx- ceedingly interesting work, Fr6deric II et Marie Th~r~se, points out to those who desire to understand Bis- marck and the German policy of the present day, to which he has given an abiding direction, the advisability of closely studying the life and times of Frederic the Great. The historian Treitschke, in one of the most brilliant of his writings, insists on the same doc- trine. Any one who grasps this truth and acts on it will find the source of the hostile feeling to England which is now so wide and deep from one end of Germany to the other. It arose in Prussia, in the days of Frederic the Great, and it has grown and become strong with the growth and strength of Prussia. It originated after the resig- nation of Lord Chatham, or as he then was, Mr. Pitt, in 1761, and the conse- quent abandonment in 1762 of Frederic the Great, during the Seven Years War. The treachery of Lord Bute, in intriguing with the enemies of Frederic, then the close ally of England, and especially his disgraceful correspond- ence with Choiseul, has not received from English historians anything like the attention it deserves. Nevertheless, it has had the most abiding results. The great king himself never forgave it. When England afterwards got into se- rious difficulties, when she had trouble in America, and her position as a great power was seriously threatened by the Franco-Spanish alliance, he remem- bered it to her cost. He advised his countrymen to be always most cautious and circumspect in dealing with Eng- land. His brother, Prince Henry, who differed from him on so many points, agreed in this, and became the repre- sentative of an anti-English policy till his death in 1802. After him, Prince Hatzfeld and Field Marshal Kalek- reuth took up the tale. An anti-Eng- lish party existed in Prussia through- ~ut the whole struggle with Napoleon. During the Congress of Vienna, anti- 92 Great Britain and the Eurotean Powers. English ideas found expression in the bitter sayings of Freiherr von Stein, and later on in the writings and letters of such distinguished men as Gneise- nau, Grolman, and Clausewitz, who, in their turn, passed on the tradition of animosity and distrust of England to men like Treitschke, Mommsen, Hails- ser, and Bernhardi, to statesmen like Bismarck, and soldiers like Moltke and Goeben. The settled foreign policy of Prussia may be clearly seen in the let- ters of Bismarck during the Crimean War. There was at that time a group of men in Berlin, comprising among others such influential persons as Count Goltz, Count Pourtales, Bethman-Hol- weg, and Mathis. This group was in favor of an English alliance, and their organ in the press, the Preussische Wochenblatt, published very many ar- ticles in this sense. Bismarck was then Prussian minister to the Bund at Frankfurt, and from thence he wrote to Manteuffel, who was Prime Minister of Frederic William IV, a number of letters which have been published by Poschinger, and are worth very careful study. They are directed against en- tering into an alliance with England, and urge in the strongest way the pol- icy of keeping on intimate terms with Russia. This policy he always ad- hered to when he himself became Prime Minister. He was confirmed in it by the attitude of England in the question of the neutrality of the Baltic, in that of the Elbe Duchies, and still more by her conduct during the Franco- German War. At the very outset of that war, Lord Lyons, the English Am- bassador in Paris, was most unfortu- nate in the language he held to the French Government. He assured the Duc de Grammont after the withdrawal of the candidature of Prince Leopold of Hohenzollern, and when it became clear that the French were about to take the initiative In commencing hos- tilities, that they might always count on the goodwill of England whether they went to war or not. This language was never repudiated either by Lord Granville or Mr. Gladstone. But this was not all. During the last days of the war the Germans discovered that French levies opposed to them in the West were armed with weapons from English arsenals. The defence of the Gladstonian Administration was that the weapons were sold to private pur- chasers, and not to the French Govern- ment of the day. This was, no doubt, true, but it was, to say the least, un- fortunate that the English authorities did not refrain from selling these weap- ons while the war was raging. I know, as a matter of fact, that Moltke could never be persuaded to the day of his death that the administration of which Mr. Gladstone was the head, was not culpably negligent in the matter, and wilfully assisted French resistance to the German armies. Bismarck thought so, too, and from that time he became firmer, if possible, than before in his anti-English policy. Friction between the English and German Governments was constantly recurring, and it was largely owing to the ability, tact, and influence of the late Lord Ampthill that very critical complications did not arise, especially after Mr. Gladstones second accession to power in 1880. The suspicion with which Bismarck re- garded England, particularly during the time of Mr. Gladstones influence, drove him to make friendship with Russia the corner-stone of his system. He adhered to his policy even after he formed the Triple Alliance, and it was partly in consequence of a secret treaty with Russia, in which the interests of his ally, Austria, were, to say the least of it, not carefully considered, and which he kept secret even from his own sovereign, that he was driven from office. The policy of Bismarck, as re- gards Russia and England, with the ex- ception of the time during which Count Grcat Britain and the Euroj5ean Powers. 93 Caprivi was Chancellor of the Empire, has been, in the main, adopted by those in charge of the affairs of Germany. The real reason why it is so persistent- ly followed is that German statesmen realize the necessity and wisdom of keeping on good terms with Russia, be- cause of her military power and the strategical advantages which the condi- tion of the eastern frontier of Prussia would confer upon the Russian army in ease of war. It is the dangers which Germany fears a war with Russia would entail that make her anxious to cultivate Russias goodwill. If Eng- land, by the adoption of a settled pol- icy, would be as dangerous to Germany ~as Russia, the whole attitude of Ger- many would instantly change towards her, and the greatest efforts would be made 40 secure her friendship. It is quite childish to imagine that persons in the highest authority in Ger- many are not largely responsible for the hostility to England which is shown throughout the German Empire. We all know how Prince Bismarek man- aged the Press, and every one moder- ately well-informed about German mat- ters is perfectly aware that many news- papers in every part of the Empire are directly or indirectly inspired by gov- eminent. There are prints, moreover, not published in Germany, which have made themselves remarkable by the most preposterous and venomous calumnies against England, to whose attacks men in high positions of respon- sibility in the Empire are not strangers. I do not say that the German Foreign Office is directly responsible for abuse of the baser sort which is continually heaped on England. The Frankfurter Generalanzeiger, which has exposed with much courage the degradation and mendacity of so large a section of the German Press, has shown how the ab- surd calumnies are invented, which the prevailing Anglophobia. But in Munich every one knows that the Neuste Nachrichten takes its tone from the Prussian Legation in the Bavarian capital. It is, then, impossible to be- lieve that the attitude it assumes of truculent hostility to England is dis- pleasing to authorities in Berlin. The question now arises, what is the mean- ing of all this underhand action, and what does the German Government ex- pect to gain by it? There are various motives. One may be discovered in the history of Prussian relations with Hol- land. Those who have followed with care German political literature, or who happen to have been at all Intimate with German politicians, can hardly have failed to observe that the Idea of obtaining a firm footing on the shores of the North Sea has been present to the minds of political thinkers in Ger- many for generations. The settlement at the Congress of Vienna, with respect to the northeast frontier of Holland, was a bitter disappointment to the Prussian National Party of that day. Men like Oneisenan and Grolman im- agined that the German cause had been seriously injured. Blucher was thinking of Holland when, after Water- loo, he proposed the famous toast, Miigen die Federn der Diplomaten nicltt rerder~en wa8 das Schwert der V6lker mit so grossen Anstrengunqen errungen. There is, of course, at present no desire to make Holland a state of the Ger- manic Confederation. But the idea of obtaining concessions as regards cus- toms to be followed as time goes on by a regular Customs Union, and then ultimately by a Naval Convention, which would practically destroy the in- dependence of Holland, Is certainly widely entertained in influential circles in Germany. ThIs is one reason why sympathy with the Boers and hostility to England is encouraged by persons in prints like the Mfinchener Neuste Nach- high places. When Holland is brought richten, for instance, publish to flatter within the sphere of German influence 94 Great Britain and tke European Powers. it is hoped that Germany may obtain a considerable position in the Malay Archipelago, and perhaps also at the Cape, should England be so fatuous as not to secure now real and undisputed supremacy in South ALrica. Another obvious reason why the German au- thorities encourage hostility to England is the desire to obtain a more powerful navy. The Kaiser well understands the truth of the old French proverb, Qui mer a terre. He aspires to do for the navy what his grandfather did for the army. But the true reason why an increase of the navy is supported by ministers and politicians is to prepare for a struggle with England. This has been almost openly avowed by Admiral Tierpitz, who presented the imperial proposals to the Reichstag. The minis- terial statement shows how steadily the conviction is growing that England is the country which Germany should en- deavor to overthrow. And the more ignorant Germans are becoming per- suaded that our position in the world is undeserved, artificial, and cannot be maintained if seriously threatened. This view has been fostered for many years past by the most brilliant writers in essays and articles, and by leading journals and periodicals, which, in their turn, shape the policy of the cheap newspaper, which is the gospel of the village inn. I have dwelt at this length on Ger- man hostility towards England because I conceive that it has a great deal to say to the general ill-feeling towards England which prevails on the Conti- nent. The attitude of France has been un- do~btedly influenced by the manipula- tion by Germany of the French Press. Some years ago the pressing question In the mind of almost every Frenchman was how Alsace and Lorraine were to be recovered. Now, everything is changed, and there is no disguising the fact that at the bottom of French feel- ing there lies a rankling and implaca- ble hatred toward England. This has been the work mainly of newspapers influenced and guided by Germany. Of all French papers the Petit Journal has far the largest circulation. Every fair- ly-iriformed man knows how it is in- fluenced. It receives, perhaps, no di- rect support from Germany. It is con- ducted mainly in the interests of an- other power. It suits, however, Ger- man policy in that it strives to form an anti-English frame of mind. There are other French papers with a large circu- lation which are guided by Germany sometimes quite unconsciously to them- selves in their attacks on England. In Russia the Petersburger Zeitung, an organ believed to be subsidized by the German Foreign Office, has been inces- sant in its endeavor to provoke hostil- ity between England and Russia, and German agents have been careful to~ represent to Russian statesmen that if England is friendly to the development of German interests in Asia Minor it is with a view of producing friction be- tween the Russian and the German Empires. There is but one method by which this policy of Germany can be checked, and that is by bringing home to the minds of the Germans that its consequences may be serious. It is well that we should realize what Germany has to lose in a conflict with England. It must be steadily kept in view that Germany has become a great industrial nation since the Empire was formed. The development of Ger- man shipping has been marvellous. Her mercantile marine cannot, indeed,. 1e compared to the English in size, but it is now greater than that of France or of the United States. In 1871 the foreign trade of Germany was about 250 millions sterling. It is now 500 mil- lions sterling. Of this 350 millions are conveyed by sea. In the event of a war with England this sea-borne com- merce would be ruined. Besides this~ Great Britain and the European Powers. 96 there is a further consideration to be remembered. Between 1882 and 1895 the population of Germany increased from 45,220,000 to 51,770,000. The population is increasing at the rate of 800,000 persons a year; and at the next census the population of the Empire will be something like 60,000,000 peo- ple. The emigration from the Empire, which, a quarter of a century ago, was about 200,000 people, fell last year to 20,000. The decrease of emigration and the positive increase of the population has been also attended by a diminution of the number of persons who are en- gaged in agriculture. Between 1882 and 1895 the total number of persons en- gaged in agricultural pursuits fell from 19,225,000 to 18,501,000. On the other hand, the number of persons dependent on trade with countries beyond the sea has increased from 16,000,000 to 20,- 000,000. In the middle of the seventies Germany exported corn, meal, and other articles to Scandinavia, Switzer- land, France and England. She now imports all these, and, as Herr v. Brandt has shown, the most valuable portion of German trade is with the British Empire, and its development is at least partly owing to English com- mercial policy. Such facts surely in- dicate the very dangerous position which Germany would be in if England chose to make her power felt. Ger- many would have either to give way or to risk a war which would produce so much suffering to large numbers of her people as would surely strengthen the already formidable elements ~f disor- der. What these elements are we may easily discover by observing the politi- cal groups in the Reichstag. There are in it no less than fourteen distinct polit- ical groups. The largest of these is the Centre, or so-called Catholic Party. This was formed in the year 1870, mainly by men whose motives were actuated by a personal dislike to Bis- marek. The party, on its formation, under their influence assumed an atti- tude of acute hostility to the Chancel- lor. Bismarck, partly in consequence of personal Irritation, and partly per- suaded by leading Liberals, rushed into a war not merely with this party, hut with Catholicism in Germany. The ic- suit was greatly to strengthen the pow- er of the Centre. The Particularists, the ultra-Conservatives in Bavaria, Baden, and Wflrtemburg, and Radicals at various places all over the country, gathered round this party, and took advantage of ecclesiastical organization in electioneering struggles, hoping, un- der the cloak of religion, to further their political aims. The present Cen- tre is 105 in number. It would not be true to say that all these are hostile to the existence of the German Empire, and desire its destruction; but some of them undoubtedly do so, and take no pains to conceal their wishes. After the Centre, the most important, though not the most numerous group of the Diet, is the Social Democratic Party. This party is the outcome of two dis- tinct ideas, one represented by Lassalle, the Schweitzer, and the other by Marx, Liebknecht, and Bebel. It was formed in 1875. One of the most remarkable circumstances in the political life of Germany, and which must give pause to every reflecting man, is the growth of this party, which is openly hostile to the very existence of the Empire. In the general election of 1878, 437,000 votes were cast for it. In the last elec- tion 2,125,000 electors voted for its candidates, and it secured some fifty- six seats in the Reichstag. The Reich- stag is a Chamber of 397 members, and if closely looked into it will be foun4 that if we add to the members of the Centre, the Social Democrats, the Poles, and Deputies representing other discon- tented interests, more than one-half of the members of the Reichstag are strongly disaffected to the existing in- stitutions of the country. Surely a 96 most grave state of things should Ger- many be overtaken by any serious mis- fortune. There is no doubt that the growth of the Social Democratic Party is the re- sult of narrow administrative meas- ures. The chief grievance of Prussian workmen, for instance, is the Prussian Law of Association. Societies which occupy themselves with politics are il- legal; but it is not easy to obtain an exact definition of what constitutes political matter. Laws for the regula- tion of the length of the working day; the question of the employment of women and children in onerous kinds of labor; protective duties, are all ques- tions which may be considered political or not, as it pleases the heads of the police. In practice, associations of em- ployers or of owners of property are always allowed to exist. Associations of workmen, formed with a view to promote the interests of their class, are rigorously suppressed. Nay, more, al- though workmen are prevented from combining, certain employers, on the other hand, are not only allowed and encouraged, but forced to do so. There is, moreover, a widespread feeling especially in the north, and not by any means confined to the working classes, that the administration of justice is not impartial on any question in which government or public authority may be interested. The result is to inspire the workmen throughout the Empire with a conviction that the whole force of public authority is against them. Hence there is no feeling of attachment to or respect for the institutions of the coun- try such as we are accustomed to in England, and the serious suffering which would result from war with Eng- land would infallibly set loose forces of revolution and of disintegration which would shake the whole fabric of the Empire, even if they did not bring it topsy-turvy down. We may, I think, take it as a certain- ty that no combination will be formed against England unless Germany joins it; and it is fairly certain that Germany will not do so if she thinks that Eng- land will resist any interference in South Africa by force of arms or other- wise. We could not do better than remem- ber the conduct of Lord Chatham, when he had to face a somewhat similar diffi- culty. During the Seven Years War, when on one occasion negotiations for peace with France were going on, Bus- sy, the French envoy, pressed on Lord Chatham, who was still the Great Com- moner, proposals of intervention in the controversy between England and Spain. Lord Chatham told him plainly that the government of the King of England would not suffer the disputes with Spain to be blended in any man- ner whatever in negotiations between England and France. Bussy continued arguing, and, at last, Chatham, in an- swer to his pleadings and veiled threats, replied, Time enough to treat of all that, sir, when the Tower of London is taken, sword in hand. If European powers at the present moment were cer- tain that a similar answer would be given to any combination proposing to interfere with the march of events in South Africa, nothing is more certain than that no attempt at interference would be made. In order that England should take up such an attitude as her position and in- terest~ demand, it is requisite that she shouLd be ready to put out her whole maritime strength at a given moment, and also that she should show vigorous intention to create an adequate army. She must definitely make up her mind to form a military force thoroughly efficient, and likely to fulfil the boast that Wellington made with reference to the army he parted from at the end of the Peninsular War, that it could go anywhere and do anything. Not- withstanding the undoubted superiority Great Britain and the Eurotean Powers. Great Britain and the European Powers. 97 of our navy, it is clear that it will not be able by itself to repel the aggressive movements of great military powers. It will be simply impossible for this country to protect her interests and to beat o1~ attacks on her continental pos- sessions in Asia and Africa, if she con- tinues to rely on her fleets alone. The experience of the last three months must make that truth evident to all persons in England not blinded by prejudice and cant, as it has long been clear to every continental writer on in- ternational politics of any eminence whatever. It is not necessary to enter, at the moment into discussion as to whether or not a system of compulsory military service of some sort should be introduced into this country. What is wanted is a national army. If the ob- ligation of military service should be necessary to secure this, it will come in time. unless England ceases to be a great power. The practical measure, for the moment, would be for the gov- ernment to take efficient steps to or- ganize the militia into a number of di- visions fit for the field, to form the men who serve in the ranks into thoroughly efficient soldiers, and then do the same with the volunteers. The military forces of the nation should be raised to something like the standard of the Prussian army in 1566. Besidt~s the troops who have to be kept in India, in Egypt, and the Mediterranean, there should always be a force of at least 200.000 men ready to leave this coun- try at a moments notice, and, without disorganizing regiments or divisions, go to any part of the world; and an ade- quate permanent transport service should be ready to carry them. To or- ganize such a force in England would be a far easier work than that done by Scharnhorst for Prussia in the early days of the century, and which has been admittedly the means of placing that country in the proud position she afterwards won, and which, I may add, is now partly the cause of the commer- cial prosperity of Germany. The situation appears to be as fol- lows: It seems likely that when occa- sion serves the Afrikander Bond will urge the Imperial Government to come to terms with the two South African Republics by offering to acknowledge their independence as Sovereign States on condition they disarm. This sugges- tion is sure to be accompanied by a menace more or less veiled, that should it be rejected by Her Majestys Gov- ernment, the Cape Dutch will renounce their allegiance to the Queen. It Is su- perfluous to point out that the accept- ance of such a proposal by England would mean the loss of the whole of South Africa at no distant date. So base a betrayal, moreover, of the cause for which our fellow subjects beyond the seas have drawn their swords would raise a storm of indignation in our self-governing colonies so violent and enduring that it would shake the fabric of the British Empire. This is well understood from one end of Eu- rope to the other, and hence the ene- mies will do all they can to cajole or frighten the English Government to be magnanimous in victory. Continen- tal governments will contrive that pres- sure will be brought to bear on them by their own subjects to excuse their action in offering this advice, and more than one continental power would be glad to have a safe opportunity, under the mask of friendship, to deal a deadly blow at Great Britain. England cannot count on the friendship of any Euro- pean power, except Italy. The main interest of that country is certainly, at the present moment, to preserve the conditions of political power in the Mediterranean. If the English suprem- acy in that sea were to pass away, it would, of necessity, be replaced by that of France; and every Italian very well knows that there is hardly any question on which Frenchmen, of all parties, are 98 On Some Dtj/Fculties Incidental to Middle Age. more agreed upon than in dislike to the unity of Italy. Hence, Italy may al- ways be counted on as a possible ally of England, notwithstanding that she has legitimate grounds for complaint at the studied accord of England with France in such questions as Morocco, Tunis, and Siam. The interests which are common to Italy and England are not likely to be forgotten so long as the destinies of the former country are in the hands of Visconti Venosta, who is the last living friend of Cavour, a man for whom the founder of Italian unity had a most particular regard and re- spect, and who has, in his turn, always held firmly to the policy of the greatest statesman of the second half of the nineteenth century. As regards the other great powers, there is nothing to expect from them. They will take every opportunity to thwart and dam- age England. They are jealous of her The National Review. prosperity, and especially of the law- abiding and, at the same time, liberty- loving character of the nation. They look with envious eyes on the homo- geneity of our people and on the solid- ity of our State. And they are ren- dered more malicious when they think of their own rickety internal condition. Should they attempt to interfere in South Africa the more clearly they are made to understand that their advice, however disinterested they may repre- sent it to he, will not be listened to, the less likely they are to press it. Firmness now is the only way to avert dangerous complications or ruinous hu- miliation. The plain course for Eng- land to adopt is to knit together more firmly those rising and vigorous young nations, which we call self-governing colonies, to hold out the hand of friend- ship to Italy, and to stand to arms. RowZan4 Bleanerlatssett. ON SOME DIFFICULTIES INCIDENTAL TO MIDDLE AGE. It is our misfortune, as we go on- wards through life, engrossed mainly, and pardonably enough, by the present, that the successive phases of existence are apt to come upon us before we have quite realized how we are to bear our- selves in them. By the time we are be- ginning to learn they have nearly passed, it may be, and the picture of the immediate future presents itself in yet another focus, that surprises us afresh. The joins of life are apt to be awkward, unless the join is very skil- fully made, and the one we are about to consider is, perhaps, the most diffi- cult of them all. It is a time that stands half-way between youth and age, giving a hand to each; with many of the drawbacks of both, and all the advantages of neither; a time which is a strange and inconsistent medley of warring possibilities and impossibilities, still retaining some of the aptitudes and predilections of youth, without its glo- rious convictions of success, but tinged with a secret acceptance of defeat, which yet falls short of the definite and dignified renunciation that accompan- ies old age. That secret acceptance of the inevitable, that inward renuncia- tionof which the world need not al- ways knowis a lesson that we all have to learn; and, like other lessons, if we do it in a hurry, we shall acquire it but imperfectly. If we learn to re- nounce, as we go on, with dignity and silence, our sufferings in so doingif we are wise they will scarcely deserve the namewill not be magnified by be- ing seen through other peoples at- On Some D~culties Incidental to Middle Age. 99 tempts at sympathy. Arrived at mid- dle age, it is very possible that most of us will have been called upon to re- nounce a good deal; we started, prob- ably, with the conviction that our heads would strike the stars, and we have become strangely reconciled to the fact that they do not reach the ceil- ing. But it was, no doubt, better to start with the loftier Idea; a man should allow a good margin for shrink- age in his visions of the future. And it is curious, It is pathetic, to see with what ease we may accomplish the gradual descent to the lower level, on which we find ourselves at last going along, if in somewhat less heroic fash- ion than we anticipated, yet on the whole comfortably and happily. We have accepted a good deal, we have learnt how to carry our burdens in the way that is easiest.. We are no longer storm-tossed; we know pretty much, ar- rived at this stage, what we are going to do, those of us who thought they were going to do anything. The fact of taking life on a lower level of expecta- tions makes it all the more likely that those expectations will be fulfilled. We have, with some easing of conscience, accepted certain characteristics and manifestations on our own part as in- evitable, secretly and involuntarily cherishing a hope that where these do not fit in with those of our surround- ings, it may yet be possible that other people should alter theirs. We are, some or us, arrived at this stage, still in the relation of being younger, with reference to persons surviving of the generations who i.receded us, and are beginning to understand a little, now that we have a grown-up generation following us, what the difficulties and trials of the older people may have been in their relation to ourselves. We have a certain number of friends, a still larger number of acquaintances, of our own standing, of whom we observe with interest and note with some sur prise that in many respects they do not remain as they were when we were all younger. Is this time, then, under these conditions, as happy as that which pre- ceded it? Is it even, as some of the contented would have it, likely to be happier? If It is, then one drawback, I fear, it must have, that of approach- ing more nearly to its happiness. At any rate, the question, however often debated, has not much of a practical bearing; we are not called upon fortu- nately, to choose at which stage of life we would prefer to be. We may, there- fore, enjoy the peace that comes from the inevitable. But one thing is prob- ably certain: that, on the whole, this stage of existence is pre-eminently im- portant as a factor in our intercourse with our fellow creatures. The govern- ment of the family life in the large majority of cases is mainly in the hands of the middle-aged; it is they who deter- mine its general tone, spirit, and at- mosphere. This is a heavy responsibil- ity to bear, and those upon whom it is laid can claim indulgence neither on the score of youth nor on that of age; they are old enough to perceive their mistake~, but not too old to correct thell). It is they who create the atmos- phere which surrounds their little com- munity. And the atmospherefigura- tive as well as actualbreathed by hu- man beings during their passage from infancy to maturity is of incalculable importance; it can save, or it may de- stroy. The young, it is true, carry an atmosphere of their own with them through these early years, full of brightness and color, precious, indeed, to their surroundings. But, as time goes on, a gradual individual differenti- ation takes place; the bright, dancing glow, which shed a general radiance over everything fades away; and we are seen, each of us, as we are, as we have made ourselves during the pas- sage of the years, surrounded by our own special atmosphere, unsoftened by 100 On Some D#culties Incidental to Middle Age. the golden haze of youth on the one hand, or by the silvery mists of age on the other. Middle age is seen in an un- becoming light. There is not much ro- mance, much mystery about it; it is not often sung by the poets. Now it is that we must stand forth with such characteristics for good or evil as we have made our own by a never-ceasing, if unconscious, process of selection from successive possibilities. The range of those possibilities is apt to nar- row curiously as time goes on, unless. we are always on the watch. We lie in a constant danger of our interests ex- tending abnormally in one or two di- rections and dwindling in others, until, arrived at the moment when we are called upon to govern, when our minds and our judgment should, by long ex- ercise, be more pliable than ever, more open, more ready to respond to any and every appeal to our sympathy or experience, we find, on the contrary, that we have gradually become ab- sorbed, from circumstances as well as from individual bias, in a limited set of interests, sometimes, indeed, exclu- sively of a personal nature, and that our outlets and our inlets are, in other directions closed. The question we have to ask and to answer is, need our characters deteriorate, as our physical constitutions are bound to do, with the passage of time? Not if we are careful to keep a watch over the innate pro- clivities by which we are so mysteri- ously governed. This is not an idle query it is one, on the contrary, which should be earnestly considered and may be fruitfully discussed, since the an- swer lies in our own hands, to a greater extent, perhaps, than we are inclined to believe at the first blush. We are apt to go astray from the fact that we generally discuss it in relation to the phenomena unpleasant to ourselves that we observe in other people. That is not so profitable. When we come to consider the question not merely ac~ demically, but as bearing upon our own daily action, we shall probably be in- clined to admit that, as time goes on, we have a tendency to relax the watch over ourselves, and to yield more and more to the increasing indolence that comes with the years, to let our moral muscles become as stiff as the material ones from the decrease in their use. Most people, arrived at that middle term of life of which we are speaking, know that to keep themselves in what is called good condition, as to their phy- sical being, depends almost entirely upon a sage ordering of both the active and the quiescent scheme of life, by the requisite amount of activity as well as of self-denial. That it is possible in various unheroic ways to exercise this self-denial, we may, any of us, deduce from the conversation of our older neighbors at dinner, who will, with unnecessary communicativeness, tell us what exact portion of the bill of fare is forbidden to them, and what are the threatened penalties that make them forego the enjoyment of what others are enjoying around them. If this form of material self-denial is possible, then the same men and women ought cer- tainly to be able to achieve it in the moral order as well, given that they have the same conviction of the neces- sity of doing so. There does not seem to be any eternal reason why, since they are able so well to regulate some of their appetites, they should not be able to keep watch over their words, actions and tendencies as well. Many a middle-aged man who uses dumb- bells, or fences, to keep his muscles in order, walks and rides for a given time every day to have the requisite amount of exercise, avoids over-fatigue and un- wholesome food, would, no doubt, if he brought the same amount of purpose to bear on the moral side of his nature, have results just as profitable, and would find the will kept as pliable as the muscles. But the obstacle to On Some D#culties Incidental to Aliddle Age. 101 achieving the latter is that it occurs to him to do the one thing, and that it does not occur to him to do the other. We are accustomed also to take for granted as a matter of course that we can keep the muscles of our intellectual faculties, so to speak, in good order by like means. We can keep our memory pliable by exercise. We can keep up, according to the customary phrase, our knowledge of the various branches of learning we may formerly have ac- quired. But the side of us that matters incalculably the most, both as far as our own comfort is concerned and that of the companions of our daily life, that is the necessity of keeping our moral system in good order, ready to respond to any demand upon it, this, in some strange way, we seem absolutely to dis- regard. We are apt to believe that, in flat contradiction to the principles that we recognize as governing the rest of our being, our moral side will remain, without any conscious effort of our own, in that eminently-desirable condi- tion to which we are conscious (even If we do not categorically formulate that consciousness) of having by the mere lapse of years attained. But in this we are probably mistaken. It is likely that in the moral order, as in every other there is no possibility of standing still. For if we would keep ourselves up to the level of our best possibilities, impulse, intention, and ef- fort require to be renewed day by day, by conscious and repeated endeavor, as surely as the wear and tear of our bodies requires to be repaired by fresh, daily material, as surely as our bodily muscles require exercise if they are not to stiffen. But it is probable that in the majority of cases unfortunately that strenuous daily endeavor is want- ing. And chiefly for the reason that, although we are more than ready to ad- mit the necessity of arriving at a given result, we do not sufficiently consider the details by which we shall attain it. I say this with extreme diffidence. I am aware that most men and women in this country have been brought up according to the precepts of a very beautiful spiritual code, by which they, in all good faith, take for granted that their lives are governed; and I know also, and am glad to know it, that there are many whose daily actions are on broad lines governed by that code, in so far as it is possible to govern by it the lives of a time so absolutely re- moved from it by chronology, by racial temperament, point of view, and politi- cal conditions. But I have observed that even those whose constant thought is to live up to that spiritual codeI speak of them with reverent and genu- ine admirationdo not always seem able to carry out its broad, general prin- ciples in detail. I have noticed, to cite but one instance, that such a one wh& would take for granted the desirability of loving his neighbor as himself, or of rejoicing with those who rejoice, can yet be maddened, and not conceal the fact, at having to endure on some quite unimportant occasion the manifestation of his neighbors uncongenial hobby. I have seen that he is apt thus to estrange that neighbors affection, making the latter as well as himself sin against the precept we have just quoted. It was St. Theresa, I believe, who said that by thinking of heaven for a quarter of an hour every day one might hope to deserve it. I should doubt if the majority of those who are enjoying a comfortable middle age deliberately spend that amount of time in thinking of their own moral condition. And yet it might no doubt be well and profitably spent by each of us in endeavoring t& translate into the terms of daily life some of the stimulating and noble maxims we have in the code we have been speaking of, as well as in the writ- ings of the great moralists of every time, and in considering how by the light of them, we may make the best 102 On Some D~31iculties Incidental to Middle Age. of our relation to that tiny corner of the universe which constitutes our sur- rounding. And here lies a seeming difficultya seeming one, I say, for from the moment we recognize it we are on the road to overcoming itthat the occasions in daily life in which our fallibility finds us out, the fruitful op- portunities for friction that are most likely to come in our way, appear to us so ridiculously out of proportion to those great moral maxims that it seems almost absurd to bring the one to bear upon the other. This discrepancy is bound to be a handicap in the attain- ment of that perfect character, with re- spect to which the middle-aged are, perhaps, at a special disadvantage, not because they are naturally more wick- ed than the young, but simply because they have unhappily no one who is en- titled to point out to them their short- comings. This is a terrible disability under which they labor; that they are no longer in regard to any one in stattt pupillari. This may not sound at the first blush, perhaps, an altogether un- pleasant condition; but there is no doubt that the human being who Is not criticized is not corrected. Criticized, that is to say, to his face, and given the opportunity of comparing other peo- ples views of what his conduct ought to be with what it actually Is. As so- ciety is at present constituted, It is not the custom for one person to tell an- other, at the period when both may be supposed to have gone through one-half of their life with tolerable credit and dignity, wherein nevertheless that ex- istence may have displayed shortcom- ings of which the offender was, per- haps, not aware. Such a comment, if gratuitously offered, would be offen- sive from contemporaries, intolerable from a younger generation, pardonable perhaps from an older generation still, from whom it would be accepted, how- ever, with a kind of irritated indul- gence, as being due to a general decay of perception. The only thing, there- fore, to supplement this lack of ex- pressed public opinion is to exercise the most rigid self-criticism, if we would not have our peculiarities extend in every direction uncurbed. When I speak of the absence of criticism, I mean, of course, its absence as applied to the shortcomings of private life, not to those displayed in the light of day by persons who take part In public life, and who are bound to get a rough and ready (and, on the whole, tolerably just) all-round view of their own char- acter, If they have calmness to examine and disentangle, and take the average of the evidence of friends and foes. It is not of these occasional helps to con- duct that I am speaking. Nor have I left out entirely in my calculations the criticism incidental to daily family life, where, however, the wear and tear of circumstance, and the fact that such criticism is generally engendered in moments of collision, deprives it of some of its permanent value as an ex- presion of deliberate opinion. But when all this ise said and done, It re- mains sadly evident that, arrived at this stage of existence, the only direc- tion to which we may look for effectual help is, within ourselves. It Is no good blinking the fact that this makes our task much more difficult. Compare the outlook, the condition of younger peo- ple in this respect, the greater chanc~s that are given them, the greater help they receive in working out their per- fection, even if they do not always make the most of their advantages. We had those chances, too, doubtless; we probably received as much help, and, I have no doubt, that in a more or less degree we profited by it. But were we toldmany of us do not seem to remem- ber itthat the struggle was to be a never-ending one; that when we left off being taught we should still have to learn; that from the moment we ceased struggling upwards we should insensi On Some D~ftIculties Incidental to Middle Age. 103 bly begin sliding down again? That is what we need to realize, what we ought to make ourselves realize, at that moment when, our earlier impetuous onslaught on the interests of life over, we have leisure to look around us, and look within ourselves, by the light of the experience we have gained. Then it is that, some of the breathless claims of existence being satisfied, we find that conduct is the chief occupation that Is left to us, and the most important of all. The young, on their first eager en- tranc~ into grown-up life, may well be torgiven if they do not sufficiently con- sider their words and actions, and watch the development of their own character and its effect upon other peo- ple; for they are, and they should be, far too busy perceiving, learning, ex- ~)anding, choosing careers, love-making, w-ondering, yearning, distinguishing, to be able to concentrate their attention on mere conduct. This state of things also may, no doubt, have its drawbacks, but we will not dwell on them at this moment, for it is not the pitfalls inci- dental to youth that we are considering, but rather such as lie In the path of those older people, say between forty and fifty, for whom, in the eyes of youth nothing is left but a dull acquies- cence, and such enjoyment of a senile kind as they may derive from looking on at the manifestations of the gener- ation that is following them. But the problem, alas! is not so simple, as those same young people will find when, hav- ing in their turn, and almost without knowing it, made the inevitable step onwards, they find themselves, still en- joying a good deal of vigor of mind and body, standing where their fathers stood but now. No, life at this stage is not entirely quiescent, not wholly retrospective, does not occupy itself ex- clusively with looking on at others, young and interesting though they may beit would be easier to deal with if it did. What then is our outlook, arrived at that moment that is called middle age? What is the prospect visible from tha~t stretch of level country? This time, when we are young enough to remem- ber, old enough to foresee, is the time, if ever, to pause and look. It is good so at intervals to take stock of exist- ence, as it were; it is well to realize where we are, and whither we are tend- ing. That outlook, to be sure, is not the same In every case, and the factor that makes the great difference is whether we are looking at it from the point of view of another generation or exclusively from our own. The older peo- pie who are guiding others alongthe road feel, in a measure, actually responsible for its aspect; it no longer looks to them quite as It would look If they were wandering along It with no one else to consider. We all know how the mere fact of displaying a place familiar to us, be It only a garden path ten feet long, to some one who is seeing it for the first time, imports Into our view of It something that makes us see It over again under a new aspect, too. There is a received opinion that those who have young people round them re- main younger themselves, they are kept more in touch with a young point of view, and even join more in youthful pursuits; and In some respects, no doubt that Is so. But it is well also to realize that the very fact of being surrounded with youth and its ardent pursuit of life, whether it be of ideals of illusions, or only of pleasure, may make us feel incalculably older, for it accentuates and defines quite clearly a difference which in the absence of that point of comparison may be only vague- ly suspected. I remember hearing a girl of twenty say to a mother about twice that agethey were speaking of some third person of would-be sprightli- nessIm so glad youre not vivacious. Its not nice to be vivacious when youre old. Old! What a strange 104 On Some D~fficulties Incidental to Middle Age. sound that word has to those who, until they heard it applied to themselves, trere hardly conscious of being no longer young! And yet it is, perhaps, not a bad thing to realize that there are people round us for whom we are a living epitome of the life on which they are entering, for whose conception of old ageeven though formed, as it may appear to us, somewhat prematurely we are responsible; people who, seeing us in that light, take for granted on our part a certain seemly dignity, which they rightly consider one of the attributes of the venerable. To be sure we none of us want to be vener- able before our time . . . well, it lies in our own power to remain young, in all save the number of our years. But let us do it wisely. Let it be the ab- surdities of youth that we reject, while we retain its essential informing spirit. Youth can be manifested in other ways than by undue vivacity of demeanor, and we can keep it while we remain young in heart, in mind, in point of view, in adaptability, in energy, in use- fulness, and above allin Hope. That is the mainspring, the sense that there are still possibilities here below, what- ever stage of existence we have arrived at. While there is Hope there is Life, is another and equally true form of the saying we have all clung to in our need. And the best thing that older people can do for the younger is, when these would fain look into the crystal ball of the future, to show them in it the image of a life lived in its fulness, enjoyed and made the most of to the end; a life that remembers the past without regretting it, that knows how to enjoy the present, and that dares to look for- ward to the future. And of these times, most of us will agree that the most important of all is the present. The future, however much we look forward, is bound to become the pres- ent before we have to deal with it, and, it matters unspeakably to our happi ness that it should be made the most of. This sounds an obvious platitude. but it is worth saying nevertheless. I remember a most bitter disappoint- ment of my early youth. We were go- ing up, a large party, into some very high edifice, from which we were to obtain a peerless view. As we went up, we kept catching glimpses of the sur- rounding country, and of the prospect which we knew was awaiting us, and we called one to the other with cries of ecstatic surprise, to look as we went. But some of us made up our minds that we would not look at all on the way, but would wait until we got quite to the top, and could gaze all round us from the highest point attainable and see the glorious sight in its entirety. But alas! what was the result? Ar- rived at the top, we found a mist had arisen, and that view, which we had not looked at while we could, was en- tirely hidden from us, and as far as we were concerned remained so for- ever. This is not unlike what we are apt to do with our lives. Our minds, our hopes are so fixed upon what we- shall see presently, the glorious sur- roundings that will be ours when we get to the top (the top, save the mark!) that we have not the sense to look round us on the way, to make the most of every bright prospect we pass on the road, to know that it is not the fu- ture alone that must be contemplated, but that the present and Its outlook must be jealously made the most of as well. It is curious how long it persists, that habit of adjusting our existence, mainly with reference to the future. We are insensibly thinking all the time what we shall do next, with the secret con- viction that when we do it, It will prob- ably set right any mistakes that we- may have made or may be making. But it is what we are doing that matters more than what we shall do. And, above all, still more than what we are- On Some Difficulties Incidental to Middle Age. 105 doing what we are being. Let us real- ize that it matters supremely at this stage what we are, both to ourselves and others. It matters to those of our own standing with whom, we are brought into daily contact by the neces- sities of exacting mutual requirement, and, above all, does it matter to those who are younger, for to them we must give something to imitate. This is an- other terrible weight of responsibility brought us by the years, that we are expected to be able, ready, willing to set the example of conduct, as well as explain its theory; that we are supposed by the mere lapse of time to be quali- fied to impart to the younger people about us a satisfactory moral training. Is there anything else in this world that we should venture to teach under the like conditions? Ask a man of fifty who was a scholar in his youth, but who has unhappily been hindered by circumstances from continuing his studies, to coach a boy for a scholar- ship;he will say with reason he Is too rusty. Ask a woman who once played the piano brilliantly, but does so no longer, to perform at a concert. She will say her fingers are too stiff. Ask a noted pedestrian who Is out of train- ing to come with you for a mountain climb, he will reply that he is no longer in condition. But ask a man or woman either, of the age in which, if only for the purpose of argument, I may be al- lowed to assume that the moral muscle has insensibly and unconsciously dete- riorated, to direct a young mind and heart entering upon life, to coach the owner for the scholarships that are won through the teachings of experience, then, indeed, there is no question of hanging back. We are all of us ready to shower instruction, albeit of a most desultory kind, upon those whom an accIdent of chronology has made our disciples. For this branch of tuition, the most important of all, there Is no need, it would seem, to keep ourselves LIVING AGE. VOL. vii. 351 in training; we do not wait to consider whether by daily thought for the snb- ject, by daily watchfulness of our own tendencies and our own deficiencies, our moral sense is still, so to speak. qualified to perform in public. Nobody raises that question. The position of guiding and exhorting others, the privilege of being looked up to, listenea to, followed, which in youth can be acquired only by superiority, whether of merit, of endowments, or only of assurance, be- comes ours with the effiux of time by prescriptive right; the mere number of our superimposed years can lift us to a sufficiently lofty eminence to speak from. Then it is that we are liable to fall into a great danger, that of propa- gating a moral code of a spasmodic and intermittent character, based main- ly on considerations of our own idiosyn- crasies, comfort or convenience, on the regrettable discrepancies we find be- tween our own point of view and that or the persons we are instructing. It behooves us to guard against this dan- ger. It behooves us, since we are each of us, so to speak, going to occupy a Chair of Conduct, to keep ourselves in a fit condition to do so by consciously making a daily and persistent stand against the deteriorating effect of the conditions which surround us at this stage. I am not speaking of the partic- ular form of deterioration liable to at- tend each different calling or phase of existence, although I should like to try to realize and examine some of these in another place; for as surely as some forms of industry present special dan- gers, as surely as workers in lead or phosphorus are attacked by certain complaints that have to be specially guarded against, so certain Is it that each form that our own particular ex- istence takes has its own insidious dan- ger, to watch for and guard against. It is at this moment of the more gen- eral pitfalls incidental to middle age 106 On Some Dz/flculties Incidental to Middle Age. that I am speaking. Onewe have al- ready considered itis the absence of sufficient and authoritative criticism; and as a complement to this, the like- lihood of sinking more and more into a groove as time goes on, the probabil- ity that our own opinions will become more and more ineradicable, more un- questionably accepted by ourselves every year that passes over our heads, every time, indeed, that we utter them to others, who are expected to listen to them with the appearance, at any rate, of acquiescence. Another difficulty is that, finding we have thus almost un- awares sudden into the position of moral instructors, we cannot, as in other branches of learning, revert des- perately for help and equipment to what we ourselves learnt in our youth. For if we do we shall obviously find that most of the maxims we then acquired, that now will spring most readily to the memory and the lips, have been in most cases formulated by the older for the benefit of the young, and cannot always be used as a safe handrail and efficient guide by those who are not in the sub- ordinate relation to others. Take, for example, that portion of the Catechism which recites My duty towards my neighbor, and which inculcates sub- mission, obedience, respect, being meant necessarily for those of the age when the Catechism is commonly learnt. But My duty towards my neighbor, for the man and woman arrived at matu- rity, must, equally necessarily, take on another aspect. The maxims then fol- lowed should not, and cannot, be those prescribed in the Catechism, although they should be the counterpart of these, and render their execution possible. Since it is enjoined on the young that they should love, honor and succor their parents, submit themselves to their governors, teachers, spiritual pas- tors and masters, order themselves low- ly and reverently to all their betters, it is evident that pastors, masters, par- eats, betters, should bear them- selves in a way that may elicit and justify such love, honor and respect. It is not easy to achieve this successfully. But the difficulty would certainly be lessened if we were quite clear that we wanted to achieve it, and had the necessity of doing so, the deliberate purpose, before our minds every day and at every turn. But what of those who have not this incentive, who are not surrounded by a younger generation to whom they must serve as examples and guides? are these more likely or less likely to make a success of middle age? They should in one way have greater facili- ties for doing so, for their attention can be concentrated on themselves in- stead of others. But, on the other hand, having no constant claims on them from another generation, they may become unduly absorbed in them- selves and the contemplation of their own advantages, or their own difficul- ties, or perhaps of both, to the exclusion of those of other people. The difficul- ties incidental to this timeI am speak- ing, of course, of average mortals, not of the exceptional of either sex who may have attained to marked distinc- tion and achieved permanent success are likely to press more hardly upon women than on men. Most men in these days, when the capacity of public service in one form or another appears to persist so long, glide on into the years without any very perceptible change of attitude. A man of fifty-five, say, is probably continuing with credit to himself the bread-winning or fame- winning calling which has been his since he arrived at manhood, and tak- ing part in the active work of existence; and, if he is in fairly good health, is probably quite pleased with the world still, although life may have been for him a succession of compromises with fate regarding what he had hoped, what he attempted and what he has achieved. On Some Ds2Yicalties Incidental to Middle Age. 107 But even if the compromise has been a hard one, he may still bear himself bravely, provided he does not go about the world and complain of the way destiny has dealt with him. But a woman? what of her, If she have not some special occupation which interests and absorbs her? The majority of her sex too often find themselves somewhat stranded in life at this time, when their children, if they had any, are independ- ent, their own ordinary occupations thereby lessened, their youthful pas- times are gone, and they find them- selves with less mental and physical energy than of yore, called upon to put something else in the place of the occu- pations they have lost. What then? Or what of those who have either not mar- ried, or not had any thing special to do, and now find their hold on desultory social intercourse lessened, and them- selves not indispensable to the commu- nity? Then it is that many women who had tried misguidedly to go through life without a hobby struggle desperately to create for themselves under these unfavorably altered condi- tions resources that they ought to have thought of years before. They develop a feverish activity, and try to fill their time with occupations which are prob- ably laughed at instead of sympathized with by their neighbor whose tastes may lie another wayso he thinks they are not worth doing, according to the criterion brought to bear on other peo- ples pursuits. But it is nothing to laugh at. It is something to weep over. The spectacle of human beings who waste years of delightful possibilities, constimed by unavailing, smouldering regrets which they have not courage to stamp out and turn their back upon, pitiful souls who well may say with Dantes melancholy band: senza speme vivemo in dislo of all conditions surely the most mis- erable. But I have not space enough to enter upon all there would be to say if we began to discuss the destiny of the innumerable women who, arrived at this stage, allow themselves to be crushed under a weight of negative misfortune. Secretly mourning for the things they have lost, instead of stead- fastly looking upon those they retain, they go through the world surrounded by darkness instead of by light, and no place is the brighter for their presence. And yet to try to increase the worlds sum of joy and light-heartedness would, in default of another career, be no mean mission, no mean achievement; it might well, as a last resource, satis- fy as a substitute for the more dazzling exploits which we once meant to place to our credit. A modern philosopher has said that the possibilities of useful- ness of every man or woman who has tried to be of use increase with each de- cade, as their sphere of influence be- comes wider and their experience more helpful to themselves and others. This thought may well comfort those of us who have left our youth behind; for it is an earnest life that in some of its nobler aspects becomes more and more worth living as it goes on. To discuss as many have done, if it be worth liv- ing at all, seems to me a fruitless query; whether it is or not, it is the only way we know of spending the time. Let us make the best of it. The Nineteenth Century. Florence Bell. 108 A Judges Dilemma. A JUDGES DILEMMA.* To M. le Conseiller de Cassation Letellier: I thank you, Monsieur, for having kindly entrusted to me the dossier that was in your possession and of which the following are extracts. Respectfully, Masson-Forestier. On Monday, the 13th of April, 1889, between nine and ten oclock in the evening, a robbery was committed in the railway station at Barneville un- der unusually peculiar circumstances. The cash box, that is, the box that con- tained the station receipts, the box that was sent to Paris twice a week, dis- appeared from the cashiers office, dur- ing the cashiers absence. The facts of the case were such that they left no room for doubt that the thief was an employee of the company, and a formal investigation cast grave suspicions on the assistant-stationmaster, Sdndchal, who had been seen in the cashiers office at the very hour in which the crime must have been committed. Upon S~n~chals arrest, an inquiry was at once set on foot. Ably conduct- ed by M. Carpentier, a magistrate of ability and long experience, thoroughly versed, moreover, in the conduct of criminal cases, it ended in the presenta- tion of a case so overwhelming that the Chambre des Mises en Accusation of Caen decidedly unanimously to remand Sdndchal to fhe Court of Assizes. * * * * * * * The criminal session does not open until the month of June. At this time M. Carpentier, having reached the age limit was placed on the retired list. He had left Oaen and returned to Cotentin, his native place. *Translated for The Living Age from the Fredch of M. Masson-Forestier. By Annie w. Ayer and Helen T. Slate. The evening of the day on which S& - n~chal was to appear before the Court of Assizes, the President, M. de Mau- courcy, received unexpectedly from M. Carpentler the following document en- titled A few facts in the S6n6chaI case, a document which, to judge from the tremulous and hurried handwrit- ing, had apparently been written under the stress of strong emotion. M. de Maucourcy was a man of keen intelligence, a trifle inclined to be scep- tical, but a conscientious magistrate; and, in spite of the fatigue entailed on a man of his years by the reading of such a document, he passed the greater part of the night in examining it with the most careful attention. Document No. 1. It was on April 13th, that the cash box was stolen, and on the 16th that a fisherman, while drawing In his eelpots, found the box in the river. It was partly hidden among the reeds. The fisherman struck at it with an oar and saw that it was a small, oak box with iron clamps, the cover of which had been broken in. He placed it in his boat and carried it to the mayor of his commune, who forwarded it to me in charge of the gendarmes. Some one observed at the time that the box smelt as though it had lain In a hen house. In the investigation which I conduct- ed, everything went to prove that the thief was the assistant-statlonmaster, S~n6chal. The proofs of his guilt were overwhelming. I had been the first to accuse him, then I was seized with doubt and paused; finally, returning to the charge, I renewed my accusations more persistently than before. My re- port once presented, I was assailed by fresh doubts. The more I examined A Judges Dilemma. 109 into his case, the more convinced I was that I might be mistaken. To-day I am almost positive that I have committed an error! My conscience urges me to tell you this and to explain how I have arrived at the conviction that S6n~chal is not the real culprit. And tomorrow he will appear before the Assizes; tomorrow he will be con- fronted by the whole formidable struc- ture of my arraignment. You will doubtless make skilful use of the mate- rial with which I have provided you; you will bring against this manit is your right as President, your duty, in- deedall that has been unsatisfactory and at times strange in certain replies he has made to me. But, in truth, I ask myself if I have not myself been open to reproach. The worst of er- rors, Bossuet has said,, is to see things as one wishes them to be. Have I not allowed myself, as have so many juges din8trUctiofl, to interpret too par- tially certain replies, being convinced beforehand of the prisoners guilt? In any case, I say to you in all hu- .mility, monsieur Ic pr6sident, that a species of remorse has taken possession ~of me. Therefore, I must confess to you that the sole object of this document is to combat the conclusions of my own re- port, that it may induce you to aid the jury in the acquittal of this man, and, at the name time, to unmask the true criminal. With Gods help I am sure that the truth will one day be made known. I shall then have the inestimable sat- isfaction, after a life humbly devoted to the service of the law, of having been able, although removed from my office, to render to justice a signal ser- vice in preventing a lamentable mis- take. I trust that in the step I have taken you will not see indicationslet us call things by their right nameof a weakening of my faculties. Though niy body has become feeble enough, my mind is still strong; it does not wander, I assure you. In the first place, it is necessary to understand the topography of the place where the robbery was committed. Imagine a rectangular building, the east side of which faces the road, the west side the track, and of which the shorter north and south sides are inter- sected by gates leading to the platform. Let us draw a smaller square between the waiting-room on one side and the entrance and baggage-room on the other, communicating by three doors with the railway platform. This small square covers a space of some seventy metres, which we will divide Into three sections. In the upper section Is the office of the stationmaster, In the lower the factors office; the intermediate sec- tion, and here is a most interesting point, is divided into two; first, the ticket office which is entered from the vestibule, then the cashiers office. This office and the ticket office, then, are back to back. A glass partition sepa- rates them, but this partition does not open. At the time that the box was stolen from the cashiers office, there was at the station only the stationmaster, Du- buc, the assistant-stationmaster, S6n6- chal, the ticket agent,Mme. Engelbach, and two porters, Grenielle and Lange- yin. The other stationmaster, the day- assistant, Bastard, had left at seven that evening, and Buisson, the cashier, had gone home. As to the last two, their presence at their respective homes which are, moreover, at a long distance from the station, is testified to by the most trustworthy witnesses. If it is certain that only an employee of the company could be sufficiently familiar with the station to find the box in total darkness and dispose of it in a few seconds, the conclusion must in- evitably be that the author of the crime was one of the men who were on duty at that moment. 110 A Judges Dilemma. * * * * * * * It was five minutes of ten; train No. 87 from Mezidon, which had been in for ten minutes, was about to start when the conductor of the train ap- proached the assistant-stationmaster saying, in a tone of surprise: It is strange that I cannot find the cash box. . . . I went to your room to get the key, and I was about to put it in the door of the cashiers office when I found that it opened by simply turn- ing the knob. I entered. I opened the drawer of the deskthe drawer was empty. That is strange, said the station- master, who went at once to the office, struck a match, and called loudly to one of the porters: Langevin, go to Buissons house and see if he took the cash box home with him by any chance. Hurry. No. 87 is being delayed. I shall be reprimanded. Langevin went at once to the house of the cashier, whom he found at din- ner. Buisson hastened to the station in alarm. I have not got it, he said; I put it in the drawer as usual, when I left at half-past eight. There were nearly 4000 francs in it. There could be no longer room for doubt; the box had been stolen. The head stationmaster, M. Dubuc, was notified at once and began a min- ute investigation of the doings of the various employees between half-past eight and ten oclock. He began with the ticket agent, but no suspicion could be attached to her. She never enters the inner part of the station, and the partition which is of glass and very solid was intact. The head stationmaster himself was open to no suspicion. He was able to prove that at the time of the robbery he was dining with his family and a neighbor- ing farmer. The conductor of 87 had not left his engineer and fireman for a single moment during the time the train had been in the station. There remained only the assistant-stationmas- ter, S6n~chal, and the two porters~ Grenielle and Langevin. These three had been sitting together until about twenty minutes of ten, in the luggage- room, smoking, while S~n~chal read aloud from a Paris newspaper. At twenty minutes of ten the electric gong announced the approach of No. 87; each went about his respective duties, Lan- gevin to set the switches, Grenielle to see to the lamps, and the assistant-sta- tionmaster to the waiting-room to see if there were any passengers, although there were rarely any for that train. Three or four minutes later, Langevin met S~n~chal near the door of the cash- ier s office. Ah! it is you, Monsieur S~n~chal, he said; I came to tell you that the ticket agent said she had heard a noise in the cashiers office. The cashiers office, answered the other, unconcernedly; I did not hear anything; I was in the waiting-room, but there was no one there. Buisson left at half-past eight; you see, it is all dark. And, taking the lantern from the por- ter, he held it aloft, lighting up the in- terior of the office. You see there is. no one in there, he said. The ticket agent must have been mistaken, said Langevin, shrugging his shoulders. These, Monsieur le President, are the- sole facts that were known and veri- fied that night by the head stationmas- ter, the only ones, therefore, that are certain. I consider that they are more to be depended upon than those which. developed later. * * * * * * * To continue. The following day, the neighbors of Grenielle, -the porter, tes- tified that in the early morning they had heard a noise near Grenielles~ house. They had looked out and hal A Judges Dilemma. 111 seen the man turning over his manure heap. His wife had joined him shortly after. They wore an air of secrecy, spoke in low tones and looked furtively about them as though fearful of being watched. A visit was made to the house that morning by the gendarmes, but I know not whyperhaps for fear of soiling their uniformsthey did not touch the manure heap, although they had been instructed to make a search there. Per- haps, also, the corporal, being related to Grenielles wife, had conducted only a perfunctory and apologetic search. * * * * * * * That same day, in response to a tele- gram, I arrived at Barneville at one oclock in the afternoon. My first step was to summon to the luggage-room where I had installed myself with my clerk, the assistant-stationmaster, S~n& - chal, and the two porters. The thief, I said, looking at them sternly, is one of you three. You shall not leave this room without my having made an arrest. Then, profiting by their stupefaction, I went on: Come, speak, whom do you suspect, Gren- ielle? No one, monsieur le juge. And you, S~n~chal, whom do you suspect ? The stationmaster answered brusque- ly, and in a resolute tone: If I must accuse some one, I say that I should be inclined to suspect Gren- lelle, who knows where the cashier hangs his key in the stationmasters office. You know, too! retorted Grenielle, with sudden anger. Quite true. And you? I asked Langevin, do you know where the key hangs ? No, monsieur; I never clean the offices; Grenielle has charge of them. Also quite true, remarked the sta- tionmaster. Which do you suspect? Your chief or your comrade? I asked Langevin, speak frankly. Langevin, a big, sturdy, dull-witted fellow, remained a long time in mdi- cision, turning his head from side to side, looking first at S6n~chal, then at Grenielle. At last he said, slowly: Monsieur S~n~chal cannot be a thief, that is quite certain. And Grenielle? Or Grenielleeither There was a peculiar tone in his a~- sertion of Grenielles innocence. Lan- gevins manner was by no means as assured as before. I was struck by it and so was my clerk. Unfortunately, there is nothing so dry as a proc~s verbal. It is a thing without life, re- producing neither the faces of the individuals nor their tones or ac- cent. Alas! I am no writer, Monsieur le President, or I could find words to make you see this Greniellea cunning, close-mouthed fellow, his face disfig- ured by a scar. He had been drinking before coming to make his deposition, and poisoned the air with the fumes of brandy. The scoundrel! On the other hand, the refined face of the station- master, S~n~chal bespoke honesty and sincerity. His gestures were quiet and self-contained. He expressed himself without a shadow of hesitation, and answered my questions at once, even when he saw me deliberate long before putting them. When I was informed of the peculiar actions which Grenielles neighbors had noticed early that morning, I ques- tioned him, asking him why he had risen so early. BecauseI had an attack of colic, xvas the reply. And your wifewhy did she come down ? Because I was so long in coming back. You were talking in low tones? Dame~when one has a stomach-ache 112 A Judges Dilemma. one does not shout it from the house- tops. I then sent for the gendarmes and asked whether they had examined Grenielles manure heap. On their re- ply in the negative, I asked the mayor for two laborers who, in my presence, turned over the pile from top to bottom. The men found nothing; but I must re- cord the fact which I omitted to enter in the dossierthey declared that the manure pile seemed to have been freshly turned. I requested the mayor to instruct the neighbors to watch Grenielle carefully. This they were all the more willing to do as they disliked the fellow, who had many times robbed them of rabbits and poultry. But It seems that the rascal has the faculty of at once disposing of every trace of his ill-gotten gains. The surveillance on which I had counted so much, result- ed in nothing; the neighbors must have been indiscreet for Grenielle, for two days, did not stir out of his house ex- cept to go to the station and back. He doubtless knew that he was watched. We already know that on the follow- ing day, that is, Wednesday, the rifled cash box was found in the river, a kilometre distant. It was evident that neither S6n6chal nor Grenielle could have placed it there, both having re- mained at home, but Grenielles wife had been absent for an hour on Tues- day, ostensibly fo gather food for her rabbits. A girl who was watching her testified, however, that on her return she had only a small handful of dande- lions. This is suspicious, doubly so, as a neighbor, who had seen her start, de- posed that her skirt was more distend- er than usual and that she walked awk- wardly. On the other hand, no one had seen Mlle. Sdn6chal leave the house. I forgot to mention that Sdn~chal is a bachelor and lives with his sister. (It seems that this poor young girl, prostrat- ed by the charge against her brother,. passes the entire day in weeping, and does not dare to show herself. It is true that the search made by the gen- darmes was conducted in a most brutal fashion. The corporal was doubtless angry because I had publicly repri- manded him for the carelessness with which he had searched the Grenielle house.) That evening I went myself to the house of the porter. I ordered all the flooring In the room to be torn up, in order to see if there were not some hid- ing place. We found a hole near the chimney, but It was empty. Grenlelle declared that the hiding-place, if it were one, was there when he moved into the house. I thought that as he said this he exchanged a furtive glance with his wife, and that when I said, It Is possible, there was a suspicion of a grin on his face. To sum the matter up. I recog- nized, as I took the train at nine oclock that night to return to Lesleux, that the affair would have to be added to the category already too long, alas of crimes which there is no means of solving save by deduction, based on probability. It was some- thing. however, to be certain that the perpetration of the crime lay between one of two men, S6n6chal and Gren- idle, since upon me devolved the task of fixing the guilt upon one or the other. * * * * * * * Perhaps I should, before this, have drawn a parallel between these two men, as to their past, their habits and their morals. Greneille and his wife are of ill-re- pute. The man was formerly em- ployed as a teamster by a dyer at El- beuf, and was addicted to intemper- ance. His wife, although nothing de- finite can be proved against her, passes for a woman of bad habits. She has often complained of brutality on the part of her husband who beats her and leaves her without a penny. They have one child, a daughter, whom the grand- A Judges Dilemma. parents, small farmers at Tourville-la- Baignarde, have taken out of pity. %3renielles record with the company Is bad. He is reported to be deeply In debt. A year ago be was sold out by the sheriff. He is evidently an Irre- sponsible fellow. If he has been re- tained by the company, he owes it sole- ly to the protection of a deputy whose name It is best not Vo mention here. On the other hand, S6n~chals repu- tation is above reproach. He lives very quietly with a younger sister. He had been employed for a long time by the East Algerian R. R. Co., whieb he left with excellent references. He has had a gsod education. He writes well, and can draw up an excellent report. He is extremely steady in his habits. The only luxury in which he and his sister indulge is a piano. Except that he Is looked upon as holding himself above his position, S6n~chal Is well enough liked. He would shortly have been promoted to the position of head sta- tionmaster. How can one believe that such a man, free from debt, whose posi- tion was about to be sensibly Improved, would, out of pure covetousness risk a felons cell? It was plain that between these two I could not hesitate. On Tuesday even- ing, therefore, on leaving, I gave orders to the corporal of gendarmes for the arrest of Grenielle, announcing that I would continue the examination at Lesleux. I left, absolutely convinced of fhe guilt of this man. And yet, to- day Grenielle is at liberty and S6n~chal is to take his place on the bench of shame. * * * * * * * What extraordinary occurrence, you ask, has taken place to totally change the aspect of affairs? Only this: Mine. Engelback, the ticket-agent has testified that she saw S6n~chal In the cashiers office at the moment the robbery was committed. Have I mentioned that on the 14th, 113 at Barneville, the deposition made by this same woman was comparatively unimportant? At quarter of ten she had heard a noise in the cashiers office, and had called to the porter Lan- gevin to go and see what was wrong. Langevin went at once, stopping only to lIght his lantern, and met S6n6chal outside the office door.Yes, I have al- ready made a note of thls.Ah, Mon- sieur le President, I am exhausted by this lengthy document, which I am forced to write in such haste, having learned that the case was to come up much sooner than I had expected. We now come to the very different deposition Which Mine. Engelbach made on the 15th In my office. I re- peat It verbatim. Monday night, a little before ten, I went up to my roomsI live on the top floorand returned Immediately to my office. I was not absent more than three minutes. I opened the slide, ar- ranged the tickets and got my change in readiness. A soldier came to the window and bought a ticket to Onen. Seeing no other pasengers, I sat down at the back of the office near the glass partition that separates my office from M. Buissons. I was scarcely seated when I heard a sound like that of a drawer being pulled open. I thought that It must be ~[. Buisson who had come back to work. But as the noise was repeated, and it struck me that an effort was being made to muffle the sound, and, moreover, as the gas was not lighted, I got up and went to look for some one In the baggage-room. I found Langevin. Go and see what is going on in the cashiers office, I said. The man lighted his lantern leisurely he is never in a hurry; I then returned to my office and going to the glass partition I peeped through a place from which the paint had been scratched. I saw some one, M. S6n~chal, going out hastily; he scarcely stopped to fasten the door behind him. He turned to the 114 A Judges Dilemma. right. Two minutes later he was back at the door of the office with Lange- yin. The charge was of extreme gravity. On my asking her to explain why she had not said this before, Mine. Engel- bach answered that she had been so overcome by the affair that, for the mo- ment, she had been unable to recall what had taken place. It was only on seeing Grenielle arrested that her mem- ory had returned to her. * * * * * * * It must be admitted, Monsieur le President, that this was a singular re- ply. * * * * * * * S~n6chal was at once arrested and taken to Lisleux in the custody of two genaarmes. On being brought to my office his indignation was extreme, al- though he strove to control himself. I confronted him with Mine. Engeibach, who reiterated her accusation. And you dare, madame, he ex- claimed, to assert that you saw me take the box? I did not see you take it, monsieur, and I d7id not say so, she retorted, ye- hemently. I say that I saw you in the cashiers office; I say that I saw you go out hastily, but I do not know what you were doing there. You have been talking with Gren- lelle. But Yes or no? Have you talked with him? Two words only, yesterday. Last evening, was it not? At the moment that he saw he was to be ar- rested. I understand! S~n~chals eyes flashed, his voice vi- brated, while Mine. Engelbach was fli~shed, uneasy, and, with downcast eyes, plucked mechanically at some lace on her cloak. What is it? I asked. There is a story back of this. Speak! It was S6n~chal who replied. Oh, every one knows the story. Last year Grenielle happened to find out something that was not to Mine. Engel- bachs credit It is abominable! It is a lie! the ticket agent cried, with a scarlet face. You are a coward to say such a thing; it is fortunate for you that my hus- band does not hear you! And so, S~n~chal went on ironically and without heeding her, it was necessary to save Gren- lelle, for, if Grenielle were arrest- ed and condemned he would talk, and, on the day of his summons before the Assizes, he would proclaim the scandal before the world, and Mine. Engelbach would be discharged. More- over, the husband of this woman is vio- lent, and does not trifle over a matter of honor; and soshe remembers just in time that she has seen me stealMa- dame, he continued, fiercely, you are a miserable woman! You are trying to ruin an innocent man that you may re- tain your position! I, Monsieur le President, I who was present at this scene, I who saw with what an air of sincerity S~n~chal spoke But no, I am in too great a hurry to proclaim his innocence; I forget that I must first prove it to you. I forget that I myself began by not seeing that inno- cence that none the less must have shone before my eyes. . * * * * * * I set about trying to find out if there were any truth in the story about Mine. Engelbach. Several persons declared that they had heard something against her, not from Grenielle himself, who is a taciturn individual, but from a man named Souprisset, a former employee of the company and a comrade of Grenielles. It was of the utmost importance that I should find Souprisset; in his hands was the key to this mysterious affair. I learned that on leaving the coin- pany he had gone to Brionne, where he A Judges Dilemnw. 115 had secured a position as sergeant de yule. I ordered him to be summoned at once. Alas! Souprisset was dead. The death of Souprisset removed all hope of unmasking this woman, who was unquestionably perjuring herself. I, therefore, saw myself forced to record her testimony and communicate it, such as it was, to the procureur of the Re- public. * * * * * * * Little by little, moreover, the charges grew. S6n6chal was down, and all who chose were free to cast a stone at him. For instance, it was now remem- bered that for a month past he had been much preoccupied, and that often on being spoken to he had failed to re- ply. From this it was naturally con- cluded that he was meditating some piece of villainy. Then, another porter thought he re- membered that a few days before the robbery, he had seen S~n~chal enter the cashiers office at the very hour at which the robbery was committed the following week. A sort of preliminary experiment as it were! Finally, even the soldier who had bought the only ticket that had been sold that evening remembered a week later that he, too, knew something. He says that after having bought his ticket seeing that he still had several minutes to spare, he left the waiting-room and walked towards the iron gates which are flanked on either side, both within and without the station, by masses of shrubbery. There he saw a woman who seemed to be trying to escape ob- servationa woman rather slight, dressed in black, and this woman would seem to resemble S~n~chals sister. He believed that he identified her when I, perforce, had them brought face to face. This soldier had at first inspired me with confidence, and this partially ex- plains my uncertainty of mind; but I. learned a short time ago that he is looked upon by his regiment as a mauvais sujet, and his captain has told me that he considers him an arrant liar. All these depositions, taken by them- selves, when one has not before one the faces of those who make them, go to swell, you will say, a formidable total, and I am forced to admit that the Chambre des Mises en Accusation could not do otherwise that send S~n~chal up before the Assizes. One thing, however, is not possible, and that is to condemn this man, for, after all, there is reasonable doubt. Monsieur le President I now bring to a close this long and incoherent letter. Permit an old man who has spent thir- ty-two years in harness, of which twenty-four have been devoted to the grave duties of juge dinstruction,, to ad- jure you, by all that is most sacred, by the great name of justice whose su- preme representative you will be tomor- row, to see to it that the real culprit takes the place of the unfortunate S~n~chal at the bar of the Court of As- sizes. * * * * * * * One word, I beg of you, Monsieur le President, a word that will reassure me by showing that you have received this communication in time and that you have been able to give it your attention. Respectfully, L. Carpentier. Document No. 2 (Telegram). To M. L. Carpentier, honorary magis- trate, La Mare-aux-Clercs, near Cou- tances (Manche). Letter received. Read with interest. Will telegraph verdict day after to- morrow morning. De Maucourcy. Document No. 3 (Telegram). To M. L. Carpentier, etc. 116 A Judges Dilemma. Verdict rendered to-night after long debate. S6n6ehal eight years hard labor. Letter follows. De Maucourcv. Document No. 4. To M. L. Carpentler, etc. Most honored colleague: It is not without emotion, believe me, that I write to confirm the conviction which my telegram announced to you this morning. Permit me to say first that you over- estimate the influence of a president of Assizes at the present day. During an epoch of Rousseau-esque sentimen- tality, our legislators saw fit to prohibit our making a final sum- ming up of the testimony, a meas- ure which had as an immediate re- sult a series of scandalous acquittals, for the simple reason that the attorney has the last word. Reduced, therefore, to the role of interrogators, It is ex- tremely difficult for us to give any ex- pression of opinion. I was thus unable either to forward or prevent the con- viction. Moreover, If one regards from a high- er standpoint the verdict rendered by the jury, one cannot but reflect that or- der and public safety had been gravely menaced, and that, beyond doubt, by an employee of the company. It was needful, therefore, in order to quIet public opinion and uphold the majesty of the law, that an employee of said company should be overtaken by the hand of justice. You urge with all the authority born of long experience and a trained mind that the guilty employee Is Gren- ielle. This conclusion, I cannot help feeling, is based more on sentiment than on reason. S6n6chals personality appealed to you; Grenielles did not. That is all. This point was very strong- ly brought out by the representative of the Minist~re Public, who dwelt, more- over, on the fact that it was impossibW to cherish for a moment the idea of seating Grenlelle in the place of S6n& chal acquitted. He proved, on the con- trary, that as far as Grenlelle was con- cerned, there could be brought tgainst him nothing but vague suppositions which amount to nothing. The jury which was composed of most estimable men, took into account, I think, that In acquitting S6n6chal the conviction of any one would be impossible; the au- dacious crime at Barneville would go unpunished, thereby encouraging the perpetration of further crimes of like sort. The jury, therefore, although with some hesitation, declared 86n~- chal guilty. Is he in truth guilty? All humaa Jus- tice is fallible, and one is never sure of anything, but, In the bottom of my heart, I am more inclined to side with the jury than with you. I was struck with the rapidity with which the theft was committed, and S6n6chal seemed to me more agile, more subtle, more quick-witted than Grenlelle, who is a loutish fellowcunning, I admit, but stupid. Altogether the representatives of jus- tice have done all for the best and, In so doing, they have done their utmost. Cuique Suum, my dear colleague, for perfection is not of this world. In truth, by looking beyond as you are doing, It seems to me that life would soon be rendered Insupportable and all to no purpose. Accept the assurances, etc. De Maucourcy. Document No. 5. To M. de Maucourcy, counsellor of the Court of Caen: Monsieur le Pr6sident dAssizos: It is plain that it was a mistake on my part to attempt to move you to pity. In your eyes the main thing Is the en- forcement of the law. I cannot be as A Judges Dilemma. 11? philosophical as you, I cannot lay aside as easily the burden of possible respon- sibilities. I envy you your serenity of mind. In my eyes, S~n6chal is not the culprit. He is a victim, and to me nothing seems more indefensible, I may even say more odious, more revolting than the condemnation of an innocent man. In my retirement I still have suffi- cient energy to. devote myself to prov- ing to the ministry, to the press and to the public, that a deplorable miscar- riage has taken place. Forgive me for not being able to keep under better control the emotion that I feel, and for replying thus ungraciously to your courtesy, and accept the assur- ance, etc. L. Carpentier. Document No. 6. New Caledonia Penitentiary, Office of the Director-General, Noum~a, Jan. 12th, 1891. The director of prisons, chevalier of the Legion of Honor, has the honor to inform M. L. Carpentler, former juge 4in8truction, by order of M. the Keeper of the Seals, Minister of Justice, of the result of the investigation conducted by him in reference to one S~n6chal (Charles Jules), former assistant-sta- tionmaster at Barneville, to determine as far as possible whether a miscar- riage of justice had taken place with regard to said S6n~chal. The director having summoned the prisoner to his office, began by remind- ing him that he still had seven years to serve, not one day of which would be remitted if the stolen money were not returned. He then read to the prisoner a document bearing the ministers seal, promising that in case the said S~n6- chal restored the four thousand francs he would, by special grace be accorded this, although the communication was. made to him in the kindest manner, save by indignantly and vehemently protesting his innocence. The director, seeing that for the mo- ment nothing could be done with the prisoner, dismissed him. A few weeks later the director trans- mitted to S6n6chal the copy of a letter which his sister had written to the hos- pital at Caen, in which she applied for a position as nurse and repudiated all connection with her brother. She spoke unreservedly and unsparingly of the miserable wretch whose crime she re- garded with the utmost abhorrence. S6n~chal was seized with an access of fury. He demanded a hearing from the director and confessed all to him; he related the circumstances of his guilt and even indicated the spot where were hidden the 4,000 francs (the little foun- tain at the lower end of the Barneville station). It seems that S~n6chal and his sister, wearied and humiliated by the mean and narrow existence to which his meagre salary as assistant- stationmaster condemned them, had to- gether planned this robbery which they carried out in concert. They calculat- ed that suspicion would fall upon Grenielle, whose reputation was against him. A few years later, S6n6chal would have quietly left the company, and ho and his sister would have opened a jewelry-shop or a lodging-house. TWs was their plan which had been foiled because they had not taken into con- sideration that the ticket agent could see through the opening in the glass partition. The immediate result of this con- fession was the institution of proceed- ings against the sister. Upon her ar- rest at Caen, the young woman was not long in making a full confession. Any further talk of a miscarriage of justice is now, therefore, out of the question. a remission of three years of his sen- S6n6chal is one of the most docile of tence. The prisoner made no reply to the inmates of the prison. He seems. 118 What Shall We Do for a Living? to have little moral sense. Vanity is his chief characteristic, and he was highly flattered at the interest and sym- pathy with which he inspired the for- mer juge dinstruction. Document No. 7. (Written on a visiting card of M. Carpentier.) Presents his thanks to M. le di- recteur des ~stablessements p6niten- tiaire de Nourm6a for his communica- tion; he apologizes for not replying ear- lier, but until now his health has been too precarious to admit of his writing. Nothing has ever been so painful to him he confesses it franklyas the knowl- edge that he has devoted himself for so long a time to so vain a task. He is overcome at having to admit to him- selftoo tardilythe folly of embark- ing on this crusade of rehabilitation without other ground than his faith his faith!that is to say, the mirage of his imagination. Alas! for this folly he has been cruel- ly punished, for his disillusion is com- plete and bitter. He is still prostrated by it, and at his age, one seldom re- covers from blows such as these. WHAT SHALL WE DO FOR A LIVING? In a little book recently brought out by the headmaster of one of the great English public schools, he comments on what he observes as a growing in- difference and inability on the part of the present-day youth to select a field for its lifes labor. He thinks it is a bad sign when a lad of sixteen has not some decided inclination as to what he is to be. This writer was speaking of youths who regard a calling in life chiefly as a career, and who (too often unfortu- nately) are not obliged to think of it as a necessary means of gaining a live- lihood. One would like very much to get the utterance of the experience and opinions of the headmasters and head- mistresses of our Board schools on this same subject. They could tell us bet- ter than anybody else, under what in- fluences varied methods of bread win- ning are chosenor how often they are not chosen at all, but rather accidental- ly imposed on young people by their surroundings and their limitations. Ox~e scarcely knows how far they are able to trace their former scholars about in the world; but where they do they might be able to give us striking in- stances of the waste caused by misap- plied capabilities, or, on the other hand, of the triumph of inborn instinct and ability over all hindrances. There is no doubt that many of the first stretchings of the young mind to- wards its unknown future are very wild and vague. I know of a little boy who confided to his aunt that he would like to be a cabman if cabmen could be buried in Westminster Abbey, and if not, then he would choose to be a gen- eral. I dare say we have all known little people who have had longings to grow up and keep a sweetie shop, and with the very unbusiness-like view of en- joying their own stock. Such fantasies pass away. By the time that boys and girls are getting up in the standards, they can grasp some of the realities of lifethe stern neces- sity for earning breadand all the lim- itations of sex, of place, or of purse, What Shall We Do for a Living? 119 which often seem to shut us in far more really than they do, and which, as time passes on, we often discover to be little more than barricades raised round us to test our strength and agil- ity in leaping over them! What are the influences which com- monly bring about decision in this mat- ter of choice of life-work? There is parental leading and author- ity. When these ~re enlightened and unselfish their worth cannot be over- estimated. Anyhow, a father very rarely gives his son too roseate a view of the advantages of his own calling. If the boy adopts it, it may be through some hereditary instinct, or under the force of sheer necessity, he generally does so with his eyes open to all Its drawbacks. On the other hand, parents often lay plans for their childs future and try to fit him into them. The hole of their ambition is a round hole, and the boy is a square boy, and if he gets forced Into it, he will get sore chipped in the pro- cess. Parents often have a very nat- ural wish to keep their children with them at any cost; forgetful that they will not remain always with their chil- dren, who may have to stay withering in the uncongenial soil where they planted them, long after their own heads are laid in the grave. Worse still, they do not always consider health, or inclination, or ability, but only ask where is the best opportunity to get on. It is asked: What trade is the most highly paid? What calling is the most genteel? It is not asked: What is this boy fit for? but What is it becoming to his family that he should be fit for? I remember read- ing a letter that was written to John Ruskin by a gentleman who was in great distress, because his young broth- er, who he thought should go into one of the learned professions, had gone off to British Columbia, and got work in a salmon-canning factory! John Rus kin replied that, on the whole, he thought it was quite as honorable to prepare potted fish as to distribute pot- ted talk! Some parents see this. I know a case just now in which the son of gentle people, with many other possibilities open to him, has declared his own ardent desire to be a cook. His father, after giving and taking time for consideration has yielded to his desire and lie is now in training under a chef. But too often young people whom na- ture has plainly intended to be hewers of wood and drawers of water, and who would be happy and honorable in such vocations, are sent up to college because it is thought derogatory to their familys standing that they should work with their hands; It often ends in their family having to put them out of sight as wasters. Or parents of a hum- bler class, as they grow old and easier in circumstances, resolve to give them- selves a social lift by sending their youngest boy to the university, though he may be the fool of the family, or a roystering youngster who would far rather go on a cattle ranch! School- masters have always been very severe on this perverse judgment of fathers as concerning the fitness or unfitness of their children. Roger Ascham, Queen Elizabeths tutor, even went so far as to wish that this parental power was clipped in the interests of the com- monwealth, for he said, Fathei~s in old time, among the noble Persians, might not do with their children as they thought good, but as the judgment of the comkionwealth always thought best. As to the wishes of the young people themselves, they are swayed by a thousand winds. They think of the present rather than of the future. They want to stay with a favorite compan- ion; or they simply wish to gratify a roving impulse. Some have a personal attraction to a possible employer. One desires liberty, another looks for 120 What Shall We Do for a Living? gentility. One inclines where he can make most money, another studies only where he will get the easiest time. Some allow influences and circum- stances, which a little resolution might easily control, to push them into a place in life for which they have nei- ther liking nor fitness. Do they reflect what they are doing? The process of earning a living absorbs at least one- third of a mans whole lifeeight hours out of the twenty-fourhalf of his wak- ing time! Therefore, to choose an un- congenial form of bread-winning means that they are bound in disagreeable slavery for that portion of their exis- tence, and must seek all enjoyment, not in the persistent condition of their life, but in its mere accidentals. A man or woman who does not take a pleasure and a pride in his or her work is not worth employing. It must be a wretch- ed thing to labor longing only for the clock to strike the hour of release. Those who, having strong individual inclinations, are able to secure a liveli- hood by the exercise of these have a perpetual cause of thanksgiving. With- out doubt they may get weary of it sometimesand have too much of a good tliingbut they are as delighted to return to it as we are to get home when we have been refreshed by a holi- day. rt has been said that there is nothing in life which holds, except ones work and ones prayersfor these go on when all else changes and ceases, and by these we hold to our fellow-men and to God when all the other sur- roundings of our lives drop away. Some people may be inclined to imagine that only occupations where so-called talents come in, can really be so delightful as to be a chosen occu- pation. This is a mistake. Many men, some great in mind, some in position, have found utmost pleasure in the sim- ple manual arts by which other men gain bread. Louis XVI of France de lighted in locksmith work; other princes of more modern date have been skilled taxidermists. Jenny Lind, the great singer, liked to occupy her leisure with needlework; a famous French authoress loved to soothe her stormy soul with a long, white seam. If these people had not had princely rank or royal genius, there is no doubt how each would have chosen to earn bread, and been happy in the earning. Nobody should choose an occupation in which he is not willing to live and to. die. It is a pitiful thing when a man goes to his work only to gain enough money to leave off doing it. When a man loves his work and does it well, he does not want to delegate it to others, to shuffle out of it when he can, to get rid of it as soon as he may. Oa the contrary, he feels a tender pathos when he finds that his working days are drawing to a close; and though he may be glad enough to rest in his old age, yet the tools of his art or craft will be often in his hand, and its interests. will always arouse his interest. When we approach the definite choice of occupation from a practical point of view, the first question to ask is, What work does the world really want? People make very pathetic mistakes at this point. Perhaps they once made even more than they do now. I remem- ber when mothers used to fancy that If their daughters ever required to earn bread, they would readily secure places as companionswith home and good salaryfor arranging flowers and car- lying on small talk! I remember one~ poor, poor lady, who felt that the world was very unkind when she found that it would not let her earn a good income by making pincushions! But we must always remember that while the world will not pay for work it does not need, it could ill do without some work for which it is not particu- larly inclined to pay. It requires people who will speak very What Shall We Do for a Living? 121 plain truths to it; it requires thinkers who will remodel its thoughts for it; it wants poets who will show it the sources of true honor and joy; it wants painters who will teach it how to recog- nize beauty. But, in general, it does not want to pay for any of these things. Therefore they must be omitted from the ways of earning bread. The world is very will- ing to pay people who speak smooth falsehoods to it, who make level the grooves in which its warped thoughts run, who sing songs in honor of its folly and passions, who draw vulgar and base pictures for its illustrated papers, or paint the portraits of its mil- lionaires and professional beauties. Now very few of those who are gifted with literary or artistic talents prepare to prostitute them in these ways; and yet how many sink to do so because, if they mean to live by their gifts, they must shape them to what the world asks! Therefore, if anybody feels that he or she has a mission to preach, or wriLe, or paint, the first thing they have to do is to be independent of the worlds pay- ment. That may comeit often does come, sooner or later. But they must be Independent of it. Does this mean that only rich men are able freely to use such gifts? No. The greatest of such gifts have been most successfully exercised by poor men. Shakespeare did not live by his plays; he lived by his diligence as a man of business. Milton did not live by his epics, but by his secretarial and his tutorial work. Burns did his best work while he fol- lowed his plough. Millet, the painter of the Angelus, when he could not sell his masterpieces, turned an honest pen- ny by painting signboards. Spinoza would have starved on his philosophy, but he kept alive by grinding spec- tacles. Nobody should dream of getting a living as a geniua. Let the geniuses LIVING AGZ. VOL. VII. 352 keep themselves in the rank of the aver- age people and seek answer to the sec- ond division of my question: For what of work really wanted is the world will- ing to pay? It is most willing to pay for food, for clothing, for shelter, for help in sick- ness, and within limits (very shameful limits sometimes) for teaching. Those occupations which lie nearest to the natural instincts are not only the most happy, but also the most perman- ent and prosperous. The trades which minister to the real necessities of humanity are the most desirable and the most honorable. Farmers and fishers, builders, carpen- ters and road-makers, bakers and clo- thiers, and ail the other ministers to~ the daily needs of work-a-day human- ity will be always necessary in every state of society. The woman who real- ly knows how to keep a house, how to cook, how to wash, how to make clothes, will never lack work. In the whole worldthough not always in any particular part of itthere will be al- ways more work of this kind than there are workers to do it. Occupations which minister to luxury are less useful, and therefore less satis- fying to the inner consciousness. They are less reliable, too, being apt to fluc- tuate with taste or wealth, and being all more or less under the fickle rule of fashion. Employments which are alto- gether at the mercy of mere fashion are best avoided. They involve fever- ish overwork and extravagance, heart- breaking depression and demoraliza- tion. The skill which time and prac- tice bring to other pursuits cannot be gained in them, and the workers pros- pects darken rapidly as life advances. It Is best that men should take ro callings in which the great mass of womankind will never compete with them. There may be exceptional wom en who will do anything from coal-min- ing to navigation, but they are few and 122 What Shall We Do for a Living? will not disturb the labor market. So women, again, are wisest, as a rule, to occupy those fields which are all their own, and in which they do not have to compete with men. In our own day we have seen one field of labor rapidly change hands. Women are driving men out of counting-house and office. It often comes hard on the men, and one hears a good deal of pity for them, which sometimes seems in- clined to ignore that women have an equal right to live! The true pity of it is that in such fields the women really have to do as much work as the men, at far lower rates of pay; and while it must not be forgotten that in many instances the man has his family to maintain, while the woman has only herself to keep and remains one of a home, still it is not always so, and any- how that is no just standard for the value of work. Yet women would do better to confine themselves more to those avocations which are all their own. If the sister earns ten shillings a week by doing work for which the brother used to receive a pQund, while he now sits idle, the household is no gainer by the exchange; and possibly she might have found better paid work for herself which would have left him at his desk. The work of counting-house and office may be, perhaps, quite as suitable for a woman as for a man; perhaps even more so. It will be an unalloyed bless- ing if the present sharp competition between the sexes reduces the fancied advantages of this kind of work to a vanishing-point. It has too long been rushed upon because of the snobbish idea that it is gentlemanly, and the young man, in a black coat. making entries in a ledger, has been apt to think himself infinitely superior to the working men whose productive labors and transactions he merely records. As a matter of fact, few occupations offer less stimulus to the mind or develop- ment of the physical frame. It is one of the terrible mistakes of fond parents that fhey sometimes put a clever, think- ing boy into this sort of work, because they imagine it is above manual labor, and more in line with his studious or artistic turn. A great mistake. Noth- ing can be worse, more trying, more de- stroying to the higher mental faculties than the constant working of the mere mechanical part of the mind. The bal- ance can be kept only by the wise use of leisure. If anybody thinks himself or herself a genius let them throw gen- tility to the winds, and straightway ap- ply themselves to some of the plain ways of labor, which will leave the mind free. Apart from considerations of gentil- ity, sedentary, indoor occupations are occasionally chosen for delicate boys or girls, just because they are delicate, and it is thought that such work is light. This, too, is a sad error. Medi- cal men, too, tell us that where there is any tendency to consumption an out- door life and cheerful movement may often counteract It, while heated rooms, impure atmospheres, and constrained attitudes may develop such tendencies even where they did not previously ex- ist. There are physical defects which should convince those who suffer from them that certain occupations are not for them, and could yield them only disappointment and defeat. People with short-sighted eyes should not be- come seamstresses or engravers. One should make sure that one is not color- blind before going into shipping or rail way duties. One may be in some ways admirably fitted to impart knowledge, and yet quite unfit for the teaching pro- fession if of a nervous, excitable tem- perament, unable to bear the strain of constant responsibility or the irritation of persistent claims on the attention. It is not wise for any to go into medi- cine or nursing whose sickly or de What Shall We Do for a Living? pressed appearance suggests the re- mark, Physician heal thyself! No- body should think of entering tne min- istry unless prepared to face the dark- est and most painful facts of human experiencenot as did a young man of whom I heard lately, whose family though7t of the ministry for him chiefly as a genteel calling, and who straight- way cast about to discover in which sect he would be least likely to be brought in contact with the poor, whom he ~did not like! It is impossible to deal in detail with the pros and cons of all occupations. 111 large, we may say that those are the most desirable avocations which re- quire considerable training and in which only practice makes perfect, or, again, which a wan can carry with him anywhere, and is sure to find useful and profitable at all times and places. A few principles may be suggested on which the choice of an occupation may be made, and these principles can be thrown into the form of questions which the individual can answer for himself or for his children, or those who seek his counsel. What work is really useful in the world ? We have already shown that some of the most useful work in the world is not paid forcannot be paid for. But some of the most useless occupa- tions are almost the most highly paid. They are not, therefore, the most desir- able. Lightly come, lightly go, and the enormous earnings of jockeys, danc- ers, and other hangers on of idle frivol- ity generally enrich themselves in the end as little as their labors enrich the world! They give their lives, their very souls for nought. Therefore we leave them out of our consideration. We will infer that our determination is that our choice of life-work shall be of the dis- tinctly useful, and then we go on to the next question. 123 Out of these useful occupations, whicl& do I like best? Now this is a question for each soul. Nobody can help him in the answer; for in this matter, as in most others, one mans meat is another mans poison. At this point parents are wise to leave perfect liberty. They should have helped their children to be able to give answer for themselves. Parents and teachers should watch for childrens inclinations, and foster them, instead of throwing cold water upon them, as they sometimes do. The little instinc- tive effort of a child of six might, if duly encouraged, become the strong aptitude and inclinatioim in the boy or girl of fourteen. If Florence Nightin- gales friends had jeered at her band- aged dolls, and taken them away from her, she might never have developed into the great Nursing Sister. By the time West, the artist, was sixteen he would readily have said I want to be a painter, but If, when, as a child of six, he drew the babys portrait, his mother had laughed at him or scolded him for making a mess, instead of kissing him, his talent might have per- ished in its birth. One even wonders whether the elaboration of modern toys, leaving nothing to a childs own imagination and inclination, may not have something to do with indecision in the choice of future occupation. Germs are easily killed. An oak is a mighty monarch, hard to destroy, but anybody can trample an acorn. Then, when we have decided what we would like to do, the next question is: tiati we do it? This question comes in two forms: What are we best fit to do? and What will our circumstances permit us to do ? The answer to either question is this: When there is any hindrance in oneself or in ones surroundings to ones achiev- ing the occupation of ones hearts de- sire, then let us do that nearest to it, 124 Leave No Points Pricking When )2~u Pin Ifour Creed. and which we find within our compass. For instance, one longs to be a sculp- tor, but is poor and knows that ready bread does not lie in that direction. Then let him be a stonemason. One wishes to be an artist, but one cannot afford either the training or the delay. Let him be a house decorator. Or one wants to be a sailor, but feels he must not leave his widowed mother quite alone. Then be a fisherman. And so through the whole range of occupa- tions. There are two advantages in taking this course. The calling one takes up as second best exercises the same apti- tudes as the calling ~ne desires. The two roads going in the same direction are likely at some point to join in one. Then the final question is: IVhat is it that is most essentsal to one, and what is one prepared to give up? This is a most important question. Much of the dissatisfaction and unrest of life come from its neglect. People will not realize that everything has its price. They try to grasp incompatibh~ advantages, and are disgusted when they fail. They will refuse to submit to a long training, and then they are indignant to find themselves employed in some calling which lies quite open to every- body who rushes in, and where the veteran has no advantage over the nov- ice. Or they pursue an avocation which is their happy hobby, but instead of resting content in the lifelong satisfac- tion of its practice they rail at society because they have not also made a f or- tune. Or they desire an even, regular, reli- able employment, and then grumble at the monotony of their life. The consideration of what we really want and what we are prepared to sac- rifice having once decided the life-work, there will remain only to live the lifet Let us remember that the hand of the diligent maketh richnot neee~sarily rich in money, which would be but a poor result, since a rich man may be foolish, and unrespected and miserable. But the hand of the diligent maki?th rich in skill, in power, in comfort, in influence. And in all labor there is profitnot only in the labor which can be paid for in wages, but in the labor which is of love, the extra touch, whose withholding nobody would blame, whose putting in nobody noticesyes, there is profit in that the great gain of self-respect, which straightens ones back and brightens ones eye, and makes one of the number of natures noblemen. Let each be proud of his calling. Let us learn all about it, and know its history. Be sure it has its romances. It has been digni- fied by some great man in this country or another. Probably It has its hero- isms. We know far too little about these things. The LeIsure Hour. Edward Garrett. LEAVE NO POINTS PRICKING WHEN YOU PIN YOUR CREED. God save our faith from that schismatic heart That snaps at others creeds Its There we part. God grant us charity, whose thoughts are sweet, And ripen difference to, There we meet! Frederick Langbridge. Cromwell s Constitutional Aims. 125 CROMWELLS CONSTITUTIONAL AIMS. We have been taught of late to regard Cromwell as an Opportunist, and if all that is meant is that he changed from time to time the methods by which he hoped to accomplish a fixed aim, I have nothing to say against the employment of the term, except that It is hardly dis- tinctive enough to separate him from other statesmen of equal eminence. If, however, it Is intended to Imply that he had no fixed aim at all, except to reach a vague and unspecified settlement, which was to give to his government that national support without which no political system can hope to endure, I think there is good reason to dispute its applicability to the case. No doubt the view here referred to is plausible enough. After the violent dis- solution of the Long Parliament, Crom- well in turn supported syst4ems as op- posed to one another as those of the Nominated oras it is commonly styled the Barebones Parliament; the Instru- ment of Government; arbitrary rule with the help of the Major-Generals; the new Parliamentary Constitution of the Humble Petition and Advice; and, to all appearance, would have rallied to yet another plan if his career had not been cut short by death. What I pro- pose to show is that under these differ- ences there lay one and the same prin- ciple, firmly grasped and that whether that principle be for us an object of praise or blame it must be taken into account in any judgment which we think good to formulate of the man and his work. No part of Cromwells career is more ~difficult for the modern politician to understand than his resolution, after the break-up of the Long Parliament, to side with the dreamer Harrison rather than with Lambert, that incarnation of. ~common sense, by placing the govern- merit in the hands of a body selected by the chief officers of the army out of the list drawn up by Congregationalist ministers. That many of those so chosen should be fa- natics with Impossible Ideas was no more than was to be expected, and the only wonder is that men who were not fanatics found seats at all. The speech in which Cromwell surrendered author- ity into the hands of this assembly Is fuller of enthusiasm, or, as many will say of fanaticism, than any other of his utterances. Yet there is one passage in It which throws some light upon the reasoning which had Induced him to take so strange a resolution. If it were a time to compare your standing with that of those that have been called by the suifrages of the PeopleWhich who can tell how soon God may fit the people for such a thing? None can desire it more than I! Would all were the Lords People; as it was said, Would all the Lords Peo- ple were Prophets! I would all were fit to be called so. It ought to be the Tonging of our hearts to see men brought to own the interest of Jesus Christ: and give me leave to say: If I know anything in the world, what is there likelier to win the People to the Interest of Jesus Christ, to the love of Godliness (and therefore what stronger duty lies on you being thus called), than an humble and godly conversation? So that they may see that you love them; that you lay your- selves out, time and spirits, for them! It not this the likeliest way to bring them to their liberties? At least, you convince them that, as men fearing God have fought them out of their bondage under the regal power, so men fearing God do now rule them 1 I adopt here Carlyles version, though it is eked out by explanatory words, as at the same time most widely known and most jntelligibie. 126 Cro~~wells Constitutional Aims. in the fear of God, and take care to administer good unto them. Stripped of the specially religious lan- guage in which the thought is cloW~ed, the sense from a constitutional point of view is clear enough. The whole strug- gle against regal power had been car- ried on by a minority. The whole bur- den of government in the interest of the nation must be entrusted to a mm- nority composed of the godly or honest people of the nation, in the hope that the broad views and beneficent actions of this minority would in time convert it into a majority. So far as I know Cromwell never swerved from this view of the national requirements. To the end of his life he strove to maintain the ascendancy of a Puritan oligarchy. It is this that differentiates him from rulers like Napoleon, who built abso- lute power on the basis of democratic opinion. It is this, too which explains why the system of Cromwell vanished after his death, whilst the system of Napoleon held France captive long after his death, and to some extent still endures to the present day. After the failure of the Nominated Parliament came the Instrument of Government. Cromwell had swung round to Lamberts side, and though the Instrument itself was drawn up without his co-operation, it is incon- ceivable that during the weeks that pre- ceded its redaction, Cromwell and Lam- bert had not come to some understand- ing as to its general principles. In some of its stipulations, indeed, it re- sembled the American Presidential sys- tem, but it would, I fancy, be hard to find an American to approve of it, as its leading features are marked by that distrust of the people which is foreign to the American mind. Yet it is by these very features that it is brought into line with the speech to the Nomin- ated Parliament. Protector and Coun- cil take the place of the Nominees, and nullify the legislative omnipotence ac- corded to the latter, first by their own uncontrolled executive authority, sec- ondly, by the right of refusing admis- sion to Parliament of members duly elected, and thirdly by the right ac- corded to them of raising sufficient sup- plies to keep on foot an army of 30,00~ men, combined with an adequate navy, as well as 200,000 for purposes of domestic government. When a breach came between Protector and Parlia- ment it came on the point of financial controlin other words, on the question whether government was to be directed by the representatives chosen by the electors, or the small number of men who supported the Protector in resist- ing this demand. After the dissolution Cromwells ef- fort to govern constitutionally accord- ing to the Instrument broke down, and in October, 1655, the Major-Generals. were appointed, whose action more than anything else has branded the sys- tem of the Protectorate as a military despotism. It is, however, worth while to ask whether this new system which at first sight looks like one of force, pure and simple, found any argumenta- tive support, and I now propose to show that it did, and also that the reasoning employed was precisely of the same character as that of the extract I have already made from Cromwells speech to the Nominated Parliament. In December, 1655, a few weeks aftei- the Major-Generals had got to work, considerable sensation was caused at Whitehall by the public reading of a manifesto signed by Vavasor Powell and 323 of his Baptist followers in North Wales. The manifesto spoke with extreme bitterness of Cromwella personal character, and denounced him in no measured language for breaking the law by dissolving the Long Parlia- ment, as well as for re-establishing the monarchy and for other crimes. On January 23, 1656, was published, under- Cromwells Constitutional Aims. 127 the title of Plain Dealing, a reply by Samuel Richardson, a Baptist who did not share the extreme views of that sec- tion amongst which Powell was to be found. Richardsons argument was that the government was not a mon- archy, the authority being exercised by Protector and Council, and not by Pro- tector alone; that it deserved support as having established the noble prin- ciple of refusing to the civil magis- trate a coercive power in matters mere- ly religious, whilst there was no rea- son to suppose that a return to Parlia- mentary government would be of any advantage. There is no ground, he wrote, to believe that the people of this nation would ever have given us this free- dom, or that any Parliament chosen by them would ever give us this free- dom, seeing the Ministers and magis- trates cannot see that the bond be- tween magistracy and people is es- sentially civil. Richardsons argument, however, in- forming as it is, may be passed over in favor of an anonymous pamphlet published a week later under the title of Animadversions upon a Letter and Paper first sent to His Highness by certain Gentlemen and others in Wales. So firmly does the author handle his theme, and so strongly does he insist on its disagreement with all existing parties, that when I first read this pamphlet I was inclined to attri- bute it to Hobbes, the result at which it arrives being in accordance with what might be expected from the au- thor of the Leviathon. Wood, howe ver, ascribes it without hesitation to Wil- liam Sedgwick of Ely, and though it is difficult to think of it as proceeding from that feather-brained writer, there are passages in it which accord with this ascription, whilst there are others which, unless they had been inserted as a blind, could not have been written by Hobbes. In this case, however, the matter is of more importance than the name of the author, especially as it cannot have proceeded from a thor- ough-going Cromwellian. Under these circumstances we can easily understand Thurloes bewilder- ment. There are animadversions, he wrote to Henry Cromwell, in sending him a copy. of a very strange and extraordinary nature. It is hard to judge whether they be for us or against us. This book stole out Into the world, and now it is abroad I know not whether it be fit or convenient to stifle it.2 All the better for the historian who can profit by a pronouncement free from party bias. We find the author opening his main argument by a sug- gestion that the political Baptists had mistaken the promptings of their re- sentment at the failure of their own system to obtain general acceptance. He then proceeds to a characterization of Cromwell, which, if it lacks some- thing of the rhythmical exuberance of Miltons sketch, is, at least, a portrait drawn by a firm hand, and presenting the problem of the Protectors qualities of mind in a way which no other com- mentator in those days thought of do- ing. After dwelling on Cromwells magnanimity and achievements, lie continued in this fashion: Yet he hath no reason at all to be proud, nor we much reason to boast of him; for, though these are excellent things, yet they have been shadowed and sullied with very great weakness that doth much eclipse their lustre; for, besides the dirt that malice cast upon him, and the pollution contracted from the nature of his work, which hath been destroying work, and so impure; besides these, I say, there is personal weakness, rash passions, sud- den engaging for and a.s sudden turn- 2 Thurloe, iv, 50 128 Cromwell s Constitutional Aims. ing from things, which shows want of foresight, ineontinency, and incon- stancy of mind; some violent strains and leaps which have stretched con- science and credit, large promises to oblige parties and persons, and too short performances to give satisfac- tion, which shew a merit not standing firmly upon its own basis of truth, but carried off into looser ways of policy; and though the tottering state of things may seem to excuse it, yet cer- tainly such actings so disproportion- able to the truth and faithfuiness of God do more shake him, and with him the public peace, than anything in the world. Here, at all events, is a man who sees the problem which modern writers are called upon to solve. In reading what follows, it must be remembered that the Welsh Baptists, refusing to Cromwell the title of Protector, had styled him merely the Lord-General. But notwithstanding these, pro- ceeds our pamphleteer, or if not these, whatever other weakness may cleave to him before Oliver Protector and ail his train of greatness; and that his naked person, with what God bath done in him and by him, hath reaily more dignity and majesty upon it than if he had with his Protectorship fetched from Westminster all the hon- ors and titles of all the Kings of Eng- land; and, therefore, I think, whatever may be fancied, the subscribers have done him no real injury in writing to Oliver Cromwell. Turning from the person of the Pro- tector to his system of government, the writer finds the kernel of it in the army: The absolutest and perfectest power in the earth, having the substance of all government in it, gives both reason and being of all governmentsafety and the name also whence all Govern- ments are called Powers and The Sword in Scripture, and that which makes it very suitable to this s~nsop, that having the forces in our hands we have our lives and liberties secured, and so may quietly wait for more light, and are free to dispose of ourselves according to the best light and understanding that shall be brought amongst us. Moreover, the title of Captain-Gen- eral of all the forces of England, Scot- land and Ireland, not only extin- guished the three distinct kingdoms and their governments, but lays waste the pales whereby they were formerly divided, and turns them all into one militia, under the com- mand of one general; for the command of the forces of all three kingdoms is both a greater power, and of another kind, and must needs swallow up the three particular Governments into it- self, which is a large field that we are brought into; that now the General of these forces hath an unlimited power to enlarge his militia, to take in all honest men If he please, and to give them what pay he judges reasonable; and, in order to It, to raise what money he pleases in the three nations, to restrain and secure what persons he suspects to be disturbers of his army and command, to inflict what punishment he pleases upon his ene- mies, to make what constitutions he will for the securing of these forces, and to repeal all laws that are against their safety and quiet; these things are natural and essential to a General in and with his army, which will be accounted absurd for either King or Protector of England to do. So royal and absolute authority in the hands of an honest General entrusted for and in fellowship with the whole party in a capacity distinct from the nations is a thing worth remembering. Nevertheless, our author cannot al- low government to rest on pure force. There must be in it some distinguishing character to the advantage of the gov- erned. He therefore proceeds to argue that it was Cromwells aim to have an honest regiment, then an honest army, at least under honest officers. It was Cromwells Gonstitufional Aims. 129 owing to him, therefore, that the hon- est peopleCromwell himself would have said the godly peoplehad ob- tained an outward and visible power in the earth. Without him that honest party would, in all probability, fall into division and confusion. Therefore, you have reason to challenge him to be General of all the force, they consist- ing by him, and we in and by them. To any one who has striven to un- ravel the mysteries of Cromwells char- acter and work, the historic insight dis- played in these passages is, Indeed, marvellous. No doubt the writer has not sounded all the depths of the Pro- tectors mind, has not drawn attention to his eagerness to throw off the char- acter of a military ruler, has not done justice to the popular resistance to military rule in any shape or form. He has, however, seized on the essential facts of the situationthe establish- nient of a Puritan oligarchy by means of a Puritan armyor, as he would prefer to say, of an honest oli- garchy by means of an honest army, which is in reality the dominating fact of the Cromwellian Protectorate. All the well-worn com- ments on Cromwells hostility to Par- liamentary institutions may be justified from the point of view of the nineteenth century. They do not touch the situ- ation as it existed in Cromwells own mind. They may be in place in a treat- ise on constitutional development. They are out of place in any attempt to judge Cromwell in the light of his own be- liefs. The remainder of the pamphlet is oc- cupied by a crushing exposure of the unreasonableness of the Welsh memo- rialists. It would take up far too much space to treat this part of the pamphlet in detail. It is enough to notice the averment of the writer that the Long Parliament, when once it had broken with the king, had no legal right or au-. thority whatever. Its whole power to govern was derived from the army that supported it. Were it not for the strength, honor and success of the army, that which we call Parliament, Govern- ment and Commonwealth would have been made Confederacy3 and Rebellion. Those who set up may pull down, and there was nothing illegal in the dissolu- tion of that Parliament by the soldiers, or in the subsequent political muta- tions under the same authority. Then comes an attack on the constitution of former parliaments: A Parliament Is a worldly, earthly constitution, consisting of worldly mattergentlemen of estates, and chosen by [the] People, in the capacity only of possessing so much land, with- out respect at all had In Electors or Elected to any characters of Grace or Anointing, and, therefore, tis the In- terest of the World not of the Saints; a part of the Fourth Monarchy, not of the Fifth; the strength of the king- doms of this world, not of the King- dom of Christ, formed by custom in the darkness and enmity of the world, not in the light and wisdom of Christ. After this outburst he slips back Into more mundane considerations. Their demand for a free parliament, he tells the Weishmen, is absurd as coming from them, seeing that the greaternum- ber of the people of the nation, are either malignant and opposing reforma- tion or lately offended at it, or neutral or sotl~ishly mindless of anything but their profit. If, on the other hand, only honest men were allowed to have a vote, they were so divided into sects and parties, and therefore so cer- tain to choose ignorant and unworthy men of their own party, that a parlia- ment elected by them would be a mere cave of the contending winds. Such a I)arliament would be like the Beast in Revelations, which did rise out of the sea, the people of this nation being but a multitude of confused tongues, lan- probably a misprint for conspiracy. 130 Cromwells Constitutional Aims. guages and voices, and carried this way and that way by the breath and spirits of men. If such a parliament were to meet, would the Dragonthat is to say, the armygive them his power, his seat and his great authority? A conflict there must be, for there is no parlia- ment that can meet, if they have the courage to own their privileges, but must condemn not only the late acts, but the very power and being of the army as it now stands.A free parlia- ment was, therefore, impossible, for if they are not a Beast the sword will make them one, and drive them which way It please. As for right to govern, it belonged to honest men, who, with the jeopardy of their lives, rescued themselves from slaveryby a birth of Providenceif I may so call itwhereby they are brought forth into a distinct outward and military body, and entrusted with the power of the sword, and so of the nation. Then comes a statement which those who write in the old famil- iar strain about the Major-Generals and declination will do well to pon- der: Tis a thing that the Protector hath seemed a long time to design, and that good people have talked of; that hon- est men should only have place and power; and yet now we have it we either mind it not or know not which way to settle it. I do heartily wish that we understood What a prize we have in our hand, and had light and judgment, either to keep it justly or resign it wisely. It is necessary to hurry to a conclu- sion, or we might linger over the view that it was a sad pity that the Protec- tor had sworn to the Instrument, and so bound himself to written formulas; and the prediction that these withs and new cords will not bind Samson next time danger is upon him, or at the obiter dictaI question whether that saints, as saints, are fit to govern. Military government, as ours is, knows no form of law. I question whether the trial of such gentlemen according to the fundamental law would not be to them a fair trial, but a foul one. and, therefore, the Protector chooses a fair imprisonment rather than a bloody trial, not willing to trust their lives in the hand of the law, a judge and a jury. The sum of it all is that the best of governments is a monarchy acting with the advice of a small council, and also of a larger one. And we judge it wisely disposed by Providence into such hands who are large in their spirits to comprehend and take into employment and love all sorts of honest men, whereby the sword is more easy, the work more secure, and greater hopes of peace: whereas, if we should join with you to get the sword into your hands the sword will be the sword still, and in mens hands of narrower spirits, which would make it more dangerous and more cruel. Was this ideal of a Puritan or hon- est oligarchy realized, in intention at least, in the system of the Major-Gen- erals? I am inclined to think that it was. There has been a natural tendency to confine our view of the Major-Generals to their police-measures against the Royalists, and to the heavy tax- ation they imposed on the kings parti- sans. There is another side to their ac- tivity, on which stress was laid by Mr. Rannie in a contribution to the Histori- cal Review in 1895, namely, the effort to secure social reform according to the ideas of the day. It was in their time that the Cromwellian idea of ejecting unworthy ministers from their bene- fices was for the first time actually en- forced. It was then that Pride per- formed the notable feat of killing bears with his own hand. It was then that hundreds of inns and alehouses were Cromwells Constitutional Aims. 131 suppressed, and that travellers arriv- ing in London on Saturday night were not allowed admission to an inn unless they would engage not to go out into the streets except to attend divine wor- ship, till Monday morning. Who shall say to what extent the reaction against Puri- tanism was fostered, not by Puritan legislation, but by the actual enforce- ment of degrees which hitherto had sel- dom reached the stage of practice? But, it may be asked, was not gov- ernment by Major-Generals a purely military rule, having nothing to do with constitutional ideas? The fact is that the memory of that generation fixed on the military side and forgot the con- stitutional. Just as every one talked as they talk nowof the Protector and said nothing about his council, so they talked of Major-Generals, and said nothing about the commissioners asso- ciated with them. The Major-General no doubt was, so to speak, the noun- substantive; and the commissioners the noun-adjective. Yet the one was in- complete without the other. The sys- tem transferred to the counties was almost identical with the one accepted in the centre of the national govern- inent. It was a Cromwellian oligarchy stiffened by its dependence on an en- ergetic soldier, accustomed to the man- agement of men, and having ideas of government which his colleagues had been selected to assist him in carrying out. The main difficulty lay not with the counties, but with the corporations. How Cromwell proposed to deal with corporations by the erection of a Crom- wellian oligarchy has been shown by Mr. Round in The Nineteenth Century for December last. His paper, inter- esting and important in itself, is much more interesting and important if read in the light of surrounding events. Major-Generals and commissioners, however, failed to secure acceptance, and passed into the limbo of Crom- wells failures. For there was substi- tuted the new constitution accepted by Parliament in 1657. Here, at last, it may be said we are on firm constitu- tional ground. Parliament has re- gained its power, its right of voting supplies, of forbidding the exclusion of elected members by the mere will of the Council, and so forth. Yet, even when Cromwell had secured a means of re-establishing his darling system, the Cromwellian oligarchy was now to be looked for less in the Council than in the House of Lords. That body wa~ deliberately organized with the inten- tion of checking the errors of the peo- ple. After the Protector had once nom- inated its members from amongst his leading supporters, no new member could take his seat without the consent of the House, so that if any future Pro- tector should think of creating peers as a Queen afterwards did after the Peace of Utrechtin order to bring that House into conformity w-ith the House of Commons, the sitting mem- bers could reject them, and thereby de- fy all the vehemency of a House of Commons, even if it had the nation be- hind it. That such a scheme should have been adopted sounds like midsummer- madness. That it was so adopted shows that Cromwell, even in accepting constitutional in the place of military rule, battled to the last for that Puritan oligarchy without which his govern- meat was doomed. W~ may condemn, as I have already said, the line of thought which considered the mainten- ance of such a system possible. We have no right to charge Cromwell with conscious tyranny and law-breaking, because he strove, with the utmost ver- satility, to mould his government in such a fashion as to place it above the waves of popular discontent. Samuet R. Gardiner. The Contemporary Review. 132 The Best Hundred Books for Children. THE BEST HUNDRED BOOKS FOR CHILDREN. The list of one hundred books for children, just compiled by the united efforts of nearly a thousand readers of the Daily News, is interesting, but it is hardly admirable. This list has been used by the judges as their touchstone in judging the prize of 10; for, accord- ,ing to the terms of the competition, the award was to go to the sender of the list which approximated to it most nearly. First, of this pl6biscite list. It is in- teresting, because it shows what nearly a thousand readers regard as (here we ~quote the Daily News original an- nouncement) the Best Hundred Books for Children, selected with the imme- diate object of furnishing suggestions which may possibly be of use to the corporation of West Ham in a most ex- cellent scheme which they have on foot: the establishment of a Childrens Li- brary for the use of their borough. It will be noted that under the ex- press terms of the competition all com- petitors were constituted literary ad- visers, so to speak, to the West Ham authorities. They were not asked to ~iletermine what are now the most popu- lar books in the nursery. They were asked to advise as to what books should be placed in the hands of children by a responsible body, anxious to form a good library for children. Here, then, is the plebiscite list, with the number of votes given book: Robinson Crusoe, Andersens Fairy Tales, Alice in Wonderland, Tom Browns Schooldays, Pilgrims Progress, Grimms Fairy Tales, Little Women, Arabian Nights, Little Lord Fauntleroy, ~Alice Through the glass, Waterbables, Lambs Tales from speare, Uncle Toms Cabin, Treasure Island, Swiss Family Robinson, Ivanhoe, Gullivers Travels, Westward Ho! Jungle Book, Wide Wide World, sops Fables, Heroes, Herew4Lrd the Wake, Masterman Ready, Jackanapes, Carrots, Eric, Kidnapped, Last of the Mohicans, Lays of Ancient Rome, Story of a Short Life, The Tallsman, ~-Little Men, ~Blue Fairy BooI~, ,.Black Beauty, Saint Winifreds, Madam How and Lady Why, Mr. Midshipman Easy, Stories from Homer, King Solomons Mines, Children of the New Forest, The Rose and the Ring, - David Copperfield, A Flat Iron for a Farthing, Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea, The Daisy Chain, to each Aohn Halifax, Gentleman, Tanglewood Tales, The Old Curiosity Shop, 921 Uncle Remus, 877 Coral Island, 867 Second Jungle Book, 881 Parables from Nature, 824 At the Back of the 807 WInd, 757 Jessicas First Prayer, e30~ ,Don Quixote, 727 A Peep Behind the Scenes, Looking- 723 712 Shake- 706 705 705 691 670 650 632 575 520 517 505 488 484 467 460 427 406 382 356 355 849 344 341 337 336 335 331 328 327 322 320 315 306 302 301 289 287 284 283 282 280 278 North 277 275 273 270 The Best Hundred Books for Children. 133 Boys Own Annual, ,Ministerlng Children, Red Fairy Book, Childs Garden of Verse, Round the World in flays, Good Wives, Feats on the Fiord, Lamplighter, Lorna Doone, From Log Cabin to House, The Cuckoo Clock, The Little Duke, Dickenss Christmas Books, Helens Babies, Longfellows Poems, Oliver Twist, Scotts Poems, The Vicar of Wakefield, Fairyland of Science, Vice Versft, In the Days of Bruce, Heir of Redeliffe, Queechy, Fifth Form at St. Dominics, Three Midshipmen, Dove in the Eagles Nest, / Kenilworth, Peter Simple, Misunderstood, Sweetheart Travellers, Childs History of England, Ohristmas Carol, Sandford and Merton, The Sehonberg-Cotta Family, Christies Old Organ, Six to Sixteen, Pickwlck Papers, Jan o the Windmill, A Gentleman of France, Girls Own Annual, Voyage of the Sunbeam, Quentin Durward, Little Megs Children, The most conspicuous feature 265 261 258 254 Eighty 252 245 244 243 243 White 241 236 236 235 234 230 230 221 216 215 213 212 211 210 206 206 205 205 203 202 201 200 200 199 198 197 197 192 191 190 185 185 183 179 of this list Is the enormous dominance of fic- tion. No fewer than eighty-nine of the books named come under this head. Thus, only eleven books are left to rep- resent science, travel, biography, po- etry, natural history, and what not. A pretty commentary on the wisdom of the many-headed! The conviction grows that this standard list reveals simply the books which are believed to be most popular with children. Indeed, we are disposed to accept it as a fairly veracious statement of the obvioun reading-tastes of the nursery. But as an advisory document compiled for transmission to West Ham the list is a failure. As a matter of fact it has al- ready reached West Ham; and Mr. A. Cotgreave, of the West Ham Library, has given his views upon it. These ar& ~ just what we should have anticipated. Mr. Cotgreave feels bound to say that~ after due consideration, I believe that the larger number would more merit the title of popular than of best. Mr. Cotgreave holds and we agree with him that a childrens libraryformed as any such library should be, with a ming- ling of sympathy and sagacityought to include a fair proportion of inter- esting and simple works of a higher order than mere story-books. He adds, I therefore regret to see how en- tirely these instructive books are ex- cluded from the competition lists from which your analysis is made. Certain- ly nothing would be a lamer action on the part of the West Ham authorities than the adoption of the Daily News plyThiscite selectiona selection for which, of course, our contemporary is not responsible. To dismiss it, it con- tains: 89 stories, 4 books of poetry. 2 books of science, 1 book of travels, 1 biography, 3 annuals (mainly fiction). We now come to the list whichby approximating most closely to the plebiscite listhas taken the prize. It was sent in by Miss May Price Wil- liams, and Its agreement with the stan- dard list is represented by the fraction 61-100; that is to say, it names 61 books which are approved by the united wis- dom of all the competitors, and 39 books which are not so ratified. It is on these 39 that we at once concentrate our attention, and we are not surprised to find that the competitor, who has shown by at least 61 inclusions, that 134 The Cloud In North Africa. she understands the more obvious tastes of children, is alive to their rarer tastes and aptitudes. We find that Miss Prices unratified thirty-nine books include such capital stuff as the fol- lowing: Life of Our Lord (Mrs. Marshall). Little Arthurs History, The Story of the Heavens. GIaucus. Evenings at Home. How I Found Livingstone. Tales of a Grandfather. Homes Without Hands. Men Who Have Made the Empire. Under Drakes Flag. With Clive in India. Book on Nonsense. Miss Prices list is better than the standard list inasmuch as it combines sympathetic knowledge of what chil- dren like in the way of stories, fancy, and fun, with a certain good judgment of what they may be led to like in the The Academy. way of histories, deeds, and natural wonders. The Daily News has published one of the unsuccessful listssent in by Miss Grace Mackay. This deserves the praise awarded to its workmanlike qualities. It is impossible, without more space than we can afford, to com- pare Miss Mackays list with the plf5bi8C~& tC and champion lists. It will be found in the Daily News of January 30. But it has many good inclusions, and if it errs, it is on the side of solid- ity; yet four books of natural history can hardly be too many in a hundred, nor six books of travels, nor five of biography, nor three of poetry. It is amazing to find how few of all the many hundreds of childrens books which have poured from the press in, say, the last ten years, have been in- cluded in the lists. The proportion of such books is almost infinitesimal, and whether we take the fact in connection with the phlbiscite list or the cham- pion list, the fact is significant. THE CLOUD IN NORTH AFRICA. The conquest of Africa by Europe will not be so easy a matter as the di- plomatists who arranged the Conference of Brussels probably imagined. They were preoccupied with plans for sooth- ing away or preventing European jeal- ousies, and never seriously considered the possibilities of effective resistance from Aifricans themselves. The process of conquest, which was advancing by leaps and bounds, has, however, been seriously interrupted by a rising in the South, the revolt of the only community ~rhich is at once white and African, and it may be still more gravely impeded by a vast insurrection in the North. It is by no means inconceivable that with- in the first decade of the coming cen tury torrents of blood, and much of it European blood, will be set flowing In North Africa. The word Senoussi conveys to the Englishman scarcely any meaning, but to officers of the In- telligence Department in Egypt, to French administrators in Tunis and Algiers, to one or two of the Consuls- General in Morocco, and to the Sultan of Turkey it is a word of most alarm- ing import. The great religious chief of the Hinterland of Tunis who calls himself the Senoussi and holds his Court at Jerabub, in Libya, has, there is the strongest reason to believe, gath- ered into his fold not only a large sec- tion of the Moorishthat is, the half- caste Arabpopulation of Northern The Cloud z~n North Africa. 135 Africa, but nearly the whole of the con- verts whom the Arab missionaries have for the last sixty years been making among the negro tribes. The slaves in particular have, it is said, been spec- ially addressed, and have accepted the faith with eagerness as promising them a new dignity as well as a chance of freedom. Negroes once converted to Islam. as we see in the instance of the Hausas. become fine soldiers; and all along the southern shore of the Medi- terranean, for a distance of at least twelve hundred miles into the interior, the blacks are affiliating themselves to the society of which the Senoussi is the head. It is believed upon evidence which will one day startle Europe that the Senoussi gives absolute orders to twenty millions of followers, to whom his army of missionariesthere are fif- teen hundred of them, Mr. Threlf all says in the Nineteenth Centuryare continually adding proselytes. All these men accept Mahommedanism in its Wahabee formthat is, practically in its original formas a religion licen- tious in some respects, but strictly as- cetic in others, propagandist in the highest degree, and with the thought for central dogma that to die fighting the infidel is the one certain expiation that cleanses from all sin. Large sec- tions of the tribes are well armed, though only with scimitars and rifles at least there is no clear evidence of modern artilleryand all are filled at once with the fierce Mahommedan l)ride, which is like no other pride, be- cause no other has the support of a revelation, and with an irremovable dread and detestation of the white rate5. Whether this is quite shared by the pure negroes, when left to them- selves, is doubtful; but that it is felt by the half-caste Arabs is beyond doubt. and the negro, when converted, takes from them his teaching. No one, we believe, who has really studied the. subject now questions that if the Sea- oussi gave the signal hundreds of thou- sands of brave swordsmen and rifle- bearers would precipitate themselves upon the Europeans and the Turks, who between them hold North Africa. The time of the outburst is, of course, uncertain, but many reasons forbid the supposition that there will be long de- lay. The Senoussi, who was recognized as absolute chief forty years ago, has been extending his power and making preparations for the whole of that pe- riod, and if he is to do anything in his lifetime he must proclaim the Jehad very soon. The destruction of the Mahdi has, it is believed, at once irri- tated and relieved him, while bringing a large accession of force to his stan- dard by the extinction of all religious authority in Africa other than his own. His followers grow weary with wait- ing, they are aware in some dim way, that Europe is unceasingly pressing forward, on the Nile, on the Zambesi, on the Niger, on the Congo, and they see that even the Shereeflan throne, to them a great throne, is shaking under the pressure. They would rather, per- haps, wait for a great European con- vulsion, but the patience even of Orien- tals has limits, and incidents occurring in the far Hinterland of Africa of which Europe knows nothing may at any moment give the necessary im- petus to chiefs who believe with all their hearts that God can give them the victory as easily to-day as any num- ber of years hence. There is unrest among all Mahommedans, a fierce con- sciousness that they are losing, and a decision that the hour has arrived when they must fight or disappear may be more sudden and more widely spread than Europeans believe. The final or- der once given would be distributed from missionary to missionary. There is nothing to do but assemble in arms with a months commissariat, and In a few weeks all North Africa through a belt fifteen hundred miles deep would 136 The Cloud in North Africa. be in flame, all native government which resisted the movement being first swept out of the path. It is not probable that the movement would spread farther. It is barred southwards by tribes still pagan, Arabia never obeys any initia- tive but her own, and the Turkish gov- ernment would feel only jealousy of an outburst which, if defeated, would cost it all influence in Africa, and if success- ful, might evolve a rival, and perhaps hostile Khalifate. Turks are not loved by other Mussulman races, nor do they love them. As to India, where Mr. Threlfall, we see, expects commotion, the only powerful Mussulman Prince is a Shah of the Persian kind, and the general Mussulman population, besides accepting its guidance from Mecca, is greatly hampered by its geographical position, scattered as it is everywhere among Hindoos. The Mahommedans, when vivified by a descent of their more energetic co-religionists from the north, have twice conquered India, but at this moment all the fighting races, Sikh, Ohoorka, and Mahratta, are un- doo. The great Indian insurrection, whenever it comesand it may not come for a century, or may never come will be, we think, like the Mutiny, an explosion of Asiatic rather than relig- ious feeling. As to the direction of the movement it is most difficult to form an opinion. The line of least resistance would be southwards, the Senoussi ordering his followers to conquer practically the whole interior of Africa from Libya to the Congo, and consolidating the dozen or so haif-Mussulman States which ex- ist there into one enormous monarchy. This would, on the whole, be the best direction for the interests of Europe, for she would have ample time to ar- range her defence, and might even, if the Senoussi were an able ruler, ar- range with him some endurable modus vivendi. On the other hand, every Arab in the world, whether pure-blooded or half-blooded, regards Egypt as a treas- ure house which properly belongs to him, and the Desert forces, urged by the hope of plunder, may, through the Hin- terland of Barca, precipitate themselves upon the Nile. The fear of England is, however, on all the tribes of Central Africa. The French have been ene- mies of the Senoussi for forty years, and the impulse which, in the early~ Middle Ages, drove the Arabs steadily westward till they were stopped by the- Atlantic may impel them again. The Senoussi has scores of thousands of disciples in Tunis, Algeria, and Morocco, and it is most probable that the storm would first of all burst in that direction~ the effort being to overwhelm all three, and so recover the whole of the ancient ~Mahommedan Empire within Africa. In other words, the French, who in Al- geria and Tunis are always holding a wolf by the ears, would have to endure the fury of the first onset, and perhaps for a moment be overwhelmed by it. We should, however, have to assist them in withstanding it, first because the cause would be that of Europe against barbarism, and secondly be- cause a revived Moorish Empire, hold- ing the southern shore of the Mediter- ranean from Barca to Mogador, would soon make Egypt untenable by any white man. These, however, are spec- ulations for the future; the present necessity Is only to warn Europe that five hundred miles south of the Medi- terranean a mighty cloud is gathering which any day may burst over North Africa and force Europe either to aban- don its possessions and Its hopes In that vast region or to maintain them by the sword. We cannot do anything to avert the storm, but the stronger and more perfect our force of artillery is in Egypt the less we shall be taken by surprise. Brave as the followers of the Senoussi may be, they are not likely to prove the superiors of Sikhs. The Spectator.

THE LIVING AGE: (FOUIIDE-D BY B. LITTELL iN 1844.) SUVUXTE Szaius. Volume VII. NO. 2911. APRIL 21, 1900. Fuox BEGWXJN~ Vol. CCXXV. THE WILD GARDEN.* The dictum, it is all a matter of taste, has in it that soupeoa of truth which may be found in many an ac- cepted saying. It is true so far as It goes, but that is only a very little way. The canons of taste are the verdict of centuries of cultivated thought devoted to a given subject; and, though no one can be denied the right of private judg- ment, the balance of truth will general- ly incline towards the experts. Their opinions have already been sifted and over-ruled or modified; and to .set aside their garnered wisdom is an enterprise not lightly to be undertaken. Our love of flowers has a long pedi- gree, for though the gardens of the Ro- mans were laid waste during the bar- barism which followed their departure, the gardeners art was revived by the Church. War and rapinewith the necessity of protecting rather than em- bellishing the narrow precincts of a strongholdwere the employment of the laity. But within the peaceful walls of the monastery the gentler arts found a retreat; and the work of ac- climatization was carried on with zeal 1. The wild Garden. By w. Robinson. rourth edition. London: John Murray, 1894. 2. Garden Craft, Old and New. By John D. Sedding. London: Kegan Paul, Trench, and Co., 1895. a. wood and Garden. By Gertrude Jekyll. London: Loegmans. 1899. and intelligence. It was not until Tu- dor times that they could emerge into the world once more. It is to the state- ly decorum of those days that the school of art appeals. But If Bacon dis- courses rapturously of Prince-like gardens, Linnseus wept with delight at the first field of gorse which he saw in bloom. If the creation of a garden be an attempt to enhance the beauty of the world, there is room for all sorts of gardening; and If there be any spot from which the turmoil of controversy should be excluded, it is here. When Epicurus planted a garden, his design was not to provide an incentive to dis- putation, but a needful sedative. How completely this principle may be overlooked Is manifested by the first two of the books before us. Possibly It were unreasonable to expect an arch- itect and a landscape gardener to see with the same eyes; yet there should be an Intimate sympathy. The finished picture should lie before the minds eye of the architect; but years before the first stone Is laid, the trees and shrubs, which are to be the main features of the garden, should be started on their career. The quarrel might well have been avoided had each author known better how to entrench himself within his position and recognize his limita- tions. The garden enclosed, with its 138 The Wild Garden. ordered grace and sweetness, is not necessarily a stone yard, a mechan- ics playground, a Dutchmans fad; nor, on the other hand, does freedom from the trammels of art imply a wilderness. On one side there is the disciple of Na- ture, to whom the plumb-line, the shears, and the foot-rule are anathema; on the other there is the trained artist, with his quick sensibility and rever- ence for the antique beauty of a state- lier time, to whom a garden represents Nature glorified by its passage through man s mindthe living memorial of a dead past. To one the immortal Brown is the apostle of a nobler and a living creed. To the other he is a bar- barian, who would wheel away the very gods of Greece. Happily, the dispute is none of ours. We are not called upon to walk with Bacon and Temple and Evelyn among their pleached alleys, dappled with tender gloom, nor to appraise the mo- tives of those who swept away their work. It is to Nature, a more exact- ing mistress than either, that we are called upon to do homage. The true gardener must possess the attributes of both the poet and the artist; and ac- cordingly both factions have laid claim to their advocacy. Milton, Herrick, Herbert, and Donne are suffused with garden imagery. But before we de- scend to Thomson, as the propounder of a naturalistic style, it must be remem- bered that it was among the woods and by the streams that Chaucer and many another English bard loved to go a- maying. Gainsboroughs school un- doubtedly had its influence; but the landscape gardenerspioneers of the Wild Gardencannot boast of having infected the national taste with their love of scenery. For, co-existing with the extreme of artificiality in garden craft, there ever lingered in the English character the love of woodland, flower and field. Our climate may be toujours aifreux, but it is favorable to scenic effect. There are loftier scenes, as Hawthorne says, in many countries than the best that England can show; but for the picturesqueness of the smallest object that lies under its gen- tle gloom and sunshine there is no scenery like It anywhere. Before passing to the general consid- eration of our subject we must notice one of the latest contributions to the swelling tide of garden literature. The pleasant scenes which the author of Wood and Garden conjures up before her readers eyes have the merit of realism, being a record of work achieved. The catalogue of failures, of which works of this nature too often consist, may provide amusement to some and afford a warning to others. But they suggest the inquiry, Why not subordinate your hopes to the condi- tions under which you have to work? Success is, on the whole, a healthier diet than disappointment. Miss Jekyll pays a just tribute to the influence which Mr. Robinsons publications have exercised upon the art of garden- ing; yet, while discialming any desire to rival the plant-lore collected in his works, she gives horticultural hints which the tyro will welcome and the expert will not despise. The assumption that we have seen the last of the dreary formalism of the interregnum is to bury the dead past too summarily. It ignores the caprice of fashion, against which even a thing of beauty cannot strive successfully. The value of varieties is in no way called in question by suggesting that a novelty is not necessarily more beau- tiful than the type, while it is very com- monly inferior in hardihood. There is true enthusiasm for the beautiful in Miss Jekylls work, and there is a clear perception of the fact that in propor- tion as the gardener makes this his aim, he will contribute to the worlds happi- ness and to the restfulness of his own spirit. Sweet peas on tiptoe for a The Wild Garden. 139 flight need not be grown prosaically between rows of sticks; and if the rul- ing grace that tended Shelleys garden was too ethereal for mortal imitation. her spirit still haunts the gardeners ideal. The reaction against the traditional formal garden set in during the early part of the eighteenth century. In- creased formalityand that often of a vulgar and puerile characterhad come in the train of the Dutch dynasty. The work of the great masters of their craft had been debased in its passage through feeble hands, and fell a ready prey to the destructive criticism which was the fashion of the hour. Horace Walpole had little difficulty in bringing ridicule upon the taste which conde- scended to embellish our gardens with giants, animals, monsters, coats of arms, mottoes in yew, box and holly. These were the stock-in-trade of the London gardeners of the day, ~Vho dealt in fine-cut greens and clipt yews in the shape of birds, dogs, men, and ships. Pope lent the aid of his rail- Icry, and the tribe of critics and essay- ists extolled the charms of Nature, which were not powerful enough, how- ever, to entice them from their congen- ial coffee-houses. The world seems to have grown captious and to have out- lived its enthusiasms as we contrast the well-poised phrases of Addison with the joyous outburst of Gerarde: Go for- warde in the name of God; graffe, set, plant, nourishe up trees in every corner of your ground. Revolution was in the air. There was a craving for deliverance from dog- matic laws. Had the apostles of free- dom been prepared with a new and positive faith to take the place of that from which they emancipated them- selves, all might have been well. But so intent were they upon destruction that irretrievable mischief had been wrought before the task of reconstruc- tion could be undertaken. Opening out, pulling down, and levelling were their watchwords; and the result was the bare even surface which taxed all the ingenuity of those who undertook to repair their errors. It Is curious to note the enthusiasm with which the new ideas were hailed. Brownacclaimed the immortal by his contemporaries was their chief exponent. To him and his coadjutor Kent is due the de- struction of many of the most finished specimens of formal garden craft which ever adorned a country. A little more Nature might have been admissible, but not the drastic remedy of wheeling away terraces and walls, and laying open the garden enclosed as a foreground to the distant land- scape. When this change had been ef- fected it was found too often that the landscape was not Nature. It bore the mark of mans handicraftthe only dif- ference being that it was of a coarser character. It needs the kindly Heiinwel& of an Aimerican to find sanctity, as Hawthorne did, in an English turnip- field. It was quickly discovered that our forefathers valued a screen for other reasons besides the peaceful se- clusion which it afforded. Hence arose the necessity of making Nature. Rocks, mounds and lakes had to be improvised, which failed of their effect because they were not in keeping with the sur- roundings. Expenditure the most lav- ish, and taste the most consummate, can never cure what we term Natures defects. That our gardens were not more en- tirely wrecked in their transition from Art to that parody of Nature which was substituted for it is due to the gen- ins and perseverance of Humphrey Repton. It is indicative of his liberal mind that having begun by blessing he came near to cursing. He lnveighs bitterly against the puerilities perpe- trated by Brown, whose habit It was to destroy the natural contour of the ground by lowering every hillock and 140 The Wild Garden. filling every hollow, and whosuch was his penchant for what in this sense may be properly termed artificial wat- erventured to excavate his lakes without any regard to the naturalness of the situation. Reptons philosophic mind divined that the old must be blended with the new. Instead of try- ing to teach Nature better ways, he took her into partnership. His catholic taste appeals to us from his pages. His drawings, in which a plan of the new grounds fits over the oldwith spaces cut out to show such portions as were to be retainedprove that, like every true gardener, he had a picture of the future in his minds eye. How difficult was his task may be gathered from the frequent references to the obstacles which he encountered. It must be remembered, too, in appre- ciating his work, that his best designs were often marred by the mischievous intervention of his patrons. Not un- naturally he demurs to the dictum that one who is always on the spot must know best. If so, a constant attendant is, in time of need, a better adviser than a physician. In the advertise- ment, which explains the scope of his treatise, published in 1803, he says: So difficult is the application of any rules of Art to the works of Nature that I do not presume to give this Book any higher title than Observa- tions tending to establish fixed Princi- ples, in the Art of Landscape Garden- ing. And he adds: In every other polite art there are certain established rules or general principles to which the professor may appeal In sup~port of his opinion; but In Landscape Gardening every one de- livers his sentiments or displays his taste as whim or caprice may dictate, without having studied the subject. To prove that Art and Nature are n~t irreconcilable, it may suffice to summon~ one typical witness, of whose inborn. sensitiveness to every phase and mood. of Nature it were superfluous to speak. Read Wordsworths idea of a garden,. and mark how fairly he, who in garden. craft