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Scribner's magazine. / Volume 3, Note on Digital Production A-B

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Scribner's magazine. / Volume 3, Issue 1 Commentator Scribner's commentator Charles Scribner's Sons New York January, 1888 0003 1
Scribner's magazine. / Volume 3, Issue 1, miscellaneous front pages i-2

2 SCRIBNERS MAGAZINE PUBLISHED NONTHLY WITH ILLUSTRATIONS VOLUME II JANUARY - JUNE j~~o CHARLES SCRIBNERS F.WARNE vC0 SONS NEW YOI~K~ z LONDON - S I CO~Fi L ~ LIBRARV COPYRIGHT, 1888, BY CHARLES SCRIBNERS SoNs. IROWS PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMI-ANV 0 ~) CONTENTS OF SCRIBNERS MAGAZINE. VOLUME III. JANUARY-JUNE 1888. PAGE ALEXANDER POPE. See Pope. ANGLING. See Salmon. ART, ARTiSTS, AND ARTISANS. See Japanese. BALLOT. See Law. BALZAC, A NEW LIGHT ON BEGGARS BUILDING OF A RAILWAY See 1?ailway. CAMPAIGN OF WATERLOO See Waterloo. CARDINAL NEWMAN With two portraits. CENTRE OF THE REPUBLIC, THE Two Papers,. CHAPTER ON DREAMS, A CHILD OF LIGHT, A DAY OF THE CYCLONE, THE DECORATION. See Vases. DREAMS. See Chapter on. ELECTRIC MOTOR AND ITS APPLICATIONS, THE With illustrations. END OF THE BEGINNING, THE, fliustrated by the author and Francis Day. EXPLOSIVES, MODERN With illustrations from drawings and photographs fur- nished by the author. FICTION. See Some Gentlemen in Fiction. FINANCE. See Af~tnicipal. FIRST HARVESTS. CRAPS. I.-XX. (To be continued), FRENCH TRAITSINTELLIGENCE GENTLEMEN EDWARD S. HOLDEN, ROBERT Louis STEVENSON, AUGUSTINE BIRRELL, JAMES BALDWIN, ROBERT Louis STEVENSON, MARGARET CROSBY, OCTAVE TIIANET, FRANKLIN LEONARD POPE, 70 380 735 408, 58~ 122 551 350 306 82 563 GEORGE A. HIBBARD, ChARLES E. MUNROR, Chemist U. S. Torpedo Corps. F. J. STIMSON, 20, 151, 362, 490, 618, 717 W. C. BROWNELL 94 ROBERT Louis STEVENSON, . . 635 (See also Some Gentlemen in Fiction.) CONTENTS. GIBRALTAR With a frontispiece, A Street in Gibraltar, from a drawing by F. C. Jones, engraved by Hoskin; and with illustrations by J. D. Woodward, Harry Fenn, F. C. Jones, R. Eichelberger, Harold Warren, and B. J. Meeker. GREAT PYRAMID. See Pyramid. GREEK VASE. See Vase. HAPPY ACCIDENT, A With illustrations by W. L. Taylor. HOSPITAL LIFE With illustrations from drawings by J. Alden Weir, W. L. Taylor, Francis Jones, Charles Broughton, and Francis Day. HUNT, LEIGH. See Shelf of Old Books. INTELLIGENCE. See French Traits. JAPANESE ART, ARTISTS, AND ARTISANS, With illustrations from drawings by a Japanese artist. LALOR ABBOO SINGH LANTERN-BEARERS, THE LAST OF THE GHOSTS, THE, . . With illustrations by W. P. Bodfish and others. LAW AND THE BALLOT, THE LEIGH HUNT. See Shelf of Old Books. LONDON LIFE, A. In Four Parts. Part First, MAN AT ARMS, THE. In Two Parts With a frontispiece, Disposition of one Side of a Tourney Field, engraved by Robert Hoskin from a drawing by Edwin Howland Blashfield, and with other illustrations by E. H. Blashfield. MENDELSSOHNS LETTERS TO MOSCHELES FROM THE MANUSCRIPTS IN THE POSSESSION OF FE- LIX MOSCRELES. in Two Parts With a frontispiece, Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, engraved by G. Kruell; and with other portraits, mu- sical scores, and reproductions of drawings by Men- delssohn. MODERN EXPLOSIVES. See Explosives. MOSCHELES. See ffendelssohns Letters. MOTOR. See Electric. MUNICIPAL FINANCE NATURAL SELECTIONA ROMANCE OF CHELSEA VILLAGE AND EAST HAMPTON TOWN. In Three Parts, SOPHIE RADFORD DE MEISSNER, . 461 A. B. WAnD WILLIAM ELLIOT GRIFFIS, GEORGE H. JESSOP,. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, BARRETT WENDELL, JOSEPH B. BISHOP, HENRY JAMES E. H. BLASHFIELD and E. W. BLASHFIELD, WILLIAM F. APTHORP, . . 131, 33i CLAYTON C. HALL, H. C. BUNNER,. . . 64, 181, 321 NEWMAN. See Cardinal Newman. 697 105 745 251 227 194 671 3, 161 33 NIXIE, THE POPE, ALEXANDER (See under Poetry Dialogue to the Memory of Mr. Pope.) With a frontispiece, Alexander Pope, from a portrait by Kneller, 1716; engraved by J. Smith, 1717 [iEtat. 28], and with portraits and other illustrations reproduced from contemporary prints col- lected by the author. MRS. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, . 277 AUSTIN DOBSoN 533 iv HENRY M. FIELD, PAGE 446 CONTENTS. PULVIS ET UMBRA PYRAMID, THE GREAT With illustrations from photographs by the author, and from drawings by J. D. Woodward. RAILWAY, THE BUILDING OF A With a frontispiece, The Last SpanReady to Join, from a drawing by A. B. Frost; and with illustrations from drawings by Walter Shirlaw, J. D. Woodward, Francis Day, A. M. Turner, Meeker, Sand, and others, and from photographs and prints furnished by the au- thor. Engravings by Heiuemann, Bodenstab, Hoskin, Jules Clement, and others. REPUBLIC. See Centre. SALMON ANGLING ON THE RESTIGOUCHE, Illustrated by A. B. Frost. SAND-PILE, THE STORY OF A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS, A,LEIGH HUNT, fliustrated with drawings, portraits, and fac-similes. SOME GENTLEMEN lN FICTION STEAMERS TRACK, IN THE With illustrations by M. J. Burns and W. F. Halsall. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, EDWARD L. WILsoN, THOMAS CURTIS CLARKE, G. STANLEY HALL, MRS. JAMES T. FIELDS,. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, WILLIAM PERRY NORTHRUP,. PAGE 509 41 643 577 690 285 .i64 515 STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS. See Chapter on Dreams, Lantern-Bearers, Beggars, Iiulvis et Umbra, Gentlemen, Some Gentlemen in Fiction. TOWN OF THE HOLY CHILDREN, THE,. VASES, THE DECORATION OF With illustrations by Sidney L. Smith, Harold Warren, and others. VASE, THE GREEK With illustrations, by Sidney L. Smith ~nd others, from vases owned by Mr. T. B. Clarke and others, and in the Englefield Collection. VOLCANOES With illustrations by J. D. Woodward, Julian Rix, 0. H. Bacher, Frank Day, and C. S. Robinson. WATERLOO, THE CAMPAIGN OF. In Two Parts,. With a frontispiece, Bhicher Unhorsed at Ligny, drawn by R. F. Zogbaum, engraved by Peckwell; and with other illustrations by R. F. Zogbaum, W. T. Smedley, C. Durand Chapman, H. C. Edwards, Mar- garet Landers, E. J. Meeker, and others. Also with reproductions of old prints, and a map furnished by the author. WHAT THE WILL EFFECTS WHERE SHALL WE SPEND OUR SUMMER?. With two charts furnished by the author. THOMAS A. JANVIER, WILLIAM P. P. LONGFELLOW, WILLIAM P. P. LONGFELLOW,. N. S. SEALER,. JOHN C. ROPES, 434 602 419 201 259, 387 WILLIAM JAMES 240 A. W. GREELY 481 Chief Signal Officer. V CONTENTS. POETRY. AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES, . With an illustration by H. Siddons Mowbray. ARRAIGNMENT ASHOAKE, AT EVENING BALLADE OF THE KINGS WAY, BiTTER SWEET OF SPRING, THE, CHRISTMAS EVEGERMANY, COMFORTER, THE COMRADESHIP CORYDONA PASTORAL DESPONDENCY DIALOGUE TO THE MEMORY OF DREAM, A EPHEMERON EVENING FANTASY, AN, HILL PATH, THE LIFE DISCROWNED LOVES WAYS MORNING IN VENICE ANDREW LANG, HELEN GRAY CONE, THOMAS NELSON PAGE, GRAHAM R. TOMSON, ANDREW HUSSEY ALLEN EDITH M. THOMAS, RENNELL RODD, JULIA C. R. DOHE, JAMES HERBERT MORSE, THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH MR. POPE, A, A. LAMPMAN, AUSTIN DOBSON, ELLEN BURROUGHS,. MRS. JAMES T. FIELDS,. WILLIAM A. LEAHY, DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT, E. CAVAZZA HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT, BESSIE GRAY, PAGE 93 617 . 360 . 107 . 150 531 40 71G . 634 . 688 . 732 545 44E1 160 744 532 121 180 . 600 With a full-page illustration by F. Hopkinson Smith. OF LOVE AND DEATH OUR LEADER, POET, THE SHADOW CHASER, THE SIR LAUNCELOT, STAR TO ITS LIGHT, THE STORM AND CALM THE SNOWING OF THE PINES, . TORCH-RACE, THE Illustration from a drawiug by H. Siddons Mowbray; engraved by Frank French. TOWARD SPRING TRAGEDY, THE,SONG, TWO SONNETSTO-DAYTO-NIGHT, UPON A WINTER MORNING, WHITE EDITH YELLOW ELMS, THE, MAYBURY FLEMING C. P. CRANCH, CHARLES EDWIN MARKHAM, HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT, L. FRANK TOOKER GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP, C. P. CRANCH THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSoN,. HELEN GRAY CONE, 588 81 433 696 488 330 733 EDITH M. THOMAS 480 CHARLES EDWIN MARKHAM, 37~ GRAHAM R. TOMSON, . 508 MAYBURY FLEMING 250 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH, 32 BESSIE CHANDLER 277 vi ) DISPOSITION OF ONE SIDE OF A TOURNEY FIELD.

E. H. Blashfield Blashfield, E. H. E. W. Blashfield Blashfield, E. W. The Man At Arms 3-19

SCRIBNERS MAGAZINE. JANIJALRY, 1888. THE MAN AT ARMS. By E. H. Blashfield and F. W. Blashfield. I. Bacon from the Palace of the Podesta at Piatoja. IN the earlier middle ages every man was his own soldier; our ancestors, and every untousured man of the time, could and did strike with lance, sword, or club according to their degree. There was no functionary paid to kill and to defendleaving the civil- ian to litigation and arbitration for the settlement of private quarrel; but sword and shield hung at hand for the outgoer, who, though he had little news from the outside world, could generalize from ex- perience that, once over his threshold, there was peril and chance of blows. The dark centuries which followed the fall of Rome were lightened only by the flash of weapons. The ship of the Church, indeed, made its way over troubled waters to the civilization of the bar- barian; but in the agitated sea which gradually beat Europe into the shapes of mediawal geography every wave- crest was tipped with steel. He who would use the keys of Peter had to wield the sword of Paul; and it was often the argument of the white steel that en- forced the worship of the white Christ. Undoubtedly there were brains within the helmet now and then, and behind the walls of the city there was evolution of law and order in consiglio, witenage- mote, and parliament, till the mediatval peoples became nations; but powerful as were Church and State, they called in the sword to cut the Gordian knot; and if we would know the man of the early times we must know him under helmet and shield. It is thus that we must see the m~akers of Europe in their prentice garb, butchers maybe, but they carved provinces and kingdoms. We can find them from the princes of the Holy Roman Empire to the hosiers of Ghent. Popes rode fully armed, bishops in initred hel- mets fell fighting; patriots like Moutfort at Evesharnpoets like Dante at Cam- paldinoartists like Michael Angelo, all classes of men knew the life of the camp. Thus the development of armor becomes a long portrait-gallery of the heroes of history and romance. The armors of antiquity, the elegance of the Greek, the severity of the Ro- man, the richness of Egyptian and As- Copyright, 1887, by Charles Scribners Sons. All rights reserved. VOL. III. iNo. 1. THE MAN AT ARMS. syrian harness, would require a separate article. The purpose of this paper is to treat of the man at arms from Charle- magne to the disuse of armor.* The ear- lier time may, for convenience, be divided into the epochs of Charlemagne, of the I., cArmor of 800. Time of Charlemagne. ~Plates riveted on leather coat; tunic, pleated leather; steel casque; leather crest; leather hood, rimmed with steel; breeches and straps round leg of leather; mantle of wool; shoes, leather.) bArmor of 950. Time of Hugh Capet. (Trellised coat and hood casque, steel; breeches, gloves, shoes, leather.) N. B. In most eases shields will not he specified, as all in the series are of wood covered with painted leather, and generally shod with metal. conquest of England, and of the crusades. The one hundred years war between France and England followed, with the changes from chain-mail harness to the perfected armor of plate. Then came the period of the Reformation and wars of religion, during which the use of gun- powder first modified and eventually did away with armor, its last expression be- ing found in the New England forests as a protection against the imperfect weapons of the savage. Through all this we can trace the gradual extinction * The term armor is used here and throughout this paper in a general and popular sense. It can only be cor- rectly applied to the war-harness composed entirely of l)latcs. that is, of pieces of forged iron or steel fastened or riveted together; technically, therefore, it should not be used in describing any equipment earlier than that of the fifteenth century. The chain mail of early times and the mixture of plates and chain mail worn during the four- teenth century were known only as harness. of feudalism and heavy cavalry, the rise of infantry and of the commons. From the ninth to the fourteenth cen- tury the warrior was a horseman, like his ancestors who had ridden over the Ural and out of the German forests. Infantry, the strength of the Roman, is useful only when acting as a disciplined unit; and the rush and weight of the horse over- matched the undisciplined mediatval foot- soldier. In the armors of the eighth century antique memories were strong, memories of kilted legionaries on cello- taphs in Gallo-Roman cemeteries, of laminated thorax and the head-piece with jugulars, and though the sword had grown longer (for the riders of tall horses~ struck with long blades to reach their enemies), the knights of Charlemagne, the Rolands and Olivers and Ganelons as we see them in the famous chessmen of St. Denis, seem like clumsy souvenirs of Pharsalia or Philippi (I., a).t When the grandson of the mayor of the Merovingian palace came back from Rome Carolus Magnus and Em- peror of the West, he brought with him the tradition of the Roman in armor and weapons; and the harness of those iron- clad (fer vedtu) soldiers whom the monk of St. Gall saw from the walls of Pavia advancing like a river of steel through the rich Lombard plain was modelled on that of the cohorts of Trajan. This R6man influence, based on tradi- tion, soon declined in the dismemberment of the empire which followed, as the bat- tered imperial crown was trundled over the battle-field from German to Frank, and back again. In the chaos of the iron century only one figure stood out clearlythat of the Norseman, the sea- wolf in his painted snaker, and, above the clash of weapons, the saga. was heard. These ships of Rolf the Gauger, or Canute the Dane, or any other land thief and sea thief from over the swans bath, heathen pirate and typical hero of the time, brought nothing Roman 1 Most of the illustrations to this paper are based upun the unique collection of military manikins in the Paris Museum of Artillery, made by Coloi~el Leclero, and con- tinued by colonel Robert. Others are from specimens in European collections from manuscripts and old prints. The letters a, b, C, etc., refer to the armed figures as counted from left to right in each illustration and wher- ever a distinct historical name is given in the caption the original armor from which the drawing was made has been reconstructed after the seal, tombal effigy, portrait, or actual armor of the person named. 4 THE MAN AT ARMS. with them. Before this new and living force from the North, southern tradition vanished, and the knights who followed Otho the Great and Hugh Capet to bat- tle (IL, b) no longer suggested the Ro- man legionary. The bulls hide that cov- ered the old Goths again took the place of the Roman plates, and became the trellised or latticed coat of leather, crossed with a checker of thongs stud- ded with iron rivets. Rude as was their armor, these knights saw the dawn of chivalry, established its code and cere- monial, and laid the foundations of the stronghold of feudalism which has not yet crumbled away. After these founders of feudalism came the knights, who (II., a) so en- larged its field in the eleventh century by conquests in the South and West of 5 Europe. Like their predecessors, they wore the leather coat, but in H., b, it is covered with metal ringssewn upon it, and touching at their circumferences, not interlaced as afterward in chain mail. The shield, made, like all the oth- ers in the series, of wood covered with painted leather and shod with iron or brass, was almond - shaped, concave, gay with decorative figures, and covered nearly the whole man. The sword was broad, straight, and with a simple cross- hilt. With the end of the eleventh century, wild time as it was, there were glimpses of an on-coming civilization. The monk in the North and the burgher in the South began to teach the knight some love of beauty; great cathedrals rose in Italy, abbeys in the North, where Matilda with cArmor of 1200. (Complete snit of mail with hood.) II. a.Armor of 1066. Time of William the Conqueror. (Coat and breeches one piece, sewn with metal rings: flap at breast to admit the wearer; casque steel, gilded and ainted; shoes and gloves, leather; legs, sheep.skin with leather straps.) bArmor of 1130. Figure of Geoffrey Plantagenet. (Hanherk or mail shirt; casqne, painted steel; shield, boss gilded iron; xvristlets, red loather; leather shoes, shod with on; hood, cloth on loather; tnnic, wool.) 6 THE MAN AT ARMS. her ladies worked the precious Bayeux tapestry that shows us, in ship, in battle, and in camp, those rough pioneers of civilization, blood-letters in the diseased frame that was to become healthy through struggle. The work even of the needle was rude then, and, had we only the tapestry, we should hardly distinguish trellis from rings, or armor from saddle-cloth. But many manu- scripts of the time have been preserved, and in the carefully wrought Goliaths and Maccabees and Herods of the illu- minators we can see, to-day, the men who rode at Stannford Brigg, and de- fended the Dragon standard at Hast- ings; Walthorf Siwardsson, the thief of slaughter, in whose veins, according to the Norse legend, ran the blood of the Fairy Bear, holding the gate of York with his single axe against a Norman army; Haro]d Hardraade and his com- rades; Yarangian guards of the Emper- or of Constanti- nople, whose hand- writing we find to- day on the flanks of the Greek lion in the Arsenal at Venice; or Har olds earlier coun- trymen landing from their snakers on the coast of that Vineland of the chronicles, which has afforded pict- uresque conject- ure about the mill at Newport. Here, too, we may find one of the twelve ~ - - sons of Hauteville, III Armor of 1346 who went, all but one, from their Norman farm to win eleven kingly or ducal crowns in Italy; or see William the Conqueror, and note the fastenings that he ripped away in tearing off his casque at Hastings, and riding bareheaded that his men might see him alive and un- wounded. In the same harness fought Hereward, the last of the English, hero of Richard of Elys chronicle and Kings- leys fine romance. But Herewards en- chanted shirt was not of plates or rings, sewn upon leather like those common to his time; it was the coat of linked mail which Torfridas ancestor won from the heathen emir at Montmajour. Many an enchanted armor, honestly accredited in song and chronicle of the early mid- dle ages, was undoubtedly, like Here- wards, simply the product of the cun- ning Eastern smiths who made Damas- cus and Toledo famous for just such blades as Herewards Brain-biter, and the strangely inscribed little axe which the mad Martin Lightfoot caressed and loved. Linked mail was used in a rough form quite early in the North. An eleventh cen- tury MS. mentions a lorica wholly of metal and without tissue, and Anna Coin- nena, daughter of Alexis, Emperor of Constantinople, states, in her memoirs of the early twelfth century, that the coat of chain mail was unknown in Byzantium, and worn only by the knights of the North of Europe. It was perfected after the second crusade, and the long han- berk may be seen upon (II., b) Geof- frey Plantagenet, son-in-law of Henry I and ancestor of a line of English kings. His shield, with its great gilded boss, is the largest in the series, his baldric and shield-strap are rich with precious stones, and from his neck hangs the oh- faunt, or carved ivory horn, a distinctive sign of nobility. Geoffrey is a type of the stately.long-gowned knights, fighting only from the saddle, who entered Jeru- salem with Godfrey, founded kingdoms in the Holy Land, built classic temples into their castles of the Greek mainland, and became lords of the isles in the Med- iterranean. In this cumbrous harness fought the crusaders Bohemond, Tan- cred, the Count of Paris, and the rude bedizened knights whom Anna Comne- na saw in her fathers palace. In it we may see Henry I. of England, statesman and lawgiver, and Frederick Barbarossa, marching down into Italy to punish the rebellious free cities, revenging himself upon razed Milan, until, a little later, at Legnano the soldiers of the Lombard League, Milanese of the Cohort of Death, captured from the same Frederick just such a huge shield as Geoffrey wears in the picture, and drove back the C~esar tributeless across the Alps again. In this costume, too, the knights of the Arthurian and Carlovingian cycles, the IV., aArmor of 1295 to 1312. From the Seal of Hugh of Chatillon, (Broigne; steel winglete at shoulders; stool plates at tibia and upper arm; helmet with visor screwed on, surmounted y ~arlands and lambrequin.) bArmor of 11 90. From Seal of Count of Mootmorenci. (Chain hauberk and hose; great steel helmet and battle-axe.) 8 THE MAN AT ARMS. Arthurs and Percivals, the Rolands and reflected in Thames water by Runny- Turpins, rode through mens minds and medethe helmets borne by esquires fancies; for in the twelfth century the for the barons who had come, not to poets began to sing of themthe poets fight, but to see Magna Charta signed. who, one and all,were knights and nobles. This huge iron-pot helmet, already Like the sculptor of the figures of Roland used in the third crusade, was an admi- and Oliver at the door-way of the Vero- rable defence; and, with modifications, nese church, they clothed their heroes lasted into the fifteenth century. But in the armor they saw in the etual life it was very heavy, was put on only at about them. Bards, trouv~tres, and mm- the moment of charging, and many nesingers wore the harness they delight knights preferred to fight with the light- in describing, and studied the codes of er open head-piece, or the Montauban the famous courts of love; so Roland, hat (III.). Among the English it is fre- dying at Roncesvaux, in the famous quently found with only a nose-piece in- song, wound his olifaunt and tendered stead of the usual visor. Underneath it his glove to God like a feudal vassal, the linked hood was wadded with a cir- and Galahad and Lancelot were learned clet, to keep the helmet firm and save in the knightly etiquette of the twelfth the head from pressure. Such hoods (II., century. c) are on the heads of the knights who, In IV., b, we have the costume of the with crossed feet and joined palms, lie in third and fourth crusades. With it we effigy in the Temple Church of London. may arm Richard of England or Philip And this complete suit of linked mail was Augustus of France; it may serve for a distinctive of the crusades. Chain mail protected from cuts and from arrows, but a blow upon the links either broke the bones or caus- ed crushing bruises, harder to heal than ac- tual gashes, and necessitat- ed a wadded undergarment, the gambeson. Its weight, too, was very great, so that a plate of metal or leather was worn under it on the breast to relieve the A Foot-soldier of the Time of Poitiers. lungs from the pressure, and knight at the gentle and joyous pas- many preferred the trellised or ringed sage of arms at Ashby, or the armor coats which are to be found contempora- which Isaac of York furnished to Ivan- neously with chain mail. Nevertheless hoe. Men so arme manned the walls of the latter, as a complete defence, sub- Front-de-Bceufs castle, and wore the sisted throughout the crusades, and ap- coats of Spanish proof of Bois Guilbert pears upon (VI., c) a knight of the time and Dc Bracywork, again, of Eastern of St. Louis, who wears, over a hauberk artificers in the forges of Spain. Han- shorter than the preceding ones, a tunic berks and helmets of this fashion were as a protection against the effect of the V 0.Armor of 1415. Prince Charles of Orleans. (Complete armor of plates, except linked hood to bassinet; shoes, d Ia posslaine.) bArmor of 1 370. The Dasphin afterward Charles V, 10 THE MAN AT ARMS. VI. aArmor of 1356. (Coat, interlaced leather thongs; shoulder, elbow, and upper-arm pieces, steel; greaves and knee-pieces, leather over- laying steel; gauntlets an shoes, articulated steel; head-piece, a bassinet; skirt, woollen.) bArmor of 1 357. Stephen Marcel. (Montauban hat; cuirass, a bri,,andine of steel plates under leather; shoes, leg, and arm pieces, leather studded with nails; gloves, knee, elbow, and shoulder pieces, steel; apron, steel.) cArmor of 1 226. (Chain-mail suit; woollen tunic; steel helmet, gilded.) sun upon the steel, and whose helmet is richly gilded and painted. In the development of medimyal ar- mor we may consider that the first phase embraced the times of the Carlovingians and early Capet kings in France,the Othos and Henrys ~n Germany, when the principal defence consisted of leather or quilted linen with small plates, round lozenges, or rings of metal sewn upon it. The second phase, that of interlaced chain mail, with hauberk or long shirt, mit- tens, and chain hose laced behind the legs, may for convenience be said to ter inmate with St. Louis and the last cru- sade. The head-coverings of these two phases were respectively the ovoidal or conical casque with nose-piece, and the great helmet worn over the linked hood. Every age is more or less transitional, and already, in St. Louiss time, the bar- ons were not decided as to what was the best armor. There were broignes among the hauberks, and men asked each other whether kni0hts who had been disabled by a blow on knee or elbow might not have escaped by better defence of those delicate bones. If a steel cap protected the THE MAN AT ARMS. 11 hin brain-case, why should not caps of metal cover elbow and knee-pan, and the armorers of Paris and Milan, adopting them, soon added straight plates of steel or hardened leather at shoulders, upper arm, and tibia (IV., a). The knight wears the broigne, a garment in which the rings of steel were strung upon cords of silk sewn upon leather. And he has the ai- lettes or winglets, rectangles of metal protections for the shoulder against a mace- or axe-blow upon the links, and used even earlier than the elbow-cap. Armor was becoming heavy and com- plicated. Even a half-century earlier, the condition of the crusader must have been pitiable. Covered with tunic and undertunic, with wadded gambeson and mail hauberk blazing in the sun of Syria or Egypt, with the suffocating pot of iron on his head, it is a wonder that he ac- complished as much as he did. In IV., a, armor was more cumbrous still. Equilibrium in the saddle became of vital importance; once on the ground the turtle was upon its back, and unless the tide of battle rolled away, so that he could be set on his legs again by esquire and varlets, the knight was a prisoner or a dead man. Sword, mace, and dagger, and even his helmet, were fastened to him, and he was such a ta - gle of chains and veil and scabbard an shield-straps, that only constant practice could have enabled him to fight at all. No wonder he often fell victim to the poorly armed footmen, who, hooking their halberds into his armor, pulled this mass of iron to the ground. The knights of that time seem at once ludi- crous and terrible, but their appearance was useful as a terror to rebellious peas- ants. It was the heyday of blazous and grotesque monsters; and it took but a few men at arms, with their enormous dragon- or lion-crested helmets, to rout a hundred boors. The brilliant thirteenth century was drawing to a close, and ush- ering in an ominous time, in which these strange~armors were seen against a back- ground of flame in North and South. Philip the Fair, who rode in such a suit of steel up the nave of Notre Dame to the high altar, was burning the Templars upon the island of the city ; the towns of the Al- bigenses were going up in fire and smoke; the Italy of that time, where Guelphs d Ghibellines were fight- n~g fiercely, is still seen by us in the lurid pictures of Dantes Inferno. We may watch the famous com- batants in the battle of Campaldino,-C o r s o Do- nati sitting in his saddle at the head of the reserve, wit- nessing the repulse of his comrades, commanded un- der pain of death not to stir without orders, at last disregarding everything, charging, and winning the day. We may see, too, his enemy in mitred helmet, the brave, short - sighted Bishop of Arezzo, hear him asking, What white wall is that before me, and being answered, The Florentine bucklers. And with one of those white bucklers well up against his left shoulder, his lance down, his eager face uncovered, (for the Italians wore the heavy helmet less often than did. the French and German knights), 12 THE MAN AT ARMS. we may see Dante himself charging in in which the infantry-man emerged, and the front rank of the Feditori, and hay- the commons laid upon public affairs an ing at first much fear and afterward evertightening grasp. The infantry-man very great delight in the occurrences of was first seen upon the plains of Flan- the battle. ders and in the mountains of Scotland; At Campaldino there was a foreshad- and the lesson taught by William Wal- owing of the importance of infantry, in lace to Edward I. was put in practice the heavily armed footmen arranged in by the latters grandson at Cressy and crescent-shaped order, and carrying Poitiers. At Cressy the English nobles long lances. In Italy dismounted, and supported the best the burgher already A archers in Europe, taken from a yeo- fought as well as the manry practised in games and the chase. noble, and in the con- The French nobles, ignorant of the stant battles use of their infantry and disdainful of of the street, it, broke themselves upon the enemy; b e t w e e n at Poitiers and Agincourt tbey copied high houses the lesson, but, having learned it and behind ill, were again beaten. It was a chain barn- time of transition, when some cades,horses wore mail and some leath were of little er, always combined with use, and the plates, which between footmen had Cressy and Agincourt ample opportunity were developed into to learn to fight. the full armor. Indeed, the day of Leather, toughened the commons was al- by boiling and studded most come. The knights of the thir- with iron nails, teenth and fourteenth centuries were was much used the expression of a time when the gen- in the four- tieman was cavalier only, disdaining to t e cut h cen- fight save with his equal, pre- tury in com- bination with plates and chain, and was even worn over the plates, as in VI., a, where parts of the body are covered only by ihe hardened leather while in other parts the latter overlays the The Equipment of a Lance. steel. The small head ferring to be beaten rather than see his piece worn under the great helmet has own footmen obtain the prestige of a sue- here received articulated plates at the cess; and in their huge helmets, topped neck instead of the linked hood, and is with every emblembirds, beasts, fishes, gradually approaching to the bassinet, skulls, and garlandsthey stood upon having a visor opening in two pieces the threshold of a new order of things from left to right, on hinges. VIIJousting Knight 1450. The Constable de Richemont. 14 THE MAN AT ARMS. Leather, again, almost composes the armor of VI., b, which might stand for Stephen Marcel, the famous Provost of Merchants of Paris, who, after the dis- aster of Poitiers, armed the burgesses for among the flashing figures of the knights the burgesses had begun to ap- pear, with their principles of economy and their laws of trade, and among the towers and castles there arose town-halls of French and Flemish cities, and bel- fries of Binges and Ghent. The chivalry disdained these commons, even to the extent of galloping away from them in some pitched fieldsfor the hosiers of Ghent and the weavers of Arras rode armed cap-a-pie. Why should not the profits of loom and cutting-board buy their masters as good shells in Milan or in Paris as could be had by the lord for tax-moneys? And the burgesses not only had the sinews of war, they per- fected certain engines neglected by the fashionable armorers, and with them brought down, at three hundred yards or more, horse and knight together, to the inexpressible contempt, grief, and shame of the latter. In V., b, the brilliant armor of the Dauphin, afterward Charles V., we have the type of the three hundred gentle- men who charged up the fatal lane at Poitiersto-day we see its tarnished, tattered likeness hanging above the tomb of the Black Prince in Canterbury Cathedral. Here is no more of the long gown, that ~parement which we have seen upon Etienne Marcel, and a step upon which in battle, Froissart tells us, cost the famous John Chandos his life. The Dauphin, his blazoned sleeve- less surcoat laced tightly over the eni- rass, is in trim for foot-fighting, and wears at the hips the jewelled girdle of knighthood, sometimes worth a whole manor, and a fine prize for the captor. Change the blazon, and we may put many a paladin into this armor. We may go with the boy Dugueselin, riding incognito to the lists and unhorsing every champion except his own father; we may see Doria standing on his deck, or against a background of the flashing oars of Venice and Genoa we may follow Vittore Pisani, carried in triumph from his prison to his ship. Rienzi may ha- rangue us in full harness at the capitol. The Scaligers upon the pinnacles of their Veronese tombs may come to life, or English Hawkwood may ride before us, captain of the Florentine Republic and first modem tactician. In any consideration of armors the tilting harness must not be overlooked. In the early centuries the knight re- garded himself as the only real soldier, considering all the others as our su- perfluous lackeys and our peasants, who in unnecessary action swarm about our squares of battle. The management of his horse and of his heavy armor re- quired special training, and this he found in the tilt-yard and at the tourneys. There his address could be exhibited under the eyes of ladies, honorable prizes could be won, and action and excitement found in time of peace. Until the fourteenth century the same arms were used at the tourney and in the field, but after that those of the for- mer became special. The tourney was a combat of equal numbers, having a complicated and splendid ceremonial, too elaborate to be followed in this paper. It embraced a pompous entry into the place where the tourney was held, a se- lection of judges, a vast showing of bla- zons and banners at the lodgings of the knights, banquets and speeches, hurry- ings to and fro of heralds, an inspection by the ladies of the knights arms, hung for that purpose in a hall, and such eti- quette and punctilio as delighted the soul of the meticulous King Rena of Provence, whose courts of love and hon- or were typical. The tourneying knights (IX.) wore armors which were heav- ier in front than behind, and bassinets with open-grated visors, on which rested the great tourney helms with their strange devices. They fought with courteous arms, that is to say, not outrageously weighty, the swords hav- ing no point and being too wide in the blade to enter the openings of the visor. The heaviest and most complete horse-ar- mors were found at tonrneyschamfron, crinet, or neck-guard, poitrel for the breast, crupper-pieces, flanchards, and occasionally in Germany even leg-pieces were used. A double board-fence sur- rounded the lists, and between the fences stood men armed with poles, and ready to assist dismounted knights from TI-IF MAN AT ARMS. 15 the held. On one side tribunes were erected, one for the judges and two for the ladies. A double cord stretched across the lists separated the parties, who faced each other, each knight with his mounted standard-bearer be- hind him. Four mounted axemen stood ready to cut the cords. As the trumpets blew the cords fell, the banner-bearers retired, and the fight began (see Frontis- piece). The joust was a single combat with the lance. A low barrier running longitudinally to the charge separated the knights, and prevented the shock of the horses. The tilting (VII.) armor was enor- mously heavy in front and light behind. The huge helmet, forged in two pieces, was riveted to the cuirass, and in order to see his opponent, even as far down as the waist, the knight had to bend for- ward his whole body from the hips up. VIIIArmor of 1440 Best Epoch. 16 THE MAN AT ARMS. In VII. the gauntlet is in one piece with the left arm-guard. A target covered with ivory plates hangs before the left shoulder. The high saddle almost covers the lower part of the body, and the knight has become a mere projectile, everything about the armor being arranged to give weight and force to his shock and to re- sist that of the enemys lance. He wears the crest of the Constable of Richemont, a veiled womans head, with high hat of er- mine, a pair of horns, and a stuffed ermine surmounting all. He has rowel spurs, the rowel having come in with the thirteenth century; spurs up to that time being of the simple, pointed kind, at first straight, then gently curved. In charging, the knight stood in the stirrups and rested his body slightly upon the top of the back of the saddle. If the aim was good on both sides the lances splintered, or else the horses were thrown upon their haunches, the riders being some- times lifted bodily out of the saddle. Sometimes, as in Kings- leys Hereward, all four, horses and men, found themselves sit- ting upon the ground in a row among the fragments of the lances. The jousting helm of VII. was often exchanged in the fifteenth century for the heavy tilting salade, with its chin-piece screwed to the cuirass (p. 11). The helm e t was sometimes ~ carried away, and great care was used in fastening it, but ~ accidents happened, and in 1559 a splinter from the lance of the Count of Mont- gomeri, entering the narrow sight of the visor of Henry II., put an end at once to the kings life and to jousting in France, and on the continent. Between 1400 and 1450 plate armor at- tained perfection,and became a triumph of scientific and artistic workmanship. The heavy helmet, knee- and elbow-caps, and straight pieces of iron on arms and legs, did very well for a horseman, but once on foot the knights neck had to be protected from arrows without his freedom of action being impaired, and the plates had to be suited to every movement of the body. Cressy, Poitiers, and Agincourt were the real school of the armorers, and the talk of the camp after each battle afforded hints for the fending off of this or that upward or downward blow, and taught how the lance might be made to glance or the axes to turn. Here the horses had been stopped by the sharpened IX.Tourneying Knight 1450. The Duc dAibret. THE MAN AT ARMS. 17 stakes planted in the ground, and the dismounted riders, too stiffly and heav- ily armed from the waist up, had fall- en victims; or there the English light horse had charged them on their flank, or attacked them in the rear, and the French armorers had to supply back-plates and thigh-pieces to meet the new emer- gency. They studied the shells of cray- fish just as the costumers cut their scallops upon every sort of contempo- raneous garment. Systems of plates cunningly articulated played upon each other at the jdints. The rounds at the armpit, which could be dislodged by a blow and where mortal wounds were most common, were replaced by admi- ably contrived shoulder-pieces; the bas- sinet and salade, distinctive head-dresses of the one hundred years war, were im- proved, the linked hood of the former being replaced by plates, the latter re- ceiving a chin-piece screwed to the cui- rass, which was in two pieces before and two behind, articulated at the sides to admit the play of the hips. In VIII. the salade has developed into the armet, the best expression of the head-piece. V., a, shows one of the actors in the latter half of the one hundred years warknights and footmen. Such ar- mors as V., a,* mounted to the breach of Harfleur with Henry V., or held the tired knights of Agincourt; such an ar- mor, though bigger in the pansiare, haunted the sutlers tents and encased Falstaff; such covered the condottieri Braccio and Sforza, famous tacticians in the bloodless wars of the fifteenth centuryItalian despots ; ~ and in such a harness rode the most attractive of armed figures in history, the bare- headed, dark-haired girl, all in white steel, carrying her banner to the walls of Orleans. The soldiers who followed Jeanne dArc to battle were a motley army. The whole people rose to wield old partizans and every other weapon that chance or inheritance threw in their way,for the English were upon all the roads of France, and the danger pressed. * The linked hood under the bassinet seen in V., a, was sometimes replaced by the more perfect defence of an ar- ticulated steel collar, as in VI., a. t In such guise fought La Hire, whose prayer, Sire God, do for La Hire what La Hire would do for you were he God and you a captain-at-arms, is as famous as his exploits. VOL. 1112 The armorers could hardly furnish the regular troops, so the peasants and small country-gentlemen took the weapon from the hand of the dead English ruttier, or unhooked from the wall the mail shirt of the ,thirteenth century forerunner, rubbed into bright- ness the rusty dints of Cressy, fastened together the break in the links that had been made at Bouvines, and went to battle as they might. Practical science went hand in hand with enthusiasm, the citizens forged better cannon each year, and the national uprising tri- umphed even over the aristocratic mad- ness of the nobles and the weakness of the king. Charles VII., profiting by the wisdom of the English, ordered the peasantry to practise with the long- bow. They soon became so expert that the nobles, fearing these serfs, persuaded the king to forbid such future exercise. In the corselets of these noble tyrants, who feared to have the peasants protect their own country, can we not see mirrored lit- tle prophetic pictures of the French IRevo- lution? The finest armors were made from 1440 to 1460 (VIII.). They were marvels of suppleness, lightness, and elegance, the iron shell was modelled on the body be- neath it, and followed ev ery movement X,Arquebusier. of the torso and limbs, protecting without confining them ; the steel envelope had become in- dividual, and was, like hose and jerkin, made for its wearer, instead of the clumsy greaves of the fourteenth century made to fit any man. In these leg-pieces, care- fully articulated at the thigh and above the knee, personal peculiarities appear legs slightly bowed. and more or less heavily muscled at the calf; in the flexi 18 THE MAN AT ARMS. ble corselet the body enjoyed compara- tive freedom ; under the armet or round helmet the head turned easily; the pointed toes of the sollerets could be unfastened in a moment if the knight was obliged to dismount; the gaunt- lets were as supple as silk gloves, and the weight of the whole armor, com- posed of very thin plates of well-tem- pered steel, was so carefully distrib- uted that it appeared comparatively light. This armor, moulded on the forms of the body beneath it, composed of polished steel, was the white har- ness so often mentioned by the chron- iclers. In France it was worn without ornament, but the Italians decorated it with lions heads and antique masks; a little later the armorers of Nuremberg, then very popular in France, introduced fluted steelit was stronger, not heav- ier, and offered more resistance to lance- thrusts than the smooth metal. Many beautiful specimens remaiu of this Maximilian armor, as it was called. No further progress was possible; comparative lightness, resistance, con- venience, and elegance of form had been attained. After this time the shape of helmet and corselet was varied accord- ing to individual caprice or the latest fashion, and the steel was gilded and ornamented; but armor, having at- tained its complete development, stead- ily declined. With slight changes we might fit the fine armor (VIII.) to any one of a host of fighting mento Scanderbeg, so terrible to the Turks that after his death his enemies the janizaries dug up his bones for amulets ; to Victor Hugos Captain Phoebus at the head of his archers, and to the knights of those in- terminable fifteenth century romances who galloped through Don Quixotes brain; channel it with flutings, and it will do for that darling of the Germans, the golden-haired Maximilian the Mon- cyless; stain it with red reflections from Moorish massacres and Torquemadas autos-da-f6 and it will serve Ferdi- nand the Catholic; dint and batter it, dim it with rust, and patch the visor, and Sancho may buckle it onto the noblest knight of romancefor Don Quixote, it must be remembered, wore his great-grandfathers armor. If we take this same armor, enlarge the arm- guards, decorate it with antique mo- tives, and replace the armet by a late form of the old barbuta that left the face uncovered, we have a harness for the heroes of that Italian fairy-land, the Orlando Innamorato, or, better still, we may find its likeness on the statue of Colleone, that glorifies the little square in Venice, or in the portraits of the bakers boy and hireling soldier, Gatta- melata, who was twice blessed, in being modelled by Donatello and painted by Giorgione. No armor was so dear to the Italian painters. Overlaid with fan- tastic ornament or half-hidden nuder floating tunic, it was the panoply of the archangel Michael, of the mailed St. George, of the beautiful young war- rior saints, Martin and Theodore and Liberale, and of the shining celestial host. By the middle of the fifteenth cen- tury the armorers had perfected their work, and the result was briefly this: The knight seeking to make himself all- powerful practically ceased to exist. Not all at once, of course, and he was naturally the last to learn that nobody needed him any longer. In the earlier centuries, at Hastings, Bouvines, and in the Holy Land, the knights, clad in mail, heavy but supple, could wheel and ma- nceuvre. They dashed upon the ene- my in small bodies, circled about till the weak place was found, then rode in upon it. Thus cavalry did brilliant serviceto attack was its natural prov- ince; in receiving it lost the advantage of impetus. The knight did not see so far. He said to himself, If I am so terrible in chain mail, what shall I not be in the better defence of plate? and, full of confidence in his improved armor, he was ready to ride down all that op- posed him. But the armorer was un- consciously at variance with the tacti- cian. The knight had lost his essential qualities, speed and activity -- down went the horses before the arrows, down went the human projectiles, half-stunned by the fall, obstacles for others to fall over, to be shelled in turn like lobsters by the daggers of the varlets. So went Cressy; at Poitiers the brave, slow- learning French nobles dismounted, as OUR LEADER. 19 if merely being on two legs instead of four had made the English win, and in their heavy armors they were worse off than ever. After Agincourt they mount- ed again, but charged more intelligently and effectively in squadrons, often in a hall-square, the angle toward the front. But between 1440 and 1500 the steel had been made so enormously heavy, to resist bullets, that weight struck a death- blow at armor, which was, however, still nearly two hundred years in dying. The shock of the squadron was terrible and decisive if successful, but it depended on so many chances and required such favorable ground that the charge of the heavily armed nobles was a supreme ex- pedient, and at the end of the fifteenth century was rarely risked. This mass of iron once started could hardly be stopped or turned; a morass threw it into disorder, an unexpected hollow might destroy it, as the sunken road at Waterloo buried the French cuirassiers; and the light cavalry, falling upon its flank or rear, invariably had the better of it. Cannon contributed to this change. By 1450 the simplest complete armor for horse and man cost about two thou- sand dollars of our money, a large sum for a single soldier. One shot might ruin all this, and knights, brave with their lives, hesitated to risk a property so valuable and so hard to replace. Thus the nobles retired to the rear of battle, and in the pay of the fifteenth century princes, half- armed light cavalry appeared, doing real service, but requiring time to obtain any prestige. The knights did not learn their lesson, but went on making armor heavier, to resist the effects of powder. They had a momentary success at For- novo, but at Marignano and Ravenna the Swiss and Spanish infantry handled them roughly, while Pavia proved their in- efficiency to all. It seemed to them terrible that such a knight as Bayard should have his back broken by a pinch of powder and a shot from a common soldier; but the change had to come. We find the buff boot on the gentlemen who charged at Ivry, and, in spite of Louis XIII., armor in his reign degen- erated into a gala costume. OUR LEADER. By C. P. Cranch. TOILING amid the fruitless desert-sand And rugged rocks of theologic lore, A doubtful view behind us and before Yet hoping still to reach the promised land Of truth, which might inspire us and command The souls allegiance, and so more and more Fill, warm, and penetrate its inmost core We heard at last your voice. We seemed to stand Upon a mountains brow. A new light shone. While some recoiled and feared to break the bond Of childhoods faith, our prospect opened free, Until we cried aloud, The seathe sea! As when the joyous Greeks with Xenophon Marched down to the Euxine shores and Trebizond.

C. P. Cranch Cranch, C. P. Our Leader 19-20

OUR LEADER. 19 if merely being on two legs instead of four had made the English win, and in their heavy armors they were worse off than ever. After Agincourt they mount- ed again, but charged more intelligently and effectively in squadrons, often in a hall-square, the angle toward the front. But between 1440 and 1500 the steel had been made so enormously heavy, to resist bullets, that weight struck a death- blow at armor, which was, however, still nearly two hundred years in dying. The shock of the squadron was terrible and decisive if successful, but it depended on so many chances and required such favorable ground that the charge of the heavily armed nobles was a supreme ex- pedient, and at the end of the fifteenth century was rarely risked. This mass of iron once started could hardly be stopped or turned; a morass threw it into disorder, an unexpected hollow might destroy it, as the sunken road at Waterloo buried the French cuirassiers; and the light cavalry, falling upon its flank or rear, invariably had the better of it. Cannon contributed to this change. By 1450 the simplest complete armor for horse and man cost about two thou- sand dollars of our money, a large sum for a single soldier. One shot might ruin all this, and knights, brave with their lives, hesitated to risk a property so valuable and so hard to replace. Thus the nobles retired to the rear of battle, and in the pay of the fifteenth century princes, half- armed light cavalry appeared, doing real service, but requiring time to obtain any prestige. The knights did not learn their lesson, but went on making armor heavier, to resist the effects of powder. They had a momentary success at For- novo, but at Marignano and Ravenna the Swiss and Spanish infantry handled them roughly, while Pavia proved their in- efficiency to all. It seemed to them terrible that such a knight as Bayard should have his back broken by a pinch of powder and a shot from a common soldier; but the change had to come. We find the buff boot on the gentlemen who charged at Ivry, and, in spite of Louis XIII., armor in his reign degen- erated into a gala costume. OUR LEADER. By C. P. Cranch. TOILING amid the fruitless desert-sand And rugged rocks of theologic lore, A doubtful view behind us and before Yet hoping still to reach the promised land Of truth, which might inspire us and command The souls allegiance, and so more and more Fill, warm, and penetrate its inmost core We heard at last your voice. We seemed to stand Upon a mountains brow. A new light shone. While some recoiled and feared to break the bond Of childhoods faith, our prospect opened free, Until we cried aloud, The seathe sea! As when the joyous Greeks with Xenophon Marched down to the Euxine shores and Trebizond. FIRST HARVESTS. By F. J. Stimson. CHAPTER I. THE SILAS STANBUCK OIL COMPANY. N the northeast cor- ner of Fifth Ave- nue and Thirty- second Street, just where the long rise of the avenue begins, and van- ishes in higher perspective like the stage of a theatre, its long slope always dotted with a multitude of yel- low carriages, cabs, and dark-green pri- vate broughams, there stands a large brown - stone house of irreproachable respectability. The steps in front of the door are also of brown-stone; and the columns on either side terminate in the hollow globes of iron, painted green, common to a thousand other houses in New York. Upon the first floor above the basement are three win- dows and a door; in the second story are four windows, one above the door; and in the third, four others again. The windows are all of the same size; but those of the second and third stories are plain, while the lowest have above them an oval design with flowery, curved or- naments. What the original designer of these windows sought to express in them is not clear; but subsequent build- ers, not seeing the need of expressing anything in window-caps, but supposing some adornment proper in that place, have copied them without deviation, much as a lady ties a bow-knot on her lapdogs tail. Yet, such as it is, this square brown box contains a flower of American civili- zation. No one would perhaps think that it, standing unadorned and unnote- worthy on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Thirty-second Street, was so rare a possession, or contained in itself so much; that this square box, valued solely be- cause of its proximity to other similar square boxes, represented the American social apotheosis-the pure spheres of perfect democratic joy, the acme, in this republic, of terrestrial success. Yet of the fact there can be no question. That little vertebral ridge named Fifth Avenue, with its one or two similar ridges, its few timid excursions and vent- urings in by-streets to the east and west, represents the flower and the crown of things; only those there live who can command at least wealth or power at will; neither blood nor brains nor breeding can maintain themselves upon that vantage-coigri unaided and alone. So have we seen some bed of oysters, planted at just the proper level of the shoal, look down with superiority and scorn upon those below, cumbered with the sea-weed, and those above, left awash at low spring tides. Merely to own this house, and not to live in it; to own it only as some miser owns a picture or a rare gem, for the pleasure of posses- sionwould cost, in interest and taxes, the labor of some score of able-bodied men each year. To live in it, with ser- vants trained to feudal manners and address, with the necessary wines and equipage and flowers and feathers that attend so rare a gem, would cost the earnings of an army. Has the fortunate possessor of the house such an army at his call? Surely; else how could he keep it? We shall see them shortly. And what of the inside of the house ?is it suited to the high position of the inmates? Softly, my good madam; a stranger can hardly know how difficult it is to gain access to this mansion, and how exclu- sive is the set which Mrs. Gower leads. For the pedestrians on the pavement look up to No. 2002 with an air of respect. Few of them but know the house as Mrs. Levison Gowers. And even the pedes- trians on the pavement, in this select spot, are of a picked and chosen class. Many of them are young girls, robed for this winter (it is the fashion) in trailing gowns of deep-blue velvet; many more are young men, carrying their arms bow-leggedly, as it were, as if not satisfied with the

F. J. Stimson Stimson, F. J. First Harvests 20-32

FIRST HARVESTS. By F. J. Stimson. CHAPTER I. THE SILAS STANBUCK OIL COMPANY. N the northeast cor- ner of Fifth Ave- nue and Thirty- second Street, just where the long rise of the avenue begins, and van- ishes in higher perspective like the stage of a theatre, its long slope always dotted with a multitude of yel- low carriages, cabs, and dark-green pri- vate broughams, there stands a large brown - stone house of irreproachable respectability. The steps in front of the door are also of brown-stone; and the columns on either side terminate in the hollow globes of iron, painted green, common to a thousand other houses in New York. Upon the first floor above the basement are three win- dows and a door; in the second story are four windows, one above the door; and in the third, four others again. The windows are all of the same size; but those of the second and third stories are plain, while the lowest have above them an oval design with flowery, curved or- naments. What the original designer of these windows sought to express in them is not clear; but subsequent build- ers, not seeing the need of expressing anything in window-caps, but supposing some adornment proper in that place, have copied them without deviation, much as a lady ties a bow-knot on her lapdogs tail. Yet, such as it is, this square brown box contains a flower of American civili- zation. No one would perhaps think that it, standing unadorned and unnote- worthy on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Thirty-second Street, was so rare a possession, or contained in itself so much; that this square box, valued solely be- cause of its proximity to other similar square boxes, represented the American social apotheosis-the pure spheres of perfect democratic joy, the acme, in this republic, of terrestrial success. Yet of the fact there can be no question. That little vertebral ridge named Fifth Avenue, with its one or two similar ridges, its few timid excursions and vent- urings in by-streets to the east and west, represents the flower and the crown of things; only those there live who can command at least wealth or power at will; neither blood nor brains nor breeding can maintain themselves upon that vantage-coigri unaided and alone. So have we seen some bed of oysters, planted at just the proper level of the shoal, look down with superiority and scorn upon those below, cumbered with the sea-weed, and those above, left awash at low spring tides. Merely to own this house, and not to live in it; to own it only as some miser owns a picture or a rare gem, for the pleasure of posses- sionwould cost, in interest and taxes, the labor of some score of able-bodied men each year. To live in it, with ser- vants trained to feudal manners and address, with the necessary wines and equipage and flowers and feathers that attend so rare a gem, would cost the earnings of an army. Has the fortunate possessor of the house such an army at his call? Surely; else how could he keep it? We shall see them shortly. And what of the inside of the house ?is it suited to the high position of the inmates? Softly, my good madam; a stranger can hardly know how difficult it is to gain access to this mansion, and how exclu- sive is the set which Mrs. Gower leads. For the pedestrians on the pavement look up to No. 2002 with an air of respect. Few of them but know the house as Mrs. Levison Gowers. And even the pedes- trians on the pavement, in this select spot, are of a picked and chosen class. Many of them are young girls, robed for this winter (it is the fashion) in trailing gowns of deep-blue velvet; many more are young men, carrying their arms bow-leggedly, as it were, as if not satisfied with the FIRST HARVESTS. 21 natural stiffness of their starch and buck- ram, but adding the conscious poise of art, to make you note that they are dressed, not clothed alone. And not one of them that passes but knows and values at its due the house in which you take so little interest. This is the respectable quarter; and the great, ugly house stands inso- lently, as of social position assured. But our great city is too great, too human, to show us much of this. Like most fecund mothers, like nature herself, her luxuriance is somewhat slatternly, her exuberance has burst its stays. Here and there our manners, our conventions, trim a hedge or two; but everywhere the forests, and even at our feet, the weeds, grow wild. Fifth Avenue, and its short purlicus, is the home of society; but elsewhere in the island of Manhattan humanity lives, unkempt, full of sap that great humanity which has made Mrs. Gower, and which she so studiously avoids. For she lives in society; and perhaps has never thought that it is on humanity she lives. Let us walk from her great house down the side street in search of it. For a block or two the houses will stand shoulder to shoulder like a well- drilled rank, well kept, well swept, and uniformed in the same non-committal, smug, respectable brown-stone, a very broadcloth of building. Then the houses begin to grow narrower, with thinner walls, though still they keep their facing on the street. Soon you pass stables, city stables; their stale, sour odor, puffing from the rarely opened windows, is very different from the sweet, healthy smells of a country farm-yard. Now the street is lined with long, low, blank-windowed warehouses, built cheaply of brick and studded with star-shaped iron clamps; you wonder what may be their use, for the windows, even when not curtained with blue paper, are impenetrable and do not avow their vocation; nor, usually, is there any sign, though the ugly walls are covered with advertisements of patent medicines, powders for making bread, powders for washing clothes, powders for feeding children, Giant Destroyers of moths, and the like. But soon this limbo is passed, and you come to the populated districts of humanity. Here the windows are no longer blank; the houses overflow with children; stout mothers sit nursing them in the door-ways, and gossip with their neighbors in the second story across the way; things in general are used too much, to keep their varnish from the shop. I am afraid Mrs. Gower would call it squalor. The retail shops do a driving business in the avenue around the corner; on the curb, under a ragged locust-tree, is a canvas shed for horses, too busy to take their feed respectably in a stable; the brick police-station is the only building having pretension to respectability. An ice-cream vender sells his wares openly on the street, in front of a hospitable barbersthe processes of human life are open and avowed; great iron gas-retorts are seen above the roofs of the houses. There is a row of huge smelting-furnaces, with straight lines of stunted willow- trees shading them; and the air is full of the crash of hammered iron. The pedestrians on the sidewalks walk with the same bent arms as on Fifth Avenue; but the arms are bent with labor, and the hands are half clenched, with the curl of being but just released from some accustomed tool. Piles of Spanish-cedar logs on the street denote our approach to the wharves; and now the river, fretted with the traffic of a continent, lies before us. But our businessMrs. Gowers busi- nesslies not among the wharves, but across the river and beyond. If the wind lies in the east, you may set your nose toward it and sniff the airis there not already a faint smell perceptible, a smell other than that of the salt water, a smell artificial and complex? As we cross the river it increases. We thread our way among the tug-boats, the scows, the flat-ended ferry-boats and other land- lubber craft; passing all the great steam- ers of the lower town, and the lumber- wharves and water-gardens of the upper, and you may see ahead of you a series of long wharves, jutting far out into the stream. Behind them are many acres of long, low buildings, platforms, piles of barrels, and many huge and lofty towers of plated iron; the wharves themselves surrounded with attendant shipsfine ships, three-masted, with the natural beauty and symmetry that comes from adaptation to the free winds of heaven, 22 FIRST HARVESTS. and not to steam and mans contrivance. There are no steam-boats at the wharves, and you will wonder why; but, by this time, the rich and unctuous smell from the wharves proceeding will demand your whole attention. You will perhaps read the long sign, painted in letters, as it were, life-size, displayed in long procession athwart the wharfs end, in square, plain, proper characters of black on white THE 51LA5 5TARBUCK OIL COMPANY but the reading will be superfluous; for the pleasureless, painless perception of the eye but feebly supplements the pungent, will-arousing sensation of the other sense. It is the old battle of the idea and the will; and the will, as always, wins. And all the world is smelL Many things grow clear to us as the smell grows stronger. While we mildly wonder that a sense so little cultivated in a~sthetics can bring so strong a pain, we also perceive the reason for the ab- sence of steamers; for petroleum is a dangerous blessing, fond of fire, and it takes fire to make water do its work a lazy element, much like the human soul. Is there a perfume called mule fleurs? A thousand odors woo our preference as we land among the great ships; but there is a certain agreeableness in some of them, as we get used to the worst and begin to discriminate. We can even understand the workmen growing fond of them, as they tell us that they do; that they are also conducive to long life seems more doubtful. All over the oil- yards are smells; as many in variety as the colors of aniline dye, from the first rather pleasant smell, like a cellar full of cider, barrels of cider with the bung- holes open, to the more fetid varieties. Many places have the sickening, capitive odor of ether, from the volatile surface- naphtha; this, being dangerous, has a peculiar fascination of its own. For naphtha is light, volatile, inflammable, impulsive, the aristocrat of oils; and its odor intoxicates. But comewe must not dally with this naphtha, this cr~me de la cr~me of the upper crustcome to the receiving-tanks upon the hill. There is a lesson in the making of oil, as in most things. I make no doubt Mr. Frederic Harrison would find the process quite of a piece with the evolution of the soul. Here you see the crude oil as it came from its native earth, in the pipe-lines from the wells; it looks like greenish molasses, and smells of the devil. Natural depravity, we must suppose. But see it in the tail-house; or, rather, let us first look at the stills, those broad, black towers, under which the fire rages, like those in the city of Dis. Here is the burning and the broiling that throws off the grosser atoms from the pure oil of light; first, alas! first of all, our pleasant naph- tha, our cream of oils; a short hour or two is enough for that, and it is gone. Here you see it, through the glass cover to the iron trough in the tail-house, the first run of all. What a strange liquid, as it breaks and dances in its flowlight, shining, mobile, broken into sharp facets and flashes like cut glass; a spirit, not an oiL Flossie Starbuck used to fancy this was the water of the streams of hell. A great poet had had the same idea before, which is surely to the credit of Flossies imagination; for she knew nothing of great poets, as a child. This tail-house, or receiving-house, was a favorite haunt of hers, on half- holidays when her father would take her to the works, for a treat. It was pleas- ant, on a warm day, to stand at the window of the iron blower-house and watch the great fan whirl its four hun- dred revolutions in a minute, and feel the rush of cool air in through the open windows; but it was more interesting to sit in the tail-house and admire the runs of oilthe quick naphtha, dry and shining, with its etherous, heady fragrance, and then the duller, yellower oils, under which the flow of mixed water went in globules of a dirty blue. Flor- ence could have told you as well as any workman when the naphtha-run had passed and it was time to turn the oil into the tanks, and whether it were Standard, Regular, or Water-Whitethe same discrimination that now she exer- cises upon humanity. Then, when the black, pitchy residuum began to show, she would get the superintendent to talk to her of the aniline, and of the lovely FIRST HARVESTS. 23 colors which the nasty, black stuff would make; and how the foul-smelling paraf- flue was made into chewing-gum for young misses. Flossie never used chew- ing-gum; but later in life, when stand- ing before Transatlantic Titians, it had come over her with a pang that she had once admired aniline dyes; cards of which, magentas, sea-greens, mauves, the superintendent used to give to her, and she to place upon her buirean. Have you hael enough of oil? There is no beauty, you say, not much of truth, and many bad smells. One moment; before we turn away let us glance into the spraying-house. This was always Flossies bortne-bouche, and it shall be ours. The spraying-tank is another great, round iron tower, rusted and dingy like the rest; but insidehave you seen the Alhambra? When Flossie first went into the Court of the Lions, passing in through the low gate in the ugly brick tower, to the green pool and the plashing foun- tain, and the sunlight streaming in from above upon the snowy columns of rosy marble and the rainbow-hued arabes- ques of those fairy vistas, the grouped columns changing, as she walked, like clusters of fair women holding converse in a gardenher first thought was of this. A fathom deep the oil lies in the central pool; and as we come in from the dark passage the spraying-fountain bursts upon us like a vision of glory. The great room would be dark, for there are no windows, but that an iron slide, high up above, is drawn back a quadrant of the circle of the wall; and through this a mighty shaft of sunlight pours downward into the whirl of golden spray. Here is the fountain of gold of the Ara- bian Nights. Cool and still lies the oil in the amber pool, clear as some golden air; while above, the fountain whirls it in a million golden beads, spraying into spray as fine as water, falling a golden rain, but silent, without a splash, into the liquid rest of the basin, where it, fine as water, foams. Thence it is ever drawn back again, and forced through the fountain in the sun, until all commoner atoms are lost and the pure oil is sprayed to test. And the yellow drops run in steady curves and arches light as any lintel of the Moor- ish palace, and chase each other with a merry music till they fall in the amber pool; and there the full sun shines fair upon its surface in a gorgeous purple, green, and iridescent sheen. And so pure and beautiful the oil lies when the fountain is still, so clear, with the steam- pipes in the bottom keeping it warm lest it should grow cloudy! Here Flossie would sit and dream for hours, before she waked to the world and its real joys, watching the oil as it was sprayed to test. And how do they know when it is pure enough to stand the test? The process is simple. An electric spark is applied, at the various degrees of heat, until the oil takes fire and flashes in the pan. Temptation is the test of all things in this world. Yet many a fortune has been made in this place; and chief among them was, and still is, the fortune of Mr. Silas Starbuck, late of New York City, now of parts unknown, refiner of whale and sperm oils, deceased in 1872; half the income of which fortune, the corpus being vested in three testamentary trus- tees of prominence in the Presbyterian Church, and immense wealth of their own, is annually paid by said trustees (after deducting all necessary expenses of repairs, insurance, taxes, care and management of the property, their own commissions, and an annuity of $1,000 each to the American Bible Society and the Board of Foreign Missions) to the only daughter of the said testatorFlor- ence, now wife of T. Levison Gower, Esq., whose elegant residence at No. 2002 Fifth Avenue we have already admired. The question, how a man made his fortune, has in our days not only a com- mercial but a psychological interest. So- ciety has never had any objection to the sale by gentlefolk of themselves ; but it is only of late years that it has permitted them the sale of anything else. You could formerly predicate with much cer- tainty that a gentleman who had money had either inherited it or married it; now the problem has become more complex. Society to-day graciously permits a man to make money; it is even not over-criti- cal as to the means; and we may almost look forward to the time when a man 24 FIRST HARVESTS. who has gone down-town to make it will be able to go up-town and spend it him- self, and not vicariously, by his grand- children. This was not quite the ease, however, when Silas Starbuck was alive; and this fact had a very important bear- ing on Mrs. Gowers life. Old Starbuck, as you know, made his money, not only by the refinement of oil, but also by selling his oil when refineda fact society could hardly overlook. Si Starbuck was generally thought the weakest, as he was the youngest, of the four sons of old Captain Starbuck, who commanded for many years the brig Loan, and then the ship Fair Helen, both clearing from Old Town in the island of Marthas Vineyard. Thad- dens, Obed, and Seth were all older brothers, who lived and grew to be cap- tains in their day. Si was a lazy fellow in his youth, and unadventurous; he usually kept snug to the ship, and if he ever went aloft willingly, it was to get the five-dollar reward that the owners paid the man who first discovered a blow. Si was quick enough. at seeing things, and was much cuffed by his brothersperhaps more for this one ex- cellence than for his many shortcomings. Silas commonly had to act as cook and general swabber-out; all the same, he managed to keep a sound skin to his body, and had more time for reading than the rest. At home, when the Star- buck family got together about the fire with the older men, emeriti, who stayed at home and swapped stories, Silas was the cynical listener to their yarns of risk of life and capital Even when they told the history of the great three-thousand- barrel sperm take of 38, from Fairhaven, his eyes glistened more over the balance- sheet than at the stories of their doings in the Pacific when the whales were killed. So, naturally enough, when Si- las got his time, he left the ship and drifted over to the continent, going first to New Bedford, where he began refin- ing the materials which his brothers found. The event justified his sagacity. None of his brothers made fortunes; Thaddeus was killed by a blackfish in the Northern Pacific, and Seth died of the scurvy in Hudsons Bay. When Silas began to be really successful in New York, he kept up little intercourse with his brothers. Mrs. Gower does not re- member them at all ; so, at all events, she tries to think, though she had one great scare. In 64, just as she was beginning to think of her coming out in society, her uncle Obed, then a hale, grizzled old fellow of sixty winters (most of which were Arctic ones), made himself very prominent by resisting a Confeder- ate cruiser with harpoons and a couple of bomb-lance guns. This was a terri- ble event for pretty Miss Flossie, as it got into all the papers, making quite a hero of poor old uncle Obed; and sev- eral of her fathers friends had no more savoir faire than to speak of the old whaleman as her fathers brother at a dinner-party. However, uncle Obed never troubled them in New York; and shortly after her marriage (to which he had been invited by cards accidentally mailed only two days before the wed- ding) he died, to her inexpressible re- lief; whether childless or not, she never troubled herself to inquire. Now, how- ever, Mrs. Gower speaks with much pride of her brave old seafaring ances- tors. Thus it came about that all the virtue of the race, as well as all their wealth, is now vested in Mrs. Gower and her brother, Howland Starbuck. The wealth has but gilded the wings on which she soared; her virtues were her own. CHAPTER II. FLO55IE STARBUCK ASPIREs. THERE was a time when Mrs. Gower was not fashionable. It is necessary, for our purpose, to go back to these dark ages. Her maidenhood was passed in unobtrusive splendor behind a frown- ing brown-stone front on a cross street only two doors from Fifth Avenue. This house was one of a thousand; nine hundred and ninety-nine other New York houses were just like it. Here old Silas Starbuck for his twenty last years, led an even life, torpid in his undigested gold. Here Miss Florence pressed her girlish nose against the win- dow-pane to stare at the opposite houses and wonder who the inmates were, and FIRST HARVESTS. 25 whether their lives were like to hers; or she strained her large eyes sideways to reach the perspective of morning ash- barrels, reaching in either direction to the avenue beyond. She did not then even know that brown-stone fronts were expensive, when she looked and specu- lated so wearily upon them. A little later she began to speculate upon the people in them, and wonder more particularly about them, as she saw them, when coming from church, meet each other on the avenue and bow. No one ever bowed to them; though sometimes an oldish man would stop and speak to her father. It was at this time that it occurred to her to read books; and she became romantic, and would dream, after the manner of dem- ocratic maidens, of some courtly suitor, some young prince, who would fall in love with her, and give her rare old fam- ily jewels and take her to court balls. This era lasted but a short time with Florence Starbuck, for she was very clever and sensible, even as a girl She soon learned to fix her ambitions on pos- sible things. And, indeed, she had no envy for the impossible. She soon learned to covet only those goods which her neighbors possessed, according to our practical version of the command- ment, that thou shalt not hanker after the ideal. There was a certain clumsy accord of motive between old Starbuck and his daughter, but he was far from appreciating her refinement of desire, or fancying what high things went on in his daughters pretty head when the weekly Home paper dropped from her idle hands, and she sat knitting her virginal white brow for longing of the world. He had really only known him- self to be rich a short time; and the brown fa9ade which kept him from the fashionable street still seemed to him the acme of earthly ambition, as the printed list of charitable benefactors did of heavenly. Wealth had come very suddeuly when it did come; and he felt it hard that his wife, of whom he had been fond in a certain way, had not lived to enjoy it. He had married her in old New Bedford days; and she had died, shortly after Florences birth, in the New York house. Mrs. Gower often thought, with something like a shudder, of what she might have been, had her mother lived. Mrs. Gower, like most of us, had thoughts that she admitted to others, thoughts she admitted to her- self, and thoughts she admitted to no one, not even herself; and this was one of the last. IDo not think her hard- hearted; she is, with all her faults, one of the best-hearted people in the world, for one so clever. Satisfy her ambition, and she is good-nature itself; and she hates to do an ill-natured thing, even to her enemies. Florence, by the way, was a name she owed to the mercy of her mother; old Starbuck would have called her Nancy, as he had called her brother, Silas. Fortunately, in his case, Mrs. Starbuck got in the Howland from a maternal grandfather; and he is now S. Howland Starbuck, Esq., in the adver- tisements of companiesMr. Howland Starbuck on his card. Of course Flossie went to a fashion- able school on Fifth Avenue, where she chose her friends judiciously, and it was at this time that she began to read books. She derived much profit from books, and has always owed much to them; even now she reads a little, as an old habit not quite outgrown. I dont know what it was fired her maid- enly ambition; Lucille~~ had not been written then, nor Ouldas works, but I doubt there was something sim- ilar. And it was certainly books that gave her her first inkling of a beau monde. She used to be very generous among the girls, her schoolmates, but never sought to take the lead among them, and was only known as a rather nice little thing from Eighteenth Street. She never even tried to make their broth- ers acquaintance, which was duly as- cribed on their part to her proper sense of the fitness of things. The brothers were more interested in her. Once she was asked to spend a weeks vacation with Miss Brevier; but she never in- vited any of her school friends to her own house. If she had not been so clever, she might almost have become popular. As you see, Flossie learned much at school; but she took away more, and most of all she had carried thither with her. In her maiden meditation, Miss Star- buck gave much and serious thought to 26 FIRST HARVESTS. what could be done with her father and brother. Silas, Jr., was a big, large- boned fellow with a heavy jaw; thick as to legs and head; in whom the family traits came out with peculiar coarse- ness, much as when you raise a mullein in a garden. The effect of wealth had been to produce him with greater lux- uriance and less pruning, in more size and even coarser fibre. However false may be this analogy, there is no doubt that his brave old uncle, who had strug- gled with famine and the setting ice in Arctic seas, belonged to a much finer type of manhood. Fortunately, as Miss Flossie reflected, there were no ethics in the question. Fashion asks no awk- ward questions. Style, in the year 1868, in New York, of all the cardinal virtues, was perhaps the easiest to attain. They had the moneyif she could screw it out of Mr. Starbuck. There, however, came the first diffi- culty. Not that Mr. Starbuck did not fully sympathize with her aims, so far as he understood them; but it was difficult to make him understand them all. She soared in higher circles. For, remember, Flossie, like most New Eng- land girls, had a natural refinement of her own. And she was very pretty retite in figure, then, with a most deli- cious little face, a face with a thousand lights and no definite expression. Her eyes thoughher eyes were expressive; there was an archness, a directness, and a certain dewy softness. Flossie soon learned that she must be careful of her eyes, and only use them on grcat occa- sions. It was one of her many studies, out of school, how to make them look demure; particularly before older wom- enolder women, stout in figure, who would set their heads back on their comfortable shoulders and gaze at her, through double eye-glasses, with the liberty of age.At such times Flossie used to drop a sort of curtain over those eyes of hers and look straight before her. She was secretly afraid of these older ladies; and this helped her, for she really became embarrassed. But to return to Mr. Starbuck. He was willing to live in an expensive street, and even to keep a costly car- riage, in an expensive stable, with a cobble-stone court-yard, at eight dollars the cobble-stone, and put his name in three figures on subscription-papers; but there his liberality stopped. This was all very well; and Flossie used the carriage to go to Stewarts and shop, and, on rainy Sabbaths, for the church. But old Starbuck, who spent the income of a hundred thousand in fa9ade, would have thought himself a Sardanapalus if seventy-five cents a day had gone for a pint of claret. Frequently they even dined without soup; and all wines, in old Starbucks mind, were grouped un- der the generic name of Rum. Mr. Star- buck had no a~sthetic objection to rum rather the contrarybut he thought it not respectable, and kept his tastes in that direction as a private sin. On days when the minister dined with them a decanter of pale sherry was brought outa species of rum sanctified, as it were, by church use, and not expensive. Mr. Starbucks evenings were devoted to slippers and snores. Certainly, no poor girl had ever more unpromising mate- rial to work on. Flossie felt that, at best, her father could be little more than a base of supplies; she could never use him for attack. Improbable as it might seem, Miss Starbuck decided that her social salva- tion rested with her unlikely brother Silas. The discovery of the possible use of so clumsy an instrument, at her age, must be reckoned a master-stroke. An awkward schoolboy, he had met cer- tain other youths whom Flossie felt she would like to know; with some of them had gone skating or played games in the streets. Flossie encouraged her father to give him plenty of pocket- money; he was only a year older than she, and she might be expected par- tially to fill her mothers place. It was to her that he owed his horse and buggy; this was before the days of dog- carts. Sometimes he would bring his friends home in the evening; she would discourage their coming to dinner, but would throw her influence with his to favor anything that could be reason- ably accorded at other times; and Flossie would excuse it to her father when they stayed a little late, or would shut the doors between Sis upper-floor room and the library when they made too much noise. Sometimes, when Si FIRST HARVESTS. 27 lost too much at vingt-et-un, he bor- rowed of his sister; and she was not so much shocked as old Starbuck would have been. She knew that young men would be young men, and that Si must make friends, if at all, by his pleasant social vices rather than his fathers busi- ness virtues. This sounds cynical; but she did not reason it out in such bald, unpleasant analysisit all came from delicate feminine intuition, of which she had more than her share. She was a quick-witted girl, living in a great city, with nothing at home to attract her. What else could she think about? Her vision went no farther than her brown- stone horizon. She was not romantic; her intellect quite over-balanced her emotional nature. And she had no Browning societies, and had never read Emerson nor Ruskin. At nineteen she had been out of school a year, but had no definite launching in society. She looked much younger, being as immature in person as she was the contrary in mind. She saw hardly anyone except her school- girl friends, with two or three of whom she still remained intimate; they were kind to her, in a patroniz- ing way, and invited her to their own parties; sometimes they would even send for her, at the last moment, to fill a vacant place at a dinner. A few of her friends brothers, and all of her brothers friends, had been attracted by her; none of them knew her well, but they were in the habit of joking about her when alone. Most of her friends brothers took little interest in her, and thought her slow. But then (said their sisters) she has seen so little of the world, poor thing! Flossie felt this, too; but, as her friends said, she was an un- selfish little creature, and her mind was chiefly occupied with a sisterly solici- tude for brothers future. She would have liked him to go to college ;~ but he did not share his sisters wishes, and the father utterly disapproved of it. He considered the college-bred man, when successfully perfected, as a pretty poor article; and college itself as a place where young men learned to drink and smoke, and spent their money in buggy-hire and billiards, un- beknown to their fathers. He insisted on Sis going into the office; and Si, having finished school, did in fact spend a portion of his mornings in that nur- sery of millions, his afternoons in the park or elsewhere, and his evenings over cards or at Academy balls, or else- where again, all unbeknown to his father. It was at this time that Si picked up that fine knowledge of life which fitted him, as a man of the world, to take, afterward, so prominent a position in society. There is no unlucky accident which an adroit person may not turn to happy advantage. Si might never have been a success in literary circles ; but he be- gan to develop quite a popularity among young men of a very good set. At this time it was by no means necessary for a New York fashionable to be liberally educated. And young Starbuck had several valuable accomplishmentshe was a good whip, and soon became s tolerable vet and knew every jockey on the road; he played a capital hand at poker, and told stories and talked slang with a certain pungent humor of his own; and he could even thrum an accompani- ment on a banjo. He was blessed with perfect health, large appetites, plenty of money; sparred well; was both stupid and good-natured, and had all the oth- er elements of greatness. Fortunately, Flossie had no very clear idea of what Si did with his friends; and, secretly, her respect for him rose when he came home late at night and the next morning talked familiarly of the Duvals, and Lucie Gower, and Van. ( Van was Mr. Killian van Kull, of the Columbian and Piccadilly clubs.) It was at this period that Si, thanks partly to the intercession of his sister, attained to the ownership of a latch-key, and began to come home very late indeed, and talk mysteriously of French balls. Flossie had a very vague notion what these might be; and old Starbuck was not over-strict on that score. He would have thought wine- bibbing infinitely worse, and cards a shade more heinous than either. And, in fact, he was not insensible to Sis social successes. True, old Starbuck was on the same board of directors with T. L. Gower, Sr., and one of his co-trustees in a charity ; but he secretly feltall democrat in a democracy that he was 28 FIRST HARVESTS. he secretly felt it a much greater triumph in his career that young Gower and his son should get drunk together. This is a coarse way of putting it; let us hasten through the beginnings of things and get out where we may see the stars once more. CHAPTER UL FLOSSIE STABBUCK ATTAINS. T. LEVISON GOWER, JR., the Perseus to our Andromeda, that angel who was to take Flossies hand and lift her with him to a higher sphere, was a pallid young man with a long nose, a short forehead, a thin neck, and a prominent Adams apple. Large noses are aristocratic; and Gower valued his as typical of his pure Dutch blood. It was disappointing, though, nfter so fine a beginning, to find his brow retreat in a rapid little slope; and then, taking a quick round curve, to find your eye resting on the nape of his neck al- most before you knew it. Horizontally lying across his forehead was a deep crease, perhaps three inches long, run- ning half an inch below the line of the hair and half an inch above the abutment of his nose; this line did duty for de- termination and thought. The mouth and chin were large again. With this Idud of face, Gower at twenty-two looked virile and worldly, and at five-and-thirty he looked twenty-two. What more can be said of him? His trousers never showed the impression of his knees, though his legs were long and thin; and there was more definite expression in the pattern of his colored shirt than of his face. This was before the fashion of scarf-pins; but he now wearsand would then have worna glass head of a bull- dog in a light-checked satin scarf. Gow- ers ideas hardly ever change, which is fortunate for his peace of mind, and his tastes never, which is fortunate for his wife. Yet, were you to introduce young (fower anywhere (in American society, of course), the answer would be wreathed in smilesMr. Gower, of New York, I sup- pose? And in Flossie Starbucks mind these three words would have been fit climax for anything, from the caption of a tomb to a Newport hotel-register- Levison Cower, of New York. It was as Randolph of Roanoke. Crude as Flossie Starbucks notions were, she was fortu- nate enough to aim high the first time. Gower first knew her brother in Eigh- teenth Street, where they used to play games together Saturday afternoons. Si was physically stronger than young Gower, and, from the first, inspired him with respect. Gower had not at this time learned his own advantages, and Star- buck used to treat him quite cavalierly. This rough patronage produced a re- spectful affection which years could not efface; and when they next were thrown together, owing to a similarity of tastes in roads and equipages, Si was still fortunate enough to remain the passive member in the friendship. This inti- macy was further cemented in ways be- fore indicated; and very soon, Gower, finding Starbuck a pleasant companion at wine-suppers and popular at public balls, bethought himself of bringing him home to dinner and introducing him to his sisters. Si was too stolid to show embarrassment, and his physical pres- ence carried him through anything. The Misses Gower rather liked him; here was a man who was rich and manly, and yet made them feel their own superiority. Even the great Killian van Kull, Gowers popular and accomplished cousin, took a fancy for Si. Buck Starbuck, as he dubbed him, began to be popular. Here was a man whb could gamble and fight, who was ready for anything at night, and never rn-natured nor headachy the day after. Both Kill van Kull and Si had health, animal spirits, and a taste for dissipation; and little Lucie, as they were accustomed to call Levison in the intimacy of the trio, soon became their very admiring and submissive depend- ent. Thus Si had the luck to start in life with two of the most valuable friends a young man could have had; for Kill van Kull represented fashion and popu- larity, and Gower position and wealth. So he passed his first five years after leaving school, when he was supposed to be in business, and not wasting his time and money in college. Old Starbuck would have winced, had he known Sis true courses, had he even known as much as Flossie did; but, after all, young Star- buck was building better (in this worlds way) than even his sister knew. FIRST HARVESTS. 29 For it often became necessary to send someone home to bring Sis clothes, or bear his excuseshe had gone up the Hudson to spend Sunday with the Du- vals, or on a yachting-trip with Kill van Kull; and it was often inconvenient for him to leave Kill himself. No one was so convenient in these times as Lucie Gower; and he was good-natured, and could easily run back for an hour or two. Besides, if Si had gone, he might some- times have met his father, and have been detained peremptorily. Thus Gower be- came a sort of male Iris, a messenger between pleasure and duty; and he was soon familiar with the high, empty house on Eighteenth Street. He usually saw Flossie at these times. There grew to be a sort of understanding between the two. She was so much cleverer than Gower was; and she knew exactly how to face old Mr. Starbuck. And Gower learned to have confidence in her, and often told Buck that his sister was a brick. Starbucks pretty sister was get- ting to be a little better known among the young men now, though not un- pleasantly talked of. She kept very quiet; and the one or two girls that knew anything about herMiss Bre- vier, for instancespoke well of her. Meantime, Si was getting on with the fast set, that set which the iDuvals and old Jake Einstein were timidly forming before they dared dominatethe set which carried the tastes of the French shopkeeper into society. They spent much money, and a few fashionable hangers-on, like Van Kull, found it pleas- ant to stand under the golden shower. Now came a great event in Sis life. Van Kull and Gower found it tiresome to always go to a bar-room and sit on hard chairs with Si, when they wanted to drink and smoke after a theatre or a dance. It was proposed that Si should become a member of their clubthe Piccadilly, of Madison Square. And in a few months or so Si had the pleasure of seeing his name, S. Howland Star- buck, printed in the blue book of that fashionable refuge for would-be solitary males. It was a great event for Si, and possi- bly, also, for his father. Old Starbuck knew very well that, although old Mr. Gower was a member and colleague of his in church mattersaffairs of the other worldhe never would have gone spon- sor for him, as he had for his son Silas, in a club election in this. Yet this knowledge did not offend him; he was glad to see his son Silas rise in the world, and bore no malice. Perhaps he was even pleased that his son could go where he could not. It was right that Si should make friends, and perhaps just as well that he had not gone much into the business, after all. For about this time the oil from Oil Creek began to at- tract attention in the markets. Long beforecenturies beforethe Indians had been used to dip their blankets along the creeks still surface until they were thoroughly saturated, and then to obtain the oil by the simple process of squeezing; for the oil was known to be great medicine and good for rheinna- tism, sores, and troubled souls. In the salt-wells near Pittsburg, on Saturday nights, when the brine was well pumped away, the miners were annoyed by the increasing flow of the green, bad-smell- ing stuff, which by Monday would have disappeared, pressed back by the new flow of brine into its deep crevices in the subterranean rock. But no one had thought of value for the stuffexcept the few quack doctors or credulous ones who, trusting to the old Indian legend, skimmed a little oil from wooden cribs about the creek and sold it as a medi- cine of natures patent, in the Philadel- phia drug-stores, for one dollar the ounce. At this price the fluid was not a dangerous competitor with Mr. Star- bucks product; and even when one of these same Philadelphia druggists ana- lyzed the oil, found its value, and made a contract for the output of one of the salt-wells, the only effect of his enter- prise was to ruin its value as a medicine by making it free to anyone (like those other medicines of water, air, and out- doors), without rendering it as cheap as the coal-oil already made from cannel- coal. Still, the flow, once begun, did not cease; wells were sunk whose daily flow exceeded the capacity of many a whale; already, refining whale and sperm was not what it had been; and there was more competition in petroleum, and he was not so well situated for the raw 30 FIRST HARVESTS. material. Old Starbuck began to think it was time he sold out; the works had been very profitable, and the expense and hazard of changing machinery and clientde made the future risky. Few of his competitors had the energy to make the change, the process of refining being so different, but went on filtering the di- minished catch of whale and sperm, un- til the divine law of the survival of the fittest put a quietus to their struggles. By all this Starbuck profited, as was to be expected. The S. Starbuck Oil Com- pany was formed; capital, Two Millions; Starbuck himself remaining one of the directors. The business and works were then supposed to be worth about $800,- 000. One-half the capital was paid up, and $800,000 of it paid to S. Starbuck, Esq., for the works, machinery, busi- ness, and good-will; besides this cash, Starbuck received $800,000 in stock of the new company at its face value. The stock was then considered worth par, and he was shrewd enough to keep it always well above eighty; in fact, he continued to manage the concern for a year or two, and was even so clever as to get it back to a healthy basis, although he had first watered and then milked it to the tune of a million and a quarter. When he had succeeded in this, he sold half of his remaining stock, all he could safely get rid of, and retired absolutely from business. Eight months after this, his work being satisfactorily finished, to himself, in this world, he left it, in Octo- ber, 1872. In April, 1873, the engage- ment of Miss Starbuck and Mr. T. Lev- ison Gower, Jr., was formally announced. People were much surprised, but less so than if Lucie Gower had married someone of whom they knew something. Now they commonly knew nothing of Flossie, except that she was Buck Starbucks sister. Things have changed since; and Si is Mrs. Levison Gowers brother now. Miss Brevier was delighted, and went about telling her friends that Flossie was a perfectly sweet girL Silas Starbucks friends commonly said By Jove! among themselves, and nothing when Si was present. Flossie was already twenty-four, and had been generally sup- posed, as much on account of this as of her retired life, not to be about to marry. Still, there were few ifi-natured com ments about it. Her modesty did her a good turn here. And no one much en- vied her young Gower, except for his wealth; and she had plenty of that. The Gowers themselves looked more askance at the match. After all, it was their family that she was going to marry into. And she might have many rela- tions. Only old Gower, seeing that she had the essentials, had the sense to ac- cept the thing from the first. He knew that his social position was a rock on which a fair structure might be built with her money. Old Gower had come to New York about 1830 from one of the hill-towns in Northwestern Connecticut; and had first been known as engaged in the banking business, with one of the Lydams as his partner. It was a Miss Lydam whom he married. He was very rich, or had that reputation; and was a prominent magnate in one of the largest evangelical denominations. There he had met and known and appreciated old Starbuck. He was not sorry, however, that that gentleman was dead. Mr. Gower felt toward him much as a ci-de- rant marquis might have felt toward the rich farmer-general father of his daugh- ter-in-law. Mr. Gower lived in the most democratic city of a democracy; but a democracy lends itself to sudden and ex- treme social distinctions. The imagi- nary line, drawn hap-hazard, must be drawn all the deeper to endure a decade. A society which has no Pyrenees must give an extra attention to the artificial forts of its boundaries. Old Mrs. Gower felt deeply these truths. She knew that Mr. Starbuck had been in oil; but she also said to herself that her son would raise Flossie to his own leveL What that level was we have seen. Meanwhile, the two lovers were very happy. Flossie allowed herself, by an- ticipation, a little more style in dress. She appeared with young Gower in his buggy in the park, radiant, and really very pretty. Lucie Gowers friends con- gratulated him boisterously, and called her Flower-de-Lucea name which per- sisted ten years or so, until some savage wit changed the Flower to Fruit. She was then still slight; and, for the Ilrst time, dared to show how pretty she was. How she has come out since her en- gagement! was the common remark. FIRST HARVESTS. 31 Indeed she had; she was very happy; she felt as if she had been born anew, into a world of which previously she had only seen the brown-stone front. Gower went to see her every day; and though these ti2te-d-t~tes were rather long, she consoled herself with the idea that the marriage would soon be over. He, too, was impatient; and very proud of her. He secretly liked to have his friends dig him in the ribsas they would do, with Gower. He had never possessed any girl, before, who had loved him solely for him- self; for surely there was nothing else to attract Miss Starbuck ?he had little money. Lucie felt a flattering sense of ownership in this fair creature that was going to link her life with his. The simple fellow was touched by it; and he never really ceased to be in love with her, though too weak to resist tempta- tion in any simple and attractive form. Si, too, was immensley delighted. He thought Lucie little better than a fool; but then, he was just the man to make a capital husband. And, on the whole, he would not be a disagreeable brother- in-law. However, after the first relief and contentment of the thing were over, and Flossie fairly disposed of, it no longer concerned Si very much. Never was a marriage so happy, or the course of true love so smooth. There was a delicious excitement about it all to Gower he felt as if he had multiplied himself by four. And FlossieFlossies feelings were more complex. She ob- tained Miss Breviers services as a bridesmaid; and it was arranged that the newly-married couple should live on Fifth Avenue at the corner of Thirty- second Street. The old Starbuck house in Eighteenth Street was sold, went into lodgingsas he had long de- sired. The wedding-presents, though few in number, were very handsome; Flossie had the satisfaction of seeing her wed- ding under the head of Fashionable Weddingss in the New York~ Herald; two clergymen performed the ceremony; and in the evening the bride and groom went to Boston. After a fortnight they returned and installed themselves in the Fifth Avenue house, which had been elaborately decorated and extravagantly furnished for their coming. Old Mrs. Gower gave a grand reception in their honor. And about the same time, young Gower began to find himself in his club- window, sucking his cane, and wonder- ing what he should do with his after- noon, very much as usual He puzzled much over a certain feeling he had, but was not clever enough at self-analysis to make it out. But it was as if the theatre had ended too early, and there were nothing to do with the rest of the even- ing. Not so Mrs. Gower. :17 WHITE EDITH. By Thomas Bailey Aldrich. WHITE Edith, reading in a Book of Queens, Looked suddenly up across the printed page, And asked methen, not waiting for reply, Let her eyes drop upon the text again Is it so fine a thing to be a queen? I thought me of that lady long ago (I know not in what chronicle I read The legend of that lady) who was crowned Queen by mistake, and through an April day Held court in her bright palace over-sea, Gave gifts and pardons, and reached forth her hand For kisses, and was worshipped; then, at dawn, Upon a scaffold paid the price for it The roses from her cheeks; for he who claimed The crown by right, a grasping sort of king, Would take no less; so to the block needs go The clustered ringlets and the slender throat. A very grievous price it seemed and yet To rule the world between two sunny dawns, Just to taste life one time at lifes high best, And then, with no foreshadowing of the doom, To have the rose struck from ones cheek, and so Escape the daggers that are set in crowns As surely as the jewels; never to know Ingratitude or treason, or false love, Or any blackness of the human heart Never to know the pangs that women bear, Being yet a woman to the finger-tips That were indeed to have a happy reign, That were to be the very queen of queens. And so, sweet old-world maiden, dead in truth, Or dead in fiction only, sleep your sleep. Full many a queen of other fate than yours, Gray-haired and broken, might have envied you, Your Majesty, that reigned a single day!

Thomas Bailey Aldrich Aldrich, Thomas Bailey White Edith 32-33

WHITE EDITH. By Thomas Bailey Aldrich. WHITE Edith, reading in a Book of Queens, Looked suddenly up across the printed page, And asked methen, not waiting for reply, Let her eyes drop upon the text again Is it so fine a thing to be a queen? I thought me of that lady long ago (I know not in what chronicle I read The legend of that lady) who was crowned Queen by mistake, and through an April day Held court in her bright palace over-sea, Gave gifts and pardons, and reached forth her hand For kisses, and was worshipped; then, at dawn, Upon a scaffold paid the price for it The roses from her cheeks; for he who claimed The crown by right, a grasping sort of king, Would take no less; so to the block needs go The clustered ringlets and the slender throat. A very grievous price it seemed and yet To rule the world between two sunny dawns, Just to taste life one time at lifes high best, And then, with no foreshadowing of the doom, To have the rose struck from ones cheek, and so Escape the daggers that are set in crowns As surely as the jewels; never to know Ingratitude or treason, or false love, Or any blackness of the human heart Never to know the pangs that women bear, Being yet a woman to the finger-tips That were indeed to have a happy reign, That were to be the very queen of queens. And so, sweet old-world maiden, dead in truth, Or dead in fiction only, sleep your sleep. Full many a queen of other fate than yours, Gray-haired and broken, might have envied you, Your Majesty, that reigned a single day! WHITE EDITH. I turned to Edith with her Book of Queens At the warm hearth-side, while the treacherous March Darkened the casement with swift whirling flakes White Edith, all too delicate for earth Dear child, I said, the humblest place is best. I never read in history or rhyme Of queen, save one, that had a happy reign, And sheshe reigned but for a single day. And then I told the story of that one, A flower that died upon the break of May, With all its sweetness gathered undefiled; And stooping over Ediths hand, to show How courtiers stoop to kiss the hands of queens, I suddenly could not see it for my tears The thin white hand that Death had touched, and claimel Before the violet or the crocus came. MUNICIPAL FINANCE. By Clayton C. Hall. URING the last twenty years there has been witnessed an enor- mous increase in the amount of municipal indebtedness in this country. The aggre- gate amount, includ- ing under this head city, county, town- ship, and school-district indebtedness, increased, according to the United States Census report, about sixty per cent. during the ten years intervening between 1870 and 1880. The actual figures, derived from the Census, are as follows: Aggregate amount in 1870. . . . . $515,810,060 1880.. . . . 821,486,447 Increase in ten years 305,676,387 These figures cannot be depended up- on for absolute accuracy, but the error involved is probably not very great. The Census returns for 1880 were much more complete and systematic than VOL. IlLS those ob~ained ten years before, and in the enumeration of indebtedness many~ small places were included at the later date which had been previously over- looked, or at least omitted, so that the increase in amount is partly to be as- cribed to this fact. It may be safely con- cluded, also, that the aggregate amount of debt is somewhat understated in the Census, on account of the natural dis- position on the part of financial officera of municipal corporations to make the most favorable showing possible in the construction of their returns. It waa pointed out in The Nation of November 27, 1884, that, in the case of one or two municipalities of which the official re- ports were accessible, the indebtedness had been understated in the Census to the extent of millions, credit having been claimed, and deduction made, for sundry items of assets not properly ad- missible as offsets to indebtedness. But notwithstanding the defects due to omissions in the one case, and under--

Clayton C. Hall Hall, Clayton C. Municipal Finance 33-40

WHITE EDITH. I turned to Edith with her Book of Queens At the warm hearth-side, while the treacherous March Darkened the casement with swift whirling flakes White Edith, all too delicate for earth Dear child, I said, the humblest place is best. I never read in history or rhyme Of queen, save one, that had a happy reign, And sheshe reigned but for a single day. And then I told the story of that one, A flower that died upon the break of May, With all its sweetness gathered undefiled; And stooping over Ediths hand, to show How courtiers stoop to kiss the hands of queens, I suddenly could not see it for my tears The thin white hand that Death had touched, and claimel Before the violet or the crocus came. MUNICIPAL FINANCE. By Clayton C. Hall. URING the last twenty years there has been witnessed an enor- mous increase in the amount of municipal indebtedness in this country. The aggre- gate amount, includ- ing under this head city, county, town- ship, and school-district indebtedness, increased, according to the United States Census report, about sixty per cent. during the ten years intervening between 1870 and 1880. The actual figures, derived from the Census, are as follows: Aggregate amount in 1870. . . . . $515,810,060 1880.. . . . 821,486,447 Increase in ten years 305,676,387 These figures cannot be depended up- on for absolute accuracy, but the error involved is probably not very great. The Census returns for 1880 were much more complete and systematic than VOL. IlLS those ob~ained ten years before, and in the enumeration of indebtedness many~ small places were included at the later date which had been previously over- looked, or at least omitted, so that the increase in amount is partly to be as- cribed to this fact. It may be safely con- cluded, also, that the aggregate amount of debt is somewhat understated in the Census, on account of the natural dis- position on the part of financial officera of municipal corporations to make the most favorable showing possible in the construction of their returns. It waa pointed out in The Nation of November 27, 1884, that, in the case of one or two municipalities of which the official re- ports were accessible, the indebtedness had been understated in the Census to the extent of millions, credit having been claimed, and deduction made, for sundry items of assets not properly ad- missible as offsets to indebtedness. But notwithstanding the defects due to omissions in the one case, and under-- 34 MUNICIPAL FINANCE. statements of indebtedness in, perhaps, many instances, it may reasonably be concluded that the actual increase in municipal indebtedness during the dec- ade 1870 to 1880 did not materially differ from sixty per cent., as indicated by the Census. A large increase in indebtedness of this class was to be anticipated, as the natural and perfectly legitimate result of the rapid growth of towns and cities, their no less rapid growth in wealth, and the necessary expenditures involved in the laying out and paving of streets, the construction of waterworks, systems of drainage and sewerage, the erection of adequate public schools, and of build- ings,such as town-halls and court- houses,of a character in keeping with the increasing importance of the com- munity. An increase of municipal indebtedness in a growing and developing country is both natural and proper; but the facil- ity with which appropriations of public money and public credit can be voted, by irresponsible boards of aldermen and common councils, leaves open a wide door to extravagance and abuse of trust, and consequently to a heavy increase in the burdens of local taxation. The reckless incurring of debt in some instances, by municipal bodies, and its subsequent repudiation, in whole or in part, either directly or by an arbitrary reduction or readjust- ment~~ of the rate of interest, has led, within the last twenty years, to the es- tablishment, in most of the States, of constitutional or statutory limitations upon the power of municipalities to borrow money or create indebtedness. In many of the States municipal corpo- rations have been absolutely prohibited from lending either their money or their credit to works of internal im- provement, such as railroad enterprises, and in a larger number a limit has been placed to the amount of indebtedness which such corporations shall be per- mitted to incur for any purposes, how- ever legitimate they may be. In Indiana this limit has been placed at two per cent. of the taxable basis; in Colorado at three per cent. ; in fllinois, Iowa, Maine, Missouri, West Virginia, and Wisconsin, at five per cent.; in Geor gia and Pennsylvania at seven per cent.; and in New York, for cities hav- ing a population of 100,000 and over, at ten per cent. In Maryland a different plan has been adopted. The city of Baltimore, in that State, is prohibited from incurring debt without first ob- taining an enabling act for the specific purpose from the State Legislature, and the proposition must then be submitted to the voters of the city for ratification. This method secures, at least, publicity, and affords both time and opportunity for a thorough discussion of the pro- posed loan; but the practical effect is probably to discourage the advancement of propositions likely to provoke ad- verse criticism and invite defeat, rather than actually to secure an intelligent discrimination by the body of voters at the polls. Since the existence of these requirements for the legal authorization of a loan, but one or two propositions have been rejected by popular vote, and these were for loans of comparatively in- significant amounts. It having been found necessary or expedient thus to limit in one way or another the amount of municipal in- debtedness, measuring it as a percent- age of the taxable basis or otherwise, the practical question presents itself to those charged with the administration of municipal finance, how to arrange the indebtedness so that, as the consti- tutional or legal limit is approached, the power of the corporation to borrow money for necessary purposes may not be barred. Obviously, when the limit is actually reached no new indebtedness can be legally contracted unless either the means be found for extinguishing some portion of the debt already in ex- istence, or the increase in wealth, and consequently in the assessed value of taxable property, afford room for new indebtedness. As it is quite possible for a stationary condition, or even a diminution, in the amount of the taxable basis to occur in the history of any community, it is evidently the duty of the financial offi- cers of municipal bodies to adopt and carry out such plans in relation to the extinction of debts as will leave the com- munity free to borrow in the future, even though there be not, at the time, MUNICIPAL FINANCE. 35 an increase of wealth, and consequently of the ability to borrow. In the practical consideration of mu- nicipal debts, a distinction suggests it- self between those which are contracted for improvements or benefits which are permanent in their character, and which are to be enjoyed by future generations as well as by those in whose time they are first securedsuch as public parks, water rights and privileges, and perma- nent reservoirs; and, on the other hand, those incurred for benefits of a more temporary character, but at the same time too costly to be provided for as an ordinary expense, out of the revenues of the year in which they are undertaken. Among the latter would be included debts contracted for street pavements, the best and most durable of which, on busy thoroughfares, become worn out and need to be renewed or replaced within a comparatively few years. There appears, for instance, no equi- table reason why a debt incurred for the purchase of a public park should be re- deemed, so long as the park itself is held and used for the purposes intended. The interest on the debt created for such purchase may be regarded as of the nature of a rent for the property, which year by year is payable as the possession itself is enjoyed. There would seem to be no reasonable obligation upon one generation to burden itself with taxa- tion in order that posterity might enjoy such a possession as a free gift. If bonds were issued, as municipal bonds fre- quently are, redeemable at the will of the corporation after a certain date, the rate of interest upon the debt could never be increased, and the power would be retained to decrease it by refunding from time to time at lower rates, when- ever favorable conditions for so doing might exist. On the other hand, considerations of equity ~ould indicate that debts in- curred for temporary benefits should be of temporary duration, just as annual expenses should be met out of the yearly revenues. The injustice would be ap- parent of leaving, as a legacy for a suc- ceeding generation, an unpaid debt for street pavements which had been long before worn out and removed. If this distinction could be com pletely and consistently carried out, an indication would be afforded as to the length of time for which different is- sues of bonds should properly run. The practical question, however, is how best to provide for the payment in either case, whether the period or term allowed be long or short. In some of the States it is required that any act creating a public debt must contain a provision for an annual tax sufficient to pay it in a limited and specified num- ber of years. In such case a sum appli- cable to the payment of the principal of the debt must be included with the amount due for interest in the yearly tax- levy. The method usually relied upon for the accumulation of the amount re- quired for the ultimate payment of the principal is that known by the familiar name of sinking-fund. The theory of a sinking-fund is sim- ple and is well understood; but as in practical operation its essential princi- ples are often overlooked or disregarded, it may be well to state them briefly, and especially with reference to some of the defects of the system itself. When bonds are issued in the man- ner in which public debts are usually created in this countrythat is to say, bearing interest for a specified term of years, at the end of which the principal sum becomes payableit is necessary to provide by taxation a fund for the re- demption of the bonds at maturity. The method usually pursued is the appro- priation annually of a sum to be set aside and invested, so that by yearly ac- cretions, from successive appropriationa and from interest, the total amount re- quired may gradually be accumulated. The fund so created constitutes what is called the sinking-fund ; and, as- suming the rate of interest at which it can be invested, it is easy to determine what the amount of the annual appro- priation to the fund should be. The greater the number of years for which the bonds have to run, the less, obvious- ly, will be the proportion required to be appropriated annually; and the lower the rate of interest at which the sink- ing-fund can be invested and improved, the greater must be the amount of the direct appropriations. For instance, in order to provide for the payment of a :36 MUNICIPAL FINANCE. sum due in thirty years the yearly ap- propriation, if improved at six per cent. and reinvested annually, must be 1.265 per cent.; if improved at five per cent., 1.505 per cent. must be so set apart; if at four per cent., 1.783 per cent.; and if at three per cent., 2.107 per cent. will be required. Adding the amount so re- quired to the rate of interest to be paid upon the bonds, it will be seen that, in order to provide for both principal and interest, the sum to be raised annually by taxation, provided the sinking-fund can be invested at the same rate of in- terest as is payable upon the loan, ranges from a little over 7+ per cent. for a six per cent. loan having thirty ~years to run, to a little less than 5~- per cent. for a three per cent. loan. The sinking-fund being in turn in- Nested in bonds of the municipality, the interest on the bonds thus purchased and held by the corporation itself has still to be included in the tax-levy, for the interest on the investment of the sinking-fund is a most important factor in the accumulation of the fund itself. Bonds so held must remain a part of the public debt. They cannot be with- drawn or cancelled without defeating the operation of the whole system un- der consideration. It is to be observed that a sinking- fund formed for the redemption of a bonded debt at a specified date is a perfectly definite thing, the proper amount of which can at any time be ac- curately determined by calculation ; and in this respect it differs essentially from a bank-reserve. The latter is held against liabilities of which the amount is accurately known, but of which the time of payment is not fixed. Payment may be demanded, in the form of checks drawn against deposits, but experience has shown that, except in the case of a panic, such demands extend only to a limited portion of the whole amount of deposits. The amount of a bank-re- serve is therefore ordinarily fixed by an arbitrary rule, either derived from es- tablished custom or prescribed by le- gal enactment, subject, however, to such modifications under special conditions as prudence and experience may dic- tate. A sinking-fund, on the contrary, is the reserve against liabilities of which both the amount and the date at which payment may be required are exactly known. The amount, therefore, which should be held in the sinking-fund at any given date can be definitely deter- mined, and whether or not the fund under existing conditions is adequate can be ascertained with absolute accu- racy. It has been already remarked that the accumulation of interest upon the in- vestment of the sinking-fund is a most important factor for its proper mainten- ance. A fund planned with what was intended to be prudent foresight, and administered with unswerving fidelity, may therefore prove inadequate, on ac- count of a decline in the rate of interest below what was anticipated, and a con- sequent reduction in the earnings upon the investment of the fund. During the last twenty years the rates yielded by investments in the bonds of American cities of which the credit is highest have declined from about six per cent. to about three per cent. A sinking-fund begun twenty years ago, upon the assumption that the former rate could be obtained, must necessarily fall very far short of attaining its object. When the bonds of such cities were be- ing issued at six per cent., it was prob- ably generally assumed that the sinking- fund could be invested at the same rate; but all experience has shown that, with the increase of wealth and of capital seek- ing investment, the tendency of interest is always toward a minimuma tenden- cy which is subject to temporary inter- ruption only, during time of war, or from commercial or financial crises. This well- established fact has received ample con- firmation during recent years. Although a decline in the prevailing rates of interest is in fact gradual, a change in the rate of interest may be as- sumed, for simplicity of illustration, as occurring at intervals of ten years, so that a sinking-fund begun for the re- demption of bonds issued at six per cent., and having thirty years to run, may be considered as improved for the first ten years at six per cent., for the second ten years at four and a half per cent., and for the third ten years at three per cent. If the issue of bonds be for one million dollars, and the annual appropriation for MUNICIPAL FINANCE. 37 the sinking-fund fixed, according to the figures already given, at $12,650, the course of the fund will be as follows: Atthe end of ten years it will amount to $136,736 twenty 414,370 thirty 701,880 The total accumulation will then be but little more than seventy per cent. of the amount required to redeem the bonds at maturity. llJnder circumstances like these, the sinking-fund can only be kept up to the proper amount by an increase in the an- nual appropriation to the fund from the tax-levy corresponding to the decrease in the rate of interest. But if this should be found impracticable, or at all events it is not done, a deficit such as is indicated above will be inevitable. It will then be impossible to redeem the bonds without impairing the integrity of the sinking-fund reserved for other issues of bonds, or otherwise encroaching upon funds not intended for this purpose. And if, as properly should be the case, a separate account is kept of the sinking- fund belonging to each issue of bonds for which the municipality is liable, and each one is regarded and held as a sep- arate trust, it is evident that the simplest and most equitable way of meeting the deficit is by the issue of new bonds, at the lower rate of interest then prevail- ing, in renewal of such portion of the loan as cannot be paid out of the sink- ing-fund properly available for the pur- pose. A decline in the rate of interest occa- sions a condition in which a sinking- fund faithfully and intelligently admin- istered will fail of attaining the object intended unless it be supplemented and corrected by an increase of taxation. But a source of danger to which such funds are equally exposed, and to which they are even more liable, arises from the tendency to laxity in their admin- istration. When the accumulated fund becomes large, and the charge upon the tax-levy for interest upon bonds held in the sinking-fund becomes a considera- ble item, a strong temptation arises to reduce taxation, and at the same time make an apparent, though not a real, re- duction of indebtedness by cancelling and retiring a portion of the bonds so held by the municipality. It needs no argument to show that such a course is not only contrary to the theory of a sink- ing-fund, but is absolutely fatal to its successful operation. No reduction of indebtedness results from such action. It is only the destruction of a part of the means set apart for meeting liabilities. Supposing then that the amount of the original appropriation to a sinking- fund is in the first instance properly de- terinined, with due regard to the condi- tions under which the fund must be accumulated, there remain two sources of danger to which such funds are ex- posed, one being an unforeseen decline in the rate of interest obtainable upon their investment, and the other a tam- pering with the principal sum itself, through ignorance or dishonesty on the part of those who have it in charge. For the successful administration of funds of this sort, which have to be preserved and accumulated during a long term of years, there is required, not only integ- rity and honesty of purpose, but also a thorough knowledge of the theory and principles of finance. The defects and dangers of the sink- ing-fund system being such as have been indicated, a plan by which a public loan can be arranged, free from the neces- sity of maintaining such a fund, evident- ly possesses a certain advantage. An- nuity-bonds, which are sometimes issued for public loans, possess precisely this advantage. Bonds of this sort provide for the payment of a certain sum per aunum for a specified term of years, at the expiration of which all liability ceases. The annual payments must therefore be such as to provide both for the interest upon the sum borrowed, and for the return of the latter by means of yearly instalments. But it has been shown that in the usual form of bond an annual appropriation toward the grad- ual accumulation of the principal is re- quired, so that the tax-rate ought prop- erly, in either case, to include both items. Only in the case of the annuity-bond the annual payment stipulated for in the bond provides for the entire liability, both principal and interest, so that there is no more chance for a failure to dis- charge the principal of the debt than there is for default in the payment of 38 MUNICIPAL FINANCE. interest; for both items are included in the same yearly (or half-yearly) pay- ments. No new or additional obligation is imposed upon the borrowing corpo- ration by the annuity-bond, but relief is afforded from the necessity of holding and investing a reserve for the redemp- tion of the principal, as by each annual payment the principal of the debt is pro- portionately reduced, until by the last payment it is extinguished. The bur- den is then placed upon the lender, if it be proposed to preserve the original sum invested intact, to set apart and reinvest that proportion of the yearly payments which represent the return of principal; and the tax-rate of the indebted corpora- tion is relieved of the amount required for interest on securities held in the sink- ing-fund, for the fund itself is no longer required. The lender then, and not the borrower, must take the risk of varia- tions in the rate of interest, and the lat- ter is also relieved of the other respon- sibilities belonging to the custody of a sinking-fund. The British Government has for more than a century past availed of annuities as a form of the national debt, and has issued, not only such as were made for a definite term of years, but also annuities upon lives; and rates have from time to time been published at which bonds issued in perpetuity could be exchanged for annui- ties, so that the gradual extinction of the bonds so exchanged could be secured. In this country, bonds of this sort have not met with general acceptance as a form for public securities, though loans have been successfully negotiated in this form by the Province of Ontario, in Canada. A small issue of annuity-bonds, having forty years to run, were awarded in June last by that Province (the annual value was $12,500, representing a loan of about one-quarter of a million), and the price~obtained, as the writer is informed through the courtesy of XV. Grindlay, Esquire, manager of the Bank of British North America, in Toronto, were equiva- lent to the placing of the loan at four and one-quarter per cent. interest. A corporation or government is evi- dently justified in allowing a somewhat higher rate of interest on bonds of this sort than upon other forms of indebted- ness, as an offset to the relief secured from the obligations incident to the maintenance and custody of a sinking- fund. A comparison of the operations of the two forms of loan is best seen by a brief illustration. Let a loan, for instance, be made for one million dollars, for thirty years, at three per cent. interest. Under the ordinary form, provision would have to be made for the payment of Interest, $30,000 annually for thirty years And of the principal sum $900,000 1,000,000 Total $1,900,000 Provision for the principal sum through a sinking-fund would, according to the figures already given, be actually made as follows: By direct appropriation, $21,070 an nually $632,100 Interest thereon at three per cent... 367,900 Total $1,000,000 If the loan were placed at four per cent. there would be required: Interest, $40,000 annually for thirty years $1,200,000 And the principal sum 1,000,000 Total.. $2,200,000 In the latter case, if the sinking-fund could be invested at the same rate of in- terest, the principal sum would be made up as follows: By direct appropriation, $17,830 an nually $534,900 Interest thereon at four per cent.... 465,100 Total $1,000,000 So that in the former case but a little over five-eighths, and in the latter case little more than one-half, of the principal sum would have to be provided by direct appropriation. The remainder would be derived from interest. But if the same sum of $1,000,000 were raised by the sale of annuities hav- ing thirty years to run, the whole amount required for the extinction of the debt, both principal and interest, would amount only to the sum of the direct ap- propriations for these purposes required under the other system. The sinking- MUNICIPAL FINANCE. 39 fund being no longer required, the large item of interest upon its investment would be entirely saved. If the aunuities were negotiated at three per cent., pay- able yearly, the annual sum required upon $1,000,000 would be $51,070, amounting in thirty years to $1,532,100; and if issued at four per cent. the annual amount would be $57,830, representing a total in thirty years of $1,734,900. The payments due upon an annuity ne- gotiated at three per cent. for the time named would be a little over five per cent. per annum, and upon a four per cent. annuity a little over five and three- quarters per cent., of the sum invested. The differences of amounts and results under the two systems are, of course, represented and offset by differences in tlte dates of payment ; but since the tax- payers and the bondholders are not, as a general rule, the same individuals, and at all events are to be regarded sepa- rately, any benefit that can be secured to the former class, in saving of interest by yearly payments upon the principal of a debt, is first to be considered. More important, however, than this are the advantages, already referred to, arising from relief from the necessity of maintaining a sinking-fund. The practical question naturally pre- sents itself, whether or not bonds of the sort described would prove negotiable. It would perhaps be difficult to dispose of any very large amount of them at one time, but they would, on account of the greatly increased annual income to be derived from them, be sought by persons of the class to whom llfe-annuities offer a desirable form of investment, and would probably attract other classes of invest- ors. Whenever low rates of interest are prevailing, annuities come into demand on the part of persons who are desirous of obtaining, for life, or for a limited term of years, from a certain amount of invest- ment, the highest rate of income con- sistent with security, and who are will- ing for this purpose to sacrifice ulti- mately the principal sum invested. The experience of the Province of Ontario, already cited, though limited in extent, has proved that annuity-bonds can be placed upon favorable terms. The advantages of the plan itself are such as to commend it when practicable, and to make it especially adapted for the management of comparatively small loans, for the complete extinction of which it is proposed to provide within a limited term of years. Between bonds issued for a term of years and annuity-bonds, of which the principal is, in fact, payable by yearly instalments, there is, however, a wide margin. Within these limits loans have been made, such as those of the United States Government familiarly known as five-twenties~ and ten-forties, in which the right of redemption was se- cured long before the date at which pay- ment could be demanded, and similar bonds have been issued by private cor- porations. But bonds of which the date of payment is for so long a time at the option of the borrower require some compensation for this option to be given to the lender, either in the form of a dis- count at the time of purchase, or of a bonus if redeemed before maturity. The Government bonds referred to were re- deemed in numerical order; in other cases the bonds to be redeemed before maturity have been determined by lot. An intermediate form might be devised, by which the total loan, and every bond representing it, could be reduced from time to time, pro rata, at stated periods, several years apart. CHRISTMAS EVEGERMANY. By Rennell Rodd. LITTLE mother, why must you go! The children play by the white bed-side, The world is merry for Christmastide, And what would you do in the falling snow! They sleep by now in the ember-glow Hushed to dream in a childs delight, For wonders happen on Christmas night: Little mother, why must you go! The still flakes fall and the night grows late, Oh slender figure and small wet feet, Where do you haste through the lamplit street, And out and away by the fortress gate? It is drear and chill where the dear lie dead, Yet light enough with the snow to see, But what would you do with that Christmas-tree At the tiny mound that is babys bed? A Christmas-tree, with its tinsel gold Oh, how should I not have a thought for thee When the children sleep in their dream of glee, Poor little grave but a twelve month old! Little mother, your heart is brave, You kiss the cross in the drifted snow, Kneel for a moment, rise and go And leave your tree by the tiny grave. While the living slept by the warm fireside And the flakes fell white on your Christmas toy, I think that its angel wept for joy Because you remembered the one that died~

Rennell Rodd Rodd, Rennell Christmas Eve - Germany 40-41

CHRISTMAS EVEGERMANY. By Rennell Rodd. LITTLE mother, why must you go! The children play by the white bed-side, The world is merry for Christmastide, And what would you do in the falling snow! They sleep by now in the ember-glow Hushed to dream in a childs delight, For wonders happen on Christmas night: Little mother, why must you go! The still flakes fall and the night grows late, Oh slender figure and small wet feet, Where do you haste through the lamplit street, And out and away by the fortress gate? It is drear and chill where the dear lie dead, Yet light enough with the snow to see, But what would you do with that Christmas-tree At the tiny mound that is babys bed? A Christmas-tree, with its tinsel gold Oh, how should I not have a thought for thee When the children sleep in their dream of glee, Poor little grave but a twelve month old! Little mother, your heart is brave, You kiss the cross in the drifted snow, Kneel for a moment, rise and go And leave your tree by the tiny grave. While the living slept by the warm fireside And the flakes fell white on your Christmas toy, I think that its angel wept for joy Because you remembered the one that died~ THE GREAT PYRAMID. By Edward L. Wilson. EVER since the pages of history were opened, and ever since science began to plod, the mind of man has been puzzled by one nnchanging query What is the meaning of the Great Pyramid? History has been repeated; science continually explains the mighty wonders of natnre; but that monster work of man still remains enfolded by t4ie veil of mystery. Its builder was King Cheops, of the fourth Egyptian dynasty. His choice of a site for the great structure mnst have been governed by his pnrpose in erecting it, but we have no certain knowl- edge as to what that pnrpose was. When first he visited the proposed spot with his architects, and pre-empted the need- ed space, it looked far more promising than it does to-day. For there were then at Gizeh, not only rolling hills and fertile valleys, but groves of trees, pict- uresque islands, canals, and well culti- vated farms. Vast quarries existed close VOL. 1114 to the escarpments of her limestone bills, whose strata were so regular as to give one the idea of more than Cyclopean courses of masonry. The summits of the hills, which were craggy and picturesque, told their own history by the congeries of small shell-fish which formed them. The traveller of to-day may yet find, within a few hundred feet of the Great Pyramid, nummulites and pebbles in abundance, with an occasional sharks tooth, all proving that once upon a time the sea rolled over the desert of Gizeh. Moreover, if the earnest explorer sinks a shaft in the sand to the depth of thir- teen feet, a stratum of antique Nile mud is reached, while a few feet lower, good water is found. All the sand lying thereabouts to-day has been showered down from the west and southwest, long since the days of Cheops. The site chosen for the massive struct- ure was the hill farthest west of, and six miles away from, the Nile. It is ninety miles from the Mediterranean, and two hundred and fifteen feet above the sea-leveL The labor of one hundred thousand men for twenty years was re- quired for the work. While some of the vast army were sent to the Mokkatam quarries on the east bank of the Nile for limestone and marble, and some far south to Sycue for granite, others were despatched to the Mount Sinai region for stone of other varieties. Then a canal was dug from the Nile to the Gizeh hill, for conveying the quarried blocks to their place of transfer. From the west- ern terminus of the canal to the pyramid base a wide causeway was constructed for the further conveyance of material. While all this was going on, the chos en hill itself was made ready to receiv the enormous weight to be placed upon it. The general surface was lowered un- til good, solid, fissureless material was reached and a broad plateau formed, so firm and so extensive as to serve for the foundation. The naturally in- clined strata were levelled to accommo- date the courses of the building. Where Statue of King Chephren in the Museum at BOIaq.

Edward L. Wilson Wilson, Edward L. The Great Pyramid 41-64

THE GREAT PYRAMID. By Edward L. Wilson. EVER since the pages of history were opened, and ever since science began to plod, the mind of man has been puzzled by one nnchanging query What is the meaning of the Great Pyramid? History has been repeated; science continually explains the mighty wonders of natnre; but that monster work of man still remains enfolded by t4ie veil of mystery. Its builder was King Cheops, of the fourth Egyptian dynasty. His choice of a site for the great structure mnst have been governed by his pnrpose in erecting it, but we have no certain knowl- edge as to what that pnrpose was. When first he visited the proposed spot with his architects, and pre-empted the need- ed space, it looked far more promising than it does to-day. For there were then at Gizeh, not only rolling hills and fertile valleys, but groves of trees, pict- uresque islands, canals, and well culti- vated farms. Vast quarries existed close VOL. 1114 to the escarpments of her limestone bills, whose strata were so regular as to give one the idea of more than Cyclopean courses of masonry. The summits of the hills, which were craggy and picturesque, told their own history by the congeries of small shell-fish which formed them. The traveller of to-day may yet find, within a few hundred feet of the Great Pyramid, nummulites and pebbles in abundance, with an occasional sharks tooth, all proving that once upon a time the sea rolled over the desert of Gizeh. Moreover, if the earnest explorer sinks a shaft in the sand to the depth of thir- teen feet, a stratum of antique Nile mud is reached, while a few feet lower, good water is found. All the sand lying thereabouts to-day has been showered down from the west and southwest, long since the days of Cheops. The site chosen for the massive struct- ure was the hill farthest west of, and six miles away from, the Nile. It is ninety miles from the Mediterranean, and two hundred and fifteen feet above the sea-leveL The labor of one hundred thousand men for twenty years was re- quired for the work. While some of the vast army were sent to the Mokkatam quarries on the east bank of the Nile for limestone and marble, and some far south to Sycue for granite, others were despatched to the Mount Sinai region for stone of other varieties. Then a canal was dug from the Nile to the Gizeh hill, for conveying the quarried blocks to their place of transfer. From the west- ern terminus of the canal to the pyramid base a wide causeway was constructed for the further conveyance of material. While all this was going on, the chos en hill itself was made ready to receiv the enormous weight to be placed upon it. The general surface was lowered un- til good, solid, fissureless material was reached and a broad plateau formed, so firm and so extensive as to serve for the foundation. The naturally in- clined strata were levelled to accommo- date the courses of the building. Where Statue of King Chephren in the Museum at BOIaq. 42 THE GREAT PYRAMID. After the great mass had been erected in the rough, it was en- cased in highly polished marble, which, at a short distance, gave it the ap- pearance of a precise geometrical figure. And it was indeed pre- cise. Undoubtedly it was planned entire, with all its internal intrica- cies, before a stone was quarried for its con- struction. The head that contrived it seems to have been equal to the task of completing his scheme in the most workmanlike manner. T h e commissary ar- rangements alone for the army of people en- A, the Great Pyramid; B, the Pyramid of chephren; c. the Pyramid of Men- gaged required able cheres; 5, the 5phinx, southeast of the tomb of cheops; D, longitudinal mend- generalship. Did not ian of the Great Pyramid. Tombs east, west, and south of the Great Pyramid. the result of their labor stand there, the great- it could be done, the lavish builder was est structure in the world, we should yet economical enough to utilize the be disposed to question the statement natural rock, for at the northeast cor- that any such body of workmen was ner the lowest course and part of an- ever engaged, under the will and di. other are formed of rock trimmed off rection of one man, in a single enter- square in situ. The natural rock may prise, and for so long a time. How also be seen at one place in the en- little do we know about it, and how trance-passage, and again in the course baffled are we when we attempt to solve of the well; but in no other place has the great problem! The benign-looking there been found anything but well-built statue of its builder was found by Man- limestone or granite masonry. ette in a neighboring tomb, and now The grand plateau being completed, sits in the Bfilaq museum, but it af- the workmen were ready to receive the fords no information except as to its product of the quarries, and soon the identity. stupendous structure began to rise. I venture to offer, however, in addition. Tier after tier was placed, receding, one to the scant information we have, a few upon the other, until the two hundred details of construction and some illus- and twentieth had been raised to its trations, with the hope of conveying a place. Finally the apex, a mammoth measurably adequate idea of its size. crystal, was set, and the inner elevation I had been studying it for many years was ready for the more finished outside before I made my first visit, and thought casing. How the work was done no one I had formed a fair conception of its has been able to explain, dimensions; but I was mistaken. It In one of the accompanying views exceeded all I had ever dreamed it to (p. 43) six small pyramids are shown, in be. My first glimpse was caught from various stages of decay. From these the railway-carriage en route from Alex- and their larger neighbors, the interested andria to Cairo. My second view and student may gather some facts concern- first photograph were obtained from the ing pyramid building, by noting the corner of the Mosque of Mehemet All, progress of pyramid decay. situated on the Citadel Hill at Cairo. Map of the Pyramids of Gizeh. The Pyramids of Cheops Chephren, and Mencheres. 44 THE GREAT PYRAMID. The Great Pyramid from the Nile Overflow. From there the desert monster and its of the structnres began to develop. The two great neighbors, glistening in the smooth exteriors and precise outlines sun, look like gigantic jasper gems in which the distance afforded, gave way golden setting. to disturbed surfaces and broken angles. The next day, long before sunrise, I The light crept steadily down to their set out with the purpose of securing a b. ses, and the shadows fled to the west- series of pictures that should, if possible, em side. be made useful in conveying a reason- As the last mile was reached, my Arab able idea of the size and magnificence of driver suddenly shouted M~shallah! this the greatest of all structures. Soon Wonderful God !for, lo! the whole after crossing the Kasr-el-Nil, an avenue eastern side of the Great Pyramid was of acacias is entered, which shades the enveloped in the red glare of the rising road almost all the way to the pyramid- sun. And then at my left I saw, re- hill. Not long after leaving the bridge, flected and inverted upon the placid on the left, the tall trio were seen, looking surface of a bit of Nile overflow, the as gray and undefined as distant storm- image of the Great Pyramid, as sharp, clouds. The sun had not yet reached clear, and entire as the reality. Only their tops, and their vicinity was dreamy once in a lifetime could such a sight be and hazy. They appeared to be won- had. Like a total eclipse of the sun, it derfully near. A quiet, masterly dig- could last but a few minutes. I must nity seemed to pervade them. As the have the picture. Leaping from my noise of the great city was left behind seat, I ran through the tall, dew-covered and the pyramids were neared, the in- lentil fields to the edge of the water, creasing silence became almost oppres- caught the doubled monster, and held it sive. When the sun arose, the details latent within my camera. When I re THE GREAT PYRAMID. 45 A Near View of the Greet Pyramid. turned to the carriage, I was assailed comprehension of its immensity as that on every side by a dozen or more Arab first effort to cover the whole mass of fellahin who awaited me, each one noisily masonry at one glance. Two other im- demanding backsheesh for injury pressive views are to be had from the to the crops. I paid enough to bny a northeast corner, standing at about the whole acre of lentils, but I would not twentieth tier above the sand. The first accept an Egyptian farm in exchange is a~ lateral view. Allow the eyes to fol for the picture. low a line of masonry to the northwest- The road now began to rise; and so em angle, and then to return, stone by did the Bedouin Arabs of the pyramid- stone, when a gratifying idea will be re- village, who, like locusts, seemed to ceived of the length of the base and of come out of the chinks in the stone walls the size of the quarried stones. The near by, or to swarm from the choking other best view is had by looking dust. Give him six men to assist him, aloft. At Niagara, standing at the foot and command the rest to let him alone, of the American Falls, I have caught sight was the characteristic word sent by an of a volume of water as it leaped over the official to the sheik of this noisy, good- brink, and then watched its slow descent, natured, troublesome horde. This order foot by foot, until I have thought I being obeyed, I was enabled to spend could see it break in spray at my feet, several days at my work in comparative thus obtaining the most satisfactory im peace. pression of the height of the great cas My first close view of the Great cade. So here, the visitor may lift his Pyramid was had from the north side. eves to the apex, and then slowly, step After taking it in from east to west, I by step, stone after stone, let the sight lifted my eyes to the sky. I think no descend, when the immensity of the lofty fter-view gave me such a satisfactory pile will fairly leap upon him. The at- THE GREAT PYRAMID. 46 tendant Arabs, climbing up the corner of The ascent is generally made at the the pile, here and there, look like pygmies. northeast corner. Tt is a novel experi- No Swiss or Appalachian mountain in- ence. The law requires one to be ac- dine is more rugged than this. Should companied by a Bedouin lifter at these views not satisfy, there is one each elbow and another Arab behind to other method of arriving at the bottom boost. The feat niay be accomplished facts, namely, by climbing to the top in twenty minutes, provided you agree and looking down. to having your calculations upset once Looking up the Northeast Corner of the Great Pyramid. THE GREAT PYRAMID. 47 a minute, and yourself twice that often. For example, you make ready for a tre- mendous muscular effort, to take a gi- gantic step upward and forward, when suddenly you are hoisted bodily, like an airy nothing. Then you prepare to land somewhere or to take a breath, when your booster sends you flying far beyond your mark. You scarcely have time to recover your equilibrium and to give thanks that your brains were not dashed out, when the whole process is repeated; and so on, until the summit is gained. This all seems hard enough to endure, and the Arabs seem to be the worst part; but it is one of those cases where experience is the best teacher, and it is best to listen to experience. When the top is reached, one is sur- prised to find a platform o v e r thirty feet square, covered with broken fragments of quarried stone in all the confu- sion of a moun- tain-crest. These blocks are covered with names and dates. Some of the chiselled let- ters are over a foot in height. I climbed to the very topmost rock and viewed the surrounding country, a feat I should not have undertaken had the original apex remained. The sensation one feels when standing upon a pyramid top, aside from the nature of the surroundings, differs from that one experiences on the summit of a high moun- tain, inasmuch as from a mountain one can rarely ob- tain a view of the neighborhood close to the base, or else the space is shut in by neighboring peaks; while from a pyra- mid one can view all there is from with- in a few feet of the base to a distance as far as the eye can discern. The views from the Great Pyramid, though at all times sublime, vary with the time of day and night, and with the courses of the sun and moon. The first look is for Cairo. It is plainly visible, with its tall minarets and broad domes of glittering metal and color, and beyond it the dark Mokkatam hills are seen. A forest of immense palms, far away upon the border of the Nile, marks the site of ancient Memphis; still farther south are the pyramids of Sakkarah, the great Climbing the Great Pyramid. 48 THE GREAT PYRAMID. Step pyramid, the father of pyra- scene is most dramatic. The sun gone mids, among theni. Farther on is the down, the rising moon blanches all and desert; on the right is the desert; in shifts the shadows to the other side. front is the desert; all around is a vast The uneasy scavengers of the air now plain, now golden, now red, now in part look like ghouls as they come near black, now gray, changing as the sun enough for one to hear the whizzing of changes, as the great shadows of the their wings. But for them it would be pyramids are projected upon it, or as oppressively quiet. A person sittingthere the moon comes with its pale light and in the after-glow, looking off toward the tones down the grand chromatic dis- lighted city, feels as though doomed to play. The only variation in the won- impalementcast away at the mercy drous expanse comes from the mounds of the foul birds of the desert. And of sand here and there. These last but little comfort comes up from the change agreeably to the whims of the Sphinx, the only semblance of humanity wind. Like draught-animals, at one below; for its back is turned, and it moment they seem to be resting and seems to add to the feeling of absolute waiting for their call to labor. Then desertion which takes possession of one the airy messenger comes and gives the remaining on the Great Pyramid after word. At once the sand begins to rise the sun has gone down. in slender spirals. Body and strength A last look from the top, down the are gathered as it continues whirling corner, reveals another lesson in pyra- and ascending, until it towers aloft like mid construction, and recalls the view a great black column. Now it is joined directly downward from some rocky by a wild company impelled by the mountain-summit. The close base can- wind, and all hasten across the plain not be seen in a direct line, for the cor- all rising higher and higher, all waver- ners of the rock protrude like broad ing, spinning with awful volocity, until, cornices, one tier beyond the other. their destination reached, they flare at The little kiosk near the base, with part the top like water-spouts, break and of the desert between and far beyond burst high in air, and are diffuseda it, can also be plainly seen. The voices terrible stormupon the plain below, of the Arabs at the base are distinctly Woe be to man or camel on whom de- heard. scends the awful weight! One shrinks from descending such a As far as the eye can see southward rough pass, but the operation is far lies Egypt, the silvery Nile creeping more interesting than the ascent, be- along between the bands of emerald. cause, in making it, the traveller is di- Within view are over forty pyramids. verted from the hardship by the views, The pyramid of Chephren, orthe Second which change constantly as he twists and Pyramid, being about 300 feet away, turns and is lowered once more toward affords one an excellent opportunity, terra firma. A misstep would send him while seated on the edge of the Great bounding in mid-air from corner to cor- Pyramid, of studying pyramidal archi- ncr, until he fell, a shapeless mass, at the tecture from above. There seems to base. Nearly half-way there is a spot be a great abyss between. The dis- whence more than the usual amount of tance is remarkably deceiving. It is al- stone has been thrown down, making a most impossible to cast a stone so that deep depression, or cave. It is called it will fall clear of the base. It will only the half-way house. It is not half- drop on the side and bound and re- way, however. Its floor is on the one bound, perhaps to the ground. hundred and fifth tier, and it is three At sunset, when all the neighboring thousand two hundred and five inches pyramids m~y be seen tinged by the red from the base. The width of the steps glare, and the approach of night is is so disproportionate to their height heralded by the intense, sharp-pointed that each upper edge overhangs or hides shado 7s which fall upon the plain to- the step that next succeeds it. On com- ward the east, the vultures come swooping ing to the edge of the first stone the along through the gulf which separates one below comes into view. The de- Oheopas pile from Chephrens. Then the scent then becomes a succession of well- The Back of the Sphinx. 50 THE GREAT PYRAMID. meditated jumps, carefully freed, be assured, from an of the abandon of a goat in a frolic. The courses of stone vary in their thickness from twenty inches to fifty-six inches. They do not rise above each other in uniform order from a massive founda- tion-course up to one of very small dimensions for the -~ summit. The thir Vertical Section of the Great Pyramid (from south to north, looking west). course is composed of stone fifty-six A, the entrance-passage; B, the Grand Gallery; C, C, ventilating passages; D, the Queens Chamber; E, the grotto; F, the subterranean chamber; G, the Kings Chamber. inches in thickness; the fifteenth course is only twenty-eight inches thick, while at. the twentieth course we find that the stone measures thirty-eight inches. The thirty-fifth course is only twenty-four inches, whereas the thirty-sixth course is fifty inches. The remainder of the structure upward is not so variable, the several courses ranging from forty-two inches to twenty inches. It will thus be seen that, even in accomplishing the de- scent, one has been prevented by the builder from making any certain calcu- lation beyond the block of stone upon which he, wondering, stands. There are now two hundred and two courses remaining, and the height is 5,445 pyramid- inches. What glories must have been witnessed by those who ventured to this lof y platform in the ages that are past! It must have been the observatory of king, priest, ruler, poet, historian, and philosopher. If the sight of IRameses IL was as clear as his mental vision, he, seat- ed there, could have enjoyed some of the proudest hours of his proud and exalted reign, for his strong cities and store cities could all be seen: Pithom, with its great storehouses, built when bricks were made without straw; IRameses, the city named after its ambitious builder; Tanis, the Zoan of the Bible, where marvellous things were done; Mem- phis, the proud capital whose f a 11 e n Colossus still lies The Coffer. among the ancient ruins, half embedded in modern mud. The sun always shone on the sculptured head of IRameses the Great first in the morning and last at night, for his colossal s atues, standing in every city higher than all else except the masterpiece of Cheops, caught the light before and after all else, the more ancient obelisks not excepted.. THE GREAT PYRAMID. 51 The first reddening tip of the sun upon those lofty likenesses of the great Pharaoh was the signal for the watch- man of the night to announce the day begun. The last touch of glory upon them was the slaves warning that the king reigned supreme, forever. Long after iRameses Ii, Cambyses came, and on the pyramid-plain con- quered the Egyptians, mutilated the face of the Sphinx, and broke into the true outlines of the pyramidsruthless con- queror, vandal, and destroyer that he was. Twenty-four centuries after, Na- poleon, with his conquering hosts, met the gold-covered Mamelukes, who, riding as swift as the wind and as a flame of fire, hacked the barrels of the French guns with their blades of Damascus steel. It was like a blazing volcano. All was smoke and blood and mutilation, as though an earthquake had come. Droop- ing their heads to the saddle-bow, the fearless Mamelukes rode forward and met the awful volleys of the invader, but only to sink in the sand. Without horses then, and lying upon their backs wound- ed, they cut at the le6s of the enemy with their keen sabres, never yielding until conquered by death. And there, close to the Sphinx, one can see now the very place whence came up the clouds of smoke and flame amid the yells of the demons who fought, where lay the masses of dead and dying, where the depleted ranks of the victors moved along with bristling arms and broken standardsmoaning and swirl- ing like the sea that refuses to be quiet after a storm. Entrance to the Greet Pyramid. 52 THE GREAT PYRAMID. Later, Champollion, Lepsius, iRosel- ground, is 398 inches wide and 30 lini, Greaves, and others gathered ma- inches thick. The entrance-passage is terial here for their splendid volumes, but 41.5 inches wide, and its walls are Their magnificent helps to the study of composed of comparatively small stones. this whole vicinity were not appreciated But their truthfully straight lines and during their lives, for speculation as to close-fitting joints excite the admiration the purpose of these wondrous struct- of all who are able to appreciate good ures attracted little popular attention work. The passage descends at an an- for nearly half a century, until it gained gle of 26.30, nearly. Over the walls is a a new impetus from the wide discussion roof of stone 100 inches thick and 147 of the theories of Professor C. Piazzi inches broad. Above it is a triangular Smyth and others. stone which is 60 inches thick at the The construction of the interior of the outer end. The vertical line of the two Great Pyramid must now be explained, lower triangular arch-stones is 96 inches. As may be seen by the masonry below (page 51), at either side, there must have been one or more sets of these northward (out- side) of the ones remain- ing. If there are more beyond, they are undoubt- edly upon a horizontal line, and must, therefore, rapidly leave the neigh- borhood of the entrance- passage. Though mercilessly hacked and quarried and dilapidated, the mouth of the entrance-passage gives one a most impressive ex- ample of the stupendous construction-plan of the whole grand pile. It held its secret within its great throat for many a long thousand years, until A.D. 820, when Caliph Al Ma- moun discovered it in a most unexpected manner. This distinguished Arab of Fostat, the son of Ha- roun al IRasehid of the Arabian Nights, with inquiring mind, made a journey to Gizeh and pro- ceeded to effect an en- so far as it is understood. If one could trance into the Great Pyramid, where- have but a single impression of the mas- in, he had been led to believe, great sive masonry and the constructive abil- t~ easures were to be found. A large ity of the master-mason who planned it, staff of quarrymen was engaged for the the most satisfactory one would be at work. At which side to make the at- the entrance, near the centre of the tack, and at what point, was a puz- north side. The floor-base of the en- zle. A trifling hint caused the north trance-passage is on the thirteenth tier face to be chosen, near the base and at of masonry, about sixty feet from the the centre. Two blunders were made The Entrance and Al Mamouna Forced Opening. THE GREAT PYRAMID. at the beginning. The forced entrance was started 300 inches below the proper one, and 250 inches west of it. Night and day, week after week, for months, the labor of tunnelling went on, until quite one hundred feet of the antique masonry had been broken up and brought to the light. The workmen began to murmur then, and even openly rebelled against pursuing such a fruitless task any further. But they were forced to push on. One day, as some of them wrought despair- ingly at the inner end of their excavation, they heard a strange noise be- yond them, which resem- bled the falling of a great stone in a hollow space. It seemed incredible. Though alarmed beyond measure, they were forced by their persistent master to go on with the enterprise. Hammers, fire, and vine- gar were employed with renewed vigor again and again, until, a walled surface yielding to their efforts, the way opened to a low, narrow, descending passage. Leaping into the dark avenue with light- ed torch, they discovered at once the fallen stone which had led them on. It had dropped from the roof to the floor, and revealed the fact that there was just beyond it another passage, following southward like the other, ascending in- stead of descending; but, alas! it was closed by a series of huge granite plugs, placed there by the builder for the very purpose of heading off such enterprises as that of the adventurous caliph. Nothing daunted, however, the plucky Saracens broke a side passage through the western wall of limestone, cut a huge chasm upward, and made a junction with the wall of the ascending passage where the granite did not oppose. They cut through the limestone wall with com- parative ease, but as fast as they re- moved the broken pieces of the well- formed blocks, others came down from above and continued to bar their ad- vance. The despairing men gave way, but their unrelenting master drove them back to their work, forbidding them to stop until the mysterious blocks ceased to fall before them, though the reservoir from which they dropped be held by the hand of Allah himself. Finally the last one made its appearance. Like its predecessors, it was broken and removed, and the passage was clear. With lighted Jiambeaux the eager Arabs ascended, first on hands and knees, and then, after reaching the Grand Gallery, hastened, with might and main, upward and on- ward into the very heart of the moun- tain of stone. Visions of wealth grew before them there where a ray of sunshine never gave a ray of hopeuntil they came to the end of the passage. Then a step at the left, three feet high, arrested their attention. Climbing to its top, a low door-way was found, with a splendidly quarried granite portcullis hanging over it. Passing under this, on hands and knees, they crept into a small ante- chamber; through this to another low Pyramid of Chephren from the Top of the Great Pyramid. 54 THE GREAT PYRAMID. door-way leading into a further low his energ ~. A generation later, in No- passage, which again caused them, non- vember, 1864, accompanied by his wife, plussed, to bend. Thus they were led Professor C. Piazzi Smyth, of Edinburgh, into the large apartment known as the the Astronomer Royal of Scotland, went Kings Chamber. There, on the west to Egypt; and, while residing in some side, stood the hard-gained stone treas- ancient tombs near the Great Pyramid, nrc-box! It seemed too good to be he collected at his own expense an im- true. It was without a cover to protect mense amount of information and made its expected contents, and it wasen- most thorough measurements, since pub tirely empty! lished in his three volumes of Life and Caliph Al Mamoun was dumfounded, Work at the Great Pyramid, and in an- aud his workmen were about to murder other entitled Our Inheritance in the him. But he was a Commander of the Great Pyramid, all illustrated from his Faithful and understood human nature. own personally made photographs and During the night he caused to be hid- drawings. In 1865 he sent me twenty- den near the empty coffer a sufficient four of his pyramid photographs on store of gold to pay the men. The next glass, several of which have been en- day, being bidden to dig again, they graved for this article. found the gold and received their wages. As for the caliph, he returned to Fostat wiser as to the clear-headedness of the Egyptians who preceded him some thou- s~mnds of years, but no better in purse. From the time of Al Mamoun until 1637, no special effort was made to un- veil the mysteries of the Great Pyramid. In that year Professor Greaves, the Eng lish astronomer, made some valuable measurements. Two hundred years later, at his own expense, Colonel Howard Vyse did some persevering work of ex- ploration and mutilation, the great scar on the southern side being a mark of And what of the interior? A diagram of a vertical, central section (drawn from Our Inheritance in the Great Pyra- mid, and used here [p. 50] by the con- sent of Professor Smyth) must serve in explanation. Entering at the north side, the passage A is found descend- ing for nearly 344 feet at an angle of about 27~. The passage is so straight that the blue sky can be seen from the lower end of the portion which de- scends, at its junction with the ascending passage, B, which is only a few feet from where Al Mamoun entered. Ascending Napoleons Dattlefield (Desert of Gizeh). THE GREAT PYRAMID. 55 this path 93 feet we find a hori- zontal passage into the Queens Chamber, D, and a narrow, tortu- ous well descends to the subterra- nean chambers, E and F. Passing the horizontal entry leading to the Queens Chamber, we find the as- cending passage widens into what is called the Grand Gallery, B, which is 150 feet long, 58~- inches wide, and 28 feet high. Its con- struction is very remarkable. Its lofty walls are divided into seven sections, one overtopping the oth- er, the space between walls di- minishing toward the roof. On either side is a long stone bench, or ramp, each with twenty-eight precisely cut holes, the purpose of which is a mystery. Up one or the other of these ramps the explorer is led by the hand of one Arab, is cheered by another following closely, and further helped by deep cuts made in the ramp-stones to prevent slipping. At places the ramp is broken away, when one must take to the floor of the passage. Finally the top, or southern end, is reached. The smooth, slippery limestone dim is left with no little feeling of relief, and the granite of Mount Sinai or of the ar- ries of Syene is presented for examination. Leaving the Grand Gallery, a esti- bule is reached with a granite porteullis, the survivor of four running in gr nite grooves, doubtless just as Al Mamoun saw them. Beyond is the Kings ham- ber, G, 35 feet long, 17 feet wide, and 19 feet high, roofed and walled with g anite slabs so exactly fitted that not even the edge of a page of this MAGAZINE could be forced into the joints. This sun- - less apartment is not quite under the apex of the pyramid. The ver- tical pressure is further lessened by five low, empty chambers, con- structed in a masterly manner, above. Ventilating channels, C, C, lead to the outer surface. The one leading northward is 233 feet long, and the other, southward, is 194 feet long. Both are square, and from six to nine inches in diam- eter. The construction of the roof is, perhaps, the most skilful piece of workmanship in the world. Nine splendid granite blocks, each nearly nineteen feet long and four feet wide, lie side by side upon the walls and form the ceiling. Above this are the five chambers already alluded to, covered by a series of huge sloping blocks which support one another by meeting at the apex. For forty centuries the mass of The Niche in the Queens Chamber A Socket-stone of the Great Pyramid. 56 THE GREAT PYRAMID. masonry above has rested on this unique superstructure, and it remains as sound and strong as it was when the architect left it. The floor of the apartment is on the fiftieth course of stone, counting from the base. The coffer is located about four and a half feet from the west end, and, like the walls of the room, is of polished granite. Its cubic measure- ment outside is exactly double its inte- rior. Its length outside is 90 inches; in- side length, 78 inches; width outside, 39 inches; width inside, 27 inches; height outside, about 41 inches ; depth inside, 314 inches, nearly. It will hold 2,500 pounds avoirdupois of water, and has about 71,250 cubic inches interior capa- citythe same as the old English cal- dron, and the fourth part is the English quarter measure. Not a ray of sunshine ever entered the mysterious apartment which holds it. Magnesium light was employed to secure its photograph. Eight Bedouins were posted inside and around it, with an uplifted taper of burning magnesium in each hand. Three cameras, large and small, were focussed, in order to increase the chances of success. A wilder, more weird sight I never witnessed. The dark skins of the Arabs, with the~ white robes shining in the brilliant light; their excited yells; their stam- peding whenever a bit of hot oxide chanced to fall upon their bare shoul- ders or feet, and the intense glare of the burning metal, all gave the scene an infernal realism which needed no fanci- ful Salvator Rosa to paint it, or Dante to make it more horrible. More than once, with the fear of failure staring me in the face, I grappled with my dusky helpers as they fled from the chamber. Although half stifled by the fumes of the burning metal, again and again I forced them back to their posts. At last, American magnesium and the Yankee camera were victorious, and brought three pictures of the coffer out to the light, so that all might guess what it is. And what is it? Whatever else it may be, many people, led by Professor Smyth, regard it as the standard of Tombs Northeast of the Great Pyramid. THE GREAT PYRAMID. 57 English weights and meas- ures. A hundred other curious theories have been advanced by thoughtful people concerning the cof- fer and the chamber where- in it rests, and a thousand details of construction and measurement have been in- dustriously recorded by Professor Smyth. But my space confines me to the mention of only one more thoughtone that in the future may lead to very important revelations. When approaching the Kings Chamber, as soon __ as the visitor enters the antechamber, he observes a block of granite suspend- ed from side to side. It is about two feet from the en- trance, is quite a foot thick, and is slid down so as to rest in two opposite grooves that have been carefully cut into the wainscoting which lines the chamber for quite a height on both sides. This cu- rious block has been termed the Gran- ite Leaf, because, as Professor Greaves, who christened it, said, it resembles the sliding-leaf or valve in a water-gate. The only attempt at fancy quarry- work in the great structure is upon the face of this curious block. It con- sists of a small projection standing in relief only an inch from the face of the stone, with its upper surface conically bevelled. It resembles the handle of a door-latch. Itis five inches long and four inches high at the centre. It is called the boss of the granite leaf, and seems to be such a tempting hint that I won- der the lifting-powers of the handle have not been testedand the puzzle as to what is beyond revealed. The future explorer may be encouraged to effort by the suggestion that the granite leaf hides a chamber wherein are stored all the original plans of the pyra- mid in all its parts. We return once more to the Queens Chamber. One of the regular tiers of masonry serves as its floor. Its walls are of highly polished limestone, with close and true joints, and are largely coy- VOL. 1115 ered with a hard saline incrustation. The most curious feature of the apart- ment is a niche in the eastern wall, tw& feet out of centre, and fully fifteen feet high. Its accurate finish and its curious construction, shown by the accompany- ing engraving (p. 55), from Professor Smyths photograph, made in 1864, prove that it must have had some special and important object. The antique Arab quarried through its back to find treas- ure, but found none. The inquiring European thought to find an under- ground passage beyond, leading to the Sphinx, but abandoned his theory after forcing his way fifty feet eastward. The ceiling of the Queens Chamber is formed of two inclined sides, so that the apart- ment is very properly called seven- sided. From both the northern and southern sides a mysterious tube or channel leads upward and outward. Un- til a few years ago these channels were closed by a thin casing. A fissure in one of them invited the hammer and chisel; and after their application, two more pyramid conundrums were added to the list for the attention of the future explorer. Once more to the entrance-passage. As the low ascending and descending The Stepped Pyramid. 58 THE GREAT PYRAMID. sections are visited, by aid of the torch one may see on their walls a number of carefully chiselled grooves, whichsome of the good people wise in such things believework by the inch to the year theory, and therefore respond to our own chronology of the following events: When Israel went to Egypt; their exodus from Egypt; the Decalogue giveu to Is- rael; the Assyrian captivity of Israel; the Babylonish captivity of Judah; the birth of Christ. Some also believe that the exact entrance into the Grand Gallery marks the Crucifixion, the redemption of Israel, and the resurrection. Further extensive and gratifying im- pressions may be had by means of a cir- cuit around the great pile. An oppor- tunity, also, is thus given to compare it with its neighbors. The ground-plan makes clear their geographical relation to each other, to the Sphinx, to the vil- lage, and to the trees. Cheops and his imitators were doubtless foresighted, but they were not amateur photographers; and yet they could not have placed their grand creations better for the purposes of the atsthetic camera-man who is am- bitious to take all creation in one wide- sweeping view. About a mile south by east of the Great Pyramid there is a limestone hill rising from the plain, whose ragged summit is covered with congeries of shell-fish, and which glistens with crys- tals of gypsum. Standing upon that hill, the observer obtains a fine view of the pyramids of Mencheres, Chephren, and Cheops, and of the Sphinx. In the foreground, say at one-fourth of the distance, are two wide-spread sycamore- trees, with a scanty group of palms be- tween them. IJn- derneath these trees it is said Bonaparte rested after the dreadful combat of 1799. .Now, only a lowly M oh am me dan cemetery is pro- tected by the shade of the dense green foliage. Passing beyond these, and east- ward, the very best view of the stu- pendous trio is ob- tained, together with six of the smaller pyramids, three east and three south of the Great Pyramid. The view accompanying (p. 43) was made with the group of Arabs seated a mile away from the pyramids, and a single Bedouin stationed half a mile from them in order to make the distance better understood. From a closer examination of a corner of the pyramid of Mencheres, one can see how beautiful must have been its highly polished, pink syenite casing, for great masses of the glistening blocks lie in confusion at the base. And how the casing must have been attached is ex- plained by the parts adhering to the upper portion of the second, or Cheph- rens, pyramid. Southeast from the Great Pyramid is a partly excavated tomb. Standing upon one of the magnificently finished blocks of granite which lie there, one can sepa- rate Cheopss masterpiece from its neigh- bors and obtain, not only a choice view of it, but the best possible conception of its elevation. Few sites in Egypt could surpass the one chosen for this pyramid. It stands free all round, 150 feet above the level of the desert, and where the wind keeps the sand swept away clear at its base. It is placed in latitude 300, or, what is the same thing, where the true Section showing the Kings Chamber and ita Approach. THE GREAT PYRAMID. 59 pole of the heavens is one-third of the way from the horizon to the zenith, and where the noon sun at true spring or autumn is two-thirds of the way from the horizon to the point overhead. It is in longitude 31~ 11 east. Its faces are directly north, south, east, and west. Neither storm, earthquake, nor time have disturbed it. Only the vandal has dese- crated it, and ruthlessly quarried from it to build his own puny structures in Cairo, or to furnish the tombs now bur- ied in the sand at its feet. Enough re- mains, however, to construct a wall four feet high, three feet wide, and fifteen hundred miles long, or to supply a cubic foot for each mile of distance between its entrance and the sun. Its height is 486 feet, and is therefore in excess of that of the cathedrals of St. Stephen at Vienna, St. Peter at Rome, St. Nicho- las at Hamburg, or Notre Dame at Rouen. It is 179 feet higher than the Capitol at Washington, 69 feet lower than the Washington monument, 121 feet higher than St. Pauls at London, nearly twice as high as the great electric-light mast at Cleveland, and only 24 feet lower than the spires of the magnificent cathe- dral at Cologne. It is quite 750 feet square at the base, and covers 13~ acres of groundan area equal to Lincolns Inn Fields in London, and about three hundred feet each way longer than the area occupied by the new public build- ings in Philadelphia. If it could be hoisted over New York City and let down at Union Square, it would not quite go into the space between the north side of Seventeenth and the south side of Fourteenth Streets. It would cover from the eastern side of Fourth Avenue quite to the first pavement of Fifth Avenue. If it should be thus let down at any time, and there were no street-exits north and south, Union Square would become as dark and dis- mal as the Kings Chamber. It is four times as high as the electric-light mast in Union Square, and several times larger, I dare say, than the pyramidal composi- tion formed by the guy-rods of that mast. Anyone standing at the northwest corner of Broadway and Seventeenth Street, facing toward Fourteenth Street and Fourth Avenue, will secure a fair impres- sion of the size of the Great Pyramid The Ascending Passage. base, although the area thus viewed is nearly three hundred feet scant on the right-hand side. The diagonal of its base is 12,927 inches. One more effort to get at a satisfac- tory comprehension of the immensity of this unparalleled stracture, and I desist. The observation must be made from the north side, opposite the entrance and at some distance from, and on a line somewhat below, the base [p. 52]. Al Mamouns hole is seen on the right. Above it, and farther east, is the grand entrance-portal, 668 inches above the base, and there are the objects to be used for our kindergarten demonstration the quarried blocks of stone. Some of these are thirty feet long by five feet high, and four to five feet wide. They must contain from six to seven hundred 60 THE GREAT PYRAMID. and fifty cubic feet each, and weigh from fifty to sixty tons. The stones about the entrance we have already tried to com- prehend. There is nothing of interest on the western side. Let us turn for awhile to the Great Pyramids inseparable companion, the Sphinx. It is located about 1,800 feet southeast of the Great Pyramid. It is a natural rock, such as is occasionally seen in the Arabian desert between Akabah and Petra, with the general out- line of an animaL The head only has been sculptured with any artistic care, after the image of the Egyptian god Armachis. The back of the head has been less mutilated than the face, and still displays the careful chiselling of the workmen. Little is known of its his- tory, and less of its origin. Science, however, has figured out its size. The height from the base is 63 feet; the length, 155 feet. The ears each meas- ure 6 feet 5 inches; the nose, 5 feet 10 inches; and the mouth, 7 feet 8 inches. Across the cheeks, the face is 13 feet 7 inches. The neck at the shoulders is 99 feet in circumference, and at the head 66 feet. From the great hole in the back to the shoulders is 75 feet. Recent excavations have revealed again, between the mason-built paws of the monster, and running underneath its body, a curious temple with six com- partments, one above the other, with a grand staircase leading to it from the plain. What the connection is between the two is yet an open question. M. Mariette believed the Sphinx to be older than the pyramids. It is known to the Arabs as Abflhol !the father of ter- rors! Wise investigators have concluded that it was completed in the time of Thothmes TV., and redecorated under Bameses II., but had been commenced under Thothmes III., about 1460 s.c. Its name, Sphinx, means the pouring out, and for this reason it is believed in some way to symbolize the overflow of the Nile. Other good people believe it was designed to symbolize a pure re- ligious truth connected with the lesson the Divine Master taught Watch. Doubtless the clearing away of the sand about it, which is going on vigor- ously at this very time, may supply some fresh knowledge that will help us to understand the purpose of its con- struction. It has been and is faithfully watched, but, as I heard an American lady remark one day, as she sat upon a dromedary in front of it, I think they keep it in horrible repair. A few notes as to the construction of the Great Pyramid, and then I must re- tire from a discussion which is seemingly endless. All through the consideration of the subject, the queries arise: Who builtit? When? How? What for? Answers to these questions have been figured out by wiser delvers than I I record what seem to me to be the most reasonable of very many. The builder, Cheops, ruled in the fourth dy- nasty, the earliest one of which we have any record, unless the Step pyramid of Sakkarah was erected in the third dynasty. It seems to have been the am- bition of the rulers of the fourth dynasty to place themselves on record as the be- ginners of monumental history, and to fasten its first link to the Great Pyramid. The structure must have been c6mpleted, then, about 2170 s.c., and for over four thousand years has served as the con- temporary record of the worlds events. How was it constructed? Certainly with tools. This fact has been satisfac- torily proved by Mr. W. Flinders Petrie, the indefatigable explorer, who even now is laboring in the Delta in the cause of the Egypt Exploration Fund. The said tools were jewel-pointedwith beryl, sapphire, emerald, topaz, or diamond. In form they were similar to those used in our present generationlong, straight saws, circular disk-saws, solid drills, tubular drills, hand-gravers, and lathe- tools were all made with jewel-points set in a metallic base. Hammer, chisel, and pick dressing were also freely used. On one of the walls at Thebes, Mr. Flinders Petrie tells us, there is a painting of workmen apparently chis- elling down the side of a stone to a plane face; they have a cord stretched quite clear of the stone over an offset block at each side, and are then apply- ing an offset piece to the face of the stone to see whether the face is in ex- cess. This is a skilful method, as any excess would bulge out the string, and could be exactly measured as the work went on. And the string need not be THE GREAT PYRAMID. 61 removed, as the chisel could be used un- der it. Working on a vertical face, the bellying of the string does not affect it. At each of the four corners of the levelled rock upon which the lower tier of the pyramid stands, there is a rectan- gular cavity or socket, 6 by 7 feet in size, and in depth about 9 inches. The four foundation corner-stones of the edifice were set in these. They are ex- actly level, but not on the same hori- zontal plane, the southeastern socket being the lower. How the work went on after that, to the finish, has been fairly conjectured. There are those who oppose the continuous idea, and aver that the reigning king did not at once complete the pyramid intended for his tomb. They maintain that the sepul- chre was sunk in the bed-rock, and a sloping passage cut to it from the sur- face. Over this a tapering pile of stones was built. If the king then died, his mummy was placed in the tomb, a small pyramidal cap was put on top of the blocks of stone, and triangular blocks were placed at the sides. A small pyra- mid hermetically sealed was thus com- pleted. If the king lived, he omitted the triangular blocks and cap, and added other blocks around the base so as to form a second stage, and so on, each year increasing the size. Thus the lon- ger the king reigned the greater his last resting-place became. It also served to mark the years of his reign. If this the- ory is correct, then no particular credit is due to King Cheops, except for the indestructible evidence that he reigned longest of all. But a more lofty pur- pose than that must be ascribed to him. There is a unity of design apparent in the Great Pyramid, which proves that it is the result of one grand conception from beginning to end. One need but return to the five apartments above the Kings Chamber to see how mighty was the plan from the start, and how scien- tifically it was executed. Four azimuth- trenches have been found by Professor Smyth, which were evidently used by the ancient architect. Professor Smyth also sets down the cubic measurement of the great structure at 80,000,000 feet. Stephens avers that it could ac- commodate three thousand seven hun- dred chambers as large as the Kings Chamber, and yet allow an equal solid bulk for partition-walls. The building was constructed con- scientiously throughout. It was so workmanlike, in fact, that there is no reason why it should not stand for four thousand years after every other struct- ure now on the face of the earth is in ruins. When the builders had finished their work the entrance was carefully con- cealed by blocks which, in their day, were considered Cyclopean. The secret method of entering was probably com- municated to the priests of the land, and handed down generation after gen- eration until, by some unhappy accident, it was lost. When the missing links were first recovered we do not know. Some points of history are given further on. We return now to our original conun- drum. Why was the mysterious struct- ure erected? Outside of all the legends and tra- ditions in regard to it, a thousand modern theories have been advanced as to the true intent and purpose of the builder. The following are the most rea- sonable: Lepsius and the majority of Egyptologists consider all the pyramids to be tombs, and maintain that each one stood in the centre of a necropolis. Mr. John Taylor, Professor Smyth, and their cobelievers, adhere to the religious the- ory. A much less number believe vari- ously in the scientific, the geodesic, or the astrologic theory, and all argne, somewhat dogmatically, each for his own particular little apex. The scientist fascinates us with his idea that the builder only intended to leave evidence of the splendid acquire- ments of the people of his day, and that, if evolution only keeps gliding placidly on, something quite as large as the Great Pyramid will come along if the world is patient. No body of men regard the Great Pyr- amid as holding more symbolical mean- ing for them than the members of the Masonic fraternity. Cheops is looked upon as their Grand Master, and his vast accomplishment is regarded as hold- ing the true principles of all that is plumb, level, and square. Moreover, it is maintained that if the sacred 62 THE GREAT PYRAMID. truths taught by Cheopss pyramid have been inspired by the great Architect of the Universe, and that the architect of the Great Pyramid has tabulated those truths in a Masonic form in this unique building, then the inference is that it is left for the fraternity to apply the connection that exists between the two. The Masonic Lodge is planned after the Great Pyramid for three several Ma- sonic reasons, reiterated at every lodge meeting. Professor Smyth thinks that enough has been found out to prove that the building is not stuck full of rooms, and that practical experience gives me- chanical proofs of a general focussing of the whole toward the Kings Chamber, in a manner which absolutely precludes the idea of any other hollow part of im- portance remaining to be found. And yet there is a movement on foot in this country for a more than ever thor- ough search after, and investigation of, facts; and another organization, also American, is pledged to probe the mystery with a diamond drill, hoping thus to decide forever whether there are or are not other subterra- nean chambers and pas- sages. The earliest trustwor- thy records were made byllerodotus,the father of authentic history. He visited Gizeh, and tells in glowing language the wonderful impression made upon him by the pyramids, besides re- cording the many le- gends and traditions told him by the Egyp- tians. Before his time we have but little histo- ry. When the Moham- medans occupied Egypt the shrewd Arabian writers took up the theme, and wrote many things which can only be looked upon as wild fancies. Sir John Mandeville was one of the earliest Christian visitors (1350), and from then down to the visit of Professor John Greaves (1637) a number of others re- corded their experiences and convic- tions. Professor Greaves is entitled to the credit of beginning the careful mod- ern study of the subject. Many followed him until in 1799 came the French savants of Napoleons expedition. In turn, Hamilton, Dr. Wilson, Belzoni, Ca- viglia, Wi]kinson, Colonel Howard Vyse (1837), and several others, added much to our knowledge. Then the work rested for over twenty years, until 1859, when good John Taylor, the father of the modern scientific theory, began his in- vestigations. He, dying, let his mantle fall upon Professor C. Piazzi Smyth. After him we owe much to Rawlinson, Mariette, Brugsch, Maspero, and the Pooles. And now, even while I write, the very last of all comes as follows: There is a passage leading from be- tween the paws of the Sphinx, running diagonally to the Great Pyramid, the View from the Top of the Pyramid of Cheops. THE GREAT PYRAMID. 63 entrance to which is covered by a large stone. Underneath the pyramid is a spacious chamber supported by carved pillars. There is also an entrance to the pyramid on the west side. In the Kings Chamber there is a stone behind the cof- fer which revolves on a pivot, but which is fastened on the outside by two bolts. This is on the west side. These sug- gestions are accompanied by the follow- ing remark, found in an old manuscript: In a tomb behind the Sphinx, from the mouth of a mummy-pit eighty feet deep, the echoes, prolonged, of a gun fired in the heart of the pyramid were heard, while the gun fired at the base of the pyramid was hardly audible. This fact proves a hidden labyrinth beneath the table-land. Thus writes Mr. W. L. Morcom, of Manchester, England, in the International Standard for May. Since then he has written me further concerning his faith in the sound the- ory, as follows: We have chambers on the twenty-fifth and fiftieth layers of ma- sonry; why may there not be one on the seventy-fifth? And certainly there are some in the solid rock, easily discovered if properly attacked. Large chambers must emit a hollow sound if the walls are struck. I would place listeners on the following spots: at the ventilation- holes, outside; at the ventilation-holes, inside; in the Kings Chamber; in the Queens Chamber; in the subterranean chamber ; and in the great outside tomb southeast. The firing or hammering should be at stated intervals, and the results noted. I also look for a passage over the ascending passage, believing that the transverse plates are for strength- ening the work. These suggestions thrill the earnest student, and create a wish that they may soon be brought to the test. The last day I was at Gizeh was a memorable one for me. I had come back, after nearly half a year of wander- ing among the great marvels of the Orient, to live the pyramid experiences all over againbut this time as a care- free visitor, and not as a workman. I revisited the interior; climbed to the top. and remained there several hours; I then descended, and once more made the circuit. Then I bade farewell to the Sphinx, and finally crossed over to my old, favorite seat, on a granite pillar of the great tomb. The sun was practi- cally set, for it was behind the pyramid, where I could not see it. But its power was not gone. It sent over toward me the monstrous shadow, as keen-edged and pointed as a Soudanese spear. The long darts of light shot out from the northwestern and southeastern outlines of the great pile like the scintillations of a coronaa veritable nimbus of glory. In an instant more the display ended. The sun had set, and the darkness of the Egyptian night was over all. The whole world seemed to have fallen into the depths. The shadow projected on the sands was lifted up and hung like a screen against the pyramid. The out- lines of the great mystery became almost invisible. Presently a new, soft, lovely light fell down from heaven, or else it came sweep- ing across the desert like a breeze from Memphiswhich, I caunot tell. It was the after-glow, the sunset glory repeated. The soft, tender tints flushed the faces of the monsters of Gizeh, flushed the horizon all around, flushed the sky. The vast desert was set aglow again. Then it all went away, and in the dark- ness I rode back to the noisy city, more entranced and more puzzled than ever. {1j _ A ROMANCE OF CHELSEA VILLAGE AND EAST HAMPTON TOWN. By H. C. Bunner. PART I LELSEA Village has never had the aggressive exclu- siveness of Green- wich. It exists to- day, and vague- ly knows itself by name, close to the heart of the great city that has swallowed it up; but it is in no- wise such a distinct entity as the brave little tangle of crooked streets a few blocks to the south. Greenwich has always been Greenwich, and the Ninth Ward has been the centre of civiliza- tion to the dwellers therein. But Chel- sea has tried to be fashionable, has opened its doors to foreign invaders, and has even had an attack of Anglo- mania, and branched out into Terraces in the true London style. And so it has lost homogeneity and originality, and it has only a peculiar and private air of ambitionless and uninviting gloom to set it apart as a special quarter of New York. But Chelsea certainly does look like the inhabitants of its own boarding- housesmost respectable people, who have only tried too hard at elegant gen- tility for their own comfort or prosper- ity. And the place has one other strong individuality. I do not know that there are very many ailanthus-trees in Chel- sea; but there is, to me, a pervading odor of that gruesome exotic in all the streets, and I think an imaginative per- son might detect the smell even in the midwinter blasts that howl up from the North River. Contemplation of one Chelsea street had a depressing effect upon Miss Celia Leete, as she sat by her window at five o~clock of a summer Saturday afternoon. Her room was in the front of a third story of a comfortable white wooden house, one of a little squad that stood well back from the street, the first two stories all but hidden by green-latticed verandas. Miss Celia Leete looked through the thin and dusty leaves of the horse-chest- nut-tree on the sidewalk, and her gaze roved idly up and down the line of boarding-houses across the way. They were boarding-houses with certain as- pirations. They had also high stoops and elaborate cast-iron balconies. Yet, somehow, they did not look like even the second-cousins of those lordlier structures within the sacred one blocks space east and west from Fifth Avenue. NATURAL SELECTION.

H. C. Bunner Bunner, H. C. Natural Selection - A Romance Of Chelsea Village And East Hampton Town 64-76

A ROMANCE OF CHELSEA VILLAGE AND EAST HAMPTON TOWN. By H. C. Bunner. PART I LELSEA Village has never had the aggressive exclu- siveness of Green- wich. It exists to- day, and vague- ly knows itself by name, close to the heart of the great city that has swallowed it up; but it is in no- wise such a distinct entity as the brave little tangle of crooked streets a few blocks to the south. Greenwich has always been Greenwich, and the Ninth Ward has been the centre of civiliza- tion to the dwellers therein. But Chel- sea has tried to be fashionable, has opened its doors to foreign invaders, and has even had an attack of Anglo- mania, and branched out into Terraces in the true London style. And so it has lost homogeneity and originality, and it has only a peculiar and private air of ambitionless and uninviting gloom to set it apart as a special quarter of New York. But Chelsea certainly does look like the inhabitants of its own boarding- housesmost respectable people, who have only tried too hard at elegant gen- tility for their own comfort or prosper- ity. And the place has one other strong individuality. I do not know that there are very many ailanthus-trees in Chel- sea; but there is, to me, a pervading odor of that gruesome exotic in all the streets, and I think an imaginative per- son might detect the smell even in the midwinter blasts that howl up from the North River. Contemplation of one Chelsea street had a depressing effect upon Miss Celia Leete, as she sat by her window at five o~clock of a summer Saturday afternoon. Her room was in the front of a third story of a comfortable white wooden house, one of a little squad that stood well back from the street, the first two stories all but hidden by green-latticed verandas. Miss Celia Leete looked through the thin and dusty leaves of the horse-chest- nut-tree on the sidewalk, and her gaze roved idly up and down the line of boarding-houses across the way. They were boarding-houses with certain as- pirations. They had also high stoops and elaborate cast-iron balconies. Yet, somehow, they did not look like even the second-cousins of those lordlier structures within the sacred one blocks space east and west from Fifth Avenue. NATURAL SELECTION. NA TURAL SELECTION. 65 Perhaps this was partly because right next to them came the little tailors shop, red brick, painted redder yet, ten feet wide and one story high, with the Ger- man tailors wife forever standing in the door-way, holding her latest baby in her bare red arms. The children of shabby and not over clean gentility were playing in shrill- voiced chorus on the sidewalk in front of the high-stoop houses. Occasionally one of them would recognize a home-re- turning father, and, without pausing in the merry round of Spanish Fly or Par, would give his parent the hail of easy equality, Hlo, Pa ! The heads of families in the boarding- house colony were sometimes employed in the wholesale houses down-town; but oftener were clerks or floor-walkers in large dry-goods shops, or proprietors of smaller establishments on the West-side VOL. 1116 avenues. One of these gentlemen ar- rived at his domicile as Miss Celia Leete looked out of her window. He mechan- ically took his night-key from his pocket, but he replaced it, for the door was open, and most of the ladies of the house were disposed about the steps, in all the finery that the bargain counterss of Four- teenth Street could furnish. Then this conversation fell sharply upon the dull and sultry air: Why, Mr. Giddeus, that you? Early to-night, aint you? Wasnt it awful hot down-town? By a delicate convention of the place, even the boarder who was in charge of the Gents Furnishing Goods Depart- ment of Messrs. Sonnenschein and IRe- gensehirm, a mile up Eighth Avenue, was supposed to transact his business down-town. Hot enough for me [a responsive 66 NA TURAL SELECTION. ripple of merriment]. I aint a hog, Miss Seavey. Why, Miss Wicks, you down again? Havent seen you in three days. Quite a stranger. Hows the neuralger? Better now, thank you, Mr. Gid- dens; but I had an awfle siege of it this time. I was most afraid to show myself, Ive run down so. Idersed youd run up, stid f down. Never saw you lookin better. Oh, Mr. Giddens, youre so gallant! I wonder your wife aint jealous of you, youre so gallant to all the ladies. There, you go right along to her, or shell say somethin to me, I know she will. And with a gentle push, and amid much tit- tering, Mr. Giddens disappeared in the dark door-way. Celia Leete turned from her window. She was sick of life, of the place, of herselfof something, she could not quite tell what. And yet her ailment was com- mon enough, and simple enough, and she defined her longing suffi- ciently well when she said to herself, as she sometimes did: I wish I was someone else. It would not re- quire a profound psy- chologist, knowing who and what Miss Celia Leete was, and knowing also that she had spent one year of the most purely for- mative period of her young life in a semi- fashionable boarding- school, to deduce from this statement a general idea of what manner of person Miss Celia Leete wished to be, could she be someone other than herself. Miss Celia Leete was the younger daughter of David Leete, the manufact- urer of the once famous William Riley baking- powder. There was no levity prepense in the pecu- liar suggestiveness of this name. Mr. Leete had perhaps never heard of the Celtic lover who of old time was bidden by his aristocratic lady-love to rise up and accom- pany her to far Amerikey. But he had bought the receipt for his ex- cellent baking-powder from a clever young Irishman who chanced to be a NA TURAL SELECT/ON. 67 namesake of the lovelorn emigrant whose tale is told in immortal verse, and he loyally gave the inventor due credit, and stood upon his own merits as an honest manufacturer. It was long ago, in the earlier days of baking- powder, that David Leete put the Will- iam Riley on the market. It was a great success among those first advent- urous housewives who were heretical enough to shake off the thralldom of yeast. Of later years, other baking-pow- ders had crowded between it and the great baking public, yet it still sold much as it had at first, when hundreds only, instead of thousands, put faith in the fermenting powers of the new dis- covery. The adventurous housewives of the first generation had grown old and conservative, and they clung to the William Riley powder, and thought ill of those giddy young matrons who dal- lied with more modern compounds. So David Leete was well-to-do. He might have lived in a much finer house than the white frame cottage; but that was the first house he had ever bought, and thence he had ordered that he should be borne when the time came for him to leave New York for- ever. For even the truest old New Yorker must now go into exile with Death, and lie down at last in a Brooklyn cem- etery or far up in trim Woodlawn. From the old house, then, he walked to his Houston Street factory every morning at eight oclock. It had been six oclock in the baking-powders first days of struggle, and then it had been seven, and half-past seven, and now that his son Alonzo was old enough to look after the business, he was thinking of making it nine. At half-past twelve he came back for dinner; at six he was at home, in his shirt-sleeves and his big slippers, waiting for supper with a good appetite and a clear conscience. Mr. Leete had a better appetite for his supper than his younger daughter could often muster up. By six oclock, as a general thing, the day had grown very heavy to this young lady, and she was not tempted by the cold meat, the hot biscuit, the cake and the tea which were good enough for her father and her mother, her brother Alonzo and her sister Dorinda, more commonly called Dodie or Doe. But then there were many things that Celia did not fancy, in spite of the fact that the rest of the family liked them. Such strange differences of taste will occasionally occur in even the most There was no time for vain wishing, and she opened the door. NA TURAL SELECTION. 69 conservatively regulated households and the standard-bearer of a new school of domestic ethics has to suffer, as a rule. Were we not well abreast with the world when last we took our bearings, some twenty or thirty years ago? Are we to set our sails now to suit these saucy chits whom we ourselves brought into the world? What was right in our time is right for all time, and theres an end of it. Celia did not, however, suffer martyr- dom because of any ideas which may have stimulated her young imagination. Her mother said she was a peaky, Miss Nancy sort of a fussy child, not tall like Popper Leete, nor like my own folks, neither. Father Leete thought some- times that she had been spilte by that highty-tighty boardin-school. Dorinda considered her awfle queer, and wished she were like the other girls, and Alouzo silently disapproved of her ways and mannerssaying once, in fact, that he thought she had too many of the lat- ter. Yet they all loved her and in- dulged and petted her. They did not understand her, of course; but, then, there was no necessity of understanding her. Children are fanciful, and Celia was still the child of the house. And although these quoted utterances told, in a broad way, the truth about Celias differences with the family stand- ard of ethics, it is safe to say that no member of the household had anything like a realizing sense of that truth. If they perceived in the young woman an unwise and futile ambition, they misap- prehended the nature of the ambition itself, and pictured the aspirant as de- sirous merely of those material things the possession of which represented to them social superiority. If they had been asked to put their ideas in words, they would have said that Celia wished to live in a house on Fifth Avenue, to drive on that thoroughfare in a fine car- riage, to give balls, and to dance the german, whatever that was, and to have her name in the Home Journal every week. And, doubtless, these things were all in Celias list of vague desires; but also her heart yearued after a certain something which sometimes goes with these things, which yet she knew was not hers by birthwhereas the notion VOL. 1117 that there was any difference in human quality between themselves and the haughtiest of the people in what was called society had never entered into the head of any living Leete until Celia was sent to a boarding-shool in the Orange Mountains, the year that they thought her lungs were weak. The Leetes had, like other folks, their own little foot-rule to measure the world with, and they used it with steru and unimaginative justice. They measured all people with itking and clodhopper, poet and peasant. If you fell below what they held to be the proper stature of man, they might recognize you in your place as a fellow-mortal and a factor in the affairs of life; but they would have none of you socially. If you touched the exact mark, you were a gentleman~ or a lady, as the case might be. Ifby mischanceyou rose above that fixed linewhy, there was something wrong about you, that was sure; at the best, you were queer, and queer was a word of serious condemnation in the Leete vo- cabulary. As an instance of this impartiality in judgment, let us take the case of the Wykoffs. The Wykoffs were the owners of the whole block in which Mr. Leetes factory stood, and for thirty years old John Wykoff had been a model landlord. That is, he had treated Mr. Leete like a gentleman, and Mr. Leete had treated him like a gentleman, and everything was perfectly satisfactory. But now John Wykoff was dead, and his son reigued in his place, and it appeared that this young whippersnapper of a Randolph Wykoft through his lawyers, had ordered that Mr. Leetes lease should not be re- newed when his five years came to an end in the spring. The lease was not to be renewed that had been renewed once every five years since 1862. The rent had always been paid promptlyJohn Wykoff had never had to wait a day or an hour, nor had he ever been called upon to pay a cent for repairs. And here was this young pup of a son turn- ing out his best tenant, just for some crazy scheme of building a great co- operative factory to cover the whole block. John Wykoff was a perfect gentle- man, but his son was no gentleman at all, that was one thing sure and settled. 70 NA TURAL SELECTION. But Ill give him a piece of my mind, said Mr. Leete, at dinner. Ill give him a piece of my mind when he comes back from gallivanting about Europe. Gimme some more cabbage, Ma Leete ; I aint lost my appetite, if the Wykoffs have gone back on me. Celia Leete, whose brief experience of a strange social world had led her to doubt the accuracy and the usefulness of the Leete foot-rule, sat alone, on this particular afternoon, in the chamber which she shared with Dorinda. She was trying to read a novel of local manufacture, which, according to a press- notice quoted from the Peoria Palladium, gave a vivid glimpse into the highest stratum of New Yorks most exclusive society. It told about a young country- girl, of overpowering refinement and gen- eral moral and mental correctness, who had come to New York to pay a visit to some worldly and aristocratic relations, several of whom she lured into righteous- ness during her stay. This young lady was finally saved from the wiles of a titled foreign adventurer by the interposition of the hero, a dark and superficially cynical person, who had sounded all the depths and heights of swellness, and who, finding all things else hollow and ob- jectionable, married her and took her off to do missionary work in the far West, where he felt that he could readily win the confidence and friendship of the miners and the Red Indians, and let the light of apostolic Episcopalianism into their darkened lives. Celia Leete was not successful in her attempt to read this tender tale. She had got it out of the Mercantile Library on the strength of the advertisement which quoted the Peoria Palladiums no- tice. Almost all the characters had names that began with Van or Van- der, and the dinner-table talk and ball- room chat were of an elegance that would have been in- tolerable in any but the very highest stratum of so- ciety. Yet Celia was not pleased with it. She longed for a higher social life ; but this was too much for her. Her desire had in it a more modest working. She even wondered whether it was true or not she wondered if the man who had writ- ten that book knew anything more about the life he described than she did her- self. It was a puzzling thing. She wanted to be nice ; but what was it, in fact, to be nice? Was it to talk in that long-winded way, and make refer- ences to all sorts of things which could only be learned out of books? If it was, it must be desperately stupid. She wished that she had some clear idea of what really constituted that better life which she knew existedsomewhere, somehow. She wished that some sud- den miracle would open a higher circle of society (she believed in circles ; nay, in iron-bound rings of society) to the Leete family, and that all of them might be given a supernatural grace to fit them for their new surround- mgs. Yes, she was looking for the Fairy Prince; that was it. She did not know it; but she was looking for him. If she could have seen deep enough into the depths of her unformulated fancy, she NA TURAL SELECTION. 71 would have seen that the miracle she i~nd walked up the path, casting an in- awaited was a man. quiring glance upward as he went, and She let her eyes wander idly about the catching a glimpse of Celia at her upper room, as she dropped the book on her window. In another moment his ring lap. They rested first on Dorindas clanged through the empty house. Mrs. bureau, splendent with chromo cards Leete was making purchases for the of variegated gorgeousness; and she household against Sunday. Dorinda sighed. Then they fell on her own se- was buying unnecessary personal adorn- verely simple chest of drawersthose ments at 27 cents and 39 cents apiece, as her mother had owned in her girlhood. was her wont of a Saturday afternoon. Then they turned to the window, and Mr. Leete and Alouzo were still at the fac- she looked out, and sighed again, and tory, for it was pay-day, and they stayed saw the Fairy Prince, later than the hands. And Susan, the For the FairyPrince still comes among help, was enjoying herself at the us, in spite of what the photographers of eleventh annual picnic of the Daughters fiction say; and every now and then he of Temperance and Grand Rebekah marries the beggar maid, and takes her Protective Lodge. It was clear that home to live with his people, and is Celia had to go down-stairs and answer mightily sorry for it afterward, although, the bell. Why should it make her heart as his antique prototype most likely did, flutter and throb with wild and irra- he makes shift to live happily with her tional disturbance just to open the door ever afterbefore the eyes of the world. to a stranger of amiable and pacific ap- The Fairy Prince was instantly recog- pearance? nizable to Celias eyes, although I am She hurried down the stairs, after a afraid other people would have seen in hasty glance at the mirror and the ad- him no more than a good-looking, ro- ministration of a deft pat or two to what bust young man, with shoulders so broad she called, I am sorry to say, her dra- that they drew attention from his six pery. She wondered how she would look feet of staturea young man with a to such alien eyes. She wished that she well-bred carriage, a healthy, dark skin, were in her white flannel, her dearest fine eyes under soft, heavy, black eye- dress; but there was no time for vain brows, good teeth, and the promise of a wishing, and she opened the door. moustachea young man with an expres- He had not vanished: he was there, sion of dignified earnestness upon his raising his hat and asking if this were face which suggested the idea that he Mr. Leetes house. The quiet deference took things in this world somewhat of his manner, his low, clear voice, his seriously, and regarded his own prog- somewhat unfamiliar accent, all caught ress through it as an event not to be her pleased attention and fitted with his lightly considered. In short, other peo- outward seeming into one harmonious ple would have seen just such a young whole that to Celia appeared nothing man as Harvard College turns out by short of absolute masculine perfection. the dozen, into a gibing, vulgar world, It was like a dream coming true; it was too much given to levity, as though a more than human messenger But Celia saw in this stranger, as he had arrived, to summon her to that stood at her fathers gate, a vast deal world which she pictured only in her more than this. Perhaps she could not thoughts. She wondered if her voice have told us anything further about him was trembling, or if her face was white. than that he was different. Different, Meanwhile the young gentleman looked she meant, from the men she knew in up at what he believed was the prettiest her daily life, with a difference that was girl he had ever seen, and heard her say, not only in looks and in bearing, but softly and sweetly: that even went, to her perception, to his Yes, this is Mr. Leetes house; but very garments, or at least to his way of my father is not in. Do you want to wearing a very plain every-day suit of see him? tweed. Perhaps Celia put forward her rela- He felt about the gate for a bell- tionship to Mr. Lee~e thus promptly handle, and, not finding it, pushed in because of some faint fear that the Fairy 72 NA TURAL SELECTION. Prince might take her for the house. maid, though nothing in his courtly manner suggested the idea. I do wish to see Mr. Leete, he said, and Celia thought again that his voice was quite in keeping with his other per- fections. My name is WykoffRan- doiph Wykoffand I am anxious to speak to Mr. Leete on a matter of busi- ness. I am afraid he has been greatly annoyed by an erroran inadvertence of my agents. Wont you come in? asked Celia. Randolph Wykoff! There was no doubt about this young monarchs pedigree or his possessions. Im afraid I havent time, Mr. Wykoff said, as he stepped into the entry and told his tale with a flattering deference in his manner. Of course I didnt mean, when I made up my mind to build on that un- fortunate blockI didnt mean to give annoyance to any of the tenantscer- tainly not to Mr. Leete. I have always heard my father speak of Mr. Leete in the highest termshe has often said that he would rather lose all the rest of his tenants thau Mr. Leete. It may be doubted whether John Wykoff had ever said anything quite so enthusiastic; but his son was young and impulsive, and Mr. Leetes daughter was very pretty. I should like very much to leave a message for Mr. Leete, if it wouldnt trouble you too much. No? Well, then, you see Randolph Wykoff was in Yokohama when the news of his fathers death reached him. He started for home at once, by way of Europe, for he had some business in Belgium. He was a very young man, and as soon as he began to think of anything outside of his imme- diate grief, he found his whole mind occupied with the consideration of his vast responsibility as the custodian of a mighty fortune. He felt that it was his duty to do something for the world. He could not tell exactly what he ought to do ; but he felt that the world ex- pected something of him, and he set to work at once, hunting for a rich mans mission. Now, he had heard of a cer- tain model usine near Brussels, and he stopped on his homeward way to in- spect it. It was in truth an ingeniously planned structure. By a clever econ- omy in the design and in the application of steam-power, it gave cheap and suit- able lodgement to a large number of workers in various handicrafts, forming a congeries of factories and workshops within a wonderfully small space. It was, in its way, a nineteenth-century marvel of saving in space and power. Wykoff decided, at once that a similar building should take the place of the motley group of wasteful old buildings on his Houston Street block; and he instantly telegraphed his determination to his lawyers in New York, and in- structed them not to renew leases. But his brief instructions did not make clear the fact that he meant only to give his tenants a little temporary trouble for their own permanent good; and when he reached New York, he had to face a storm of protests from angry lease- holders. These people he was now striving to placate, and to win over to his new plans. And as the plans were really goodas he had stumbled on a wise enterprise in all honest ignorance and as he went about his work with much youthful enthusiasm, he had less trouble than might have been looked for. Much of all this did Mr. Randolph Wykoff communicate to Miss Celia Leete. But even after an exposition so long that he had hardly time, when he left the house, to catch the train for his mothers summer home at East Hamp- toneven after so long a parley, he thought it necessary to see Mr. Leete again, and in Mr. Leetes house. Of course, he said, I could see him at his office; but I must show him my plans, and my architects place is very near here in Broadway, and un- less He paused. Im sure father would be very glad to see you here, Mr. Wykofl said Celia. What could she say else? So it was arranged that Mr. Wykoff should call on Monday, just after din- ner; and Mr. Wykoff took the glory of his presence out of the dark old entry, and Celia stood in the door-way just long enough to see the Fairy Prince turn at the gate and lift his hat to her. Then NA TURAL SELECTION. 73 4, 1. 4 4; 1 1 4 she went in and shut the doorand hid her face in her hands. It was a grand story that Celia had to tell a little later, while her mother and Dorinda were setting the table, and Popper Leete sat in his shirt-sleeves, with his stocking-feet on the window- sill, and divided his attention between the evening paper and his chattering family. The visit of a stranger was al- ways an event of some importance in that quiet household; surely a visitor with such a mission was a rare bird, and one to be well talked over. And then, I regret to say, there was something in the fact that the visitor was a Wykoff, some- thing in the fact that the Wykoffs were swells. Not that a Wykoff was better than any other man; not that a swell did not deserve the contempt of plain people with no nonsense about them and yet I believe that every member of that family was secretly conscious of re- ceiving an increment of social value from the fact that a Wykoff had stood within their doors. Somehow it emphasized the fact of their common humanity. They all felt freshly reassured of the great truth, which they had always known that they might be swells themselves, if they would but stoop to it. I told you, Popper Leete, said his wife, as she trotted about the room; I told you folks like the Wykoffs aint likely to play such mean tricks as that. It aint their way. I declare, Celia, how many napkins have you had this week? Now, I see your ring when you put it away yesterday, an it was jest as clean as it could be, that napkin. If youre so mighty finicky, youd better wash em yourself. Mr. Leete took Wykoffs explanation as an admission of defeat. There are some people who cannot bear to own that they have been angry for naught. I thought hed come to his senses, Popper Leete condescended to say; hes a young feller, an hes got suthin to learn in this world, hell find in good time. I give those lawyers a piece of my mind that time, an I guess he heard of it. Yes, Im glad hes come to his senses. Whatd he look like, Cele? IDorinda pestered her; was he reel good-look- in? Did he have dimun studs in his shirt? They say its awfle toney in Eng- land to have dimun studs. Alonzo was the only one who took no interest in the evenings topic of conver- sation. His air of chill indifference showed that if young Mr. Wykoff were twenty young Mr. Wykoffs, he would have to prove his claims to notice before Alonzo Leete would waste a single ques- tion upon him. Mr. Wykoff appeared promptly at one oclock on the Monday. He had a long talk with Mr. Leete in the dining-room, 74 NATURAL SELECTION. and spread his plans out on the broad table. When Mr. Leete saw that for the same rent he was then paying he could have a larger factory, and that the prog- ress of construction could be so ar- ranged as to obviate all necessity for a double removal of his goods and chat- tels, he expressed a qualified approval of Mr. Wykoffs proposition. When he pointed out a few changes in the plans which he thought would better fit them for American conditions, and the sug- gestions were gratefully accepted, he in some manner fathered the whole scheme. After the business-talk, Mr. Wykoff went into the parlor, where the ladies of the family had assembled, and lingered for a little chat. He found a theme in his recent travels, and he got on nobly when his auditors discovered that, while he had no objectionable personal ac- quaintance with the royal family of Eng land, yet he had seen the Queen and the Prince of Wales an smaller lights of the reigning house, and could tell many en- tertaining things of their appearance in public, their manners, and their ways. With a tact which comes to a young man only under certain circumstances, he suppressed the fact that he had been presented at court, and said nothing of driving in coroneted carriages and din- ing at the tables of the great. The chat stretched out; it was past three when Celia tied up his plans for him, and he took his leave. IDorinda thought him a reel elegant gentlemn, and Mrs. Leete said: Why, I think hes a nice, pleasant- spoken, well-behaved young feller. I aint seen. young man I liked so well in some time. It is a simple tale. Mr. Wykoff found occasion to come again with his plans, that he might avail himself of Mr. Leetes superior knowledge of the exigencies of practical business. Then he found still other occa- sions. When the actual work of building began, and he had to superintend it, he fell into a way of walking home with Mr. Leete, and dropping in for a friendly callsometimes to share a meal. He was received with a shy welcome of subtile significance from Celia, and with a flattered and flutter- ing cordiality on the part of the rest of the family. Even Alouzo was willing to say, in casual conversation with his friends: Wykoffthats Randolph Wykoff, old Joh Wykoffs sonwas in at our house last night, and he said But at last they all understood wh he sought their society, and that was the drop of acid in thQ cloudy solution. There were five different individual re- actions in the family of Leete. To Celia came the consciousness of a great and closely impending possibility. Her f ther was disturbed in mind, suspic NA TURAL SELECTION. 75 ious, and anxious. He had sufficient knowledge of the world to grasp the fact that men held, in such matters, widely differing codes of morality. He had no idea what Mr. Wykoffs code might be. The young man seemed a well-meaning youth but what were his in- tentions? Dorinda had similar doubts, and the thought of losing her only sister, coupled, per- haps, with a trifle of nat- ural jealousy, moved her to an enmity toward the intruder which she could hardly repress. As to Alonzo, he was wounded past all soothingwound- ed in the inmost tender- ness of a hidden pride. For Alonzos heart wor- shipped what his lips con- temned. In his secret soul he adored swelldom And now the aristocracy had held out its shapely hand to him, and for a brief space he had hugged the delusion that he was accepted on his own mer- its, and that the disadvan- tages of his parentage and I his surroundingswhichi~ he recognized, and yet ;/ loyally accepteddid not / count against him per- sonally. And now he found that he was only the brother of a pretty girl. His spirit was filled with a bitterness that nourished itself in silence, and the dreadful things that he expected to come of the unhallowed courtship are beyond all mentioning here. Good Mrs. Leete alone stood Wykoffs friend in his wooing, and her simple, honest breast heaved with motherly pride and fond, foolish hopes and aspirations. And meanwhile Randolph Wykoff kept on calling, and seemed totally uncon- scious of any loss of spontaneity or heart- iness in his welcome at the house of the Leetes; and late in September he and Celia told each other that love at first sight was a living truth. After which, Randolph went home to tell his mother. By Edward S. Holden. I. HE world really needs few books which are not yet written; but it has waited for more than a generation, and ~ it still waits, for a truly satisfying life of the greatest of French novelistsHonor6 de Baizac. It is passing strange that no such ad- equate life has been even attempted. He lived, at times, in the fiercest light of the French capital. He had the clos- est relations with a whole school of young and rising literary menGautier, Sandean, Gozlan and the rest. He was the friend and intimate of many culti- vated and intelligent women, some of genuine literary powers. His sister, Mine. de Surville, was his confidante and has edited two volumes of his correspondence; but in spite of the absorbing interest of the subject, and in spite of what ought to have been he exceptional fitness for the work, she has given us next to nothing of any real biography. The letters which she has edited are of the most intimate nat- nrc. His own works are full of bio- graphic details. Louis Lambert is an acknowledged autobiography. His count- less reviews an articles in the Paris ~ournals, his myriad digressions on busi- ness, politics, religion, love, law, serve to show the man 4 nu, one would say. Yet he remains a total enigma as a man, as a being. Hundreds of articles have been written on his works, his methods, his genius, from the time of Sainte Beuve to Lilly and Zola. But the being underneath all this doing remains a mys- tery. It may be this is as he desired; he may have been a second Shakespeare in this, as in so many other ways, and have wished to leave a curse for him that moved his bones. So far as we know, he left no autobiography. Fortune has been singularly unkind toward his liter- ary remains. The only extant portrait of Balzac (a daguerreotype) was broken by the Pins- sians in Paris in 1870 at Charles Yriartes. A curious fatality has scattered his pa- pers to the four winds. The daughter of the widow of Balzac, Countess Muis- geck, had, ten years ago, one of the most splendid fortunes of Paris$120,000 a year, report said. She commenced the building of a magnificent palace at the corner of the Rue de Balzac and the Faubourg St. Honor6. Enormous sums were spent on the outside of this, and the interior was never finished. As long as the Count Muisgeck lived the credit- ors held off; but at his death, and while Madame de Balzac, the widow, lay dying, the end came; the creditors took pos- session, and the letters, the manuscripts, the memorials of Balzac, were dispersed forever. The best sketch of his life is that of Gautier, who knew him well, and who had an intelligence fine enough to ap- preciate some, at least, of his qualities. Balzac was born at Tours, May 16, 1799, and died at Paris, August 18, 1850, hav- ing conquered fame and love. It is not necessary to recite the mere events of his life. They may be found in a hun- dred places. His interior development A NEW LIGHT ON BALZAC.

Edward S. Holden Holden, Edward S. A New Light On Balzac 76-81

By Edward S. Holden. I. HE world really needs few books which are not yet written; but it has waited for more than a generation, and ~ it still waits, for a truly satisfying life of the greatest of French novelistsHonor6 de Baizac. It is passing strange that no such ad- equate life has been even attempted. He lived, at times, in the fiercest light of the French capital. He had the clos- est relations with a whole school of young and rising literary menGautier, Sandean, Gozlan and the rest. He was the friend and intimate of many culti- vated and intelligent women, some of genuine literary powers. His sister, Mine. de Surville, was his confidante and has edited two volumes of his correspondence; but in spite of the absorbing interest of the subject, and in spite of what ought to have been he exceptional fitness for the work, she has given us next to nothing of any real biography. The letters which she has edited are of the most intimate nat- nrc. His own works are full of bio- graphic details. Louis Lambert is an acknowledged autobiography. His count- less reviews an articles in the Paris ~ournals, his myriad digressions on busi- ness, politics, religion, love, law, serve to show the man 4 nu, one would say. Yet he remains a total enigma as a man, as a being. Hundreds of articles have been written on his works, his methods, his genius, from the time of Sainte Beuve to Lilly and Zola. But the being underneath all this doing remains a mys- tery. It may be this is as he desired; he may have been a second Shakespeare in this, as in so many other ways, and have wished to leave a curse for him that moved his bones. So far as we know, he left no autobiography. Fortune has been singularly unkind toward his liter- ary remains. The only extant portrait of Balzac (a daguerreotype) was broken by the Pins- sians in Paris in 1870 at Charles Yriartes. A curious fatality has scattered his pa- pers to the four winds. The daughter of the widow of Balzac, Countess Muis- geck, had, ten years ago, one of the most splendid fortunes of Paris$120,000 a year, report said. She commenced the building of a magnificent palace at the corner of the Rue de Balzac and the Faubourg St. Honor6. Enormous sums were spent on the outside of this, and the interior was never finished. As long as the Count Muisgeck lived the credit- ors held off; but at his death, and while Madame de Balzac, the widow, lay dying, the end came; the creditors took pos- session, and the letters, the manuscripts, the memorials of Balzac, were dispersed forever. The best sketch of his life is that of Gautier, who knew him well, and who had an intelligence fine enough to ap- preciate some, at least, of his qualities. Balzac was born at Tours, May 16, 1799, and died at Paris, August 18, 1850, hav- ing conquered fame and love. It is not necessary to recite the mere events of his life. They may be found in a hun- dred places. His interior development A NEW LIGHT ON BALZAC. A NEW LIGHT ON BALZAC. 77 as a boy is given in Louis Lambert. He had not the gift of versification; the poems in his Illusions Perdues and elsewhere were written for him by his friends. He refused an excellent situ- ation as notary after he had fitted him- self for it, and then commenced the series of struggles in the garret of No. 9, iRue de Lesdignir~res, whose fruit the world inherits. He wasted no mo- ment and chose his garret so as to be near the Library. Here he sketched out works of every kind: plays, novels, comedies, a tragedy (Cromwell), operettas. We all know how he composed, elaborating his nov- els by additions and additions to the first printed proof-slips. At les Jardies Gautier saw the successive revises of one of his books, each revise forming a separate volume. Where are these to- day? What afurore they would create among the disciples of Zola, who love to hang on Balzacs skirts and to call him Master. It was in the garrets that Bal- zac wrote the (Ewores de jeunesse, La derni~re F~e, Jane la pdle, Dora Gigadas, etc. One of the problems of his future bi- ographer will be to explain how the in- tellect that produced these slight tales, flowered into that subtile genius which has given us Les m~moires de deux jeunes mari~es, adame Firmiani, Albert Savar- us, and such others as Seraphita, Gob- secic, Les Chouans, Physiologiedu manage. One only of his biographers has dared to even suggest a theory at all sufficient to account for his astounding insights into the nature of life ; and this is done with amusing caution, shame-faced and skepticaL Gautier says in his sketch: Quoique cela semble singulier en p1cm xixme sibcle, Balzac fut un voyant. He had clairvoyant power for the present only, not for the future. Reluctant as this admission is, Gautier might have dis- covered the same power in himself, had he been free enough to look. It is pure clairvoyance that makes Gautiers great- est novel what it is; and clairvoyance of some kind there must be in every great work. When it is of the intelli- gence alone or chiefly, we have such works as those of Plato or Milton, or the writings of men of pure scienceSaint- Hilaire, Newton, Gauss. The clairvoy- ance of many sides of our complex nature is not vocal; but we see it to be no less real in all genuine passion, whether of love or of religion. When the spirit and the intelligence are both illuminated we have the mysticsSaint Theresa, Swedenborg, Tauler; and at times, and in their several degrees, a Balzac, a Beyle, a Gautier. Admirers of Beyle are grateful for the appreciation with which Baizac welcomed La Chartreuse de Parme; and in the same way the disciples of Baizac are thankful to Gautier for what he has seen and recorded. As he says, the modern- ness of Balzacs genius is the wonderful thing. He did not care for Greek Art not even for the Venus of Milobut for the French woman looking at her. Sh might perhaps be Madame de Beaus~ant. Character was Balzacs absorbing inter- estthe complex of ones moral habi- tudesand not style. A defect, a blem- ish, a disproportion, perhaps, shows how the effects of life may have modified character; and therefore Balzac studies this defect, this blemish, this dispropor- tion. He understood well the modern doctrine of evolution, that a man is the resultant of the forces of heredity and of environment. Indeed, Darwin~s own statement of the general theory is no clearer than that of Balzac (1842) in the preface to the Com~die Ilumaine. And he also knew that physical en- vironment gives a kind of mental atti- tude, just as devotion in the spirit can be induced by posture. He prepared his houses, he furnished his rooms, and he made his journeys to give himself the attitude he needed. Which came first, the circular room in the rue de Batailles, or Jilaraquita and the Fille aux yen dor? In what hot and sandy waste did the idea of une Passion dans le diert come to him? There is a period in the life of almost every person when heaven seems near, and when all vision is clairvoyant. I comes to most as a fleeting phase of love; and it vanishes before the first breath of amour-propre in men or of vanity in women. To some it is given to prolong this period through long years or through their lives. These are the happy few to whom Steudhal has 78 A NEW LIGHT ON BALZAC. dedicated one of his books. Religion, in some natures, gives the same power; and it is even better fitted to give it, in general, since religion begins by cast- ing out the great destroyers of all spir- itual life, vanity and the love of self. Should we disclose the secret of Balzac if we said that he also was one of the happy few; that it was given to him to prolong the vision of that attachement de sa premi~re jeunesse of which he spoke but once, through long years of persistent labor? Would this give the explanation of his preaching and of his practice of absolute chastity which as- tounded and perplexed his shame-faced friend, and even seemed incredible to his skeptical sister? Is there not at least one personality which stands to the ~%rn& 1ie Humaine in the relation of Bea- trice to the Divina Comntedia? There are as many different opinions upon Balzac as there are men who read him. Matthew Arnold has said: The motive of Balzac is curiosity. The result is that the matter on which he operates bounds him, and he deline- ates not the life of man, but the life of the Frenchman, and of the Frenchman of these our times, the hom2ne sensuel rnoyen. Balzac deals with this life, de- lineates it. with splendid ability, loves it and is bounded by it. And in an hun- dred years George Sand will have estab- lished her superiority to Balzac as incontestably as Rousseau. Has Mr. Arnold forgotten Recherche de labsolu, and Seraphita, to name no others? On the other hand Gautier has summed up his character in a few words: Balzac est un moraliste aust~re, monarchique et catholique; il d6fend lautorit6, exalte Ia religion, pr~che le devoir, morigZ~ne la passion, et nadmet Ic bonheur que dans le manage et la famille. And of his life he says: Lopinion des plus in- times amis de Balzac est quil pratiqua la chastet6 quil recommandait aux au- tres. II. AFTER the thirty years which have elapsed, leaving us no better biography of Balzac than the often quoted one of Gautier, we might despair of new light. But this new light has come as a joint labor of loyalty from the hands of MM. Cerfberr and Christophe, in the shape of a volume of nearly six hundred pages, which is in brief a r~sum~, an analysis, a biographical dictionary, of the Com~die Jlumaine.* The Com1~die Humaime is a world, and in this society all the personages ap- pear and reappear from time to time, from book to book, just as in real life real persons cross our path, vanish and come again. The object of the authors is to furnish a guide through the maze, a kind of memorandum of the lives of each of the characters. In form it is an index of persons with biographic details, and its least use will be to serve as a mere index for the lover of Balzac, or for the novice who seeks to verify an allusion or a reference. Again it will also serve to give a com- plete idea of the whole life of one char- acter; to connect the various episodes of forty volumes. It is with this view that the work has been done, apparently. Only the characters of the Com~die Hu- maine are included, and the light is pur- posely throxvn on them only. There is no conscious attempt to illuminate the character of the author himself; no list of the real living persons, his friends, to whom he dedicated his books; no collation of the numerous passages where he gives his own judgments of historical characters like Napoleon or Talleyrand; or of authors, as Beyle and Sand; no aper~us llke his characterization of Saint Peter, for example ( le plus rude, le pins peuple, et aussi le plus fin des ap6- tres). Moreover it is a pure index of per- sons; no subjects are included, and in this sense it is an incomplete repertory. You will not find references to the fa- mous law-suits of the Com~die Hu- maine, or to its conspirations, or to its heraldry, except under the names of per- sons. The opinions and judgments of Balzac himself are not included, except by implication. No doubt many other devoted disci- ples besides the authors have either im- agined or commenced a work similar to this. M. Paul Bourget in the introduc * Th~pertoire Se la Coin~die Humaine de H. de Baizac, par A. Oerfberr et G. christophe, avec une introduction Se Paul Bourget. Paris: Calmane L6vy, 1887. Svo, pp. xiii, 588. A NEW LIGHT ON BALZAC. 79 tion mentions three, himself, M. Henri Meilhac, and M. Emile Gaborian. The writer of this article also has occupied his few leisure moments for the past ten years in such a work, and had communi- cated its plan to Mine. de Balzac during her lifetime. Indeed, the very nature of the Com~- die Ilumaine suggests such a work. Bal- zac himself has said: Ion ouvrage a sa g6ographie comme il a sa g~n6alogie et ses familles, ses licux et ses choses, ses personnes et ses faits; comme il a son armorial, ses nobles et ses bour- geois, ses artisans et ses paysans, ses pol- itiques et ses dandies, son arm~e; tout son monde, enfin. In my own view, the real value of such work as this is not merely to serve as a key to the particular series of printed volumes which form the Com~die Ru- maine, but far more as an exposition of Balzac himself. He was greater than his works, and he contained them all. They were his children, to be sure, but he sent them forth full grown. They had no de- velopment after they had left his hand. It is therefore as a key to the man him- self that this minute material for an an- alytical study of Balzac is precious. It may not be uninteresting to say a word upon the method which I adopted in making my own analysis of the Coma- die Humaine, especially as the method of MiVI. Cerfberr and Christophe appears to have been essentially the same. The various tales were read, one by one, pencil in hand, and every proper name and every date and fact of importance was underscored so as readily to attract attention on re-reading. Thus Luigi Porta was about nineteen years old at the passage of the Beresina (1812), hence he must have been born in 1793. This fact was entered on a card under the title PORTA (Luigi). In the same way, every important event of his life was entered on a separate card, and so with other personages in the same volume. The cards which were thus written from a given volume really represented the es- sence of the whole tale, and were some- thing like the recollections which one has of the dates and events in the career of an intimate friend, only more exact. Other volumes were treated in the same -way, and their cards were added to the general catalogue. As the same persons reappear continually in the different tales, each new volume read added new events in the life of each one of the vari- ous personages. Sometimes the indica- tions would be precise, as in the date of Portas birth just quoted. Sometimes they would be less precise, as when it was said, for example, that Porta was born in Corsica about 1790. Finally, all the cards were arranged alphabetically and then all the scattered facts fell into one orderly catalogue, and each persons life could be viewed as a whole. Perhaps a dozen cards might be found for one of the minor characters, and very many for the more important. The information on this dozen cards was then transferred to a single biographical card, making such condensation and se- lection as was desirable, and settling any doubts and ambiguities. My own plan was somewhat more ex- tensive than that which the joint authors have so successfully carried out; for my principal object was to throw light upon Balzac himself, while that of MM. Cerf- berr and Christophe seems to have been simply to illuminate the recesses of the Com.~die Humaine. I included refer- ences to Balzacs opinions of historical characters, as Louis XIV., Napoleon, Tal- leyrand, and of living persons, as George Sand, Beyle, etc., as well as upon many (not by any means all) great subjects, as the Church, the State, the Family. In order to illustrate the astounding pre- cision of Balzacs data, I also gave the date of birth, marriage, etc., of his char- acters, and I have never found a material error in these; nor in his marshalling of the armorial bearings of the various families. These processes necessarily threw a vast deal of light upon his methods of work, and I am convinced that he him- self must have had some written record of the relationships of his characters, etc., for in spite of his tenacious mem- ory, and the entire reality (to him) of the world in which they and he lived together, he could not have recollected the particularities which he has re- corded, any more than one can remem- ber the birthdays of all his friends, not to speak of a crowd of minor details. That his characters were genuine per- 80 A NEW LIGHT ON BALZAC. sonages to Balzac, let this anecdote show: Jules Sandeau once was speak- ing to him of a lady who was ill, and finally Balzac interrupted him with, Now let us come back to realities; who do you think is going to marry Eu~,6nie Grandet? Although the press of other occupa- tions and the very magnitude of the plan adopted have not allowed me to complete my own work, which will now never be resumed, I am all the better prepared to appreciate the exceedingly faithful, conscientious, and able manner in which the B~pertoire of MM. Cerf- berr and Christophe has been done, and I bear the most grateful and willing witness to it after a careful examination and comparison of our labors. I would gladly have seen its original scope en- larged, so as to throw more light upon Balzac and not less upon his work; but as it is, the book will be of the highest value to all love s of Baizac literature, and of great importance in a study of the man himself. For this latter object it will need to be supplemented, in my opinion, somewhat in the way I have pointed out. Still an immense work has been ac- complished even in this direction. I abridge from the preface a capital gen- eral view by M. Paul Bourget. He says: Let any one imagine for himself the quantity of isolated facts which are im- plied by these two thousand biogra- phies, each of which is individual, distinct, and follows the personage from the cradle to the grave, and traces his connection with past and future gener- ations. The relation of each character to his environment and to each other character is accurately appreciated and exhibited. He knows his personages like a master, through and through ; the maladies of their bodies and of their souls are familiar to him. He knows when a sentiment is simple and when it is complex; when the heart is the dupe of the intelligence and when it is merely deceived by the sense. Their very natures are set forth by the writer with an intensity of enthusiasm which possesses yes, obsesses the reader in spite of himself. There is abundant evidence to prove, says M. Bourget, that this process was in Balzac an exaltation like that of mystics, and superior, so to say, to the ordinary laws of life. Balzac himself says: C6tait le rave dun homme 6veill6. He was preserved from becoming merely fantas- tic, by the highiy philosophical nature of another part of his being. TI voulait ~tre un profond philos6phe avant de faire des com6dies. M. Bourget main- tains further that Balzacs days were so crowded with mere work that he had not the time to live a life of his own; and that from the fragments of genuine life which he did experience he elaborated, by the magic of his mind, by a retro- spective penetration, the general laws of existence itself. In this opinion I do not share. My own study has forced me to believe that he led the most complete existence, and that always in close com- pany with another soul, he drank the cup of life to the full. However this may be (and it is only one of the problems of the coming bio- grapher) it is certain that no man since Shakespeare has created a world so alive as that of the Com~die Humaine. In one sense he may almost be said to have created intelligent Francewhich to-day approaches nearer and nearer to the types he has exhibited, along the very paths which he has prefigured. He has also done his share in opening new ways for life to all those who can see, and it is not impossible that he will one day be quoted among those early benefactors of the human race, who have pointed out the doors leading to a fuller meas- ure of human life, which will then have become the common heritage and pos- session of all mankind. At the end of Gautiers study of Balzac he excuses the slightness of his sketch by sayin0: Personne ne pent avoir la pr6tention de faire une biogra- phie compkte de Balzac. Perhaps not yet. But we must welcome every scin- tilla of new light, of new evidence, and every new arrangement of the older data. All will serve as material for the life which is yet to be written, and the master will surely arise who can find the clew to this tangled web. Indeed, it seems to me that the web is not tangled, only vast, and that it is all ready to be woven into an orderly net-work. This THE POET 81 will be immense, for it covers all hu- manity, but it seems to me that literary, artistic, and creative powers now exist which are competent to this task, if once the adequate impulse is given. What the nature of this impulse must be, one need not now and here inquire. But it is clear that the work is not yet done, and that it is worth doing. Poe, in one of his tales, invents a game which consists in finding the names printed on the surface of the map. The unskilful at this game seek to give the adversary a name printed in small type, or hidden by some moun- tain or river-bend ; while the adept chooses a name widely spread out though plainly traced. To see this, a general view must be taken. The writer of a life of Balzac must have the microscopic eye to seize and appreciate the finest details such as are shown in this B~pertoire: but what is truly needed is a generous ample view which shall include the whole range of his nature, and not endeavor to compass all his special knowledge. This phienix may be yet unborn; but if he is among us, his subject is ready for him. He may die of starvation in the midst of his work; but, if he finishes it, his name will be immortal like Balzacs own. THE POET. By Charles Edwin Markham. His home is in the heights: to him Men wage a battle weird and dim,, Life is a mission stern as fate, And Song a dread apostolate. The toils of prophecy are his, To hail the coming centuries To ease the steps and lift the load Of souls that falter on the road. The perilous music that he hears Falls f om the vortice of the spheres. He presses on before the race, And sings out of a silent place. Like faint notes of a forest bird On heights afar that voice is heard; And th~ dim path he breaks to-day Will some time be a trodden vay. But when the race comes toiling on That voice of wonder will be gone Be heard on higher peaks afar, Moved upward with the morning stai, O men of earth, that wandering voice Still goes the upward way: rejoice! VOL. 1118

Charles Edwin Markham Markham, Charles Edwin The Poet 81-82

THE POET 81 will be immense, for it covers all hu- manity, but it seems to me that literary, artistic, and creative powers now exist which are competent to this task, if once the adequate impulse is given. What the nature of this impulse must be, one need not now and here inquire. But it is clear that the work is not yet done, and that it is worth doing. Poe, in one of his tales, invents a game which consists in finding the names printed on the surface of the map. The unskilful at this game seek to give the adversary a name printed in small type, or hidden by some moun- tain or river-bend ; while the adept chooses a name widely spread out though plainly traced. To see this, a general view must be taken. The writer of a life of Balzac must have the microscopic eye to seize and appreciate the finest details such as are shown in this B~pertoire: but what is truly needed is a generous ample view which shall include the whole range of his nature, and not endeavor to compass all his special knowledge. This phienix may be yet unborn; but if he is among us, his subject is ready for him. He may die of starvation in the midst of his work; but, if he finishes it, his name will be immortal like Balzacs own. THE POET. By Charles Edwin Markham. His home is in the heights: to him Men wage a battle weird and dim,, Life is a mission stern as fate, And Song a dread apostolate. The toils of prophecy are his, To hail the coming centuries To ease the steps and lift the load Of souls that falter on the road. The perilous music that he hears Falls f om the vortice of the spheres. He presses on before the race, And sings out of a silent place. Like faint notes of a forest bird On heights afar that voice is heard; And th~ dim path he breaks to-day Will some time be a trodden vay. But when the race comes toiling on That voice of wonder will be gone Be heard on higher peaks afar, Moved upward with the morning stai, O men of earth, that wandering voice Still goes the upward way: rejoice! VOL. 1118 By George A. Hibbard. CITY OF NEW Yonx, April 10, 1887. DEAR Sm: It is with some hesitation that I vent- ure to trespass npon your valuable time, knowing as I do that the demands of clients, of constituents, of friends, are so exacting. Still, as what I am abont to ask relates to a matter lying very near my heart, I hope you will forgive me. A young man in whom, in spite of the usual extravagances and follies of youth, I discern some promise and whom I hope, for his own sake and from my friendship for his excellent father, dead long ago, to see occupying a respect- able position in the community, has, with the heedlessness peculiar to his age, involved himself in certain difficul- ties which, although at present of a suffi- ciently distressing nature, may, I hope, be satisfactorily overcome. Knowing so well your distinguished abilities, ripe judgment, and great experience, I can think of no one to whom I can, in this critical period of his life, more confi- dently send him for counsel, instruction, and aid, and I accordingly commend him THE END OF THE BEGINNING.

George A. Hibbard Hibbard, George A. The End Of The Beginning 82-93

By George A. Hibbard. CITY OF NEW Yonx, April 10, 1887. DEAR Sm: It is with some hesitation that I vent- ure to trespass npon your valuable time, knowing as I do that the demands of clients, of constituents, of friends, are so exacting. Still, as what I am abont to ask relates to a matter lying very near my heart, I hope you will forgive me. A young man in whom, in spite of the usual extravagances and follies of youth, I discern some promise and whom I hope, for his own sake and from my friendship for his excellent father, dead long ago, to see occupying a respect- able position in the community, has, with the heedlessness peculiar to his age, involved himself in certain difficul- ties which, although at present of a suffi- ciently distressing nature, may, I hope, be satisfactorily overcome. Knowing so well your distinguished abilities, ripe judgment, and great experience, I can think of no one to whom I can, in this critical period of his life, more confi- dently send him for counsel, instruction, and aid, and I accordingly commend him THE END OF THE BEGINNING. THE END OF THE BEGINNING. 83 to you, trusting to our old friendship to the man of men for the work. But, un- account for and excuse my somewhat un- der the circumstances, even to him this usual act. Though what I ask of you is letter was more than perplexing. Here, something not usually required of a law- on this spring morning, with floods of yer, I think you will understand my well-authenticated sunshine pouring into reason for thus troubling you. No one every nook and corner, dissipating every can have a more thorough knowledge of mystery of shadow and, it might seem, the world than an old practitioner like every shadow of mysteryhere, in his yourself, and what you may say must office, bricked in by the unimaginative fall upon the ears of youth with weighty octavos of the lawthose hide-bound authority. Talk to him as you would volumes, heavy literature of all things to your son, if you had one, not as to a most amazingly matter of fact; here, in client, and I will be inexpressibly in- the eighteen hundred and eighty sev- debted to you, for I know you will lead cnth year of the Christian era, in the him to appreciate the serious realities of one hundred and eleventh year of the life, which, at present, he is so disposed Republic, he had received a letter from to disregard. his old guardian, whom, when he him- I need only add that he is a young self was not more than twenty, he re- man of some fortune and, certainly, by membered walking about, a feeble old birth worthy of much consideration. man with many an almost Revolutionary He will call upon you in person and peculiarity in speech and manner, and himself explain his present embarrass- whose funeral he, with the heads and ments. scions of most of the first families of the I remain, now as always, town, had attended full twenty-five years Your obedient servant, ago. It certainly was enough to bewil- RICHARD BEvIKGTON. der anyone. He again took up the let- THE Hox. JACOB MAsKELYNE, ter. It was unquestionably in old Bev- Counsellor at law, ingtons best style, courtly enough, but Number William Street, a trifle pompous. Had it not been for City of New York. its true tone he would undoubtedly have thought the thing a hoax and imme- This was the letter that the Honor- diately have dismissed it from his mind. able Jacob Maskelyne read, reread, and He touched a hand-bell, and in response read yet again. Indeed, not content a young mana very prosaic young with its repeated perusal, he turned it manover whose black clothes the gray this way and that, looked at it upside of age had begun to gather, appeared. and down, and finally, laying it upon the Bring me the letters received of the table, he held up its envelope in curious year eighteen sixtyletter B, said study, as people so often do when thus the lawyer, sharply. perplexed. It bore the common, dull- That was the year in which his fathers red two-cent stamp and was post-marked estate had been finally settled, and he the day before. Both it and the letter knew that there would be many exam- were apparently as much matters of the ples of his guardians handwriting in every-day world as a jostle on the side- the correspondence of that time. walk. Nevertheless, the old lawyer was The clerk soon returned with a tin more than puzzledmore than puzzled, case, and laid it on the table. Mr. Mas- although he, of all men in the great, kelyne took one from among the many wide-awake city, would in popular opin- papers therein, and, striking it sharply ion have been thought perhaps the very against the arm of his chair, to scatter last to be thus at fault. If millstones the dust that invests all things in the were to be worn as monoclesif there garment the outfitter Time warrants was any seeing what the future might such a perfect fit, he spread it out be- bring forththe chances of a project, side the letter he had just read with the risks of rise or fall in a stock, the such blank wonder. hazards of a corner in a staple, the Identically the same, he muttered. prospects of a party or of a partisan, No other man ever made an e like Jacob Maskelyne would be regarded as that. 84 THE END OF THE BEGINNING. The clerk had vanished and the law- yer was again alone. He glanced once more at the myste- rious missive, and then, with the pur- poselessness of abstraction, he rose and went to the window. Nothing caught his eye but the sign-bedecked front of the opposite building and one small patch of blue skynear, gritty, lime- stone fact and a far-away something without confine. Still, amazed as he was, the contagious joy of the time sensibly affected him. The sparrows, quarrelsome gamins of the air, for the time reformed by honest labor into respectable artisans, upon an opposite entablature, in garrulous amity plied their small, nest-making joinery. The sunlight falling through a haze of wires, wrought into something bright with its own glow a tuft of grass which clumped its spears in its fortalice, taken in assault, on the opposite frieze. Of even these small things and of much more, Mr. Maskelyne was partially conscious. But the letter! Clear-sighted as he was, he knew but littleso forthright was his look, so fixe toward mere gainof the wonderful country which lies beneath every mans nose, less even of the vanish- ing tracts which retrospection sometimes sees over either shoulder. But the let- ter! It peopled his vision with things long gone. It brought into view old Bevington Dick Bevington, as he was called to the last day of his life and a nickname at fifty indicates much of characterbrought up before him Dick Bevington as he was before age had stiffened his easy but dignified car- riage or taught his once polished but positive utterance to veer and haul in sudden change; brought up old Beving- ton, as he himself, in childhood, had seen him, stately but debonair, the per- fection of aristocratic exclusiveness, af- fable, however, in the genial kindliness of a kind-hearted man secure in every positiona genuine Knickerbocker in every practice and in every principlea well-born, well-bred gentleman. And that once active and once ebullient life had long ago gone out! It almost seemed that such vitality, so held in self- contained management, so wisely put forth, so well invested, so to speak, should have lasted forever. But now there was nothing left to bring him to mind but a portrait in the rooms of the Historical Society, or a name in the list of directors when the history of some bank was given, or in the pamphlet in which the story of some charitable in- stitution was told from the beginning really there was nothing more than this to recall Dick Bevington, foremost among the citys fathers, the leader of the ton. When he had last seen his guardian he had thought him of patri- archal age. And was not he himself now nearly as old? In spite of the blithesome aspects of the morning, Jacob Maskelyne turned away from the window with an unwonted weight at his heart and a new wrinkle on his brow. The whole world seemed to be going from him, losing charm and significance in a sort of blurring dissatisfaction, as upon a globe, when swiftly turned, lines of longitude and of latitude, and even conti- nents and seas, vanish from sight, and all because his own life suddenly seemed but vexed nothingness. He had not even mellowed into age as had Beving- ton. He was as sharp and as rough- edged as an Indians flint arrow-head, and he knew it. He seated himself at his table. Auto- matically he was about to take up the first of several bundles of law-papers, when he was startled by the entrance of the clerk. He leaned back in his chair, THE END OF THE BEGINNING. 85 and his reawakened wonder grew the more when a card was placed before him upon which was written, in a dash- ing hand, From Mr. Bevington. A gentlemmu to see you, said the clerk. What does he look like? asked Mr. Maskelyne, suspiciously. Nobody I ever saw before, an- swered the clerk ; and he seems rather strange about his clothes, he added, in a rather doubtful, tentative manner. Let him come in, said Mr. Maske- lyne after a moments pause. The door had hardly closed upon the vanishing messenger when it again swung upon its hinges, and a new figure stood in relief against the clearer light from without. In his eagerness to see of what nature a being so introduced might be, Mr. Maskelyne turned his chair com- pletely around, and silently gazed at the new-coiner as he entered. His eyes fell upon a slim, graceful young man dressed in the mode of at least forty-five years agoa mode not without its own good tone undoubt- edly, but with a tendency toward gorgeousness which an exquisite of these days of assertive unobtrusiveness might think almost vulgar. His whole at- tire was touched in every detail with that nameless something which really makes the consummate result unattainable by any not born to such excellence ; but in the bright intelligence shining in his dark eyes and the clear intellectual lines of his face, even Maskelyne could see that if he had given much thought to his dress it was only from a proper self- respect, and not because dress was the ultimate or the best expression of what he was. Few could look into the lumi- nous countenance and not feel a glow of sudden sympathy with the high aspira- tions, the pure disinterestedness, the clear intellect, that lit up and strength- cued his features. Even the old lawyer, disciplined as he was by years of hard ex- perience to disregard all such mislead- ing impulses, felt his heart warm toward the young man. I hope, said the new-coiner, with a smile so pleasant, so ingenuous, so con- fiding, that all Maskelynes ideas of de- ception-had he had time to recognize them in the moment before a strange, unquestioning acquiescence took com- plete possession of himwere at once dissipated, that I do not intrude too greatly on your time. Won really in spite of himself by the appearance of his visitor, the famous counsellor waved his hand toward a chair. I suppose, continued the stranger, with an almost boyish sweetness, as he seated himself, that Mr. Bevington has al- ready told you why I am here. Mr. Maskelyne might very well have answer- ed that Mr. Bevington was hardly to be looked to for any information on any subject, but he did notthe wonder- ful circumstances of the interview had been so driven from his mind by the potent charm of the young mans personality. Mr.-andhepaused as if waiting for enlightenment as to the name of the stranger. Im in a devil of a scrape, con- tinued the young man, apparently imag- ining that the letter had made all neces- sary explanations, and mentioning the devil as though he was an every-day ac- quaintance, a pleasant fellow whom he had just left at the door awaiting his return. Ah! murmured the lawyer. I did not wish to see you, continued the other, his singularly trustful smile breaking again over lip and cheek. Indeed, said Maskelvne, his wits and perceptions in most confusing en- tanglement. 86 THE END OF THE BEGINNING. No, went on the unaccountable visi- tor. I supposed that you would give me what the world calls good advice. But I dont want that. I want to hear something better. He laughed aloud in such a joyous, cheery fashion that the old lawyer even smiled. You dont think I am a good man to come to for bad advice? he said. The last in the world. I dont sup- pose that you ever did a foolish thing in your life. And therefore am perhaps less com- petent to advise others who have, re- plied Maskelyne, half heedlessly, for his thoughts were slowly turning in a new direction. The more he looked the more the eager, spirited face seemed familiar. He had certainly seen the young fellow before, but where? It seemed to him that he could certainly remember in a moment, if he only had time to think. Mr. Bevington Pardon me, interrupted Maskelyne, in a significant tone, you said Mr. Bev- ington? Certainly, said the stranger, sud- denly looking up in evident surprise. Didnt he write? I have received a letter, said the old lawyer cautiously. He was on the point of making some further inquiries, but the impulse came to nothing. The former feeling of ac- quiescent, but expectant apathy again possessed him ; indeed, he had never been much in the habit of asking questions. He knew that he often learned more than was suspected even, by letting people talk on in their own way. In the first place, and he paused a momentI am very much in debt. The young man spoke as he might of taking a cold asleep in the open air as if he had been exposed to debt and had caught it. The first look of sadness rose and deepened over his face as he shook his head dejectedly. But Ill get over it Time and I. Dont you rather like the astute old king after all, Mr. Maskelyne? By your own exertions? asked the lawyer, dryly, and evading the question. I write a little, replied the impeni- tent, modestly. I have even heard of people who admired some of my verses. You have no other occupation? Old Maskelyne was asking enough questions now. Indeed, under the magic of the strangers manner he had quite forgotten himself, his usual caution, and even the exceptional manner in which his companion had been introduced to him. Yes, the other admitted, I am a lawyer. Dont you think, said the older man answering almost instinctively, that on the whole you might find the employ- ments of the law more remunerative than the calling of apoet? Mr. Maskelyne, I sometimes think that the world really believes in the sort of thing underlying your questionthat there is wisdom in what it so compla- cently repeats as indisputable. And I am sent here phrase-gatheringto carry off small packages of words put up in little fiat, portable sentences, alteratives ready for daily use. But there are gains you cannot invest in lands and stockscol- umns with statues at the top as well as columns whose sums are at the bottom. Wasnt Le Barbier a better investment than any in Roderigne Hortales et Cie., THE END OF THE BEGINNING. 87 and what could John Ballantyne & Co. common joy, and thats all I want. Who show beside Guy Mannering? If the is unreasonable when what he wants is world says what it does, it mustnt do as all he wants? Are the worldly so inse- it does. Its inconsistent. Who will un- cure that, as the frightened kings sought dertake to strike the balance between to still beneath their tread the first throb fame and fortune; what mathematician of the French Revolution, they must will undertake to say that x, the unknown stamp out the first symptom of revolt quantity of fame, does not equal the against the almighty dollar? dollar-mark? Then he added, after a moments pause, liXIr. Clii si diverte di poco, ~ ricco di molto. Maskelyne, dont you think it is true that Mr. Maskelyne, must I eat when I am One crowded hour of only thirsty, drink when I am only hun- glorious life gry? Is worth a world without He paused, and glanced triumphantly a name at the old man. He felt in some secret, instinctive way that he was gaining dont you really? ground. A squadron of fauns had It was hard to resist charge from amid the vine-leaves, and such enthusiasm, such the legion upon the highway was in ~ unquestioning certain- rout. Fine sense was victorious for the ty. The old lawyer moment over common sense. did not even smile as he lay I think, said Maskelyne, at last, and back in his chair, a new life with a strange, sad, patient air, unwea- shooting through every nerve, ned, however, by the young mans dithy- his gaze fixed on the flushing rambic, sometimes almost incoherent, face of the young man. speech, I think I cannot attempt to And the consciousness of best em- advise you. Having discarded the wis- ploying the best that is in you, he con- dom of ages, what heed will you give the tinued. Who dare shorten the reach wisdom of age? or blunt the nicety of mans wit, make A cloud seemed to cast its shadow purblind the imagination, stiffen the over the others face. Could it be that, cunning hand? Tell men that in some lost in himself, he ha spoken almost in Indian sea, fathoms deep, lie hid forever presumptuous disrespect to a man so Spanish galleons in which doubloons and distinguished, to a man whom he hon- moidores, as when honey more than ored and whom he felt that he could fills the comb, almost drip from their even like. sacks, and you will see in their sudden If I speak strongly, he said, it is thoughtfulness how quickly they appre- because I feel strongly. If I did not ciate such loss; tell them, if you can, feel strongly I would not attempt to what, through poverty, erring endeavor, withstand the amount of testimony uncongenial occupation, the world, with against me. each year, loses in intellectual riches, and Might I ask, said Maskelyne, gently, they will stand heedless. in his inexplicable sympathy with the Speaking with the incomparable con- young fellow, why, if you feel such con- fidence of youth, its own glorious non- fidence in all you say, you do not, with- sense, the young mans voice sent old out hesitation, enter on a life in accord- Maskelynes blood hastening through his ance with your convictions? veins in almost audible pulsations. At last there was hesitation in the What if I do not wish great wealth, young strangers manner. He turned the speaker continued, must I be made his hat nervously in his hand, and sat to have it? I want but little. Give me silent for a moment. food, clothing, habitation, sufficient that You see, he began, paused, and be- my eyes may see the delights this world gan again you see, if I were alone it has to show, that my ears may catch the would be one thing. But Im notnot whispered harmonies of all things beau- at all alone, he added, evidently gain- tiful, gladden me with the radiance of ing confidence. 88 THE END OF THE BEGINNING. Ali! exclaimed the old lawyer, a litigation, before his life had gone in sudden gleam of new intelligence shin- attempts at ing in his dull, weary old eyes. Mastering the lawless science of our law, And how am I to get married, Mr. or he had lost himself in Maskelyne? The lady does not approve of your That codeless myriad of precedent, poetical aspirations? That wilderness of single instances; Not approve! cried the young fel- when he, too, dwelt in that other-world of low, eagerly; she has made me prom- the young, forgotten by everyone but ise that I will give nothing up, that himself, but, al- though hardly I will refuse all ever remember Mr. Bevington ed, never forgot- has arranged for ten by himnot me. You cant one grain of its tell how inspiring golden sand, not our misery is. one drop of its And our courage, honey-dew, not a young Frois- one tremor of its sart mustbe our slightest thrill chronicler, sir. then even he had We take our sor- had his romance. rows gladly. The freshness of And may I the early spring ask morning, the airy Anything, brightness of his anything, inter- young visitor, rupted the young himself no bad man, gayly. Im exponent of the sent here to be day, the awe- talked out of footed shadow what they may which, with al- call my folly. You most unrecog- see I cant be nized obtrusion, talked out of it. skirts the border Dont that prove where the ripen- that it is no ed grain fills the folly? field of life and You seem,~~ nods to the said Maskelyne, dryly, to have settled ready sicklewas it something of such it between youyou and she. kind, or was it the simple story of Settled it! We did not need help which he had had such telling intim- about that. Its the unsettling. There ation, that brought it all up in inem- comes a time when friends are the worst orys half-tender glow? He, too, had enemies. You know that, Mr. Maske- once been in love. He, too, had written lyne? verses to his inamorata. He remembered The old lawyer paused. Indeed I it all now, with a smile of mingled pity do, he said at last, and the sneer stealing and contempt. It needed no ransack- over the outlines of his face slunk away ing of the brain now to quicken into full before the look of regret that came view his own It might have beento swiftly on. Almost in embarrassment, people once more the mystic world with nervous hand, he shuffled the pa- whose first paradise is rich in the slight pers on his table. garniture of glances and sighs and smiles Far back in the past, when his eyes and tears. Lost in himself, the old man were not yet dimmed by the dust forgot his visitor. blown from law-books, nor his ears You are very young, he said at last, deadened by the stridulent clamor of absently. THE END OF THE BEGINNING. 89 Twenty-three, was the answer. And she? Eighteen. It was strange, but he, too, had been twenty-three and she eighteen when the end came in that glimmering, gleaming past. He remembered, and how strange the recollection seemed, taking her some flowers and some slight silver gifta poor, inexpensive thing; she would let him give no more because he, too, was in debton her birthday. And now, with strange revulsion, he hardened almost into his habitual self, and grimly thought that it all was youthful nonsense, and that all such follies were very much alike. Had he spoken, he would have been guilty of one of those faults often packed with error, an apothegmhe would have said that we only become original, even in our folly, as age gives us character. We could be so happy with so little, said the youthful lover. The old man started. These were his own words many, many years ago; his very words to his guardian when the final appeal was made by old Bevington to what he called his better judgment so very, very long ago, in the dark, stately house upon Second Avenue. So very little, repeated the young man. I have always said, he continued, as pleased with the conceit as if it had never before glittered in the song of finches of his feather, that we should have gold enough in her hair. And is her hair golden? asked Maskelyne, and, startled by the sound of such words dropped from the lips of the distinguished counsel for many a soul- less corporation and many as soulless a man, he added, hurriedly, light. And then the old lawyer remembered that he, too, had a lock of hair that he had not sent back when he returned her let- ters and her picture. How bright it was! What had become of it? Where was it? In what pigeon-hole, what se- cret drawer? He could not for the moment remember. He looked out of the window. How bright the sunshine was! How empty the world? It seemed to build up its vacancy around him as a wall. And she, of course, has no money? he said, turning again. None. He had been sure of it. He rose and went to the window. The joyful attri- butes of the morning were there, but they were no longer joyful to him. The light fell in the same broad flood, still promising the glory of summer, the ri- pened harvest, but there was no prom- ise for him. The sparrows preluded still the full-voiced singers of the year, when leaves are heavy with the dust and brooks run dry, but he heard only a quick, petulant twitter. A sort of dull despond- ency suddenly settled upon him. He forgot his visitor, and even time and place. Amid the glimmering lights and shaking shadows of the past he sought a vision, as at twilight one seeks in some deserted corridor a statue which would seem to have so taken into its grain the last rays of the already sunken sun that the marble glows in the gathering darkness with a radiance not its own. The young man grew impatient as the revery was prolonged. He stirred un- easily. The old lawyer turned and look- ed curiously at him. Of course, of course! Was a man to be changed, the bone of what he was to have its marrow drawn, the fibre of every muscle to be untwisted, by this nonsense of a boy? Of course old Bevington was right, and for the moment he did not remember that Bevington was deadin sending the young fool to such a cool old hand as himself. But if Bevington had known what a turbulence of disappointment, discontent, and revolt had risen, and poured in strength-gathering torrent, even at that instant, through his heart, would he not have kept his young charge away? He would talk to himcertainly he wouldpave his way for him, perhaps, as with flag-stones of wisdom. Perhaps and then he thought with grim satis- faction of what Bevington might think should he learn that he recognized that there were other paths than those edged by a curbstone. You have been sent to me, he said, very seriously, coming from the window and leaning with both hands on the table, for advice and admonition. I will give my lesson in sternest charac- ters. I will teach by example, but I may not teach what you were sent here to learn. When I was young as youdo 90 THE END OF THE BEGINNING. not start, I was young once, and he to the moments touch, hold to yourself, bpoke with infinite sadness, I loved as and believe that no fame, no power, no you love, and, as with you, love was re- wealth, can compensate for a contentions turned. They who called themselves my life, an empty heart, a desolate old age. friends strove, with what they called rca- If I were you son, to tear me from what they called my He did not finish. Slowly the young folly. My folly! It was the wisdom that stranger rose to his full height, every it takes all that is blent into humanity, lineament of his face clear in cold light. at supremest His whole as- moments, to at- - ~~~1 pect was one of tam; their rea- I steadfast com- son, the fatu- mand. ous folly only Stop, he enough to give cried, in a stern habitual stir to tone. I am an earth-be- yourself. No clotted brain! ghost walks I yielded, as save that which you have not is what a man yielded. I kill- might have ed out even the been. We natural im- throng the pulses of my world. Be- nature. Grad- side everyone nally almost through life new instincts moves the im- came, desire age of a past for delight potentiality, sank into appe- the thing he tite for gain, could have be- hope for the come had he joy of higher held along an- existence w a s other course. lost in the am- I am what you bition for mere were, the prom- advancement. __________ ____________________ - iseofwhatyou I wrought out might have in myself that fearful piece of handi been For forty years I have walked by work whose every effort is but to grasp your side. I have touched you and you the worthless handful man can only have shuddered, I have chilled you and wrest from the mere world. I lost you have shrunk from me. Your nature and I have not won. I was a man and has so grown athwart, all impulse has I am only a lawyer, and to him you have been so long gone, all that softens or been sent for advice. I can find no prec- ennobles so thrown off that, in almost edent better, no authority more weighty final self-assertion, what you really were for your guidance than my own life, or might have been stands by your side Such strength as enabled me to work and bids you measure stature with it- such a change will also enable you to self. Your life has entered upon its make yourself a new being, to accom- wintry days, but sunlight is sunshine plish self-overthrow, to bring you to even in December and in youth. what I ama man rich, successful, The old lawyer, almost shuddering, courted, reveredmost miserable. He stepped back with repelling gesture. He who has so won, so lost, stands alone or passed his hand quickly across his eyes, he would not so win. Choose rather and then, as if his heart had beat recall, the close companionship of worldly de- summoning back every retreating force feat, if it must be, and I say to you in in quick rally, compelled but not un- the rapture of your youth, clay plastic willing, he turned in combative instinct THE END OF THE BEGINNING. 91 to meet the stranger face to face, nature putting the little finishing line at the to nature, turnedand found himself bottom of the letter. alone. Once more the clerk opened the door. Two men-one of rotund middle age, Eleven oclock, sir, he said, and the other younger but yet not young you know the General Term this morn- came down the steps of the Union Club ing one day a few weeks later. They met You saw the gentleman who just an old man rounding the corner of the went out? asked the lawyer. Avenue. I, sir, answered the man; I saw See what you would come to if you no one go out. had your own way, said the elder No one? of the two. Theres old Maskelyne. No one. Hes got everything youre making your- You certainly brought me a card self wretched to get. Do you want to and showed a young gentleman in a few be like him? minutes ago? No, said the other. Then you I, sir! repeated the clerk. I havent heard? brought in a card and showed a young Heard what? gentleman in! Arent you well this Hes a changed man, all within a morning, sir? month. That will do, said Maskelyne, Has his brain or his heart softened? sternly. As you look at life, said the young- As soon as he was again alone be er. He has sent for that clever, im- stepped to the table. The card and the provident, gracefully graceless good- letter were gone. And still he knew he fellow of a good-for-nothing, his nephew, had not been dreaming. A man swung him and his pretty-handed, big-eyed high in the air was busy painting a sign wifehe hadnt seen either of them since upon a building not far away, and he was they ran away and were marriedsent conscious that all through the strange for them and put them in his great, old interview he had watched him at work. house anddidnt you hear Maceration He had seen him finish one letter and growling about the luck some people then another, and now if he found him have just before we left? He says the adding the final consonant he would be nephew will have all the old mans assured that hQ could not have been property. asleep. He looked up and found that Whats the world coming to? said he was right. The man had just made the senior, or what is coining to the the heavy shaded side and was busy world ? Age was very old Stones from Chichimec Hardly wrung; Youth had hair of gold Knotted on her neck Fair and young. AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES. By Andrew Lang. YOUTH and crabbed age Cannot live together ; So they say. On this little page See you when and whether That they may! Age was very old Stones from Chichimec Hardly wrung; Youth had hair of gold Knotted on her neck Fair and young! Age was carved with odd Slaves, and priests that slew them God and Beast; Man and Beast and God There she sat and drew them, King and Priest! There she sat and drew Many a monstrous head Strange antiques; Horrors from Peru, Huacas doubly dead, Dead caciques! Ere Pizarro came These were Lords of men, Long ago; Gods without a name, Born or how or when, None may know! Now from Yucatan These doth Science bear Over seas; And methinks a man Finds youth doubly fair, Sketching these! VOL. 1119

Andrew Lang Lang, Andrew American Antiquities 93-94

AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES. By Andrew Lang. YOUTH and crabbed age Cannot live together ; So they say. On this little page See you when and whether That they may! Age was very old Stones from Chichimec Hardly wrung; Youth had hair of gold Knotted on her neck Fair and young! Age was carved with odd Slaves, and priests that slew them God and Beast; Man and Beast and God There she sat and drew them, King and Priest! There she sat and drew Many a monstrous head Strange antiques; Horrors from Peru, Huacas doubly dead, Dead caciques! Ere Pizarro came These were Lords of men, Long ago; Gods without a name, Born or how or when, None may know! Now from Yucatan These doth Science bear Over seas; And methinks a man Finds youth doubly fair, Sketching these! VOL. 1119 FRENCH TRAITSINTELLIGENCE. By W. C. Brownell. HE sensation which France produces on the iinpres- sionable foreign- er is first of all that of mental ex- hilaration. Paris, especially, is elec- tric. Touch it at any point and you receive an awakening shock. Live in it and you lose all leth- argy. Nothing stagnates. Everyone visibly and acutely feels himself alive. The universal vivacity is contagious. You find yourself speaking, thinking, moving faster, but without fatigue and without futility. The moral air is tonic, respiration is effortless, and energy is unconscious of exertion. Nowhere is there so much activity; nowhere so lit- tle chaos. Nowhere does action follow thought so swiftly, and nowhere is there so much thinking done. Some puissant force, universal in its operation, has manifestly so exalted the spirit of an entire nation, here centred and focussed, as to produce on every hand that phe- nomenon which Schiller admirably char- acterizes in declaring that the last per- fection of our qualities is when their activity, without ceasing to be sure and earnest, becomes sport. The very mon- uments of the past are as steeped in its influences as the boulevard Babel of the present. The grandiose towers and se- vere fa9ade of Notre Dame speak the same thought, in the dialect of their epoch, that the Panth6on uttered to the eighteenth and the Arc de l~toile de- clares to our own century. The pano- rama which spreads out before one from Montmartre or St. Cloud is permeated with this thoughtas distinct to the mental as tINe scene itself is to the phys- ical vision. Paris seems to stand for it .as did the Athens of Pericles and the Florence of the Renaissance. Like them, she seems to symbolize the apotheosis of intellect. The present everywhere as- serts itself with superb confidence; the entire environment is modern, untradi tional, self-reliant; the past steps down from the tyrants chair and assumes with dignity the pose of history, while students, not votaries, keep it free from the dust of the hospitable museums that harbor it. Is not each generation, ev- ery moment, provided with the light of its own mindthat light which Carlyle himself unwarily calls the direct in- spiration of the Almighty? Is not con- sciousness the greatest of divine gifts to man? Is not intelligence the meas- ure of his distance from the brutes, the bond which unites him to the gods, the instrument of his salvation? This confidence in the syllogism, this belief in the human intelligence, this worship of reason, has been characteris- tic of France ever since the nation be- came conscious of itself as a nation. And the fact that its special distinc- tion is highly developed intelligence is perhaps equally a cause and an effect of this. The form taken by the Revolu- tion, that great purge and renewer of the modern world, was thus wholly nat- uraL It embodied the nations belief in the saving power of reason and its im- patience with anomalies and absurdities. The desecration of the churches, the revolt against religion, the endeavor to infuse life into antique formularies as jejune as they were classic, the mad terror at the threatened reimposition by Europe of the old anarchy, Napoleons career of con- quest carrying the Revolution to all neighboring peopleswhether they wanted it or notevery feature, in fact, of the great upheaval is significant of the na- tions confidence in the competence of mind in every crisis. That the mutual relations of long-existent phenomena could constitute a subtle harmony quite apart from the absurd and anomalous character of the phenomena themselves, and wholly beyond the power of mind to see, though within the circle of in- stinctive feeling, France did not feel, and has never felt. The belief that the increasing purpose running through the ages operates through any other

W. C. Brownell Brownell, W. C. French Traits - Intelligence 94-107

FRENCH TRAITSINTELLIGENCE. By W. C. Brownell. HE sensation which France produces on the iinpres- sionable foreign- er is first of all that of mental ex- hilaration. Paris, especially, is elec- tric. Touch it at any point and you receive an awakening shock. Live in it and you lose all leth- argy. Nothing stagnates. Everyone visibly and acutely feels himself alive. The universal vivacity is contagious. You find yourself speaking, thinking, moving faster, but without fatigue and without futility. The moral air is tonic, respiration is effortless, and energy is unconscious of exertion. Nowhere is there so much activity; nowhere so lit- tle chaos. Nowhere does action follow thought so swiftly, and nowhere is there so much thinking done. Some puissant force, universal in its operation, has manifestly so exalted the spirit of an entire nation, here centred and focussed, as to produce on every hand that phe- nomenon which Schiller admirably char- acterizes in declaring that the last per- fection of our qualities is when their activity, without ceasing to be sure and earnest, becomes sport. The very mon- uments of the past are as steeped in its influences as the boulevard Babel of the present. The grandiose towers and se- vere fa9ade of Notre Dame speak the same thought, in the dialect of their epoch, that the Panth6on uttered to the eighteenth and the Arc de l~toile de- clares to our own century. The pano- rama which spreads out before one from Montmartre or St. Cloud is permeated with this thoughtas distinct to the mental as tINe scene itself is to the phys- ical vision. Paris seems to stand for it .as did the Athens of Pericles and the Florence of the Renaissance. Like them, she seems to symbolize the apotheosis of intellect. The present everywhere as- serts itself with superb confidence; the entire environment is modern, untradi tional, self-reliant; the past steps down from the tyrants chair and assumes with dignity the pose of history, while students, not votaries, keep it free from the dust of the hospitable museums that harbor it. Is not each generation, ev- ery moment, provided with the light of its own mindthat light which Carlyle himself unwarily calls the direct in- spiration of the Almighty? Is not con- sciousness the greatest of divine gifts to man? Is not intelligence the meas- ure of his distance from the brutes, the bond which unites him to the gods, the instrument of his salvation? This confidence in the syllogism, this belief in the human intelligence, this worship of reason, has been characteris- tic of France ever since the nation be- came conscious of itself as a nation. And the fact that its special distinc- tion is highly developed intelligence is perhaps equally a cause and an effect of this. The form taken by the Revolu- tion, that great purge and renewer of the modern world, was thus wholly nat- uraL It embodied the nations belief in the saving power of reason and its im- patience with anomalies and absurdities. The desecration of the churches, the revolt against religion, the endeavor to infuse life into antique formularies as jejune as they were classic, the mad terror at the threatened reimposition by Europe of the old anarchy, Napoleons career of con- quest carrying the Revolution to all neighboring peopleswhether they wanted it or notevery feature, in fact, of the great upheaval is significant of the na- tions confidence in the competence of mind in every crisis. That the mutual relations of long-existent phenomena could constitute a subtle harmony quite apart from the absurd and anomalous character of the phenomena themselves, and wholly beyond the power of mind to see, though within the circle of in- stinctive feeling, France did not feel, and has never felt. The belief that the increasing purpose running through the ages operates through any other FRENCH TRAITSINTELLIGENCE. 95 agency than that of the human intelli- gence seems fantastic to French reason. Working out the harmony of the uni- verse through the ways of the wicked or the unconsciousness of the good it views with complete scepticism. Even now the reactionary Frenchman who would restore the ancien r~gime feels as he does because he likes the monarchic ideal, and not because he resents the rude manner of its taking off. And it is this confidence in the efficacy of the intel- ligence which makes the French so swift to execute their ideas, so anxious to press and impose them. The trait is as no- ticeable in personal as in public matters, in the social as in the political arena. It is this which makes them so enamored of the positive and practical truths ; and it is their passionate attachment to these, and their desire to make them prevail, which splits parties into groups, reverses ministries, produces revolutions. That a thing should be admitted and not adopted is incomprehensible to the French mind; that it should not be ad- mitted after having been proved, after all that may be said against it has been answered, and simply because of an m- stinctive distrustin the human reason, is inconceivable to it. In finding intelligence thus universal in France, and integral in the French nature, I mean, of course, to confound it with neither culture nor erudition. I mean such intelligence as Mr. Hamerton notes in the French peasant when he says that the interval between the Frenchpeas- ant and a Kentish laborer is enormous, densely ignorant as both maybe. Or that quality, to take a distinguished example, which enabled Pascal, who had no read- ing, to anticipate in the seventeenth cen- tury such a light of the eighteenth as Kant, and such a light of the nineteenth as Charles Darwin. It is the quality in virtue of which rich and poor, educated and illiterate, priest and sceptic, can meet on common ground and understand each other. There is, intellectually speaking, far more disinterestedness than else- where. People divide upon ideas, and not upon prejudices, or even upon interests. Mind enters into everything. Even the fool reasonswhich is perhaps why he is the most intolerable fool on the footstooL The cranks is unknown. Respect for the embodiment of intelligence in books, science, or art, and for the distinguished in these lines of effort, pervades all ranks. M. Prudhomme himself cherishes a deep regard for them. One of his common- places is: La seule aristocratie, cest laristocratie de talent. The heroes of French society, taken in the large sense, are the men who have excelled in some intellectual field. English qualities, Eng- lish accomplishments, are never extolled to them without reminding them of the contrast in this, to their sense, vital re- gard between the materialism of England and their own civilized ideal. Yet such is the elasticity and suppleness of the French intelligence that whereas Mr. Froude exclaims bitterly, In England the literary class has no standing or in- fluence, M. Philippe Daryl states the phenomenon with much more rational explicitness in saying, Our neighbors regard their men of letters simply as specialists fulfilling their functions in the general work, and having a just claim, in the division of profits, to their right- ful share of pay and esteem. It is impossible, in short, to read French books, to meet French people, to study~French history, without perceiving that the unvarying centre of the national target is the truth, the fact, the reality. This is the shining disk at which the Frenchman aims, in criticism as in con- struction, in art as in science. Miltons grandiose and beautiful images strike M. Scherer especially because they are true as wellbecause they are, as he says, toujours justes dans leur beaut6. The drawing, the values, justness of tone, redeem any picture, however frivolous its meaning; errors in this respect con- demn any, however noble its sentiment. Far inferior to Donatello and the Greeks, is M. Rodins judgment of Michael Angelo. Far superior to all painters, is Fromentins verdict on the Dutch masters. The concluding lines of the Ode on a Grecian Urn sum up the French belief with exactness, as they do ours only by extension; and it is at once the distinction and the defect of French literature that it may be justly called a splendid and varied formulation of this belief. Familiar as well as classic literature bears the same witness. Com- pare, from the point of view of the intel- 96 FRENCH TRAITSINTELLIGENCE. ligence, the CC Causeries of Sainte-Beuve with those of Thackeray. The Round- about chat may have more charm, more philosophy, but the charm and the phi- losophy are both sentimental. But for their magical style they wouldbe doomed to oblivion long before Sainte-Beuves judgments reached the fulness of their fame. A great deal has been saidand said in France itselfin praise of the English essay, its delightful indiscretions, its personal intimacy. But when a Frenchman has anything analogous to do, he does it on a plane of the intel- ligence distinctly higher than that of the vast majority of English essays since their origin in the sentimental Specta- tor. Maurice de Gu6rin, M. Renan, M. Pailleron, the most diverse French essay- ists, even in a department of effort which is regarded rather as a digression and diversion, agree in dealing quite exclu- sively with the thinking power. In this field, as in others, there is undoubtedly a great deal of inferior work done, but it is inferior in a different way from our inferior productions of the kind; it is pedantic, or superficial, or prosy, or stilt- edit is not flat, emotional, and unintel- ligent. And of the really superior work it is difficult to overestimate the amount or the superiority. For one English or American, German or Italian novelist, feuilletortiste chroniqueur, critic of dig- nified capacity, there are a dozen, a score, French ones. In Spain and Italy French wares visibly outnumber the native ones in the book-stores. Com- merce carries French books to as remote regions as it does Sheffield cutlery or Manchester cottonades. In America we have simply no notion of how in this way the French ideal disseminates itself from Tangier to St. Petersburg. In every country it is an affectation to talk French; the dullest prig thus feels himself at once artistically occupied. The whole intel- lectual movement of Latin Europe is French. Scientifically, of course, France follows the lead of the Germans, of the English. The eminence of M. Pasteur is somewhat solitary, perhaps. But sci- ence and erudition are special provinces of accomplishment, and it is in the de- velopment and diffusion of native intel- ligence in its general and humane as- pects that the French strength lies. If M. Pasteur is not one of a group of which he is priinus inter pares, as might have been said of Mr. Darwin, and as may perhaps be said now of Helmholz, his vogue is far greater than that of any of his foreign contemporaries. Millions of Englishmen never heard of Professor Huxley. Millions of Germans are igno- rant of Helmholzs existence. There are, in comparison, few Frenchmen, prob- ably, who do not know that M. Pasteur is one of les gloires de la France.~ And the national turn for intellectual seriousness is as conspicuous in the peri- odical press as in literature. The press, in fact, is literature to a degree unknown in England and among ourselves. The journalists and the litt& ateur are not distinct, as one has only to read the journals that succeed and the journals that fail to perceive that they are here. Indeed, our most eminent journalists, who seem now to be getting the upper- hand of the merely literary writers and establishing themselves as a class, resent being confounded with the latter, and hold the same opinion of them as Mr. Cameron, of Peunsylvania. They address themselves very little to the in- telligence and exercise their own wits, which are unsurpassed, in providing at- tractive bait for that popular variety of gudgeon known as the average man and the general reader, and known to be endowed with only a rudimentary di- gestive apparatus for the things of the mind. They have a corresponding dis- regard for French journalism, to which enterprise is unknown, and which ap- peals far more exclusively to the intelli- gence. A new idea every day I~mile de Girardin maintained was the secret of successful journalism; following it, he obtained, with Le Petit Journal, the larg- est circulation in the world. And ideas I are, in Paris, so far more numerous and fecund than are our kind of sensations, even manufactured sensations, that Paris has on an average some eighty odd daily papers. If the Figaro desires to be es- pecially startling, it gets M. Mirbean, or M. Grandlien, or M. Saint-Genest, to exalt 4 some disquieting paradox into plausibil- ity; it does not procure bogus interviews, or print a broadside of private letters, or invent a puerile hoax. The police-reports are fewer and infinitely less elaborate. FRENCH TRAITSINTELLIGENCE. 97 Names and dates are no more important to the interest of an actual than to that of an imaginary drama. The law imposes re- spect for privacy, but the law has the full support of the public, which would find our Personal columns, our Here and There, our Men of To-day, our So- ciety news, and, in fine, our entire pre- occupation with vapid personality, simply unreadable. The gossip of the French press is pompous and pretentious, but it is not pitched in either the lackey or the parvenu key. Interviewing is still an occasional eccentricity. Whoever has anything interesting to say is able and prefers to say it himself in his own way. And all that is not enterprise is very much better done than with us. Criti- cism follows the movement in art, in lit- erature, and in science far more closely and more discreetly. Of even tolerable criticism we have, speaking strictly, very little; and the best, the very best, is apt to consist of the specific judgment of the specialist concerning the immediate case in handa high-class and conscientious- ly executed Guide to Bookbuyers, in a word; excellent in its way, but also elo- quent of the lack of the humanized pub- lic, which demands real criticismcriti- cism of scope, full of generalizations, bringing to bear trained faculties and stored wisdom to the task of that con- structive work which shows the relations as well as the character of its subject. Even in political and social discussion our journals show a gingerliness in deal- ing with generalization, which indicates clearly that it is an article suspected of their customers. The attitude toward it of the latter is evidently very much that of OConnells fish-wife to the word parallelopipedon. Yet of that ampli- fication, historical allusion, elementary erudition, and cheap rhetorical embroid- ery which some of our successful edito- rial writers assimilate from their text~ book, Macaulayof that kind of writing, in short, which addresses unintelligent admiration of the things of the mind, the veriest Gradgrinds of our public seem never to tire. Of course, the sys- tem of signing articles which obtains in France would prick these bubbles, were they blown there, but it is evident that the public has no taste for them. The French public is pleased with its own VOL. 11110 follies and fatuities; it has its own super- ficiality and its own variety of provin- cialism. It suffers especially from that hypertrophy of the intelligence, chronic esprit, as one of the prominent but hardly serious journals shows in melan- choly distinction; every morning it gives one a picture of the mental wreck, the state of irresponsibility, reached by a concentrated and exclusive development of a talent for esprit, of which the first- fruits were immensely clever, but which culminated with the Second Empire, whose hollowness it had done so much to expose. But imagine the subscribers of LIntransigeant, or of LAutorit~, reading our journals of the same grade of seriousness. And it is impossible to take up a French paper of the better class without being struck by the way in which it is written, by the security which the writer evidently feels in the capacity of his readers to understand him com- pletely, and by his equally evident con- sciousness that emotional appeals, dia- lectical sophisms, ingenious beggings of the question, insincere extenuations, im- pudent exaggerations, and the rest of this order of artillery which plays so prominent a part in our newspaper-war- fare, will avail him nothing if his reader be not in sympathy with him or his pres- entation of his case be neither sound nor attractive. There is, in consequence, a sort of take it or leave it air about the French newspaper-article that speaks volumes for the intelligence of its readers. Its moral attitude is that of M. Hal~vys Insurg6, to whQm, even in the supreme crisis of mortal peril, the idea of influenc- ing his judges by emotional appeal, or by sophistical distortion of a plain case, does not even occur. Very superficial observation, very slight introspection, suffice to assure us, on the other hand, that we need not go to the press for illustration of the opposite attitude. In every circle the most sin- gular paradoxes are current. They are amply sustained by that ingenuity of dialectic which is a perversion of ones own and an affront to others inteffi- gence. Things are what they are, says Bishop Butler, and the conse- quences of them will be what they will be. Why, then, should we. desire to be deceived?~ Simply because there are 98 FRENCH TRAITSINTELLIGENCE. other considerations more valuable in our eyes than avoiding being duped. If we did not suffer ourselves to be duped, if we did not at need elaborately dupe ourselves, such is our idea of duty that conscience would not permit us to do certain things, an irresistible impulsion toward which, according to a reverend theory, we owe to the momentum of the fall of our progenitor, Adam. Either these things do not tempt the French- man, or his intelligence perceives their noxiousness, or he yields to them with his eyes open and does not seek to elude punishment in sophistication. Ethically speaking, he thus escapes cant; but he escapes also, in the entire moral sphere, the dangers arising from mental confu- sion. He feels that talking, writing, ar- gument, cleverness, can change nothing in the constitution of things, that emo- tional seriousness will not transform in- tellectual levity, and consequently he develops no taste for that Anglo-Saxon passion known to him as th~sethat is to say, argument for arguments sake. He is not attracted by the supposititious. His mind has no Pickwickian phases. His triumph in a contest in intellectual dex- terity would be empoisoned by fear lest his skill be taken for sincerity, and his mind, accordingly, supposed ingenious rather than acute, imaginative rather than sure and sound. He avoids thus the confusion of temper and passion in all discussion. Temper and passion mean deviation from the end in view; they prevent the object being seen in itself as it really is; emotion is quite dissoci- ated with getting at that, and, therefore, though the social and artistic impulse leads the Frenchman to express a great deal of emotion at times, to become ap- parently excited in a way which would in our case indicate the submersion of the intefligenceby a flood of passion, his emotional expression is invariably deco- rative, so to speak, rather than structuraL Withal the French intelligence seems to have almost no frivolous side. The dif- ferent varieties of mental arithmetic, guessing-games, puzzles, puns, spiritual- ism, theosophy, fanaticisms, have no at- tractions for it. It instinctively shrinks from all such desultory and futile mani- festations of the scientific spirit. When a famous mind-reader, who has excited the earnest interest of both branches of our great race, was in Paris, a few years ago, one of the papers expressed the gun- eral feeling in the suggestion that a pin be hid on a transport about to sail for Tonquin, in order that the mind-readers success in finding it might be the means of taking him definitively away from a wearied public. Life is almost never in France taken en amateur, as it is so largely with us at the present epoch. It is taken, rather, en eonnaisseur. People do not do things merely from the love of them, without regard to their capacity for doing them. Every lover of literature does not make verses. Every lover of the drama does not write a play. It is not in France a distinction for a person of particularly literary tastes not to have attempted a novel. The love of knowledge is not perhaps as insatiable as with us, but it is infinitely more judicious. Interest in a wide range of subjects is not accepted by its possessor as the equivalent of en- cyclopaAic erudition, any more than it is so accepted with us by the acquaintances of its possessor. Aspire to know all things, says M. Ilenan to the French youth; the limits will appear soon enough. No American Chiron could wisely give such advice to our Achilleses. And to many of our universal aspirants the word limits can have really no meaning, since to the appetite of the pure amateur it has no application. The true connoisseur, on the other hand, the Frenchman, proceeds by exclusion. To enjoy, he needs to know; and to know, everyone needs to select. We get along very well without selecting, because even in the intellectual sphere it is our sus- ceptibility, rather than our intelligence, that seeks satisfaction. But about a thousand practical and positive topics the Frenchman, who speaks from experi- ence and examination, finds our views speculative and immature. We who have enough Teutonism in us to enjoy the vague, and of ourselves demand only that it be also the vast, find him in turn a trifle hard, a trifle narrow, a trifle pro- fessionaL He is, in fact, terribly explic it. His exactness, were it not relieved by so many humane qualities, would be excessively unsympathetic. It is not, however, the exactness of the pedant. FRENCH TRAITSINTELLIGENCE. 99 It is the precision of perfect candor and clairvoyance exercised on objects wholly within its range of vision and undis- turbed by anxiety as to what lies outside. Of that the intelligence gives no report, and to the Frenchman the immediate beholding of Kant and Coleridge is the same pure abstraction that it was to Carlyle. In this way, and owing to the professional view taken of it, life be- comes an exceedingly specialized affair. It lacks the element of uncertainty. That of each individual is in great meas- ure prearranged. Given the circum- stances, which in France it is not diffi- cult to predict, and it may even easily be foretold. It will not be deflected by whim or fancy. Only in rare instances will it be transfigured by passion. The individual is too rational to be swerved by sentiment, and it is sentiment that is the great source of the unforeseen and the unexpected. Mr. Matthew Arnold has lately been praising us for our straight-thinking, or at all events telling his countrymen that our thinking is straighter than theirs. The compliment is a gracious one, but to be told that we think straighter than Englishmen ought not to make us con- ceited. A comparison of our own with French thinking, in this respect of straightness, could not fail to have a less flattering result. We are not, to be sure, like the English, handicapped by the dilemma of either thinking crooked- ly or else admitting that the entire con- stitution of our society, its ideals and its ambitions, its objects of admiration and of ridicule, are anomalous and antiquat- ed. But to fancy our thinking as free from prejudice and confusion as that of a society where cant is unknown, even though its substitute be fatuity, would be clear optimism. Upon a vast body of intellectual matters our thinking is not straight because it is, in these matters, dependent upon certain firmly held no- tions which would be seriously com- promised if we were not careful to keep one eye on them, whatever subject we may be dealing with at the moment. If I admit this in regard to A, what will be the effect of the admission upon the opinion I hold in regard to X? is a com- mon mental reflection with us when brought face to face with certain topics. This is never the mental attitude of the Frenchman, who looks at the matter in hand with absolute directness. He has an instinctive dislike of the confusion which results from thinking of more than one thing at a time, an instinc- tive disposition to look at it simply and postpone all consideration of its conse- quencesabout which we are in general deeply concerned. He readily makes sacrifices to insure clearness. The American habit of hedging in advance against a possible change of opinion in the event of later information (a clum- sy device for avoiding the brutality of downrightness, much in vogue with our subtler writers) is unknown to him. One remarks all this in the first discus- sion among Frenchmen that he listens to or shares. Possibly owing in part to temperament, to a certain insouciance, to a conviction that the destinies of em- pires are not really being decided, the admissions made, the easy acknowledg- ment of mistake, are surprising. But, mainly, these phenomena are to be as- cribed to the straighter thinking of the French mind, to its unembarrassed poise, its genius for clearness, its confi- dence in itsell. At the bottom of our own peculiarities in the matter of thinking lies certainly an inherited distrust in the intelligence working thus simply and freely. Of Butlers saying, before cited, namely, that things are what they are, and the consequences of them will be what they will be, Mr. Arnold admirably affirms that to take in and to digest such a sentence as that is an education in mor- al and intellectual veracity. Every Frenchman is thus educated, however, and Mr. Arnolds further remark, that intensely Butlerian as the sentence is, Butler came to it because he is English, seems fantastic. He came to see the importance of saying it because of his English environment. To a Frenchman it is an accepted commonplace. And, in- deed, we, if we withdraw our attention for a moment from the ingrained Anglo- Saxon indisposition to credit it in prac- tice, and look at the maxim, clearly and straightforwardly, as at a mere intellect- ual propositionas a Frenchman looks at all maxims or other arrangements of words in sentenceswe can feel that it 100 FRENCH TRAITSINTELLIGENCE. loses something of its apparently sen- sational profundity. But in practice, owing to our English hereditament, we do not simply bring our consciousness to bear upon any point and, after lis- tening to its report, deem our whole duty dischargedeven if the point be a maxim which we can, on close inspec- tion, perceive to be axiomatic. In prac- tice our English instinct warns us against being sure that things are what to the unaided intelligence they seem to be; we have no confidence that there is any predetermined law governing their consequences; and if there be, we are not at all sure there is not some excel- lent reason why we should wish to be deceived. The entire history of the de- velopment of the British constitution, which we, in common with Englishmen, admire not more for its results than for the method by which these have been attained, is a conspicuous illustration of this. No more forcible example of the difference between the French attitude toward the intelligence and our own could be adduced. The French way of arriving at their constitution we, in fact, do not recognize as a developmentas, indeed, for the past two centuries and a half it has not been; the Tiers Pitat knew nearly as well what it wanted in 1615 as it does to-day, and since then the development~~ of French society has consisted largely in converting its intel- ligence into statutory enactments. But whenever we think of what little we know of this growth of French institu- tions it is with either contempt or com- passion for the French inability to make haste slowly, for their unwise hurry to draw the conclusion after both premises are settled, for their conviction that the order of nature insures things being what they are, for their blindness to Burkes ingenious tabling of discussion in insisting that regard should only be had to mans nature as modified by his habits, for, in a word, their overweening and short-sighted confidence in the effi- cacy of the intelligence. We philoso- phize in this way about matters of large importance, just as our English cousins do about all mattersfrom the blessings of inequality to the speciousness of the decimal system. Nothing, of course, is more foreign to the French mind than this attitude,which it is probably as incapable of appreciat- ing in others as of assuming itself. It never even affects the humility becom- ing such doubtful things as human con- clusions, to use an English writers phrase. It regards such humility very much as metaphysicians regard the similar distrust of the authority of con- sciousness which sometimes distresses the beginner in psychologyas distrust, namely, of the measure, in Coleridges words, of everything else which we deem certain. In virtue thus of their taking intelligence seriously, the French make, it must be acknowledged, very much more frequent use of it than we do; and as nothing develops and polishes a quality so much as cultivation, it is not surprising that they strike unprejudiced observers as in this respect our supe- riors. Englishmen do not in the least mind this, as a rule. An American is perhaps less philosophic~ The things of the mind are more esteemed by us. We have more respect for professors and literary fellows. And although these and their congeners are more numerous in England, and in quality also average higher there no doubt, they certainly make less impression upon the philistine mass which surrounds them, and are more completely a class by themselves than with us. Our vulgarity is of quite a different type from English vulgarity; having no brutalized class below it, it is less contemptuous, and having no ma- terialized class above it, it is not obse- qulous and pusillanimous. It is perhaps, for these reasons, louder, more full of swagger, more offensive; but it is manly and intelligent. Our rapidly increasing leisure class is itself felt to be more con- spicuously lacking in other qualities than intelligence when it is compared or, rather, contrasted (for of course nothing can be so compared) with the British upper-class. On the whole, occupied in the main as our intelligence may be with purely material subjects, and ignorant as it may be of the importance of any others deficient, that is to say, as it may be in cultureit is nevertheless one of the great American forces, and is respected as such and gloried in. The ordinary Englishman finds the ordinary American thin, sharp, stridulous, eager, and ner FRENCH TRAITSINTELLIGENCE. 101 vous, but he also unquestionably finds him clever as well; the defects he notes are not defects of intelligence. But after all is said that need be said of us in this respect, and however great- ly our esteem for intelligence may excel that of the English, the fact remains that we are in no sort of danger of allowing this esteem to become excessive. We have nothing like the confidence in the in- telligence which the French have. It is one of our tools in the work of society- building. With the French it is a talis- man. We do not, in a word, begin to take it as seriously as the French do. The Frenchman would probably address us on this subject somewhat in this wise: Your intelligence is certainly agile and alert, especially when compared with your English cousins, but you certainly exhibit it frivolously. No extravagance is too great for your thinking. You are constantly trying experiments in think- ing, constructing for yourselves notions of this and thatnot at all with refer- ence to any experience, but wilfully. Moreover, you have an opinion upon every imaginable topic, and you do not consider it at all necessary to give any substantial reason for it. You have, it is true, a nervous dread of inconsistency, and exercise a great deal of ingenuity to avoid the appearance of it. But the ex- ercise of ingenuity in this way is itself frivolous; it demonstrates a lack of con- fidence in the inteUigence as such, one of whose chief qualities is flexibility. Flexible, thus, you rarely are, though you are certainly, spite of all your inge- nuity, not a little variable. And it is not new light, but a different emotion, which makes you so. Your opinions are very apt to be partis prisnot, 4 langlaise, out of habit and tradition, but out of pure freak and whim. You are not, in our sense, sirtcre. You are, of course, perfectly honest, but in importing whim and fantasy into the domain of pure in- telligence you are not serious; you are guilty of intellectual levity. You tell us (or, out of caution, the habit of business reserve, civility, or what not, you do not tell us) your notions about ourselves, for example. You have at all events no hes- itation in forming opinions of the most positive kind as to our character, our manners, our art and politics. To men- tion politics alone, you have strong doubts as to the continuance of the present republic ; fancy us in danger of anarchy from unrestricted socialist agi- tation, yet condemn our cruelty toward Louise Michel; alternately predict a king and a Radical dictator for us ; pronounce us grasping in Madagascar, faithless in Tunis, pusillanimous in Egypt; attach weight to M. iRocheforts utterances; an- ticipate cabinet crises; become humor- ous~ over the unexpected duration of the present ministryall without any such acquaintance with us, our institutions, history, and present condition, as would be necessary really to justify you, if you took such matters seriously, in holding any notions at all in regard to us. You think a great deal Your intelligence is very active. But you will forgive my frankness in saying that it is, to our sense, a shade lacking in self-respect. Doubtless you have some other touch- stone for discovering truth, of which we are ignorant, or perhaps some substitute for truth itself. Your inventiveness is immense. You are the people of the future. The French quick-wittedness, again, differs from our own as much as their straight-thinking does. Clearness is not more characteristic of French thought than celerity. The constant, unintermit- tent activity of the French consciousness assists powerfully to secure this. It keeps the intelligence free at once from preoccupation and from distraction. With us the man who sees quickly is apt not to see clearly. He is rather the man of imagination than of clairvoyance. He divines, guesses, feels, what you mean. He runs ahead of your thought, antici- pates it wrongly often, if the data of his augury as to your probable mean- ing are insufficient. Sometimes he makes ludicrous errors; sometimes he becomes very expert at concealing his misconceptions and appearing acutely sympathetic, with really very slight title thereto ; his agility of appreciation rivals the artificially developed memory of the habitual liar. But all this is presence of mind rather than quick-wittedness. There is a perversion of the pure intel- ligence about it that is almost tragic. Our truly clairvoyant man sees slowly in comparison with the Frenchman, 102 FRENCH TRAITSINTELLIGENCE. though I think we may say in compar- ison with the Frenchman alone. His solidity of character gives him an in- stinctive dislike, an instinctive mistrust, of fragmentariness. He must first make the circuit of any object before permit- ting himself really to perceive any of its facets; he must reflect upon its relations before he can realize its existence. The Frenchman meantime has contemplated, comprehended, and forgotten. Not only is his own intelligence singly developed, but he lives in an atmosphere in which care for the intelligence is almost ex- clusive. He is thus enabled to treat propositions by themselves. He does not ask what the propounder is driving at in general, before consenting to com- prehend the specific statement at the moment. He would not, for example, before opening his mind to the subject of national characteristics, require to know which ones were personally pref- erable to the chronicler and commenta- tor. In listening to a speech, in hear- ing a remark, or in reading a book or an article, he never inquires what are the maker or authors sentiments or opin- ions on cognate cardinal points. He is a stranger to impulses which impel us to seek Mr. Darwins views concerning a future life as a preliminary to even ap- prehending the principle of natural selec- tion, or the positive credo of Carlyle before enjoying Carlyles destructive criticism of Coleridge. As to any im- portant object of mental apprehension, therefore, his road is much shorter and his arrival much quicker. To him, at any rate, it would not be necessary to add that this involves no question of the relative worthiness of the two ways of seeing and thinking. But it is only the French that we find especially quick-witted, and generally we reach France via England; and, remem- bering Thackerays definition of humor as wit and love, we are apt to ex- press one difference between ourselves, as Anglo-Saxons, and the French in respect of intelligence as the difference between humor and wit. Such a distinction is flattering to us, and it is therefore be- come classical. It has, however, to be stretched to the utmost of its elastic ex- tent in candid hands to be made to apply in many instances, unless by the love, which to make humor Thackeray adds to wit, something more intense than geni- ality and evident kindliness is intended. And more and more this is seen to be the case. Few Anglo-Saxon critics nowa- days, of anything like Carlyles insight, for example, would be tempted to turn an essay on Voltaire, the great destroyer of the old, bad order of things, into a sermon on Persiflage. To manyFrench writers it would be impossible to deny the possession of a subtle charm quali- fying their unmistakable wit, in a way which renders it very cordial and good- humored, if not humorous. Merely witty, in our sense of the term, they certainly are not. They have an indu- bitable flavor which is, if not genial, assuredly kindly. Where can even an Anglo-Saxon laugh as he can at a French theatre~ Mirth-provokingqualitieswill, on the French stage, excuse any ab- surdity. Say what you like; I admit it, M. Francisque Sarcey, the famous Temps critic, repeats a hundred times, Mais, cest si amusant; cest si amu- sant. An American would so speak of negro-minstrelsy. Witty is a wretched translation of spirituel. To be spirituel is to be witty in a spiritual way. It in- volves the active interposition of mind, and what is known as the light touch. Our humor does not depend upon light- ness of touch, it need hardly be said. A genial imagination suffices in many instances. Often this need only be pos- sessed by the auditor or the reader alone to make humor successful. Heartiness, on one side, and good-will, on the other, go far toward creating it out of nothing sometimes. Nothing will atone for the lack of this in our eyes; nothing will atone for the lack of wit in French eyes. This at least it is fair to say. A French- man would find Colonel Sellers as ennuyeux as Paris found Dundreary. An Anglo-Saxon finds something cyni- cal alloying the mirth of such a master- piece as Georges Dandin; we cannot comfortably enjoy the ridicule of mis- fortune if it be due to stupidity rather than to moral error. The French atti- tude is the exact converse, and the fact is exceedingly instructive. But French lack of sympathy for our humor does not chiefly spring from the lack of this element of love in French FRENCH TRAITSINTELLIGENCE. 103 esprit, for which, indeed, it substitutes a fairly satisfactory geniality; nor does it proceed altogether from impatience with the voulu character of this humor, with its occasional heaviness of touch, its ceaseless vigilance for opportunities of exercise, its predominance of high spir- its over mental alertness, of body over bouquet. It is in the main due to French dislike of, and perplexity in the pres- ence of, whatever is thoroughly fantas- tic, unscrupulously exaggerated, wil- fully obscure. To illustrate this distinc- tion, a better definition of humor than Thackerays is quoted by his daughter from an aunt of George Eliot, who de- scribes it (wittily, not humorously) as Talking in fun while thinking in ear- nest. Such procedure is in the teeth of French habit and traditiondoes vio- lence to every French notion of right talk- ing and thinking. When they talk in fun they think in fun, and when they think in earnest they talk in earnest. This is not at all inconsistent with the subtilest suggestion, intimation, and even a cer- tain amount of superficial indirectness. Suggestion, nevertheless, however sub- tile, is always strictly and logically in- ferrible from the statement which sug- gests. and which may itself be so delicate as. to be easily missed. And however superficially indirect an intimation may be, it is never obscure. But we look for the serious thinking beneath the fun in French wit, and it is only by long prac- tice that we come to perceive that there is none. All fables have their morals, says Thoreau somewhere, but the in- nocent enjoy the story. In any depart- ment of comedy the French are bound to seem to us innocent ~ in this way. An Anglo-Saxon reading or witnessing Moli~re, and inevitably associating seri- ous thinking with all merriment of any- thing like such intellectual eminence as MoliZ~res, is sure to find his amusement alloyed with a certain dissatisfaction. On the other hand, in the presence of English or American humor the French- man is infallibly at fault. He is accus- tomed to the classification and minute division of a literature highly organ- ized and elaborately developed, where wit and philosophy have each its prov- inceas distinctly as history and ro- mance, which with us are so frequently (and in Macaulays view, it may be re- remembered, so advantageously) com- mingled. In the presence of that por- tion of our American humor which is unaccompanied by any thinking in earnest, and which is so popular in England, we may perhaps excuse his per- plexity, remembering his partiality for lightness of touch. What I have been saying is merely another and a striking attestation of the French sense for proportion, order, clearness. French wit, like everything else in French character, is exercised under scientifically developed condi- tions. It is never exaggerated in such a way as to lose its strict character as wit. Smiling through tears, after the fashion of the English comic muse, is little characteristic of her French cousin. The French genius for measure dislikes uncertainty and confusion as thoroughly as Anglo-Saxon exuberance dislikes be- ing labelled and pigeon-holed. Thus, with all their play of mind, the French seem to us literal, almost terre-d -terre at timestheir play of mind is manifested within such clearly defined limits and exercised on such carefully classified subjects. They, in turn, find us vague, mystic, fantastical Our fondness for viewing things in chance and passing lights they share in no degree whatever. What they know they possess. For bias, however brilliant, or imperfect vision, however luminous, they have a native repugnance. Therefore we find them frequently deficient in imagination, and thus even lacking in their great specialty of appreciation, apprehension, acute ob- servation. M. Tames criticism of Car- lyle, for example, appears to us the very essence of misappreciation. M. Taine is quite blind to that overmastering side of Carlyles genius, his humor. He takes him too seriously, and not seriously enough; he takes him literally. At once we say to ourselves, nothing that this critic can say of Carlyle can have real interest and value. And we err on our side; M. Taine can help us to see how necessary Carlyles genius is to preserve from triviality, from merely passing in- terest, all that exaggeration and fantas- ticality which are just as characteristic of him as his genius and humor. On the other hand, it is in virtue, 104 FRENCH TRAITSINTELLIGENCE. rather than in spite of their distaste for mysticism, that the French display such a rare quality for dealing with subjects whose native realm is the border-land between the positive and the metaphys- ical. Here their touch is invariably delicate and intuitively just. They pre- fer the positive; they deal with the meta- physical positively, or not at allwitness Pascal, witness Descartes, witness the deists of the Encyclop~edia, witness Mi- chelets definition of metaphysics as lart de s6garer avec m6thode. But they show immense tact, which can only come from highly developed intelligence unmixed with emotion, in treating that entire range of topics the truth concern- ing which seems so accessible and is yet, as experience aud candor warn us, so elusivethe nebulie lying, as it were, within the penumbra of perception, neither quite outside its range in the clear light, nor wholly within the shad- ow where search is as stimulating to the imagination as it is otherwise barren. The field of thought, where the light touch is the magicians wand that opens the mind, though it affords little actual sustenance, and that fortifies the judg- ment in keeping it within bounds; where plump statements and definite opinions are out of place; where the logical con- clusion is divined to be incomplete and misleading; where scores of practical questions concerning love, marriage, manners, morals, criticism are to be dis- cussed without dogmatism, and the clearest view of them is seen to have qualificationsthe field, in fine, of airy and avowed paradox, where any emotion is an impertinence and any hard and fast generalization an intrusion, belongs almost wholly to the French. This field they never mistake for the positive. They are no more unconsciously vague here than in the positive field. They treat fancifulness fancifully. They pre- serve all their perspicacity in dealing with it. Some refinement of the intelli- gence secures them against the imposi- tion of illusion, and enables them to en- joy and illustrate its art. The passion for clearness appears no- where more manifest than in the French language itself, the clearness of which is a commonplace. It is for this reason, rather than because it is the earliest settled European idiom, and because of French preponderance in European af- fairs, that it is the language of diploma- cy. It is impossible to be at once cor- rect and obscure in French. Expressed in French, a proposition cannot be am- biguous. Any given collocation of words has a significance that is certain. Permutation of words means a change of ideas. Spanish may have more rhe- torical variety; English a choice be- tween poetic and prose phraseology; German may state or, rather, shadow forth more profundity; Italian be richer, as the Italians, who find them- selves constrained in French, are always saying; the synthetic languages may ex- press more concisely certain nuances of thought and feeling. None of them is so precise as the French. And this is far from being felt as a defect by the French themselves. One of Victor Hu- gos chief titles to fame is his accom- plishment in moulding the French lan- guage to his thought, in developing its elasticity by making it say new things. This is indeed, perhaps, the only one of his accomplishments that may be called unique. It is universally ascribed by Frenchmen to the miracle of Hugo s genius. It at any rate belongs to no other of the romanticists who, whatever violence they did to traditions of pro- priety, worked with the old, time-hon- ored tools. Mfred de Musset and Keats are often compared. They have indeed many traits in common. English stylists, admitting at once with Mr. Lowell that Keats is overlanguaged, nevertheless do not hesitate to find in his luxuriant freedom, and even his license of tropical intensity, one of his most distinguished merits. In Mussets case an eminent French critic, who hesitates less and less, he says, to term Musset the great- est of French poets, is specially im- pressed by the correctness, the propriety, of Mussets diction, the grace and power which he exhibits within the lines of conventional grammar. Boilean could reproach him with nothing. His past definiteswhere Racine himself is weak are all right. In other words, his pre- cision is faultless; and whereas this would be nothing in a mere grammarian, in a poet of Mussets spiritual quality it is deemed a merit simply transcendent FRENCH TRAITSINTELLIGENCE. 105 so easy is it to give the reins to ones afflatus, and so be hurried beyond the limits of that perfection of style which, whatever else may be present, is abso- lutely essential to the truest distinction. One sees at once how different the point of view is from our own. One appre- ciates how the French language itself, with such an ideal as this, conduces to the measure of the French temperament, the clearness of the French mind. La Raison, says Voltaire, nest pas prolixe. And whether or no the litera- ture in which this admirably clear lan- guage is embodied is as important to mankind as other modern literatures, the most superficial study of it reveals the source of that terseness, for which it is known, even of the ignorant, to be re- markable, in its devotion to the qualities of the intelligence rather than to those of the imagination. Inspired by and appealing to the intelligence more exclu- sively, than any other literature, it rarely sins by elaborateness, which is due to the dross of thought, or by an abruptness and inelegance whose conciseness is by no means inconsistent with obscurity. It is thus full without being fragmentary. Inelasticity of form is not a concomitant of its condensation of substance. It is neither vague in idea nor ejaculatory in expression. Born a Frenchman, Emer- son, who would surely lose no essential conciseness in a larger sweep and freer flow of phrase, would have been as great a writer as he is a thinker. As for that fuiness which is rather overexplicit than fragmentary, and which is indeed rather thinness than fu]ness, which in every relation but that of pupil to teacher is so relentlessly fatiguing, and of which we enjoy a surfeit in pulpit, platform, press, periodical, and private conversa- tion, it simply does not exist in France. Such analogues of it as do exist are re- warded with the esteem in which all bores are held in a country whose night- mare is enrtai. Nothing says more for French intelligence. Nothing says more for our own preference of instruction to intelligence than the opposite attitude on our part, which prompts the accept- ance of much that is stale and flat in the hope that somehow it may be found not wholly unprofitable. And French definiteness, like any other illustration of rounded and com- plete perfection, has great charm for persons of a quite different temperament and training. Take as an instance, among the multitude it would be easy to cite, the conspicuous one of so thorough an Englishman as Mr. John Morley in his character of publicist and critic. The direct influence of French Encyclopa~- dism upon European thought has per- haps ceased to be powerful; but as one of the chief lights of that English school whose performance is probably mainly responsible for the late Karl Hillebrands opinion that the English at present en- joy the intellectual supremacy in Europe, Mr. John Morley is an interesting illus- tration of the indirect influence which the methods and mental habits of French rationalism still exert. Spite of a thor- oughly English temperament and train- ing, Mr. John Morleys study of the French rationalistic epoch, upon which he is the authority in English, induces him to find it a really singular trait in Burke that to him there actually was an element of mystery in the cohe- sion of men in societies, in political obedience, in the sanctity of contract. This is certainly a striking instance of the potency of the French influence in favor of clearness. But we have all felt its power and the exhilaration which comes from submitting to itall of us who have come in contact with it. There is something stimulating to the faculties in withdrawing them from exercise in the twilight of mysticism and setting them in motion in the clear day, and, to cite Mr. Morley again, upon matter which is not known at all unless it is known distinctly. About many things and in many ways a man fond of France and French traits easily gets into the same mode of thinking. Yet there is hardly anything less characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon genius than this purely rationalistic habit of mind. We are, as a rule, a thousand times nearer to Burke than to his critic in native sympathy, and the idea that there is actually an element of mystery in the cohesion of men in societies seems far from singu- lar to us. We not only have a tendency toward the mysticism so foreign to the French mind and temper, but we main- tain as a distinctly held tenet the wisdom 106 FRENCH TRAITSINTELLIGENCE. of taking account of the unaccountable, and find French completeness incom- plete in this, to our notion, vitally impor- tant regard. But it would be difficult to convince a Frenchman of this wisdom. The rationality of considering only those phenomena of which the origin and laws are discoverable, of eliminating the ele- ment of confusion introduced into every discussion by triking, with Wordsworth, blank misgivings for the fountain- light of all our day, accords with his notion of wisdom far more closely. Car- dinal Newmans remark, which we find so happy, to the effect that after you have once defined your terms, and cleared your ground, all argument is either need- less or useless, seems to him curiously amiss. Then, he thinks, is the very time for argument, when the terms have been defined and the ground cleared, so that candor and clairvoyance may without ob- struction be brought to bear upon those natural or social phenomena which will always seem different to different minds until, in this way, the science of them is attained. But you are not in search of the science of things, you others, he adds; in virtize of your turn for poetry and your love of mysticism you are, as your Wordsworth says, creatures mov- ing about in worlds not realized, where argument is either useless or needless; and when you do descend to the practi- cal arid- the actual your mysticism ac- companies you, even into this realm; and even in occupying yourselves with so actual and practical a matter as social and political reform you refuse, with your Burke, to consider mans nature except as modifledby his habits, which, in your fancy, have some mysterious sanction. You wonder that we know so little of your greatest modern poet and your greatest publicist. In literal truth they can be of no service to us. They are too irrational themselves, and they are too~ contemptuous of merely rational forces. There is indeed little in either Burke or Wordsworth to appeal to the French mind, and the fact itself is as significant as a chapter of analysis. Let us not take Burke or Wordsworth as witness of the insufficiency of the human intelligence, however. Let us trike the clairvoyant Frenchman himself, and let us select two such wholly differ- ent witnesses as the late Ximen~s Dou-. dan and M. Tainethe sympathetic and the scientific critic, the esprit d~licat and the incisive and erudite scholar. They are quite in accord. We cannot get along without vague ideas, and an able man who has only clear ideas is a fool who will never discover anything, says M. Doudan. When the Frenchman conceives an object, says M. Tame,. he conceives it quickly and distinctly~ but he does not perceive it as it really is, complex and entire. He sees por- tions of it only, and his perception of it is discursive and superficiaL Thus, even in the sphere of the intelligence, we find that discovery and perception are not always, even in French eyes, the fruits of French clairvoyance. Never- theless, nothing is more idly self-indul- gent for us whose defects lie in quite other directions than to dwell on the defect of the French quality of clearuess; the French criticisms of clearness them- selves, while they illustrate the quality in being made at all, and thus triumph- ing over prejudice, may be said to illus- trate also its defect in being a little too simple and definite. Truth never shows herself to mortals except by-glimpses; concentration and intensity of attention at .these moments tend to create fQrget- fulness of their number and. variety that is, perhaps, all we can truthfully say. It may be impossible to be clear without being limited, but it is entirely possible to be limited without being clear. Limitation belongs rather to the conscious exclusion of essentially vague topics; clearness, to the unconscious operation of the spirit of order and sys- tem. Clearness, says N. Doudan him- self, not only helps us to make our- selves understood; it serves also as a demonstration to ourselves that we are not being led astray by confused con- ceptions. When we consider much of our oversubtile writing, two things are plainfirst; that there is an unm- tefligent awkwardness of expression, and, second, that there is an unintelligent confusion of ideas. Ileduced to coher- ence, the meaning is often discovered to be very simple. And the meaning is, after all, what is siguificant. Yet the emotion associated with its discovery has so heated and fused a fancied new AT EVENING. 107 truth that it is distorted to the writers own view, and he sees it far larger than it ishe sees it unintelligently. French writing is so different from ours in this regardit is such easy reading, in a wordthat, recalling Sheridans mot, we are forced to perceive that it may have been hard writing, after all, in- stead of merely due to limited vision. About, in his Alsace, prettily reminds Sarcey of a time when he had not le tra- vail facile, lesprit rapide, et la main sfire comme aujourdhui. M. Sarceys style is limpidity itself; and when we consider what ideas, what nuances, what infinite delicacy, are disguised in this limpidity, and in that of others comparable to it, we can see that French clearuess by no means necessarily means limitation, but implies a prodigious amount of work done, of rubbish cleared away, a long journey of groping victoriously con- cluded, and the slough in which our over-subtilty is still struggling left far behind. Clearness! Do we not all know what a badge of intelligence it is; how wearily we strive to attain it; how depressingly we fail; how, when we suc- ceed, we feel a consciousness of triumph and of power? Admit its limitations. The French apotheosis of intellect has its weak side. But it argues an ideal that is immensely attractive because it is perfectly distinct. AT EVENING. By Graham R. Tomson. How will it fare with us when we are old? Shall we, though gathering grayness and dull rain, Grieve that the red leaves fall and blossoms wane? Shall we, indeed, through mists of time behold Our youths lost picture limned on gleaming gold? Ah, nowell gone is all past joy and pain No more, for April hours and fancies fain, Our souls shall crave dead dreams and tales untold. If we could choose what boon the years might bring, Should we not ask that age might proffer peace? No more the doubt and deep unrest of Spring; But woods unstirred by wind of wavering wing, The quietude of gray, untroubled seas, And still, green meadows hushed at evening.

Graham R. Tomson Tomson, Graham R. At Evening 107-108

AT EVENING. 107 truth that it is distorted to the writers own view, and he sees it far larger than it ishe sees it unintelligently. French writing is so different from ours in this regardit is such easy reading, in a wordthat, recalling Sheridans mot, we are forced to perceive that it may have been hard writing, after all, in- stead of merely due to limited vision. About, in his Alsace, prettily reminds Sarcey of a time when he had not le tra- vail facile, lesprit rapide, et la main sfire comme aujourdhui. M. Sarceys style is limpidity itself; and when we consider what ideas, what nuances, what infinite delicacy, are disguised in this limpidity, and in that of others comparable to it, we can see that French clearuess by no means necessarily means limitation, but implies a prodigious amount of work done, of rubbish cleared away, a long journey of groping victoriously con- cluded, and the slough in which our over-subtilty is still struggling left far behind. Clearness! Do we not all know what a badge of intelligence it is; how wearily we strive to attain it; how depressingly we fail; how, when we suc- ceed, we feel a consciousness of triumph and of power? Admit its limitations. The French apotheosis of intellect has its weak side. But it argues an ideal that is immensely attractive because it is perfectly distinct. AT EVENING. By Graham R. Tomson. How will it fare with us when we are old? Shall we, though gathering grayness and dull rain, Grieve that the red leaves fall and blossoms wane? Shall we, indeed, through mists of time behold Our youths lost picture limned on gleaming gold? Ah, nowell gone is all past joy and pain No more, for April hours and fancies fain, Our souls shall crave dead dreams and tales untold. If we could choose what boon the years might bring, Should we not ask that age might proffer peace? No more the doubt and deep unrest of Spring; But woods unstirred by wind of wavering wing, The quietude of gray, untroubled seas, And still, green meadows hushed at evening. JAPANESE ART, ARTISTS, AND ARTISANS. By William Elliot Griffis. APAN is the land of surprises. Among things unexpected none strikes the visitor or resident more than the environ- ment of art and its makers. One sees that the love of the beautiful has penetrated to the lowest classes, that taste is highly refined, that a long perspective of history has given a background out of which exqui- site flowers of genius have bloomed, that the very shape of the fingers seen, lit- erally, on every hand, suggests deli- cacy and cunning skill; yet where are the factories and studios? Inside the dwellings, where are the bronzes, porce- lain, and bric-a-brac? The house and living rooms, devoid of what we imagine to be furniture, suggest simplicity it- self. Rarely are articles of virtu visi- ble. The whole cast of civilization suggests extreme frugality, if not pov- erty. One wonders how Europe and America can be so filled with exquisite works of art, once exported from, but now no longer to be easily duplicated in, Everlasting Great Japan. These impressions, so often expressed by others, were shared by the writer seventeen years ago, when he first trod the soil of the Honorable Country. One years life as a lone foreigner in a daimks castle town, and three years in the national capital, with much travel- ling and many visits to palaces, temples, feudal mansions, and artists homes, did not greatly dull the edge of surprise. Then, the richly stocked shops and fac- tories in the treaty ports, flamboyant with the gay daubs and over-decorat- ed wares which sell well abroad, had scarcely more than a beginning. Then, the subdivision of labor, now increas- ingly practised, and the crass products of prison toil were unheard of. The emblazonry of paper fans, umbrellas, and wall-hangings, which make perpet nal red sunsets in our sea-shore taber- nacles, had but begun. Things were normal, and the Holy Country had been but recently defiled by the alien. The collector, purchas- ing agent, and specially accredited em- issary of museum and publisher were not then in the land. Yet the art, the artist, and the arti- sans were there. Gradually one was able to discover the foundries and ate- hers, and to ferret out the secrets and learn the curious vocabulary of the handicraftsmen. When familiar with the sword-wearing gentlemen and the intelligent merchants, the appreciative lover of art could carry temptation to their pride and often to their pockets, and thus win many a rare curio. One found that these high-bred folks were averse to vulgar display, or to what might tempt the tax-collector or the spythat natural and relentless parasite of Japanese feudalism. There were many causes tending to simplicity of domestic interiors besides poverty. There was the ever-present dread of fire the flower of great Yedo in which city a day passing without a conflagra- tion was a novelty amounting to a na- tional event. No fire-insurance com- pany existed, and the stream thrown on a blaze by the hand-engines borne on mens shoulders, and filled with buckets and dippers could hardly outrival a Chinese laundryman in the act of sprink- ling clothes. Hence, nearly all valu- ables, and especially art treasures and heirlooms, were kept insured in the dozo, a fireproof storehouse attached to every dwelling of importance. This fireproof building, made of timber coated with a foot of mud and hard-finish of plaster, contained hidden treasures of dark- ness in the form of lacquer, ivory, crys- tal, porcelain, pottery, bronze, books, toys, and robes. The fine-art store, such as one still sees in the inland cities, is a modest affair in one or two rooms, probably half the stock being exposed at one

William Elliot Griffis Griffis, William Elliot Japanese Art, Artists, Artisans 108-121

JAPANESE ART, ARTISTS, AND ARTISANS. By William Elliot Griffis. APAN is the land of surprises. Among things unexpected none strikes the visitor or resident more than the environ- ment of art and its makers. One sees that the love of the beautiful has penetrated to the lowest classes, that taste is highly refined, that a long perspective of history has given a background out of which exqui- site flowers of genius have bloomed, that the very shape of the fingers seen, lit- erally, on every hand, suggests deli- cacy and cunning skill; yet where are the factories and studios? Inside the dwellings, where are the bronzes, porce- lain, and bric-a-brac? The house and living rooms, devoid of what we imagine to be furniture, suggest simplicity it- self. Rarely are articles of virtu visi- ble. The whole cast of civilization suggests extreme frugality, if not pov- erty. One wonders how Europe and America can be so filled with exquisite works of art, once exported from, but now no longer to be easily duplicated in, Everlasting Great Japan. These impressions, so often expressed by others, were shared by the writer seventeen years ago, when he first trod the soil of the Honorable Country. One years life as a lone foreigner in a daimks castle town, and three years in the national capital, with much travel- ling and many visits to palaces, temples, feudal mansions, and artists homes, did not greatly dull the edge of surprise. Then, the richly stocked shops and fac- tories in the treaty ports, flamboyant with the gay daubs and over-decorat- ed wares which sell well abroad, had scarcely more than a beginning. Then, the subdivision of labor, now increas- ingly practised, and the crass products of prison toil were unheard of. The emblazonry of paper fans, umbrellas, and wall-hangings, which make perpet nal red sunsets in our sea-shore taber- nacles, had but begun. Things were normal, and the Holy Country had been but recently defiled by the alien. The collector, purchas- ing agent, and specially accredited em- issary of museum and publisher were not then in the land. Yet the art, the artist, and the arti- sans were there. Gradually one was able to discover the foundries and ate- hers, and to ferret out the secrets and learn the curious vocabulary of the handicraftsmen. When familiar with the sword-wearing gentlemen and the intelligent merchants, the appreciative lover of art could carry temptation to their pride and often to their pockets, and thus win many a rare curio. One found that these high-bred folks were averse to vulgar display, or to what might tempt the tax-collector or the spythat natural and relentless parasite of Japanese feudalism. There were many causes tending to simplicity of domestic interiors besides poverty. There was the ever-present dread of fire the flower of great Yedo in which city a day passing without a conflagra- tion was a novelty amounting to a na- tional event. No fire-insurance com- pany existed, and the stream thrown on a blaze by the hand-engines borne on mens shoulders, and filled with buckets and dippers could hardly outrival a Chinese laundryman in the act of sprink- ling clothes. Hence, nearly all valu- ables, and especially art treasures and heirlooms, were kept insured in the dozo, a fireproof storehouse attached to every dwelling of importance. This fireproof building, made of timber coated with a foot of mud and hard-finish of plaster, contained hidden treasures of dark- ness in the form of lacquer, ivory, crys- tal, porcelain, pottery, bronze, books, toys, and robes. The fine-art store, such as one still sees in the inland cities, is a modest affair in one or two rooms, probably half the stock being exposed at one JAPANESE ART, ARTISTS, AND ARTISANS. 109 time. The proprietor sits before his brazier, in which a ball or two of the clay - and - charcoal powder smoulders, and will furnish a friendly and gra- tuitous cup of tea to all callers. He wipes tenderly the crystal you ask to see, and seems personally attached to An Art Store in Japan. each of his darling tea-pots, candle- sticks, or pen-holder cases, as to a child. Far from showing any eagerness to sell, the old-time dealer, in what for- eigners irreverently dub curios, ap- peared loath to part with his wares. A sale seemed to grieve him, despite the thanks and profuse compliments show- ered on you for honoring his hut with your exalted presence. There is the richly pictured screen, with a water-brow mountain or beetling- precipice-sea-and-ship picture, or the autumn views of many trees ; the kah~- mono, or hanging wall-pictures, with poem in caligraphic characters, or with bamboo and stanza; the rare old pot- tery, with the signature or seal of Mr. Old Ink upon it, while the drinking- cups inscription reads, Everything (lit- erally, one hundred things) goes just as we please; while to the discerning eye every shape, design, border-decoration, or fignre is suggestive, or even eloquent, of the ideas and lore of Asiatic human- ity, of its literature, religion, and inter- pretation of nature. No art in any land is more symbolic and suggestive than that of Japan, despite the plea of the lingnists that the laugnage and people are devoid of imagination of the Aryan standard. I remember vividly my first call, and subsequent visits, at a gentlemans house in Fukui, and the contrast. On first entering his zashilci, or parlor, despite its neatness, the de- licious Echizen tea, served with exqui- site grace by his pretty daughters, and the elegant dress and manners of all present, my amazement at the bareness and seem- ing poverty was flavored with mild disgust. On a sub- sequent visit, after tea, the talk ran on art. Presto! the black eyes gleamed, and the hosts hands were clapped. You would really like to s e e my miserable collection? was asked. The servant, re- sponsive to the hand-clap, in lieu of a bell, was given the storehouse key, and then disappeared. Soon the mat floor was piled and littered with box, roll, bag, and case. Out of yellow muslin wrappings, silken napkins, gold brocade bags, and crape cloths, issued gems of art, in gold, ivory, crystal, lacquer, porcelain, and bronze, that made me wild with delight. The operation of getting out some of the hosts special treasures reminded me of the process of unwrapping a mummy. One article, with apparently as many skins as properly belong to an onion, was finally resurrected from its sacred darkness, and with amazing reverence laid on the dai, or stand. Shades of Benjamin Franklin! it looked for all the world like his black two-penny porringer displaced by his beloved Deborahs china bowl, and immortalized in his autobiography. Had it been put up at auction by my host, verily I should not have bidden, at the highest, beyond a five-cent nickeL That, however, was a historical gem, the pride of his coll?c- tion; and, I am not sure but he claimed it to have been moulded by Giyoji, who in- H I I 110 JAPANESE ART, AR TISTS, AND AR TISANS. troduced the potters-wheel, over a mil- lennium ago. The date of its birth in fire, from the kiln, lay back in I know not what age; for the year-periods, so famil- iar to my hosts tongue, had then to my ears about as much meaning as the taps of a drum. Now, the Flower of Litera- ture, the Heavenly Peace, Civiliza- tion with Enlightenment, and the other names of the Japanese segments of cen- turies serve, when rattled off, to awaken at least interest enough to send me to the kindly reference-book. Often have I thus learned that a bit of old Sat- suma, at least five hundred years old, was, as the stamp revealed, decorated in T3ki~, which got its name in 1869! while a bronze brazier, catalogued as three thousand years old, shows the truthful Gorozas mark cut in our own century. Before leaving my host, I had be- come acquainted with his tastes and re- sources, which in native art were am- ple, and learned a lesson often repeated. Before foreign commerce began, nine- tenths of Japans art treasures were ha- bitually kept out of daylight and locked up in fireproof safes, in which the only thing of iron was the lock and staple. It was not uncommon, however, for gentlemen to meet together and enjoy the products of local artists and artisans, and to compare notes and criticisms. The unique institution of Cha no yu (tea and hot water), which, proba- bly more than any- thing else, developed the porcelain industry in the archipelago of Japan, served also as a school for the produc- tion of, and education in, native art. China and Japan drink tea, and the starting-point of their fictile art is the tea-cup (to which we barbarians have added a handle) with the cover or lid (which Europeans have turned upside-down, and made into a saucer), even as the rice-bowl is perhaps the original unit of their pottery. In Corea, speaking broadly, no tea is raised or drunk; and Corea has no porcelain, though of old, even as the Arab sailors tell us and her tombs reveal, famous for her pottery. The C/ia no yu, or tea-making ceremony, is an elaborate social ritual. It was in- vented, so it is said, by the great Taik~ in the sixteenth century, to turn away the thoughts of his men of war from arms to polite etiquettetwo things for which the Japanese have a genius. Per- petual peace was to be kept by means of artistic grace and enthusiasm in iesthet- ics. This peaceful policy failed of its original purpose, but it gave a mighty impulse to the ceramic art, which was set on a firm basis when Taik6s gener- als invaded Corea and by his orders transferred, not only the Corean potters, but almost the entire national industry to Japan. In old Japan there were no academies, large ateliers, or picture-sellers, as in Europe. Each painter had his studio in his home, and was assisted by wife, children, pupils, retainers, or relatives; or he went off to spend weeks or months at the monasteries, temples, or feudal mansions, filling orders for patrons. Some of the most famous basked in the sunshine of the imperial court, enjoying showers of gold; while others gained the aureole of immortal fame, roaming, slow- ly and miserably, from place to place. The schools founded by, and the tra- ditions of, these old masters are still mighty in Japan. Not a few artists who gain a respectable living, and even fame, Inspecting Art Treasures. JAPANESE ART, ARTISTS, AND ARTISANS. 111 depend almost entirely on copying the of pictures, such as Heaven, Earth, and sketches or models handed down from Air; Rock, Cloud, and Water; Youth, the past. Instead of finding stimulus Middle Life, and Old Age; Deer and Ma- in improvement, or inspiration in nature, plc, Tiger and Bamboo, Rain and Spar- they continually reproduce the same row, and other associated ideas so dear to the Japanese eye and mind. In the picture on this page the artists assist- ants, with mulber- ry-bark paper and rice-paste, prepare the panels, while the wife is busy on the sheets of silk, and the daughter grinds colors. Taking his place on the floor, without a mall-stick, but with two brushes in his hand, he sketches Spring and Au- tumn, as typified in Artist at Work. the plum-blossoms and full-blown stock of ideas and set of symbols. A chrysanthemum. Immobility and Mo- friend of mine, calling on a T~ki~ artist, tion, shown by rocks and flower, the criticised a~peculiar aud unnatural treat- couplets of Bird and Grass, Moon and ment of the horses joints and limbs, Hare, or the -triplet Plum, Bamboo, asking why the artist did so. Oh, re- and Pine, quickly appear under his plied the man of brushes and pigments, facile brush. The rich costume of the with a tone of protest, the master artist and his family, and the general always did so. air of comfort and luxury, hardly rep. So far as I know, however, the better resent the average historical fact, for class of painters sketch from nature. most artists were poor. In the old The freshly plucked spray of blossoms, days of feudalism they lived in the dai- the potted plant, the bird or insect actu- mi3s capitals, or clustered in KiOto or ally caught and caged, or the real crane Vedo. Now they are most numerous in flight or feeding in the rice-field, is in the modern capital of the mikado, and their true originaL On one occasion, the most prosperous artists are those wanting to have some sprays of the who deign to draw designs for deco- deep-sea glass plant, or Hyalonema rators, or serve, with a salary, under mirabilis, so mounted in a lacquered the manufacturing corporations which stand that their jewel-like sheen would are rapidly centralizing art and labor. be visible, I gave an order for a dai, or When, however, an artist is invited out stand, to a gold-lacquerer in Fukui, to display his achievements, for a con- stating that I wished its design to be sideration, he dons his best clothes and a sunrise on the rocks at the sea-side. expects a fair equivalent for his fine He at once repaired to Mikuni, the near phrensy. marine village, and sketched the cliffs, The aspects of nature which the Jap- rocks, ocean-waves, and rising sun; af- anese artist studies lovingly are not like ter which he reproduced his India-ink the glacier-polished and drift-deposit- sketch in gold and varnish. ed landscapes of Northern Europe and The screen is a household article, America. Volcanic and alluvial forma- nearly ubiquitous, and has the advantage tions are most common in this Pacific of presenting many panels for a series archipelago, and though the traditions 112 JAPANESE ART, ARTISTS, AND ARTISANS. of Chinese and Corean masters sway his brush, the Japanese artist repro- duces with commendable faithfulness many of the moods of nature. The na- tional tenderness of appreciation, and sentimental interest in nature, as mir- rored in ancient poems and belles-lettres, dates from the primeval period, when the Sunrise Land was fresh to the new dwellers amid its wonders. The wrinkled hills, multitudinous valleys, lava-cones, mountain-ranges, waterfalls, and vegeta- ble forms lend easily the lines which can be made to appear in lacquer paintings. In the typical gold-lacquerers sketch on this page, as furnished by the graphic artist, the peerless Fuji dwarfing into insignificance the thatched cottages, the assistant. The thatched moon-viewing chamber, or cottage of outlook, the stone lantern, to give light during the long dark night, the wicket gate and hedge, the rustic bridge, the Mandarin ducks, or love-birdsemblems of wedded joy, the storksliving prophets of lon- gevity, the smoothly worn paths, the well-curb and rope-bucket, are there, all suggesting mans enjoyment in, and har- mony with, nature. Perspective and Western artistic requirements are sub- ordinated to the form required for the gold-lacquerers art. With varnish, metal, and color he will translate the India-ink sketch into a superb picture finished in burnished gold. Based on the graphic and pictorial wild fowls of the air, and the scant cul- tivation, suggest the sparsely settled regions remote from cities, and tell of solitudeman alone amid nature, and his puny power over her. An art sym- bol (p. 113), nearly the reverse, narrates its story without words, but in a suffi- cient language of its own. This is a San-sni picture, having in it, as the term denotes, mountains and water. Nature is still here, but tamed and made mans arts are those arts decorative in which Japan excels. The noblest of these, and of purely native origin and develop- ment, is that of lacquering. The mate- rials for writing, household furnishing, and personal adornment, with articles of civic ceremony and war, furnish the chief fields for the display of the finer artistic achievements ; though large surfaces, such as doors, ceilings, frames and panels, vehicles, and even ships, are Landscape Sketch for Design in Gold Lacquer. JAPANESE ART, ARTISTS, AND ARTISANS. 113 lacquered. The varnish flows drop by drop from the Rhus vernic~fera trees, which are usually planted on soil other- wise worthless, since they are of slow growth. The sap is quite poisonous, and acts on the human system very much as the poison-ivy of our own for- ests. Americans living in Japan, and ignorant of the properties of fresh lacq- uer, after handling it, or even staying in the room where mantel-pieces or doors have been treated, soon begin to feel a prickly sensation on the face and hands. The discomfort increasing, the victim finds himself next morning with eyes closed, or nearly so, cuticle harsh, dry, and red, and visage resembling a prize-fighters fresh from the ring. VOL. IlLil Many have to take to bed. The Japanese tell a story about the most poisonous sort, saying that three men are re- quired to gather it. Af- ter Baying their prayers, and bidding theirfriends farewell, one man rushes at the tree and with a blow of his axe cuts a gash. The second man dashes in with spout and bucket, to tap the trunk. The third, after due waiting, carries the gathered sap away. Af- ter prolonged treatment of the gray viscous mass, by agitation in the air, coloring, and processes often secret, the varnish is ready for use. When properly applied, the coating, which is put on wood, metal, and other substances, resists hot and cold water, and most liquids liable to come in contact with house- hold utensils. Wood is the favorite substance employed for the best results in art, and for the most common as well as special uses. The art dates histori- cally from the seventh century, though tradi- tion assigns its birth to the ages when al- manacs, clocks, and writings had not yet arrived from the Asian mainland. Not a few articles now in national or private museums are, by documentary evidence, over one thousand years old. The differ- ence between the best and the cheapest ware is manifest to the trained eye at once, while Father Time takes especial delight in showing the vanity of imi- tation, and the abiding honor of good workmanship. The baser sort, made by the scamp workman who dislikes troub- le, by the cheat, the prison-labor con- tractor, or the honest Cheap John, has from one to three coats laid on the wood, or other basic material, which has been primed, or covered with rice- A San-sul, or Garden Picture. 114 JAPANESE ART, ARTISTS, AND ARTISANS. paste, persimmon juice, or Mino paper, and is fin- ished with or without polish- ing. The finer and costlier grades have from five to fifty coats, with an amazing amount of grind- ing, polishing, drying, and man- ipulation between applications. By a strange para- dox lacquer must dry in dampness, else it will run and stick. Hence in every Urushi-ya there must be a closed cupboard of rough wood well moistened or even saturated with water. The coat- ing dries more quickly in summer than in winter, and the best drying is done within a narrow range of temperature. A lacquerers workshop, once provid- ed with the graphic artists designs and the prepared sap, is very simple in equipment. The decorator traces, with a fine brush made of rats-hair, an out- line of the subject on the reverse side of the design. This may be the wild-goose Washing, Mixing, and Moulding Porcelain Clay. and the autumn grass, the lca-cho (flow- er and bird), bamboo and moonlight, Fuji-yama, peony, landscape, or marine view. For this rough sketch he uses lacquer, which he heats over a hot char- coal fire to keep it dry. Laying it, while wet, on the surface of the tray or box, he rubs the dry side with a spatula of whalebone, and is usually able to get twenty impressions from the one out- line, which he has kept damp by holding it over the fire. In real gold lacquer the virgin dust from the mines is used; but usually silver, tin, or alloy dust is liberally employed. In the cheap varieties the me- tallic powder is mixed with lacquer, and applied with a brush, as seen in the upper picture on this page. Here, the artist, with hares-hair brush, holding his little palette on the back of his left hand, is fill- ing out the pat- tern. The small boy or apprentice is grinding and polishing with cam e 11 i a -w o o d charcoal, ground whetstone, or deer-horu pow- der, the tool be- ing a charcoal stick, or hard, smooth stone. The damp closet for drying has on its shelves articles in various stages of completion. In old feudal days, when nearly every daimi6, or lord of an important fief, had his court-lacquerer, a set of Lacquer Artista and Drying Closet. ) JAPANESE ART, AR TISTS, AND AR TISANS. 115 household furniture and toilet utensils was part of the dowry of a noble lady. On the birth of a daughter it was com- mon for the lacquer artist to begin the making of a mirror-case, a poem wash- ing-bowl, a cabinet, a clothes-rack, or a chest of drawers, often occupying from one to five whole years on a single arti- cle. An inro, or pm-box, might require several years for perfection, though small enough to go into a fob. By the time the young lady was marriageable her outfit in lacquer was superb. Of the twenty-eight most famous lacquer artists of Japan, the majority flour- ished in Yedo, where the wealth of art in this line of achievement was, up to the time of the abolition of the compulsory residence of the feudal lords, sim- ply amazing. Fire, civil war, the dis- solution of feudal- ism, and, most of all, an entirely new knowledge of the value of time, have placed the old art almost among those said to be lost. Nearly all the most famous lacquerers of T6ki~ are now very old men. Wa- tanab~ T6sen, seven years ago, spent many months in finishing for the empress a tobac- co-box, ten by six and eight inches in dimensions; but the average workman n o w cares more for the making of money than for fame, while the old spur of loyalty no more provokes to noble achievement. Lacquerers now earn from twenty cents to one dol- lar and a quarter a day. If, however, one is willing to pay and to wait, it is stoutly affirmed that as good products as those made a century ago can still be obtained. He who gives an order for such works as those which, after the Vienna Exposition, endured scathless a fourteen months baptism in salt water by the wreck of the French steamer Nil, or which, reduced to ashes, will yield nuggets of gold, must have patience and a long purse. The Japanese artisans in old times, when society was divided into four classes, or eight grades, ranked socially higher than the merchant, though lower than the farmer. Each class and sub- division wore a distinctive dress. In a street of T6ki& or Fukui the variety of The First Firing of the Vase. j Porcelain Decorators in Thki6. 116 JAPANESE ART, ARTISTS, AND ARTISANS. costume made a scene of wonderful picturesqueness. Sumptuary laws re- quired the wearing of these class uni- forms, and the hereditary habit of cen- turies even yet obtains. Instead of the flowing robes of the samurai, or sword- wearers, the artisans wore very tight one- seamed leg-casings of dyed cotton-cloth, straw sandals, costing less than a cent a pair, loose cotton coats, and no head- covering. While (Jorea is the land of hats, the Japanese go bareheaded. The nobleman donned a paper shell, or brick, for ceremony, the peasantry roofing their scalps with umbrella-like disks, resting by two pads on the cra- nium, to keep off sun or rain; while in winter anyone might wrap his head in kerchiefs for warmth. A cap or hat, to enclose the scalp from forehead to occiput, was, until recently, unknown. The mechanic used a fan, or his hand, to keep off the suns rays, tied a kerchief over his noddle to avoid dust, or knotted his hand-wiper over his forehead during hot or heavy work. On coat lappels and back, in figures made white by a mordant in dye- ing, the initial letters of his name, trade, or guild were osten- tatiously visible. In his bosom was his wallet, and from his belt hung his supplies for draught- ing and smoking. Flint, steel, and tin- der in one chatelaine bag, pipe and to- bacco-pouch in the other, were fastened to a n~tsu1ci~i or toggle of ivory or wood, thrust up under and above his girdle. Brush-pen, wet cotton wad of ink, and a dab of paste were stowed in another belt-case. Among the lower classes cotton in winter, and cuticle in summer made the chief varieties in costume. The betti, or horse-boys, wore loin belts, cotton socks, and a tattoo painting on back and limbs. Unlucky gamblers, whom I have seen on a January day, when the water froze in the sun, went stark naked, and required to be fed at the start and fin- ish of their work as palanquin-porters, else gambling would go on under my nose, and I be left in the lurch on a midnight journey of haste. Such sights are very rare now. The superficial area of exposed cuticle has been greatly cur- tailed since the introduction of foreign vices and morals, and the erection of cotton and woollen mills. Japan now manufactures and exports, annually, artistic products to the value of millions; labor and skill are more centralized, and manufacturing methods gradually approach those of the West. In old Japan, clay-worker, moulder, ba- ker, and decorator were usually in one room, and often were one person. The Bronze Casting and Foundry. average establishment was a father and son, a husband and wife, or a small coterie of relatives living under a single roof. Now a subdivision of labor reigns, processes are carried on under several roofs, and the artists or decorators clus- ter at the capitaL It is even common now to dig the clay at some one of the two hundred and fifty beds known, load it on junks, and ship to favored manufacturing places, where it is ground, beaten, levi- gated, kneaded, moulded, and the bis- cult fired and glazed. Ozawa has given us a picture of such a pottery, with one JAPANESE ART, ARTISTS, AND ARTISANS. 117 of a series of chamber-furnaces, which are usually built up the slope of a hill, so that the heat may ascend, and the highest temperature be in the upper- most oven. The raw material, after be- ing ground, stamped, and washed, is further treated with hoe, trowel, and basket-sieve. The finest sort is beaten with from three to six thousand strokes of a club, so as to be fully tempered for the wheel, or for those articles which are built rather than moulded. When ready for the baking, the first for the biscuit or dry clay, the second for the glaze, a pe- culiar kind of charcoal is used, and the fire is kindled from a spark struck with flint and steel, which every smoker car- ries at his belt. In the stanza translated by Mr. Ed- ward Greey, some poet has written: The potter moulds the clay upon the wheel, And behold a jar valued at a few cents; The artist takes his brush, decorates the ware, And lo! the piece is worth the ransom of a great warrior. These porcelain painters rank among the highest-class artisans, and as shown truthfully by Ozawa, live and dress well. They are intelligent brain-workers, as well as experts with the brush. Of course most of the finest designs, and all the original ones, are drawn by the pic- torial artist, and the decorators work from the sketches furnished them. In the manufacture by bulk and contract, however, the usual stock in trade of Crane and Stream, Rock and Sea-waves, Foam-drops and Petrels, Cloud and Dragon, Chinese poetry, idealized land- scapes, or the repertoire of graphic de- signs in figure, are followed by rote. Artists know by heart, and have known for many genera- tions, these stand- ard art symbols, which are recog- ridzed and inter- preted even by children. Streak- ing and banding in gold or color are done on a wheel turned by the fin- gers. For tea- pots, either of Co- rean, Chinese, or Japanese shape or model, a great va- riety of pigment is used. Japans porce- lain and pottery industry is rapidly approaching, and will soon outstrip in importance, her mining operations. Very little money has been sunk in handling or beautifying clay, while the millions lost in tantalizing the face and disturbing the bowels of the earth are many. The best and surest benefit of the geological survey of Japan has been, and will be, the prevention of reck- less mining. Fools gold and its name- sakes, and black shale that is always just on the point of yielding coal, but never quite does it, are as plentiful among the mikados subjects as among the voters in America. The total value from all mines and quarries in 1878 did not exceed five millions of dollars) while the product of all the potteries at present cannot be far behind this amount; in 1875 it was three millions of dollars. The sen, or cent, is the unit of the days wage. Miners and clay-diggers get from ten to twenty, clay- washers and mixers from twenty to thirty, kiln-men and bakers from forty to sixty, wheel-moulders from fifty to seventy, decorators who do conventional and routine painting, such as l4rds, flowers, and set symbols, fifty to seventy-five cents a day. The better classes of paint- ers, who are really fine and original ar- tists, command their own price. Since Turning Lathe and Finiahing Room. 118 JAPANESE ART, AR TISTS, AND AR TISANS. clothing is usually of cotton, of a single thickness in summer, and wadded in winter, and covering but little under- wear at any time, and since rice, the main staple of diet, costs from two to three cents a pound, the struggle for existence is not severe. Most mechan- ics have a little balance against a rainy day, and the shopkeeper and merchant holds from fifty to five hundred yen (dol- lars) against fire or funeraL The treasure formerly hid in the garden or under the foundation-stone of the house is now di- verted to the excellent postal savngs- banks recently established. In case of the birth of triplets, or survival beyond the age of seventy, the government ekes out support by a pension. The critic and historian who is yet to write the story of art in Japan, from pre- historic time to this twentieth year of Meiji (civilization in enlightened peace), will discriminate nicely between what is borrowed and what is original. The folding fan, modelled on a bats wing, the arts of lacquering, sword-making, cloisonn6 on porcelain, and some of the methods of decorating faience are of native origin; but of bronze casting and the secrets of alloy, niello, and metallic Chasing Inlaying, and Burnishing Bronzes. work, tell-tale philology often betrays a Corean, Chimese, Persian, or Indian or- igin. Bronze is Chinese metal, and some of the names of tools and process- es, as I learned theni in the shops, are but m~spronounced Corean. Bervi, or Bemi gari (rouge), seems to point to Bengal, just as brilci, for blick, is only the Dutch word for tin in the mouth of the man who eschews the letter 1. The shapes and models of old temple orna- ments and flower vases point unmis- takably to Persian origin, even as the native annals report Japanese embassies meeting those from Persia at the court of the Middle Kingdom. Braziers, incense- holders, water-tanks, standing lanterns, memorial tablets, and tomb-doors give abundance of opportunity to the bronz- ist to show his skill in handling masses of metaL The images of Great Buddha at Nara, Kamakura, and elsewhere, show what Cellinis of Japan can achieve in colossal works of art. One could scarcely imagine a purer interpretation of the calm repose of Nir- vana than that of the work of the metal- lurgist Ono. Cast six centuries ago, and surviving the destruction by tidal waves of the massive temples reared to enclose it, the figure stands out under the blue canopy of the sky, in sunshine and cloud, at dawn-light and even-glow, sublime in conception and superb in achieve- ment. Fifty feet high, and eighty-seven feet in circumference, the mass became unity through the brazing together of many sheets of upright layers of bronze, until the crown was set, and the whole finished with file work. An English chap- lain, in writing the epitaph of a British officer slain near by, spelled its name Die Boots. In this triumph of phonetics the holy man wasnot refer- ring to American frontier methods of dying, formerly more in vogue than now; nor to the feet of the image, guiltless of leather or covering. He wished merely to demon- strate his knowledge of the orthoepy of Dai Butsh, or Great Buddha. Unique and unapproachable as is the 119 JAPANESE ART, ARTISTS, AND ARTISANS. artistic interpretation of Nirvana, by process of melting and pouring the means of bronze, in the Kainakura image bronze which is to be finished for mod- just described, that at Nara surpasses it em articles of export. For the fusing in size and quality of metaL It is seven of larger masses, and in more ambitious feet higher, and the alloy is shalcudo, projects, a form of bellows that sug- which is a black bronze made of copper, gests old-fashioned suction fire-engines silver, and gold. Eight successive cast- is used. Then from four to twenty ings were attempted before success was men oscillate the see-saw air-box that attained; but finally Kimi-maro, the drives a furious blast through the single grandson of a Corean, succeeded, and or triple tuy~res. in A.D. 749 the image was completed. For the finer statue, or bas-relief work What vicissitudes the idols of Japan a mould of clay and wax is made, dried, have suffered may be imagined from the and heated to melt the wax and leave - fact that this, the tallest of them all, has space. On pouring in the fused alloy, lost its head no fewer than three times. what remains of the wax is melted, fired, Once it tumbled off, and twice the fires and lost (cire pcrdu). The picture on p. kindled in civil war melted it to liquid. 117 introduces us to the finishing room, For over a century it remained in the where the burrs left on the casting are condition of the unroofed idols so com- removed, the filing is done, and the sur- mon in Japan, and to which the natives faces are polished, or made ready for sil- apply the irreverent name of wet vering, fire-gilding, inlaying, or coloring. gods. At present, when Buddhism is Turning on the lathe is deftly done, shrivelling up into hopeless senility, the though in its use half the power applied number of images of Buddha which, af- is lost. A glance at this rude wooden ter long repose in the island empire, are machine will show that the man who trausmigrating through American stew- turns the shaft with a strap pulls both pans, kettles, soda-water tanks, and backward and forward, so that the brass- ships coppers is amazing. turner holding the chisel must actually The casting of a public monument in wait during every alternate revolution situ, such as a memorial lantern, column, for the article set on the chuck to come or Buddha, is usually a public and out- round again right side up. Yet despite door affair, attended with festal hilari- this crude form of lathe, in which fifty ty. Furnaces, bellows, casting-pots, tools, per cent. of power is lost, and but few and appliances are brought to, or pre- revolutions made per minute, superb work is turned off. The Western han- dicraftsman will note that the pump-drill, and possibly other tools supposed to be European in origin, are com- mon to his Nip- ponese brother. Of late years decoration, the archaic patterns of Corean and Chi- nese traditional origin, and casts in the mould, have A Jewelers Shop. gone much out of fashion, while in- pared at, the spot, and the details are laying, niello, and zo-gan, or gold and sil- watched by holiday crowds. In the pict- ver raised work, are more in vogue. Ten nrc by Ozawa we have the ordinary years a0o no fewer than half a million 120 JAPANIFIJE ART, AR TISTS, AND AR TISANS. Japanese men and boys wore, as articles of daily dress no more to be dispensed with in public than a coat, a long and a short sword. On the hilts, handles, and scabbards were embedded or encrusted from two to twenty ornaments, all of which were wrought in precious metals, and in the highest art of the metallurgist and jeweller. When after a few months gradual disuse, and the sudden issue of an imperial edict, like p e rsp ira- tion, never to go back, swords dis- appeared,the market was glutted at once with an a m a z i n g stock of 1cm- gin, or sword jewels. By a happy thought these gems of art were applied to bronzes, and the Centen- nial Exposi- tion at Phil- adelphia saw some of the best of those first made. Yet these exquisite pieces of jewelry, as well as those now turned out in forms more suited to Western tastes, by the goldsmiths of T3ki~, are made in a space and with appliances that seem ridiculous. With the floor for a seat, at low benches, and with home-made tools, the raw ma- terial is melted, the sheet metal plan- ished, annealed, or soldered, and the chains and ornaments are filed or pol- ished. Instead of a draw-bench for wire-making, the floor, the hands and feet, a pair of pincers, and perforated plate constitute the machinery; while the coloring, plating, and acid processes are carried on in a few pots and jars, and the fire-gilding is done without hood or covering, often to the detri- ment of the health of the workmen. The boys seen in nearly all the places of skilled labor suggest what is the fact, that apprentices begin to learn their trades usually much earlier than in our country, so that when majority is at- tained the mastery of the craft is thor- ough. Another striking feature of the Japanese system is that of he- redity. Skill runs in fam- ily lines. Not a few of the famous artisans of the present decade are descendant s in the ninth, tenth, and even twen- tieth gener- ation, of the founder of the estab- lishment. I once em- ployed a car- penter in Fukui, who was proud of his an- cestry of wood - work- ers through twenty - sev- en genera- tions; and the temple records show such boasting to be true, though often adoption inter- rupts the actual blood line. At a pa- per-makers establishment in Awotabi, in Echizen, I dined with the proprietor, whose fathers first established the in- dustry a millennium ago, the national history showing also that the Coreans, before the ninth century of our era, vis- ited the place. Next to Buddhism, the mother and nurse of fine arts, feudalism was the special patron and stimulus of the Jap- anese higher artisan. A glance at the arms and armor of a captain of old Ja 1 / Panoply of Yoshitaun6. LIFE DISCROWNED. 121 pans chivalry, such as Minamoto Yo- shitsun6, shows how his full equipment summoned most of the fine arts to the service of the soldier. The harness of hide and chain armor, silk and steel, brocade and lacquer; the helmet and breast-plate of chased gold and silver; the dragon-insignia of cast and chiselled metal; the silken banner, woven, em- broidered, or painted with the ancestral blazon; the polished triumphs of the quiver and arrow makers art, the doub- let bow of wood and cane; the sword- rack from the gold-lacquerers hand; the bear-skin shoes and tiger skin-sheath, the shark-hide grip, and curiously wrought dirk scabbard made a panoply to which the masters of many arts con- tributed, when they laid all forms of animal and vegetable life and mineral products under tribute. Crowning all other crafts was that most noble and most honored of the sword-maker, who, by the help of the gods, presided over the birth of the samurais soul the bright unsullied blade of Yamato. Now, though the old motive and envi- ronment have gone, and Japan is becom- ing modern, civilized, and commercial, may we not hope that the hereditary manual skill, physical adaptation, and real artistic impulse to translate beauty into art may for centuries yet be reg- nant in Everlasting Great Japan. LIFE DISCROWNED. By F. Cava{{a. As if a king, dethroned and fallen from place, In his own city, poorly clad, should stand, And in the hollow of his pleading hand Take alms of coin whose image was his face, From his own people passing through the ways Superb with palaces and shrines he planned So Life, having lost Joys empery and command, Begs little pleasures from the grudging days And counts them one by one, the piteous pence! And for his need must lay theni up and keep He that had countless treasure of fine gold While Memory, mocking his sad indigence, Cries to him, Lo thou art fallen, and well mayst weep That hast so little of all thine own to hold!

E. Cavazza Cavazza, E. Life Discrowned 121-122

LIFE DISCROWNED. 121 pans chivalry, such as Minamoto Yo- shitsun6, shows how his full equipment summoned most of the fine arts to the service of the soldier. The harness of hide and chain armor, silk and steel, brocade and lacquer; the helmet and breast-plate of chased gold and silver; the dragon-insignia of cast and chiselled metal; the silken banner, woven, em- broidered, or painted with the ancestral blazon; the polished triumphs of the quiver and arrow makers art, the doub- let bow of wood and cane; the sword- rack from the gold-lacquerers hand; the bear-skin shoes and tiger skin-sheath, the shark-hide grip, and curiously wrought dirk scabbard made a panoply to which the masters of many arts con- tributed, when they laid all forms of animal and vegetable life and mineral products under tribute. Crowning all other crafts was that most noble and most honored of the sword-maker, who, by the help of the gods, presided over the birth of the samurais soul the bright unsullied blade of Yamato. Now, though the old motive and envi- ronment have gone, and Japan is becom- ing modern, civilized, and commercial, may we not hope that the hereditary manual skill, physical adaptation, and real artistic impulse to translate beauty into art may for centuries yet be reg- nant in Everlasting Great Japan. LIFE DISCROWNED. By F. Cava{{a. As if a king, dethroned and fallen from place, In his own city, poorly clad, should stand, And in the hollow of his pleading hand Take alms of coin whose image was his face, From his own people passing through the ways Superb with palaces and shrines he planned So Life, having lost Joys empery and command, Begs little pleasures from the grudging days And counts them one by one, the piteous pence! And for his need must lay theni up and keep He that had countless treasure of fine gold While Memory, mocking his sad indigence, Cries to him, Lo thou art fallen, and well mayst weep That hast so little of all thine own to hold! A CHAPTER ON DREAMS. By Robert Louis Stevenson. past is all of one texturewhet h e r feigned or suffered whether a c t e d out in three dimen- sions, or only wit- nessed in that small theatre of the brain which we keep brightly lighted all night long, after the jets are down, and darkness and sleep reign undisturbed in the remain- der of the body. There is no distinc- tion on the face of our experiences; one is vivid indeed, and one dull, and one pleasant, and another agonizing to re- member; but which of them is what we call true, and which a dream, there is not one hair to prove. The past stands on a precarious footing; another straw split in the field of metaphysic, and behold us robbed of it. There is scarce a family that can count four genera- tions but lays a claim to some dormant title or some castle and estate: a claim not prosecutable in any court of law, but flattering to the fancy and a great alle- viation of idle hours. A mans claim to his own past is yet less valid. A paper might turn up (in proper story-book fashion) in the secret drawer of an old ebony secretary, and restore your family to its ancient honors, and reinstate mine in a certain West Indian islet (not far from St. Kitts, as beloved tradition hummed in my young ears) which was once ours, and is now unjustly someone elses, and for that matter (in the state of the sugar trade) is not worth any- thing to anybody. I do not say that these revolutions are likely; only no man can deny that they are possible; and the past, on the other hand, is lost forever: our old days and deeds, our old selves, too, and the very world in which these scenes were acted, all brought down to the same faint residu- um as a last nights dream, to some in- continuous images, and an echo in the chambers of the brain. Not an hour, not a mood, not a glance of the eye, can we revoke; it is all gone, past conjuring. And yet conceive us robbed of it, con- ceive that little thread of memory that we trail behind us broken at the pock- ets edge; and in what naked nullity should we be left! for we only guide ourselves, and only know ourselves, by these air-painted pictures of the past. Upon these grounds, there are some among us who claim to have lived longer and more richly than their neighbors; when they lay asleep they claim they were still active; and among the treasures of memory that all men re- view for their amusement, these count in no second place the harvests of their dreams. There is one of this kind whom I have in my eye, and whose case is perhaps unusual enough to be described. He was from a child an ar- dent and uncomfortable dreamer. When he had a touch of fever at night, and the room swelled and shrank, and his clothes, hanging on a nail, now loomed up in- stant to the bigness of a church, and

Robert Louis Stevenson Stevenson, Robert Louis A Chapter On Dreams 122-130

A CHAPTER ON DREAMS. By Robert Louis Stevenson. past is all of one texturewhet h e r feigned or suffered whether a c t e d out in three dimen- sions, or only wit- nessed in that small theatre of the brain which we keep brightly lighted all night long, after the jets are down, and darkness and sleep reign undisturbed in the remain- der of the body. There is no distinc- tion on the face of our experiences; one is vivid indeed, and one dull, and one pleasant, and another agonizing to re- member; but which of them is what we call true, and which a dream, there is not one hair to prove. The past stands on a precarious footing; another straw split in the field of metaphysic, and behold us robbed of it. There is scarce a family that can count four genera- tions but lays a claim to some dormant title or some castle and estate: a claim not prosecutable in any court of law, but flattering to the fancy and a great alle- viation of idle hours. A mans claim to his own past is yet less valid. A paper might turn up (in proper story-book fashion) in the secret drawer of an old ebony secretary, and restore your family to its ancient honors, and reinstate mine in a certain West Indian islet (not far from St. Kitts, as beloved tradition hummed in my young ears) which was once ours, and is now unjustly someone elses, and for that matter (in the state of the sugar trade) is not worth any- thing to anybody. I do not say that these revolutions are likely; only no man can deny that they are possible; and the past, on the other hand, is lost forever: our old days and deeds, our old selves, too, and the very world in which these scenes were acted, all brought down to the same faint residu- um as a last nights dream, to some in- continuous images, and an echo in the chambers of the brain. Not an hour, not a mood, not a glance of the eye, can we revoke; it is all gone, past conjuring. And yet conceive us robbed of it, con- ceive that little thread of memory that we trail behind us broken at the pock- ets edge; and in what naked nullity should we be left! for we only guide ourselves, and only know ourselves, by these air-painted pictures of the past. Upon these grounds, there are some among us who claim to have lived longer and more richly than their neighbors; when they lay asleep they claim they were still active; and among the treasures of memory that all men re- view for their amusement, these count in no second place the harvests of their dreams. There is one of this kind whom I have in my eye, and whose case is perhaps unusual enough to be described. He was from a child an ar- dent and uncomfortable dreamer. When he had a touch of fever at night, and the room swelled and shrank, and his clothes, hanging on a nail, now loomed up in- stant to the bigness of a church, and A CHAPTER ON DREAMS. 123 now drew away into a horror of infinite distance and infinite littleness, the poor soul was very well aware of what must follow, and struggled hard against the approaches of that slumber which was the beginning of sorrows. But his struggles were in vain; sooner or later the night-hag would have him by the throat, and pluck him, strangling and screaming, from his sleep. His dreams were at times commonplace enough, at times very strange: at times they were almost formless, he would be haunted, for instance, by nothing more definite than a certain hue of brown, which he did not mind in the least while he was awake, but feared and loathed while he was dreaming; at times, again, they took on every detail of circumstance, as when once he supposed he must swallow the populous world, and awoke scream- ing with the horror of the thought. The two chief troubles of his very narrow existencethe practical and every-day trouble of school tasks and the ultimate and airy one of hell and judgment were often confounded together into one appalling nightmare. He seemed to himself to stand before the Great White Throne; he was called on, poor little devil, to recite some form of words, on which his destiny depended; his tongue stuck, his memory was blank, hell gaped for him; and he would awake, clinging to the curtain-rod with his knees to his chin. These were extremely poor experi- ences, on the whole; and at that time of life my dreamer would have very willing- lyparted with his power of dreams. But presently, in the course of his growth, the cries and physical contortions passed away, seemingly forever; his visions were still for the most part miserable, but they were more constantly supported; and he would awake with no more ex- treme symptom than a flying heart, a freezing scalp, cold sweats, and the speechless midnight fear. His dreams, too, as befitted a mind better stocked with particulars, became more circum- stantial, and had more the air and continuity of life. The look of the world beginning to take hold on his atten- tion, scenery came to play a part in his sleeping as well as in his waking thoughts, so that he would take long, uneventful journeys and see strange towns and beautiful places as he lay in bed. And, what is more significant, an odd taste that he had for the Georgian costume and for stories laid in that period of English history, began to rule the features of his dreams; so that he masqueraded there in a three-cornered hat, and was much engaged with Jacobite conspiracy between the hour for bed and that for breakfast. About the same time, he began to read in his dreamstales, for the most part, and for the most part after the manner of G. P. IR. James, but so incredibly more vivid and moving than any printed book, that he has ever since been malcontent with literature. And then, while he was yet a student, there came to him a dream-adventure which he has no anxiety to repeat; he began, that is to say, to dream in se- quence and thus to lead a double lifeone of the day, one of the nightone that he had every reason to believe was the true one, another that he had no means of proving to be false. I should have said he studied, or was by way of studying, at Edinburgh College, which (it may be supposed) was how I came to know him. Well, in his dream-life, he passed a long day in the surgical theatre, his heart in his mouth, his teeth on edge, seeing monstrous malformations and the ab- horred dexterity of surgeons. In a heavy, rainy, foggy evening he came forth into the South Bridge, turned up the High Street, and entered the door of a tall land, at the top of which he supposed himself to lodge. All night long, in his wet clothes, he climbed the stairs, stair after stair in endless series, and at every second flight a flaring lamp with a reflec- tor. All night long, he brushed by single persons passing downwardbeg- garly women of the street, great, weary, muddy laborers, poor scarecrows of men, pale parodies of womenbut all drowsy and weary like himself, and all single, and all brushing against him as they passed. In the end, out of a northern window, he would see day beginning to whiten over the Firth, give up the ascent, turn to descend, and in a breath be back again upon the streets, in his wet clothes, in the wet, haggard dawn, trudging to an- other day of monstroalties and operations. Time went quicker in the life of dreams, 124 A CHAPTER ON DREAMS. some seven hours (as near as he can guess) to one ; and it went, besides, more intensely, so that the gloom of these fan- cied experiences clouded the day, and he had not shaken off their shadow ere it was time to lie down and to renew them. I cannot tell how long it was that he endured this discipline; but it was long enough to leave a great black blot upon his memory, long enough to send him, trembling for his reason, to the doors of a certain doctor; whereupon with a simple draught he was restored to the common lot of man. The poor gentleman has since been troubled by nothing of the sort; indeed, his nights were for some while like other mens, now blank, now checkered with dreams, and these sometimes charming, sometimes appalling, but except for an occasional vividness, of no extraordinary kind. I will just note one of these occa- sions, ere I pass on to what makes my dreamer truly interesting. It seemed to him that he was in the first floor of a rough hill-farm. The room showed some poor efforts at gentility, a carpet on the floor, a piano, I think, against the wall; but, for all these refinements, there was no mis- taking he was in a moorland place, among hill-side people, and set in miles of heath- er. He looked down from the window upon a bare farm-yard, that seemed to have been long disused. A great, uneasy stillness lay upon the world. There was no sign of the farm folk or of any live stock, save for an old, brown, curly dog of the retriever breed, who sat close in against the wall of the house and seemed to be dozing. Something about this dog disquieted the dreamer; it was quite a nameless feeling, for the beast looked right enoughindeed, he was so old and dull and dusty and broken-down, that he should rather have awakened pity; and yet the conviction came and grew upon the dreamer that this was no proper dog at all, but something hellish. A great many dozing sammerflies hummed about the yard; and presently the dog thrnst forth his paw, caught a fly in his open palm, carried it to his mouth like an ape, and looking suddenly up at the dreamer in the window, winked to him with one eye. The dream went on, it matters not how it went; it was a good dream as dreams go; but there was nothing in the sequel worthy of that devilish brown dog. And the point of interest for me lies partly in that very fact: that having found so singular an incident, my im- perfect dreamer should prove unable to carry the tale to a fit end and fall back on indescribable noises and indiscrim- inate horrors. It would be different now; he knows his business better! For, to approach at last the point: This honest fellow had long been in the custom of setting himself to sleep with tales, and so had his father before him; but these were irresponsible inventions, told for the tellers pleasure, with no eye to the crass public or the thwart reviewer: Tales where a thread might be dropped, or one adventure quitted for another, on fancys least suggestion. So that the little people who manage man 5 internal theatre had not as yet received a very rigorous training; and played upon their stage like children who should have slipped into the house and found it empty, rather than like drilled actors performing a set piece to a huge hall of faces. But presently my dreamer began to turn his former amusement of story- telling to (what is called) account; by which I mean that he began to write and sell his tales. Here was he, and here were the little people who did that part of his business, in quite new conditions. The stories must now be trimmed and pared and set upon all fours, they must run from a beginning to an end and fit (after a manner) with the laws of life; the pleasure, in one word, had become a business; and that not only for the dreamer, but for the little people of his theatre. These understood the change as well as he. When he lay down to pre- pare himself for sleep, he no longer sought amusement, but printable and profitable tales; and after he had dozed off in his box-seat, his little people con- tinued their evolutions with the same mercantile design. All other forms of dream deserted him but two: he still occasionally reads the most delightful books, he still visits at times the most delightful places; and it is perhaps wor- thy of note that to these same places, and to one in particular, he returns at inter- vals of months and years, finding new field-paths, visiting new neighbors, be- holding that happy valley under new ef A CHAPTER ON DREAMS. 125 fects of noon and dawn and sunset Bnt all the rest of the family of visions is qnite lost to him: the common, mangled ver- sion of yesterdays affairs, the raw-head- and-bloody-bones nightmare, rumored to be the child of toasted cheesethese and their like are gone; and, for the most part, whether awake or asleep, he is simply occupiedhe or his little people in consciously making stories for the market. This dreamer (like many other persons) has encountered some trifling vicissitudes of fortune. When the bank begins to send letters and the butcher to linger at the back gate, he sets to belabor- ing his brains after a story, for that is his readiest money-winner; and, behold! at once the little people begin to bestir themselves in the same quest, and labor all night long, and all night long set before him truncheons of tales upon their lighted theatre. No fear of his being frightened now; the flying heart and the frozen scalp are things bygone ; applause, growing applause, growing interest, growing exultation in his own cleverness (for he takes all the credit) and at last a jubilant leap to wakefulness, with the cry, I have it, thatll do 1 upon his lips: with such and similar emotions he sits at these nocturnal dramas, with such outbreaks, like Claudius in the play, he scatters the performance in the midst. Often enough the waking is a disappoint- ment: he has been too deep asleep, as I explain the thing; drowsiness has gained his little people, they have gone stum- bling and maundering though their parts; and the play, to the awakened mind, is seen to be a tissue of absurdi- ties. And yet how often have these sleepless Brownies done him honest ser- vice, and given him, as he sat idly taking his pleasure in the boxes, better tales than he could fashion for himself. Here is one, exactly as it came to him. It seemed he was the son of a very rich and wicked man, the owner of broad acres and a most damnable temper. The dreamer (and that was the son) had lived much abroad, on purpose to avoid his parent; and when at length he re- turned to England, it was to find him married again to a young wife, who was supposed to suffer cruelly and to loathe her yoke. Because of this marriage (as the dreamer indistinctly understood) it was desirable for father and son to have a meeting; and yet both being proud and both angry, neither would conde- scend upon a visit. Meet they did ac- cordingly, in a desolate, sandy country by the sea; and there they quarrelled, and the son, stung by some intolerable insult, struck down the father dead. No suspicion was aroused; the dead man was found and buried, and the dreamer succeeded to the broad estates, and found himself installed under the same roof with his fathers widow, for whom no provision had been made. These two lived very much alone, as people may after a bereavement, sat down to table together, shared the long evenings, and grew daily better friends; until it seemed to him of a sudden that she was prying about dangerous matters, that she had conceived a notion of his guilt, that she watched him and tried him with questions. He drew back from her company as men draw back from a pre- cipice suddenly discovered; and yet so strong was the attraction that he would drift again and again into the old intima- cy, and again and again be startled back by some suggestive question or some inexplicable meaning in her eye. So they lived at cross purposes, a life full of broken dialogue, challenging glances, and suppressed passion; until, one day, he saw the woman slipping from the house in a veil, followed her to the station, fol- lowed her in the train to the seaside country, and out over the san& hills to the very place where the murder was done. There she began to grope among the bents, he watching her, flat upon his face; and presently she had some- thing in her handI cannot remember what it was, but it was deadly evidence against the dreamerand as she held it up to look at it, perhaps from the shock of the discovery, her foot slipped, and she hung at some peril on the brink of the tall sand - wreaths. He had no thought but to spring up and rescue her; and there they stood face to face, she with that deadly matter opeuly in her hand his very presence on the spot another link of proof. It was plain she was about to speak, but this was more than he could bearhe could bear to be lost, but not to talk of it with his destroyer; and he cut her short with trivial conversation. 126 A CHAPTER ON DREAMS. Arm in arm, they returned together to the train, talking he knew not what, made the journey back in the same car- riage, sat down to dinner, and passed the evening in the drawing-room as in the past. But suspense and fear drummed in the dreamers bosom. She has not denounced me yet so his thoughts ran when will she denounce me? Will it be to-morrow? And it was not to-mor- row, nor the next day, nor the next; and their life settled back on the old terms, only that she seemed kinder than before, and that, as for him, the burthen of his suspense and wonder grew daily more unbearable, so that he wasted away like a man with a disease. Once, indeed, he broke all bounds of decency, seized an occasion when she was abroad, ransacked her room, and at last, hidden away among her jewels, found the damning evidence. There he stood, holding this thing, which was his life, in the hollow of his hand, and marvelling at her incon- sequent behavior, that she should seek, and keep, and yet not use it; and then the door opened, and behold herself. So, once more, they stood, eye to eye, with the evidence between them; and once more she raised to him a face brim- ming with some communication; and once more he shied away from speech and cut her off. But before he left the room, which he had turned upside down, he laid back his death-warrant where he had found it; and at that, her face light- ed up. The next thing he heard, she was explaining to her maid, with some ingenious falsehood, the disorder of her things. Flesh and blood would bear the strain no longer; and I think it was the next morning (though chronology is always hazy in the theatre of the mind) that he burst from his reserve. They had been breakfasting together in one corner of a great, parquetted, sparely furnished room of many windows; all the time of the meal she had tortured him with sly allusions; and no sooner were the servants gone, and these two protagonists alone together, than he leaped to his feet. She too sprang up, with a pale face; with a pale face, she heard him as he raved out his com- plaint: Why did she torture him so? she knew all, she knew he was no enemy to her; why did she not de nounce him at once? what signified her whole behavior? why did she torture him? and yet again, why did she torture him? And when he had done, she fell upon her knees, and with outstretched hands: Do you not understand? she cried. I love you! Hereupon, with a pang of wonder and mercantile delight, the dreamer awoke. His mercantile delight was not of long endurance; for it soon became plain that in this spirited tale there were unmarketable elements; which is just the reason why you have it here so briefly told. But his wonder has still kept growing; and I think the readers will also, if he consider it ripely. For now he sees why I speak of the little people as of substantive inventors and performers. To the end they had kept their secret. I will go bail for the dreamer (having excellent grounds for valuing his candor) that he had no guess whatever at the motive of the womanthe hinge of the whole well- invented plotuntil the instant of that highly dramatic declaration. It was not his tale; it was the little peoples! That he seemed himself to play a part in it, to be and suffer in the person of the hero, is but an oddity of this particular dream; at which, indeed, I wonder a little, and which I seek to explain by analogy. In reading a plain tale, burthened with no psychology, and movingly and truthfully told, we are sometimes deceived for a moment, and take the emotions of the hero for our own. It is our testimony to the spirit and truth of the performance. So, per- haps, was this illusion of the dreamers; and as he was asleep, he was doubtless the more easily and the more perfectly deceived. But observe: not only was the secret kept, the story was told with really guileful craftsmanship. The con- duct of both actors is (in the cant phrase) psychologically correct, and the emotion aptly graduated up to the sur- prising climax. I am awake now, and I know this trade; and yet I cannot bet- ter it. I am awake, and I live by this business; and yet I could not outdo could not even equalthat crafty ar- tifice (as of some old, experienced car- penter of plays, some IDennery or Sar- don) by which the same situation is A CHAPTER ON DREAMS. 127 twice presented and the two actors twice brought face to face over the evi- dence, only once it is in her hand, once in hisand these in their due order, the least dramatic first. The more I think of it, the more I am moved to press upon the world my question: Who are the Little People? They are near con- nections of the dreamers, beyond doubt; they share in his financial worries and have an eye to the bank-book; they share plainly in his training; they have plainly learned like him to build the scheme of a considerate story and to arrange emotion in progressive order; only I think they have more talent; and one thing is beyond doubt, they can tell him a story piece by piece, like a serial, and keep him all the while in ignorance of where they aim. Who are they, then? and who is the dreamer? Well, as regards the dreamer, I can answer that, for he is no less a person than myself ;as I might have told you from the beginning, only that the crit- ics murmur over my consistent ego- tism ;and as I am positively forced to tell you now, or I could advance but lit- tle further with my story. And for the Little People, what shall I say they are but just my Brownies, God bless them! who do one-half my work for me while I am fast asleep, and in all human likeli- hood, do the rest for me as well, when I am wide awake and fondly suppose I do it for myself. That part which is done while lam sleeping is the Brownies~ part beyond contention; but that which is done when I am up and about is by no means necessarily mine, since all goes to show the Brownies have a hand in it even then. Here is a doubt that much concerns my conscience. For my- selfwhat I call I, my conscious ego, the denizen of the pineal gland unless he has changed his residence since Des- cartes, the man with the conscience and the variable bank-account, the man with the hat and the boots, and the privilege of voting and not carrying his candi- date at the general electionsI am sometimes tempted to suppose he is no story-teller at all, but a creature as mat- ter of fact as any cheesemonger or any cheese, and a realist bemired up to the ears in actuality; so that, by that ac- count, the whole of my published fiction should be the single-handed product of some Brownie, some Familiar, some un- seen collaborator, whom I keep locked in a back garret, while I get all the praise and he but a share (which I cannot pre- vent him getting) of the pudding. I am an excellent adviser, something like Moli~res servant; I pull back and I cut down; and I dress the whole in the best words and sentences that I can find and make; I hold the pen, too; and I do the sitting at the table, which is about the worst of it; and when all is done, I make up the manuscript and pay for the registration; so that, on the whole, I have some claim to share, though not so largely as I do, in the profits of our common enterprise. I can but give an instance or so of what part is done sleeping and what part awake, and leave the reader to share what laurels there are, at his own nod, between myself and my collabora- tors; and to do this I will first take a book that a number of persons have been polite enough to read, the Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I had long been trying to write a story on this subject, to find a body, a vehicle, for that strong sense of mans double being which must at times come in upon and overwhelm the mind of every thinking creature. I had even written one, The Travelling Uompanion, which was re- turned by an editor on the plea that it was a work of genius and indecent, and which I burned the other day on the ground that it was not a work of genius, and that Jekyll had supplanted it. Then came one of those financial fluctuations to which (with an elegant modesty) I have hitherto referred in the third per- son. For two days I went about rack- ing my brains for a plot of any sort; and on the second night I dreamed the scene at the window, and a scene after- ward split in two, in which Hyde, pur- sued for some crime, took the powder and underwent the change in the pres- ence of his pursuers. All the rest was made awake, and consciously, although I think I can trace in much of it the manner of my Brownies. The meaning of the tale is therefore mine, and had long pre-existed in my garden of Adonis, and tried one body after another in vain ; in- deed, I do most of the morality, worse 128 A CHAPTER ON DREAMS. luck! and my Brownies have not a ru- diment of what we call a conscience. Mine, too, is the setting, mine the charac- ters. All that was given me was the mat- ter of three scenes, and the central idea of a voluntary change becoming involun- tary. Will it be thought ungenerous, after I have been so liberally ladling out praise to my unseen collaborators, if I here toss them over, bound hand and foot, into the arena of the critics? For the business of the powders, which so many have censured, is, I am relieved to say, not mine at all but the Brownies. Of another tale, in case the reader should have glanced at it, I may say a word: the not very defensible story of Olalla. Here the court, the mother, the mothers niche, Olalla, Olallas chamber, the meetings on the stair, the broken window, the ugly scene of the bite, were all given me in bu]I~ and detail as I have tried to write them; to this I added~ only the external scenery (for in my dream I never was beyond the court), the portrait, the characters of Felipe and the priest, the moral, such as it is, and the last pages, such as, alas! they are. And I may even say that in this case the moral itself was giver~ me; for it arose immediately on a compari- son of the mother and the daughter, and from the hideous trick of atavism in the first. Sometimes a parabolic sense is still more undeniably present in a dream; sometimes I cannot but suppose my Brownies have been aping Bunyan, and yet in no case with what would possibly be called a moral in a tract; never with the ethical narrow- ness; conveying hints instead of lifes larger limitations and that sort of sense which we seem to perceive in the ara- besque of time and space. For the most part, it will be seen, my Brownies are somewhat fantastic, like their stories hot and hot, full of passion and the picturesque, alive with animat- ing incident; and they have no preju- dice against the supernatural But the other day they gave me a surprise, en- tertaining me with a love-story, a little April comedy, which I ought certainly to hand over to the author of A Chance Acquaintance, for he could write it as it should be written, and I am sure (al- though I mean to try) that I cannot. But who would have supposed that a Brownie of mine should invent a tale for Mr. Howells? FELIX MENDELSSOHN-BARTHOLDy. FROM A STEEL ENGRAVING BY G. SEIDEL, 1852.

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Scribner's magazine. / Volume 3, Issue 2 Commentator Scribner's commentator Charles Scribner's Sons New York February, 1888 0003 2
William F. Apthorp Apthorp, William F. Mendelssohn's Letters To Moscheles - From The Manuscripts In The Possession Of Felix Moscheles 131-150

SCRIBNERS MAGAZINE. VOL III. FEBRUARY, 1888. No. 2. MENDELSSOHNS LETTERS TO MOSCHELES. FROM THE MANUSCRIPTS IN THE POSSESSION OF FELIX MOSOHELES. By Williani F. Apt hoip. I. T has often been -it. remarked how few notable musi- cians have shown any decided lit erary gift. But that so exceed- ingly little good . ~, - ..~ prose should have come from the pen of great composers is by no means to be wondered at. The almost ex- clusively special education musicians received, as a rule, before the begin- ning of the present century, was not fitted to equip them for literary tasks; and, upon the whole, for a man to achieve extraordinary distinction both in literature and music would imply a versatility of talent such as one hardly has a right to expect even in the greatest genius. It is a far more reasonable cause for wonder that so few great coin- posers have shown that they possessed even that undeveloped, quasi-embryonic literary faculty which is displayed in good letter-writing, that by no means very uncommon power of telling inter- esting news in a charming and interest- ing way, of talking familiarly, so to speak, with pen and ink, which consti- tutes the gbod letter-writer. Musicians letters are, as a rule, singularly and sur- prisingly uninteresting to the general reader; he who has no especial interest in the men themselves and their doings will almost invariably find their letters pretty dull reading. Mozarts earlier let- ters, written during his boyhood, charm one irresistibly by their precocious hu- mor ; but his faculty of letter-writing did not mature as he grew up, and his later correspondence is commonplace enough. Take up a volume of letters by Haupt- mann, Spohr or Weber, and, unless you happen to be a musician yourself, you soon lay it down with a gape. Count up the distinguished composers whose private correspondence has been given to the world in any considerable quanti- ty, and you will find the number of those who habitually wrote thoroughly admir- able letters to be dismally small. Still, at their head, you do find two men who can fairly be said to have been accom- plished masters of the epistolary style: Berlioz and Mendelssohn. Berliozs pri- vate correspondence is, perhaps, just a shade less admirable than his open let- ters, written for publication ; he was a Frenchman to the core, and needed a certain consciousness of publicity to egg him on to do his best. He required the moral fillip of feeling that he was ad- dressing the universe ; a small audience rather chilled his finest faculties. Men- delssohn fell somewhat short of Berliozs coruscating brilliancy; indeed his hu- mor is often none of the finest; but his superior, Teutonic depth of character, Copyright, 1888, by Charles Scribners Sons. All rights reserved. 132 MENDELSSOHNS LETTERS TO MOSCHELES. his indifference to applause for its own sake, made the private letter to an in- timate friend the channel of all others through which he could most naturally give expression to his thought, the form of writing into which he could throw his whole self, with the least effort and the least reserve. And, of all the intimate friends with whom he was in frequent correspondence by post, Ignaz Mosche- les was probably the one with whose in- stinctive artistic bent he had the closest sympathy, and in whose artistic judg- inent he had the most implicit trust. The tone of reverential admiration, which pervades almost all of Mendels- sohns letters to Moscheles,was thorough- ly sincere; that his repeated expressions of admiration had no taint of flattery, is indubitable. The instinctive bent of his own genius, and, added to this, the whole force of his musical education, impelled him to a closer and more com- plete sympathy with Moseheles, than with any other of his fellow-musicians. In Moseheles he found a man of quite sufficient talent and creative power to excite his admiration a man whQ~ per- sonal character invited, at once, un bounded respect and affection, and, what was of more importance than all else, one whose musical opinions, whose whole artistic aim and striving, in a word, whose ideal in art, exactly coincided with his own. He could greet Gades en- chanting and original genius with the warmest welcome, and yet feel, the while, that the younger man had still something to learn, before he could fairly claim the place in the ranks of compos- ers to which the Muses and the Graces seemed to destine him. He could clasp Schumann to his breast as a beloved brother and comrade in the great life- battle against was uns alle bdndigt, DA5 GEMEINE, in the great life-struggle after artistic truth and beauty; yet he could not but feel that the path that Schumanns genius impelled him to travel diverged from his own, that Schu- manns highest ideal was not quite his. But Moseheles was the man whom he could not only admire, if with a some- what more restricted admiration, but with whom he could thoroughly agree. From a cast of Mendelaaohna hand. Moseheles then stood, not only as a p~nist of execetlingly ~ to whom the art of pianoforte playing owed MENDELSSOHNS LETTERS TO MOSCHEL ES. 133 a noteworthy step in its advancement, but also as a composer, to any new work from whose pen the musical world looked for- ward with very considerable interest. A new symphony, sonata or concerto by Moscheles was then as much of an event, as a new work by Mendelssohn or Schu- mann. Add to this that Mendelssohn, of all men, had especial reason to regard him with reverence. In the first place, Moscheles was nearly fifteen years his senior; when the two first met, in Ber- lin in 1824, Moscheles was thirty, while Mendelssohn was still a boy of fifteen, and the firsfr relation between them was that of teacher and pupil. Then, up to the time of his father death (in 1835) that is, up to the age of twenty-six Mendelssohn was much under his f a- thers influence. Old Abraham Mendels- sohn, though not, like Leopold Mo- zart, a technical musician, and apparent- ly having no acquaintance with the art, had got an insight into it which many musicians might envy. * He had an unconquerable respect for classic tradi- tions, little or no sympathy with new musical tendencies, and, to his mind, Moseheles stood as the impeccable mod- el, as the living embodiment of all rep- utable musicianly virtues, and he lost no opportunity of impressing his views upon his son. So that, even before Mendelssohn and Moscheles first met personally, the boy had, so to speak, a ready-made esteem for his master, an es- teem which everything in the two men * Vide Grove, vol. ii., p. 254. Ignaz Moscheles. (From a painting by Felix Moacheles.) 134 MENDELSSOHNS LETTERS TO MOScHEL ES. served to confirm and deepen in after life. And long after the relation of teacher and pupil had come to an end, when Moseheles had recognized heartily hat the other was his superior, and Mendelssohn had ceased to be uncon- scious of the fact that he himself was really the stronger man of the two, his original admiration for Moseheless mu- sical natnre, his entire confidence in the sonndness of his musical judgment, still survived. He felt, to the end, that Mosch- eles was the man who would be sure to rei~cho his own opinions on musical mat- ters with the least variation, the man to whose judgment he could submit his own compositions with the greatest cer- tainty of sympathy, and one to whose ev- ery new work he could look forward with no disturbing fear of disappointment. We find, accordingly, in his letters to Moseheles, a complete fra kness of ex- pression, whenever he touches upon the subject of music, that is somewhat dif- ferent from his manner with other musi- cians. Not that Mendelssohn ever cared to conceal his musical opinions from anyone, except, as was the case n his intercourse with Ber- lioz, when they might be apt to wound the feelings of the person addressed; he was quite as unguarded in giving vent to his mu- sical likings and dis- likings when writing to other friends. But the judgments on mu- sic we come across in his letters to his sis- ter, to Ferdinand Hiller, and others more nearly of his own age, often seem to have a certain didactic flavor; one feels, one scarcely knows why, that he gives his opin- ion with a certain tacit emphasis, as upon something which it were well for his cor- respondent to read, mark, learn, and in- wardly digest. In his letters to Moseheles nothing of this spirit appears; whatever he writes about music seems set down not so much for Moseheless sake as for his own; it is the free outpouring of a mind that craves, and feels sure of obtaining, a sympathetic response to its own thought. This completeness of musical sympa- thy between the two men, the reverence in which the younger held his whilom master, and the almost unbounded ad- miration with which the latter regarded his former pupil, must have counted for much in consolidating their friendship. Indeed their mutual esteem as artists, the implicit confidence each placed in the others musicianship and single- minded devotion to his art, really lay at Abraham MendeIaaohn~ the Composers Father. MENDELSSOHNS LETTERS TO MOSCY-JELES. 135 the bottom of their intimacy. Mendels- sohn felt, from the first, that Moseheles, the experienced and travelled artist, was the man who could best give him prac- tical advice to help him on in his career in a practical way, and, moreover, that he could follow such advice blindly, with- out fear of finding himself in a position inconsistent with his own artistic digni- ty. The following letter gives earnest of this confidence: BERLIN, January 10, 1829. DEAR Si Let me begin by apologizing for troub- ling you with this letter. The kindness and friendship you have so often shown me will not, I know, fail me on this occasion, more espe- cially as I come to you for advice on a subject of which I know you to be the most competent judge. The matter on which I want your kind opinion is this I intend to start at the beginning of this year, and to devote three years to travel- ling, my chief object being to make a long stay in Italy and France. As it is desirable, for several reasons, that I should spend a few days in Berlin about the mid- dle of next December, before leaving for Rome, I intend to devote the eight and a half months of the present year, dur- ing which I can absent myself, to visiting those cities of Germany I am not acquainted with, such as Vienna and Mu- nich, and then, if possi- ble, I would extend my journey to London. The object I have in view is, not to appear in public, but rather, to be musically benefited by my tour, to compare the various views and opinions of others, and thus to consolidate my own taste. As I only care to see what is most re- markable in these two cities, and to be- come acquainted with those eminent in the world of art, not, as I said before, to be heard myself nor to appear in public, I trust the time I can devote to my trav- els will not prove too short. Now, the question which I rant you to decide is this: whether it will be better to begin or to end with London. In the one case, I should be in Vienna early in April, re- maining there till about the middle of July, and go, first to Munich via the Tyrol, and then down the Rhine to Lon- don, where I could stay till December, and return by way of Hamburg to Ber- lin. In the other case, I should take London first in April, remain till July, then go up the Rhine to Munich, and through the Tyrol to Vienna, and thence back to Berlin. Evidently the former of Mendelssohns Mother. 136 MENDELSSOHNS LETTERS TO MOSCHEL ES. these tours would be the more agreeable, I have the honor to remain, yours most and, as such, I would willingly select it, respectfully and truly, but, in following the latter, should I not F. MENDELSSOHN-BARTHOLDY. have a better chance of seeing the two capitals to the fullest advantage, the season in Vienna coming to an end, as I am given to understand, in May, whereas in London it extends all through June and even beyond. You who have so long lived in both cities, and who are so well acquainted with musical men and matters in both, will best be able to solve my doubts, and to answer a question of so much impor- tance to me. You have given me such constant proofs of your kindness and readiness to oblige, that I feel confident you will not discontinue your friendly assistance, but once more give me the benefit of your advice. I have to thank you for the second book of your splendid Studies. They are the finest pieces of music I have be- come acquainted with for a long time; As Mendelssohn was ever ready to ask advice of Moschelcs, so was the latter not slow to welcome the opportunity of introducing to the musical world of Lon- don so brilliant a prot~g~ as Mendels- sohn. Even at this early date, he could have had no illusions as to the real char- acter and strength of the young mans genius. Several years later, he wrote to him, mentioning Thalberg: In 1826 I gave him some instruction, and, at that time already, I became aware that he would little need me, to do great things, sans comparaison like a certain Berlin youth who soon threw aside all leading strings, and donned the purple. But his generosity was equal to his artistic integrity, and no unworthy fears of see- ing a stronger rival appear above the horizon could, for a moment, stand in as instructive and useful to the player, as they are gratifying to the hearer. Might you not feel disposed to publish a third book? You know what service you would be rendering to all lovers of music. With best regards to Mrs. Moscheles, the way of his doing all in his power to advance his young friends interests. Indeed, it was chiefly Moscheles who paved the way for Mendelssohns first successes in England, that is, for the first conspicuous public recognition of the young composers genius. How agents Park. (From a aketch made by Mendelaaohn in an autograph album presented by him to his godchild.) 137 MENDELSSOHNS LETTERS TO MOSCHELES. heartily and thoroughly Mendelssohn ap- preciated his helpful kindness may be seen from the following letter, written after his return from his first visit to England. This letter also shows the high esteem in which he held Moseheless talent. BERLIN, January 9, 1830. DEAR MR. MOSOHELES: I have written to Mrs. Moseheles, and asked forgiveness for my protracted si- lence; allow me to refer to that letter, and to hope that the reasons therein detailed may plead for me with you ; * at the same time I cannot refrain from assuring you personally how truly I feel * Vi e letter to Mrs. Moecheles, dated Jan. 0, 1829, (by mistake, it should be 1830), published in narpers Magazine, Feb, 1879, p. 427. myself indebted to you, and how grate- ful I am for all the kindness you have shown me. You received me in Lon- don in a way I could never have ex- pected, and gave me proofs of confi- dence and friendship of which I shall never cease to be proud. If, hitherto, I had looked up to you with admiration, how much more so now, when, on closer acquaintance, I had the happiness to find in you an example fit in every re- spect to be followed by any artist. You know best yourself the value of a kind reception in a strange country, and the immense advantage of an introduction through you, especially in England. If that country made a most favorable and lasting impression on me, since, for the first time far away from home and friends, I could spend such happy hours, Fanny C~ciIie Hensel (born Mendelssohn). 138 MENDELSSOHNS LETTERS TO MOSCHEL ES. it is you I have to thank, to you I shall always be grateful. Might I but have some opportunity of proving how deeply I feel my obligation. I hope I may soon meet you again in some corner of the world, and find such glorious pieces of music as this time. The symphony is quite present to my mind, and I can play some of it by heart, especially the first and third movements; but that is very insufficient, and I look forward with impatience to the publication of this masterpiece. Will you not soon give it to the public? You must yourself know how surely you can reckon on a brill- iant success, and on the admiration and warmest sympathy of every musician. For my part, I should be truly happy to see the score published, and am con- vinced that in this feeling I should be joined by all who love music. Will you not soon let a second one follow? May- be you are at work on one already; it would be truly delightful if you gave us more pieces in the same spirit, imbued with such earnestness and depth; all real lovers of music would hail them with pleasure. I mean to leave here for Italy as soon as my foot will permit me to travel, and request your permission to write to you occasionally on music and musicians; should your time allow of your sending me a few words, you know how much pleasure it would give me. With best wishes for your welfare and happiness, and trusting you will preserve a kind remembrance of me, I remain, Yours most sincerely, F. MENDELSSOHN-BARTHOLDY. Here is another characteristic letter: BERLIN, February 27, 1833. [See the drawing reproduced on p. 140.j DEAR MoscHELEs: Here they are, wind instruments and fiddles, for the son and heir must not be kept waiting till I come; he must have a cradle song with drums and trumpets and janissary music; the fiddles alone are not nearly lively enough. May every happiness and joy and blessing attend the little stran- ger; may he be prosperous, may he do well whatever he do3s, and may it fare well with him in the world! So he is to be called Felix, is he? How nice and kind of you to make him my godchild in forma. The first pres- ent his godfather makes him is the above entire orchestra; it is to accom- pany him through life; the trumpets when he wishes to be famous, the flutes when he falls in love, the cymbals* when he grows a beard; the pianoforte ex- plains itself, and should people ever play him false, as will happen to the best of us, there stand the kettledrums and the big drums in the back-ground. Dear me! but I am ever so happy when I think of your happiness and of the time when I shall have my full share of it. By the end of April, at the latest, I intend to be in London, and then we will give the boy a regular name, and introduce him to the world at large. It will be grand! To your Septet I look forward with no small plea~ure. Klingemann has written out eleven notes of it for me, and these I like ever so much. o Tempus edax rerum! Tempo- ra mutantur! and all the doleful saws that recall the changefulness of affairs on this earth! Where are these sympho- nies now? And where much of the music of a far other sortBerlioz Fantastic Symphonies, Fraucs-Juges overtures, and the likefor which Men- delssohn found words of blame main- ly? Berlioz, Liszt and others of that ilk are now to the front, and their works find other meed than blame. But this is a digression; more of it further on! t. +.. U -~ -~ .t .-+ I can quite imagine what a bright, lively finale they would make. He also gave me a good description and analysis of the Andante in B-fiat, but, after all, it will be still better to hear it. Do not expect too much from the compositions I shall bring with me. You will be sure to find pregnant traces of moodiness which I can only shake off slowly, and by dint of effort. I often feel as if I had * A pun on the German word Becken, which iiieans both cymbals and basin. MENDELSSOHNS LETTERS TO MOSCHELES. 139 never composed at all, and had to learn everything over again; now, however, I have got into better trim, and my last things will sound better. iNice it was, too, that your last letter found me, as you said it should, alone and in the quiet of my room, composing to my hearts content; and now I only wish my letter may find you some quiet evening at home, with your dear ones well and happy around you. We shall see whether I am as lucky at wishing as you were. I am in a hurry, and must end; I had but half an hour for my let- ter, and that beautiful picture has taken up all my time; besides, I have nothing further to say but this: I wish you jo~, now and hereafter, and may we soon meet again. My friends here send their kindest remembrances and congratula- tions ; they are all well but my father, who suffers constantly from his eyes and is, in consequence, much depressed; this reacts upon us; and we pray that The Bridge of Sighs. (From a water-color drawing by Mendelssohn.) 140 MENDELSSOHNS LETTERS TO MOSCHELES. Fec-simile of the drawing in Mendelssohns letter of Feb. 27, 1833 (p. 138). there may soon be a change for the bet- ing what a dear old friend YOU are, and ter. My sister and I now make a great how ready to forgive. deal of mnsic; every Sunday morning Thus encouraged, I fancy myself in with accompaniment; and I have just Chester Place,* andwish you good even- received from the bookbinders a big ing. What I have to say is this :I have grass-green volume of Moscheles, and ventured to dedicate to you, without ask- next time we are going to play your ing your permission, a piece which is to trio. Farewell, farewell, and remain appear at Simrocksa piece I am just happy. Yours, fond of myself.t But this is not what F. MENDELSSOHN-BAETHOLDY. I was going to say. I had thought how nice it would be if you met with it dur- About his own musical doings, even ing one of your trips to Germany; but about the ins and outs of his own pro- now my Rondo Brillant ~ is just finished, fessional life, Mendelssohn writes little, and I have the very greatest desire to as a rule. His breaking his customary dedicate that also to you; that, however, silence on such matters makes the fol- I do not venture to do without your lowing letter one of the most interest- special permission, for I am well aware ing, in one way, of the whole correspon- that, by rights, it is not style to ask dence; it, for once, opens a window leave to dedicate two pieces at once, through which we can catch something and perhaps you will think it rather an more than a hasty glimpse of him in the odd proceeding on my part, but I can- midst of professional duties. not help it, I have set my heart upon it. In general, I am not very partial to dedi- D~t55ELDORF, February 7, 1834. cations, and have seldom made any; Mr DEAR FRIEND: but, in this case, they are to convey a Pardon my long silence; I know how meaning, inasmuch as, not having been guilty I am, but I reckon on your indul- able to send you a letter for a long gence. I am so deeply buried in my while, I wanted, at least, to let you have work and papers that, even now, I think some of the work I have been doing. I should not have emerged from them, Write me a line on the subject, as the were it not that a special circumstance Rondo is to appear in Leipzig too, and, obliges me to write to you. So let me * At Moecheless house in London. pass over the last four months, and all t The Fantasie in F-sharp minor (Sonate Ecossaise), us 28. my excuses into the bargain, remember- ~ In E-flat, for pianoforte and orchestra, Opus 29. MENDELSSOHNS LETTERS TO MOSCHELES. 141 once you havepenned that line, you may feel inclined to add an- other, or, perhaps, a few more, as you did in your last kind let- ter for which I have not thanked you yet. Klingemann is not prodigal of words, so that I have heard but little of London friends, and partic- ularly little of those in Chester Place. What do you all look like? What can Felix say? Does Serena re- member her humble servant with the car- nations? And how fares the Sonata for two performers? Do give me full particu- lars about that and your other work. I would ask Mrs. Mos- cheles to let me know all about it, but I feel she must be so angry with me that I dont think I can summon courage to write to her. The last of your compositions I heard of was the Impromp- tu for Mary Alexan- der, and, since then, I am sure you have produced all manner of delightful things. My own poverty in shaping new forms for the pianoforte once more struck me most forcibly while writing the Rondo. It is there I get into difficulties, and have to toil and labor, and lam afraid you will notice that such was the case. Still, there are things in it which I believe are not bad, and some parts that I really like, but how I an~ to set about writing a calm and quiet piece (and that, I know, is just what you advised me to do, last spring) I really do not know. All that passes through my head in the shape of pianoforte music is about as calm and Chester Place. (From a drawing made by Mendeissohegicen in as autograph album by him to his godchild.) quiet as Cheapside, and when I sit down to the pianoforte, and compel myself to start improvising ever so quietly, it is of no useby degrees I fall back into the old ways. My new Scena, however, which I am writing for the Philharmonic, will, I am afraid, be only too tame. But so much self-criticism is not to the purpose, so I stick to my work, and that means, in plain language, that Jam well and happy. I feel particularly comfortable in this e~44~) Birmingham. (From a pen drawing by Mendnlsaohn MENDELSSOHNS LETTERS TO MOSCHEL ES. 143 with what eagerness, what appetite, the singers pounce upon every hint, and what trouble they will take, if anybody wiJi be at the pains of teaching them: how they strain every nerve, and really make our performances as perfect as can be imagined, considering the means at our disposal. Last December I gave Don Juan (it was the first time I con- ducted an opera in public), and I can assure you many things went better and with more precision, than I have heard them at some of the large and famous theatres, because, from first to last, everyone concerned went in for it heart and soul; well, we had twenty re- hearsals. The lessee of the theatre had, howevei; thought fit to raise the prices on account of the heavy expenses, and when, at the first performance of Don Juan, the curtain rose, the malcontent section of the public called for Mr. De- rossi like mad, making a tremendous disturbance; after five minutes, order being restored, we began, and went through the first act splendidly, constant- ly accompanied by applause; but lo! and behold! as the curtain rises for the sec- ond act, the uproar breaks out afresh, with redoubled vigor and persistence. Well, I felt inclined to hand the whole concern over to the arch-fiendnever did I conduct under such trying circum- stances. I countermanded the opera which was aunounced for the next night, and declared I would have nothing more to do with the whole theatre ;four days later, I allowed myself to be talked over, gave a second performance of Don Juan, was received with hurrahs and a three-fold flourish of trumpets, and now the Wassertriiger is to follow. The opposition consists mainly of beer-house keepers and waiters; in fact, by 4 oclock P.M. half Dusseldorf is intoxicated; any- body wanting to see me must call be- tween 8 and 9 in the morning; it is quite useless attempting to transact any kind of business in the afternoon. Now what do you think of such a dis- creditable state of things, and can you have anything more to say to such boors asweare? Blagrove was here; I took him to our Choral Society, where we were just rehearsing the choruses from Alexan- ders Feast; our performance produced the most excellent effect on himit sent him to sleep. I hear from my mother that the Gip- sies March, or rather the April Varia- tion s, are out. Is that the case, and, if so, could I have a copy of them? Ihope you have done a good deal of patching and polishing up to my partyou know, I am thinking of those restless passages of mine. The whole of the last move- ment wants repairing or lining with a warm melody; it was too thin. The first variation, too, I hope you have turned inside out and padded. Dont I speak as if I were Musikdirector Schnei- der? And cant you send me one of Mons annual jewels? But I must real- ly take courage and another little sheet of paper, and write to your wife, for I havent half donegood byetill we meet on the next page. Your F. MENDELSSOHN. Elsewhere he writes: My oratorio * is making rapid strides; I am working on the second part, and have just written a chorus in F-sharp minor (a lively chorus of heathens) that I thoroughly relish myself, and that I should so much like to show you; in fact, I am ever so anxious to hear wheth- er you are satisfied with my new work. I have lately written some fugues, songs without words, with words, and a few studies, and should of all things like to take a new concerto for the pianoforte with me to London, but of that I know nothing as yet. You once said it was time I should write a quiet, sober piece for the pianoforte, after all those restless ones, and that advice is always rnnning in my head, and stops me at the outset; for, as soon as I think of a pianoforte piece, away I career, and scarcely am I off when I remember: Moseheles said etc., and theres an end to the piece. But never mind, Ill get the bet- ter of it yet, and if it turns out restless again, it will certainly not be for want of good intentions. ~ The following passage, from a letter dated: Frankfurt, July 20, 1836, is not * St. Paul. 1 Dated Thisseldori, Dec. 5, 1834. 144 MENDELSSOHNS LETTERS TO MOSCHELES. without a certain pathos. It hardly and importance of the place into ac- needs comment, so well does it express count, there is really a fair muster of the state of mind to which many an- excellent musicians here, men of repu- other earnest and high-souled musician tation and talent, who might do good has been brought, in other places and work, and who, one would think, would other timesthat feeling of powerless- do it willinglyso far, that is the good ness to do good, for lack of the cot~pera- side of Germanybut the fact is they tion of others. do nothing, and it were better they did not live together, and grumble and com- Altogether this is a queer country. plain, or meditate over their grievances Much as I love it, I hate it in certain enough to give one the blues. Now respects. Look at the musical men of IRies has left here, too, and is by this this place, for instance; their doings time in England, I suppose; he con- are quite shameful. Taking the size siders he does not meet with due appre Mendelssohn. (A bust from life.) MENDELSSOHNS LETTERS TO MOSCHEL ES. 145 ciation, and finds fault with the musi- cians, and yet does nothing to improve them. Alcys Schmidt takes his ease in the country; sighs over mankind in general, a poor race at the best, full of envy and maliceforgetting all the while that he too belongs to it. Hiller is here just now; people discuss wildly whether he is a great pianoforte player or not, but they dont go to hear him, and fancy that makes their judgment all the more impartial; so he too is leaving for Italy. The only man who succeeds is Guhr, who knows wast, and isnt good for much, but he has a will of his own, and enforces it bon grt~, mal gre; the whole town lives in fear of him. Bat all this is bad, and the Bundestag should interfere, for, where so many musicians congregate in one place, they ought to be forced by the authorities to give us a little music, and not only their philosophical views on the subject. If in Mendelssohns letters to Mosche- les we find, upon the whole, compara- tively sparse expressions of musical opinionfor, with all the warm affec- tion and esteem with which they brim over, they are, for the most part, busi- ness letters, at bottomwhat we do find is singularly and instructively indicative of his artistic point of view, and this, too, in a phase which is all too liable to be overlooked nowadays. Now and then, especially in the earlier letters, he shows himself in the familiar Davids- b~2ndler attitude.* As, for instance, when he writes: Do you think that I would not hear Miss Belleville because she is not a Bellevue, or because of the wide sleeves she wears? I was influenced by no such reasons, although I must admit that there are certain faces that cannot pos- sibly belong to an artist, and that are so icily chilling that the mere sight of them sends me to freezing point. But why should I hear those variations by Herz for the thirtieth time? They give me as little pleasure as rope-dancers or acrobats; with these at least there is the * The Davidsbund was an imaginary society which was a more than secret one since it existed only in the head of its founder,founded by Robert Schumann. Its aim was to combat the then considerable influence of the Phi- listinos, Herz Hiinten and their colleagues. VOL. 11113 barbarous attraction that one is in con- stant dread of seeing them break their necks, and that one finds that they do not do so, after all; but those piano- forte tumblers do not so much as risk their lives, but they do our ears, and that I, for one, will not countenance. I only wish it were not my lot constantly to be told that the public demand that sort of thing. I, too, am one of the public, and demand the very reverse. I stopped at home because I felt happiest in my own room, or with friends, or in the garden which, by the way, is beautiful this year. If you do not believe it, come and see for your- self; that is the conclusion I always ar- rive at. ~ Or again: And what do you say to their hiss- ing little Herz? Why, that testifies to a high degree of culture! Has he con- soled himself with guineas and Misses, or was it too crushing? You are par- ticularly silent on the subject, and yet it is true, and Moritz Schlesinger will not be slow to triumph. Well, if he will only abstain from writing variations for two performers, or, if that is too much to ask, if he will only avoid wind- ing up with those rondos that are so frightfully vulgar that I am ashamed to play them to decent people, then, for aught I care, let him be made king of the Belgians, or rather Semiquaver-king, just as one says Fire-king. After all, I like him; he certainly is a characteristic figure of these times, of the year 1834, and as art should be a mirror reflecting the character of the times, as Hegel or someone else probably says somewhere, he certainly does reflect most truly all salons and vanities and a little yearning an~1 a deal of yawning and kid gloves and musk-scent which I abhor. If, in his latter days, he should take to the Romantic, and write melancholy music, or to the Classical, and give us fuguesand I should not be surprised, if he didBerlioz can compose a new symphony on him: De la vie dun Artiste, which I am sure will be better than the first. ~ t Dated Berlin, August 10, 1832. 4 Dated Dusseldorf, June 28, 1834. 146 MENDELSSOHNS LETTERS TO MOSCHEL ES. Here we recognize at once the Da vids- 1n~ndler, the fighter against mere out- ward show and trivial glitter in art, the man whose first maxim might well have been the motto afterwards inscribed on the walls of the Gewaudhaus concert- room in Leipzig: Bes severa est verun-i~ gaudium. To be sure, the passages cited are but hints; but they are ali suf- ficient hints to recall to our minds the picture of Mendelssohn in the militant attitude with which we are most famil- iar. But this particular attitude of Men- delssohns, although eminently charac- teristic, was not, upon the whole, the most noteworthy one he assumed in face of the general niusical. ~rod.uction of his day. It was the one in which we still instinctively think of him, but there was another, far more profoundly signif- icant of the true cast of his musical na- ture, of the true bent of his genius, which most of us are now too prone to over- look. What Mendelssohn had to com- bat, in his character of Davidsbi~ndler, was an intrinsically weak, trivial and ephemeral thing; all that could make it worthy of the determined antagonism of such men asMendelssohn and Schumann was that it had the force of fashion on its side in their day. But no one now- adays doubts for a moment that it would soon enough have died a natural death of itself, without any interference from the Davidsbund. Such things as the Herz concertos and Hijutens variations come into the world with the seeds of caries already sown in them, and any penetrating eye could see at a glance that that finely polished enamel was fore- doomed. Indeed, this whole war of the Davidsb~2ndler against the Philistines seems to us now as rather a waste of powder, and we are a little inclined to wonder at how such very strong m,en could care so much about the matter. iBut there was something else against which Mendelssohns whole soulrevolted with a far more deeply rooted aversion than against the trivial Phiistinism of Herz, iltinten & Co.; something which had, at least in his day, little pow- er of fashionable popularity to aid and abet it, but which, Mendelssohn may have had a secret, unacknowledged fore- boding, was destined to grow and flour- ish. The Philistines could, at worst, arouse him to outbursts of petulant ill.. humor, at best, to sputterings of sarcas- tic fun; but hear in what Jeremiah strains he speaks of another phase of the musical production of his day! As before, the letters to Moseheles furnish only hints at what his feelings were, but these hints are big with meaning. What you say of Berliozs overture * I thoroughly agree with. It is a chaotic, prosaic piece, and yet more humanly conceived than some of his others; I al- ways felt inclined to say with Faust: [here some words are wanting] for his orchestration is such a frightful mud- dle, such an incongruous mess, that one ought to wash ones hands after hand- ling a score of his. Besides, it is really a shame to set nothing but murder, misery and wailing to music; even were he successful, he would simply give us a record of atrocities. At first he made me quite melancholy, because his judg- ments on others are so clever, so cool and correcthe seems so thoroughly sensible, and yet he does not perceive that his own works are such rubbishy nonsense. ~ Here is another sample, which, al- though not bearing quite so directly upon the case in point, is still suggestive, and in the same general direction: I quite agree with you in all you say about Neukomms music. Is it not wonderful that a man of such taste and refinement should not be able to trans- fer these qualities to his music? To say nothing of the fundamental ideas of his compositions, the working-out seems so careless and commonplace. Then, again, that constant use of brass instruments! As a matter of sheer cal * Lee Franes-Juges. t Dated Dflsseldorf, April 1834. This was in reply to a letter from Moecheles, in which we find the following: After yours, I had Berliozs overture, Les Francs- Juges, to conduct. We were all curious to know what French genius could create. I say French, for, so far, no other country but France has recognized Berlioz asa ge- nius. But oh! what a rattling of brass, fit for the Porte- Saint-Martin! What cruel, wicked scoring, as if to prove that our ancestors were no better than pedants! And oh again, for the contrast of the middle subject, that would console us with a vaudeville melody, such as you could not hear to more advantage in LOurs et le Pacha, or in the viennese in Berlin. Then comes the mystic element, a progression of screeching harmonies, unintelligible to all but the March cats. To show that something terrible is agitating the fevered brain of the composer, an apoplectic stroke of the tam-tam shakes to shivers the efforts of the whole orchestra, as also the auditory nerves of the assem- bled audience MENDELSSOHNS LETTERS TO MOSCHEL ES. 147 culation, they should be sparingly em- ployed, let alone the question of art! Thats where I admire Handels glori- ous style; when he brings up his kettle- drums and trumpets towards the end, and thumps and batters away to his hearts content, as if he meant to knock you down, no mortal can remain un- moved. I really believe it is far better to imitate such work than to overstrain the nerves of your audience who, after all, will at last get accustomed to Cayenne pepper. There is Cherubinis new opera, All Baba, for instance, which I have just been looking through. I was de- lighted with some parts, but in others it grieved me to find that he should chime in with that perverted new tone of the Parisians, winding up pieces, in them- selves calm and dignified, with thunder- clap effects, scoring as if instruments were nothing, and effect everything, 3 or 4 trombones blasting away at you as if the human ear could stand anything. Then the finales, with their uncouth harmonies, tearing and dash- ing about, enough to knock one up. How bright and sparkling, on the other hand, are some of the pieces in his former mauner, from Faniska and Lodoiska, for instance; there really is as wide a difference as between a man and a scarecrowno wonder the opera was a failure. To an admirer of the old Cherubini it is really aunoying that he should write such miserable stufl and not have the pluck to resist the so-called taste of the day and of the public (as if you and I were not part of the public, and didnt live in these times as well, and didnt want music adapted to our diges- tive capacities)! As for those who are not admirers of the old Cherubini, they will not be satisfied anyhow, do what he may; for them he is too much himself in Mi Baba, and, after the first three notes, they spot their man, and set him down as a vieille perruque, rococo, etc. * But here are three passages more to the point: What you say. of Liszts harmonies is depressing. I had seen the thing at Thisseldorf, and put it aside with indif * Dated Dasseldorf, Dec. 25, 1534. ference, because it simply seemed very stupid to me; but if that sort of stuff is to be noticed, or even admired, it is really provoking. But is that the case? I cannot believe that impartial people can take pleasure, or be in any way in- terested, in cacophony; whether a few reporters puff it, or not, matters little; their articles will leave no more traces than the composition. What annoys me is that there is so little to throw into the other side of the balance, for what our Messrs. Reissiger & Co. compose is different, but just as shallow, and what Heller and Berlioz write is not music either, and even old Cherabinis Mi Baba is dreadfully poor, and borders on Auber. That is very sad. ~ And again: What you say about Berliozs sym- phony is literally true, I am sure; only I must add that the whole thing seems to me so dreadfully slow, and what could be worse? A piece of music may be a piece of uncouth, crazy, barefaced un- pudence, and, with all that, have some go about it, and be amusing; but this is simply insipid, and altogether without life. Some studies of Hillers I saw the other day I could not bring myself to like either, and I am sorry for this, be- cause I am fond of him, and believe he has talent; but Paris, no doubt, is bad soil ~ Looking through new music, as you constantly do, have you come across anything good? I have not met with anything that I quite liked. A book of mazurkas by Chopin, and a few new pieces of his are so mannered that they are hard to stand. Heller, too, has written two books of songs that he had better left unwritten. I so wish I could admire it all, but it is really so little to my taste, I can not. A few things there are, too, by some Berliners and Leip- zigers who would like to begin where Beethoven left off. They can clear their throats as he does, and cough his cough, and that is just all. It seems to me like riding across country after t Dated Berlin, Aug. 18, 1835. ~ Dated D5sseldorf, March 25, 1835. 148 MENDELSSOHNS LETTERS TO MOSCHELES. the rain; on horseback they can dash along splendidly, even if they do get splashed, but when they try to walk, they get stuck fast in the mud. * These, as I have said, are mere hints; but, taken together with what we know of Mendelssohn, of his artistic aims and principles, they are very eloquent to whoever has ears to hear. Through them all there runs a current of ab- horrence of a musical somethingcall it essence, spirit, tendency, if you will which had begun to show itself in his time, and which it were sheer blindness not to recognize as essentially identical with the dominant musical spirit of the present day. Mendelssohn did his best to stem its progress; it aroused a far more strenuous opposition in him than anything the mere Philistines could do, and both by precept and example in his compositions, in his playing and conductinghe fought against it, tooth and naiL No doubt he combated it as something utterly bad and vicious, rather than as something he feared might, in the end, prove strong and victorious. He only saw the begin- nings of itin Liszt, Berlioz, and oth- ersand his faith was too strong for him seriously to fear that it could ever thrive, for to his mind it was as a blas- phemy against all that he held most sacred, all that he believed to be most true and eternal in music. He could not foresee that Brahmsthat is, the Brahms we now know, the Brahms of the C minor symphonywould one day come out of Schumann, that the Berlioz spawn was to hatch out Saint-Sa~ns, Massenet, Bizet, and who knows whom else? that all the occult forces, then se- cretly at work, were to bring forth a Richard Wagner, with his Nibelung- en, Tristan, and Art-work of the Future. These were all hidden from his sight behind the impenetrable veil of the future. But the seeds, the first germs of these he did see, and, al- though he was far from rightly estimat- ing their real vitality, their inherent power of growth, he abhorred them with a deeply rooted abhorrence as he would the thing unclean. What were the mere polite trivialities, the drawing- * Dated D5sseldorf, Feb. 7, 1835. room commonplaces of the Herz and Hftnten Philistines, in comparison with this new spirit in music, which, if it were not exorcised, would drag the whole art down to utter destruction and ruin? To him the exorcism seemed simple enough, a thing that would be merely a matter of time; to his faith, founded on Bach, Handel, and Beet- hoven, this spirit might well seem mor- ibund, even in its infancy, yet none the less detestable, for all that, and some- thing in the extermination of which it might, upon the whole, be well to assist Nature. Do not think, for a moment, that I am stating the case too strongly. Of the few surviving musicians who were once intimate with Mendelssohn, who remember him in the daily activity of his musical life, I am very sure, there is not one but would agree that, if Men- delssohn were suddenly to return to this earth to-day, and to see our musical doings, hear the compositions we take delight in, know the men whom we crown as heroesour Wagners, Liszts, Berliozs, Brahmses, Dvof~iks, Rubin- steinshe would think to find himself in the midst of the crumbling ruins of a devastated art, the shattered and pros- trate columns of a desecrated temple. Remember, also, that I am expressing no personal opinion; I am judging no one, neither Mendelssohn nor the men who have come after him, in many ways almost supplanted him. I am merely trying to show how the general musical production of our day, above all, how the reigning musical spirit and tenden- cy of our day, would appear, if viewed through Mendelssohns eyes. And I am impelled to this attempt by a far more serious and weighty motive than for the mere sake of performing a feat of im- aginary resuscitation of a departed ghost, like that of the spirits in Dean Swifts Glubdubdrib. No, there is more behind it than that! This new musical spirit which breathes through almost all of our contemporary composition, which sets our responsive hearts a-beating, but which Mendelssohn would have looked upon as veritably to pneuma alcatharton, has brought with itand necessarily, tooa corresponding style of musical MENDELSSOHNS LETTERS TO MOSCHEL ES. 149 performance. This some of us are only too prone to forget. We are quite con- scious of the gradual changes that have come over the face of the art of music that is, the art of compositionfrom the time of Bach down to our own. These we cannot well forget, for it hap- pens, now and then, that we hear works by Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Schumann, Berlioz and Wagner at one and the same concert. But how many of us take the trouble to think that, as the style of composition changed, from age to age, the style of performance which the composers had in view, when they wrote their works, must have changed in exactly the same ratio? This is a matter that it were well to ponder on a little. Think you that Mozart meant his G minor symphony to be played in the same way that Beethoven demand- ed for his Eroica? that Mendelssohn imagined the duet between the Widow and Elijah as sung with the same em- phasis that Wagner heard in his minds ear, when he wrote Brilunhildes lament over Siegfrieds dead body in the Get- terd~immerung? Not a bit of it! The prevalent style of singing and play- ing that is characteristic of a musical epoch dogs the footsteps of the preva- lent style of composition in that epoch with inveterate pertinacity. Only the very greatest performersthat is, those who are the best and most cultivated musicianscan, even at intervals, ex- tricate themselves from the toils of that style of performance which the spirit of their time winds around them; and even they cannot always do it. The dif- ference between musical performance to-day and a generation or two ago is something far more intrinsic than is implied in a mere increase or decrease in technical skill; it is a difference in spirit, in purpose, m general musical point of view. To take but a single instance, I remember a wholly trust- worthy ear-witness telling me once that Liszts playing in his Parisian period, when he dazzled the then musical world, not merely by his genius and virtuosity, but by the tremendous and almost ex- aggerated effects he produced, would strike us now as the height of classic purity, as sheer Arcadian simplicity, com- pared with the playing of Rubinstein. Now, as Mendelssohns whole nature was revolted by that spirit which has so taken possession of the musical produc- tion of our time, so is it unquestionable that the style of performance which the works of our contemporary composers demand is not that which he would have cared to see applied to his own works. And this fact should, by no means, be forgotten. Indeed it takes a certain effort, a certain voluntary assumption of a quasi-archaic point of view, in most of our performers and conductors to-day excepting the few, the very few, who are still in perfect sympathy with Mendels- sohns musical instinctsto enable them to reproduce his works in the spirit in which they were written. And that Men- delssohn was very much of a purist in matters of musical performance, even for his own time, is indubitable. He once said that he could not play Chopin well, for he could not bring himself to play out of time. In this matter, he was even more strict than Moseheles himself. One day when Mendelssohn and Moseheles were playing, in Leipzig, a four-hand piece by the latter for their own amusement, Moscheles began to co- quet with the theme of the Rondo in the elegant salon fashion. Mendelssohns eyes began to dart fire, and at the second or third return of the theme, which Mo- scheles persisted in playing in the same rubato style, he gave his partner a nudge in the ribs, with the horrified exclama- tion: A ber, Moscheles! was machen Sie denn da? (But, Moseheles! what are you about ?), and when at last, the theme reappeared in his half of the keyboard, he played it with triumphant emphasis, in strict time. This little anecdote was told me by an eye-witness, who was turn- ing over the music for the two players. Now, although many of Mendelssohns works have lapsed from the concert room to-day, a goodly number of them and very important ones, toostill hold their own, and bid fair to do so for some time to come. And it behooves all who are interested in music to see to it that they are given, if given at all, in the style which belongs to them. That this is no such easy matter may be ap- preciated by those who have witnessed the woful distortions his violin concerto to take one instance out of many 150 BALLADE OF THE KING S WAY. has been made to undergo at the hands of more than one distinguished violinist, of late years, or who have heard what virtuoso atrocities have been committed upon some of his simplest Songs without Words by aspiringand perspiring pianists. But still, with good will, per- severance and, above all, with under- standing, much can be done. If any, or all, of the more modern composers suc- ceed in ousting Mendelssohns works from the concert room, and relegating them to that dusty oblivion in which the works of many another composer of genius sleep in peace, and with little immediate hope of resurrection, the world will have no right to complain, for it will be its own fault if such a thing comes to pass. But, so long as Mendelssohn is played and sung, let it, in heavens name, be in the Mendelssohn way! Let no reflections from Liszt, Berlioz, Wagner, Bubinstein, or no-mat- ter-whom disturb the spirit in which his works were conceived, and in which they should be brought into complete being, that the ears of men may hear them! LThe selections from Mendelssohns Letters will be concluded in the March number.] BALLADE OF THE KINGS WAY. By Andrew Hussey Allen. M~v there be that wait for him, Of damsels blithe and courtiers gay, Far down the highways distance dim, From morning green to twilight gray. He passeth by their light array The damsels fair the knights between No Vivat! doth the king betray, For lo! he passeth by unseen! Many there be that wait for him, That wait and beat on the breast and pray, Beside the rushing rivers brim A shrift! A grace! An hours delay! No mercy doth their prayer repay; Their outstretched palms, their suppliant mien, He heedeth notand blind are they, For lo! he passeth by unseen! Many there be that wait for him, Or here or there. He will not stay ! With footstep firm and visage grim, Relentless on his iron way, He leadeth the hours day by day, From twilight gray to morning green, And they that wait-wait as they may, For lo! he passeth by unseen! ENVOY. To-morrow he will come, they say, And golden guerdon shall we glean! But day by day the days decay, For lo! he passeth by unseen.

Andrew Hussey Allen Allen, Andrew Hussey Ballade Of The King's Way 150-151

150 BALLADE OF THE KING S WAY. has been made to undergo at the hands of more than one distinguished violinist, of late years, or who have heard what virtuoso atrocities have been committed upon some of his simplest Songs without Words by aspiringand perspiring pianists. But still, with good will, per- severance and, above all, with under- standing, much can be done. If any, or all, of the more modern composers suc- ceed in ousting Mendelssohns works from the concert room, and relegating them to that dusty oblivion in which the works of many another composer of genius sleep in peace, and with little immediate hope of resurrection, the world will have no right to complain, for it will be its own fault if such a thing comes to pass. But, so long as Mendelssohn is played and sung, let it, in heavens name, be in the Mendelssohn way! Let no reflections from Liszt, Berlioz, Wagner, Bubinstein, or no-mat- ter-whom disturb the spirit in which his works were conceived, and in which they should be brought into complete being, that the ears of men may hear them! LThe selections from Mendelssohns Letters will be concluded in the March number.] BALLADE OF THE KINGS WAY. By Andrew Hussey Allen. M~v there be that wait for him, Of damsels blithe and courtiers gay, Far down the highways distance dim, From morning green to twilight gray. He passeth by their light array The damsels fair the knights between No Vivat! doth the king betray, For lo! he passeth by unseen! Many there be that wait for him, That wait and beat on the breast and pray, Beside the rushing rivers brim A shrift! A grace! An hours delay! No mercy doth their prayer repay; Their outstretched palms, their suppliant mien, He heedeth notand blind are they, For lo! he passeth by unseen! Many there be that wait for him, Or here or there. He will not stay ! With footstep firm and visage grim, Relentless on his iron way, He leadeth the hours day by day, From twilight gray to morning green, And they that wait-wait as they may, For lo! he passeth by unseen! ENVOY. To-morrow he will come, they say, And golden guerdon shall we glean! But day by day the days decay, For lo! he passeth by unseen. FIRST HARVESTS. By F. J. Stimson. CHAPTER IV. ARTHUR HOLYOKES DREAMS. the living poet and the dead came out to see the stars once more, the Flor- entine found himself upon a grassy slope, alone in the early morning, with his si- lent guide. So, when Tannhi~user, after his ten years sojourn in the Venus- berg, broke through the walls of the mountain in a rift made by a prayer, he too found himself on the brow of a green and sunny mountain valley, filled with the long-forgotten breath of morning; and, in place of the devils music, a shep- herd piping to his sheep. So, reader, you in flesh and blood, as I hope, may follow me, in the story, to the time of dates and daylight, and a placethe time, September, 1883; the place, the village of Great Barrington, far down in Berkshire in old Massachusetts. The early morning shadows still reached long across the green carpet of meadow in the intervale; the shadows of the houses, and of the great masses of elm foliage, and of the tall spire of the meet- ing-house up on the hill; the undulating masses of greenery that robed the lower hills were striped here and there with autumn scarlet, like a blackbirds wing; and the silver lace in the meadow grass, and the long silken cobwebs in the air, and the rich violet-blue sky, shading off to pink like an onyx near the horizon, were precursors of the coming glory of the day. No one was stirring in the village. In the ploughed uplands a few farmers were idly walking, hither and thither, like generals on the battlefield of their success, tightening a sheaf of fodder or replacing a yellow squash or two that had rolled off from a summit of the great golden pyramids standing, piled like cannon-balls, in the cornfields. But the day of sowing was over, and the day of reaping was over, and little remained but to sit and look at the crops and grow fat. Up on the hill, the roads were emptywho should travel when there was no need? Even the plodding oxen-teams were idle in their stalls, be- ing fattened and coddled, perhaps, for the aunual cattle-show. So that Gracie Holyoke and Arthur had the beautiful Stockbridge road, and the morning look of the mountains, all to themselves. They rode at a sharp canter, but with little conversation; at least, so a groom might have thought, riding behind them; as the two heads never seemed to turn inward. But there was no groom, and the chestnut horses had a way of riding so closely side by side (being in this constantly drilled) that to turn ones head was hardly necessary. Were these two in love? A city groom, used to ride behind many a preening pair in their smart T-cart, seasoned and wearied with his masters catechism of flirtation, which he had so often overheard; being there in theory to play propriety, but in fact, as he well knew, only as a license to flirt, much as a policeman is stationed in the Park for the skating when the ice is thinsuch a groom would have said No. For they hardly ever look at one another. But perhaps an older groom, good dan Cupid himself, the blind passenger who perches like dark care on so many a horses back, and drives dark care away he might answer Yea: for they are not flirting. Now, there are several legitimate states of being in love, as, videlicet, to be in love and know it, to be in love and not know it, to know that she loves you and to think that you love her, to be in love, but with another person than the one you think :but to know it and not be in love is but a modern and puerile intellectual trifling : this we call flirtation. And in that these two were surely not. Were they then simply indifferent to one another? TJn

F. J. Stimson Stimson, F. J. First Harvests 151-160

FIRST HARVESTS. By F. J. Stimson. CHAPTER IV. ARTHUR HOLYOKES DREAMS. the living poet and the dead came out to see the stars once more, the Flor- entine found himself upon a grassy slope, alone in the early morning, with his si- lent guide. So, when Tannhi~user, after his ten years sojourn in the Venus- berg, broke through the walls of the mountain in a rift made by a prayer, he too found himself on the brow of a green and sunny mountain valley, filled with the long-forgotten breath of morning; and, in place of the devils music, a shep- herd piping to his sheep. So, reader, you in flesh and blood, as I hope, may follow me, in the story, to the time of dates and daylight, and a placethe time, September, 1883; the place, the village of Great Barrington, far down in Berkshire in old Massachusetts. The early morning shadows still reached long across the green carpet of meadow in the intervale; the shadows of the houses, and of the great masses of elm foliage, and of the tall spire of the meet- ing-house up on the hill; the undulating masses of greenery that robed the lower hills were striped here and there with autumn scarlet, like a blackbirds wing; and the silver lace in the meadow grass, and the long silken cobwebs in the air, and the rich violet-blue sky, shading off to pink like an onyx near the horizon, were precursors of the coming glory of the day. No one was stirring in the village. In the ploughed uplands a few farmers were idly walking, hither and thither, like generals on the battlefield of their success, tightening a sheaf of fodder or replacing a yellow squash or two that had rolled off from a summit of the great golden pyramids standing, piled like cannon-balls, in the cornfields. But the day of sowing was over, and the day of reaping was over, and little remained but to sit and look at the crops and grow fat. Up on the hill, the roads were emptywho should travel when there was no need? Even the plodding oxen-teams were idle in their stalls, be- ing fattened and coddled, perhaps, for the aunual cattle-show. So that Gracie Holyoke and Arthur had the beautiful Stockbridge road, and the morning look of the mountains, all to themselves. They rode at a sharp canter, but with little conversation; at least, so a groom might have thought, riding behind them; as the two heads never seemed to turn inward. But there was no groom, and the chestnut horses had a way of riding so closely side by side (being in this constantly drilled) that to turn ones head was hardly necessary. Were these two in love? A city groom, used to ride behind many a preening pair in their smart T-cart, seasoned and wearied with his masters catechism of flirtation, which he had so often overheard; being there in theory to play propriety, but in fact, as he well knew, only as a license to flirt, much as a policeman is stationed in the Park for the skating when the ice is thinsuch a groom would have said No. For they hardly ever look at one another. But perhaps an older groom, good dan Cupid himself, the blind passenger who perches like dark care on so many a horses back, and drives dark care away he might answer Yea: for they are not flirting. Now, there are several legitimate states of being in love, as, videlicet, to be in love and know it, to be in love and not know it, to know that she loves you and to think that you love her, to be in love, but with another person than the one you think :but to know it and not be in love is but a modern and puerile intellectual trifling : this we call flirtation. And in that these two were surely not. Were they then simply indifferent to one another? TJn 152 FIRST HARVESTS. likelyso early in the morning. And surely, the cosmic chances are all in our favor: is it not the normal relation, to be in love? Given, a young man of twenty-one and a lovely girl some few months youngerand the uplands, and the forest, and the sun, moon, stars, storm and springtimeand show me one such younker not in love and you will show me a wretched fellow you had best avoid. No such selfish saint or sordid sinner can this slender Arthur be, who turns in his saddle and shows the clear-cut New English profile with the delicate but winning smile. But see, the smile has faded into earnestness; leaning yet farther from the saddle, he is looking up into his companions face, and seeming to be searching for something there. Does he find it? Ah, Cupid, good dan Cupid, were you right once more? or were we both too hastyfor she has not blushed, but the one rounded cheek we see, as we press after them, grows quickly pale, and we can just make out the dark eye-lashes that droop quickly down, breaking the contour; and now they do not speak again, but ride at the run in mutual silenceoh, a silence that is surely mutual, if ever silence was and we have much to do, being old and no longer in love, to keep behind these two, who do not dally. This was all that happened in the ride. Only, com- ing home, and both dismounting (she without waiting for his aid) and he tak- ing her hand to say good morning (as he had done a hundred times before, that very summer) the color mounted in the young girls face (as it had never done before) so that she turned the face aside which was too near her heart and ran indoors in haste and left him there. This was all that happened on that rideit was all that had ever happened but in it, Arthur Holyoke had made bold to ask his cousin to become his wife; and she had bade him wait till evening for his answer; and then they both had ridden home. A city groom would have seen nothing of it all; yet these things had been done. A short probation, you will say, until the even- ing only; and Arthur hardly thought of it as such, but walked home briskly, hat in hand, castle-building; his dark gray eyes turned inward, and the wind mak- ing free with his curly, undecided-col- ored hair. For what probation was there more, after all their lives had so far been together, than living on to- gether, man and wife? Not that she loved him then so much as he loved herbut that was to be expected. She loved him more than he deserved, he knew; but then, that is true of most pairs, and the men must needs not waste their pity, but resign themselves, as it is the way of women. And Arthur walked along the straight garden path that led from door to highway in Judge Holyokes old place, switching off the prim asters with his riding-cane. For his uncles house was built in the days of gardens, not of lawns can we not imagine the large con- tempt with which the dwellers of a prairie would regard a barbered rood or two of grass ?and the flowers were part of Gracies presence there, and she of them. Arthur was not too stout, but strong and graceful, almost Greek in figure as in face; a strange, strong scion of that narrow - chested clergyman - father, so stout in spirit, but so fragile in this world, who had died and left him to his uncles care, the Judge. There are many such: it seems our people (like some mute, inglorious poet) have had their period of pale and interesting youth, and now are comfortably stout and gen- ial, in their easy-going middle age, the wasting spiritual fires quelled: like a sometime tractarian clergyman, now op- timistic in a fat living. Arthur, how- ever (not to carry the analogy too far), was spiritual enough in his way, though not the orthodox; delicately balanced, mobile, imaginative, Celtic more than Saxon, and rather Greek than either. Nor could you truly say that his way wanted depth, unless depth means slug- gishness or stillness. Arthur was a New- Englander, and New England is in reality the essence of all things American, in germ and future; and the people, the crowds, are already rather Greek than English. Irreverent, fond of novelty and quick in politics, if not in art, they are Athe- nian. The public of Aristophanes is the public of the American burlesque; of lions, fair ladies, lecturers; of advertised politics, priests and prophets, of the FIRST HARVESTS. 153 mind-cure and of the secular Sunday newspaper. Arthur Holyoke had been brought up by the Judge, chiefly on the simple plan of keeping him in the country and giving him plenty of books; a most admirable plan, never to be enough recommended. The Judge spent his winters in the city; then Arthur was kept at boarding- school; one of those quiet little board- ing-schools of the wooden Doric variety, now disappearing. The Judge travelled abroad, or went to England or to the West, every summer; Arthur was left at Great Barrington. One winter Arthur had passed in Boston with his uncle, and had attended lectures at the Institute of Technology; it was the winter that Gra- cie had been away with her aunt in New York. This happened in one of these years when the whim of Hellenism seemed, in Boston, to be permanently eclipsing the Hebraism which has really made that city; and Arthur was intoxi- cated by the new atmosphere, as a hardy wind-flower might be in the rich sweet air and tempered light of a grapery. You do not make grapes of blackberries by putting them under glass; but you modify them considerably. If you had asked Arthur what was to be his profes- sion, he would have answered engineer- ing; but his inward consciousness was that he should be a great poet. But he knew the pitying contempt with which the world regards its contemporary fail- uresand its contemporaries are always failuresin that line; and in spite of his assurance that he had it in him (while others had not) he did not mean that it should be known until it was known only to his glory. These dreams had blended with his dreams of life with Gracie, until it was hard to say which was more the cause and which the effect; they grew apace together. To-day his dreams of love had the ascendant; and he wandered about the country many hours, rapt in his love and her. They would live where? in the city, of course; in New York, where was the largest fo- cus for his genius. That, too, was the place where the most rapid fortune was to be made; for, of course, they must have money, and the money must be made quickly, that he might get his lei- sure and return to his poetry again. For this was to be the ultimate, the crown of his life. Engineering would not do; some quicker way than this must be found; banking, or railroads. The years of business would be irksome, no doubt; but then, with Gracie with him! So the boy wandered, through the afternoon, working many a gorgeous variegation on the themes of love and fame; with but the least substratum of gold among them, as if to give strength to the pigments of his fancy. Mean- time, Gracie, on her part, had been thinking, now happily, now in shades of sadness, oftener still in prayer. Yet she went about the household on her usual duties, passing silently like the day- light through the long library, where the old Judge sat over his briefs and closely-wrought opinions, nor ever no- ticed so slight a thing as a young girls mood. Arthur found her in the garden, when he came, in a favorite place of hers, sit- ting on an old stone seat by the little brook, where it was most densely over- shadowed by the flowering shrubs. She had that serious look in her dark eyes which he loved best in them, and she neither blushed nor smiled when he took her hand and sat him down beside her. Arthur had often fancied that at this time a flow of speech worthy of a Pe- trarch would be his; but as it was, the simplest words alone seemed strong to him. The day has seemed so long to me! Perhaps he thought it true; but it was not. The day had seemed short, and full of dreams. She made no an- swer; but, in a moment, turned her head and looked at him, gravely, as it seemed to Arthur, fondly, as it might have seemed to an older man. I do not think we ought to be engaged, she said; and this he could not make her unsay in all the afternoon. But the old tragicomedy was re-en- acted, which is so old, and will seem so new to our great-grandchildren; and Arthur knew, at the first, that she loved no one else; and at the last, he knew, or might have known, that she loved him. But the yes she would not say, but only, wait; and when he urged, But you may care for some one else? she only said, I shall care for no one else, Arthur and at the last it grew to be but a pleas- 154 FIRST HARVESTS. ant play, so sure he was of her. It was settled between them that he was to go to New York and make his fortune and hers; and that then he was to come back and ask her fathers consent; or sooner perhaps, if the fortune was too slow in coming. She would not write to him, she said,but she would answer a letter now and thenand he kissed her once for the first time, under the old lilac bush, before they left. And more, a thousand times more, he felt in love with her than he had even been that morning; and so they came out of the greenery into the broad sward with the long slanting shadows of the sunset, he still holding to her hand. They were close on the Lenox road; and he had to drop her hand in haste, as an open carriage came swinging by, bearing an old acquaintance of ours Mrs. Levison Gower and a guest of hers from Lenox. The guest must have made some quick remark to Mrs. Gower about them; for they both turned and looked at the young people, and she bowed to Gracie; and then the light wheels whisked by, leaving but the dust, and the crisp sound of the horses trot. Arthur had noticed the glance, but did not speak of it; he saw that Gracie was blushing again. He forgot even to ask who Mrs. Gower was, as he took Gracies hand again in his; and together, slowly, they went down the broad garden-walk. CHAPTER V. OF GRACIE HOLYOKE AND OF HER HEART. A MANS grand life, says some one, is a dream of his youth realized in and by his later years; what then shall we say of a womans? Think not on this; but let your soul answer. The answer should be there, in the hearts of all ; but whether it comes from memory, from things now half forgotten, or from within, or from some birth-dream had in childhood, who shall say? Yet is it there; like a childs dream of a star; happy he whose man- hood sees the star, its dream not yet departed. And all of us have fancied women so, at some time in our lives; have we never known one such? For but one such is enough, mother, bride or daughter. Some shght girl whose maidenhood was a sweet bloom, like Marys lily in the Temple; and then we may have lost sight or kndwledge of her, for a time. And then perhaps we have met some other woman, some old wom- an, with white hairs; not the same, of course, and yet it seems as if we could have pieced together their two lives and made them like one brook, that we have known in places only, which brings soft fields and flowers. And be sure that there was in between some womanhood, some mothers life, not known save to her sons and God, not preached in meetings and conventions; deep hidden in some human fireside, like the brook that makes so green a summer woodSuch lives are white and shining, like a dream of Gods made real on the earth. And all the world seems thirst, and lust, and envy, and desire; the fires of heaven are put out, and all men strug- gling, trampling, for the colored stones of earth; and yet such blooms do come upon it. But they blossom stilly, like silent lilies born above the meadow-mire. White and pure they shine, and breathe in heavens sunlight, and give out heavens fragrance, borne each upon its slender stem above the blind, black bog. The day after this, Gracie had an er- rand, up in a little town beyond the hills. Arthur asked that he might go there with her; then they both might ride in- stead of driving. So they started, after luncheon; the new brown leaves lay crisp beneath their feet, and the light thatfiood- ed the valley was like yellow wine. Their way lay up over the hills to the eastward, and then, cresting their summits, along a rambling grass-grown road, between the crumbling stone walls and old un- painted farmhouses. What paint the farmers had to spare, they put upon the barns; a poor powdery stuff, weak in oil, and leaving but a brushing as of red earth upon the seasoned boards; the windows of the farmhouses looked out forlornly upon the fields already lonely, grim and unrelieved by any curtain. The places where gardens had been used to be, were common for the hens; along the fences for a hundred yards on either side of every house was a littering of chips where the wood-piles had been, but the piles were scant this year, and of FIRST HARVESTS. 155 half-grown birch; the reason was easy to see, for the great hills rolled off around them denuded of timber, save here and there a new growth of scrub oak. Be- side each house the old well stood, its sweep pointing to the sky, but now dis- used and replaced by ~a patent log-pump, painted a garish blue. Arthur rode very close to Gracie to- day; there was an exhilarating space and sweep to the free wind that brought bright color to their cheeks, and their clear eyes sparkled as their glances soared far over the brown downs and rested with delight upon the distant skyline. There is something about our New Eng- land uplands like the barren worn-out plains of Old Castile; yet these two might have stood for a youth and future that one cannot hope from Spain. They came out from the table-land down into a combe that had been worn for itself by a little stream now dry; as they ambled down the winding grass- grown way, the trees began again about them, oak and pines, then firs; a house or two was passed, and then a little school-house, the housesboarded up, and the school-house closed. They came down upon the turnpike, which had come by the longer way, around the hills; here was a bit of a village, a blacksmiths house, a country store and an old hoteL The weather-worn wood of these seemed older than any thatched and plastered cottage in old England. Gracies pensioners lived in a little house close by, the blacksmiths wife and her six children; she had some medi- cine for them, and Arthur a few news- papers. While Gracie went to see them, Arthur led the horses to the inn; there was a swinging sign of George Wash- ington over the door, which the pride of each successive owner had kept well varnished ever since the memorable night when he had stopped there, though nothing else about the place was in repair. No one came to the door as Arthur walked up, and he tied his horses to a well-nibbled rail, and went in. There was a long bare entry leading from the front door, with a row of doors; each with a tin sign above it, office, din- ing-room, ball-room (now half oblit- erated), and bar. Arthur opened the last one, and went in. There was a high black stove with a hard-coal fire, in the centre of the room; around it on the floor a square wooden tray, filled with sand. The walls were covered with gay posters, a cattle show, an advertisement of melodeons, of a horse stolen, of an auction sale of a farm, farming utensils, a horse and cow, many sleighs and wagons and some household furniture. An old man sat in one corner, in carpet slippers, with a newspaper, and a look upon him as if he had not been out-doors that day. Well, Lem ? said Arthur, business quiet, eh? There aint much business, Mr. Holy- oke, said the hotel-keeper, without changing his position, xcept whats in here. And he pointed to the bar, and the pitcher of water, and the row of tumblers behind it. Iwant you to give my horses a feed, said Arthur, we came over from Great Barrington. Came over from Barrington, did ye? said he. And whats the news in town? And without waiting for an answer, the old man rose and hobbled to the side door. Mike! he cried, Mike! There was no answer. I guess the feller must ha gone to Lee, he added, grumbling. Theres a cattle show there, to-day. Let me go, said Arthur; Ill look after them. Youll find the feed in the bin, said the innkeeper, relapsing into his stuffed chair, with a sigh of relief. And whats the news from your son, Mr. Hitchcock? said Arthur, when he came back. Lems still out in Toway, said Mr. Hitchcock. There aint much call for a young feller of spent to be loafin around here. I brought him up for the business; bat I guess the old placell have to keep itself after I am gone. Still at your old books, Mr. Hitch- cock, I see, said Arthur, taking up a well-worn copy of Tom Paine. Why, I didnt know you read French ! And Arthur turned over with interest the leaves of a book the other had just laid down; it was a volume of Voltaire. I larned it wI~,en I was a by in col- lege. Perhaps ye didnt know as I was a college-bred man? 156 FIRST HARVESTS. I might have known it, said Arthur. But you didnt send Lem there? No, said the other, shortly. And then, with a chuckle, Theyve pretty much all come to my way of thinking, now. Dye notice the old meetin-house as ye came along? Theyve had to shut it up, ye know. Have a cigar? And Mr. Hitchcock brought two suspicious looking weeds out of a gaily pictured box, and extended one to Arthur. The latter took one, knowing the old man would be mortally offended if this rite of hospitality were passed by. Whose house was that I saw boarded up? said Arthur, for the sake of some- thing to say. What ! said the old man, aint ye heard? Thats Uncle Sam Wolcotts. The old man was livin there with his daughter and her little by. And Hitch- cock took a comfortable pull at his cigar. Yes, said Arthur, I remember now. The childs dead, said he. What? said Arthur. Dead? Hitchcock nodded assent. Killed him, ye know. Killed him? who The grandfatherSamuel Wolcott. Killed him with an axe, Sunday week. Them air gospel folks got him crazy. The old man spoke with a sort of grim satisfaction, and Arthur looked at him in amazement. Great heavens! you dont mean to say he murdered him? Wheres the mother? Lucky for her she warnt there at the time, I guess. Fust time I ever knew o church doing a critter any good. But where is she now? Hitchcock waved his hand in the direc- tion of the biggest poster, Farm for Sale. Gone back to her husbands folks, I guess. And when she come back, she found old Wolcott a-hangin to a rafter in his barn. But what possible motive began Arthur aghast. Had he no other fam- ily? He had a sisterI never heard what became o her. She married a feller by the name of Starbuck, from New Lon- don way, an I mistrust he turned out bad. I guess the ~ld man got kinder disperited. An then the gospel folks But he was the last of the old Wolcott family, an they was gret folks in their day. So they put him an the infant in the family tomb, and sealed it up. Arthur looked at the old hotel-keeper, and then out at the empty street. Gracie was coming along under the elm- trees, the yellow leaves falling about her in the autumn wind. I must be go- ing, said he. Have a little something hot, before ye go? No, said Arthur, thanks, I guess not. And he made haste to get away, feeling the spirit of the place come over him like a palL Well, good-bye? said the other. Always glad to see ye. But weve all got to come to it. Some day, yell find me hanging to the beam up there, I ex- pect. Heedless of which gloomy prog- nostication, Arthur made haste to get to the stable and brought out the horses. They mounted, and rode some time in silence. Did Mr. Hitchcock tell you? said Gracie with a shudder. Arthur nodded. Something in the terror of the place brought out his love the stronger, as he looked at her, the tears in her deep gray eyes. I wonder that we had not heard of it, said he; but these places are so out of the world. Poor man, I have so often wondered if we could do nothing for him, said she. I went there once; but he almost ordered me out of the house. Hitchcock says it was some religious mania, said Arthur. He never went to church when I knew him, said Gracie. He cared most for his sister; and I think her husband turned out ilL Poor people, does it not seem cruel they cannot be taught to live? They could be so happy here, in this lovely country, if they only knew. We are happy, are we not, dear? said Arthur. Yes, Arthur. It almost seems wrong and Gracie looked out over the hills ahead of them, where the sun was already low in the sky. Are we going home, now? I want to stop a moment at the Kellysthat Irish family, you know. FIRST HARVESTS. 157 Instinctively, they had taken another road back, leaving the old meeting- house and the now ended homestead on the right; and as they came up on the brow of the first hill, they passed a large wooden cross, painted freshly, with a gilt circle and the mystic letters I.N.R.i in the centre. A short distance beyond this was a square old-fashioned f arm- house, with a fine old doorway, needing paint like all the other houses. But the yard was full of pigs and hens and chickens; and about the door a half- score tow-headed children were playing. These ran up to Gracie as they rode up. Mothers in the kitchen, said the big- gest of the girls, putting a finger in her mouth. The boys stood still, and stared at them, abashed. Gracie went in; and Arthur stood and looked about him. The fields were al- ready stubble; but lit up with yellow piles of squashes; a noise of cattle came from the rambling old stable; and be- hind the house was a low peat-meadow, fresh-ditched and being drained. The healthy Irish stock had grown luxuriant- ly, where the older line was dying out. Gracie came out, smiling. She is a nice old body, Mrs. Kelly, said she. And now, for home! and they put their horses at the gallop, and were soon up on the bare downs again. And Arthur, like a man, began to plead his suit once more. CHAPTER Vi THE JUDGE 5UM5 UP HIS CASE. JUDGE HOLYOKE sat in his library, try- ing to reconcile good law with good con- science by distinguishing the present case, in which the plaintiffwas clearly in the right, from a former one in which he had been as clearly in the wrong. The opinion was a hard one; and the Judge had got no farther than the summing up, when there was a knock at the door. The Judge always wrote his opinions with ease and clearness when law and right coincided; but when they did not, he would lie awake of nights to produce an opinion which would remain a mar- vel of learning and obscurity. His high brow wrinkled a little when he heard th~knock at the door; he hated to be disturbed while in the agonies of judi- cial creation; and as Arthur came ten- tatively in, he looked at him sternly, as upon a counsel who ventured upon an unexpected motion, with a curtly short- cutting well? (He has come for a larger allowance, thought the Judge; he knows that he is of full age, and wants his full income.) (How shall I ask him for his daughter, thought Arthur. Wellat all events, he must know that she is mine.) Arthur sat down, still hesitating. The Judge waited impatiently, though he thought he knew what was in his mind; for it was part of his legal training never to give his own ideas until he had fully extracted those of the other side. Thus, mutual misunderstanding like that of a scene in a comedy was averted; for when Arthur did begin, it was to the point. Uncle John, said he, I am engaged to Gracie. IJncle John was in fact more staggered than if he had moved him for a non- suit; but his judicial calm was as un- ruffled as if it were but a similiter in pleading. And is Gracie engaged to you? he answered, illogically, but to the point, in his turn. And Arthurs hesitation in replying gave him time to hastily adapt himself to the issue and make up his judicial mind; which was, as usual, that the court would reserve its decision. Arthur, however, hesitated but for a moment ; and then with a faint blush mantling his ingenuous face, I think, sir, she might be, if you would consent. But, dear me, said the Judge, I dont consent! Dont understand me for one moment as consenting! Wheres Gracie? Did you tell her of thisof this surprising motion of yours? No, sir, said Arthur, I thought that That you wanted an ex parte hear- ing? Now I cant pronounce a decision, sir, in the absence of the parties; and Gracie has not made her appearance in this suit as yet! Ill go get her, said Arthur, promptly. No, sir, youll do nothing of the sort, said the Judge, appalled at this evidence of collusion between the parties. Youll 158 FIRST HARVESTS. go away from here for some years before you get her; and then And then? said Arthur, eagerly. The Judge looked at him curiously over his round spectacles. What do you propose to live upon? I am coming to that, said Arthur. I have fifteen hundred a year Two thousand, said the Judge, ab- sently. Two thousand ? said Arthur, I did not think it was so much. And he began rapidly to calculate how much farther the extra five hundred would carry them. Well, said the Judge, you dont propose to marry my daughter and live in Boston on two thousand a year, do you? But, secretly, it seemed to him the proper thing to do. No, sir, said Arthur; ( Oh, inter- polated the Judge, rather disappointed.) II have decided to go to New York and enter a banking - house. And, in that, sir, I want to ask your helpand your advice. The Judge was silent a minute. In order that you may use the one and de- cline the other, I suppose, with thanks. Well ;and granting this point (for the sake of argument)What next? Then, said Arthur, I shall try to make some money; and then, if I suc- oeedwill you give your consent to our engagem to our marriage? Dear, dear, thought the Judge, how persistent he is! I havent given my consent to your engagement as yet, he answered. Why do you wish to go to ~ew York? I dont know, sir, said Arthur, tak- en by surprise. At least, it is a larger fieldone may get on in the world more rapidlyand I thought, with my engi- neering training, as agent of a banking house I should be sooner able to sup- port a wife. Do you think Gracie would be hap- pier there than in Boston? I dont knowwe had not got to that yet, sir, said Arthur, cleverly enough. True, they had not; and the Judge smiled a little. I mean, in case we should consider this most preposterous scheme ? he added. Do you mean to be a banker all your life? he asked, suddenly. Oh, no, sirat least, that isI should like Suppose I should ask you to take some practical position on a railroad in the far West ? I think I should rather be in New York, sir.But, of course, I should want to follow your advice. Would you give up the New York plan entirely, if I asked you to? Yes, sir, said Arthur. If you gave me Gracie. The Judge paused. Arthur sat, twirl- ing his light straw hat in his hand, but looking earnestly at his uncle. Shall I send her here to you, sir? he said, finally, finding the suspense intolera- ble. The Judge looked at him gravely, over his spectacles. On the whole, I think New York will be the best place for you. I will write to Mrs. Livingstone about it to-night. But not a word of this to Gracie, mind. And now, good-night. Arthur got up; but he hesitated ner- vously at the door, before turning the handle. And supposesuppose she asks me, sir? You will tell her I unqualifiedly dis- approve of the whole project, thundered the Judge in his most court-like man- ner; and Arthur must fain go content with that answer. But he met Gracie in the parlor, and told her that her father would not give his consent as yet; but that he had written to New York, and would find him, Arthur, a place in some banking-house. And so, these two went on to talk of more important matters; or rather, Ar- thur did; as, how long he had loved her, and how much, and how he had come to speak upon just that day; until Gracie, hearing nothing from her father, feared that he might be ill or worried, and gave Arthur his dismissal, and with more for- mality than usuaL A certain constraint was between these two now, most new and delightful, to Arthur, at least; but quite different from the old cousinly ease. Meantime, the Judge had dropped his papers from him and set to considering this last case, that was so much nearer home. He had no objectionsof course, FIRST HARVESTS. 159 he had no serious objection to his daughters marrying Arthurif Arthur was good enough for her; for cousin- ship is but a slight objection in New England. The Judge had always looked up to his elder brother, the clergyman, as being far his own superior; but some- how, with his son and his own daughter, it seemed otherwise. The Judge stren- uously kept out of his mind any consid- eration of Gracies leaving him, lest it should bias his decision; he felt an odd desire to submit the case to some one else, as one in which he was too much interested to sit. Perhaps in every middle-aged or el- derly mind, there is a slight impatience with the matrimonial doings of the younger, as being always somewhat pre- mature and rn-considered. When ones own life is neatly rounded off, when one has duly weighed its emptiness, and properly resigned ones self to it; when that resignation, which once seemed so unlike content, has become a habit; there must be a certain impertinence, you being so ready to say enjin !in any ones starting up and crying recoin- men~ons! Of course, Judge Holyoke knew that Gracie would some day wed of course, he wished her to be well, i.e., happily marriedbut not exactly here not nownot to this one nor to that one. Not that he doubted that Arthur was in earnestor that he spoke the truth in saying Gracie loved himnor did he think that they were both too young to know their own minds. It is the fash- ion to scoff at first loves, but the Judge believed in them; whether rightly or wrongly, we cannot say; but this was part of that which made him trusted, even by the prisoner upon whom he was passing sentence; and yet, a just judge, too. But somehow, things had changed so much since the Judge was young, that he did not see how any one could so- berly contract to see them change much further, or take the risk of any new be- ginning. He himself had been a Rous- seau, a iRobespierre, a Lovelace with a dash of folly and Tom Paine, to the worthy people of the town where he then sat, the people who were then sleeping in the hillside yonder; and yet, how fine a town these same good folk had made, in the days when he was a young law-student under old Judge Sewall! But in middle life, the world and its move- ment had passed him; and now, the gay folk and the band were almost out of sight ahead of him, and he behind with the feeble and the stragglers, the old and the obstructive, and no longer any hankering to be drum-major. For it seemed as if the old prizes had lost their lustre; and there were no longer any public for a man; an honest one getting so little applause, in this worlds stage, and the general taste be- ing vitiated, and too coarse to relish the finer flavors of the human soul. He believed Arthur to be an honest man, with the education and breeding of a gentleman; more he did not ask, his smartness, or his faculty for getting on. The old Judge had little of the avarice miscalled of age; he thought too lit- tle of the worth of money for one who grieved so much that it alone had worth; perhaps Arthur, in his way, thought as much of this. With Gracie married, he at least might well go off the stage. Many creatures live but to their time of reproduction; this is all that nature seems to care; and the time which is given to live with and cherish his chil- dren to nature would seem but surplus- age. He had lived and married ; he had found all that even his youthful ambi- tions had dared to formulate or hope; but was he quite content? Somehow, the sky, so blue in the morning, had grown troubled and overcast toward the twilight. There was no one thing he could say was wanting; he had done what he had sought to do ; he had been honored more than he had hoped; he would leavewhat? A few well-wrought opinions, valuable until the next statute; a reputation as a nice old-fogy; a few poor dollars, some books, and The door opened softly, but the Judge did not hear it; and his daughter en- tered and placed her soft hand on his. He started, as if he had been dreaming. Gracie was troubled by his absence of mind, and feared she might be the cause; she looked at him, not timidly, nor in- quiringly, and yet so that the old mans eyes grew softer as he looked at hers. No, dear, you did not disturb me, neither you nor Arthur, he added, at 160 EPHEMERON. her half-spoken word. Tell me, do you care for him very much? No more than I do for you, dear, said the girl; but in her manner the Judge could read her silent strength of love. And more was said between them; but come, we are not fit for such scenes, you and I; let us go out gently and leave these two alone. Meantime, Arthur, the cause of all this, was sleeping quietly, with the sleep of a hunter of any manner of wild-fowl, and the dreamlessness of insouciant youth. For Gracie loved himthat was clear, both to happy Arthur and the wakeful Judge. There is a curious timeliness in our modern ailments; a timeliness which would be still more striking if we could know the elements of each mans life. In older times, men wore out slowly, by labor or by rust; they set about dying deliberately, as they worked their land or managed their daily concernments. But in these days of steam and dynamite, our mode of death is sudden, quick and certain, like an explosion or a railway catastrophe; less like the processes of nature than those of man. Paralysis, like nihilism, has developed in the nine- teenth century, and chooses, as if by some secret intelligence, its moment with a terrible skill. So, one such night as this, and not long afterof the exact date I am not suredeath came upon the Judge, as he was sitting with his papers, working late at night and lonely3 striving to fash- ion human statutes to fit diviner laws, that justice might be seen of men. EPHEMERON. By Mrs. Fields. BEHOLD, she said, a falling star! I followed where her vision led, And saw no meteor near nor far; So swiftly sank the lustre, dead. In silvery moonlight stood she there, Whiter than silver gleamed her hand, And gleaming shone her yellow hair, While dusky shadows filled the land. She seemed a slender flickering shape, Framed in the blackness of the porch. How should a child of night escape! A foolish moth that loved the torch! Out of my dusk I came to her: Voices were stilled, anear, afar; I stood there lost, her worshipper; What eye beheld that falling star?

Mrs. James T. Fields Fields, James T., Mrs. Ephemeron 160-161

160 EPHEMERON. her half-spoken word. Tell me, do you care for him very much? No more than I do for you, dear, said the girl; but in her manner the Judge could read her silent strength of love. And more was said between them; but come, we are not fit for such scenes, you and I; let us go out gently and leave these two alone. Meantime, Arthur, the cause of all this, was sleeping quietly, with the sleep of a hunter of any manner of wild-fowl, and the dreamlessness of insouciant youth. For Gracie loved himthat was clear, both to happy Arthur and the wakeful Judge. There is a curious timeliness in our modern ailments; a timeliness which would be still more striking if we could know the elements of each mans life. In older times, men wore out slowly, by labor or by rust; they set about dying deliberately, as they worked their land or managed their daily concernments. But in these days of steam and dynamite, our mode of death is sudden, quick and certain, like an explosion or a railway catastrophe; less like the processes of nature than those of man. Paralysis, like nihilism, has developed in the nine- teenth century, and chooses, as if by some secret intelligence, its moment with a terrible skill. So, one such night as this, and not long afterof the exact date I am not suredeath came upon the Judge, as he was sitting with his papers, working late at night and lonely3 striving to fash- ion human statutes to fit diviner laws, that justice might be seen of men. EPHEMERON. By Mrs. Fields. BEHOLD, she said, a falling star! I followed where her vision led, And saw no meteor near nor far; So swiftly sank the lustre, dead. In silvery moonlight stood she there, Whiter than silver gleamed her hand, And gleaming shone her yellow hair, While dusky shadows filled the land. She seemed a slender flickering shape, Framed in the blackness of the porch. How should a child of night escape! A foolish moth that loved the torch! Out of my dusk I came to her: Voices were stilled, anear, afar; I stood there lost, her worshipper; What eye beheld that falling star? THE MAN AT ARMS. By E. H. Blashfield and E. W. Blashfield. II. LET us look at the foot- man, who, at first a poor cipher to help swell the numbers of kings armies, became later a factor, and at last a power. In the early centuries he was often a mere bondsman, but, bond or free, he was vassal to some overlord, laic or ecclesiastic, and had to draw sword for castle or abbey. To say draw sword is to credit him with over much wealth, for in the black early times, the iron tenth century, when, as Stendhal says, every man wished two things, first not to be killed, next to have a good leathern coat, the foot- man was by no means always lucky enough to have a sword: called from his fields by some superior, he fastened his pruninghook to a long pole, and cutting him a stout blud- geon, hardened its end in the ashes of his fire until it be- came his mace-at-arms, and went out to repel some in vader, fighting side by side with every able-bodied man in his district, young or old, even the monks, with gowns kilted to the knee, bearing their good share of the blows. Such was the early mediawal footsoldier; only a poor fellow armed with a club or a spear, who ran from the knight while the latter was on horseback, and who, once the horseman was down, cut his throat with his boar-knife. Rudely equipped as he was, some- thing greater than he fought with him, and the history of the footman is also the history of individual liberty. He first appeared in Italy, where feudalism had never become deeply rooted, and where the antique tradition of the legionary who conquered the world was still strong. The liberty he enjoyed was the gift of the free city to the serfs, the free city which really deserved its name and which, unlike the Flemish or German burg, had no suzerain close at hand to enforce his will, but owed a nominal allegiance to a far off Emperor, who had to come over the Alps to exact homage at the swords point. When even that light yoke be- came intolerable and in the twelfth century the Lombard league of free towns prepared for war with the German, each city freed and armed the serfs of its con- tado, or surrounding country, who fought side by side with nobles and burghers VOL. 11114 727

E. H. Blashfield Blashfield, E. H. E. W. Blashfield Blashfield, E. W. The Man At Arms 161-180

THE MAN AT ARMS. By E. H. Blashfield and E. W. Blashfield. II. LET us look at the foot- man, who, at first a poor cipher to help swell the numbers of kings armies, became later a factor, and at last a power. In the early centuries he was often a mere bondsman, but, bond or free, he was vassal to some overlord, laic or ecclesiastic, and had to draw sword for castle or abbey. To say draw sword is to credit him with over much wealth, for in the black early times, the iron tenth century, when, as Stendhal says, every man wished two things, first not to be killed, next to have a good leathern coat, the foot- man was by no means always lucky enough to have a sword: called from his fields by some superior, he fastened his pruninghook to a long pole, and cutting him a stout blud- geon, hardened its end in the ashes of his fire until it be- came his mace-at-arms, and went out to repel some in vader, fighting side by side with every able-bodied man in his district, young or old, even the monks, with gowns kilted to the knee, bearing their good share of the blows. Such was the early mediawal footsoldier; only a poor fellow armed with a club or a spear, who ran from the knight while the latter was on horseback, and who, once the horseman was down, cut his throat with his boar-knife. Rudely equipped as he was, some- thing greater than he fought with him, and the history of the footman is also the history of individual liberty. He first appeared in Italy, where feudalism had never become deeply rooted, and where the antique tradition of the legionary who conquered the world was still strong. The liberty he enjoyed was the gift of the free city to the serfs, the free city which really deserved its name and which, unlike the Flemish or German burg, had no suzerain close at hand to enforce his will, but owed a nominal allegiance to a far off Emperor, who had to come over the Alps to exact homage at the swords point. When even that light yoke be- came intolerable and in the twelfth century the Lombard league of free towns prepared for war with the German, each city freed and armed the serfs of its con- tado, or surrounding country, who fought side by side with nobles and burghers VOL. 11114 727 162 THE MAN AT ARMS. and shared with them the glories of Legnano. Ciesar after Calsar dashed himself in vain against the iron wall of civic liberty, and the German knights, the bravest in Europe, clad in complete steel, found their match in the lightly armed militia of the bnrgs. Even when the Emperor had been con- qnered, soldiers were still need- ed in the ceaseless wars be- tween neighboring towns, and to destroy the power of those great lords and imperial vassals, whose castles and retainers were a perpetual menace to the re- publics. So liberty generated liberty, and out of the strug- gle against a great despot arose anoth- er struggle against petty tyrants; the nobles were forced to become law-abid- ing townsfolk in- stead of robber- princes preying on merchants and trav- ellers; their estates, sometimes divided, some tim e s confis- cated, were not pre- served for hunting, as in France or Ger- many, but laid out in thrifty olive orchards, vineyards, or cornfields. Feudal tenure and vil- leinage, rudely attacked in the twelfth century, stead- ily declined during the thir- teenth and disappeared in the fourteenth. The peasant, no longer a serf, was a hired labor- er, or a farmer paying no rent or taxes, and sharing the prod- uce with the proprietor of the farm; through thrift and prudence he might become a land-owner; in any case he had an interest in the soil he cultivated ; while in war-time, more fortu- nate than the townsman, he often received a sum equivalent to his daily wages for services in the field. So when war was declared, and he laid down spade and mattock for shield and pike, he had something to fight for, and patria to him had become more than a word. As we look back eight centuries upon that descendant of the Roman legionary, the citizen of the free Italian burg and first XI.a, Chevalier Bayard. (Passegardes at shoulders; and bears paws shoes.) b, Swiss Mercenary. (Fluted cuirass with tassets; costume, woollen; shoes, steel.) organized infantryman in mediseval war- fare, we see amid the ranks of whatever republic it might be, and behind the tri- angular shields, whether they bore the lion of Florence, the wolf of Siena, or the griffin of Perugia, towering above all the battle the Palladium of the Common- wealth. This was the caroccio (XIV.), THE MAN AT ARMS 163 the standard-bearer of the city, and much more than that, a real strategic point, the nucleus of the infantry, their support and safety. It was a large plat- form upon wheels; above it from a thirty- foot mast or yard floated the banner of the town, and it was drawn by oxen, two, four or six in number. The slow pace of these animals gave its strategic importance to the caroc- cio. Come what might, the banner was to be surrounded and defended, and the slow move- inents of the bul- locks not only precluded the possibility of a rapid flight, but prevented the al- most equally dangerous chance of its defenders rashly breaking their ranks in a moment of success, to pursue too vehemently or too soon. Archbishop Heribert of Milan is said to have instituted the caroccio it was painted vermilion, wheels and all, while the housings of the oxen and the dress of the driver, who was always a man o f consequence and served without pay, were of vermilion cloth. The Florentine caroc- cio was followed to the field by La Martinella, a bell placed upon a wooden tower on an- other wheeled platform, and which rang for thirty days before the commence- ment of hostilities, for greatness of mind, that the enemy might have time to prepare himself. The cars went out only when the whole force of the com monwealth was to be employed, and with these two pomps of the caroccio and the campana, says Malespini, the pride of the old citizens, our ancestors, was ruled. In those days of greatness of mind, of bloody reprisals and sav- age hand-to-hand fighting, warfare was very picturesque. We can imagine a free burg, such as Flor K~iiL ence or Milan, at a moment of sudden invasion or attack. Such a town was like a huge castle, its slits of streets were like the high-wall- ed corridors still seen in ruins of Rhenish or French feudal chateaux. From each of the narrow thoroughfares, the townsmen poured forth; the banners of the quarters were carried to their respective rallying-points, and every able-bodied man from sixteen to sixty had to follow them. When the great bell rang the general alarm, the XII.Battle Order Fifteenth Century. 164 THE MAN AT ARMS. artisan dropped his hammer, the painter his brush, the shop-keeper his woollens or his silks; shield and sword were un- hooked from the wall, and the headpiece was buckled on. The petty officer hur- ried to collect his fellow craftsmen and group them under the ban- ner of the linen-drapers or the hosiers. The noble fam- ilies mustered their sons and brothers and cousins, the horses issued from under the arches of the great palaces, and, surrounded by servants and retainers, all armed to fight for St. John and the Florentines, the Buondel- monti and Bardi Amieri or Cavalcanti marched under their separate blazons to the square. Everyone went; Dante armed himself among the Alighieri; the appren- tices of Giotto left their drawing and color-grinding and hastened to the quarters of the painters guild, to serve under the banner which they had made themselves. Orgagna and the Gaddi hur- ried to the palace of the Pri- ors to be ready at hand with their knowledge of entrench- ment and fortification; and all the time the great bell clanged, the sharper hammering of La Martinella continued, and the trumpets of the republic swelled the uproar, sound- ing from the platform of the caroccio, which, bearing upon it a few of the brav- est and noblest knights, rolled slowly through the city gates. Once in the pitched field, the Feditori, or heavily armed cavaliers, began the attack, the sec- ond or heavy division supported them, while the reserve used the baggage- wagons, in case of necessity, as a kind of movable redoubt, behind which broken ranks could reform. There is a fascina- tion in looking back upon an army which at various epochs enrolled such soldiers as Dante, Michael Angelo, Brunelleschi, and Ferrucci. Sometimes a whole Ho- meric train of war-chariots emphasized the classical descent of the Italians. The Milanese sent three hundred cars to the field, and the people of Asti are said to have had a thousand, each holding ten men. Thus in Italy the burgher with his heritage of experiences from Can- na~ and Thrasymene, from Pharsalia and Philippi, had become a stout infantry- man early in the twelfth century, but on the other side of the Alps the French knights rode scornfully through the ranks of the peasants, hardly deigning to lower their lances against tha foot pad churls until, in the beginning of the fourteenth century, they received a les- son. In 1302 some Flemings, who were weavers, tailors and merchants, and hence naturally cowards and rogues, re- sisted the payment of exorbitant taxes. Their suzerain, the French king Philip, called the Fair, with his brother of Ar- tois, his lord high constable, Pierre Flotte, and an army of nobles, met the rebels in the fiat Flemish country near the town of Courtrai. Since the bur- gesses must needs pay for horses and armors, they put both to their own uses. They had trained their companies be- hind the city walls, and wonder of won- ders! their infantry did not run away. XIII.Armor of Richard Beauchamp Ears of Warwick. THE MAN AT ARMS. 165 The Flemish bills, hooked into loose sword-belt or shield-strap, were terribly efficacious in dragging the knights from their saddles, and the ditches threw the horsemen into disorder. Philip fought in person, but after seeing prince and constable go down before the common- ers, the crowned helmet gave way with the rest, and only a judicious use of the VOL. IIL15 royal ~pnrs saved them from being hung up with the hundreds of others in the cThirches, to be a sight for all Flanders and give a name to the bloody battle of tie Sptirs of ~Qold. Almost before the h~1fries of that same Flanders had ceased Vo call the victory to each other, the ~pears of the foot-soldiery were again seen glinting through the Scotch mists XIV.The Italian Carocojo. 166 THE MAN AT ARMS. about the banner of Robert Bruce at Bannockburn, where among the planted stakes, the horses that were stickit rush- ed and reeled right rudely, and where another crowned helmet was nearly capt- ured upon the person of the English Ed- preserves which William made over the wasted lands of the Saxons. As poach- ers and soldiers alike, marvellous stories were told of their marksmanship, and like Locksley, of Ivanhoe, before the walls of Front de Bceufs castle, they could ring every joint in their enemys armor with their cloth-yard shafts. Each yeoman might say of his father as did the famous Hugh Latimer of his: He delighted to teach me to shoot with the bow. He taught me how to draw, how to lay my body to the bow, not to draw with strength of arm as other nations do, but with the strength of the body. I had my bows bought me according to my age and strength, as I increased in them so my bows were made bigger and bigger; for men shall never shoot well except they be brought up in it. These archers in their brigandines and light head- pieces, and with their long yew bows, poured into France in 1346 with Edward III., making up a large part of his army. These yeomen, in whom the old Saxon spirit of independ- ence, the old Danish right - of free speech, had survived the Norman conquest, were well treated and re- spected by their com- manders. The Gen- oese crossbowmen in the French pay found that their bowstrings had been slackened by a shower and broke XV.e. Crossbowman. before the more tern (Salade; linked collar and apron; brigandine; steel knee-pieces; woollen sleeves ble storm of arrows and tights; pavis, or shield; qoiver, of goat skin.) from the En g 1 i s h b, Pikeman with Pavis. rankswhich came so (Salade; shonlder, elbow, and opper arm, of steel; cnirass, a brigandine.) thickly that it seem ed as if it snowed. Kill me these Genoese rascals, said Philip to his knights, who, cutting their way through the flying auxiliaries, were overwhelmed in turn by the awful snow- storm, till all fled in disorder, all except the two dukes, eleven princes, eighty barons, twelve hundred knights, and thirty thousand soldiers who lay dead upon the field. In a day the English archer had become the central figure of European warfare and had raised up a ward H. Thirty-two years afterwards (1346), the battle fought near the little village of Cressy, or Cr6cy, in Ponthieu, showed the foot-soldier as a power which not only surprised all Europe, but chang- ed European tactics. The English axe, the axe of Hastings, had given way to the bow. The de- scendants of Robin Hood shot at the butt on their festival days, and practised on the kings deer in the great forest THE MAN AT ARMS. 167 spirit of panic terror that was only exorcised by the enthusiasm of a nation in arms which followed Jeanne dArc to battle, seventy-five years later. More than this, he had struck feudalism with a mortal shaft, and from the day of Cressy it tottered slowly but surely to its grave. It was, however, two centuries dying. The lesson had to be written again and again in their own blood, before the French nobles could spell out its meaning, for the conflict between footman and knight was deeper and more significant than a mere question of tactics; it was a struggle between the old order of things and the new, between Feudalism and Democracy. Dull as they were, the knights soon learned this, and Froissart tells us that the victory of IRoosebeke, where the French gentlemen crushed the Flemish artisans and effaced the shame of Courtrai, saved the aristocracy from the encroachments of the commons, who, profiting by the weakness of the nobles after the battles of Cressy and Poitiers, had seized the government. like true Franks, cutting away the yard-long points of their steel shoes to the astonishment of the enemy, they were exterminated before the infantry could reach them. So strong, however, was tradition, so hard to discipline was the furia Francese, as the Italians called it, that a hundred years later, at Fornovo, Elated by this victory, the hard-head- ed French nobles, not yet schooled by Flemish pikeman or Saxon archer, must needs go as far as Kicopolis for another lesson and charge so furiously into the Turkish ranks as to leave the rest of the army far behind them; and though, when surrounded, they dismounted and fought -168 THE MAN AT ARMS. Uharles VIII., most fortunate of knights and pike, had abandoned warfare to rrant, pursued the flying Italians so the professional men at arms. These hotly that he distanced his own chival- made a trade of war, sold themselves to ry, and if his war horse Savoy had not the highest bidder, and served under fought as well as his royal master, the Gortdottieri as mercenary as themselves; king would have been taken and a brill- in such hands a battle became an affair iant victory spoiled. of skill, as scientific and often as harm- As it was, this battle decided the fate less as a game of chess. To take as of Italy. Many things had changed since many prisoners and as much booty as Campaldino and JJliortteaperti. Since the possible was the object of contending fourteenth century, the burghers, who armies, and as one of them when out- found handling the pen and the form mamieuvred promptly ran away, it was more profitable than wielding sword achieved with but little resistance or XVI. Maximfljan Armor. (Horse armor with chamfron crinet; poitrel; flanchards and crupper-piece.) THE MAN AT ARMS. 169 bloodshed. These hirelings, used to encounters where no man died of brave breast wounds, but only of casual falls and tramplings, fled in confusion before the fiery charge of the French gentlemen, and warfare as a fine art came to a disgraceful end. From XII. we learn how that dreaded charge was averted; it is a simple battle or- der of the middle of the fifteenth century, when the arque- busethe first gunand the cross-bow were equally popular. Its formation was a result of the lesson of the hundred years war; to guard against the attack of heavy cavalry was still the essential, and marching in view of the enemy was performed in a rectangle, as rep- resented in the pl~te. Arqnebusiers are at the angles, flanking the attack with their fire; between them are cross-bowmen; at the long sides of the rectangle are the pikemen; within are the supporting halberdiers. In receiv- ing the attack of cavalry the arquebusiers XVII.a, Regiment of Picardy; b, Drummer of Lanoquenets; c, Artillery Officer 1555 ci, General Officer, 1 590. 170 THE MAN AT ARMS. and bowmen, after firing, retired be- tween the ranks of the pikenien to re- load, and the rectangle became a hedge- hog, the pikemen advancing the left leg and placing the pike-butt against the right foot on the ground. The cav- alry flanked the rectangle at right and XVIII.a, Gentleman in Half-armor of 1550. (Morion; cuirass and tassets.) b, Arquebuaisr 1580. (Moriom; cuirass and tassets; and powder-belt slung over shoulder.) left, and in the latter the men, when sta- tionary, faced outward. Such a forma- tion was called a battlewhence onr modern battalion. In the cross-bowman (XV., a) we might see the counterpart of the delightful Pen- is of Burgundy, of The Cloister and the THE MAN AT ARMS. 171 Hearth, with his heavy weapon, good against bear or robber or soldier, in the days when, in spite of danger, the divell was dead. There, too, is his pavis, the great wooden, leather-covered shield, fastened upright in the ground, and behind which, with his foot in the bow-stirrup, he could bend the heavy steel by a system of. windlass and pulley wheels, and shoot away merrily. Thongh he could send but one bolt to six shafts of the archer he was nevertheless of great importance in mediawal fighting and was principally used in sieges and to cover entrench- ments. Take away cross-bow and pavis and give ~ him the long-bow, and he might be the cockney prentice archer, Nicholas Alwyn, who, in Buiwers ~ romance, steadied his wavering comrades at Barnet field with, What will the girls say of us in East Gate and the Chepe? Behind him is a pikeman (XV., b). Foot-soldiers generally wore the brigandine, hght- _ er and cheaper than a plate cuirass. It was made of small pieces of metal, quilted into or sewn upon cloth or leather. The day of the arquebuse had not yet quite come, in Deniss time, but the bow was at its zenith, and in the game of war the pawns began to put the king in check. In the earlier cen- turies an army was a collec- tion of feudatories who came, each with his vassals, at the call of their prince. Later, mercenaries were added. In the pauses of the hundred years war these soldiers, hay- ing nothing else on hand, ray- -~ aged the country. To suppress such bands, the levying of troops was forbidden, except by royal order, and under Charles VII. and Louis XI. regular com- panies of lances were formed a lance meaning six men, includ- ~ ing the knight, his page, varlet, footmen, and two archers. XIX.a, Armor of Gaopard de Coligny, 1 550 b Time of Charles I. of England. .1 -. XX.Spanish Armor Time of the Invincible Armeda. THE MAN AT ARMS. 173 The former paper upon the man at arms left the knight at the middle of the fifteenth century, when armor was at its best. In XIII. the singularly elegant and well adjusted armor of Richard Beau- champ, Earl of Warwick, we have the harness which, with slight modifications, lasted through the wars of the Roses, was battered to pieces at Tewkesbury and Towton, served the king-maker at Barnet, and bore the Boars crest of Rich- ard of Gloucester. It served, too, the Spanish knights who took Grenada in 1491, and was dinted by the last blows struck in that long romance of three thousand seven hun- dred battles fought against the Moors by Christian cavaliers, who filled Spain with fortresses, gave Castile its name, the castellated, and stood so incess- antly upon the brink of combat, that in the rough earlier centuries, the war- horse was stalled at night in the sleep- ing-chamber of the knight and lady. We may costume all the knights of Bosworth with XVI, may frighten Rich- ard with such armored phantoms, may see seven Richmonds in the field, and at last the kings body, the crown stricken from the helmet and lying under the historic hawthorn bush; one had almost said before the footlights, so suggestive of Shakspere are these English armors of York and Lancaster. Figure XVI. is too simple for the taste of the most lavis prince in Europe, but its general lines follow the armor which in 1477 was borne away by the Swiss as they left the stripped body of another famous ruler, Charles the Bold of Bur- gundy, the great duke of the west, lying in the frozen swamps outside the walls of Nancy. The fiutings, which m ke this armor very strong, came into use somewhat later than the battle of Nancy. It was popular at the end of the fifteenth century, and was called the Maximilian harness, after the penniless emperor dear to the Germans and cele- brated in the famous triumph of Albert Darer. For the first time, the breast- plate was made in a single piece, and passe-gardes, or upright pieces of metal, appeared at the shoulders, while the solerets were the broad shoes called bears paws. By the time of Charles the Bold artillery had become a real VOL. 11116 power. The Bombards that at Cressy * threw with fire, little balls to frighten the horses developed into the bronze cannon which rumbled into Italy with Charles VIII., a sight to the novelty lov- ing Italians, but causing some uneasi- ness even to those who claimed alliance with the most Christian king. The first pieces were mortars and small cannon of bars hooped together. They were wrought-iron breech-loaders, open at both ends, and in the old prints they look extremely deadly and dangerousto the man who had to fire them. These were the cannon of the fourteenth century; after them came cast-iron pieces containing fire-chambers, also put in at the breech; last came muzzle-loaders of bronze. Artillery developed especially during the latter part of the hundred years warwhen the fighting was largely con- fined to sieges; and in the hands of the burgesses cannon continued to improve, till in 1425 they had attained a range of more than 500 metres. The squat little mortars and long cannon taken from Charles the Bold by the Swiss, and ex- hibited in the museum of Lausanne, are rough looking affairs to us; so are the rusted pieces fished up from the Mary Rose and other wrecks of the old times but they seem finished, in comparison with the first hand-cannon or guns. The latter were brutal in workmanship at a moment when the fashioning of steel was at its highest point. This is not hard to understandcannon, to some extent legitimate successors of the me- diawal war-engines, were condoned by the chivalrythough they disliked them. But they hated the hand-cannon and the bullet, which, cast by some working-man and fired by a commoner, beat in the blazon upon the nobles cuirass as if it had been a doublet of coarse serge. The cross-bow makers naturally opposed the gun vigorously, and the captains disliked an engine which disturbed their tactics and was as rude a breaker of prejudices as of bones. So the weapon which in a hundred years was to change the face of warfare was, till after the middle of the fifteenth century, made only by the rudest arti- sans and found only in the hands of the * Authorities disagree. viollet-le-nuc believes they were not Bombards but light cannon carried on mule-hack. 174 THE MAN AT ARMS. humblest soldiers. The new fire-arms at firstwere made without a stock, then pro- vided with a stock held under the arm; at last a shoulder-butt was added, till ar- quebuse, matchlock, wheel-lock and mus- ket followed each other and took their place in modern warfare, to the history of which they belong, rather than to a paper upon the ancient man at arms. As the capacity of the arquebuse grew, the hand-to-hand weapons declined in favor. At Fornovo, in 1495, the heavy lance, which had been almost laid aside as a weapon, was used with effect, and recovered some of its prestige; but be- tween that date and 1525 the individual prowess of splinterers of lances showed itself for the last time~ Charles VIII. fought single-handed among his ene- mies at Fornovo. Francis I charged at Marignano. Bayard distinguished himself at iRavenna; but the battle of Pavia proved to the most zealous cava- lier that the true strength of an army lay in its infantry, and that cavalry should only be used as a support for the latter. The bow was at last thrown aside; the arquebuse, which could now be fired from the shoulder by means of a cross- butt, had proved itself superior in Span- ish hands, and after the disaster of Pavia the armorers were unable to fill the or- ders for the new fire-arms which poured in upon them from all quarters. In the French ranks every tenth man was a hal- berdier, and there were two arquebu- siers to every three pikemen. In the time of Louis XII. (XI., a, in the Muse- um of Artillery, representing Bayard) armor was made heavier to resist bullets, an upright passe-garde appeared at the shoulder-pieces, breast and back were at last, after so many experiments, protect- ed by single plates, the sword-hilt, until then a simple cross, received a guard, and the head-covering, the armet, was pro- vided with a visor composed of several pieces; from the cuirass and over the tassets fell a pleated skirt. Armed in this fashion, a procession of well.known fig- ures might pass before us: Gaston de Toix, from the exquisite tombal effigy in Milan; Giovanni de Medici of the Black Bands, as Titian painted him; the young Charles V., leading his terrible Spanish infantry; the heroes of the last siege of Florence, with Ferrucci at their head; Henry VIII. and his monk-hunting sol- diers; Howard, Earl of Surrey, rhym- ing sonnets within his visor; Bayard, giving the accolade to his king after the victory of Marignano; C~esar Borgia, welcoming his doomed guests at Sini- gaglia. Cortes and Columbus wore its like; and in the sack of Rome just such an armor on the Constable of Bourbon, if we may believe a brag- gart, went down before the cannon- shot aimed by Benvenuto Cellini. In XI., b, is one of the Swiss moun- taineers, so rashly oppressed by Charles the Bold. They rolled down upon him with their two-handed swords and their morning starstaking from him at Grandson his prestige, at Morat his baggage, and at Nancy his life. Every sovereign bid for them, and they were to be found in all armies. They are the lanzknechts of IDtirers and Schon- gauers prints, grotesque and terrible, dirty and splendid, in their slashes and their feathers, with their gay banners and their long drums. With beards and plumes alike curling to their waists, with parti-colored garments, one leg in tight striped hose, the other, maybe, in full hanging foldsthey stand, like fero- cious, armed harlequins, watching a mar- tyrdom or flagellation in some sixteenth- century engraving, or mount guard over an initial in a black-letter Hans Sachs. The etchersof Nuremberg and Augsburg loved them, but to the Italian artists they came as destroyers, joining in the sack of Rome the license of the mercenary to the hatred of the Lutheran. Of the native bands in the French army, that of Picardy (XVII., a) was earli- est organized as a regiment. These Picards wore the burgonet, articulated shoulder-pieces or pauldrons, long tas- sets, and a very convex breastplate. By 1548, in spite of the bitter opposi- tion of the Constable Anne de Moutmo- renci, simple steel armor was supersed- ed by chased damascened or gilded steel; it was easier to keep clean, and gratified the splendor-loving taste of the time. The officer of artillery of about 1555 (XVII., c) wears a cuirass of dark-colored steel covered with a silver pattern represent- ing scales. The fourteenth and fifteenth centuries had been prodigal of wealth THE MAN AT ARMS. 175 on bakLric and trappings, and the Count de Foix, giving his horses hous- ings to the cathedral of Bayonne to be made into robes for the image of Our Lady, had been esteemed a royal do- nor. The knights of the twelfth and thir- teenth centuries had set precious stones in helmet and girdle; the sixteenth cen- tury enriched the steel itself, hammer- ing it sometimes into ugly imitations of slashed doublets and trunks, now chasing and engraving it, representing scenes from the Bible or the Greek myths upon casque and buckler, fashion- ing helmets into dolphins, lions heads, and grinning masks, covering whole armors with sculptured stories, silver- ing, gilding, enamelling in colors, and fulfilling every extravagant fancy. The forges of Milan and Nuremberg were fa- mous; the Italian helmets and morions, the German corselets, had a European reputation. Many museums possess mag- nificent specimens ordered by princely patrons from Cellini, Goujon, Negroli, the Milanese Gamber, and the most cele- brated smiths of the time. These pano- plies seem more like gorgeous pieces of goldsmiths work than the shells of fight- ing animals. Until the sixteenth century armor developed in a logical way, its forms were governed by the necessities of war, changes in it were the result of practical experience and actual experi- ment on the battle-fieldnot decided upon in the office of the minister of war. After the sixteenth century it became fantastic and meaningless, a gala cos- tume rather than a harness; the greatest captains opposed its use, but the nobles clung to it as a mark of distinction. After it was made bullet-proof, it be- came so enormously heavy that at the end of the sixteenth century Lanoue complained that gentlemen of thirty were already deformed by the weight of their armor. In spite of the huge armors of Henry VIII., of Anthony of Burgundy, and of some others, the average size of the modern man is greater than that of the soldier of the middle ages and the Re- naissance, if we can judge from the ar- mors preserved in the museums of Eng- land and the Continent, which are, with few exceptions, small and narrow, es- pecially the leg and thigh pieces. Throughout the middle ages armor was international, its analogies being far greater than its differences with differ- ent nations; yet the latter were quite sufficient to be worth mentioning. In general, the heaviest armors seem to have come from the North and worked their way gradually South. The some- what negative character of mediawal equipment strikes the modern mind. It seems more calculated for defence than for aggression or activity. Not only is the lightly clad soldier of to-day close to us, but we revert to the Greeks who re- sisted Xerxes and the Romans who con- quered the world, clad in armors which were light, indeed almost trifling in weight, when compared with those of the mediawal knights, and say to ourselves that Epaminondas and Scipio, in their open head-pieces, light thoraces, and greaves, looked more like preux cheva- hers, than do Richard Cecur de Lion in his great pot-helmet and clumsy long hauberk of chain, or Warwick in his complete suit of platesvisored and covered all over like a rhinoceros. But there were reasons for this, and the development of armor was logical rather than phenomenal. The Roman was an infantry-man, and except in the middle of the fifteenth century, the me- di~eval infantry-man was not armed more heavily than the legionary. Above all, the Romans, once their evenly matched struggle with Carthage was over, opposed a perfect system of military discipline to disorderly and undisciplined peoples, and, having conquered them, kept them in order by trained garrisons and wise mod- eration. Their armor, relatively light, was superior to that of their enemies. When Ca~sars legionaries charged in light helmets and breastplates upon the Gauls of Vercingetorix, they found hel- mets still lighter than their own, and often no breastplates at all. So, too, with Picts, Britons, and Germans. The Roman was always the better armed, and his equipment was peculiarly fitted to fighting in the closed ranks of the legion, where the great overlapping square shields formed a wall or tortoise. Medheval Europe, on the other hand, was a continuous battle-field of nations, nearly matched as to knowledge, wealth, and mode of attack. 176 THE MAN AT ARMS. Had one nation, as in the case of the Romans, distinctly preponderated by discipline and excellence of arms over all the othersconquering one after an- otherit would have been quite con- tented with its equipments, and there would have been no occasion for the ri- valry which kept the smiths of North and South hard at work forging armors strong enough to resist the weapons of the last campaign, then making swords and axes heavy enough to batter them to pieces in the next engagement, till shell and weapon were alike mighty to resist and attack; and at the battle of Roose- beke, in 1382, as Froissart tells us, the hammering in the infernal forge of axe and sword and mallets of iron upon the bassinets was so great and high, that I have heard that had all the helmet-mak- ers of Paris and Brussels been working to- gether at their trade they could not have made a greater noise. English and French armors always re- sembled each other, and in the fourteenth century they were identicaL With the former the angles of elbow- and knee- guards, helmet and gauntlets, were more salient than in the French armors, but the Germans exaggerated these points and sallies still more and retained the ridged salade after the smoother armet had become popular on either side of the Channel. The heaviest armors came from Germany, and the earliest suits of plates, which appear in the MS. of Tris- tan and Isolde long before they were known to the south and west of the Rhine. If they defended their bodies carefully by armor, they did not spare them in action, the German knights being typically gallant and reckless. Defensive armor was defective with the Italians till they came into contact with the northern nations. They clung in- stinctively to classical tradition. The head-piece was always relatively small and elegant ; they rarely covered the face, and seemed not to feel the need of pro- tecting the neck as did the other peo- ples. Their bassinets sloped backward more than those of the French; their salade was very elegant in shape, while some of the latter helmets are almost ex- actly like those of the Greek hoplites. In XVIII., a, we have the last complete armor just before the greave was aban doned and the buff boot adopted. It is the harness of 1550 to 1559, of Henry II. in France, of the last years of Charlea V., and of the beginning of the wars of religion. As we have seen, by 1550 armor was in full decline. Up to that time its modifications had been logical, to meet exigencies and to protect its wearer against new weapons, but after 1550 the style of the cuirass became that of the latest doubletthe waist was high or low, the ridge of the breastplate flattened or convex, according to the last fashion at court, and when we see the cuirasses of Henry III.s time hammered into the shape of the Punchinello paunch (ventre 4 Ia polichinelle) so dear to the king and his Mignous, we feel that the armorers anvil is in undignified proximity to the tailors goose. The half-armor of 1572 (XIX., a) was still exceptionally elegant and graceful. The gentleman of the time of Charles IX. in France and of Eliza- beth in England wears a damascened morion and cuirass, while the heavy sword has grown lighter, and is here very long, for thrusting rather than cut- ting, and has a complicated hilt. To the student of history no figure in the series is more suggestive than this one. It shows us the armor of the English Re- naissance, of the Spanish decadence, of the Dutch war of independence, of the French Huguenots and Leaguers, of the Portuguese, Spanish, and English mari- ners. We find it everywhere in the old world and the new, on the Atlantic, the northern seas, and the sunny Greek waters. This man (XIX., a) might be De la Mole, or the swashbuckler Count Annibal de Coconnas, exactly as Queen Margot saw them ride out of the Louvre on parade-day, long before all Paris rushed to their famous execution. Men in such armors dragged out Co- ligny and massacred him. Such as he were the Guises and all the chiefs of St. Bartholomews Day. Take away the order of St. Michael that he wears, tan his complexion with the sea-winds, and he might be Raleigh, Drake, Essex, or Kingsleys stout Amyas Leigh, plunging through the forests of the New World. He might ride with Mary Stuart as she galloped, by night, with pistols at her belt, or, his steel blackened to the liking of a sombre Spaniard, he might burn THE MAN AT ARMS. 177 and torture with Alva in the Low Countries, or, sailing with the great Armada, leave his bones and his armor upon the Irish coast. Any of these he might be, for navigators, inquisitors, poets, playwrights, and fighters of every description wore the breastplate and burgonet in the days of good Queen Bess, of Philip Ii, and the Guises. When the forges of Milan were full of morions and cuirasses like those in XIX., a, the slowly flowering English Renaissance was in full bloom. The Eng- lish gentleman at home talked Euphuism with Lilly, studied verse-making with Sidney and Spenser, wore big pearls in his ears and a whole manor on his back, and spent days in the Cockpit or the Globe Theatre, but he was terrible enough abroad where he singed the Spanish kings beard and fought like a hero of medialval romance. Chivalry was dying, but, like a true knight, in harness. Ariosto had mocked at it, Rabelais had dragged it in the mire, but in England, where Spenser was writing its swan song, in Spain (for the man who was to lay its ghost with a burst of laughter that has echoed through the ages was as yet a captive in an Algerine pris- on) it still seemed vital. Spanish honor was a fantastic idol, a thing of etiquette and punctilio, and English honor at this time consisted in out- doing the Dons in valor and courtesy, or dying in the attempt. Towards the close of the sixteenth century the eyes of all Europe were fixed on these two com- batants, whose duel to the death was fought out on a new scene of ac- tion, the deck of the warship. The stout En glish ship, its decks pro- tected by stockades and bulk- XXI.o b, White and Black Mousquetaires of Louis XIII.; C, d, Cromwellian Soldiers; e, Engineer Officer. VOL. 11117 178 THE MAN All ARMS. heads which divided it into a number of separate forts, its captain some sturdy commoner or newly made knight, its crew trained from childhood in the use of arms, befriended and even consulted at times by its officers, younger sons of noble families or gentlemen adventurers who could not refuse, at least when they sail- ed with Sir Francis Drake, to set their hands to a rope, or to hale and draw with the mariners, this ship was op- posed to the great gilded Spanish gal- leon. Clumsy and unwieldy for sea lighting, the galleon was wonderfully picturesque, with its chapels and pulpits, its paintings, and holy images, its com- panies of soldiers drilling and exercising, its Flemish gunners, its poor mariners, who were slaves to the rest to moil and toil day and night, not even suffered to sleep or harbor under the decks. Fellowship between the overworked crew and officers whose knightly gaunt- let would be dishonored by handling anything but a sword hilt was rendered impossible by the pedantic etiquette that was stifling Spanish genius. There were always plenty of morions and breast- plates on board, and many stout men at arms to wear them, whether the galleon sailed eastward against the Moslem or westward towards New Spain; full of soldiers, too, were the plate-ships home- ward-bound, laden with pearls and gold, for at any moment the English pirates, descendants of the old Vikings, Frob- isher, Carlisle, or Drake, might swoop down upon them. Crowded with fight- ing men as well were those 200 royal galleys which, in the Gulf of Lepanto, on October 7, 1571, destroyed the Turk- ish fleet and saved Europe from a Mos- lem invasion. From their decks, before the fight began, these soldiers could look down on their young commander, Don John of Austria, could hear him as his light galley darted from ship to ship, exhorting them as soldiers of the cross to do their duty, promising them a glorious immortality if they lived or died. One of them, a poor Spanish hi- dalgo, has won that immortality which was promised him, but not only by his exploits at Lepanto. When we look up at the tattered banners, trophies of the great sea fight, that fill with faded splen- dor the Church of the Cavaliers of St. Stephen in Pisa, it is of that soldier that we think first of all. Don John, of whom the pope said, bursting into tears of joy, there was a man sent by God and his name was John, and the gallant cap- tains, Doria Colonna and Veniero, are but memories, but Cervantes is a house- hold word and part of our life of to-day. Redoubtable as they were to the Turk, the galleons were generally outsailed, out-mano~uvred, often sunk or captured, by English craft of half their size; in- deed it was in these sea-fights against overwhelming odds that the English sailor more than once proved himself the peer of Charlemagnes paladins. Authentic accounts of their adventures read like a romance of chivalry. Don Diego Garcia held a bridge against an army, but Sir George Carys ship, the Content, fought single-handed for sixteen hours with four huge men of war and two galleys, though most of the time she had but thirteen men fit for ser- vice; and two valiant Turkey merchant- men, with three small consorts, crippled a whole fleet of Spanish galleys sent to intercept them. The chronicles tell us that Earl Waltheof, son of Siward Beorn, kept the gate of York against the French army, but Sir Richard Grenville engaged alone with a Spanish fleet of fifty-three sail, repulsed the enemy fifteen times, and sunk four galleys ; nor would he strike his colors until his powder was gone, his masts and sailing tackle had been shot away, his sailors were all kill- ed or wounded, and he himself was dy- ing! Most glorious of all was the defeat and dispersion of that great Armada, too soon styled the Invincible, which, on the 19th of July, 1588, the Scotch pirate Fleming saw off the Lizard sailing to- wards him in a great crescent which measured seven miles from horn to horn. Naval warfare has perhaps seen no such sight as that running fight of a week going flaming up the British Channel now nearing the English cliffs, where an armed population trooped along trying to keep pace with the battle, now run- ning over towards the Dutch coast, where Protestant Hollanders hung like pan- thers upon the skirts of Parmas fleet, foreseeing salvation or ruin in the days chances of war. Out from all the harbors to join the THE A AN AT ARMS. 179 admiral came every Englishman who had a purse to equip a ship and a sword to defend it. Northumberland, Oxford, Cedils and Blounts, and with them the gallant Catholic gentlemen of Eng- land, so forgetful of persecution and ill usage, so mindful that behind their government was their country, that Elizabeth who had hung Papists gave her whole fleet and hopes into the hands of the Catholic Charles Howard of Eff- ingham, Lord High Admiral.* What a sight, too, must have been the galleons, and such a water-spider as a great galliass, whipping the waves with three hundred oars,the poor slaves chained to the handles hurled from their seats in heaps as some English ship, her main and foreyards lowered to prevent boarding, swept by the galliasss side hardly a pikes length off, snapping the oars by the score, smashing her chain-shot into pulpit and picture and gilded lantern, sweeping the three gun- decks, sailing round and round the un- wieldy Spaniard, till the great banner shot away floated upon the water,the banner so big that one hung as a trophy in Leyden church from the groined roof to the pavement. IJnder Francis I. of France, the mo- non, burgonet, and cabasset were al- ready the helmets of the arquebusiers and pikemen, and they became the dis- tinctive head-dresses of the wars of re- ligion, whether of Catholic or Huguenot, of soldier of emperor, elector, or stadt- holder. The Protestant arquebusier (XIX., b) wears white to prove the purity of his conscience. In those days of tergiversation, of a recanting king and of incessant campaigns, the white may have become somewhat smirched. Under Henry IV. armors of dark-brown colored steel were popular; the shoulder- pieces were immense; the tassets extend- ed from the high waist to the knee-pieces and buff boot. The complete armor no longer existed with the gentlemen (XVII., d) who at Ivry charged for the golden lilies ; it was still less complete under the son of Henry IV., and upon the Ironsides of Cromwell, the Puritans of Naseby and Marston Moor (XXI., d, e), only the lobster-tail helmet, the breast * See Kingsleys fine description of what has heen called uritains Salamis, in Westward Ho. and back-plateor, with the footman, the morion and gorgetremained. Never- theless, during the first half of the seven- teenth century, the armor XVIII., b, may still be considered typical and was much worn not only by general officers, but by certain especial corps. It was the ar- mor of the thirty years war, of Tilly and of Wallenstein, of Charles I. of England, and of many another of Vandykes noble sitters. The wounded Hampden may have worn it as, drooping over his horses neck, he rode away to die. Cromwell is generally represented in a lighter armor, more like his own Iron- sides, but the Germans apparently clung to the long tassets; Gustavus Adolphus, The Lion of the North, wore them, and we see the cuirass and its armpieces over the scarlet robes of the great car- dinal as they blow in the wind upon the wooden boom that Richelieu built against blockaded La Rochelle. The rank and ille of European armies had lightened their armor, and when the psalm-tune mingled with the scabbard- rattle, and the charge swept after the cavaliers at Dunbar, there was no more iron upon the troopers than on those who dashed upon the squares at Water- loo, or who parade to-day on the llJnter den Linden. But, however useless in Europe, in New England and against the Indian arrows armor still served the courageous captain of Plymouth as well as it had Cortez and Pizarro. Louis XIII. clung to it, and his black musketeers wore cuirass and armpieces during a campaign, but old prints show us Athos and dArtagnan as in XXI, a, b. Engineers still went to the trenches in head-piece and cuirass (XXI., c), and gentlemen had their portraits painted in full panoply; but in the mid- dle of the seventeenth century, armor had had its day. And it has had its analogies. Have not we, in the last twenty-five years, re- peated in another field three centuries of experiments? Were not the light cruis- ers of Drake and Hawkins circling about the huge Spanish galleons a foretaste of what may yet be to come? When the Merrimac steamed down into Hampton Road,s, crushing the Con- gress and the Cumberland, it was the barded knight destroying those lighter 180 LOVES WA YS. armed; and since then, in the armoring of ships, improvement has followed im- provement. In the old times the in- dividual shut himself up in a shell, which he thickened and strength- ened to resist projectiles, till, condemned to be immovable or risk the chances of bul- lets, he cast away his ar- mor. To-day, in- stead of one, we shut up many in a float- ing iron shell. Every year sees a heavier gun and a heavier target. Again it is the costly knight whom a single shot sends down with all his wealth of armor. Shall we not, too, perhaps, with our great ships of war, cast ofl as did the knight, first the greave and soleret that impeded the feet, then another and another piece of iron, till to the 140-ton gun we oppose only speed and activity? If so, we shall have re- peated the ex- perience of the middle ages. The knights of Cressy and Agincourt will stand to us not merely as entertain in g historical fig- ures, but as teachers; an d the faint echo of the splin- tering lances of the crusaders will come to us charged with a lesson. LOVES WAYS. By Henrietta Christian Wrzght. Two paths hath Love for entering lovers feet, And one is broad and fair and very sweet, And every grace of song and flower hath; The other is a straight and narrow path Where stones and brambles choke the bitter way, And songs it hath, but never one is gay. And some who enter are with roses bound, And some with thorns, but none may go uncrowned; And yet, both ways are thronged with eager feet, And voices, gay and sad, chantLove is sweet.

Henrietta Christian Wright Wright, Henrietta Christian Love's Ways 180-181

180 LOVES WA YS. armed; and since then, in the armoring of ships, improvement has followed im- provement. In the old times the in- dividual shut himself up in a shell, which he thickened and strength- ened to resist projectiles, till, condemned to be immovable or risk the chances of bul- lets, he cast away his ar- mor. To-day, in- stead of one, we shut up many in a float- ing iron shell. Every year sees a heavier gun and a heavier target. Again it is the costly knight whom a single shot sends down with all his wealth of armor. Shall we not, too, perhaps, with our great ships of war, cast ofl as did the knight, first the greave and soleret that impeded the feet, then another and another piece of iron, till to the 140-ton gun we oppose only speed and activity? If so, we shall have re- peated the ex- perience of the middle ages. The knights of Cressy and Agincourt will stand to us not merely as entertain in g historical fig- ures, but as teachers; an d the faint echo of the splin- tering lances of the crusaders will come to us charged with a lesson. LOVES WAYS. By Henrietta Christian Wrzght. Two paths hath Love for entering lovers feet, And one is broad and fair and very sweet, And every grace of song and flower hath; The other is a straight and narrow path Where stones and brambles choke the bitter way, And songs it hath, but never one is gay. And some who enter are with roses bound, And some with thorns, but none may go uncrowned; And yet, both ways are thronged with eager feet, And voices, gay and sad, chantLove is sweet. NATURAL SELECTION. A .ROMANCE OF CHELSEA VILLAGE AND EAST HAMPTON TOWN. By H. C. Bunner PART II. ANDOLPHS com- munication was not a surprise to his mother. In such matters the mater- nal instinct needs but a small clew for its wonderful intuitive processes. It is not often that a young man sur- prises his mother in this sort of avow- aL There are such cases, but they are rare. I knew one dear old lady whose son took her aside one day. Im engaged, he said. I know it, dear, the sweet old gentlewoman replied, and I wish you would tell Sally Has- tings that I shall love her as hough she were my own daughter. But it isnt Sally Hastings, mother, said the young man, who had never been a steadfast young man, its Miss Mcflvaine, from Tonawanda. Mrs. Wykoff had known for some months that her son was a constant visitor at the Leetes. She knew that there were two girls in the family, and that the younger was a pretty girl, and superior to the rest of the Leetes in taste and education. She knew, also, that however valuable Mr. Leetes aid and advice might be to her son, the young mans enthusiasm for his new work was not great enough to make him forget a social code acquired by in- heritance, inculcated in early youth, and ratified by the authority of Harvard College. There was but one interpre- tation to be put upon his devotion to these new friends. All this Mrs. Wykoff knew from .the little her son had told her. It was little enough. Randolph was not secretive or deceitful, but he rarely talked personali- ties, and of his own doings he spoke no oftener than was necessary. He had a young mans sensitiveness to the criti cism and comment that fall to the lot of the open-mouthed enthusiast. And then his position was not so clear to himself that he could make it clear to others. Do not blame him. If you were falling deeper and deeper into love, and knew that the object of your affections could not be acceptable to your kind parents, would you issue daily bulletins of the progress of your case, with conscientious diagnosis and prog- nosis? Was there ever a pair of lovers who did not yearn to keep their common joy eternally a selfish secret? Frown all you care to, stern censorif all the lovers had their way, there would not be desert islands enough to go around. Mrs. Wykoff knew something, and guessed a great deal, yet she could not act either on the certainty or the sus- picion. She knew that she could not oppose Randolph. He had all his fa- thers self-confidence and stubborn cour- age withoutthe widow sadly thought without, as yet, John Wykoffs clear judgment, fine sense of right and wrong, and unselfish devotion to principle. John Wykoffs wife knew well the Wykoff strain. She had married John Wykoff when his father, by ill-judged speculations, had ruined not himself only but all the Wykoff family, root and branch, and had made himself hated by the whole body of his kith and kin. She had been her husbands best friend and counsellor through all the years that it took to build up again the great shipping-house of Wykoff & Son, and during those years she had led a pinched, narrow, meagre life. Then, when the new fortune was made, and the honor and credit of the old firm re- established, it was her tact that won them admission to the society from which Grandfather Wykoffs recklessness and their own poverty had exiled them. It was her task to renew old associa

H. C. Bunner Bunner, H. C. Natural Selection - A Romance Of Chelsea Village And East Hampton Town 181-194

NATURAL SELECTION. A .ROMANCE OF CHELSEA VILLAGE AND EAST HAMPTON TOWN. By H. C. Bunner PART II. ANDOLPHS com- munication was not a surprise to his mother. In such matters the mater- nal instinct needs but a small clew for its wonderful intuitive processes. It is not often that a young man sur- prises his mother in this sort of avow- aL There are such cases, but they are rare. I knew one dear old lady whose son took her aside one day. Im engaged, he said. I know it, dear, the sweet old gentlewoman replied, and I wish you would tell Sally Has- tings that I shall love her as hough she were my own daughter. But it isnt Sally Hastings, mother, said the young man, who had never been a steadfast young man, its Miss Mcflvaine, from Tonawanda. Mrs. Wykoff had known for some months that her son was a constant visitor at the Leetes. She knew that there were two girls in the family, and that the younger was a pretty girl, and superior to the rest of the Leetes in taste and education. She knew, also, that however valuable Mr. Leetes aid and advice might be to her son, the young mans enthusiasm for his new work was not great enough to make him forget a social code acquired by in- heritance, inculcated in early youth, and ratified by the authority of Harvard College. There was but one interpre- tation to be put upon his devotion to these new friends. All this Mrs. Wykoff knew from .the little her son had told her. It was little enough. Randolph was not secretive or deceitful, but he rarely talked personali- ties, and of his own doings he spoke no oftener than was necessary. He had a young mans sensitiveness to the criti cism and comment that fall to the lot of the open-mouthed enthusiast. And then his position was not so clear to himself that he could make it clear to others. Do not blame him. If you were falling deeper and deeper into love, and knew that the object of your affections could not be acceptable to your kind parents, would you issue daily bulletins of the progress of your case, with conscientious diagnosis and prog- nosis? Was there ever a pair of lovers who did not yearn to keep their common joy eternally a selfish secret? Frown all you care to, stern censorif all the lovers had their way, there would not be desert islands enough to go around. Mrs. Wykoff knew something, and guessed a great deal, yet she could not act either on the certainty or the sus- picion. She knew that she could not oppose Randolph. He had all his fa- thers self-confidence and stubborn cour- age withoutthe widow sadly thought without, as yet, John Wykoffs clear judgment, fine sense of right and wrong, and unselfish devotion to principle. John Wykoffs wife knew well the Wykoff strain. She had married John Wykoff when his father, by ill-judged speculations, had ruined not himself only but all the Wykoff family, root and branch, and had made himself hated by the whole body of his kith and kin. She had been her husbands best friend and counsellor through all the years that it took to build up again the great shipping-house of Wykoff & Son, and during those years she had led a pinched, narrow, meagre life. Then, when the new fortune was made, and the honor and credit of the old firm re- established, it was her tact that won them admission to the society from which Grandfather Wykoffs recklessness and their own poverty had exiled them. It was her task to renew old associa 182 NA TURAL SELECTION. tions, to strengthen long-enfeebled ties, to close up breaches, and negotiate rec- onciliations. She had to bear snubs and slights; she had to win her right to respect and esteem in a long and hard fight; and all that she had to do and bear was done and borne, not for her own sake, but for the sake of her hus- band and her boy. For herself she had no need to take thought; she was a Broadwood, of Philadelphia, and her family thought that she lowered herself when she married the son of a bankrupt Wykoff. The struggle had ended years ago, and now Mrs. Wykoff was a widow, still handsome, rich in money and in friends. The discipline of her life had not been lost on her. Her nature, that was al ways sweet, had grown strong in troub.. bus times, and she was, at forty-five, a chastened woman of the world. I think the world makes as many ~aints as sinners. She received her sons story with a calm acceptance of the situation that ought to have put him on his guard. To be sure, she cried a little, but only for a moment; and for the rest she was all loving interest and attention. It must be said for Randolph that, having come to confession, he made a good, honest, clean breast of it. He made no attempt to put an imaginative gilding on the Leetes. In speaking of the family he dwelt only on their unimpeachable probity and respectability. Of Celia he could truth- fully say that her man- ners and her speech were correct. If he dwelt too much on her intelligence, on her clev- erness, and on her un- derstanding of and sym- pathy with his hopes and ambitions, it must be kept in mind that Celia was an uncom- monly good listener. I am thinking of your happiness, my dear, his mother said; I trust Tam not selfish. I could have wished, of course, that it had been someone who some- one whom I knew and loved, but There lurked in this broken sentence an al- lusion that Randolph understood an allu- sion to a cherished hope of his mothers. Per- haps he felt in some way guilty, for he made no direct reply, saying only: You will know Celia, mother, and you will love her. You cannot help it. I hope so, said the poor woman, with the best smile that she had for the occasion. When shall I see her? Would ii! H NATURAL SELECTION. 183 it not be well for me to call on her type of Mrs. Leetes mother, taken at mother. the age of eighty-seven. Mrs. Leetes Randolph Wykoff went away from mother showed a mouth that seemed to this interview with an easy mind and a be simply a straight line where the lips heart filled with loving admiration of his moth er. She was a wonderful 7 woman, he thought, thus to combine feminine gen- tleness with masculine common-sense. How kindly and how wisely shehadtakenit! Itdid not come into his mind that in the course of that brief conversation he had been led to propose and to pledge himself to two Things which he had never thought of before first, that there should be no announcement of his engagement to Celia no actual engagement, in factfor a year to come; second, that the engagement should not be of less than a years duration from the date of the announcement. These two ideas seemed to have been of his own conception. He knew, or he thought he knew, how much personal an- noyance his marriage to Celia Leete would bring him. He had no desire to add to this annoy- ance, or to be guilty of a precipitancy which he himself could turned in. What little hair she had not excuse. His world would be ill- hung in a large fiat festoon on either spoken enough; it was not for him to side of her head. A broad lace collar justify unkind criticism. It came to covered her shoulders. It was fastened him as the most natural thing imagina- under the chin by a brooch of vast size, ble that Celia Leete ought to be intro- which was, in fact, a box with a glass duced to some of his friends, at least, as front, designed, apparently, to contain Celia Leete, before they knew her as his specimens of the hair of deceased mem- betrothed. And he could hardly get his bers of the wearers family, after the present business off his hands and feel depressing fashion of the days of ambro- free to devote himself to a wife short types and inchoate civilization. On the of a year or two of hard work. face of Mrs. Leetes mother was an ex- Three days later Mrs. Wykoff was sit- pression of stern resolve. She was sit- ting in the darkened front parlor of the ting for her picture, and she was sitting Leete house on the hair-cloth sofa under hard. the chromo of the Old Oaken Bucket Mrs. Wykoff was gazing hopelessly at On the opposite wall hung the ambro- this monument of respectability when 184 NA TURAL SELECTION. Mrs. Leete entered the room, red in the face from a hasty change of dress, and agitated by a nervousness the existence of which she would not have admitted to herself. Why does your thoroughbred collie bark at the tramp or the peddler within your gates, and greet shabbiest gentle- hood with a friendly wag of the tail? It is because there is a difference in human beings, just as there is in dogs, and the dogs know it. The human beings know it, too, although there are some who belie their knowledgewho, having learned that the rank is but the guineas stamp and that the mans the gowd for a that, go about trying to make themselves and others believe that there is no such thing as an alloy in the world, no counterfeit coin, no base metal Mrs. Leete was agitated even to her inmost spiritual recesses when she saw this handsome and well-dressed woman rise and come forward to meet her, with such an easy grace and dignity with such a soft rustling of her black raiment. It was five minutes at least before the perfect tact that went with these outward and visible things had put the hostess at her ease. After a little, Celia came shyly into the room, with cold hands and a pale face. Mrs. Wykoffs heart leaped in pleased surprise when she saw the girl of her sons choice. She kissed Celia almost with tenderness, and she felt a genuine thankfulness for the childs delicate beauty and her modest bearing. I can understand it now, she thought, and it is better than I had dared to hope. But presently in came Mr. Leete, in his Sunday broadcloth, with a new col- lar making him very uncomfortable about the chin, and with him came Dorinda, red as to her bodice and black as to her skirts and wonderful as to the dressing of her hair, and all was not so well with Mrs. Wykoff Mrs. Wykoffs visit lasted scarcely an hour, yet, when she had gone, every member of the family except Celia felt that affairs wore a new and less pleasing aspect. There was no longer a delight- ful certainty about the prospective al- liance of the Leetes to one of the oldest and wealthiest families in the country. Three days before, Randolph Wykoff had asked Mr. Leete for his daughters hand, and the offer had been accepted with no longer hesitation than was ab- solutely demanded by the sell-respect of the head of the house. Since then, all the family had lived in a rose-tinted dream. Now, Mrs. Wykoffs friendly, informal chat had somehow served to marshal be- fore their eyes an array of hard, cold, un- welcome facts. How had it been done? They did not know. They could not blame Mrs. Wykoff; she had been amia- bility itself. Yet there were the facts, patent to all of them. Why, it was Mr. Leete himself who had advanced the idea that for two young people to talk of marriage after three months of acquaint- ance was simply absurd. It was he who had said that peoplehe did not perhaps know what people, but, in fact, peoplewould comment with justifiable severity upon such heedless haste. Cer- tainly the suggestion that at least a year must elapse before the aunouncement of the engagement had come from him; and none of the house of Leete was sufficiently versed in the subtleties of polite diplomacy to inquire how the no- tion came to Mr. Leete. It was at Popper Leete, in very truth, that Mrs. Wykoff had directed her masked batteries, and with more effect than she suspected. She had touched lightly on Randolphs youth, his inex- perience, his impulsive nature, and she had called attention to the undeniable truth that young men do not always know their own minds. Mr. Leete had taken the hint, and to his mind it had an exaggerated significance. I dno but what shes right, he said to his wife; mebbe weve been too easy about sayin yes. Shes a business-woman, and shes got a good, sound head. Folks useter say that John Wykoff and wife was as good a busi- ness-firm as there was in town. Now, she knows this young feller, an what do we know about him? Nothin, when you come right down to it. We dont know what his ideas are, or what sort of a man he is, anyway. We dont know how he spends his evenins, or what he does with himself when we dont see him. Now, spose he was ony foolin with Celia, and was to get tired of her 184 NA TURAL SELECTION. Mrs. Leete entered the room, red in the face from a hasty change of dress, and agitated by a nervousness the existence of which she would not have admitted to herself. Why does your thoroughbred collie bark at the tramp or the peddler within your gates, and greet shabbiest gentle- hood with a friendly wag of the tail? It is because there is a difference in human beings, just as there is in dogs, and the dogs know it. The human beings know it, too, although there are some who belie their knowledgewho, having learned that the rank is but the guineas stamp and that the mans the gowd for a that, go about trying to make themselves and others believe that there is no such thing as an alloy in the world, no counterfeit coin, no base metaL Mrs. Leete was agitated even to her inmost spiritual recesses when she saw this handsome and well-dressed woman rise and come forward to meet her, with such an easy grace and dignity with such a soft rustling of her black raiment. It was five minutes at least before the perfect tact that went with these outward and visible things had put the hostess at her ease. After a little, Celia came shyly into the room, with cold hands and a pale face. Mrs. Wykoffs heart leaped in pleased surprise when she saw the girl of her sons choice. She kissed Celia almost with tenderness, and she felt a genuine thankfulness for the childs delicate beauty and her modest bearing. I can understand it now, she thought, and it is better than I had dared to hope. But presently in came Mr. Leete, in his Sunday broadcloth, with a new col- lar making him very uncomfortable about the chin, and with him came Dorinda, red as to her bodice and black as to her skirts and wonderful as to the dressing of her hair, and all was not so well with Mrs. Wykoff. Mrs. Wykofts visit lasted scarcely an hour, yet, when she had gone, every member of the family except Celia felt that affairs wore a new and less pleasing aspect. There was no longer a delight- ful certainty about the prospective al- liance of the Leetes to one of the oldest and wealthiest families in the country. Three days before, Randolph Wykoff had asked Mr. Leete for his daughters hand, and the offer had been accepted with no longer hesitation than was ab- solutely demanded by the self-respect of the head of the house. Since then, all the family had lived in a rose-tinted dream. Now, Mrs. Wykoffs friendly, informal chat had somehow served to marshal be- fore their eyes an array of hard, cold, un- welcome facts. How had it been done? They did not know. They could not blame Mrs. Wykoff; she had been amia- bility itself. Yet there were the facts, patent to all of them. Why, it was Mr. Leete himself who had advanced the idea that for two young people to talk of marriage after three months of acquaint- ance was simply absurd. It was he who had said that peoplehe did not perhaps know what people, but, in fact, peoplewould comment with justifiable severity upon such heedless haste. Cer- tainly the suggestion that at least a year must elapse before the aunouncement of the engagement had come from him; and none of the house of Leete was sufficiently versed in the subtleties of polite diplomacy to inquire how the no- tion came to Mr. Leete. It was at Popper Leete, in very truth, that Mrs. Wykoff had directed her masked batteries, and with more effect than she suspected. She had touched lightly on Randolphs youth, his inex- perience, his impulsive nature, and she had called attention to the undeniable truth that young men do not always know their own minds. Mr. Leete had taken the hint, and to his mind it had an exaggerated significance. I dno but what shes right, he said to his wife; mebbe weve been too easy about sayin yes. Shes a business-woman, and shes got a good, sound head. Folks useter say that John Wykoff and wife was as good a busi- ness-firm as there was in town. Now, she knows this young feller, an what do we know about him? Nothin, when you come right down to it. We dont know what his ideas are, or what sort of a man he is, anyway. We dont know how he spends his evenins, or what he does with himself when we dont see him. Now, spose he was ony foolin with Celia, and was to get tired of her NA TURAL SELECTION. 185 ~n skip out to Europe, some day eruther? We cant tell. Spose he was to marry her an.d then turn out bad? Look at the way them Newport folks are all the time gittin divorced an bein shown up in the noozpapers. How do we know but what hes bean a-makin up to a dozen girls over there in Europe. Now, reelly, we dont know much more about that young man than if he was a European himself. Oh, Popper Leete, remonstrated his wife, taint so bad as that I Well, Mr. Leete insisted, shaking his head in stubborn doubt, taint much better, when you come right down to it. There are plenty of married couples in the world who can lay their hands on their twain hearts and unanimously de- dare that the time of their betrothal was the happiest times of their lives. There are other people, however, who can as honestly say that they were never more uncomfortable and generally miserable than they were in the No Mans Land through which civilized matrimony must be approached. Perhaps the months or years of en- gagement may be enjoyable to those who enter upon their contract in a busi- ness-like and practical spirit, or to those easy-going mortals who take their love on trial, much as they might take a type-writer or a patent lamp. But to two young people dreadfully in love and dreadfully in earnest, this stretch of time is like the trying pause when the soldier on the battle-field waits for the order to advance. The womans position is certainly doubtful and disagreeable. She belongs neither to her parents nor to her be- trothednot even to herself. Hers is the proud prerogative of deciding be- tween blue and pink for the dining-room paper, between script and old English for the engraving on the spoonswhile, perhaps, her former owners and her future owner are settling on a religion for her and for her children in posse. We do not all of us have to suffer the possible rigors of this state of interreg- num. The kindly refinements of modern life make the situation as agreeable as may be. Yet among the gentlest and most delicate of people, it is often a situation at best but barely tolerable. What must it be among people who are not given to yielding to others, and who are given to speaking their minds those hastily made-up minds which for the most part were best left unspoken? It was a cocksure and outspoken family into which Randolph Wykoff had tumbled; and one that had well-defined opinions on all matters of personal con- duct, and wanted no new lights from any source. And as Randolph himself could be cocksure on occasion, and as he certainly had not come down to Chel- sea Village to seek illumination on any dark points of social doctrine, a clash was inevitable, and the clash came promptly. It came when the chilling truth was first clearly recognized by the Leetes that young Mr. Wykoff was engaged to Celia exclusively, and did not hold him- self bound to the rest of the family by any ties so tender. To be sure, Wykoff was the soul of kindly courtesy in his relations with them all, and yet, like the old farmer in Punch, sipping airy cham- pagne in place of his accustomed old ale, they didnt seem to get no forrader. When Randolph broke one of Mrs. Leetes teacups, he made the accident an excuse for sending her a full tea-set, so delicate of mould that Mrs. Leete never dared to use it. He gave Father Leete a meersehaum that he had brought from Europe. He adorned Alonzos scarf with a scaraba~us of rare beauty. (Alon- zo held the gift but lightly until it oc- curred to him to have its money-value appraised at a Broadway jewellers.) He loaded Celia with gifts, and he did not forget to select for her sister, every now and then, a trinket of a fashion more noticeable than he would have held fit- ting for his betrothed. And as for flow- ershe made the dingy house brilliant with the artificial refinements of the hot- house. But beyond courteous speech and an open hand, they soon found that nothing was to be expected of the new- comer in the family circle. Alonzo had to accept the obvious fact that he would never be put up at Mr. Randolph Wykoffs club, even if he sought such an honorwhich he told his own conscience he did not. Dorinda 186 NA TURAL SELECTION. saw bright visions fade before her eyes when she learned that Mr. Wykoff, whether he were in mourning or out of mourning, was not in the habit of taking his lady friends to the public balls, and that he did not so much as know the Triton from the M~innerchor. And Mrs. Leete, while she understood that John Wykoffs widow must live for many months, at least, in strict retirement from the world, yet felt that it had in some subtile way been made clear to her own perception that the hand of society would never be stretched out to the Leetes at the particular request of the Wykoffs. There was no question about it, Mr. Wykoff had no proper sense of his po- sition as a prospective son- and brother- in-law; and hint and suggestion fell upon his calm unconsciousness of his delinquency as little sparks upon the breast of an ice-bound lake. They did their best to bring him to a knowledge of what they called among themselves the proper thing ; but neither precept nor example availed aught against his vast, innocent ignorance. In this he was quite honest, although the Leete family could hardiy believe it. It did occur to him, at one time, that he had been made to hear a great deal about a certain Mr. Cargill, soon to be wedded to one of Dorindas bosom friends. This gentleman had acquired what seemed to Randolph a strange habit of taking his bride-to-be and all her family, including a maiden aunt, to the theatre some four or five times a week. For this ceremony, or operation, Mr. Cargill was wont to array himself, according to Dorindas account, in a swallow-tail coat, a laven- der satin tie, and an embroidered shirt. But beyond a vague wonder if perchance Cargill completed this costume with shepherds plaid trousers and Roman sandals, Mr. Wykoff saw no hidden sig- nificance in the parable. Thus it came to pass that Randolph, for his contumacious and persistent abiding in darkness, was put under a ban by all save one member of the fam- ily. Father and Mother Leete, it is trute, visited their displeasure upon him only passively, and far, far more in sor- row than in anger. But Alonzo and Dorinda declared him anathema, and would have none of him. I need hardly say that their parents knew nothing of this unwise severity. There was a time when Wykoff was welcomed at the portal by Celias brother or her sister, as it might happen. (It was a convention in the familyone of the whats which are what that Celia might not with propriety open the front door to her beloved.) He was al- lowed to meet her in the hall-way, and they went into the parlor to chat out their private chat. Then they joined the family circle in the dining-room, where the evening lamp shone cheerily on the red cloth that turned the dining- table into a centre-table, and Randolph answered questions about his mothers health, or talked of building-matters with Mr. Leete, or made engaging con- versation on topics judiciously selected from the news of the day. But that time was long past ere the winter had travelled over the brow of Christmas Hill. Now it was always Dorinda who opened the door to him. He did not know it, but Dorinda, on the nights when he might be looked for, took her seat by the dining-room door, on the most uncomfortable chair in the room, and awaited his coming in a gloomy spirit of duty. She always open- ed the door with the chain up, and peered througia the crack as though she were expecting a stranger of murderous intentions. Then she said, with the cor- ners of her mouth drawn down in a painful smile: Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Wykoff; I didnt know it was you, to-night. The door was closed, the chain let down, the door swung open slowly, and Randolph was admitted, to face a greeting that rarely varied much in form: I dont spose you want to see the famly, Mr. Wykoft; if youll be so hind as to step into the parlor, Ill tell my sister youre here. Dorinda had reduced the difficult arts of irony and sarcasm to a few simple formulas of vigorous emphasis, applied to the direct deliverances of ordinary conversation. Yet, had it not been for a certain ring of triumphant satisfaction in her tone, and a sparkle of proud achievement in her eye, Wykoff would perhaps have failed to suspect her intent. NA TURAL SELECTION. 187 In the front parlor, dimly lit and chillyAlonzo was in charge of the fur- naceRandolph awaited his betrothed. After what was held a proper and dig- nified space of time, she was permitted to join him. She came in, often, with a flush high on her cheeks and with a fluttering breath, and hid her head on his shoulder, where he let it lie. He was not an observant young man; he was not a demonstrative wooer, but he felt that his little girl was suffering per- secution, and he pitied her. He had more than Dorindas depress- ing salutation to open his eyes. As he sat in the shadowy parlor, waiting for Celia, he heard Dorinda return to the dining-room to announce his coming. Her entrance was followed by a silence. Then came a loud grunt, from far down in Mr. Leetes deep lungs, as if he said, Oh, is that all? Sometimes a pro- found sigh was audible through the closed folding-doors, and he could guess that there was a weight on Mother Leetes mind. And regularly, every night that he sat there, he heard Alonzo arise, march through the hail, put on his coat and hat, and go out into the night. And, in doing this simple thing, Alonzo con- trived, in every step along the hall, to put a staccato accentuation into the set- ting down of his heel which could not fail to carry its meaning to the lost soul in the front parlor. It was the right- eous man stalking out of the neighbor- hood of the accursed thing. But of Celias sufferings at her rela- tives hands, Randolph had an exa~ger- ated conception. Alonzo and Dorinda annoyed her in their different ways, but she was quite able to take care of herself in every sort of family spat. She was gentle of spirit, gentle in her tastes; but she had learned to spar in many wordy contests, and she was now no longer dependent upon the love or the approval of either Alonzo or her sister. Indeed, all minor matters, all the little things of the house which had been im- portant to her a few months before meant nothing to her now. She was leading a life of which her brother, her sister, her father, her mother, knew nothing; she was walking in paths where their petty jealousies, spites, disappointments, and misunderstandings could not follow her. There is, however, no telling where combatants like Alonzo and Dorinda will stop when they once start on a line of aggressive conduct. It is not enough for them to see that their weapons strike home; to see the punctures, to know, whatever momentary exaltation of soul may stay the physical pain of the victim, that, sooner or later, the wounds must begin to bleed, and the tender flesh to burn with fever. Theirs is a grosser warfare. They must see the suffering, they must hear the cries; they must realize that they have inflicted material damage before they can feel that they have done what they set out to do. Especially must their vengeance be complete when it constitutes what they consider merited punishmentand to judge and to punish is the especial mis- sion of these rightthinking and right- doing people, who, being ever in the right, have but small pity for those err- ing mortals who have not their light. So it was not long before Dorinda laid down the foil of polite irony, and took to broadsword-practice. She had been content with the pleasure to be derived from outspoken conjectures as to her sisters probable behavior after she should have joined her swell friends whether or no she would rec- ognize her kinsfolk when she met them on the streetor look at anyone who lived in a frame houseor use baking- powder in her kitchen. But now she relieved her mind with open and vitu- perative onslaughts upon Randolph Wykoff, his mother, and all that they stood for and represented in the social scheme. She gave up going to the door to let Randolph in, and that duty was delegated to Alonzo, who performed it in absolute silence, with a discourteous hostility in his bearing that, had he not been Celia Leetes brother, would have got him a sound thrashing at the hands of a young gentleman who had been held, in his time, one of the prettiest middle-weight boxers that had ever sparred at Harvard College. It was a most unpleasant state of things for the engaged pair, and they talked it over at every meeting. Wykoff was for going to Mr. Leete and demand- ing an abatement of the nuisance; but Celia, who underestimated the strength 188 NA TURAL SELECTION. of her position, told him that parental interference would only embitter her persecutors, and make her lot the harder; and her lover unwillingly held his peace. It was Dorinda who brought matters to a climax. Mrs. Wykoff had been ilL Her lungs were not over-strong, and she had been taken with something that looked like pneumonia. Randolph stopped at the Leetes, late one January afternoon, to tell Celia of his mothers progress to- ward recovery. He was admitted by the servanta rare event; for attendance upon the front door was not among that handmaids many duties. She let him into the parlor, and there he found Do- rinda, volubly entertaining a young man and a young woman whom he at once guessed to be the much-vaunted Cargill and his bride-elect. Cargill was a tall young man with a large black mustache. His clothing had that effect of shiny and unwrinkled newness which is rarely to be observed save on the wire frames in the tailors windows. Huge diamonds sparkled on his fingers, in his necktie, and even in a shamelessly ex- posed collar-stud. Mrs. Cargill, that was to be, was clad in a blue velvet dress that just held its own for brilliancy against Dorindas red bodice of state. The Cargill and the Cargill-expectant glanced at the Wykoff as he entered and sat down in the farthest corner of the room; Dorinda did not even turn her head, but pitched the conversation in a. higher key, so that he might lose no word of it. Was you at the Sweatmans so- ciable? she inquired. Nope, said Mr. Cargill, sucking the big silver head of his cane. I heard it was real elgant, Miss Leete ran on; I couldnt goma n me had to go to a meetin of the church fair cmittee. I spose you know Im goin to have the Rebekah booth at the fair. Hope youre comin to patronize me. Ill sell you some lem nadef you ever drink lemnade, Mr. Cargill. The simper with which this speech was ended was a beautiful tribute to Car- gill in his quality of man of the world. Aint sellin beer this trip? was Mr. Cargills jocular inquiry. Then I guess Ill take lemnade. Sell a stick with it? Oh, do hush, said the bride-elect, dabbing at him with her muft and pre I, NA TURAL SELECTION. 189 tending to be scandalized at his wicked- ness. I think lemnades reel nice, dont you, Drinda? Im comin to get some, n Im goin to make him pay for it, too. Two treble laughs and a bass laugh did honor to this witticism, and, when the spasm of merriment was over, Do- rinda began again. Dyou see Mr. Cree at the Sweat-. mans? I think hes one f the nicest gentlemen I ever saw. Celia was out ; it was a quarter of an hour before she came in, and through that quarter of an hour Randolph Wy- koff sat in his corner of the parlor and heard the chroni- cle of a society that in one way might well be call- ed, as it would have called itself, elgant. This was bad enough, but there was worse yet. The visitors took their leave at last, and Dorinda fol- lowed them into the hall-way. She closed the do o r behind her, but one door was a poor obstruction to Dorindas voice, and Wykoff heard what probably it was intended that he should hear: Him? Oh, thats Mr. Wykoff Celias friend, you knowhe aint any f mine. Id have intro- duced you, ony I dont hardly know him well enough. We aint fine enough for him, n I thought maybe our friends wasnt. Guess you aint lost much, though. When Celia came in, Randolph told her, as gently as possible, but definitely and definitively, that thereafter he would come to the house only when her sister was not at home, and he kept his word. Yet they had to see each other, and VOL. 11119 so they fell into a bad way of meeting in the streets. Celia contrived to let her lover know that on such a day a shopping tour would bring her through such and such a street at this or that hour; and at the time and place ap- pointed, Randolph would meet her t& walk home with her. This unwise ar-. rangement brought itself to a timely end, happily for both of them. Celias sources of supply were among the marts of fashion that line West Fourteenth Street and the region round about. Thence she could find no route home-. ward on which a young man like Ran-- dolph Wykoff could have the ghost of an excuse for loitering. He therefore~ suggested to her to make her purchases at the larger shops on Broadway, so that he might join her in the quiet side- streets to the east of the great thorough- fare. Those streets between Union and Madison Squares are, for the most part, given over to boarding-houses and lodg ing-houses of dull respectability, and although they are not much traversed, NA TURAL SELECTION. 191 if she cared to read one or two books that he had found serviceable in his own studies. One little incident that took place just before Mrs. Wykoff went to Florida made a deep impression upon Mr. Leete, and set him to thinking uneasily of the future. His wife drew his attention to the fact that Mrs. Wykoff having passed through a serious iJiness, a call of con- gratulation, from the head of the house of Leete, would be an appropriate and delicate attention to the convalescent. Perhaps, the good wife suggested, the Leete family had been remiss in such matters of courtesy. Mrs. Wykoffs visit was still unreturned, and, as Mrs. Leete truly said, it was only because Popper Leete had kept saying that he would go with her some day, and had never yet found the day to suit him. Now, they didnt both of them want to go streakin down there together, when Mrs. Wykoff was sick, or sort of sick; and she her- self couldnt go, with the church fair to look after; but Popper Leete could go just as well as not, and it would look as if they meant to do the right thing; and if hed go now, hed never have to go again, and he might just as well go, and have done with it. Mr. Leete went. Dressed in his Sun- day broadcloth, he presented himself at the door of the Wykoffs great house on Second Avenue, and gave the livened menial his one card, neatly written in Dorindas elaborate Anserian System handwriting. Mrs. Wykoff was lying on the lounge in her sunny sitting-room, which looked out on a little snow-covered corner of the garden, where a half-clad Venus snatched at her scanty raiment, and looked as though she would like to be able to shudder, and shake the snow off her bare shoulders. Mr. Leete had a pleasant call. He soon found himself talking readily with the gentle, gracious lady on the lounge, and he was so much at his ease that he was even able to cast furtive glances at the room and its furniturerich, yet simple and old enough in fashion to come with- in the scope of his knowledge. He was so much at ease, indeed, that when Mrs. Wykoffs tea was brought in, he ac- cepted her offer of a cup, and, becoming 192 NA TURAL SELECTION. interested in the conversation, dropped the cup on the floor and broke it into many fragments. He was deeply distressed. It took all Mrs. Wykoffs tact and discretion to make him feel that she saw no uncom- mon awkwardness in his mishap. They are absurd things, those little egg-shell cups, she said, they are for- ever breaking. Randolph brought me that set only three months ago, and I think that he and I between us have contrived to break half a dozen cups since then. Dont give it another thought, please. Mr. Leete did give it another thought, however. He gave it thought enough to privily examine the mark on the bottom of the broken cup. It bore a French name, strange to him; but he succeeded in getting some sort of mental picture of the combined characters. In his own phrase, he sized it up roughly. When, a quarter of an hour later, he found him- self in the street, with no clear idea of the means by which his visit had been brought to a painless close and an easy exit, he was already nursing the germ of a great idea. Why should not a Leete, as well as a Wykoff, replace a broken set of china- ware? Mrs. Wykoff had said that six cups were already goneMr. Leetes cup made the seventh. Here was a chance to perform an act of substantial cour- tesy, and with credit to the family. I guess Ill do a little suthin in the crockery line myself, thought Mr. Leete. He remembered that Randolphs gift of china had come from a well-known shop on Broadway, and thither he went at once. A polite little salesman met him near the door of the long ware-room, and inquired his pleasure. Mr. Leete was conscious of feeling large, ponder- ous, and solid amid all the fragility. Faaence and Limoges were in front of him, S~vres and Belleek to right and left, and his eyes rested on nothing sim- pler or more modest than that sturdy Meissen ware which is still honored un- der the name of Dresden. I want some tea-things, began Mr. Leete, of the kind you call the French word failed him, but his eye lit on the thing itself, a set of the identical pattern, different only in color, lying in state among the satin folds of a huge leather case. Therethem! he said; thats what rm lookin for, only I want it in blue. We havent a blue set, sir, said the clerk; we had one, but we sold it a few months ago. Dye know who you sold it to? queried Mr. Leete, hiding his detec- tive intent under a mask of simplicity. Maybe the party would be willin to sell. The clerk smiled superciliously. I hardly think so, he said; our trade is pretty much with private cus- tomers. Id like to have you make sure, per- sisted Mr. Leete; I want blue, an Im willin to pay for it. The salesman trotted to the back of the shop, and spoke to a clerk at a desk. The clerk fluttered the leaves of a great book, and the salesman trotted back, with a superior smile on his lips. I dont think youll be very success- ful, sir, he said; that other set was bought by Mr. Wykoff, son of old John Wykoff, who died last year. You may have heard of him. Theyre one of the oldest families in the city, and one of the richest I dont believe theyd be willing to dispose of anything they bought. rye heard of em, said Mr. Leete, smiling in his turn. He wanted to see that salesmans face when he told him to box up the pink set and send it to Mrs. John Wykoff, Second Avenue. After all, the pink would do as well as the blue. Whats the price of this set here? he asked, touching one of the egg-shell cups with a careful finger. Four hundred and twenty dollars, said the salesman. Eh? said Mr. Leete. Very cheap at that, sir marked down from four hundred and seventy- five. All hand-painted by one of the first artists in France. Only these two sets ever importedquite unique. Hum! snorted Mr. Leete, too bad you aint got the blue. Good-day. Out in the street he made a rapid cal- culation. NA TURAL SELECTION. 193 Four hundred n twentycup n saucers one piece, I spose; one aint good for much thout tothertwelve teapot, jug, an sugars fifteenwant no slop-bowlfifteen into four hundred n twentytwenty- eight dollars. Moses Taylor! This is the New Yorkers special oath of astonish- ment; though why that eminent and sober-minded mer- chant has received such strange can- onization in the cal- endar of mild pro- fanity no one may know. When he was at home he told his wife all about it, and shook his head dubiously as he drew some uncom- fortable conclu- sions. I dont see he _ said, that weve got any occasion to travel with folks that cn smash twenty-eight dollars wuth f crockery an not so much as know it. That aint any sort of house- keeping for Celia. She aint been brought up in that way, an I dont want her to get sech ideas. Twenty-eight dollars! Why, Ma Leete, Id ruther have her eat off stone china all the days f her lifean so would you. And yet Mr. Leete was as much pleased as was his wife when, in July, a letter came from Mrs. Wykoff, at East Hampton, inviting Celia to spend a few weeks at the Wykoff homestead. You will have a dull time, she wrote, for I am still something of an invalid, and, of course, we see no one; but my niecesI call them soare spending the summer with me, and they and Ran- dolph will do what they can to make it pleasant for you. Write me that you will come, and Parker, my faithful facto- tum, will call for you and make you comfortable on your journey. Even Alonzo felt some tender stir- rings toward mercy in the depths of his stern soul; and Dorinda gave it as her opinion that Celia could ade- quately display her self-respect and sense of independence by delaying her answer for the space of twenty-four hours. As it took poor Celia that time to prepare a missive sufficiently lofty in tone to pass the family conclave, Dorm- da had her own way, and, being placated, entered with an interest only too active and energetic into the preparation of her sisters paraphernalia. THE LAW AND THE BALLOT. By Joseph B. Bishop. o one can seek an explanation of the demand for a re- form in our ballot system, which is heard in so many parts of the coun- try that it may J~ properly be called general, without being struck with two things,first, that the cause of the evils which give rise to the demand is so ob- vious, and second, that the advocates of various kinds of political reforms have been so slow in perceiving it. In all cases the demand is found to spring from a profound dissatisfaction with the increasing influence which money is ex- ercising in our elections, especially in the large cities. The complaint every- where is that the political organizations, or machines, have grown to such pow- er that they have, in many localities, de- prived the people of their right to con- trol their own nominations and elections. When we seek for the source of the power of the machines we find it always in their control of the money which is used in elections, and when we ask why they have the money, we find the original reason to have been that they were given it to meet the expense of printing and distributing the ballots. Why must they do this work? Simply because the State has neglected to make any provision for having it done. To this neglect of the State all the worst evils of our municipal, state and national politics are so easily and surely traceable, that the first emotion of any inquirer who has gone to the bottom of the subject is one of astonishment that the neglect was not seen and remedied long ago. Nothing is more curious, when one comes to think about it, than most of our election laws, so far as they relate to this subject of ballots. It is doubtful if there is, for example, a better election law in the whole country than that of the State of New York. It is a perfect Gibraltar against any attempt to prevent an honest counting of the votes as cast. The candidate who has a plu- rality of ten votes in the boxes is just as certain of being declared elected as if he had a plurality of 10,000. Equally ad- mirable are the provisions of the same law relating to the registration of voters in the large cities of the State and the reception of their ballots on election day. These provisions were drawn for the pur- pose of putting an end to repeating and personating, and they have practically abolished both those abuses. Every pre- caution has been taken by the State to protect the legal voter in the exercise of his franchise, to exclude all others from exercising it, and to insure an honest counting of the ballots after they have been cast; but no provision whatever has been made for furnishing the ballots themselves. There is a complete lapsus in the law in this respect. Not only is no provision made for the State to do the work of printing and distributing the ballots, but no authority whatever is given to anybody to do it. By what seems to be little less than a joke in leg- islation, minute directions are given in the law concerning the typography of ballots which nobody is authorized to print. This work, which nobody has any legal authority to do, the political organ- izations have voluntarily undertaken. If the leaders of these organizations were to agree secretly on the eve of an elec- tion that they would not print any bal- lots, or that they would either destroy or fail to distribute those already print- ed, there could be no election and no- body could be held responsible for the default. The law reserves for any voter the right to write his own ballot, but how many voters in a city like New York would be able to do that accurate- ly? Again, if the organizations were to enter into a conspiracy to distribute only the ballots of one political party, the candidates of other parties would virtu- ally be excluded from the election, and nobody could be held legally responsible for it.

Joseph B. Bishop Bishop, Joseph B. The Law And The Ballot 194-201

THE LAW AND THE BALLOT. By Joseph B. Bishop. o one can seek an explanation of the demand for a re- form in our ballot system, which is heard in so many parts of the coun- try that it may J~ properly be called general, without being struck with two things,first, that the cause of the evils which give rise to the demand is so ob- vious, and second, that the advocates of various kinds of political reforms have been so slow in perceiving it. In all cases the demand is found to spring from a profound dissatisfaction with the increasing influence which money is ex- ercising in our elections, especially in the large cities. The complaint every- where is that the political organizations, or machines, have grown to such pow- er that they have, in many localities, de- prived the people of their right to con- trol their own nominations and elections. When we seek for the source of the power of the machines we find it always in their control of the money which is used in elections, and when we ask why they have the money, we find the original reason to have been that they were given it to meet the expense of printing and distributing the ballots. Why must they do this work? Simply because the State has neglected to make any provision for having it done. To this neglect of the State all the worst evils of our municipal, state and national politics are so easily and surely traceable, that the first emotion of any inquirer who has gone to the bottom of the subject is one of astonishment that the neglect was not seen and remedied long ago. Nothing is more curious, when one comes to think about it, than most of our election laws, so far as they relate to this subject of ballots. It is doubtful if there is, for example, a better election law in the whole country than that of the State of New York. It is a perfect Gibraltar against any attempt to prevent an honest counting of the votes as cast. The candidate who has a plu- rality of ten votes in the boxes is just as certain of being declared elected as if he had a plurality of 10,000. Equally ad- mirable are the provisions of the same law relating to the registration of voters in the large cities of the State and the reception of their ballots on election day. These provisions were drawn for the pur- pose of putting an end to repeating and personating, and they have practically abolished both those abuses. Every pre- caution has been taken by the State to protect the legal voter in the exercise of his franchise, to exclude all others from exercising it, and to insure an honest counting of the ballots after they have been cast; but no provision whatever has been made for furnishing the ballots themselves. There is a complete lapsus in the law in this respect. Not only is no provision made for the State to do the work of printing and distributing the ballots, but no authority whatever is given to anybody to do it. By what seems to be little less than a joke in leg- islation, minute directions are given in the law concerning the typography of ballots which nobody is authorized to print. This work, which nobody has any legal authority to do, the political organ- izations have voluntarily undertaken. If the leaders of these organizations were to agree secretly on the eve of an elec- tion that they would not print any bal- lots, or that they would either destroy or fail to distribute those already print- ed, there could be no election and no- body could be held responsible for the default. The law reserves for any voter the right to write his own ballot, but how many voters in a city like New York would be able to do that accurate- ly? Again, if the organizations were to enter into a conspiracy to distribute only the ballots of one political party, the candidates of other parties would virtu- ally be excluded from the election, and nobody could be held legally responsible for it. THE LAW AND THE BALLOT. 195 The simple fact is that in adapting our election machinery to meet the de- mands of our growth in numbers, we have overlooked an important point. There was a time when we needed no registration laws and when the counting of the vote did not have to be so care- fully guarded; but we passed that long ago and framed the laws necessary to protect the ballot-box against the new dangers which threatened it from those directions. Nothing remains of the primitive system, as it existed in the old town meetings, except the method of providing ballots. That alone has not been adapted to modern needs. When communities were small, the ex- pense of printing and distributing bal- lots was so slight that the question of paying it was of no importance. Grad- ually it became the custom for candi- dates, as the persons most interested, to pay the expense. From this simple practice we have gone on, practically without change to the present time. Not only has the expense of printing the ballots reached formidable propor- tions in all our large cities, but to get the ballots distributed at the polls re- quires the employment of large forces of men. Each party must have its own force, consisting of ballot distributors, workers and watchers, and to pay these large sums of money must be raised, chiefly by assessments or levies upon candidates. Here we have the genesis of the modern political machines which have come to play so dominating and so pernicious a part in our municipal politics, and consequently in our national politics ;for in nearly all the states thp decisive influence in politics comes from the cities. From the nature of the case the ma- chines long since passed beyond the simple work of attending to the printing and distributing of the ballots. It was that work which gave them the excuse for raising funds, and from raising money for the legitimate expenses of an election, it was an easy and natural step to raising some for illegitimate ex- penses also. The very conditions of their existence formed an irresistible incentive to dishonesty and corruption. In the first place, the machines were made up of men who had gone into politics from no sense of public duty or patriotism, but simply for hire. The more extravagant and dishonest they could make politics, the better living would they get. In the second place, no legal authority had appointed them for their work and they were responsible to nobody for its faithful performance. They had absolute control of the ballots. They could ruin a candidates prospects by failing to distribute his ballots, or by substituting upon them somebody elses name for his. The more they cheated, the more sources they could find from which to extract pay, either in the form of blackmail or bribes,the larger would be their profits. They demanded every year more money for their services and had little difficulty in obtaining it. As much of it was given to them to be used for corrupt purposes, they could not be required to give an accounting of its expenditure, since such accounting would make persons contributing it liable to indictment for bribery. What wonder that under these conditions the machines grew more cor- rupt and dishonest with every election! No responsibility under the laws, no accounting for moneys received, no in- quiry even as to its use !why, there is not a church, or any other institution, religious or secular, in Christendom, whose officers could be safely trusted with such freedom. But the demoralization long since passed beyond the limits of the political organizations. The continually growing demands for money for campaign uses, or election expenses, has had the inevit- able effectof putting up nominations for office to be knocked down to the highest bidder. From controlling the elections the machines have passed naturally to controlling nominations, for no man can have their support who will not promise in advance of his nomination to pay an assessment as the means of defraying the cost of his election. Undoubtedly this evil of assessments has reached its most aggravated form in the city of New York, but it exists in greater or less de- gree in nearly all the large cities of the land: In New York, as was shown about a year ago by Mr. William M. Ivins, the City Chamberlain, in a remarkable paper before the Commonwealth Club, the ag THE LAW AND THE BALLOT. gregate of assessments in every general election is about $210,000. Single can- didates are assessed as high as $25,000, and from that point the rate tapers down to $500. It seldom goes below that point for any kind of office. This is simple bargain and sale. Large as the amount is, it is only about a third of that which the machines in that city have to divide among themselves in an ordi- nary election, and not more than a fifth or a sixth of what they have in a Presi- dential election when they become, in close contests, the ready and most effec- tive medinm for the systematic and wholesale bribery of voters. The ordi- nary or regular force of workers in the New York organizations numbers 45,000 men, or about one-fifth of the entire vot- ing population. They have an average of 46 men for every election district in the city, and they can increase this to any limit by hiring as many additional men as the exigencies of a campaign may require. This enormous force, of different party names, is actuated by a common purpose, and its members are always ready to combine for the election of a candidate whose views of public office meet their approval, or the defeat of one whose election would be likely to interfere in anyway with their busi- ness. The control of nominations and elec- tions in all our large cities has thus passed almost completely out of the hands of what is called the virtue and intelligence of the community. The voice of what Matthew Arnold calls the Saving remnant is stifled absolutely in the nominating conventions, and only occasionally is able to make itself heard in elections. Nothing could be more completely the reverse of the theory of popular government, by means of rep- resentative and deliberative assemblies, than the manner in which nominations are made. The so-called nominating conventions are merely assemblages of machine leaders and their workers who formally ratify a ticket which one or more bosses had made up from a list of names of men who are willing to pay the assessments demanded. The popu- lar voice does not enter into the work at all. The men who decide the matter are usually all officeholders who get a living for themselves and their followers out of public office and are personally interested in making the public service as extravagant as possible. A particu- larly ominous thing, about which a whole paper might be written, is the promi- nent part which police magistrates are taking in this as well as in other branches of machine leadership. It does not re- quire much imagination to see the in- evitable evils which must result from this combination of the powers of political leadership and police magistracy. If we were to trace them out we might find why it is so difficult to enforce liquor laws in our large cities, and thus get a glimpse of the fostering influences under which the liquor traffic has grown to be such a portentous power in our politics. The effect of offering office for sale, which the machine system really amounts to, has been to limit our officeholders almost entirely to two classes, the rich, and those willing to use public office for personal or partisan gain. Much has been said, and truthfully, of the deplora- bly demoralizing influence of having the mere possession of wealth substituted for fitness as a qualification for office, but it must be admitted that the harm which rich men have done in our mu- nicipal affairs is a mere trifle compared with that done by the political adventur- ers and speculators. Many of the rich men, who have paid for the privilege of holding office, have done so with a sin- cere desire of rendering the State needed service; and they have carried out that desire effectively in office. In general it may be said that the very rich man who obtains office through his wealth is con- eent with no other return than the thanks of the public for faithful perform- ance of its duties. It is the man who buys office as a speculation, either for cash down, or in promises of services to the political organization with which he is identified, who is the worst outcome of the system. He pays for a legislative office a sum two or three times the amount of his salary and counts upon making a good living out of itby sell- ing his vote or influence on all possible occasions. He gets a nomination for an administrative office by pledging a large part of his salary as an assessment, and intends to get it back again in some way 196 S THE LAW AND THE BALLOT. 197 out of the office. He will take a judicial office, and either pledge a part of his salary in advance, or promise to use the office to protect the interests of all his political friends, or of those who will contribute to his assessment. Men of this kind swarm in all city offices, and in our legislatures. They are the cause of swollen payrolls, of extravagant ex- penditures, of indirect pilferings, of all kinds of jobbery, of the enactment of bad laws and the defeat of good laws. They cost the State ten times over every year the price which they give for their nom- inations. Until they can be driven out of the public service, economical admin- istration will be impossible and the enO actment of just and necessary laws will become every year more and more diffi- cult. Is not the line from cause to effect drawn with absolute directness through all this demoralization? There is the neglect of the State to provide a method for ballot printing and distribution. This gave the machines the excuse for their formation. The expense of the work gave them the excuse for their as- sessments and thus led to their control of the money to be used in elections. Their control of the money has given them the control of both nominations and elections; and this in turn has giv- en them the control of the offices and of the public patronage. Is not the remedy as obvious as the cause? As the neglect of the State has been the primal cause of all these evils, so the remedying of that neglect must be the first step toward re- form. If the control of the printing and distributing of the ballots be taken from. the machines and made the legal busi- ness of the State, we shall at one blow take from the machines their excuse for existence and their means of support. The advocates of this reform do not claim that it will work an immediate removal of all the ills which have sprung from the original neglect, but they do claim that it must be the first step not only to- ward such removal but toward any per- manent reform in municipal government. They claim that until the ballot-box shall have been so completely removed from the contaminating touch of politics and politicians that it shall be in practice, what it is in theory, the free and un trammelled register of the popular will, it is useless to hope for relief through such sources as cumulative voting, in- crease of official responsibility or any other of the many excellent projects which have been so long and so ably advocated. The foundation must be made solid before we can add to the stability of the superstructure. Steps in the direction of this reform have been taken in at least four States. Wisconsin passed last year a new ballot act, which, though by no means a per- fect or adequate measure, contains some of the principles which are of vital im- portance to the work in hand. Under this act the State is put in charge of the work of distributing the ballots, but the expense of printing them is to be de- frayed as heretofore by the political or- ganizations. These organizations fur- nish the ballots to the States inspectors of election, who have charge of their distribution and are under oath to dis- charge that duty faithfully or suffer a fixed penalty. They are to arrange the ballots under their respective political titles in a room hired by the State for that purpose and separated from the voting room by a passage or hall. Each voter enters the first room alone, selects his ballots, and passes to the voting- room, where, if found to be qualified, he deposits them, and passes out at a door provided for that purpose. Each politi- cal party is given the privilege of nam- ing two persons to act as challengers and two others to act as custodians of the tickets. The inspectors employed by the State are to select one of the two challengers designated by each political party and designate such a place for them to stand, outside the voting-room, as will give them convenient opportu- nity to challenge voters. The inspectors are also to select one of the two chal- lengers named by eachpolitical party and permit the same to remain in the ticket- room and take charge of the ballots of their respective parties. These are to be the only persons allowed to remain in the room other than those prescribed by law, but they are compelled to take an oath of office, and are forbidden, un- der fixed penalty of fine or imprison- ment or both, to directly or indirectly solicit, request, or attempt to influence 198 THE LAW AND THE BALLOT. any voter to vote for any candidate, though they may at a voters request al- ter a ticket in such a manner only as he desires. No one is allowed to accom- pany the voter to the voting-room, which he enters alone and in which only one voter is allowed at a time. The law ex- pressly provides that all windows shall be so secured as to prevent any person outside from looking into the ticket room. It is forbidden also for any crowd of persons to collect or remain within 100 feet of the voting or ticket- room during an election, or for any per- son to offer tickets or solicit votes with- in 100 feet of them. The chief effects of this law will be, of course, to banish ticket peddlers from the polls, and with them all the other gangs of workers and intimidators; and to insure for the voter freedom from es- pionage in the selection and voting of his ballots. These are both most impor- tant reforms, but they ought to be ac- companied by the other reform of hav- ing the work and expense of printing the ballots assumed by the State. The Wisconsin act was passed in the winter of 18867 and became a law in April last. It applies only to cities of 50,000 or more inhabitants, and is consequently limited to Milwaukee in its application. The most comprehensive and careful ballot act which appeared last year was one drawn in Michigan, and which passed one branch of the Legislature. This was modelled largely upon the English and Australian acts. It was very appropriately entitled a bill to preserve the purity of elections and guard against abuses of the elective franchise. It provided for three sets of ballots in as many different colors, a white ballot containing the names of all National and State candidates to be printed by the Secretary of State at the States expense, a blue baliot containing the names of all county candidates, to be printed by the County Clerk at the countys expense, and a red ballot con- taining all the names of city candidates to be printed by the city, village or township clerk at the city, village or township expense. Any candidate could have his name placed upon the ballots by presenting to the officer in charge of the printing a certificate of his nomi nation by any assembly, gathering or convention of citizens qualified to vote for any candidate for such office, pro- vided he present his name 30 days be- fore election if he were a candidate for a State office, ten days before if for a county office, and four days before if for a city office, and on payment of a fee of $50 for a State, $10 for a county and $5 for a city or township office. The ballots were to be of uniform size and to bear the name of State, county, or city and ward printed at the top. The names of candidates were to be printed after the name of the office and in the order in which they were handed in. SAlter each candidates name his politics was to be designated, and opposite each name, in the margin of the ballot, there was to be a vacant space in which the voter should designate his choice by a (x). The form of the ballot for all offices would be like the following for Governor: State Ballot. Governor John Smith Republican x Governor John Jones Democrat o ~ Governor John Robinson .. Prohibition ~ Governor The blank space at the bottom was required on each ticket and at the close of each list of names for each office, to enable the voter to write in the name of any person, whose name was not printed on the ballot, for whom he desired to vote. The provisions of the Michigan bill in regard to the act of voting were in the main excellent. Elections were to be held in districts of not more than 300 voters each. At every polling place there was to be a room in which there were separate compartments in the proportion of one for every 50 voters. This room was to be in sole charge of the election officials who had exclusive control of the ballots, none of which were allowed to be distributed any- where else. When the voter entered, he must first show that he was qualified to vote, after which he would receive his ballots from an inspector who would place his own initials upon the back of each. The voter was then to retire to THE LAW AND THE BALLOT. 199 one of the compartments, which must be so constructed that he would be free from observation, and there indicate by a cross in the margin the candidate for each office for whom he wished to vote. Coming from the compartment after marking his ballots he should fold them so that their faces would be concealed, but so that the initials of the inspector could be seen upon the backs, and offer them to the inspectors who were to put them in the ballot-boxes. No persons were to be allowed in the voting room except the officers of election and police- men, and the number of voters admitted at one time must not exceed the num- ber of compartments by more than five. The time during which a voter could remain in the voting rooms could be regulated by the election officials, but could not be made less than three minutes or more than ten. It was made unlawful for any election officer or any person in the polling room or compart- ments to persuade or to endeavor to persuade any person to vote for a par- ticular candidate, and the penalty for such conduct was fixed at a fine not ex- ceeding $100 or imprisonment not ex- ceeding 90 days. These provisions for the secrecy and purity of the ballot are founded upon the principles of the laws which have been put in practice with such signal success in both Australia and England. It has been found in those countries that the simple requirement that the voter shall be alone with the election officers while he casts his vote, has practically put an end to bribery, for no briber will pay money to a voter whom he cannot follow to the polls to see if he votes as he is bribed. Under our present system whole squads of voters are marched to the polls with their ballots in their hands so held that the boss can see them from the time they are received till they are deposited in the ballot-boxes. Under the provi- sions of the Michigan bill the boss could not get in sight of the polls and could not therefore either intimidate or bribe a single voter. All excuse for machine existence would be taken away, for there would be nothing for the machines to do and no pretext upon which money could be raised for their support. The one serious defect in the Michigan bill was the provision requiring fees from candidates when they filed their names with the officers in charge of the print- ing. That is an indefensible recognition of the pernicious theory of the present system that candidates ought to bear an expense which really belongs to the whole people. In no State has the subject under con- sideration received more serious and thoughtful attention than in New York. It was in New York City in fact that it received the impulse which has brought it to the attention of the whole country. The discussions of the Commonwealth Club last Winter led to the rough draft- ing of a bill which has been made the basis of a measure which it is hoped the New York Legislature will enact into a law before the present session closes. It follows in the main the lines of the Mich- igan bill and seeks to secure, in the sim- plest, most direct, and most effective manner, the complete control by the State of the printing and distributing of ballots. There should also be in it a provision making it possible for a fixed number of citizens, by certifying within a certain period of an election that they wish to vote for the same person for a particular office, to have his name printed upon the ballots for that office. A bill which was prepared in Connecticut last Winter, but never presented to the Leg- islature, went a step beyond this, and placed a limit to the campaign expendi- tures of candidates. The advocates of electoral reform are unanimous in believing that the lim- itation of campaign expenditures is a most desirable thing to accomplish, but they think it would be wiser to advance a single step at a time. When the State has been put in control of the ballot machinery, the next step in the series will naturally be the passage of a law fixing a maximum limit for the expendi- tures of candidates and requiring the publication, after election, by the candi- dates or their agents. of a sworn state- ment of every item of expenditure. All these provisions are in the English Bal- lot Acts and the Corrupt Practices Acts, and their complete success in practice has been one of the most signal triumphs of modern legislation. They have lit- 200 THE LAW AND THE BALLOT. erally exterminated all the many evils which flowed in that country, as they do in this, from the unrestricted use of moneyin elections. They have also great- ly reduced the legitimate expenses of elections, and have thus put public office within the reach of others than the rich. When the law limiting expenditures was first passed the maximum allowed was pronounced too low by nearly every- body, but after two elections had been held under it, the surprising fact was revealed that it was at least one-fourth too high. The last total of election ex- penditures for Great Britain before the law went into effect was estimated at about $15,000,000. At the first election under the law it dropped to about $3,900,000, and in the second, that of 1886, it dropped to less than $3,000,000, or one million less than the maximum allowed bylaw. At the last election be- fore the law went into operation, there were no less than 95 petitions against returns on the ground of corruption and bribery. After the election in 1886 there was not a single one. As compet- itive extravagance and bribery under the old system had had the effect of con- stantly increasing the extravagance and dishonesty of elections, so had limited expenditure and inability to bribe pro- duced economy. If one candidate does not bribe and corrupt, his rival has no incentive to do so. Nobody can deny that there is a cry- ing need for such restrictions in this coun- try. The present agitation is confined mainly to measures designed to effect re- form in our cities, but the movement must in time be extended to the whole country. The evils of the use of money in elections are by no means confined to the cities. They are found in every state and in almost every election that is held, and they are all traceable to the same source, the payment of election expenses. Many a United States Sen- atorship has been decided in this way far in advance of the meeting of the Legislature whose members were to make the choice. The candidate has gone into the primaries which were to nominate the members and has secured a mortgage upon their votes then and there by agreeing to pay the expenses of their campaigns. In this practice alonefor it long ago became a practicewe ob- tain a hint of the causes which have led, on the one hand, to a steady moral and intellectual decline in the character of our State legislatures, and, on the other, to the appearance of the millionaire Senator at Washington. A law limit- ing expenditures and requiring the pub- lication of the use made of every dollar spent, would put an end to this doubly demoralizing practice instantly, as it would also to any attempt in a national election to capture the presidency by bribing voters in the so-called close States. By making the ballot laws so rigid that the act of voting becomes really secret and untrammelled, we shall abolish individual bribery at the polls, simply by making it unprofitable to the briber. By limiting expenditures and requiring their publication, we shall abolish bribing everywhere by forcing the briber into the light and within the reach of the law. The surest way to abolish bribery, in other words, is to legislate not against the poor and ignorant voter who may be tempted to sell his vote, but against the man who tempts him, for it is the latter and not the former who has been found to be in all democracies the worst enemy of free government. VOLCANOES. By N. S. Shaler. HE greater part of the earths machin- ery operates, in a quiet manner, with 0.) something like the order of movement which we associate with the motions of the celestial bodies. Steadfastly, and without violence of a perturbing kind, the seasons come and go, the continents and mountain-chains rise up, the rivers and seas wear them down, and from age to age the great procession of life moves onward. Even the great perturber, Death, is so or- dered in his work that the destruction of the individual or of the species rare- ly, if ever, breaks the succession on which advance depends. That man is here to-day as the summit and crown of all the life through which he has come to his present state is sufficient evidence that the earths machinery has never worked with such violence as to throw the delicate mechanism of organic life out of adjustment. This order and harmony of the earths ma- chinery would appear to be one of its most startling features if we could con- ceive the gigantic nature of the forces which act upon and within this sphere. But the tumults of the sun, the great temperature of the earths interior, and the vast weight of the masses of the earths crust which are slowly bent into the continents and mountains, elude our imaginations. It is only in volcanoes that we may see something of the Ti- tanic energies of the universe. They alone show us by what delicate adjust- ments of strengths and strains this frail mantle of life is enabled to maintain it- self on the surface of the sphere. Although the popular accounts of vol- canic eruptions give the general reader some idea of the great energy of these catastrophes, they afford no adequate conception of the nature of the opera- tions Which constitute these outbreaks. Still less do they afford him any knowl- edge of the history of the craters from which these discharges take place. We will, therefore, begin our inquiry with a brief outline of what is known concern- ing the history of Vesuvius, the one vol- cano of which we have a tolerably full account for a period of over two thou- sand years. The reader will remember that Yesu- vius is situated on the shores of the Bay of Naples. This part of the Italian coast affords excellent harbors, a charming cli- mate, and a fertile soiL Moreover, it has within its broad expanse a number of islands which in the early days afford- ed admirable strongholds for the small colonies of the Greek folk who for cen- turies, in a milder way, played the part of the Scandinavians of the later time in Four Stages of a Volcanic Diatrict. (From series of school-models by N. S. Staler and W. M. Davis.) 1. Two new lava-conee. Lava-stream pertly blocking a valley, forming a lake. 2. Smaller cone grown to be the larger, its lava blockissg two other valleys; the first lake drained.

N. S. Shaler Shaler, N. S. Volcanoes 201-227

VOLCANOES. By N. S. Shaler. HE greater part of the earths machin- ery operates, in a quiet manner, with 0.) something like the order of movement which we associate with the motions of the celestial bodies. Steadfastly, and without violence of a perturbing kind, the seasons come and go, the continents and mountain-chains rise up, the rivers and seas wear them down, and from age to age the great procession of life moves onward. Even the great perturber, Death, is so or- dered in his work that the destruction of the individual or of the species rare- ly, if ever, breaks the succession on which advance depends. That man is here to-day as the summit and crown of all the life through which he has come to his present state is sufficient evidence that the earths machinery has never worked with such violence as to throw the delicate mechanism of organic life out of adjustment. This order and harmony of the earths ma- chinery would appear to be one of its most startling features if we could con- ceive the gigantic nature of the forces which act upon and within this sphere. But the tumults of the sun, the great temperature of the earths interior, and the vast weight of the masses of the earths crust which are slowly bent into the continents and mountains, elude our imaginations. It is only in volcanoes that we may see something of the Ti- tanic energies of the universe. They alone show us by what delicate adjust- ments of strengths and strains this frail mantle of life is enabled to maintain it- self on the surface of the sphere. Although the popular accounts of vol- canic eruptions give the general reader some idea of the great energy of these catastrophes, they afford no adequate conception of the nature of the opera- tions Which constitute these outbreaks. Still less do they afford him any knowl- edge of the history of the craters from which these discharges take place. We will, therefore, begin our inquiry with a brief outline of what is known concern- ing the history of Vesuvius, the one vol- cano of which we have a tolerably full account for a period of over two thou- sand years. The reader will remember that Yesu- vius is situated on the shores of the Bay of Naples. This part of the Italian coast affords excellent harbors, a charming cli- mate, and a fertile soiL Moreover, it has within its broad expanse a number of islands which in the early days afford- ed admirable strongholds for the small colonies of the Greek folk who for cen- turies, in a milder way, played the part of the Scandinavians of the later time in Four Stages of a Volcanic Diatrict. (From series of school-models by N. S. Staler and W. M. Davis.) 1. Two new lava-conee. Lava-stream pertly blocking a valley, forming a lake. 2. Smaller cone grown to be the larger, its lava blockissg two other valleys; the first lake drained. 202 VOLCANOES. the northern seas. The island of Ischia lying upon the western border of the bay which was in time to receive its name from the relatively modern city of Na- of that time it was a hill and nothing more. During the long sleep of Vesuvius the settlers on Isehia were afflicted with ples, was in the fifth century B.C. the first very serious ernptions from the craters seat of this Grecian settlement. At that on that island, and at one time were time, and for about six centuries after- driven away from their settlements by ward, the volcanic cone of Vesuvius was these disasters. In this period, while not in activity and had a very different Yesuvius was at rest, there were per- aspect from that it has in the present day. haps other slight eruptions of volcan- It was, as is shown in the cut, a broad, ic gases in the country west of Vesu- vms known as the Phkegrean Fields. It is now evident that the pent-up vol- canic powers were struggling to open another way for their exit. They were, however, so unsuccessful that the country A. remained for centuries but little dis- turbed. It became the country-seat of the wealthy Roman citizens, who found there exemption from the distractions of A. n. 79 to 1681. the capitaL AroundVesuvius itself, along the shore of the bay, and on the vine- clad slopes of the mountain, there were wealthy towns, temples, baths, and all 1767. the other rich constructions of that architecture-loving people. Except for the ernptions in Ischia, which was suffi- 1822. ciently remote from the mainland to make its disturbances of no great im- portance, this Vesuvian district enjoyed an undisturbed tranquillity down to the 1868. year 63 of our era. In that year there Diagrammatic Sections through Mount Vesuviu,s showing began a series of moderately strong Changes in the of the Cone. (From Phillips.) earthquakes produced by the volcanic gases in their struggle to reopen their low mountain, not rising more than two long-closed passages to the crater. In thousand feet above the level of the sea. August, 79, these subterranean move- The crater was deep and wide, and to a ments became more and more violent un- modern eye would have told its volcanic til they terminated in a furious eruption. history by its form; but this history had We gain all our knowledge of the not been unravelled, and to the people circumstances of this great catastrophe 3. Volcanoes extinct; the cones wearing away, showing their roots; new valleys forming; lakes drained; ohatruct. ing lavas taking the form of hills. 4. Volcano and lavas destroyed; nothing remaining bot the dikes at the old base of thecone to mark its former presence. A stndy of the lines indicating strata will show the rate of downwearing. VOLCANOES. 203 from the letters of the younger Pliny to known to the public, even in translation. the historian Tacitus, in which that I therefore give the greater part of the writer gives an account of the death of two which refer to the eruption, omitting his uncle, the naturalist Pliny, who lost those portions which contain the com- his life during the ernption. The elder pliments in which Roman correspond- Pliny was admiral of the Roman fleet ents were wont to indulge. This trans- stationed in the port of Misenum, now lation I owe to my friend, Professor J. known as Baial, on the western shore of G. Croswell, who has given a better and the bay. The eruption began about more lively rendering of the text than mid-day, and in a short time the whole of the eastern side of the bay was hidden by the vast cloud of steam, com- mingled with finely pulver- ized dust, which consti- tutes the so- called smoke of a volcan- ic eruption. Gradually this cloud extend- ed, until it brought the darkness of night over all the area within twenty miles of the volcano, and a wide field beyond, extending its shadow, ac- 4/!!! cording to Pion Cassius, Diagrammatic Section through Veauvius in Time of Eruption, showing the General Form of the Vapor-column and the Falling Ashes and Rain. over Africa, The lower cloud of steam is from lava-flows. The lower cup of the crater is that formed Syria, an d before the Christian era. Egypt. The letters of the younger Pliny were can be found in any of the previous ver- designed not to give a detailed account sions. of the eruption itself, in which the writer seems to have had none of the enquirers Plinys Letters. Book 6, 16. interest which led his uncle to his death, Gaius Plinius sends to his friend Tacitus but to give Tacitus information as to greeting. the last hours of the great naturalist. You ask me to write you an account of my This account gives, though inciden- uncles death, that posterity may possess an accurate version of the event in your his- tally, a picturesque description of the tory catastrophe, as seen by a cultivated He was at Misenum, and was in command of Roman youth of eighteen years. Not- the fleet there. It was at one oclock in the af- withstanding the beauty of their style ternoon of the 24th of August that my mother called his attention to a cloud of unusual ap- and their charming simplicity, the let- pearance and size. He had been enjoying the ters of the younger Pliny are but little sun and after a bath had just taken his lunch VOLCANOES. and was lying down to read; but he immediately called for his sandals and went out to an emi- nence from which this phenomenon could be observed. A cloud was rising from one of the hills (it was not then clear which one, as the ob- servers were looking from a distance, but it proved to be Vesuvius), which took the like- ness of a stone-pine very nearly. It imitated the lofty trunk and the spreading branches, for, as I suppose, the smoke had been swept rapidly upward by a recent breeze and was then left hanging unsupported, or else it spread out lat- erally by its own weight, and grew thinner. It changed color, sometimes looking white and sometimes, when it carried up earth or ashes, dirty and streaked. The thing seemed of im- portance, and worthy of nearer investigation to the philosopher. He ordered a light boat to be got ready and asked me to accompany him if I wished; but I answered that I would rather work over my books. In fact he had himself given me something to write. He was going out himself, however, when he received a note from Rectina, wife of Onsins Bassus, living in a villa on the other side of the b y, who was in deadly terror about the ap- proaching danger and begged him to rescue her, as she had no means of flight but by ships. This converted his plan of observation into a more serious purpose. He got his men-of-war under way, and embarked to help liectina, as well as other endangered persons, who were many, for the shore was a favorite resort on account of its beauty. He steer- ed directly for the dangerous spot whence oth- ers were flying, watching it so fearlessly as to be able to dictate a description an d take notes of all ______ the movements and appearances of this catastro- ~~-- . - plie as he observ- ed them. Ashes began to fall on his ships, thicker and hotter as they approached land. Cinders and pnmice, and also black fragments of rock cracked by heat, fell around them. The sea suddenly shoaled, and the shores were ob structed by masses from the mountain. He hesitated awhile and thought of going back -.~:;w..:- ~ ~ again ; but finally gave the word to the reluc- 7 :_~x1I1J~- 7 taut helmsman to go on, saying, Fortune favors the brave. Let us find Pomponianus. Hypothetical Section through Rocka near a Fault on which Pomponianus was at StabLe, separated by the a Line of Volcanoea haa Formed. intervening~ bay (the sea comes in here gradu- The arrowa ehow the direction of the movement of gases; ally in a long inlet with curving shores), and their length, the relative energy of the movement. although the peril was not near, yet as it was in full view, and as the eruption increased seemed to be approaching, lie had packed up his things choice of terrors. So they tied pillows on their and gone aboard his ships ready for flight, heads by way of defence against falling bodies which was prevented, however, by a contrary and sallied out. wind. It was dawn elsewhere; but with them it was My uncle, for whom the wind was most fav- a blacker and denser night than they had ever orable, arrived, and did his best to remove seen, although torches and various lights made their terrors. He embraced the frightened Pomponianus and encouraged him. To keep up their spirits by a show of unconcern, h& had a bath; and afterwards dined, with real, or what was perhaps as heroic, with assumed cheerfulness. But, meanwhile, there began to break out from Vesuvius in many spots, high and wide-shooting flames, whose brilliancy wa heightened by the darkness of approaching night. My uncle reassured them by asserting that these were burning farm-houses which had caught fire after being deserted by the peasants. Then he turned in to sleep, and slept indeed. the most genuine slumbers; for his breathing, which was always heavy and noisy, from the full habit of his body, was heard by all who passed his chamber. But before long the floor of the court on which his chamber opened became so covered with ashes and pumice that if he had lingered in the room lie could not have got out at all. So the servants woke him, and he came. out and joined Pomponianus and others who were watching. They consulted together as to what they should do next. Should they stay in the house or go out of doors. The house waa tottering with frequent and heavy shocks of earthquake, and seemed to go to and fro as if moved from its foundations. But in the open air there were dangers of falling pumice-stoiies, though to be sure, they were light and porous. On the whole, to go out seemed the least of two evils. With my uncle it was a comparison of ar- guments that decided; with the others it was a 204 A 0 Crat r in the Sandwich lalands at the End of an Eruption. The Lava atill throwing off Steam. VOLCANOES. it less dreadful. They decided to take to the shore and see if the sea would allow them to embark; but it appeared as wild and appalling as ever. My uncle lay dowii on a rug. He asked twice for water and, drank it. Theu as a flame with a forerunning suiphurous vapor drove off the others, the servants roused him up. Leaning ou two slaves he rose to his feet, but immediately fell back, as I und~fstand, choked by the thick vapors, and this the more easily that his chest was nat rally weak, narrow, and generally inflamed. When day came (I mean the third after the last he ever saw) they found his body perfect and uninjured, and covered just as he had been overtaken. He seemed by his attitude to be rather asleep than dead. In the meantime, my mother and I at Mise- numbut this has nothing to do with my story. You ask for nothing but the account of his death. . Book 6, 20. Gains Plinius sends to his friend Tacitns greeting. You say that you are induced by the letter I wrote to you, when you asked about my uncles death, to desire to know how I, who was left at Misenum, bore the terrors and disasters of that night, for I had just entered on that subject and broke it off. Although my soul shudders at the memory, I will begin. My uncle started off and I devoted myself to my literary task, for which I had remained be- hind. Then followed my bath, dinner, and sleep, though this was short and disturbed. There had been already for many days a tremor of the earth, less appalling, however, in that this is usual in Campania. But that night it was so strong that things seemed not merely to be shaken, but positively upset. My mother rushed into my bedroom. I was just getting up to wake her if she were asleep. We sat down in the little yard, which was between our house and the sea. I do not know whether to call it courage or foolhardiness (I was only seventeen) but I sent for a volume of Livy, and quite at my ease read it and even made extracts, as I had already begun to do. And now a friend of my uncles, recently arrived from Spain, ap- peared, who, finding us sitting there and me reading, scolded us, my mother for her patience, and me for my carelessness of danger. None the less industriously I read my book. It was now seven oclock, but the light was still faint and doubtful. The surrounding 206 Crater, Lakes of the Seven Citiea, St Michaeia, Azores. There are two of the craters united hy the breaking down of a part of the bounding walls. 207 VOLCANOES. buildings had been badly shaken and though we safety while doubtful of his. So, without more were in an open spot, the space was so small delay, the Spaniard rushed off, taking himself that the danger of a catastrophe from falling out of harms way as fast as his legs would walls was great and certain. Not till then did carry him. we make np our minds to go from the town. A Pretty soon the cloud began to descend over frightened crowd went away with us and as the earth and cover the sea. It enfolded Capreic in all panics everybody thinks his neighbors and hid also the promontory of Misenum. ideas more prudent than his own, so we were Then my mother began to beg and beseech pushed and squeezed in our departure by a me to fly as I could. I was young, she said. great mob of imitators. aud she was old, and too heavy to run, and When we were free of the buildings we would not mind dying if she was not the cause stopped. There we saw many wonders and en- of my death. I said, however, I would not be dure many terrors. The vehicles we had or- saved without her; I clasped her hand and dered to be brought out kept running backward forced her to go, step by step, wfth me. She and forward, though on level ground; and even slowly obeyed, reproaching herself bitterly for when scotched with stones they would not keep delaying me. still. Besides this, we saw the sea sucked down Ashes now fell, yet still in small amount. I and, as it were, driven back by the earthquake. looked back. A thick mist was close at our There can be no doubt that the shore had ad- heels, which followed s, spreading out over vanced on the sea and many marine animals the country, like an inundation. Let us turn were left high and dry. On the other side was out of the road, said I, while we can see, a dark and dreadful cloud, which was broken and not get trodden down in the darkness by by zigzag and rapidly vibrating flashes of fire, the crowds who are following, if we fall in and yawning showed long shapes of flame. their path. Hardly had we sat down when These were like lightnings, only of greater ex- night was over usnot such a night as when tent. Then our friend from Spain attacked there is no moon and clouds cover the sky, but us more vigorously and earnestly. If your such darkness as one finds in close-shut rooms. brother, your uncle, said he, is alive, he One heard the screams of women, the fretting wishes you to be safe ; if not, he certainly cries of babes, the shouts of men. Some called would wish you to survive him. Why, then, their parents, and some their children, and do you delay your flight ? We said we some their spouses, seeking to recognize them could not bring ourselves to think of our own by their voices. Some lamented their own fate, Vesuvius, looking East from the Observatory 1880, showing Vent-cone and Old Eroded Pedestal of Lava and Ash. The dark line ou the right of the cone is the railway up the mountain. VOLCANOES. others the fate of their friends. Some were praying for death, simply for fear of death. Many a man raised his hands in prayer to the gods ; but more imagined that the last eternal night of creation had come and there were now no gods more. There were some who increased our real dangers by fictitious terrors. Some said that part of Misenum had sunk, and that another part was on fire. They lied; but they found believers. Little by little it grew light again. We did not think it the light of day, bnt a proof that the fire was coming nearer. It was indeed fire, but it stopped afar off; and then there was darkness a~,ain, and again a rain of ashes, abundant and heavy, and again we rose and shook them off, else we had been covered and even crushed by the weight. I might boast of the fact that not a groan or a cowardly word fell from me in all the dreadful peril, if I had not believed that the world and I were coming to an end together. This belief was a wretched and yet a mighty comfort in this mortal strug- gle. At last the murky vapor rolled away, in disappearing smoke or fog. Soon the real day- light appeared; the sun shone out, of a lurid hue, to be sure, as in an eclipse. The whole world which met our frightened eyes, was transformed. It was covered with ashes white as snow. We went back to Misenum and refreshed our weary bodies, and passed a night between hope and fear; but fear had the upper hand. The trembling of the earth continued, and many, crazed by their anxiety, made ludi- crously exaggerated predictionos of disaster to themselves and others. Yet even then, though we had been through such peril and were still surrounded by it, we had no thought of go- ing away till we had news of my uncle. lit is evident that this eruption pro- duced great changes in the snrface of all the country about Vesuvius. Al- though no lava-streams flowed from the crater, for the reason, as we shall here- after see, that the eruption was so vio- lent as to prevent i~heir formation, the quantity of molten rocky matter which was blown into fragments and fell main- ly in the form of dust upon the sur- face of the earth about the crater was enormous. For a distance of several miles from the vent, this accumula- tion seems to have attained the depth of ten to thirty or more feet. Owing to the extreme lightness of this dust, which is pumiceons, or filled with air- bubbles, the greater part of the deposit has probably been washed away by the rain, as have the lesser ash-showers of later years. At the close of the erup- tion of Pliny, this dust probably coy- 208 Veauviun; near View of the Small Inner Cone of the Crater, showing Recent Undecayed Lava on which Reata the Ash- heap of the Cone. VOLCANOES. 209 ered the ground to a far greater depth than is indicated by the scanty remains of the great shower which still exist on the surface. On no other supposition can we account for the abandonment of the two cities of Pompeii and Heren- laneum, which were so far lost that no tradition as to their position remained. Both of these cities were probably stripped of their more precious treas- ures before they were covered with the ash, and the mud which was formed of it by the torrential rains; still so much that was valuable was left behind, that we can hardly conceive how the dispos- sessed people should have failed to dig for the treasures, unless they were de- terred by a thicker sheet of d~bris than now remains upon Pompeii. At the close of this eruption the sur- face of the country immediately about Vesuvius must have been a waste of ashes. Besides the two important towns of Herculaneum and Pompeii, there were, it may be, scores of villages which were buried in the same way. It is not likely that the loss of life in this catas- trophe was very great. It was some hours before the eruption became of fatal violence, and nearly all the inhab- itants, save the sick and prisoners, found safety in flight. Of the hundred or so skeletons which have been found in the excavation at Pompeii, many appear to be the remains of soldiers, who, receiv- ing no orders to withdraw, met death in their appointed places. Occasion- ally as the explorers are removing the firmly cemented ash from the cellars of a house, their picks penetrate a cav- ity. Experience has shown that these spaces are generally moulds which the wet ashes formed about a prostrate human body. By pouring plaster-of- Paris into the empty places, it has been found possible to obtain accurate casts of the long-vanished forms. The eruption of the year 79 was fol- lowed, as is usual after great eruptions, by a long period of repose. The next View ot Excavated Portion of Pompeii, looking Northwest. Showe, on either side, the depth of the ash-covering. vesuvins in the dietance. 210 VOLCANOES. View in Pompeii, looting Northwest, showing the Unexcavated Portion on the Right Hand and in the Distance the Present Cone of Vesuvius on its Right a Portion of Prechristian Crater-wall. outbreak of the volcano was in the year the eruptions of both Vesuvius and 203, and appears to have been of mod- 2Etna, which, curiously enoubh, we owe erate violence. After another equally in good part to the superstitious notion long pause, in 472 there was an extreme- that the outbreaks may be stopped by ly violent eruption, which is reported the intercession of the patron saints of to have scattered ashes over nearly all the country. Whenever an eruption Europe, and so darkened the sky at Con- occurs the priests who guard the rel- stantinople, about eight hundred miles ics of St. Januarius, in Naples, or of St. away, tha,t the Emperor Leo fled from Agatha, in Sicily, address these patrons the city, and for a long period thereafter of their respective cities through their the deliverance of the town was cele- relics, vestments, or images. If the brated by an annual festival. Thence to eruption speedily diminishes in violence, the year 1036 of our era we have rec- as from the nature of its action it must ords of occasional slight eruptions, but, always do, the amendment is attributed as the reader knows, this was the night to the influence of the saintly power, time of history, and the chronicles and the fact, with date and circumstance, are very imperfect. In 1036 it seems is a matter of careful record.* Thus sci- tolerably clear, from an ancient itiner- ence has come to owe a considerable debt ary, that lava flowed from the cone to to superstition. Although this pictu- the sea. This appears to have been the resque relation adds a certain interest to first eruption during the historic period the chronicles of the eruptions of Vesu- in which lava flowed from Vesuvius, vms, we need not weary the reader with though in the prehistoric period of the them, but sum up the record in brief. In mountains activity it was abundantly short, the story is that from 1036 to 1500 produced. * See vesuvins, by John Phillipe (page 45). clarendon From this eruption onward to modern Prose, Oxford, 1859. From this valuable work I have condone times we have an excellent catalogue of cano. oct the foregoing statements concerning thie vot VOLCANOES. 211 A Lava-stream Overwhelming a Town on the West Side of Vesuvius. there were five eruptions, or about one each century, and none of them of great violence. It seems, indeed, likely that from 1139 to 1631 there were at most slight threats of activity and that the in- ternal pressure was not relieved until the great explosion of the last-named year. The eruption of 1631 was, next after that of 79, the most violent explosion which has taken place from Vesuvius. Like the eruption in which Pliny met his death, the disturbance was ushered in by a succession of earthquake shocks. These shocks, due doubtless to the strug- gle of the imprisoned gases with the bar- riers which the earth interposed, grew more and more violent, until, on Decem- ber 16th, the outbreak began suddenly and with extreme fury. IJnlike most eruptions from this and other craters, where the flow of liquid rock usually be- gins some time after the gases break forth, a great tide of lava at once burst forth from the side of the cone, at some distance from the summit of the crater. The streams rushed forth from a num- ber of points along the southwest slope of the mountain, at a height of about three thousand feet above the sea, and swept down toward the shore of the bay. Although a large part of this lava re- mained in the depressions in the flanks of the mountain, a dozen or more of the streams which diverged from the great sheet attained the sea along a length of seven and a half miles of the shore. Then, as now, the coast was bordered by an almost continuous line of popu- lous towns. Although the inhabitants had fled in great numbers, moved by the fear with which the earthquakes and roarings from the mountain inspired them, the lava-flow came so suddenly that eighteen thousand persons perished in the towns of IResina, Torre del Greco, and Granatello, which were overwhelmed by the streams. The ash, or finely di- vided lava, was blown forth in prodigious quantities, once again darkening the skies as far to the east as Constantino- ple. The rain which fell from the cloud which hung over all the region about the mountain was torrential; mingled with the fine dust, it produced vast in- undations of mud, which swept over the fields and villages, producing destine- 212 VOLCANOES. tion more widespread, if less disastrous to life, than the streams of fiery lava. In this, as in all the great eruptions, the lightning from the clouds was extremely violent and caused much loss of life. From the time of this disaster down to the present day the eruptions have been more frequent than in any other Many of these outbreaks are of very slight energy. It was the present writ- ers good fortune to obtain an unusually near view of the beautiful little erup- tion of the winter of 1882, which afforded a singularly good opportunity for watch- ing the essential processes of volcanic explosions with little danger. At this part of the volcanos history. Rarely time, from the slight violence of the out- have twenty years passed without an out- break, the crater was reduced to a smaJi break of considerable violence, though depression near the summit of the cone, none of them have attained to the ap- which had a diameter of not over six palling fury of the first historic out- hundred feet and a depth of about one break or that of 1631. Near four score hundred feet. Taking advantage of a eruptions are chronicled in this period strong gale from the north, the well- of about two and a half centuries; nearly known tramontana of Italy, it was pos- all of them have been of moderate in- sible to creep up to the very edge of this teasity, but have led to a singularly crater and look down upon the surface large extrusion of lavas. It is evident of the boiling lava, from which the gases that the channels which lead to the rents were breaking forth. Although the pit of the volcano are now gorged with fluid was from time to time filled with whirl- lava; wherever the pressure of the im- ing. vapor, the favoring wind often swept prisoned gases becomes strong enough it away so that for a few seconds it was this lava is forced up into the crater; possible to see every feature of the ter- by its weight rends open the walls of rifying scene. Several times a minute incoherent cinders and escapes upon the the surface of the tossed lava was rent steep slopes of the cone. by a violent explosion of gases, which Volcanic Cone, Sandwich Islands showing the Aspect of Crater-wells snd Floor sfter the Ssrface hss heen Covered hy Vegetetion. Rent in the Earth from which Sulphurous Vapors Attendant on an Eruption have Eacaped Partly Closed by Tropical Vegetation. 214 VOLCANOES. transparent, a few score feet above the point of escape the ejected col- umn became of a steel- gray color, and a little higher it changed to the characteristic hue of steam. That it was steam slightly mixed with other gases was evident wherever in its whirling movements the vaporons column swept around the point of observation. The curious washing-day odor of steam was per- fectly apparent, to- gether with a pungent sense of sulphurous fumes suggestive of an infernal laundry. Although the heat at the moment of explo- sion was great, it was possible, with the shel- ter to the face secured by an extemporized mask, to avoid any seri- ous consequences from it, and even to make some rather rude and 1 unsatisfactory dia- grams of the scene. The principal obstacle arose from the violence of the shocks given to the cone and propa- gated through the air Showing Volcanic Tufa of Naples, in which Subterranean Dwellings have been Ex- by the explosions, which cavated. made it extremely diffi Deposit formed of volcanic ash laid down on the eca-floor during prehistoric cult to fix the attention eruptions in the Vesuvian district. on the phenomena. The earthquakes at- appeared to hurl the whole mass of fluid tending each explosion were almost rock into the air. The ascending col- strong enough to shake one from the umn of vapor and lava fragments rose ground, and the blow received through as a shaft to the height of several the air was like that which those famil- hundred feet. Many of the masses, iar with mines have received when a which seemed to rise with the ease of heavy charge of gunpowder or dyna- bubbles, were some feet in diameter, mite is exploded. The sensation is such and made a great din as they crushed as might come from being violently down upon the surface on the southward struck by a feather bed; not dangerous, side of the crater. They often could be but extremely disorganizing to the wits. seen to fly into fragments as they as- After about fifteen minutes of observa- cended. At the moment of the cx- tion a slight change of the wind allowed plosion the escaping gases appeared the descending masses to fall so near the VOLCANOES. 215 point of view that it was necessary to of the discharging gases. We have only hurry away. to conceive the ascending column of in- As if to complete the illustration of tensely heated steam, in place of break- volcanic phenomena which this little ing out in the separate cannon-like cx- outbreak afforded, there was a small plosions, discharging in a continuous rivulet of lava pouring from the low rush and mounting to the height of wall of cinders on one side of the cone several miles above the vent; the in- and flowing quietly down the slope. It creased force of the outbreak blowing was not much larger than the stream of away the sumn~it of the cone, enlarging liquid iron which flows from an iron-fur- the crater until it was perhaps a mile in nace to the moulds which await it, but diameter; the steam imprisoned in the in the motion all the essential features fragments of lava tossed up by the ex- of the greatest of these fiery torrents plosion expanding with great energy, not could be seen. The surface of the fluid, only rupturing the blocks, but rending cooled in the air, slowly hardened into a them into powder, and the rivulet of viscid scum. This scum, urged forward lava magnified to a torrent such as so by the swifter movement of th~ more often sweeps down the flanks of the fluid matter below, was wrinkled as is mountain. Thus, by a change in the the cream on a pan of milk when it is slowly poured over the edge of the ves- sel. A tiny eruption such as this can be transformed into those of the greatest energy by simply increasing the volume magnitude of the action alone, we pass from the most trifling to the greatest eruptions. This glance at the history and struct- ure of Vesuvius serves to give us a gen- eral notion of volcanoes; we see that A Crater in the Sandwich lalanda at the Cloae of Eruption; uhowing Lava-terracen and Stratified Nature of Cone. 216 VOLCANOES. they are essentially jets of extremely heated steam, and that the ashes and lava, though they are the only perma- nent remains of the successive explo- sions, are by far the least important ele- ment of the matter east forth during an eruption. It seems probable that if we -could gather again all the water which in the form of steam has poured from Vesuvius since the cone began to form, we should find that it amounted in mass to several times as much as all the ash and lava which forms the cone. This water falls in torrential rains in the re- gion about the crater, or drifts away in clouds to other countries, and so leaves no sign except in the furrowed sides of the volcano, which are deeply eroded by the floods that attend the greater erup- tions. We may compare the explosion of a volcano to the action of a bursting boiler, when in a moment the rupturing agent disappears in the air, leaving only the fragments of the vessel which con- tained it and which it has torn to pieces. A large part of. the materials thrown out by a volcano does not fall upon the cone; in most of the eruptions of Yesu vms the dust has been the largest part of the solid matter cast forth, the lava perhaps not amounting, on the average, to as much as one-fiftieth of the mass of rock-material ejected. The coarser part of this dust falls in the region near the cone, but a large share of it drifts to great distances, to darken the skies, it may be, a thousand miles away. During several of the great eruptions of Yesu- vms the dust which fell within ten miles of the crater formed a stratum averaging more than a foot in depth, greatly ex- ceeding in volume the ejected lava; still it seems likely that by far the larger part of this dust did not fall near the crater, but was borne by the winds far and wide over land and sea. After the reader has conceived the magnitude and continuity of the Yesu- vian eruptions, it is well to consider that this vent is really a very small affair, not deserving to rank as more than a third- rate volcano, if we determine the order of importance by the size of the cone, the diameter of the volcanic tube, or the velocity of the eruptions. The family of Italian volcanoes includes at least Lake of Lava in the Sandwich lalanda ahowing Deponit of Very Fluid Lava. VOLCANOES. 217 three other vents which have, or have had in their period of activity, a larger measure of dignity than the Vesuvian cone. IEtna has at least twenty times the bulk, and presents to us phenoniena of Yesuvius exhibited on a far greater scale. Among the numerous dormant or extinct volcanoes which lie along the shore between Naples and Southern Tuscany, those of Bracciano and Bol- sena, whose vast craters are now occu- pied by lakes, were in their time far more majestic than Vesuvius. The crater of Bolsena now affords a basin for a lake having an area of about forty square miles, and yet the whole of its vast expanse is not completely occupied by the sheet of water. It is doubtful if the area of the Vesuvian crater was ever six square miles. That of Brac- ciano is smaller than Bolsena, but still several times as large as the Yesuvian crater. These two volcanoes of Bolsena and Bracciano were giants in their youth, but they came to an untimely end. Their subterranean fires were ex tinguished before they had time to con- struct cones at all proportionate to their vast orifices. Although the total number of volca- noes, active and extinct, amounts, in Europe, to several hundred, including those of Central France and Germany and the peripheral cones of IEtna, we must go beyond the bounds of that con- tinent to find instances of eruptions of the first order. The noblest and most characteristic volcanoes, whether we class them by the energy of their explosions or the volume of their ejections, are found in Iceland and in the Malayan Archipelago. In Iceland the volcano of Skaptar, in the single eruption of 1783, poured out a tide of lava exceeding in bulk all that has flowed from Yesuvius and 2Etna combined since the eruption of Pliny. It has been computed that the volume of lava which flowed from Skaptar in that year was greater than the mass of Mont Blanc. The gas-eruption which at- tended this molten tide was proportion- Border of Lava.atream in the Sandwich lalando showing the Form Assumed by Partly Cooled Lava. Note the roping in the lava. 218 VOLCANOES. A. Front of a Lava-stream Falling in Rivulets into the Sea, Sandwich Islands. ally great; the clouds of fine cinders haps the first place among volcanoes, it floated over Europe and so darkened the is in the region about the Pacific Ocean sky as to occasion fears of some great we find the kings of this race of giants. calamity. Although Iceland is a thinly Around the shores of this great area of peopled country, this catastrophe was waters we have a singularly continuous extremely destructive to human life; line of volcanic vents. Counting only nearly a fifth of the population perished those which have been in activity since in the villages which were overwhelmed the beginning of the present geological by the eruption, from the famine which period, the aggregate probably amounts came from the loss of the years crops, to many hundreds. Although th3 vol- and the frightening of the fish from the canic energies are, or have recently been, neighboring sea. violent in all parts of this vast field, they The thousand years of struggle which exhibit their maximum energy in the the Icelanders have had with polar cold central part of the great Malayan Archi- and central fire is one of the most pa- pelago. This region has been well thetic incidents in the history of our race. termed a rookery of v6lcanoes. Not Almost every generation on that island only are great cones more numerous in has borne a heavy burden from earth- this field than in any other equal area, quake-shocks or volcanic explosions, and but we have had there the greatest erup- yet this people have managed, by labor tions of which we have any historical and thrift, to develop and maintain a record. We can note only a few of well-ordered civilization. For centuries these great explosions. the social order has been more secure, In 1772, Papandayang, a great volca- education more general, and the moral no over nine thousand feet high, broke quality purer than in the happier parts out with such violence that the upper of the world. Everywhere else save in part of the cone for a height of four this marvellous island we find that man thousand feet was tossed into the air, is degraded in spirit from a hopeless and, together with a prodigious amount contest with physical ills. of ashes discharged by the eruption, Although Icelands Skaptar is a great overwhelmed forty villages. In 1822, volcano, and as a lava-producer has per- Sumbowa, on an island a little to the east VOLCANOES. 219 of Java, was the seat of a yet more pow- lives. This coating of mud was so thick erful eruption. As in the other great that for the distance of twenty-four explosions of this region, the sound miles on one side of the mountain there was heard a surprising distance, be- were no visible remains of the numerous ing audible in Sumatra, nine hundred settlements which had existed there be- and seventy geographical miles to the fore the eruption began. west, and at Ternate, seven hundred and In 1883 a century of gigantic erup- twenty miles on the east. This is as if tions was completed by the outbreak of a volcano at Chicago should make its Krakatoa, by far the greatest explosion explosions heard by the people in Bos- of which we have any account. Kraka- ton and Omaha. The fall of ash and toa is a small island lying between the pumice was enormous; it crushed build- greater masses of Java on the east and mgs more than forty miles from the Sumatra on the west. Although mani- crater. Whirlwinds, caused by the at- festly a volcano, it is likely that it had mospheric disturbance common in all never within historic times been in great eruptions, rent the forests from their roots, and did much to complete the catastrophe which reduced a popu- lous and fertile region to a desert. Of twelve thousand people in the province of Tomboro, in which the crater is situ- ated, but twenty-six escaped alive. In 1822, Galongoon, a crater never before known to have been in activity, exploded with extreme violence, and in a period of fonr hours covered the country about it with a thick coating of ashes and hot mud, destroying one hundred and forty villages, with a loss of four thousand eruption until May 23, 1883. At that time it was the seat of an outbreak which was considered trifling, only add- ing one more to the many points of mod- ern volcanic activity in that region. The eruption was soon over, and on the 27th of the month many observers visited the mountain to note the changes which it had brought about. For three months it seemed absolutely quiet; but in August of the same year, with little preliminary commotion, a memorable outbreak oc- curred. Nearly the whole of the original island was blown away down to below the B. The Same Lava-stream Pouring in Full Tide into the Sea. 220 VOLCANOES. sea-level, probably at the first discharges of the gases, so that the greater part of the eruption took place from the floor of the sea. The violent boundings of this floor created vast waves in the ocean, which rose to the height of fifty or sixty feet along the populous shores of the neighboring islands of Snmatra and Java, sweeping away villages and plantations, and killing over thirty thousand people. Thence, with diminishing height, these waves rolled onward like the tides until they were felt in the Northern Atlantic and along nearly the whole of the Pacific shore. The movements which this shock im- pressed on the atmosphere were even more remarkable than those which it gave to the sea. The sounds of the ex- plosions were heard for double the dis- tance to which we have any record of their having been audible in previous eruptions. If an eruption of Skaptar in Iceland should be audible at once along our great lakes and npon the Mediterra- nean, we should have a case of sound- transmission comparable to that in Kra- katoa in August, 1883. The waves of the air caused by the sudden pressure of the escaping gases rolled aronnd the earth, twice girdling its circumference. Besides the enormous mass of dust which fell upon land and sea within a few hun- dred miles of the point of explosion, which probably amounted in bulk to as much as twelve cubic miles, an unknown amount of the more finely comminnted rock remained for a long time suspended in the atmosphere and was floated over all parts of the earths surface, giving to the sky at morning and evening the memorable ruddy glow it presented in the two years following the eruption. The amount of this widely scattered mat- ter cannot be accurately computed, but it possibly exceeded in volume that which fell about the crater. The foregoing brief notes of volcanic eruptions will, in a limited way, suffice to show the reader the immediate physical importance of these accidents, and the extent to which they may enter into the conditions of human life. They will not, however, give him any measure of the range and constancy of this volcanic ac- tion, or the part it plays in the machin- ery of the earths crust. To gain some notion of this he must imagine many Wide Lava-stream at Point of Egress showing Vary Fluid Condition, with Escaping Steam, Sandwich Islands. VOLCANOES. 221 thousands of these vents scattered over the sea-floor or along the shores of the continents, all of which have been active in recent geological times. He must, furthermore, conceive that at every stage in the earths history there have been similar, perhaps equally numerous, vol- canoes at work. It is doubtful if since the beginning of the geological record there has been a day during which some crater, great or small, has not been hurl- ing its gases toward the sky, scattering its dust over the fields of land and sea, and destroying with its attendant earth- quakes, or by its emanations, the life of air or water. Lying as they do along the shores or in the fertile islands of the ocean, these vast engines of de truction are a perpetual menace to many of the most fruitful and beautiful parts of the earth; they therefore have an element of human as well as scientific interest, lead- ing us to investigate the nature of their cause and their relation to the mechan- ism of this planet. In seeking to explain ny of the su- perficial phenomena of our globe, it is well to begin the inqu~. by consider- ing the way in which they are distrib- uted over its surface. In this way we are most likely to come upon a clew to the origin of any unexplained feature of the facts. A glane at the geographi- cal position of volcanoes suffices to show us that they are very peculiarly grouped in and about the great water- areas. Probably all of the active vents in the earths surface lie on the floor of the oceans or greater seas, or within a few score miles of their shores. We may, indeed, say that active volcanoes normally occupy the floor of the greater seas as their proper field, and that this volcanic area here and there overlaps the shore for a very small distance. Moreover, among the extinct volcanoes which lie far inland, we can often ob- serve that their activities ceased soon after the elevation of the continent forced the sea-margin far from their bases. It was long ago perceived that these facts indicated a necessary con- nection between the effects brought about by large masses of water and the volcanic explosions. At first it was suggested that the sea-water penetrated through crevices to the heated inte- VOL. 11121 nor of the earth, and there, being con- verted into steam, was expelled through the volcanic vent along with the lava from a central molten mass. But it was directly seen that the facts were against this hypothesis; for why should the volcanic emanations not return to the surface by the same crevice which gave the water access to the earths interior? Why should the lava of lEt- na and other volcanoes rise against its own enormous pressure to the height of twelve or fifteen thousand feet above the tube by which the sea-water gained access to its base? It has since been suggested that the water from the seas gains access to the central heat while it is imprisoned in the fine interstices which lie between the grains of the rocks, passages which are too small to permit the exit of the gases. A curious experiment seemed for a time to make this notion seem possible. As was shown by the distin- guished naturalist Daubr6e, if we take a vessel of metal and fix upon its top a sheet of dense sandstone, so that the chamber is air-tight, then place water upon the top of the sandstone, and finally apply heat to the base of the metal cham- ber, the water will penetrate through the interstices of the stone and generate steam in the enclosed space, producing a pressure which is much greater than the gravitation-force which impels the water to descend through the stouc. If we provide an avenue of escape for this steam by means of a pipe filled with mer- cury, we shall find that it will force the mercuryup the tube, much as the volcanic steam pushes up the lava in the crater. It is evident that we have here what seems, a4 first sight, like apromising explanation of volcanic action: we have only to con- ceive that water penetrates through the interstices of the rock on the sea-floor, just as it does through the slab of sand- stone in the experiment; that the in- ternal heat is represented by the lamp, and the volcanic tubes with their con- tained lava by the pipe containing mer- cury, to have the likeness complete. But a little consideration shows that this ex- planation will not serve us at all. It is true that the rocks beneath he sea-floor contain a good deal of waterall, in fact, that their interstitial spaces will hold 222 VOLCANOES. but this is equally true of the rocks be- neath all parts of the continents. The rain-water of any country, however slight in amount, is sufficient to fill the inter- stices of the rocks to repletion, if, in- deed, they were not so filled when they were formed on the sea-floors. We know this from mines in the land, as well as by m~my galleries which pene- trate below the sea-level from shafts near the shore. We are, therefore, driven to another hypothesis which is entirely satisfactory. It was long ago suggested, though it has not been pre- sented in a perfectly clear form in our popular treatises on the subject. This explanation may be stated in a few words: When deposits of rocky matter are laid down upon the sea-floor, they con- tain a good deal of water. Such de- posits are never entirely compact; there are numerous little spaces between the grains of sand or mud, in or between the fossil shells and other animal re- mains, which form in most places a part of the strata as they are made. We see how large an element water is in such beds if we take up a portion of the mud from the bottom of any pool It is probable that, on the average, this en- closed water amounts, at the time when the deposits are made, to as much as from five to fifteen per cent. of the mass. At first this imprisoned water is at the or- dinary temperature of the sea-floor, and so has no tendency to break out of its cells; but in the course of the geologic ages, a great many thousand feet of strata are slowly accumulated above the original level, all charged in the same way with a portion of the fluid in which they were laid down. We have now only to see a means whereby this rock- encased water can be raised to a high temperaturesay to the heat of two or three thousand degrees, Fahrenheitin order to bring it to the state of the steam which, escaping from rents of the earth, gives rise to the explosions of vol- canoes. This means of heating is provided by the continuance of the very process which builds the water into rocks, viz., by the deposition of strata and in the following manner: Heat is constantly escaping from the earths interior, which, though probably solid, is extremely hot; the temperature of the central portion is very likely to be measured by tens of thousands of degrees. Whenever we penetrate by wells or mines into the earth, we find a constant increase of temperature as we descend. It is likely that beneath the sea-floor this rate of ra- crease is somewhere near the rate of one degree to every fifty feet of depth, vary- ing with the ease with which the heat finds its way out through the different kinds of rocks it encounters. Anything like this rate of increase would give us a temperature of several hundred thousand degrees at the earths centre. It may well be the case that the internal heat does not increase with the same rapidity as we descend toward the central re- gions, but for a score or two of miles this increase most likely continues at some- thing like this rate. It is thus easily seen that the heat of any mass of buried rock depends on the thickness of the matter deposited above the level, for it is that blanket of strata holding the heat in which causes its temperature to be above that of the earths surface. In the case of a deposit made on the sea- floor and covered by a blanket of strata ten thousand feet thick, the outfiowing tide of heat will be restrained in its es- cape and the temperature of the buried matter will in time rise to about two hundred degrees above the tempera- ture which it had at first, or to near the heat of boiling water. Another ten thou- sand feet of strata may raise the tem- perature high enough to produce some of the slightest volcanic explosions those in which the rocks are not melted, but simply blown awaywhile with a deposit of one hundred thousand feet thick, the rocks might in time hold in enough of the outfiowing heat to pro- duce the most intense volcanic activity, where the expanding gases act with more than the violence of gunpowder. If the reader has any difficulty in con- ceiving the effects of overlaid beds in bringing about a high temperature in strata, he may help himself by a home- ly comparison. Let him imagine a ves- sel containing hot water exposed to the cold and covered with felt or other non- conducting material; the surface of this covering will have a certain temperature. VOLCANOES. 223 If now this vessel be covered with another thickness of felt, the temperature of the original surface will rise, and a certain gain of its heat will be made by each additional coating of non-conductive material. The only serious question is as to the thickness of the rocks which have been laid down on the sea-floors. Hardly any geologist will doubt that it is en- tirely within bounds to assume that thickness much to exceed twenty miles. It may well have attained to twice or thrice that depth since the geologic ages began, for in our continents we see that the aggregate thickness of the suc- cessive beds exposed to view, despite the great erosion to which the lands have been exposed, amounts to some- where near one hundred thousand feet of strata. It must not be imagined that the deposits on the floors of the sea were ever laid down in water having the depth of ten miles or more. The truth is, that the floors have been gradually sinking as the lands have grown upward. The lands have furnished, from their shores and from the rivers, sediments which have gone to make the strata which the sea has deposited, and the ocean-floors have slowly bent downward as they received these accumulations of waste. As we shall shortly note, a very important part of the materials contrib- uted to the sea-bottoms comes from the volcanic ejections themselves. We thus see that in the water imprisoned in the deposits of the early geologic ages and brought to a high temperature by the blanketing action of the more recently deposited beds, we have a sufficient cause for the great generation of steam at high temperatures, and this is the sole essen- tial phenomenon of volcanic eruptions. We see also by this hypothesis why volcanoes do not occur at points remote from the sea, and why they cease to be active soon after the sea leaves their neighborhood. While deposition of stra- ta is going on with moderate rapidity, as it generally is over the sea-floors, the heat is constantly rising in strata and the tendency of the imprisoned water to pass into steam continually increasing. On the land areas, however, the rocks are constantly becoming cooler, and the expansive energy of the steam which causes the eruptions becomes propor- tionately less. Conceiving, then, the rocks at a depth of ten or twenty miles below the surface of the earth to be filled with steam at a temperature near two thousand degrees, Fahrenheit, we may readily explain a part of the phenomena of volcanic ac- tion, viz., the formation of the gases es- sential to their explosions. It remains for us, however, to account for certain facts concerning the movement of these gases toward the chance openings by which they find their way to the surface of the earth. It may well be asked, Why do these imprisoned vapors not make their way directly upward through the rocks, passing through the interstices which contain the water? The reason for this doubtless is, that as the cooler rocks above are very close-knit, they offer much the same obstacle to the migrations of the steam as is afforded by the iron walls of a boiler. The only way in which the imprisoned gas can escape is by a lateral motion in the level of heated and softened rocks toward any point where a break offers them passage to the surface. Such breaks, extending very deeply down into the rocks, are extremely common. It is clear that many volcanoes are situated in positions where it may be safely in- ferred that they have made avail of these ways to the open air (see p. 204). Let us imagine such a break or fault to be formed, leading down to the depths of imprisoned water where the rocks have a temperature of more than two thousand degrees, Fahrenheit. At once the water near the opening will make haste to avail itself of the chance of es- cape. As it is contained in every part of the imprisoning rock which is soft- ened by heat, the water in passing to the point of escape will drive the rock before it, much as the bakers dough is moved by the imprisoned gases of fermentation. As it comes to the surface the steam will, to a great extent, escape in advance of the liquid rock, blowing some portion of it to bits as it rushes into the air; or the whole of the softened rock may be blown into dust, as in the greater erup- tions we have before noted. This dis- charge will terminate when the energy of the outrush of the steam is so far di- minished that the column of lava in the 224 VOLCANOES. volcanic pipes can by its pressure retain the vapor. Then there will be a pause of some duration. After a time the steam from regions horizontally remote from the point of escape will creep in toward the vent, accumulate pressure there, and so gradually reproduce the conditions of another explosion. As this imprisoned steam works toward the point of escape, it may drive before it the rock in which it is contained, and so furnish a contin-. ned supply of melted material for the discharge of ashes and lava; or, it may creep through the interstices of the beds without forcing the softened rock to accompany it. We have many evi- dences of such a horizontal movement of gases alone, or of rock and gases com- bined, from our experience in mines and other subterranean explorations. When in a deep coal mine we have horizontal galleries cut in beds of clay, with hard rocks above, we often find that the clay creeps upward from the bottom and inward from the sides until it fills the cavity. When cut out it continues the movement, putting the miners to much trouble in order to keep the way open. This shows us how, under the inconsiderable pressure of a relatively slight weight of overlying beds, rocks which seem tolerably hard may creep toward a point of relief. Then, again, in the movement of gases contained in rocks, we have evidence that, even when urged by pressures which are slight compared with those of the volcano, vaporous matter can travel for a considerable dis- tance through materials which seem to the eye to be compact. The pressure which impels natural gas toward the bored well through which it discharges is most likely not greater than a thousand pounds to the square inch. This is possibly not the hun- dredth part of that which im- pels the gases in great vol- canic explosions; yet as a well will sometimes discharge ten to twenty mill- ion feet of gas per diem for years, it is evident that this store of gas must be derived from a very wide field. It is probable that in some cases it may journey for miles toward the outlet. If the rocks were hot it would be pos- sible for the imprisoned gas to make channels of escape by blowing the rock before it. We can, therefore, well imag- ine, in the case of the volcanic vapors, that owing to their far greater pressure and to the softer condition of the rocks they traverse, they may migrate for hun- dreds of miles to the point of escape. It seems necessary to suppose that our volcanoes are fed by the gases and lava from a wide field, for the reason that, notwithstanding the enormous amount of materials they throw out, the ground Showing where the Lace has Flowed through a Forest, Sandwich lalands 1 885. VOLCANOES. 225 about their bases rarely if ever seems to be lowered. For instance, in the case of Vesuvius, the water in the form of steam, the lava and ashes which have emanated from it, have, since the Christian era, amounted probably in all to more than five cubic miles, yet there is no evidence that the cone or the country about it has permanently subsided in that time. It seems, indeed, here and there, to sway up and down from age to age, but the aver- age height above the sea remains essen- tially unchanged. IJnless the supply of the ejected materials comes from a very wide subterranean field, the surface of the region should show a decided sub- sidence. The foregoing considerations make it tolerably clear that volcanoes are fed from deposits of water contained in an- cient rocks which have become greatly heated though the blanketing effect of the strata which have been laid down upon them. The gas which is the only invariable element of volcanic eruptions, is steam; moreover, it is the steam of sea-water, as is proved by analysis of the ejections. It breaks its way to the surface only on those parts of the earth which are near to where the deposition of strata is lifting the temperature of water contained in rocks by preventing, in part, the escape of the earths heat. From these theoretical considerations as to the causes of volcanoes it will, per- haps, be a relief to the reader to turn to the question of their place in the econo- my of the earth. Mthough volcanoes are agents of great destructive violence, we easily see that they render an im- measurable service to the earth by re- turning to its surface a great store of materials which are necessary to the functions of life and which are constantly being buried in the deeper parts of the crust, and so withdrawn from the activi- ties characteristic of the superficial part of the globe. Let us consider, in the first place, the action of volcanoes in return- ing buried water to the seas. We have seen that when strata are deposited on the sea-floor they contain a large amount of water; it is probably safe to assume that on the average not far from ten per cent. of the mass consists of this mate- rial. As the average depth of the oceans is not far from fifteen thousand feet, it is evident that the amount of water thus abstracted by the deposition of strata from the earths surface, in the course of the geologic ages since the ocean came upon the surface of the earth, has been very great. If the thickness of the part of the crust which has been laid down on sea-floors amounts to as much as one hundred and fifty thousand feet, the oceans might have disappeared in their own deposits, and so the surface of the earth would have had a limit put to its most important processes. But by the operations of the volcano a large part of the imprisoned water is in time restored to the earth~ surface, and so re-enters on its beneficent activities. With the steam from a volcano there comes forth also a considerable amount of the carbonic-acid gas which must be present in the air, else vegetation would cease to be. A very great amount of this substance is each year taken from the at- mosphere and buried in the earth, not only by the plants and animals, the carbon of whose remains are buried in strata, but also by certain processes of decay of rocks, as where the felspar of granitic materials is converted into kaolin. About the only manner in which this carbon can find its way back into the air is though volcanic action. It is not likely that volcanic ac- tivity can restore enough of this carbon in the form of carbonic-acid gas to com- pensate for the constant and rapid bu- rial of the substance in the earth, but it is certainly a means whereby a good deal of it is returned to the atmosphere. In certain cases the emanation of this combined oxygen and carbon from vol- canoes is in such volume that it is ex- tremely destructive to life; being a heavy gas, it flows like water down the sides of the cone, carrying death to all animals with it. Such destructive effects are limited to the first and last stages of an eruption. When a volcano is reduced to its last stages of activity, when it is only a smouldering vent, it often con- tinues to pour forth this gas long after it has ceased to produce any other evi- dence of its connection with subterranean processes. A good case of this is seen in the Solfatara, near Naples, where a small crater, long since extinct as a vol- cano, throws out enough carbonic acid 226 VOLCANOES. to suffocate a dog, to the diversion of hard-hearted tourists and the profit of the proprietors of the brutal show. The solid matter thrown out by vol- canoes is the most important contribu- tion to the materials which the sea has at its disposal for the nourishment of its life and for the formation of strata. The quantity of the pumiceous and finely pulverized material is, as we have seen, enormous. When it falls upon the sea it either floats for a time or at once sinks into the depths. In either case it is, to a great extent, dissolved in the ocean waters, and so contributes to the store of materials which may be ap- propriated by the organic life of the sea. When it falls on the land,i~ is generally so incoherent that it is easily swept away by the rains, and so comes quickly into the ocean. The importance of this contribution to marine sediments has been overlooked by geologists, but it is easy to see that it may amount in mass to something like as much as the earthy matter which is brought to the sea by the rivers. The volcanoes of the Java district alone have within a century thrown out a mass of this fragmentary rock amounting probably to not less than one hundred cubic miles, and per- haps to twice this quantity. Now, the Mississippi River carries out in the form of dissolved matter, mud, and sand about one cubic mile in twenty years, or five cubic miles in a century; thus these volcanoes of the Java district have brought up from the depths of the earth and contributed to the sea many times as much detritus as has been con- veyed to the ocean by the greatest river of North America. Allowing for the greater porosity of the volcanic dust, if~ still seems not unlikely that the ejec- tions from a half dozen great volca- noes of the East Indian Archipelago, in the period of a little more than a cen- tury, from 1772 to 1883, far exceeded that brought into the oceans by all the rivers of North America in the same period. Although the volcanoes of this district are by far the most powerful which are known, we still cannot fairly reckon that their ejections represent anywhere near the half of the total quantity which came to the earths sur- face from such vents during the above named period of one hundred and eleven years. For during this time some scores of great craters were in eruption, in- cluding Skaptar, in Iceland, Vesuvius, .ZEtna, various volcanoes in South Amer- ica and elsewhere. It seems, therefore, not unlikely that the solid materials con- tributed by volcanoes to the sea-floor, may, on the average, amount to as much as that taken by the rivers from the land. Among these solid substances which are ejected by volcanoes we find some of the most indispensable elements of or- ganic life, including phosphorus, soda, potash, and other materials. The value of these materials to vegetation may be judged by the fertility which so often characterizes the regions in the imme- diate vicinity of volcanic cones which cast forth large amounts of ash. If the rainfall be sufficient this ash quickly de- composes into a fertile soil, which tempts the husbandman to replant the fields as fast as they are ravaged by the explo- sions. Were it not for the constant re- turn of these rarer and precious mate- rials to the superficial part of the earth by means of volcanic action, it is likely that the earths surface would want many of the substances most necessary for or- ganic life. We thus see that volcanoes play a very important part in the physical history of our planet. The action is, in a large degree, restorative. They help to main- tain the earths surface in a condition in which it may nurture life. We note also that this internal heat of the earth, acting through volcanoes, serves to counteract certain injurious effects arising from the operation of the solar forces. The heat of the sun operating in the rivers and the waves wears away the materials of the land, buries them in the strata of the sea-floor along with a part of the water of the seas. The internal heat expels the most volatile and the most life-giv- ing portions of these substances, afford- ing them a chance to take their places once again in the activities of the sur- face. e9 02 02a

Barrett Wendell Wendell, Barrett The Last Of The Ghosts 227-240

e9 02 02a 228 THE LAST OF THE GHOSTS. pristine grandeur remain. Its gray wooden walls shed their last flake of paint years ago; the orchard that stood about itor rather what stray trees had survived the storms of a century or more went for firewood when the Temper- ance Movement so gravely threatened the trade in cider; and what little of the garden has not been ploughed and sowed for years by the farmers who have tried to make the land pay something, has long been a mere tangled mass of weeds, among which a few old-fashioned flowers forlornly try to preserve an air of respectability. For all its decay, perhaps all the more because c~f it, the place preserves a char- acter of its own. You cannot see the big chimneys rising sturdily above the irregular, weather-beaten roofs; you cannot enter the panelled council-cham- ber, with its carved chimney-piecethe master work of some dead maker of fig- ure-heads; you cannot look at the old flock paper that still hangs in what was once the drawing-room, or peer into the queer cupboards, or up the cramped stairways without visions of men and times that are dead and gone. Very unimaginative folks fall to talking of the pompous old fellow who built the place; and tell, with what authority I know not, of his gardens and his chariots, and the barge in which he used to come down river in state and land at the stone pier where for fifty years there has not been water enough at half tide to float a dory. There are stories, too, of sud- den summons of the kings council, to drink the health of George the Second in the big council-chamber, whence they might be carried supine to bed up a dark staircase inaudible from the more domestic parts of the house; and tales of how after such bouts his hot-tem- pered excellency would sit in a broad arm-chai,r on a kind of balcony, long since roofed over and made into a gar- ret, where a high wooden wall shielded him from the sea-breeze, and the after- noon sun warmed the swollen veins that he had cooled over night with Madeira. Naturally enough, people suppose that a great deal is known of the old governor, whose name is a household word. But, when you look into the matter you find that beyond certain dull official documents he has left no certain record behind him. What man- ner of man he really was there is no wri- ter of letters or diaries to tell us. In- deed the only fact I have learned of him with any color of authenticity, is at once not exactly about him as he lived, and if we may believe the fading traditions of his vice-regal pompqueerly out of character. It is a story, half believed by elderly people in the neighborhood, that his ghost would sometimes prowl about the old place at the bidding of an un- canny negress who survived well into the nineteenth century. She was one of those strange Africans who outlive generations of their masters until, for all that anybody rightly knows, they may count their age by centuries. Certainly she was once a slave, legally purchased by His Excellency himself, and duly manumitted, for long and faithful services, by his last will and testament. Certainly, too, she was the last living be- ing who remembered him in the flesh. But what her memories may have been she seems never to have told. Bent half double, she would cower over her stove in winter; and in summer would some- times hobble out into the sunshine, blinking about with small eyes, buried beneath her white wool in nut-like wrinkles. It was useless to question her about the old times. She made no co- herent answers but stood staring at who- ever spoke, wagging her shrivelled head, and mumbling strange savage words or crazy nothings. At least this was all that people could generally get out of her. But sometimes, report goes, when a present put her in rare good humor, or perhaps a warmer sun than usual kindled some fading sentiment of the tropical life for which heaven had made her, she roused herself into something like human intelligence. At these times she would lay her skinny paw on the arm of whoever pleased her, and ask if he would like to see the old governor. And if, with half-frightened curiosity, he answered yes, she would bid him go secretly that night and stand just outside the door of the old council-chamber. Den Ill sit and tink of him, honey, tink of him all alone. And bime-by, sure as youre live, you 11 see him walk in, jes as gran THE LAST OF THE GHOSTS. 229 On such occasions, it is still asserted, whoever took his stand in front of the old door, disused of late years, which in the governors time admitted official visitors to the state apartments, would have a curious adventure. For a while, all would be quiet, save for the night- sounds that bear men company wherever they go, and for the distant murmur of the sea breaking on the reefs and beaches beyond the harbor-mouth. By and by, this sound would grow half articulate, tin- til it came to seem like a rolling of drums instead of pebbles. At lasts of a sud- den, the drums would roll very loud, as though a gust of wind puffed the noise towards you. And then, in the vague star-light, the old door would disappear as if by magic, and through the portal would strut a pompous little gentleman with a white wig, which gleamed for an instant as he removed his cocked hat on the threshold. The moment he passed in the vision would disappear; the drums would have faded back into the distant sound of surf, and the old door, whither the startled spectator hurried, would be found tightly fastened with the rusty nails that had held it to for so long. It came to be believed, then, that by some ironical caprice of fate, the stout old governor, whose will had been law for thirty years, was subject, in his cushioned coffin, to the bidding of the crazy witch who alone survived of all that knew him; and forced when she chosethe meanest of his servantsto come with his ghostly drummers for the diversion of any ploughboy or chance traveller who happened to please her. At last, those who tell this story say, a man who lived in the houseand oddly enough gave no credence to tales of the ghostly rambles of his distinguished predecessorwas aroused one night by footsteps in the council-chamber, which was commonly kept locked. Surmis- ing that mischievous boys were about, he had taken his gun, loaded for such a purpose with powder, and had stamp- ed down to the scene of disturbance. Here, to his terrified amazement, he had found no human intruders, but a shad- owy company of bewigged gentlemen, seated, in the light of a lurid fire which had risen in the empty chimney, about a square table. At the head was the old governor himself, bending his dew- lapped cheeks over a wine glass, which he solemnly filled from a decanter en- graved with his arms. As the spectator looked on, the glass was filled, and His Excellency arose, not too steadily, with 230 THE LAST OF THE GHOSTS. the air of one about to propose a toast, while his guests, whose backs were turn- ed to their unbidden companion, bent politely forward, glasses in hand. What he would have said can never be known. Thoroughly alarmed, the looker-on rais- ed his gun and blazed away at the spec- tres, who vanished in the powder smoke. Then the assailant turned and ran and from that time forth would never enter the council-chamber after dark. But his fears seem to have been ground- less. On that very night, it appeared, old Dinah lay dying. And with her died not only the last surviving memories of His Excellency, but also the pompous spectre with which she used to entertain her favorites. These tales, and perhaps a few more such, were the most authentic that I could find about the old house. What haunts it is not, I think, any definite tradition; but rather the atmosphere of tradition that gives to old places the quality we call romantic. More than if you knew just what had been doing there from the day when the royal gov- ernor first sat down to dinner in his new hall you feel, whenever you see the place, and the more you see it the more you feel, that here men have lived and died and passed into memories that are for- gotten. Be you dull as you may, it sets you dreaming. A MILE ~r two from the old house, across the creek that ebbs and flows past the ruinous sea-wall fringed with rock- weed, is a fishing village, whose snug well-to-do houses cluster like barnacles on the low ledges that form the mouth of the river. Here I have passed much time, and so came to know Captain John Trefethen. The first time I saw him, I remember, was in the shop which serves at once for bazar, club-room and post-office to the tavernless town. It was about noon, one summer day, and the mail was due. The dingy little building, with an over- grown stove in the middle, and a queer ii ______________ I I iii II. THE LAST OF THE GHOSTS. 231 medley of counters, and barrels, and boxes, and merchandize of all kinds from spools and candy to anchors, was crowded with solemn-looking fishermen, mostly well on in life, sitting on whatever came handy, and talking as gravely as senators. When I appeared, such silence fell on the company that I should have felt uncomfortable, but for Captain John. He was a lank old Yankee, dressed in rusty blue flannel, and a stained Panama hat. He sat in one corner of the shop resting his hands, which carelessly held a pair of frayed cotton gloves, on an ivory-headed stick. And with his curl- ing white hair, and long chin beard, and twinkling little blue eyes he made quite a figure. His rustic dandyism had dig- nity. You felt instinctively that his black cloth boots were not laughed at by the wearers of monstrous cow-hides who sat around him, but were rather re- garded as the proper daily apparel of a distinguished person. As I looked at him, he nodded with a friendly smile that displayed a palpably false set of teeth, and invited me to sit down. From that time the fishermen accepted me as a nor- inal fact Still I knew little of sea-faring, or lo- cal politics and scandal; and they talked of little else. So it fell out that when I went for my mail, I would sit on a coil of rope beside Captain John. Af- ter a while we grew good friends. He had been to sea in days when such busi- ness meant more than creeping along from one coast port to another. He had learned from something better than hearsay that the world does not end with the rocky islands that float on the hori- zon just off the harbor-mouth. But for all that he knew more of life than his neighbors, he talked less. The secret of his attraction, I think as I remember him, lay in his affable silence. When anybody spoke, Captain John would look at him in a friendly way and at most utter in his slow Yankee voice some brief commonplace. I do not remember a single phrase of his worth repeating; but I hardly ever bade him goodbye without feeling that between us knowing things had been said. When the mail was distributed and the company dispersing for their noon- day dinner, I would sometimes walk home with him. Once, I remember, he asked me into his neatly-kept cottage. But here he grew rather stiff. Instead of taking me to the kitchen, where he mostly lived, he insisted on ushering me into his darkened parlor, reserved for state occasions. And my call, when I was fairly seated in the hair-cloth rock- ing-chair, assumed the character of a solemn function. So I never repeated it. I carried away, however, a pleasant impression of the thrifty little place. In spite of its country primness, the room had an attraction of its own. There was a staring Brussels carpet, to be sure, and hair-cloth furniture, and wax flow- ers; but there were some placid Indian idols too, and great shells from the South Seas, and along with some gilt- edged subscription books a row of bat- tered old volumes that looked worth the reading they had evidently seen; there was a marvelously bright accordeon, too. Taint much of an instrument, I spose, sald the old captain as he saw me looking at it, but it used to sound pleasant at sea, sir, an4 I like to have it round. That ones never been played on. My old one aint fit to be seen.~ I left him soon, with some formal words about the pleasant look of his home. Its quiet, he said, Thats what I like now. Didnt use to; but as I get on I begin to see things different. But if Captain John was awkward in the presence of so unusual a phenome- non as a visitor, he kept all his old affa- bility at the post-office, where he could permit himself the luxury of silence. So, like everybody else, I said to him whatever came into my head. It was natural, then, that one morning, when I had lately been at the old house, and still felt its fascination, I should begin to talk of it to him. I had come late for my mail that crisp autumn day, and met him on his way home from the post-office. He waited for me, I remember, at his gate, and stood leaning against the white fence that kept stray cattle out of his bright little flower garden. Of course his first question was how I had been lately. This I answered by telling him where I had been; and asking him if he knew the old house well. 232 THE LAST OF THE GHOSTS. Used to, he said curtly, But I aint been up there for some years. Hardly noticing that his tone was not so affable as usual, I went on talking of what charm the place had for me, even though I knew nothing of its real his- tory, if indeed there were any to know. It was a spot, I said in one of those phases that formed themselves when I talked to Captain John and went so far to make me take to him, where, without knowing why, you felt as if the dead were not dead after all, but only gone away. You aint seen her, hey ye? he asked suddenly. I looked up in surprise. His face had lost its canny Yankee good-nature, and had instead a look of anxious trouble. I asked whom he meant. Seems as though she ought to rest quiet now, he went on, without answer- ing. You aint seen herhey ye? I had seen nobody, I said; I had no idea what he meant. Whereat, without a word of greeting, the old fellow turned, and roughly dashed open his white gate and hobbled up the pebbly garden path, and so out of sight around the corner of his cottage. Ii. Ix that part of the country there are few old graveyards. Nowadays, to be sure, each town has its cemetery filling with granite-bordered lots and veined marble monuments. But in old times the farmers, and the sailors, and the fish- ermen were content to rest each in some rocky corner of his own land. So now, when you wander through the fields and pastures, you often stumble on little mounds, buried in golden-rod and juni- per, and all manner of wild shrubs and flowers, that half hide the slate head- stones, if indeed there be any stone to preserve the name of the dead. The custom seems painful to many; but for me it has charm. When these simple folk died, they were laid to rest in land they knew and called their own; they mingle with dust they cared for; so long as they are remembered they may be found in places where they moved in life; and when they are for- gotten they are left to a quiet that is like absorption in the very nature they lived in. Sometimes, when I come to one of these neglected graves, I catch glimpses of an eternity less unwelcome than what confronts you in neat ceme- teries. For an instant I seem to know how the mossy rocks, and the restless ocean beyond the meadow, and the bright wild flowers, and the twisted trees, and men with all their works, and the stars that watch us, are but kindred forms of one vast, changing, changeless being. But even to philosophers such glimpses as these are few and fleeting. As for me, when the first thrill of reverence passes, human curiosity generally impels me to look for names. Thus it was that a few days after my abrupt parting with Captain John I discovered what he meant. It was a pleasant autumn afternoon; I had rowed past the old house, which looked gravely down at the creek from amid a forest of lilacs. Swept on by the tide I had pulled lazily up the winding channel, now shut in by gray, rocky shores where stunted pines try to grow, now passing open pastures that slope gently up to higher woods. Here and there a cottage, or a weather-stained farm-build- ing nestled among the trees and weeds. Sometimes a foot-path led down the bank to a rough wharf, or a tumble- down fish-house that spoke of more active days in those waters where now the stroke of your oar surprises the drowsy fish. After a while I came to a broken dam that once shut in the tide for a mill burnt down years ago. Here I rested, for the channel above was choked with eel-grass; and the banks widened into a broad salt, meadow, dotted with hay stacks surmounting little clumps of piles. Before long the tide would turn ; rather than pull back against the curreut that soon would float me home, I made fast my boat, and clambered through a thicket and over the moss-gathering mill stones up the bank. Beyond the bushes was an open past- ure, with tempting walnut-trees on the farther side. I made my way towards them. Not far off, two or three cows were gathered by a clump of bushes, close to the bars where they were wait- ing for their master. As I approached, one of them moved away from some- thing against which she had been com THE LAST OF THE GHOSTS. 233 fortably rubbing her dun side, and switching her tail stirred the tall weeds enough to show that the allayer of her irritation was a slate head-stone, tilted to one side by the frosts of thirty or forty winters. I stopped to see who lay there; and read that it was Drusilla, wife of Jno Trefethen, who departed this life on the 17th of October, 1836, aged 22 years, 7 months, and 16 days. Dear sister, mother, wife and friend, Here in the dust you lie Your sorrowing friends have laid you here To bid the world good-bye. So ran the epitaph, if I remember rightly. The stone is broken now. Some harder frost than usual, or some partic- ularly uncomfortable cow, has pushed it over, and in its fall the rhyme has been broken. When I went thither, a little while ago, I could not find the whole of it. As I knelt in the weeds before the lonely stone, wondering whether the Jno Trefethen whose wife lay under it could be my old friend, I heard a voice behind me. Turning I saw at the bars ~he country fellow who had come for the cows. I knew him a little. He was a big, lumbering, red-bearded man of thirty or so, who had lived all his life in the old governors house, which had been decaying in the possession of his fam- ily for two or three generations. He lounged heavily against the top rail on which his arms were crossed. He look- ed big and black against the western sky, whence the afternoon sun streamed about him. Seed her thother night, he drawled in that aggressive tone with which a Yankee forestalls incredulity or other differences of opinion. Saw whom? I asked. Aunt Drusilly, said he. She walks down to the house. Used to skeer folks; but Lord, there aint no harm in her. Never was, s fur as Ive heerd. Iv. I LEFT my boat by the old dam in the eel-grass, and walked slowly down the grassy road with Tom. On the way, as he drove home the lazy cows, he told what he knew about Drusilla. She was his fathers sister, born at the old house soon after his family bought it. At that time they were less rude in their lives than they have grown in fifty years of ill-luck and hardship; But the hardship began almost as soon as she was big enough to remember. Before she was ten years old her mother died; and the little woman found more serious work on her hands than chasing fowls among the bushes, and clambering into the gnarled apple-trees. There were younger children, of whom Toms father was one; and nobody else to look after them. So Drusilla had to work and worry, like a grown woman born to such things, while stiff portraits of wigged and furbelowed ancestors followed her reprovingly with their painted eyes. For, to this day her family having little else to be proud of, fondly remember that in the time of His Excellency, her great-grandfather was a member of the Kings council. Her surviving progeni- tor helped her little more than the dead ones; from all Tom could learn of him he was not much of a fellow. Guess he took moren was good for him right along, he said. Thats what was the end of him anyhow. Got tipped out of a dory rowin down from the city when my father warnt but twenty years of age. Never found the remains. For several years, then, the little house- wife had her hands full She did her best; she kept the children alive and in some kind of order; and cooked, and sewed and picked up what little educa- tion she could find in the damaged calf- bound books that remained from her great grandfatherslibrary. And through it all she managed to grow so pretty that when she was seventeen, and Toms fa- ther eight or ten, she was the prettiest girl for miles around. T least, said Tom prudently, Thats what father used tsay. But, then, he thought a sight of Aunt Drusilly, and I dunno but what his jedgment might a got a little mite tilted. However this may have been, she was pretty enough to attract admirers, who disturbed the balance of her simple life. She grew careless and flighty. She thought more about dress, and less about the children, who, with the quick jeal- ousy of their years, proceeded to take 234 THE LAST OF THE GHOSTS. men into high disfavor. Among these objects of juvenile displeasure John Tre- fethen was the most marked. He would often row over of an evening from the village where he lived; and after a while Drusilla evidently was more upset when he did not turn up, than when he did, and generally by no means herself at times when he might be expected. Th old Capn was mighty good look- in in them days, said Tom. Dunno but what you might call him so now. An he was a terrible fellow with the girls. Kep it up late in life, too. At last Drusilla grew very sharp and cross with the children, who were not slow in answering, and at times, Tom guessed, the old house wasnt much better than a hornets nest. The phrase pleased me; with its gray, weather-stain- ed shingles, and its queer labyrinth of rooms and closets and stairways and passages and garrets, it looks like one to this day. One night, when her father was away on some coasting voyage, Drusilla was unusually cross, and sent the children to bed early. She had a way, Tom said, of making em mind. So Toms father went to bed as he was told, in such a temper that he could not sleep. He heard some one come to the house, he heard Drusilla welcome the visitor, and he recognized in the gruff answer the voice of John Trefethen. Then they went into the house. The little boy tossed about in bed for a while, strain- ing his ears, as one does at night, and frightening himself with the ghostly cracklings and sighings that pervade old houses. At last he worried himself into real terror; and convinced that if he re- mained alone much longer some super- natural visitant would proceed to ex- tremities with him, he stealthily arose, and slipped down-stairs to the region of the kitchen, where human aid was with- in call. The first thing he heard was Drusilla, crying as if her heart would break. And John Trefethen was roughly telling her not to be a fool. These positive sounds Were quite enough to drown the mournful minor tones of the voices of the night. Full of angry excitement, the little fellow listened at the door, and made out that John was going on a long voyage, to Calcutta or some such place; and Din- silla begging him not to leave her that way; and John answering very roughly. In a little while he heard Johns heavy boots stamping towards the outer door. Drusilla hastened after him. John, she cried, John, dont leave me this way. Damn it, said John, whats the good of being a fool? You aint the first thats been left, nor you wont be the last. And he slammed the door be- hind him; while Drusilla sank down with a sob. The little boy, in his white nightgown went gliding like the very ghosts he had been so afraid of, down through a dark passage, and through the shadowy coun- cil-chamber, where the old portraits peered at him in the darkness, and out through the long music room, where the stringless spinnet stood that the govern- ors lady used to play on, and so through a little back door to the wharf where Johns dory lay swinging in the tidal current. In a moment John Trefethen stamped round the corner of the house, nervously whistling a country tune. John Trefethen, said the boy. My God! exclaimed John, stopping short, whos that? Its me, said the boy. What have you been doin to my sister? Nothing, said John reassured. GG to bed, you little fool I wont, said the boy, not until Ive talked to you. Guess Ive heard talk enough for one night, said John. Get out o my way. No, I wont, said the boy. And. just you mind this. If you do any harm to my sister, Ill kill you. Like to see you try, said John, push- ing him aside. The boy picked up a stone, and flung it with all his might at his enemy. John dodged it with a rude laugh. Snatch- ing up a stick, the boy dashed at him and struck him in the face. In a rage John struck back, and laid the little fel- low senseless on the stones. In a moment more John had picked the child up, and was carrying him ten- derly back to the house. He came round the corner again, past the council- door where old Dinah used to call back THE LAST OF THE GHOSTS. 235 the dead governor, and under the draw- ing-room windows that had not been lighted for years. When he came in sight of the kitchen, where he had left Drusilla, he saw that the girl had opened the door, and stood with the light be- hind her, peering into the night. He laid his burden on the ground, and stepped forward. The girl heard him coming; she sprang toward him in the dark, and threw her arms round his neck. Oh, John, she cried, nestling close to him, I knew you couldnt leave me that way. You couldnt, could you? The end of it all was that within less than a week the boy was well, and John and Drusilla were man and wife, and he off before the mast for Calcutta. Things in the old house went on as before. Some months after John sailed away, though, a baby came to remind them of him; and Drusillas small brothers and sisters vied with each other in lavishing on the new-coiner attentions that in some degree repaid what the little mo- ther had done for them. After a while, John came back from his voyage with marvellous stories of the Indies, and barbaric presents for the whole family. The few weeks he passed at home were full of happy excitement for Drusilla. But John was too much of a sailor to relish prolonged domestic happiness. Before long he was off again, this time for more than two years. After the first few months he gave up writing; and Drusilla did not say much, but as Tom put it, she aged considerable. At last her father came home with a paper which told them that Johns ship had arrived in New York,a piece of news that brightened up Drusilla incred.. ibly. She went about singing as she used to in the old times; she hurried through a new dress for the child, and spruced some of her own finery, expecting every minute that John would come. But no John came, and no letter, and what it meant nobody could tell. At last a ship- mate of his turned up in the neighbor- ing town with news that as soon as John had been paid off he had started on a 236 THE LAST OF THE GHOSTS. regular spree, and had last been seen in a dance-hall, drunker, as Tom put it, than the Medes and Persians. At this news Toms father swore ven- geance, and even Druwillas father, who ought to have sympathized with Johns weakness, was so much moved that he proceeded to get very drunk in turn. But Drusilla said hardly anything. Only she would stand every day at the kitchen door, looking wistfully up the road be- tween what trees were left of the old orchard, while her child played neg- lected at her feet. Somehow she had never seemed to care as much for her own child as she had for the little ones her mother left her. And now these had outgrown her; they needed her no more, and were quite able to look after the baby, who cared more for them than for her. She didnt talk much, Tom re- peated, but she grew very ill-tempered, which wasnt surprising. Still no news came of John, and weeks had gone by. At last, one day, after standing as usual by the door for a long time, she shook her head mourn- fully, and went into the house. Before very long, they heard a jolly voice talking to the baby; and hurrying out, they found John, come home with the aggressive air of one who does not mean to answer questions. Wheres Drusilly? he asked, when he had kissed her sisters. They heard a foot-step in the kitchen. iDrusilla ap- peared at the door. She was pale as death. Oh, John, she murmured, if Id known youd come I wouldnt a done it. And she sank into Johns arms. The poor child had taken poison. An hour later she was dead. They buried her in the pasture where I saw her gravestone. That was Drusillas story. In telling it Tom had rambled so far from the visi- tations that had started him on the tale that I had to remind him of it. Who had seen her? I asked. Lots of folks, he said, always in the same place. She would come just as she came the other night. Somebody approaching the kitchen door would see there a white figure shaking its head. As the looker-on approached, the shape would totter forward and finally would sink into the earth, much as poor Din- silla had tottered and fallen for the last time into her husbands arms. Folks say, said Tom, that she comes there when the old Capn gets thinking about her. He was awful im- pressed when she died, and hung round for a time kind of stupid-like, and then went off and got drunk. An one day, when he was off my father seed Aunt IDrusilly, just like she was that last time. Well, when the Capn come back again, he says, its no use, says he, the more I took the more I kep thinkin o the way she come and said, John, I wouldnt a done it. So he set to work; and went to sea again, and at times, I callate he lived mighty hard. But twarnt no good, whenever he come home he kep sayin that do what he would he couldnt get iDrusilly out of his head. And every now and then, all the time, folks would see her standin there in the kitchen door. Well, at last, time went on, and old Capn got on in life, and settled down over to the village, and begun to live quieter, and one day he asks my father, kind o timid, if anybodyd seen her lately. No, says my father, not this year or more. Well, says the Capn, the quieter I live the less I think about her the way she looked that day. Seems as though by livin quiet I kind o help her rest. But how about the other night? I asked. Well, said Tom, thats queer, that is. Next day, old Capn rowed over see us; and we didnt say nothin to him about it, but he let out that some darned fool had been talkin t him about her and put her in his head the old way. V. THE next time I saw Tom was a cold, clear winter evening. I had come down to the town nearest the house whence I was to drive myself to the village where Captain John lived. Just as I was tuck- ing myself into a small sleigh, I heard some one hail me by name; and there was Tom in woollen cap and comforter. He had walked up to the city on some errand, it appeared, and was starting on his tramp home. The night was so fine, the old house so little out of my way that it seemed inhuman not to offer him THE LAST OF THE GHOSTS. 237 a flIt. Ut course he accepted. He clam- So started he went on to tell me how bered in by my side; and we went jing- the old gentleman had been brighter ling away from gas-lights down towards than ever this winter till one day last the woodland and the open country to week, when he tumbled over in the post- seaward. office with an apoplexy. Before long we were passing the ceme- Ought to a been dead two days tery where the snow for once hid the ago, said Tom, but them Trefethens staring ugliness of the marble, die awful hard. Hes been lyin there, Thats growin, said Tom, nodding not knowin nobody, and breathin so towards the place. Its bout the only hard that youd think they was haulin thing in these parts that is. Times is in an anchor. Hear him cross the street. dreadful hard. There was seven lyin Hes gettin slim to-day though. Most dead at one time last week up to the likely his anchorll get hauled in bout city, sir,yes, seven at one time. ten ock. Who were they, I asked, chiefly for Why that hour, I asked. the sake of answering. He rattled off Tide turns, said Tom sententious- some names that meant nothing. One ly; and relapsed into silence, as we left of the dead, he said, was a lady whom I the cemetery behind us and turned into had doubtless seen rowing down river a woody road, dark with evergreens with five children; shed been twice di- even in the mid-winter. This led to the vorced, he added, and was pretty nigh old house, and to little else. The lonely her third time; took in washin. The silence of the night, broken only by the others were less specific, jingle of our sleighbells, began to affect Tell you whos had a stroke, he went me in a way that I found uncanny. I on. Th old Capn. Yes, sir ; you wont was glad Tom was with me. I dreaded see no more o Capn John Trefethen. the solitary drive back. And I kept VOL. 11122 I think I heard the words You couldnt leave me could you? THE LAST OF THE GHOSTS. 239 picturing to myself the white-headed old Captain, his sharp features softening into the dignity of death, in the little village beyond the creek. At last we came to the gate of the old house. As we turned in, I could hear the surf breaking with massive laziness on the reefs beyond the harbor mouth. In the still cold night air the sound seemed strangely near, and fraught with some kind of intelligence. Tom lifted his head and listened. Tides turnin, he said. As we drove on toward the house, I could see the creek and the little bay in its mouth were brimfull of ice-cakes, which stood out in ghostly relief against the granite rocks, dark for once in the midst of the whiteness about them. In an instant more, the old house rose grimly before us. At one of the doors was a light. Some one has heard us coming, said I, relieved at this sign of life. My God! whispered Tom. Look there. He had clutched my arm and was pointing toward the door. In the open door-way stood a young girl, the light streaming from behind her. But for all that her face was in shadow I could see, I know not how, the pitiful look with which she was peering into the night. Its Aunt Drasilly, said Tom, in awe-stricken tones strangely at variance with the careless way in which he had told me tales of the apparition. The horse had stopped, snorting and shivering with what might be either cold or terror. As we looked in silence at the girl, I felt rather than saw a change come over her face. For an instant there was about her a great glow of joy. She stretched out her arms in welcome. She started forward. I think I heard the words You couldnt leave me, could you? Then the cold star-light night was dark and empty again; the old house gray with no sign of life; and only the white snow about us, and the lazy surf beyond the harbor mouth, and the faint ring of sleigh-bells as our horse shivered in the darkness. Tom spoke first. Old Capns dead, he said. vi So it was. As the tide turned that night Captain John had drawn one quiet breath, and died. What his last thought was no one can rightly tell; but just as he died there came across his face a look of surprise and joy. It was on his feat- ures the next day when I saw him in his coffin. That night is now a good while ago. The old house stands as it had stood since the days of His Excellency, grow- ing grayer as the years begin to lengthen into centuries. But Drusilla has been seen no more. Just as the last vision of the dead governor faded out of his panelled hall when the crazy wench to whom he had been the grandest earthly figure faded from the earth, so when John Trefethen went out with the winter tide, the form of Drusilla, whom he could not make himself forget, faded from the post where she had watched through the forty years when she was to him a living memory. So as in the old house His Excellencys grand life and Drusillas humble one passed in turn into memo- ries they have passed now into dreams. And dreams they will be until the old house itself shall fade into a dream that shall no longer have potency to set men dreaming. A WHAT THE WILL EFFECTS. By William James. science of Man in our generation has started on a new career. Our ancestors consid- ered hini as something set over against Nature and opposed to all her laws and ways. We, on the contrary, are beginning to regard him as Na- tures flower, possessing nothing not ultimately drawn from her influences, her showers, her breezes and her soil. Psychology has shared in the general awakening. We begin to hear the phrase the new Psychology. Phys- iological Psychology, Psychophysics have become the titles of accredited de- partments of literature. To know how to handle a chronograph, or a Bunsen cell, and to dissect out a frogs sciatic nerve, even if not a~dogs,. are beginning to be held as important requisites in a professor of mental science, as that po- lite learning and power of introspection, which were formerly an all-sufficient equipment for his work. Rich as are already in some respects the results of this natural-history meth- od of studying human nature, it must be confessed that, in the main, what it has brought forth is more an ac- cumulation of materials from which to draw future conclusions than any very important new conclusion itself. None of the old classical problems of Psychol- ogy have received their definitive quie- tus at the hands of the zoological school; and what animates the enthusiasm of us disciples is less the sense of the great things which we have already done than of those which we are probably upon the eve of doing. In many departments of psychology, however, genuine progress has been made, not only in the way of collecting materials, but in that of clear- ly conceiving their relations. The Psy- chology of Volition is an example; and, if the reader is so disposed, we will spend an hour together in asking what happens according to recent Psychology, when- ever we exert our will. The only conception at the same time renovating and fundamental with which Biology has enriched Psychology, the only essential point in which the new Psychology is an advance upon the old, is, it seems to me, the very general, and by this time very familiar notion, that all our activity belongs at bottom to the type of reflex action, and that all our con- sciousness accompanies a chain of events of which the first was an incoming cur- rent in some sensory nerve, and of which the last will be a discharge into some muscle, blood-vessel, or gland. This chain of events may be simple and rapid, as when we wink at a blow; or it may be intricate and prolonged, as when we hear a momentous bit of news and deliberate before deciding what to do. But its normal end is always some.activ- ity. Viewed in this light the thinking and feeling portions of our life seem little more than half-way houses towards behavior; and recent Psychology accord- ingly tends to treat consciousness more and more as if it existed only for. the sake of the conduct which it seems to in- troduce, and tries to explain its peculi- arities (so far as they can be explained at all) by their practical utility. Mr. Spencer, by his broad description of mental life as adjustment to the envi- ronment has done more than tiny Eng- lish writer to popularize this view. My writing of this article is just as much a self-maintaining reaction of mine upon my environment as my flinching from a blow would be. Some reactions are involuntary and others are voluntary; and the first point which the new Psychology scores, is that the voluntary reactions are all de- rived from the involuntary. This is a point easy to make clear. In a former article (see The Nature of Instinct, vol. 1, p. 355) I discussed the involun- tary reactions. They are commonly di- vided into three kinds, reflex acts, manifestations of emotion, and instinc- tive orimpulsive performances. Butfrom a scientific point of view these distine

William James James, William What The Will Effects 240-250

WHAT THE WILL EFFECTS. By William James. science of Man in our generation has started on a new career. Our ancestors consid- ered hini as something set over against Nature and opposed to all her laws and ways. We, on the contrary, are beginning to regard him as Na- tures flower, possessing nothing not ultimately drawn from her influences, her showers, her breezes and her soil. Psychology has shared in the general awakening. We begin to hear the phrase the new Psychology. Phys- iological Psychology, Psychophysics have become the titles of accredited de- partments of literature. To know how to handle a chronograph, or a Bunsen cell, and to dissect out a frogs sciatic nerve, even if not a~dogs,. are beginning to be held as important requisites in a professor of mental science, as that po- lite learning and power of introspection, which were formerly an all-sufficient equipment for his work. Rich as are already in some respects the results of this natural-history meth- od of studying human nature, it must be confessed that, in the main, what it has brought forth is more an ac- cumulation of materials from which to draw future conclusions than any very important new conclusion itself. None of the old classical problems of Psychol- ogy have received their definitive quie- tus at the hands of the zoological school; and what animates the enthusiasm of us disciples is less the sense of the great things which we have already done than of those which we are probably upon the eve of doing. In many departments of psychology, however, genuine progress has been made, not only in the way of collecting materials, but in that of clear- ly conceiving their relations. The Psy- chology of Volition is an example; and, if the reader is so disposed, we will spend an hour together in asking what happens according to recent Psychology, when- ever we exert our will. The only conception at the same time renovating and fundamental with which Biology has enriched Psychology, the only essential point in which the new Psychology is an advance upon the old, is, it seems to me, the very general, and by this time very familiar notion, that all our activity belongs at bottom to the type of reflex action, and that all our con- sciousness accompanies a chain of events of which the first was an incoming cur- rent in some sensory nerve, and of which the last will be a discharge into some muscle, blood-vessel, or gland. This chain of events may be simple and rapid, as when we wink at a blow; or it may be intricate and prolonged, as when we hear a momentous bit of news and deliberate before deciding what to do. But its normal end is always some.activ- ity. Viewed in this light the thinking and feeling portions of our life seem little more than half-way houses towards behavior; and recent Psychology accord- ingly tends to treat consciousness more and more as if it existed only for. the sake of the conduct which it seems to in- troduce, and tries to explain its peculi- arities (so far as they can be explained at all) by their practical utility. Mr. Spencer, by his broad description of mental life as adjustment to the envi- ronment has done more than tiny Eng- lish writer to popularize this view. My writing of this article is just as much a self-maintaining reaction of mine upon my environment as my flinching from a blow would be. Some reactions are involuntary and others are voluntary; and the first point which the new Psychology scores, is that the voluntary reactions are all de- rived from the involuntary. This is a point easy to make clear. In a former article (see The Nature of Instinct, vol. 1, p. 355) I discussed the involun- tary reactions. They are commonly di- vided into three kinds, reflex acts, manifestations of emotion, and instinc- tive orimpulsive performances. Butfrom a scientific point of view these distine WHAT THE WILL EFFECTS. 241 tions are unmeaning, for the physiologi- cal process is in all our involuntary ac- tions essentially one and the same. The other day I was standing at a railroad station with a little child, when an ex- press-train went thundering by. The child, who was near the edge of the plat- form, started, winked, had his breathing convulsed, turned pale, burst out crying, and ran frantically towards me and hid his face. Here were so many involun- tary discharges let loose by the same stimulus. But there was no essential difference between them from the point of view of their causation and mode of execution. The winking and starting we name reflex, the effects on pulse, breathing and tear-glands emotional, and the running and hiding, instinctive acts; but these terms are obviously mere practical conveniences; and in all con- crete cases of reaction upon an impres- sion organs of all classes, glands, blood- vessels, and muscles of every description, are affected at one and the same time. Now in these involuntary reactions the creature can know what he is going to do only after he has done it, if I may express myself by such an Irish bull. Every time we first perform an action of this sort, it takes us by surprise. I have no doubt that that child was almost as astonished by his own behavior as he was by the train, and more than I was who stood by. Of course, if such a reaction has already many times occurred, we learn what to expect of ourselves, and can then foresee our conduct even though it remain as involuntary and un- controllable as it was before. ButVn voluntary action properly so called the act is foreseen from the very first. The idea of it always precedes its execution. This, as all will admit, is the sine qud non and essence of every vol- untary action. // And it is an immediate consequence of this that no act can pos- sibly be voluntary the first time it is performed. Until we have done it at least once, we can have no idea of what sort of a thing it is like, and do not know in what direction to set our will to bring it about. One cannot will into the void. Most of us have never moved our ears; none of us have stopped our hearts. If we knew how to start we might set to work to learn these feats. VOL. 11123 But we cant tell in which direction to begin, or what particular sort of effort to make. It is like suddenly telling a man to utter any sentence he pleases in the Ethiopian tongue. The problem is altogether indeterminate. What we need is a more definite idea of just what we are to do. Now what constitutes our definite idea of just what any.movement is? If the reader will carefully consider the matter, he will be a~Ae, I think, to give only one answer. ~Our idea of a movement is our image of the way in which we shall feel when it is in process of doing or is done. ~Our idea of raising our arm for example, or of crooking our finger, is a sense, more or less vivid, of how the raised arm, or the crooked fin- ger, feels. There is no other idea than this, or any other mental material, out of which an idea might be made. We can- not possibly have any idea of our ears motion until our ears have moved. This is why most of us caunot make even a vain effort to move these organs. They have never moved. If we wished to learn to move them (and many of us might learn, with perseverance) the first thing would be to move them passively with our fingers in the right direction, until we had a pretty clear idea of how the movement felt. Only then could we begin to train our voluntary power. This is why we begin to teach children to write by holding their hand, to look through a telescope by telling them to hold one eyelid closed; and in gen- eral why the acquisition of all feats of address is accelerated by a bystander helping our recalcitrant members into position. Without such aid we must wait for some random contortion to hit the right attitude and give us an idea of just what it is at which we are to aim. It thus appears that voluntary activity must be regarded as always of a second- ary and never of a primary sort. It must come consecutively to activity of an involuntary kind. The movements which it consciously intends must once have been performed with n~ intention, or it could not intend them. \ Our fore- fathers were hazy as to this. They thought the will could exert its effects ex abrupto. We now see clearly that it can only go to work on reminiscences of ear- lier movement; that a creatnre without 242 WHAT THE WILL EFFECTS. memory can have no will; and that all the contractions of which the most com- plex volitional utterances are composed must originally have been random or instinc,tive expressions of our automatic life.* / The works of Bain, Maudsley and SuIly copiously illustrate this depend- ence of voluntary action upon a pre-ex- isting machinery, and the growth of the will out of a blind impulsive soil. So much for the first point in the Psy- chology of the Will. The second point which modern Psychology scores, is one which may strike the reader as less obviously true. Having made him see that before the Will can go to work it needs a store of recollections of how various movements may feel, I must now make him see that it needs nothing else, and that such ideas of movement are not only indispensable conditions of volition, but sufficient conditions as well. Dr. Carpenter long ago gave the name of ideo-motor actions to a class of per- formances with which all of us are fa- miliar; and which, if I mistake not, he seemed to place among the curiosities of our volitionallife. The truthis that these ideo-motor actions are not curiosities, but true types and patterns of normal volition, simply stripped of complication and disguise. The actions I have in mind are such as these. Whilst talking, I become conscious of a pin on the floor, or of some dust on my sleeve. Without interrupting the conversation I brush away the dust or pick up the pin. I make no express resolve, but the mere perception of the object and the fleeting notion of the act seem f themselves to bring the latter about~ Similarly, I sit at table after dinn& d and find myself from time to time taking nuts or raisins from the dish and eating them. So far as deliberate resolution goes my repast is long since done; but the sight of the dish awakens a rapid idea of the possi- bility of eating the fruit, and this idea, not meeting any express contradiction, fatally passes over into action. It needs for this no separate fiat of the will; it * Of course I do not mean tbat a man cannot commit a murder voluntarily until he has committed one involunta- rily. Such acts as murders are complex combinations of movements, crouching, springing, stabbing and the like. What I mean is that he can perform no one elementary movement voluntarily unless it has been already involun- tarily performed. is enough that no po itively hindering idea should be there. We all know what it is to get out of bed on a freezing morning in a room without a fire, and how the very vital principle within us protests against the ordeal. Probably most of us have lain on certain mornings for an hour at a time unable to brace ourselves to the resolve. We think how late we shall be, how the duties of the day will suffer; we say I must get up, this is ignomin- ious, etc.; but still the warm couch feels too delicious, the cold outside too cruel, and resolution faints away and postpones itself again and again just as it seemed on the verge of bursting the resistance and passing over into the de- cisive act. Now how do we ever get up under such circumstances? If I may generalize from my own experience, we more often than not get up without any struggle or decision at all. We sud- denly find that we have got up. A fortu- nate lapse of consciousness occurs; we forget both the warmth and the cold; we fall into some reverie connected with the days life, in the course of which the idea flashes across us, Hollo! I must lie here no longer an idea which at that lucky instant awakens no contra- dictory or paralyzing suggestions, and consequently produces immediately its appropriate motor effects. It was our acute consciousness of both the warmth and the cold during the period of strug- gle, which paralyzed our activity then and kept our idea of rising in the condi- tion of wish and not of will. The mo- ment these inhibitory ideas ceased, the original idea exerted its effects. This case seems to me to contain in miniature form the data for an entire psychology of volition. If we wisely generalize its teachings we shall say that anywhere and everywher~the sole known cause for the execution of a movement is the bare idea of the movements execution, and that if the idea occurs to a mind empty of other ideas, the movem~nt will fatally and infallibly take place. / The hypnotic subject passively acting out every motor suggestion which his operator makes, seems to embody this simplest of all possible cases. Ask him what he is thinking of before you make the suggestion, and he will say noth WHAT THE WILL EFFECTS. 243 ing. But seldom are our minds as empty as his. Usually they contain other ideas in addition to that of the movement in question, and according as these additional ideas are of one sort or another, we get one or another kind of result. If they are entirely irrelevant to the idea of the movement they neither help nor hinder its effects ;such were presumably the topics of our conversa- tion when we picked up the string from the floor. If they harmonize with the idea of the movement, they re-enforce its efficacy over the muscles ;when the idea of rising comes in the midst of an exciting vision of what is to be done when we are dressed, we fairly leap from bed. But if the additional ideas conflict with the idea of the movement, they block the path of its discharge and inhibit its motor efficacy altogether. The thought of the cold room thus blocked the dis- charge of the idea of rising. The thought We have eaten enough! would have checked the raising of our hand, had it come whilst we were about to extend the latter towards the confectionery on the dinner table. There is nothing paradoxical about this blocking of one process in the nerve- centres by another. The physiology of recent years has shown that any and every process, almost, may, under cer- tain conditions, arrest activities going on elsewhere; and inhibition now fig- ures, in text-books of nervous science, as a function almost as wide-spread and characteristic as stimulation itself. Just which are the processes which will inhib- it, and which are those which will re-en- force each other, are matters for deli- cate experimentation to decide. All our thoughts correspond to processes in the cerebral hemispheres. We know that certain thoughts conflict with others and that certain acts are only possible so long as objections to them do not pop into our minds. This seems, introspec- tively, to be a logical consequence of the contrasted inner natures of the ideas themselves. The new Psychology is, of course, far from denying this; but she insists that the logical law is a mechan- ical law as well, and that the brain-pro- cesses to which the contrasted ideas sev- erally correspond, are such as dam each other up and stop each others discharge. The immense complicacy and subtilty of these mutually inhibitory processes appears from the number of actions that are thought of every hour of the day by an ordinarily active mind, and which yet give rise to no sensible movement. The other things which are thought of at the same time do not naturally conspire with these actions. They are not con- sented to. Consent, in short, is a word which describes most of our activity far more accurately than volition does. Vo- lition implies something positive, ener- getic, and akin to effort. Consent is passive; and three-fourths of our daily conduct consists in simply taking off the brakes, and letting ideas and impulses have their way. Volition, properly so- called, if there were any, would in these cases lie in refusing consent. I think every mans consciousness will bear wit- ness to the truth of this. Not that the refusing of consent need imply energetic volition either. Quite as little as the execution of a movement does its inhibition always require an express effort or command. Either of them may require it, as we shall pres- ently see. Bu1~ in all simple and ordi- nary cases, just as the bare presence of one idea will prompt a movement, so the bare presence of another idea will pre- vent its taking place./ Try to feel as if you were croo our finger, whilst keeping it straight. In a minute it will fairly tingle with the imaginary change of position; yet it will not sensibly move; because its not really moving is also a part of what you have in mind. Drop this idea, think of the movement purely and simply, with all brakes off, and presto! it takes place with no effort at all. * A waking mans behavior is thus at all times the resultant of two opposing neu- ral forces. With unimaginable fineness some currents among the cells and fibres of his brain are playing on his motor nerves, whilst other currents, as unim- aginably fine, are playing on the first currents, damming or helping them, al- tering their direction or their speed. * It always takes place insensibly even when the brakes are on. The skill of such muscle-readers as Mr. Irving Bishop depends on the fact that hardly anyone in thinking of a rilovement is able entirely to suppress the tendency to carry it out. The muscle-reader feels this tendency in the Agents hand which is laid upon his person. 244 WHAT THE WILL EFFECTS. The upshot of it all is that whilst the states. Our next acts are from ideas currents must always end by being or representations of these things and drained off through some motor nerves, states. Our last acts (as we see them in they are drained off sometimes through the thoroughly cultivated man) are from one set and sometimes through an- ideas of some abstract good, be the good other; and sometimes they keep each pleasure, or something which may ex- other in equilibrium so long that a su~ elude pleasure, as duty is often felt to perficial observer may think they are do. Pleasure is apt to be throughout a not drained off at all. Such an observ- secondary complication to the drama of er must remember, however, that from stimulation and desire.* It regulates, the physiological point of view a gest- but need not operate ; it steers, but need ure, an expression of the brow, or an ex- not propel. And when the idea of it pulsion of the breath, are movements as does propel, and becomes itself the mo- much as an act of locomotion is. A tive, it is only as one among many ideas kings breath slays as well as an assas- which have this privilege coequally. If sins blow; and the outpouring of those one idea, such as that of pleasure, may currents which the magic imponderable let loose the springs of action, surely streaming of our ideas accompanies need other ideas may; and experience alone not always be of an explosive or other- can decide which ideas have this power. wise physically conspicuous kind. It decides that their actual name is legion. Innumerable objects of desire and pas ~ The ideas which perhaps more gener- sion innervate our limbs just as they ally than any others inhibit muscular light up a fever in our breasts; and activity, and keep us quiet, are those of ninety-nine times out of a hundred we no pains and pleasures; the pains of move- more act for the pleasure connected with ment and the pleasures of the status quo. ,/the action, than we frown for the pleasure The paralyzing effects of the beds warmth of the frowning, or blush for the pleas- and of the cold in the room are cases in ure of the blush. Blind reactive impulse point. And conversely, the ideas which at the beginning, ideational coercion of more generally than any others incite to some sort at the end, such are the poles movement are those of the pleasures to between which the evolution of human be gained by action, and the pains con- conduct swings. Ask the common nectedwith repose. A hasty philosophy drunkard why he falls so often a prey to has universalized these facts, and grave- temptation. He will say that half the ly insisted that the only possible inciter time he cannot tell. It is a sort of ver- to voluntary action is the idea of pleas- tigo. His nerve-centres are a sluice-way, ure, and its only possible inhibitor the pathologically unlocked by every passing idea of pain. Ethically, this might be conception of a bottle and a glass. He true; that is, it might be (as utilitarians does not thirst for the beverage; the contend) that the ideas of pleasure and taste of it may even appear repugnant; of pain are the only rational motives for and he perfectly foresees the morrow s acting or for desisting from activity. I will express no opinion as to whether * An activity prompted by any cause or motive whatso- ever brings a certain pleasure with it when successfully this be true or not in ethics ; but I completed (especially if the completion involves the over- know that its ~ in psychology ming of obstacles), and an activity prompted by any counterT~art or motive whatsoever, if frustrated, brings pain. It is absolutely false. Be it or be it not is painful to have our breathing stopped, and pleasant to admitted that the idea of pleasure ought le~,~r~e activity of listening to a lecture ended by the h getting through. The pleasure is an incident or to be, it certainly cannot be admitted concomitant of such acts, just as coal-consumption is comitant of a steamers locomotion. As long as the loco- that it is the only idea which moves a motion continues the coal-consumption goes on; when it to action. If there is any one point g~PS the coal-consumption ends. But habitually we no more man to lectures for the mere relief of getting through, or which the new Psychology, with its breathe for the mere sake of escaping pain, than steamers 0 to sea or SLOP for the mere sake of consuming or nut con- derivation of the will from involuntary ~uming coal. Of course we may occasionally make these impulse, makes plain, it is that. Our our express motive for breathing or lecture-going, just as teamers mcy go to sea for the express sake of getting rid first acts, of every sort, are blind, made of coal. But the hedonist in psychology is like one who for no motive, properly so called, but f a- hould say that no steamer can possibly go to sea for any motive than to burn its coal. The incidental conse tally stimulated into being by sensations quence of the activity, which only sometimes may be the deliberately proposed purpose of the activity, is made every- due to determinate outer things or inner where and always to usurp the proposed purposes place. WHAT THE WILL EFFECTS. 245 remorse. But when he thinks of the have to make whenever we do a diffi- liquor or sees it, he finds himself prepar- cult thing. This seems the act of will ing to drink, and does not stop himself; par excellence; and it would be the play and more than this he cannot say. of Hamlet with the Prince left out, This is why volcanic natures like the were I to end my tale here, and not give Mahomets, the Luthers, and the Bona- some account of this last and most mys- partes are usually fatalists. They find terious feature of the case. themselves bursting into action with an The older psychologists treated the energy at which they are themselves as- effort of will as the only spiritual force tonished, as if some god or demon had which can influence immediately the released a spring. But there is an in- material world. Its point of application toxication in this outpour which makes might be muscles or brain-cellsthat them welcome and adopt it, whitherso- was an inessential part of their theory, ever it may lead, coupled, in men of the but the mode of its application, its rela- heroic mould, with an ability to meet its tion to the bodily process with which consequences whatever they may be. it is connected, was altogether different from the relation of any bare idea to the To sum up our results so far. We bodily process to which it corresponds. are an organized machinery for muscu- The idea was inert and passive, a mere lar explosion, placed in an environment concomitant. The effort, on the con- full of things which pull and clamp the trary, was a force, which passed from triggers of the machinery in various the mental to the physical world. preappointed ways. This is our invol- Now it seems to me that if there is untary life. But the things leave im- anything which recent advances in psy- ages behind them, and so do the dis- chology ought to teach, it is that this is charges themselves, with their conse- a mistaken view, and that the feeling of quences in the way of pleasure and of effort has no such exceptional position pain. All these images in turn incite ~ between the inner and the outer worlds. to new discharges, and reinforce and NEither all states of consciousness are inhibit each other just as their originals forces, or none are; either all feelings did. This is our voluntary life, so far react upon the brain-states which they as we have studied it; and the great accompany, or none do. Ideas react as conclusion we now reach is, that the only much as efforts. What effort does when thing which can either incite or check a it comes to the aid of ideas is not to voluntary movement is the cerebral pro- supplant the ideas in making the bodily cess which corresponds to an idea. A machine obey, but to hold the ideas fast, priori, of course, there is nothing strange so that they may acquire strength and in an ideational process doing this. For, stability enough to make the machine in our ignorance of the intimate nature obey. The ideas are the spiritual things of nerve-action, it seems as likely that which the body obeys qnite as much an ideational centre should discharge when the effort is, as when it is not, there./ into a motor-nerve as that any other sort A very few words ought, it seems to me, of centre should. to make this clear. Every man alive knows what it is to So much for the middle stage of voli- be under the empire of passion. Either tion, which we will call, for convenience, he has had a fever of desire upon him the volition of consent. In the volition for the acquisition of a possessiona of consent the idea which serves as mo- horse, or boat, or house, or land; or he tive or temptation is sufficient of itself to has loved a womans eyes; or some ambi- engender action if no other idea stands tion or other has seized him in its fiery in the way. But there remains a volition grasp. Let us now suppose a man with of effort, which seems a widely different a passion the circumstances of which thing. Often the idea which serves as make it thoroughiy unwise, and then ask our motive or reason for action seems ourselves what constitutes the difficulty too weak to produce action unless aided for him of acting as if this were the by another force. Of this force we seem casefor difficulty there is, as we all conscious in the effort of will which we well know. Certainly there is no phys 246 WHAT THE WILL EFFECTS. ical difficulty. It is as easy physically to pocket ones money as to pay it out, and as easy to walk away from as in the direc- tion of a coquettes door. The difficulty is mental; it is that of getting the idea of the wis? action to stay before our mind at all. ,When any strong emotional state whate~er is upon us the tendency is for no images but such as are congruous with it to come up. If others by chance offer themselves, they are instantly smothered and crowded out. If we be joyous we cannot keep thinking of that tomb which certainly awaits ustry it now, sanguine reader! If lugubrious, we cannot think of new triumphs, flow- ers and spring; nor if vengeful, of our oppressors community of nature with ourselves. The cooling advice which we get from others when the fever-fit is on us is the most jarring and exasperating thing in life. Reply we caunot, so we get angry; for by a sort of self-preserv- ing instinct which our passion has, it feels that these chill ideas, if they once but gain a lodgement, will work and work until they have frozen the very vi- tal spark from out of all our mood and brought our airy castles in ruin to the ground. Such is the inevitable effect of reasonable ideas over.othersif the~, can once get a quiet hearing; and passion s cue accordingly is always and everywhere to prevent their still small voice from being heard at all. Let me not think of that! Dont speak to me of that! This is the sudden cry of all those who in a passion perceive some sobering con- siderations about to check them in mid career. Haec tibi erit janua leti, we feel. There is something so icy in this cold-water bath, something which seems so hostile to the movement of our life, so purely negative, in Reason, when she lays her corpse-like finger on our heart and says Halt! give up! leave off! go back! sit down! that it is no wonder that to most men the steadying influ- ence seems, for the time being, like a very minister of death. The strong-willed man, however, is the man who hears the still small voice unflinchingly, and who, when the death- bringing consideration comes, looks at its face, consents to its presence, clings to it, affirms it, and holds it fast, in spite of the host of exciting mental images which rise in revolt against it and would expel it from the mind. Sus- tained in this way by a resolute effort of attention, the moral idea erelong suc- ceeds in calling up its own congeners and associates, and ends by changing the man s consciousness altogether. And wi~ his consciousness his actions change. The new ideas, as soon as they are stably in possession of the mental field, infallibly produce their motor ef- fects. The struggle, the difficulty is all in their getting possession of the field. The strain of the will lies in keeping the attention firmly fixed upon them, in spite of the fact that the spontaneous drift of thought is all the other way. That is what takes the moral effort. And when the moral effort has victo- riously maintained the presence of the moral ideas, its work is over. The mys- terious tie between the ideas and the cerebral motor-centres next comes into play, and, in a way which we cannot even guess at, the obedience of the bod- ily organs follows as a matter of course. / YIn all this one sees that the imme- diate point of application of the volun- tary effort does not lie in the physical world at all, but in the mental world. It is an idea to which our will applies it- self, an idea which, if we let it go, would slip away, but which we will not let go. Consent to the ideas undivided pres- ence, this is efforts sole achievement. Its only function is to get this feeling of consent into the mind. And for this there is but one way. The idea to be consented to must be kept from fficker- ing and going out. It must be held steadily before the mind until it fills the mind. Such filling of the mind by an idea, with its congruous associates, is consent to the idea, and to the fact which the idea represents. There is no other possible sort of consent than this. If the idea be that of the beginning or stopping of some bodily movement of our own, we call the consent, thus la- borioualy gained, a volition. The move- ment in this case becomes real as soon as we agree to the notion that it shall be reaL Nature here backs us instanta- neoualy and follows up our inward will- ingness by outward changes of her own. Nature does this in no other instance than this one of our own bodily move- WHAT THE WILL EFFECTS. 247 ments. I may consent to the table dancing across this room; but that will not make it dance, as my legs would dance if the consent applied to them. My legs themselves will refuse to dance if my spinal cord be diseased. But these differences in the way in which nature acts at different places and times do not affect the psychology of my voli- tion in the least degree. As far as my mind is concerned, it is just as good and true willing when I say to the tables moving fiat, as when I say fiat to the movement of my own legs. The will, mentally considered, is consent to afact of any kind, a fact in which we ourselves may play an active, a neutral, or a suffering part. The fact always ap- pears to us in an idea: and it is willed by its idea becoming victorious over in- ternal and external difficulties, banish- ing contradictory ideas and remaining in stable possession of the mind. I think it will not be possible to find a single case of voluntary effort to which this description does not apply. Take violent muscular exertion for example. The feeling of muscular exertion consists of an immense number of in-coming sen- sations, due to the contraction of the mus- cles of our glottis, chest, jaws, body and limbs, and to our strained joints and ligaments and squeezed or twisted skin. The ouly volition which is required to bring about the actual state of muscu- lar exertion is a sincere and genuine consent that all these sensations shall be reaL But when we are lazy, or ex- hausted with fatigue, the sensations in question are very unwelcome, and the idea of being filled with their reality is repugnant to the mind. When once we have brought ourselves to face it, however, to say to the muscular sensa- tions, Be our reality, however disagree- able you may prove, to utter our fiat, in a word, the contractions and their ef- fects occur, and the muscular exertion is realized to its full extent. The effort of will required for muscular exertion consists then, like all other efforts of will, in the forcible holding fast to an incongenial idea. It is a strange fact, this, that the fixed idea of a set of muscular feelings should immediately be followed by bodily changes which make those feelings real. But it is not an unexampled fact, because there is no idea whatever which is not immedia1tely followed by some bodily change./ We call many of these changes emotioiial. The peculiarity of the emo- tional changes is that the sight or idea of some object is needed to produce them. We cannot weep, for example, by dint of thinking of the feeling of our tears, but only by dint of thinking of an outward cause of grief. The odd thing about the changes called voluntary is that we provoke them by thinking of how they themselves are going to feel. This is no doubt due to some anatomi- cal cause. The brain-centres for imag- ining the contraction of our voluntary muscles, etc., must be connected with the motor-nerves in an altogether special way. But, neglecting all these varia- tions, there results from the aggregate of facts which we have reviewed a lesson for brain-physiology which is as simple as it is important : ~ffhere can be no cen- tres in the upper brain which are exclu- sively motor. All its parts must be motor and sensory alikesensory at all times, motor when not inhibited by each other.~ In other words, they all have a perma- nent sensory property, and intermittent motor functions~. Their sensory proper- ty is ideation. / When theyinhibit each other, there is no outer movement, but in the mind a conflict of ideas. All that conscious- ness embraces is the swaying to and fro of the ideas, and the final repose of the attention in the one which gains the day. Now this repose of the attention may come about spontaneously, or it may come with moral effort. The work of moral effort then, when we come to re- duce it to its simplest expression, is neither more nor less than the work of attending to a difficult idea. Effort of volition and effort of attention, psy- chologically considered, are, i~ short, two names for an identical thing. Mus- cular discharges and arrests are all con- secutive to the central phenomenon m * The hinder partof the brain does not respond to elec. trical stimulation by the production of any muscular move- ments. This may be due to Inhibitions. Goltz and his pupil Loeb have noticed that when the frontal lobes are cut off, the animals mobility becomes extreme, as if habit- ual inhibitions were removed. It would be interesting to try whether, in an animal so operated on, direct stimula- tion of the occipital lobes might not give rise to move- ments, similar in general character to those discharged from the so-called motor zone. 248 WHAT THE WILL EFFECTS. volition, which is this bare attention to the idea. The only sort of resistance which our will can possibly experience is the resistance which certain ideas offer to being attended to at all. This resist- ance may come from an intrinsic and more or less permanent uncongeniality in the ideas. I know a person who, on some days, will turn to anything rather than to the noon-day lesson in logic which he has to get up, poke the fire, set chairs straight, dust the floor, snatch the newspaper, trim his nails, take down any book which catches his eye, waste the morning anyhow and everyhow, in short, rather than attend to that tedious and accursed thing. Or the resistance may come from an extrinsic unconge- niality, due to the temporary possession of the mind by ideas of an incompatible sort. Such are the cases of passion we talked of a while ago ; such would be the thought of an ordeal we must go through on the morrow, visiting us in the midst of a dinner party, at a theatre, or other scene of pleasure, where our cares had temporarily been lulled to sleep. IJnder such circumstances we shy away like frightened horses from the incongruous topic, the moment we get a glimpse of its ugly proffle on the threshold of our thought. To attend to it, under such circum- stances, is, however, the moral act; and it is the only moral act which, as spirits, we are ever called upon to perform. The effort which such attention implies seems to be indeterminate in quantity, as if we might make more or less as we chose. If it be really indeterminate, our future acts are ambiguous, or unpredes- tinate: in common parlance our wills are free. If the amount of effort be not in- determinate, but be related in a fixed manner to the ideas themselves, in such wise that whatever idea at any time fills our consciousness was from eternity bound to fill it then and there, and com- pel from us the exact effort of attention, neither more nor less, which we bestow upon it; then our wills are not free, and all our acts are foreordained. The ques- tion of fact in the free-will controversy is thus extremely simple. It relates solely to the amount of effort of attention which we can at any time put forth. Are the duration and intensity of this effort fixed functions of the idea attended to or not? jNow as I just said, it seems as if the at~ntion were an independent variable, as if we might exert more or less of it in any given case. When a man has let his thoughts go for days and weeks until at last they culminate in some particularly dirty or cowardly or cruel act, it is hard to persuade him in the midst of his remorse, that he might not have reined them in; hard to make him believe that this whole goodly uni- verse (which his act so jars upon) re- quired and exacted it of him at that fatal moment, and from eternity made aught else impossible. I must confess that I sympathize with such a man, and favor the free-will belief. But the question will never be decided by purely empiri- cal or scientific evidence; and free-will and determinism, as actual creeds, will probably always be just what they are to-day, postulates of rationality, namely, different assumptions which different thinkers make, because so each of them is able to cast the world into what seems to him personally the most intelligible form. We have thus answered the question with which we started, of what happens when we exert our will. We simply Jill our mind with an idea which, but for our effort would slip away. But it is impos- sible before we close not to look for a moment into the vista of moral reflec- tions which this reply throws open to the view. In the first place it makes it plain that the will has as much to do with our be- liefs and faiths as with our movements. It is, in fact, only in consequence of a faith that our movements themselves en- sue. We think of a movement and say, let it ensue! so far as we are concerned let it be part of reality! This is all that our mind can dophysical nature must do the rest. And this is all that our mind does in any theoretic belief, such as that in the divine or undivine nature of the essence of life. In espous- ing any such belief, who can do more than say of it as far as I am concerned, let that view of life stand. Let it be real. Let my mind be filled up with the thought of it, let no difficulties drive it from my sight? But, as all sober- WHAT THE WILL EFFECTS. 249 minded thinkers know, there t~re great difficulties in the way of holding any un- ~wavering view of life. The unutterable complexity of this huge world that gir- dles us about, seems sometimes as if it were expressly meant to defy our at- tempts to conceive it as a unity. Beliefs and unbeliefs shake us by fits.* The thoughts of the dayspring and the thoughts of midnight drive each other out. No sooner are we settled in the mood of spiritual trust than some new brutality on the part of Nature overturns our peace; no sooner at ease in a mate- rialisticparti pris than we catch a phrase of music, or a friend dies, or we see some dewy morning break over the hill- tops of the world, and then the ice cracks, and all our questions and hopes are afloat and alive again. Now whereas in all practical affairs, in all matters where the willing produces an immediate result, it is universally ad- mitted that the men who can will, who can hold on to unwelcome or elusive ideas, are a higher kind of men than those who cannot,more evolved, more lit for life, more helpful to the race; it is a singular fact that in these theoretic questions it is commonly supposed to be a sign of weakness and inferiority if one let ones will have anything to say. Ones ideal attitude towards Truth, we are carefully taught, should be that of utter passivity. The truth must come and stamp itself in its own person authen- tically upon our unaiding and unresist- ing minds. If we let our satisfactions or dissatisfactions influence the manner of our reception of it, we shall surely fail to get it pure. Now if one had a perfectly single set of interests, it would be tolerably easy to live up to the professions of this creed. If one were a pure sentimentalist, with no sense for Natures cold mechanics, one mightkeep an utterly cloistered faith and live with ones head in the sand of some creed which utterly defied physi- ology and physics, and yet have a per- fectly good intellectual conscience, and consider that this was nothing but yield- ing to evidence of an objective sort. So too if one were a good bull-necked ma- terialist by nature. Having no yearn- ings for the Infinite, it would cost noth * compare the immortal Blougram in Brownings verse. ing to give the Infinite up, nor to say that the mechanical philosophy had written itself in characters of living light on the virgin tablets of ones pure in- telligence. But these ostrich-like atti- tudes are both of them getting harder than ever to maintain. With civilization, sympathy and sensibility and the love of life are ever growing more acute and exacting ; and, tolling obstinately within us like never to be silenced bells, they demand that the element which we call divine in things shall be an essential and eternal element as well. But there too, on the other hand, like a great ocean spread outside of us, lies the world with- out a purpose of the mechanical philos- ophy, in which what is divine appears as a mere accident; and no modern mans ears can be quite deaf to the tumbling of that oceans waves. So long as our mind is assailed in two such different ways, it is quite idle to talk of its being passive and will-lessuntil the objective truths shall have written themselves down. They write down no messages which are both coherent and universaL Nor if (conscious of the im- mensity of our ignorance) we resolve to go without a universal message for the present, and to wait till more light comes, can we be passive and will-less any more easily. For one must always wait in some dominant mood or attitude; and the mere resolve itself of waiting and not making what is called a snap-deci- sion, often demands volition of the most energetic sort. The theoretic life of a cultivated modern man requires, in fact, as vigorous a co-operation of his will as his practical life does. Look at the men who at the present day feel life on all its sides, and yet who are incapable of volition in intellectual affairs, and imag- ine that there ought to be some sort of truth with which they can remain in passive equilibrium. Their feelings make them shiver at the materialistic facts; whilst their loyalty to science makes them dread to be dupes of their feelings. They become one mass of in- decision, plaintiveness and defeat, so far as they take the philosophic life seriously at all; and remain facing the same urgen- cies and the same difficulties to the end, unable to deal with them, unable to drop them, and worrying their span of time 250 UPON A WINTER MORNING. away between disconsolately wishing certain things were true, yet dreading to affirm them in the teeth of other facts. But the men of will do not let I dare not wait upon I would, in any such sorry fashion. They choose their attitude and know that the facing of its difficulties shall remain a permanent portion of their task. Whether it be the material- istic idea, the spiritualistic idea, or the waiting idea, which they adopt, they do it resolutely and strike the major key. They hold fast to it in the teeth of the opposite ideas which ever urge them to let go their grasp. They find a zest in this difficult clinging to truth, or a lonely sort of joy in pressing on the thorns and going without it, which no passively warranted possession of it can ever confer. And thereby they become the masters and the lords of life. They must be counted with henceforth; they form a part of human destiny. No more in the theoretic than in the practical sphere do we care for, or go for help to, those who have no head for risks, or sense for living on the perilous edge. But just as surely as time flows on and as our consciousness grows more com plex, so surely does our theoretic life lie more and more upon the perilous edge. And, just as in every siege and shipwreck, there is found some daunt- less heart, whose example pours new life into his company; so in the wars of speculation and the shipwrecks of faith it is the same. Ever there rises up the prophet, the hero of belief, who drinks more deeply than any of the cup of bitterness; but his countenance is so unshaken and he speaks such mighty words of cheer, that his thought be- comes our thought, and to later genera- tions he seems a being half divine. But if we ask how this is possible, and how one may ones self set about it to get this sovereign mood of will, the only answer is to point to the hero who can hold to ideas that are difficult and elu- sive, and say lo, be as this man! Velle non discitur, said Seneca. The only thing which no theory, no printed di- rections, can teach us, is how to wilL What it might do, what it might have done, we can be taught; what it shall do depends on the inalienable essence of each individual man. UPON A WINTER MORNING. By Maybury Fleming. WHEN hoary frost doth shroud the grass, And bare death sitteth in the trees, And life is come to sorry pass, And morning lacketh drowsy bees Then think I of my ladys mouth, And of the violets in her eyes; So, roses warm the wintry drouth, And death, by thinking of her, dies.

Maybury Fleming Fleming, Maybury Upon A Winter Morning 250-251

250 UPON A WINTER MORNING. away between disconsolately wishing certain things were true, yet dreading to affirm them in the teeth of other facts. But the men of will do not let I dare not wait upon I would, in any such sorry fashion. They choose their attitude and know that the facing of its difficulties shall remain a permanent portion of their task. Whether it be the material- istic idea, the spiritualistic idea, or the waiting idea, which they adopt, they do it resolutely and strike the major key. They hold fast to it in the teeth of the opposite ideas which ever urge them to let go their grasp. They find a zest in this difficult clinging to truth, or a lonely sort of joy in pressing on the thorns and going without it, which no passively warranted possession of it can ever confer. And thereby they become the masters and the lords of life. They must be counted with henceforth; they form a part of human destiny. No more in the theoretic than in the practical sphere do we care for, or go for help to, those who have no head for risks, or sense for living on the perilous edge. But just as surely as time flows on and as our consciousness grows more com plex, so surely does our theoretic life lie more and more upon the perilous edge. And, just as in every siege and shipwreck, there is found some daunt- less heart, whose example pours new life into his company; so in the wars of speculation and the shipwrecks of faith it is the same. Ever there rises up the prophet, the hero of belief, who drinks more deeply than any of the cup of bitterness; but his countenance is so unshaken and he speaks such mighty words of cheer, that his thought be- comes our thought, and to later genera- tions he seems a being half divine. But if we ask how this is possible, and how one may ones self set about it to get this sovereign mood of will, the only answer is to point to the hero who can hold to ideas that are difficult and elu- sive, and say lo, be as this man! Velle non discitur, said Seneca. The only thing which no theory, no printed di- rections, can teach us, is how to wilL What it might do, what it might have done, we can be taught; what it shall do depends on the inalienable essence of each individual man. UPON A WINTER MORNING. By Maybury Fleming. WHEN hoary frost doth shroud the grass, And bare death sitteth in the trees, And life is come to sorry pass, And morning lacketh drowsy bees Then think I of my ladys mouth, And of the violets in her eyes; So, roses warm the wintry drouth, And death, by thinking of her, dies. THE LANTERN-BEARERS. By Robert Louis Stevenson. I. HESE boys congregat- ed every autumn about a certain easterly fisher village, where they tasted in a high degree the glory of existence. The place was created seemingly on purpose for the diver- sion of young gentlemen. A street or two of houses, mostly red and many of them tiled; a number of fine trees clus- tered about the manse and the kirkyard, and turning the chief street mt6 a shady alley; many little gardens more than usu- ally bright with flowers; nets a-drying, and fisher-wives scolding in the back- ward parts; a smell of fish, a genial smell of seaweed; whiffs of blowing sand at the street-corners; shops with golf- balls and bottled lollipops; another shop with penny pickwicks (that remarkable cigar) and the London Journal, dear to me for its startling pictures, and a few novels, dear for their suggestive names: such, as well as memory serves me, were the ingredients of the town. These, you are to conceive posted on a spit between two sandy bays, and sparsely flanked with villasenough, for the boys to lodge in with their subsidiary parents, not enough (not yet enough) to cock- nify the scene: a haven in the rocks in front: in front of that, a file of gray islets: to the left, endless links and sand wreaths, a wilderness of hiding-holes, alive with popping rabbits and soaring gulls: to the right, a range of seaward crags, one rugged brow beyond an- other; the ruins of a mighty and an- cient fortress on the brink of one; coves betweennow charmed into sunshine quiet, now whistling with wind and clamorous with bursting surges; the dens and sheltered hollows redolent of thyme and southernwood, the air at the cliffs edge brisk and clean and pungent of the seain front of all, the Bass Rock, tilted seaward like a doubtful bather, the surf ringing it with white, the solan geese hanging round its summit like a great and glittering smoke. This choice piece of seaboard was sacred, besides, to the wrecker; and the Bass, in the eye of fancy, still flew the colors of King James; and in the ear of fancy the arches of Tantallon still rang with horse-shoe iron, and echoed to the com- mands of Bell-the-Cat. There was nothing to mar your days, if you were a boy summering in that part, but the embarrassment of pleasure. You might golf if you wanted; but I seem to have been better employed. You might secrete yourself in the Ladys Walk, a certain sunless dingle of elders, all mossed over by the damp as green as grass, and dotted here and there by the streamside with roofless walls, the cold homes of anchorites. To fit themselves for life, and with a special eye to acquire the art of smoking, it was even common for the boys to harbor there; and you might have seen a single penny pick- wick, honestly shared in lengths with a blunt knife, bestrew the glen with these apprentices. Again, you might join our fishing parties, where we sat perched as thick as solan-geese, a covey of little anglers, boy and girl, angling over each others heads, to the much entanglement of lines and loss of podleys and conse- quent shrill recriminationshrill as the geese themselves. Indeed, had that been all, you might have done this of- ten; but though fishing be a fine pas- time, the podley is scarce to be regarded as a dainty for the table; and it was a point of honor that a boy should eat all that he had taken. Or again, you might climb the Law, where the whales jawbone stood landmark in the buzzing wind, and behold the face of many coun- ties, and the smoke and spires of many towns, and the sails of distant ships. You might bathe, now in the flaws of fine weather that we pathetically call our summer, now in a gale of wind, with the sand scourging your bare hide, your clothes thrashing abroad from under- neath their guardian stone, the froth

Robert Louis Stevenson Stevenson, Robert Louis The Lantern-Bearers 251-258

THE LANTERN-BEARERS. By Robert Louis Stevenson. I. HESE boys congregat- ed every autumn about a certain easterly fisher village, where they tasted in a high degree the glory of existence. The place was created seemingly on purpose for the diver- sion of young gentlemen. A street or two of houses, mostly red and many of them tiled; a number of fine trees clus- tered about the manse and the kirkyard, and turning the chief street mt6 a shady alley; many little gardens more than usu- ally bright with flowers; nets a-drying, and fisher-wives scolding in the back- ward parts; a smell of fish, a genial smell of seaweed; whiffs of blowing sand at the street-corners; shops with golf- balls and bottled lollipops; another shop with penny pickwicks (that remarkable cigar) and the London Journal, dear to me for its startling pictures, and a few novels, dear for their suggestive names: such, as well as memory serves me, were the ingredients of the town. These, you are to conceive posted on a spit between two sandy bays, and sparsely flanked with villasenough, for the boys to lodge in with their subsidiary parents, not enough (not yet enough) to cock- nify the scene: a haven in the rocks in front: in front of that, a file of gray islets: to the left, endless links and sand wreaths, a wilderness of hiding-holes, alive with popping rabbits and soaring gulls: to the right, a range of seaward crags, one rugged brow beyond an- other; the ruins of a mighty and an- cient fortress on the brink of one; coves betweennow charmed into sunshine quiet, now whistling with wind and clamorous with bursting surges; the dens and sheltered hollows redolent of thyme and southernwood, the air at the cliffs edge brisk and clean and pungent of the seain front of all, the Bass Rock, tilted seaward like a doubtful bather, the surf ringing it with white, the solan geese hanging round its summit like a great and glittering smoke. This choice piece of seaboard was sacred, besides, to the wrecker; and the Bass, in the eye of fancy, still flew the colors of King James; and in the ear of fancy the arches of Tantallon still rang with horse-shoe iron, and echoed to the com- mands of Bell-the-Cat. There was nothing to mar your days, if you were a boy summering in that part, but the embarrassment of pleasure. You might golf if you wanted; but I seem to have been better employed. You might secrete yourself in the Ladys Walk, a certain sunless dingle of elders, all mossed over by the damp as green as grass, and dotted here and there by the streamside with roofless walls, the cold homes of anchorites. To fit themselves for life, and with a special eye to acquire the art of smoking, it was even common for the boys to harbor there; and you might have seen a single penny pick- wick, honestly shared in lengths with a blunt knife, bestrew the glen with these apprentices. Again, you might join our fishing parties, where we sat perched as thick as solan-geese, a covey of little anglers, boy and girl, angling over each others heads, to the much entanglement of lines and loss of podleys and conse- quent shrill recriminationshrill as the geese themselves. Indeed, had that been all, you might have done this of- ten; but though fishing be a fine pas- time, the podley is scarce to be regarded as a dainty for the table; and it was a point of honor that a boy should eat all that he had taken. Or again, you might climb the Law, where the whales jawbone stood landmark in the buzzing wind, and behold the face of many coun- ties, and the smoke and spires of many towns, and the sails of distant ships. You might bathe, now in the flaws of fine weather that we pathetically call our summer, now in a gale of wind, with the sand scourging your bare hide, your clothes thrashing abroad from under- neath their guardian stone, the froth 252 THE LANTERN-BEARERS. of the great breakers casting you head- long ere it had drowned your knees. Or you might explore the tidal rocks, above all in the ebb of springs, when the very roots of the hills were for the nonce discovered; following my leader from one group to another, groping in slippery tangle for the wreck of ships, wading in poois after the abominable creatures of the sea, and ever with an eye cast backward on the march of the tide and the menaced line of your re- treat. And then you might go Crusocing, a word that covers all extempore eating in the open air: digging perhaps a house under the margin of the links, kindling a fire of the sea-ware, and cooking ap- ples thereif they were truly apples, for I sometimes suppose the merchant must have played us off with some inferior and quite local fruit, capable of resolv- ing, in the neighborhood of fire, into mere sand and smoke and iodine; or per- haps pushing to Tanta]lon, you might lunch on sandwiches and visions iu the grassy court, while the wind hummed in the crumbling turrets; or clambering along the coast, eat geens * (the worst, I must suppose, in Christendom) from an adventurous geen-tree that had taken root under a cliff, where it was shaken with an ague of east wind, and silvered after gales with salt, and grew so foreign among its bleak surroundings that to eat of its produce was an adventure in itself. There are mingled some dismal mem- ories with so many that were joyous. Of the fisher-wife, for instance, who had cut her throat at Canty Bay; and of how I ran with the other children to the top of the Quadrant, andbeheld a posse of si- lent people escorting a cart, and on the cart, bound in a chair, her throat band- aged, and the bandage all bloodyhor- ror !the fisher-wife herself, who contin- ued thenceforth to hag-ride my thoughts, and even to-day (as I recall the scene) darkens daylight. She was lodged in the little old jail in the chief street; but whether or no she died there, with a wise terror of the worst, I never inquired. She had been tippling; it was but a dingy tragedy; and it seems strange and hard that, after all these years, the poor ~crazy sinner should be still pilloried on * Wild cherries. her cart in the scrap-book of my memory. Nor shall I readily forget a certain house in the Quadrant where a visitor died, and a dark old woman continued to dwell alone with the dead body; nor how this old woman conceived a hatred to myself and one of my cousins, and in the dread hour of the dusk, as we were clambering on the garden-walls, opened a window in that house of mortality and cursed us in a still voice and with a marrowy choice of language. It was a pair of very colorless urchins that fled down the lane from this remarkable ex- perience! But Irecall with amore doubt- ful sentiment, compounded out of fear and exultation, the coil of equinoctial tempests; trumpeting squalls, scouring flaws of rain; the boats with their reefed lugsails scudding for the harbor mouth, where danger lay, for it was hard to make when the wind had any east in it; the wives clustered with blowing shawls at the pier-head, where (if fate was against them) they might see boat and husband and sonstheir whole wealth and their whole familyengulfed under their eyes; and (what I saw but once) a troop of neighbors forcing such an un- fortunate homeward, and she squalling and battling in their midst, a figure scarcely human, a tragic Mo~nad. These are things that I recall with in- terest; but what my memory dwells upon the most, I have been all this while with- holding. It was a sport peculiar to the place, and indeed to a week or so of our two months holiday there. Maybe it still flourishes in its native spot; for boys and their pastimes are swayed by periodic forces inscrutable to man; so that tops and marbles reappear in their due season, regular like the sun and moon; and the harmless art of knuckle- bones has seen the fall of the Roman empire and the rise of the United States. It may still flourish there, but nowhere else, I am persuaded; for I tried myself to introduce it on Tweedside, and was defeated lamentably; its charm being quite local, like a country wine that can- not be exported. The idle manner of it was this: Toward the end of September, when school-time was drawing near and the nights were already black, we would be- gin to sally from our respective villas, THE LANTERN-BEARERS. 253 each equipped with a tin bulls-eye lan- tern. The thing was so well known that it had worn a rut in the commerce of Great Britain; and the grocers, about the due time, began to garnish their win- dows with our particular brand of lu- minary. We wore them buckled to the waist upon a cricket belt, and over them, such was the rigor of the game, a but- toned top-coat. They smelled noisomely of blistered tin ; they neverburned aright, though they would always burn our fin- gers; their use was naught; the pleasure of them merely fanciful; and yet a boy with a bulls-eye under his top-coat ask- ed for nothing more. The fishermen used lanterns about their boats, and it was from them, I suppose, that we had got the hint; but theirs were not bulls- eyes, nor did we ever play at being fish- ermen. The police carried them at their belts, and we had plainly copied them in that; yet we did not pretend to be po- licemen. Burglars, indeed, we may have had some haunting thoughts of; and we had certainly an eye to past ages when lanterns were more common, and to cer- tain story-books in which we had found them to figure very largely. But take it for all in all, the pleasure of the thing was substantive; and to be a boy with a bulls-eye under his top-coat was good enough for us. When two of these asses met, there would be an anxious Have you got your lantern? and a gratified Yes! That was the shibboleth, and very need- ful too; for, as it was the rule to keep our glory contained, none could recog- nize a lantern-bearer, unless (like the pole-cat) by the smell. Four or five would sometimes climb into the belly of a ten- man lugger, with nothing but the thwarts above themfor the cabin was usually locked, or chose out some hollow of the links where the wind might whistle over- head. There the coats would be unbut- toned and the bulls-eyes discovered; and in the chequering glimmer, under the huge windy hall of the night, and cheered by a rich steam of toasting tinware, these fortunate young gentlemen would crouch together in the cold sand of the links or on the scaly bilges of the fishing-boat, and delight themselves with inappro- priate talk. Woe is me that I may not give some specimenssome of their foresights of life, or deep inquiries into the rudiments of man and nature, these were so fiery and so innocent, they were so richly silly, so romantically young. But there is a kind of fool abroad, whose folly is not even laughable; and it is this fool who gives the note of literary decen- cy. And the talk, at any rate, was but a condiment; and these gatherings them- selves only accidents in the career of the lantern-bearer. The essence of this bliss was to walk by yourself in the black night; the slide shut, the top-coat but- toned; not a ray escaping, whether to conduct your footsteps or to make your glory public: a mere pillar of darkness in the dark; and all the while, deep down in the privacy of your fools heart, to know you had a bulls-eye at your belt, and to exult and sing over the knowl- edge. II. IT is said that a poet has died young in the breast of the most stolid. It may be contended, rather, that this (some- what minor) bard in almost every case survives, and is the spice of life to his possessor. Justice is not done to the versatility and the unplumbed childish- ness of mans imagination. His life from without may seem but a rude mound of mud; there will be some golden chamber at the heart of it, in which he dwells delighted; and for a~ dark as hispathway seems to the observer, he will have some kind of a bulls-eye at his belt. It would be hard to pick out a career more cheerless than that of Dancer, as he figures in the Old Bailey Reports, a prey to the most sordid per- secutions, the butt of his neighborhood, betrayed by his hired man, his house beleaguered by the impish school-boy, and he himself grinding and fuming and impotently fleeing to the law against these pin-pricks. You marvel at first that anyone should willingly prolong a life so destitute of charm and diguity; and then you call to memory that had he chosen, had he ceased to be a miser, he could have been freed at once from these trials, and might have built him- self a castle and gone escorted by a squadron. Forthe love of more recondite joys, which we caunot estimate, which, 254 THE LANTERN-BEARERS. it may be, we should envy, the man had willingly foregone both comfort and con- sideration. His mind to him a king- dom was; and sure enough, digging into that mind, which seems at first a dust-heap, we unearth some priceless jewels. For Dancer must have had the love of power and the disdain of using it, a noble character in itself; disdain of many pleasures, a chief part of what is commonly called wisdom; disdain of the inevitable end, that finest trait of mankind; scorn of mens opinions, another element of virtue; and at the back of all, a conscience just like yours and mine, whining like a cur, swindling like a thimblerigger, but still pointing (there or thereabout) to some conven- tional standard. Here were a cabinet portrait to which Hawthorne perhaps had done justice; and yet not Haw- thorne either, for he was mildly minded, and it lay not in him to create for us that throb of the misers pulse, his fret- ful energy of gusto, his vast arms of ambition clutching in he knows not what: insatiable, insane, a god with a muck-rake. Thus, at least, looking in the bosom of the miser, consideration detects the poet in the full tide of life, with more, indeed, of the poetic fire than usually goes to epics; and tracing that mean man about his cold hearth, and to and fro in his discomfortable house, spies within him a blazing bon- fire of delight. And so with others, who do not live by bread alone, but by some cherished and perhaps fantastic pleas- ure; who are meat salesmen to the ex- ternal eye, and possibly to themselves are Shakespeares, Napoleons or Beethovens; who have not one virtue to rub against another in the field of active life, and yet perhaps, in the life of contempla- tion, sit with the saints. We see them on the street, and we can count their buttons; but heaven knows in what they pride themselves! heaven knows where they have set their treasure! There is one fable that touches very near the quick of life: the fable of the monk who passed into the woods, heard a bird break into song, hearkened for a trill or two, and found himself on his return a stranger at his convent gates; for he had been absent fifty years, and of all his comrades there survived but one to recognize him. It is not only in the woods that this enchanter car- ols, though perhaps he is native there. He sings in the most doleful places. The miser hears him and chuckles, and the days are moments. With no more apparatus than an ill-smelling lantern I have evoked him on the naked links. All life that is not merely mechanical is spun out of two strands: seeking for that bird and hearing him. And it is just this that makes life so hard to value, and the delight of each so incommuni- cable. And just a knowledge of this, and a remembrance of those fortunate hours in which the bird has sung to us, that fills us with such wonder when we turn the pages of the realist. There, to be sure, we find a picture of life in so far as it consists of mud and of old iron, cheap desires and cheap fears, that which we are ashamed to remember and that which we are careless whether we forget; but of the note of that time-devouring night- ingale we hear no news. The case of these writers of romance is most obscure. They have been boys and youths; they have lingered out- side the window of the beloved, who was then most probably writing to some one else; they have sat before a sheet of pa- per, and felt themselves mere continents of congested poetry, not one line of which would flow; they have walked alone in the woods, they have walked in cities under the countless lamps; they have been to sea, they have hated, they have feared, they have longed to knife a man, and maybe done it; the wild taste of life has stung theirpalate. Or, if you deny them all the rest, one pleasure at least they have tasted to the fulltheir books are there to prove itthe keen pleasure of suc- cessful literary composition. And yet they fill the globe with volumes, whose cleverness inspires me with despairing admiration, and whose consistent falsity to all care to call existence, with despair- ing wrath. If I had no better hope than to continue to revolve among the dreary and petty businesses, and to be moved by the paltry hopes and fears with which they surround and animate their heroes, I declare I would die now. But there has never an hour of mine gone quite so dully yet; if it were spent wait- ing at a railway junction, I would have THE LANTERN-BEARERS. 255 some scattering thoughts, I could count some grains of memory, compared to which the whole of one of these romances seems but dross. These writers would retort (if I take them properly) that this was very true; that it was the same with themselves and other persons of (what they call) the artistic tempera- ment; that in this we were exceptional, and should apparently be ashamed of ourselves; but that our works must deal exclusively with (what they call) the average man, who was a prodigious dull fellow, and quite dead to all but the paltriest considerations. I accept the issue. We can only know others by ourselves. The artistic temperament (a plague on the expression!) does not make us different from our fellow-men, or it would make us incapable of writing novels; and the average man (a murrain on the word!) is just like you and me, or he would not be average. It was Whitman who stamped a kind of Bir- mingham sacredness upon the latter phrase; but Whitman knew very well, and showed very nobly, that the average man was full of joys and full of a poetry of his own. And this harping on lifes dulness and mans meanness is a loud profession of incompetence; it is one of two things: the cry of the blind eye, I cannot see, or the complaint of the dumb tongue, I cannot utter. To draw a life without delights is to prove I have not realized it. To picture a man with- out some sort of poetrywell, it goes near to prove my case, for it shows an author may have little enough. To see Dancer only as a dirty, old, small-mind- ed, impotently fuming man, in a dirty house, besieged by Harrow boys, and probably beset by small attorneys, is to show myself as keen an observer as . . . the Harrow boys. But these young gentlemen (with a more becom- ing modesty) were content to pluck Dancer by the coat-tails; they did not suppose they had surprised his secret or could put him living in a book: and it is there my error would have lain. Or say that in the same romanceI continue to call these books romances, in the hope of giving painsay that in the same romance, which now begins really to take shape, I should leave to speak of Dancer, and follow instead the Harrow boys; and say that I came on some such business as that of my lan- tern-bearers on the links; and described the boys as very cold, spat upon by flur- ries of rain, and drearily surrounded, all of which they were; and their talk as silly and indecent, which it certainly was. I might upon these lines, and had I Zolas genius, turn out, in a page or so, a gem of literary art, render the lantern light with the touches of a mas- ter, and lay on the indecency with the ungrudging hand of love; and when all was done, what a triumph would my picture be of shallowness and dulness! how it would have missed the point! how it would have belied the boys! To the ear of the stenographer the talk is merely silly and indecent; but ask the boys themselves, and they are discuss- ing (as it is highly proper they should) the possibilities of existence. To the eye of the observer they are wet and cold and drearily surrounded; but ask themselves, and they are in the heaven of a recondite pleasure, the ground of which is an rn-smelling lantern. 111 Fon, to repeat, the ground of a mans joy is often hard to hit. It may hinge at times upon a mere accessory, like the lantern. It may reside, like Dancers, in the mysterious inwards of psychology. It may consist with perpetual failure, and find exercise in the continued chase. It has so little bond with externals (such as the observer scribbles in his note- book) that it may even touch them not; and the mans true life, for which he consents to live, lie altogether in the field of fancy. The clergyman, in his spare hours, may be winning battles, the farmer sailing ships, the banker reaping triumph in the arts: all leading another life, plying another trade from that they chose; like the poets house- builder, who, after all is cased in stone, By his fireside, as impotent fancy prompts, Rebuilds it to his liking. In such a case the poetry ruins under- ground. The observer (poor soul, with his documents!) is all abroad. For to look at the man is but to court decep 256 THE LANTERN-BEARERS. tion. We shall see the trunk from which he draws his nourishment; but he himself is above and abroad in the green dome of foliage, hummed through by winds and nested in by nightingales. And the true realism were that of the poets, to climb up after him like a squirrel, and catch some glimpse of the heaven for which he lives. And the true realism, always and everywhere, is that of the poets: to find out where joy re- sides, and give it a voice far beyond singing. For to miss the joy is to miss alL In the joy of the actors lies the sense of any action. That is the explanation, that the excuse. To one who has not the secret of the lanterns, the scene upon the links is meaningless. And hence the haunting and truly spectral unreality of realistic books. Hence, when we read the English realists, the incredulous wonder with which we observe the heros constancy under the submerging tide of dulness, and how he bears up with his jibbing sweetheart, and endures the chatter of idiot girls, and stands by his whole unfeatured wilderness of an exist- ence, instead of seeking relief in drink or foreign traveL Hence in the French, in that meat-market of middle-aged sensuality, the disgusted surprise with which we see the hero drift sidelong, and practically quite untempted, into every description of misconduct and dis- honor. In each we miss the personal poetry, the enchanted atmosphere, that rainbow work of fancy that clothes what is naked and seems to ennoble what is base; in each, life falls dead like dough, instead of soaring away like a balloon into the colors of the sunset; each is true, each inconceivable; for no man lives in the external truth, among salts and acids, but in the warm, phantasma- goric chamber of his brain, with the painted windows and the storied walls. Of this falsity we have have had a re cent example from a man who knows far betterTolstois Powers of Darkness. Here is a piece full of force and truth, yet quite untrue. For before Mikita was led into so dire a situation he was tempted, and temptations are beautiful at least in part; and a work which dwells on the ugliness of crime and gives no hint of any loveliness in the temptation, sins against the modesty of life, and even when a Tolstoi writes it, sinks to melo- drama. The peasants are not under- stood; they saw their life in fairer col- ors; even the deaf girl was clothed in poetry for Mikita, or he had never fallen. And so, once again, even an Old Bailey melodrama, without some brightness of poetry and lustre of existence, falls into the inconceivable and ranks with fairy tales. Iv. Ix nobler books we are moved with something like the emotions of life; and this emotion is very variously provoked. We are so moved when Livine labors in the field, when Andr6 sinks beyond emo- tion, when Richard Feverel and Lucy Desborough meet beside the river, when Antony not cowardly, puts off his hel- met, when Kent has infinite pity on the dying Lear, when, in Dostoieffkys De. spised and Rejected, the uncomplaining hero drains his cup of suffering and vir- tue. These are notes that please the great heart of man. Not only love, and the fields, and the bright face of danger, but sacrifice and death and unmerited suffering humbly supported, touch in us the vein of the poetic. We love to think of them, we long to try them, we are humbly hopeful that we may prove heroes also. We have heard, perhaps, too much of lesser matters. Here is the door, here is the open air. Itur in antiquam sil- yam. BLUCHER UNHORSED AT LIGNY.

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Scribner's magazine. / Volume 3, Issue 3 Commentator Scribner's commentator Charles Scribner's Sons New York March, 1888 0003 3
John C. Ropes Ropes, John C. The Campaign Of Waterloo 259-277

SCRIBNERS MAGAZINE. MARCH, 1888. THE CAMPAIGN OF WATERLOO. By John C. Ropes. I. i~E it is proba- Paly true that no campaign that ever was made has been explor- ed and studied so carefully as that which cul- minated in the battle of Water- loo, it is equally certain that it would be difficult to find elsewhere an instance where national and personal feeling have so plainly influenced historians and af- fected their criticisms. Were it not for this fact, there would be no excuse for reviewing this almost worn-out subject, there would be no need for so doing. But to those who are familiar in any degree with the various works on the events of 1815, it must frequently have seemed that a really impartial narrative of the facts and a fair summing up of the criticisms were yet to be looked for. The present papers are submitted as an essay in this direction. On June 12, 1815, the Emperor left Paris, and that night slept at Laon, where Soult, his chief of stafl had es- tablished his headquarters. Orders had already been given for the concentration of the army on the frontier of Belgium near the town of Charleroi. The First Corps, 20,000 strong, under the Count dErlon, was marching from Valen- ciennes; the Second, under Reille, num- bering upwards of 24,000 men, from Avesnes; the Third, under Vandamme, from Rocroi, 19,000 strong; the Fourth, under G6rard, about 16,000 strong, from Metz; the Sixth, under the Count de Lobau, numbering over 10,500 men, had already moved from Laon; while the Imperial Guard, counting nearly 21,000 men, which had left Paris some days be- fore, was now marching from Compi~gne. Each of the five corps carried with it from 30 to 50 cannon; the Guard nearly 100. Each corps contained a division of cavalry; but there was, besides, the Reserve Corps of Cavalry, under the command of the newly created Marshal Grouchy, containing 13,500 men and horses. The entire army numbered 125,000 men, all veteran troops. From Charleroi a fine turnpike runs almost due north to Brussels. On the west of this road lay the army of the Duke of Wellington, composed of Brit- ish, German, Dutch, Belgian, Hanoveri- an, and other troops,of whom, exclu- sive of those required for garrison duty and the like, something over 90,000 men could take the field. On the easterly side of the turnpike was the Prussian army, 120,000 strong, under Marshal Blticher. These two armies were sta- tioned, for the sake of subsistence, in the various towns and villages of Bel- gium, from Brussels on the north to Charleroi on the south and from Li~ge on the east to Ostend on the west. Wellingtons headquarters were at Bins- sels,Bltichers at Namur. Both armies copyright, 1888, by charles Scribners Sons. All rights reserved. VOL. III. No. 3. THE CAMPAIGN OF WATERLOO. 260 A. A Q uatre Bras Road. were much scattered ; it would require battle, and exceedingly averse to falling from one to two days to effect a concen- back. Of Wellingtons cooperation Na- tration of either of them. Once concen- poleon had of course to take his chance, trated and acting in concert, they would but, relying on the cautious and delib- be much more than a match for the force erate policy of the English general, and which Napoleon was bringing against taking into account also the time which them; but neither of them separately would be necessary to effect a concen- could be expected to make a successful tration of the miscellaneous force which stand against the French army. Their he commanded, Napoleon expected that bases of supply lay in precisely opposite he would be able to fight his battle with directions,that of the English being the Prussians without the interference on the sea, at Ostend and Antwerp; of the English. Successful in this bat- that of the Prussians on the Rhine, in tle, as he hoped to be,the Prussian the direction of Li?~ge and Maestricht. army defeated and retreating on their If either army should be so badly de- base in the direction of the Rhine, feated as to be forced to retire on its Napoleon could now turn his attention base, it would, therefore, by that move- to the Duke, secure from any interfer- ment become definitely separated from ence on the part of Blflcher. If, how- the other army. ever, the Prussian army should fail to Napoleon, as has been said, was con- effect a concentration, or should for any centrating his army on the Sambre near reason decline an engagement, it would, Charleroi. He expected that the Pins- so he calculated, most probably retire in sians would be the first to concentrate, the direction of its base, and leave him and that they would give battle near the comparatively free, for the moment at frontier. BUtchers headquarters were least, to attack the English if they were at Namur, much farther to the front than willing to give him battle. Wellingtons, which were at Brussels. It is necessary to fix this plan clearly The fierce and energetic temperament in the mind, and not to confound it of the old Prussian Marshal was well with anything else, as, for instance, with known, and Napoleon rightly calculated a plan to press on to Brussels between on his being willing and eager to give the two armies, if the Charleroi road THE CAMPAIGN OF WATERLOO. 261 should be found open and undefended, a plan which some writers have supposed to have been entertained by the French Emperor. Such a movement as this would expose the communications of the French army, between Charleroi and Brussels, to the attacks of either or both of the allied armies. Napoleons plan was much more practicable than this. It was, let us repeat, founded on his be- lief that the Prussians would be found in force near the frontier, an would give battle before the English could be ready to assist them; that in this battle they would be beaten and would have to retire to the eastward towards their base of supplies, leaving him then op- posed only by the Dukes army. But if, contrary to his expectation, Bhicher should retreat without a battle towards his base of supplies, then, the allied armies being separated, Napoleon could deal with either of them, as he might prefer. His first and definite object, therefore, was to find and attack the Prussian army, if it should be found willing, as he expected it would be, to accept battle. Included in this plan was the detachment of a part of his force to prevent Wellington from giving assist- ance to his ally. Accordingly we find him writing to Davout from Avesnes on the 14th: I shall cross the Sambre to-morrow. If the Prussians do not retire, we shall have a battle. And, on the same day, to Joseph: To-morrow I shall go to Charleroi, where the Prussian army is, which will give rise to a battle or the retreat of the enemy. It seems quite clear that he was calculating on having to deal only with the Prussian army, that he felt he could safely leave the Dukes army out of account in the first battle of the campaign. We shall see how these expectations were justified. The army of Napoleon was composed, as we have said, entirely of veteran troops. It was also in excellent order and condition. It was a homogeneous army; all the men were Frenchmen. The troops were eager to fight, to retrieve the reputation of the French arms, to recover their lost renown. It was pre- pared for a desperate struggle. The Emperor in his address to the army, dated at Avesnes on the fourteenth of June, had roused the spirits and deter- mination of the soldiers to their highest pitch. He had reminded them that this was the anniversary of Marengo and of Friedland; he had pointed out that they Viliage of Quatre Bras. THE CAMPAIGN OF WATERLOO. were about to encounter superior num- bers; he had told them to conquer or die. Nevertheless it is a mistake to call this army, as many writers have done, the finest which Napoleon ever took into the field. In two points, especially, this army was not the equal of that, for ex- ample, which he commanded at Auster- litz. In the first place it had not the inestimable advantage of being led by those brilliant officers, then in the early prime of manhood, who had been brought to the front in the turmoil of the iRevo- lutionary struggle. Of the two who were at Waterloo, Ney and Soult, one, Soult, was performing the functions of chief of staff; Ney was the only one of the Mar- shals who commanded troops on that fa- tal field. Not that the corps-command- ers lacked experience or devotion. They were unquestionably excellent officers, who had seen many years of faithful service. But Napoleons earlier exploits had been to a large extent rendered prac- ticable only by the exceptionally able men who were his own contemporaries, Massena, Lannes, Davout, Murat, and the rest. Secondly, there was in this army of 1815, and there could not but be, a certain amount of distrust, of lack of entire confidence, on the part of the soldiers towards their superiors, the re sult of the so recent overthrow of the Empire in 1814, which had been associat- ed in their minds with suspicions of treasonable conduct on the part of cer- tain officers of high rank. The absten- tion from active service, or the voluntary exile, on the return of Napoleon from Elba, of some of their former leaders, puzzled and disquieted the troops. These feelings were aggravated by the deser- tion of Bourmont and several other offi- cers on the eve of the opening of hostil- ities. And while the devotion of the soldiers to the Emperor remained un- shaken, while it is certain that never in his life was he able to infuse more cour- age and energy into the men than he succeeded in doing in this short cam- paign, or to obtain from them more gal- lant and persistent efforts, yet it is also certain that his corps had often been handled with more enterprise and skill, and it seems probable that the total rout of the army was due in part to the lack of confidence of which we have spoken. With all these deductions, however, Napoleons army was decidedly the best of the three. That of the Pins- sians contained some troops raised in those parts of western G e r m any which had until lately been connect- ed with France, who were supposed to be more or less disaffected, and many of the soldiers in the old Prus- sian regiments were young and inex- perienced in warfare. Of the four corps-commanders, Ziethen, Pirch, Thielemaun and Btilow, the latter only had shown any marked capacity. As for the Duke of Wellingtons army, it was, as he himself said, the poorest he had ever commanded. Only about 40,000 were English troops or troops in the pay of England, like the Kings German Legion. Of the remainder, Belgians, Hanoverians, Nassaners and Brunswickers, the Duke had but a poor opinion,perhaps too poor an opinion, for many of them fought well. Still, many of them fought in- differently or not at all. A large part of the army of Wellington consisted of as good troops as there were in the world, but the army, considered as a whole, lacked cohesion. The soldiers did not speak the same language, they did not look up to the same generals; 262 CAMPAIGN OF WATERLOO SItuation of tlee opposing Armies at AM. Juno ist/s, i8i~. French m English Prussians 0 - SCALE OF MILES. I~. 10 BRUXELLES LOUVAIN Fo tof Soig s V Hal ~ ~WAVRE ~ Ohoin I Vise U 0 ~ c sO La Vet Otnie. oi~o. j0 ~ Mo e iso Corbaix 5551 ~ ~ Plaaihoaoit // Gosselics Tile Sooob0 CM AR LE RO I Marsloicszne as Pont (.Shstelet ow. & co,slrrslo. THE CAMPAIGN OF WA TERLOO. 263 the oniy thing that gave this miscella- neous collection of troops any sort of unity was the fact that it was command- ed by the famous English general who had in Spain beaten so many of Napo- leons marshals. Wellington and Bhicher regarded a French invasion of Belgium as possible, perhaps probable, but it was obviously out of the question to predict in advance which of the routes available for his pur- pose Napoleon would choose. He might move to the westward of the Charleroi turnpike, for instance by way of Mons, with the intention of operating upon the communications of the English army with the sea. This was the course which Wellington always thought would have been his wisest course, and which, even after the campaign opened, he thought Napoleon was pursuing. Or, Napoleon might move on Namur or on some point further east, upon the communications of the Prussian army. In either of these The Duke of Wellington. (From a steel engraciog after a portrait by Sir William Beechey, RA., 1814.) 264 THE CAMPAIGN OF WATERLOO. cases, the course which the allied armies would be obliged to take would be utterly different from that which would be called for should Napoleon choose the other direction. And theu he might advance, as he actually did, by the Char- leroi aud Brussels road, iu which case another line of conduct would be de- mauded. Ju this event, Bhicher had agreed to conceutrate his army at Som- bref, aud Wellington to concentrate his at Quatre Bras, the two places being couuected by au excellent road. Mean- time, however, the allied commanders deemed it sufficient to remain as they were, their armies widely scattered in their cantonments, until it should be definitely ascertained in which direction the approach of the enemy was to be looked for. The frontier was carefully watched, and it was expected that the real advance of the French, when it came, if it should come, which, of course, was by no means certainwould with- out difficulty be detected in season to concert adequate measures of resistance. But there can be little doubt, as many critics, both English and Continental, have said, that it would have been far wiser for the allied generals to concen- trate their armies early in June, so as to have them well in hand on the first news of the approach of the French. It is not correct to say that Wellington and Blticher were surprised; but it is impossible not to see that their arrange- ments for fighting Napoleon in the event of his making, as they thought it very likely he might make, and as he actually did make, a sudden and dangerons at- tack, were defective, leaving, as they did, the concentration of both their widely scattered armies to be effected fter they should have received the news that Napoleon had reached the frontier with a powerful army and was advancing in full force. Moreover, the points selected for the concentration were so close to the frontier, that it was hardly to be cx- pected that the movement could be car- ried out without the interference of the enemy. Napoleons orders for the concentra- tion and forward movement of his army were, as a whole, carried out with reason- able success. Early on the morning of Troops Passing through the Village of Wsterloo. (From r~ An lilsotrated Record of Important gsrents in the Annais of Esrope etc. London, 1817.) THE CAMPAIGN OF WATERLOO. 265 the 15th of June the Sambre was crossed at several points, and the Prussian pickets retired on their supports. These troops be- longed to the corps of General Ziethen, and that officer has always received great credit for the masterly way in which he handled his corps through- out the day, delay- ing the advance of the French, and bringing off his troops without seri- ous loss to St. Am- and and Ligny, vil- lages near Sombref, where Blileher had, as we have seen, de- cided to concentrate his army. Orders for Pirch, Thiele- mann and Billow to collect their corps and march to the support of Ziethen were at once sent Napoleon. out. IJnfortunately the order to Billow was badly worded, and did not clearly convey the idea that a battle was expected; the consequence of which was that that energetic officer did not arrive in time to take part in the engagei cut of the next day. The French marched in three columns. The two on the right, under the Em- peror, were chiefly engaged with the Prussians and their advance, consisting of the Third Corps, under Yandamme, reached the vicinity of the village of Fleurus at evening. The Second Corps, under iReille, formed the head of the left column, and after some skirmishing with the Prussian rear guard, which retired in the direction of its own army, the leading division reached at evening the village of Frasnes on the Charleroi turn- pike, about two miles south of Quatre Bras. There was, as was natural in the march of an army recently organized, and com posed of soldiers who had not taken the field for nearly a year, more or less delay. The First and Fourth Corps were not all across the river by nightfall, and the whole Sixth Corps bivouacked on the south side. The corps-commanders seem to have been rather lacking in that energy and activity which the situation demanded. In the middle of the after- noon, Grouchy and Yandamme, who were pushing the Prussians in the direction of Fleurus at the head of the cavalry and the Third Corps respectively, were so impressed by the attitude of the enemy that they h~ lted and sent back to the Emperor for further orders. Na- poleon at once rode to the front and di- rected the attack himself, actually in his impatience sending into the fight the headquarters guard of cavalry. One may fairly suspect that the Emperor was more or less right in the criticisms he so often made at this time about his gen (From a portrait in the poaaeaaion of Franklin B. Rice Eaq,, Worceater Maaa.) 266 THE CAMPAIGN OF WATERLOO. erals,that they had got too cautious and had lost the enterprise and audacity they had formerly possessed. Napoleon himself had a hard day of it. From three oclock in the morning till eight in the evening he had been personally directing one of the most dif- ficult and important of military opera- tions, the crossing of a river by a large army, opposed by a considerable force, well commanded, fighting gallantly, and taking every advantage of position. This was not a case, it must be remembered, where his own army had been concen- trated before the crossing began,as, for instance, was the case with the Army of the Potomac in the Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville campaigns, or with Na- poleons own army when he crossed the Danube just before the battle of Wa- gram. On the contrary, his corps were converging from distant points, they had been steadily marching for days, they were inevitably more or less fa- tigued, and, as is always the case at such times, the trains were behind the col- umns. That he should by the close of the first day have reached with the heads of his two columns the points selected in advance, overcoming the obstinate and skilful resistance of the Prussian general, was perhaps quite as much as, under the circumstances, he had any reason to expect. Late in the afternoon Napoleon re- ceived a notable accession to his forces in the person of Marshal Ney. Why that able officer was not with the army from the first, has never been satisfactorily explained. But he was not sent for until the troops had actually begun to move. As a consequence, he arrived in haste, and attended by only a single aide. Napoleon gave him com- mand of the First and Second Corps, and Ney, after riding to the front at Frasnes, and satisfying himself that nothing further could be attempted in that quarter that evening, returned to ~eek Napoleon, and had a two hours conference with him at Charleroi be- tween midnight and two oclock in the morning. He then returned to his com- mand. Entrance to the Forest of Soignies. where the Two Roads from Brussels Meet. (From An Illustrated Record.) THE CAMPAIGN OF WATERLOO. 267 That Ney received from the Emperor during the 15th or at this midnight con- ference, orders to press on to Quatre Bras, no one now believes. On this point, as in others, Napoleons Memoirs, written, as they were, at St. Helena, where he could have access neither to the records nor to those who made the campaign with him, are in error. The orders which were given on the 15th were for the Second Corps to march on Gosselies, a village on the Brussels turnpike be- tween four and five miles north of Charlerci, and for the First Corps to march there also to support the Second Corps in an attack on the enemy if he should be encountered. The order to the Count dErlon, who commanded the First Corps, which was in rear of the Sec- ond, was reiterated, and he was strictly enjoined to join the Second Corps at Gosselies.* The advance of the cavalry and one division of infantry to Frasnes was apparently done on Neys own responsibility, and was unquestionably a judicious step. Word was sent to Brussels early in the morning, of the crossing of the Sambre, but for some reason or other Wellington did not receive the news nutil five in the afternoon. He instantly issued orders for his different divisions to be collected at convenient places and to be ready to move at a moments notice. II / Pasture in the Hollow where Wellington s Reoerveo Lay During the Battle He himself did not leax e Brussels nor is it known that he despatched any officers * cheaney la atrangely in error as to thia, having appar- ently omitted to notice Orders v. and VI. in the Doco- mente In~dits. cheaneye Waterloo Lectures, 3d ed., pp. 118, 119. to the front to ascertain the exact facts. He took no steps for a concentration of the army, except as above stated. Not a single brigade was ordered to Quatre Bras, and the only brigade that was sta- tioned in that neighborhood, along the turnpike, that of Prince Bernhard of Saxe Weimar, was ordered to Nivelles, a town some six or seven miles west of Quatre Bras, to join the other brigade of the divisionBylandts. What is par- ticularly remarkable is that the Duke seems to have been unmindful of the agreement stated above, by which, in the event of Napoleons advance being on the Charleroi and Brussels pike, he was to occupy Quatre Bras. If Nivelles has been attacked, and if it is quite cer- tain, the order reads, that the enemys attack is upon the right of the Prussian army and the left of the British army, the third division of British infantry (Altens) is to be moved from Braine le Comte eastward to Nivelles. But that was all. The reserves, Pictons division and other troops, at and near Brussels, though ordered to be prepared, were not ordered to march. At ten oclock that night a despatch from Blttcher arrived, announcing the crossing of the river at Charleroi by Napoleon in force. New orders were thereupon issued,three divisions, one of which was Altens, were to occupy Ni- velles, one was ordered to Braine le Comte, a village seven or eight miles west of Nivelles; two more divisions of in- fantry and the great mass of the cavalry Ligny. The Charge through the Streets of Ligoy, THE CAMPAIGN OF WATERLOO. 269 were directed to proceed to Enghien, a town some twenty-five miles northwest of Quatre Bras. Orders were also given for the reserves, consisting of the divis- ion of Sir Thomas Picton and other troops, to march south on the Charleroi turnpike as far as Waterloo, where the road to Nivelles branches off to the southwestward, there to halt and await further instructions. After giving these orders, the Duke went to the Duchess of Richmonds balL It is plain that these dispositions were made by Wellington in the belief that he was likely to be attacked west of the Charleroi and Brussels road. Had they been actually carried out, Ney would have found Quatre Bras unoccupied on the morning of the sixteenth, the nearest force of the enemy being at Nivelles, six or seven miles away. The Duke could hardly have collected a sufficient force to drive Ney out of Quatre Bras, and, very possibly, would not have attempted to do so. That the combined operation which, two days later, so successfully united the allied armies, would under these circumstances, have been planned, or, if planned, would have been carried out, is certainly very doubtful. But this piece of good fortune was not to happen to the French Emperor. During the 15th the solitary brigade on the turnpike had been put in position at Quatre Bras by its commander to re- sist an attack by the French, and in the evening it had a smart brush with Neys skirmishers. It was determined to rein- force it by the other brigade of the divis- ion, Bylandts, which in the early morn- ing of the 16th arrived at Quatre Bras from Nivelles with the Prince of Orange, who commanded the corps to which these brigades belonged. To him and to his chief of staff, Rebecque, who as- sumed the responsibility while the Prince was absent in Brussels, to Perponcher who commanded the division, and to Prince Bernhard who so promptly col- lected his brigade and occupied the cross-roads, is due the credit of main- taining unbroken the communication between the allied armies on the day of the battle of Ligny. Early on the morning of the 16th the Duke left Brussels, and rode to Quatre Bras, passing on his way thither Pictons VOL. III.25 division and the other troops who had been, as we have seen, ordered to halt at Waterloo. He arrived at the front between eleven and twelve, and, seeing the posture of affairs, at once sent back for these troops to continue their march. He also sent orders for the troops at Nivelles to proceed to Quatre Bras with- out delay. He then rode off to see Marshal Blucher. It is said by some authorities that Blticher accepted battle ouly on the en- gagement of Wellington to support him; but this can scarcely be so, inasmuch as he had formed his line of battle before Wellington arrived. The Duke prom- ised him that he would push down the turnpike as soon as he was in sufficient force to do so, and even, at the solicita- tion of Gneisenau, Bltichers chief of staff, agreed that, if not attacked himself, he would move down the Namur road in rear of the Prussian right. But it is clear that the Marshal had made up his mind to fight a battle, with or without the support of the English army, as Napoleon had calculated he would doas was pointed out in the beginning of this article. Up to this moment, there had been, since the campaign opened the day before, no sort of cooperation be- tween the allied armies. Had Wellington ridden over to see Bhtcher on the after- noon of the 15th, he would probably have seen enough to induce him to agree with the Prussian marshal that the main attack of the French was to be looked for on the east of the Charleroi road, and he might in that case have ordered a concentration of his army at Quatre Bras. But, having had no such oppor- tunity for observation or consultation, he was obliged to guess at the probable direction of the French main attack, and he guessed wrong. Hence, at noon of the 16th, only a third of his army was within reach; and Bhtcher, who had been compelled to rely on his own un- aided judgment, had determined, as Wel- lington found, to fight at Ligny, whether the English were, or were not prepared to support him. The conference over, the Duke returned to Quatre Bras, reach- ing there about three in the afternoon. Whether it was that his exertions on the previous day had fatigued him, or, as seems more probable, that he found 270 THE CAMPAIGN OF WA TERLOO. it exceedingly difficult to make up his mind what to do, certain it is that Na- poleon did not take advantage of the early morning hours. He made no exer- tion to get the main body of the army into position until nearly nine oclock in the morning. Perhaps he thought the troops would be the better for a rest, and, very likely, the army was not all closed up. At any rate, it was half past nine when G6rard, who commanded the Third Corps, and who was still on the river, received his orders to march to the front. It was not until about ten oclock that the first order to Ney, order- ing him to proceed to Quatre Bras, arriv- ed. It is not easy to see the reason for this long delay. At that time of the year, the sun rises in Belgium at four oclock, and every hour was of advantage to the enemy in giving them knowledge of the situation and time to concentrate their forces. It is certainly trne that Napoleon had at this time lost a good part of the alert- ness and energy of his earlier years. Men of five and forty, especially when they have become stout, are rarely as active as they were at thirty. The Emperor was also a sufferer from some local maladies which occasioned him a good deal of an- noyance, not to say suffering, and con- siderably diminished his capacity for fatiguing exertion. On this morning of the 16th, for instance, he neglected to verify by personal observation the in- formation sent him by Grouchy at 5 and 6 A.M., that the Prussians were moving large bodies of troops to St. Amand and Ligny. Instead of exerting himse~to ascertain the facts, he employed his time in estimating the probabilities and in mapping out for his army a course of action which was, as he was soon to learn, wholly unsuited to the existing situation. Accordingly, on the morning of the 16th, Napoleon had no definite knowl- edge of the strength of the Prussian force opposed to him. He estimated it at not over 40,000 men, and he therefore thought that it would in all probability retire on its supports without offering battle. It appears from his letters to Ney and Grouchy, written about eight oclock that morning, which are evident- ly the result of much thought and are very clear and full, that he had decided, if this should prove to be the Prnssian policy, to follow them up as far as Gem- bloux, then, leaving his right wing un- der Grouchy to observe them, to march himself with all speed, at the head of the Sixth Corps and the Guard, to join Ney, in a movement directed against the English in the direction of Brussels, a movement which he strictly enjoined Ney to be all ready to make the mo- ment the order should arrive. In these letters, too, he stated his plan for the management of the army during this campaign, conducted, as it must be, in the face of two opposing armies; he gave to Ney the left wing, consisting of the First ahd Second Corps, and to Grouchy the right wing consisting of the Third and Fourth Corps, reserving the Sixth Corps and the Guard for his own immediate direction. In his cam- paign in Germany in the autumn of 1813, the separated armies of the allies had caused him no little embarrassment by the policy which, after the battle of Dresden, they for a while adopted, of falling back before Napoleon in person and giving battle only to his marshals. Some such strategy as this he seems to have suspected might be followed by Bhicher in this campaign. And it may well be that he delayed operations that morning in part, at least, because he could not readily make up his mind how far, in such a case, it would be prudent to go in pursuit of the Prussians, leav- ing his left wing opposed by the whole of Wellingtons army. Finally, however, between nine and ten in the morning, the question solved itself in the way most advantageous to Napoleon. It was ascertained that the Prussians still held their ground at and about Ligny. A battle was now, of course, unavoidable. It was now possi- ble to inflict upon the Prussian army, or upon that part of it which was before him, a defeat close to the Brussels turn- pike. It remains to be seen how this opportunity, so favorable to the success of Napoleons plans, and to which he was indebted solely to the temerity of the Prussian Marshal, was improved. Before we proceed to the narrative of the battle of Ligny it is necessary to say a few words about Ney and his two corps. THE CAMPAIGN OF WATERLOO. 271 It will be recollected that the Empe- ror had, on the 15th, by a dispatch, dat- ed 3 P.M., before Ney had joined him, ordered dErlon to march to Gosselies, and support Reile in attacking any force of the enemy they might find there, and that the order to join the Second Corps at Gosselies had been re- iterated later in the day. Then, early in the morning of the 16th, the Emperors chief of staff sends Ney a dispatch, re- questing to be informed if the First Corps has executed this movement, and what are the exact positions of the two corps. What answer Marshal Ney returned to this request, we do not know, but it is plain enough that there had been ample time since the middle of the previous afternoon to get the First Corps into position at Gosseies. As soon as Ney got his instructions to march to Quatre Bras, he at once or- dered both corps up to Frasnes, where he himself was with the leading division of the Second CorpsBachelus. Beille, with the two divisions of this corps, those of Foy and Prince Jerome, which were at Gosselies,the other division, Girards, being with the main army, started shortly before eleven, and marched with such celerity over the broad chauss~e that his troops were de- ployed and in line of battle beyond Frasnes before 2 P.M. The distance was from six to six and a half miles. There was nothing to prevent the leading di- vision of the First Corps, Duruttes, from following on the heels of Jeromes division, and it would have arrived at Frasnes certainly before three, had it started as soon as the Second Corps had got out of the way. That it did not start promptly is proved by the fact, as we shall soon see, that a staff officer from headquarters, carrying a dispatch dated Fleurus at a quarter past three, who had five miles to ride before he could strike the Brussels pike, came up with the advance of the leading division of the First Corps before it had arrived at Frasnes. He must have ridden at least ten miles before getting to the head of the column,that is to say, he could not possibly have given the order to Durutte before half past four oclock, leaving Fleurus as he did at or soon after a quarter past three. But if Du rutte had not made the six or six and a half miles between Gosseies and Fras- nes by hall-past four oclock, he certainly could not have started before one oclock, an hour or more after the last regiments of the Second Corps had left Gosselies. Returning now to Fleurus: the Em- peror, finding that the Prussians re- mained in force at and about Ligny, ordered the Third and Fourth Corps, and Girards division of the Second Corps, the Imperial Guard, and the bulk of the cavalry, to take position in front of Fleurus, and, while the move- ment was going on, he made his cus-. tomary personal reconnaissance of the enemys position. Accompanied by an aide or two, he went out on foot to the line of the pickets, he carefully exam- ined the ground, he climbed up into the windmills. He made up his mind that there was a considerable body of troops opposed to him, and he saw enough to decide him as to the way in which the attack should be made; but from the peculiar character of the ground he failed to recognize the presence of such a large force as the Prussians had actually assembled. Towards noon, the French army, with the exception of the Sixth Corps, which remained near Charleroi, advanced from Fleurus and its vicinity. The Prussians held in strong force the village of St. Amand on their right, and that of Ligny on their centre. It looked as if they were expecting aid from the English, down the road running from Nivelles through Quatre Bras to Namur. Napo- leon directed his principal attack, which was to be made by the corps of Van- damme assistedby the division of Girard, against St. Amand, with the intention of turning the Prussian right, at the same time also assailing their centre at Ligny with G6rards corps. Shortly before the battle opened,at two oclockhe sent a dispatch to Ney, informing him that he was about to attack a Prussian corps posted between Sombreffe and Bry, or- dering him to attack whatever force there might be in front of him at Quatre Bras, and, after having vigorously driven that force, to fall back on the main army, and endeavor to surround the Prussian corps with which the main army was engaged. At half-past two 272 THE CAMPAIGN OF WATERLOO. the Sixth Corps was ordered from Char- leroi to Fleurus, a distance of seven miles and a half. Napoleons eye, experienced as it was, undoubtedly deceived him in regard to the strength of his antagonists force. Instead of one corps, the Prussian mar- shal had three,instead of 40,000 men, he had very nearly 90,000 men. For the task of inflicting a crushing defeat on an army of this size, Napoleons prep- arations were inadequate. We may agree that the force entrusted to Ney was no more than was called for by the duty imposed on him of acquiring and holding Quatre Bras against Wellingtons army. But there is really no conceivable reason why Lobau should not have re- ceived an order to advance at the same time as Yandamme and G6rard,whyhis corps should not have been on the field to render as decisive as possible the success which Napoleon promised him- self in his conflict with the third of the Prussian army which he wrongly sup- posed was all that stood in front of him. It was obviously on the cards that the enemy might receive reinforcements dur- ing the action; hence Napoleon should have had all his available force in hand when the battle opened. The action began at half-past two, and it was not long before the obstinate re- sistance experienced by Yandamme and Girard on the left and by G6rard on the centre made it certain that they had before them the main army of Marshal Blucher. At 3.15 P.M. Napoleon sent a second order to Ney, referring to the order of 2 P.M., and urging him to carry out the direction therein given, to manoeuvre in such a way as to fall upon the Prussian right and rear, by the heights of Bry and St. Amand. The battle then went on with great obstinacy and determination. The se- verity of the French attack on the Prus- sian right induced Marshal Biticher to strengthen that part of his line at the expense of his centre. Napoleon, see- ing this, prepared to throw the Guard upon and to the right of the village of Ligny, thus piercing the centre of the Prussian army. Suddenly, about half- past five, when the blow was about to be struck, word was brought that a large body of troops were seen approaching St. Amand, apparently with the intention of turning the French left. The Em- peror, in doubt what troops these might be, unable to think they could be sent by Ney, as they would be looked for on the Prussian right and rear, behind St. Amand and near Bry, and yet unwilling to suppose that they were a detachment from Wellingtons army, postponed the contemplated attack and sent to ascer- tain the facts. It turned out that this body of troops was dErlons corps. Soon afterwards, they were seen to retrace their steps, and to retire in the direction of the chaussk. Napoleon resumed the attack; the Guard, with little difficulty and almost no loss, charged though the village of Ligny, and seized the heights beyond. Some twenty pieces of cannon were taken. The Prussian centre was occupied, their right was forced to re- tire, and the battle of Ligny was won. Why Napoleon did not detain the First Corps when he found it approach- ing him, and order it to execute the same manoeuvre which he had prescribed to Marshal Ney, it is not easy to see. He was aware at or before half-past six what corps it was, and there were yet two hours of daylight. Had he directed this body of 20,000 men, of the thee arms, upon the Prussian right and rear, his captures might have been, perhaps, enormous. The right wing of the Prus- sian army would have been well-nigh surrounded. The victory would have been a decisive one; in all probability there could have been no battle of Water- loo. But Napoleon, ignorant of the cause of the appearance Tif the First Corps on his left, and of course equally ignorant of the progress of the action at Quatre Bras, probably thought it better not to interfere with the control of Marshal Ney over both the corps which had been entrusted to him. Judging after the fact, there can be no question that he made a great mistake in not availing himself of this unexpected re- inforcement. As it was, the battle of Ligny, though a defeat for the Prussians, neither de- moralized nor disintegrated their army. It weakened it by the loss of more than 15,000 men, but after the battle it was practically as able to fight as ever. Nor was it the result of the battle to separ THE CAMPAIGN OF WATERLOO. 273 ate the Prussian from the English army. On the contrary, there was nothing to prevent the Prussians falling back in the direction of Brussels, if they should be willing for a short time to abandon di- rect communication with their base of supplies. Returning now to the left wing. As soon as the two divisions of the Second Corps under Foy and Prince Jerome ar- rived, shortly before two, Ney attacked the troops in his front, consisting at that time only of Perponchers division of Dutch-Belgian troops, the brigades of Prince Bernhard and Bylandt, the Prince of Orange being in command. Though making a stout resistance, they were pushed back, and Wellington, on his return from his interview with Blti- cher, at three oclock, found the French everywhere advancing. About half-past three, however, Pictons division arrived from Waterloo, where it had been, as we have seen, halted soiiie hours. Soon afterwards other troops, Brunswickers and Hanoverians, caine up from Brus- sels. The combatants were now nearly equal in number, but the French were largely superior in cavalry and artillery, and were decidedly getting the best of it, when, about five oclock, Altens British VOL. 11126 division arrived from Nivelles. All through the first part of the action Ney was momentarily expecting the First Corps to arrive, but, as we have seen, it did not come. For many years the truth in regard to the wanderings of this corps was unknown. Many writers supposed that Napoleon ordered it from Ney to join the main army. But it is now ascertained that the staff officer who carried the 3.15 order to Marshal Ney, mistaking its purport and ignorant of the tenor of the two oclock dispatch which had preceded it, had the incredible pre- sumption to take it upon himself to turn the column of the First Corps off from the turnpike near Frasnes, and to direct it towards St. Amand, causing, as we have seen, only delay and bewilderment in the army which was fighting at Ligny. Ney; on learning of this accident, at once recalled the corps, but no portion of it returned in season to take part in the action of Quatre Bras. Deprived of the corps of dErlon, and reinforced only by the heavy cavalry of Kellermann, Ney made every effort to secure success. But though his troops fought with the greatest dash and persistence, though his cavalry rode down the Brunswick and Belgian horse, and on more than The Farm of Belle Alliance. 274 THE CAMPAIGN OF WATERLOO. one occasion, favored by the tall grain, broke and overwhelmed British regi m e n t 5, though his guns m o w e d down the squares in which the fear of his cavalry compell e d the ene- mys in- fantry to stand, the continual rei uforce- ments of fresh troops coming up Pathway Around Outside of Farm Es- from Ni closure. velles and Brussels just enabled Wellington to hold his ground through the afternoon. But this was alL His Belgian and Han- overian troops were terribly cut up, and most of them were badly de- moralized. His English regiments suffered greatly both in officers and men. His situation was most crit- icaL Had the First Corps arrived to Neys assistance, or even half of it, Wellington would beyond ques- tion have been driven from the field. But, instead of this, Cookes division, composed of two brigades of the English Guards, came up about half- past six from Nivelles, and Welling- ton, who had throughout the after- noon maintained himself with won- derful pluck and skill against Neys formidable assaults, was now able to take the offensive himself. By eight oclock the French had retired to Frasnes, leaving the allies masters of the field. While too much cannot be said in praise of the Dukes conduct of this desperate action, it is certainly true that his luck stood him in good stead on this bloody field. His mis- taken idea of the movements of Quatre Bras. Even Picton had been halted for several hours at Waterloo, and just arrived in time to prevent the utter rout of Perponchers division. Some, certainly, of the troops that reached the scene of action came there on their own responsibility, on hearing the firing. The division of the Guards, the arrival of which assured the safety of the army, marched from Braine le Comte to Nivelles without orders; and, had the aide who found it at Nivelles been obliged to ride seven or eight miles farther to Braine le Comte, and had the division been thereupon obliged to march from Braine le Comte to Quatre Bras after receiving the order, it could not have come up in season to be of any use. Captain Mercer, in his most inter- esting Journal of the Waterloo Cam- paign, who marched that day from Strypen to Enghien by orders, and from Enghien to Braine le Comte and thence to Nivelles and Quatre Bras without or- ders, gives a vivid and exciting picture of the hurried marching to the sound of the cannon that In the Village of Wavre. the French led him, as we have seen, afternoon along the roads leading to to order his troops anywhere but to Quatre Bras. 1 ~ae~ On the Road from Brussels to Waterloo. THE CAMPAIGN OF WATERLOO. 275 It will be admitted without dispute oclock, would have found the Dukes that Wellingtons force at Quatre Bras force so involved that its orderly with- could not have contended successfully drawal would have been impracticable. In other words, if dErlon had come up in due course of time, the motley force under Wellington would not have been merely forced to retire, it would have been routed. The bad effect of the rout of a portion of the Anglo-Hanoverian- Belgian army in the first engagement of the campaign, it is not easy to over es- timate. That Wellington, with all his coolness and firmness, would have taken the risk of trusting such an army as his under these circumstances in a battle with the Emperor himself at Waterloo, is extremely unlikely. But if he Liad not been willing to take this risk, the prospect of any combined operations conducted by his army and that of Mar- shal Blitcher would have practically van- ished. Moreover, had Ney routed the against Keys two corps. If both these English with the aid of the First Corps, corps had been present at the begin- he might have been able to send ten or ning of the action, Wellington would fifteen thousand men by the Namur road very likely have retired in the direc- tion of Brussels, and, in that case, he might no doubt have arranged for a junction of the allied armies, such as that which actually took place. But even if the corps of dErlon had kept to the turnpike, it could not have been present in full force at the be- ginning of the actionits different divisions would have come up succes- sively. Hence it is extremely unlikely u that Wellington would have fallen back without fighting. Wellington, as we know, clung to the cross-roads with great obstinacy; he was continually ex- pecting reinforcements himself; and it The Approach to Ligny. is altogether probable that the two rear divisions of the First Corps, when they arrived, which in the natural course of things would have been near five in the rear of the Prussians, as the Em- peror had directed in the 3.15 order. And it must be remembered that for the delay of the First Corps in starting from Gosselies, without which the Emper- ors staff officer could not possibly have found the head of dErlons column on the chauss~e en route for Frasnes, and for the blunder of that staff officer, Napoleon was in no wise responsible. We may fairly say, there- fore, that while Napoleons dispositions for and at the battle of Ligny were in- adequate to the emergency, and while he might, so far as we can judge, by Charlerol Road near Quatre Bras. 276 other dispositions have inflicted a deci- sive defeat upon the Prussians, who had rashly accepted battle without the assist- ance of their allies, his arrangements on the left were entirely sufficient for the occasion, and nothing but accident pre- vented the rout of the fraction of his army which was all that the English gen- eral, hampered as he was by the conse- quences of his erroneous conjecture as to the direction of the French advance, was able to get together at Quatre Bras. As BUtcher towards the close of the battle of Ligny had been unhorsed and injured, his chief of staff, Gucisenan, gave the order in his name for the whole army to fall back upon Wavre, by roads running generally parallel with the Brussels turnpike. From Wavre there are country roads leading to the turn- pike, one striking it near the village of Mont St. Jean, and another, just south of the first, at the village of Planchenois. As we have pointed out, there was noth- ing to prevent the Prussians from retir- ing in this direction, if they were willing to give up, for the time being, direct com THE CAMPAIGN OF WATERLOO. municatjon with their bases of supply; and, trusting that the English would be equally able to fall back in good order on the turnpike to some place where they could accept battle and where the two armies could be united, Gneisenau, instead of retreating on Namur or Li~tge, withdrew the army to Wavre. The next morning the Prussian staff officers rode over to Quatre Bras, and the plan was definitely settled. The Duke agreed to fall back to Mont St. Jean, to a strong position with which he was perfectly familiar, and Blflcher agreed to reinforce him there with all his disposable force. The allied commanders were now at last acting in cobperation; their plan was a feasible one; if it should be carried out as planned, their success would be de- cisive; and while there was, of course, the danger that Wellington might be defeated before BUtcher could get over to his assistance, it was a fair risk to take, and moreover it was the only thing to do, unless Brussels was to be abandon- ed, and the junction of the two armies effected to the north of that capitaL [Concluding paper in the April number.] Wacre from the Gembloux Road. ~7~ THE YELLOW ELMS. By Bessie Chandler. SHE lay within her chamber, pale and ill, Bound to her bed by cruel bonds of pain; Outside the leaves were fallingall was still Save for the dripping of the dull, sad ram. The elms that year were yellow all the way From tops to those low boughs that fringe and grace Their tall, straight trunks, like little curls that stray And cling, caressing, oer a womans face. And through the leaves, as through a yellow pane, The light shone in, all golden, on her bed, And every morn, unwitting of the rain, Another sunny day, she, smiling, said. She never knew how gloomy, dark, and gray Those long days were. In time we clime to bless The elms, that gave her sunshine every day, And robbed the rain of all its dreariness. Is the world grown as sunny as I ween? I cannot see it clearly as of old, For, like the elms, your love has come between My life and me, and turned it all to gold! THE NIXIE. By Fanny Van de Grift Stevenson. N U G L Y ensconced in one corner of a first-class railway carriage, an athletic, good-looking young man stretched his long limbs lazily, half opened his eyes, closed them again, yawned mightily, and then sank back into luxurious slumber. He had entered the carriage from a VOL. 11127 country station, equipped with a trout- basket and fishing-tackle, and was evi- dently bent on whipping the streams which wound among the neighboring hills. It was very early, and raw and cold with the chill of an English morning. Willoughby, having tipped the guard generously, and his destination being yet some three quarters of an hour distant, shut his eyes with the comfortable as- surance that he might finish his morn-

Bessie Chandler Chandler, Bessie The Yellow Elms 277

~7~ THE YELLOW ELMS. By Bessie Chandler. SHE lay within her chamber, pale and ill, Bound to her bed by cruel bonds of pain; Outside the leaves were fallingall was still Save for the dripping of the dull, sad ram. The elms that year were yellow all the way From tops to those low boughs that fringe and grace Their tall, straight trunks, like little curls that stray And cling, caressing, oer a womans face. And through the leaves, as through a yellow pane, The light shone in, all golden, on her bed, And every morn, unwitting of the rain, Another sunny day, she, smiling, said. She never knew how gloomy, dark, and gray Those long days were. In time we clime to bless The elms, that gave her sunshine every day, And robbed the rain of all its dreariness. Is the world grown as sunny as I ween? I cannot see it clearly as of old, For, like the elms, your love has come between My life and me, and turned it all to gold! THE NIXIE. By Fanny Van de Grift Stevenson. N U G L Y ensconced in one corner of a first-class railway carriage, an athletic, good-looking young man stretched his long limbs lazily, half opened his eyes, closed them again, yawned mightily, and then sank back into luxurious slumber. He had entered the carriage from a VOL. 11127 country station, equipped with a trout- basket and fishing-tackle, and was evi- dently bent on whipping the streams which wound among the neighboring hills. It was very early, and raw and cold with the chill of an English morning. Willoughby, having tipped the guard generously, and his destination being yet some three quarters of an hour distant, shut his eyes with the comfortable as- surance that he might finish his morn-

Mrs. Robert Louis Stevenson Stevenson, Robert Louis, Mrs. The Nixie 277-285

~7~ THE YELLOW ELMS. By Bessie Chandler. SHE lay within her chamber, pale and ill, Bound to her bed by cruel bonds of pain; Outside the leaves were fallingall was still Save for the dripping of the dull, sad ram. The elms that year were yellow all the way From tops to those low boughs that fringe and grace Their tall, straight trunks, like little curls that stray And cling, caressing, oer a womans face. And through the leaves, as through a yellow pane, The light shone in, all golden, on her bed, And every morn, unwitting of the rain, Another sunny day, she, smiling, said. She never knew how gloomy, dark, and gray Those long days were. In time we clime to bless The elms, that gave her sunshine every day, And robbed the rain of all its dreariness. Is the world grown as sunny as I ween? I cannot see it clearly as of old, For, like the elms, your love has come between My life and me, and turned it all to gold! THE NIXIE. By Fanny Van de Grift Stevenson. N U G L Y ensconced in one corner of a first-class railway carriage, an athletic, good-looking young man stretched his long limbs lazily, half opened his eyes, closed them again, yawned mightily, and then sank back into luxurious slumber. He had entered the carriage from a VOL. 11127 country station, equipped with a trout- basket and fishing-tackle, and was evi- dently bent on whipping the streams which wound among the neighboring hills. It was very early, and raw and cold with the chill of an English morning. Willoughby, having tipped the guard generously, and his destination being yet some three quarters of an hour distant, shut his eyes with the comfortable as- surance that he might finish his morn- 278 THE NIXIE. ings nap in peace. He had scarcely, however, floated away into that delect- able land of negative gravity when he was startled into sudden wakefulness by an animal-like shriek of terror so close at hand that it tingled in his ears. The train was passing through a tunnel, and, as often happened at that early hour, the lamp in the roof had been neglected, and the carriage was filled with smoke and darkness; the tunnel was long, but at last a glimmer of light began to pene- trate the gloom. It was with a glow of anger against the corruptibility of the guard he had himself bribed, that Wil- loughby discerned the outlines of a small figure crouched in the opposite bench ; a child, he had at first thought, which ac- counted for the quality of the shriek; and then, with increasing annoyance, a school-girL Willoughby turned over in his mind the terms of his coming inter- view with the faithless guard. His pri- vacy, for which he had paid liberally, had been violated, and his comfort de- stroyed. Sleep, so rudely assaulted, had fled his eyes. He leaned back and gazed sullenly out of the window at the coming day, alas too fair, too clear, belying the promise of a hunting morning. The sun rose higher, and soon flooded the windows with dazzling light. The young man drew down the blinds, and turned his disapproving gaze upon the pitiful intruder. He wondered idly, as she shrank before him, what mistaken chance had led her into a first-class car- riage, from which she must certainly be ousted at the first stoppage, every detail of her appearance being so frankly sug- gestive of that station in society for the members of which third-class carriages are specially designed. The new, blue cotton gown of ungainly cut, with straight short sleeves; the large, coarse boots, hardly soiled as yet with use; the stiff straw hat scantily trimmed with a mean red ribbonthe hat not a fit, the gown not a fit, the shoes not a fitmarked the girl unmistakably as the recent recruit of some charita- ble or reformatory institution. To ar- rive at an explanation of her stealthy entrance and incongruous position, was not difficult; the girl was a run- away. A second glance at her face cor- roborated the silent confession of her attire. The small dark eyes, darting hither and thither, were scouting for danger, and had the expression of a wood animal troubled with the vague suspicion of instinct at a loss. The shapeless gown hinted here and there of delicately turned contours, but also of the angularities of early girlhood, and possibly of privation and ill-treatment. Willoughby was young, and the sym- pathy of youth with rebellion somewhat softened his heart towards the fugitive fleeing, perhaps, from good to evil; but a fugitive. At every unusual sound or movement, the girl shrank and quiv- ered, recalling to the young mans mem- ory an incident of his boyhood. Once, in his schooldays, when he was hiding in the branches of a tree with an interdict- ed novel, a hare, hard pressed by the hounds, took refuge in the grass beneath him. Her repressed starts of terror, her wild dilated eyes filled him with pity. But what a hypocrite and time-server is the boy; though he could not betray the hunted thing, when the dogs, fol- lowed by the sportsmen, closed in upon her, he shut his eyes with a sick heart, and joined with the others in their loud acclamation. These reminiscences, and some pointed reflections that were passing through Willoughbys mind, were cut short by the slowing of the train to a station. On the impulse of the moment, he step- ped to the door, squaring his shoulders, and spreading his arm as a shield to screen the interior of the carriage. To give countenance to the scrutiny of pos- sible pursuers, he called an old woman carrying an armful of water-lilies, and chaffered for her wares until the train was again in motion. What a silly un- kindness is the kindness of the senti- mentalist, he thought, as he threw the moist flowers on the seat beside him; because I once saw a hare caught by hounds, I aid and abet a workhouse brat to escape from her safest friends; and to what end? Her destination can but be, after an aimless round, the shelter whence she came; or failing that, de- struction. He turned to his fellow- traveller. Well, my good girl, he began, in the condescending tone of the moralist, where are you bound for? THE NIXIE. 279 I dont know, was the answer he re- ceived and expected. Why did you run away? The girl, who had been casting furtive glances at the bunch of lilies, frowned, then smiled with an expression that startled him with a curious sense of familiarity, and plucking first at the breast of her gown, knocked upon the top of her hard head gear. Frowning again, she suddenly straightened her legs, bringing the heavy leathern boots on a level with Willoughbys knees. At least that is better than going barefoot, or having no clothes at all, re- plied the young man to her pantomimic protest. I fear you are an ungrateful A wave of terror swept over the girls face. Let me go! Let me go! she cried, leaping to the opposite window. As Willoughby dragged her back, for in another moment she would have broken the glass and cut her hands, she beat at him savagely. She did not repeat her attempt to escape, but cowered on the seat where he dropped her, regarding him with the stare of a cat at bay. I dont wonder, thought Willough- by, that the death of the hare sticks in my throat, for I feel like a hound. The girl is honestly running away, while I, who presume to lecture her, am fleeing in a sham, half-hearted way, to sneak back, after my few hours of stolen free- dom, like a cur with my tail between my legs, to a round of conventions as gall- ing to me as the penitentiary rules are to her. With a changed voice and manner, he now addressed himself to the task of soothing the girL As his advances were received with quick alarm, he fell back on his boyish experiences as a trapper, and simulated sleep, watching, meanwhile, the effect through his lashes. The girl gradually ceased panting, and the lurk- ing terror in her eyes gave place to a sly intelligence. For a long time she remained perfectly quiet. Willoughby, tired of his constrained attitude, was about to speak, when she made an abrupt movement, evidently to test the genu- ineness of his slumber. Once more she made the experiment, and then, to the young mans dismay, darted forth a swift hand, detached one of the lilies, hid it the folds of her gown, and re- lapsed into quietude. Willoughby was surprised at the shock this gave him. He knew, now, that the flitting resem- blance to an intangible image that he could not lay hold of, had been playing odd tricks in some remote corner of his brain, and that he was unconsciously fitting this charity stray upon a ped- estal, and arranging her young limbs in a classic pose. With the annoyance one feels at losing a word, or the continuity of a thought however trivial, he racked his mind for the clue which was playing hide and seek with his memory. But these fruitless excursions into cul-de-sacs of the past were abruptly checked. It had been a long run since the last station, and Willoughly found himself at the end of his journey. He was taken unawares, and had no plans. That the girl must come to grief sooner or later, he felt sure, but a coin or two might postpone the evil moment. He hastily gathered his traps, and tossed into her lap several half-crowns; as they left his hand he saw that he had acci- dentally included a sovereign with the silver. Gold could only be a question- able and dangerous possession for the girl, and yet an unaccountable shame- facedness prevented his reclaiming it. As a last thought he laid upon her knees the bunch of lilies, which ac- cording to all rules, should have been as coals of fire on her head. She accepted them, however, without a blush, and in- stead of thanking him, lifted the corner of her skirt to show the pilfered flower, smiling in Willoughbys face with a min- gled slyness, and frankness, and shy- ness that again sent his memory flying on a barren quest. The young man walked musingly a few paces, paused irresolutely, almost with the intention of returning, but the whistle of the engine, and moving wheels decided the question. He had given up his ticket and passed through the gate, when his attention was arrested by the sound of a gruff voice saying Now you come here! None of that, you know. You must give up your ticket. A hand clasped his. The girl had followed him from the train, and now stood, appar- ently waiting for his decision with the doubtful confidence of a dog uncertain 280 THE NIXIE. of its masters intentions. The money he had thrown her lay scattered on the ground, but the lilies she held to her breast. Willoughby, feeling the position a little ridiculous, for the girl, now she stood be- side him, was taller and older than he had supposed, gently loosened his hand, and addressed the gate-keeper in a concili- atory tone. I think, said he, she has lost her ticket; but you see she has money, picking it up and offering it as he spoke. The man touched his cap, named the fare, pocketed a little more with a thank you, sir, and I suppose shes a little ? tapping his forehead significantly. It seems so, said the young man, shifting his fishing implements about uneasily; look here; take this, and see that she has a ticket on the return train, and look after her, like a good fellow, when it comes. The leering curiosity of the rustics who haag about the station brought a flush to his cheeks, and he turned with an angry stride towards a green lane which led, as he knew, through thick- growing beeches, skirted a field or two, and finally lost itself in a bit of forest land traversed by one fairly broad, and several narrower streams. The former he meant to follow back to its tributaries in the hills, where the trout cooled their sides in many shadowy pools dear to the fishers heart. The morning fragrance of grasses, and blossoming weeds, and growing corn, and the exuding gums of trees, rose balmily as with the breath of waking day, and the joy of living thrilled in the air. Willoughby sniffed with ex- panded nostrils like a young horse, and fell into the long, easy stride of the prac- ticed walker. The girl gave him a few moments vantage, watching apprehen- sively over one shoulder and the other, and then, hampered in her movements by the clumsy boots, and the folds of her gown, plodded heavily in his rear. Willoughby, who was whistling softly to himself, mounted a stile that lay in his way, and from the top turned and looked out over the fair landscape. The figure of the girl, painfully trudging toward him, instantly caught his eye. With an impatient gesture, he sat down and waited for her to overtake him. As she came nearer, he noted with surprise the glow of color that was on her cheeks and lips. The spirit of the morning that had quickened his pulses, had moved even the dull current in the veins of the workhouse waif. Willoughby found something pathetic in the thougL. He gave her his hand, and helped her over the stile, checking his steps involuntarily to her limit. He fell into a confused reverie. Before his minds eye rose a vision of his fathers house, now filled with summer visitors ; ladies, with their bazaars, their teunis, their work, and their flirting; dull, urbane old gentle- men; dull young gentlemen whose sul- len hearts were gnawed by tedium. In Willoughbys distorted imagination these really estimable persons revolved stupid- ly, like the spokes of a wheel, round a common centre, Lady Mand Ponsonby. He knew that Lady Maud was his des- tined bride; she knew it, and their re- spective parents knew it, though no word had been spoken. It seemed more that it must be, because there was absolute- ly no reason why it should not be. These meditations, which had somewhat damped the buoyancy of his spirits, were interrupted by a pluck at his sleeve. There is a river yonder, said the girl, pointing across the fields ; a river. How came you to be taken to the the institution? asked Willoughby, ir- relevantly, with a start. They caught me in a trap, and shut me up, and put these upon me, was the indignant reply, but they shall not do that again; they cannot catch me now. They catch birds, too, she added; I cannot understand it; can you? I suppose I can, answered Wil- loughby. Look there, at yonder thiev- ing rascal, how he is pecking away at the grapes.~~ They were passing the end of a walled garden. A gate stood open, and just inside, a hothouse door swung on its hinges. A blackbird, taking advantage of the gardeners negligence, was busy at the amber fruit. In a moment the girl was beside him, adding a couple of bunches and a handful of vine leaves to the lilies she still carried. The bird chirped angrily, but did not move. I cannot allow this, said Willough THE NIXIE. 281 by; take back those grapes, and shut the door. No, said the girl; I want them, so why should I put them back? You know very well, they are not yours to take. Not mine? But you saw me gather them! You know that they belong to the man who planted the roots, and built the glass house, persisted Willoughby, irritated at having this primitive lesson in morality forced from him. Had it been the escapade of a young lady, he knew he should have joined, and found it great sport; but the thought of the workhouse made preaching incumbent on him. No, they are not his, said the girl ; the man did not make the root; he could not. And the sun, and the air, and the rain, made the fruit grow upon it. The man shut the root in a prison, and now you say he claims its children. I do not understand that. If you think you are justified in help- ing yourself to whatever you may fancy, asked Willoughby, why then did you not openly take the lily when we were in the train? Everybody knows, replied the girl, that there are many dangerous things abroad. A snake under a strawberry plant may not want to eat the berry, but if you do, you must be very cautious in gathering it, or he may strike you. Then the large and more terrible creat- ures who are greedy like the blackbird, and wish to keep more than they need with them, one must be wary indeed! I thought you were one of those at first. Oh, remarked Willoughby. Yes; I was afraid of you, then. I am not, now. You did not really care for my taking the grapes, you only feared some one might see me, and I should be caught in your company.~~ The girls unexpected shrewdness of observation, the absence of vulgarity in her speech or manner, coupled with her reformatory dress, began to puzzle Wil- loughby exceedingly. Where have you lived all your life? he asked ab- ruptly. There, was the answer, with a wave of the hand that swept half the horizon. There was not much information to be derived from a statement so comprehen- sive. Willoughby tried again. How old are you? Oha hundreda hundred thou- sand thousand days. And you, how old are you? Just turned my twenty-third year, answered Willoughby, shortly. I shouldnt have thought you were so old. I suppose, then, I must look younger than I am, said he, not quite pleased that he had given so strong an impres- sion of youth. On the contrary, you look very, very old, said the girl; but this assertion was still less to Willoughbys taste. By the time they reached the forest belt the sun was high, and Willoughby, feeling the fatigue of walking at a pace so much slower than his custom, would have stopped to rest, but the girl pushed on eagerly to the river. Here, Wil- loughby leaned his rod against a tree, and disembarrassed himself of his trout- basket, which atpre~ent contained a pack- et of sandwiches, and a half bottle of claret. Having arranged these matters to his satisfaction, he turned to resume his conversation with the girl, whose quaint remarks and savage ignorance of the ordinary convenances of life, he was beginning, in spite of himself, to find both interesting and amusing. To his amazement, she was apparently disrob- ing herself. Her hat lay upon the ground, with the ribbon that had bound her hair into a pigtail beside it. The bodice of her gown she was in the act of remov- ing; holding it up, she laughed derisively, and tossed it far out into some bram- bles. Come, she said, beckoning to Wil- loughby; we must take care of the lilies first. Gathering them together, she laid several in the crown of the hard hat that had left a mark across her brow, ballasted the hat with pebbles, and sent it floating down the stream. The coarse shoes, one after the other, their respec- tive stockings in their toes, and freighted with lilies, followed the hat. I say, cried Willoughby, you had better stop there! People do come this way.~~ In another second his own deer 282 THE NIXIE. stalker was seized, weighted, filled with the remaining lily pods, and this frail shallop joined the argosy. Shaking the drops from her hair, which had trailed in the water, the girl rose and turned towards the young man. Do not look so strangely, she said; they may not live long, but they shall at least die at home. Who are you? cried Willoughby, passing his hand across his eyes. Who are you? Come, she said; come and eat, you are tired. She laid the stolen grapes on a flat stone, and began to fold a vine leaf into the form of a cup. Willoughby, at her bidding, spread his contribution to the feast beside the grapes. The girl raised a warning finger, filled her green cup at the stream, deliberately spilled a portion, murmuring a few in- audible words, and offered the rest to Willoughby. Is itis it alibation? he asked, incredulously. It is, she answered ; and now eat and drink, and rest. A short time before, Willoughby would not have hesitated to offer the girl stumbling at his side a sip of gin from the mouth of a square bottle; but since she had cast off the clumping boots, and the pinching, dragging bodice of her gown, she moved with an alert grace that even Lady Maud might have envied. The world over, it is the same; beauty in the female develops chivalry in the male. And now Willoughby was abashed by the difficulty of dispensing his wine gracefully. The cork was al- ready loosened; he drew it with his penknife, awkwardly filled the sylvan cup, and offered it to the girl, who had been watching his proceedings with uneasy curiosity. She touched the brim with shrinking lip. You have given me blood to drink! she gasped. Willoughby snatched the leaf from her hand, and, so strong is the sympathy of imagination, fancied that he, too, tasted blood in the cup. The meal was finished in silence, Willoughby swal- lowing his sandwiches with an uncom- fortable sense of grossness, while the girl fed daintily on grapes. They drank clear water alternately from the same vine leaf, and even Willoughby, who was accounted to have a delicate palate for wine, and had accompanied the butler to the cellar that very morning to make sure of his favorite vintage, began to regard the bottle that stood between them with aversion. Let us bury it, suggested the girL So they made a hole in the soft ground, digging with the joints of Wil- loughbys most tenderly cherished rod; and there an excellent half bottle of La Bose doubtless lies to-day. As they patted and shaped the tiny grave, the young mans thoughts wandered back to the morning, when, suave and cyni- ca3ly self-possessed, he drank a cup of tea in the grey semi-darkness with Lady Maud, complimenting that placid maid- en on her heroism in joining him at such an unconceivable hour, and declaring himself her trne knight. She had play- fully invested him with the order of the red rose; the rose, once reposing on Lady Mauds chaste breast, wasoh, here, in his trousers pocket, sadly crushed and withered. What, Wil- loughby wondered, would be Lady Mauds sensations could she behold him now, engaged with all the seriousness of life and death in a childs game, his playfellow, whom he more than sus- pected to be mad, a half naked girl just escaped from a reformatory? The crnmbs and grapes, the remains of the repast, together with the leafy cup, were left on the stone for the re- galement of birds and passing travel- lers. One should never destroy, said the girl, what another may use after him. Yonder, round the turn of the stream, is a boat; the man who made it did not break it up when his days pleasure was over, but covered it and tied it fast for the next comer. Willoughby, while he doubted the dis- interestedness of the builders motives, did not question the girls knowledge of the boat, and in the face of his late platitudes on the subject of theft (which he blushed to remember) proposed to take piratical possession of the craft, and row up the river. The girl, re- versing their parts, gave him her hand, and they ran laughing along the green banks like two children. As they went THE NIXIE. 283 further up the stream the features of the landscape changed. The trees grew larger, and in more isolated groups, with open stretches of meadow between them. Breathless with laughter and running, the pair stopped to rest under the shade of a great oak. By this time it was high noon, and the sun was beat- ing straightly down. Wait here, said the girl. She came lightly springing back, carrying sprays of broad-leaved water-weeds. Her hair twined about her in dripping tendrils; the coarse chemise, the charity skirt, fresh from the river, clung in wet folds round her slim young body like antique drapery. I rememberI remember, cried Willoughby, starting up. She signed him to stoop, but he knelt at her feet instead, while she bound the leaves in a wreath about his head. There, she said, studying the effect with satisfaction; that is much better; that other must have been old and dry from the first. Willoughby had a moments difficulty in understanding this remark, which gave him a sudden distaste, not only for the lost deerstalker, now on its way to sodden destruction, but for his entire wardrobe. The dull blue of the girls skirt, the unbleached linen of her che- mise, harmonized with the tints of tree, and grass, and sky. The young mans correct bilious brown suit became hide- ous by comparison. No plunge into the river could mould those odious bags, or the belted jacket, into classic lines. He was saved from heaven knows what folly by the voice of the girl calling him to fol- low her. Followfollowherwords came echoing back from the opposite shore. Hark! cried Willoughby. The girl, checked in the very move- ment of running, slowly raised her hand to her ear, and stood silent as a statue. Hark! returned the echo. But it was not to that she was listening. Her head was turned over her shoulder, away from the river, and towards the wood. Willoughby listened intently. The light air moving among leaves, and across lithe twigs, made, now and then, a small, whistling, singing sound, the shadow of a strain as it were, so that he could almost persuade himself that he heard something like a distant, jocund piping. Is it the great god Pan ~he asked, softly. His voice broke the spell. The girl started and laid a finger on her lips. Coarse and mundane noises dis- turbed the musical silence. The loud laughter and chattering of approach- ing strangers sounded close at hand. Willoughbys first impulse was to se- cure the boat, which lay near by. He leaped into the stern, unfastened the rope, and pushed a foot or two from the shore. Another boat, awkwardly han- dled by a couple of Cockney lads and their sweethearts, was coming down the stream. He cast an anxious look about him, but he was apparently alone. The occupants of the boat, flushed, and blowsy, and happy, regarded him with amazement. Oh, cried one, he must be crazy! hes got a wreath on his head like the mad woman in the play. Perhaps hes a dangerous lunatic; oh, let us get away! The young men bent to their oars, the boat lurched round the bend of the river and disappeared amid much splashing and giggling. The incident jarred on Willoughbys mood. He waited several minutes, gaz- ing abstractedly over the side of the boat, before calling to his companion. What was it, he wondered, that gave him such a new and vivid sense of kin- ship with the earth, so that he seemed to feel within himself its very essence and component parts? Had something got into his blood, something wild and natural, something with a tang like the sap of trees, and cool, and fresh, like the water of the river? He should scarcely have been surprised had his feet struck root in the ground, or leaves sprouted from his finger-tips. He laughed aloud for simple joyousness when he saw the girls reflection beside his own. A pass- ing ripple shook the surface of the water, disturbing the mirrored face; the chin and lips quivered, the eyes be- came blurred, and the picture shattered into a thousand sparkles. It is an evil omen, said the girl from over his shoulder. Let us go far up the river, and never, never return here again. Never, repeated Willoughby, ab- sently. 284 THE NIXIE. There are pools, and waterfalls, and glens up there, continued the girl, and no hateful creatures to frighten us. How brave you are! You were not afraid; while II am trembling make haste; make haste! Willoughby seized the oars and sent the boat out into the middle of the stream. The river ran merrily past them; birds sang in the trees that fringed the banks; the balmy summer air fanned their cheeks with the fra- grance of a thousand flowers. Surely it was an enchanted boat carrying them into an enchanted land. Willoughbys sensations became strangely confused; he felt like a man in a dream; a hum- ming was in his ears, and the images before his eyes danced, and changed in hue and form. It caused him no aston- ishment that the oars became light as thistle-down, and he seemed to be grasp- ing slippery, moist stalks, while the girl, her hands upon the stern, her feet float- ing out behind her, pushed the boat smoothly against the current, with eyes shining like glow-worms, and her lips parted in elfish glee. Nor was he sur- prised when the shyest of woodland birds perched upon his shoulders, or prize trout leaped beside the craftiest angler in England. His voice sounded faint, and sweet, and distant, as though some one else were speaking, as he dreamily recounted ancient tales, mix- ing naiads, and gods, and water-sprites into a romantic story of the present, where the principal characters were borne by himself and the girl It might have been a year, it might have been a day that passed. Shadows thickened, and a cold mist began to creep over the ground. Wild fowl whirred above their nests, calling their broods with plaintive cries. All about there was a scuttling and rustling of birds and beasts hurrying to their precarious homes in tree or earth. Willoughby shivered; the tale turned into unmean- ing words on his lips; a weight bore upon his breast, and his head swam. Was his dream turning into a night- mare? The boat rocked; swaying diz- zily over its side, he looked straight down into a face that sank deeper and deeper, the smile upon it changing gro- tesquely through the water from gay mockery to the grieved expression of a sobbing child, until it was lost in black- ness. Willoughby uttered an exclamation of horror. The girl was drowning before his eyes! He leaped after her, and dived again and again, until he was helpless from exhaustion, and cramped by the cold. The boat, meanwhile, half filled with water, drifted heavily away. When Willoughby recovered conscious- ness, he found himself lying on the grass, supported against the knee of a stranger, and surrounded by a group of young people whose vulgar faces he vaguely recognized. He tried to speak, but his lips moved without words. You are not strong enough yet, wait a little, said a kind voice. You wonder what has happened, and where you are, Idont doubt. These young men told my gardener that they had seen you with my favorite boat. We came up here to look after my property, and found you instead, and Pulled you out of the water where you had been upset, just in the nick of timewhat is it? Save the girl, he says. Was there a girl with him? No, sir, replied a Cockney voice. He was quite alone. He was standing in the boat with a wreath on his head, looking very dangerous, indeed, sir, and its my belief that its a sunstroke. Ive looked in his pockets, as you direct- ed, sir, and I cant find no card, nor nothing, only this messy old flower. A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS. By ~7vfrs. Fields. LEIGH HUNT. 9 THE private collection of books made by James T. Fields, and still remaining undisturbed in his for- mer home in Charles Street, Boston, overlooking the Charles River Bay, is one which has gained in interest with time; and the excuse, if excuse were needed, for bringing them before the public is the public interest already shown by the many requests from dif- ferent sources to see these books, or to learn certain details of their character. Some years ago Mr. Fields himself wrote a paper describing his favorites in VOL. 11128 this collection, which he called My Friends Library; but at that time he could not fail to be hampered by a sense that he, the living collector and possess- or, was too nearly allied to his treas- ures to write freely about them. The position of the present writer is one altogether different. Being only a custodian, full of a sense of responsi- bility as the keeper of a trust, these memorials seem to appeal for wider op- portunity of usefulness to a new genera- tion. In spite of the unusual chances which Portrait of Leigh Hunt by Samuel Laurence.

Mrs. James T. Fields Fields, James T., Mrs. A Shelf Of Old Books - Leigh Hunt 285-306

A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS. By ~7vfrs. Fields. LEIGH HUNT. 9 THE private collection of books made by James T. Fields, and still remaining undisturbed in his for- mer home in Charles Street, Boston, overlooking the Charles River Bay, is one which has gained in interest with time; and the excuse, if excuse were needed, for bringing them before the public is the public interest already shown by the many requests from dif- ferent sources to see these books, or to learn certain details of their character. Some years ago Mr. Fields himself wrote a paper describing his favorites in VOL. 11128 this collection, which he called My Friends Library; but at that time he could not fail to be hampered by a sense that he, the living collector and possess- or, was too nearly allied to his treas- ures to write freely about them. The position of the present writer is one altogether different. Being only a custodian, full of a sense of responsi- bility as the keeper of a trust, these memorials seem to appeal for wider op- portunity of usefulness to a new genera- tion. In spite of the unusual chances which Portrait of Leigh Hunt by Samuel Laurence. 286 A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS. came to Mr. Fields, only those who have built up a collection of rare books can understand how much time and knowl- edge are required, under the most ad- vantageous circumstances, to bring such a collection together. But a still more potent factor is that instinctive love and reverence for the teachers and in- spirers of men which were essential qualities of his character. No one ever looked upon his treasures who regarded them with greater reverence and love than the collector himself, nor could anyone have a larger faith in their power of helpfulness. A certain sacredness gathers about the belongings of good and great men, which comes not only from a sense of contact, but from the fact that their surroundings express a kinship with others tastes or necessities; Portrait of Leigh Hunt (From a drawing made in 1815.) A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS. 287 and how especially valuable, therefore, are their books, which introduce us into their workshop and give us some idea of their own means of education and de- velopmerit. The influence of Leigh Hunts sur- roundings upon John Keats illustrates this idea perfectly. Keats was hardly known even to himself when Leigh Hunt, with his infallible touchstone for discerning literary excellence in others, recognized his sensitive nature and drew him into friendly relations. Charles Cowden Clarke tells us that he went to eall on Leigh Hunt one day, in a pretty cottage in the Yale of Health, on Hamp- stead Heath, soon after he and Keats had left school and gone to London. He carried in his pocket two or three of Keatss sonnets, which he thought were so good for a youth under age that he would venture to show them to Leigh Hunt, but he was not prepared for the prompt admiration with which they were received. The visit ended in a promise that he would soon bring Keats to Hampstead. It was in the library of this cottage, where, one night, a tem- porary bed had been made up for him on the sofa, that Keats composed the poem on Sleep and Poetry, inspired by his surroundings. It was a modest room, clothed with such treasures as even a poor man may possess, but none the less there was inspiration in them for a poets brain. It was a poets home who keeps the keys Of pleasures templeround about were hung The glorious features of the bards who sung In other agescold and sacred busts Smiled at each otber. Keatss poem is indeed an exquisite illus- tration of the way in which our brains and hearts may be touched to finer is- sues by such surroundings. As I quote these lines, fearful of some slip of a treacherous memory, I take a small volume of Keats from the shelf of old books. It is a battered little copy in green cloth, with the com- fortable aspect of having been abroad with some loving companion in a sum- mer shower. It is the copy long used by Tennyson, and evidently worn in his pocket on many an excursion. He once handed it to Mr. Fields at parting, and it was always cherished by the latter with reverence and affection. Here, in its quiet corner, the little book now awaits the day when some new singer shall be moved to song in memory of My Friends Library. 288 A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS. the great poet who loved and treasured it. Many years ago it was our privilege to see Leigh Hunt in London, and to make a travellers slight acquaintance with the interior which had inspired Keats. In response to a note of invitation, a por- tion of which is reproduced on page 303, we drove to Hammersmith, where he was then living. He was an old man with snowy hair, contrasting in this respect with the portrait on page 286, which was taken in the year 1815, at the re- quest of Vincent Novello, just as he was leaving prison. But his eyes were still brilliant, and the fascinating grace of his manner was unimpaired. He was natu- rally rather tall and of a slender figure, but incessant daily toil at the desk caused him to stoop somewhat, though had long ago moved away from the pretty cottage at Hampstead. He was then living in a small houseone in a block of wooden buildings, if my mem- ory serves mewhich presented few ex- ternal attractions either to a worldly or a~sthetic observer; but Leigh Hunt was there, with his elegance and charm, like a prince in hiding. The same treasures were around him, too, which lighted Keatss fire of song. The Greek casts, Sapphos meek head, Great Alfreds too, and Kosciuskos ; Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green, Starts at the sight of Laura; nor can wean His eyes from her sweet face. There they were, treasures indeed, when we remember that Keats opened his dreamy eyes upon them and found I; IA~r ~ccaccs~~o aAr e~i~ ~ ~ ~ Mm /~flt ~ ~ The Inscription in Marianne Hunts Copy of Boccaccio. his son says of him, he was straight as an arrow and looked slenderer than he really was, but this was in earlier years, before time and toil had left their im- press. At the period of our visit, Leigh Hunt had reached his seventy-fifth year, and in them a fountain for his verse; in themselves they were but a few casts, a few engravings, a few sketches in color, a number of well-worn books, with win- dows full of flowers, and no heavy dra- peries to keep away heavens light. The fresh white muslin curtains swayed in A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS. 289 the summer breeze as Leigh Hunt talked, and the enchantment of his dis- course captivated us as surely as it had done for so many years all those who had come into personal relation with him. We forgot the tea-table and forgot the hours, while he introduced us to his daughters, to his flowers (he called them his gentle household pets), and to his latest literary interests and occupations. He wore the dignity and sweetness of a man not only independent of worldly ambitions, but of one dependent ~ipon unworldly satisfactions. There was no sense of defeat because he was a poor man, nor even of inadequacy, except for lack of time and strength to entertain strangers. He wore the air of a noble laborerceaseless, indefatigable; and when we remember that the wolf was driven from his door through so long a life by his busy pen, a pen unarmed with popular force, he might well feel that the struggle had been an honorable one. In referring to his flowers, which were just breaking into clusters of bloom, he fell into a reverie in talk upon the mystery and ministry of beauty in From Miss Whitneys Bsst of Keats. 290 A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS. the world, a subject which he has made peculiarly his own; but he soon strayed into the beloved paths of literature, and then indeed everything else was forgot- ten. His daughters tried in every way to decoy him to the table, but in vain, until at length they ran off with half his audience, when he soon followed. Wherever Hunt lived, flowers seem to have been his inseparable companions. Even in those younger days in prison, he papered his walls with a trellis of roses, and caused plants to be put be- fore the barred windows. They were as characteristic companions as his books. It seemed the most natural thing pos- sible to hear Leigh Hunt talk of Shelley and Keats as if they had just closed the door by which we had entered. There was the very couch, perhaps, where Keats lay down to sleep, after, as he says, straying in Spensers halls; for they L~17T ~. - / The Grave of Shelley in Rome. A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS. 291 had no room for him, we remember, and he was made to rest there among the books; and there, when he awoke, were Might half slumbring on his own right arm, and those other mysterious shadows of his poem. Hunt said, in talking of Shelley, It was not in him to hate a human being; but I remember being startled once by his saying, Hunt, why is it that we all write love- songs; why shouldnt we write hate-songs, and he said he would some day, poor fellow! I believe, however, that he really did dislike the second Mrs. Godwin, because she was incapable of telling the truth, and he used to say, when he was obliged to dine with her, that he would lean back in his chair and languish into hate. It was interesting, too, in view of the unsatisfactory portraits and busts of Shelley, to hear Leigh Hunt say that no one could de- scribe him, and that he always seemed as if he were just alit from the planet Mercury, bearing a wing~d wand tipped with flame. Although our visit to Leigh Hunt was within a few months of his death, the native elasticity of his mind and the living grace of his manner were undimmed. He wore no aspect of the coming change, and the wan appearance of the portrait affixed to his Autobiography was so foreign to our memory of him that Mr. Fields has inscribed above it, I saw Leigh Hunt in 1859, and this portrait bears no resemblance to the poet as I saw him. J. T. F. There is no Leigh Hunt now to enchant, and no Keats to be en- chanted among the old books; but, as we stand silently in the corner where they chiefly rest together, watching the inter- changing lights thrown through green branches from the shining river beyond, we remember that these causes of in- spiration still abide with us, and that other book-lovers are yet to pore over these shelves and gather fresh life from the venerable volumes which stand upon them. John Sterling said, many years ago, They only find who know where to look. It was a skilful eye as well as a loving hand that brought this collection of books together. It is not one of the well-equipped libraries of a rich man, and we are sometimes led to think, in these later days of accessible public libraries, that it is a mistake to multiply books, with their attendant care, in pri- vate houses; but My Friends Library is a collection of volumes which the col- lector himself read and loved, inter- spersed with such treasures as I have hinted at, books which have belonged to other writers, and been loved by readers whose very names are sacred. The shelves near which we have been pausing are dedicated especially to Leigh Hunts books. He was himself the prince of careful readers, enriching the pages as he passed over them with marks and comments which will serve to indicate passages of subtile meaning or noble in- centive to all those who follow him while the books remain. The history of the transfer of these volumes to our shores is easily told. It is amazing, Dickens used to say, as if he were perceiving something nobody had ever thought of before, it is amaz Barry Cornwail. 292 A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS. ing what love can do! and it was love for Leigh Hunt personally which really brought these books of his to America. Although the best of readers, he was a man who believed in a generous use of books, and he lent and gave them away as if he were almost indifferent to their preservation. Those which were dearest and most useful somehow clung about him, yet the number of broken sets of valuable books among his collection is almost incredible. Such as they were, however, Mr. Fields desired to have them, and they were all despatched to him soon after Leigh Hunts death. There were about four hundred and fifty volumes al- together, and of these Mr. Fields kept less than two hundred. I was foolish not to have kept them all, he often said in later years; but at the moment many persons appeared who expressed great enthusiasm about them, and it seemed like a kind of selfishness to keep them all. More than half the collection was scattered, and many have changed hands more than once since that time. We do not like to think of them wandering about homeless, or possibly finding shel- ter in some second-hand book-shop, gaz- ing helplessly from unloved shelves. The interest which hangs about this little group, thus snatched as it were from oblivion, is sufficient to detain tis in this paper. A happy chance brought us to this shelf; let us not wander just now farther afield. Leigh Hunts association with the men of letters of his time was close and single-hearted. No man ever held more firmly to the path he had chosen. He was indefatigably at work. To call a man of his tastes and temperament no lover of pleasure would seem strange- ly inconsistent; but his pleasures were taken in Shakspeares forest, in Spen- sers palace, in Cowleys garden, in Her- berts church. He need not leave his own fireside for his finest enjoyments, and it was seldom indeed that Lord Holland or anybody else could lure him away from his writing-desk to the dinner- table. He was no diner-out; neverthe- less, he became the intimate of the most interesting men of his time. He was the friend and biographer of Byron, he was greatly beloved by Shelley, and we have already seen how much he con- tributed to the happiness of Keats. He loved Shelley more deeply than the rest, and saw him much more intimately; but Carlyle, Hazlitt, Lamb, and Barry Cornwall, not to mention other famous writers, musicians, and artists of his day, were all upon friendly terms with him. The Sirth-place of Shelley. A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS. 293 Once only did we meet him at dinner, at Mrs. Procters. It was a memorable occasion. Adelaide Procter, Hawthorne, Sumner, Kinglake, and other celebrities were present; but Leigh Hunts winning aspect and delightful talk made the oc- casion truly sympathetic and agreeable. I can recall, as we left the table, Barry Cornwall putting his arm about Hunts shoulder, as they went up the stair, with the affectionate look of one who saw his dear friend only too rarely. Indeed we were afterward told it was the last time he dined out in com- pany. His social spirit is shown by the man- ner of his reading. He could never keep the good things to himself. He was truly The Indicator and The Seer for those who were to read after him. lJp and down the pages run notes and marks to attract the attention of the unwary. No fine epithet, no delicate allusion, no fitting word were lost upon his sensi- tive ear. We cannot help touching the pages with veneration which have been read, re-read, and made precious by signs that serve as intellectual guide- posts to the mind. The books relating to Leigh Hunt in this collection may be divided into two groups; first, those of his own writing; and second, those from which he often drew his inspiration, the books he loved to feed upon, his best companions. It is interesting to stand in this way, as it were, between the student and the au- thor, on the ground between the con- ception and the finished work. By fol- lowing his footsteps through the books he loved, we gather new light upon these companions of the mind, and at the same moment we gain fresh appreciation of Hunts own peculiar talent for making the antique seed-grain bloom again. In looking over the works of any true poet, and such Leigh Hunt undoubtedly was, we must in justice seek to know him in his poems; for however well a poet may write prose, we must search his poetry to learn his most sincere expres- sion and to discover that capacity, if he have it, for rising above his subject, which is a necessary quality of all good writing. From Severns painting, Ariel on the Bats Back. 294 A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS. In Leigh Hunts books we can often discover the suggestions and inspira- tions of his poems. It might be so, per- haps, with many another poet if we could find just such another reader. But he may be called an imprisoned singer, not alone in those years when he was act- ually shut in prison walls, but by reason of his constant confinement to his desk, because of the necessity for continual toil. Many of these hours, too, in his ripest manhood, were passed in the pro- saic labor of a newspaper mans office. He found his refreshment and com- pensation in books. The Story of Rimini, redolent as it is of Italy, was written in his London prison, long before Italy was anything but a dream to him. It is far from wonderful that the poem is no better; the wonder is that it has life at all. Hunts love of Italy was very early awakened, and we have a delightful glimpse of him as a boy, first learning Italian at Christs Hospital with his friend Barnes. It was a time of intense enjoyment. We went shouting the be- ginning of Metastasios Ode to Venus, he says, as loud as we could bawl, over the Hornsey fields, and I can repeat it to this day from those first lessons. Here is the large old copy of The Novels and Tales of the Renowned John Boccaccio, the first Refiner of Italian Prose: containing A Hundred Curious Novels, by Seven Honorable Ladies and Three Noble Gentlemen, Framed in Ten Days. It was printed in London in 1684, and bears upon the first fly-leaf the following inscription [see p. 2881 To Marianne Hunt Her Boccaccio (alter et idem) come back to her after many years absence, for her good-nature in giving it away in a foreign country to a traveller whose want of books was still worse than her own. From her affectionate husband, LEIGH HUNT. August 23, 1839.Chelsea. Boccaccio was one of Leigh Hunts prime favorites, and there is another copy in different form close at hand. This time it is in two small leather-cov- ered volumes printed in Venezia, in the year 1542. The autograph inscrip- tion on the title-page is as follows: These volumes are presented as a slight but heartfelt acknowledgement for the kindnesses received by John Wilson from Leigh Hunt Esqre. December 3d 1840. Unhappily Leigh Hunts copy of Dante is not among the old books; perhaps it never came to America. I only find three volumes of Commentaries on the Poets of Italy, which were evidently useful books to him, and the Memoirs (in Eng- lish) of Alessandro Tassoni. Near these stand his own two volumes of Stories from Italian Poets, which are dedicated to Shelley. They are in the form of a summary of the great works by the five principal narrative poets of Italy: Dante, Pulci, Boiardo, Ariosto, and Tasso, and they prove to us at least the careful study he had bestowed upon Italian lit- erature. Many of the most precious of WIL~ Joseph Severn. A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS. 295 Leigh Hunts old books are associated with that portion of his life passed in Italy; chiefly, in our minds, perhaps, because Shelley and Keats, his dearest friends, died there, and because his friendship for Shelley ripened upon Ital- ian soil. There are three of these books standing in a row, which must be looked upon especially with reverence, I believe, by all lovers of literature. The first is an illustrated copy of Shelleys poems, the one edited by Mrs. Shelley an dedicated to their son, after Shelleys death, in 1839. It bears upon its title-page the following inscription To Mari- anne Hunt on her birth- day. Sep. 28. 1844, from her loving husband Leigh Hunt. This edition con- tains two interesting por- traits of Shelley, and a picture of Field Place, in Sussex, where he was born; also an etching of the cottage in which he lived at Marlowe, and two different views of his bur- ial place. There is also laid be- tween the leaves of this book, at the opening of the Adonais, a letter from Joseph Severn, of whom Shelley says in his preface to the poem (as all the world forever will remember), He (Keats) was accompanied to Rome by Mr. Severn, a young artist of the highest prom- ise, who, I have been in- formed, almost risked his own life, and sacrificed every prospect to un- wearied attendance upon his dying friend. Had I known these circum- stances before the com- pletion of my poem, I should have been tempted to add my feeble tribute of ap- plause to the more solid recompense which the virtuous man finds in the rec- ollection of his own motives. Mr. Severn can dispense with a reward from such stuff as dreams are made of. His con- duct is a golden augury of the success of his future careermay the unextinguish ed Spirit of his illustrious friend animate the creations of his pencil, and plead against Oblivion for his name! In Severns letter, which is addressed to Mr. Fields in 1871, he says: I con- fess that I live upon the past. He en- closes a photograph of himself (and this also is inserted), taken from a picture made when he was but twenty-seven years old, adding: my lanthorn jaws I do not send. It is by no means a dis- appointing face, but one full of gentle- ness and enthusiasm. The mention of Severns name leads me to other unpublished letters from him, containing further particulars of those early days when he was with Keats. To that period also belongs a picture, which hangs near the books, of Arid on the Bats Back [p. 293], a fanciful and yet realistic bit of painting, giving a good idea of Severns own ability at his ripest period. We learn the origin of his pa- From a drawing of Keats by Severn in the possession of Mrs. Fields. 296 A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS. per on Keats, written for the Atlantic has two sons and two daughters, one Jiilionthly, of April, 1863, in a letter to Mr. of whom is married to Brockman, the Fields. He says, At last I have per- Spanish Director of the Roman rail- formed my promise to you in writing a ways. . paper on Keats, which I now enclose. I am glad you saw my posthumous You will be interested by the portrait of Keats. It was an effort to romantic incident in my Keats paper, of erase his dead figure from my memory my charming meeting with the poets and represent my last pleasant sight of sister in Rome, and that we have become him. And in another letter, referring to like brother and sister. She lives here the drawing of Keats reproduced on page with her Spanish family; her name is 295, he says: I am your debtor, for you Llanos; she was married to a distin- set me about a task so congenial that guished Spanish patriot and author, and when my daughter saw me draw it she de Percy Bysshe Shelley. A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS. 297 dared it was an inspiration and implored me to do her also a sketch of Keats. I am glad to assure you that it is a good likeness, and gave me delight even in this respect, in calling up his dear im- The second of the three interesting books already referred to is an old, Shelley, are in Greek and English. Un- fortunately they are written in pencil, and are slowly but surely disappearing. One of the first written is still legible: To read Diogenes again and again. Mrs. Shelley says of her husband: His extreme sensibility gave the intensity of passion to his intellectual pursuits ; and we feel, as his eyes ranged over th~ 4 ()1~ 0(~.,~41wfr~vosA7 ,9 ~cz.ev1499 44A~1~f4Y/4t ~yys~1 ~$& Avi~4~ 724g. 724. Inscription on the Fly-leaf of Diogenes Laertiun owned by Shelley and Leigh Hunt brown leather-covered vohune, which is more closely associated with Shelley and Leigh Hunt than any of the others. Shelleys generosity was unbounded, and in his eagerness to have Hunt share his enjoyments he would often part for a time even with his most precious books. The names of the two friends stand PLATO. Lib.IIf. Iamdudum ~iuis luceba: lucifer, a~ lzunc Extiu~lus laces He/peru; Elyflir. 50) In Dionein ~ero hi hune inodum: Et lacryrna: Hecnbae, cc T,aiauis fa. to puellis Decreuere recens cx ~enitrice foci:. Ac tibi poll parro: ~roeclaro Marce From Shelleys Copy of Diogenes Laertius. (The lines prefixed to Adonais.) upon the fly-leaf of this copy of Diog- enes Laertius. It is written in Greek and Latin, with double columns, but the notes, which appear to be all written by VOL. III.29 splendid garden of the ancients which this book spread out before him, how the passion grew and how the light of his spirit vivified the printed lines. He marked page after page for reference; poems rose before his fancy as he read, until at length the lines of Plato shone upon him which now stand as prelude to the Adonais. They are from an epi- taph upon a certain Stella, and may be rendered into English as follows: Living, you shone as Lucifer in the morning sky; Dead, you now shine as Hesperus among the shades. But why translate them into prose, when Shelley himself has left them crys- tallized in the heart of an English verse! Thou wert the morning star among the living, Ere thy fair light had fled ; Now, having died, thou art as Hesperus, giving New splendor to the dead. * * I fonnd the following translation of this verse among the Greek fragments of that unrivalled translator and poet, Maurice Purcell Fitz-Gerald: Star of the morning shinedst thou, Ere life had fled: Star of the evening art thou now Among the dead I 298 A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS. It is no stretch of imagination to see Shelley with this book under the olive- trees on some solitary height, or float- ing with it as his sole companion in his fateful boat. His love for it was not a passing fancy; he seems to have Fields writes, with the two young Eng- lish poets, and was thumbed by them on the decks of vessels, in the chambers of out-of-the-way inns, and under the olive-trees of Pisa and Genoa. Now it is at last safely housed, and (g~- 4 ~/~ ~- ~t /t ~4~ ~f7~ lived with it for several years, as we find mention of it first in the year 1814, in Professor Dowdens incomparable bi- ography. In that most miserable sea- son when Shelley was in hiding from the bailiffs, Mary writes to him from her sol- itary lodgings: Will you be at the door of the Coffee House at five oclock, as it is disagreeable to go into such places? I shall be there exactly at that time, and we can go into St. Pauls, where we can sit down. I send you Diogenes, as you have no books. Professor Dowden adds in a note: Probably a translation of Wielands Diogenes ; but in a list of books read by Mary and Shelley during that year, a few pages further on, it is distinctly set down as Diogenes Laer- tius. In the Adonaiswe feel that Shelleys genijas tried his bravest wing; and for the key-note of this great poem he found and marked the verses already quoted. Perhaps he saw from his mount of vi- sion another star, his own, and knew that he soon should follow to the king- dom of the shades. It was more than fifty years ago that this old book went wandering about the continent, Mr. 1-~ ,~$;~4 with its plain brown coat, a hermit thrush among books, stands unsuspected in its quiet corner. By and by will not some other lover in some later age hear the voice again? Standing next to Diogenes Laertius on the shelf, is the third volume to which we have referred, a book where Cole- ridge, Shelley, and Keats stand bound together, three in one, with Leigh Hunts notes sometimes covering the margins. This book was a petted possession both of Hunt and its last owner. It is en- riched with autographs of each of the authors, and upon the fly-leaf at the back Leigh Hunt has copied a poem written to him by Keats On the Story of Bimini. This was sent originally to Hunt inscribed on the first leaf of a presentation copy of Keatss poems. The pages of this volume also are worn at the edges, and in spite of a sec- ond binding, it will afflict no lover of books by too great freshness. There is a letter from Coleridge laid between its leaves, a feast one comes upon in turning them, as if quite by chance. It is very characteristic, as catalogues say. There is one also by A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS. 299 Shelley, a few pages further on, thai is brief and at first sight not at all charac- teristic. He writes: Dear Sir, Enclosed is a check for (within a few shillings) the amount of your bill. Cant you make the Booksel- lers subscribe more of the Poem? Your most obedient serv. PERCY BYssHE SHELLEY. Jan. 16, 1818. The autograph of Keats in this vol- ume is a part of the first draught of the poem, I stood tip-toe upon a little hill. 40 ~1 .4 PA school-fellow calls to mind a line from The Eve of St. Agnes for which Clarke was responsible. It seems, even in their school-days, Clarke had access to a piano, and in after years, when Keats was one day reading to him from the poem, which was still in manuscript, the line, The hail door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. That line, he said, came into my head when I remembered how I used to listen in bed to your music at schooL But Keatss autograph in this volume of the three poets is of unusual value; the motto of which poem is a line by not only because it contains certain lines Leigh Hunt, beloved by all readers of poetry, but be- cause we gain a glimpse into the very Places of nestling green for poets made.,~ workhouse of the poets brain. The The autograph is marked as received lines now stand, by Mr. Fields from his friend Charles Cowden Clarke. The name of Keatss Open afresh your round of starry folds, Ye ardent marigolds! i;ii-rt~Ia Fac-simile from the Manuscript of Keatss Poem, I stood tip-toe upon a little hill. 300 A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS. but we see how he toiled after the per- fected loveliness of these verses when we study his manuscript. He starts off, Come ye bright Marigolds and then his impatient pen dashes out the passage, and he begins again. At last the right ,words came, and he knew them and was content. Writing of books, Charles Lamb says 64 COLERIDGES P0 $Ometimes, a-dropping from the sky the sk -lark sin S~iii~timesilTTiiiFEirdi that are, they sccrnd to fill die sea an~ air With their sweet jargoning! And now r was like all instruments, INow like a lonely tlute~ And now it is an angela anog, that makes the Heavens be mute. It ceased; yeLaiilltiseaailsm.de,,on Yiihasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook 5 liar Singeth a quiet tune. From Leigh Hunts Annotated Copy of Coleridges Poems. somewhere, Reader, if haply thou art blessed with a moderate collection, be shy of showing it; or if thy heart over- floweth to lend them, lend thy books; but let it be to such an one as S. T. C. he will return them (generally antici- pating the time appointed) with usury; enriched with annotations tripling their value. I have had experience. In his turn, Coleridge receives in this volume the like tribute of annotation from Leigh Hunt. Line after line is underscored with an emphasis that will not let you turn the page till you have read them. The lovely passages seem to gain at least a double value from his signs of admiration. It is dangerous to gather flowers in such fields! They rise in crowds about us, and we regret a seeming partiality. When we come to Kubla Khan hardly a line escapes Hunts index; we seem to read certain things with him for the first time, and are startled by their won- drous beauty. Youth and Age, A Day Dream, The Ancient Mariner, and Christabel are, of course, espe- cially marked, as if he really could not contain his wonder and his delight. In returning to Leigh Hunts own poems, we are still able, as I have said, to trace the origin of many an inspira- tion back to these old books. Among his productions one of the first in value is certainly that beautiful brief story of Abou Ben AcThem. The matter of this poem lies like an embedded jewel in the Biblioth~que Orientale. We have only to read the two or three long prose para- graphs contained therein, giving the his- tory of Abou, to wonder even more than ever at the transmuting power of Hunts poetic pen. It is dull reading enough, compared with the poem. The book, however, is a precious one, in spite of its prosaicisms, or perhaps be- cause of them; for not only does it con- tain the seed-grain of Abou ben Ad- hem, but the suggestion of another of Hunts best poems may be found in its pages. The Trumpets of Doolkarnein is a longer poem and far less known than Abou ben Adhem, but it was Long- fellows favorite among the works of Leigh Hunt. Of his copies of Theocri- tus, iRedi, and Alfieri, all kindred spirits to his own, and inciters in his mind to fresh poetry, there is no room to write. Readers of Leigh Hunts books will see how unaffectedly he delighted in these authors, and how much he drew from them. But before closing his volume of poems, we must recall that charming rondeau about Mrs. Carlyle, who was so much more delightful a cause of inspira- tion than even our old books! Jenny kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat its; Time, you thief, who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in Say Im weary, say Im sad, Say that health and wealtis have missed me, Say Im growing old, but add, Jenny kissd me. In his Autobiography Leigh Hunt says, speaking of his school-days: My favorite books out of school-hours were Spenser, Collins, Gray, and the Arabian Nights. This last he has italicized, and A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS. 301 it is a pleasure to find his copy among these volumes; probably not the very same he read at school, but the one pre- sented, as the inscription on the title - page tells us, To Vincent Leigh Hunt from his lov- ing Father, and the one Leigh Hunt read many times in his later years. It is fill- ed with those delicate strokes we feel how the wonder was still a fresh one as he read. When the smoke was all out of the / Written at the End of Leigh Hunts Copy of Chaucer. of the pen which he loved to draw, not only at the side of a favorite passage, but under every word, until the reader can seem to taste the savor with which he devoured them. The Arabian Nights never lost their fascination for him. At the end of the fifth volume he writes the follow- ing note: Finished another regular reading of these enchanting stories, for I know not what time,but after many a time and oft,September 26, 1836. LEIGH HUNT. 192 POEMS ATTRIBUTED TO CHAUCER. TT falleth for a gentleman To saythe best that he can Aiwaics in mannes absence, And the sooth in his presence. vessel, it reunited, and became a solid body, of which was formed a genie twice as high as the greatest of giants. He evidently disapproves of the editor of this edition (1811) because he is in- clined to moralize: Why cant you let us judge for ourselves, he writes once, almost pettishly, in the margin. Again, when, about midnight, Maimoune sprung lightly to the mouth of the well, to wander about the world, after her wonted custom, Leigh Hunt writes, with droll gravity, on the leaf: Fairy princesses, who live in wells, must be of a different order of royalty from those who inhabit subterranean bowers. Nothing could be more characteristic or bring the poet before us in his true light more clearly than these fascinating n o t e s. He takes it all so seriously, as, for instance, in these comments: There is a curious mixture of noble and inferior taste in this description. The white pillars and embroideries of white and red roses on cloth of gold are exquisite; and the balconies fitted up like sophas and looking out into gardens are fit for them. Not so the shop.full of roses, the coloured IT coinmeth by kind of gentil blood To cast away all heavinesse, And gader togither words good, The werk of wiadome beareth witnesse. One of Leigh Hunts Annotationu. He was then fifty-two years old. His notes in these volumes are extraordinary reading, because the childlikeness of his mind is so apparent in them. When he underlines a passage like the following, 4{~4 tk/nik 302 A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS. pebbles, the gilt brass and the fight- ing birds. There is doubtless, however, a national truth in the picture which has an interest of its own. When the prince in the story could not forbear expressing in his song that he knew not whether he was going to drink the wine she had presented to him or his own tears, Leigh Hunts ready sympathy re- sponds, Graceful passion!! ! A seri- ous reader of our commonplace days can hardly repress a smile at this en- thusiasm in the man of fifty-two, but per- haps the smile should be a sigh that we are incapable of these festal days of fancy. He holds out well, too, through the six volumes, embroidering them impartially with his notes. He discovers that the author of these tales and Ariosto both selected China as the country of the most beautiful women in the world! Angelica was a Chinese; and he remarks, busy editor that he was, upon a description of the imprisonment of the Sultans son: Books, and an old tower, and quiet, are not the worst things that could have happened to him. King Bedir says in the tale: It is not enough to be beautiful; ones actions ought to correspond. . . It is curious, says Leigh Hunt, that this sentiment is so often lost sight of by others who have adventures with the beautiful fairies that figure in so many of these tales. The Eastern beauty seems allowed a certain quantum of rage and cruelty as a sort of moral Pin-money which she may spend without being ac- countable for it. This picture, he writes on another page, is in fine keep- ing ;a palace of black marble, a mel- ancholy lady at a window, with torn gar- ments, and a black cannibal for the master of the house. An Gone ! he exclaims again. An addition to ones stock of beings! Par- don me Gone for forgetting thee. The pleasure of seeming to see thee for the first time ought to procure my forgive- ness. But I must have done with copy- ing these tempting notes, tempting be- cause I seem to see Leigh Hunt again as I knew him in the flesh and heard him speak. For Mi Babas sake, however, we must be forgiven one more extract. Hail, dear old story, in coming to thee again for I know not the whatth time! But why must our friend the editor, among his other changes (all painful even when right) be so very particular, and contemptuous of old as- sociations, as to think it necessary to convert the word thieves into rob- bers? The Forty Thieves, that was the good old sound, and for my part I will say Forty Thieves, still, and forever, however I may be prevailed upon to write Alla-adi-Deen for Aladdin and Kummir al Zumman for Camaralzamen; and Ido not thinic after all that I will do that. Leigh Hunts book, A Jar of Honey from Mount Hybla, is an excellent illus- tration of the way in which he utilized his reading. In the very first essay of the volume, the one entitled A Blue Jar from Sicily and a Brass Jar from the Arabian Nights ; and what came out of each, he skilfully draws from the two jars, the one of blue china, which recalled Sicilian seas, and the one of brass, which recalled the ufreet, such an epitome of the spirit of Theocritus and of the Arabian Nights that we en- ter perfectly for the moment into the circle of their delicate illusions. In consequence of the word Sicil- ian, by a certain magical process the inside of our blue jar became enriched beyond its honey. . . . Theocritus rose before us, with all his poetry. Johnson says that Milton and his friend were not nursed on the same hill, as represented in Lycidas; and that they did not feed the same flock. But they were, and they did; . . . and very grievous it was for them to be torn asunder, to be deprived by death of their mutual delight in Theocritus, and Virgil, and Spenser. Leigh Hunt found Theocritus to be a son of .ZEtna all peace and luxuriance in ordinary, all fire and wasting fury when he chose it. He was a genius equally potent and universal. In support of his doc- trine he brings both virile and lovely things from the blue jar, and quotes enough to persuade us to his belief. There is a translation of The Feast of Adonis, to which the Syracusan gossips go and listen to the song of a Grecian girl, which shows his poetic hand: Go, belov d Adonis, go Year by year thus to and fro; A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS. 303 ~LUd4~4 / /~ /4-;*) 4~944~~ /Q~4 6~erVei 6~~L L4~t& 1~4~ ~~26r~1~ ~QA / (g4/~ ~ 4~ (4 I *~441. Only privileged demigod; There was no such open road For Atrides; nor the great Ajax, chief infuriate; Nor for Hector, noblest once Of his mothers twenty sons; Nor Patroclus, nor the boy That returned from taken Troy Nor those older buried bones, Lapiths and Deucalions; Nor Pelopians, and their boldest; Nor Pelasgians, Greeces oldest. Bless us then, Adonis dear, And bring us joy another year; Dearly hast thou come again, And dearly shalt be welcomed then. With respect to the brass jar, the reader is called upon to remember how eighteen hundred years after the death of Solomon a certain fisherman, after throwing his nets to no purpose, and beginning to be in despair, succeeded in catching a jar of brass. . . . He took a knife and worked at the tin cover till he had separated it from the jar. Then he shook the jar to tumble out whatever might be in it, and found in it not a thing. So he marvelled with extreme amazement. But presently there came out of the jar a vapour, and it rose up towards the heavens, and reached along the face of the earth; and after this the vapour reached its height, and condensed and becamean Ufreet. . . . Here, Part of a Note of Invitation from Leigh Hunt. 304 A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS. says Leigh Hunt, is an Tifreet as high as the clouds, fish that would have de- lighted Titian (they were blue, white, yellow, and red,) a lady, full dressed, issuing out of a kitchen wall, a king, half-turned to stone by his wife, a throne given to a fisherman, and a half-dozen other phenomena, all resulting from one poor brazen jar, with which indeed his own fancy has achieved wonders. It is by reading after Hunt and ob- serving the way in which his mind played over a variety of subjects, that we recognize the truth of Carlyles tribute when he called him A man of genius in a very strict sense of the word, and in all the senses which it bears or im- plies. If it were only by the token of his enthusiasm, by the power of lighting his torch at the great shrines and of inspir- ing others, Leigh Hunts name should be held in remembrance; and it is with a feeling akin to pity that we see him mentioned in a late life of John Keats as a man of second-rate powers. We feel pity for a writer who, in unfolding the loveliness of Keatss genius, has al- lowed his eyes to be blinded towards his friend and contemporary. That Hunts gifts were second to those of Keats, no one can deny, but that they were second- rate powers in themselves, the record which he has left in his Autobiography and other works must forever disprove. Among the volumes of the English poets upon our shelf formerly belonging to Leigh Hunt, we find his Chaucer thoroughly marked and annotated. He was one of my best friends, he said once. At the end of the eighth volume he has written [p. 301]: Finished my third regular reading of this great poet and good-hearted man, whom I admire more than ever. The Chaucer notes are too full and too minute to be quoted, espe- cially as in his Specimens of Chaucer, collected in The Seer, we find much of the material digested and preserved. It is seeing, as it were, the first rush of feeling in which the notes were written which makes them interesting to de- cipher, but his published essays contain the gist of his recorded thought. His copy of Ben Jonson is a quaint possession, full of new suggestions. But Ben Jonson with Hunts notes is suffi cient for a paper by itself, and in spite of the temptation to follow his lead in such pleasant pastures, we must pass on; yet we cannot help rejoicing with him over striking passages, as we quickly turn the leaves; for instance where, in the Masque of Queens, he marks: I last night lay all alone On the ground to hear the mandrake groan. The copy of Boswells Johnson is also full of valuable comment. On the fly- leaf of the first volume Leigh Hunt has carefully copied two pages of Holeroft on Boswell, chiefly bearing witness to the latters inquisitiveness. His own contributions to Johnsoniana are full of wit and wisdom. Hunt was, as I have said, an indefatigable workman. He read and wrote, for weeks together, from the early morning until midnight, and the enormous amount of literary knowl- edge and skill he acquired was in pro- portion. However great his sufferings from poverty were, they were not caused by any lack of diligence in himself, but by the terrible responsibility of a large family to be maintained by the point of a pen. The result of these great labors is to the benefit of posterity, and a fut- ure edition of Boswell, incorporating his notes, would seem to be the only fit method of reproducing them. I find one profitable bit of Hunts autobiogra- phy on the margin. He says, in reference to a passage describing Johnsons de- jection, gloom, and despair, I had it myself at the age of 21, not with irrita- tion and fretfulness, but pure gloom and ultra-thoughtfulness, constant dejec- tion; during which however I could tri- fle and appear cheerful to others. I got rid of it by horseback, as I did also of a beating of the heart. I had the same hypochondria afterwards for four years and a half together. In both cases I have no doubt that indigestion was at the bottom of the disease, aggravated by a timid ultra-temperance. I never prac- tised the latter again, and the far greater part of my life has been cheerful in the midst of my troubles. I have however not been a great or luxurious feeder, and I have been cheerful on system as well as inclination. My childhood was very cheerful mixed with tenderness; A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS. 305 and I had many illnesses during infancy. I think I owe my best health to the con- stant and temperate regimen of Christ Hospital. During both my illnesses the mystery of the universe perplexed me; but I had not one melancholy thought on religion. When we recall Johnsons criticisms of Miltons poetry, the following note is agreeable to our sense of truth. It is written upon a page where Johnson has been saying that had Sir Isaac Newton applied himself to poetry he could have made a fine epic poem; I could as easily apply to law as to tragic poetry. Surely the company must have been laughing here, says Leigh Hunt. Could Johnson, who had no ear, have made a musician? With no eye, a painter? But no seductions by the way should lead to the copying of these notes apart from the text, especially while so long a row of books stands unmentioned and beckons us to give them at least a nod of recognition. Of Leigh Hunts copy of Milton Mr. Fields writes: I am paine