Putnam's monthly magazine of American literature, science and art. / Volume 16, Note on Digital Production Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 570 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABK9283-0016 /moa/putn/putn0016/

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Putnam's monthly magazine of American literature, science and art. / Volume 16, Note on Digital Production 0016 000
Putnam's monthly magazine of American literature, science and art. / Volume 16, Note on Digital Production A-B

Putnam's monthly magazine of American literature, science and art. / Volume 16, Issue 31 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 570 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABK9283-0016 /moa/putn/putn0016/

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Putnam's monthly magazine of American literature, science and art. / Volume 16, Issue 31 Emerson's magazine and Putnam's monthly G.P. Putnam & co. New York July 1870 0016 031
Putnam's monthly magazine of American literature, science and art. / Volume 16, Issue 31, miscellaneous front pages iii-viii

PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. ORJGJINAL PAPERS ON LITERATURE, SCIENCE, ART, AND NATIONAL iNTERESTS. NEW SERIES. SIXTH VOLUME. JULYNOVEMBER, 1870. NEW YORK: G. P. PUTNAM & SONS, 4TH 18~O. AVE. & 28D ST. 7---- CQ[IN!ILL UN ;~:~: 3~TY:. ENTERED, according to an Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by G. P. PUTNAM & SONS, in the Office of the Librarian of Congre~s at Washington. TilOW & SMITH ROOK MANUFACTURING COMPAKY, PRINTERS, STEREOTYPERS, AND ELEcTROTYPERS, 205-223 EAST 12TH STREET, NEW YORE. 7 - ~ // - PUBLISHERS NOTICE. A FEW words may be expected from the Publishers, in closing this second series of Putnams Magazine, and in introducing the new periodical which will take its place. Is is not necessary for us to dilate upon the pleasures or the pains, the encouragements or the annoyances, connected with this department of a publishers business. The present Magazine was very generally and very kindly welcomed; for the earlier volumes, under the management of Messrs. Briggs, Curtis, a ad Godwin, were favorably and freshly remembered. If we may take the verdict of perhaps ninety-nine out of a hundred of both our critics and our correspondents, a the last three years, we have the right to infer that the new series has given general satisf~~ctio~~to its sensible readers, especially since it has had the supervision of Mr. Godwin. If a few insensible criticsfor any reason, good, bad, or indif- ferenthave now and then dissented from this general verdict, their right to do so in this free country may not be questioned. Probably not many have spied out our defects more keenly than we have ourselves. If our own ideal of a Magazine has not been in all respects achieved, perhaps the fault is not wholly ours. Our friends and contemporaries who have given us words of cheer and kindly apprecia- tion, and have expressed regret at our transformationand their number is legionwill accept our hearty acknowledgments. Insignificatit exceptions to this general good-will scarcely need mention. This Magazine has had a larger circulation than several of its contemporaries at home, and much larger than a dozen of the English magazines whose names have been familiar for many years. Yet it is more and snore evident that the paying popular taste calls for some- thing diffes-cnt; it may be higher or lower, better or worse. But those who pay their money have a riaht to the choice. We have aimed, from the fir~t, to produce a Magazine wholly ORIGINAL, and essentially AMERICANi. e., devoted largely to American tepics as a specialty. We have avoided all temptations to reprint from foreign magazines, or to cater for any thing merely sensa- tional. In this we may have been Quixotic; but the aim, at least, was fair. Doubtless better things may be done in this direction than we have been able to effect but, so far, tile best material sent to usout of some 8,000 MSS. c~or, ati cast., those pape~ which were apparently most acceptable to our readers, have been printed in the six volumes now completed. We now ask those who have expressed a friendly appreciation of tile pea-green, to permit us to introduce its better-looking successor, and to give it a fair and candid recep- tion. Retaining an interest in the sale of this new work (our edition bearing the name of PUTNAMS as well as ScasaNEns ), we ask our friends and correspondents to continue their subscriptions to Us, in reasonable confidence that they will receive the full equivalent for their money. * The exact number is 3,035 in three years: that. is, about ten times as many 05 the six volumes could contain. Our coniributors have all received their pecuniary compensatlue. We wish this had been a great deal larger; but we may state cur relative reward thus Dr.To cash paid contributors $30,000 CrBy compliments to publishers $? 1 1 By profits on outlay of $100,010 00 000 By Balance? THE SIXTH VOLUME. Article Author. No. Pago AT THE ASSOCIATED PRESS OFFICE Win. Aplin. XXXI. 23 A WOMANS RIGHT Mrs. M. C. Ames. 48, 183, 422, 537 ARCTIC AURORA Geo Kennan. XXXIi. 197 APARTMENT HOUSES P. B. Wight. XXXIII. 308 ARCTIC TRAVELLING IN WINTER Geo. Kennan. XXXIII. 313 A LITTLE FURThER ON Caroline Howard. XXXIV. 436 ANTIQUITY OF CELTIC LITERATURE Prof. L. Clarke Seelyc. do. 387 ABMEDFORTUNES OF J. W. Morris. XXXV. 502 AMERICAN LANGUAGE W. W. Crane. do. BRONT~S (TIlE) AND IIAWORTII Mrs. E. P. Evans. XXXIII. 278 CAN AN INEBRIATE CONQUER HIMSELF ~ F. II. Norton. XXXII. 163 CONSTITUTIONAL CRISIS IN ENGLAND Pi-of. Goidwin Smith. XXXII. 214 CRABBED AGE AND YOUTH E. C. Stedman. XXXIII. 255 CELTIC LITERATUREANTIQUITY OF Prof.L. Clarke Seelyc XXXIV. 387 CHAPTER ON DOGS ... Caroline A. Halbert. XXXV. 495 CAUSES OF TIlE FRENCH-PRUSSIAN WAR Prof. C. A. Eggert. XXXIV. 450 DISRAELI AS STATESMAN AND NOVELIST J. M. Bundy XXXI. 87 DISENCHANTED REPUBLICAN XXXI. 101 DANISH PEASANTS C. Petersen XXXIII. 318 DOMESTIC ROMANCEMORE OF THE XXXI V. 363 DOGSSOCIALLY CONS1DERED Caroline A. Halbert. XXXV. 495 Editorial Notes Parke Godwin. 109, 227, 334, 457, 560 FAIRY ISLAND C. F. Woolson. XXXI. 62 Fox (TIlE) John Burroughs. XXXIV. 371 FOL~SONGS Rev. J. Vila Blake. do. 441 FRENCH INFLUENCE AT THE VATICAN Rev. Dr. Keatinge. XXXV. 477 FORTUNES OF AUMED J. XV. Morris. XXXV. 502 HIS HONORS DAUGHTER 0. M. Ellsworth. XXXI. 71 - KINGS SENTINEL, TIlE, [POEM] R. II. Stoddard. XXXI. 9 LOVE IN FIJI; I Edited by T. M. Coan, M.D. XXXI. 30 II do. XXXII. 129 III do. XXXI V. 408 LOWELL, JAS. RUSSELL [SONNET] J. H. Ewer. XXXII. 151 LIFE-MAGNET, A TALF A. A. Adee. do. 152 LAST OF TBE PROUD PULSIFERS Mrs. J. G. Austin. XXXIV. 397 LINCOLN (PRESILENT) AND THE PETITIONERS M. Wentworth. XXXV. 527 LITERATURE AT HOME R. H. Stoddard. 116, 234,339,460,563 LITERATURE, ART, AND SCIENCE ABROAD C. T. Lewis. 122, 239, 345, 463, 568 viii INDEX TO TIlE SIXTH VOLUME. Article Author. No. Page. LOTAS MISSIONARY FIELD XXXV. 486 MUSIC IN NATURE Prof. Scheic de Vere. XXXII. 173 MADAME LAFAYETTE AND hER MOTHER Miss S. F. Cooper. XXXII. 202 MAKING ICE BY STEAM John Phin. do. 226 MONTAUK F. H. Angier. XXXIII. 288 MALYINA Mrs. J. V. Eames. do. 323 MAN IN THE MooN Prof. Schele deVere. XXXV. 465 Now 1 LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP F. Barrow. XXXII. 196 NEW YORK SOCIETY IN OLDEN TIIIE Bishop Rip. XXXIII. 241 NORTHWEST BOUNDARY QUESTION Gen. Alvord. XXXIII. 300 NEW STORY OF GEN. PUTNAM J. Franklin Fitts. XXXIV. 545 OUR EARLIEST ANNALIST Prof. G. W. Greene. XXXII. 167 PRIVATE GALLERIES OF N. Y., II. Mr. J. T. Johnstons.Eugene Benson. XXXI. 81 III. Mr. M. 0. Roberts .Eugelle BelIson. XXXIV. 376 PEDRO EL MoRo, THE SWORD-MAKER N. A. Knox. XXXIII. 293 PASSION-PLAY AT OBER-AMMERGAU Lucy Fountain. do. 436 PRUSSIAN-FRENCH WARCAUSES OF Prof~ C. A. Eggert. do. 450 PEKINGPILGRIMAGE TO Rev. E. XV. Syle. XXXV. .545 PARISON THE 4TH SEPT., 1870 Young American. do. 553 ROSETTI, PAINTER AND POET W. J. Stiliman. XXXI. 95 RAILWAY MUSINGS J. H. Vosburgh. XXXIII. 305 RECONCILIATION [POEM] Edgar FaWcett. XXXIV. 407 SALMON-FISIIING ON THE NIPISSIGIJIT Thaddeus Norris. XXXI. 13 SUMMER SONG Ada W. Adams. XXXII. 140 SALT-WATER ETnIcs S Osgood, D .D. XXXIII. 257 SOCIETY versus INSANiTY W.A.Iiammond, M.D. XXXIII. 326 SHAKESPEARE IN GERMANY PIof. J. M. Hart. XXXIV. 353 To FRANCES[POEM] T. Bucilsuan Read. XXXI. 69 THE BRONT4S AND THEIR hOME Mrs. E. P. Evans. XXXIII. 278 To A FALSE MIsTRESsF F. T. Lawlence. XXXIV. 440 WILD BEES John Burroughs. XXXI. 41 WhAT THEY ARE DOING IN MEXICO J. H. Brown, do. 60 YACHTING Sidney Ilyde. XXXII. 142

R. H. Stoddard Stoddard, R. H. The King's Sentinel 9-13

PUTNAMS MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, SCIENCE, ART, ANt) NATIONAL INTERESTS. VoL. VI.JULY1870.No. XXXI. THE KINGS SENTINEL. UPON a time, unbidden, came a man Before the mighty king of Teberistan. When the king saw this daring man, he cried, Who art thou, fellow? Whereto he replied, A lion-hunter and a swordsman, I, Moreover, I am skilled in archery: A famous bowman, who of men alone Can drive his arrows through the hardest stone. Besides my courage, tried in desperate wars, I know to read the riddle of the stars. First in the service of Emeer Rhojend, Who, friend to none, has none to be his friend, Him have I left, I hope, an honest man, To serve, if so he wills, the Lord of Teberistan. To whom in answer: I have men enow, Stalwart like thee, apt with the sword and bow; These no king lacks, or need to: what we need Are men who may be trustedword and deed; Who, to keep pain from us, would yield their breath, Faithful in life, and faithfuller in death. Try me. As thrice the monarch claps his hands, The Captain of the Guard before him stands, Amazed that one, unknown of him, hnd come In to the king, and fearful of his doom. Sternly his lord: You guard me, slave, so well That I have made this man my sentinel. Thus did the happy archer gain his end, And thus his sovereign find at last a friend, Who from that hour was to his service bound, Keen as his hawk, and faithful as his hound. Now when a moon of nights had taen its flight, Amid the darkness of a summer night, 1~ntered, in the year 1870. by G. P. PUTIAM & SON, in the Clerks 001cr arge District Court of the U. S. for the Southern District of N. Y. VOL. Yi.l 10 PumA:~es MAGAZINE. [July, The king awoke, alarmed, with fluttering breath, Like one who struggles in the toils of death, And wandered to his lattice, which stood wide, Whence, down below him in the court, he spied A shadowy figure with a threatening spear. What man art thou ?it manand wherefore here? Your sentinel, and servant, 0 my lord! Hearken! They did. And now a voice was heard, But whether from the desert far away, Or from the neighbor-garden, who could say? So far it was, yet near, so loud, yet low; Who calls? it said. It sighed, I go! I go! Then spake the pallid king, in trouble sore, Have you this dreadful summons heard before? That voice, or something like it, have I heard (Perchance the walling of some magic bird) Three nights, and at this very hour, 0 king! But could not quit my post to seek the thing. But now, if you command me, I will try, Where the sound was, to find the mystery. Go! follow where it leads, if anywhere, And what it is, and means, to me declare; It may be ill, but I will hope the best: But haste, for I am weary, and must rest. Softly, as or~e that would surprise a thief, Who might detect the rustling of a leaf, The sentinel stole out into the night, Nor knew that the king kept him still in sight, Behind him, with a blanket oer his head, Black-draped down to his feet, as he were dead; But the spear trembled in his hands, his knees Weakened ;at length he sank beneath the trees. Again the voice was heard, and now more near Than when it faded lastit was so clear: I go! What man wit? force me to return? Now, thought the wondering soldier, I shall learn Who speaks, and why. And, looking up, he saw What filled his simple soul with love and awe A noble woman, standing by his side, Who might have been the widow or the bride Of some great king, so much of joy and woe Hung on the perfect lips that breathed, I go, Shone in the quenchless eyes, dimmed the bright hair No woman, born of woman, halt so fair! Most beautiful! who art thou? Know, 0 man, I am his life, who rules in Teberistan The spirit of your lord, whose end is nigh, Except some friendwhat friend ?for him will die. Can I ? But she : Tis written you must live.~~ What, then,my life rejected,can I give? You have a son, she whispered in his ear, Feeling her way, it seemed, in hope and fear, Lest what she would demand should be denied. He pressed a sudden hand against his side 1870.] THE KINGS SENTINEL. 11 Where his heart ached, but spake not. Fetch your son, And I remain; refuse, and I am gone Even while we parley. Stifling the great sigh That heaved his breast, he answered, He shall die. And now for the first time he was aware Besides themselves there was a Presence there, Which made his blood run cold, but did not shake His resolution that, for the kings sake, His boy must perish. So he said, I go, And like the swiftest arrow from his bow The phantom vanished, and he went to bring His sleeping child as ransom for the king, Leaving that strange, bright woman there alone; Who, smiling sadly, soon as he was gone, Ran to her lord, fallen upon the ground; And while she lifted his dead weight, and wound Her arm~ around him, and her tears did rain, Kissed his cold lips, till, warmed, they kissed her own again! Meanwhile the sentinel down the royal park Groped his way homeward, stumbling in the dark, Uncertain of himself and all about; For the low branches were as hands thrust out But whether to urge faster, or delay, Since they both clutched and pushed, he could not say; Nor, so irregular his hearts wild beat, Whether he ran, or dragged his lagging feet! When, half a league being over, he was near His poor, mean hut, there broke upon his ear As from a child who wakes in dreams of pain, And, while its parents listen, sleeps again A cry like Father IWhence, and whose, the cry? Was it from out the hut, or in the sky? What if some robber with the boy had fled? Whatdreadful thought !what if the boy were dead? He reached the door in haste, and found it barred, As when at set of sun he went on guard, Shutting the lad in from all nightly harms, As safe as in the loving mother arms Which could no longer fold him: all was fast, No footstep since his own that night had passed Across the thresholdno man had been there; Twas still within, and cold, and dark, and bare ; Bare, but not dark; for, opening now the door, The fitful moon, late hidden, out once more Thrust its sharp crescent through the starless gloom Like a long cimetar, and smote the room With pitiless brightness, and himself with dread, Poor, childless man !for there his child was dead! He spake not, wept not, stirred not; one might say, Till that first awful moment passed away, He was not, but some dead man in his place Stood, with a deathless sorrow in its face! Thenfor a heart so stricken as was his, So suddenly set upon by agonies, 12 PurN~s MAGAZINE. [July, Must find as sudden a relief or break He wept a little for his own sad sake, And for the boy that lay there without breath, Whom he so freely sacrificed to Death! Thereafter kneeling softly by the bed, Face buried, and hands wrung above his head, He said what prayer came to him; and be sure The prayers of all men at such times are pure. At last he rose, and lifting to his heart Its precious burdenlimbs that dropped apart Hands that no longer clasped himlittle feet That nevermore would run his own to meet, Wrapping his cloak round all with loving care, To shield it from the dew and the cold air, He staggered slowly out in the black night. Nowhere was that strange woman now in sight To take the child; but at the palace gate The king stood waiting himreprieved of Fate! What was it, soldier? God preserve the King I Twas nothing. Tell me, quickly. A small thing Not worth your hearing.In the park I found A lonely woman sitting on the ground, Wailing her husband, who had done her wrong, Whose house she had forsakenbut not long; For I made peace between themdried the tears, And added some, I hope, to their now happy years. What bear you there? A child I was to bring He paused a moment It is mine, 0 king I I followed, and know all.So young to die Poor thing Ifor me! . . You should be King, not I. You shall be my Viziershake not your head; I swear it shall be so.Be comforted. For this dead child of yours, who met my doom, I will have built for him a costly tomb Of divers marbles, glorious to behold, With many a rich device inlaid of gold, Ivory, and precious stones, and thereupon ]3lazoned the name and story of your son, And yours,Vizier,of whom shall history tell That never King but one had such a sentinel I 1870.] SALMON-FISHING ON THE ThPIssIGuIT. 13 SALMON-FISHING ON THE NIPISSIGUIT. ON one occasion while on the Nipis- siguit, as I was sitting under the lee of a cedar-bark smudge, enjoying the fragrant smoke that drove away the mosquitoes, and had just finished the recital of a favorite verse, I saw a fish break the surface on the opposite side of the pool. Bruno, I said, did you see that? Yes, sir, I see him very good. Gril- so, sir, grilso; saumon no lay dare, wa- ter too shallow. My canoeman had scarcely finished speaking, when there was another break; a swirl in which a fish showed its broad tail as it disappeared. But you know, Bruno, that salmon are apt to lie in shallow water, if it is near the head of the pool, when the river is as high as it is now; of course, when the water falls, they will be found lower down where it is deeper. I re- plied thus as I drew the line through the rings of my rod, and began freeing it for a cast. At that moment Roma Veno, ap- proaching from the other side of our smudge, said: Try him, sir; grilso no got tail like dat; saumon, sir, saumon. I had already taken the hint from the fishs broad caudal. Alternately draw- ing an arms-length from the reel and casting, I had almost covered the place where I saw the rise, when a trout seized my fly as I was retrieving for another cast, and striking short, I snapped my tip near the splice. Sacr6, said Bruno, dat bad luck. Reel him in, reel him in, sir; let Roma take him ofi while I go for nudder tip. And in a moment he disappeared amongst the cedars on his way to our shanty. With vexation which it was hard to repress, I landed a beautiful three-pound sea-trout, which, on any stream in the States, I would have been a half- hour in killing with light tackle, and would have considered it a handsome prize. But Roma taking the hook from its mouth, administered a hearty kick, sending it some twenty feet inland, with Aha I you tink you saumon, you beggar, you; you no rise to fly no more. In but a few minutes more than I have taken to record this mishap, Bin- no, waving the new tip above his head, and bounding from rock to rock, came down the hill. It was soon spliced on, and in a few minutes more I again han- dled my seventeen-foot withe. I fraid you no reach him; dat very long cast, said Bruno. You shall know; I have see Cap- tain make longer cast as dat, replied Roma. I continued drawing an arms-length from my reel, and casting alternately, each throw dropping my Silver Gray three feet nearer the fatal spot. When I covered the place, some twenty-five yards off; my fly falling lightly and tak- ing the drift of the current, there was a bulge, an upheaval of the surface. I did not see the fish, but my rod bent, and there was a heavy strain on my line as the salmon went down. Ugh! grunted Roma. You got him now, fast as a steeple-church. Ha, ha! nogrilso; saumon, sir, big saumon. The fish treated me with perfect in- difference, as if aware of the ten feet of single gut that tapered the end of my casting-line, and moved off sturdily, but slowly, towards the deeper water. But gradually realizing that there was something wrong with a hook in its snout, and a certain tension bearing on it, it became uneasy, but showed no fight. Very lazy fish, I said. You know better after while; hard for him know he danger yet, replied Bruno.

Thaddeus Norris Norris, Thaddeus Salmon-Fishing on the Nipissigut 13-23

1870.] SALMON-FISHING ON THE ThPIssIGuIT. 13 SALMON-FISHING ON THE NIPISSIGUIT. ON one occasion while on the Nipis- siguit, as I was sitting under the lee of a cedar-bark smudge, enjoying the fragrant smoke that drove away the mosquitoes, and had just finished the recital of a favorite verse, I saw a fish break the surface on the opposite side of the pool. Bruno, I said, did you see that? Yes, sir, I see him very good. Gril- so, sir, grilso; saumon no lay dare, wa- ter too shallow. My canoeman had scarcely finished speaking, when there was another break; a swirl in which a fish showed its broad tail as it disappeared. But you know, Bruno, that salmon are apt to lie in shallow water, if it is near the head of the pool, when the river is as high as it is now; of course, when the water falls, they will be found lower down where it is deeper. I re- plied thus as I drew the line through the rings of my rod, and began freeing it for a cast. At that moment Roma Veno, ap- proaching from the other side of our smudge, said: Try him, sir; grilso no got tail like dat; saumon, sir, saumon. I had already taken the hint from the fishs broad caudal. Alternately draw- ing an arms-length from the reel and casting, I had almost covered the place where I saw the rise, when a trout seized my fly as I was retrieving for another cast, and striking short, I snapped my tip near the splice. Sacr6, said Bruno, dat bad luck. Reel him in, reel him in, sir; let Roma take him ofi while I go for nudder tip. And in a moment he disappeared amongst the cedars on his way to our shanty. With vexation which it was hard to repress, I landed a beautiful three-pound sea-trout, which, on any stream in the States, I would have been a half- hour in killing with light tackle, and would have considered it a handsome prize. But Roma taking the hook from its mouth, administered a hearty kick, sending it some twenty feet inland, with Aha I you tink you saumon, you beggar, you; you no rise to fly no more. In but a few minutes more than I have taken to record this mishap, Bin- no, waving the new tip above his head, and bounding from rock to rock, came down the hill. It was soon spliced on, and in a few minutes more I again han- dled my seventeen-foot withe. I fraid you no reach him; dat very long cast, said Bruno. You shall know; I have see Cap- tain make longer cast as dat, replied Roma. I continued drawing an arms-length from my reel, and casting alternately, each throw dropping my Silver Gray three feet nearer the fatal spot. When I covered the place, some twenty-five yards off; my fly falling lightly and tak- ing the drift of the current, there was a bulge, an upheaval of the surface. I did not see the fish, but my rod bent, and there was a heavy strain on my line as the salmon went down. Ugh! grunted Roma. You got him now, fast as a steeple-church. Ha, ha! nogrilso; saumon, sir, big saumon. The fish treated me with perfect in- difference, as if aware of the ten feet of single gut that tapered the end of my casting-line, and moved off sturdily, but slowly, towards the deeper water. But gradually realizing that there was something wrong with a hook in its snout, and a certain tension bearing on it, it became uneasy, but showed no fight. Very lazy fish, I said. You know better after while; hard for him know he danger yet, replied Bruno. 14 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, The salmon gradually increased its speed, and then in a bold run of forty yards sought the foot of the terrible rapid that came pouring in at the head of the pool. Presenting the butt of my rod towards the fish, and bringing the point well back over my shoulder, I turned her. She came diagonally down- stream towards me as I ran backward, reeling in and regaining most of my line. Give when you must, and take when you can; still this is a dull fish, I thought. Lazy saumon, muttered Roma; maybe Monsieur kill him in dis pool. He wake up bime-by, replied Bruno. Then my old reel discoursed music that reminded me of a rattle- snake, and three feet of molten silver shot above the surface, and glimmered for an instant in the rays of the morn- ing sun. Then there was a lull, then a circuitous run, and another leap, and she turned her nose down-stream. Canoe! exclaimed Bruno, shaking his paddle above his head excitedly, and beckoning to his companion. Keeping the point of my rod well up, and a taut line, I stepped into the canoe, steadied by Brunos arm. We pushed rapidly out from the shore, the fish by this time having run out two thirds of my line, when she stopped in the eddy of a boulder. Arr~te, said Bruno; and Roma, whostoodinthebow,snubbedthe headway of our birch stoutly with his setting-pole. Then, as we approached her,I reeled in half the line she had taken, whea she started again. La, La! avante! Him sure to go over de pitch, cried Bruno. Au terre? asked Roma, hesitating to shoot the rapid. Bali! no, no, an large, responded Bruno. Then turning to me, No time for de shore-channel; have to run de pitch. Down on your knee, sir, and brace yousef hard gin de mid strip; and with one vigorous sweep of his paddle, he sent our bark into the main channel. Roma dropping his pole, and seizing his paddle, kneeled in the bow, and both paddled with all their might. With a wild whoop, we ran the pitch. The flight of our canoe was like that of an arrow; the gray rocks seeming to pass like phantoms up-stream as we shot past. The stem of our birch part- ed the troubled waves below, and a del- uge of spray came over us. The men shook themselves like a pair of Newfoundland dogs, as I reeled up the slack of my line. Finding the fish still fast, I landed on the ledge of rock that formed one shoulder of the pitch. We will fight it out here, my lady, I said, as I forced her into the eddy. She came reluctantly, with much des perate shaking and sawing of her head, and a stubborn disposition to sulk. But I kept her moving; and after a few runs, each showing that her pluck was gone and her strength declining, I saw her dark-blue back and silver sides. In a few minutes I drew her into a little cove. Brunos gaff went hook-deep into her side, and she was landed on the rocks after a contest of nearly an hour. The spring-balance was produced from my satchel, the hook inserted in her snout, and down went the index, mark- ing twenty-nine pounds,a fresh-run fish, measuring three feet four inches. This, with the exception of the un- common size of the fish for the Kipis- siguit, and running the pitch at that stage of water, had been a matter of daily occurrence for more than a week. I had hooked this fish in the Big pool, and had landed a brace of twelve- pounders at the Middle Pool as I came down. These we picked up as we went up the river. I cast a longing look at the Flat Rock Pool on our way to our shanty, but the water was too wild for that cast; so I toiled up the hill with a merry heart and a stout appetite. In front are the Papineau, or, asthe inhabitants call them, the Pabineau Falls. We are seven miles from Bath- urst, where I bought my stores and em- barked with these same canoemen who had served me several summers before. With an old chum in Philadelphia I own one third of the rod-fishing on this 1870.] SALMON-FISHING ON THE NIPISSIGUIT. 15 river. lie was detained at home, and my friend Walter, who came with me from New York, satisfied the senti- ment by killing a score or so of sal- mon, and left me a week ago. How did I get here? Why, of course, I came from Boston by steamer to St. John, where Walter and I spent a few days with my old fish- ing-companion, Nicholson, who, I am happy to say, will join me at the Grand Falls, fifteen miles above, in the course of a week or ten days. From St. John we came to Shediac by the Intercolonial Railroad. Every thing of that sort, in- cluding stage-lines and taverns, are in- tercolonial or international in this Province of New Brunswick. Then we came leisurely by stage and private ex- press along through Chatham, crossed the Miramichi and stopped at Mrs. Har- ris, the half-way house on the road to Bathurst, where we stayed a day and went trout-fishing. I must tell you about it. It was an hour by sun when we got there. The little riverI mean the Tabasintacwas in good flow. Walter could not wait until next morning, but must take a few casts. So with bloody intent he put up his rod, tied on his casting-line, and selected for his whip a brace of bright-red hackles, while I kept off the mosquitoes and blackflies. Then anointing his face and hands with a little tar, diluted with sweet oil, he made a bee-line for the upper end of the meadow, a hundred yards off. I knew what was coming next day, so I did not put up my rod, but followed after to string his fish. At his first cast he hooked a brace of trout, and by sup- per-time he had caught a string of them as long as his legsmall, however, not averaging over a foot long. The following morning we embarked on a craft which is a peculiar institu- tionin New Brunswicka large dug- out canoe, the motive power a pair of good horses. It was driven by young Harris; so, floating smoothly through pools, rumbling over cobble-stones and grating our Argos bottom on pebbly shallows, in about two hours we made the mouth of the Escadillac, which joins the Tabasintac seven miles below. I can assure you therewashavoc amongst the finians. Under a bright midday sun we killed trout ad nau8eam. It ceased to be sport. Walter, I said, as we travelled back in this delightful conveyance, do mc a sum in cubic measure. I took the length and breadth of the bunk into which we had thrown our fish, and then measured the depth to which we had filled it. If I studied Pikes old arith- metic to any purpose when I was a boy, and 21.50~ cubic inchesas old Hutton has itis a Winchester bushel, we had something over five bushels of bright sea-trout. We did not count them all, but threw into a pile a hundred, the smallest of which weighed two pounds. Many of them weighed four pounds, although young Harris regretted that there were no large ones in the pool at the time. We would have ceased this murder sooner, but Harris per- suaded us to keep on fishing a while longer, as it would save him the trouble of coming down to drag the pool with his net, which he did occasionally through the summer to get trout to salt down. An ordinary trout casting-line was of no use, especially when fishing with two flies; for, getting a dead pull against each other, one or both fish would break loose and carry off part of the leader or a gut-length. So we used a salmon casting-line and a salmon fly; generally an old worn-out one left from a previous summer. As long as there was feather or dubbing left on the hook they would seize it. Spirit of Father Isaac! absolve me! I will sin no more in this way. Better wade Broad- heads creek till noon, and have barely as many speckled in the bottom of my creel as will make a roast for din- ner, than perpetrate an enormity of this kind. But come, take a view of my camp, here on this broad, flat mass of granite which fronts these Pabineau Fafls, whose troubled waters have sung that same hoarse song for ages. This is our shanty. Some of those rascally vandals PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, of Ferguson who were clearing the jam of logs here in the gorge last Spring, stabled their mules in our old log hut, and knocked off some of the slabs on the roog to pitch in their hay from above. But you see my boys have patched it with spruce and birch bark, and now it is as tight as a kettle. You will observe we have new benches and tables, which they rived from one of Fergusons logs; and that my camp. keeper has laid a slab edgcwise and piled dirt against the log chimney out- side where that hole is burnt in it; and now it does not smoke any worse than it did last summer. When the emanations of that splendid fireplace are beyond endurance, I go to my tent, which you observe is pitched on that little grass sward, and drawing my mosquito net, read and tie ffies during the heat of the day; leaving the threescore of kipper- ed salmon, which you see slatted and hanging by cedar-bark strings from the rafters, to receive the undivided benefit of the smoke; that is, when my men decline participating in such benefit by sitting out-of-doors. When there is no cooking going on, we make a smudge outside before the door, and then it is bearable inside. This is our dining- room, kitchen, workshop, storehouse, and the mens dormitory, when the smoke or the mosquitoes will allow them to sleep; for at night, when the smoke is out these pests are in. Maybe you may not like this kind of lifea little rugged, perhaps. But there is Dashwood, of Her Majestys Fusileers, says he doesnt care much for salmon-fishing in Scotland or Ire- land, where there is a water-bailiff every hundred yards along the river, and where cockney anglers eat their plum-pudding and drink their port in sumptuous fishing-lodges. He laughed ~when I asked him about the fishing on the Galway, and told me he had hooked and killed salmon on that river from a wharf with a warehouse alongside. He says he likes this happy-go-lucky way of sportingplenty of hopen an. A very good type of a Saxon is that athletic little Captain Dashwood. When he fishes this river he has only one canoe- man; he takes the bow of the canoe himself. When he goes to the lake at the head of the river for moose and car- raboo, and his Indian gets unruly or obstinate, by way of moral suasion he punches his head to make him tracta- ble. As we have fortified our inner works, let us light our pipes and take a walk. The scene before ussave the green trees and the blue skyis a record of violenceof a long-continued conflict of the elements. See how the contrac- tion of this little ball on which we live, as it cooled, opened fissures in the hard granite, which extends northeast and southwest for hundreds of miles. Wher. ever the river crosses its course it crops out. Here you observe we are on a slope of this primitive rock, and the river at one time descended it in a broad, smooth shallow. But finding these fissures in some places close to- gether and extending along its course, it called to its aid the disintegrating frosty its Spring freshets, and masses of floating ice; and so has worn that rough, turbulent channeL By such agents, masses of granite, some of them large enough to load a good-sized schooner, have been torn from the gorge, and strewn along the river for miles be- low. You observe where the river comes with such a din over that fall into the head of Flat-rock Pool; there it is not wider than the length of my salmon- rod. I have seen salmon jump that fall in cloudy weather at this stage of water. All that go up the river, and they are tons upon tons,* leap that narrow cata- ract. Let us take our course down the river along the path that leads through that grove of tall spindling yellow pines, where there is such a commotion amongst the crows,we cannot hear theirerowing * The number of salmon taken in the bay and estuary of this river, between the let of June and the let of August, 1869, was about 27,500; at an average of 10 lbs. to the flab, this would be 275,- 000 lbs., or 137 tons, 10 cwt., or 3,375 barrels. There were about 600 salmon taken above tide with the fly, to say nothing of grilse; 5. e., young salmon of 3 or 4 pounds 1870.] SALMON-FISHING ON THE NIPISSIGUIT. 17 from here on account of the noise of the water. Every summer they colo- nize th2re for a time to build their nests and rear their young. I see Bruno there at the pooi where I hooked my big fish this morning; we will take a canoe and cross the still part of it to the portage. There is, necessarily, a portage here, or a carry, as you would say in the Adirondacks; for the river here, in its 8aults and cataracts, falls about eighty feet in a distance of three hundred yards. Now you can look up the gorgesoftly there, Bruno, hold out your paddle and rescue that little red squirrelso. Poor little fellow; the current, even here, is too strong for him in so long a passage; but they will at- tempt it at the risk of their lives. The grand passion impels them, and the Ilellespont could not restrain them at this season of the year. They breed in communities here as the crows do. There is a little island with a stunted growth of trees on it, just across the little back channel above our camp, where they collect every summer. There is a great chattering there later in the season, when their fuzzy little babies come. See how he suns himself on the blade of that paddle. Now he is as good as new: over he goes and makes toward land without even shaking a thankee to us for giving him a free passage. You ask if there is no fishing be- tween this and Bathurstl Lots of it. The tide flows three miles above the vil- lage to the foot of the Rough Waters. The salmon-pools extend thence for a mile or more up along the river. First comes the Gravel Pool, then, in succes- sion, the Grand Chain Pool, the Rolls, Camp Pool, Willis Pitch, Millers Pitch, the Long Hole, Buchets Falls, Procters Rock, and a dozen others that I know, but cannot now recall their names. Mr. Spurr fished the Rough Waters last sum- mer, as early as the 20th of June, and had good sport. Betweenthis and Rough Waters there is a station called Round Rock, where there are a half-dozen good casts. But who comes here, pushing through .Big Pool, right over the lay of the sal- mon I I am afraid it will spoil my after- noons fishing there. As they must make the portage here, I will see who they are. Travellers are so few and far between on the river at this season, that we claim it as a right to know where they are going, and what for. Who are they, Bruno? Indians, sir, goin spear salmon above. I see de jaws of he spear stick- in out de top of he bag. Indians? Why, one of them has a red head! Indian, sir, for all dat; he live on de island in de bay dare long wid Prisque. He cull himsef Indian, anyhow. May- be he half Indian. And maybe the other half mission- ary; I wish we could catch them spear- ing. Too smart for dat, sir; dey go down before mornin, and have twenty, thirty saumon sell to de sousery man in de harbor. It is not lawful to spear salmon above tide-water; and though not sportsman- like, I witnessed it once for the novelty of the thing. It is a grand night-scene to see a stalwart fellow in the bow of his canoe, the glare of his fiambeau lighting up his bronzed features as he poises his spear in the attitude of strik- ing,very different from the pictures we sometimes see of it in our illustrated periodicals. I have one before me now, showing what conception an author or artist sometimes forms of a thing he has never seen. It has in the foreground a canoe, with a fire on the bottom, in the middle, and a nude Indian standing up on a level with the gunwale in front of it, in the attitude of spearing a salmon, which, from his relative position to the fire, he cannot see. As I look at this picture of Salmon-Spearing in Ore- gon, I cannot help but exclaim, Fool- ish Indian! Do you suppose that you are in the torrid zone, that you go thus unattired like an Adamite? Why come naked and shivering out into the night- air of the frigid North? No leggins or ragged trowsers, no blanket or old coat to warm your poor carcass. Get down from your elevated position, and put 18 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, out that fire before it burns a hole in the bottom or sides of your canoe. You have no more appreciation of where you are, or what you are trying to do, than an editor of a New York weekly. Old Prisque, the chief of the fellows who have just passed up the river, would drive you from his huts as drunk or crazy for behaving thus. Go now, you unsagacious savage, and cut a stick as thick as your ankle and as long as your- self. Split one end and drive in a small fiat stone to keep it open, and light your birch-bark or pine fiambean, and stick it in the cleft. Then stand on the bow, brace your knees against the gunwale, and step the stick that it may pro- ject out beyond the stem of your canoe like a bowsprit. With the torch thus, you can see ahead and on either side, and will not stand in your own light, or cast your shadow ahead, scaring the sal- mon, but you can see them when they dont see you. So poling along gently, with the butt of your spear-handle or your companion in the stern paddling noiselessly, you will come warily upon them, and can strike one when you see it. Let us push back over the river again, Bruno. But stop here in the middle. As I look up the gorge I see the only cast on the left side. It is there where you clamber down two precipices, each as high as my head; and where, if one hooks a fish, he has to clamber back and fight him from the high bank. It is a good pooi at high water, however. A few days ago, I had a desperate fight with a seventeen- pounder I hooked there. He ran me down along the edge of that high cliff; where, if I had made a false step, I would have gone headlong into the river or on the rock thirty feet below. After a stubborn contest, he stuck his nose against the rock at the head of that rapidyou can see it from here. I thought he was off and had left my hook fast. But the boys ran down to the landing we have just left for their birch, and by tremendous efforts pushed up where likely canoe never was before. Finding the fish still on, they gave hir~i a start, and we only gaffed him after we got to the landing a hundred yards be- low. A favorite old camp is Grand Falls, where my tent is now pitched. Those who travel the river to or from the lum- ber regions above make it an object to stop here all night when they make the portage of the Falls. The toiling canoe- men, as they pole their bark laden with the angler and his outfit against the stubborn stream, look to it as a haven of rest. It is the anglers paradise, and many pleasant days have been passed hereby jolly brethren of the rod, who have travelled far by land, or crossed the Atlantic to fish at the far-famed Grand Falls. I have pleasant memo- ries of this old camp,the bright rush- ing river below, and the hill rising be- hind covered with luscious berries; the songs and stories of the simple calioe- men; the oozy meadow with its wild shrubbery, where choirs of song-birds rouse the angler from his early morning slumber, that he may souse his head in the cold brook and prepare for his days sport. I have lit my pipe at the camp- fire here at sunrise and killed a brace of twelve-pounders at Rock Pool before I knocked the ashes out. The pools in succession, beginning above, are Falls Pool, Hagertys Pool, Camp Pool, Rock Pool, Coopers Point, the Unlucky, and many more below the basin. By walking ten steps from our bark-shanty one can look down, when the water is clear, and count every fish in Camp Pool. The grilso can even be distinguished from the larger salmon. When anglers are here in company, it is nothing uncommon for one of them, from the point just mentioned, to see his chum hook and play a salmon in Camp Pool. It is an interesting exhi- bition. The height above and the great angle at which he looks down enables the observer to see the fish rise and take the fly. The whole contest,the runs, jumps, sulks, and finally bringing the fish to gafinre as plainly visible as if the fight was on land. I had been here four or five days without much fishing. The continned 1870.] SALMoN-FIsHING ON THE NIPISSIGtrIL 19 heavy rain kept the river too high, al- though I killed a fish daily close in- shore at the landing on the opposite side above Coopers Point. About the expiration of the time just mentioned, an incident occurred,, strange to say, caused the abandonment of this fine old camp, and established a n~w one at the head of the basin a half- mile below. To the annoyance of an- glers, the basin had been subjected every summer to more or less night- poaching. Old Prisques Indians would come up from their island in the bay and spear it; and net-fishers from Mid- dle River, some eight miles to the east, and from the northwest branch of the Miramichi to the west, would in the darkness sweep the jaws of this fine sheet of water; or setting their net, would drive them into its meshes. When infrequent visitors, therefore, would visit our camp or loiter around, if the explanation as to the nature of their business was questionable, we were apt to suspect that they were go- ing to poach the basin. Bruno had met two stalwart fellows in the rough timber road a hundred rods back of the camp, and another came to our shanty one day, and asked such questions and gave such replies to our queries as induced us to conchXde that they intended to net the basin that night. So we determined to watch and prevent it. Accordingly at dusk, leaving Peter to keep camp, I took the other men, and we paddled softly down the river. All the firearms we had was Romas cheap single-barrel- ed gun,a very inefficient weaponand the law on our side, with which to en- counter the poachers: we did not know how many there were. We took our position close in-shore, under the shadow of a precipitous rock, opposite a pebbly beach, where they must necessarily land to prepare their net, if they came. We were careful to avoid any bumping of the canoe or other noise; our words were few, and only in whispers. We waited an hour, and thought of giving up our vigils, when Roma inquired in an undertone~ Hear dat? No, I replied; for to my ears no sound broke the deep stillness. fish, said Bruno, after a lapse of a few minutes, hear em agin? Then a low whistle from far down the east side of the basia was borne on the night-breeze. In a few minutes more we heard a sound as if of muffled oars, which grew distinct as they approached. In ten or fifteen minutes they landed some eighty yards from us on the opposite shore, and after waiting a short time, struck a light and built a fire. They threw on some light stuW and Roma counted five, six, eight burly figures, as they passed between ourselves and the bright blaze. Growing more confidentthey talk aloud, and from their brogue they were of the Emerald Isle, or were provincial Irish. What could we do,a rather short- winded old man, stiff in the knees, who had lost his figure, and two timid French Blue Noses,against such odds? It was ludicrous, though serious to think it. I did not give up my pur- pose, however, but resolved to put on a bold front and speak as one in author- ity. They cut their light billets to buoy up the cork-line of their net and after other preliminaries, got it into the stern of their skiff, and stretched it across the entrance to the basin. Then going below in their boat, they beat the water to drive the salmon into the fatal meshes. Presently Roma said he heard the salmon striking the net, and I could stand it no longer. Softly, boys, we will get close along- side, I said, cocking the gun, as we paddled silently from our hiding-place towards them. When we got within ten or fifteen yards, Roma, in his excite- ment, addressed Bruno audibly in his provincial idiom. Who the devils that talking French? exclaimed Redding, the lead- er, and then there was a dead silence. That will do, my good fellows, I said. You have gone far enough. Now I want you to go, and go quick. I have something here that is good for four or five of your number, at any rate, if you do not. 20 There was a commotion, and a con- fusion of voices amongst them. At length Redding (the man who had vis- ited our camp) was heard: In with the net! haul it ashore! Douce that fire. His orders were obeyed instantly. There was a lively, bustling time. In a few minutes the net was in the boat, and they were pulling, as if the old Harry had kicked them, down the basin. One unlucky fellow was some- how left behind. He hallooed to them and cursed and swore some. But there was no waiting. He was told, as they went ofl to run down the shore a half-mile and they would take him in. But his progress was soon barred by a perpendicular bluff on one side and the waterhe did not know how deepon the other. Then there was more curs- ing and loud hallooing to his compan- ions; but after a while it ceased. So also did the sound of the deftly-plied oars gradually die away in the distance. We had drawn a long breath on their departure; and Bruno, whose voice was quavering a few minutes before, now broke into a loud laugh, as he slapped Roma on the back with his paddle, say- ing, Did you hear de Captain cuss? dat make em go so quick. Oh, Captain, I tought you was Sunday-man. I know some mans fish Sundays never cuss savage like you did dat time. I never hear you say sich ting before, Captain. I tried to explain to Bruno that my cussing was with the same intent as intimating that I held a six-shooter in my hand, and that it was as harmless and at the same time, perhaps, more efficacious than Romas four-dollar gun. The poachers could have ducked us in the basin and continued fishing, if they had chosen to do so. But they did not know but what Hickson, the fish-war- den, and a posse was at hand. And as we had the law on our side, and three of them at least could be identified, they substituted discretion for resist- ance, and vacated. In the morning I decided to do what had been talked of for many yearsto establish a camp at the Jaws for the [July, protection of the basin. So we moved down tent, bag, and baggage; teapot, oven, and kettle. The water being still too high for good fishing, we devoted two days to making a new camp, locat- ing it on a bluff that went sheer down fifty feet to the water. We trimmed out the undergrowth, lopped off the lower branches of the young spruces to adx~it of a free circulation of air, and cleaned up a good space where tents could be pitched. I named the camp after a dear Irish lady, who once spent a week with her husband and myself on the river Camp Olivia. Then the water began falling, and, as a matter-of-course, the salmon commenced rising. Twere vain to tell of the many stubborn con- tests I had with the fresh-run fish that had come up on the rise of the river. For three days I had sport galore; on the last I entered ten fish on my score, whose aggregate weight was a hundred and twenty-one pounds. I took them mostly at Coopers Point. It was a dark day, with a chilly, spitting rain; so the fish, which lay close into the Point, not being disturbed by my pres- ence or movements, took my bright orange fly almost at the end of my rod. I was wet, cold, and tired, when I re- turned to camp that evening. After putting on a dry coat and eating a hearty supper, I was laying on the fir- boughs listening to Romas fiddle, when, rising to light my pipe, I looked toward the ]anding and saw the bright glare of a flambcau. It soon approached along the path, and I heard a cheery voice, as it came, singing, Oh, love is the soul of the nate Irishman; lie loves all that is lovely, loves all that ho can. with his sprig of shilalah and shamrock so green And then Nick, for whom I had been waiting so long, came through the bushes and slapped me on the shoulder. There was short greeting, and then an exclamation, Dont you see I have a mouth in my face? Put on your tea- kettle. Divil the morsel but the stem of my pipe has passed my lips since one oclock, when I dined at Mid Landing. There was a beast of a salmon, too, that PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. 1870.] SALMON-FISHING ON THE NIPISSIGtTIT. 21 played me an hour and ran down the Big Chain. Then I killed another, and fished on until neither I nor the fish could see the fly. So you see I am be- lated and hungry. We soon had the potatoes boiling, the tea-kettle sputtering, and a salmon steak between the wires of the broiler before the fire. While Peter was getting sup- per ready, the other boys were bringing up Nicks luggage, and returuing with their last load, Ned Veno laid before us three handsome salmon, weighing re- spectively eleven, fourteen, and eighteen pounds; it was the largest fish that had gone over the Big Chain. On his way up Nick spent a few days with Mr. Spurr, who had exchanged stations with me, going down to Pabineau on the day I came up to Grand Falls. They both had good sport at Pabineau, as the easterly winds and the freshet had brought in a new school of salmon, and with them a great many grilso. The water, had fallen sufficiently to put the Flat Rock Pool in splendid condi- tion. It was full of fish, and one morn~ ing there, before noon, Nick killed nine- teen salmon and grilso. Cork or Denville? asked Nick, when we had finished our pipes after supper. I am as thirsty as a sirocco. Cork, he continued, is the king of all whiskies. I know the old caubeen on the River Lee, where it is made, and Cork it shall be. Stir up the fire, Peter, and let us hear the music of the kettle, and then bring us the groceries. Nicks menNed and Francis Veno had a tough time of it pushing up in the drizzling rain; so he ordered one of them to get a bottle of whisky from out of the straw-packed box to warm the inner man of all of our five re- tainers. We had a jolly time that even- ing; I recounted my adventures with the poachers; Bruno and Roma told the same story to the new-comers, not forgetting, of course, to give due im- portance to the Captains cussing. As the evening wore away, and the whisky had its wonted influence, bear stories and other stories were told all around. At length Nick called to his man, Give a song, Ned; give us Whisky in the Jug. Thats a song that has made more highwaymen than all the stories about Dick Turpin. Ned cleared his throat, and asking us to join in the chorus, sang in a full, musical voice: WHISKY IN THE JUG. I am a roving fellow, that never could be daunted, Sometimes I hadmoney, and sometimes it I wanted; But roving for pleasure it always was my folly, Till I fell in love with you, my charming Molly. Musha whack fa rowdy dow, Whack row for raddy 0. Theres whisky in the jug. As I walkcd out one morning down by the Wick- low Mountain, I met with colonel Pepper, and his money he was counting. First I drew my broadsword, and then I drew my weeper, Stand and deliver, for I am the bould deceiver. Musha whack lh rowdy dow, & c. I got a handsome penny, and I put it inmy pocket; I put it in my pocket, and I took it home to Molly. I tould how I got it, and she swore shed neer decave me; But the Deevel in the weemen, for they niver can be aisy. Musha whack fa rowdy dow, & c. I went to Mollys chamber all for to take a slumber, All for to take a slumber. I thought that no harm; But she drew my loaded pistols, and~she filled them up with water, And prisoner I was taken like a lomb led to slaughter. Musha whack fa rowdy dow, & c. Twas early in the morning, between six and siven, I found I was surrounded by the hould captain Irvin. I flew to my pistols, and I found I was mistaken, For they were filled with water, and prianer I was taken. Musha whack fa rowdy dow, & c. I have three brothers, and they are in the army; There two of them at Cork and the other at Killarney. And if I had them with me, I would ho both gay and jolly, For Id rather have them here with me than you false.hearted Molly. Musha whack fa rowdy dow, & c. They took me to the kitchen, when the roll was a-calling, And then into a room where the turnkey was a-bawling. With my metal ball I knocked the sentry down, And made my escape to sweet Philips town. Musha whack fa rowdy dow, & c. o Willie, dearest Willie, you are a gallant soldier, You carry your firelock all on your left shoulder. PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. And if you meet a gintleman, youll surely make him tremble; With your whustle to yourmouth, yeurparty youll assemble. Musha whack fa rowdy dow, & c. I had heard Ned sing this song fre- quently. Although a provincial French- man, he had picked up a good many Irish songs in the winter in timber camps, and rendered them with true Milesian brogue. He sang another of his favorites, observing before he com- menced, Big Irishman was going to whip me once for singing this song. It is called, THE IRISH RECRUIT. It is nine years ago since I digged the land, With my brogues on my feet and my spade in my hand; And I said to myself, its a pity to see Such a broth of a boy digging turf on the lea. Sing Teddy I-a, Its whack for my loural, Sing Teddy I-a. So I buttered my brogues and I shook hand wid my spade, To the town I did go like a dashing young blade. I met with a sergeant, I axd for to list, By the great Gramagee give us hould of your fist. Sing Teddy I-a, & c. The first place they sent me twas on to the sea, On board of a ship that they called man-o-wee. Three sticks in the middle all covered with sheets, And she walked through the water widout any feets. Sing Teddy I-a, & e. The first thing they give me it was a red coat. Wid a stiff piece of ledder to stick under any throat. The next thing they give me, I axd what was that, And sure its a cock-rode to stick in your hat. Sing Teddy I.a, & e. The next thing they give me it was a great gun, Right under the trigger I placed my right thumb. First it made fire and then it made smoke, And it give to my shouldiher the divils own poke. Sing Teddy I-a, & c. o Captain, Indeed, youre a terrible man, To put such a dangerous thing in my hand. o give me a straw-een, and help me to tie her, For I think shes the dlvil, see how she spits fire. Sing Teddy I-a, & c. The next thing they gave me it was a gray horse, With saddle and bridlemy two legs across. I gave to my steed a touch of the steel, By the great Oramagree, I am off to the field. Sing Teddy I-a, & c. I am off to the battle of Bally na Hinch, Where the fire was so thick there was no room to flinch. Where the smoke was so thick and the flue was so hot, Sure myself wouldnt shoot for fear Id get shot. Sing Teddy I-a, & c. Up steps a Captain, a man of great fame, Says he, Tell your nation, your famly, your name. Sure I told you before, and I tell again, That my father and mother were both Irishmen. Sing Teddy I-a, & c. There was a big ship, and was bound for the east, So I gathered my duds, I slyly made baste. I served nine yearsthank God its not ten And Ill back to ould Ireland dig praties again. Sing Teddy I-a, Its whack for my mural, Sing Teddy I.e. Certain old songs come down to us only by tradition, and are mostly con- firmed to a certain class. I think it quite likely that Whisky in the Jug was never printed. I have never seen the Irish Recruitin print. I have introduced them here as curiosities to cultivated musicians. I wrote them both down as Ned Veno sung them to me on the river a day or two after the evening just mentioned. Nick and I have sung them since with our legs under his mahogany. Nick sang the Cruiskeen Lawn, and then we turned in on our buffalo-robes, thrown over the fragrant fir-sprigs. 22 [Jnly, 1870.] AT THE ASSOCIATED PRESS OFFICE. 23 AT THE ASSOCIATED PRESS OFFICE. I~ the modest apartments at the cor- ner of Broadway and Liberty-street, up seventy-eight stairs, actual count, one will find at almost any hour of the day or night a dozen of men writing away as though for dear life. They do not write with pens and pencils, and on ordinary paper, as ordinary men do, but with styles made of carnelian and agate, and on the finest kind of tissue-paper. Nor are they satisfied to make one copy at a time; such contortion of counte- nance, rolling of tongue, and jerking of head, guarantee no less than a score, whereof the last evidently must go right down through the top of the desk. This is a veritable curiosity- shop, in more senses than one. It is the headquarters of the Associated Pressthe birthplace of that subtle, indescribable something we enjoy new every morning and fresh every evening, which is commonly called the news. Its works go forth every day to the ex- tremities of the earth, and millions of people are interested in them; yet itself is scarcely known except by name, and to the outside world the little poste-haste and romage before us are a perpetual enigma and stumbling-block. Daily newspapers, printed in the United States, have been sent to this very office with Please exchange deliberately written across their wrappers; and en- terprising business-men, native and to the manner born, have forwarded ad- vertisements with the request to Please have inserted in the Associated Press, and send bill. But before looking in on the central office, it may be well to glance a mo- ment at the nature, object, and extent of the Associated Press. As its name implies, it is a union of certain journals brought about to cheapen news by making one despatch serve them alL The scope of this union is the collec tion of telegrams from all points, and of marine intelligence in New York harbor. All other fields of journalism~ are left to individual enterprise, and for any other than these two objects there is no Associated Press. These papers are the Tribune, the Times, the Herald, the World, the Sun, the Journal of Com- merce, and the Express, of the city of New York. But their news is not con- fined to them. By bearing an equitable share of the expense of gathering the despatches, two hundred papers of the United States and Canada have become members of the union, to all intents and purposes, whereby the news is published every day, almost word for word, from Newfoundland to California simultane- ously. The Associated Press has an army of correspondents, called local agents, scat- tered all over the civilized world. In thinly-settled districts, where news is likely to be too scarce to warrant the appointment of regular agents by spe- cial contract, the telegraph company, which is alike interested in the forward- ing of despatches, takes upon itself the service by making its operators ex officio agents of the Associated Press. By such economical means the whole field of operations, coextensive with the tele- graphic system, has been covered effect- ively with no less than fifteen thousand intelligent news reporters. All des- patches from the local agents are sent directly to the headquarters at New York, where they are corrected and re- produced by a process of manifold writing, and the copies distributed to the several newspapers. The services of the telegraph are then required again this time to scatter the news already collected, to all points of the compass and the farthest ends of the land. The receiving telegraphers at other cities deliver their copies to the Associated

William Aplin Aplin, William AT the Associated Press Office 23-30

1870.] AT THE ASSOCIATED PRESS OFFICE. 23 AT THE ASSOCIATED PRESS OFFICE. I~ the modest apartments at the cor- ner of Broadway and Liberty-street, up seventy-eight stairs, actual count, one will find at almost any hour of the day or night a dozen of men writing away as though for dear life. They do not write with pens and pencils, and on ordinary paper, as ordinary men do, but with styles made of carnelian and agate, and on the finest kind of tissue-paper. Nor are they satisfied to make one copy at a time; such contortion of counte- nance, rolling of tongue, and jerking of head, guarantee no less than a score, whereof the last evidently must go right down through the top of the desk. This is a veritable curiosity- shop, in more senses than one. It is the headquarters of the Associated Pressthe birthplace of that subtle, indescribable something we enjoy new every morning and fresh every evening, which is commonly called the news. Its works go forth every day to the ex- tremities of the earth, and millions of people are interested in them; yet itself is scarcely known except by name, and to the outside world the little poste-haste and romage before us are a perpetual enigma and stumbling-block. Daily newspapers, printed in the United States, have been sent to this very office with Please exchange deliberately written across their wrappers; and en- terprising business-men, native and to the manner born, have forwarded ad- vertisements with the request to Please have inserted in the Associated Press, and send bill. But before looking in on the central office, it may be well to glance a mo- ment at the nature, object, and extent of the Associated Press. As its name implies, it is a union of certain journals brought about to cheapen news by making one despatch serve them alL The scope of this union is the collec tion of telegrams from all points, and of marine intelligence in New York harbor. All other fields of journalism~ are left to individual enterprise, and for any other than these two objects there is no Associated Press. These papers are the Tribune, the Times, the Herald, the World, the Sun, the Journal of Com- merce, and the Express, of the city of New York. But their news is not con- fined to them. By bearing an equitable share of the expense of gathering the despatches, two hundred papers of the United States and Canada have become members of the union, to all intents and purposes, whereby the news is published every day, almost word for word, from Newfoundland to California simultane- ously. The Associated Press has an army of correspondents, called local agents, scat- tered all over the civilized world. In thinly-settled districts, where news is likely to be too scarce to warrant the appointment of regular agents by spe- cial contract, the telegraph company, which is alike interested in the forward- ing of despatches, takes upon itself the service by making its operators ex officio agents of the Associated Press. By such economical means the whole field of operations, coextensive with the tele- graphic system, has been covered effect- ively with no less than fifteen thousand intelligent news reporters. All des- patches from the local agents are sent directly to the headquarters at New York, where they are corrected and re- produced by a process of manifold writing, and the copies distributed to the several newspapers. The services of the telegraph are then required again this time to scatter the news already collected, to all points of the compass and the farthest ends of the land. The receiving telegraphers at other cities deliver their copies to the Associated 24 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Jul~r, Press agents, by whom they are again manifolded and sent to their individual papers, as in New York. Such, in brief, is the Associated Press. These six rooms, called, with a little pardonable impropriety, the Gene- ral Agency, are the centre of all this complex machinery, radiating thou- sands of miles in every direction, and become, therefore, the heart, the dis- tributing reservoir, of the American news system. Here are the offices of the executive and his assistants, who control the details of the vast concern. Here, also, is the committee-room, where the representatives of the seven papers meet every month, and allow the cigar of peace to usurp the poisoned quill, while they make and annul contracts with the telegraph and outside news- papers. The next room but one is set apart for the messengers, who deliver the news to the newspaper offices, pre- sided over by an old schoolmaster, who comes as near keeping two dozen fourteen-year-old New York boys from driving crazy every body in the same block as any man ever did or will. In that room, away over in the corner, smaller than a cigar-store or a box-office, sits the cashier, who must be master of all the modem languages. He takes care of the fiscal affairs, to the exteat of millions of dollars a-yearreceives and pays bills in dollars, pounds, reals, francs, and marc bancos. This large, light, and airy room in the centre is the manifolding room, where the news is put in a shape fit for publication. We shall find enough here to engage our attention. Ranged about at a dozen desks sit a dozen men, who are expected to know something of every thing under the sunthe ports and products of every country, as well as every vessel by name. Parliamentary practice must be at their fingers ends. They would be worthless without poetry and the dead languages, wherewith to correct politi- cians bad Latin, and equally so without the living languages. Chronology is indispensable ja the news business; hence Rollin, Gibbon, Hume, Hallam, and Motley must be learned by heart. That great English lawyer, Lord Camp- bell, said: There is nothing so dan- gerous as for one not of the craft to tamper with our freemasonry. Con- sequently these men must have studied law enough to master the statutes and rules of practice of all the States and all the nations. They must be able to write up, understandingly, horse- races, regattas, and base-ball matches, as well as synods, conventions, and con- gresses. Like policemen and soldiers, they must have no politics, affections, or opinions; they must be stoically unconcerned in conflagrations, mur- ders, shipwrecks, and battles. Practical printers they must be, certainly, as well as practical electricians. Finally, tI~ey must have good sense and judgment, in order to know the value of news, and a good common-school education, that they may write it out intelligently. These extAordinary men are the maui- folders. They edit the despatches as fast as they arrive, whatever the subject- matter may be, and at the same time write them out in good English, twenty copies at once. As may be supposed, men having all these qualifications do not present themselves every day. How many has this office been obliged to turn away, who were weighed in the balance and found wantinghow many college graduates, philosophers, law- yers, yea, even editors, who, like Field- ings hero, promised much in the pro- spectus, and performed nothing at all; who, upon trial, persisted in inventing new and non-existent geographical lo- calities, like the Isle of Wright, the Straits of Andover, and the city of Cm- cinnatti! The manifold writer is no new thing. Almost every body knows that it is a simple contrivance for bringing forth a number of copies at one writing, by using a hard pencil on a book of oiled tissue-paper, with carbonized pa- per laid between the leaves. But does every body think if there were no such contrivance the Associated Press could not live? The manifold writer has been introduced and rejected in every 1870.] AT TUE ASSOCIATED PRESS OFFICE. 25 counting-house. Its practical useless- ness in the ordinary affairs of business has been demonstrated time and again, yet in this office its value is incalcula- ble. One man does the work of a hun- dred. Manifolding has been brought to an astonishing degree of perfection by the invention of a gentleman now seventy years old. For a quarter of a century he has supplied the Association with the very peculiar paper required for this service, and that he alone knows how to make. With his paper thirty copies may be made easily, and it is often necessary to have so many, while eight or ten copies is the maximum claimed by other manufacturers for thcir paper. For forty-two years the secret of this old man has baffled imitators, who have not scrupled to lurk about his manufactory under cover of the night, and to invoke the aid of the ablest chemists of the land. But he has a family of vigorous sons, and the Associated Press has not borrowed any trouble as to what the effect might be if the secret died with him. The Agency is the heaviest cus- tomer of the telegraph, hence it has been placed so near at hand, that des- patches are trundled across the street, from the one to the other, by three miniature elevated railroads, to the ap- parent bewilderment of humanity be- low. These rattle to and fro, night and day, bearing news from all quarters of the globe. But the manifolder is al- ways ready. He knows full well that, in this land of telegraphs and fourth editions, news is perishable property; It dies in an hour; so in much less than that time the most startling intelligence is among the types everywhere, and almost a forgotten thing of the past. In the daytime the manifolder takes twenty copies of the despatches, which are distributed to the Herald, the Times, the Tribune, the World, the Sun, the Jouimal, the Post, the Erpress, the Commercial Advertiser, the Staats Zeitung, the Brooklyn Union, the Newark Advertiser, and the Newark Courier, and to the reporters of the von. vr.2 State press, the Boston press, the New England press, the Western press, the Southern press, and the Far SQuthern press, leaving one copy for the office record. After the last evening edition is printed, fourteen copies are sufficient. When the despatches are manifolded, all the copies are stamped with the office- seal, or diea precautionary measure to guard the editors against the use of fraudulent despatches, furnished by malicious persons. Then the messen- ger department is called on; the sheets are quickly separated put into en- velopes already directed; a noise like the voice of many waters prevails for a moment(for Mercury is no longer winged, and there are seventy-eight stairs to go down)and the despatches are on their way to the types. The average days work is one hun- dred and fifty sheets, containing thirty- five thousand wordsthirty or forty routes for the messengers. On the occa- sion of a Presidents message, or an in- teresting discussion in Congress or the British Parliament, so much news is sent out that the papers are obliged to issue supplements, to make room for it. Indeed, if all the new~ furnished at this office were printed in full every day, there would not be room for much else. Congressmen forward their speeches by express, in advance of delivery, and people all over the country mail an avalanche of details that are not im- portant enough to be telegraphed, with the hope to see them appear as tele- graphic despatches. The most of such news is smothered in the inexorable editorial waste-basket. The old lady who was lost in the contemplation of the multitude of Jobs in the printing business, would pften find her counterpart in the unsophisti- cated visitor to the General Agency. Mr. More is apparently the name of the local agent at Philadelphia, at Balti- more, at Washington, and at one or two hundred other placesfor so he signs himself in the despatches. When the law was enacted requiring an inter- nal revenue stamp on telegrams, the Associated Press mounted with occa 26 PETNAMs MAGAZIKE. [July, sion, and proved itself in possession of is more interested in getting printed the true jurisprudential profundity. By everywhere than the public is to read. an innocent fiction the local agents who A waggish manifolder once headed one usually sent a dozen despatches a-day, of these documents with the words, was enabled to send one only by re- Government Advertisement. Instant- garding the first eleven as merely parts ly a storm of questions came from the of despatches, signing each one More, newspaper offices, as to who would be or More Coming, and affixing his responsible for the bill. But the edit- name in full to the twelfth, at mid- ors, on being informed that the matter night. Th6 practice of signing More was really telegraphic news, for which still adheres, though the reason has they would bc expected to pay five long since vanished: and there is no cents a word on the next Saturday, signature more honored in the Associ- printed it with the other telegrams, ated Press office. Always on the look- leaded, and garnished with head-lines. out to guard against puffs and first-of- It would certainly be strange if po- April messages, commonly known as litical bias and prejudice did not occa- sells, this office scrutinizes first the sionally crop out in the twenty millions signature, and More, or More Coming, of despatches received at this office is prima fade evidence of genuineness, annually. Once or twice a-year the A newly,appointed agent at Norfolk, Democratic editors formally complain Va., who received a despatch from New of the radical complexion of the East- York, chronicling the arrival of the em and Westeru news, and the Repub- ship Black Warrior in the following lican editors, in their rejoinder, have a regulation form: 1~ew York, 30th. valid set-off in the rebel tone of the Black Warrior arrived. More Coming, Southern despatches. Bear and forbear signalized his advent on a new field of is generally the motto, until the insern- labor by startling the people of his table Pennsylvania election comes, when quiet city with the news that a delega- the Associated Press makes due amends tion of thirty black warriors had ar- by imitating every body else in electing rived in New tork, and more were both tickets for a week or so, until the hourly expected. mail advices come to hand. The regular Associated Press tele- The stranger in this office will note grams are what would be called, in that the despatches from the East come Europe, semi-official. The special early, and those from the West late; despatch is colored to suit the particu- but the wonder will cease precisely at lar journal, but the press-despatch is the moment when the reflection forces strictly non-partisan, for it goes to itself upon him that the world is round, papers of all politics and all religions, and revolves eastwardly. The great The local agents, on account of their international boat-race at London, in presumed fairness, and because they August last, was completed at six have it in their power to bring des- oclock in the evening, but the full de- patches before so many readers, have tails were printed here at half-past two. the run of official records everywhere, The closing markets at London and ofteli where the special would not Paris, dated at five in the afternoon, be tolerated. The Government appre- are invariably printed here before three; ciates the power of the Associated but the despatehes from San Francisco, Press. The Washington agent fre- not half so far away as Paris, are the quently has his news brought to him last received at night, and sometimes do by the heads of the Departments. But not arrive till the next day. the Washington news is not always The notion prevalent in some quar- startling. The decisions of the Inter- ters that the Associated Press is a gigan- nal Revenue Commissioner, and the pro-. tic moneyed corporation, grown rich by ~posals of the Naval Constructing Bu- the sale of its news, and that its own reau, are matters that the Government bills are mEt with the profits received 1870.1 AT THE ASSOCIATED PRESS OFFICE. 27 from others, need scarcely be seriously dealt with. The regular morning jour- nals forming the Associated Press, pay about fourteen thousand dollars each, per annum, for the news-service of this office; those having Sunday editions fifteen thousand. The evening paper (the EFpress~ pays about eight thou- sand, as do also the Post and the Corn- mercial Advertiser. The money paid gives a fair idea of the proportionate amount of news furnished. The eve- ning papers pay rather more than one third of the total bill, and receive four ninths of the total amount of news. How many hundreds of thousands of miles of land-wire, and what scores of submarine cables, are pressed into the service every day to satisfy this awful craving of the American people for the latest intelligence! It is a novel sight to stand at the d~p4ts, so to speak, and watch those little aerial railroad-trains, as they sweep in at the windows, freighted with news, now from Wash- ington, then from Chicago, then from London. Many of these despatches are in the French and other foreign lan- guages; many are so condensed and squeezed together that they might as well be to another than a manifolder; some are in cipher, a sort of abbre- viated language, known only to the manifolders, where one word stands ar- bitrarily for an entire English sentence; and others, again, though in open Eng- lish, are so corrupted and blundered by frequent re-writings at repeating sta- tions on the telegraph lines, as to be almost unintelligible. But the mani- folder sticks at nothing. Foreign lan- guages, legal and nautical technicali- ties, the mysteries of the arts, sciences, and all known trades and professions, he is expected to prepare for the print- ers hands at a moments notice, ready to run the gauntlet of universal criti- cism. While the individual newspaper must have its musical critic, financial editor, and sporting editor, the details of a great battle, the price of land, Congressional proceedings, an obituary, a Democratic triumph, and a conflagra- tion, all come within the prehensile grasp of the manifolder. Given an Associated Press in 1570, and the Shake- spearian problem becomes easy. The devices of the distant agent to convey much in little, and thereby in- nocently defraud the telegraph, are many of them perfect wonders of in- vention, and are only matched by the ingenuity of the manifolder in restoring the words left to his imagination. In the despatches, sevening and smorning mean this evening and this morning, fol, free on board, swells, as well as, and certain high-sounding capitals are de- graded to York, Rio, Orleans, Bayres, and Frisco. But the manifolder is not always absolutely perfect. Sometimes he neglects to expunge the economical abbreviations of the local agents, which were never designed to get as far as the printing-offices. Then conservative old philologists file protests against the creation of such verbs and participles as Inirgied, exeurted, injun~ted, inter- viewed, ineendictried, sleeting, and confla- grating, and the Associated Press is held to a rigid accountability for pouring a stream of cold poison into the Eng- lish language every mornin& It is said the Americans have preserved many old words which the passion for John- sonian diction has banished from con- versation in England, but it is doubtful whether these are of them. In order to save expense, despatches from remote cities, especially those by the cables, are cut down to mere hints. Notwithstanding the columns of Euro- pean news printed every day, it re- mained for a member of the Association itself to proclaim to the world that the Associated Press had not received an average of a hundred cable words a-day since the cables were laid. Surely, after such iconoclasm, it can be a secret no longer that the two words Vesu- vms grows, were once metamorphosed into the following IMPORTANF NEWS FROM ITALY. London, .M~rre7s 25.Telegraphic despatches just at hand from Naples announce that the eruption of Mount Vesuvius is continually increasing in 28 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, power and grandeur. Deep rumbling sounds, like detonating thunder, are constantly heard, and the aifrighted in- habitants of the neighborhood are flee- ing to places of safety. A dense vol- ume of smoke is rising from the crater, visible a hundred miles away. The ashes and dust fall in clouds, and at night the lurid glare of the flames, re- flected in the calm bay, impart to sur- rounding objects a ghastly and sombre aspect. Enthusiasts may praise the musical Italian, the facile French, and the majes- tic Spanish, but the Associated Press has demonstrated that the copious Eng- lish is also the language of brevity. But it must be confessed this was a mere frolic of the manifolder. Though the mail-dates received subsequently sustained the florid description, he was reprimanded, but escaped much easier than his companion, who headed one of the stereotyped despatches from General McClellans army, All quiet on the Potomac, with the words Deus nolns hoc otiumfecit. lie was discharged as incorrigible. The strangest freaks of lightning occur in the telegraph o$lces. The jubi- lant telegraph persists in having doubt- ed doubled, being bring, mediate medi- tate, corn coin, and nine none, and it is a question whether the names Waverley, Binghamton, Owego, and Ithaca were ever carried a hundred miles away from home in a telegram without violence to their orthography. Such errors as these the experienced ms~nifolder cor- rects at a glance; but there are times when the telegraph surpasses itself and reduces him to his wits end. This was the case when the steamer Cena was announced at a southern port. The manifolder knew there was none such. But what should it be? After ransack- ing shipping-lists, and cudgelling his brains to no purpose, as a last resort he wrote down the telegraphic characters for Cena, thus, , and saw they were precisely those that would be used to write lana; and that was the answer to the puzzle. In this way are corrected the mistakes of carp less telegraph operators, made, perhaps, a thousand miles away, and perpetuated at every repeating station. So long as these mistakes are huge blunders, not much harm can come from them. But occasionally they are insidious, and no amount of watchfulness can detect them. A recent despatch from Omaha con- tained the words, Company Fifth U. S. Infantry attacked by Indians on plains. All scalpedf It was a pretty serious matter, but the despatch was plain enough. While the manifolder was copying it, and reflecting on the affliction it must carry to a thousand hearthstones (if he ever have time for such reflections), another despatch came to hand, reading: Chicago. Correc- tion. In our Omaha, for scalped read escaped, and peace flowed into his soul. The bustling manifolding-room con- tains, also, the bureaus of the provin- cial papers, which depend upon the Associated Press for their supply of news. The country journals are group- ed together, according to their geo- graphical positions, in order that the despatches may he distributed more conveniently and expeditiously. The groups are called the Western press, the Eastern press, the Philadelphia press, the State press, the Boston press, the Southern press, the Far Southern press, & c. Each of these organizations has reporters in the manifolding-room, night and day, who have access to all the Associated Press news, and who send such parts of it as are likely to be in- teresting to the people of their respect- ive sections. As fast as they compile their reports, they forward them to the telegraph office by the elevated railway- route before mentioned, duly directed State press, or Southern press, as the case may be, when their responsi- bility ends, and that of the telegraph begins. Let the State press be taken as an illustration of the manner in which the telegraph performs the dis- tributing service. At certain specified hours, convenient alike for the tePgraph and the particular editions of the news- papers to be served, the operator, with 1870.] AT THE ASSOCIATED PRESS OFFICE. 29 one manipulation of his magic key, transmits the news simultaneously to Poughkeepsie, Hudson, Albany, Troy, Utica, Syracuse, Auburn, Elmira, Owego, Binghamton, Rome, Oswego, Rochester, and Buffalo, New York, to Rutland and Burlington, Vermont, and to Scranton, Pennsylvania. These stations are not all on the same wire, nor on the same route; but by a certain combination, through an Americaninvention called the telegraphic repeater, they are brought so in effect, and the news might be sent to a thousand offices as easily as to one. The other groups are served in like manner. But it must not be supposed the Associated Press supplies these or- ganizations only. They are the chief- est, certainly; but despatches are sent every day to London, and thence all over Europe; to Havana and through- out Cuba; and on steamer-days sum- maries are forwarded to Aspinwall, which are used wherever there are tele- graphs in Central and South America, and are then re-sent from Panama to Australia and New Zealand. The San Francisco agent, in the same way, ex- changes his home and European news with news-gleaners at the Sandwich Islands, in China, Japan, & c. It would be rather more difficult to tell where the Associated Press news does not go. Over in the corner of the manifold- ing-room still another little railroad- train stands ready to trundle messages across the street, diagonally to the Coin- 4nercial News Department. This new feature deserves attention for a moment. The American prices of stocks, bonds, and produce have always been regulated in good part by those of London and Liverpool. The merchant who receives the first advices is enabled to forestall the home market. Ever since the cele- brated financial achievement of the Rothschilds, which their first knowl- edge of the result of Waterloo rendered easy, this desire to get ahead in matters of news likely to affect markets has gradually grown to be a monstrous evil, and opened the door to all manner of corruption. False news, fraudulent quo- tations, and stock-jobbing despatches, to deceive and defraud, were circulated every day, and the subordinates of the telegraph and press made to run a terri- ble gauntlet of temptation to prove false to their trusts. Partly to correct this evil, and partly to provide a new source of revenue, the Associated Press and the telegraph formed a copartner- ship for making all commercial news, immediately on its receipt and before publication, the property of the public everywhere. The Association, on its part, furnishes its commercial and im- portant general news despatches, do- mestic as well as foreign, and the tele- graph distributes them, at a trifling cost, as nearly simultaneously as possi- ble throughout the Union. But this system, while it erects a bulwark against fraud and stratagem for the business community, is not without one slight disadvantage. Four fifths of all Eu1o- pean despatches are commercial in their character. But an Associated Press cable-telegram carries the prices of fifty staple articles, and which, by this dis- tributing process, must go far toward meeting the wanfs of every business man in America. The three cables are not crowded, no? are they likely to be for twenty years to come. Multiply- ing the facilities~~ may be a trifle over- done, as any company which lays a new cable within that time will probably find to its cost. Consequently this doubling up, whereby one commercial despatch serves the turn of the whole American continent, cannot but make great inroads on the private revenue of the cable companies. By parity of reasoning one would think the interests of the Associated Press antipodal to those of the tele- graphthat a system which saves six sevenths of a sum to the one must ne- cessarily lose it to the other. But the press is the sheet-anchor of the tele- graphs. In 1866 the telegraphic service of combined continental Europe, for despatches of all sorts, press, social, and commercial, aggregated less than two hundred and sixty millions of words. In that year the American newspapers 30 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, paid one domestic telegraphic company alone fifteen millions of dollars for three hundred millions of words,; and the greater part of that immense mass was sent at night, after business hours, when the telegraph lines would not have been otherwise occupied at all. If there were no such organization as the Associated Press, the individual papers could not bear the enormous expense of the news that is now published every day; and if they could, the telegraphic systems of the world would not be sufficient to carry it. Consequently the mails would supersede the telegraph as a transmit- ting medium, except in great emergen- cies; journalistic enterprise would be no more marked in America than it is in Germany, and we should soon cease tQ have six newspapers to any other countrys one, as now. This associated system, then, is in strict keeping with our national institutions; for, while it may operate harshly in isolated cases, its tendency is to bring the news within the reach of all, to foster cheap news- papers, and thus promote the cause of general education. The~most grateful words to the inani- folder are Good-night. Good-night is the signal for closing the reports un- til the next day, and is understood wherever there are telegraphs or news- papers. The western news is all sifted through the hands of the agent at Cleve- land, which is one of the great ndws re- peating stations. No southern news can reach the agency without first com- ing to the Washington agent. When these agents, therefore, telegraph their good-nights to this office, which they usually do from one to four oclock ill the morning, the days work is consid- ered done, and the welcome words are quickly caught up and sent along the gleaming wires from the Atlantic to the Pacific. The manifolders, in the ful- ness of their hearts, write them at the foot of their last item to the news- papers, and editors, reporters, composi- tors, pressmen, swell the long chorus of praise to Good-night. LOVE Rj FIJI. MY EARLY LIFE AMONG TUE CANNIBALS. [A singular chance has thrown into the hands of the present editor the manuscript of the narrative which is now submitted to the public. It describes, perhaps too graphically for the most artistic effect, some of the atrocities which the writer saw among the savages who were the companions of his youth. Yet it seems undesirable to detract from its value as a record of an extraordinary experience; and the story is therefore published without excis- ions. Its editor especially desires to vouch for the accuracy of the pictures drawn in the following account, and would refer the reader, if any additional confirmation be needed, to the pages of Williams History of the Fiji Islands, where customs not less atrocious than those described in the following pages are set forth.j I. Twa circumstances which I am about to relate are not the offspring of an idle fancy. They are the record of an ex- perience as rare, perhaps, as any that has fallen to the lot of a Christian Anglo- Saxon during the present century; and I address myself to the task of relating them in the consciousness that I am about to record what has never yet been fully described. I was born in the South Seas, of Eng lish parents, who were then residing in the Tonga group. During my child- hood and youth my life was indeed a strange one; for it partook in almost equal proportions of the savage and of the civilized element. I was borne along like a skiff at the meeting of contend- ing waters, and floated now in the pure and now in the turbid stream. As I look back upon the life so strangely divided between conflicting conditions,

edited by T. M. Coan Coan, T. M., edited by Love in Fiji. I. 30-41

30 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, paid one domestic telegraphic company alone fifteen millions of dollars for three hundred millions of words,; and the greater part of that immense mass was sent at night, after business hours, when the telegraph lines would not have been otherwise occupied at all. If there were no such organization as the Associated Press, the individual papers could not bear the enormous expense of the news that is now published every day; and if they could, the telegraphic systems of the world would not be sufficient to carry it. Consequently the mails would supersede the telegraph as a transmit- ting medium, except in great emergen- cies; journalistic enterprise would be no more marked in America than it is in Germany, and we should soon cease tQ have six newspapers to any other countrys one, as now. This associated system, then, is in strict keeping with our national institutions; for, while it may operate harshly in isolated cases, its tendency is to bring the news within the reach of all, to foster cheap news- papers, and thus promote the cause of general education. The~most grateful words to the inani- folder are Good-night. Good-night is the signal for closing the reports un- til the next day, and is understood wherever there are telegraphs or news- papers. The western news is all sifted through the hands of the agent at Cleve- land, which is one of the great ndws re- peating stations. No southern news can reach the agency without first com- ing to the Washington agent. When these agents, therefore, telegraph their good-nights to this office, which they usually do from one to four oclock ill the morning, the days work is consid- ered done, and the welcome words are quickly caught up and sent along the gleaming wires from the Atlantic to the Pacific. The manifolders, in the ful- ness of their hearts, write them at the foot of their last item to the news- papers, and editors, reporters, composi- tors, pressmen, swell the long chorus of praise to Good-night. LOVE Rj FIJI. MY EARLY LIFE AMONG TUE CANNIBALS. [A singular chance has thrown into the hands of the present editor the manuscript of the narrative which is now submitted to the public. It describes, perhaps too graphically for the most artistic effect, some of the atrocities which the writer saw among the savages who were the companions of his youth. Yet it seems undesirable to detract from its value as a record of an extraordinary experience; and the story is therefore published without excis- ions. Its editor especially desires to vouch for the accuracy of the pictures drawn in the following account, and would refer the reader, if any additional confirmation be needed, to the pages of Williams History of the Fiji Islands, where customs not less atrocious than those described in the following pages are set forth.j I. Twa circumstances which I am about to relate are not the offspring of an idle fancy. They are the record of an ex- perience as rare, perhaps, as any that has fallen to the lot of a Christian Anglo- Saxon during the present century; and I address myself to the task of relating them in the consciousness that I am about to record what has never yet been fully described. I was born in the South Seas, of Eng lish parents, who were then residing in the Tonga group. During my child- hood and youth my life was indeed a strange one; for it partook in almost equal proportions of the savage and of the civilized element. I was borne along like a skiff at the meeting of contend- ing waters, and floated now in the pure and now in the turbid stream. As I look back upon the life so strangely divided between conflicting conditions, 1870.] LOVE IN Fiji. 81 between Christian culture and the last atrocities of cannibalism itself; I am induced to record some of. the circum- stances in which I was involved by their antagonism, and to confess experiences so wild, strange, and sometimes crimi- nal, as to make their memory a mixture of horror with a poetic dream. Looking back over a subsequent peri- od of college-training, of English and of American life, I sometimes doubt whether I was not, during my boyhood, more truly a savage at heart than a youth of tender culture. The adven- tures of my early life, though I have since learned to regard them as in large part a necessary result of fated circum- stances, and on that account admitting of a certain palliation, were yet often of a character so dark and terrible that I have avoided, heretofore, to give them any publicity, and have even refrained from speaking of them in the presence of any but a few intimate friends. The last person, however, npon whom the recital of the following facts would be likely to inflict pain, has now passed away. Since her death, in the early part of the present year, I have no longer felt that any one survived wl~o would gladly forget the occurrences I am about to relate,~fra~ of an experience that in all probability has had no fellow in any time or country. Persons whose memory extends to a time a few years earlier than the com- mencement of the present generation will remember the first establishment of an English mission upon the Fiji Islands. My parents were members of that mission, which was an offshoot from one already established in the Tonga Islands. In this neighboring group they had been living for sixteen years; and there, under the shadow of the cocoanut-trees, I was born, soon after their arrival upon missionary ground. I think that something of the wild- ness of savage life was iastilled into my veins by the very scenery and atmo- sphere of these islands. Their wild beauty, their incessant splendor of surf that foamed like sunny fire upon the coral reef in front of my fathers house, their deep jungles filled with aromatic ferns and riotous luxuriance of all de- licious green, their dewy glades, their wonderful starlight over all in the tropi- cal nights,all of these beckoned me into the breathing wood,~~ and drew me away from the little domestic circle and the kind influences of home. My father, who is still remembered in Wes- leyan circles as one of the most active and zealous missionaries that ever left English ground, was constantly called by arduous duties away from home; while my mother was equally busied in the care of native schools. The conse- quence was that I found a continual opportunity to indulge my love of wild sports and of out-of-door life, and be- came intimate with field, water, wood, and mountain, to a degree almost un- known in countries of a higher civiliza- tion and a bleaker climate. I knew every plant upon the island-hills, evcry fastness of its cliffs, every secret of its valleys, every passage in its reefs or subterranean cave in its wave-lashed shores. But this knowledge involved an equal intimacy with the savage natives of Tonga. With them I indulged to the utmost ,but not always, as may be supposed, with my parents knowledge, my naturally adventurous tastes. I went on long expeditions with the chief- ish lads and young men among the re- moter hills, which they and I believed to be enchanted, in search of flowers and o~ sweet-smelling nuts to decorate the grass temples of their gods; I knew their language, at that time, even better than the English, though the latter was the only tongue allowed to be spoken in my fathers family; and I was equal- ly familiar with all the traditions, su- perstitions, and religious observances of the Tongans. I well remember secretly worshipping, on more than one occa- sion, one of their idols,an ugly image of wicker-work, plaited around a gro- tesquely-carved block of thevua, or bas- tard sandal-work, that bore such a re- semblance to humanity as a gargoyle of Salisbury Cathedral may be supposed to bear to an authentic demon. 32 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, In this misdemeanor I was more than once detected by my parents, and suf- fered punishment for sacrilege; yet, though a mere child at the time this occurred, I remember feeling a certain injured sensation, as of religious mar- tyrdom, while under castigation; and punishment only tended to confirm me, as it were, in the heathen church. Thenceforward I led a double life, out- wardly conforming to the civilized pre- cepts of home, while at heart 1 was large- ly in sympathy with the savages; and in spite of my parents precautions I found frequent opportunities to slip away and join in the games, festivities, and ceremonials of the natives. But I must not pause to describe more than a single incident of the Tongan days. On one of these occasions, I had gone out surf-playing with a company of twelve or fifteen Tongan youths of the higher rank. The young men and girls of the chiefish families are exclusive in their fellowships, and seldom indulge in sports or games except in the compan- ionship of their own caste. I enjoyed the questionable privilege of that PA- lowship, however, on account of my foreign blood; for the Tongans hold the whites in much esteem as nganga atarnai, skilled or dexterous foreigners; reverencing their mechanical skill, it must be confessed, much more than their civilization, their philosophy, or their religion. Our party was gambol- ling, as if natives of the element, in the tumbling surf which breaks upon the reefs of Vavan; all was going merrily, and the shouts of our company rang out loudly above the noise of the break- ers, as we indulged in contests of speed in swimming, or of endurance in div- ing, or, poised upon the glittering crest of the billow, rushed shoreward at race- horse speed upon the surf-board. Suddenly I saw a sight that made my flushed limbs turn cold with a sudden chill,a glisteningfin, cutting through the smooth, undulating surface of the bil- low a few yards seaward, and approach- ing our party swiftly and silentlya slate-colored sharp fin, rounded like the head of a razor-blade, the edge of it cutting its way straight toward us with- out a ripple. It was the white shark,the most voracious and terrible variety of his species. I screamed at the top of my voice, Auwe! te mano! Auwe! te mano! ( Alas! the shark I the shark ) and struck out vigorously for the shore, kicking my heels upon the surface of the water as I swam. The rest of the company followed my example; for the shark is essentially a coward, and will not attack a swimmer as long as he splashes the water actively. But one of our company, a girl of about my own age, my favorite play- mate, had not received any warning of the enemys approach. She dove, the instant before I gave the alarm, to es- cape the ardent pursuit of one of the native youths; for the aquatic sports of the Islanders involved a degree of license which will not bear too minute a description. She went under like a water-fowl, and disappeared from him at the instant that she was about to be- come his captive; but she escaped for the moment, only to be singled out as the object of a more terrible chase. The shark turned his course toward Melelinathis was the name of the un- happy girland pursued her, as, all unconscious, she was still swimming rapidly under water toward the shore. I saw the sharks fin disappear from the surface, and knew that she was igno- rant of his approach. I dove instantly, hoping to see her under water, to touch her lithe body, and warn her of the dan- ger before it was too late. I knew that she must be within a few yards of me; but I could not see her, the agitation of the water at the mo- ment being such as to disperse the light, and render it impossible for the sight to penetrate more than two fathoms in any direction. In spite of the terrible excitement of the moment, I did not lose presence of mind. Instantly I dove a fathom deep- er, and reached the jagged surface of the coral reef; I broke from it, lacer- ating my hands in the powerful effort, 1870.] LOVE IN Fiji. 33 two dense fragments of the mushroom coral, which a bounds in these waters, and struck them sharply together, giv- ing the signal by which the Tongan divers communicate with each other while under water. I knew that the sound, though entirely inaudible above water, would be conveyed with great intensity to a considerable distance be- neath the surface. In far less time than it takes to read the account of it, I had made the signal, with two rapid clicks (like the telegraphic signal for the letter A), Come to the surface of the water! As I repeated this signal, employing all the strength of a muscular pair of arms, a shadow passed over me, dark- ening the broad, fan-like beams of sun- light that now poured down into the sea. I glanced upward. It was the shark! He dashed over me like a flying spear, apparently intimidated by the sharp clicking of the coral in my handsa sound that he had never heard before. But I knew that he was in swift pursuit of my beautiful playmate. I dropped the corals, and rosefor my breath was now almost spentto the surface of the water. My companions were by this time making rapid way toward the land, kicking and splashing furiously. But Melelina had not yet appeared. Had she already fallen a prey to this mon- ster, this ravening devil of the sea? I gasped for breath. But, in a few seconds, the glossy black head of the young girl sprang above the surface of the water, hardly farther from me than her arms length. She shook the brine from her curls. Her eyes sparkled. She drew a long breath, and cried, Va lilo ia! I have escaped him! I swam seaward after diving, and put him off the track! She was speaking of the savage, not of that more terrible enemy, of which, as yet, she knew nothing. Then, glancing shoreward, she saw the whole company in flight, and beat- ing the brine with their feet. She turn- ed toward me: my face was as ghastly as death. The danger flashed upon her at once, and something of its terror was reflected in hers, as I gasped out: The shark !the shark is after you! Swim for your life! All this passed in an instant; and, in the same second, we saw the blue dorsal fin of the shark at Melelinas side. Quick as lightning, before we could cry out, he turned and seized her. I shall never forget that dreadful mo- ment. Her face, just now so smiling, was instantly drawn with sharp paiii$ A shriek of agony rent the air. She threw her hands wildly toward me, and imme- diately the water around her turned a frightful crimson. The poor girl moaned a few times in my arms, and died, mur- inuring a few words of the prayer that the missionaries had taught her (E tou matou Atual Our Father! I bore the body part of the way to the shore; a broad track of crimson marked our path as I swam. Those of the company who had first reached the shore, hastily pushed off a canoe and came out to us, beating the water with their paddles to scare away the shark. But he, apparently sated with a single life, did not follow us farther. They met us near the landing, for we were not more than half a mile from the shore when the shark attacked us; and, upon arriving with the still warm body of Melelina, the whole village came down to the seaside, with branches of the mourning-tree (duo, a variety of Calophyllum), and uttered those loud and doleful wails with which all of the South Sea Islanders are accustomed to mourn the dead. * * * It is not my purpose to dwell further upon the adventures, varied and excit- ing as they were, which filled up my boyish years. It is sufficient to say that, at the age of fifteen, I had become quite identified in feeling with these natives, and was accustomed to spend at least a half of my time in their com- pany. As the Tongans were a kindly, indolent race, they displayed no traits that alarmed me, or caused me to shrink from their society; but the habits of intimacy with savage life which I then PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, acquired were to lead me, in another group, into the darker scenes which I am about to describe. Would that the memories of my early years included nothing but the record of those com- paratively innocent days spent upon the Tonga Islands! Few persons, except those who arc familiar with the missionary enterprises of the South Pacific, are aware that the Fiji Islanders are the most ferocious and bloodthirsty, and the most open and undisguised in their ferocity, of all Polynesian tribes. It was among this sanguinary people, with whom canni- balism was a public and frequent cus- torn, a settled national institution, that my lot was now to be cast. In the year 18, my parents were detached from the Tongan mission, and sent as pioneers to the Fiji Islands. I need not detail the breaking up of our household, the parting from Tonga, the long and comfortless sea-voyage. Suffice it to say, that we reached our new home in safety, and took up our abode upon the lovely island of Lakem- ba, one of the most eastward of the seven- ty-four inhabited islands which compose the Fiji group. Many and earnest were the injunctions of my parents to avoid, in future, the society of the savages. They painted in vivid terms the fatal consequences that might result, not only to my character, but even to my life, should I continue such habits of inti- macy as I had formed with the gen- tle Tongan Islandersa wholly differ- ent peoplewith a race so wild and sanguinary as the Fijis. I heard them with mingled incredu- lity and apprehension. The latter feel- ing was considerably heightened, when an old retainer of my fathers family, a Tongan, who had been shipwrecked many years before upon Vulanga, one of the Fiji islands, and who had barely escaped with his life from a cruel cap- tivity, assured me that the Fijian can- nibals were especially fond of the flesh of young lads. They had been known, continued he, to devour, even after the larder had been amply provided with maturer victims slain in war, boys of tender age, as delicate appetizers at some great religious or state festival; and, on one occasion, said my inform- ant, they had even kidnapped the child of a foreign resident, much upon my own years, and served him up as a side- dish. - I had not then heard the pleasantries of Sydney Smith about cold-baked missionary upon the sideboard, or of his parting wish, expressed to a controversial young minister who was setting out for some cannibal country, I hope that you will not disagree with the man who eats you. My early im- pressions of cannibalism, derived from savages, were not, in consequence, tem- pered by the grotesque or humorous; they were impressions of unmitigated horror. Yet, I should confess that an uneasy curiosity mingled with my dread, and that I was not without a certain anxiety to see, with my own eyes, some- thing of the sanguinary practices against which I was so earnestly warned. Civ- ilization, in the person of my parents, pointed in one direction; paganism drew me in another. It was in October that our lit- tle company landed upon the white sand-beach of Lakemba. This island contained a population of about 5,000, composed in part of immigrant Ton- gans, who had three settlements upon it. Though not more than thirty miles in circumference, it presented one of the most perfect specimens of the tropical scenery of the South Seas. Conical hills, clothed with a drapery of the most luxuriant verdure, and fringed with heavy forests, in which birds of Paradise and innumerable parroquets of the most brilliant plumage were con- stantly flashing to and frofantastic turrets of volcanic rockvast crags that stood sentinels over smiling valleys mountain-peaks carved and rent by geo- logic forces into the m,pst fantastic out- linesnative villages perched upon cliffs which seemed even more inaccessible than the mountain~built cities and mon- asteries of the Apenninesdeep and rocky ravines through which the moun- tam-streams brawled and spattered, glit 1870.] LOVE IN Fiji. 85 tering down their precipitous channels, or plunging headlong over the steep wall of the cliffs, to fall in foamy cata- ractsthese are but a few of the fea- tures which lent their charm to these islands. How can I describe their ex- quisite and romantic beauty! Nor were the softer features of tropical landscape wanting; here were broad belts of co- coanut-trees, with their feathery plumes fringing the shore; the terraced plan- tations of the broad-leaved taro-plant rose one above another upon the hill- sides; and masses of stately palms ap- peared among thickets of the quaint pandanus-tree, which sent down its stout aerial roots in such profusion from its trunk and limbs, that they sometimes usurped the office of the original root, and the tree derived its entire support from these props or shores, while its yellow flowers filled the air with a musky fragrance; or the bread-fruit tree showed darkly among the more brilliant greens of the island flora, pro- jecting upward its large-leaved and massy tower of foliage, as a dense cumu- lus cloud seems to pour itself into the summer air. The forests were draped with climbing vines; and one variety of these, a gigantic woody creeper, wound itself, like a boa-constrictor, around the sturdiest trunks, finally destroying their life in its embrace a symbol of arrested national growth in the too ardent grasp of nature. But I little thought, as I gazed upon this strange conflict of vegetable life, how emblematic it was of the moral death of the savage. The establishment of our new home was not a matter of delay or difficulty. The king of Lakemba, to whom my father sent greetings immediately upon our arrival, was disposed to be friendly to foreigners; and he detailed a large company of natives to construct the houses that our families required. The workmen laid hold of the task with all the spirit and alacrity that is manifest- ed in a New England house-raising or husking-bee, chattering like mac~tws, and gesticulating like monkeys as they worked. In three days they had entire- ly finished a couple of pretty thaiched cottages, their frames constructed of the buabua, or Fijian box-wood, with low walls and a high steep roof. To the timbers were fastened, with tough cinet, a lattice-work of bamboo-canes; and the whole buildings were then thatched with grass, and lined with reeds dis- posed in a pretty reticulated pattern. The dwellings were floored with mats. We made partitions after the Fijian fashion, by hanging up screens of the native cloth or tapce; and, as we had brought furniture and household uten- sils from our recent home, we soon found ourselves living almost as comfortably in our grass-houses as we had dwelt in the more substantial stone cottages of Tongs. Our native builders felt amply remunerated for their labor by the pres- ent of a few adzes, knives, whales teeth, and patterns of calicoarticles which even now form the staple of currency in many of the South Sea Islands. For a few days all went well in our new home; we conversed fluently with the natives, whose language was not greatly different from that of the Ton- gans; and, though they did not deny their own habits of cannibalism, yet we were led to think that the ill-fame which they bore in this respect had been much exaggerated; for their man- ners, under ordinary circumstances, are aflitble, lively, and even kind. The disproof of our hopes was not, however, far distant. But a few days after our occupation of the grass-houses, a violent storm of wind and rain set in frbm the north- westan unusual occurrence in this cli- mate, and especially in the warm days of November.* For here great Spring greens all the year, And fruits and blossoms blush in sonial sweetness On the self-same bough. The only suggestion of winter, indeed, was found in the appellation for June and July, which the natives call the vulai Ziiimce, or cold moons, their minimum temperature being 120 centi- grade (O3~ Fah.). Upon this occasion, * Lakeanba lies in lat. 550 20 5. 38. PurxAMs MAGAZINE. [July however, it was fortunate that we had found an early shelter. The unusually mild trade-wind increased to a gale. There was much distress among the native craft that happened to be at sea, and three out of four canoes that I saw approaching, laden with fish and dried bananas, from a windward group of is- lands, were driven into the breakers and swamped among the reefs before my eyes. Their fragments were shattered upon the sharp coral; and the billows thundered remorselessly over the wreck, suiging up like wreaths of white flame upon the altar of Neptune. From our front doors I could watch the disaster, as these canoes and their crew of natives, who belonged to a dis- tant island, capsized, one after another, in the tumbling surf. The natives strug- gled with all their savage address and strength, and the more powerful sur- vivors, fighting their way through the billows, reached the shore; while many, in spite of their efforts, were whirled under water by the combing of the surf beaten against the coral reef, and killed. I now saw, for the first time, the dark side of the Fiji character. No effort was made to rescue the shipwrecked men; the natives looked upon the ex- citing spectacle with the same apathy with which brute animals see each other slain. It surprised me equally to see that the survivors, fifteen in number, having made their way to a small islet, which the natives called Faa Rock, from the peculiar shape of the single tufted palm-tree that it bore, made no signals of any sort to the mainland, and did not even seek rest or shelter during the continuance of the storm. On the contrary, no sooner had they escaped from the dangers of shipwreck, than they seemed to be ill at ease upon the shore. They evidently dreaded some unseen danger more than the storm; for they began, with the greatest celerity, to construct a raft upon which to make their escape. Aided by my fathers spy- glass, I could see them collecting frag- ments of drift-wood and wreck, and endeavoring to build a rude catamaran; but they were hard put to it for cord- age with which to bind the planks to- gether. They peeled the bark from some of the fresher drift-wood that the storm had cast upon the beach, and made from it a rough rope, which, how- ever, proved too short for their purpose, and they seemed to look despairingly at their work. But at this moment the mast and sail of a shipwrecked canoe were driven by the storm upon the sand, within a stones throw of the unfinished raft. Seizing this jetsam eagerly, they found enough cordage upon it to serve their purpose; they hoisted the rescued spar, unfurled a small portion of the sail, and, launching boldly forth upon the angry water, the shipwrecked na- tives were soon scudding away to lee- ward before the storm, the water break- ing every moment quite over their per- ilous craft. I was lost in surprise when I saw these savages thus commit themselves anew to the danger they had just es- caped. Why were they not content to remain upon their little island until the tempest should abate? I strolled out toward the bure, or Fijian house of worship, hoping to learn from a company of natives 1 saw assembling there something about the strange acts that I had observed. As I entered the shadow of the darnanu trees that surrounded it, I overtook the chief- priest of the island. He was a man of powerful stature and forbidding physi- ognomy; his face was painted in geo- metrical patches of different and vivid colors, and his abundant black hair was dressed with the utmost carefrizzed and plaited so as to resemble an enor- mous wig, and powdered with scarlet and orange powder. The Fijian bar- bers have incredible ingenuity and skill; and I knew, from this display of their art upon the person of their priest high- est in rank, that some important rite was about to take place. I had not long to wait for the satisfaction of my curiosity. The priest beckoned me to follow him. Come with me, son of the white man, he said; I will show you what bakolo (victims designed for baking) the great 1870.1 Lovn IN Fiji. 37 god Ndengei has sent to us this day. And he proceeded at a measured pace toward the neighboring temple. As he spoke, a wild drum-beat rolled out from the gladea strange, barbaric tattoo. I had never heard such a sound before, and it alarmed me even before I knew its import, as if it expressed its own dark meaning. But a sense of dread or danger heightens, when it is not too acute, in temperaments like mine, the feeling of pleasurable excite- ment. I promptly followed the grim savage as he strode into the shadow; the branches of the great duo and da- manzt trees creaked and groaned in the gust, and the palm-branches seemed to make weird and deterrent gesticulations. I was glad to reach the open space again; but a sight met my eyes which I can never forget as long as I livethe sight of the pursuit of blood. We had now approached the seaside upon the lee of the island, keeping pace with the course of the catamaran that I had just seen launched by the ship- wrecked natives; and that craft had now gained the stiller water. But, as it rounded the point behind which lay the quiet lagoon, I saw two powerful war-canoes put off in hostile pursuit of the catamaran. It was a chase at hope- less odds. The shipwrecked crew, now drifting not more than the third of a mile from the shore, made the most desperate exertions to gain the open sea again, hoping that the war-canoe would not followthem beyond the stiller water; but a powerful tide drew them shore- ward. The pursuers gave the most frightful howls, and smote the sides of ~ the canoe in time with the flat of their paddles as .they took them from the water, making the whole hull, sixty or seventy feet long, resound like an enor- mous wooden drum. I never heard a sound so appalling and so powerful; it could be heard for miles, even agai.2nst the wind; and the fugitives seemed to recognize in it the knell of their cruel doom. Seeing the war-canoes rapidly gaining upon them, they abandoned the last hope; they threw away the pieces of rough plank which they had used for paddles, and set up a dismal minor chant, which, the wind now lulling sud- denly, I could distinctly hear. The natives on shore, who were gath- ered together to the number of about three hundred, intently watching this ferocious chase, set up wild yells of de- light when they heard this death-song. I turned to a warrior of somewhat more affable appearance than the rest, and asked him, in Fijian: Are these strangers enemies, that our warriors pursue them so? No, he answered; but it is the custom of Fiji to eat all ngangcs polio (shipwrecked mcii). And the men of Lakemba are hungry to-day, for the ulu (bread-fruit) crop is poor. The wild excitement of the savages possessed me. I was to see a cannibal orgy! This, then, was the reason why the shipwrecked men had made such desperate efforts to escape. As I spoke with the savage, the war- canoe overtook the helpless company upon the raft. With the wildest yells the warriors leaped upon it, and instantly clubbed its wretched crew, taking care, however, to kill none of them outright, but stunning them with a blow upon the head, or maiming them with their carved war-clubs. The warriors trans- ferred their victims, fifteen in number, to their own canoe, and turned its prow toward the shore, singing a wild and discordant song of triumph as they came. A young girl named Waimata, the daughter of the chief-priest of Lakemba, seeing that my face alone, among the savage company, showed any pity for these wretched victims, came run- ning to me with tears in her eyes. Minamina maori au i tela nganga! ( I have great sorrow for these men ! ) she said. She threw her arm around me, as if craving sympathy. I returned the embrace fervently; for, among these terrible scenes, it seemed as if hers was the only real human heart remaining in the world. She was one of the few really hand- some girls, judged by a high stan& ard, that I have seen in the South Sea 88 Islands. She had been an attached and faithful friend of mine from the first day of my arrival from Tonga, when I was strongly impressed with her appear- ance. She was of lighter complexion than the other savages, and might pos- sibly have in her veins the blood of some early Portuguese explorer or Span- ish buccaneerthe first discoverer of this group of islands. Her features were full and ripe; her long and wav- ing hair, though fine, was intensely black; but her eyes were of a soft olive tint, and were her most charming fea- ture. Now gentle and languishing, now full of a lambent fire, now pleading, now passionate, they were the very incarna- tion of the tropics; bloom, and per- fume, and warmth, and color, the mystic melodies of wild birds, and the reful- gence of the southern stars, all seemed - to be intimated in the wonderful expres- sions of this wild maidens eyes. From them she derived her name. Wai- mata signifies, in the Fijian dialect, a tear. I had felt, indeed, a romantic love for this young girl from that first day upon which I saw her. She was pres- cut at our disembarkation upon her native shore, and had watched me as we landed, turning her soft shy glances upon mine .as she bade me welcome to Lakemba. Since that time we had met almost daily, and tenderness had grown up between us; but she was of a more timid nature than the other native girls, and, in spite of her tropical blood, less easily to be won. l3esides, she was the daughter of the chief-priest, and was consequently watched, as are all the high-born girls in this savage aristoc- racy, with jealGus eyes. She was re- served from ordinary lovers, and was to be given in marriage to a chief of high station, upon his return from the dis- tant island of Mbau. She was now, as I supposed, about fifteen years old; but she had the development and the charm which come, in colder climates, only with maturer years. It was not difficult for me to see that she felt for me something of that de- licious passion which blooms perfectly [July, under the palm-trees alone, and which the astrologers of the tropics believe to be inspired by the soft fire of the ant- arctic constellations. But this was no time for sentiment. As we watched and listened, the howl- ings of the natives filled the air. The war-canoes rapidly regained the shore. The victims, still moaning and writhing, were dragged from the raised platform of the canoes, and thrown ashore by men who seized them by the hands and feet, and, swinging them violently to and fro to gain momentum, tossed them upon the sand-beach with as little concern as they would show in handling the car- casses of hogs or sheep. Several of the captives lay where they fell, apparently quite stunned by the blows they had received; others raised themselves upon their hands and knees, and entreated for mercy; and one stalwart and mus- cular savage, apparently a chieffor he had received no injury, and still retain- ed his mantle of birds feathers and necklace of polished sharks teethrose to his feet, and attempted to plunge again into the sea, as if hoping to es- cape by diving. But the Lakemban warriors seized him, and were about to beat him upon the head with a jagged fragment of obsidian, a variety of vol- canic rock much used in the manufac- ture of weapons. Suddenly, however, a herald stepped forward among the assassins, and cried: E woti oel M~zte-mate te Tahuna i te pool ( Stop! The high-priest wishes the skull of the chieftain for a drinking-vessel! ) Instantly the chief was respited, but only for a more cruel fate. Throwing him upon the ground, the natives tied his hands and feet together. Securing all the other victims in the same man- ner, they fastened the stems of wild vines around their wrists; four natives then seized each vine-stem, and set off at the top of their speed for the umu ngangct (place of ovens), yelling wildly as they ran, and dragging their wretch- ed prisoners head-foremost over the broken ground. The larger part of the assembled natives followed this fright- PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. 1870.] Lovz IN Fiji. 89 ful procession, singing wild songs as they ran, in honor of the man-eating god. I remained, with Waimata, upon the shore, uncertain, for some moments, whether to watch the orgies longer, or to seek safety in flight. I was still held by a subtle bond to civilization. It was a voice from the antipodes that kept me in doubt. * * * * * * In Fiji all shipwrecked men are eaten. But you do not eat men? I asked. Never! never! said Waimata, her eyes filling with tears. I could never bear to touch the ai mo (accursed food), and my father has never forced me to do so, though sometimes he threatens me. Let us go to the ~ure (temple). I will lead you thither, said Wai- mata; and, stepping out from the shade of the palm-trees, we ran a short dis- tance, overtaking the savages, who were dragging the still living victims. The news of the shipwreck had al- ready spread to the nearer hamlets, and the natives were flocking by hundreds to the scene of excitement. As each party of natives reached the thatched temple, or bure, where the can- nibal orgies were to occur, they dashed violently against a particular rock the head of the victim, often already sense- less, whom they were dragging. This rock, deeply stained with the blood of many a previous festival, was looked upon with as much veneration as the caaba of the Mohammedans. It stood at the eastward corner of the mire; for the east is the sacred quarter of the. heavens in Fiji. Those of the victims who had survived were reserved for the torture. Come, son of the white man, spoke up a dozen voices to me, as I appeared in the open space before the temple, and see how we do when Matani, the god of storms, sends us a banquet. Do not fail to eat of it, said the high-priest, or you will some day yourself be made a banquet for others. Waimata explained this last speech to me, by saying that her countrymen believed the strength and the martial spirit of the victim to be transmitted to the man ~ho ate him. She pointed me to a large thevuci tree standing near. Its ancient bark was covered with deep and regular incisions, scored off by tens, in the manner of a supercargos tally; for the Fijians, like civilized men, count by the number of their fingers. That is the record of the great war- rior Kalono, she said; one mark for each man he has eaten during his life. So many marks, so many men. They are ~ini (infinite). I counted the tallies. They were more than ninety in number! If this record were to be trustedand I afterward sat- isfied myself that it was not exagge- ratedthis rapacious warrior had eaten, during a long and warlike lifetime, nearly a thousand men! The natives of the island now looked upon him as quite invincibleas being, in fact, in himself equivalent to a regiment of men, since his personal prowess was augment- ed by that of all of his victims. He thinks that, if you will do as Kalono did, you will become so strong that nobody can harm you, continued Waimata. And the women are seldom allowed to eat of men, lest they should become as strong as their masters. But I thought that I discovered a more sinister meaning in her fathers words than her interpretation conveyed. Meanwhile, the preparations for the savage revel were actively making. Large pits had been dug in the ground; near them, fires of sin-sin, and other light woods, were already burning fierce- ly; and in them, as they blazed, the na- tives placed numerous stones varying in size from that of the fist to a mans head. While these were heating, other na- tives addressed themselves to the task of preparing their victims for the oven. I tremble as I recall what then I saw for the first time. * * * * * * It was to be the greatest feast that Lakemba had known for more than a year. The kind god, said the natives, 40 PcTNAMs MAGAZINE. [July, had been very good to them in ship- wrecking so many men at this particu- lar time. For it was a year of scanty crops, and many of the sn~ages, assem- bled for this feast, had gone actually hungry for weeksa rare occurrence, however, in fruitful Fiji, where the nat- ural bounty of the earth suffices for the maintenance of its idle inhabitants. I could now understand the rapacity with which these savages seized upon their victims, their eagerness to slay and to devour them. But their fondness for torturing themwhence did this pro- ceed? It was evidently not malignant; there was no grudge between the cap- tors and their prey. The men whose bodies were now lying around in ghast- ly dismemberment, whose blood crim- soned the rocks, the grass, and stained the garments of spectators who were waiting to feed upon their flesh, would have been received, had they landed without injury from the storm, with the utmost kindness. The same blind sentiment which, I am told, occasionally leads ignorant sailors, upon the seacoasts of the East- ern United States, to grudge lending a hand, in case of disaster, to their fellow-fishermen, appeared in its fullest development among the island savages. The New England fisher thinks it unlucky to interfere to save from death an individual whom Providence is evi- dently endeavoring to drown. But if this duty be urged upon him by his skipper, he will render a reluctant as- sistance, growling, and apparently ex- pecting to be drowned, some day, in retribution for thus tampering with the Fates. The savage, on the contrary, gives full play to his superstition. He car- ries the same feeling to its logical ex- treme, and finds it unlucky, in such a case, not merely to rescue, but even to spare, the man who is marked of the Fates. Hence the sacrifice of the ship- wrecked. Logical savage I A religious custom bases itself upon this sentiment. When the gods are about to destroy, man should aid them in their work. And the victims are uniformly devoted to the banquet. I think the savage priest more than half believed what he said. The Fijian honestly regards the man who is about to die as already dead. He often buries parents, relatives, dearest friends, in the latter stages of severe illness, before the last breath has passed away; sometimes while the survivor is still quite conscious, and able to speak distinctly. Strangely enough, the victims of these barbarities do not complain that their fate is pre- mature, but accept it with the best of grace. There is, indeed, a strange nearness to the brute-animal in the savage of the South Seas. These shipwrecked captives did not seem to regard their tortures so much an outrage, as a matter of acci- dent and fate; and this captivity, muti- lation, and cruel death, was precisely what they would have inflicted had the conditions been reversed, and they had been the captors instead of the captives. Even the sufferings of the wretched vic- tims hardly seemed distinctively human; their groans and cries were recalled to me more vividly in later years by those of the wounded chargers which I saw upon the battle-field of Custozza, than by any expression of pain which I have ever heard from man. The torturing was done, the last wretched captive slain; but the savages still danced and shouted wildly, their eyes flashing and their nostrils dilating at the terrible sight of blood; yet it seemed an excitement of the animal instincts even more than of the mind. They appeared hardly less intelligent and vol untary in thus attacking their fellows who were in calamity, than the stags of the Orinoco seem when they turn upon and trample the wounded bull. I seem- ed to be watching the orgies of beings not far remote from an animal ancestry, wild and savage as the boar or the eagle. Yet this spectacle actually brought me into a certain sympathy with it. The sight of the deliberate killing of a human being is doubly brutalizing when accompanied by circumstances so atrocious as those I have described; 1870.] WILD BxES. 41 and the events of that day went far to set the savage stamp upon my nature. Waimata and I watched the scene, uncertain whether to linger or to fly. The sight was indeed appalling. The blood ran away into the bushes in rivu- lets, as in places where the carnage is thickest upon a field of battle. I well remember the terror with which its un- expccted quantity impressed mea feel- ing which I did not thea know that Lady Macbeth had expressed in those awful words, half soliloquy, half ex- clamation: Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him I We remained silent, Waimata and I, with eyes dilated. She had witnessed spectacles of this sort before; and, though they were revolting to her na- ture, exceptionally gentle for that of a savage, yet she endured the sight better than I did. Something of my disgust and alarm, however, was breathed into her through that subtle sympathy which draws minds together, as gravitation connects the planets. She shared my revulsion of feeling; while, on the oth- er hand, I borrowed something of her self-possession in the presence of those frightful deeds. She tended, in a word, toward civilization; while I borrowed something of the savage nature for the time. Strange inversion of the way in which the sexes usually interact! Wai- mata actually seemed to appropriate all my feelings of humanity. When, at last, the bodies were folded in thick layers of the broad and succu- lent banana-leaf; Waimata said, Come, Tali, let us go; I cannot look upon this any longer. . We strolled away from the orgies. The revellers did not seem to notice our withdrawal. [continued in next Number.] WILD BEES: Tuouou, strictly speaking, all bees are wild beesthat is, incapable of do- mestication. Mans dominion properly stops short of the insect-world; here he passes absolutely unregarded, excit- ing neither fear nor love. The honey- bees, for instance, are never strictly do- mesticated, like the barn-fowls and the ~imals, but only consent to stay with us on conditions. So slight is our hold upon them, that, for the most trivial reasons, and often without any reason at all that we can perceive, they call together the colony, and leave for the woods or the mountains, where, in some cavity of oak or maple, they thrive quite as well, and sometimes better, than in the painted hive in the garden. It is said, by those wise in such things, that every swarm, before it leaves the parent-hive, has its tree se- lected and cleaned out ready for occu- pancy at the proper time. Years upon years of domestication seem to have no appreciable effect toward uprooting this instinct. The alighting~ of the swarm voL. vi.3 upon some branch or bush near the hive, therefore, is not with a view to new quarters being offered them, but seems to be a movement usually rendered ne- cessary by the condition of the queen- bee, who, unused to flying, finds herself fatigued by the first effort. But that it is the purpose of every swarm to go ofi seems confirmed by the fact that it will only come out when the weather is favorable to such an undertaking, and that a passing cloud, or a rise in the wind, after the bees are in the air, will usually drive them back into the hive. It is not, of course, till after the bees have alighted, that a hive is offered them, which, in most cases, they forth- with enter, postponing or abandoning altogether the tree in the woods. In most cases, though not in allfor some- times the swarm refuses the hive, tak- ing to wing again after a few hours, and making off; or, after having en- tered it, cleaned it out, waxed it, and even began to build comba sudden dissatisfaction may seize them, when

John Burroughs Burroughs, John Wild Bees 41-48

1870.] WILD BxES. 41 and the events of that day went far to set the savage stamp upon my nature. Waimata and I watched the scene, uncertain whether to linger or to fly. The sight was indeed appalling. The blood ran away into the bushes in rivu- lets, as in places where the carnage is thickest upon a field of battle. I well remember the terror with which its un- expccted quantity impressed mea feel- ing which I did not thea know that Lady Macbeth had expressed in those awful words, half soliloquy, half ex- clamation: Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him I We remained silent, Waimata and I, with eyes dilated. She had witnessed spectacles of this sort before; and, though they were revolting to her na- ture, exceptionally gentle for that of a savage, yet she endured the sight better than I did. Something of my disgust and alarm, however, was breathed into her through that subtle sympathy which draws minds together, as gravitation connects the planets. She shared my revulsion of feeling; while, on the oth- er hand, I borrowed something of her self-possession in the presence of those frightful deeds. She tended, in a word, toward civilization; while I borrowed something of the savage nature for the time. Strange inversion of the way in which the sexes usually interact! Wai- mata actually seemed to appropriate all my feelings of humanity. When, at last, the bodies were folded in thick layers of the broad and succu- lent banana-leaf; Waimata said, Come, Tali, let us go; I cannot look upon this any longer. . We strolled away from the orgies. The revellers did not seem to notice our withdrawal. [continued in next Number.] WILD BEES: Tuouou, strictly speaking, all bees are wild beesthat is, incapable of do- mestication. Mans dominion properly stops short of the insect-world; here he passes absolutely unregarded, excit- ing neither fear nor love. The honey- bees, for instance, are never strictly do- mesticated, like the barn-fowls and the ~imals, but only consent to stay with us on conditions. So slight is our hold upon them, that, for the most trivial reasons, and often without any reason at all that we can perceive, they call together the colony, and leave for the woods or the mountains, where, in some cavity of oak or maple, they thrive quite as well, and sometimes better, than in the painted hive in the garden. It is said, by those wise in such things, that every swarm, before it leaves the parent-hive, has its tree se- lected and cleaned out ready for occu- pancy at the proper time. Years upon years of domestication seem to have no appreciable effect toward uprooting this instinct. The alighting~ of the swarm voL. vi.3 upon some branch or bush near the hive, therefore, is not with a view to new quarters being offered them, but seems to be a movement usually rendered ne- cessary by the condition of the queen- bee, who, unused to flying, finds herself fatigued by the first effort. But that it is the purpose of every swarm to go ofi seems confirmed by the fact that it will only come out when the weather is favorable to such an undertaking, and that a passing cloud, or a rise in the wind, after the bees are in the air, will usually drive them back into the hive. It is not, of course, till after the bees have alighted, that a hive is offered them, which, in most cases, they forth- with enter, postponing or abandoning altogether the tree in the woods. In most cases, though not in allfor some- times the swarm refuses the hive, tak- ing to wing again after a few hours, and making off; or, after having en- tered it, cleaned it out, waxed it, and even began to build comba sudden dissatisfaction may seize them, when 42 PUTNAMS MiGAZINE. [July, out they come and off they go. Or, again, they may refuse to alight at all, starting for the woods at once. Hence, the bce-keepers first solicitude, when a swarm comes out, is whether or not they are going to alight, and where. If they act undecided, they may often be brought to erms by throwing water among them, and handfuls of earth. A friend of mine, working in his corn- field one day, saw a swarm passing near him, when he began to shower dirt upon them, which had the effect of causing them to settle on a hill of corn in a few moments. I would not even say that the apparently absurd practicenow en- tirely discredited by regular bee-keep- ers, but still resorted to by some unsci- entific folkof beating upon tin pans, blowing horns, and creating an uproar generally, might not be without good results. Certainly, not by drowning the orders of the queen, but by impress- ing the bees with some unusual commo- tion in nature. It is, by the way, nn en- tirely erroneous notion, that the queen- bee is in any sense a ruler, and issues. her royal orders to willing subjects. The swarm cling to hcr because she is their life. She is the only female bee, and without her the colony must soon perish. But the bees, the workers, are her masters and keepers, and often re- strain her movements very much against her will. The past season I witnessed two swarms take their leave of patent hives and of civilization generally. One swarm had come out the day before, and, without alighting, had returned to the parent- hivesome hitch in the plan, perhaps, or, may-be, the queen had found her wings too weak. The next day they came out again, and were hived. But something offended them, or else the tree in the woodsperhaps some royal old maple or birch, holding its head high above all others, with snug, spa- ~ious, irregular chambers and galleries had too many attractions; for they were presently discovered filling the air ever the garden, and whirling excitedly around. Gradually they began to drift ever the street,; a moment more, aIld they had become separated from the other bees, and, drawing together in a more compact mass or cloud, away they went, a humming, flying vortex of bees, the queen in the centre, and the swarm revolving around her as a pivot,over meadows, across creeks and swamps, straight for the heart of the mountain, about a mile distant,slow at first, s~ that the youth who gave chase kept up with them, but increasing their speed till only a fox-hound could have kept them in sight. I saw the youth labor- ing up the side of the mountain; saw his white shirt-sleeves gleam as he en- tered the woods; but he returned a few hours afterward, without any clue as to the particular tree in which they had taken refuge out of the ten thousand that covered the side of the mountain. The other swarm came out about one oclock of a hot July day, and at once showed symptoms that alarmed the keeper, who, however, did not throw either dirt or water. The house was situated on a steep side-hill. Behind it the ground rose, for a hundred reds or so, at an angle of nearly forty-fivu degrees, and the prospect of having to chase them up this bill, if chase them we should, was by no means inviting; for it soon became evident that their course lay in this direction. Throwing off my coat, I hurried on, before the swarm was yet fairly organized and un- der way, determined to see what eould be done. The route soon led mc into a field of standing rye, every spear of which held its head above my own. Plunging recklessly forward, my course marked to those watching from below by the agitated and wriggling grain, I emerged from the miniature forest just in time to see the runaways disappear- ing over the top of the hill, some fifty rods in advance of me. Lining them as well as I could, I soon reached the hill-top, my breath utterly gone, and the perspiration streaming from every pore of my skin. On the other side the country opened deep and wide. A large valley swept around to the north, heavily wooded at its head and on its sides. It became evident at once that 1870.] WILD BEES. 43 the bees had made good their escape, and that whether they had stopped on one side of the valley or the other, or had, indeed, cleared the opposite moun- tain and gone into some unknown for- est beyond, was entirely problematical. A family in the valley, whose house was in the line of their course, had not seen or heard them; as, of course, they would not, being some three hundred feet beneath them. I turned back, there- fore, thinking of the honey-laden tree that some of these fores{s would hold before the falling of the leaf. I heard of a youth in the neighbor. hood, more lucky than myself on a like occasion. It seems that he had got well in advance of the swarm, whose route lay over a hill, as in my case, and, as he neared the summit, hat in hand, the bees had just come up and were all about him. Presently he noticed them.~ hovering about his straw hat, and alighting on his arm; and, in almost as brief a time as it takes to relate it, the whole swarm had followed the queen into his hat. Being near a stone wall, he coolly deposited his prize upon it, quickly disengaged himself from the accommodating bees, and returned for a hive. The explanation of this singu- lar circumstance, no doubt is, that the queen, unused to such long and heavy flights, was obliged to alight from very exhaustion. It is not very unusual for swarms to be thus found in remote fields, collected upon a bush or branch of a tree. When a swarm migrates to the woods in this manner, the individual bees, as I have intimated, do not move in right lines or straight forward, like a flock of birds, but round and round, like chaff in a whirlwind. Unitedly they form a humming, revolving mass, which keeps just high enough to clear all ob- stacles, except in crossing deep valleys, when, of course, it may be very high. The swarm seems to be guided by a line of couriers, which may be seen (at least at the outset) constantly going and coming. As they take a direct course, there is always some chance of follow- ing them to the tree, unless they go a long distance, and some obstruction, like a wood, or a swamp, or a high hill, intervenesenough chance, at any rate, to stimulate the lookers-on to give vig- orous chase as long as their wind holds out. If the bees are successfully fol- lowed to their retreat, two plans are feasible: either to fell the tree at once, and seek to hive them, perhaps bring them home in the section of the tree that contains the cavity; or leave the tree till Fall, then invite your neigh. bors, and go and cut it, and see the ground flow with honey. The former course is more business-like; but the latter is the one usually recommended by ones friends and neighbors. In any given locality, especially iu the more wooded and mountainous dis- tricts, the number of swarms that thus assert their independence forms quite a large per cent. In the northern States these swarms very often perish before Spring; but in such a country as Flori- da they seem to multiply, till bee- trees are very common. In the West, also, wild honey is often gathered in large quantities. I noticed, not long since, that some wood-choppers, on the west slope of the Coast Range, felled a tree that had several pailfuls in it. Perhaps nearly one third of all the runaway swarms leave when no one is about, and hence are unseen and un- heard, save, perchance, by some distant laborers in the field, or by some youth ploughing on the side of the mountain, who hears an unusual humming noise, and sees the swarm dimly whirling by overhead, and, may-be, gives chase; or he may simply catch the sound, when he pauses, looks quickly around, but sees nothing. When he comes in at night, he tells how he heard or saw a swarm of bees go over; and, perhaps, from beneath one of the hives in the garden a black mass of bees has disappeared during the day. The sequel to the going off of the bees in Summer is the hunting of them in the Fall. It is entirely worth the while to lose one of the later swarms, for the sake of the pleasure of looking for them after they shall have laid up 44 their store of honey. Bee-hunting is the poetry of sport, and has a sufficient reward even if no tree be found. The rich, warm September days is the time usually chosen. The honey-yielding flowers are nearly all gone by this time, and the bees roam far and wide in quest of food. If the bee-hunter has no pre- vious intimation of the probable where- abouts of an escaped swarm, he begins operations in the vicinity of any large wood. His principal appliance is a small box with a glass lid, into which he nicely fits a piece of comb filled with honey. The first honey-bee he discov- ers leisurely probing some thistle-head in a remote field or on a hill, he gently sweeps into his box, watching its move- ments through the glass lid. The bee, at first alarmed, struggles to get out; but catching the smell of honey, for- gets its captivity, and, like a true Yan- kee determined to make the most of every mishap, falls to taking its fill. The box is then placed upon a stump or rock, the lid gently withdrawn, and the hunter steps back a pace or two to watch the bee take flight, which it does in about one minutethat is, as soon as filled with honey. Rising a few feet in the air, it circles around two or three times, takes its bearings, and strikes a bee-line for home. If it goes toward the woods or mountains, the chances are that it belongs to a wild swarm, and the hunter eagerly waits for its re- turn; if toward the settlement, or a farm-hanse, another bee is procured and experimented with as before. Th case a bee cannot be readily found, the usual mode of proceeding is to heat a fiat stone and burn upon it some refuse comb or honey. The scent will soon attract a bee, when it may be treated as above described. If the tree is any- where within half a mile, the bee usu- ally returns in about fifteen minutes, always accompanied by one or more of his fellows, to whom, by some myste- rious language, he has communicated the secret of the box of honey. These fill themselves, and depart as before. Returning, they bring others, and these again bring others; and thus, in a short [July, time; a line of bees may be established. The hunter follows them into the woods, and, keeping the direction, marks the trees for a long distance. In many cases he finds his prize without much further trouble; but in as many cases he is obliged to cross-line themthat is, establish a second line at an angle with the first; where the two lines in- tersect each other, he may confidently expect his search to end. Changing his base of operations, therefore, to another field or hill half a mile or more distant, if the lay of the land permits, he seeks to line them as before, and thus deter- mine the immediate locality of the tree. The tree is apt to be a large one, with top more or less decayed. The finding of a wild swarm, how- ever, is not so easy and simple a matter as it may appear to be on paper. In the first place, the hunter is much more apt to get hold of a hive-bee, than the representative of a wild swarm. This consumes time. Or, if he captures one of the latter without delay, it is not an easy matter, in the majority of cases, to establish a reliable first-line. A bee is a small object to follow with the naked eye; and then, the wind may cause it to deflect from its course, and thus mis- lead the hunter at the outset. The na- tive bce-hunters of Australia attach some white cottony substance to the bee, which not only retards its flight, but makes it a more conspicuous mark for the eye. I have heard of our bee- hunters sprinkling the bees with flour for the same purpose. But the most novel and ingenious de- vice I have ever heard of, is the sprink- ling of them with sulphur. A young farmer in one of the interior districts of the State of New York, who takes an occasional spare day to look up bees, writes me he has tried it with marked effect. It seems to enrage the b~ees, and set them in a perfect uproar; so that not only may they be followed through the air more readily by the sound they make, but the whole swarm is presently humming at a fearful rate. He says he has heard the uproar when twenty rods from the tree. And, contrary to what PUT~AM5 MAGAZINE. 1870.] WILD BEES. 45 one might expect, instead of being driv- en away from the hunters box, the bees come thicker and faster. The swarm is thoroughly waked up, and presently in the wildest state of excitement. To get a sufficient base for the tri- angle, in most localities, is another diffi- culty when two lines have to be estab- lished; or, worst of all, the tree may be a mile or two away. It is fascinating sport, however,the great bright days, the sightly hills and remote fields, and the eager search through the woods, with sharp scrutiny of the old trees. If the tree is much decayed, the comb is often fearfully broken up and much of the honey wasted by felling it, which course, however, has no alternative. The bees that have escaped the deluge of honey, come pouring out into the air, ready to make war upon any thing. They are sometimes effectually disposed of with a match and a little rye-straw; but the safest and wisest plan is imme- diately to stop up all openings but one, leaving in this room enough to enter a pipe-stem; then give them a few puffs of tobacco-smoke. This deadens them instantly, and renders them quite harm- less. Bee-trees are sometimes found by per- sons walking in the woods on a bright day of early Spring, while the ground is yet covered with snow. The bees, induced to come forth by the warmth and the sunshine, arc blinded by the snow, and fall to the ground near their retreat. The honey-bee is, of course, an im- portation, Asia, perhaps, being its origi- nal home. Our truly native honey- maker is the burly, dozing bumble- bees of Emersons poem, in whose nat- ural history every country-boy is inter- ested. The first bumble-bee in Spring is as interesting an event as the first bird or the first wild-flower. A chord is touched in the wonderful harp of nature, which was before silent. We arc walking in the tender fields, or along the border of the woods, in the latter part of April or the first of May, when this familiar sound, like the horil of some fairy horseman, bursts upon the ear. Or is it the South-wind, taking form and voice, so soft and warm and prophetic, wooing the violets and dan- delions to hasten forth? No doubt the South-wind sent her, for she comes me- andering along close to the earth, search- ing out every nook and corner, and blowing the good tidings into the very ears of the mice in their retreats. Emerson, in the little poem referred to, has described her coming with as much truth of history as of poetry. When the South-wind, in May days, With a net of shining haze Silvers the horizon wall And, with softness touching all, Tints the human countenance With a color of romance, And, infusing suhtle heats, Turns the sod to violets, Thou, in sunny solitudes, hover of the underwoods, The green silence dost displace With thy mellow, hreezy hass The bumble-bees come singly, never in pairs, and only one sexthe female. In the bee-kingdoms, royalty is con- fined exclusively to the females. All females are queens. Where this large queen-bee, which is the only one we see in the Spring, comes from, is a mys- teryapparently from a warmer re- gion, like the birds; but the books say a few escape the rigors of the winter in a torpid state, and come out in the Spring, like the frogs, & c. At any rate there is, no doubt, some special pro- vision of nature for it, since it is only the queen that lasts over. She is im- pregnated by the males in August, goes into winter-quarters in the Fall, in some snug retreat or other, and lies torpid till Spring. When the fierce northwestern blact Cools sea and land so far and fast, Thou already slumberest deep; Woe and want thou canst outsleep; Want and woe, which ~orlure us, Thy sleep makes ridiculous. After this long nap, the queen-mother appears fresh and new, hunts out some abandoned mouse-nest in the meadow- bottoms or in a stone-heap, or some such place, and sets up her household gods solitary ai~d alone. A few rude cells or sa~ks are collatrueted, eggs deposited, 46 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, and in due time, say in early June, the young appear. These are neuters, neither male nor female, but workers. These proceed to build other cells and fill them with honey, relieving the queen of all care but the laying of the eggs. This first honey is very delicious, being clear and white, like the clover-honey in the hive, but of a different flavor. Ordinarily, the quantity found in a single nest is very small, scarcely more than a large tablespoonful. One sum- mer, when a boy, by making it a point, I collected quite a boxful in the comb, making, when pressed out, about a pint of clear honey, and representing the labor of two or three dozen swarms. Near midsummer the males are hatch- ed; these are the stingless, white-faced bees of the boys. Their sole function is to impregnate the female for the next season. The nest is not abandoned till the latter part of August, though the honey is gone long before that time. The bees then come out on the warm days, and dart and hover and pursue each other about the entrance of the nest, making a loud, humming noise. It is at such times that the queen-bee appears, and is pursued by the males. Through September the bumble-bees lead a roving, homeless life, wallowing languidly in thistle-blows, and usually passing the night and weathering a se- vere storm on the lee-side of one, till they finally die from cold and exposure. The royal scion, in the meantime, has stowed herself away, no one knows where. Emersons bumble-bce was a philoso- pher, as all bumble-bees are, and wore yellow breeches, which all bumble-bees do not. There are, indeed, said to be several dozen varieties or species in the United States, but, ordinarily, one no- tices not more than half a dozen va- rieties. Besides the yellow-breeched, which is the most common, there is the white-breeched, the black-breeched, and the red-breeched, with modifications of each. The red-breeched is a small bee, and quite rare, yet I remember one sea- son when they were abundant. They live in large communities, and usually nest in the ground, going two feet or more into the bank, following a mouse- hole, and appropriating the nest at the end of it. I have exhumed them, and found a mass of comb, filled with honey, grubs, and young bees, nearly as large as a mans double-fist. Then there is a small light-colored bee, about the same size, that frequently nests in barns, building in vacant mor- tices, or in the space above the tenon of a brace where the mice have made their beds. One sees the bees going in and out through the cracks. Rap on the beam or brace, and they set up a loud buzzing. Then there is a very rich, aristocratic- looking bumble-bee, with broad, glossy wings, new yellow waistcoat and new velvety breeches, always looking fresh and clean and distinguisheda bee that one readily discriminates. I have never found its nest. The more common yellow-breeched bees love the mice-nests in old meadow- bottoms, where they are turned up and plundered by the hay-makers, the boys especially delighting in the sport and the honey. Sometimes, however, they pay dearly for the fun; for a bee in the bonnet is nothing to a bee in the trow- sers-leg. A bumble-bee can sting as many times as a flea can bite. The honey-bee stings but once, and dies, leaving his weapon in the flesh; but his larger relative deals stab after stab, and the helpless youth into whose trow- scm-leg he has found a lodgment, dances a lively step for a few moments. The bumble-bees usual mode of at- tack, however, is to fly directly for the face and neck; and he gets beneath the clothing of the pedal extremities only when his wings are disabled, and the enemy stands unsuspeetingly about. The most ferocious of the bumble- bee tribe, and the terror of the boys, is the large white, or very light-yellow, species. It is quick to anger and slow to relent. Indeed, it pursues the mo- lester with the pertinacity of a bull- dog or a colporter. A spectator of the operation of hay-making and hay- gathering may have seen a mower pause 1870.] WILD BEES. 47 in his swath, duck his head once or twice, beat the air about his ears with his rifle; then duck again, lower than before, and drop his tool and go slink- ing away, warding off, with his arm or a switch of grass, some invisible enemy. Or the boy, tossing the hay behind the mowers, may be observed to break ranks, and, whipping his head and ears wildly with handfuls of hay, retreat in dis- order. Presently he pauses, and listens; then goes at it again, more vigorously than before. This wolf of a bumble- bee will thus dog him half across the field. Knock him down, and, if not seriously injured, he at once gets up and conies straight for you, and will not let you go till he is disabled out and out. A still more lively and spirited little comedy, however, is enacted in the hay- field, when a hornets nest is run into or lain bare by the mowers. There is a retreat then of all hands in hot haste. The movements of a hornet are so much quicker than those of a bumble-bee, their aim so much more sure, and their numl)ers so much greater, that beating them off is of little avail. A precipi- tate retreat, and, if pursued, a prostrat- ing of yourself upon the ground, your face buried in the hay, is the only safe course. After the bees have settled back into their paper-house, a wisp of & traw (if you must dispose of them), lighted with a match, and suddenly placed at the entrance, will make short work of them. The yellow-jackets are much more common than their congeners, the black. Scarcely a season passes that the various farm occupations do not disclose nu- merous nests of the former, on the ground, in the fence, filling the end of a hollow log, fastened to a bush, or pendant from the peak of the barn; but rare and memorable is the finding the nest of the black hornet. In Mary- land, I have found them building on a blackberry-bush within a few inches of the ground; but in the more northern States, so far as I have observed, they always build in the woods a large cone- shaped nest, suspended from some high branch, and, of all bee-kind, are the ugliest customers to deal with. The notion among the boys, that if you throw a stone at the nest, a single bee will follow its path back and strike the thrower unerringly in the face, is scarcely an exaggeration. It certainly is not safe to stand very near and throw stones at them. The avenging hornet comes almost with the speed of a bul- let; and if you do not stagger from the gross weight of the blow, you certainly do from its lightning-like suddenness, and the sharp pain that accompanies it. Shall I ever forget the huge nest, large as a peck-measure, that some sharp-eyed traveller discovered a few rods from the highway in a piece of woods, and not far from the paternal farmhouse, and with what fear and trembling we youngsters used to peep at it from be- neath the underbrush? No stones were ever thrown at that nest by us, though our fingers fairly burned, at thnes, to give them a shot; and in the Fall, after the leaves had fallen, there hung the object of our terror, empty and for- lorn, its frail walls destined to be ap- propriated crc long by some sportsman for gun-wadding. Many more nests of this kind are be- gun than are ever finished, some mishap terminating the career of the founder before any offspring could be had. One sees these little balloon-shaped begin- nings stuck around in various places, varying in size from an inch to two inches in diameter. It is curious to note the growth of a hornets nest. It seems to increase in size as naturally as a squash or pump- kin, and about as fast, and appa~ently in the same manner, from within, out. It is seldom that one sees more than two or three hornets at one time crawl- ing about on the outside of the nest, and these have the air of surveyors, rather than of builders; the expansion seems to be from within. So it is, and from without also. And this is the peculiarity of the hornet~ as an archi- tect: he is constantly tearing down his house and building it larger, to accom- modate his increasing family. The vital 48 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, part of the nest is within, and consists of one or more tiers of comb full of cells, in which the young are hatched and developed. The visible, inverted, cone-shaped nest is merely the tent that shelters this process. As fast as new cells are added, the inner walls or lin- ings of the tent are torn away to make more room, and the whole structure re- cased from without, thus every external wall becoming, in its turn, the internal, or the lining, with three or four parti- tions, arranged about the eighth of an inch apart, between it and the open air. As the hornet was the first inventor of paper, so the little sweat-bee, that comes about the laborer in the field, alighting on his sweaty hands and arms, and showing his light buff-col- ored belly at every move, is undoubted- ly the holder of the original patent on shears. See how quickly he clips out a round piece from the rose-leag himself the hand and handle to his own tool, and, rolling it up and embracing it with his legs, Ilies away with it to his cell, which is some little round cavity an inch or two deep, in a rail, or post, or stump; and which, after being lined with these bits of green leaves, is filled with a yellow, salve-like substance, that no doubt contains the egg of the bee, then nicely capped or headed with more circular bits of leaves, sealed up, and left to its fate. The wasps proper may fairly claim a part of my attention (and they usually receive it when I meet with their nests), but, on the present occasion, I extend to them the courtesy which I would thankfully receive from them in turn, by respectfully giving them the go-by. A WOMANS RIGHT. VIL CAMP-MEETING. EIRENE sat by the window, filling a basket with cakes and sandwiches, which Sister Goodbye had given to her and Tilda to carry to camp-meeting the next morning. How she had count- ed the days, and, longed for the coming of this camp-meeting morning! If she had analyzed her emotions (which she never did), she would have discovered that she had scarcely thought of the camp-meeting at all as a religious ser- vice. Having never attended one, she might have fancied that it would be pleasant to hear people pray and sing in the open aironly she did not think of the people at all. She longed for her old friends, the woods, the air, the summer sky. From babyhood these had been her closest companions, and this was the first year of her life that had shut her away from them all. From this low seat, where she sat now, she had watched the sunset scarlets glinting through the trees of Mr. Mallanes gar- dcii. Above the window, in the shop. where she stood at work, spread a nar- row slip of sky; and, looking up, she had sometimes seen the peaceful clouds come sailing down the valley, and this was all that she had known of the sum- mer. Often, in the languid evenings, she had dropped her book and turned a wistful face away from Tilda Stades scrutinizing gaze and wearying voice, and, looking beyond the trees out to the serene West, a soft desire had stirred in her heart for something sweeter and better than she had ever knownshe knew not what. We, who know her well, know that it was the first mysteri- ous stir of the soul of the girl-woman, dimly yearning for companionship, for sympathy, for tenderness, such as had never entered her barren life in Busy- ville. The summer should have given some holiday to seventeen; it had given none to her. But going to the woods for a single day, she thought, would be a good deal better than nothing. Thus, light of heart, at five oclock the next morning, she ascended, with Tilda, into

Mrs. M. C. Ames Ames, M. C., Mrs. A Woman's Right 48-60

48 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, part of the nest is within, and consists of one or more tiers of comb full of cells, in which the young are hatched and developed. The visible, inverted, cone-shaped nest is merely the tent that shelters this process. As fast as new cells are added, the inner walls or lin- ings of the tent are torn away to make more room, and the whole structure re- cased from without, thus every external wall becoming, in its turn, the internal, or the lining, with three or four parti- tions, arranged about the eighth of an inch apart, between it and the open air. As the hornet was the first inventor of paper, so the little sweat-bee, that comes about the laborer in the field, alighting on his sweaty hands and arms, and showing his light buff-col- ored belly at every move, is undoubted- ly the holder of the original patent on shears. See how quickly he clips out a round piece from the rose-leag himself the hand and handle to his own tool, and, rolling it up and embracing it with his legs, Ilies away with it to his cell, which is some little round cavity an inch or two deep, in a rail, or post, or stump; and which, after being lined with these bits of green leaves, is filled with a yellow, salve-like substance, that no doubt contains the egg of the bee, then nicely capped or headed with more circular bits of leaves, sealed up, and left to its fate. The wasps proper may fairly claim a part of my attention (and they usually receive it when I meet with their nests), but, on the present occasion, I extend to them the courtesy which I would thankfully receive from them in turn, by respectfully giving them the go-by. A WOMANS RIGHT. VIL CAMP-MEETING. EIRENE sat by the window, filling a basket with cakes and sandwiches, which Sister Goodbye had given to her and Tilda to carry to camp-meeting the next morning. How she had count- ed the days, and, longed for the coming of this camp-meeting morning! If she had analyzed her emotions (which she never did), she would have discovered that she had scarcely thought of the camp-meeting at all as a religious ser- vice. Having never attended one, she might have fancied that it would be pleasant to hear people pray and sing in the open aironly she did not think of the people at all. She longed for her old friends, the woods, the air, the summer sky. From babyhood these had been her closest companions, and this was the first year of her life that had shut her away from them all. From this low seat, where she sat now, she had watched the sunset scarlets glinting through the trees of Mr. Mallanes gar- dcii. Above the window, in the shop. where she stood at work, spread a nar- row slip of sky; and, looking up, she had sometimes seen the peaceful clouds come sailing down the valley, and this was all that she had known of the sum- mer. Often, in the languid evenings, she had dropped her book and turned a wistful face away from Tilda Stades scrutinizing gaze and wearying voice, and, looking beyond the trees out to the serene West, a soft desire had stirred in her heart for something sweeter and better than she had ever knownshe knew not what. We, who know her well, know that it was the first mysteri- ous stir of the soul of the girl-woman, dimly yearning for companionship, for sympathy, for tenderness, such as had never entered her barren life in Busy- ville. The summer should have given some holiday to seventeen; it had given none to her. But going to the woods for a single day, she thought, would be a good deal better than nothing. Thus, light of heart, at five oclock the next morning, she ascended, with Tilda, into l8~O.] A WOMANS RIOnT. 49 the vehicle of Brother Goodbye, which was to carry his brethren and sisters to the camp-ground for twenty-five cents a person. It wes a high, springless wagon, with boards laid across for seats, and, this morning, was crowded with passen- gers. A number of sisters bore witness to its being a very uncomfortable equi- page, by sundry little groans concerning their aching backs. Eirene, sitting at Ctne end, where the boughs of the bend- ing trees brushed her as she passed, thought of nothing but the pleasures of the ride. The road ran by seques- tered farms and through the woods, all the way. The young light shimmered through the leaves above and around them; the air was full of soft sounds and of pleasant smells; of the fragrance of resinous branches and juicy ferns crushed beneath the wagon-wheels. Ei- rene took it in at every pore, and grew as glad as the birds singing over her hcad. After a two hours drive, they entered a new road cut through the woods, and a distinct murmur of human voices reached their ears; and then what seemed to Eirene to be an extraordinary sight for such a place, greeted her eyes. Under the trees, all along the roadside, booths had been erected of green boughs, and under them men and women seemed to be driving an astonishing trade in small-beer, gin- gerbread, candies and doughnuts, and other harmless commodities. New-coin- ers were constantly arriving. Wagon- loads of the sisters and brethren of the church; young men and their girls, in buggies, arrayed in their best, nearly all of whom stopped at the stalls to re- gale themselves with ginger-pop, pea- nuts, and other innocent refreshments. At last, through the shifting leaves, Rirene caught glimpses of white tents, forming a semicircle under the forest- trees, surrounding an amphitheatre of rude seats facing a rude pulpit canopied by the boughs of beeches and elms. Their wagon stopped outside of this in- closure. Tilda Stade, hurriedly alight- ing, assisted Eirene to do the same, in- forming her, at the same time, that this was the blessed camp-ground, and yonder was the very spot where she re- ceived the blessing of sanctification where Jesus spoke perfect peace to her soul. Taking Eirenes hand, she led her toward a large tent bearing the. name of Busyville above the door. They were now fairly on the camp- ground, and Eirene beheld what was to her a most unwonted and picturesque sight. Tiny fires, made from dried boughs, were crackling in the rear of every tent; and on these, kettles were boiling and meats were frying. Extem- pore tables, set under the trees, were spread with white cloths, garnished with flowers, and loaded with viands. Pretty young sisters in white sun-bon- nets, white aprons, and gay frocks, superintended these tables; while ma- trons in close shakers and demure dresses hovered about the fires, guard- ing the meats and watching the tea-pots and coffee-pots, lest their delicious liquids should run too low to supply the numerous hungry people waiting for breakfast. The air was full of the most varied sounds. Birds twittered in the trees. Girls chattered and laughed with each other, and flirted in a half- subdued, half-pious way, with the young brethren, whose plates they piled and whose cups they filled; while the wom- en by the fires talked in low, mysteri- ous tones to each other, as women will. From manifold tents issued the sounds of morning devotions. Old hymns and old tunes of every conceivable rhythm and metre met in mid-air in inextricable confusion. In one tent could be heard the sobs of a sore soul wailing over its sins, amid a Babel of prayers rising to heaven in its behalf; from another came a solitary voice, fervent and sonorous, going up to God in early thanksgiving; while from every direction came cho- ruses of voices shouting, Bless the Lord! Glory to God! The whole scene bore witness to what it wasa great religious picnic, in which material pleasure and human happiness blended very largely with spiritual experience. The appearance of Tilda Stade on the camp-ground was a signal for rejoicing to the more zealous Christians, for it 60 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, was a sure promise of increased zeal in the prayer-meetings. As they gathered around to welcome her, Eireue was left standing alone for a moment; and, looking about her, saw, for the first time, an individual who had seen her from the first moment of her appear- ance. It was good Brother Viner, standing at the head of the table, evi- dently just concluding his breakfast. He looked red in the face, and uncom- fortable, as if the sisters were overfeed- ing him that warm morning. He was literally besieged by women, young and old, each one producing, from her par- ticular basket or from her particular lire, some viand, hot or cold, setting it before her minister, with the exclama- tion, Oh, Brother Viner, do taste this; I made it on purpose for you 1 Oh, Brother Viner, wheres your appetite gone to? You must eat your break- fast! Brother Viner did not like to appear ungrateful, and thus kept on tasting each dish set before him. It was a sight to behold themthe dishes of pork and beans, cold ham, succotash, omelets, doughnuts, crullers, pies, pre- serves, pickles, all heaped up before the unfortunate minister. Brother Viner had an excellent appetite, and, at first, attacked this conflicting mass of food with all the zest of a young and vigor- ous stomach; but even he was no proof against the ignorant kindness of women a kindness that has caused more sour stomachs and sour theology than the most powerful imagination ever con- ceived. Brother Viner looked up from the mass ou his plate, and beheld Eirene looking toward him with wondering eyes. He recognized her at once as the innocent-looking little sinner who had caused the prayer-meeting at Sister Mal- lanes. Here she was on the camp- groundthe place of all others for her conversion, the most appropriate in which to reclaim her from the error of her ways; and what an interesting sub- ject! Brother Viner could not help seeing this. He was a young man, and, like any other young man, could not help feeling a more spontaneous inter- est in a lovely girl than in an ugly one. But Brother Viner was also an intelli- gent man, and perfectly conscious of the relative fitness of things. How could he labor with her concerning her soul? How could he appeal to her, with pathetic tones and tears, to for- sake her sins and give her soul to her Saviour? How could she regard him solely as a spiritual teacher, now that she had seen him there, devouring, with such gusto, such quantities of food? Not but what he thought that he had a perfect right to his breakfastas good a right to enjoy it as any other man but not to such a breakfast. In his over-fed condition, there was something incongruous in passing directly from the feast to the prayermeeting, to pray for a girl who, in her white frock and inno- cent face, looked like a lily out with nature. At least thus poetically thought Brother Viner, notwithstanding Mrs. Mallanes account of her wickedness still remained in his memory. Why didnt I sit down under a tree, and make my breakfast from a bowl of bread and milk, in true pastoral fash- ion? he asked himself in tones of self-disgust, his eyes still fixed upon the white dress and sun-bonnet. At this time Eirenes attention was called away from the young minis- ter by a rustic young convert ,who,in his new-born spiritual joy, was oblivi- ous of breakfast and of all human want. Spying Eirene standing alone, he imm~. diately came to the conclusion that she was a sinner, and not a sister; therefore, a proper subject for mission~ ary zeal. He walked up to her, and, without a single preliminary, asked, Do you love the Lord? Eirene, startled by the abrupt ques- tion, saw before her a lank, long-haired youth, the exact counterpart of Moses Loplolly. Had that young man of peddling propensities concluded to study for the Christian ministry? Do you love the Lord? was the solemn question again propounded to the wondering girl. I hope I do, was the timid answer. You hope you do! [In a tone or deep disgust.] You hope you do! 1870.] A WOMANS BIGHT. iDo you hope yer love yer father and mother? No! Ef yer love urn, yer know yer luv urn. Yer dont hope nuthin bout it. Ter Amow it [tones rising]. So, ef yer love the Lord, yer know it. Ef yer only hope yer love Him, taint ii o luv tall. Yer goin down the road to perdition, straight. [J.n a milder tone.] Dont yer want religion? Yes; I have wanted to be a Chris- tian ever since I can remember, an- swered Eirene. How bad do you want to be one? Bad enuf to give up all yer pride, and confess yer sins? I hope so. hope! agin [in tones of despair]. I can try yex hope in a minnit. Do you want religion bad enuf to enable yer pride to get it? Then yer willin to kneel down on this very spot, and let me pray fur yer soul. Will yer do it I Oh, not here, please! said Eirene in a tone of entreaty, with the instinct- ive shrinking from publicity which was natural to her. Now wheres yer hope? [In a tone of triumph.] It dont amount to nuth- in. But Ill pray fur yer jest the same; theres them thats brought into the kingdom of heaven by force. Ill pray fur yer jest the same [with profound spiritual condescension]. Thus the youth knelt down and lifted up his voice in prayer. The sound immediate- ly attracted the attention of the sisters who had gathered around Tilda; when they turned, and saw Eirene leaning against the tree~ with her hcad bowed, as if overcome by some emotion, and the young evangelist kneeling before her, calling upon God to have mercy upon her soul, Tilda believed that her dearest wish was about to be realized that her friend, struck with convic- tion the moment she reached the camp- ground, was now to be converted. She, with the other sisters, hastened to the spot, and, immediately kneeling down, formed a circle outside the evangelist, with Eirene, leaning against the tree, the central figure. Joining the youth, all commenced ejaculating and praying together; thus a special prayer-meeting was at once inaagurated. Oh, do, Lord! Yes, Lord 1 Come, Lord! 0, blessed Jesus, speak peace to her soul. 0 Christ, forgive her sins! 0 God, show her her wickedness! These were the expressions, in every possible tone, producing one wild dis- cord of supplication, which now smote the ears of the bewildered Eirene. Each communicated excitement to the other: every moment the cries grew louder, the groans deeper, the entreaty more impor- tunate, till, at last, overcome by pure nervous excitement, Eirene sank upon her knees, sobbing as if her heart would break. This prostration was the signal for a still more clamorous outbreak. Cries of Lord, have mercy on this poor girl 1 0 Lord, save Eirene Vale! rent the air with a perfect tor- nado of sound. This scene was witnessed by one per- son with extreme displeasure. It was Brother Viner, who had left the break- fast-table, notwithstanding the entreat- ies of the sisters, and seated himself within the Busyville tent. He was an ardent lover of Methodism; his mother, a saint of the Mrs. Fletcher type, had nurtured him in the love of its memo- ries and ia devotion to its principles. In his inmost heart he believed that the vitality and zeal of his sect was the salt of the Christian world. But he was too intelligent to believe that zeal born of ignorance was as worthy as that tem- pered by knowledge. While believing it to be a necessity to some, he was so gentle a gentleman himself he could no more be boisterous in sacred worship than he could be loud an~ vulgar in the expression of any sentiment whatever. He was too sensitive to the nature of others not to see, by the aspect of this girl, that she was more overcome by fear and grief at being thus assailed, than by any conscious conviction of sin. She would make a lovely Christian, I know, he said to himself; we need more such women in our church. She must not be repelled and driven from us by a repulsive manner of approach. met, as he looked, he saw seine of his 52 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, young converts and some of his most zealous members in this praying circle, and knew well that, if he were to mani- fest any disapprobation of their meet- ing, he could not, by any possibility, explain to their satisfaction such a course. Such a procedure, he knew, would bring them to the sudden conclu- sion that their minister had backslid- den. Yet, a~ their minister, he must either join their circle, or break it; he concluded to do the latter. The first season of prayer was over; they re- freshed their fearfully-taxed energies by singing a hymn, and were beginning their cries anew, when Brother Viner walked quietly up to their circle, and said, Brothers and sisters, we must do all things decently and in order. I un- derstand your feelings. You are so happy in prayer, and so moved for the salvation of souls, that you wish to pray continually. This you may do. You may lift your hearts silently to God without ceasing. But some of you have ridden many miles this morning. You all need your breakfast. After you have refreshed yourselves, come to the pray- er-meeting in the tent, at eight oclock. Their minister had said it. They must go to breakfast, notwithstanding this precious soul was not yet saved. They did so, all shaking hands with their minister as they passed, till no one was left with him but Tilda Stade, standing by Eirene. As Eirene rose from the foot of the tree where she had knelt, she seemed like one coming out of a dream. She opened her eyes, still glis- tening with tears, and drew a deep breath of relief. Tilda thought it the sigh of con~ictiona hopeful sigh and hastened to introduce Birene to her minister. This good woman had not the acute perception which announces instantaneously to its possessor when he or she may not be wanted. As Eirenes special protector and spiritual guide, she waited to hear what the minister had to say to her. Great was her amazement when he said, Sister Stade, will you be so kind as to allow me to say a few words to this young lady alone? What Brother Viner could have to say to Eirene alone, was more than she could divine; neverthe- less, as it was her ministernot Paul Mallanewho made the request, she passed on. Thea Brother Viner ad- dressed Eirene for the first time, by ask- ing her if she had been educated a Methodist. She told him no. Then, he said, our manner of worship may seem strange, even rude, to you. But do not let our ways disturb you, for they are only outward forms of expres- sion. In every human heart, religion can be but one essencethat of love to Christ and love to one another. If you feel your soul pervaded with this love, you are a Christian. The personal manifestations of religious joy differ as much as our natures differ. No two persons give expression in precisely the same terms to any human experience; the law of temperament forbids it. Therefore do not be offended at the zeal which you see manifested here, even if it seems to you a little intemperate. And do not be discouraged if you your- self feel prompted to display none of this outward fervor. Without any ref- erence to any other human being, re- ceive the Spirit of God as it comes to you. Receive it as if you were alone with God in His universe. It can come to you only in accordance with your nature; you can respond to it only in the same way. Do you hear, in your inmost heart, the still small voice calling you to fol- low your Saviour ?to east your burden on Him Ito love Him ?to be like Him? Oh, yes, sir; I have always heard it. Do you try to resist it, or do you seek to obey it? I seek to obey it, and it is my dear- est comfort. It cheers me when I am sad, and it strengthens me when I am weak. And you give your heart to God I Yes, sir. Every day I give myself anew to Him. Am I not safe in His love? My sister, I feel that you are a Christian. What you need is encour l8~O.] A WOMANS RIGHT. 53 agement, not conviction or loud expres- sion. I see how it is. You have a gen- tle nature; your religion is as gentle as your heart. Come into the eight-oclock prayer-meeting, and I will see that you are not again disturbed. Now, shall I go with you to the breakfast-table? His voice was so kind and assuring, his words so helpful, that, when he had finished, Eirene felt like another crea- ture. With the elasticity which be- longs to the quickest sensibilities, her heart leaped to her eyes in a joyous sn-Ale, as she exclaimed, Oh, I feel so much better! As Brother Viner s~w this inward illumination spread over every feature, he thought it not only the most inno- cent, but the brightest face that he had ever seen; but he only said, Now we will find Sister Stade. This young woman was standing de- voutly before a bowl of blueberries and milk, as Brother Yiner led Eirene up to her side. When she saw the serene light which covered both faces, she was forced to the conclusion that their con- versation had been of a heavenly sort, although she had not been permitted to listen to it. She received her charge back with much demonstration, while Brother Viner returned to his seat in the tent, to meditate and prepare for the morning prayer-meeting. He did not find it as easy as usual to fix his mind on the chapter in the Bible and the hymn which he was selecting; in- voluntarily his eyes wandered back to the breakfast-table under the trees, and rested on the slight figure in the white frock standing by Tilda Stade. He had forgotten all about Sister Mallanes lamentations over this girls wickedness, and thought only of her face, all radi- ant as it looked up to his last. She has just the face that would please mother, he said to himself; and, if I am not mistaken, she has just the na- ture that would please mother. What a companion she would make for her I for mother will come and live with me. Then, suddenly conscious that lie had arrived at very rapid conclusions, con- sidering his very slight knowledge of this young lady, he turned his back and commenced searching for hymns with redoubled assiduity, selecting, at last, Jesus, lover of my soul, Rock of Ages, cleft for me, and others, whose sweetness, purity, and divine fervor lift them so far above the rampant rhymes sometimes called camp-meeting hymns. After breakfast, the brethren and sisters gathered in the tent, some sitting on benches, some in the clean straw which covered the ground, some on piles of bedding on which many had slept the night before. Brother Viner offered Tilda and Eirene a seat in a corner, where it was impossible that a crowd should gather around them, as they had done outside. He opened the meeting with the hymn which all young people love Jesus, lover of my soul, Let me to thy bosom fly. His pure tenor-voice gave all its sweet- ness to the singing. Eirene did not listen; she worshipped. Every pulse in her heart sung with rapture the matchless lyric of the Methodist poet. Brother Yiner followed with prayer, and, as he prayed, utter silence pervaded the tent, broken only by low-murmured Amens. In the fervor of his youth, in the fulness of his faith, he prayed, as if he knelt face to face with his Lord. He said, We rejoice to come to Thee with all the freedom of favored chil- drenwith all the sweet familiarity of love, openly and joyously. He prayed that to all might be granted a clearer vision to discern the exceeding loveli- ness of Christa deeper consciousneas of their need of Him, who was at once their Friend and Saviour. He prayed for sinners and seekers, and at last for one whose feet trembled in the nar- row way, but whose heart yearned to- ward all pure and lovely things. He prayed that to the young heart might be granted strength to cast aside every weight, every besetting sin, every allure- ment of the world; that this young soul might run with patience and cheerful alacrity the whole Christian course, and receive the clear witness of its accept- a~ce and fellowship with Christ. Ei 54 PTJTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, rene felt that this prayer was for her; it was the very prayer that she would have offered for herself, yet prayed with an unction and a fervor which she felt her own prayers had not. There was an earnestness, an assurance of faith in the tones which strengthened and helped her. As her heartascended with it, a deep peace came down into her soula peace so pervading that none of the discord which came after had the slightest power to disturb it. Brother Viner, a true Methodist, believed that where the Spirit of God is, there is lib- erty. Thus, aside from the general supervision of the prayer-meeting, he did not attempt to control the boister- ous element around him. Thus the meeting did not advance very far before men and women were praying, groan- ing, and singing together. Some were groaning for their sins, some praying for their companions, others singing and shouting because they themselves felt happy. Among the latter was Tilda Stade. She shouted Hallelujah till she had the power, or, in more in- telligible language, swooned from pure physical exhaustion; falling back, her head dropped into Eirenes lap. Eirene was less alarmed than she would have been if she had not already seen several others drop in the same way. She tried to lift her friends head, and support it, when Tilda, opening her eyes, uttered the piercing cry of Glory, falling again; whereupon Eirene let the head rest, where it fell, till the meeting closed. The brothers and sisters, who had formed themselves into the special Praying Band, seeing the peaceful ex- pression of Eirenes countenance, con- cluded that she had received the bless- ing, and at last began to importune her to tell what the Lord had done for her soul. She was beginning to tremble with something of her first fear and ex- citement, when Brother Viner again came to her help. He told the Praying Band that he had conversed with this sister, and believed that she had re- ceived in her heart the witness of the Holy Spirit, but that they must remem- ber that, while the fruits of the Spirit were always the same, its personal mani- festations wcre very different; that in some it bore witness by the very ex- pression of the face, in perfect silence; that it was not this sisters duty to speak openly, unless she felt moved to do so from within. This form of con- version was by no means the most satis- factory to the Praying Band; but, as their minister sanctioned it, they felt bound to accept it. Those who knew her personally went forth from the prayer-meeting and announced to all the Busyville brethren outside that Ei- rene Yale had experienced religion, and received t~e blessing; but they thought it pretty queer that she wouldnt speak. With a feeling of inexpressibje relief Eirene walked forth from the tent to attend the morning service in the grove. The mode of worship in the prayer-meeting had been sincere; she believed that, yet she could feel none the less that it was discordant with her feelings, and outraged many of her ideas of what was harmonious and fit in sacred worship. But the public ser- vice in the grove seemed a complete realization of all that such worship should be. Out from their tents came the great congregation, and took their seats in Gods sanctuary. His own power had reared the columns of this mighty cathedral. Along its high leaf- woven dome soft winds rippled. In its verdurous arches birds sang; from its mossy floors flowers sent up their praise in perpetual perfume. When the preach- er stood up in the rude pulpit beneath two patriarchal elms, and invoked the blessing of God on the vast assembly; when more than a thousand human voi- ces joined the winds, the birds, and the blossoms, singing, There seems a vojee in every gale, A tongue in every flower, Which tells, 0 Lord, the wondrous tale Of thy Almighty power, Eirene beheld, at last, in its perfect form, the wonderful charm and devo- tional significance of the Methodist camp-meeting. In the afternoon Brother Viner preach- ed an earnest, dramatic, magnetic ser 1870.] I A WOMANS RIGHT. mon, whose fervor and power astonish- ed his own congregation, and electrified all. Brother Viner was a good man, besides being a young man of decided talents; and under any circumstance, with such a congregation before him, would have preached more than a com- mon sermon. How much added inspi- ration and unction he received from the consciousness of a single presence, from the gleam of a white frock, and the glimpse of a golden-brown head, lean- ing against the rough bark of a tree with a sweet, serious face looking forth toward his, which seemed to him sin- gled and separated from all that vast congregationBrother Viner did not know, nor did any body else. Eirene, like all persons of very sensitive organization, took in joy as well as suffering through every nerve. Every leaf that rippled, every bird that sang, every flower dis- filling incense, every breeze, sailing by laden with the honey of the pines, added something to this large delight. So, too, did the anthem, the prayer, now the sermon. True, holy, helpful words were these of Brother Yiner, full of the vitality of human life, piercing to the depth of human experience, and reaching upward to the height of all Christian aspiration; few could listen and not receive from them somewhat of the help that they needed. Eirene no longer wondered that Tilda found the camp-meeting such a sanctuary of joy this portion of camp-meeting, cer- tainly, was very delightful. Eirene no longer thought of the young evangelist, of the extempore prayer-meeting, or of any annoyance, any more than Brother Viner thought of his morning vexation amid the spiritual and oratorical exalta- tion in which he now stood, with which indigestible breakfasts intermed- died not. The morning and afternoon service, even the evei4ng prayer-meetings, were ended, and yet the congregation once more gathered beneath the trees to lis- ten to a third sermon, before going to rest. Eirene was tired. During the day she had experienced so many new sensationshad been so overcome and pervaded by them, it seemed to her that she could take in no more. Thus, when the brethren and sisters went out in a body to the evening service, she, with a few aged mothers in Israel, re- mained behind in sole possession of the tent. Placing a camp-stool just outside the curtain, she sat down to listen, where she was. The scene upon which she now looked forth was even more picturesque and impressive than that of the day. The many lamps, hung to the swaying boughs of the trees, threw long lines of flickering light and shadow upon the great congregation seted be- neath. The wavering lights on the pulpit, the dipping branches of the elms above their heads, gave a weird. look to the faces of the preachers, while the prayers that they uttered, and the hymns which they sung, softened by the slight distance, floated out through the evening air to the few listeners in the tent with a strange and sweet so- lemnity. Perhaps it was a desire to hear more distinctly the words of the sermon, or perhaps it was the wonderful beauty of the night trembling down to her through the forest-trees, which after a time allured Eirene to leave the little camp-stool and step out into the air. She walked a few paces from the tent and leaned against the tree where, in the morning, she had been attacked and prayed for by the young evangelist. The words of the preacher came dis- tinctly to her ear, and with them blend- ed the scattered moans and amens of the congregation. She listened a few moments; then, looking back to the green inclosure beside the tent, she felt the old impulse to wander out, as she used to do in the woods at home. Since her coming this was the first moment that she had been alone with herself. True darling of nature, the old charm of freedom, the old spell of the woods, was on her. Still the preachers voice, and the amens of the congregation, came to her ear, and yet she heard them not. The very leaves of the trees seem- ed to turn toward her, whispering to h~r to come, as she turned and walked 56 slowly out over the trodden grass. Presently she came to high banks of ferns, which no camp-fires had reached and no feet had crushed, walling her in and pervading the air with fragrance. She paused under a tree with low-bend- ing boughs, and listened. She heard the birds stirring in their nests,the tiny chirp of the mother-birds soothing their broods; but otherwise the little choristers of love were stilL She lis- teneci to the clear cry of the katy-dids in the branches high over her head, and to the slender horn of the crickets piping in the grass. She heard the hum of insect-folkthe murmuring na- tives of the summer aar all a-thrill with life and love, stirring, with their low, pervading music, the wide realms of silence. Storms gone by had given the night-air that pure rare quality which makes the August of New England the most delicious month of the year. Ei- rene leaned her head against the old tree, and looked up through its um- brage to the sky, conscious of nothing hut utter content. She only knew that she was happy, and did not question wherefore. Too young to analyze emo- tion, too innocent to dream of ill, she took in, through soul and sense, the ex- ceeding beauty of Gods world, and was glad. How coald she knowthis girl-womanthat she had come there to meet her fate. How could she, whose heart had never known another love than that of child and sister, know that even now her feet trembled on that perilous border-land of passion, from which, once touched, there is no retreat. A quick rustle of leaves, a stir in the air, a consciousness of a second pres- ence, came to her together. She start- ed; and that instant a squirrel jumped through a mesh of leaves near her feet, and began to scamper up an adjoining tree. Bun, was it you? she asked, with a low laugh. Bun, it is time to go to bed; and, again leaning her head against the rough bark of the tree, she watched Bun as he went jumping to the very top of his green ladder. Yet she only a ~July, did so for a moment, when a sounda sound of positive stepsnot still and stealthy, but light, quick, eager steps, she heard approaching very near to her. From what directionthe foliage was so denseshe did not see, nor did she wait to do so. For the first time conscious that she wa5 alone, and at some distance from the tent, she was alarmed, and started from her leafy thicket to retrace her steps. She had not taken two when a long shadow fell across the grass before her, and she heard her name spoken in slightly tremulous yet assuring tones. She turn- ed, and there, just dividing the walls of fern, almost at her side, stood Paul Mallane. Dont be alarmed. Dont go away, I beg of you, Miss Yale. Pardon me, if I intrudeand I know that I do yet you will be doing me the greatest kindness if you will remain for a mo- ment; then I will escort you back to the tent. No human being could doubt the sin- cerity of his words, uttered in such tones of anxiety and entreaty. Eirene, frightened by his sudden and unao- countable appearance, could think of nothing but that he must be the bearer of some unexpected and imperative message to herself, exclaimed, What has happened, Mr. Mallane? Have they sent for me from Hilltop? Oh, tell me what it is! How kind of you to come! Already her affectionate heart and excited imagination had leap- ed to the conclusion that some misfor- tune had befallen the loved inmates of the dormer cottage. Nothing has happened at Hilltop which has sent me after you, Miss Yale, answered Paul, in tones which he tried to make calm and soothing. Nothing has happened, and yet I have come here on purpose to see you. I have been here all day. I dont care a fig for the camp-meetingthough Yiners sermon, this afternoon, was really a model of oratory. I came here on pur- pose to speak with you. Dont look frightened. Dont think me rude if I am abrupt. I have waited so long, I PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. 1870.] A WOMANS RIGHT. 57 have wanted so much to speak witli you, I cant stop now for preliminaries or conventionalities. It is now nearly a year since I saw you first. All this time I have been trying to forget you. The result has been that I have thought of you twice as much as if I had not tried to put you out of my mind. I knew that I had no right to intrude upon you, and yet I could not refrain from sending you those pictures, as tokens of my remembrance, and the magazines, hoping that they might brighten your life a very little. Did you receive them? Yes, and thank you for them so much, said Birene. I cannot tell you the pleasure they have given ~ I am glad of that, replied Paul, with an expression of intense gratifica- tion. That was all I sent them for, not as advances toward acquaintance. Indeed, I came home yesterday with no definite expectation of finding myself any better acquainted with you at the close of this vacation than when I went l)aek last autumn. But when I found that you were gone, I felt so angry at the thought of the unkindness which you had endured, I resolved that I would see you, and tell you that I, at least, have lifted my voice against the unjust persecution which followed you during all your stay in my fathers house. At these words a look of pain and of entreaty came into Eirenes eyes. Paul saw at a glance that whatever her life had been in his fathers house, she could not talk of it. But that is not all I wished to say to you, he hastened to add. For months I have wanted to tell you what you have done for me, and what you can do for me, if you only will. Very likely, if I had found you still in our house, I might have refrained from tell- ing you. But when I saw that you were gone~ I felt more than disappoint- edI felt ill-temperedfor I knew that you had been really driven away by un- kindness. Then I made up my mind to let you know what you had done for me, and that I was your true friend. I VOL. vr.3 saw you when you started for camm meeting this morning; till then I had not a thought of going. But it oc- curred to me that here would be a good place to tell you what has been so long in my mind; and I should have told you, before I left to-night, though it had been in the presence of all those pious old ladies in the tent, who would have gone back and published it to all Busyville to-morrow. It is due to you to know what you have done for me. What I have done for you, slowly said Efrene, in astonishment. Why, Mr. Mallane, I have never been able to do any thing for any one in all my life, except for those at home, and very little for them. What could I do for you? I will tell you what you have done, said Paul, reverently. You have made all women more sacred in my eyes. It is not your fault if you have not made me a better man. I think of you all the time; more than of all other human beings put together. When I have re- membered you, studying alone in your cold little room, I have been ashamed of my own indolence beside my warm ifre. When I have thought of you, so young and tender, working hard with your hands for others, I have been ashamed of my own selfishness. When I have thought of your innoeenee, I have been ashamed of my own wicked thoughts and evil ways. For, if any one has told you that I am not a very good fellow, they have told you the truth. I am not. But if any one can improve me, you can. You make me feel very much ashamed, said Eirene. I never feel certain that any thing I do is the very best thing to be done. I am always afraid that I might do better. I cant tell you, Mr. Mallane, how very uneer- tam I feel. But it will make me very happy to think that I may be of service to you, if you will only tell me how I can do it. Whyif you will only take a little interest in me, said Paul; if you will care a little whether I am good or not, or happy or not. In short, if you wont be perfeetly indifferent to me; 58 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, that will help me. I can tell you it will be a great incentive to try to do right, jf I know that you care. But I do care, Mr. Mallane. I have cared ever since Ever since when? Ever since Tilda said What did Tilda say? She said, Mr. Mallane, that you were not quite good. I am not quite good, said Paul, penitently. But, then, you cared 1 he added, with a quiver of delight in his voice. Yes, Icared very much. Some way, it hurt me just to hear it. I thought, for the sake of your brothers and sis- ters, and for your fathers and mothers, who are so proud of you, that you ought to be very noble, Mr. Mallane. You did! I ought to be noble for their s~kes? Yes. I ought to be, I suppose. But you havent the faintest idea what a fight it isthe world tug- ging at you outside, inside the devil. Why, it is the hardest thing on earth for a man to do, to be noble. If you were only in the world, you would know it. But you cant know it. You s~e it as you find it in good books, and in your own heart. But if you care, Ill try. Ill try to be just what you would like me to be. Helena Maynard and Bella Prescott, could they have heard the tones in which these words were uttered, would have found nothing of their haughty Adonis in this humble youth. But Paul Mallane was by no means the first worldly man who has stood contrite before the innocence of a girl. You have promised to care, to take some interest in me, he went on. Now, if you will promise to think of meunder all circumstances to think of me asas your friend, it is all that I can ask. It was not in eighteen girlish years, not in a girl with such a guileless and loving heart, to look up to the face which gazed down upon hers, quiverhig and luminous with feeling, full of en- treaty, at once manly and tender, and, seeing it, to say that she did not want such a friend. No. Her heart thrilled with a new delight as it asked, how could one so strong and radiant for a moment need her sympathy, or pause, in his bright life, to proffer his friend- ship? Thus, with her large soft gaze unconsciously lifted to his, she said, I am sure it will make me happy to think of you always as my friend; and it will make my life seem wider and brighter if I can only believe that I help another. Help another I You can make me what you please, was Pauls passionate ejaculation. As he spoke, the first lines of Charles Wesleys inspired hymn, Love divine, all love excelling, Joy of heaven to earth come down, came rolling through the air on the joy- ful voices of the congregation. Never could it have sounded more expressive and sacred than in the soft air or that August night; never more triumphant, as in great waves of melody it rolled up through the forest-trees. Paul was irreverent, more through cultivation and habit than from nature. This mo- ment the anthem was in perfect har- mony with the place and with his feel- ings. Now the mother moon, who be- fore had been peering through the branches of the trees, sailed forth into the open space of sky, and looked di- rectly down into these childrens faces, as if to see them and listen to what they were saying. They stood silent, listening. The hymn ceased. Words of worshipa strange commingling of religion, devotion, and lovebegan to surge into Pauls very throat for utter- ance, when the crackling of boughs, crushed by rapid footsteps, called him suddenly back to earth and to his senses. There, rushing through the branches broken off for the morning fires, Paul, to his dismay and anger, beheld Tilda Stade coming directly toward them. The hymn, which had just filled the air with such joyful peace, had closed the evening service. The moment it was ended Tilda hastened to the tentbut to find Eirene gone from the camp-seat, 1870.] A WOMANS RIGHT. 59 where she had left her. She questioned one of the mothers of Israel, and the old ladys reply was by no means satis- factory: She went off moren an hour ago, and I haint seen nothin of her sence. Tilda, who considered Eirene poetic, or, as she called it, childish, to the verge of irresponsibility, thought now that she had gone out sky-gazing, but was prepared for nothing worse. Imagine, then, the shock which this worthy young woman received, when rushing into the green inclosure back of the tent. In the moonlight, bright as a second day, she beheld, with terri- ble distinctness, this child of her care standing under a wide-spreading tree, and by her side an awful man. Im- agine her increased horror when, draw- ing near enough to discern his features, she discovered that this man was no other than that young wolf of the world, against whom she had warned her lamb so long. Eirene Vale! she exclaimed in her astonishment and anger. Eirene Yale, was it for this yo~ didnt feel able to go to meetin? So you stayed back to meet a manand this man! Havent I warned you I [Losing all self-con- trol.] Paul Mallane, youd better be in better business! Miss Stade, interrupted that youth, in lofty tone, you dont know what you are talking about. But I request you to speak more respectfully to this lady. She stay to meet me! to meet any one! You know better. I in- truded myself upon her, because there was something which I thought neces sary to say to her. I have heard of you as being very zealous in your efforts to do good. Let me tell you that nothing could do me more good than the privi- lege of speaking with this young lady. If you are such a missionary, take care how you interfere with the only chance I have on earth of becoming a Chris- tian. Miss Yale, may I accompany you to the tent I Tilda, who had started to seize Birene by the arm, and lead her back as a cul- prit, was confounded by the overpower- ing manner of this young man, and all the more that the thought crowded in- to her mind that she remembered him when he wore frocks and aprons. The tone of deference with which he ad- dressed Eirene was not to be mistaken. The most exacting lady in the land could not have demanded more, as he walked by her side, while the discom- fited Tilda followed behind. When, at the door of the tent, he bade her good- night, with his hat in his hand, lie had not the air of a man who was ashamed of himself or ashamed of his company, although he made his adieu before the amazed eyes of the gossips of Busy- ville. One of them declared, in the shop, next day, Where he dropped from, at that time of night, the Lord only knows; but there he was, in the tent-door, bowing good-night to that Vale girl, as if she had been a queen. So all I brought her to camp-meet- in for was to meet that man, groaned Tilda, as she tumbled about on a cotton comforter which she had spread over the straw on the ground. 60 [July, PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. WHAT THEY ARE DOING IN MEXICO. THE reading public have so long been accustomed to a repetition of ills occur- ring in our neighboring Republic, that a species of chronic sentiment seems to have assumed the infermidad Mexi- cano to be incurable. There are those, however, whose opportunities for form- ing opinions, by residence in the coun- try, entitle their views to consideration, and who cite divers important evidences going to show that, amid all her calami- ties and complications, Mexico has made some grand strides in the route towards regeneration and constitutional liberty. It is not understood as it should be, by the people of this more favored land, that, when Mexico arrived at an inde- pendent national existence, in 1821, owing more to the imbecility of Spain than to her own power, the people were still sunk in a degree of slavish igno- rance and superstition as lamentable as any that prevailed in Christendom dur- ing the existence of the Inquisition; and the new Government, resulting from the separation from the mother- country, was as completely under the control of an inquisitorial, ecclesiastic- al despotism, as had been the vice-regal institutions under Spain. The religious despotism remained the same, and long continued well-nigh the same. A gen- eration was required to teach a respect- able minority that a free Republic and spiritual despotism, controlled by a cor- rupt and fanatic priesthood, were wholly incompatible, and that the one or the other must perish. Long and bloody were the years from 1821 to 1857, through which this idea pushed its way through the Mexican mind. At every station along the route it was confronted, am- bushed, flanked, and undermined, by that terrible power which had so long and cruelly reigned supreme over the minds and actions of the people. When- ever, under the inspirations of some such patriot as Pedraza or Gomez Forios, the friends of virtuous liberty gained power, the money, unscrupulous intrigues, and heartless crimes of this ecclesiastical hie- rarchy were promptlybroughtinto requi- sition to crush the patriots and destroy the growing power of liberty. To this unrighteous source is that unfortunate land indebted for the many and destruc- tive revolutions which have so long preyed upon its vitals, till other peoples, unenlightened as to the ever-pervading issue, come to regard the whole with indiscriminate aversion. It is time that we, as a nation of free citizens, should better understand the actual condition of things in our sister Republic, in whose happiness and prosperity we have, and must ever have, so great an interest. The real, all-pervading issue in Mexico, divested of those side-issues spasmodi- cally arising in a country so little en- lightened, is a contest for constitutional, representative government, guarantee- ing civil and religious liberty on the one hand, and, on the other, for the perpetuation of the atrocious political and ecclesiastical despotism inherited from Spaina priestly despotism which, with resources, wealth, and power never surpassed in any country, for over three hundred years, used it for the enslave- ment, debasement, and oppression of the multitude. In such a contest, no man who inhales the air of -this coun- try can hesitate as to which party to the array is entitled to his sympathy. The Republican party, born in the folds of the great mailed corruption, as other great parties have come into be- ing in other lands, was nurtured through a long and feeble infancy, and for years durst not raise its voice above an im- ploring whisper; but, in the year 1857, it had acquired sufficient strength to form the present and only free consti- tution Mexico has ever had. This, how- ever, was not put in operation till 1859; and, from 1862 to 1867, European bayo

J. H. Brown Brown, J. H. What They are Doing in Mexico 60-62

60 [July, PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. WHAT THEY ARE DOING IN MEXICO. THE reading public have so long been accustomed to a repetition of ills occur- ring in our neighboring Republic, that a species of chronic sentiment seems to have assumed the infermidad Mexi- cano to be incurable. There are those, however, whose opportunities for form- ing opinions, by residence in the coun- try, entitle their views to consideration, and who cite divers important evidences going to show that, amid all her calami- ties and complications, Mexico has made some grand strides in the route towards regeneration and constitutional liberty. It is not understood as it should be, by the people of this more favored land, that, when Mexico arrived at an inde- pendent national existence, in 1821, owing more to the imbecility of Spain than to her own power, the people were still sunk in a degree of slavish igno- rance and superstition as lamentable as any that prevailed in Christendom dur- ing the existence of the Inquisition; and the new Government, resulting from the separation from the mother- country, was as completely under the control of an inquisitorial, ecclesiastic- al despotism, as had been the vice-regal institutions under Spain. The religious despotism remained the same, and long continued well-nigh the same. A gen- eration was required to teach a respect- able minority that a free Republic and spiritual despotism, controlled by a cor- rupt and fanatic priesthood, were wholly incompatible, and that the one or the other must perish. Long and bloody were the years from 1821 to 1857, through which this idea pushed its way through the Mexican mind. At every station along the route it was confronted, am- bushed, flanked, and undermined, by that terrible power which had so long and cruelly reigned supreme over the minds and actions of the people. When- ever, under the inspirations of some such patriot as Pedraza or Gomez Forios, the friends of virtuous liberty gained power, the money, unscrupulous intrigues, and heartless crimes of this ecclesiastical hie- rarchy were promptlybroughtinto requi- sition to crush the patriots and destroy the growing power of liberty. To this unrighteous source is that unfortunate land indebted for the many and destruc- tive revolutions which have so long preyed upon its vitals, till other peoples, unenlightened as to the ever-pervading issue, come to regard the whole with indiscriminate aversion. It is time that we, as a nation of free citizens, should better understand the actual condition of things in our sister Republic, in whose happiness and prosperity we have, and must ever have, so great an interest. The real, all-pervading issue in Mexico, divested of those side-issues spasmodi- cally arising in a country so little en- lightened, is a contest for constitutional, representative government, guarantee- ing civil and religious liberty on the one hand, and, on the other, for the perpetuation of the atrocious political and ecclesiastical despotism inherited from Spaina priestly despotism which, with resources, wealth, and power never surpassed in any country, for over three hundred years, used it for the enslave- ment, debasement, and oppression of the multitude. In such a contest, no man who inhales the air of -this coun- try can hesitate as to which party to the array is entitled to his sympathy. The Republican party, born in the folds of the great mailed corruption, as other great parties have come into be- ing in other lands, was nurtured through a long and feeble infancy, and for years durst not raise its voice above an im- ploring whisper; but, in the year 1857, it had acquired sufficient strength to form the present and only free consti- tution Mexico has ever had. This, how- ever, was not put in operation till 1859; and, from 1862 to 1867, European bayo 18TO.] WHAT Tuxv ARE DOING IN MEXICO. 01 nets held the country, thus interrupting the progress of reform so happily begun by the Republicans. Thus it will be seen that, up to this time, the Repub- lican constitutional party have had but limited opportunity to inaugurate and give effect to the many and vital re- forms so necessary to divorce the State and the people entirely and forever from the ancient political and clerical insti- tutions under which they have groaned for twelve generations. Yet, let us see what has been done. I. They have firmly established a free constitution, embodying those essential guarantees of liberty which we Anglo- Saxons regard as fundamental, includ- ing an entire divorce of Church and State. 2. They have secularized the vast and ill-gotten estates of the Church, from the revenues of which it was always able to pay a mercenary soldiery in the interest of despotism, and by which they virtually controlled the country and kept it deluged in blood. 3. They have placed on an enduring basis the rights of free speech, a free press, speedy public trials, and, above all, liberty of conscience in religious worship; and are establishing univer- sal suffrage, trial by jury, and subordi- nating the military to the civil power. 4. They have in operation, and are steadily extending, a system of primary schools, which could never have been done while the priestly tyranny con- tinued. 5. And already the fruits of these beneficent victories are visible in the press of the country, and an expanding literaturein the growth of education among the youth; while among the adults, through the press and otherwise, there is plainly visible an increased and increasing intelligence. And, in anoth- er and grander aspect, the change is so remarkable, that a volume might well be devoted to its discussion. This is the great religious awakening, stand- ing, perhaps, without a parallel in this century. From small beginnings, in t84647, the sacred Scriptures have been slowly finding their way to Mexi- can firesides, till, within the last five years, their circulation has been open and remarkably rapid. Already great numbers of the people have wholly abandoned the old religion in which they were born, and organized them- selves into an independent Evangelical Church, in harmony with the leading churches of the United States, and tak- ing the Bible only as their rule of faith. They have ministers as spiritual shep- herds, of their own race and language, who are esteemed bright and shining lights, and justly so. Their influence is rapidly extending by means of the pulpit, religious societies, and the press. Such, in few words, is a review of the past and present of that country, so remarkable for its natural wealth and advantages, yet so cursed by the wick- edness of men. Pronunciameatos, commotions, out- rages, are not yet extinct there; but reflecting minds will see that now, for the first time in her checkered career, Mexico has arrived at a position from which progress is not only prob- able, but hopeful. Finally to triumph over the old-time despotism, and the restless, lawless chiefs generated by her long succession of internecine strifes, and place herself in the attitude of a peaceful, free, and progressive nation, requires yet other years of struggle by her best sons. She may yet fall by the wayside under the burden of her afflic- tions, and appeal to her more powerful sister to save hermany wise men so believe; but, for a country in which a purified religion and a practical civili- Eation are so steadily advancing, there is certainly hope. [July, PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. FAIRY ISLAND. RIGHT through the far eastern gate- way rises the sun at dawn; first the light-house gleams white in the dis- tance, then the dim water is gilded, and gradually the green hues of the woods on either side are lighted up, until all the eastern passage stands out distinct- ly in the clear air, and Fairy Island it- self basks in the full glory of the noon- day sun. All the morning the western passage lies hazy and dark, and the ves- sels coming up from the west look dusky and spectral, until Fairy Island is reach- ed, when suddenly the sunshine strikes them, the white sails gleam, the grace- ful, raking masts stand out clearly amid a network of ropes, and the glorified vessel sails gayly on towards the east, passing the green woods, the white light- house, and disappearing finally through the distant gateway into Lake Huron. In the afternoon the tide of glory turns, when the sun goes down to the west, gilding the little church of St. Ignatius, and touching the sunset pas- sage with splendor; the narrow, rocky walls on either side of it stand out clearly in the purple air, and between them sinks the red orb into the glitter- ing water, leaving a pathway of crim- son and gold behind him. To any one living on Fairy Island, it seems as though the god of day had no other occupation than to make his shining transit across the Straits of Mackinac; and the simple Indians showed only a natural reverence, when they gave to the beautiful island the name of Michili- Mackinac, or the Home of the Giant Fairies. Life is long on Fairy Island, and life is free and careless; a full century of years is given to every mortal, and some- times one sees mummy-like old Indians, who, from their appearance, might well have witnessed the creation of the world. Strangers who come here gradually lose their identity, and become like a throng of gay children roaming through the woods, sailing over the deep waters, or basking in the sunshine on some bald- faced rock, breathing the golden air in long breaths of delight. Everywhere in the forest we hear the gay laugh, or, if not a laugh, then a song, borne upwards by bands of merry pilgrims thrown to- gether here by chance from all quarters of the world, and soon to part, perhaps never to meet again this side of heaven. Some daring spirits are standing on the dizzy height of Arch Rock, looking down one hundred and fifty feet into the water below; the giant fairies threw this narrow bridge, sixty feet in mid- air, from cliff to cliff, and on moonlight nights they used to chase each other back and forth with peals of merry laughter, and then, adjourning to the Sugar-Loaf, and swinging themselves up its steep gray sides, they would crowd together on the summit, and send a wild fairy chorus echoing over the island, until the devil trembled in his gloomy Kitchen 7~ on the western shore, and all the mysterious bones in Skull Cave rattled together. The younger pilgrims usually wan- der off to Lovers Leap, and many a pale-face has here asked his ladyc-love if she too would throw herself from the precipice for his sake, as did the lovely Meshenemockenungoqua for the valiant Genigegonzerrog! Com- ing home, they pass through grass- grown Cupids Pathway into shady Lovers Lane, which, gradually wid- ening into Proposal Glade, leads them, alas! down rough, stony Mat- rimony Hill, into the prosaic village and every-day life again. The elderly pilgrims usually climb the steep sides of Robinsons Folly, and, with a tri- umphant sense of duty fulfilled, sit breathlessly down, to wonder at their own temerity as they see the distant hotel beneath them. The ladies placid- 62

C. F. Woolson Woolson, C. F. Fairy Island 62-69

[July, PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. FAIRY ISLAND. RIGHT through the far eastern gate- way rises the sun at dawn; first the light-house gleams white in the dis- tance, then the dim water is gilded, and gradually the green hues of the woods on either side are lighted up, until all the eastern passage stands out distinct- ly in the clear air, and Fairy Island it- self basks in the full glory of the noon- day sun. All the morning the western passage lies hazy and dark, and the ves- sels coming up from the west look dusky and spectral, until Fairy Island is reach- ed, when suddenly the sunshine strikes them, the white sails gleam, the grace- ful, raking masts stand out clearly amid a network of ropes, and the glorified vessel sails gayly on towards the east, passing the green woods, the white light- house, and disappearing finally through the distant gateway into Lake Huron. In the afternoon the tide of glory turns, when the sun goes down to the west, gilding the little church of St. Ignatius, and touching the sunset pas- sage with splendor; the narrow, rocky walls on either side of it stand out clearly in the purple air, and between them sinks the red orb into the glitter- ing water, leaving a pathway of crim- son and gold behind him. To any one living on Fairy Island, it seems as though the god of day had no other occupation than to make his shining transit across the Straits of Mackinac; and the simple Indians showed only a natural reverence, when they gave to the beautiful island the name of Michili- Mackinac, or the Home of the Giant Fairies. Life is long on Fairy Island, and life is free and careless; a full century of years is given to every mortal, and some- times one sees mummy-like old Indians, who, from their appearance, might well have witnessed the creation of the world. Strangers who come here gradually lose their identity, and become like a throng of gay children roaming through the woods, sailing over the deep waters, or basking in the sunshine on some bald- faced rock, breathing the golden air in long breaths of delight. Everywhere in the forest we hear the gay laugh, or, if not a laugh, then a song, borne upwards by bands of merry pilgrims thrown to- gether here by chance from all quarters of the world, and soon to part, perhaps never to meet again this side of heaven. Some daring spirits are standing on the dizzy height of Arch Rock, looking down one hundred and fifty feet into the water below; the giant fairies threw this narrow bridge, sixty feet in mid- air, from cliff to cliff, and on moonlight nights they used to chase each other back and forth with peals of merry laughter, and then, adjourning to the Sugar-Loaf, and swinging themselves up its steep gray sides, they would crowd together on the summit, and send a wild fairy chorus echoing over the island, until the devil trembled in his gloomy Kitchen 7~ on the western shore, and all the mysterious bones in Skull Cave rattled together. The younger pilgrims usually wan- der off to Lovers Leap, and many a pale-face has here asked his ladyc-love if she too would throw herself from the precipice for his sake, as did the lovely Meshenemockenungoqua for the valiant Genigegonzerrog! Com- ing home, they pass through grass- grown Cupids Pathway into shady Lovers Lane, which, gradually wid- ening into Proposal Glade, leads them, alas! down rough, stony Mat- rimony Hill, into the prosaic village and every-day life again. The elderly pilgrims usually climb the steep sides of Robinsons Folly, and, with a tri- umphant sense of duty fulfilled, sit breathlessly down, to wonder at their own temerity as they see the distant hotel beneath them. The ladies placid- 62 1870.] FAIBY ISLAND. 63 ly discuss the myth of Robinson and his Folly-House, decide just where it stood, and that he was in it at the time, drinking, probably, my dear; for those old-fashioned officers, you know, were much addicted to the bottle. The gentlemen wander aimlessly about, until they discover that the soft arbor-vitre can be worked into excellent canes; with joy they produce their pocket- knives, and spend hours in shaping the white wood into curious forms, which they display in the evening with an ex- ultation curious to witness in any other place than Fairy Island. Over the waters, in all directions, are seen the famous Mackinac boats, gliding gracefully enough with a fair wind, but only displaying their peculiar qualities when, with a gale behind them, and their great white sails tilting far to one side, they skim the white caps. In gay flotillas we visit Round Island, where lived and died the famous Indian spir- itualist, Wachusco. His old lodge is still to be seen, where the strange lights appeared, and where the whistling wind swept over the circle of silent Indians, sitting with bowed heads to receive the manifestations of the Spirit. We cir- cle Fairy Island, and leave our offer- ings of vine-wreaths at Magic Spring, where, in primitive days, the dusky maidens offered up their choicest orna- ments for the safety of their braves; we pass the British Landing, where the English soldiers marched up to surprise our little garrison at Fort Holmes; we sail in sight of the distant St. Martins Islands, and the mysterious region call- ed the Chenaux, or Snows, as the island dialect has it; but, in all our numerous pilgrimages to Fairy Island, we never succeeded in finding a person who had visited that hazy country, or who could tell us where or what were the Chenaux. Whether channels or mountains, land or water, no one knew; but, in answer to our inquiries, they would vaguely point to the northward, and say, Oh, its just the Snows, thats all ? ~ Many a time, also, have we set out for the distant gates of the sunrise and the sunset. We have manned our boats with enterprising souls, provisioned them with ample stores of meat and wine, and boldly steered towards the enchanted re- gions; but we could never reach them, though we sailed all day; they fled be- fore us hour by hour, until, impatient and discouraged, we turned our prows homeward; but as soon as we reached Fairy Island again, there they were in the distance, one mysteriously dim, the other vividly clear, as the sun travelled over the Straits down to his watery bed in the west. One bright summer-day we sailed to Point St. Ignace, where the little church, with its spire cross, keeps watch over the Indian village. Few points of this new continent of ours possess any his- toric interest, and but few of our busy people are aware that, around Point St. Ignatius, in the Straits of Mackinac, cluster ancient traditions and legends worthy to be crystallized into enduring fame by the poets pen and the painters brush. When the stern Puritans were enforcing their cold doctrines on the barren shores of New England, and pro- tecting themselves carefully in little vil- lages on the edge of the great wilder- ness, never dreaming of penetrating its depths, the French missionaries were following the course of the western rivers, and planting the cross of Christ a thousand miles towards the setting sun. In the year 1670, the celebrated P~re Marquette, advancing westward through the wilderness, carrying the good tidings of salvation to the red men, entered the Straits of Mackinac through the western gateway, and beached his canoe at the old Indian town, on what was then called Iroquois Point. Here he planted the cross, and rested some days among the friendly Indians, who listened with curiosity to the tidings that a Saviour was born for them afar off towards the rising sun a Saviour who gave up His life on the cross that they might be saved, to meet Him in the land of good spirits beyond the clouds. The woods on both sides of the Straits, and the islands lying be- tween the gates, were at this time dot- 64 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, ted with Indian villages, for game was abundant, and the deep water around Fairy Island was called the home of the fishes. Day after day the canoes assembled at Iroquois Point, and the young missionary saw his congregation grow, ns, standing by the rude cross, he preached to them the glad tidings of great joy. Encouraged by his suc- cess, P~re Marquette erected here a log chapel, and named it in honor of Igna- tins Loyola; and soon the sound of a little bell echoed through the forest, calling the new-made converts to their devotions. Earnestly devoted to his work, speaking no less than nine dif- ferent Indian tongues, fiery in his elo- quence and warm-hearted in his love, is it any wonder that Marquette be- came the idol of the red men who thronged his chapel, learned his pray- ers, and, kneeling on the beach, received the sacred symbol of salvation upon their dark foreheads in the sparkling waters of the beautiful Straits? The next year, Marquette and his compan- ions erected a college within the inclo- sure, the first institution of the kind west of New England. Here he gath- ered the children together, and instruct- ed them in the truths of religion, hop- ing thus to reach the hearts of the fierce warriors, who, adorned with reeking scalps, assembled to hear the words of peace. In 1672, while Marquette was thus engrossed with his dusky converts, he was called upon to join an expedi- tion through the far West, in company with Joliet, another member of that self-sacrificing band of Jesuit mission- aries whose adventures outshine the wildest pages of romance. Their ob- ject was to explore the course of the Mississippi river, then supposed to flow into the Gulf of California; and, with that implicit obedience which rules the Order, Marquette prepared to leave his little resting-place and move onward through the pathless forest. On a bright May morning, the boats containing the missionaries were started down the Straits towards the western gateway, accompanied by a numerous flotilla of eanoes filled with sorrowing Indians. It is recorded that Plrc Marquette sat shading his eyes with his hand, looking back earnestly at the little chapel of St. Ignatiiis, which he was never more to see. At the western gateway, Mar- quette rose in his canoe, and, ext ending his arms over the water, gave a parting benediction to the silent Indians, who sat motionless until the last boat had disappeared into Lake Michigan, and then returned sorrowing to their island homes. In 1675, Marquette, worn out with his labors in exploring the Mississippi, returned eastward as far as the Mission of St. Francis Xavier, at Green Bay, where he was received by the brethren with joy, as one who comes from an un- known land. Feeling the approach of death, the dying mans thoughts turned to his little chapel in the Straits, and he expressed a wish to rest under its walls, where the shadow of the cross he had raised might fall upon him. Lov- ing hands carried him to the canoe, and all speed was made towards the Straits; but death overtook them, and the pa- tient eyes closed without again behold- ing the beloved cross of St. Ignatius. They buried him on the banks of the river, which still bears his name; but, when the Indians of the Straits heard of his last wishes, they assembled a vast fleet of canoes, and paddled swiftly down the lake after the body of their good father. On reaching the river, they inclosed the simple coffin in robes of choice furs and beadwork, and then, in solemn procession, they turned back towards the Straits, joined ever and anon by delegations from other tribes, nil pressing to do honor to the holy man. As the flotilla entered the sun- set gate, it was met by all the island Indians; and as they neared Point Ig- natius, the missionaries in charge came down to the beach, clad in their vest- ments, and singing the funeral chant, while the coffin was silently borne ashore on the very spot which the good fathers foot had first pressed five years before. During the wars that followedbe- tween the English and the French, the 1870.] FAIRY ISLAND. 65 Colonists and the Indians, the Revolu- tion, the long Indian contests, and the War of 1812the locality of the grave was lost; but somewhere on Point St. Ignace peacefully he lies at rest; and at the last day he will rise in state sur- rounded by the host of dusky warriors who sleep around him, saved by his zeal and devotion, the noble P~re Mar- quette. This romantic history was related to us by the white-haired priest, who wel- comed us politely at Point St. Igna.ce, and invited us into his log cabin, where, arranged on pine shelves, our wonder- ing eyes beheld the choicest works of the master-minds of the world, clad in Russia leather, and sparkling with gilt. In this little village of Indians and Canadian half-breeds dwelt this courtly old gentleman, with the face of a noble- man and the manners of an aristocrat; evidently he belonged to the ancien ri- gime, and to our eyes he seemed only fitted for some stately old salon in old- fashioned Paris. Charmed and aston- ished at his conversation, we lingered as long as possible in his cabin, and the little vesper-bell found us still listening to his graceful sentences. Entering the chapel, we stood awhile watching the small congregation at their devotions, and then hastened to the beach and set sail for Fairy Island, full of curiosity at this vera avis of the wilderness. As much of his history as we afterwards learned can be told in a few words. About twenty years before, Father Pier- ret arrived at Mackinac, bringing with him stores of superb books ~and pictures, costly clothing, jewels, and a mysteri- ous box which was never opened. He had been sent from Paris as missionary to the Indians of the Straits, and, in- stead of taking up his abode at the mis- sion-house on Fairy Island, he chose for his habitation the ancient site of Pre Marquettes log chapel at Point St. Ig- nace, only coming over to Mackinac at stated seasons to hold service, and has- tening back to his solitary home as soon as it closed. Thus he lived, shun- ning all intercourse with white men, but much beloved by the Indians, who gradually built up a little village around his log cabin, and kept him supplied with game and fish. Twice a-year a box of costly books came to him from Paris; and if by chance, visitors sought him out in his retirement, he received them politely, and showed them his choice library with quiet pride. How the Roman Catholic Church, that knows so well how to select the laborer for the field, could have sent this accomplish. ed, elegant man, to vegetate in the #1- derness, has always been a mystery. Some political crime, some dark perse- cution, or, perhaps, some youthful re- bellion against the severe laws of the priesthood, may have occasioned this banishment, which lasted so many long years. But, whatever the mystery may have been, it will never be solved; for one morning, some years since, Father Pierret received a heavy letter from Paris, and set out on his homeward journey the same day, bearing with him his costly library, his pictures, and the mysterious iron-banded box, unopened for twenty years. His successor, an un- interesting German, lives at Mackinac, and the Mission of St. Ignatins is again abandoned to silence and oblivion. The village of Mackinac is a relic of the past. The houses on the beach are venerable and moss-grown, while behind them stand the deserted warehouses of the fur-traders, once so filled with life and activity. The island was long the principal d6p6t of the Northwestern Fur Company; and here the trappers received their outfits for their perilous journeys over the Mississippi, and out to the head-waters of the Missouri; here came the merry voyageurs, singing their gay French songs as they paddled the loaded canoe, and here, at evening, they danced on the beach to the sound of the violin with the copper-colored belles, whose features we may even now detect under the French names of many of the old families of Fairy Island. These were gay days for Mackinac; but, with the death of John Jacob Astor, the master-spirit of the Northwestern Com- pany, the fur-trade languished, and finally retreated before advancing civil- 66 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, ization into the fastnesses of the Rocky Mountains. We wandered through the dingy ware- houses, and tried to imagine the dusty shelves filled with furs and supplies, and the grave Indians mingling in silence with the noisy French voyageurs, while stolid Dutch clerks from New York kept the balance straight. We visited the old Indian Agency, with its heavy stockade fence pierced with loop-holes, from which to shoot unruly red-skins; we inspected the mysterious carved door in the kitchen, said to have been brought from France for P~re Mar- quettes chapel; and then we strolled up to the deserted Mission Church look- ing over the beautiful Straits, and we felt that the early fathers must indeed have loved their little home on Fairy Island. We were quartered in the Mis- sion house itself, and through those narrow halls, where once the grave priests paced slowly, now resounded the song and laugh of the gay pilgrims from the burning, dusty cities. Yet still we all felt that the place was hal- lowed; and even the most careless could not but recall the early days, when, two centuries before, the devoted mission- aries had built those self-same walls with hymns of praise and heartfelt prayers. A strange, quaint race are the inhabi- tants of Fairy Island. A full-blooded Indian grandmother clad in blanket and moccasins, a funny little French grand- father full of gaysongs and jokes, a dusky half-breed mother, and a sturdy Dutch father, must necessarily produce peculiar children many-featured, many-hued, and many-charactered. A pretty young girl, her face sparkling with the viva- cious intelligence peculiar to the French, is accompanied by a silent brother, whose features and form are Indian pier et simple. Playing on the beach are confused groups of mongrel children, and so bewildered are we by the unex- pected admixtures of features and com- plexions, that we almost expect to dis~ cover that some of them are half-squirrel or half-loon, descendants of the original inhabitants of Fairy Island. Basking against an old boat in the brilliant sun- shine, we discovered, one morning, one of those dried-up old grandp?ires, and entered into conversation with him. He told us merry tales of the fur-traders, their wild adventures in the far West, and their gay meetings at Mackinac twice a-year, when from all directions assembled the loaded bateaux, and the canoes freighted with the spoils of the wilderness. In his little piping voiac and French patois, he sang for us one of the boating-songs, which we have endeavored to translate, as follows: now, row, brothers, row, Down to the west; On, on, on we go, Pause not for rest. The sian shins bright, The boat rows light, As we the long oar gayly draw, But soon the night Will veil from sight The distant heights of Mackinac. Farewell, farewell, Ma belle, ma belle, The bri~htest eyes the world cci saw; how long twill be Eer we shall see The distant heights of Mackinac! Afar we go, Towards ice and snow, With wolf and bison must we war, But smiling spring Again will bring The distant heights of Mackinac. now, row, brothers, row, Down to the west; On, on, on we go, Pause not for rest. Some years ago, the Straits of Macki- nac were enlivened by a brilliant naval battle. It is true, that few of the dwellers in o~ur great cities were aware of the fierce war which raged on the northern outskirts; and the annals of the War Department, also, are silent concerning the proud fleet which set sail from Fairy Island one dark morn- ing, and, after a hard-fought battle, re- turned victorious. But an unworthy pen will attempt to chronicle the glory, as follows: Big Beaver Island, just outside the western gateway, had been taken by the Mormons after a bloodless contcst with the gulls, who were the original inhabi- tants. Dri~ea from the Eastern States, 1870.] FAIBY ISLAND. 67 hither had the saints migrated in small bands, and gradually, as refugee after refugee arrived, a town grew up, a tem- ple was built, and a king chosen to rule over the settlement. For some time the saints confined themselves to cultivating their land and entrapping fish, only oc- casionally entrapping some discontented wife on the mainland, by way of a lit- tle innocent variety. But, waxing fat and lazy, they concluded that labor was unworthy of their vocation, and there- fore they proceeded to levy toll on pass- ing vessels; and, when the nights were dark and stormy, they set out lights, and lured the unsuspicious mariners to destruction on their shores, reaping the reward of their labors in the numerous wrecks on the beach. These acts in- flamed with wrath the worldly inhabi- tants of Mackinac, and, one day, the cup of their indignation ran over, when it was discovered that a lovely young French girl had been enticed away to join the harem of King Strang. A fleet, much resembling the primitive flotillas of Homers day, was prepared for bat- tle, manned by a motley crew of French and half-breeds, while a sprinkling of uniforms from the fort on the heights gave Uncle Sams sanction to the enter- prise. A pugnacious steam-tug led the way, bearing a small cannon proudly on its quarter-deck, and displaying the Stars and Stripes nailed to the mast. A fleet of Mackinac boats sailed fierce- ly alongside, filled with Islanders armed with rusty shot-guns and antiquated pistols, while in the rear, paddling for dear life to see the sight, came the noble race of Loin their dirty blankets. Passing the western gateway, Big Beaver loomed in sight, and the City of the Saints was shortly afterwards as- saulted by the ferocious Islanders. The steam-tug took up position and opened fire upon the town, while the land-forces swarmed ashore and did prodigious ex- ecution with their superannuated pis- tols. The female saints made a brave resistance when they saw their deserted husbands among the invaders; but the prophets fled to the protecting woods, whence they were dragged one by one to enjoy the delights of tar and feath- ers. King Strang himself was taken prisoner, and carried on board the flag- ship; but vengeance smote him by the hand of one of his flock, and he paid for his ms.ny sins with his life. The conquering fleet returned in triumph to~ Mackinac, and the scattered remnant of the Mormons forsook Big Beaver in haste, turning their faces towards the setting sun, where gleamed before them the glorious City of the Saints; and Big Beaver is restored to the original aristocracy of the loons and sea-gulls. Crowning the bold cliff over the har- bor at Fairy Island, stands Fort Macki- nac, its white limestone walls glisten- ing in the sun, and the Stars and Stripes waving gayly abovc. Solemn sentinels pace the ancient walls, and rusty cannon frown sullenly from the battlements; but, in spite of mounted guard and severe military etiquette, we fear it must be acknowledged that one gun- boat could easily level Fort Mackinac to its limestone foundations. Once there was a beautiful little chapel attached to the fort, where, for more than twenty years, the Rev. John OBrien, a clergy- man of the Episcopal Church, officiated. On Sunday morning the bugle-call, echo- ing from the height, called the villagers to the chapel, and soon the entire popu- lation, excepting the Roman Catholics, were seen ascending the steep, gravelled pathway to the garrison. At a second flourish on the bugle, the soldiers march- ed into the chapel, preceded by the com- mandant in full uniform, and the ser- vices began with full responses, both musical and spoken, from hundreds of deep bass voices. Solemn and impres- sive was the worship of God in this little military chapel on the heights of Mackinac; but, alas! the good old chap- lain has been gathered to his fathers, the quaint house of prayer has been turned into a drill-room, and many of the officers who have been stationed on the rocky island are lying in the crowd- ed cumeteries near the battle-fields of the Rebellion. Among these may be mentioned the gallant General Williams, ~ho was killed at Baton Rouge; the 68 tall young Virginian, Captain Terrell, who was shot while leading a charge in one of the early battles in West Vir- ginia; the brilliant engineer, General Sill, and two lieutenants, Bally and Benson, whom we remember as light- hearted boys. These all died for their country. May they rest in peace, and may the sore hearts left behind be com- forted. The summer guests at Fairy Island begin to take their departure as soon as the harvest-moon has waned; they fear the treacherous waves, and sail away home over a summer sea, before the first Fall wind comes blowing from the west. One autumn, in the face of direful prognostications of evil, we dared to remain long enough to witness the September gales, and the glowing In- dian summer, so brilliant in the clear air and sharp frosts of the lake-coun- try. About the fifteenth of the month, a light wind came puffing from the west, ruffling the Straits in dark lines, and curling up little waves with edges of spray. The weather-wise Islanders, who read the heavens like an open book, came skimming from all directions in their tilting Mackinac boats; and the Indians who were loitering around the village, hastened to load their A~noes with squaw and papoose, and paddle away rapidly to their homes on the mainland. All night the wind blew fiercely, and in the morning when we rose, the Straits were a sheet of foam, and the trees on Round Island were bowing like reeds. A large schooner that, with infinite trouble,, had been an- chored in supposed safety the previous evening, was rocking and pitching fu- riously, when, even as we watched, leav- ing our breakfast untasted on the table, she broke loose from her anchorage and went driving down before the gale, to be dashed to pieces on the rocks of Bois Blanc. All on board were lost, to the number of sixteen souls. Later in the day, a barque and a three-master drove by our cottage. The first was a shape- less hulk, on which the storm had wreaked its fury the preceding night, sweeping all human life into the seeth [July, ing waters; but our hearts burned with- in us, as, clinging to the masts of the other vessel, we saw five human beings waiting for death, which came to them soon in the shape of a hidden rock; and before our eyes, almost within sound of our voices, they went down. During the three-days storm, sixteen wrecks occurred on Mackinac Island itself; while between the eastern and western gates of the Straits no less than forty- five staunch vessels were lost, with all on board. On the morning of the third day, the large side-wheel steamer Queen City, from Chicago to Collingwood, came in sight, swarming with passengers to the number of two hundred and fifty, and laboring, heavily in the sea. The cap- tain made an effort to reach the docks, but the force of the gale careened the steamer so fearfully, that her smoke- stacks almost touched the water, and all on shore thought she had foundered. Recovering her balance with an effort, the Queen put back under the shelter of Round Island, where, all day long, she labored heavily backwards and for- wards, watched with intense anxiety by, all on shore. More and more fiercely blew the gale, more and more angrily raged the sea, as night came on. Then, as the fuel was nearly exhausted, liac captain, knowing well that the boat could not outlive another twelve hours of storm, determined to make a desperate effort to reach the docks. We saw the hurried preparations made on board, and, our faces pressed against the glass, we breathlessly watehed the heavily- loaded steamer, as slowly her course was turned towards the harbor, and the full force of the gale struck her from the west. She missed the usual landing- place, and swayed towards the broken posts of the old pier; her upturned keel righted itself for an instant, when a huge wave sent her bow against the end of the wharf. A hundred hands caught the great ropes thrown from the deck, and, in a moment, the plunging, foun- dering steamer was secured by her bows to the end of the wharf while the terror- stricken passengers fairly threw them- PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. 18~O.] To FRANCEs 69 selves down into the arms of the Island- ers below. As the cables were strained to the utmost by the force of the sea, the women and children were quickly lowered, and, before the night had set- tled down on the island, the three hun- dred persons who had given themselves over to death were landed safely on Fairy Island. The captain, a sailor from boyhood, was so shattered by the terrible responsibility of those three hundred lives, that he changed his pro- fession and abandoned the water for- ever. After these trying days came the glowing beauty of the Indian summer, when the deep-blue sky, the purple haze in the air, the shining water, and the gorgeous autumn tints on the trees, made up a picture of rich coloring un known in any other portion of the world. We climbed to old Fort Holmes, and saw the whole of Fairy Island clad in maple, orange, and scarlet, green pine and russet oak; ive noted Round Island and Bois Blanc, like gay bouquets in the still water; we breathed the hazy air, all filledwith gold-dust. Descending from the heights, we wandered through the painted woods, and brought home glowing branches to deck our cottage- walls. But day by day the bright leaves fell, and day by day we piled the logs higher and higher upon our hearthstone, until, at last, we could no longer deny that The seasons come and go Scarce apprehended; Though bright have been its flowers, Summer is ended. TO FRANCES , ON HER BIRTHDAY, ~IARCH TwENTY-TilTeD. OUT of the white, beleagnering lines, Passing the pickets, beyond the pines, The herald March comes blustering down, Proclaiming the news oer field and town, That Winter, the stub born, invading foe, Is hurriedly striking his tents of snow, Raising a siege which may cost his crown. A wonderful herald is this same March, With gusty robes and flashing hair! How boldly, under the springtime arch, He wakes the world with martial air! And, while his winding clarion rings, What a list of natal days he brings! Just a score of suns and three, On a beautiful isle in Manhattan bay, He blew to the four winds, far and frj~e, And the southern birds came up straightway. And the earliest flowers peered forth to see, And the brooks threw by their icy chains, Gazing abroad for April rains. And the buds looked out on every spray, And the soft south breeze came near to say Some flattering message it ~brought from May.

T. Buchanon Read Read, T. Buchanon To Frances 69-71

18~O.] To FRANCEs 69 selves down into the arms of the Island- ers below. As the cables were strained to the utmost by the force of the sea, the women and children were quickly lowered, and, before the night had set- tled down on the island, the three hun- dred persons who had given themselves over to death were landed safely on Fairy Island. The captain, a sailor from boyhood, was so shattered by the terrible responsibility of those three hundred lives, that he changed his pro- fession and abandoned the water for- ever. After these trying days came the glowing beauty of the Indian summer, when the deep-blue sky, the purple haze in the air, the shining water, and the gorgeous autumn tints on the trees, made up a picture of rich coloring un known in any other portion of the world. We climbed to old Fort Holmes, and saw the whole of Fairy Island clad in maple, orange, and scarlet, green pine and russet oak; ive noted Round Island and Bois Blanc, like gay bouquets in the still water; we breathed the hazy air, all filledwith gold-dust. Descending from the heights, we wandered through the painted woods, and brought home glowing branches to deck our cottage- walls. But day by day the bright leaves fell, and day by day we piled the logs higher and higher upon our hearthstone, until, at last, we could no longer deny that The seasons come and go Scarce apprehended; Though bright have been its flowers, Summer is ended. TO FRANCES , ON HER BIRTHDAY, ~IARCH TwENTY-TilTeD. OUT of the white, beleagnering lines, Passing the pickets, beyond the pines, The herald March comes blustering down, Proclaiming the news oer field and town, That Winter, the stub born, invading foe, Is hurriedly striking his tents of snow, Raising a siege which may cost his crown. A wonderful herald is this same March, With gusty robes and flashing hair! How boldly, under the springtime arch, He wakes the world with martial air! And, while his winding clarion rings, What a list of natal days he brings! Just a score of suns and three, On a beautiful isle in Manhattan bay, He blew to the four winds, far and frj~e, And the southern birds came up straightway. And the earliest flowers peered forth to see, And the brooks threw by their icy chains, Gazing abroad for April rains. And the buds looked out on every spray, And the soft south breeze came near to say Some flattering message it ~brought from May. PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. ~JuIy, All Nature, thrilling through and through, Pulsed and glowed with a pleasure new, As if aware that the wild March horn Announced the hour that you were born! Aware that Gods benignant smile, Gladdening the laud from shore to shore, Had fallen in grace on the lovely isle, Giving the flowers one lily more! Giving the brooks a sister-tonguo-- A lovely mate to all sweet things The dove and the wren, beside the door, While over the place the soft air sung, For me another blue-bird sings!,, And, catching a gleam of the light, which shed A household sunshine oer your birth, The angels of heaven looked round and said, One of our sisters has gone to earth!, And every time the loud month rings His third and twentieth clarion clear, They whisper, in groups, with folded wings, This is the morn she left us here! Then circles the song in airier play, Cheering the high ancestral dome, This is the beautiful blossoming day, That brings her one year nearer home! But yet so glad are the groups to know That something of heaven to earth is won, That while they guard your path below, They patiently wait your mission done. Then let the loud month blow at will, And Winter strike his tents anew; May many a springtime find you still On earthfor it hath need of you! 1870.] His Hoxons DAUGHTER. 71 HIS HONORS DAUGHTER. JUDGE FANSTIAWES house and Miss Hester Campbells stood side by side on Pearl avenue, but with a difference. The Judges mansion soared upward, like Ulilands Castle 1y the Sea, and had a lofty portico with fluted pillars and seven stone steps to the sidewalk, and plate-glass windows of the most impos- ing dimensions. But Miss Hesters domicile was narrow, flat-faced, two- storied, with one timid little step ad- vanced from the street-door, and had an air of not wishing to intrude, and of being on the point of getting itself out of the way, if only people wouldnt look. They seem resolved that I shall go, the consumptive little spinster sighed. I am offered mints of money for my estate; and when I refuse, am elbowed by brown stone, clawed at by iron rail- ings, and glared at by great windows, till I feel like little Bed Biding-Hood be- fore the wolf, and expect every moment to see a pair of wide jaws open, and cat me up quite. The very horses paw at my sidewalk when they are drawn up in front of it, and the coachmen say things to each other, and point at me with their thumbs. (I wonder why it seems more ignominious to be pointed at with the thumb than in any other way?) But transplanting would kill me, laddie.1 must live out my little time here in my childhoods home. When I am gone, you can do as you please. The person addressed as laddie was a stalwart young man of twenty- seven years at least, with a fine, spirited face, blue eyes that saved his mouth a good deal of talking, and thick tawny hair that fell into separate locks like plumesLieutenant Donald Campbell, Miss Hesters cousin and heir. Seeing this gentleman look at her with a Scotch mist in his eyes, the little lady made haste to brighten up, and add, with a smile, And what should I do without that pretty creature to look at? The soldier blushed faintly nil over his face; his mouth, that had been com- pressed, melted with something sweeter than a smile, and he turned his eyes quickly away and looked out the win- dow, to hide the sudden brightness in them. It was an October gloaming, and as he faced the window, Lieutenant Camp- bell looked across the narrow side-street that separated them from the next house, and saw a charming group, framed in a living sculpture of wind- tossed woodbine, surrounding the II- brary window opposite. A shaded lamp hung from the chandelier, and threw a circle of brilliant light into the centre of the room. In the midst of that light, painted, as it~ were, in strong relief, like one of those old pictures we see on a background of gold, sat Judge Fanshawe and his daughter, a slim, bright girl of nineteen, both reading from the same book. Rose had drawn a tabouret close to her fathers side, and leaned on the arm of his chair, turning the leaves as they read, and his hand rested on her shoulder. The same beam of light that made his forehead look marble-white, and glimmered on his eye-glasses, slipped lower, dropped a crinkled gilding in her dark hair, and showed her brow, fair as a lily. The dark blue of her dress lay soft, fold on fold, against the red of his dressing- gown, which seemed to have stained her blooming cheeks. Miss Hester had, with good reason, called Rose Fanshawe that pretty creature. The book they read must have been amusing, for all the time a smile played around the Judges lips, and now and then Rose glanced in his face and laughed. As the young man gazed lingeringly

O. M. Ellsworth Ellsworth, O. M. His Honor's Daughter 71-81

1870.] His Hoxons DAUGHTER. 71 HIS HONORS DAUGHTER. JUDGE FANSTIAWES house and Miss Hester Campbells stood side by side on Pearl avenue, but with a difference. The Judges mansion soared upward, like Ulilands Castle 1y the Sea, and had a lofty portico with fluted pillars and seven stone steps to the sidewalk, and plate-glass windows of the most impos- ing dimensions. But Miss Hesters domicile was narrow, flat-faced, two- storied, with one timid little step ad- vanced from the street-door, and had an air of not wishing to intrude, and of being on the point of getting itself out of the way, if only people wouldnt look. They seem resolved that I shall go, the consumptive little spinster sighed. I am offered mints of money for my estate; and when I refuse, am elbowed by brown stone, clawed at by iron rail- ings, and glared at by great windows, till I feel like little Bed Biding-Hood be- fore the wolf, and expect every moment to see a pair of wide jaws open, and cat me up quite. The very horses paw at my sidewalk when they are drawn up in front of it, and the coachmen say things to each other, and point at me with their thumbs. (I wonder why it seems more ignominious to be pointed at with the thumb than in any other way?) But transplanting would kill me, laddie.1 must live out my little time here in my childhoods home. When I am gone, you can do as you please. The person addressed as laddie was a stalwart young man of twenty- seven years at least, with a fine, spirited face, blue eyes that saved his mouth a good deal of talking, and thick tawny hair that fell into separate locks like plumesLieutenant Donald Campbell, Miss Hesters cousin and heir. Seeing this gentleman look at her with a Scotch mist in his eyes, the little lady made haste to brighten up, and add, with a smile, And what should I do without that pretty creature to look at? The soldier blushed faintly nil over his face; his mouth, that had been com- pressed, melted with something sweeter than a smile, and he turned his eyes quickly away and looked out the win- dow, to hide the sudden brightness in them. It was an October gloaming, and as he faced the window, Lieutenant Camp- bell looked across the narrow side-street that separated them from the next house, and saw a charming group, framed in a living sculpture of wind- tossed woodbine, surrounding the II- brary window opposite. A shaded lamp hung from the chandelier, and threw a circle of brilliant light into the centre of the room. In the midst of that light, painted, as it~ were, in strong relief, like one of those old pictures we see on a background of gold, sat Judge Fanshawe and his daughter, a slim, bright girl of nineteen, both reading from the same book. Rose had drawn a tabouret close to her fathers side, and leaned on the arm of his chair, turning the leaves as they read, and his hand rested on her shoulder. The same beam of light that made his forehead look marble-white, and glimmered on his eye-glasses, slipped lower, dropped a crinkled gilding in her dark hair, and showed her brow, fair as a lily. The dark blue of her dress lay soft, fold on fold, against the red of his dressing- gown, which seemed to have stained her blooming cheeks. Miss Hester had, with good reason, called Rose Fanshawe that pretty creature. The book they read must have been amusing, for all the time a smile played around the Judges lips, and now and then Rose glanced in his face and laughed. As the young man gazed lingeringly 72 PUTNAMS MAGAZIKX. at them, the readers both looked up, then rose to meet a visitor who came toward them from the shadows sur- rounding their golden medallion. Lieutenant Campbell pulled the cur- tain down with a snap, then lighted the gas and drew his cousins chair round before the lire, standing behind her a moment, leaning on the chair-back, while she looked uneasily into the transparent violet flicker in the grate. Then he came forward to the chimney- corner, and stood there, very erect, with his hands behind him. ~ he said, I am not yet thirty years of age; but I am a very old-fashioned fel- low. There was no apparent reason why the young man should find this a very irritating fact, but his eyes flashed as he spoke. I am so old-fashioned as to hate a swindler, and to be angry when I see respectable people welcome him; he went on, excitedly. iDo you know how that fellow got rich? Miss Hester looked up wistfully into her cousins face, knowing full well the real cause of his anger. Mr. Francis Grey, you mean? she asked. Is he rich? Rich? he is a Midas, ears and all. I know his history. Five years ago his father died and left him with expensive tastes, no profession, and ten thousand dollarsimminent beggary, of course, for a man like him. What to do? His eye fell upon Blentdavir, the arch-nurse of stocks: And now they go up, up, up, And now they go down, down, downy. Blentdavir was a relative, and felt obliged to give him a lift. He gave it in the way of a whisper in Greys ear, When stock gets down to 23, buy all you can get. Verbum sat sapienti. The fellow took heart, and set himself to watch and wait. Before long it was hinted that Blentdavirs stock was get- ting a little weak. Then it began to sink slowly. Do you know what that means, Hester? Can you fancy how the news was received by hundreds and thousands who had invested their little [July, all there? Fancy the widows, the or- phans, the overworked fathers of fami- lies, the teachers, shop-girls, factory- girls, sewing-gh-lsall the toiling crowd who had stinted themselves in the pres- ent for the sake of laying away some- thing against a rainy day. You may be sure that they had pale faces and wild eyes and heavy hearts as that stock came down. Hold on, Blentdavir said; it must come up again. I sup- pose some of em did hold on as long as they could, or dared; but finally there was a panic. The poor wretches rushed to sell, and save at least a little, and Mr. Francis Grey bought up all that he could get, and wished for more. A few of the initiated snapped up the rest. Then there was a pause. Blent- davir wept with one eye, and with the other exchanged a wink with his master of the cloven foot. Probably Grey wasnt quite easy for a while. But in the fulness of time it was perceived that the stock, having reached its zero, was creeping up again by quarter cents and half cents, a step and a halt, a step and a halt. Then the steps grew firmer, by cents and fives. You know how such things go. I told you so! Blentdavir said to the hungry ones, rubbing his hands. They didnt rub their hands. The mercury was out of their thermometers, and the bubbles burst. Now there was a dignified percent- age; then a sudden rise to somewhere among the nineties. Grey sold out, and found himself the owner of a decent fortune. But the gambling spirit was up in him. He speculated in this and thatnot honestly, but taking advan- tage of mens necessitiesand every thing he touched turned to gold for him. He is rich, and growing richer, and he bids fair to become a power in the land. Business men look at him with wonder; and, blinded by his sno- cess, forget how it was won. But, Hes- ter, I call him a swindler! While finishing his story, Donald Campbell had come out of his corner and walked up and down the room two or three times. He took another turn 1870.] His iloNOns DAUGUTER. 73 in silence, then came back to lean on the mantel-piece. I am a wretch, he said, trying to laugh off his excitement. I have dis- tressed you. But see, now! I am as mild as a May morning. She smiled tenderly on himher sole remaining tie to earth. She would have been lonely indeed, lacking iDon- ald. Keep your May-morning temper, laddie, she said. Let no man rob you of that, though he were a thou- sand times a swindler. He looked at her kindly. Besides, she added, dropping her glance to the fire again, I dont be- lieve that he can rob you of any thing which is necessary to your happiness. II. Miss Campbell was, as has been said, an invalid. She saw nothing of the world except what was visible through her windows; and one of her chief pleasures was to watch Rose Fanshawe. Rose was her widowed fathers only child, and the supreme mistress of his house and heart. To see her trip down the steps for drive or promenade, or, more soberly on Sundays walk off to church with her father; to see her pre- side at table, or receive company with that naive, blushing assumption of dig- nity; to note the little housewifely airs she took on herself; to see her, when dressed for party or opera, parade up and down the long parlor to display her toilet to her father and the serv- ants whose smiling faces looked in at the doorall this was very pleasant for the lonely little woman across the way. It was pleasant to see Miss Rose, even in her less sunny moods, when some spoke had slipped into the household machinery, perhaps when the careless chamber-girl had left the Judges p11- lows an inch awry, or forgotten a crum- pled towel, or put his tooth-brush wrong end up. Judge Fanshawe was called a stern man; but he did not appear to be un- grateful for this fond and jealous care. To be sure of that, one had but to see VOL. VI. 5 him come home in the afternoon, note how his step quickened as he neared his own house, and how his face bright- ened as he glanced eagerly up at the windows. Then one could see him smile toward the door, and put the latch-key back into his pocket; see a slippered foot and the hem of a dress beyond the pillars of the vestibule, and, perhaps, hear some such greeting as this called out in a clear, girlish voice, Welcome home, dear! And how does your honor do? A moment later they might be seen entering the library, arm in arm; when, as likely as not, Rose would find it necessary to re-arrange her fathers cra- vat, or smooth the wrinkles out of his forehead, or set him to rights in some other equally important respect, chat- tering, all the time, without ceasing. And if what she says were wiser than the wisdom of Solomon, and more poetical than all the poets, he could not look better pleased, thinks Miss Hes- ter. Let it not for an instant be supposed that Miss Campbell watched her neigh- bors slyly, or that her observation was offensive. She was no such person, and they knew that she was not, and there was a tacit understanding between them on the subject. You see, padre mio, Miss Fanshawe said, I like to have the dear little soul look over here. It seems to amuse her. Besides, she is perfectly well-bred about it, and shows as much delicacy as frank- ness. And I like the pluck she has shown in that bow-window affair. For, in the face of multiplied impor- tunities to sell, Miss Campbell had late- ly had a bow-window built upon the front of her housea movement at once aggressive and conciliatory, indicating her determination not to be ousted, but also her desire to be as ornamental as circumstances would allow. In this window, the evening after hearing the story of Mr. Francis Greys fortunes, Miss Campbell sat leaning out into the soft October night, and watch- ing the company next door. There had been a ~er-party of gentlemen, in 74 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, honor of Judge Fanshawes fiftieth birthday, and though the greater part of them were potent, grave, and rev- erend seigneurs, the watcher felt a spe- cial interest in looking, for her cousin and Mr. Francis Grey were the excep- tional young men invited to keep their girlish hostess in countenance. Rose received my laddie very well, commented Miss Hester, to whom the open windows and curtains gave a full view of the rooms. And no wonder. Donalds address is pleasing, even with that touch of diffidence he has, since it is never awkward. How well his au- burn hair lights up, and what a winning smile he has, bless him! And now comes Mr. Grey, as finished and sharp as my scissors. He is handsome in his way; but I dont like that marble white- ness, with black hair. It looks too much like a pen-and-ink portrait of a man. A wash of sepia would improve him. Besides, he is too polished; and that is always a hard substance, I think, which takes so good a polish. Now Rose is going to the piano. Oh I why wont somebody stop that organ-grind- Listening%agerly, she caught the last stanza of the song: Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue; His breaths like cauler air; His very fit has music int, As he comes up the stair. And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? rm downricht dizzy with the thoucht: In troth, Im like to greet. The inexorable hand-organ snatched away the rest, and ground it up. hiss Campbell recollected the story .of Madame de Sta~l, who, expecting a Scottish visitor, seated herself at her harp, and greeted his entrance to her ~aZon with the strains of Lod~aber no more. Grace is the same the world over, she thought. And a sim- pIe lassie may be as charming as a queen. After the song was over, some of the company stepped out into a balcony to look at the night, lying in Rembrandt light and shade in the streets below, overhead an abyss of darkness, spanne~l by the jewelled arch of the milky-way, and swarming with stars. One of the gentlemen recited Blanco Whites son- net Mysterious Night and the oth- ers were silent while they stood, and silently, one by one, returned to the drawing-room. Just inside the window Rose stood holding the curtain-tassel in her hand, and industriously counting the loops in the fringe, while she listened to some- thing Mr. Francis Grey was saying to her. She looked up to smile as Lieu- tenant Campbell passed her, bowing lowly, then lowered her eyes and listened again; but only for a moment. Drop- ping the tassel, she turned away, with some slow, reluctant word, which the other had seemed to plead for, cast over her shoulder. You are too late, young man! whispered Miss Hester, delightedly. The Campbells are coming, Oho! Dinna ye hear the pibroch? flL A few days after this dinner the com- mercial world had a sensation. Mr. Francis Grey, having gone up like a rocket, came down like a stick. Em- boldened by his unexampled success, he had embarked in a daring speculation, and had failed. At any earlier period of his career recovery would have been possible; now his ruin was utter. It was not only a loss of money, but of reputation. I am thankful, my dear, that you were not engaged to him, Judge Fan- shawe said, after having told his daugh- ter what had happened. Mr. Grey had offered himself to Rose, and, seeing his chance of a favorable answer very small, had urged her to wait a week before deciding. In that time he hoped to be able to tempt her with a brilliant fortune. She stood silent a moment beside her fathers chair, absently watching him lay out, on the table before him, the notes of a trial he was studying. But, papa, you know I had not absolutely refused him, she said presently. 1870.] His HoNoxs DAUGIITER. 75 He will scarcely give you the chance to do so now, was the reply. I dont know why he should not, she said. Her father paused in his work to give her a glance of surprise. I pity him very much, she contin- ued, her voice not quite steady. Judge Fanshawe took up his papers again. Of course you do! Women, and especially young women, often do pity without rhyme or reason. It might be as well if you should bestow a little sympathy on those he has ruined. There was a lock of hair on the crown of this gentlemans head which had always been a great care to his daugh- ter, in consequence of a tendency it had to stand up. She absently smoothed it down now, and, since it would not stay, laid another lock over it. Would you have condemned him if he had succeeded, papa? This question brought a faint color into the Judges face. If he had suc- ceeded, he would have been able to meet his liabilities, he replied evasive ly. And now he is not? Now he is not. People are very angry ?she asked, piling another lock of hair on to that troublesome one, which showed signs of revolt. They are ready to tear him in pie- ces, Rose. There are a dozen actions out against him. But he expected to be able to pay, didnt he? Just as I might expect that there will be fine weather a year from to-day. He meant to pay if he could; but the chances were ten to one against him. Isnt that the way he has been mak- ing money all along? Rose asked in a more assured voice, and let her hand slip down to her fathers shoulder, where it pressed. Judge Fanshawe began to suspect that he was being rather cleverly cross- questioned, and he did not like it. You dont understand these subjects, my child, he said, with a touch of im- patience. Public opinion pronounces against Francis Grey, and we have no more to do with him. I shall probably give him a civil recognition when I meet him; but if he has the bad taste to put himself in your way, I wish you to take no notice of him. It is well known that he was a suitor of yours, and you cannot be too decided in let- ting it be seen that the affair is at an end. He finished with a short nod, which in court the lawyers always understood to mean that there was no more to be said on that subject. Papa, I pity him very, very much, said Rose again. Her father dropped his papers, stretch- ed an arm, and ckew her round in front of him. His face wore a startled ex- pression. My dear child, he said, is this going to hurt you? Did you mean to accept him? No, I did not, she answered quite steadily. But I do not think it right to desert him because every one else does. Of course, he has done wrong; but that isnt what people condemn him for, or they would have been shocked a good while ago. And maybe, papa, if his other ventures had been frowned upon, he would not have made this. Judge Fanshawe dropped his daugh- ters hand, and drew back with an air of displeasure. Dont be vexed! she added hastily. I cant help thinking, you know; and that is the way the affair looks to me. If the Judge had felt that he was on lofty and unassailable ground, he might have reasoned with his daughter. But he had already been at some pains to convince himself that he was not a tardy moralist, and it was mortifying to find that his suspicion was her convic- tion. We will drop the subject, if you please, he said coldly, and re- sumed his employment. Rose went to the window, and stood there looking out into the early twilight. Poor fellow! she thought, what will he do? Perhaps he will kill him- self. I wish somebody would be good to him. But no one will. Im sure of that. I havent lived nineteen years for 76 PUmAMs MAGAZINE. [July, nothing. When my father wont be merciful, I cant expect any one else to be. Oh, dear! Im awfully afraid I shall get to like him immensely, if this goes on. Nature and I abhor a vacuum; and there will be such a dreadful void of pity and affection about Francis Grey, I shant be able to keep from rushing in to fill it up. Papa! she said, turning round, but without leaving the window. He looked at her coldly. If you were to speak kindly to him, and give him some good advice, dont you think it would be better? Certainly not! he replied with decision. And now, will you have the goodness to recollect that I have dismissed the subject? With a sigh of perplexity Rose re- turned to the window. Presently a servant entered and gave her a letter. She glanced listlessly at the cover, won- dered a little who her correspondent might be, broke the seal, and immedi- ately became absorbed in the contents. After a while her fathers attention was attracted by a sound very like weeping, and, glancing that way, he saw Rose leaning in the shadow of the curtain, with her face in her hands. Whats the matter, child? he ex- claimed. Why, I didnt mean to be cross, dear. Come and make up. Rose went to him, wiping her eyes. There, papa, she said, you cant help pitying him after reading that. Judge Fanshawes countenance chan- ged as he took the letter and settled himself back in his chair to read it. Rose had not, then, been grieving over his displeasure. If Mr. Francis Grey had known into what hands his missive was to fall, its composition would, doubtless, have been more carefully considered. But, ad- dressing himself only to Rose, and thinking only of her, every line he wrote was calculated to exasperate her father. He did not dream of renewing his offer of marriage, the young man wrote, but he begged for her pity and sympathy, and for a few lines, assuring him at least of her friendship. I had no right to risk the property of others, I own, he admitted. But if I had succeeded, those who are now the loud- est in denunciation would have been 7, first to praise. Judge Fanshawes face grew dark as he read, and having finished, he crush- ed the letter in his hand, and tossed it contemptuously into the fire. Facing his daughter then, for the first time he saw in her the reflection of his own haughty spirit. Father, she said, you have burn- ed every word of that letter into my heart! Rose, he exclaimed, angrily, you astonish me! I thought you had more sense of propriety~ Let there be an end to this. I will inform Mr. Grey what I think of his trying to draw my daugh- ter into a clandestine correspondence. Rose was very pale, but quiet. I would like to write to him, she said. Iforbid it! She was silent a moment; then re- peated, I really think I shall write to him, papa. Judge Fanshawe looked at his daugh- ter, too astonished and indignant to speak at once. Her calmness, no less than her unexpected defiance, had taken him completely by surprise. Evidently she needed a strong hand. He must make short work of it, or his authority would be gone before he knew it. Rose, he said deliberately, when an answer to that note goes out of this house, you may go with itand not return! Very well! she answered, quietly, and, after a moment, left the room. That evening Miss Campbell saw no pretty family group in the house across the way; but on the curtain of Miss Fanshawes chamber was the silhouette of a lady, writing, and in the library a gentleman alternately walked up and down, and fretfully tossed over a litter of papers, with which he seemed to be out of patience. Judge Fanshawe was not alarmed, though he was mortified and angry. A womans revolt is usually so trivial and short-lived, her heart beating ever 1870.] His Ho~ons DAUGHTER. T7 against her brittle will, that men sel- dom regard it with any feeling more serious than impatience or contempt. Her last word has been well inter- preted by one who well knows: What so false as truth is, False to thee? Where the serpents tooth is, Shun the tree. Where the apple reddens Never pry, Lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I ! Doubtless Rose Fanshawes father ex- pected such a submission from her. Iv. The next morning breakfast passed almost in silence, the father stern and taciturn, the daughter pale, and rather wistful, each waiting for the other to approach the subject of their difference. When they left the table there was a moment of embarrassment~ for that was the time when Rose embraced her fath- er, and wished him a happy day. Judge Fanshawe fastened the loop of his cloak, and drew on his gloves, wait- ing for unconditional surrender and the usual valedictory. They did not come. Rose was one of those purely sincere persons, with whom a caress or a ten- der word is a sign of love and peace. She had never learned, disdained to learn, the trick of hollow sweetness; and she had never been taught the duty of humility and submission. She, too, waited, but finally asked, Papa, have you thought over what we were speaking of last night? He put his hat on to go; the slight relenting of his face chilled at once. I could have but one thought on the subject, he replied severely. I hoped and expected that by this time you would regret your absurd and disre- spectful conduct. Arent you willing I should write him a note, telling him that lam sorry for him, and you read it before it goes? Judge Fanshawe turned, with his hand on the door-knob. Rose, your persistence is an insult to me. If you mention this subject again, I shall order you to leave the room. For the last time I repeat, I forbid your taking any notice whatever of Mr. Francis Grey. And you mean all you said about it last night, papa? Every word! When an answer to that letter goes out of this house, you may go with it. He said no more, but went out with- out a backward glance, and Rose, sigh- ing heavily, returned to the library. Reaching the centre of the room, she forgot to go any farther, and stood there, locked in thought. Presently her thoughts broke out in soliloquy: My father has an uncommonly fine mind; but he can make mistakes, and he has made one with me. He forgets that I have a mind of my own, and a right to my own opinions, and to have them treated with some respect. Since I have been ma4e, I must grow. And yet, I am a sort of heliotrope, and if he would only shine on me, I should be pretty sure to grow his way. But now I feel very implacable. I suppose I take it from him. When Judge Fanshawe came home that night he saw no smiling face in the window, and no cheerful greeting met him at the threshold. I did not know that Rose could be sulky, he thought, and opened the door for himself. A note addressed to him lay on the hall-table. He tore it open, and read: Mv DEAR FATIIEII: Since you are master in your own house, my note and I are going out together. I am sorry to disobey you, but it isnt in my heart to let any one in trouble cry out to me and never give in reply a word of pity. I am going to Mrs. Bonds,andIshall~ very careful, and no one will know from me why I am there. When you want me back you can let me know, and I shall be very glad to come. Your affectionate daughter, ROSE. Whatever the father may have suffer- ed in reading that, no one knew it. ~ Hasnt Miss Rose come in yet, sir? 78 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, the servant asked when he went down alone to dinner. She will not be in to dinner, was the concise reply. Am I to sit up for Miss Rose, sir? he was asked, as he went up-stairs that night. She will not come back to-night, he replied. Days passed without her being sum- moned home: weeks and months pass- ed, and still there was no sign of invi- tation on the one side, or of penitence on the other. It is not so much the mere fact of her writing the note, the Judge said to himself. It is the disobedience, the defiance, and ingratitude. A principle is involved, and she must humble her- self. I dont mind so much that he sent me out for nothing, thought Rose. But since he has sent me, of course I shall wait till he calls me back again. And so the two, gently calm in ap- pearance, but as immovable as rocks, held to their will in silence, satisfying no persons curiosity, and refusing to listen to their own hearts or consciences. V. Winter passed away, and Spring came. There had been a succession of wild storms, March coming in like a lion; but at length the lamb appeared. A last fling of rain, sharp as a lash, out of the darkening east and into the red- dening west; a last growl that ended in an exhausted sough, and all at once there was Spring, a melting loveliness over earth and sky, rosy and rain-wash- ed and still. In such stillness the last vestige of the storm disappeared, and the heavens balanced the waning glory of the sun and the waxing glory of the moon. Then the starry beam tilted, and it was night. Miss Hester Campbell, paler and frail- er than ever, sat in her bow-window, with her cousin beside her. He had been away all winter in the Mediterra- nean, and they were just subsiding into quiet after the excitement of their first meeting since his return. When Spring comes, I always want to live, she said, sighingly, as she look- ed out. A pale little hope, about as large as a snowdrop, and as fragile, springs up in my heart. My poor Hester! exclaimed the soldier, taking her shadowy little hand in his strong one. But I dont mean to cc~nplain, she added hastily. Indeed, I have but one real trouble, and that is that deso- late house, glancing across the way. Hasnt he taken the young couple home? asked Lieut~enant Campbell, in a constrained voice. The young couple, Donald? Non- sense! his cousin exclaimed. Thats what comes of your getting none of my letters. There was no thought of their being married. The trouble must have been about something else, nobody knows what. Didnt you hear that Blentdavir came to the rescue and sent Grey off to the East in one of his ships? It was an escape, though. He had to run away in the night. Mrs. Bond says that he came to her house once after Rose went there, but she wouldnt see him. At Miss Hesters first word her cousin dropped her hand; but not before she had felt a strong pulse fly to each of his finger-tips. Have you seen her? he asked. Rose? No. Well, Ann, what is it? to the servant. A lady to see you, Miss Campbell, was the answer. The visitor came forward swiftly, and stood in the moonlight Rose Fan- shawe! Please dont disturb yourself, the girl said in a soft, hurried voice that sounded as if she were out of breath. Sit down again. There! I want to talk with you a little while. But you are engaged -perceiving that Miss Campbell was not alone. The gentleman came out of the sha- dow. Oh! Lieutenant Campbell! You are welcome back. I heard that you had been away. But I want to talk with your cousin, now. 1870.] His HoNoRs DAUGHTER. 79 Ill finish my cigar down-stairs, he said. And when you are ready, lei me know, and I will go home with you. Miss Campbell, I want you to tell me about my father, Rose began ab- ruptly the instant the two were alone. There is no one else whom I would ask, and no one else who can tell me what I wish to know. You see him often, of course. Do you think he is lonely? Do many people go there? Does he look well? My dear, he seems to me desolate, Miss Hester said gravely. I think he often spends the evening quite alone. And he does not look well. Dont say desolate! Rose cried out sharply. That is a terrible word. What have you heard him say, or seen him do? When did you see him last? Miss Fanshawes face looked quite pale in the moonlight, and her cheeks had lost something of their roundness. Her friend noticed that, and took her hand kindly. I heard him speak yes- terday, she said. When he came home in the evening a little girl was running along before him, with a pack- age in her hand. Evidently it was something very precious. But she was too eager and delighted to mind her steps, and just in front of your house she slipped on the wet pavement, and fell. There was a little crash as she fell, and bits of painted china flew about. Judge Fanshawe took the poor little sobbing thing uphe is very kind to children, my dearand asked about her mishap. It nppea~ed that she had, for a long time, been saving up her money to buy her father a birthday present, and had got a painted coffee-cup; and there it was I When she had finished her little story, crying bitterly all the while, he gave her money to buy another cup. It was better to break that than to break your fathers heart, he said, and went up the steps to his own house, where there was no child to welcome him. He looked very sorrowful, and he seems to be getting old. I think he stoops a little. vi. It is never pleasant to sit alone at table, especially at evening, when lone- liness is least tolerable. Judge Fan- shawe had found this to his cost. But he could not bear to invite company. While his daughters place was vacant he could fancy that she was only lin- gering a momentthat presently the door would open, a slight shape come tripping in, a bright cheek touch his faded one, and his own dear little girl put to flight, by her gay presence, all the cruel imaginings that had been tor- menting him. To-night his trouble pressed more heavily than ever. He left his dinner untouched, went into the library and tried to read. But the page might as well have been blank for any sense he took of it. The book dropped from his hand, and he sat look- ing into the fire, and thinkingnot such thoughts as the young have, when life is all before them, but such as come to those whose illusions are faded, and who feel upon their souls the grasp of solemn realities. Till that proud, re- bellious daughter left him, Judge Fan~ shawe had scarcely thought of age or death. His heart could not grow dull with her young heart bounding so near, and gray hairs did not trouble him when her pretty, prying fingers found them out, and her sweet voice chid him so merrily. You think too much, papa; thats the trouble. You mean to be Chief-Justice, and you turn your hair graywith plotting. He could hear her loving nonsense in his ears now. His eyes grew dim, and long rays stretched, trembling, toward them from the fire. That miserable affair of Francis Greys! Judge Fanshawe owned to himself now that he had been hasty, and that Rose, in spite of her disobedi- ence, had shown the nobler spirit. Other girls might have been more obedient, without being any better, he muttered. I dont want a daugh- ter of mine to be led by a ring in her nose. It is only in the light of religion that she has done wrong. 80 Fum~xs MAGAZINE. [July, And what religion had he taught her? None. He had sowed in humanity alone, and must be content with such harvest as humanity could bring forth. It is evident that she will not come till I have humbled myself to ask her, he said. I thought I could not do that; but to-night He drew a table to him, and wrote one line: Rose, will you not come home to your father? his eyes filling as he wrote. When the note was sealed and directed, he dropped his face into his hands, and wept like a child. It was cruel that he should have to ask her, even if she should come willingly at his summons. The door-bell rang as he sat there. He wiped his eyes hastily, and turned his face from the light. Do you want any thing, sir? asked Thomas, the contraband, putting his head into the room. No. What should make you think I want any thing? The street door- bell rang. Yes, sir! said Thomas, lingering. Confound the fellow! said the Judge to himself. Hes pryingthinks something is the matter since I ate no dinner. Well, Thomas, aloud what are you waiting for? Did any one come in? Yes, sir! No, sir! replied the contraband, in a highly lucid manner. Try to make up your mind about it, recommended his master dryly, without once turning his face toward the door. Yes, sir! said Thomas again, and withdrew in a fumbling way, obeying the imperative wave of a hand that was not Judge Fanshawes. Left to himself again, the master of the house, with a long-drawn sigh that told of a weary weight at heart, went back to his bitter musings. Father! said a breathless voice at his side, at his shoulder, where a tearful face drooped. May I stay with you? Ive waited and waitedand, oh! fath- er, you would have called me back long ago if you had known how sorry I was, how I wanted to come. After all, the harvest of him who sows only human love may be very sweet. Or is it, as Coleridge says, that there is religion in all deep love? Youre not growing old, are you, papa? she asked, after a while, wink- ing the tears off her eyelashes that she might see him, but in vain, since they gathered again immediately. I was old an hour ago, my child, he said. She made a great effort, and wiped her eyes with both hands. Now, papa, wont you please to stand up? The Judge stood up obediently, but with some wonder, possibly with an im- pression that he was going to be put upon oath. Rose looked him over with anxious criticism. Then a triumphant laugh and blush broke together into her face. You dont stoop one bit! ~7 she cried, embracing him with transport. And now pressing him into his chair again in her pretty, half-imperative, balf-entreating way, and kneeling down beside him- how shall I ever tell you half how sorry I am? I dont mean to say, she corrected herself, that I am sorry I gave him a kind word, but I am sorry I did it without your consent. For I could have got your consentyou know I couldpapa, if I had coaxed long enough for it. I could coax any thing out of you, you dearest and most indulgent father, that a hard-hearted, ungrateful girl like me ever had! And Im sorry I hadnt gone on my knees to you afterwards. I would if I had known that you wanted me to. You see, papa, I thought I was doing right, and I forgot that my first duty was to you.~~ Your first duty was to God, my dear, he replied. But how could you know that when I never taught you, and when I myself forgot that duty? Let us mutually forgive, and try to do better in the future. After a while, when she had given her father an account of the manner in which she had spent the winter, Rose told of her visit to Miss Campbell, and that Lieutenant Campbell came home 1870.] PIcTuREs IN THE PRIVATE GALLERIES OF NEW YORX. 81 with her. And, come to think of it, I dont believe I was quite civil to him, she said. I didnt thank him, nor say good-night. I was wild to reach you. She mused a moment, with her eyes up- raised and fixed on the lamp-flame; then added, more softly, But I recol- lect he said something before he turned away. It sounded like God bless you! That was very good of him. Young men dont usually speak so. I would rather one should say that to me than pay me the finest compliment. Unnoticed by her, Judge Fanshawe watched his daughter closely while she spoke. That is a young man whom I esteem highly, he remarked quietly. Do you I said Rose, with a pleas- ed, unconscious smile, her color deepens ing softly. * * * Lieut. Campbells hand was on the door-latch when he heard her speak his name, and came quickly back to her. I thought, she began, then stopped. From his height he looked down with smiling eyes upon the dear girl, with her frank, bright, blushing face. Im afraid you will think I dont know my own mind, Thac said in some distress. But when I saw you going, I thought that may-be I know well enough now, without waiting a week. Im pretty sure that if you and papa are willing, I amthat isI meant to say What His Honors Daughter meant to say must forever remain a matter of doubt; for that sentence was never finished. PICTURES IN THE PRIVATE GALLERIES OF NEW YORK. H. GALLERY OF JOHN TAYLOR JOHNSTON. A PRIVATE picture-gallery means something more than the munificent disposition and refined taste of its owner: it is significant of many things of general interest. It may even be ex- pressive, to a certain degree, of the range and scope of our social life, of our intercourse with nature, of our un- derstanding of much that is related to our affections. An adequate account of pictures in modern galleries would be a comment on the ideas, the tastes, the sentiments, the manners and cus- toms, of the men and women of our epoch. For example, we are in Mr. John Taylor Johnstons gallery, which, in the number, interest, and value of the paint- ings that it holds, is second to no gal- lery in New York; and, with one or two pictures more, it could be made su- perior to any. It is wholly modern. Instead of representing a few simple ideas, like a gallery of ancient artin- stead of presenting to us symbols and typesinstead of giving us the reli- gious and exaited,it shows us forms and colors that express the particular tastes of individual men, which we en- joy because we are curiousbecause we are interested in more things than men of the pagan or of the pagan-Christian epoch. But it may be said that all art is a representation of the particular tastes of individual men; so we must make this distinction: while the par- ticular tastes of the old painters were more or less limited to madonnas, saints, and goddesses, the particular tastes of our modern painters carry them over every form of contemporary life. The old painters depended upon the natural, permanent, and typical; the modem painter relies upon the occasional, the customary, and the characteristic, and he is under the rule of propriety. The modern painter is secular in his aims, and the ancient was religious; and while he was religious he was not ne- cessarily ascetic, but bore as free and uncorrupting witness to the loveliness of material beauty in the figure of a boy, girl, or woman, as, to-day, a pious

Eugene Benson Benson, Eugene Private GAlleries of New York. II. Mr. J. T. Johnston's 81-87

1870.] PIcTuREs IN THE PRIVATE GALLERIES OF NEW YORX. 81 with her. And, come to think of it, I dont believe I was quite civil to him, she said. I didnt thank him, nor say good-night. I was wild to reach you. She mused a moment, with her eyes up- raised and fixed on the lamp-flame; then added, more softly, But I recol- lect he said something before he turned away. It sounded like God bless you! That was very good of him. Young men dont usually speak so. I would rather one should say that to me than pay me the finest compliment. Unnoticed by her, Judge Fanshawe watched his daughter closely while she spoke. That is a young man whom I esteem highly, he remarked quietly. Do you I said Rose, with a pleas- ed, unconscious smile, her color deepens ing softly. * * * Lieut. Campbells hand was on the door-latch when he heard her speak his name, and came quickly back to her. I thought, she began, then stopped. From his height he looked down with smiling eyes upon the dear girl, with her frank, bright, blushing face. Im afraid you will think I dont know my own mind, Thac said in some distress. But when I saw you going, I thought that may-be I know well enough now, without waiting a week. Im pretty sure that if you and papa are willing, I amthat isI meant to say What His Honors Daughter meant to say must forever remain a matter of doubt; for that sentence was never finished. PICTURES IN THE PRIVATE GALLERIES OF NEW YORK. H. GALLERY OF JOHN TAYLOR JOHNSTON. A PRIVATE picture-gallery means something more than the munificent disposition and refined taste of its owner: it is significant of many things of general interest. It may even be ex- pressive, to a certain degree, of the range and scope of our social life, of our intercourse with nature, of our un- derstanding of much that is related to our affections. An adequate account of pictures in modern galleries would be a comment on the ideas, the tastes, the sentiments, the manners and cus- toms, of the men and women of our epoch. For example, we are in Mr. John Taylor Johnstons gallery, which, in the number, interest, and value of the paint- ings that it holds, is second to no gal- lery in New York; and, with one or two pictures more, it could be made su- perior to any. It is wholly modern. Instead of representing a few simple ideas, like a gallery of ancient artin- stead of presenting to us symbols and typesinstead of giving us the reli- gious and exaited,it shows us forms and colors that express the particular tastes of individual men, which we en- joy because we are curiousbecause we are interested in more things than men of the pagan or of the pagan-Christian epoch. But it may be said that all art is a representation of the particular tastes of individual men; so we must make this distinction: while the par- ticular tastes of the old painters were more or less limited to madonnas, saints, and goddesses, the particular tastes of our modern painters carry them over every form of contemporary life. The old painters depended upon the natural, permanent, and typical; the modem painter relies upon the occasional, the customary, and the characteristic, and he is under the rule of propriety. The modern painter is secular in his aims, and the ancient was religious; and while he was religious he was not ne- cessarily ascetic, but bore as free and uncorrupting witness to the loveliness of material beauty in the figure of a boy, girl, or woman, as, to-day, a pious 82 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, girl does when she paints a wreath of flowers. But we make a distinction be- tween the beauty of a flower and the beaul;y of ,a woman. We look upon the undressed loveliness of the first without reproach; but the undraped form of a girl is generally excluded from our art-galleries. Not only is our philosophy at fault, but our sentiment of the beautifu~is feebler than our no- tion of propriety; and the suggestions which come from minds not free from medhuval prejudicesagainst what is called the fleshare attributed to beauty itself, which is irreproachable. When we get our Phidias and our Ti- tian to work with our Darwin and our Huxley, we shall understand that Gods unimpeachable manifestation is not less in the natural than in the spiritual, and that it is as blasphemous to impute evil or corruption to the beautiful, as to ac- cuse God of wickedness. Who can be- lieve that the beauty of the Venus of Milo ever inspired a debasing senti- ment, or ever made a corrupting sug- gestion, in the mind of a man? But when Satyrs carve, and Fauns paint, the expression of animal life must domi- nate in art. Our mistake is, that we abuse the animal, instead of frankly ac- cepting it when nature reaches no high- er expression. How much the painting of the nude figure may represent all that is most sacred in our minds, we may see, perhaps, in a picture by Gleyre, recently added to Mr. Johnstons gallery, and representing two Greek women in the classic atrium of a Greek house one, a mother, about plunging a rosy child in a rose-marble fount; the other, a wholly naked and strikingly natural girl natural, like Palmers White Captive,who stands contemplating the struggling and vexed boy. It is a frank example of the nude in art, and it is wholly free from any thing corrupt- ing or debasing. We use the words corrupting and debasing, because they express the influence commonly imputed to any thing like nude art, and, as commonly, are supposed not to be present in art which belongs to the epoch of hypocrisy or of clothes. Now, just step with us to the opposite end of Mr. Johnstons gallery. We are be- fore a picture by Knaus, a famous paint- er, who cares nothing for the Greeks, who loves the homely, the characteristic, the humorous, and who is inimitable in his way. He has painted an old beau and two young German peasant-girls in the group before us,the two girls laughing, hearty, honest, sitting under a tree, the old peasant standing before them. What could there be in such a group to alarm a Christian? And how much must there necessarily be in the nude figures of Gleyre to question on the score of modesty and propriety? Possibly you might think this. But just look at the face of Knaus Old Beau! As nature, it is wonderfulfar beyond the pure and beautiful contours of Gleyres nude figures; but, as sug- gestion, ns companionship, infinitely less. Look at the old peasant with his senile Satyr-face; look at him with his moist, sparkling eyes, his flabby, slobbering mouth, his effete figure, and familiar ex- pressionnothing more ignoble, noth- ing more disgusting, than that face. It is only because we can laugh at it, it is only because it amuses us with its libidi- nous senility, that we toleate it. This old beau belongs to art as Falstaff be- longs to art. His face is inimitablea wonderful portrait of reality, replete with vulgar suggestions; while Gleyres nude art is replete with pure and lovely suggestions. Childhood, an incident of home-life in antiquity, the morning bath, a chubby boy plunged into a rose-mar- ble fount, a lovely nude figure seen in profile, leaning upon the marble basin, and the cold and severe and elegant ac- cessories of a Greek interior, to localize the subjectthese make a picture which, save the novelty of so frank, so real an exhibition of the nude in art, is not only instructive as a faithfully studied representation of a pagan household, but is also pleasing as a representation of home-life in an artistic and charming form. Gleyre is no colorist, but he loves a pure line and a clean tint. His flesh-painting is thin, but delicate, and he is a fine artist, but not a great paint- 1870.] PICTURES IN THE PRIvAm GALLERIES OF NEW Yoiur. 83 er. Knaus Old Beau is an admirable piece of painting, and the color is brighter, and the touch in the old mans head delightfully spirited, crisp, and brilliant. If we are honest in our pur- ism, we would prefer Gleyres nude figures to Knaus Old Beau. If we are broad, complaisant, indul- gent, like Shakespeare, we will heartily enjoy the striking and vivid character- painting of the German painter, and no more trouble ourselves about his condi- tion than about Mr. Beards Jealousy a picture which we recall, in which jealousy is expressed by an absurd and distressed rabbit witnessing another pre- ferred to himself. To the natural man, the triumph of instinct is not a subject of satire; it is a subject of satire only in a corrupt society, and in men who dishonor impulse. But, from pictures which raise such troublesome and deli- cate questions as the two just spoken of look upon that fine specimen of Corot a wood-scenerecently added to Mr. Johnstons fine collection. If Corots art is still a secret to you, look at this pie- ture until you are permeated by the sentiment of nature which it expresses, and understand the delightful, easy (although, in fact, we suppose it to be the result of very great labor), natural style which it exhibits. Every thing is cool and dark, but not cold and black, in this picture. The daylight hardly gets into the woods, but you see it is outside in the spots of light that are seen through the trees at the horizon. And how fine is the rendering of light! how transparent and cool the shadows! how light and leafy the masses of foli- age, at once airy and penetrable! It is a French woodthat is, a damp, dark place, with elegant and thin trees, not grand and solemn like our American woods. These tall, reed-like trunks, these scattered branches, this freedom from undergrowth, is unlike the tangled and profuse and varied vegetation of our forests; but it is nature, and it is nature as painted by a gentle and na~f man. The painters of our woods could be taught something by this specimen of Corot. The quality of the color, the absence of dryness and paintiness in the toucha touch remarkably light and fleeting and suggestiveis worthy of attention. The scattered lights tell as light, and the gray, dim green of the woods is finely rendered. No style is better adapted to the subject; it is close to it. How far is the false and the arti- ficial from Corots pallet! But this wood-scene is a melancholy picture; it is a picture that would be good for the eye of a tired man, and make a sooth- ing solitude for his reverie. We can imagine a positive man taking infinite pleasure out of Corots art, precisely be- cause it is so uncertain and harmonious, and so tender in its meaning; for do we not ask another to give us what we lack ourselves? But perhaps your sympa- thies are not in the direction of such art-expression. Perhaps you like ~clat the dazzle and force of effect of full daylight. Such suggestions of damp- ness and melancholy as Corots wood- road make you shiver, and you ask to feel warmth, to see color and sunlight in a landscape. In Mr. Johnstons gallery, Jules Du- pres will give you what you want. This little canvas, not much larger than the printed page you have under your eyes, is a remarkable piece of effect; it is bright, vigorous, and rich in color, and free and full in style. It is open to the charge of being forc~ or artificial in color, but it is vivid, and it is capable of giving a sensation. However, while you enjoy so much effect, while you marvel at the very solid painting of the lights and the very transparent and thin painting of the shadows, you must let me remark, that the tree is not beauti- ful in form, and that bitumen may be said to play too great a r6lo in the pic- ture. And yet this little picture is one of the most instructive in its method of paintingso instructive that we believe it could teach many of our landscape- painters just in what respect their me- thod is monotonous and feeble. It is the work of a master. Why is it that both of these specimens of French land- scape-art are more interesting and charming than any American landscape 84 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, in Mr. Johnstons gallery? It is be- cause, in their style and sentiment, or method and feeling, they are supe~or to manner and feeling in the examples of our American painters. And we say this in front of the finest picture ever painted by Mr. Church. The Niagara the first Niagara painted by Mr. Churchis the only ade- quate representative of American land- scape-art in Mr. Johnstons gallery. The drawing of the water, the rendering of the movement and character of the cur- rent, is finer than any thing we have ever seen of the kind in landscape-art. This Niagara is a remarkable study; it is a great part of the fact of nature, but its interest is closer to science than to art. It appeals to the intelligence, and it is the work of a good, cold under- standing. We respect the talent of the artist, we admire the picture, but both are without charm; and, as art, the picture has very little that we care for. But in these bits of French landscape, so unpretentious, so strictly within the means of art-expression, so charming in sucnrestion, so natural, we have some- thing that expresses a love of nature. They are full of sentiment, and indicate an artistic aim. We do not wish to detract in the least from what is justly due to Mr. Church as an artist. He has very pronounced merits next to very great defects. He is the only landscape- painter living who has any thing cosmi~ cal in aim and idea. But the very com- prehensiveness of his aim, creditable as it is to his ambition, is hurtfiil to minor charms and precious truths in landscape painting. Mr. Churchs Niagara justly holds a place of honor in Mr. Johnstons gallery, for it fairly represents some of the most striking, some of the most studied characteristics of American landscape-art. But, for the poetry and beauty of American landscape-art, we must look to Mr. S. R. Gifford; and yet the little specimen of Gifford in Mr. Johnstons gallery is a minor, if not an inferior, example of his talent. While Church is at his highest level in the Niagara, all the other land- scapists of our school are merely represented here by characteristic pic- tures. The series of landscapes known as Coles Voyage of Life are not to be considered as landscapes; they are good allegories and poor landscapes. They represent Coles ideas in a graphic but conventional manner. Were they less conventional they would be less intelli- gible; and we require an allegory to be perfectlymanifest and expressive. Coles pictures of the Voyage of Life must always have a charm for Sunday-school teachers; they must always be striking and admirable to people who write and read tracts. They are not very close to nature, but they are expressive of a common and universal conception of life. But there is no mighty invention in theminvention such as makes a part of the glory of Milton; there is no intense reality, no clutch upon fact, as in Dante. And what are symbol and allegory in the hands of any but exqui- site or powerful masters? Consider Coles Voyage of Life, and be wise. Symbol and allegory are means only for the great ones, as the epical is an aim only for the greatest man. Mr. Johnstons gallery is rich in examples of the most celebrated con- tinental painters. He has a Horace Vernet, perhaps the finest in this city, a large picture representing a cavalry charge upon brigands in the mountains a spirited and vigorous picture. The velocity and energy of action in the pic- ture are extraordinary. But you should remark that this world-famous painter has no precious element; that his talent is wonderful while his genius is inferior. But the quality of his mind is as good as Walter Scotts. He simply belongs more to the present. There is one criti- cism to be made upon every picture painted by Vernetit is, that he never appeared to caress his work into beauty, or linger over it in love. He painted rapidly, as though his brush were a sabre with which to dash through his subject. His just observation, astound- ing memory, and uncommon facility of execution, always enabled him, how- ever, to produce something striking and 1870] PIcTuREs ix TILE PRIVATE GALLERIES or NEW Your. 85 natural. You will see, in Mr. Johnstons fine specimen of Vernet, just as much as a gallery of Vernets pictures could en- able you to see. His merits and defects are constantblood-relations which he cannot shake off. Every thing has the same texture in his work, and very much the same value as color. All differences are expressed by positive light and dark, or by warm and neutral colors; he gives nothing of the grada- tion and delicacy and mystery which you find in the work of a colorist. A much finer work of art, and equally spirited, is a remarkable specimen by Decamps. It is a subject in which ac- tion and character are just as necessary as in Vernets soldiers. It represents an Oriental officer of rank, surrounded by his guard of armed runners, going rap- idly through the street of an Eastern city. If you wish to see the difference be- tween the works of two very remark- able menboth men alike interested in action, in the gesticulation of figures, in manners and customs, in the character- isticboth men positive, emphatic, bru- talyou must consider Vernets and Decamps. Both were interested with similar subjects, but their gifts are so different, that, while Vernet never rose above the level of a clever journalist, Decamps reached the expression of an original artist. He may be said to supplement a Vernets rapid, matter- of-fact report of the action and locali- ty of a group of figures, with an art- ists expression of the sensuous and subtle, which seems to us at the bot- torn or in the life of most things, and the presence of which, visible or invisible, unindicated, unsought for by an artist, classifies him at once among the prosaic and limited as a Vernet, a Church, a Bierstadt. Now, here is Decamps, once one of the most dis~ puted names in French art, to-day understood as a remarkable colorist, a man of imagination, and with a taste for the barbaric. He never studied the figure as Vernet; he could not draw with the same power and certainty; but here is one of his finest pictures to be compared with Vernets; and, to us,in point of action, it is not less spirited, while for character, expression, variety, color, and tone, it is infinitely superior. Perhaps there is no such piece of mel- low, rich, and harmonious color in any gallery in New York as we see in this Decamps. Certainly, nothing in Mr. Johnstons gallery is equal to it as a work of art. The painting of Oriental stuffs and weapons, the painting of the faces, is what we understand as the most expressive, the least obvious, the most powerful and subtle. The surface and solidity of bodies, the play of color, the depth of tonesall that we may suppose would be cared for by an artist and a painterare powerfully rendered here. Vernets group could have been just as well expressed in a black-and- white sketch, or in a drawing; but this sensual, brutal Turkish Patrolman, with his armed foot-runners, these walls, this splendor of light, this gloom of shadow, glowing or transparent, is quite beyond any slight or cold means of art-expres- sion; it is beyond mere science; it is the result of a gift, and it is the sign of genius, of the untaught; it is incom- municable, like poetry, like the art of great painters, like the eloquence of convinced and impassioned men. Mr. Johnston has another fine speci- men of color in a picture by Roybet, which represents a jester and a page witnessing a cock-fight. The subject, perhaps, is only a pretext to make an interesting picture of a scarlet doublet next to a black-and-gray costume. And what a superb scarlet is that of the jest- ers coat I But this picture is probably more interesting to painters than to average lovers of art, who do not care so much for style as for story and char- acter; and in Roybets pictures the style is the chief aim of the artist. Just leave this picture, and let us stand be- fore a peasant-girl, by Breton. A single figure; the girl is knitting as she tends her sheep; the afternoon light lies on the sea and warms the sky. This is no pretty peasant of fan-painters; it is no English idyl of rustic life, at once tame and elaborate and insincere. It is an 86 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, honest portrait of reality, and it is per- vaded by a charming sentiment. Ob- serve how well the girl is posedhow frank and actual her aspect. It is one of the gems of Mr. Johnstons gallery, and by an artist that, next to Millet, has best understood the grave and strong poetry of the country, and rendered the peasant an actuality in modern paint- ing. And is it not due to Geoge Sand to say, that she first introduced the peasant in modern art, in a humane and poetic, in a picturesque and tender form? Before her stories, was not the tiller of the soil understood, by French painters and writers, as a brute too coarse for art? And did they not mock labor with the immorality and artifi- ciality of Bouchers ~fanciful and mere- tricious work? George Sand, Millet, and Breton, have understood and ren- dered the peasant in a noble man- ner and sometimes with a religious sentimentalways in a natural, hu- mane, and poetic fashion. They make you venerate or love the subject of their work. We will now briefly enumerate the most remarkable pictures,not yet men- tioned,in Mr.Johnstons gallery. First, he has Geromes Death of C~sar; a beautiful and celebrated picture by Bou- guereaua young girl carrying a little boy to the bath. He has Brions Brit- tany Peasants at Prayer a very fine picture. He has a spirited Schreyer; two Meissoniers; two Freres; a strong piece of expression and a most painful story in a picture by Hubner; the fa- mous Wine-Tasters, by Hasenclever; an Achenbach; a fine cattle-picture by Troyon; one by Van Marke; a beauti- ful Bauguiet, called Improving the Eyelids; a Venice by Zeim; a large picture by Muller, after the original in the Luxembourg Gallery; two Trayers; an interior of a church by Madrazo, a sketchy but good picture; a Zamacois from the 8akm of 69; and a little pic- ture of a nude figure by IDelaroche. He has a specimen by Blaise Desgoff; a Plassan; a fine picture by Duverger; a specimen of Daubigny; a pretty exam- ple of Landellean Oriental girl witl~ a beautiful, placid countenance; a strik- ing marine by Isabey; a Willems; two elaborate landscapes by Herzog; a land- scape by Helbreth, and a delightfully quaint figure by Worms. Most of our New York painters are represented in Mr. Johnstons gallery. First and best of the American figure- pictures is Winslow Homers Prison- ers at the Front. Lambdin, W. Hart, Hazeltine, Huntington, Grey, Leutze, McEntee, E. Johnson, Boughton, Beard, Baker,Guy, Gifford,Kensett,Church, and Hennessy, are represented by character- istic pictures. But the representation of American art may be said to be most satisfactory, in Mr. Johnstons gallery, in Allstons Spalatro, Churchs Niag- ara and Twilight, Kensetts Brook, and Homers Prisoners at the Front. A thoroughly satisfactory gallery of American art, perhaps, could only be composed of the best pictures of our annual Academy exhibitions. It cer- tainly cannot be made to order; it must be sought for incessantly. A gallery furnished with adequate examples of American art, would be a source of just pride to its owner, and of national in- terest to all of us. But such a gallery can only be made by a man wholly in- terested in art, and capable of discrimi- nating between the fashionable and the meritorious, between the popular and the good. In ~conclusion, let us repeat the re- mark, that Mr. Johnstons gallery is sec- ond to none in New York. It repre- sents many of the strongest and latest Eifropean artists; it has been selected with as much discrimination, and reach- es as high a level of art-appreciation, as Mr. Belmonts gallery; while, on the side of American art,it is creditable, if not liberal, and it is certainly superior to either of the galleries which have been made the subject of comment in this magazine. No gallery in New York offers us any thing more interest- ing, any thing more genuine and sig- nificant, than Mr. Jo~stons, in Winslow Homers Prisoners at the Front the best record, the most striking charac- terization in art of the elements in our 1870.] DISRAELI AS STATESMAN AND NOVELIST. 87 great struggle with slavery, that has as yet been made by any American painter. No gallery in New York gives us a more interesting example of the retro- spective genius of early American art, than Mr. Johnstons does in the fine ex- ample of Allston known as Spalatros Vision of the Bloody Hand; none can show any example of Churchs talent superior to his first Niagara. DISRAELI AS STATESMAN AND NOVELIST. IF there ever was a novel the fall comprehension of which requires at least some general knowledge of the authors career and some tolerable in- sight into the authors character, it is Lothair. It is the ripe fruit of the most eventful and interesting life which has been lived by any politician of our times. It suggests, where it does not positively embody, the results of well- nigh half a century of hard thinking on all the perplexing problems that have entered into the recent political and re- ligious agitations of England and of Europe. It betrays much of the inner life of a man who has fought his way to supremacy under circumstances that would have appalled and kept down ninety-nine out of a hundred of Eng- lands bravest and most adventuresome spirits. And it breathes the very at- mosphere of that elegant patrician life which has charmed even so stalwart a Democrat as Mr. Emerson, and which has furnished Disraeli with a constant inspiration, never degraded by unwor- thy fawning on his part. Moreover, it has been a peculiarity of Mr. Disraelis, that he has rarely replied to personal attacks on himself but has availed himself, from time to time, of opportunities to develop the objects he has sought, the means he has seen fit to use, the spirit in which he has worked, and the motives which have inspired him. Lothair is no exception to this rule, and it contains many allusions which can have their full significance only for those who bear the events of his life in their minds. It has been a remarkable careermore remarkable than we Americans can readily bring ourselves to conceive. Perhaps no other emiaent Englishman is so little understood by Americans of average, or even superior, intelligence. For even those who have taken suffi- cient interest in English politics to read the English papers and periodicals, are extremely likely to have imbibed an undefined, but strong, prejudice against this dazzling, clever, pugnacious, fear- less, indomitable politician. The Libe- rals regard him with a mixture of ap- prehension for his boundless resources, and of hatred for his keen thrusts at their many inconsistencies. Those who have adopted our principles of govern- ment as the ideal of all their aims have no tolerance for a man whose politics are as much bound up in sacred tradi- tions as is his religion. The extreme Tories admire the ability of the man who has so often led them to power, when no one else could have combined the heterogeneous forces needed to ac- complish the task; but the country lords and squires, who have obeyed his orders, have had about the same feeling toward their all-accomplished chieftain that we might imagine would pervade a lot of rural curates led to victory over the champions of popery and infidelity by a Spurgeon or a Newman Hall. Undoubtedly, there have been many noble lords, of high degree, who have chafed inwardly as they were obliged to Submit to the control of a mere adven- turerto use their own dialecta man of the people, and, what is far worse, a member of that mysteriously hated race which aristocratic England has perse- cuted so cruelly for centuries, and to which it has only of late given politi- cal privileges. So it has happened that, from either side and from all sides, Disraeli has been more persistently misrepresented,

J. M. Bundy Bundy, J. M. Disraeli as Statesman and Novelist 87-95

1870.] DISRAELI AS STATESMAN AND NOVELIST. 87 great struggle with slavery, that has as yet been made by any American painter. No gallery in New York gives us a more interesting example of the retro- spective genius of early American art, than Mr. Johnstons does in the fine ex- ample of Allston known as Spalatros Vision of the Bloody Hand; none can show any example of Churchs talent superior to his first Niagara. DISRAELI AS STATESMAN AND NOVELIST. IF there ever was a novel the fall comprehension of which requires at least some general knowledge of the authors career and some tolerable in- sight into the authors character, it is Lothair. It is the ripe fruit of the most eventful and interesting life which has been lived by any politician of our times. It suggests, where it does not positively embody, the results of well- nigh half a century of hard thinking on all the perplexing problems that have entered into the recent political and re- ligious agitations of England and of Europe. It betrays much of the inner life of a man who has fought his way to supremacy under circumstances that would have appalled and kept down ninety-nine out of a hundred of Eng- lands bravest and most adventuresome spirits. And it breathes the very at- mosphere of that elegant patrician life which has charmed even so stalwart a Democrat as Mr. Emerson, and which has furnished Disraeli with a constant inspiration, never degraded by unwor- thy fawning on his part. Moreover, it has been a peculiarity of Mr. Disraelis, that he has rarely replied to personal attacks on himself but has availed himself, from time to time, of opportunities to develop the objects he has sought, the means he has seen fit to use, the spirit in which he has worked, and the motives which have inspired him. Lothair is no exception to this rule, and it contains many allusions which can have their full significance only for those who bear the events of his life in their minds. It has been a remarkable careermore remarkable than we Americans can readily bring ourselves to conceive. Perhaps no other emiaent Englishman is so little understood by Americans of average, or even superior, intelligence. For even those who have taken suffi- cient interest in English politics to read the English papers and periodicals, are extremely likely to have imbibed an undefined, but strong, prejudice against this dazzling, clever, pugnacious, fear- less, indomitable politician. The Libe- rals regard him with a mixture of ap- prehension for his boundless resources, and of hatred for his keen thrusts at their many inconsistencies. Those who have adopted our principles of govern- ment as the ideal of all their aims have no tolerance for a man whose politics are as much bound up in sacred tradi- tions as is his religion. The extreme Tories admire the ability of the man who has so often led them to power, when no one else could have combined the heterogeneous forces needed to ac- complish the task; but the country lords and squires, who have obeyed his orders, have had about the same feeling toward their all-accomplished chieftain that we might imagine would pervade a lot of rural curates led to victory over the champions of popery and infidelity by a Spurgeon or a Newman Hall. Undoubtedly, there have been many noble lords, of high degree, who have chafed inwardly as they were obliged to Submit to the control of a mere adven- turerto use their own dialecta man of the people, and, what is far worse, a member of that mysteriously hated race which aristocratic England has perse- cuted so cruelly for centuries, and to which it has only of late given politi- cal privileges. So it has happened that, from either side and from all sides, Disraeli has been more persistently misrepresented, 88 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, abused, and even calum~ated, than a fly other public man of England. Through whatever English source of information as to his character and career we look, we are almost certain to find some oh- strLlcting prejudice, which prevents us from seeing the man as he undoubtedly strives to appear to himself, and as, per- haps, posterity will see him. Besides this inherent difficulty of obtaining a fair statement from. English authorities, we labor under natural prejudices of our own. We comprehend and do jus- tice to such a man as John Bright, for he is a firm believer in American ideas, and he is steadily introducing them, under practical modifications, into Eng- lish politics. But Disraeli believes that the fundamental principles of the Eng- lish Constitution are sound, and onght to be immutable. He accepts the con- crete realities of the English form of government as finalities, or as only to be changed in the way of adapting its spirit and traditions to the changed con- ditions of the present. He thinks that our experiment of government owes all its success to the peculiar circumstances under which it was formed and has been developed, and that no analogies can be safely drawn between our poli- cies and those of England. Moreover, it is no secret that he believed in the success of our late Rebellion; but, as many eminent and patriotic Americans shared the same opinion at various times during the war, we ought not to feel hardly toward him for this error of judg- ment, and, perhaps, of sympathy, in which he stood on common ground with Gladstone, Lord Russell, and near- ly all the other leading English states- men. Let us, however, for our own sakes, endeavor to get some real insight into the history and characteristics of this wonderful man, who, at the age of six- ty-five, signalizes his retirement from the rulership of an Empire by pro- ducing the most admirable novel of the year, to say the least. Let ni try to get clear of all prejudicesfrom the vulgar and pitiable prejudice against a great race, to that which noble minds may feel against a stalwart foe to Demo- cratic ideas. For our own complete self-satisfaction and enlightenment, we must study him amid his surroundings and from his own standpoint. This we propose to do with the greatest possible brevity. He has been called a son of the people, and so he was, in one sense, but not in others and more important. The son of Isaac Disraeli was born into the aristocracy which is directly or- dained of God. A Jew and a foreign- er, the elder Disraeli nevertheless needed no act of naturalization or letters of nobility to enable him to assume a posi- tion of equality among the best of Eng- land, or to introduce his son among the surroundings most favorable to the quickening of a noble ambition, of all his latent thirst for acquisition, or of all his aptitudes for culture. Moreover, the yonng Disraeli enjoyed the rare advan- tage, for a member of a race outlawed by provincial bigotry, of being born in cosmopolitan Londonof being edu- cated by his wise, catholic, and learned father, instead of submitting to the hu- miliations of a young Jew at a public school, until he was mature enough to enter a private academy near London, and of entering into society at an age when the instant favor he won would have addlkd the brains of an ordinary youth; but endowed with a stock of self-reliance, ambition, and purpose which enabled him to acquire an ad- dress, a knowledge of men and women, and a self-poise which he could have cultivated so well nowhere else. It is very likely that, amid the dazzle and glare of the brilliant society which wel- comed him so flatteringly, the young Disraeli learned other lessons of more doubtful valuethat he imbibed an un- due admiration for a social order which blossomed so splendidly, which had such r6mantic and noble traditions, and which was upheld by such stable foun- dations. At all events, it stimulated, developed, and enlarged him. In 18245that is, in his twentieth year the young student, attorneys clerk, and man of fashion, went to Ger 1870.] DISRAELI AS STATESMAN AND NOVELIST. 89 manynot a bad place for getting over the mere frivolities of his immediate pastand, in 1825 and 1826, showed his creative activity by writing a story which made him famous, in a way, as rapidly as Childe Harold did Byron. Of Vivian Grey the first flowering of Disraelis geniusit is unnecessary now to speak, for almost every one has read it. As the work of a young man who had just reached legal maturity, it is a marvel, and was so regarded at the time when it first startled and delighted the world of novel-readers,nearly half a century ago. Like all of his other novels, it was written from his own life, and was, therefore, a genuine and pow- erful production. Its very excess of costume, of superficial characters, and of improbabilities, came from a too crowded and premature experience of fashionable life, and from the teeming fancies and wild dreams of youth. That, just after Vivian Grey made him a literary lion, so shrewd a publish- er as John Murray should have selected so young a man to edit and build up a daily political paper, on which were spent hundreds of thousands of dollars, shows that Disraeli must, even then, have impressed himself quite remark- ably on his elders as a man of rare knowledge of politics and of affairs. The reasons for the failure of this costly enterprise, under such briliinnt auspices, we never saw wholly explained; but the pathway of newspaper history is so rich in wrecks, that no particular explana- tion is necessary. We can imagine, however, how a proud, ambitious, and successful young man like Disraeli must have felt, when, after a fortune had been swallowed up in the vain enterprise, he had to stand before the world for the first time a failure, and that on a most magnificent scale. How few young men of the finest talent and firmest resolve but would have given up the struggle after such a rebuff? But he came of a race which Goethe says was specially chosen by God as His peculiar people, for its persistence. And he was not merely possessed of a dogged determination, but had that cheerful, VOL. VI..-.6 inventive, aggressive spirit which gen- ius alone can give. He began, the next year, another novel, the Young Duke, and refreshed himself by travel in the lands which the traditions of his race made sacredin Syria, Turkey; Egypt, and the more westerly countries on the Mediterranean. The impressions he then formed must have deepened in him that reverence for th& Jews as the trustees of tradition and the conserva- tors of the religious element, which he has so often and so eloquently expressed. In these travels, made when he was most sensitive to the influences of the Ori- ental world, his traditional faith was strengthened, and the young Tory, by force of early associations, became doubly a Tory as he became more thoroughly a Jew. To him then, as now, the He- brews represented the Semitic princi- ple that is, to use his own definition, all that is spiritual in its nature. It was doubtless with these associations in his mind, that he wrote his masterly defence of the Jews in his Life of Lord Bentinck, in which he said: The Jew- ish race connects the modem popula- tions with the early ages of the world, when the relations of the Creator with the created were more intimate than in these days; when angels visited the earth, and God himself even spoke with man. . . . They are a living and the most striking evidence of the fal- sity of that pernicious doctrine of mo- dem timesthe natural equality of man. The Young Duke, which was pub- lished after his return to England, in 1831, was followed by Contarini Flem- ing, a novel showing a growing depth of thought, as well as the results of his foreign wanderings, and was followed, in 1833, by Alroy, a historical romance, in which the period of the Jewish cap- tivity, under the Caliphs, was vividly and picturesquely sketched. In the very next year, his fertility and resources were shown in the now almost forgotten novel of Henrietta Temple; and, in 1837, the story of Venetia betrayed his continuing tendency to introduce real characters, the incidents of the do- [July, PuTNAMs MAGAZINE. mestic troubles of Byron and Shelley figuring quite largely, in masquerades easily penetrated. Successful as a novelist, and the idol of the most brilliant society in Eng- land, he began, at the age of thirty-two, the career of a politician. Three times he ran for Parliament, and was defeated the beginning of a long series of tri- als and rebuffs. But there was no kill- ing such a man. Reverse not only fail- ed to crush him; it scarcely dampened his spirits. It was during this dark period, when the road to political emi- nence seemed completely barricaded against him, that OConnell uttered the famous epigram that would have snuffed out all of Disraelis courage, had it been of the flickering sort. The great agita- tor said: For aught I know, Mr. Dis- racli may be the heir-at-law of the im- penitent thief who died on the cross. Neither this cruel sarcasm from a great man, nor its manifold repetitions by lesser foes, nor even an utter break- down, when he at last attempted his maiden speech in Parliament in 1888, availed to suppress or dispirit this terri- bly earnest and determined young poli- tician. And, in 1839, Disraeli at last did make Parliament listen to him, ap- plaud him, and acknowledge in him a possible master. For the ten years fol- lowing, he was steadily working, and fighting, and growing in power and in- fluence. All of the instincts of his na- ture, the traditions of his race, and the associations of his youth and early man- hood, drew him into the ranks of the party which represented the aristocratic and feudal elements of English society. But the favorite of lords and country gentlemen never advanced himself in their good graces by any act of syco- phancy. His bitterest enemies admit that he always maintained his self-re- spect, and that his sarcasms were point- ed as readily at a duke as at a com- moner. His fight, up to the time when he succeeded Robert Peel as the accepted leader of the Tory party, was one which has extorted the admiration of his most jealous detractors. He represented and was assisted by no faction or family connection. He was shunned, carica- tured, despised, and almost proscribed. But he could not be kept down. There was no relaxation in his energy or in his efforts. He bor9 insults and rebuffs with patience, until crowded too far, and then scattered his enemies by retorts which fairly burned. But his more con- stant warfare, while the Tories were out, was against the party in power, and no man in the opposition ever wielded so many or such various weapons of offence. Unsuccessful in one direction, he turned~ in another, and if there was a weak point, he was sure to find and pierce it. When he took the lead of the Tories, he found them an undisciplined, hetero- geneous, impractical, and reactionary set. They were united only by their hatred of the democratizing tendencies of the age. How much tact, knowl- edge of human nature, firmness, cour- age, and fertility of resources were dis- played by him in organizing them into a coherent party, in persuading them to abandon antediluvian notions of politi- cal economy, and in getting them to agree on measures and doctrines that would bear discussion, we can but faint- ly comprehend. Although he has always and consistently opposed the Demo- cratic theory of government, it is due to him, more than to any other man, that the Tory party has been made to assume the strange position of a rival to the Liberals in the extension of the suffrage. The restricted limits imposed on this article prevent us from taking more than a rapid glance at the political and lite- rary career of Disraeli since he became the chosen leader of English conserva- tism. Four times he has led his party to power, and, whether in the Ministry or as leader of the opposition, he has wielded an influence such as no other man could have exercised, with such a following and in behalf of such a cause. In debate, the sole antagonist who has been able to measure swords with him successfully for any long period, has been Mr. Gladstone. In administration. 90 1870.] DISRAELI AS STATESMAN AND NOVELIST. 91 no Minister was ever more fertile in cx- pedients, more buoyant under defeat, more imperious over his followers, or more ready for every emergency. And, when it comes to principle and consist- ency, his record is far better than that of Peel, who betrayed the party which trusted him; of Gladstone, who began as a High-Church reactionist; or of Lord John Russell, whose career has been a series of expedients. No duke of clear Norman lineage was ever more passionately attached to all of the tra- ditions-social, political, and religious which make up what we may term the sentimentalism of Toryism. But his Toryism has not made him blind to the facts of the situationan all-powerful middle class; successful de- mocracy across the Atlantic; r~volution- ary elements all over Europe; Chartism; Ritualism; Roman Catholic aggres- sions; Irish insurrections; the growth of free trade, and a general unsettling of all existing ideas and institutions. He has furnished the country gentlemen of England with an inexhaustible arse- nal of arguments against all of these internal and external elements of de- struction to the status quo, and taught them how to temporize with, to concili- ate, and to mould these elements, other- wise irresistible, so as to preserve a tole- rably consistent development, in place of the radical changes that were other- wise inevitable. He accurately defined his own position in 1859, when he said that the House of Commons was made up of two classes of reformersone con- sisting of those who would adapt the Constitution of 1832the date of Earl Greys Reform Billto the England of 1859, and who would act in the spirit and according to the genius of existing institutions; the other consisting of those who held that the chieg if not the sole object of representation, was to realize the opinion of the majority. Long before this avowal, in 1848, he said, in Parliament, while speaking to Mr. Humes motion for household suf- frage, triennial parliaments, and the ballot: I am prepared to support the system of 1832, until I see that the cir cumstances of the country require a change; but I am convinced that, when that change comes, it will be one which will have more regard for other senti- ments, qualities, and conditions, than the mere possession of property as a qualification for the exercise of the po- litical franchise. And in 1865, in the appeal on which he gained power for the last time, he held that the Consti- tution secured our popular rights by entrusting power, not to an indiscrimi- nate multitude, but to the Estate, or Order, of the Commons, and urged that, when the time comes for action, we may legislate in the spirit of the English Constitution, which would ab- sorb the best of every class, and not fall into a democracy, which is the tyranny of one class, and that the one the least enlightened. How he carried out this policy in his last short term of office, and how far his Reform Bill was inherently wise, or the reverse, it is not our province here to discuss. We simply think that he acted consistently, and with a broad compre- hension of existing circumstances. That he was so soon hurled from power, shows that the historical Constitution of Eng- land is doomed to crumble away und& the continuous and growing pressure of democratic influencesa fact which we, as Americans, cannot lameat, but which we should bear in mind, when we judge the bravest, most ingenious, most suc- cessful, and most misunderstood de- fender of the ancient order of things in England. During the period of his political leadership, he has often avniled himself of periods of comparative leisure to ex- press the better part of his nature in books. Between 1844 and 1847, he published Coningsby, Sybil, and Tancred, the first of which has been so often quoted from to show the au- thors ambitions and his views of social, religious, and political topics, while all of them show more or less the impres- sions made on him during his earlier life, when mere externals had all the charms of freshness and brilliancy. They are not, however, destitute of 92 earnestness, of conviction, or of shrewd insight, although the author undoubt- edly worked off, through their crea- tion, the crudities, follies, and superfi- cial passions of his forming manhood. The book in which we get nearest to the serious, purposeful, and reflective Disraeli, is undoubtedly his Life of Lord George Bentinek, his immediate predecessor in the leadership of the Tories, his ideal of an English gentle- man, and his most intimate friend. There can be no question of the sincer- ity of the deep feeling which pervades this labor of love, and it reveals the strength of Disraelis attachment to the class of which Lord Bentinck was so worthy a representative. We see in him the heir to an ancient name and vast estates, who, after silent attendance at cight Parliaments, was fairly dragged into leadership, because of a sudden necessity which made his sincerity, ear- neatness, laborious mastery of dry de- tails, and unaffected devotion to the ancient order of things, conspicuous and respected. It was of such repre- sentatives of the aristocracy, and with Lord Bentinck in his mind, that Dis- raeli probably wrote, when he said that an aristocracy is rather apt to exagge- rate the qualities and magnify the im- portance of a plebeian leader. They are prompted to do this, both by a r~atu~ ral feeling of self-love and by a senti- ment of generosity. In this Life of Bentinck, Disraeli devotes a chapter to the defence of his raceand it is the mostterse, logical, complete, and sweep- ing defence ever made of the Jews. Every sentence is an epigram, and every paragraph is an argument. New facts are presented with telling force, and old facts are shown in strikingly new rela- tions. No man can read it without feel- ing a new reverence for the mysterious race which ages of persecution and ob- loquy have failed to repress, or without a new respect for the man who stands up so valiantly for the faith and histori- cal greatness of his fathers, while yield- ing a frank and full assent to the Di- vine humanity of the Lord, and regret- ting that a great portion of the Jewish PUTNAMS MAGAz1xi~. [July, race should not believe in the most inlportant part of the Jewish reli- gion. Coming down to Lothair, we find it, as we said at the outset, the ripe fruit of Disraelis whole lifetimethe expression of the sentiments which have inspired and consoled him during a career full of desperate conflicts, bit- ter reverses, and unparalleled successes. Its plot is simple, although full enough of variety and incident. The hero is an orphan-heir to vast estates and a great name; early left in charge of two guardians, of most opposite characters. One of these was a Scotch uncle, Lord Cullodena Presbyterian, a Whig, and a staunch hater of popery and of all ritualistic tendencies. Under his guid- ance, Lothair grows up to his fifteenth year; educated partly at his uncles home and partly in the High School of Edinburgh. The other guardian was a clergyman of the High-Church order, who culminated in outright Ro- man Catholicism, while his orphan-ward was still under Scotch Presbyterian auspices. This guardian was the most intimate and trusted friend of Lothairs father, and was a man of shining tal- ent and abounding knowledge, brilliant and profound. Of course, there could be no cooperation between two such guardians, and it was only at the end of a suit in chancery that the Roman Catholic guardian, now Cardinal Gran- dison, could secure the enforcement of the clause in the will of Lothairs father, which directed that Lothair be educated at Oxford. At Oxford the Cardinal thought that Lothair would get into a current of influences which might lead him insensibly to Romanisma conclu- sion which came very near proving cor- rect. We thus find our young hero fairly launched in life at the University, for- tunate in every worldly sense; the bo- som~ friend and comrade of another young heir to greatness, Bertram, the son of a powerful Duke; under the remote influence of two opposing sys- tems of faith, as represented by his guardians, and under the immediate in- 1870.] DISRAELI AS STATESMAN AND NOVELIST. 93 fluence of ultra High-Church doctrines and practices. In his vacations he be- comes rapidly domesticated in the splen- did rural palaces of the proudest yet simplest of the aristocracy of his coun- try. At Brentham, the country-place of his ducal friend, he is admitted, as the comrade of Bertram and in right of his own expectancies, into the closest intimacy with a large family cir- cle which may be taken as an ideal type of the best to be found in England. Without any undue exaggerations of material grandeurs, such a s we find in Disraelis earlier novels, we see portray- ed a condition which is seen nowhere so perfectly as in Englanda rural para- dise, in which the charms of nature and the embellishments of art, the recollec- tions and souvenirs of centuries of gran- deur and state, the perfect realization of all that the fancy of man could de- sire in a place of residenceare com- bined and enjoyed by people of inherit- ed and inbred refinement, courtesy, and high spirit. By a few masterly out- lines, the whole sketch is made vivid and complete, and we realize the charms which environ one aspectthe bright-. est oneof aristocratic life in England, the flowering of the order whose battles the author has fought through a life- time. Amid such delightful surroundings, an ingenuous, susceptible, and senti- mental youth like Lothair, naturally falls in love with the sister of his friend Bertram, Lady Corisande, and, with manly directness and simplicity, asks her mother to be allowed to pay his ad- dresses. Lady Corisande was, like Lo- thair, an ardent devotee of the Angli- can Church, and entered with quick sympathy into his grand plans for build- ing churches and establishing religious schools. But she was young, had not yet come out, and, in the judgment of her prudent mother, ought not to be addressed on the subject of marriage until considerably more mature. So the natural consequences of the intimacies between congenial natures are deferred, and a world of troubles for both is left in. store. Soon Lothair is thrown into intimate relations with another ancient country family, the St. Jeromes, who had for centuries maintained their devotion to the Roman Catholic faith under all manner of trials. Here the daughter of the house, Miss Clare Arundel, a sin- cere and natural devotee and a young woman of rare elevation and beauty of character, almost wins the heart of Lo- thair, while simply trying, indirectly, to lead him from Ritualism to Roman Catholicism. Amid the beautiful cere- monials of the private chapel of the St. Jeromes, and under the social influences of a highly-cultured, noble, and intelli- gent family, Lothair yields almost pas- sively to the new current in which he has drifted, and is on the high road to Rome and to a complete surrender to the fair devotee, Miss Arundel. He even goes so far as to consult a brilliant young convert to Romanism, Monsigneur Cates- by, on the project of building a grand cathedral, which he proposed to give to his country, hardly knowing whether it should be used for Ritualistic or Ro- manist services. Thus, besides the opposing influences of two hostile guardians, our plastic hero is also subject to the rival charms of two princely households, and of two beautiful, accomplished, and winsome young women, each representing rival religious tendencies. At this point is introduced the really most important character in the novel, and the one whose star was destined to guide the bewildered Lothair through a sea of troubles into a haven of rest. This character is an Italian woman by birth; a revolutionist by choice; a cosmopo- lite in her sympathies; a mover of mys- terious conspiracies reaching all over Europe; the counsellor of Mazzini and Garibaldi, and the wife of an American, Colonel Campian, a Southerner, who had lost great landed estates through our civil war, and a courteous and ami- able gentleman, but showing no posi- tive traits of his own. Theodora, as Mrs. Campian is gene- rally called, is a rarely-drawn character; ir~ fact, by far the strongest in the novel. 94 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, A sort of Margaret Fuller in accom- plishments, philosophical tendencies, devotion to an ideal humanity, and sympathy with strong masculine minds, she is, also, a model of classic beauty. She has the serenity, not of humble- ness, nor of merely conscious innocence; it was not devoid of a degree of majes- tywhat one pictures of Olympian re- pose. And the countenance was Olym- pian: a Phidian face, with large gray eyes and dark lashes; wonderful hair, abounding without art, and gathered together by Grecian fillets. Under the magic influence of this remarkable wom- an, Lothair finds himself floated into a far different atmosphere from that which seemed so delicious at the country-seats of his aristocratic friends. In presence of this High-Priestess of humanity, his dream of building a cathedral vanishes like the mist before the strong light of the morning. He does not love her as he thought he loved the Lady Con- sande, but yields his soul to her control as to that of a serene, superior, and be- nignant goddess. It is one of the finest touches of Mr. Disraelis artthe deli- cate manner in which he suggests the intimate relations sustained by Mrs. Campianwith the full knowledge and assent of her husbandwith Lothair, and other characters. The handling is so masterly that no thought of the im- propriety of such relations, or of any danger therefrom, is suggested. Thus Lothair is environed and dis- tracted by opposing influences. We think his character has been made pur- posely negative and plastic, that he might show the more perfectly the reli- gious conflicts which centre in him. The rest of the story is simply a devel- opment of the struggle for the control of a great lord in prospective, in which the wily Cardinal Grandison, with his able accomplices, are arrayed on one side, and the goddess-like Theodora on the other, with the Conisande family as assisting forces, on a different line of operations; while the St. Jeromes, and especially the devotee, Miss Arundel, use all the resources at their command to assist the Cardinal. The various stages of this contest in- troduce us to ~i series of brilliant pic- tures of a splendid phase of feudal cele- brations, when Lothair, at his legal maturity, is invested with all his pre- rogatives and privileges; to romantic interviews with Theodora in her coun- try retreat, where Lothair meets Mr. Plxabus, an artist who worships nature and revels in pure heathenism; to pic- turesque phases of the ill-fated rising of the Italians against the papal sway over Rome; to a sick-bed, where the wounded and captured Lothair owes his gradual recovery to the solicitous nursing of Miss Arundel; through a long series of insidious but constant wiles, which finally land him in the net of Romanism; through a period of semi-insanity, when Lothair discovers how he has been tricked; through, an adventurous escape from his watchful keepers, and wanderings in Holy Land; through his return to England, to his right reason, and, finally, to his first love, Lady Corisande, just as she is on the point of marriage to a man whom she disliked. Throughout the whole of this well- managed plot there is a clear and well- defined purpose, but the situations are scarcely ever strained, and the charac- ters are consistently drawn. Mr. Dis- raeli may blame his earlier reputation that he has been so freely charged with drawing portraits from the life, but we suspect that the charge is this time un- founded, save that, in a novel so in- tensely real and pervaded by the spirit of the present, there must he many re- semblances to .pr~ominent and representa- tive men and women. So, also, there is chance for the slur that there is too much high life in the novel. But it iswe are certaingenuine high life, as much so as that which Goethe so mas- terly portrayed in parts of Wilhelm Meister. And we may say, in this connection, that in the thoroughly high-bred tone which pervades Lo- thair; its strength, simplicity, and purity of style; its graceful delinea- tions of typical characters; the ease with which the weightiest and most pro- 1870.] ROSSETTI, THE PAINTER AND POET. 95 found questions are introduced and handled, and its suggestiveness of pro- found thinking and vast learning, Lo thair stands alone worthy, in the realms of English fiction, to be named along- side of Wilhelm Meister. 4*---- ROSSETTI, THE PAINTER AND POET. Tan utmost efforts of English thought and imagination, aided by assiduous study of all precedent art, have not yet succeeded in establishing an art which merits the appellation of a school, or which, indeed, displays amongst its promoters a character which shall serve to link its individuals into any coher- ence worthy of classification. Sporadic cases of artistic excellence continually occur, but leave no more effect on the art-production of the country than if they had been of foreign birth and sym- pathy; and no artist has yet succeeded in making a pupil, much less a school. As, therefore, with the exception of Turner, no man of remarkable power had appeared in the first half of the nineteenth century, the beginning of the second half showed, on the whole, the most pitifully hopeless state of ar- tistic development which any country, with serious pretensions, has ever show- ed. In figure-painting, Leslie, painter of pretty women and drawing-room comedy, had the highest pretension to genius, while around him flourished a multitude of painters of low genre, fus- tian history, and pose plastique, with here and there a man of real purpose, but struggling against the most absolute want of appreciation and sympathy, either on the part of the profession or the public. In technical qualities and in use of the experience of other times and nations, an English Exhibition of 1849, was the most laughable gathering of misapplied brains which could be found in any country. Out of this degradation must come reformation, and, in 1849, three young reformers in art found themselves face to face with the English public on the question of artistic reform. These were the chiefs of the so-called pre-Raphaelite movement Dante G. Rossetti, J. E. Millais, and W. Ilolman HuntRossetti being the chief of the chiefs, and an Italian, Millais of French descent, and only Hunt, the lesser of the three, an Englishman. The three reformers, like-minded in their disgust for the inanity of the pros- perous art of the day, had yet no com- mon ideal, nor was there any intention of organizing a school. The title long since known of Pre-Raphaclite Broth- erhood being applied by the followers who soon gathered around them, and who, as is generally the case with disci- ples, began to organize on the less im- portant characteristics of the movement, and the term soon became applied to all minute realization of detail, though that was not the element which gave character to the reform, but rather de- fiance of all thoughtless, conventional representation of nature, Rossetti differ- ing widely in his ideal from his co-re- formers, and the body of their follow- ers adopted a diverging path, which has left him alone in the peculiar excellen- cies, as in the aims, of his art. As is always the case in men of so peculiar and so consummate an art Rossetti had slight hold on the English public, and, having always held general opinion in contempt, he has never, since 1850, been a contributor to the exhibi- tions, so that even more than with Tur- nerhis only intellectual peer in the English art of this centuryhis rank is the award of the profession and the learned few. Nor can he be classified. No school has shown any thing like him, and, like Turner, he ha.s no fol- lower. Italian by blood, English com- moaplace-ism had no root in his intel- lect, while the tone of English life lift- ed him above the slavishness which seems to paralyse art in Italy. The father, an Italian political refugee and

W. J. Stillman Stillman, W. J. Rosetti, Painter and Poet 95-101

1870.] ROSSETTI, THE PAINTER AND POET. 95 found questions are introduced and handled, and its suggestiveness of pro- found thinking and vast learning, Lo thair stands alone worthy, in the realms of English fiction, to be named along- side of Wilhelm Meister. 4*---- ROSSETTI, THE PAINTER AND POET. Tan utmost efforts of English thought and imagination, aided by assiduous study of all precedent art, have not yet succeeded in establishing an art which merits the appellation of a school, or which, indeed, displays amongst its promoters a character which shall serve to link its individuals into any coher- ence worthy of classification. Sporadic cases of artistic excellence continually occur, but leave no more effect on the art-production of the country than if they had been of foreign birth and sym- pathy; and no artist has yet succeeded in making a pupil, much less a school. As, therefore, with the exception of Turner, no man of remarkable power had appeared in the first half of the nineteenth century, the beginning of the second half showed, on the whole, the most pitifully hopeless state of ar- tistic development which any country, with serious pretensions, has ever show- ed. In figure-painting, Leslie, painter of pretty women and drawing-room comedy, had the highest pretension to genius, while around him flourished a multitude of painters of low genre, fus- tian history, and pose plastique, with here and there a man of real purpose, but struggling against the most absolute want of appreciation and sympathy, either on the part of the profession or the public. In technical qualities and in use of the experience of other times and nations, an English Exhibition of 1849, was the most laughable gathering of misapplied brains which could be found in any country. Out of this degradation must come reformation, and, in 1849, three young reformers in art found themselves face to face with the English public on the question of artistic reform. These were the chiefs of the so-called pre-Raphaelite movement Dante G. Rossetti, J. E. Millais, and W. Ilolman HuntRossetti being the chief of the chiefs, and an Italian, Millais of French descent, and only Hunt, the lesser of the three, an Englishman. The three reformers, like-minded in their disgust for the inanity of the pros- perous art of the day, had yet no com- mon ideal, nor was there any intention of organizing a school. The title long since known of Pre-Raphaclite Broth- erhood being applied by the followers who soon gathered around them, and who, as is generally the case with disci- ples, began to organize on the less im- portant characteristics of the movement, and the term soon became applied to all minute realization of detail, though that was not the element which gave character to the reform, but rather de- fiance of all thoughtless, conventional representation of nature, Rossetti differ- ing widely in his ideal from his co-re- formers, and the body of their follow- ers adopted a diverging path, which has left him alone in the peculiar excellen- cies, as in the aims, of his art. As is always the case in men of so peculiar and so consummate an art Rossetti had slight hold on the English public, and, having always held general opinion in contempt, he has never, since 1850, been a contributor to the exhibi- tions, so that even more than with Tur- nerhis only intellectual peer in the English art of this centuryhis rank is the award of the profession and the learned few. Nor can he be classified. No school has shown any thing like him, and, like Turner, he ha.s no fol- lower. Italian by blood, English com- moaplace-ism had no root in his intel- lect, while the tone of English life lift- ed him above the slavishness which seems to paralyse art in Italy. The father, an Italian political refugee and 98 PumAMs MAGAZINE. [July, poet, carried his passion for liberty and poetry into exile, and gave his son the name and worship of the great Tuscan, and a nature in which his own mysti- cism and originality, and the exuberant sensuousness of his nation, mingled with the earnest religious nature of his wife (of mixed English and Italian race), and the sound, high-toned morality of an admirable English education. Cir- cumstances more favorable for the de- velopment of an exceptionally indi- vidual artistic character could hardly have been combined. Rossetti is at once mystical, imaginative, individual, and intense; a colorist of the few great- est; designer at once weird, and of re- markable range of subject and sympa- thy; devotional, humanitarian, satiric, and actual, and, by turns, media3val and modern; now approaching the religious intensity of the early Italian, now sati- rizing a vice of to-day with a realism quite his own, and again painting images of sensuous beauty with a pas- sionate fulness and purity which no other painter has ever rendered. His most remarkable gift is what, in the in- completeness of artistic nomenclature, I must call spontaneity of composition that imaginative faculty by which the completeness and coherence of a pic- torial composition are preserved from the beginning, so that, to its least de- tail, the picture bears the impress of having been painted from a complete conception. At times weird, at others grotesque, and again full of pathos, his pictures almost invariably possess this most precious quality of composition, in which Leys alone, of modern paint- ers, is to be compared with him. Like all great colorists, Rossetti makes of color a means of expression, and only, in a lesser degree, of representa- tion. Color is to him an art in itself, and the harmonies of his pictures are rather like sad strains of some perfect Eastern music, always pure and well- sought in tint, but with chords that have the quality of those most precious of fabricsthe Persian and Indian something steals in always which is not of the seen or of earthly tones, a passage which touches the eye as a minor strain does the ear, with a passionate sugges- tion of something lost, and which, mated with his earnest and spiritual tone of thought, gives to his art, for those who know and appreciate it fully, an interest which certain morbid qualities, born of the over-intense and brooding imagina- tion, and even certain deficiencies in power of expression, only make more deep. Amongst modern painters he is the most poetic; and, in his early life, painting and poetry seem to have dis- puted the bent of his mind, and some early poems laid the foundation of a school of poetry, just as his early pic- tures laid those of a school of art (if even this be worthy to be called a school). In a volume of poems just published there is a sonnet on one of his earliest designs, which, doubtless, expresses the creed of art of the reform. It is called St. Luke the Painter, and represented SL Luke preaching and showing pictures of the Virgin and Christ. Give hon-r unto Luke Evangelist; For he it was (the aged legends say) who first taught Art to fold her hands and pray. Scarcely at once she dared to rend the mist Of devious symbols: hut soon, having wist How sky-breadth and field-silence and this day Are symbols also in some deeper way, She looked through these to God, and was Gods priest. And if, past noon, her toil began to irk, And she sought talismans, and turned in vain To soulless self-reflections of mans skill; Yet now, in this the twilight, she might still Kneel in the latter grass to pray again, Ere the night cometh, and she may not work. Rossettis indifference to public opin- ion was the same for picture or poem, for he only exhibited twice, and only two or three of his poems have been printed; but, as the former worked a reform amongst the painters, the latter gave a bent to some of the coming po- ets, and the authors of the Earthly Para- dise and Atalanta in Calydon, owe to Rossetti the direction of their thoughts. I remember seeing, in the exhibition, Rossettis first exhibited picture. The subject was Marys Girlhood. It rep- resented an interior, with the Virgin 1870.] 97 RoSsETTI THE PAINTER AND POET. Mary sitting by her mothers side and embroidering from nature a lily, while an angel-child waters the flower which she copies. His sister Christina, the poetess, and her mother, were the models from whom he painted Mary and her mother, and the picture, full of intense feeling and mystic significance, was, for the painters, the picture of the exhibi- tion (the long extinct ~iational Insti- tution ). It is commemorated in the volumes of poems by a sonnet with the same title. This is that blessed Mary, pre-elect Gods virgin. Gone is a great wLile, and she Dweltyoung in Nazareth of Galilee. Unto Gods will she brought devout respect, Profound simplicity of intellect, Aud supreme patience. From her mothers knee Faithful and hopeful; wise in charity; Strong in grave peace; in pity circumspect. So held she through her girlhood; as it were An angel-watered lily, that near God Grows and is quiet. Till, one dawn at home Sho woke in her white bed, end had no fear At all, yet wept till sunshine, and felt Because the fulness of the time was come. He exhibited again, in 1850, an An- nunciation, well remembered amongst artists as the white picture, both the angel and Mary being robed in white, in a white-walled room, the only masses of color being their hair, which was au- burn. This was his last contribution to any exhibition, his disregard of pub- lic approbation growing with the evi- dence that appeared every day of the hold his works had taken on the artis- tic and intellectual part of the public, so that to-day he is preeminently the painter of the painters and poets, as the character of the poetry stamps him the poet of the painters. Scarcely a note has he struck in his poems which has not its corresponding expression in his painting; and poem sometimes turns to a picture, and a picture sometimes reproduces itself as a poem. Amongst the most important of the poems thus involved is one which, con- ceived in the old catholic spirit, los- setti has illustrated by a series of pic- tures and drawings, designed in the same tofie. It is the Aye, a hymn to the Virgin. It is full of the most ad- mirable word-painting, and follows the life of the Virgin from the annunciation to the assumption. The opening pic- ture of the annunciation is in the spirit of his early art as the whole poem is of his early thought. Mlndst thou not (when Junes heavy breath Warmed the long days In Nazareth), 1hat eve thou didst go forth to give Thy flowers some drink that they might live One faint night more amid the sands I Far off the trees were as pale wands Against the fervid sky: the sea Sighed further off eternally, As human sorrow sighs in sleep. Then suddenly the awe grew deep, As of a day to which all days Were footsteps In Gods secret ways: Until a folding sense, like prayer Which is, as God is, everywhere, Gathered about thee; and a voice Spake to thee without any noise, Being of the silence: Hail it said, Thou that art highly favored; The Lord is with thee here and now, Blessed amongall women thou! Another more purely imaginative and intensely pathetic picture, is of the life of Mary in the house of John, after Christs death. It represents the inte- rior of the house of John, with a win- dow showing a twilight view of Jeru- salem. Against the faint distance cut the window-bars, forming a cross, at the intersection of which hangs a lamp which Mary had risen to trim and light, having left her spinning, while John, who has been writing, and holds his tablets still on his knees, strikes a light with a flint and steel for Mary to use. Above the window hangs a net. The passage which is illustrated by it is one of the finest ot the poem. Mindst thou not (when the twIlight gone Left darkness in the house of John) Between the naked window-bars That spacious vigil of tfie stars I For thou, a watcher even as they, Wouldst rise from where throughout the day Thou wroughtest raiment for His poor; And, finding the fixed terms endure Of day and night which never brought Sounds of HIs coming chariot, Wouldst lift, through cloud-waste unexplord, Those eyes which said, How long, 0 Lord! Then that disciple whom He loved, Well heeding, baply would he moved To ask thy blessing in His name; And that one thought In both, the same Though silent, then would clasp ye round To weep togethertears long bound Sick tears of patience, dumb and slow. 98 PVnrAMs MAGAZINE. [July, The poem called the Blessed Damo- zel was one of those which were pub- lished in an art-magazine, conducted by the literary confreres of the reformers in art, and amongst the younger Eng- lish poets of the day was the key of a new poetic tendency. The writer of these lines has heard the author of the Earthly Paradise avow that the Blessed Damozel turned his mind to writing poetry. It is one of the more passionate, and, at the same time, pictorial, of all Rossettis poems, and full of the mystic religious sense in which all the new school began their work with symbolic accessories, as though it had been ia- tended for illustration. THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. The blessed damozel leaned out From the gold bar of heaven; Her eyes were deeper than the depth Of waters stilled at even; She had three lilies in her band, And the stars in her hair were seven. Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, No wrought flowers did adorn, But a white rose of Marys gift, For service meetly worn; Her hair that lay along her back Was yellow like ripe corn. Ilerseemed she scarce bad bean a day One of Gods choristers; The wonder was not yet quite gene Feem that still look of hers; Albeit, to them she left, her day Had counted as ten years. (To one, it is ten years of years. Yet now, and in this place, Surely she leaned oer meher hair Fell all about my face. Kothing: the autumn fall of leaves. The whole year sets apace.) * * * * * * I wish that he were come to me, For he will come, she said. Have I not prayed in heaven lon earth, Lord, Lord, has he not prayd? Are not two prayers a perfect strength? And shall I feel afraid? We two, she said, will seek the groves Where the lady Mary is, * * * * * * He shall fear, haply, and be dumb: Then will I lay my cheek To his, and tell about our love, ~ot once abashed or weak: And the dear Mother will approve My pride, end let me speak. Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, To Him round whom all souls Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads Bowed with their anreoles: And angels meeting us shall sing To their citherns and citoles. There will I ask of christ the Lord Thus much for him and me Only to live as once on earth With Loveonly to be, As then awhile, for ever aow Together, I end he. She gazed and listened and then said, Less sad of speech than mild, All this is when he comes. She ceased. The li~ht thrilled towards her, fllld With angels in strong level flight. Her eyes prayed, and she smild. (I saw her smile.) But soon their path Was vague in distant spheres: And then she cast her arms along The golden barriers, And laid her face between her hands, And wept. (I heard her tears.) The influence of the study of Dante has been always perceptible in all the work of our painter-poet. The Vita Kuova has been an inexhaustible mine of picture-subject, and the poem, Dante at Verona, one of the longest in the book, is also one of the most earnestly felt, and sympathetic. The Divina Colnmedia has furnished him only one picture, or rather triptych, from the story of Francesca di Rimini. In this the poets are in the central division; The Kiss, on the right, full of the most intense passion, and the ghosts on the left, pale, dreamy, but dressed as in The Kiss, and floating through an atmosphere filled with little flames, fall- ing like rain. In dealing with material like this, of course a large measure of conventionalism is to be allowed in the treatment, and Rossetti never hesitates in employing all that Isis subject de- mands, so that the Dante designs are, for the most part, at once mystic and typical in conception and treatment. An important picture of The Vision of Dante on the Day of Beatrices Death,~~ is most thoroughly studied and realized; two of the heads of Beatrice, and the lady who holds the veil over her at her head, are studied from two of the most celebrated beauties of London. Love leads Dante into the roon~ where the 1870.] RoSsETTI, THE PAINTER AND POET. 99 body lies, the floor of which is strewn with poppies, and kisses the dead face, in token of the final unionthe spiritual kiss which death, the new life, permits to love. In another vein the painter employs a degree of realization which represents faculties of a very different nature. In a picture which he calls ilesterna Rosa yesterdays rose -two courtesans, with their lovers, are finishing a carouse in a tent, while the day is breaking out- side. One of them, debauched to utter degradation, riots in her shame and drunkenness, while the other, unused yet to her fallen state, turns, in awaking shame, from her companions. The men are throwing dicethe lover of the shame-faced girl, a low, ruffianly sharp- er, bites his mistress finger abstractedly as he waits for the throw of his adver- sary. A little girl, an attendant, holds a lute up to her ear and touches the strings, listening to the vibration in sheer indifference to the bacehanals, her purity making the one bright point in the drama, while a monkeytype of all uncleannesssits at the other side scratching himself in idleness. Through the opening of the tent is seen the dawn through the orchard- trees, mingling with the lamp-light. One, and perhaps the most powerful, cause of the deep hold which Rossetti, as painter and poet, has obtained on his contemporary painters and poets, is the intense subjectivity of his genius, which, while it gives to sympathetic apprecia- tion an inexhaustible and inexplicable charm, to those who have no sympathy with his idiosyncrasy gives only an im- pression of involved phantasy and far- fetched symbolism. Yet not even Dante himself was more legitimately to this manner born. Not even Titian or Tur- ner, or the painter of the fragment of Pita, was more involuntarily and uncon- trollably subjective than their fellow- countryman Rossetti. Types evolved from his own nature run through all his work, and his ideals of beauty have a sisterly likeness which no one can fail to recognize, and which renders it im- possible for him to render certain types of character with satisfaction or com- plete success. It was the Rossetti type of face and figure which, caricatured and exaggerated in ignorant enthusiasm by the followers of the painter, gave rise to the singular and certainly most un- lovely ideal of the minor pre-Raphael- itesan ideal in which physical beauty was absolutely set at nought in the search of significance and the evi- dence of passion. Even in his portraits Rossetti fails, unless the subject inclines more or less to the type which he re- flects. This demands more than external beauty, be it ever so exquisite, and is only absolutely content with a certain gravity and intensity of character, deep, inscrutable, sphinx-like, or still more when these characteristics go with the expression of intense and restrained passion. Of this type the portrait of Mrs. Morris, wife of the author of the Earthly Paradise, is one of the most perfectly realized expressions. It repre- sents a face of remarkable perfectness of proportion and nobility of intellec- tual character, but with a depth of meaning, half-told, questioning eyes and mute lips, which make it, once seen, never to be forgotten; and, paint- ed with a wealth of color and complete- ness of power, unequalled by any mod- ern work, so far as I know. It is one of those portraits which, like Raphaels Julius Second, Titians Bella Donna, and other singularly understood and rendered heads of almost all the great masters of portraiture, remain, perhaps, the highest expression of the painters qualities. A remarkable design of Rossettis is the Mary Magdalene at the House of Simon the Pharisee. She is passing the house at the head of a festal procession, crowned with flowers, and accompanied by her lover, when she sees Christ through the open door, and, tearing off the garlands, pushes her way into the chamber, against the efforts of the lover and one of her female companions. Far up the street may be seen the baccha- nals, singing, waving their garlands and playing on musical instruments as they 100 PurxAMs MAGAZINE. [July, come, and they stop, in amused surprise, at the eccentricity of Mary, who with her two immediate companions occupy the centre of the composition. The head of Christ appears through the window at the right, below which, out- side, a vine climbs up on the wall, and a deer nibbles at jt. The whole picture, except the grave, passionate, and touching face of Mary, turned to Christ, without any heed to the companions who hold her feet and knees to prevent her entering, and the responding face of Christ, who turns towards her as he sits at the table, is full of gayety and merriment; but the head of Mary, which is pictorially the key-note of it, gives to the ensemide the pathetic tone which almost all of Rossettis pictures have, and which seem to be the characteristic of his nature, for scarcely one of his poems is conceived in any other feeling than one approach- ing to sadness, so that, to those who have not seen his painting, his poetry will give the clear idea of his individu- ality in art. In one of the most exqui- site of his love-poems, The Streams Secret, he demands of the stream what message it bears from his mistress, and, rehearsing the growth of their passion to himself and the inexorable wave, he comes~ at last, to find that death alone can reply to his question. Au, by another wave, On other airs, the hour must come, Which to thy heart, my love, shall call me home. Between the lips of the low cave, Against that night the lapping waters isv And the dsrk lips are dumb. But there Loves self doth stand, And with Lifes weary wings far-flown, And with Deaths eyes that make the water moan, Gathers the water in his hand: And they that drink know nought of sky or land But only love alone. O soul-sequestered face Far off,0 were that night but now! So even beside that stream even I snd thou Through thirsting lips should draw Loves grace, And in the zone of that supreme embrace Bind aching breast and brow. o water whispering Still through the dark into mine ears, As with mine eyes, Is it not now with hers? Mine eyes that add to thy cold spring, Wan water, wandering water weltering, This hidden tide of tears. In The Portrait~ againa poem full of sad and passionate color and pic- torial qualityit is the portrait of his dead love he monodizes. His love had been told, in a dim, deep wood, and to commemorate it he paints the por- trait. Next day the memories of these things, Like leaves through which a bird has flown, Still vibrated with Loves warm wings; Till I must make them all my own And paint this picture. So, twixt ease Of talk and sweet long silences, She stood among the plants in bloom At windows of a summer room, To feign the shadow of the trees. And as I wrought, while all above And all around was fragrant air, In the sick burthen of my love It seemed each sun-thrilled blossom there Beat like a heart among the leaves. 0 heart that never beats nor heaves, In that one darkness lying still, What now to thee my loves great will Or the fine web the sunshine weaves? * * * * * * Here with her face doth memory sit Meanwhile, and wait the days decline, Till other eyes shall look from it, Eyes of the spirits Paicatine, Even than the old gaze tenderer: While hopes and aims long lost with her Stand round her image side by side, Like tombs of pilgrims that have died About the Holy Sepulchre. But enough, both of picture and poem, to convey such idea as a brief article may, of one of the most singu- larly gifted and imaginative artists the world has ever seen, and whose unique power, bad it been supplemented by the training of such a school as that of Venice, would have placed him at the head of painters of human passion. Trained under the eye of a Veronese, his work would have gained in solidity and drawing; and, may-be, with a pub- lic capable of fully appreciating his genius, he might have painted less de- fiantly of its opinion. His dramatic power is not fully conveyed in any of his poems except the Last Confession, which gives no idea of the versatility with which he depicts passions rang- ing from the besotted huts of a Borgia to the ecstatic exaltation of a Magda- lene, or the serenity of a Madonna. As painter or poet, human passion and hu- man sorrow are the only themes which 1870.] A DISENCHANTED REPUBLICAN. 101 occupy his feeling; and, though his pas- sion sometimes passes the conventional- ism of art, and his grief becomes mor- bid, as, in his pictures, the subjectivity of his treatment sometimes makes his work almost a riddle to the unlearned; there is no affectation and no willing weakness, as there is no unconscientious trifling with his art, but his tendency, on the contrary, is to neglect those means of success which would make his art much more widely felt and valu able, and he is often careless wl~ether his picture is understood or not. He car- ries his indifference to mere physical beauty to such a degree as often to make his faces ugly, in the seeking for intense expression, and, in the action of his fig- ures, passes the limits of the natural as well as graceful, to obtain force. But, with all his defects and peculiarities, he stands to-day, in general artistic power, first amongst the painters of England. A DISENCHANTED REPUBLICAN. LETTER FROM A GERMAN TRAVELLER NEW YORK, 1869. MoN CHER AMI: Do you remember standing with me, years ago, on a beautiful point of land, and gazing on the mountains and the sea? How vast and exhilarating was the view, what picturesque grandeur aad novel evidences of human thrift and science in the valley-dwellings, old churches, and careering sails; while, at our feet, washed up by the tide, garb- age, and bits of wreck, made the details around such a crude and dreary contrast to the scene beyond and above. Thus, my friend, is it here. When I think of the myriads who, in Europe, had no hope or prospect but drudgery and indigence, who, in the lands of the great West as farmers, and in the cities as mechanics, have attained competence, often wealth; and whose children are now educated, prosperous, and, best of all, progressive citizens of this great Re- public; when I see how free is the scope, how sure the harvest reaped by intelligence, industry, and temperance, in this land, I feel heart and brain ex- panded and vivifled with gratified hu- man sympathies and limitless aspira- tion. You may wonder at my including temperance as a condition of success: it is because intemperance is still the curse of the country; and, upon inves- tigation, I find that smartness and tern- peranee, combined, have been and are the means whereby the poor and ambi- tious have risen to social influence, wide activity, and political or professional honor. But when, drawing in both thought and vision from the broad scenes, from the human generaliEation, I look criti- cally at what is going on immediately around me, oftento use a phrase of the native pioneer author hope dark- ness into anxiety, anxiety into dread, and dread into despair; for this very smartness a favorite and significant termis often unscrupulous; this very temperance cold-blooded; and this very success unsoftened by sentiment, un- elevated by aspiration, unredeemed by beneficence. The devotion to wealth, as such, the temporizing with fraud, the triumph of impudence, the material standard and style of life, make me look back upon the homely ways, the genial content, the cultured repose so often found in the Old World, with a kind of regretful admiration. And yet it is just and rational to bear constantly in mind the fact that here every thing comes to the surface; no polished absolutism guards from view the latent corruption; no system of espionage and censorship, of police and military despotism, keeps the outside fair, while private rights and public virtue are mined for destruction

Disenchanted Republican 101-109

1870.] A DISENCHANTED REPUBLICAN. 101 occupy his feeling; and, though his pas- sion sometimes passes the conventional- ism of art, and his grief becomes mor- bid, as, in his pictures, the subjectivity of his treatment sometimes makes his work almost a riddle to the unlearned; there is no affectation and no willing weakness, as there is no unconscientious trifling with his art, but his tendency, on the contrary, is to neglect those means of success which would make his art much more widely felt and valu able, and he is often careless wl~ether his picture is understood or not. He car- ries his indifference to mere physical beauty to such a degree as often to make his faces ugly, in the seeking for intense expression, and, in the action of his fig- ures, passes the limits of the natural as well as graceful, to obtain force. But, with all his defects and peculiarities, he stands to-day, in general artistic power, first amongst the painters of England. A DISENCHANTED REPUBLICAN. LETTER FROM A GERMAN TRAVELLER NEW YORK, 1869. MoN CHER AMI: Do you remember standing with me, years ago, on a beautiful point of land, and gazing on the mountains and the sea? How vast and exhilarating was the view, what picturesque grandeur aad novel evidences of human thrift and science in the valley-dwellings, old churches, and careering sails; while, at our feet, washed up by the tide, garb- age, and bits of wreck, made the details around such a crude and dreary contrast to the scene beyond and above. Thus, my friend, is it here. When I think of the myriads who, in Europe, had no hope or prospect but drudgery and indigence, who, in the lands of the great West as farmers, and in the cities as mechanics, have attained competence, often wealth; and whose children are now educated, prosperous, and, best of all, progressive citizens of this great Re- public; when I see how free is the scope, how sure the harvest reaped by intelligence, industry, and temperance, in this land, I feel heart and brain ex- panded and vivifled with gratified hu- man sympathies and limitless aspira- tion. You may wonder at my including temperance as a condition of success: it is because intemperance is still the curse of the country; and, upon inves- tigation, I find that smartness and tern- peranee, combined, have been and are the means whereby the poor and ambi- tious have risen to social influence, wide activity, and political or professional honor. But when, drawing in both thought and vision from the broad scenes, from the human generaliEation, I look criti- cally at what is going on immediately around me, oftento use a phrase of the native pioneer author hope dark- ness into anxiety, anxiety into dread, and dread into despair; for this very smartness a favorite and significant termis often unscrupulous; this very temperance cold-blooded; and this very success unsoftened by sentiment, un- elevated by aspiration, unredeemed by beneficence. The devotion to wealth, as such, the temporizing with fraud, the triumph of impudence, the material standard and style of life, make me look back upon the homely ways, the genial content, the cultured repose so often found in the Old World, with a kind of regretful admiration. And yet it is just and rational to bear constantly in mind the fact that here every thing comes to the surface; no polished absolutism guards from view the latent corruption; no system of espionage and censorship, of police and military despotism, keeps the outside fair, while private rights and public virtue are mined for destruction 102 PUTNAMS MAGAZn~E. [July, all is exposed and discussed; and the good and evil elements of society, poli- tics, opinion, trade, speculation, pastime, and crime, have free play and frank ex- position. But, you will ask, how is it with regard to the intellectual life in its higher phase? What are the tenden- cies and triumphs of the mind, apart from the sphere of fashion, of com- merce, of civic duty? My answer is, audacious; rio other word so well ex- presses the animus of the would-be thinkers of the land. They despise pre- cedents, ignore discipline, contemn the past; they serve up ideas as old as Plato, as familiar to scholars as Mon- taigne, in new-fangled sentences, and delude themselves and their disciples with the pretence of originality. They espouse an opinion, a cause, a theory, and make capital thereof on the ros- trum and through the press, without a particle of philosophic insight or moral consistency; in education, in religion, in what they call culture, with an ego- tism that is at once melancholy and ridiculous, they maintain what is new but not true, and what is true but not new,~ and, with a complacent hardihood that repudiates the laws of humanity, the pure and primal sentiments that lie at the basis of civilization and the con- stitution of man and woman. Without reverence there is no insight; without sympathy there is no truth; all is bold, self-asserting, conceited, unscrupulous, and, in the last analysis, vulgar; but there is, in all this perversion of har- monious intellectual life and complete intellectual equipment, what takes with the half-informed 8ensationalism, the love of letters, and speculative thought. Closely studied, the cause of this incon- gruous development may be found in a certain lack of moral sensibility, which instinctively guards from paradox on the one hand and guides to truth on the other. It is, as you well know, essential to artistic perception; and those of American writers and thinkers, who have the sense and sentiment of art, like Irving and Bryant, Hawthorne and Longfellow, have been thereby protect- ed from the reckless vagaries and the mental effrontery which, under the plea of reform, of free thought, of progress, profanes the modest instincts of human- ity, and desecrates the beautiful and the true in the interest of an eager, intoler- ant vanity. While Mammon is widely worshipped, and Faith widely degraded, bright, be- nign exceptions to this pagan spirit give us pause. I have never met more choice and charming illustrations of mental integrity, truth to personal conviction, heroic fidelity in legitimate individual development, than among the free and faithful citizens of this Republic; but they are unappreciated, except by the few who intimately know them; their influence is limited,and they are unambitious, as are all human beings who live intrinsically from with- in, and not conventionally from with- out. And, with all the deference to and passion for money, there never was a commercial city in the world where so much is given in charity, where so many rich men habitually devote a not inconsiderable portion of their income to the relief of distress, or where the response to appeals for aid in any hu- mane or patriotic cause is more fre- quent, prompt, and generous than in this same badly-governed, money-get- ting, and money-spending city of New York. After all, perhaps, I must confess that the disappointment experienced grows out of extravagant anticipations. The American theory of government, the equality of citizens, the character of the early patriots, the absence of rank, kingeraft, and a terrible disparity of condition, had long endeared the coun- try to me and mine: but the behavior of the people in the civil war, their cheerful self-sacrifice, their patient de- votion, their contented return to pri- vate life from the army and the field, their unparalleled triumph and magna- nimity, had raised affection into admi- ration; I longed to tread so illustrious a land, to greet so noble a race, and to fraternize with such brave, wise, and true men. With the returning tide of peace, of course, habits of gain and 1870.] A DI8ENCHAI~TED REPUBLICAN. 103 luxury were resumed in the populous centres, and the inevitable demoraliza- tion of war left its traces; the sal- ient divisions between the patriotic and the dislo~aI, the martyrs and the mercenaries, which kept compact and imposing the army of noble and true citizens during the struggle, when it ceased, were obliterated, and society be- came more heterogeneous than ever, its manifestations less characteristic, its su- perficial traits more, and its talent and virtue less, apparent. Hence the Amer- ica of my fond imagination seemed for- ever vanished; and, only by patient ob- servation and fortunate rencontres, have I gradually learned to discriminate and recognize the soul of good in things evil. No, my friend, I will not expose Wil- helmina to the precocious development, the premature self-assertion, incident to this social atmosphere. I daily see girls, in their teens, with all the airs and much of the way of thinking of old women of the worldconfident, vain, self-indulgent, and, withal, blas.i. True, the exceptions are charming. I find them chiefly among families in moderate circumstances, but of good connection, wherein the daughters have been reared in active, wholesome, and responsible diities had, in short, to contribute, directly or indirectly, to their own support. With intellectual tastes and a religious education, this discipline in a land where the sex is held in respect,these young women are noble, pure, brave, and conscien- tious, as well as aspiring and intelligent. I have seen many such in the Normal schools, engaged in clerical work in the departments at Washington, and by the firesides of the inland towns, or in the most thoroughly respectable and least fashionable households of this metropo- lis. But one is disenchanted, not only of his ideal of womanhood, but of the most homely and humble domestic illu- sions, by the sight of crowds of gayly- dressed females, with huge greasy mass- es of hair on the back of their heads, and no modest shield to their brazen brows, draggling their long silken trains through the dirt of Broadway, or crush- ing, like half-inflated balloons, their am- ple skirts through a densely-packed omnibus. The triumph of extravagant luxury may be seen, at certain seasons, at what looks like a palacea huge, lofty marble building, in the principal thoroughfare of this city; it is not a royal residence, nor a gallery of art, nor a collegeit is a drygoods shop. Im- agine a thousand women there con- vened, an army of clerks showing pat- terns, measuring off goods, or rushing to and fro with change and orders. Every one of these females is dressed in silk; at least one half, if attired accord- ing to their means and station, would wear calico or homespun; perhaps an eighth out of the whole n~Imber of hus- bands to these shopping wives are either bankrupt or at work in Wall-street, with fear and trembling, risking their all to supply the enormous current expenses of their families, whereof half relate to female dress. Carry the inference from these facts a little further; of course, the daughters marry for an establish- meat, look abroad for enjoyment; by- and-by go to Europe, ostensibly to edu- cate their children (leaving papa to his club and counting-room), but really to gossip at Dresden, flirt at Rome, or shop in Paris. I have been surprised to find so many underbred men in society; but this is explained by the fact that so many who, in youth, have enjoyed f~w means of culture and no social training, in their prime have made a fortune, and are able to give dinners, and send their children to fashionable schools. hence a sin- gular incongruity in manners, ranging from the most refined to the most in- tolerable in the same salon, or among the same class and circle. Remissness in answering notes, off-hand verbal in- vitations to strangers without a prelimi- nary call, forcing personal topics into conversation, stuffing unceremoniously at receptions, free and easy bearing to- wards ladies, lounging, staring, asking impertinent questions, pushing into no- tice, intruding on the talk and privacy of othersin a word, an utter absence t04 of delicacy and consideration is mani- fest in a sphere where you will, at the same time, recognize the highest type, both of character and breeding, in both sexes. This crude juxtaposition star- tles a European; but he is still more as- tonished after hearing a mans conduct stigmatized, and his character annihi- lated at the club; to encounter the in- dividual thus condemned an accepted guest of the men who denounce him. In a word, there seems no social dis- crimination; ones pleasure in choice society is constantly spoiled by the presence of those reeking with the es- sential oil of vulgarity, of foreign ad- venturers without any credentials, and who succeed in effecting an entree upon the most fallacious grounds. It is one of the most remarkable of social phe- nomena here, that even cultivated and scrupulously honorable men and high- bred women are so patient under social inflictions, so thoughtless in social rela- tions; not that they compromise their charactersthey only degrade their hos- pitality. Exclusiveness is, indeed, the opposite of republican principle; but that refers to discrepancies of rank, of birth, and of fortune; exclusiveness based on character, on culture, on the tone and traits of the individual, is and should be the guarantee of social vir- tue, refinement, and self And yet, my friend, inconsistent as it may seem, I really think there never was a country where every mans and womans true worth and claims are bet. ter tested than this. I mean that when you turn from the f~te or the fashion of the hour, and discuss character with the sensible people you happen to know, they invariably pierce the sham, recog- nize the true, and justly estimate legiti- mate claims. Sooner or later, in this free land, where the faculties are so keenly exercised, the scope for talent so wide; where all kinds of people come together, and there is a chance for every one,what there is of original power, of integrity, of kindness, of cunning, of genius, of rascality, and of faith in a human being, finds development, comes to the surface, and turns the balance [July, of public opinion by social analysis. There is an instinctive sagacity and sense of justice in the popular mind. If there was one confident idea I en- tertained in regard to this country, be- fore coming here, it was that I should find plenty of space. I expected an infinity of room. I said to myself, those straggling unwalled cities devour suburban vicinage so easilyhave so much room to spread; I had heard of the Capitals magnificent distances, and dreamed of the boundless prairies and the vastness of the continent. The same impression existed in regard to all social and economic arrangements; there,~ I said to myselg I shall ex- pand at will; every thing is new, un- bounded, open, large, and free. Well, thus far, I have found it just the reverse. Assigned a lofty and diminutive bed- chamber at the hoteThhaving to stand up in the horse-cars,because all the seats are occupiedfinding my friends pews fullnot having elbow-room at the tablo dh6tetired of waiting for my turn to look at the paper at club and reading-roombeing told the new novel is out at the librarystanding in a line at the theatre box-office for an hour, to be told all the good places are takenreceiving hasty notes from edit- ors that my article had been in type but that their columns were oversupplied pressed to the wall at partiesjostled in Broadway and Wall-streetrushed upon at ferry-boat piersinterrupted in quiet talksmy neighbor, at dinner, ab- stracted by observation of a distant guestI never, in my life, had such a painful consciousness of being de trop, in the way, insignificant, overlooked; and crowded out, as here; and I have to go, every now and then, to the country to breathe freely and realize my own in- dividuality and independence. The security of life and property is altogether inadequate here. Consult a file of newspapers and you will find that massacres by rail, burglaries, murders, and conflagrations are more numerous, make less impression, and are less guard- ed against and atoned for, by process of law, than in any other civilized land. PumAEs MAGAZIxE. A DISENCHANTED REPtBLICAN. These characteristics are, however, very unequally distributed. You must con- tinually bear in mind that the facts I state, and the inferences thence drawn, often have but a local application. Thus, familiar with the admiiable mu- nicipal system whereby so many towns in Europe rose to power and prosperity of old, and with the civic sagacity and rectitude of the founders of this Repub- lic, who, in colonial times, disciplined the people to self-government, through the free and faithful administration of local affairsI was the more disconcert- ed at the awful abuses and patent frauds of the so-called government of this com- merciirl metropolis of the United States. In New England you find the munici- pal system carried to perfection, unper- verted, and effective. In Yermont it exists in elevated simplicity and honor; but in the large cities, owing to a larger influx of foreigners, so many of whom are poor and ignorant, it is degraded. You naturally ask, Why do not the honest and intelligent citizens produce a reform in what so nearly concerns both their reputation and their welfare? M~ answer is, partly through indifference and partly through fear, added to utter want of faith in the practicability of success. There is a timidity native to riches; the large estate-holders desire to conciliate the robber; they deem it more safe to succumb than oppose; they lack moral courage; hence the social compromises I have noted, and hence, too, the ominous civic pusillanimity. Care is the bane of conscientious life here; I mean that, when a man or wom- an is upright and bent upon duty, the performance thereof is hampered and made irksome by the state of society and the circumstances of the people. Thus, in affairs when an honest man is associated with directors, trustees, or other corporate representatives, he is sure to be revolted by unscrupulous do- ings or shameful neglect; he has to fight for what is just in the manage- ment, or withdraw in disgust therefrom. So a young man, who is wise enough to eschew alcoholic stimulants and games of hazard, has need of rare moral cour- von. vi.7 age, or is forced to avoid the compan- ionship of his reckless comrades. And, worst of all, a woman with a sentiment of family obligation, a principle of household duty, cannot regulate the servants, see to the providing of the table, the order and pleasantness of home-life, without a vigilance, a sacri- fice of time, and an anxiety which takes the bloom from her cheek and plants a wrinkle on her brow. The lack of well- trained and contented help,as the domestic servants are ironically called the great expense of living, and the absence of that machinery which, once set up with judgment, goes on so regu- larly in our Old World domicilesare among the causes of weariness and care in the average female life of this coun- try, in a manner and to a degree un- known in Europe, where leisure and re- pose are easily secured by competence and tact. I do not wonder that so many of the best-bred and most intelligent Ameri- can girls prefer army and navy officers or diplomats for husbands to the danc- ing men~ they meet in society, usually vapiQ if not dissipated; whereas the education for the army, navy, and diplo- macy, or the culture attained by the discipline thereof where there is a par- ticle of sense or character, insures a cer- tain amount of manliness and knowl- edge, such as are indispensable to a clever and refined woman in a life-com- panion. The two classes I pity most here are the very old and the very young; the former, because they are shariiefully neglected, and the latter, because they are perverted. You see a gentleman of the old school snubbed by Young America; a venerable wom- an unattended to in a corner, while rude and complaisant girls push to the front rank; and you see children, who ought to be kept in the fields or the nursery, fashionably arrayed and hold- ing levees, or dancing the German, with all the extravagance of toilettes and consciousness of manner, that distin- guish their elders, and a zest infinitely more solemn. It is painful to see age thus unprivileged and unhonored, and 1870.] 105 106 PUTNAMS MAGAmNE. [July7 childhood thus profaned: a conserva- tive is, in vulgar parlance, an old fogy; a retired worthy, however eminent, is a fossil; precocity in manner, mind, and aspect, is encouraged; the mature and complete, the finished and the formed, are exceptional; crudity and pretension are in the ascendant. One of my most cherished purposes, as you know, was to utilize my studies as a publicist, and my experience as a republican philosopher, through the press of this free land. In this design I have met with signal discouragement. While a few men, who have thought- fully investigated the most imminent problems in modern political and social life, have listened to my views with the most sympathetic attention, and have recognized the importance of the facts of the past which I have so long labor- ed to bring forward as practical illus- trations of the presentthose who con- trol the press of these States, by virtue of proprietorship, avoid all but imme- diate topics of public interest, declaring their exclusive discussion essential to the prosperity of their vocation, and failing to appreciate both historic par- allels and philosophic comments. I have been surprised to note how soon even men of academic culture yield to the vulgar standard of the immediate, and ignore the vast inspiration of hu- inanity and truth as developed in the career of the race and the salient facts of historic civilization. :Nor is this all. With few exceptions, popular journal- ism and speech here is based upon the sensational element not upon senti- ment or reflection. It is difficult to se- cure attention, except through a bizarre style or melodramatic incident; the grotesque forms of American humor, seeking, by violation of orthography or ingenious slang, to catch the eye of readers or the ear of audiences, indicate the extremes to which these sensational experiments are carried. Nothing makes a newspaper sell like prnri~nt details of crime, audacious personal attacks, or ex- travagant inventions. A calm, thought- ful discussion, however wise, original, and sincere, gains comparatively little sympathy; a profound criticism, a forci- ble but finished essay, an individual, earnest, and graceful utterance of the choicest experience, or the most charac- teristic feeling, seem to be lost in the noisy material atmosphere of life in Ame- rica. 1 find the best thinkers, the most loyal students, the most aspiring and ge- nial minds, singularly isolated. I have come upon them accidentally, not inwhat is called society; I have marvelled to perceive how little they are known, even to familiar acquaintances; for there is no esprit du Corps in letters or philosophy here; few have the leisure to do justice to what is most auspicious in their fel- lows; few take a hearty interesf in~the intellectual efforts or idiosyncrasies of their best endowed comrades; each seems bent seemingly on personal ob- jects; there is no division of the records of the mind;~ people are too busy, too self-absorbed to sympathize with what is highest and most indi- vidual in character; all my most intelli- gent and, I may say, most agreeable friends complain of this isolation. It may sometimes strengthen, but it more frequently narrows and chills. A sin- gular and most unpropitious selfishness belongs to many of the cleverest men and women 1 have met in America; au- thorship and art seem often merce- nary or egotistic, instead of soulful pur- suits; they seem to divide instead of fusing society; on the one hand are the fashionable and the wealthy, many of them pleasant and charitable, but un- aspiring and material; on the other, poor scholars, professors, litt& ateurs too many of the latter Bohemians; and, although these two classes sometimes come together, it is usually in a conven- tional waywithout any real sympathy or disinterested recognition. But it is not merely in the negative defect of repudiating the calm, finished, and considerate discussion of vital sub- jects or ~esthetic principles, that the American press and current literature disappoint me; the abuses of journal- ism are flagrant. I have been disgust- ed, beyond expression, at the vulgarity of its tone and the recklessness of its 1870.] A DISENCHANTED REPUBLICAN. 107 slanders. During my brief sojourn I have read the most infamo~is charges and the most scurrilous tirades against the most irreproachable and eminent citizens, from the Chief Magistrate to the modest litUrateur; and, when I have wondered at the apathy exhibited, I have been answered by a shrug or a laugh. The fact is, there is no redress for these vile abuses but resort to per- sonal violence; the law of libel is prac- tically a nullity, so expensive is the pro- cess and uncertain the result; an elect- ive judiciaryone of the most fatal changes in the constitution of the state has created a class of corrupt judges. To expect justice in cases of slander, is vain. Unfortunately, there is not a suf- ficient social organization to apply suc- cessfully the punishment of ostracism; and a set of improvident, irresponsible writers are usually employed to do the blackguardism; so that, with a few no- ble exceptions, the press here is venal and vulgar, utterly reckless, and the organ, not of average intellige~nce, but of the lowest arts. The first time I dined out in New York was at the house of a very weal- thy citizen, identified with fashiojiable society. The dinner was luxurious, and every thing thereat, from the plate and porcelain to the furniture and toilettes, indicated enormous means. My neigh- bor at table was a chatty, elegantly dressed young man, to whom I had been formally presented by my host. Our conversation turned upon invest- ments, and my companion seemed fa- miliar with all the stocks in the mar- ket, and spoke so highly of the pros- pects of one, that I accepted his invita- tion to call at his office the next day and examine the details of the scheme. These were given me in writing, with the names of the board of directors, among which I recognized several before suggested to me as those of gentlemen of: probity and position. I accordingly invested; and discovered, a few weeks later, that the representations made to me were false; that the- stock was worthless, and that the so-called Coin- pany, consisting of half-a-dozen per- sons, among whom my adviser was one, had pocketed the amount advanced by those who, like myself, had been de- luded by the fallacious programme and its respectable endorsement. Fraud may be practised in any country; but here the swindler was encountered in what is called good society; and when I complained to his directors, they declared they had allowed their names to be used inadvertently, and that they knew nothing of the matter. I insti- tuted a suit, but failed to obtain a ver- dict. My first mornings walk down a fash- ionable avenue was interrupted by a shout and sign of alarm from the oppo- site side of the street. I had just time to rush up a flight of steps and ensconce myself in a friendly doorway, when by ran a mad ox, and gored a laborer be- fore my sickened sight; nor was he captured until he had carried dismay and destruction for two miles through the heart of this populous city I This rabid beast had escaped from a drove waiting to be slaughtered in the sub- urbs. Such occurrences are not uncom- mon here, and, apparently, make little impression and induce little effort for reform. The municipal magnates levied a tax of three hundred dollars on one of my friends, resident of a street they intend- ed to re-pave. Now it so happened that the pavement of this street was in excellent order; I could see no reason for the expense and inconvenience pro- posed. Upon inquiry I learned that an asphaltum was to be substituted for the stone-pavement. Going around among my neighbors, with a petition against this useless, costly, and annoying pro- ceeding, my friend found that every resident of the street agreed with us in condemning the project. Moreover, we ascertained from the contractor that he offered to do the job for two dollars the square yard, but had been advised to charge four, the balance going into the pockets of the officials. In spite of the expressed wishes of those chiefly inter- ested, in spite of this flagrant swindle, our excellent pavement was torn up; 108 PumAMs MAGAZINE. [July, for weeks no vehicle could approach our doors; boiling tar and heaps of pavel and knots of laborers made the whole thoroughfare a nuisance, for which each victim, whose dwelling bor- dered the way, had to pay three hun- dred dollars; and now that the rubbish is cleared away, the composite pave- ment laid, and the street open, owing to the bad quality, the unscientific preparation of the asphaltum, it is a mass of black clinging mud, which, after a rain, is a pitchy morass, and in dry weather a floating atmosphere of pulverized dirt and tar. The newspa- pers call it a poultice. The universal law of vicissitude finds here the most signal illustration. Change is not only frequent, but rapid; not only comparative, but absolute. I came back to this city last autumn, after three months sojourn at the sea- side, to find a new rector in the church I attend; a new chef in the journal for which I write; my favorite domestic nook for a leisure evening, the abode of intelligent and cordial hospitality, in the process of demolition, to give place to a block of stores; my club a scene of disorder, on account of repairs; my broker a bankrupt; my belle a bride; my tailor, doctor, dentist, and laundress removed up-town every body and every thing I had become familiar with and attached to changed, either locally or intrinsically; and life, as it were, to begin anew. It makes a head, with a large organ of adhesiveness, whirl and ache to thus perpetually forego the ac- customed. I experienced, on first landing, a sen- sation, as it were, of this precarious tenure. Scarcely had the exhilaration felt on entering the beautiful harbor from a ten days sojourn on the mel- ancholy wastes of ocean subsided, when, as we drove up the dock and through the mud and squalor of the river-side, the commonplace style of edifice, and the sight of temporary and unsubstan- tial architecture, d~pre~ised my spirits; then the innumerable and glaring ad- vertisements of quack medicines on every curb-stone and pile of bricks sug g~sted a reckless, experimental habit which was confirmed ~by the careless driving of vociferous urchins in butcher- c~arts or express-wagons. When we emerged into Broadway, the throng, the gilded signs, the cheerful rush, and curious variety of faces and vehicles, raised my spirits and ~quickened my ob- servation, while a walk in Fifth avenue and through the Central Park, the next day, which was Sunday, t~nd the weath- er beautiful, impressed me cheerily with the feeling of prosperous hnd progres- sive life. Despite these characteristic features, however, it is often difficult to realize that I am in America, so many traits and traces of Europe are Visibi?. The other morning, for instance, while at the pier, waiting to see a friend off in the French steamer, knots of sailors, like those we see at Havre and Brest, were eating soup in the open air, and huck- sters tempting them to buy bead-bas- kets and pin-cushions for their sweet- hearts and wives;~~ the garb, the gab, the odor of garlic, the figure of a priest here and there, the very hats of some of the passengers, made the scene like one, at a French quay. There are Ger- man beer-gardens, Italian restaurants, journals in all the European languages, tcdiles dh6te, where they only are spo- ken; churches, theatres, clubs, and co- teries, distinctly national and repre- sentative of the Old World. Do not rashly infer that my political principles have changed because of these critical complaints. No; they are the same, but my delight in them is chas- tened. I feel that they involve self-sac- rifice, even when triumphant democracy entails duty, and that of ~ nature to in- terfere with private taste and individual enjoyment. Democracy, my friend, is no pastime, but a peril. Republican institutions demand the surrender of much that is pleasant in personal life, and include responsibilities so grave, that gayety is quelled and care inaugu- ratedjust as the man leaves behind him, in quitting his fathers roof to assert himself in the world, much of the liberty and nurture which made life 1870.] EDITORIAL NOTES. 109 pleasant, in order to assume the serious business of indeyendent existenceex- cellent as a discipline, noble as a des- tiny, but solemn as a law of action. Disenchantment, my friend, does not inevitably, imply renunciation; 5n the contrary, truth is often ushered in through a delusive pursuit, as the his- tory of scientific discovery proves. The moment we regard the equalizing pro- cess going on in the world, as a disci- pline and a destiny, and accept it as a duty, we recognize what perhaps is, after all, the practical aim and end of Christianityself-sacrifice, humanity, good-will to men, in place of self- hood. Thus inibued and inspired, the welfare of the race becomes a great per- sonal interest; we are content to suffer and forego for the advantage of our fellow-creatures; we look upon life not as the arena of private success, but of beneficent co~iperation; and, instead of complaining of privation and encroach- ment, learn to regard them as a legiti- mate element in the method and means whereby the mass of men, so long con- demned to ignorance, want, and sordid labor, are to be raised and reared into a higher sphere, and harmonized byfellow- ship, freedom, and faith, into a complete and auspicious development. EDITORIAL NOTES. BEET HARTE ONCE MORE. CriTicisM is too often tame and timid in its reception of contemporary genius, beca~use it is without hope; its distrust, its close and prolonged acquaintance with mediocrity and pretension, consti- tutes its mental habit, and it is with difficulty that it drops its patronizing tone and ceases its frigid comment. But Bret ilartes stories mean so much; they are so terse, simple, searching, and unpretentious; they present the most difficult, novel, and bold situations with so much conciseness of expression, so much neatness and force; they take up and drop the subject with so sure a sense of dramatic fitness, that the usual reserve and the common tone of criti- cism before them is priggish and insuf- ferable. It is not enough to say of them: This is good work. Something fervid and emphatic is called for. We must say: This is the work of a man of genius. It is something unforeseen; it is some- thing so natural and actual, so profound in its significance, so moving in its de- velopment, that you must glow with the generous emotions which it excites, and respond to it as to the influences of nature, and as when heart answereth to heart in the actual intercourse of liv- ing men and women. Just as we were all saying to each other, How much we need a story-writer who shall treat our American life in an artistic form, satisfying to the most ex- acting sense of the highest literary meritjust as we were deploring that Irving, and Hawthorne, and Poe, men of another generation, who were retro- spective, and not on a level with the present hour, were the only men of ~ne talent among our story-writersFrancis Bret Harte, in the newest and remotest part of our land, gives us an expres- sion of its early, rude, and lawless life, at once unexpected and potent, and which shames our distrust of the genius of our race in its new home. It is an expression so honest, so free from cant, so exactly corresponding with its sub- ject, so nusqucamish and hearty, so manly, that it is to be accepted like a bit of nature. His stories are like so many convincing facts; they need no argument; they lodge themselves in our minds, and germinate like living things. We are struck by the varied power which he exhibits, and the diverse em& tions which he touches, in such narrow dramatic limits. Within the little frame of a sketch he is terse, graphic, vivid; his humor and pathos are irresistible; his sentiment delicate and true; his

Editorial Notes 109-116

1870.] EDITORIAL NOTES. 109 pleasant, in order to assume the serious business of indeyendent existenceex- cellent as a discipline, noble as a des- tiny, but solemn as a law of action. Disenchantment, my friend, does not inevitably, imply renunciation; 5n the contrary, truth is often ushered in through a delusive pursuit, as the his- tory of scientific discovery proves. The moment we regard the equalizing pro- cess going on in the world, as a disci- pline and a destiny, and accept it as a duty, we recognize what perhaps is, after all, the practical aim and end of Christianityself-sacrifice, humanity, good-will to men, in place of self- hood. Thus inibued and inspired, the welfare of the race becomes a great per- sonal interest; we are content to suffer and forego for the advantage of our fellow-creatures; we look upon life not as the arena of private success, but of beneficent co~iperation; and, instead of complaining of privation and encroach- ment, learn to regard them as a legiti- mate element in the method and means whereby the mass of men, so long con- demned to ignorance, want, and sordid labor, are to be raised and reared into a higher sphere, and harmonized byfellow- ship, freedom, and faith, into a complete and auspicious development. EDITORIAL NOTES. BEET HARTE ONCE MORE. CriTicisM is too often tame and timid in its reception of contemporary genius, beca~use it is without hope; its distrust, its close and prolonged acquaintance with mediocrity and pretension, consti- tutes its mental habit, and it is with difficulty that it drops its patronizing tone and ceases its frigid comment. But Bret ilartes stories mean so much; they are so terse, simple, searching, and unpretentious; they present the most difficult, novel, and bold situations with so much conciseness of expression, so much neatness and force; they take up and drop the subject with so sure a sense of dramatic fitness, that the usual reserve and the common tone of criti- cism before them is priggish and insuf- ferable. It is not enough to say of them: This is good work. Something fervid and emphatic is called for. We must say: This is the work of a man of genius. It is something unforeseen; it is some- thing so natural and actual, so profound in its significance, so moving in its de- velopment, that you must glow with the generous emotions which it excites, and respond to it as to the influences of nature, and as when heart answereth to heart in the actual intercourse of liv- ing men and women. Just as we were all saying to each other, How much we need a story-writer who shall treat our American life in an artistic form, satisfying to the most ex- acting sense of the highest literary meritjust as we were deploring that Irving, and Hawthorne, and Poe, men of another generation, who were retro- spective, and not on a level with the present hour, were the only men of ~ne talent among our story-writersFrancis Bret Harte, in the newest and remotest part of our land, gives us an expres- sion of its early, rude, and lawless life, at once unexpected and potent, and which shames our distrust of the genius of our race in its new home. It is an expression so honest, so free from cant, so exactly corresponding with its sub- ject, so nusqucamish and hearty, so manly, that it is to be accepted like a bit of nature. His stories are like so many convincing facts; they need no argument; they lodge themselves in our minds, and germinate like living things. We are struck by the varied power which he exhibits, and the diverse em& tions which he touches, in such narrow dramatic limits. Within the little frame of a sketch he is terse, graphic, vivid; his humor and pathos are irresistible; his sentiment delicate and true; his 110 [July, PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. poetry magical and suggestive; his feel- ing of out-of-door life constant and de- liglitful. His use of the minor ke,y of nature, as a contrast to the soiled and troubled lives of his men and women, is comparable to the accidental influ- ences which touch and soothe an un- happy man when his attention is caught by sunlight in wood-paths, or by the sound of the wind in trees, or by any of the silencing and flood-like influ- ences that sweep over us when we are open to the beautiful, the unnamable, and mysterious. Bret Hartes genius is not unlike Rem- brandts, so far as it is a matter of art. Take MigglesMiggles telling her story at the feet of the paralytic Jimtake the description of his old face, with its solemn eyes; take the alternate gloom and light that hides or illuminates the group in Miggles cabin; and then con- sider the gleam and grace with which the portrait of that racy and heroic boy- woman is placed before you. Does it not touch your sense of the picturesque as, and is it not unexpected, and start- ling, and admirable, like a sketch by Rembrandt? But for the pathos, but for the tears that rise in the heart and gather to the eyes, where shall we find any homely art to be compared with / that? Beauty in painting or sculpture may so touch a man. It did so touch Heine, at the feet of the Venus of Milo. It may be pathetic to us, as in Da Vinci s wonderful heads. But no great plastic artist, no mere pictorial talent, is potent over the sources of our tears, as is the unheralded story-writer from the West- ern shores. In this he employs a means beyond the reach of Holbein or Hogarth. We liken Bret Harte to Rembrandt, rather than to Hogarth or to Holbein men of great and sincere genius, and therefore having an equally great and sincere trust in actual lifebecause of his magic touch, his certainty and sud- denness of expression; his perfect trust in his subject; because he deals with the actual in its widest and commonest aspects, without infecting us with the dulness of the prosaic; because he is never formal, never trite; and because unlike Hogarthhe does not consider the vicious, the un fortunate, the weak, so as to put up the keerds on a chap from the start. He makes us feel our kinship with the outcast; he draws us by our very hearts towards the feeble and reckless, and by a certain somethingthe felt inexplicableness of the difference and yed the equality of menforbids us to execrate the sinner as we do the sin. One may say of him, as of Rembrandt, that he sees Christ not in the noble and consecrated, certainly not only in a type hallowed by centuries of human admi- ration; but he reveals a Saviour and friend in the forlorn, in the despised, in the outcast. Will the reader accuse us of extrava- gance, if we say we cannot understand how a man can read these stories, and not believe in immortality and in God? They touch one so profoundly; they ex- alt ones sense of the redemptive spirit that may live in a man, and they niake one so humble I They hush the Phari- see and the materialist who lives so comfortably under his white shirt-front, in clean linen, under immaculate con~ ditic~s of self-righteousness. We com- pare Bret Harte to the greatest name in modern artRembrandtrather than to Hogarth, because there is no bru- tality, no censure, no made-up mind for or against his subjects, as in Hogarth. Rembrandts poetry, his honest recep- tion of his subjectall this is in Bret Harte; but also a grace unknown to the great Flemish master. Some have questioned the service he has done our poor human nature in its most despised forms, and some have censured him for not adopting the Hogarthian method. But it seems to us his instinct has been his best guide; that his morality, his lesson to us, is as superior to Hogarths gross and mate- rial one, as the Sermon on the Mount is superior to the prayer of the Phari- see. Miggles, Tennessees Partner, and Stumpy, and Mother Shipton what significance, what life in these I what thoughts beyond the reaches EDITORIAL NOTES. of our souls do these examples suggest to all of us! As for the story of the Luck of Roaring Camp, we question if there is any short story in English at once so significant, so variedly expres- sive, so beautiful in its management of rude and common forms of life. It is an incomparable story of the redemp- tion of a wild and vicious and coarse settlement, by the purest and loveliest feelings and influences that can touch a human heart. Luck, Stumpy, Kentuck what picturesque, what pathetic, what humorous expression has made these a humanizing possession for- ever in our literature I Bret Harte has deepened and broad- ened our literary and moral sympathies; he has broken the sway of the artificial and conventional; he has substituted actualities for idealitiesbut actualities that manifest the grandeur of self-sacri- fice, the beauty of love, the power of childhood, and the asceudancy of na- ture. FOREIGN CRITICISMS. The letter we publish elsewhere, which purports to come from a foreigner, who, on a visit to this country, did not find it all that his fancy had painted it before- hand, is severe in its strictures upon the condition and aspects of our American society. His castigations are, in some respects, doubtless fully deserved; but, whether they are or not, they can do us little harm. If they are just, they will help us to correct our faults; while if they are unjust, they will of themselves drop to tke ground. We take the lib- erty, however, to point out a very com- mon error into which he has fallen, along with a host of other tourists and travel- lers who have undertaken to describe our manners and customs. It is that of ascribing to the political constitution of the country a great many social effects which are the result of an altogether different cause. He forgets that the country is a new country as well as a republican country, and that many of its characteristics, both good and bad, grow out of its newness, rather than out of its republicanism. Our civilization is raw and unformed, not because the people happen to be politically free, but because they happen to be young. They are yet in the mere outset of their na- tional lifeif so much as a peculiar national life can be said to have formed itself within our borders. The majority of them, up to a recent period, were set- tlers and emigrants only, who have been too busy in clearing the fields and pre- paring their habitations to have cared for their development in other direc- tions. Every day throws thousands of new settlers upon our shores, who come with all the ill results of the imper- fect socialism of Europe. Every day raises into positions of trust and in- fluence other thousands who have never had the means of culture and refine- ment. What we have done for our- selves, has been done under the pres- sure of a hard necessity, and seldom from choice and free wilL And yet, such as it is, we have no reason to be ashamed of it; on the contrary, there is much in it of which we may reason- ably be proud; and when time shall bring us leisure to indulge our tastes when our outward circumstances shall permit us to give way to the play-im- pulses which are the sources of all the finer artswe may hope to do much more than we have yet done, on a grander scale and in a loftier spirit. The reduction of a vast continent to human uses, and the establishment of a polity which accepts all the races of men, and lifts them out of their bar- barism and degradation into a con- scious manhood, are achievements that compensate for a good many deficien- cies in other respects. They are achieve- ments won, no doubt, at a terrible cost to the finer sensibilities; but they are achievements worthy of the sacrifice, because they have placed us, or are placing us, on a vantage-ground for the future, which, we honestly believe, will enable us so to outrun all the older civ- ilizations, as, in Coleridges phrase, to dwarf them by distance. By our ma- terial labors we have opened the field on an unexampled scale; and by our political struggles, ending in the war which secured the universal rights of 1870.] if- 112 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, human nature, we have raised up the men; and if a broader, mightier, nobler civilization than was ever yet seen does not come out of the opportunity, it will be because God has turned His back upon the earth, meaning that it shall utterly perish. A BCOTCHMANS VIEW. Mr. David Macrae, a Scotchman, who spent two or three years in this country lately, has given his impressions of us in two lively and entertaining volumes, which he calls The Americans at Home. A good observer and impar- tial judge, he is yet very friendly and genial. He appears to have travelled over the whole country, from Canada to New Orleans, not in the beaten routes only, but in out-of-the-way places, and everywhere kept his eyes and ears open, and his heart also in the right place. Some mistakes he undoubtedly makes, generalizations from particular instan- ces, and at times he was chaffed by the sly dogs with curious and improbable stories; but, on the whole, his accounts are faithful as well as instructive. He does not agree with our contributor as to the character of the American girls. While he found some of them fast and some of them too dressy, he says the greater part are highly cultivated, in- telligent, gentle, modest, and thoroughly domestic. As to their personal beauty, he runs into rapture. He says: Amer- ican women are just as gentle, as kind, as agreeable, as affectionate, and as lovely as our own. Their loveliness is of a different typepaler and more ethereaL A beautiful Canadian or American girl comes nearer the popular idea of an angel than any being I ever beheld out of dream-land. Pale features of exqui- site symmetry, a delicately pure com- plexion, eyes radiant with intelligence, a light, graceful, often fragile form this is the vision of loveliness that meets the eye in almost every American draw- ing-room. I never saw, during all my life before, so many fairy forms, which it would have surprised me less to see ~ooting out wings and floating up into the empyrean. Neither does he think our children very much neglected, though they are forward and premature. His chapter on Young America opens thus: Now for a word about the children. The children !as I write the word, how the sunlight seems to burst around me ! how many sWeet voices start from tho silence of memory, and fill the air with melody and laughter !how many bright and beautiful faces, far, far away, gather round me once again! If I could pic- ture forth some of those little ones with whom the happiest of all my happy hours in America were spentif I could reproduce the fun, the romping, the games on the carpet, the hundred little innocent delights we shared in common my readers would see that, after all that has been written about American precocity, the children there are chil- dren stillin most points just like our ownthe joy and the sunlight of every home. Mr. Macrae spent a great deal of time at the South, where he saw much of the freemen,and much of the old society; and, while he deplores the devastations of the war, he is yet hopeful of a speedy recuperation, and a more heartfelt union than ever existed before. His book, in- deed, is so honest, complete, and withal lively, that we should think it would bear republication here. THE MUSEUM OF AET. At length the Metropolitan Museum is organized, under auspices which prom- ise it all the success that the most en- thusiastic lovers of art can desire. Mr. Johnston, the President, enters into the work with characteristic energy and judgment; and the Executive Com- mittee, Messrs. Blod gett, Kensett, Gor- don, H oppin, and Rhinelander, are men whose names are pledges of earnest and judicious work. At the time we write, no less than 121 associates have been reported, and probably the remaining 119 or most of them will be elected at the next meeting of the Association. The money and the men are ready, and the work, we trust, will be pros~ ecuted with an unflagging zeal. Let 1870.] EDiTORIAL NOTES. 113 the design for the building be pre- pared at once, the building itself be- gun, and negotiations for the various art-collections that are to be comprised in the place, opened. The able report of the Executive Committee shows that several of these collections may be had to form a nucleus, while others, no doubt not yet known, will in due time be dis- covered. The trustees have ratified the re- port of the sub-committee, and will prepare at once for a grand Loan Exhi- bition, which will probably be opened in the Spring of 1871, in a fire-proof building to be erected for this special purpose. This will undoubtedly be ac- complished on a thorough and compre- hensive plan, which will secure a collec- tion far more extensive and of a much higher character than any hitherto at- tempted in this country; and many of the works of ai~t thus collected will be sooner or later transferred to the perma- nent museum. Perhaps the pleasantest days or weeks, as it may bethat one passes in London, are those spent at the South Kensington Museum, which is organized somewhat on the plan of the one pro- posed for this city. Its resources of instruction and amusement are almost endlessand that for nearly all capaci- ties and all tastes. Whatever mankind has done in the way of the decorative and fine arts, has some representative or model there in the courts or cloisters, while the galleries are hung with many of the most characteristic specimens of British art, from its earliest day to the present time. Cartoons, carvings, pot- tery, enamels, marquetry, mosaics, and glass wares, alternate with statues and paintings, so that the eye is satiated with beautiful objects, until the feet refuse to carry one further through the long corridors. New York has nothing of this kindnor, indeed, any point of attraction to render it a desirable resi- dence for strangers during the winter. In Paris, the casual visitors, drawn thither by the gallerics and theatres, are reckoned by the hundred thou- sand. A NEW SeIENCE. A friend of ours, writing a critiqu.e of a great French thinker, some years ago, suggested that universal analo- gy~ would yet be found a very prolific method in the investigations of science. No one, he said, can have studied nature with any degree of thoroughness, without having perceived that her sys- tern is one of ascending repetitions ; that she is a process of phenomenal variation implicated in a permanent unity; that each part of an organic form is a miniature reproduction of its whole; that every higher organization, in some way, carries forward with it the inferior organization; or, as Goethe expresses it, Wie Alies sich zum Gauzen webt Ems in dem Andern wirkt und lebt. What was thus dimly indicated, Mr. S. P. Andrews, of this city, has been for many years endeavoring to realize. In a little book called the Primary Sy- nopsis of Universology, intended as a popular introduction to a larger work in press, he claims to have discovered the law of unity, or rather of differentia- tion, in the universe. At the first glance, it seems an enormous pretension enormous even to ludicrousness and absurdity. Yet, in the sense he means, it is not an impossible thing to do. As the two-dozen letters of the alphabet will express all the words or combina- tions of words that the English intel- lect can or will invent; or as the nine digits, with a cipher, can be made to express every possible complication of the infinite series of numbers, so there may be a formula of law that will de- scribe every conceivable change in the forms and successions of the phenomena of the world. Whether Mr. ~Andrews has discovered this secret, we are in- capable of saying; neither our studies nor our time enable us to pursue the subject sufficiently to give an intelli- gent opinion of it; indeed, he has in- volved his explanations in such a fearful heap of technicalities and new words (necessary, perhaps), that we have got but a vague sort of notion of his work- 114 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, ing-principles; but we have been im- pressed by his exceeding ingenuity, his learning, his perseverance, and his quiet enthusiasm. Many of his distinctions and correspondences are very striking indeed, and they who are fond of such inquiries will find a new and interesting, as well as important, field of research opened to their minds. THE tIPPER-CRUST MOB. At a recent election in this city, nomi- nations to important municipal offices were offered to several distinguished and worthy citizens under auspices which insured their election. They were, in nearly every case, declined. But had the gentlemen any right to decline? Individually, there may have been good reasons for their conduct; but, in gen- eral, a withdrawal from the active du- ties of politioal life is a grave derelic- tion of duty. Mr. Mulford, in his book on The Nation (which we hope to review at length some time), has a striking passage on this sort of offence. Quoting Hegels remark, that the mob in a nation is the force which acts with- out or apart from the organization of the whole, he says that there may thus be an ignorant or a learned moba mob of men of fashion or men of science; but the spirit is the same, and, in its sever- ance from the organic people, the same essential vulgarity. Caius Marius, who denounces the crowd in Rome as a de- tached and disorganized rabble, ex- claims, Go! get you home, you frag- ments! and those who, in the conceit of culture, or of wealth, or of higher interests, or of spiritual endowments, withdraw from the normal political ac- tion of the nation, are obeying the im- pulses of the mob, and are as the very fragments for which the Roman patri- cian felt such unmeasured scorn. HAWTHORNE IN HIS WORKSHOP. We doubt if our country were ever better served abroad than by Haw- thorne, who was Consul at Liverpool, where the efficiency, however, was not in his routine and business perform- ances, but in the impression he must have made as to the kind of men the Republic sometimes nourishes and em- ploys. His incomparable ,genius, hi8 high and pure character, and his mod- esty and simplicity of manners, must have gone far to correct the habitual conception of Englishmen as to the characteristics of his remote and not much-loved relative beyond the sea. He has done much, on the other hand, to correct and enlarge our notions of the sturdy inhabitants of the old paternal home. His power of accurate external, as well as internal, observation, his love of nature, his keen insight into the heart of life of all sorts, his fidelity to his own emotions, and the clear, lucid, charming style in which he conveys what his eyes have seen, render his work about England perhaps the best we have. The Passages from English Note- Books, just published by Fields, Os- good & Co., is a continuation of the same work, or rather th~ same work in undress, where we have the impressions he received, fresh as they were set down at the time, and not as they were after- wards elaborated for criticism and the public. They are, in a double sense, therefore, valuableas records of what he saw and heard, and as uncommon revelations of his own rare and weird spirit. As we read his pages, we get many sudden glimpses of the mysteri- ous spiritual laboratory in which the Twice-Told Tales and Marble Fawns were wrought. They are, also, alas! the best that we ~re likely to have, as Mrs. Hawthorne, the editor, intimates in a preface that no biography of him is ever to be prepared by those most competent to undertake the task. She trusts to his works, and to the Notes that have been and are to be published, as the best illustrations of what he really was. Meanwhile, the following analysisof his temperament (written to dispel the often-expressed opinion that he was gloomy and morbid) will show us what we have lost by this decision. He had, she says, the inevitable pensiveness and gravity of a person who possessed what a friend of his caTh ed the awful power of insight; but his mood was always cheerful and equal, 1870.1 EDITORIAL NOTES. 11~ and his mind peculiarly healthful, and the airy splendor of his wit and humor was the light of his home. He saw too far to be independent, though his vivid sympathies and shaping imagination often made him sad in behalf of others. He also perceived morbidness wherever it existed, instantly, as if by the illumi- nation of his own steady cheer; and he had the plastic power of putting him- self into each persons situation, and of looking from every point of view, which made his charity most comprehensive. From this cause he necessarily attracted confidences, and became confessor to many sinning and suffering souls, to whom he gave tender sympathy and help, while resigning judgment to the Omniscient and All-Wise. THE FENIAN IMPOSTURE. Once more the ill-advised and crimi- nal designs of the Fenian sect have come to a disastrous end. Some lives have been lost, a good deal of money spent, many a poor fellow seduced from his home and his labor, and for what? To liberate Ireland by the subjection of Canada? Was there ever a more pitiful practical blunder? With the wrongs and sufferings of Ireland every feeling heart sympathizes; but how are they to be redressed by a petty and desultory warfare upon innocent British subjects three thousand miles away? Are the French, the Scotch, the Irish, the English settlers in Canada, responsible forthe mis- deeds of the imperial Government? Can they help what their remote rulers have done, or are doing? Even suppose these Fenian raids successful: would they res- cue Ireland from the grasp of England? The whole conception of the thing is to the last degree absurd, and it is to be hoped that we shall hear no more of these abortive and miserable riots on the frontier. FINIS CORONAT OPtS. The end crowns the work emphati- cally in the case of Mr. Bryants trans- lation of the had, of which the second and last part is before us. It has been carried through, from the outset to the conclusion, from the initial invocation to the goddess, who is supposed to in- spire poets, to the pouring out of the last drop of the red wine in mighty Hectors burial-rite, with the same spirit and force of conception, and the same exquisite beauty of execution. Considering that the poem in the origi- nal embraces twenty-four books of more than a thousand lines each, one had a right to expect that it might flag to- wards the end, even in the hands of a younger man than Mr. Bryant. But we confess that we cannot detect anywhere any signs of haste or carelessness, or of that weariness of the labor which is apt to grow upon all of us when we have bent our minds for any length of time upon an allotted task. Though Homer himself sometimes nods, we do not discover that his translation has caught any of the momentary contagion. The god who even overcame Jupiter, in such interesting circumstances, on the heights of Ida, has failed to touch the lids of our poet with his heavy dews, and he sings to the end in the clear, lively, beautiful voice with which he began. His success is marvellousmar- vellous as a mere feat of intellectual perseverance, but still more so as an instance of conscientious fidelity to ones~ own love of excellence. Nowhere has Mr. Bryant allowed himself to show the great task which he had set himself to do. We are not prepared to say that this is the most faithful translation of Homer that has been made into the English, for we have not compared it with the original. But we do feel free to say that it is by far the most beautiful. The ocean-like roll of the old Greek hexameter is, of course, lost in our blank-verse; the fresh, naive, fervid, cleaving vigor of epithet in which the old bard of Hellas is the master even of Shakespeare, we do not find in our more worn and familiar language; but whatever was graceful in him, whatever was delicate, whatever was poetical, sim- ple, lovely, touching, his American pupil has given us in the new tongue with an almost equal grace and charm. Chap- man comes nearer to the Greek, no doubt, in a certain ruggedness of man- 116 PUT~AM8 MAGAZITIK~. [July, ner; but then, Chapman is often too rugged; Cowper has occasional fine lines and fine phrases, marred by singularly clumsy and stilted inversions; and Pope, though always smooth and harmonious, is as rarely faithful to the matter as he is to the manner; whereas, Mr. Bryant, we think, is uniformly sustained, uni- formly simple and idiomatic, and uni- formly graceful and true. Many of his lines are so happily expressed and turn- ed, that they print themselves at once upon the memory; and the narrative, though not so rapid and strong as the original, is sufficiently vivacious to carry the reader along with ever-growing in- terest. One tires easily of the older translations, but we have not found this to be the case with Mr. Bryants. THE ODIOUS GREEN AND WHITE. We visited, not long since, a pretty little village in a neighboring State, which, in its local position and circum- stances, reminded us very much of Strat- ford-upon-Avon, in England. There was the same broad sweep of green fields, the same graceful windings of a river, and the same distant glimpses of blue hills rising in the far horizonbut the houses l Well, the most of them were constructed in good taste, and were pleasantly set in their borders of foliage and flowers. The architects, the carpenters, and the gardeners had done their work with intelligence, and gene- rally with taste; but the painters, alas I seem never to have heard of any har- monious tints or felicitous blendings and contrasts of coloringof nothing, in short, but an odious green and white. All the surfaces were a blinding white, and all the blinds and shutters a fla- grant green,nothing more harsh, more repulsive, more crude, more utterly at variance with every dictate of good taste than the green and white boxes, which pained the eye to look at in the bright summer sun, and which filled the heart not with a feeling of pleasure arid repose, but with somewhat of un- easy indignation. Why should the sweetest and loveliest of rural nooks be stained and desecrated by these glaring daubs of incongruous color? If the owners of them have not sufficient cul- ture to select some gentle neutral tint, some tender gray, some cool brown, with the necessary shadings in each case, why do they not consult a profes- sional architect of competent skill and judgment? LITERATUREAT HOME. THE History of English Litera- ttfre has yet to be written. Among those who have attempted it may be mentioned Craik, whose bulky volumes are intelligent and painstaking, and Mr. Henry Morley, of whose labors, as they are still incomplete, it is too soon to speak; whatever his merits, however, brevity is not among the number. The better known hand-books of Chambers, Shaw, and others, are as good as could be expected, in view of the popular aim of their compilers. Whether any single author will be found competent to such a History as is neededa History which shall at once instruct the general reader and satisfy the scholarmay be doubt- ed: certain it is that he has not yet ap peared. Thomas Warton had many qualifications for the workmore, per- haps, than were united in any writer of his time, with the exception of Gray, who once contemplated the taskor so much of it as was covered by English Poetryas did Pope before him. Pope could not have accomplished itin the first place, because be was not only igno- rant of his predecessors, but, from the limitation of his talents and tastes, en- tirely incapable of sympathizing with them; in the second place, because he was without that exactness of mind which goes to the making of a scholar. A striking proof of this is his transla- tion of Homer, which Bentley would not allow to be Homer at all, though

R. H. Stoddard Stoddard, R. H. Literature at Home Literature at Home 116-122

116 PUT~AM8 MAGAZITIK~. [July, ner; but then, Chapman is often too rugged; Cowper has occasional fine lines and fine phrases, marred by singularly clumsy and stilted inversions; and Pope, though always smooth and harmonious, is as rarely faithful to the matter as he is to the manner; whereas, Mr. Bryant, we think, is uniformly sustained, uni- formly simple and idiomatic, and uni- formly graceful and true. Many of his lines are so happily expressed and turn- ed, that they print themselves at once upon the memory; and the narrative, though not so rapid and strong as the original, is sufficiently vivacious to carry the reader along with ever-growing in- terest. One tires easily of the older translations, but we have not found this to be the case with Mr. Bryants. THE ODIOUS GREEN AND WHITE. We visited, not long since, a pretty little village in a neighboring State, which, in its local position and circum- stances, reminded us very much of Strat- ford-upon-Avon, in England. There was the same broad sweep of green fields, the same graceful windings of a river, and the same distant glimpses of blue hills rising in the far horizonbut the houses l Well, the most of them were constructed in good taste, and were pleasantly set in their borders of foliage and flowers. The architects, the carpenters, and the gardeners had done their work with intelligence, and gene- rally with taste; but the painters, alas I seem never to have heard of any har- monious tints or felicitous blendings and contrasts of coloringof nothing, in short, but an odious green and white. All the surfaces were a blinding white, and all the blinds and shutters a fla- grant green,nothing more harsh, more repulsive, more crude, more utterly at variance with every dictate of good taste than the green and white boxes, which pained the eye to look at in the bright summer sun, and which filled the heart not with a feeling of pleasure arid repose, but with somewhat of un- easy indignation. Why should the sweetest and loveliest of rural nooks be stained and desecrated by these glaring daubs of incongruous color? If the owners of them have not sufficient cul- ture to select some gentle neutral tint, some tender gray, some cool brown, with the necessary shadings in each case, why do they not consult a profes- sional architect of competent skill and judgment? LITERATUREAT HOME. THE History of English Litera- ttfre has yet to be written. Among those who have attempted it may be mentioned Craik, whose bulky volumes are intelligent and painstaking, and Mr. Henry Morley, of whose labors, as they are still incomplete, it is too soon to speak; whatever his merits, however, brevity is not among the number. The better known hand-books of Chambers, Shaw, and others, are as good as could be expected, in view of the popular aim of their compilers. Whether any single author will be found competent to such a History as is neededa History which shall at once instruct the general reader and satisfy the scholarmay be doubt- ed: certain it is that he has not yet ap peared. Thomas Warton had many qualifications for the workmore, per- haps, than were united in any writer of his time, with the exception of Gray, who once contemplated the taskor so much of it as was covered by English Poetryas did Pope before him. Pope could not have accomplished itin the first place, because be was not only igno- rant of his predecessors, but, from the limitation of his talents and tastes, en- tirely incapable of sympathizing with them; in the second place, because he was without that exactness of mind which goes to the making of a scholar. A striking proof of this is his transla- tion of Homer, which Bentley would not allow to be Homer at all, though 4 LITERATURE AT HOME. 117 readers of literary history, the early copies being both expensive and scarce Messrs. G. P. Putnam & Sons have published a cheap edition, in one vol- ume. We think it will be popular, partly on account of its price as com- pared with the cost of the old quarto editions; and partly because there are one hundred readers whom it will in- terest now to one in Wartons day. Early English Poetry is the specialty of the period, and no one can hope to be a proficient therein who is not familiar with Wartons entertaining gossip about its worthies. The seventeenth century is, in many respects, one of the most notable periods in English History, being, in politics, an epoch of principle and revo- lution, followed by an epoch of interest and corruption; and, in literature, an epoch of brilliancy and decadence. There rises, at its mention, the pedantic James, who is said to have trembled at the sight of a sword, and who could not endure the whiff of a fifewhose reign is stained with the murder of Overbury, and the imprisonment and execution of Raleigh; who might well make Prince Henry wonder how his father could confine such a lord in a cage; the figure of Charles, a model of the exterior of royaltygentle, thought- ful, but neither strong enough nor wise enough to keep his word; the sturdy form of Cromwell, who summed up life as the double duty of serving God and keeping his powder dry; and the sec- ond Charles, saturnine and witty, fa- mous for feeding ducks and fondling poodles, and by no means choice in his selection of mistresses, he admitted that it was a very pretty poem; and how little he knew of the English poets, anterior to Dryden and Cowley, is seen in his conversations, as reported by Spence, and in his worth- less edition of Shakespeare. Gray was scholar enough to have written any thing for which mere scholarship was demanded, but he lacked the continu- ous activity of interest essential to a historian, and, in particular, the breadth of taste essential to the historian of English Poetry. Warton possessed these rlualities in an eminent degree, to which was added a wide range of reading, and the unerring instinct of a poet. It was not a poetical age in which he lived, ~nd he was not its greatest poet; but, ~s far as he went, he was genuine. If his vein was scanty, its ore was at least ~mrethe grains being washed from the rich table-lands of Milton and Spenser. All things considered, it was fortunate %or his fame that Warton undertook to write a history of English Poetry, and it is much to be regretted that he did not live to finish the work. Had he com- pleted it on the scale he commenced, it is not very likely that the ground would have been broken anew by others; as it is, those who followed him have added but little to our stock of knowl- edge in regard to the period he illus- trated. Later researches have enabled them to correct some of his errors, and to elucidate some points left by him in obscurity. But this was to have been expected; for whatever may be the mental endowments of an early or a later historian, the labors of the last ought always to be the best. But what- ever its imperfections, Wartons Hi8tory of English Poetry is a noble monument to the genius of its author, and, in spite of its unfinished character, it must al- ways take a high rank among works of But more familiar than these shadows its class. Upwards of a hundred years royal or otherwiseare the immortal have elapsed since it was first publish- shapes of Milton, Marvell, and Sydney; ed, and while it may not have passed the courtly Carew, and tile elegant through as many editions as could be Suckling, poor, ruined Lovelacesweet- desired, its authority has been of the est of poets and faithfulest of Cavaliers, weightiest. As there has been no recent and the melancholy Cowley, and his edition of Wartonthere is none, in friend Evelyn. We love them all, and fact, that is easily accessible to average Evelyn not the least, although lie was, Who never said a foolish thing, And never did a wise one. 1870.] 118 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, perhaps, the least, if we regard him as a man of letters. But the greatest man is not always the man we love most; for now and then there comes one who wins our sympathies and compels our respect by virtue of certain qualities inherent in himwhich qualities, in Evelyns case, were those of an English gentleman. He lived a long and active life, much of which was spent in public employment; and it redounds to his credit, considering the time, that every part of it will bear the closest scrutiny. He believed in a monarchy, but not blindly, since he not only lived happily through the Revolution by which it was subverted, but, when it was again in the ascendancy, could withstand its abuses of power. Men of all parties trusted him, and their trust was not misplaced. He might have said of himself, almost from the beginning, I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and koown; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honored of them all. And he should be, and is, honored still by those who are familiar with his life and its worka small class of readers, which we hope to see increased and which is likely to increase in this coun- try through his Memoirs, of which Messrs. G. P. Putnam & Sons have re- cently issued a new editiona reprint of the original one, now some fifty years old, and long since out of print. It comprises Evelyns Diary, from 1641 to 17056, with a selection from his familiar letters, the whole forming an entertaining collection of seventeenth century gossip. What Pepys was in his way, Evelyn was in his, the one being the most amusing of lackeys, the other the most accomplished of gentlemen. We accept Pepys as we would a Bice- roni, who is up,~ in the novelties of Londonwho has seen iDrydens last new play, and talked with Charles last new favorite; but we are proud of the society of Evelyn, which is sure to be that of our betters. He can introduce us to, or at least tell us about, Cowley and Waller. Evelyn met WaIler, in the course of his travels, at Venice, in March, 1646: Ha~g packd up my purchases of books, pictures, castes, treacle, & c. (the making and extraordi- nary ceremonie whereof I had been curious to observe, for tis extremely pompous and worth seeing) I departed from Venice, accompanied with Mr. Waller (the celebrated Poet), now new- ly gotten out of England, after the Par- liament had extreamely worried him for attempting to put in execution the Commission of Aray, and for which the rest of his Collegues were hanged by the Rebells. A day or two later they passed the Euganian hills, with which Shelley was so delighted. The wayes were something deepe, the whole coun- try fiat and even as a bowling greene. The comon fields lie square, and are or- derly planted with fruite trees while the vines run and embrace for many miles, with delicious streames creeping along the ranges. July found the party in France: Sometimes we footed it thro pleasant fields and meadows; sometimes we shot at fowls and other birds, noth- ing came amiss; sometimes we playd at cards, whilst others sung or were composing verses, for we had the greate Poet Mr. Waller in our companie, and some other ingenious persons besides. In the following September, Came Mr. Waller to see me about a child of his which the Popish midwife had bap- tisd. Evelyn was very much interest- ed in the Royal Society, of which he was one of the founders, and he wished Cowley to write an Ode in its honor, and against the irreverent wits of the day, of whom Butler was the most effective. But you have numbers and charmes that can bind even these Spir- its of Darknesse, and render their in.~. struments obsequious; and we know you have a divine Hyme for us; the luster of the Royal Society calls for an Ode from the best of Poets upon the no- blest Argument. Cowley complied with the request, but his divine Hymne, while it contains good lines, is not among his best works, being far inferior to the noble Ode printed as the conclu- sion of his essay Of the Garden, 1870.] LITERATURE AT hOME. 119 which was appropriately addressed to the author of Sylva. The first stanza gives us a charming glimpse of Evelyn and his rural surroundings: Happy art thou, whom God does bless With the foil choice of thine own happiness: And happier yet, because thourt blest With prudence, how to choose the best: In books and gardens, thou hast placd aright (Things, which thou well dost understand, And both, dost make with thy laborious hand) Thy noble, innocent delight: And in thy virtuous wife, where thou again dost meet Both pleasures more refined and sweet: The fairest garden in her leeks, And in her mind the wisest books. Oh, who would change the~e soft, yet solid joys, For empty shows, and senseless noise; And alt what rank ambition breeds, Which seem such beauteous flowers, and are such poisonous weeds? Who, indeed? Not Evelyn, at Wolton, nor Cowley, in his little retreat at Chert- sey. And this reference to the pensive poet must close our extracts from Eve- lyns Diary; it occurs among his mem- oranda for 1667: 1 August. I re- .ceivd the sad news of Abraham Cow- leys death, that incomparable poet a5nd virtuous man, my very deare friend, and was greately deplored. 3. Went to Mr. Cowleys funerall, whose corps lay at Wallingford House, and was thence conveyd to Westminster Abby in a hearse with 6 horses and all funeral de- cency, neere an hundred coaches of no- blemen and persons of qualitie follow- ing; among these all the witts of the toune, divers bishops and clergymen. Be was interrd next Geoffry Chaucer and neere to Spenser. A goodly monu- ment has been since erected to his mem- one Who now reads cowleyl If he pleases yet, His moral pleases, not his pointed wit; Forget his epic, nay, Pindaric art, But still I love the language of his heart. There comes to us from Australia an addition to the Colonial Party of England, a scanty stock, which needs more encouragement than it receives, ~and which will one day, no doubt, be more abundant. Strictly speaking, Literature should be judged as Litera- ture, with no reference to extenuating circumstances, either as regards its wri ters or the places and seasons in which they write; but, as we violate this rule in the case of young poets generally, a~d uneducated poets particularly, there is no good reason why it should be ca- priciously enforced ngainst young and comparatively uneducated communities. We intend no disrespect to Australia by this remark, which would apply with equal force to our own Territories: what we mean is, that excellence of the high- est order should be looked for only where men most largely congregatethe great capitals of the world, to which, as they are there most in demand, and best rewarded, genius and talent natu- rally gravitate. When the New Zea- lander is musing over the ruins of Lon- don, Melbourne will have taken its place, and we shall then expect from it, if not another Shakespeare, at least oth- er Tennysons, Brownings, and Byrons. Till their laurels shall have grown, we must be content with wilder chaplets, such as these Leaves from Australian Forests, which Mr. Henry Kendall has gathered, and which make a pleasant little collection. The accomplishment of verse is so common nowadays, that it is not always easy when a new writer thereof appears to at once decide wheth- er he is a poet or a versifierin other words, whether he is merely an imitator of his contemporaries, or whether, be- hind all his imitations, there is a per- sonality which may be called his own. There is imitation enough in Mr. Ken- dallor, to put it less offensively, there is evidence enough of his admiration of Tennyson, Browning, and Poe; but there is more than this, we think; there is something which belongs to Mr. Ken- dall himself. His best pieces are his simplest, and the best of these are col- ored by the life and scenery of Aus- tralia. He has a clear perception of what is most characteristic of its woods, wastes, and waters, and considerable tal- ent for natural description: when he confines himself to what is before him, he is excellent; but when he attempts to be imaginative or fanciful, his power deserts him. His classical pieces, being more ambitious, are less happy. As a 120 PUTNAMs MAGAZINE. [July, sample of his average manner, we copy his Dedication: To her, who, east with me in trying days, Stood in the place of health, and power, and praise; Who, when I thought all light was out, became A lamp of hope that put my fears to shame; Who faced for loves sole sake the life austere That waits upon the man of letters here; Who, unawares, her deep affection showed, By many a touching little wifely mode; Whose spirit self-denying, dear, divine, Its sorrows hid, so it might lessen mine, To her, my bright, best friend, I dedicate This hook of songs. Twill help to compensate For much neglect. The act, if not the rhyme, Will touch her heart, and lead her to the time Of trials past. That which is most intense Within these leaves is of her influence; And if aught here is sweetened with a tone Sincere, like love, it came of love alone. Of the making of many books there is no end, said the Wise Man, and, in our critical capacity, we are painfully reminded of the fact. An- other, less reputed for wisdom, wished that his enemy would write a book why, is not stated, we believe; but whatever his motive, we cannot applaud it; for of books already written, both by our enemies and our friends, there are enough. There are far too many such books as Paris 6~y Sunlight and Gaslight, the joint production of the National Publishing Company and Mr. James ID. McCabe, Jr. We transpose the order, usually observed, on this oc- casion; for, while we can conceive of certain works as written without a view to publication, there are others to which no other object could have imparted even the semblance of vitality. They are manufactured, in the lowest sense of the word, since it is to hands alone we owe them. They imply materials, as fine chairs and tables imply lumber; but the lumber once gathered, the sup- ply answers the demand. We hope, in these cases, that it exceeds it, or will soon; for, to speak frankly, the system which now obtains of publishing by subscription has little to recommend it any way, and nothing that should re- commend it to readers, either as regards the books subscribed for, which are generally worthless, or as regards their prices, which are always exorbitant. Trash at the dearest rate, describes these productions, and the class who are said to part with their money easily, their average purchasers. Exceptions may occasionally occur, but the rule holds good, especially with this dreary mass of verbiage about ~b the mysteries and miseries, the virtues and the vices, the splendors and the climes of the city of Paris. As with the text so with the illustrations, though the French origi- nals are often very spirited. Dr. E. E. Marcy, of this city, is well known as a writer outside of the profession of which he is a distinguish- ed member. His last work, entitled Life Duties, is, as the name indicates, a dissertation on the practical responsi- bilities of men. Treating life as a di- vine gift, for the conduct of which we are under obligation to the Giver, the author presents the duties of our every- day existence in a style as far removed as possible from mere commonplace and dry preaching, while earnestly appeal- ing to the conscience, the good sense, and the experience of his readers. He depicts the evils of our fashionable fol- liesof intemperate habits, of undue love of money, of infanticide in all its phases, of illicit pleasures, and of other violations of the moral and natural laws with the skill, the insight, and the discreetness of a man of the world who has observed much and thought to some purpose. Moreover, he brings into use his thorough knowledge of the physical consequences of fashionable sins and follies. His admonitions have, there- fore, the practical force which the ad- vice of a skilful physician peculiarly has on the minds of those who confide in his professional knowledge. His book is admirably written; filled with important practical advice, and per- vaded by the spirit of one who desires to serve the best interests of humanity. The ilIien who Advertise: an Ac- count of Successful Adventures, together with Hints on the Method of Advertis- ing. (New York: G. P. Rowell & Co., 1870.) A solid and well-2rinted royal octavo volume of 872 pages, and itself a specimen of its theme. It is one sturdy advertisement of advertising. 1870.] LITERATURE AT HOME. 121 None but itself can be its parallel. It really consists of three separate works paged and bound as one. The first is a series of biographical sketches of The Men who Advertise i. e., naturally enough, of those who advertise with G. P. Howell & Co., unless a certain num- ber of sample personages be excepted, useful for their lofty example in the cause. One among these sketches, how- ever, reminds us of the procession which consisted in part of people going the other way. It is a history of Mr. A. T. Stewart, and shows pretty plainly that he did not advertise; he financier- ed. Still, his is a good name to have in almost any list. These sketches con- tain a good many facts and dates about American business biography, and they are, of course (except as excepted), soak- edwith advertising through and through a mere gospel of advertising. There are little didactic chapters and scraps here and there, teachingvery natu- rally, againthat, of this gospel, Messrs. G. P. Howell & Co. are the cheapest and smartest apostles. The record-part is an American Newspaper Rate-Book. This is not a list of the advertising rates of the newspapers, for whom Messrs. Howell are advertising agents. That supposition would disgracefully underrate the shrewdness of these gen- tlemen. It consists of 400 pages of advertisements of newspapers and peri- odicals, in the coursc of which the ad- vertising terms of each are stated. This extremely neat device must clear a hand- some sum over and above the whole cost of the book. When we reflect that the volume itself is to be sold for the sum of five dollars, and also that, in the natural course of events, some of the biographical sketches are pretty free- ly contributed, we are moved to admi- ration. It is an advertisement of the publishers business, not in that form, but in the form of advertisements by their patrons. The third part is a well-arranged, extensive, and convenient American Newspaper Directory, giving the names, days of issue, circulation, & c., of a good list of newspapers and other periodicals VOL. vi.8 in the United States and British Amer- ica, and is a laborious, successful, and useful piece of cataloguing. OTHER BOOKS RECEIVED. The Iliad of Homer, translated into English Blank.verse by Wan. CULLEN BRYANT. II. 8vo. cloth. Fields, Osgood & co. Passages from the English Note-Books of Na- thaniel Hawthorne. 2 vols. l2mo. cloth. Fields, Osgood & Co. Queen Hortense. A Li/e.Picture of the Napole- onic Era. A Historical Novel. Svo. cloth. D. Appleton & Co. Home Scenes and Heart Studies By GRACE AGUILAR. New Edition. l2mo. cloth. D. Ap- pleton & Co. The Caged Lion. A Novel by CHARLOTTE Is!. Yams, author of The Heir of Redclyffe. l2mo. cloth. D. Appleton & Co. Henrietta Temple, a Love Story, by the Right Hon. B. DIsRAELI. Cheap Edition. Svo. paper. D. Appleton & Co. Mommsens History of Rome. Translated, with the authors sanction, and additions by Rev. W. P. DicKsoN, D. D., University of Glasgow. New EditIon, 4 vols. ~2mo. cloth. Vol. lIT. C. Scrib- ner & Co. Elocution; the Sources and Elements of its Power. A text-hook for schools and colleges. By Prof. J, H. McIn.vAsnss, of Pnnceton. l2mo. cloth. C Scriboer & Co. Wonders of Architecture. Translated from the French of M. LEFEBRI. (Illustrated Library of Wonders.) l2mo. cloth. C. Scribner & Co. Lifting the VoW lOino, cloth. C. Scriheer & Co. Poems. By DANTE GABRIEL Rosssrrs. Authors edition. l2mo, cloth. Roberts Bros. Salmonia; or Days of Fly Fishi sip. with some account of the habits of fishes belonging to the ge- nus Salmo. By Sin HOMPuRY DAVY, Bart. From the 4th London edition. l2rno, cloth, Illus. Roberts Bros Consolations in Travel; or the Last Daye of a Philosopher. By Sin Huuvnax DAVY, Bart. From the 5th London edition. lOmo, cloth, Ilins. Roberts Bros. Superstiiion & Force, Essays on the Wager of Law, the Wager of Battle, ihe Ordeal, Torture. By HENRY C. LEA. 2d edition revised. l2mo, cloth. H. C. Lea. A Treatise on the Ohristian Doctrine of Mcerri. age. By HUGH DAVY EVANS, LL.D. with a biographical sketch of the author. lImo, cloth. Hurd & Houghton. Only a Girl; or a Physician for the Saul. A Romance; from the German of Wilbelnilne Von Hitlern, by Mrs. A. L. wIsTER. J. B. Lippincstt .& Co. 122 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, LITERATURE, ART, AND SCIENCE ABROAD. The Annals of an Eventful Life, by George Webbe Dasent (Hurst and Blackett, London), is praised en- thusiastically by the Quarterly Ileview, with extracts which seem to justify its favor; and has rapidly passed through four editions. The Emile of the Nine- teenth Century, by the admirable poet and essayist, M. Alphonse Esquiros (Paris, Librairie Internationale), is high- ly commended, both as an imaginative story and as a pleasing picture of early education in England. Sidney Bel- Jew, a Story, by Francis Francis (Lon- don, Tinsley), appears to have been con- structed by an inexpert writer, but con- tains spirited and instructive sketches of manly sport in Scotland, evidently from life. Mr. Anthony Trollope began a new story, Sir Anthony Hotspur, in Afaemillans 3lagazin.e for May, but a prophet is needed to say whether any incomplete work of this unequal writer will be good or bad. But Mr. Trollope is no longer content with novel-writing; he aspires to be known as a scholar and an interpreter of the classics, and the next volume of Ancient Classics for English Readers(Edinburgh, Black- wood & Sons) is to be his account of Julius Ca~sar. Garibaldis Rule of the Monk, so severely handled by the crit- ics as a work of art, seems to have suc- ceeded well enough to encourage the old bero to try his hand at another novel, and Cantoni, the Volunteer, is to be published at once. On the whole, the German novelists seem to contribute more, just now, to the worlds amuse- ment than those of any other nation. Julius Rodenbergs Von Gottes Gna- den, ( By Gods Grace,) a story of Cromwells time, is thoroughly good, in manner as well as in substance, and, though twice as long as an average English novel, will doubtless be trans- lated ~nd become a favorite. It is at once a remarkably good story and t~ true picture of the times it treats. Gus- tav Freitags Life of the Baden states- man, Karl Mathy, has much of the in- terest of a romance, though it is accept- ed as a faithful biography. Daniel von Ktiszony, a Hungarian dramatist of local celebrity, publishes a German novel, en- titled 1872, A Romance of the Fu- ture(Leipzig, Pardubitz), in which he shows exactly what the political history of Europe is to be for the next three years, and, among other events, assures us of the annexation of all the South German States to Prussia, and the coro- nation of the king of Prussia at Frank- fort as Kaiser Friedrich VI. Karl Ferdinand Gutzkow is per- haps best known in this country as the author of such tragedies as Uriel Acosta, or of such strong and mor- ally loose novels as Wally, written in his Werther Period. But his genius has deepened and widened with the years, and, at home, a new work from his pen is an event of universal interest. He has recently published two volumes of Pictures from Life ( Lebensbil- der, Stuttgart, 1870), containing five sketches and novels, the most important of which, with the same title as Spiel- hagens well-known Through Night to Light, is a story of the Eighteenth Century in England, a period of which the author has made a special and suc- cessful study. This novelette is now published in English, also, by Tauch- nitz, Leipsic, in his Collection of Ger- man Authors; and a new novel by Gutzkow, The Sons of Pestalozzi, is also announced as ready, but has not yet reached New York. That Henri Tame is a great critic and a great teacher of critical principles, no reader of his English Literature or of his Ideal in Art will question. But we must rub our eyes clear, really to believe that these two stout octavo volumes De lIntelli

C. T. Lewis Lewis, C. T. Literature, Art, and Science Abroad 122-128

122 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, LITERATURE, ART, AND SCIENCE ABROAD. The Annals of an Eventful Life, by George Webbe Dasent (Hurst and Blackett, London), is praised en- thusiastically by the Quarterly Ileview, with extracts which seem to justify its favor; and has rapidly passed through four editions. The Emile of the Nine- teenth Century, by the admirable poet and essayist, M. Alphonse Esquiros (Paris, Librairie Internationale), is high- ly commended, both as an imaginative story and as a pleasing picture of early education in England. Sidney Bel- Jew, a Story, by Francis Francis (Lon- don, Tinsley), appears to have been con- structed by an inexpert writer, but con- tains spirited and instructive sketches of manly sport in Scotland, evidently from life. Mr. Anthony Trollope began a new story, Sir Anthony Hotspur, in Afaemillans 3lagazin.e for May, but a prophet is needed to say whether any incomplete work of this unequal writer will be good or bad. But Mr. Trollope is no longer content with novel-writing; he aspires to be known as a scholar and an interpreter of the classics, and the next volume of Ancient Classics for English Readers(Edinburgh, Black- wood & Sons) is to be his account of Julius Ca~sar. Garibaldis Rule of the Monk, so severely handled by the crit- ics as a work of art, seems to have suc- ceeded well enough to encourage the old bero to try his hand at another novel, and Cantoni, the Volunteer, is to be published at once. On the whole, the German novelists seem to contribute more, just now, to the worlds amuse- ment than those of any other nation. Julius Rodenbergs Von Gottes Gna- den, ( By Gods Grace,) a story of Cromwells time, is thoroughly good, in manner as well as in substance, and, though twice as long as an average English novel, will doubtless be trans- lated ~nd become a favorite. It is at once a remarkably good story and t~ true picture of the times it treats. Gus- tav Freitags Life of the Baden states- man, Karl Mathy, has much of the in- terest of a romance, though it is accept- ed as a faithful biography. Daniel von Ktiszony, a Hungarian dramatist of local celebrity, publishes a German novel, en- titled 1872, A Romance of the Fu- ture(Leipzig, Pardubitz), in which he shows exactly what the political history of Europe is to be for the next three years, and, among other events, assures us of the annexation of all the South German States to Prussia, and the coro- nation of the king of Prussia at Frank- fort as Kaiser Friedrich VI. Karl Ferdinand Gutzkow is per- haps best known in this country as the author of such tragedies as Uriel Acosta, or of such strong and mor- ally loose novels as Wally, written in his Werther Period. But his genius has deepened and widened with the years, and, at home, a new work from his pen is an event of universal interest. He has recently published two volumes of Pictures from Life ( Lebensbil- der, Stuttgart, 1870), containing five sketches and novels, the most important of which, with the same title as Spiel- hagens well-known Through Night to Light, is a story of the Eighteenth Century in England, a period of which the author has made a special and suc- cessful study. This novelette is now published in English, also, by Tauch- nitz, Leipsic, in his Collection of Ger- man Authors; and a new novel by Gutzkow, The Sons of Pestalozzi, is also announced as ready, but has not yet reached New York. That Henri Tame is a great critic and a great teacher of critical principles, no reader of his English Literature or of his Ideal in Art will question. But we must rub our eyes clear, really to believe that these two stout octavo volumes De lIntelli 1870.] LITERATURE ABROAD. 123 gence (Paris, Hachette et Cie.) are his. An attempt at a complete and philo- sophical psychology is bold in any man, and seems rash in one who has given so many years to art, history, and general literature. But M. Tame looks on his former studies as the vestibule to this, and thinks the step from history to psychology is but that from the par- ticular to the general, from the instance to the law. The historian writes the psychology of the molecule or the group, and what he does for the past, roman- cers and dramatists do for the present. I have worked fifteen years at these special psychologies; I now attempt general psychology. And this he calls the work to which he has given the most thought. M. Tames previous contributions to philosophy were acute as criticisms, but did not suggest the patience or the breadth necessary to work out independently a theory of mental action. We have but read enough of this elaborate treatise to feel that it is too rhetorical for science; that the author believes some strange reports without conclusive proof; and that he is often ready to mistake an apt and beautiful illustration for an argument; but his pages are always clear, and usually fresh, vigorous, sug- gestive, and entertaining. The poetry of Tennyson is a sore stumbling-block to translators. The in- tense impression much of it makes on many minds, tempts strongly to the re- production of it in another language; and the Horn Tennysonianse, recent- ly published by a few English scholars, in which they give Latin and Greek ver- sions of some striking passages, show, at least, that Greek is better fitted to be the medium for his peculiar style of thinking than any modern tongue, ex- cept his own strictly Attic English. There are German, French, and Italian translations of many of his poems; some of the German ones tolerable, none of the others. But the In Memo- riam has never appeared in a German dress, until now, that a translation, un- der the title Freundes-Kiage, by Rob- ert Waldmiiller-Duboe, is announced by Griming, in Hamburg. But until we see a rendering in some other modern language of such lines as these, High wisdom holds my wisdom less, That I, who look with temperate eyes On glorious insufficiencies, Set light by narrower perfectness we shall believe them, and a large part of the In Memoriam, to be the ex- clusive possession of our mother-tongue. The Woman-Question threat- ens to set the world by the ears. But in Europe the form it takes is certainly more promising than here; for, apart from Mr. John Stuart Mill, nearly all the agitators there regard the new move- ment as designed mainly, if not solely, for the industrial emancipation of women, by which they seem to mean simply a wider range of employment and better wages for those women who have to support themselves. To this extent, in- deed, most of the economists of Europe have taken extreme ground for reform, which is certainly far more needed in every European nation than it is here; and popular attention has been drawn to the subject in Germany, France, Den- mark, Italy, and even in Spain and Rus- sia. But nowhere has more been done to convince public opinion of the real necessity for improving the condition of workingwomen, than in Sweden, where FrederikaBremer opened the dis- cussion a generation ago, and her dis- ciples, Rosalie Olivecrona and Sophie Lejonhufvud, keep it very lively now. But their ways are not the ways of the Sorosis and the Revolution. Delmoni- cos lunches and womans rights conven- tions are alike unknown to them. In- stead of all this, they have quietly pub- lished a journal, devoted to instructing mothers in their educational duties, and stimulating the zeal of women and girls for knowledge and practical skill in the arts of lif& ; and this journal they have tried to bring into every Swedish house- bold, with such success that it has stead- ily grown in circulation through its ten years of life, and is now one of the best known of Scandinavian publications. At first almost alone in their views, the e~itors have been gradually joined by a 124 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [July, strong party in the State, until now theirs is the popular side; the Govern- ment is with them; large sums have been spent in providing schools to give as good an. education to girls as that open to boys; and so many trades and professions are opened, or opening, to them, that Sweden may be said to stand next to the United States in the variety and freedom it gives to female labor. Printing, book-binding, photographing, engraving, watch-making, book-keep- ing, and lithographing are among the kinds of business now regularly prac- tised by women in Sweden; many offices of state have been declared open to 1)0th sexes indifferently, and the two universities have recently, by order of the Government, made their courses of medical instruction accessible to women on precisely the same conditions as to men. The new German Womens Advo- cate (Der Frauenanwalt, edited by Jenny Hirsch, Berlin, Otto L& iwenstein), of which the first number appeared in April, is devoted to the same cause of improving the position of women by improving women themselvesand is remarkably silent on political ques- tions. But Mr. Mill has just stirred up the London meeting of his Womens Suffrage Society~ to believe that the danger of government here is not from tyranny, but from indolence, and that public life needs women to give it pur- pose and energy. At Turin, Signora Giulia Molino-Colombini has found en- couragement enough in her special work of reforming and extending the educa- tion of women to lead her to prepare a new and much enlarged edition, in three volumes, of her essays on the sub- ject ( Sulla Educazione della Donna), which is said to be one of the best works the present agitation has evoked. Napoleon III. has met with a new rebuke from the Pope. It is well known that he long since purchased a considerable part of the Aventine Hill, on which the palaces of the Ctnsars formerly stood, and has been digging it out, making important discoveries every month. During the last year the great portico of the palace of Tiberius has beefi exposed, and adjoining it lies Do- mitians palace; but just here Napole- ons purchase ends. He had recently negotiated for the next property, and the deed was ready, when the Pope in- terfered to forbid the sale, and is about to make all excavations impossible, by building a new church on the ground as it now lies. Rome has nearly four hun- dred churches already, and plenty of room for more; but the contrast be- tween French energy and science in an- tiquarian researches, and the poor old Popes pretense of excavations close by, with a superannuated invalid or two shovelling away indefinitely, is too strik- ing to be permitted; and then, the eld- est son of the Church has not shown zeal enough in these days of infallibility. The exhibition of the Royal Academy was opened in London at the end of April, and, with it, all the throng of minor galleries that regularly sur- round it as satellites. Among names fa- miliar to Americans, Sir Edward Land.. seer, Mr. Daniel Maclise, Mr. J. F. Lewis, Mr. T. Faed, and Mr. Elmore, are said to be fairly represented. But Mr. Millais, in a number of striking works-said to be the best he has ever paintedseems to attract more attention than any other English artist; while M. G6r6me, with his Jerusalem, and still more with his Death of Marshal Ney, quite bears off the honors of the exhibition, al- though M. Alma-Tadema also contri- butes to it. Mr. Holman Hunt is not represented here, but has two landscapes in the exhibition of the Society of Faint- em in water-colors, which are said to present wonderful and entirely new ef- fects of light. The opening of the Academy was saddened by the sudden death of Mr. Maclise, one of its most eminent members, who had, indeed, de- clined both its presidency and the hon- or of knighthood from the OZown. The Paris salon is this year quite desert- ed by many of the first French artists, such as Meissonier and G~r6me; and a picture by R~gnault is the centre of at- traction, representing Salome, just after the dance which bought John the Bap- tists head. 1870.] LITERATURE ABROAD. 125 Dr. H. C. Bastian has not yet published his promised work on the Origin of Life, which will contain all the information yet collected on the vexed question whether organisms are ever spontaneously produced out of in- organic matter. But he foreshadows, in a letter to the London Times, his owa indgment on the question, by reporting some startling experiments lately made by himself and Dr. Frankland. They prepared some solutions containing or- ganic matter, and hermetically sealed them in vessels containing no air what- ever; they then submitted them to a great heat, above 3000 Fahrenheit, for four hours, in order to destroy any germs which might be supposed to be present; yet, after a few weeks, under favorable conditions, living organisms, many of them of kinds wholly tin- known before, were found in the solu- tions. A full account of these experi- ments, and of the precautions taken in them to prevent error, is promised to the Royal Society. The study of mental time, personal equation, the speed of the nerve-fluid, or the velocity of thought, is fascinating to many inqui- rers. Let an observer watch for a ball to fall, and himself try to drop another at the same instant; it will take time for the impression on his eye to reach his mind, for the perception to set the will in action, and for the volition to move his muscles, and the question is, How much time? Ingenious methods of inquiry have been devised, and some curious results obtained, which are sum- med up by Mr. M. Foster in Nature. For instance, it has been proved that, in a frog, the volition goes from the will to the muscle at the rate of about nine- ty-three feet a second; but in a man, at least one sixth faster. Sensations ap- pear to travel to the brain at greater speed, but this is not quite certain; on the average, the whole mental time required to receive an impresslon by the sight, and give a voluntary signal of it, is about one sixth of a second; but by the touch, one seventh of a second is sufficient. But if the mind has to dis criminate between two signals, more than a seventh of a second additional is necessary. There is much zeal shown by British astronomers in preparing to ob- serve the eclipse of the sun of next De- cember, which will be total on a line running from Odemira in Portugal, through Cadiz, and a Jittle north of Gibraltar, to Syracuse and Mount Etna in Sicily. It is proposed to send out at least two expeditions, one of them to Gibraltar, supplied with a full appara- tus of telescopes, stereoscopes, & c., and with not less than twenty skilled ob- servers in each, and to make the co- rona, which has been seen around the sun in former eclipses, and is still a mys- tery, the principal object of attack. The astronomer of the Spectator, how- ever, regards this problem as solved, and predicts that the observation will establish his view, that the corona and the zodiacal light alike are produced by innumerable meteors revolving around the sun, forming, perhaps, myriads of streams, ench moving in a long ellipse, like that ascribed to the meteors of our August and November showers. Mr. Alfred IRussel Wallaces new essays ( Contributions to the Theory of Natural Selection, London, Mac- millan) are charming, and though less of their contents is new than was ex- pected, we have rend evcry page of them with deep interest. Their most remarkable feature is the authors refusal to admit that natural selection will account for all the changes necessary to produce man from lower forms of life. He holds that mental modifications largely take the place of physical ones in man, and that his social nature leads to cooperation, by which the strength of each helps all; so that the survival of the fittest ceases to be the control- ling physical law of life, and natural selection is held in check. In his opin- ion, therefore, the development of man must have been carried on under some other laws as yet unsuspected. The recent famous sale of the Demidoff collection of pictures has been fqllowed by a sale of the same Princes 128 PurxAMs MAGAZINE. [July, cabinet of curiosities and antiquities, in which the furious rivalry of pur- chasers has made folly-prices more sur- prising than those of the Dutch portraits. Lord Dudley, for example, bought an incomplete set of S~vres porcelain, each piece containing a bird in medallion, upon a Turkish-blue ground, for 355,000 francsa little more than four hundred dollars ia gold for each piecealthough the painting is said to be in rather bad taste, and is certainly not of the best age, having been made in Louis XV.s time. A pair of secretaries in elaborate buhl-work, in an intricate and inelegant style, brought 111,000 francs, and small- er articles prices proportionately high. Two new volumes of poetry have appeared in London within a fort- night, to which the critics pay more than common respect Poems, by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (F. S. Ellis), and Poems, by Charles Kent (Tuck- er). Most of Mr. Kents volume had been published before, but all, or nearly all, of Mr. Rossettis is new. We have not yet seen either; but the extracts in critical journals show merit in both. These poets may be regarded as belong- ing to the reaction against the long- dominant influence of Tennysonthe reaction which Swinburne and Morris have already carried so far; their effect is always to say, with simplicity and directness, what they mean to express; while Tennyson is forever suggesting many things which he does not say. It is this endless suggestiveness which makes the Laureates verses infinitely dear to minds which, by habit and tem- per, brood and linger upon them; and repulsive to so many, who feel that the true way of poetry is the direct and narrow way to the heart, on which all that is artificial is out of place. It is a sign of the times in literature that the reaction grows sharper every day, and that Mr. Tennyson~s influence, for the time, is on the wane, though his name is still the first among living British writers, and its immortality assured. Mdlle. Valentine de Cessiat, a niece of Lamartine, has undertaken to collect and edit his letters and unpub lished manuscripts. ~he requests all persons who have any of them, to lend them to her for this purpose. Like Cice- ro, of whom he was in so many respects a copy in little, Lamartine was too vain and too vacillating for lasting success in public affairs; but like him, too, he had brilliant talents, high culture, and most amiable traits in social life, all of which appeared to the greatest advan- tage in his private correspondence. The publication of parts of this will con- tribute more to his fame than all that he has himself given to the world since the History of the Girondists. On December17, 1770, Beethoven was born at Bonn, and the whole Ger- man nation looks forward eagerly to the celebration of his centennial festival, at the close of this year, when every pro- duction he has left will be heard again from Strasburg to Warsaw. Hermann Schmids drama, Beethoven, which was presented in Vienna last winter, is going the rounds of the German thea- tres with general enthusiasm, and new interest is felt in every reminiscence of the great meisters life that books can furnish. The festival in December will be observed in every town in Germany. The four hundredth birthday of Albert DOrer will be celebrated on May 21, 1871. It is proposed to bring to- gether in Nuremberg every known work of his at that time, as far as possible, and the kind consent and aid of those who own his productions is expected; but where they cannot be moved, it is proposed to collect copies, and espe- cially photographs of them, so that the festival shall offer as complete a re- presentation as can ever be seen of Dii- rers productive powers. The rugged old Socrates of art is the fashion now, and the two rival lives of him publish- ed last year have greatly stimulated curiosity to understand his great gen- ius; so that Nuremberg will doubtless be a centre of attraction for travelling Americana next Spring. The profound interest felt by the people of Germany in the scientific inquiries of the day, is best shown by the great success of the series published 1870.] LITERATURE ABROAD. 127 by Lfideritz, Berlin, entitled Collec- tion of Scientific Lectures ( Samm- lung Wissenschaftlicher Vortrhge ), which has now reached its ninety-sixth number; a discussion by the great phy- sician and anthropologist, Rudolf Vir- chow, of Skulls of Men and Apes. This series far exceeds, in scientific value, any thing ever attempted before, for popular reading, in any language. It has included contributions from many of the foremost scientific men of Eu- rope, and upon almost every subject in the whole range of the sciences, capa- ble of being made intelligible to the general reader. For instance, The City Government of London, The Speed of Feeling and Will, Alco- hol, The Historical Growth of Free Trade, The Origin and Genealogy of the Human Race, and The Value of Machinery in Agriculture, are some of the subjects treated in the numbers which happen to lie before us now, and all of them are handled with full know- ledge and marked abilitymany of them in a lively and telling style. Another, on the Glacial Epoch of the Earth, by Alexander Braun, has just appeared, and has been welcomed very widely as the most complete and intelligible sum- mary yet made of the proofs that there was such an epoch, and an interesting sketch of the formation and nature of glaciers. Of course, the author does not enter on the vague theories now so much discussed, as to the astronomical or geographical causes of the earths great winter, but confines himself to accepted facts. There are indications that the scientific passion which has already seized the people of Germany, and which is now breaking out in France, as the wonderful sale of the Wonder- Books the three last years shows, will soon extend to England and America. Herr Max Wirth, Director of the Swiss Statistical Bureau in Berne, has set an example to similar officers in all nations, by compiling, with the assistance of leading statesmen and economists throughout the republic, a general statistical and descriptive ac- count of Switzerland. It is thoroughly classified, and as complete in all depart- mentspolitical, industrial, geographi- cal, and economicalas it could be made within a reasonable bulk; and was so eagerly welcomed at home, that the whole edition printed was taken up there immediately, before any copies could be exported. It will, of course, be confirmed hereafter, and will be a standard work of its kind and date. The Belgian Government has just published a census of the population, showing that, in Belgium, 2,041,781 people speak only French, 2,406,491 speak only Flemish, while 308,561 speak both. It seems strange that so few should learn two languages, both in constant use about them; but the par- tisans of each tongue are accused, by the friends of the other, of denying all knowledge of the latter out of pride. Of course, both languages are badly corrupted. The Flemish Volkiblad of Brussels gives the following as a sam- ple of the French spoken by some of the people of that city: Cest moi parlez franz6 et me promenez a Ia verte allez. Le fiamand et troz bas. This is encouraging to those who want to make French not only fashionable, hut universal. The vexed question, whether crime ought ever to be punished with death by law, has never been discussed with a more conscientious effort to get at the bottom of it than of late in the North German Parliament. After any number of speeches and pamphlets, it was decided, in May, that the death- penalty should be retained for delibe- rate murder only. The delegates, and others, are now collecting and publish- ing what they have found to say on the subject; but the arguments are very similar to those already familiar to our debating societies here. Count Bismarck seems likely to be the subject of as many books as Napoleon Ill, himself; although the Prussian statesman has enly become a prominent historical problem since 1866, when the literature of the coup detat already formed a library. The two men are often compared; but his bitterest 128 [July, PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. enemies do not express the same per- sonal hatred and contempt for him which the reds of Paris feel towards Napoleon. This may be due, in part, to German phlegm, which disapproves systems, where the passion of a Frenchman de- tests their author. The last work on Bismarek, however, is by a Frenchman, M. J. Vilbort, and the German critics generally declare that he shows an in- timate acquaintance with their national life and politics which would be credit- able in a native, and is unprecedented in a foreigner. A farmer in Savoy the other day plowed up a brohze statue, which was sent to Geneva. It proved to be a Bac- chus, of the best period of classic art. The figure is nine inches high, and is con- sidered equal to the Faun and the Nar- cissu~ of Pompeii. Anton Vollert has completed, in six volumes, the collection of the most interestiug criminal histories of all coun- tries ( Criminalgeschichten, Leipzig, Brockhaus), which he began three years ago. The cases rendered have been se- lected with great care, and all the in- formation that could be obtained upon each of them has been condensed with great industry, and with some spirit and taste. All the world finds a cer- tain fascination in such tales, and it is certainly more wholesome to read true ones, than the utterly false inventions of most of the novelists who deal largely in crime. Vollerts book will well bear studying by fiction-writers, and much of it is as strange as their wildest fan- cies. The German theatre is active and productive this year. A new tra- gedy, by Finkenstein, The Last of the Tarquins, has had a great success in Breslau. Arthur Muller has been em- ployed to translate the Electra of Sophocles and the Cid of Corneille, and to adapt them for the Court Theatre in Munich. Spielhagen, whose novels have lately sprung into fame in America as well as in Germany, has just finished a new drama, Hans und Grete, or Jack and peg,7~ made out of his novel of the same name, which has been re l)resented with great success in Ham- burg. Mendelssohns St. Paul has been turned into an opera at Diissel- dorf. But the great musical question of thc~ day is, whether Wagners Meis- ter~ingeris or is not a great success. It has been heard in Vienna and several smaller cities, and, more recently, With great scenic splendor, at Berlin. Opin- ions are violently at issue. Some of the classicists actually hiss it as worth- less; and General Count von Moltke, when the second act closed, was heard to remark, It is sometimes as bad as this in the Chamber of Deputies; but then, we can demand the close of the debate there 1 On the other side are the musical pre-Raphadlites, who hail it as one of the first fruits of the great- est revival of the art the world has yet seen. It is rumored that Wagner is to be invited to Berlin, as Court Musical Director. In Paris, the stage is mainly given up to the ballet, of which even Don Quixote is made the burden, the rueful knight fighting his windmills and tossing in his blanket, to music by Du- grato, and to flimsy operas, one of them founded on, or at least named for, Cla- rissa Harlowe. But at the Gymnase, Victorien Sardons new drama, Fer- nande, has succeeded brilliantlyfar beyond any of his former works; though rather because of its loose moral tone, apparQntly, than of its artistic merits and has called up reminiscences of a few years ago, when Sardou was a poor adventurer in a bare garret, who needed a vivid imagination to describe a good dinner. He is now rich and popular, and is this year the fashion. A favorite way of working with him has been to get up stirring and even tragic scenes in real life, especially with his mistresses, of whom he has had a long series, in order to dramatize them for the public; and these original ideas, he confesses, have sometimes practically cost him dear. At the Nouveautes, a comedy by the Countess de Chabrillon, called lAm6ricaines, and representing the crooked course of love between a Yan- kee beauty and a French marquis, at- tracts some attention.

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Putnam's monthly magazine of American literature, science and art. / Volume 16, Issue 32 Emerson's magazine and Putnam's monthly G.P. Putnam & co. New York August 1870 0016 032
edited by T. M. Coan Coan, T. M., edited by Love in Fiji. II. 129-140

PUTNAMS MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, SCIENCE, ART, AND NATIONAL INTERESTS. VOL. YI.AUGUST1870.No. XXXIL LOVE D{ FIJI. MY EARLY LIFE AMONG THE CANNIBALS. IL WAIMATA led the way far up the hill- side to a grassy hollow, surrounded on three sides by luxuriant duo and tutui trees. A little stream of water ran down brightly from the hillside at the edge of the wood; before us and far below, through the opening in the for- est, appeared the clear and tender blue of the ocean. The storm had now quite passed over, and the far-extending se- rene was undisturbed; but a multitude of soft cloud-shadows followed each other over its surface, casting into a momentary shade the white lateen sails of canoes that were now putting to sea again, or allowing them to shine with momentary splendor in the unsteady sunlight. We had reached a great ele- vation above the sea; and the horizon seemed to stand up at our own level, a barrier of blue ocean that reached to the sky, and seemed to blend with the at- mosphere itself. Fleecy cumulus clouds appeared as if resting upon the remoter ocean; and the nearer islands, with their central lagoons of mirror-like water, their plumed belts of palni and cocoanut trees, and their white fringe of beating su: f, seemed to float not less lightly upon the quiet sea; while the faint outlines of the most distant land were spread like films of delicate tint upon the airy distance. How can I ex- press the beauty of that placid realm of blue! We paused long, gazing, hand in handgazing into that refulgent domain of color and mysterious dis- tance. Waimata was the first to speak. How I wish we were there! said she, pointing to one of the remotest of the islands. Would you leave Fiji I I asked. 1] Not for any one but you. Dearest I would gladly tah~e you thither; but how shall we escape? re- turned L Ah, yes; how shall we escape? My father would kill us if we should be captured in our flight. Perhaps we can go to that near island, said she, point- ing to a beautiful atoll that lay about fifteen miles to the leeward. It is impossible, I answered. The matani (trade-wind) would soon bring the war-canoes of the king after us. Waimata mused a moment. At last she said: Intend, In the year 1870. by U. P. PUTNAM & NON. in the Clothe Offlee of the Dietriot Ceort of the U. 0. for the Seethrrn Diutrict of N.Y VOL. VI.9 180 PUTN& 1s MAGAZINE. [Aug. I can tell you where we can go safe- Where is it, mata-manu (bird-eyed one) ? To the Enchanted Island. But where does the Enchanted Is- land lie? We can hardly see it, returned she, indicating the remotest land in the southern horizon. It is far from here. But it is where lovers go. Tell me about it, said I. I have long wanted to know where the Lovers Land could be Tfound. Then Waimata sang to me, without other answer, the following verses which I have divested as far as possible, in translating, of the Fijian idiom, though I have accurately preserved their rhythm: WAIMATAS SONG. BEEP in the bosom of the western ocean, Parted by long leagues of sweeping billows, Far from any sight or dream of mainland, Lies my dear island, my Enchanted Island. Thither, when sweet hours like this unloosed, Restless flies my fancy, like the lenggi ; * Land of palm and coral, land of summer, Lovers land, and not a land of sorrow. There the surf on hollow reefs glows fire-like, Renewing aye its brilliance and white splendor, Bursting with the impatience of the ocean, Yet never bearing any man to danger. I hear its mighty breakers thunder shoreward, Sounding the restless tale of trampling surges; I see the rushing, splendid, sunlit billows, Followed and wreathed with prism-tinted vapors; Gemmed from base to crest with shining bubbles, Alive and radiant, restless, glorious, mighty, Row they storm the slant beach, burst in frenzy, And dash upon the green grass of the margin! Those bright waves bring never aught but pleas- ure; By that sweet and azure sea no sorrow, Pain, or death, is wrought on loyal lovers; Raste we hence to that Enchanted island! She ceased her sweet improvisation; her eyes were full of tears. She drew my head upon her bosom, and caressed it. 5;. My white rose, said she, they will kill you if you do not follow their cus- toms. It is not safe for you to live here after to-day. Dear Waimata, answered I, do Man-of-war hawk. not fear that I cannot manage them.. And how is it possible to reach this is~ land you tell me of? It is really such an island, she re- turned quickly, replying, woman-like rather to my thought than to my words My cousins Olona and Pupuli have been there. And who lives there? Only lovers. And how are other people kept from finding their way to this place? Nani-uni (the god of lovers) directs their canoes elsewhere. None but real lovers can possibly learn the way to the island. And what do they do there? All that Nani-nui teaches. They love. But do we not love each other al- ready? It is true. But there we should do nothing else but love. Then we should starve, returned I. It is better to stay here and be well fed,rather petulantly; for sometimes it makes men peevish to have love made to them; and I was a lad of that per- verse sort. Yet I did not speak in mere moodiness. The events of the morning had wrought so powerfully upon me, that my very nature seemed to have suffered under their dark influence. I even felt a desire to leave this sweet scene and company, and to return to the revelling below. Waimata instantly perceived the change in my tone. She cried out with terror, Ah I do not say so. If you stay on this island, you will become like the nganga rnaoli (native men), and do like them. But they will take me away from you, and make me marry Pohaku (the absent chieftain) when he returns from his voyage. Even while she spoke I was startled by a sound that seemed premonitory of all that she feared. The long blast of a conch-shell rang out faintly from the valley below. We listened, motionless. It was repeated; but we made no an- swer, hoping that we might escape dis- covery. But our track had been traced 1870.] LOVE IN Fiji. 131 in the grass; we were followed; and present, that they may learn the sweet- soon a sonorous voice from a nearer ness of the feast! glade called our names distinctly, and Poor Waimata trembled violently as cried, To the high-priest! Return these words were pronounced, but she immediately! did not speak a word; and I fervently Let us not go, said Waimata. We hoped that her quick feminine wits shall see terrible things. would devise a way to save herself; at We will hide ourselves, I answered, least, from a forced participation in But, as I spoke, we heard, at the same these terrible ritcs. She could not instant, the sound of heavy steps that plead the religious interdict which for- approached our retreat, bade women to eat in the presence of Waimata trembled. Why were we men, for that edict her father had just pursued and abruptly recalled in this suspended. What could she do? manner? No jealous notice had been As for myself; I did not care so much. taken heretofore of our association; we Certainly, I could not disobey the com- had never avoided being seen in each mand of the priest, for I was alone, and others company, and were accustomed quite in the nativcs power. They might to wander alone with as much freedom add me to their horrible bill of fare as Paul and Virginia in their lonely is- without the slightest ceremony or corn- land. Was this an ominous summons? punction. Why should I not comply We knew that we could not now, if unhesitatingly with the priests com- we would, conceal ourselves; and we mand? Yet, my first impulse was to dared not pause. We rose reluctantly try to escape unobserved. I noticed, from the soft grass, and turned our steps however, that a certain tattooed and down the hillside; and shortly we met, brawny warrior kept constantly near as he ascended the flowery path in me, and closely eyed my movements. search of us, the herald with his conch- He was the kings runnera man who shell. had traversed on foot, bearing a mill- E viti.i,iti (Hurry)! said he; and tary proclamation, the distance from the added, The cooking of the men is kings town to the farthest village of nearly done. The high-priest enjoins the island, not less than twenty-one that you appear at the feast, and bring miles, in two hours and a half. It was his daughter with you. He has released impossible to escape from such an agile you, turning to Waimata, from the guard as this. I rcsigned myself to the t,alju. inevitable. It was a relief to find that there was No sooner had Waimata and I rejoin- no apparent anger in the summons. ed the group of revellers, who filled the Nor did I regret that they obliged me grove of tutui-trecs ncar the temple, to appear at the banquet. At the least, than the opening of the ovens began. Waimata and I must look on during its These were trenches, ten feet in length progress. Should we be compelled to and about five in depth, filled to the join in it? level of the earth with heated stones We retraced our steps together, silent, and packages of flesh and vegetables, as if leaving Eden, though each with a the latter thickly wrapped in folds of different reason. To her, the return the giant banana-leaf; and heaped over seemed longer than the ascent of the with a mound of fresh earth to retain mountain; to me, the reverse was the the heat during the cooking process. case. Vegetables and meats prepared for the As we entered the place of the oven; table in this way have a peculiar fresh- the herald blew a powerful blast upon ness and delicacy of flavor, which does the conch-shell, and then cried out, not survive the ordinary methods of Behold the son of the white man, cooking. This culinary process is call- and the daughter of the great priest! ed the tumau; and under this name it The great priest commands them to be i~ known and practised, not only in the 132 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. Fiji Islands, but throughout the extent of Polynesia. At last I was to see it applied to the dark purpose of canni- balism. The Fijian natives prefer hu- man flesh, cooked in this manner, to any other food, and actually discriminate its flavors with the gusto of experienced epicures. The head-cook walked among the earth-covered ovens, and snuffed the va- pors that oozed from their thick caps of loam and banana-leaves. When, at last, his experienced nostril recognized the precise flavor which indicated that their contents were sufficiently steamed, he gave a signal to a number of stalwart men who were called, from their office, ulini earth-worms, or borers. These advanced to the fuming ovens and rapidly threw off the earth, employ- ing for the purpose a kind of scoop or shovel made of the large mottled tor- toise-shell. Then, snatching the upper- most layer of still hot stones from the steaming packages below, and dexter- ously tossing them aside, they removed, with gigantic wooden knives, the great packages of food from among the heat- ed stones. Under the shade of the nearest cia- manu and tamarind trees mats had been spread upon a layer of fine-leaved fern- fronds; and large wooden dishes, carv- ed from the trunk of the duo-tree, were made ready to receive the repast. Not less than two hundred of these platters were laid; and vegetables, yams, sweet potatoes, the kalo-root, and a few bread- fruits, were already brought on in small- er wooden dishes. Then the conch-shell sounded again, giving the signal for the feast. The food-bearers, twenty in num- ber, received from the borers, upon smooth slabs of tamarind plank, the packages of banana-leaves. Marching in single file, they bore these to the banqueting-mats. With a dexterous movement they freed the packages of their contents, and deposited them, steaming hot, upon the great platters. Meanwhile, the people were seating themselves, or rather reclining, quite in the ancient Roman fashion, upon the edges of the mats. A perfect Babel of chattering confusion prevailed; and, when the food-bearers appeared, the clamor was doubled. Yet there was no longer any turbulence or disorder. The savages were now in the best spirits. Waimata left me at this stage of the proceedings. Going to her father, she engaged him in earnest conversation. He frowned, then smiled. What she said I could not hear; but I saw at a glance that she had prevailed upon him to replace her under the abu, which forbade her to join in the feast. She~ turned to rejoin me, but a gesture from the priest deterred her. He motioned her away. She obeyed reluctantly, and I followed her with my eyes as she passed into the depths of the wood, taking the path that led toward my fathers house. When she was nearly out of sight, she turned around, unobserved except by me, and, taking from her brow the fillet of ohics blossoms that she wore,. she kissed it and tossed it with a light gesture toward me. By this act the Fijian lover invokes good luck at part- ino~ In a moment she was lost to sio~ht 0~ and I was left without a friend among the savages. I looked back upon the feast, which was already spread. The larger part of the bodies, in fragments, filled heap- ing-full the great platters. Yegetables and fruits, but in comparatively small quantity, were provided. The smell of the steaming banquet came up strongly. I shudder to remember that the perfume seemed a dreadful delight to me, tired, hungry, and worn after the fierce excite- ments of the day. The natives fell to eating like hungry wolves. I still retained, however, suffi- cient repugnance to cannibalism to have declined the repast, had I been left to my own choice. But the messenger from the high-priest came to me, bear- ing a fork of peculiar construction, and elaborately carved in a very hard but light wood. The great priest sends you Na Un- dre-undre (the name of his fork), and bids you use it in honor of the kings god. 1870.] LOVE IN Fiji. 133 At the same time another messenger brought me, upon a small wooden plat- ter, a fragment of the revolting food. There seemed to be no escape for me. The natives ceased eating, and looked at me. I hesitated, and, for a moment, there was perfect silence. At that mo- ment an approaching step was hearda quick, imperious step, that crushed the tamarind-twigs sharply under foot. All eyes were turned in the direction of the new-coiner. He emerged from the thicket at a point directly opposite to where I sat; and, before any one else, I recognized him, and shrank suddenly away in time to avoid his notice. It was my father! He burst indignantly upon the scene, his eyes fixed now upon the orgies which he, like me, now beheld for the first time, and now upon the high-priest who presided over them. Fresh from the docile nations of Tonga, my father had not learned the danger of defying the Fijian temper. Entering abruptly into the presence of the revellers, he re- proached them eloquently; he blazed with indignation; and the very rash- ness of his daring abashed them. Cast- ing a piercing glance upon the princi- pal chiefs assembled, What means this wicked revel? demanded he. Is it true, then, that the men of Fiji devour their brothers? Perfectly true, replied one of the borers, rattling his necklace of sharks teeth as he spoke, and smiling grimly. Are there no pigs upon the island, continued my father, that you must eat this shameful food? Do not the hills produce the ohia, the maia (plan- tain), and the si-apple? Are there not fish in the sea, and poultry in your gar- dens? In the crop of the bread-fruit and the dab utterly dead, that you should kill and eat your countrymen? You speak truly, said the borer; but these things are scarce, and bakolo is sweeter and more plentifuL Wretched men, rejoined my fath- er, do you not know that the Great Spirit is displeased when you kill men and devour their flesh? The people murmured sullenly. I trembled for my father as he addressed these severe words to such heady sav- ages. I saw the executioners handle their clubs uneasily, and feared lest my father should fall a victim to their sud- den rage, as other missionaries in the South Seas had already fallen. But my fathers fearless air combined with the now somewhat quieter temper of the savages to lessen the danger. While all eyes were turned in the direction of the new-coiner, I found an opportunity to slip away unobserved; and, conceal- ed behind the trunk of a large pandanus- tree, I watched the varying passions that swayed the revellers. They glanced restlessly at each other, evidently not a little annoyed at the unwelcome intru- sion upon their banquet. A grim smile of humor played upon the face of the chief-priest. Perhaps the ngan~ict e (foreigner) is hungry, said he. Let him partake of the balcobo, and he will not be so angry with us. Had my father appeared half an hour earlier upon the scene, the savages would have forced him to share their feast, or slain him in anger at his re- fusal. But one approaches wild ani- mals with comparative safety after they have been fed. My father did not lose his self-possession at the proposition of the priest, nor did he tempt the canni- bal temper by abruptly declining it. Forgetting his sternness, he answered, I thank the priest for his invitatioi. But how can I like that which I have never learned to like? Balcobo! lakobo! cried a hundred tumultuous voices. Let the foreign priest eat Iakolo! There is abundance here to suit his appetite! Their wild eyes kindled again at the thought of having a white man so com- pletely in their power. The friendly king was absent upon an expedition against a distant island, and the party of the high-priest had absolute control during his absence. They were hostile to my father, for the kixg had said, These priests make me more trouble than they are worth. Let us see wheth- er the English religion will not serve 134 PUTNAMS MAGAZI~ F. [Aug. better; and he had extended hearty aid to my fathers work. Two natives, who stood near me, spoke as follows in an undertone: Did you ever eat liakolo liaori (white mans flesh) ~ Once, in the island of Milo. There we captured a boats crew of English- men during the last vzdai uca (rainy moon). We had a great feast. Imagine the alarm with which I heard this dreadful aside. There could be but one fate in reserve for my father. I saw the borers and the earth-worms glance at their implements; and, at a signal from the priest, two of the exe- cutioners and a cook left the company and went toward the place of ovens, as if to prepare the fires for another vic- tim. I was about to betray my conceal- ment, and to intercede for my fathers life; but at that moment his voice rose clearly above the tumultfor the sav- ages had continued their clamor since the priest desired my father to eat. Agreed, said my father ; I will eat 7aJcolo, if you still insist, after I shall have spoken to you. But first let me tell you a story, and by that time I shall be hungrier than I am now, and you will have a fresh appetite. The Fijian is not without a sense of humor; and my father, long practised at dealing with the Polynesian savages, knew that the surest way to disarm their temper was to approach them with hu- mor. His utmost address, however, was needed here. His life would cost the priesta party nothing more than the fine of a few whales teeth. Addressing his dangerous audience, my father told them stories of the Ha- waiian Islandsa country in which the Fijian feels great interest. For these savages, though separated from their comparatively civilized kindred by an interval of three thousand miles of ocean, regard the little kingdom of the latter as the very ideal of power and prosperity, and look upon their ruler as the most puissant of princes. We are glad to hear, said the piest, at last, of Hawaii, of the great king Kamehaemha, and of the foreign Judge,* who brought the laws to the kingdom. But do they never cat men in Hawaii ? They do not, and never did. If they had eaten men, they would never have had one king over all the islands, and a great Judge from lands beyond the sea. No people can be powerful who eat up the bodies of their own citi- zens. But the Hawaiians eat dogs! Certainly. A warrior cannot live upon dogs. He must eat the flesh and the noo (spirit) of men. But suppose there were no need of fighting? said my father. Then we might, perhaps, live with- out lakolo. This was a more important admission than I had ever heard from a Fijian warrior. He is not the only Polynesian savage who ranks human flesh as the most important article of his food, and uses every pretext to obtain it. He manifests no shame and practises no concealment with regard to this cus- tom. His religious precepts, the habits of his society, and even his filial and fraternal duties, are construed as justi- fying this hunger, and cannibalism is ingrained in a hundred ways into the very fibre of the Fijian. When, there- fore, I heard the high-priest admit the possibility of abandoning cannibalism, I felt that my fathers words had pro- duced at least a part of their intended effect, and that he had escaped the dan- ger of immediate violence at the hands of the savages. The Fijian, in his ordi- nary mood, is a sufficiently amiable sav- age. Yolatile, social, irritable, voluble, he may be called the Frenchman of the Pacific. To suit the talkative mood of his au- dience, my father turned his speech into the form of a dialogue, which, if not quite Socratic, was entirely to his pur- pose, for it diverted the attention of the natives. Their principal men plied him with questions and dilemmas, arguing * Chief-Tostice lee, who framed the Coastitu- tion of the hawaiian Government. 1870.] LovE ix Fiji. 18~ the advantages of their own customs Never fear, said he; I ate my and the demerits of those which he ad- father at the last full moon. What the vocated, and drew the most glowing Lakembans saythat old men are bad pictures of the felicity which awaited eatingis all nonsense. In two months the Fijian warrior in the land of spirits. you will learn to like their flesh. My father replied with great eloquence What have you in,that pot? I and readiness; yet I well remember that asked, willing to change the subject of the savages then seemed to me to hold conversation. their own in argument. I was at heart The head of the tall chief. It is to as much Fijian as English. make a drinking-bowl for the priest. The debate happily closed without a He must have a big stomach (opunu~) quarrel. Evening approached, and the who can empty such a goblet as this. savages began to scatter to their houses, And he sought to detain me, in order promising to think upon the questions to explain the processes by which he that my father had earnestly urged upon proposed to convert the cranium into a them. They presented him with a sacerdotal drinking-bowl. whales tooth in token of respect, and But I had seen enough of horrors for illogically proceeded to execute a war- the nonce; a mental reaction, indeed, dance and to sing a tumultuous heathen was commencing; and, making my es- song in his honor. cape from the presence of the grim offi- Occupied with their latest impres- cial, I was soon well on my way toward sions, the natives made no search for my fathers house. me; and,when I saw them pacified, I The sun was sinking, and the cool felt assured that they were the most in- shadows of the grove began to gather teresting people in the world. When around my pathway. All was quiet. their song was finished, my father made The few houses that I passed were quite a prayer in the Fijian tongue; the say- deserted, and the whole population of ages, sitting among the wrecks of the th~ island had apparently flocked to- feast, seemed to listen with interest; ward the place which I had lately left. but I slipped rapidly away, hoping to As I pressed homeward, the only audi- reach home before my prolonged ab- ble sounds were the shrill chirping for- sence should be remarked. I made a est-voice that the natives think to be slight ditour in order to avoid the place produced by the treeshells, and the of the ovens. But, as I passed the l*ure, deep murmuring rote of the surf upon I met, to my dismay, one of the earth- the coral reef. worms, a gigantic and ferocious native Suddenly a light figure bounded from of Lakemba. He was busily heating the thicket, and fell eagerly upon me, water in a large earthenware caldron almost as a leopard springs. It was that was already simmering over a brisk Waimata. fire in the edge of the wood. Dearest, said she, why have you Why do they not bring out your waited so long? I feared that they had father? he cried. The ovens are slain you. ready, and the water boils. They would not let me come away, They will not hurt him, I answer- returned L They wished to make my ed, trembling, for swift-coming death father and me eat with them. seemed written in the face of the fright- I saw him going thither, and dread- ful tattooed savage. ed that he might never come away. Ah I then we will eat him another Then I hid myself to watch for you. day, observed the earth-worm. The The patient girl had lain in ambush men of Lakemba are often hungry. ever since the feast; she was faint and I must have betrayed renewed alarm worn after the excitements of the day. at these words, for the wretch at once Have you waited here all the after- proffered me a kind of cannibal com- noon for me I asked I. fort: Yes, dear. I dared not go further 136 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. from you; and she kissed me with tropical kisses, and w~lcomed me back as one returned from the grave. Since that time I have known the friendship of cultured women; yet I nev- er felt a thrill so exquisite as of this wild hour, when this deep-eyed girl greeted me in the deep Fijian wood. From the heart of danger I came, at a step, to the very heart of love. The forest was utterly still, and the cool gloom was pierced by a level lance of sunlight that shone across the ocean into its depths. A scarlet bird sailed along its track, and, wavering in the air an instant be- fore us, settled at Waimatas feet. It is the Lovers omen, cried she. That bird only appears to those who are soon to be made very happy. We rose, and went together a few steps farther to my fathers house. It was empty and silent. If we could only live here togeth- er! said I. Your parents would not permit it, answered Waimata. Alas! no. They wish me to love no one here. They wish me to .go across the waters (to England) before I love. Perhaps we could go across the waters to the Enchanted Island! I fear there is no canoe strong enough or swift enough to take us there, said I. But I secretly resolved to learn what I could concerning this Lovers Island, in which she evidently believed so firmly. This, however, was no time to discuss projects of ffi~ht Waimata was faint b and hungry; she had fasted since the morning. We will think of it, said I, as I began rummaging the calabashes and wicker-work closets in which our pro- visions were wont to be stored. I found some ri-apples, oranges, ba- nanas, and a cold chicken which my mother had providently set away against my return from the mountain expedi- tion, upon which she supposed I was gone, for I had got into a bad way of referring all my absences to the hills; and one might have supposed, listening to the accounts which I rendered of my frequent disappearances, that I was giv- en to long and lonely meditations upon their summits, after the manner of Wordsworth in the Lake district. I spread the viands before Waimata, and, seating myself beside her, we ate heartily. It increased my already rav- enous appetite to see Waimatas hun- ger. The chicken, the fruit, and a large goblet of cocoanut-milk, speedily were not. Polynesian lovers find no disen- chantment in the act of eating. To-morrow, said I, we will de- cide upon a plan for escaping from this island. But now I expect my father, and he must not know that we have been together. Do not tell any one, if you love me, that we have seen each other to-day. If I love you I said Waimata. Do you doubt it? I never doubt it. How much do you love me? re- turned Waimata. More thami tongue can tell. Waimata, child-like, wished me al- ways to make this answer to her. Un- like the women of civilization, she did not iiisist upon variety in the assurances of my affection. I used to say to her, Must I always repeat a mect pupu~i (a foolish formula) to you? I like it just as well the thousandth time, she would answer, as I liked it the first time you said it. We clung together in a parting em- brace, her prodigal dark hair~ min- gled with mine, her warm kisses mixed with mine. I know not how long we might have lingered together, indulging our (iream of youth arid love, our mur- inured words concerning a future in Waimatas Enchanted Island, but sud- denly I saw a shadow moving in the room. We started up. It was the shadow of a mans head, moving against the eastern wall. I glanced out of the door. The level beams of the sunset poured up through a long westward avenue of trees, just touching the placid blue waters beyond the reef; the sun was about to sink be- 1870.] LOVE ix Fiji. 137 aind them. The light made an aureole of my fathers gray hair, as he walked slowly, with bended head, toward his house. His shadow had returned be- fore him. Fly instantly, said I to Waimata, or we are discovered !through the eastern door! Meet me at sunset, to- morrow, in the great palm-grove!, She passed from me as swiftly as the canoe glides away at the touch of the land-breeze, and vanished through one door but an instant before my father entered upon the opposite side. Well, my boy, said he, what have you been doing to-day? I have been watching the storm; and since then in the mountains. Did you see nothing of what the natives have been doing? I heard a great shouting, and saw the warriors running toward the shore with their clubs; but I went the other way. At that age I held the crude opinion that prevarication was not lying, and that deceit was always wrong. I had not then learned the occasional merit and virtue of mendacity, as when one welcomes a friend who has come pre- cisely at the wrong moment. But no- body, except my father, studied moral philosophy in Fiji. I had saved my conscience; and my father, luckily, was too preoccupied to question me closely. My mother soon entered with my younger brother, having completed her daily visits among the native women; and the little home-circle was reunited at the close of this eventful day. From scenes of the wildest ferocity I was thus transferred at once to the sphere of gentle life. I was again a member of an English family, and the sound of English speech alone met my ears, for in our home the Fijian language was strictly tabooed. Nothing was said among us of the wild events of the day. The short tropical twilight had barely faded out of the sky before I was glad to seek my bed. But, in spite of the days fatigue, I could not rest. Its excitement still boiled in me, and the spirit of the Fi jian braves seemed to have entered in- to my blood. Waimata and the Lovers Island these, too, were themes upon which the changes rang in my brain. How to get the dear dusky maid away from the surveillance, the anxieties, the danger of this savage island? A hundred plans presented themselves; hut I could do nothing without more definite knowl- edge. Toward morning I fell asleep; and, in a dream, I fancied that Waimata and I were living alone upon the island of Nayau, situated upon our northeastern horizon at a distance of twenty miles. The island, though well supplied with fruits, water, and wood, was uninhabit- ed; for the natives regarded it as the abode of the minor gods of their my- thologythe luve-na-wai, or children of the waters. Of these nearly a hun- dred existedwild, goblin-like beings, who came from the sea at stated inter- vals, and occupied this lovely island. Hence it was tabooed a sacred or inter- dicted place; no human foot was allow- ed to land upon it oftener than once a year, and then but for the purpose of depositing an offering of fruit and ani- mals to the gods. Death was the pen- alty of violating, even by fnistake or accident, this ordinance. Upon this fertile, lonely, and lovely island I imagined Waimata and myself living, alone and happy. It was the most vivid of dreams. I had never been to the island, hut its scenery was minutely pictured to me in my sleep; and, unlike the generality of dream-im- pressions, the image remained with me after waking, like the distinctest real- ity. I was skeptical enough to have no fear of the small gods who dwelt there; yet, like the Fijian natives, I believed implicitly in dreams, and I accepted this one as a revelation of my future, and determined to fly as soon as possi- ble, with Waimata, to this solitary is- land. Could we escape thither unsus- pected I was confident that we should avoid pursuit. How should we accom- plish the hegira of love? At sunset I met Waimata in the for- 188 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. est, according to our agreement, and laid my plan before her. At first she objected to the sacrilege which it in- volved, but her heart pleaded eloquent- ly against her fear of the taint, and she finally acquiesced in my scheme. We determined to go by night, when first the quadrature of the moon should be accompanied by favorable winds, thus securing light enough to steer the prop- er course, and enough of gloom to avoid pursuit, in case an alarm should be given. We shall easily get there, said Waimata; and I am sure that we shall never want to come away. Nor had I the slightest fear that the time would ever pass heavily in Wai- matas company. The adventure, too, suited the color of my temperament; for I had inherited from my father something of the daring and adven- turous spirit which had led him from a happy home to the savage islands of the South Seas. The pioneer mission- ary combines, indeed, a strong infusion of dash and romance with the graver purposes that lead him to savage coun- tries. The enthusiasm of humanity might sometimes be overpowered by his privations and his loneliness, were it not for the excitements of the adven- tures upon which he embarks. The sense of power and independence would make Nayau my delightful kingdom, and Waimata should be its queen. I pictured to myself, in short, the most romantic life upon the lonely is- land to which we were going. I had read Robinson Crusoe, in the same well- worn copy which had been familiar to my fathers own boyhood; and with Waimata I fancied myself living year after year in houses of our own deft construction, or in airy perches woven among the branches of the tallest trees, and at once turned my best endeavors to the problem of reaching the land in which I anticipated so much happi- ness. Luckily, it was not a difficult thing to make the voyage to the Island of the Gods. But how to escape pursuit and recapture? It was now the time of the new moon, and it was my earnest desire to reach Nayau within the week. A war was raging between the Lakembans and the people of a neighboring island, the Lakembans having been worsted in several conflicts, both in their war- canoes and during an attempted inva- sion of the enemys territory. This had emboldened the Viti-lomansfor so the other tribe was calledto assume the offensive. It was well known among us of Lakemba, that they contemplated a descent in force upon us within a few days, and that they would most prob- ably land upon our windward coast, coming from the opposite direction to that in which lay the island of Nayau. The effect of this condition of things was to withdraw the greater part of the male population of our island to the windward shore, and to busy them con- stantly in the rude arts of Fijian war- fare. Canoes were building, the land- ing-places were fortified, and guards were stationed along the coast by night, to give early notice of the enemys ap- proach; while all the artificers of the island were busy in the manufacture of spears, clubs, arrows, shields, and slings. This unwonted activity, carried on as it was in that part of the island which had the most to fear from the invasion, left the leeward shores almost uninhab- ited, except by night. The houses stood open and tenantless all day long; the troops of merry girls, that hereto- fore might have been seen every morn- ing bathing their olive beauty in the mountain streams, or frolicking, later in the day, in the tumbling surfthe fishermens fleets, that were wont to dot, with their snowy sails, the breezy bright expanse of the watersall had disappeared; the whole industry and curiosity of Lakemba was concentrated at the point of expected invasion. For though, in these reminiscences, I have dealt so much with the darker sides of the Fijian character, their people, as I have intimated, is a social and mercurial race, making of war a pastime and a spectacle, and possessing hardly any more care for its sufferings, or any more 1870.] Lovu IN Fiji. 13~ sense of the solemnity of death, than the lower animals that seem to be their not very distant kiadred. whey hunt each other, apparently, for the mere ex- citement of the chase. Very few of the Pacific islanders manifest any consider- able development, indeed, in the finer elements of character. Excepting a few remarkable individuals, these na- tions belong to a very primitive phase of growth. It thus fortunately happened that the anticipated invasion withdrew, for a great part of the time, both young and old from the western part of the island, which was left in perfect solitude, on purpose, as it would seem, that I might prepare for Waimata and myself the means of escape to Nayau. A canoe was essential to our flight; but how to obtain a canoe? Had I sto- len one and eloped with the priests daughter, certain pursuit and almost certain recapture would have been the consequences. It was, therefore, neces- sary for me to provide secretly my own canoe; and that was an undertaking of no small magnitude. A canoe of two fathoms in length was the very smallest to which I would dare to entrust our fortunes; nor could I see any safe way of obtaining one except by constructing it myself. The Fijian makes all but his largest canoes from a single trunk; first burn- ing out the principal part of the cavity, and then reducing the sides of the hull, with an adze, to a shell of the required thinness. I had a natural aptitude for the handling of tools, and, as I had often seen the thing done, I knew that, on occasion, I could construct a canoe quite as well as the savage himself. With the navigation of these craft I was, of course, quite familiar. But to build even a small canoe, sin- gle-handed, was, under the most favor able circumstances, a task for several weeks. And as I must work by night, to avoid observation, there seemed little probability that Waimata and I could effect an early escape from~ the island. The possibility, too, of any escape but an early one was quite doubtful, for, as soon as the expected war should be over and wars are brief in Fijithe peo- ple, returning to their homes upon the leeward side of the island, would soon discover my craft upon the stocks, and undo the toils of my navy yard. Still, I addressed myself to canoe- building, not forgetting to supplicate the aid of the more powerful native gods upon my undertaking. On the second day of my explora- tions for the purpose, I found, in a dense grove that extended within two yards of the high-water mark upon the western shore, a trunk already felled by canoe-builders, but long since abandoned on account of a flaw in the wood, which rendered it unserviceable for the large war-canoe that they desired to build. Nearly one half of the wood, however, was perfectly sound; and upon this portion, which was of ample length, I commenced at once to work. I had well-nigh blocked out the form of my canoe with the adze, which I swung lustily on finding the coast clear, until the lateness of the hour warnpd me to r~urn home before my absence should excite suspicion, or the natives, return- ing, should hear the blows of my adze. Upon the next night, after a total of perhaps fifteen hours labor upon my canoe, I met Waimata at an accustomed trysting-place in the wood, and told her of what I had done. She was full of delight; but, after a while, she said, I think I know a better way to get a canoe. I am all attention. Do not work upon your canoe any more until the fight with the Viti-loma people is over. For, on that day, canoes enough will lose their owners, and per- haps we can take one of them for our- selves. And if we get away in one of them, it will not do to leave a canoe half-finished in the wood, for then the people would find out our manao (inten- tion), and will send out an expedition to discover us. It is true, said I. I will wait for the battle. And I concealed, that night, the hull that I had already rude- ly blocked out. 140 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. Waimatas counsel proved wise; for, within five days of this conversation, the Vita-lomans made their attack upon Lakemba. Their fleet numbered, if I remember rightly, sixty-five war-canoes, each carrying an average of about fif- teen warriors, so that the invaders mus- tered nearly a thousand men. The at- tack, however, instead of being made at the eastern, was directed to the southern shore of the island, near the point Mi- milo. A furious battle was fought, which ended in the complete rout of the Viti- lomans. Many of the invading canoes were overset; some effected a landing, but their crews were captured and slain, and not more than a third of the flo- tilla made its escape. In the confusion, as Waimata had foreseen, we found our opportunity. When the fight began to turn against the enemy, I observed the occupants of a small canoe, non-combat- ants, and apparently retainers of the invading prince Thalomba, to be sud- denly panic-stricken. Swiftly paddling toward one of the faster-sailing canoes, which was already turning in fligh~ they deserted their own little craft, an a were received on board of the larger canoe, leaving their own to drift at the mercy of the wind. It was thus borne slowly toward the extremity of the point upon which Waimata and I were secretly watching the progress of the fight. All the natives were absorbed in the m~l~e, and no one but ourselves no- ticed the deserted canoe. No more for- tunate chance could have occurred. I asked Waimata whether she would not like to return home and take what few articles she could remove without fear of their absence being noticed, while I should make prize of the canoe. No; there will be danger that I should be made a captive at home, and prevented from meeting you again. I will go with you now, if you will let me. Agreed, said I. Let us set out for the Enchanted Island this moment. Never was resolve turned sooner into action. Running along the edge of the shore, and concealed by the shadows of the great trees that fringed it, we reach- ed the southern part of the point Mi. milo, toward which the trend of the current wasb now bearing the abandoned canoe. Divesting myself of all clothing except the girdle of native cloth around my loins, I plunged into the water and swam rapidly toward the little craft that was to bear my fortunes. I concealed myself from sight of the warriors by keeping the deserted canoe in the exact line of vision between myself and the nearest Lakemban canoe, which was hardly half a mile distant; for, had the least glimpse of my head appeared to the keen-eyed islanders, I should have been pursued and taken. The water swirled around my shoulders. The long waves lifted me into sight for an instant, and then withdrew me into their hollows. I saw the slate-colored sharp fin of a shark approaching me, cutting its way with a graceful yet ter- rible ripple that seemed the sardonic smile of Death. But I did not swerve from the line I had determined to keep. I knew that the ferocious fish was in pursuit of the scent of fresh blood; and, even if he had turned aside for me, I cared little, for I was in a mood to prefer death to the loss of Waimata. So, steadily holding my course, I reach- ed the empty canoe as the shark over- took and passed me, so near that the undulations frorn his fin came to me, woven among the countless interlacing ripples that fretted the surface of the billows. Still, completely hidden from sight, I did not venture to enter the canoe; but, keeping behind it, I urged it gently with the receding tide, and soon brought it around the point to the deserted waters upon the other side. All had been done as secretly as though I had swam under water. As soon as I had reached the covert, Waimata broke from her concealment, and ran toward me. Waist-deep in the water I received her. The sun set as we entered our little canoe together and turned its prow from the shore. I think it was to a pagan deity that, according to the island custom of departing voy- agers, we offered up a supplication. From our garments of bark-cloth we

Ada W. Adams Adams, Ada W. Summer SOng 140-142

140 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. Waimatas counsel proved wise; for, within five days of this conversation, the Vita-lomans made their attack upon Lakemba. Their fleet numbered, if I remember rightly, sixty-five war-canoes, each carrying an average of about fif- teen warriors, so that the invaders mus- tered nearly a thousand men. The at- tack, however, instead of being made at the eastern, was directed to the southern shore of the island, near the point Mi- milo. A furious battle was fought, which ended in the complete rout of the Viti- lomans. Many of the invading canoes were overset; some effected a landing, but their crews were captured and slain, and not more than a third of the flo- tilla made its escape. In the confusion, as Waimata had foreseen, we found our opportunity. When the fight began to turn against the enemy, I observed the occupants of a small canoe, non-combat- ants, and apparently retainers of the invading prince Thalomba, to be sud- denly panic-stricken. Swiftly paddling toward one of the faster-sailing canoes, which was already turning in fligh~ they deserted their own little craft, an a were received on board of the larger canoe, leaving their own to drift at the mercy of the wind. It was thus borne slowly toward the extremity of the point upon which Waimata and I were secretly watching the progress of the fight. All the natives were absorbed in the m~l~e, and no one but ourselves no- ticed the deserted canoe. No more for- tunate chance could have occurred. I asked Waimata whether she would not like to return home and take what few articles she could remove without fear of their absence being noticed, while I should make prize of the canoe. No; there will be danger that I should be made a captive at home, and prevented from meeting you again. I will go with you now, if you will let me. Agreed, said I. Let us set out for the Enchanted Island this moment. Never was resolve turned sooner into action. Running along the edge of the shore, and concealed by the shadows of the great trees that fringed it, we reach- ed the southern part of the point Mi. milo, toward which the trend of the current wasb now bearing the abandoned canoe. Divesting myself of all clothing except the girdle of native cloth around my loins, I plunged into the water and swam rapidly toward the little craft that was to bear my fortunes. I concealed myself from sight of the warriors by keeping the deserted canoe in the exact line of vision between myself and the nearest Lakemban canoe, which was hardly half a mile distant; for, had the least glimpse of my head appeared to the keen-eyed islanders, I should have been pursued and taken. The water swirled around my shoulders. The long waves lifted me into sight for an instant, and then withdrew me into their hollows. I saw the slate-colored sharp fin of a shark approaching me, cutting its way with a graceful yet ter- rible ripple that seemed the sardonic smile of Death. But I did not swerve from the line I had determined to keep. I knew that the ferocious fish was in pursuit of the scent of fresh blood; and, even if he had turned aside for me, I cared little, for I was in a mood to prefer death to the loss of Waimata. So, steadily holding my course, I reach- ed the empty canoe as the shark over- took and passed me, so near that the undulations frorn his fin came to me, woven among the countless interlacing ripples that fretted the surface of the billows. Still, completely hidden from sight, I did not venture to enter the canoe; but, keeping behind it, I urged it gently with the receding tide, and soon brought it around the point to the deserted waters upon the other side. All had been done as secretly as though I had swam under water. As soon as I had reached the covert, Waimata broke from her concealment, and ran toward me. Waist-deep in the water I received her. The sun set as we entered our little canoe together and turned its prow from the shore. I think it was to a pagan deity that, according to the island custom of departing voy- agers, we offered up a supplication. From our garments of bark-cloth we 1870.] A SUMMER SONG. 141 extemporized a rude sail; a mast was already stepped in the canoe, and in a few minutes we were moving off lightly before a favoring breeze, our prow turn- ed toward tffe sacred island, and as hap- py as Fijian lovers ever were before or since. What bounding pleasure was in that hour! It fell a little cloudy before midnight, and the breeze freshened; but before it became a gale, we had reached the is- land and landed upon its lee, and the dawn broke serenely upon our new life in that romantic solitude. Our flight was unsuspected by either the Christian or the savage parents from whom we had fled, and we were mourned as hav- ing been surprised and carried away captives by some fugitive party of the retreating invaders. But Waimata and I reckoned nothing of the sorrow or of the pleasures that we had left behind; for we had found our Enchanted Island. A SUMMER SONG. I WENT fishing, and so did you, Fair young Kate, with your eyes of blue! Lazily trolling, morning and noon, Dreamily strolling under the moon: On the veranda beneath the vines, Laughingly throwing poetic lines; Thrumming on lightest guitar a tune, Humming of distant sea and lagune, Of love unwhispered and deep despair: Was ever fishing so sweet, so rare? You went fishing, and so did I, (Our angels surely floated by,) Up from the town to the far blue hills, From heat and dust to the cool, pure rills. But no fish came all the summers day To draw my eyes from your face away; And no wish came for a fortune-quest, To draw your heart from its new-found rest. I yearned and watched,till, in glad surprise, A vision of love flashed in your eyes. Oh! we went fishing, you and I, In those long golden days gone by. We went for a summers row or sail, And tremblingly found the Holy Grad; The rapturous splendor still is new, The vision is yet in your eyes of blue. Come sun, come rain, it is all Gods part; We only need hold a heart for heart Through lifes high noon and the dim decline, Sweet wife, forever and ever, mine. 0 142 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. ~Aug YACHTING. A ~A1ITY of us are staying with the Hon. Jacobus Halibut, at his charming country-seat on the borders of the Bay of Acadia. His lawn slopes to the water, and in the cove below lie moored boats of every description; for the Hon. Jacobus is an accomplished sailer, and goes through more work, by way of amusement, than any one but an Eng- lish squire who rides to hounds twice a week. It is breakfast-time, and we linger pleasantly over our coffee and muffins, discussing the chances of the Harvards against the Oxfords in the international boat-race, when the master of the house rises, and, approaching the window of the dining-room, which commands a noble view of the Bay, scans the sky with a scrutinizing glance that takes in all possibilities of wind. Come on!~ he calls. Whos go- ing with me in the yacht? I shall be off in five minutes. I! and I! and I! and II burst from the lips of the assembled company, all eager and excibed in a moment. Well, come, hyper. If you are not ready at once, it will be too late. Boys, run and get the boat off. Wheres my great-coat? Call Jack to unfurl the sails of the yacht. Youd better bestir yourselvesevery body. The ~ who are the nephews of the Hon. Mr. Halibut, spending their holidays with their uncle, fly on the wings of delight; the group of ladies disperse to their rooms, whence they soon emerge in picturesque boating- costumes of water-proof trimmed with gay colors. Then they pause in the hall a moment, to tie great brown veils over frightful hats with immense brims, quite unlike the jaunty little affairs in which they play croquet, and then rush impetuously out upon the lawn. Bring an oar, each of you I roars a stentorian voice down the beach. We gentlemen, who have exchanged our morning-coats for round-abouts and wide-awakes, offer to relieve the ladies of their share of the burden, but they are resolved to assist; so every body shoulders an oar, or a boat-hook, or a tiller, or some piece of boat furniture, and we march in procession down to the shore. I find these long yacht-oars unwieldy. First I knock off somebodys hat,and, in apologizing and drawing back the blade suddenly, the handle, which ex- tends farther behind me than I had sup- posed, nearly knocks down one of the boys who is following me with a coil of rope. There has been a great skurry and commotion up-stairs during the dress- ing process. Voices were calling from the different rooms, Oh! will he be gone? I cant find my hat! Have you seen my veil and gloves? What shall I do? I shall never be ready in time 1 Servants have been rushing about at the orders of Mrs. Halibut, who is superintending the put- ting up of provisions, which now make their appearance in great covered ham- pers, packed close, with necks of bot- tles and uawij~ldy edges of parcels pro- truding from the corners. With great haste and expedition we have all hurried through our prepara- tions; so that, on tearing frantically down upon the beach, I am surprised to find half the party sitting tranquilly on stones or logs that are scattered over it, while our group is straggling along at different angles to avoid hitting each other with our obtrusive burdens. Wheres the boat? is the first cry, as no means of conveyance appears to transport us from the shore to the ITwr- riccrne, which lies at its moorings about a hundred yards out in the stream. Mr. Halibut has gone out to the yacht in it, says Flirtina. He will send it in for us by and by.

Sidney Hyde Hyde, Sidney Yachting 142-151

142 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. ~Aug YACHTING. A ~A1ITY of us are staying with the Hon. Jacobus Halibut, at his charming country-seat on the borders of the Bay of Acadia. His lawn slopes to the water, and in the cove below lie moored boats of every description; for the Hon. Jacobus is an accomplished sailer, and goes through more work, by way of amusement, than any one but an Eng- lish squire who rides to hounds twice a week. It is breakfast-time, and we linger pleasantly over our coffee and muffins, discussing the chances of the Harvards against the Oxfords in the international boat-race, when the master of the house rises, and, approaching the window of the dining-room, which commands a noble view of the Bay, scans the sky with a scrutinizing glance that takes in all possibilities of wind. Come on!~ he calls. Whos go- ing with me in the yacht? I shall be off in five minutes. I! and I! and I! and II burst from the lips of the assembled company, all eager and excibed in a moment. Well, come, hyper. If you are not ready at once, it will be too late. Boys, run and get the boat off. Wheres my great-coat? Call Jack to unfurl the sails of the yacht. Youd better bestir yourselvesevery body. The ~ who are the nephews of the Hon. Mr. Halibut, spending their holidays with their uncle, fly on the wings of delight; the group of ladies disperse to their rooms, whence they soon emerge in picturesque boating- costumes of water-proof trimmed with gay colors. Then they pause in the hall a moment, to tie great brown veils over frightful hats with immense brims, quite unlike the jaunty little affairs in which they play croquet, and then rush impetuously out upon the lawn. Bring an oar, each of you I roars a stentorian voice down the beach. We gentlemen, who have exchanged our morning-coats for round-abouts and wide-awakes, offer to relieve the ladies of their share of the burden, but they are resolved to assist; so every body shoulders an oar, or a boat-hook, or a tiller, or some piece of boat furniture, and we march in procession down to the shore. I find these long yacht-oars unwieldy. First I knock off somebodys hat,and, in apologizing and drawing back the blade suddenly, the handle, which ex- tends farther behind me than I had sup- posed, nearly knocks down one of the boys who is following me with a coil of rope. There has been a great skurry and commotion up-stairs during the dress- ing process. Voices were calling from the different rooms, Oh! will he be gone? I cant find my hat! Have you seen my veil and gloves? What shall I do? I shall never be ready in time 1 Servants have been rushing about at the orders of Mrs. Halibut, who is superintending the put- ting up of provisions, which now make their appearance in great covered ham- pers, packed close, with necks of bot- tles and uawij~ldy edges of parcels pro- truding from the corners. With great haste and expedition we have all hurried through our prepara- tions; so that, on tearing frantically down upon the beach, I am surprised to find half the party sitting tranquilly on stones or logs that are scattered over it, while our group is straggling along at different angles to avoid hitting each other with our obtrusive burdens. Wheres the boat? is the first cry, as no means of conveyance appears to transport us from the shore to the ITwr- riccrne, which lies at its moorings about a hundred yards out in the stream. Mr. Halibut has gone out to the yacht in it, says Flirtina. He will send it in for us by and by. 1870.] YACnTING. 14~3 But I thought he was in a great hurry, says one who is a comparative stranger to the habits of the household. Lasella, who is satirical, laughs. The skipper never likes to wait, she says; but if we get off in an hour we shall be fortunate; and she begins cracking the little sea-weed bubbles that the tide has thrown up among the drift-wood. Halbert, who is averse to labor, and refuses to join our expedition, stretches his lazy length beside her, and the two exchange repartee, and low ripples of laughter come from the pair. Guy, who is of an active tempera- ment, skips stones across the water. Flirtina is hunting shells along the shore. Mrs. Halibut and the other ladies sit chatting on a log, with a pile of wraps beside them. After half an hour Mr. Halibut comes ashore in the boat in a terrible hurry, and the baskets and oars and cloaks and ropes are piled in. The ladies tum- ble in over the bow, regardless of every thing except the necessity of throwing the balance on the side of the boat, and not of the water. After much pushing and squealing, and rolling of the boat from side to side, it is finally launched, and the party transferred to the deck of the larger vessel. Once on board, Mr. Halibut, who on shore is a mild-spoken and reserved gentleman, becomes imperative and dic- tatorial, and, on his own quarter-deck, is every inch a skipper. The scene ap- pears to me one of dire confusion. In front of the mast is a jumble of ropes, sails, spars, buoys, and boat-hooks. The little place astern of the cabin is filled with shawls and baskets and the ladies. I am not used to yachting, and think any empty place will do; so I dispose myself comfortably upon a clear space near the mast. Take care, Mr. Smytheyoull be overboard! cries the warning voice of the skipper. I feel something move be- hind me; somebody collars me, and I find myself sprawling on a bundle of ropes, very near the hole that goes down into the forecastle, and the big boom swings over the place where I had just been sitting. That was a narrow escape, says Mr. Halibut. I just saved you. I thank him, pick myself up with discretion, and think I will go below, which I do. The cabin is small, and the floor is encumbered with spare sails, ropes, and extra oars, and Guy is pitching down the wraps, and calls out to me to take the baskets. I am tall, and, when I stand up, I bump my head against the top; and the seats have uneven cushions on them, covered with a glazed rubber-cloth. There is a carpet on the floor, and cur- tains to the little windows, and if the place was cleared up, it might be com- fortable; but sitting on a pile of shawls, with my feet in a basket, isnt agree- able. I do not like the motion, either; there is an unpleasant roll about it. I put my head up the companion- way, and ask, How far have we got I Nobody notices me at first. At length Lasella catches sight of my rue- ful countenance, and laughs. We havent started yet. We are fastened to the buoy, but the wind drifts us round. Why dont you come up? Thus encouraged, I go up the steps, and find a place where I can stow my long legs by sitting on the top stair, and letting my feet stay down below. The boys are undoing the rope in front. We are off. The skipper is busy in the fore-part of the vessel. Take the helm, Flirtina! calls he. I feebly offer my services, hoping she will not accept them, for I should not know what to do if she did. She smiles very sweetly, and says, Please let me; I like it. She evidently does n*t know how ignorant I am, and I assume an air of great intelligence. Hard dowft! cries the skipper. What does he mean? I dodge my head, thinking that dreadful boom is 144 PuTNAMs MAGAZINE. [Aug. coming over; but nobody else does, so I put it up again, and find that the order applies to the helm with which Flirtina is struggling. I try to help her. Take care! she cries, that is the wrong way; and the skipper thun- ders out, What are you doing there, Flirtina? Keep her away! keep her AWAY I What can this signify? How can I keep her away? She wont move. I ask Flirtina, politely, if she had not better leave the helm to me, since Mr. Halibut seems afraid that she will get hurt. She laughs out: He doesnt mean me; he means the yachtthat I am to keep away from the wind. I thought that people sought a wind when they went sailing; but the skip- per is peculiarhe keeps away from it. I say this to Lasella. She responds at random. Shall I belay the sheet to this cleat? evidently addressing Mr. Hali- but. Dont do any thing till I tell you, is the blunt reply. She doesnt seem to mind it. The skipper is still in the bow, look- ing out. Luff !let her luff! His tones are certainly very imperative. Keep her up till she shivers! Flirtina pays me not the least atten- tion; her eyes have gone aloft. She looks distractingly pretty under her ugly hat, with her fluffy golden hair blowing round her face, and her cheeks and eyes glowing with the exercise; but she is thinking of nothing but the Bails, and now she is ordered to keep her full! Full, indeed! I should think we were full enough. I cant turn round, there are so many people. Here comes the skipper back to the stern. He takes the helm, and we set- tle ourselves. ~ There is a big mainsail up, and another saila jib, I think they call it. Just haul in on that sheet a little, Mr. Smythe, says Mr. Halibut, po- litely. I make a dive at the sail, which is the only thing abot~t which looks to me like a sheet. Not that, you Mr. Halibut stops abruptly in his sentence, and sav- agely grasps a little rope near me, which he unfastens, and then twists around a funny little piece of wood shaped like the top of a T. I fervently hope no one else has no- ticed my blunder, but Mrs. Hnlibut kindly tries to console me: A sheet is a sail at sea, she says, amiably. You must not be expected to know every thing. Mr. Halibut never tells any body any thing, but takes it for granted that the whole world is as wise as himself. Why dont you hoist the flying-jib, and get up the gaff-topsail ? asks that terribly knowing Flirtina. You dont know much, Flirty, says Mr. Halibut. How do you expect we can carry more canvas, when we have too much sail on now? Flirtina laughs, and does not mind a bit. We are beginning to tip. We are tipping very much. Sit to windward! says the skip- per, which is the signal for every body to rush to the upper side of the boat. I think I should prefer the more com- fortable seat on the lower side, but am a little afraid to try it, and so follow the example of the others. Imagine yourself o;i a slippery can- vas cushion at an angle of lbrty-five de- grees, and you will know my sensations. A great dash of salt-water comes slap in my face. Every body laughs. I smile grimly, and wipe it away; but a great deal has gone down my back. I feel that my collar is very limp. Nothing is so unbecoming as a collar with the starch out. My coat-sleeve, which is of homespun, is very wet, too. Home- spun always shrinks when it is wet. I feel it crawling up to my elbow. How uncomfortable! Now, this is glorious! says La- sella. I do delight in this. Dont you find it charming when it is bobby, Mr. Smythe? 1870.] YACHTING. 45 Oh! ah! delightful! But hasnt she sprung a-leak l This I ask with horror, as the water pours in through a hole in the lower side of the vessel, making a great pooi inside the rail. Mr. Halibut smiles grimly. Those ~re the scuppers, he says. I have read about lee scuppers, but I didnt know they were holes. I thought they were a kind of smoke- pipe. However, nobody seems alarmed, so I suppose it is all right. Some of the young ladies have gone down-stairs, and the boys are talking to them. Oh, my! cries Poffertjeso called from his round cheeks look at the water! Uncle Jacobus, the water is pouring in here like every thing! I look down into the cabin, and see the water coming under the door of the little closet under the steps. There must be a leak, after alL Mr. Halibut looks unmoved. She wants pumping out, he re- marks. Youll find a hundred pounds of water in the hold. Quick! where is the pump In the starboard locker, sir, an- swers the active little sailor-boy, who is always to the fore. He produces a long iron rod, with a handle at one end and a sucker at the other, which Mr. Hali- but inserts in a hole in the deck at his feet. Now bring a pail of water, he directs. Jack draws up a bucket from the sea, and pours it into thehole. Now pump! Jack pulls the thing up and down, like the dasher of an old-fashioned churn. A flood of yellow water begins to pour out and spatter every thing, which, being unable to run out at the scuppers, covers the floor. This is very unpleasant. The ladies draw up their dresses, and we put up our feet. The yacht tips more and more. There is about a barrel of water running about under me, I should think. How beautifully she careens! says Flirtina, not minding the frequent dash- VOL. ~I.lO es of spray which have taken her hair out of curl. I am beginning not to admire that young lady. She is too nauticaL Mr. Halibut does something to the helm, and we come up straight, and the water runs off. I feel better. The wind is not so strong. We have been out about two hours. I think we might now get up that gaff-topsail, says the skipper. This is the signal for great misery. Flirtina is at the helm, Poffertje and Bob, with Guy and Jack, are to manage the ropes. The skipper is amidships, giving orders. The gaff-topsail is a three-cornered sail with a pole, which goes about the mainsail. Its peculiarity seems to be an aversion to going up right the first time. On this occasion it tied itself into a knot with the mainsail-ropes; then, its halyards had a free fight with the jib-sheets; then, the lines ran out on the main boom, and did something there, which made it necessary for Bob to go out on a most perilous enterprise to unhitch them; then, the tack stuck on a pin. Finally, it was got up to the top, and appeared on the wrong side of the mainsail, with a twist in the end; so that it had to come down and be all untied and sent up once more. All this in the midst of remonstrances, and orders, and cries, and thunderinga of Luff! from the skipper, and a few tears of impatience and distress from Jack, who could not disentangle his ropes in time for the quick com- mands of his captain; and an aspect of bitter woe on Poffertjes facehe, poor fellow, having been thrashed with the jib-sheets, and buffeted with the other ropes, till he might as well have been at a whipping-post. At the end of half an hour the com- motion subsides. But a new calamity arisesthe wind is dying away. Sing, some of you, says Mr. Hali- but, or we shall never get home. Theres nothing like a song to stir up a breeze. Then Flirtina sings out, in a high, clear soprano, a spirited boating-songs 146 PuTNAMs MAGAZINE. [Aug and I begin to think, as I stretch my- self on deck in the shadow of the sail, that yachting is a very delightful thing, and that a ladys being nautical is, per- haps, after all, no drawback to her charms. so~{e. The wind blows fresh from the cold Northwost, The ship suings clear and free, And we tread the deck with a sailors zest, And point for the open sea. We trim the sheets, and fill the sails, And let the boom swing by; There is not one heart in our midst that fails, Each pulse heats loud and high. The white sails shiver, the thin sheets lash, And up in the taut-strung shroud We hear, keeping time with the soft waves plasli, The wind pipe sweet and loud. For the breeze of the ship and the sounding sea Makes his harp and trumpet shrill, And plays the strings with a Tritons glee, And murmurs or peals at will. crowd hard the helm! till the dashing spray Flies up oer the vessels prow, Till the deck is wet, and the sailors say, She quivers from stern to prow. Then away, then away, oer the white-capped wave, And sing as we sail along, For our spirits are light, and our hearts are brave, And our good ship stout and strong. Behind us lies the river, blue, and dimpled with the dying breeze. An August haze softens the outlines of the picturesque hills that rise from its shores. Before us, the bay widens, dis- playing its islets, and its fair, broad waters covered with shimmering sails; while the round outlines of the bluffs on the Mascarene shore rise before us, dark and wooded at the base, bald and gray on their summits; and between the islands we catch glimpses of the narrow passage through which Pierre du Guast, Sieur de Monte, sailed more than two hundred and fifty years ago to explore, with his brave sailors, his grant of the broad lands of Acadie. Far up in the distance one can see the island on which the adventurers passed that ill-starred winter, where the remnants of French bricks and pottery still show the site of his little settle- ment. Having read a book, recently, about Dc Montes expedition, I venture little allusions to this circumstance, and be- come eloquent as Flirtinas eyes are 9 fixed upon me with an appearance of interest. When I have rounded my first pe nod, she makes a little well-bred pause then asks me to hand her the lunch- basket from below, as Mrs. Halibut is going to give us something to eat. It is this,then, which has given her that flattering appearance of attention! Quite crestfallen, I go below, and, after knocking my head on the beams, and stumbling over the oars, which trip me up, I succeed in finding the ham- pers, and Guy helps me to bring them on deck. We discuss ham sandwiches, and fried chickens, and blueberry pies, and drink eider which pops like champagne, while Bob builds a fire in the stove, to give us hot water to make tea. I try to go into the forecastle to do something to help him, but the aper- ture between the after-cabin and the fore is so narrow, that I stick fast, and kick about helplessly, till Guy comes to the rescue and straightens me out again. Lunch on a yacht is pleasant, but ex- citing. Now and then an unexpected lurch upsets your mug of hot tea, which you are carefully balancing on your knee, and scalds you. Then those dreadful sheets play the mischief with the knives and forks; and, not being quite used to the motion, I find myself dropping a large piece of butter in La- sellas lap, which she bears with great equanimity, assuring me she doesnt mind. With the excqption of one or two little drawbacks of this kind, I get through very well, but I am glad when it is over. Now let us set the rirg-tail, boys, says the skipper. This I take to be a kind of nautical dance, till Flirtina tells me it is another little sail which i see them rigging upon the far end of the main boom. I venture something about the Hur- ricane being now a Ring-tailed Roar- er, but nobody seems to think it is a joke, so I dont emphasize it. The wind is certainly very light. We 1870.] YAChTING. 147 have got still another sail up now, called a square sail, which has to be moved about distractingly, as it is a temporary affair, rigged on one side of the main- mast; and when the mainsail goes one way, it has to go the other. Stand by! calls the skipper. Let her go about! Now there is a tremendous scrab- bling and ducking, and the sails flap, and the sheets lash, and there is a com- plication with the gaff-topsail, and a dreadful difficulty with the squaresail, and the jib, which is soon of no use, comes down with a run, and, the boys not being quick enough, it gets in the water, and excites the skipper. Now we should be going before the wind, but there is no wind. The sails are wing and wing, Lasella tells me, one on one side of the mast, and the other on the other, like a birds wings, but we do not progress rapidly. In fact, on consulting a pine-tree on the shore, I find we are going backwards. I am reminded of the naval examina- tion of one of my friends, who, after having gi~en several satisfactory an- swers to the question, What would you do if your vessel was in irons (i. e. going astern) I and, being irritated by a reiteration, on the part of the exam- iner, of the words, And then? fu- riously thundered out, having lost patience utterly, Blast her, let her drive! I would like to tell the story, but am afraid Mrs. Halibut might think it profane. Mr. Halibut tells us we are drifting with the tide, and that he is afraid we shall have to cast anchor, and spend the night on board. There is a tent below, which the gentlemen can pitch on the neighboring beach, and leave the cabin for the occupation of the ladies. This is unexpected. I prefer a hair- mattress to a mossy couch, but do not say so. The ladies seem pleased with the proposition. The boys and Guy are overjoyed. I pretend to like it. We drop anchor, and lie floating idly on the surface of the bay, the swift tide drifting past us. The shore is near, stretching out a long line of warm red sand in a broad beach, with curiously- shelving cliffs behind it. A greatrock towers in the foreground, whose sand- stone base, washed all around by the tide at high-water, has been worn away into the semblance of an hour-glass pul- pit. On its lofty crest, two hundred feet high, stunted evergreens are grow- ing, and wiry grasses cling in the cran- nies of its walks, aud blue hare-bells are waving gracefully among them, as we can see plainly with the skippers glass. That is Pulpit Rock, says Lasella. At high-water you can only see the top, like a little island rising from the bay; but now, to a good cragsman, the summit would be quite accessible. See how curiously laminated those rocks are; they break off in scales, like slates, and some of them are full of little holes, worn by the falling water before the mass hardened. I believe a geolo- gist would find bird-tracks, or even a footprint of the pre-Adamite man, if he examined them. I wonder if the antediluvians held forth here, said Flirtina, meditatively, and what they preached! Sermons in stones, I suggested. Let us hope they were not in propor- tion to the~ulpits size. Hallo! shouts Guy, from the other side of the yacht. Whats this? Look at this canoe coming in. Did you ever see such paddling? Those fellows are in a terrible hurry about something. What magnificent strokes! That looks like Pete Scepsis, says Mr. Halibut, scanning the water from under his hand. We cross the deck and look eastward. A birch canoe, with two occupants, is coming swiftly towards us, impelled by vigorous arms to a wonderful speed, which, as it nears the yacht, is slack- ened gradually, until the fragile craft floats like a withered leaf towards us, and two brown hands are put forth to catch our vessels side and prevent any collision, which might be fatal to the delicate bark. In the stern sits a broad-shouldered, athletic Indian, with shaggy hair and [Aug.. 148 PUTNAMS MA~iAZINE. strongly-marked features, clad in dark trowsers and a red flannel shirt, belted round his waist with a broad leathern belt, from which hangs a sheath of leather containing a dirk-knife. His companion is a middle-aged woman, with delicate features, and long black hair which hangs to her waist, and then is gathered at the ends in a loose knot. A calico gown, covered with a bright plaid shawl, confined across the bosom with a huge plate of silver three or four inches in diamcter, with a hole in the centre; a mans beaver hat encircled with a silver band, and gayly-worked moccasins, compose her costume. Well, Pete, says Mr. Halibut, how are you? And how is Mrs. Pete? Pretty well, responds the Indian. Wife he well too; and he says some words in the native guttural to his squaw, who smiles pleasantly upon the party, but says nothing, as she cannot understand English. You seemed in a hurry, just now, continues the skipper. Where are you bound? Down to Pleasant Point, to see um papoose marry, says Scepsis, briefly. Whose papoose? asks Mrs. Hali- but, appearing up the companion-way. My boy; he going to ~et married to the governors daughter, replies the Indian, with composure. Have a great time down there. What kind of a girl is she? asks Mrs. Halibut, interestedly. He nice girl, says Scepsi3 very nice girl~nly thirteentoo young boy he young too. Ought to marry old womanbetter for him. She tell urn young man.~~ At this every body laughs, and Scepsis smiles gravely. I come fast over the bay, he con- tinues. Afraid of the snake. What snake ? says Guy, hanging on the shroud to lean over the canoe. See urn big snake in the water, yes- terday, says the Indian. He chase us half across the bay. He have head big as a mans hatstick up out of the water. Squaw she frightened; me scared too, so we paddle fast. He chase us. We paddle in shore, and pull the canoe up on the beach, and run up to hide in the bushes. Snake he come up and upset the birch, and open his mouth big as a barrel; all red inside. Then he turn round and go way. * Why, youve seen the sea-serpent! cries Mrs. Halibut. Sea-serpent ! What he ? asks Scepsis. A big snake that lives in the water, answers the skipper. Me see big snake, says Scepsis. Never hear of urn before. Me no want to see urn again. You see urn, Halibut? What you think? No, Scepsis, replies that gentle-~ man; I would like to see him. I have heard a good deal about that fel- low. I shall look out sharp for him now. He very long, says Scepsis. He hold his head up like a gooseso,~~ and he bent his arm to show the curve of the reptiles neck. We see urn very plain.~~ This is very singular; says the skipper, thoughtfully. Scepsis is per- fectly trustworthy, and has evidently never heard the wonderful tales of the monster. Further questioning follows, eliciting perfectly consistent answers, and then the Indians loose their hold on the yacht and paddle down-stream, gaining swiftness from the fast-ebbing tide, and we watch them as they glide in their egg-shell craft, and wonder at its light- ness and grace. That is the perfection of motion, says Lasehla, unless one could fly. Nothing was ever more delicious than that sensation of stillness and peace which it conveys. I shall never forget an evening on the lakes at the head- waters of this river, when an Indian paddled two of us four miles among the rushes. The water-lilies were just in blossom; and as we dropped our hands in the water, which was warm with the rays of the setting sun, their soft pads brushed our fingers, and the * This story is entirely authentic. E 1870.] YACHTiNG. 149 great sweet white blossoms broke off at a touch. The west was rosy and clear, and all the sky suffused with golden light. It gave one an idea of heavenly bliss. I know that well, says Mrs. Hali- but. Who could ever forget those Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odors haunt my dreams? The night falls, a lovely, calm, glow- ing evening having preceded it, which has beguiled us into sitting on deck, until the skipper, having finished the furling and covering of the sails, comes aft, and tells us it is time for a light. Thunder and turf! the matches have been forgotten. We hunt our pockets in vain; there is not a stray lucifer in the company; and, feeling about be- low, we find the lamps are empty. This is very bad. At this point the skipper explodes. Mrs. Halibut, who is a person of cx- celh~nt sense and good-humor, adroitly tempers the wrath of her justly indig- nant spouse. The young men are to go ashore in the boat aiA fetch candles from the nearest farm-house, and the shore is only a few hundred yards distant. Guy and the boys and I row off. It is growing very dark. By the time we find a landing-place, it is difficult to see any thing. We stumble over slippery rocks covered with seaweedfor the tide is downand then climb a very bushy bank covered with thistles, which prick painfully. Finally we reach the road, and see a light glimmering half a mile off; for which we steer. We find a cottage by the roadside, where we are fortunately able to raise a few tallow dips, with which we regain the shore. Leaving the others to make the prep- arations for the night, I row out to the Hurricane, guided by the voices of the ladies singing. They are admiring the phosphorescence of the water, which is gleaming and glowing like a sea of fire. Every dip of jhe oar scatters a shower of glittering sparks. The jelly- fish sail along, like floating flames, upon the surface of the waves I sit and talk and sing with th~ rest until ten oclock, and then I row ashore and find that the useful Jack, and Guy the indefatigable, have set up the tent and strewn the ground with soft hem- lock boughs, which, covered with blan- kets, make an elastic and fragrant couch. It is deliciously comfortable, and I sleep soundly till morning, when I am waked by a sensation of chilliness; and, on putting my head outside the tent, I find every thing enveloped in fog. I look at my watch. It is seven oclock. I rouse my companions, and we strike the tent and row out to the yacht, which we have great trouble in finding, though we are at last aided by the blowing of a horn in that direction. We find the skipper on deck, who, having heard the sound of our oars, has been giving us the signal. lie looks gloomy. No wind, and a thick fog; this is a bad egg, he says. We may have to lie here for a week. I remember my limp collar, and my spirits sink. There is a buzz and stir below. One by one the ladies come up, showing their several dispositions in the way in which they accept this new misfortune, but generally good-tempered, and dis- posed to make the best of it. We get breakfast, though the ham- pers are getting alarmingly empty, and we have no milk for our coffee. Theres plenty of hard bread and salt junk, says the skipper, when these provisions give out. I remember with satisfaction that the shore is accessible. After breakfast we all row ashore, and wander round for awhile to change the scene, but it is wet, and every thing is sogged with mist, so that it is poor fun; and we go back to the yacht, and sit about in rather a melancholy man- ner, until some blessed benefactorI think it was Lasellaproduces a pack of cards, and we go below and console ourselves until noon. We become so much absorbed in our rubbers, that we forget our circum- stances, till we are recalled to a sense 150 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. of them by a noise on deck and a rat- tling of the anchor-chain. I go up, and find that the fog has lifted and the wind is rising, and gray, heavy clouds are drifting rapidly across the heavens, while the black water is crested with foaming white waves. It will blow fresh, I think, says the skipper, as he begins to loosen the damp sails, and calls oat to the boys to heave up the anchor. It does blow fresh. There is a stiff southeast wind, and the tide is ebbing, which makes a swell in the baya very ugly swell. A gloom settles upon some members of the party. The swell increases. One or two of the ladies go below. I smoke my pipe. Guy doesnt mind it. He and Flirtina are having a gay con- versation. I wonder that I could ever have joked. The skipper goes down, and reappears in an oil-skin suit and hat. It is getting squally, he says. It is going to rain. It does rain. I cant go below in my present state. of mind. I stay up, and am wet through. It blows fresher. We shall have a bad gale of wind, says the skipper, but we shall get home ahead of it; and he has the sails reefed down. The yacht careens fearfully, and the deck, what with the water from the sea and the rain from the sky, is not much better than a bath-tub. I wish I had not come. There is an awful crashan objurga- tion from the skipper. One of the shrouds has paited. I should like to go ashore. Flirtina looks a little pale. Shall I take the helm? she asks. The skipper gives it into her hands, goes forward with Guy, sends the boys below, and rigs some kind of a support to the mast with the halyards. I am able to be of some use, if the directions do. not become too compli- cated, and if the lines are not called by bewildering names; but you must ad- mit that, in a moment of excitement,it is a little confusing to hear a man say When you cant hoist her up, belay your peak, and haul away on your throat; and to this moment I cant understand why Bob was told to take a bite oP the rope. Flirtina holds the helm manfully, and, being brave and strong, does her work well. Two points to round, and we shall be in our own cove. The skipper looks grave, but undismayed. We scud before the wind, with sails close down. The cabin is well drench- ed with water, but we have no time for pumping. Ten minutes more, and we catch sight of our own buoy and the beloved shore beyond. We are running hard for our moorings, the skipper at the helm once more. Guy and Jack are in the bow, with the hook ready to catch the buoy as they pass. The skip- per puts the helm down one point too far. Jack makes a lunge at the ring, but misses it. It has gone under the keel 1 cries Guy, in a voice heard above the roar of the wind and the whistling of the ropes. He has missed the buoy! We are driving straight upon the shore. Before us rises the cliff in a perpendicular, jagged wall, with points of cruel rocks running out directly in our course. The skippers lips grow perfectly white. He crams the helm hard down, and cries, in a voice that is fearful, All hands to the main-sheet, for your lives! Every body pulls. The wind resists with forty horse-power. Each muscle is strained to the utmost. The boys tumble up the companion-way and haul in on the slack. There is a moment of awful suspense; then the sheet shortens, the sail shivers, the boom approaches. One more tre- mendous pull, and we all topple down one upon the other, like a row of nine- pins; the great sail swings over with a loud bang, the Jiurrirane turns her head in obedience to the helm, and we are saved! We pass the sharp rook on the extremity of the point, so near that we could have touched it with an oar, but we escape it fairly. 1870.] YACHTD~G. 151 The skipper breathes hard, and the color comes back to his face. It was touch, and go, he remarks. What is the matter? asks Mrs. Halibut, putting her head up the com- panion-way. Are we at home? Her husband smiles grimly. Go below, my dear, he says; we shall not be in for half an hour. We make a wide circuit, and ap- proach the buoy a second time, with the mainsail down, and the boys in the boat with the hook. They have hard work to reach the ring, the waves are so high; but their stout arms conquer, and we are moored at last, with the great hawser twisted tight through the iron hoop of the buoy. The sails are coming down, and the party from below is coming up. Ex- hilarated by our narrow escape, I per- form prodigies of seamanship in the way of hauling down and tying up, and at length volunteer to go out on the bowsprit to help furl a sail. Find- ing myself very successful, I emulate the lads, and undertake to walk in on the top of the furled jib. The ladies are looking on, and I am conscious of a free and sailor-like aspect that must be becoming. Suddenly the bowsprit wob- bles under me. I throw myself to one side to keep my balance, unsuccessful ly. I am conscious of tottering help- lessly a few secondsof making a feeble dash at something. Then there is a splashI have gone over backwards into the water! I can swim, and, when I come up, I strike out instinctively, and Guy, who is in the small boat, sticks the boat- hook into my coat-tail, and pulls me alongside. I grasp the edge, and am dragged into it somewhat roughly by Guy and Bob, a gruesome object. I see Flirtina hide her face. Mrs. Halibuts kindly countenance wears an expression of sympathy, but there is a twinkle in her eye. Poff. is giggling behind me. Row Mr. Smythe ashore, boys, says the skipper. He will wish to change his clothes. As I climb the hill, heavy and drip- ping, with my Br~gnet watch spoiled in my pocket, and all the notes in my wallet soaking into a pulp, while my postage-stamps are a sticky mass, I in-. wardly resolve that not all my pro- found respect for the Hon. Jacobus as a gentleman and a sailor, nor even my growing admiration for the fair and courageous Flirtina, shall ever again tempt me on board a yacht. And, like Sir George Cornwall Lewis, I arrive at the conclusion that Life would be a very endurable thing were it not for it~ pleasures. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. (WRITTEN ON READING HIS POEMS IN TUR CAUSE OF FREEDOM.) To mother Earth a poet here was born! Where clasps the sea her rugged breast, her child First saw her face, her voice first heard, and smiled. A bantling brave, free skies did greet each morn, What time fierce blew the Northern blast upborne On wings of tempest stretching far and wide; The wild, deep-throated music did abide, And tuned his harp in Freedoms cause forlorn! Nor hushed its strings, while sighed the sweet South wind Mid captives moan, and mangling bloodhounds bay; While Treason strove with serpent coil to bind. Fair Freedom to her altars shrine, and slay; Till cleft Rebellions haughty crest in twain, And all his native land was free again! CAMBRIDGE, 1S70.

J. H. Ewer Ewer, J. H. James Russell Lowell 151-152

1870.] YACHTD~G. 151 The skipper breathes hard, and the color comes back to his face. It was touch, and go, he remarks. What is the matter? asks Mrs. Halibut, putting her head up the com- panion-way. Are we at home? Her husband smiles grimly. Go below, my dear, he says; we shall not be in for half an hour. We make a wide circuit, and ap- proach the buoy a second time, with the mainsail down, and the boys in the boat with the hook. They have hard work to reach the ring, the waves are so high; but their stout arms conquer, and we are moored at last, with the great hawser twisted tight through the iron hoop of the buoy. The sails are coming down, and the party from below is coming up. Ex- hilarated by our narrow escape, I per- form prodigies of seamanship in the way of hauling down and tying up, and at length volunteer to go out on the bowsprit to help furl a sail. Find- ing myself very successful, I emulate the lads, and undertake to walk in on the top of the furled jib. The ladies are looking on, and I am conscious of a free and sailor-like aspect that must be becoming. Suddenly the bowsprit wob- bles under me. I throw myself to one side to keep my balance, unsuccessful ly. I am conscious of tottering help- lessly a few secondsof making a feeble dash at something. Then there is a splashI have gone over backwards into the water! I can swim, and, when I come up, I strike out instinctively, and Guy, who is in the small boat, sticks the boat- hook into my coat-tail, and pulls me alongside. I grasp the edge, and am dragged into it somewhat roughly by Guy and Bob, a gruesome object. I see Flirtina hide her face. Mrs. Halibuts kindly countenance wears an expression of sympathy, but there is a twinkle in her eye. Poff. is giggling behind me. Row Mr. Smythe ashore, boys, says the skipper. He will wish to change his clothes. As I climb the hill, heavy and drip- ping, with my Br~gnet watch spoiled in my pocket, and all the notes in my wallet soaking into a pulp, while my postage-stamps are a sticky mass, I in-. wardly resolve that not all my pro- found respect for the Hon. Jacobus as a gentleman and a sailor, nor even my growing admiration for the fair and courageous Flirtina, shall ever again tempt me on board a yacht. And, like Sir George Cornwall Lewis, I arrive at the conclusion that Life would be a very endurable thing were it not for it~ pleasures. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. (WRITTEN ON READING HIS POEMS IN TUR CAUSE OF FREEDOM.) To mother Earth a poet here was born! Where clasps the sea her rugged breast, her child First saw her face, her voice first heard, and smiled. A bantling brave, free skies did greet each morn, What time fierce blew the Northern blast upborne On wings of tempest stretching far and wide; The wild, deep-throated music did abide, And tuned his harp in Freedoms cause forlorn! Nor hushed its strings, while sighed the sweet South wind Mid captives moan, and mangling bloodhounds bay; While Treason strove with serpent coil to bind. Fair Freedom to her altars shrine, and slay; Till cleft Rebellions haughty crest in twain, And all his native land was free again! CAMBRIDGE, 1S70. PUTNAMS 1L~GizINz. THE LIFE-MAGNET. THERE was something about the wholesome sleepiness of Freiberg, in Saxony, that fitted well with the lazy nature of Ronald Wyde. So, having run down there to spend a day or two among the students and the mines, and taking a liking to the quaint, unmod- ernized town, he bodily changed his plans of autumn-travel, gave up a cher- ished scheme of Russian vagabondage, had his baggage sent from Dresden, and made ready to settle down and drowse away three or four months in idleness and not over-arduous study. And this move of his led to the hap- pening of a very strange and seemingly unreal event in his life. Ronald Wyde was then about twenty- five or six years old, rather above the medium height, with thick blue-black hair that he had an artist-trick of allow- ing to ripple down to his neck, dark hazel eyes that were almost too deeply recessed in their bony orbits, and a troublesome growth of beard that, close-shaven as he always was, showed in strong blue outline through the thin and rather sallow skin. His address was singularly pleasing, and his wide experience of life, taught him by years of varied travel, made him a good deal of a cosmopolitan in his views and ways, which caused him to be looked upon as a not over-safe companion for young men of his own age or under. Having made up his mind to winter in Freiberg, his first step was to quit the little hotel, with its mouldy stone- vaulted entrance and its columned din- ing-room, under whose full-centered arches close beery and smoky fumes lingered persistently, and seek quieter student-lodgingS in the heart of the town. His choice was mainly influ- enced by a thin-railed balcony, twined through and through by the shoots of a vigorous Virginia creeper, that flamed and flickered in the breezy October sun- sets in strong relief against the curtains that drifted whitely out and in through the open window. So, with the steady- going and hale old Frau Spritzkrapfen he took up his quarters, fully persuad- ing himself that he did so for the sake of the stray home-breaths that seemed to stir the scarlet vine-leaves more gen- tly for him, and ignoring pretty Lott- chens great, earnest Saxon eyes as best he could. A sunny morning followed his remov- al to Frau Spritzkrapfcns tidy home. There had been a slight rain in the early night, and the footways were yet bright and moist in patches that the slanting morning rays were slowly coax- ing away. Ronald Wyde, having set his favorite books handily on the dim- ity-draped table, which comprised for him the process of getting to rights, and having given more than one glance of amused wonderment at the naive blue-and-white scriptural tiles that cased his cumbrous four-story earthen- ware stove, and smiled lazily at poor Adams obvious and sudden indiges- tion, even while the uneaten half-apple remained in his guilty hand, he stepped out on his balcony, leaned his elbows among the crimson leaves, and took in the healthful morning air in great draughts. It was a Sunday; the bells of the gray minster hard by were iter- ating their clanging calls to the simple townsfolk to come and be droned to in sleepy German gutturals from the carved, pillar-hung pulpit inside. Look- ing down, he saw thick-ankled women cluttering past in loose wooden-soled shoes, and dumpy girls with tow-braids primly dangling to their hips, convoy- ing sturdy Dutch-built luggers of young- er brothers up the easy slope that led to the church and the bells. Presently Frau Spritzkrapfeii and dainty Lott- chen, rosy with soap and health, slipped through the doorway beneath him out 152 [Aug.

A. A. Adee Adee, A. A. Life-Magnet, A TAle 152-167

PUTNAMS 1L~GizINz. THE LIFE-MAGNET. THERE was something about the wholesome sleepiness of Freiberg, in Saxony, that fitted well with the lazy nature of Ronald Wyde. So, having run down there to spend a day or two among the students and the mines, and taking a liking to the quaint, unmod- ernized town, he bodily changed his plans of autumn-travel, gave up a cher- ished scheme of Russian vagabondage, had his baggage sent from Dresden, and made ready to settle down and drowse away three or four months in idleness and not over-arduous study. And this move of his led to the hap- pening of a very strange and seemingly unreal event in his life. Ronald Wyde was then about twenty- five or six years old, rather above the medium height, with thick blue-black hair that he had an artist-trick of allow- ing to ripple down to his neck, dark hazel eyes that were almost too deeply recessed in their bony orbits, and a troublesome growth of beard that, close-shaven as he always was, showed in strong blue outline through the thin and rather sallow skin. His address was singularly pleasing, and his wide experience of life, taught him by years of varied travel, made him a good deal of a cosmopolitan in his views and ways, which caused him to be looked upon as a not over-safe companion for young men of his own age or under. Having made up his mind to winter in Freiberg, his first step was to quit the little hotel, with its mouldy stone- vaulted entrance and its columned din- ing-room, under whose full-centered arches close beery and smoky fumes lingered persistently, and seek quieter student-lodgingS in the heart of the town. His choice was mainly influ- enced by a thin-railed balcony, twined through and through by the shoots of a vigorous Virginia creeper, that flamed and flickered in the breezy October sun- sets in strong relief against the curtains that drifted whitely out and in through the open window. So, with the steady- going and hale old Frau Spritzkrapfen he took up his quarters, fully persuad- ing himself that he did so for the sake of the stray home-breaths that seemed to stir the scarlet vine-leaves more gen- tly for him, and ignoring pretty Lott- chens great, earnest Saxon eyes as best he could. A sunny morning followed his remov- al to Frau Spritzkrapfcns tidy home. There had been a slight rain in the early night, and the footways were yet bright and moist in patches that the slanting morning rays were slowly coax- ing away. Ronald Wyde, having set his favorite books handily on the dim- ity-draped table, which comprised for him the process of getting to rights, and having given more than one glance of amused wonderment at the naive blue-and-white scriptural tiles that cased his cumbrous four-story earthen- ware stove, and smiled lazily at poor Adams obvious and sudden indiges- tion, even while the uneaten half-apple remained in his guilty hand, he stepped out on his balcony, leaned his elbows among the crimson leaves, and took in the healthful morning air in great draughts. It was a Sunday; the bells of the gray minster hard by were iter- ating their clanging calls to the simple townsfolk to come and be droned to in sleepy German gutturals from the carved, pillar-hung pulpit inside. Look- ing down, he saw thick-ankled women cluttering past in loose wooden-soled shoes, and dumpy girls with tow-braids primly dangling to their hips, convoy- ing sturdy Dutch-built luggers of young- er brothers up the easy slope that led to the church and the bells. Presently Frau Spritzkrapfeii and dainty Lott- chen, rosy with soap and health, slipped through the doorway beneath him out 152 [Aug. 1870.] Tim LTFJL-M& GYET. 153 into the little church-bound throng, and, as they disappeared, left the house and street somehow unaccountably alone. Feeling this, Ronald Wyde de- termined on a stroll. Something in the Sabbath stillness around him led Ronald away from the swift clang and throbbing hum of the bells and in the direction of the old cemetery. Passing through the clumsy tower-gate that lifts its grimy bulk sul- lenly, like a huge head-stone over the grave of a dead time of feudalism, he reached the burial-ground and entered the quiet enclosure. The usual touch- ing reverence of the Germans for their dead was strikingly manifest around him. The humbler mounds, walled up with rough stones a foot or two above the pathway level, carried on their crests little gardens of gay and inex- pensive plants; while on the tall wood- en crosses at their head hung yellow wreaths, half hiding the hopeful legend, Wiedersehen. The more pretentious slabs bore vases filled with fresh flow- ers; while in the grate-barred vaults, that skirted the ground like the arches of a cloister, lay rusty heaps of long- since mouldered bloom, topped by new- er wreaths tossed lovingly in to wilt and turn to dust in their turn, like those cast in before them in memory of that other dust asleep below. Turning aside from the central walk that halved the cemetery, Ronald stroll- ed along, his hands in his pockets, his eyes listlessly fixed on the orange-colored fumes and rolling smoke that welled out of tall chimneys in the hollow be- yond, an idle student-tune humming on his lips, and his thoughts nowhere, and everywhere, at once. Happening to look away from the dun smoke-trail for an instant, he found something of great- cr interest close at hand. An old man stooped stiffly over a simple mound, busied among the flowers that hid it, and by his side crouched a young girl, perhaps fourteen years old, who peered up at Ronald with questioning, velvet- brown eyes. The old man heard the intsuders steps crunching in the damp gravel, and slowly looked up too. Good morning, mein Herr, said Ronald, pleasantly. The old man remained for an instant blinking nervously, and shading his eyes from the full sunlight that fell on his face. A quiet face it was, and very old, seamed and creased by mazy wrin- kles that played at aimless cross-pur- poses with each other, beginning and ending nowhere. His thick beard and thin, curved nose looked just a little Jewish, and seemed at variance with his pale blue eyes that were still bright in spite of age. And yet, bearded as he was, there was a lurking expression about his features that bordered upon effeminacy, and made the treble of his voice sound even more thin and woman- ish as he answered Wydes greeting. Good morning, too, mein Herr. A stranger to our town, I see~ Yes; but soon not to be called one, I hope. I am here for the winter. A cold seasona cold season; our northern winters are very chilling to an old mans blood. And slouching together into a tired stoop, he resumed his simple task of knotting a few flow- ers into a clumsy nosegay. Ronald stood and watched him with a vague interest. Presently, the flowers being clumped to his liking, the old man pried himself upright by getting a good purchase with his left hand in the small of his back, and so deliberately that Ro- nald almost fancied he heard him creak. The girl rose too, and drew her thin shawl over her shoulders. You Germans love longer than we, said Ronald, glancing at the flowers that trembled in the old mans bony fingers, and then downwards to the quiet grave; a lifetime of easy-going love and a year or two of easier-forget- ting are enough for us. Should I forget my own flesh and blood? asked the old man, simply. Ronald paused a moment, and, point- ing downwards, said: Your daughter, then, I fancy? Yes. Long dead? Very long; more than fifty years. Ronald stared, but said nothing audi- 154 Pu~AMs MAGAZINE. [Aug. bly. Inwardly he whispered something about being devilish glad to make the wandering Jews acquaintance, rattled the loose gr6schen in his pocket, and turned to follow the tottering old man and firm-footed child down the walk. After a dozen paces they halted before a more ambitious tombstone, on which Ronald could make out the well-remein- bered name of Plattner. The child took the flowers and laid them rever- ently on the stone. It seems to me almost like arriving at the end of a pilgrimage, said Ro- nald, when I stand by the grave of a man of science. Perhaps you knew him, mein Herr? He was my pupil. Whew! thought Ronald, that makes my friend here a centenarian at least. My pupil and friend, the feeble voice went on ; and, more than that, my daughters first lover, and only one. Ach so1 drawled Ronald. And now, on her death-day, I take these poor flowers from her to him, as I have done all these years. Something in the pathetic earnestness of his companion touched Ronald Wyde, and he forthwith took his hands out of his pockets, and didnt try to whistle inaudibly~-which was a great deal for him to do. I know Plattner well by his works, he said; I once studied mineralogy for nearly a month. You love science, then? Yes; like every thing else, for di- version. It was different with him, qua- vered the old man, pointing unsteadily to the head-stone. Science grew to be his one passion, and many discover- ies rewarded him for his devotion. He was groping on the traek of a far great- er achievement when he died. May I ask what it was? said Ro- nald, now fairly interested. The creation and isolation of the principle of Life! This was too much for Ronald Wyde; down dived his restless hands into his trowsers pockets again, and the gr~sch- en rattled as merrily as before. I have made quite a study of biol- ogy, and all that sort of thing, said he; and, although a good deal of a skeptic, and inclined to follow Huxley, I cant bring myself to conceive of life without organism. Such theorizing is, to my mind, on a par with the illogical search for the philosophers stone and & perpetual motor. The old mans eyes sparkled as he turned full upon Ronald. You dismiss the subject very airily, my young friend, he cried; but let me tell you that II, whom you see herehave grappled with such prob- lems through a weary century, and have conquered one of them. And that one is__ The one that conquered Plattner 1 Do I understand you to claim that you have discovered the life-principle? Yes. Will you permit an utter stranger to inquire what is its nature? Certainly. It is twofold. The ulti- mate principle of life is carbon; the cause of its combination with water, or rather with the two gaseous elements of water, and the development of or- ganized existence therefrom, is elec- tricity. Ronald Wyde shrugged his broad shoulders a little, and absently replied, All I can say, mein Herr, is, that youve got the bulge on ~ I beg your pardon Excuse me; I unconsciously trans- lated an Americanism. I mean that I dont quite understand you. Which means that you do not be- lieve me. It is but natural at your age, when one doubts as if by instinct. Would you be convinced? Nothing would please me better. With the same painful effort as be- fore, the old man straightened himself and made a piercing clairvoyant exami- nation into and through Ronald Wydes eyes, as if reading the brain beyond them. I think I can trust you, he mum- bled at last. Come with me. 1870.1 THE LIFE-MAGNET. 155 Leaning on the young girls arm, the old philosopher faltered through the cemetery and into the town, followed by Wyde, his hands again pocketed for safety. Groups of released church- goers, sermon-fed, met them, and once in a while some stout burgher would nod patronizingly to Ronalds guides, and get in response a shaky, side-long roll of the old mans head, as if it were mounted on a weak spiral spring. Fur- ther on they intersected a knot of stu- dents, who eyed them askance and exchanged remarks in an undertone. Keeping on deeper into the foul heart of the town, they passed through swarms of idle children playing sportlessly, as poverty is apt to play, in the dank shad- ows of the narrow street. They seemed incited to mirth and ribaldry by the sight of Ronalds new friend, and one even ventured to hurl a clod at him; but this striking Ronald instead, and he facin0 promptly to the hostile quar- ter from whence it came, caused a sud- den slinking of the crowd into unknown holes, like a horde of rats, and the street was for a time empty save for the little party that threaded it. Ronald began to think that the old mans san- ity w~s gravely called in doubt by the townsfolk, and would readily have backed out of his adventure but for the curiosity that had now got the upper hand of him. Presently the old man sidled into a dingy doorway, like a tired beast run to earth, and Ronald followed him, not without a wish that the architect had provided for a more efficient lighting of the sombre passage-way in which he found himself. A sharp turn to the right after a dozen groping-paces, a nar- row stairway, a bump or two against unexpected salienees of rough mortared wall, two steps upward and one very surprising step downward through a cavernous doorway that took away Ro. nalds breath for a moment, and sent it back again with a hot, creeping wave of sudden perspiration all over him, as is the way with missteps, and two more sharp turns, brought the three into a black no-thoroughfare of a hall, whose further end was closed by a locked door. The girl here rubbed a brim- stone abomination of a match into a mal-odorous green glow, and by its help the old man got a tortuous key into the snaky opening in the great lock, creak- ily shot back its bolt, swung open the door, and motioned Ronald to enter. lIe found himself in a long and rath- er narrow room, with a high ceiling, duskily lighted by three wide windows that were thickly webbed and dusted, like ancestral bottles of fine crusty Port. A veritable den it was, filled with what seemed to be the wrecks of philosophical apparatus dating back two or three generationsill-fated ven- tures on the treacherous main of sci- ence. here a fat-bellied alembic lolled lazily over in a gleamy sand-bath, like a beach-lost galleon at ebb-tide; and there a heap of broken porcelain-tubing and sherds of crucibles lay like bleach- ing ship-ribs on a sullen shore. Be- yond, by the middle window, stood a furnace, fireless, and clogged with gray ashes. Two or three solid old-time tables, built when joiners were more lavish of oaken timber than nowadays, stood hopelessly littered with retorts, filtering funnels, lamps, ringstands, and squat-beakers of delicate glass, caked with long-dried sediment, all alike dust-smirched. Ronald involuntarily sought for some huge Chaldaic tome, conveniently open at a favorite spell, or a handy crocodile or two dangling from the square beams overhead, but saw nothing more formidable than a stray volume of Kants Critique of Pure Reason. Taking this up and glancing at its fly-leaf, he saw a name written in spidery German script, almost illegi- ble from its shakiness Max Lebens- funke. Your name? he asked. Yes, mein Herr, answered the old man, taking the volume and caressing it like a live thing in his fumbling hands. This book was given to me by the great Kant himself, he added. Reverently replacing it, he advanced a few steps towards the middle of the room. Ronald followed, and, turning 156 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. away from the windows, looked further around him. In striking contrast to the undisturbed disorder, so redolent of middle-age alchemy, was the big table that flanked the laboratory through its whole length. It began with a powerful galvanic battery, succeeded by a wiry labyrinth of coils and he- lices, with little keys in front of them like a telegraph-office retired from busi- ness; these gave place to many-necked jars wired together by twos and threes, like oath-bound patriots plotting tre- son; beyond them stood a great glass globe, connected with a sizable air- pump, and filled with a complexity of shiny wires aud glassware; next loomed up a huge induction-magnet, carefully insulated on solid glass supports; and at the further extremity of the table lay a corpse. Ronald Wyde, in spite of his many- sided experience of dissection-rooms, and morgues, and other ghastlinesses to which he had long since accustomed himself from principle, drew back at the sight perhaps because he had come to this strange place to clutch the world-old mystery of the life-essence, und found himself, instead, confronted on its threshold by the equal mystery of death. Herr Lebensfunke smiled feebly at this movement. A subject received this morning from Berlin, he said, in answer to Wydes look of inquiry. A sad piece of extravagance, mein Herra luxury to which I can rarely afford to treat my- self. Ronald Wyde bent over the body and looked into its face. A rough, red face, that had ecemingly seen forty years of Iow.lived dissipation. The blotched skin and bleary eyes told of debauchery and dyunkenness, and a slight alcoholic fmtidness was unpleasantly perceptible, as from the breath of one who sleeps away the effects of a carouse. I hope you dont think of restoring this soaked specimen to life?~ said Ro- nald. That is still beyond me, answered the old man, mournfully. As yet I have not created life of a higher grade than that of the lowest zo~iphytes. Do you claim to have done as much as that? It is not an idle claim, said Herr Lebensfunke, solemnly. Look at this, if you doubt. This was the great crystal globe that rose from the middle of the long table, and dominated its lesser accesso- ries, as some great dome swells above the clustered houses of a town. Tubes passing through its walls met in a smaller central globe half filled with a coloress liquid. Beneath this, and half encircling it, was an intricate maze of bright wire; and two other wires dipped into it, touching the surface of the liquid with their platinum tips. Within the liquid pulsed a shapeless mass of almost transparent spongy tissue. You see an aggregation of cells pos- sessed of lifeof a low order, it is true, but none the less life, said the philoso- pher, proudly. These were created from water chemically pure, with the exception of a trace of ammonia, and impregnated with liquid carbon, by the combined action of heat and induced electricity, in vacue. Look 1 He pressed one of the keys before him. Presently the wire began to glow with a faint light, which increased in intensity till the coil flamed into pure whiteness. Removing his finger, the current ceased to flow, and the wire grew rapidly cool. I passed the whole strength of sixty cups through it to show you its action. Ordinarily, with one or two carbon cells, and refining the current by triple induction, the temperature is barely bloodwarm. Pardon an interruption, said Ro- nald. You spoke of liquid carbon; does it exist? Yes; here is some in this phial. See ithow pure, how transparent! how it loves and hoards the light! The old man held the phial up as he spoke, and turned it round and round. See how it flashes! No wonder, for it is the diamond, liquid and uncrys- taflized. Think how these fools of men 1870.] THE LIFE-MAGNET. 157 have called diamonds precious above all gems through these many weary years, and showered them on their kings, or tossed them to their mistress- es feet, never dreaming that the silly stone they lauded was inert, crystallized life! Cant you crystallize diamonds your- self? asked Wyde, and make Frei- berg a Golconda and yourself a Cr~- sus? It could be done, after the lapse of thousands of years, replied Herr Le- bensfunke. Place undiluted liquid carbon in that inner globe, keep the coil at a white heat, and if Adam had started the process, his heir-at-law would have a koh-i-noor to-day, and a nice lawsuit for its possession. Ronald Wyde bent toward the globe once more and examined the throbbing mass closely, whistling softly mean- while. If you can create this cellular life, why not develop it still higher into an organism? Because I can only create lifenot soul. Years ago I was a freethinker, now my discoveries have made me a dcist; for I found that my cells, living as they were, and possessing undoubted parietal circulation, were not germs; and though they might cluster into a bulk like this, as bubbles do to form froth, to evolve an animal or plant from them was far beyond me; that needs what we call soul. But, in searching blindly for this higher power, I grasped a greater discovery than any I had hoped forthe power to isolate life from its bodily organism. You have to keep the bottle care- fully corked, I should imagine, laughed Ronald. Not quite, said Herr Lebensfunke, joining in the laugh. Life is not glue. My grand discovery is the life- magnet. Which has the post of honor on your table here, has it not?~ inquired Ronald, drawing his hand from his pocket and pointing to the insulated eoil. The old man glanced keenly at his hand as he did so; at which Ronald seemed confused, and pocketed it again abruptly. Yes, that is the life-magnet. You see this bent glass tube surrounded by the helix? That tube contains liquid carbon. I pass through the helix a cur- rent of induced electricity, generated by the action of these sixty Bunsen cups upon a successjon of coils with carbon cores, and the magnet becomes charged with soullcss life. I reverse the streamwhat was positive now is negative, and the same magnet will ab- sorb life from a living being to an ex- tent only to be measured by thousands of millions. Then, what effect is produced on the body you pump the life from? Death. And what becomes of the soul? I dont quite know. I fancy, how- ever, that the magnet absorbs that too. Can it give it 1)aek? Certainly; otherwise my life-magnet would belie its name, and be simply an ingenious and expensive instrument of death. By reversing the conditions, I can restore both soul and life to the body from which I drew them, or to another body, even after the lapse of several days.~~ Have you ever done so? I have. Ronald looked reflectively downward to his boot-toe, but seemed to find noth- ing thereexcept a boot-toe. I say, my friend, he spoke at last, havent you got a pin you can stick in me? Id like to know if Im dream- 7, ing. I can convince you better than by pins, replied Herr Lebensfunke. Let me see that hand you hide so carefully. Ronald Wyde slowly drew it from his pocket, as reluctantly as though it were a grudged charity dole, and extended it to the old man. Its little finger was gone. A defect that I am foolishly sensi- tive about~ ~id he. A childish freak playing with edged tools, you know. A boy-playmate chopped it off by acci- dent: I cut his head open with his own 158 PUTNAMs MAGAZINE. [Aug. hatchet, and made an idiot of him for lifethats all. I could do this, said Herr Lebens- funke, pausing on each word as if it were somewhat heavy, and had to be lifted out of his cramped chest by force; I could draw your entity into that mag- net, leaving you side by side with this corpse. I could dissect a finger from that same corpse,, attach it to your own dead hand by a little of that palpita- ting life-mass you have seen, pass an electric stream through it, and a junc- tion would be effected in three or four days. I could then restore you to ex- istence, whole, and not maimed as now. I dont quite like the idea of dy- ing, even for a day, answered Wyde. Couldnt you contrive to lend me a body while you are mending my own? You can take that one, if you like. Ronald Wyde looked once more at the sodden features of the corpse, and smiled lugubriously. A mighty shabby old customer, he said, and I doubt if I could feel at home in his skin; but Im willing to risk it for the sake of the novelty of the thing. The old philosophers thin face lit up with pleasure. You consent, then? he chuckled in his womanish treble. Of course I do. Begin at once, and have done with it. Not now, mein Herr; some modifi- cations must be made in the connec- tionsmere matters of detail. Come again to-night. At what hour ? At ten. Mein Ydgelein, show the Herr the way out. The girl, who had been moving rest- lessly about the room all this time, with her wild brown eyes fixed now on Ro- nald, now on the old man, and oftener in a shy, inquisitive stare on the corpse, lit a dusty chemical lamp and led the way down the awkward passag~ and stairs. Ronald tried to start a conver- sation with her as he followed. You are too young, my birdling, to be accustomed to such sighte as this up- stairs. Birdling is not too young, shes al- most fourteen, said the girl, proudly. And she likes it, too; it makes her think of mother. Mother went to sleep on that table, mein Herr. Poor thing! shes haif-witted, thought Wyde as he passed into the street. By-by, birdie. Home he walked briskly, to be met under his flaming balcony by Lottchens kindly afternoon greeting. How had mein Herr passed his Sabbath? she asked. Quietly enough, Lottchen. I met an old philosopher in the Gods-Acre, and went home with him to his shop. Have you ever heard of Herr Doctor Lebensfunke I Yes, mein Herr. Wrong here, they say; and she tapped her wide, round German forehead, and lifted her eyes expressively heavenward. Sold himself to the devil, chl asked Wyde. Lottchen was not quite sure on that point. Some said one thing, and some another. There was undoubtedly a dev- ii, else how could good Doctor Luther have thrown his inkstand at him? But he had never been seen in Doctor Le- bensfunkes neighborhood; and, on the whole, Lottchen was inclined to attrib- ute the Herr Doctors trouble to an in- definable something whose nature was broadly hinted at by more tapping of the forehead. Ronald Wyde mounted the stairs, locked himself in his room, and wished himself out of the scrape he was get- ting into. But, being in for it now, he lit a cigar, and tried to fancy the pro- cesses he would have to go through, and how he, a natty and respectable young fellow, would look and feel in a drunk- ards skin. His conjectures being too foggily outlined to please him, he put them aside, and waited impatiently enough for ten oclock. A moonlight walk through the low streets, transfigured by the silver gleam into fairy vistasall but the odor brought him to Herr Lebensfunkes house. Simple birdling, on the look- out for him, piloted him through the 1870.] TEE LIFE-MAGNET. 159 unsafe channel, and brought him to anchor in the dimly-lit room. Allis ready, said the philosopher, as he trembled forward and shook Ro- nalds hand. See here. Zig-zags of silk-bound wire squirmed hither and thither from the life-magnet. Two of them ended in carbon points. And here, too, my young friend, is your new finger. It lay, detached, in the central globe, and on its severed end atoms of proto- plasm were already clustered. Liter- ally a second-hand article, thought Ronald; but, not venturing to trans- late the idiom, he only bowed and said, Ach so! which means any thing and every thing in German. It was not without a very natural sinking of the heart that Ronald Wyde divested himself of his clothing, and took his position, by the old mans di- rection, on the stout table, side by side with the dead. A flat brass plate press- ed between his shoulders, and one of the carbon points, clamped in a little insulated stand, rested on his bosom and quivered with the quickened mo- tion of the heart beneath it. The other point touched the dead mans breast. A;e you ready? Yes. The old man pressed a key, and as he did so a sharp sting, hardly worse than a leechs bite, pricked Ronald Wydes breast. A sense of languor crept slowly upon him, his feet tingled, his breath came slowly, and waves of light and shade pulsed in indistinct al- ternation before his sight; but through them the old mans eyes peered into his, like a dream. Presently Ronald would have started if he could, for two old philosophers were craning over him instead of one. But as he looked more steadily, one face softly dimmed into nothing, and the other grew brighter and stronger in its lines, while the room flushed with an unaccountable light. The little key clicked once more; a vague sensation that the current had somehow ceased to flow, roused him, and he raised himself on his elbow and looked in blank bewilderment at his own dead self lying by his side in the daylight, while the sunrise tried to peer through the webbed panes. Is it over? he asked, with a puz- zled glance around him; and added, Which am I? Either, or both, answered Herr Lebensfunke. Your identity will be something of a problem to you for ~ day or two. Aided by the old man, Ronald awk- wardly got into the sleazy clothes that went with the exchangegrowing less and less at home each minute. He felt weak and sore; his head ached,and the wound left by the fresh amputation of his little finger throbbed angrily. I suppose I may as well go now,~~ he said. When can I get my own self there back again? On Thursday night, if all works well, said the old man. Till then, good-day. Ronald Wydes first impulse, as he shambled into the open air, was to go home; but he thought of the confusion his sadly-mixed identity would cause in Frau Spritzkrapfens quiet household, and came to a dead stop to consider the matter. Then he decided to quit the town for the interminable four days to go to Dresden, or anywhere. His next step was to slouch into the nearest beer-cellar and call for beer, pen, and paper. While waiting for these, he sur- veyed his own reflection in the dingy glass that hung above the table he sat bya glass that gave his face a wavy look, as if seen through heated air. He felt an amused pride in his altered ap- pearance, much as a masquerader might be pleased with a clever disguise, and caught himself wondering whether he were likely to be recognized in it. Ap- parently satisfied of his safety from de- tection, he turned to the table and wrote a beer-scented note to Frau Spritzkrapf- en, explaining his sudden absence by some discreet fiction. He got along well enough till he reached the end, when, instead of his own flowing sign- manual, he tipsily scrawled the unfa- iniliar name of Hans Kraut. Tearing the sheet angrily across, he wrote an- 160 [Aug. PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. other, and signed his name with an effort. He was about to seek a messen- ger to carry his note, when it occurred to him to leave it himself, which he did; and had thereby the keen satis- faction of hearing pretty Lottchen con- fess, with a blush on her fair German cheek, that they would all miss Herr Wyde very much, because they all loved him. Turning away with. a sigh that was very like a hiccough, he trudged to the railway-station and took a ticket to Dresden, going third-class as best befitting his clothes and appearance. He felt ashamed enough of himself as the train rumbled over the rolling land between Freiberg and the capital, and gave him time to think connected- ly over what had happened, and what he now was. His fellow-passengers cast him sidelong looks, and gave him a wide berth. Even the quaint, flat-arched win- dows of one pane each, that winked out of the red-tiled roofs like sleepy eyes, seemed to leer drunkenly at him as they scudded by. Ronald Wydes account of those days in Dresden was vague and misty. He crept along the bustling streets of that sombre, gray city, that seemed to look more natural by cloud-light than in the full sunshine, feeling continually within him a struggle between the two incom- patible natures now so strangely blend- ed. Each day he kept up the contest manfully, passing by the countless beer- cellars and drinking-booths with an as- sumption of firmness and resolution that oozed slowly away toward nightfall, when the animal body of the late Hans Kraut would contrive to get the better of the animating principle of Ronald Wyde; the refined nature would yield to the topers brute-craving, with an awful sense of its deep degradation in so succumbing, and, before midnight, Hans was gloriously drunk, to Ronalds intense grief. Time passed somehow. He had mem- ories of sunny lounges on the Bruhlsche Terrace, looking on the turbid flow of the eddied Elbe, and watching the lit- tle steamboats that buzzed up and down the citys flanks, settling now and then, like gad-flies, to drain it of a few drops of its human life. Well-known friends, whose hands he had grasped not a week before, passed him unheedingly; all save one, who eyed him for a moment, said Poor devil 1, in an undertone, and dropped a silber-gro into his maimed hand. He felt glad of even this lame sympathy in his lowness; but most of all he prized the moistened glance of pity that flashed upon him from the great dark eyes of a lovely girl who passed him now and then as he slouch- ed along. Once, a being as degraded and scurvy as his own outward self, turned to him, called him Dutzbru- der, asked him how he left them all in Berlin, stared at Ronalds blank look of non-recognition, and passed on with a muttered curse on his own stupidity in mistaking a stranger, in broad day- light, for his crony Kraut. Another memory was of the strange lassitude that seemed to almost para- lyze him after even moderate exertion, and caused him to drop exhausted on a bench on the terrace when he had shuf- fled over less than half its length. More than once the suspicion crept upon him that only a portion of his vitality now remained to him, and that its greater part lay mysteriously coiled in Herr Lebensfunkes life-magnet. And this, in turn, broadened into a doubting dis- trust of the Herr himselfa dread lest the old man might in some way appro- priate this stock of life to his own use, and so renew his fast-expiring lease for a score or two of years to come. At last this dread grew so painfully defi- nite, that he hurried back to Freibcrg a day before his appointed time, and once more found his twofold self wan- dering through its devious streets. it was long after dark, and a thin rain slanted on the slippery stones, as he again made his way through the de- serted and sleepy paths of the town to the old philosophers house. He was wet, chilled, weary, and sick enough at heart as he leaned against the cold stone doorway and waited for an answer to his knock. The plash of the heavier rain-drops from the tiled eaves was the 1870.] ThE LIFE-MAGNET. 161 only sound he heard for many minutes, until, at last, pattering feet neared him on the inside, and a childs voice asked who was there. To his friendly re- sponse the door was opened half-wide, and Vdgeleins blank, pretty face peep- ed through. Was Herr Lebensfunke at home? No; he had said that he wasnt at home; but then, she thought he was in the long room where mamma went to sleep. Could he be seen? No, she thought not; he was very tired, and, in her ownVOgeleins opinion, he was going to sleep too, just as mamma did. And the wizened little face, with its cidritch eyes and tangled hair, was withdrawn, and the door began to close. Ronald forced himself inside, and grasp- ed the childs arm. Vdgelein, dont you know mel The girl, in nowise startled, gravely set her flickering candle on the door- step, looked up at him wonderingly, as if he were an exhibition, and said she thought not, unless he had been asleep on the table. Good heavens! cried Ronald, can this child talk of nothing but people asleep on a table l But, as he spoke, a thought whirred through his brain. He drew the poor half-witted thing close to him and ask- ed: Can V6gelein tell me something about mamma, and how she went to sleep? The child rambled on, pleased to find a listener to her foolish prattle. All he could connect into a narrative was, that the girls mother, some seven or eight years before,had been drained of her life by the awful magnet, and that, as the child said, the Herr Doctor ever since had talked just like mamma. his dread was well founded, then. The old mans one dream and aim was to prolong his wretched life; could he doubt that he would not now make use of the means he had so unwisely thrown in his way l He turned about, half mad- dened. Girl! he cried, I must see the old man! Where is he? voL. vI.l1 He couldnt see him, she whined. He was asleep up there, on the table. At one oclock he had said he would wake up. He pushed past her, mounted to the long room, pressed open the unfastened door, and entered. The old man and the corpse of his former self lay together under the light of a lamp that swung from the beam overkead. An insulated carbon point was directed to each white, still breast. From the old mans hand a cord ran to a key beyond, arranged to make or break connection at a touch. By it stood a clock, with a simple mechan- ism attached that bore upon a second key like the first, evidently planned to press upon it when the har~ds should mark a given hour. The child had said that he would wake at one, and it was now past midnight. Ronald Wyde comprehended it all now. The wily old mans feeble life had been withdrawn into the great magnet, and mixed therein with what remained of his own. In less than an hour the key would fall, and the double stream would flow into and animate his young body, which would then wake to renewed life; while tIme cast-off shell beside it, worn to utter uselessness by a toilsome century, would be left to moulder as a mothed garment. Surely no time was to be lost; his life depended upon instant action. And yet, comprehending this, he went to work slowly, and as a somnambulist might, acting almost by instinct, and well knowing that a blunder now meant ir- revocable death. Carefully disengaging the cord from the old mans yet warm grasp, and set- ting the carbon point aside, he lifted the shrivelled corpse and bore it away, to cast it on the white rubbish-heap in one corner. Returning to his work, he stripped himself and laid down in the, old mans place. As he did so, the dis- tant Minster bells rang the three quar- ters. Was there yet time l He braced his shoulders firmly against the brass plate unde~r them, and moved 162 PUTNAMS MAGiZINE. [Aug. the carbon point steadily back to its place, with its tip resting on his breast; the silk-wrapped wire that dangled be- tween it and the magnet quivering, as he did so, as with conscious life. Draw- ing a long breath, he tightened the cord, and heard a faint click as the key snap- ped down. The same sharp sting as before in- stantly pricked his breast, tingling thrills pulsed over him, beats of light and shadow swept before his eyes, and he lost all consciousness. For how long he knew not. At last he felt, rather than saw, the lamp-rays flickering above him, and opened his eyes as though wak- ing from a tired sleep. Sitting up, he gave a fearful look around him, as if dreading what he might see. The drunkards body lay stretched and mo- tionless beside him, and the clock mark- ed three. He was saved! Slipping down from his perilous bed, he resumed the old familiar garments that belonged to him as Ronald Wyde, shuddering with emotion as he did so. Only pausing to give one look at the pale heap in the shadowy corner, and at the other sleeper under the now dy- ing lamp, he quitted the room and lock- ed its heavy door upon the two silent guardians of its life-secrets. When he reached the street, he found the rain had ceased to drop, and that the cold stars blinked over the slumbrous town. Before noon he had taken leave of Frau Spritzkrapfen, turned buxom Lott- chen scarlet all over by a hearty, sud- den farewell-kiss, and was far on his way from Freiberg, with its red-vined balcony and its dark laboratory, never again to visit it or them. And as the busy engine toiled and shrieked, and with each beat of its mighty steam-heart carried him further away, his thoughts flew back and clustered around witless, brown-eyed birdling. Poor child, he never learned her fate. * * * * I heard this strange story from its hero, one sunny summer morning as we swept over the meadowy reaches of the Erie Railway, or hung along the cliff- side by the wooded windings of the Susquehanna. When he had ended it, he smiled languidly, and, showing me his still-mutilated hand, said that the old doctors job had been a sad bungle, after all. In fact, the only physical proof that remained to verify his story, was a curved blue spot where the in- going current from the magnet had car- ried particles from the carbon poiat and lodged them beneath the skin. Psycho- logically, he was sadly mixed up, he said; for, since that time, he had felt that four lives were joined in himhis own, the remnant of Herr Lebensfunkes miserable hoard merged in that of poor birdlings mother, and, last of all, Hans Krauts. He left the cars soon afterward at Biughampton, watchfully followed by a stout, shabby man with a three days beard stubbling his chin, who had occu- pied the seat in front of us, and had turned now and then to listen for a mo- ment to Ronalds rapid narration. A week later, and I heard that he was deadhaving committed suicide in a fit of delirium soon after his admis- sion to the Binghampton Inebriate Asy~ lum. The attendant who made him ready for burial noticed a singular blue mark on his left breast, that looked, he said, a little like a horse~shoe magnet. 1870.] CAN AN INEBRIATE CONQUER HI!~SELF? 163 CAN AN INEBRIATE CONQUER HIMSELF? THE SUGGESTIONS OF ONE WhO HAS TRIED. INEBRIATE asylums are expensive, and besides, not unnaturally offend, in their very designation, a kind of pride false, if you choosewhich every man possesses to a more or less degree. Their expense, too, usually falls on the friends of those whom they are designed to benefit, and, for these and other reasons, we propose to show that any man thus painfully situated may, if he chooses, illustrate for himself, and in himself; the title of this article. Habitual inebriety presents a condi- tion when the brain, being soddened and dulled by the long and extravagant use of the various poisons known under the general name of ardent spirits, refuses to respond to the will-power. Secondly, when the stomach, by long custom, has so habituated itself to these stimulants that it takes to itself the prerogative of the will-power, and suc- cessfully demands their continuance. Thus this morbid condition becomes a true physical disease, and must b~ treated as such. Of course, the final result to be attained is total abstinence from the evil habit. But this result cannot be reached at once, because, first, of the inability of the will to act through the brain and enforce the desire; and second, because the intensified and abnormal condition of the stomach will not admit, with safety to the physical system, of the sudden reaction. The change must be effected gradually, and the first step is to restore the brain to its normal activity; afterward the reorganization and establishment of the digestive and other functions may be safely attempted. The effects of alcoholic stimulants upon the system are twofold: stimula- tive and amesthetic. At first the oxygen, set free, courses through the circulation, exalting all the functions to the per- formance of extraordinary tasks. Then the carbon takes its place, and its in- fluence is observable in the deadening of all the faculties, the partial paralysis of the nerves and muscles, as observable in its effect on articulation and locomo- tion; lastly the brain sinks under the deadly influence, and an~sthesia more or less complete, ensues. But previous to amnsthesin, the brain acts with abnormal power. The passions become stimulated, and in this condi- tion, the inebriate performs acts com- monly only ascribed to insanity or idiocy. Now, while this over-stimulated con- dition exists, it is impossible to regain the will-power, and here begins the treatment by which the unhappy victim may of himself; and by himself; become his own inebriate asylum, with no loss of dignity, and regain his lost man- hood by the exercise of a vital force, fairly Godlike in its nature. This article is not addressedfor it would be useless, and is unnecessary to those bestial beings, whose animal passions naturally direct them to crimi- nal excesses, and whose loss to thc~ world, sliould it occur from such or any other cause, would be nil. It is addressed to those, who, by deli- cate temperament, uncongenial associa- tions, or ovcr-laboriousn~ss, have fallen from their high and holy estate through the very means which they have adopted by which to sustaia themselves and to keep alight, yet a little longer, the fires of hope. Suppose, then, one of these, a sad and frail relic of departed nobility, with the slumbering and nearly dead ashes of his intellect and his aspirations occasionally flickering up with a spark of the old vitality. Suppose one who, for years, according to the strength of his constitution, has battled, with the aid of this deceitful ally, against a host of trials and annoyances, suddenly, by 164 PuTN~s MAGAZINE. [Aug. one of those occasional visions of him- self, which God graciously grants some- times to the most degraded, finds within him a new determination awakened, to burst out of the chains that have en- thralled him, and to become again what he has been, and more; and then finds the old, sinking, crushing feeling come over him, that tells him he is a slave. What shall he do? One thing is certain: there can be no diminuendo in this. There is no tapering off with the devil. Either he has got you, or he has not got you. The first part. of the medical treat- ment in this physical disease requires the immediate removal of the patient from all disturbing influences, of what- ever nature. There must be no noisy children about, no quarreling women, no scan- dal-mongers pouring out their distilled venom to jar upon his nerves, and dis- turb his spirit: he must have absolute quiet and repose. But to obtain this, there need not be recourse to an asylum. There is none so poor, who is worthy to be saved, who has not a friend. Let him then reach some such friend, trust and confide in him, and obtain the required shelter,rest, and attendance,for a few days. Not for months, during which new habits of thought are formed and old business relations become broken off and the man falls again into his old place utterly forgotten, and unable to regain the threads of his lost identity. Not in constant, daily association with such, from every walk in life, as have no other congeniality with him but the painful one of similarity of disease, an association demoralizing in its very nature; but among his friends, and those who know him, and form a con- stant bond of union with the great world he loves and lives in. He may continue his relations with business and society by correspondence and by visits; and soothed and strength- ~ened by the knowledge that he is not forgotten, and that his hard fight is be- ing fought among those who love him, and admire the renewed strength which daily animates him and enables him to struggle successfully; and not among strangers who treat his case purely from a scientific and routine point of view; his earnestness and determina- tion are redoubled, and he nears the victory. Having then gained this temporary asylum, we will say that he drinks his usual allowance of liquor, and retires to bed in his usual condition of inebriety. He has taken care, in his steadier moments, to provide himself with twelve twenty-grain powders of Bro- mide of Potassium, which he will get at a first-class drug-store, on presenting the following prescription, which he can either obtain from a physician, or write for himself; but it is best to sub- mit it to a physician before presenting: PRESCRIPTION. 1:~. Potassii Bromidi 3 ij. Signa. ,1. PaW. (Smith I Now it has been the regular custom, and the daily necessity of this unfortu- nate, for monthsperhaps for years to stimulate into renewed power the brain and nerves, suffering after a nights abstinence from their daily food, perhaps with one, two, or more cocktails, or quantities of greater or less extent of clear spirits. He wakens from his stupor or trou- bled slumber, with his nerves all jarring, his muscles refusing to carry his totter- ing frame across the room; his tongue nearly paralyzed; his stomach nause- ated; his brain crazed and inflamed; and he has recourse to the only thing he knowspoor creature, abandoned of men !that will enable him to set about his daily and requisite tasks. But now he has given himself a two- weeks holiday, and his friends have promised to see him through,and will keep their promise, for it is sacred; and so he need not get out of bed at 1870.] CAN AN INEBRIATE CONQUER HIMSELF? 165 all, and one horrible fear is removed at once. Now he takes one of his twenty-grain powders of Bromide of Potassium, and the internal conflict begins. It is a mortal fight with the foul Fiend him- self. The patient has no cares, no thoughts. Some one smooths his pillows, shuts out the bright light which would tor- ture his eyes, airs the room to suit him, and he feels once more as though he were a child again, nursed by his mother. He does not want to eat, and he need not eat, for he has nothing to do but to lie still and fight, fight! Ah! There is the point. And now he shall show of what stuff he is made. For there is no sterner, as there is no nobler, battle waged than this conflict of the sick man with himself and with the devil who has gotten possession of him. At first the system, surprised by this novel condition of things, waits, pa- tiently enough, for its usual morning corrective; but, at length, grown weary of waiting, and becoming even impa- tientas the best-regulated systems, not to speak of ill-regulated ones, sometimes willit begins to make itself heard. Now it is to be understood that the motive of this article and its prime intention are, to show what the will- power of man, though subdued and crucified and stifled and subjected to the vilest slavery of earth, will do, if the man be a man, without the aid of asylums or other public and extraneous aid. The fight is between the divinity of man and the power of evil, and the battlefield is the beautiful physical structure, which, we are told, is made in the image of God, while the gage is an immortal soul. There is a gnawing at the pit of the stomach, cold sweats crawl up and down the body; the skin is clammy; the head swims around and about; the muscles become completely relaxed; the nervous system is entirely unstrung; strange dreams perplex~ the dozing brain; he slumbers for an instant, and is wakened by a spasm; cramps assail his limbs, and he kicks thcm out; if a pin drops it has the reverberation of a ten-pin; spots, black and white, dance before his eyes, open or closed; hideous faces glare at him, and change and change like the patterns of a kaleido- scope; out of the pocket of his coat hanging over yonder, there comes a wheel, which increases itself, and whirls spirally in the air toward him, till it vanishes under his very eyes, and still, behind all this phantasmagoria, he hears a soft musical voice saying, Be not afraid! You shall win the fight!~ And by-and-by the sedative which he has taken, and which has insidiously been seeking out the enemys weak point all this time, finds it, and the patient falls into a sleep, the first na- tural sleep he has had for years. But he wakes a.gain to find the con- flict going on harder than ever, and the craving stronger; and he takes a sec- ond powder, say three hours after the first, and a third at nightfall; and so the day passes. The second day is worse than the first. The fancies are intensified; the system is coming out from under the alcoholic influence; and the reaction is the more terrible. But there must be no flinching now! Keeping continually before the mind, as it becomes clearer, the determination to crush out and root out, at any cost, this vile enemy to health and progress, the suflerer may also remember that each hour brings him more and more under the influence of his only friend, and each hour im- proves his condition and increases his ability to continue the conflict success- fully. Food should not be taken, unless urgently desired, and then it should be of the most nutritious character. Broths of fowl or beef; steak, and such other meats as are best calculated to preserve the tone of the stomach, are to be preferred. Let the patient satisfy himself through all that, by this treatment, he must suc- ceed. If his paroxysms become stronger 166 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. than he seems able to bear, the dose of Bromide may be increased to thirty or even forty grains; or, be taken more frequently in the original prescription. After the third day, there will be marked improvement, the skin will assume a natural hue and sensation, he will be able to eat with some appetite, to sit up, and to move about, firmly though feebly; but the great change will be in his brain. There will come to him new thoughts with a vividness and force that will cause him to laugh aloud with de- light. His ideas will airange themselves clearly and logically, where before all was chaotic and confused. As his appetite grows, and his system begins to feel the strength, food-given, his muscles will strengthen, his will become elastic in his movements, and strength will come to him as by a miracle. There can be nothing in earths war- fare that can give that sublime con- sciousness of well-doing, which is so intensely felt after those days of terrible suffering. He is respected; his utterances are regarded with their due consideration; his friends and those who understand through what a Valley of the Shadow of Death~ he has passed, respect him; and even his former boon companions appreciate a courage and fortitude which they have not the faith in them- selves to imitate. In his daily duties, be they profes- sional, artistic, or business, he will find. that he is gifted with new vigor and judgment. His imagination is stimu- lated far beyond the power of alcohol, because it is natural now, and a part of the Divinity within. And finally, the demoralization of the soul, that always follows, and forever debases the habitual inebriate, is gone forever. His ideas of right, justice, and virtue have ceased to be perverted. Deeds which he would have performed, and scenes in which he-would willingly have acted a part, but a few short weeks ago, he now looks upon with scorn and abhorrence. And in rectitude of inten- tion and act, and the supremest effort of his intellectual and physical capa- city, he may now live his life, -If? yes, if If he do not go back. There will be no need of it. He will have no craving for liquor. On the contrary, he will have formed for himself an absolute hatred and de- testation of it. It is not this against which he must guard himself. It is, first, against the efforts of drink- ers who may endeavor to induce him to join them. Second, against giving way to petty annoyances and disappoint- ments, and seeking to drown care. Third, against c~reiwork. Let him remember that the years of dissipation, in which his system has been going through a condition of par- tial destruction of the nerve-fibre and the tissues and the brain matter, must require years in which to recuperate. He must not overwork himself. He can now do more work in two hours than he did before in eight, so let him not work six. Let him deal with life, and especially his own life, philosophically, and having done a fair amount of work, accept the needed boon of rest. And should he find head or brain failing him at any moment, let him cease work altogether, and take relaxa- tion in the open air, in music, or in the society of friends! And, above all, let him never, under any circumstances whatsoever, by the inducement of friends, by the advice of a physician, or on account of any need or temptation that may assail him, suffer himself to be betrayed into tak- ing the first glass! For therein the secret lies; and as we said in the beginning, the willing and the strong man, if he follow these rules, may, by the grace of God, be his Own Inebriate Asylum. And so he may step again into the arena of life, armed and equipped anew for its daily struggles; with the serene consciousness of his weAkness and his strength to guide him 1870.] Gnu EABLIEsT ANNALIST. 167 and to guard him in the future; and the soul-stirring conviction, moreover, as an incentive for exertion, and for continuance in the course he has chosen, that he has displayed his truest man- hood and supremest nobility of char- acter and strength of will-power, I~,i fighting it out himself. 49- OUR EARLIEST ANNALIST. As I was sitting, this morning, in my library, indulging myself in the half- hours dreaminess with which one some- times runs over the thoughts and the work of a week that is ended, before he girds himself up to the work of the week that is beginning, my eye instinctively fell upon the shelves on which the his- tories of the United States stand side by side, with a suggcstiveness of harmony not always realized in the lives of their authors. Their number, indeed, is not large; and yet, perhaps, full as large as might have been expected from a na- tional life so short as ours has been, when compared with the lives of the historic nations of the Old World. It is only when the road which we are travelling begins to grow plain before us, that we find pleasure in turning to look upon the part which we have al- ready passed over. And then, for na- tions, as for individuals, the gazing is often of that kind to which Dante likens his own at the entrance of his mysteri- ous journey: E come quci che con lena affannata Uscito fuor del pelago alla riva Si volge all aequa porigliosa e guata: And even as he, who, with distressful breath, Forth issuing from the sea upon the shore, Turns to the water perilous and gazes. For it is in the record of the strug- glings and wild tossings upon this water perilous that the great charm of history lies; and it is in the success- ful issuing from it, or in the hope- less shipwreck on it, that her lessons of encouragement or of warning are found. We now have lessons to give as well as to receive: those two shelves hold the record of all of them but this last and greatest, whose end is still in the future. It is a checkered story, with an ever- shifting play of light and shade, with grand figures moving about in it, and faces, some stern and some thoughtful, and some fair and lovely, and some fiendlike and hateful, looking out upon us from it. It is our pastthe past wherein the lives from which we hold our lives, beganthe duties from which our duties spring were shaped out for usthe hopes grew which we have seen pass into realities, and other hopes made possible which shall, one day, become realities for our children. But it is not for thcse lessons that my eye lingers upon these volumes now. It is of their authors that I nra thinking the men who made this record the work of their lives, and built upon it their hopes of usefulness and fame. What manner of men were they? What led them to do this work, and what kind of a spirit did they bring to the doing of it? Let me give an hour to them, before I go back to my own. First come two solid octavos, clad in black, as their author went clad through his long and laborious life. Holmes Annals of America is printed in pale gilt letters on their backs; and, as I read the name, they suddenly shoot up into huge elms; the green carpet ofmy study-floor becomes the soft green turf of Cambridge Common; and before me stands a quaint old house, with compre- hensive gamble roof and two sober sto- ries, with a modest side-door looking towards the Common, and a front door of somewhat more pretension, opening upon a spacious yard. From one door- step you look by the colleges down into the heart of the villagethe very road over which the BrItish troops marched to Lexington six weeks ago. From the other you look across the Common to the stately elm under which Whitefield once preached, and Washington, before

Prof. G. W. Greene Greene, G. W., Prof. Our Earliest Annalist 167-173

1870.] Gnu EABLIEsT ANNALIST. 167 and to guard him in the future; and the soul-stirring conviction, moreover, as an incentive for exertion, and for continuance in the course he has chosen, that he has displayed his truest man- hood and supremest nobility of char- acter and strength of will-power, I~,i fighting it out himself. 49- OUR EARLIEST ANNALIST. As I was sitting, this morning, in my library, indulging myself in the half- hours dreaminess with which one some- times runs over the thoughts and the work of a week that is ended, before he girds himself up to the work of the week that is beginning, my eye instinctively fell upon the shelves on which the his- tories of the United States stand side by side, with a suggcstiveness of harmony not always realized in the lives of their authors. Their number, indeed, is not large; and yet, perhaps, full as large as might have been expected from a na- tional life so short as ours has been, when compared with the lives of the historic nations of the Old World. It is only when the road which we are travelling begins to grow plain before us, that we find pleasure in turning to look upon the part which we have al- ready passed over. And then, for na- tions, as for individuals, the gazing is often of that kind to which Dante likens his own at the entrance of his mysteri- ous journey: E come quci che con lena affannata Uscito fuor del pelago alla riva Si volge all aequa porigliosa e guata: And even as he, who, with distressful breath, Forth issuing from the sea upon the shore, Turns to the water perilous and gazes. For it is in the record of the strug- glings and wild tossings upon this water perilous that the great charm of history lies; and it is in the success- ful issuing from it, or in the hope- less shipwreck on it, that her lessons of encouragement or of warning are found. We now have lessons to give as well as to receive: those two shelves hold the record of all of them but this last and greatest, whose end is still in the future. It is a checkered story, with an ever- shifting play of light and shade, with grand figures moving about in it, and faces, some stern and some thoughtful, and some fair and lovely, and some fiendlike and hateful, looking out upon us from it. It is our pastthe past wherein the lives from which we hold our lives, beganthe duties from which our duties spring were shaped out for usthe hopes grew which we have seen pass into realities, and other hopes made possible which shall, one day, become realities for our children. But it is not for thcse lessons that my eye lingers upon these volumes now. It is of their authors that I nra thinking the men who made this record the work of their lives, and built upon it their hopes of usefulness and fame. What manner of men were they? What led them to do this work, and what kind of a spirit did they bring to the doing of it? Let me give an hour to them, before I go back to my own. First come two solid octavos, clad in black, as their author went clad through his long and laborious life. Holmes Annals of America is printed in pale gilt letters on their backs; and, as I read the name, they suddenly shoot up into huge elms; the green carpet ofmy study-floor becomes the soft green turf of Cambridge Common; and before me stands a quaint old house, with compre- hensive gamble roof and two sober sto- ries, with a modest side-door looking towards the Common, and a front door of somewhat more pretension, opening upon a spacious yard. From one door- step you look by the colleges down into the heart of the villagethe very road over which the BrItish troops marched to Lexington six weeks ago. From the other you look across the Common to the stately elm under which Whitefield once preached, and Washington, before 1~68 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. another six weeks are passed, will draw his sword, for the first time, as com- mander-in-chief of the armies of the United Colonies. Before each door paces a sentinel in homespun, with a fowling-piece on his shoulder instead of a musket, and an old brass-hilted hanger at his side instead of a bayonet. His cartouche-box is an ox-horn, neatly polished like the goat-horn bow of Pan- darus, and he carries his bullets in a leather pouch. As he paces to and fro, he hums a sober air entuned in his nose, like the service devyne of Chaucers Prioress. And now I hear a clattering of hoofs: four men in uni- form ride up to the door, dismount, and entergenerals, all of them, with the burthen of a great creation resting on them, and giving a certain dignity to their bearing; but, despite their swords and epaulettes, the military air is want- ing; they are civilians still; as, despite their holsters and housings, their horses are farm-horses still. The sentinels stop short in their walk as they see them come, and make an awkward attempt at a salute as they pass into the house. Their answer is but little better. That broad and brawny-shouldered man, with a face burnt brown by exposure, is Israel Putnam. All the little boys in the ad- miring group on the square have heard the story of his fight with the wolg and look up to him with envious wonder. There is more pretension in the air and hearing of the man at his side; he has evidently read more books and seen better society, and thinks none the less of himself for it. That is Heath; and the one next to him is Thomas, for whom the small-pox is lying in wait in Canada. Last of all comes a man with clear blue eyes, lambent with light from within, and a spacious forehead covering a brain that seldom rests, and lips that seemed formed to bear the play of a pleasant smile, or compress into the firm utterance of prompt and immovable decision. That is the Qua. ker anchor-smith, Kathanael Greene. The blue and buff and the silver epan- lettes still look strangely on those shoul- ders, accustomed from childhood to the peaceful drab; and in his gait there is an unmilitary halt. An early death is in wait for him also, but not until the work that called him from his forge on the banks of the pleasant Potowomut is done. What brings these men together on this 5th of June, 1775? It is the first council of war of the Revolution; and General Ward, who has made his headquarters here, is waiting within fo~ his brother-generals. Eleven days pass, and another council is held here, and the committee of safe- ty meet with them. Greene is in Rhode Island, but Warren is here; and, after the council, there is an ominous hurry- ing to and fro, and men gather hastily on the little square at beat of drum. Bunker Hill battle is hanging over the heads of these fathers and husbands and brothers, and from this very house the signal comes. In which of its rooms did Warren lay his aching head. for the last time, on a bloodless pillow i Then, all the vision passes as sudden- ly as it camegenerals and sentinels and soldiers and anxious crowd; all but the quaint old house. And now see a man in black go daily in and out at that door, and sometimes he holds by the hand a little boy. The father is thoughtfully revolving some Scripture text for next Sundays sermon, or work- ing out in thought some question of American history. But with what L that boy, with eye already glancing from heaven to earth and from earth to heav- en, feeding his young mind? Wh~t does he see that makes him break out into that sudden laugh? Of what is he thinking, that calls up that sudden tear? AhI the sacred gift has already begun its work in his young brain, and is stirring his young heart in its mysteri- ous depths. By-and-by both brain and heart will find utterance in sweet verse. And, if we study well the fathers face, we shall find in that, also, the traces of a life worth recording. Meas- ure it by outside facts, indeed, and there is not much to tell. A few sentences may be made to hold all this part of it. Let us try. His name was Abiel Holmes, and 1870.] OuR EARLIEST ANNALISr. 169 they who prize such things will not fail to remind us that iDivinitatis Doctor should be addcd to it. He was born at Woodstock, in Connecticut, in 1764; lost his father in 1779; graduated at Yale in 1783; went to Georgia for his health, and, in 1785, became pastor of the Congregationalist church at Mid- way. The search of health drove him North again in 1791, and, the year fol- lowing, he was called to the First Con- gregationalist church in Cambridge, where he remained till a doctrinal di- vision separated him from part of his parishioners, in 1832. On the 4th of June, 1837, he died. He was married twice, and left four children. Thirty printed sermons and disquisitions, a Life of President Stiles, and the Annals of America, show how indus- triously his seventy-three years were spent. A mengre life, this side of it, you will say; but is this the only side? Born in 1764. Why, this was the be- ginning of a new epoch in our colonial history. The treaty of Paris had just been signed, giving peace to the thirteen colonies, and telling Puritan New Eng- land and Catholic Canada that they were henceforth to live together like sisters. Our tender mother, too, was looking to us for the means of paying her debts, and our paternal sovereign was looking to us for the means of building himself a palace fit for the king of three kingdoms and countless miles of colonies, to live in. The right to levy stamp-duties was voted on the 10th of March; the sugar act on the 5th of April. In May, Sam Adams wrote the Massachusetts Protest, under the form of instructions from the town of Boston to her representatives. James Otis published his Rights of the Brit- ish Colonies. The episcopal question, under the guise of a controversy be- tween Apthorpe and Mayhew, was in its second year. What a turbid and ominous season for an historian to be born in! And then, just in the very flush of youth, just in the age when that Lap- land song proves truest, A boys ~vill ja the winds will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts, the battle of Lexington was fought. And next, just as he was coming, at Yale, under the eye of his future father- in-law, President Stiles, his own father died, leaving him for legacy the record of honorable service as t~nrgeon in the army of the Revolution. Tlle foot- prints of Dwight and Trumbull and Humphreys and Barlow, were still fresh in the halls of this early nurse of Ameri- can genius. The Conquest of Canaan was daily growing under the eye of its aspiring author. Merry peals of approv- ing laughter had already greeted the first cantos of McFingal. Barlow was meditating the Vision of Columbus and fond friends were confidently claim- ing a sprig from the young laurel for the genial Humphreys. Had these things nothing to do with the growth of this unfolding mindno part in the shaping of its aspirations and hopes? Was there no subtle thread binding them all together, and connect- ing a great success with one question- able and one unquestionable failure? Did young Holmes never think, as he listened to the praises of the threeand their praises were on many lips in those days The poets place is taken; who shall take the historians? Mystery of the human heart, impene- trable, unfathomable! Laurels of Mil- tiades! how many sleepless nights have you cost the Miltiades of every age and of every field of human endeavor! But there was another influence, and an acknowledged and accepted one. Among the great names of that pe- riod of our colonial history, which runs into the beginning of our national his- tory, there was none greater in the world of letters than the name of Ezra Stiles. Born under the blue laws, he accepted their rigorous interpretation of Christian duty; but born, too, with a thirst for knowledge and a sincere reverence for all its forms, his vigorous mind soon outgrew the uncongenial re- straint, and the stern theologian became the true Christian. How wide the 170 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. range of his inquiries, how comprehen- sive the grasp of his intellect, how va- ried his reading, and how profound his researches, his pupil has told us in his first essay in historical composition. Oriental learning was in its dawn amongst us, but Stiles made himself master of Hebrew, Chaldee, Syriac, and Arabic, and addressed to Sir William Jones written inquiries upon the Sans- crit. Franklin sent him a Fahrenheit thermometer, and he immediately hegan a course of observations with it, which he continued through a series of years. Knowledge for knowledge sake, a pas- sionate longing to trace the history and penetrate to the reason of things, seems to have directed the employment of all his leisure hours; the others were giv- en, during the first part of his life, to his pulpit and his parishioners, and, when he became President of ~~ale,to his pupils. Forty manuscript volumes bear witness to his industry. Were these stores of learning, and this assidu- ous gathering of them, of no account in the daily intercourse of teacher and pupil? But there was another treasure under the venerable Presidents control, whose influence upon the pupils mind could not be called in question. He had daughters, andthe exact when, wheth- er as junior or senior, or candidate for orders, we do not knowthe young stu- dent could not look upon Mary Stiles without saying to himself that it would be a great thing to be the son-in-law of such a man and the husband of such a maiden. Long or short, there must have been some pleasant scenes in the court- ship, some effort~, on the part of the young student, to listen respectfully to the fathers disquisitions on Hebrew and Syriac and Arabic, all of which, he confidently asserted, could be learnt in less time than a single modern language, and to read the whileArabic was noth- ing to itthe secret meaning that lurk- ed in the eye of the daughter. But per- haps the Doctor remembered that, al- though old now, he had once been young, and withdrew considerately to his study. However this may be, he smiled upon the lovers. I have mar- ried my daughter Mary, he writes, in his reflections on his sixty-fourth birth- day, to the Rev. Mr. Holmes, and part- ed with them both for the distant and dangerous climate of Georgia. Is there not a touch of professional pride in the Reverend? There surely is of pathos in the parted with them both; and, as I read the distant and dangerous,~ as connected with Georgia, I can hardly help thinking that Goldsmiths Thro torrid tracts with fainting steps they go Where wild Altamah murmurs to their woe was running in the good mans head, and adding the strength of a vivid pic- ture to the pious ejaculation with which the paragraph closes: I commend them to the grace of God. And thus responsible life was fairly begun: a wife to love and provide for, a congregation to watch over and guide. How the heart must have sent out its tendrils under the hourly influence of such inspirations! This Georgia life must have had its share in the growth of his mind. The negro and cotton were already in the half-peopled State, and he must often have heard the plant- er say, Shall we ever be able to get that little black seed out of the cotton- pod fast enough to make our negroes and our broad fields profitable? And even now, on the banks of the Savan- nah, under the roof under which the Rhode Island Greene died, a Coirnecti- cut boy, who had followed close upon Holmes footprints at Yale, had heard the anxious question, and was working out the answer. The young clergyman saw the struggle between the produc- tive power of nature and the controlling power of man; saw the current of agri- culture and commerce suddenly turned by the application of a simple machine, which the dullest intellect could under- stand and the most awkward hand could manage. Could he see it without connecting it with the revolution pro- duced by Arkwright and Hargreaves and Crompton, and seeing the whole question of mans conquest and control of the physical world rise up bofore his 18Z0.] Ou~ EARLIEST ANNALIST. 171 historical mind in all the grandeur of its proportions, and before his devout mind in all the cnergy of its mysterious suggestions ? Connecticut was not alone, then, in moulding the future annalist of the New World. Massachusetts share comes next; and, after an interval of five years, we find him right under the shadow of Harvard, as pastor of the First Congregationalist church at Cam- bridge. He found Greek in high honor under President Willard, who, loving mathematics and astronomy as well as he loved Homer and Demosthenes, could see no reason why literature and science should not live together in harmonious appreciation. What a change from the semi-exile of Midway! By-and-by the great Unitarian move- ment begins its brilliant career, impos- ing new tasks and involving severe trials for the son of orthodox Yale. But he believed that it was not without a di- rect purpose that Christ said, In my Fathers house are many mansions, and held bravely and firmly and charitably the coursewhich his conscience enjoined. Another and one of the bitterest of lifes sorrows had befallen him. His wife died, and, although time brought its consolations, the tears that he shed at her grave left, as such tears always do, traces that are never effaced. INlys- terious wings hovered over him when he stood once more before the altar. There could be no present or future for him now, in which the past had not its part. And thus the years glided away, neither too swiftly nor too slowly, but maturing precious fruit both for his here and his hereafter. The Annals~ had been written and published, and accepted as authority. His name had become permanently as- sociated with American history. Men quoted him with confidence in the ac- curacy of his statements and the dili- gence with which he had studied his facts. Let us remember, too, that this is the first authoritative work from an American pen which covered the whole field of American history, beginning with Columbus and coming down to the authors own times. Let us remem- ber it, too, as no slight proof of his qualifications, that he wrote annals, and not a history. The time for history was not yet come, for the connection of events was not yet seen. But the na- tion wished to know, year by year, how it had grown up from colonies to States; to know more familiarly the names and acts of its great men. And he told them, and told them so fully, that it may well be doubted whether the work can ever be done again in this form. The history is not yet written, but the annals are. He has bridged over the chasm which separates us from Colum- bus and the Cabots and the Mayflower. Future annalists may re~3dit, may fill up the inevitable gaps which the publica- tion of new and fuller documents has revealed; they may, and must, continue him; but if they are wise, they will be- gin where he left off; and not waste their time in trying to do over again what he has done so thoroughly and so well. How clearly he saw the grandeur of his subject! A New World has been discovered, which has been receiving inhabitants from the Old more than three hundred years. A new empire has arisen, which has been a theatre of great actions and stupendous events. That remarkable discovery, those events and actions, can now be accurately as- certained, without recourse to such le- gends as have darkened and disfigured the early annals of most nations. This is surely a very dignified exposition of his subject. And for his method. It has been uniformly my aim to trace facts, as much as possible, to their source. Original authorities, therefore, when they could be obtained, have always had prefer- ence. You feel that this is true; and how unconscious he seems all thc while of the wide range of research and read- ing that he really claims for himself. As he conceives it, it is the historians duty, and he makes no boast of doing his duty. Dwell for a moment on the next sentence, and see with what cxqui- site simplicity he apologizes for his learninga healthy example, not always 1T2 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. followed by his successors. Some au- thors of this character wrote in foreign languages; and this circumstance may be an apology for the occasional intro- duction of passages that will not be generally understood. - . The nu- merous references may have the appear- ance of superfluity, perhaps of ostenta- tion. No; not in you, sincere and single-hearted man! Professions of impartiality, he continues, are of lit- tle significance. Although not con- scious of having recorded one fact without such evidence as was satisfac- tory to my own mind, or of having sup- pressed one which appeared to come within the limits of my design, yet I do not flatter myself with the hope of ex- emption from error. Errors will, indeed, creep in, despite the historian~s care and love of truth; but you, at least, will not hesitate to accept the correction as a kind office, and the corrector as a friend. It is but just, however, to observe, that, had I possessed the requisite intelligence, more names of eminence would have been introduced, more ancient settle- ments noticed, and the States in the Federal Union more proportionally re- spected. For any omissions, or other faults which have not this apology, the extent of the undertaking may obtain some indulgence. These lines were written on the 10th of October, 1805. Twenty-three years afterwards, he wrote the preface to his enlarged edition, and told how the additions, which have been made to the lihraries in Cambridge and Boston within the last twenty years, have fur- nished me with new sources of histori- cal information, and with facilities for making use of them. While he was thus continuing his life- work with the same ardor with which he had begun it, what changes were go- ing on around him! The population of the country had risen from a little below four millions to nearly thirteen. New territories had been formed out of forests, and new States out of territo- ries. The flag of the Union was to be found on every sea, her commerce in every port; and hardest task and greatest triumph of allher Irving and her Cooper were printed and read and admired in England. Trumbull was still living, but MeFingal, though not forgotten, was little known. The Con~ quest of Canaan had passed into the domain of literary curiosities, as a book to be known by its title-page, and found now and then on the shelves of some curious collector. The Vision of Co- lumbus had expanded into the Co- lumbiad, and come forth in classic quarto; but, although brilliant with gilt and adorned with elaborate engravings, it slept quietly by the side of its sister epic. Manibus date papavera plenis. A new poetry had arisen. Bryant had written the Thanatopsis; Percival, the first number of Clio; Longfellow his earlier poems in the United States Lite- rary Galette; Willis his Scripture scenes; Dana both prose and verse, and too lit- tle of both. But, in his own field, the faithful annalist was still alone. Nine more years were granted him, some of them years of pleasant labor in his favorite pursuits. New laborers had come, meanwhile, to join him in it. Pitkins had published his Civil His- tory of the United States. Bancrofts first volume had come to awaken ex- pectations that have never been fulfilled. Sparks was laying deep and sure founda- tions for the History of the Revolu- tion. But, all the while, the value of the Annals grew more apparent, as the work of an earnest, laborious life, bearing witness throughout to the sound judgment, the sincere love of truth, the liberality of mind, and the unostenta- tious learning of its author. And thus, having finished his ap- pointed task, honored, respected, be- loved, and full of years, he laid him calmly down at the touch of disease; and just as the bell which, through more than a quqrter of a century, had sum- moned him weekly to the pulpit, was sending forth its Sabbath morning call, the eyes that had so often looked down from that pulpit with the tender yearn- ings of Christian love and the calm re- liance of Christian faith, closed forever. 1870.] Music IN NATURE. 1T3 MUSIC IN NATURE. Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Natures teachings. BRYANT. Music is sometimes called the daugh- ter of heavenly spheres; but if that is her true home, then men must have come from very different spheres, for in none of the arts do we meet with a greater variety of tastes. Chinese sing- ing sounds to our ear like heart-reading squealing; and a Persian ambassador, not so very long ago, listened with de- light to the tuning of instruments in the orchestra of the great opera at Paris, but lost his enthusiasm as soon as the overture began, and left the house dis- gusted with the discordant noises. Nature does not guide us, for the sounds she produces differ mainly in the greater or lesser regularity with which they are repeated. The patter- ing of rain-drops on the roof is a spas- modic eNplosion of short dissonant notes; in the purling of a brook and the rustling of leaves, the transitions are softer and less sudden, while the howling of the wind presents sounds which change continually, rising and sinking gradually, but without regular- ity or rhythm. Hence the difference between mere noise and a sound. If we let a piece of wood fall on the ground, we hear a noise; but if we drop seven small pieces of equal size, but different thickness, in the same manner, we hear distinctly a regular scale, although each sound by itself does not produce a mu- sical impression. The so-called straw- fiddle, consisting of wooden staves which are struck with cork hammers, does not sound unpleasantly. The Chi- nese even string small pebbles on wires, and strike them in a prescribed order with a small mallet; the music is sweet enough to please even fastidious ears. In our orchestras also there are instru- ments the soleuse ofwhichis themarking of time by rhythmical noises; such are the cymbals, castanets, and kettle-drums. Inorganic nature produces only noises no musical sounds. The rolling thun- der, the fury of the tempest, the rustling of leaves in a forest, the pleasant prattle of a mountain brook, and the mighty roar of the oceanall these are nothing more than a mass of confused noises. It is only occasionally that mere acci- dent lends to these sounds a musical character. Such were the utterances of the Memnon statue at the rising of the sun, and such are the sounds heard in the famous Fingal Cave on the island of Staffa. The rear of this cave is dark, and perfectly cut off from the outer world, while prismatic pillars of basalt form something which resembles an organ. Upon penetrating to the farthest end of the cave, a wide open- ing is seen almost on a level with the surface of the water, from which har- monious sounds are heard whenever the waves wash over the edge, and water falls into the abyss beyond. It is this circumstance which has given the grotto in Welsh the name of Llaimh- bian, or Cave of Music. In like manner, the winds of heaven may be forced to utter harmonious sounds by offering them a so-called Al~olian harp, invented by Athanasius Kircher. The instrument consists sim- ply of a wooden frame, with a thin sounding-board, and an arbitrary num- ber of catgut strings stretched over two bridges near the small end. If this wind-harp, as it is often called, is placed in such a manner before a half-open window, or in an opening of a turret, that the current of air strikes it side- ways, it sends forth a great variety of harmonious notes in several octaves. The telegraph-wires of our day pro- duce, for like reasons, a humming noise, which is not always unmusical; but here electricity is said to lend its power- ful aid. The animal world abounds, on the

Prof. Schele De Vere De Vere, Schele, Prof. Music in Nature 173-183

1870.] Music IN NATURE. 1T3 MUSIC IN NATURE. Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Natures teachings. BRYANT. Music is sometimes called the daugh- ter of heavenly spheres; but if that is her true home, then men must have come from very different spheres, for in none of the arts do we meet with a greater variety of tastes. Chinese sing- ing sounds to our ear like heart-reading squealing; and a Persian ambassador, not so very long ago, listened with de- light to the tuning of instruments in the orchestra of the great opera at Paris, but lost his enthusiasm as soon as the overture began, and left the house dis- gusted with the discordant noises. Nature does not guide us, for the sounds she produces differ mainly in the greater or lesser regularity with which they are repeated. The patter- ing of rain-drops on the roof is a spas- modic eNplosion of short dissonant notes; in the purling of a brook and the rustling of leaves, the transitions are softer and less sudden, while the howling of the wind presents sounds which change continually, rising and sinking gradually, but without regular- ity or rhythm. Hence the difference between mere noise and a sound. If we let a piece of wood fall on the ground, we hear a noise; but if we drop seven small pieces of equal size, but different thickness, in the same manner, we hear distinctly a regular scale, although each sound by itself does not produce a mu- sical impression. The so-called straw- fiddle, consisting of wooden staves which are struck with cork hammers, does not sound unpleasantly. The Chi- nese even string small pebbles on wires, and strike them in a prescribed order with a small mallet; the music is sweet enough to please even fastidious ears. In our orchestras also there are instru- ments the soleuse ofwhichis themarking of time by rhythmical noises; such are the cymbals, castanets, and kettle-drums. Inorganic nature produces only noises no musical sounds. The rolling thun- der, the fury of the tempest, the rustling of leaves in a forest, the pleasant prattle of a mountain brook, and the mighty roar of the oceanall these are nothing more than a mass of confused noises. It is only occasionally that mere acci- dent lends to these sounds a musical character. Such were the utterances of the Memnon statue at the rising of the sun, and such are the sounds heard in the famous Fingal Cave on the island of Staffa. The rear of this cave is dark, and perfectly cut off from the outer world, while prismatic pillars of basalt form something which resembles an organ. Upon penetrating to the farthest end of the cave, a wide open- ing is seen almost on a level with the surface of the water, from which har- monious sounds are heard whenever the waves wash over the edge, and water falls into the abyss beyond. It is this circumstance which has given the grotto in Welsh the name of Llaimh- bian, or Cave of Music. In like manner, the winds of heaven may be forced to utter harmonious sounds by offering them a so-called Al~olian harp, invented by Athanasius Kircher. The instrument consists sim- ply of a wooden frame, with a thin sounding-board, and an arbitrary num- ber of catgut strings stretched over two bridges near the small end. If this wind-harp, as it is often called, is placed in such a manner before a half-open window, or in an opening of a turret, that the current of air strikes it side- ways, it sends forth a great variety of harmonious notes in several octaves. The telegraph-wires of our day pro- duce, for like reasons, a humming noise, which is not always unmusical; but here electricity is said to lend its power- ful aid. The animal world abounds, on the 174 ?UTNA~I5 MAGAZIxE. [Aug. contrary, in countless noises, from the coarse and repulsive grunt to the exqui- site music of accomplished songsters. Many animals, it is well known, learn to imitate human speech, but there re- mains always this difference between the speech of man and that of animals, that the voice of the former is free and at his command, while the latter cry and howl and sing as a matter of necessity. No animal utters a sound without being forced to do so by some affection, be it love or wrath or suffering. Even when birds hear a ~harp or a flute, and then begin to vie with their sounds, it is only because their imagination has been so violently excited that they cannot remain silent any longer. It has been said, that the same rule might apply to many a garrulous person, who cannot keep his mouth shut; but the resem- blance is only on the surface. On the other hand, it cannot be de- nied that most animals speak very in- telligibly for each other. The warning cluck of the hen, the absurd gobbling of the wild turkey, the bell of the deer all these voices are well understood by those for whom they are intended. It is true, they only convey sentiments, and not ideas, but in this they resemble the utterances of very young children. The storks of Europe assemble on convenient meadows, range themselves in large half- circles, and listen to speeches delivered by their elders, or hold solemn council witheachother. Awoodpecker laughs al- most like a man; the mocking-bird lite- rally mocks otlier animals by parodying their voices; and the cock of the barn- yard converses with his hens, like a sul- tan in his harem. We learn polite.. ness from the cock,~ says the Talmud, for he caresses his little wife, and tries to win her affections. What does he say to her, do you think? He says: Ill buy you a dress long enough to trail on the ground. And then he adds, shaking his head, May my comb drop off if I do not buy it when I have the money!, The various voices of animals have been discussed, till the books written on the subject would form a respectable library. Much of what is said has no better foundation than the authors fan- cy; but it cannot be denied that certain individuals seem to have received from nature a keener ear for natures sounds, and a power of making themselves un- derstood by animals, which are denied to the majority of men. Jules Richard tells us of an humble official in a pub- lic hospital, who claimed to be able to converse with cats, dogs, and especially monkeys. The narrator received an in- vitation from him to accompany him to the Jardin des Plantes, and followed him to the barrier around the famous Monkey-house. The old man uttered a most extraordinary sound, deep d6wn in his throat, and immediately four monkeys sat down in front of him; he spoke again, and three more came; he repeated the same sounds, and at last the whole population of the colossal cage sat in long rows before the strange man. Then he addressed them soberly and solemnly; the brutes crossed their hands on their knees, laughed, gesticu- lated, andanswered. When the old man at last made a motion to go away, the monkeys became evidently alarmed, and, upon his leaving the open space before the house, real cries of anguish were heard. The animals climbed up on the wires and poles, and looked after their friend from their vantage-ground as .long as he could be seen. Other animals have given concerts very much against their will, it must be added. An old chronicle furnishes an account of one given at Brussels, in 1549, on the Sunday after Ascension, in honor of a miracle-working image of the Virgin. A man, dressed as a bear, played on an organ; the organ consist- ed of twenty cats. They were confined in separate cells, while their tails had strings fastened to them, which were twisted around the keys of the organ. Whenever the bear struck the latter, some of the tails were pulled, and their owners at oiice began to squeal piteous ly. Young pigs were in like manner forced to squeak for the pleasure of a French monarch in his sickness. In Antwerp the custom prevailed formerly, 1870.] Music ix NATURE. 175 on St. Domergus Day, to tie a host of small birds with their feet to the branch- es of a large tree which was placed ia the chapel of the saint. During divine service, children were made to dance around and to try to catch the birds, which, of course, produced an atrocious noise; but the good people believed they afforded the saint a most delight- ful enjoyment. Another instance of strange tastes in music is found in the famous work of the Jesuit Kircher, which he calls his Musurgie. He describes the Ai of South America, and speaks enthusiastically of its voice, which, he says, consists of six beautiful clear notes in regular cadence. When the Span- iards first came to America, they thought there were people living in those forests who practised singing at night. If music had been invented in America, he adds, I should not hesitate to de- clare that it had originated with the marvellous song of this animal. The reverend father has a number of such pleasant surprises in his book. Thus he insists upon a perfect correspondence between the voice and the character of a man. Powerful bass voices, he says, belong, according to Aristotle, to asses only, since the ass has such a voice, and is impudent and disagreeable. Men whose voices begin low and then rise high, are angry and melancholy, like ox- en; while a high voice, without strength, betrays a womanish disposition. For- tunately, he admits that the voice may be trained, and the character thus be improved. Among animals, birds are most libe- rally endowed by nature in point of voice. Parrots, it is well known, imi- tate the human voice to perfection, but they repeat every thing they hear, and the stories about their superior intelli- gence are all mere or less fabulous. A French sea-captain, who loved music without being able to distinguish cor- rect or false notes, had a parrot, who sang after him the refrain of an old drinking song, Quand je hois du yin clairet, Tout tourne au cabaret, and copied the false notes ot its master so faithfully, that he excited invariably the inexhaustible laughter of all who knew the bird and its owner. No man could ever have been able to sing so admirably false. Birds which have a thick, rounded tongue, like the jay, the pie, and the raven, learn to speak more orless dis- tinctly; while birds with cloven tongues learn more easily to whistle. Our American mocking-bird surpasses them all; he sings and speaks not only with equal facility, but imitates all noises, from the flute-like song of the night- ingale to the rumbling of a heavily- laden cart on the pavement of a street, and even gesticulates at the time, as if he knew what he was doing. The nightingale is the queen of European birds; her song is unsurpassed in real beauty and sweetness of sound, and, withal, so loud that it reaches as far as the human voice. Pliny tells us that the sons of the Emperor Claudius owned several nightingales who spoke Greek and Latin, but they cannot have been the birds which bear that name now, for they are not known to learn to speak in our day. Next to the nightingale, the skylark is most highly praised in Europe, and deserves the popular es- teem in which it is held, not only for the beauty and exuberant cheerfulness of its song, but also for the rare perse- verance with which it sings almost un- interruptedly from early Spring to late in Autumn. The skylark sings only in the clear, blue ether; the higher it mounts, the greater efforts the brave little fellow makes to be heard, and finally it seems determined to verify the poets words, Hark! hark! the lark at heavens gate sings, for its song is still audible when the tiny bird has long since vanished from sight. Hence, also, the pretty though fanciful imitation of the song by the French author, Du Bartas, who says~ La gentijie alouette, avec son tirelire, Tirelire, relire et tirelirant, tire Vers la vofito du ciel; puis son vol en ce lieu Vire et semble vous dire: adieu, adieu, adieu! 176 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. Yery different from the larks merry song, and yet characteristic of the sur- roundings, is the strange voice of the bell-bird of Brazil, whose voice sounds exactly like the ringing of a bell, and may be heard, at times, for miles. Every morning its loud call resounds over the vast plains, and even at midday, when all other animals sink, overcome by the days heat, into silent stupor, its cry still continues its fanciful rhythma piercing note, then a minutes pause; another note and another cry, and then a third; after this follows an interval of six or eight minutes silence, and then the three spasmodic cries are re- peated. The ancients added to the number of singing-birds the swan, although they ascribed to him the power of song only at the moment of death. There seems to be no foundation whatever to this statement, and yet, in popular language, the last effort of expiring genius con- tinues to be called his swans song. Buffon, it is true, said that, amid the trumpet-like blasts which wild swans utter when marshalling their hosts in the air, there may be discovered certain harmonious modulations; to the com- mon ear, however, they are impercepti- ble. The ancients seem to have had alto- gether different views from ours as to the sweetness of sounds. To them there was music in the song of the tree-crick- et, and Anacreon dedicated to the in- sect, of which Tennyson says, At eve a dry cicada sung, one of his sweetest odes. Oh, blessed tree-locust, he says, thou who singest like a queen upon the high tops of trees, feeding on dew: the Muses love thee, and Phcebus Apollo, who gave thee thy melodious song. Homer also com- pares the insinuating eloquence of the old men of Troy to the rival songs of the cicadas. One of these remarkable songstersit the shrill, grating sound produced by the friction of membranes near the abdomen really entitles them to such a namewas, according to an old legend, sent by the gods to decide a contest between two renowned players and the cithern. One of the rivals had the misfortune that a string of his in- strument broke while he played, where- upon the gods despatched a cicada, who took the place of the missing string, and sang its part so sweetly that the owner won the coveted prize. To our ear the noise of the tree4ocust is any thing but sweet; in the south of Eu- rope, as well as with us, the dry, harsh noise is associated with great heat and parching drought, and its monotonous repetition becomes easily irksome, if not intolerable. This genuine ventrilo- quist is often confounded by the igno- rant with the true locust, which pro- duces a similar noise, but for another purpose and by different means. All the springers, namely, when they wish to mate, call their females by a chirp produced by the friction of their hard, thickly-veined wing-covers. It is the green field-locust which natives of Af- rica often carefully raise in miniature cages, because their monotonous love- song helps to lull these cannibals to sleep. The nomadic locust, on the con- trarythe terror of all farmers and gar- deners in Eastern landsproduces a much louder noise, by rubbing its hard leg against the horny wing-covers, very much as a violinists bow passes over the strings of his instrument. A kind of tiny drum, with a thin skin stretched over it, serves to increase the odd sounds, which vary greatly as the owner tries to allure ,a youthful beauty or de- fies a dangerous rival. The Persian Yersin has reduced their chirping to notes, as Charles Butler, in his Female Monarchy, writes down the humming of swarming bees, and states exactly how the young queen begs her mother to let her take a swarm from the old stock, and what the old lady replies. Amphibia are by no means silent; even the hideous crocodile has its regis- ter of notes, trom the cat-like cry of the young monster just slipping out of its egg, to the roar of the old man-eater. Even in Egypt, passers-by are occasion- ally taken in by their cries, which at times sound exactly like the whine of 1870.] Music IN NATURE. young children. Most lizards utter notes either when taken up roughly, or, as Anquetil reports, in anticipation of earthquakes. Serpents generally can only hiss, although our own pet friend, the rattlesnake, has a musical instru- ment of its own, on which it gives fair warning before it strikes, and hence has earned the respect of the Indians, who call it a gentleman, because it never at- tacks by stealth. Frogs, it is well known, have not only their love-songs, unattractive as they appear to our ear, but perform regular concerts during the warm summer nights. Tb cy evidently derive great pleasure from their efforts, and try to outsing their rivalsa ten- dency which literally silences man and beast in tropical countries. Nor is it true that fish are mute; so far from it, quite a number of them utter more or less distinct sounds, mainly at the time of spawning, and both sexes seem to be equally favored in this respect. The umber-fish, so called because they pass through the water like faint shadows, congregate at certain seasons, and com- bine in producing what may be literally called unearthly noises, from which cir- cumstance they are also sometimes call- ed organ-fish. Thus there are a thousand voices con- tinually swelling the great anthems which Nature sings to its Creator by- day and by night. For, even when we fancy that all is still and silent around us, in deepcst solitude, in the darkest night, on the highest mountain-top, there are still sounds uttered which may not lie within the compass of all ears, but which become distinctly audible when our hearing is properly attuned. For, as there are sounds so low or so high that the human ear cannot per- ceive them, so we are apt to listen only to those sounds which we expect; and others, heard perhaps by a person stand- ing near us, escape our attention. Every region, moreover, has its own acoustic naturelarge cities have an in- cessant roar, now low and deep, now loud and overwhelming, the confus~ sonus urbis the result of the unceas- ing activity of hundred thousands of VOL. vi.] ~i men, as the beehive resounds with the hum of busy laborers. The roar of London may be heard for miles and miles; and yet Paris noises are louder, because the city is largely built upon an elastic soil, which overhangs the cata- combs, and serves, like a sounding- board, to increase the sound. The coun- try, on the other hand, is filled with Natures own voices, the singing of birds, the cries of animals, the purling of~the brook, and the music of the wind in the branches of trees. In wilder re- gions, and especially in South America, more powerful voices claim the prece- dence, as Humboldt describes so graphi- cally in his Cosmos. He was en- camping for the night under the open sky, in a sandy plain on the banks of the Apure, and in close neighborhood to a magnificent forest. The moon was shining brightly, and deep silence reign- ed all around, broken only now and then by the snorting of sweet-water dolphins. Towards midnight, how- ever, the forest awoke of a sudden with such a medley of fierce cries and terri- ble noises, that sleep was out of ques- tion. It was a fearful concert of all the utterances with which animals may be endowed, from the hoarse gargling noise of the aheates to the flute-like mourning and wailing of little sapajou-monkeys; from the roar of the American tiger, the peccary, and the sloth, to the piercing cries of countless parrots and other birds. At times the caguars roar was~ heard high up in the top branches of trees, and then it was always accompa- nied by the screaming of monkeys as they tried to escape from the murder- ers stealthy paw. The Indians ascribe this fearful noise to the effect which moonlight has on the beasts of the for- est; but it rises to the highest pitch during a pouring rain, or when, amid heavy claps of thunder, lightning sud- denly strikes and illumines the deep for- est. Noon, on the contrary, presents in the tropics a striking contrast, for then the intolerable heat of the sun drives all animals to seek the shade of the jun- gle and the forest, and even the birds 178 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. creep under the leaves and into small crevices to escape from the death-bear- ing rays. Their place is swiftly filled with lizards and salamanders of every hue and shape, who lie with panting, open mouth, motionless on the sand or on hot rocks, and seem to inhale the burning air with speechless delight. Yet, even then, the silence that seems to reign on earth is not absolute. Pan slumbers, but countless numbers of in- sects are still busy way down near the roots of grass and herbs. The atten- tive listener hears the incessant hum that still continues close to the ground; in every bush, under the bark of trees, in the sand and the moss, and even close below the surface of the ground, life is still busy and sounds are still uttered. Such is the voice in which Nature converses with man. Man himself has at least two kinds of sounds, by which he can.make his thoughts and feelings known to others: one he calls language, the other music. In fact, however, music is a language, like all others, which makes up in soft- ness and beauty what it may lack in pre- cision and accuracy. It has been called, not inaptly, dreamy speech. The ancients comprehended under the term of music the harmonious order of all things, and hence included, be- sides the music of our day, dancing, poetry, and even the sciences. The great philosophers of Greece, hence, saw music in the whole system of the uni- verse, and bequeathed thus to posterity the mystic views of a harmony of the spheres and the music of the Cosmos, which was long the favorite theme of medheval writers, revived through the agency of Swedenborg, and will prob- ably long survive, in spite of our better knowledge of the true nature of celes- tial bodies. Although music is exclu- sively mans prerogativathe songs of angels cannot be of the same nature, Though mh acles may make them audi- ble to human earsNature was here also his first teacher. The singing of birds and the thousand sounds of lifeless na- ture led, no doubt, at an early period, to efforts at imitation. Diodorus re peats the popular legend which ascribes the invention of flutes to the ingenuity of a shepherC, who had listened with delight to the whispering of the wind in the reeds of a lake. String-instru- ments followed probably soon, and may, plausibly enough, have begun with the hollow shell of a tortoise, over which, aceidentally, a string was stretched tightly. The Bible tells us, in like manner, of Jubal, the jubilant, the mu- sician, the father of all such as han- dle the harp and the organ, who was descended from Cain through his pa- rents Lamech and Adaha fact which has led many a stern Puritan and dreamy fanatic to attribute all manner of evil effects to the cultivation of arts, and especially of music. The origin of music is thus naturally lost in the dark night of mans earliest history; but the effects it has ever pro- duced on his mind have also been no- ticed from time immemorial. Unlike modern writers, who see in music the only one, pure art, which cannot, by any ingenuity and craft of men, be em- ployed for vile or mean purposes, Plato fancied that certain notes called forth pride and low passions, while others stimulated the nobler affections. He went so far in his apprehensions on this score, that he feared a reform in music might lead to a revolution in the state, unconscious of the dangers with which, if his fears were founded, the author of the music of the future would have threatened Europe. The Greeks, at all events, gave a practical form to their views on the subject, for all their laws and regulations, as well as their legends and traditions, were carefully put in verse and set to music, so that they could be publicly recited by the agency of numerous choirs, with instrumental accompaniment. The Chosen People observed the same custom, mainly for the purpose of thus making abstract dogmas attractive, and impressing them, at the same time, more forcibly on the minds of the hearers. It is ques- tionable whether the same happy effect may be expected from the recent at- tempt, by one of our native artists, to 18TO.] Music IN NATUBE. arrange the Constitution of the United States in the form of a symphony. The fundamental idea of the ancients in regard to the power of music was this: that the human soul had been created in perfect harmony; that this harmony was more or less destroyed by its contact with earthly life, and that music alone had the divine power to restore its pristine purity and perfec- tion. Modern theories, on the contrary, look upon music as the language of an- gels and sinless beings, with whom man dwelt before he was sent into this wick- ed world, and teach that a few strains and faint echoes still linger in his mind, which he tries to utter by means of the beautiful art. All nations, however, agree upon the almost magic power in- dwelling in music. Now it enables Orpheus to tame the wild beasts of the forest and to induce rocks and mighty trees to join in merry dance, and now it enables Amphion to build the walls of Thebes, the stones following willingly the impulse given by the sounds of his lyre. In one age music thus builds cit- ies; in another it casts down the walls of Jericho. In distant Finland the god Wainamonen strikes his cithern, and the waves of the sea grow calm, the trees wave their branches in time with his strains, the bears remain motionless in the forests, and at last the god him- self is so deeply moved, that he sheds a torrent of tears, which instantly change into pearls. India is full of extrava- gant myths connected with the power of music, nQt over men only, but over the gods themselves, and speaks of a famous singer, whose charms were so potent, that once, when he recited a song dedicated to Night, the sun hid itself, and deep darkness spread around him as far as his voice reached. At other times music infiames or soothes the passions of men. Davids harp calmed the storm in Sauls fierce heart, and the great , Farinelli, conquered the tempests in the bosom of King Philip V. of Spain. A famous musician could rouse Alexander the Great to madness by the mere style of his performance, and calm him again by returning to the manner of the Lydi- ans; and Terpander quelled a rebellion in Sparta promptly by singing some verses, accompanied by his cithern. A German author, who quotes this anec- dote, naively suggests that the police of his native land had perhaps better be armed with flutes and guitars hereafter, instead of their massive and dangerous clubs. The ancient poem of the Gudrun, one of the noblest songs ever sung b~ men of our race, praises the power of an old sea-king, Haraud, whose voice had such magic power that, when he sang, tlae wild beasts in the woods came forth, and the birds in the trees ceased their carols, in order to listen. One of the Proven~al tr6ubadours made good use of the mysterious power inherent in music. He was travelling through a dark for- est, when suddenly a band of robbers rushed forth, dragged him from his horse, took his money, stripped him of his clothing, and at last proposed to murder him in cold blood. Then Peter of Chateauneuf begged them at least to let him sing one more favorite song be- fore he must die. The robbers consent- ed, and he sang, accompanying himself with the cithern, a song which he im- provised on the spot; it touched them so deeply that they gave him his life, retumed him his property, and dismiss- ed him with great admiration and rev- erence. More familiar is the story of the rat- catcher, who, in the year 460, appeared in Hameln, in Saxony, and offered, for a slight compensation, to rid the town of the countless rats with which it was infested. The inhabitants willingly agreed to his terms. The stranger then drew a flute from his bag, and played upon his uncouth instrument a quaint melody; immediately the rats came out from all the houses and barns and rush- ed into a river near by, where they were drowned. When he had made an end of them all, he demanded his pay, but the avaricious and dishonest citizens re- fused to pay him more than a very small sum. He made no reply, but on the next day he came, drew another uncouth [Aug~ FtrmAMs MAGAZINE. fife from his bag, and began to play. Immediately all the children in town, between four and twelve years, caine forth from their houses and followed him through the streets, out of town, to the foot of a mountain, and there the fifer and his followers disappeared for- ever. The parents wept and wailed, but all was in vain. But we need not go back to the days of antiquity, or ancient legends, to flnc~ examples of the magic power of music. Every body has heard of the Raaz des Yaches, which makes the children of Switzerland homesick unto death when they hear it in foreign lands, and led so many of the old Swiss Guard of the Bourbons in France to commit suicide, that at last the playing of the air by military bands had to be strictly pro- hibited. Nor must we forget the im- portance which all great generals attach to the effect of good music on their men, so that even the present ruler of France has been compelled to reinstate the regimental bands which, in a i~no- ment of economical zeal, had been part- ly abolished. Few men are insensible to the influence of quick, lively music; it drives the blood faster through the veins, and rouses the most sluggish heart. Shakespeare called even the drum the great maker of courage, and history has more than is flattering to our race to tell of the bloodshed by men acting under the impulse given by the Marseillaise. Nevertheless, not all men are equally susceptible to the charms of music; but, where it is not, as often must be the case, purely the fault of the ear, it draws upon the unlucky man in popular estimation, at least, the well- known stigma, that The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils. St. Augustine, from whom more Chris- tian charity might have been expected, accounts such insensible persons accurs- ed; but the example of great and other- wise richly-endowed men has taught us to seek the explanation rather in some organic defect. It is even a question, whether too great susceptibility is not, perhaps, the more serious misfortune. Some persons cannot hear certain notes, or, at least, certain melodies, without being moved to tears; and even the health of others has been affected by one or the other instrument. Rousseau speaks of a lady who never heard music without having hysterics, and a well- known composer was cured of a dan- gerous fever by being forced to play some of his own compositions. The physicians of insane asylums are fully familiar with the effects of music on their unfortunate patients, and employ it largely in their efforts to calm the more excitable sufferers. In the Middle Ages a number of diseases were consid- ered curable by music, including stu- pidity. Occasionally this opinion rest- ed upon mere superstition, as when Batisto Porta seriously states that a flute of hellebore cured dropsy, and one of poplar-wood was good for rheuma- tism; but when we are told that St. Vitus dance can be cured, perhaps ho- mceopathically, by dancing-music, there is at least a grain of truth in the popu- lar fancy. The air prescribed in such cases is generally the Tarantella a name derived from the poisonous spi- der, whose bite was in olden times be- lieved to be the cause of the terrible disease. When the latter was endemic in Italy, bands of musicians would wan- der up and down the peninsula, offer- ing their services to the afflicted; now both the disease and the method of curing it have nearly fallen into ob- livion. The influcace which music has on us is mainly exercised through the nervous system; hence children, with their deli- cate, excitable nerves, are most easily impressed by it, lulled to sleep by a simple lullaby, or frightened to death by a sudden cry. Montaignes father appreciated this so fully, that he order- ed his son to be awaked in the morning by pleasing music, hoping thus to pre~ pare his mind for the days work with cheerfulness and clearness. But grown men are not less open to the happy in- fluences of music; a hearty song, a rhyth- mic beating of the drum, or a clear 180 1870.] Music ix NATURE. 181 clanging of trumpets, are great helps on a long, weary march, as even keep- ing step relieves the fatigue consider- ably. Workmen hoisting heavy weights, and sailors raising the anchor, sing to ease their task; and the negro, in the cornfield or the sugar-mill, is never hap- py unless he can shout his favorite melodies. Even animals are not insensible to the effects of musical sounds, and their sus- ceptibility rises in exact proportion to their general development. Birds, the legitimate musicians of Nature, learn the song of their parents, as well as those of other birds, and even sounds produced by men or instruments; some sing alone, others in concert with friends. Among the larger animals the horse is most easily taught to adapt his move- ments to music, and a good circus rare- ly fails to have a thoroughbred mare who waltzes to perfection. This talent was not unknown to the ancients, among whom a tradition was current that the Sybarites had their horses taught danc- ing by flute-players, especially employed for the purpose. One of these musi- cians, indignant at being ill-treated, de- serted to the enemies and persuaded them to declare war on Sybaris, prom- ising them an easy victory. He enlist- ed among them a band of flute-players, whom he taught the favorite airs of the Sybarites, and when the two armies stood in battle array opposite each oth- er, he ordered his band to play these melodies. Thereupon the horses of the Sybarites began to dance merrily, and, in the disorder, their masters were easily overpowered, and totally routed. Even stupid-looking oxen learn to value the cheering effects of a flute or a violin, as .many a pioneer in the Far West has ex- perienced; and the Arab, crossing the desert on his camel, induces the almost exhausted animal to make a last effort by singing as loud as he can. Dogs have a strange but varied sus- ceptibility for music, as Buffon already observed. Some are passionately fond of certain instruments, and come run- ning up in all haste when they see the preparations for a concert. Others, again, cannot bear them, and suffer mis- erably when they are played; they raise a terrible howl, and try to hide in the remotest corner. Still others have a strong antipathy against certain sounds only, and poodles and King Charles spaniels are said to be especially op- posed to the higher notes of a violin. The elephant is, in spite of his un- wieldy size and apparently inactive ear, a great lover of music; he not only learns to move in time, but even to ac- company the drum and the flute with certain inarticulate sounds. Buffon once caused a series of experiments to be made, in order to ascertain, at least, the individual taste of an elephant in the Jardin des Plantes. Simple melodies, played on the violin, seemed to give him great pleasure, while the variations made, apparently, no impression; but when a horn-player gave him a favorite air of those days, Charmante Gabrielle, he became very much excited, danced on his huge legs, and made even an effort to accompany the music with a few grunts; at last lie put his trunk into the open end of the instrument, as if to draw out the music itself, and then caressed the player most tenderly, to show him his gratitude. Plutarch and Pliny abound with an- ecdotes concerning this love of music found among animals. The story of Anon and his dolphin is universally known, and the Middle Ages have add- ed largely to the number of similar fa- bles. More reliable are modern accounts of occasional effects produced by music. Such is the well-authenticated story of a village musician, who returned late at night, somewhat tipsy, from a wed- ding, and fell, on his way through a dark forest, into a pit dug for wolves. The unfortunate man, becoming instant- ly sober, found that he was not alone in the pit, and instinctively seized his vio- lin. The wolf did not like the music, crept into the farthest corner, and howl- ed piteously. The poor fiddler, seeing that his life depended on his music, played indefatigably till day broke, but, alas I with it broke also one of his strings after the other! ~When, at last, 182 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. help came, he was playing, like Paga- nini, on a single string, and was so ex- hausted that the people who drew him up thought lie had died in the process. Of the lower animals serpents are most famous for their love of music, which has led to their being regularly trained, by such means, to dance and to obey the orders of their masters. Liz- ards share this fondness with them, and in the South, and especially in the West Indies, negroes can at all times lure them from their hiding-places by gently whis- tling. Even hideous spiders have an ear for music. Michelet tells of one of them the following touching story: the famous violinist, Berthome, owed his early successes mainly to the strict se- clusion in which he was kept as a child. He had but one companion in his soli- tude, whose existence no one suspected a small spider. At first it kept close to a corner of the wall; then it ad- ~anced gradually upon the desk where the music lay, from thence to the boy himself, and finally upon the deft arm that wielded the bow. There it listen- ed, all attention, a deeply-moved, sym- pathizing amateur, representing a whole assembly. This is all an artist needs, in order to feel that his soul has a com- panion. Unfortunately, one day, the boys stepmother brought a stranger into the room; she saw the sentimental spider at its post; a blow with the slipper annihilated the assembly. The boy fainted, was laid up for three months, and his life was saved with difficulty. Such are some of the sounds which we hear, and such the remarkable effects which they produce upon men and ani- mals. The manner in which these im- pressions are made is still a mystery; we do not know how soundsmere waves of the aircan actually produce passions, soothe the excited and heal the diseased mind. The main agent is, in all probability, not the sound it- self, but the rhythm, which may be separated from the former as the out- line of a drawing may be seen without the coloring. Familiar airs, it is well known, may be divined by merely drumming, as it were, the rhythm on a window-pane. Certain motions of in- animate nature produce, hence, the same effect as music. The cascade that falls from a steep rocky height, the brook running merrily between sandy banks, or the waves which restlessly beat against the sea-shore, affect the soul like visible music. We can sit for hours watching the waves as they come, one by one, and ever try to catch each other without success. Their rhythmi- cal change produces a happy, soothing effect upon the mind, and teach us the power of regular, well-ordered motions upon the eye as well as upon the ear. 1870.] A WoM~s RsGrrr. 183 A WOMANS RIGHT. VIII. PAUL S WOOThG. PAUL did not know whether he was in the body or out of it. He had but one consciousnessthis that he had seen herbeen near to herspoken with her; that her eyes had looked up to his, full of a gentle kindness yea, more than a kindness-were they not full of an unspeakable sympathy? He had seen her, he had been near her. Now, his only desire was to see her, to be near her, again. Why are you so still? If you are happy in the Lord, I should think you would say something, said Tilda to Eirene the next morning, as the great Moloch of a wagon once more went on crunching roots and branches beneath it through the woods before sunrise. It wasnt my way, when I received the evidence. I was so happy, I couldnt keep quiet. But you are.difierent (ia a tone of disparagement). Yes, said Eirene, in a voice too far away to be reached by Ti1da~s reproof. A few hours later, as she stood in her old place at work in the factory, John Mallane came to her side, and asked her if she had enjoyed the camp-meet- ing. When she answered that she had, he asked her if she didnt feel the need of a little vacation. I noticed, several weeks ago, that you were looking very tired, he said. If you would like to go home for three or four weeks, you can, and your wages may go on. Oh, Mr. Mall~e, she exclaimed, in an effusion of gratitude, that would be too much; the others Never mind the others, he inter- rupted; they are no concern of yours. If you would like to go, I think it will be better all around. You certainly need the rest. What he meant by the statement that her going would make it better all around, John Mallane did not explain. Had he so chosen he might have done it, by the fact that, an hour before, he had submitted to a very unmerciful at- tack from Mrs. Tabitha. You will go on deaf and blind, John Mallane, till that girl is tied to the family. You dont realize it; but I tell you, even now, there is no living with Paul because she is out of the house. And she went on waxing more and more enraged at every word she uttered, until her husband ended it with his usual, Well, well, Tabitha, what do you want done? I want you to send her home as straight as she can go; and, if you listen to me, you will never let her come back. To do that would be too cruel,~~ he replied; but I will give her a vaca- tion while Paul is at home, if you say so ~~mother. I do say so. And she would have said a great deal more, but she knew that John Mallane had put his foot down, and that it was perfectly use- less to make further demands. That evening, at twilight, Paul sat on the door-step, smoking his cigar in a very uneasy state of mind. He did not know what to do with himself. Every impulse in him impelled him to walk over to the little house across the street, and yet he compelled himself to remain where he was. Havent I said every thing to her that I have a right to say? he asked himself. I told her what she had done for mewhat she could do for me; asked her to be my friend. Of course, there is nothing more to be said. But this conclusion did not sooth& him any. He felt an insane desire just to see her again. If I could only sit down where she is, if I didnt say a word, I should be contented, he ejaculated mentally, as

Mrs. M. C. Ames Ames, M. C., Mrs. A Woman's Right 183-196

1870.] A WoM~s RsGrrr. 183 A WOMANS RIGHT. VIII. PAUL S WOOThG. PAUL did not know whether he was in the body or out of it. He had but one consciousnessthis that he had seen herbeen near to herspoken with her; that her eyes had looked up to his, full of a gentle kindness yea, more than a kindness-were they not full of an unspeakable sympathy? He had seen her, he had been near her. Now, his only desire was to see her, to be near her, again. Why are you so still? If you are happy in the Lord, I should think you would say something, said Tilda to Eirene the next morning, as the great Moloch of a wagon once more went on crunching roots and branches beneath it through the woods before sunrise. It wasnt my way, when I received the evidence. I was so happy, I couldnt keep quiet. But you are.difierent (ia a tone of disparagement). Yes, said Eirene, in a voice too far away to be reached by Ti1da~s reproof. A few hours later, as she stood in her old place at work in the factory, John Mallane came to her side, and asked her if she had enjoyed the camp-meet- ing. When she answered that she had, he asked her if she didnt feel the need of a little vacation. I noticed, several weeks ago, that you were looking very tired, he said. If you would like to go home for three or four weeks, you can, and your wages may go on. Oh, Mr. Mall~e, she exclaimed, in an effusion of gratitude, that would be too much; the others Never mind the others, he inter- rupted; they are no concern of yours. If you would like to go, I think it will be better all around. You certainly need the rest. What he meant by the statement that her going would make it better all around, John Mallane did not explain. Had he so chosen he might have done it, by the fact that, an hour before, he had submitted to a very unmerciful at- tack from Mrs. Tabitha. You will go on deaf and blind, John Mallane, till that girl is tied to the family. You dont realize it; but I tell you, even now, there is no living with Paul because she is out of the house. And she went on waxing more and more enraged at every word she uttered, until her husband ended it with his usual, Well, well, Tabitha, what do you want done? I want you to send her home as straight as she can go; and, if you listen to me, you will never let her come back. To do that would be too cruel,~~ he replied; but I will give her a vaca- tion while Paul is at home, if you say so ~~mother. I do say so. And she would have said a great deal more, but she knew that John Mallane had put his foot down, and that it was perfectly use- less to make further demands. That evening, at twilight, Paul sat on the door-step, smoking his cigar in a very uneasy state of mind. He did not know what to do with himself. Every impulse in him impelled him to walk over to the little house across the street, and yet he compelled himself to remain where he was. Havent I said every thing to her that I have a right to say? he asked himself. I told her what she had done for mewhat she could do for me; asked her to be my friend. Of course, there is nothing more to be said. But this conclusion did not sooth& him any. He felt an insane desire just to see her again. If I could only sit down where she is, if I didnt say a word, I should be contented, he ejaculated mentally, as 184 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. he sent some sudden whiffs of smoke into the air. Just then he heard Seth Goolves gate close with a ring. It was Tilda Stade, who shut it sharply for his benefit. She saw him distinctly, sitting there smoking, and the triumph in her breast would not be denied, for Eirene walked by her side with a satchel in her hand. She was going to Hilltop on the evening train, and Tilda was her body-guard to the station. If Paul could have seen the expression of her face as she turned toward the gate, while she passed swiftly on the other side of the street, he would have read, Come, if you dare; and, seeing it, would very likely have dared, if only out of defiance of his implacable ene- my. But Tildas glance of ire expend- ed itself in the dimness. He did not see it, yet he started with the impulse to go after them. Whats the use, while that dragon is with her? he thought; and he set- tled back on the door-step, and puffed away on his cigar in profound thought. The afternoon of the next day Eirene sat by the open window of her own room at Hillside. Language is too poor to portray the beatitude of spirit which seemed to pervade and glorify her. To be at hometo be freeno dinging bell to command her to toil for how many blessed weeks! The sense of escape, of freedom, filled her with a joy t~o keen to be real. Was the weary summer, the ten hours toil, the stifling chamber, a vanished dream? Or was this a dream that, once more alone, at liberty, she looked forth on the beloved woods of her childhood, in all their August pomp, as they held their green crowns in the still blue air? The clouds, in great piles of fleecy cumuli, rested on the moun- tain-tops, or in snowy fleets sailed slowly on and on, and were lost in infinite dis- tance. Eirene watched them as they went, and her sight drooped midway in the ocean of air; it seemed so vast, after the strip of sky which had bound- ed her summer. The wide earth was at rest, with its fruits ripening on its heart. With what eager delight Eirene counted the harve~sthe apples yel lowing and reddening in the hillside orchardthe corn with its pale green tasselsthe meadow just under the window, running down to the river, now a broad field of tobacco. Was there ever before such a field of tobac-. co, with its languid, aromatic leaves, and flowers of amber? No; such leaves as these had never before ripened in Massachusetts sunshine, Eirene felt sure. She leaned from the window, and tried to count every stately flower- ing stalk. She grew exultant over the unthought-of numbers of their waving ranks. Already she saw them lying slain beneath the September sun; saw the green leaves stacked and counted, golden-brown, in the barn; saw the trader from Busyville, who had bought it, lay the gleaming dollars on the sit- ting-room tableand Hillside was re- deemed I Had Eirene been older, wiser, more of a philosopher, she might have estimated the probable harm which would be done to human nerves through the narcotic forces of this innocent-look- fng field of green and amber. But, per- sonally, she had never seen any of the evil results born of the intoxicating plant. This field of tobaccowhat did it not promise the heart of love and the imagination of youth, as both went on building dreams in the summer air! With no debt on the Hillside farm, pov- erty would be impossible. Her father she saw him with head erect at last; no more shrinking away from loud- voiced Farmer Stave. He had a new hat and a new buggy; and Muggins Muggins had retired to browse through a millennium of bliss in a field of clo- ver, never again to be implored to Get up. There is a new horsea horse not unlike one she has seen arch his neck and dart away from the gate of the white house under the maples at Busy- ville, though she is unconscious of any relationship between the animals. Her mother has a new gownthe black silk gown which Mary Yale has so long meekly and hopelessly desired. Pansy is resplendent in another new frock, this time as pink as the June roses. Win is in college; and sheEireneis 1870.1 A WOMANS RIGHT. 185 sitting at an old desk in the academy of Busyville, studying hard. Thus far into the land of dreams had the field of tobacco transported Eirene. If for one instant Tabitha Mallane could have caught a glimpse of these brain-pictures, she would have set her jaw and nudged her head with a tri- umphant, I told you so! I told you she was of the sort that a sixpence could make feel rich! How little it takes to make some people feel rich, to be sure! Yes, she would study hard, ~nd try and make up fer every mental deficiency. Then, it would not seem quite so presumptuous for her to con- sider herself the friend of one who had enjoyed every advantage of education and society. This blissful thought per- vaded every other. She had a friend! It was an utterly new sensation, this, that she had a friendthat he needed her! Her! How could any one away from Hillside, least of all one who had so much, who knew so much one who was in every way so superior to herself need her! Oh, it was delightful and passing strange! You will perceive that our Eirene, who to this moment has been serene and sensible beyond the verge of dul- ness, has suddenly become foolish. More innocent she was in worldly wisdom, less wise, than the average girls of eighteen. It was not in her power to see Paul as he absolutely was. Indeed, it was not his ordinary self which had appeared and conversed with hernot the calculating, double-faced, every-day Paul, but an occasional Paul, who, at rare intervals, astonished the first with pure and genuine feeling. I am aware that, to this moment, Eirene has been very tamea gray little dove, too sad and quiet to be any thing of a heroine. She will never astonish you, for her soul can only be harmonious with itself. But all the neutral tints in her life go out in the dawn of love. Her maiden heart, deep and still as a tranquil lake, can never go back to its peaceful calm after it has been moved and troubled to its depths by both the angel and demon of passion. For, of course, Paul is coming! While Eirene leans from her window a~d counts the tobacco-stalks, perching a fairy castle on every one, Paul is coming toward Hillside as fast as Fleetfoot, the horse with the arching neck, can bring him. Why he is com- ing, he neither asked himself nor an- swered. He pricked Fleetfoots sides, and urged him up tke steep and often perilous roads to Hilltop with an incon- siderate haste, which made the moun- taineers, in their jogging wagons, look after him, and mutter, That fellers a-goia for the doctor, sure! Must be a case of life and death. Ah, it was all of life, that ardent, irrepressible haste, but not all of lovefor it was in part of anger; anger goaded love, and hurried it on. As usual, Tabitha Mallane had has- tened a result which she would have made any sacrifice to avert. That very day Mother Harkwell, one of the old ladies who had remained with Birene ~thetent,cametounburdenhermind to poor Sister Mallane. I was lisnin to the preachin, she said; the gal was a-sittin by the door; bime-by I looked, and the gal was gone; whar, Ive no idee. I was so took up with the preachin, I hadnt seen her go. She was gone moren an hour, I calkerlate. When she came round agin, it was with your son. Whar do ye suppose theyd ben to? Its my idee that it was all a plot afore- hand. Its tryin to the sperrit to tell ye, Sister Mallane, but I must do my duty. Cordia to my thinkin, youd better look arter Paul and that ar gal. Unfortunately for Paul, he appeared in the yellow sitting-room just after the departure of Mother Harkwcll. If a single hour had intervened, in that Tabitha Mallane would have calmed down, and her sober judgment would once more have held a rein over her temper. But the sight of Paul, at this moment, was too much for it. Her rage at the story which she had just heard, suddenly laid low all the self- control which she had been building up for her own and others management ~or months. So it was all a plana 188 PUmAMs MAGAZINE. [Aug. plan contrived beforehand! That girl had gone, and Paul ha& gone, to the camp-meeting, to meet each other! If he thwarted all her wishes and defied herthis lawless son !at least she would pour out upon him her wrath; and she did. Paul looked her in the eyes, and listened till she accused him of the precontrived plan for meeting Eirene at the camp-meeting. Then his face blanched, and, without a word ia reply, he turned, walked out of the room, and out of the house. A very few moments after, Tabitha Mallane, from the window, saw him mount Fleetfoot and ride rapidly away. Then she knew what she had done. She sat down and rocked the cradle for an hour, with what force you may ima- gine; for the baby screamed with the colic for the next twelve. During the first half of his ride, Paul thought chiefly of his mother. With- out knowing it, he was glad in his heart that she had given him an excuse for just what he was at this present mo- ment doing. She made me, he said to himself, approbatively. Does she suppose that a man is going to stand and be accused of what he is not guilty, and not re- ward himself for such injustice? Ive tried hard enough to do what she thought best, and what I tried to think best; but, hang it, Im doing what I know is best now! Yet, I might have kept from it, if she hadnt accused me in advance. The momentum of his wrath was spent by the time he reached the sum- mit of the hilltop road. Here he in- quired the way of Farmer Stave, sitting on the station-steps, waiting for the train. In a few moments he had struck into the mountain-road. Its grass-grown paths ran on smoothly to Hillside. Now his mother seemed far behind. Every step brought him nearer to her. Every plan and project of his busy brain was this moment as void as if it had never been. All his scheming youth had re- ceded and vanished out of his conscious- ness. All his future, with its dazzling pictures of wealth and power, had faded from his sight. The present possessed him. He loved her. He was near her. A few moments more, and he should see her, and tell her the truththe whole truth. What the consequences of this truth-telling may be, he does not ask. Consequences he has not even the power to remember. Young men of twenty-four, who, in defiance of their own many maxims of prudence, and in open revolt against their moth- em, sudd& nly commit themselves to an overmastering love-passion, seldom think of consequences, or inquire after them. Do they? Certainly, Paul Mal- lane did not. How could he minister to this life which he was seeking? If he wooed and won this girl, could he make her happy as his wife? Was he fit to be her husband? Were they to- gether fitted, by temperament, educa- tion, and love, for harmonious, life-long companionship? These were after- thoughts. Paul had not reached the moment of after-thoughts. Youth, in the first ardor of love, never does. He was in loveutterly in love; that was all he thought or knew. That is about all most men think or know, when first struck into this blissful condition. Is it not? Thus Paul pricked Fleetfoots sides, and the thud of his hoofs in the soft turf grew more and more rapid. In a few moments the woods were passed, and there, in the wide space on the other side of the river, was Hillside farm! As you already know, it was a lowly abode; yet it possessed two indispen- sable elements of beautyfitness and harmony. It belonged to the land- scape; it seemed to complete and per- fect it. In a different mood, Paul would have pronounced it a poor affair. You may judge of the exaltation of his mental condition, by the fact that he never thought to compare it with Marl- boro Hill. He only said, How pleas- ant! I should think an innocent might have grown up in a spot like this. Meanwhile, our maiden still sits by the window, building beautiful palaces in her field of tobaccofollowing with her 1870.] A WOMA15 RIGHT. 187 eyes the sailing clouds, watching the lights and shadows which they drop along the mountain-sides and on the woods, heart and eyes overflowing with an unknown happiness. It is the story old as the earththe maiden waiting for the man, the man coming to woo the maiden. Here I feel inclined to stop, and tell you no more. Silence is never so gold- en as when it shuts from the world the supreme moments of life. Love, the sweetest ever uttered, seems to lose somewhat of its sacredness when its utterance is heard and repeated. This is why the love-scenes in novels are nearly always too hot or too cold. The lover says too much, or he says too lit- tle. The love-making never seems quite natural, quite perfect; and, while we read, we have something the feeling of a person who is listening to what was only meant for the ears of one. As for Paul, in his present mood, he is sure to say too much. I am sure that what he says will not sound well repeated. Eirene, from her window, sees horse and rider emerge from the road through the woods. This is not an unusual sight. Farmer Stave and Deacon Smoot may he seen jogging forth from it almost any day. But it is doubtful if any thing equal to the arch in Fleetfoots neck had been ever seen before on any horse which has preceded him. It is this which attracts and fixes Eirenes gaze. She says, It is INo, it cannot be! Impossible! But it looks the vcry same! No Iyes Iit is Iit is Paul Mallane! There can be no mistaking him now. Fleetfoots quick feet are striking impatiently the loose boards of the bridge just below the house with that peculiar muffled ring which has made Eirene look up from her work so many times since she was a little girl. They come more slowly along the road under the maple-trees, as if hesitating or faltering a little upon such near ap- proach to the house. Has he come to Hillside for a ride? Can he be coming here? No, he can- not be IYes, he must be! said Eirene in the same instant to herself; yet she moved not. Very soon she heard Fleeta foot striking his shoes against the fence. She could not see the front gate, but she heard it click, and then quick steps along the garden-path and in the old porch; then the old iron knocker sent its loud ring through the silent house, and then for the first time she started with the recollection that there was not a soul belowthat she herself must go and open the door. Her father and Win are out in the fields, and her mother and Pansy had gone in the huggy to Hilltop, to buy some extra sweets for the anticipated reunion tea. She kept him waiting scarcely two minutes, but they seemed fifty to Paul; yet she kept him waiting while she did what ninety-nine maid- ens out of a hundred would have done she gave a little brush to her hair, and looked wistfully at herself in the little glass, for the first time in her life moved to such an act from the desire to seem not unlovely in the eyes of one. Paul was just beginning to ask him- self if it was possible any unthought- of dragon could be lurking in the little habitation, when he heard a soft step; then, the door of her lowly home was opened to him by Eirene. Her lovely color came and went, as she frankly ex- tended her hand and invited him to enter. I know you are astonished to see me here, began Paul at once; but, Miss ValeEirenemy darling Idont look frightened; Ive called you so a hundred times to myselfI cannot live without youI cannot even try to; and I have come to tell you so.~ Seeing how very emphatic was Pauls first utterance, you see it is better to re- peat no more that he said. Not that I am ashamed of it, nor that he had cause to be ashamed of it; for it was the first time in his life that he had uttered the words of an entire, disin- terested affectionand it would be the last. Experiences deeper, more holy, may come to the woman afterwards, but they c& n never repeat the rapture which runs through the maidens heart, when for 188 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. the first time she is made conscious that she is beloved. Then her life sud- denly takes on its complete meaning, and for the first time she knows why she was born. We must remember, outside of her home, how little had come into this girls lifehow barren it wasin order to realize how wonderful and delicious seemed the largess of human love now poured out to her. We must not forget that Paul, though neither morally nor intellectually the god which he appeared to her to be, nevertheless possessed that charm of person and of manner, that magnetism of mind, so potent with women. We know that women possessed of all the opportunities which fortune and society give, had passed by better men to bestow their pr& erence upon him, solely through this force of personality. Then, what must it have been to this girl, into the whole of whose life be- fore nothing so bright or so strong had ever come! If he was attractive when all that was best in him had been held in abeyance, how much more so was he now, while every look and word of his were transfigured in intense and genu- ine emotion! What a story was that which fell upon her bewildered and en- raptured ears! She listened in thrill- ing silence, tears and smiles passing over her clear eyes swift as the sunshine and shadow on the woods without, the eloquence of her face every instant in- creasing the eloquence of the story. What passionate entreaty! Would she love him, and wait for him? Another year, and he would be established in his profession. He could make his own home. Would she be the angel in the house? Would she be his wife? Would she make him what she pleasednoble and good, through his love for her? It is hard that the retributive cheru- bim should always be near, and always ready to drive us out of paradise. This time the avenging angel was Muggins. Paul fell straight from heaven at the near rattle of wagon-wheels and the shrill cry of a girl-voice. Nothing could make Muggins lively but the sight of the barn after a little exertion; and Pansy, seeing that her nose was again endangered, was wildly jerking the reins, and screaming to Muggins to stop ! Paul, looking out, saw a plainly- dressed woman and little girl drive frantically up to the house, in a very forlorn buggy, with a very remarkable- looking horse. Then for the first time he realized the disagreeable fact that Eirene had relations; and immediately he felt injured that it was possible she could belong to any body but himself. A moment before, it had seemed to him that he and she were alone on the earthas if he could gather her into his arms and bear her away to be his own, alone, forever. And here was a mother and sister, and no telling how many more rehitives, to be consulted! And what a looking horse! lIe was very much in love, but he could not help seeing Muggins. He forgot her, however, a moment after, when he had been introduced, and was looking into the face of Eirenes mother. She was so like her daughter! The large, soft eyes, with their tender smile and sug- gestion of tears, won the better Paul directly, and so entirely, that he forgot altogether that her dress was very un- fashionable, and her bonnet many sea- sons old. It was not at all difficult to ask this mother for her childnot for to-day or to-morrow, but when he had proved himself worthy of her, and when he could offer her a home fit for her to adorn and crown. As Mary Yale listened to Paul, it seemed to her that the enchanting pic- tures of her youth were all to be made real in the life of her child. She knew Paul well and favorably, through his family name. Of the world in which Paul lived, of its influences and temp- tations, she knew absolutely nothing. But she knew that she saw before her a handsome, earnest, and eloquent face; that the owner of this face was plead- ing for the privilege of making the life of her beloved child happy. She be- lieved every word that he saidwhich is not remarkable, for Paul himself believed every word he said. 1870.] A WOMANS Riour. 189 It was not thought necessary ~o in- troduce Pansy at once; thus she avenged herself by softly peeping through the door. Oh! her busy little brain exclaimed, Oh, what a handsome man! He looks like the Prince in the fairy tale. He has come for Eirene! I know he has, by the way he looks! Why didnt he come for me? Im so tired of this old place! If somebody dont come for me, Ill run away. I read about a girl who did. A few moments afterwards, Paul saw this little damsel, and was made ac- quainted with her. What a remark- able combination! he said to himself; such yellow hair, and ~nch dark eyes purpleblack! What a beauty shell be, some day! Well bring her out, and shell make a great match. It was a fair picture that Paul saw, as he mounted his horse and looked back: the mother, the maiden, and the little girlthe head touched with gray, the head of auburn-brown, and the head of gold. Ive seen beauty beforenever beau- ty like this, said Paul, as he looked once more with a smiling adieu, and rode reluctantly away. But it was Eirenes face that went with him, and the touch of her hand as she had given it to him in parting. Fleetfoot paced through the woods with a slow, medi- tating step, so unlike that of his com- ing. He had taken on the mood of his rider, whose rein had dropped upon his neck. Paul felt that every step was taking him from the joy of his heart. He could think of nothing but how she had lookedhow she had spokenhow incomparably lovely she was, and that, after all, in de~ance of every thing, she was to be his! This condition lasted till the Hilltop station was passed. Then it was no longer Hillside, but Busyville, that he was near. Busyville! Why must he go back to Busyvilleto Dick Prescottto the worldabove all, to his mother? The face that he had left behind belonged to neither. The heart that he had won beat like a cap- tives in his fathers shop. After all, he had done itdone just what his moth- er, what Dick Prescott, had said that he would. He had wooed and won a shop-girl! All these together could not make him regret it. He would stand by her. He would marry her in ~pite of them all. He had not yet lived to the hard moment of the after-thought. But it came: it was not possible that it would not come to Paul Mallane. We loveas we do every thing else according to our nature. The defects of temperament, the infirmity of tem- per, the partial insight, the clouded judgment, the unreasonable prejudice, which distorts so much that is good in us, which mars so many of the fair ac- tions of our daily life, extend no less to our affections. The fault of our char- acter is visible in our love. Paul loved Eirene, but he was no less Paul. In the very glow of his passion, he saw that Muggins was a very ridiculous horse; and, as he came again and again to Hillside, he saw each time more dis- tinctly something which the glamour of his feelings had made imperceptible to him before. It is true, he was too much in love to be moved from his pur- pose by any thing that he saw. Yet his cool brain asserted itself more and more, in defiance of his passionate heart. His forecasting judgment, on which he had prided htmself so long. retaliated for the slight he had shown it, by perpetually tormenting him with suggestions of expediency, amid all his ardor of tenderness. He forgot them while looking into her eyes and taking into his heart the sweet tones of her voice, while walking with her along the voiceful river, or sitting with her in some sheltered nook by its side, osten- sibly waiting for the fish which were so deliciously slow to bite. In all his life, Paul had never been so true a Paul as in these moments. He was delicate and chivalric. He would sooner have cut off his hand than to have taken ad- vantage, even by a word, of the inno- cent and absolute trust of the creature by his side. She was to be his wife his beloved wife! This was the begin- ning and end of the sweet story, told over and over in glowing words. Paul 190 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. builded and furnished the house in which they were to dwell; he even fashioned the ponies and the phseton, which were to be especially her own. He surrounded her with music and flowers, with poetry, beauty, and love; and, as she listened more and more, she breathed in a realm of enchantment. This was life, and life was love, and Paul was its creator and king! It seemed so possible, so real, so very near, this story told to the maiden in white, amid the green leaves flickering sha- dows, beside the laughing waters. But how remote, if not impossible, it be- came the momcnt Paul sat down in the little house! In that moment his ro- mance suffered a fearful collapse. The thought came to him then, as a possi- bility, that his bearing Eirene off to his fairy palace might involve the taking with her of her entire family. His judgment assured him that he, Paul Nallane, considering the wealthy match that he might have made, had reached a state of perfect magnanimity in love, in that he was willing and glad to marry a girl without a cent; but mar- rying her family in addition was quite another thing, and more than could be expected even of such a magnanimous man. He knew nothing of the mort- gage on Hill~ide, but, every time he came, he saw more and more clearly the extreme poverty of its inmates. It was written all over the little parlor in which he sat with Eirene, though there was nothing in it which offended his taste, like the parlor in Thisyville. But the cheap chintz covers on the lounge and stools and chairs, and the carpet on the floor, had been made by the hands of Eirene and her mother, in their attempt to cover the poverty that would not be hidden. The effect of every thing was refined and scrupulous- ly neat; but oh, how poor I The same story of lifelong poverty was stamped in the patient hopelessness of Lowell Vales face, in the gentle sadness of his wifes, in the restlessness of Wins, and the peevish discontent of the little Pan- sy~s. It was a great advance on his pleasure-loving life, when Paul Mallane resolutely made up his mind to work hard in his profession, to marry a poor girl, and to support her by his own efforts in accordance with his position. When we take into consideration Pauls antecedents and habits, it is not sur- prising that he was appalled at the prospect of any additional burden which might possibly devolve upon him through this marriage. His tor- menting head kept reminding him of it, and asking him how he could bear it. Yet, he was so much in love, it made not the slightest difference in his actions. Almost every day, for four bright weeks, Tabitha Mallane saw him mount Fleetfoet and ride awaywhith- er, she knew too well; but the look on his face, so like his fathers when he had made up his mind, compelled her to silence. She asked no questions, made no remonstrance. She knew that it was too late. For Paul, all the poetry of his life was concentrated in this single month. He had never known its like before; he would never know its like again. The world of planning and of scheming and of ambition was far behind him. He lived in the benign world of nature, and in his truest affections. He uttered more words of love, created more in this little time, than a man under ordi- nary conditions would in years. He lived more in rich experience and in keen delight in this one month, than do many mortals in a lifetime. Per- haps he felt instinctively that its won- der of joy could never be repeated, and this was why he gave himself entirely to the bliss of the present. The dreaded parting came. The beautiful tryst ended one starry Sep- tember night. As Paul looked into the eyes of his darling, and then irresolute- ly set his face toward the world, he felt himself to be a very miserable fellow, and, as he couldnt have any thing as he wanted it, romantically wished him- self dead. Before that extreme moment came, however, caution and prudence had reminded him that some practical arrangement must be made even by a man desperately in leve, while he loved 18Z0.] A Woi~ii~s RIGhT. 191 amid opposition and difficulties. Thus, when he left Hillside the last time, the definite understanding with both father and mother was, that Paul and Eirene were affianced, but that, in considera- tion of the fact that he was not estab- lished in his profession, and the more troublesome fact that his mother would bitterly oppose it, the engagement was to be kept secret for a year. Then, Paul declared he would be indepen- dent, and able to declare it to the whole world. Only a year! Only one little year, my darling! said Paul, and then, no more hard work and loneliness. I shall carry you from both, and you will be my wife. TABITHA HALLANE S STRATEGY. Gouty old uncles and grumpy old aunts do sometimes die in season to satisfy their anxiously-waiting relatives. At least, old Comfort Bard died just in the nick of time to please her niece Tabitha. In midwinter Aunt Comfort passed away, and, before the coming of Spring, her share of the Bard home- stead, and a very considerable legacy, had passed into the eager hands of Tabitha Mallane. Long before that hour, as she moved about her house- hold, or as she sat before the smoulder- ing fire, while John Mallane slept, she had laid her plans and decided what she would do with it. Once she could have had but one thought concerning it. She would simply have given it to John Mallane, with the words, Here, father; put it into the business, and se- cure the interest for the children. But her anxiety for the children together was absorbed and forgotten in her pas- sion concerning one. Paul had already entered an old and noted law-office in Boston as the junior partner. It already had its solid man, its learned man, and was glad toadd,asaspecialorna.. ment, a young and eloquent advocate. All Busyville declared this to be a great opening for Paul: Mallane, though it hastened to add, Hes one of the lucky ones. He always gets what ho wants. Tabitha Mallane resolved that he should come to Busyville in his summer vacation, and, for the first time in his life, find his home, in its aspect, nearer at least to what he wished it to be. She resolved on many other things, of which we shall presently be made aware. If women had spent one tenth of the time and intellect in helping each other, which they have devoted to outwitting and destroying each other, what a different world this would be! It the same talent for management and diplomacy, which they so often use to bring about positive and fatal results in trivial affairs, they had applied to noble ends, how much less cause there would be to bemoan the triviality and personal slavery of womana trivial- ity and slavery for which woman her- self is as responsible as man. In the early Spring days, Eirene be- gan to notice most unusual indications about the white house across the street. It was thronged with workmen within and without. In due time, the boxy parlor and a more boxy bedroom, and the yellow sitting-room, were thrown into one drawing-room, with graceful sliding-doors; the kitchen was enlarged into a dining-room, and a new and remote kitchen was commenced to be built in the rear of all. The little old outlooks were lengthened into long French windows opening into a veran- da, which extended entirely around the house. This transformation was sufficiently wonderful; but when a strange man came and began to meta- morphose the garden, the wonder was complete. Nobody outside of her own heart knew what a pang it cost Tabi- tha Mallane to give up her garden. It was hard enough to relinquish the yel- low sitting-room, and the old cradle in which all her babies had been rocked; but it was harder still to give up that dear plot of ground, with its straight beds of beets, peas, and lettuce, where- in she had so long gathered her own fresh vegetables; wherein, when no- body w~as looking, she had so often turned up, with her own hands, from the moist mould, new potatoes for din- 192 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. ner. Through all her weary house- keeping, child-nursing years, it had given her her one pastimethis gar- den; it was the one bond between her and nature. It had been such a pleas- ure in the summer evenings, with her children about her, to weed these beds to water her sturdy sweet-williams and hollyhocks, and watch them grow. But Paul (letested them all, and they must be annihilated. Thus the plots were rolled even with the ground, cov- ered with turf, and trimmed with nar- row earth-borders, for verbenas, migno- nette, and other delicate flowers. Rus- tic seats were placed under the old cherry and apricot trees, and garden vases for trailing plants were set out in the grass, the crowning marvel to the eyes of the factory folk. The last sac- rifice laid on the altar of modem style and maternal love and schem- ing, was the white paint of the house itself. All the old mansions and home- steads of Busyville had been painted white, with bright, blinking green blindsTabitha Mallanes delight. But, ever since Paul had read Dickens Notes, the vivid brightness of red, white, and green had been an offence in his sight. Thus the painters ascended their ladders, and the white went under a pale tea-color with heavy cappings of dark wood. When all was complet- ed, certainly no accusation could be brought against the house and its gar- den. The only trouble with it now was, that it was not in harmony with its surroundings. It should have stood isolated~ amid its own wide grounds. It looked out of place on a narrow street, opposite the ugly factories, and Seth Goodbyes little unpainted, un- sheltered domicile. While these changes were proceeding toward completion, Paul was surprised, one morning, by the announcement, at his Cambridge quarters, that a lady wished to see him. He was still more surprised when, on entering his parlor, he was confronted by his mother. He did not recognize her at he first glance; she looked so different, in her ladylike gray travelling suit, from the care-worn woman in a wrapper in the yellow sitting-room at home. Why, mother! what brought you here? said Paul, in a really hearty tone, as, taking in her appearance, he at once saw that she really looked well, and that he need not be ashamed of her. You, Paul! answered his mother, in a cheerful voice, so different from her Busyville tone. Sit down, and I will tell you all about it. He felt at once as if he were in the Busyvile sitting-room, now be was told to sit down and to listen; but he did as he was bidden. Then, even the hand- some gray travelling suit and the be- coming bonnet could not keep Mrs. Tabitha from bending forward with a little swaying motion, as if she were still rocking the cradle and talking to Paul across it. Ill sit down, mother, if youll sit up, said Paul, laughing ; but dont, I beg of you, rock the cradle at me in Cambridge. No; Ill do just as you want me to, said Mrs. Mallane, straightening. Ive come to surprise and to please you, and Im going to do it. Of course, you know about Aunt Comforts lega- cy; but you dont know what Ive done with it. Youll never be annoyed again with the old sitting-room and the oak paper, nor with the shabbiness of your home, Paul. You have no idea how much feeling I had about it when I could not help it. I knew how hard it was, going in the society you do, and being invited to such places, never to be able to return such hospitality, be- cause you were ashamed of your fath- ers house. You wont know it when you see it. I havent trusted to my own taste in any respectfor you know I like the old things best, because Ive had them all my lifebut I sent for the architect who built Squire Arnotts house, which you like so well, and for the man who laid out his grounds, and they have left nothing as it was before. Its handsomer than you can think. Father says that its altogether too handsome for us, and that Im crazy, or I wouldnt strike out from the old,. 1870.] A WOMANS RIGHT. 193 plain way, and use up so much money, instead of putting it in the business. Its for you, Paul. I was determined that once, before you really set up for yourself, you could come to a home into which you would not be ashamed to ask any friend you have. Theres Mr. Prescott, who did so much to introduce you into the law-officeyoure under obligation to him; and Miss Prescott, and Miss Maynard, or any one you please. I shall be ready for them be- fore August. And Ive come down to have you select the furniture and car- pets with me; you shall have them just as you like, Paul. Paul was a good deal astonished, but did not look so supremely delighted as his mother hoped that he would. His first thought was of Eirene. This new splendor will only shut her out more completelypoor little girl I lie said to himself. Ive wanted it bad enough. Strange I couldnt have it till it can be of n~ use to me! Still, I would like to show the Prescotts that I have no reason to be ashamed of my home, as I know they think I have. It would have been a good deal kinder to have given me the money to have begun housekeeping withEirene and I. I want you to introduce me to the Prescotts, Paul, said Mrs. Nallane. I would like to go with you to Marlboro Hill. I will bring Dick to see you, an- swered Paul. But you are my moth- er, and a stranger, he added, in an imperial tone. Miss Prescott must call upon you before you visit Marlboro Hill. After expressing her approbation of his handsome rooms, Mrs. Mallane pro- posed to return to the city and begin her momentous shopping. Paul, nam- ing an hour when he would join her, proceeded to escort her to the cars. On their way they met Dick Prescott, who was duly presented to Pauls mother. He addressed her with marked defer- ence, adding that he would do himself the honor to call with his sister. They came, the next afternoon, in the stately Prescott barouche, Miss Isabella bring- ing with her her daintiest costume and voL. vi.13 most bewitching manners. She was most effusive, if not gushing, to Mrs. Mallane. She was so charmed, so de- lighted, to meet Mrs. Mallane! Oh, how much you look like your son! she exclaimed. I have heard Mr. Mal- lane speak so often of his mother, I feel as if I had known you always. And you will come out to Marlboro? Oh, do! Drive out in the early evening, and we will take tea on the lawn. It will be so lovely! Please say you will. I shall be so disappointed if you dont. There was something in Tabitha Mal- lane which responded to all this. It was from his mother that Paul had in- herited his love for fine equipages and stately houses, for the ~clat and para- phernalia of wealth and place. To be sure, circumstances had held it sup- pressed in her nature; but, in spite of many years of drudging and of stock- ing-darning, it was there. With its first opportunity, the dormant passion sprang alert into life. It pleased her that her callers came in an elegant car- riage, with livened servants. But, with all this conscious pleasure, there was no vulgar betrayal of it. As she received her visitors, she looked not at all out of place, nor did she feel that she was. She felt as perfectly at home in her heavy black silk, as if Aunt Comfort had never owned it or worn it, or as if she herself had never dug new potatoes for dinner. She looked pleased, but not honored, nor did she consider her- self to be. What if she did not have all the modern airs and graces? She had a son; and, while she had him, and he was both airy, graceful, and tal- ented, she was well avare that she would never be treated as a secondary personage, at least by marriageable young ladies. Paul drove his mother out to Marl- boro in fine state. They took tea on the lawn, and it was all so lovely! as Bella Prescott continually exclaimed. Afterwards Dick and Paul sauntered off to smoke their cigars, and the two ladies were left together. Then, as Tabitha Mallane looked across its green sp~tces and down its broad avenues, she 194 [Aug. Pui~ixs MAGAZINE. made her first real estimate of Marlboro Hill. It was one .f the most beautiful and stately of those suburban homes which make the environs of Boston so charming. But it was not the red sun- set through the green of immemorial elms, flushing the stone of the old an- cestral house with the bloom of vivid rose, which attracted her attention. What she saw was the solidity, the age, the wealth, and vast respectability reflected in its walls. She saw also, as distinctly as Eirene beheld her mothers new gown and her fathers new horse, Paul driving up this avenue of elms be- hind a pair of stately baysher Paul coming home in the evening sunlight, the master of Marlboro Hill! She looked across the lawn, with its foun- tains and flowers, to the park, where some tame deer were grazing beside a mimic lake; and, as she looked, she wondered how, for so many years, she had thought Squire Blanes squatty house a fine mansion, his tucked-up garden grounds, or his daughter Tilly, a match for Paul! It was a long, long look which she had given to Marlboro with her exact- ing eyes. Meanwhile, Isabella Prescott had been taking in Mrs. Mallane with a much smaller but quite as keen a pair. I dont think that I made allowance enough for the boy, said Mrs. Tabitha to herself, when he came home and felt so dissatisfied with all he saw there, compared with what he had seen here; but then, I couldnt have any idea of the contrast as I see it now. I am thinking what a happy girl you are, to be the free mistress of such a beautiful home, she said to Bella. Yes, Marlboro is beautiful, I sup- pose; every body says so. But it dont look to me as it does to other people, because I have always lived here, per- haps. Then, I get so tired looking after it, and so lonesome. Dear Mrs. Mallane, what is any home without a mother? murmured the maiden, with two bright tears twinkling in her little eyes. Dick is good to meevery bodys kind; but oh! if you could know how I want a mother! Dear child, you little know the feeling of a mothers heart, answered Mrs. Tabitha, in her most pathetic quaver. It goes straight to mine to hear you say so. Being the mother of my Grace, gives me a mothers feeling for every other young girl. Yes, I see how it is: with every thing else in the world, you havent a mother. You must see some sad hours, my child. Oh, very sad! It would be very different if I had a sister; but I havent even a sister. Well, my dear, you must come and visit Grace. She has no sister either, near her own age. Im sure youd take to each other directly. She knows nothing of the world of society, and you know all about it; so youd be fresh to each other, and I could be mother to both. how I wish you could be persuaded to visit us! Oh, I dont need any persuading; it would delight me to come! I cant tell you, Mrs. Mallane, how I long to go to some quiet spot this summer! Weve been to the White Hills, to Ni- agara, Saratoga, and everywhere, and Im tired of all. Id like to go and see something that I never saw before. Ive been thinking of asking Dick to take board in some retired farm-house, where I shouldnt have to make four toilettes a-day in hot weather. Youve no idea what a bore it is, Mrs. Mallane. Mrs. Tabitha was sure she did not, as the outline of her old summer sacque and down-at-the-heel slippers ran be- fore her mental eyes. Then she gave a little sigh, for she thought that, if this guest came, she must relinquish them. Our village is a bustling little place, she said, but a rural country lies all around it. In half an hour I can take you to a perfection of a farm- housethe one in which I was born. It has been in our family a hundred years.~~ How I should delight to see it, and Grace! Do tell me about her, Mrs. Mallane! Does she look like you Oh, Im sure we should be like sisters! How I want to see her! How sweet in you to invite me! and how lovely it 1870.j A WOMANS RIGHT. 195 will be to go! Its so different being with ones friends, from being with people in whom one takes no interest. Yes, I think so, said Mrs. Mallane, even if your friends can give you less than strangers. Of course, you know, Miss Prescott, that we are quiet country people, and live in a very plain waynot at all in your style. You will find every thing simple and homely. You must come prepared for that. But you say you want something different from any thing youve had before. You will find it with us, and a daughters welcome; but remember, we live in a very plain way. And, as she uttered these words, Mrs. Tabitha felt an in- ward satisfaction in the thought that, after so much depreciation, when she did come, Miss Prescott would be as- tonished to find every thing so much finer than she had expected. Dick and Paul appearing at this juncture, Bella called out, Dear Dick, Mrs. Mallane has invited me to visit her, and Im going. I shall see Grace, and the farm-house that has been in the family a hundred years. Wont it be lovely? Altogether lovelythat is) it would be, if Mrs. Mallane had invited me too. I dont want to be left out. And we wouldnt leave you out for the world, said delighted Mrs. Tabi- tha, if you think you could find any pleasure with us. I left Paul to decide that; he is so well acquainted with your tastes. If you like fishing, there are shoals in our river, and trout in the brooks, not six miles away. I doat on fishing, and so does Dick. How sweet, how kind you are, Mrs. Mallane! exclaimed Bella, in her most guileless and gushing tone, leaning toward Mrs. Tabitha as if she were going to embrace her on the spot. Paul, looking on, said to himself, This is the best-played game that I ever saw, if it is a game. Whats the deceit of the devil to that of an artful woman? A little of this kindness of mothers had better have been bestowed somewhere else, in my opinion. And he felt bitter, as h~ saw, in the distance, a drooping head and a fair, ~sad face. Yet, an instant after, a sensation of pleasure and triumph rose in him, as he looked and saw Isabella Prescott nes- tled close to his mothers side. She made quite a pretty picture, sitting there under the sunset trees. Then, there was satisfaction as well as won- der in seeing his mother looking quite the lady of Marlboro, with her stately head and lustrous silk. If she had always looked like this, Paul felt cer- tain that he never could have rebelled against her as he had done in the past. Half an hour later, while Paul and his mother were riding toward the city, each silent with their own thoughts, Isabella Prescott still sat under the trees entertaining her brother. If you could only have seen it, Dickthe old ladys look! She took an inventory of the entire place, before she spoke a word. Then, she said I must be a happy girl to have such a home. I made just the reply she want- ed me to: I said, I would be happy if I only had a mother! Then, of course, she offered to be my mother, with the society of hQr daughter Grace. It grew very affecting. Dont you see, Dick, it was just like a story-book. Yes, of one thing I may say I am certain: that the lady from the country has set her heart and mind on becoming my mother in-law ! Well, if her son hadnt piqued your vanity so awfully, she would have made it out. Thats your opinion, is it, Dick? It is. But, as matters are, what under heaven is going to take you up to that furnace in the country for a visit? I saw you had some game on hand, and thought I wouldnt spoil it; but now, Id like to know what its all about. Mallane has gone and made an ass of himselfengaged himself to that girl. He as good as owned it to me. So you had better let him alone. I have other designs for you. You have? Well, Ill inquire what they are, when Ive carried out my own. As for leaving Paul Mallane alone. th~ts just what I dont intend to do. 196 PUTNAM~S MAGAZINE. [Aug~ But what are you going up to that blistering hole of a factory-village for? Paul does not stay there three days at a time, if he can help it. Well, the first thing Im going for is to gratify my curiosity. I want to see the native surroundings of my gen- tleman. I want to see that farm-house. Oh, Dick, you ought to have heard the tone with which la mere said, It has been in our family a hundred years. Then, I want to seeand intend to see the shop-girl. What I mean to do, is, to punisk her; to punish her is my oh ject, and I shall do it. As she mentioned the shop-girl, Bellas voice suddenly grew quick and sharp. Dick looked up. Her thin lips were white, and her little eyes were fixed and beady as a snakes. No man is bad enough to enjoy such a manifestation in his sister. Come, Bell, he said, dont look like that. The shop-girl isnt worth your spite. Im up to such things my- self; but you are a woman, and should be in better business. I dont care, said Bella, angrily. Being a woman dont make it any pleasanter to be snubbed, nor any easier to bear it. Think of a Prescott ever having been put one side for a thing like that! Theres no use in talking, Dick; I shall make the visit. I shall see the shop-girl, and I shall punish her. I shall catch a fish, but not in the river. NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP. GOLDEN head, so lowly bending, Little feet, so white and bare, Dewy eyes, half-shut, half-opened, Lisping out her evening prayer. Well she knows, when she is saying, Now I lay me down to sleep, Tis to God that she is praying Praying Him her soul to keep. Half asleep, and murmuring faintly, If I should die before I wake, Tiny fingers clasped so saintly I pray the Lord my soul to take. Oh, the rapture sweet, unbroken, Of the soul who wrote that prayer! Childrens myriad voices floating Up to heaven, record it there. If, of all that has been written, I could choose what might be mine, It should be that childs petition Rising to the throne divine. While the muffled bells were ringing, Earth to earth, and dust to dust, My free soul, on faith depending Faith, and love, and perfect trust Would approach Him, humbly praying- (All the little ones around) Jesus, Saviour, take Thy servant! Give to her Thy childrens crown.

F. Barrow Barrow, F. Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep 196-197

196 PUTNAM~S MAGAZINE. [Aug~ But what are you going up to that blistering hole of a factory-village for? Paul does not stay there three days at a time, if he can help it. Well, the first thing Im going for is to gratify my curiosity. I want to see the native surroundings of my gen- tleman. I want to see that farm-house. Oh, Dick, you ought to have heard the tone with which la mere said, It has been in our family a hundred years. Then, I want to seeand intend to see the shop-girl. What I mean to do, is, to punisk her; to punish her is my oh ject, and I shall do it. As she mentioned the shop-girl, Bellas voice suddenly grew quick and sharp. Dick looked up. Her thin lips were white, and her little eyes were fixed and beady as a snakes. No man is bad enough to enjoy such a manifestation in his sister. Come, Bell, he said, dont look like that. The shop-girl isnt worth your spite. Im up to such things my- self; but you are a woman, and should be in better business. I dont care, said Bella, angrily. Being a woman dont make it any pleasanter to be snubbed, nor any easier to bear it. Think of a Prescott ever having been put one side for a thing like that! Theres no use in talking, Dick; I shall make the visit. I shall see the shop-girl, and I shall punish her. I shall catch a fish, but not in the river. NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP. GOLDEN head, so lowly bending, Little feet, so white and bare, Dewy eyes, half-shut, half-opened, Lisping out her evening prayer. Well she knows, when she is saying, Now I lay me down to sleep, Tis to God that she is praying Praying Him her soul to keep. Half asleep, and murmuring faintly, If I should die before I wake, Tiny fingers clasped so saintly I pray the Lord my soul to take. Oh, the rapture sweet, unbroken, Of the soul who wrote that prayer! Childrens myriad voices floating Up to heaven, record it there. If, of all that has been written, I could choose what might be mine, It should be that childs petition Rising to the throne divine. While the muffled bells were ringing, Earth to earth, and dust to dust, My free soul, on faith depending Faith, and love, and perfect trust Would approach Him, humbly praying- (All the little ones around) Jesus, Saviour, take Thy servant! Give to her Thy childrens crown. 1870.J AN Ancrric AUBOEA. AN ARCTIC AURORA, AND OTHER MATTERS IN SIBERIA.* KMONG the few pleasures which re- ward the traveller for the hardships and dangers of life in the far North, there are none which are brighter or longer remembered than the magnificent aiiro- ml displays which occasionally illumine the darkness of the long polar night, and light up, with a celestial glory, the whole blue vault of heaven. No other natural phenomenon is so grand, so mysterious, so terrible in its unearthly splendor, as this. The veil which con- ceals from mortal eyes the glory of the eternal throne, seems drawn aside, and the awed beholder is lifted out of the atmosphere of his daily life into the immediate presence of God. On the~ 26th of February, while we were all yet living together at Ana- dyrsk, there occurred one of the grand- est displays of the arctic aurora which had been observed there for more than fifty years, and which exhibited such unusual and extraordinary brilliancy that even the natives were astonished. It was a cold, dark, but clear winters night, and the sky, in the earlier part of the evening, showed no signs of the magnificent illumination which was al- ready being prepared. A few streamers wavered now and then in the north, and a faint radiance, kke that of the rising moon, shone above the dark belt of shrubbery which bordered the river; but this was a common occurrence, and it excited no notice or remark. Late in the evening, just as we were prepar- ing to go to bed, Dodd happened to g~ out of doors for a moment to look after his dogs; but no sooner had he reached the outer door of the entry, than he came rushing back, his face ablaze with excitement, shouting, Kennan! Rob- inson! conic outquick! With a vague impression that the village must * See Patnams Magazine for Sept~ 1S65, and Jan. and Nov. 1869. A volume of Mr. Kennans Adven- turee in Sibiria and Kam~chatka Is aow in prose. be on fire, I sprang up, and, without stopping to put on any furs, ran hastily out, followed closely by Robinson, Har- der, and Smith. As we emerged into the open air, there burst suddenly upon our startled eyes the grandest exhibi- tion of vivid, dazzling light and color, of which the mind can conceive. The whole universe seemed to be on fire. A broad arch of brilliant prismatic colors spanned the heavens from east to west, like a gigantic rainboW, with a long fringe of crimson and yellow streamers stretching up from its convex edge to the very zenith. At short in- tervals of one or two seconds, wide luminous bands, parallel with the arch, rose suddenly out of the northern hori- zon, and swept with a swift, steady majesty across the whole heavens, like long breakers of phosphorescent light rolling in from some limitless ocean of space. Every portion of the vast arch was momentarily wavering, trembling, and changing color; and the brilliant stream- ers which fringed its edge swept back and forth in great curves, like the fiery sword of the angel at the gate of Eden. In a moment the vast auroral rainbow, with all its waving streamers, began to move slowly up toward the zenith, and a second arch, of equal brilliancy, formed directly under it, shooting up another long serried row of slender, colored lances toward the North Star, like a battalion of the celestial host presenting arms to its commanding an- gel. Every instant the display increased in unearthly grandeur. The luminous bands revolved swiftly, like the spokes of a great wheel of light, across the heavens; the streamers hurried back and forth with swift, tremulous motion, from the ends of the arches to the cen- tre, and now and then a great wave of crimson would surge up from the north and fairly deluge the whole sky with

George Kennan Kennan, George Arctic Aurora 197-202

1870.J AN Ancrric AUBOEA. AN ARCTIC AURORA, AND OTHER MATTERS IN SIBERIA.* KMONG the few pleasures which re- ward the traveller for the hardships and dangers of life in the far North, there are none which are brighter or longer remembered than the magnificent aiiro- ml displays which occasionally illumine the darkness of the long polar night, and light up, with a celestial glory, the whole blue vault of heaven. No other natural phenomenon is so grand, so mysterious, so terrible in its unearthly splendor, as this. The veil which con- ceals from mortal eyes the glory of the eternal throne, seems drawn aside, and the awed beholder is lifted out of the atmosphere of his daily life into the immediate presence of God. On the~ 26th of February, while we were all yet living together at Ana- dyrsk, there occurred one of the grand- est displays of the arctic aurora which had been observed there for more than fifty years, and which exhibited such unusual and extraordinary brilliancy that even the natives were astonished. It was a cold, dark, but clear winters night, and the sky, in the earlier part of the evening, showed no signs of the magnificent illumination which was al- ready being prepared. A few streamers wavered now and then in the north, and a faint radiance, kke that of the rising moon, shone above the dark belt of shrubbery which bordered the river; but this was a common occurrence, and it excited no notice or remark. Late in the evening, just as we were prepar- ing to go to bed, Dodd happened to g~ out of doors for a moment to look after his dogs; but no sooner had he reached the outer door of the entry, than he came rushing back, his face ablaze with excitement, shouting, Kennan! Rob- inson! conic outquick! With a vague impression that the village must * See Patnams Magazine for Sept~ 1S65, and Jan. and Nov. 1869. A volume of Mr. Kennans Adven- turee in Sibiria and Kam~chatka Is aow in prose. be on fire, I sprang up, and, without stopping to put on any furs, ran hastily out, followed closely by Robinson, Har- der, and Smith. As we emerged into the open air, there burst suddenly upon our startled eyes the grandest exhibi- tion of vivid, dazzling light and color, of which the mind can conceive. The whole universe seemed to be on fire. A broad arch of brilliant prismatic colors spanned the heavens from east to west, like a gigantic rainboW, with a long fringe of crimson and yellow streamers stretching up from its convex edge to the very zenith. At short in- tervals of one or two seconds, wide luminous bands, parallel with the arch, rose suddenly out of the northern hori- zon, and swept with a swift, steady majesty across the whole heavens, like long breakers of phosphorescent light rolling in from some limitless ocean of space. Every portion of the vast arch was momentarily wavering, trembling, and changing color; and the brilliant stream- ers which fringed its edge swept back and forth in great curves, like the fiery sword of the angel at the gate of Eden. In a moment the vast auroral rainbow, with all its waving streamers, began to move slowly up toward the zenith, and a second arch, of equal brilliancy, formed directly under it, shooting up another long serried row of slender, colored lances toward the North Star, like a battalion of the celestial host presenting arms to its commanding an- gel. Every instant the display increased in unearthly grandeur. The luminous bands revolved swiftly, like the spokes of a great wheel of light, across the heavens; the streamers hurried back and forth with swift, tremulous motion, from the ends of the arches to the cen- tre, and now and then a great wave of crimson would surge up from the north and fairly deluge the whole sky with 198 PUTNAMS MAGAZ~E. [Aug. color, tinging the white, snowy earth far and wide with its rosy reflection. But as the words of the prophecy, And the heavens shall be turned to blond, formed themselves upon my lips, the crimson suddenly vanished, and a light- ning-flash of vivid orange startled us with its wide, all-pervading glare, which extended even to the southern horizon, as if the whole volume of the atmosphere had suddenly taken fire. I even held my breath a moment, as I listened for the tremendous crash of thunder which, it seemed to me, must follow this sud- den burst of vivid light; but in heaven or earth there was not a sound to break the calm silence of night, save the has- tily-muttefed prayers of the frightened native at my side, as he crossed himself and kneeled down before the visible majesty of God. I could not imagine any possible addition which even al- mighty power could make to the gran- deur of the aurora as it now appeared. The rapid alternations of crimson, blue, green, and yellow in the sky were re- flected so vividly from the white sur- face of the snow, that the whole world seemed now steeped in blood, and then quivering in an atmosphere of pale, ghastly green, through which shone the unspeakable glories of the mighty crim- son and yellow arches. But the end was not yet. As we watched, with up- turned faces, the swift ebb and flow of these great celestial tides of colored light, the last seal of the glorious reve- lation was suddenly broken, and both arches were simultaneously shivered into a thousand parallel perpendicular bars, every one of which displayed in regular order, from top to bottom, the seven primary colors of the solar spec- trum. From horizon to horizon there now stretched two vast curving bridges of colored bars, across which we almost expected to see, passing and repassing, the bright inhabitants of another world. Amid cries of astonishment and excla- mations of God have mercy! from the startled natives, these innumerable bars began to move, with a swift, danc- ing motion, back and forth along the whole extent of both arches, passing each other from side to side with such bewildering rapidity that the eye was lost in the attempt to follow them. The whole concave of heaven seemed transformed into one great revolving kaleidoscope of shattered rainbows. 1~evcr had I even dreamed of such an aurora as tki8; and I am not ashamed to confess, that its magnificence at that moment overawed and frightened me. Th~ whole sky, from zenith to horizon, was one molten, mantling sea of color and fire; crimson and purple and scar~ let and green, and colors for which there are no words in language and no ideas in the mind; things which can only be conceived while they are visible. The signs and portents ~ in the heavens were grand enough to herald the de- struction of a world; flashes of rich quivering color, covering half the sky for an instant, and then vanishing like summer lightning; brilliant green streamers shooting swiftly but silently up across the zenith; thousands of va- riegated bars sweeping past each other in two magnificent arches, and great luminous waves, rolling in from the inter-planetary spaces, and breaking in long lines of radiant glory upon the shallow atmosphere of a darkened world. With the separation of the two arch- es into component bars it reached its ut- most magnificence, and from that time its supernatural beauty slowly but stead- ily faded. The first arch broke up, and soon after it the second; the flashes of color appeared less and less frequently; the luminous bands ceased to revolve across the zenith; and, in an hour, noth- ing remained in the dark, starry heav- ens, to remind us of the aurora, except a few faint Magellan clouds of lumi- nous vapor. I am painfully conscious of my in- ability to describe, as they should be described, the splendid phenomena of a great polar aurora; but such magnifi- cent effects cannot be expressed in a mathematical formula, nor can an inex- perienced artist reproduce, with a piece of charcoal, the brilliant coloring of a Turner landscape. I have given only 1870.] ~AN ABOTIC AUBOBA. l9~ faint hints, which the imagination of the reader must fill up. But be assured that no description however faithful, no flight of the imagination however ex- alted, can begin to do justice to a spec- tacle of such unearthly grandeur. Un- til man drops his vesture of flesh and stands in the presence of Deity, he will see no more striking manifestation of the glory ~f the Lord which is terri- ble, than that presented by a brilliant exhibition of the arctic aurora. The month of February wore slowly away, and March found us still living in Anadyrsk, without any news from the Major, or from the missing men, Ar~ nold and Macrae. Fifty-seven days had now elapsed since they left their camp on the lower Anadyr, and we began to fear that they would never again be seen. Whether they had starved or fro- zen to death on some great desolate plain south of Behrings Straits, or been murdered by the Chookehees, we could not conjecture, but their long absence was a proof that they had met with some misfortune. I was not at all satisfied with the route over which we had passed from Shestakora to Anadyrsk, on account of its barrenness, and the impossibility of transporting heavy telegraph-poles over its great snowy steppes from the few wooded rivers by which it was trav- ersed. I accordingly started from Ana- dyrsk with five dog-sledges, on March 4th, to try and find a better route be- tween the Anadyr and the head-waters of the Penzhina river. Three days after our departure we met, on the road to Penzhina, a special messenger from Ge- ezhega, bringing a letter from the Ma- jor, dated Okhotsk, January 19th. En- closed were letters from Colon~ Bulk- ley, announcing the landing of the Ana- dyr-river party, under Lieutenant Mac- rae, and a map showing the location of their camp. The Major wrote as fol- lows: In casewhat God forbid ! Macrae and party have not arrived at Anadyrsk, you will immediately, upon the receipt of this letter, do your ut- most to deliver them from their too long winter-quarters at the mouth of the Anadyr, where they were landed in September. I was told that Macrae would be landed cidy in case ef perfect certainty to reach Anadyrsk in boats; and I confess I dont like such surprises as Colonel Bulkley has made me now. For the present, our duty consists in do- ing our utmost to extricate them from where they are, and you must get every dog-sledge you can, stuff them with dog-food and provisions, and go at once in search of Macraes camp. These directions I had already anticipated and carried out, and Macraes party, or at least all I could find of it, was now living in Anadyrsk. When the Major wrote this letter, however, he did not suppose that Dodd and I would hear of the landing of the party through the wandering Chookehees, or that we would think of going in search of them. without orders. He knew that he had told us particularly not to attempt to explore the Anadyr river until another season, and did not expect that we would go beyond the last settlement. I wrote a hasty note to Dodd upon the icy runner of my overturned sledge freezing two fingers in the operation and sent the courier on to Anadyrsk with the letters. The mail also includ- ed letters to me from Captain Scammon, commander of the Companys fleet, and one from my naturalistic friend, Dall, who had returned with the vessels to San Francisco, and had written me while stopping a few days at Petropavlovski. He begged me, by all the sacred inter- ests of science, not to let a single bug, or living thing of any kind, escape my vigilant eye; but, as I read his letter that night by the camp-fire, I thought, with a smile, that snowy Siberian steppes, and temperatures of 300 and 400 below zero, were not very favorable to the growth and dispersion of bugs, nor to efforts for their capture and pre- servation. I will not weary the reader with a detailed account of the explorations which Lieutenant Robinson and I made in search of a more practicable route for our line between the Penzhina river and Anadyrsk. We found that the 200 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug river-system of the Anadyr was divided from that of the Penzhina only by a low mountain-ridge, which could be easily passed, and that, by following up certain tributaries of the latter, crossing the water-shed, and descend- ing one of the branches of the Anadyr, we should have almost unbroken water- communication between the Okhotsk Sea and Behrings Straits. Along these rivers timber was generally abundant; and where there was none, poles could be distributed easily in rafts. The route thus indicated was every thing which could be desired; and, much gratified by the results of our labors, we returned, on March 13th, to Ana- dyrsk. We were overjoyed to learn, from the first man who met us after we entered the settlement, that Macrae and Arnold had arrived, and in five minutes we were shaking them by the hand, con- gratulating them upon their safe arri- val, and overwhelming them with ques- tions as to their travels and adventures, and the reasons of their long absence. For sixty-four days they had been living with the wandering Chookehees, and making their way slowly and by a circuitous route toward Anadyrsk. They had generally been well-treated, but the band with whom they travelled had been in no hurry to reach the set- tlement, and had been carrying them at the rate of ten or twelve miles a-day, all over the great desolate steppes which lie south of the Anadyr river. They had experienced great hardships; had lived upon reindeers entrails and tallow for weeks at a time; had been alive almost constantly with vermin; had spent the greater part of two long months in smoky Chookehee pologs, and had despaired, sometimes, of ever reaching a Russian settlement or seeing again a civilized human being; but hope and courage had sustained them through it all, and they had finally arrived at Anadyrsk safe and well. The sum- total of their baggage, when they drove into the & ettlement, was a quart-bottle of whiskey wrapped up in an American flag! As soon as we were all together, we raised the flag on a pole over our little log-house, made a whiskey punch out of the liquor which had traversed half northeastern Siberia, and drank it in honor of the men who had lived sixty-four days with the wandering Chookehees, and carried the Stars and Stripes through the wildest, least-known region on the face of the globe. Having now accomplished all that could be done in the way of explora- tion, we began making preparations for a return to Geezhega. The Major had directed me to meet him there with Macrae, Arnold, Robinson, and Dodd, as soon as the 1st of April, and the month of March was now rapidly draw- ing to a close. On the 20th we packed up our stores, aad, bidding good-by to the kind- hearted, hospitable people of Ana- dyrsk, we set out with a long train of sledges for the coast of the Okhotsk Sea. Our journey was monotonous and un- eventful, and, on the 2d of April, late at night, we left behind us the white, desolate steppe of the Parew, and drew near the little flat-topped yourt on the Malmofka, which was only twenty-five versts from Geezhega. Here we met fresh men, dogs, and sledges, sent out to meet us by the Major; and, aban- doning our loaded sledges and tired dogs, we took seats upon the light narLs of the Geezhega Cossacks, and dashed away by the light of a brilliant aurora toward the settlement. About one oclock we heard the dis- tant barking of dogs, and in a few mo- ments we rushed furiously into the silent village, and stopped before the house of the Russian merchant, Vorrebeofi, where we had lived the previous Fall, and where we expected to find the Major. I sprang from my sledge, and, groping my way through the entry into a warm, dark room, I shouted, Fs- tavaitia! to arouse the sleeping in- mates. Suddenly some one rose up from the floor at my feet, and, grasping me by the arm, exclaimed, in a strange- ly familiar voice, Kennan, is that you? Startled and bewildered with half-incredulOuS reeogixition, I could 1870.] AN ARcTIc AURORA. 201 only reply, Bush, is that you? and, when a sleepy boy came in with a light, he was astonished to find a man dressed in heavy frosty furs embracing another who was clad only in a linen shirt and drawers. There was a joyful time in that log- house when the Major, Bush, Macrae, Arnold, Robinson, Dodd, and I gath- ered around a steaming samovar, or tea-urn, which stood on a pine table in the centre of the room, and discussed the adventures, haps, and mishaps of our first arctic wintgr. Some of us had come from the extremity of Kam- tchatka, some from the frontier of Chi- na, and some from Behrings Straits, and we all met that night in Geezhega, and congratulated ourselves and each other upon the successful exploration of the whole route of the proposed Russo-American Telegraph, from Ann- dyr Bay to the Amoor river. The dif- ferent members of the party there as- sembled had, in seven months, travelled in the aggregate almost ten thousand miles. The results of our winters work were briefly as follows: Bush and Mahow, after leaving the Major and me at Fe- tropavlovski, had gone on to the Rus- sian settlement of Nikolaevsk, at the mouth of the Amoor river, and had entered promptly upon the exploration of the west coast of the Okhotsk Sea. They had travelled with the wandering Tongoos through the densely-timbered region between Nikolaevsk and Man, ridden on the backs of reindeer over the rugged mountains of the Stanavoi range south of Okhotsk, and had final- ly met the Major at the latter place on the 22d of February. The Major had explored the whole north coast of the Okhotsk Sea, alone, and had made a visit to the Russian city of Yakootsk, six hundred versts west of Okhotsk, in quest of laborers and horses. He had ascertained the possibility of hiring a thousand Yakoot laborers in the settle- ments along the Lena river, at the rate of sixty dollars a-year for each man, and of purchasing there as many Sibe- rian horses as we should require at very reasonable prices. He had located a route for tlie line from Geezhega to Okhotsk, and had superintended gen- erally the whole work of exploration. Macrae and Arnold had explored nearly all the region lying south of the Ana- dyr and along the lower Myan, and had gained much valuable information con- cerning the little-known tribe of wan- dering Chookchees. Dodd, Robin son, and I had explored two routes from Geezhega to Anadyrsk, and had found a chain of wooded rivers connecting the Okhotsk Sea with the Pacific Ocean near Behrings Straits. The natives we had everywhere found to be peaceable and well-disposed, and many of them along the route of the line were already engaged in cutting poles. The coun- try, although by no means favorable to the construction of a telegraph, pre- sented no obstacles which energy and perseverance could not overcome; and, as we reviewed our winters work, we felt satisfied that the enterprise in which we were engaged, if not altogether an easy one, held out, at least, a fair pros- pect of success. 2~2 PurN~s MAGAZINE. [Aug. MADAME DE LAFAYETTE AND HER MOTHER A BEAtTIFUL volume, recently publish- ed at Paris, has especial interest for American readers. The grandchildren of General Lafayette have allowed to be printed two brief family memoirs, both highly interesting not only from the in- dividual lives they record, but also from their close connection with events of high historical importance, and from the glimpses they offer of a state of society now passed away for ever. The first of these brief but most interesting sketches, is the life of Madame Ia duchesse d~Ayen, the mother of Madame de Lafayette, written by the latter lady. Every American knows already that while General Lafayette was suffering all the hardships of a prisoner of state at the fortress of Olmfitz, in Austria, his noble wife, with her two daughters, travelled through Europe to implore of the Emperor Francis the permission to become a prisoner with him. It was while shut up in the cells of Olmiitz, that Madame de Lafayette beguiled some tedious hours by writing the life of her mother, now published. No pens or ink or paper were allowed to the pris. oners, excepting when brosght in at long intervals, by the officer on duty, for the purpose of writing brief business notes, or, more rarely still, a short family letter. All that was written at such moments was put on paper under the official eye, and forwarded, open, through many official hands, to its destination. But one of the young ladies was very skil- ful with her pencil, as may be proved by the painting she made of the jailer at Olmiitz, a picture now hanging on the walls at Lagrange; and among her treas- tires there was a bit of Indian ink. A toothpick was also found. As for paper, among the books allowed to the im- prisoned family was a large volume of Buffons Natural History, with engrav- ings of animals and birds. It was on the margin of these engravings, with the toothpick dipped in the Indian ink, that Madame de Lafayette scratched down this beautiful life of her mother. This rude but touching MS. is still preserved by the family, in its original condition. And through those faded brown char- acters, oa that yellow paper, bearing a look of antiquity beyond the actual date, there are gleams of a halo of saintly beauty lingering about the names of both mother and daughter. The second sketch, the life of Madame de Lafayette herself, has been also given to us by the hand of her own daughter, Madame de Lasteyrie, a lady borne in affectionate and respectful remembrance by many Ame- rican families. The touching simplicity, the faultless veracity, the conscientious fidelity of these memoirs of two women so truly noble, render them indeed rarely precious. To prepare for the American reader translations of some of the many in- teresting passages of these memoirs has been a labor of love. And we under. take the task with additional pleasure as it assumes, in a certain sense, something of the form of an act of justice. The English-speaking world in general often carelessly hold the most cruelly unjust opinions of domestic life in France. If you believe a large class of Englishmen, moral worth has no existence whatever in Francc. We Americans, it is true, are not so prejudiced; from early alliance with the nation we are kindly disposed towards them. Still, we have not yet done them full justice in this respect; English prejudices, filtering through their literature, still partially color our opin- ions. We are not aware how many good qualities, even of the more solid kind, are often found beneath that grace- ful manner, so charming to all. No doubt that with the French silks, and laces, and wines, and p4t~a defoie8 qras,

Miss S. F. Cooper Cooper, S. F., Miss Madame Lafayette and her Mother 202-214

2~2 PurN~s MAGAZINE. [Aug. MADAME DE LAFAYETTE AND HER MOTHER A BEAtTIFUL volume, recently publish- ed at Paris, has especial interest for American readers. The grandchildren of General Lafayette have allowed to be printed two brief family memoirs, both highly interesting not only from the in- dividual lives they record, but also from their close connection with events of high historical importance, and from the glimpses they offer of a state of society now passed away for ever. The first of these brief but most interesting sketches, is the life of Madame Ia duchesse d~Ayen, the mother of Madame de Lafayette, written by the latter lady. Every American knows already that while General Lafayette was suffering all the hardships of a prisoner of state at the fortress of Olmfitz, in Austria, his noble wife, with her two daughters, travelled through Europe to implore of the Emperor Francis the permission to become a prisoner with him. It was while shut up in the cells of Olmiitz, that Madame de Lafayette beguiled some tedious hours by writing the life of her mother, now published. No pens or ink or paper were allowed to the pris. oners, excepting when brosght in at long intervals, by the officer on duty, for the purpose of writing brief business notes, or, more rarely still, a short family letter. All that was written at such moments was put on paper under the official eye, and forwarded, open, through many official hands, to its destination. But one of the young ladies was very skil- ful with her pencil, as may be proved by the painting she made of the jailer at Olmiitz, a picture now hanging on the walls at Lagrange; and among her treas- tires there was a bit of Indian ink. A toothpick was also found. As for paper, among the books allowed to the im- prisoned family was a large volume of Buffons Natural History, with engrav- ings of animals and birds. It was on the margin of these engravings, with the toothpick dipped in the Indian ink, that Madame de Lafayette scratched down this beautiful life of her mother. This rude but touching MS. is still preserved by the family, in its original condition. And through those faded brown char- acters, oa that yellow paper, bearing a look of antiquity beyond the actual date, there are gleams of a halo of saintly beauty lingering about the names of both mother and daughter. The second sketch, the life of Madame de Lafayette herself, has been also given to us by the hand of her own daughter, Madame de Lasteyrie, a lady borne in affectionate and respectful remembrance by many Ame- rican families. The touching simplicity, the faultless veracity, the conscientious fidelity of these memoirs of two women so truly noble, render them indeed rarely precious. To prepare for the American reader translations of some of the many in- teresting passages of these memoirs has been a labor of love. And we under. take the task with additional pleasure as it assumes, in a certain sense, something of the form of an act of justice. The English-speaking world in general often carelessly hold the most cruelly unjust opinions of domestic life in France. If you believe a large class of Englishmen, moral worth has no existence whatever in Francc. We Americans, it is true, are not so prejudiced; from early alliance with the nation we are kindly disposed towards them. Still, we have not yet done them full justice in this respect; English prejudices, filtering through their literature, still partially color our opin- ions. We are not aware how many good qualities, even of the more solid kind, are often found beneath that grace- ful manner, so charming to all. No doubt that with the French silks, and laces, and wines, and p4t~a defoie8 qras, 1870.] MADAME DE LAFAYETTE AND HER MOTHER. 20~ that enter our ports, there is also unhap- l)ily too much of frivolity, and of vice, crossing the Atlantic from the same quar- ter. But it is more of a rule with France, than with other nations, that, owing to the external graces thrown around then), their follies and vices are more widely spread abroad, the world over, than those of other nations. It is in this light that the majority of our people see the French. They are as yet little aware how many ioble elements there are in French character. They are generally quite ignorant of the fact that in their best familieswe use the phrase as in- cluding those in which the moral tone is most pure, whether of high or low degreehome-life is in every way ad- mirable. They are a very warm-hearted people; they are, as every one knows, naturally cheerful, pleasant, and grace- ful in manner; and when to this you add the influences of a high-toned, sound, and healthful Christian morality, such as are united in many households where foreigners rarely cross the threshold, there you find the reality of a most beautiful family life. There are no better homes on earth than the very best class of homes in France. It is with peculiar pleasure, therefore, that we offer the American reader two brief sketches of French homes, from the authentic memoirs before us. In the first the principal figure is that of Mine. la Duchesse dAyen, the mother of Mime. de Lafayette, belonging, of course, en- tirely to the last century. Anne Louise Henriette dAguesseau was born in 1737, and left a motherless infant a few days after her birth. Her father was the son of the Chancellor dAguesseau, revered for his wisdom and virtues. A foster-mother, a peasant woman, was provided for the child. At the age of three the little girl was sent to a convent at St. Denis, the good nurse accompanying her little charge, while both were placed under the direction of an excellent nun, a lady of rare merit, and endowed with an especial talent for the education of children. She was especially happy in their moral training. In this convent the little girl remained for eleven years, according to the custom of that day. The germs of a fine char- acter appear to have been early develop- ed, although the atmosphere was not entirely favorable. We translate a pas- sage: From her earliest years natural good sense and honesty of heart proved an excellent foundation for her instruc- tion. All the impressions she received were serious, and real. A volume con- taining the lives of the monks of the desert having fallen into her hands when she was only five years old, instead of being amused with all their visions, she w~s terrified by them, and very fearful of becoming too great a saint, lest she should suffer in the same waya cow- ardice which troubled her childish con- science, however. Her grandfather, the Chancellor dAguesseau, was in the habit of writing to her little letters, which have been printed in his life. Even at that day it was her first object to seek God, and His righteousness. Nothing of the littleness of convent life (aucune peti~e88o de convent) appears to have tainted her piety. Even when very young, she had the faculty of close appli- cation, and became very fond of the game of chess; but perceiving that when she played on Saturday, her thoughts were disturbed in church the next day by the game, she gave up her favorite amusement on Saturday. At the age of fourteen she was taken from the convent and removed to her fathers house, under the care of an affectionate stepmother, to whom she became strongly attached. A most worthy woman, Mdlle. Aufroy, who became a devoted and faithful friend in later years, was chosen as her personal attendant. And the good nurse was still with her. It is a pleasant picture, this family group, all wearing the cos- tumes and tinged with the mental color- ing of the past century; the kind father, the affectionate stepmother, the aged grandfather, venerable from his virtues, and, included in the same framework, the waiting gentlewoman and the peas- ant nurse, both faithful and loving, while moving among them the young girl appears passing to and fro, in the stately 204 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. Parisian h6tel of that period. She remained at home during four years, completing her education in different ways. The tone of the house was grave, at a distance from common amusements; still the frank gayety of her lively nature led her to take pleasure in whatever had the charm of novelty. During those years her maternal grandfather, Mi. Dupr~, died, leaving her a vast fortune, and among other property the chAteau of Lagrange-Bleneau, which became at a later day the home of the Lafayette family. The thought of all this wealth terrified the young lady, and she earnest- ly entreated that the amount might be diminished by as many legacies as pos- sible. This feeling, continues the memoir, was entirely sincere, as were all the feelings of my mother. And it was~not confined to her youth; through- out her life she always looked upon riches as an actual burden. With child- like simplicity, she never could be con- vinced that wealth entered, in the le~t, into the nature of a true happiness. Of this wealth she always considered herself as only the steward. During those four years the young lady appears to have passed a very happy, though not a gay or brilliant girlhood. She was the centre of a group by all of whom she was fondly loved. And never was there a more true and loving heart than that which beat in her own bosom. The strongest traits of her character through life, were perfect uprightness united to the most generous and devoted affection. At the age of eighteen she married. This was later than usual, in great French families of that day. Possibly she may have been awaiting until her young hus- band should assume something of a manly air, for he was a mere lad, more than two years younger than herself. Jean Paul FranQois de Nonilles, Duo dAyen, was not sixteen at the time of his marriage. He had, however, many fine qualities, and the young couple became strongly attached to each other; they were alike in generosity of natare, and in a frank uprightness of opinion and conduct. After the marriage they removed to the ll6tel de Nonilles, in the rue St. HonorA, near the Tuileries. Here all the married children and the married grandchildren of tl~e aged Mar~chal de Nonilles, an important his- torical character of those timeswere gathered about him, according to a pleasant and patriarchal French custom forming a numerous family-colony in the vast h6tel. None but an amiable people could have adopted such a cus- tom. The young wife, owing to the very retired life of her mother-in-law, went little into the gay world. She was, however, taken to Versailles to be pre- sented at Court, when she doubtless took her seat among the duchesses, on the much-coveted tabouret, or seat without a back, allotted to ladies of that rank, none others being allowed to sit in the presence of royalty. Madame do Pom- padour was all powerful in France at that time making and unmaking min- istries, declaring war and proclaiming peace, according to her caprice. Those two women, so widely different in their lives and natures, probably never ex- changed a word; and yet the Kings mis- tress was at that moment deep in the in- trigues of the Seven Years Warthe forerunner of the Revolutions in America and in France, in both of which the fate of Mime. dAyen became so closely invol- ved. At the end of two years the first child, a son, was born. We quote a passage from the memoir. God had made her to be a mother. In that opin- ion all who have ever known her must agree. The force of her first maternal feelingor rather passionwas greater than one can imagine. She lost this son at the end of a year. He died after only twenty-four hours of illness. The grief of my mother equalled her tender- ness. Supported only by Faith, and dwelling on the eternal happiness of her child, she was at times so absorbed by these thoughts that, as she told me, she surprised herself thinking of her little child as of one of the greatest saints in heaven. A year later a little girl was born, the first of five daughters, all of whom lived to ~ll honorably their high 1870.] 20~ MADAME DR LAFAYETTE AND lIRE MOTHER. social position as thoroughly Christian women. The eldest, Louise, married her cousin, the Yicomte do Nonilles. Within a year was born Adrienne, who became Mine. de Lafayette, the writer of the memoir. These two of that ad- mirable hand of sisters, so near in age, appear to have loved each other through life with the tenderness and close sym- pathy of twins. We gather, from little touches in the narrative, that the elder, Mine. de Noailles, was a peculiarly lovely person, endowed with an especial charm of intelligence, grace of manner, and warmth of feeling. Four years passed, and another daughter was born, a gentle, loving nature, with great purity of dis- position, who died early, though twice married. Then again, after an interval of three years, appeared two little girls, who, like their elder sisters, were almost in the cradle together, and in twin-like association through lifePauline, who became Mine. de Montagn, and Rosalie, who married M. de Grammont. Like the wives of the patriarchs, instead of murmuring at a fruitfulness which left not a moments repose to her health, my mother blessed God for this increase of her family, looking upon it as an especial blessing from Heaven, as a means of drawing closer the precious bonds of conjugal union, and received each new child with new thanksgiv- incrs The seventh child was a son, nrden~- ly desired by the father, and born at the moment when the mother was seized with small-pox. Madame dAyen was very ill; her life was in great dan- ger; but at length the anxieties of her husband were relieved. She was de- clared convalescent, and the little band of daughters were allowed to see her from the garden as she sat at the closed window of the sick-room. Great was the grief of those little hearts at be- holding the beloved face so fearfully disfigured. The anguish caused by that painful sight was never forgotten, we are told, even amid greater sorrows which followed in later years. There is certainly no object on earth so pre- cious to a loving, childish heart as the face of a beloved mother; and, tc~ n~ny, the feeling lasts through a long life. The little boy, born under circum stances so alarming, lived but a few months; and, from a feeling which we must consider as akin to superstition, the mother, strange to say, scarcely de sired its life prolonged, so fearful was she of the temptations to which her son might be exposed in later years. Other mothers, we believe, have partaken of this feeling; but is there not a lack of faith here? It is, unhappily, but too true that sons, yielding early to th~ many temptations which assail them, too often swerve from the right path in which the daughters of the same house- hold walk safely through life; and, as they swerve from rectitude, they wound,. they lacerate, they torture the heart of the mother who bore them, mourning,~ as she does, over their ruin here and hereafter. But the Christian mother should assuredly not allow herself to become overpowered by fears like these. If the Roman matron could be proud of her sons, how much more may the faithful Christian mother be humbly hopeful for hers! There is,for her,an hourly appeal to the arm of Omnipo- tent Love. One day, writes Madame de La- fayette, on a Holy Thursday, as she returned from praying in church, she said to Mdlle. Aufroy: I have just killed my son, and I have some fears for my daughters also. If one of my chil- dren were to be ill now, I should be frightened. I have just offered them all to God, that He may restore them to me in eternity. I hope He will leave me my daughters; but I believe He will take my son, and that I shall not keep him. Soon after, the little boy died. The lady had now five daughters, the eldest ten, the youngest three years old. It is a very interesting glimpse that we have in this brief sketch, of the education of those little girls, belonging to a pe- riod and a state of society so far apart from our own. They were not sent to a convent. They were educated at 206 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. home; arid theirs was a home in the true sense of that sacred word. The old nurse who had watched over the cradle of Mine. dAyen was still a prominent figure in the household ;~ and iNLdlh~. Aufroy, the devoted attendant and friend, was close at hand. We were all suckled at home, and under the eye of my mother. The same nurse who had brought her up, gave to us also those physical and moral cares which are needed in childhood. Although this worthy woman received only a very coarse education in her youth, yet she had an extraordinary talent for the care of little children; and the years she passed in the convent near Mine. dH~ricourt had developed this natural disposition. I have never known any one endowed so fully with the faculty of attracting the confidence of the little childish hearts confided to licr, and, better still, of interesting them in all she taught them, and in giving them a relish for the lessons they received. She was never obliged to tell fairy tales or ghoststories, or other absurdities of that sort, to amuse us. A story from the Old Testament, a childish adventure of some little girl at the convent, a good action, true and simple, were related by her with so much natural grace, adapted to the taste of children, and accompanied with a few simple reflections so touch- ing, and so entirely within their compre- hension, that she always delighted us, while at the same time she was follow- ing my mothers directions. It was my mothers wish not only that we should be taught only what was true, but also that simple and straightforward means alone should be chosen in our instruc- tion, far aloof from the little decep- tions and juggleries often adopted with children. We passed several hours of every day with my mother, who re- ceived a faithful account of the manner in which the day had been spent. We repeated to her what we had learned we retold her the little tales that had been told to us. It was her great aim to bring the truth within our compre- bension, and to prepare our childish minds to receive it. She sought to instil a certain unity and harmony into every portion of our education. Gen- eral principles, morals, the history of facts, the examples of others, and the lessons to be drawn from themall this was held together and interwoven, as we find it, if I dare use the expression, in the education of Providence. From earliest childhood we were taught never to act from caprice, but rathcr to enjoy the consciousness that in our lit- tle duties, and even in our plays, we were ever under the eye of the heaven- ly Father. Oh,if I could but still lead my children to her! By this means only could they justly appreciate that eloquence so truly maternal, by which she engraved on our hearts the great truths of religion, and taught us also to know our faults, and the means of cor- recting them. There was nothing ab- solute and dogmatic in her manner of instructing, or guiding, or correcting; she was never satisfied until she had convinced the mind of the child to whom she was speaking. Naturally in- dolent and impatient by temperament, and perhaps too little accustomed to repress this natural vivacity, she still never failed to listen to the little rea- sonings of her children with the most unwearied patience. We studied the eatechisms of Fleury, then the Gospel. Our reading was an abridgment of the Old Testament, geography with maps, the Ancient History of Rollin, and, in conversation, we learned a few fables of mythology. My mother rend to us, and made us read to her, selections from the great works of the poetsthe best pieces of Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire. We were taught by her to dictate letters, even before we knew how to write. When we were about ten, my moth- er gave to Jier two eldest daughters a governess, Mdile. Mann, to whom we owe the deepest gratitude and the most tender attachment, after twenty-seven years of devoted care. With her we studied grammar, and the use of the globes; we prepared extracts from his- tory, while we received, under her eye, 1870.] MADAME DE LAFAYETTE AND flEE MOTHEII. 207 lessons from different masters in the usual accomplishments. But it was still my mother who was the soul of our education; she presided over all, and ordered the most minute details of the arrangements. She would allow no one else to read the choicest selections from the best writers with us, endeav- oring to form our taste by the analysis of their beauties. But especially she strove to form our judgment. Both mind and heart were in her equally just and upright, thirsting for the truth. She thus succeeded in warding off many errors and prejudices. We scarce- ly knew, for instance, the meaning of the vanities of life. And so faithfully did she impress on us, by precept and example, that interest must never for a moment come into collision with integ- rity, that, in after life, many years passed before we ceased to wonder at a contrary course in people calling them- selves honest. The spectacle of evil always pained her, sometimes aroused her indignation, but never embittered her. She delighted in all that was great and good; hers was the charity that rejoiceth not in iniquity, but re- joiceth in the truth. In spite of the number of her children, each always received the care and the culture most needed. She taught us also the great lessons of self-correction. As for my- self; I shall only say that she constant- ly endeavored to bring my imagination, much too excitable, under the control of truth and simplicity. While gen- erally satisfied with me, there were mo- ments when she would paint my faults to me with such truth and such force, that the sharpness of the lesson pene- trated to the very depths of my soul. The young ladiesthe two elders, at leastreached the age of twelve. The solemn moment of the first commun- ion was at hand, and the preparation was most thorough and devoted. Lou- ise, the eldest, was admitted to the Holy Sacrament. The state of mind of Adrienne, the younger, was not suf- ficiently satisfactory, and the important step was deferred for several years. Proposals of marriage were now offered to the parents in behalf of the little ladies of twelve. M. de Noailles, the son of the Duc de Monchy, and nephew of the Duc dAyen, was proposed for the eldest daughter, and accepted by the parentsthe future bride knowing nothing of the matter until a year later, a few months before the marriage. She already loved her cousin, how ever, and gladly became his wife at the age of fifteen. M. de Lafayette, a lad of f~burteen, was proposed; at the same time, for Adrienne, the second daugh- ter. The young suitor was strongly fa- vored by M. dAyen, but, at first, posi- tively rejected by Mine. dAyen. His great youth and his very large fortune, without parents to guide him, were considered as invincible objections by the anxious mother. A grave misun- derstanding now took place between M. and Mine. dAyen on this subject. The breach lasted for a whole year. Mine. dAyen will never yield; she has gone too far, said her friends. You do not know Mine. dAyen, was the husbands answer. She will never yield where she believes herself right; but convince her that she is in the wrong, and she will instantly yield with the docility of a child. Such proved to be the result. On nearer ac- quaintance with the young gentleman, she ncknowledged her error, and not only accepted him as a son, but became very strongly attached to him from that moment. Both these marriages were very happy. The details relating to Mine. de Lafayette we defer to a second paper, devoted especially to her own life. At the interval of a few years, all the five daughters of Mine. dAyen were successively married to husbands with whom they lived happily. There was one exception, however the third daughter, apparently a gentle, loving creature, was not appreciated by her first husband. He died early, of small- pox, and she married more happily the second time. The education thus given to these five daughters by Mine. dAyen proved entirely successful. The elements of that education, pervading all its de 208 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. tails, were truth, love, and piety. What higher praise can be given to any moth- er, than such complete success in the education of her children must award to her? The same devoted affection, the same motherly love, was now given by Mine. dAyen to a wider circle. Not only the young wives and mothers, amid the duties and cares of their new positions, but sons-in-law and grand- children, now shared fully in her ten- derness. The husbands of her daugh- ters appear to have been all warmly attached to her. In her salons of the H6tel de Noailles she held a sort of motherly court, where all the young peo- ple gathered about her, with that filial homage so gracefully offered in French families. As a wife, she was less hap- py. The Duc dAyen, in every-day life, was more often abroad than at home. There was warm regard, confi- dence, and perfect esteem between the husband and wife; but the glow of personal affection appears to have be- come somewhat chilled on the part of M. dAyen. In moments of difficulty he was always at hand, attentive, con- siderate, and affectionate. But he sought his pleasures elsewhere than in his home. There may have been a want of conjugal tact on the ladys part. At any rate, while Mine. dAyen never reproached her husband, she ac- cused herself of not having taken suffi- cient pains to please him in their ear- lier married life. This is singular, as her nature was so loving, and she lived on the most endearing and affectionate terms with a large circle of relatives, including stepmother, sisters-in-law, brothers-in-law, aunts, and cousins. The duty of vigilance over her ser- vants was one of the most repugnant to her nature, says her daughter, but, from principle, she labored to fulfil it. She was constantly trying to be useful to them, by good books or kind in- structions. Nothing was more contra- ry to her disposition than un~mely preaching; but at the right moment her charity was all ablaze in their be- half. She became almost a mother to them, and was devoted to them with a zeal and a perseverance of which there are few examples. Her care of themin sickness was like that she gave to her own children. She would keep their secrets like those of her best friend. They all revered her, although there were times when they complained of a certain impatience, to which she yield- ed perhaps too often. Her femme de ckambre mourned heir as a mother; and her old valet de charnl~re became almost crazed by grief at her death. As regards her charity for the poor, on this point her conscience was singu- larly tender. She would not allow her- self a single fancy, not even a journey of pleasure, or any superfluity what- ever, fearing to rob the poor of their patrimony. Her very numerous alms brought her much consolation, but also some anxieties. Her intelligence and sound judgment were very conspicuous in her charitable works on her estates. Children and the infirm were more es- pecially the objects of her pious cares. She observes, in her will, that charity to little children is an especial form of thanksgiving for the blessings which God bestows on our own children. Such, during many yenrs, was the life of this excellent woman, surround- ed by a large family all tenderly at- tached to her, all revering her charac- ter and returning her warm affections. But a fatal change was now at hand. We make little allusion to politics. It is the sketch of a French home in the last century, and of the noble woman who was its soul, to which we would attract the readers attention. As the political agitation about her increased, Mine. dAyen had many misgivings. To change of social position, loss of rank, or even entire reverse of fortune, she gave little thought. Ihave seen her, ~vrites her daughter, often con- gratulate herself on the suppression of her own feudal privileges. But she dreaded the development of evil pas- sbus. Ah, there we touch the weak point of the French Revolution! This hum- ble-minded woman, living in the bright light of Christian truth, could see far- lSZO.] MADAME DE LAFAYETTE AND HER MOTHER. 209 ther than the wisest statesmen of her country, who were philosophers only. The leaders in that Revolution had too much confidence in human nature. It was their error to believe that Liberty alone was needed for the full develop- ment of the higher qualities of that nature. They too soon learndd, to their cost, that salutary restraints, as well as healthful freedom, are needed here on earth. There was, however, a moment of lull in the threatening storm. When the king accepted the new Con- stitution, all became hopeful. At that moment General Lafayette withdrew into private life, to the unspeakable joy of the anxious wife and mother. The whole family left Paris for the chC~teau of Chavaniac, among the mountains of Auvergne. Here Mine. dAyen paid them a visit. The journey to and fro, with the month passed in that old chfi- teau, were among the happiest days of her later years. She had always de- lighted in the country; this was the strongest of all her tastes; her children frequently observed that, in the coun- try, she was always more gay, more happy, than in town. November is not always the most agreeable season in the country, but those were happy weeks, passing delightfully to the family party. It was a joy to Mine. dAyen to see her son-in-law, General Lafayette, so simply happy with his wife and children, so dutiful, so affectionate to herself. There was perfect confidence and affection and esteem between all the different mem- bers of that household. Mine. dAyen went to church in the little village, and was delighted with the simple piety of the peasants. She enjoyed the society of Mine. de Chavaniac, the aged aunt, who had been as a mother to General Lafayette. The simple life in that peaceful country-home was just what she loved. She was thoroughly happy, full of sympathy for her daughter, and entering into all the little pleasures of her grandchildren. Those were her last happy hours on earth. When mother and daughter separated, at the gates of Chavaniac, it was never to meet again on earth. VOL. vi.14 One convulsion now followed another in the political world with fearful ra- pidity, and each more terrible than the last. All the old barriers were thrown down one after the other, and none of sufficient strength to control the savage torrent of that terrible Revolution re- placed them. In no civilized country, since Christ came on earth, have the evil passions of human nature assumed forms so fiend-like, for the same length of time, as those which swayed France during those fatal years. And yet, all this was the foul work of a small mi- nority of the entire nationan oligar- chy worse than the most heartless of feudal times. The H6tel de Noailles. was near the Tuileries, near the Assem- bl6e, near the Jacobinsat the very focus of the fierce struggle. M. dAyen, and his son-in-law, N. de Grammont, were both at the Tuileries on the fatal 10th of August; both escaped the massacre, though M. de Grammont was looked for among the dead. M. de La- fayette returned to the scene of action~ with the hope of preventing crime; but he himself was put to the ban, and barely escaped with his life beyond the frontier. Many members of the family of Nonilles had already left France the Yicomte de Noailles, and the two younger daughters of Mine. dAyen, with their husbands. As yet, no dan- ger was anticipated for ladies; and Mine. dAyen herself, with her eldest daughter, the Yicomtesse de Noailles remained in the neighborhood of Paris,. occupied in the pious duty of watching. over the aged grandparents of the fam- ily, the Mar~chal de Noailles and his wifeboth feeble and infirm, and the first dangerously ill. The Due dAyen,, who had gone to Switzerland, returned to protect them, and to share in their attentions to his aged parents. But he was soon compelled to conceal himself, and, rather later, to pass the frontier. In August, 1793, the old Mar6chal died. His wife, who was very infirm, still needed the constant attentions of her daughters. The ladiesall threede- cided to return to Paris, in spite of the earnest entreaties of Mine. de Lafay 210 PUTNAMB MAGAZIxE. [Aug. ette that they would remain in the country. In September they returned again to the H6tel de Nonilles. In October, Mine. dAyen and her daughter were placed under arrest in their own house. They appear to have had, at first, little fear for themselves. The step just taken did not seriously alarm them. They were allowed to re- ceive a few friends. The three young children of Mime. de Noailles were with them; and the tutor of the little boys, M. Grellet, an excellent man, provcd a most faithful and devoted friend. By his assistance, a worthy priest visited the h6tel, and, at the risk of his life, performed Divine service there, and ad- ministered the Holy Communion. Hu- man Reason was at that moment pro- claimed the Deity of France! To be a Christian, was a crime worthy of death. Mine. dAyen, from her earliest married life, had been a frequent communicant, and constant in her attendance on the public services of her Chnrch. In my early youth, writes her daughter, I saw her commune every month, then every fortnight, later every Sunday, and sometimes in the week also. Her en- joyment of public worship was fervent; she fed on the Psalms with delight, and observed, on those days when the ser-~ vices were long, that she felt like Da- vid: One day in Thy courts is better than a thousand. There was no little- ness in her religion, no miautke in her piety. It is indeed a remarkable fact, that the piety of this excellent lady ap- pears so free from many of the super- stitions which are painfully manifest in the doctrine and practice of the Church of Rome. Six mouths passed in this way. Four generations of the family were living together at the H6tel de Noaliles, all prisoners: the aged Mar~chale de No- ailles, Mine. dAyen, Mine. de Noailles the granddaughter, and the three little children of the last lady. In that home- circle, sanctified by sorrow, there was still much of sweetness. Mime. dAyen and her daughter divided their time between the care of the infirm Mar& . chale and the children, to whom Mime. dAyen was as much devoted as their own mother. Once a week M. Carri- chon, the brave priest, visited them. Cruelty and persecution, the most atro- cious and bloodthirsty, were increasing on all sides. Women were now among the victims. One day the ladies allud- ed to the fate which might nwait them. If you are taken to the scaffold, and God gives me strength, I will be with you! exclaimed the good priest. Do you promise? Yes. And, that you may know me, I shall be disguised in a dark blue coat and a red waistcoat. Frequently, after this conversation, N. Carrichon was reminded of this solemn promise. The winter passed over. In the Spring they were officially exam- ined on their actions and their thoughts! The answers, while strictly true, were prudent. This time they escaped. Shortly after, official agents came to make an inventory of their property. Ominous step! Mine. dAyen had still preserved some of her diamonds. Fear- ing she might be asked if she had con- cealed any thing, she fastened the jew- els to her watch, as a chain. They were not seized. The same day the diamonds were hastily sold, and a par- tial payment received, sufficient to dis- charge all the debts of the ladies. A few hours later the jeweller was be- headed, and no further payment was made. They were now left entirely without means; a few old laces, and other trifles, were sold, and the small sum received from these was their last. N. Grellet, however, shared his slender means with them. Suddenly, in April, the week after Easter, the cruel officials appeared. The three ladiesthe aged Mar~chale, Mine. dAyen, and her daugh- terwere all ordered to the public prison. The little helpless children were bereft at one stroke of three generations of mothers, and driven from their pater- nal home. The anguish of that sepa- ration may be imagined. Human lan- guage has no words to describe it. The ladies were taken to the Luxembourg, where it is said they arrived calm and composed. Two of their nearest rela 1870.] MADAME DE LAFAYETTE AND ~ER MOTTIEII. 211 tions were already therethe aged Mamlehal de Monchy and his wife, the parents of the husband of Mine. de iNonilles. N. Grellet had been asked by the ladies to let them know their probable faterelease, or death. They learned there was no apparent ground for hope. From that moment they pre- pared themselves for the worst. A good priest, a prisoner like themselves, assist- ed them faithfully in their religious duties. The infirmities of the aged Mar~ehale required constant attention: the two ladies watched over her ten- derly to the last. And it is touching to know that, at this dark hour, Mine. dAyen wrote a consoling and affection- ate note to INldlle. Aufroy, her faithful attendant through life. The unhappy mother had now to learn that her sec- ond daughter, Mine. de Lafayette, had also been brought to Paris a prisoner. Those weeks were the most terrible, the most criminal, of all the years of hor- ror. Ia June, 672 were legally mur- dered at Paris. In July, 835 more were legally slaughtered in cold blood. On the ~7th of June, the aged Duo de Monchy and his wife were taken from the same prison to the scaffold. Three weeks passed, and the fatal summons caine to Mine. dAyen, her aged mother- in-law, and her daughter. On the 21st of July, at nine oclock in the evening, they were carried to the Conciergerie, to go through the forms of a mock trial before a tribunal composed of the worst men in the country. Galley-slaves were among their judges. They arrived at the Conciergerie exhausted by fatigue ~d1d emotion. They were placed in a cell with several other female prisoners. They needed food; none could be pro- cured at that late hour. One of the prisoners, Nine. Lavet, had known Mine. de Lafayette, and, anxious to be of service, she endeavored to procure beds for them. The jailers asked forty- flve francs for the use of these beds during one night. The pockets of the ladies were empty; they had been spoiled at the Luxembourg. Fifty cents was all they had to offer. The brutal men refused the use of the beds. Mine. Lavet gave up her own bed to the aged Mar6chale, and threw together a rug or two, on which Mine. dAyen stretched herselg urging her daughter to lie down. Think, my child, what to-morrow will be! Ab, mamma, why should I rest, when eternity is so near? The daughter asked for a prayer-hook and a light, and passed hours in devotion. Her countenance expressed all the calm and peace of her soul. Never before had a religious calm so perfect been seen in those gloomy cells. Occasionally she would offer little services of affection to her mother and her grandmother. Mine. dAyen was not entirely without hope of release, knowing her perfect inno- cence of the crimes laid to her charge. The aged Mar6chale, whose infirmities had enfeebled her mind, slept much of the time. Whenever she awoke, she read over aloud the official act of accu- sation, which was incomprehensible to her. She looked forward with certain- ty to being acquitted. No; it is im- possible that I should die for a con- spiracy of whose existence I know noth- ing. I shall defend my cause before the judges; they cannot condemn me! Mine. dAyen asked a favor of her fel- low-prisoners: her watch was now her only property; would they see that it was given to her grandchildren? The young mother also wished to send a lock of hair, an empty portfolio, and a portrait, to her children; would any one take charge of these last gifts? Alas! though full of sympathy, those women were compelled to decline; their own lives would inevitably be for- feited by this net of charity. Mine. de Noailles then left messages of affection to N. Grellet and her children, telling them she was dying with entire resig- nation, and in perfect peace. In the morning, kind friends, prison- ers like themselves, brought them chocolate to strengthen them. The clock struck nine. The horrible offi- cials caine to carry them to the tribu- nal, or, in other words, to certain death. The two elder ladies appear still to h~ve believed in the possibility of re 212 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. lease. Not so the younger; she saw their position clearly. With the sweet and graceful manner natural to her, she thanked Mine. Lavet for her kindness, and said to her, with a smile, You have a happy face; you will not per- ish. One is thankful to know the pre- diction proved true. It was on Tuesday, July 22d, 1794, that they were brought before the tri- bunal. At the same hour NI. Grellet, aware of their fate, knocked at the door of the good priest, NI. Carnichon. The little boys were with him, smiling and cheerful, ignorant of the danger of their mothers. NI. Grellet took the priest apart. Allis over, my friend! The ladies are before the tribunal. I come to ask you to keep your word. I shall carry the boys to their little sis- ter, at Vincennes; in the wood I shall prepare the unhappy children for their loss. The brave priest kept his word. At six oclock the same evening he stood, disguised according to the agreement, at the gate of the Concier- gene, when it opened for the pas- sage of the victims. We repeat his account, written for the family: A large cart, the regular tumbrel of the prison, rolled slowly out from under the heavy gateway; in it were seated eight ladies, all but one unknown to him. Their hands were bound be- hind their backs. All were calm and edifying in manner and expression. On the last bench sat the aged Mar~chale de Noailles, feeble and tottering on the rude seat. A second cart was drawn up in the court; it was empty. Pres- ently Mine. dAyen and her daughter were brought out, and took the front seat. Mine. dAyen wore a striped dress, blue and white. Mine. de No- ailles was dressed in white, which she had worn as mourning since the execu- tion of her husbands parents, the IDuc and Duchesse de Monchy. Her appear- ance was very youthful. Both had their hands bound at their backs. ~Six men climbed into the tumbrel after the ladies, the two first, with respectful attention, leaving them as much space ~s possible in that wretched cart.. Mine. de Noailies, forgetful of herself, gave all her attention to her mother, bending over her, soothing her, cheer- ing her. Look at the young one: see how she talks to the otherhow she watches her! exclaimed the bystand ers. She soon looked about for the priest, who had promised to be near them on the fatal journey, to pray for them, and give them the absolution they desired. He drew near the cart, but was not observed among the thrang. The distance between the Conciergenie and the scaffold, at the extremity of the Fauboung St. Antoine, was painfully long. Several times, as the fatal pro- cession moved onward amid the hoarse cries of the mob, the priest endeavored to approach nearer, to attract their at- tention, but for a long time without success. He became discouraged, but still persevered, as he observed the anx- ious, inquiring look of Mine. do No- ailles passing over the crowd. Sud- denly the sky darkened; a heavy thun- der-shower was rolling over the city towards them. The wind rose; sharp lightning was followed by heavy peals 6f thunder; rain began to fall in tor- rents. The street was deserted by the mob. The funeral procession alone kept its place. but moving irregularly, and less closely watched by the guards. The ladies still looked about for their friend. At length they saw him. Mine. dc Noailles whispered to her mother, and both appeared cheered. M. Carri- chon was now able to approach nearer to the carts. The ladies were drenched with rain. The wind was very high, and gave those in the first cart much trouble, especially the aged Mar6chale. lIen hat was blown back, her gray hair appeared. She tottered on her seat, unable to help herself. She was recog- nized by a handful of the rabble, who stood watching for the passage of the prisoners, in spite of the rain. They insulted the aged lady ~ith harsh cries and loud abuse: There she is, that Mar~chale who used to dash about in such style in her grand coach! There she is, just like the others in the cart! The outcry continued, the storm in- 1870.] MADAME DE LAFAYETTE AND flEE MOTHER. 21S creased. The tumbrel was moving more slowly. Just as they reached the square of St. Antoine, the priest made a signal to Mime. de Noallies. She spoke to her mother. Both heads were bowed in devotion, with an expression of humble penitence, of piety, of hope. The priest raised one hand, and pro- nounced distinctly, and with intensity of feeling, the solemn words of absolu- tion. Only a moment later, the storm rolled over, the clouds br~ke away, and the streets filled again with a crowd, who poured a torrent of abuse on the aged Mar~chale. The others passed unmolested. At length the scaffold was in sight. The tumbrels stopped. The guards drew around them. Beyond the mili- tary was a dense ring of spectators, the dregs of the populace, inhumanly laugh- ing and joking and roaring as they watched the spectacle. The expression of the face of Mine. de Noailles, at that moment, is said to have been angelic. It attracted the attention of those bru- tal men. Ah, how happy that young woman looks! How she prays! How she looks up to the sky! But what is the use of all that? Ah, the miscre- ants! Ah, the aristocrats! The pris- oners were taken from the carts. Three were placed near the steps leading to the scaffold. An old man, with white locks and a good face, was leaning against the ladder. Near him stood a lady whose manner and countenance were very edifying. Next to these was the venerable Mime. de Noailles, dressed in black, in mourning for her husband; she was seated on a block of stone her large eyes gazing fixedly before her. Beyond these were two lines of prison- ers, drawn up one behind the other; they were, in all, forty-six. At a little distance was Mine. dAyen, in an atti- tude of devotion, simple, noble, resign- ed, without fear; the same reverent ex- pression on her countenance as was usual with her when she drew near the Lords table. I still often see her, writes the good priest, in that atti- tude. God grant I may profit by the memory. At that moment Mine. de Noallles was not in sight. The aged grandmother was the first to mount the scaffold. Six ladies fol- lowed, all with composure and devo- tion. Mime. dAyen was the tenth. As she stood on the scaffold, the executioner tore off her hat. It was fastened by a long pin, which he had not withdrawn. The rough movement of the man tore away some hair. A momentary expres- sion of pain passed over her face, in- stantly followed by religious calm. The noble head was meekly bowed on the blockthe fatal steel felllife was over. Her admirable daughter followed. Again the hat was rudely torn off; again there was the same quick move- ment of pain, followed by perfect calm. Looking so innocent so youthful, and all in white, she appeared like a lamb brought to the sacrifice, or like a saint- ly martyr of past ages. In another in- stant her head was bowed, and her blood also stained that iniquitous scaf- fold. 214 PUTNAMS MAGAnNE. [Aug.. TIlE CONSTITUTIONAL CRISIS IN ENGLAND. Jr is generally felt that the history of the British Constitution has arrived at a crisis interesting to political observers: and the interest appears in effect to lie in this, that the British nation, with whatever of political capacity and apti- tude it may possess, is now, or will very soon be, brought fairly face to face with the elective principle of government, and compelled to found upou that prin- ciple the institutions of the future. Though the term British Constitution is so familiar, and though it was to the British government that the term Con- stitutional was first applied, England has, properly speaking, no Constitution. She has no instrumeut like the Constitu- tion of the United States, or those re- cently framed by most of the European nations, setting forth her polity and de- fining the powers and fanctions of its members. She has a series of political documents of great importance and re- nown, embodying the limitations impos- ed by the Parliament from 1~me to time on the power of the kingsthe Great Charter, the Petition of Right, the Habeas Corpus Act, the Bill of Right, the Acts of Parliament securing the in- dependence of the Judiciary. The Great Charter has been called a Constitution. ~t is a document of the highest import- ~nce not only in English but in univer- tal history, being the first compact between King and People, the first formal submission of royal authority to the supremacy of law. But it does not set forth a polity; it only restricts the royal power. The absence of a written constitution has, in fact, been the condition of English development. Ilad the Great Charter been a constitution it would, while curb- ing Johns tyranny, have left the king prerogatives, legislative and judicial as well as executive, which would now be deemed almost despotic; and these pre rogatives, being secured by a written compact, could have been reduced only by a revolutionary struggle, from which the nation would have shrunk, and in which, if it 1~ad taken place, the king, having the written law upon his side, would probably have been victorious. As it is, England has had room to grow, and. the leaders of progress, while they were really retrenching prerogative and extending liberty, have always been able to think and say that the Constitution was in their favor. The constitutional past to which Pym and Ilampden appeal- ed was partly mythical; and being so, it served its purpose better than it would have done if it had been wholly real. They could find in it support for any thing which they needed; they could find support-for the doctrine that the command of the national army did not belong to the king, though the Barons who extorted the Great Charter wonid have pronounced without hesitation that the command of the national army did belong to the king, and would certainly have secured it to him if they had framed a constitution. The British constitution is in fact the distribution of power between the kin6, the nobility, and the commons. And this distribution, though formally un- changed and treated by writers on con- stitutional law as something peculiarly fixed and stable, has in reality been always changing; so that the Constitu- tional History of England maybe describ- ed as the gradual transfer of power from the king to Parliament and from -the Lords to the Commons; in other words, as a gradual transition, masked by mo- narcliical and aristocratic forms, from hereditary to elective government. Even after the Great Charter, the king retained the exclusive initiative ii? legis- lation, and it would be difficult to main- tain that he did not possess any lebisla

F. H. Norton Norton, F. H. Can an Inebriate Conquer Himself? 214-226

214 PUTNAMS MAGAnNE. [Aug.. TIlE CONSTITUTIONAL CRISIS IN ENGLAND. Jr is generally felt that the history of the British Constitution has arrived at a crisis interesting to political observers: and the interest appears in effect to lie in this, that the British nation, with whatever of political capacity and apti- tude it may possess, is now, or will very soon be, brought fairly face to face with the elective principle of government, and compelled to found upou that prin- ciple the institutions of the future. Though the term British Constitution is so familiar, and though it was to the British government that the term Con- stitutional was first applied, England has, properly speaking, no Constitution. She has no instrumeut like the Constitu- tion of the United States, or those re- cently framed by most of the European nations, setting forth her polity and de- fining the powers and fanctions of its members. She has a series of political documents of great importance and re- nown, embodying the limitations impos- ed by the Parliament from 1~me to time on the power of the kingsthe Great Charter, the Petition of Right, the Habeas Corpus Act, the Bill of Right, the Acts of Parliament securing the in- dependence of the Judiciary. The Great Charter has been called a Constitution. ~t is a document of the highest import- ~nce not only in English but in univer- tal history, being the first compact between King and People, the first formal submission of royal authority to the supremacy of law. But it does not set forth a polity; it only restricts the royal power. The absence of a written constitution has, in fact, been the condition of English development. Ilad the Great Charter been a constitution it would, while curb- ing Johns tyranny, have left the king prerogatives, legislative and judicial as well as executive, which would now be deemed almost despotic; and these pre rogatives, being secured by a written compact, could have been reduced only by a revolutionary struggle, from which the nation would have shrunk, and in which, if it 1~ad taken place, the king, having the written law upon his side, would probably have been victorious. As it is, England has had room to grow, and. the leaders of progress, while they were really retrenching prerogative and extending liberty, have always been able to think and say that the Constitution was in their favor. The constitutional past to which Pym and Ilampden appeal- ed was partly mythical; and being so, it served its purpose better than it would have done if it had been wholly real. They could find in it support for any thing which they needed; they could find support-for the doctrine that the command of the national army did not belong to the king, though the Barons who extorted the Great Charter wonid have pronounced without hesitation that the command of the national army did belong to the king, and would certainly have secured it to him if they had framed a constitution. The British constitution is in fact the distribution of power between the kin6, the nobility, and the commons. And this distribution, though formally un- changed and treated by writers on con- stitutional law as something peculiarly fixed and stable, has in reality been always changing; so that the Constitu- tional History of England maybe describ- ed as the gradual transfer of power from the king to Parliament and from -the Lords to the Commons; in other words, as a gradual transition, masked by mo- narcliical and aristocratic forms, from hereditary to elective government. Even after the Great Charter, the king retained the exclusive initiative ii? legis- lation, and it would be difficult to main- tain that he did not possess any lebisla 1870.] ThB CONSTITUTIONAL Citisis IN ENGLAND. 215 tive power of a more direct kind. He retained the entire executive power, and exercised it either in his own person, or through ministers freely chosen by him- self. He also retained the entire judicial power, deciding all cases either person- ally, as in the language of our law, which speaks of trials as held before the king himself at Westminster, he is still sup- posed to do; or through judges appointed by himself and removable at his pleasure; so that for the people, if not for the Barons, he could make tile law pretty much what he pleased. In taxation his power was limited to the enforcement of the three ordinary aids, all extraordi- nary aids requiring the assent of the Great Council: but he had still his own domains and his lucrative prerogatives as feudal suzerain, with some less regu- lar sources of revenue or profit, such as purveyance and the Jews: and these were sufficient, with prudence and ab- stention from foreign wars, to render him fiscally independent. He had the command of the feudal militia, and the power of calling it out at his pleasure, for the prescribed term. The real limi- tation of his authority was not so much the law as tile military strength of the Barons. When, by the destruction of the feudal nobility in the Wars of the Roses, that pressure was removed, the Crown, without any tangible act of usur- pation, started at once into almost despotic power, which it retained till the combined growth of Puritanism and the middle class again turned the politi- cal scale. The real question letween the nation dnd the Stuarts was whether the king or the Parliament should rule. That question was settled, after a series of con- vulsions, by the Revolutiog of 1688. William the Third, in assenting to the Declaration of Right, resigned the dis- pensing power, for which the Stuarts had desperately contended, thereby ad- mitting that the monarchy was entirely subject to the law made by Parliament. The same reign was marked by the last important exercise of the legislative veto which, with the alleged dispensing power, was the only remnant of legislative an- tliority left in the king. William the Third administered in his own person the executive department of Foreign Affairs, acting in that department with- out the advice and sometimes without the knowledge of his ministers; an as- sumption of authority favored in his case by his personal position as the head not only of England as of a great Euro- pean confederation, formed to resist the aggrandizement of France. But since Williams time, this, with all other func- tions of tile executive, has passed entirely into the hands of the kings constitution- al advisers, as they are called; that is, of ministers imposed on huh by the Parlia- ment without reference to his personal wishes, and responsible to the Parliament for all they do. By the final change of the tenure of the judges from one during the kings pleasure to one during life and good behavior, with the power of re- moval virtually vested in Parliament, the Crown lIas in like manner been stripped of the last remnant of judicial authority; and that authority has been completely transferred to the Parliament. An at- tempt was made by George III. to re- vive monarchical government in his own person; and the attempt was favored during the earlier pait of his reign by the unpopul~trity of the Whig oligarchy, and during the latter part by the reaction against the excesses of the French Rev- olution. But tllis was rather a clandes- tine intrigue thau an open resumlltion of power; and it could not be carried on without the aid of a party in the house of Coi~mons called the kings friends, and acting in corrupt subservien- cy to the Crown. The kings attempt to uphold Bute as Prime ~linister by his personal authority signally broke down; and though he made Pitt minister in face of an adverse majority in the house of Commons, lIe could uiot have kept him minister if the mqjority had remained adverse. us personal influence availed to dissuade Pitt from bringing forward ~atliolic Emancipation; hut had Pitt persisted, and had the bill passed Parliament, the king would not have dared to veto. The King of England is now politically 218 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. a mere figure-head. lie must accept the ministers tendered him by Parlia- ment, that is, the leaders of the Parlia- mentary majority, and he must dismiss them and receive others in their place whenever Parliament may summon him to do so. He must be entirely guided by these advisers, or rather he must al- low them to act for themselves, in all matters legislative and executive. When a ministry resigns, its chief names to the king the person for whom he is to send to form a ne~v administration; and, by the rule of public life, the person named must be the leader of the party by which the government was turned out. The prerogative of calling and dis- solving Parliament, like all other pre- rogatives, is in the hands of the minister, by whom it is exercised under the estab- lished limitation that a minister must not more than once appeal to the coun- try by a dissolution of Parliament, but must resign, as Sir Robert Peel did in 1834, if he is defeated in a Parliament of his own calling. The Prime Minister makes all the appointments, subject only to the opinion of Parliament, or rather to that of his own party. Sir Robert Peel, the most loyal of ministers, whose great boast it was that he had served four sovereigns, would not allow the Queen to appoint her own ladies of the bedchamber. The king is not present, nor would the ministers allow him to be present, at the meetings of the cabinet. It has been said that his exclusion origi- nated in George the Firsts ignorance of the English language, but it was obvious- ly connected with the general alteration in the character of the government. The Commander-in-chief of the army is still appointed by the sovereign, and is un.parliamentary, not going out of office with the Parliamentary ministers; a remnant of monarchical power which has at times caused some uneasiness. But in the first place not a soldier can be paid without a vote of money by the House of Commons; in the second place the Mutiny Act, upon which the existence of the army depends, is passed only for a year at a timef so that it requires an- nual renewal; and i.i the third place recent reforms have transferred, or are transferring, the military administration almost entirely from the office of the Commander-in-chief to that of a Parlia- mentary Minister of War. The prerogative of war and peace re- mains in the Crown, the assent of Parlia- merit not being necessary to a treaty on a declaration of war; but the Foreign Minister who exercises the prerogative is, like his colleagues, responsible to Par- liament. This is, how ever, perhaps the most substantial relic of the monarchi- cal system. It is the source of some awkwardness in diplomacy, the power of makIng treaties being in the Crown alone, while Parliament alone can prac- tically give tl~ein effect, as appeared in the case of the Luxembourg guarantee, when the Foreign Minister was obliged to own that the engagement into which, in exercise of his constitutional authority, he had entered on behalf of the nation, would be practically of no value unless Parliament chose to vote the forces for the maintenance of the guarantee. Socially, the sovereign, as the head of English society, may still exercise great influence for good or evil. George IV. exercised great influence for evil; the present Queen has exercised great influ- ence for good; and it is pleasant to think how her domestic virttie has continued to shine, a quiet but unextinguished light of peace and good-will amidst all the storms which have disturbed the friendly relations between the two branches of her race. But, politically, the monarchy is now nothing but ~a figure-head. The kings do not know this; the people hardly know it. The kings read papers, can- vass appointments, and fancy that meas- ures emanate from themselves; so com- plete is the veil of constitutional illusion which conceals from them their real po- sition. The people pray to God every Sunday, when they recite the state litur- gy, that their kings may have grace to rule them well, talk about the character of the heir to the throne as though the salvation of the country depended on it, and really feel a warm sentiment of loy- alty towards a governor whom they would not permit to do any act of government. 1870.] THE CoNsTITUTIoNAL Cuisis IN ENGLAND. 217 But in fact public documents might al- most as well be signed by a stamp, which would cost nothing,and would never cause the nation anxiety by falling into the ex- cesses of youth. Uninterrupted experi- ence in the forms of business may gIve the king, if he is a man of any ability, some slight influence over his ministers, who are always changing; but in great affairs there can be no doubt that the policy of the nation both at home and abroad, du- ring the last half century, has been the opposite of that which would have been dictated by the personal wishes of the kings. As the king has become a figure-head in England, the governors of colonies who represent the king there have be- come figure-heads also. Being generally men of ability and political experience, they exercise some personal influence; and probably their intervention frequently mitigates the somewhat rough conflicts of colonial politicians. But they are bound to be guided entirely by their con stitutional advisers, the ministers im- posed on them by the Colonial Parlia- ment. One of them was recalled the other day for declaring that he would not ac- cept as his ministers a particular set of statesmen, it being his constitutional duty to accept the leaders of the majority, whoever they might be. So that if any body is disposed to risk his life in invad- ing Canada because it is British, h~ will do well to reflcct, before he leaves home, that Canada is politically British only in having a British figure-head. Through the transfer of power from the king to parliamentary ministers the exe- cutive has evidently been absorbed by the legislature. By Montesquieu and the political philosophers of his age, it was held that the separation of these two powers was essential to the existence of free government, and that the immediate consequence of their union in the same hands would be the ruin of the constitu- tion. Yet at that very time the fatal event had really taken place; for the first two Hanoverian kings were completely in the hands of the Whig ministers who had set them on the throne, and who themselves depended on a majority in Parliament. Foreign observers might well be pardoned for not seeing what the English themselves did not see, and what a good many of them do not see now. But questions are hereby suggested as ta the soundness of political theories based on the assumption of a real division of power among the different members of a constitution. Will not one member or the other ultimately draw supreme power to itself? Does not the legislative authority, wherever it resides, virtually comprehend the rest? We are led to inquire also how far the framers of the American Constitution may have been influenced by the current notions respecting the British Constitu- tion, when they took such pains to sepa- rate the executive from the legislative that the two cannot be brought into har- mony, in case of a divergence of policy, except by the extreme remedy of im- peachment? In the case of the British Constitution, the harmony between the executive and the legislative cannot be in- terrupted, because the moment they disa- gree, the ministry falls. The introduction of the members of the American Cabinet into Congress obviously would not mend the matter; it would only breed fresh con fusion, unless the President were reduced, like the British king, to a figure-head, At present he has personal power, and America is an. elective and terminable monarchy, while Great Britain is a crowned republic. Constitutional fiction has played, in the political development of England, a part analogous to that played by legal fiction in the development of Roman law. It has reconciled consecrated tradition with ratiGnal innovation, and covered the march of progress. But by mistaking our constitutional fictions for realities, and adopting them as actual modes of government, some of our continental neighbors have been led into strange paths. To reign without governing is a tick- lish operation,requiring peculiar aptitudes and much practice both on the part of the kings and of the peoI)le. The constitution- al king for whose instruction M. Thiers made the aphorism, found it so; and, in spite of his personal ability, or rather in c-pnsequence of his personal ability, had at 218 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. last to get into his fiacre. English con- stitutional monarchy, however, seems on the whole to have been useful to Europe as a model of a transition polity, combining the royal name and personality to which the multitudes still cling, without which the multitudes in the Old World have scarcely learnt to reverence government, with the popular assemblies whose action is to mould the democracy of the future. The instrument by which Parliament drew to itself the power once vested in the king, was the power of the purse. This instrument, of course, became more powerful when a national debt had been contracted, and the annual vote of Par- liament had become necessary to save the government from bankruptcy. Yet it would scarcely have sufficed to effect a radical change in the government had it not been working in accordance with the general tendency of the nation, and of humanity at large, to pass gradually from hereditary to elective institutions. The second of the two changes which form the substance of British consti- tutional history is the transfer of power from the House of Lords to the house of Commons. In theory, and in the pages of writers on constitutional law, the House of Lords is a branch of the legis- lature, collateral and ~)erfectly equal in authority to the house of Commons, sav- ing that all grants of money must origin- ate with the lower house. In the feudal age, it is needless to say, the House of Lords was by far the more powerful of the two. After the ruin of the old nobil- ity in the Wars of the Roses, the import- ance of the Commons increased, though both houses were reduced to a state of extreme servility under the imperial sway of the Tudors. In the time of Charles I. the House of Lords was coerced by the Revolutionary party which ruled in the House of Commons, and it was at last abolished, together with the mon- archy, for a brief period; but at the Re- storation it fully recovered its former po- sition, and showed that its power was at least equal to that of the Commons by throwing out the bill excluding the Ro- man Catholic Duke of York, afterwards James II., from the throne, when the bill had passed the Commons by a large ma- jority on the wings of a great electoral victory gained by the Whig party. Through the revolution of 1688, the reign of William, and the earlier part of the reign of Anne, the House of Lords retained the same important position, and during this period it was the organ of the Whig, or what we should now call the Liberal party, which put William III. on the throne, and exercised through him the power of nominating peers, while the prospect of a Catholic reign was still alarming to the great houses which held the Church property distributed among the courtiers by Henry VIII. The House of Commons at this time was rather the organ of the Tory party, to which all the country squires and coun- try parsons belonged. It was at the hands of the Tories, now the great de- fenders of the House of Peers, that the power and dignity of that House first re- ceived a deadly blow. Twelve peers were created at once by the Tory ministers at the end of the reign of Anne, to swamp the Whig majority in the House of Lords, and carry the disgraceful treaty of Utrecht. This expedient, to which Tory- ism lighted the way, is now recognized as the ratio ultirnato which the opponents of Toryism may resort in case the Tory majority in the House of Lords should persist in obstructing on any vital ques- tion the progress of the nation. Former- ly the importance of the House of Lords was indicated by the presence there of the heads of the government. harley and Bolingbroke both raised themselves to the peerage, though Bolingbroke was the most popular orator of the day; and the management of the house of Com- mons was left to subordinate hands. But Sir Robert Walpole, the great min- ister of George I. and George IT. remain- ed on system in the Commons. His ex- ample was followed by the elder Pitt during the period of his real power; though his l)opular name, The Great Commoner, marks that it was still a rar- ity to see the first man in the kingdom not a peer. It Was followed by the younger Pitt, by Canning, Peel, Palmer- ston, and Lord John Russell. Since Pitts 1870.] THE CONSTiTUTIONAL CRISIS IN ENGLAND. 219 time, there have been several prime min- isters in the House of Lords, but it is felt to be a great disadvantage to a govern- ment. No statesman of mark would now leave the house of Commons if he could help it, and Lord Salisbury manifcstly fumes in the exalted limbo to which the misfortune of his birth has consigned him. Still the house of Lords retained a good deal of power, so long as the House of Commons remained a glaringly inade- quate representation of the people, which it did down to the Parliamentary Re- form of 1832. But since that measure the coequality of the two Houses has visibly ceased. In the passage of the Reform Bill of 1832 the house of Peers received a heavy blow. After throwing out the bill, it was coerced into passing it by the threat of a swamping creation of peers, the royal consent to which had been extort- ed by the Whig ministers. It was again virtually coerced by the Commons the other day, in the ease of the Irish Church Bill, which it passed under intimidation after having distinctly taken up an atti- tude of resistance. No legislation of im- portance is now originated in the House of Lords. The attendance is scandalously thin, and no exhortations will avail to improve it while the discussions are de- void of interest. When Lord John Rus- sell was made a peer, Punch represented Lord Brougham as a Scottish door-keeper, greeting the new-corner with Yell find it unco dull here, Johnny. Long since divested of the semi-liberal ebaracter which it wore in 1688, the house of Lords has completely yielded to the nat- ural bias of a privileged class, and its ex- istence during the last century may be described as a perpetual struggle to arrest progress of every kind. The abolition of the slave-trade, and the reform of the criminal code, were obstructed by the Lords, as well as the Parliamentary Re- form and the Disestablishment of the Irish Church. The House is totally un- suited for the impartial revision of legis- lation, being, as it is, not a fair represent- ation of all interests, much less of the mature wisdom of the community, but merely a representation of the narrow class of great landowners, w~so are sway- ed by a bias of the most noxious kind; while nothing can be less conservative, in the true sense of the term, than an insti- tution which renders it necessary for the nation, whenever vital reforms are to be carried, to lash itself up to the point of threatening with violence a branch of its legislature. The other constitutional nionarchies of Europe, in imitation of England, have adopted a second chamber, which is now regarded as indispensable; though ex- perience seems to suggest a doubt wheth- er the weakening of the sense of respon- sibility in the popular house of the legislature does not .more than counter- vail the controlling influence of tho senate; while if a safeguard against hasty legislation is the only object, this might be attained, without the complex machinery of tu~o chambers, by giving minorities a power of suspensive veto. In the senates of Europe, however, but a slight tincture remains of the heredit- ary element, and this only in one or two cases, the bulk of the senates being purely nominative or elective. The hereditary upper house of England is the last leaf on the tree; and its lingering existence is a curious instance of the tendency of nations, which have for a time outstripped their fellows, to rest satisfied with their own progress, and ultimately to fall behind in the race. Aristocracy is dead. Like monarchy, it had its place in history, but its place knows it no more. Its moral energy in the feudal age was sustained by military and political duty, enforced by the stern exigencies of an iron time. Nothing is now left to it but privilege, which in- variably saps the vigor, moral and even physical, of the privileged class. Even its manners are gone. These scandals of aristocratic rowdyism at the universi- ties, like the scandals of aristocratic profligacy in social life, are the marks of an incurable decay. The age of chivalry has not departed, and never will depart; but the age of aristocratic chivalry de- parted long ago. In no intelligent coin- munity can such a shadow of the past long be allowed to retain a veto on the progress of a nation. [Aug. PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. It is probable that the English aristocracy will speedily be assailed in a vital part by the extension of the move- ment against the feudal land-laws from Ireland to England. The retention of the land in a few hands, by means of prhno- geniture and entail, or rather settlement, is essential to the existence of a landed aristocracy: but the social and econom- ical evils of the system, which are felt with daily increasing force, have now clearly marked it for abolition. Meantime, the House of Commons has itself become, what till recently it scarcely was, a popular assembly. Down to 1832 the franchise was so restricted, and the number of boroughs in the hands of great proprietors, close corporations, or the government, was so large, that the House could hardly be called elective. Down to 1867 the suffrage was still con- fined to one seventh of the people. But the Reform Act of 1867 has established household snifrage in the cities and housahold su(lrage for all above the peasantry in the counties. The era of the elective principle seems now, there- fore, to have fairly arrived. To the revolutionists of the last cen- tury it seemed sufficient to enthrone the elective principle and sweep away all barriers against its full operationto establish, in fact, a despotism of the popnlar will. Nothing else, in their opinion, was needed in order to inaugu- rate a reign of perfect wisdom and hap- piness. They had not studied hkstory, the fonudation of political science, ra- tionally; history had not then been rationally written. They were a good deal misled by the false analogy of the ancient republics, which were in fact slave-owning oligarchies, where slavery solved all the questions of the Proleta- riat. lathe philosophy of the Jacobins, history down to their time had been one vast scene of wrong: the people, always capable of self-government, had been always ousted from it by kings who were invariably tyrants, aided by priests who were invariably impostors, and you had only to strangle the last king with the entrails of the last priest, that the millennium might begin. They ab solutely repndiated the past, and called the first year of their republic the Yeat One. These dreams have vanished now. Since the American and French Revolu- tions a century has passed, more fruit- ful, perhaps, than all the centurics that went before it, of discovery in the his- torical and political as well as in the scientific sphere. We know that inon- archy, and perhaps aristocracy, was natural and necessary to man in the early stages of his development; that with the advance of intelligence and civilization, monarchy and aristocracy wore out, and the day of elective government arrived. The Jacobins could not have prevented the advent of elect- ive government, and they did very little to hasten it, though they were only too successful in connecting it with malig- nant and hypocritical passions, and with a dogma of the divinity of the sovereign people almost as false and as noxious as the old dogma of the divinity of kings. We know, too, by sad experience, that elective government, so far from being the magic cure of all political ills, is itself liable to distempers, which we have hitherto done but little to cure. As the great distemper of monarchy was tyran- ny, the great distempers of elective government are faction, demnagogism, and corruption. So far from having solved for us all political problems, and left us nothing to do but to preserve and ad- mire a perfect work, the framers of constitutions in the last century did not see, nor was it possible that they should see, in what directions some of the chief political problems lay. Our political condition may be, and doubtless is, an improvement on the condition of the generations which went before us, but it is no more perfect or final than theirs. The inauguration of the elective principle in England in 1688 was at once followed by a manifestation, on the one hand, of the virtues of the principle, its energy, and its progressive character; and, on the other hand, of its distempers, especially of faction and corruption. William the Third tries to combine in his government men of ability, without distinction of party, and to induce them 220 1870.] TilE CONSTITUTIONAL Onisis IN ENGLAND. 221 to act together for the salvation of their imperilled country: he finds it hopeless, and is forced to form a government first of one party, thea of the other. The malignity of faction bursts forth with the utmost fury, and with perfect reck- lessness of the national interest and honor. A leading Whig is indicted for murder, without a shadow of foundation for the charge, by the animosity of the opposite party. The Privy Council, the old council of the realm, and still the only one known t~the law, is superseded by the Cabinet Council, an unconsti- tutional organ of party. In the following reign the Tory leader Boling- broke, a sceptic, and a writer against Christianity, overthrows a great Whig Government by appealing to the perse- cuiing fanaticism of the Tory clergy, and sacrifices not only the interest and glory but the good faith and honor of the nation to party objects, in the disgrace- ful Treaty of Utrecht. On the next re- volution of fortune, at the death of Anne, the Whigs in their turn proscribe the Tories. The Tories conspire against the country and twice involve it in civil war. Walpole, out of office, harasses the government, whose principles he profes- ses: in office, he is himself harassed, thwarted in his best measures, and at last driven into a criminal war with Spain, by an opposition heterogeneous in its principles, and which, notwithstand- ing the torrent of its patriotic eloquence, has no object in view but to oust the minister and clamber into his place. It is a fact of melancholy significance that Chatham, so pure and patriotic by nature, is found deeply implicated in the worst of these transactions. Meantime, the councils of the nation resound with mutual slander, and a party press, the organ of the two factions, fills all hearts with malignity and falsehood. It is singular that writers on the British Constitutionnot only formal writers like Blackstone, but those who try to pierce to the real factsshould have failed to appreciate the cardinal fact that government in England is a government of party. The constitution is the organ through which the dominant party rules: and so it has been and is under all elective governments Every- where you find two parties more or less defined, the struggle between which for the offices of state makes up the po- litical history of the country. Every- where you have a party morality and a party allegiance conflicting with the claims of humanity and the nation. In England the sct of established rules for tile party game has superseded the con- stitutional law as expounded by Black- stone. Party government is implied in the very shape and arrangement of the House of Commons, where the party in power sits on the Speakers right hand, the party in opposition on his left. In a constitution framed for the ~Dominioa of Canada, the system received a formal recognition, provision being made that the members of the new senate, for the first term, should be chosen fairly from both parties. But whether formally recognized or not, party government is the all-important fact. What is the government of Eng- land at present? Not King, Lords, and Commons, nor any of them, but the Liberal party. What is the government of the United States? Not the President, Senate, and House of Representatives, but the Republican party. What is the real legislature of the United States? The Republican caucus. What is the po- litical history of the United States? A long struggle between two parties, cul- minating in a civil war. Burke, in his Thoughts on t1~e Gause of the Present Diseontents,has a defence, or rather an encolnium, of party. Party is a body of men united for promoting by their joint endeavors the national interest, upon some particular principle in which they are all agreed. For my part, I find it impossible to con- ceive that any one believes in his own politics, or thinks them to be of any weight, who refuses to adopt the means of having them reduced into practice. It is the business of the speculative philosopher to mark the proper ends of government. It is the business of the politician, who is the philosopher in action, to find cut proper means towards 222 [Aug. those ends, and to employ them with time, and thus party struggles there, effect. Therefore every honorable con- and the characters of party men, have nection will avow it is their first purpose preserved some measure of morality and to pursue every just method to put the dignity. But when the fundamental men who hold their opinions into such principles of government are settled, a condition as may enable them to carry how can party fail to degenerate into a their common plans into execution with selfish and immoral struggle for power? all the power and authority of the state. Party managers will, of course, strain As this power is attached to certain their ingenuity to devise party Lsues, to situ~tions, it is their duty to contend for invest theta with factitious importance, these situations. Without a proscription and to inflame the mind of the nation of others, they are bound to give to their about them; but power and pelf will be own party the preference in all things; the real objects of th~ conflict. and by no means, for private considera- Even if party were what Burke sup- tions, to accept any offers of power in poses it to he, it would often exclude which the whole body is not included; the best administrators from the public nor to suffer themselves to be led, or to service; for the best administrators are be controlled, or to be over-balanced, often ~en with little turn for speculative in office or in council, by those who politics, and are as likely to be found on contradict the very fundamental prin- one side as on the other. The greatest ciples on which their party is formed, men are likely to be excluded from and even those upon which every politics altogether; because great men fair connection must stand. Such will not submit to be the organs of nar- a generous contention for power, on such row judgments and the instruments of manly and honorable maxims, will easily mercenary aims. Tue madness of the be distinguished from the mean end in- many for the gain of the few is a defi- terested struggle for place and ernolu- nition of party not only pointed but ment. The very style of such persons true: and even when the ambition of will serve to discriminate them from the few is generous, for the many those numberless imposters who have party conflicts are little better than mad- deluded the ignorant with professions ness. Party consecrates prejudice, ap- incompatible with human practice, and plauds rancor, stigmatizes largeness of have afterwards incensed them by view, candor, truthfulness, as derehic- practices below the level of vulgar tions of the party faith. It divides the rectitude. members of a community whose interest Such are the praises of party, sung is the same, and who, if they were free by a great political philosopher, who, at to form their opinions, would prob- the most important juncture of his own bably tend to agreement, into two hostile political life, signally broke with party, camps carrying on a straggle, which if and died idolized by the opposite party, it has none of the bloodshed, has a good detested by his own, and vainly sting- many of the moral evils, of civil war. It gling to vindicate his loyalty as a partisan sets a premium on the eloquence of ma- by appealing from party as it was to lignity, and in the political history of Eng- party as it had been. land has raised men who had scarcely Burkes theory obviously supposes the any other qualification to places in which continued existence of some difference they have done great injury not only to of principle sufficient to create a funda- the interests but to the honor of their mental division among honest men, and country. to reconcile with morality allegiance to In England the organization of party a party and submission of the individual has hitherto been somewhat less complete conscience to the party councils. As it than in some other countries under happens, such a difference of opinion has popular government. Till lately, the generally existed between the Tories and elective principle itself has prevailed Liberals in England down to the present there, as has been already stated, only PwrA~s MAGAZINE. 1870.] Thu CONSTITUTIONAL Cuisis IN ENGLAND. 223 in a very restricted form, and other connections have a good deal traversed the lines of party, and interfered with its ascendancy. Parliamentary elections come at long intervals, and, from the frequent exercise of the pre- rogative of dissolution, are uncertain in their recurrence; and municipal elec- tions in England being comparatively de- void of interest, there is scarcely enough to keep a regular party organization on foot. The English system of election also, which is unrestricted with regard to the candidates place of residence, ren- ders it more difficult for local managers to keep nominations .in their hands. But when party organization is com- plete, the elector, compelled to vote at the dictation of the managers, may, like the constitutional king, fancy that he ex- ercises political power, and go through the forms and gestures of sovereignty; but, like tl~e constitutional king, he is in reality a puppet. With electoral liberty, general freedom of opinion and indepen- dence of political find social character are in danger of being lost. It is not in any open preaching of imperialist doctrir~es, so much as in the encroach- ments of party despotism on the liberty of voting, that we should look for the signs of the decay of liberty in a free state. Corruption, like faction, beset elective government in England from the first. Before we are half through the reign of William the Deliverer, on the morrow of the Glorious Revolution, we find govern- :nent systematically bribing members of the House of Commons. The name of Walpole is infamous, perhaps more infamous than it deserves, in the annals of corruption. Not only the secret ser- vice-money and the vast amount of sine- cure patronage, political and ecclesiasti- cal, with peerages and other honors then in the hands of government, but the public service and even the public loans were prostituted to the purposes of bribery, and administrative abuses were thus engendered under a free government little less flagrant than those which had disgraced the tyranny of Charles II. In England they have now pretty well worked off the grosser forms of Parliamentary corruption. In this they have been aided by that which has been an evil in other respects, the pluto- cratic character of the House of Com- mons, most of the members of which are too rich to care for a bribe. They have also been aided by that which is in all re- spects an unspeakable blessing, the almost entire removal of the civil service and the judiciary from the category of party spoils, rotation in office being total- ly discarded, and even the patronage of the first appointments greatly reduced through the introduction of competitive examination. At the time of the Railroad Mania, there were strong sus- picions of direct bribery of members of the House of Commons; certainly there was a good deal of dishonest and even corrupt voting, and the experience of that period strongly suggested that the sort of legislation in which the lobbies have an interest ought not to be vested in a political assembly, but committed to professional authorities whose integrity may be fortified by professional interest and honor, who may themselves be re- sponsible, in case of misconduct, to the su- preme government. The principal bribes now are peerages and other honors which have a special value for rich men aspir- ing to social position. In England how- ever, generally speaking, it is not among the members but in the constituencies that corruption prevails. Parliament leg- islates rigorously against it, but legislate as we may, while politics are a struggle for office, corruption in some form will continue to exist. The growth of Pemagogism, again, has been somewhat suspended in England by the limitation of the suffrage and by the ascendancy of a political class. Party lenders have made unscrupulous. appeals to the passions of the people as well as to the passions of assemblies, which, like larger masses of men, are ca- pable of becoming mere mobs. But there have been comparatively few instances of men leaving the paths of industry to make politics a trade, and comparatively little of the public sycophancy by which ~emagogues may close the ears of a na 224 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. tion against truth as effectually as court- iers by their flattery close the ears of the most besotted despot. The weak point of the elective system seems to lie not so much ia the choice of members as in the choice of candidates; in the nomination, in a word, rather than in the election. Once place the right man before the electors, and if they are of average intelligence and hon- esty they will probably elect him. The difficulty is to get the right man placed before them. 1-le will not, as a general rule, come forward of himself, for generally speaking men of much depth of character and largeness of mind are rather too averse from these com- petitions and contentions: they are rather too much disposed, as an ancient phi- losopher says, to stand aside under the shelter of the wall and let the dust whirl by. When there is not a political class designated by its birth for public life, the solution has been found practically in demagogism and caucuses, machinery by which it is morally impossible that the best men should be selected to rule the state. This is a canker at the very root of the system, and one for which a remedy has not yet been suggested or perhaps even sought. A really free and spontaneous exercise of their power of choice by the whole body of electors seems to require not only a general in- telligence but a general activity and in- terest in politics which we can hardly expect to find in the mass of men. All political philosophy is summed up in the words of Pym: The best form of government is that which doth actu- ate and dispose every part and member of a state to the common good. Uni- versal suffrage expressing the free and rational allegiance of the whole peo- ple is the only just and stable basis on which institutions can hereafter rest; and no community which is governed either for or by a class can be considered a community indeed. Elective govern- ment has coincided with the higher civil- ization; it demands far greater moral ef- fort and brings forth proportionately no- bler fruits than any other system. But the elective principle will not regulate itself, and, for want of regulation, it has in not a few instances wrought its own de- struction. Even in the countries where the success of the elective system has been greatest, if you subtract the other elements of well-being, such as religion, intelligence, and industry, and against the good done by political agencies set the evil done by faction, demagogism, and corruption, how large will be the balance of good which will remain? The answer to this question is the test of a political system, not mere declamations about freedom. Faction, demagogism, and corruption, not only interfere with good govern- meat; they deprave the moral life of men which it is the object of all govern- ment to protect; and if they are not cured or mitigated, the time will come when Humanity, feeling that its higher interests are being sacrificed to its lower, will arouse itself to throw elf an intol- erable evil, at whatever expense to cher- ished ideas and institutions. England moves slowly; but the day cannot be far distant when her statesmea will be compelled to take up organic questions. The House of Commons as at present constituted is not fit t~ be the government. Consisting of 650 mem- bers, it is too large for deliberation. The evil organization of party is almost in- dispensable to make it work at all. But in other and more fundamental re- spects it bears the traces of its original character as a representation of the counties and boroughs summoned occa- sionally and for a short time, not to govern, or even to legislate, but to grant the king money and at the same time advise him as to the needs of the people. It is summoned and dismissed at the will of the ministers of the Crown, the only security for its annual convoca- tion being an indirect one, the necessity of obtaining from it supplies to defray the expenses of government and pay the annual interest on the debt. It is in abeyance during a great part of the year, and in the interval between a dissolution and a fresh election ceases altogether to exist. The system of general elections is objectionable both as changing all the 1870.] THE CONSTITUTIONAL CRISIS IN ENGLAND. 225 members of the legislature at once and as giving an undue and pernicious in- fluence to the question or cry of the hour: it opens the floodgates of popu- lar passion, instead of equably registering the progress of public opinion. Milton was quite in the right when he coun- selled the Long Parliament, which had then made itself the government, to do away with dissolutions and general elec- tions, to declare itself permanent, and fill up vacancies in its body as they arose. Even the hours of session, which are not the business hours of the day, but those of the night, when business is worst done, denote the assemblys imperfect recog- nition of its present fonctions. I have said that England has no writ- ten constitution. At one period of her history, and for a short time, she had a written constitution, a remarkable docu- ment, and the work of no ordinary hands: I mean the Instrument of Gov- ernment framed by Cromwell and his associates after the execution of Charles I., and the abolition of the monarchy and the House of Lords. The constitu- tion embodied in the Instrument of Gov- ernment consisted of an elective Pro- tector, a Parliament, and a Council of State. The Protector is elected for life; the members of the Council of State also hold their offices for life; and when a vacancy occurs the Parliament is to send up six names, out of which the Council select two, and of these two the Pro- tector chooses one; so that the Council would be kept pretty well in harmony with the Parliament and the Protector. The powers of legislation and taxation were vested entirely in the Parliamcnt, the Protector having a suspensive veto on legislation for twenty days only. The Council of State was completely associ- ated with the Protector in the conduct of the executive. As to the elective Protector, there may be a doubt whether it is necessary to have any single head of the state; whether the supposed necessity is not a superstition derived from long familiarity with monarchy; and whether we should n@t be better without any great prize of this kind to stimulate that which requires no stimu- voL. vr.l5 inspersonal ambition. But if we are to have an elective head, there are some reasons for preferring one elected for life to one elected for a term of years: because the regular recurrence of the competition for this prize at stated inter- vals keeps on foot party organizations, infismes faction, and tends to bring dangerous questions, which might other- wise work themselves out slowly and quietly, to a sudden and violent issue. That, however, which most claims at- tention in the system embodied in the Instrument of Government is that it is not a party system, the members of the Council of State being elected under con- ditions which seem to render it impos- sible that the Council should become a cabinet or cabal. It would not be sur- prising if the minds of English states- men should one day revert to Crorn- wells constitution, which, though pre- mature in its day and altered almost as soon as it was made, may not be so unsuit- able to the present age. It is curious to see how, with the rising ascendancy of the political principles of which Cromwell was the impersonation in his day, the figure of the Protector has come forth from the cloud of infamy behind which it was long hidden and received again the homage of the national heart. Tie attempt to found the institutions of the future will be made in England under soma critical conditions, partly common to her with other nations, partly peculiar to herself. Peculiar to her, in. degree at least, are the contrast between the extremes of wealth and poverty, and the presence of masses of want,ignoran ce, and criminal propensity close to the streets of luxurious palaces. The proletariat is beginning to appear in the great American cities and to raise the formidable problems connected with its existence; and this is one of the most important elements in the change which has passed over Ameri- can society since it was observed by IDe Tocqueville. But in Encland the dan- ger is at its height, and though the ex- plosive forces of a Faubourg St. Antoine slumber long, in a day of revolutionary excitement they may awake. There i~ a peculiarity also in the political aspect 226 Pu~r~& .Ms MAGAZINE. [Aug. of the Trades-Unions in England, at least as compared with their political aspect in this country. In England the suffrage was so long withheld from the artisans that they have formed polity an indus- trial, with objects, laws, and a govern- ment of its own outside the polity of the nation. Such a power can hardly fail, in this industrial age, in some way to affect the course of political progress. On the other hand, a feature of the situation, common to England, with all the leading nations, is the critical posi- tion, which it is impossible to ignore, of the religious faith which has hitherto formed the foundation of the poli- tical as well as the social morality of the world. It may be true that the doctrine of future rewards and pun- ishments has not operated with all the force which theologians have assumed; but assuredly the motives which have hitherto led the mass of men to keep their selfish passions in subordination to the common good, and thereby to render government other than that of mere force possible, will be found, if analyzed, to be fundamentally religious. The connection of atheism and imperialism is most marked perhaps in Hobbes, but it is visible through the whole history of po- litical philosophy. Rationalism has not yet develped a positive side, and be- tween the decay of the old support and the growth of the new, there may be an interval perilous to humanity. On the other hand, the influence of science is beginning to tell beneficially on politics, by substituting observation for assump- tion and calm investigation for party passion. The rational study of history is also a new and beneficial influence in the case of all public men who have received a good political education. There are, unhappily, great masses of ignorance among the people in England; and even the new possessors of wealth are a bad political class, being too com- monly uneducated, not only in the first but in the second generation. But on the other hand there is a good deal of highly-trained political intellect. To this the system of class government, in other respects so injurious, has itself been con- ducive, by dedicating a class to political life. The comparatively secure tenure of seats in Parliament has contributed to the same result. Something is also due per- haps to the system of College Fellowships, which gives young men of ability the opportunity of carrying their self-culture beyond the limits of an ordinary univer- sity education. There is, moreover, a good deal of independence and force of political character; independence and force which are often perverse and reac- tionary, but still independence and force. To these advantages may be added an ~nmease political experience and the na- tional habits of mind which it has formed. England will probably grapple vigorous- ly with the tremendous problems which are forced upon her, and there is good reason for hoping that she will work out something of value, not for herself only, but for the world. BREVITIES. MAKING icz BY STEAM. To make ice by steam; to cool ones self by lighting a fire; in a word, to con- vert heat into cold, is a problem that has been proposed and solved by modern science. The mere suggestion, the bare statement, of this paradoxical problem, marks an era in the history of the human minda revolution in human ideas. The old alchemists held that while matter is changeable so that copper and lead may be transmuted into gold and silver, the occult qu& litios of coldness, sharpness, etc., are fixed and immutable. Aa al- chemist would more readily have expect- ed to see a mass of lead converted into pure gold than to see ice produced through the a~zency of fire. The modern chemist, on the other hand, relies upon the certainty that every elementary sub- stance will always remain the same no matter how ,many changes may be im- pressed upon it, while at the same time he strongly suspects that heat and cold, electricity, magnetism, light, and even

John Phin Phin, John Making Ice by Steam 226-227

226 Pu~r~& .Ms MAGAZINE. [Aug. of the Trades-Unions in England, at least as compared with their political aspect in this country. In England the suffrage was so long withheld from the artisans that they have formed polity an indus- trial, with objects, laws, and a govern- ment of its own outside the polity of the nation. Such a power can hardly fail, in this industrial age, in some way to affect the course of political progress. On the other hand, a feature of the situation, common to England, with all the leading nations, is the critical posi- tion, which it is impossible to ignore, of the religious faith which has hitherto formed the foundation of the poli- tical as well as the social morality of the world. It may be true that the doctrine of future rewards and pun- ishments has not operated with all the force which theologians have assumed; but assuredly the motives which have hitherto led the mass of men to keep their selfish passions in subordination to the common good, and thereby to render government other than that of mere force possible, will be found, if analyzed, to be fundamentally religious. The connection of atheism and imperialism is most marked perhaps in Hobbes, but it is visible through the whole history of po- litical philosophy. Rationalism has not yet develped a positive side, and be- tween the decay of the old support and the growth of the new, there may be an interval perilous to humanity. On the other hand, the influence of science is beginning to tell beneficially on politics, by substituting observation for assump- tion and calm investigation for party passion. The rational study of history is also a new and beneficial influence in the case of all public men who have received a good political education. There are, unhappily, great masses of ignorance among the people in England; and even the new possessors of wealth are a bad political class, being too com- monly uneducated, not only in the first but in the second generation. But on the other hand there is a good deal of highly-trained political intellect. To this the system of class government, in other respects so injurious, has itself been con- ducive, by dedicating a class to political life. The comparatively secure tenure of seats in Parliament has contributed to the same result. Something is also due per- haps to the system of College Fellowships, which gives young men of ability the opportunity of carrying their self-culture beyond the limits of an ordinary univer- sity education. There is, moreover, a good deal of independence and force of political character; independence and force which are often perverse and reac- tionary, but still independence and force. To these advantages may be added an ~nmease political experience and the na- tional habits of mind which it has formed. England will probably grapple vigorous- ly with the tremendous problems which are forced upon her, and there is good reason for hoping that she will work out something of value, not for herself only, but for the world. BREVITIES. MAKING icz BY STEAM. To make ice by steam; to cool ones self by lighting a fire; in a word, to con- vert heat into cold, is a problem that has been proposed and solved by modern science. The mere suggestion, the bare statement, of this paradoxical problem, marks an era in the history of the human minda revolution in human ideas. The old alchemists held that while matter is changeable so that copper and lead may be transmuted into gold and silver, the occult qu& litios of coldness, sharpness, etc., are fixed and immutable. Aa al- chemist would more readily have expect- ed to see a mass of lead converted into pure gold than to see ice produced through the a~zency of fire. The modern chemist, on the other hand, relies upon the certainty that every elementary sub- stance will always remain the same no matter how ,many changes may be im- pressed upon it, while at the same time he strongly suspects that heat and cold, electricity, magnetism, light, and even 1870.] BREvITIEs. 227 gravity itselt; are all merely conditions of matter that may be changed at will and converted the one into the other. To ii- lustr~te: a chemist takes a mass of lead, and by allo wing certain chemical agents to act upon it, he causes it to pass through more changes thaa ever did the fabled Proteus. In his hands the solid, shining metal, which is so dense that its ~veight has become a proverb, loses its metallic form and becomes entirely invisible. Then it changes successively to a white chalky powder, to a dark flaky mass, or to a beautiful orange pi~ment. But through all these changes the eye of the chemist follows the masquerader and penetrates every disguise. Through every variation of form the lead remains lead, and at any stage of the process it may be recovered and exhibited as the same bright, heavy metal that it was originally. We caRnot change it into silver, or gold, or iron. Lead it was, and lead it will remain. But now let us take a few bars of steel to which the property known as magnetism has been imparted. They are cold and dark, and they may be han- dled without imparting any peculiar sen- sation. it; however, we arrange them a peculiar way and give them a rapid mo- tion, we can convert this motion and magnetism into light, heat, and electri- city. The steel bars were cold, but they give to two wires the property of pro- ducing a degree of heat far exceeding that of the fiercest furnace; they were dark, but by their influence a light of the most dazzling brilliancy is made to glow between the same wires; the bars give no sensation when handled, but these same wires derive from them power which it would be instant death to en- counter. Here we have heat, light, and electricity produced where apparently no heat, light, or electricity existed be- fore; and the discovery of the law upon which these wondrous manifestations de- pendthe law of the correlation of the forcesis one of the crowning glories of the nineteenth century. By proper ap- plications of this law, the same tempest that raises the ocean in billows may be made to illuminate the sea and give to the wandering bark a warning of sunken reefs; the action of a few pints of acid on some fragments of zinc places at our disposal a messenger that in a journey round the world can outstrip Ariel ; and the combustion of a few pounds of coal under the boiler of a steam-engine will enable us to produce ice that on hot and sultry days may cool the lips of the fever- ed patient. As the latter is one of the best illustrations of the practical applica- tion of the beautiful law that we have mentioned, we will describe it at length. At an early period in the history of civilization it was known that a per- son wearing wet clothes became very rapidly and very powerfully chilled; but it was not until the days of Dr. Black, of Edinburgh, that the cause of this rapid chilling was discovered. He found that in order to convert one pound of water at 212~ Fahr. into steam at the same tem- perature, it required six and a half times as much heat as is sufficient to raise one pound of water from 620 to 2120. In other words, he found that one pound of steam at 2120 contained as much heat as would suffice to raise six and a half pounds of water from 620 to 2120. Taking a pound of steam at 2120 and adding to it six and a half pounds of water at 62~, we get seven and a half pounds of boiling water. This was a wonderful discovery, and led to some very curious results. Those that reflected deeply on the sub- ject saw at once that if a vessel should contain six and a half pounds of water at 620 and half a pound of this liquid should be suddenly converted into steam or va- por, this vapor would abstract so much heat from the remaining liquid that the whole would be frozen. The difficulty was to find a means of suddenly convert- ing a sufficient amount of the water into vapor. It is well known that on the tops of very high mountains it is very difficult to cook eggs and potatoes in the ordi- nary way. The water may boil and the eggs may be tumbled about in the boil- ing liquid during the legitimate three minutes, but at the end of that time the eggs will be far from done. A much longer time must be allowed, and even then the eggs will not be very hard. 1f now, in order to discover the cause of all this, we examine the water with a ther- mometer, we will find that it is boiling, or in other words it is passing off into steam, at a temperature far below 2120. The cause of this is, at these great eleva- tions the pressure of the atmosphere is mueh less than in the lower regions. But this diminished pressure we can pro- duce by means of the air-pump, and when we do so the water gives off steam very rapidly and becomes very cold, but it does not freeze; for as soon as the air has been all removed from the glass ves- sel or receiver of the air-pump, the vapor of water rises and fills it, the process is brought to a close, and we cannot, as a general thing, remove the watery vapor

Editorial Notes 227-234

1870.] BREvITIEs. 227 gravity itselt; are all merely conditions of matter that may be changed at will and converted the one into the other. To ii- lustr~te: a chemist takes a mass of lead, and by allo wing certain chemical agents to act upon it, he causes it to pass through more changes thaa ever did the fabled Proteus. In his hands the solid, shining metal, which is so dense that its ~veight has become a proverb, loses its metallic form and becomes entirely invisible. Then it changes successively to a white chalky powder, to a dark flaky mass, or to a beautiful orange pi~ment. But through all these changes the eye of the chemist follows the masquerader and penetrates every disguise. Through every variation of form the lead remains lead, and at any stage of the process it may be recovered and exhibited as the same bright, heavy metal that it was originally. We caRnot change it into silver, or gold, or iron. Lead it was, and lead it will remain. But now let us take a few bars of steel to which the property known as magnetism has been imparted. They are cold and dark, and they may be han- dled without imparting any peculiar sen- sation. it; however, we arrange them a peculiar way and give them a rapid mo- tion, we can convert this motion and magnetism into light, heat, and electri- city. The steel bars were cold, but they give to two wires the property of pro- ducing a degree of heat far exceeding that of the fiercest furnace; they were dark, but by their influence a light of the most dazzling brilliancy is made to glow between the same wires; the bars give no sensation when handled, but these same wires derive from them power which it would be instant death to en- counter. Here we have heat, light, and electricity produced where apparently no heat, light, or electricity existed be- fore; and the discovery of the law upon which these wondrous manifestations de- pendthe law of the correlation of the forcesis one of the crowning glories of the nineteenth century. By proper ap- plications of this law, the same tempest that raises the ocean in billows may be made to illuminate the sea and give to the wandering bark a warning of sunken reefs; the action of a few pints of acid on some fragments of zinc places at our disposal a messenger that in a journey round the world can outstrip Ariel ; and the combustion of a few pounds of coal under the boiler of a steam-engine will enable us to produce ice that on hot and sultry days may cool the lips of the fever- ed patient. As the latter is one of the best illustrations of the practical applica- tion of the beautiful law that we have mentioned, we will describe it at length. At an early period in the history of civilization it was known that a per- son wearing wet clothes became very rapidly and very powerfully chilled; but it was not until the days of Dr. Black, of Edinburgh, that the cause of this rapid chilling was discovered. He found that in order to convert one pound of water at 212~ Fahr. into steam at the same tem- perature, it required six and a half times as much heat as is sufficient to raise one pound of water from 620 to 2120. In other words, he found that one pound of steam at 2120 contained as much heat as would suffice to raise six and a half pounds of water from 620 to 2120. Taking a pound of steam at 2120 and adding to it six and a half pounds of water at 62~, we get seven and a half pounds of boiling water. This was a wonderful discovery, and led to some very curious results. Those that reflected deeply on the sub- ject saw at once that if a vessel should contain six and a half pounds of water at 620 and half a pound of this liquid should be suddenly converted into steam or va- por, this vapor would abstract so much heat from the remaining liquid that the whole would be frozen. The difficulty was to find a means of suddenly convert- ing a sufficient amount of the water into vapor. It is well known that on the tops of very high mountains it is very difficult to cook eggs and potatoes in the ordi- nary way. The water may boil and the eggs may be tumbled about in the boil- ing liquid during the legitimate three minutes, but at the end of that time the eggs will be far from done. A much longer time must be allowed, and even then the eggs will not be very hard. 1f now, in order to discover the cause of all this, we examine the water with a ther- mometer, we will find that it is boiling, or in other words it is passing off into steam, at a temperature far below 2120. The cause of this is, at these great eleva- tions the pressure of the atmosphere is mueh less than in the lower regions. But this diminished pressure we can pro- duce by means of the air-pump, and when we do so the water gives off steam very rapidly and becomes very cold, but it does not freeze; for as soon as the air has been all removed from the glass ves- sel or receiver of the air-pump, the vapor of water rises and fills it, the process is brought to a close, and we cannot, as a general thing, remove the watery vapor [Aug. PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. with sufficient rapidity by means of the pump alone. But it happens that some substances, such as very dry oat-meal, and particularly oil of vitriol, have such a powerful attraction for water that they remove it very rapidly from any confined atmosphere in which they may be placed. Indeed, oil of vitriol, or, as it is called by chemists, sulphuric acid, has such a powerful attraction for watery vapor that it condenses it, combines with it, and becomes very hot. So powerful is this affinity, that if we take a jar of cold acid and an equal jar of ice-cold water and mix them together, they will become boiling hot. If, now, we place some of this acid in the receiver along with the water, as fast as the vapor of water rises it will be absorbed by the acid and the water will continue to give off fresh vapor until its temperature has been re- duced before the vaporing point. This point is never reached, however, until the water.has been frozen. In this way it is easy to make ice in a warm lecture- room, and this was the method after which Leslie, the inventor of the air- pump that bears his name, proposed to manufacture ice for sale. But the pro- cess is too difficult and too imperfect to allow of its being used for any thing but an experiment. There are other liquids besides water, however, and these liquids boil at tem- peratures which differ between wide limits. The shining metal, mercury, re- quires a temperature 6000 above zero to make it boil, and liquid carbonic acid boils at a temperature 80~ below zero. In other words, it requires a temperature of 80~ to keep it in the form of a liquid. When the temperature rises above this point., it passes off rapidly in the form of carbonic acid steam or vapor, or, as it is more generally called, carbonic acid gas. And in thus passing off into vapor, it car- ries off so much heat that the vessel that contained it is rendered exceedingly cold, so very cold that we have hardly any idea of the temperature that may be thus produced. Mercury exposed to such a temperature becomes solid, and we have taken it in this condition and hammered it out on an anvil, as if it had been a piece of lead or tin. When frozen in a long paper gutter, the mercury may be moulded into a slender bar that may be -seized by a pair of wooden forceps and twisted and tied in a knot. And to show that the temperature of this frozen mer- cury is far below any thing that occurs in ordinary experience~ if we apply it to the hand, it will burn and deetroy the flesh as effectually as would a red-hot iron, while a piece of common ice will melt it as quickly as a red-hot bar of iron would melt a rod of lead. But liquid carbonic acid, although it is capable of producing such low tempera- tures, is not available for practical pur- poses, and consequently other liquids have been resorted to, such as ether, ammonia, and some of the products derived from the distillation of petroleum. When these liquids are employed an air-pump is always used, and of course on the large scale a steam-engine is used to drive the air-pump. The process is as follows: the water to be frozen having been placed in vessels made of sheet-metal so that the heat may be rapidly conducted away, these vessels are surrounded with the freezing liquid, which may be ether, ammonia, cryogene or any other available fluid. The apparatus is so arranged that while the mouths of the freezing boxes are open to the air, the liquid that sur- rounds their outer surface is contained in an air-tight receiver,nnd from this receiv- er the air and vapor is exhausted by means of an air-pump. The evaporation of the liquid soon lowers the temperature so far that the water freezes, and ice is thus pro- duced. To prevent any loss of the freez- ing liquid, the apparatus is so arranged that the same pump that exhausts on one side condenses on the other. The vapor of the liquid is therefore powerfully com- pressed and re-converted into a liquid which, after being cooled, is again passed into the refrigerator to be used over again. We say, after it has been cooled; for, after compression to the liquid form it is very hot. And thus the steam-engine goes on with its ceaseless pulse, transfer- ring the heat from one side of the machine to the other; taking it from the water in the imperceptible condition of latent heat contained in a subtle vapor, and repro- ducing it on tbe other side as sensible heat that warms up the sides of the vessel as soon as the liquid in which it was latent has been condensed. On the latter side it is dissipated, carried off, and pre- vented from returning to the water from which it was taken. And in this simple manner is ice manufactured by steam. 228 1870.] EDITORIAL NOTES. 220 EDITORIAL NOTES. MEDIEVAL NONSENSE REVIVED. WE should like to know how far a writer in the last Uatkolie World, who discusses The Character of the Catho- lic,meaning the Romanist in the Nineteenth Century, represents the opinions of his sect in this country. lie appears to have just tumbled out of some forgotten box of the Inquisition, or to hnve been dug up in one of the Roman catacombs. His subject is the relations of the Catholic of to-day to his race, his country, his age, and the particular order and condition denomi- nated progress, and he treats it as it might have been treated by a monk of the ninth or fourteenth century. His theory of his church, and of its supremacy over all other churches, all states, and all individuals, is the extreme of ultra- montanism, against which not only the whole Protestant world, but the Catho- lie liberals, have contended, for ages. Assuming that his religion is perfect, or rather that his understanding of what religion is, is perfect; that it consists in a certain immutable organic law which nobody need mistake because an in- fallible expounder of it resides at Rome, he claims for it an ahsolute perfection, as theology, as philosophy, as morality, and as the only rule for private, public, and political conduct. All human government, whether of patriarch, prophet, priest, king, chieftain, pope, bishop, emperor, or people in organized assembly, rests upon this organic law, which has the omnipotent God for its founder and the Roman Church for its sole and unerring interpreter. The Catholic Church, we are told in a pas- sage which the most grandiloquent of sophomores will envy, The Catholic Church is the medium and channel through which the will of God is ex- pressed. The chain of communication, composed of the triple strand of revela- tion, inspiration, and faith, stretches underneath the billows of eternity to the shore of time, from the throne of God to the chair of Peter. The finger of the Pope, like the needle in the com- pass, invariably points to the pole of eternal truth, and the mind of the sove- reign pontiff is as certain to reflect the mind and will of God as the mirror at one end of a submarine cable to indi- cate the electric signal made at the other. The will of God is expressed as plainly through the church as it was through Moses and the tables of the law. It is distinct, definite, intelligible, and precise, and we are bound to execute the will thus expressed, and act in the light of the intelligence thus supplied. Jesus Christ used to tell his disciples to search the Scriptures, because they testified of l{im, Who was the Way, the Truth, and the Life. St. Paul, too, thought that creation bore witness to the perfection and designs of Deity; and St. Peter proclaimed that God was no respecter of persons, but that in every nation he that feareth Him, and worketli righteousness, is accepted with Him; hut this new apostle changes all that. God can only be approached through a speaking-trumpet, preserved at Rome, and the glorious sunlight of the gospel is nothing to the phosphoric brilliancy of old decayed wood. All good Catholics, especially those who are voters, are bound to act in all things according to the will of God, i. e. of the Pope, Who is his only mouth- piece. Marriages even contracted with- out the assent of his church, are very corrupt and flimsy affairs; all science and education which is uncatholicis also godless; and the state or nation is in its very nature godless and material, having no rights but by permission of superior authority, i. e. our writers church. The supremacy asserted for the church in matters of education im- plies the additional and cognate function 230 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. of the censorship of ideas, and the right to examine, and approve or disapprove all books, publications, writings, and utterances intended for public instruc- tion, enlightenment, or entertainment, and the supervision of places of amuse- ment! Not only publishers but edi- tors, not only editors but preachers, not only preachers but peddlers, not only peddlers but actors, circus-riders, and mountebanks, must be made amenable to the Pope, who will consult heaven through his private speaking-tube, as to the lawfulness of their callings. In fact, all the governments of the world should be modelled upon that temporal gov- ernment of the Head of the Church which is to-day the best in the world, that is, of a government which is upheld by spies and secret agents, and could not last a week but for foreign bayonets. Our author, of course, longs for the day when the same Head of the Church may again become the acknow- ledged head of the reunited family of Christian nations; the arbiter and judge between princes and peoples, between government and government, the ex- ponent of supreme justice and the high- est law, in all important questions affect- ing the rights, the interests, and the wel- fare of communities and individuals! Would our readers know what these fine phrases mean? Let us quote, in order to illustrate them, Father Gratrys ana~ lysis of a Bull of Pope Paul IV. issued when the kind of legislation which the writer in the Catholic World applauds was more in vogue than it is just now. We extract it from the third of his late letters to the Bishop of Mahines, in which he opposes the proposed enact- - ment of the dogma of infallibility. I. Considering that the Roman Pon- tiff possesses the plenitude of power over every realm and every nation, that he alone upon earth judges all and is judged by no one whomsoever. II. We renew all sentences of ex- communication which have ever been directed against heretics, of whatsoever condition, were they Bishops, Patriarchs, or Popes, were they Kings or Emperors. III. But since spiritual penalties are not sufficient, we,in the plenitude of the apostolic power, sanction, establish, de- cree and define by the present Constitu- tion, which shall be forever in force, that all persons, Bishops, or Cardinals, and others, Princes, Kings, or Emperors, who shall be convicted of schism or heresy, shall, over and above the afore- said spiritual penalties, incur by the very fact, and without other judicial proceed- ing, the loss of all honor, of all power, of all authority, of every principality, dukedom, royalty, empire, and shall be forever deprived and indipable of re- suming them. But furthermore, they are to be held as relapsed, * as if con- demned for tile second time, as if, al- ready convicted of heresy, they had already abjured and then fallen into it again. Furthermore, they are to be given over to the secular arm in order to be punished by the penalties of the law, except that, when truly penitent, they are to be, by the clemency and benignity of the Holy See, committed to a monas- tery to do penance there upon bread and water for life. And they are to be other- wise regarded as relapsed heretics by all men of every grade. They are to be treated as such, shunned as such, and de- prived of every consolation of humanity. IV. And as to ecclesiastical benefices possessed by them, they shall be con- ferred on others at the proper time. V. As to those who shall dare to re- ceive, defend, favor the aforesaid con - demned, to accord them confidence, to join in their doctrines, they themselves shall incur, ipso facto, the sentence of excommunication. They shall be de- clared infamous, they shall be deprived of every right, the right to testify, to convey by will, to inherit. No one owes them any thing or is held to be liable to them in aught. If they are judges, their decisions are null; advo- cates, their advocacy cannot be re- ceived; notaries, the acts and instru- ments made by them are void and For the relapsed, the punishment was burn- ing without pardon, even when sincere repentance was certain; but for these fictitious relapses Paul IV. here proclaims a mitigation. 1870.] EDITORIAL Norm. 231 invalid; if they are Bishops, Patriarchs, Primates, Princes, or Kings, their estates, their domains, their realms become public property, and fall to the first occupant, provided that the occupant be in the faith, unity, and obedience of the Holy Roman Church. VI. To which we add, that if ever at any time it be discovered that a Bishop, Archbishop, Primate, were it the Roman Pontiff himself~ had before his elevation fallen into heresy, or into some deviation from the Catholic faith, such an one is informed that, thereafter his ordination and his elevation are null, without value, invalid. He is neither Bishop, nor Cardinal, nor Pope, and all his acts, ministrations, functions, words, dis- courses, acts of administration, are absolutely null and of no value and do not confer on any one any title or any right.* VII. They are all to be held as pa- gans, publicans, heretics. VIII. But we decree all this, not. withstanding any apostolic Constitution, notwithstanding every other decree bear- ing an opposite sense, of our certain knowledge and in the plenitude of apostolic power, notwithstanding every article of right contained in the Corpws june, notwithstanding every promise or even every oath, made by no matter whom or by ourselves. From every thing of which sort we release ourselves expressly, but for this one matter only, and only for this time. IX. And we desire that all those to whom it appertains should take cogni- zance of these apostolic letters, and that they should be affixed to~ the doors of the Basilica of St. Peter, to the apostolic chancellerie, in acie c~impi Florial, etc. X. That no man dare to oppose in any manner this decree, under penalty of incurring the indignation of Almighty * From this it follows that If It be discovered that a Bishop or even a Pope, before his promo- tion, had In aught deviated from the Catholic faith, he would be neither Priest nor Bishop. The Priests whom he may have ordained would not be Priests, the hosts which these last believing themselves Priests may have consecrated would not have been consecrated, arid the absoin- lions which these phantoms of priests might have given would he no absolutions. God and that of the Apostles St. Peter and St. Paul. FIOARO-CI, FIOARO-LA. Mr. Bigelow made a long address be- fore the Historical Society to show that the United States had never fully ac- quitted themselves of the debt which they incurred to Beaumarchais during the Revolution. A committee of that Society, if we mistake not, was charged with the duty of investigating the point, and to them we commend a brief state- ment which we find in a foot-note to George Sumners Fourth of July oration, delivered before the authorities of Bos- ton in 1859. George, it will be remem- bered, was a brother of Charles, the distinguished Senator. He says: As the recent biographer of Beau- marchais, M. de Lom~nie, has charged the United States with ingratitude to him, I take this opportunity publicly to state, that, having drawn the attention of his executor to the first accusations of M. de Lom~nie, in the Revue de8 Detav Mondes, that gentleman declared to lne that every just claim of l3eaumerchais had been fully, largely, and generously paid by the United States, and this declaration he offered to repeat, in his official capacity, before a Notary Public. IN MEMORIAM. HERwEGH, the German poet, in his pretty little poem entitled My Last Hour, wishes that he might vanish from the earth, like the gales dying breath, or like the last red gleam of the evening, or like the perfume of flowers rising on the incense-laden air, or like the morning dew which the first sun- beams drink, or like the plaintive tone which swells and dies upon the strings of the harp, or like a brilliant star which sinks away into the still blue depths of the heavens, shrouded by an eternal and unfading glory. What he thus wished for himself has been the fate of Dickens, as singularly fortunate in the suddenness and pla6id quietude of his death as he was successft in the rapid rise and glorious culmination of his career. Like the dew, like the flow- er, like the tone of music, like the star, 232 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. he gladdened, refreshed, and blessed us, and then, like them, vanished in a mo- ment,to be seen no more, though never to be forgotten. The universal outburst of eulogy which has followed his departure, in both hemispheres, and which has come from all classes of people, has left little or nothing more to be said. Pulpit and press, all over the world, have vied with each other in their efforts to say good and kindly things of the best and kindliest of authors. What other man, living at the time he lived, and dying when he did, could have awakened such a general and sincere expression of love, admiration, gratitude for the good he had done and the pleasure he had dif- fused, or such a heartfelt lament for his untimely departure? Was there, in all the range of the worlds distinguished men, among its statesmen, its philoso- phers, its philanthropists, one who had created for himself so warm and friend- ly a feeling in the heart of so vast a variety of persons? High and low, young and old, learned and unlearned, cultivated and uncultivated, alike felt for the witty Boz, for the generous, sym- pathetic, exhaustless, inimitable Dick- ens, who had soothed and relieved so many of their sad hours, who had ex- alted their minds with so many fine and noble sentiments, who had given them so many new acquaintances i~ith whom to laugh or cry, and who had made the world for all 6f them so much sweeter and pleasanter a place to live inall, we say, felt his death as a personal be- reavement, in a nearer and tenderer sense than often happens. Nothing more is to be said in the way of eulogy (criticism would now be out of place), but a word may be add- ed to set him right, if, perchance, he was still wrong, with any of the Ameri- can public. The last time we saw him was in the little office of his weekly paper in Catharine-street, near the Strand, Loiidon. He was then but a few weeks returned from America, and he was full of gratitude and lively re- membrance of the kindness with which he had been received on his second visit. He seemed to feel that he had once done the American people a great injustice, and to be eager to make amends for it by the lavish and enthu- siastic praise which he heaped upon the country, and the generous cordiality with which he welcomed all individual Americans, who came properly intro- duced, to his attentions. In his private conversation, more than in any of his published expressions, he bore witness to the greatness and grandeur of the nation, and to the better characteristics of it, which on his first visit he had overlooked or slurred. He was prompt to admit, not merely that we had changed in the interval of his two vis- its, but that he had been mistaken in his estimate of what we were; and the frankness of the avowal disarmed at once any prejudice that one might have contracted from the perusal of Chuzzle- wit or the American Notes. aoz. call him Boz, for that is what we named him, With tears and laughter, Ere with our Laurel-wreath we proudly claimed him Forever after. call him Bozths~t was our word for him when he was young, And unto us, from some fsr corner dim, ills accents rung. In earlier days, when first we caught the glory Just shimmering through, The tenderest utterancethe rarest story We ever knew! As little children, by their mother seated, Group softly round To hear her stories oer and oer repeated, With awe profound, While memory brings back dreams of joy and sweetness, Even as he willed, We gathered at his feetfrom his completeness Our store he filled. We loved the author, who so loved the true, So hated wrong; We loved the teacher, whose great soul we knew, Tender and strong. We felt the loving spirit of the master In all his creeds. He touched the worlds cold heart, and it beat faster For human needs. As like an angel, visiting each dwelling With kindly face, He lit the fire of love, Heavens watchword tell- ing, In every place. 1870.] EDITORIAL NOTES. 233 Close up those earnest eyes to want and sorrow, Forevermore! And bid him stand erect, upon the morrow, Earths labors oer. And, like the seraphs in the old-time vision, Still,to and fro, His thoughts, like spirits from yon world elysian, Will come and go. ART IN NEW voa~ AND THE REVUE INTERNA- TIUNALE. It would be a double injusticean injustice to art in New York, and an injustice to the readers of the Revue Intei-nationaleto let pass unchallenged a brief and inadequate,more, in some respects an erroneousestimate of the rank and value of American artists who have naturally made New York the art- centre of the New World. The classification of names in the correspondence from New York, pub- lished in the Revue Interncttionale (No. 6) for June, is misleading, and we pro- pose to correct it by making a brief statement in keeping with the actual character and undisputed merit of New York artists, rather than by making what might seem invidious criticisms upon the artists mentioned in lettre de New Yark, without any indication of a true ses~se of their place in and relation to art. We have to inform the Revue Inter?? - tianale that, while the branches of his- torical and genre painting are meagrely illustrated by American artists, their full force may be said to be expended in landscape-painting. There are three distinct currents of art in New York. First, the old and conventional and feeble, and on which floats the traditional; this is chiefly il- lustrated and sustained by the older members of the National Academy of Design. Second, the personal, the natu- ralan art which springs from the painters individual and exclusive im- pressions of nature, from which we get the only original and creative artthe art of Delacroix and Rousseau and Millet in France; of Reynolds, Constable, and Turner in England; and, in New York, the art of Sandford R. Gifford, W. T. Richards, Frederick Church, John F. Kensett, Jervis MeEntee, C. C. Gris wold, hubbard, Cropsey, Whittredge, and Winslow Homer. Lastly, the third current, which brings us John La Farge, E. Vedder, and Dana, all more or less convinced artists, modified, and in some respects denationalized, by sym~ pathies and methods that are the result of the object and practice of some of the best French painters. The works of the last-mentioned painters would not look foreign in Paris, nor would they strike any one as novel or original. As yet they have failed to reach a per- sonal and consummate expression; they have yet to make good their personal predilections. The art illustrated by the pictures of Gifford, Church, Ken- sett, Griswold, and McEntee, is the purest and best growth of art in Amer- ica; and, although there is great varia- tion of merit and no resemblance be- tween the men of this the second cur- rent, they are indigenous, sincere, and alike in being the exclusive outcome of American genius in landscape-paint- ing. Besides the painters who illustrate or feed these three currents of art in New York, there are many painters who are not entitled to any distinction beyond that of mere picture-makerspainters who paint in the temper and with the object of men who, with less pretension and more honesty, follow a mechanical industry for a living; these men are un- worthy of attention here, but, by in- trigue and industry, they are often able to occupy the public, and are mention- ed in columns of Art Intelligence, or of Art Items, which are the frivolous and often degrading result of confound- ing and mixing the interests of journal- ism and art. The ordinary newspaper item about pictures, and about what our artists are doii~g, is stupid, and occasionally it is ridiculous. The dig- nity of art, the value of criticism, the sense of the public in art-matters, suf- fers by this cheap and trivial method of serving art by the Press. Among our sculptors, at home, the chiefest are H. K. Brown, J. Quincy, Ward, Launt Thompson, E. B. Palmer, and John Rogers. Story, at Rome, 234 Pum~& i.Cs MAGAZINE. [Aug. maintains the force and originality of American genius by his work. In Lon- don we claim Boughton as a genre painter. In New York Eastman John- son, Winslow Homer, John F. Weir, are the leading genre painters. The best current criticism cannot dispute the foregoing estimate without provok- ing a reflection upon its perception or upon its honesty. LiTERATUREAT HOME. THERE are two things which have always charmed us in the novels of George Sand exquisite pictures of French life and manners, and profound knowledge of the heart. Of the accu- racy of the first the French are better judges than we can be; as regards the last, they have no advantage over us, so broad and general is her delineation of the passions. She understands by in- tuition the nature of her characters, who are never false to themselves, and their inner and peculiar life. We feel this in all her fictions, and in none more than in Antonia, of which a translation, by Virginia Vaughan, is published by Roberts Brothers. It is not a great work, in the sense that Consuelo is, compared with which it is a mere cabi- net-piece; but the value of a work of the kind does not depend upon its size, but upon its excellence, this quality, or its absence, being as marked in a sketch as a large painting. We have read nothing more lovely for years than the little heart-history which is the motive of Antonia, and which makes us wonder how it is that George Sand was ever under the ban, here and in Eng- land. We have read as many of her stories as we have found translated, and while one or two deal with topics in themselves repugnant to the Anglo- Saxon mind, it is in no improper spirit, and the effect of these, as of the others, has been to convince us that the intel- lect of the writer was pure and noble, whatever errors may have marked her life. We allude to the life of George Sandor rather to what has been re ported of itbecause we conceive this to be the cause of the hostility, honest enough in its way, with which her writings have been and still are regard- ed. But this is the one thing above all others with which her readers have noth- ing whatever to do. She comes before them as a literary artist, and should be judged as such, and nothing else. In our opinion she is not only one of the most accomplished creators of the time, but is superior to her sex in intellectual en- dowment. She has a largewe should say a masculine mind, if the masculine mind could contain such sweetness and love as hers. This love, this sweetness, springing like a flower, and kindling like a flame, at first in the brain of the painter, Julien Thierry, then in the heart of Julie, Countess dEstrelle, draws them together in spite of their differ- ence of rank, involves them in difficul- ties which it subdues, its might extend- ing to the mother and uncle of Julien, who have long been enemies, till they are subdued in turn, and enveloped in its radiant atmosphere. We are happy with allso happy, for the moment, that we think there is nothing in the world but Youth and Love. But life, we soon perceive, is not made up of such divine dreams, and we lay down the book with a sigh. For what it is a delicious little idylwe commend Antonia. Different from any thing that George Sand has written is Spielhagens novel of Hammer and Anvil, translated by William Hand Browne, and publish- ed by Messrs. Leypoldt and Holt; yet it contains an episode which is some- how suggestive of this writer, who would have separated it, had the con- ception been hers, from the stirring in- cidents by which it is surrounded, and would have moulded it into a pleasant little book by itself. It covers the brief period when the hero. George, was

R. H. Stoddard Stoddard, R. H. Literature at Home Literature at Home 234-239

234 Pum~& i.Cs MAGAZINE. [Aug. maintains the force and originality of American genius by his work. In Lon- don we claim Boughton as a genre painter. In New York Eastman John- son, Winslow Homer, John F. Weir, are the leading genre painters. The best current criticism cannot dispute the foregoing estimate without provok- ing a reflection upon its perception or upon its honesty. LiTERATUREAT HOME. THERE are two things which have always charmed us in the novels of George Sand exquisite pictures of French life and manners, and profound knowledge of the heart. Of the accu- racy of the first the French are better judges than we can be; as regards the last, they have no advantage over us, so broad and general is her delineation of the passions. She understands by in- tuition the nature of her characters, who are never false to themselves, and their inner and peculiar life. We feel this in all her fictions, and in none more than in Antonia, of which a translation, by Virginia Vaughan, is published by Roberts Brothers. It is not a great work, in the sense that Consuelo is, compared with which it is a mere cabi- net-piece; but the value of a work of the kind does not depend upon its size, but upon its excellence, this quality, or its absence, being as marked in a sketch as a large painting. We have read nothing more lovely for years than the little heart-history which is the motive of Antonia, and which makes us wonder how it is that George Sand was ever under the ban, here and in Eng- land. We have read as many of her stories as we have found translated, and while one or two deal with topics in themselves repugnant to the Anglo- Saxon mind, it is in no improper spirit, and the effect of these, as of the others, has been to convince us that the intel- lect of the writer was pure and noble, whatever errors may have marked her life. We allude to the life of George Sandor rather to what has been re ported of itbecause we conceive this to be the cause of the hostility, honest enough in its way, with which her writings have been and still are regard- ed. But this is the one thing above all others with which her readers have noth- ing whatever to do. She comes before them as a literary artist, and should be judged as such, and nothing else. In our opinion she is not only one of the most accomplished creators of the time, but is superior to her sex in intellectual en- dowment. She has a largewe should say a masculine mind, if the masculine mind could contain such sweetness and love as hers. This love, this sweetness, springing like a flower, and kindling like a flame, at first in the brain of the painter, Julien Thierry, then in the heart of Julie, Countess dEstrelle, draws them together in spite of their differ- ence of rank, involves them in difficul- ties which it subdues, its might extend- ing to the mother and uncle of Julien, who have long been enemies, till they are subdued in turn, and enveloped in its radiant atmosphere. We are happy with allso happy, for the moment, that we think there is nothing in the world but Youth and Love. But life, we soon perceive, is not made up of such divine dreams, and we lay down the book with a sigh. For what it is a delicious little idylwe commend Antonia. Different from any thing that George Sand has written is Spielhagens novel of Hammer and Anvil, translated by William Hand Browne, and publish- ed by Messrs. Leypoldt and Holt; yet it contains an episode which is some- how suggestive of this writer, who would have separated it, had the con- ception been hers, from the stirring in- cidents by which it is surrounded, and would have moulded it into a pleasant little book by itself. It covers the brief period when the hero. George, was 18~TO.] LITERATURE AT HOME. 285 under the spell of Constance, and de- picts her relation to him and her father. This little episode is delicately handled, and its interest is heightened by the odd personality of Constance, and the uncertainty as to what will come of it. The story abounds in incidents, which are managed with considerable spirit, the most stirring of all being the night- adventure of George among the smug- glers, which comes as near being sen- sational as any thing that could be ex- pected from Spielhagen. George~s pris- on-life is well painted, but we tire of it at last, as we tire, in fiction, of most lives with a moral purpose, not so much because they are without interest, as because we foresee the end long before it comes. The lesson of Hammer and Anvil is as trite as it is true, being that of Mr. Charles Reades Never too Late to Mend. We like the story more than The Hohensteins, and less than Problematic ~ and we find the same fault with it that we found with these worksor meant to, if we did notviz., that most of the charac- ters in high life are too darkly drawn. As in The Hohensteins, there is scarcely one who is not in some way a scoundreL This is bad art, even in a democratic satirist. Mr. Charles Reade is a very clever man, and the cleverest thing he does is to watch what others are doing, that he may do it himself. Years ago Dickens attacked some of the abuses of English life with great literarysuccess; so Mr. Reade went and attacked others, begin- ning, we believe, with the prison-sys- tem, in Never too Late to Mend, and ending, for the present, with the dia- bolical system of Trades-Unions, in Put Yourself in Hi. Place. We have read this singular novelas who has not I and we admire it greatly, but not as we should prefer to have a work of ours liked, if we were Mr. Reade. He is a wonderful juggler; there is no end to his tricks and surprises. He holds us spell-bound while we are reading his books, but he leaves us dissatisfied when we have finished them. We feel that we should have known better than to follow him with such excitement, but somehow he fooled us, and the thought that we have been fooled is not pleas- ant. Put Yourself in His Place is a remarkable book. The plot is good, the incidents are striking, and the char- acters are strongly individualized. We have met them, or their like, in Mr. Reades other stories, but as they are real flesh and bloodgenuine, earnest, alivewe are glad to meet them again. We take to Mr. Reades heroes, which is more than we can say of their proto- typesthe Muscular Christians of Mr. Kingsleyand we love his women, who are as admirable in their way as the women of George Sandas haughty, as tender, as strong, as weakin a word, as womanly, from first to last. They win us by their sweetness, they hold us by their strength. We may not have met with them in real life, but we be- lieve~in their existence all the same, and give them a place in our hearts and memories. Joel Deuce, for example, is a noble creature, For whose dear sake a king might take The crown from off his hrow. Still more excellent, if that be possible, is Mrs. Little, who is painted with all the delicacy of Greuze, if Greuze ever painted an elderly old lady. But we can say nothing new of Mr. Reades characters, or his plot, or his method. He is so marked and magnetic as to impress all readers alike; the judgment of the boy is as good as that of the manneither, indeed, being good for much, until it has freed itself from his powerful grasp. We regard Mr. Anthony Trol- lope as a fair representative of the ave- rage English gentleman of the present day. He has a sound, sensible mind, and his views of life and men are prac- tical and obvious. As a writer, he is entitled to considerable praise. His style is good, being at once direct and flexible, and his matter is good, though at times rather heavy. He writes a great deal that can be spared as well as notwhole passages and pages which his readers can, and do, skip over. When not in check, his mind is as dis 238 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [A~ig. cursive as Thackerays; but nobody ever thinks of skipping over Thack- erays discursions and dissertations, as they do Mr. Trollopes. As Lamb said of Heywood, the dramatist, that he was a sort of prose Shakespeare, it may be said of Mr. Trollope that he is a dull Thackeray. When he has a story to tell, he can tell it well enough, but the misfortune now is that often he has no story to tell. He is Cannings knife- grinder come back again, transformed by education and habit into a writer of serials for English periodicals. What he knows most about is the life of Eng- lish provincial towns, and the people he is most at home among are the clergy and their families. How many times we have met the characters who figure in his last novelThe Vicar of Bull- hampton (Harper & Brothers)it would be difficult to say, but we seem to have known them ever since we have known Mr. Trollope as a novelist. It ought to cost him no trouble to write, for he always writes in the same fashion, and about the same things. It cannot be said of his plots that one is better or worse than another, for his novels are without plots. There are incidents in them, and a languid movement, like that of water in a windless day, but nothing more. The Yicar of Bull- hampton may be summed up, by say- ing that a young lady is loved by two gentlemen, A. and B. She does not love A., but does love B., and becomes engaged to him. The engagement ceas- ing (no matter how, or why), she is en- gaged to A., and is on the point of be- ing married to him, when she changes her mind and marries B. This is about all there is of it. Other incidents occur in the family of a dowr old miller (there is even a murder, and a trial of the murderers), but these are hardly of suffi- cient importance to be mentioned, and they have nothing whatever to do with the stirring and eventful love-story we have dwelt upon at such length. To be sure, they are in it, but they might just as well have been in an earlier novel of Mr. Trollopes, or in the oneor rather two, for that, we believe, is the number he is now writing. Was there ever a more industrious author than Mr. Trol. lope, and did ever author, industrious or otherwise, have more patient readers than he? There will be an end to their patience some day, probably; but, till that day comes, there will be no end to his novels, and, perhaps, not then. Fearful thought! We cannot all be men of sci- ence, but most of us can know some- thing about science, if we choose, by reading the popular hand-books of which it is the specialty. This could not have been said with truth fifty years ago, for, though there were scientific hand-books then, which were as popu- lar, perhaps, as ours, they were often er- roneous and generally worthless. Much that was sheer ignorance, or mere con- jecture, has since become positive knowledge. There was a time when this knowledge would have been shut up in a dead language, or, enfranchised into the vernacular speech, would yet have remained the exclusive property of scholars; but that time is past, and it is now among the most valued intel- lectual possessions of mankind. The French (as we may have observed be- fore) have done much towards encour- aging the spirit which has led to this happy result, and no recent writer among them, more than NI. Louis Fi- guier, who, if not a man of science himself (though he may be), is cer- tainly in communication with men of science, and an able exponent, of their views. He has published several vol- umes devoted to special branches of scientific knowledge, but none that has interested more than his LHomme Primitif, of which Messrs. D. Apple- ton & Co. have published an English translationPrimitire ilfan. Nothing appeals so strongly to the imagination, in the shape of remote humanity, as his subject, which is no less than the his- tory of man before History existedthe history of Pre-Historic Man, ns made and left by himselfdeposited here in drift-beds, there in bone-caves and shell- heaps; now in the Stone Age, now in the Bronze Age, and, last of all, in the LITERATURE AT HOME. Age of Ironmore beneficent than the Golden Age of the poets. It is M. Fi- guiers object to present an outline, not so much of what is conjectired. as what is known, of man in these distant peri- ods of his progress towards civilization - an outline sufficient to afford a rea- sonable working acquaintance with the facts and arguments of the science to such as cannot pursue it further, and to serve as a starting-ground for those who will follow it up in the more minute re- searches of Nilsson, Keller, Lastet, Christy, Lubbock, Mortillet, iDesor, Troyon, Gastaldi, and others. He has been successful in this, if we may judge by the impression he has left upon our minds; and a portion of his success is owing to his illustrations, which contribute largely to the scien- tific interest and value of his work. We refer more particularly to the imple- ments and weapons of the PreeHistoric Manflint-hatchets, knives, arrow-heads, & c.; the full-page drawings strike us as being altogether too ideal as regards the forms and faces of the primitive races they depict. However this may be, they are excellent as art-work, and they add to the pleasure we feel in making the acquaintance of our very remote ancestors. Not the least of the results which the annexation of distant territories is likely to bring upon us, will be the multitude of books that will spring up about them like mushrooms. We shall know all we want to concerning these national incumbranceswith the excep- tion of the debts we have assumed, of which it is just as well that we should be ignorant awhile, if we are to enjoy our whistles-and we shall know more than we want to concerning their tribes and peoples, who are to share the suf- frage with us. We already object to the emigration hither of the Chinese, the latest ripple of whose first wave is now somewhere in the neighborhood of New Englands great Blarney-Stone, Plymouth Rock, but our objection comes too late. John is making our shoes, and it will not be long before he is making our coats, and hats, and watch- es. John is to take the bread from our mouths, as the Protectionists would have us believe; shall we allow him to take the ballots from our hands, as Pat- rick has done? But if we are troubled about John, who possesses, we must al- low, some claims, of a primitive sort, to be considered a civilized being, onght we not to be troubled about Nuklukah- yet tyone, Sakhniti, Red Leggings, and Anvik Stareek? They are Indians, of course followers, perhaps, of Red Cloud, or Red Dog, or whoever it was that told us how displeased he was with his White Father, and how fat he had grown with the lies of his white breth- ren. Not exactly; they are Alaskans late subjects of His High Mightiness, the Emperor of all the Russias, now, or soon to be, the equals of Their Higher Mightinesses, the People of the United States. We must know all about them, and their country. Of course; and the means are within our power, in the shape of a large octavo entitled Alaska and it8 Resources, by Mr. William H. Dali, Director of the Scientific Corps of the late Western Union Telegraphing Com- pany. It is as much a work as any of the plays of Ben Jonson (the reader will recall old Bens complacent epigram on this point); indeed, it is altogether too much of a work to be enjoyable to the critical mind, already jaded with the Pre-Historic Man and Mr. Trollope (neither light subjects for contempla- tion); with the dazzling brilliancy of Mr. Reade and the infinite sweetness of George Sand, to say nothing of the op- pressive heat of the summer days. In the long cold nights of winter, as Mac- aulay sings, it might be play to read Mr. Dalls volume, but now it is really work merely to skim over it, which we confess is all we have done. To parody the lion mot of Choate on the Chief Justicewe see that it is bulky in size, and we know that it is crammed with factsfacts in regard to the travels of the writer, and facts in regard to the geography, history, inhabitants, and resources, as well as the population, fur-trade, meteorology, lati- tude and longitude, vocabularies, and natural history of Alaska, besides a aso.] 28Z 238 PUTNAMS MAGAZINE. [Aug. bibliography of works relating to it, of which there are upwards of one hundred and fifty, in English, French, German, and Russian. We are absolutely be- wildered by their number. We hope Mr. Dalis readers will fare better; for he has much to tell them about Alaska that is worth knowing. His volume is illustrated, not very elegantly, with designs from his own drawings, and contains a good Map, and an Index. To be gentle towards his fellows, and tender towards the brute creation, is the duty as it should be the pleasure of man; but as it is not his highest pleas- ure, so it is not his most imperative duty, not the one duty, that is, to which all others must yield. Our first duty is to ourselves. It seems selfish to say so, but it is the law of nature, the law by which all animated beings are governed, and which can never be practically set aside by any system of ethics. We have the greatest respect for the sentiment of Humanity, but for its sentimentality we have none whatever. You cruel man!~ said a young lady to a butcher, you are not going to kill that innocent little lamb? Bless you, marm, you wouldnt eat it alive, would you? Miss was sentimental, but she was fond of lamb,when green peas were in season. So probably was Leigh Hunt, most charming of writers, and most humane of men; but in this matter he was something of a sentimentalist. As regards angling, for instance, he not only failed to sympathise with it as a sport, but he inveighed against it as a piece of wanton cruelty. Harold Skimpole would have done the same, and would have eaten his trout with an increased appetite, consequent upon the utterance of a noble sentiment. Dr. Johnson sneered at anglers, as every body knows, but it was not, we think, so much on account of his tenderness of heart, as because he was too near-sighted to make an angler. Byron was not a follower of the craft, though we remember to have read a remark of his in regard to Wordsworth, to the effect that he was riot a poet, because he was not a fisher- nan. Coleridge was both, we are told, as was also Gay, whom all his friends, even the cynical Swift, loved for his tenderness of heart. If names were of weight, the lovers of angling might jus- tify themselves and their art by the au- thority and practice of the greatest; but happily neither stand in need of justi- fication with men of sense. As regards the supposed cruelty of angling, the point on which the sentimentalists harp most, let us hear what a philosopher says: The hook is usually fixed in the cartilaginous part of the mouth, where there are no nerves; and a proof that the sufferings of a hooked fish cannot be great is found in the circumstance, that though a trout has been hooked and played with for some minutes, lie will often, after his escape with the artificial fly in his mouth, take the natural fly, and feed as if nothing had happened; having apparently learnt only from the experiment, that the artificial fly is not proper food. And I have caught pikes with four or five hooks in their mouths, and tackle which they had broken off only a few minutes before; and the hooks seemed to have no other effect than that of serving as a sauce piquante, urging them to seixe another morsel of the same kind. This is the testimony of Sir Humphry Davy in his Salmonia, of which Messrs. Roberts Brothers have lately issued a new edition. It is a book which we always read with pleasure, and never more than now when the re- creation it celebrates is at its best. We will not say that it is as delightful read- ing as The Compleat Angler, for no lover of honest old Jzaak would admit that, but with that exception, it is the most enjoyable work on angling in the language. As a piece of writing it is better than Waltons immortal gossip, but it lacks a certain charm which Wal- ton possessed above all the writers of his time, and which is best described by the word naturalness. He is simple and joyous as a child, if we can imagine a child with his knowledge and love of natural objects,and as much at home among them as the dew that lingered in the fields he crossed,the wind that charm him with a sense of its freshness, or the sun that looked down so lovingly on all. The sun shines, the wind blows, the dew is wet on his pages. Sir llumphry is more studied, as perhaps becomes a philosopher, but not less genuine in his enthusiasm for nature. He had the feel- ing of a poet, but he wanted expression in poetry. A marked proof of this is a passage in his Fourth Day, descrip- tive of a pair of eagles teaching their young to fly, of which passage there are two readings, the first in verse, the second, and best, in prose. Two parent eagles were teaching their off- spring,two young birds, the mancuu- vres of flight. They began by rising from the top of a mountain in the eye of the sun; it was about midday, and bright for this climate. They at first made small circles, and the young birds imitated them; they paused on their wings, watching till they had made their first flight, and then took a second and larger gyration,always rising towards the sun, and enlarging their circle of flight so as to make a gradually extend- ing spiral. The young ones still slowly followed, apparently flying better as they mounted; and they continued this 239 sublime kind of exercise, always rising, till they became mere points in the air, and the young ones were lost, and after- wards their parents, to our aching sight. Of the value of Sir Humphrys volume as a handbook, experienced anglers are the only competent judges; we only know that it has always interest~d us more as a contribution to natural history than the treatises of Walton and Cotton, and that we believe its learned author to have been a more accurate student of nature than either. The same pub- lishers also issue a new edition of Sir Humphry Davys fionsoliitions in Travel, which, if not so well known as Sal- monia, as we believe is the case, is a book to be rend and cherished by all who have thought and suffered. As it was his latest work,composed during a period of bodily indisposition, as the Advertisement rather stiffly informs us, and concluded at the very moment of the invasion of his last ill