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Scribners monthly, an illustrated magazine for the people. / Volume 18, Issue 1 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 970 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABP7664-0018 /moa/scmo/scmo0018/

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Scribners monthly, an illustrated magazine for the people. / Volume 18, Issue 1 Hours at home Putnam's magazine Riverside magazine Old and new Century Scribner and son. New York May 1879 0018 001
Scribners monthly, an illustrated magazine for the people. / Volume 18, Issue 1, miscellaneous front pages C-viii

i ~L /L~, 7/ SCRIBNER S MON THL} A~zz II/z~sIraIed Magazi~te For tke PeoAle. Conducted by J. G. Ho//and. Volume XVZZL (May, 1879, to Oct., 1879, inclusive.) New- York: Scrib~zer & Co., No. 743 Broadway. 1879. N? z /16 4JZ~ Copyright by ScRIENER & Co., 1879 PRESS OF FRANCIS HART & Co. NEW-YORK. CONTENTS VOL. XVIII. PAGE FRONTISPIECES. Portrait of Oliver Wendell Holmes. ~ Drawn by Wyatt Eaton: Portrait of John Greenleaf Whittier. Engraved by T. Cole. AMAZONS, AN AMERICAN HOME ON THE Herbert H. Smith 692 Illustrations by J. Wells Champney. Illus. The Plantation House, Taperinha 692 A Lace-Maker 697 Taperinha Plantation, from the River 693 In the Forest 6p8 The Cane-MillsOld and New 693 Judas-Tree 699 Picking Tobacco Leaves 694 The Beach below Santarem 700 Preparing Tobacco 695 Fishing by Torchlight 700 Looking down from the Cane-Field, Calabash Tree 705 Taperinha 696 Sandy Campos (Hill-sides) 702 Looking up the UsisiA, from Taperinha 697 AMAZONS, AN INDIAN VILLAGE ON THE Herbert H. Smith 352 Illustrations by J. Wells Champney. Illus. The SairA 353 Straining the Mandioca 360 The Approach to Erer6 353 Filling the Tipiti 360 The Spring 355 Roasting Farinha 361 Thatch-Palm 356 Indian Woman beating Cotton 362 An Indian House 357 Weaving Paneiro Baskets 362 Bric-h-Brac in Brazil 357 Making Hammock-Thread 363 The Grater 358 Hammock-Weaving 364 Cleaning Mandioca 358 An Indian Mother 365 The Seine ~ Tititira Cave 366 AMAZONS, THE METROPOLIS OF THE Herbert H. Smith 65 Illustrations by J. Wells Champney and C. A. Vanderhoof. Illus. Window Scene in ParA 6~ A ParA Laundry 72 The Fort, ParA 67 The Theater ParA 72 At the Custom-House 67 A Soldier, Pars 73 The Assai Stand 69 A ParA Dairy 73 The Market Wharf 70 Monkey Joes 75 City Scavengers 71 Estrada de SSo JosA 76 A Peep at the Americanos 71 The Botanical Gardens 77 AMERICAN ON THE STAGE, THE J. Brander Matthews Illustrations by A. B. Frost, Edwin A. Abbey, C. S. Reinhart, Allen C. Redwood, Douglas Yolk, Robert Blum and otbers. Illus. Mr. John E. Owens, as Solon Shingle.. 321 Mr. W. J. Florence, as Hon. Bardwell Mr. James H. Hacket, as Nimrod Wild- Slote 328 fire 323 Mr. John T. Raymond, as Colonel Sel- Mr. F. S. Chanfrau, as Mose 324 lers 329 Mr. F. S. Chanfrau, as Kit 325 Mr. Joseph Jefferson, as Rip Van Win- Mr. Frank Mayo, as Davy Crockett 327 kle 332, 333 ANNUNCIATA llj/almar H]orth Boyesen.... 911 ANTWERP AND HOLLAND, A PEEP INTO Emma Eames Chase 519 Illustrations by Harry Chase. Illus. The Cathedral at Antwerp 525 Sketches about Dordrecht 524 Sketches in Antwerp 522 At Scheveningen 525 ACupof Tea 523 AtUtrecht 526 The Nieuw-Markt, Amsterdam 523 Pumping Water 526 ARCHERY CLUB, OUR Frank .R. Stockton 542 ARNOLDS, MATTHEW, POETRY, SOME ASPECTS OF George S. Merriam 281 ART. See The Fine Arts at the Paris Exhibition. (Illustrated.) ART SCHOOLS OF PHILADELPHIA, THE William C. Brownell 737 Illustrations by the Pupils. Illus. The Antique Class 737 Anatomical Studies 746 A Pose for the Sketch Class 740 Dissecting Room 747 The Male Life Class 741 The Anatomical Lecture 748 The Womens Life Class 743 Differentiating the Muscles of the Face by The Mens Modeling Class 744 Electricity 749 Portraitof Gentleman and Dog 745 BEES, THE PASTORAL John Burroughs 13 Illustrations by Mary Hallock Foote. Illus. Bees and Blossoms 53 Hiving the Bees z6 Telling the Bees 54 BONAPARTES, MADAME, LETTERS FROM EUROPE Eugene L. .Didier 289, 381 Illus. Madame Jerome Bonaparte, from the Portrait by Gilbert Stuart 385 Jerome Napoleon Bonaparte ......... ....... ............ 387 Jerome Bonaparte, from the Portrait by Gilbert Stuart................. 388 BRAZIL. (Illustrated.) Herbert H. Smith. 192, 352, 692, 890 BUTTERFLIES AND MOTHS. See Summer Entomology. (Illustrated.) iv INDEX. PAGE CARBONATES, THE CAMP OF THE Ernest Ingersoll 8oi Illustrations by Mary Hallock Foote and 3. Harrison Mills. Illus. Head-piece 8oi A Good Indication 809 En Route to Leadville 803 When Drouthy Neebors Meet 8so Leadville Lodgings 804 A Sidewalk Study 8ii Up-hill Work 8o~ As Comfortable as Circumstances will Admit 823 The Shaft House 8o6 Mosquito Pass from Capitol Hill 8i6 At the Bottom of the Shaft 807 Burning Woods 817 The Jig Drill 807 In the Woods 8ao Athwart an Incline 8o8 At the Casino 823 The Professor in Suspense 8o8 CARBON BUTTON, THE, AND ITS OFFSPRING Edwin M. Fox 446 Illustrated with Nine Diagrams. CASCARONE BALL, THE Mary Ha/lock Foote 614 CLAIRVOYANCE, THE DELUSIONS OF George H. Beard 433 CONFIDENCE. Chapters IVT Henry James, Jr.... 507, 668, 849 COOK OF THE CONFEDERATE ARMY, THE Allen C. Redwood 560 Illustrations by the Author. Illus Dress Parade ~6i Otium cum Dignitate 566 Perpetual Motion 564 Boeygyards Change of Base ~68 Bill Doins and Stonewall 565 COTTON-FIELD, A SAILOR IN A Jack Randoith 882 DANA, RICHARD HENRY James Grant Wilson 105 DARIEN See Piercing the American Isthmus. DICK William Hawley Smith 923 DOCKS, A DAY ON THE Charles H. Farnham 32 Illustrations by H. Muhrman and C. A. Vanderhoof. Illus. Among the Figure-Heads 33 Derrick and Dredging Boat 42 A Cotton Press. ~ A New York Wharf 42 Floating Elevator Transferring Grain from A Garhage Dump 42 a Canal-Boat to an Ocean Steamer 36 A Sidewalk Restaurant 41 A Sectional Dock ~ Sailors Chapel 44 Ship-Chandlery 40 A Spar Yard 45 DOCUMENTS IN THE CASE, THE ~ JB~a~derMatthews 755 EDISONS INVENTIONS. (Illus.) See also The Worlds Work. Edwin H. Fox.... 297, 446, 840 EDISONS SYSTEM OF FAST TELEGRAPHY Edwin M. Fox 840 fllus. Portrait of Thomas Alva Edison (Drawn by Francis Lathrop; Engraved by F. Juengling), and Seven Figures Showing the Working of the System. ELECTRO-MOTOGRAPH, THE, AND ITS APPLICATIONS Edwin ill. Fox 297 Illustrated with Seven Diagrams. ERERE, BRAZIL. See An Indian Village on the Amazons. (Illustrated.) FAIRFAX, MY LORD, OF VIRGINIA Constance Cary Harrison... 755 Illus. Greenway Court, Virginia, the Residence of Leeds Castle, Kent 718 the Sixth Lord Fairfax 725 Third Lord and Lady Fairfax 720 Thomas, Sixth Lord Fairfax 716 Monogram of the Third Lord . 722 Nun-Appleton 727 Chair used hy the Third Lord in bisOld Age 722 FIELD SPORTS IN MINNESOTA Charles A. Zimmerman 826 Illustrations by the Author and A. B. Frost after the Author. Illus. Goose-Decoys, Ready for Transit and for Kandlyohi Pass 833 Use 826 Canvas Back and Red Head 833 The Menagerie 827 A Cold Moming 834 A Close Shot 828 The Bridge Stand 836 Cornered by a Crane 829 A Tight S hell 836 A Side Shet 830 Stopping an Incomer 837 A Bond in Wet Weather 832 Goose-shooting from Stubble 838 A Mishap 832 Wild Geese 839 Bond(ed) Goods in Transit 832 Wild Ducks 839 How Prince got his Breakfast 832 FRIEND BARTONS CONCERN Mary Haiock Foote 334 Illustrations by the Author. lIlus. I thought you were there, Dorothy 33~ Is it anything about Father?~ 336 GILBERT, W. S Kate Field 751 Illus. Portrait of XV. S. Gilbert 752 HAwoRTHs. Chapters XXXIIILIV. (Conclusion.) Frances Hodgson Burnett... 79 Illustrations by Frederic Dielman. 183, 367, 527, 683, 874 Illus. There wont be any need o so many o Murdoch went about his work as usual.. 367 you lads~ 7p She went to the table at his side 368 She staggered under the stroke 8o Miss Ffrench visits Janey 527 She stroked his sleeve with her withered Youve been here all night 5a8 hand 283 It was Reddy who aimed the blow 689 She turned her face toward him. Good- Granny Dixon makes her Will 6go night, she answered - 284 INDEX. v PAGE HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL Francis H. Underwood I 17 Illus. Portrait of Oliver Wendell Holmes (Fron- Birthplace of Doctor Holmes, Cambridge, tispiece) Mass zz8 Stair-way in the old Holmes Mansion.... ~ Portrait of Dorothy Q 220 INSIDE THE CASTLE George E. Waring, Jr 558 JACKSON, STONEWALL, WITH Allen C. Redwood 220 Illustrations by the Author. Illus. The Sinews of the War 225 A Backslider 229 A Tar-Heel 226 First at the Winning-post 229 Passing the Rubicon 227 Corn-feds 232 A Pelican 228 A Glimpse of Stonewall Jackson 232 JOURNALISM AS EXEMPLIFIED BY THE LATE MR. BAGEHOT John Arbuckle .. 846 LALAGE Elinor Putnam 587 LATIN QUARTER, A STORY OF THE Frances Hodgson Burnett. 23 LAWN PLANTING FOR CITY AND COUNTRY Samuel Parsons, Jr 249 Illustrations by Charles A. Vanderhoof. Illus. Design for Planting a City Lot 249 Design for a large Suburban Lot 252 Parasol Pine 250 Weeping Pine 253 Weeping Golden Japanese Cypress 252 Weeping Norway Spruce and Dwarf Pine.. 253 LAWN-PLANTING, VILLAGE Samuel Parsons, Jr 48 Illustrations by Charles A. Vanderhoof Illus. Small Village Lot Planted for General Japanese Magnolia. 48 Effect 48 Working Plan for the Planting of a Village Noble Silver Fir 48 Lot 50 LEADVILLE; COLORADO. See The Camp of the Carbonates. (Illustrated.) LINCOLNS IMAGINATION Noah Brooks 584 MAN WITH A HOBBY, THE Henry King 6o6 MAN WITHOUT ENTHUSIASMS, A A. A. Hayes, Jr 101 MEDITERRANEAN OF AMERICA, THE Herbert H. Smith 192 Illustrations by J. Wells Champney. Illus. On the Amazons 93 Cac~io Orchard 298 At Breves 293 Drying Cacao On the Banks 295 Looking over the Lowlands from Monte Preparing Rubber i~S Ale~re 200 The Rubber Gatherer ig6 Victoria Re~ 202 Breves Channel 296 The Piraruc6 Fisher 202 The Table-topped Hills 297 Indian Shooting Fish 203 Vegetation of the Raised Border METRIC REFORM, THE 408 MR. NEELUS PEELERS CONDITIONS . Richard M. Johnston 256 Illustration by Thomas Ealtins. Illus. Thars such a thing as calls in this world. MUSEUMS OF ART, AMERICAN James Jackson Jarves 405 NARROW GAUGE, OVER THE NARROWEST William H. Bishop Illustrations by Thomas Moran, J. H. Twachtman, R. Riordan, F. H. Lungren, and the Author. Illus. Initial 593 Fairlie Engine and Train 599 Port Madoc 593 Harlech Castle 600 From Madocks Embankment 594 The Boat 600 The Festiniog Railway 594 The Princess in Difficulties 6oi Slate Boats at Low Water 595 The Strongeat Man on the Line 6o2 Bron-y-garth ~g6 In the Slate Coun~ 603 Tan-y-bwlch Station ~ At the Upper Terminus 604 Construction of Track and Road-bed ~g8 Festansog 6o~ Monday Morning Passengers ~g8 NARROW STREET, A Adeline Trafton 57, 234 OUT OF THE WORLD Charles Dudley Warner 549 PARA, SOUTH AMERICA. See The Metropolis of the Amazons. (Illustrated.) PARIS EXPOSITION, THE FINE ARTS AT THE Russell Sturgis 161 Illustrations by Elihu Vedder, D. Maitland Armstrong, Augustus St. Gaudens, C. C. Coleman, T. Hovenden and others. Illus. Young Marsyas, by Elihu Vedder i6i Venice, Past and Present, by C. C. The Trocadaro Palace 263 Coleman 274 Plan of the Paris Exposition 264 TheApproach to Venice, by W. G. Bunce 275 Plan of the Art Gallenes i6~ Breton Interior in 2793, by T. Hovenden 276 West Corner Dome of the Main Building.. i66 La Fontaine, bj Jules Breton 277 Bronze Group Gratitude, by Chapu i68 Stubble Fields, y A. Seg~ 278 Statue, Charity, by Paul Dubois 269 Part of the Belgian Fa~ade Statue, Jeanne dArc as a Child, by Interior of an English Country House, time Albert-Lefeuvre 272 of William III z8o Ancient Tapestry 272 The Color Guard, by Protais iBi Statue, Faith, by Paul Dubois 273 The Pavilion of Paris 282 PIERCING THE AMERICAN ISTHMUS C. C. With Maps. etc., showing proposed routes for an Inter-oceanic Ship-canal. Buel 268 vi INDEX. PAGE Rio DE JANEIRO Herbert H. Smith 890 Illustrations, after Sketches by B. Wiegandt. Illus. Rua Primeira de Mar~o 890 Water-Carts of Rio 896 A Narrow Street 891 Botafogo and the Corcovado 897 Fruit and Cake seller 892 Tijuca, from the Bay 8g8 Charcoal-seller 892 The Organ Mountains 899 Poultry-seller 893 The Gavia 900 Up the Bay 894 In the Passein Publico 901 The Sugar-Loaf, from the West 894 Porters waiting for Work 901 The Sugar-Loaf, from the South 895 Beer-Garden 903 ROME, THE NEW MUSEUM IN Sofia Bompiani Illus. Sarcophagus found at Campo Verano - s Statue of Urania, found in the Garden of End of Sarcophagus - 2 Mmcenas - 9 Commodus as the Infant Hercules - 3 Terra-Cotta Bass-relief representingthepart- Sarcophagus found near Tivoli - 4 ing of Theseus and Ariadne - ii Commodus as Hercules - 6 Bronze Thensa, presented to the Museum Rhyton in the New Museum in Rome 8 by Augusto Castellani 12 SAHARA, THE FLOODING OF THE. (With Map) John 2 Short SANDY HOOK George Houghton 641 Illustrations by F. S. Church. Illus. Main Light, Sandy Hook, and Keepers Hen- Our Naturalist 646 Coop 641 Fish-Pound 647 Map of Sandy Hook 642 Old Landmarks 647 Along the Beach 643 A Rudder Grange at Sandy Hook 648 Back from the Bay 644 The Dove-cote 649 The Plum-Gatherer 644 A Sea-side Turn-out 649 A Pirate of the Air 645 The Old School-house 651 The Officers Menagerie 645 The Electric Primer, Sandy Hook 652 Free Lunch 645 Dickie 653 SHAKER COMMUNITY. See Out of the World. SHIP-CANAL. See Piercing the American Isthmus. SIGNS AND SYMBOLS Franh B. Mayer 70S - Illustrations by the Author. Illus. The General Wayne Inn, Baltimore, in The Federal Cockade 710 the Olden Time 705 Uncle Sam The Scrivener or Book-seller 706 Bringing in the Boars Head 722 Colonial Signs 707 An American Favorite 713 The Nineteenth Century 708 An English Favorite 713 An Annapolis Sign 709 Tail-piece 714 SPELLING, ENGLISH, AND SPELLING REFORM 7. ft. Lounsbury 729, 864 STORY OF THE DRY SEASON, A Mary Halloch Foote 766 SULLIVAN, ARTHUR Kate Field 904 Illus. Portrait of Arthur Sullivan 904 SUMMER ENTOMOLOGY Edward A Samuels... .389, 496 Illustrations drawn by the late Antoine Sonrel and Engraved by Henry Marsh. Illus. The Polyphemus Moth 400 Caterpillar 496 Eyed Elater 496 Gray Snap-Beetle 496 The Walking-Stick 496 The Katydid 497 Narrow-Leaved Grasshopper 497 Oblong Leaf-Winged Grasshopper 497 Slender Meadow-Grasshopper 498 The Sword-Bearer 498 Dog-Day Harvest-Fly 498 The Pigeon Tremex 499 The Seventeen-year Locust ... 499 Ichneumon Fly soo Broad-Necked Prionus ~oo The Horn-Bug soo Rough Osmoderma .. . 501 Spotted Wingless Cricket 501 Female of the White Climbing Cricket.... 5oi Banded Stenocorus 501 Pales Weevil 502 Virginian Buprestis 502 Red-Tailed Attelabus 504 Hairy-Necked Leaf-Eater 504 Dragon Fly, or Devils-darning-needle.... 504 Scarred Melolontha 504 Luna Moth 389 Female of the Corn Emperor Moth 390 Male of the Corn Emperor Moth 390 The Locust-Tree Carpenter Moth 391 Silver-Spotted Hepiolus 391 Cecropia Moth 392 The Blind-eyed Smerinthus 393 The Soldier Moth 393 The Harnessed Moth 393 The Female of the Prometheus Moth 393 The Regal Walnut Moth 394 Bellona Butterfly 395 The Carolina Sphinx 396 The Larva of the Carolina Sphinx 396 Pupa of the Carolina Sphinx 396 The American Lappet Moth 397 The Ruddle Tiger Moth 397 Velleda Lappet Moth 397 The Turnus Butterfly 397 The Disippe Butterfly 398 The Aphrodite Butterfly 398 Miherts Butterfly 398 The Atalanta Butterfly 398 The Humming-bird Moth 399 The Imperial Moth 399 Oak or Forest Caterpillar 399 SUSSEX, THREE DAYS IN TRINITY Illus. 129 PARISH William H. Rideing 417 Illustrations by R. Sayre, W. Paris, R. Blum, C. A. Vanderhoof, H. Muhrman, G. C. Bell, and others. Rev. Morgan Dix, D. D 427 Se. Pauls, Broadway and Vesey Street 426 Interior of Trinity Church 427 Chapel Trinity Infirmary 427 Trinity Church 418 Apothecarys Shop, Trinity Infirmary 428 The Chimes 429 Sisters of St. Mary entering St. Johns Interior of St. Augustines 420 Church 429 Rear and Front of St. Augustines 421 Memorial Chapel, Trinity Church 430 The Illuminated Cross, St. Augustines.... 422 Trinity School, New Church Street 43 Poor-Box in St. Augustines 423 St. Johns Chapel 432 Letter Elevator at St. Augustines......... 423 St. Corneliuss Chapel, Governors Island 432 Going to Church in the Olden Time. 424 Trinity Chapel 432 Intenor of St. Pauls 425 St. Chrysoscoms Chapel..,,,,,.,,, 432 INDEX. vii PAGE Two COUPLES: A WHITE AND A YELLOW William M. Baker 375 UNIVERSITY OF BERLIN, THE Hjialmar Hiorik Boyesen.... 205 Illus. Karl Richard Lepsius 205 Rudolf Virchew 207 Ernst Curtius 206 Hermano Ludwig Helmholtz 208 Hermann Grimm 207 Theodor Mommsen 208 UNIVERSITY OF ROME, THE .T-4almar h7orth Boyesen.... 654 Illus. Pico dells Mirandola 654 Count Mamiani 656 Padre Angelo Secchi ~ Ruggero Bonghi 656 Copernicus 655 VALLOMBROSA, A PILGRIMAGE TO T. R. Bacon 97 WAS IT LOVE OR HATRED ? Charles de Kay 242 WHISTLER IN PAINTING AND ETCHING William C. Brownell 488 Illus. James A. M. Whistler. (After the Portrait Etching: Thames Warehouses 418 by himself) 482 The White Girl 489 Portraitof the Painters Mother. (Arrange- Etching: Joe 491 ment in Black and Gray) 413 Symphony in White, No. III Etching: Vauxhall Bridge 484 Etching: Little Wapping 494 At the Piano 485 Mr. Whistlers Signature 495 Etching: Risult, the Engraver 488 WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF Richard Henry Stoddard. .. 569 Illustrations by Homer Martin, R. Riordan, Francis Lathrop, and G. M. White. Illus. Portrait of John Greenleaf Whittier. (Fron The Poets Study atAmesbury 572 tispiece) View from the Porch at Oak Knoll, Danvers 573 Whittiers Birthplace, near Haverhill, Mass. 569 Under the Oaks at Oak Knoll 574 The Old School-House, Haverhill 570 The Home at Oak Knoll 575 The Whittier House, Amesbury, Mass ~n The Vista View at Oak Knoll 576 WILHELMJ AND REM1~NYI J. R. C. Hassard I I I With Pen and Ink Portraits from Life, by W. M. Chase. Illus. August Wilhelm~ 223 Edouard Remuinyi zz6 POETRY. APRIL L. Frank Tooker 77 AT ODDS WITH LIFE David L. Proudfit 21 BLUSH, THE Charles de Kay 782 BROKEN STRINGS E. Norman Gunnison 128 CHIMNEY SWALLOWS Horatio Nelson Powers 78 CONFESSION, THE Joel Benton 455 DESCENT OF THE ANGEL, THE S. M. B. Piatt III DESTINY Emma Lazarus 751 EVENING . John Vance Cheney 350 FAITH Celia Thaxter FALSE AND TRUE I C. Holland 56 FLOWERS FOR SONG Thomas W. Parsons 416 FOUR KONANS, THE. Wales, A. D. 56o Charles de Kay 94 FOUR-LEAF CLOVER Jennie F. T. Dowe 704 Illustration by R. Blum. FROZEN FIELDS, THE Lloyd M~ftlin 105 GABRIEL Bayard Taylor 687 HER CONQUEST Irwin Russell 910 HER REPROOF TO A ROSE S. M. B. Piatt 233 HOPE Irwin Russell 204 INFLUENCE Emma Lazarus 592 IN MEMORIAM. (On the late Prince Imperial) William C. Bonaparte Wyse 781 INVOCATION Charles de Kay 280 JACOB HURDS CHILD J. C. Holland 536 MEMNON Charles G. D. Roberts 218 MOORE, THOMAS Richard Henry Stoddard 404 NATURES LOVER. (To John Muir) Marie Mason 132 NELLY Irwin Russell 613 NEW YEAR, THE Philzjp 0. Sullivan 889 Illustration by Maria R. Oakey. ON A LATE LEARNED ADVOCATE, MASTER ALSO OF MUSIC T. W. Parsons. 128 ON THE PIPING SHEPHERD OF FORTUNY . . (harles de Kay 824 With engraving after Fortuny by T. Cole. POOR MOTHER, A Mary Ainge De Vere 728 SEPTEMBER H. H 782 Mary Mapes Dodge 583 SLEEP OF YEARS John Vance Cheney 874 SONNET Bayard Taylor 6i8 THE Elizabeth Stuart Phelps 366 SUMMER AND WINTER W. F. Smyth 267 Two SERMONS Austin Dobson 64 viii INDEX. PAGE UNKNOWN SHIP, THE William AL Briggs 934 VOYAGER, THE Richard Watson Gilder 47 WATER-CURE, THE Austin Dobson 351 WHIP-POOR-WILL, THE Henry S. Cornwell 416 WTDOWED A. B. Boyle 873 WILD CLEMATIS Dora Read Goodale 614 WILLIS, THE David L. Proudfit 765 DEPARTMENTS. ToPIcs OF THE TIME: Vulgarity in Fiction and on the StageChurch MusicArt Criticism, 33; Southern Civilization An Aspect of the Labor Question, 306; Engraving on WoodMr. Kiddies BookCollege Instruc- flon, 456; Scientific FoolishnessMarriage as a Test, 619; European TravelA Word about NewspapersWrite it Yourself, 782; The Popular WisdomGood TalkingA Reply from Mr. Kiddle, 9~5. COMMUNICATIONS: A Secret Mission to Mexico: Origin of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, II. (M. S. Beach)A Note from C. P. Chiapowaki, 236; Thoughts upon the Education of Women The New Museum in Rome, 460; Southern Civilization: a Southerners View of the Situation (Dudley G. Woo/en), 6az; A Word to American Collectors, 785. HOME AND SOCIETY: Boys of the Family, III.: How to Become a Mechanical Engineer (William H. Rideing)The Maternity SocietyA Design for a Fire-place, with Diagram (W. B. Corson), s~; Suggestions to Ocean Travelers (William H. Rzdeing)The Origin and Practice of Polo (Alexander Wain- wright), 308; Decoration of the Dinner Table (Sacharissa)A Military Education at West Point (William H. Rideing)Hints to Young Housekeepers, VII. (Mrs. S. W. Qakey), 462; Some New York Fashions in 282430 (Gordon Bremner)Lawn Tennis (Alexander Wain- wright), 628; Domestic Nursing (B. B. Scovil), 786; Parlor Plays (Arthur Penn)A Short Essay on Washing (Mary Dean and S. B. H.)Fall Work in the Rose Garden (M. S. S.), 939. CULTURE AND PROGRESS: Max Mtillers Origin and Growth of Religion Hamertons Life of Turner Boyesens Goethe and Schiller Jamess International Episode Colonel Dunwoddie, Millionaire Signor Monaldinis Niece Howellss Lady of the Aroostook Mrs. Kembles Records of a Girlhood Dr. Holmess Memoir of Motley Miss Robinsons Handful of Honeysuckle, 145; The Art Season of 1878.79Dr. Couess Birds of the Colorado Valley Buschs Bismasek in the Franco-German War Comwells The Land of Dreams, and other Poems Rudolph Lindaus StoriesEgans Songs and Sonnets The Concord Summer School of Philosophy, ~io; Matthew Arnold on ~u~i~The Epic of Hades Seisss Miracle in Stone and Voices from Babylon Gosses Studies in the Literature of Northern Europe Plato on Socrates (the New Translation)Boyesens Falconberg Mansfields Personal Memories Cables Old Creole Days Stocktons Rudder Grange A New Edition of LongfellowMr. Marshalls Recitals, 466; Professor Walker on MoneyFroudes Julius CnsarTennysons The Lovers Tale Fishers Faith and Rationalism Symondss Renaissance in Italy Vol. XVI. of LArtBurroughss Locusts and Wild Honey Wild Life in a SouthernCounty Trol- lopes Thackeray The Colonels Opera Cloak, 626; Mallocks Is Life Worth Living? The Tory History of the RevolutionGeorge Eliots Impressions of Theophrastus Such Didiers Life and Letters of Madame Bonaparte Coutures Conversations on Art Charles Shakes- peares St. Paul at Athens Kearys Dawn of History, 788; Stickneys True Republic Jeifriess Color-Blindness An Editor and his CorrespondentsBlancs Grammar of Painting and EngravingVincents Gates into the Psalm Country Bishops Detmold Walfords Cousins Molloys Autumn Holiday on French Rivers Greens Readings from English History, 942. THE WORLDS WORK: Edisons Electro-Motograph (with Fac-similes of Drawings by the Inventor)Plans for Tenement Houses (illustrated,, s~ The Writing Telegraph (illustrated)Tubular Piles-New Preservative AgentMemoranda, 317; Novel Method of Testing Iron WireNew Salt-water Condenser Improved Refrigerating Apparatus-The HorographImproved ViolinA New GumRemoving Metallic Substances from GrainNew Method of making White LeadProposed Treatment of Hop Vines for Fiber, 474; Improved Method of Insulating Underground Wires-Progress in Metallurgi- cal ScienceImproved Locomotive FittingsGas and Steam MotorNew Steam Condenser Some Electrical Novelties, 634; Electro-Engraving MachineNew Drawing InstrumentsThermograph Copying Process-Apparatus for Testing the Quality of SteelA F oorin New Electric LampMemoranda, 796; Experiments in Automatic TelegraphyPolar PantagraphRegenerative System applied to Gas.ligbtTesting Machine for FabricsFurther Advance in Metallurgy Memoranda, 948. BRIC-A-BRAC: Fanny Kembles Journal (Arthur Penn) A Society Sketch (Drawing by Charlotte Dot Finley) A Natural Conclusion (Philip Morse) The Irish Eclipse (Zrciin Russell)Grace bef~re Meat (Drawing by Hoj$kins)A Writer (F S. 5)On a Fao that belonged to the Marquise de Pompa- dour (Austin Dobson)Amateur Minstrelsy: Behind the Scenes (Drawing by Wolcott), ~~ Beside the Brook (George Birdseye) Two Prima Donnas (C. C.)Uncle Mellick Dines with his Master (.7. B. Eggleston), 329; The Heart of a Rose (H. W. Austin)Stodies in Style (Irwin Russell) Adrienne (I. W.W.) College Comicalities (Arthur Penn), Drawings by HoPkinsUniOn Square, 7 P. M. (I. B. M.)Speaking Features (N. H. D.)The Hit of the Season (Drawing by W. M. Davis, Jr.)Metrical Gymnastics (H. C. Bunner)Punch and Judy at Rockaway Beach (Drawing by H. P. Wolcott), 477; Mr. Whistlers PersonalityMy Little Wife (H. W. Austin) Let the Ladies Pass (Drawing by Wolcott)Larrys on the Force (Irwin Russell) T he Coun- try Clothes-Line (Two drawings by Hot~jt5er)A Summer idyl (Phil(t5 Morse)Coming Home from School (Etisa P. Mathewes)Opinions of Captain De Lacy, R. A. (Job Case)Js Life Worth LivingIThe Last Week of School (Drawing by Wolcott), 636; Some Quick Replies- Along she Line (Irwin Russell)The Fairys Dilemma (Hornet McEwen Kimball)The Kings Abridgment (Joel Benion)A Summer Fancy (Drawing by Ch~/O, 798; A Pair of Quat- rains (A. Z.)The Fools of Killogue (Irwin Russell)Souvenirs dAmour (Walter Carey) Ups and Downs (Job Case)The Useful with the Beautiful (Drawing by Hopkins after design by H. G. Cleaveland)A Rhyme of the Time~(ATellie G. Cone)Femmine (H. C. Bunner) The School-master Abroad, gao.

Sofia Bompiani Bompiani, Sofia The New Museum in Rome 1-13

SCRIBNERS MONTHLY. VOL. XVIII. MAY, 1879. No. i. THE NEW MUSEUM IN ROME. THE spot on the Capitoline Hill, once oc- cupied by the famous temple of Jupiter, is now the site of the most interesting museum m Rome. This is a monument of the care of the city in arch~ologica1 research, all of the statues, bronzes, jewels, gems, ancient glass- ware and objects of terra cotta having been found in the soil since 1870, that memora- ble epoch when the Eternal City became in fact, as it had long been in dreams and in ardent desire, the capital of Italy. The New Museum consists of eight rooms in the Palace of the Conservators, o nthe right of the Piazza of the Campidoglio. The beautiful Capitoline Hill is not less the pride of the city now than it was in ancient times, when it was crowned by the splendid temples whose foundations still remain there. The ascent is made by an inclined plane with curb-stones the width of the street, commonly called in Rome a cordonata. On either side of this are lovely gardens, in one of which, on the left, is kept a woW the typical animal of the city. Colossal statues and other relics gathered from the ruins of the ancient city are ranged at the summit, and the remaining three sides of the square Piazza are occupied by palaces designed by Michel Angelo. The colossal bronze eques- trian statue of Marcus Aurelius ornaments the center of the Piazza, and the palaces on the right and left contain museums. Doubt- less the so-called Capitoline Museum on the VOL. XVIII.i. left, begun long ago by Pope Clement XII., is the more valuahle collection. Its Dying Gladiator, its green basalt Boy Hercules, its red antique Dancing Faun, and its Venus, are knoxvn for their beauty all over the world. But to the Roman citizen, or the stranger domiciled in Rome, the New Museum is more attractive than either the Capitoline, the Vatican, or the Lateran col- lections. It has the charm of novelty, and is constantly receiving additions from exca- vations. This is the work of New Italy, they say, made within the last eight years. It is the fruit of our fatigues, of our enter- prise, and is not due to any pope long time dead. The New Museum represents many wide, new streets, laid out and planted with young trees, on the old Esquiline Hill; many vast fabrics risen, as if by enchantment, in the air, to he inhabited by a new popula- tion. It is, in fact, the exponent of the new city which has been added to Rome on the heights between Santa Maria Maggiore and San Giovanni in Laterano within the last few years. The new quarter grows like a wild vine from one day to another. Like a new Proteus, it constantly changes its aspect. It is a city, smiling, airy, with a wide view of the rolling Campagna and of the distant blue Alban Hills. If conven- ient modes of locomotion were established, few of the Romans would hesitate to ex [Copydght, Scribner & co., 5179. All rights reserved. FIG. 1.SANCOPHAGUS FOUND AT CAMPO VERAND AND NOW IN THE NEW MUSEUM IN EDME. 2 THE NEW MUSE UA[ IN ROME. change the narrow streets of the old cicy, the high walls, the hidden gardens send- ing out fragrance from invisible flowers, for the light and air and open view of the new section. It is a bit of modern life so different from the old city that the Roman loves it as the expression in visible form of the new and liberal government. When excavations are being made for the founda- tions of houses, for the leveling of squares or streets, for the laying of tubes or other substructions, the evening walk of the Ro- mans is to that locality. They watch the laborers pickax with absorbing interest, and if fortune is propitious and yields a statue, an aijora, a wall, a vase, the excitement be- comes intense, and the crowd of amateur archaeologists is increased to great propor- tions. The New Museum, therefore, is the favor- ite child of the Romans. They have nour- ished it and brought it up. It is the joy of the past and the present, and the emblem of hope for the future. The Infant Hercu- les (Figure 3), leaning upon his club, smiles upon them as they enter, and holds out to them the three golden apples of the Hesper- ides. The Commodus (Figure ~) with its exquisite finish and elaborate ornamentation, a serpent-like and fatal beauty,makes them appreciate the liberty of the present, and rejoice that such tyrants no longer oppress them. And the Muses, the Tritons, the vases and fountains discovered on the site of the imperial gardens and that of M~ce- nas on the Esquiline, remind them that that desert will now again blossom like the rose, not alone for the rich and powerful but with delights for all. FIG. 2.END OF SARCOPHAGUS IN THE NEW MUSEUM IN ROME Some of the most interesting objects of this collection were found in the new ceme- tery of the city called Campo Verano. It is on the Via Tiburtina, near the ancient. church of San Lorenzo, and from ruins found there it is supposed also to have been used for a cemetery in ancient times. The ground is perforated with catacombs showing that it was also used by the primitive Christians for a similar purpose. In one place where the side of a hill has been cut away, the ground presents the appearance of a broken honey-comb. The Infant Hercules, the Mother Earth and a beautiful sarcophagus with bass-reliefs of a marine character are the principal objects found at Campo Verancs now in the New Museum. The first and second of these were found together in a room, the ruined walls of which may still be seen there. The Mother Earth was seated. in a small niche in the wall, and the Her- cules was broken in fragments and sur- rounded by pieces of wall and stucco, sug- gesting that this statue also had been simi- larly situated. They probably formed l)art of the buildings of the ancient Roman cemetery, as the character of these two deities, the Mother Earth and Hercules, accorded ~vith funeral ceremonies. Hercules, the con- queror of Cerberus, returned from the infer- nal regions, seemed to promise to the dead a second and happier existence, while the departed were recommended to the tender care of the Mother Earth. The sarcophagus (Figures 2 and 3) was. found near the Basilica of San Lorenzo at Campo Verano. The representation ofNere- ides and Tritons on the front were made in pagan times, but the words froutote Hdbeas with the cross beneath indicate that the sar- cophagus was afterward used for Christian burials. Another sarcophagus in the Museum (Figure 4), much larger than this and of superior workman ship, represents the Gale- donian chase on the front, and the lid, which was not made for it, represents the pair who were buried within. This was found at Vicovaro near Tivoli and on the bank of the river Aniene, which in the lapse of centuries had gradually risen and filled the excava- tions where it lay. The xvater had washed away in great measure the gilding and colors with which it was originally ernamented. The Via Appia has contributed to the New Museum the half of a colossal foot supposed by archmologists to have belonged. to a statue of the Egyptian goddess isis. It was found near the church of San Cesarea, THE NEW MUSE UAI IN ROME. 3 a locality which ancient catalogues indicate form of a large horn ornamented with ex- as the site of a temple of Isis although this quisite bass-reliefs, and others. sculpture is the only index we now have of The collection of busts is also rare. it. The sandal, which is about four inches Among them are the Commodus decorated thick, is skillfully wrought with marine ani- with the attributes of Hercules; the same FIG. mals, Tritons and little water Cupids. The hand of a master is so evident in this work that some have not hesitated to ascribe it to the same artist who sculptured the wonder- ful Laocoon of the Vatican. Many of these sculptures have the rare value of being unique examples of the subjects which they represent. These are the Madre Terra, the colossal group of Hercules tam- ing the horses, the old peasant woman carrying home a lamb, the fountain in the 3COMMODUS AS THE INFANT HERCULES; IN THE NEW MUSEUM IN ROME. emperor in his youth; Pompeia Plotina, the wife of Trajan; Faustina, senior; Manlia Scantilla and Didia Clara,the wife and daughter of the unfortunate emperor who preceded Septimus Severusand the lovely head of Antonia, daughter of Octavia and Mark Anthony. Of all the portraits of ancient Roman women that have descended to us this is almost the only one which responds to the modern idea of refined, cultivated and in- telligent womanhood. It is rather larger 4 THE NEW MUSEUM IN ROME. than life and bears the number fifty in the central octagonal hail of the Museum. It is the image of a pure, valorous and gentle soul full of life and sweet majesty. Such, in fact, is the character which history records of this noble woman. The diadem which encircles her head is an almost certain index of imperial rank, but the bust is recognized as that of Antonia from its resemblance to two gold coins bearing her portrait and name which exist in the numismatic col- lection of this museum. Plutarch speaks with admiration of the conjugal love of Antonia, and other historians praise her courage and generosity. This bust is as remarkable for its rare workmanship as for the beauty of the features, and it is admired by the best sculptors of Rome. There is also a head of an Amazon, evident-~ ly broken off from some statue, which among the multitude of larger objects may easily be unnoticed. But it is so beautiful that once seen it is not likely to be forgotten. It was found in the garden of M~ecenas on the Esquiline, and, like all the other sculpt- ures found there, is of superior workman- ship. The value of a statue is known, says Winckelmann in his History ofAncient Art, by the care with which the hair is wrought. Nothing can exceed the exquisite finish of this head. The features are elegantly chis- eled and express the pain and terror which a womanly nature would instinctively feel at taking part in scenes of war and blood- shed. The bust of Pompeia Plotina, the wife of Trajan, is a noble and womanly head. It is extremely valuable, not only for the rarity of the subject but for its perfect condition and good workmanship. The hair, which is dressed high on the fore- head, impairs the natural beauty and dignity of the countenance, but this style, introduced by Julia, the daughter of Titus, was modified by Pompeia and abolished by the succeeding Empress Sabina, the wife of Hadrian. The contrast between the simple and graceful Greek knot in which the hair of Antonia is tied and this artificial combina- tion of braids and puffs is remarkable. The hair of the Amazon is brought up around and over the head with inimitable grace. The head of Commodus in his youth is beardless, with the hair finely cut, while the marble is beautifully white and polished. The most curious sculpture in the mu- seum is the bust of the Emperor Commo- dus (Figure 5) found in the imperial gar- dens on the Esquiline in the year 1874. It was found together with several other rare sculptures: the Venus called Larniana; the MusesTerpsichore and Polymnia; the two half-figures of Tritons and the half-fig- ure of Bacchus. This part of the Esquiline has long been a deserted and uninhabited plain, subject to the researches of all who cared to excavate there. This explains the comparative paucity of results from the ex- tensive excavations which have been made there for the construction of houses and lev- eling of streets and squares. The ground had been dug over more than once except in two spots, one of which yielded these beautiful statues. Wherever in the course of the excava FIG. 4.SARCOPHAGUS FOUND NEAR TIVOLI AND NOW IN THE NEW MUSEUM IN ROME. THE NEW MUSEUM IN ROME. 5 tions walls were found which indicated a large edifice the hope of finding a rich harvest of these subterranean fruits was destroyed by the presence of lime furnaces in which the broken fragments of the statues were thrown and burned. One of these was discovered in the Aldobrandini Gardens, in which are the ruins of a large building. The stone furnace was filled with pieces of sculpture which immediately upon being exposed to the air dissolved into powder. When, therefore, these seven rare statues were found together the joy of the archieologists of the city commission was unbounded. The bust of Commodus is of Pentelic mar- ble i. i8 meters high. Its form is exceed- ingly rare if not absolutely unique. This extravagant and cruel emperor, who was assassinated at the age of thirty-one by three of his intimate associates in the palace, is represented with the emblems of the Roman Hercules. The sculpture shows about one- half of his person, including the arms and hands. This style began to be used in the time of Septimius Severus, and was con- tinued until the period of the Antonines. Examples of it, however, are extremely rare, only two others of this character being known in Rome. The unworthy son of Marcus Aurelius was the only one of the Roman emperors who dared publicly to assume the emblems of divinity, and to represent himself as a living god. This usurpation of divine honors disturbed the minds of the people, and was the occasion of many poetical satires, one of which, written by Lampredio, has descended to us. The Senate, however, basely acceded to his wishes, and greeted him as Hercules, the god of strength of body and force of mind. The head, shoulders, and hands of Commodus, as well as the pedestal upon which the portrait rests, are ornamented with the various emblems of the wonderful mythological tasks of Hercules. The skin of the Nemean lion which Hercules killed is thrown over the head, while its paws are drawn around in front and tied together on the neck. the right hand holds the club by means of which he performed his deeds of valor. The left holds out the three golden apples consecrated to Venus, which were guarded by nymphs called Hesperides, aided by a terrible dragon. Hercules killed the dragon and brought the apples to Euristeus, who had prescribed twelve tasks for him as an expiation for hav- ing killed his own children. The serpent which he killed when a child is coiled around the same hand; so also is the girdle of Hyppolite, the queen of the Amazons, the capture of which was another of the twelve tasks. The pedestal of the bust, generally an indifferent part of the sculpture, is of so rare invention that it merits particular attention. The part nearest to the bust is a shield or light buckler of the Amazons, in the shape of a half-moon, referring to the name he had assumed of Amazonio, or Conqueror of the Amazons. He was hailed by this title in the games of the Circus, and also by the Senate, which basely consented to all of his demands during his life, although immediately after his death it mocked and derided him, and caused all of his numerous busts and statues to be broken or concealed. Dione, a contemporaneous writer, relates Ahat when Commodus, having proclaimed his intention to shoot with an arrow whom- soever he should select in the theater, in imitation of Hercules, these noble fathers applauded him, exclaiming, Thou art the chief! Most happy! Conqueror! Con- queror! Unus ab omni memorial Con- queror of the Amazons! This shield of the Amazons, as well as the two kneeling figures of that race of female warriors (one of which was broken off), may refer also to his having changed the names of the twelve months of the year, calling the first Amazonio. The shield is between two cornucopias the cornucopia being the emblem of the peace and abundance which the new Her- cules had brought to the Roman earth. The globe clasped by the lower parts of the cornucopias is the emblem of eter- nity, and it is encircled by a band, upon which are inscribed three signs of the Zodiac. These, however, are inverted from their original order to adapt them tocircum- stances of the birth and life of Commodus. Every accessory, therefore, of this curious bust has a studied allegorical meaning, and is valuable on this account, as well as f6r the beauty of its workmanship and its almost perfect preservation. This latter quality is due to its having been but a short time exposed to the action of the elements previous to the death of Commodus. History records that the insane desire to represent Hercules was conceived by Commodus only two years previous to his assassination, and as this bust was imme- diately upon that event removed and con- cealed or buried, it thus preserved its exquisite polish. History and the coins of the period had recorded this strange aspiration of the in- famous emperor, but there was no illustration 6 ]HE NEW MUSEUM ZN ROME. of it in sculpture previous to the discovery of this bust. The spot where this, together with six other valuable sculptures, was found now corresponds to the southern part of Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, in the new quar- ter on the Esquiline. It was formerly the site of the Imperial Gardens, the splendors of which are described by Nibby, in his guide-book of ancient Rome. At various times objects of the rarest art have been found here. Among these are the statues of Niobe and her family and the struggling athletes in the Uffizii Gallery at Florence; the Discobulus of Merone, now in the Pallazo Massimo at Rome, and the famous fresco called Nozze Aldobrandinein the Vatican. The Commodus, the Venus, the two Muses, the two half Tritons, and a FIG. 5.COMMODUS AS HERCULES. THE NEW MUSEUM IN ROME. 7 half-figure of Bacchus were found together in the ruins of two subterranean rectangular rooms, and had evidently fallen there upon the giving way of the floor above them, which corresponded with the ancient level of the soil. The cellars where the statues were found broken into fragments communicated with a vast and magnificent subterranean corridor, or crzjpto ~or/ico, two hundred feet long, hav- ing one end curved and a line of columns in the center. These columns were of yellow breccia and their fragments were scattered here and there on the floor while the bases still retained their original positions. The bases were formed of stucco, but were prob- ably originally covered with gilt to render them worthy of the columns. The mosaic pavement was formed of all the varieties of rare colored alabasters. The Venus is sculptured in Greekmar- ble of fine grain and is slightly inferior to the ordinary stature of a woman. It was broken into many fragments but they hav~ been found and re-united. The arms ex- ~cept the left hand are lost, ho wever, and the statue remains imperfect. But enough remains to show that it is a Venus just issued from the bath who is tying her hair with a ribbon. She has already passed it ~twice around her beautiful head and the unfastened end still remains in her hand. This is judged to be a copy made ~y some Roman artist of one of the ten famOus statues of Venus made by ancient Greek sculptors and said by Pliny to haye adorned the temples and public squares of Rome. - The eye accustomed to the softer attractions attributed first to Venus by Praxiteles. this ideal being modified by his imitators until it became the image of mere sensuality does not immediately recognize a Venus in this chaste and dignified figure. The primitive idea of this goddess was never separated from thoughts of majesty and decorum. It was the noble embodiment -of the ancient Greek idea of love. This statue, although only a copy and imperfect in its workmanship, faithfully represents this noble conception of the goddess as a beauti- ful figure full of grace and feminine elegance and dignity. The serious expression of the face is almost pathetic, while the arrange- ment of the hair is very simple. This com- bination of qualities induces the learned to believe that the statue is a reproduction of a Venus made by the ancient Greek sculptor Scopas. This artist was anterfor to Praxiteles, and, while he was the first to represent the goddess of love without drapery, he yet pre- served the elevated, tender and pathetic expression which distinguished her at first. The statue of which this is supposed to be a copy is said by Pliny to have been so beautiful that its presence alone was sufficient to embellish the humblest spot. It stood in the temple of Mars near the Flaminian Circus. The two statues of Muses found in the same spot as the Commodus and the Venus are supposed, like the latter, to be copies of works by some celebrated sculptors. The originals were probably in one of the temples or porticoes of Rome, several of which are mentioned by the classics as con- taii~ing the series of the Muses. The sim- plicity and elegance of their attitudes, as well as a certain severity of expression, indi- cate that they are of an ancient school of art, and they are known to be copies from the fact that the execution of the statue is greatly inferior to the invention. Portions -of the drapery are not well finished, the hair is not accurately sculptured and,the back of the statue is incomplete. Notwithstanding, they are fine works of art and are especially interesting as being all that remains of ancient originals. They represent Terp- sichore, the inspirer of~ sacred song, and Polymnia, the Muse of memory and there- fore of silence and meditation. She ex- pres~ed her thoughts by pantomime, and in this statue is represented in the act of gesticulating. The former is supposed to have held a lyre before her although both the lyre and her arms are wanting to the statue. The Tritons are half statues in Greek marble. They are not broken, however, the remaining part, representing a fish, hav- ing probably been sculptured in a different material. These marine deities, half man, half fish, guided the sea-horses attached to the car of Neptune. Their hair, heavy with water, falls on their shoulders in thick masses while the face and body are covered with scales. They probably formed part of some magnificent fountain which ornamented the Imperial Gardens,the ancient Romans having an abundance of water conducted into the city by the aqueducts. The fount- ains in gardens and public squares were of an infinite variety of design and this museum gives examples of various singular and beautiful ideas. There is a fisherman sleep- ing beside a flowing stream of water; a Silenus, the god of drunkenness, stooping on one knee with a heavy recipient upon 8 THE NEW MUSEUM IN ROME. his shoulder; but instead of wine (the evil effects of which are seen in his counte- nance), a stream of water issues from its aperture. One of the most beautiful sculptures in the New Museum is a fountain in the form of a horn or drinking vase, called by the Greeks a Rhyton (Figure 6). It was found in the year 1874, on the site of the gardens of M~ecenas on the Esquiline, a spot which has yielded many other rare specimens of ancient art. It is sculptured in fine Greek marble, and is 1.17 meters long. The name of the author, Pontius, an Athenian, is written upon the front, but even without this index the lightness and elegance of the form, and the ability shown in the bass-reliefs would have proved its Greek origin. The base is a rhomboid from which rise four large leaves of the water-lily. The Rhyton is divided into three parts: the winged Chimera upon which the horn rests, the middle part, orna- mented with hollowed lines, and the upper part, upon which are sculptured with great skill two figures of women dancing. The edge is carved and ornamented, and the interior is hollow. The beauty of such a fountain, with rare flowers growing out of the brim, with a stream of water issuing from below the fantastic animal at its base, and with the four leaves of the aquatic plant apparently growing out of the basin of water in which it was placed, can be well imagined. Such ornaments of a garden were often placed in pairs, and the jets of water were so arranged as to cross each other; but although the ground where this was discovered has been carefully searched, no companion to it has as yet been found. The connection between the horn of an animal and a fountain arose from the use among the ancients of the horn as a drink- ing vessel. The cavity held wine or water which they drank from the edge. But to render it more convenient, as well as to gratify their sense of beauty, they orna- mented the point with the body of some animal,a horse, a lion, a dragon ,varying the form or uniting the attributes according to fancy. Thus it will be seen in this Rhyton that the lions head is ornamented with goats horns and a horses mane, while the Chimera has wings and the feet of a bull. When the horn was thus altered into a recipient of liquids which could stand upon a table, it was natural to pierce an aperture in the point in order to draw off the wine or water at pleasure, and from this the transition to a fountain was easy. The strange and varied history of that part of the Esquiline upon which this vase U.~CtiYTUiN IN IkiII N W MUSNUM Al I(UM~. THE NEW MUSEUM IN ROME. 9 was found rivals the romance of any work in the layers of these arch~ological deposits of imagination. In the early days of are found large burial pits called Julicoli, republican Rome it was used as a vast and also colombari, where the ashes of the cemetery for the artisans and the poor, and dead after cremation were deposited. Hor FIG. 7.STATUE OF URANIA, FOUND IN THE GARDEN OF M~CRNAS; NOW IN THE NEW MUSEUM AT ROME. I0 THE NEW MUSEUM ZN ROME. ace describes this cemetery as one thousand feet long and three hundred wide, but this did not include all the ground used for that purpose. So many persons were buried there that the spot finally became unhealthy and infectious, the resort of robbers and infa- mous persons, as well as the place for public executions. M~cenas, the friend of Augustus, obtained permission to convert a part of it into a garden, and the remainder was afterward used by the emperors for the same purpose. The level plain of the Esquiline was thus transformed from a deserted and dangerous locality into the delightful retreat of the rich, the powerful, and the learned. The soil, which has been removed in the works nec- essary to level the streets there, reveals not only the artistic relics of the gardens, but a stratum of soil beneath which they buried the peoples cemetery previous to making the gardens,the cemetery, with its puticoli and colornbari,and more wonderful than all, beneath the Roman cemetery another of still more ancient date, the character of which is entirely Etruscan. The construction of the walls of these tombs and the vases and other articles found in them, leave no d~bbt that they a~ th& tombs of the early Etruscan inhabitants of Rome. They are imbedded in the virgin soil, and thus, after twenty-five hundred years return to the lighta curious reminder to the modern inhabitants of Rome of the antiquity of the city. Two generations of pagan Romans have thus demonstrated to modern Christians their respect for the last resting-places of the dead. One cemetery is built over another, and over that is laid with pious care, a stratum of earth which preserves from desecration the graves even of the poor and the working classes. The only disturbance to which they have been subjected is the incidental one of beams or supports of the buildings above, which have pierced the soil in various points. But where the Etruscan laid his loved ones with care in their stony sepulcher, or where the Roman placed the urn or the vase in the dove-cote colombarlo, there they have rested in peace through all the changes of the eternal city. They have returned to the light even now as if by chance, for it was with no plan of archaeological research that the city made excavations in this locality, and these discov- eries were made in the course of the labors necessary for the laying out of new streets and digging the cellars of houses. Many of these statues formed part of a wall made in the sixth century. These beautiful relics of antiquity had been broken into fragments and used by the barbarians of that period for what they con- sidered a useful purpose. A colossal Her- cules with two horses forming a group was found broken into two hundred fragments, which with infinite patience were put to- gether by an artist. An exquisite colossal vase was in seventy pieces, and all of the sculptures were found more or less broken. The head of a statue would frequently be found at a long distance from the other parts, as in the case of the beautiful statue of Urania, the Muse of Astronomy (Figure 7), found in the garden of M~ccenas in 1874. It was broken into twenty pieces, which had formed part of a wall, and which, until re- cently, have been lying in the magazine under the tower of the Campidoglio, as the abun- dance of fragments awaiting the labors of the sculptor to restore them to their original condition is so great, that some time elapses from the discovery of a statue and its ap- pearance in pristine beauty in the Museum. As each statue is restored it is removed from the magazine to the Museum, and the visitor is thus constantly surprised by the addition of some beautiful work of art to the treasures collected there. Ancient mythology classed the Muses with the Nymphs and Naiads of the woods, and their altars and statues were often placed in gardens or forests and near running streams. The Nymphs, however, were represented half draped, while the Muses were entirely covered. The rarity of this statue consists in the fact that while the books at her feet, the sandals, the mode of dressing the hair, and the ideal expression of the countenance leave no doubt that it is a Muse, the statue is covered only with a paUlo or rectangular shawl, which leaves the arm and shoulder bare. The ample mantle, clinging lightly to the form, displays the grace and elegance of the beautiful members. It was worn by the Greek poets, philosophers and orators, and is not unadapted to the Muse, especially when situated as this was in a garden, and partaking of the character of the Nymph. This statue is supposed to have been one of a series of the Muses, all probably wear- ing the pci/ho, which ornamented the entrance or vicinity of the Odeum, a small theater built in this garden by M~cenas. This beautiful relic of ancient architecture is the most remarkable ruin which the recent excavations have brought to light. The finding of such ruins and halls under- ground in Rome is as marvelous as the dis THE NEW MUSEUM IN ROME. II coveries made at Pompeii and Herculaneum. The final ruin of those cities was the work of one tremendous day, while the burial of these treasures was the slow result of time; yet not less entirely were these hidden from the eye, and not less strange is their uncovering. The Odeum was smaller than a theater and was used for music or for recitations of poetry. It was roofed with glass to retain the sound, and the walls were ornamented and his house was the rendezvous of all the artists and learned men of Rome. Whoever contributed to the pleasure of the company was welcome at his table, and Augustus called it a p ci rasitica mensa. The poet Horace, to whom he presented a farm in Sabina, says that M~ecenas bought ground on the Esquiline which had been used as a cemetery for the people. There he made a garden and built a house which was FIG. 8.TERRA COT ii~irrns I~AETINCi OF THESEUS AND ARIADNE, IN THE NEW MUSEUM AT ROME. by frescoes. The floors and the steps ar- ranged for seats were of marble. The Odeum of Athens held eight thousand per- sons. Domitian built one and Trajan two in Rome, and examples of them may be seen at Tivoli and Pompeii. This one held over three hundred persons and was found on the site of the garden of M~cenas. The ruin may now be seen on the Via Merulana near the church of Santa Maria Maggiore. The well-known love of literature and the arts which has transmitted the name of the friend and vice-regent of Cresar to our day readily explains the presence of such a build- ing on his possessions. He became very rich through the generosity of the emperor, conspicuous for its high tower. He rarely went to the city, but passed his time here in the company of poets and artists. He loved all kinds of luxury, the theater and pantomine, and, according to Tacitus, was the first to introduce scenic representations in Rome. This rectangular building, burjed beneath the soil for centuries, is then the spot where this patron of the arts and his friends Horace, Virgil and other famous men spent part of their time in literary pleasure. It was originally built half underground with a glass roof, the walls being depicted with imitations of the trees and flowers without. These literary epicures retired in the heat of the day to this cool and beautiful retreat 12 THE NEW MUSEUM IN ROME. where the intellect was delighted by poetry and music. The hall is io.6o meters wide, 24.40 long and 7.40 high, but the height to the apex of the glass vault over head would have been thirteen meters. One end of the hall is semicircular and the curved wall is indented with five rectangular niches in- tended to represent windows. Each side of the building has also six of these false windows and they are all ornamented with frescoed plants and flowers. The walls are painted with a red ground upon which small figures in black are frescoed in lines around the base. Among the ruins of the edifice were found two busts of elderly men, but as they bear no resemblance to any others in marble or on coins or medals, it is impos- sible to know whose portraits they may be. Future studies by the members of the Arch~eological Commission of the city may decide that these are portraits of men whose names are familiar to the world. The collection of articles of glass and terra cotta fills a large room of the New Museum. The most remarkable of these objects is a bass-relief in terra cotta repre- senting the parting of Theseus and Ariadne upon the sea-shore (Figure 8). It is a beau- tiful composition. The expressive attitudes of the figures are full of sentiment and clearly depict the grief of parting. This subject is very rare, and the bass-relief is therefore highly prized, although it is broken and a part is wanting. The original was prob- ably due to some noble master of the Attic school, as the grace and sublimity of style could not have been the work of an ordinary artist. Augusto Castellani, the distinguished archaeologist and student of ancient jew- elry, presented the New Museum with a Thensa or sacred car (Figure 9) which, with extraordinary skill, he had combined in its original form. An antiquarian brought him one day a quantity of broken and rusty pieces of bronze, which he bought. The FIG. 9.BRONZE TI{ENSA OR ROMAN SACRED CAR PRESENTED TO THE NEW MUSEUM OF ROME BY AGOUSTO CASTELLARI. THE PASTORAL BEES. 3 bronze xvas raised in small figures, forming pictures which evidently indicated some mythological story, and after months of study he discovered that on the metal strips originally nailed around the car was depicted the history of Achilles and a Bac- chic procession. While polishing the fig- ures of the Bacchic procession, he found a car with four wheels drawn by two tigers, in which Ariadne was seated. Imitating the shape of this car, he succeeded in adapt- ing all the fragments of bronze to it and finally reproduced the tizensci or car which was used by the Romans to carry the im- ages and sacred vessels of the gods to the races. The narrow form and heavy style of this car, as well as the sacred scenes depicted upon it and the value of the metal with which it was covered,the bronze having probably been gilt,are proofs of the success of this reproduction. This is one of the most interesting objects in the Museum, which is also indebted to Augusto Castellani (not Alessandro) for an entire collection of bronzes, Etruscan vases, and articles of terra cotta. THE PASTORAL BEES. THE honey-bee goes forth from the hive in spring like the dove from Noahs ark, and it is not till after many days that she brings back the olive leaf, which in this case is a pellet of golden pollen upon each hip, usually obtained from the alder or swamp willow. In a country where maple sugar is made the bees get their first taste of sweet from the sap as it flows from the spiles, or as it dries and is condensed upon the sides of the buckets. They will sometimes, in their eagerness, come about the boiling place and he overwhelmed by the steam and the smoke. But in the spring bees appear to he more eager for bread than for honey; their supply of this article, perhaps, does not keep as well as their stores of the latter; hence fresh bread, in the shape of new pollen, is diligently sought for. My bees get their first supplies from the catkins of the willows. How quickly they find them out! If but one catkin opens anywhere within range a bee is on hand that very hour to rifle it, and it is a most pleasing experience to stand near the hive some mild April day and see them come pouring in with their little bas- kets packed with this first fruitage of the spring. They will have new bread now; they have been to mill in good earnest; see their dusty coats, and the golden grist they bring home with them. When a bee brings pollen into the hive he advances to the cell in which it is to be deposited and kicks it off as one might his overalls or rub- ber boots, making one foot help the other; then he walks off without ever looking be- hind him; another bee, one of the in-door hands, comes along and rams it down with his head and packs it into the cell as the dairy- maid packs butter into a firkin. The first spring wild- fi o w e rs, whose shy faces among the dry leaves and rocks are so we Ic o me, yield no honey. The anemone, the hepati- ca, the blo odroot, the arbutus, AND BLOSSOMS.

John Burroughs Burroughs, John The Pastoral Bees 13-21

THE PASTORAL BEES. 3 bronze xvas raised in small figures, forming pictures which evidently indicated some mythological story, and after months of study he discovered that on the metal strips originally nailed around the car was depicted the history of Achilles and a Bac- chic procession. While polishing the fig- ures of the Bacchic procession, he found a car with four wheels drawn by two tigers, in which Ariadne was seated. Imitating the shape of this car, he succeeded in adapt- ing all the fragments of bronze to it and finally reproduced the tizensci or car which was used by the Romans to carry the im- ages and sacred vessels of the gods to the races. The narrow form and heavy style of this car, as well as the sacred scenes depicted upon it and the value of the metal with which it was covered,the bronze having probably been gilt,are proofs of the success of this reproduction. This is one of the most interesting objects in the Museum, which is also indebted to Augusto Castellani (not Alessandro) for an entire collection of bronzes, Etruscan vases, and articles of terra cotta. THE PASTORAL BEES. THE honey-bee goes forth from the hive in spring like the dove from Noahs ark, and it is not till after many days that she brings back the olive leaf, which in this case is a pellet of golden pollen upon each hip, usually obtained from the alder or swamp willow. In a country where maple sugar is made the bees get their first taste of sweet from the sap as it flows from the spiles, or as it dries and is condensed upon the sides of the buckets. They will sometimes, in their eagerness, come about the boiling place and he overwhelmed by the steam and the smoke. But in the spring bees appear to he more eager for bread than for honey; their supply of this article, perhaps, does not keep as well as their stores of the latter; hence fresh bread, in the shape of new pollen, is diligently sought for. My bees get their first supplies from the catkins of the willows. How quickly they find them out! If but one catkin opens anywhere within range a bee is on hand that very hour to rifle it, and it is a most pleasing experience to stand near the hive some mild April day and see them come pouring in with their little bas- kets packed with this first fruitage of the spring. They will have new bread now; they have been to mill in good earnest; see their dusty coats, and the golden grist they bring home with them. When a bee brings pollen into the hive he advances to the cell in which it is to be deposited and kicks it off as one might his overalls or rub- ber boots, making one foot help the other; then he walks off without ever looking be- hind him; another bee, one of the in-door hands, comes along and rams it down with his head and packs it into the cell as the dairy- maid packs butter into a firkin. The first spring wild- fi o w e rs, whose shy faces among the dry leaves and rocks are so we Ic o me, yield no honey. The anemone, the hepati- ca, the blo odroot, the arbutus, AND BLOSSOMS. 4 THE PASTORAL BEES. the numerous violets, the spring beauty, the corydalis, etc., woo all lovers of nature, but do not woo the honey-loving bee. It requires more sun and warmth to develop the sac- charine element, and the beauty of these pale striplings of the woods anti groves is their sole and sufficient excuse for being. The arbutus, lying low and keeping green all winter, attains to perfume, but not to honey. The first honey is perhaps obtained from the flowers of the red maple and the golden willow. The latter sends forth a wild, deli- cious perfume. The sugar maple blooms a little later, and from its silken tassels a rich nectar is gathered. My bees will not label these different varieties for me as I really wish they would. Honey from the maple, a tree so clean and wholesome, and full of such virtues every way, would be something to put ones tongue to; or that from the blossoms of the apple, the peacl~, the cherry, the quince, the currant,one would like a card of each of these varieties to note their peculiar qual- ities. The apple-blossom is very important to the bees. A single swarm has been known to gain twenty pounds in weight during its continuance. Bees love the ripened fruit, too, and in August and September will suck themselves tipsy upon varieties like the sops- of-wine. The interval between the blooming of the fruit-trees and that of the clover and rasp- berry is bridged over in many localities by the honey locust. What a delightful sum- mer murmur these trees send forth at this season! I know nothing about the quality of the honey, but it ought to keep well. But when the red raspberry blooms, the fountains of plenty are unsealed indeed; what a commotion ahout the hives then, especially in localities where it is exten- sively cultivated, as in places along the Hud- son! The delicate white clover, which begins to bloom about the same time, is neglected; even honey itself is passed by for this modest, colorless, all but odorless, flower. A field of these berries in June sends forth a continuous murmur like that of an enormous hive. The honey is not so white as that obtained from clover, but it is more easily gathered ; it is in shalloxv cups while that of the clover is in deep tubes. The bees are up and at it before sunrise, and it takes a brisk shower to drive them in. But the clover blooms later and blooms everywhere, and is the staple source of supply of the TELLING THE BEES. THE PASTORAL BEES. 5 finest quality of honey. The red clover honey would be greatly increased. The yields up its stores only to the longer pro- famous honey of Lithuania in Russia is the boscis of the bumble-bee, among our native product of the linden. bees, else the bee pasturage of our agricultural It is a homely old stanza current among districts would be unequaled. I do not know bee-folk that from what the famous honey of Chamouni in the Alps is made, but it can hardly surpass A swarm of bees i~ May our best products. The snow-white honey of Is worth a load of hay; A swarm of bees in June Anatolia in Asiatic Turkey, which is regularly Is worth a silver spoon; sent to Constantinople for the use of the But a swarm in July grand seignior and the ladies of his seraglio, Is not worth a fly. is obtained from the cotton- plant, which A swarm in May is indeed a treasure; it is, makes me think that the white clover goes like an April baby, sure to thrive, and will not flourish there. The white clover is ~~i- very likely its elf send out a swarm a month digenous with us: its seeds seem latent in or two later; but a swarm in July is not to be the ground, and the application of certain despised; it will store no clover or linden stimulants to the soil, like wood ashes, honey for the grand seignior and the ladies causes them to germinate and spring up. of his seraglio, but plenty of the rank and The rose, with all its beauty and perfume, w yields no honey to the bee, unless the wild holesome poor man s nectar, the sun- tanned product of the plebeian buckwheat. species be sought by the bumble-bee. Buckwheat honey is the black sheep in this Among the humbler plants let me not white flock, but there is spirit and character forget the dandelion that so early dots the in sunny slopes, and upon which the bee lan- it. It lays hold of the taste in no equivo knees in the cal manner, especially when at a winter guidly grazes, wallowing to his breakfast it meets its fellow, the russet buck- golden but not over-succulent pasturage. wheat cake. Bread with honey to cover it From the blooming rye and wheat the bee from the same stalk is double good fortune. gathers pollen, also from the obscure bIos- It is not black, either, but nut-brown, and soms of Indian corn. Among the weeds, belongs to the same class of goods as Herricks catnip is the great favorite. It lasts nearly the whole season and yields richly. It could Nut-brown mirth and russet wit. no doubt be profitably cultivated in some localities, and catnip honey would be a How the bees love it, and they bring the novelty in the market. It would probably delicious odor of the blooming plant to the partake of the aromatic properties of the hive with them, so that in the moist warm plant from which it was derived, twilight the apiary is redolent with the per- Among your stores of honey gathered fume of buckwheat. before midsummer you may chance upon a Yet evidently it is not the perfume of any card, or mayhap only a square inch or two flower that attracts the bees; they pay no of comb, in xvhich the liquid is as transpar- attention to. the sweet-scented lilac, or to ent as water, of a delicious quality, with a heliotrope, but work upon sumach, silkweed, slight flavor of mint. This is the product and the hateful snapdragon. In September, of the linden, or bass-wood, of all the trees they are hard pressed, and do well if they in our forest the one most beloved by the pick up enough sweet to pay the running bees. Melissa, the goddess of honey, has expenses of their establishment. The purple placed her seal upon this tree. The wild asters and the golden-rod are about all that swarms in the woods frequently reap a choice remain to them. harvest from it. I have seen a mountain- Bees will go three or four miles in quest side thickly studded with it, its straight, tall, of honey, but it is a great advantage to move smooth, light-gray shaft carrying its deep- the hive near the good pasturage, as has been green crown far aloft, like the tulip or maple. the custom from the earliest times in the In some of the north-western states there Old World. Some enterprising person, tak- are large forests of it, and the amount of ing a hint perhaps from the ancient Egyp- honey reported stored by strong swarms in tians, who had floating apiaries on the Nile, this section, during the time the tree is in has tried the experiment of floating several bloom, is quite incredible. As a shade and hundred colonies north on the Mississippi, ornamental tree the linden is fully equal to starting from New Orleans and following the the maple, and if it was as extensively opening season up, thus realizing a sort of planted and cared for, our supplies of virgin perpetual May or June, the chief attraction THE PASTOEAL BEES. being the blossoms of the river willow, which yield honey of rare excellence. Some of the bees were no doubt left behind, but the amount of virgin honey secured must have been very great. In September the colony should have begun the return trip, following the retreating sUmmer south. It is the making of the wax that costs with the bee. As with the poet, the form, the receptacle, gives him more trouble than the sweet that fills it, though, to be sure, there is always more or less empty comb in both cases. The honey he can have for the gather- ing, but the wax he must make himself must evolve from his own inner conscious- ness. When wax is to be made the wax-mak- ers fill themselves with honey and retire into their chamber for private meditation: it is like some solemn religious rite; they take hold of hands, or hook themselves together in long lines that hang in festoons from the top of the hive, and wait for the miracle to tran- spire. After about twenty-four hours their patience is rewarded, the honey is turned into wax, minute scales of which are secreted from between the rings of the abdomen of each bee; this is taken off and from it the comb is built up. It is calculated that about twenty- five pounds of honey are used in elaborating one pound of comb, to say nothing of the time that is lost. Hence the importance, in an economical point of view, of a recent device by which the honey is extracted and the comb returned intact to the bees. But honey without the comb is the perfume with- out the rose ,it is merely sweet, and soon degenerates into candy. Half the delectable- ness is in breaking down these frail and LI THE PASTORAL BEES. 7 exquisite walls yourself, and tasting the nec- tar before it has lost its freshness by contact with the air. Then the comb is a sort of shield or foil that prevents the tongue from being overwhelmed by the first shock of the sweet. The drones have the least enviable time of it. Their foothold in the hive is very preca- rious. They look like the giants, the lords of the swarm, but they are really the tools. Their loud, threatening hum has no sting to back it up, and their size and noise make them only the more conspicuous marks for the birds. They are all candidates for the favors of the queen, a fatal felicity that is vouchsafed to but one. Fatal, I say; for it is a singular fact in the history of bees, that the fecundation of the queen costs the male his life. Yet day after day the drones go forth, threading the mazes of the air in hopes of meeting her whom to meet is death. The queen only leaves the hive once, except when she leads away the swarm, and as she makes no appointment with the male, but wanders here and there, drones enough are provided to meet all the contingencies of the case. One advantage, at least, results from this system of things; there is no incontinence among the males in this re- public! Toward the close of the season, say in July or August, the fiat goes forth that the drones must die; there is no further use for them. Then the poor creatures, how they are huddled and hustled about, trying to hide in corners and byways! There is no loud, defiant humming now, b~t ithject fear seizes them. They cower like hunted criminals. I have seen a dozen or more of them wedge themselves into a small space between the glass and the comb, where the bees could not get hold of them, or where they seemed to be overlooked in the general slaughter~ They will also crawl outside and hide under the edges of the hive. But sooner or later they are all killed or kicked out. The drone makes no resistance, except to pull back and try to get away; but (putting yourself in his place) with one bee a-hold of your collar or the hair of your head, and another a-hold of each arm or leg, and still another feeling for your waist-bands with his sting, the odds are greatly against you. It is a singular fact, also, that the queen is made, not born. If the entire population of Spain or Great Britain were the offspring of one mother, it might be found necessary to hit upon some device by which a royal baby could be manufactured out of an ordinary VOL. XVIII. 2. one, or else give up the fashion of royalty. All the bees in the hive have a common parentage, and the queen and the worker are the same in the egg and in the chick; the patent of royalty is in the cell and in the food; the cell being much larger, and the food a peculiar stimulating kind of jelly. In certain contingencies, such as the loss of the queen with no eggs in the royal cells, the workers take the larva of an ordinary bee, enlarge the cell by taking in the two adjoining ones, and nurse it and stuff it and coddle it, till at the end of eighteen days from the egg it comes out a queen. But ordinarily, in the natural course of events, the young queen is kept a prisoner in her cell till the old queen has left with the swarm; and not only kept, but guarded against the mother queen, who only wants an opportunity to murder every royal scion in the hive. The queens, the one a prisoner and the other at large, pipe defi- ance at each other at this timea shrill, fine, trumpet-like note that every ear will at once re~qgnze. This challenge, not being allowed to be accepted by either party, is followed, in a day or two, by the abdication of the old queen; she leads out the swarm, and her suc- cessor is liberated by herkeepers, who, in her time, abdicates in favor ~f the next younger. When the bees have decided that no more swarms can is~~e, thereigning queen is allow- ed to use her stiletto upon her unhatched sisters. Cases have been known where two queens iss~med at the- same time, when a mortal combat ensued, encouraged by the workers, who: formed a ring about them, but showed no preference, and recognized the victor as the lawful sovereign. For these and many other well-known facts we are indebted to the elder Huber. It is worthy of note that the position of the queen-cells is almost always vertical, while that of the drones and workers is hor- izontal; majestystands on its head,which fact may be a part of the secret. The notion has always very generally prevailed that the queen of the bees is an absolute ruler, and issues her royal orders to willing subjects. Hence Napoleon the First sprinkled the symbolic bees over the imperial mantle that bore the arms of his dynasty; and in the country of the Pharaohs the bee was used as the emblem of a people sweetly submissive to the orders of its king. But the fact is, a swarm of bees is an absolute democracy, and kings and despots can find no warrant in their example. The power and authority are entirely vested in the great mass, the workers. They furnish all the i8 THE PASTORAL BEES. brains and foresight of the colony, and administer its affairs. Their word is law, and both king and queen must obey. They regulate the swarming, and give the signal for the swarm to issue from the hive; they select and make ready the tree in the woods and conduct the queen to it. The peculiar office and sacredness of the queen consists in the fact that she is the mother of the swarm, and the bees love and cherish herasa mother andnotas a sovereign. She is the sole female bee in the hive, and the swarm clings to her because she is their life. Deprived of their queen, and of all brood from which to rear one, the swarm loses all heart and soon dies, though there be an abundance of honey in the hive. The common bees will never use their sting upon the queen; if she is to be disposed of they starve her to death; and the queen herself will sting nothing but royaltynoth- ing but a rival queen. The queen, I say, is the mother bee; it is undoubtedly complimenting her to call her a queen and invest her with regal authority, yet she is a superb creature, and looks every inch a queen. It is an event to distinguish her amid the mass of bees when the swarm alights; it awakens a thrill. Before you have seen a queen you wonder if this or that bee, which seems a little larger than its fellows, is not she, but when you once really set eyes upon her you do not doubt for a moment; you know that is the queen. That long, elegant, shining, feminine-looking creature can be none less than royalty. How beautifully her body tapers, how dis- tinguished she looks, how deliberate her movements! The bees do not fall down be- fore her, but caress her and touch her person. The drones, or males, are large bees too, but coarse, blunt, broad-shouldered, masculine- looking. There is but one fact or incident in the life of a queen that looks imperial and authoritative: Huber relates that when the old queen is restrained in her movements by the workers, and prevented from destroying the young queens in their cells, she assumes a peculiar attitude and utters a note that strikes every bee motionless, and makes every head bow; while this sound lasts not a bee stirs, but all look abashed and humbled, yet whether the emotion is one of fear, or reverence, or of sympathy with the distress of the queen mother, is hard to determine. The moment it ceases, and she advances again toward the royal cells, the bees bite and pull and insult her as before. I always feel that I have missed some good fortune if I am away from home when my bees swarm. What a delightful summer sound it is! how they come pouring out of the hive, twenty or thirty thousand bees, each striving to get out first! It is as when the dam gives way and lets the waters loose; it is a flood of bees which breaks upward into the air and becomes a maze of whirling black lines to the eye and a soft chorus of myriad musical sounds to the ear. This way and that way they drift, now contracting, now expanding, rising, sinking, growing thick about some branch or bush, then dis- persing and massing at some other point, till finally they begin to alight in earnest, when in a few moments the whole swarm is collected upon the branch, forming a bunch perhaps as large as a two-gallon measure. Here they will hang from one to three or four hours, or until a suitable tree in the woods is looked up, when, if they have not been offered a hive in the mean time, they are up and off. In hiving them, if any accident happens to the queen the enterprise miscarries at once. One day I shook a swarm from a small pear-tree into a tin pan, set the pan down on a shawl spread beiieath the tree, and put the hive over it. The bees presently all crawled up into it, and everything seemed to go well for ten or fifteen minutes, when I observed that something was wrong; the bees began to buzz excitedly and to rush about in a bewildered manner; then they took to the wing and all returned to the parent stock. On lifting up the pan, I found beneath it the queen with three or four other bees. She had been one of the first to fall, had missed the pan in her descent, and I had set it upon her. I con- veyed her tenderly back to the hive, bu~ either the accident terminated fatally with her or else the young queen had been liber- ated in the interim, and one of them had fallen in combat, for it was ten days before the swarm issued a second time. No one, to my knowledge, has ever seen the bees house-hunting in the woods. Yet there can be no doubt that they look up new quarters either before or on the day the swarm issues. For all bees are wild bees and incapable of domestication; that is, the instinct to go back to nature and take up again their wild abodes in the trees is never eyadicated. Years upon years of life in the apiary seems to have no appreciable effect toward their final, permanent domestication. That every new swarm contemplates mi- grating to the woods seems confirmed by the fact that they will only come out when THE PASTORAL BEES. r9 the weather is favorable to such an enterprise, and that a passing cloud, or a sudden wind after the bees are in the air, will usually drive them back into the parent hive. Or an attack upon them with sand or gravel, or loose earth or water, will quickly cause them to change their plans. I would not even say but that, when the bees are going off, the apparently absurd practice, now entirely discredited by regular bee-keepers but still resorted to by unscientific folk, of 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 impressing the bees as with some unusual commotion in nature. Bees are easily alarmed and disconcerted, and I have known runaway swarms to be brought down by a farmer plowing in the field who showered them with handfuls of loose soil. When a swarm leaves for the woods they are off before you fairly know it. They drift away from the hive in a wide-spread and apparently aimless concourse, then suddenly gather up their skirts, draw together their forces, and away they go, a humming, flying vortex of bees, the queen apparently in the center and the mass revolving about her as a pivot, over orchards and meadows, across creeks and swamps, or woods and deep valleys, straight for the appointed tree, slow at first, so that you can keep up with them, but presently with a speed that would tire a fox-hound. In this flight the individual bees 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 whirling, revolving, nebulous mass fifteen or twenty feet across, that goes as straight as a projectile to its mark. They are not partial as to the kind of tree, pine, hemlock, elm, birch, maple, hickory, any tree with a good cavity high up or low down. A swarm of mine ran away from the new patent hive I gave them, and took up their quarters in the hollow trunk of an old apple-tree across an adjoining field. The entrance was a mouse-hole near the ground. Another swarm in the neighborhood de- serted their keeper and went into the cornice of an out-house that stood amid evergreens in the rear of a large mansion. But there is no accounting for the taste of bees, as Samson found when he discovered the swarm in the carcass (or more probably the skeleton) of the lion he had slain. In the woods of all parts of the country that have been settled any length of time, these wild swarms are more or less abundant, and furnish the occasion for one of the most delightful pastimes the autumn brings, namely, bee-hunting. Nearly every neighbor- hood in the back country has its noted bee-~ hunter, usually one of those picturesque characters that savor so strongly of the wild, and with an eye that will follow a bee nearly as far as ordinary vision will follow the flight of a bird. One night on the Potomac a party of us unwittingly made our camp near the foot of a bee-tree, which next day the winds of heaven blew down, for our special delecta- tion,at least so we read the sign. Another time, while sitting by a water-fall in the leaf- less April woods, I discovered a swarm in the top of a large hickory. I had the sea- son before remarked the tree as a likely place for bees, but the screen of leaves con- cealed them from me. This time my for- mer presentiment occurred to me, and, look- ing sharply, sure enough there were the bees, going out and in a large, irregular opening. In June a violent tempest of wind and rain demolished the tree, and the honey was all lost in the creek into which it fell. I hap- pened along that way two or three days after the tornado, when I saw a remnant of the swarm, those, doubtless, that escaped the flood and those that were away when the disaster came, hanging in a small black mass to a branch high up near where their home used to be. They looked forlorn enough. If the queen was saved the rem- nant probably sought another tree; other- wise the bees must have soon died. I have seen bees desert their hive in the spring when it was infested with worms or when the honey was exhausted; at such times the swarm seems to wander aimlessly, alighting here and there, and perhaps in the end uniting with some other colony. In case of such union, it would be curious to know if negotiations were first opened between the parties, and if the houseless bees are admitted at once to all the rights and franchises of their benefactors. It would be very like the bees to have some preliminary plan and understanding about the matter on both sides. Bees will accommodate themselves to almost any quarters, yet no hive seems to please them so well as a section of a hollow tree gums~~ as they are called in the South and West where the sweet gum grows. In some European countries the hive is always made from the trunk of a tree, a suitable cavity being formed by boring. The old- 20 THE PASTORAL BEES fashioned straw hive is picturesque, and a great favorite with the bees. There is an old superstition still cherished in some parts of the country that in order to have luck with bees, you must tell them of any death that occurs in the family. If you fail to do this they will go off or will perish in the hive. In the edge of the evening, after the bees are all in from the days toil, if it be summer, the master or owner ap- proaches the hive, raps gently upon it, and when the bees respond with their inqumng buzz, says softly, John [or Mary] is dead. It is a roundabout recognition of the fact that unless you take a lively interest in your bees, and become intimate with them and they with you, and have a good understand- ing on both sides, they will not prosper under your care. The life of a swarm of bees is like an active and hazardous campaign of an army; the ranks are being continually depleted, and continually recruited. What adventures they have by flood and field, and what hair- breadth scapes! A strong swarm during the honey-season loses, on an average, about four or five thousand per month, or one hundred and fifty per day. They are overwhelmed by wind and rain, caught by spiders, benumbed by cold, crushed by cattle, drowned in rivers and ponds, and in many nameless ways cut off or disabled. In the spring the principal mortality is from the cold. As the sun declines they get chilled before they can reach home. Many fall down out- side the hive, unable to get in with their bur- den. One may see them coming home ut- terly spent, and dropping hopelessly into the grass in front of their very doors; before they can rest the cold has stiffened them. I go out in April and May and pick them up by the handfuls, their baskets loaded with pol- len, and warm them in the sun or in the house, or by the simple warmth of my hand, until they can crawl into the hive. Heat is their life, and an apparentlylifeless bee may be revived by warming him. I have also picked up drowning bees while rowing on the river, and seen them safely to shore. It is amusing to see them come hurrying home when there is a thunder-storm approaching. They come piling in till the rain is upon them. Those that are overtaken by the storm doubtless weather it as best they can in the sheltering trees or grass. It is not probable that a bee ever gets lost by wandering into strange and unknown parts. With their myriad eyes they see everything; and then, their sense of locality is very acuteis, indeed, one of their ruling traits. When a bee marks the place of his hive, or of a bit of good past- urage in the fields or swamps, or of the bee- hunters box of honey on the hills or in the woods, he returns to it as unerringly as fate. Honey was a much more important arti- cle of food with the ancients than it is with us. As they appear to have been unac- quainted with sugar, honey, no doubt, stood them instead. It is too rank and pungent for the modern taste; it soon cloys upon the palate. It demands the appetite of youth, and the strong, robust digestion of people who live much in the open air. It is a more wholesome food than sugar, and modem confectionery is poison beside it. Beside grape sugar, honey contains manna, mucilage, pollen, acid, and other vegetable odoriferous substances and juices. It is a sugar with a kind of wild natural bread added. The manna of itself is both food and medicine, and the pungent vegetable extracts have rare virtues. Hpney pro- motes the excretions and dissolves the glutin- ous and starchy impedimenta of the system. Hence it is not without reason that with the ancients a land flowing with milk and honey should mean a land abounding in all good things; and the queen in the nursery rhyme, who lingered in the kitchen to eat bread and honey, while the king was in the parlor counting out his money, was doing a very sensible thing. Epaminondas is said rarely to have eaten anything but bread and honey. The Emperor Augustus one day inquired of a centenarian how he had kept his vigor of mind and body so long; to which the veteran replied that it was by oil without and honey within. Cicero, in his Old Age, classes honey with meat and milk and cheese as among staple articles of a well-kept farm-house. Italy and Greece, in fact all the Medi- terranean countries, appear to have been famous lands for honey. Mount Hymettus, Mount Hybla, and Mount Ida produced what may be called the classic honey of antiquity, an article doubtless in no wise superior to our best products. Leigh Hunts Jar of Honey is mainly distilled from Sicilian history and literature, Theoc- ritus furnishing the best yield. Sicily has always been rich in bees. Swinburne (the traveler of a hundred years ago) says the woods on this island abounded in wild honey, and that the people also had many hives near their houses. The idyls of Theocritus are native to the island in this respect, and abound in bees flat-nosed AT ODDS WITH LIFE. 21 bees as he calls them in the Seventh Idyl and comparisons in which comb-honey is the standard of the most delectable of this worlds goods. His goatherds can think of no greater bliss than that the mouth be filled with honey-combs, or to be inclosed in a chest like Daphnis and fed on the combs of bees; and among the delect- ables with which Arsino~ cherishes Adonis are honey-cakes, and other tidbits made of sweet honey. In the country of The- ocritus this custom is said still to prevail: when a couple are married the attendants place hQney in their mouths, by which they would symbolize the hope that their love may be as sweet to their souls as honey to the pal- ate. It was fabled that Homer was suckled by a priestess whose breasts distilled honey; and that once when Pindar lay asleep the bees dropped honey upon his lips. In the Old Testament the food of the promised Immanuel was to be butter and honey (there is much doubt about the butter in the original), that he might know good from evil; and Jonathans eyes were enlightened by partaking of some wood or wild honey; See, I pray you, how mine eyes have been enlightened, because I tasted a little of this honey. So far as this part of his diet was concerned, therefore, John the Baptist, dur- ing his sojourn in the wilderness, his divinity- school-days in the mountains and plains of Judea, fared extremely well. About the other part, the locusts, or, not to put too fine a point on it, the grasshoppers, as much cannot be said, though they were among the creeping and leaping things the children of Israel were permitted to eat. They were probably not eaten raw but roasted in that most primitive of ovens, a hole in the ground made hot by building a fire in it. The locusts and honey may have been served together, as the Bedas of Ceylon are said to season their meat with honey. At any rate, as the locust is often a great plague in Palestine, the prophet in eating them found his account in the general weal and in the profit of the pastoral bees; the fewer locusts, the more flowers. Owing to its numerous wild flowers and flowering shrubs~ Palestine has always been a famous country for bees. They deposit their honey in hollow~ trees as our bees do when they escape from the hive, and in holes in the rocks as ours do not. In a tropical or semi-tropical cli- mate bees are quite apt to take refuge in the rocks, but where ice and snow prevail, as with us, they are much safer high up in the trunk of a forest tree. The best honey is the product of the milder parts of the temperate zone. There are too many rank and poisonous plants in the tropics. Honey from certain districts of Turkey produces headache and vomiting and that from Brazil is used chiefly as med- icine. The honey of Mount Hymettus owes its fine quality to wild thyme. The best honey in Persia and in Florida is col- lected from the orange blossom. The cele- brated honey of Narbonne in the south of France is obtained from a species of rose- mary. In Scotland good honey is made from the blossoming heather. California honey is white and delicate and highly perfumed, and now takes the lead in the market. But honey is honey the world over; and the bee is the bee still. Men may degenerate, says an old tra- veler, may forget the arts by which they acquired renown; manufactures may fail, and commodities be debased, but the sweets of the wild flowers of the wilderness, the in- dustry and natural mechanics of the bee, will continue without change or derogation. AT ODDS WITH LIFE. T isa toilsome path to climb, But all climbing is sublime (If you think so). One flight more! Yonder is the studio door. Artists eyries should be high. Dont you think so? Near the sky; Up above the small affairs Of our lower life of cares; Up, far up, in regions where Stars and comets float in air; In an atmosphere that brings Glimpses of unusual things Unto those who dare to soar To the shifting, changeful shore Of strange fancies, fair and far. Tired, Elsie? Here we are. No one here! Sit down, my dear. Rest a moment. It is clear He will soon return. You see Palette, brushes, carelessly Flung about in artist fashion.

David L. Proudfit Proudfit, David L. At Odds with Life 21-23

AT ODDS WITH LIFE. 21 bees as he calls them in the Seventh Idyl and comparisons in which comb-honey is the standard of the most delectable of this worlds goods. His goatherds can think of no greater bliss than that the mouth be filled with honey-combs, or to be inclosed in a chest like Daphnis and fed on the combs of bees; and among the delect- ables with which Arsino~ cherishes Adonis are honey-cakes, and other tidbits made of sweet honey. In the country of The- ocritus this custom is said still to prevail: when a couple are married the attendants place hQney in their mouths, by which they would symbolize the hope that their love may be as sweet to their souls as honey to the pal- ate. It was fabled that Homer was suckled by a priestess whose breasts distilled honey; and that once when Pindar lay asleep the bees dropped honey upon his lips. In the Old Testament the food of the promised Immanuel was to be butter and honey (there is much doubt about the butter in the original), that he might know good from evil; and Jonathans eyes were enlightened by partaking of some wood or wild honey; See, I pray you, how mine eyes have been enlightened, because I tasted a little of this honey. So far as this part of his diet was concerned, therefore, John the Baptist, dur- ing his sojourn in the wilderness, his divinity- school-days in the mountains and plains of Judea, fared extremely well. About the other part, the locusts, or, not to put too fine a point on it, the grasshoppers, as much cannot be said, though they were among the creeping and leaping things the children of Israel were permitted to eat. They were probably not eaten raw but roasted in that most primitive of ovens, a hole in the ground made hot by building a fire in it. The locusts and honey may have been served together, as the Bedas of Ceylon are said to season their meat with honey. At any rate, as the locust is often a great plague in Palestine, the prophet in eating them found his account in the general weal and in the profit of the pastoral bees; the fewer locusts, the more flowers. Owing to its numerous wild flowers and flowering shrubs~ Palestine has always been a famous country for bees. They deposit their honey in hollow~ trees as our bees do when they escape from the hive, and in holes in the rocks as ours do not. In a tropical or semi-tropical cli- mate bees are quite apt to take refuge in the rocks, but where ice and snow prevail, as with us, they are much safer high up in the trunk of a forest tree. The best honey is the product of the milder parts of the temperate zone. There are too many rank and poisonous plants in the tropics. Honey from certain districts of Turkey produces headache and vomiting and that from Brazil is used chiefly as med- icine. The honey of Mount Hymettus owes its fine quality to wild thyme. The best honey in Persia and in Florida is col- lected from the orange blossom. The cele- brated honey of Narbonne in the south of France is obtained from a species of rose- mary. In Scotland good honey is made from the blossoming heather. California honey is white and delicate and highly perfumed, and now takes the lead in the market. But honey is honey the world over; and the bee is the bee still. Men may degenerate, says an old tra- veler, may forget the arts by which they acquired renown; manufactures may fail, and commodities be debased, but the sweets of the wild flowers of the wilderness, the in- dustry and natural mechanics of the bee, will continue without change or derogation. AT ODDS WITH LIFE. T isa toilsome path to climb, But all climbing is sublime (If you think so). One flight more! Yonder is the studio door. Artists eyries should be high. Dont you think so? Near the sky; Up above the small affairs Of our lower life of cares; Up, far up, in regions where Stars and comets float in air; In an atmosphere that brings Glimpses of unusual things Unto those who dare to soar To the shifting, changeful shore Of strange fancies, fair and far. Tired, Elsie? Here we are. No one here! Sit down, my dear. Rest a moment. It is clear He will soon return. You see Palette, brushes, carelessly Flung about in artist fashion. 22 AT ODDS WITH LIFE. Ah, these men of fire and passion Love disorder, and it seems To befit a man of dreams. Let me whisper something, dear; Ive a fancythough I fear T is irreverent, indeed That our average artists need Something more of that fine fire Which ethereal dreams inspire, To redeem them from the trace Of an easy common-place. This the merit of our friend: He begins where others end. With all their fidelity, Color, form, and harmony, He has something better worth; Something of a nobler birth, IBom of earthquakes, lightnings, storms. He has friends in fairy forms, Such as throng the midnight hours, Play with meteoric showers, Ride auroras through the sky, Mount the crescent moon on high, Then go fishing down the night For lost stars of faded light; Familiar, he, of elf and gnome; All fantastic shapes that roam :Sceptred, winged, a glorious band, Through the mystery-haunted land Wondrous land of fire-fly gleams Seen of poets in their dreams. But the dreamers,men who see Shadowy forms of mystery In the earth and sea and sky; Men whose wing~d fancies fly To the uttermost, remote Realms where shapes ethereal float; Men whose fine sense subtly hears Music from the distant spheres, Often miss their heritage In this heartless, hurrying age, Though, too late, their fame may be Handed to posterity. For they seem at odds with life, Armored feebly for its strife. And our friend, whose picture there Shadows forth such white despair, Ilath his trials, I surmise; For, within his hungry eyes, When I saw him last, I read Something curious, vague, and dread. Then I said that I would buy This Prometheus, and his eye Lit up strangely, with a fire i3orn of some extreme desire. Think you Famines specter stood With him in his solitude? Had we sooner come, indeed, It perhaps had served his need. But you like it? Then to-day There shall be no more delay. See what vigor, grandeur, gloom; What an atmosphere of doom! What a hopeless, vast despair, In that figure lying there Chained with iron links and rods: Awful eyes, that judge the gods! Face of agony untold, Yet contemptuous, scornful, bold! Bare, cold rocks, uplifted high To a lowering, thunderous sky; And a sea in league with fate, Making all things desolate! Yes, with somber feeling tainted, But a picture grandly painted! Such a canvas lifts the soul Out of Habits dull control, Plumes imagination~ s wing, And crowns the artist like a king. What a strange collection here! Curious, is it not, my dear? Rubbish, some good folk would say, In their lofty, stupid way, Lacking insight. Who can tell What suggestions herein dwell? See this travesty in wood Of a human attitude. There a figure stuffed with hair, Semblance of a lady fair. Bits of armor, china, lace, Plaster hands, a foot, a face, A sword, a Malay creese, a knife Fit to take a pirates life; Gobelin tapestry, faded, rare, Screening in yon alcove there Such a dismal effigy Hanging from a beam. You see? Well, my gentleman is late. Elsie, since we still must wait, What thing better can I do Than to make love, sweet, to you? Nay, no prudery, my dear! What vague presence do you fear? Rosy lips, one little kiss Elsie, darling, what is this? Trembling, and your face is white! What has frozen you with fright? Tell me, precious! Speak to me! Do you dread yon effigy? No, no, no, my sweet, tis naught! T is not living, as you thought! See, t is nothing you should fear! It is horror! What is here? Come away! come! come! t is true, This is not a place for you! A STORY OF THE LATIN QUARTER. 23 A STORY OF THE LATIN QUARTER. HE is one of the Americans, his fel- low loca/aires said among themselves. Poor and alone and in bad health. A queer fel- low. Having made this reply to those who questioned them, they were in the habit of dismissing the subject lightly. After all it was nothing to them, since he had never joined their circle. They were a gay, good-natured lot and made a point of regarding life as airily as possible and taking each day as it came with fantastic good cheer. The house which stood in one of the shabbiest corners of the Latin Quarterwas full of them from floor to garretartists, students, mod- els, French, English, Americans, living all of them merrily, by no means the most regular of lives. But there were good friends among them; their world was their own and they found plenty of sympathy in their loves and quarrels, their luck and ill- luck. Upon the whole there was more ill- luck than luck. Lucky men did not choose for their head-quarters such places as this rather dilapidated building,they could afford to go elsewhere, to places where the Quarter was better, where the stairs were less rickety, the passages less dark and the concierge not given to chronic intoxication. Here came the unlucky ones, whose ill-luck was of various orders and degrees: the young ones who were some day to paint pictures which would be seen in the Palais de im- dustrie and would be greeted with acclama- tions by an appreciative public; the older ones who had painted pictures which had been seen at the Palais de lJndustrie and had not been appreciated at all; the poets whose sonnets were of too subtle an order to reach the common herd; the students who had lived beyond the means allowed them by their highly respectable families and who were consequently somewhat off color in the eyes of the respectable fam- ilies in questionthese and others of the same class, all more or less poor, more or less out at elbows and more or less in debt. And yet, as I have said, they lived gayly. They painted, and admired or criti- cised each others pictures; they lent and borrowed with equal freedom; they be- moaned their wrongs loudly, and sang and laughed more loudly still as the mood seized them; and any special ill-fortune be- falling one of their number generally aroused a display of sympathy which, though it might not last long, was always a source of consolation to the luckless one. But the American, notwithstanding he had been in the house for months, had never become one of them. He had been seen in the early spring going up the stair- way to his room, which was a mere garret on the sixth story, and it had been expected among them that in a day or so he would present himself for inspection. But this he did not do, and when he encountered any of their number in his out-goings or in~ comings he returned their greetings gently in imperfect French. He spoke slowly and with difficulty, but there was no coldness in his voice or manners, and yet none got much further than the greeting. He was a young fellow, scarcely of middle height, frail in figure, hollow-chested, and with a gentle face and soft, deeply set dark eyes. That he worked hard and lived barely it was easy enough to discover. Part of each day he spent in the various art galleries and after his return from these visits he was seen no more until the following morning. Until the last ray of light disappears he is at his easel, said a young student whom a gay escapade had temporarily banished to the fifth floor. I hear him move now and then and cough. He has a villainous cough. He is one of the enthusiasts, said another. One can read it in his face. What fools they arethese enthusiasts! They throw away life that a crown of laurel may be laid upon their coffins. In the summer some of them managed to leave Paris, and the rest had enough to do to organize their little excursions and make the best of the sunshine, shade and warmth. But when those who had been away re- turned and all settled down for the winter, they found the American, as they called him, in his old place. He had not been away at all; he had worked as hard as ever through midsummer heat and autumn rain; he was frailer in figure, his clothes were more worn, his face was thinner and his eyes far too hollow and bright, but he did not look either discouraged or unhappy. How does he live? exclaimed the con- cierge dramatically. The good God knows!

Frances Hodgson Burnett Burnett, Frances Hodgson A Story of the Latin Quarter 23-32

A STORY OF THE LATIN QUARTER. 23 A STORY OF THE LATIN QUARTER. HE is one of the Americans, his fel- low loca/aires said among themselves. Poor and alone and in bad health. A queer fel- low. Having made this reply to those who questioned them, they were in the habit of dismissing the subject lightly. After all it was nothing to them, since he had never joined their circle. They were a gay, good-natured lot and made a point of regarding life as airily as possible and taking each day as it came with fantastic good cheer. The house which stood in one of the shabbiest corners of the Latin Quarterwas full of them from floor to garretartists, students, mod- els, French, English, Americans, living all of them merrily, by no means the most regular of lives. But there were good friends among them; their world was their own and they found plenty of sympathy in their loves and quarrels, their luck and ill- luck. Upon the whole there was more ill- luck than luck. Lucky men did not choose for their head-quarters such places as this rather dilapidated building,they could afford to go elsewhere, to places where the Quarter was better, where the stairs were less rickety, the passages less dark and the concierge not given to chronic intoxication. Here came the unlucky ones, whose ill-luck was of various orders and degrees: the young ones who were some day to paint pictures which would be seen in the Palais de im- dustrie and would be greeted with acclama- tions by an appreciative public; the older ones who had painted pictures which had been seen at the Palais de lJndustrie and had not been appreciated at all; the poets whose sonnets were of too subtle an order to reach the common herd; the students who had lived beyond the means allowed them by their highly respectable families and who were consequently somewhat off color in the eyes of the respectable fam- ilies in questionthese and others of the same class, all more or less poor, more or less out at elbows and more or less in debt. And yet, as I have said, they lived gayly. They painted, and admired or criti- cised each others pictures; they lent and borrowed with equal freedom; they be- moaned their wrongs loudly, and sang and laughed more loudly still as the mood seized them; and any special ill-fortune be- falling one of their number generally aroused a display of sympathy which, though it might not last long, was always a source of consolation to the luckless one. But the American, notwithstanding he had been in the house for months, had never become one of them. He had been seen in the early spring going up the stair- way to his room, which was a mere garret on the sixth story, and it had been expected among them that in a day or so he would present himself for inspection. But this he did not do, and when he encountered any of their number in his out-goings or in~ comings he returned their greetings gently in imperfect French. He spoke slowly and with difficulty, but there was no coldness in his voice or manners, and yet none got much further than the greeting. He was a young fellow, scarcely of middle height, frail in figure, hollow-chested, and with a gentle face and soft, deeply set dark eyes. That he worked hard and lived barely it was easy enough to discover. Part of each day he spent in the various art galleries and after his return from these visits he was seen no more until the following morning. Until the last ray of light disappears he is at his easel, said a young student whom a gay escapade had temporarily banished to the fifth floor. I hear him move now and then and cough. He has a villainous cough. He is one of the enthusiasts, said another. One can read it in his face. What fools they arethese enthusiasts! They throw away life that a crown of laurel may be laid upon their coffins. In the summer some of them managed to leave Paris, and the rest had enough to do to organize their little excursions and make the best of the sunshine, shade and warmth. But when those who had been away re- turned and all settled down for the winter, they found the American, as they called him, in his old place. He had not been away at all; he had worked as hard as ever through midsummer heat and autumn rain; he was frailer in figure, his clothes were more worn, his face was thinner and his eyes far too hollow and bright, but he did not look either discouraged or unhappy. How does he live? exclaimed the con- cierge dramatically. The good God knows! 24 A STORY OF THE LATIN QUARTER. He eats nothing, he has no fire, he wears the clothing of midsummerhe paintshe paintshe paints! Perhaps that is enough for him. It would not be for me. At this timejust as the winter entered with bleak winds and rains and falls of powdery snowthere presented herself among them an arrival whose appearance created a sensation. One night, on his way upstairs, the Ameri- can found himself confronted on the fourth floor by a flood of light streaming through the open door of a before unoccupied room. It was a small room, meagerly furnished, but there was a fire in it and half a dozen people who laughed and talked at the top of their voices. Five of them were men he had seen before,artists who lived in the house,but the sixth was a woman whom he had never seen and whose mar- velous beauty held him spell-bound where he stood. She was a woman of twenty-two or three, with an oval face whose fairness was the fairness of ivory. She was dark-eyed and low-browed, and as she leaned forward upon the table and looked up at the man who spoke to her, even the bright glow of the lamp, which burned directly before her face, showed no flaw in either tint or outline. Why should we ask the reason of your return? said the man. Let us rejoice that you are here. I will tell you the reason, she answered, without lowering her eyes. I was tired. A good reason, was the reply. She pushed her chair back and stood up- right; her hands hung at her sides; the. men were all looking at her; she smiled down at them with fine irony. Who among you wishes to paint me? she said. I am again at your service and I am not less handsome than I was. Then there arose among them a little rapturous murmur and somehow it broke the spell which had rested upon the man outside. He started, shivered slightly and turned away. He went up to the bare coldness of his own room and sat down, forgetting that it was either cold or bare. Suddenly, as he had looked at the wom- ans upturned face, a great longing had seized upon him. I should like to paint youI, he found himself saying to the silence about him. If I might paint you! He heard the next day who she was. The concierge was ready enough to give him more information than he had asked. Mademoiselle Natalie, Monsieur means, he said; a handsome girl that; a celebrated model. They all knoW her. Her face has been the foundation of more than one great picture. There are not many like her. One model has this beautyanother that; but she, mon Dieu, she has all. A great creat- ure, Mademoiselle. Afterward, as the days went by, he found that she sat often to the other artists. Some- times he saw her as she went to their rooms or came away; sometimes he caught a glimpse of her as he passed her open door, and each time there stirred afresh within him the longing he had felt at first. So it came about that one afternoon, as she came out of a studio in which she had been giving a sitting, she found waiting outside for her the thinly clad, frail figure of the American. He made an eager yet hesitant step forward, and began to speak awkwardly in French. She stopped him. Speak English, she said, I know it well. Thank you, he answered simply, that is a great relief. My French is so bad. I am here to ask a great favor from you, and I am sure I could not ask it well in French. What is the favor ? she inquired, look- ing at him with some wonder. He was a new type to her, with his quiet directness of speech and his gentle manner. I have heard that you are a professioiital model, he replied, and I have wished very much to paint whatwhat I see in ypur face. I have wished it from the first hour I saw you. The desire haunts me. But I am a very poor man; I have almost nothing; I cannot pay you what the rest do. To-day I came to the desperate resolve that I would throw myself upon your mercythat I would ask you to sit to me, and wait until better fortune comes. She stood still a moment and gazed at him. Monsieur, she said at length, are you so poor as that? He colored a little, but it was not as if with shame. Yes, he answered, I am very poor. I have asked a great deal of you, have I not? She gave him still another long look. No, she said, I will come to you to-morrow if you will direct me to your room. It is on the sixth floor, he replied; the highest of all. It is a bare little place. I will come, she said, and was turning away when he stopped her. A STORY OF THE LATIN QUARTER. 25 II should like to tell you how grate- ful I am he began. There is no need, she responded with bitter lightness. You will pay me some- daywhen you are a great artist. But when she reached the next landing she glanced down and saw that he still stood beneath, watching her. The next day she kept her word and went to him. She found his room poorer and barer even than she had fancied it might be. The ceiling was low and slant- ing; in one corner stood a narrow iron bedstead, in another a wooden table; in the best light the small window gave his easel was placed with a chair before it. When he had opened the door in answer to her summons, and she saw all this, she glanced quickly at his face to see if there was any shade of confusion upon it, but there was none. He appeared only rejoiced and eager. I felt sure it was you, he said. Were you then so sure that I would come? she asked. You said you would, he answered. He placed her as he wished to paint her, and then sat down to his work. In a few moments he was completely absorbed in it. For a long time he did not speak at all. The utter silence which reigneda silence which was not only a suspension of speech but a suspension of any other thought be- yond his taskwas a new experience to her. His cheek flushed, his eyes burned dark and bright; it seemed as if he scarcely breathed. When he turned to look at her she was conscious each time of a sudden thrill of feeling. More than once he paused for several moments, brush and palette in hand, simply watching her face. At one of these pauses she herself broke the silence. Why do you look at me so? she asked. You look at me as ifas if And she broke off with an uneasy little laugh. He roused himself with a slight start and colored sensitively, passing his hand across his forehead. What I want to paint is not always in your face, he answered. Sometimes I lose it, and then I must wait a little untiluntil I find it again. It is not only your face I want, it is yourselfyourself! And he made a sudden unconscious gesture with his hands. She tried to laugh again,hard and lightly as before,but failed. Myself! she said. Afim Dieu / Do not grasp at me, Monsieur. It will not pay you. Paint my flesh, my hair, my eyes, they are good,but do not paint me. He looked troubled. I am afraid my saying that sounded stilted, he returned. I explained myself poorly. It is not easy for me to explain myself well. I understood, she said; and I have warned you. They did not speak to each other again during the whole sitting except once, when he asked her if she was warm enough. I have a fire to-day, he said. Have you not always a fire? she asked. No, he answered with a smile; but when you come there will always be one. Then, she said; I will come often, that I may save you from death. Oh! he replied; it is easier than you think to forget that one is cold. Yes, she returned. And it is easier than you think for one to die. When she was going away, she made a movement toward the easel, but he stopped her. Not yet, he said. Not just yet. She drew back. I have never cared to look at myself before, she said. I do not know why I should care now. Perhaps, with the laugh again, it is that I wish to see what you will make of me! Afterward, as she sat over her little porce- lain stove in her room below, she scarcely comprehended her own mood. He is not like the rest, she said. He knows nothing of the world. He is one of the good. He cares only for his art. How simple, and kind, and pure! The little room is like a saints cell. And then, suddenly, she flung her arms out wearily, with a heavy sigh. Ah, Dieu I she said, how dull the day is! The skies are lead! A few days later she gave a sitting to an old artist whose name was Masson, and she found that he had heard of what had hap- pened. And so you sit to the American, he said. Yes. Welland you find him? I find him, she repeated after him. Shall I tell you what I find him? I shall listen with delight. I find hima soul! You and I, my friendand the rest of usare bodies; he is a soul! 26 A STORY 01? THE LATIN QUARTER. The artist began to whistle softly as he painted. It is dangerous work, he said at length, for women to play with souls. That is true, she answered, coldly. The same day she went again to the room on the sixth floor. She sat again through an hour of silence in which the American painted eagerly, now and then stopping to regard her with searching eyes. But not as the rest regard me, she said to herself. He forgets that it is a woman who sits here. He sees only what he would paint. As time went by, this fact, which she always felt, was in itself a fascination. In the chill, calm atmosphere of the place there was repose for her. She found noth- ing to resent, nothing to steel herself against, she need no longer think of herself at all. She had time to think of the man in whose presence she sat. From the first she had seen something touching in his slight stoop- ing figure, thin young face and dark woman- ish eyes, and after she had heard the simple uneventful history of his life, she found them more touching still. He was a New Englander, the last sur- viving representative of a frail and short- lived family. His parents had died young, leaving him quite alone, with a mere pit- tance to depend upon, and throughout his whole life he had cherished but one aim. When I was a child I used to dream of coming here, he said, and as I grew older I worked and struggled for it. I knew I must gain my end some day and the time came when it was gained. And this is the end ? she asked, glanc- ing round at the poor place. This is all of life you desire? He did not look up at her. It is all I have, he answered. She wondered if he would not ask her some questions regarding herself, but he did not. He does not care to know, she thought sullenly. And then she told herself that he did know, and a mocking devil of a smile settled on her lips and was there when he turned toward her again. But the time never came when his manner altered, when he was less candid and gentle, or less grateful for the favor she was bestow- ing upon him. She scarcely knew how it was that she first began to know the sound of his foot upon the stair-way and to listen for it. Her earliest consciousness of it was when once she awakened suddenly out of a dead sleep at night and found herself sitting upright with her hand upon her heavily throbbing heart. What is it? she cried in a loud whis- per. But she spoke only to herself and the darkness. She knew what it was and did not lie down again until the footsteps had reached the top of the last flight and the door above had opened and closed. The time arrived when there was scarcely a trifling incident in his every-day life which escaped her. She saw each sign of his poverty and physical weakness. He grew paler day by day. There were days when his step flagged as he went up and down the staircase; some mornings he did not go out at all. She discovered that each Sunday he went twice to the little American chapel in the Rue de Bern, and she had seen in his room a small Protestant Bihle. You read that? she asked him when she first saw it. Yes. She leaned forward, her look curious, be- wildered, even awed. And you believe inGod ? Yes. She resumed her former position but she did not remove her eyes from his face and unconsciously she put her hand up to her swelling throat. When at length the sitting was over and she left her chair he was standing before the easel. He turned to her and spoke hesi- tantly. Will you come and look at it? he asked. She went and stood where he bade her and looked. He watched her anxiously while she did so. For the first moment there was amazement in her face, then some mysterious emotion he could not compre- henda dull red crept slowly over brow and cheek. She turned upon him. Monsieur! she cried, passionately. You mock me! It is a bad picture. He fell back a pace, staring at her and suddenly trembling with the shock. A bad picture! he echoed. I mock youI? It is my face, she said, pointing to it, but you have made it what I am not! It is the face of a good womanof a woman who might be a saint! Does not that mock me? He turned to it with a troubled, dreamy look. A STORY OF THE LATIN QUARTER. 27 It is what I have seen in your face, he said in a soft, absent voice. It is a truth to me. It is what I have seen.~ It is what no other has seen, she said. I tell you it mocks me. It need not mock you, he answered. I could not have painted it if I had not felt it. It is yourselfyourself. Myself? she said. Do you think, Monsieur, that the men who have painted me before would know it? She gave it another glance and a shrill laugh burst from her, but the next instant it broke off and ended in another sound. She fell upon her knees by the empty chair, her open hands flung outward, her sobs strang- ling her. He stood quite near her, looking down. I have not thought of anything but my work, he said. Why should I? The following Sunday night the artist Masson met in going down-stairs a closely veiled figure coming up. He knew it and spoke. What, Natalie ? he said. You? One might fancy you had been to church. I have been, she returned in a cold voice, to the church of the Americans, in the Rue de Bern. He shrugged his shoulders. Has it done you good? he asked. No, she answered, and walked past him leaving him to look after her and think the matter over. She went to her own apartment and locked herself in. Having done so, she lighted every candle and lampflooding the place with a garish mockery of bright- ness. She sang as she did ita gay, shrill air from some ojera bouffe. She tore off her dark veil and wrappings. Her eyes and cheeks flamed as if touched by some un- holy fire. She moved with feverish rapidity here and theredragging a rich dress from a trunk, and jewels and laces from their places of safe keeping, and began to attire herself in them. The simple black robe she had worn to the chapel lay on the floor. As she moved to and fro she set her feet upon it again and again, and as she felt it beneath her tread a harsh smile touched her lips. I shall not wear you again, she stopped her song once to say. In half an hour she had made her toi- lette. She stood before her glass, a blaze of color and jewels. For a moment she sang no more. From one of the rooms below there floated up to her sounds of riotous merriment. This is myself, she said; this is no other. She opened her door and ran down the staircase swiftly and lightly. The founder of the feast whose sounds she had heard was a foolish young fellow who adored her madly. He was rich, and wicked, and simple. Because he had heard of her return he had taken an apartment in the house. She heard his voice above the voices of the rest. In a moment she had flung open the door of the salon and stood upon the threshold. At sight of her there arose a rapturous shout of delight. Natalie! Natalie! Welcome! But instantaneously it died away. One second she stood there, brilliant, smiling, defiant. The next, they saw that a mys- terious change had seized upon her. She had become deathly white, and was waving them from her with a wild gesture. I am not coming! she cried, breath- lessly. No! No! No! And the next instant they could only gaze at each others terror-stricken faces, at the place she had left vacantfor she was gone. She went up the stairs blindly and uncer- tainly. When she reached the turn of the fourth floor where the staircase was bare and unlighted, she staggered and sank against the balustrades, her face upturned. I cannot go back, she whispered to the darkness and silence above. Do you hear? I cannot! And it is youyou who restrain me! But there were no traces of her passion in her face when she went to the little studio the next day as usual. When the artist opened the door for her, it struck him that she was calm even to coldness. Instead of sitting down, she went to the easel and stood before it. Monsieur, she said, I have discov- ered where your mistake lies. You have tried to paint what you fancied must once have existed, though it exists no longer. That is your mistake. It has never existed at all. I remember no youth, no child- hood. Life began for me as it will end. It was my fate that it should. I was born in the lowest quarter of Paris. I knew only poverty, brutality, and crime. My beauty simply raised me beyond their power. Where should I gain what you have insisted in bestowing upon me? 28 A STORY OF THE LATIN QUARTER. He simply stood still and looked at her. God knows ! he answered at length. I do not. God! she returned, with her bitter lit- tle laugh. YesGod! Then she went to her place, and said no more. But the next Sunday she was at the American chapel again, and the next, and the next. She could scarcely have told why herself. She did not believe the doc- trines she heard preached, and she did not expect to be converted to belief in them. Often, as the service proceeded, a faint smile of derision curved her lips; but from her seat in the obscure corner she had chosen she could see a thin, dark face and a stooping figure, and could lean back against the wall with a sense of repose. It is quiet here, was her thought. One can be quiet, and that is much. What is the matter with her? the men who knew her began to ask one another. But it was not easy for them to discover how the subtle change they saw had been wrought. They were used to her caprices ~nd to occasional fits of sullenness, but they had never seen her in just such a mood as she was now. She would bear no jests from them, she would not join in their gayeties. Sometimes for days together she shut her- self up in her room and they did not see her at all. The picture progressed but slowly. Some- times the artists hand so trembled with weakness that he could not proceed with his work. More than once Natalie saw the brush suddenly fall from his nerveless fin- gers. He was very weak in these days, and the spot of hectic red glowed brightly on his cheek. I am a poor fellow at best, he would say to her, and now I am at my worst. I am afraid I shall be obliged to rest sooner than I fancied. I wish first I could have finished my work. I must not leave it anfinished. One morning, when he had been obliged to give up painting, through a sudden fit of prostration, on following her to the door, he took her hand and held it a moment. I was awake all last night, he said. Yesterday I saw a poor fellow who had fallen ill on the street, carried into the H8tel Dieu, and the memory clung to me. I began to imagine how it would be if such a thing happened to mewhat I should say when they asked for my friends,how there would be none to send for. And at last, suddenly I thought of you. I said to my- self, I would send for her, and I think she would come. Yes, Monsieur, she answered. You might depend upon my coming.~, I am used to being alone, he went on; but it seemed to me as I lay in the dark thinking it over, that to die alone would be a different matter. One would want some familiar face to look at Monsieur! she burst forth. You speak as if Death were always near you! Do I? he said. And he was silent for a few seconds and looked down at her hand as he held it. Then he dropped it gently with a little sigh. Good-bye, he said, and so they parted. In the afternoon she sat to Masson. How much longer, he said to her in the course of the sitting, how much longer does he mean to livethis American? He has lasted astonishingly. They are wonder- ful fellows, these weaklings who burn them- selves out. One might fancy that the flame which finally destroys them, also kept them alive. Do you then think that he is so very ill ? she asked in a low voice. He will go out, he answered, like a candle. Shall I tell you a secret? She made a gesture of assent. He starves! The concierge who has watched him says he does not buy food enough to keep body and soul together. But how is one to offer him anything? It is easy to see that he would not take it. There was a moment of silence, in which he went on painting. The trouble is, he said at last, that a man would not know how to approach him. It is only women who can do these things. Until the sitting was over neither the one nor the other spoke again. When it was over and Natalie was on the point of leaving the room, Masson looked at her critically. You are pale, he remarked. You are like a ghost. Is it not becoming? she asked. Yes. Then why complain ? She went to her own room and spent half an hour in collecting every valuable she owned. They were not many; she had al- ways been recklessly improvident. She put together in a package her few jewels, and even the laces she considered worth the most. Then she went out, and, taking a facre at the nearest corner, drove away. A STORY OF THE LATIN QUARTER. 29 She was absent two hours, and when she returned she stopped at the entrance, intend- ing to ask the concierge a question. But the man himself spoke first. He was evidently greatly disturbed and not a little alarmed. Mademoiselle, he began, the young man on the sixth floor XVhat of him? she demanded. He desires to see you. He went out in spite of my warnings. Figure to yourself on such a day, in such a state of health. He returned almost immediately, wearing the look of Death itself. He sank upon the first step of the staircase. When I rushed to his assistance he held to his lips a hand- kerchief stained with blood! We were compelled to carry him upstairs. She stood a moment, feeling her throat and lips suddenly became dry and parched. And he askedfor me? she said at last. When he would speak, Mademoiselle yes. We do not know why. He said, in a very faint voice, She said she would come. She went up the staircase slowly and mechanically, as one who moves in a dream. And yet when she reached the door of the studio she was obliged to wait for a few seconds before opening it. When she did open it she saw the attic seemed even more cold and bare than usual; that there was no fire; that the American lay upon the bed, his eyes closed, the hectic spots faded from his cheeks. But when she approached and stood near him, he opened his eyes and looked at her with a faint smile. IfI play youthe poor trick of dying, he said, you will rememberthat the pictureif you care for itis yours. After a while, the doctor, who had been sent for, arrived. Perhaps he had been in no great hurry when he had heard that his services were required by an artist who lay in a garret in the Latin Quarter. His visit was a short one. He asked a few ques- tions, wrote a prescription, and went away. He looked at Natalie oftener than at the sick man. She followed him out on to the landing, and then he regarded her with greater interest than before. He is very ill ? she said. Yes, he answered. He will die, of course, sooner or later. You speak calmly, Monsieur, she said. Such cases are an old story, he replied. Andyou are not his wife? I thought not. Nevertheless, perhaps you will remain with him until As Monsieur says, she returned, I will remain with him until When the sick man awoke from the sleep into which he had fallen, a fire burned in the stove and a womans figure was seated before it. You are here yet? he said faintly. She rose and moved toward him. I am not going away, she answered, if you will permit me to remain. His eyes shone with pathetic brightness, and he put out his hand. You are very kindto a poorweak fellow, he whispered. After allit is a desolate thingto lie awake through the nightin a place like this. When the doctor returned the next morn- ing, he appeared even a shade disconcerted. He had thought it quite likely that, upon his second visit, he might find a scant white sheet drawn over the narrow bed, and that it would not be necessary for him to remain or call again; but it appeared that his patient might require his attention yet a few days longer. You have not left him at all, he said to Natalie. It is easy to see you did not sleep last night. It was true that she had notslept. Through the night she had sat in the dim glow of the fire, scarcely stirring unless some slight sound of movement from the bed attracted her attention. During the first part of the night her charge had seemed to sleep; but as the hours wore on there had been no more rest for him, and then she had known that he lay with his eyes fixed upon her; she had felt their gaze even before she had turned to meet it. Just before the dawn he became restless, and called her to his side. I owe you a heavy debt, he said drear- ily. And I shall leave it unpaid. I wish J wish it was finished. It? she said. The picture, he answered, thepict- ure. Usually he was too weak for speech; but occasionally a fit of restlessness seized upon him, and then it seemed as if he was haunted continually by the memory of his unfinished work. It only needed a few touches, he said once. One day of strength would com- plete itif such a day would but come to me. I know the look so well nowI see it on your face so often. And then he lay watching her, his eyes following her yearn- ingly, as she moved to and fro. In the studios below, the artists waited in 30 A STORY OF THE LATIN QUARTER. vain for their model. They neither saw nor heard anything of her, and they knew her moods too well to be officiously inquisitive. So she was left alone to the task she had chosen, and was faithful to it to the end. It was not so very long it lasted, though to her it seemed a life-time. A few weeks the doctor made his visits, and at last one afternoon, in going away, he beckoned her out of the room. He spoke in an undertone. To-night you may watch closely, he said; perhaps toward morningbut it will be very quiet. It was very quiet. The day had been bitter cold and as it drew to a close it be- came colder still, and a fierce wind rose and whistled about the old house, shaking the ill-fitting windows and doors. But the sick man did not seem to hear it. Toward midnight he fell into a deep and quiet sleep. Before the fire Natalie sat waiting. Now and then a little shudder passed over her as if she could not resist the cold. And yet the fire in the stove was a bright one. She had smiled to herself as she had heaped the coal upon it, seeing that there was so little left. It will last until morning, she said, and that will be long enough. Through all the nights during which she had watched she had never felt the room so still as it seemed now between the gusts and soughing of the wind. Something is in the air which has not been in it before, she said. About one oclock she rose and replen- ished the fire, putting the last fragment of coal upon it and then sat down to watch it again. Its slow kindling and glowing into life fascinated her. It was not long before she could scarcely remove her eyes from it. She was trying to calculatewith a weird fancy in her mindhow long it would last, and whether it would die out suddenly or slowly. As she cowered over it, if one of the men who admired her had entered he might well scarcely have known her. She was hollow-eyed, haggard and pallidfor the time even her great beauty was gone. As he had left her that day, the doctor had said to himself discontentedly that after all these wonderful faces last but a short time. The fire caught at the coal, lighted fitful blazes among it, and crept over it in a dull red, which brightened into hot scarlet. And the sick man lay sleeping, breathing faintly but lightly. It will last until dawn, she said, until dawn, and no longer. When the first cinder dropped with a metallic sound, she started violently and laid her hand upon her breast, but after that she scarcely stirred. The fitftil blazes died down, the hot scar- let deepened to red again, the red grew dull, a gray film of ashes showed itself upon it, and then came the first faint gray of dawn, and she sat with beating heart saying to herself, It will go out soonsuddenly. And the dying man was awake, speaking to her. Come here, he said in a low, clear voice. Come here. She went to him and stood close by the bedside. The moment of her supreme an- guish, had come. But he showed no signs of pain or dread, only there was a little moist- ure upon his forehead and about his mouth. His eyes shone large and bright in the snowy pallor of his face, and when he fixed them upon her she knew he would not move them away. I am gladthat it isfinished, he said. It did not tire me to workas I thought it would. I am gladthat it isfinished. She fell upon her knees. That it is finished ? she said. His smile grew brighter. The picture, he whispered the pict- ure. And then what she had waited for came. There was a moment of silence; the wind outside hushed itself, his lips parted, but no sound came from them, not even a flut- tering breath; his eyes were still fixed upon her face, open, bright, smiling. I may speak now, she cried. I may speak nowsince you cannot hear. I love you! I love you! But there came t6 her ears only one soundthe little grating shudder of the fire as it fell together and was dead. The next morning when they heard that the American had at last fulfilled their prophesies, the Zocataires showed a spas- modic warmth of interest. They offered their services promptly, and said to each other that he must have been a good fellow, after allthat it was a pity they had not known him better. They even protested that he should not be made an object of charitythat among themselves they would do all that was necessary. But it appeared that their help was not neededthat there A STORY OF THE LATIN QUARTER. 3 was in the background a friend who had done all, but whom nobody knew. Hearing this they expressed their sym- pathy by going up by twos and threes to the little garret where there was now only icy coldness and silence. Not a few among them were so far touched by the pathos they found in this as to shed a tear or somost of them were volatile young Frenchmen who counted their sensibilities among their luxuries. Toward evening there came two older than the rest, who had not been long in the house. When they entered a woman stood at the beds heada woman in black drapery, with a pale and haggard face which they saw only for a moment. As they approached she moved away and going to the window stood there with her back toward them, gazing out at the drifted snow upon the roof. The men stood uncovered, looking down. It is the face of an Immortal, said the elder of the two. It is such men who die young.~~ And then they saw the easel in the shadow of the corner and went and turned it from the wall. When they saw the picture rest- ing upon it, there was a long silence. It was broken at last by the older man. It is some woman he has known and loved, he said. He has painted her soul and his own. The figure near them stirredthe wom- ans hand crept up to the windows side and clung to the wooden frame. But she did not turn, and was standing so when the strangers moved away, opened the door and passed, with heads still uncov- ered, down the dark rickety stairs. A fiercer cold had never frozen Paris than held it ice and snow bound through this day and the next. When the next came to its close all was over and the studios were quiet againperhaps a little quieter for a few hours than was their wont. Through this second day Natalie lived slowly: through the first part of the morn- ing in which people went heavily up and down the stairs; through the later hours when she heard them whispering among themselves upon the landings; through the hour when the footsteps that came down were heavier still, and slower and impeded with some burden borne with care; through the moment when they rested with this bur- den upon the landing outside her very door, and inside she crouched against the panels listening. Then it was all done, and upon those up- per floors there was no creature but herself. She had lighted no fire and eaten noth- ing. She had neither food, fuel, nor money. All was gone. It is well, she said, that I am not hungry, and that I would rather be colder than warmer.~~ She did not wish for warmth, even when night fell and brought more biting iciness. She sat by her window in the dark until the moon rose, and though shudders shook her from head to foot, she made no effort to gain warmth. She heard but few sounds from below, but she waited until all was still before she left her place. But at midnight perfect silence had set- tled upon the house, and she got up and left her room, leaving the key unturned in the lock. To-morrow, or the day after, perhaps, she said, they will wish to go in. Then she went up the stairs for the last time. Since she had heard the heavy feet lum- bering with their burden past her door a singular calm had settled upon her. it was not apathy so much as a repose born of the knowledge that there was nothing more to bearno future to be feared. But when she opened the door of the lit- tle room this calmness was for a moment lost. It was so cold, so still, so bare in the moonlight which streamed through the win- dow and flooded it. There were left in it only two thingsthe narrow, vacant bed covered with its white sheet, and the easel on which the picture rested, gazing out at her from the canvas with serene, mysterious eyes. She staggered forward and sank down before it, uttering a low, terrible cry. Do not reproach me I she cried. There is no longer need. Do you not see ? This is my expiation! For a while there was dead silence again. She crouched before the easel with bowed head and her face veiled upon her arms, making no stir or sound. But at length she rose again, numbly and stiffly. She stood up and glanced slowly about herat the bareness, at the moonlight, at the nar- now, white-draped bed. It will bevery cold, she whispered as she moved toward the door. It will be very cold. And then the little room was empty, and the face upon the easel turned toward the 32 A DAY ON THE DOCKS. entrance seemed to listen to her stealthily descending feet. The next morning, the two artists who had visited the dead mans room together, were walkingtogether againupon the banks of the Seine, when they found them- selves drawing near a crowd of men and women who were gathered at the waters edge. What has happened? they asked as they approached the group. What has been found? A cheerful fellow in a blue blouse, stand- ing with his hands in his pockets, answered. A woman. M~ foil what a night to drown oneself in! Imagine the discom- fort! The older man pushed his way into the cent& r, and a moment later uttered an ex~ clamation. A/on Dieu I What is it? cried his companion. His friend turned to him, breathlessly pointing to what lay upon the frozen earth. We asked each other who the original of the picture was, he said. We did not know. The face lies there. Look! For that which Life had denied her, Death had given. THE night was almost gone. Not a star appeared, for the sky was black with clouds steeped in the gloom of night. A cold wind pierced me like a knife as I looked up and down the deserted wharves. Scarcely a soundscarcely a human tread where the busiest throngs of all the great city surge in their daily ebb and flood. A deep groan shook the air; and a great wraith of steam arose from the river, floated over the low sheds along the docks, and came over the street. As the specter looked down on the glare of gas it flushed faintly, then disap- peared in the sky. Beyond the brilliant sheds of Washington Market the river was a black expanse peopled with black ships; neither ships nor river could be seen but their presence was felt through their gloom. The opposite shore of Jersey City showed a long belt of lights, like a zone of stars scattered along the horizon. I turned again to the street and the strange life about me. This scene began my walk along the docks of New York. I started here, at Washing- ton Market, because the day of the city first begins here, at night, and its scale of social life begins here at the lowest degree. Higher types are not wanting. For this water-front is the beach of a great sea of humanity. Toil- ers and idlers, drift and treasure, blooming youth and cold cadavers, all are found in this surging surf of human life. I penetrated still farther into the market, where it was thronged with butchers and grocers buying Sunday dinners for two millions of mouths. Wagons filled the narrow alleys half covered by low, projecting roofs and awnings. Some of the A DAY ON THE DOCKS. open stalls were hung full of crimson and yellow meat; others were piled up with green vegetables; and some were decked with turkeys, ducks and other game. The wagons, too, were heaped with these con- trasted colors. The market-men were strong, ruddy fig- ures, plump and comfortable in their long frocks. They rushed about in every direc- tion among the wagons and stalls, one hug- ging a carcass of mutton, another struggling under a quarter of beeg and others plying hammer and adz while boxes and barrels were trucked about. Geese and men screamed and shouted, horses began to strike fire from their feet, the wagons moved, the alleys became a stream of meats and fruits, and the Sunday dinners started on their cheerful errands. And the whole scene of turmoil glowed like a magic world, dim in form yet intensely vivid, just under the blackness of night. Then some of the mar- ket-men began to depart, and I fancied they had a nipping and an eager air. So I fol- lowed them, and soon entered a large and elegant restaurant near by. The shining marble and mirrors, the glare of gas-lights, the warm air and the savory smells were certainly very welcome. The chairs were well filled with visible appetites in gray frocks and slouch hats. Broad, smooth, ruddy faces appeared through the columns of steam from plates. They were indeed a stag partyheavy, healthy and hearty; and the whole scene was imbued with the sentiment of feed. When I returned to the street, day-break had come. The heavens wore a gray veil

Charles H. Farnham Farnham, Charles H. A Day on the Docks 32-47

32 A DAY ON THE DOCKS. entrance seemed to listen to her stealthily descending feet. The next morning, the two artists who had visited the dead mans room together, were walkingtogether againupon the banks of the Seine, when they found them- selves drawing near a crowd of men and women who were gathered at the waters edge. What has happened? they asked as they approached the group. What has been found? A cheerful fellow in a blue blouse, stand- ing with his hands in his pockets, answered. A woman. M~ foil what a night to drown oneself in! Imagine the discom- fort! The older man pushed his way into the cent& r, and a moment later uttered an ex~ clamation. A/on Dieu I What is it? cried his companion. His friend turned to him, breathlessly pointing to what lay upon the frozen earth. We asked each other who the original of the picture was, he said. We did not know. The face lies there. Look! For that which Life had denied her, Death had given. THE night was almost gone. Not a star appeared, for the sky was black with clouds steeped in the gloom of night. A cold wind pierced me like a knife as I looked up and down the deserted wharves. Scarcely a soundscarcely a human tread where the busiest throngs of all the great city surge in their daily ebb and flood. A deep groan shook the air; and a great wraith of steam arose from the river, floated over the low sheds along the docks, and came over the street. As the specter looked down on the glare of gas it flushed faintly, then disap- peared in the sky. Beyond the brilliant sheds of Washington Market the river was a black expanse peopled with black ships; neither ships nor river could be seen but their presence was felt through their gloom. The opposite shore of Jersey City showed a long belt of lights, like a zone of stars scattered along the horizon. I turned again to the street and the strange life about me. This scene began my walk along the docks of New York. I started here, at Washing- ton Market, because the day of the city first begins here, at night, and its scale of social life begins here at the lowest degree. Higher types are not wanting. For this water-front is the beach of a great sea of humanity. Toil- ers and idlers, drift and treasure, blooming youth and cold cadavers, all are found in this surging surf of human life. I penetrated still farther into the market, where it was thronged with butchers and grocers buying Sunday dinners for two millions of mouths. Wagons filled the narrow alleys half covered by low, projecting roofs and awnings. Some of the A DAY ON THE DOCKS. open stalls were hung full of crimson and yellow meat; others were piled up with green vegetables; and some were decked with turkeys, ducks and other game. The wagons, too, were heaped with these con- trasted colors. The market-men were strong, ruddy fig- ures, plump and comfortable in their long frocks. They rushed about in every direc- tion among the wagons and stalls, one hug- ging a carcass of mutton, another struggling under a quarter of beeg and others plying hammer and adz while boxes and barrels were trucked about. Geese and men screamed and shouted, horses began to strike fire from their feet, the wagons moved, the alleys became a stream of meats and fruits, and the Sunday dinners started on their cheerful errands. And the whole scene of turmoil glowed like a magic world, dim in form yet intensely vivid, just under the blackness of night. Then some of the mar- ket-men began to depart, and I fancied they had a nipping and an eager air. So I fol- lowed them, and soon entered a large and elegant restaurant near by. The shining marble and mirrors, the glare of gas-lights, the warm air and the savory smells were certainly very welcome. The chairs were well filled with visible appetites in gray frocks and slouch hats. Broad, smooth, ruddy faces appeared through the columns of steam from plates. They were indeed a stag partyheavy, healthy and hearty; and the whole scene was imbued with the sentiment of feed. When I returned to the street, day-break had come. The heavens wore a gray veil A DAY ON THE DOCKS. 33 through which the day struggled and at last looked down on the city. The irregular front of roofs, and the still more irregular sheds over the piers, appeared dimly far up and down West street. The gas-lights paled; the colors faded; and the city put on its common dress of dirty gray. The plan of my walk was to begin at West Thirty-fourth street, pass down the west side of the city to the Battery, and then up the east side to the Dry Docks. This route includes all the chief objects of interest on fhe wharves, and presents them in the. order of their succession, as a visitor will naturally find them. Having done, then, with the ei~rliest scene on the docks,the opening of Washington Market,J jumped on a car to ride up town to begin the regular tour of the water-front. As I surveyed the scene VOL. XVIJJ.3. in a general way from the front platform of the car, it seemed disgusting to every sense. We sailed through a canal of filth, fetlock deep with black mud. Moreover, there was scarcely an attractive object in the whole view. The air throbbed with loud cries, here and there a hoarse curse, and the gen- eral bedlam of low life. New York is bordered with rat-holes and rotten cribs, gin-mills and junk-shops. As you survey these superficial features you wonder that anything good should exist within such vile borders. A sensible savage would suggest that the water-front of a sea-port should be occupied by warehouses, large docks, in- dustries connected with ship-building and other conveniences for maritime trade. But New York is neither savage nor sensible; and the miserable houses on our water- AMONG THE FIGURE-HEADS. 34 A DAY ON THE DOCKS. front are given up to every kind of trumpery retail trade. The structures on the docks are no better. Most of the piers are un- covered, an unfOrtunate circumstance in this inclement climate. Only here and there a shed covers a wharf and shelters the traffic of a ferry or an ocean steamer. The piers themselves are disgraceful. A few piles are driven in the mud, timbers are laid over them, and planks are spiked over these. When they have rotted sufficiently, these piers are offered by the city to the commerce of the world at exorbitant rents. They are too narrow even for the circulation of a junk-cart. The wonder is that a respecta- ble ship will submit to be delivered in such a berth. Nevertheless, this unsightly, danger- ous, and inconvenient water-front of New York offers very interesting studies. It is full of striking industries, that show by some astonishing feats, what strength, skill, and endurance men develop under the high pressure of commerce. It offers some of the most curious scenes of a great citys life, for it is the daily path of every kind of peo- ple, and it is crowded with the products of all nations. In short, the docks are a great panorama o( human life, filled with its toils, pleasures, and miseries, and enlivened with the most picturesque aspects of human nature. The industrial features of the water-front are quite as interesting as the more pictur- esque scenes; and they began at once to impress me with the remarkable amount of labor man performs here with the aid of his inventions, with the enormous propor- tions of every commodity and every industry, and with the extraordinary skill and endur- ance developed in individuals. I came at once to examples in point at the foot of Thirty- fourth street, the beginning of our walk. The great, useless Manhattan Market was the single exception to general activity. It was empty, quiet as a cathedral, and even more spacious. The market-scene contained two Sisters of Charity, pacing silently over the pavement to a solitary butchers stall. The roof resounfded with the twittering of sparrows flying among the net-work of iron braces. The pier, however, was a busy scene, with five brigs from Prince Edwards Island unloading that day 4o,ooo bushels of potatoes, and with lines of men tossing cab- bages from canal-boats in the slip to wagons on the pier. Then I entered the grain ele- vator and mill, a humming hive of industry, a great cavern, dimly lighted, and obscured by mists of flour. Three men were at a weighing machine under a grain spout; one was weighing, one was bagging, and another was tying up fifteen sacks of oats per min- ute and delivering them to a wagon below. Further up among the shadows, the mists, and the whirling shafts, I saw a solitary man with his hands on another apparatus, by which he screened, weighed, and put in a bin, 5,000 bushels of grain per hour. Then I climbed down among the shafts and great timbers to the street, and resumed my way southward. I soon came to a coal-yard, where two bulky fellows in the hold of a canal-boat were shoveling coal into the ele- vating buckets. They wore only boots, trowsers, and an undershirt without sleeves. Their great arms, strong necks, and manly, though heavy, faces, were all black and grimy with coal-dust and sweat. They shovel 200 long tons of coal per day. Farther on was a man working in a lumber-yard containing $300,000 worth of choice lumber. He could pile 30,000 feet of green lumber in a day. Beyond this were some ice-wagons loading from barges at the dock; in sum- mer they will cart away 20,000 tons per week, and distribute it all over the city and the suburbs, in quantities from ten pounds to joo tons per day in a place. There are the iron-works, a great, shadowy cavern, with here and there a fire in its gloom, steam- giants groaning and striking blows that shake the earth, and men coming from dark cor- ners to the forges and glowing at their toil like fiery demons. There is the cotton-press, a monster whose jaws close on a bale with a pressure of i,ooo tons, compress it to the thin- ness of one foot, and thus prepare 70 bales per. hour for shipping to Europe. There is the wood-yard, where a saw and a knife cut and split four cords of wood per hour, besides other industries on the walk, too many to be described. But another aspect, also, of city life is presented in this part of the Wharves. A mile or more of the shore below Thirty- fourth street is occupied chiefly by lumber- yards. The region is known among a certain class as Timber Town Hotel. This exten- sive establishment is a summer resort for the vagabonds of the city. It is what the French would call an H6tel meuble, since it offers only beds. And yet it is full of lodgers every night from April till November. All the human experiences, from birth to mar- riage and death, literally transpire under its spacious roof. Sunday toilets are performed at the hydrant, with such odd bits of mirror, combs, and ribbons as the gutter may have A DA Y ON THE DOCKS. 35 A COTTON PRESS. yielded. Then the independent guests de- And at night they return to the hospitality of part for their days excursion, without paying misery. The bulletins of the hotel were their bills or caring even to close the door. filled with notices announcing a reward of 36 A DAY ON THE DOCKS. $50 for the recovery of several tierces of lard stolen from a neighboring warehouse. Some years ago this front was infested with gangs of thieves and smugglers. But they have moved away, some to municipal offices of trust and emolument, others to subordinate positions in certain state institutions; and Thirteenth avenue is now a quiet lumber region. The walk has brought us down to West Eleventh street, where you leave the quieter docks devoted to the bulky commodities of grain, lumber, iron, and ice, and enter the bus- tle of the great sea-port. Here begins the beach of humanity, and it extends for miles, all around the lower half of the city. Long lines of men and teams surge up and down, farther than the eye can see or the ear can hear their busy march. And along the piers lie fleets of ships from every quarter of the globe. Thescene, as a whole, is grand; too large, too full of intense activity, too vivid with all the colors of human life, for any one to grasp or portray. The first object met here is the oyster market. It is a long block of two-storied sheds built on boats. Little verandas and arched windows under the projecting roofs give them a tasty look. Broad gang-planks, leading up from the boats to the wharf, form the sidewalk. In and their oyster-beds. Other men, with their bands in their pockets, lean against the buildings and chew their quids, while keep- ing a weather eye on the crowded street. Here and there a wharf loafer overhauls a pile of refuse shells and cullings, to find a few rejected oysters. Inside the boat is a row of twenty busy men, seated along one side. Each sits on a low stool, and spreads his knees wide apart, on each side of a pile of oysters and an upright iron bar. A pail of water for washing, a pail for the oysters, and a basket for sbells, stand before him. He catches up an oyster, lays its edge on the iron bar, and knocks off a chip of the shells with his short, heavy knife; then be pries open the shells, and in a twinkling takes the slippery tenant between his thumb and the blade and tosses it into the pail. The men are grimy, silent, deft, and quick at their work; and they must be attentive to open 6,ooo oysters each in a day. 30,000 barrels a year are sold in this house, and about 2,500,000 barrels in the entire city. The slip in the rear of the market is filled with pretty sloops. The place is a net-work of masts and rig- ging, with here and there a basket hoisted by a tackle, and a sail hanging in shaded folds. Men are going from boat to boat, and some are coming over gang-planks to the market, with baskets on their shoulders. A ped- dler of bright mittens and socks is trading with a black cook in a cabin gang- way; and on another boat the head and shoulders of a woman and a child ap- pear above deck. The sun shines on them all, and here and there flashes up from the bits of xvater be- tween the sloops. Ocean steamers occupy several consecutive piers below Tenth street and give their locality a distinctive character. I went on hoard one of the shipsand looked down her hold, four stories deep. It was all dirty and disordered with barrels, cases, lumber. The donkey engines were rattling, tackles were running, officers were whistling, gesticulating, and hallooing up and down the hold. A gang of men were labor- ing below to get a great log of mahogany out with the tackle. Another hold was like an ants hillswarming with men loading sacks FLOATING ELEVATOR TRANSFERRING GRAIN FROM A CANAL-BOAT TO AN OCEAN STEAMER. front are wagons loading with baskets of oysters, carts taking away heaps of shells, and piles of barrels, kegs, and baskets stand- ing about the doors. The place smells of the salt sea, and the characters idling about are from the sea-shore. Skippers in blue pea-jackets discuss the merits of their crafts A DAY ON THE J900KS. 37 of grain. An elevator alongside raised the sons, from occupying any permanent abode. grain from a canal-boat, and then sent it down They are the wandering owls, hawks, and a spout pouring two six-inch streams of foxes of the population; they prey by day wheat. A man opened and closed the valves and night on the rest of creation, and hide of the spout while two adjusted the sacks in the dens along this water-front. This under it; four sewed up the bags as fast as region of the ocean steamers is their chief they were filled at the rate of about eight per minute. Sometimes a ship arrives so late that only three days are allowed for the work. 3,000 tons of freight are to be taken out, and as much put in, besides her coal. 200 men are set to work in her; she swarms and buzzes night and day like a hive. Every hatchway and port-hole is giving or taking some kind of package, from a steam-engine to a log of wood. But the men work me- thodically, under the direction of skillful ste- vedores, and steam does the hoisting; so at the appointed time she is ready again for sea. The population of the wharves is wonder- fully varied. In fact, if all who use them be included in the estimate it xvill embrace parts of the whole human family. Drift from every nation comes to this beach; and men, women and children from every field of life come and go in this restless tide of humanity. Some classes, of course, have a connection with the wharves more permanent than that of a passenger; such are the various artisans connected with shipping, the merchants whose wares come chiefly by water, and other men established in the houses along West and South streets. But one of the most interesting classes refrain, for obvious rea lurking-place. My interest in these thieves, wharf-rats, smugglers and their kind, led me to engage one of the steamboat squad of police to row me about for a view of the life and scenery under the wharves. We embark- ed at Charlton street in a small boat, suitable for entering narrow passages, and commenced our explorations at low tide. We picked a passage among canal-boats and lighters filling the slip, and finally reached the open water to pull up the river a few blocks. Fortunately, the day was bright, though cool, so we had a good light for our subterranean voyage. The officer talked freely of his experiences: You see, sir, there are two kinds of water- men, as there are of landmen,honest and dishonest ones. And besides these, there is a third kind, the negotiator between the thief and the honest man. There is one, now, rowing around that pier. He is a licensed junkman; he holds a license for run- ning a boat and buying and selling old refuse articles of any kinda kind of water- ragman. Well, these fellows sell a great deal more than they buy; and what they buy was ofren neither bought nor earned, but stolen by the wharf thieves. But they have a license and that shields them. A SECTIONAL DOCK. 38 A DAY ON THE DOCKS. As the man rowed by us in his dirty brown boat, with a large pile of old ropes in the stern sheets, the officer hailed him. Well, Jerry, youve made quite a haul. It cost something, I suppose? queried the officer, significantly. Yes, sir, said the man with a sly smile on his averted face as he rested on his oars. It cost enough. But it was your own price, Ill bet. Anything new going on? Well, no; not much. Only the Doc- tor was caught nappin by a flat last night, and his plant was dug up. I guess hell garden somewhere else now. When we had parted the officer resumed: Perhaps you dont understand his lingo. He meant that one of the wharf-rats, called the Doctor, had been arrested last night by a policeman and that his plant, or his plunder, planted or hidden away, had been found. He thinks the Doctor will have to cultivate a patch at Sing Sing. The view of the piers from the water is singularly out of keeping with the grandeur of the city, or with the commercial activity at their inner end along West street. If it were not for the dignity of the great harbor and the vast collection of fine ships, the city front would be contemptible. The docks are a tattered, dirty fringe to the city. They are of all widths that are too narrow, of all lengths too short; a few are covered with sheds, but the most are bare piers on open cribs of spiles and braces. Scarcely any life is seen on the pier-heads; they seem deserted country docks, waiting to receive some in- land steamboat. The activity is on the streets, and inside of the piers, or on the water, covered with steam-tugs and ferry-boats. But I forgot the piers in the presence of the great ocean steamers, whose grandeur and beauty are very impres- sive when seen from a little boat. We soon turned under the pier of the Christopher street ferry and left the sunshine for shad- ows, among long rows of piles sprinkled with barnacles, and under a low, level roof of heavy stringers, braces, and planks. At last we came to a large square structure, like a flat-boat, floating on the water and supporting one end of the ferry bridge. Between the top or deck of the float and the bridge there is a large space. This, said the officer, is one of the best hiding-places they haveon top of this float. Sometimes they cut a hole in the planks and then use the inside of the float for a store-room. It is protected from rain by the ferry-house, and it is safe from the tide, because the float always floats above the waves. The tramping of the passengers overhead drowns any noise these men make in operating down here, and they can live in safety here till discovered by some boat- ing expedition. The passengers overhead dont imagine that they walk over a rob- bers cave, hut some strange things are done under ground as well as over it. We lately found $3,700 worth of velvets and silks on such a ferry-float in Jersey City. They get such goods from the European steamers, where the people often aid them in smug- gling. Men on the ships drop overboard packages of cigars or other valuables, and they generally fall in one of these boats of thieves. Sometimes a private watchman on a dock accepts an invitation to the neigh- borin.g saloon, and leaves the pier long enough for the purposes intended. Some- times the thief saws part of a plank out from under a pile of goods and then fills his boat; or he bores an auger-hole up till he taps a barrel of liquor, and runs it into his own cask. They have a thousand tricks of the kind. One of us lately heard a man working at a pile of fruit. He soon filled his boat under a hole in the planking and then started away; but just as he came out from under the pier, the officer above dropped a slip-noose over his head and hauled him up to the dock, and that thief was about as much surprised as any man you ever saw.~~ We resumed our voyage, passing under pier after pier, picking our way through the. intervening slips filled with various craft, or prowling under West street, where it is built over the water on piles. This under side of the city is a shadowy world even at high noon, and its structure, as well as its seclusion, makes it as good as a forest for hiding. The piles stand in rows running across the pier, a stringer or heavy timber lies on top of each row, joists lie across the stringers, and planks cover the whole. Thus between the top of each stringer and the planks there is quite a space, where boxes and bundles can be hidden. The under side of a pier can hold a good sloop- load of packages, and a box on a stringer is invisible to any one passing under the pier, unless he passes very close to it. There are many miles of piers about the city, and each pier has a great quantity of stringers. So here is a vast region of secrecy right under the busiest part of New York. Many of the piers are supported on such a dense A DAY ON THE DOCKS. 39 forest of spiles that only the smallest skiff can pass through the narrow, tortuous open- ings. Formerly the thieves had a channel of this kind from one end of the city to the other, by which they could travel nearly the whole distance without showing themselves. You see, sir, here are plenty of chances to hide. These cribs of beams and spiles, mouths of sewers, odd holes here and there along the rocky shores, and all of it covered over from daylight, and some of it almost inaccessible,all that you would think is enough for any set of thieves. But it is not; for we follow them up and clean out their holes. They find new places now and then. Once we discovered a lot of hardware and tools hidden under the guards and in the paddle-box of a steamboat that was laid up for the winter. Many things they hide under water, such as spelter and other met- als. It is almost impossible to discover these plants; but sometimes we hit on them by chance. Once, a man who had been loafing about the deck of one of the Troy steamboats threw overboard a valua- ble hawser, and then plunged overboard himself before anybody could catch him, although the boat and the wharf were full of people. Both the hawser and the man fell into a skiff alongside the steamboat and disappeared under the pier. He had the start, and of course escaped before any of us could get a boat and follow him. But we heard of him afterward under a certain pier, and we went there to look for the rope. We dredged between the piles for three days, and by good luck hooked up the hawser. These men sometimes get their deserts with- out any of our help. One of them who had stolen a boat-load of pig-iron, ran under Pier 49 to hide. That pier had a shaft and gearing under it for hoisting ice. He hitched his boat, and then climbed up near the shaft; the gearing caught his clothes, and we found him in pieces scat- tered over his boat. Wharf-thieves used to be more successful than they are now; they were organized in regular gangs. But we have broken them up, scattered them, and driven the most of them away from the docks. Still darker scenes might be recorded of this under side of the docks. The actors appear first in the citys brighter haunts of pleasure, or in its miserable dens of want and crime. Then they wander in the streets alone; and gradually but surely stray to the water. Night is around them, in them. The city behind them sparkles with life. But it cannot penetrate their night, nor light their dark passage under these waves to the morgue. We came at last to the slip of the oyster market, picked our way among sloops and lighters, and passed under the crooked pier at the foot of West Tenth street. Here we followed a long, narrow passage between the back of the new sea-wall on the right and rows of spiles on the left. The faint light shone through the forest of spiles and lighted a dismal, slimy cavern, bounded by the green ledges of the wall, the rocky shore full of dens and holes, and the heavy timbers close overhead. Large rats stared at us from the beams, sewers vomited filth and the water and the air were unendurably loathsome. This is known as Hells kitchen. It may seem incredible that any free man should choose such a place for his abode; yet where could a criminal find more congenial gloom? We found a home in Hells kitchen, but the host was not visible. A few boards lay across three stringers, and a bed on these was made of a heap of rags and papers from the gutter. A few vials of medicine completed the picture of utter misery with suggestions of sickness and death. When at last I disembarked, I was glad to walk again in the sunshine and feel the presence of honest life and indus- try on the docks. The docks are a danger- ous region for the unwary stranger. Here the most expert of all thievesthe confi- dence-manmeets him as he lands, and commences one of those games so plausible while they are played, so absurd when they are over. Even well-read school-teachers and prominent business men of this very smart city are among the victims. The fox will probably always catch the goose; and doubtless this is better than for all of us to be either foxes or geese. Besides this cunning class, the docks have many ordi- nary thieves who depend more on their heels and hands. The wharves are the general market of the city, where every kind of produce is landed and kept until bought and stored in shops or houses. Of course, it is impracticable to guard thoroughly such a long line of merchandise; and the irregu- lar, nook-and-corner structures along the docks offer abundant shelter for prowlers. There is a man for every place in this world; so the docks are full of irregular, nook-and- corner men, preying on every kind of produce landed on the wharves. There are little children picking up pieces of coal in their caps and aprons; women with baskets, loi 40 A DAY ON THE DOCKS. tering about the market sheds to pick up potatoes or onions that may roll from a barrel; men overhauling heaps of rubbish for a stray bit of food; and a great many loafing about, and waiting for any opportu- nity to take or accept anything in the world. Some of these are organized in gangs and accomplish quite important re- sults. The cotton thieves, for example, 7/ operate with much daring and success. A squad of boys, with sheath-knives in their sleeves, steal up to the side of a truck-load of cotton, cut open the bales, pull out arm- fuls of cotton and escape to their nooks and corners. If they are noticed and molested, a squad of men join, ostensibly, in the charge or pursuit, but to really defeat the capture of the rascals. As I walked along southward I was jostled by a continuous stream of men, of wonderful diversity, of every shade of clean- liness, honesty, industry, and intelligence. In fact, every species seemed to be repre- sented; some labeled by their ragged coats, and others mislabeled in the same way. At last I came on a crowd of peculiar aspect at the corner of Spring street. It was a hun- dred or more longshoremen, standing in two parallel lines, between which two of them were competing for drinks at hop- skip-and-jump. They were ragged and dirty; they were heavy, lifeless, and even monotonous in various shades of ignorance. They waited for the jumping; yet when the contestants bounded between them they scarcely moved with interest. But presently a dark man with an important air walked up the pier, and stopped in front of me in the street. His movements were closely watched by the longshoremen; and when he came to a halt there, they all hurried over to my corner, and forming a line on the curb- stone, bent all their attention on this man from the pier. He was a stevedore seeking a few more hands to help unload one of the steamers. He looked gravely and slowly up and down the line, and finally nodded to one of the men, who then left the ranks and walked toward the ship. The rest stood motionless, and kept their eyes fixed on those of the stevedore, while they silently chewed their quids with the vigor of expectation. They seemed subjected to the severest dis- cipline. When a dozen men had been selected, the stevedore turned to follow them Iv ~ SHIP-CHANDLERY. A DAY ON THE DOCKS. 43~ to the ship. The rest of the crowd broke up into groups of loungers leaning against the wall, and relapsed into their habitual stolidity and inertia. The day was cool, so they kept up a perpetual yet aimless movement of big feet; still they had not the wit to but- ton their coats. They stood about aim- lessly, hopelessly, uncomfortably; they smoked and kept their hands in their pock- ets. One after another broke out in a new key of brogue with inane inflections, and then re- lapsed into empty silence. Altogether they are a very singular class,apparently without wickedness proportioned to their physical brutality; without thrift or intelligence; without purpose, and without any appar- ent knowledge or hope of better things. A livelier scene was in action on the pier opposite, where the Southern steam- ers land their cargoes of cotton. Hun- dreds of hales cov- ered the quay, and men were loading them upon trucks that drove up every few minutes. The hales weigh about ~oo pounds each, yet I saw two negroes put fourteen of them, or 7,000 pounds, from the ground upon a wagon in nine minutes. It was a treat to watch their sinewy arms and strong backs as they tossed the bales about with apparent ease. West street contracts to its original mean- ness below Canal street. The general view here is of a narrow street crowded with C5CA& /~. ~ - - ~ J J - DERRICK AND DREDGING EDAT. 42 A DAY ON THE DOCKS. A GARBAGE DUMP. trucks and horse-cars moving slowly. The docks for river craft in this vicinity and farther south are a busy place, even at night, in the early summer; for then large quantities of fruit, and other per- ishable articles, arrive every day. They must be delivered to the commission mer- chants and market men before daylight, to be ready for sale in the early morning. Wagons begin to arrive about midnight; the piers are soon crowded with vehicles, and with men working at the top of their speed in unloading boats and loading wag- ons. It is a bedlam of boxes, baskets, and barrels, lighted with lanterns. By sunrise the berries and peaches have been bought by grocers; they are at once carted up town, and exposed for sale before breakfast. The railroad freight depots on the docks are also busy centers for man and beast. The front of the low shed is covered with the names of distant cities and states. The approach to it is filled with teams from all parts of the city with all kinds of merchan- dise in cases and barrels. Within the wide opening are seen piles of boxes; also little cabins, near the front, with a platform scale on each side, and men signing receipts, marking cases, and calling out weights and addresses. Behind these are lines of men going and coming with truck-loads of freight. They pass to the rear and over a gang- plank on to a barge carrying ten freight cars. When the cars are loaded the barge is towed across the river, where they are run on to the railroad and sent to the dis- tant cities and states named on the front of this freight depot. This is one of the most important industries of the docks. One com- pany sends and receives 20,000 cars a year; it em- ploys sixty men to handle the freight, and twenty- eight clerks for the systematic booking of every package in its r~o,ooo tons of mer- chandise. In the midst of all this commercial wealth, we meet another side of life at the garbage- dump. The pier is built quite high, that the carts may rise above the heap of refuse on the deck of the lighter even at high tide. The space just under the floor of the pier, between the rows of piles, is inclosed with old planks, and divided into several rooms, one for storing bones, one for tin-cans and old metal, one for old boots and shoes, and one for rags. At one dump a room is fitted up for living. The planks are lined with refuse pieces of oil-cloth, then a layer of carpet is spread all around; more oil-cloth is tacked on, and finally the walls are pa- pered and the floors carpeted with more refuse pieces. The room is warm and in- habitable even there under the dock, and but a foot above spring tide. But the whole scene is extremely repulsive, although the business is quite profitable. The city hires a trimmer to trim or pile the loads on the lighter. He lets out this work to two or three Italians for one-half of the pickings, and now and then visits his dump, dressed in broadcloth, kids, and diamonds. The Italians sell the bones, metal, rags, and boots to peddlers, and thus make from $12 to $20 per week. The watchman on the pier told me that they live chiefly on the garhage, that they save enough money in a few years to go home as a count and spree it a while, and then return from sunny Italy to claw over the garbage of New York. A DAY ON THE DOCKS. 43 A SIDEWALK RESTAURANT. Now and then they allow their wives and sweethearts to come from Baxter street and help pick. Then the garbage pile is covered with a picturesque company of grimy and ragged figures eagerly snatching refuse in a cloud of offal dust. It is a strange phase of life. They have their social distinc- tions, too, for the cartmen who collect the refuse consider themselves immeasurably superior to the pickers. And certainly they have, at least, the advantage of an honest and hard-working horse. But I was loitering too long on the many details of this west side of the city, so I pushed on south ward again to Washington Market. It is a q~iaint little village of low sheds, very narrow alleys, and very small blocks,all on the pier-side of the street. But as I had seen it in its more picturesque aspect of night, I did not enter it now. One of its queerest nooks, however, a sidewalk restaurant on a street corner, attracted me, and I walked, or rather, in one stride stepped, into the midst of it and called for a cup of coffee. The place is five feet wide and twelve long on the ground, though of no exact di- ii mensions on the ceiling. For it is the space under an outside, flight of stairs, inclosed with glass and boards. It rents at $540 per year. A shelf on each side of the en- trance serves as a table where two men can sit on stools. Mine host is a plump, pomp- ous German with the taciturn and important air of a public functionary. Such is the run of custom, and such are the customers, that he keeps his place open night and day. After drinking my coffee, I continued my walk, past more freight depots, more ferries, more shipping, to the end of this western side of the city at the Battery. The Battery is the only oasis of the docks. This little park on the southern point of the island is very welcome after miles of dirty 44 A DAY ON THE DOCKS. bustling wharves. The granite sea-wall and is one of the oldest parts of the docks. The the clean walks are such a contrast to the view up the wedge-shape street is quite rickety and disgraceful piers! One is almost picturesque, with the converging rows of ready to despise the prudence and economy old houses, and here and there a dormer- that limited such work to the Battery-front, window above the pinched and faded fronts. and to one stone pier. I rested a moment in The elevated railroad is a surprise in this this delightful retreat, while the distant roar picture of the past. What amazement it of the city came from behind me through would have caused if it had been dropped the trees, and mingled with the softer splash into the place a hundred years ago! One of waves. The bay stretches away in front, can imagine the wigs and night-caps thrust SAILORS CHAPEL showing cities on every shore, islands, busy out of the little windows. The finest ferries and steamers puffing about, and view of ships in the port of New York fleets of great ships from the sea. It is the is just east of Coenties Slip. For several meeting-point of two worlds,the commerce blocks one side of the street is a row of of the continent and the trade of the ocean; high bows at the edge of the docks. Bow- yet it is a quiet nook, where your dreams sprits run in over the wagons and the traffic are quickened, not broken, by the distant of the street, and beyond these masts and whistle of the locomotive, thg strokes of the rigging make a forest. The vessels are all ships bell, the roar of the city, and the mur- noble clippers, pressing close to the city. mur of the ocean. You can put your hand on their anchors, The rush of commercial life met me their figure-heads, and their shapely bows. again at South Ferry, as I rounded this end They seem almost human in their confident of the city and turned eastward. The flour intimacy. The view down one of these trade begins here, and extends along South uncovered piers is quite animated with the street, and up the side streets. Coenties Slip loading and unloading of ships. A DAY ON THE DOCKS. 45 Carting is one of the most important divisions of wharf life, for horses throng along all the docks to move every day thousands of tons of freight and thou- sands of people. A characteristic scene is a long line of loaded trucks, waiting at the pier of some one of the Southern stean~- ers. One of these lines began at South street, ran up Maiden Lane to Broadway, and down Fulton to South street again. Part of the line had two trucks abreast, and, if it had been in single file, the total length would have been four-fifths of a mile. Some of the trucks stood in the line twenty- four hours, and some came three times without reaching the ship. Every truck was overloaded by taking the loads of those who could not wait for their turn. The loads of New York teams are amazing. Two horses usually haul fourteen bales of cotton, four hogsheads of tobacco, or twen- ty-five barrels of flour or sugar. But the market-men take the heaviest loads. One horse commonly draws twenty to twenty- five barrels of apples, but sometimes he takes as many as forty barrels, and often over three tons of oranges or lemons. None of these loads are hauled up steep hills, but the pavements are often defective with holes or hollows, the cartracks are troublesome, and the footing is slippery; moreover, the route is never clear, so that frequent stops and starts also make the labor very heavy. Even with the best of feed and care the average service of a horse in this over-work is but four years. But the day was waning, and I left the cartmen to their day or night of waiting and hurried forward on my walk. In the rear of the Fulton Fish Market I saw a smack unloading with a scoop-net live cod-fish from the well in her hold to a crate or car alongside. This car is a large covered box floating in the water like a raft; it is about twelve feet square and five deep; its sides and bottom have cracks for the flow of water in and out, and it will keep alive about 4,000 pounds of black-fish. The slip, half filled with long rows of these cars, can hold 100,000 pounds of live fish. Near by are the vessels from the tropics, unloading oranges, bananas and lemons. And on the dock were eager figures diving into the barrels of damaged fruit for now and then a half-sound orange. There are more busy freight depots along South street, and steam- ers from the Mediterranean, and others from Maine. There are also canal-boats stowed away here and there -in a slip for the winter, while the captain and his family live in the cabin and enjoy a season of metropolitan life. There is also a welcome sign of civili- zation among all this roughness of the docksthe Bethel ship with its cross and its church bell. One hopes that some social pleasures may await the sailor landing -from boisterous seas; but these miserable board- ing-houses and hotels for seamen scarcely encourage the hope. South street has strong naval characteristics. Not only do you find a large fleet of ocean clippers along the dock, but. you meet the sailors themselves., congre- gating within sight of their vessels. You very seldom see the typical jolly tar in his sailors shirt. They are generally a lot of A SPAR YARD. dull-looking men, unshaven, dressed in patched coats and caps, and devoted to their black pipes. They sometimes pace up and down the sidewalk as if still on their watch; but oftener loaf about in small 46 A DAY ON THE DOCKS. groups and lean against the wall. They wear an uneasy expression in the city, as if out of their element, and wishing to make sail and stand out to sea. North of Market street the surroundings are en- tirely maritime. The houses are full of ship-chandlery,great cables, blocks, an- chors and wheels; the signs of sail-lofts flap from upper stories; boats run their bows out-of-doors; spar-yards are full of men hewing great timbers; and shipsmith shops glow with forges and echo with blows on the anvil. Here and there a window is full of quadrants, compasses, chronometers and other navigating instruments. On the water- side are the dry-docks where some large ocean steamers were being repaired by gangs of men. The great hulls looked imposing with their high masses contrasted with such mites as men. I found also a figure-head carver making a woman for a new vessel. I had always been interested in the wooden sex. This man is their creator. He marks a center line on each side of the square block from which the figure is to be made; then he sketches the profile outline on two sides of the block and hews down to those lines. Then he sketches the front view on the hewed sides and cuts the block down. Afterward the corners are reduced to that plump roundness so characteristic of the figure-head. From four to six days suffice for making the average specimen. Just r~ow the Indian is the prevailing fashion in this race. The last great rush of life along the docks is the afternoon crowd at the ferries. So I returned to the more populous part of the docks to see the close of the day. Not to be too alliterative, I call Fulton Ferry a funnel for folks. They converge at the wicket from all directions, and slip in out of sight as if engulfed in oblivion. The squalor of South street is thus crossed by sparkling streams of wealth and fashion, flowing down from the heights of the city. As the people come in close columns, you see a panorama of hats and chins; as they pass, hats and noses, and as they crowd about the ferry entrance, hats and back hair. They are a crowd devoted to bundles, for every one has a package or a bag. One poor woman carries a great bundle of tailor- work; and an elderly man, rather excited by his own hurry and the bustle of the street, comes on a run, while a turkeys long neck hangs out of his basket and whips about his legs. There go two youths with guns on their shoulders and glowing anticipations on their faces. In fact, the air seems loaded with sighs, and songs, and flitting visions of human lives. But the street is as crowded as the side- walk. From curb to curb, and as far as you can see, it is full of wagons as closely packed as the pieces of a puzzle. It is a long line of piles of merchandise; a driver is perched on every pile, and a team is be- fore it. There are loads of oranges, boxes of tea, four-bushel bags of pea-nuts, cases of silk and Indian shawls, a steam-boiler, and coops of geese that stick up their heads and look concerned. Indeed, parts of every quarter of the earth are here rolling on wheels along the docks. The wagons are emblazoned with the modern heraldry of commercesigns and trade-marks. There is the great four-horse truck strong and plain. There is the jaunty butchers cart with the sleek, saucy butcher; there is the brewers wagon with its fat horses; and there is the elegant carriage moving with a low,~ soft murmur like the rustle of silk. It is the great army of commerce moving slowly along with the roar of wheels and the sharp click of hoofs. But now they halt by their own crowding. Not a figure moves where just now all were in ceaseless, eager activity. The street becomes as quiet as a country road. But here and there a driver hails his fellow in gruff tones, jeering the stupid teamster who blocked the lines of march. So they all stand still in a hopeless block- ade. But presently one wagon moves a few feet; the next drives up behind, and then the next, and the short motion runs along the whole line like a wave, away off to the distance. Then they all stop again and the puzzle is a new one through fresh entangle- ments. Meantime a policeman walks here and there among the wagons and teams, and tries to keep all in moving order. But here is the key-wagon of the jam. It is loaded with over seven thousand pounds of lemons; and the horse is stalled with his enormous load. The right fore-wheel is in a slight hollow in the pavement. The horse turns to the left to twist it out of the hollow; he leans to the task, strains every cord in his strong limbs, and almost gets the load in motion. But he finally slips on the treacherous pavement, the fire flies from his shoes, and after a courageous struggle the poor ani- mal falls. Then the policeman and the driver loosen the harness that holds him like a net; they lift his head, speak to him; he kicks and scrapes on the smooth stones, and finally regains his feet. When all is ready THE VOYAGER. 47 again two or three men put their shoulders to the wheels, the horse pulls again with the nervous energy of a fine nature, and at last the key-wagon is drawn out of the blockade. At the first movement every horse awakes and waits. The drivers gather up the reins, and steady their teams. The horses arch their necks, cautiously plant their feet as if on ice, and crouch to the hard, steady pull. The army moves again all along the line; and the roar breaks out afresh. In the general uproar you distinguish the separate noises near by,the chuckle of heavy wheels on the axle, the sharp click of horses feet, the rattle of light carts, the tinkle of street- car bells. Humanity also roars; and you hear, besides the low tramp of feet on the pavement, the constant babble of voices, the scream of the newsboy, the whistle, the whining speech of peddlers or beggars, the loud gruff shout, and the more melodious fragments of passing conversation. The scene is crammed with eager struggling men and horses, and the air is filled with the roar of their toil. But under this com- bat are also the softer strains of human joy and sorrow. Twilight lent the docks the poetry of mystery and color. The sun, setting in a crimson sky, touched the bay, the shipping and the brick house-tops with a ruddy light. The scene was almost Oriental in richness. Then as the shadows of night fell the lights of the city made another view. The piers were still more obscure, the shippingwas more gloomy with massive black hulls and over- hanging rigging, and the water shone with the blackness of night. The houses were lighted here and there, but scarcely offered any cheer. A few straggling teams passed with their last loads. After that the occa- sional rumble of cars, and the tinkling of bells were the only sounds along the street. Here and there a ferry-boat whistled, and then the splashing of her wheels sounded from the slip, but soon died away over the waves. Now and then a suspicious figure skulked along the docks; a watchman yawned on his monotonous beat; sounds of gruff life issued from a groggery, and fainter echoes from the heart of the town floated down a street. But out on the piers the silence of night reigned above the eddying tide and enveloped the city for a short repose. THE VOYAGER. I. FRIEND, why goest thou forth When the wind blows from the north, And the ice-hills crush together? The work that me doth call Heeds not the ice-hills fall, Nor wind, nor weather. II. But, friend, the night is black, Behold the driving wrack And wild seas under! My straight and narrow bark Fears not the threatning dark, Nor storm, nor thunder. III. But oh, thy children dear! Thy wifeshe is not here Let me go bring her! Nonoit is too late! Hushhush! I may not wait, Nor weep, nor linger. iv. Hark! Who is it that knocks With slow and dreadful shocks, The very walls to sever? It is my masters call. I go, whateer befall; Farewell forever.

Richard Watson Gilder Gilder, Richard Watson The Voyager 47-48

THE VOYAGER. 47 again two or three men put their shoulders to the wheels, the horse pulls again with the nervous energy of a fine nature, and at last the key-wagon is drawn out of the blockade. At the first movement every horse awakes and waits. The drivers gather up the reins, and steady their teams. The horses arch their necks, cautiously plant their feet as if on ice, and crouch to the hard, steady pull. The army moves again all along the line; and the roar breaks out afresh. In the general uproar you distinguish the separate noises near by,the chuckle of heavy wheels on the axle, the sharp click of horses feet, the rattle of light carts, the tinkle of street- car bells. Humanity also roars; and you hear, besides the low tramp of feet on the pavement, the constant babble of voices, the scream of the newsboy, the whistle, the whining speech of peddlers or beggars, the loud gruff shout, and the more melodious fragments of passing conversation. The scene is crammed with eager struggling men and horses, and the air is filled with the roar of their toil. But under this com- bat are also the softer strains of human joy and sorrow. Twilight lent the docks the poetry of mystery and color. The sun, setting in a crimson sky, touched the bay, the shipping and the brick house-tops with a ruddy light. The scene was almost Oriental in richness. Then as the shadows of night fell the lights of the city made another view. The piers were still more obscure, the shippingwas more gloomy with massive black hulls and over- hanging rigging, and the water shone with the blackness of night. The houses were lighted here and there, but scarcely offered any cheer. A few straggling teams passed with their last loads. After that the occa- sional rumble of cars, and the tinkling of bells were the only sounds along the street. Here and there a ferry-boat whistled, and then the splashing of her wheels sounded from the slip, but soon died away over the waves. Now and then a suspicious figure skulked along the docks; a watchman yawned on his monotonous beat; sounds of gruff life issued from a groggery, and fainter echoes from the heart of the town floated down a street. But out on the piers the silence of night reigned above the eddying tide and enveloped the city for a short repose. THE VOYAGER. I. FRIEND, why goest thou forth When the wind blows from the north, And the ice-hills crush together? The work that me doth call Heeds not the ice-hills fall, Nor wind, nor weather. II. But, friend, the night is black, Behold the driving wrack And wild seas under! My straight and narrow bark Fears not the threatning dark, Nor storm, nor thunder. III. But oh, thy children dear! Thy wifeshe is not here Let me go bring her! Nonoit is too late! Hushhush! I may not wait, Nor weep, nor linger. iv. Hark! Who is it that knocks With slow and dreadful shocks, The very walls to sever? It is my masters call. I go, whateer befall; Farewell forever. 48 VILLA GE LA WN-PLANTING. VILLAGE LAWN-PLANTING. LAWN-PLANTING, to be successful, must have definite aims and purposes. It must not be taken up at random, but must have a clearly foreseen end or result in view. For those employing landscape architects and gardeners, the accomplishment of well- planned and practical lawn-planting is much easier; yet there are always, for any one, dif ficulties which must be met with judgment and some degree of skill, whatever be the assistance rendered. The amount of money to be spent is ever a prime consideration. Indeed, much in- jury to the reputation of lawn-planting is often wrought by carelessly formed esti- mates. People say the planting will cost NOBLE SILVEE FIB (PICEA NOBILIS). JAPANESE MAGNOLIA (MAGNOLIA STELLATA). SMALL VILLAGE LOT PLANTED FOE GENEEAL EFFECT.

Samuel Parsons, Jr. Parsons, Samuel, Jr. Village Lawn-Planting 48-56

48 VILLA GE LA WN-PLANTING. VILLAGE LAWN-PLANTING. LAWN-PLANTING, to be successful, must have definite aims and purposes. It must not be taken up at random, but must have a clearly foreseen end or result in view. For those employing landscape architects and gardeners, the accomplishment of well- planned and practical lawn-planting is much easier; yet there are always, for any one, dif ficulties which must be met with judgment and some degree of skill, whatever be the assistance rendered. The amount of money to be spent is ever a prime consideration. Indeed, much in- jury to the reputation of lawn-planting is often wrought by carelessly formed esti- mates. People say the planting will cost NOBLE SILVEE FIB (PICEA NOBILIS). JAPANESE MAGNOLIA (MAGNOLIA STELLATA). SMALL VILLAGE LOT PLANTED FOE GENEEAL EFFECT. VILLA GE LA WN-PLANTZNG. 49 too much. They seldom, however, fix their estimates high, but generally so low that the real cost greatly exceeds the amount previously estimated. Of course, reasons for these mistaken estimates are easy to find, and first and foremost is lack of proper attention to the subject. If people would give the same close study to the lawn that they give to building a house or buying a horse, results would be more satisfactory. It is evident, therefore, that the way to secure good lawn-planting is to do it your- self. Acquire all information as to right methods, listen to all suggestions, but make the work your own, no matter who assists you. To this end, visit parks and nurser- ies and leaxn to love plants and recognize their individual characteristics, their likes and dislikes as well as their beauties. This will make you master of the situation in any case. One thing is certain, however: there must be a catholic taste shown in selecting plants, if the laWn is to be properly laid out. The tendency to follow mere fancies, or to use only particular and favorite plants, must be kept in strict abeyance. Many and various plants should be employed in- telligently. Hardy deciduous trees, shrubs, evergreens, herbaceous and bedding plants, in short, everything that conduces to the beauty of the lawn, must be united into one harmonious whole. Doubtless there are occasions when a mass of color, obtained by using many plants of one kind, is desir- able, but generally a variety of plants and methods of combination is more desira- ble. The eye thus never becomes sated, and is ever renewing its pleasure. But what is the actual condition of lawn-plant- ting as practiced to-day on myriads of small places throughout the country,places, more- ever, that belong to intelligent people? The entire collection consists frequently of a few fruit-trees in the background, an elm, a Norway spruce, an arbor vitae hedge, with a bed of the glowing coleus. All these plants, be it noticed, are of the most pro- nounced and coarsest type. They may be and are valuable in suitable positions or in other combinations, but are decidedly ill- fitted for the interior of a small place, both from the character of their beauty and their habit of excessive growth. We intend no disrespect for either of these varieties, many of their qualities being, in their own way, most admirable; but we do say that if other and good selections were made after study- ing parks or nurseries, fewer poor lawns would exist. Were this the general prac- VOL. XVHI.4. tice, the ubiquitous tree dealer, with his wonderful plates of impossible plants, would be forced to seek for pastures new, and leave the field open for intelligent lawn- planting. Landscape gardening (or l~wn- planting, which in a sense is a synonymous term, although the latter treats specially of planting, while the former includes also drainage, road-making, etc.), seems very difficult to some, and is practically consid- ered a myth by others. To one class we can only say, practice it yourself and dif- ficulties will soon disappear; it has no arcana into which you cannot pierce. To the other we answer, lawn-planting exists, and has its ~sthetic laws, just as taste in general has definite laws. One word as to the presentation of lawn- planting systems. For practical work, per- formed by experts, maps drawn to a scale, with the plants and their positions indicated by figures or symbols, are necessary. But even then much scope must be allowed to the individual taste of the planter, for no map is so successfully and practically drawn as to form an absolute model for planting. For general suggestions to the uninitiated in planting, we believe sketches of certain parts of the lawn should be more used. The trees appear then before you as they will actually seem, and you feel the reality and possibility of the scene in a way that no map can suggest. Yet the real question is, how can we best make clear, even with pictures and maps, the practical application of lawn- planting in any form. Perhaps the best method will be to show a place which we have planted ourselves, with all its defects and graces, and thus trace out for you something of the methods and materials used. It may be, doubtless, more or less like other peoples lawns, and by no means such as every one will want. Since we possessed, however, a lot of fifty feet by one hundred and fifty feet, and accomplished certain results which we believed were suc- cessful within given limitations, we have thought our experience might benefit others. We have also endeavored to make the char- acter of the work more clear by the few fore- going illustrations of the actualplants,-.--por- traits that have been carefully studied from the originals as they stood in our grounds. Let us see, then, what we actually did with this lot fifty feet by one hundred and fifty feet. We found, to tell the truth, much work already done for us. The house and fencestight board fenceswere built, so 50 VILLA GE LA l4WPLANTFZNG. - 4 49 50 ~~ 4 46 ~:w ~ ~ _ 64 65 ijj~jjr .1(1, 7A~y SCALE OF FEET~ 10 ~I~ WORKING PLAN FOR THE PLANTING OF A VILLAGE LOT. s, Euonymus nanus; 2, Calycanthus icevigatus; 3, Syringa sinensis; ~, Lonicera Tartarica; 5, Deutzia crenata fi. pl.; 6, Weigela rosea; 7, Spirea prunifolia; 8, Forsythia viridissima; 9, Spirea Tbunbergii; io, AEsculus bippocastanum; ii, Amygdalus pumila; 22, Spirea callosa alba; 23, Pyrus Japonica; 24, Colutea arborea; s~, Spirea Nepalensis; i6, Weigela nana variegata; 27, Acer rubrum; si, Acer placanoides; so, Liquid amber; ao, Spirea Douglassi; as. Syringa grandiflora; 22, Ligustrum Cali- fornicum; 23, Amorpha fruticosa; 24, Weigela rosea; 25, Syringa Emodi; a6, Cornus alba; 27, Tamarix Africana; 28, Euony. mus Europeus; 29, Hibiscus variegasus; 30, Hypericum kalmianum; ~s, Lonicera Tartarica; 32, Syringa Josikes; 33, Spires Fortunii macrophylla; 34, Viburnum plicatum; ~ Deutzia gracilis; 36, Symphoricarpos glomerata; 37, Tamarix Indica; 38, Exochorda grandsflora; 39, Spirea opulifolia aurea; 40, Spirea Thunbergii; .p, Cercis Japonica; 42, Abies Conica; 43, Dwarf Japanese Maples; 44, Pinus strobus pumila; 45, Picea cilicica; 46, Pious sylvestris pumila; 47, Magnolia stellata; 48, Picea nobilis; 49, Retinospora obtusa; 50, Pious Cembra; si, Ghent Azalea; ~a, Abies Orientalis; 53, Abies Canadensis pendula; 54, Biota elegantissima aurea; 55, Abies Gregoriana; ~6, Juniperus suecica nana; 57, Abies Canadensis macrophylla; ~8, Retinospora plumosa aurea; ~ and 6o, Spires Tbunbergii; 6i, Thuja pyramidalis; 62, Hydranges paniculata; 63, Clematis Sophia; 64, Clematis Jackmanii; 65, Clematis Hel~ne; 66, Clematis azurea grandiflora; 67, Wistaria sinensis; 68, Lonicera brachypoda; 69, Ampelopsis quinquifolia; 70, Wistaria magnifica; 72, Periploca grceca. that, the ground being tolerably level, we had already the most definite features estab- lished. To be sure, the house was wooden, and the fence a stiff angular affair, which did not by any means harmonize with the lines of the building. On the other hand there was a good bay-window, giving out on a side lawn, and a rich, well-drained soil in which to grow plants. The board fence had its advantages too, for it shut out a neighbors chicken yard and sundry other unsightly objects. Altogether we flattered ourselves that we had obtained a comfort- able and rather picturesque-looking house, in just the spot that suited our convenience. We had, it is true, indulged in sundry delightful dreams of a stone Gothic cottage of the purest and richest style, with mul- honed windows, etc.; and above all, sur- rounded with well-ordered plantations con- structed on the soundest principles of art, and in strict accordance with the architectural spirit of the house. But what were we to do? We had not really, if we confess the truth, a great deal of money to spend; and we must be near the railroad station, the doctor and the schools. And then there were actually many advantages about the home we had selected. From an iesthetic point of view, the style of our house was not to be mentioned lightly, and the bay-window was decidedly a feature. Therefore, with plenty of good turf on the lawn, a few shrubs, and a high board fence to protect us from uncongenial neighbors, we felt that our lot might have its compensations after all. We believed, too, that in many of the choice and dwarf plants that had come of late from Japan and elsewhere, there existed great and little-known capacstses for producing pleasing and lasting effects upon the lawn. There, we thought, lay our chance of doing something uncommon. But do not let us convey the idea that we did our work in a year. Our means were limited, and we had a notion moreover that all plants must be selected personally in the nursery after much study on our part. This took time, so that more than one year passed before we completed our plantation, and at least eight before the place looked as shown in the picture. We should explain also that we never bought large plants, and we feel VILLA GE LA WN-PLANUNG. 5 assured that to this chiefly we owe the per- fect development of each specimen. Let us now look at the working plan and see how we did this planting that produced the effect shown in the first picture. It will be readily seen that the combinations are very simple, based on few principles other than exhibiting the plant in the best manner possible. Plants cannot, indeed, be treated as the architect treats his wood or stone. They are living things, not blocks, and their treat- ment on the lawn to be successful must be individual, must correspond with their higher organism. A few of these principles, as we have seen, are light deciduous shade to the south, evergreens to the north, open lawns, skirting shrubbery, and on small places, at least, few if any large trees to encumber the ground with their roots. In dwelling on the lawn-planting condi- tions and possibilities of our lot, we found our- selves thinking of it as a real picture. There were extreme distance, background, a broad, interesting middle space, and in front, the very choicest and richest plants convenient for close inspection from the main stand-point. The first thing we felt in looking at our back-yardfor we always want such places treated firstwas a bare distance, long, nar- row, and confined. We were necessarily confined, but none the less, there was a cer- tain amount of breadth of treatment possible for us. A kitchen garden, moreover, which, ac- cording to some,should occupy this bare dis- tance was not likely to prove, under our man- agernent, a source of either profit or pleasure. Potatoes, peas and tomatoes were not satisfactory that always came (when not eaten up by bugs and worms) just as every- thing of the sort could be had in market for just half what they cost us. We therefore decided to give up any attempt at a kitchen garden, and content ourselves with grapes and small fruits trained against the board fence. The middle of the back-yard, thirty or forty feet square, we devoted to grass for the purpose of croquet, dry- ing clothes or amusing children, and thus also obtained the desired open treatment. To shut out this more or less (probably less) attractive part of the lot, we conceived the idea of throwing across the lawn, about fifty feet from the rear of the house, an irregular belt of large shrubbery, broader at the sides than in the middle, at which point, as shown on the map, we contrived an entrance to the rear grounds. The peep thus given from the front lawn back to another region, as it were, greatly increased the apparent extent of the lot, and gave it perspective. In short, you thus looked back through the picture which was otherwise shut in by shrubbery and trees. The exposure, in this case, was to the south, which requires for shelter from the sun, light, deciduous foliage. Had the direction been north, we would have used evergreens, prob- ably hemlocks, the graceful foliage of which is easily kept within bounds by pruning. As a general rule, evergreens afford a heavy, peculiar shade, which is less agreeable in summer than that of deciduous trees. On the other hand, evergreens are specially fit- ted for protecting from cold, north winds. But to return to the shrubs used as a back- ground to the regular lawn; it will be seen that they are disposed on the map in mass. It is, indeed, the only mass proper on the place, for we conceived that a small place, except in the actual background, should exhibit in every case an interesting and visible individual specimen. The shrubs that here make up the mass are large, rapid-growing varieties, such as Spireas prunifolia, Doug- lassil, Thunbergil and Nq5alensis; C~oZutea arborca, Lzgustrwn Cabfornicum, Weigela ro- sea and similar varieties; Pyrusfaponica, etc.; Syri;zga grand~flora, etc.; Forsythia viridis- sima, Deu/zia crenafa, fi. p1., and one or two varieties of amorpha. We beg pardon for presenting such an array of botanical names, but after haunting nurseries for some years, xve have learned that we are more apt to get the plant we want, if we ask or write for it by its correct botanical name. The bridal- wreath spirea, for instance, is a more suggest- ive and pleasing name than Spireaprunffolia, but then you see Spireaprun~folia is under- stood nearly the world over. Well, we had our shrubs, and in this case, we made the planting very simple, for what we wanted was a mass, a screen, a background to pro- duce the desired picture effect. Interested friends told us we must plant a hedge, but we had our own ideas about that, one of which was that it was stiff and formal, a monstrosity that could only be tolerated where nothing else was possible. Then we had seen arbor vit~ hedges badly injured by severe winters, and had been bored by their monotonous color, which, administered in large doses, becomes almost disagreeable. Osage orange hedges, cheap, rampant and suckering, might do on the prairie farms of the West, but were a nuisance on small places. We did not doubt that many hedges were more or less satisfactory when properly grown, pruned, and protected. But supposing we were sick or lazy, and could not afford to hire 52 VILLA GE LA WN-PLANTING. it done? On the whole, we determined to take a new departure, and make our hedge of deciduous shrubs. It could not, of course, be exactly a regular hedge; but it would be pleasant, however, to~ look upon in a south- ern exposure, with flowers blooming here and there all summer. We set them in the ground very simply, with no measure- ment specially, only on a general rule of four feet apart and two or three rows deep, planted alternate fashion. We nevertheless, as already noted, managed to distribute about through the mass a continual series of bloom during the entire growing season. Pruning we always attended to at least once a year, but at different seasons; late flowering vari- eties usually in winter or early spring, and the early flowering ones immediately after blooming. The labor of pruning, however, was not great or excessively systematic, for we specially wanted informality and irregu- lar grace. It suited our ideas of a back- ground: that is, we did not want a smooth wall of foliage against or near which to erect our individual arboreal works of natures art. But, although we felt pleased with this novel hedge, there was still something needed. The shade it gave was insufficient, because we made it a rule to keep it down to eight feet or so, by pruning from time to time both roots and branches. It is surprising how many years deciduous shrubs can be thus kept, if pruning is practiced, and not shear- ing. Besides the shade, we conceived that the artistic effect of the background would be improved by introducing one tall group of trees,for, indeed, the place would not admit of more. It made the background, we thought, more interesting, and contrasted with and relieved the low size of the other plants. One other quality we sought to secure by this feature, and that was additional and prominent color. Many otherwise well-arranged plantations fail decidedly in effect from a lack of variety and rich- ness of color. Are we not, perhaps, more apt to think of form than color, in grouping l)lants on the lawn? However, the way we accomplished the effect we wanted was by planting in a triangle, eight feet apart and in the south-west corner of the lot, three decid- uous shade-trees, namely, a Norway maple, a scarlet maple, and a liquid amber. They are all somewhat broad and round-headed, and not really lofty. Their coloring, also, is very lovely in spring, especially the foliage and flowers of the scarlet maple. In fall they are yellow and crimson and gold; and, by training them together as one head of foli- age, contiguous branches being pruned year by year, a grand, variegated color effect was produced. Under these trees we had seats, and, with the house, turf, and plants in front, we congratulated ourselves on having a very pleasant grove for a lot fifty feet by one hun- dred and fifty. When this was done, how- ever, our lawn did not seem well balanced; so we planted, in the opposite and south-east corner, a horse-chestnut. The horse-chest- nut has a shadowy, yet light-colored, broad foliage, which consequently relieved and offset the effect of the darker maples and liquid amber on the other side of the lot. To be sure, the horse-chestnut becomes rusty sometimes by August; but then so do many other trees, and beside the spot where this one was planted was just a little low, which suits the horse-chestnut. The horse-chestnut acquires a bad name sometimes when it is planted on high, dry land, which seldom agrees with its constitu- tion. You see, we had not on!y taken up the notion that all plants, even individual members of a variety, have each their char- acteristic and peculiar expression or appear- ance, but also that it pays to consider their simplest habits in the most painstaking way. We grew, thereby, to seek and enjoy their company more, and they seemed to flourish better and appear better under a treatment which thus considered their slightest needs. Having planted a true background,for the last fifty feet of the lot had a remote value as an effect in the picture,we began to arrange the groups on the main body of the lawn. We say body, but it was so nar- rowtwenty-five feetthat we were obliged to content ourselves with planting only the outskirts, or edges. In fact, our lawn proper was very precious to us. We thought the plants should be subordinated to the turf rather than turf to plants. Having, there- fore, dug the lawn deep, and sowed it thickly with grass-seed, we arranged for a long sweep of green through to the very front. A few jutting points of shrubbery, here and there, served to enlarge the appearance of the place by the irregular, indeterminate con- tours thus produced. With extended turf came also increased breadth and distance, and likewise a delightful field for the play of sunlight and shadow. Lawn-mowers have done wonders, in these latter days, in the development of perfect lawns. Consequently, no excuse exists now for poor turf. Keeping in mind that turf was of prime importance, we proceeded to complete the VILLAGE LA WN-PLANT/ZNG. 53 rest of our planting. Around the bower of trees we clustered the ordinary shrubs of the background; but as we approached the front with our plantation we selected, as a rule, choicer and choicer specimens. We have come, indeed, to recognize distinct relations between plants, much as we recognize them between men. Social distinctions can hardly be applied to plants; but none the less have we ordinary plants whose special province is in mass,that are, in a certain sense, plebei- ans. Other worthy plants perform yeoman service, either singly or in mass, and fail only in exhibiting distinguished qualities. Such qualities are reserved for choice (though not necessarily rare) plants, aristocrats that court the most minute attention and appreciation of their beauty. They are all, truly, excel- lent and honorable members of the common- wealth of the lawn, only each class has its special duties to perform, individually and collectively. You will notice, therefore, that among the plants we used toward the front there is a richer contrast, and that their in- dividual relations demand closer considera- tion. In short, the plants were finer, and must receive, therefore, more artistic treat- ment. We require, moreover, here as well as in all deciduous grouping, not only a bou- quet of flowers and foliage, but a bouquet of flowers and foliage that will present some pleasing form or color throughout the season. The practical consideration also comes in that we are obliged to plant the face of a high board fence, to plant it out, in fact, with deciduous shrubbery which is specially suited for the purpose. There is a double row and here and there a triple row of shrubs used, the larger ones back and the smaller ones in front,the natural way of planting all shrub groups. But everything in becoming choicer does not necessarily become expensive in the same ratio ,a plant is not better because it is expensive, neither, on the other hand, is it always preferable because it is cheap. Occasionally we find very cheap plants with the choicest qualities for ornamental effect. Let us then turn to the picture, and touch briefly on the important qualities of the few plants there distinguishable. These plants are the special ornaments of the scene, and are therefore rightly prominent. The other plants on the map are well worthy of study, but we prefer to dwell on special favorites in the picture. That you might understand the full meaning of our preference, we wish it were possible for you to look with us on their dew-laden charms on a fresh June morning, or in the evening, when the level rays of the setting sun, streaming athwart the lawn, bring out to the best advantage both color and form. The more vertical rays of noon seem to deaden the effect of flowers and foliage. If you seek the best effect of a plant always stand between the plant and a sun not too far above the hori- zon. But what are the plants in question? First comes a lilac near the grove. In spite of much said to the contrary, a lilac is not considered a choice plant. It is true some have gone so far as to say that the lilac is worthy to occupy the place of the rhodo- dendron, where the rhododendron fails to thrive, but people generally do not think so, and all the eloquence in the world will hardly change their opinion. If the lilac were a plant recently introduced from remote regions of Asia there would be more chance, but hardly now. We confess, however, to a decided liking for the lilac, and then, you know,here are lilacs and lilacs, and the Lilac emodil, which we have used, is one of the finest of its genus. Few realize the complete, and even utter, diversity of form and color and general value that exists among plants of every genus, as we shall find still better exemplified when we come to look hereafter at one or two spireas. Lilac emodli is well fitted for the position we have chosen for it, being tall, dark-green and of well-defined, bold outline. The flowers are dark purple. Choice and more difficult to propagate than other lilacs, it must always be singled out for admiration; and as we look on it from the grove at our leisure, xve feel that its striking form har- monizes well with the character of the plants in the neighborhood. But what have we in front, making evident and relieving the lilacs large and peculiar outline? Cornus alba, or the red-stemmed dog-wood, is a broad, irregular-growing shrub, not rare, but very picturesque. Its red stems are peculiarly striking in winter, and through- out the summer and fall its rich, glossy foliage continues to retain a marked and curious habit. It is a cheap plant, but choice,one of the plants that attract alike singly or in mass. Gradually we employed, as we left the background, plants of richer qualities and always of diverse form from those in the immediate neighborhood. The Euonymus Europeus, standing back near the fence, is, unlike the dog-wood, very erect, with dark-green leaves, but specially remark- able in fall for bright scarlet berries, four- hooded, and brilliant until winter. No 54 VILLA GE LA WN4LANFING. plant is more striking in fall, and in summer the flowers, as well as the foliage, are attract- ive. Near the euonymus, with broader shrubs between, is a tamarisk, in some re- spects the most graceful of all shrubs. Its delicate foliage, tenderly green, waving and plume-like, has an oriental appearance curiously different from any other shrub. The exquisite pink flowei~s come on the ends of the branches, and when the whole plant is laden and glistening witht dew or rain, the effect is charming. This is a cheap shrub and an old shrub, easily transplanted, and hardy in every way. Then why is it not better appreciated? For the simple reason that it is seldom pruned, or else pruned im- J)roperly. Few shrubs need more intelli- gent pruning, for it is a rampant grower, and, if neglected, develops long, naked branches with straggling foliage on the outer parts. Witness, in proof of this, numerous instances of unkempt, naked tamarisks in certain squares of New York Cty. Such forlorn specimens no one would accept as a gift, much less attribute to them charming qualities. Pruning should mean with the tamarisk a severe cutting back, every year or two, within a short distance of the old wood, to encourage bushiness and renew vigor. But to do this without further knowl- edge will end in failure. Tamarisks are commonly found of three varieties, Africana, Gallica and Indica. The first blooms in June, the second in July or thereabouts, and the last in August and September; this last is, moreover, very strong-growing. It fol- lows, therefore, that the early varieties must be pruned sharply immediately after bloom- ing, while there is yet time to make a new growth, and the late flowering ones in winter or early spring. All the large shrubs to which we have just referred should have plenty of space to develop. They should be also not less than four feet apart, for we do not be- lieve, on this part of the lawn at least, that shrubs should be crowded to a degree that will obscure their individual beauty. The smaller shrubs in front may, of course, be planted nearer, say three feet. There is a notion abroad, among very high authorities, too, that all shrubs, when required in a group, should be piled together en masse, two or three feet apart, with a view to im- mediate effect, to be thinned afterward as the case may require. We fear, however, that these high authorities forget that few like to sacrifice a plant once established. It is, besides, very difficult to take out a shrub here and there from a group and leave the remaining plants as well related to each other in position as they were before. We early made up our minds, after some unfortunate experience of crowded planting, that in every group of plants we constructed there should be plenty of room for each individual to develop its full beauty. The pruning could be so managed, we knew, as to restrain excessive development for a score of years. You see long association ~vith, and study of; plants, from a lawn-planting point of view, had taught us to prize the individual effect of a plant at least as much as its ap- pearance in mass. We felt more and more every year that not only every variety, but every plant of the variety, had a different and characteristic expression varying with each month of the year. No wonder, then, we felt strongly on the subject of crowding. We had also another peculiar notion, which more than one friend combated, and that was to spade only around each plant from year to year, leaving untouched spaces of turf between. Indeed, we grew to dis- like very much the patches or beds of raw spaded earth into which so many groups of shrubs are huddled. Culture is undoubtedly necessary for all plants, but we have found spading for a small space about each plant and liberal fertilizing, productive of entirely satisfactory results. Our planting came now closer to the front and to the termination of the board fence. Here are two remarkable shrubs, one tall and spreading, the other round and com- pact. They are both spireas, but utterly different, noteworthy instances of the diver- sity of appearance found in varieties of the same genus. The tall one, Spirea opu4folia aurea, has strong, decided outlines and rich golden leaves, all studded, as it were, in June with short-stemmed white fl~wers. It is picturesque and beautiful, and need not be rare, for it is easily propagated. Directly in front is Sj5irea tknnbergii, most delicate and exquisite of spireas. It should have been the bridal wreath spirea, but had not probably arrived from Japan when that name was given to S. fruni- Jo/ia. The leaves are scarcely more than half an inch long, and of a light-green, al- most yellow, color. They weep and cluster in picturesque masses all over the bush, and are loaded with numerous white flowers in early spring, which weigh them down like snow-wreaths. But their special perfection and glory comes in late fall, when the deli- VILLA GE LA WN-PLANTING. 55 cate flushes and tinges of pink, crimson and yellow are truly wonderful to behold. To those who have followed carefully our planting thus far, and who have also noted the prices in nurserymens catalogues, it will be evident that we have done our work cheaply. We could not, however, leave deciduous plants without introducing a few gems as we approached the fore- ground. Among the few we notice in the picture, and one of the very best on our lawn, is the Japan Judas-tree. It is a true shrub, of moderate growth, although not ex~actly dwarf. Every characteristic, in other respects, is rich and choice, well fitted to grace the most conspicuous l)art of the lawn. The wood or bark is drab and the branches more or less erect and well de- fined, although the general outline is broad or round. Lustrous, and of firm and fine texture, the heart-shaped leaves have a re- markable effect during every season after early spring until late fall. But the crown- ing beauty of the plant is the flowers, which come out early, before the leaves. Wreath- ing the branches with close-clinging clus- ters, they are very numerous and of a fine red color. No richer or more beautiful shrub, in its own peculiar way, exists than the Japan Judas-tree, but it is not com- monly offered in nurseries, and is therefore little known. We reached now the transition point of our shrubbery where we felt it necessary to pass into evergreens on the north-west side of the house. A feeling of dislike for abruptness, however, prompted us to allow a few choice deciduous plants to stray over among the evergreens, though, as a rule, we like to see one or the other completely pre- dominate. In doing this we employed, as will be seen by the map, three of the ex- quisite Japanese maples, the leaves of which are wonders for varied colors and deeply cut forms. Here also we planted the rare Japa- nese magnolia ste/la/a, or ha/leana, a shrub, both hardy and slow of growth, with delicate, pure white, sweet-scented flowers somewhat resembling the clematis or the water-lily. These flowers come earlier in the spring than those of any other magnolia, and bloom freely while the plant is yet only three or four years old. You will note in the illus- tration of this plant how picturesque and graceful are the shapes and masses it assumes. In this case they suggest a wreath of laurel, and in all cases make a very effective back- ground for the white and spotless flowers. A Ghent azalea, likewise, adorns this part of the lawn, brightening with rich-hued flowers the outskirts of the evergreen groups. The hardy or Ghent azalea stands almost with- out peer among hardy deciduous shrubs. Fine in foliage and tint of bark, the rich and varied hues of its flowers range from white and yellow to pink and deep orange almost on the same petal, and it is, more- over, dwarf. By this time we came to em- ploy evergreens entirely, and as we were in the foreground we selected specimens of a richness of color and form that would repay the most lingering examination. We were obliged, at the same time, to choose moderately dwarf plants that, treated now and then with a touch of knife and spade, could be kept eight feet or less for a score of years. The house, fifteen feet only from the road, we could not wisely, and would not wish to, shut in entirely from that direc- tion. It seemed as if a glimpse of the lawn was due to passers by, and that a view of the street from a partially sheltered position would be always agreeable to the occupants of the house. Shut in as much as possible on the sides, we felt that the front should be partly open. In the foreground of the picture, among the last stray deciduous shrubs you can see two or three of the specimen evergreens we used. The dwarf white pine is rounded and distinct with all the soft richness and mar- velous penciling of needles which always strikes one in pictures of any variety of the white pine. We have also the conical Norway spruce in the immediate foreground and on one side. This evergreen is prob- ably the favorite among all the choicer evergreens. Its conical symmetry is per- fect, never requiring a touch of the knife. It is also hardy, easily transplanted and blessed with all sorts of practical qualities. Every one likes it, moreover, because it sug- gests a perfect specimen of a common Nor- way spruce, with which all are familiar. Then there is the noble silver fir (Picea noN/is) singly and very effectively illustrated. In color it might almost be termed the rich- est of evergreens; and the foliage, further- more, groups itself into picturesque masses which make the contour as varied as the color is charming. It is from the Rocky Mountains and attains great size there, but grows very slowly while young and could be readily kept twenty years as a small-sized evergreen. The picture of our modest attempt at lawn-planting is now nearly before you, described as well as space will permit. 56 FALSE AND TRUE. Around the bay-window, the architectural point of interest in the scene, we have trained white and blue wistarias, and cov- ered the lower portion with beautiful clem- atis vines, Jackmanni, viticella, Hell~ne and Azurea grand~flora, bearing purple, pink, or white flowers. Mingled among these, and trained along the brick-work of the founda- tion, are exquisite Japanese creepers (Arnj5e- lopsis veitchil), which cling like ivy to what- ever they touch, and are moreover hardy and beautifully colored in fall. Indeed, we have trained vines about the house in every suitable position, honeysuckles, wistarias and Virginia creepers, feeling that the angles and stiff outlines of the buildings were thus softened, relieved and rendered picturesque. One thing however we were particular about, and that was to leave suffi- cient openings among the vines of our piazza to let in light and air, and breezes, for that matter, to drive away mosquitoes. The most prominent angle of the house, the recess of the bay-window, as appears in the picture, is planted out with the broad foliage of a Hydrangea paniculata grand~flora, by some called the finest of shrubs. Massive and effective it certainly is all through the fall, when its great panicles of flowers, eighteen inches long, array themselves suc- cessively in white, purple, pink, and deep crimson. And so you have our lawn in a certain way before you for what it is worth.* We do not assert that it has high artistic value, or that it presents an authoritative selection of plants. But we do assert that it is the * The cost of plants for this lawn was less than fiftydollars. result of careful study of much lawn-plant- ing material, and of the pursuance of a set- tled system based on simple and practical artistic rules. It may be still insisted that lawn-planting admits of the widest and most diverse treatment, and that every one must do as he pleases. But even to those who refuse to take an artistic stand-point, we refuse the right to select a position for each plant on the lawn by tossing up the several contents of a bushel of potatoes, and fixing the positions on the respective spots where the tubers fall. We have known such advice given, and therefore warn against it, absurd as it is. People are, moreover, always ready to accel)t the teachings of a toss-penny phil- osophy. Besides this, there are many so- called systems in vogue. They assume various shapes. One confides in the intuitive taste of a newly fledged lawn-planter pro found in the criticism of paintings or bon- nets. Another plants his trees in straight rows, and lines his paths with shrubberies from end to end. The conceptions of such people, in regard to lawn-planting, are all mixed and confused, without form and void. We must refer to correct stand- ards and definite principles if we expect to succeed in lawn-planting, and seek first of all to know plants individually. To sum up a great deal in a few words, we must endow our lawn with the grace, the diversity, the unforeseen, the fleeting suppleness of a liv. ing thing without diminishing the effect of the masses. At the same time, we should also deck its surface with the most elegant series of painted and sculptured ornaments. Tame says this of the most wonderful product of Grecian art, the Greek temple, but it applies with no less force to the well-planted lawn. FALSE AND TRUE. THE false is fairer than the true. Behold Yon cloudy giant on the hills supine The figure of a falsehood that doth shine, Armored and helmeted, in such a gold As in the marts was never bought or sold, Giant and armor the exalted sign Of shapes less glorious and tints less fine Of forms of truth outmatched a thousand fold! Ah, Poesie! Thou charmer and thou cheat! Painting for eyes that fill with happy tears, in tints delusive, pictures that repeat Dull, earthly forms in heavenly atmospheres! How dost thou shame the truth, till it appears Less lovely far than thy divine deceit!

J. G. Holland Holland, J. G. False and True 56-57

56 FALSE AND TRUE. Around the bay-window, the architectural point of interest in the scene, we have trained white and blue wistarias, and cov- ered the lower portion with beautiful clem- atis vines, Jackmanni, viticella, Hell~ne and Azurea grand~flora, bearing purple, pink, or white flowers. Mingled among these, and trained along the brick-work of the founda- tion, are exquisite Japanese creepers (Arnj5e- lopsis veitchil), which cling like ivy to what- ever they touch, and are moreover hardy and beautifully colored in fall. Indeed, we have trained vines about the house in every suitable position, honeysuckles, wistarias and Virginia creepers, feeling that the angles and stiff outlines of the buildings were thus softened, relieved and rendered picturesque. One thing however we were particular about, and that was to leave suffi- cient openings among the vines of our piazza to let in light and air, and breezes, for that matter, to drive away mosquitoes. The most prominent angle of the house, the recess of the bay-window, as appears in the picture, is planted out with the broad foliage of a Hydrangea paniculata grand~flora, by some called the finest of shrubs. Massive and effective it certainly is all through the fall, when its great panicles of flowers, eighteen inches long, array themselves suc- cessively in white, purple, pink, and deep crimson. And so you have our lawn in a certain way before you for what it is worth.* We do not assert that it has high artistic value, or that it presents an authoritative selection of plants. But we do assert that it is the * The cost of plants for this lawn was less than fiftydollars. result of careful study of much lawn-plant- ing material, and of the pursuance of a set- tled system based on simple and practical artistic rules. It may be still insisted that lawn-planting admits of the widest and most diverse treatment, and that every one must do as he pleases. But even to those who refuse to take an artistic stand-point, we refuse the right to select a position for each plant on the lawn by tossing up the several contents of a bushel of potatoes, and fixing the positions on the respective spots where the tubers fall. We have known such advice given, and therefore warn against it, absurd as it is. People are, moreover, always ready to accel)t the teachings of a toss-penny phil- osophy. Besides this, there are many so- called systems in vogue. They assume various shapes. One confides in the intuitive taste of a newly fledged lawn-planter pro found in the criticism of paintings or bon- nets. Another plants his trees in straight rows, and lines his paths with shrubberies from end to end. The conceptions of such people, in regard to lawn-planting, are all mixed and confused, without form and void. We must refer to correct stand- ards and definite principles if we expect to succeed in lawn-planting, and seek first of all to know plants individually. To sum up a great deal in a few words, we must endow our lawn with the grace, the diversity, the unforeseen, the fleeting suppleness of a liv. ing thing without diminishing the effect of the masses. At the same time, we should also deck its surface with the most elegant series of painted and sculptured ornaments. Tame says this of the most wonderful product of Grecian art, the Greek temple, but it applies with no less force to the well-planted lawn. FALSE AND TRUE. THE false is fairer than the true. Behold Yon cloudy giant on the hills supine The figure of a falsehood that doth shine, Armored and helmeted, in such a gold As in the marts was never bought or sold, Giant and armor the exalted sign Of shapes less glorious and tints less fine Of forms of truth outmatched a thousand fold! Ah, Poesie! Thou charmer and thou cheat! Painting for eyes that fill with happy tears, in tints delusive, pictures that repeat Dull, earthly forms in heavenly atmospheres! How dost thou shame the truth, till it appears Less lovely far than thy divine deceit! A NARROW STREER 57 A NARROW STREET. I. THE street was narrow and steep, with ugly rows of dingy white houses catching hold of and clinging to each other all the way down on either side as though in fright; the door-wayslittle cavernsall alike, save that some were a trifle more begrimed than others. Smirches low down signifying chil- dren within; smirches higher up announcing as plainly as a sign-board that the man of the house worked with his handspossibly at the foundry across and beyond the lower street upon which this ladder-like thorough- fare was made to rest. Still, the street was respectable and even tidy to a degree, but dreadful to be chained to and forced to spend a strong devouring life in, when one remembers the lovely nooks and corners in this great world of ours which nobody has yet found out or filled. In one of these houses, near the foot of the ladder, where they could easily step off if fortune ever did hold out a hand to them, lived the three sisters to whom this story relates. They were three orphan girls, or women, for Achsah, the youngest, was nine- teen. And they took care of themselves; a homely pitiful phrase, true enough, for they had no brother or male relative in the world. And they were poor. I had almost forgot- ten to tell it, but women who take care of themselves are usually poor. There are plenty to shelter and provide for and admire the rich. Margaret, the eldest, made bonnets. They were very good bonnets, conscien- tiously sewed and sure to outlast the pre- vailing fashion. Somewhat prim in style, perhaps, especially as to the bows, which would assume a serious cast. But sitting in the little back-parlor year after year striving to bedeck other people and ruminating upon lifeas one is inclined to do at thirty-five was it strange that the work of the hands should follow the curve of the thoughts? And life had been a serious matter to Mar- garet. There was a tradition in the family that she had had a lover once. It was far beyond the reach of Achsahs recollection; it was a very faint tradition indeed, but it lifted the eldest sister into the region of romance in the eyes of the other two. Susan, the second sister, was near Mar- garet in age. She was plain of face and without any of Margarets deftness of hand. She was only sister Susan who kept the house,one of the thousand and one good, undistinguished women who are in life what paving-stones are to the much be-traveled street,extrem ely necessary, but filling the lowliest place. With the assistance of a little maid, who came at odd times, she baked and brewed, or would have, if brew- ing had been desired in the household. She tended the house-firethat flame we ought to worship if we do notand she pre- pared the simple meals. And here begins and ends the story of a life. Last of all came Achsah. That little consonant gives to the name a hard sound. It is like the hidden grain of strength in the girls character,for she was no sweet, insipid maiden. New England bears soft, voluptuous women only by chance. They are a freak of nature in that keen-edged atmosphere, or flowers forced to unnatural bloom by rare sunshine and under plate glass; her own children, from the pine woods or along the curling edge of the sea, are of another kind. Achsah was thin, ner- vous, cold, to outward seeming; but the earth, though ice lies unmelted on its bo- som, is said to smolder and burn within. She was brown of face, with hair almost a shade paler, and yet so silken soft where it was brushed smoothly down and away from her face as to seem dark in certain lights. This pale brown hair, heavy and of great length, was Achsahs crown of glory, which she regarded with indifference, as do the most of us our crowns. We set up false gods even in ourselves. This, with a pair of clear, straightforward eyes, clear, with- out heat, gray, and cool, and deep as still pools, made up her only claim to beauty. For the rest, she was quietly shy, not obtru- sively bashful. She had been a school- teacher for five years, and had thus gained the power to meet a legion of eyes without shrinking, although to be entirely at ease these should be some degrees below the level of her own. In the church, the great church at the top of the hill where the choir chanted Te Deums and Misereres, and had even introduced a cornet into the Gloria Patri (0 shade of John Wesley !), in this church where Achsahs friends, so far as she had any, were to be found, she was regarded as an exceedingly quiet young person, rather self-willed in the Bible class,

Adeline Trafton Trafton, Adeline A Narrow Street 57-64

A NARROW STREER 57 A NARROW STREET. I. THE street was narrow and steep, with ugly rows of dingy white houses catching hold of and clinging to each other all the way down on either side as though in fright; the door-wayslittle cavernsall alike, save that some were a trifle more begrimed than others. Smirches low down signifying chil- dren within; smirches higher up announcing as plainly as a sign-board that the man of the house worked with his handspossibly at the foundry across and beyond the lower street upon which this ladder-like thorough- fare was made to rest. Still, the street was respectable and even tidy to a degree, but dreadful to be chained to and forced to spend a strong devouring life in, when one remembers the lovely nooks and corners in this great world of ours which nobody has yet found out or filled. In one of these houses, near the foot of the ladder, where they could easily step off if fortune ever did hold out a hand to them, lived the three sisters to whom this story relates. They were three orphan girls, or women, for Achsah, the youngest, was nine- teen. And they took care of themselves; a homely pitiful phrase, true enough, for they had no brother or male relative in the world. And they were poor. I had almost forgot- ten to tell it, but women who take care of themselves are usually poor. There are plenty to shelter and provide for and admire the rich. Margaret, the eldest, made bonnets. They were very good bonnets, conscien- tiously sewed and sure to outlast the pre- vailing fashion. Somewhat prim in style, perhaps, especially as to the bows, which would assume a serious cast. But sitting in the little back-parlor year after year striving to bedeck other people and ruminating upon lifeas one is inclined to do at thirty-five was it strange that the work of the hands should follow the curve of the thoughts? And life had been a serious matter to Mar- garet. There was a tradition in the family that she had had a lover once. It was far beyond the reach of Achsahs recollection; it was a very faint tradition indeed, but it lifted the eldest sister into the region of romance in the eyes of the other two. Susan, the second sister, was near Mar- garet in age. She was plain of face and without any of Margarets deftness of hand. She was only sister Susan who kept the house,one of the thousand and one good, undistinguished women who are in life what paving-stones are to the much be-traveled street,extrem ely necessary, but filling the lowliest place. With the assistance of a little maid, who came at odd times, she baked and brewed, or would have, if brew- ing had been desired in the household. She tended the house-firethat flame we ought to worship if we do notand she pre- pared the simple meals. And here begins and ends the story of a life. Last of all came Achsah. That little consonant gives to the name a hard sound. It is like the hidden grain of strength in the girls character,for she was no sweet, insipid maiden. New England bears soft, voluptuous women only by chance. They are a freak of nature in that keen-edged atmosphere, or flowers forced to unnatural bloom by rare sunshine and under plate glass; her own children, from the pine woods or along the curling edge of the sea, are of another kind. Achsah was thin, ner- vous, cold, to outward seeming; but the earth, though ice lies unmelted on its bo- som, is said to smolder and burn within. She was brown of face, with hair almost a shade paler, and yet so silken soft where it was brushed smoothly down and away from her face as to seem dark in certain lights. This pale brown hair, heavy and of great length, was Achsahs crown of glory, which she regarded with indifference, as do the most of us our crowns. We set up false gods even in ourselves. This, with a pair of clear, straightforward eyes, clear, with- out heat, gray, and cool, and deep as still pools, made up her only claim to beauty. For the rest, she was quietly shy, not obtru- sively bashful. She had been a school- teacher for five years, and had thus gained the power to meet a legion of eyes without shrinking, although to be entirely at ease these should be some degrees below the level of her own. In the church, the great church at the top of the hill where the choir chanted Te Deums and Misereres, and had even introduced a cornet into the Gloria Patri (0 shade of John Wesley !), in this church where Achsahs friends, so far as she had any, were to be found, she was regarded as an exceedingly quiet young person, rather self-willed in the Bible class, A NARROW STREET~ where she held to her opinions stoutly, but upon the whole uninteresting, and certainly no beauty. But in her own home the judgment was far different. She was an impetuous child, willful upon occasions and glowing into beauty when roused to enthu- siasm. In fact, she was the pride of the eyes and the delight of the hearts of the two old maids who had been mother and sister combined to the younger girl ever since her earliest recollection. It was evening, and the bonnets had been put out of hand. With these every trace of the days work was swept away, the drab moreen curtain drawn before the work-table in the back parlor, and Mar- garet, who was not so strong as she had been once, stretched herself wearily upon the lounge in her own particular corner. Susan still moved briskly about. She had set out the tea-table just in front of the open stove, where a small fire was freshly lighted; for these early spring evenings were sharp, with a cutting east wind. She pulled the edge of the rug into a more exact line with the seam of the carpet, straightened the folds of the heavy curtain which shut off the prosaic, work-a-day corner of the room, with its ugly blocks and great drawers, and, last of all, brought from the win- dow-sill a hyacinth, just pushing its pale beauty up from a Belgian glass, and placed it in the center of the table, whence its sweetness seemed to radiate and perfume all the room. Achsah was the young heroine to these two women, for whom life was to be made bright and beautiful, so far as it could be; and this was Susans hour. What can keep Achsah so late? Mar- garet asked, almost querulouslypatient Margaret, who was never ill-tempered. But it had been an unusually tiresome day, the opening day of the season. The little front parlor had been filled with a crowd ingenious in fault-finding. Even the few buyers had insisted upon impossibilities especially upon that of being made beau- tiful by Margarets bonnets. As though she could do Gods work! The clock is striking now, Susan. It is the night of the tea-meeting at the church. She may be there, Susan replied, with a regretful glance over the tea-table so invitingly spread. Dont let us wait any longer, then, and Margaret rose languidly and approached the table. But at that moment the street- door opened and shut. There was a hasty step through the small entry, and Achsah appeared. Susan, how delightful! The fire just at the right point, too! I am glad now that I did not stay at the church. The minister was there. He is better, though he looks like a ghost. He came out to-night to urge upon the ladies this matter of entertaining the ministers during Conference week. She had tossed her hat carelessly upon the lounge; her shawl followed. It had been unpinned at the first respiration in the warm and rather heavily scented room. She was already sipping her tea and breaking the crisp slices of toast with an enjoyment it did Susans heart good to see. One would never have known this lively young woman with her glowing face for the same Achsah Bray who had sat in wooden silence in the church parlor a half hour before. Even Margaret brightened. It was like opening the doors and windows and letting in a breath of fresh air to these two women to have Achsah come home at night. Yes, she went on, when the ministers health, and the attendance, and various minor matters had been discussed, there are not half places enough for them yet. Indeed! exclaimed the sisters sympa- thetically as to the minister, upon whom fell the task of providing temporary homes for the members of the Conference during the week of its session. Achsah had finished her tea. She leaned back in her chair. No; but pray dont clatter so, Susan. And Susan, who had begun to remove the tea-things, set down her cups meekly at this imperious request. And so, AchEah went on, I gave him our names.~~ To take a minister? Why, Achsah Bray! Seven days of breakfasts, dinners, and teas trooped by in formidable proces- sion before Susans dull imagination. Even Margaret was stirred. Child, how could you? But, Margaret, how could I refuse? He asked us each in turn. Everybody said two or more. I only said one, and had a mind to add and a small one, for really I dont know what we shall do with him. Of course I shall give up my room. We shall have to make the best of it now, Margaret rejoined, thoughtfully, though we have almost forgotten the fash- ion of hospitality. I wonder who will come to us, Achsah asked later in the evening. Perhaps Mr. A NARROW STIIREER 59 Severne,a minister who had left their she stretched her hand toward the candle church but a year or two before. beside the pile of school-books on the table. That is not probable, Margaret replied with decision. II. But improbable things are the ones that IT was late in the afternoon one day early come to pass. Still, Mrs. Cooper men- in the following week, that there came a tioned his name. He will go there, with long-drawn pull at the bell, ending in a the bishop I suppose. Bishops and popular faint tinkle, tankle, tonkle, which brought Su- ministers always do gravitate toward Mrs. san in a great flurry from the kitchen, saying, Coopers; no, indeed, we shall have some Suppose you go, Margaret; he must have poor old minister from a back country ~~ome/ And Margaret, not a little dis- charge, full of the peculiar trials of his last turbed in her own mind, laid down Mrs. station. Acbsahs eyes, fixed upon the Tibbss material as creased and wrink- fire, grew dreamy and far away as a seers. led and worn as the material of old Mrs. We shall enter with all our hearts into his Tibbs herselfand ~vent to open the street very moderate hopes for the coming year, door. The soft spring sunshine was dying divided between two churches equally dis- away over hills and valleys, which Margaret taut, undesirable and heavily in debt. He had never seen, and of which she had will regard us through owl-eyed spectacles, scarcely any conception. One straggling gold-bowed, a present from some summer ray shot down the dingy street, dazzling the sojourner in his country parish, and his womans eyes so that she could hardly make efforts to make these serve the purpose for out the heavy and rather awkward figure which they were intended, rolling his eyes of a man, unmistakably young, standing over and around and beneath,for to see upon the steps and nervously shifting a through them will be utterly impossible, traveling bag from one hand to the other, will give to him a wild appearance which as she opened the door. the general benevolence of his natural Miss Bray? he said inquiringly, scowl- countenance cannot overcome. ing with embarrassment till his heavy eye- Achsah! protested Susan, trying not brows met, as Margare4 hesitatingly assented. to laugh. Could it be possible that this was their Yes; and lie will be constantly mis- expected guest? My name is Doane taking one of us for the other and sister - Jacob Doane. I am a member of the Con- ing us continually. And he will be crowned ference, and was sent here with a wig,one of those jet black abomi- Oh yes, Margaret said with nervous nations, apparently sold by the dozen, cordiality, setting the door wide open. 1 having no individuality, so to speak. And We were looking for you; pray come in. he will make long prayers, especially in the She ushered him into the parlor with hos- morning. Susan, dear, when the apprentices pitable bustle, not a little flurried internally are at the door, referring to us each as thy and almost doubting the propriety of re- handmaiden, and his wife, whom he will ceiving this young stranger into a family call his companion, will have been left at made up of women alone. His sharp eyes his last field of labor with his household glanced quickly over the room taking in stufl sitting in the midst of the confusion everything, Margaret could see, even to the like the ancient widows among the ruins row of empty bonnets, each upon its stick, of Jerusalem. And he will have had one like flowers gone to seed upon their stalks. daughterwho died, Achsah added, soft- Ought she to have removed them, mindful ly. It may be that we shall remind of his serious calling? Would they appear him of her, she said in a suddenly hushed to him as pomps and vanities? But they voice. were very modest bonnets, she reflected Well, dear, he shall be welcome, Mar- hastily, and two of them in crape, which garet spoke. The picture Achsah had called certainly suggested serious thoughts. She up was real for the moment, set out a chair and opened the blinds, with And he must go somewhere, added an attempt to give an air of inhabitation to Susan. the room, which, like an obstinate individual, And I have brought it upon myself, silently protested, and only appeared more said Achsah. And I believe I love him stiff and uncomfortable than before. She dearly already, and shall be sorry when he heard Achsah come in and go to the back goes away. She ended with a little broken parlor. Susans slow step moving about in laugh that had a sound of tears in it, as the next room came to her ears. She ex 6o A NARROW STREET cused herself and went out to them, shutting the door carefully behind her, and still hold- ing the knob iii her hand, she confronted Achsah with a grave and troubled face. My dear, she said, he has come; and zi is a young man I Achsah stood in the floor, her hat, just removed, in her hand. Margaret! Her eyes opened wide in dismay. Yes, dear. What shall we do? Suppose you speak to the minister, sug- gested Susan. That would make us ridiculous, said Achsah, turning red. Margaret considered. He seems like a modest young man. Some poor boy from the country, she thought, who had heard a divine call, per- haps at the plow, and had left it, as the fishermen by the Galilean Sea left their nets to follow the Master. Perhaps he had better stay, she said slowly. We can hardly send him away or ask for a change. It would, as Achsah says, make us ridicu- lous. No; I think he must stay. And neither Susan nor Achsah demurred. Come in and be introduced to him. But Achsah hung back. Take Susan. You had better ~o and have it over with, said Susan. I shall see him at tea- time, which will be quite soon enough, she added with unconscious sarcasm. So Achsah followed Margaret reluctantly to the parlor and was presented to the stranger, who rose from a chair much too small for him, to make an embarrassed sal- utation, half thrusting out his hand which Achsah saw too late. My youngest sister, Achsah, Margaret had said primly, stepping aside that Achsah might appear, and think- ing that he would not be ill-looking if he were not so painfully shy. We must try to put him at his ease, the old maid thought kindly, as she led the way out to tea; being much put at ease herself by his confusion. But this was not to be effected at once, with all her good intentions. III. WHAT could it be? Jacob Doane had been their guest for two days when Achsah was roused from her sleep in the early morn- ing by a regular but unusual sound which seemed to come from the small back-yard under her window. Susan had already risen and gone down. Achsah peered cautiously through the closed blinds. But the yard had shrunk so close to the house that it could not be overlooked from the window. In itself, the sound was in no way remarkable. It was not even interesting. Certain conditions of the family affairs rendered it simply perplexing. The noise was that of a wood-saw in vigorous motion. Achsah dressed herself in the worn and faded school-dress which would not be pulled into graceful folds, and appeared even more dingy than usual, when, for some unaccountable reason she tried the effect of a knot of bright ribbon at her throat, then she hastened down-stairs. Susan was mov- ing about preparing breakfast. The warmth of the small kitchen was very grateful after the fireless room in which Achsah had made her toilet. She lingered a moment warming her fingers over the stove, whencould it be possible !through the twisted panes of the small windows Opening upon the yard, she discovered their guest, his coat removed, his felt hat at a most unclerical angle, his stout shoulders bent over that most prosaic of instruments, a wood-saw. She had for- gotten her curiosity as she ran down the stairs until this strange sight met her eyes. Susan! what does it mean? And where did the wood come from? I really dont know, dear. It was being thrown into the yard when I came down this morning. Brother Doane was making the fire, and Making the fire? Yes, dear; I knew you would be vexed. But he would do it, andand he made it yesterday morning. Achsah hardly heard her reply. But the wood, she said. That was a serious matter. We ha~e ordered none. There is some mistake, and she started for the door. He thought I had better take it in, said Susan, signifying Jacob Doane b~ a gesture. You might have spoken for it, or he said it was perhaps a present from a friend. A present from a friend! Achsah re- peated in scorn. Who would dare send us such a present? As though we were paupers. Susan! It is not for us at all. But see here, dear, and Susan unpinned a slip of paper fastened carefully to the bosom of her gown, pointing to their name and the number of their house, with the street, writ- ten legibly upon it. Achsah was puzzled. All at once, as she held it in her hand, she felt herself grow hot to her hair. There was something strangely familiar about this scrap of paper. She A NARROW STREER hastened into the hack parlor and searched out the school-exercises she had been cor- recting the evening before with Jacob Doanes bashfully proffered assistance. It was as she suspected; the scrap in her hand had been carelessly torn from the half-quire left upon the table. A bungler at artifice this young man must be indeed! She was very angry, with the anger that has mortification for a spur. They were poor, they had nothing but what Margaret and she earned with brain and fingers for their support. But was their poverty so apparent as to appeal to a casual visitor? Their store of wood might be low, but they could have borne bitter cold rather than a gift from such a source. For he was as poor as themselves. Had he not confessed it the night before, when they sat around the fire? The quiet, the familiar compan- ionship of the past two days, with some discovered sympathy of tastes had moved them to talk of themselves. Before she knew it, Margaret was telling the story of their fathers death and of her mothers long illness, leaving the two girls at last, with Achsah scarcely more than a baby, in their arms. And Jacob, in turn, forgetting his painful shyness in sympathy, told how he, too, had been left alone in the world; of his fight for knowledge and self-support, of the long, lonely years in the seminary which he had but just left. Yes, he was as poor as they. And to think he should do this thingthat he should shame them, she said to herself, her pride rising. He had thought her a pale, plain young woman, when she followed Margaret into the parlor to speak with him for the first time the day he came. But she was no pale, plain young woman now, as she walked straight past bewildered Susan and stood with hot, shining eyes be- fore the startled young wood-sawyer. Did you write that? and she held the paper straight out before his confused eyes. He was a minister of God, but he had nearly uttered a lie. Yes. His eyes blinked, his face red- dened, but he spoke up manfully, since he must speak. We are poor, she said, with the slow, high-stepping tone of passion held with a tight rein, but you might have spared us the open confession of our poverty. You have made it a shame to us. Miss Achsah! Now, she went on, unmoved by his astonished exclamation, will you be so kind as to have this taken away? Perhaps she thought he would proceed at once to obey her. She was in that unnat- ural, strained attitude of mind when one feels equal to the removing of mountains. But he only grasped the wood-saw more firmly. His overhanging brows knit together, almost hiding his eyes. No, he said, taking off his hat deliber- ately. I will not. Utter amazement made Achsah dumb. See here, he went on, throwing down the saw and resuming his coat, self-assured and bold as a lion now that there was some- thing to fight for. You say that you are poor. So am I. Is honest poverty a dis- grace? You own that you are proud. So am I. Could I take from you women and give nothing back? I, a man, strong and young! If you insist, this shall be taken away, and I will go too. But I am proud, and now the scowling brow cleared, his eyes twinkled. I cant allow you to think me poorer than I am. I have earned some- thing with my own hands the past year enough to make it possible for me to help a friend. His voice was wonderfully gentle and sweet as he added, I thought I might help you, since all men are brothers to all women. It was so wide a proposition that Achsah stood burning and tingling to her finger- ends, with no word at her tongues end to refute it. If you knew, and he spoke with diffi- culty now, his voice husky, his manner diffi- dent, if you could know what it is to a man who has had neither mother nor sisters for years to be permitted to come into a home like yoursif you could understand what the companionship of gentle women is to one who has lived only with men and books___ He turned abruptly, kicked the wood away with his foot, and made as though he would leave the yard by the gate. Dont go, said Achsah, faintly. He turned again with a sudden bright smile. It broke over his face like sunshine out of a cloud. Then it may stay? he said. Yes; that is, if you want to, Achsah replied in confusion, hurrying into the house. And nothing more was said of the cause of offense. Perhaps it was made a sacrifice upon the altar of friendship; it was certainly offered up with fire. After this, the guest slipped easily into the ways of the small household, which adapted itself to the new-coiner without 62 A NARROW STREEI rub or jar. It came to seem a habit of long standing that prayers should follow the cheerful early breakfast, after which Jacob Doane took himself away for a stroll about the town before the opening of the daily session of the Conference. We dine at one, Margaret had said the first morning as he was going out at the door. I shall not return until tea-time, he replied, promptly. Then he appeared ab- sorbed in the contemplation of the hat in his hand. I fearindeed I am surethat I shall not be able to dine with you at all. Dont expect me. And he bolted sud- denly out of the door before Margaret, who was the mouth-piece of the family, could even express their regret. They are invited round, Susan vent- ured in explanation. They are asked out to dine together. Of course he prefers it to sitting down with three women alone. Yes, Achsah assented, absently. She was revolving a suspicion in her mind. And so convenient for you, Margaret, Susan went on innocently. The outbreak of apprentices and bonnets in the back parlor need not now be repressed at noon- time. Susan could serve the modest dinner of the sisters in the kitchen, as usual. It could not be better if we had ar- ranged it ourselves, Margaret said with alacrity. - They never knew, kind souls, to how few of these fine dinners their young unknown guest was invited, or that a sandwich or a few crackers eaten as he strolled along the wharves or through the park, or sat with his head in an old book in an alcove of the great library to which he had gained access through a friend, made up the fine repasts to which their imaginations consigned him. Sometimes their questions pressed him close. It was hard to evade the innocent curiosity of the two old maids. But Achsah came to his relief. Dont, Susan; why should he tell us about the fine people he meets? We should die of envy, she said with a gay laugh. And is it true that there is to be an after- noon session? she stumbled on. She had caught the fleeting expression of confusion upon his face, changed quickly to relief as she turned the subject. She was convinced that there had been no dining out for their friendthat day at least. 0 Susan, she said carelessly the next morning, as she stood bef6re the glass fold- ing her shawl with uncommon exactitude, suppose we only lunch at noon while Mr. Doane is here, and have something hot and nice for tea. Dont you think young men enjoy a bit of meat for supper? I wonder I had never thought of it before! So we will, dear, if Margaret does not mind. Margaret fell in with the proposition at once; and Achsah had the satisfaction of knowing from that time that their guest did not go hungry. The evening brought them all together. when the days work was over for each one, the curtains drawn, shutting them in from the outside world, the lamp throwing its soft light over the small, cheerful room; the fire revived by Jacobs own handthese four people, two of them young, and who had known scarcely any companionship of each others sex in all their lives before. They discussed every question of the day. They plunged into far-off philosophies with- out fear, Margaret and Susan listening, though comprehending little of it all. Or they read aloudJacob and Achsah taking turnspoetry mostly, poetry tried in the furnace of time. Shakspere made one of their company often. The ancients stood in their midst. Margaret slept peacefully and Susan dozed in her chair, while Jacob and Achsah lived the lives that never were. The small hours crept upon them more than once while they were thus lost to the pres- ent. The faint bells striking the time from the upper town startled and scattered them at last. Iv. How pretty our Achsah is! said Susan, who stood at the parlor window one after- noon as Achsah and Jacob Doane came down the street together. They had met by accident, and walked home side by side. It happened thus, to-day; it had many days; one of those blessed happenings only half contrived. See, Margaret; she is prettier than ever this spring. And the two old maids together watched their darling through the closed blind. Her dress was faded and out of fashion; her shabby hat was set awry upon her handsome braids; but each fine line, tint and expression in her face was sharpened and intensified. It was as though a new life had been breathed into it. Margaret sighed as she watched them. She herself had been young once, but youth though beautiful would not stay. Was love more enduring? A faint hope had sprung to life in the poor old A NARROW STREET 63. heart at sight of these two coming down the dingy street together in the mist fast turning to rain. The young man had grown into Margarets yearning love. Oh, if he could be theirs! If this crown of life which had been denied to Susan and herself could but fall upon Achsah! His self-forgetfulness, his strong heart and gentle helpful ways, with his unswerving look toward the right, had won Margarets awe-full love such a love as a mother might give to a son who had consecrated his life to a noble purpose. He had come to seem like her own, to this soft-hearted woman whose own had been so few. But disappoint- ment had staid with her for years. She was used to its presence. She sighed as she hastened to open the door. Perhaps you will all go up to the church to-night, Jacob said as they rose from the tea-table the appointments will be read off at the close of the session.~~ To-night! Margaret and Susan ex- claimed in a breath. Will the Conference adjourn to-night? There was another question upon their faces. Yes, he said, answering both. I shall leave in the morning. Achsah gave one startled look at the speaker, then turned to pick up the school- books which had fallen upon the floor; he had told her nothing of this as they walked home together. I had forgotten you had to go at all, Susan said simply. It does not seem a week, Mar- garet added in her gentle voice. But I have learned that there is a difference in weeks. This has been the shortest in the year to us. You are very kind. He stood by Mar- garets lounge. He took her thin hand in both his strong ones and pressed it impul- sively. And Achsah and I will be glad to go to the church. Margaret was leaning back in her corner pale and tired, but she spoke cheerfully. She had caught the eager ex- pression upon Achsahs face at Jacobs sug- gestion, and she remembered her own youth. You had better wear my gray shawl, clear, she said, when they had gone to Mar- garets room to get ready. Your best shawl, Margaret? Yes, dear. Your cloak is a little shabby. You can throw your water-proof over it, you know, and Margaret turned her face away, ashamed of her innocent scheming to make Achsah appear at her best. But when they opened the door they found the mist had changed to a steady rain. Oh, Margaret, this will never do. You must not think of going out. We shall have to give it up, Achsah said. Margaret hesitated. You shall go without me. It would be a pity for you to miss it. You will take care of her, I am sure (to Jacob). I am afraid to venture, and she drew back as a great gust of wind wet with rain blew in at the door. Jacob assented almost eagerly, and Mar- garet saw them set off in the rain before going back, well pleased, to her comfortable corner by the fire. Achsah and Jacob had met and strolled home together more than once during the week. But there was something strange and almost solemn to her to-night in this walk along the quiet streets through the dark- ness and falling rain with her hand upon his arm. Only once did Jacob break the silence between themto ask if she were well wrap- ped up against the storm as, having gained the top of the hill, the wind and rain met them with fresh fury, almost twisting them off their feet. He left her at the church door. I shall do very well. I am quite used to the place and I see there are vacant seats in the gallery, she said, dismissing him ner- vously, as the bright light struck their faces and more than one acquaintance stared with curiosity. She joined the crowd pressing up the stairs and was being squeezed into a narrow space in one of the seats overlooking the assembly when a familiar voice addressed her from behind. Is that you, Achsah Bray? Did you ever know such a crush? Mrs. Cooper was patting her silk skirts into shape. The bishops wife was beside her. She had been pointed out to Achsah the day before. Shy at finding herself in such fine company, Achsah replied stiffly with an embarrassed bow, as she finally took her seat. Excellent girl, but so quiet. The whisper hardly reached her. She was leaning over watching the scene of confu- sion on the floor below. The members of the Conference were pouring in and taking their seats; messengers were running to and fro; the secretaries had already got under way with a great show of papers and a hurried scratching of pens. The gray-haired bishop was mounting the stairs to the pulpit. He raised his hand; it seemed to drop silence upon the assembly. At that moment Ach- sahs lowered eyes fell upon Jacob Doane modest in his air, as became a young man 64 TWO SERMONS. among his elders, yet quietly assured as one among his peers. He seemed to Achsah to form a center to the little group with whom he had been conversing. His features were rugged, his figure ungraceful, and vet like Saul among his brethren rushed to her mind. Then she felt her cheek grow hot against the gallery-rail at this unconscious confession. It was late in the evening that a sudden hush of expectation fell upon the assembly as th~ venerable bishop, feeble and trem- bling, slowly arose, and after a few words of preparation and a brief prayer, began in a quavering voice to read the appointments of the men before him for the next year. The time had gone by when they were to be sent into the wilderness. Many of them already knew their destination. More than one had said the final word deciding his sta- tion for the coming year. But there was still sufficient uncertainty to make the hour one of intense interest. Achsah leaned forward with eyes wide open and lips apart. It is nothing to us, Mrs. Cooper was say- ing, in a shrill whisper. We know very well who is coming to us. Why, Achsah Bray, I should think you were hearing your own fate 1 Achsah sat uprigl~t, blushing scarlet. But she had heard more than this. Durham, Jacob Doane. The bishop read it out dis- tinctlywith peculiar distinctness it seemed to Achsah. The words rung in her ears. How tiresome it is! said Mrs. Cooper, when it was over and the last name read out. That is, when you know beforehand where everybody is going in whom you have any interest. Achsah answered at random. Durham some unknown village, at a distance, prob- ably, since the name was unfamiliar to her (To be cc~nc1uded.) ears. Money will bridge almost any space. But he was poor. And when he had gone away would he ever come to them again? The organ shook the house with a jubilate. The crowd pressed her on every side as it forced its way outnodding and smiling and exchanging greetings. Jacob was wait- ing for her at the door. They left the crowd behind them and turned into the more quiet streets, crossing the deserted park under the dripping elms. The rain was over. The moon struggled out from the broken clouds. Do you know anything of this Durham where you are going ? Achsah asked, when they had picked their way among the pools in the park and emerged into the street again. Not much; except that it is a factory- village. The church is a handful of mill- operatives. There must be something to do there, he added, with repressed enthusiasm. Myheart warms already toward this, my first people! Achsah felt a sympathetic thrill ~s they crossed the street and began to descend the hill. Is it far? she ventured presently, re- turning to her own thoughts. From here? A sudden, tender light crossed Jacobs face. Do you care to know? Do you really care? Oh, Achsah but before she could reply his man- ner had changed. It is fifty miles, or more. Yes, it is far, he said, in his usual hesitating voice; for shyness made him slow of speech unless aroused. But you will let me hear from you sometimes, Miss Achsah? And I may write occasionally, may I not? Achsahs heart was beating fast. She could hardly reply; but she managed to assent to both propositions with outward calmness before escaping into the house. TWO SERMONS. BETWEEN the rail of woven brass That hides the Strangers Pew, I hear the gray-haired vicar pass From Section One to Two. Ah, worthy goodman,sound divine! Shall I your wrath incur, If I admit these thoughts of mine Will sometimes strayto her? And somewhere on my left I see I know your theme, and I revere; Wheneer I chance to look I hear your precepts tried; A soft-eyed girl, St. Cecily, Must I confess I also hear Who notes themin a book. A sermon at my side? Or now explain this need I feel, This impulse prompting me Within my secret self to kneel To Faith and Purity.

Austin Dobson Dobson, Austin Two Sermons 64-65

64 TWO SERMONS. among his elders, yet quietly assured as one among his peers. He seemed to Achsah to form a center to the little group with whom he had been conversing. His features were rugged, his figure ungraceful, and vet like Saul among his brethren rushed to her mind. Then she felt her cheek grow hot against the gallery-rail at this unconscious confession. It was late in the evening that a sudden hush of expectation fell upon the assembly as th~ venerable bishop, feeble and trem- bling, slowly arose, and after a few words of preparation and a brief prayer, began in a quavering voice to read the appointments of the men before him for the next year. The time had gone by when they were to be sent into the wilderness. Many of them already knew their destination. More than one had said the final word deciding his sta- tion for the coming year. But there was still sufficient uncertainty to make the hour one of intense interest. Achsah leaned forward with eyes wide open and lips apart. It is nothing to us, Mrs. Cooper was say- ing, in a shrill whisper. We know very well who is coming to us. Why, Achsah Bray, I should think you were hearing your own fate 1 Achsah sat uprigl~t, blushing scarlet. But she had heard more than this. Durham, Jacob Doane. The bishop read it out dis- tinctlywith peculiar distinctness it seemed to Achsah. The words rung in her ears. How tiresome it is! said Mrs. Cooper, when it was over and the last name read out. That is, when you know beforehand where everybody is going in whom you have any interest. Achsah answered at random. Durham some unknown village, at a distance, prob- ably, since the name was unfamiliar to her (To be cc~nc1uded.) ears. Money will bridge almost any space. But he was poor. And when he had gone away would he ever come to them again? The organ shook the house with a jubilate. The crowd pressed her on every side as it forced its way outnodding and smiling and exchanging greetings. Jacob was wait- ing for her at the door. They left the crowd behind them and turned into the more quiet streets, crossing the deserted park under the dripping elms. The rain was over. The moon struggled out from the broken clouds. Do you know anything of this Durham where you are going ? Achsah asked, when they had picked their way among the pools in the park and emerged into the street again. Not much; except that it is a factory- village. The church is a handful of mill- operatives. There must be something to do there, he added, with repressed enthusiasm. Myheart warms already toward this, my first people! Achsah felt a sympathetic thrill ~s they crossed the street and began to descend the hill. Is it far? she ventured presently, re- turning to her own thoughts. From here? A sudden, tender light crossed Jacobs face. Do you care to know? Do you really care? Oh, Achsah but before she could reply his man- ner had changed. It is fifty miles, or more. Yes, it is far, he said, in his usual hesitating voice; for shyness made him slow of speech unless aroused. But you will let me hear from you sometimes, Miss Achsah? And I may write occasionally, may I not? Achsahs heart was beating fast. She could hardly reply; but she managed to assent to both propositions with outward calmness before escaping into the house. TWO SERMONS. BETWEEN the rail of woven brass That hides the Strangers Pew, I hear the gray-haired vicar pass From Section One to Two. Ah, worthy goodman,sound divine! Shall I your wrath incur, If I admit these thoughts of mine Will sometimes strayto her? And somewhere on my left I see I know your theme, and I revere; Wheneer I chance to look I hear your precepts tried; A soft-eyed girl, St. Cecily, Must I confess I also hear Who notes themin a book. A sermon at my side? Or now explain this need I feel, This impulse prompting me Within my secret self to kneel To Faith and Purity. THE METROPOLIS Of THE AMAZONS. THE METROPOLIS OF THE AMAZONS. PARS is a city with a manifest destiny. It looks unimportant enough from the river; a row of white and yellow washed ware- houses along the water-front; the ancient- looking custom-house; and, rising over all, the square towers of txvo or three churches. Rampant Swamp forest draws close in on either side as if it would reclaim its royal ground and bury the town in green glories; turbid water sweeps angrily around the point, and the score or two of vessels lying be- fore it tug at their anchors and rock uneasily. All day we have been running along the VOL. XVJIL5. low, forest-lined shores; past white-rolling surf at the mouth of the river; past fishing- canoes with their odd, three-cornered sails and little palm-thatched cabins; past a few tile- covered fazendas, and tiny white chapels half hidden in the forest, and farm-houses with rows of cocoa-nut palms and broad- leaved banana-plants. The northern horizon might have been the ocean, and the shores of Maraj6 a thousand miles away, for aught we could see; so broad is the Par~. estuary. Only near the city the channel is nar- rowed by islandsand such islands! All 65 WINDOW SCENE IN PARA.

Herbert H. Smith Smith, Herbert H. Brazil: The Metropolis of the Amazons 65-77

THE METROPOLIS Of THE AMAZONS. THE METROPOLIS OF THE AMAZONS. PARS is a city with a manifest destiny. It looks unimportant enough from the river; a row of white and yellow washed ware- houses along the water-front; the ancient- looking custom-house; and, rising over all, the square towers of txvo or three churches. Rampant Swamp forest draws close in on either side as if it would reclaim its royal ground and bury the town in green glories; turbid water sweeps angrily around the point, and the score or two of vessels lying be- fore it tug at their anchors and rock uneasily. All day we have been running along the VOL. XVJIL5. low, forest-lined shores; past white-rolling surf at the mouth of the river; past fishing- canoes with their odd, three-cornered sails and little palm-thatched cabins; past a few tile- covered fazendas, and tiny white chapels half hidden in the forest, and farm-houses with rows of cocoa-nut palms and broad- leaved banana-plants. The northern horizon might have been the ocean, and the shores of Maraj6 a thousand miles away, for aught we could see; so broad is the Par~. estuary. Only near the city the channel is nar- rowed by islandsand such islands! All 65 WINDOW SCENE IN PARA. 66 THE MET/ROPOLLS OF THE AMAZONS. glorious with regal palms and tangled vines and tall forest trees. Then there is the little round cheese-box fort, in looking at which we speculated curiously whether the big gun on the parapet would be more dangerous to a hostile ship or to the walls themselves; and we came to anchor two miles below Par6~ the city of the futurethe city that shall yet enrich the world with its commerce, sometime, perhaps, the true metropolis of Brazil. For no other place can wrest from Pani her title of nobility; by her situation she is Queen of the Amazons. We sit on deck and watch the great purple storm-clouds piling themselves up in the eastern sky, and the sun-touched towers sharply outlined against them,purple pas- sion-robes for this tropic queen. And we dream of white-sailed vessels bearing to all climes the wealth of the Amazons and the Andes; rows of stately warehouses and pil- lared mansions, and parks that shall eclipse all art in their splendor of tropical vegeta- tion. But thenso it goes with dreams the purple clouds change to black and send down a deluge of rain over the ship, hiding our sunset towers and dissolving our air- castles. There are no piers except the small ones of the Amazonian Steamboat Company. Freight is landed in lighters, and passengers and luggage are taken ashore in boats, whereof there is a small fleet manned by ex- ceedingly dirty Portuguese boatmen; you pay from one dollar to ten, according to the state of the tides and your own state of greenness. However, our deep-draught steamer has to anchor so far below the town that it would be a long pull for the men and the passengers purses; so a steam- launch is arranged for us all. We leave the good City of Rio de .Janeiro a little loth, for it has grown home-like during our voy- age; we are proud of the ship as a splen- did specimen of American skill, and proud of Captain Wier and his officers as Ameri- can sailors and gentlemen. We move up the river in the rich morning sunshine, landing at the custom- house wharf, where all foreign baggage must be examined. Climbing the oozy, half- ruined stairs, we pause at the top to look about. There is a little pagoda-shaped build- ing on the wharf with sleekly dressed custom- house officials sitting by the door. Grouped around are negro porters, cartmen with red sashes about their waists, rough-looking sailors, women with trays of oranges, dimin- utive horses and donkeys dragging two- wheeled cartsa rich tropical picture in a glowing frame of sunshine. And now we notice that the sun makes itself felt less in heat than in light. The temperature is not oppressively high; a New Yorker trans- ported to Pani in August would call it refresh- ing; but blazing and quivering in the air, streaming down through every alley, flood- ing streets and house-tops, comes the daz- zling white light. Red and yellow colors are painful; shadows are dark pits cut out of the ground, and an object in the shade is defined only by vivid degrees of blackness. It takes a long time for the eyes to accustom themselves to this superabun- dance of sunshine. The custom-house is an immense stone structure with two great towers at the end, recalling its ancient glories. It was for- merly a convent, but, by the decay and final extinction in Pani of the order that ten- anted it, the building reverted to the gov- ernment and was turned over to its present uses; only the little chapel is still reserved for religious purposes. The walls are all blackened with mildew, and clusters of weeds grow about the tile-roof; within, the long, dark corridors and massive pillars stand in stern contrast to the piles of barrels and boxes and crates of wine. The walls may have their dark secrets; many a noble life has burned itself out in these old convents. But our baggage inspector does not concern himself about that; he glances through his gold-rimmed spectacles with a critical eye for our trunks and valises, and brings up no pictures of gray-robed monks and penitential tears. For my own part I have nothing to say against the Brazilian custom-house official, who is courteous enough, though with a con- suming sense of his own importance, devel- oped precisely in inverse proportion to his rank in the service. Some travelers appear to think that they cannot pass the Brazilian frontier without bribing the officers. This is unjust. In all my travels I never paid out a milreis in that way and never had occasion to. A little quiet politeness is all that is required. From the custom-house, passing the line of stately royal palms by the water-side, we can stroll down the Rua da Zmperatri~. It is a broad, well-paved street with rows of prim-looking white and yellow buildings, two and three stories high; tall, arched door-ways and those ugly green doors that are seen in all tropical American cities. Here the larger wholesale houses are located; orderly establishments, the counting-room THE METROPOLIS OF THE AMAZONS. 67 and warehouse generally together on the ground floor, while the stories above may be occupied for offices and dwellings. The merchant looks cool and respectable in his spotless white linen clothes. If we enter the store he will receive us politely, but in business hours he is not given to wasting time in words; in financial matters we will find him careful and methodicalnot easily outwitted even by a Yankee. Unfortunately, many American merchants go to Brazil with very vague ideas of the country and its people. Young commer- cial men imagine that they can secure a footing at once, simply by placing Amen- can goods, often of a very inferior grade, on exhibition. Commonly they get discour- aged after the first few months and leave the country in disgust. The worst of these abandoned enterprises is that they deter other and wiser men from entering the field. Americans may as well dispossess their minds of all these crude ideas. If we are to secure a commercial footing in Brazil, it will be by careful and persistent effort, and by studying the wants of the people, not by wild speculation. It is no wonder that these young clerks, ignorant of the language and the country, are unable to compete with the shrewd Brazilian merchants and with well- established English and German houses. THE FORT, PARX. Our American manufacturers should em- ploy experienced agents, and in most cases, probably, they would do well to ally them- selves with enterprising Brazilian houses, or with American residents of old standing. Then they must be content with small profits at first; new wares must push their way lit- tle by little. Especially must they avoid flooding the Brazilian market with inferior goods, or those that are not suited to the wants of the people. Brazilian merchants,~ for instance, complain that the patterns of American print cloths do not please their customers. The fault is that our manufact- urers have sent them the high-colored, showy goods which are sold to Southern negroes. The more refined Brazilian taste prefers the light striped and flowered French and English prints. Americans, too, must be reconciled to the tediousness of Brazilian commerce. Our active business men are AT THE CUSTOM-HOUSE. 68 THE METROPOLIS OF THE AMAZONS. loth to accustom themselves to these endless delays. Custom-house, travel and freight shipments, licenses, all require a large stock of that peculiarly Brazilian virtuepaciencia. If you take a note, it is for a year or twenty months, or more; if you are promised a cus- tom-house clearance on Monday, expect it on Thursday. In large transactions, the Par6. mer- chant is governed, perhaps, rather by a wholesome regard for the law than by any abstract moral reasoning. In retail busi- ness, I am bound to say that he is quite as reasonable as his northern brother. I sel- dom had occasion for beating down a shop-keeper. On the Rua da Imj5era/riz we see nothing of that confusion of boxes and bales, carts and wagons, that characterizes a northern whole- sale street. There are a few heavy car- riages, but all burdens are carried on the heads of Portuguese and negro workmen, or on the ugly little two-wheeled carts. One feature which strikes us favorably is the absence of that gaudy array, of projecting signs, which is such an eye-sore in a north- ern city. Instead of being obliged to twist our necks trying to find a name in the con- fusion, we see it printed in small, legible characters on the side of the white door- way, attracting the attention at once. But in the neighboring Rua dos Mercadores the retail stores are often covered with kalso- mine patterns, got up with an artistic eye to the possibilities of ugliness, and with whole advertisements printed on them. This Rua dos Mercadores may be called the fashion- able shopping street, though the phrase seems misapplied in a place where ladies hardly ever enter a store. During the morning hours it is very lively and not un- picturesque. The dry goods merchants hang bright-colored cloths and hammocks about their doors, and some of them have their shop-fronts decorated with gorgeous ban- ners, or huge gilt devices. Horse-cars (or rather mule-cars) run through the street and are generally well filled with pleasure- seekers going to Nazareth, or business men coming from their houses. Looking down to the Largo do Pa/ado, you see~ the gray cathedral towers in the background rising above the low buildings of the street. The shops themselves are small, but well stocked; the different branches of trade occupying separate establishments, as in a northern town. The scale of prices is in- structive. French broadcloths, silks and woolen goods are nearly, or quite, as cheap as in the United States; cotton cloths, shoes, cutlery, etc., range from fifty to a hundred per cent. higher; glass and wooden wares are abominably dear, while coffee, sugar and cotton, which the country ought to produce in surplus, cost more than at home. Books and paper are high-priced and of very infe- rior manufacture. But the tropical side of Pars commerce is seen in the market. We must visit it before the sun is high, for it is almost de- serted later in the day. It occupies nearly a whole block; approaching on the side of the J?ua da Imperatriz we see nothing re- markable about the exterior, which is much like the whitewashed stores around it; only, gathered about the high arched door-way, there are groups of noisy negresses, some of them with trays of fruit which they are retail- ing to passers-by,piles of glossy oranges, bunches of yellow bananas and plantains, fragrant pine-apples and the less familiar mangoes and alligator-pears. Their busi- ness involves an immense amount of wrang- ling, but we can forget that in the artistic effect of the scene, the unconscious grace of attitude, and the richness of contrasted color in fruit and dress and shining black faces. Passing these we enter the main buildinga long, tile-roofed corridor, run- ning around a square court toward which it is everywhere open. The meat and fish- stalls are in this court. The corridor is lined with stands for the sale of fruit, vegeta- bles, tobacco and cheap trinkets. So much for the building; but the scene within is indescribable; it is not so much one picture as a hundred, all melting into one another, and changing and rechanging like the colors of a kaleidoscope. Not like a street scene with its rapid movement; no- body is in a hurry, but hardly anybody is still; as if the whole visible world were in a chronic state of sauntering. And we saunter along with the rest, watching the animated groups around us. Standing here we can get the background of that fruit-stand, with its heaped-up pur- ple and gold. The coatless and bare- footed fruit-sellers glance at us curiously as they wait on their customers,servant girls, for the most part, who have been sent to fill their baskets with oranges and bananas. Here comes a dark-skinned Diana a stately mulatto woman, with her crimson skirt gathered in picturesque folds at the waist, and her white chemise falling away negligently from one shoulder; her fine face is set to an expression of infinite scorn, THE METEOPOLIS OF THE AMAZONS. 69 of withering contempt, too deep for words. To be sure, all this acting is occasioned by a difference of three or four cents in the price of a string of beads, and the villain- ous-looking Portuguese gimcrack-seller who is the object of her wrath only laughs diabolically and makes himself look a de- gree uglier than before; soon she catches sight of an acquaintance and her scorn melts into a broad grin. So the two stroll away together, chattering as only these women can. That dark, handsome fellow, daintily sip- ping his paper cigar, is a lliliamelucoso Bra- zilians call a cross between the Indian and white races. Something of the flashing Lusitanian fire he has shining through the indolent grace of his gestures; much of the half-savage independence of his brown ancestors; but the mixture is tempered neither by the intelligence of the white nor the docility of the brown races; the Mamelu- cos bear a deservedly hard name on the Amazons. Squatted on the stone pavement is a toothless old cro~e, half Indian, half mulatto, with a pot of yellow rningau soupa prepa- ration of tapioca and bananas. Her cus- tomersmostly Portuguese cartmen and sailorsreceive their portions in black cala- bashes, and swallow the mixture with evi- dent gusto, gossiping, meanwhile, with one another, or exchanging not over delicate re- marks with the negro and mulatto servant girls who pass them. These latter bring pails and earthern pans on their heads, and a little farther on we see a score of them grouped about a butchers stall; the new- comers set their pans on the counter and produce little bundles of copper money; the butcher cuts the meat into shapeless chunks and, by some feat of calculation, flings to each a share apportioned to the money she brought; and the purchaser marches away with the pan of meat balanced on her head, her tongue running the while like a Chinese rattle. All the marketing is done in this way, through the medium of servants. Observe these baskets of black berries, like grapes in color and size; they are the fruit of the Assaz palm, the slender, graceful Eu/erjj5e that we saw on the river-banks. One sometimes hears an alliterative proverb: Qnem veiu para Pars paron; Quem beben Assaf ficon; which we may translate, as Mrs. Agassiz has done: Who came to Par~ was glad to stay; Who drank assaf went never away. It is well, then, for us to learn how this famous vinko d cissai is made. In a dark little shed at the back of the court, two mulatto women are rubbing off the black pulp of the berries in great bowls of water, crushing them vigorously with their bare hands and purpling their arms with the chocolate-like juice. After the first batch has been rubbed out, the liquid is de THE ASSAI STANO. THE METROPOLIS OF THE AMAZONS. 70 canted from the hard nuts to another lot of berries; these latter being treated in like manner, the resulting thick soup is strained through a wicker-work sieve and dealt out to the eager customers. Yes; the Arnericanos will have assaf corn assucar; so the little shirtless son scampers off after sugar: ordinary customers at the stand are of the lower classes, who drink their two cents worth of assal with only a lit- tle mandioca meal by way of seasoning. In the forest, where sugar was scarce and the fruit plenty, I learned to like it quite as xvell so myself; its brisk, nutty flavor is rather spoiled by the sweetening. However, our new- comers may prefer the civilized side; so the sugar is added, and we take a taste of the rich liquid. Even the squeamish ones empty their bowls, and begin to sug- gest to themselves the possibility of enter- taining another half-pint. Talk no more of sherbet and ginger-beer and soda-water; hereafter we abjure them all, if we may but have our purple assaf. And observe, as Mr. Weller has it,that its wery film. One can make a respectable lunch of it and nothing else. Back of the market, by the water-side, there are other picturesque scenes. Here are numbers of canoes drawn up on the shore, the larger ones with a little cabin of palm-thatch or boards in the stern. The Indian and mulatto boatmen, for the most part, are selling their produce on shore, and some of them, no doubt, are getting beastly drunk on the proceeds; the canoes, mean- while, are occupied by their families, and one cannot help noting the marked differ- ence of character displayed by the two races. The flashily dressed negresses and mulattoes are chattering and quarreling at the tops of their voices, while their not over clean chil- dren tumble about on the muddy shore, laughing, screaming, crying, as the case may be, but always making a noise of some kind. The Indian women, on the contrary, are very quiet, sitting still in the canoes, and perhaps carrying on a subdued conversation. They are dark; not copper-colored, like our Northern tribes, but of a clear rich broxvn. Some of the younger ones are decidedly handsome, and almost all are exquisitely neat in their tasty, light-colored calico dresses, sometimes with simple ornaments. The childrenlittle ones are dressed au ialu- re/are shining and clean and sleek, and always very quiet. Many of these Indians have come from the surrounding rivers, a hundred, two hun- dred, occasionally even five or six hundred, miles away. Most of them xvill sell their small cargoes and leave with the return tide. The women and children will see nothing more of the city than is visible from the water, or, at most, they will be treated to an hours walk about the town, or a visit to one of the churches. And that is enough. They do not care to THE MARKET WHARF. THE METROFOLIS OF THE AMAZONS. 7 I remain longer among the swelter- ing streets and glar- ing white walls. They long for their CITY SCAVENGERS. cool, shady forests, where they can swing their cotton hammocks by the water- side, and lounge away the hot noon hours, as free from care as the birds are above them. Besides the small canoes, there are many larger ones belonging to traders, who make long voyages on the upper rivers. They bring back forest produce which they have received in exchange for their wares. Here are bales of crude rubber in flask-shaped masses as it came from the molds; tall baskets of mandioca-meal, the bread of the poorer classes; bundles of dried salt }5iraru- cu fish; bags of cac6o and Brazil-nuts. There are turtles, too, reposing peacefully on their backs, and odd-looking fish, and pots of crabs and shrimps. Not a few of the canoes bring monkeys and parrots, but their owners are loth to part with these. On the Amazons all classes are extravagantly fond of pets. Formerly all the commerce of the river was carried on in trading-canoes. Now the steamboats have taken their place; trading centers have been established at various points along the river, and the canoes make shorter voyages. We can see the busy wharf of the Amazonian Steamboat Company from our breakfast-room at the Hotel do Commercio, and two or three of their vessels are lying in the river; they make voyages at longer or shorter intervals to the Madeira, Puris, and Tapaj6s; twice a month passage can be engaged to Man~os, and from there other lines extend their trips almost to the base of the Andes. There are several smaller companies, but they are all thrown into the shade by this rich Amazonian line, with its numerous branches. It has a large subsidy from the government, too much, probably, for its wants, now that the enterprise is well estab- lished. At Pars one day is like another. The mornings are cool and pleasant. From ten till two the heat increases rapidly, com- monly reaching 920 or 930 Fahrenheit. A little later great black clouds appear in the east, spreading rapidly over the sky and turning the intense glare to a twilight dark- ness. In a few minutes the rain comes pouring down in great dense masses, flood- ing the streets, hiding vessels on the river, drenching unlucky boatmen and their passengers, and thenere we know it, the shower has passed, and the sun looks down brightly on the freshened earth. Sometimes the first shower is followed by another one, and even a third; after that the clouds dis- appear, or hang like purple curtains on the western horizon. By sunset the ground is dry, and all nature is smiling. This is the rule all the year round; only the wet sea- son, extending from January to May, is A PEEP AT THE AMENICANOS. 72 THE METROPOLIS OF THE AMAZONS. distinguished by more copious showers, sometimes lasting until evening, with an occasional day or night of continued rain; while, in the height of the dry season, a week may pass without any showers at all, but even then the ground is watered by the heavy dews. Par~t would be a healthy city if sani- tary rules were properly observed. The streets, it is true, are kept decently clean, but in many of the houses there are filthy courts, the receptacles for garbage and rot- tenness of every kind; it is a wonder that people can live within range of their stench. As it is, there are many cases of typhoid; but yellow fever, though it appears nearly every year, takes a milder form than at Rio de Janeiro, and the number of deaths from THE THEATER, PARA. it is not very great. Sometimes intermittent fevers are prevalent. If we walk out after midday, we shall find the streets almost deserted, though the heat is not excessive. At four oclock the wholesale stores are closed, and the merchant goes home to his dinner. Retail establishments are kept open until after dark, but they do little business. The evenings are delightful. Walking out in the better quarters, we find the whole population out-of-doors, gentlemen sitting before their houses under the mango-trees, smoking, or sipping the after-dinner coffee and enjoying themselves with their families. The merest chance acquaintance makes us welcome at once to these groups; chairs are brought, coffee and cigars are served, and we may sit for an hour, chat- ting with our host and watching the groups around us. Out of business hours the Para- ense is the most sociable person you can imagine. Pleasure is his occu- pation; the cares of his counting- room are all locked up in the safe with his day-books and ledgers. You get acquainted despite of your- self; everybody knows everybody else, and insists on introducing him. I have found no other Brazilian city where there is so little cere- mony. We see people dressed sensibly in white linen; except on state occasions, the sweltering black coats of the southern provinces are not de rigueui- in Par6.. There the A FARA LAUNDRY. THE METROPOLIS OF THE AMAZONS. 73 women wear natural flowers in their hair; but in Rio de Janeiro and Bahia they must needs disfigure themselves with abominable French bonnets. Since the establishment of hotels, the rule of universal hospitality is no longer adhered to, but most of the better classes still keep open table to their acquaintances, at least for the late afternoon dinner. People live well and simply, though with too great a l)reference for animal food. Portuguese or French wine is generally served with breakfast and dinner, and there is a light dessert of fruit. In domestic life, many of the old bigoted notions concerning women are still retained; but at Park one no longer sees ladies shut up from all intercourse with visitors and ban- ished from the table. In exact proportion to the advance of more liberal ideas, the standard of private morals has risen; and though there is vast room for improvement in this respect, though infidelity on the part of the husband is still looked upon as a venial sin, still vice has no longer that open- ness and unrestrained license that formerly made it painfully conspicuous. As in Rio de Janeiro, the city merchant has his cliacara in the outskirts, so here he has his rociukc,*~a country dwelling in the city, a house with ten acres of back door- yard. The finest rocbilzas are in the suburb of Nazareth, to reach which xve can take the mule-drawn cars which we saw on the Rua dos Mercadores. The seats are well filled with passengers of both sexes and all colors, many of the laborers without coats and bare- footed, but clean and neat. From the business part of the town we pass first through a series of narrow streets, where there is hardly room for passers-by to avoid the car. The streets are close and dirty and uninteresting; black mold spreads itself on the kalsomined walls, and weeds hang over the projecting til2 roofs. An apology for a side-walk exists in some places; but there are so many ups and downs to it that pedestrians generally prefer the roadway. We get glimpses of slovenly looking women peering out from behind the swing-blinds, and dirty children disappearing through the open door-ways as the car comes up; looking in, we see nothing but blank white walls and bare floor. And down into the barren street the sun sends its liquid gold, and casts black shadows, just as it does in a thousand other ugly places. Turning next into the great Largo dci Pol- vora, we pass on by the pillared T/ieatro, one of the finest of the public buildings, whose white walls are set off well by the heavy foliage behind them. As for the Largo, it is a great, treeless waste, like a dozen others in the city; but the sides are lined with magnificent dark mango-trees, and the houses are of a better class than those we have seen; very fresh and pretty some of them are, with their facings of glazed white and blue tiles. We observe these tile-facings in many places along the Ruci de Na~are//t, where we turn off from the Largo; decidedly the prettiest dwellings in the city are here, and they are contrasted with rows of noble mango-trees, like those of the square. The gardens in front of some of the houses are stiff and pedantic, it is true; but in this climate Nature gets the better of the gardeners, and, despite them, will disport herself in glorious masses of foli- age and bloom; plants, such as grow in our A PARA DAIRY. A SOLDIER SARA. Diminutive of ro,ca, a clearing. The word is ap- parently a provincial one. 74 THE METROPOLIS OF THE AMAZONS. green-houses at home; but not the delicate nurslings of the North; great, hearty shrubs, with the vigor of their forest homes fresh on them, and their untrammeled roots sinking a yard deep into the rich loam. But the gardens are tame compared to those neglected rocinhas where the grounds are yard, orchard, wilderness, all thrown to- gether; where flowering vines clamber over the fruit-trees, and the rich flowers are smoth- ered in richer weeds, and rampant second growth threatens to annihilate the whole estate, as it undoubtedly would, did not the inhabitants make a sally sometimes with axes and wood-knives. I think Nature here has a grudge against humanity, with its angular houses and fences; she wants to round off everything to suit her flowing fancy. But if, instead of the blows and hard words she gets, she were coaxed and patted on the back, how she would break out into smiles and love- liness! Ah, well! I suppose we shall go on abusing her while the world lasts; but she will have her rights, for all that. From this primly dressed child, daubing and mussing its frock in the gutter, to the tumble-down houses of the side-streets, half covered with moss and weeds, she is forever picking up our ugly art and turning it into something picturesque. Even the new white chapel at Nazareth is getting its coating of gray and brown mold, and the artist will go on paint- ing it with delicate touches and rejoicing in its beauty, till vandal man comes along with his whitewash brush and spoils the work of years. The chapel is dedicated to Nossa Se- ;zhora de Nazareth, who is not to be con- founded with Nossa Senhora of anything else. You see this one is remarkable for a miracle which she performed in the eleventh century, when the devil, in the form of a deer, was leading a noble hunter over a precipice. As she saved the life of the hunter, she is entitled to especial regard,may be invoked, for instance, in cases where Nossa Senhora de Belem has failed utterly, and Nossa Senhora da Esj5e- ran~a has given little hope. Our Lady of Nazareth, then, is the patron saint of Par~t, and every year there is a grand festival given in her honor. Then the city is thronged with strangers, often from towns three or four hundred miles away. Our Lady is carried in solemn procession through the streets, and the church is daily filled with worshipers. The great square near by is lined with booths, and gay with flags and transparencies. Every night there is a display of fire-works; costume dances are extemporized; theaters with execrable actors attract the public, especially on Sun- day evening, and for a week the city is given over to universal enjoyment. People are orderly and quiet. There is less hard drinking than you see on any holiday at the North, and hardly any quarreling and fighting. I do not think there is a very strong religious feeling either in Par~t or in the other Brazilian cities. The more ignorant negroes and mulattoes delight in the brill- iant ceremonies of the Catholic Church. Better educated people yield a discreet assent to the forms and observances, but there is very little deep feeling underlying their zeal. The explanation is to be looked for in the utterly corrupt condition of the clergy. In Brazil a virtuous priest is the exception. I do not say that there are none who do their duty with zeal and rev- erence, and practice their own precepts; but the majority lead lives that give the lie to their preaching and bring the church into disrepute with all thinking men. The present Bishop of Pars is one of those remarkable men whose names will always be landmarks in the history of the Church. Pure in his own life, he has gath- ered around him a body of young I;riests who emulate the sacrifices and virtues of the early Jesuit missionaries. I have met these young men at Pars and in some of the river towns. One of them I esteem as a personal frienda man whose life is above reproach, and whose scanty income is all expended in deeds of charity and kindness. If the Bishop of Pani is to be praised for this work, he is unquestionably to be cen- sured for his interference with political mat- ters. The feeling is rapidly advancing in Brazil that church and state must be dis- united. If the ecclesiastical power med- dles with the secular one there is always strong comment. Sometimes the govern- ment resists the priests, and then there is a storm, often ending in popular tumults, as was the case recently in Pernambuco. The bishop holds, in the fullest sense, that the state should be subservient to the church, and the whole to the See of Rome. Hence he is unpopular with a large class of the people. These, led by the Masonic brotherhood,a body of great political importance in Brazil,keep up a determined resistance to the bishop and his party. An extreme wing of this Liberal party has developed into Communism, or some- THE METROPOLIS OF THE AMAZONS. 75 thing very much like it. Hatred of the Portuguese immigrants is a cardinal prin- ciple of their creed; the overturning of both state and church power seems to be their ultimate object. It is difficult to esti- mate the real strength of this party. In 1835 it made itself felt in a general insurrection, which flooded the province with blood. Pars was given over to a mob of the worst character; all the respectable inhabitants were obliged to withdraw from the city, and it was only after a long season of anarchy that order was restored by the arrival of troops from the south. Since then there has been no direct outbreak, and it is prob- able that the party has lost much of its influence. Emphatically, an American need not fear to express his principles in Brazil; he is protected as well by public opinion as by the government. Even the priests, who might be supposed to be intolerant, will dis- cuss theological differences with the utmost good-nature and with no small powers of argument. We can visit the churches almost any morning, or go to hear high mass at the Cathedral on Sunday. There is more glit- ter and ceremony than in our northein Catholic churches. Worshipers stand and kneel on the stone floor, for there are no seats. The churches are high and rather bare, except around the altar. One sees three or four conspicuous life-size figures of saints, which on certain days are carried through the streets in procession, with ring- ing of bells and firing of rockets, attended by red and green coated brotherhoods and dainty little child-angels with spangled dresses and gauze wings. For the rest, religion involves nothing more than an oc- casional visit to the confessional and pretty liberal contributions to the church treasury and to the poor. Aside from the churches and the custom- house, we shall find little to interest us in the public buildings. The presidents pal- ace is a great, glaring, barrack-like structure, looking out on one of the squares. Within it is richly furnished, but with that stiffness and lack of ornament that characterize all Brazilian dwellings. The Episcopal palace is still worse; jammed in among the sur- rounding buildings, it looks like a ware- house. It is a pity that the Paraenses have left their public squares the weed-grown wastes that they are. Only in some of them there are picturesque wells, and, of a sunny day, when our walks take us past these, we see groups of noisy washerwomen drawing water over the curb and spreading their clothes on the grass to dry. There are no water-works aside from these wells. Water is hawked MONKEY JOES. 76 TilE METROPOLIS OF THE AMAZONS. about the town in great hogsheads set on ox-carts and attended by rough-looking Gal- legos* with red scarfs and glazed hats. As for milk, that is carried around by the cow, who, with her bleating calf tied to her tail, is driven from door to door and milked in sight of the customers. Of course, under these circumstances, watered milk is un- known. There are a hundred other odd characters in the streets,bakers with great baskets of bread; negro women selling sweetmeats, or pots of dSSGl, or tapioca soup; porters carry- ing heavy trunks on their heads, and so on. Ladies buy their dresses by samples carried around from house to house. If you engage board of a family the meals are sent to your room. When we have clone the streets, and the dirty little wine-shops, and the animal store with its monkeys and wild hogs and boa-constrictors and electric eels, we have yet the never-failing beauty of vegetation in the outskirts. Everything seems buried in green; here is a ruined house, for instance, a wonderful picture, enshrouded in flower- ing vines until hardly a beam or a square inch of xvall is visible; a rolling, tumbling, rol- licking mass of foliage; the very ruin seems to catch the infection, passing its last days in a kind of tottering hilarity. And so it is with everything on which this rampant plant-- life can get a hold; palings, stumps, heaps of rubbish, are all draped and curtained and padded with vines and weeds till their rough angularities have disappeared under the soft curves, as you have seen a pile of sticks covered with snow. The Monguba avenue has lost much of its ancient glory ; the trees, for some rea- son, are dying, and no care is taken to re- new them. But the Es/rada de Sdo Jos~ more than fills its place. There is something so wonderful in the stately simplicity of palm-trees, and these royal palms are among the most beautiful of their tribe. Looking down the long avenue xve see the feathery tops almost meeting overhead and quivering with the lightest breath of wind, lending, somehow, a kind of dignity to the tapering stems which do not sway as other trees do, even in a storm. We can follow out this road to the gas- works, and back of that on to the wet ground near the river; there the second growth is one tangled mass, with palms, and vines, and great glossy Arums by the water-side; not the little arrow-heads of our brooks, but trees, with leaves a foot long and almost as broad, like polished shields among the vines that clamber over them. Or we can visit the Botanical Garden, where the not very elaborate culture has only given Nature a better chance to show her skill. And when gardens and outskirts and second growth are all familiar, a little walk beyond the city limits will bring us to the high forest, thick, dark, massive, where the few roads are mere paths, and one may lose himself almost within sight of the cathe- dral towers. Finally, there are the lowland channels, with the indescribable richness of swamp vegetation, with palms and broad-leaved wild bananas, and I know not what of the grand and beautiful in plant life. One could spend weeks in excursions about this netted water-system. The channels are the great highways of travel and commerce, for the few roads that extend inland from the city are soon lost in the tangled forest. Canoes are con- stantly arriving with loads of produce from the interior, and two or three times a week the river steamers discharge their cargoes at the city wharves. Aside from her most important export, rubber,Par~ sends us Brazil nuts, cacao, and various drugs; but sugar, coffee and cotton are largely imported from the South, ESTRADA DR SAO JOSE. A term of reproach, originating in the hatred of the Portuguese for the Spaniard, and especially for the natives of Gallicia. APRIL. 77 and the immense riches of Amazonian tim- ber are untouched. The time must come when all these things, and more, will fill the markets of Par6~ when the Pacific republics will make THE BOTANICAL GARDENS. the Amazons and its metropolis the guardi- ans of their commerce. The northern chan- nels are more or less obstructed near the mouth, and the furious currents make it difficult for vessels to enter; it is not prob- able, then, that Macap~t or other northern ports will ever offer any serious rivalry to Par6~ As commerce increases a new port will be formed, eight or ten miles below the present one, where the banks are high and the river deep enough for the largest steam- OH, strangely fall the April days! The brown buds redden in their light, And spiders spin by day and night; The willow lifts a yellow haze Of springing leaves to meet the sun, lAThile down their white-stone courses run The swift, glad brooks, and sunshine weaves A cloth of green for cowslip leaves Through all the fields of April days. ers; already there is a much-talked-of proj- ect for building a railroad to this point; when this is done, the old city will still be the residence of the richer classes, but for- eign trade will all turn to the new harbor. Soon or late, the future of Pars is secure. A century hence, the ships of all nations will crowd to her wharves, bearing away the riches of half a continent. Assuredly, it will be our fault if we do not profit by the com- mercial center that is forming so near us. To turn this tide of wealth to our own doors, while yet the stream is small, is a problem that may well engage the atten- tion of our rulers and of every thoughtful American. Oh, sweetly fall the April days! My love was made of frost and light, Of light to warm and frost to blight The sweet, strange April of her ways. Eyes like a dream of changing skies, And every frown and blush I prize. With cloud and flush the spring comes in With frown and blush maids loves begin, For love is like rare April days. APRIL.

L. Frank Tooker Tooker, L. Frank April 77-78

APRIL. 77 and the immense riches of Amazonian tim- ber are untouched. The time must come when all these things, and more, will fill the markets of Par6~ when the Pacific republics will make THE BOTANICAL GARDENS. the Amazons and its metropolis the guardi- ans of their commerce. The northern chan- nels are more or less obstructed near the mouth, and the furious currents make it difficult for vessels to enter; it is not prob- able, then, that Macap~t or other northern ports will ever offer any serious rivalry to Par6~ As commerce increases a new port will be formed, eight or ten miles below the present one, where the banks are high and the river deep enough for the largest steam- OH, strangely fall the April days! The brown buds redden in their light, And spiders spin by day and night; The willow lifts a yellow haze Of springing leaves to meet the sun, lAThile down their white-stone courses run The swift, glad brooks, and sunshine weaves A cloth of green for cowslip leaves Through all the fields of April days. ers; already there is a much-talked-of proj- ect for building a railroad to this point; when this is done, the old city will still be the residence of the richer classes, but for- eign trade will all turn to the new harbor. Soon or late, the future of Pars is secure. A century hence, the ships of all nations will crowd to her wharves, bearing away the riches of half a continent. Assuredly, it will be our fault if we do not profit by the com- mercial center that is forming so near us. To turn this tide of wealth to our own doors, while yet the stream is small, is a problem that may well engage the atten- tion of our rulers and of every thoughtful American. Oh, sweetly fall the April days! My love was made of frost and light, Of light to warm and frost to blight The sweet, strange April of her ways. Eyes like a dream of changing skies, And every frown and blush I prize. With cloud and flush the spring comes in With frown and blush maids loves begin, For love is like rare April days. APRIL. 78 CHIMNEY SWALLOWS. CHIMNEY SWALLOWS. I SLEPT in an old homestead by the sea; And in their chimney nest, At night, the swallows told home-lore to me, As to a friendly guest. A liquid twitter low, confiding, glad, From many glossy throats, Was all the voice, and yet its accents had A poems golden notes. Quaint legends of the fireside and the shore, And sounds of festal cheer, And tones of those whose tasks of love are oer, Were breathed into mine ear. And wondrous lyrics felt, but never sung, The hearts melodious bloom; And histories whose perfumes long have clung About each hallowed room. I heard the dream of lovers as they found At last their hour of bliss, And fear and pain and long suspense were drowned In one heart-healing kiss. I heard the lullaby of babes, that grew To sons and daughters fair; And childhoods angels singing as they flew, And sobs of secret prayer. I heard the voyagers, who seemed to sail Into the sapphire sky, And sad, weird voices in the autumn gale, As the swift ships went by; And sighs suppressed and converse soft and low About the suffrers bed, And what is uttered when the stricken know That the dear one is dead; And steps of those who in the Sabbath light Muse with transfigured face; And hot lips pressing, through the long, dark night, The pillows empty place; And greetings of old friends whose path In youth had gone apart, But to each other brought lifes aftermath, With uncorroded heart. The music of the seasons touched the strain, Bird-joy and laugh of flowers, The orchards bounty and the yellow grain, Snow-storm and sunny showers. And secrets of the soul that doubts, and yearns, And gropes in regions dim, Till meeting Christ with raptured eye, discerns Its perfect life in Him. So, thinking of the Master and His tears, And how the birds are kept, I sank in arms that folded me from fears, And, like an infant, slept.

Horatio Nelson Powers Powers, Horatio Nelson Chimney Swallows 78-79

78 CHIMNEY SWALLOWS. CHIMNEY SWALLOWS. I SLEPT in an old homestead by the sea; And in their chimney nest, At night, the swallows told home-lore to me, As to a friendly guest. A liquid twitter low, confiding, glad, From many glossy throats, Was all the voice, and yet its accents had A poems golden notes. Quaint legends of the fireside and the shore, And sounds of festal cheer, And tones of those whose tasks of love are oer, Were breathed into mine ear. And wondrous lyrics felt, but never sung, The hearts melodious bloom; And histories whose perfumes long have clung About each hallowed room. I heard the dream of lovers as they found At last their hour of bliss, And fear and pain and long suspense were drowned In one heart-healing kiss. I heard the lullaby of babes, that grew To sons and daughters fair; And childhoods angels singing as they flew, And sobs of secret prayer. I heard the voyagers, who seemed to sail Into the sapphire sky, And sad, weird voices in the autumn gale, As the swift ships went by; And sighs suppressed and converse soft and low About the suffrers bed, And what is uttered when the stricken know That the dear one is dead; And steps of those who in the Sabbath light Muse with transfigured face; And hot lips pressing, through the long, dark night, The pillows empty place; And greetings of old friends whose path In youth had gone apart, But to each other brought lifes aftermath, With uncorroded heart. The music of the seasons touched the strain, Bird-joy and laugh of flowers, The orchards bounty and the yellow grain, Snow-storm and sunny showers. And secrets of the soul that doubts, and yearns, And gropes in regions dim, Till meeting Christ with raptured eye, discerns Its perfect life in Him. So, thinking of the Master and His tears, And how the birds are kept, I sank in arms that folded me from fears, And, like an infant, slept. HA WORTHS. 79 HAWORTHS. * BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT, Author of That Lass o Lowries, Surly Tim, and Other Stories, Etc. CHAPTER XXXIII. A SEED SOWN. THERE had been, as it seemed, a lull in the storm. The idlers did not come over from Molton and Dillup as often as they had done at first. The strikes had extended until they were in full blast throughout the Country, but Haworths, so far, had held its own. Haworth himself was regarded as a kind of demi-god. He might have done almost anything he pleased. It was a source of some surprise to his admirers that he Chose to do so little and showed no ela- tion. One or two observing outsiders saw that his struggle had left its mark upon him. There were deep lines in his face; he had lost flesh and something of his air of bravado; at times he was almost haggard. As things became quieter he began to take sudden mysterious journeys to London and Man- chester and various other towns. Ffrench late the fruit of his efforts had rather the flavor of ashes. He was of even less im- portance than before, in the Works, and he continually heard unpleasant comments and reports outside. As surely as his spirits rose to a jubilant height some untoward circum- stance occurred to dash them. I should have thought, he said fret- fully to his daughter, that as a Broxton man andand a gentleman, the people would have been with me, but they are not. No, said Miss Ffrench, they are not. She knew far more than he did himself. She was not in the habit of allowing any sign to escape her. When she took her frequent drives she kept her eyes open to all that happened. If they dared, there are a good many of them who would be insolent to me. Why should they not dare ? asked her father with increased irritation. did not know why he went; in fact Ffrench knew very little of him but that his humors were frequently trying and always more morose after such absences. He himself had alternately blown hot and cold. Of Because they know I am not afraid of thembecause I set them at defiance; and for another reason.~~ The other reason which she did not state had nothing to do with their daring. It Copyright by Frances Hodgson Burnett, 1878.All rights reserved. THERE WONT BE ANY NEED 0 50 MANY 0 YOU LADS.

Frances Hodgson Burnett Burnett, Frances Hodgson "Haworth's" 79-94

HA WORTHS. 79 HAWORTHS. * BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT, Author of That Lass o Lowries, Surly Tim, and Other Stories, Etc. CHAPTER XXXIII. A SEED SOWN. THERE had been, as it seemed, a lull in the storm. The idlers did not come over from Molton and Dillup as often as they had done at first. The strikes had extended until they were in full blast throughout the Country, but Haworths, so far, had held its own. Haworth himself was regarded as a kind of demi-god. He might have done almost anything he pleased. It was a source of some surprise to his admirers that he Chose to do so little and showed no ela- tion. One or two observing outsiders saw that his struggle had left its mark upon him. There were deep lines in his face; he had lost flesh and something of his air of bravado; at times he was almost haggard. As things became quieter he began to take sudden mysterious journeys to London and Man- chester and various other towns. Ffrench late the fruit of his efforts had rather the flavor of ashes. He was of even less im- portance than before, in the Works, and he continually heard unpleasant comments and reports outside. As surely as his spirits rose to a jubilant height some untoward circum- stance occurred to dash them. I should have thought, he said fret- fully to his daughter, that as a Broxton man andand a gentleman, the people would have been with me, but they are not. No, said Miss Ffrench, they are not. She knew far more than he did himself. She was not in the habit of allowing any sign to escape her. When she took her frequent drives she kept her eyes open to all that happened. If they dared, there are a good many of them who would be insolent to me. Why should they not dare ? asked her father with increased irritation. did not know why he went; in fact Ffrench knew very little of him but that his humors were frequently trying and always more morose after such absences. He himself had alternately blown hot and cold. Of Because they know I am not afraid of thembecause I set them at defiance; and for another reason.~~ The other reason which she did not state had nothing to do with their daring. It Copyright by Frances Hodgson Burnett, 1878.All rights reserved. THERE WONT BE ANY NEED 0 50 MANY 0 YOU LADS. 8o HA WORTHS. was the strong one that in the splendor of her beauty she had her greatest power. Ordinary womanhood would scarcely in it- self have appealed to the chivalric sentiment of l3roxton, Molton and Dillup, but Rachel Efrench driving slowly through the streets and past the beer-house doors, and turn- ing her perfect, unmoved face for criticism to the crowd collected thereat, created a natural diversion. Those who had pre- viously been in a sarcastic mood, lapsed into silence, the most inveterate bacco con- sumers took their pipes out of their mouths, feeling it necessary to suspend all action that they might look after her with a clearer appreciation. They were neither touched nor softened, but they were certainly roused to an active admiration which, after a man- ner, held them in check. Theer is na another bike her i En- gland, was once remarked rather sullenly by one. Not i England, let aboan Lan- cashirean be domd to her,this last added with a shade of delicate significance. But there was one man who saw her with eyes different from the rest. If he had not so seen her, existence would have been another matter. He seemed to live a sim- ple, monotonous life. He held his place in the Works, and did well what he had to do. He was not very thoroughly understood by his fellows, but there existed a vague feel- ing of respect for him among them. They had become used to his silence and absent- mindedness and the tasks which seemed to them eccentricities. His responsibilities had increased, but he shouldered them without making any fuss and worked among the rest just as he had been wont to do when he had been Floxhams right hand in the SHE STAGGERED UNDER THE STROKE. HA WORTHS. 8i engine-room. In more select circles he was regarded, somewhat to his distaste, with no inconsiderable interest. He was talked of privately as a young man with a future be- fore him, though the idea of what that future was to be, being gathered from Ffrench, was somewhat indefinite. His own reserve upon the subject was rather resented, but still was forgiven on the score of eccentricity. For the rest, he lived, as it were, in a dream. The days came and went, but at the close of each there were at least a few hours of happiness. And yet it was not happiness of a very tangible form. Sometimes, when he left the house and stepped into the cool darkness of the night outside, he found himself stopped for a moment with a sense of bewilderment. Haworth, who had sat talking to his part- ner and following Rachel Ffrenchs figure with devouring eyes, had gained as much as he himself. She had not spoken often, per- haps, and had turned from one to the other with the same glance and tone, but one man left her with anger and misery in his breast, and the other wondered at his own rapture. I have done nothing and gained noth- ing, the young fellow would often say to himself as he sat at the work-table afterward, butI am madly happy. And then he would lie forward with his head upon his folded arms, going over the incidents of the night again and again living the seconds over, one by one. Haworth watched him closely in these days. As he passed him on his way to his work-room, he would look up and follow him with a glance until he turned in at its door. He found ways of hearing of his life outside and of his doings in the Works. One morning, as he was driving down the road toward the town, he saw in the distance the graceful figure of Mr. Briarley, who was slouching along in the somewhat muddled condition consequent upon the excitement of an agreeably convivial even- ing at the Whod ha Thowt it. He gave him a critical glance and the next moment whipped up his horse, uttering an exclamation. Theres th chap, he said, by th Lord Harry! In a few seconds more he pulled up alongside of him. Stop a bit, lad, he said. Mr. Briarley hesitated and then obeyed with some suddenness. A delicately sug- gestive recollection of th barrels induced VOL. XVIII..6. him to do so. He ducked his head with a feeble smile, whose effect was somewhat obscured by a temporary cloud of natural embarrassment. He had not been brought into immediate contact with Haworth since the strikes began. Th same, he faltered, with illusive cheerfulness, th same to yo anan mony on em. Then he paused and stood holding his hat in his hand, endeavoring painfully to preserve the smile in all its pristine beauty of expression. Haworth leaned forward in his gig. Youre a nice chap, he said. Youre a nice chap. A general vague condition of mind be- trayed Mr. Briarley into the momentary weakness of receiving this compliment liter- ally. He brightened perceptibly, and his countenance became suffused with the rose- ate blush of manly modesty. My best days is ower, he replied. Ive been misforchnit, Mesterbut theer wur a toime as th opposite sect ha said th same though that theers a thing, reflecting deeply and shaking his head, as I nivver remoind Sararann on. The next moment he fell back in some trepidation. Haworth looked down at him coolly. Youre a pretty chap, he said, goin on th strike an leaving your wife and chil- dren to starve at home while you lay in your beer and make an ass of yourself. Eh! exclaimed Mr. Briarley. And make an ass of yourself, repeated Haworth, unmovedly. Youd better be drawin your wages, my lad. Mr. Briarleys expression changed. From bewilderment he passed into comparative gloom. It is na drawin em Ive getten owt agen, he remarked. It is na drawin em. Its earnin em,an hain em took away anan spent i luxuriesberryin- clubs an th bike. Brass as ud buy th nessycerries. If wed left you alone, said Haworth, where would your wife and children be now, you scoundrel? Whos fed em and clothed em while youve been on th spree? Jem Haworth, blast you !Jem Haworth. He put his hand in his pocket, and, drawing forth a few jingling silver coins, tossed them to him. Take these, he said, an go an spend em on th nessycerries, as you call em. Youll do it, I know well enow. Youll be HA WORTHS. in a worse box than you are now, before long. Well have done with you chaps when Murdochs finished the job hes got on hand. Whats that? faltered Briarley. I ha na heerd on it? Haworth laughed and picked up his whip and reins. Ask him, he answered. He can tell you better than I can. Hes at work on a thing thatll set the masters a good bit freer than they are now. Thats all I know. There wont be any need o so many o you lads. Youll have to make your brass out of a new trade. He bent a little to settle a strap. Go and tell the rest on em, he said. Youll do it when youre drunk enow, I dare say. Briarley fumbled with his coins. His air became speculative. What are you thinkin on ? demanded Haworth. Its a bad lookout, isnt it ? Mr. Briarley drew a step nearer the gigs side. He appeared somewhat pale, and spoke in a whisper. Muddled as he was, he had an idea or so left. Itll be a bad lookout for him, he said. Bless yo! Theyd tear him to pieces. Theyre in th humor for it. Theyve been carryin a grudge so long theyre ready fur owt. Theyve nivver thowt mich o him, though, but start em on that an they wouldnt leave a shred o it togethernor a shred o him, eyther, if they got the chance. Haworth laughed again. Wouldnt they ? he said. Let em try. Hed have plenty to stand by him. Th masters are on his side, my lad. He touched his horse, and it began to move. Suddenly he checked it and looked back, speaking again. Keep it to yourself, then, he said, if theres danger, and keep my name out of it, by George, if you want to be safe! Just as he drove up to the gates of the yard Murdoch passed him and entered them. Until thensince he had left Briar- leyhe had not spoken. He had driven rapidly on his way with a grim, steady face. As Murdoch went by he got down from his gig, and went to the horses head. He stood close to it, knotting the reins. Nor of him either, he said. Nor of him either, by CHAPTER XXXIV. A CLIMAX. THE same night Mr. Briarley came home in a condition more muddled and dishev eled than usual. He looked as if he had been hustled about and somewhat uncere- moniously treated. He had lost his hat, and was tremulous and excited. He came in without the trifling ceremony of opening the door. In fact, he fell up against it and ran in, and making an erratic dive at a chair, sat down. Granny Dixon, who had been dozing in her usual seat, was roused by the concussion and wakened and sat up, glaring excitedly. Hes been at it again! she shouted. At it again! Hell nivver ha none o my brass to mak way wi. Hes been at Mrs. Briarley turned upon her. Keep thy mouth shut! she said. The command was effective in one sense, though not in another. Mrs. Dixon stopped in the midst of the word at with her mouth wide open, and so sat for some sec- onds, with the aspect of an ancient beldame ordinarily going by machinery and sud- denly having had her works stopped. She would probably have presented this appearance for the remainder of the even- ing if Mrs. Briarley had not addressed her agaln. Shut thy mouth! she said. The works were set temporarily in mo- tion, and her countenance slowly resumed its natural lines. She appeared to settle down all over and sink and become smaller, though, as she crouched nearer the fire, she had rather an evil look, which seemed to take its red glow into her confidence and secretly rage at it. Whats tha been doin ? Mrs. Briarley demanded of her better half. Out wi it ! Mr. Briarley had already fallen into his favorite position. He had placed an elbow upon each knee and carefully supported his disheveled head upon his hands. He had also already begun to shed tears, which dropped and made disproportionately large circles upon the pipe-clayed floor. Im a misforchnit chap, he said. Im a misforchnit chap, Sararann, as nivver had no luck. Whats tha been doin? repeated Mrs. Briarley, with even greater sharpness than before; out wi it! Nay, said Mr. Briarley, that theers what Ive getten mysen i trouble wi. I wunnot do it again. Theers summat P beer, he proceeded, mournfully, as goes agen a man. He towd me not to say nowt an I did na mean to, but, with fresh pathos, theers summat HA WORTHS. 83 i beer as windsas winds a chap up. Im not mich o th speakin loine, Sararann, but afore I knowed it, I wur a-makin a speech an when I bethowt me an wanted to set downthey wur bound to mak mego on to th eendan when I would natheer wur a good bito public opinion igspressed an I did na stopto bid em good-neet. Theer wur too much agoin on. What wur it aw about? asked Mrs. Briarley. But Mr. Briarleys voice had been gradu- ally becoming lower and lower, and his words more incoherent. He was sinking into slumber. When she repeated her question, he awakened with a violent start. Im a misforchnit chap, he murmured, an I dunnot know. Scaped me, Sarar- annowin to misforchins. Eh! remarked Mrs. Briarley, regard- ing him with connubial irony, but tha art a graidely foo! Id gie summat to see a graidelier un! But he was so far gone by this time that there was no prospect of a clear solution of the cause of his excitement. And so she turned to Granny Dixon. Its toime fur thee to be i bed, she shouted. Granny Dixon gave a sharp, stealthy move round, and a sharp, stealthly glance up at her. 1dunnot want to go, she quavered shrilly. Aye, but tha does, was the answer. An thart goin too. Get up, Missus. And singularJy enough, Mrs. Dixon fum- bled until she found her stick, and gathering herself up and leaning upon it, made her rambling way out of the room carrying her evil look with her. Bless us! Mrs. Briarley had said in confidence to a neighbor a few days before. I wur nivver more feart i my life than when Id done it, an th owd besom set theer wi her cap o one side an her breath gone. I did na know but Id put an eend to her. I nivver should ha touched her i th world if I had na been that theer upset as I did na know what I wur doin. I thowt shed be up an out i th street as soon as shed getten her breath an, happen, ca on th porlice. An to think its been th settlin on her! It feart me to see it at th first, but I wur na goin to lose th chance an th next day I give it to her up an down tremblin i my shoes aw th toime. I says, Tha may leave thy brass to who tha bikes, but thalt behave thysen while tha stays here or Sararann Briarleyll see about it. So mak up thy moind. An Ive nivver had a bit o trouble wi her fro then till now. She conna bide th soight o me, but she dare na go agen me fur her life. The next day Haworth went away upon one of his mysterious journeys. To Leeds or Manchester, or perhaps London, said Ffrench. I dont know where.~~ The day after was Saturday, and in the afternoon Janey Briarley presented herself to Mrs. Murdoch at an early hour, and evidently with something on her mind. I mun get through wi th cleanin an~ go whoam soon, she said. Th stroikers is over fro Molton an Dellup again. Theers summat up among em. We dunnot know nowt about it, she answered, when further questioned. We ony know theyre here an i a ill way about summat theyve fun out. Feyther, hes aw upset, but he dare na say nowt fur fear o th Union. Mother thinks theyve getten summat agen Ffrench. Does Mr. Ffrench know that? Mrs. Murdoch asked. Hell know it soon enow, if he does na, dryly. Theyll noan stand back at tellin him if theyre i th humorbut hes biker to know than not. Hes too feart on em not to be on th watch. It was plain enough before many hours had passed that some disturbance was on foot. The strikers gathered about the streets in groups, or lounged here and there sullenly. They were a worse-looking lot than they had been at the outset. Idleness and ill-feeling and dissipation had left their marks. Clothes were shabbier, faces more brutal and habits plainly more vicious. At one oclock Mr. Ffrench disappeared from his room at the bank, no one knew exactly how or when. All the morning he had spent in vacillating between his desk and a window looking into the street. There was a rumor among the clerks that he had beer seen vanishing through a side door leading into a deserted little back street. An hour later he appeared in the parlor in which his daughter sat. He was hot and flurried and out of breath. Those scoundrels are in the town again, he said. And there is no knowing what they are up to. It was an insane thing for Haworth to go away at such a time. By night there will be an uproar. If there is an uproar, said Miss Ffrench, 84 HA WORTHS. they will come here. They know they can do nothing at the Works. He is always ready for them thereand they are angrier with you than they are with him. There is no reason why they should be, Efrench protested. I took no meas- ures against them, heaven knows. I think, returned Rachel, that is the reason. You have been afraid of them. He colored to the roots of his hair. You are saying a deuced unpleasant thing, my dear, he broke forth. It is true, she answered. What would be the use in iwi saying it? He had no reply to make. The trouble was that he never had a reply to make to these deadly simple statements of hers. He began to walk up and down the room. The people we invited to dine with us, she said, will not come. They will hear what is going on and will be afraid. It is very stupid. I wonder, he faltered, if Murdoch will fail us. He never did before. No, she answered. He will not stay away.~~ The afternoon dragged away its unpleas- ant length. As it passed Ffrench found in every hour fresh cause for nervousness and excitement. The servant who had been out brought disagreeable enough tidings. The small police force of the town had its hands full in attending to its business of keeping order. If we had had time to send to Man- chester for some assistance, said Mr. Ffrench. That would have been reason enough for being attacked, said Rachel. It would have shown them that we felt we needed protection. We may need it, before all is quiet again, retorted her father. We may, she answered, or we may not. By night several arrests had been made, and there was a good deal of disorder in the town. A goodly quantity of beer had been drunk and there had been a friendly fight or so among the strikers themselves. Rachel left her father in the drawing- room and went upstairs to prepare for din- ner. When she returned an hour afterward he turned to her with an impatient start. Why did you dress yourself in that manner ? he exclaimed. You said your- self our guests would not come. It occurred to me, she answered, that we might have visitors after all. But it was as she had prophesied,the guests they had expected did not come. They were discreet and well-regulated elderly people who had lived long in the manufacturing districts, and had passed through little unpleasantnesses before. They knew that under existing circumstances it would be wiser to remain at home than to run the risk of exposing themselves to spas- modic criticism and its results. But they had visitors. The dinner hour passed and they were still alone. Even Murdoch had n~ot come. A dead silence reigned in the room. Ffrench was trying to read and not succeed- ing very well. Miss Ffrench stood by the window looking out. It was a clear night and the moon was at full; it was easy to see far up the road upon whose whiteness the trees cast black shadows. She was looking up this road toward the town. She had been watching it steadily for some time. Once her father had turned to her restlessly, saying: Why do you stand there? Youyou might be expecting something to happen.~~ She did not make any reply and still re- tained her position. But about half an hour afterward, she turned suddenly and spoke in a low, clear tone. If you are afraid, you had better go away, she said. They are coming. It was evident that at least she felt no alarm, though there was a thrill of excite- ment in her voice. Mr. Ffrench sprang up from his seat. They are coming ! he echoed. Good God! What do you mean? It was not necessary that she should en- ter into an explanation. A clamor of voices in the road told its own story. There were shouts and riotous cries which, in a moment more, were no longer outside the gates but within them. An uproarious crowd of men and boys poured into the garden, trampling the lawn and flower-beds beneath their feet as they rushed and stumbled over them. Wheer is he? they shouted.. Bring the chap out, an lets tak a look at him. Bring him out! Efrench moved toward the door of the room, and then, checked by some recollec- tion, turned back again. Good H eaven! he said, they are at their worst, and here we are utterly alone. Why did Haworth go away? Why His daughter interrupted him. There is no use in your staying, she said. It will do no good. You may go. HA WORTHS. 85 if you like. There is the back way. None of them are near it. II cant leave you here, he stam- mered. Haworth was mad! Why, in Heavens name There is no use asking why again, she replied. I cannot tell you. I think you had better go. Her icy coldness would have been a pretty hard thing to bear if he had been less terror- stricken; but he saw that the hand with which she held the window-curtain was shaking. He did not know, however, that it was not shaking with fear, but with the power of the excitement which stirred her. It is scarcely possible that he would have left her, notwithstanding his panic, though, for a second, it nearly seemed that he had so far lost self-control as to be wavering; but as he stood, pale and breathless, there arose a fresh yell. Wheer is he? Bring him out! Mur- doch, th Merican chap! Were coom to see him! Whats that ? he asked. Who is it they want? Murdoch! Murdoch ! was shouted again. Lets ha a word wi Murdoch! We lads ha summat to say to him! It is not I they want, he said. It is Murdoch. It is not I at all ! She dashed the window-curtain aside and turned on him. He was stunned by the mere sight of her face. Every drop of blood seemed driven from it. You are a coward I she cried, panting. A coward! It is a relief to you! He stood staring at her. Aa relief! he stammered. Idont understand you. What is the matter ? She had recovered herself almost before he had begun to speak. It was over in a second. He had not had time to realize the situation before she was moving toward the window. They shall see me, she said. Let us see what they will have to say to me. He would have stopped her, but she did not pay the slightest attention to his excla- mation. The window was a French one, opening upon a terrace. She flung it back- ward, and stepped out and stood before the rioters. For a second there was not a sound. They had been expecting to see a man, perhaps Efrench, perhaps Murdoch, per- haps even a representative of the small po- lice force, looking as if he felt himself one too many in the gathering, or not quite enough,and here was simply a tall young woman in a dazzling dress of some rich white stuff, and with something sparkling upon her hands and arms and in her high- dressed blonde hair. The moonlight struck full upon her, and she stood in it serene and bore unmoved the stupid stare of all their eyes. It was she who spoke first, and then they knew her, and the spell which held them dumb was broken. What do you want ? she demanded. I should like to hear. Then they began to shout again. We want Murdoch !they said. We ha summat to say to him. He is not here, she said. He has not been here. Thats a lee, remarked a gentleman on the outskirts of the crowd. A domd un. She made no answer, and, singularly enough, nobody laughed. Why do you want him ? she said next. We want to hear about that contrap- shun o his as is goin to mak th mesters indypendent. He knows what we want him fur. Weve just been to his house and brokken th winders. Hes getten wind on us comm, an he made off wi th machine. Hell be here afore long if he is na here now, an were bound to see him. Hell be up to see thee, put in the gentleman on the outskirts, an I dunnot blame him. Im glad I coom mysen. Thas worth th tripan Im a Dillup chap, moind yo. She stood quite still as before and let them look at her, to see what effect the words had produced. It seemed as if they had produced none. If you have come to see him, she said, after a few seconds, you may go away again. He is not here. I know where he is, and you cannot reach him. If there has not been some blunder, he is far enough away. She told the lie without flinching in the least, and with a clever coolness which led her to think in a flash beforehand even of the clause which would save her dignity if he should chance to come in the midst of her words. If you want to break windows, she went on, break them here. They can be replaced afterward, and there is no one here to interfere with you. if you would like to vent your anger upon a woman, vent it 86 HA WO~YiHS. upon me. I am not afraid of you. Look at me! She took half a step forward and pre- sented herself to themmotionless. Not a fellow among them but felt that she would not have stirred if they had rushed upon her bodily. The effect of her supreme beauty and the cold defiance which had in it a touch of delicate insolence, was inde- scribable. This was not in accordance with their ideas of women of her class; they were used to seeing them discreetly keeping them- selves in the shade in time of disorder. Here was one~ one o the nobs, as they saidwho flung their threats to the wind and scorned them. What they would have done when they recovered themselves is uncertain. The scale might have turned either way; but, just in the intervening moment which would have decided it, there arose a tumult in their midst. A man pushed his way with mad haste through the crowd and sprang upon the terrace at her side, amid yells and hoots from those who had guessed who he was. An instant later they all knew him, though his dress was disordered, his head was bare, and his whole face and figure seemed altered by his excitement. Dom him !they yelled. Theer he is,by ! I towd thee hed coom, shouted the cynic. He did na get th tellygraph, tha sees. He turned on them, panting and white with rage. You devils! he cried. You are here too! Havent you done enough? Isnt bullying and frightening two women enough for you, that you must come here? Thats reet, commented the cynic. Stond up fur th young woman, Murdoch. Id do it mysen i I wur o that soide. Allus stond up fur th sect! Murdoch spoke to Rachel Ffrench. You must go in, he said. There is no knowing what they will do. I shall stay here, she answered. She made an impatient gesture. She was shuddering from head to foot. Dont look at or speak to me, she said. Youyou make me a coward. They will stand at nothing, he pro- tested. I will not turn my back upon them, she said. Let them do their worst. He turned to the crowd again. Her life itself was in danger, and he knew he could not move her. H~ was shuddering him- self. Who is your leader? he said to the men. I suppose you have one. The man known as Foxy Gibbs re- sponded to their cries of his name by push- ing his way to the front. He was a big, resolute, hulking scamp who had never been known to do an honest days work, and who was yet always in funds and at lib- erty to make incendiary speeches where beer and tobacco were plentiful. What do you want of me ? demanded Murdoch. Speak out. The fellow was ready enough with his words, and forcible too. Weve heard tell o summat goin on were not goin to stond, he said. Weve heerd tell o a chap ats contrivin summat to do away wi them as does th work now an maks theer bread by it. Weve heerd as th mesters is proidin theersens on it an laughin in theer sleeves. Weve heerd tell as theers a chap makkin whatll eend i mischiefan yore th chap. Who told you? Nivver moind who. A foo let it out, an we wur na in th humor to let it pass. Were goin to sift th thing to th bottom. Yore th chap as was namt. What ha yo getten to say? Just one thing, he answered. Its a lie from first to lastan accursed lie! Lee or not, were goin to smash th thing, whatever it is. Were noan particu- lar about th lee. Well mak th thing safe first, an then settle about th lee. Murdoch thrust his hands in his pockets and eyed them with his first approach to his usual sang-froid. Its where you wont find it, he said. Ive made sure of that. It was a mad speech to have made, but he had lost self-control and balance. He was too terribly conscious of Rachel Efrenchs perilous nearness to be in the mood to weigh his words. He saw his mistake in a second. There was a shout and a surging movement of the mob toward him, and Rachel Ffrench, with an inde- scribable swiftness, had thrown herself before him and was struck by a stone which came whizzing through the air. She staggered under the stroke but stood upright in a breaths time. My God! Murdoch cried out. They have struck you! They have struck you ! He was half mad with his anguish and horror. The sight of the little stream of HA WORTHS. 87 blood which trickled from her temple turned him sick with rage. You devils! he raved, do you see what you have done? But the play was over. Before he had finished his outcry there was a shout of th coppers! th coppers! and a rush and skurry and tumble of undignified retreat. The police force with a band of anti-strikers behind them had appeared upon the scene in the full glory of the uniform of the cor- poration, and such was the result of habit and the majesty of the law that those who were not taken into custody incontinently took to their heels and scattered in every direction, uttering curses loud and deep, since they were not yet prepared to resist an attack more formally. In half an hour the trampled grass and flower-beds and broken shrubs were the only signs of the tumult. Mr. Ffrench was walking up and down the dreary room in as nervous a condition as ever. Good heavens, Rachel ! he said. You must have been madmad. She had persistently refused to lie down and sat in an easy-chair, looking rather colorless and languid. When they were left alone, Murdoch came and stood near her. He was paler than she, and haggard and worn. Before she knew what he was about to do he fell upon his knees, and covered her hands with kisses. If any harm had come to you, he cried if any harm had come to you She tried to drag her hands away with an angry face, but he clung to them. And then quite suddenly all her resistance ceased and her eyes fixed themselves upon him as if with a kind of dread. CHAPTER xxxv. I AM NOT READY FOR IT YET. IN expectation of something very serious happening, the constabulary re-enforced it- self the day following and assumed a more imposing aspect and was prepared to be very severe indeed upon all short-comings or symptoms of approaching disorder. But somewhat to its private disappointment, an unlooked-for quiet prevailed an almost suspicious quiet, indeed. There were rumors that a secret meeting had been held by the strikers the night before, and the result of it was that in the morning there appeared to have been a sudden dispersing, and only those remained behind who were unavoid ably detained by the rather unfortunate circumstance of their having before them the prospect of spending a few weeks in the comparative retirement of the county jail. These gentlemen peremptorily refused to give any definite explanation of their eccen- tricities of conduct of the night before and were altogether very unsatisfactory indeed, one of them even going so far, under the influence of temporary excitement, as to be guilty of the indiscretion of announcing his intention of doin fur one or two enemies of his cause when his term expired, on account of which amiable statement three months were added to said term upon the spot. It was Janey Briarley who had given Murdoch his warning upon the night of the riot. Just before he had left the Works she had come into the yard, saying she had a message for Haworth, and on being told that he was away, had asked for Murdoch. Hell do if I canna see th mester, she remarked. But when she reached Murdochs room she stepped across the threshold and shut the door cautiously. Con anybody hear? she demanded, with an uneasy glance round. No, he answered. Then cut thy stick as fast as tha can an get thee whoam an hoid away that thing thart makkin. Th stroikers is after it. Nivver moind how I fun out. Cut an run. I axt fur Haworth to throw em off th scent. I knowed he wurna here. Haste thee! Her manifest alarm convinced him that there was foundation enough for her errand, and that she had run some risk in ventur- ing it. Thank you, he said. You may have saved me a great deal. Let us go out quietly as if nothing was in hand. Come along.~~ And so they went, he talking aloud as they passed through the gates, and as it was already dusk he was out on the Broxton road in less than half an hour, and when he returned the mob had been to his mothers house and broken a few windows in their rage at his having escaped them, and had gone off shouting that they would go to Ffrenchs. Hell be fun theer, some one said possibly the cynic. Th young woman is a sweetheart o his an ybll be bike to hear o th cat wheer th cream stonds. His mother met him on the threshold with the news of the outbreak and the direction 88 HA WORTHS. it had taken. A few brief sentences told him all, and at the end of them he left the house at once. I am going there to show myself to them, he said. They will not return here. You are safe enough now. The worst is over here, but there is no knowing what they may do there when they find themselves baffled. It was after midnight when he came back, and then it was Christian who opened the door for him. He came into the little dark passage with a slow, unsteady step. For a second he did not seem to see her at all. His face was white, his eyes were shining and his brow was slightly knit in lines which might have meant intense pain. Are you hurt? she asked. It was as if her voice wakened him from a trance. He looked at her for the first time. Hurt! he echoed. Nonot hurt. He went into the sitting-room and she followed him. The narrow horse-hair sofa upon which his father had lain so often stood in its old place. He threw himself full length upon it and lay looking straight before him. Are youare you sure you are not hurt? she faltered. He echoed her words again. Am I sure I am not hurt? he repeated dreamily. Yes, I am sure of it. And then he turned slightly toward her and she saw that the look his face wore was not one of pain, but of strange rapture. I am not hurt, he said quite slowly. I am madly happy. Then she understood. She was as igno- rant of many things as she was bitterly wise in others, but she had not been blind and she understood quite clearly. She sat down upon a low seat, from which she could see him, her hands clasped on her knee. I knew, she said at last, that it would come some dayI knew that it would. Did you? he answered in the same dreamy way. I did not. I did not even hope for it. I do not comprehend it even now. I do, she returned, quite well. He scarcely seemed to hear her. I hoped for nothing, he said. And nowI am madly happy. There was nothing more for her to say. She had a fancy that perhaps in the morn- ing he would have forgotten that he had spoken. It seemed as if even yet he was hardly conscious of her presence. But be- fore she went away she asked him a question. Where did you put the model ? He gave a feverish start. Where? And then falling back into his previous manner I took it to the chapel yard. I knew they would not go there. There was space enough behind the the head-stone and the old wall for it to stand, and the grass grew long and thick. I left it there. It was a safe place, she answered. When shall you bring it back? He sighed impatiently. Not yet, he said. Not just yet. Let it stay there a while. I am notready for it. Let it stay. CHAPTER XXXVI. SETTLING AN AccOUNT. IT was not until the week following that Haworth returned, and then he came with- out having given any previous warning of his intention. Ffrench, sitting in his office in a rather dejected mood one morning, was startled by his entering with even less than his usual small ceremony. My dear Haworth, he exclaimed. Is it possible! His first intention had been to hold out his hand, but he did not do so. In fact he sat down again a little suddenly and un- easily. Haworth sat down too, confronting him squarely. What have you been up to ? he de- manded. What is this row about? About! echoed Efrench. Its the most extraordinary combination of nonsense and misunderstanding I ever heard of in my life. How it arose there is no knowing. The fellows are mad! Aye, angrily, mad enow, but you cant stop em now theyve got agate. Its a devilish lookout for us. Ive heard it all over the country and the more you say agen it the worse it is. Theyre set on it all through Lancashire that theres a plot agen em and theyre fur fettlin it their own fashion. Youyou dont think it will be worse for us? his partner suggested weakly. It struck me thatin the endit mightnt be a bad thingthat it would change the direction of their mood. Wait until the end comes. Its not here yet. Tell me how it happened. Upon the whole, Mr. Ffrench made a good story of it. He depicted the anxieties HA WORTHS. 89 and dangers of the occasion very graphi- cally. He had lost a good deal of his en- thusiasm on the subject of the uncultivated virtues and sturdy determination of the manufacturing laboring classes, and he was always fluent, as has been before mentioned. He was very fluent now and especially so in describing the incident of his daughters presenting herself to the mob and the result of her daring. She might have lost her life, he said at one point. It was an insane thing to have donean insane thing. She surprised them at first, but she could not hold them in check after Murdoch came. She will bear the mark of the stone for many a day. They threw a stone, blast em, did they? said Haworth, setting his teeth. Yesbut not at her. Perhaps they would hardly have dared that after all. It was thrown at Murdoch. And he stepped out of the way? Oh no. He did not see the man raise his arm, but she did, and was too much alarmed to reflect, I supposeandin fact threw herself before him. He moved back disturbedly the next instant. Haworth burst forth with a string of oaths. The veins stood out like cords on his forehead; he ground J~is teeth. When the outbreak was over he asked an embar- rassing question. Where were you? I? with some uncertainty of tone. Ihad not gone out. II did not wish to infuriate them. It seemed to me that thatthat a great deal depended upon their not being infuriated. Aye, said Haworth, a good deal. He asked a good many questions Ffrench did not quite understand. He seemed in a questioning humor and went over the ground step by step. He asked what the mob had said and done and even how they had looked. Its a bad lookout for Murdoch, he said. Theyll have a spite again him. Theyre lyin quiet a bit now, because its safest, but theyll carry their spite. At Efrenchs invitation he went up to the house with him to dinner. As they passed into the grounds, Murdoch passed out. He was walking quickly and scarcely seemed to see them until Ffrench spoke. Its a queer time of day for him to be here, said Haworth, when he was gone. Efrenchs reply held a touch of embar- rassment. He is not usually here so early, he said. He has probably been doing some little errand for Rachel. The truth was that he had been with her for an hour, and that, on seeing Haworth coming down the road with her father, she had sent him away. I want to be alone when he comes,,~ she had said. And when Murdoch said Why? she had answered, Because it will be easier. When they came in, she was sitting with the right side of her face toward them. They could see nothing of the mark upon her left temple. It was not a large mark and not a disfiguring one, but there were traces of its presence in her pallor. She did not rise, and would have kept this side of her face out of view, but Haworth came and took his seat before her. It would not have been easy for her to move or change her positionand he looked directly at the significant little bruise. His glance turned upon it again and again as he talked to her or her father; if it wandered off it came back and rested there. During dinner she felt that, place herself as she would, in a few seconds she would be conscious again that he had baffled her. For the first time in his experience, it was he who had the ad- vantage. But when they returned to the parlor she held herself in check. She placed herself opposite to him and turned her face toward him, and let him look without flinching. It was as if suddenly she wished that he should see, and had a secret defiant reason for the wish. It seemed a long evening, but she did not lose an inch of ground after this. When he was going away she rose and stood before him. Her father had gone to the other end of the room, and was fuss- ing unnecessarily over some memoranda. As they waited together, Haworth took his last look at the mark upon her temple. If it had been me you wore it for, he said, Id have had my hands on the throat of the chap that did it before now. It wasnt me, but Ill find him and pay him for it yet, by George! She had no time to answer him. Her father came toward them with the papers in his hands. Haworth listened to his wordy explanation without moving a line of his face. He did not hear it, and Ffrench was dimly aware of the fact. About half an hour after, the door of the bar-parlor of the Whod ha Thowt it was flung open. 90 HA WORTHS. Wheres Briarley? a voice demanded. Send him out here. I want him Haworth. Mr. Briarley arose in even more than his usual trepidation. He looked from side to side, quaking. Wheer is he? he asked. Haworth stood on the threshold. Here, he answered. Come out! Mr. Briarley obeyed. At the door Haworth collared him and led him down the sanded passage and into the road outside. A few yards from the house there was a pump. He piloted him to it and set him against it, and began to swear at him flu- ently. You blasted scoundrel 1 he said. You let it out, did you? Mr. Briarley was covered with confusion as with a garment. Im a misforchnit chap as is allus i trouble, he said. Theers summat i iv- very thin I lay hond on as seems to go agen me. I dunnot see how it is. Happen theers summat i me a-hem a domd foo, or happen its nowt but misforchin. Sarar- ann Hawortli stopped him by swearing again, something more sulphurously than before, so sulphurously, indeed, that Mr. Briar- ley listened with eyes distended and mouth agape. Lets hear what you know about th thing, Haworth ended. Mr. Briarley shut his mouth. He would have kept it shut if he had dared. I dunnot know nowt, he answered, with patient mendacity. I wur na wi em.~~ You know plenty, said Haworth. Oat with it, if you dont want to get your- self into trouble. Who was the chap that threw the stone? II dunnot know. If you dont tell me, said Haworth, through his clenched teeth, itll be worse for you. It ~as you I let the truth slip to; you were the first chap that heard it, and you were the first chap that started the row and egged it on. I did na egg it on, protested Mr. Bri- arley. It did na need no eggin on. They pounced on it bike cats on a bird. I did na mean to tell em owt about it. Im a domd foo. Im th domdest foo fro here to Dillup. Aye, said Haworth, sardonically, thats like enow. Who was the chap that threw the stone? He returned to the charge so swiftly and with such fell determination that Mr. Briar- ley began fairly to whimper. I dare na tell, he said. Theyd mak quick work o me if they fun me out. Who was it? persisted Haworth. Theyll make quicker work of you at the Old Bailey, if you dont. Mr. Briarley turned his disreputable, bat- tered cap round and round in his nervous hands. He was mortally afraid of Haw- orth. A mans getten to think o his family, he argued. If he dunnot think o hissen, he mun think o his family. Ive getten a mortal big untwelve on em an Sararann, as ud be left on th world if owt wur to hap- pentwelve on em as ud be left wiout no one to stand by em an pervide fur em. Theers nowt a famly misses so mich as th head. The head should na run no risks. Its th heads duty to tak care o hissen an keep o th safe soide. Who threw the stone? said Haworth. Mr. Briarley gave him one cowed glance and broke down. It wur Tummas Reddy, he burst forth helplessly. Lord ha mercy on me ! Where is he? Hes i theer, jerking his cap toward the barroom, an Im i th worst mess I ivver wur i i my boife. Im fettlit now, by th Lord Harry! Which way does he go home? Straight along the road here, if I mun get up to my neckanan be domd to him !if I may tak th liberty. - Settle yourself to stand here till he comes out, and then tell me which is him. Eh ! When he comes out say the word, and stay here till he does. Ive got a bit o summat to settle with him. Will tawill ta promise tha will na let out who did it? If tha does, th buryin clubll ha brass to pay out afore a weeks over. Youre safe enow, Haworth answered, if youll keep your mouth shut. Theyll hear nowt from me. A gleam of hopea faint oneillumined Mr. Briarleys countenance. I would na ha no objections to tha settlin wi him, he said. I ha not nowt agen that. Hes a chap as I am na fond on, an hes getten more cheek than belongs to him. Id ha settled wi him mysen if I had na been a famly man. Hain a famly to think on howds a man back. TheerI hear em comm now. Would yo, in HA WORTH S. 9 some hurry, ha owt agen me gettin be- hind th pump? Get behind it, answered Haworth, and be damned to you! He got behind it with alacrity, and, as it was not a large pump, was driven by neces- say to narrowing himself to its compass, as it were, and taking up very little room. Haworth himself drew back somewhat, and yet kept within hearing. Four or five men came out and went their different ways, and Mr. Briarley made no sign; but as the sixth, a powerful, clumsy fellow, passed, he uttered a cautious Theer he is! Haworth did not stir. It was a dark, cloudy night, and he was far enough from the road to be safe from discovery. The man went on at a leisurely pace. Mr. Briarley re-appeared, breathing shortly. I mun go whoam, he said. Sararann and scarcely waiting for Haworths signal of dismissal, he departed as if he had been shot from a string-bow, and fled forth into the shadows. Mr. Reddy went at a leisurely pace, as has been before observed. He usually went at a leisurely pace when he was on his way home. He was a bad lot altogether, and his home was a squalid place, and his wife more frequently than not had a black eye or a bruised face, and was haggard with hunger and full of miserable plaints and reproaches. Consequently he did not ap- proach the scenes of his domestic joys with any haste. He was in a worse humor than usual to- night from various causes, the chief one, perhaps, being that he had only had enough spirituous liquor to make him savage and to cause him to enliven his way with blas- phemy. Suddenly, however, at the corner of a lane which crossed the road he paused. He heard behind him the sound of heavy feet nearing him with a quick tramp which somehow presented to his mind the idea of a purpose, and for some reason, not exactly clear to himself, he turned about and waited. Whos that theer? he asked. Its me, he was answered. Stand up and take thy thrashin, my lad. The next instant he was struggling in the darkness with an assailant, and the air was hot with oaths, and they were writhing to- gether and panting, and striking blinding blows. Sometimes it was one man and then the other who was uppermost, but at last it was Haworth, and he had his man in his grasp. This is because you hit the wrong mark, my lad, he said. Because luck went agen you, and because its gone agen me. When he had done Mr. Reddy lay beaten into seeming insensibility. He had sworn and gnashed his teeth and beaten back in vain. Who is it, by ? he panted. Who is it? Its Haworth, he was answered. Jem Haworth, my lad. And he was left there lying in the dark while Haworth walked away, his heavy breathing a living presence in the air until he was gone. CHAPTER Xxxvii. A SUMMER AFTERNOON. LET it stay there a while, Murdoch had said. I am not ready for it yet. And it staid there between the head-stone and the old stone wall covered with the long grass and closed in by it. He was not ready for ityet. The days were not long enough for him as it was. His mother and Chris- tam rarely saw him, but at such times as they did each recognized in him a new look and understood it. He began to live a strange, excitable life. Rachel Efrench did nothing by halves. He was seen with her constantly. It continually happened that where she was invited he was invited also. He forgot that he dreaded to meet strangers and had always held aloof from crowds. Therewere no strangers now and no crowds; in any gathering there was only one pres- ence and this was enough for him. When people would have cultivated him and drawn him out, he did not see their efforts; when men and women spoke to him they found out that he scarcely heard them and that even as they talked he had uncon- sciously veered toward another point. He did things sometimes which made them stare at him. The fellow is like a ghost, a man said of him once. The simile was not a bad one. He did not think of what he might be winning or losingfor the time being mere existence was all-sufficient. At night he scarcely slept at all. Oflen he got up and rambled over the country in the darkness, not know- ing where he was going or why he walked. 92 HA WORTHS. He went through the routine of the day in haste and impatience, doing more work than was necessary and frequently amazing those around him by losing his temper and miss- ing his mark. Efrench began to regard him with wonder. Divers things were a source of wonder to Ffrench, in these days. He understood Rachel less than ever and found her less satisfactory. He could not com- prehend her motives. He had become accustomed to feeling that she always had a motive in the background and he made the natural mistake of supposing that she had one now. But she had none. She had suddenly given way to a mysterious impulse which overmastered her and she let herself go, as it were. It did not matter to her that the time came when her course was dis- cussed and marveled at; upon the whole, she felt a secret pleasure in defying public comment as usual, and going steadily in her own path. She did strange things too. She began to go among the people who knew Mur- doch best,visiting the families of the men who worked under him, and leading them on to speaking of him and his way of life. It cannot be said that the honest matrons she honored by her visits were very fond of her or exactly rejoiced when she appeared. They felt terribly out of place and awe- stricken when she sat down on their wooden chairs with her rich dress lying upon the pipe-clayed floors. Her beauty and her grandeur stunned them however much they admired both. I tell yo shes a lady, they said. She knows nowt about poor folk, bless yo, but shes getten brass to gie awayan she gies it wiout makin a doment. I mun say it puts me out a bit to see her coom in, but she does na go out wiout leavin summat. She made no pretense of bringing sym- pathy and consolation; she merely gave money, and money was an equivalent, and after all it was something of an event to have her carriage stop before the gate and to see her descend and enter in all her splendor. The general vague idea which prevailed was that she meant to be charitable after the manner of her order,but that was a mistake too. It happened at last that one day her car- riage drew up before the house at whose window Murdochs mother and Christian sat at work. It was Saturday, and Janey Briarley, in her cleanin up apparel opened the door for her. Theyre in th parlor, she answered in reply to her question. Art tha coom to see em? When she was ushered into the parlor in question, Mrs. Murdoch rose with her work in her hand; Christian rose also and stood in the shadow. They had never had a visitor before, and had not expected such a one as this. They thought at first that she had come upon some errand, but she had not. She gave no reason for her presence other than she would have given in making any call of ceremony. As she sat on the narrow sofa, she saw all the room and its meagerness,its small- ness, its scant, plain furnishing; its ugly carpet and walls; the straight, black dress of the older woman, the dark beauty of the girl who did not sit down but stood behind her chair, watching. This beauty was the only thing which relieved the monotony of the place, but it was the most grating thing, she saw, to Rachel Ffrench. It roused within her a slow anger. She resented it. and felt that she would like to revenge her- self upon it quietly. She had merely meant to try the effect of these people and their surroundings upon herself as a fine experi- ment, but the effect was a stronger one than she had anticipated. When she went away Christian accompanied her to the door. In the narrow passage Rachel Ffrench turned and looked at hergiving her a. glance from head to foot. I think I have seen you before, she said. You know you have seen me, the girl answered. I have seen you on the Continent. Your apartment was opposite to ours in Paris when you were with your mother. I used to watch the people go in and out. You are very like your mother. And she left her, not looking back once,. as if there was no living creature behind, or as if she had forgotten that there was. one. Christian went back to the room within.. She sat down but did not take up her work again. Do you know why she came? she asked. Yes. Why? She came to look at usto see what manner of people we wereto see how we livedto measure the distance between our life and hers. As she went away, she went. HA WORTHS. 93 on, she remembered that she had seen me before. She told me that I was very like my mother. She leaned forward, her hands clasped palm to palm between her knees. There was a man who did my mother a great wrong once, she said. They had loved each other in a mad sort of way for a long time, but in the end, I suppose, he got tired, for suddenly he went away. When he was gone, my mother did not speak of him and it was as if he had never lived, but she grew haggard and dreadful and lost her beauty. I was a little child and she took me with her and began to travel from one place to another. I did not know why at first, but I found out afterward. She was following him. She found him in Paris, at last, after two years. One foggy night she took me to a narrow street near one of the theaters, and after we got there I knew she was waiting for some one, because she walked to and fro between two of the street lamps dragging me by the hand. She walked so for half an hour, and then the man came, not knowing we were there. She went to him, dragging me with her, and when she stood in front of him, threw back her veil and let the light shine upon her. She lifted her hand and struck himstruck him full upon the face, panting for breath. I am a woman, she said. I am a woman and I have struck you! Remember it to your last hour as I shall! I thought that he would strike her back, but he did not. His hands fell at his sides, and he stood before her pale and helpless. I think it was even more terrible than she had meant ittobe Mrs. Murdoch stopped her, almost angrily. Why do you go back to it? she de- manded. Why should you think of such a story now? It came to me, she answered. I was thinking that it is true that I am like her,I bear a grudge such a long time, and it will not die out. It is her blood which is strong in me. She spoke the truth. Early in the afternoon Rachel Efrench, sauntering about the garden in the sun, saw Murdoch coming down the road toward the house,not until he had first seen her, how- ever. His eyes were fixed upon her when she turned, and it seemed as if he found it impossible to remove them, even for a breaths time. Since his glance had first caught the pale blue of her dress he had not once looked away from it. All the morning, in the midst of the smoke and din of the workrooms, he had been think- ing of the hours to come. The rest of the day lay before him. The weather was daz- zling; the heat of summer was in the air; the garden was ablaze with flowers whose brightness seemed never to have been there before; there was here and there the drone of a bee, and now and again a stir of leaves. The day before had been of another color and so might the morrow be, but to-day left nothing to be believed in except its own sun and beauty. When at last he was quite near her, he seemed for a little while to see nothing but the faint pale blue of her dress. He never forgot it afterward, and never remembered it without a sense of summer heat and lan- guor. He could not have told what he said to her, or if he at first spoke at all. Soon she began to move down the path and he followed her,simply followed her, stopping when she stopped to break a flower from its stem. It was as she bent forward once that she told him of what she had done. This morning, she said, I went to see your mother. She told me so, he answered. She broke the stem of the flower and stood upright, holding it in her hand. You do not ask me why I went. Why? he asked. Their eyes met, and she was silent for a little. Then she said, with perfect deliber- ateness: I have known nothing of the life you live. I wanted to see it for myself. I wantedto bring it near. He drew quite close to her, his face pale, his eyes burning. Near! he repeated. To bring it near! Do youdo you know what you have said? To bring it near, she said again, with no less deliberateness than before, but with a strange softness. Just for to-day, she had told herself, she would try the sensation of being swept on- ward by the stream. But she weighed her- self as she spoke, and weighed him and his passion, and her power against its force. But he came no closer to her. He did not attempt to touch even her hand or her dress. His own hands fell helplessly at his sides, and he stood still before her. Oh God! he said in a hushed voice, How happy Tam! To be continued.) 94 THE FOUR KONANS. THE FOUR KONANS. WALES, A. D. 560. MERRILY clanged the harps, and shrill the pipers blew; Around the royal banquet jest and laughter flew; When in by open doors a stranger, blithe to see, Marched with a joyous air and bearing brave and free. He stayed not with the lowly; he stopped not at the salt; Upon the kings own platform lightly did he vault; He swept aside the steward, who asked him of his rank, And twixt the royal pair upon the bench he sank. No shield against the wall his place had told to him; No question would he answer, that hero brown and slim; Upon the jeweled cup a careless hand he stretched, His dagger from the kings plate a haunch of venison fetched. Beware, oh hero! whispered the steward in his ear, Yon champion of the black look, who reacheth for his spear, Hath rights on every marrow-bone that comes upon this board; Crack that with reckless hand, and crowns must crack, my lord. The stranger laughed, and quaffed with lips as cranberries red. All golden were the curls about his shoulders shed; His eyes flashed blue as ice when north winds yarely blow; His forehead had the splendor of newly fallen snow. He stripped of meat the marrow-bone, and took it by the heel: Here hast thou, doughty champion, thy rights upon this meal! He cast the bone like lightning that champion in the face, Who moved nor spear, nor uttered word, but swooned within his place~ Then up rose all the household, with javelin, targe, and sword; And up rose that tall stranger, and beat them from the board. A rain, a hail of mighty blows he cast upon the crew; But ever on the frightened queen sweet looks and mild he threw. Now hold! the Welsh king ordered; let all once more be set, Though with his massive weapons his aged fingers fret, A champion great is here, and, though concealed his name, Well knows he how to guard him from slight and blame and shame. Oh, wondrous youth, entreated the brave queen where she sate, Tell me thy father! Comely queen, I spring from Adam great. My mother was a queen, yet Eve was not her name; She was as like yourself as sistertwins are same.~~ Pledge me, oh champion, pledge! she cried, I love thy sparkling face; Alas, like thine was once to view my darling Konans grace. But what is that I see? How camst thou by the ring? That? said the youth. It is some spoil my father home did bring.

Charles de Kay de Kay, Charles The Four Konans. Wales, A. D. 560 94-97

94 THE FOUR KONANS. THE FOUR KONANS. WALES, A. D. 560. MERRILY clanged the harps, and shrill the pipers blew; Around the royal banquet jest and laughter flew; When in by open doors a stranger, blithe to see, Marched with a joyous air and bearing brave and free. He stayed not with the lowly; he stopped not at the salt; Upon the kings own platform lightly did he vault; He swept aside the steward, who asked him of his rank, And twixt the royal pair upon the bench he sank. No shield against the wall his place had told to him; No question would he answer, that hero brown and slim; Upon the jeweled cup a careless hand he stretched, His dagger from the kings plate a haunch of venison fetched. Beware, oh hero! whispered the steward in his ear, Yon champion of the black look, who reacheth for his spear, Hath rights on every marrow-bone that comes upon this board; Crack that with reckless hand, and crowns must crack, my lord. The stranger laughed, and quaffed with lips as cranberries red. All golden were the curls about his shoulders shed; His eyes flashed blue as ice when north winds yarely blow; His forehead had the splendor of newly fallen snow. He stripped of meat the marrow-bone, and took it by the heel: Here hast thou, doughty champion, thy rights upon this meal! He cast the bone like lightning that champion in the face, Who moved nor spear, nor uttered word, but swooned within his place~ Then up rose all the household, with javelin, targe, and sword; And up rose that tall stranger, and beat them from the board. A rain, a hail of mighty blows he cast upon the crew; But ever on the frightened queen sweet looks and mild he threw. Now hold! the Welsh king ordered; let all once more be set, Though with his massive weapons his aged fingers fret, A champion great is here, and, though concealed his name, Well knows he how to guard him from slight and blame and shame. Oh, wondrous youth, entreated the brave queen where she sate, Tell me thy father! Comely queen, I spring from Adam great. My mother was a queen, yet Eve was not her name; She was as like yourself as sistertwins are same.~~ Pledge me, oh champion, pledge! she cried, I love thy sparkling face; Alas, like thine was once to view my darling Konans grace. But what is that I see? How camst thou by the ring? That? said the youth. It is some spoil my father home did bring. THE FOUR JONANS. 95 Then rose the wan queen, moaning, from that untoward repast, And in the flames her diadem, her royal wimple cast; It was my son, my Konan, thy cruel father slew! Oh, who of all my household will wreak his death on you? The hero bounded after, and caught her by the arm: Mother! he whispered; silence! Thy Konans met no harm. Behold thy Konan safe, and, grown to mans estate, By land and sea in battles become a hero great. The queen her wailing stinted. Right soon will shine the truth! Bare me thy shoulder quickly, thou fair and god-like youth! Lo, here beneath the white skin I thrust a shred of gold; Oh king, rejoice! Rejoice ye, men! Here stands my Konan bold! The great king roared with laughter, and turned not once his head: This day a year three champions that self-same fable said! The first we called the Ruddy. His eyes were green as grass. For one years proof I bade him go and round all Britain pass. Next day came Konan Fair; my son he claimed to be; Light were his locks; a hundred were of his company. Scarce was he gone when Konan (but he had curls of brown) With thrice one hundred sworders approached our royal town. Now Konan Red, the wealthy, and Konan Fair, of steeds, And Konan Brown, the joyous, who boasteth mighty deeds, Will back return to-morrow. But, ere the day is done, All Britain shall be certain which Konan is my son. So Konan, thou the fourth, whose thatch with gold is set, Wilt find thyself to-morrow by threefold Konans met. Back to our feast! for thou a comely champion art; I wish thee well. My son or not, fall to with joyous heart! With a Druids wide eyes young Konan the Tall Leapt from his couch at the peep of day: The sky in the west is red! The fall Of Konan the Ruddy I soothly say. Konan Fair Bloods on the cloud in the east! For thee Hope there is none; in thy maid-fine hair Blood ere the evening shall be. Konan Brown Light is the north, where thou comest in pride! Safe is thy life, though fortune may frown; What guardeth, I wonder, thy side? To the narrow, deep river looked Konan the Tall; With clangor of arms strode down from the ridge. The heroes were coming. First, ruddiest of all, One champion set foot on the bridge. 96 THE FOUR KONANS. Konan the Ruddy, whom fine satins clothe! Halt, and give answer! What longest thou most To see the bridge full of? Of gold, red-hair quoth; Of gold and of jewels a host. Ha! answered Konan the scoffer, thourt red, But Konan art not, nor a royal son! The offspring of merchants or chapmen instead; See, thus is thy shamming undone! Over the bridge flew Konan the Tall, Beat up his guard and clove through his breast. You are right, cried his spearmen, well earned was his fall; That a chapman he was, is confessed! Oer the hills to the stream came Konan the Fair From eastward, brave with his warlike band. Now halt, cried the hero, and answer~ bear. What would you the bridge here contained? What, bold asker? why cattle and steeds, Oxen and sheep to the brim! he replied~ Aha! quoth Konan, then those are thy needs? Fair liar, the grave be thy bride! Over the planks rushed Konan the Tall; The sword-play was sharp, but he humbled his crest. Tis plain thou wert born as a farmer! And all Those followers replied: Thou hast guessed! Last of the heroes came Konan the Brown With stately companions from out of the north. What would I the bridge were set with? A crown Of heroes! of foes of my worth! His brow all perplexed, stood Konan the Tall, IPropt on his sword. Thou art prince, indeed; Yet claimst to be Konan? My claim it is small, Quoth the brown-locked one, as I rede. I am not Konan. A Norman king My father is; he hath sons five pair; And so on adventures the world I ring, Some childless monarch to heir. Over the bridge stepped Konan the Tall, Reached him, laughing, a brawny hand; I am Konan, he spake. Whatever befall, We will sword-brothers be, on sea, on land. A PILGRIMAGE TO VALLOMBROSA. A PILGRIMAGE TO VALLOMBROSA. DURING the first part of our stay in Flor- ence the name of Vallombrosa used to reach our ears occasionally, bringing with its sound an indeflr~te Miltonic roll and a suggestion of breezy coolness which, in the warm days of a Florentine April, were very refreshing. As April gradually melted into May, we began to inquire about this place with a cool name, but in such a way as to conceal our own blank ignorance on the subject,a most unnecessary precaution, as we soon discovered that no one whom we asked knew more of Vallombrosa than we. Murray, when consulted, waxed poetic and misty. He had evidently never been there, but he tried to create the impression that he had. Baedeker was more practical but inclined to sententiousness. He told us where to go by railway, where to spend the night and where to get dinner; also that Vallombrosa was a famous convent, beauti- fully situated in a valley on the western slope of the Appenines, founded in the eleventh century by S. Giovanni Gualberto. Already we began to take an enthusiastic delight in the monastery and to feel a certain affectionate interest in the personal history of its founder, and having once begun seri- ously to ask ourselves the question, Shall we go to Vallombrosa? we immediately and unanimously answered it in the affirmative. Toward the noon of a doubtfully bright day in early May we took the train at the station opposite S. Maria Novella, and, slowly making the circuit of the city, pro- ceeded up the valley of the Arno with a degree of deliberation known only to the Italian accommodation train. We were five in number,three ladies and two gentlemen; and we looked forward with anxiety to the time when we should leave the train and the beaten track of travel for other ills of which we could not form the slightest idea. When, however, we arrived at Pontesieve, our first doubt, whether we could obtain a vehicle to take us further, was dispelled. The hackmen were as urgent and far more vehement than if they had been waiting at the Grand Central Depot for the arrival of the Boston express. After the usual amount of bargaining we engaged the services of a bandit with a yellow carriage who, for a specified sum, would take us to Pelago, where we were to spend the night. Our arrival in Pelago was a great success. VoL. XVIII.7. After toiling slowly along for five miles, our horses suddenly started up and dashed into the village street and up to the Albergo Buon Cuore as frantically as if driven by the son of Nimshi himself. The landlord and chambermaid were at the door to welcome us and we were ush- ered into a room in the second story with rough, uneven floor and altogether primi- tive furniture. Bedrooms were plenty, each decorated with religious ornaments of one variety or another, and each containing a bed large enough to have accommodated all the offspring of the old woman who lived in a shoe. Having made arrangements for dinner we started out to explore the place. Pelago is not a nice village. It is not so dirty as many Italian villages. It is well situated. The inn is good, if you like genuine native inns. The landlord is obliging and the rates all that could be desired. But I must mention with regret that the rising genera- tion in Pelago is not being brought up in the way it should go, as we learned by sad experience. On leaving the hotel we went first to the church, not because there was anything to see there, but because of the power of habit. A small group of children, who were prowl- ing about the hotel door, followed us, and we sent one of them for the church key. While we were waiting under the porch forhis return, the children gradually gathered from all directions, chattering to one another and begging of us. Suddenly a bright thought struck the young professor, so he set the children in a row and counted them. There were twenty-four. This was the beginning of all our troubles. A very ancient woman who was lurking near, knitting in hand, evi- dently thought that this was prefatory to a distribution of alms, and when the professor turned his head for a moment, she displaced one of the smallest girls and filled the va- cancy herself. Just then the key arrived multitude outside. As our prophetic souls had told us, there was nothing to see, so we and we went into the church, leaving the speedily came out again. The children were waiting for us, but instead of twenty- four there were forty-eight. We walked to the other end of the village; so did they. We came back; they followed us. We stopped in hopes that they would go on, 97

T. R. Bacon Bacon, T. R. A Pilgrimage to Vallombrosa 97-101

A PILGRIMAGE TO VALLOMBROSA. A PILGRIMAGE TO VALLOMBROSA. DURING the first part of our stay in Flor- ence the name of Vallombrosa used to reach our ears occasionally, bringing with its sound an indeflr~te Miltonic roll and a suggestion of breezy coolness which, in the warm days of a Florentine April, were very refreshing. As April gradually melted into May, we began to inquire about this place with a cool name, but in such a way as to conceal our own blank ignorance on the subject,a most unnecessary precaution, as we soon discovered that no one whom we asked knew more of Vallombrosa than we. Murray, when consulted, waxed poetic and misty. He had evidently never been there, but he tried to create the impression that he had. Baedeker was more practical but inclined to sententiousness. He told us where to go by railway, where to spend the night and where to get dinner; also that Vallombrosa was a famous convent, beauti- fully situated in a valley on the western slope of the Appenines, founded in the eleventh century by S. Giovanni Gualberto. Already we began to take an enthusiastic delight in the monastery and to feel a certain affectionate interest in the personal history of its founder, and having once begun seri- ously to ask ourselves the question, Shall we go to Vallombrosa? we immediately and unanimously answered it in the affirmative. Toward the noon of a doubtfully bright day in early May we took the train at the station opposite S. Maria Novella, and, slowly making the circuit of the city, pro- ceeded up the valley of the Arno with a degree of deliberation known only to the Italian accommodation train. We were five in number,three ladies and two gentlemen; and we looked forward with anxiety to the time when we should leave the train and the beaten track of travel for other ills of which we could not form the slightest idea. When, however, we arrived at Pontesieve, our first doubt, whether we could obtain a vehicle to take us further, was dispelled. The hackmen were as urgent and far more vehement than if they had been waiting at the Grand Central Depot for the arrival of the Boston express. After the usual amount of bargaining we engaged the services of a bandit with a yellow carriage who, for a specified sum, would take us to Pelago, where we were to spend the night. Our arrival in Pelago was a great success. VoL. XVIII.7. After toiling slowly along for five miles, our horses suddenly started up and dashed into the village street and up to the Albergo Buon Cuore as frantically as if driven by the son of Nimshi himself. The landlord and chambermaid were at the door to welcome us and we were ush- ered into a room in the second story with rough, uneven floor and altogether primi- tive furniture. Bedrooms were plenty, each decorated with religious ornaments of one variety or another, and each containing a bed large enough to have accommodated all the offspring of the old woman who lived in a shoe. Having made arrangements for dinner we started out to explore the place. Pelago is not a nice village. It is not so dirty as many Italian villages. It is well situated. The inn is good, if you like genuine native inns. The landlord is obliging and the rates all that could be desired. But I must mention with regret that the rising genera- tion in Pelago is not being brought up in the way it should go, as we learned by sad experience. On leaving the hotel we went first to the church, not because there was anything to see there, but because of the power of habit. A small group of children, who were prowl- ing about the hotel door, followed us, and we sent one of them for the church key. While we were waiting under the porch forhis return, the children gradually gathered from all directions, chattering to one another and begging of us. Suddenly a bright thought struck the young professor, so he set the children in a row and counted them. There were twenty-four. This was the beginning of all our troubles. A very ancient woman who was lurking near, knitting in hand, evi- dently thought that this was prefatory to a distribution of alms, and when the professor turned his head for a moment, she displaced one of the smallest girls and filled the va- cancy herself. Just then the key arrived multitude outside. As our prophetic souls had told us, there was nothing to see, so we and we went into the church, leaving the speedily came out again. The children were waiting for us, but instead of twenty- four there were forty-eight. We walked to the other end of the village; so did they. We came back; they followed us. We stopped in hopes that they would go on, 97 98 A PILGRIAEA GE TO VALLOMBROSA. but they were in no haste and could wait as long as we pleased. We felt very much as if we were the Pied Piper of Hamelin. I wish the Pelagese had known that story. They might have kept their children at home. At length we took a foot-path and left the village behind. We said andate, but it didnt have any effect. The patriarch of the party, whose knowledge of Italian was limited to some musical terms, said andante, which was effective, though not in the way he expected. The professor undertook to use force, but he couldnt catch them. One particularly bad boy took a high moral ground. He was a kind of village Hampden, who with dauntless breast withstood the tyrant. He said that he had as good a right to go on that path as we had, and he would defend his rights while he had life. Then the professor tried to buy them off. They were to go away and come to the hotel at six oclock, there to receive a specified sum of money. To this they instantly agreed,but they didnt go away. At length the Fates themselves inter- posed,at least two of them did. Slowly descending from the mountain, with distaff in hand spinning their thread, came two picturesque old crones, who told the chil- dren to go away and enforced the order by a few well-directed stones. If they had been the she-bears who once ate up some little children for bothering their better, I am afraid we should have welcomed them. However, the children were gone, and we could sit still watching the forest-covered mountain, with its shadows changing slowly as the sun sank in the west. At length, as we rose to go back to the village, the Fates, who had been spinning near by, approached us. Oh, degenerate Italy! where the Parca~ themselves are reduced to beg of the stran- ger. The Fates are not impartial. They have an eye for the main chance. I know it from experience. After dinner, we interviewed the landlord on the subject of Vallombrosa. As the ad- vertisement of the inn declared, he could furnish us saddle-horses, and it would take us four hours to get there. But one of the ladies did not wish to ride on horseback. Could he not furnish a carriage? He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. There was no carriage road. However, he could furnish una carrozza da buoi. We were glad to be informed that a cow-chariot was at our disposal, but were somewhat sus- picious of the offer. We were afraid that our landlord was indulging in unseemly 1ev- ity at our expense. However, he offered to show it to us, so we followed him to a neighboring barn-yard, where he pointed out the chariot. I had seen a chariot in America, but there they called it by another name. I had always supposed that a char- iot and a clothes-basket were different. I was mistaken. This par~cular clothes-bas- ket was mounted on wooden runners and had a tongue like an ox-sled. The inn- keeper assured us that ladies had gone to Vallombrosa in that basket on sevtral occa- sions, and that it was very comfortable. So we ordered three horses and two oxen for eight oclock the next morning, and then went to bed, where I spent part of the night in trying to discover what my enor- mous mattress was stuffed with. My re- searches were rewarded. It was stuffed with autumnal leaves. There could be no doubt that we were nearing Vallombrosa. At eight oclock we started. Pelago turned out to see us off; the dear little children with their fathers and mothers. We made an imposing procession. Two big horses and a little one led the van, each attended by a guide; then followed the carrozza, comfortably furnished with two chairs and drawn by two of those magnifi- cent dove-colored oxen, which are known only to Italy. Soon after leaving the village we began to ascend, and continued so to do with only slight exception all the way to Vallombrosa. From the first the road was beautiful. Sometimes it wound slowly up one of the steeper hills, at every turn revealing new glimpses of the wonderful Val dAmo, and of that beauty of cultivated land which lends such a peculiar charm to much of the Italian scenery; and sometimes it ran along the edge of a precipice where a mountain- stream dashed and roared hundreds of feet below. The road was excellent for the first six miles,as far as the little lumber village of Tosi. Then the guides turned our horses to the left sharply, and began to lead them up so steep a pitch that I thought at first that it was merely a log-slide. Neverthe- less, it proved to be a path paved with square blocks of stone. Up this path we toiled for somewhat more than two hours. It wound up the mountain-side, over rough, half-cleared spaces, and through dark, trim, well-kept pine forests. At regular intervals stand immense crosses of dark gray stone, grand and lonely, which the monks erected as stations for prayer and as guide-posts for travelers more than seven hundred years A PILGRIMAGE TO VALLOMBROSA. 99 after the founding of the monastery. They made them massive and enduring, no doubt supposing that they would stand there, and the monks of Vallombrosa would kneel be- fore them from time to time until the end of the world. Less than a hundred years have gone since then, and the very first of the crosses has fallen, and there are no monks in Vallombrosa, and the end is not yet. A little before noon we emerged from the forest and entered on the broad, straight path that leads to the spacious monastery buildings. It is a valZombrosa. A little oval valley, in the side of the mountain, with the wooded ground sloping up on either hand, and at the head the heights of Prato- magno with dark forests hanging upon its sides: that is Vallombrosa. The whole valley, inclosed by the hills on three sides and cut off by the forest on the fourth, cannot comprise more than half a square mile. On either side of the straight path already mentioned, are little grass- grown meadows sprinkled with innumerable wild flowers, and adorned with tiny ponds and clear, chattering brooks. We ordered lunch at the little inn, formerly the fore- stierici of the monastery, and until it was ready amused ourselves by roaming about and picking forget-me-nots and anemones. After our meal of omelette and beefsteak, fried in oil, was finished, we started for Ii Paradisino, an old cloister built on the edge of an overhanging rock, two hundred and sixty-six feet above the monastery. We found it an easy climb of fifteen minutes, and when we- reached the cloister, we at length saw what we came for. Directly below us lay the shady valley with its great buildings. Below that again we could almost trace the way by which we had come up the mountain through the forests. And beyond lay the broad valley of the Arno, with glimpses of the river shining in the sun, and then Florence itself with its swelling dome, seventeen miles away as the crow flies. There was a slight haze over the landscape that changed rap- idly, concealing and again revealing one object after another. At first we looked in vain for something which should be near the dome, but after a while the mist drew back and showed it to us, but soon covered it again as something too precious to be long exposed : Giottos tower, The lily of Florence blossoming in stone A vision, a delight, and a desire The builders perfect and centennial flower, That in the night of ages bloomed alone. I wonder what those old monks thought, when this light-giving flower first bloomed upon their darkness, or whether they thought at all. The range of hills that were the limit of the landscape in their misty indistinctness, had also an interest of their own. For they had yielded stones more precious than the diamonds of Golconda,the material in which the sculpture and architecture of Italy were to find expression. The marble mountains of Carrara are a worthy back- ground for such a picture. When we had seen this view we had seem all. The cloister contained nothing of in- terest except the daughter of the old forester who inhabits it,a very pretty girl that must look like Tessa, we thought. The monas- tery is now a school of forestry, the methods of which we did not care to investigate, and the church is bereft of the famous pictures which it once contained. We turned long- ingly to the mountain on whose side we were,the Pratomagno of Dante, that over- looks Camaldoli and the green hills of Cassentino; but time would not allow us to undertake the climb, so we mounted our horses and got into our basket and said good-bye to Vallombrosa. Whoever sees this beautiful valley among the hills cannot fail of a desire to know something of the man who first sought it out to make it his dwelling-place, in an age of the world when the beauty of external. nature seems to have had little influence upon the course of human life. The story of S. Giovanni Gualberto, as it is told to us, is so simple and unmiraculous that I think it must be true. The tradition tells us that he was the dissipated, reprobate son of a noble and wealthy Florentine family, lead- ing a wild life with dissolute companions. But his soul cherished one overmastering passion. His own nature and the custom of the age called upon him to avenge with blood the death of his brother, slain in one of the quarrels so common in the Florentine history of that period. On the morning of one Good Friday he was descending from the heights of San Miniato; the same old church was standing there, but in the city spread out at his feet was not yet erected one of the many structures that make Flor- ence the most beautiful city of the earth. On that morning, however, the heart of the man was doubtless softened and touched by the wonderful beauty of the Val dAmo holding the town in its lap, with the glitter- ing river creeping onward and the city- 100 A PILGRIMAGE TO VALLOMBROSA. crowned hill of Fiesole leaning over it. Filled with the thoughts inspired by such a scene, what wonder if he hesitated to slay the assassin when he met him unarmed in the way? The man knelt before him and pleaded for life, and in the breast of Gio- vanni a mighty struggle went forward, a struggle between pity and right and love on the one side and the dictates of passion and conventional honor on the other. At length the good triumphed and he forgave the trembling wretch at his feet. He turned about and found his way again to the church and there, kneeling upon the floor with sweet forgiveness in his heart, he con- secrated his life to the service of God. It was a Good Friday morning worth a remembrance even after eight hundred years. Taking monastic vows upon him, he entered the convent of San Miniato. But the discipline was too lax for his earnest nature, and per- haps al6o he yearned to be away from the city, alone with himself. So he went away and came and dwelt in Vallombrosa, upon the verge of the everlasting hills, where he might hold communion with his God; with Florence in the distance like the sins of his youth removed far from him, but never lost sight of,a perpetual reminder of the depths of the divine forgiveness. Not the best way to lead a Christian life, but possibly the best he knew and not without a recollec- tion of Him who went apart into a mountain to pray. He must have looked much as Perugino painted him four hundred years later,a tall, calm, earnest saint, one hand holding a crucifix and the other resting upon a staff with which he might steady his steps as he climbed to his lonely home upon the mountain-side. As he looks up and out from the great pict- ure of the Assumption, so must he have looked to those disciples of his who gradu- ally gathered about him, to profit by his counsels and guide their lives by his exam- ple. Thus, in his once solitary vale grew up a little community, and in due time he died, and in after years men wrote Saint~ before his name. And in his place a gen- eration arose that knew him not, and they lived the life of dull cattle through many centuries until, to their surprise, they were one day driven forth by the sword of justice, as those who ate up Christs poor like bread. One question must come to every speaker of English who visits Vallombrosa. Did Milton ever see it? The mere fact of his alluding to it would give us satisfactory ground for saying yes, were it not for the freedom and unerring accuracy with which he constantly alludes to places which he has not seen. But the occurrence of this mention with that of other places in the vicinity of Florence, leads me to think that it could only be an association of ideas, coming from association in personal ob- servation, that would introduce a thought of Vallombrosa in this particular place. Mrs. Brnwning thought that he must have been there, or he never would have sung of Paradise. She thought, too, that the monks and beeves that she saw there were proba- bly the same as when he came. Why did she not ask one of the old monks if he re- membered a beautiful young Englishman that came so long ago? Of course he would not recollect all who had come, but such a visitor as that must make an impres- sion upon even his dull mind,perhaps, too, the first heretic that had ever come as a sight-seer to Vallombrosa. Of course we saw no monks to ask, only spruce young students of forestry that had the air of hav- ing just come and being about to go away. Neither did we see any beeves except the two stout oxen that drew our vehicle. But without any direct testimony- from ancient man or beast, I have a firm assurance that Milton has been there and that his feet have lent to that soil a sacredness greater than any bestowed by San Giovanni or his innumerable monks. It must be that the rolling splendor of those lines and their undefined touch of surpassing beauty have come from these mountains and forests and the little, green, lonely valley that has lost itself among them: Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks In Vallombrosa, where th Etrurian shades High over-archd imbower. A MAN WITHOUT ENTHUSIASMS. A MAN WITHOUT ENTHUSIASMS. I. I THINK that neither of us could have analyzed or satisfactorily explained our mu- tual attraction, but it is certain that my old class-mate Manson and I were fast friends. He was a most lovable fellow, but had begun, long before our college course came to an end, to show that appar- ent lack of interest in life which distinguishes what we call a blase man; and this at times to a degree at once amusing and exasper- ating. Not long ago a party of us, in the pleas- ant smoking-room of a Pacific steamer, were talking about one of our fellow-passengers, rather a poor specimen of this class, then of the class itself; and the oldest mem- ber of the little group, who had been light- ing his cigar very deliberately with the lit- tle wire which one dips in spirits of wine, resumed his seat with the remark, delivered with great emphasis: Well, gentlemen, its a dreadful thing for a young man to have no enthusiasms. The expression brought Manson to my mind. I do not know why I had not thought of him before, but reminiscences now crowded in rapidly upon me and I sat for some moments looking out at the blue waves of the Pacific, and oblivious of the nice points of the discussion. Finally, it seemed opportune to me to narrate to the party some of the circumstances under which my friend and I had been thrown together. He was, as our old school-master once said, fortunate in his choice of a father, and I feared that the tendency which I have mentioned would be developed by a life of virtual idleness; and when we had parted, and I only knew of his doings through his letters, and those of mutual acquaintances, there was every reason to believe that my forebodings were correct. He made a short trip to Europe, a region which he described as slow, and then nominally entered on a business life. His abilities were excellent, and his perceptions quick, but after he had been for some time partner in a firm, a friend wrote me that when he met him in the street, and asked him where his office was, he re- ceived the reply: I dont know. Theyve moved since Ive been there. I was traveling some years later from India to Europe. We had a fine steamer from Calcutta, and some most agreeable people on board. It was just about the time that some of the officers who had served in the Mutiny were getting their furloughs, and fine fellows they were. My room-mate, a stout, jolly-looking man with red side- whiskers, was in the Residency at Lucknow, and was suffering from a wasting disease, but he was a good shot and they could not spare him; and he used to tell me how, when they had loaded his rifle, they would prop him up on his mattress until he could sight a Sepoy and then sink back again. All these men had been through terrible experiences, but they were delighted at go- ing home, and were generally in the highest spirits. I remember that they would not turn in at all the night that we were run- ning up the Gulf of Suez, and they were eager to get ashore in the morning. We went up to the hotel, built around a court- yard, and found a Frenchwoman singing Ii Bacio in the shrillest of voices to the accompaniment of sundry instruments played by compatriots in fez caps. Even the squalid bazaar seemed preferable to this, and we were turning to go thither, when I saw, leaning against a pillar, my old friend Manson; and but that he had a puggery on his hat, he looked for all the world just as he had looked many times at a perform- ance of Trovatore or Favoritain the old days in Boston when the supernumeraries were all from our class. I was delighted to meet him, presented him at once to my party, and insisted on his going to Cairo with us. He assented with the remark that he could not be more bored there than he had been at Suez. My companions appre- ciated his fine qualities, and, as they grew better acquainted, were disposed to chaff him a little about his eccentricities. Some time before we reached our destination he had been telling us of his experiences on arrival in Egypt. He had intended to go to Bombay, but had changed his mind at Suez the day before we arrived. Fellows talked to me about Grand Cairo, said he, called it an epitome of the Arabian Nights, Portal of the Orient, and all that sort of thing. I began to think that I might amuse myself for a day there. Our steamer was late; we were sent through I0I

A. A. Hayes, Jr. Hayes, A. A., Jr. A Man without Enthusiasms 101-105

A MAN WITHOUT ENTHUSIASMS. A MAN WITHOUT ENTHUSIASMS. I. I THINK that neither of us could have analyzed or satisfactorily explained our mu- tual attraction, but it is certain that my old class-mate Manson and I were fast friends. He was a most lovable fellow, but had begun, long before our college course came to an end, to show that appar- ent lack of interest in life which distinguishes what we call a blase man; and this at times to a degree at once amusing and exasper- ating. Not long ago a party of us, in the pleas- ant smoking-room of a Pacific steamer, were talking about one of our fellow-passengers, rather a poor specimen of this class, then of the class itself; and the oldest mem- ber of the little group, who had been light- ing his cigar very deliberately with the lit- tle wire which one dips in spirits of wine, resumed his seat with the remark, delivered with great emphasis: Well, gentlemen, its a dreadful thing for a young man to have no enthusiasms. The expression brought Manson to my mind. I do not know why I had not thought of him before, but reminiscences now crowded in rapidly upon me and I sat for some moments looking out at the blue waves of the Pacific, and oblivious of the nice points of the discussion. Finally, it seemed opportune to me to narrate to the party some of the circumstances under which my friend and I had been thrown together. He was, as our old school-master once said, fortunate in his choice of a father, and I feared that the tendency which I have mentioned would be developed by a life of virtual idleness; and when we had parted, and I only knew of his doings through his letters, and those of mutual acquaintances, there was every reason to believe that my forebodings were correct. He made a short trip to Europe, a region which he described as slow, and then nominally entered on a business life. His abilities were excellent, and his perceptions quick, but after he had been for some time partner in a firm, a friend wrote me that when he met him in the street, and asked him where his office was, he re- ceived the reply: I dont know. Theyve moved since Ive been there. I was traveling some years later from India to Europe. We had a fine steamer from Calcutta, and some most agreeable people on board. It was just about the time that some of the officers who had served in the Mutiny were getting their furloughs, and fine fellows they were. My room-mate, a stout, jolly-looking man with red side- whiskers, was in the Residency at Lucknow, and was suffering from a wasting disease, but he was a good shot and they could not spare him; and he used to tell me how, when they had loaded his rifle, they would prop him up on his mattress until he could sight a Sepoy and then sink back again. All these men had been through terrible experiences, but they were delighted at go- ing home, and were generally in the highest spirits. I remember that they would not turn in at all the night that we were run- ning up the Gulf of Suez, and they were eager to get ashore in the morning. We went up to the hotel, built around a court- yard, and found a Frenchwoman singing Ii Bacio in the shrillest of voices to the accompaniment of sundry instruments played by compatriots in fez caps. Even the squalid bazaar seemed preferable to this, and we were turning to go thither, when I saw, leaning against a pillar, my old friend Manson; and but that he had a puggery on his hat, he looked for all the world just as he had looked many times at a perform- ance of Trovatore or Favoritain the old days in Boston when the supernumeraries were all from our class. I was delighted to meet him, presented him at once to my party, and insisted on his going to Cairo with us. He assented with the remark that he could not be more bored there than he had been at Suez. My companions appre- ciated his fine qualities, and, as they grew better acquainted, were disposed to chaff him a little about his eccentricities. Some time before we reached our destination he had been telling us of his experiences on arrival in Egypt. He had intended to go to Bombay, but had changed his mind at Suez the day before we arrived. Fellows talked to me about Grand Cairo, said he, called it an epitome of the Arabian Nights, Portal of the Orient, and all that sort of thing. I began to think that I might amuse myself for a day there. Our steamer was late; we were sent through I0I 102 A MAN WITHOUT ENTHUSIASMS. express, remaining ten minutes in the Cairo station, and all that I saw of the Portal of the Orient, looking with sleepy eyes through the window of the railway carriage, was an Englishman in a tweed suit and a sun-hat, standing before a refreshment bar and call- ing out: Two and sixpence for a bottle of soda-water? Holy Moses! Soon after that he went to sleep, and just as we rolled into the station I remember that one of the party awakened him by shouting in his ear: Passengers for Sodom and Gomorrah will change cars! We had hardly time to see the mosque of Mehemet Ali and buy some attar of roses, when we were hurried off to Alexandria, so that our only sight of the Pyramids was from the train. None of us were grif- fins, but those majestic structures com- inand interest at all times, and then we had borrowed that wonderful book, Our In- heritance in the Great Pyramid, from the captain of the steamer, and read it care- fully, so that we were as eager as school- boys. I shall never forget the scene which ensued. We were craning our necks to get the first sight, and two or three of us cried out, There they are! Manson had been leaning back in his seat with an expression of weariness on his countenance. He raised himself slightly with his hands, took one look, and sank back in his old place with the remark: One more sensation gone! II. The summer of i86 was an unusually hot one in China. Residents of Shanghae passed their time in an artificial temper- ature produced by punkahs hung over desks, dining-tables, and beds,indeed in every practicable situation. The despotic, implacable sun rose each morning as if invigorated for a renewed career of per- ~secution, and mocked at bamboo shades, blinds, and even tiled roofs. Crews of yes- ~els coming up the river were driven from aloft, and strong men, like the little Shu- slamite boy in Scripture, cried out: My head, my head! In the latter part of September came the first reliefcool nights, then at last some refreshing days. I was dressing one morning with a serene satisfac- tion in the thought that I might put on a flannel instead of a linen coat, when my boy announced One piecee gentleman Jiab got down side, wantchee see you. Stretched on an extension chair on the ver- anda, I found, on descending, my friend iManson. Responding to my delighted and surprised greetings, he told me that he had suddenly made up his mind to visit the Far East, and had started without reflecting that he would reach India and southern China at just the wrong time. He had been nearly dead with heat, narrowly escaped a sun-stroke at Canton, and was caught in a typhoon between Manila and Hong Kong. I had a room made ready for him, found him a good Canton servant, and introduced him at the Club. He was unanimously voted a success. To people as busy as we all were with the new sea- sons teas a perfectly lazy man was a refresh- ing spectacle, and his languid indifference and dry conversation were declared ex- tremely good form. We could hardly give him a moment before late afternoon, but he found another lazy man who would play b6zique with him for hours at a stretch, and declared himself quite content. In a few weeks I made up my mind to take two or three days holiday and carry out a cherished plan of a boat-trip on the Yangtsze, and Manson agreed to accom-. pany me. We had a large house-boat of Chinese model and riga fair sailer, and very comfortable; and our two Canton boys, Ah Wing and Ah How, and our cook were sure to give us good living. I was obliged, on account of the illness of my old lowdali or captain, to engage a new one at short notice. I did not know much about him and did not likehislooks,but I never dreamed of any trouble with him or the crew which he engaged. There was a gun-rack in the cabin, and I had put in a couple of Enfield rifles belonging to the vol- unteers and two Sharps from the hong, thinking that we might compare their per- formance at a target. Manson, to my amusement, added to the armory an ele- phant rifle, carrying a very heavy ball, which he had brought from Ceylon, and his own old Kentucky hunting rifle, which he had been backing, he said, against all others. I laughed at this battery (little thinking what I was to owe to it), and threw in a couple of revolvers to complete our assortment. I shall never forget the sail down the Wongpoo, or Shanghae River, that pleasant afternoon. To appreciate the cool breeze from the south-west one must have endured the sufferings of the summer, and it seemed to blow rather from some breezy upland at home, than from the low-lying, damp paddy- fields. As we left the settlement behind I felt like a boy having his first holiday, and even fancied that the very ordinary sunset A MAN WITHOUT ENTHUSIASMS. 103 reminded me of some of the gorgeous ones which I had seen in more favored latitudes. We passed Woosung and the dilapidated earth-works below, rounded Paoushan Point, and ran a long way before we an- chored for the night. In the morning we were under way in good season, and bore for the North Shore. We had our coffee and toast, and were sitting aft, when Ah Wing, my favorite servant, as clever and really plucky a boy as ever wore a pig- tail, came aft to speak to me. Master, said he, jussee now mi see two piecee junk come. Mi thinkee he no good junk. Mi fear he blong lallee-loon (they are ladrones or pirates). Mi askee that lowdah, he mouf no speakee ploppa (his mouth does not answer me properly). He say junk blong he flen (is his friend). Mi welly fear he no good man. I ran forward and looked at the two junks. We had changed our course and were running west, with the wind on our beam. They were coming toward us, but both considerably to the north, and one more so than the other. Their character was unmistakable, as was the expression on the lowdahs face. He spoke a few words of pidgin English, and on my telling him to turn, said with a grin: No wantchee go back Shanghae. There was not a moment to lose. I had not even time to explain matters to Manson. If anything can make one think and act quickly, it is the approach of Chinese pirates. I jumped down the companion-ladder, seized a large revolver, loaded and capped, con- cealed it under my coat, and told Ah Wing to come forward with me. As I passed Man- son, who was coolly smoking, and asked no questions, I whispered, Stand by the helm, and wait for the word, in case of need. I told Ah Wing, in as mild a tone as I could command, to tell the lowdah that he had misunderstood me, and that I wanted him to turn around. He was off his guard, and replied in a rapid Chinese sentence, and with a chuckle. He talkee no wantchee, said Ah Wing. The man was nothing to me at that moment but a mad dog. Why I did not blow his brains out I do not know. I had backed up to the rail and could put my hand on a sort of belaying pin. I think I even calculated the force of the blow that laid him out on the deck, before that villainous grin was off his face. There were five men in the crew. One was steering, two I pitched down the little hatch, which I secured. The others, thoroughly fright- ened, did as Ah Wing, not a bad sailor himself, told them. Manson put the helm hard down, and in a moment we had come about, the sails were drawing, and we were well to windward, and under full headway. I gave my revolver to Ah Wing, with di- rections as to what he was to do, and no Caucasian could have obeyed more promptly and intelligently. We dragged the lowdah aft, and pinioned his hands and feet, in anticipation of his coming to him- self. Manson had the helm, and I asked him to give it to one of the crew. Ah Wing was then told (and to this day, I remember how curiously the pidgin English contrasted with the grim nature of the communication) to make it clear to the helmsman, that if the boat went one inch to leeward of her course, and to the two sailors that if they moved, except under orders, from the positions in which they were placed,covered by the revolver,they were dead men. You sabe tlue? (you perfectly under- stand) I asked Ah Wing. He was one of the few Chinamen who have what the plainsmen happily call sand or dogged grit, and I saw it in his eye as he cocked the revolver and replied, Alla lightee (all right)! Mi can do. At your leisure, said a cool voice, perhaps you will tell me what this is all about, and Manson lighted a fresh cheroot. I explained to him that we had barely escaped destruction by treachery, and were even then in a dire strait. We could not expect to sail as fast as the pirates, and our only hope was in their being so far to lee- ward, and in the range of our rifles. I was perfectly sure of my man, and there was positively none in my whole acquaintance whom I would so readily have with me as my old friend, the blase, indifferent, dilet- tante Manson. He shook me by the hand, and said in a cheery voice, wholly unlike his ordinary one: All right, old fellow, well beat them. A more impetuous, though equally brave man would have been far less efficient. Indeed, nothing could have been finer than his behavior. The rifles, six in number, were brought up and laid side by side on top of the cabin. Ah How told me that he sabe loadee that gun, and, to my great surprise, our old fat cook ( Buddha, we used to call him, as his countenance ex- pressed the idea of eternal silence and rest), volunteered his services in this line as well. 104 A MAN WITHOUT ENTHUSIASMS Then we settled down to our work, no old decidedly. Well, that is not so bad, he Paladin or Viking ever more collected and continued, as a jingal ball struck the mast. deliberate, and at the same time showing He asked Ah How to let him load the more of the gaudium cer/aminis than our old Kentucky rifle himself, and measured out used-up, bored member of the class of J85. the powder, wrapped the ball in a scrap of Could we keep those junks out of jingal buck-skin and rammed it carefully home. range until we reached a place of safety? Then he knelt down and watched his They had high sterns, and the steersman chance. All this time Ah Wing had kept could be plainly seen. Manson took his his eyes and the revolver on the steersman, Kentucky rifle, knelt down away aft and and our boat had done her best. The jin- aimed slowly and carefully. Almost simul- gal balls were getting uncomfortably fre- taneously I succeeded in drawing a bead quent, and it was only a small satisfaction on a large man in the bow of the junk nearer to me to have sent an Enfield bullet through to us. Just as the rifles cracked she tell off the head of one gunner, just as he was get- visibly and lost way before the dead steers- ting his sight. All at once I heard the man could be replaced. Nor was the large report of Mansons rifle and the quiet re- man again visible, mark from him, I am afraid I cant do as well with the Habet! elephant rifle, said Manson, but I can I saw the junk fall oW saw manifest con- try. Let us both fire continually at the fusion on board, saw an opening for two or steersmen. We did so, with varying suc- three good shots, and had seized a fresh gun, cess. Ah How and the cook loaded rap- when I heard Ah How cry, idly and well, but the rifles were soon some- Master, hab got steamer, welly near. what heated, and the breech-loaders missed Hardly one of us had glanced ahead for fire several times. The junks were heavily half an hour. As for the steersman and the manned and could quickly supply the place crew, they had clearly but one thought, and of those whom we shot. They also arranged that wasto save their heads. It was with some kind of protection for the helmsmen, a strange feeling of relief and satisfaction although we pierced it more than once. I that I saw H. M. gun-boat Petulant puffing began to feel terribly wolfish, and so filled along toward us. In five minutes she was with rage at our antagonists that I could alongside, and I saw my friend Lieutenant only with difficulty control myself suffi- Grahams jolly face over her rail. ciently to aim deliberately; but my friend What the deuce is the row, old fellow? never showed signs of an acceleration of he asked in a perplexed way. I explained his pulse. As regularly as clock-work he as briefly as possible, and told him that I took the gun from the Chinaman, and thought we had almost finished the job, but never fired a second before his aim was he was welcome to the rest of it. He could perfect. We rested a short time at last to hardly wait for me to finish my story. take a survey of the situation, and could You wont come with us, then? Well, not disguise from ourselves that it was sen- good-bye, old fellow. See you in Shanghae. ous. The junks were nearer, and we were Full speed ahead! Beat to quarters! Look still quite a long way from Paoushan. sharp now, and clear away the bow-gun! There was nothing for it but to go to work In less than five minutes we heard its re- again, and we did. For ten minutes or port, and saw the shot crash into the junks more we kept up an incessant fire, and, side. We had had fighting enough for that although we evidently did much damage, day and concluded to push on for home. the distance between us and them had been The junks had gone about, but we knew perceptibly lessened. We must soon expect that they were doomed, and the roar of the to hear the report of jingals. It came in a broadside soon informed us that it would be moment more, and the clumsy ball fell but quick work. Ah Wing never moved. He little short of us. Manson turned to me, would have kept that revolver pointed at the still cheery and cool. Chinamen until doomsday, had I not told I believe there is a foreigner there, him that he might put it away. said he, who is directing and inspiring Ah How and Buddha took the guns be- them. He has escaped us thus far. If low, and made everything tidy, and we had I can get a sight of him and can hit him, hardly rounded Paoushan Point when Ah I believe we shall get rid of this junk. Wing came up and said, Since you picked off that last steersman That cook makee enquire what thing of the hindmost one, she has fallen off you likee chow chow (eat). RICHARD HENRY DANA. 105 We had a jolly dinner the next night. Lieutenant Graham and a couple of his officers came just in time. They had handed the survivors of the junks crews over to the Chinese authorities, in whose care our ras- cally lowdah also was. They had made short work of their fight, and had no cas- ualties. When the cloth was removed I tried to get Manson to make a speech, but the only thing I could get him to say was that he was never less bored in his life than during the skirmish. I have not seen him for years. He drifts between the Old and the New World, and when I last wrote to him I quoted Haw- thornes expression about the danger of doing so until the only inheritance left him in either was the six feet for his final resting-place. Bat, as I had before insisted to my group in the smoking-room, it is a great mistake to judge by appearances, and I am surer of nothing than that I shall never see a finer fellow, on this side of Jordan, than my friend, the man without enthusiasms. THE FROZEN FIELDS. THE frozen fields are white beneath my feet; Full loudly blows the hyperborean blast; Its cohorts, armed with lances of sharp sleet, Tilt fiercely round me, and go roaring past. Where is the sun, and where the fields of blue? The darling summer, where is she, 0 where? The only phantom of a bird in view A withered leaf whirled through the wintry air. Far, far the naiad of the brook has flown, Her reeds are tuneless on the icy shore; Gleams from the woods, white as Carraras stone, The Dorian column of the sycamore. Oer orchard boughs, once filled with bloom and bees, Oer songless thickets, hopeless now of June, Oer barren hill-tops, girt with windy trees, Hangs the gray remnant of a midday moon. Lone as that moon, I wander here and wait, Wroth at the world for all its cold and gray, When down the lane my love comes, all elate, And winter bursts, full-blossomed, into May! RICHARD HENRY DANA. IT was a perfect August day during the past year when we drove along the rocky coast of Cape Ann, from Beverly through Beverly Farms and past Manchester-by-the Sea, on a visit to the oldest of American poets, whose wild and most picturesque summer retreat was situated a mile or more beyond the latter place. Entering his sim- ple gate, and passing along the private ave- nue fringed with forest trees and apparently, like the road, left undisturbed as nature made it, a few minutes drive brought us in sight of the two-story mansion standing on the edge of a lofty lawn or bluff overlook- ing the sea,altogether a place singularly solitary, and almost savage. The house, built some two score years ago by its aged owner, was surmounted by a balustrade on the sloping roof after the fashion of Lowells and Longfellows colonial homes at Cambridge. Alighting, and passing through the hall to the portico on the

Lloyd Mifflin Mifflin, Lloyd The Frozen Fields 105

RICHARD HENRY DANA. 105 We had a jolly dinner the next night. Lieutenant Graham and a couple of his officers came just in time. They had handed the survivors of the junks crews over to the Chinese authorities, in whose care our ras- cally lowdah also was. They had made short work of their fight, and had no cas- ualties. When the cloth was removed I tried to get Manson to make a speech, but the only thing I could get him to say was that he was never less bored in his life than during the skirmish. I have not seen him for years. He drifts between the Old and the New World, and when I last wrote to him I quoted Haw- thornes expression about the danger of doing so until the only inheritance left him in either was the six feet for his final resting-place. Bat, as I had before insisted to my group in the smoking-room, it is a great mistake to judge by appearances, and I am surer of nothing than that I shall never see a finer fellow, on this side of Jordan, than my friend, the man without enthusiasms. THE FROZEN FIELDS. THE frozen fields are white beneath my feet; Full loudly blows the hyperborean blast; Its cohorts, armed with lances of sharp sleet, Tilt fiercely round me, and go roaring past. Where is the sun, and where the fields of blue? The darling summer, where is she, 0 where? The only phantom of a bird in view A withered leaf whirled through the wintry air. Far, far the naiad of the brook has flown, Her reeds are tuneless on the icy shore; Gleams from the woods, white as Carraras stone, The Dorian column of the sycamore. Oer orchard boughs, once filled with bloom and bees, Oer songless thickets, hopeless now of June, Oer barren hill-tops, girt with windy trees, Hangs the gray remnant of a midday moon. Lone as that moon, I wander here and wait, Wroth at the world for all its cold and gray, When down the lane my love comes, all elate, And winter bursts, full-blossomed, into May! RICHARD HENRY DANA. IT was a perfect August day during the past year when we drove along the rocky coast of Cape Ann, from Beverly through Beverly Farms and past Manchester-by-the Sea, on a visit to the oldest of American poets, whose wild and most picturesque summer retreat was situated a mile or more beyond the latter place. Entering his sim- ple gate, and passing along the private ave- nue fringed with forest trees and apparently, like the road, left undisturbed as nature made it, a few minutes drive brought us in sight of the two-story mansion standing on the edge of a lofty lawn or bluff overlook- ing the sea,altogether a place singularly solitary, and almost savage. The house, built some two score years ago by its aged owner, was surmounted by a balustrade on the sloping roof after the fashion of Lowells and Longfellows colonial homes at Cambridge. Alighting, and passing through the hall to the portico on the

James Grant Wilson Wilson, James Grant Richard Henry Dana 105-111

RICHARD HENRY DANA. 105 We had a jolly dinner the next night. Lieutenant Graham and a couple of his officers came just in time. They had handed the survivors of the junks crews over to the Chinese authorities, in whose care our ras- cally lowdah also was. They had made short work of their fight, and had no cas- ualties. When the cloth was removed I tried to get Manson to make a speech, but the only thing I could get him to say was that he was never less bored in his life than during the skirmish. I have not seen him for years. He drifts between the Old and the New World, and when I last wrote to him I quoted Haw- thornes expression about the danger of doing so until the only inheritance left him in either was the six feet for his final resting-place. Bat, as I had before insisted to my group in the smoking-room, it is a great mistake to judge by appearances, and I am surer of nothing than that I shall never see a finer fellow, on this side of Jordan, than my friend, the man without enthusiasms. THE FROZEN FIELDS. THE frozen fields are white beneath my feet; Full loudly blows the hyperborean blast; Its cohorts, armed with lances of sharp sleet, Tilt fiercely round me, and go roaring past. Where is the sun, and where the fields of blue? The darling summer, where is she, 0 where? The only phantom of a bird in view A withered leaf whirled through the wintry air. Far, far the naiad of the brook has flown, Her reeds are tuneless on the icy shore; Gleams from the woods, white as Carraras stone, The Dorian column of the sycamore. Oer orchard boughs, once filled with bloom and bees, Oer songless thickets, hopeless now of June, Oer barren hill-tops, girt with windy trees, Hangs the gray remnant of a midday moon. Lone as that moon, I wander here and wait, Wroth at the world for all its cold and gray, When down the lane my love comes, all elate, And winter bursts, full-blossomed, into May! RICHARD HENRY DANA. IT was a perfect August day during the past year when we drove along the rocky coast of Cape Ann, from Beverly through Beverly Farms and past Manchester-by-the Sea, on a visit to the oldest of American poets, whose wild and most picturesque summer retreat was situated a mile or more beyond the latter place. Entering his sim- ple gate, and passing along the private ave- nue fringed with forest trees and apparently, like the road, left undisturbed as nature made it, a few minutes drive brought us in sight of the two-story mansion standing on the edge of a lofty lawn or bluff overlook- ing the sea,altogether a place singularly solitary, and almost savage. The house, built some two score years ago by its aged owner, was surmounted by a balustrade on the sloping roof after the fashion of Lowells and Longfellows colonial homes at Cambridge. Alighting, and passing through the hall to the portico on the io6 RICHARD HENRY DANA. opposite side, I saw a scene of surpassing grandeur and beauty. Below, a broad ex- panse of ocean under a cloudless blue sky; on either side, the rocky headlands of Sharks Mouth and Eagles Head thrusting themselves well out into the sea, thus forming a small crescent-shaped bay, from the sandy shore of which came the ceaseless murmuring of the waves of the broad Atlantic, breaking gently on the smooth white beach some sixty or seventy feet beneath, and so near that a stone could easily be cast into the sea. The house, standing on the very verge of an almost perpendicular cliff, has no near or visible neighbors except the white-sailed ships and steamers passing and repassing, and, at the distance of perhaps half a mile to the west, a handsome modern residence, towering above the surrounding trees; in the background beyond, the light-houses of Boston, Salem, and Marblehead harbors. Not far from the beach is a small rocky island, partially covered with a growth of stunted trees, and away to the east the half-sunken reef where the Hesterus was wrecked, the sad story of which has been told in the tender and touching ballad of Normans Woe. None of the family were to be seen at the time except a solitary and venerable figure basking in the warm southern sunshine, and engaged in reading without glasses! As he courteously and easily rose from his chair, I saw before me one of whom, as of ancient Nestor, might be said: Age lies heavy on thy limbs. He was under the usual height, broad. shouldered but slight, still holding himself tolerably erect, with sight and hearing unim- paired, his eloquent and expressive eyes undimmed, and his pale countenance and fine regular features presenting a mingled air of sadness and unmistakable refinement, combined with the sweet, high-born cour- tesy of the old school of gentlemen. His silvery hair, reaching to his shoulders, and his full, flowing beard and long mustache of the same color, assisted in making him in his tout ensemble one of the finest living pictures that I have ever seen of noble and venerable age. I stood in the presence of Richard Henry Dana, the patriarch of American poets. Although over ninety years of age, he was still in the possession of a fair measure of health and strength, and in the enjoyment of a serene and sunny old age, surrounded by children and grandchil dren. He once said to me that he never possessed what Sydney Smith called a good, stout bodily machine, but was born, like Bryant, with a frail and feeble body. He distinctly remembered the death of Washing- ton, and was an intelligent listener, on the succeeding Sunday, to a discourse deliv- ered on that subject by the Rev. Theodore Dehon in Trinity Church, Newport, the rector taking for his text, Know ye not that there is a prince and a great man fallen this day in Israel ? Danas mental faculties were in no way weakened, but perhaps slightly more sluggish in action, than when I first saw him in his Boston home some ten years previous. He spoke with deep feeling of the death of Bryant and Duyckinck, and said that he had written to the latter a few days before his decease, * and that he should soon follow them. He also alluded to the loss of another life-long friend, Mrs. , of Boston, who passed away a few days before the date of my visit in the last week of August. The aged poet talked of Bryants wonderful liter- ary activity, maintained to the very last, and remarked that although he himself had not practiced it, he believed in the philosophy of Cicero as to the efficacy of constant activ * Dear Mr. Duyckinck : I am greatly troubled to hear through General Wilson that for some time you have been so ill as to be confined to your house. Standing on the very verge of an unusually long life, ouma well suppose that for the most part, I am ooking off over the unending sea, stretching on and on beyond it. Yet it is not alone on what is to come that my thoughts are tending; they turn back with more vividness than ever and with a distinct- ness nigh marvelous, toward the long past. I am mentally living between the past and future: the present is hardly within my consciousnessat the most is but a sort of dim haziness through which the past comes back to me with a nearness and distinctness that startles me. I see it, and you I see with a fresh presence as you used to meet me with your cordial greetings in my frequent calls, greetings that made me forget for a time that I was a stranger in New York. I well remember, too, the gratification before we were personally acquainted, that your notice of me in your periodical [The Lit- erary World] gave me. I had but little notice from the public at the time, and to be so noticed in arti- cles so well written was no little comfort to me, it gave me heart. How can I but look back, far gone in my ninety-first year, as I am? The last of my oldest friends, who I trusted would follow me, has just gone before,the chairs are all empty, and I am left sitting alone. You came later. I pray, dont you leave me. We shall not meet in the body here: but you can write me, and that is something like meeting in spirit. With old esteem, RIcHARD H. DANA, Boston, 43 Chestnut street, August 5, x878. EvERT A. DUYcKINCK, Esq. RICHARD HENRY DANA. 107 ity in keeping the mental powers in repair during old age. Some one has said, he added, that the mind of an old man is like an old horseif you would get any work out of it, you must work it all the time. Among the first to make a creditable ap- pearance in the field of American literature was Richard Henry Dana, the last of the writers of his generation who achieved suc- cess both in prose and verse, and won the right to be ranked among the most vigorous authors of the first half of the present cent- ury. His long life extended over the whole history of the United States under the Con- stitution, and his mind remained clear and unclouded to the very end. Only the day before his death he dictated a note to the writer expressing his thanks for two addresses on Bryant and Duyckinck,* and during the evening of that day in a conversation with members of his family, he introduced quotations from favorite authors. In the course of his pure and spotless career, Dana was never haunted with the dread of that poverty with which poets have been so often afflicted. He had the happiness to be well born and born to a competency,was always his own master,was never tied down to the servitude of place or office, and enjoyed the rare felicity of spending his time in accord- ance with his own inclinations. Under these circumstances it is certainly somewhat singular that his pen should not have pro- duced more fruit. Like Halleck, he wrote little, if anything, except agreeable letters to personal friends, after he was forty-five, and he lived to ninety-two, the age of Samuel Rogers. As Dana once remarked to a friend, the last half of his life was mostly devoted to reading and dreaming. Every Scottishman, says Sir Walter Scott, has a pedigree. It is a natural pre- unalienable as his pride and his rogative, as poverty,a remark equally applicable to the New Englander. Danas ancestors, like Bryants, were among the Pilgrim Fathers not a bad genealogy for an American. Some literary admixture was in his blood, for he was a descendant of Anne Bradstreet, a daughter of Governor Dudley, and the most celebrated American poet of the pe- riod. Richard Dana, the first of the family, appeared at Cambridge, then called New- town, near Boston, in the year 1640. He came to the New World from England, and, according to the belief of some of his de scendants, was a native of France. Gris- wold, however, states that the family is of English origin, and that William Dana, sher- iff of Middlesex in the palmy days of Shak- spere, Spenser, and Sidney, was his ancestor. Richard Danas fourth son, Daniel, born in 1663, married and had a family. His third son, Richard, who was graduated at Harvard College in i 7 i8, also married and had chil- dren, and his third son, Francis, born in 1743, married, at the age of thirty, Elizabeth Ellery, eldest daughter of William Ellery, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. Their third son, and the last survivor of a family of seven children, Richard Henry, was born in the fine old mansion situated on Dana Hill, between Harvard College and Boston, November 15, 1787. Danas career was singularly destitute of incident,the uneventful life of a literary re- cluse. He was a delicate and sensitive child, and an apt scholar. When about ten years of age, he was sent to Newport to prepare himself for college, and there he resided for several years with his maternal grandfather, whose house is still standing and in good preservation. There he met Washington Allston, his future brother-in-law, and his cousin, William Ellery Channing; and there, on the rock-bound shores of Rhode Island, he formed that attachment to the sea which became a marked characteristic of the man and the poet. In 1804 he entered Harvard University. His class was one that displayed a rebellious spirit, and many of them were in 1807 expelled, Dana and his kinsman, Walter Channing, among the number, for participation in what was known as the Rotten Cabbage Rebellion, which occurred about the close of the third year of his course. Fifty-eight years after- ward the bachelors degree was conferred upon him, and in 1867 it was also given to Dr. Walter Channing. But one mem- ber of the large class of i8o8which included Charles Cotesworth Pinckney is now living. The flood of years has swept them all away, with the single excep- tion of Dr. Ebenezer Alden, of Randolph, Mass., now in his ninety-second year. Dr. Alden remembers that Dana was a slight and sensitive youth when he entered college, and that he was an excellent scholar, standing well in all his studies. He also speaks warmly of his high character while at Harvard. After leaving the university, Dana spent two years in study at Newport. He then returned to Cambridge and entered the office in Boston of his cousin, Francis Dana * By George William Curtis and William Allen Butler. io8 RICHARD HENRY DANA. Channing, as a law student. In i8i i he was admitted to the bar. Writing in 1846, to his friend William Alfred Jones, the accomplished essayist, as Bryant called him, Mr. Dana remarks: The legal profession has run in our family perhaps quite as long as in any family in the country, and unbroken through my father and pater- nal grandfather. My maternal grandfather Ellery practiced law and was on the bench in Rhode Island for a short time, and I practiced long enough to keep the chain whole. By the way, the study of the law interested me deeply. I shall never forget how absorbed I was in the reading of my fathers old folio edition of Coke on Little- ton. I have sometimes suspected that the old Norman French, the black letter, and more especially the old tenures, acting upon my imagination and bringing before me the early social condition of men, helped a good deal to make this particular work so interesting to me. Does not an imaginative mind draw more from facts which have in themselves or their relation, any qualities convertible into poetry, when it reaches through a dry unimaginative medium, than when they are presented to it by some im- aginative power and in an imaginative form? In the former case the imaginative mind is active and creative; in the latter, more of a mere passive recipient. Sharon Turners mind, for instance, is dry enough, yet I have never looked into his history with- out having my imagination excited by it. * * * I studied law in Boston with my cousin, the eldest brother of the celebrated Dr. Channing, my mother and his being sisters. The now Professor Channing was my fellow-student. I was admitted to the bar here and was in Robert Goodloe Har- pers office afterwards for only a few months to get somewhat acquainted with the Mary- land modes of practice. * * * Going into town one day while assisting E. T. Channing (now Professor) in the North American Review (1817), he read to me a couple of pieces of poetry which had just been sent to the Review,the Thanatopsis and The Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood. While C was reading one of them I broke out saying, That was never written on this side of the water, and naturally enough, considering what Ameri- can poetry had been up to that moment. I remember saying also, The father is much the cleverer man of the two. Bryants father was afterwards in our senate, and I went there to take a look at him. He was anything but a plain business-like aspect. On the contrary he had a finely marked and highly intellectual-looking headyou would have noticed him among a hundred men. But with all my examination I could not discover Thanatopsis in itthe poetic phase was wanting to me. I remember go- ing away with a feeling of mortification that I could not discover the poetic in the face of the writer of Thanatopsis. There was no mistake of names, you see, as Griswold states. When for the first time I afterwards saw Bryant at Cambridge and spoke to him about his fathers Thanatopsis, he explained the matter and gave me a very characteristic reason for not sending both pieces in his own name; he felt as if it would be overdo- ing. We had a hearty laugh together when I told him of the physiognomical perplexity his fanciful deception had thrown me in. Dana, as we have seen, studied law for a few months with General Harper of Balti- more; then, returning to the North, he opened an office in Boston, and at the age of twenty-four he was elected by the Fed- eralists to the state legislature. May i ~th, 1813, he was married by Bishop Griswold to Ruth Charlotte, daughter of John and Susanna Smith, of Taunton, Mass. They had four children, two of whom survive. Mrs. Dana died February io, 1822, aged thirty-four years. In 1814, Dana delivered a public address, which was printed with the following. title-page : An Oration delivered before the Washington Benev- olent Society, at Cambridge, Mass., July 4, 1814. During the ensuing year Mr. Dana decided to abandon the profes- sion of the law and to follow the bent of his mind, which ran in another channel. He had been for several years a member of the Anthology Club, out of which grew the North American Review, in the editorship of which he was soon afterward associated with Edward T. Channing. To its pages he contributed several striking criticisms and essays. They attracted great attention at the time, and at once established his reputation as an able, independent and vig- orous writer. When Channing was elected a Harvard professor and resigned his con- nection with the Review, Dana also left it. Without question, his enforced retirement was a national misfortune; for, as Bryant said, if it had remained in Danas hands he would have imparted a character of originality and decision to its critical articles which no literary man of the country was at that time qualified to give it. RICHARD HENRY DANA. 109 In the year 1821, Dana began the pub- lication in New York of The Idle Man, a work handsomely issued in well printed octavo numbers, somewhat in the style of Irvings Sketch Book, but displaying much more vigor of thought and strength of style. Allston and Bryant contributed poems to its pages, and Verplanck aided him in the business arrangements with Charles Wiley, who published seven num- bers for the author, when the work proving unprofitable, it was discontinued. The Idle Man, wrote Bryant, notwithstanding the cold reception it met with from the public, we look upon as holding a place among the first productions of American literature. It was at Wileys, on the corner of Wall and New streets, in a small back room, christened by Cooper The Den, and so designated over the door, that Dana first met the novelist; the poets Percival and Halleck, the second edition of whose Fanny Wiley had just issued; Henry Brevoort, Colonel Stone, Dunlap, Morse, and other notabilities of that day. Here Cooper was in the habit of holding forth to an admiring audience, very much as Chris- topher North did about the same time in Blackwoods back parlor in George street, Edinburgh. In 1825 Bryant removed to New York, and became the editor of the New York Review and Athemeum Magazine. In the first volume appeared Danas earliest poem, The Dying Raven, written at the age of thirty-eight, and signed with an anonymous Y. The same number contained, on the preceding page, accompanied by the sim- ple signature H., the poem of Marco Boz- zaris, of which the editor said: It would be an act of gross injustice to the author of the above magnificent lyric were we to with- hold the expression of our admiration of its extraordinary beauty. We are sure, too, that in this instance, at least, we have done what is rare in the annals of criticismwe have given an opinion from which no one of our readers will feel any inclination to dissent. There was published at Cambridge, in the autumn of 1821, a small volume of for- ty-four dingy pages, containing eight pieces entitled Poems by XVilliam Cullen Bry- ant. Six years later, there appeared in New York Hallecks little anonymous brochure of a somewhat similar appearance, containing seventeen poems and sixty-four pages, bear- ing on its title-page, Alnwick Castle and Other Poems. During the same year there was issued by Bowles and Dearborn, of 72 Washington street, Boston, an i8mo book of i i~ pages, dedicated to Gulian C. Ver- planck, entitled Poems by Richard H. Dana, containing the following table of con- tents: The Buccaneer, The Changes of Home, The Husband and Wifes Grave, The Dying Raven, Fragment of an Epistle, The Little Beach Bird,~~ A Clump of Daisies, The Pleasure Boat and Daybreak. These three literary curi- osities, now lying before me, are the first editions of our earliest poets of the present century, and each contains at least one poem destined to live. Some one predicted that Bryants Thanatopsis, and Hallecks Marco Bozzaris were American poems that would be read by all future ages. May we not add to these Danas Bucca- neer, which still holds a secure place in the popular anthologies? Bayard Taylor, in alluding to our eariy literature, said: Dana, Halleck and Bryant rose together on steadier wings, and gave voices to the solitude: Dana with a broad, grave under- tone, like that of the sea; Bryant with a sound as of the wind in summer woods, and the fall of waters in mountain dells; and Halleck with strains blown from a silver trunipet, breathing manly fire and courage Many voices have followed them, but we shall not forget the forerunners who rose in advance of their welcome, and created their own audience by their songs. Danas family were Unitarians, but in 1826 he and his friend Allston joined the Congregational church of Cambridge, then presided over by the father of the poet Holmes. In the controversy which con- tinued for about ten years from that time, between the Unitarians and the Congrega- tionalists, Dana entered with great energy, some of his strongest articles appearing in The Spirit of the Pilgrims, edited by Enoch Pond, who is still living, at the age of ninety. This bitter controversy, in which Dana was opposed to his gifted cousin, Dr. Channing, the acknowledged leader of the liberal party (of whom Coleridge said, He has the love of wisdom, and the wis- dom of love), in no way affected their feel- ings of personal affection, nor did it for a moment imperil the sixty years friend- ship of Dana and Bryant. Much of their correspondence was upon this vexed ques- tion and also in regard to their politi~a1 opinions, upon which they differed as widely as in their theological views. Some years 110 RICHARD HENRY DANA. later Mr. Dana became a member of the Episcopal Church. In 1829, Mr. Dana delivered a poem be- fore the Andover Theological Seminary. Dr. Adams, who was present, says: No one who had the good fortune to hear that poem, as delivered by its author, will forget the enthusiasm of the occasion. The poet seemed borne away by his theme, his eye sparkled and, his whole face was illumined with rapturous smiles, as Joys played through him like a sparkling sea. This poem, published the same year, was included in the second edition of his works which appeared in 1833, and was entitled Thoughts on the Soul. The volume con- tained all the poems in the first, with addi- tions, and also his prose papers reprinted from The Idle Man. A portion of this volume was published in London in 1844, with the title of The Buccaneer and other Poems, and again in the same city in 1857, in a volume entitled Poetical Works of Edgar A. Poe and R. H. Dana. During the winter of 183940, Mr. Dana gave a course of eight lectures on Shakspere, at Boston, New York, and Philadelphia, which were subsequently repeated in those cities and elsewhere as late as the summer of i8~o, when he delivered them at Andover and Amherst. In the same year, a two-vol- ume edition of his works was issued in this city by Baker & Scribner, containing every- thing that Mr. Dana deemed worthy of pres- ervation. It passed through two editions, and has now been long entirely out of print. It is to be hoped that the work will speedily be republished, along with his most admira- ble and scholarly Shakspere lectures, which were years ago prepared for the press, as I happen to know. Writing to me under date of November 27, 1872, Mr. Dana remarks: It greatly pleased me to receive a few lines from you just returned from that glorious old city, London, which it is sad to think I shall never see. * * * And so you brought over Mr. Coleridges ink-stand for Mr. Longfellow. I am almost tempted to com- mit burglary or even murder, if necessary, to possess it. Mr. Longfellow must look out for himself! In another letter, Mr. Dana writes of Coleridge as that dear, great man, and regrets that his works are not more studied they are not to be read, in the common acceptation of the word. Study his Friend, his Aids to Reflection, his Church and State; and alludes to an- other favorite author, as that beautiful creature,Charles Lamb. Describing a dinner at Bryants, he says: After dinner Halleck and I talked monarchism, with nobility and a third order,enough to prevent despotism, nothing more. Bryant sat by, hearing us. Why, said he, you are not in earnest? Never more so, was our answer. Bryant still holds to simple democracy, I believe. How far Mr. Halleck may have modified his creed, I know not. For myself, I am only better than ever satisfied what an incorrigible creature man is to govern under the wisest adopted forms. But man will have to come to orders and degrees at last. Dana wrote littleless, perhaps, than he would have done had he received more encouragement, and also possessed a tem- perament as active as it was meditative but he did some good work, and his reputa- tion rests on a secure foundation, too secure to be disturbed. He did enough for assured fame. His life, as I have already said, was chiefly that of a literary recluse, but in winter, when in Boston, good music, and especially classical music, and anything worth seeing in the way of artwhich he loved in all its aspectswas certain to draw the poet from the seclusion of his quiet home on Chestnut street. For a few days before the end came, Dana gradually failed, and at length passed away peacefully, and, as he had often prayed, painlessly, dying of no other disease than old age, on Sunday, February 2nd, 1879. On the following Wednesday he was unostentatiously placed by the side of his ancestors in the family vault at Cambridge. Longfellow, one of whose daughters mar- ried Danas only grandson, was present, and has since written of the occasion as follows in the Atlantic Monthly: In the old churchyard of his native town, And in the ancestral tomb beside the wall, We laid him in the sleep that comes to all, And left him to his rest and his renown. The snow was falling, as if Heaven dropped down White flowers of Paradise to strew his pall ; The dead around him seemed to wake, and call His name, as worthy of so white a crown. And now the moon is shining on the scene, And the broad sheet of snow is written oer With shadows cruciform of leafless trees, As once the winding-sheet of Saladin With chapters of the Koran; but ah! more Mysterious and triumphant signs are these! WILHELAJJ AND REALNYL III THE DESCENT OF THE ANGEL. THIS is the house. Come, take the keys. Romance and travel here must end. Out of the clouds, not quite at ease, I saw the pretty bride descend; With satin sandals, fit alone To glide in air, she touched the stone. A thing to fade through wedding lace, From silk and scents, with priest and ring, Floated across that earthly place Where life must be an earthly thing. An earthly voice was in her ears, Her eyes awoke to earthly tears. WILHELMJ AND REM~NYI. ONE summer evening a brilliant company crowded a terrace which overlooked a quaint little German city. Along the straight road below the height stretched a mile of lamps; and in the distance huddled a mass of brick and stone houses, the shabby but pretentious palaces of forgotten margraves, and the tow- ers of a few ugly churches. The scene was the esplanade of Wagners theater at Bay- reuth. The first act of Siegfried was just over, and the audience pouring out of the dark and stifiihg play-house found refresh- ment in the invigorating breath of the night air, laden with the perfume of the early harvest. Pnnces, grand-dukes, premiers, generals, beauties of the imperial court, decorated functionaries of the royal house- holds, poets, composers, great artists and humble fiddlers, enthusiasts from Oregon and Boston, jocund dames and cavaliers from Paris, serious Englishmen, fiery Hun- garians, Russian cosmopolites (who go ev- erywhere),they were, indeed, a strangely assorted multitude. It seems to me as I recall the spectacle that three figures showed in bolder relief than any of the others; cer- tainly, by the little knot of strangers among whom I found myself; these three were re- garded with the liveliest interest. One was a certain German countess, famed far and ride for her beauty: A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair. The second was Liszt, calm and kindly, diffusing rapture through a circle of ladies. The third was a young and handsome man of noble stature, imposing presence, and quick firm step, with the head of Beethoven lighted by a soft eye and a winning smile, was August Wilhelmj, principal first violin in the great festival orchestra. When the trumpets called us back to the theater after the hours intermission, and the play went on, we listened eagerly for the sound of Wilhelmjs violin in the Forest Music.~~ His pure, strong and beautiful tone, rising out of the unseen abyss of the dark orchestra, with the murmur of interweaving harmonies going on the while,fiutter of leaves, hum- ming of insects, rustling of the soft noonday breeze,produced an effect hardly to be realized, except by those who have felt the sensations awakened by that unique work of art,a model Wagner performance. Perhaps there was not in all Europe a man more exactly fitted than Wilhelmj for the difficult position which this distinguished violinist filled at Bayreuth. The concert- meister in all orchestras is the medium of ~zommunication between the conductor and the band. On this occasion his functions were specially important. The fine shades of meaning, the niceties of phrasing and accent, the variations of emphasis and rhythm which it was his business to catch from the conductor and transmit to those who sat below him, were extremely subtle, and moreover, were really essential to the interpretation. For the orchestra in this opera was not an accompaniment, but a chief actor, and the first player was a person of hardly less consequence than the first singer. To execute the music needed an artist of the highest ability; to understand it required a musician of acute perceptions, strong feeling, and close sym- pathy with the composer. Wilhelmj, be- sides, had a great share in the long and arduous preliminary work. The. conductor, Hans Richter, left to him the superintend-

S. M. B. Piatt Piatt, S. M. B. The Descent of the Angel 111

WILHELAJJ AND REALNYL III THE DESCENT OF THE ANGEL. THIS is the house. Come, take the keys. Romance and travel here must end. Out of the clouds, not quite at ease, I saw the pretty bride descend; With satin sandals, fit alone To glide in air, she touched the stone. A thing to fade through wedding lace, From silk and scents, with priest and ring, Floated across that earthly place Where life must be an earthly thing. An earthly voice was in her ears, Her eyes awoke to earthly tears. WILHELMJ AND REM~NYI. ONE summer evening a brilliant company crowded a terrace which overlooked a quaint little German city. Along the straight road below the height stretched a mile of lamps; and in the distance huddled a mass of brick and stone houses, the shabby but pretentious palaces of forgotten margraves, and the tow- ers of a few ugly churches. The scene was the esplanade of Wagners theater at Bay- reuth. The first act of Siegfried was just over, and the audience pouring out of the dark and stifiihg play-house found refresh- ment in the invigorating breath of the night air, laden with the perfume of the early harvest. Pnnces, grand-dukes, premiers, generals, beauties of the imperial court, decorated functionaries of the royal house- holds, poets, composers, great artists and humble fiddlers, enthusiasts from Oregon and Boston, jocund dames and cavaliers from Paris, serious Englishmen, fiery Hun- garians, Russian cosmopolites (who go ev- erywhere),they were, indeed, a strangely assorted multitude. It seems to me as I recall the spectacle that three figures showed in bolder relief than any of the others; cer- tainly, by the little knot of strangers among whom I found myself; these three were re- garded with the liveliest interest. One was a certain German countess, famed far and ride for her beauty: A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair. The second was Liszt, calm and kindly, diffusing rapture through a circle of ladies. The third was a young and handsome man of noble stature, imposing presence, and quick firm step, with the head of Beethoven lighted by a soft eye and a winning smile, was August Wilhelmj, principal first violin in the great festival orchestra. When the trumpets called us back to the theater after the hours intermission, and the play went on, we listened eagerly for the sound of Wilhelmjs violin in the Forest Music.~~ His pure, strong and beautiful tone, rising out of the unseen abyss of the dark orchestra, with the murmur of interweaving harmonies going on the while,fiutter of leaves, hum- ming of insects, rustling of the soft noonday breeze,produced an effect hardly to be realized, except by those who have felt the sensations awakened by that unique work of art,a model Wagner performance. Perhaps there was not in all Europe a man more exactly fitted than Wilhelmj for the difficult position which this distinguished violinist filled at Bayreuth. The concert- meister in all orchestras is the medium of ~zommunication between the conductor and the band. On this occasion his functions were specially important. The fine shades of meaning, the niceties of phrasing and accent, the variations of emphasis and rhythm which it was his business to catch from the conductor and transmit to those who sat below him, were extremely subtle, and moreover, were really essential to the interpretation. For the orchestra in this opera was not an accompaniment, but a chief actor, and the first player was a person of hardly less consequence than the first singer. To execute the music needed an artist of the highest ability; to understand it required a musician of acute perceptions, strong feeling, and close sym- pathy with the composer. Wilhelmj, be- sides, had a great share in the long and arduous preliminary work. The. conductor, Hans Richter, left to him the superintend-

J. R. G. Hassard Hassard, J. R. G. Wilhelmji and Remenyi 111-117

WILHELAJJ AND REALNYL III THE DESCENT OF THE ANGEL. THIS is the house. Come, take the keys. Romance and travel here must end. Out of the clouds, not quite at ease, I saw the pretty bride descend; With satin sandals, fit alone To glide in air, she touched the stone. A thing to fade through wedding lace, From silk and scents, with priest and ring, Floated across that earthly place Where life must be an earthly thing. An earthly voice was in her ears, Her eyes awoke to earthly tears. WILHELMJ AND REM~NYI. ONE summer evening a brilliant company crowded a terrace which overlooked a quaint little German city. Along the straight road below the height stretched a mile of lamps; and in the distance huddled a mass of brick and stone houses, the shabby but pretentious palaces of forgotten margraves, and the tow- ers of a few ugly churches. The scene was the esplanade of Wagners theater at Bay- reuth. The first act of Siegfried was just over, and the audience pouring out of the dark and stifiihg play-house found refresh- ment in the invigorating breath of the night air, laden with the perfume of the early harvest. Pnnces, grand-dukes, premiers, generals, beauties of the imperial court, decorated functionaries of the royal house- holds, poets, composers, great artists and humble fiddlers, enthusiasts from Oregon and Boston, jocund dames and cavaliers from Paris, serious Englishmen, fiery Hun- garians, Russian cosmopolites (who go ev- erywhere),they were, indeed, a strangely assorted multitude. It seems to me as I recall the spectacle that three figures showed in bolder relief than any of the others; cer- tainly, by the little knot of strangers among whom I found myself; these three were re- garded with the liveliest interest. One was a certain German countess, famed far and ride for her beauty: A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair. The second was Liszt, calm and kindly, diffusing rapture through a circle of ladies. The third was a young and handsome man of noble stature, imposing presence, and quick firm step, with the head of Beethoven lighted by a soft eye and a winning smile, was August Wilhelmj, principal first violin in the great festival orchestra. When the trumpets called us back to the theater after the hours intermission, and the play went on, we listened eagerly for the sound of Wilhelmjs violin in the Forest Music.~~ His pure, strong and beautiful tone, rising out of the unseen abyss of the dark orchestra, with the murmur of interweaving harmonies going on the while,fiutter of leaves, hum- ming of insects, rustling of the soft noonday breeze,produced an effect hardly to be realized, except by those who have felt the sensations awakened by that unique work of art,a model Wagner performance. Perhaps there was not in all Europe a man more exactly fitted than Wilhelmj for the difficult position which this distinguished violinist filled at Bayreuth. The concert- meister in all orchestras is the medium of ~zommunication between the conductor and the band. On this occasion his functions were specially important. The fine shades of meaning, the niceties of phrasing and accent, the variations of emphasis and rhythm which it was his business to catch from the conductor and transmit to those who sat below him, were extremely subtle, and moreover, were really essential to the interpretation. For the orchestra in this opera was not an accompaniment, but a chief actor, and the first player was a person of hardly less consequence than the first singer. To execute the music needed an artist of the highest ability; to understand it required a musician of acute perceptions, strong feeling, and close sym- pathy with the composer. Wilhelmj, be- sides, had a great share in the long and arduous preliminary work. The. conductor, Hans Richter, left to him the superintend- 112 WZLHELMJ AND REME2VYL ence of many of the string rehearsals, and it was from him that the performersvir- tuosi, selected from the principal theaters of Germanylearned how to overcome the enormous difficulties that filled the score. The Ride of the Valkyries, as Wagner wrote it, was found to be impracticable for most of the violins, until Wilhelmj made certain modifications in order to avoid too frequent and perilous shifts. (It is worthy of remark, however, that this piece was always played by the Thomas orchestra in its original form, and even played a little faster than at Bayreuth, the speed being very properly increased to compensate for the absence of the scenic illusions and accompanying action.) Wilhelmj had long been an enthu- siastic student of the new school of music, and he entertained for Wagner a sentiment of warm friendship as well as profound ad- miration. The violinist at this time was in his thirty- first year. He was born September 21, 1845, at Usingen, an old town in the duchy of Nassau, about twenty miles from Frank- fort-on-the-Main. His father, a barrister and doctor-at-law, now living at Wiesbaden, has an extended reputation as one of the most important wine-growers of the Rhine country. His mother was formerly a dis- tinguished singer and pianist, and a pupil of Chopin. His first master was Conrad Fischer, of Wiesbaden, under whom he made extraordinary progress. He could play almost before he could talk. He began to use the violin at the age of four. At seven he exhibited his accomplishments for the entertainment of Henrietta Sontag, who was on a visit to his family, and she was so charmed with the exactness of his execution and the purity and beauty of his tone that she embraced and kissed him, and predicted for him a splendid future. At the age of eight he played in quartets of Haydn, show- ing already a natural talent for chamber music, which he has since cultivated with rich results. In his ninth year he appeared for the first time in public. In March, i8~6, he played at a charity concert in the theater at Wiesbaden, and is said to have made a great popular sensation. Notwithstanding the evident bent of his genius, his father insisted upon training him for the law. Au- gust remonstrated for a long time in vain. At length Dr. Wilhelmj agreed that the boy should devote himself to the violin, provided some high authority found in him the prom- ise not merely of a clever musician but of a great artist. And so in the spring of x86i, young August set out for Weimar to submit himself to the judgment of Franz Liszt. We can imagine the picture of the hand- some bright earnest lad of sixteen, standing beside the piano at which the white-haired master, hero of a thousand triumphs, opened Spohrs Eighth Concerto and began the test. The concerto was followed hy Ernsts varia- tions on Hungarian airs, Liszt playing the accompaniment. Then Wilhelmj played some shorter pieces at sight. When he paused, Liszt rose from the piano and ex- claimed: What! they thought of making you a lawyer? You were born for music. A few days later Liszt went with the boy to Leipsic, and placed him under the care of Ferdinand David. Three years at the Leipsic Conservatory laid the solid founda- tion of his greatness. Hauptmann and Richter gave him a sound training in the theory of music. (Joachim Raff afterward instructed him further in the same branch at Wiesbaden.) David taught him the technique of the violin, and exerted a fort- unate influence in the development and fixing of his style. This eminent master was the best pupil of Spohr, who is com- monly regarded as the founder of the mod- ern German violin school. The breadth and smoothness of Wilhelfnjs cantabile playing might thus seem to have been transmitted to him in a direct line from the famous virtuoso and composer in whom these qualities were so much admired. But in Spohrs case there was a tendency to- ward the weakness of overrefinement from which Wilhelmj is entirely free. Our young violinist became a favorite scholar at the Conservatory. He lived in the house of David (whose niece, Baroness Liphardt, he afterward married), and there he must have enjoyed the acquaintance of many distinguished musicians, and the advantages of a refined and cultivated gen- eral society. The polished concertmeister of the famous Gewandhaus orchestra was a man of excellent education and distinguished manners, and he seems to have found August a congenial member of his pleasant. family. David was the leader of a famous string quartet, of whose performances Schu- mann used to speak with great admiration, and Wilhelmj was not long in manifesting a close sympathy with his master in the culti- vation of the highest class of chamber music. As for his progress in technique, David soon declared that there were no difficulties which Wilhelmj could not easily surmount; and of this praise a complete justification was WILHELALJ AND REMNYL I 13 given when, within a year of his arrival at well known in a small circle of musicians, Leipsic, the lad gave a public performance though his reputation had not yet reached of Ernsts Concerto Path~tique. The the general public or the newspapers. The composition is enormously difficult, not only interest of Jenny Lind procured for him an on account of its brilliant tours de force, but invitation to play at one of Alfred Mellons still more on account of the trying keys (F sharp minor and F sharp major) in which it is written. In November, 1862, August made his first appearance at the Leipsic Gewandhaus concerts, playing Joachim s Hungarian Concerto; and thus at the age of seventeen he began his public artistic career. He made his first concert tour in 1865, visiting Switzerland; then he played in Hol- land; and in i866 he was in London, already VOL. XVIIL8. Covent Garden concerts. He created an almost unexampled sensation. In January, 1867, he made his d~but in Paris, at one of Pasdeloups concerts, and here, took his suc- cess was instantaneous and enormous, the enthusiastic Parisians declaring him to be the most perfect violinist they had ever heard. The next season he was in Italy. In i868 he visited Russia. At St. Petersburg he was a frequent performer at the salon of the art- loving Grand Duchess Helena Paulovna; he AUGUST WILHELMJ. (A PEN-SKETCH FROM LIFE, BY W. M. CHASE.) 4 WILHELMJ AND REMENYL lived with Hector Berlioz, who was then one of the celebrities of the Russian capital. Tours in Switzerland, France and Belgium were followed in 1869-70 by a brilliant expedition in company with Santley through the principal towns of Great Britain and Ireland. Next he traversed North Ger- many, Sweden, Norway, and Denmark; he was greeted at Leyden with torch-light processions; he conquered Berlin and Vienna; he became a ~chief favorite of London, and earned recognition everywhere as one of the greatest violinists the world has known. When he made his first appearance in New York, on the 26th of September, 1878, it is probable that his true rank was but imperfectly appreciated by a public which had caught only vague and occasional reports during the previous four or five years of his career in the cities of Europe. His triumph here was sudden and complete. Before he had played a dozen measures of the Paganini Concerto, it was evident, by indefinable signs which all veterans of the concert-room know how to read, that he had fascinated the whole house. The au- dience sat spell-bound. He left the stage in the midst of a tempest which was not quelled until he had been recalled five times. This was an unusual demonstration for New York; it was specially remarkable in the case of a performer like Wilhelmj, whose playing has few of the characteristics that easily excite a mixed multitude. Biog- raphers in the foreign journals relate that when Sontag embraced the boy Wilhelmj she predicted that he would be the Ger- man Paganini. They also state that Liszt called him a second Paganini. They add that when he played in Paris the critics exclaimed with one voice, Voil~ le nouveau Paganini / It is the custom to call every distinguished violinist a second Paganini, without regard to his style. If the term was ever applied to Wilhelmj it must have been by way of prophecy or metaphor, and not of serious description. The qualities by which he makes such an instantaneous impression are in strong contrast with the phenomenal powers of the great Italian. He seeks no display of technical difficulties; he does not amuse us with tricks and eccen- tricities, nor does he startle us with out- bursts of passion. He is neither furious nor sentimental. The beauty of perfect proportion which the connoisseur finds in his music is directly opposed to sensational effects. The first feeling which he inspires is per- haps a sense of grandeur. His personal appearance predisposes the listener to this impression. His figure is stately; his face and attitude suggest reserved force, and that majestic calm which seems. to befit great power. The first touch of his instru- ment shows an astonishingly large, full, even tone; Berlioz declared that it was the noblest, the most superb, the most enrapt- uring he had ever heard. The first phrase proves that he has a correspondingly broad and imposing style, and breadth of style implies a complete mastery of the composi- tion,an intellectual mastery of its meaning, and a mechanical mastery of all the proper agencies of expression. The effect is heigh- tened by an ease, grace, and smoothness which indicate a strength equal to indefinite further demands. Tone and style therefore are alike associated with the idea of power; and power, as Burke explains, is one of the chief attributes of the sublime. Without committing ourselves to an exaggerated estimate of Wilhelmj, we may surely admit that there are elements of grandeur in his playing which must affect the imagination of all sensitive listeners. Nor is the sen- suous charm of his playing less remarkable than its power. His tones are so pure, round and mellow, his phrasing is so grace- ful, his touch is so clean and delicate even in the most difficult passages, that any person with the least sensibility for music must recognize in him an artist not only of rare power but of singularly fine and poetic temper. A famous philosopher has said that beauty consists in an exact balance between the intellect and the imagination. The violin performance of Wilhelmj exhibits this just proportion more perfectly than the work of any other artist of whom we have personal knowledge. After all, said he one day, in speaking of the execution of a certain piece of music, what the people really want is intellectual playing. This was an acute remark. The musician who gives serious thought to the composition before him, and applies all the powers of a trained and vigorous mind to the discovery of its deepest meaning and the unveiling of its inmost charms, becomes filled with the spirit of the mighty dead. He speaks to us with the voice of the old cantor of Leipsic. The great soul of Beethoven looks at us through his transfigured eyes. Under his inspired hand the inimitable elegance of Mendels- sohn betrays itself again. There is a popu WILHELIJiU AND REMPNYL I 15 lar belief that intellectual music means nothing but fugue and counterpoint. Strange mistake! A clear understanding is the first requisite for a sympathetic interpretation. It has been said that Wilhelmj is neither sen- timental nor furious. That is to say, he is not prone to the affectation of excessive tenderness or the indulgence of exaggerated passion. The expression of feeling with him is always regulated by a true appreciation of the meaning of the music; probably it is not that he consciously restrains his own impulses; but the feeling arises naturally out of his sympathy with the composer. Hence he is always greatest in great music, like the Beethoven Concerto, or the Bach Chaconne, or the air from Bachs Suite in D, in which last his expression of deep and simple feeling united with a noble repose is indescribable and inimitable. There are compositions of another class, standing not very far below the highest, in which he exerts a rare charm. In his Chopin transcriptions we find admirable examples of manly grace; and in his arrangement, with orchestral ac- companiment, of the Prize Song from Wag- ners Meistersinger von Niirnberg, there is a specimen of cantabile playing which always makes me think of sunshine, and quiet, and fresh air. In his concerts Wilhelmj uses a Stradiva- rius violin of extraordinary beauty. For practice, his favorite is an American in- strument, made by Gemlinder, of Astoria, Long Island, whom he declares to be the greatest violin-maker living. Wilhelmj is extremely careful in the choice of strings, and certain peculiarities in his stringing are supposed to account in some part for the splendor~of his tone; but the secret really lies of course in the hand and arm rather than the instrumentthe combination of a deft touch with a grand development of the muscles. His compositions for the violin are written in a pure and elevated style; the melody is broad and fluent; the ideas are clear and dignified; and a mastery of the art of scoring is shown in the orchestral accompaniments. It only remains to add that in social intercourse Wilhelmj is genial and animated, he is a good linguist, and his conversation is full of entertainment. A few weeks after the arrival of Wilhelmj, New York welcomed another violinist who offered the greatest possible contrast to his predecessor. Edouard Rem6nyi is a Hun- garian in whom are exhibited to perfection some of the most attractive qualities which distinguish his dashing and generous people. He studied under Joachim at the Vienna Conservatory. During the Hungarian in- surrection of 18489 (being then only a lad), he joined the patriot army, and served on the staff of G6rgey. The violin was his inseparable companion in the field. Ban- ished by the failure of the national cause, he became a wanderer all over the world. He reached even America at that early day, and figured modestly in New York as a boy- artist. In 1853, we hear of him in company with Johannes Brahms, making a pilgrimage to Liszt at Weimar. The two young men were penniless, and to pay their way they gave concerts on the road, well content if they received five or ten dollars for a per- formance. Liszt not only received Rem~nyi as a pupil, but offered him a home. It is hardly necessary to say that so rich a priv- ilege was gladly accepted. The genial master, in his book on The Gypsies and their Music in Hungary, published a little later in Paris, speaks thus of his prote~.. While the time seems to be near at hand when the national character of the different schools shall disappear, and Bohemian music become a thing of the past, I have met with lively satisfaction a young Hungarian who has retained sufficient individuality and spon- taneousness to warrant that he will be written of some day in the same strain as Csermak. Rem6nyi, although not a Romany, has be- come imbued with Bohemian feeling and art. I have never heard him without expe- riencing an emotion which revived the recol- lections left by Bihary. * * * Spite of the applause with which he has invariably been greeted, he appears to be one of the few artists who have a higher object than to make themselves a name by means of which to amass a fortune, and who, through- out their life, are never done with progress, but keep on steadily toward a supreme ideal. * * ~ To represent Bohemian art as it ruled in Hungary in its brightest days, some- thing very different from the colorless and commonplace imitations of the modern artist is needed. Reminyi is gifted with a vivacious, generous, and rather mocking disposition, which rebels against monotony, and whose originality shines through every- thing, and in spite of everything. This is a token of the vitality of his talent, and insures him a special place in the gallery of men who have given new life to a deserving branch of art. The career of a virtuoso in Europe is generally a succession of concert tours I i6 WILHELAiU AND REMENYL through the chief cities of the continent. Rem6nyi, since establishing himself at Paris four years ago, has found abundant occu- pation in the capital and provincial towns of France. Many accounts have been pub- lished of the extraordinary effect of his performance of gypsy music and of the national songs and dances of Hungary, and those who have heard him play a csardas will not hesitate to credit these exciting reports. But whatever may have been Reminyis favorite style in former years, his preference now is to be recognized as a classical performer. Hungarian folk-music is rarely found on his programmes. He has taught his wild genius to move deco- ( rously through the formal divisions of the concerto, capering gently in the allegro and sighing in the andante, xvith only a brief outbreak in a daring cadenza, or a dashing rondo. To the interpretation of works like the Beethoven Concerto he brings a techni- cal ability which fully answers every demand upon it, a bright and penetrating tone which lacks the majestic strength, purity and full- ness of Wilhelmjs, a style which suggests poetic fancy rather than intellectual repose. A man of general education as well as musical culture, he has undoubtedly a com- prehension of the music before him, but his individuality is so strongly marked that he cannot always identify himself with the r -7 / C / EDOUARD REM~NYI. (A PEN-SI(ETCH FROM LIFE, BY W. M. CHASE.) OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 117 spirit of the composition. He is best in works which allow free range to his impa- tient fancy. In Joachims great Hungarian Concerto, in some of the brilliant composi- tions of Ernst, in his own arrangement of Schuberts Divertissement Hongrois, in certain transcriptions from Chopin, strangely unlike the transcriptions of Wilhelmj from the same poetic composer, he never fails to create a sensation. But those who would know Rem~nyi must hear him, not in a great concert hall, but among a few sympathetic listeners. Fluent in five or six languages, he entertains the company now with droll conceits, now with reminiscences of famous artists and composers. He fondles the Stradivarius which he uses at concerts, or he displays with pride the beautiful violin just made for him by an amateur in Brook- lyn. The mazurka alternates with the merry jest. Fields exquisite Nocturne of the Rose, or a fairy song of Mendelssohns interrupts a rattle of anecdote. Suddenly Rem6nyi begins the Bach Chaconne, so transfigured by variations of expression that we stare in wonder. Or perchance, if the mood seize him, it may be our fortune to listen to some of the stirring melodies of the Hungarian people. In the wild rhythms of the gypsy dance, in the fierce splendor of the patriotic hymn, the player and the audience alike are fired xvith excitement. The passion rises; the tumult waxes furi- ous; a tremendous sweep of the bow brings the music to an end; and then we can say that we have heard Rem~nyi. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. THE subject of this sketch is a good specimen of the blood and training of New England. The laws of heredity, though they may be often complex and obscure, are as immutable as any of the laws of God; and a grandfather is not merely an ornament upon the family genealogical tree, but a factor in the problem to be wrought out in the life arid character of his descendant. The ancestors for generations back may be represented in the new-born babe of to-day. Each predecessor, considered as a descendant, is complex, / having inherited a mixture of traits and tendencies; yet each, as an ancestor, maybe considered as a substantial unity,as yeoman, soldier, philosopher, lawyer, priest or poet. The genius of American democracy applauds the man- ly lines of Burns, and despises the ignoble pride that glories in inherited titles and honors. But while it is a mark of weak- ness to strut through the world with badges of factitious distinction, it cannot be un- worthy to trace ones acumen from an ancestor who was the first scholar of his age, ones courage and dignity from a great captain, ones integrity from a great judge, or ones poetic feeling and power from some lover of beauty. It might seem that at birth all the descendible traits were shaken like dice, and the combination be- came a personality that never existed before. It was a fair conjunction that produced STAIR-WAY IN THE OLD HOLMES MANSION.

Francis H. Underwood Underwood, Francis H. Oliver Wendell Holmes 117-128

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 117 spirit of the composition. He is best in works which allow free range to his impa- tient fancy. In Joachims great Hungarian Concerto, in some of the brilliant composi- tions of Ernst, in his own arrangement of Schuberts Divertissement Hongrois, in certain transcriptions from Chopin, strangely unlike the transcriptions of Wilhelmj from the same poetic composer, he never fails to create a sensation. But those who would know Rem~nyi must hear him, not in a great concert hall, but among a few sympathetic listeners. Fluent in five or six languages, he entertains the company now with droll conceits, now with reminiscences of famous artists and composers. He fondles the Stradivarius which he uses at concerts, or he displays with pride the beautiful violin just made for him by an amateur in Brook- lyn. The mazurka alternates with the merry jest. Fields exquisite Nocturne of the Rose, or a fairy song of Mendelssohns interrupts a rattle of anecdote. Suddenly Rem6nyi begins the Bach Chaconne, so transfigured by variations of expression that we stare in wonder. Or perchance, if the mood seize him, it may be our fortune to listen to some of the stirring melodies of the Hungarian people. In the wild rhythms of the gypsy dance, in the fierce splendor of the patriotic hymn, the player and the audience alike are fired xvith excitement. The passion rises; the tumult waxes furi- ous; a tremendous sweep of the bow brings the music to an end; and then we can say that we have heard Rem~nyi. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. THE subject of this sketch is a good specimen of the blood and training of New England. The laws of heredity, though they may be often complex and obscure, are as immutable as any of the laws of God; and a grandfather is not merely an ornament upon the family genealogical tree, but a factor in the problem to be wrought out in the life arid character of his descendant. The ancestors for generations back may be represented in the new-born babe of to-day. Each predecessor, considered as a descendant, is complex, / having inherited a mixture of traits and tendencies; yet each, as an ancestor, maybe considered as a substantial unity,as yeoman, soldier, philosopher, lawyer, priest or poet. The genius of American democracy applauds the man- ly lines of Burns, and despises the ignoble pride that glories in inherited titles and honors. But while it is a mark of weak- ness to strut through the world with badges of factitious distinction, it cannot be un- worthy to trace ones acumen from an ancestor who was the first scholar of his age, ones courage and dignity from a great captain, ones integrity from a great judge, or ones poetic feeling and power from some lover of beauty. It might seem that at birth all the descendible traits were shaken like dice, and the combination be- came a personality that never existed before. It was a fair conjunction that produced STAIR-WAY IN THE OLD HOLMES MANSION. i r8 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. Oliver Wendell Holmes. The combination of his faculties xvould have made him a remarkable man in any country or in any sphere of life. It is on this account that his ancestry, as well as his mental training, is worth studying. He was born in Cambridge, Mass., August 29th, 1809. His father, the Rev. Abiel Holmes, was then in his forty-sixth year, in the maturity of his powers, and near the summit of his attainments. He was a man of good intellect, of pure character, just, well balanced and humane; an industrious student and meritorious writer. In religion he was orthodox, but he exercised a large charity toward those of his brethren who inclined to the liberal views of Channing. In the poem entitled A Family Record, read at Woodstock, Conn., July 4th, 1877, Doctor Holmes has given a most beautiful and touching picture of his father, Abiel; his grandfather David, the Deacon ; and his great-grandfather John, one of the first settlers of the town. The mother of our author was Sarah Wendell, daughter of the Hon. Oliver Wen- dell, a man of distinction, as the ancient aris- tocratic classification in the college catalogue shows. The wife of Oliver Wendell was Mary Jackson, daughter of Dorothy Quincy: so Doctor Holmes is great-grandson of the lady celebrated in his poem, Dorothy Q. The Wendells were lineal descendants of Evart Jansen Wendell, who came from Emden, in East Friesland, about 1640. He was a ruling elder in the church, and his arms were stained on a window of the old Dutch Church, in Albany. Jacob Wendell came to Boston early in the eighteenth century, and married the daughter of Dr. James Oliver. The family must have been wealthy, for in r7,~5 Jacob purchased the township of Pontoosuc, on the Housatonic River, containing 24,000 acres. This is the modern Pittsfield, and Doctor Holmess country house was built upon a remnant of this tract of land that had descended to him. Tradition has it that Jacob Wendell, in passing by Doctor Olivers house, saw a pretty girl of nine years, and so much was he struck by her beauty (and by whatever else the lover sees in the predestined fair face) that he declared to a friend that he meant to wait for her to grow up and then to make her his wife,which he accordingly did. Now, the pretty Mistress Wendell was the granddaughter of Mercy Bradstreet Oliver; and Mercy Bradstreet was the daughter of the colonial governor, Simon Bradstreet, and (what is of far more consequence) BIRTHPLACE OF DOCTOR HOLMES, CAMEELODE, MASS. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. I 19 of Anne Dudley Bradstreet, daughter of Thomas Dudley, the former governor and successor to Winthrop. Thomas Dudley was a puritan tough to the core, Such as prayed smiting Agag on red Marston Moor, but he had some tender fibers in his nat- ure, too, and wrote quaint verses after the fashion of his time, as the curious may see in Duyckinck. He was also reported to be variously and thoroughly learned. His daughter Anne, the pride of the colony, who was heralded as the Tenth Muse, is our early morning star, casting the one gleam of beauty over that distant and dreary time. She did not appear to think, with the author of Avis, that marriage and the Muses were incompatible; for she was wedded at sixteen, and from time to time brought along her numerous poems and her eight children together. It is not necessary ~that we should admire her poems, for most of them are devoted to topics foreign to poetic art and sentiment. The Four Elements, The Four Humors, The Four Ages of Man, The Four Seasons, The Four Monar- chies (of the ancient world) would be tough subjects, even for such a versatile writer as Annes illustrious descendant. But there are many touches here and there which show her feeling for the beautiful in nature. She could not, however, escape the incura- ble pedantry that infected the age. The elements of poetry in New England had to wait for development. Time was neces- sary to soften the prevailing austerity, to show that beauty is its own excuse for be- ing, and that the love of beauty is not idolatry. Time is necessary to transmute the stores of thought and experience into enduring forms of grace,to reject triteness, to shun affectation, and to leave a certain other-worldliness of tone to the exclusive care of the clergy. The flowers of to-day spring from the leaf-mold of yesterday, and the poet is the fortunate product of all the best traits, the experience, toil and sacrifice of converging lines of ancestors. Although we cannot pretend to say from whom all the traits have come that are blended in Holmes, still the reflective man will believe that, besides the many excellences derived from the paternal line, some strain of courage and decision came from the Puritan captain, Dudley; some perception of the beautiful and some plastic art from his daughter Anne some elegant and urbane graces from the accomplished Olivers; some pub- lic spirit and probity from the Quincys; some cosmopolitan breadth and good-humor from Jacob Wendell. The poet was born in a house that fronts the northern boundary of Harvard College grounds. In the opening chapter of The Poet at the Breakfast Table the old house is described with all the vividness that belongs to early impressions. This is a charming specimen of the authors prose. Doctor Holmes was the fourth child of his parents. The eldest was Mary Jackson, who died soon after her marriage with Doctor Usher Parsons; the second was Ann Susan, married to Hon. Charles W. Upham, a well-known scholar and author; the third was Sarah Lathrop, who died in childhood; the fifth was John, a man of brilliant parts and universally beloved, who still resides in Cambridge. Readers of Lowells poems will find frequent and friendly allusion to a certain J. H. At the age of fifteen, the future poet was sent to Andover to finish his preparatory studies; not to Exeter, as Duyckinck errone- ously has it. His recollections of this fine old town and of the now historic school are embodied in a noble poem, recited at a recent anniversary, mentioned later. He entered college at the age of sixteen, and was graduated in the class of 1829. The class numbered many distinguished men, and its annual gatherings have called forth some of the liveliest of the authors poems. Two of the most eminent of the class, Judges B. R. Curtis and George T. Bigelow, also the Hon. George T. Davis, a won- derfully brilliant talker, have died. There are still living Professor Pierce, the great mathematician, the Revs. James Freeman Clarke, Chandler Robbins, and William Henry Channing, eminent Unitarian clergy- men, the Rev. S. F. Smith, author of our best-known national hymn, and others. These are The Boys of 29. What college class was ever so commemorated? In the last complete edition, the class poems make over thirty pages,a de- lightful collection, in which are seen all the changing lights of feeling, from frisky and rollicking youth to reflective, saddening age. One of the best known, of the lighter kind, is that for the year 1852, entitled Questions and Answers: Where, 0 where are the visions of morning, Fresh as the dews of our prime? Gone, like tenants that quit without warning, Down the back entry of time. 120 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. The true poet begins to sing at an early age. The impulse comes with youthful blood, though the maturity of art is attained in later years. At Andover our poet made a spirited translation of a passage in Virgil, which may be found at the end of the com- plete edition (1877). His first published poems were written between 1830 and 1836 that is, during the time of his professional studies. For a young man of twenty-one to produce such verses as are to be seen in the Old Ironsides, The Last Leaf, My Aunt, The Dilemma, and The Music-Grinders, was not only a triumph in itself, but a sure portent of a successful career. After leaving college, our author read law for a year, and then commenced the study of medicine. In 1833 he went to Europe, and spent nearly three years in the schools and hospitals of London and Paris. On his return in 1836, he took his medical degree at Harvard, and at the same commencement read his poem before the Phi Beta Kappa Society, entitled Poetry, a Metrical Essay. In this year his first volume appeared, from the press of Otis, Broaders & Co. It was a thin book, but it had the promise and po- tency of fame. In 1837 he joined with Doctors Storer, Reynolds, and Bigelow, in establishing the Tremont Medical School, a very suc- cessful institution, afterward merged in the summer session of the Harvard Medical Col- lege. In this year, June 4th, his father died, aged seventy-four. His mother was spared for many years longer, dying in 1862, in the full possession of her faculties, at the age of ninety-three. In 1839 and 40 he was pro- fessor of anatomy and physiology in Dart- mouth College, at Hanover, N. H. He became professor in the medical department of Harvard in 1847, and his connection with the college is still kept up. For several years PORTRAIT OF DOROTHY QUINCY ( DOROTHY Q.), SHOWING INJURIES RECEIVED FROM BRITISH BAYONETS DURING THE REVOLUTION. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 121 he practiced medicine in Boston, but relin- quished it nearly twenty years ago. He was married June 15, 1840, to Ame- ha Lee Jackson, daughter of the Hon. Charles Jackson, one of the justices of the Supreme Court. The very eminent physi- cian, Dr. James Jackson, was a brother of the judge. Three children were born of this marriage: Oliver Wendell Holmes, jr., whom readers of the Atlantic Monthly will remember in the article, published dur- ing the late war, entitled My Hunt after The Captain, and who is now a prominent lawyer in Boston, and an able and learned editor and author of legal works; Amelia Jackson, married to Mr. Turner Sargent, and now a widow; and Edward, also a lawyer, but not now in active practice. For eighteen years after his marriage Doctor Holmes resided in Montgomery Place, near the Tremont House, then a more fashionable quarter than it is at pres- ent. There appears to have been no period in his life in which he was not busy with the pen. His Boylston Prize Essays, published in 1843, gained him great reputation with the profession. Technical works like these will not demand our notice. In 1849 a new edition of his poems ap- peared from the press of Ticknor & Co. This included among other additions the short, but exquisite, poem written for the Dickens dinner in 1842,the Nux Post- ccenatica, perhaps the best of his many after- dinner poems, Urania, a Rhymed Les- son, and the incomparable Song of Other Days. In the same year he built a house for a summer residence in Pittsfield, Mass. He spent seven seasons in this pleasant retreat. Doctor Holmes had come to be widely known as a poet, but few persons suspected that he was to become still more eminent in an entirely new field. The Atlantic Monthly was established in 1857, the first number appearing in Novem- ber. The original coterie included Emer- son, Longfellow, Lowell, Holmes, Motley, J. Eliot Cabot, Edmund Quincy, Norton, Dwight and some others. Mr. Lowell was nominated as editor-in-chief by the writer of this sketch. In accepting the position, he said he thought Doctor Holmes would have been the better choice. Depend upon it, he said, Doctor Holmes will be our most effective writer. He is to do some- thing that will be felt. He will be a new power in letters. The result proved the correctness of the prophecy. The Atlantic had many able contributors and was in- VOL. XVIJJ.q. debted greatly to the genius and taste of its editor, but The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table made an impression upon the pub- lic, both immediate and lasting. The magazine was launched in a season of storm and stress. The financial condition of the country was unfavorable to any such enterprise, and its speedy failure was antici- pated by the public. That it survived those early perils and became established as the representative of the matured thought, the literary conscience and the growing art of New England, is due to Doctor Holmes more than to any other man. There were in the first number other attractions, it is true, and many of them belong by com- mon consent to American classics. But all were, in a certain sense, cast in famil- iar forms. The Autocrat only was an entirely new creation. The reader of the Atlantic always turned to The Autocrat first. This was proven after the first num- ber by the notices of the press. Very odd most of the early notices were. The good, sedate critics did not know what to make of the thing. Some thought it undignified. Others professed to be more confirmed in their opinion that Holmes was only an in- ordinate egotist. The suckling reviewer undertook to put the puns under his micro- scope for analysis. The solemn purist lamented the tendency to slang; and while he admitted the brilliancy of the poems that were interspersed he thought they showed as ill as diamonds among the spangles of the court fool. The truth was the prosaic folk had no way to estimate Holmes. They wrote only stately sentences, while he was free when he chose to use the simplest lan- guage of every-day life. The ideas they would formally promulgate in methodical order, he flashed upon the reader with a daz- zling wit. His winged words always feath- ered an unerring arrow. But the better class of readers understood the purpose of the author, and were content to follow him in his own willful way. He was very soon acknowledged to be the most original and powerful as well as most witty and spark- ling of the writers of occasional essays. No series of papers for a century on either side of the Atlantic, excepting the Noctes Am- brosiame of John Wilson, ever secured such attention. The Noctes are now ob- solescent, and deservedly so. The poetry and sentiment they contain are not sufficient to preserve them, weighted as they are with allusions to now forgotten topics, with box- ing, blackguardism, and hot toddy. 122 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. About the time the series of The Auto- crat was completed, Doctor Holmes re- moved to a pleasant house on Charles street, No. 154, where he resided twelve years. From the back windows of this house there is a fine view of the broad expanse of Charles River, and of the charming region beyond, including the lovely rounded slopes of the Corey and Parker hills. Here at the end of the garden were kept the boats which readers of The Autocrat so well remember. One almost feels the cool salt breeze ~f the harbor and shrinks from the expected concussion with the bridge piles as he reads. The success of The Autocrat was so enormous, and the fame of the author so surely established, that some timorous friends trembled for the fate of the next series, The Professor. The same scene was set, and the same machinery was employed, but with a change of characters, and the materials for discussion, as before, came from the same inexhaustible quarry. Some hint of this apprehension of failure came to the author, as the reader may see (pp. 2 729), and the question is, whether there is anything left for me, the Professor, to suck out of creation, after my lively friend (the Autocrat) has had his straw in the bung-hole of the Universe. There was no occasion for fear. The Professor discoursed with a new en- ergy, dealt with deeper problems, illustrated them by the lights of science and experience, and adorned them with striking and beauti- ful imagery. The Professor appears a graver person than the Autocrat. He has less to say upon social customs and the minor morals; he is less addicted to badinage, punning and drollery. He carries a high, serene head. The topics and the mode of treatment are mostly beyond the compre- hension of the vulgar, and the book is necessarily less popular than its predecessor. But it is a noble book, and marks an increase in force of thought, in felicitous expression, and in sincere and tender pathos. Doctor Holmess next contribution to the Atlantic was entitled The Professors Story, since published as Elsie Venner, the name of its unfortunate heroine. The work is characterized by many high quali- ties; especially in the observations that accompany the story. Many descriptions also are vivid and natural. But the motive is a hideous one, and affects the nervous reader as if it were the precursor of delir- ium tremens. The physiological theories and speculations in the book lie in the debatable ground between science and superstition; and the unlearned, who can neither affirm nor deny, are fain to escape by quoting Hamlet upon the things undreamt of in philosophy. The breaking out of the Civil Warproduced a great change in the current of our authors thought. The old abolitionists and the political antislavery men had always re- proached him for his indifference to their cause; and they would have been glad to paraphrase for him some of the maledictions uttered by the Hebrew prophets. But the hour of the nations need was to find him a patriot inspired with the most passionate devotion, as well as a bard clad in singing robes. Then came the Voice of the Loyal North, in January, i86i. Enough of speech! the trumpet rings; Be silent, patient, calm, God help them, if the tempest swings The pine against the palm! We have little room to quote, but the titles are significant. Who can forget the feeling and the melody in Brother Jonathans Lament for Sister Caroline ?the solem- nity of the Army Hymn ?the thrilling appeal of Never or Now? But of all the hymns for music inspired by the war on either side the line, Holmess Union and Liberty is undoubtedly the best. It is pitched as it should be upon a high key in sentiment and style; its movement is ma- jestic as well as melodious; it breathes the most intense feeling, and ends in a glorious aspiration. It is impossible to listen to this grand hymn unmoved. Whenever it is sung, it draws the inevitable tribute of tears. For a period of about six years after Elsie Venner, the Atlantic had no con- tinued work from Doctor Holmes; but there were many pieces both in prose and verse which are memorable, and have since been collected. A volume has been made of these prose articles, entitled Soundings from the Atlantic. Among these are My Hunt after The Captain, A Visit to the Asylum for Aged and Decayed Punsters, The Human Wheel, its Spokes and Fel- loes (an ingenious explanation of the prin- ciples involved in walking). The Guardian Angel was begun in the first number of the nineteenth volume of the Atlantic, and was completed in the year 1867. This is a far more agreeable story than Elsie Venner, of which it is in some respects a counterpart. Gifted Hopkins, a OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 123 rustic, would-be poet, but without the vision or the faculty divine, is the character probably best remembered. Of the pretty heroine, Myrtle Hazard, there are a number of pleas- ing pictures. The clergy are strongly rep- resented, and in them we see the contending currents and eddies of theological opinion. Probably the most devoted admirers of Doctor Holmes do not claim for him the power of a great novelist, the creator of new and permanent types of character. His people are incarnated qualities, personified traits. Few authors attain to the height of looking upon men as the Creator may do, still less of setting them forth as they are. The Creator protects the hawk no less than the dove, just as His rain and sunshine bless the just and the unjust. What may happen in His moral government we cannot say; but in the natural world there is no division of saints and sinners. The great poet looks at men with a like breadth of view, and the characters he develops are not all separated into heroes and villains, but are painted as they are, with some strain of good in the worst, some blemish of weakness, or per- haps a stain of guilt in the best. Doctor Holmes has a clear vision, but mostly in the keenness of analysis. He could give the formula for Hamlet or Lear. To reverse this, to create a before-unimagined Hamlet, is another thing; and this special power of genius has been manifested rarely in any age. You can count all the great creators of character in English literature upon the fingers of one hand. The lessons of life as read in The Guardian Angel are salutary; its tone is generous and ennobling, and its pictures of New England people vivid and charming. And in this, as in every other work he has published, there is a flavor of personality which can never be mis- taken. On every page you see Holmes his mark. The chance utterances, the anecdotes, all the obiter dicta, show the intellectual superiority of the man, and give the story a value independent of its rank as a work of art. In 1870 Doctor Holmes removed to the house, No. 296 Beacon street, where he still resides. This extension of the old Beacon street, formerly known as the Milldam, has a water line on the right going west, and the back windows of the house look out upon the same beautiful expanse of Charles River, of which mention has been made. The river here is near the sea and feels the strong incoming tides, and every day are to be seen the tribes of sea-birds, so charm- ingly depicted in the poem entitled My Aviary. The Poet at the Breakfast Table ap- peared in 1871. The Poet is still farther removed than the Professor from the sym- pathy and appreciation of the general pub- lic, but the work contains some of the noblest thoughts of the author as well as the most perfect examples of his literary art. Its vigorous and almost passionate attacks upon certain theological opinions, especially the more rigid Calvinistic views of the Divine character and government, render the work more acceptable to the liberals than to the conservatives in religion. Theo- logians like Canon Farrar and Beecher now preach similar doctrines; it was not common to hear or read them a few years ago. The fellow-boarders of the Poet are finely drawn, and the conversations are strong and sug- gestive. If the talk seems a little less fresh and spontaneous than in The Autocrat, if the topics are graver, and if the characters themselves are a little less entertaining, it must be remembered that in the long inter- val the author had naturally grown more re- flective, and that his natural exuberance had yielded to the terrible pressure which the Civil War exerted upon all thoughtful men. In closing this brief account of the Break- fast Table series the epilogue should be quoted. The author imagines that a book collector in 1972 finds the three volumes in a stall. YOUR CHOICE AMONG THESE BOOKS I DIME! * * ~, * What have I rescued from the shelf? A Boswell, writing out himself! For though he changes dress and name, The man beneath is still the same, Laughing or sad, by fits and starts, One actor in a dozen parts, And whatsoeer the mask may be, The voice assures us, This is he. * * * * And his is not the playwrights page; His table does not ape the stage; What matter if the figures seen Are only shadows on a screen? He finds in them his lurking thought, And on their lips the words he sought, Like one who sits before the keys, And plays a tune himself to please. There is not space to quote the whole; it will be enough to call the readers attention to it as one of the most quaint and thought- ful poems of our author. Motley, the historian, in a letter written from Rome in 1859 said, a~roJos of the Autocrat: He is, beyond question, one 124 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. of the most original writers in English liter- ature, and I have no doubt his fame will go on increasing every day. I hardly know an author in any language to be paralleled with him for profound and suggestive thought, glittering wit, vivid imagination and individuality of humor.~~ Whittier in his letters often referred to the poems contained in the Autocrat, and of the Chambered Nautilus wrote, That poem is booked for immortality. In 1870 appeared Mechanism in Thought and Morals, a study of the func- tions of the brain,a treatise that compels the attention of the reader, and makes him for the time a thinker upon the most ab- struse matters. In many respects this is the most profound work by Doctor Holmes, a work for which few living men would be equal. The physiologist, possessing the requisite knowledge, might be found wanting in the imagination or the transcende~it power of expression. No other literary artist of equal eminenceif there is one has the basis of professional training and - experience. It has always been noticeable in The Autocrat and similar works that the authors stores of learning are made entertaining as well as useful to common readers. The researches of most scientific men, especially in abstruse subjects, like the relations of body and mind, are pre- served in works which the public cannot understand if they should try. What Tyn- dall has done in the interpretation of the laws of nature is done even more brilliantly by our author; and this is not due to any letting down the subject; it is rather fur- nishing the means for the ordinary mind to ascend to the higher level of thought. It would be impossible in the limits of this article to mention all the results of Doctor Holmess mental activity. Besides the works we have quoted, he has delivered many brilliant literary lectures, which we trust may be printed in the full collection yet to come. On every great civic occasion he has been called upon for an ode or a song, and never in vain. Poems, they tell us, are never written to order. But Doctor Holmes, though in perpetual demand, has always produced something in harmony with the occasion. He is fairly Bostons lau- reate. Since the appearance of the last com- plete volume Doctor Holmes has written My Aviary, The Silent Melody, Son- nets on the Seals of Harvard College, and the Centennial Poem for Phillips Academy of Andover. He has also published a memoir of John Lothrop Motley, the historian. It is impossible to say what our grandsons will think of the poems we now delight in. Great poets like Tennyson dominate their age. Their rule ends, and their fashion is obsolete, when a new power comes into being. Of the poets lauded by Griswold thirty years ago not one in ten is read. The romantic and sentimental bards of the old Philadelphia magazines are as visionary and voiceless as Ossians ghosts. This age demands something beyond juvenile senti- ment and melodious woe. And while it is neither wise nor necessary to make compar- isons among our leading six or eight poets, we may be allowed to consider the work of Holmes by itself, in reference to its intrinsic qualities, its agreement with what is universal in human nature and therefore likely to en- dure. The most obvious characteristic of his poetry is its combined terseness and finish. The lines are often poetical proverbs or epigrams, with vigor and point in every phrase. This enhances the value both of tender and of comic verse, giving the height of beauty to the one, and the keen- ness of wit to the other. Professedly witty poems are often tedious. The regularly recurring pun or quibble in the fourth line of the stanza, after the manner of Hood, may be amusing, but is yet something quite unlike true wit. Holmes has not only the command of witty phrases, but is a creator of wit in the concrete. The One-Hoss Shay, for instance, is a complete witticism, a witticism illustrating itself in action, a pseudo-logical demonstration leading to an absurd and merry end. Enough quips and jokes could be gleaned from his poems to furnish every living pretender to the vis comica excepting Lowell. The only English- man of modern times comparable in this respect to Holmes is Hood, and there are many points of resemblance in the natures of the two men. But Holmes is healthier in tone, more robust in intellect, wider in culture, and superior in learning, style, and in splendor of effect. As in the case of Hood, the fun in Holmes is always jostling the pathos. After some comic picture or grotesque phrase or quick thrust, the reader comes suddenly upon a stanza of perfect beauty of form, with the gentlest touch of natural feeling. To illustrate this, it may be pardonable to quote even from so well-known a poem as The Last Leaf. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 125 I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches and all that Are so queer. The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest In their bloom; And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb. The last stanza is a pearl so perfect that one cannot conceive it as having been made; it seems that it must have been created. The unrefiecting portion of the reading world has been unjust to Holmes. Dull gravity often passes for profundity, and wit is considered an attribute of shallow minds. It is dangerous, to the jester, to shake the jesters bauble, and he who makes the world laugh is often thought to wear only a fools cap. But with Holmes the sparkles of wit are like bubbles on a strong tide of feeling. He was himself apprehensive of the effect of his jocose poems. Besidesmy prospectsdont you know that peo- ple wont employ A man that wrongs his manliness by laughing like a boy; And suspect the azure blossom that unfolds upon a shoot, As if wisdoms old potato could not flourish at its root? It may be observed here with regard to his easy-going prose, as in The Autocrat, that some men profess to be soon tired of Holmes. Probably he does nt let them drowse. His liveliness is undignified. And truly there are writers who have admirable qualities without any trace of humor or any scintillation of wit. But we have enough of laborious dullness, and we must welcome the writer who gives life and zest to thought, and who can be gay and wise at once. The sense of melody is perhaps included in the idea of finish; but the melody of Holmess verse is characteristic and supreme. Of all the meters he has chosen he is easily master. In the measure of some really great poets you discern only a formal and studied correctness. In Holmes the movement is so perfect that one cannot conceive of the thought apart from its natural music. It is now as light and joyous as the flight of a bird; now as steady as the tramp of an army; now as gay and arch as the practiced steps of a dancer, or as swift as an athlete in a race. As poetry is thought in musical form, the perfection of meter, answering to the inner sense of melody, can never be unimportant. In the choice of subjects Holmes is seen to be a poet of high rank. He is not re stricted like many to a monotonous kind of song. Of out-door nature we see less per- haps than we could desire; but we are con- soled by thinking that in many volumes of poetry we see nothing else. But scarcely any form of poetic thought and expression is foreign to him. Almost his first produc- tion was the spirited address to the Old Ironsides,a poem that is alive with pa- triotic feeling. In the same grand style are written the songs inspired by the late Civil War, as a whole the noblest of their kind. If it be allowed to praise a classic drinking song, The Song of Other Days may be cited as one of the most splendid and ornate specimens in modern literature. There is not a line in it that does not sparkle like a gem. The only criticism is that there is too much of it,an embarrassment of riches. Perhaps so, for singing; but, for reading, which stanza would you cut out? None of the jovial crew of bards, from Ben Jonson down, have done anything finer. The poems entitled Vignettes were originally pendants to his lectures on Words- worth, Keats, Shelley and Moore. They have an inexpressible charm for the reader of literary tastes, because they show in the most musical verse how deep and strong are the sympathies of our poet for his elder brethren. Equally hearty, graceful and touching, are his tributes to Lowell, Motley, Dr. Clarke, Webster, Dickens and Bums. The lines take hold of us like the grasp of a friendly hand. The images vary, and the thoughts, but the same fervent spirit ani- mates all. We have spoken of great poets as domt- nating their age. Probably every writer of verse feels at the outset the strong influence of the masters. Imitation is an inevitable homage to the superior mind. The weaker remain imitators, the stronger in time assert and free themselves. But it is remark- able in reading the poems of Holmes to see how little he is indebted to his predecessors. His ideas, his manner, his wit and pathos, his fire, his melody, are entirely his own. Not one of his characteristic poems can be referred to any outward source, nor mistaken for the production of any other poet. He is a new essence, a new color or flavor. Equally original, sui generis, is his prose; and it has a charm that is inexplicable. When the casual reader, looking over a 126 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. number of the Atlantic, begins a sentence by Holmes, no matter upon what subject, he is a lim~d bird. He cannot choose but read on. Everything else is poor and com- mon by comparison. There is but the one man who could have written it. The absence of formality is one of the principal charms both in his prose and his poetry. Not that he is flippant or slangy, but he has the rare art of varying the tone so as to suit the changing forms and color- ing of thought. Sometimes he uses pungent short sentences, formed of the most familiar words, and hitting the sense like Alsop. Then without bustle or jar he glides into passages of exquisite beauty, in which every thought is a poem and every word a gem. Or it may be that he hurls a bolt of indigna- tion at some hypocrisy, or rises into a strain of eloquence, such as would please the stateliest rhetorician fresh from the study of Livy or Macaulay. While so much stress is laid upon the lit- erary art of Holmes,his skill in presenting subjects and his unrivaled felicity in witty and wise illustration,it must not be over- looked that he is in himself a prime force. This is felt by all who come in contact with him. Those who have observed him in playful or serious talk with such persons as Emerson and Lowell can never forget the impression of intensity. His words and his countenance were alive with power and with feeling; the whole man, body and mind, seemed only a miraculous intellectual en- gine. It is this primal force that pierces through his wit, sparkles in his humor, lifts his imagination, touches in his pathos, and gives to thought its resistless power. At the same time it is remarkable to no- tice the perfect balance. Generally the men of such vividness of thought and energy of expression are hasty, unfair and one-sided. Witness the great reformers, one and all. The energy of Holmes is under perfect con- trol. He is decidedly a conservative in his general tendency. With all the abundant flow of hilarity in some of his class songs, he can scarcely be called jovial; and, in spite of his having written a fine bacchanalian song, he is by nature and habit abste- mious. Neither robust nor yet delicate in constitution, he keeps a secure and moderate course, and is as fresh now when verging on three-score and ten as most men at fifty. Still his habits of thought, his perhaps over- refined sensibility, and a certain shyness lead him to shun contact with men of more robust nature. One paragraph in The Poet at the Breakfast Table might be taken for an ex- pression of the peevishness of an invalid or the ill-nature of a misanthrope, if we did not have the proper commentary. He says: I have a kind of dread, rather than hatred, of persons with a large excess of vitality; great feeders, great laughers, great story-tellers, who come sweep- ing over their company with a huge tidal wave of animal spirits and boisterous merriment. I have pretty good spirits myself, and enjoy a little mild pleasantry, but I am oppressed and extinguished by these great, lusty, noisy creatures, and feel as if I were a mute at a funeral when they get into full blast. Readers of The Autocrat and the oth- ers come to know Holmes as very few au- thors are known. As in Montaigne, the egotism of the essayist becomes a charm. That Holmes is no Puritan in creed, no ascetic in practice, no partisan, neither wholly optimist nor pessimist; that he has no sentiment but that which is in har- mony with intellectual health and cheerful temper; that he is as obstinate a cit as Doc- tor Johnson, and believes in Boston as John- son did in London; that he prefers a brown stone mansion to a cabin in the woods; that he is the hater of vulgarity and pre- tension, and of quacks, literary and other; that he has, in spite of sarcasm and gibe, a warm and tender heart, full of delicate con- sideration for others; that he is active in sympathy and friendly help; that he has gone through the perils of life without re- proachall these things and many more are to be seen in his pages by the wise reader. The later poems give not the least inti- mation of declining power. The reminis- cences of school days at Andover are fresh in feeling, somewhat chastened by experi- ence, but as beautiful as the memory of spring-time. This poem has been likened to Goldsmiths Deserted Village, but the only reason appears to be that it is a per- sonal retrospection in melodious ten-sylla- bled verse, finished with the nicest care. My Aviary is full of masterly effects,a series of marine pictures, showing that our author, had he taken to the woods and the shore, might have coped with the poets of nature on their own ground. The Silent Melody is saddening, but it is the conception and the work of a true poet. Evidently the time for Terminus to be writ- ten is still distant. Perhaps we are too near now to judge dispassionately of what is likely to become classic. Only a certain, measurable bulk of poetry holds its place among men. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 127 Every new poet, when his works come to be generally read, crowds off some older one. But it is difficult to imagine the time when any of the characteristic poems of Holmes will slumber on the shelves of antiquaries. They must be eternally new to the new gen- erations, because they are founded in nature, constructed with art, animated by the no- blest qualities of intellect and feeling,unit- ing the wit of Heine with the freshness of B6ranger,and are finished as few poems have been finished since the odes of Horace. The life of our poet has not in the ordi- nary sense been eventful. Goethe attempted to sum human experience in a phrase: I have lived and have loved. But this seems inadequate unless we add I have toiled and have achieved. Holmes has encoun- tered no adverse fates, nor has he passed through those vicissitudes that try the souls of some men. Nature gave him a good outfit, and fortune has favored him at every step of his career. His has been an active life, devoted to earnest study and the pur- suit of high ideals; it has been rewarded by ample contemporary honor, and, above all, blest with domestic happiness and with the love of friends. Not until the silver cord is loosed, and the golden bowl is broken, can the curtain be lifted from the serene beauty of the poets home. The man who is nearing three-score-and- ten may feel the glow of emotion as keenly as in middle age, but he is certain to be more reserved in expressing it. Twenty years ago the Atlantic dinners were won- derfully brilliant. The sparkle of the after- dinner talk was incommunicable,not in the least studied, but natural and exuberant. The absolute loss of those conversations and encounters of wit, when Emerson, Longfel- low, Holmes, Lowell and others, sat about the board, is greatly to be regretted. Judge Hoar, who inherits the wit of Roger Sherman, bore his full part. Lowell proba- bly uttered more elaborate sentences, glowing with new-born images; Holmes made the swiftest play and scored most points, both serious and comic. Meanwhile Emersons wise face was lighted by a mirac- ulous smile that would have been the delight and despair of a painter; and in the end he took the thought which the others were playing hockey with, and calmly set it in an apothegm of crystal beauty. The Atlantic Club at times was ambu. latory, although it generally met at Parkers. Once or twice it dined at Point Shirley with Taft, who is facile rex of our sea-board. Once it dined at a little restaurant in Winter place, kept by a man of versatile genius, M. Fontarive, the first of the French cooks of the time. Once it met at Zach. Porters in North Cambridge,not a hotel, but an old- fashioned tavern. The cooking was mar- velous, and was done under the landlords eye. His creed was that of Ezra Weeks of the Eagle Inn: Nothin riles me, I pledge my fastin word, Like cookin out the natur of a bird. The ducks were brought in and carved by Porter himself; as a mark of consideration to the distinguished guests. The knife was keen and was wielded by a deft hand; the slices fell about the platter like a mowers swath, until the carcass was bare as a barrel. What do you do with the bird after that? Lowell asked of the landlord. Wal, said Porter, with a curious twinkle in his eyes, when Ive sliced off the breast, an the wings an legs like that (pointing to the shell), I ginrally give the carkess to the poor.~~ Dr. Palmer, whose East Indian sketches had just been published and greatly ad- mired, was a special guest on this occasion; and the fun of the chorus of palanquin bear- ers was as current about the table as Pina- fore phrases are to-day. Holmes was in high spirits and talked his best, mostly to Longfellow. It was almost like a veritable autocrat in full activity, corruscating, pun- ning, and bearing all before him. There were no horse-cars then, I think; or it might have been late; at all events, the whole party, including Emerson, Longfel- low and the other Olympians, walked down to Harvard square through nearly a foot of new-fallen snow. The impression of this intellectual feast is ineffaceable, but it seems now as far away as the Trojan war. Doctor Holmes attends church at the old Kings Chapel, where the creed is Unitarian, though the English form of worship has been retained. He is as fully occupied in his duties as professor as in his younger days, and there are but few marks of physical strain. His poetic faculties seem to be as active and creative as ever. All lovers of letters will join in wishing that the additions to his three-score-and-ten may be many, and that his wintry days may be as free from labor and sorrow as those of his sunny autumn. 128 BROKEN STRINGS. ON A LATE LEARNED ADVOCATE, MASTER ALSO OF MUSIC. IN Law delighting, but in Music more, He gave his labors to the jurists lore, Yet in the service of the sacred choir Educed the laws of organ and of lyre; With faultless fingers and a gifted ear (Tuned to the keys of the celestial sphere) Brought down to men high symphonies, that woke Emotions deeper than the preacher spoke, And lulled all souls, and every passion laid With lofty hymns by Pergol~si made: Then for the courts and learn~d bench he found Laws harmonies, that lifted from the ground Their coarse contentions and their selfish ends, Till men, who came in fighting, went out friends. Blind Milton thus in his dark days could win From his loved instrument, amid the din Of jarring causes and the clash of arms, A spell to stay the invaders threatened harms, Requiting his forbearance in the hour That menaced peril to the Muses bower With such recorded splendor in his strain As saved from ruin bare his poor domain. He knew those laws the lifted spear that charmed, And left the house of Pindarus unharmed; This truth he also knew (to few so known), Justice and Music are in heart but one. BROKEN STRINGS. THERE is no minstrel ripe in years, The world may listen to the strains But, as his song he sings, Which from each harp-string floats, Feels musingly across his harp But still unto his ear remains To find some broken strings. A discord in the notes. The early songs that from his lyre And still his heart, unsatisfied, His youthful fingers flung, Seeks yearningly, in vain, Have lost their first Promethean fire To find the music which has died, Since love and life were young. And mend the broken strain. O world! that listens, when too late, Unto the voice which sings, And loves the music, when the years Have shattered many strings, But little owes the bard to you For praises from your tongue, Who heard not when the harp was new, And love and life were young.

T. W. Parsons Parsons, T. W. On a Late Learned Advocate, Master Also of Music 128

128 BROKEN STRINGS. ON A LATE LEARNED ADVOCATE, MASTER ALSO OF MUSIC. IN Law delighting, but in Music more, He gave his labors to the jurists lore, Yet in the service of the sacred choir Educed the laws of organ and of lyre; With faultless fingers and a gifted ear (Tuned to the keys of the celestial sphere) Brought down to men high symphonies, that woke Emotions deeper than the preacher spoke, And lulled all souls, and every passion laid With lofty hymns by Pergol~si made: Then for the courts and learn~d bench he found Laws harmonies, that lifted from the ground Their coarse contentions and their selfish ends, Till men, who came in fighting, went out friends. Blind Milton thus in his dark days could win From his loved instrument, amid the din Of jarring causes and the clash of arms, A spell to stay the invaders threatened harms, Requiting his forbearance in the hour That menaced peril to the Muses bower With such recorded splendor in his strain As saved from ruin bare his poor domain. He knew those laws the lifted spear that charmed, And left the house of Pindarus unharmed; This truth he also knew (to few so known), Justice and Music are in heart but one. BROKEN STRINGS. THERE is no minstrel ripe in years, The world may listen to the strains But, as his song he sings, Which from each harp-string floats, Feels musingly across his harp But still unto his ear remains To find some broken strings. A discord in the notes. The early songs that from his lyre And still his heart, unsatisfied, His youthful fingers flung, Seeks yearningly, in vain, Have lost their first Promethean fire To find the music which has died, Since love and life were young. And mend the broken strain. O world! that listens, when too late, Unto the voice which sings, And loves the music, when the years Have shattered many strings, But little owes the bard to you For praises from your tongue, Who heard not when the harp was new, And love and life were young.

E. Norman Gunnison Gunnison, E. Norman Broken Strings 128-129

128 BROKEN STRINGS. ON A LATE LEARNED ADVOCATE, MASTER ALSO OF MUSIC. IN Law delighting, but in Music more, He gave his labors to the jurists lore, Yet in the service of the sacred choir Educed the laws of organ and of lyre; With faultless fingers and a gifted ear (Tuned to the keys of the celestial sphere) Brought down to men high symphonies, that woke Emotions deeper than the preacher spoke, And lulled all souls, and every passion laid With lofty hymns by Pergol~si made: Then for the courts and learn~d bench he found Laws harmonies, that lifted from the ground Their coarse contentions and their selfish ends, Till men, who came in fighting, went out friends. Blind Milton thus in his dark days could win From his loved instrument, amid the din Of jarring causes and the clash of arms, A spell to stay the invaders threatened harms, Requiting his forbearance in the hour That menaced peril to the Muses bower With such recorded splendor in his strain As saved from ruin bare his poor domain. He knew those laws the lifted spear that charmed, And left the house of Pindarus unharmed; This truth he also knew (to few so known), Justice and Music are in heart but one. BROKEN STRINGS. THERE is no minstrel ripe in years, The world may listen to the strains But, as his song he sings, Which from each harp-string floats, Feels musingly across his harp But still unto his ear remains To find some broken strings. A discord in the notes. The early songs that from his lyre And still his heart, unsatisfied, His youthful fingers flung, Seeks yearningly, in vain, Have lost their first Promethean fire To find the music which has died, Since love and life were young. And mend the broken strain. O world! that listens, when too late, Unto the voice which sings, And loves the music, when the years Have shattered many strings, But little owes the bard to you For praises from your tongue, Who heard not when the harp was new, And love and life were young. THREE DA YS IN SUSSEX. 129 THREE DAYS IN SUSSEX. I BELIEVE that writers upon English coun- try-house life always praise itbut one pri- vately meets many persons in England who confess to you that they do not admire it as much as it is admired in books. A friend of mine, who is never content unless his own house is full, cannot abide going to the houses of other people. An old lady, ex- cessively fond of society, assures me that country-houses are too social for her; and a young lady says that at the end of three days spent in one of them she is quite ex- hausted with the efforts to be agreeable. Energetic people are perhaps less apt to like them than quiet people. The number of English peopleand very social people who tell me that they do not commonly enjoy country-houses, would surprise me did I not know that nothing is so perfect that it will not be quarreled with, and that half the grumbling is done to make conver- sation. The excuses of people to get away before the time appointed for their depart- ure are among standing jokes. Yet it is doubtful if the most skillful excuses of guests ever deceive hosts who have been bored themselves and who are profound critics of boredom. I think that there is certainly one point upon which the admirers of country- houses have said too much. I refer to the vaunted liberty of country-houses. They are beautiful; they are charmingly appointed; they are anything else you like; but they are not, as a rule, as free as they are said to be. Things are made for you to do. There is rowing on the lake, there is lawn tennis, there is shooting at a mark, drives and walks to various water-falls and other wonders of the neighborhood. Of course it is open to you not to do these things, but you feel that it would be peculiar and unsocial not to do some of them. There is, indeed, a rigidity in those very customs which are supposed of themselves to mark the freedom of country- houses. The life seems to be characterized by enforced freedom. For instance, you must wear a rough shooting-coat until dinner-time; -you must wear a billy-cock hat except at church on Sunday when you put on a black coat and a high hat. At breakfast, in some houses, you must pour out your own tea and help yourself from the sideboard. These are peculiarities of country-house life which make it irksome for you until you have got VoL. XVIJI.io. hold of the real meaning of this life, and have grasped it by the right handle. The real use of a country-house is the cultivation amidst the best material and social conditions of a comfortable repose. The state of mind one should seek to attain is that of a wise passiveness, a salutary empty-mindedness. And this is as good a state of mind as could be desired for the leisure of a hard worker. This state of mind is assisted by an easy coat and a low hat; indeed, it would be unattainable with- out them. It is assisted also by what seem at first the laboriously free-and-easy manners of the breakfast table. The guests begin th~ day with the knowledge that they are to be in one anothers society till midnight, and feel it not only their privilege, but their duty, to be dull. If the host observes two people in a lively conversation at breakfast, he says: Do you people expect to keep that up all day? If the house happens to be full of young people, one is sufficiently employed at breakfast in look- ing at them, for the beautiful complexions which flourish in this country appear to best advantage in the morning. The thick bloom is actually thrown upon the faces, and the hair is so bright and strong. When I was young I never noticed the hair of young people. Why is it, I wonder, that when ones own locks become few and dingy one derives such exquisite pleasure from seeing heads of fresh and abundant brown hair! Fifield, near which I was staying some time ago, is a very pretty village in Sussex, and lies in the midst of a highly cultivated and beautiful country. I was at a house not half a mile from the village, and I walked thither at least three times a day. Though I knew I should have no letters, I went to the post-office and demanded them. I often entered an attractive and conTimodious inn,which is one of the good points of Fifield,.and made the acquaint- ance of the inn-keeper, whom I found a communicative and entertaining person. He was a good historian of the families of the neighborhood, and gave me interesting accounts of the great parliamentary fights of fifty years ago, when two of the leading families of Fifield nearly ruined them- selves in their contentions for the repre

Three Days in Sussex 129-132

THREE DA YS IN SUSSEX. 129 THREE DAYS IN SUSSEX. I BELIEVE that writers upon English coun- try-house life always praise itbut one pri- vately meets many persons in England who confess to you that they do not admire it as much as it is admired in books. A friend of mine, who is never content unless his own house is full, cannot abide going to the houses of other people. An old lady, ex- cessively fond of society, assures me that country-houses are too social for her; and a young lady says that at the end of three days spent in one of them she is quite ex- hausted with the efforts to be agreeable. Energetic people are perhaps less apt to like them than quiet people. The number of English peopleand very social people who tell me that they do not commonly enjoy country-houses, would surprise me did I not know that nothing is so perfect that it will not be quarreled with, and that half the grumbling is done to make conver- sation. The excuses of people to get away before the time appointed for their depart- ure are among standing jokes. Yet it is doubtful if the most skillful excuses of guests ever deceive hosts who have been bored themselves and who are profound critics of boredom. I think that there is certainly one point upon which the admirers of country- houses have said too much. I refer to the vaunted liberty of country-houses. They are beautiful; they are charmingly appointed; they are anything else you like; but they are not, as a rule, as free as they are said to be. Things are made for you to do. There is rowing on the lake, there is lawn tennis, there is shooting at a mark, drives and walks to various water-falls and other wonders of the neighborhood. Of course it is open to you not to do these things, but you feel that it would be peculiar and unsocial not to do some of them. There is, indeed, a rigidity in those very customs which are supposed of themselves to mark the freedom of country- houses. The life seems to be characterized by enforced freedom. For instance, you must wear a rough shooting-coat until dinner-time; -you must wear a billy-cock hat except at church on Sunday when you put on a black coat and a high hat. At breakfast, in some houses, you must pour out your own tea and help yourself from the sideboard. These are peculiarities of country-house life which make it irksome for you until you have got VoL. XVIJI.io. hold of the real meaning of this life, and have grasped it by the right handle. The real use of a country-house is the cultivation amidst the best material and social conditions of a comfortable repose. The state of mind one should seek to attain is that of a wise passiveness, a salutary empty-mindedness. And this is as good a state of mind as could be desired for the leisure of a hard worker. This state of mind is assisted by an easy coat and a low hat; indeed, it would be unattainable with- out them. It is assisted also by what seem at first the laboriously free-and-easy manners of the breakfast table. The guests begin th~ day with the knowledge that they are to be in one anothers society till midnight, and feel it not only their privilege, but their duty, to be dull. If the host observes two people in a lively conversation at breakfast, he says: Do you people expect to keep that up all day? If the house happens to be full of young people, one is sufficiently employed at breakfast in look- ing at them, for the beautiful complexions which flourish in this country appear to best advantage in the morning. The thick bloom is actually thrown upon the faces, and the hair is so bright and strong. When I was young I never noticed the hair of young people. Why is it, I wonder, that when ones own locks become few and dingy one derives such exquisite pleasure from seeing heads of fresh and abundant brown hair! Fifield, near which I was staying some time ago, is a very pretty village in Sussex, and lies in the midst of a highly cultivated and beautiful country. I was at a house not half a mile from the village, and I walked thither at least three times a day. Though I knew I should have no letters, I went to the post-office and demanded them. I often entered an attractive and conTimodious inn,which is one of the good points of Fifield,.and made the acquaint- ance of the inn-keeper, whom I found a communicative and entertaining person. He was a good historian of the families of the neighborhood, and gave me interesting accounts of the great parliamentary fights of fifty years ago, when two of the leading families of Fifield nearly ruined them- selves in their contentions for the repre 130 THREE DA YS IN SUSSEX. sentation of the borough. The landlords father and grandfather were born in this same house, and I know not how many generations before them. The house had some quaint engravings and some rare china. I was shown the remnants of a set of Worcester which had been bought entire by the landlords mother, thirty years ago, for eight shillings, from an old peddler woman who had come to the house with them. The set now, if perfect, would no doubt bring a hundred pounds. But no care had been taken of it, the children of the house and the laborers of the farm having often had tea out of it in the fields. The morning hours are the best to spend in walking about a village, and watching the village sights. It is wonderful how long a time three days is in a village; on how many village matters in that time one may form, correct, and re-form opinions. I ~ot to know by sight if not by name the trades- men, the parsons, two or three of the village eccentrics and a goodly number of the gentry. The clergy you see at church, the peasantry and many of the trades- men are likely to touch their hats to you in the street,are pretty sure to do so if you happen to be staying with some of the neighboring gentry,and you must be careful to touch your hat in return. The gentry are a great deal in the village. They come to attend the sessions or to see the grocer and the butcher, or perhaps more commonly to make the haunt of social men the object of a mornings ride. Prop- erly to estimate the felicity of the con- dition of an English country gentleman one must see him ride into a village near his estate on a pleasant summer morning. His advent produces a noticeable impression in the village street. Not that people are over ready with flatteries and attentions; but everybody he meets or has occasion to speak to is very civil, and he feels himself the object of a general, if silent, interest and respect. Meanwhile the object of this homage is on no account obliged to support his dignity by dressing himself in a high hat and a black coat. On the contrary, his trowsers are perhaps thrust in his boots; he wears a rusty shooting-jacket, and covers his head with an old soft hat. These old clothes, taken together with the public re- spect for their occupant, and with the fine animal on which he is mounted, give an im- pression of enviable liberty and of thorough delight and satisfaction in life, which I believe not to be in the least exaggerated. A gentleman in the dress of a stable-boy rode up to the post-office on a large white- faced and white-footed mare, very power- fully made, which to my eyes looked the model of a hunter. When I admired her, he assured me that she was as good as she looked, and with considerable pride re- counted the history of some of her exploits across country in Nottinghamshire, where he had formerly hunted, and from which county he had brought her. On market days the gentry who are mag- istrates come to the village to sit at the Quarter Sessions and Petty Sessions. It may be well here to tell the reader what Petty Sessions and Quarter Sessions are, for though no doubt he has often read about them in the novels of Trollope and others, his notions of them may be vague. Both, of course, are benches of magistrates. These magistrates receive no pay, and are content to serve for the consideration in the community which J. P. written after their names is supposed to give them. The Quarter Sessions, as the name indi- cates, sits once in three months. The Petty Sessions generally sits weekly. The Quarter Sessions is attended by all the magistrates for the division of the county over which it has jurisdiction. But at Petty Sessions two justices are sufficient to try cases. The first proceeding in all crim- inal cases, except that of high treason, takes place before the Petty Sessions. They have the power to deal summarily with offenses of a trivial nature. Persons accused of grave crimes they send either to the Quar- ter Sessions or the Assizes. There is in many large country-houses a magistrates room, to which the delinquent is taken for a hearing in case no Petty Sessions is to be held the next day. At the house at which I was staying, the large oak room beside the hall, used as a smoking-room, was the magistrates room. The Petty Sessions at Fifield was held in a large room in the Royal Sussex, the tavern I have just spoken of; I went one morning and found the room filled with prisoners and their friends. A few idle and pleasant-looking young fellows, sons of gen- tlemen, sat near the magistrates and seemed to derive considerable amusement from the proceedings. The magistrates, of whom there were perhaps half a dozen, sat on a bench behind a rude, unpainted wooden table. I noticed one gentleman among them who has had to do, during certain recent complications, with matters much THREE DA YS ZN SUSSEX. 3 graver than the administration of justice upon the lesser delinquent of Fifield. I heard but one case. A boy of fourteen charged a wooden-looking rustic (who, with a nervous stare and an extremely pale coun- tenance, sat awaiting his fate) with having knocked him down and beaten him. The rustic was stone deaf, and the clerk was obliged to shout in his ear the charge and the evidence of the boy. He Was then told he might ask questions of the boy, and in the tones almost of an automaton he turned to him and said: Didnt you hit me first? No, said the manly and honest little boy. We all agreed that the boy had a nice and inquiring face, while it was evident, from the physiognomy of the rustic, that he was a violent-tempered, dangerous person. Pres- ently the boy was compelled to admit that he had first pulled the mans beard, and the truth was at once plain to everybody. The poor felloxv, who was not very strong in his head, had been teased by the boy, and goaded into giving him a beating which was severe, perhaps, but not much more severe than his impudence had deserved. Immedi- ately the two parties exchanged physiogno- mies. One of the magistrates was heard to say, Hes a cheeky boy, and I believe he hit him. The decision of the magistrates was that there should be no fine, but that the man should pay the costs, which were some twenty-five shillings. I then left, persuaded that the judgment rendered had been sub- stantially just, and admiring the untechnical and common-sense methods by which it had been obtained. I may mention one incident to show the untechnical nature of the exam- ination. The boy had said that the man had knocked out two of his teeth. The chairman told a constable to look at the boys mouth. The constable made the boy open his mouth, and said that he thought his teeth were all there. If the morning hours are the best to spend in watching village society, village scenery is never so charming as at the close of the day. Fifield lies on the. side and summit of rather a steep hill, its main street winding in the shape of a letter S. One afternoon, as I passed through this street on my way to take my accustomed walk before sun- down, I thought the village presented a singularly charming appearance. The clean ascending street was full of the beautiful reflections of the approaching sunset; the old brick houses and pretty cottages lay in a gentle light, while even the post-office and the modern apothecary shop, with its plate-glass windows, were exquisitely illumined. Dur- ing these walks, for the first time in my life I have really liked English scenery. An American, instead of getting to admire English scenery by seeing much of it, is, I think, apt to like it less and less, the longer he is in England. That, at least, has been my case. - At first, one is pleased with the pretty little fields, the green hedges, the land- scape swept and garnished like a lawn; but there succeeds, after a while, a deep longing for the scenery of his native country. The scenery of the Old World begins to produce in his mind a feeling of irritation. The ex- cess of art and cultivation he feels to be a sort of impurity, which he would like to rub away from the surface of the country. He remembers with passion how clean are the beds of gum and sycamore, where rush the waters of his native desert; how pure are the dusty roads, climbing the great hills and lined with scorched blackberry-vines; how vast and worthy of worship are the land- scapes of the poorest and harshest parts of his continent. But at Fifield, for the first time since being in England, did I sincerely like English scenery, and was I conscious of something really medicinal in it. And yet Fifield is the most English scenery that I have seen. It is the country of the cur- few and the lowing herds. The land- scape, as I viewed it from a hill near the village, is small, green, trim, shaded and scented with the breath of kine. Cer- tainly I never before sufficiently observed how sweet and powerful a perfume is the breath of kine, so much talked of by the poets. There were only half a dozen cows and they were in the next field, yet, with their sighs and breathings, they ap- peared to scent the whole atmosphere of Fifield. One turns reluctantly from this fragrant and deeply verdant solitude, but one must turn sharply; for even in these shortened August days the dinner-hour in- terrupts the twilight, and one must hasten home to extinguish ones sentiment in a plate of soup that is served promptly at eight. In a half-hours time you are at a London din- ner, for such the dinner in a country-house is. The house which I have been describ- ing I had the luck, not very common in England, to find full of young people. Some Fifield people, however, have been asked in, among them the vicars wife, to whom next I sit, and to whom I find it my business to talk; but it is hard to do so, 132 NATURES LOVER. because I sit opposite Dolores, a Spanish, or half Spanish, girl of fifteen, who is a beauty. The beauty of Dolores is peculiar; she has a nose I never expected to see on such a pretty girl or on such a young one. I had an impression that such extremely aquiline noses were put on later in life. She has an exquisite color, large, dark, and perpetually shining eyes, and ey9lashes about an inch and a half long, just like those of Spanish young ladies I remember seeing in pictures in the New York Ledger. Under these eye- lashes this light and thin and most Roman nose juts out with surprising boldness, and yet with most fascinating and original per- fection and fortunate agreement with the eyes and eyelashes, the dip of the cheek and chin, and the somnolent and somewhat childish expression. There are other things about this house I should describe. I should say something about the E. R. on the fire-place which means Elizabeth Regina, the fire-place dating from the time of Elizabeth, when the house was built. I have told my friends to whom this visit was paid, that I have written a paper about them, and they are very curious to see what I shall say, and what a picture of them I shall draw for the eyes of the American public. What did you say about the tower? Alas! I had forgotten all about the tower. Did you tell the story of the screen? No. Well, did you, say anything about the ghosts ? I am ap- palled at the number of things I have omitted. The truth is that at Fifield I cared more for the people than for either the tower, the screen, or the ghost. Were I Irving, I might perhaps make them as famous as the occupants of Bracebridge Hall. NATURES LOVER. (TO JOHN MUIR.) His strong heart beat with mighty lyres of pines On High Sierra; he beheld the light, Unblenched, where eagles take their daring flight, And brows of Alps are scored with savage lines Where Nature, royal alchemist! her mines Of crystalsages pasthad open torn By throes in which the mountain lakes were bom. This faithful worshiper at all her shrines Discerned divinity in every smile On Natures face; whereer his footsteps trod, Alike her strength and beauty did beguile His heart; he felt the gem-enameled sod With human heart-beats touch his ownthe while That every blossom thrilled with love of God! Each year this devotee went up to pay His vows (his keen, consuming thirst to slake), Where quiet waters of one fairest lake In sacred solitude and stillness lay, Like holy font within cathedral gray; And in the hush, the echoes of that song Where hallelujahs break, were borne along From countless choirs; while ray on glorious ray, Like heavenly fire, shot through the brilliant deeps From great wall-jewels of celestial place. The chrism of peace, divinely wrought, that keeps The soul assured, had touched his mortal face. In Natures calmwhere human passion sleeps It wore the luster of immortal grace.

Marie Mason Mason, Marie Nature's Lover (To John Muir) 132-133

132 NATURES LOVER. because I sit opposite Dolores, a Spanish, or half Spanish, girl of fifteen, who is a beauty. The beauty of Dolores is peculiar; she has a nose I never expected to see on such a pretty girl or on such a young one. I had an impression that such extremely aquiline noses were put on later in life. She has an exquisite color, large, dark, and perpetually shining eyes, and ey9lashes about an inch and a half long, just like those of Spanish young ladies I remember seeing in pictures in the New York Ledger. Under these eye- lashes this light and thin and most Roman nose juts out with surprising boldness, and yet with most fascinating and original per- fection and fortunate agreement with the eyes and eyelashes, the dip of the cheek and chin, and the somnolent and somewhat childish expression. There are other things about this house I should describe. I should say something about the E. R. on the fire-place which means Elizabeth Regina, the fire-place dating from the time of Elizabeth, when the house was built. I have told my friends to whom this visit was paid, that I have written a paper about them, and they are very curious to see what I shall say, and what a picture of them I shall draw for the eyes of the American public. What did you say about the tower? Alas! I had forgotten all about the tower. Did you tell the story of the screen? No. Well, did you, say anything about the ghosts ? I am ap- palled at the number of things I have omitted. The truth is that at Fifield I cared more for the people than for either the tower, the screen, or the ghost. Were I Irving, I might perhaps make them as famous as the occupants of Bracebridge Hall. NATURES LOVER. (TO JOHN MUIR.) His strong heart beat with mighty lyres of pines On High Sierra; he beheld the light, Unblenched, where eagles take their daring flight, And brows of Alps are scored with savage lines Where Nature, royal alchemist! her mines Of crystalsages pasthad open torn By throes in which the mountain lakes were bom. This faithful worshiper at all her shrines Discerned divinity in every smile On Natures face; whereer his footsteps trod, Alike her strength and beauty did beguile His heart; he felt the gem-enameled sod With human heart-beats touch his ownthe while That every blossom thrilled with love of God! Each year this devotee went up to pay His vows (his keen, consuming thirst to slake), Where quiet waters of one fairest lake In sacred solitude and stillness lay, Like holy font within cathedral gray; And in the hush, the echoes of that song Where hallelujahs break, were borne along From countless choirs; while ray on glorious ray, Like heavenly fire, shot through the brilliant deeps From great wall-jewels of celestial place. The chrism of peace, divinely wrought, that keeps The soul assured, had touched his mortal face. In Natures calmwhere human passion sleeps It wore the luster of immortal grace. TOPICS OF THE TIME. 33 TOPICS OF THE TIME. Vulgarity in Fiction and on the Stage. THE average playwright has a fixed opinion that certain definite appeals must he made to the ground- lings, in order to produce a successful play. There must he coarseness or profanity, or the half-dis- guised obscenity that can he put forth in a double entente, or else the great multitude will not be satisfied. As a consequence of this, many ladies do not dare to go to the theater, or to take their children there. There is no question that these objectionable elements in plays have kept many more people out of the theater than they ever attracted thither. Peopleeven vulgar people are not pleased with vulgarity, and it is quite worth while to call attention to the things that the people are pleased with, both in the fictions of the book and of the stage. We have had a lyrical comedy running in all the theaters of the country during the last season Her Majestys Ship Pinaforewhich will illus- trate a part of what we mean. Since we began to observe theaters at all, nothing has had such a run of popularity as this. Young and old, rich and poor, have been amused by it, and there is not a word in it, from beginning to end, that can wound any sensibility. It is a piece of delicious absurdity all through, and a man can enjoy two hours of jollity in witnessing it, which will not leave a stain upon him anywhere. It is simply delightful,pure fun, and the most popular thing that has appeared on the stage for the last ten years. We call attention to it specially to show that fun, when it is pure, is more popular a thousand times than when it is not. Nothing can be more evident to any man of common sense than that any admixture of unworthy elements in this play would damage its popularity. What is true of this play is true of any and every play. There is no apology whatever for making the stage impure. Even vulgar people do not seek the stage for impurity. They seek it for pleasure, and they find the purest plays the most satisfactory, pro- vided only that the pleasure-giving element is in them. A playwright who is obliged to resort to coarse means to win the applause of coarse men, convicts himself of a lack of capacity for writing a good play. If a man wishes to hear high moral sentiments applauded as they are applauded nowhere else, let him go to a low theater. When the villain of the play gets his just retribution, and the hero, standing with his foot upon his neck, above his prostrate form, ma~s an appropriate apostrophe to virtue, then tbe house comes down. Indeed, it loses no opportunity to applaud that with which its daily life has very little to do, as if it were trying to make up by its votes and acclamations for the sins and the remissnesses of its practical life. It takes a pretty pure playwright to satisfy an audience made up largely of thieves and prostitutes. In these days, tragedy is at a discount. In the old times, when the world moved slowly, and life was not overworked or torn in pieces by high con- tending passions, men and women liked to have their sensibilities wrought upon. There was, at any rate, a desire for a different ~play from that which modern times call for. There are people who think that the theater audience is degraded from its old quality. We doubt it. We have no doubt, indeed, that the modern audience is better than the ancient one, and is made up of men and women of a highly improved culture. The times have changed, and life has become so active and overburdened and so full that men go to the theater to laugh. The one thing that they need most is forgetfulness of care, in innocent pleasure. To the modern man and woman, life is a tragedy. The newspapers are full of tragedies. We swallow them every morning with our coffee. What we abso- lutely need is fun, jollity, mirth, forgetfulness; and the stage must adapt itself to this want or go to the wall. The writer of H. M. S. Pinafore is a public benefactor, worthy of any reward we can make him; and Mr. Sullivan may snap his fingers at the stupid critics who accuse him of having stooped from his dignity to float this little play upon his excellent music, for he has won the gratitude of the English- speaking world. It is with novels as with the stage, vulgar people do not like to contemplate vulgar people. In the novel, vulgar people delight to meet with gentle- men and ladies. They have enough of the other sort at home, and among their friends. They would like to get into better society. They wish to see those who are different from themselves, and in different circumstances. Mi-lord, said a soft-voiced page, dressed in blue and gold, entering: the Ambassador waits. Sir Edward turned from his ivory escritoire, with a frown, and responded, Bid him enter! At this moment, the Lady Geraldine rose from her embroidery, and with a fair blush mantling her classic features, swept from the apartment. Hold! said Sir Edward. The lady turned, and gave him a single glance of scorn, as she closed the door and sought her boudoir. It is the vulgar people who read this sort of stuff, and they read it because it represents a kind of life quite absurdly antipodal to their own. The third or fourth-rate novelist who produces it lives nearer to the people than his superiors, and knows what they like. It is true, too, that the best novelist must not deal with vulgar materials too exclusively. No matter how clever he may be, it will not do for him to forget that good people get tired in novels of the same people of whom they would get tired in their drawing-rooms, and particularly of those whom they would never receive in their drawing-rooms.

Topics of the Time Topics of the Time 133-136

TOPICS OF THE TIME. 33 TOPICS OF THE TIME. Vulgarity in Fiction and on the Stage. THE average playwright has a fixed opinion that certain definite appeals must he made to the ground- lings, in order to produce a successful play. There must he coarseness or profanity, or the half-dis- guised obscenity that can he put forth in a double entente, or else the great multitude will not be satisfied. As a consequence of this, many ladies do not dare to go to the theater, or to take their children there. There is no question that these objectionable elements in plays have kept many more people out of the theater than they ever attracted thither. Peopleeven vulgar people are not pleased with vulgarity, and it is quite worth while to call attention to the things that the people are pleased with, both in the fictions of the book and of the stage. We have had a lyrical comedy running in all the theaters of the country during the last season Her Majestys Ship Pinaforewhich will illus- trate a part of what we mean. Since we began to observe theaters at all, nothing has had such a run of popularity as this. Young and old, rich and poor, have been amused by it, and there is not a word in it, from beginning to end, that can wound any sensibility. It is a piece of delicious absurdity all through, and a man can enjoy two hours of jollity in witnessing it, which will not leave a stain upon him anywhere. It is simply delightful,pure fun, and the most popular thing that has appeared on the stage for the last ten years. We call attention to it specially to show that fun, when it is pure, is more popular a thousand times than when it is not. Nothing can be more evident to any man of common sense than that any admixture of unworthy elements in this play would damage its popularity. What is true of this play is true of any and every play. There is no apology whatever for making the stage impure. Even vulgar people do not seek the stage for impurity. They seek it for pleasure, and they find the purest plays the most satisfactory, pro- vided only that the pleasure-giving element is in them. A playwright who is obliged to resort to coarse means to win the applause of coarse men, convicts himself of a lack of capacity for writing a good play. If a man wishes to hear high moral sentiments applauded as they are applauded nowhere else, let him go to a low theater. When the villain of the play gets his just retribution, and the hero, standing with his foot upon his neck, above his prostrate form, ma~s an appropriate apostrophe to virtue, then tbe house comes down. Indeed, it loses no opportunity to applaud that with which its daily life has very little to do, as if it were trying to make up by its votes and acclamations for the sins and the remissnesses of its practical life. It takes a pretty pure playwright to satisfy an audience made up largely of thieves and prostitutes. In these days, tragedy is at a discount. In the old times, when the world moved slowly, and life was not overworked or torn in pieces by high con- tending passions, men and women liked to have their sensibilities wrought upon. There was, at any rate, a desire for a different ~play from that which modern times call for. There are people who think that the theater audience is degraded from its old quality. We doubt it. We have no doubt, indeed, that the modern audience is better than the ancient one, and is made up of men and women of a highly improved culture. The times have changed, and life has become so active and overburdened and so full that men go to the theater to laugh. The one thing that they need most is forgetfulness of care, in innocent pleasure. To the modern man and woman, life is a tragedy. The newspapers are full of tragedies. We swallow them every morning with our coffee. What we abso- lutely need is fun, jollity, mirth, forgetfulness; and the stage must adapt itself to this want or go to the wall. The writer of H. M. S. Pinafore is a public benefactor, worthy of any reward we can make him; and Mr. Sullivan may snap his fingers at the stupid critics who accuse him of having stooped from his dignity to float this little play upon his excellent music, for he has won the gratitude of the English- speaking world. It is with novels as with the stage, vulgar people do not like to contemplate vulgar people. In the novel, vulgar people delight to meet with gentle- men and ladies. They have enough of the other sort at home, and among their friends. They would like to get into better society. They wish to see those who are different from themselves, and in different circumstances. Mi-lord, said a soft-voiced page, dressed in blue and gold, entering: the Ambassador waits. Sir Edward turned from his ivory escritoire, with a frown, and responded, Bid him enter! At this moment, the Lady Geraldine rose from her embroidery, and with a fair blush mantling her classic features, swept from the apartment. Hold! said Sir Edward. The lady turned, and gave him a single glance of scorn, as she closed the door and sought her boudoir. It is the vulgar people who read this sort of stuff, and they read it because it represents a kind of life quite absurdly antipodal to their own. The third or fourth-rate novelist who produces it lives nearer to the people than his superiors, and knows what they like. It is true, too, that the best novelist must not deal with vulgar materials too exclusively. No matter how clever he may be, it will not do for him to forget that good people get tired in novels of the same people of whom they would get tired in their drawing-rooms, and particularly of those whom they would never receive in their drawing-rooms. 34 TOPICS OF THE TIME. They get tired of any novelist who never gives them a gentleman or a lady. It comes to this, then, in the novel and on the stage: we want good company and we want mirth. We want fun and we want it pure. The theater thinks that the Church is hard upon it. There was a time when the novel-writer thought the Church was hard upon him; but the Church now not only reads novels but uses them in the propagation of religious ideas and religious living. The theater, for many years, has had itself to blame for the atti- tude of the Church toward it. People are visiting the good ship Pinafore now who never entered a theater before, and this simply because it ministers to their need of amusement without offending their sensibilities by coarseness, or their eyes by exhibi- tions that are only at home in a vulgar dance-house. Church Music. THERE are great varieties and contrarieties of opinion on church music, as well among pastors as congregations. It begins with the hymns. There are those who believe that theology should be taught by hymns, that appeals to heart and conscience should be made in hymns, that all phases of religious expe- rience and feeling may legitimately be addressed through hymns. There are others who reject this theory, and would confine hymns to the expression of penitence or praise to God. They feel that a hymn, publicly sung, should be an address of the human heart to the great father heart, and not an address of man to man, and that chiefly this expression should be confined to praise and thanksgiving. When Mr. Sankey was here, he was inquired of concerning this point, and his answer, very definitely given, was that he re- garded singing as possessing two different offices in the public services of the churchone of address to God, and another to man. Mr. Sankey would not stand very high as an authority on such a matter, but his idea is practically adopted in every hymn- book with which we are acquainted. Now, to us, there is something almost ridiculous in the hymns which undertake the offices of teach- ing, preaching and exhortation. Think of a congre- gation wailing out to the old tune China the words: Why do ye mourn departing friends Or shake at deaths alarms ? Or to some other tune: Think gently of the erring one, And let us not forget However darkly stained by sin, He is our brother yet. Or this, to old Amsterdam: Time is winging us away To our eternal home; Life is but a winters day A journey to the tomb. Or this: Behold the day is come, The righteous Judge is near; And sinners trembling at their doom, Shall soon their sentence hear. Or this exhortation: Why will ye waste on trifling cares That life which Gods compassion spares? Or this statement and inquiry:. What various hindrances we meet In coming to a mercy seat! Yet who that knows the worth of prayer But wishes to be often there? We take all the above extracts from the very best hymn-book with which we are acquainted, and we submit that to stand up and sing them is an absurd performance, especially when it takes place in pub- lic. Some of them are utterly unsingable when re- garded with relation to any natural impulse, or any gracious impulse, for that matter. We laugh at the absurdities of the opera,at a man who straddles around the stage, yelling his love or his defiance to a tune, and our laugh is perfectly justifiable. But for the reverence with which we regard everything that has been even remotely associated with the house and worship of God, we should say that the singing of such songs as these would be equally laughable. Still, Mr. Sankey and those who agree with him will keep on singing these songs, we sup- pose. It gives us great pleasure, however, to notice that they are growing fewer and fewer from year to year and from generation to generation, in new collec- tions, and that the hymns that are sung are addressed more and more to God, while to the voice in the pulpit are left the various offices to which song has hitherto been, as we think, illegitimately subjected. Leaving the hymns, we come to the question of music. What office has music in the public services of the church? Let us say right here that we have not objected to the hymns belonging to the class. from which we have quoted, because we do not think that mans sensibilities should not be appealed to through music. We have objected to them mainly because they are unnaturally wedded to music. We do not naturally sing about the judgment day, or about death, or about our erring brother, or about the rapid passage of time. The wedding of things like these to music is an absurdity. So we recur to the question What office has music in the public services, of the church? It has two. The first and foremost is to give a natural expression of the feelings of the soul toward the object of its worship. The second is to elevate the spirit and bring it into the mood of worship and the contemplation of high and holy things. It has an office quite independent of any words with which it may be associated. Music itself is a language which many religious hearts understand, and by which they are led into and through a multitude of religious thoughts and emotional exercises. The voluntary upon the TOPICS OF THE TIME. 35 organ, played by a reverent man, is perfectly legitimate sacred music, to be executed and lis- tened to at leisure. Nobody, we presume, will question what we say about this, yet in practice there is the widest differ- ence among pastors and churches. One pastor or church demands the highest grade of music to be performed by a thoroughly drilled quartette or choir; another subordinates the choir, or discards it alto- gether, and will have nothing but congregational singing. The former make very much of the mu- sical element, and do a great deal to act upon the sensibilities of the worshipers through it. The latter make little or nothing of the musical element, and think that nothing is genuine public praise but that which is engaged in by a whole congregation. Now, it is quite easy to overdo the music of a church. That has been done in this city, in many notable instances, but we very much prefer a mistake in tht~t direction to one in the other. There are some ministers who forget that a choir may just as legiti- mately lead the praise of a congregation, as any one of them may lead its prayer, and that a choir has a sacred office and function in the church quite inde- pendent of themselves. If a preacher may be fol- lowed in his petition by his congregation, certainly a choir may be followed in its expression of thanks- giving. For ourselves, we are very much afraid of the movement toward congregational music. The ten- dency thus far has been to depreciate not only the quality of music, in the churches, but the impor- tance of it, and to make public worship very much less attractive to the great world which it is the churchs duty and policy to attract and to influence. The churches are full, as a rule, where the music is excellent. This fact may not be very flattering to preachers, but it is a fact, and it is quite a legitimate question whether a church has a right to surrender any attraction that will give it a hold upon the attention of the world, especially if that attraction is an elevating one, and in the direct line of Chris- tian influence. Congregational singing is well enough in its place and proportions, but very little of the inspiration of music comes through it. It is, indeed, more of a torture than a pleasure to many musical and devout people. The ideal ar- rangement, as it seems to us, is a first class quar- tette, made up of soloists, who take a prominent part in the public service, with a single choral in each service given to the congregation to sing. In this way, the two offices of music in public religious assemblies seem to be secured more surely and satisfactorily than in any other. Art Criticism. ART criticism, in this country, has reached about as low a level as it can find, without becoming exe- crable. It is so at war with itself, that it has ceased to have any authority, and so capricious and so apparently under the influence of unworthy motives, that it has become contemptible. We may instance the late exhibition of water colors in this city, and the kind and variety of criticism it called forth, as an illus- tration of what we mean. It has been absolutely impossible for the public to get any adequate idea of this exhibition through the revelations and discus- sions of the public press. What one man has praised without stint, another has condemned with- out mercy. All sorts of theories and comments and considerations have been offered, and if the public mind is not in a muddle over the whole matter, it is not the fault of the men who have written about it. Now there are just two objects that furnish an apology for a man to publish his opinions on an art exhibition, viz., the information of the public, and the improvement of the artists. Of course, it is an impertinence for any man to assume the r6le of the art critic who does not understand what he is talk.- ing about, and who is not free enough from partisan- ships and hobbies to write with candor. The great end of criticism is popular and professional improve- ment, and in order that this double end may be secured, there must be popular and professional con- fidence in the sources of the criticism. We believe it to be notorious that, among the painters of New York, there is not a particle of confidence in the critics who write upon art. They do not, in any in- stance, expect to be fairly and ably treated. They have no faith in the competency of the newspaper writers on art to teach them. They have no faith in their candor. When they put up a picture for exhibition, they regard the whole matter of news- paper notice as a chance in a lottery. They are thankful if somebody praises it, and if nobody abuses it, because that will help to sell it, but beyond that they have no interest. They do not in the slightest degree acknowledge the competency of these writers to teach them, and they have the utmost contempt for their general theories and their special judg- ments. Under these circumstances, one of the prin- cipal offices of criticism is rendered useless. The public has come to pretty much the same conclusion as the painters. They have learned that these writers have no guiding principles, that they agree in nothing, and that each man writes from the stand-point of his own private tastes, or his own private prejudices and partisanships. They find the pictures of a certain man condemned as utter and irredeemable failures, and they go to see the failures, finding them the best pictures in the exhi- bition. They find the pictures of another man praised as profoundly worthy, and they go to see them, and find them unconscionable daubs that would disgrace the walls of any parlor in New York, really, for any pleasure-giving power that they possess, not worth the white paper they have spoiled. Moreover, what one critic praises another one con- demns, and vice versd. Indeed, there are some men among these writers whose judgments have been so capricious, and whimsical, and unfair, and so notoriously fallacious, that their praise of a pict- ure arouses suspicions against it and really damages its market value. Now criticism, to be valuable, must be based in principle. If there are any such things as sound principles of art, gentlemen, show them to us, and 136 COMMUNICATIONS. show us your judgments based upon them. Agree among yourselves. We, the people, dont care for your private tastes and notions. We care a great deal more about our own. We are not at all inter- ested in yours. What we want of you is instruc- tion in sound principles of art, which will enable us to form judgments and to understand the basis of yours. Your prejudices, and piques, and whims are not of the slightest value to anybody, and your publication of them is a presumptuous and impertinent performance, growing more and more presumptuous and impertinent every year, while the people are growing rapidly more competent to judge of these matters for themselves. In the present jumble of art criticism in this country, consisting of great contrariety of sentiment and opinioi~i, much injustice is necessarily done to artists and schools of artists; and injustice, meted out in the unsparing doses that are often indulged in, is a poison that greatly injures all who receive it. It takes immense pluck and strong individual- ity to stand up against it. There are some painters who possess these qualities, but not many, so that the consciousness of unjust treatment at the hands of public criticism is a positive damage to them and their art. There have been cruelties and discour- tesies indulged in which only a raw-hide could prop- erly punish, and for which there was no valid excuse and whose only influence was bad. We are growing in this country in all that relates to art, except in this matter of art criticism. Peo- ple are becoming educated in art, and a new spirit seems to have taken possession of the American people. Let us hope that those who undertake to guide the public judgment may meet the new re- quirements of the day by a most decided improve- ment among themselves, so that we may have something more valuable from them than the airing of pet notions and a public show of their sympa- thies and antipathies. COMMUNICATIONS. A Secret Mission to Mexico. ORIGIN OF THE TREATY OF GUADALUPE HIDALGOIL EnIToR OF ScRIaNERs MONTHLY: DEAR SIaThe unlooked-for interval since the publication of my first letter (ScRIaNER for Decem- ber, 1878) on the treaty which put an end to the Mexican war, renders desirable a brief glance at its contents. Its purport was a general statement that, at the commencement of the war with Mexico (i 846), there existed a plot for the proclamation of the Duke of Montpensier as Emperor of Mexico, which it was the evident policy of the United States government to suppress. The means by which this plot was communicated to President Polk and his Cabinet, and the decision thereupon,culminating in the returmi of Santa Anna to power through their instru- mentality, and the complete frustration of the mon- archical design,were also stated. Beyond this was given a rapid glance at the facilities for information in reference to Mexican affairs enjoyed by the late Moses Y. Beach, and somewhat of his associatiom~ with the movement for the annexation of Texas, upon which the Mexican war was, at least nominally, predicated. Hence appeared the motives of the Pres- ident and the Cabinet in selecting Mr. Beach as the confidential agent of the government for negotiating, as he did, the basis of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. It is the writers present intention to enterso far as space will permitsomewhat into detail as to the exact origin of the treaty, and to review some of the incidents connected with Mr. Beachs perilous un- dertaking,the holding personal conference with leading men of the opposition, in the enemys capital city, during the progress of actual war. In the opening paper appeared this statement: The Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo was born in Monterey, baptized in the City of Mexico, and sent, complete in all its members, to the President of the United States. The treaty was, primarily, the suggestion of one of Mexicos most (and most deservedly) trusted military leaders, whose name must be withheld for obvious reasons. He was an ardent patriot; but he was also a man of wide and varied information. He knew the military power of the United States far more accurately than did his superiors in rank; and he knew, too, the fatal weakness of his own nation. Reasoning that the result of a long and stub- born war could be nothing less than the entire absorption of Mexico, he set before himself the task of planning a peace acceptable to the United States, and so shorn of repulsive features that it would be listened to by the better informed Mexicans. With exceeding tact he discussed the subject with one and another prominent official in the Church, and with friends in private life, until a little circle of kindred minds had been gathered. By them the subject was gradually formulated and condensed, and, in after days, received title as the Three Points. These conditions of peace, in their briefest form, were: m. The occupation by the United States of California and of all territory north of 260, with defence by them (as the necessary result of such occupation) of the new frontier, from Indian incur- sions. 2. The payment by the United States of the demands held by its citizens against the Mexican nation, and the payment, in addition, of three mill- ions of dollars, all as compensation for the territory thus occupied. 3. The restoration to Mexico, without destruction, of the fortifications and public buildings and prop-

Communications Communications 136-141

136 COMMUNICATIONS. show us your judgments based upon them. Agree among yourselves. We, the people, dont care for your private tastes and notions. We care a great deal more about our own. We are not at all inter- ested in yours. What we want of you is instruc- tion in sound principles of art, which will enable us to form judgments and to understand the basis of yours. Your prejudices, and piques, and whims are not of the slightest value to anybody, and your publication of them is a presumptuous and impertinent performance, growing more and more presumptuous and impertinent every year, while the people are growing rapidly more competent to judge of these matters for themselves. In the present jumble of art criticism in this country, consisting of great contrariety of sentiment and opinioi~i, much injustice is necessarily done to artists and schools of artists; and injustice, meted out in the unsparing doses that are often indulged in, is a poison that greatly injures all who receive it. It takes immense pluck and strong individual- ity to stand up against it. There are some painters who possess these qualities, but not many, so that the consciousness of unjust treatment at the hands of public criticism is a positive damage to them and their art. There have been cruelties and discour- tesies indulged in which only a raw-hide could prop- erly punish, and for which there was no valid excuse and whose only influence was bad. We are growing in this country in all that relates to art, except in this matter of art criticism. Peo- ple are becoming educated in art, and a new spirit seems to have taken possession of the American people. Let us hope that those who undertake to guide the public judgment may meet the new re- quirements of the day by a most decided improve- ment among themselves, so that we may have something more valuable from them than the airing of pet notions and a public show of their sympa- thies and antipathies. COMMUNICATIONS. A Secret Mission to Mexico. ORIGIN OF THE TREATY OF GUADALUPE HIDALGOIL EnIToR OF ScRIaNERs MONTHLY: DEAR SIaThe unlooked-for interval since the publication of my first letter (ScRIaNER for Decem- ber, 1878) on the treaty which put an end to the Mexican war, renders desirable a brief glance at its contents. Its purport was a general statement that, at the commencement of the war with Mexico (i 846), there existed a plot for the proclamation of the Duke of Montpensier as Emperor of Mexico, which it was the evident policy of the United States government to suppress. The means by which this plot was communicated to President Polk and his Cabinet, and the decision thereupon,culminating in the returmi of Santa Anna to power through their instru- mentality, and the complete frustration of the mon- archical design,were also stated. Beyond this was given a rapid glance at the facilities for information in reference to Mexican affairs enjoyed by the late Moses Y. Beach, and somewhat of his associatiom~ with the movement for the annexation of Texas, upon which the Mexican war was, at least nominally, predicated. Hence appeared the motives of the Pres- ident and the Cabinet in selecting Mr. Beach as the confidential agent of the government for negotiating, as he did, the basis of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. It is the writers present intention to enterso far as space will permitsomewhat into detail as to the exact origin of the treaty, and to review some of the incidents connected with Mr. Beachs perilous un- dertaking,the holding personal conference with leading men of the opposition, in the enemys capital city, during the progress of actual war. In the opening paper appeared this statement: The Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo was born in Monterey, baptized in the City of Mexico, and sent, complete in all its members, to the President of the United States. The treaty was, primarily, the suggestion of one of Mexicos most (and most deservedly) trusted military leaders, whose name must be withheld for obvious reasons. He was an ardent patriot; but he was also a man of wide and varied information. He knew the military power of the United States far more accurately than did his superiors in rank; and he knew, too, the fatal weakness of his own nation. Reasoning that the result of a long and stub- born war could be nothing less than the entire absorption of Mexico, he set before himself the task of planning a peace acceptable to the United States, and so shorn of repulsive features that it would be listened to by the better informed Mexicans. With exceeding tact he discussed the subject with one and another prominent official in the Church, and with friends in private life, until a little circle of kindred minds had been gathered. By them the subject was gradually formulated and condensed, and, in after days, received title as the Three Points. These conditions of peace, in their briefest form, were: m. The occupation by the United States of California and of all territory north of 260, with defence by them (as the necessary result of such occupation) of the new frontier, from Indian incur- sions. 2. The payment by the United States of the demands held by its citizens against the Mexican nation, and the payment, in addition, of three mill- ions of dollars, all as compensation for the territory thus occupied. 3. The restoration to Mexico, without destruction, of the fortifications and public buildings and prop- COMM UN/CA 710 NS. erty taken by the United States during the war; and the refraining by the United States from any levies or forced loans upon the Mexican people. These three points were intended to, and did, rally all Mexicans who favored an honorable peace, the Church, because any immediate peace would save its property from the inevitable confiscations of war; the people, because they restored the quiet which is inseparable from mercantile successes and personal enjoyments, and the patriot, because they saved, and, by cutting off an uninhabited and almost uninhabitable territory, strengthened, his country. It was the aim of their originators to present such points as might be firmly and steadily insisted upon by the United States, coupled with an avowal, at the outset, that no reduction or change in them would, at any time, be considered. By thus closing the door to all discussion, they hoped not only to shorten the struggle, but, while saving their coun- try to itself, to save it also from an impending monarchy, which they regarded as more ruinous than conquest and abscrption by their republican neighbors. Their first communications with the enemy were made to Generals Lamar and Cazneau, with whom some of their number had previously held intimate personal relations. Arrangement was made for the capture by the American forces of certain dispatches then expected from the Mexican capital, and care was taken to place with these dispatches some remarkable memoranda in which the names of persons well known in church and state affairs were connected, for an obvious purpose, in an apparent discussion of the proposed three points. The capture was successfully effected by Gen- eral Cazneau, and the two generals, after consulta- tion, deemed it wise to place the matter before the American public as a means of forming an opin- ion which it would become the duty of the admin- istration to follow. To this end General Lamar advised his friend Beach of the peace possibilities, sending him an abstract of the terms on which it might he based. General Cazneau conveyed the same information, through a friend in New York, to the then Catholic BishopafterwardArchbishopHughes. As each of these persons was advised of the communication made to the other, they immediately conferred together as to the more desirable method of action. Bishop Hughes urged forbearance from any publication until the authorities at Washington had been consulted, and this course was adopted. Their messenger re- turned hearing from Secretary Buchanan an urgent request that Mr. Beach should visit Washington, and bring with him the original letters, with the least possible delay. The personal interview with the President and the Secretary, which was long, was especially satisfactory to Mr. Buchanan; its conclusions being that action by the government would hinge upon the possibility of conferences with leading men in Mexican affairs, and with the clergy of that country; by whose ap- proval and aid the proposed peace could be accom- plished. his strong faith in the possibility of such conferences led Mr. Beach to yield to a request, urged by both the President and the Secretary, that he would accept the duty personally. In addition to a letter of instructions, Mr. Beach was provided with a general letter of introduction to the military and naval commanders with whom he might have occasion to communicate, and this was supplemented by complimentary orders issued to these commanders. That Bishop Hughes took a warm interest in the mission needs not be said. He counseled with Mr. Beach at much length, and commended him strongly to the higher clergy in Havana, and, through them, to the clergy in Mexico. To the end that his mission might more effectually be concealed, and that it might be prefaced by a personal interview with a trusted representative of the Mexican government whom he had long known, and with the aid of whose advice he proposed to fix a definite route and plan of operations, Mr. Beach became a passenger to Charleston, S. C., on the steamer Southerner which left New York during the latter part of November, 1846. In further conceal- ment of his plans he was accompanied by his daughter, who, at the age of twenty-six, entered into his plans with a zeal second only to his own. And that his trip might appear yet more strongly as one of mere pleasure and observation, a lady friend was induced to join the party as companion to his daughter. Fond of adventure for adventures sake, a mature woman of wide experience, familiar not only with the Spanish language, but also with the customs and habits of the Central American peoples by whom that language is generally adopted, this lady became an invaluable assistant in the com * The following letter of instructions to Mr. Beach is, through- out, in the handwriting of Secretary Buchanan: DEPARTMENT OF STATE, WASHiNGTON, SI November, 1846. To MosEs Y. BEACH, Esquire: SIRThe President, having learned -that you are about to visit the City of Mexico, on your own private business, and re- posing full confidence in your patriotism, ability and discretion, has thought proper to appoint you as a Confidential Agent to the Republic of Mexico. You are well aware that the President had resorted to every honorable means to avoid the existing war; and whilst prose- cuting it with vigor, he has been anxious, ever since its com- mencement, to make peace on just and honorable terms. It is known that you entertain the same desire; and, in all your conduct and conversation in Mexico, you ought to keep this object constantly in view. The trust thus confided to you is one of great delicacy and importance. In performing the duties which tt imposes, great prudence and caution will be required. You ought never to give the slightest intimation to any person, either directly or in- directly, that you are an agent of this Government, unless it be to SIr. Black, our Consul in Mexio, or to some high officer of that Government, and to the latter only after you shall have clearly discovered that this may smooth the way to peace. Be upois your guard against their wily diplomacy, and take care that they shall obtain no advantage over you. You will communicate to this Department, as often as perfectly safe opportunities may offer, all the useful information which you shall acquire. Should you have any very important intelligence to transmit, it may he sent through Mr. Black to the Commander of our Naval forces off Yera Crur, who, upon his request, will doubtless despatch it to Pensacola. Your compensation[Here follow the business details, stated with the minuteness characteristic of Mr. Buchanans well-known habits.] I am, Sir, very respectfully, Your obedient servant, JAMES BUCHANAN, Secretary of State. 37 COAfMUNICA lYONS. plications which resulted from the novel mission2 The route chosen from Charleston was purposely cir- cuitous. The three companions were the only and the quite unnoticed passengers on a small schooner which sailed thence, early in December, 1846, for Matanzas; and they reached Havana from that port, by the regular coast steamer. It was an essential part of Mr. Beachs plan to interest the influential mem- bers of the Cuban clergy in the object of his mission, and, to avoid attracting attention, this must be accom- plished deliberately. By day, therefore, the little party abandoned themselves to amusement and sight-seeing, while the shades of evening found Mr. Beach active in meeting appointments alike with the clergy and with other friends who were sup- posed to hold influence in the cause of an early peace. Not unfrequently, and not accidentally, Mr. Beach encountered some member of the clergy in his chosen temple of worship, that the object of their interview might the more perfectly be con- cealed. From all these friends of peace he learned of, and obtained introductions to, prominent Mexi- cans with whom he might have occasion to hold subsequent converse; but in every case in which the possession of such an introduction might com- promise either himself or the party for whom it was intended, the letter became one of information and was forwarded under the seal of a friendly consul and by the usual course of mail. As the day for the sailing of the monthly steamer to Vera Cruz approached, the attitude to be assumed by Mr. Beach became the absorbing ques- tion. He was urged not to trust his life without the protection of a passport as the citizen of a nation with whom Mexico was at peace; and the consul of one such power cheerfully offered to waive ordinary formalities and provide him with such a protection. On full consideration Mr. Beach determined to go in his own proper name, but accepted appointment as bearer of dispatches for the consul alluded to. * It had been the intention of the writer to omit mentioning the name of the lady here alluded to, but the abrupt ending of her life, since the preparation of this paper, has removed all objection to its publicity. At the period spoken of she was known as Jane M. Storm, widow of William Storm. She sub- sequently married General William L. Cazneau, whose widow she was at the time of her death. She was one of the passen- gers on the ill-fated steamer, Emily B. Soader, which left New York for Hayti, Decenber 7th, 1878, and, three days thereafter, foundered at sea. An imperfect sketch of her personal history appeared in The Tribune December 31st, 1878. The writer has since obtained a letter from the late N. P. Trist (the then Assistant-Secretary of State; whose name was closely associated with the treaty the origin of which is now being considered) to Mrs. Storm, a part of which, with explanatory interlineations, made at about the period of its receipt by Mrs. Storm, will be read in this connection with some interest: MYDEARMRS.STORM: * * 5 * * * * S * * * The prophet [Mr. Beach] was to see me an honr or two ago. Is he not a wonderful man? And in more than one respect, too. Was there ever such a Aqj6er before? He has forgotten all about the New York Convention already; and now tis Coo- gress (at this very session, too) that are cornered, and will he compelled to act, nolens zolens, upon rational principles. [Occupy and annex Mexico, or so much of it as is needful to secure a direct route to the Pacific, for the good of the world.] They are the rational principles, though; and they mnst go on, gaining and gaining ground until we occupy the whole of it; JI Occupation and Annexation of Mexico.] hut this is not to be in is day, nor in yours, nor in that of Yours, with great esteem and cordiality, N. P. TaisT. Nov. 24, 46. The few credentials which he deemed it prudent to keep about his person were inclosed under the con- sulate seal and became the dispatches of which he was the bearer. Thus prepared, he left Havana, on one of the early days of January, 1847, for Vera Cruz. To his very great surprise he found, in the person of a fellow-passenger, Seflor La Granja, who had for many years been the representative of the Mexican government at New York. The two gentlemen were not strangers to each other, and concealment, however desirable, was impossible. Mr. Beach was, at that time, the holder of a con- trolling interest in two banks of issue and, for the purpose of providing a business venture which could be used, if needful, to divert suspicion from his real mission, he carried with him a considerable sum in the notes of these banks. Under the shadow of this supposititious venture Mr. Beach now presented himself. Sefior La Granja had long known his repu- tation for enterprise, and also his connection with the banking business, and was willing to countenance his proposed venture so far as refraining from rev- elations in respect to his citizenship, which might cause him and his party very serious difficulty. Yet another surprise awaited his arrival at Vera Cruz. Scarcely had he located in his hotel when he received the Governors card, which was fol- lowed, quite unceremoniously, by the appearance of that personage in his rooms. The haste and abrupt- ness of the call seemed to indicate some species of treachery. But there was no retreat. Assuming that the manifestation was one of simple courtesy, Mr. Beach accepted the task of entertaining the Governor with his best grace. A long and animated conversation ensued, at the close of which he was severely catechized by the Governor as to Isis politi- cal opinions, antecedents and objects. Apparently impressed by the unhesitating frankness of his re- ception, the Governor finally took his leave withmany expressions of regard. Later in the day Mr. Beach learned that his visitor had been attended by a mili- tary guard, who held possession of the premises during the interview, and seized and closely exam- ined the baggage of his party. While waiting opportunity to leave Vera Cruz, Mr. Beach secured an interview with a Mexican resident of some prosninence, to whom he had re- ceived introduction. In the conversation which ensued, tbe gentleman seemed, without saying so, to know perfectly the object of his visit to Mexico, and very warmly assured him of sympathy and support from sources quite unexpected. At Perote Mr. Beach and his party were openly threatened with arrest. While at table at the hotel, a guard filed into the dining-room, closing and hold- ing all the doors. An officer thereupon seated him- self in such manner as directly and closely to watch every movement of the party. Far from betraying trepidation or consciousness of danger, Mr. Beach devoted himself to his food so assiduously and so effectually as apparently to disarm whatever of sus- picion had previously existed, and before his meal was finished the guard withdrew as silently as it had come. Meanwhile, however, the baggage had 138 4 COM2VEUNZCA TIONS. again been seized, the locks forced and every article thoroughly ransacked. At Puebla, where Mr. Beach tarried for the pur- pose of gaining the acquaintance of leading men to whom he had been commended, he was the subject of another, and to him, for a time, a more serious surprise. While walking the street in company with the two ladies, he was suddenly accosted by a stranger and abruptly requested to enter an adjoin- ing house for conversation. With a feeling that he could add no danger to his position by compliance with any request, he excused himself to the ladies and accompanied the stranger. He was ushered into a room in which he found several gentlemen who evident~ waited his coming. One of their number, after an apology for their apparent trap, explained by the statement that privacy was the only security for their own lives,stated that they had been apprised in advance of his visit and its object by ex-President Lamar, by a Mexican com- mander then in the field, and by other Mexicans named, who were his correspondents and friends; and that they were present to advise with him in regard to the three points, and the most desirahle mode of procedure in his present mission. In the course of the interview, Mr. Beach learned that the threats of arrest and the examinations of his baggage had been directly instigated in their and his behalf, as a means of preventing similar proceedings at times and in places beyond their control. He was advised, too, of the church-property-protest then recently (January 10th) issued; of the civil revolu- tion imminent at the capital, and of other important events of recent or prospective occurrence. On arrival in the city of Mexico be engaged spa- cious furnished apartments, over which he could exercise absolute control, and at once communicated with those to whom he had been commended. He refused, when the question was raised, to permit any concealment. He received those who called upon him openly and frankly, and by his open house disconcerted the spies who, he was informed, were lurking about. Necessarily he held many conferences with men of leading position in the government, as also with leading members of the Mexican Congress, and with high officials of the Church; but these were each so carefully arranged that no more than a suspicion of them could be fixed. No record of any- thing that occurred was made,the names only of such men as were deemed true to the cause of peace on the basis of the three points, being care- fully remembered. The American consulBlack5 whose very long residence and kind disposition endeared him so strongly to Mexicans with whom he had intercourse, that he was not only permitted * Soon after the close of the war, Consul Black made a long- deferred visit among his relatives and friends in the United States. While on his return, and in the neighborhood of Puehia, certain opponents of the peace which his exertions had greatly aided, caused him to be dragged from the diligence in which he was traveling, taken to the woods, iied to a tree, and cruelly flogged. He was thereafter released and completed his journey; hut he iiever recovered from the violence and expos- ure. A fatal fever followed the lacerations, and his life soon paid the penalty of his patriotism. but urged to remain at the capital during the war proved of the greatest service in arranging these interviews, and, in other ways, promoting the ne- gotiations. These interviews and negotiations covered many weeks time. They were persisted in during the civil revolution proclaimed by Canalozo, February 27th, and continued until a sufficient number in the exec- utive departments of the government and of lead- ers in Congress had, by pledging their support of the measures proposed, given to the treaty the bap- tism to which I have heretofore alluded. The con- dition precedent to these pledges was that the United States forces should first demonstrate their superior power by the capture of Vera Cruz, and by full preparation for a march upon the capital. Upon this accomplishment the peace party would declare in favor of honorable terms, and compel the immediate acceptance of the treaty. The verbal acceptance, upon understood condi- tions, of this g5rojet of peacethe task undertaken by Mr. Beachwas now fully accomplished. It remained only to transmit the names of the persons who might be relied upon to carry the three points into effect, and to do this without in any manner compromising them. This was accom- plished by the skillful use of a circular of arrange- ments for a grand ball, then about to take place. In this circular appeared the names of leading men of every shade of politics and social position. Only those who corrected the printers final proof were aware that the names which occurred in a certain numerical order were the names of persons who had given assent to the three points. Copies of this ball-programme were easily forwarded; but safely to deliver the key to General Scott and to the official representative of the United States, whom Mr. Beach momentarily expected, was more diffi- cult. Meanwhile the attack on Vera Cruz was com- mencing, and Mr. Beach was becoming impatient for the appearance of the long-promised commis- sioner. It seemed important that communication should be opened with General Scott to the end that he might be prepared for the promised early peace, and Mrs. Storm undertook the performance of that duty. Fleeing citizens of many nationalities were then the only passengers by diligence to Vera Cruz, and among these she was enrolled. One day early in March she presented herself to Gen- eral Scott. The redoubtable military leader was slow to accept her statements, and uttered an epithet regarding her, which, had it found its way to the public press, would have become not less a by-word than was, at that very time, the generals hasty plate of soup. The days of March were passing. Scott was storming Vera Cruz, and Mr. Beach was wearily wait- ing the appearance of the promised envoy. Santa Anna, released from his forced attentions to General Taylor, had returned to the capital. At last came the announcement: Washington, March 5thGeneral Benton will leave on Thursday. He goes to the seat of war as plenipotentiary and 39 140 COMM UNICA lYONS. envoy extraordinary, th power to draw at sight on the sub- treasury at New Orleans for three millions of dollars. The naval and military forces will act in concert with him, hut no armistice will he granted except upon the conclusion of a treaty of peace, duly ratified in Mexico. But even this tardy actiontwo months later than it was promised to Mr. Beachwas to he discon- certed. The very next announcement was: Washington, March rathBenton has declined because, to make his service effective, he would need an appointment superseding the authority of General Scott, and this was re- fused by the Senate. While this was passing at Washington, a messen- ger from the Palace appeared at Mr. Beachs lodg- ings with an invitation to that gentleman to wait upon the Mexican PresidentSanta Anna. With a confidence in his good star, based upon his previous experiences with Mexican officials, he prepared for immediate compliance. Fortunately for himself, perhaps, he tarried to renew his toilet, and during the interval Consul Black entered his rooms, as was his wont, unannounced. Observing Mr. Beachs movements, the white-haired old man kindly asked his destination. Going to get my treaty signedlook at that! and he pointed to the open invitation. Scarcely had Consul Black glanced at its contents before he sprang to his feet with an emphatic No! No!! No!!! With a lifes experience in Mexican treachery he declared that such an invitation at such a time, could have but one interpretation. Your life, said he, is, from this moment, in imminent peril. rake your daughter and join the company who leave for Tampico this very night. I will send horses and a guide to your door. Say to your landlord that you have accepted the hospitali- ties which he knows have been tendered you by Sefior , whose hacienda is ten leagues away. Do not disturb your trunks er effects. Say nothing about t~his invitation from the Palace: I will answer for that. With cheerful compliance Mr. Beach and his daughter mounted their horses, and started in the darkness upon their long ride. The night start, being one of the usual customs of the country, was quite unnoticed. The appointed place of rendezvous was distant some few miles from the city, and there, during tbe night and early morning, the company, in which many nationalities were represented, grad- ually gathered. For ten days the generally monot- onous travel continued, and then, with hearts relieved, they entered the American lines. A gov- ernment transport immediately conveyed Mr. Beach and his daughter to Vera Cruz, where they joined Mrs. Storm. The gruff old soldier, General Scott, listened to Mr. Beachs narrative, and concluded the interview with a jocular caution siever to send mes- sages of such importance by a plenipotentiary in petticoats. The middle of April had come, but there was yet no envoy from Washington with the official seal upon the three points. Learning of disaster in some of his personal affairs, and full of mental male- diction upon red tape in general and this instance of it in particular, Mr. Beach abruptly retreated. He reached New Orleans April 22d, 1847, at about the same time as the long-delayed negotiator (the late N. P. Trist) who was then on his way to Mexico. But the two gentlemen were each ignorant of the others near presence. To the President and the Secretary of State, Mr. Beach made a full personal report of the service he had rendered, and received from each the warmest encomium for the prudence, skill and steadfastness which he had conspicuously manifested. It is unnecessary, perhaps, to recall the after-his- tory of the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo; but this nar- rative will in some measure explain the indignation of President Polk and his Cabinet at the unauthor- ized change in the basis of the negotiations, and at the undue influence which the British minister was suffered to exercise in the transaction; as also their dissatisfaction with General Scott for granting an armistice in the face of explicit instructions to the contrary. The bitter opposition made by Senators Houston and Douglas and other supporters of the Administration, to a ratification of the treaty, will also be better understood. Had simple, straight- forward perseverance in the course of action pre- determined by the President and Cabinet, and made an important feature in the original preparation of the three points, been adhered to, the war would have been shortened by months and millions would have been saved, while the territory subsequently purchased at large cost, with much more, would have been added, without payment of any kind, to the domain of the American republic. M. S. BEACH. A Note from C. B. Chlapowski. To THE EDITOR OF ScRIBNERS MONTHLy: DEAR SIRThe highly complimentary article in your March number on my wife (Mine. Modjeska) contains some personal errors, not important to the American reader, but of great weight to me. I hope, therefore, you will not refuse me the favor of inserting the following few lines intended to rec- tify them. First, the author mentions my uncle, General Chlapowski, as having commanded in the cam- paign of Moscow a wing of the French army, as well as having been Polish commander-in-chief dur- ing the insurrection of 18301. This is a mistake, which has originated, I suppose, from the simili- tude of name with General Chlopicki, who had an important command in the campaign of Moscow, and later was Polish Dictator, in 1830I. My uncle took part in the campaign of Moscow only as an qificier dordonnance attached to the person of the Emperor Napoleon, and later, during tlse Polish war, was not commander-in-chief, but commander of a separate corps, sent to Lithuania for a diversion. As he performed his duties in a way which reflects honor upon his name, I think it an injustice to him to adorn him with a rank that he did not hold. The second error concerns myself. The article HOME AND SOCIETY 4 magnifies my political importance in my country, and does me too much honor in calling me a proscribed exile. It is true that I served in the Polish insurrection of 1863, that I passed nineteen or twenty months in Prussian prisons, and that I was the editor of a political newspaper in Cracow; but I never was exiled, not having had either oppor- tunity or ability to distinguish myself so much as to receive such a flattering mark of esteem from the Russian government, which is the only one in which the penalty of exile still exists. There are thou- sands of my countrymen who have done and suffered so much more for the national cause, that I deem it unworthy of me to assume or accept undeserved titles to the public sympathy and admiration. At last, may I be allowed to add, in regard to some remarks of the writer about my native land, that although Poland has passed through many more or less fortunate wars, it never was subjugated before I 772, the fatal year when the crime of its first partition was accomplished; also, that the popu- lations of Cracow and Warsaw, far from being mixed, are thoroughly and essentially Polish, as well from origin as in heart. Yours, C. BOZENTA CHLAPOWSKI. HOME AND SOCIETY. The Boys of the Family.I1I. HOW TO BECOME A MECHANICAL ENGINEER. WHILE the aspirant in the field of mechanical engineering may acquire a satisfactory education at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, at Cornell University, at the Sheffield Scientific School connected with Yale, at the Rensselaer Polytechni- cal School of Troy, and at several colleges, including Harvard and the University of Michigan, which make a feature of instruction in technology, none other offers him the same facilities as the Stevens Institute of Hoboken, New Jersey, which, though its curriculum may lead to the degree of Bachelor of Science or Doctor of Philosophy, concentrates most of its forces on this one specialty. The insti- tute was founded in x867 by the endowment of the celebrated engineer, Edwin A. Stevens; it is pleas- antly situated in Hoboken, about one hours dis- tance from the central part of New York City, and its faculty includes many eminent men, including Henry Morton, the president; Robert H. Thurs- ton, the professor of mechanical engineering, and Alfred M. Mayer, the professor of physics. The collection of apparatus is undoubtedly the most complete in the country, and comprises, besides full sets of those embodying late improvements, the identical instruments used by the most famous discoverers in science,notably those of Dalton, Gay-Lussac, Dumas, and Regnault. The cabinet of optical instruments has been declared to con- tain more riches than all the cabinets of France, and, perhaps, of Europe combined, and in the engineering department the collection includes, be- sides a variety of modern machinery, some invalu- able relics, such as the high-pressure condensing engine, tubular boiler and screw, which, early in the - century, drove the first steamer built by John Stevens, eight miles an hour up the Hudson. While availing himself of instruments of exquisite adjustment and perfect finish which facilitate his work in a manner unknown to his predecessors, the student can trace the successive developments by the actual object (much more memorable than a printed description), and find a stimulus to ambi tion in repeating the experiments made by Far- aday or others with the very apparatus that the great physicists themselves employed. Other things being equal, the equipment of its physical and mechanical laboratories would still give the Stevens Institute an advantage over other schools in preparing young men for the profession of a mechanical engineer. The boy who has a positive talent in this direc- tion is apt to reveal it at a tender age. Like the cacoe~/hes vcribendi, which plunges its immature vic- tim into such trifling literary matters as epics and tragedies without compelling a knowledge of orthog- raphy or prosody, the mechanical instinct is urgent and overflowing, and applies itself to practice at a very early period. It has been known to sepa- rate all the parts of a watch which has been incautiously left within the reach of a seven-year- oldto separate them so perfectly that they could never be put together again; and tnother manifesta- tion familiar in many large families, has been the unaccountable removal of all the door-knobs, or the suddenly eccentric conduct of an old kitchen clock which has hitherto been unimpeachably regular in its habits. That there are apparently no tools or materials for this instinct to work upon is not an embargo. Its demands upon the domestic pharmacopceia are its most reprehensible feature; it is extravagant in requisitions for court-plaster, witch-hazel and bandages. Gradually developing from a diffusive and barren propctsity to tinker, it has achieved three definite results in a case known to the writer, when its possessor was only thirteen years olda model locomotive that went spasmodically, a model marine engine that would not go~ at all, and a model air-pump that inauspiciously burst. But has not the road to success always been paved by such failures ? not failures at all in the eyes of the young mechani- cian, but exciting and anticipated culminations. The mother may be happy and content, despite her anxiety over his cut and crushed fingers, if her boy evinces such inclinations for mechanical pur- suits; he is surely not idle nor stupid, and they open

Home and Society Home and Society 141-145

HOME AND SOCIETY 4 magnifies my political importance in my country, and does me too much honor in calling me a proscribed exile. It is true that I served in the Polish insurrection of 1863, that I passed nineteen or twenty months in Prussian prisons, and that I was the editor of a political newspaper in Cracow; but I never was exiled, not having had either oppor- tunity or ability to distinguish myself so much as to receive such a flattering mark of esteem from the Russian government, which is the only one in which the penalty of exile still exists. There are thou- sands of my countrymen who have done and suffered so much more for the national cause, that I deem it unworthy of me to assume or accept undeserved titles to the public sympathy and admiration. At last, may I be allowed to add, in regard to some remarks of the writer about my native land, that although Poland has passed through many more or less fortunate wars, it never was subjugated before I 772, the fatal year when the crime of its first partition was accomplished; also, that the popu- lations of Cracow and Warsaw, far from being mixed, are thoroughly and essentially Polish, as well from origin as in heart. Yours, C. BOZENTA CHLAPOWSKI. HOME AND SOCIETY. The Boys of the Family.I1I. HOW TO BECOME A MECHANICAL ENGINEER. WHILE the aspirant in the field of mechanical engineering may acquire a satisfactory education at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, at Cornell University, at the Sheffield Scientific School connected with Yale, at the Rensselaer Polytechni- cal School of Troy, and at several colleges, including Harvard and the University of Michigan, which make a feature of instruction in technology, none other offers him the same facilities as the Stevens Institute of Hoboken, New Jersey, which, though its curriculum may lead to the degree of Bachelor of Science or Doctor of Philosophy, concentrates most of its forces on this one specialty. The insti- tute was founded in x867 by the endowment of the celebrated engineer, Edwin A. Stevens; it is pleas- antly situated in Hoboken, about one hours dis- tance from the central part of New York City, and its faculty includes many eminent men, including Henry Morton, the president; Robert H. Thurs- ton, the professor of mechanical engineering, and Alfred M. Mayer, the professor of physics. The collection of apparatus is undoubtedly the most complete in the country, and comprises, besides full sets of those embodying late improvements, the identical instruments used by the most famous discoverers in science,notably those of Dalton, Gay-Lussac, Dumas, and Regnault. The cabinet of optical instruments has been declared to con- tain more riches than all the cabinets of France, and, perhaps, of Europe combined, and in the engineering department the collection includes, be- sides a variety of modern machinery, some invalu- able relics, such as the high-pressure condensing engine, tubular boiler and screw, which, early in the - century, drove the first steamer built by John Stevens, eight miles an hour up the Hudson. While availing himself of instruments of exquisite adjustment and perfect finish which facilitate his work in a manner unknown to his predecessors, the student can trace the successive developments by the actual object (much more memorable than a printed description), and find a stimulus to ambi tion in repeating the experiments made by Far- aday or others with the very apparatus that the great physicists themselves employed. Other things being equal, the equipment of its physical and mechanical laboratories would still give the Stevens Institute an advantage over other schools in preparing young men for the profession of a mechanical engineer. The boy who has a positive talent in this direc- tion is apt to reveal it at a tender age. Like the cacoe~/hes vcribendi, which plunges its immature vic- tim into such trifling literary matters as epics and tragedies without compelling a knowledge of orthog- raphy or prosody, the mechanical instinct is urgent and overflowing, and applies itself to practice at a very early period. It has been known to sepa- rate all the parts of a watch which has been incautiously left within the reach of a seven-year- oldto separate them so perfectly that they could never be put together again; and tnother manifesta- tion familiar in many large families, has been the unaccountable removal of all the door-knobs, or the suddenly eccentric conduct of an old kitchen clock which has hitherto been unimpeachably regular in its habits. That there are apparently no tools or materials for this instinct to work upon is not an embargo. Its demands upon the domestic pharmacopceia are its most reprehensible feature; it is extravagant in requisitions for court-plaster, witch-hazel and bandages. Gradually developing from a diffusive and barren propctsity to tinker, it has achieved three definite results in a case known to the writer, when its possessor was only thirteen years olda model locomotive that went spasmodically, a model marine engine that would not go~ at all, and a model air-pump that inauspiciously burst. But has not the road to success always been paved by such failures ? not failures at all in the eyes of the young mechani- cian, but exciting and anticipated culminations. The mother may be happy and content, despite her anxiety over his cut and crushed fingers, if her boy evinces such inclinations for mechanical pur- suits; he is surely not idle nor stupid, and they open 142 HOME AND SOCIETY to him all the possibilities of a growing, permanent and lucrative profession. For such a boy there is no better preparation than the course of the Stevens Institute, candidates for admission to which are examined about the end of September. They must not be younger than sixteen, and must be well grounded in all English branches, especially in the properties of numbers, the opera- tions in common and decimal fractions, the methods of finding the greatest common divisor and the ex- traction of the roots of numbers. In algebra the requirements include simple equations, equations of the second degree and radicals of the second degree; in geometry, all of plane geometry (and not only must the facts be completely memorized but a logical process of reasoning must be shown); in trigonome try, the definitions, the trigonometrical solutions of right-angled plane triangles, and the solution of oblique-angled triangles; in English grammar, an exact knowledge of principles deduced from copious examples; in geography, a knowledge of the coun- tries, waters, etc., most frequently referred to in the daily newspapers; in composition, an essay upon a subject given at the time of the examination, em- bodying legible hand-writing, correct spelling, punctuation and syntax; and in universal history such a knowledge as will furnish a basis for subse- quent instruction in literature and the philosophy of history. The course of instruction lasts four years. In the department of mathematics and mechan- ics, the studies are, in the first year, elementary mechanics and review and conclusion of geome- try, trigonometry and algebra; in the second year, analytical geometry, differential and integral calculus; in the third year, analytical mechanics, the resistance of materials and the theory of bridge-building, and in the fourth year the theory of bridges and roofs and graphic statics. In the department of belles-let- tres they are (first year) rhetoric; second year, the historical elements and developments of the English language,its phonetic elements and logical forms; third year,English literature, and fourth year,Guizots History of Civilization in Europe. Chemistry is taught in the second and third years of the course, and in the fourth year to advanced students, according to special arrangements. In the department of physics, the first year is devoted to the inductive method of research, inductive mechanics, the properties of matter, pneumatics, heat, the laws of vibratory motions and acoustics;~ the second year, to the study of the applications of the laws of heat to the action of heat-engines and meteorology, light, magnetism and electricity; the third year to the explanation of the construction, methods of adjustment and manner of using instruments in precise measurements, and the fourth year to work in the laboratory. In the depart- ment of physics, the first object is to give thorough instruction by lectures and recitations with illustra- tions, followed by practical experiments in the labo- ratory; and the second to advance the knowledge of physics by original researches conducted by the professor of the department. The method adopted is of great service to the student inasmuch as all his interest is awakened as he verifies and extends by practical observation the facts acquired from the lectures and text-books. The instruction in draw- ing extends throughout the whole course. In the department of engineering two years are de- voted to the study of mechanical science and the materials of construction. The student becomes familiar with the construction of typical machines, and the form as well as the theory of prime movers. He spends two days a week in the workshop, and there learns the construction, use and manipulation of machine tools,the mechanics knack,and he observes work in progress under the hands of ex perienced men. He visits the foundry, where the molder is busy, and he soon learns the technic of that business; pattern-making and other occupations are seen in practice. In brief, it is intended that though he may not leave the institute a completely equipped workman, he shall be prepared to be. come one in a short time. In the mechanical labo- ratory, he uses the apparatus of the engineer and learns the forms of machines for determining the tensile, tensional and transverse strength of materials, the steam-engine, indicator, etc.; he takes part in tests of all kinds of materials of construction, and in using the dynometer, the pyrometer and other instru- ments. The exceptionably complete outfit of this laboratory, Professor Thurston has said, and the wide range obtained by it in doing its work, as a matter of business for all kinds of business men, gave opportunities which, confident as I was of its ultimate success, I did not imagine when I undertook its organization. These advantages are obtained, and the laboratory pays its own ex- penses. In estimating the students capabilities, the high. est value is attributed to proficiency in engineering; mechanical drawing stands second, physics third, and French and German fourth. The course is exacting, and not more than one half-the candidates admitted are finally graduated. It is safe to say, however, that the boy whose inventive exploits we have mentioned above, succeeds by the persistence and earnestness of application that make success almost inevitable in any walk of life. The fees for the entire course are two hundred and twenty-five dollars, except to students resident in New Jersey, who are charged one hundred and fifty dollars, according to a clause in the will of the founder. This sum includes instruction and the use of instruments, but the cost of any damage done nfay be deducted from a deposit of ten dollars, made when the student enters. Four scholarships, conferring the privilege of attending the course gratuitously, are given annually,one to the graduate of the Stevens High School who passes the best examination at the end of the spring term, and three to the most successful graduates of the Hoboken public schools. The High School, also endowed by Mr. Stevens, is practically a department of the Institute for aca- demic instruction, and its relations with the latter give it peculiar advantages in scientific studies. The fees for tuition are one hundred and fifty dol- lars a year, inclusive of all extras. HOME AND SOCIETY 43 Richly as the Institute is endowed, it offers only one prize, a sum of twenty-five dollars annually, for proficiency in chemistry, and it makes no provision for boarding its students, except in keeping a list of desirable houses for their consultation. The cata- logue mentions eight dollars a week as being about the average cost of board, but it is not easy to be specific in writing upon this matter without mis- leading, as much depends on the resources of a stu- dent and his previous habits of life. It appears to us that eight dollars may be said to be the maxi- mum, rather than the average. For that sum he should be able to obtain a well-furnished single room and a liberal table, while numerous comfort- able boarding-houses are open to him at six or seven dollars, and others at a still smaller sum. If his means are small, he may be able to find ac- commodations for five dollars a week, and by club- bing with other students in circumstances similar to his ownperhaps renting one of the small cottage houses that abound in Hoboken, furnishing it fru- gally and catering personally (a somewhat dubious but an interesting experiment), he may teach the world undreamed-of domestic economies. A gradttate is not likely to wait long for employ- ment at any time, and in a favorable season he is pretty sure to find an opening as soon as he leaves the Institute. His salary as a beginner may not be large, but it will probably be sufficient to support him. The profession is not overcrowded; it is dig- nified and lucrative; and in an age of iron and steam, of wonderful engineering accomplishments and po- tentialities, an alumnus of the Institute need never despair of securing an ample livelihood, and obtain- ing a good position in society as he matures. Of the students recently graduated, one is now engaged in a steam-heating and ventilating establishment; another has a position on the Michigan Southern Railway; another is employed as instructor in the In- stitute; another as a consulting engineer; another in the Midvale Steel Works; another as assistant-editor of a technical publication; another in the Franklin Paper Mills; another in the engineer corps of the United States navy; another in the car-shops of the Pennsylvania Railway; another in a manufactory of brick machinery; another as professor of engin- eering at Yeddo, Japan; another as a patent lawyer; another at ship-building works in St. Petersburg, Russia, and another on a survey and exploration of the western territories. These, in brief, indicate the variety of positions to which a graduate is eligible. WILLIAM H. RIDEING. Note.The Maternity Society. IN the December number of this magazine, men- tion was made of the Maternity Society of the Church of the Transfiguration of this city, and some expla- nation was given of the aims and motives of this most worthy organization. The third annual report of the society has recently been issued, and in it the secretary, referring to the notice of the association in these pages, says: We are indebted to ScasaNEgs for making our work known in different parts of the country: letters have been received from western and northern cities, and from Manchester, asking for more information on the subject that similar societies might be established on our plan. In all cases this information has been cheerfully given; and any one who may desire to have further knowl- edge of the workings of this novel, useful and self- respecting charity, or who may be glad to read the annual report giving particulars of its work, has but to apply to the Secretary of the Maternity Society, Church of the Transfiguration, No. East 29th street, New York. A Design for a Fire-place. An English gentleman, who seems not to he aware of the extent to which fire-placesare in use in this country, sends ns the followingdescription of a fire-place (shown in the cut), forwhich he claims unusual advantages. The nsa of fire-hrick in making ornamental tiles is, we helieve, entirely new. He says: I SEE by your pages that the open fire, which is all but universal in Britain, is strongly recommended for adoption in the States. It is of some importance that a good form or pattern of fire-place should be introduced, otherwise the experience may be so un- satisfactory as to prejudice the users against open fires altogether. There is no question that many fire-places in England are as ill adapted for their purpose as fire-places can be, and that many of them afford the minimum of heat for a given expen- diture of coal. I venture to send you a drawing and description of a fire-place, which is, in my expe- rience, unsurpassed for radiation of heat and perfect combustion of coal, and which has also proved itself a remedy for a smoky chimney. The first thing to note is that there as little iron as possible is made use of. There is a bottom grate and front bars only; the combination is here called Leamington bars; but there are two points to be studiously attended to in these; first, the front bars must be beveled inward on the opposite side; second, the bottom grate must be set below the level of the lowest bar from a half to three-quarters of an inch. Unless these points be observed the coal will fall out and litter the hearth, and the action of the grate be imperfect. The next thing to note is that the jambs or cheeks of the fire-place are set at an angle of 450 from the wall face, so as to form a right angle where they meet. Thus, if the width of the opening be three feet, the depth of the triangle will be eighteen inches. The depth may be increased a little without much detriment, but if it be diminished so as to make the angle at the apex greater than 9O~, the fire will lose its power, in proportion to the increase of the angle. These jambs may be built of fire-brick, but for ap- pearance I have had blocks made to form the side and back of the fire-chamber, and tiles 6X6X2, of glazed fire-clay (salt glazed) for the jambs; and again, for superior work, painted or majolica tiles are used at the front part of the jambs. All these details are shown on the drawing, but I draw atten- tion to them in order to indicate what is essentiat and what merely accidental. 44 HOME AND SOCIETY L SIDE LLLVATION FIRECLAY I have tried lining the whole jamb with painted or printed tiles, but they will not stand the heat at the back over the fire. In a fire-place of this kind, after the fire is fairly lighted, let the grate be filled up with coal,small coal on the top,and leave it. Before long it will be all aglow, the fire-brick will be red-hot and the fire will burn on with the most perfect combustion, and throwing out a volume of heat that will surprise any one accustomed to ordinary grates. When the combustion slackens, let the ashes be cleared from the bottom grate with the poker, and immediately the fire will brighten up again. At the close of a day in my office there will be but a sprinkling of ashes on the hearth. The fire-place there is only twenty-six inches wide; the room is about 23 X21, and, when entering by a door on the opposite side to the fire, the heat is felt at once. The grate should be higher than usual above the hearth, or the lintel of the opening should be lower than usual, because of the great openness of the manner of setting. Also, some coals may be too swift for a fire of this description, viewed economically. It is a rec- ommendation that it will burn anything. The fire-place represented was used in a billiard. room. The wood-work is pitch-pine, the slips and fender of black-and-gold marble; the hearth is tiled, and there are majolica tiles in the jambs. Above the chimney-piece is what may be called a reredos, in which hand-painted tiles (Doultons), representing different birds, are introduced. W. R. CoasoN. ~RO NT. ELEVATION CULTURE AND PROGRESS. CULTURE AND PROGRESS. Max Miillers Origin and Growth of Religion. * MAX MtYLLER occupies in the domain of philology a position analogous to that of the late Professor Agassiz in natural history. He is a poet and an idealist, while his labo~s deal with hard facts, and con- tinually result in apparent triumphs for the positiv- ists, or those who believe nothing but the immediate evidence of their senses. Just as the discoveries and arguments of Agassiz can he used as capital hy the strict adherents to the theories of Darwin, so the results obtained in philology by Max Miiller play into the hands of those who think that philology as well as natural history ultimately disproves the claims of revealed religion. Perhaps the knowledge of the difficulties before him on the great battle-ground between positivists and idealists induced Max Muller to resign his professorate at Oxford and devote himself to philology considered on ~a larger scale, that is to say, not merely as applying to the questions of what tongues men have spoken and how they came to speak them as they do, hut as furnishing an additional proof that a higher power presides over the fate of man, and that the grave does not absorb all or even the better part of human beings. The lectures delivered in April, May and June, of last year, in the Chapter House of Westminster Abbey, under the terms of a will left by Robert Hibbert, seek to give a firmer and a scientific basis to the dogmas of immortality and a divine ruler which are preached by clergymen of different races and relig- ious sects throughout the world. Not being a clergy- man himself, and probably not even belonging to any one congregation or religious community, Max Miiller will be listened to where a regularly ap- pointed priest would receive no attention. The Hibbert trustees, of whom Dean Stanley is one, have been wise in appointing Max MUller, another of their number, to open the series of lectures. His eminent position in philology secures an au- dience among churchmen, and his situation as an outside student of religion gives him a hearing among those who deny. It is important to remem- ber that he denies a revealed religion, or at any rate puts all revelations aside as begging the question. Especially is this the case with revelation proceeding from outside. As to the internal revelation of reli- gion in the mind of man, that would demand, ac- cording to Max Muller, a special instinct called the religious instinct, analogous to the postulating of an instinct for any other attribute of man for which we seek an explanation. Religion is passing through a historical evolution, the result of which we cannot tell, but the passage of which we can observe. Max MUller attempts to define religion as follows: Religion is a mental faculty which, independent of, nay, in spite of, sense and reason, enables man to apprehend the infinite under different names and under varying disguises. Without that faculty, no religion, not even the low- est worship of idols and fetiches, would be possible; and if we will but listen attentively, we can hear in all religions a groaning of the spirit, a struggle to conceive the inconceivable, to utter the unutterable, a longing after the Infinite, a love of God. His attack on positivism is aimed at a position of which the theory of fetichism is the key. According to this theory the fetichism of a savage arises, first, from a sense of surprise at some bright pebble, or bit of hair; secondly, from a feeling that there is some living human or divine nature in the pebble or hair; thirdly, from the admission of a causal connec- tion between that object and certain effects, such as victory, rain, health; fourthly, from a recognition of the object as a power deserving of respect and wor- ship. Max MUller thinks that theorists after this fashion take for granted in savages, or in primitive man, concepts which the latter are far from being able to frame. They suppose a religion entirely made up of fetichism. In the chapter Is Fetichism a Prim- itive Form of Religion, he tries to prove that travelers and theorists have been mistaken. Pres- ident De Brosses, who first wrote on the subject, mixed up physiolatry, or the worship of natural objects of awe, such as rivers, mountains, etc.; zoblatry, or the worship of animals, and fetichism proper, the worship of a tangible dead object as a supernatural thing. He also confounded with fet- ichism, idolatry, or the worship, in a symbol or image, of something beyond. This part of MUllers lectures is deeply interesting and his steps are care- ful, but by no means clear. He acknowledges that idolatry and fetichism tend to run into each other, and endeavors to keep them separate. It prepares the way to his investigation of religion as it appears in its most archaic form in the older hymns of the Vedas. Here he defines and sepa- rates again. Fetichism proper does not exist to any extent in the older hymns of the Rig-Veda, but in the more modern, particularly in those of the Atharva-Veda, there is plenty of fetichism. Thus, having denied that the fetichism among savages of the present day is really religion, save in the most extended use of that term, he brings the oldest Aryan religion to show that fetichism was not the origin of the most ancient pantheon of the world. Of course it is impossible to give even an outline of his arguments here; philology plays an impor- tant part and we witness the slicing up and disinte- gration of words with the pleasure that skillful work of all kinds insures. But before getting to fetichism and the Veda, Max Muller generalizes on the text supplied by the word infinite to very good effect. Positive philosophy calls everything finite, or limited, which is supplied through the senses. Yet the very idea of a limit implies that 45 * Lectures on the Origin and Growth of Religion, as Silus- trated by the Religions of India. By F. Max Muller, M. A. New York: Charles Scribners Sons. VOL. XVIII.i I.

Culture and Progress Culture and Progress 145-154

CULTURE AND PROGRESS. CULTURE AND PROGRESS. Max Miillers Origin and Growth of Religion. * MAX MtYLLER occupies in the domain of philology a position analogous to that of the late Professor Agassiz in natural history. He is a poet and an idealist, while his labo~s deal with hard facts, and con- tinually result in apparent triumphs for the positiv- ists, or those who believe nothing but the immediate evidence of their senses. Just as the discoveries and arguments of Agassiz can he used as capital hy the strict adherents to the theories of Darwin, so the results obtained in philology by Max Miiller play into the hands of those who think that philology as well as natural history ultimately disproves the claims of revealed religion. Perhaps the knowledge of the difficulties before him on the great battle-ground between positivists and idealists induced Max Muller to resign his professorate at Oxford and devote himself to philology considered on ~a larger scale, that is to say, not merely as applying to the questions of what tongues men have spoken and how they came to speak them as they do, hut as furnishing an additional proof that a higher power presides over the fate of man, and that the grave does not absorb all or even the better part of human beings. The lectures delivered in April, May and June, of last year, in the Chapter House of Westminster Abbey, under the terms of a will left by Robert Hibbert, seek to give a firmer and a scientific basis to the dogmas of immortality and a divine ruler which are preached by clergymen of different races and relig- ious sects throughout the world. Not being a clergy- man himself, and probably not even belonging to any one congregation or religious community, Max Miiller will be listened to where a regularly ap- pointed priest would receive no attention. The Hibbert trustees, of whom Dean Stanley is one, have been wise in appointing Max MUller, another of their number, to open the series of lectures. His eminent position in philology secures an au- dience among churchmen, and his situation as an outside student of religion gives him a hearing among those who deny. It is important to remem- ber that he denies a revealed religion, or at any rate puts all revelations aside as begging the question. Especially is this the case with revelation proceeding from outside. As to the internal revelation of reli- gion in the mind of man, that would demand, ac- cording to Max Muller, a special instinct called the religious instinct, analogous to the postulating of an instinct for any other attribute of man for which we seek an explanation. Religion is passing through a historical evolution, the result of which we cannot tell, but the passage of which we can observe. Max MUller attempts to define religion as follows: Religion is a mental faculty which, independent of, nay, in spite of, sense and reason, enables man to apprehend the infinite under different names and under varying disguises. Without that faculty, no religion, not even the low- est worship of idols and fetiches, would be possible; and if we will but listen attentively, we can hear in all religions a groaning of the spirit, a struggle to conceive the inconceivable, to utter the unutterable, a longing after the Infinite, a love of God. His attack on positivism is aimed at a position of which the theory of fetichism is the key. According to this theory the fetichism of a savage arises, first, from a sense of surprise at some bright pebble, or bit of hair; secondly, from a feeling that there is some living human or divine nature in the pebble or hair; thirdly, from the admission of a causal connec- tion between that object and certain effects, such as victory, rain, health; fourthly, from a recognition of the object as a power deserving of respect and wor- ship. Max MUller thinks that theorists after this fashion take for granted in savages, or in primitive man, concepts which the latter are far from being able to frame. They suppose a religion entirely made up of fetichism. In the chapter Is Fetichism a Prim- itive Form of Religion, he tries to prove that travelers and theorists have been mistaken. Pres- ident De Brosses, who first wrote on the subject, mixed up physiolatry, or the worship of natural objects of awe, such as rivers, mountains, etc.; zoblatry, or the worship of animals, and fetichism proper, the worship of a tangible dead object as a supernatural thing. He also confounded with fet- ichism, idolatry, or the worship, in a symbol or image, of something beyond. This part of MUllers lectures is deeply interesting and his steps are care- ful, but by no means clear. He acknowledges that idolatry and fetichism tend to run into each other, and endeavors to keep them separate. It prepares the way to his investigation of religion as it appears in its most archaic form in the older hymns of the Vedas. Here he defines and sepa- rates again. Fetichism proper does not exist to any extent in the older hymns of the Rig-Veda, but in the more modern, particularly in those of the Atharva-Veda, there is plenty of fetichism. Thus, having denied that the fetichism among savages of the present day is really religion, save in the most extended use of that term, he brings the oldest Aryan religion to show that fetichism was not the origin of the most ancient pantheon of the world. Of course it is impossible to give even an outline of his arguments here; philology plays an impor- tant part and we witness the slicing up and disinte- gration of words with the pleasure that skillful work of all kinds insures. But before getting to fetichism and the Veda, Max Muller generalizes on the text supplied by the word infinite to very good effect. Positive philosophy calls everything finite, or limited, which is supplied through the senses. Yet the very idea of a limit implies that 45 * Lectures on the Origin and Growth of Religion, as Silus- trated by the Religions of India. By F. Max Muller, M. A. New York: Charles Scribners Sons. VOL. XVIII.i I. 746 CULTURE AND PROGRESS. something exists beyond. The savage or primitive man sees somethingsay a mountainup to a certain point, but at the same time the perception of what he does not seeof the unlimited, the infinite, presses upon him. Mijiler suggests that we may be said, if not to see the invisible, then to suffer from the invisible, unlimited, infinite. Many ingenious and suggestive divisions are introduced in the course of the lectures on the worship of tangible, semi-tangible, and intangible objects. The first are things that can be felt all around; the second those that can not,like rivers, trees, the earth; the third, or non-tangible, are the sky, sun, moon, stars, and such objects. Through this lecture he pursues the clue given ia the pre- vious generalization on the feeling of the infinite, and re-enforces the argument that man cannot think of a thing at all without at the same time realizing something beyond which is immeasurable, and therefore infinite, which is therefore supersensual and supernatural. After leading up through the semi-deities and deities of the Vedic pantheon to the conception of an all-embracing Father and ruler of the world, he treats on the ideas of infinity and law, sometimesand Muller considers errone- ouslydenied to ancient people like the Aryans. Here we get a critical dissection of the word,Adifi, meaning originally boundless, which is used in the Veda for a deity not easily placed. The Sanskrit word Rita is then analyzed and referred back to the pathway of the sun across the heavens, an early symbol of what is right, which is the same as the foundation of law. But enough has been said to show that Max Miiller is working at his old fascinating subjects in his own fresh and plausi- ble way. Only, the ultimate topics with which he is now dealing are much more serious and far- reaching than those in Chips from a German Workshop. Hamertons Life of Turner. * THERE is a great difference between the method pursued by Mr. Hamerton in conducting a biogra- phy of Turner, and that used by Mr. Thornbury in his Life (published last year in this country by Henry Holt & Co.). The latter approaches Turner from a popular side, and his enthusiastic style, influ- enced somewhat by the picturesque English of Rus- kin, reflects the uncritical stand-point from which he regards his subject. But, during his life-time and ever since, Turner aroused, and still arouses, the most diverse opinions, both in regard to his person- ality and his work. The need for an impartial biog- raphy, written by a professional art critic, was there- fore never greater, and the present volume is all the more timely when so many readers have been put in possession of the main facts of Turners history and temperament by previous biographers. What is to be found new in Mr. Hamertons book is the technical estimate of Turners methods of work, together with a more balanced summing up of both his good and his bad qualities, as a man and an artist. When Thornbury proposed to write his life of Turner, he applied to Ruskin, as to the great Turnerian discoverer and imftressario, for permission to occupy the ground. Ruskin answered in a kindly spirit, and told him to regard as keys to Turners character these qualities, to wit: uprightness, gen- erosity, tenderness of heart, sensuality, obstinacy, irritability, infidelity. Of all.these Mr. Hamerton takes incidental note; but he does not agree with Ruskin in regard to the first two. In art he was by no means upright, since uprightness in art means that the painter adopts no tricks in the carrying out of his work. But Turner used many, chiefly because he was forever experimenting, instead of adopting one or two lines of work, like the old Dutch paint- ers, and sticking to them-faithfully. A modern who does the same as the Dutchmen is Meissonier. In the way of business, Mr. Hamerton impugns the strict uprightness of Turner, for it has been discov- ered that he sold prints of his etchings from re- touched plates as artists proofs. As to his gener- osity, the stories told by Thornbury and others of liberality on his part only prove, by the surprise the reported incidents occasioned, that they were excep- tions to the rule of Turners conduct. It has been said of the imagination of Turner, that his mind was as nearly as possible like those of Keats and Dante intermingled. Mr. Hamerton would substitute Shelley for Keats. He finds many close resemblances between the poetic outcome of these otherwise most unlike contemporaries. Like Shelley, he felt the fascination of the remote, and, while Shelley embodied it in verse, Turner fixed the enchantments of landscape distance on paper in a manner never known before his time. In the whole range of the difficulties which painters endea- vor to overcome, there is not one which tries their powers more severely than the representation of distant effects in landscape. These can never be studied from nature, for they come and go so rap- idly; they can never be really imitated, being usu- ally in such a high key of light and color as to go beyond the resources of the palette, and the finest of them are so mysterious that the most piercing eyesight is baffled. It should be noted that Stop- ford Brooke, in his Primer of English Literature, has drawn the same parallel between Shelley and Turner. Mr. Hamerton is always readable, and is at his best when criticising the work and processes of Turner. He describes by pen and pencil the actu- ality of Kilchurn Castle, and adds an outline of the same place according to the interpretation of Turner, thus showing most clearly the astonishing liberties he took in composing a landscape to which a definite name and locality were affixed. Most interesting is the account of his development from a painter in monochrome, who used bits of color to make people believe he was a colorist, into his actual position as a colorist. His early work was like that of his predecessors and contemporaries. As he grew old he became daring, imaginative, unfet * The Life of J. M. W. Turner, R. A. By Philip Gilbert Hamerton. Boston: Roberts Brothers. CULTURE AND PROGRESS. 47 tered by the actual, whether in form or colorin a word, an impressionist. Most of Turners Venice pictures, says Mr. Hamerton, are attempts to convey not exactly the sensation of color given by Venice itself, but an equivalent sensation; and although tbe Venices purchased by Mr. Vernon are already a wild extravagance in comparison with the sober but prosaic work of Canaletto, they were afterward surpassed in their own direction by his latest Venices. By painting thinly in oil or water-color, or both, on a white ground, he united the brilliance of water-color to the varied and rich surface of massive oil-painting. We are told of much of his work that it is very inferior in durability. Mr. Hamerton seems to be unduly harsh in his contin- ual return to the defects of Turner, and doubtless he will receive many castigations at the bands of admirers of that genius, but the simple truth is that Turner has been so indiscriminately praised that a volume of criticism is just what is needed to settle more firmly the really admirable qualities of the art- ist in our minds. We need a corrective to the overabundant sweet of Ruskins eulogy, and if Mr. Hamerton is not tart, at any rate he finds faults and speaks out about them. Nine illustra- tions from Turners sketches have been etched by Brunet-Debaines in order to give an idea of the degree of finish they received. There is one of special beauty of French Boats near Shore, with a Lowering Sky. This Life appeared at various times in the Portfolio (published here by Boo- ton), and although it cannot be said that Mr. Ham- erton shows a full appreciation of the beauties of Turners work; although he dwells more than would be well for a rounded biography on the short-com- ings of his subject; his contribution is the best yet made to the fame of Turner. Boyesens Goethe and Schiller. * PRoFEssoa BovEsEN brings to his task of sketch- ing the lives and commenting upon the works of the two great coryphei of German literature, a hearty sympathy, an intimate familiarity with his subject indicative of wide and careful study, and an agreeable, unpretentious style. In his choice of theme he is peculiarly happy, for, while the materials for such a book are almost inexhaustible, and easily accessible, they have still the charm of freshness for the average English reader, while the lives of the two strongly contrasted, yet closely related, poets, have an irresistiblealmost romanticattraction. Indeed, in the case of Goethe, Mr. Boyesen seems to be rather overburdened with his accumulated weight of mate- rial, and in a shorter space he has given us a far more succinct account of Schillers career and labors. The period of Goethes activity was so unusually pro- longed, his moral and intellectual development was so majestically slow, harmonious, and complete, his genius was of such enormous scope and unparalleled versatility, that it is a quite hopeless task to endeavor to convey, in so small a compass as the present vol- ume admits, any adequate idea of his achievements and personality. A more mature biographer would probably have laid less stress upon the numerous and swiftly succeeding love-affairs of the two poets, which are here made the principal salient points in the story of their lives. The somewhat monotonous level of the narrative is only relieved by the episodes (magnified into quite disproportionate prominence) of Friederike, Lili, Lotte, Madame von Stein, and Christiane Vulpius; of Laura Vischer, Margaret Schwan, Henriette von Arnim, Lotte von Wolzogen, Lotte von Kalb, and Lotte von Lengefeld. The name of Friederikes sister is of very little conse- quence in a brief summary of Goethes life; but, if it be worth giving at all, we can easily learn from Mr. Lewes that it was Salome, and from Wahrheit und I)ichtung that Goethe christens her, not Lu- cinda, as Mr. Boyesen tells us, but Olivia. The author avoids the ponderous solemnity and metaphysical subtleties of many of the German commentators, and adopts the same light, popular tone that Mr. Lewes chose for his biography. While this serves admirably for the rapid, sketchy outlines of portraits and narration, yet we do not find it suit- able when the author endeavors, as he proposes in his preface, to elucidate the obscure and apparently conflicting passages of the poets masterpieces. In his Commentary on Faust, he throws no new light upon the ambiguous allusions of the text; but condenses, with tolerable skill, the results of the great German Faust-students, besides giving us many of Goethes own interpretations of the mystic sym- bols, gathered from letters and conversations. Not but that, to our thinking, their obscurity has been absurdly exaggerated; the transparent allegories of the second part actually explain themselves, if we only bring to bear upon them the clear and open in- telligence which any work of imagination requires of us, and rid ourselves of the bewildering mass of foreign or personal allusion, moral doctrine and far- fetched pedantry, with which the commentators have darkened the text. If, however, there be any sym- bolism intended in such a creation as Homunculus, Mr. Boyesen does not deal with it in a very scholarly manner, when he informs us that it has never been satisfactorily explained, quotes Di.int- zer s opinion, and passes on, without venturing so much as a theory of his own to show that he has devoted any thought to so interesting a question. We cannot forget, as we read, one grave disadvan- tage under which the author labors: as we under- stand, this book in its original form was delivered in a series of lectures to the students of Cornell. University. The professor was naturally obliged to pre-suppose in his youthful hearers a condition of blank ignorance in regard to his subject, for which it is hardly necessary to make allowance with readers of ordinary cultivation. Thus the analysis of the plots of all the dramas and novels might well have been replaced, in the published volume, by a little more of detailed and discriminating criti- cism, of the kind of which Mr. Boyesen shows him- * Goethe and Schiller: their Lives and Works; including a Commentary on Faust. By Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen. N. Y.: Charles Scntmers Sons. 148 CULTURE AND PROGRESS. self capable in the following remarks upon the Homeric quality of Hermann and Dorothea: It is by no mere trickery of words that Goethe has succeeded in giving to his work this rare Greek flavor. In expressions like der wokiumzaiinele Weinberg, geftilgelie Worle, etc., the merest amateur will readily recognize the Homeric echo; but it is in the structural simplicity of the poem, in its broad rhythmic movement and its noble directness and purity of phrase, that the subttest Greek feeling of the poet especially manifests itself. (Page 112.) To readers who lack time or inclination to study for themselves the goodly sized and constantly in- creasing library of critical works which the Germans have dedicated to their two great national poets, Mr. Boyesen affords a comprehensive summary of the conclusions arrived at by his predecessors in the same field. Among his original contributions, we would call special attention to his well-considered and ap- preciative review of Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre, and his concise and intelligent remarks in his criti- cism of Schillers Braut von Messina, on the inad- missibility of the Greek chorus in the modern drama. Mr. Boyesen has so thoroughly accustomed us to his mastery of the English idiom, that we have long since ceased to he astonished at the grace, the fluency, and the manly vigor of his style. The merely technical difficulties which he has overcome are in themselves proof of his indomitable energy of will. We feel sure that the pleasant and reada- ble book before us is an earnest of much valuable and brilliant work from him in the future. Side notes and a topical table of contents partly supply the need of a careful index. Jamess International Episode. AMONG the Americans abroad who beard the 7British lion in his den, Mr. Henry James, Jr., is one of the most unobtrusive, but also one of the most effectual. He writes a paper on London restau- rants, and gently insinuates that they are very poor things in their way. He does not attack them vio- lently, after the vulgar Americans fashion, but with a subdued and fastidious style of satire points out their defects. In the latest short story we have frosn him, a story published in an English magazine, we see the same trait re-appearing with still more art- fulness. An International Episode brings Amer- ican and English people of fashion together in complications which, if not always in the highest sense complimentary to our compatriots, are at least soothing to national pride. The ultimate impres- sion is that the Americans are the cleverer set. Indeed, he makes his Englishmen recognize and state this fact as a kind of ethnological maxim. In other respects Mr. James distributes pretty evenly his gentle satire. There are the two sweet and amiable but decidedly slow young English- men, Lord Lambeth and Percy Beaumont, with the voluminous mother of Lord Lambeth, who awaits in Bessie Alden a daughter-in-law from the despised States. Then there is Mr. J. L. West- gate, the New York lawyer, who never finds time to get to Newport to see his pretty little wife; and the latter, who knows how to coquet both wisely and well. In the breathless periods of her talk Mr. James hits exactly the mingled tone of inde- pendence and anxious apology with which many women forestall any possible or probable attacks of Europeans on American manners or things. Finally, there is Bessie Alden, .the heroine, who is so csslturedthat Mr. James is compelled to make her indigenous in Boston, not New York, and, with her, a delightful minor figure from this city in the person of Willie Woodley, the gentlest, softest young man it was possible to meet, whose identity was fixed in New York as the best dancer in the world. These people and the t)~sree cities in which they figureLondon, New York, and Newport are shown with repeated touches of great delicacy and no little truth to life. Mr. James is indeed one of the most artistic reporters of the day and generation; nothing escapes him and nothitsg is put down crudely, but all passes first through tbe refin- ing medium of his talent. As in his other books, the close of the volume is the weak part. Either Lambeth and Bessie were in love with each other, and under those circumstances the situation de- manded tiseir marriage; or they were not, and in that case their love-affair becomes trivial. As Newman, in The American, ought to have been energetic and successful with Mine. de Cintr6, so the logic of this little book demands that Bessie Alden should face the hostile and decidedly under- bred women of the Lambeth family, and marry the sweet idiot she presumably loves. For she is meant for a type, not an original and individual personality, and it is not typical that she should reject Lord Lambeth. Not one woman in ten thou- sand would do so, even if her feeling for the young peer were no stronger than a cordial esteem. Colonel Dunwoddie, Millionaire. THE Southern States, under their double infliction of slavery and plantation life, have been so devoid of anything that approaches to literature, that the Southern writer who makes his mark to-day will have the advantage of a background quite free from competitors. The South produces and has always produced a vast horde of scribblers, men who are regarded with awe in a county and have a state reputation, poetesses who fling magniloquence into provincial newspapers and write novels of the Ha! ha! Damme style of fiction. But Southern writ- ers, almost without exception, are unknown abroad, and even in the Northern States only supply the demand for sensational reading to a moderate ex- tent. It is therefore with peculiar pleasure that one finds in the anonymous author of Colonel Dun- woddie, Millionaire, a writer of whom the educated and traveled Southerner need not be ashamed. He is, it is true, not yet outside the trammels of * An International Episode. By Henry James, Jr. New * Colonel Dunwoddie, Millionaire. A Story of To-day. York: Harper & Brothers. Library of American Fiction. New York: Harper & Brothers. CULTURE AND PROGRESS. 49 Southern political opinions, but perhaps, if he were, he would cease to be a Southerner. He is already broad enough to see the folly of snubbing the negro and courageous enough to make a negro the first character of his book. Colonel Dunwoddie himself is a type of man which was familiar enough in the Middle States some years before the war, but which a new generation has put out of sight. The South- erner is indeed a curious relic of the real American of the early part of the century, for those qualities in him which were not affected by the negro problem used to be seen as well developed in the North as in the South. And the Chinese wall ~rhich the South attempted to draw about itself since the rebellion, preserved this relic of the last American generation almost uncontaminated by Northern or European influences. Colonel Dunwoddie is one of those hot- headed, hrave and talkative Americans who conduct a battle like a lawsuit, and a lawsuit like a battle.; an energetic, impulsive, and, in a certain way, super- ficial man, who makes the best of husbands, a kind (rather too kind) father, a firm friend and a generous foe, so long as success is on his side. Of his ad- ventures in trying to make bread for his family, impoverished by the war, of his newspaper editing and county law business, the novel gives a clear account. He becomes a millionaire by a chance stroke of fortune, and discovers that the money has only added to his troubles. His poor neighbors become spiteful. Perhaps the best of the book is the family life of the Dunwoddies,the children all of different humors, some turning out well, others ill; but especially fine is the account of the influ- ence that Mrs. Dunwoddie exercises upon her family and neighbors. Like all Southerners, this writer has for his bug- bear miscegenation, and his way of attacking the ogre is to make his greatest scamp a mulatto. It does not speak well for us that white blood should turn a good, peaceable negro into a villain of the deepest dye. Another villain is white, but he is only a blustering, vulgar knave, who drinks hard and does not share in the popular veneration for the old fam- ilies of Andersons and Dunwoddies, and who, more~ over, is eventually reformed by his crippled daughter. A singular feature of the book is the poetry which heads every chapter, some of it of no mean quality; it is apparently original for the most part. We trust that the author will soon show his hand again and add his name to the title-page of an even better novel than the very interesting one he has contrihuted to Harpers Library of American Fiction. Signor Monaldinis Niece. * THE most complete and well-rounded novel which the No Name Series has so far published is written in Italy by an American long familiar with Rome. To a certain extent typical, yet each with an individ- uality of its own, the personages of the story impress the reader with the possibility of their existence, at the same time that they bear evident marks of ideal- ization. In other words, the anonymous writer has not merely fine powers of observation, but adds to observation a vein of imaginativeness of a very high order. There are similes employed which argue a rich poetic sense and passages that are bursts of poetic imagery. We are introduced to a whole list of characters, fine, base, or grotesque, who in their various ways give a vivid, though highly colored idea of the motley collection of persons of all nationalities and of varying positions in life who get together in Rome. To begin at the top, there is Don Philippo, an Ecce/enza whose family and political weight cause the hat of Signor Monaldini to scrape the ground. Monaldini himself is ajarvs-nu who pushes his way with the grace and subtility proverbial among Ital- ians, while Don Philippo is the really dignified and well-bred aristocrat. The heroine is Camilla de Mont- serrat, an orphan of mixed Italian and French blood, brought up in an ate/icr in France and condemned to life with the Monaldinis, subjected to all the limita- tions of freedom which surround Italian girls in large cities. She is penniless and independent, and falls in love with Don Philippo, whose wife is in an insane asylum. Minor characters, but nowise inferior, are the Baroness von Klenze, a rough, emancipated Bavarian woman who, like Don Phil- ippo, has made a marriage not for love; Carlisle, an American sculptor, who is of little use except to uphold American ideas against the Italian conser- vativeness of Monaldini; and Mrs. Brandon, an English woman who, in her conduct toward Miss Conroy, shows with great exactness the venom that women often infuse into the lives of other women, their friends, whom they envy. The Baroness von Klenze, talking to Camilla, says: That is the worst of our marriage system in Europe, that it destroys the delicate bloom of a womans soul. We are like cattle, sold to the highest bidder. We are true to the one who has bought us, maybe, though it is sometimes a strug- gle to be so, but our fidelity is that of one who keeps a hard bargain, not the glad unconscious fidelity of an affection which never dreams of falsehood. When Carlisle comes to the Monaldinis, attracted by Camillas beauty and grace, he says to his host: We spoke of America. Yes, our people are restless,but so is the ocean, and our bitter discon-. tent is the salt that keeps us healthy. America has been salt to other nations, the Italian said. American ideas have undermined every government in Europe, and unsettled every people. Your ocean has produced a deluge. And floated an ark, was the quick retort. As to the plot, that is carried on very clev. erly and without confusion among the different characters. The tragic incidents at the end are brought together with unexpected suddenness, as if the writer had felt that there was need of tragedy and gave it without stint. The last chapter is like the fifth act of an opera. Just before this the story drags a little. Camilla should not come to life again: it is too theatrical. But on the whole the tale is so fresh and sparkling, the observation of * Signor Monaldinis Niece. No Name Series. Boston; Roberts Brothers. 150 CULTURE AND PROGRESS. foreign life so good, and the love story of Don Philippo and Camilla so charming, that fault-finding seems ungracious. There are few books in the No Name Series which arouse more than a very languid interest in the author; but the person who wrote Signor Monaldinis Niece is an exception. Camilla is a very lovely ideal indeed. Ho~re11ss Lady of the Aroostook.~ THE complaint has sometimes been made against Mr. Howellss books that their charm lay verymuch on the surface, and that the characters delineated were, after all, not worth drawing. By this single book he has disposed of such objections as effectually as Thackeray refuted the charge of cynicism by drawing the character of Colonel Newcome. He has also pleasantly avenged himself on his critics by taking up the very personage whom he provoked them by abandoning once before. In his Private Theatricals he indicated so admirably in Rachel the very best type of New England country-girl, that it was quite annoying to have him assign her, at once, to a wholly subordinate part, and devote the main narrative to the rather tiresome devices of a vulgar village flirt. Now he comes back to us with the same fine type of maidenly character; he fits her outfrom the boundless resources of the novelist with rare beauty and a musical voice, and ships her alone to Europe, on a not very adventurous voy- age with two or three young men. Honor is to be given him for having done even tardy justice to a creation so excellent; and it is well that it should appear just when Mr. James has drawn, with almost equal truthfulness, so different a type of American maidenhood in Daisy Miller. Mr. Howells can no longer be criticised as preferring only insignifi- cant models, or as doing injustice to women, or as ignoring the best types of American character. So far, he has greatly elevated his fame by this one work; while it is up to his usual high level of exe- cution, in many admirable qualities. It therefore deserves careful criticism from the highest and most exacting standard ;. let us try to consider it in the artistic spirit which it deserves. The motive of the book is as simple as possible. A young girl from a village in northern Massachu- setts finds herself, through the inexperience of her friends, sent out as the only woman on a ~ailing ves- sel to the Mediterranean. Her fellow-passengers are three,two young Bostonians of the Arbuton type, and a dissolute young scapegrace who only once takes any important part in the plot. The whole story turns upon the surprise of the young Bostonians at the solitary position of the damsel, and upon their resolve to treat her kindly and save her all embarrassment; this having the natural and novel-like result, namely, that one of them becomes her lover and ultimately her husband, after the neces- sary obstacles are surmounted. Professor Channing, at Harvard College, used to warn his pupils that it was often hard for a writer to * The Lady of the Aroostook. By W. D. Howells. Boston: Houghton, Osgood & Co. find out when he had really said a thing, and hence he was apt to keep on repeating it. Here lies, to our thinking, the first defect of this story. The surprise of the whole situation, the girls finding her- self alone, is very soon put before the reader; but it is so elaborately urged upon us in successive con- versations, first, between the damsel herself and the cabin-boy; then between the grandfather and the aunt; then between the aunt and the clergyman; then between the two young men, between them and the captain, and so onthat it becomes a little trite at the very outset. There are too many people look- ing at it; all the sisters and the cousins and the aunts seem to be collected on the deck and saying, Did you ever?~ so that the sated curiosity rebels, and we cease to find anything startling in the situation. Then the talks which gradually develop the affair are so prolonged; the heroine and the cabin-boy converse for six pages without coining to anything for which a page would not have sufficed; and the young men pace the deck and analyze their own feelings with inexhaustible minuteness. The heros love-making reminds the experienced reader of the older French novels, such as Lbs Igare- ments du Cceur,which Sterne describes as the delight of fine ladies and their files de chambre, in his day,where it costs fifteen pages of conversa- tion to win for the lover a pressure of the hand, and a kiss takes thirty pages. We cannot help re- garding this slow and too minute unfolding as a frequent defect in Mr. Howellss work. And we have a more serious complaint to make against the hero himself. When Staniford, a well- bred young man of twenty-eight, finds an evidently innocent and quiet country-girl among the few pas- sengers on board, there is plainly but one course for him to adopt,to treat her politely and save her from any annoyance, if such there be, in her solitary position. If he had thrown out just a hint on this point to his friend, who was much younger, it might have been well enough; though he might naturally have taken for granted that his friends point of view must be the same; and to speak of it at all would have given an effect of self-consciousness to a very simple matter. But really our young gentle- man does so announce and expound and formulate the affair; he so attitudinizes over it, that we are led to doubt at last whether the elemental in- stincts of a gentleman are so very strong in him, after all. When he tells his friend of his pur- pose to treat their fellow-passenger kindly, the friend cries, with effusion: Youre a good fellow, Stani- ford! then Staniford repeats the statement, and the friends eyes glisten; then the captain talks good-naturedly about the young girl, and Staniford announces: Will you let me say that Im rather proud of having reasoned in much the same direc- tion with yourself? This is certainly giving quite as many words to ~he whole matter as it will bear; but the author here comes in with: This was spoken with that air which gave Staniford a peculiar dis- tinction, and made him the despair and adoration of his friend; it endowed the subject with seriousness and conveyed a sentiment of grave and noble sin- CULTURE AND PROGRESS. 5 cerity (page 13). But what was itin the name of common sense and good breeding and very good Boston families that this young fellow had done? He is described (page 97) as habitually showing a sort of elder-brotherly kindness for all young women; and could he not behave like an elder brother once more without making such a fuss about it? Jo make goodness disagreeable, accord- ing to old-fashioned Miss Edgewortb, is high trea- son against virtue; and it is a great pity, in proving that Staniford is not a blackguard, to come so dan- gerously near making him out a prig. We certainly know a great many honest men, from Boston and elsewhere, who would have done all that he did, ten times over, without feeling themselves to have earned the despair and adoration of their kind. Call the error only one of taste, if you please; there is another serious defect of taste in the disa- greeable fullness with which the drunken talk of Hicks is afterward given. It may be well enough done, as such things go, but after all it is essentially incongruous; it is like a chapter from Bret Harte inserted in one of George Eliots novels: a bit of broad and quite unpleasant realism where all else wears an ideal touch. We once happened to see an actor who played a drunken part like a gentleman; it was Hermann V~zin, in London, and the play was David Garrick. The great tragedian was supposed to pretend intoxication in order to disen- chant a stage-struck damsel who was bewitched about him. But, as Wzin justly reasoned, gross drunkenness would have been quite needless before an innocent girl, who had never seen even its milder forms; so he touched it very lightly and preserved her dignity, and the grace and beauty of the play. Ten words of Hickss drunken talk would have suf- ficiently given the key to the situation; ten pages of it impart a slight and undeserved flavor of vulgarity to the book itselt It is as if the author had been betrayed into giving too many particulars about sea- sickness. The minor characters on ship-board are drawn with Mr. Howellss wonted skill, and those at Venice are in his best vein, especially the trans- planted American lady, with the kindly English husband. It is a delicious touch of unreason that she should detest all English people but her spouse, and should yet conform scrupulously to their ways, precisely because she hates them and wishes to beat them at their own weapons. Her impulsiveness, gar- rulousness, inconsecutiveness and warmth of heart make up one of those types of which Mr. Howells is the absolute master. Then he draws the contrast so unflinchingly between the purity and absolute recti- tude of the New England girl and the questionable society around her in Venice, that one must wonder, more than ever, at the tone of habitual and almost bitter aversion with which the author allows himself to speak of the soil in which his heroine, after all, had grown, and of the social condition of American country-towns. Why praise the fruit and utterly con- demn the tree? Mr. Howells is amused when the un- traveled minister in South Bradfleld shows solicitude about the intellectual and moral standard prevailing in Italy; and yet what is the moral of the whole book unless to prove the South Bradfield standard, so far as it goes, the better? There was a certain quality in Lydia which made her purer, truer, nobler than the whole circle of men and women whom she met in Venice. If she did not get that quality in the despised country village, whence came it? After all, is not the rural life of New England, as painted by Howells and James, and w~at may be called the international school of novelists, almost as conventional as the stage Yankee? The picture is based, like that, on extravagances which have now pretty ~vell disappeared from nature, if they ever ex- isted. The village life which is kindly and even lovable in the hands of Mrs. Stowe, Mrs. Diaz and Miss Jewett,why should it become wholly grim and repulsive when the internationals portray it? With Mr. James it is probably want of cosmo- politanism; he has not taken the pains to make him- self personally familiar with his birthplace; he knows Americans well, in Europe, but has never studied them so carefully at home. With Mr. Howells the trouble lies partly in a very keen eye for the ludicrous, and partly, we suspect, in an ab- sence of genial sympathy with the bright side of things. It is impossible not to suspect a little want of healthy mental action in a writer who habitually takes such a gloomy view of external nature. He says: One must be very happy to endure the sights and sounds of the summer evening any- where (page 38), and we happen to remember that in a previous book he found the time of twilight equally intolerable; pronounced it oppressive in the city, desolate in the country, and in the suburbs not to be endured. Doubtless none but a newly ac- cepted lover can he happy at twilight. ( Suburban Sketches, page 89.) For aught we know he may at some other page have pronounced equal condem- nation upon morning and noon. Now we confess to knowing a great many human beings of all ages and conditions who are obtuse enough to be often happy at all these hours; and is it not possible that some of them might also be cheerful, in spite of Mr. Howells, at South Bradfleld? But, after all, a romance must stand or fall by its leading figure; and when we see how simple and noble is the main character in Mr. Howellss novel, how true to nature and to womanhood; when we observe how cordially he has lavished upon her all his fine perception and delicate delineation; then all criticisms on The Lady of the Aroostook be- come subordinate things, and we can clearly recog- nize that he has made a step forward in his high art. At last he has found a heroine. Who knows but his next book may bring us a hero? Mrs. Kembles Records of a Girlhood. * THERE is perhaps no department of literature in which there are more charming and delightful books than in that of dramatic biography. It includes the Apology for the Life of Colley Cibber, and Da- Records of a Girlhood. By Frances Anne Kemble. New York: Henry Holt & Co. 152 CULTURE AND PROGRESS. viess Life of Garrick, and the reminiscences of William Charles Macready. And in this broad class there is no more charming and delightful book than Mrs. Kembles Records of a Girlhood. By birth Mrs. Kemble was the niece of John Kemble, a student and a scholar, and of Mrs. Sid- dons, whose edition of Paradise Lost, prepared for reading aloud in families, now lies before us. Her father~ Charles Kemble, though less eminent as an actor than either his sister or his brother, was the first light comedian of his day, and the author of more than one successful play. The literary taste of the Kemble family is nearly as marked as its dramatic ability. Her mother was also a dramatist, and one of her plays The Day after the Wed- ding keeps the stage to this day; she was a Frenchwoman, and from her Mrs. Kemble seems to have inherited characteristics which modified most happily those which came to her from her father. Her mother and father and uncle and aunt were the associates of some of the best-known people in Eng- land,Campbell the poet, for instance, and Law- rence the painter,who were frequent visitors at the house, and with whom the younger members of the family had many opportunities of meeting. Her brother, as he grew to manhood, had for his best friends Arthur Hallam, Alfred Tennyson and his brother, Frederick Maurice, John Sterling, Richard Trench, William Doune, the Romillys, Edward Fitz-gerald, James Spedding, William M. Thackeray, and Richard Monckton Mimes, now Lord Hough- ton. These were the men whom Miss Kemble had as intimate friends as she grew out of girlhood. Her birth and her training fitted her to be worthy of them and to hold her own with them. The de- fect of her home education, she records (p. 274), was that, from the mental tendencies of all of us, no less than from our whole mode of life, the more imaginative and refined intellectual qualities are fos- tered in us, in preference to our reasoning powers. And this fostering of the imagination was as judi- cious as possible in quality, however injudicious it may have been in quantity. The direction in which the parents turned their children was the right one, although they may have urged them too swiftly along the path. in all things they sought to give their children a taste for the best and a distaste for what was bad. Nor can I ever be too grateful, says Mrs. Kemble (p. 217), that, restricted as were my parents means of developing in us the highest cult- ure, they were still such as, combined with their own excellent taste and judgment, preserved us from that which is far worse than ignorance,a liking for anything vulgar or trivial. That which was merely pretty in music, painting, or poetry, was never placed on the same level in our admiration with that which was fine, and though from nature as well as training we enjoyed with great zest everything that could in any sense he called good, our enthusiasm was always reserved for that which was best,an incalculable advantage in the formation of a fine taste and critical judgment. That Mrs. Kemble acquired a critical judgment of unusual acuteness and accuracy is evident from even a hasty perusal of this volume, in which one will meet again and again with bits of condensed criticism, summing up the merits and limitations of a writer into a brief and compact statement. Here is an example: Mrs. Kemble supposes (p. 384) that Shelley really was too deficient in the vigorous flesh-and-blood vitality of the highest and healthiest poetical genius to have been a dramatist. He could not deal with common folk nor handle com- mon things. Humor, that great tragic element, was not in him. And here is another, less acute it may be, but still showing a stalwart intellect for a girl of twenty: Massingers plays, she says, are such sterling stuff compared with the Isabellas, the Jane Shores, the everything but Shakspere (p. 389). That she gained a fine taste is equally beyond dispute. It was a taste that even made the profes- sion of acting, into which she was born and of which all her family on both sides were members, repugnant to her. The excitement and the personal exhibitionthe show part of theatric artwere all unpleasant to her. Theatrical puffery espe- cially was very distasteful to her. Mr. Mitchell, the manager of her readings in London, com- plained that she really went too far. She would not allow him to announce those celebrated readings, and she once said to her American agent, when he asked her for a few personal anec- dotes to be scattered carefully around in the news- papers, Take care what you do in that line, for if you overdo it in the least, I will write an article myself on my readings, showing up all their faults and turning them into ridicule as I do not believe any one else either would or could. So puffjust as quietly as you can. The American publishers have embellished the book with a portrait of Miss Fanny Kemble, taken about the time covered by her letters, and have also added an ample and much-needed index of persons and topics. Dr. Holmess Memoir of Motley. THE memoir of Motley, the historian, by Dr. 0. W. Holmes, is a book of uncommon interest to all cultivated men. It is not a life, but simply a mem- oir. The author does not aim at the cold impar- tiality of a historian, but avows the warm and active sympathy of a friend. He gives a ~ivid picture of the marvelous boy, full of poetry and romance, writing sketches and acting dramas before getting into his teens. There was in him from the first a prophecy of greatness, or, at least, of strangeness. His quickness in learning and his enormous read- ing gave him an early maturity and fullness.. He had, also, rare personal beauty, engaging manners, and every advantage that could be enjoyed in this rather prosaic and not very learned country; but he was no spoiled child of fortune. The reader of the memoir will see that this bright, versatile, and all-accomplished man could toil terribly. The failure of his novel was fortunate, for it led him to * Published by Houghton, Osgood & Co., Boston. 9 CULTURE AND PROGRESS. move immediately to his high destiny. An article on Peter the Great in the North American Re- view first showed his power of portraiture and his skill in rapid dramatic narration. All portents were favorable, and after a careful survey of the ground, and after taking the advice of competent scholars, he devoted his life to the history of Europe in the six- teenth and seventeenth centuries, especially in refer- ence to intellectual and religious freedons. Of liberty in church and state he is, among modern historians, probably the most ardent and indefatigable champion. What researches preceded, what labors attended, and what triumphs followed these histories, the reader will find set down chiefly in copies of Motleys own letters to his friends. Leaving any attempt at criticism, it may briefly be said that the place of Motley among the worlds great historians is secure. Motleys diplomatic career is treated at some length in the memoir, and while there would be honest differences of opinion between men two centuries apart, like Grant and Motley, it is not easy to escape the conviction that the recall from the English mission was mostly owing to Motleys persistent friendship for Charles Sumner, whom the Administration then intended to punish and humili- ate. There has been some counter-evidence in be- half of Mr. Fish, and General Grant has published his own statement through the convenient medium of a New York reporter; but Dr. Holmes thinks the whole to be but a pretense,that personal re- sentment gave the blow, and that reasons of state were then found to justify it. If this is not true, it certainly looks so, read in the flashing, heart-kindling words of the courageous biographer. Is it an impertinence to suggest to Boston that statues to her historians Motley and Prescottper- haps like those to Goethe and Schiller at Weimar would be not only deserved tributes to her honored sons, but greatly becoming to a literary city? Miss Robinsons Handful of Honeysuckle.l* Miss ROBINSON is a young Englishwoman who dedicates this first volume of verse to her father and mother, and prefaces it with this sonnet: HoNEvsUtZKLE. I gather from the hedgerows, where they spring These sunshine-yellow flowers, grown sweet i the air, Fearing to hope that ye can find them fair, Who at y our wish could have a costlier thing. Lovers, for you no passion-flowers I bring, Nor any roses for your ladies wear, No violets fragmot still from Sapphos hair, Nor laurel crowns to garland them that sing. But these are all I have, and these I give. True, they have languishd since they came to town, As music suffers in the writing down, And well I know they have not long to live. Yet for your sakes these left their country ways That, taken thence, are grown too poor for praise. The book is remarkable in its promise; it is note- worthy in its performance. In spite of her modesty; Miss Robinson, who is yet very young, has unusual natural gifts, deserving better employment than the echoing of Swinburne and Rossetti and even of Mr. Arthur OShaughnessy. The verse of this volume is really poetry; and the poet has a voice of her own though it has caught a trick or two in an artificial school. Moreover, the voice has more notes than one can often find in a young poets first book. Despite her disclaimer, there is real passion in Queen Rosalys; and in the Street Singer there is a curious and sympathetic subtlety; while here is a delightful little poem, charming in its quaintness, with a wit and a playful fancy and an airy grace recalling Herrick or Suckling: TO A DRAGON FLy. You hail from Dream-land, Dragon-Fly? A stranger hither? So am I. And (sooth to say) I wonder why We either of us came. Are you (that shine so bright i the air) King Oberons state-messenger? Come tell me how my old friends fare. Is Dream-land still the same? Who won the latest tourney fight, King Arthur, or the Red Cross Knight, Or he who bore away the bright Renowned Mambrinos Casque? Is Calihan Kings councillor yet? Cross Mentor jester still and pet? Is Suckling out of love and debt? Has Spenser done his task? Say, have they settled over there, Which is the loveliest, Guinevere Or Gloriana or the fair Young Queen of Oberons Court? And does Titania torment still Mike Drayton and sweet-throated Will In sooth, of her amours twas ill To make such merry sport. Ab, I have been too long away! No doubt I shall return some day. But now Im lost in love and may Not leave my ladys sight. Mine is (of course) the happier lot. Yettell them I forget them not, My pretty gay compatriot, When you go home to-night. 53 * A Handful of Honeysuckle. By A. Mary F. Robinson. London. C. Kegan Paul. 54 THE WORLD S WORK. THE WORLDS WORK. Edisons Electro-Motograph. THE telephone, though it is in both its forms in daily practical use in all parts of the world, still labors under one serious defect. It fails to repro- duce the words delivered at the transmitting end of the line in anything like their original volume. The conversion of the sonorous vibrations into electric action and its reconversion into waves of sound or spoken words imply a double loss, and it is only by holding the receiving instrument close to the ear that the words can be heard at all. To convert a slight electric action into mechanical action or work of equal or greater power at a distance has been the aim of research for some time, and after a long series of experiments, often given up in de- spair and then resumed, it has been accomplished. A telephonic receiver has recently been constructed that will perform work under the impulse of elec- tric action from a distance, or, in other words, that will reproduce sonorous vibrations having a volume equal to the initial vibrations. The above cut represents an ideal telephonic re- ceiver based upon the new discoveries in this direc- tion. It consists of a disk of mica about 12.5 cm. in diameter secured to one end of a short cylinder, having a trumpet-shaped funnel at the other end. To the center of this disk is fastened a flat strip of metal the outer end of which rests on the revolving cylinder, as shown in the figure. Above this strip of metal is a powerful spring that by means of a short rod, pointed at each end and resting in cups above and below to give it a slight lateral motion, presses the strip of metal firmly down on the cylinder. The wire from the telephonic line passes through the binding post and then to the metal strip near its junction with the mica diaphragm. The line to earth passes through a binding post to the base of one of the supports of the cylinder, the track of the current thus being through the metal strip to the cylinder, and its supports by the wire to earth. This apparatus at once suggests a form of musical tele- phone brought out some time ago andafterward with- drawn on account of certain defects of construction. This new appliance is, in fact, the same invention revived and now perfected by the original inventor, and brought to complete practical success under the title of the electro-motograph. The action of the electro-motograph depends on the fact, dis- covered during former experiments, and employed imperfectly in the musical telephone, that the fric- tion of moving bodies varies in greater or less degree with their electrical condition. In the electro-moto- graph acylinder made of prepared chalk and saturated with a strong solution of caustic alkali is set upon supports so that it can be turned upon its axis. A strip of metal fastened to the mica diaphragm rests on the cylinder and is pressed so firmly by its spring upon the cylinder that when it is turned by means of the handle the friction of the strip on the cylinder tends to pull the diaphragm out of shape, causing it to bulge inward as long as the cylinder is in motion. If now, while this motion of the cylinder is main- tained, an electric current passes through the strip of metal and then through the chalk cylinder to earth, the amount of this friction is varied or it is destroyed altogether, and the strip slides freely on the cylinder. This was the basis of the former invention. The release from fric- tion by a change in electric condition in the first instrument failed simply from ignorance of some slight mat- ters of detail, that in the electro-moto- graph are corrected and made practical. In the musical telephone the releasing of the frictional resistance by electric action caused the sounding-board of a guitar to vibrate, and thus set up sonor- ous vibrations. In the electro-moto- graph the mica disk takes the place of the guitar, and, by the improved con- struction of the apparatus, intricate and complex vibrations such as are pro- duced in speaking are reproduced in their original or even in greater volume. When the apparatus is at rest the diaphragm is motionless, and electric currents shot through the apparatus produce no effect. In the same manner the mere turning of the cylinder without electric action produces no effect, except to pull the diaphragm slightly out of shape. If while the cylinder is being turned an electric impulse arrives, the pull on the diaphragm caused by the friction of the strip on the cylinder is more or less released, and the diaphragm is free to vibrate or spring back into its original condition. If now, the electric impulses follow one another in regular order in correspondence with the sonorous vibrations imparted to the transmitting telephone, the alternate slipping and catching of the metal strip on the cylinder will follow in the same order, and thus the diaphragm will be made to vibrate in unison with the original vibrations, and thus reproduce the original words. As the mica disk is much larger than the disk of the transmitting instrument, the amplitude of its swing may be much NO. I.

The World's Work The World's Work 154-157

54 THE WORLD S WORK. THE WORLDS WORK. Edisons Electro-Motograph. THE telephone, though it is in both its forms in daily practical use in all parts of the world, still labors under one serious defect. It fails to repro- duce the words delivered at the transmitting end of the line in anything like their original volume. The conversion of the sonorous vibrations into electric action and its reconversion into waves of sound or spoken words imply a double loss, and it is only by holding the receiving instrument close to the ear that the words can be heard at all. To convert a slight electric action into mechanical action or work of equal or greater power at a distance has been the aim of research for some time, and after a long series of experiments, often given up in de- spair and then resumed, it has been accomplished. A telephonic receiver has recently been constructed that will perform work under the impulse of elec- tric action from a distance, or, in other words, that will reproduce sonorous vibrations having a volume equal to the initial vibrations. The above cut represents an ideal telephonic re- ceiver based upon the new discoveries in this direc- tion. It consists of a disk of mica about 12.5 cm. in diameter secured to one end of a short cylinder, having a trumpet-shaped funnel at the other end. To the center of this disk is fastened a flat strip of metal the outer end of which rests on the revolving cylinder, as shown in the figure. Above this strip of metal is a powerful spring that by means of a short rod, pointed at each end and resting in cups above and below to give it a slight lateral motion, presses the strip of metal firmly down on the cylinder. The wire from the telephonic line passes through the binding post and then to the metal strip near its junction with the mica diaphragm. The line to earth passes through a binding post to the base of one of the supports of the cylinder, the track of the current thus being through the metal strip to the cylinder, and its supports by the wire to earth. This apparatus at once suggests a form of musical tele- phone brought out some time ago andafterward with- drawn on account of certain defects of construction. This new appliance is, in fact, the same invention revived and now perfected by the original inventor, and brought to complete practical success under the title of the electro-motograph. The action of the electro-motograph depends on the fact, dis- covered during former experiments, and employed imperfectly in the musical telephone, that the fric- tion of moving bodies varies in greater or less degree with their electrical condition. In the electro-moto- graph acylinder made of prepared chalk and saturated with a strong solution of caustic alkali is set upon supports so that it can be turned upon its axis. A strip of metal fastened to the mica diaphragm rests on the cylinder and is pressed so firmly by its spring upon the cylinder that when it is turned by means of the handle the friction of the strip on the cylinder tends to pull the diaphragm out of shape, causing it to bulge inward as long as the cylinder is in motion. If now, while this motion of the cylinder is main- tained, an electric current passes through the strip of metal and then through the chalk cylinder to earth, the amount of this friction is varied or it is destroyed altogether, and the strip slides freely on the cylinder. This was the basis of the former invention. The release from fric- tion by a change in electric condition in the first instrument failed simply from ignorance of some slight mat- ters of detail, that in the electro-moto- graph are corrected and made practical. In the musical telephone the releasing of the frictional resistance by electric action caused the sounding-board of a guitar to vibrate, and thus set up sonor- ous vibrations. In the electro-moto- graph the mica disk takes the place of the guitar, and, by the improved con- struction of the apparatus, intricate and complex vibrations such as are pro- duced in speaking are reproduced in their original or even in greater volume. When the apparatus is at rest the diaphragm is motionless, and electric currents shot through the apparatus produce no effect. In the same manner the mere turning of the cylinder without electric action produces no effect, except to pull the diaphragm slightly out of shape. If while the cylinder is being turned an electric impulse arrives, the pull on the diaphragm caused by the friction of the strip on the cylinder is more or less released, and the diaphragm is free to vibrate or spring back into its original condition. If now, the electric impulses follow one another in regular order in correspondence with the sonorous vibrations imparted to the transmitting telephone, the alternate slipping and catching of the metal strip on the cylinder will follow in the same order, and thus the diaphragm will be made to vibrate in unison with the original vibrations, and thus reproduce the original words. As the mica disk is much larger than the disk of the transmitting instrument, the amplitude of its swing may be much NO. I. THE WORLD S WORK. 55 greater, and consequently, it will repeat the words.with greater power. The electro-motograph is practically an apparatus for transforming electric action re- ceived from a distance into mechanical work. The amount of electric action has nothing to do with the amount of the mechanical work performed, be- cause the movement of the cylinder is controlled hy power independently of the electric action, the electricity merely releasing this power by destroying the friction in greater or less degree. The electric action set up by the sonorous vibrations at the trans- mitting end of the line may be very slight, while the mechanical action at the distant end may be power- ful, and in this manner the amplitude of the vibra- tions may be increased to an indefinite extent, and a whisper may reappear as a loud shout. In cut No. 2, details of the apparatus left out of the first cut are shown. The chalk cylinder is made by submitting precipitated chalk to great pressure, and it then becomes the vehicle for a solu- tion of caustic alkali; and in this connection it may be noticed that any absorbent material would answer for the cylinder, but chalk has been found best. To compensate for the loss by evaporation, a dish of water is placed below the cylinder, and by means of a lever, shown in cut No. 2, a roller resting in the water may be pushed up against the cylinder till it is thoroughly moistened. This work only takes a moment or two once a week. In construct- ing the electro-motograph for telephonic use, the diaphragm is placed at the top of a box at an angle of 450 and the spring, cylinder, bell-call, etc., are in- closed in the box, while the transmitting disk is hung upon a double-hinged arm just above, in con- venient reach. The electro-motograph is not only a solution of the telephone, making it capable of sounds of every quality and pitch and in greatly in- creased volume, but by this conversion of electrical action into mechanical work at a distance makes it possible to unite the telephone and phonograph. Telephonic messages by the electro-motograph may be impressed upon a self-acting (clock-work) phonograph, the same current starting and stopping the phonograph after the manner of the stock-report- ing machines, and afterward the phonograph may be made to repeat the message impressed upon it. The electro-motograph offers a wide field for re search and seems destined to increase greatly the practical business of telephony. The two cuts pos- sess a double interest, as they are off-hand ink sketches made by the inventor, Thomas A. Edison. The telephone lines hitherto erected in this coun- tryhave been single wire lines, the wire being ex- clusively used for sending message by telephone. By a device recently brought out, the common Morse sounder has been combined with the telephone, and it is found in practice that the use of one does not interfere with the other, telegraphic and tele- phonic messages being sent over the same wire at the same time. By a still greater refinement five messages can be sent over one wire at the same time by combining a telephone with a quadruplex instrument. These latest improvements promise to increase greatly our means of communication by wire, and it is to be hoped will tend to cheapen the cost. [The next number of the magazine will contain a fuller account of the electro-motograph, brought down to the latest possible date, and considered with reference to its new and unexpected developments. The paper referred to will be the first of an important and authoritative series on the inventions of Mr. Edison, which will have a romantic as well as a practical interest, and will exhihit in an interesting way the curious sad wonderful methods of the inventorEn. S. M.] Plans for Tenement Houses. IN laying out the city of New York, the blocks between the streets were cut up into house lots of one uniform shape and size, 7.62 m. by 30.50 m. (25xIoo ft.), and upon these lots houses of every description have been built. For business and manufacturing purposes, and for the dwellings of the better class of people, the shape and size of these city lots have not proved specially inconven- ient. The whole lot need not be occupied by the building unless the owner is willing to submit to the inconvenience of the dark rooms in the middle of the house. In the dwellings of the poorer class of people space under the roof seemed of more value than the comfort or even the health of the tenants; and the greediness of the landlords, combined with the excessive demand for accommodation, led to the erection of tenement houses occupying all or nearly all the surface of the lots. From this vicious system of building have come so many evils that much public attention has been drawn to the matter. Long and narrow buildings, often six stories high, and with four suites of rooms on a floor, present every sanitary evil, want of light and air, dark- ness in the halls and interior rooms, want of pri- vacy, and exposure to danger from fire, disease, and all the ills that flow from overcrowding, and there is but one redeeming feature: that such buildings do make a good return as investments. So great are the evils flowing from this mistaken system of land division and this unhealthy style of building that many attempts have been made to design and con- struct improved forms of tenements that shall be at once cheap, safe, and profitable. The most notable of these experiments has already been described in this department, and with this are now presented NO. 2. 156 THE WORLDS WORK plans for improved tenements. These plans are the outcome of a number of prizes recently offered by the Plumber and Sanitary Engineer for the best designs for improved tenements suitable for the very poorest class of people, and utilizing the city lot to the best advantage consistent with abundance of light and air and safety from fire and disease. The requirements of the model tenement house are: security against fire, distribution of light, ventilation, good sanitary appointments, se- clusion for each set of rooms, and ease of access, convenience, and cheapness. Plan No. i shows the first and second story of a tenement designed to contain four suites of apart- ments on each floor. The building is practically double; two wings, with a court in the center and a yard in the rear. By this arrangement, nearly the whole of the lot is occupied, the dark interior rooms are reduced to the smallest possible number, and each suite has light and air both front and rear. To obtain more air a shaft is left open in the wall on one side, and the interior room has a window opening upon it. This seems to be of very little value, as such air-wells are merely wells by which the dead air sinks to the bottom and stagnates. On the street floor there is, in front, a store, one tenement of three rooms and a hall leading to the stair-way. Area step3 lead to the cellar, and a bridge gives access to the main entrance. In the court between the two wings is a tower or stair-way very nearly detached from the buildings and con- taining the stairs, water-closets, and lifts. In the rear building, on the first floor are two tenements of three rooms each, entirely detached from all others, each set having its own private door. The rooms all open one into another, the first room having a sink and water, a fire-place and closet, and one large window, the second room designed to hold a bed, and the third room having two win- dows, a fire-place and two closets. The seconct story, reached by the stair-way in the central. tower, is divided into four tenements of three rooms each, divided as described for those below, and all the floors above are laid out on the same- plan. This plan received the highest prize, and~ presents several advantages over the common tene- ment house. The dark and narrow stair-ways in the interior of the building give place to a broad stair-way in a separate fire-proof building having two windows for light and air on each floor. The sinks and water faucets are within the tenements instead of being in the dark halls. The closets are in the central tower and each is provided with a win- dow, a change vastly for the better over the present system. Each suite of rooms has its own private entrance and private ball, or as may be seen in the plan, the private door may open directly upon one of the rooms. This plan is evidently carefully thought out and presents many features of interest that make it worthy of study. In plan No. 2, the store on the lower floor gives place to one tenement of three rooms and three smaller rooms for the janitor. The building, by this plan, is divided into two wings joined by a central tower or stair-way, but the yard in the rear is made longer at the expense of one room in each of the rear tene- ments. The second floor is much the same except that the two front tenements are of equal size. In com- paring these two plans it will be observed that each tenement has its water-works exclusively to itself and within its own entrance hall. This is decidedly an advantage, as the two things chiefly to be sought in this class of dwellings are privacy and separate sani- tary fixtures. It will be observed that the stairs rise in short straight flights. This is accomplished by making the floors of the two wings on different levels so that each landing contains two entrance doors, instead of four. Ample light is secured to NO. i. PLAN OF FIRST AND SECOND STORIES OF IMPROvED TENEMENT HOUSE. BRZC~A?~BRA C. 57 the stair-way as well as ease of access. In many a solution of the tenement house question as may be respects this plan is better than the first, though found consistent with the vicious system of dividing it received only the third prize. There are only the land that prevails in New York. If now some two rooms in the rear tenements and as the de- one would offer a prize for an improved system of mand for two-room tenements is limited this may laying out city lots, perhaps even the improved tene- be a defect, but, on the other hand, there is a great ment house may be improved upon. gain of light and air. These plans appear to be the [The above diagrams were kindly furnished by best of a large number exhibitedand they offer as good the Plumber and Sanitary Engineer.] BRIC-~-BRAC. Fanny Kembles Journal. THE same petty and provincial spirit which in France led M. Victorien Sardou to write his silly Oncle Sam, and which in England is soundly berated by Mr. Matthew Arnold, and which in America rails against the warning truth of Mr. Henry Jamess Daisy Miller, broke out rampant and raging in this country over forty years ago on the publication of a Journal of a Residence in America, by Frances Anne Butler. The elder daughter of Charles Kemble made her first appearance on the stage at Covent Garden Theatre as Juliet, in September, 1829, with extra- ordinary success. Three years later she and her father crossed the Atlantic to play a series of engagements in America. They made their first appearance in New York at the Park Theatre in September, 5832. After acting in all the leading cities of this country, Mr. Charles Kemble returned to England alone, his daughter remaining in the United States as the wife of Mr. Pierce Butler, of Philadelphia. During the whole time of her wan- derings in America prior to her marriage, Miss Kemble kept a diary of her experiences, which was published shortly after she became Mrs. Butler by Mr. John Murray in London, and by Messrs. Carey, Lea & Blanchard in Philadelphia, for the benefit of her aunt Victoire, as the author has informed us in her recent delightful Records of a Girlhood. The people of the United States had been taken to pieces and exhibited for the benefit of the assem- bled nations of the Old World by Captain Basil Hall, in 1822, and before they had fully recovered from their fit of indignation, Mrs. Trollope came forward, in 1831, with her strictures on The Do- mestic Manners of the Americans. When the announcement was made, therefore, only four years later that Miss Fanny Kemble had been taking notes which she intended to utter and make current, another shiver ran through the land. Toward the close of 7834 a few extracts from the journal crept into print in Boston, and were copied far and wide. It was at once evident that Miss Kemble had a mind of her own, and full willingness to free it. Other extracts from time to time followed, and were everywhere read and commented upon. The news- papersor rather some of the noisiest of them took offense at the tone of some of Mrs. Butlers remarks, and especially at one passage, in which she said that next to a bug she most disliked an editor. It was doubted by some that the passages were genuine, and Messrs. Carey, Lea & Co., the No. 2. PLAN OF FIN5T AND SECOND STONIES OF IMPROVED TENEMENT MOUSE.

Bric-a-Brac Bric-a-Brac 157-160

BRZC~A?~BRA C. 57 the stair-way as well as ease of access. In many a solution of the tenement house question as may be respects this plan is better than the first, though found consistent with the vicious system of dividing it received only the third prize. There are only the land that prevails in New York. If now some two rooms in the rear tenements and as the de- one would offer a prize for an improved system of mand for two-room tenements is limited this may laying out city lots, perhaps even the improved tene- be a defect, but, on the other hand, there is a great ment house may be improved upon. gain of light and air. These plans appear to be the [The above diagrams were kindly furnished by best of a large number exhibitedand they offer as good the Plumber and Sanitary Engineer.] BRIC-~-BRAC. Fanny Kembles Journal. THE same petty and provincial spirit which in France led M. Victorien Sardou to write his silly Oncle Sam, and which in England is soundly berated by Mr. Matthew Arnold, and which in America rails against the warning truth of Mr. Henry Jamess Daisy Miller, broke out rampant and raging in this country over forty years ago on the publication of a Journal of a Residence in America, by Frances Anne Butler. The elder daughter of Charles Kemble made her first appearance on the stage at Covent Garden Theatre as Juliet, in September, 1829, with extra- ordinary success. Three years later she and her father crossed the Atlantic to play a series of engagements in America. They made their first appearance in New York at the Park Theatre in September, 5832. After acting in all the leading cities of this country, Mr. Charles Kemble returned to England alone, his daughter remaining in the United States as the wife of Mr. Pierce Butler, of Philadelphia. During the whole time of her wan- derings in America prior to her marriage, Miss Kemble kept a diary of her experiences, which was published shortly after she became Mrs. Butler by Mr. John Murray in London, and by Messrs. Carey, Lea & Blanchard in Philadelphia, for the benefit of her aunt Victoire, as the author has informed us in her recent delightful Records of a Girlhood. The people of the United States had been taken to pieces and exhibited for the benefit of the assem- bled nations of the Old World by Captain Basil Hall, in 1822, and before they had fully recovered from their fit of indignation, Mrs. Trollope came forward, in 1831, with her strictures on The Do- mestic Manners of the Americans. When the announcement was made, therefore, only four years later that Miss Fanny Kemble had been taking notes which she intended to utter and make current, another shiver ran through the land. Toward the close of 7834 a few extracts from the journal crept into print in Boston, and were copied far and wide. It was at once evident that Miss Kemble had a mind of her own, and full willingness to free it. Other extracts from time to time followed, and were everywhere read and commented upon. The news- papersor rather some of the noisiest of them took offense at the tone of some of Mrs. Butlers remarks, and especially at one passage, in which she said that next to a bug she most disliked an editor. It was doubted by some that the passages were genuine, and Messrs. Carey, Lea & Co., the No. 2. PLAN OF FIN5T AND SECOND STONIES OF IMPROVED TENEMENT MOUSE. 158 BRZC-~4-BRA C. publishers, issued a card stating that if the pas- sages now published be taken from the work, it is a violation of copyright, but not denying their au- thenticity. Then rumors were set afloat that Mrs. Butler had softened certain paragraphs which cen- sured the Americans too severely. These rumors crossed others to the effect that the English edition was to be far more bitter and rancorous than the American. A newspaper excitement thus grew daily. An advertisement appeared in the Philadel- phia papers announcing that Grigg & Elliott had published a thousand copies of Miss Fanny Kem- bles journala cruel hoax on a most respectable firm. At last the book did appear in two volumes, I2mo, in both England and America, both editions being exactly alikeand then the storm broke forth. Th~ copy of the journal which now lies before the writer has bound up with it seventy pages of news- paper paragraphs, extracts, notices, reviews, squibs, advertisements, all bearing upon the redoubtable diary, and all testifying to the really remarkable ex- citement it caused. To any one who now reads the journal calmly, the infuriated temper evident in the assembled scraps which here follow it, is almost incomprehensible; it is only when one remembers how sensitive and uneasy Americans seemed in those days, how petty and provincial we undoubt- edly were, how we had writhed and were sore under Mrs. Trollopes keen lash, that any excuse for it can be seen. The whole paltry discussion was typical of the state of feeling of Americans toward their own country, which was well-nigh universal before the war, and which has passed away for ever with the smoke and the shouts of that great struggle. We then asserted our claim loudly, for we feared it might be denied; now we smile with good nature at taunt- ing jibes and jeers, for we are conscious that a mans eyes must be weak if he cannot see the greatness of our country. Compare the storm raised by this clever journal with the contemptuous calmness with which M Sardous ignorant and ill-natured Oncle Sam was received. We have even forgotten that this provincial spirit once existed. Very few of the American reviews of Macreadys Reminiscences~~ recall the fact that a quar- ter of a century before it was published, a bloody riot against the English tragedian had raged around the very building from which his posthu- mous biography was is- suedClinton Hall. And in only one of the reviews of Mrs. Kem- bles Records of a Girl- hood, have I seen any reference to the journal. of forty years before, and that review was writ- ten by me. As one reads the Jour- nal now with the Records in ones s memory, it is seen that Miss Fanny Kemble- was a clever and cultivated woman, of great vigor and freshness of intellect, naturally astonished at much that she saw and heard here, but wholly free from any desire to find fault. That the printing of a daily diary with blanks for proper names,blanks. which there was in general no great difficulty in fill- ing up,was injudicious may well be admitted; and more than one page in the two volumes had. much better have been left unprinted. But forty years ago nothing was known of Miss Fanny Kemble except that she was a young woman who dared to have an opinion of her own about the country she had married in,and for this opinion she was roundly abused. The Albany Journal, for instance, said: It is well for the baggage that she wears petticoats. Another paper declared that the work excites general disgust. The authoress has unsexed herself. A third commented on the adroit hypocrisy she has always practiced in soci- ety. A fourth begins by quoting Hallecks Fsnny was younger once than she is now, And prettier, of course, goes on to speak of the coarseness and vulgarity of many of her remarks and of her black ingrati- tude. The National Gazette of Philadelphia said: The mass of the journal is mere chaff; pettish flippancy; pointless chatter. Major Noah declared his opinion that Fanny Kemble writes like a smart little milliner. It was this same Major Noah who issued a card denying that he was the newspaper-bug referred to in the journal. The print-sellers took advantage of the excitement about the book to issue more than one series of litho- graphic plates, rudely enough done, and illustrating roughly some of the salient incidents of the journal. It must not, however, be supposed that this cheap malignity and provincial spite were universal. Many of the leading and more respectable papers resisted it,the NewYork Evening Post, for one; and in this dignified newspaper appeared at least one re- monstrance. The real faults of the journal, its occasional flip- BRZC-~4 -BRA C. 59 pancy, its judgments from inexperience, its revela- tion of domestic matters, its indiscretions in regard to private affairs,these were rarely criticised, yet they were as obvious as it was evident that they all sprang from the one errorthe actual printing of a young ladys private journal. Upon these demerits of the work the English reviews were far more severe than the American press, and deservedly so. For some of her minor criticisms Mrs. Kemble cried peccavi in her later volume of travels in Italy, A Year of Consolation. ARTHUR PENN. A Natural Conclusion. WE left the crowded city far behind, And over hill and valley took our way; It was a morn in early June, and we Were off together for a holiday. Now on a hill-side, in a shady spot, A cool spring overflowed its mossy brim, And rippled down the vale, till, far away, It faded on the meadows purple rim. Still further on, we reached a field of corn, With tender blades just springing from the ground; While overhead a flock of noisy crows Kept watch from trees, or circled shyly round. For, near at hand, raised on a little mound, An image stood, clad in habiliments old; The silly crows! said Charles; if they were wise, Theyd recognize the cheat, and be more bold! Yet I confess the scare-crow, as it stands, Is not ill calculated to deceive; Though it would make the pose more natural To lower the head, and re-adjust that sleeve. Think for one moment on that ancient garb! That battered hat may once have crowned a head Within whose dome a mighty genius reigned, That moved the minds of men, or armies led. That sleeve, tricked in the semblance of an arm, Perchance has held within its warm embrace The form of some fair woman, fond and true, With heart responsive to a pleading face. Would that the power were mine to summon here Him whom my fancy sees in that disguise, Even as the marble warmed to conscious life Before Pygmalions enraptured eyes! The figure slowly turned its head and spoke: You are the chaps that run away, I allow, From the insane asylum in the town; The keepers out a-lookin for ye now! PHILIP MORSE. The Irish Eclipse. BY IRWIN RUSSELL. IN Watherford, wanst, lived Profissorr MacShane, The foinest asthronomer iver was sane; For long before noight, wid the scoience he knew, Wheriver wan shtar was, sure he could see two Quoite plain, Could Profissorr MacShane. More power to him! ivry claare noight as would dp ass, He sit by the windy, a-shoving his glass; A poke at the dipper, that plaised him the laist, But a punch in the milky way suited his taste, Small blame To his sowl for that same! Now wan toime in Watherford, not long ago, They had what the bike was not haard of, I know, Since Erin was undher ould Brian Borrhoime: The sun was ayclipsed for three clays at wan toime! Its thrue As I tell it to you. Twas sunroise long gone, yet the sun never rose, And ivrywan axed, Whats the matther, God knows? The next day, and next, was the very same way; The noight was so long it x-as lasting all day, As black As the coat oa yer back. The paiple wint hunting Profissorr MacShane, To thry if hed know what this wondher could mane; He answered thim back: Is that so? Are ye there? Tis a lot of most iligant gommachs ye air, To ax For the plainest of facts! Yere part of an impoire, yez mustnt forget, Upon which the suns niver able to set; Thin why will it give yer impoire a surproise If wanst, for a change, he refuses to roise? Siz he, That is aizy to see! HE does not know his English well, Our vulgar words he scorns to praise, And, consequently, thinks it swell To trifle with the Gallic phrase. He writes amour instead of love, Whenever he can find the chance; Colombe is more genlil than dove, It gives the essence of all France. GRACE BEFORE MEAT: I ROPE I DONT INTRUDE! A Writer. x6o BRIC-A -BRA C. And when he scrawls his mongrel prose, By many foreign terms disguised, He Frenchifies a simple rose, And has it down italicized! For darling, clifrie you will find In every chapter, sure as fate; And, for the glory of mankind, He would not miss a tlte-d -tIle / Of adjectives in euse and ante, He doth continually speak; His heroine is ravissante, For beautiful would not be chic / Boudoir, ennui, cafI argot, His standard favorites always are; And he for worlds would nut forego The sempiternal boulevard. His scene is laid upon the Seine, From him what could you ask of more? The lover calls his girl ma reine, And she calls him mon doux trIsor. And then his proper names, with zeal He could not very well forget; He dazzles us with Claude, Emile, Pauline, Adaie, and Henriette. Tired of the hackneyed terms? Not he! His grand sang froid you little know; Hed write a page for vis-d-vis, And twenty more for dos-d -dos / And, as you read his lovely livre, Which wonderment from stones could wrench, You marvel how he still can virre, And why he does not write in French! F. S.S. On a Fan that belonged to the Marquise de Porn- padour* CHIcKEN-sKIN, delicate, white, Painted by Carlo Vanloo, Loves in a riot of light, Roses and vaporous blue; Hark to the dainty frou-frou/ Picture above, if you can, Eyes that could melt as the dew, This was the Pompadours fan! See how they rise at the sight, Thronging the ~il de B~zf through, Courtiers as butterflies bright, Beauties that Fragonard drew, Talon-rouge, falbala, queue, Cardinal, Duke,to a man, Eager to sigh or to sue, This was the Pompadours fan! Ah, but things more than polite Hung on this toy, voycs-vous / Matters of state and of might, Things that great ministers do Things that, may he, overthrew Those in whose brains they began; Here was the sign and the cue, This was the Pompadours fan! ENvOY. Where are the secrets it knew? Weavings of plot and of plan? But where is the Pompadour, too? This was the Pompadours fan I AUSTIN DoasoN. AMATEUR MINSTEELSYBEHINO THE SCENES. * A I ll~ de on this same subject, and by the same author, but differing in many points from the one here presented, was printed a year or so ago in an English magazine. It has since under- gone such radical revision at the authors bands, that it may now fairly be considered a new poem.

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Scribners monthly, an illustrated magazine for the people. / Volume 18, Issue 2 Hours at home Putnam's magazine Riverside magazine Old and new Century Scribner and son. New York June 1879 0018 002
Russell Sturgis Sturgis, Russell The Fine Arts at the Paris Exposition 161-183

SCRJBNERS MONTHLY. VOL. XVIII. JUNE, 1879. No. 2. THE FINE ARTS AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION. BEFORE its memory becomes dim, and be- fore public interest in it, as the latest and the greatest of international displays disap- pears, let us attempt to record some part of the remarkable history of the Paris Exposi- tion of last summer. Our study will be rather concerning the grounds and the exterior of the buildings than of the ex- hibition of art and industry itself; except as some works of art in the galleries seem to call for special notice. To do justice to any one department of that great exhibition would call for a longer article than this can be. And first of the plan we present,by the VOL XVIJT.12. aid of which and some wood-cuts we hope to give such~ a description of the grounds and the more prominent buildings as will be readily understood, and an impression that will not immediately fade away of the very important architectural features of the worlds fair of 1878. This plan (see page 164) has been prepared under the im- mediate supervision of the writer, by means of half a dozen official and non-official, more or less accurate surveys and maps and of a tolerably complete familiarity with all parts of the grounds. The great point has been to decide what to leave out. The [Copyright, Scrihoer & Co.. s8~g. All rights reserved.] A RETROSPECT. YOUNG MARSYAS: (DRAWN BY ELIHO VEDDER AFTER HIS PAINTING IN THE EXPOSITION). 162 THE FINE ARTS AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION plans published hitherto (except the very slightest and most diminutive) all fail from trying to give too inuch,too many incompat- ible kinds of information. They fail entirely to explain themselves to one who is not on the spot; nobody ever made out from them how the different things described in the news- papers all go together, and where each is to be found. They were made, one and all, for the use of the visitors to the grounds, and naturally were concerned with giving to those visitors every sort of guide-hook in- formation; how to go the quickest frota any one place to any other; where Artdorra leaves off and San Marino begins; where post- offices and police-offices and rolling-chairs were to be found, and refreshment shops of all grades; rather with this than with any of the important general features of the ex- hibition. And naturally so, because with the main characteristics and great general scheme of the exhibition a visitor could hardly fail to be at once strongly impressed. And to give to the non-visitor just such a strong impression is the object of this paper and its illustrations; so the plan has been stripped of all details that could be spared, and sim- plified until it can be understood at a glance. Everything which is shaded with lines in one direction only, and therefore paler, is with- in the inclosure but open to the sky. Every- thing which .is shaded with lines running in two directionsthat is, all the darker tint is under cover; all of that is floored and roofed,all of that and nothing else than that, or at least nothing else more impor- tant than a covered seat or a marquee. Everything which is shaded at all is within the exhibition inclosure; and this is the whole of that inclosure, except that on the left, to the south-west of the Trocad6ro Park, between the Quay and the Boulevard de Lessert, there is a somewhat greater extent of annexes than is shown. The exact dimen- sions of this small inclosure the writer had no means of ascertaining. The whole exhibition is thus beneath ~the readers eye, always excepting the cattle-show grounds which were not far away to the eastward, on the esplanade of the Invalides. Then, of course, the white parts of the map are Paris without the grounds; and here the reader can see the different approaches by water and by land, and the outside commu- nications kept open between old Paris and the Banlieue, on each side of the river. The exposition of 1867 was confined to the left bank of the Seine, and occu- pied the whole Champ de Mars. This big flat field, famous in Parisian history for many a year, is all on our plan, and extends from the front of the I~cole Militaire so called, though it has long been a barrack for troopsto the river, and from the Ave- nue de Suffren on the south-west to the Avenue Labourdonaye on the north-east. This has long been a drill-ground and field for maneuvers, and is big enough for a very considerable number of troops to exercise in. It is almost exactly a kilometer long, or thirty-three hundred feet, and rather less than half as widesay one hundred and fifteen acres of plain,of dust, one might say with truth, during any but an exhibition summer. Right in the middle of this quad- rangle the oval building of 1867 was placed, occupying half of its area, surrounded by a multitudinous swarm of little buildings of all sorts, scattered about a very beautifully disposed garden. The plan of it was the well-known combination of concentric belts representing different departments of indus- try, with radiating bands representing na- tions. The visitor started from the outer edge and made his way along the Belgian radius, let us say, from raw material outside to fine art in the innermost belt; or, taking textile fabrics, for instance, one voyaged from his own fatherland around the civilized world and back to his home again, in one circuit of the building. That was clever and well imagined, and there were novel enough devices of construction in the great gasometer, as it was called, and plenty of interesting little buildings around it; but none of peculiar importance, and none that have continued in existence. All has passed away from earth, like the imperial govern- ment that created it. That government, then at the height of its power and impor- tance, was thought fully enough given to a magnificent, not to say an extravagant, way of doing things. What it did in 1867 was thought reasonably splendid and wholly sat- isfactory. To be sure the exposition was wholly confined to the Rive Gauche, and it seemed to be a good way from everywhere, and there were no prominent or lofty build- ings connected with it, nothing that could be seen from Paris proper, unless from a very high tower indeed. But then it was thought that these were necessary and unavoidable drawbacks. It was the showiest and largest exhibition so far, and the emperor and his pals, and the Parisian public and the world of visitors were all very happy about it. But Paris and France were in a very dif- ferent humor in 1878 from that of 1867a THE FINE ARTS AT THE PARIS EXPOSITiON 163 very different and a more enterprising, more ambitious, immeasurably more intense, mood of mind. Ruinously defeated and amazed at her weakness where she had thought herself the strongest, but full of strength, hope, re- source, and a truly youthful energy; lately regarded as impoverished by war, but newly enriched by industry; still doubtful of her military strength, and avowedly so, but rich and growing richer, strong and grow- ing stronger, prosperous and happy perhaps beyond any nation in Europe; as much surprised and gratified at her success in self-government as she had been surprised and shocked at her failure in arms,France felt herself at once called upon for, and fully capable og, a greater effort than the empire had ever imagined. 1867 had been a busy and. a splendid time, but 1878 must needs be still more crowded with i cident and with triumph. All the world had come to Napoleons fete, and now the republic must invite the world to a festival so splen- did that no refusal would be possible, and that all former achievements would be sur- passed. Of 1867 nothing remained but a remembrance xvhich the later displays at Vienna, and, to a certain extent, at Phila- delphia, had dimmed. But the republican ceremonial of 1878 should leave behind it monuments which would endure for ever. Expense? What question could there be of expense when the national honor was at stake, when the Republics reputation was concerned, and when it was important that no voice should anywhere be raised that could deny the magnificence and wise liberal- ity of the new government. As to expense, too, the ~outlay attending the imperial show of 1867 had been exceeded at Vienna in 1873, and even by the most thrifty of nations, the transatlantic republic, at Philadelphia, in 1876; and it was evident to all that there must be no stint this time, and that besides the forty million francs for tempo- rary buildings and temporary expenses, ten millions more might with advantage be spent upon an edifice which, while aiding the temporary need both of space and of splendor, might remain as an added dec- oration to the capital. Across the river from the Champ de Mars, on the right bank, the slopes of Chail- lot and Passy have long been known as THE TEOCAD~EO PALACE. 164 THE FINE ARTS AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION delightful places for a stroll or for a resi- dence. There, in the Middle Ages, stood three little villages, the nearest of them a mile and a half from the western gate of Paris; that Porte St. Honori, which before 1350 was near the old Louvre, and after- ward advanced farther west along the street of the same name to a place nearly abreast of the Tuileries. There, later, arose two religious houses, very well known to historya monastery of Franciscans and a convent of Visitandine nuns. In the convent there lived for years the wife and widow of Charles I. of England, Henriette of France ; and there, fifty years later, died Louise de la Valli~re. These communities and these ~ buildings were swept ECOLL P1ILrPAISE: (8~~c~s) K V V V PLAN OF THE PARIS EXPOSITION. C- away by the great revolution, and here, on the hill of Chaillot, right opposite the bridge which he named the Bridge of J ena, from the famous victory which ruined the Prussian monarchy, Napoleon I. founded a palace for his possible future son and heir, King of Rome, as he was destined to be. The son was born and came to his title, at least. The foundations of the palace were laid, and that on a scale excelling everything hitherto known; to surpass Ver- sailles in splendor and the Escurial in ex- tent; to occupy a whole quarter of Paris with its gardens and approaches,if this was, as it is recorded, the mighty emperors scheme he chose certainly a noble site for his constructions, one at once convenient and stately. He was always both grand- iose and shrewd in his conceptions, that typical man of the world, but his short reign allowed the complete realization of but few of them. The allied troops encamped on these slopes of Chaillot and the founda- tions of the palace were removed or covered up in the course of a few years, and the most splendid site near Paris relapsed into something very like a desert. The people who crossed the Bridge of Jena turned east RI V E R~ THE FiNE ARTS AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION or west along the quays and never mounted the steep and broken hill, and those bound for Passy took still other roads. But it was an aspiration of the restored Bourbons to replace the Bonapartist traditions by their own. Military successes, indeed, were hardly in order, but one small chance was given them, when the Duc dAngoul6me was posing as a conqueror and a pacificator in Spain, in 1823. A small fort which defended Cadiz Roads, bearing the name El Trocad~ro,as it does to-day,was reduced by the French army, and a loyal journal, bravely mixing up several different ideas to make one, proclaimed to all the world that now the sun of Austerlitz was dimmed by the luster of the sun of the Trocadiro. So that it came to be proposed to King Louis XVIJJ., and to be determined on by himself and his advisers, to build a monu- rnent or column which should tower over Paris, to commemorate the Spanish expe- dition; and the heights opposite the Champ de Mars were fixed upon to bear this monument aloft, and christened with the sonorous and Spanish-sounding name of the Trocad& o. Nothing came of the monument project under the immediately succeeding reign of Charles X., and the name given to the locality was pretty much forgotten all through the reign of the Citi- zen King. Although the picturesque and dominant height itself was xvithin the bar- riers, as they were in Louis Philippes day, and although, after the fortifications were built, all that district became, as it were, one with Paris, yet the beautiful hill seems to have been neither private property nor pub- lic grounds, neither built upon nor cared for. In the early days of the Second Empire it remained still unnoticed. It was not until just before the Exposition of 1867 that the park of the Trocad6ro was laid out. No one knows how many millions of francs were spent in this work and in building a most prodigious flight of stairs,only seventy- five steps high, indeed, but wide enough for a hundred men to march up abreast. From this height, thus newly decorated and opened up to the public, Maxime Lalanne took the scene of one of his largest etchings, which shows the buildings of the Exposition of 1867, with the still river and its bridges and distant Paris, and the new esplanade with its lamps and promenaders. Upon this height, this slope and the bridge connecting them with the Champ de Mars on the left bank, the enterprising officials of the autumn of 1876 fixed their KK-] I L4KJ ZLLI~ eyes. It must not be for- gotten that all was very symmetrical, so to speak, the two tracts of ground and the bridge between them being all on one axis running north-west and south-east, and just at right angles with the river at ~ that point. There in the Z C plain was the place for the H exhibition of contempor- ~ ary industry, for the great congeries of iron and glass ~ sheds,larger by half than ~ that of eleven years before, ~ for the machinery, the ~ products, the invention and the art of the present day. H There on the height was the fitting place for such a palace as would be a new ornament even to Paris, a palace devoted in part to the arts of the past, in the way of a great museum of works of fine art received on loan, and in part devoted to music, to festivity and to ceremonial. Then, by set- ting back the Palace of Industry well toward the rear of the Champ de Mars, the double park, divided by the river but united by the bridge, half on the level and half on the slope, F~ would be nearly half a mile long from one of the large buildings to the other, and rj H would seem all the larger L1 for its division and for its variety of surface. In the map before us, the building at the extreme north-west, or top of the ~ map, is the Palais 6/CS F~tes, ~ as it seems to be called ~ officially. It consists of a very large music-hall, or ~ C hall of assembly, in the middle, and enormous wings, stretching from north-east to south-west, almost exactly a quarter of a mile. Each of these wings contains a long, con- tinuous, top-lighted gal- lery; and on the inner side, toward the park and the river, a noble colonnade and sheltered walk runs ~66 THE FINE ARTS AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION unbroken from one end of the building to the other, passing around the music-hall and connecting at each side of it with great open vestibules, which pass through the building from the city to the park. It is from this colonnade, at its extreme south-western end, that the view shown in our cut on page 163 has been taken. This picture shows the main dispositions well enough. The distant pavilion at the extreme end of the opposite wing contains an entrance on the lower level reached by the fall of the ground, and a wide staircase leading up to the floor of the gallery above. A similar arrangement is behind and to the right of the spectator. What the French call y5crrons and New Yorkers call I stoops (while the rest of the world has no name for them) connect the open colonnade with the broad paths below; and from the colonnade to the gal- lery within, a door opens on the axis of each of these approaches. These doors, indeed, were kept closed last summer, or barricaded with benches, but that was a mere detail of police arrangements. Of the three open galleries that surround the cen- tral mass of the building, the lowermost is on the level of the colonnades of the wings; the upper ones open from vestibules above the great entrance vestibules of the ground floor. But the simple and excellent arrange- ment of these stairs and corridors cannot be dwelt upon here. What must be said is however a few words of general criticism of the building, which seems to the writer one of the best productions of modern art, and the reasons for this opinion, which is not that of the newspaper correspondents, may be worth stating. It must be observed that here is a prac- tical denial of the assertion often made, and with apparent reason, that splendid archi- tecture will not be needed or be possible hereafter. For us no more the throne of marble, for us no more the vault of gold, said Mr. Ruskin, at Bradford, just twenty years ago, but the privilege of bringing the power and charm of art within the reach of the humble and the poor. The lecturer did not perceive that the magnificences of architecture in the future, for the benefit of the whole community, and paid for by the whole community, may be at least as great as in the past. It is the splendor of WEST CORNER DOME OF THE MAIN EXPOSITION BUILDINO. THE FINE ARTS AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION 167 private buildings that has disappeared for- ever, leaving only little vanities and pretti- nesses of upholstery to represent the pict- uresqueness of the Elizabethan manor-house and the stately magnificence of the Floren- tine ~5ala~zo. And probably splendid church architecture has gone, with great church organizations,all undermined together and tumbled into a heap by the insidious foe called right of private judgment. But if any one believes that great communities will be happy without great and splendid buildings, let him consider for a moment one result of the new r4~ime: the fact that since the people took their affairs into their own hands wars have been bloodier than ever before,more gayly undertaken, more bit- terly fought out. There are on record the statements of English papers to the effect that loyalty without a prince to be loyal to was an obvious impossibility; that costly war would never be carried on by a people who could make their objections to taxation felt and obeyed, and so forth, and so on. And yet, here is this Yankee nation of shop- keepers,a.community known, at last, to be quite willing to spend and be spent for any- thing it cares about. It is as yet immeasu- rably more ignorant of what fine art is and is good for, and what is meant by splendor in architecture, decoration, in display, than any other civilized people; but whether it is willing to spend for such purposes or not can best be ascertained by looking at its half dozen great parks, the worst of which excels, not so much in extent as in elaborate ornamentation and in cost, anything that existed in Europe when Central Park was planned, and by looking at the rather blun- dering attempts to produce fine public build- ings at our state and national capitals. Now in all that concerns modern city life and organization Paris is the guide and model; not to be implicitly followed, but as the most brilliant example of lavish outlay, guided in the various departments by trained skill. This palace of the Trocad6ro would be impossible to-day in any other citybut wait till a near to-morrow! Is it London town, or New York, or Rome, or Mel- bourne, or San Francisco that for a similar object will first surpass it, if not in beauty and convenience, at least in expense ? Ornate architecture is sought for by all self-governed communities; we have only to hope for the controlling influence of reason and good taste. The buildings so built for the delectation of the public will have to be very different from the old palaces and cathedrals. The teachers of architecture have not yet found that out, nor the architects, except in a few cases; it is rare to see any important public building designed for its purpose alone, and without reference to buildings built long ago for wholly different purposes. This is then one of the peculiar merits of the Trocad& o Palace that it is very novel in plan, and wholly independent. The art galleries are only one story high,for the top is the best for such galleries; there are enor- mous open colonnades outside, because all Paris will crowd there of a Sunday and look at the noble view; there is the great concert hall in the middle, perfectly accessible from all parts of the edifice, and from the out-door walks which adjoin it, and from both the city and the park, and yet so wholly disengaged that it has windows all around, except where the great organ and the stage are placed. Now, in the matter of architectural design, there are always some fine distinctions to be made. Let not the reader suppose that this structure is about to be compared with the world-renowned monuments of by-gone styles of architecture. But this building, convenient as we have said, and well adapted to all its purposes, does really sit most grace- fully upon its hill-top, its towers group admi- rably with one another and with the great mass of the concert hall, and the central group so formed composes well with the wings. Seen sidewise, as in the cut, it is pict- uresque and effective; seen from the Bridge of Jena, or from the Champ de Mars, it is more imposing and stately; everywhere it looks large. M. Gonse, writing in the Gazette des Beaux Arts, thinks that its vast size (the towers are 240 feet high, the ro- tunda about i8o feet in diameter, the spread of the whole front 1,300 feet measured on the chord) is not fully felt, when viewed from the opposite side of the river: in this opinion the writer cannot agree. It is a building which looks near while yet it is felt to be far away. There is no need to pick out a detail and to think how big it is before the whole magnitude can be felt, as is the case in certain famous pseudo-classical constructions. As one emerged from the doors of the main Exposition building last summer, eight hundred y~ds away, the distant palace at once took the eye and held it, as does a mountain seen every day from the village streets, familiar in all its details, plain to be seen, right upon usand yet felt to be huge and far away. There are weak things about i68 THE FINE AR IS AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION it: the great twelve-sided roof is of dark- gray slate and is at once gloomy and weak; the tower roofs are of copper with gilded ribs, and the wing colonnades are covered with red tiles (what a pity that the center could not have heen roofed in one of these two ways~). This central roof is stiff and weak, and carries a xvretched little lantern, the whole croxvned with a statue, which, however fine in reality,and it is by a most worthy and excellent sculptor, M. Merci~, is almost invisible from below, and has no sort of effect on the general design. Then, as regards detailswell, it is in detail that the architects of the Paris school fail. They are taught to plan wonderfully well, and to make their exterior show the interior dispo- sition and follow it, and the best of them soon shake off whatever of academic tradi- tion may have been calculated to restrain their powers of design. But to combine sculptured and painted details, lovely in themselves, so as to make a noble building nobler and more graceful by their use, is not the special gift of the Paris-trained archi- tects. With the best sculptors in the world, BRONZE GROUP, GRATITUDR, FROM THE SCHERIORE MONUMENT, BY CHAPU. THE PINE ARTS AT THE PARIS EXPOSITiON. 169 and indeed the only living school of sculpture,they have no carved ornament for their buildings which is worthy of serious consideration; they have forgotten how to use moldings and the tendency seems to be toward plain square jambs and flat stripes of buff and pale-red limestone, and the friezes under the cornices decorated with patterns in mosaic, in gold and pale blue and white, with pale red terra cotta; but it still lacks ornament. The angles of window and door, and buttress and pier, are all too STATUE, CHARITY, BY PAUL DUBOLS, FROM THE MONUMENT TO DENERAL OR LA MOEICI~RE. faades of little decorative effect, with life- hard, the spectator seems to knock his head size and colossal statues in full realized against them; the immense windows are sculpture set up against them as their chief cut too squarely through the walls, and lack and almost their sole decoration. Now, the the penumbra of delicately molded or carved Trocad6ro Palace is not so bad as that, archivolts and imposts; the building looks for it has some contrast of color, the mate- as if an army of skillful stone-carvers should rial of the walls being arranged in alternate be turned loose upon it, to soften it into I70 THE FINE ARTS AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION. greater harmony and to bring about a more gentle transition between its lesser subdi- visions. These are faults common to modern buildings, and come of the lack of trained workmen (trained, that is, in artistic ways), of the great cost of labor, of haste and indifference, and of the contract system of building; in so far as the Trocad& o Palace was kept free from any of these evils, their absence was made up by the peculiarly severe pressure of haste, for the building was not started until late in the autumn of 1876, and was finished complete in eighteen months, including two winters; and this, although there were peculiar difficulties in the way, as the ground was found to be perfectly honey-combed with ancient quar- ries, and the new fo~idations had to be begun deep down in the seemingly solid hill. These old quarries are found in all the suburbs of Paris. When the great church of the Sacred Heart was devised, nine years ago, to stand upon the heights of Mont- martre, and to serve, in a way, as the churchs manifesto in rivalry of the new opera-house and the world, the hill was found to be in even greater need of complete rebuilding than the hill-side of Chaillot. But in the Troca- d6ro Park there is, at all events, one very in- teresting result of the cavernous condition of this part of the worldthe aquarium, shown on the plan by an irregular bounding line. This feature is cleverly arranged in a num- ber of the old quarry-holes. The visitor steps about among a series of little ponds, so ar- ranged, each a little higher than its neigh- bor, that the water slowly runs from one to another. These ponds are open to the sun,, like any piece of natural water; but by going down some rough stone steps and into the bowels of the hill, the visitor finds himself among the fish and on their own level, separated from the water only by plate- glass on either side, behind, before, and even overhead. All this park of the Trocad6ro is sloping ground, all leading up from the bridge to the great palace. In the middle, and spring- ing from the rotunda of the music-hall itself, as seen in our illustration on page 163, is the cascade, whiq,h, after the manner of such ornamental waters, descends the hill by little steps, after it has taken its first great plunge of thirty feet or more. It is admit- ted that the slope of the cascade is not quite steep enough; that, when looked at from below, it does not fall rapidly enough for the best effect; that it is too much lost in the foreshortening. But the basin in which it ends its course is very successful, with its three fountains, the center one playing always in a slender upright jet, the two side ones in bouquets of spray. At the four corners of the basin are four statues of sin- gular subject, which have excited as much remark and criticism as any sculptured work about the Exposition. They, face out from the water in four different directions, four enormous quadrupeds of gilded bronze: a horse and an ox, an elephant and a rhinoc- eros. A very remarkable success has been achieved in these. Mr. Cains ox is espe- cially admirable. As for Mr. Jacquemarts rhinoceros, the wonder is so great that he should succeed in doing anything at all with the creature, as a subject for sculpture, that perhaps ones critical humor is lulled asleep; but indeed the modeling is capital, at once artistic and faithful to the minute peculiari- ties of the beast, and the treatment, in a decorative fashion, is truly surprising. The buildings nearest this basin, one on eaeb side, are two of the more elegant and expensive of the numerous restaurants within the grounds. From that on the right a charming view is to be had, almost like the view from the colonnade of the palace, though of course less extensive. This was the place to dine during that memorable summer I At six the buildings were closed; but the grounds were lighted more or less brilliantly, and they were open till eight oclock for in-comers, and indefinitely for lin- gerers; at least, the restaurants began to shut up and the attractions grew strong else- where, before ever any notice of dismissal was served upon the loitering visitor. At six one could dine pleasantly,for there was no crowd, except at the hour of de- Ieuner,and then take a comfortable chair under the colonnade which crowns the hill, and watch the sunset light upon the distant domes and towers, the gleaming river, and the Exposition building across the river, with its four bubble-like domes at the four corners, and the long perspective of roofs between. In this respect the buildings of 1878 were vastly superior to the oval mass of 1876; for the great size of the whole group was perfectly evident; the domes nearest the ~cole Militaire looked to be, as they were, half a mile farther off than the nearer ones; and the transparent lightness given to these square domes by their way of construc- tion (which may be partly understood by ex- amining the cut on page i66), greatly aided THE FINE ARTS AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION 7 the effect of the whole, making it all seem building,shown on the right hand of the vague and vast in the dim light. In the map, and lettered M. P. W., which stands for Parc de feuza there was a little government Minister (or Ministry) of Public Works, STATUE JEANNE DARC AS A CHILD, BY ALBERT-LEFECYRE. 172 THE FINE ARTS AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION and on the top of it was a little light-house, or lantern, from which a revolving light, now white and now red, threw its flashes through the gathering night. In one other respect, also, the prospect grew more pleas- ing as darkness descended: the buildings which are seen on the map standing along the river-side, between the river and the sunken street on each bank, were nearly all roofed with red tiles, and in broad day- light the succession of these roofs of vivid color, one rising behind the other, divided the landscape too violently, while they con- cealed too much of it. That was a serious oversight, and the worst blot upon the gen- eral beauty of the grounds. The lower part of the slope, on this side the river, was thickly strewn with buildings; that farthest to the left is the Chinese bazaar, with ornamental gardens around it; the larger block of buildings near, fronting on the cross-avenue, which continues the Boulevard De Lessert, is the Egyptian building; behind it, down the hill, are wooden structures put up by Swedish and Norwegian exhibitors; and fronting on the main avenue that leads to the bridge, is the Japanese model farm. Of this last, the house is not so important as the very pretty cottage put up by the Japanese at Philadel- phia, but the pretty garden, the delicate fences, the ornamental plants and the gen- eral arrangements were very attractive; and the gate was so picturesque and so prettily ornamented with carvings in wood that it was one of the most valuable pieces of ornamental art in the Exposition. The most important building on the eastern side of this park is the Algerian pavilion, the white tower of which is prominent in ANCIENT TAPESTRY, FROM THE FRENCH SCULPTURE GALLERY. ~AFTER DRAWING BY D. MAITLAND ARMSTRONG.) THE PINE ARTS AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION 73 every view of the Exposition grounds or of An important structure is the Creuzot Paris from the Trocad6ro. This is the large building near the Pavilion of Public Works oblong structure close to the Rue de Mag- important on account of the great industry it debourg, and between gates. C and D. represented, with the evidences of whichit was STATUE, FAITH, BY PAUL DUBOIS, FROM THE MONUMENT TO GENERAL DE LA MOEICI~EE. (FROM DRAWING BY AUGUSTUS ST. OAUUENS.) 74 THE PINE ARTS AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION filled, on account of its own considerable value wooden scibots and rough clothes. The truly as an architectural design, and on account of artistic management of all this, and the the very interesting monument it contained, pathos and sincerity which fill it, are the In the cut on page i68 is engraved a part of more delightful because they are unexpected. S ______________________________ 1\~\ /~ VENICE, PAST AND PRESENT. (DRAWN SY C, C. this monument which is erected to the mem- ory of Eug~ne Schneider, the founder and chief the iron-works at Creuzot, and head for so long a time of an unusually prosperous and contented community. At the base, seated on a projecting step which serves her as a seat, is a mother pointing to the statue of Schneider at the top, and calling her sons attention to it as the object of his gratitude and imitation. This group is one of the most real and valuable products of modern art. The dress of both the mother and the boy is that of the work-people of the Schnei- der usine; advantage is taken of the habits of workers in the casting-shops and forges to give the boys body naked above the waist, and to model carefully its spare and youthful forms; but except for this, the sculptors only material after he leaves the two character- istic and expressive heads, are coarse shoes, COLEMAN AFTER HIS PAINTING IN THE EXPOSITION.) However learned and skillful, however val- ued by the French official and municipal leaders for its monumental and grandiose character, M. Chapus work generally lacks freshness and natiVe impulse,is too often but cold and dull. There are many large and stately works by this sculptor in and about the great Exhibition building, and they all repel. If we turn away from the Creuzot pavilion and look across the lawn and the lake toward the central entrance of the grand vestibule, there, on the steps leading to the terrace, was a colossal seated female figure The French Republicgazing out toward the park and the bridge. Within, and under the side loggia of the Paris pavilion, was the monument to Berryer, the great advocate, intended for the Palace of Justice, which is now being repaired and rebuilt after the incendiarism of i87i. These THE FINE ARTS AT IHE PARIS EXPOSITION 75 and six or seven important works that were in the galleries leave the spectator cold and indifferent, and, until he learns to under- stand and feel the strong desire of the French for stateliness of effect in connection with monumental sculpture, he is inclined to wonder at the immense fame and success of the sculptor. But this group of the Creuzot monument, known as Gratitude, La Reconnaissance,has modern feeling as well as great artistic qualities, and is a true work of the time. The viexv on page r66 just misses giving the statue of the Republic, mentioned above, and shows the extreme western angle of the main Exhibition building. The glass wall is the front of the Grand Vestibule, as we may readily consent to call this really immense hall; a broad terrace is before it, and a pro- jecting roof shelters the numerous entrances. The statues ranged along below this roof are emblematic of the nations who joined in the Exposition, and high above each statue, on the top of the pier against which it is set, was a shield bearing some heraldic or other device also appropriate to its nationality. There was not much value in these statues; Mr. Aizelins Japan received the most general admiration, but they were all together of small importance,at least in comparison with the works of art around. For entering the vestibule, say by the middle door-way, the visitor found an assembly of statues and groups in marble and in bronze, which, without crowding the immense space, or seeming to interfere with free passage, wel- comed the visitor to the display of fine art beyond. Out of the grand vestibule, door- ways opened to the long corridors of the building beyond ;a door-way in the middle to the art galleries, on each side of this a door to one of the open streets, and again beyond these, on each side, door-ways to the different departmentsall that was French on the north-east, or Paris side, all that was foreign on the other. But the fine-art galleries are not divided in this way, but follow one another in long sequence, as shown in the plan on page i6~. Since the first three rooms are filled with French sculpture, it was the more suitable that some of the more prominent pieces should stand without. Among the four or five hundred statues, groups and busts, the bass-reliefs and medals, the monumental compositions of the French sculptors, how few can we even name! The lovely statue, by Mr. Albert-Lefeuvre, of Jeanne dArc in her childhood, stood in the large, square sculpture gallery,the first as. you pass from the vestibule,and was on the right, just at the right-hand jamb of the door leading into the long gallery beyond. The full title is Jeanne dArc, enfant, entend ses voix. The cut, taken from a photograph, does not give the best point of view; but yet the meaning of the statue can be seen and understood. What cannot be seen is its sculpturesque beauty. It was the only work in the Exposition of an artist who is still very young, and whose promise is of sur- passing excellence. The average merit is so high that it is hard for one accustomed to other modern sculpt- ure than that of France to form any concep THE APPROACH TO VENICE. IPAINTINO BY W. G. DUNCE.) 176 iHE FINE ARTS AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION tion of it. As an instance we may mention the extraordinary vigor of the great number of portrait-heads (for they are hardly busts, having little more than the head and throat, to the breast). There were, perhaps, sev- enty-five of them in the long rooms com- ing second and third in our diagram, and scarcely one was inferior to, or less xvorthy of study and admiration than, the others. It is not wonderful, of. course, that of all the thou- sands of works of sculpture of the past eleven years, the selected five hundred should have been fine. Every year the salon contains six hundred, so that the commissioners had at least six thousand to choose from. It is in its abundance and richness that the glory of the French school of sculpture lies. The ample encouragement given to sculptors by the gov- ernment and by the cities and public bodies, has counted for much, and it is the custom in France to be magnificent in sculpture, as well as in painting. The result is that there is an immense amount produced which is of a certain value, and among it all some little which reminds the student of great times gone by. The question that one asks, on first surveying this immense body of art, is whether any of it is admirable artisti- cally,admirable in modeling, admirable as a work of sculpture. Never mind about the meaning of it the enthusiast is almost ready to cry. The young women at home are producing statues which are wonderfully full of meaning; but are there any of these which are beautiful? Grecian perfection I do not ask nor expect, he says, if he is reasonable; but is there anybody alive that can give some of that antique grace, that modulation of surface, that sub- tile gradation of form, which lasted long after the glory of Greece was past, and which makes the sculpture, even of what we call corrupt and decaying epochs, a despair to modern men? Well, there was something to show the enthusiast. Outside of the line of galleries, on the French side, the open street was called the Rue de France, and passing down that street toward the center of the main building, the visitor found something in a recess between two of the alcoves which showed what modern sculpture can achieve. In our diagram (page i6~) it is shown at C,in the last recess before we reach the first loggria, or cross-passage. It is the tomb of General Juchault de La Morici~re, with its statues by M. Paul Dubois, set up for the first time and intended, when made perfect by the BRETON INTERIOR IN 1793. (DRAWN BY T. ROVENDEN AFTER HIS PAINTING IN THE EXPOSITION.) TILE FINE ARTS AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION 77 completion in bronze of all the statues at the among the few finest things of modern art. angles, to stand in the cathedral of Nantes. Military Courage gives name to a noble As it stood in the Exposition, the statue, or statue, too, of which photographs and Bar- rather group of Charity, and the statue of bediennes bronze reproductions in small can Military Courage, which were exhibited be had. The monument itself with the four as plasters in the Salon of 1876, were in dark statues at the four angles, and the recumbent bronze, but the other two supporters, Faith statue of the general beneath the canopy, is and Meditation, were in the plaster still, altogether, architecture and sculpture, a very Of these we give engravings of Charity and admirable piece of work, and no doubt in Faith, the first frqm a photograph which was taken from the plaster original; the other from a drawing by Mr. St. Gaudens, made from the statue during the Exposition. With. their tranquillity, their perfectly sculptur- esque design, the simple and delicate treat- ment of dress and accessories, and their refined modeling, as of a great sculptor of the Renaissance come again, but with newly gained anatomical science, these statues are VOL. XVIILi3. time to come casts and models of it will be set up in our museums. Before leaving the French sculpture gal- leries, mention should be made of the very sensible plan adopted for masking the naked- ness of the walls. They are almost covered with large ancient tapestries, many of them of great beauty. No catalogue nor hand- book mentioned them, except casually; no labels were appended to them; to whom they LA FONTAINE. (PAINTING BY JULES LEETON.) 178 THE FINE ARTS AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION belonged and whence they came there was to the original picture, and more beautiful no one to say. One of them is reproduced as an engraving, than the illustration in in the engraving on page i 72, from a draw- LArtwhich the writerin thatjournal oddly ing made during the Exposition by Mr. D. praised at Mr. Vedders expense. Mr. Kreuz- Maitland Armstrong. berger is credited with the drawing of that In our diagram of the galleries (page 165), picture, which, reproduced by some one of the recesses between the alcoves are in some the numerous processes of photo-engraving, cases marked by letters. A is nothing of now so common, appears in the fifteenth vol- consequence, a big terra cotta reproduction nine of LArt, page 199. This would of the Diana of the Louvre, a specimen of have passed as a tolerable print and toler- Doultons Lambeth pottery. B is better; it ably like the picture, but for the amazing is a very spirited bronze group by J. E. statements of the accompanying text, in which Boehin, A Clydesdale Stallion, and his it is said that the copyist has amused him- groom. Mr. Boehm is also the author of self with putting into shape the picturesque the large statue of Thomas Carlyle which dreams of Mr. Vedder, and that perhaps has been often copied and photographed. this may be profitable to Mr. Vedder him- But the most important piece of sculpture self, whose notice will, in this way, be called in the British exhibit is, without doubt, the to certain deficiencies in his talent. The Athlete Struggling with a Python, of Sir moral aspect of that criticism has been Fred~rick Leighton, the painter. This stands treated of in many journals; our business in the large room of the British subdivision, has been rather to give a really adequate among the pictures. Indeed, with the ex- idea of the picture, by obtaining Mr. Ved- ception of France, no nation separates stat- ders own drawing, and having it engraved nary from painting,not even those who, by Mr. Cole. Mr. Colemans Venice, like Italy, send a large collection of each. Past and Present also is engraved from The compact little gallery occupied by a drawing by himself. It needs little power the United States contained much that was of imagination to see the artists meaning in really interesting and worthy to be on ex t~he trim steamer anchored off the custom- hibition in Paris, even among the pick of the house, while on one side of her are the last ten years of European art. Mr. Vedders painted sails of the Venice fishing-boats, and Marsyas, engraved from his own drawing, ~on the left the old Doguna and the Church is believed to be a good deal more faithful of the Madonna of Salvation. Mr. Hoven- STUBBLE FIELDS. (PAINTING BY A. SEGE.) THE FINE ARTS AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION. 79 dens Breton Interior in 1793 was drawn by himself from the painting, while Mr. Bunces The Approach to Venice was engraved from a photograph. The other paintings which we have engraved are all from the French contributions. M. Segas landscape, Les Chaumes (Eure- et-Loire), is one of the best pict- ures of the younger men, who are building up in France a wonderful school of strong and free land- scape-painting. M. Protais Color Guard is one of the very few pict- ures of military subject which were in the Exposition. All the works of art which in any way reflected recent animosities or recorded recent strife were barred; the motto of the Ex- position, placed high above its principal front, was Peace. M. Protais picture, as fitting any time and place, with a few others, such as M. Berne-Bellecours Cannon Shot (C/n Coup aYe Caizon), pictures by Meissonnier and others of the sol- diers of the First Empire were among the military pieces admitted. As one goes out of the United States gallery into the first French picture- gallery, the wall on the lefr was half filled with the paintings of Jules Breton, and a noble show they made. What a pity it is that it is not yet possible, in any of our pict- ure-galleries, to get the works of an artist all grouped together! The childish fancy for variety, which had rather see each wall covered with as varied a collection as possible, is exactly equivalent to that stage of intellectual development which reads poetry in books of selections ; it is about time that the hanging committees ceased to regard it. Not that the Bretons were all absolutely together. One had to find some strayed canvases, besides. The one we have engraved from a photograph is perhaps as valuable a picture as any, nor was there in the collection anything much finer in the way of free and noble rendering of peasant life and rural land- scape. It is always true of Mr. Bretons peasant girls that they are peasants indeed, and not Parisian models in peasant dress. This gives to all his work of this class a char- acter of truthfulness and real life, the reason for which is not at first easy to understand. And this is one of the chief causes of a rep- utation which is just a little surprising. For the artistic quality of these pictures, though high, is certainly not the highest; there is little or none of that strange dignity of which Jean Fran~ois Millet had the secret. It would not do to say that it is to despised and decried realisme that Jules Breton owes his power over the spectator; and yet, where else to seek for it ? At the same time, it must be said that among his pictures there are some which remind one of the great Millet. The pictnre, Les Amis, where girlish figuresnot, as in La Fontaine, of life size, but much smallerare seen com- ing through the corn-field, is perhaps, of all PART OF THE BELGIAN FACADE. THE FINE ARTS AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION. INTERIOR I ENGLISH COUNTRY HOt these nine pictures, the most noble and vere, the best in every like the work of the have twice named. Opposite the Bretons, on the other long wall of that gallery, hung M. Bouguereaus canvasesa very different collection! It seems to be priestly influence that gives him so much valuable space for his saintly per- sonages, with broad, gilded haloes. His rather effeminate art has but two notes: pietism and girlish sentiment; and, com- pared with the daylight sensibleness of the Bretons, it is all feeble indeed. When the visitor looked back toward the screen, around which he had passed in entering, he found it covered with the pictures of Corot ten Corots together! This was an after- thought; the Exposition was two months old before these Corots were hung, there having been only two or three at first. What bad management it was, or what willful exclusion, which kept out Millet entirely, and almost suc- ceeded in excluding Corot, it is impossible to OF WILLIAM III.; ENGLISH EXHIBIT. ~hough there was gossip enough about corresponding screen in the gallery ide (the one opening out of Swe- was hung with the paintings of the Daubigny; and near, on the wall di- the two French galleries, the pictures Duran, including the Mlle. Croi- zetre of the Philadelphia Exhibition. But it is impossible to go on in this catalogue style, hinting at pictures which we cannot engrave, nor describe, nor, alas! see again. In the galleries beyond was the wonderful work of the Alsacian, Henner, and of Laurens, the most truly historical and the most truly a painter, of all living historical painters; and here, too, the work of Benjamin Constant, who perhaps will surpass him, as having certainly greater art-power. It is hard to imagine anything more magnificent than M. Constants huge picture of the fall of Constantinople,magnificent in a worldly~ too visible, superficial way, perhaps ; but noble still, as a huge earthly event itself is noble. Then there were the strong and THE FINE ARTS AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION sincere young landscape-painters, of whom M. Seg6 only has been named. With him should always be classed L. G. Pelouse and the Burgundian Pointelin, Bernier of Colmar, and the younger Daubigny. And, among all the pictures of younger and older men alike, the marvelous workmanship and powerful conception of Bastien-Lepagea new man, whose first medal was only of 1874 for the front upon this of the French build- ings on the north-east was a blank wall of iron and glass, and the picture-galleries and alcoves were not ornamental. But the other street was a different affair. It was called Rue des Nations, and each visiting people had a front upon it exactly proportionate to the size of the ground it occupied. Thus,. Great Britain had some five hundred feet of THE COLOR GUARD. (PAINTING BY PROTAIS.) drew the lovers of vigorous and inde- pendent art to the out-ofthe-way corner where his best canvas was hung. In despite of this attractive panorama, and instead of passing on to the galleries beyond the center, our business is to stop for a moment at the first Zoggia, and look about us. The open street on the Paris side was, as has been said, the Rue de France. And this is a plain, and even ugly, street enough, frontage; and the next largest exhibitors being Austria-Hungary and Belgium, it was they who came next in the amount of space occupied on the street. These fronts were all occupied with the fa9ades, ofwhich so much ~ Each nation did as itchose; and very oddly they chose, some of them The chief and most honorable building wa~ that of Belgium. The Belgians took the sug- gestion au grand serieux, and spent six hun-- 182 THE FINE ARTS A] THE PARIS EXPOSITION dred thousand francs, and built a building like a Renaissance town-hall, of one pavilion of which we give a picture. The architect of this building, M. Janlet, showed great ingenuity in working into his design the various building materials which were con- tributed,poiished marble and granite col- innns, stone of various colors, brick, bronze- work, wrought-iron work,and all without clashing or want of harmony. The five hundred feet of front occupied by Great Britain was filled, not by one faade, but by five separate buildings, one of which was built and fitted up as a private residence for the president of the British Commission, the Prince of Wales. The most satisfactory of the five was the little edifice erected by Messrs. Collinson & Lock, a London firm of decorators and upholsterers. It was a faithful reproduction of a small country house of the time of William III., and represented in its simple and careful design, both within and without, an unusual degree of skill, knowledge and taste. Our cut, from a drawing by Mr. D. Maitland Armstrong, gives the interior, at the arch- way between the entrance vestibule and the stair-way hall. But in the heart of the huge structure (where a park was to have been had not space, even in this most vast of exhibition buildings, proved scanty) was the best building on the Champ de Mars, the really beautiful pavilion of the city of Paris. This building, devoted to the exhibition of the city itself, in its corporate capacity, with its various departments of religion and educa- tion and police, lighting and paving, parks and public monuments, is really very large about two hundred and fifty feet long. Our cut shows the south-eastern end of it; or, rather, the eastern most corner, with two of the six great door-ways; and on the right, a part of the covered veranda where statuary and monuments belonging to the city were exhibited; on the left, just seen, is an arch of the Austrian Faade on the Rue des Nations; the street on the right is the Rue de France. Space does not allow of a minute examination of this edifice, which in some respects is the most im- portant in the Exposition, and which marks an era in modern building: a purely con- structional work, built and decorated by the means readiest to hand; absolutely novel. and underived; free from the copyism which ruins modern architecture, and altogether a marked success as an architectural design. ijiE r~v~u~ HA WORTHS. 183 HAWORTUS. * BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT, Author of That Lass o Lowries, Surly Tim, and Other Stories, Etc. CHAPTER XXXVIII. GOD BLESS you! LATE the same night, Mrs. Haworth, who had been watching for her son alone in the grand, desolate room in which it was her lot to sit, rose to her feet on hearing him enter the house. The first object which met his eye when he came in was her little figure and her pa- tient face turned toward the door. As he crossed the threshold, she took a few steps as if to meet him, and then stopped. Jem! she exclaimed. Jem! Her voice was tremulous and her eyes bright with the indefinable feeling which seized upon her the moment she saw his face. Her utterance of his name was a cry of anxiousness and fear. What! he said. Are you here yet? He came to her and laid a hand upon her shoulder in a rough caress. Youd better go to bed, he said to her. Its late and Ive got work to do. I felt, she answered, as if Id like to wait an see you. I knowed I should sleep better for itI always do. There was a moments pause in which she stroked his sleeve with her withered hand. Then he spoke. Sleep better! he said. Thats a queer notion. Youve got queer fancies, you womensome on you. Then he stooped and kissed her awk- wardly. He always did it with more or less awkwardness and lack of ease, but it never failed to make her happy. Now youve done it,~ he said. Youd better go, old lady, and leave me to finish what Ive got to do. Copyright by Frances liodgson Burnett, 5878.All rights reserved. SHE STROKED HIS SLEEVE WITH HER WITHERED HAND.

Frances Hodgson Burnett Burnett, Frances Hodgson "Haworth's" 183-192

HA WORTHS. 183 HAWORTUS. * BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT, Author of That Lass o Lowries, Surly Tim, and Other Stories, Etc. CHAPTER XXXVIII. GOD BLESS you! LATE the same night, Mrs. Haworth, who had been watching for her son alone in the grand, desolate room in which it was her lot to sit, rose to her feet on hearing him enter the house. The first object which met his eye when he came in was her little figure and her pa- tient face turned toward the door. As he crossed the threshold, she took a few steps as if to meet him, and then stopped. Jem! she exclaimed. Jem! Her voice was tremulous and her eyes bright with the indefinable feeling which seized upon her the moment she saw his face. Her utterance of his name was a cry of anxiousness and fear. What! he said. Are you here yet? He came to her and laid a hand upon her shoulder in a rough caress. Youd better go to bed, he said to her. Its late and Ive got work to do. I felt, she answered, as if Id like to wait an see you. I knowed I should sleep better for itI always do. There was a moments pause in which she stroked his sleeve with her withered hand. Then he spoke. Sleep better! he said. Thats a queer notion. Youve got queer fancies, you womensome on you. Then he stooped and kissed her awk- wardly. He always did it with more or less awkwardness and lack of ease, but it never failed to make her happy. Now youve done it,~ he said. Youd better go, old lady, and leave me to finish what Ive got to do. Copyright by Frances liodgson Burnett, 5878.All rights reserved. SHE STROKED HIS SLEEVE WITH HER WITHERED HAND. 184 HA WOJUAHS. Its late for work, Jem, she answered. You oughtnt to try yourself so much. It aint work so much, he said, as thinking. Theres summat Ive got to think out. For the moment he seemed quite to for- get her. He stood with his hands thrust into his pockets and his feet apart, staring at the carpet. He did not stir when she He bestirred himself and looked up at her. Trouble! he repeated. Thats not the word. Its not trouble, old lady, and its naught that can be helped. There s me and it to fight it out. Go and get your sleep and leave us to it. She went slowly and sadly. She always obeyed him, whatever his wish might be. SHE TURNED HER FACE TOWARD HIM. moved away, and was still standing so when she turned at the door to look at him. What she saw brought her back, hurried and tearful. Let me stay ! she cried. Let me stay. Theres trouble in your face, Jem, for I see it. Dont keep it from mefor the sake of what weve been through together in times thats past. When the last sound of her faltering feet had died away upon the stairs, he went to the side-board and poured out a glass of raw brandy and drank it. I want summat to steady me, he said, .. and to warm me. But it did not steady him, at least. When he sat down at the table, the hand he laid upon it shook. GOOD-NIGHT, SHE ANSWERED. HA WORTHS. r85 He looked at it curiously, clinching and unclinching it. Im pretty well done for when it goes like that, he said. Im farther gone than I thought. Its all over meover and through me. Im shaking like a fool. He broke out with a torrent of curses. Is it me thats sitting here, he cried, or some other chap? Is it me that lucks gone agen on every side or a chap thats useder to it? Among all his pangs of humiliation and baffled passion there was not one so subtle and terrible in its influence upon him as his momentary sense of physical weakness. He understood it less than all the rest, and raged against it more. His body had never failed him once, and now for the first time he felt that its power faltered. He was faint and cold and trembled not merely from excitement but from loss of strength. Opposite to him, at the other side of the room, was a full-length mirror. Accidentally raising his eyes toward it he caught sight~of his own face. He started back and uncon- sciously glanced behind him. Who !he began. And then he stopped, knowing the face for his ownwhite-lipped, damp with cpid sweat, lined with harsh furrowsevil to see. He got up, shaking his fist at it, cry- ing out through his shut teeth. Blast her! he said. Whos to blame but her? He had given up all for her, his ambition, which had swept all before it, his greatest strength, his very sins and coarseness, and half an hour ago he had passed the open door of a room and had seen Murdoch standing motionless, not uttering a word, but with his face fairly transfigured by his ecstasy, and with her hand crushed against his breast. He had gone in to see Efrench, and had remained with him for an hour in one of the parlors, knowing that the two were alone in the other. He had heard their voices now and then, and had known that once they went out upon the terrace and talked there. He had grown burning hot and deadly cold, and had strained his ears for every sound and never caught more than a word or low laugh coming from Rachel Efrench. At last he had left his partner, and on his way out had passed the open door. They had come back to the room, and Murdoch was saying his good- night. He held Rachel Efrenchs hand, and she made no effort to withdraw it, but VOL XVIII.14. gave it to his caress. She did not move nor speak, but her eyes rested upon his rapt face with an expression not easy to under- stand. Haworth did not understand it, but the rage which seized and shook him was the most brutal emotion he had ever felt in his life. It was a madness which left him weak. He staggered down the stairs and out into the night blindly, blaspheming as he went. He did not know how he reached home. The sight his mother had seen, and which had drawn a cry from her and checked her midway in the room had been cause enough for tremor in her. Nothing but the most violent effort had saved him from an outbreak in her presence. He was weaker for the struggle when she was gone. He could think of nothing but of Rachel Ffrenchs untranslatable face and of Mur- dochs close clasp of her surrendered hand. What has she ever give me? he cried. Ak, thats played the fool for her! Whats he done that he should stand there and fondle her as if hed bought and paid for her? Im the chap that paid for her! Shes mine, body and soul, by George, if every man had his rights! And then, remembering all that had gone by, he turned from hot to cold again. Ive stood up agen her a long time, he said, and what have I got? 1 swore Id make my way with her, and how far have I gone? Shes never give me a word, by George, or ~ look thatd be what another woman would have give. Shes not even played with memost on em would have done thatbut shes not. Shes gone on her way and let me go on mine. Shes turned neither right nor left for meI wasnt man enough. He wore himself out in the end and went to the brandy again, and drank of it deeply. It sent him up-stairs with heated blood and feverish brain. It was after midnight, and he went to his room, but not to sleep. He lay upon his pillow in the darkness think- ing of the things he had done in the past few months, and of the fruit the first seed he had sown might bring forth. Theres things that may happen to any on us, my lad, he said, and some on em might happen to you. If its Jem Haworth thats to lose, the other shant gain, by George! He had put the light out and lay in the darkness, and was so lying with this mood at work upon him when there came a timid su~mons on the door, and it opened and some one came in softly. i86 HA WORTHS. spoke. Jem, she said, Jem, youre not asleep, my dear. ~ he answered. She came to the bed-side and stood there. II couldnt sleep, she said. Some- things a little wrong with me. Im gettin foolish, anan fearful. I felt as if you wasnt quite safe. I thought Id come and speak to you. Youre out o sorts, he answered. Youll have to be looked after. Its nothing hut my foolish way, she replied. Youre very good to mean me so full of fancies. Would youwould you mind me a-kneelin down an sayin a prayer here to myself as I used to when you was a boy, Jem? I think it d do me good. Would you mind it? No, he answered hoarsely. Kneel down. And she knelt and grasped for his hand and held it, and he heard her whispering in the dark as he had been wont to hear her nearly thirty years before. And when it was over, she got up and kissed him on the forehead. God bless you, my dear! she said. God bless you ! and went away. CHAPTER XXXIX. He knew who it was, even before she ness for Rachels coming. But she did not make her appearance. He heard her walk across the room after Murdoch left her, and then she did not seem to move again. After the lapse of half an hour he laid his pamphlet aside and rose himself. He coughed two or three times and paced the floor a littlegradually he edged toward the folding doors leading into the front room and passed through them. Rachel stood at one of the windows, which was thrown open. She was leaning against its side and looking out into the night. When she turned toward him some- thing in her manner caused in Ffrench an increase of nervousness amounting to irrita- tion. You wish to say something to me, she remarked. What is it? Yes, he answered. I wish to say something to you.~~ He could not make up his mind to say it for a moment or so. He found himself returning her undisturbed glance with an excited and bewildered one. Ithe fact is he broke forth, des- perately, II do not understand you. That is not at all singular, she replied. You have often said so before. He began to lose his temper and to walk about the room. You have often chosen to seem incom- prehensible, he said, but this is the most extraordinary thing you have done yet. Youyou must know that it looks very badthat people are discussing you openly you of all women! Suddenly he wheeled about and stopped, staring at her with more uncertainty and bewilderment than ever. I ought to know you better, he said, I do know you better than to think you capable of any weakness ofof that kind. You are not capable of it. You are too proud and too fond of yourself, and yet And yet what? she demanded, in a peculiar, low voice. He faltered visibly. And yet you are permitting yourself to to be talked over andmisunderstood. Do you think, she asked, in the same voice, that I care for being talked over? You would care if you knew what is said, he responded. You do not know. I can guess, she replied, easily. But she was deadly pale and he saw it, and her humiliation was that she knew he saw it. IT IS DONE WITH. AFTER the departure of Haworth and Murdoch, Mr. Ffrench waited for some time for his daughters appearance. He picked up a pamphlet and turned over its leaves uneasily, trying to read here and there, and making no great success of the effort. He was in a disturbed and nervous mood, the evening had been a trial to him, more es- pecially the latter part of it during which Haworth had sat on the other side of the table in his usual awkwardly free and easy posture, his hands in his pockets, his feet thrust out before him. His silence and the expression he had worn had not been of a kind to relieve his companion of any tithe ofthe burden which had gradually a~cumu- lated upon his not too muscular shoulders. At the outset Efrench had been simply be- wildered, then somewhat anxious and annoyed, but to-day he had been stunned. Haworths departure was an immense relief to him, in fact, it was often a relief to him in these days. Then he had heard Murdoch descend the stairs and leave the house and he waited with mingled dread and anxious- HA WORTHS. 187 What you do, he continued, is of more consequence than what most women do. You are not popular. You have held your- self very high and have set people at de- fiance. If you should be guilty of a romantic folly, it would go harder with you than with others. I know that, she answered him, far better than you do. She held herself quite erect and kept her eyes steadily upon him. What is the romantic folly? she put it to him. He could not have put it into words just then if his life had depended upon his power to do it. You will not commit it, he said. It is not in you to do it, but you have put your- self in a false position, and it is very unpleas- ant for both of us. She stopped him. You are very much afraid of speaking plainly, she said. Be more definite. He actually flushed to the roots of his hair in his confusion and uneasiness. There was no way out of the difficulty. You have adopted such a manner with the world generally, he floundered, that a concession from you means a great deal. Youyou have been making extraordinary concessions. It is easy to see that this young fellow is madly enamored of you. He does not know how to conceal it, and he does not try. You have not seemed to demand that he should. You have let him follow you, and come and go as his passion and simplicity prompted him. One might say you had encouraged himthough en- couraged seems hardly the word to use. No, she interrupted, it is not the word to use. He has made himself conspicuous and you too, and you have never protested by word or deed. When he was in danger you actually risked your life for him. Great heaven! she ejaculated. The memory of the truth of what he had said came upon her like a flash. Until this moment she had only seen the night from one stand-point, and to see it from this one was a deadly blow to her. She lost her balance. How dare you? she cried breathlessly. I was mad with excitement. If I had stopped to think You usually do stop to think, he put in. That was why I was amazed. You did a thing without calculating its signifi- cance. You never did so before in your life. You know that it is true. You pride yourself upon it. He could have said nothing so bitter and terrible. For the moment they had changed places. It was he who had presented a weakness to her. She did pride herself upon her cool power of calculation. Go on! she exclaimed. He has been here half the day, he proceeded, growing bolder. You were out in the garden together all the afternoon he has only just left you. When you contrast his position with yours is not /Izat an extraordinary thing? What should you say if another woman had gone so far? Two years ago, he was Haworths engineer. He is a wonderful fellow and a genius, and the world will hear of him yet. I should never think of anything but that if I were the only individual concerned, but you you treated him badly enough at first. She turned paler and paler. You think that Ithat I ,. She had meant to daunt him with the most daring speech she could make, but it would not complete itself. She faltered and broke down. I dont know what to think, he an- swered desperately. It seems impossible. Good heavens! it is impossible you it is not in your nature. No, she said, it is not. Even in that brief space she had recovered herself wholly. She met his glance just as she had met it before, even with more per- fect sangfroid. I will tell you what to think, she went on. I have been very dull here. I wished from the first that I had never come. I hate the people, and I despise them more than hate them. I must be amused and interested, and they are less than nothing. The person you speak of was different. I suppose what you say of him is true and he is a genius. I care nothing for that in itselg but he has managed to interest me. At first I thought him only absurd; he was of a low class and a common workman, and he was so simple and ignorant of the world that he did not feel his position or did not care. That amused me and I led him on to revealing himself. Then I found out that there was a difference between him and the rest of his class and I began to study him. I have no sentimental notions about his honor and good qualities. Those things do not affect me, but I have been interested and the time has passed more easily. Now the matter will end just as it began,not i88 HA WORTHS. because I am tired of him or because I care for what people say, but because I think it is time,and I choose that it should. It is done with from to-night. Good heaven! he cried. You are not going to drop the poor fellow like that ? You may call it what you please, she returned. I have gone as far as I choose to go, and it is done with from to-night. Mr. Ffrenchs excitement became some- thing painful to see. Between his embar- rassment as a weak nature before a strong one,an embarrassment which was founded upon secret fear of unpleasant results, between this and the natural compunctions arising from tendencies toward a certain refined and amiable sense of fairness, he well-nigh lost all control over himself and became courageous. He grew heated and flushed and burst forth into protest. My dear, he said, I must say its a a deuced ungentlemanly business! Her lack of response absolutely inspired him. Its a deuced ill-bred business, he added, from first to last. She did not reply even to that, so he went on, growing warmer and warmer. You have taunted me with being afraid of you, he said, though you have never put it into so many words. Perhaps I have been afraid of you. You can make yourself confoundedly unpleasant at times,and I may have shrunk from saying what would rouse you,but I must speak my mind about this, and say it is a deucedly cruel and unfair thing, and is unworthy of you. A less well-bred woman might have done it. A little color rose to her cheek and re- mained there, but she did not answer still. He is an innocent fellow, he pro- ceeded, an unworldly fellow; he has lived in his books and his work, and he knows nothing of women. His passion for you is a pure, romantic one; he would lay his world at your feet. Call it folly, if you will,it is folly,but allow me to tell you it is worthy of a better object. He was so astonished athis own daring that he stopped to see what effect it had produced. She replied by asking a simple but utterly confounding question. What, she said, would you wish me to do? What would I wish you to do? he stammered. What? II hardly know, he replied weakly. And after regarding her helplessly a little longer, he turned about and left the room. CHAPTER XL. LOOK OUT! THE next morning Ffrench rather sur prised Murdoch by walking into his cell with the evident intention of paying him a some- what prolonged visit, it was not, however, the fact of his appearing there which was un- usual enough to excite wonder, but the fact of a certain degree of mingled constraint and effusiveness in his manner. It was as if he was troubled with some mental com- punctions which he was desirous of setting at rest. At times he talked very fast and in a comparatively light and jocular yein, and again he was silent for some minutes, invariably rousing himself from his abstrac- tion with a sudden effort. Several times Murdoch found that hewas regarding him with a disturbed air of anxiety. Before going away he made an erratic and indecisive tour of the little room, glancing at drawings and picking up first one thing and then another. You have a good many things here, he said, of one kind and another. Yes, Murdoch answered, absently. Ffrench glanced around at the jumble of mechanical odds and ends, the plans and models in various stages of neglect or com- pletion. Its a queer place, he commented, and it has an air of significance. Its crammed with ideasof one kind and another. Yes, Murdoch answered, as before. Efrench approached him and laid his hand weakly on his shoulder. You are a fellow of ideas, he said, and you have a good deal before you. Whatever disappointments you might meet with, you would always have a great deal before you. You have ideas. I, with apparent inconsequence, I havent, you know. Murdoch looked somewhat puzzled, but he did not contradict him, so he repeated his statement. I havent, you know. I wish I had. Then he dropped his hand and looked indefinite again. I should always like you to remember that I am your friend, he said. I wish I could have been of more service to you. You are a fine fellow, Murdoch. I have admired youI have liked you. Dont forget it. And he went away carrying the burden of his indecision and embarrassment and HA WORTHS. 189 good intention with much amiable awk- wardness. That day Murdoch did not see Rachel Ffrench. Circumstances occurred which kept him at work until a late hour. The next day it was the same story, and the next also. A series of incidents seemed to com- bine against him, and the end of each day found him worn out and fretted. But on the fourth he was free again, and early in the evening found himself within sight of the iron gates. Every pulse in his body throbbed as he passed through them. He was full of intense expectation. He could scarcely bear to think of what was before him. His desperate happiness was a kind of pain. One of his chief longings was that he might find her wearing the pale blue dress again and that when he entered she might be standing in the center of the room as he had left her. Then it would seem as if there had been no nights and days between the last terribly happy moment and this. The thought which flashed across his mind that there might possibly be some one else in the room was a shock to him. If she is not alone, he said to him- self, it will be unbearable. As he passed up the walk, he came upon a tall white lily blooming on one of the border beds. He was in a sufficiently mystical and emotional mood to be stopped by it. It is like her, he said. And he gath- ered it and took it with him to the house. The first thing upon which his eye rested when he stood upon the threshold of the room was the pale blue color, and she was standing just as he had left her, it seemed to him upon the very same spot upon which they had parted. His wish had been realized so far at least. He was obliged to pause a moment to regain his self-control. It was an actual truth that he could not have trusted him- self so far as to go in at once. It was best that he did not. The next instant she turned and spoke to a third per- son at the other side of the room, and even as she did so caught sight of him and stopped. ~Here is Mr. Murdoch, she said, and paused, waiting for him to come forward. She did not advance to meet him, did not stir until he was scarcely more than a pace from her. She simply waited, watching him as he moved toward her, as if she were a little curious to see what he would do, Then she gave him her hand, and he took it with a feeling that something unnatural had happened, or that he was suddenly awakening from a delusion. He did not even speak. It was she who spoke, turning toward the person whom she had addressed before he entered. You have heard us speak of Mr. Mur- doch, she said; and then to himself, This is M. Saint M~ran. M. Saint M6ran rose and bowed pro- foundly. He presented, as his best points, long, graceful limbs and a pair of clear gray eyes, which seemed to hold their opinions in check. He regarded Murdoch with an expression of suave interest and made a well-bred speech of greeting. Murdoch said nothing. He could think of nothing to say. He was never very ready of speech. He bowed with an un- certain air, and almost immediately wan- dered off to the other end of the room, holding his lily in his hand. He began to turn over the pages of a book of engrav- ings, seeing none of them. After a little while a peculiar perfume close to him at- tracted his attention, and he looked down- ward vacantly and saw the lily. Then he laid it down and moved farther away. Afterwardhe did not know how long afterwardEfrench came in. He seemed in a very feverish state of mind, talking a great deal and rather inanely, and forcing Murdoch to reply and join in the conver- sation. M. Saint M6ran held himself with a graceful air of security and self-poise, and made gentle efforts at scientific remark which should also have an interest for ge- nius of a mechanical and inventive turn. But Murdochs replies were vague. His glance followed Rachel Ffrench. He de- voured her with his eyesa violence which she bore very well. At lasthe had not been in the house an hourhe left his chair and went to her. I am going away, he said in an under- tone. Good-night! She did not seem to hear him. She was speaking to Saint M6ran. Good-night! he repeated, in the same tone, not raising it at all, only giving it an intense, concentrated sound. She turned her face toward him. Good-night! she answered. And he went away, Ffrench following him to the door with erratic and profuse re- grets, which he did not hear at all. When he got outside, he struck out 190 HA WORTHS. across the country. The strength with which he held himself in check was a won- der to him. It seemed as if he was not thinking at allthat he did not allow him- self to think. He walked fast, it might even be said, violently; the exertion made his head throb and his blood rush through his veins. He walked until at last his heart beat so suffocatingly that he was forced to stop. He threw himself down almost fell down upon the grass at the way- side and lay with shut eyes. He was giddy and exhausted, and panted for breath. He could not have thought then, if he would; he had gained so much at least. He did not leave the place for an hour. When he did so, it was to walk home by another route, slowly, almost weakly. This route led him by the Briarley cottage, and, as he neared it, he was seized with a fancy for going in. The door was ajar and a light burned in the living-room, and this drew him toward it. Upon the table stood a basket filled with purchases and near the basket lay a shawl which Janey wore upon all occasions re- quiring a toilet. She had just come in from her shopping, and sat on a stool in her usual posture, not having yet removed the large bonnet which spread its brim around her small face, a respectable and steady-going aureole enlivened with hunches of flowers which in their better days had rejoiced Mrs. Briarleys heart with exceed- ing great joy. She looked up as he came in but she did not rise. Eh! its thee, is it? she remarked. I thowt it wur toime tha wur comm. Thast not been here fur nigh a month. I have beendoing a great deal. Aye, she answered. I suppose so. She jerked her thumb toward Granny Dixons basket chair, which stood empty. Shes takken down, she said. She wur takken down a week sin, an~ a noice toime were hain nursin her. None on us can do anything wi her hut mothershe can settle her, thank th Amoighty. She rested her sharp little elbows upon her knees and her chin upon both palms and surveyed him with interest. Has tha seed him? she demanded suddenly. Who?he asked. Him,~ with a nod of her head. Th furriner as is stayin at Mester Ffrenchs. Yo mun ha seen him. Hes been theer three days. I saw him this evening. I thowt tha mun ha seed him. He coom o Monday. He coom fro France. I should na, with a tone of serious specu- lation, I should na ha thowt she~d ha had a Frenchman. She moved her feet and settled herself more conveniently without moving her eyes from his face. I dunnot think much o Frenchmen mysen, she proceeded. An neyther does mother, but they say as this is a rich un an a grand un. Shes lived i France a good bit, an happen she does na moind their ways. Shes knowed him afore. When? he asked. When she wur theer. She lived theer, yo know. Yes, he remembered, she had lived there.. He said nothing more, only sat watching the little stunted figure and sharp small face with a sense of mild fascination, won- dering dully how much she knew and where she had learned it all, and what she would say next. But she gave him no further infor- mationchiefly because she had no more on hand, there being a limit even to her sagac ity. She became suddenly interested in himself. Yore as pale as if yod had th whoopin- cough, she remarked. Whats wrong wi yo? I am tired, he answered. Worn out. It was true enough, but did not satisfy her. Her matter of fact and matronly mind arrived at a direct solution of the question. Did yo ivver think, she put it to him, as shed ha yo ? He had no answer to give her. He be- gan to turn deathly white about the lips. She surveyed him with increased interest and proceeded: Mother an mes talked it over, she said. We tak th Hapenny Reader, an theer wur a tale in it as towd o one o th nobility as wed a workin chapan mother she said as happen she wur bike her an ud do it, but I said she would na. Th chap i th tale turnt out to be a earl, as ud been kidnapped by th gypsies, but yo nivver wur kidnapt, an shes noan o th soft koind. Th Lady Geraldine wur a difrient mak. Theer wur na mich i her to my moind. She wur allus makkin out as brass wur nowt, an talkin about humble virchew as if theer wur nowt bike it. Yo would na ketch her talkin that road. HA WORTHS. 9 Mother shed sit an cry until th babbys bishop wur wet through, but I nivver seed nowt to cry about mysen. She getten th chap i th eend, an he turnt out to be a earl after aw. But I towd mother as mar- ryin a workin man wur na i her loine. Murdoch burst into a harsh laugh and got up. Ive been pretty well talked over, it seems, he said. I didnt know that before. Aye, replied Janey coolly. Weve talked yo ower a good bit. Are yo goin? Yes, he answered, I am going. He went out with an uncertain move- ment, leaving the door open behind him. As he descended the steps, the light from the room, slanting out into the darkness, struck athwart a face, the body pertaining to which seemed to be leaning against the palings, grasping them with both hands. It was the face of Mr. Briarley, who re- garded him with a mingled expression of anxiety and desire to propitiate. Is it yo? he whispered as Murdoch neared him. Yes, he was answered, somewhat shortly. Mr. Briarley put out a hand and plucked him by the sleeve. Ive been waitin fur yo, he said in a sonorous whisper which only failed to pene- trate the innermost recesses of the dwelling through some miracle. Murdoch turned out of the gate. Why? he asked. Mr. Briarley glanced toward the house uneasily, and also up and down the road. Les get out o th way a bit, he re- marked. Murdoch walked on, and he shuffled a few paces behind him. When they got well into the shadow of the hedge, he stopped. Suddenly he dropped upon his knees and crawling through a very small gap into the field behind, remained there for a few sec- onds; then he re-appeared panting. Theers no one theer, he said. I would na ha risked theer bein one on em lyin under th hedge. One of whom? Murdoch inquired. I did na say who, he answered. When he stood on his feet again, he took his companion by the button. Theers a friend o moine, he said, as as sent a messidge to yo. This heres it Look out! What does it mean? Murdoch asked. Speak more plainly. Mr. Briarley became evidently disturbed. Nay, he said, that theers plain enow fur me. It ud do my business i quick toime if I He stopped and glanced about him again and then without warning threw himself, so to speak, on Murdochs shoulder and began to pour a flood of whispers into his ear. Theer wur a chap as were a foo, he said, an he was drawed into bein a big- ger foo than common. It wur him as get- ten yo i trouble wi th stroikers. He did na mean no ill, anan he ses, Ill tell him to look out. Ill run th risk. He knowed what wur goin on, an he ses, Ill tell him to look out. Who was he? Murdoch interposed. Mr. Briarley fell back a pace, perspiring profusely and dabbing at his forehead with his cap. Hehe wur a friend o moine, he stammered, a friend o moine as has getten a way o gettin hissen i trouble, an he ses, Ill tell him to look out. Tell him from me, said Murdoch, that I am not afraid of anything that may happen.~~ It was a rash speech, but was not so de- fiant as it sounded. His only feeling was one of cold carelessness. He wanted to get free and go away and end his night in his silent room at home. But Mr. Briarley kept up with him, edging toward him apol- ogetically as he walked. Yore set agen th chap fur bein a foo, he persisted, breathlessly, an I dunnot blame yo. Hes set agen hissen. Hes a misforchnit chap as is allus i trouble. Its set heavy on him, an ses he, Ill tell him to look out. At a turn into a by-lane he stopped. Ill go this road, he said, an Ill tell him as Ive done it. (To be continued.) 192 THE MEDITERRANEAN OF AMERICA. THE MEDITERRANEAN OF AMERICA. THE Indian canoe-men about the mouth of the Amazons sometimes pick up pieces of a porous gray substance which floats with sticks and rubbish on the current. They know nothing of the origin of this tedrcl-Pomes; it is good for cleaning guns and knives, and they keep fragments of it about their houses for that purpose; I have some pieces of it which were given me by the poor folk as presents of some value. These floating bits have a story to tell. They speak of fierce, glowing heat, of streams of red-hot lava gushing down the sides of burning mountains, cooling slowly .while puffed out with gases, and forming beds of pumice-stone, as light as cork. They tell again of snow-fed streams, rushing and tumbling over the rocks, undermining the lava-beds, and tearing off great fragments of the porous stone. These fragments are borne downward on the strong current, jammed against rocks, pounded and whirled about in the rapids, and ground between floating tree-trunks, until they reach the quiet water below: there a thousand tiny streams have united to form a broad river, which flows swiftly between forest-clad banks and past solitary Indian huts, until it is merged into a yet broader and deeper floodthe mighty Marafion, the Peruvian Amazons. The fragments tell now of long stretches of clay-stained water; of open horizons east and west; of verdant shores and archipelagoes; of pathless forest, where the woodman s ax is never heard and the dusky hunter glides unobserved through the shadowy arcades of foliage; of sand-banks lighted by the fires of the turtle-hunters; of scattered settlements, half buried in the green forest; of weeks, months perhaps, in the swift current before the stained and bat- tered fragments reach the sea. We must conceive of the Amazons not as a single stream, but as a great alluvial flat, furrowed by a net-work of broad and narrow channels, and with much of its surface oc- cupied by shallow lakes. All large rivers have such alluvial systems along their lower courses (the bayous and lakes of the lower Mississippi are familiar examples); but on other streams the plains narrow off as we ascend them, and are soon lost; on the Amazons alone they extend almost to the head-waters, as if a sea had been filled in, leaving deep ditches for the water-flow, and countless pools on the surface. From Ma- n6os to the Atlantic, the width of this alluvial flat varies from fifteen miles to a hundred or more; on the upper Amazons it is prob- ably still wider; * only as we approach the Andes, the rocky shores are narrowed to the main stream. In our voyage up the river we shall see very little of the highlands; our first ram- bles then will be among the islands and channels of the varzeas, with their swampy forests and stretches of meadow, and half- submerged plantations. And the lowlands deserve a much more careful study than has ever been given them. We leave Pars with the midnight tide; by gray morning we are steaming across the Bay of Maraj6, which is not a bay at all, but properly a continuation of the Pars River. The wind blows briskly over the wide reaches, swaying ocr hammocks under the arched roof of the upper deck; we roll our blankets closer around us, and let who will retreat to the stifling state-rooms. But if Boreas cannot unwrap us, Phc~bus brings us out quickly enough; we rise to look upon the beautiful morning, with the sun shining in our eyes, and the bright waves leaping and dancing for joy. The water-system of this region belongs, perhaps, more properly to the Tocantins than to the Amazons. Maraj6, commonly spoken of as an island in the mouth of the Amazons, is not to be confounded with the silt-formed archipelagoes of the river-valley, for it contains high as well as low land; it is rather a great tract cut off from the main shores by a net-work of narrow channels, through which the Amazons sends its con- tribution of water to the Pars River. But as this contribution is at least equal to the combined outflow of the Tocantins and its neighbors, the Par6. has a fair claim to Amazonian honors. Even the Amazons is no broader; cross- ing the mouth of the Tocantins the main channel is like a sea, with great reaches of open horizon. But farther on we enter the system ~f passages that separate Maraj6 * ~ am not personally familiar with the river above Obidos.

Herbert H. Smith Smith, Herbert H. Brazil: The Mediterranean of America 192-204

192 THE MEDITERRANEAN OF AMERICA. THE MEDITERRANEAN OF AMERICA. THE Indian canoe-men about the mouth of the Amazons sometimes pick up pieces of a porous gray substance which floats with sticks and rubbish on the current. They know nothing of the origin of this tedrcl-Pomes; it is good for cleaning guns and knives, and they keep fragments of it about their houses for that purpose; I have some pieces of it which were given me by the poor folk as presents of some value. These floating bits have a story to tell. They speak of fierce, glowing heat, of streams of red-hot lava gushing down the sides of burning mountains, cooling slowly .while puffed out with gases, and forming beds of pumice-stone, as light as cork. They tell again of snow-fed streams, rushing and tumbling over the rocks, undermining the lava-beds, and tearing off great fragments of the porous stone. These fragments are borne downward on the strong current, jammed against rocks, pounded and whirled about in the rapids, and ground between floating tree-trunks, until they reach the quiet water below: there a thousand tiny streams have united to form a broad river, which flows swiftly between forest-clad banks and past solitary Indian huts, until it is merged into a yet broader and deeper floodthe mighty Marafion, the Peruvian Amazons. The fragments tell now of long stretches of clay-stained water; of open horizons east and west; of verdant shores and archipelagoes; of pathless forest, where the woodman s ax is never heard and the dusky hunter glides unobserved through the shadowy arcades of foliage; of sand-banks lighted by the fires of the turtle-hunters; of scattered settlements, half buried in the green forest; of weeks, months perhaps, in the swift current before the stained and bat- tered fragments reach the sea. We must conceive of the Amazons not as a single stream, but as a great alluvial flat, furrowed by a net-work of broad and narrow channels, and with much of its surface oc- cupied by shallow lakes. All large rivers have such alluvial systems along their lower courses (the bayous and lakes of the lower Mississippi are familiar examples); but on other streams the plains narrow off as we ascend them, and are soon lost; on the Amazons alone they extend almost to the head-waters, as if a sea had been filled in, leaving deep ditches for the water-flow, and countless pools on the surface. From Ma- n6os to the Atlantic, the width of this alluvial flat varies from fifteen miles to a hundred or more; on the upper Amazons it is prob- ably still wider; * only as we approach the Andes, the rocky shores are narrowed to the main stream. In our voyage up the river we shall see very little of the highlands; our first ram- bles then will be among the islands and channels of the varzeas, with their swampy forests and stretches of meadow, and half- submerged plantations. And the lowlands deserve a much more careful study than has ever been given them. We leave Pars with the midnight tide; by gray morning we are steaming across the Bay of Maraj6, which is not a bay at all, but properly a continuation of the Pars River. The wind blows briskly over the wide reaches, swaying ocr hammocks under the arched roof of the upper deck; we roll our blankets closer around us, and let who will retreat to the stifling state-rooms. But if Boreas cannot unwrap us, Phc~bus brings us out quickly enough; we rise to look upon the beautiful morning, with the sun shining in our eyes, and the bright waves leaping and dancing for joy. The water-system of this region belongs, perhaps, more properly to the Tocantins than to the Amazons. Maraj6, commonly spoken of as an island in the mouth of the Amazons, is not to be confounded with the silt-formed archipelagoes of the river-valley, for it contains high as well as low land; it is rather a great tract cut off from the main shores by a net-work of narrow channels, through which the Amazons sends its con- tribution of water to the Pars River. But as this contribution is at least equal to the combined outflow of the Tocantins and its neighbors, the Par6. has a fair claim to Amazonian honors. Even the Amazons is no broader; cross- ing the mouth of the Tocantins the main channel is like a sea, with great reaches of open horizon. But farther on we enter the system ~f passages that separate Maraj6 * ~ am not personally familiar with the river above Obidos. TILE MEDITERRANEAN OF AMERICA. 93 * These channels are generally described as only just wide enough for the steamer to pass through them; a natural mistake, because the towering forest makes them look narroxver. Most of them are as broad as the Hudson at Albany. ground is seen; straight up from the water the forest rises like a wall, dense, dark, impenetrable, a hundred feet of leafy splendor. And break- ing out everywhere from among the heaped-up masses are the palm- trees. For here the palms hold court nowhere else on the broad earth is their glory unveiled as we see it: soft, plumy Jupa/is drooping over the water, and fairy-light assaiso and bussa~s with their light-green vase-like forms, and great noble fan- leaved minus looking down from their eighty-feet high columns, and others that we hardly notice at first, though they are nobles in their race. If palms, standing alone, are esteemed the most beautiful of trees, what shall we say when their numbers are counted, not by scores, nor hun- dreds, but by thousands, and all in a ground-work of such forest as is never seen outside of the tropics? The scene is infinitely varied; sometimes the palm-trees are hidden, but even then the great rolling mass is full of wonderful changes, from the hundred or more kinds of trees that compose it; and again the palms hold undivided sway, or only low shrubs and delicate climbing vines soften their splendor. In most places there are not many large vines; we shall find their kingdom farther up the river, and on the highlands; here we sometimes notice a tree draped with pendent masse~, as if a green tapestry were thrown over it. Down by the AT BREVES. VOL. XVIJI.15. from the main-land, where the steamer keeps close to the forest-clad shores.* ON THE AMAZONS. Any one who is not blind must feel his soul moved within him by the marvel- ous beauty of the vegetation. Not a bit of 94 THE MEDITERRANEAN OF AMERICA. waters edge the flowering convolvuli are mingled with shield-like leaves of the arbo- rescent arums, and mangroves standing aloft on their stilt-like roots, where they are washed by the estuary tides. The Indian pilot points out numbers of rubber-trees, and we learn to recognize their white trunks and shining bright-green foliage. This low tide-region is one of the most important rubber-districts, where hundreds of seringueiros are employed in gathering and preparing the crude gum. Occasion- ally we see their thatched huts along the shore, built on piles and always damp, reek- ing, dismal, suggestive of agues and rheu- matism; for the tide-lowlands, glorious as they are from the river, are sodden marshes within, where many a rubber-gatherer has found disease and death. The little town of Breves owes its pros- perity to this dangerous industry. It is built on a low strip of sandy land, but with swamps on either side coming close up to the town. Even along the water-front the main street is a succession of bridges. But the houses are well built, of brick or adobe, and the stores contain excellent stocks of the commoner wares. It looks fresh and pretty enough; the miasma of the swamps does not often rise to the high lands, so we are not loth to remain here for a few days and study the rubber industry more closely. In the river-towns there are no hotels; but we are provided with a letter of intro- duction, which insures us a hearty welcome and a home as long as we care to stay. For the Amazons is a land of hospitality. Out of the large cities, a stranger, even umn- troduced, will always find shelter and food, and for the most part without a thought of remuneration; and, if on a longer stay he occupies a house of his own, he will be expected to extend the same hospitality to others. The rubber-swamps are all around, but land traveling is out of the question. So an Indian canoe-man is engaged,a good- natured fellow, and an adept in wood-craft. He sets us across the river at a half-ruined hut, where bright vines clamber over the broken thatch and hang in long festoons in front of the low door-way; but within, the floor is sodden black clay, and dark mold hangs on the sides, and the air is like a sepulcher. The single slovenly mani- eluca woman who inhabits the place com- plains bitterly of the ague which tortures her; yet year after year, until the house falls to pieces, she will go on dying here, because, forsooth, it is her own and the rub- ber-trees are near. She will not even repair the structure. You can see sky through the roof but if rain drives in she will swing her hammock in another corner, and shiver on through the night as best she may; for to-morrow there are rubber-trees to be tapped, and a fresh harvest of the precious milk to be brought home,and what will you have? One must expect discomfort in a swamp. Back of the house the rubber-trees are scattered through marshy forest, where we clamber over logs, and sink into pools of mud, and leap the puddles; where the mos- quitos are blood-thirsty, and nature is damp, and dark, and threatening; where the silence is unbroken by beast or bird,a silence that can be felt; it is like a tomb in which we are buried, away from the sun- shine, away from brute and man, alone with rotting death. The very beauty of our forest tomb makes us shudder by its intenseness. In the early morning, men and women come with baskets of clay cups on their backs, and little hatchets to gash the trees. XVhere the white milk drips down from the gash they stick their cups on the trunk with daubs of clay, molded so as to catch the whole flow. If the tree is a large one, four or five gashes may be cut in a circle around the trunk. On the next day other gashes are made a little below these, and so on until the rows reach the ground. By eleven oclock the flow of milk has ceased, and the seringueiros come to collect the contents of the cups in calabash jugs. A gill or so is the utmost yield from each tree, and a single gatherer may attend to a hundred and twenty trees or more, wading always through these dark marshes, and pay- ing dearly for his profit in fever and weak- ness. Our mameluca hostess has brought in her days gatheringa calabash full of the white liquid, in appearance precisely like milk. If left in this condition it coagulates after a while and forms an inferior whitish gum. To make the black rubber of commerce the milk must go through a peculiar process of manufacture, for which our guide has been preparing. Over a smoldering fire, fed with the hard nuts of the /ucumd palm, he places a kind of clay chimney, like a wide- mouthed, bottomless jug; through this boida the thick smoke pours in a constant stream. Now he takes his mold,in this case a wooden one, like a round-bladed paddle, THE MEDITERRANEAN OF AMERICA. 95 washes it with the milk, and holds it over the smoke until the liquid coagulates. Then another coat is added, only now, as the wood is heated, the milk coagulates faster. It may take the gatherings of two or three days to cover the mold thickly enough. Then the rubber is still dull white, but in a short time it turns brown and finally almost black, as it is sent to the market. The mass is cut from the paddle and sold to traders in the village. Bottles are sometimes made by molding the rubber over a clay ball, which is then broken up and removed. Our old-fashioned rubber shoes used to be made in this way. Twenty million pounds of rubber, valued at $6,ooo,ooo, are annually exported from Pars; in the dry season many thousand people are engaged in gathering it. But the busi- ness is altogether a ruinous one for the province, as Brazilians themselves are fully aware. The serbiguciro, who gains two or three dollars from a single days gathering, has enough, as life goes here, to keep him in idle- ness for a week; and when his money is spent, he can draw again on his ever-ready bank. It is so with all the forest industries; they encourage idleness, and draw work- men from agricultural employments, and retard civilization by keeping the Indian and half-breed population away from vil- lages and schools, yet not from the worst side of white life. The small traders have consciences as elastic as the rubber they buy. Generally they sell goods on credit, and when the poor ignorant people come to pay in produce, they come to a tyrant, who will charge them twenty milreis where they owe ten; who will force them to work for him, though he has no legal right to their services; who will sell them inferior goods at high prices, and take their produce at low ones. In this way one can see how even the small merchants manage to live. For instance, one of them buys a coarse German wood-knife, which, including freight from Pars, may cost him seventy-five cents. He sells this as an American article for two dollars, takes his pay in rubber at sixty-five cents the kilogram, and sells the latter for seventy-five cents the kilogram, with a sure market; total profit, over 200 per cent., and that when the trade is Izonesto. They tell of one trader who carried to the River Tapajos a box of playing cards, which he was unable to sell because the Indians did not know their use; so this Christian gentleman pick- ed out all the face-cards, and sold them as saints at fifty cents each. So the story goes, and the man does not deny it; / ~7 PREPARING RUBBER. ON THE BANKS. K~ - 7 196 THE MEDITERRANEAN OF AMERICA. but, in justice to human nature, doubt its entire truth. The half-wild seringueiros will go on sub- mitting to impositions and dying here in the swamps, until Brazilians learn that by purchasing this land from the govern- ment and planting it in rubber-trees, they can insure vastly larger profits, and do away with the evils of the present system. It is what must eventually be done. The rubber gatherers, in their eagerness to secure large harvests, have already killed an immense number of trees about the Pars estuary; they have been obliged to penetrate farther and farther into the forest, to the Tocantins, Madeira, Puriis Rio Negro, and eventually even these regions must be exhausted, un- less they are protected in some way. The trees, properly planted and cared for, will yield well in fifteen years, and, of course, the cost of gathering would be vastly reduced in a compact plantation; half the present labor of the rubber collector consists in his long tramps through the swampy forest. Around Breves, rubber is almost the only product of the lowlands; the whole region is simply an endless succession of channels, and small lakes, and swamps covered with forestbeautiful beyond thought from with- out, a dismal wilderness within. From the village we could take canoe-trips in almost every direction, and return by different routes to our starting-point; or we could spend days in ~voyaging and never repass a place. If we could only transport some of this forest to a northern park! If we could bottle up the sunshine and let it loose in Broadway! Our canoe passes along hy shores where we would fain pause at every turn to catch some new effect of light and color; and as we are looking at the opposite side, our man may keep the boat steady by holding on to a palm-tree or an arum-plant, which would soon draw half the people in New York to see it, if we could set it in one of the squares. And now we turn into a narrow channel, a mere cleft in the forest-wall; it is not more than ten yards wide, but, as in all these forest streams, the depth is considerahle; hence, the Indians call such channels z~ga BEEVES CHANNEL. THE RUBBER GATHERER. I prefer to THE MEDITERRANEAN OF AMERICA. 97 rafts, literally canoe-paths. There is a rich- other channels, for not a glimpse of north- ness about all water-side vegetation that em or southern highland is seen over the makes even our northern woodland streams dead level of the varzeas. No danger superbly beautiful; but here the foliage is far of running aground here. Along the thicker and more varied, and, among the sides our charts may mark twenty, thirty, dark leaves, drooping palm-fronds and great glossy wild-bananas spread their warm trop- ical splendors. One thinks of a temple; the arching boughs, the solemn cathedral shade, the sunshine breaking through to cast long trails on the quiet waters and drop golden glories over the tree-trunks and cr?oked water-washed roots, while tiny leaf- lets catch the glow, and shine like emeralds and diamonds in the dark forest setting. Even the Indian boatman dips his paddle noiselessly, as if he feared to disturb the Sabbath stillness. There is not much of animal motion; only now and then a brown thrush crosses the stream, or a cuajud bird sounds his shrill alarm from the tree-tops, or great butterflies come waving along like blue silken banners, casting vivid reflections in the water, so bright are their glossy wings. But we must learn that solitude, not life, is the grand feature of these forests. So we look, and wonder, and look again, until the steamer comes along to take us away from Breves; we carry off a thousand pleasant memories, and, as souvenirs, a lot of the fearfully ugly painted pottery for which the place is famous. Our good host comes down to the wharf to see us oW and to assure us once more that his house is always ds suas ordens, whenever we care to return to it. May he always find hearts as kindly as his own! We must travel all night yet before we emerge from the Breves channels into the broad northern stream. But we reach it at last,the giant Amazons, the river of Orre- lana, and Acu~a, and Martins, the river with the destinies of a continent in its future. Its yellow waters, five miles broad, sweep majesti- cally toward the sea. East and west lie open horizons, where the lines of forest are lifted Ul) by the mirage, and broken into clumps, and single trees, until they are lost in the sky. On either side there may be two or three forty fathoms; but out in the middle it is always ha muito fuzido ; in the strong current the bottom is unattainable by ordi- nary instruments. The snows of half the Andes are flowing here, the drainings of a region as large as the United States. This main channel varies greatly in breadth ; it may be seven or eight miles wide, as near the junction of the Xingii, or narrowed to hardly a mile, as at Obidos, where the whole mighty flood rushes past in one body. No instrument ever brought here could measure the depth at Obidos; we only know that it is very great; probably exceeding, by a hun- dred feet or more, that of Lake Ontario. Almost to the base of the Andes the river is deep enough for ocean vessels. But you could voyage from Pars to the fron- VEGETATION OF THE BAISED SOEDEE. THE TABLE-TOPPED HILLS. 198 THE MEDITERRANEAN OF AMERICA. tier of Brazil, and hardly enter the main stream at all. Everywhere there are side channelsy5ara;zdrniris, and lures *..rivers of goodly size, though they do not appear at all on the maps; some of them, in fact, are hardly less broad than the parent flood. Without counting the tributaries, I am safe in saying that there are ten thousand miles of navigable water-way in the Amazons valley. The steamer passes from one side to another as we touch at the river-towns; mere hamlets, specks in the wilderness. Most of them are on terra frma,t but hardly raised above the flood-plains. Frequently we stop to take in fuel at some fazenda, where the wood that is put on is counted slowly, stick by stick. After passing the mouth of the Xingti, we see the flat- topped hills on the northern side, like a line of mountains, all cut off at the same level. They are remnants of the great *Parand, in the Indian language (Lingua geral), means the sea, and is also applied to the Amazons; Parand-miri is a little sea, a lesser Amazons. Prop- erly, this term is applied only to a channel which leaves a river above, and enters it again below; while a furo is a passage from one channel to another; but the words are loosely used. On the Amazons this term is applied to all land that is not alluvial or swampy. be-zeus, or vargens, are the flood-plains. table-land through which the river has cut its way; some of them are r,6oo feet high. It is easy enough to say this; but I con- fess that I am more and more filled with astonishment when I contemplate the vast extent of this aqueous denudation. Con- ceive of a mass two thousand miles long, on the average at least thirty-five wide, and varying in thickness from four hundred to eighteen hundred feet, all washed down to the sea by a single river! And you have to add to this the wide valleys of the tributaries, collectively at least as much more; it is even probable that the table-land itself was much thicker,two thousand or twenty-five hun- dred feet. We have the very best of proof that all this has been done since the begin- ningor, more probably, the middleof the Tertiary period, the last of the geological ages. The elder Agassiz supposed that the whole valley was to be referred to glacial action. Naturalists are now convinced that he was wrong; but surely the wonder is not les- sened. The world is full of just such proofs of the power of water, the symbol of insta- bility and weakness. The hills are twenty miles away; between them and the main river there is a great belt of netted flood-plains,in this district, for the most part, covered with grass-growth. Yet we do not see this; from the river there is cAcAo ORCHARD. THE MEDITERRANEAN OF AMERICA. 99 only the same succession of forest-lined varzeas, with banks cut so steep that our steamer can keep close in shore; sometimes we almost brush the foliage. In most places, if we land from the main river or a side channel, we find, not marshes, as at Breves, but comparatively high land, running along the shore. The great trees are festooned with vines, and thick-leaved branches reach out over the water; but there is not much undergrowth, and we can easily walk inland. We find that after a little space the ground slopes gradually away from the river; two or three hundred yards from the bank the belt of forest ceases, and we come out suddenly on a great stretch of meadow, or a lake, the farther shore of which is lost on the horizon. To explain these features, we must remem- ber that the islands and flats have been formed by the river itself. Every year, in February and March, the Amazons rises to a height of thirty feet or more above its ordi- nary level, and overflows the meadow land in all directions. Now, in the river the par- ticles of niud and clay are held in suspen- sion by the swift current; but as the water flows over the meadows it becomes quiet, and the particles sink to the bottom. Nat- urally the coarser detritus is deposited first, near the river, and at last it builds up a ridge, as we have seen. When fully formed, the top of the ridge, in some places, is just out of reach of the highest floods. The mead- ows, being lower, are flooded during several months; hence the forest trees will not grow on them; but they flourish well on the banks, where their roots are only covered during three or four weeks. The raised borders are the farniing-lands of the varzeas. Corn, cotton, sugar-cane and tobacco all grow well on them; man- dioca, which on the highlands requires more than a year to mature its roots, yields rich harvests on the plains during six months of the dry season. But between the Rio Negro and the Xingii, the most important lowland crop is cacao. It is true, the trees will grow quite as well or better on the terra firma; but Brazilians prefer the varzeas for their plantations, because the ground is easily pre- pared and takes care of itself; besides, the orchard arrives at maturity much sooner. We hardly notice these cac6~o plantations from the river; the dark green of the foliage is so like the forest, and generally there are other trees near the shore. But for miles the banks are lined with them, mostly the orchards of small proprietors, who own a few hundred frs of cacfio, though some of the estates have twenty or thirty thousand trees. In our wanderings about the lowland we often pass through these cacoacs. They have a rich beauty of their own,the dense foliage, the twilight shade beneath, and the dark stems, four or five together, with the fruit growing, not amoiig the leaves, but directly from the trunk and main branches, attached only by a short stem. The ground is quite clear and free from underbrush, and in the summer when the fruit is gathered is for the most part dry. The harvest months are July and August, when the gatherers go every day to pick the ripe fruit from each tree and bring it in baskets to the house. There the oval, ribbed outer shell is cut open and the seeds are washed from the white pulp; then they are spread over mats and placed on raised 200 THE MEDITERRANEAN OF AMERICA. stagings to dry in the sun, care being taken to turn them at intervals. Most of the seed is exported in this form ; a little is roasted, pounded, and made into cakes with melted sugar for the delicious chocolate of the coun- try. Unfortunately, on the Amazons the sun is a very uncertain drying agent; frequently there are heavy showers, and the sky is clouded for days together; so it often hap- pens that the imperfectly prepared seed gets musty and half rotten before it reaches the market. Much of the Pars cacao, therefore, does not rate very high with the manufacturers. All this might be avoided by the introduction of a simple drying-ma- chine, such as is used at Rio for coffee. Stopping at the fazeudas, we frequently get a refreshing drink; made from the white pulp which surrounds the cacao-seeds. En- terprising planters prepare from this pulp a delicious amher jelly, which, if it were placed in the market, would be much more popular than guava-jelly. Even the shells are valuahle; they are dried and burned, and from the ash is prepared a very strong brown soapa necessity to every Amazon- ian washerxvoman. The high varzeas are healthful enough; un- like the Breves tide-plains, malarial fevers are not at all common here. But life on the cacao- plantations has one great drawback: all the tigers and anacondas in Brazil can never com- pare to the terror of the mosquitos; not one or two serenaders, piping cannily about our ears, but swarms of them,blood-thirsty monsters, making straight at face and hands with a savage desire to suck our life out of us. At night the houses must be closed tight, and even then the little tor- ments come in through every chink, making life a burden to a sensitive man. And yet, in justice to the Amazonian mosquito, I must say that I have never found his bite half so virulent as that of his cousin in the Jersey swamps; after a day in the forest, where one is constantly exposed to their attacks, all irritation is removed by a cold water bath. Nor must one infer that these pests are every- where; they keep to the woods, only com- ing out at night; at Pars and Breves we saw very few of them, and in the thick forest of the highlands, away from the chan- nels, they are hardly noticed. Back from the river we can ride for miles over the great breezy meadows, only we must make long detours to avoid the lakes and swampy forests and clumps of shield-leaved arums. There are a thousand beautiful things to see on these campos; bright yel- low and white flowers dotting the surface, pretty warblers and finches and whistling black /a5t~s, little fishes in the pools and brilliant dragon-flies entomologizin g over the reeds ; drooping bushes of sensitive plant, with wonderfully delicate, feathery leaves all spread out gratefully to the sun; LOOKING OVER THE LOWLANDS FROM MONTE ALEORE. 201 THE MEDITERRANEAN OF AMERICA. and which, if one jars the branch roughly, close and bend down in mute remonstrance, the protest of their helplessness against our brute strength. Far away from the river, and sheltered in bays of the highland, the meadows are as level and clean as a wheat~fleld, bright velvety green, rippling with the wind like a great lake. Everywhere the grass is dotted with cattle. Such places, indeed, owe their beauty to the fires with which the herdsmen yearly cleanse their surface. They are the favorite past- ures, and most of them have been absorbed into the estates of large proprietors. The grazing industry is gradually assum- ing very large proportions on the Middle Amazons, as it has heretofore on Maraj6. It is true that the herds do not compare, and probably never will, with those of La Plata; but there is an immense field for profit on these lowlands if the present barbarous system can be 5n1)erseded by a more civi- lized one. The cattle are a hardy, half- wild stock, well suited to the rough life they lead, but of small productive value. 1 he only profit derived is from the meat and the hides; owing to the over-supply, the meat is very cheap, retailing at from three to five cents per pound; the hides are carelessly cured and often half spoiled. As for the milk, no value at all is set on that; the herdsmen drink it sometimes, but the town- people hardly use it even in their coffee, and butter and cheese manufactures are VICTORIA REGIA. 202 THE MEDITERRANEAN OF AMERICA. unknown. It is true that the cows give very little, a quart or two at the utmost, and that only when they are running on the lowland pastures ; but with improved breeds and careful management I see no reason why the yield should not be equal to that of our northern herds. Excellent butter is made now by American residents; this and cheese ought to be manufactured in large quantities. The great difficulty in the way of success- ful grazing is that the lowland meadows must be abandoned during the floods; then the cattle are driven away to the scanty pastures of the highland campos; sandy tracts, with scattered trees, and short wiry grass. Even these are of limited extent; numbers of small herds are confined to little islands of the raised border, and reduced to rations of the long canna-rana grass, which the herdsmen cut for them over the submerged land; but there is not enough of this for their wants, and the poor beasts may be seen wading up to their necks to catch the floating leaves. Hundreds die of disease and famine; when the rise of water is rapid, whole herds. are drowned. Some system of winter-feeding ought to be devised. For instance, near large sugar-plan- tations, where cane is ground in the wet season, the tops might be utilized in this way; or the richly nutritive canna-rana grass of the floating islands could be collected in steamboats and sold to the herdsmen at a small price. As for hay, it probably could not be preserved in this humid climate; but various succulent roots grow almost sponta- neously, and every northern herdsman knows their value for much-cows. It might even be profitable to plant pastures on the high land. I wish some enterprising American grazer would turn his attention to these plains. He would have to introduce new breeds with caution; probably it would be well to cross them with the hardy native stock. There would be other difficulties, no doubt, but I am .sure that they would disappear before American pluck and ingenuity. Surely, with canned butter selling at seventy-five cents a pound, and land worth hardly so much per acre, there are vast possibilities for profit here. For making butter on a large scale it might be necessary to import or prepare ice. Even as now carried on, the industry is very lucrative. Some of the large proprietors own from ten to thirty thousand head of cattle, valued at eight or ten dollars per head. They employ hundreds of herdsman, hardy fellows, in the saddle from morning till night, hunting up strays, keeping the herds in rich pasture, and branding them every year. We often see these vaqueiros gal- loping over the campos on their wiry little gray horses, each with a bright red blanket rolled behind the rough wooden saddle, and a lasso-cord hanging in front; their bare great-toes thrust into tiny stirrups, and their hair streaming in the wind.* Climbing the heights of Monte Alegre, we look off over great stretches of the meadow- land, threaded by channels and dotted with quiet little lakes. The eye strives in vain to unravel the intricacies of this vast net- work. Yet it is all governed by certain fixed rules; there is a science of the low- lands. Here, just as everywhere else, we find that no natural form, however com- plicated, is the result of accident. The lakes are mere shallow depressions in the meadow-land; some of them dry up en- tirely in September and October, or remain only as rows of pools and swampy flats; many, even of the larger ones, are so shallow that in the dry season canoes are poled across them; five miles from shore a man can stand on the bottom with head and shoulders above water, and one might wade across but for the alligators and the fierce little cannibal fishes. The smaller lakes are innumerable; in fact, there is every gradation in size down to pools and puddles. Sometimes our canoe- men can hardly push their way through the thick growth of aquatic plants; or, where the waters are still, we hold our breath to see the eight-feet-broad leaves of the Vicloria regia, and its superb white and rosy flowers.t Nearly all the lakes are connected with the rivers, often by very long and tortuous channels,forest-covered creeks, or passages in the open meadow, or wider igarap~s lined with soft plumy bamboos and graceful carand and lavary palms. Where the banks are shelving, great flocks of herons gather to fish in the shallow water, flying up in snowy clouds before the canoe; roseate spoonbills spread their wings like flashes of sunset; egrets and bitterns hide in the tall grass. I love best to pass through these channels in the early morning, when the palm-tops are sharply defined against the deep blue sky, and the bamboos look white in contrast to the shadows beneath them, and * Leather-tanning and shoe-making would be very profitable. Excellent tan-bark is obtained from various highland trees. t I have measured flowers which were i~ inches in diameter. THE MEDITERRANEAN OF AMERICA. 203 the rising sun intensifies the picture with its wonderful richness of light and color. Then the wind blows freshly across the mead- ows, rippling the young grass; parrots and macaws come flying over the lowland in pairs, screaming loudly; toucans call from the solitary trees, and small birds innumer- able keep up a ringing concert. They are all so happy to see the day, so brimming over with the gladness of life! Heaven forgive me for my ingratitude! Even among the home friends I am forever panting to get back to my forests and streams. I am half minded to buy a wooden canoe and a fishing spear of the first Indian we meet, and to go sailing away, away, among the crooked channels and sunny lakes until I lose myself in their intricacies. One could live a hermit, and plant mandioca, and catch fish just as the Indians do, and live a life of peace. As it is, I must needs content myself with watch- ing the Indian fishermen, and half envying them in my heart. In the summer the Indians come by hundreds to the lakes and chan- nels to fish for the great j5ira- rucz~ (Sudis), and to prepare the flesh, just as cod-fish is prepared on the Newfoundland banks. They build little huts along the shores; trading canoes come with their stock of cheap wares to barter for the fish, and a kind of aquatic community is formed, which breaks up with the Janu- ary floods. The piraructi feeds among the floating grass-patches, in shallow water; sometimes the fishermen watch for it here; in the open lakes one man paddles the canoe gently, while another in the bow stands ready to cast his harpoon at the fish as they come to the surface. Successful lake-fisheries depend, first, on high floods, which allow the fish to come in from the river over the submerged land; second, on low summer vasantes, which keep them confined to narrow limits and in shallow water. When both of these fail, the fisheries are unpro- ductive; hence the price of dried pirarucii varies in different years from $1.50 to $8.oo the arroba (thirty-two pounds). Most Amer- icans do not care to eat it at any price, yet one may come to like it very well. It is the standard article of food with the lower classes all through the Amazons. Besides the pirarucii, the lakes and chan- nels swarm with smaller fishes innumerable. The Indians catch them with a line, or spear them with tridents; in the small streams they are shot with arrows,an art which requires peculiar skill, since one must allow for the refraction of the water. Even the little brown urchins take lessons by hooking the hungry pira;ilzas, which will bite at anything, from a bit of salt meat to a bathers toe. Our northern trout-fishers are scandalized to see these boys thrashing the water with their poles to attract the piranhas. Turtles, too, are caught in the river; and on the sand-banks, where the animals come to dig their nests, the canoe-men go around with sharpened sticks, probing for the deli- cious eggs. Oil is made from these eggs, and on the upper Amazons the turtles them- selves are kept in pens for the winter sup- ply of meat. The time of plenty is the dry season. With INDIAN SHOOTING FISH. 204 HOPE. the heavier rains of January the river rises rapidly. By March it has overspread all the lowlands like a sea, a vast sheet, two thou- sand miles long, and thirty or forty in average width, with only lines of forest and floating grass marking the limits of lakes and chan- nels; canoes pass almost straight across. In May and June the waters recede. In the river-towns one hardly notices the changes; only in the winter there are more rains and the air is damp, so that shoes gather mold, and books drop to pieces. The people lead the same quiet life, year in and year out; the well-to-do merchant is content with his slow sales and large profits; mechanics work clumsily in the manner of their fathers; Indians and mulat- toes are satisfied with their mongrel existence, half the year in their palm-thatched houses, the other half wandering through the for- ests and over the lowlands. The largest of these river-towns is Man~os, but it is little more than an overgrown vil- lage. Obidos, Santarem, Camet~ and Teff~ may each have two or three thousand inhab- itants; the rest seem hardly worth mention- ing. In all the world there is no region of like extent with the Amazons valley which is so thinly settled. A vast proportion of the surface is abandoned even by the wan- dering cannibal tribes. Yet it is no wonder that Brazilians proudly call the Amazons the Mediterranean of America. Not alone for the main stream; the great branches spread their arteries in all directions, navigable often for hundreds of miles. And so the giant stream flows on, through the richest region on earth, yet the least known; where tropical heats are tempered by the refreshing trade-winds, and the climate is wholesome in most places; where all nature seems to invite man to come, yet the region of all others which man has forsakena glorious desert, an overflowing xvilderness. But the floating pumice-stones are full of prophecy. Across the continent, the Andes send their messengers to the Atlantic; and with the eye of faith one can see the wealth of the Pacific coast floated down on these waters to enrich the civilized world; isolated republics drawn into the sisterhood of na- tions by the strong hands of commerce; rich cities rising on the no longer silent shores; narrow prejudices disappearing with foreign intercourse. Will it be soon? Sooner than we look for, may be. Brazil gave the signal by opening the Amazons to free navigation. Bankrupt Peru dreams yet of her railroad over the Andes; if.she ever builds it her commerce will gonot westward to the Pacific but eastward to the Huallaga and Purilis. The Mamor6 Railroad is now surveyed around the falls of the Madeira. It may be abandoned for the present; even if it is built now it will not be a paying enterprise fqr years; but some- time it must be an achieved fact, and Bo- livia will look back with wonder on her mule-train commerce. Colombia has had commissions at work exploring the Ic~ and Jamund~, and steamboats have pene- trated from Par~t almost to her capital. These are but signs; but be it soon or late the destiny of the Amazons is sure. Even the Darien ship-canal, if it is ever made, can- not compete with this deep, straight chan- nel for the trade of the western republics. HOPE. No MATTER where we sail, A storm may come to wreck us A hitter wind, to check us In the quest for unknown lands, And cast us on the sands, No matter where we sail: Then, when my ship goes down, What choice is left to me From leaping in the sea And willingly forsake All that the sea can take, Then, when my ship goes down? Still, in spite of storm, From all we feel or fear A rescue may be near: Though tempests blow their best, A manly heart can rest Still, in spite of storm!

Irwin Russell Russell, Irwin Hope 204-205

204 HOPE. the heavier rains of January the river rises rapidly. By March it has overspread all the lowlands like a sea, a vast sheet, two thou- sand miles long, and thirty or forty in average width, with only lines of forest and floating grass marking the limits of lakes and chan- nels; canoes pass almost straight across. In May and June the waters recede. In the river-towns one hardly notices the changes; only in the winter there are more rains and the air is damp, so that shoes gather mold, and books drop to pieces. The people lead the same quiet life, year in and year out; the well-to-do merchant is content with his slow sales and large profits; mechanics work clumsily in the manner of their fathers; Indians and mulat- toes are satisfied with their mongrel existence, half the year in their palm-thatched houses, the other half wandering through the for- ests and over the lowlands. The largest of these river-towns is Man~os, but it is little more than an overgrown vil- lage. Obidos, Santarem, Camet~ and Teff~ may each have two or three thousand inhab- itants; the rest seem hardly worth mention- ing. In all the world there is no region of like extent with the Amazons valley which is so thinly settled. A vast proportion of the surface is abandoned even by the wan- dering cannibal tribes. Yet it is no wonder that Brazilians proudly call the Amazons the Mediterranean of America. Not alone for the main stream; the great branches spread their arteries in all directions, navigable often for hundreds of miles. And so the giant stream flows on, through the richest region on earth, yet the least known; where tropical heats are tempered by the refreshing trade-winds, and the climate is wholesome in most places; where all nature seems to invite man to come, yet the region of all others which man has forsakena glorious desert, an overflowing xvilderness. But the floating pumice-stones are full of prophecy. Across the continent, the Andes send their messengers to the Atlantic; and with the eye of faith one can see the wealth of the Pacific coast floated down on these waters to enrich the civilized world; isolated republics drawn into the sisterhood of na- tions by the strong hands of commerce; rich cities rising on the no longer silent shores; narrow prejudices disappearing with foreign intercourse. Will it be soon? Sooner than we look for, may be. Brazil gave the signal by opening the Amazons to free navigation. Bankrupt Peru dreams yet of her railroad over the Andes; if.she ever builds it her commerce will gonot westward to the Pacific but eastward to the Huallaga and Purilis. The Mamor6 Railroad is now surveyed around the falls of the Madeira. It may be abandoned for the present; even if it is built now it will not be a paying enterprise fqr years; but some- time it must be an achieved fact, and Bo- livia will look back with wonder on her mule-train commerce. Colombia has had commissions at work exploring the Ic~ and Jamund~, and steamboats have pene- trated from Par~t almost to her capital. These are but signs; but be it soon or late the destiny of the Amazons is sure. Even the Darien ship-canal, if it is ever made, can- not compete with this deep, straight chan- nel for the trade of the western republics. HOPE. No MATTER where we sail, A storm may come to wreck us A hitter wind, to check us In the quest for unknown lands, And cast us on the sands, No matter where we sail: Then, when my ship goes down, What choice is left to me From leaping in the sea And willingly forsake All that the sea can take, Then, when my ship goes down? Still, in spite of storm, From all we feel or fear A rescue may be near: Though tempests blow their best, A manly heart can rest Still, in spite of storm! THE UNIVERSITY OF BERLIN 205 THE UNIVERSITY OF BERLIN. IN England, in France, and in Germany, especially during the last ten years, the question of remodeling the whole system of higher education has been violently de- bated. Innumerable pamphlets, advocating a dozen conflicting schemes and agreeing only in their extreme disrespect for the his- toric tradition, have from time to time appeared, and have tended to strengthen the conviction in the public mind that a reform of some sort was an urgent necessity. It is, however, a notable circumstance that both in England and France the most un- prejudiced thinkers and those whose expe- rience in educational affairs give them a special right to be heard, have recognized the excellence of the German university sys- tem, and have generally agreed in pronounc- ing it superior to their own. With us, too, a similar conviction seems slowly to be gain- ing ground among those few who know what a German university is; while the re- actiol)ary tendency in the opposite direction is becoming equally pronounced. Every reform, however, if it is to prosper, must be a gradual and organic growth. A sudden transplanting of the German university to our soil would probably be a very disastrous experiment. The reasons for this supposi- tion have been quoted often, enough, and need not be repeated. A university was originally a free associa- tion of private men who united into a guild or society for the purpose of cultivating the sciences. They were at first mostly mature men, and, as long as they enjoyed no recog- nition from the state, had full liberty to arrange their affairs as they pleased. Usu- ally it was the fame of some great teacher which drew them together, and the pure love of knowledge, for its own sake, which made them submit to the self-imposed restraints with which they gradually burdened them- selves, as they grew in numbers and the necessity of organization became imperative. A kind of conventual life naturally grew up among these devotees of learning, and celi- bacy, although not always enforced, became the rule among them. They assumed a dress or uniform of their own, usually of a semi-clerical cut; and a strong esprit de corps asserted itself within their organizations. They were really literary monks, separated by their exclusive pursuit of knowledge from the great herd of Philistines who had no spiritual interests, no thoughts beyond the narrow horizon of their daily round of toil. As bequests of money and real estate multi- plied, and the associations grew in power and usefulness, the kings began to favor them, adding to their wealth, and investing them with certain rights and privileges, of KARL RICHARD LRPSIUS. which they were to have the exclusive enjoy- ment. Among these were separate and independent jurisdiction and the right of conferring degrees. The graduates, whether they remained at the university or not, re- garded themselves always as members of the university, and asserted their influence in the management of its affairs. If they contin- ued to reside within the college walls, they were intrusted with the supervision and in- struction of the younger members, and could thus insure the maintenance of their own policy or the continuance of their own school of thought, long after both were historically superannuated. This accounts, in a great measure, for the extreme conservatism of the European uni- versities, both in medi~val and in modern times. The majorities in the faculties almost

Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen Boyesen, Hjalmar Hjorth The University of Berlin 205-218

THE UNIVERSITY OF BERLIN 205 THE UNIVERSITY OF BERLIN. IN England, in France, and in Germany, especially during the last ten years, the question of remodeling the whole system of higher education has been violently de- bated. Innumerable pamphlets, advocating a dozen conflicting schemes and agreeing only in their extreme disrespect for the his- toric tradition, have from time to time appeared, and have tended to strengthen the conviction in the public mind that a reform of some sort was an urgent necessity. It is, however, a notable circumstance that both in England and France the most un- prejudiced thinkers and those whose expe- rience in educational affairs give them a special right to be heard, have recognized the excellence of the German university sys- tem, and have generally agreed in pronounc- ing it superior to their own. With us, too, a similar conviction seems slowly to be gain- ing ground among those few who know what a German university is; while the re- actiol)ary tendency in the opposite direction is becoming equally pronounced. Every reform, however, if it is to prosper, must be a gradual and organic growth. A sudden transplanting of the German university to our soil would probably be a very disastrous experiment. The reasons for this supposi- tion have been quoted often, enough, and need not be repeated. A university was originally a free associa- tion of private men who united into a guild or society for the purpose of cultivating the sciences. They were at first mostly mature men, and, as long as they enjoyed no recog- nition from the state, had full liberty to arrange their affairs as they pleased. Usu- ally it was the fame of some great teacher which drew them together, and the pure love of knowledge, for its own sake, which made them submit to the self-imposed restraints with which they gradually burdened them- selves, as they grew in numbers and the necessity of organization became imperative. A kind of conventual life naturally grew up among these devotees of learning, and celi- bacy, although not always enforced, became the rule among them. They assumed a dress or uniform of their own, usually of a semi-clerical cut; and a strong esprit de corps asserted itself within their organizations. They were really literary monks, separated by their exclusive pursuit of knowledge from the great herd of Philistines who had no spiritual interests, no thoughts beyond the narrow horizon of their daily round of toil. As bequests of money and real estate multi- plied, and the associations grew in power and usefulness, the kings began to favor them, adding to their wealth, and investing them with certain rights and privileges, of KARL RICHARD LRPSIUS. which they were to have the exclusive enjoy- ment. Among these were separate and independent jurisdiction and the right of conferring degrees. The graduates, whether they remained at the university or not, re- garded themselves always as members of the university, and asserted their influence in the management of its affairs. If they contin- ued to reside within the college walls, they were intrusted with the supervision and in- struction of the younger members, and could thus insure the maintenance of their own policy or the continuance of their own school of thought, long after both were historically superannuated. This accounts, in a great measure, for the extreme conservatism of the European uni- versities, both in medi~val and in modern times. The majorities in the faculties almost 206 THE UNIVERSITY OF BERLIN invariably belonged to a defunct school of philosophy and science, and the advanced few frequently found themselves ostracized, or their hands and tongues tied by the vote of the majority, with whom every final de- ERNST CURTIUS. cision rested, except in matters where the state reserved for itself the right to interfere. It need not, therefore, occasion much sur- prise that, in the great battles of civilization during the past centuries, the universities have usually taken their places in the rear, and when the victory of the one or the other tendency has been decisive, they have yielded, half reluctantly, to external press- ure, and have changed their methods of in- struction in accordance with the demands of the times. Many examples might be quoted to prove this assertion. In the fif- teenth and sixteenth centuries, while scholas- ticism, with its artificial formulas and hair- splitting definitions, was firmly established within the various faculties, the most promi- nent humanists, like Ulrich Hutten, Agricola, Reuchlin, and Melanchthon, were denied the privilege of lecturing in many German uni- versities; and it was, in most cases, the com- mand or persuasion of the secular rulers which compelled the professors to recognize them as colleagues. In r ~r i, Hutten was forbidden to teach Latin and Greek prosody by the rector (president) of the University of Vienna. The popes, who feared the humanists as probable heretics, had author- ized the theological faculty to keep a strict supervision over professors and students, and to punish or expel every one who was suspected of teaching or cherishing heretical opinions. In Heidelberg the humanists had a simi- lar reception. To be sure, at the suggestion of the Elector Philip, Agricola and Reuch- lin were permitted to lecture there for a short time; but the faculty refused to recog- nize them. It even opposed the founding of a professorship of Greek literature. In i5Ii it denied Melanchthon the degree of magister arfium, on account of his well- known hostility to scholasticism. The Reformation, although it counted many adherents among the German profes- sors, was, nevertheless, violently opposed by the most prominent faculties, even in N orth Germany. The universities and the pope, says Luther, in a letter to Spilatius, will, you may be sure, either make no dec- laration or declare against us. In Witten- berg, where Luther held a professorship of theology, his mighty influence, of course, did not fail to assert itself. And in Vienna, where Paulus Speratus, in 1524, preached against the old scholastic methods, the Reformation is said to have found much favor within the university. But the repress- ive decrees of the Emperor Ferdinand and the vigilance of the Jesuits prevented the further spread of heretical opinions. At Erfurt the Catholics regained their ascend- ency after the peace of Westphalia. Frank- fort-on-the-Oder testified its sentiments toward the Reformation by conferring the degree of doctor of theology upon Tetzel, the notorious dealer in absolutions. Rostock remained passive, and only after the most obstinate struggle Leipsic yielded to the gov- ernment decree demanding its acceptance of the evangelical faith. Heidelberg refused to obey the command of the Elector, which required of the faculty that it should test the soundness of the new doctrines, and it was not until .%7, when the public opinion among the students loudly demanded a change of policy, that the academical author- ities saw fit to accept Melanchthon as a uni- versity teacher. Protestantism, when it had once gained a foot-hold in North Germany, naturally regarded itself as the final result of human progress, and began with more or less suc- cess to repeat the tactics of its predecessors. The Protestant professors, like the Catholic THE UNIVERSITY OF BERLIN 207 ones, held it to be their first duty to watch over the orthodoxy of their colleagues and students, and the pursuit of learning, apart from its hearing upon theology, became a secondary consideration. The Pietistic movement, although its leaders did not ob- ject to a single Lutheran doctrine, but aimed merely at a revival of the religious life within the church, was ridiculed, sneered at, and sometimes attacked even with sterner weapons. Ecclesiastical history and Bibli- cal exegesis were rarely taught, while a vast deal of energy was wasted on doctrinal in- genuities and polemical discussions. Spener, the Pietist, relates that in his youth a stu- dent of theology might spend five or six years at a university without having heard one lecture devoted to the interpretation of Scripture. Francke even goes so far as to assert that while he studied in Leipsic a Bible was hardly to be had of any book- seller in the city. And yet the Bible was blindly accepted, and a critical examination of its language condemned as a sin against the Holy Ghost. That the New Testament was not written in classical Greek very few would admit, and when more advanced scholarship bad established this fact beyond a doubt, the faculties boldly stultified them- selves, and declared that the New Testament spoke a language of its own, and was sub- ject only to its own laws. The narrow and short-sighted conserva- tism which discouraged independent re- search naturally excluded bold and original thinkers from the university faculties. It is especially notable that in Germany, until the beginning of the present century, the majority of scientists, inventors, and philos- ophers whose names the nation honors, have either had no connection, or only a very brief one, with the great schools of learning. Kepler struggled with poverty all his life long, and did finally obtain a miserable position without salary at the uni- versity of Rostock. Copernicus was canon at Frauenburg. Otto Von Guericke, the inventor of the air-pump, was a councilor in Magdeburg. Spinoza lived and labored in philosophic seclusion, and was obliged to refuse a professorship at Heidelberg because full liberty of expression was denied him. The philosopher Wolff was, indeed, a pro- fessor at Halle, but he was banished because in a lecture he had compared the moral code of Christ with that of Confucius; he was, however, allowed to return later. Fichte, having been expelled from Jena, was well received in Berlin. Many more examples might be quoted to show that the universities have satisfied themselves with dispensing the fund of learning already accumulated by the past, and that while RUDOLF VIRCHOW. HERMANN GRIMM. 208 THE UNIVERSITY OF BERLIN in accomplishing this work they have ren- dered invaluable services, they have, as a rule, assumed a hostile attitude toward the champions of independent thought. When, therefore, the rumor spread in the first years of the present century that King Friedrich Wilhelm the Third intended to found a new university at Berlin, a num- ber of prominent scholars, connected with already existing universities, seized the op- portunity to present their views concerning the disadvantages of the old system, and the reforms which they believed necessary to insure their permanent abolishment. All were convinced that the German universi- ties had in the past failed to fulfill the high- est purpose of which they were capable, and that the only way to infuse vitality into the new institution was to found it, without regard for tradition, upon entirely new principles which should embody the latest results of modern experience. The first effort of the king, when the reso- lution to found the university was irrevoca- bly taken, was to secure the co-operation of as many great and important men as possible. He knew that one or two such men would add more to the fame and usefulness of his university than a hundred conscien- tious routine men. He was convinced that Fichte was such a spiritual force, and he did not therefore allow himself to be frightened by the expulsion from Jena or the accusation of atheism. Among theologians, Schleier- macher had gained a great reputation as an eloquent author of libernl opinions, and more especially by his efforts to recon- cile Christianity with the latest results of science. When Napoleon suspended the University of Halle, which had displeased him, Schleiermacher lost his position as pro- fessor of theology. He had thus a double claim to consideration on the part of the government toward which he had in such dangerous times testified his loyalty. Among jurists, Savigny was the greatest name, and he was accordingly invited to accept a seat in the faculty of law. It was on the same principle that Hufeland, the physician-in- ordinary to the king, and a man equally prominent in practical philanthropy and in theoretic science, was offered a professor- ship in the medical faculty. An effort was also made to secure the permanent services of Wilhelm von Humboldt, whose philologi- cal and ~sthetic writings had proved him a scholar of extraordinary versatility and thoroughness. No one had taken a livelier interest in the affairs of the university than he, and there is no doubt that it was he who, in his diplomntic capacity as minister of in- struction, finally made an end of the kings THEODOR MOMMSEN. HERMANN LUDWIG HELMHOLTZ. THE UNIVERSITY OF BERLIN 209 wavering and persuaded him that the found- ing of a new school of learning was both pecuniarily a practicable undertaking and, moreover, a necessity of the times. In the many documents relating to the university which were from time to time laid before the cabinet, we find this thought re- peatedly emphasized that Germany needed an intellectual center, and that this center could and must be nowhere except in the political capital. If young men from all parts of the Prussian dominions could be induced by the superior advantages of the capital to come here to pursue their studies, their petty pro- vincial pride would be gradually rooted out and give place to a nobler and worthier patriotism embracing the whole German land and nationality. Thus the university was to further the great thought of German unity. For it is well known that it was a statesman of those days, the Minister von Stein, who laid the foundation for the work which Bismarck is now accomplishing. And yet, strange to say, von Stein was not favorably disposed toward the plan of founding an institution of learning in the capital, and his temporary retirement from office in i8o8, owing to Napoleons persistent hostility, was among the circumstances which hastened the realization of the long-considered and much-debated project. Although it was not until August, 1809, that the cabinet resolution definitely estab- lishing the university was issued, the institu- tion may be said to have existed de facto since the winter of 18071808 when Fichte delivered his thundering Orations to the German Nation (Reden an die Deutsche Nation). Berlin was then yet in the power of the French; the French grenadiers pa- raded the streets, and the rattle oP their arms and the sound of their drums could be heard through the windows from the hall where the fearless professor was lecturing. He tried to rouse the German people from their hopeless apathy; he appealed to all their tenderest memories, to their patriotism, to their pride, and his words re-echoed far and wide and rekindled the slumbering en- thusiasm for the Fatherland. He prepared the way for the war of liberation, awakening the sentiment which then burst forth might- ily, sweeping the foreign armies from the soil. When he ventured to publish his stirring philippics, Fichfe received a warning from the Minister von Begme, to which he proud- ly answered: I know that a ball of lead can kill me, as it did Palm, but it is not that I am afraid of; for the end for which I labor VOL. XVIII.i6. I am also willing to die,no meaningless boast, indeed, in those days when the life of a German offender was held to be of small account in the eyes of the French con- queror. The university was opened in October, i8io. The organization which was finally adopted differed but slightly from that of the older German universities; although a num- ber of radical changes proposed by Fichte and Wolf were respectfully listened to by the minister and the commission, they were in the end rejected. The academic constitution which, after prolonged debate and a careful study of the workings of the system at Leip- sic and Gdttingen, gained the approval of the government, contains the following reg- ulations: The teachers of the university shall be divided into three degrees; ordinary or full professors, extraordinary, or assistant professors, and privatdocentenfor which no English equivalent, exists. The professors are appointed by the state, and it is their duty to give a certain number of lectures during the academic year. The members. of the Prussian Academy of Sciences shall also have the right to deliver lectures at the uni- versity if they desire it. Every professor may lecture on any subject he chooses with- in his own faculty; he may also lecture on subjects outside of his own specialty if he possesses the degree proving proficiency on the chosen subject. Every ordinary profes- sor takes part in the deliberations by his faculty,* at the head of which is a dean. The highest officer of the university is a rector magn~ftcus who is elected annually by the ordinary professors from their own num- ber. The deans of the four faculties form with the rector, pro-rector (the rector of last year) and the university judge, the academic senate, within whose jurisdiction everything belongs which concerns the university in general. Its decisions are made by a ma- jority of votes and the rector is presiding officer. In minor matters, involving breaches of discipline, the rector may punish the de- linquent without consulting the senate. Punishments exceeding four days prison can only be ordered by the senate. It will be seen from the above that inde * The four faculties of a German university are theology, medicine, law and philosophy. The pro- fessors representing all these departments form to- gether a governing body, corresponding to what we would call the faculty. I have been obliged to use the terni, now in its German and now in its Ameri- can sensebut the meaning is in every instance explained by the connection. 210 THE UNIVERSITY OF BERLIN pendent jurisdiction was accorded to the new institution in spite of much opposition on the part of individual professors. The feeling seems to be general, at least among those of the professors whom I have the honor to know, that it is an entirely super- fluous right,a remnant of medi~val times which will probably disappear before many years.* One learned gentleman with whom I lately discussed this point thought, how- ever, that it was a great convenience to the students to have their quarrels among them- selves and their occasional fights with the police judged by a mild and humane tribu- nal like the academic senate; it was a very humiliating thing to be dragged up before a police-court and to have the proceedings published in the newspapers the next morn- ing. He was especially anxious to impress upon my mind that in German society it was regarded as a great disgrace to have been fined by an ordinary police-court or to have endured never so brief a term of impris- onment at its dictation, while a couple of days in an academic carcer was an expe- rience which a man would look back upon in his old age with fond regret, as some- thing that rather belonged to student life, and without which ones youth would not have been complete. My informant seemed to regard it as an inalienable right of stu- dents to thrash a night-watchman if they could, or to be thrashed by him if he hap- pened to be the stronger. These feats were held to be about equally glorious, and one of the chief charms of academic life would be destroyed in case an eternal peace was concluded between students and police, which would inevitably be the case if the university were deprived of its independent jurisdiction. A student who is called up before the rec- tor or the senate is always treated as a gen- tleman. He is addressed with extreme courteousness, and is made to feel his own dignity, which, perhaps, in a freak of boyish exuberance of spirits, he had forgotten. He is not, as is so frequently the case with Ameri- can faculties, bombarded with questions from all sides, cross-examined with an evident purpose to confuse and entrap him, and in the end treated to a long-winded moral ex- hortation, containing the usual professional platitudes. I have conversed with a num- ber of students, both in Leipsic and in Berlin, who have received special invita- tions from the rector, and I have never discovered in them any trace of that petty spite and animosity toward their instructors which in many of our American colleges is so deplorably prevalent. American students, it may be urged, are often mere boys; at all events, as a rule, they are younger than the German. They do not understand their own welfare, and therefore waste much of their time and energy in playing tricks on one another and on their teachers. This is unde- niably true; but it is only half the truth. The fault lies as frequently with the teachers themselves. A man who sits year after year at a desk, droning out the same common- place lectures, interspersed with feeble jokes, or hearing lessons in a half-mechanical way, even if his moral character be never so estimable, can hardly chain the attention of twenty or a hundred lively young men, over- flowing with animal spirits. He is merely a school-master, and school-masters have pro- verbially a hard time in trying to enforce discipline. Then again, the American professor is too often, in our smaller colleges, a man who has failed in some other pursuit, and falls back on teaching as a last resort. Real scholar- ship, in the German sense, has certainly been the exception, and respectable mediocrity the rule. No one has ever thought of demand- ing prominence as an original investigator as a necessary qualification for a professor- ship. We have, of course, scholars of this order at three or four of our colleges; but, as the public understand it, the duty of the instructor is to communicate the accumu- lated traditional lore of the past, not to be laboring in the vanguard of pioneers, on the outermost boundaries of science. And here lies the difference between the German and the American (or, indeed, the English) idea of a university teacher. The Germans hold that a man of the latter order is more valuable to an institution of learning than any num- ber of ordinary, respectably educated, rou- tine teachers. He fills his students with enthusiasm for his science; he stimulates them to follow in his footsteps; their daily contact with him often makes the decisive epoch in their lives, and in after years the memory of him remains a living presence and an inspiration. It is not an exaggeration when I say that hardly any institution in the world counts at the present time so many great names within its faculties as the University of Berlin. Mommsen, Curtius, Helmlioltz, Grimm, Vir * Since writing this I have been informed that a law has already been passed abolishing the juris- diction of the German universities of Berlin from October 1st, 1879. THE UNIVERSITY OF BERLIN 211 chow, Leopold von Ranke, Lepsius, Gneist, Zeller,what a fund of talent, strength, and spiritual vitality is represented by names like these! Each one of these men has broken a pathway for himself into the unknown, and has extended the sphere of human knowledge. They do not look upon them- selves merely as teachers of youth; their first allegiance is to their science. And the government takes the same view of their position, and encourages them by granting them leisure and frequently pecuniary help for independent investigation. It is safe to assert that no one can now obtain a profes- sorship at the University of Berlin without being a man of unusual power and energy. The system of selection provides, so to speak, only for the survival of the fittest, and those of the competitors who are in- sufficiently equipped for the intellectual contest disappear from the arena and drop into inferior positions. It is well known that, besides the professors, a great number of privatdocenten (private instructors) are permitted to lecture at the German univer- sities. These private instructors are gradu- ates who, after having gained some distinc- tion during their college career and obtained their doctorate, aspire to professional honors. They have no regular salaries, but manage to eke out a scanty living by the lecture fees they obtain from the students, by giving private instruction, and frequently by writing for scientific periodicals. The fact that their names appear in the university catalogue is looked upon as a kind of official indorse- ment, and is in itself a guarantee of thorough scholarship. They devote their time largely to study and experiments in some special branch of science which has hitherto received insufficient attention, and in which there is, accordingly, yet a chance of making a name. A great deal of conscientious and valuable labor is done by these men, chiefly in the way of collecting minute facts and observa- tions, though frequently of a more boldly ex- perimental kind. What is especially worthy of notice is that the German universities are thus constantly educating a whole army of workers who, from motives of ambi- tion or from a true love of knowledge, spend the better part of their lives in the service of science. Such a class of people, whether they reach the goal of their ambi- tion or not, cannot fail to exert influence upon the spiritual life of the nation, espe- cially as their number is rather larger than appears from the academic calendars. Ac- cording to this latter authority, they number in Berlin at present about eighty, while the whole body of instructors exceeds two hun- dred (187778, two hundred and fourteen). Of these, one hundred and five constitute the faculty proper, and have the title of pro- fessors, viz.: sixty-three ordinary and sixty- two assistants. The privatdocenkn have no seat or vote in the deliberations of the faculty. The practical workings of this system I had ample opportunity to observe during a previous sojourn at a German univer- sity. When a professor is inclined to take his ease, and fails to give satisfaction, the students desert him, and go to one of the j5rivatdocenten, who lectures on the same or a kindred subject. And, as the professor is largely dependent upon the lecture fees which he receives from his students, such a deser- tion is apt to stimulate his lagging energy and induce him to exert himself to the utmost. There is, of course, no attempt made to control the attendance of under- graduates upon lectures, and every one is at liberty to seek knowledge wherever he chooses. The only thing which concerns the university is whether, in the end, he has acquired the amount requisite to pass his examination, and of this the examination itself is a sufficient test. During the first years after the foundation of the University of Berlin, a feeble effort was made to regu- late the attendance; the professor now and then passed a paper around, without previ- ous notice, and requested all who were present to sign their names upon it. It is needless to say that they signed not only their own names, but also those of their absent comrades. And the professor found, moreover, to his astonishment, on glancing over the names, that Seneca, A~schylus, Socrates, Cicero, and other distinguished strangers had been among his audience. At the University of Berlin, the lectures of privatdocenten are, as a rule, rather scantily attended compared to those of professors, probably because almost every department of learning is represented by men of such conspicuous ability and fame that it is hope- less for a comparative beginner to enter the lists with them. What, for instance, could a new-fledged doctor have to say on the subject of Roman history, which in interest and authority would even remotely approach a lecture by Mommsen? What young physicist could hope to draw students away from Helmholtz? Whose word would be more weighty concerning the antiquities of Greece than that of Ernst Curtius, the ex 212 THE UNIVERSITY OF BERLIN cavator of Olympia? But at other univer- sities where the old pedantic type of profes- sor, prodigiously learned and prodigiously tedious, is not yet extinct, I have known instances of j5rivatdocenten gradually making the professor entirely superfluous. If at our American colleges we would introduce some modification of this system adapted to our civilization, we should soon see the amiable and incompetent instructor replaced by wide-awake and adequately equipped men. A free and unlimited competition would hardly be commendable, as students are with us not always the best judges of real competency and soundness of scholar- ship; but a competition among men whose scholarship had been tested and whose char- acter furnished a sufficient safeguard against mere hunting for cheap popularity by clap- trap devices, could not fail to have the most beneficial results. Those who have reason to fear for their own heads, will doggedly oppose all baneful German innovations, and others, no doubt,who would gladly meas- ure strength with younger rivals, may, from an honest distrust of whatever comes from Germany, fight against this timely reform. The faculty is, of course, continually be- ing recruited from the body of the privatdo- centen, although there is no rule obliging a university to fill its vacancies in this manner. Very frequently the government, with the consent, or at the recommendation, of the academical senate, invites some well-known foreign scholar to accept the vacant place; but as far as I can learn from the statistics of the University of Berlin, the majority of the faculty have been chosen from the Jri- va/docenten. The senate practically has the appointments in its own hands. As soon as a vacancy occurs, the rector, in the name of the senate, sends in the names of three can- didates as especially worthy of consideration. Each name is accompanied with a recom- mendation, while the preference of the aca- demic body is also respectfully indicated. The KuZius-minis/er (the minister of public worship and instruction) then appoints one of these candidates, and almost invariably the one whom the senate has declared to be its choice. Strictly speaking, the govern- ment is not bound by any law to accept the advice of the university, but practically a well-established precedence is equivalent to a law. A deviation from this method of appointment would be an unheard-of thing in Prussia. If the government were to re- ject all the names presented by the senate, it would naturally be construed as a wan-. ton challenge to the university, and as the university is a powerful institution, having many of its members both in the Prussian and in the German parliament, the minister would undoubtedly before long have occa- sion to repent of his rashness. In American colleges the methods of ap- pointment differ somewhat in the different states. The board of trusteesin most cases a very miscellaneous body, consisting largely of men who have no idea of what a uni- versity is or ought to become together and deliberate concerning the needs of the insti- tution. Jn matters of appointments they usually act on the recommendation of the president and accept his candidate, which is, on the whole, the nearest approach to the Prussian system which we can hope to see realized. In the Western states where trus- tees are mostly selected for their wealth and presumable willingness to endow the needy university, friends and prot6g6s of these gentlemen offer themselves to teach half a dozen branches with equal willingness, and the president, who is afraid to alienate a future endower, gives the worthless polyglot his recommendation for a professorship. Of course, this criticism in no wise applies to colleges like Harvard, Yale, Cornell and Michigan, where the alumni of the institu- tion have now, or before many years will have, a majority in the board of trustees. It is a very curious notion, however, which seems to be prevalent among us, that pro- fessors, who certainly know the needs of a university better than any one else, and have its interest more at heart, must be excluded from all direct participation in its govern- ment. There are at present from thirty to forty American students at the University of Berlin. Many of them are regularly matric- ulated, and are studying for the degree of pkilosopkia~ doctor, while others merely at- tend special lectures, with the consent of the professor. One celebrated member of the faculty, whose word ought to have great weight, assured me that they were, as a rule, earnest and energetic men, with whom it was a great pleasure to work. If they come here for the purpose of devoting themselves to science, their previous training (provided they are graduates) is found to be quite sufficient, and there are among them many excellent mathematical heads. In philol- ogy they are at a disadvantage, because they have passed through no preliminary course of training approaching in complete- ness and thoroughness that of the German THE UNIVERSITY OF BERLIN 213 gymnasium. Moreover, in the so-called Seminarien (private exercises in the pro- fessors house or elsewhere) Latin is fre- quently spoken, and in the classical ones exclusively. It is delightful to hear with what fluency Professor Vahlen, who con- ducts the Seminar in classical philology, speaks the Ciceronian tongue. He enun- ciates with great distinctness, as if he gloried in the very sound of the words, and liked to dwell on them. His students also ex- press themselves with apparent ease, and answer the questions he addresses to them without much hesitation, and in Latin usually grammatically correct, but rather destitute of the classical flavor. Of course the American student who has reached even this degree of proficiency is a phe- nomenon, and he who despairs of ever reaching it is apt to quit the Seminar with a discouraged air, and vow that he will never again look into a Latin book. Professor Vahlen is a thin and bony man of about fifty, with a pair of piercing eagle eyes, and a lean but very impressive face. He reads and translates his author from the cathedra, and intersperses his critical and grammatical remarks as he goes along. Like most German professors, he dwells with preference on the philological phase of the text, and illustrates it abundantly with historical and philosophical comments. He seems rarely to regard his author from a literary point, although he reads with warmth and animation as if he really felt the beauty of the passage, which in the next moment he dissects with admirable keenness and accuracy. He takes a strong personal interest in those of his students who in any way distinguish themselves, and is especially kind and considerate toward foreigners. As regards the expediency of employing Latin as the language of lectures and other academic exercises, the opinions of the members of the Berlin faculty seem to he divided; most of those with whom I have conversed on the subject agree that it is a useless medi~val tradition, and that the sooner it is done away with the better; but they believe that this can only be done gradually, and are therefore opposed to all sudden and sweeping changes. It is, how- ever, merely a question of time when the reform will be finally accomplished. At present, all lectures, with a few notable exceptions, are delivered in German; but until very recently, the so-called An/rifts- rede (inaugural address) of a j5rivatdocen4 no matter to what faculty he belonged, had to be delivered in the classical tongue. A scientific lecturer, whose inaugural ad- dress required the most modern terminol- ogy, naturally found this rule extremely inconvenient; and ifs, as was often the case, he had to illustrate his theories by experiments, the difficulty was doubly in- creased. Dissertations in philology (Ger- man, classical and Oriental), ancient history and ancient philosophy must still be written in Latin, as also the dissertation for the licentiate degree in theology. Candidates for the degree of doctor of philosophy are permitted to write in German, but are then obliged to pass an extra examination in Latin afterward. A number of American students who have studied in Berlin, but who are unable to conform to this require- ment are thus obliged to take their doctorate at G6ttingen, or some other university where the rule is not enforced. Helmholtz, the present * rector magn~fteus, and nearly the whole scientific portion of the faculty are strongly opposed to these regulations mak- ing the study or use of Latin obligatory upon scientific students after their admission to the university, and there is every reason to believe that all such regulations will soon be abolished. As I have said, the strength of the Berlin University lies chiefly in the fact that it counts so many great and renowned men within its faculty. Among these no one is more conspicuous than Hermann Ludwig Helmholtz, professor of physics, of whom it is said, with justice, that he has made an epoch in every branch of science to which he has devoted himself. He is a man of about fifty-seven, rather below middle height, and somewhat inclined to stoutness. His face is decidedly handsome; the brow especially of remarkable spaciousness and breadth, and all the features clearly modeled and in good proportion. His grave dark eyes express calm and keen observation; they are undeniably a trifle cold, and probably judge men with the same merciless, mathe- matical exactness with which they observe other natural phenomena. One can hardly imagine a more unsentimental, passionless face, nor a fitter face for a man of science. One feels at once that his mental atmos- l)here must he clear and bracing, and un- obscured by fogs of sentiment. I find also that in social circles Helmholtz has the reputation of being an interesting but a cold Academic year 187778. 214 THE UNIVERSITY OF BERLIN and unapproachable man. However, the students, who work in his laboratory and thus come into closer contact with him, cherish the profoundest respect and admira- tion for him. One of them, a young Amer- ican, who has studied physics in Berlin for three years, told me that during all this time he never remembered that the professor had addressed one personal question or remark to him, not even as much as a comment upon the weather. Every morning, when Helmholtz enters his laboratory, he greets the young gentlemen, and then immediately begins to question them successively in re- gard to their work. He explains with ad- mirable clearness and ease, and when an interesting point comes up for discussion, he has been known to spend an hour or more with one student in trying to elucidate it, sometimes even forgetting his lecture hour. His language is always mathemat- ically precise, and the most abstruse and involved theory becomes as simple as the multiplication table before he has done with it. The remarkable discoveries of Helmholtz in the most various departments of science are universally known, and may be found in every encyclopedia. His fame dates from the publication of his treatise On the Conservation of Energy, which was only the forerunner of a long series of equally brilliant labors in optics, acoustics and physiology. If he may be said to have any specialty to which he devotes himself by preference, it is the physiology of the senses. Here his philosophical profundity, combined with mathematical exactness of thought, have produced the most signifi- cant results. It will be remembered that it was he who succeeded in ascertaining the speed with which sensations were commu- nicated through the nerves of animals and men; it was he too whose experiments in acoustics (Die Lelire der Tonem15find- ungen) established the scientific proof for the musical theory of harmony, and, above all, it was he who invented the ophthalmo- scope, an instrument by which light is thrown upon the background of the eye, so that the retina with its woof of nerves and blood- vessels may be distinctly observed. The nature of a disease in the eye may thus be ascertained and the sight of thousands saved, who otherwise might have become the victims of false conjectures and experi- ments. It is needless to say that Helmholtz is an excellent lecturer. He does not aim to be eloquent, as indeed eloquence would be out of place; but he is clear, concise and impressive. Among the scientists of the university, Rudolf Virchow, professor of general pathol- ogy and therapeutics, probably ranks next to Helmholtz. He is a restless and ener- getic man, who extends his activity in many directions, and has accomplished much solid and valuable work. As a physiologist he is especially known by his great work on cel- lular pathology (Ceilularpathologie); and of late he has turned his attention toward an- thropological studies, and has published a voluminous work, concerning the value of which I am not competent to express an opinion. Professor Virchows political career, which has extended over many years and brought him many reverses, is so variously judged that it is hard, among the many conflicting opinions, to arrive at an inde- pendent judgment. It appears, however, that the professor has at all times stood up boldly and bravely for what he believed to be right, and has refused to keep silent when prudence or regard for higher authority might have made such a course expedient. In consequence of this irrepressible bravery, Virchow, who was with many other excel- lent and patriotic men involved in the polit- ical movement of 184849, was deprived of his professorship by the reactionary gov- ernment, and was not reinstated in his for- mer position until i8~6. Since then he has taken his place in the Prussian Land/ag, and has played a significant r6le as one of the leaders of the so-called Fortschrittspartei (party of progress). He is in no sense an eloquent speaker, but bristles with facts and statistics, and delivers many a valuable argu- ment which presents a much better appear- ance in the newspaper than on the floor of the house. As a lecturer on medical top- ics he is said to be very successful, and often inspires his students with his own enthusi- asm for his work. It is especially owing to him that the Pathological Institute of Ber- lin has been so admirably fitted up and affords such fine opportunities to young doctors for independent scientific research. Another famous professor, who, like Vir- chow, has had to suffer for his political independence, is Theodor Mommsen, the author of the history of Rome. He was, previous to the revolution of 1849, professor of jurisprudence in Leipsic, and traveled from 184447 in Italy, partly at the expense of the Berlin Academy of Sciences. On his return, the ardor with which he expressed his liberal sentiments made him suspected THE UNIVERSITY OF BERLIN 215 by the government, and he was deprived of his office. He then for a time edited a paper in his native province, Schleswig-Holstein, became professor in Zurich, but was in .i857 appointed to the chair of ancient history at the University of Berlin. In the Prussian parliament he has occupied a conspicuous position as one of the ablest and most hon- ored members of the National Liberal party. It cannot be denied that it gives one a peculiar satisfaction to know how a famous man looks. I have not infrequently found that an authors eyes, gestures and facial expression furnished the exact commentary I needed for the complete understanding of his books. Thus the passionate parti- sanship which characterizes Mommsen 5 Roman history; his love of Caesar, his hatred of Cicero, and more especially the intensely modern spirit in which he deals with ancient events, will perhaps be in a measure explained by the study of the his- torian 5 own personality. His most promi- nent feature is a pair of piercing gray eyes, with which he is apt to regard you sternly over his spectacles, while he converses in a gentle, deliberate manner which almost takes the edge off the severity of his glance. You are not surprised to know that he has the reputation of saying the sharpest, most biting things in the calmest tone, as if they were mere truisms. There is a gleam of fanaticism lurking in his features,a sus- picion which is confirmed by his whole career as an author and a politician. His face is that of a scholar, but it indicates primarily a man with strong beliefs and conviction, and with the keenest power of observation. The Iou/ensemble of his features has an intensity of expression which is rarely seen in a modem man of his position. I have met similar types, deducting the schol- arly refinement and finish, among religious fanatics in the West. But to complete the professors portrait : his large forehead is covered with a net-work of wrinkles and sur- mounted with an abundance of gray hair, which is worn long, reaching down upon the neck. It may be of interest to know that he has fourteen children, of whom a large majority are daughters. The weakness of Professor Mommsen s voice makes it difficult, in the moment, to value his lectures at their full worth. I should give any young man who intended to study history under him the advice of Mephistopheles to the student in Faust: But take thy notes as zealously As did the Holy Ghost dictate to thee. In dealing particularly with Sulla, Marius, Cicero and Caesar, and the whole period of the decline and fall of the Roman republic, Mommsen displays an eloquence which, on paper, looks as magnificent and imposing as from the cathedra it sounds dry and un- impressive. And yet there is a sharpness and delicacy of characterization in the por- traits which he gives you of the great Romans, and a certain charm of complete intelligibility with which he invests their mQtives and modes of action, which, once heard (or rather seen), is never forgotten. These are, of course, the same qualities which have made his Roman history re- nowned, but Mommsen is not the man to fall back upon his early achievements; he is yet laboring with inexhaustible energy and force, and gives his students always the latest results of his investigations. Almost a contrast to Mommsen, both in personal appearance and in his tenden- cies as a scholar, is Hermann Grimm, the son of Wilhelm Grimm, the younger of the two famous brothers. Hermann Grimm~ s literary affiliations were in his youth with the Romanticists, whose atmosphere he breathed, and who gave the first coloring to his ambition. He even married, so to speak, within the Romantic school; his wife being the daughter of Bettina Brentano, Goethes child-love, and Achim von Arnim, the author of Countess Dolores and many other nightmarish and blood- curdling tales. Grimm, however, has with every year removed himself more widely from the traditions of the school, until now only the faintest tinge of Romantic moon- shine may be felt, rather than seen, lingering over his pages. As a novelist, he excels by the fineness with which he draws the most fleeting, intangible moods and the finest ;iua~zces of character. Among his shorter tales there is one entitled The Child,~~ which gives evidence of a remarkable gift of psychological observation. His longest romance, entitled Invincible Forces, con- tains many vivid descriptions and remarks of extraordinary fineness and force, but seems to have no firmly knit skeleton, strong enough to keep the whole elaborate struct- ure erect. It is an excellent book, without being an excellent novel. The American heroine, I am afraid, would find it hard to convince her countrywomen that she had ever seen New York or Chicago. It is well known that Grimm has always taken a lively interest in American affairs, has done much toward introducing our best authors 216 ]HE UNIVERSITY OF BERLIN in Germany, and has himself translated the greater part of Emersons essays. For Em- erson he entertains the heartiest veneration, and speaks with enthusiastic appreciation of the loftiness of his character and genius. It was, however, not his attempts in fiction but his early prominence as an art critic which led to Grimms appointment as pro- fessor of the history of art at the University of Berlin. His volumes of Essays, deal- ing with subjects relating to art and literature, have already become classics, without which no German library is complete; they are written in the purest style, with a warmth of sentiment and a delicacy of perception which are beyond all praise. His Life of Michel Angelo (the only work of Grimms which seems to be generally known in the United States) is, properly speaking, a history of the Renaissance itself with Michel Angelo for its chief and central figure. It is a marvel- ously attractive book,a book charged with warm vitality. Like all that Grimm has written, it has a decided individuality; it arouses in you the desire to know the author. Grimm, the professor, has the same lovable and delicately constituted personality as Grimm, the author. In his lectures on Goethe, for instance, now published in two handsome volumes, he displays a power of characterization and of sound ~sthetic judg- ment which is rarely found in an academic auditorium. It is this varied endowment creative ability coupled with keen critical discernmentwhich constitutes the perfect university teacher. None but he who has himself felt the creative joy (die scha~ende Freude, of which Goethe speaks) can enter sympathetically into a poets soul, follow his development, judge of his actions, and worthily interpret his works. It is this which Grimm has done, as no one else before him, in his Lectures on Goethe, and which he has been doing for a long series of years in relation to many other artists and poets whom he has interpreted to his students, from his cathedra. Personally, he is no less attractive than he is as an author. He is a tall, well-formed man with a fine, expressive face. You cannot talk long with him without being impressed by the healthy naturalness and fineness of his thought; you discover at once that he is a man of delicate senses. He has suffered much from illness during recent years and looks nearly ten years older than he did in 1873. Among the other celebrities of the univer- sity, the Egyptologist Karl Richard Lepsius is one of the foremost. He is a man of very striking appearance, but in spite of his vast learning he is rather dry and a little wearisome as a lecturer. His fund of facts and his knowledge of details are so enormous that he seems to find it difficult to master them. He gives you much that is interest- ing, but in a rather uninteresting manner. The astonishing acquirements of the man, of course, inspire you with unbounded respect and make his utterances absolutely authori- tative; but, for all that, a listener of a literary turn will be apt to spend a good deal of his time in imagining how much more beautiful and impressive these marvelous facts would have been, were they presented with a slight afflatus of eloquence. But I find it is a tradition in the German universities that regard for style is unworthy of the serious consideration of a scholar, and that elo- quence is a mere clap-trap substitute for the solider virtues of scholarly soundness and profundity. It thus happens that men of exceptional intellectual endowments, as, for instance, the former university preacher, Professor Steinmeyer, adopt a style of ad- dress which impresses one as a fraction of the confusion of Babel. Professor Stein- meyer writes most excellent sermons, but he delivers them with a studious disregard for commas and periods, and with inflections which must have been borrowed from some strange barbaric tongue. It is needless to say that the students do not manifest much eagerness to listen to such preaching; I find that a great number of them are not aware that a university preacher exists. The gov- ernment, possibly because it failed to appre- ciate Professor Steinmeyers style of rhetoric, seized the opportunity, during a recent illness which br~ught him near deaths door, to appoint his successor. This act of discour- tesy immediately stimulated all the professors latent vitality and he hastened to recover; the government was forced to recognize the fact of his existence, and in order to avoid difficulties, established a new theological professorship, or divided the duties of the old one between the two claimants. But to return to Lepsius. I did not intend to compare his manner of speaking with that of his theological colleague. I only ventured to express the opinion that grace of style and an occasional approach to eloquence are not necessarily proofs of dillettanteism. My limited space does not permit me even to mention the long array of valuable contributions to classical and Semitic philology, and especially to the science of Egyptology, which we owe to this THE UNIVERSITY OF BERLIN 217 indefatigable scholar. While he was yet a very young man his historico-philological treatises repeatedly gained the prize of the French Academy; in his Lettres ~ M. Rossilini he established the scientific the- ory for the interpretation of hieroglyphics, and during the years i 84245 he accompanied a joint English and German expedition through Egypt, and on his return collected the rich results of his researches in twelv6 superb volumes with 650 plates, published at government expense. He is a man of marvelous energy, and in the various offices which he fills, as director of the Egyptian division of the royal museums, as librarian of the Royal Library, and as member of the Academy of Sciences, accomplishes an extra- ordinary amount of work. One of the most popular teachers at the University of Berlin is Ernst Curtius, the author of The History of Greece. His perfect amiability and bonkommie and the elegance and cordiality of his manner could not but endear him to those who come into close contact with him, while his fame as a historian and the profundity of his schol- arship inspire something more than respect even ift those who meet him only in his lecture-room. Professor Curtius has had from fifty to sixty American students under his instruction; and I may be pardoned for mentioning two whom he remembers with particular pleasure and of whose ability and scholarly acquirements he speaks with much appreciation, viz.: Professor Carter of Yale College and Mr. Keep, the author of an excellent 1-lomeric glossary. In the opinion of Professor Curtius, the majority of Ameri- can graduates rank with German Prima- ners, or members of the highes~t class in a gymnasium; they are apt to deal with learned themes in a declamatory and rhetorical fashion, hiding the insufficiency of their knowledge under a sounding phraseology. He did not mean to assert that this was a national characteristic; it was rather the com- mon device of immaturity and indicated some false system or tendency in our pre- paratory schools. Professor Curtius has a very agreeable voice and a clear and lucid manner of lect- uring; he is frequently in the habit of con- ducting his auditors through the Greek division of the Royal Museum, and illustrat- ing by the veritable objects, many of which he has himself excavated at Olympia, the manner of life and thought among the an- cients. It is needless to add that these per- ipatetic lectures are verypopular, being really themselves a venerable tradition from the days of Plato and Socrates. You seem to breathe the breath of Greece. These objects. some of them two to three thousand years oldmay have been touched by the heroes. who came to participate in the Olympian games. Here, for instance, is an urn or pitcher of burnt clay, or terra cotta, the frag- ments of which Professor Curtius discovered in an Olympian tomb. It has now been carefully joined together, and no piece was found lacking. The form is light and grace- ful, and the sides decorated with hasty-col- ored sketches, representing scenes of every- day life. There is the picture clearly drawn, and the colors yet bright and warm. Notice the wonderful grace and the soft distinctnes& of the few simple lines which go to make u~ this figure; and these pitchers were made and decorated by common artisans, not by men who laid claim to the title of artists.. Imagine, then, what the average artistic cult- ure must have been among a people whose artisans could draw lines like these. The fact that they are not the work of educated artists is proved by various circumstances: in the first place, the material is very cheap; and, secondly, the pitchers are found in great. abundance in the tombs of a certain period. They are a kind of mortuary vessels, which were thrown into the grave, and thus pur- posely broken; the breaking having some symbolism, and being a part of the burial cer- emony. In these lectures, whatever Professor Curtius touches is made to tell, not only its own history, but the history of the people who fashioned and used it. Antiquity revives under his hands, and begins to breathe and move in a human and intelligible manner. We feel our own blood pulsing in its veins, our own emotions and passions animating its actions. It is not to be wondered at that, with such a corps of instructors, the University of Ber- lin attracts more students than any other similar institution in Germany. The num- ber of regular attendants upon lectures is at present ~,oo6, of which 2,834 are regu- larly matriculated, and candidates for univer- sity degrees. In Leipsic, where the total number is less (3,163), the number of ma- triculates is somewhat higher (3,036). The opinion generally prevails in Germany, as abroad, that for any one who intends to devote himself to classical or Germanic philology, the Leipsic University is to be recommended; while a naturalistor, in fact, any student of the exact sciences would find it more profitable to go to Berlin, 218 MEMNON MEMNON. WEARY, forsaken by fair, fickle sleep, A traveler rose and stood outside his tent, That shrouded was in dusky shadows deep By palm-trees cast, that oer it kindly leant. A low moon lingered oer a large extent Of lifeless, shifting sands. Her pallid rays Had kissed the scorch~d waste to sweet content; And now her farewells whispering, still she stays, As loth to leave the land to Phcebus fiery blaze. Slowly she sinks; and faint streaks quietly creep Up from the east into the dusky sky Auroras yellow hair, that up the steep Streams to the rear of night full breezily, Shaken from her flushed fingers, that now dye The under-heavens crimson; now she springs Full-blown before the day, and hastens by With silver-footed speed and yearning wings, To kiss a form of stone that at her coming sings. Thrilled at the sound the traveler starts aside, And sees the image, prostrate, half-enwound With red unstable sand-wreaths, and its wide Forehead, and lips that moved not with their sound Celestial, lined with many a furrowed wound, Deep graven by the gnawing desert blast. Half-buried sphinxes strewed the waste around, And human-headed bulls, now moldering fast, Their impious shapes half gone, their greatness wholly past. Out of this desolation vast and dead, Now glorified and clothed in red and gold, Brightness befitting Egypts Heros bed, A matin to his Goddess Mother rolled From Dawn-kissed lips, that also kissed the mold Of their decaying substance. The sweet psalm Thrilled in the listeners ears, with manifold Cool music mingled of the murmuring palm; And accents large and sad deepened the lifeless calm: 0 Mother, stay; thy son requireth thee. All day the sun, with massive maddening glare, Beats on my weary brow, and tortures me. All day the pitiless sand-blasts gnaw, and wear Deep furrows in my lidless eyes and bare. All day the palms stand up and mock at me, And drop cool shade over the dead bones there And voiceless stones, that crave no canopy. O beautiful Mother, stay; thy son requireth thee. 0 Mother, stay; thy sons heart needeth thee. The Night is kind, and fans me with her sighs, But knoweth not nor feeleth sad for me. Hyenas come, and laugh into mine eyes; The weak bats fret me with their small, shrill cries;

Charles G. D. Roberts Roberts, Charles G. D. Memnon 218-220

218 MEMNON MEMNON. WEARY, forsaken by fair, fickle sleep, A traveler rose and stood outside his tent, That shrouded was in dusky shadows deep By palm-trees cast, that oer it kindly leant. A low moon lingered oer a large extent Of lifeless, shifting sands. Her pallid rays Had kissed the scorch~d waste to sweet content; And now her farewells whispering, still she stays, As loth to leave the land to Phcebus fiery blaze. Slowly she sinks; and faint streaks quietly creep Up from the east into the dusky sky Auroras yellow hair, that up the steep Streams to the rear of night full breezily, Shaken from her flushed fingers, that now dye The under-heavens crimson; now she springs Full-blown before the day, and hastens by With silver-footed speed and yearning wings, To kiss a form of stone that at her coming sings. Thrilled at the sound the traveler starts aside, And sees the image, prostrate, half-enwound With red unstable sand-wreaths, and its wide Forehead, and lips that moved not with their sound Celestial, lined with many a furrowed wound, Deep graven by the gnawing desert blast. Half-buried sphinxes strewed the waste around, And human-headed bulls, now moldering fast, Their impious shapes half gone, their greatness wholly past. Out of this desolation vast and dead, Now glorified and clothed in red and gold, Brightness befitting Egypts Heros bed, A matin to his Goddess Mother rolled From Dawn-kissed lips, that also kissed the mold Of their decaying substance. The sweet psalm Thrilled in the listeners ears, with manifold Cool music mingled of the murmuring palm; And accents large and sad deepened the lifeless calm: 0 Mother, stay; thy son requireth thee. All day the sun, with massive maddening glare, Beats on my weary brow, and tortures me. All day the pitiless sand-blasts gnaw, and wear Deep furrows in my lidless eyes and bare. All day the palms stand up and mock at me, And drop cool shade over the dead bones there And voiceless stones, that crave no canopy. O beautiful Mother, stay; thy son requireth thee. 0 Mother, stay; thy sons heart needeth thee. The Night is kind, and fans me with her sighs, But knoweth not nor feeleth sad for me. Hyenas come, and laugh into mine eyes; The weak bats fret me with their small, shrill cries; MEMNON 219 And toads and lizards crawl in slimy glee. Thou comest, and my torturers dost surprise; And fondlest me with fresh hands, tearfully. O dewy-lipped Mother, stay; tis thy son prayeth thee. 0 Mother, why so quickly wouldst thou flee? Let Echo leave her mountain rocks, and twine My words with triple strength to cling to thee, And clog thy limbs from flight as with strong wine. Let them recall sweet memories of thine, Of how the long-shadowed towers of wind-swept Troy Were dear to thee, and near, whiles thou didst pine For the god-faced Tithonus; and the joy Thou drankst when thou hadst gained the willing kingly boy. 0 Mother, how Scamander chided thee, And swelled his tawny floods with grief for him, And drowned his oozy rushes by the sea! For often have I heard such tales from him, Thou listening, whilst the purple Night did swim Reluctant past, and young Emathion hung Upon thy wealthy bosom. Music, dim In ears not all divine, the nigh stars sung Of thine high origin Hyperions courts among. 0 Mother, what forebodings visited thee From the Laconians ravished bridal bed? What mists of future tears half blinded thee, When Ilions god-built gates, wide open~d, Let in the fatal Spartan woman, wed To Troy in flames, dogs gorged with Trojan slain, And tears of thine, Mother, for thy son dead? Dead! would my soul were with the body,slain, Nor stony-fettered here upon this Theban plain. 0 Mother, what glooms darkened down on thee, And tearful fears made thy scared eye-lids red, When me thou sawest by some gods enmity Madly to meet Pelides fury led, Sparing the aged Nestors childless head, By me made childless. On the Phrygian plain, Between the bright-eyed Greeks and Trojans, bred Warriors, I met the Pthian ash in vain, Which bade my breasts bright wine the trampled stubble stain. Then, Mother, weeping thou to Jove did~t flee, And wring thy fingers, and a suppliant Didst kneel before him, grasping his great knee And awful beard, and clinging like a plant Of ivy to an oak; till he should grant Peculiar honors, not vouchsafed before, To thy sons obsequies. Nor didst thou pant And pray in vain, and kiss his beard all hoar, And large ambrosial locks that veiled the sapphire floor. For, Mother, when the ruddy-bosomed sea Had drunk its fill of fire, and, climbing high, Smoke of my funeral pyre with savory 220 WITH STONE WALL JACKSON Odors of oil and honey riched the sky, Out of the seething flames a cloud did fly Of shrill-voiced birds,like swarms of swarthy bees That move their household gods in young July, And screaming fought and perished, to appease My Manes, and fulfill impelling Joves decrees. 0 mother, bath my song no charm for thee To hamper thee from flight? Thou then didst wait Scarce till the lustral drops were dry for me, And embers parched with dark wine satiate; But wast away through the Hesperean gate To mourn o er waters Atlantean. Now, Thy loose locks trail~d are in golden state Down the far side of yon keen peaks of snow: The brazen sun hath come, and beareth on my brow. Soon will for me the many-spangled Night Rise, and reel round, and tremble toward the verge. Soon will the sacred Ibis her weird flight Wing from the fens where shore and river merge, With long-drawn sobbings of the reed-choked surge. The scant-voiced ghosts, in wavering revelry, For Thebes dead glory gibber a fitful dirge: Would thou wert here, Mother, to bid them flee! 0 Beautiful Mother, hear; thy chained son calleth thee. WITH STONEWALL JACKSON. ATTENTION to orders! It was the evening dress-parade; in an old field beside the Charles City Road, a few miles from Richmond, the bayonets of a Confederate regiment were flashing back the last sunbeams of a midsummer day. But our attention now was something more than mere formality, as the curt tones of the adjutant proclaimed the order consigning us to the command of Stonewall Jackson. The battle of the Seven Days was over. The last curl of the smoke which had rolled down the slopes of Malvern Hill had been borne away and dissipated, and the inevita- ble rain following the conflict had washed the air clean of all taint of its sulphurous burden. There were still to be seen, here and there in the woods, trees recently felled where no ax had been plied, and in the fields there wer& furrows not traced by the plow; there were acresmiles indeedof country, now without a human inhabitant, where the soil was trodden like a highway; about the White House on the Pamunkey, fires were still smoldering among the dcbris of abandoned camps; here and there, in deserted farm-houses, or else in some shady grove of timber near a spring, were field hospitals, in which some of the wounded yet lingered, awaiting transfer through con~- valescence, or the final discharge which death would confer; here and there, too, in out-of-the-way places in the woods, dis- figured by dust and blood, and with faces~ blackened and swollen and distorted out. of all likeness to the Creators~ image,~ prostrate in the underbrush, or standing upright and stark in mud and water as they had met their doom,were forms in gray or blue or brown clothing which betokened that they had been men. In Richmondr the tobacco factories and warehouses were so many hospitals and prisons, and full to overflowing with the citys late defenders or assailants, as the case might be; down the James, about Turkey Island Bend and the Westover plantation, the remnant of one army was striving, under the protecting guns of its iron-clad fleet, to renew its shattered~ organization and impaired rncwale; while between it and the city, another army, in scarcely better plight, was laying to heart

Allen C. Redwood Redwood, Allen C. With Stonewall Jackson 220-233

220 WITH STONE WALL JACKSON Odors of oil and honey riched the sky, Out of the seething flames a cloud did fly Of shrill-voiced birds,like swarms of swarthy bees That move their household gods in young July, And screaming fought and perished, to appease My Manes, and fulfill impelling Joves decrees. 0 mother, bath my song no charm for thee To hamper thee from flight? Thou then didst wait Scarce till the lustral drops were dry for me, And embers parched with dark wine satiate; But wast away through the Hesperean gate To mourn o er waters Atlantean. Now, Thy loose locks trail~d are in golden state Down the far side of yon keen peaks of snow: The brazen sun hath come, and beareth on my brow. Soon will for me the many-spangled Night Rise, and reel round, and tremble toward the verge. Soon will the sacred Ibis her weird flight Wing from the fens where shore and river merge, With long-drawn sobbings of the reed-choked surge. The scant-voiced ghosts, in wavering revelry, For Thebes dead glory gibber a fitful dirge: Would thou wert here, Mother, to bid them flee! 0 Beautiful Mother, hear; thy chained son calleth thee. WITH STONEWALL JACKSON. ATTENTION to orders! It was the evening dress-parade; in an old field beside the Charles City Road, a few miles from Richmond, the bayonets of a Confederate regiment were flashing back the last sunbeams of a midsummer day. But our attention now was something more than mere formality, as the curt tones of the adjutant proclaimed the order consigning us to the command of Stonewall Jackson. The battle of the Seven Days was over. The last curl of the smoke which had rolled down the slopes of Malvern Hill had been borne away and dissipated, and the inevita- ble rain following the conflict had washed the air clean of all taint of its sulphurous burden. There were still to be seen, here and there in the woods, trees recently felled where no ax had been plied, and in the fields there wer& furrows not traced by the plow; there were acresmiles indeedof country, now without a human inhabitant, where the soil was trodden like a highway; about the White House on the Pamunkey, fires were still smoldering among the dcbris of abandoned camps; here and there, in deserted farm-houses, or else in some shady grove of timber near a spring, were field hospitals, in which some of the wounded yet lingered, awaiting transfer through con~- valescence, or the final discharge which death would confer; here and there, too, in out-of-the-way places in the woods, dis- figured by dust and blood, and with faces~ blackened and swollen and distorted out. of all likeness to the Creators~ image,~ prostrate in the underbrush, or standing upright and stark in mud and water as they had met their doom,were forms in gray or blue or brown clothing which betokened that they had been men. In Richmondr the tobacco factories and warehouses were so many hospitals and prisons, and full to overflowing with the citys late defenders or assailants, as the case might be; down the James, about Turkey Island Bend and the Westover plantation, the remnant of one army was striving, under the protecting guns of its iron-clad fleet, to renew its shattered~ organization and impaired rncwale; while between it and the city, another army, in scarcely better plight, was laying to heart WITH STONE WALL JACKSON. 221 Napoleons aphorism After defeat, the saddest thing in war is victory. The opening of the attack which had rolled up McClellans right flank had been intrusted to the raw troops of the newly organized Light Division of A. P. Hill. These brigades, and even many of the regi- ments composing them, had been but a short time associated together, were stran- gers to each other, and to the young major- general, their commander, and thus the interdependence and homogeneity of feel- ingsuch important elements of efficiency in modern warfarewere feeble or altogether wanting in the division. But these soldiers, in whose garments the smell of fire was not yet to be found, were quick to learn the ways of war; the same men, who under the cannonade of the 26th of Junethat ordeal always so trying to new troopshad suffered almost a panic, four days later stormed and captured those death-dealing guns with the steadiness and determination of veterans. Before the battle, they had scarcely known and cared even less to what division of the army they belonged; izow if you asked one of them he would answer, with a perceptible pride in his mien and in his voice, that he was one of Hills Light Bobs. For a while the mere relief from daily hardship and danger had been enjoyment in itself, but by degrees the dull routine of the camp grew more irksome than ever by contrast with the late stirring events; and in recounting the triumphs and glories of the battle, men lost sight of its attendant horrors, or saw them more and more dimly through the veil of retrospection. Dead comrades were buried out of sight, and so gradually they passed out of mind; the more seriously wounded were at home on leave, more to be envied than pitied, while the slightly wounded were returning to duty, physically or morally none the worse for their scratches. And now we were going with Jackson! The very idea seemed to infuse a new spirit into the listless men, as if they felt already the refreshing breezes and tasted the cool springs of the far-off mountains. A month before, in our sultry squalid camps along the Chickahominy, the news had reached us of the brilliant Valley campaign, and in the midst of destitution and depression and doubt, with the enemy at the very gates of the capital, the bulletins of McDowell, Front Royal, Winchester, Cross-Keys, Port Republic, read like a fairy tale: the con- trast with our own tedious inaction lent a charm to the record of these stirring events, while scurvied mouths watered, and stomachs nauseated with eternal ration-bacon fairly yearned for the tents of Israel filled with blockade dainties, and for the teeming wagons of Commissary -General Banks. With feverish interest we devoured the ac- counts of rapid marches, of sudden appear- ances where least expected, which had frus- trated every combination of the enemy and conferred upon the troops of the mount- ain department the anomalous sobriquet of Foot Cavalry. The commander who was thus harvesting laurels almost daily the first crop that season had borne, after long and sorrowful sowing, upon Confeder- ate soilhad been, only a year ago, an obscure, plodding professor of natural phil- osophy at the Virginia Military Institute; remarkable chiefly for certain eccentricities of manner, and something of a butt for the witticisms of the thoughtless young cadets, because of what they regarded as too rigid exactness in his enforcement of the regula- tions. A little later, with the victory of the Southern arms at Manassas, came the story of how Jacksons brigade of Virginians had stood like a sto;ze-wczii against the irrup- tion of the enemy upon our wavering lines, and won for their leader the name which was destined to supersede his sponsorial des- ignation in the ages to come. In the long period of disaster which ensued, he escaped the popular notice. Left with a single division to guard the approaches to the fer- tile region of the Shenandoah, he had held on until the last moment, and when com- pelled, by the general drawing in of the Con- federate frontier, to fall back for his own protection, had retired sullenly and dog- gedly, bringing off all movable stores and munitions of war, tearing up the railroad to save the precious iron as well as to retard the enemys advance, and even transporting the locomotives up the Valley Turnpike by horse-power, while his rear-guard was skir- mishing at every step with the pursuing column, and another force was moving upon his flank through West Virginia to cut off his retreat. Then followed that brilliant series of successes already referred to, which sent a thrill of hope through all the Southern land. Again the enemy had found the inexorable stone-wall in the path of his triumphant advance;a stone-wall for resistance, a catapult for dealing rude blows where an opportunity offered. Milroy, Banks, Fremont, Shields, in succession, at- tested his power of striking hard and 222 WITH STONE WALL JACKSON promptly. The tactics of the young Bona- parte in Italy were recalled to mind, and the comparisons of the two campaigns re- flected no discredit upon the Virginian. As we wondered still at these triumphs, he was again on the move with his face turned eastward, and the roar of his musketry was heard upon our left, swelling the din of that hot afternoon at Gaines Mill, as he drove in the Federal flank and forced McClellan from the ground of that stubborn contest. But the free air of the mountain land liked him best, and he was not to linger long in the lowlands; the enemys shattered forces in Northern Virginia had been reorganized under General Pope, who came from the West where he had been accustomed to see only the backs of his enemies,as he an- nounced in the order by which he assumed command. According to this instrument, the war in that department was to exhibit henceforth a new aspect entirely; the army was admonished to dismiss from its vocabu- lary such terms as lines of retreat and of supply, and to give to its enemies a free monopoly of the same; positions were only to be considered with reference to attacking from them, while General Pope proclaimed that his head-quarters would be in the saddle. At the period with which this chronicle opens, Jackson had already been dispatched to offer remonstrance to these Vatican decrees, and we were to follow on the morrow. It was late in the afternoon before we embarked in the train of cattle-cars and wood-flats and began our rumbling, bump- ing journeythrough the Chickahominy low grounds and past our old picket-post at Meadow Bridges, along the causeway where we had marched at double-quick going into the first days fight; then on through the hours of the night, jostled and cramped, all idea of time or of distance being merged in the sense of present discomfort and the necessity of bearing it, until, chilled to the marrow and but half awake, we stopped, and our objectivity rallied just enough to take in vaguely that we were at Gordons- ville. Some woods close to the track were designated as our camping ground; they were already populous with sleeping men of the other brigades, more than one of whom was rudely awakened by being trod- den upon, as we stumbled among them in the darkfor there were no fires burning. Blankets were soon unrolled and spread, and in a few minutes more we had joined our comrades in the land of Nod. The drum corps and bands of the divis- ion, sounding reveill6 in deafening discord, recalled us to consciousness and our eyes opened upon a scene so different from the monotonous level fields and pine woods of the low country to which they had been accustomed, that we had to rub them again to be sure we were not dreaming. Bold hills shut off the view on every side, and waving fields of ripening corn stretched toward them and up their slopes, while thrifty-looking farm-houses, embowered in trees, relieved the landscape here and there. The dew-drops sparkled in the level rays of the sun, or frosted the tops of the grass when the long, cool shadows fell, and over all was the brilliant, yet pure and tender, sky of a midsummer early morning. Only in the camp and about the d6p6t was there to be seen a vestige of anything betokening war. Here freight trains were moving up and backing down as they discharged a burden little enough like the wares of peace- ful traffic. Ominous-looking square boxes, singularly heavy to handle, needed no marks to denote them ordnance stores to an ex- perienced eye, and certain mess-chests and rolled tents, with other personal effects of the general staff, piled upon the platform, certified the military character of the freight. Little other baggage was to be seen, for the wagon-trains were to follow the troops by country roads, and would not be up for some days yet; the regimental camps were defined only by the stacked muskets upon the color line, the men being grouped about in the intervals, discussing the situation while they awaited further developments. We had yet to learn that in Jacksons corps to stack arms was synonymous with being in camp, and that permission to halt im- plied making oneself comfortable without delay. As it happened, however, Providence, or some other power, befriended our inexperi- ence, and before the morning was far ad- vanced, we were distributed by brigades, in more commodious camping-places, along a woody ridge with slopes open in front to the banks of a small brook. Beyond this the ground rose again, and upon this acclivity, the troops of Ewells division were already in camp. Here began our real initiation into the mode of life which we were hence- forth to pursue. By this time the stock of cooked rations was running low in the haversacks, and details were ordered to re- port for a fresh supply to the brigade com- missary; what it was to consist of and where WITH STONEWALL JACKSON 223 it was to come from, were questions speedily settled by ocular evidence. In the open ground near the stream, was a rail pen in- closing a herd of cattle; thither the details were conducted, and found the subsistence officers of the division already assembled, and having their provision allotted to them on the hoof. It was short work after tbat; the animal selected was driven apart from its fellows, and dispatched by a musket-ball in the forehead; it was skinned, dressed and quartered on the ground, and slung upon a fence-rail between two men, each quarter of the smoking beef was borne to camp. Here, orders had been received to prepare for an immediate movement, and a style of cooking ensued which was of a piece with the rough-and-ready butchery already de- scribed. The new provision was no sooner distributed to the messes than men were busy about the fires preparing it for trans- portation on the march; bayonets, ramrods and sharpened sticks served in lieu of uten- sils, and, impaled upon these, the collops, still warm and quivering, were speedily twisting and sputtering over the fires. The staff of life was represented by a mixture of flour and water made into dough upon the rubber side of a poncho, and baked in the hot ashes, or else upon clean chips propped up on edge before the fire. Both bread and meat were quite innocent of any savor of salt, for there had been no issue of this use- ful condiment, but a little powder from a broken cartridge, rubbed upon the steaks, furnished a tolerable substitute so far as they were concerned, while a small dole of gen- uine coffee and sugarthe first for many weeksseemed an e